Today is DUMB day here in Maine. No, that doesn’t mean I’m going to be DUMB today but all things being considered I might be DUMB tomorrow. This word is used almost as heavily as “shit” and “fuck”. One bad move and you are immediately labeled a “DUMB shit” or a “DUMB fuck”. You may have only made a minor mistake but you’re still painted with a broad brush that identifies you as someone who screwed up in a big way. Our language is not fair and not for the faint of heart. Have you ever heard the term “dumbassary” or how about “shitheadedness”? You can build your own words and introduce them into the lexicon and pray that someone repeats them, that they then catch on, and all of a sudden you’ve been immortalized. People everywhere use the word DUMB and some even attempt to make money from its use. Here are few examples . . .
A 1998 song by the group “Garbage” was named DUMB.
Another group of fine upstanding musicians called “The 411” used it as a song title way back in 2004.
And probably one of the more famous weird bands, “Nirvana”, sang their hearts out in their 1993 In Utero album to the song DUMB. Later found to be highly prophetic when Kurt Cobain, the lead singer, offed himself with a shotgun. And lucky us because of that incident the magical title of celebrity was passed onto the band “Hole” and introduced us to Courtney Love. Really, how DUMB was that?
As flexible as the word DUMB is, the language has also supplied us with dozens of words with DUMB as the underlying meaning. If you hear any of the following words used in describing you in any fashion, the speaker is in fact, calling you a DUMB ass.
So when I state that I am anti-stupid you can see just how busy I’ve really become. It’s an endless battle identifying and pointing out all of the stupid, dumb, and idiotic citizens roaming our streets right under our noses. Fortunately for all of you, I grudgingly volunteered years ago to lead the charge against DUMB and STUPID.
I’ve been trying to write a memorial for Amy for some time now. To say I miss her would be an understatement. What I miss more would be all the music she would have written and performed if she would have lived. She was a powerful voice for her music and her generation. The photographs here are how I wish to remember her. Not the photo’s of a dying drug addict. I think she was young and naïve and running with a questionable crowd of so-called musicians and hangers-on. She had no self-control and hurried towards her death with open arms. I loved her voice and her songs and I hate her for robbing me of what could have been many years of listening to her sing to me. I carry her music with me always. She’s the first thing I see each morning when I turn on my phone and computer. I talk with her every day. Sounds really stupid I know, but I loved the girl pictured here.
I’m sitting here in my man-cave reading a novel that is quite romantic. I’m not a usual reader of romance novels but there’s a reason I’m reading this one. For the last nine days in a row my better-half has requested my presence to watch Rom-Coms after dinner. I have to admit that I enjoy some of them but the great majority are kind of trashy and stupid. She insists that these movies are the epitome of romance, I couldn’t disagree more. Over the years I’ve been called many things, some good and some not so good by a variety of ladies. I can honestly say I have never been called romantic and again I disagree with them as well. In my opinion women should not be the final word on whether a man is romantic or not. On one or two occasions I’ve actually had women call me out in front of others for being unromantic, and for the last time I again absolutely disagree.
I recall an old movie that I thoroughly enjoyed watching starring Steve Martin and Daryl Hannah called Roxanne. It was a mushy silly takeoff on some Shakespearean story and at one point in the story Steve Martin serenaded Daryl Hannah at her bedroom window. If that’s a requirement for being identified as romantic, forget about it. I may be a lot of things but a singer I’m not. If I attempted to serenade a woman two things would immediately occur. First, she would cover her ears and slam the window shut. Secondly, the police would arrest me for “disturbing the peace” and “being a public nuisance”. So scratch serenading off my list of romantic things I could do.
I love reading but reading Shakespeare and stuffy poetry aloud to a woman I’ve just become interested in isn’t going to happen either. I’m more likely to recite some of my own poetry which is usually funny and a little off-color. You know what I mean, “There once was a man from Nantucket . . .”. Strike two for me. Maybe my critics were right after all. Allow me to continue my thought processes before you make your final decision.
I’ve been known to create a CD or two filled with romantic Lionel Richie love songs which I must say works like a charm. I’ve also been known to send flowers on occasion but unfortunately only to my mother on Mother’s Day.
Quite a few times in the past I’ve given IOU’s to various women for foot rubs. I’ve been complimented numerous times about my delicate and sensitive touch but I’ve never fully explained to most of them about my harmless but fun foot fetish. That’s my little secret.
Body massages are always a great approach for intimacy with many wonderful advantages available if done properly. Just so you know, I can massage with the best of them. So give me some points for that.
Taking a woman to dinner can be a pleasurable experience as well. It’s also a pretty good way to guilt them into sex. Spend $20 for the meal and you’ll likely get a long leisurely French kiss at the door. Spend $50 and you get an invitation to come in and play “slap and tickle” on the couch for a while. Spend over $100 for the meal and purchase an expensive bottle of wine and you’ll be swept into the “Promised Land” on the ‘Wings of Angels”. Been there and done that too.
Take them to a movie after that good meal and make sure it’s a tear-jerking “chick flick” and your golden. Dropping a few tears during the love scenes is perfect. Pretend to wipe the tears from your cheek so she can’t see you doing it, but make sure she does. A good meal, a bottle of good wine, a mushy movie, and a tear or two, and she’s yours for the asking. Now, if that’s not romance I don’t know what is.
So what have we learned about me. I like good food and good wine – Check! I like movies – Check! I like to spend time with women – Check! I write off-color and funny poetry – Check! I like massaging the naked bodies and feet of women – Check! I can drop a tear or two if necessary – Check! I like sex – Check! I can sleep over or go home immediately after sex – Your choice!
Are you old? Let me rephrase that. Do you think you’re old? That’s the question everyone knows is coming but nobody wants to deal with. Unfortunately most people who are old know it but again refuse to deal with the reality. Some people just can’t get past the fact that there isn’t one damn thing they can do to combat it. Plastic surgery works for some but eventually you’ll end up looking like a really silly cartoon character. Many have paid for a new young face, fake hair, fake boobs, butt implants, and still insist on wearing old people clothing. Old folks never quite get the hang of dressing properly because they keep sliding “fashion backward” to a time when they were young. They mistakenly think it still looks cool.
Well I’m not complaining about any of those things just willing to pass along some others you should be looking for if you’re worried about getting old. I’m old, I know I’m old, and I went through this list myself just for laughs. I’m not laughing now. In my head I’m thirty years old but this list kicked my elderly ass. If you are experiencing 50% of the things on this list you ARE really old. Have fun . . .
Your kids are becoming you and you don’t like them very much.
Going out is okay but coming home is better.
You forget names but it’s okay since no one remembers you either.
Your spouse is counting on you to remember things you don’t remember.
The things you used to care to do, you no longer care to do, but you really do care that you don’t care to do them anymore.
You spend a good deal of your day looking for things you hid so you wouldn’t lose them.
You can’t use more four letter words i.e. what?, when?, and where?
You notice everything sold in stores is “sleeveless”.
What used to be freckles are now age spots.
You constantly call your children and grandchildren for help with your computer.
You have three sizes of clothing in your closet (fat, fatter, and fattest) two of which you will never wear again.
You find yourself spending a great deal of time trying to have conversations with Alexa.
All of your favorite songs are now only heard in TV commercials.
You find yourself trying to remember what stories you told one person.
You miss the days when everything worked with just an “ON” and “OFF” switch.
Well how have you fared? Now that you’ve received a second opinion verifying what you already knew, welcome to old age. I’ve been here for a while waiting for all of you to arrive. Just between us, in a few days you won’t remember any of this anyway. I have to go now, it’s 3:30 PM and time for dinner at the IHOP. There’s a 10% discount for old farts so don’t forget your mask and your AARP membership card.
Well, I had a great night’s sleep last night for a change. It’s not often I get more than eight hours and it was glorious. Now I’m enjoying a quiet morning which gives me time to think and reflect on my eventful life. I have a number of people who I think of often and enjoy remembering on this blog and most of them stay with me because I have a personal connection of some type with them. Whether their entertainers, celebrities, or just plain folks.
For many years I made the drive from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to Boston after visiting family. Part of that trip required me to be traveling southbound on Interstate 81 in Pennsylvania just outside of Scranton. I suddenly realized “It was just after dark when my car started down the hill that leads into Scranton Pennsylvania”. This quote is my interpretation of the lyrics from one of my favorite songs written and performed by one of my favorite singers, Harry Chapin. I wasn’t hauling 30,000 pounds of bananas but it felt like I should have been.
I’ve been a fan of Chapin’s since the late 1960’s, after attending two of his live performances while in college, and I’ve been listening to his music ever since. He was charismatic and had the ability to capture his audience’s attention completely. His songs were based on actual experiences as he traveled around the country and were poignant to the extreme. He was much like the minstrel’s of the Middle Ages, traveling from town to town, learning new stories, and putting them to song. His performances were an absolute pleasure for those of us lucky enough to attend them.
Harry Chapin died young, on July 16, 1981, near exit 40 on the Long Island Expressway. He lost control of his car, slid into the other lane, and was crushed by a tractor-trailer. He never had a chance. I’m old enough to have been around to experience the “Day the Music Died”, when Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper, and Richie Valens were killed. As upset as I was on that day, Chapin’s death affected me even more. Anyone who ever was lucky enough to experience him in a live performance felt as though they’d made a new close friend. We fans mourned his loss deeply then and every day since.
His epitaph Is taken from his song ” I Wonder What Would Happen to This World”.
Oh if a man tried
To take his time on earth
andImproved before he died
What one man’s life could be worth
I wonder what would happen
To this world
And that’s how I spent a few hours a few days ago, listening to live recordings of some of his concerts and thinking about good old Harry. It’s always a wonderful interlude for me and I intend to repeat it as often as possible. If you have a opportunity to buy any of his music, do so, you won’t be sorry. My personal recommendation is the CD, “Greatest Stories Live”.
I’ve had the pleasure over the years of listening to and sometimes enjoying many styles of music. I have eclectic tastes ranging from opera to blues to jazz but by far many of my most favorite singers have been the balladeers such as Gordon Lightfoot, Harry Chapin, and of course, Jim Croce.
Both Harry Chapin and Jim Croce died before their time which was a great loss to me and remains so to this day. It’s been 43 years sine Croce was killed in a plane crash in Louisiana and 35 years since Chapin died in 1981 in a car accident.
Here’s a short blurb on Croce’s death. He’ll always remain on my IPod and continue to make me smile when I listen to his music.
“On Thursday, September 20, 1973, during Croce’s Life and Times tour and the day before his ABC single “I Got a Name” was released, Croce, Muehleisen, and five others died when their chartered Beechcraft E18S crashed into a tree, while taking off from the Natchitoches Regional Airport in Natchitoches, Louisiana. Others killed in the crash were pilot Robert N. Elliott, musician Maury Muehleisen, comedian George Stevens, manager and booking agent Kenneth D. Cortose, and road manager Dennis Rast. Croce had just completed a concert at Northwestern State University’s Prather Coliseum in Natchitoches and was flying to Sherman, Texas, for a concert at Austin College. The plane crashed an hour after the concert. Jim Croce was 30 years old.”
The first day in NO was coming to an end and we decided to just hit the streets and roam around to get a better feel for things. It was just getting dark and we were both starving. That airline food really is a joke. We stumbled on a place on the north end of the French Quarter called Coops. It’s one of those places with a questionable first impression and it was filled with mostly local residents some of which were way out there. Of course we immediately went in to sample some good old Cajun food and we weren’t sorry.
My rule #1 for eating in NO. Go local!
I ordered my usual ice cold Chardonnay while my better-half discovered a new love. She ordered a Big Easy IPA that’s brewed locally. She fell in love with the brew which meant I would have a few more of them on my credit card in the coming days. . . AND I DID! She ordered some sort of shrimp dish while I stepped outside the box once again. I dined on rabbit and alligator sausage jambalaya. I hate to say this about the rabbit but if cooked properly it tastes just like chicken. No eye rolling please. We were finally cooled down by the air conditioning and decided to continue our walking tour. Temps were still in the low nineties at dusk.
We stopped at a number of small shops when we saw something interesting and to use their air conditioning. I’d already sweat through my clothes and would do so many more times during our stay.
NO is known as an artist colony and one of the reasons I love this place so much. We saw murals and sculptures just about everywhere we went. Here are two samples from our first night.
We spent a lot of time looking at art work displayed in galleries and also on the street in Jackson Square. Some of it was really good, some just OK, and others that were unbelievably bad. To each their own I guess. We continued our walk into Jackson Square where the line of horse drawn carriages were waiting for customers.
We were at the end of a very long day and headed back to our hotel for the night. That little pool in the courtyard I posted about earlier was the best thing that happened to us the entire day. Off with the clothes, into the swim suits, and into all of that lovely cool water. We chatted with some new friends from Germany at the pool, finished our drinks and went off to bed. Our room felt like a refrigerator and thank god for that.
Well, my better-half and I arrived home last night after spending 6 glorious days in the party capitol of the USA . . . New Orleans. If I disregard our god awful experiences with Jet Blue then we had a great time. It’s been a number of years since I visited NOLA but I was thrilled to see that it was the same old exciting place that I remembered. The evidence of Katrina’s visit eleven years ago has been all but erased.
I grabbed this shot from their website because mine was blurry as hell.
I booked our hotel in an off-the-beaten-path location located in the old creole section of NO on Burgundy Street, 2 blocks north of Bourbon Street. The St. Pierre hotel was once the NO Jazz Museum but has since been converted into an hotel.
It consists of a group of 150 year old creole homes joined together with small intimate courtyards and swimming pools hidden from street view. If you ever visit there you need to know this is not the Hilton or Weston style of hotel. This is an old building with 150 years of character and an 1850’s atmosphere. We loved going native for a few days and would do it again in a heartbeat.
This pool was 30 feet from our room. This is the view looking down from the balcony.
The weather was typical NO. It was 90 plus degrees all week with never less than 80% humidity. It was feel-like temperature of over 100 degrees. Even though the heat was brutal that pool made it bearable. We visited it twice a day to cool off and have a drink and meet people from all over the world who were also staying there. Just fabulous.
Another view of the courtyard from our balcony.
This posting is just the start of our trip. I’ll probably continue posting on our other activities for the next week or so. There was a lot to see and maybe I can give you a little taste of how it felt to be there.
IT WAS AN INCREDIBLE WEEK BUT WE’RE GLAD TO BE HOME.
I’m only making a joke about South Canada. My better-half and I spent our evening yesterday enjoying some of the crowds and nightlife in Old Orchard Beach, Maine. I call it south Canada because the majority of people I mingled with last night were speaking French. Does anyone but me think that the French language is sexy?
I’ve had a fantasy since age eleven that had me moving to France, meeting a beautiful French women, and having her whisper sweet nothings in my ear forever. Last night will probably be as close as I ever get to fulfilling that fantasy. I sat next to a rather attractive women who spoke to the bartender in French to order a drink. I have no idea what she ordered but that sexy voice speaking French really got me going. Am I a bad man? If I am, I don’t think I care that I am.
We started out in the Strike Zone Bar with drinks and a great baked haddock dinner. Then it was a nice walk to the Pier and the beach in the center of town where a concert was in progress. The Salvation Army was out in force, had erected a rather cool stage, and the group “Unbound” was rocking the house.
After their final set we set off to the amusement park to throw away some of our hard earned money on those normally hokey carnival style games. I dropped five bucks throwing ten stupid whiffle balls into holes trying to win a stuffed animal. Fortunately I didn’t win, thank God. The last thing we need is more stuffed animals in our house. I already feel like I’m living with Jim Henson as it is.
Here are a few snaps I took as we walked around.
It’s a requirement of my better-half to make the obligatory trip to the arcade to rub elbows and everything else we have with the crowds of people and to play a few games of Skee Ball. It allows her to reminisce for a few minutes about bringing her kids here when they were growing up. Since they’ve grown up and gone I get to be their stand-in.
Our last stop for the night was at DQ for ice cream and I went a little overboard. I’ve been dreaming about a big disgustingly unhealthy banana split since last summer. I violated every eating rule established by my healthcare experts and pigged out. It was freaking orgasmic to say the least.
And so ended another night in South Canada where fun was being had by all. We’ll be returning soon on a future weekend to spend the afternoon on the beach and the night cruising around and enjoying the beautiful weather. I may be forced to sign up for a night school course to bone up on my French language skills. I need to know how to order a Jack Daniels and Pepsi like they do in Quebec.
I had a great workout yesterday. Normally I’d spend forty-five minutes on the treadmill and all the while watching some ridiculous television rerun. I’ve been doing my workouts every other day for the last year and a half but as time goes by it becoming more of a boring task than a healthy approach to my life. On top of that I’m tired of hearing myself bitching and complaining about it endlessly. I’ve discovered over the years that I have the uncanny ability to annoy even myself and not just others.
With the upcoming cutting of my TV umbilical cord I’ve begun taking steps to prepare myself for what I’m sure will be a certain amount of withdrawal from my life-long television addiction. It will difficult I’m sure but absolutely necessary.
‘I’d judge that as a 9.5’
I’ve turned away from my exercising in front of the television to embracing an old love . . . music. I’ve never considered turning to music on the treadmill because I’ve always loved music and hated mandatory exercise. Mixing the two seemed somehow wrong. I was forced to rethink my entire approach to these things because cable television is making me insane.
I’ve had an IPod full of thousands of songs for years but have used it sparingly. I’ve always disliked wearing ear buds because the accompanying loss of hearing of my surroundings makes me wary and uncomfortable. Yesterday I jumped on the treadmill, put in my ear buds, and turned on my IPod. The silence of the world was replaced for the first twenty minutes by those politically incorrect Dixie Chicks who pissed me off years ago as they did a large segment of the country. I still love their music but detest their political naiveté.
‘President Bush’s Fav’s’
The next twenty-five minutes were consumed by the late darling of the British Isles, Amy Winehouse. I love her brash lyrics and low and sexy sound. She made the remaining time fly by and I actually found myself totally entranced by her music and my memories of her. It was wonderful.
I guess I accomplished three things yesterday. I kicked my TV habit, I had a kick-ass workout, and I began a new love affair with my IPod and Ms. Winehouse.
To quote one of Amy’s lyrics, "Where is my moral parallel?". My answer is the same as hers . . ."I have none."
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