There are times I despair of the invention of the Internet. Like people needed something else to make them think less and mouth-off more. Think about it: When was the last time you actually wrote a letter? These Common Core morons think we don't even need to teach cursive writing anymore. That's stupid, but they might have a point. Why does anyone need to know how to write when few of us ever do it?
Email and Facebook were bad enough, but at least they allowed room for some rational thought. Then along comes Twitter and it all goes completely to shit. I mean, how much can you say in 140 fucking characters? It's like it was purposely designed for the stupid and semi-literate.
As for all the picture and video sharing sites, well, those just made ego trips easier than ever to share with a world that frankly couldn't give a shit.
But even a Luddite curmudgeon has to admit there are things about the Internet that are positive. The cheap and easy spread of knowledge is something to be celebrated. Call it the democratization of information. Even here, though, we run into trouble. There's so much misinformation and outright lying on the net that even the most astute consumer often gets tricked into believing and repeating false information.
Sometimes, though, good--or at least interesting--things happen, sometimes when we least expect them. I've made the acquaintance of a number of interesting people on Twitter and gotten to know some of them better than 140 characters deep.
Recently I've been exchanging messages with a woman whose Twitter home page begins thusly: "Husband and son convinced I'm a member of mossad."
Tell me that wouldn't make you curious. Especially when combined with this: "Proud Israeli, lover of fashion, the arts and a designer/party planner."
Who knows what's up with that. I think we can probably assume she's not a member of Mossad or she'd likely not say her family thinks she is. Yes, misinformation and misdirection are at the heart of spying, but would someone in the CIA write that on their Twitter home page? I think not.
But it's been fun going back and forth about it with her. I told her I knew the pic she posted for her avatar is probably really an Italian opera singer, not herself. She agreed that might be the case.
Then I told her she probably worked for Shin Bet, not Mossad, and we batted that back and forth for a while. Kind of a hoot chatting with someone in a place you've never been but have always been curious about. It's also funny trying to parse her somewhat spastic English. I'm guessing it's probably her second or third language, not her native tongue, so I'll forgive her that faux pas. After all, her English is way better than my Hebrew. And somebody must think she's the cat's pajamas since she has 12K followers.
Of course she could be a dog and I'd never know it.
Monday, December 22, 2014
Friday, November 21, 2014
JADE EAST
Just bought a big bottle of Jade East cologne. Yeah, I know, it's stinky and kinda juvenile. But it's been one constant in my life since I was a kid, so sue me.
About the time we discovered deodorant--might have been 13 or 14 or thereabouts--because we first discovered chicks didn't like guys who stink, we also discovered the wonderful world of scent. As in cologne and aftershave.
Guys who were a bit older than us and much more sophisticated--penny loafers, corduroy sport coats with leather elbow patches--wore English Leather. Guess they figured it was made them seem older and higher class and let people know without having to say a word that they were not like us.
We thought we were pretty hip, too, so we weren't about to wear the old man's Aqua Velva or Old Spice. Some guys did, but that was because they just didn't get it.
I just looked it up, so I know Jade East came on the scene in 1964. Not long afterward, Hai Karate made its debut and it became a huge seller because of its clever marketing scheme. Although done tongue in cheek, the ads for Hai Karate told you it made women go nuts. The tagline was "Be careful how you use it" and each bottle came with a self-defense booklet to teach you how to fend the crazed women off.
Well, being the callow fellows we were, we bought the pitch hook, line and sinker. We didn't know from tongue in cheek. Frankly, we didn't know from nothing. And of course we were of the philosophy that if a little was good, a lot must be great. The clouds of aroma wafting from our team bus on the way home from an away basketball game were enough to set off air quality alerts. We slathered the shit on like sun tan lotion at the beach.
They say the sense of smell is the strongest and most evocative of all our senses and I would agree. Whenever I get a whiff of creosote from a telephone pole I'm immediately 12 years old and walking on the boardwalk in Ocean City, Maryland. The connection is so fast it's almost scary. Same thing happens with the scent of Jade East. I'm 14 years old and on the JV basketball team at North Carroll High School in Greenmount, Maryland. Keith Murray is driving us home in his brother's '57 Chevy and we're all the cat's ass.
It's interesting that Jade East has been in continuous production since 1964. Hai Karate had a good run in the 60's and 70's, but it went away in the 80's and just now made a comeback. Best I can tell, it's available only one place: The Vermont Country Store. And it's $46 for a 3.4 oz. bottle, which makes that particular memory a rather expensive one. Think I'll pass.
About the time we discovered deodorant--might have been 13 or 14 or thereabouts--because we first discovered chicks didn't like guys who stink, we also discovered the wonderful world of scent. As in cologne and aftershave.
Guys who were a bit older than us and much more sophisticated--penny loafers, corduroy sport coats with leather elbow patches--wore English Leather. Guess they figured it was made them seem older and higher class and let people know without having to say a word that they were not like us.
We thought we were pretty hip, too, so we weren't about to wear the old man's Aqua Velva or Old Spice. Some guys did, but that was because they just didn't get it.
I just looked it up, so I know Jade East came on the scene in 1964. Not long afterward, Hai Karate made its debut and it became a huge seller because of its clever marketing scheme. Although done tongue in cheek, the ads for Hai Karate told you it made women go nuts. The tagline was "Be careful how you use it" and each bottle came with a self-defense booklet to teach you how to fend the crazed women off.
Well, being the callow fellows we were, we bought the pitch hook, line and sinker. We didn't know from tongue in cheek. Frankly, we didn't know from nothing. And of course we were of the philosophy that if a little was good, a lot must be great. The clouds of aroma wafting from our team bus on the way home from an away basketball game were enough to set off air quality alerts. We slathered the shit on like sun tan lotion at the beach.
They say the sense of smell is the strongest and most evocative of all our senses and I would agree. Whenever I get a whiff of creosote from a telephone pole I'm immediately 12 years old and walking on the boardwalk in Ocean City, Maryland. The connection is so fast it's almost scary. Same thing happens with the scent of Jade East. I'm 14 years old and on the JV basketball team at North Carroll High School in Greenmount, Maryland. Keith Murray is driving us home in his brother's '57 Chevy and we're all the cat's ass.
It's interesting that Jade East has been in continuous production since 1964. Hai Karate had a good run in the 60's and 70's, but it went away in the 80's and just now made a comeback. Best I can tell, it's available only one place: The Vermont Country Store. And it's $46 for a 3.4 oz. bottle, which makes that particular memory a rather expensive one. Think I'll pass.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
ANOTHER BIRTHDAY
Okay, let's get it out of the way: I turned 61 today. That's neither a good nor bad thing; it's just a thing. Frankly, I'm more than a little surprised to still be alive at this age. I had a five-graft CABG on my 39th birthday, so those grafts and my heart have held up pretty well for 21 years.
That's not to say my heart is in great shape, because it's not. It gets weaker every year. But given the alternative, I'm pretty happy with the outcome.
When you're a teenager or in your early twenties, you think you'll live forever. You do lots of stupid things like smoke and drink and drive too fast. You don't think about getting old or dying. That shit happens to other people--old people, mostly.
Funny thing is, I've always known that I'd die someday. I knew it from a very early age. I think it fucked up my head for a long time. Kids shouldn't think about such things, they should just be kids.
Now, I didn't sit around worrying about dying today or tomorrow. That would have been completely perverse. But the thought was always there, sort of gnawing away in my brain. I still played baseball and hunted squirrels and cruised chicks. I learned to use deodorant and cologne because girls didn't like you if you smelled. To this day I still occasionally use Jade East, something I learned about in junior high. Too bad they don't still make Hai Karate. That was another of our youthful favorites. We used to slather the shit on like there was no tomorrow. You could probably smell us coming from a block away if the wind was right.
Anyway, happy birthday to me. It turned cold and nasty this afternoon and snowed like a bitch, but that shouldn't be seen as any kind of omen. The March 25ths I've seen have been hot, warm and cold; dry, wet and wetter. That's March in a northern clime. Got nothing to do with me.
Just remember, on March 5th, 1953, Joe Stalin died. Twenty days later I was born (six weeks early, by the way, which was very early in 1953). No cause and effect implied, no post hoc, ergo, propter hoc logic involved. Just the facts, ma'am.
That's not to say my heart is in great shape, because it's not. It gets weaker every year. But given the alternative, I'm pretty happy with the outcome.
When you're a teenager or in your early twenties, you think you'll live forever. You do lots of stupid things like smoke and drink and drive too fast. You don't think about getting old or dying. That shit happens to other people--old people, mostly.
Funny thing is, I've always known that I'd die someday. I knew it from a very early age. I think it fucked up my head for a long time. Kids shouldn't think about such things, they should just be kids.
Now, I didn't sit around worrying about dying today or tomorrow. That would have been completely perverse. But the thought was always there, sort of gnawing away in my brain. I still played baseball and hunted squirrels and cruised chicks. I learned to use deodorant and cologne because girls didn't like you if you smelled. To this day I still occasionally use Jade East, something I learned about in junior high. Too bad they don't still make Hai Karate. That was another of our youthful favorites. We used to slather the shit on like there was no tomorrow. You could probably smell us coming from a block away if the wind was right.
Anyway, happy birthday to me. It turned cold and nasty this afternoon and snowed like a bitch, but that shouldn't be seen as any kind of omen. The March 25ths I've seen have been hot, warm and cold; dry, wet and wetter. That's March in a northern clime. Got nothing to do with me.
Just remember, on March 5th, 1953, Joe Stalin died. Twenty days later I was born (six weeks early, by the way, which was very early in 1953). No cause and effect implied, no post hoc, ergo, propter hoc logic involved. Just the facts, ma'am.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
WHITE SOCKS & MOCS
My father's baby brother was named Howard, but all eight of his sibs always called him Punk. I've always wondered where that nickname came from, because he wasn't a punk at all.
Then the other day I was looking through a book of the family's genealogy and it leapt out at me. My grandfather Clinton George Cullison had a brother named Howard Chester Cullison who was nicknamed Punkie. So when my dad's brother Howard came along, they nicknamed him Punk in honor of their uncle Howard. Simple.
Unfortunately, the book had no answer about why my father used the nickname Larry for his sister Rita. Must have been something from their early years.
At any rate, Howard had two boys, Steve and Danny. Stevie was a couple years older than I was and Danny was a month younger than I. And like teenage kids of any generation, they liked to make fun of their old man and his old man ways. I remember them ragging on Punk for always wearing white socks and moccasins. Made fun of him for being a farmer or a hillbilly.
Of course I joined in the hilarity over the white socks and mocs deal. That's just the way kids are about grownups. The adults might be in charge, but we could still make fun of them, generally behind their backs. And we were all city kids back then, so calling somebody a farmer or hillbilly was the highest insult we knew.
As it turned out, Punk didn't wear white socks as a fashion statement, he worse them because the dye in colored socks irritated his feet. I guess socks weren't terribly color-fast in those days. And he wore the mocs because they were comfortable after wearing heavy-soled work shoes every day on the job as a security guard.
Life often has a funny way of biting us in the ass or making us seem silly. So it is with white socks and mocs. I haven't worn colored socks since the last time I went to a wedding or funeral and truth be told, I've gotten rid of all but a couple pairs. Along with the white socks I also wear Minnetonkas. In the house and out--different models, of course.
So, as Pogo said, we have met the enemy and he is us. Or something like that.
Then the other day I was looking through a book of the family's genealogy and it leapt out at me. My grandfather Clinton George Cullison had a brother named Howard Chester Cullison who was nicknamed Punkie. So when my dad's brother Howard came along, they nicknamed him Punk in honor of their uncle Howard. Simple.
Unfortunately, the book had no answer about why my father used the nickname Larry for his sister Rita. Must have been something from their early years.
At any rate, Howard had two boys, Steve and Danny. Stevie was a couple years older than I was and Danny was a month younger than I. And like teenage kids of any generation, they liked to make fun of their old man and his old man ways. I remember them ragging on Punk for always wearing white socks and moccasins. Made fun of him for being a farmer or a hillbilly.
Of course I joined in the hilarity over the white socks and mocs deal. That's just the way kids are about grownups. The adults might be in charge, but we could still make fun of them, generally behind their backs. And we were all city kids back then, so calling somebody a farmer or hillbilly was the highest insult we knew.
As it turned out, Punk didn't wear white socks as a fashion statement, he worse them because the dye in colored socks irritated his feet. I guess socks weren't terribly color-fast in those days. And he wore the mocs because they were comfortable after wearing heavy-soled work shoes every day on the job as a security guard.
Life often has a funny way of biting us in the ass or making us seem silly. So it is with white socks and mocs. I haven't worn colored socks since the last time I went to a wedding or funeral and truth be told, I've gotten rid of all but a couple pairs. Along with the white socks I also wear Minnetonkas. In the house and out--different models, of course.
So, as Pogo said, we have met the enemy and he is us. Or something like that.
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