Tweets of the last few months ....

 Hear ye! Hear ye!

I somehow missed compiling these the last three months. Very lax on my part 'cause there are some good ones. Thanks for taking the time to check 'em out.

• I was regretful the instant I opened my mouth. I'd lit into the  poor bastard. "You're a terrible bore! You tell the same damned stories over and over and over." The bartender just shook her head and said, dude, you're part of the problem. I looked around the bar and it dawned on me, yeah, she's right. The bar was empty. I 'd been talking to myself again.

• There ought to be an awards show for all those darling old ladies who at times frustrate us with their insistence that the room is too cold, the TV is too loud, and that the Coke has lost its fizz. Categories can include best hot cocoa maker, longest scarf knitter and best lap to climb into during the scary parts of “Cinderella.” “Ladies & Gentlemen, welcome to the only major awards show where every contestant gets a trophy. Welcome to … The Grannies!

• Okay, you’re in the store today and “Here Comes Santa Claus!” comes on the store PA system. Do you think someone’s goofed or do you think, “Yeah, it’s Feb. 6, just 323 shopping days ’til Christmas. I guess it’s about that time.” Merry Christmas!

• New Reuter's poll that says extremism is voters greatest fear is wrong. We don't fear extremism. We fear extremists whose views differ from ours will be put in charge.

• I’m trying to come up with a compelling story about a legless man who grows 2 feet, but I can’t decide if I want to make it a supernatural tale about the sudden addition of missing limbs or just a story about growth spurts.

• It's my understanding that large breasted women are fed up with  shameless men who blatantly ogle their assets. It's like a "Man vs. Bosom" staring contest, one no man has ever won.  I urge large breasted women to take matters into their own hands. There ought to be a book. Suggested title, "The Nipple Never Blinks.”

• The Scarecrow was misled. Having a brain does not guarantee happiness. I’ve had a standard-issue brain for 61 years and for just a few of those years has life been a Ding-A-Derry.

• I’m so reluctant to rock the boat that if I detect the boat is rocking and am told the captain is shitfaced and has run the boat aground, I won’t pile on with belated criticism. No, I’ll grab a fifth of Wild Turkey, two shot glasses and head to the bridge to assure the skipper everything’s gonna be all right. Then I’m gonna crank up the Ray Wylie Hubbard … On second thought, I guess I do rock the boat. 

• I’d say my defining characteristic is my steadfast belief that I’m never wrong in the face of gargantuan evidence that I’ve never not even once been right.

• Studies show 82% of otherwise rational adults will believe any made up statistic if the fraud is preceded by the words “studies show.”

• I’ve in my day bitten some powerful hands that were feeding me and there have been consequences. I’m asked if I have regrets. I do. Just one. I regret that before I bit the hand that was feeding me I didn’t slow roast barbecue it and slather it in some Sweet Baby Ray’s before sinking my teeth in. Ciao!

• The Ferris Wheel debuted at the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair and was an immediate sensation.  It’s not surprising. Amusement park patrons had grown tired of the inherent delays and frustrations of the Square-us Wheel.

• A bartender I hadn't seen in a while said she hardly recognized me with my shaved head. Said it looked good. I asked if she wanted to rub it for luck. She playfully did. But before I could self-censor, I heard myself say, "I wasn't referring to my head.”

I felt relief when she laughed. Now I know in these hyper-sensitive times, a line like that can get a man killed. It’s a price I’ll pay ‘cause there should be no PC tethers on runaway wit. Yes, I’ll go down along with Joan of Arc, Lincoln, MLK, etc. and all the martyrs who died to advance justice and humanity. Me? I’ll die for a dick joke.

Many people say their greatest fear is that of dying alone. My greatest fear is dying in a room so crowded with friends and loved ones I won’t be able to see the TV. Fear of dying alone? I just hope I die before the batteries in the remote do.

• Pippi Longstocking was beloved for being an impish free spirit. What few know is that she shed her innocence after entering a rebellious phase and became known by the boys as Pippi Nounderpants. 

• I'm at my most impatient when it's my duty to take the dog out to do his. "C'mon. Poop, wouldja? I don't have all day." It's the height of hypocrisy because I spend lavish amounts of time in the porcelain palace . It's warm, well-lit, the best room in the house to read. No one's rushing me once that door closes. Maybe I'd be more understanding if the dog starts bringing along a book. And this I know: He can take all the time in the world if the book he brings is one of mine!

• Exponential portion growth size has led to the birth an entirely new industry that caters to takeout food preservation. In fact, leftover food containers have become so big, so secure and so well-constructed, I fully expect each doggy bag to contain an actual doggy.

• If in the throes of passion a boy moron and a girl moron surrender to lust and agree to ef each others’ brains out, how much less time would it take than if two reasonably intelligent folk vowed to do the same.

• I think I've maybe outlived all my ambitions. I used to dream of a day when wealth, acclaim and an office on the third floor of the Tin Lizzy would all be mine. Now, there are many days when my greatest ambition is climbing the steps all the way TO the 3rd floor of the Tin Lizzy. There are  days when I need to stop to rest. In fact, there are still days when my "rest" surpasses the bartender's entire shift. A lot can happen to an ambitious guy between the 1st and 3rd floors of the Tin Lizzy…

• Babbling creeks, whale sounds, grand symphonies — most of us awaken to alarms that are anything but alarming. Maybe the sober realization of having to go through another day in 2024 wide awake is alarming enough.  Me I’m seeking an option that matches my state if mind. A distress signal that broadcasts again and again “… SOS! … SOS! … SOS!”

• There ought to be a Tax Day equivalent in angst to April 15 where left-brain people, the ones who thrill to balance check books, save receipts and submit spending pie charts, etc., must do something creative people do with the same aplomb as they do their cold calculations. Maybe have them paint a self-portrait, compose a poem about a dog or sing their hearts out to a roomful of belligerent drunks. Broadcast the hilarity with proceeds going to a fund that’ll ensure right-brain creatives never need fret over tax prep again.

• It would be false modesty to deny my triumphs. I’ve tasted success. My ships have come in.  The problem is that whenever my ships have come in I’m always dismayed at the size of the vessels. It’s like a fleet of little dinghies. And I already had a little dinghy!

• Your virginity is the one thing you lose that doesn’t lead you to tear apart your house to find once you realize it’s gone. “Where’d you last see it? Did you check all your coat pockets? You didn’t give it to that Ralston kid to take care of while you went swimming, did you?” 

• Daughter going to NYC with classmates for school trip. I told her I used to go to Big Apple so frequently and gave off such a comfortable appearance out-of-towners used to ask me for directions — like I was a real New Yorker! “And you told them how to get where they needed to go,” she scoffed. I didn’t say that. They sought directions and that’s what I gave ‘em. Where the hell they wound up I had no idea and couldn’t care less — just like a real New Yorker!

• For reasons both financial and practical, I’ve been without a car fir three months. I’ve learned we’re all confusing conveniences with necessities. The realization bolsters my intention to next try to live without the ubiquitous device that even 5-year-olds consider entitled to possess. Yes, I’m imagining a life without a phone. And if I can free myself from that destroyer of independent thought, then I’ll have left just one last social convention  forced upon those of us who yearn to be truly free. Yep, for me it’ll be … “So long, pants!”

• The Bible says it took The Lord six days & six nights to create Heaven & Earth.  Had I been involved in the task, I’d have said, “Lord, babe, you can cut that time in half. But the first thing you gotta create is a conveniently located Lowe’s and a ‘No Limits’ credit card.”

High time we put a woman on the moon

 

It’s been 62 years since JFK historically announced his intention that the US would put a man on the moon before the end of the decade.

His inspiration succeeded. And since the first one did so in 1969, we’ve put 11 more of them up there on the lunar surface.

I’ll bet you can only name the one.

Am I right? Neil Armstrong is the only one most of you can name (Interesting aside, to me at least, that a man forever known for a lunar stroll has a name that is pronounced KNEEL)

Buzz Aldrin followed Armstrong and remains the only astronaut from the history of the entire space program to show the slightest spark of swashbuckling personality we should expect from any historic explorer.

I can name more “Survivor” finalists than I can men who’ve walked on the moon (Rupert, Johnny Fairplay, Richard Hatch, Jenna Morasca, etc.)

In a few days we’re all going to be staring at the moon as it plays a starring role in what should be a bonanza of publicity for space interests.

Can you name any other moon walkers?  And you know which moon I’m talking about.

We’ve only got the one. 

The planet Jupiter has 95 moons. Each has an evocative and distinctive name. There is Ganymede, Io, Carme, Europa and Branson.

I made that last one up. There’s a Branson, Mo., but no Branson, Mo-on. Which is a pity because the lines to catch Yakov Smirnoff are bound to be less imposing.

Of course, that’s all beside the point which is we earthlings have just  one lousy moon and we choose to call it … Moon.

It’s like having a dog and naming it … Dog.

Back to the astronauts. Here are four of them: Charles Duke, Gene Cernan, John Young and Ryan Seacrest.

I josh. To my knowledge Ryan Seacrest has never set foot on the moon (I must have leftover April Fool’s Day juice in me).

But what of the other three, Duke, Cernan and Young? Or Pete Conrad, Alan Bean, Alan Shepard, Edgar Mitchell, David Scott, James Irwin and, lastly, Harrison Schmitt, who said sayonara to the moon on December 14, 1972 (he shared the honor with shipmate Cernan).

It’s like walking on the moon led to them disappearing back here on Earth.

You’d think they’d at least have done one of those uproarious Miller Lite beer commercials with Rodney Dangerfield speaking for the group about getting no respect.

What a bunch of prissy milquetoasts, a word that somehow manages to disparage both milk and toast.

Six of 12 have the WASPy distinction of having two first names so, obviously, there’s not an Anfernee in the bunch

So when this is all taken as a whole, where does it leave us.

I’ll tell you where it leaves us …

In The Land of Opportunity!

Because we’ve lived for so long wondering about the fabled Man on the Moon (note how it rolls right off the tongue).

Well, by now we’ve had 12 of them and they’ve failed to engage the public’s imagination. It’s time for a change.

It’s time to put a WoMan on the Moon!

I propose that at the conclusion of the eclipse hoopla, President Biden  convene a blue-ribbon panel to prepare a mission to put the first woman on the moon, a long overdue distinction. 

Best part?

We get to pick her!

Nominees will include Hillary Clinton, Marjorie Taylor Greene, Nancy Pelosi, and Laura Ingram.

And to be clear, being selected is an honor, not a punishment.

Despite their divisiveness, any tickets to the moon are still round trip.

The "perfect" "Bridge Over Troubled Water" & what it means for Baltimore

 

(508 words)

With an eeriness I doubt I’ll ever shake, I’d been obsessed with the Simon & Garfunkel 1970 classic “Bridge Over Troubled Water” since at least five days before a Baltimore bridge became fatally troubled by what was happening upon waters it was built to bridge. 

I’ve tried in vain to find a way to cajole the song — maybe the most flawlessly recorded pop song ever — into a hymn to ease the hurt of those who are weary, feeling small.

The ones who have tears in their eyes, who need one of us to dry them off, to assure them we’re on their side when times get rough and friends just can’t be found. 

Sing it with me: “Like A Bridge Over Troubled Water, I will lay me down!”

It’s estimated 15,000 men and women earn their living from the boats that daily come and go through that port.

How many graduation parties just got canceled? How many weddings postponed? How many vacations denied because the rainy day fund all of a sudden needs to be used on umbrellas.

The disruption. The chaos. The lives thrown into tumult.

When you’re down-’n’-out

When you’re on the street

When evening falls so hard, I will comfort you

I’ll take your part, oh, when darkness comes

And pain is all around

Like a bridge over troubled water …

As I said, the song has been on my mind for more than a week. I can’t remember what precipitated the infatuation. I know I was in the car and wanted to play one song really, really loud. I saw “BOTW” on a playlist and thought, “Perfect.”

It wasn’t until I’d played it full blast that I realized the song itself is, indeed, perfect.

It is without flaw. Contributing to its production should be the highlight of the contributor’s entire lives. Each obituary should read for all involved: “Paul Simon, composer of the world’s most perfect song, ‘BOTW, died …”

“Art Garfunkel, who delivered the most flawless vocal performance in history on ‘BOTW,’ died …

An accomplished woman, say, could have lived a life of achievement in math or science, but if she tinged! the triangle for one note 54 years ago, it should be the first mention in her obit.

I played the song loud, so often, that staff in the Tin Lizzy began to complain.

“Why does it have to be so loud?” a waiter asked.

I told him I wanted the whole building to hear it because it’s a perfect song.

I said the song shares no metaphorical kinship with the Key bridge tragedy, but that doesn’t mean it still can’t. Because we will now begin to hear stories of hope and heroism.

We’re going to read about neighbors helping neighbors, of experts wowing us with their insight, and about families overcoming struggles. 

We’re going to hear stories of everyday men and women building a new bridge over once-troubled waters.

And on that day I’ll open the windows and turn it up as loud as it can go.

I want the whole world to hear it.

YouTube: “Bridge Over Troubled Waters”