Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Christmas Wish Snub
You know, why do I even bother putting together a Christmas wishlist in order of importance when my top item is always ignored? Yeh...Yeh...Merry Freakin' Christmas to me!
Monday, December 27, 2010
Holy Cow these are some Lucky, Lucky Folks!!
These are some of the luckiest people you will ever see! Cheers to still being around gang.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Zombie Safe Holidays
How to steel yourself from zombies this holiday season without ruining your celebrations...or pies even.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Books for Christmas? Travesty I Say!
"Books are not Christmas presents! Christmas isn't educational! You've told me that the tales of an omnipotent redcoated fat man bringing toys to every kid in the world in one night are true and then you buy me freakin' books?! Have you lost your minds? What if there's an actual truth in here?! I don't need this confusion already at the age of 4...Hold on what's this?..alright, you just may have redeemed yourselves..."
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Big Band Man at the Ballgame
As minor leaguers aspire to theirs, kids at band camp aspire to this cup of coffee.
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Friday, December 10, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
Live Action Wiley and Road Runner
This is just realy well done. Thanks to Neatorama where I found the video.
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Wednesday, December 1, 2010
English is Dum
The often sillee inglish langweg has it pointed owt prittee well by our old frend heer.
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Thursday, November 18, 2010
Oh...This Is Just Wrong
If it's not bad enough that this has 18 slices of bacon it's also had the bacon grease turned into a sauce to add to a pound of ground beef and 3 hot dogs. It's then wrapped in cheese and covered with corn meal. Oh yeh...it's deep fried.
It comes with a defibrillator.
It comes with a defibrillator.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Big OOPS!
Probably shouldn't have trusted the demolition guy who's missing a hand.
or...
Just because your cousin Cletus is the one that always gets his hands on the illegal fireworks for the 4th doesn't mean you should hire him for this.
or...
Just because your cousin Cletus is the one that always gets his hands on the illegal fireworks for the 4th doesn't mean you should hire him for this.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Best Bouncy Ride Ever
When your classmates on the bus tell you it would be cool to jump as the bus hits a bump be skeptical.
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Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Five Very Cool Minutes
Now we all know that videos of people falling down and doing generally stupid stuff are often the viraly popular one but occasionally people are capable of some very cool things too...
Friday, October 22, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
My Buccos And A Missed Moment
So last week I made my yearly pilgrimage to NYC to catch my woeful Pittsburgh Pirates in Queens for one, sometimes two efforts of baseball indignity. This season it was two games to add to my string of losses while watching them live and further compound my misery. There was a 1-0 nothing, 10 inning loss in the first of four game set with the Mets where Chan-Ho Park came in a scoreless game and further exampled why Major League teams really need to stop paying this guy to wear a uniform. The second game though was a lot tougher to take. After briefly enjoying a five run lead in the fourth Pirates pitcher Paul maholm decided to throw batting practice while the defense decided to forget everything they learned in Little League. It wasn’t this that was so tough though.
Now I realize that I’m 46 years old and there are plenty of things far more important in this brief life than baseball, a lot of them involving trying to survive and remembering to feed the cats. But my love affair with my Pittsburgh Pirates Ballclub is something I can’t escape and has been ongoing now, winning or not, for 41 years or so. I guess I’m a true example of the loyal fan as the “winning or not” has been mostly “not” for most of those 41 years, but I still strap on my mental cleats and cup every exhibition season and look forward to another six months of knowing the names, numbers and watching the games, with tears or not. Baseball for some, is a passion that remembers the best times of youth and the dreams that can be associated with it as you pretended your favorite players in the backyard and played with all your heart on ballfields lost in time. However much baseball has sullied it’s own reputation with drugs and greed and hubris it is still, and always, baseball…a perfect game.
So it was this second game I made my way to, with Cumulus pal Jeremiah, at Citi Field, the third game in the 3 game series, that was extra tough because I missed catching a home run ball in the 9th inning by inches, twice, and missed the opportunity to relive a little those dreams. The disappointment I felt at the time and still do can seem kind of silly for it just being a game but in my six seasons of catching my boys live I have yet to see a victory (about 9 games or so I think) so it felt like I missed a gift the Pirate baseball gods offered up to me as a sort of recompense for my fandom travails. Those Bucco gods had Andrew McCutchen, Pirates center fielder, hit the homer right to me but I didn’t have my glove on, until too late, as I saw it coming our way. (This is the link to the highlight of that homerun).
http://pittsburgh.pirates.mlb.com/video/play.jsp?content_id=12114299&topic_id=8877442&c_id=pit
Again the silliness of a grown man’s disappointment of missing a ball in a game is evident to the casual, but to me it hurt and still does and all can say is, alas. But I still love my Bucs, winners or not, and I will be there at some point next season wearing my bright gold pullover and also my glove, at all times, hoping those baseball gods give me a second shot.
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Now I realize that I’m 46 years old and there are plenty of things far more important in this brief life than baseball, a lot of them involving trying to survive and remembering to feed the cats. But my love affair with my Pittsburgh Pirates Ballclub is something I can’t escape and has been ongoing now, winning or not, for 41 years or so. I guess I’m a true example of the loyal fan as the “winning or not” has been mostly “not” for most of those 41 years, but I still strap on my mental cleats and cup every exhibition season and look forward to another six months of knowing the names, numbers and watching the games, with tears or not. Baseball for some, is a passion that remembers the best times of youth and the dreams that can be associated with it as you pretended your favorite players in the backyard and played with all your heart on ballfields lost in time. However much baseball has sullied it’s own reputation with drugs and greed and hubris it is still, and always, baseball…a perfect game.
So it was this second game I made my way to, with Cumulus pal Jeremiah, at Citi Field, the third game in the 3 game series, that was extra tough because I missed catching a home run ball in the 9th inning by inches, twice, and missed the opportunity to relive a little those dreams. The disappointment I felt at the time and still do can seem kind of silly for it just being a game but in my six seasons of catching my boys live I have yet to see a victory (about 9 games or so I think) so it felt like I missed a gift the Pirate baseball gods offered up to me as a sort of recompense for my fandom travails. Those Bucco gods had Andrew McCutchen, Pirates center fielder, hit the homer right to me but I didn’t have my glove on, until too late, as I saw it coming our way. (This is the link to the highlight of that homerun).
http://pittsburgh.pirates.mlb.com/video/play.jsp?content_id=12114299&topic_id=8877442&c_id=pit
Again the silliness of a grown man’s disappointment of missing a ball in a game is evident to the casual, but to me it hurt and still does and all can say is, alas. But I still love my Bucs, winners or not, and I will be there at some point next season wearing my bright gold pullover and also my glove, at all times, hoping those baseball gods give me a second shot.
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Tuesday, September 14, 2010
The Survey Grain Of Salt
I came across a survey earlier this week about mom’s and how they prepare school lunches for their small people. Quite frankly I was surprised and even dismayed. You would think that Mom’s, being Mom’s, would be forthright and honest when it comes to a survey. It’s a survey, a poll of a sampling. Isn’t it supposed to be a true barometer of what the larger population thinks? They’re scientific and precise right? There can’t be any variables to take into account can there? I mean Pew surveys and others such like them are always supplying us with the real pulse of the people correct? Without them how would we, say, know how many people are actually texting while driving and applying makeup or eating home cooked meals not takeout, or voting for dick and not jane? We wouldn’t.
No, we rely on them to tell us where we stand on every issue under the sun from social to political to economic and, most importantly, to whether we wear boxers or briefs or whether time is relative or something we just dismiss as a mere annoyance hoping our jeans don’t wear. We have to know if we are running with the pack or blacksheeping ourselves right out of the fold don’t we?
So the dismay I felt at reading this poll I mentioned earlier came from the true dishonesty of it.
Mom Central Consulting surveyed 13-hundred mothers to find out how they shop for their kids' lunches. Findings:
--90 percent of them worry about what to put in the lunchbox
--86 percent plan out their children's meals in advance to ensure they eat a variety of healthy foods
--74 percent select items based on their nutritional value
--72 percent buy items with higher nutritional value even if it means spending more money
--79 percent opt for whole grain or enriched bread instead of white bread
--82 percent regularly pack fruit in their children's lunchboxes
--76 percent opt for portion-controlled snack packs
Where was the 35% of them that checked the expiration date on the meat for that sandwich on stale bread and decided it was close enough?
Or, the 22% who went rummaging, last minute, through their purse for $3 for the school lunch, sometimes even secretly finding the money in the stash of ‘grandma’ dollars in their kid’s sock drawer?
Or, the 75% who hastily grabbed whatever looked edible and threw it in a lunch box with a Mountain Dew and some cookies just before the bus arrived?
Or what about the 12% that thought the kids ate enough at dinner the night before to make it through tomorrow’s lunch break?
The only one that seemed honest was the first on the list about mom’s worrying about what to put in the lunchbox. Well of course! My own lunch box has whatever wasn’t talking to me or crumbling into disappearance but I worry about it.
No, I think in light of Mom’s trying to paint themselves in a better light, we have to take surveys with a grain. A Gibraltar size one. So the next time you see, for instance, a survey that says Sarah Palin is really in tune with the heartbeat of the American people and you actually take it to be truth hit yourself with a brick and then, well just hit yourself with a brick. Then keep in mind that we are hardly ever told the true context of the survey and the responders: who exactly (were they escaped mental patients?), what (are they financially sound or just like the rest of us?), where (online, in the mail, at a mall, at a prison?), why (is it a corporate behemoth trying to justify bleeding us dry?) when (in the middle of a shootout after they had finally been caught?). They are indeed only samplings and don’t necessarily speak for the larger public. Hell right now, however much I’d like to be in line with some of those wishfull thinking answer percentiles from the Mom lunchbox survey, I’m trying to find something for Jagger’s lunch tomorrow that isn’t moving. I didn’t get to the store today and my foot itches. How many of those survey answers took that variable into account?
Note: just kidding on the searching for something that isn’t moving. He has a healthy sandwich and sides in his lunch box for tomorrow and I threw in a Redbull and a 5 hour energy vial just in case he gets drowsy late in the afternoon.
Note 2: just kidding again. I didn’t get to the store for any Redbull.
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Note 3: my foot really does itch by the way
No, we rely on them to tell us where we stand on every issue under the sun from social to political to economic and, most importantly, to whether we wear boxers or briefs or whether time is relative or something we just dismiss as a mere annoyance hoping our jeans don’t wear. We have to know if we are running with the pack or blacksheeping ourselves right out of the fold don’t we?
So the dismay I felt at reading this poll I mentioned earlier came from the true dishonesty of it.
Mom Central Consulting surveyed 13-hundred mothers to find out how they shop for their kids' lunches. Findings:
--90 percent of them worry about what to put in the lunchbox
--86 percent plan out their children's meals in advance to ensure they eat a variety of healthy foods
--74 percent select items based on their nutritional value
--72 percent buy items with higher nutritional value even if it means spending more money
--79 percent opt for whole grain or enriched bread instead of white bread
--82 percent regularly pack fruit in their children's lunchboxes
--76 percent opt for portion-controlled snack packs
Where was the 35% of them that checked the expiration date on the meat for that sandwich on stale bread and decided it was close enough?
Or, the 22% who went rummaging, last minute, through their purse for $3 for the school lunch, sometimes even secretly finding the money in the stash of ‘grandma’ dollars in their kid’s sock drawer?
Or, the 75% who hastily grabbed whatever looked edible and threw it in a lunch box with a Mountain Dew and some cookies just before the bus arrived?
Or what about the 12% that thought the kids ate enough at dinner the night before to make it through tomorrow’s lunch break?
The only one that seemed honest was the first on the list about mom’s worrying about what to put in the lunchbox. Well of course! My own lunch box has whatever wasn’t talking to me or crumbling into disappearance but I worry about it.
No, I think in light of Mom’s trying to paint themselves in a better light, we have to take surveys with a grain. A Gibraltar size one. So the next time you see, for instance, a survey that says Sarah Palin is really in tune with the heartbeat of the American people and you actually take it to be truth hit yourself with a brick and then, well just hit yourself with a brick. Then keep in mind that we are hardly ever told the true context of the survey and the responders: who exactly (were they escaped mental patients?), what (are they financially sound or just like the rest of us?), where (online, in the mail, at a mall, at a prison?), why (is it a corporate behemoth trying to justify bleeding us dry?) when (in the middle of a shootout after they had finally been caught?). They are indeed only samplings and don’t necessarily speak for the larger public. Hell right now, however much I’d like to be in line with some of those wishfull thinking answer percentiles from the Mom lunchbox survey, I’m trying to find something for Jagger’s lunch tomorrow that isn’t moving. I didn’t get to the store today and my foot itches. How many of those survey answers took that variable into account?
Note: just kidding on the searching for something that isn’t moving. He has a healthy sandwich and sides in his lunch box for tomorrow and I threw in a Redbull and a 5 hour energy vial just in case he gets drowsy late in the afternoon.
Note 2: just kidding again. I didn’t get to the store for any Redbull.
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Note 3: my foot really does itch by the way
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Now THAT'S Inflight Entertainment
Next time that you're stuck on the tarmac after overpaying for your ticket and then paying extra for your bags, pillow, blanket, peanuts, safety equipment and possibly even for wearing a jacket you might just wish these folks had taken the same flight. (after the plane finally got into the terminal all passengers were told they would be billed for the extra, impromptu or not, musical amenity).
Friday, September 3, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Mom's Missives Are Always Proven Right...In The End
My latest entry for the attic here is dedicated to my mom and mom’s in general (minus the mommie dearests of course, no offense ladies) and how, no matter how long it may take, you are always proven right. When very young, for instance, it didn’t take long at all to have your warnings of “hot!” realized. The same can be said of, say, “she’ll scratch you” or “continually banging your head on that wall to get what you want will just hurt.” Some warnings took a little longer to prove mom correct like the consequences of not brushing your teeth every day (hello Dr. Drill) or how crying wolf could and would eventually bite you in the ass.
But there were the ones that seemed to us almost comical because, in the infinite mistaken wisdom of youth, we all thought mom to just be old and silly and maybe just repeating grandma truisms. My favorite was always the “wear clean underwear” missive. Being a smart ass I always thought “well, if I do get in an accident, they’re just going to cut the underwear off me anyway, so what does it matter? What kind of embarrassment could there possibly be as I cling to life?” Thankfully after all these years I’ve never had any awful accidents (except for that perm in the late 70’s) that might raise the “wear clean underwear” issue. I’ve never had to have mom by my hospital bed crying hysterically, not over my possibly not surviving the night but instead my poor choice of unwashed fruit of the looms that won’t allow her to ever show her face again at the weekly English Club.
No, “wear clean underwear” always just hung in limbo and every time I didn’t I would return home with a sense of victory, though, thanks to you mom, that victory was always hollow as if I had dodged yet another bullet. (For those of you reading this saying “My god man! How often do you wear soiled underwear?!” Never, but I have left the house often wearing underwear that should have been cleaned a little more vigorously or was just practically ready to disintegrate). It wasn’t until a couple of weekends ago though, at the age of 46, that mom was vindicated, as moms usually are, when I went to the emergency room because of a distinct pain in my leg that had me, courtesy of surfing WebMD, scared somethingless of blood clots. Turns out it was varicose veins and me just getting old I guess, but when the nurse asked me to remove my pants and put on the very unsnug hospital gown she offered I remembered that I had left the house wearing a pair of Batman underwear. Kinda cool actually in a kid-like way with the Batman logo prominently protecting the front, but Batman underwear nonetheless. And, again, at the age of 46.
“Um…Frankenberry…you did say Batman underw…” Yes, and I’ll cut you off right there bemused and possibly frightened before you ask me more of the obvious. They were a joke gift as part of a birthday bushel of stuff from my Maria and the J.G. The two of them, not really knowing what to get me for said day (I’m the worst to buy for as I never really want anything) decided to just get me a bunch of small things which included, among other things, a Ronnie James Dio T-shirt, a Beatles coffee mug and…Batman underwear. I wore them this particular day for two reasons. 1: because I didn’t think Maria’s Jagger ever thought I would do so and 2: because a good friend was working his last day at Cumulus and I thought it would be funny to say I wore them to be strong so as not to pee myself from the heightened emotion. Didn’t seem so funny though as I stripped for that backless hospital nightie. They weren’t soiled and they weren’t falling off of me out of years and years and years of ‘guy can’t toss his old friend’ use but they were Batman pajamas. Did I mention at the age of 46? Mom? After all these years, you are again absolutely right. Proper underwear will be in order in the future. Love you too.
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But there were the ones that seemed to us almost comical because, in the infinite mistaken wisdom of youth, we all thought mom to just be old and silly and maybe just repeating grandma truisms. My favorite was always the “wear clean underwear” missive. Being a smart ass I always thought “well, if I do get in an accident, they’re just going to cut the underwear off me anyway, so what does it matter? What kind of embarrassment could there possibly be as I cling to life?” Thankfully after all these years I’ve never had any awful accidents (except for that perm in the late 70’s) that might raise the “wear clean underwear” issue. I’ve never had to have mom by my hospital bed crying hysterically, not over my possibly not surviving the night but instead my poor choice of unwashed fruit of the looms that won’t allow her to ever show her face again at the weekly English Club.
No, “wear clean underwear” always just hung in limbo and every time I didn’t I would return home with a sense of victory, though, thanks to you mom, that victory was always hollow as if I had dodged yet another bullet. (For those of you reading this saying “My god man! How often do you wear soiled underwear?!” Never, but I have left the house often wearing underwear that should have been cleaned a little more vigorously or was just practically ready to disintegrate). It wasn’t until a couple of weekends ago though, at the age of 46, that mom was vindicated, as moms usually are, when I went to the emergency room because of a distinct pain in my leg that had me, courtesy of surfing WebMD, scared somethingless of blood clots. Turns out it was varicose veins and me just getting old I guess, but when the nurse asked me to remove my pants and put on the very unsnug hospital gown she offered I remembered that I had left the house wearing a pair of Batman underwear. Kinda cool actually in a kid-like way with the Batman logo prominently protecting the front, but Batman underwear nonetheless. And, again, at the age of 46.
“Um…Frankenberry…you did say Batman underw…” Yes, and I’ll cut you off right there bemused and possibly frightened before you ask me more of the obvious. They were a joke gift as part of a birthday bushel of stuff from my Maria and the J.G. The two of them, not really knowing what to get me for said day (I’m the worst to buy for as I never really want anything) decided to just get me a bunch of small things which included, among other things, a Ronnie James Dio T-shirt, a Beatles coffee mug and…Batman underwear. I wore them this particular day for two reasons. 1: because I didn’t think Maria’s Jagger ever thought I would do so and 2: because a good friend was working his last day at Cumulus and I thought it would be funny to say I wore them to be strong so as not to pee myself from the heightened emotion. Didn’t seem so funny though as I stripped for that backless hospital nightie. They weren’t soiled and they weren’t falling off of me out of years and years and years of ‘guy can’t toss his old friend’ use but they were Batman pajamas. Did I mention at the age of 46? Mom? After all these years, you are again absolutely right. Proper underwear will be in order in the future. Love you too.
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Friday, July 30, 2010
Goodbye, Farewell and Shmonty (spinoff welcome)
Tomorrow a good friend and co-worker here in the building is taking off for greener (hopefully for him) and really damn hot pastures. WRRV’s Shmonty is heading out with his better half, Kari, to Arizona as she admirably reaches higher for her doctorate (serious envy on my part) and he accompanies her realizing the most important thing in life. To just say he will be missed around Radioville here is almost trivial as real friends and daily sanity saving constants are always missed in a much more profound way.
Being around radio for a couple of years or so I’ve worked with many really talented people, many prima donna’s, and many hacks (usually the last two combined) but I have never come across as quick and natural a wit as that of Eric Ashmont (oh…that’s where Shmonty originates...quick you are). I’ve also met some very funny people along the way but far too many of them are condescendingly funny way and that’s, well, not funny. I’ve met a great many who try too hard to be funny and that’s, well, usually painfull. I’ve come across a lot who always have to be the funniest person in the room and that’s, well, a knee jerk to a blunt object. I’ve also run into those who have to work at funny and do and that’s, well, to be admired. Shmont though is a rare exception. He is easily and genuinely funny in that beautiful, screwy, irreverent and intelligent way that can make some folks laugh just a little warily and uncomfortably, which of course is funny in and of itself. He, too, is also very human and that combination is even rarer.
That is a daily dose of a person that cannot be replaced but can be treasured instead for having had the pleasure and laughter of it at all. Good luck to you my friend, to both of you. And to Kari a second dose of luck as he is, after all, Shmonty. Stay together and make lots of funny intelligent babies because, in the world we live in now, that is also rare.
Cheers,
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(No, I'm not the guy in the football jersey. I'm the creepy looking one peering over Shmonty's shoulder in the background with my Maria looking oh so cute as always)
Being around radio for a couple of years or so I’ve worked with many really talented people, many prima donna’s, and many hacks (usually the last two combined) but I have never come across as quick and natural a wit as that of Eric Ashmont (oh…that’s where Shmonty originates...quick you are). I’ve also met some very funny people along the way but far too many of them are condescendingly funny way and that’s, well, not funny. I’ve met a great many who try too hard to be funny and that’s, well, usually painfull. I’ve come across a lot who always have to be the funniest person in the room and that’s, well, a knee jerk to a blunt object. I’ve also run into those who have to work at funny and do and that’s, well, to be admired. Shmont though is a rare exception. He is easily and genuinely funny in that beautiful, screwy, irreverent and intelligent way that can make some folks laugh just a little warily and uncomfortably, which of course is funny in and of itself. He, too, is also very human and that combination is even rarer.
That is a daily dose of a person that cannot be replaced but can be treasured instead for having had the pleasure and laughter of it at all. Good luck to you my friend, to both of you. And to Kari a second dose of luck as he is, after all, Shmonty. Stay together and make lots of funny intelligent babies because, in the world we live in now, that is also rare.
Cheers,
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(No, I'm not the guy in the football jersey. I'm the creepy looking one peering over Shmonty's shoulder in the background with my Maria looking oh so cute as always)
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Waterparks, moving furniture, laundry and a few tears: Vacation '10
As I write this I’ve just finished enjoying a week’s vacation that included, among other things, a few mornings of not having to answer the 4am puppy alarm clock…ah the absolute glory of sleeping in (refer to the first paragraph of my last entry and to just being old in general). During the week…
- We enjoyed two water parks, Maria, the J.G. and I, Splashdown Beach and Mountain Creek, both great places to feel young again and get out some liberating wet screams and yelps of joy.
- I surprised my Maria by reorganizing the furniture in the living room, something she has been wanting to do for quite some time now but always seemed to stay on hold to her dismay and surely my fault. Now, Maria is notoriously awful at surprises both for and to…“What’d you get me for my birthday?!”…“It’s September honey, your birthday’s in November”… “Oh, you’re no fun!”… “Do you want to know what I got you for Christmas?!”…“It’s August honey”… “Oh, you’re no fun!” So, in the middle of my dragging and huffing and lifting and puffing and oh so carefully removing and replacing far too expensive Wizard of Oz nicks and Betty Boop nacks she, of course, tried to ruin the surprise without even knowing it by texting me about when we were going to finally move the living room around. My noncommittal lazy replies had her quite steamed by the time she got home from her hair appointment. Then she saw the “new” living room. Chalk one up for me. I love surprises.
- I finally caught up the last number of episodes of “Lost” that had been in the DVR forever it seems. Maria had been on me for quite some time to finally watch them as she already had, patience is akin to the surprise thing with Maria. I’m man enough to admit that quite a few tears were shed at the final episode, “Oh Jack,” by myself for the first time and Maria in a repeat. The tears were also able to keep Jagger’s unending questions about what was going at bay. The sobs drowned them out until he got bored.
- I did laundry. Stop the envy, it’s unbecoming. Laundry was extra special this time around too because I have some new pairs of boxer briefs that I got for my birthday (birthdays and Christmas never change, just the ones who buy you the underwear) and I didn’t have to adapt the fold out of the dryer to take into account the handles, or tears, that are in both sides of the elastic above the main part of all my boxer briefs. It was quite exciting.
- Parts of the MLB All-Star game were watched but not without Maria and J.G. getting annoyed with my bitching about the game deciding home field advantage in the World Series, a moronic Bud Selig idea that still hasn’t yet met it’s death. With that still being the case though, at least the NL finally got it’s first win since Columbus surveyed some trees and mountains in the ocean’s distance. I also didn’t watch the home run hitting contest, an absolute borefest every year. I know, I’m a grouch.
- I somehow remembered to pay bills including that pesky mortgage, which for some reason keeps bothering me every month with paper in the mail.
- We caught “Toy Story 3” which had Jagger hiding his face from the embarrassment of his mother and me quietly weeping (or not quietly according to him) at the end of the film. I think he punched me in the arm.
- I helped my sister and her guy Buck move stuff in her house as she prepares to have the floors redone by the fine folks at Floors Like Glass who did floors here in the attic. The stuff included a pellet stove. A REALLY heavy pellet stove. I can sing Michael Jackson songs now, even the early ones.
- We did a few things around the house that really pecked away at the to-do list. It’s only a congressional report long now.
- I ate a couple of times at my newest favorite place, 5 Guys Burger and Fries. Never knew about the place. I do now. Tasty.
- We enjoyed ourselves, always a good barometer of a successful vacation week.
With the aforementioned All-Star Break happening during the week I didn’t get a chance to watch much of my Buccos on MLB’s TV computer package but, well, they are the Buccos and I had a good week. No reason to have added misery to the mix. So now it’s back at the Radio Ranch after a week at the FrankenGreco Ranch. Other than the usual adapting when getting back to work after a vacation all is well. For all those who didn’t miss Frankenberry while he was gone for a week? I’m back from the attic. My sincerest apologies.
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- We enjoyed two water parks, Maria, the J.G. and I, Splashdown Beach and Mountain Creek, both great places to feel young again and get out some liberating wet screams and yelps of joy.
- I surprised my Maria by reorganizing the furniture in the living room, something she has been wanting to do for quite some time now but always seemed to stay on hold to her dismay and surely my fault. Now, Maria is notoriously awful at surprises both for and to…“What’d you get me for my birthday?!”…“It’s September honey, your birthday’s in November”… “Oh, you’re no fun!”… “Do you want to know what I got you for Christmas?!”…“It’s August honey”… “Oh, you’re no fun!” So, in the middle of my dragging and huffing and lifting and puffing and oh so carefully removing and replacing far too expensive Wizard of Oz nicks and Betty Boop nacks she, of course, tried to ruin the surprise without even knowing it by texting me about when we were going to finally move the living room around. My noncommittal lazy replies had her quite steamed by the time she got home from her hair appointment. Then she saw the “new” living room. Chalk one up for me. I love surprises.
- I finally caught up the last number of episodes of “Lost” that had been in the DVR forever it seems. Maria had been on me for quite some time to finally watch them as she already had, patience is akin to the surprise thing with Maria. I’m man enough to admit that quite a few tears were shed at the final episode, “Oh Jack,” by myself for the first time and Maria in a repeat. The tears were also able to keep Jagger’s unending questions about what was going at bay. The sobs drowned them out until he got bored.
- I did laundry. Stop the envy, it’s unbecoming. Laundry was extra special this time around too because I have some new pairs of boxer briefs that I got for my birthday (birthdays and Christmas never change, just the ones who buy you the underwear) and I didn’t have to adapt the fold out of the dryer to take into account the handles, or tears, that are in both sides of the elastic above the main part of all my boxer briefs. It was quite exciting.
- Parts of the MLB All-Star game were watched but not without Maria and J.G. getting annoyed with my bitching about the game deciding home field advantage in the World Series, a moronic Bud Selig idea that still hasn’t yet met it’s death. With that still being the case though, at least the NL finally got it’s first win since Columbus surveyed some trees and mountains in the ocean’s distance. I also didn’t watch the home run hitting contest, an absolute borefest every year. I know, I’m a grouch.
- I somehow remembered to pay bills including that pesky mortgage, which for some reason keeps bothering me every month with paper in the mail.
- We caught “Toy Story 3” which had Jagger hiding his face from the embarrassment of his mother and me quietly weeping (or not quietly according to him) at the end of the film. I think he punched me in the arm.
- I helped my sister and her guy Buck move stuff in her house as she prepares to have the floors redone by the fine folks at Floors Like Glass who did floors here in the attic. The stuff included a pellet stove. A REALLY heavy pellet stove. I can sing Michael Jackson songs now, even the early ones.
- We did a few things around the house that really pecked away at the to-do list. It’s only a congressional report long now.
- I ate a couple of times at my newest favorite place, 5 Guys Burger and Fries. Never knew about the place. I do now. Tasty.
- We enjoyed ourselves, always a good barometer of a successful vacation week.
With the aforementioned All-Star Break happening during the week I didn’t get a chance to watch much of my Buccos on MLB’s TV computer package but, well, they are the Buccos and I had a good week. No reason to have added misery to the mix. So now it’s back at the Radio Ranch after a week at the FrankenGreco Ranch. Other than the usual adapting when getting back to work after a vacation all is well. For all those who didn’t miss Frankenberry while he was gone for a week? I’m back from the attic. My sincerest apologies.
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Sunday, July 11, 2010
A Yankee Game on my Birthday?
First off I want to apologize for my blogging tardiness. Alas the 4am puppy alarm clock that is on 7 mornings a week here at the FrankenGreco ranch forces an early rack time (not something I’m a fan of by the way as there is a little bit of vampire in me).
Anyway back I am and a little bit older as I celebrated another birthday last week. I realize they do come every year, amazingly right around the same time, but these days, as I’m sure some of you would attest, it seems to happen a little faster than would be liked. So when I went to get my hair cut a couple of days later the additional request that I get now on a regular basis from the stylist as to whether I would like my eyebrows and ears trimmed pained me a touch more than usual.
But for the birthday I took my Maria to see the Yankees down at their new digs. Not brand spanking new anymore but new to Maria as she hadn’t been down there since it opened. Now for those who know me well or actually for those who know me only casually or for those who just pass me in the street I’m sure you’re saying “You took your Maria where for your birthday Frankenberry?” To Yankee Stadium? Yes I did. “But don’t you hate the Yankees?” As a matter of fact I do, to the core of my being. “You did say it was your birthday right?” That I did and that it was. “But isn’t whoever is playing the Yankees your second favorite team?” Yes, but to stop you before you talk again because you’re annoying me now I took my Maria to the game on my birthday because I realized it was probably the only chance we would have for her to see her boys this summer. She gladly weathers at least one boring (for her) Bucco/Met game with me every summer so it was the least I could do. Maria is a big Yankee fan and I’m the only non-Yankee fan she’s ever dated (which I am reminded of often) so she misses out on that relationship camaraderie of cheering and hugging and high-fiving precious victory moments together that only shared fandom and relationship building can bring. I know she misses such bonding too because last fall she asked if I would join her to watch the last out of the Yankees World Series victory and cheer them on for her sake. She even played the tried and true “If you love me” guilt card. I left the room. I know, I’m not good at this.
So I thought I’d take her to see a game, let her check out new the ballpark and if I did so on my birthday all the better for me to maybe build a little bridge over those troubled shared fandom waters and alleviate some of that “If you love me” guilt. Plus with it being my birthday I figured I would get at least one $400 beer gratis…but then I felt more guilt and paid for everything. I even bought beers for Val (from Mix 97.7) and her friend who went with us, big Yankee fans both. Yes, guilt slides.
Maria enjoyed herself, though, as well as Val and her pal. For my own piece of mind I did tell them that I would be rooting for the Mariners, which I did, and then I quietly left our seats to hang out by the men’s room (I felt a pee coming was my excuse) as the painful sea of blue and white rose and cheered the great Mariano for the last out. But the gals were happy with their day and victory and we closed things out at my favorite watering hole, Maroney’s Hub in Beacon, at my request, for some wings and a few beers that were on somebody else. Thank you J.J. It was, in the long run, a good day and I think my Maria still loves me, Yankee fan or not. Doubly good.
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Anyway back I am and a little bit older as I celebrated another birthday last week. I realize they do come every year, amazingly right around the same time, but these days, as I’m sure some of you would attest, it seems to happen a little faster than would be liked. So when I went to get my hair cut a couple of days later the additional request that I get now on a regular basis from the stylist as to whether I would like my eyebrows and ears trimmed pained me a touch more than usual.
But for the birthday I took my Maria to see the Yankees down at their new digs. Not brand spanking new anymore but new to Maria as she hadn’t been down there since it opened. Now for those who know me well or actually for those who know me only casually or for those who just pass me in the street I’m sure you’re saying “You took your Maria where for your birthday Frankenberry?” To Yankee Stadium? Yes I did. “But don’t you hate the Yankees?” As a matter of fact I do, to the core of my being. “You did say it was your birthday right?” That I did and that it was. “But isn’t whoever is playing the Yankees your second favorite team?” Yes, but to stop you before you talk again because you’re annoying me now I took my Maria to the game on my birthday because I realized it was probably the only chance we would have for her to see her boys this summer. She gladly weathers at least one boring (for her) Bucco/Met game with me every summer so it was the least I could do. Maria is a big Yankee fan and I’m the only non-Yankee fan she’s ever dated (which I am reminded of often) so she misses out on that relationship camaraderie of cheering and hugging and high-fiving precious victory moments together that only shared fandom and relationship building can bring. I know she misses such bonding too because last fall she asked if I would join her to watch the last out of the Yankees World Series victory and cheer them on for her sake. She even played the tried and true “If you love me” guilt card. I left the room. I know, I’m not good at this.
So I thought I’d take her to see a game, let her check out new the ballpark and if I did so on my birthday all the better for me to maybe build a little bridge over those troubled shared fandom waters and alleviate some of that “If you love me” guilt. Plus with it being my birthday I figured I would get at least one $400 beer gratis…but then I felt more guilt and paid for everything. I even bought beers for Val (from Mix 97.7) and her friend who went with us, big Yankee fans both. Yes, guilt slides.
Maria enjoyed herself, though, as well as Val and her pal. For my own piece of mind I did tell them that I would be rooting for the Mariners, which I did, and then I quietly left our seats to hang out by the men’s room (I felt a pee coming was my excuse) as the painful sea of blue and white rose and cheered the great Mariano for the last out. But the gals were happy with their day and victory and we closed things out at my favorite watering hole, Maroney’s Hub in Beacon, at my request, for some wings and a few beers that were on somebody else. Thank you J.J. It was, in the long run, a good day and I think my Maria still loves me, Yankee fan or not. Doubly good.
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Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Falling Down is Funny
Now you have to be really loaded to be rocking to these guys, who are so good that everybody at the show must be at the bar with their backs to the racket because look how long it takes for someone to get to miss face down.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
The Devil Forgot To Lock His Cat-Door
"...Ohhhhh that feels sooooo good it makes me feel a little evil...awwwww yes...bring out the devil in me!!!"
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
Dog; A Hairy Man Cousin's Best Friend
There is cute (yes i'm confident enough in my masculinity to use the word cute...right honey?) and then there is this.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Tyra and a little less work
You know sometimes the best comedy doesn’t get written solely from the mind of the author. As he or she draw on facets of everyday life they find humor and then do their best to poke fun and be as original as possible within the confines of whatever subject it is they are lampooning. It is work.
But sometimes, as I mentioned above, the occasion, or occasions arise that make the work of writing comedy easier, and less work, because, well, the details just write themselves in a “you can’t make this stuff up” kind of way. Anything Sarah Palin for instance or in this case, my current subject, Tyra Banks.
Here are the easy details. Tyra is writing a book. Not just one book, mind you, but a series of them. About models. In a fantasy world where models rule the land. See? I’ve only given you the basics and you’re already snickering. Keep in mind, amidst your chuckling, that I haven’t really written anything yet.
In this fantasy land where models rule (don’t they already?) Tyra is going to call them “intoxibellas.” In what, I’m sure, was a flash bulb moment of inspiration she has combined the words ‘intoxicating’ and ‘bella’ to produce a powerful heroine who is in control of all that she surveys and most probably too much for any man to deny. They, according to Tyra, will have superpowers and have “edgy, sexy, exciting adventures.” Again, I haven’t really written anything yet.
The land they inhabit, one of models, does need a name though. Yet again I’m not really required to write anything as Tyra has already supplied the name for her fantasy world. This, probably, for Tyra was a little more of a labor (the flash bulb of inspiration for “intoxibellas” having worn her out) but she was able to come to literary genious once more and see that a grand land ruled by models would be a land of models, or, a “Modelland.” Brilliant!
Thank you Tyra. You have given this simple writer five paragraphs of material without having to actually write anything.
"Hey did you hear Tyra'a writing a novel?...Thank you...Thank you...I'm here all week, try the veal."
I look forward to the Oprah “O” of approval and waiting in line.
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But sometimes, as I mentioned above, the occasion, or occasions arise that make the work of writing comedy easier, and less work, because, well, the details just write themselves in a “you can’t make this stuff up” kind of way. Anything Sarah Palin for instance or in this case, my current subject, Tyra Banks.
Here are the easy details. Tyra is writing a book. Not just one book, mind you, but a series of them. About models. In a fantasy world where models rule the land. See? I’ve only given you the basics and you’re already snickering. Keep in mind, amidst your chuckling, that I haven’t really written anything yet.
In this fantasy land where models rule (don’t they already?) Tyra is going to call them “intoxibellas.” In what, I’m sure, was a flash bulb moment of inspiration she has combined the words ‘intoxicating’ and ‘bella’ to produce a powerful heroine who is in control of all that she surveys and most probably too much for any man to deny. They, according to Tyra, will have superpowers and have “edgy, sexy, exciting adventures.” Again, I haven’t really written anything yet.
The land they inhabit, one of models, does need a name though. Yet again I’m not really required to write anything as Tyra has already supplied the name for her fantasy world. This, probably, for Tyra was a little more of a labor (the flash bulb of inspiration for “intoxibellas” having worn her out) but she was able to come to literary genious once more and see that a grand land ruled by models would be a land of models, or, a “Modelland.” Brilliant!
Thank you Tyra. You have given this simple writer five paragraphs of material without having to actually write anything.
"Hey did you hear Tyra'a writing a novel?...Thank you...Thank you...I'm here all week, try the veal."
I look forward to the Oprah “O” of approval and waiting in line.
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Thursday, May 13, 2010
Brilliant!
Though fans of Glenn Beck wouldn't understand while reaching for a gun this is absolutely brilliant. Though of course it is Lewis Black, so that's kind of a given.
| The Daily Show With Jon Stewart | Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c | |||
| Back in Black - Glenn Beck's Nazi Tourette's | ||||
| ||||
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Spring Sprung Puppies
So we’ve added to the menagerie here at the Franken-Greco Ranch, the furry one, much to the dismay of Bob, my sleep, if it were to be personified. The additions go by the names Jackson and Brady. In the animal kingdom they are simply classified as canines. At the Ranch they are classified as “Jackson, that's my chin!” and “Brady! No not there…sigh…honey!...more paper towels!”
Yes, we have added puppies to the mix of animals that I’ve already aquainted you with here in the attic, Shana (existing Maria and Jagger dog) and Benny and Shoes (existing Steve cats). There is a certain dismay on their parts as well, as the mad rush of curiosity towards any of the three, should there be face to face or nose to butt scurrying, is usually met with cries, yelps, hisses and the occasional “talk to the paw ya’ baastaads!” It can be a fun disarray, though I’m sure if any of the three existing furry ones could talk “fun” wouldn’t be a word in the conversation and words I couldn’t use here would.
Maria and Jagger had wanted to add a puppy to the gang for the longest time while I was a touch more, shall we say, reticent. I was pretty happy with the existing mix especially with the fact that after 3 + years together they had finally reached an almost peaceful coexistence. Shoes and Shana had never really had a problem with each other except for the occasional “Hey! Get out of my ass!” but Benny was the much harder sell. Eventually though, Benny seemed to find a comfortable place in his distate of the fact that every morning that slobbery mess was still here, maybe even licking my face. So for the longest time I was able to keep at bay the inevitable puppiness with logic, reason, time concerns and even finances. Soon though all I had left was “wait until spring.” Well, calendars and tax returns have an annoying habit of keeping up with the march of time.
So we went to visit the puppy at the apartment of Cait, the New Paltz student fostering him. (Note: I said “puppy” in the singular for the moment). Maria said we had to make sure that he was right for us, in my mind I responded “unless when we get there he’s eating his fostercare mom, he’s, well, a puppy.” I also had been told that his current name was Stevie which, I guess, in a vain way, had warmed me to him even before we met. I also had acceptance at this point and 3 groundrules laid out with the two puppy perps. 1. I was not to become the main puppy caretaker, 2. The attic would remain off limits and the refuge of myself and my boys as they were sure to be driven northwards and 3. That the two of them were not allowed to get pissed off at me if the puppy liked me too much. (it is often claimed at the ranch here by the two of them that I “stole” their dog…Ah, Shana loves her Stephen).
Yes, we have added puppies to the mix of animals that I’ve already aquainted you with here in the attic, Shana (existing Maria and Jagger dog) and Benny and Shoes (existing Steve cats). There is a certain dismay on their parts as well, as the mad rush of curiosity towards any of the three, should there be face to face or nose to butt scurrying, is usually met with cries, yelps, hisses and the occasional “talk to the paw ya’ baastaads!” It can be a fun disarray, though I’m sure if any of the three existing furry ones could talk “fun” wouldn’t be a word in the conversation and words I couldn’t use here would.
Maria and Jagger had wanted to add a puppy to the gang for the longest time while I was a touch more, shall we say, reticent. I was pretty happy with the existing mix especially with the fact that after 3 + years together they had finally reached an almost peaceful coexistence. Shoes and Shana had never really had a problem with each other except for the occasional “Hey! Get out of my ass!” but Benny was the much harder sell. Eventually though, Benny seemed to find a comfortable place in his distate of the fact that every morning that slobbery mess was still here, maybe even licking my face. So for the longest time I was able to keep at bay the inevitable puppiness with logic, reason, time concerns and even finances. Soon though all I had left was “wait until spring.” Well, calendars and tax returns have an annoying habit of keeping up with the march of time.
So we went to visit the puppy at the apartment of Cait, the New Paltz student fostering him. (Note: I said “puppy” in the singular for the moment). Maria said we had to make sure that he was right for us, in my mind I responded “unless when we get there he’s eating his fostercare mom, he’s, well, a puppy.” I also had been told that his current name was Stevie which, I guess, in a vain way, had warmed me to him even before we met. I also had acceptance at this point and 3 groundrules laid out with the two puppy perps. 1. I was not to become the main puppy caretaker, 2. The attic would remain off limits and the refuge of myself and my boys as they were sure to be driven northwards and 3. That the two of them were not allowed to get pissed off at me if the puppy liked me too much. (it is often claimed at the ranch here by the two of them that I “stole” their dog…Ah, Shana loves her Stephen).
With this in hand I, we ventured into Cait’s apartment, said our hello’s and made our way over to the pee-pee pads, towels and pillows set up behind the gate in the apartment’s kitchen. As we peered down behind the gate we saw a napping Stevie all snug on his soft black puppy pillow. As a first puppy meeting it was as cute as cute could be, especially when Stevie peered up at us, gave a little yawn and stretched with sound. Then his soft black puppy pillow did the same. Stevie had a brother. Puppy became puppies. I silently said “son of a bitch."
Well, here we are again at the Franken-Greco Ranch, with this new true menagerie of fur and human all learning anew to coexist. I now, though, have 3 alarms in the morning. One at 5:30am, which I don’t set on the clock that involves a waking, yawning, barking excitement, replete with a pee and return for breakfast followed by another pee and a poop. A second alarm is set on a clock for the less furry with a waking, yawning, growling 10 year old’s discontent, replete with a pee, clothes, a tooth brushed or two and a school bus. The third alarm is also set on a clock for another less furry with a waking, yawning, and occasional curse, replete with a trip on a dog toy, a pee, shower, and a car to work.
For the 3 groundrules? #1 has been bent but not broken as the puppy perps are doing their job at the end of the day.
#2 remains steadfast, though the gate is only puppy tall at the moment. That one remains up in the air.
#3 may be a matter of time, though, for now, the licking, the chin biting and the squirmy lap time loving has been distributed pretty equally.
As to Bob, my sleep? He doesn’t like me much.
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Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
It's a Mad Maddening Tea Party!
New T-Shirt Slogan:
"I went to a Tea Party and all I got was this lousy lobotomy!!!"
"I went to a Tea Party and all I got was this lousy lobotomy!!!"
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Star Wars Redux 15 Seconds At A Time
15 seconds ago, in this very galaxy another clip ended while one began that continued the Star Wars Story in a fun, fascinating herky jerky way...Enjoy the preview you will...
Star Wars Uncut "The Escape" from Casey Pugh on Vimeo.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
This is how you do it Son...
"Have you guys met my dad? He can do anything! From using the remote, to eating, to scratching himself, to shopping at only the finest men's stores to even teaching me how to skateboard. He's the bestest!!"
Fat Dad Falls Off Skateboard - Watch more Funny Videos
Fat Dad Falls Off Skateboard - Watch more Funny Videos
Friday, March 26, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Taking a Moment with a Favorite Website and some 19th Century Slang
Needing to take a “moment” the other day I went to one of my favorite websites Neatorama.com and started….well…momenting. It’s a great site to do just this, with wonderful brainfood in the way of videos and links to out of the ordinary content uploaded by friends of Neaotorama.com on a regular basis. Do you want to find a video of a napping cat responding to calls from his Japanese owner while still half asleep? This is your place. Maybe the only known video of Mark Twain? You’ll find it here too. How about pictures from deep space probes or maybe a link to the history of some of the oldest trees on the planet? Neatorama.com has this and more. I know that there are many such websites like this out there, but Neatorama is my “moment” website of choice and it will lead you to many of the others.
Anyway, as I was “momenting” at it the other day I came across a link, courtesy of Misscellania.com, about some folks writing a book called The Art of Manliness: Classic Skills and Manners for the Modern Man. In the link they talk of the research for the book and how they came across some great old-time 19th century slang words that they were going to sprinkle into the book for fun. They came up with a quick glossary of some of the words and phrases they found that manly men of the 19th century might have uttered, possibly while passing time in saloons. Though as the link states “These colorful words and phrases probably won’t ever come back into popular parlance” I thought I’d try to find some context or instances where a few of these slang terms could be used today.
Thus my moment leads to time wasting…one of the greatest endeavors you can partake of in this world that doesn’t shine to such…
Anointing: A good beating. A case for the application of salve.
My beloved Pittsburgh Pirates have received an “anointing” in the standings for the last 17 years. My emotional fan well being has received the same “anointing.”
Bellows to Mend: A person out of breath; especially a pugilist is said to be “bellows to mend” when winded.
I was “bellows to the mend” after playing football with the J.G. on Sunday reminding me how terribly out of shape I am.
Blind Monkeys: An imaginary collection at the Zoological Gardens, which are supposed to receive care and attention from persons fitted by nature for such office and for little else. An idle and useless person is often told that he is only fit to lead the Blind Monkeys to evacuate.
You don’t even have to use this one in a sentence to know it can be another term for politicians or conservative right wing talk radio and TV hosts.
Bone Box. The mouth. Shut your bone box; shut your mouth.
How many times a day could you use this?
Bunch Of Fives. The fist.
This one would work well in tandem with “bone box” as in “…shut your “bone box” or I’ll be forced to give ya’ a “bunch of fives” ya’ baastaad!”
Cat-heads. A woman’s breasts.
Not going there without getting a “bunch of fives” from our fairer halves.
Crab. To prevent the perfection or execution of any intended matter of business, by saying any thing offensive or unpleasant, is called crabbing it, or throwing a crab;
While doing some channel surfing the other day I accidentally caught a bit of a commercial for the Kardashian’s and then landed on Fox news longer than I wanted to when I dropped the remote and it went under the couch. Talk about having a “crab” thrown at your intelligence huh?
Cut. To renounce acquaintance with any one is to cut him.
Early form of “unfriending.”
Dash-fire. Vigor, manliness.
Something I used to be full of. Refer back to me being “bellows to the mend” after playing football last Sunday.
Draw the Long Bow. To tell extravagant stories, to exaggerate overmuch; same as “throw the hatchet.”
Hey, I “draw the long bow” and “throw the hatchet” every day on the air especially when talking of how I used to be full of “dash-fire.”
Drumsticks. Legs.
Refer back to me not going there where our fairer halves are concerned.
Earth Bath. A grave.
Eternity Box. A coffin.
Don’t want either of these to come back into fashion as I feel my mortality. They’re creepy.
Fart Catcher. A valet or footman, from his walking behind his master or mistress.
Now that I think about it, this could be of some use in describing some jobs I’ve had in the past. You as well I imagine, if not your current one. Some stuff rolls downhill or some stuff wafts down wind.
Fimble-Famble. A lame, prevaricating excuse.
Tiger woods and all the others out there who pull the sexual addiction card have been using some serious “fimble-famble” to try and get us to think they’re sick and show empathy while they’re in “therapy.”
Fizzing. First-rate, very good, excellent; synonymous with “stunning.”
Early precursor to Snoop Dog lingo, though he would probably find a way to make it rhyme with ho’s.
Flag of Distress. The end of a person’s shirt when it protrudes through his trousers.
Just damn embarrassing to fly the “flag of distress” when leaving a public restroom isn’t it? Also just as embarrassing when the “flag of distress” is toilet paper on the bottom of your shoe.
Follow-me-lads. Curls hanging over a lady’s shoulder.
I think there’s an innuendo here that would, again, lead to me getting in trouble.
Go By The Ground. A little short person, man or woman.
Use this only if you want to get kicked in the shins.
Gullyfluff. The waste—coagulated dust, crumbs, and hair—which accumulates imperceptibly in the pockets of schoolboys.
So, finally a name for what I find in my belly button.
Hogmagundy. The process by which the population is increased.
I think this one has been sufficiently replaced by something a little more obvious and vulgar.
How’s Your Poor Feet! An idiotic street cry with no meaning, much in vogue a few years back.
Much in vogue now in and outside at Town Hall meetings.
Can’t see a hole in a Ladder. “Can’t see a hole in a Ladder,” said of any one who is intoxicated. It was once said that a man was never properly drunk until he could not see a hole through a Ladder.
I think there were a few times in college where I “couldn’t see a hole in a ladder” but I don’t remember.
Monkey with a Long Tail. A mortgage.
This could be amended to “Monkey with a Long Balloon Tail” and then it would be right back in fashion.
Muckender. A pocket handkerchief, snottinger.
“Hey honey have you seen my snottinger? You used it for what? …hey why’d you hit me?!”
Off One’s Chump. To be crazy is to be Off One’s Chump.
This one is definitely right up there with “bone box”, “bunch of fives” and “blind monkees.” Just living in this current world has us all a little “off one’s chump.”
Pocket. To put up with. A man who does not resent an affront is said to Pocket it.
Can be used in the same instance with “fart catcher.”
Rain Napper. Umbrella.
My maria has one of these and it’s Coach. The “napper” part is when she hid the price tag while i was sleeping.
Rib. A wife.
Some folks that are “off one’s chump” would applaud this when interpreting the Bible.
Scandal-water. Tea; from old maids’ tea-parties being generally a focus for scandal.
A lot of this gets drunk at bingo and church socials I would imagine.
Sit-upons. Trousers.
I like this much better than trousers, a word that has always made little sense to me. There’s nothing better or simpler than the obvious.
Sneezer. A pocket handkerchief.
Also to be used as a “muckender” and “snottinger.”
Snotter, or Wipe-hauler. A pickpocket whose chief fancy is for gentlemen’s pocket-handkerchiefs.
After “muckender” and “snottinger” this one’s just gross.
Tune the Old Cow Died of. An epithet for any ill-played or discordant piece of music.
Pearl Jam’s recent single “Breathe” and the last couple of American Idol winner songs.
So after someone, maybe cheating at cards back in that 19th century saloon, started berating me for calling him out I just might have stood up and said…
“…why don’t ya’ quit crabbing me and shut your bone box or you’ll get a bunch of fives with a nose-ender (a straight blow delivered full on the nasal promontory) that’ll put ya’ right on your sit-upons and leave ya’ with a serious blinker (a blackened eye) fella!…keep it up and I’ll call ol’ rusty guts (a blunt, rough, old fellow) over there in the corner to back me up, and he’s still rumbumptious (haughty, pugilistic) and full of dash-fire enough to not go tail Down (to lose courage) on a snotter like you.”
He’d then make a comment about my rib’s cat-heads and I’d threaten to put him in an eternity box with my barker (a pistol) and all hell would break loose.
Actually I probably wouldn’t have gotten past telling him to shut his bone box before I got a floorer (blow sufficiently strong to knock a man down) on my sit-upons ‘cause, well…I’m a wimp and these guys were hard drinking tough asses.
Until the next time I Draw the Long Bow.
Cheers,
-fb
Anyway, as I was “momenting” at it the other day I came across a link, courtesy of Misscellania.com, about some folks writing a book called The Art of Manliness: Classic Skills and Manners for the Modern Man. In the link they talk of the research for the book and how they came across some great old-time 19th century slang words that they were going to sprinkle into the book for fun. They came up with a quick glossary of some of the words and phrases they found that manly men of the 19th century might have uttered, possibly while passing time in saloons. Though as the link states “These colorful words and phrases probably won’t ever come back into popular parlance” I thought I’d try to find some context or instances where a few of these slang terms could be used today.
Thus my moment leads to time wasting…one of the greatest endeavors you can partake of in this world that doesn’t shine to such…
Anointing: A good beating. A case for the application of salve.
My beloved Pittsburgh Pirates have received an “anointing” in the standings for the last 17 years. My emotional fan well being has received the same “anointing.”
Bellows to Mend: A person out of breath; especially a pugilist is said to be “bellows to mend” when winded.
I was “bellows to the mend” after playing football with the J.G. on Sunday reminding me how terribly out of shape I am.
Blind Monkeys: An imaginary collection at the Zoological Gardens, which are supposed to receive care and attention from persons fitted by nature for such office and for little else. An idle and useless person is often told that he is only fit to lead the Blind Monkeys to evacuate.
You don’t even have to use this one in a sentence to know it can be another term for politicians or conservative right wing talk radio and TV hosts.
Bone Box. The mouth. Shut your bone box; shut your mouth.
How many times a day could you use this?
Bunch Of Fives. The fist.
This one would work well in tandem with “bone box” as in “…shut your “bone box” or I’ll be forced to give ya’ a “bunch of fives” ya’ baastaad!”
Cat-heads. A woman’s breasts.
Not going there without getting a “bunch of fives” from our fairer halves.
Crab. To prevent the perfection or execution of any intended matter of business, by saying any thing offensive or unpleasant, is called crabbing it, or throwing a crab;
While doing some channel surfing the other day I accidentally caught a bit of a commercial for the Kardashian’s and then landed on Fox news longer than I wanted to when I dropped the remote and it went under the couch. Talk about having a “crab” thrown at your intelligence huh?
Cut. To renounce acquaintance with any one is to cut him.
Early form of “unfriending.”
Dash-fire. Vigor, manliness.
Something I used to be full of. Refer back to me being “bellows to the mend” after playing football last Sunday.
Draw the Long Bow. To tell extravagant stories, to exaggerate overmuch; same as “throw the hatchet.”
Hey, I “draw the long bow” and “throw the hatchet” every day on the air especially when talking of how I used to be full of “dash-fire.”
Drumsticks. Legs.
Refer back to me not going there where our fairer halves are concerned.
Earth Bath. A grave.
Eternity Box. A coffin.
Don’t want either of these to come back into fashion as I feel my mortality. They’re creepy.
Fart Catcher. A valet or footman, from his walking behind his master or mistress.
Now that I think about it, this could be of some use in describing some jobs I’ve had in the past. You as well I imagine, if not your current one. Some stuff rolls downhill or some stuff wafts down wind.
Fimble-Famble. A lame, prevaricating excuse.
Tiger woods and all the others out there who pull the sexual addiction card have been using some serious “fimble-famble” to try and get us to think they’re sick and show empathy while they’re in “therapy.”
Fizzing. First-rate, very good, excellent; synonymous with “stunning.”
Early precursor to Snoop Dog lingo, though he would probably find a way to make it rhyme with ho’s.
Flag of Distress. The end of a person’s shirt when it protrudes through his trousers.
Just damn embarrassing to fly the “flag of distress” when leaving a public restroom isn’t it? Also just as embarrassing when the “flag of distress” is toilet paper on the bottom of your shoe.
Follow-me-lads. Curls hanging over a lady’s shoulder.
I think there’s an innuendo here that would, again, lead to me getting in trouble.
Go By The Ground. A little short person, man or woman.
Use this only if you want to get kicked in the shins.
Gullyfluff. The waste—coagulated dust, crumbs, and hair—which accumulates imperceptibly in the pockets of schoolboys.
So, finally a name for what I find in my belly button.
Hogmagundy. The process by which the population is increased.
I think this one has been sufficiently replaced by something a little more obvious and vulgar.
How’s Your Poor Feet! An idiotic street cry with no meaning, much in vogue a few years back.
Much in vogue now in and outside at Town Hall meetings.
Can’t see a hole in a Ladder. “Can’t see a hole in a Ladder,” said of any one who is intoxicated. It was once said that a man was never properly drunk until he could not see a hole through a Ladder.
I think there were a few times in college where I “couldn’t see a hole in a ladder” but I don’t remember.
Monkey with a Long Tail. A mortgage.
This could be amended to “Monkey with a Long Balloon Tail” and then it would be right back in fashion.
Muckender. A pocket handkerchief, snottinger.
“Hey honey have you seen my snottinger? You used it for what? …hey why’d you hit me?!”
Off One’s Chump. To be crazy is to be Off One’s Chump.
This one is definitely right up there with “bone box”, “bunch of fives” and “blind monkees.” Just living in this current world has us all a little “off one’s chump.”
Pocket. To put up with. A man who does not resent an affront is said to Pocket it.
Can be used in the same instance with “fart catcher.”
Rain Napper. Umbrella.
My maria has one of these and it’s Coach. The “napper” part is when she hid the price tag while i was sleeping.
Rib. A wife.
Some folks that are “off one’s chump” would applaud this when interpreting the Bible.
Scandal-water. Tea; from old maids’ tea-parties being generally a focus for scandal.
A lot of this gets drunk at bingo and church socials I would imagine.
Sit-upons. Trousers.
I like this much better than trousers, a word that has always made little sense to me. There’s nothing better or simpler than the obvious.
Sneezer. A pocket handkerchief.
Also to be used as a “muckender” and “snottinger.”
Snotter, or Wipe-hauler. A pickpocket whose chief fancy is for gentlemen’s pocket-handkerchiefs.
After “muckender” and “snottinger” this one’s just gross.
Tune the Old Cow Died of. An epithet for any ill-played or discordant piece of music.
Pearl Jam’s recent single “Breathe” and the last couple of American Idol winner songs.
So after someone, maybe cheating at cards back in that 19th century saloon, started berating me for calling him out I just might have stood up and said…
“…why don’t ya’ quit crabbing me and shut your bone box or you’ll get a bunch of fives with a nose-ender (a straight blow delivered full on the nasal promontory) that’ll put ya’ right on your sit-upons and leave ya’ with a serious blinker (a blackened eye) fella!…keep it up and I’ll call ol’ rusty guts (a blunt, rough, old fellow) over there in the corner to back me up, and he’s still rumbumptious (haughty, pugilistic) and full of dash-fire enough to not go tail Down (to lose courage) on a snotter like you.”
He’d then make a comment about my rib’s cat-heads and I’d threaten to put him in an eternity box with my barker (a pistol) and all hell would break loose.
Actually I probably wouldn’t have gotten past telling him to shut his bone box before I got a floorer (blow sufficiently strong to knock a man down) on my sit-upons ‘cause, well…I’m a wimp and these guys were hard drinking tough asses.
Until the next time I Draw the Long Bow.
Cheers,
-fb
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
We All Just Need a LIttle Lovin'
This will bring a tear and hopefully a good reminder of our less than fortunate furry friends who are just looking for some love and attention...
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Snow, more snow and some thoughts
Still mired in snow here as write in the attic in Newburgh, NY.
(Note: Newburgh; one of many towns/cities in this area often referred to by New York City residents as “upstate.” Now, technically, and obviously, the city of Newburgh is upstate from the grand city of New York, any simple map will attest to that. Their inference with “upstate” though is “sticks” or “boonies,” that the second you leave their center of the universe you’re best chance at fun is talking up a cow at a local watering hole until you get it drunk enough to take it outside and tip it. I don’t envy the self-important arrogance that comes with living in NYC).
So as I sit in my attic pondering the snow here in “upstate” New York I’m remembering some of the beauty of it before the morning has me cursing it, again. The way it sits in the dark like a child’s nightlight behind the slats in a window blind or around the edges of a curtain. How it falls, slowly and deliberately past the lamp on the porch. The quiet and comfort it can bring on a snowbound night when everyone is safe and secure and the furry ones are curled up in their favorite spots…Okay, enough of this pondering stuff. Let the eventual AM cursing commence and…
- Pitchers and catchers and the rest of the gang have finally reported to less snowy climes and with it comes the promise of spring as well as the only time this, or any Pittsburgh Pirate fan can experience the feeling of hope. Sportscenter can also now, finally, back off on the most boring “exciting” highlight in all of sports…the slamdunk.
- On the topic of Sportscenter, I was watching early one morning this past weekend when ESPN reporter Tom Rinaldi said Tiger Wood’s lame apology press conference was “13 minutes or so of absolutely riveting theater.” It will be “one of those moments where people will recall “where were you?” when Tiger Woods addressed the public for the 1st time.” Now, not to take away from Tiger’s calculated earnestness to explain himself and start making money again…oh, wait…I just did do that didn’t I? I called it lame and calculated…hold on…redo. My much more brief apologies to Tiger, but a “where you when” moment? Yes, that one ranks right up there with scores of historic events and will be etched in my memory for…“what honey? Did I pay the cable bill? It’s automatic, it was taken out yesterday…what?...yes I cleaned the litter box too…well, earlier, I can’t help it if Benny or Shoes just pooped again…it’s what they do, eat, sleep, scratch stuff that gets me yelled and poop…” Now, where was I? Tiger did what?...
- I just voted in the over or under challenge at Cottenelle.com from their recent commercial campaign. According to the current results I’m in the majority as an “over.” 78% to 22% versus the “under.” Take that Bob Miller. He was very adamant about the “under” by the way. Weirdo.
- Were there Olympics happening somewhere recently?
- Finally got the attic finished here at the Franken-Greco Ranch (well, 90% of it, the molding is still left) and I just wanted to say kudos and thanks to Lenny and George from “Perfect Combination Painting” and the gang from “Floors like Glass,” two great local companies. After Lenny and George did a fantastic job finishing mine and my Maria’s not mistake free painting job (refer to an earlier blog from the attic “Old DJ, New Paint Brush” for painful details) Lenny recommended checking into sanding and finishing our pine floors instead of putting flooring down. He thought it might be a touch less expensive. “Less expensive” caught the ear and he was right. Thank-you Lenny! In comes “Floors like Glass” and holy cow the floors look like…well, glass. Beautifully golden new pine colored glass. Gotta love truth in a companies name when it actually happens. With my desk and computer back in, a new desk for my Maria and some decorating (she prefers Kiss and Stevie Nicks frames while I went with a Beatles, Pittsburgh Pirate and 3 lamp motif) the attic now has a cool office on one side and my Maria’s son Jagger’s rumpus room on the other replete with cat Benny hairing up the new futon and getting me yelled at. I’m loving my new space and I’ll get some pics up soon.
Well, that’s it from the attic at the moment. My Benny and Shoes the cats have their spot in the attic, by the way, but it includes the litter box, two cat beds they’re, of course, not using at the moment and Shoes’s chair moved upstairs from the living room covered with orange hair. This along with the aforementioned Benny haired futon on Jagger’s side and the smell of the litter box is getting me yelled at. Gotta go.
-fb
(Note: Newburgh; one of many towns/cities in this area often referred to by New York City residents as “upstate.” Now, technically, and obviously, the city of Newburgh is upstate from the grand city of New York, any simple map will attest to that. Their inference with “upstate” though is “sticks” or “boonies,” that the second you leave their center of the universe you’re best chance at fun is talking up a cow at a local watering hole until you get it drunk enough to take it outside and tip it. I don’t envy the self-important arrogance that comes with living in NYC).
So as I sit in my attic pondering the snow here in “upstate” New York I’m remembering some of the beauty of it before the morning has me cursing it, again. The way it sits in the dark like a child’s nightlight behind the slats in a window blind or around the edges of a curtain. How it falls, slowly and deliberately past the lamp on the porch. The quiet and comfort it can bring on a snowbound night when everyone is safe and secure and the furry ones are curled up in their favorite spots…Okay, enough of this pondering stuff. Let the eventual AM cursing commence and…
- Pitchers and catchers and the rest of the gang have finally reported to less snowy climes and with it comes the promise of spring as well as the only time this, or any Pittsburgh Pirate fan can experience the feeling of hope. Sportscenter can also now, finally, back off on the most boring “exciting” highlight in all of sports…the slamdunk.
- On the topic of Sportscenter, I was watching early one morning this past weekend when ESPN reporter Tom Rinaldi said Tiger Wood’s lame apology press conference was “13 minutes or so of absolutely riveting theater.” It will be “one of those moments where people will recall “where were you?” when Tiger Woods addressed the public for the 1st time.” Now, not to take away from Tiger’s calculated earnestness to explain himself and start making money again…oh, wait…I just did do that didn’t I? I called it lame and calculated…hold on…redo. My much more brief apologies to Tiger, but a “where you when” moment? Yes, that one ranks right up there with scores of historic events and will be etched in my memory for…“what honey? Did I pay the cable bill? It’s automatic, it was taken out yesterday…what?...yes I cleaned the litter box too…well, earlier, I can’t help it if Benny or Shoes just pooped again…it’s what they do, eat, sleep, scratch stuff that gets me yelled and poop…” Now, where was I? Tiger did what?...
- I just voted in the over or under challenge at Cottenelle.com from their recent commercial campaign. According to the current results I’m in the majority as an “over.” 78% to 22% versus the “under.” Take that Bob Miller. He was very adamant about the “under” by the way. Weirdo.
- Were there Olympics happening somewhere recently?
- Finally got the attic finished here at the Franken-Greco Ranch (well, 90% of it, the molding is still left) and I just wanted to say kudos and thanks to Lenny and George from “Perfect Combination Painting” and the gang from “Floors like Glass,” two great local companies. After Lenny and George did a fantastic job finishing mine and my Maria’s not mistake free painting job (refer to an earlier blog from the attic “Old DJ, New Paint Brush” for painful details) Lenny recommended checking into sanding and finishing our pine floors instead of putting flooring down. He thought it might be a touch less expensive. “Less expensive” caught the ear and he was right. Thank-you Lenny! In comes “Floors like Glass” and holy cow the floors look like…well, glass. Beautifully golden new pine colored glass. Gotta love truth in a companies name when it actually happens. With my desk and computer back in, a new desk for my Maria and some decorating (she prefers Kiss and Stevie Nicks frames while I went with a Beatles, Pittsburgh Pirate and 3 lamp motif) the attic now has a cool office on one side and my Maria’s son Jagger’s rumpus room on the other replete with cat Benny hairing up the new futon and getting me yelled at. I’m loving my new space and I’ll get some pics up soon.
Well, that’s it from the attic at the moment. My Benny and Shoes the cats have their spot in the attic, by the way, but it includes the litter box, two cat beds they’re, of course, not using at the moment and Shoes’s chair moved upstairs from the living room covered with orange hair. This along with the aforementioned Benny haired futon on Jagger’s side and the smell of the litter box is getting me yelled at. Gotta go.
-fb
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Incident Free Winter Crippled at the Ranch
Being a few snowstorms into the winter and halfway through February we were doing pretty well here at the Franken-Greco Ranch avoiding snow incidents. There have been no expensive discoveries with the roof (wood knocking as I write), no sledding accidents involving trees, cars or squirrels and there have been no children in white winter coats misplaced. I haven’t accidentally covered our neighbor’s dog Molly while shoveling our driveway as she nips at me and I’ve successfully allowed our mailperson the opportunity to keep her “in any element” mantra intact by clearing the mailbox well enough to keep her delivering those vital Valuepak coupons and other pieces of bulk we couldn’t live without. But, alas, the shoveling is where I ruined our perfect, incident-less, winter snow record. It was last week and I’m walking around hunched over like some crippled character from a snow covered Grimm’s tale. I was doing so well too. I had gotten the driveway down to a science of anally parceling off sections to be shoveled one at a time in quick, easy push and throw kind of motions. Easy if the snow is a little on the fluffy side that is. Snow on the wetter, heavier, side? Not so much.
I know you’re thinking, if you’ve been here with me in the attic before, “Hey Frankenberry, don’t you live with a chore age child who could help you out with the task of shoveling this driveway at the Franken-Greco Ranch?” Now in that thought you would be spot on. We do indeed, here at the F-G Ranch, have such a chore ready child, age of ten, nimble and wiry, tall and with strong teeth and gums (no, I’ve never put him up for sale at a 4H auction or in a Dicken’s fiction, it’s just..um..noticeable). The only thing is, viable thought or not, said chore age child is my Maria’s son Jagger. The last time I recruited him to assist with the driveway he shoveled the front lawn.
So, needless to say but saying it anyway, I handle the driveway chore. I also consider appointments with chiropractors and sleep in a painful fetal position that Shoes the cat finds just perfect for laying in the cusp of.
If you want to come over for a visit, by the way, there’s a fine piece of front lawn I can have cleared for you so, in your surveying of the beautiful Franken-Greco Ranch property, you don’t get any snow in your pant cuffs.
Happy "Ouch!" Snow Days
-fb
I know you’re thinking, if you’ve been here with me in the attic before, “Hey Frankenberry, don’t you live with a chore age child who could help you out with the task of shoveling this driveway at the Franken-Greco Ranch?” Now in that thought you would be spot on. We do indeed, here at the F-G Ranch, have such a chore ready child, age of ten, nimble and wiry, tall and with strong teeth and gums (no, I’ve never put him up for sale at a 4H auction or in a Dicken’s fiction, it’s just..um..noticeable). The only thing is, viable thought or not, said chore age child is my Maria’s son Jagger. The last time I recruited him to assist with the driveway he shoveled the front lawn.
So, needless to say but saying it anyway, I handle the driveway chore. I also consider appointments with chiropractors and sleep in a painful fetal position that Shoes the cat finds just perfect for laying in the cusp of.
If you want to come over for a visit, by the way, there’s a fine piece of front lawn I can have cleared for you so, in your surveying of the beautiful Franken-Greco Ranch property, you don’t get any snow in your pant cuffs.
Happy "Ouch!" Snow Days
-fb
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Some New Notes and a Lack of Snuggies
Well here we are entrenched in the cold of a new January and I was thinking, wouldn’t this be just the time to finally get a Snuggie? To wrap myself up in the warm comfort of this continuing fad on my couch with the TV remote would be the perfect remedy for a night dropping into the 20’s and possibly the teens again. But, alas, I heard that the Snuggie folks have temporarily halted their commercials and sales because I’m not the only person with this dreamily soft, fleecy vision. Apparently all of North America has the same idea and because there are one or two or a few gazillion other people on this continent with me feeling the same chill the Snuggie gang realized they couldn’t possibly supply the demand.
I’ve been forced to alter my vision a touch.
So, in the absense of donning a wonderfully warm and fashionable blanket with sleeves that I could even wear to an outdoor sporting event while high fiving my similarly adorned fellow bleacher bums I’ve instead grabbed a few long sleeve thermals, some heated underwear and summoned Shoes the cat to sit under my armpit. After the initial scratching it’s not that bad, but…heavy sigh…it’s not the same as a Snuggie. Oh, Snuggie, when will you resume your interminable commercialls and present to me your 800 number again?
As I adapt, Snuggieless, here a few thought from the Attic…
- The Supreme Court just ruled to ease the limits on big business and labor unions when it comes to political contributions. Big business can now basically spend it’s millions in direct support of a candidate, or more in the true spirit of American politics, in direct opposition of a candidate. The health care industry and big corporations will now be able to proudly buy politicians that protect their interests right out in the open instead of behind closed doors. They might even be able to get them to wear pins and logos.
- Read an article in the Daily News the other day about Hershey's and Kraft fighting to aquire Cadbury chocolate. The News did an informal poll of some New Yorkers and they chose Hershey's as the best. Kraft's unedible and indecipherable "Toblerone" bar came in second while Cadbury placed a distant third. Cadbury third?! Only if it were pulled from the bottom of the pollster's shoe! Hershey's first? Please. Damned peasants.
- As I watch a good deal of sports I’ve noticed the latest, confusing, but must have accessorys of many athletes. The arm adornment. Be it the half single arm elbow wrap (reminiscent of 80’s leg warmers on the ladies but fancied now by basketball players) or the bicep garter on the football type, athletes all over this great globe are sporting these fashion statements and looking quite gladiator like. Now I’m sure the wearers of these new arm earings will tell you that they serve an actual sports purpose and are necessary for “game.” But in reality? Hey, I loved wrist bands when I was a kid, but they were just for looking cool and well, they still do I admit. I even put on one of Jagger’s John Cena wrist bands this morning and flexed a muscle or two to remember. But they are just wrist bands. Waiting on the next fad now. I’m thinking the bicep garter would look neat as an actual garter on the calfs of offensive lineman. Big fun at weddings in the ofseason.
- Well the New York Jets have continued their improbable run in the playoffs getting three missed field goals from a guy who hasn’t had multiple misses in a game since the mid 50’s it seems and now have just the Colts standing in the way of their first Super Bowl appearance since Broadway Joe’s pantyhose and famous guarantee. There is only one problem, and my apologies to New Yorkers, but I am not a fan of New York sports teams, at all, and now have to endure another week of the Jets being on the back page. It’s not as bad as having to do the same for coverage of the cursed Yankees and their recent World Series run but it’s damn close (never realized that World Series victories were Yankee entitlements and that when any other team won one it was only because the Yankees didn’t). It means another week of stories of Rex Ryan’s postseason itinerary going from having only golf penciled in to instead include a parade and stories of the prodigal’s unheard of rookie year (just don’t bring up how he fared in the weeks leading up to a rainbow on his wrist and the Rex Ryan claim that the Jets were done). I’m thinking of going to Lids for a Colts hat. Maybe that will help hold the headache I suddenly have at bay.
- Driving a 16 year old car, or in my current case not driving it, sucks in case anyone was curious.
- We do good number of tours of the stations in the building for Cub Scouts and Brownie’s and the like and we had another group in just the other day, Pack’s 122 and 134 from Poughkeepsie and Mohegan Lake. For me I really enjoy being able to host the kids if for nothing else than to show off for a moment, even if it is for a group of curious small people who mostly miss the showing off part. They’re just big fans of seeing a lot of cool buttons and switches that I tell them do stuff while reminding them to try not to touch the cools buttons and switches so that they don’t do stuff they shouldn’t. The mom’s and dad’s get it a little more and that’s great. Our stage is a bit solitary so being able to occasionally grab a spotlight is nice. One note, though, to broadcasters hosting such tours in the future. Try not to accidentally backhand one of the children you didn’t know was standing right behind you in front of the piece of equipment you normally just spin to and start almost blindly. You might hear a crack and see an embarrassed child who has no idea they might have, but didn’t, do anything wrong. “A little ice here please.”
- Walked past a TV the other day that had a commercial for the “Jersey Shore” on as I passed. My IQ dropped to about 7, even lower than it does whenever I see a member of the Kardashian family.
Hold up! I think I finally saw a new Snuggie ad. Oh, warm, luxurious Snuggie, answer my call as to the phone I fly…
I’ve been forced to alter my vision a touch.
So, in the absense of donning a wonderfully warm and fashionable blanket with sleeves that I could even wear to an outdoor sporting event while high fiving my similarly adorned fellow bleacher bums I’ve instead grabbed a few long sleeve thermals, some heated underwear and summoned Shoes the cat to sit under my armpit. After the initial scratching it’s not that bad, but…heavy sigh…it’s not the same as a Snuggie. Oh, Snuggie, when will you resume your interminable commercialls and present to me your 800 number again?
As I adapt, Snuggieless, here a few thought from the Attic…
- The Supreme Court just ruled to ease the limits on big business and labor unions when it comes to political contributions. Big business can now basically spend it’s millions in direct support of a candidate, or more in the true spirit of American politics, in direct opposition of a candidate. The health care industry and big corporations will now be able to proudly buy politicians that protect their interests right out in the open instead of behind closed doors. They might even be able to get them to wear pins and logos.
- Read an article in the Daily News the other day about Hershey's and Kraft fighting to aquire Cadbury chocolate. The News did an informal poll of some New Yorkers and they chose Hershey's as the best. Kraft's unedible and indecipherable "Toblerone" bar came in second while Cadbury placed a distant third. Cadbury third?! Only if it were pulled from the bottom of the pollster's shoe! Hershey's first? Please. Damned peasants.
- As I watch a good deal of sports I’ve noticed the latest, confusing, but must have accessorys of many athletes. The arm adornment. Be it the half single arm elbow wrap (reminiscent of 80’s leg warmers on the ladies but fancied now by basketball players) or the bicep garter on the football type, athletes all over this great globe are sporting these fashion statements and looking quite gladiator like. Now I’m sure the wearers of these new arm earings will tell you that they serve an actual sports purpose and are necessary for “game.” But in reality? Hey, I loved wrist bands when I was a kid, but they were just for looking cool and well, they still do I admit. I even put on one of Jagger’s John Cena wrist bands this morning and flexed a muscle or two to remember. But they are just wrist bands. Waiting on the next fad now. I’m thinking the bicep garter would look neat as an actual garter on the calfs of offensive lineman. Big fun at weddings in the ofseason.
- Well the New York Jets have continued their improbable run in the playoffs getting three missed field goals from a guy who hasn’t had multiple misses in a game since the mid 50’s it seems and now have just the Colts standing in the way of their first Super Bowl appearance since Broadway Joe’s pantyhose and famous guarantee. There is only one problem, and my apologies to New Yorkers, but I am not a fan of New York sports teams, at all, and now have to endure another week of the Jets being on the back page. It’s not as bad as having to do the same for coverage of the cursed Yankees and their recent World Series run but it’s damn close (never realized that World Series victories were Yankee entitlements and that when any other team won one it was only because the Yankees didn’t). It means another week of stories of Rex Ryan’s postseason itinerary going from having only golf penciled in to instead include a parade and stories of the prodigal’s unheard of rookie year (just don’t bring up how he fared in the weeks leading up to a rainbow on his wrist and the Rex Ryan claim that the Jets were done). I’m thinking of going to Lids for a Colts hat. Maybe that will help hold the headache I suddenly have at bay.
- Driving a 16 year old car, or in my current case not driving it, sucks in case anyone was curious.
- We do good number of tours of the stations in the building for Cub Scouts and Brownie’s and the like and we had another group in just the other day, Pack’s 122 and 134 from Poughkeepsie and Mohegan Lake. For me I really enjoy being able to host the kids if for nothing else than to show off for a moment, even if it is for a group of curious small people who mostly miss the showing off part. They’re just big fans of seeing a lot of cool buttons and switches that I tell them do stuff while reminding them to try not to touch the cools buttons and switches so that they don’t do stuff they shouldn’t. The mom’s and dad’s get it a little more and that’s great. Our stage is a bit solitary so being able to occasionally grab a spotlight is nice. One note, though, to broadcasters hosting such tours in the future. Try not to accidentally backhand one of the children you didn’t know was standing right behind you in front of the piece of equipment you normally just spin to and start almost blindly. You might hear a crack and see an embarrassed child who has no idea they might have, but didn’t, do anything wrong. “A little ice here please.”
- Walked past a TV the other day that had a commercial for the “Jersey Shore” on as I passed. My IQ dropped to about 7, even lower than it does whenever I see a member of the Kardashian family.
Hold up! I think I finally saw a new Snuggie ad. Oh, warm, luxurious Snuggie, answer my call as to the phone I fly…
Sunday, January 3, 2010
2009 and this possible new decade
Well another Holiday season has passed and the new year hopes to be an improvement on the last. Me? I’m all for that hope as my paycheck for one, and I’m sure yours, just wasn’t as effective at staying the wolves as it has been in the past and I know late January will test that ineffectiveness even more.
But for now I’m going to put that thought aside, remember these fine holidays and watch Shoes, my cat, fight with a Q-tip he took out of Maria’s little garbage can next to her makeup table. Apparently it said something about his mother. I was considering a year's end kind of thing but the inundation of bests of this, worsts of that, top 10’s, year in reviews, 2009’s greatest cheeses and such got to the saturation point as always.
Instead just one thought for now from the attic about those inevitable decade controversies that popped up as usual…
With the finish of this particular year, 2009, we experienced the arguments that have gone on at every decade’s or not decade’s end since the manger. At that time, time itself and the counting of it was magically reset at a later time by self important reverent folks to change the calendar from an actual undetermined start time, that was already being counted in another way by other self important reverent folks, to instead reflect the actual start time at the manger and give us a new system of counting time thus offering a great opportunity for future businesses at small bodegas in every mall in the world to make a killing selling kitten calendars. The argument is most passionate with those who feel that at the start of manger time, there wasn’t actually a year zero, that from the moment small screams could be heard in a meager shack by an assemblage of luminaries with expensive gifts, a step dad, an angel or two, a Sheppard and some farm animals, it was year 1. Thus an actual set of 10 years would only “officially” finish 9 years later leaving the beginning of new set of ten at 1 again. So in essence, 2000 + years later if you look back the “80’s” for example they would include 1990. Doesn’t sound quite right does it? These more passionate ones even include exclamation points in letters to the editor! Pretty heavy stuff. Technically, I guess, they’re correct but aesthetically and to the general public?
Now, to the credit of these so passionate if decades were measured the way they would like “Unskinny bop” and “Something to Believe in,” which came both out in 1990, would be classified as hits in the just one decade thus rendering any claims of success spanning two, thankfully mute. But, as it is, we’re all stuck with the hits of Poison covering a couple and we just have to live with it, just like we have to live with the fact that Brett Michael’s doo rag/cowboy hat libido just won’t go away another debatable decade or two later.
My thought, though, is that because manger time started in year 1 we take into account that that crying miraculous miracle was a newborn. He couldn’t count yet and when he could it was after disappearing for a few years while working on his carpenter’s card. Then he hit the public consciousness again, in a big way, and it was fishes this, wine that, throngs of devout everywhere he turned, bringing dead guys back to life etc. He didn’t have time to also think about a new system of day counting and the cuteness of kitten calendars. Plus he didn’t even know! “Hey, this whole messiah business has me a little preoccupied you know, plus, I’m not even aware that, in the future, a whole new system of calendar time counting bearing my mark will happen, but if I were I’d just say make the first of these decade things 9 years long and move on already. I don’t want to be responsible for the overly technical ones getting in a huff every 10 years and thinking the 80’s included 1990. What sense does that make? Poison having hits in only one decade is, really, all they should get…sorry gotta go, miracles, inspirational speeches, walking on water (really looking forward to this one by the way)…”
I for one consider this the start of a new decade if for nothing else than it makes the counting a hell of a lot easier. Plus, the aughts or whatever it is people will want to label this last decade seemed so much longer than ten years for too many reasons to list here. I just hope the new year holds some promise for all of us and I wish you well in it.
To a new year? Cheers and all the best.
-fb
But for now I’m going to put that thought aside, remember these fine holidays and watch Shoes, my cat, fight with a Q-tip he took out of Maria’s little garbage can next to her makeup table. Apparently it said something about his mother. I was considering a year's end kind of thing but the inundation of bests of this, worsts of that, top 10’s, year in reviews, 2009’s greatest cheeses and such got to the saturation point as always.
Instead just one thought for now from the attic about those inevitable decade controversies that popped up as usual…
With the finish of this particular year, 2009, we experienced the arguments that have gone on at every decade’s or not decade’s end since the manger. At that time, time itself and the counting of it was magically reset at a later time by self important reverent folks to change the calendar from an actual undetermined start time, that was already being counted in another way by other self important reverent folks, to instead reflect the actual start time at the manger and give us a new system of counting time thus offering a great opportunity for future businesses at small bodegas in every mall in the world to make a killing selling kitten calendars. The argument is most passionate with those who feel that at the start of manger time, there wasn’t actually a year zero, that from the moment small screams could be heard in a meager shack by an assemblage of luminaries with expensive gifts, a step dad, an angel or two, a Sheppard and some farm animals, it was year 1. Thus an actual set of 10 years would only “officially” finish 9 years later leaving the beginning of new set of ten at 1 again. So in essence, 2000 + years later if you look back the “80’s” for example they would include 1990. Doesn’t sound quite right does it? These more passionate ones even include exclamation points in letters to the editor! Pretty heavy stuff. Technically, I guess, they’re correct but aesthetically and to the general public?
Now, to the credit of these so passionate if decades were measured the way they would like “Unskinny bop” and “Something to Believe in,” which came both out in 1990, would be classified as hits in the just one decade thus rendering any claims of success spanning two, thankfully mute. But, as it is, we’re all stuck with the hits of Poison covering a couple and we just have to live with it, just like we have to live with the fact that Brett Michael’s doo rag/cowboy hat libido just won’t go away another debatable decade or two later.
My thought, though, is that because manger time started in year 1 we take into account that that crying miraculous miracle was a newborn. He couldn’t count yet and when he could it was after disappearing for a few years while working on his carpenter’s card. Then he hit the public consciousness again, in a big way, and it was fishes this, wine that, throngs of devout everywhere he turned, bringing dead guys back to life etc. He didn’t have time to also think about a new system of day counting and the cuteness of kitten calendars. Plus he didn’t even know! “Hey, this whole messiah business has me a little preoccupied you know, plus, I’m not even aware that, in the future, a whole new system of calendar time counting bearing my mark will happen, but if I were I’d just say make the first of these decade things 9 years long and move on already. I don’t want to be responsible for the overly technical ones getting in a huff every 10 years and thinking the 80’s included 1990. What sense does that make? Poison having hits in only one decade is, really, all they should get…sorry gotta go, miracles, inspirational speeches, walking on water (really looking forward to this one by the way)…”
I for one consider this the start of a new decade if for nothing else than it makes the counting a hell of a lot easier. Plus, the aughts or whatever it is people will want to label this last decade seemed so much longer than ten years for too many reasons to list here. I just hope the new year holds some promise for all of us and I wish you well in it.
To a new year? Cheers and all the best.
-fb
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