Blunt Wit

So I got to cogitating the other day about blogs and blogging. I realized this phenomenon has become more than just a passing fad. I tried to distill the greatest benefits of blogging to mankind in my own mind. I got it down to two lofty contributions.

First, blogging rights the wrongs in society and makes the world a better, happier, and most of all, safer place. By the miracle of technology, bloggers transform into enlightened gadflies to the refuse of society. They make paparazzi look noble. I mean, I know fer sure that I am so much better off seeing that Britney’s pet cocker spaniel “Longfellow” threw up on her Manolos.

The other key benefit to blogging is commerce. Sites like eBay and Craigslist simply just don’t cut it – too big and impersonal. Bloggers, on the other hand, build quaint havens away from the crowds. Like little virtual corner stores of old. They have the distinct advantage of knowing their audience and their most intimate desires.

For instance, I know many of you are car buffs and thus I have decided to present you with a unique opportunity to buy my car.

This ’65 Chevy is a beaut.

I bought this screamer from a Grandmother who only used it to drive to church on Sundays so very low mileage. She runs great! And since windshield and windows are missing no need for air conditioning which just lowers your gas mileage anyway. I’m listing her for $999 but am willing to negotiate.

So tell me, what do you see as the biggest benefits of blogging?

Today I am unveiling a new classification system for individuals based on rigorous scientific study, deep spiritual contemplation and keen social observation. Everyone, and I mean everyone, falls into one of these two camps: Shirt People or Sock People.

This is serious, just hear me out. Sock people are one of a pair. They must find their match and be worn together. Shirt people, on the other hand, can easily go solo although they don’t mind being on top or bottom with another shirt as the case may be.

Sock people go their whole lives with a bad case of static cling. They find their match and, come hell or high water, stick to him or her. If they don’t wash after a couple of days they start to smell. On rare occasions, they come out of the dryer without their matching pair. It is one of those grand mysteries of life … where the other sock disappears off to. In fact there has been speculation of a mystical sock graveyard – akin to the mythical great elephant graveyard – where single socks go to die alone. They can be loud and garish, especially during holiday seasons, but are more naturally toned-down mono-chrome.

Shirt people are more solitary by nature. Give them an undershirt and they’re happy because the undershirt gets dirtier. They also don’t mind being covered by a jacket if it’s sexy or cool. But their natural state is just hanging out, chillin with their friends. They can be garish and loud or quiet and subdued. They can be pull-overs or all buttoned up. Oh, and they love to be ripped off if physical contact is involved.

So which are you … a sock person or a shirt person?

This idea came to me the other night as I was serving Cheerios to my kids for dinner. You see being a blogger and an entrepreneur setting out to change the world you sometimes miss those simple pleasures in your life. Like food. Thereupon it hit me. Why not blog for food.

Don’t dismiss my idea out of hand. First hear me out.

Let’s say you’ve wracked your brain and can’t think of that just-so gift for your daughter’s (posit wife, husband or significant other as the case may be) impending birthday. Why not give her a personalized Blog? Just send me her vital stats: is she fat or thin, neurotic or normal, blonde or brunette, cat or dog person, etc.? And I will then write the best damn Blog about (or for) her. Think of what this will do for her self-esteem. I bet she’ll be the talk of the town and even more popular amongst her friends.

Or, let’s say you’re fed up with your ex and you want a scathing expose of all his or her faults. Just send me the laundry list and I’ll concoct a lethal mix of half truths and innuendo that would make our erstwhile, randy former President Clinton or even Lindsay Lohan blush.

And if you just happen to be a corporate bigwig reading this, well, I can help you too! I personally believe one can never have too many ring-tones, washing machines or whatever the heck you’re peddling. You just tell me what product you’re foisting onto the unsuspecting public and I will plug it shamelessly.

The quo to my quid is quite simple. I will send you the logon info for my Safeway.com* account. Then, much like a bridal registry you go in and select the quantities of the food I have pre-selected as my favorites and have them delivered to my home. Kind of like dropping a few coins into an indigent pan handler’s cup. Except with the added benefit that you never have to look into my eyes. Easy peasy.

What do you think?

*The local supermarket akin to Krogers, A&P, Piggly Wiggly, Tom Thumb, Star Market, etc.

So as is my wont, I take a perfectly good poem and flush it down the drain and start all over like a pain. Today I’m amending Johnny Keats “Ode to a Grecian Urn” in my own inimitable style. Someday I will get off my arse and put it up as a podcast. So without further ado …

Ode to Grecian Toilet

Thou still unflush’d urn of quietness
Thou foster-pot of silence and slow time,
Porcelain historian, who canst thus expel
A smelly tail more stinky than our rhyme:
What seat-tring’d legend haunts about thy oblong shape
Of defecating deities or mortals, or from both,
In Tempe, Arizona or the dales of Arcadia, Texas?
What men or gods are these? What maidens constipated?
What sad kerplunk? What struggle to evacuate?
What pipes and hand soaps? What wild ecstasy?

Unheard splashes are sweet, but those heard
Are sweeter still; therefore, ye soft pipes, flush on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more rear end’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditzies of no tone:
Fair youth, upon the chamber pot, thou canst not leave
Thy toilet, forever while thy ass be bare
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou’st piss, Though
Winning near the hole – yet, do not grieve;
She cannot aid, though thou hast not thy piss,
For ever wilt thou grunt, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy logs! That cannot roll
Over at all, nor ever bid the Ring adieu;
And, happy kerplunkist, unwearied,
For ever piping leavings for ever doo;
More nappy love! More nappy, nappy love!
For ever warm and runny not to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting and for ever grunting;
All expelling human passion far below,
That leaves a butt low-sorrowful and soil’d,
A burning sphincter, and marching runs.

Who are these coming to the orifice?
To what white altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer blowing chunks in the bowl,
And all her silken dranks of long island iced teas ingest’d?
What riddle down by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied by this flush, this pious swab?
And, riddled brown chunks, thy treats for evermore
Will violent barfed be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art chocolate, eaten e’er day before.

O bowel shape! Fair platitude! with screed
Of marble hue and lengthy perfection sought,
With forest leaves, the deed to wipe;
Thou, silent form, dost tease out of us, snot
As doth eternity: Cold Latrine!
When old stench shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst never apropos
Than ours, a friend of the man, to whom thou bay’est,
“Turd is truth, truth turd,” – that is all
Ye know in the water closet, all ye need to know.

And the original …

Ode to a Grecian Urn

Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Well, for one, artists, comedians, politicians and crazy people all view the world a little differently than most of us. They start on common ground – the stuff of everyday life – and then they veer catawampus into virginal territory and drag us along for the joyride. They view the world cock-eyed. They twist reality into strange shapes like a clown does oblong balloons for kids. They view the world askew and corrupt us with their oblique observations. They seduce us with our own sense of wonder, amazement and suspension of disbelief.
But then that’s why we love’em. We love perky perspective. We put a shine on for fresh ideas. We bend over backwards for a tantalizing touch of something other than what we are accustomed to.
Artists, just like their politician/comedian/insane brethren, come in all shapes and sizes: visual, musical, crafty, verbal, you name it. Being enamored with the written word I tend to truck with writers. But I have seen a quilt that’ll knock your socks off and a ceramic bowl that’ll glaze your eyes over. Not to mention songs that put the dance in your soul and pictures that transport you to a different plane.
And comedians are as close to crazy people as they come. I think it takes a full blown untreated neurosis to find laughter in the utter absurdity of our collective existences.
Ah, but I reserve my warmest-hearted opprobrium for politicians. They forever vacillate between pandering sycophant and enlightened leader. Always reading our fickle moods and saying what we want to hear. Then on some capricious whim, they inject their own twisted logic into the mix and lead us off to some silly war here or convoluted trade deal there.
I guess our world would be a whole lot duller without them.

Tell me – who is your favorite comedian/politician/artist/crazy person of all time??? (Note I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours)

So the other day I went to see the movie Ironman at the Mountain View theater. After the show as often is the case my spouse had to scamper to the ladies room, post movie Starbucks and all. And as I waited with the other patrons a thickset man in jeans and a food stained checkered shirt cornered me and said,
“Didya see Ironman,” in a nasally voice while looking past me at the snack counter.
“Ummm, yes I did.”
“That arc reactor was something else, wasn’t it.”
I glanced over my shoulder only to settle into the fact that he was indeed addressing me and he must simply be the type of person to talk around people without making eye contact.

“Ummmm, yes it was.”

“The two nested torodial surfaces gave it away.”
“Huh.”
“Well, it was obviously fashioned after a Tokamak.”
“A what???”
“A Tokamak fusion reactor.”
“Yes, definitely.”
His eyes lit up.
“Yes it was clearly a plasma containment field similar to the original Tamm/Sahkarov model …”
Just then my wife sauntered out. I had never been so happy to see her in my life.
“Sorry I’ve got to go. I left my supercomputer at home on calculating PIE.”
And I took her arm and bee-lined for the exit before he could begin reciting PI to me.
Have you ever noticed how we often come to think those around us just as smart (or dumb) as us? I guess it makes us feel more comfortable to view the world through a lens of familiarity. I often find a little passion lights up the world and gets under peoples skin. I know that for a few seconds under the indirect heated gaze of the “scientist” in Silicon Valley I felt like a nuclear engineer.

Ah, and some Onion Ironman humor to go along with my persistent silly musings …