Loose Cannon Diaries

Experience the “Year of the Renaissance”

2006-01-07T05:50:00.000-08:00

These days, just about every town or hamlet in the United States boasts of an “authentic” renaissance festival. Invariably, these festivals feature such attractions as “authentic” renaissance maidens sporting authentic renaissance-era, biker chick tattoos and renaissance cuisine like Ye Olde hotdogs or Ye Olde pizza slices.

So most Americans know all about Renaissance festivals from their experiences stateside. However, just for fun, let’s consider the counterpart festivals in European countries where the Renaissance actually took place.

Denmark, for example, the country that brought us those ubiquitous plastic toys, Legos; has designated the entire year of 2006 to be “The Year of the Renaissance.”

Imagine my surprise, a father who has stepped on many a Lego in the dark with bare feet, to learn that Legos have nothing to do with the Renaissance, and were not in fact invented until much later. All along, I had assumed that I was enduring those pesky little toys because it was good for my children’s education. Shows what I know.

OK, back to Denmark. The entire country is open for business to celebrate the Renaissance. Check out these excerpts from Europe Travel News on some of the exciting things you can do and see when you travel to Denmark during the year 2006:

“2006 has been designated the year of the Renaissance in Denmark. To mark the occasion, an exciting array of cultural events is scheduled to take place throughout the year in the capital region. Exhibitions, concerts, walking tours and many other special activities, both indoors and out, have been planned to spotlight this extraordinary period in Copenhagen?s history.”
”History lovers, among others, will have all the more reason to visit Copenhagen in 2006, when the city pays tribute to the great achievements of the Renaissance. A wide variety of special events, celebrating that remarkable period of its history, will be held throughout the capital region.”
“Kronborg Castle in Elsinore, at the seaward approach to the Øresund Sound, is one of Northern Europe’s most important Renaissance castles. It is also the most famous castle in Denmark, known all over the world as the setting for Shakespeare’s Hamlet.”
“In 2006, Hillerød will host a large Renaissance Festival with participants from home and abroad. There will be stands with food, beverages, handicrafts and entertainment - just as there were during the time of Christian IV. In September a parade through town to Frederiksborg Castle will cap the event followed by dancing, concerts and displays of knightly swordsmanship and horsemanship”.

So enjoy your travels to Denmark and take in all these wonderful experiences. I’m not sure if they will offer hotdogs and pizza slices at these festivals; but if they do, I’m certain they’ll have some Ye Olde Alka Seltzer available.

Oh, and watch your step. Especially when you are barefoot…in the dark.

Don’t miss these sights when you travel to Italy

2006-01-07T05:46:00.000-08:00

Italy is a breathtakingly beautiful country that will always be one of the highlights for anyone’s travel to Europe. It has everything from the impossibly blue Mediterranean Sea to the spectacular Alps, with fabulous food at every stop along the way. And while you are there, you can’t help but trip over history with every step you take.
Here are few things you cannot miss when you travel to Italy:

Venice. Think about it. How many movies have you seen that were set in this romantic city? Well there is a reason. If there is a city with more charm and magic than Venice, someone is keeping it a very tight secret. (Oh sure, I can just hear those Parisians objecting that their’s is the most romantic city, but those folks are hardly objective. Besides, this is an article about Italy.) The “streets” are waterways and the city is gradually sinking into the Adriatic Sea. But don’t worry, it will still be there by the time you get there to see it all.
The Roman Colosseum.Talk about the original home for extreme games. You can almost hear the ghosts of gladiators clashing their swords and signing multi-drachma contracts with their agents. The Colosseum is both a spectacular and grim place, considering the many senseless acts of violence that occurred here. Kind of like the beauty pageants are today.
Florence. If you aren’t already an art lover, you will be after visiting Florence. Walk in the footsteps of Michelangelo, Da Vinci and Raphael and your life will be forever changed. One word of warning however, if you are already prone to feelings of penis envy or inadequacy, Michelangelo’s 18-foot statue of David, may not be your cup of tea.
The Vatican. The art, architecture, history and sheer aura of this place will leave you speechless. (Well except for breathless comments like, “magnificent,” “unbelievable,” and “where’s the bathroom.”)
Wine country. The folks in France won’t admit this either, but Italian wines are often every bit as good (sometimes even better) than their French counterparts. Take a tour and you will enjoy the tastings all the more after having seen the sheer craftsmanship and patience that goes into making fine wines. And need I remind you to purchase a few of your favorites so you can bring them home to impress your friends with your refinement and worldly sophistication.
The Italian Alps. OK, I will admit that I kept thinking, “these mountains cannot be real. I bet some Hollywood film company put together the ultimate background to impress the tourists.” But in actual fact, they are real. And they are beautiful beyond anything you have ever imagined before in your life. What has always amazed me was that Hannibal surprised the Romans by bringing elephants through the Alps. Elephants were the ancient warfare equivalent of our modern tanks, so you can bet Hannibal had the Romans running for their adult Pampers as soon as they saw his army coming over those mountains.

I read somewhere that Italy is the home of more American ex patriots than any other country. So you should be warned in advance that if you stay too long in Italy, you might never want to come back. With that in mind, proceed with caution.

Feeling Really Great

2005-11-27T11:14:00.000-08:00

Wow! It has taken me longer to get Loose Cannon Diaries back online than it took to get my brain back in working order (of course that is my view, others may differ).

What I know about HTML is enough to be really dangerous, but I had inadvertantly removed a crucial bit of code off this blog's template, and couldn't figure out how to get it fixed until today.

When I last left you faithful readers (who are you people and don't you have anything better to do with your time?), I was one sick puppy. For over four or five years I have been plagued with almost daily symptoms of dizziness, inability to concentrate, wobbly balance, horrible headaches and almost constant fatigue.

I have also been really hard pressed to do basic things like a read a novel at anything faster than a snail's pace. In fact every mental task has seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to complete, if the tasks ever got completed.

Like I said, this has been going on for several years, but has been worsening over the last two, and getting REALLY bad over the last several months. I have missed a LOT of work, and frankly I have not been consistantly productive while I was at work. Fortunately, my employer has been incredibly gracious.

Around the first week in October an MRA scan discovered I had a brain aneurism, that appeared to be the source of all my problems. But later tests determined the aneurism was not bleeding or leaking, and therefore could not be the source of my symptoms. Since then, however, the aneurism has been treated and is barely a threat to me at all.

Then around mid-November, I passed out in front of my doctor who then realized I was having a seizure. I had never had any symptoms like convulsions, and seizures cannot be otherwise detected unless the patient is hooked up to an EEG machine while a seizure is taking place.

The type of seizures I was having are called Petit Mal seizures, and I was having at least dozens a day, and possibly hundreds a day. My doctor immediately put me on a drug called Depakote and within three days ALL of my symptoms vanished. My mind is clear, I can think, see, intereact with people without losing my place in the conversation, and I can complete tasks in reasonable time periods.

What is amazing to me is how novel it feels to feel good. I had felt sick and dizzy for so long that I had come to accept it as my natural state. Well I've gone on long enough for now, I will try to pick this up again soon. Thanks for all of your prayers.
CB

Life In The Fast Lane

2005-10-27T08:16:00.000-07:00

It's been a couple of weeks now since they diagnosed me as having a brain aneurism. I have now seen the dark underbelly of the U.S medical system and have been turned into a Mr. Science Chemistry Set.

Each day I am now taking about eight different drugs (the legal kind) and I have to wonder how each medicine knows where to go when they are all moving into my system at the same time? Wouldn't you think there would be at least some sort of a chance for a chemical traffic jam inside my body?

OK you, the pink pill, you head up to the brain, and you, the yellow capsule, follow her...But not too close. No tailgating.
Now you, the little white pill, no the other little white pill. Yes you. You go to the thyroid. How should I know where the thyroid is? I think it's some where in the throat area, just look for the signs along the main artery.
And you, the "natural male enhancement pill." I think we all know where you are heading. Just hurry, I think he could use the diversion right now.

I have more tests being run on me this coming Monday. They want to see if and how much this aneurism is leaking blood. I guess it sits right in between the two hemispheres of my brain, near my forehead. Kind of like my very own Old Faithful about to blow.

I haven't worked since October 6th and I am going bonkers. I don't have a lot of energy and haven't been exercising (for obvious reasons) other than a slow walk around the block on the days I feel well enough to do so. I got so bored the other day I actually watched Dr. Phil on TV.

Is Oprah next?

My MRA Exam

2005-10-16T20:25:00.000-07:00

"Now Mr. Brown, the way this thing works is you have to remain absolutely still for the entire time, or we will will have to do it all over again. The slightest movement will create a blur on your picture. Do you understand?"

"Do I get to eat ice cream when this is all over?"

"Uh, we don't have any ice cream here, but I suppose you can stop for ice cream when you leave. But do you understand what I mean by being absolutely still?"

"I guess so. They gave me ice cream when I had my tonsils taken out, why don't you give ice cream here?"

"I'll send a memo to management. Now we need to take three exposures of your brain. Each one will last about 45 minutes, so you need to get as comfortable as you can, because__"

"__I know, I have to remain absolutely still. What if I have to scratch?"

"You can't move."

"What if I get a muscle cramp? I used to be quite an athlete and I have lots of muscles you know."

"I bet you do, but you still can't move."

"OK, just thought I'd ask."

So they they strapped me in and the table I was on slid into a tiny tunnel. I was very good and DID NOT MOVE. I did want to scratch because it is a proven scientific fact that when you cannot move, every part of your body sends itch signals to the brain. In fact so many itch signals come into the brain that they all have to take a number.

"Next! Number 44."
"Yes, I'm number 44. I am from that spot right between the right shoulder blade and the spine and we have major itchage down there."
"OK, I'll let him know."

When it was all over they sent me on my way (without ice cream) to wait for my doctor to call me. The call went something like this:

DOCTOR: Charlie, I think we"ve found the problem. You have a brain aneurysm.
ME: How about those Cowboys, Doc. Can you believe how they just took Philadelphia to the woodshed?
DOCTOR: I'm going to refer you to a neuro surgeon. Hopefully they can just treat you with drugs to thin your blood, but they may have to do some surgery to go in to remove it.
ME: Wow, would you just look at the time.
DOCTOR: I must say, you are taking this well.

So that's where things stand for now, stay tuned for further developments.

The Emergency Room

2005-10-11T20:40:00.000-07:00

I was taken to the emergency room last week and it was quite an experience. It was the first time I have ever been naked around that many women. Every one of the doctors, nurses and even the people who showed an inordinate interest in my bodily fluids were female.

Only the custodian who came in later to empty out the trashcans was a guy (I would have liked to do some male bonding with him and ask what he thought about the Cowboys this year, but he had work to do).

But all the women were complete professionals. No one made a pass at me, no one made an inappropriate remark and no one asked for my hand in marriage. They all showed remarkable restraint.

They were trying to find out why I have been passing out lately. In case it has never happened to you, let me just say, this is not a good thing. It is really hard to impress your boss with your hard work and dedication when he finds you slumped over your computer. The last time, I tried to fake him out with a, “….in Jesus’ name, Amen,” but he wasn’t fooled a bit.

The trouble with being naked in a situation like that (OK, I did have one of those skimpy little hospital smocks on, but the nurses and doctors kept lifting it up to take a peek) is that the male body can absolutely betray you at the most inappropriate times (that’s all I am going to say about that right now, you will just have to figure the rest out on your own). I was so worried about THAT happening that I could have cared less about what they did to me (“sure, you can put that ice cold stethoscope on my bare skin, I don’t care”).

But fortunately, THAT didn’t happen this time around. I got tested, poked, scanned, monitored and sent home with some CT scan photos to take to my doctor.

But at least the admissions lady asked me for my phone number.

COPYRIGHT © 2005 C.H. Brown

Sick of Being Sick

2005-10-07T19:44:00.000-07:00

It's time to confirm a stereotype here. Yes, some men are absolute wimps when they get sick. Exhibit #A is me.

I have had cholera, typhoid, gangrene, projectile vomiting, black death, arthritis, alzheimers, West Nile Virus, and the sniffles for the last three weeks; and I all I wanted was for someone to make a big deal over me.

OK I'm a grown man, but just one bedtime story would not have killed anyone, would it?

So now I have drug, or dragged, myself to the computer to tell the world how miserable I have been. I WANT PITY!!

Thank you, I fell much better now.

A Sick Day

2005-09-29T13:29:00.000-07:00

I'm taking a sick day today (migraine), so this is my first foray to the computer. I threw a Killaminjaro-sized mountain of laundry into the wash, put an ice pack on my forehead and tried to watch daytime TV. Gave up on the game shows, Oprah, Dr. Phil and even the history channel (my usual favorite) and wound up watching an old MacGiver rerun.

Loving Miss Huff

2005-09-28T19:09:00.000-07:00

No one ever forgets his or her first true love. In my case, it was Miss Huff, my fourth grade teacher. She was tall, blonde and beautiful. She could make us laugh with a gentle ease, and her own laughter was that of an angel. I naturally assumed we were made for each other, and that she would, over time come to realize this. After all, I had a lot going for me. I was reasonably cute, a good student, well behaved and I had a regular allowance.

I was jealous of any attention she bestowed on another boy in the class. But we all faced the same dilemma; how do you capture a woman’s heart when you can barely speak three words to her without blushing?

Actually I wasn’t really afraid the other boys would sweep her off her feet before I could get my chance, I was more concerned that some adult man would come into the picture and steal her away. I could only hope she was not someone easily swayed by such superficial qualities as height, maturity and a steady job.

It’s not that I was very sophisticated about love and sex. These days, your typical nine year old could probably conduct a seminar on the subject; but this was back in the 1960s, and my highest romantic ambition was that we would one day hold hands and gawk into each others’ eyes.

But even getting to first base with such a breathtaking woman seemed impossible. The great pick up lines men use later in life, like “may I buy you a drink” or “what’s your sign?” just don’t roll smoothly out of your mouth when you only stand four and a half feet tall. Besides, I couldn't even buy myself a drink at that age and the only signs I knew of were of the "Beware of Dog" nature.

So I opted for the only course I knew, I raised my hand high into the air anytime she asked for a volunteer to do some little task for her.

One day she came to school with two large boxes of old magazines. Our art project that day was to make collages. The idea was for each of us to cut out pictures, individual words and/or phrases to paste on sheet of construction paper. When a collage works, it is a surrealistic composition that is more than the some of its parts.

Usually my art projects tended to resemble Rorschach ink blots gone hideously wrong. But my fourth grade brain immediately took to this idea of a collage and I plunged into the project with much greater zeal than I had any other creative endeavor. I cut out pictures of cats and dogs, children and cars; as well as random words and phrases, like “The Quicker Picker Upper” of “Laxative.”

And then I found the picture that made me giggle. It was a woman in a bra ad. It is important to understand that bras in the sixties were not intended to be even remotely alluring or sexy. It wasn’t like today, when a man can walk by a Victorian Secret store with his eyes averted, and still have to go home to take a cold shower.

Bras made in the 1960s were designed for the sole purpose of keeping men from discovering the existence of breasts. Who knew what kind of havoc would reign on the earth if men learned about that little secret, and it was up to the Platex Corporation to keep the world safe from men and their evil lust. Not only were these bras not intended to be revealing, they were constructed to secure the goods behind a vault of heavy duty canvas-like fabric, that doubled as a handy floatation device in case the wearer were ever in a shipwreck.

My giggles increased and the boys sitting next to me looked at what I was about to cut out. “Are you crazy?” they hissed, but I was overwhelmed by my creative impulses and gave them no heed. An artist, of course must be true to his art, and soon I had the woman’s bust cut out of the magazine ad and glued onto my collage.

It wasn’t until Miss Huff collected our collages with the announcement that they would be on display for the next PTA meeting, that I began to sweat. What if she thought I was a disgusting little pervert and would have nothing to do with me from here on? What if she called my parents and arranged the parent-teacher conference that would surely end my life?

At nine years old, your entire life can pass before your eyes in about thirty seconds, so I had plenty of time to worry. But the next day nothing happened. Our collages were posted on the bulletin board and the offending picture had been neatly removed from the scene, leaving an empty hole that actually stood out more than the picture would have.

Miss Huff never said a word to me, but it seemed that she was just a little more amused with me than before. She called on me a little more often when she had small task that was needed, and she was a little more patient with my questions about math.

Eventually, I decided she must like her men cute and sweet, with just a touch of roguishness thrown into the mix.

And once my classmates realized I was not in trouble, I became the hero of the other boys, who looked at me as if I had iron cojones. The girls just looked at me as if I had crawled out from under a rock, but I didn’t mind. At least Miss Huff still seemed to like me.

The next year, when I was in fifth grade, she got married (presumably to someone taller and with a steady job) and the year after that she moved away. And the fact that she is probably a grandmother now doesn’t overshadow the fact that she was my first true love

I Love Being an Uncle

2005-09-26T20:11:00.000-07:00

I spent the evening "babysitting" for my two nieces. They are ten and six and just the most adorable girls alive (yes, I realize you may have cute girls in your family too, and I am sure they are wonderful, but this is my blog and I get to say who is the most adorable here).

Anyway, I took them to their gymnastics practice while my brother and sister-in-law were elsewhere, fed them pizza and read the little one a story while her older sister finished her homework. No matter what screwy things happen in my life, the kids put the joy right back in.

I'm working on a longer (hopefully funny) essay about the crush I had on my fourth grade teacher (to the best of my recollection, she was a cross between Meg Ryan and Kim Bassinger...at least that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Anyway, it might be too long to publish here on Loose Cannon Diaries, but if I get it finished and can get it published, I'll let you know where it is.

I took the day off yesterday and didn't write anything, but I did find a funny, funny site, check out Tony Calabrese's Fugetaboutit: ::How U Doin'? I've seen him on Comedy Central and really enjoy his humor.

Well folks, those kids wore their uncle out, so I am going to bed. See ya.
CB

I Am Sticking With My Diet

2005-09-24T11:48:00.000-07:00

My new diet is coming along very well. In fact I am surprising even myself with a level of will power and commitment that I never knew I had before.

Just yesterday, I thought about eating vegetable soup and salad as I was coming out of the Pizza Garden All You Can Eat Buffet. I also considered packing a lunch for myself earlier that same day with celery, carrot sticks and fruit, but realized these items would not fit in my lunch bag alongside my Hungry Man Pork Roast Dinner.

The day before, I let my eyes wander over the salad selections on Wendy’s menu board as I was waiting for my double cheese burger, fries and Frosty.

Earlier this week, I also gave serious thought about working out just as I was dozing off for my afternoon nap.

I read the ingredients list on the side of my Capt Crunch cereal box at breakfast this morning, and was so overjoyed to find a few vitamins and other ingredients that sounded vaguely good for you, that I poured myself a second bowl.

On Monday, I briefly considered a low-fat dressing on my salad at the Golden Coral buffet, and later I pondered the relative merits of preparing a broiled fish and salad, while my Hamburger Helper Lasagna Meal was cooking.

As you can well imagine, I am more than overjoyed to find myself sticking with this diet so well. But this leads me to think of what other worlds I can conquer with my newfound self-confidence and willpower.

For example, I have always wanted to learn some foreign languages. Perhaps I should go to the bookstore and thumb through a few of their Spanish books and CDs?

Or, I bet my friends would really be impressed if I ran in a marathon before the end of the year. I think I just might go over to sporting goods store and try on a few Nikes.

But why stop there? Why should Bill Gates have all the fun and success in the world of business? It would do him good to find out that I am even now considering forming my own corporation and answering one of those get rich ads on the internet.

But what good is all this worldly success if my love life remains in the toilet? I just might go online and see if they have anything on how to make myself sexually attractive to women (I’m sure I’ll find something).

But for now, I just want to take a nap. It has been a busy day, and I’m sure you’ll agree I’ve earned it.

COPYRIGHT © 2005 C.H. Brown

The Future is a Scam

2005-09-23T08:06:00.000-07:00

I must say that I am very disappointed in the 21st century so far. When I was a kid watching Saturday cartoons in the 60s (yes I am THAT old, now shut up about it) I was led to believe that by the time we reached 2005, we would all be zipping along in flying cars, household robots would attend to our every need, and at the very least our doorways would slide open as we approached. (I remember hoping that bathrooms would be a little more secure, but deep down I had absolute faith in our scientists to work out all those little details).

What a rip off. I still have to mow my own lawn, my car only flies when I take a hill too fast, and the underwear fairy or robot hasn't picked up my room in a long time. Also, I have yet to take my first weekend getaway to the moon and I'm still fumbling for my keys when I come in the door with a bag of groceries.

Personally I feel the creators of the Jetsons let me down.

I clearly remember one day in second grade, while Mrs. Painter was droning on and on about math or something, that I did a little math calculation of my own. I figured how old I would be when the year 2000 rolled around. When I learned I would be in my 40s, I was a little shaken because I didn't want to be too arthritic and senile to enjoy the future. But then I gradually realized there were a number of perfectly functioning adults I knew in their 40s who did not spend their days drooling in a rocking chair singing, "Go Tell Aunt Rosie," so I hoped I would be able to enjoy my flying car when the future arrived.

The trouble is, the future I had looked forward to in the past is now the present, and this future is nothing like our old future we foresaw back in the past. (Stay with me here) This means that our flying cars, space vacations and household robots are still in our future even though the future is now the present and when that time comes, this present-future will be our past....I think.

I just hope George Jetson is there to help us sort it all out.

COPYRIGHT (C) 2005, C.H. Brown

Check Engine Light

2005-09-22T20:39:00.000-07:00

The “check engine light” has come on in my car. This is disturbing to me because I have absolutely no mechanical aptitude whatsoever and I naturally assume the worst. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Brown, but your tailpipe has contracted a terminal case of gas.” (Number one, that problem must run in our family; and Number two, I had NO IDEA it could be fatal, otherwise I would have eaten a lot fewer chili dogs in my day). “There’s nothing more we can do for your car, all we can do is make it comfortable for its last few weeks.”

But I dutifully took the car to AutoZone to at least have them run a free diagnostic on it. I speak very little mechaniceze, so all I really heard the guy say to me was: “ la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la .....$168.00 .....la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la.”

The trouble is, lately I have been foolishly wasting my money on child support, medicine and gasoline, (the child support is easy since comes out of my paycheck, but I find myself debating, “would I rather be sick or get stranded out on 183 during rush hour?”) so $168.00 will have to come out of next week’s paycheck. I asked the AutoZone guy if the la la la problem could stay on hold until next week and he said it would, so I will put up with the warning light for another week or so.

Now I said all that to ask this: Wouldn’t a check engine light be a great idea for other areas of life? Particularly relationships.

We guys are particularly clueless about when we have done something wrong; or not done the something right when we had the chance; or have not picked up on a signal that was broadcast in our direction by two-way telepathy that a certain someone needs a little extra attention.

In instances like these, I think it would be very helpful if a little light on her forehead came on reminding us to check the relationship.

This would save a lot of trouble. I think someone should do something about this.

COPYRIGHT © 2005, C.H. Brown

Invasion of the Senior People

2005-09-21T08:18:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my mother's birthday. Out of deference to the fact that she gave birth to me and didn't beat me to death as I probably deserved, I will not reveal her exact age here. All I will say is they are building special "STF" lanes for her crowd on the local highways (STF stands for "Slower Than FEMA Lanes).

My Dad wanted to have a surprise party for her last night, but he made a crucial mistake: He invited other old people. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep a secret when you involve old ladies? The concepts of "secret" and "surprise" do not compute once the brain's odometer has rolled over a few times.

Two of her friends called and left messages on the telephone that they would not be able to come to her party. "What party?" asked my mother.

So anyway, her party was no surprise but she enjoyed herself nevertheless. My brothers and I went over and were surrounded by the geriatric set. There were canes, walkers and a lot of phlegm-clearing all around us. It was an exciting time for all.

COPYRIGHT(C)2005 C.H. Brown

Football Will Break Your Heart

2005-09-20T21:43:00.000-07:00

Every time I try to make sense of life, something like this happens.

Monday Night Football: my Dallas Cowboys are putting the hurt all over the hated Washington Redskins. The score is 13 to 0. The “Skins” show as much sign of life as Jimmy Hoffa, so I think, “hey, I have to go to work early tomorrow, Washington hasn’t won in Dallas in ten years, why not go to bed”?

When I read the papers this morning I learn that Washington scored two touchdowns in the last four minutes of the game, the Cowboy defense apparently went to sleep around the same time I did, and the Redskins won the game 14 to 13.

I’m not thrilled by the idea that this could be a metaphor for my life.

COPYRIGHT © 2005 C.H. Brown

Dear Writer's Block

2005-09-19T12:22:00.000-07:00

Dear Writer's Block,
Has three weeks passed so quickly since you came to visit and bless me with your special one-on-one writing instruction method?
I am referring of course, to your patented method which you guaranteed would polish my writing and hone it to the level of a great artist? Once those words slid out of your golden throat I had instant visions of best-seller lists, Pulitzer Prizes and black-tie speaking tours.
I just knew your instruction would take my writing over the next level like a Cleveland Brown football player, once he gets traded to another team.
And I must admit, you have had me satisfied with nothing less than perfection. I have a pile of crumpled paper so large the trash men just laughed at me as they drove away without picking it up. ("Not in this lifetime, pal. We have a union contract that says we can just flip off nutjobs like you.")
But here is my point, I haven't gotten anything written for weeks and weeks. I have started and scrapped so many different stories you would think I was the Senate Minority Leader responding to every idea put forth by the Majority party.
But then it dawned on me that I am not even close to perfect in any area of my life, unless you count whining and sniveling, but I haven't yet learned how to translate that particular skill into hard currency.
What I really need to do is produce! Sure, nine out of ten times my efforts to be funny will flop with a resounding splat. But I'm really just looking for that one out of ten that is reasonably OK, and the 1% of that stuff that is really good.
And I can't produce even that tiny amount of good stuff if I am too petrified to write. So I can't be perfect, never can, never will.
So, why don't you just leave? I'm pretty sure it was Ben Franklin that said, "fish and guests start to stink after three days." And who knows how many piles of paper he had to write in order to come up with that one pithy line?

COPYRIGHT (C) 2005 C.H. Brown

Notes To Self

2005-09-08T17:44:00.000-07:00

Dear Self:
1) New definition of bi-polar disorder: I find at least two spectacular ways to screw up my life every day. Therefore, I will NOT miss my medication ever again (this has been a bad week).
2) In light of the Hurricane Katrina, worry more. Worry about what tragic disaster am I not prepared for? Do I have an inflateable boat in my house? Do I have ample supplies of food, water and credit cards available in case something dire happens to me?
3) Gas tank = empty. Does this mean anything to you?
4) Do not ever try to engage anyone in a conversation without at least one cup of coffee in the morning. Don't you get tired of people looking at you as if you drool in public.
5) Allow at least 30 minutes to drive to work. Sooner or later you are going to meet a new police officer and it won't be fun.
6) Decide once and for all, does the beard grow or do you shave it off? You are beginning to look life Keith Richards, without the youthful glow.
7) No your belt is not shrinking, denial will only take you so far in life.
8) The major food groups do not include "breakfast burritos" you really can skip a day without suffering real harm.
9) You've had a hard day. Relax, grab a cold one, sit out on the deck and watch a few bugs get zapped.

The Streak Continues

2005-09-05T11:34:00.000-07:00

Another weekend is coming to an end and my long celibacy streak remains intact. I figure it is only a matter of time before the Guinness World Record people come knocking on my door to make me a world famous celibate.

Of course once I get into the Guinness Book of World Records the news media will pick up the story and write articles about me under headlines that read, “TEXAS LOSER SURPASSES ALL PREVIOUS LOSERS.”

Sometimes I just wonder if I have unwittingly volunteered to by a giant white rat in an experiment to see how long an adult man can last before he explodes.

But wouldn’t I have had to volunteer and sign papers for that sort of thing? I would think I would have noticed words on a disclaimer like, “possible explosion resulting from incredible build up of unreleased bodily fluids,” or “long term effects of lack of sexual activity,” or even “not responsible for resulting mess.”

And you thought you had problems.

Survival Tips

2005-09-03T18:16:00.000-07:00

The average life span of your typical movie character is disheartenly brief, unless you happen to be a lead. But since there can only be one or two indispensable characters in any movie, the survival rates are not good for everyone else. If you should ever find yourself a character in a movie, here are a few tips on how not to get killed.

If you have been warned not to go down into the basement, the attic or the mysterious locked room; DO NOT go into the basement, the attic or the mysterious locked room.

If you are a likeable cop, the sidekick of the main character, just days away from retirement, consider calling in sick until you are officially retired.

If you are a bimbo, a slut or an obnoxious prom-queen type, and a deranged killer is terrorizing your town, school or summer camp; this is the perfect time to change your ways, accept Jesus as your personal Savior and sincerely make amends to all the people you have ever hurt or made to feel bad.

If you are a minor character early in the movie, who is alone at night and you have a nagging feeling that you have a sign on your back that says, “Victim #1," and you start to hear some eerie background music, suddenly do something dramatic and uncripted, like break into song, or something incredibly nice or heroic for someone else so you won’t be such easy fodder.

If you are married to the main character, who is investigating a really sick, vicious killer, immediately divorce said main character and move back home to Kansas or Ohio or wherever you are from, and get out of that movie now.

If you are alone in any building or house, it is not your job to investigate every single mysterious noise that you hear.

If you are the only person who has dangerous information that some powerful group will kill to keep secret, do not try to contact the main character. What has this main character ever done for you?

If you are in a war movie or a prison film, DO NOT become the main characcter's best buddy. Do not be too nice a guy or become his mentor. That kind of behavior is just asking for a tombstone.

If you are alone in a cemetery at night, GET OUT of the cemetery. What are you thinking of? Get back in your car and drive away as fast as you can. If you absolutely must check out the cemetery, come back during the daylight, on a bright and sunny day with a few armed friends.

If a stranger calls and tells you to meet them if you ever want to see a certain loved again, concentrate on all that loved one’s fault’s and bad habits and go someplace else.

Things You Never Want To Hear The Flight Crew Say

2005-09-01T04:51:00.000-07:00

I travel a lot these days, and therefore have a lot of time to think about all the things that could possibly go wrong in air travel. This is a list of things I hope I never hear the flight crew say after takeoff:

1) Don't worry; this baby can still fly just fine with only one engine.

2) Oh yeah, well $100 says this thing can so do a barrel roll.

3) Let's just see if that smartmouthed Delta pilot can play a little game of "chicken."

4) Captain, did you just say, "thank you for flying Jihad Airlines" ?

5) No, I thought it was your turn to close the airtight door.

6) Idiot! Never, never, set your coffee cup on that "Fuel Dump" button.

7) Wow, what a coincidence, it's my first day on the job, too.

8) Captain, why don't you just turn on that little auto-pilot thingy and come join our little party?

9) If anyone knows how to pray, this would be a really good time to get started.

10) Does anyone know what that flashing red light is?

11) What do you mean, you just got us a 50% discount at our last refueling stop?

12) Tower, did you just say, "eeney, meeney, miney, moe"?

13) Here's your parachute, here's yours, and yours, and here's mine.

Explaining Texas

2005-08-31T04:56:00.000-07:00

It’s always a tricky thing to explain Texas culture to those less fortunate than ourselves. My job requires that I talk to people from all over the world, and there is always a little curiosity about Texas.
The other day I was on the phone with a very nice lady from New England (yes they do exist), and invited her to come to Dallas for a visit. Notice I said, “visit.” We’ve already had way to many of these folks (nice New Englanders or not) come here to stay….we are NOT Miami Beach.
Anyway, her response to my invitation was a joking, “I’m afraid I might get shot if I come to Texas.”
Now this is just another peevish stereotype about Texas that they spread in those liberal newspapers like the Boston Globe. I told her, “I’ll have you know we have not had a shooting here in three whole days.” I was referring of course to the legalized duel in the street type shooting where both parties have an equal chance and the blessing of the townsfolk-not the drive by, gangland style shooting which is clearly illegal and is a problem all over the country, including places up North.
I also proceeded to tell her we haven’t had a hangin since last Thursday, but that guy clearly looked guilty and probably was.
Now those of you who actually live here in Texas know I am just kidding about all this, but we do have a reputation to uphold. They have crime and violence in other places also, but the big differences between Texas and someplace like Massachusetts is capital punishment. Here in Texas, if you kill someone, we kill you back.
Besides, we have to maintain an air of the dangerous Old West here, if we don’t, we’ll have even more people moving down (just like Miami Beach) all of whom want to tell us how they did things back up North.

This Week In Soapy City

2005-08-30T05:45:00.000-07:00

A review of what has been happening on your favorite soap opera:

Linda is shocked to learn she was actually the mother of Stephen’s baby, who has grown up and was now running for dog catcher on a platform to clean up the corruption of Linda’s administration. Beth overhears Fuller’s plot to surprise the President with a whoopey cushion when he comes to Soapy City to give a speech on banning yellow highlighters. Tom wakes up to find a mysterious tattoo on his left buttock that says, “Frodo is a wimp.” He suspects Heather, but later learns that Heather is in jail for violating Soapy City’s tough new leash laws….In jail, Heather agitates for prisoners’ rights to watch Spunge Bob, and is punished by being transferred to the infamous Cell 13, where she meets her long-lost friend Cindy, who is doing time for giving the mayor a wedgy. At his mother’s death bed, Tim finally forgives her for packing that pair of lacy, pink boxers when he went to summer camp at age 11. While in the hospital, Tim learns that the handsome, young Dr. Killjenny, who is about to perform a lobotomy on Tim’s former girlfriend, Jenny, is an imposter who was kicked out of medical school for writing legible prescriptions. Desperate to find out who tattooed his butt, Tom shows it all over town. He does not discover a single clue, but he is invited to a lot of parties. Someone steal’s Floyd’s favorite bug zapper and he decides to end his life with a can opener, but he goes through 1847 drafts of his suicide note trying to convey the depth of his angst. While reuniting with Heather in jail, Cindy at long last learns why the other kids in elementary school called her “Nubs.” Hope discovers that her husband, Dennis, has been paying blackmail to a mysterious woman named, Lulu but decides not to get involved. Uncle Ernie plays that “pull my finger” trick on Lance’s new fiancé, Rochelle, who literally dies laughing at the family gathering just after the engagement was announced. Opportunity finally knocks at Buffy’s door, unfortunately, she had chosen that very moment to run out to Burger Barn for a value meal, where she has just met this crazy guy who is showing everyone a tattoo on his butt.

COPYRIGHT © 2005 C.H. Brown

This Is So Wrong

2005-08-29T07:03:00.000-07:00

For me to get Athlete's Foot is like Mike Tyson getting a brain cramp. OK, I could deal with "Lawyer's Foot," or "Office Worker's Foot," or even "Underemployed Worker With a Post Graduate Degree Foot," but the injustice of having Athlete's Foot without the Athlete's Income, Athlete's Physique, or Athlete's Attractiveness To The Opposite Sex is just so wrong.

First of all, Athlete's Foot is a lot like Herpes (also known as, "the gift that keeps on giving"). Just like Herpes, it goes away, then comes back, goes away again and then comes back again. Not unlike political campaign commercials.

But at least with Herpes, one might possibly have a wild weekend fling to look fondly back on. With Athlete's Foot, I can only look back on standing in a locker room shower with a bunch of other naked men, all of whom were desperately trying to avoid looking at each other.

I don't even get to be on those TV commercials with John Madden. You know, the ones where the guy's foot is actually on fire, and "tough-actin Tinactin comes to the rescue and puts out the flame before someone has to call 911.

Oh well, no one said life was fair.

Those Funny French People

2005-08-28T08:18:00.000-07:00

I can't take credit for this one, but I wish I could:
Lance Armstrong flew back to Paris to defend his reputation once again, only to have the French police (their motto by the way is, "Stop! Or I'll Run and Hide")search his hotel room.
This time it really does look bad for Lance. They found two items absolutely forbidden on French soil. The French are really, really upset this time. They found a testicle and a backbone. You just can't have those things in France.

Sex Sells

2005-08-26T20:16:00.000-07:00

I have been called down to a little photo studio in the building where I work. They have just taken my photograph and I am waiting for the photographer to come talk to me.

I don't know why I have been called down here but I have a very good idea. Obviously they want my photograph for the company's advertising campaign. My image will soon be on billboards, TV commercials and full page magazine ads. The company clearly wants to attract more female customers, and someone has decided my photo will do the job.

In a way I'm flattered, but I also feel cheap. I am more than just another pretty face. I have brains, personality and enough charisma to light up New York.
But I also have child support payments and an ex with a long memory, so I already know I will play along with this little beefcake advertising program.

What if they have me do a TV commercial? They probably have in mind something like one of those mens' fragrance ads wherein women are driven wild and go into attack mode. That's all right, I'm not afraid.

If they ask for my input, I'm going to suggest they use that old Elvis song where he sings out, "A hunka, hunka burning love." I think that will be very tasteful and in keeping with the proper image and dignity the company wants to project.

Here comes the photographer now. He wants my opinion on how to make this campaign a smashing success.

"Mr. Brown, here is your new employee ID. Please try not to lose this one too."

"Of course not, I assure him. I wonder if I'm going to get a big raise out of this ad campaign. Probably not, but it's OK, I just want to help out the company any way I can.

A Day In The Life - Please Pass The Prozac?

2005-08-25T19:36:00.000-07:00

I wore a nice, clean yellow golf shirt to work today. By 8 am, my first coffee spill had magically appeared on it. By 10 am, two more coffee stains had joined the first. At lunch, the sauce from my pizza went nicely with the coffee stains. By this time I was getting really paranoid and took extra, extra care when standing at the urinal, lest my pants join the stain parade.

***********

I'm sure there are some city ordinances or building codes that dictate how far employee work stations can be from the restrooms. Given that, I am dead solid certain my desk is at the farthest allowable distance from the restroom. My fifteen minute break usually has about 4 1/2 minutes left by the time I get back. I am demanding they either install a Porta Potty near my cubicle or hand out Depends to all employees.

**********

I wonder if I can be fired for hurling my computer out the window? ("please don't crash, please don't crash right now, pleeeeaaase don't .... ha ha ha ha ha. No I'm fine, I always drill pencils into my ear. It helps relieve the stress.")

Money Talks - Mine Says, "So Long, Loser!"

2005-08-24T16:23:00.000-07:00

I suddenly feel very good about myself, my employer and the work I do. Today I read about Bob Huggins, the University of Cincinnati basketcall coach, who was forced to retire and offered $3 million:
Embattled Cincinnati Coach Huggins Resigns - Los Angeles Times.

Apparently the company I work for still regards me as much too valuable to offer $3 million to resign. They need and want my daily toil so badly that they are willing to keep their $3 million just to keep me in my cubicle. I feel valued.

But this is not the first time I have been impressed at the amounts some people are paid not to work, or at least to not work very successfully. I remember a few years ago reading that the loser in a boxing title match was paid some $30 million just to lose the fight.

For that money, I would have been more than willing to enter the ring against the defending champ, talk trash to him from my corner, cast my most indimidating glair at him as the referee called us to the center of the ring, and assume my famous fighting stance. The fetal position.

Sure the taste of defeat would have been bitter on my lips, but I would have left the ring with my head held up high with the pride of knowing: 1) I had given it my very best, and 2) that I still had a head to hold up.

But I am older now, and have had to hang up my gloves, so I have recently been looking for other ways to attract capital by not working. A lot of people these days get paid huge amounts to take their clothes off. Now I am not foolish enough to think anyone will pay me to do this, but I bet I could attract huge sums NOT to take my clothes off.

I could go up to attractive ladies in public and say, "If you ladies will pay me $100 each, I won't take my clothes off." I will make a fortune.

Oh sure, some might need convincing, but they will know I'm serious by the time I get down to my BVDs ("look Diane, this isn't funny anymore. He really means it. Let's just give him the money and we'll get out of here right now.")

Of course starting out, I don't expect to be making what Bob Huggins is being paid not to work, but this is America. Anything can happen.

Taking First Amendment Rights Seriously

2005-08-20T18:19:00.000-07:00

I love, respect and admire women. I do my best to look at the women I meet as my equals in every respect, in a platonic, non-ogling sort of way (but if your name happens to be Carmen Electra, all bets are off).

I say this to perhaps soften the inevitable backlash I am destined to create as a result of what I am about to say. I fully anticipate my controversial, yet insightful, comments to outrage many of those who value our freedoms of speech much less than I do.

But, as a Champion of the First Amendment, I am prepared to make my stand and will not back down from what I think is right.

Here is what I have to say: Women invented the modern men’s necktie.

OK, perhaps it won’t go down in history alongside “Give me liberty or give me death,” or “My only regret is that I have only one life to give for my country,” but it does have a better ring to it than, ”pork, the other white meat.”

Let me first clarify. In the Middle Ages, the original men’s necktie was merely a napkin or bib that men wore all day, because… hey, you never knew when you and your buddies would need to stop at Hooters for wings and other sloppy food.

Of course I don’t have to tell you that wearing a bib as a permanent fixture to a man’s wardrobe was an inspired idea, with all the great earmarks of something invented by men. It was functional, convenient and was certainly colorful (“hey Bruce, that spot of ketchup really goes well with those gravy stains. You are such a snappy dresser.”)

But before long, other people decided that all this functionality, convenience and color needed a change. This group’s idea of “colorful” had nothing to do with BBQ sauce, mustard or any other food stain or smear. They wanted color made from blended fabric, ornate designs and patters that (hold on to your stomach contents here) matched the rest of the man’s wardrobe.

As you might already have guessed, these other people are the same fun loving group that came up with the ideas of decorative towels (towels that hang in the bathroom but are not to be used for drying hands or other bodily parts) and decorative pillows (pillows generally found on sofas or beds that are not to be used for sleeping on).

Clearly not only are the ideas of decorative towels and decorative pillows beyond the comprehension of the male mind, but they were imposed on us as a way of making us feel stupid. (“Let’s see, my hands are wet, but I’m not supposed to dry my hands on these towels. I don’t know why I’m not supposed to dry my hands on these towels, they look like perfectly good towels to me. But the last time I did that I slept on the sofa for a whole week and couldn’t lay my head on any of the pillows. I guess I’ll have to just dry my hands on my pants again.”)

So inevitably, the once useful garment worn around a man’s neck to catch falling BBQ splatter was transformed into a decoration upon which a man gets food stains on to his mortal peril. Men thus joined the ranks of non-useful objects displayed only for purposes of creating an ambiance. We became decorative human beings.

Well I have said what I had to say. If they come for me in the middle of the night and I am never heard from again, just remember that I stood for all of our rights for free speech. I just hope wherever they take me; I can have some non-decorative pillows to sleep on.

Gas Prices: Comedy and Tragedy

2005-08-18T15:21:00.000-07:00

Only a few short years ago I was desperate to buy a Toyota Land Cruiser, which is sort of the Pamela Anderson of SUVs. I thought if only I could be seen driving around in a $75,000 hunk of metal, my life would be happy and fulfilled. I would be charming and funny at parties, I would be on my way to be a famous humor writer and I would even be attractive to women (hey, why not dream big?). I wanted that Land Cruiser, I needed that Land Cruiser, and I would die a slow, painful agonizing Job-like death without a Land Cruiser. But a certain not-yet-ex-wife gently talked me out of it.

“No,” she said.

“But Jimmy’s got a Land Cruiser, Tommy’s got a Land Cruiser and I’m the only guy in the whole neighborhood that hasn’t got a Land Cruiser.” (Note to other men: we need to get together and come up with a few better arguments. I could be wrong, but this one seems to have lost some of its persuasiveness over the years).

“Are you out of your mind? Absolutely not. We could put at least one kid through college on what that thing costs.” She always had a funny way of bringing responsibilities into these decisions.

Anyway, here we are a few years later, and the Jimmys and Tommys of this world would now sell their first born in order to fill that SUV tank up. (“Cindy, you only have to live with the nice gas station owner for a short time until daddy can afford to drive to work again”).

The other day, the TV news aired a humorous spot (at least someone at the TV station thought it was humorous, but I bet a lot of viewers took extra Prozac that night) about how the parking lots for public transportation are now filled with SUVs.

These poor doctors and lawyers now have to take the bus to work because they can’t afford to pay to drive. We now have people riding on public transportation who, for the first time in their lives, are experiencing the joys of sitting next to people who have to economize on the more basic things in life besides gasoline (“OK Stella, this is how we’re going to do it, I wear the deodorant on Monday, Wednesday and Friday- you wear it on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. On Sunday we’ll stay home and swat flies).

I’ve also noticed a lot more garage sales so people can afford their gas-guzzlers. (Psst Jim, I just peeked into his garage. I think we can really get some bargains here. Let’s see how far he’ll come down on the pool table and the jewelry and see if maybe he’ll throw in that funny picture of the dogs playing poker along with it.)

Don't Laugh, This Could Be You Sooner Than You Think

2005-08-16T21:13:00.000-07:00

“Get up.”

“Mmmmmphphphphph,” I said.

“I mean get up now.”

“Ughmmmmmmmm.” I explained, using logic to bolster my powers of persuasion.

“Get up right now.”

Clearly logic meant nothing to this fiend, so I tried to appeal to decency. With a touch of humor for good measure. “Arghoshnnnominnnnnn.”

If. you don’t get up right this instant, I’m going to start doing jumping jacks right here on the bed and you’ll have to change the sheets before you can go back to sleep.”

My bladder has no mercy, no sense of humor. We have had this conversation many, many times before and I always lose, but I still keep trying. “It’s 4:03 in the morning, you just got me up at 1:17, I tried to reason with it again, this time with a crooked smile to show I was sort of joking.

“I’m tired of arguing with you. You are over forty, male and this is your life from now on. Get used to it. And remember, I didn’t make you stay up to watch Comedy Central tonight”
I finally get up and stagger down the hall. A few moments later, I am outraged. “That’s it? there is more moisture on the planet Mars. You got me up for just a few drops?

Finally, Mr. Thimble Bladder is just a little less cocky. “Hey man I’m sorry, I really thought I was about to pop a cork there for a minute and go sloshing all over the place. But look it’s really not my fault, I sit right here next to El Lardo, your prostrate. He puts so much pressure on me, and squeezes me like a tooth paste tube under a dinasuar, so it feels like I’m holding an entire swimming pool in.”

My Bladder is clearly upset. “The last couple of years this prostate of yours has just been blimping up like you wouldn’t believe. It isn’t funny. There is no room for me there; it’s like sitting in one of the cheapo economy class seats next to a hippo with a Moon Pie IV.

Hey I heard that,” says Prostate. (Come to think of it, he is getting to be about the size of a sofa cushion.) “I used to be really trim and in great shape back when we were in our twenties. I got to work out all the time. Every night, maybe once or twice in the day. I thought I was training for the Olympics or something. Man, was I in shape. Every night another workout. Now nothing. This isn’t a lot of laughs for me either you know. I feel like a fine machine just going to rust. So what if I’m getting a little pudgy, all I ask for is a little exercise now and then.”

The Bladder and I both sigh, we remember those days in our twenties too. A little excersise now and then would be good for all of us. But there’s nothing we can do about it, so we decide to go back to bed.

“See you in an hour”, says my Bladder.

Life is Funny, Even A Week Later

2005-08-15T09:59:00.000-07:00

Let the celebrations begin. I am now enjoying my one week anniversary of hosting this (allegedly) humor blog. Other than over-eating, I haven't stuck with anything over a week in a long, long time. So for all of you teeming numbers of readers out there (both of you) I hope you found at least one funny thing to laugh at.

I been checking out some other bloggers out there to see if I could pick up a few tips. So far the tips I've picked up are:
1) Use spell check;
2) If you wouldn't want your coworkers snickering behind your back, don't get THAT personal;
3) Always remember the FBI, the CIA the Mafia and your ex-spouse (or worse yet, your ex-spouse's attorney) might be reading your blog. And they NEVER forget.
4) Your babies are cute, adorable and sweet. But I can only take so many descriptions of their poopy diapers. And this is coming from a dad who has changed his fair share of them. If you don't stop, I will be forced to tell you about the one I changed that was actually one of Iraq's missing weapons of mass destruction gone terribly wrong.

Anyway there are some really good ones out there. If you get a chance, check out the really funny Heather Armstrong's "Dooce" and April's Slomotourist. I've posted both of them to my links section to the right of this post.

April's Slomotourist had me a little worried for a bit. She had a really humorous post about a crazy man that hopped into the back seat of her car while she was stopped at a traffic light. I always worry when I hear about things like that. Was it me? Was I there? But this time I'm fairly sure I was here in Texas at the time.

Well this was going to be a short little post, but I got carried away again. Go to go and make something useful of my life.

COPYRIGHT (C) 2005 C.H. Brown

Texas Road Hazards

2005-08-14T07:25:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I am minding my own business, driving the local Texas highways at a normal, for Texas, speed (something around where Scotty is saying, “Jim you can’t push it any faster,”) when all of the sudden I come upon a car whose driver holds to the quaint old idea that a speed limit actually regulates the maximum speed one can legally travel.

This is silly. Anyone who has driven two minutes in Texas knows that such a practice is about as safe as taking a casual strollthrough a stampeding herd of cattle, while a twister is bringing up the rear.

Typically, these drivers either: 1) first began voting during the Rutherford B. Hayes administration; 2) are newcomers to Texas who have not yet recognized that the high speed particles, which keep forcing them off the roads have been produced in Detroit; or 3) are reckless thrill seekers who care nothing about endangering the lives of others.

I have come up with a few solutions to these roadway menaces.
--First, elected officials should make it clear that in Texas, signs depicting a speed limit, are merely suggestions of a possible speed one might wish to travel late at night when one has the entire road to oneself and all the time in the world to get to where ever one is going. This would be like during the next Super Bowl in which the Cowboys are playing.
--Second, we should tighten up our immigration policies. As it stands now, any Tom Dick or Mortimer can move from someplace like New Jersey to Texas. This has got to stop.
--Third, I realize we will all be old someday (just like Elvis) but perhaps we could communicate to our dear seniors that IF WE CAN'T GET TO WORK ON TIME, WE CANNOT PUT MONEY FROM OUR PAYCHECKS INTO YOUR SOCIAL SECURITY SYSTEM FOR YOU TO BUY YOUR PREPARATION H.

Mutt's Worries

2005-08-13T21:09:00.000-07:00

I’m sure everyone has a friend like my buddy, Mutt. This is a ‘there-but-for-the-grace-of-God friend,” who has spent a good part of his or her life making a mess of it in order to make all of us fell better about ours.

Mutt’s own father gave him his nickname because he spent most of his time sleeping, eating and looking for females in heat. But he has always been a good-natured sort who is the first to show up when you need help moving or throwing a Super Bowl party.

One thing Mutt has never explained to me is how he came to be banned for life from every Fredericks of Hollywood store nationwide. I’ve tried to ask him about it several times but the only answer I get from him is a dismissive, “it could have happened to anyone, man.”

So last Saturday Mutt and I were having coffee at one of those places that sells it for $4 or 5 a cup. Or at least I was having a coffee, Mutt was having a mocha frappuccino latte espresso something or other, a drink he seems to have acquired a taste for lately whenever I’m buying.

“Charlie, I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned this before---“

I doubted it. Mutt and I have known each other since high school, which was back around the time Nixon was just about to give up trying to convince anyone he was not a crook. During that time, we had talked virtually every subject under the sun to death, so I wasn’t holding my breath expecting him to come up with a new one.

“---I think we men are becoming obsolete.”

I was right. Of all the topics we had talked to death; male-female relationships had been run over, cremated, resurrected, squished again, been buried, been dug up and died again and again and again. Mutt had never been married, and had never been in a relationship longer than it took most ice cream cones to melt, so his understanding on the subject was about at the level of a teenager's. Or at least a teenager's understanding back when we were teenagers.

He had been particularly horrified one time after watching some documentary that told how in some species of the animal kingdom, like the Black Widow spider, the female will eat the male immediately after mating with him. We had, of course discussed that one at length, and he had synthesized it down to one nugget of wisdom, "don’t date any woman who is twice as big as you are.”

“What do you mean men are becoming obsolete”?

I was in Home Depot the other day and all of the sudden I thought I was in Bed, Bath and Beyond. I suddenly realized there were more women in the store than men. It used to be that even if women didn’t like us men too much, they at least had to put up with us to fix things. But now they’re fixing their own stuff. They’re buying their own tools, taking repair classes and just learning to do without us. I tell you, Charlie, they don't need us anymore. Men are becoming obsolete.”

I’ve seen enough science fiction movies that Mutt really worries me sometimes. What if Mutt is the first human to make contact with alien visitors. Even if they come with no hostile intent, their first meeting with him could change that in a hurry. I can just see him dressing up for the occasion in a pair of cowboy boots and a Speedo. Once the aliens see that, poof! No more human race.

“Just because women are more self reliant and independent today, does not mean men do not have our own place in their world,” I said, staring down at where my wedding band used to be.

“It’s just that men are getting fewer and fewer reasons to feel important these days.”

“Maybe they were just trying to be important in the wrong ways, Mutt. It's not about being better than women, it's about helping, contributing and doing our part.” Suddenly I felt profound.

Mutt apparently thought so too. “Do you think so”? He had a half impressed, half puzzled look on his face. “No wait a minute, some presidents and kings were men too you know. They were important.”

“That’s the point, Mutt. The really important ones were the ones who did things for other people. There are a lot of important people who aren’t famous like presidents or world leaders, but they may live right around the corner. But if they spend their time doing things for other people, they ARE important. Fixing things didn’t make men important because it was something we could do that women couldn’t. It made them important when they carried their load or fixed something FOR the other person.”

Mutt thought on this a while. “It’s just as well, I never was very good at fixing things anyway." He sipped down the last of his frappuccino concoction. "So we don’t have to be smarter, we don't have to make more money, have better careers, be more athletic or even know sports statistics better than women. We just have to find our own way to be important by helping others.”

The relief on his face grew and then faltered slightly. “But I still don’t want to be eaten after mating with one of them.”

“Trust me on this Mutt. You are the last guy on earth who should worry about it.”

COPYRIGHT © 2005 C.H. Brown

Buster The Therapist

2005-08-12T18:13:00.000-07:00

Buster is my therapist. His methods are unusual but he really gets results. Most of the time he doesn’t say anything to me, he just listens. He has a way of just staring at me with his brown eyes until I start coming up with my own answers. “I don’t know why my life seems like I’m just running in place. I put in so much effort, but never seem to have much to show for it”…(silence and stares from Buster)… “maybe I should try turning off the TV and going outside my house.”

I like that in a therapist, because there’s nothing packaged or phony about the solutions we arrive at during the course of our session.

Sometimes, if I am having a particularly rough time getting at whatever is holding me back, he will lay on his back, naked, with his genitals pointing up into the air. The first time he did this, I was really taken aback. I mean, not only was it completely unorthodox, but in no way was it a pretty sight.

Anyway, I soon realized his genitals-waiving-in-the-air method, while unusual, was his way of signaling his absolute openness and complete lack of pretence to me. Once I grasped this, I was able to embark onto new levels of self-discovery and self-healing. It also helped me to embark my way out of that session as fast as possible.

Lest you think Buster is a complete loon, I would like to point out that in the therapist community, he is world famous. For example, if you have been going to your own therapist lately, you have probably noticed that a lot of them greet you at the door these days by sniffing your crotch. This was Buster’s innovation.

A few years ago, when he delivered a paper of his findings on how crotch sniffing built instant rapport with patients, his professional peers howled out a thunderous ovation.

Anyway, I always feel better after my sessions with Buster. There is really something to be said for having someone listen to you uncritically and devote his or her 100% attention to you.

The other great thing about Buster is that he has never charged me a single dime for our therapy sessions. All he seems to ask for is a good scratch on the tummy before I go, always being careful to avoid those waiving genitals.

COPYRIGHT © 2005 C.H. Brown

Today's Hissy Fit

2005-08-11T20:37:00.000-07:00

I have no patience with skinny people who complain about how "fat" they are. Here's a new rule: if you can see the scale while you are standing on it, SHUT UP!

And I just don't get those people who set goals to lose FIVE POUNDS. A goal involves planning, dedication, hard work, execution, toil, and "paying the price." Losing five pounds is like doing one push up. That's not a goal, that's a blurred object whizzing past your moving car.

A real goal is something big, like losing 20 to 50 pounds. Here's how you know if you have just set a real goal: The very idea makes you feel faint and miserable. You start to doubt your sanity for even attempting to climb this particular Everest. Then you feel so sick in your stomach that you give up before you even get started. That's how you know when you've set a real goal.

* * * * *

Why in the world do people put clothing on their pets? Being an animal is hard enough. You cannot talk or understand language. You do not have opposable thumbs, so you have to pick up everything with your mouth ("No, Butch, I'm telling you, I picked up the last dead bird. This one is all yours.") And on top of all this, some pet owner decides you would look really cute in a tank top.

You just know the dog is thinking, " Hey, I'm really sorry your underwear rides up on you, but that's no reason to take it out on me, OK?" I mean one of the only perks that come with their job is they can go naked.

And then the ultimate humiliation - the camera. Not only has this pet owner dressed him up like Ronald McDonald, but this moment is about to be immortalized on film. At this point the dog has had enough. "Look, I've tried to be patient, but now you've gone too far. How would you like me to show my friends a picture of you when you first wake up in the morning."

A Quick Post

2005-08-11T11:27:00.000-07:00

Got to make this one short and sweet. I have to leave for work in just a few. So far I think I am just shouting into the wind, but hey, its a new blog so I have to give it time. Anyway, I hope to attract a few readers after a while.
I am working nine days straight, and won't have another day off until August 20. If I have any brain cells left by then maybe I can start writing longer essays and stories (some fact some you-figure-it-out). I have a few ideas I want to hit.
If I get a chance tonight and if I can still keep my eyes open and if I am not incoherently drooling all over myself, after I get back home, I might write some more.

COPYRIGHT © 2005 C.H. Brown

Great Moments in History That Were Effected By Coffee

2005-08-10T09:09:00.000-07:00

I just thought I would share some of my research on the historical impact of coffee:

1776 Thomas Jefferson, after weeks of struggle to write the Declaration of Independence, was served a
dark lattee with pureed hazelnuts, and was finally able to get over his writers block and came up
with that "inalienable rights" line.
1929 When the employees showed up for work at the New York Stock Exchange, they discovered the
coffee machine was broken. Later that day the stock market crashed.
1941 The Japanese Navy, furious over America's embargo of coffee to their empire, bombed Pearl
Harbor. This was the first time the negative effects of caffeine withdrawal were documented by historians.
1931 Josef Stalin, in a snit because he broke his favorite coffee cup, decided to send 10,000 people to Siberia.
1492 Christopher Columbus, on a massive caffeine overdose, discovered America by driving around while refusing to ask for directions and (because he thought he was in India) called the local inhabitants, "Indians."
1912 British Capt Smith, who was suffering from caffeine withdrawal because his practical joking first mate had switched his regular coffee for decaf, drove his ship, the HMS Titanic, into an iceberg.
1779 George Washington and his army, protesting the shortage of coffee, camped out in Valley Forge all winter until the Continental Congress sent them more java.
1996 A young Washington D.C. intern named Monica Lewinski....(maybe I shouldn't go there)
87 AD Roman emperor Nero, who lived before coffee was discovered, ordered Rome to be burned, played his violin (badly, but no one dared tell him) and ordered up a few more lions.
1909 Wilbur and Orville Wright, began drinking coffee as young men and invented the airplane as a result.
1960 John Kennedy, an avid coffee drinker, beat Richard Nixon, who should have been a coffee drinker, in the 1960 Presidential election.
1944 and 1945 Allied troops, well fortified with gallons of coffee, stormed the beaches of Normandy, and proceeded to kick Nazi butt all across France, Belgium and Germany.
1883 Alexander Bell invented the telephone so he could order his assistant, Watson, to bring him a fresh cup of coffee.
1865 John Wilkes Booth, who was kind of a prissy little so and so anyway, was mad at the world because a stomach condition prevented him from drinking his morning cup of Joe, decided to go to the theater with a gun.

There, I hope you feel enlightened about the importance of coffee.
CB

Lack of Foresight

2005-08-09T17:27:00.000-07:00

My Mother

2005-08-09T11:48:00.000-07:00

My mother is now seventy, very disabled from a stroke she had about 16 years ago and still has very strong opinions. Which she likes to express now and then for the enrichment of those around her.
But if I close my eyes, I still picture her as a twenty-something mother of four boys who could keep track of all of us, chase us down, administer sever discipline (whether we deserved it or not -which I seldom did) and still cook, clean and think up all kinds of work projects to keep us from running amok.
For example, we were always being conscripted to weed, mow, paint, clean (even when the mess wasn't of our own creation), rake, shovel or what have you. I once tried posting a copy of the Thirteenth Amendment against involuntary servitude, but was quickly labeled a communist and assigned to clean out the garage.
I was the only kid I knew who was truly interested in those Proctor and Gamble commercials for products that made housework easier and less damaging to the skin ("Marge, what can I do about these dishpan hands?" "Try Palmolive, you're soaking in it right now.")
But my mother also went way out of her way to make life fun for us. To this day, I have a warm, glowing feeling on rainy days because of her. When we were all cooped up inside, she would read to us, play games, get out a jigsaw puzzle, or bake cookies.
I had friends that were certain my mother baked every day, but the truth was, she mostly cooked on days with bad weather when her boys were stuck inside with nothing much to do.
So now it's sometimes hard to realize this is the same women who could chase me down a block and a half and swat my rear end all the way back home (remembering of course that I seldom deserved such treatment). Now she scoots along on a motorized Burgundy-colored scooter she bought with her Medicare benefits. (I'm dying to get her a motorcycle jacket and a doo rag to go with the scooter), and she takes enough medicines each day to qualify for her very own toxic waste site.
And yes, she still has lots of opinions. Perhaps you would like her to share them with you?

COPYRIGHT © 2005 C.H. Brown

Stage Fright

2005-08-08T08:31:00.000-07:00

Wow, my first blog posting. I've been writing my entire life but I have to admit that I have sweaty palms and arm pits right now. This is like getting up on stage on an open mike night.
So what can I say? It's around 10:30 am, I'm still in my pajamas and have to go to work in a couple of hours. I love to write, or at least I love to have written. I never, never get it right the first time but I am going to try to submit these blogs as first draft, right off the top of my head pieces.
I'm recently single again for the first time in over 26 years. One of the big changes in my life is I am learning to cook - and really enjoying it. I've been buying cookbooks at the used bookstores and experimenting. Some turn out like you would expect ("it's alive Igor, it's alive, now let's run") and others are surprising successes.
I make a cheesecake that has earned me a few marriage proposals at work when I've brought it in for office parties (note to all you other middle aged single guys out there, forget alcohol, food does a much better job of creating hallucinations in women-"my, you suddenly look an awful lot like Brad Pitt, can you hand me another piece of that cheesecake?")
Well that's all for now, I have start to do something productive with this day. See ya later.
CB

COPYRIGHT © 2005 C.H. Brown