Blunt Wit

Another silly blog where I muse ponderifically on the art and science of wording thoughts.

So what is blogging to you?

To me blogging is all about all about lending cogency to a thought, breathing life into a whim.

Some days the swirling ideas, the tornado of life, whips up the mundane and transforms it into the sublime. At other times, it morphs the exquisitely divine into the muck of everyday existence.

We gather here in this space to share our observations. We laugh, we cry, we titillate, we entertain one another mightily. We commune, we share, we sympathize, we blog each other our humanity. We take the high road, the low sexy road and all the paths that criss-cross like silk-laced panties in-between.

In the final analysis, we are but scribes, bloggers bearing witness to the grace and glory of our own life stories. But always there is a thought, an idea, bursting to be expressed. An intention itching to leak out onto the blog and into our, sweet reader’s, consciousness.

So what is blogging to you?
Can you link an especially nice blog here today and share the love. I, for one, have been absent much lately and would love to meet some new blogging talent.

So life’s been swamping me of late. Don’t you hate it when your real space encroaches on your blogging.

Today a little updating of Shakespeare “All the World’s a Stage” soliloquy similar to my last attempt (“To Blog or Not to Blog”) for your reading and commenting pleasure …

All the world’s a blog,
And all the men and women merely writers:
They have their posts and their reposts;
And one blogger in the Blogosphere writes of many farts,
His acts being seven ages.
Like a kid in fact, he spews and pukes on other’s blogs.
And then like the wine-drinking schoolboy, blogging with his Gallo
And red morning face, creeping like a drunk snail
Unwillingly to school.
And then the lover, signing the girl’s privates guestbook, with a sad blog dedicated to T and A.
Then a soldier, full of Iraq angst and bearded like the bard, jealous of Petraeus’s seat, secret and quick in quarrel, seeking no trouble or reputation.
Even there be a sharp comment near Bush’s mouth.
Ah the justice, on a fat tummy, a capon (castrated cock),
With a tough guy visage and a bikers beard,
Full of shit and modern contrivances;
And so he writes in his blog. The next,
Old man, thin in fuzzy bunny slippers,
With spectacles on nose and paunch of belly,
His unyouthful member, Viagra driven, a world too long
For his shrunk shank; and his manly blog,
Turning toward kid again, music players
Crank out the songs. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful blog,
Is second childishness and the internet down,
Sans readers, sans comments, sans blogs, sans everything!

The question for today is which of the Bard’s seven parts (kid, schoolboy, lover, etc.) are you playing these days?

Oh yeah, here’s the original passage from “As you Like It” so you can see for yourself how badly I butchered it …

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

There probably exist other folks more qualified than me to write about traditions of the great American South. Local yokels. Jim dandy’s. You see me, I’ve been a carpet-bagger all my life.

Alas, I was born in Saratoga Springs, NY. Hell that’s almost northerner than Toronto, the capital of the biggest northern state, Canada. However, my entire family all hails from the South: Georgia mostly, but also Mississippi, Alabama, Florida and Tennessee. In fact, as I was growing up my extended family chided me for being a Yankee due to my birthplace.

I believe this was the primary reason I developed a deep seated sense of displacement, a sense of never really belonging, the genesis, if you will, of my wanderlust. I left the South like a shot from a cannon. I traveled to and settled down in far flung reaches of the planet. I learned Chinese and Japanese and fully embraced these cultures: reading their newspapers, watching their TV, eating their food and surviving numerous encounters with their law enforcement which we won’t go into here.

But the traditions of my upbringing still exerted a mighty pull over me and I thought to expound on them here for those of you not lucky enough to have been born and raised in the South. There are literally thousands of idiotsyncrasies that set us apart but for the purposes of briefing down I will limit myself to the following: caning, black eyed peas, sweet iced tea and wet T-shirt contests.

So I remember oh so well pulling out the mason jars and boiling them with those funky holy vacuum seal lids. We then fixed up huge boiling pots of veggies and overly sugared fruit. Wait, that’s canning. Caning, on the other hand, occurred on the numerous occasions we were bad. Parents would pull out that rattan cane and beat us to within an inch of our lives. Dammit, memories as fine as these are nearly forgotten or possibly blocked out by deep psychological trauma. Makes one feel Singaporean, or possibly Catholic, although every southerner has a bit of Baptist blood running in their veins.

Next, every New Year’s we would all gather round the boombox and sing the Pea’s “My humps, my humps, my lovely lady lumps” together. Kidding. Not those peas silly, the other black eyed peas, the ones you eat.

This tradition dates back to the U.S. Civil War when Union troops, especially those in areas targeted by “Scorched Earth” General Sherman would typically strip the countryside of all food, crops, and livestock and destroy whatever they could not carry away. At that time, Northerners considered black eyed peas suitable only as animal fodder, and as a result they didn’t steal or destroy this infernal food. Many Southerners – my ancestors in fact – survived as a result of this mistake. And thus, to celebrate this fact, we’re forced to eat peas that have the consistency and general taste of dirt at least once each and every year.

But at least we can wash it down with sweet iced tea. We never had air conditioning growing up – or at least that’s the myth my parents had us believing to conserve electricity – so the only way to keep cool in the hot, humid summers was to drink iced tea. And since sweet desserts are a decidedly southern trait, any self respecting tea comes laced with cup upon cup of heaping sugar. I think you can actually hear the sound of teeth rotting in their gums on those warm southern breezes of summer.

And of course there is that hoary tradition of the wet T-shirt contests. Every spring the entire school population of the South spills into Dayton Beach, Florida for their Spring break. And all up and down those shapely beaches, young women enter wet T-shirts contests by the million pairs. Lithe, nubile bodies made wet by testosterone induced spillage. The vibe makes one nostalgic for coliseums and lions. I’d have to say that of all the southern traditions THIS is the one that captures my attention and interest the most, even to this day.

Have you ever participated in a wet t-shirt contest?

Can you share any funky traditions (sordid or not) from your part of the world?

So a painful admission. I am such a lemming when it comes to the latest management fad. You know, the ones that get immortalized for a few months or days when a particular book outlining a particular passing fancy gets hot like “In Search of Excellence”, “From Great to Terrible”, “Who Cut the Cheese”, and the granddaddy of them all, “The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People.”

I don’t just buy them, I devour them.

After reading so many over the years I have noticed one huge negative: most are written solely for the successful CEO’s and Captains of Industry. They are not written for a much, much bigger market. That being the unsuccessful people of this world. Seeing this as an under served niche I have decided to step into the breach and write my own management conceit.

I’ve entitled my treatise “Seven Habits of Highly Ineffectual People.” I realize this lacks a little originality but these days, honestly what doesn’t. I mean seriously, was George W. Bush’s invasion of Iraq original?
Duh, his Dad … ten years earlier … been there, done that.

Is TomKat original? Hell no, you had Branglina and HillBill (or was it Monbill I get confused) before that.

You see, creativity serves no master and knows no bounds.

So without further ado here is a sampling of my Seven Habits for your critical review:

1. Be Lazy. Aren’t you tired of stressing! We live in a go-go world of drive-through Starbucks, 24 hours news and non-stop demands on our time and our soul. It’s ok to say ef it every once and a while, kick back, open cold one, and space out.

(terms of service: by reading this sentence you are agreeing to absolve this author of any and all responsibility for loss and/or lowering of income due to following his advice.)

2. Begin from the beginning. Who ever heard of starting with the end in mind. If we knew the damn ending we wouldn’t need to suffer through the beginning and middle. Hell, if you knew your life were to end tomorrow in some horrible vegetable peeler accident would you even try hard today to be a good person. No, you’d raise all sorts of Cain. So just take it from the top and see whatever the hell else develops. Your battle cry: c’est la vie.

3. Put firsts thing whenever. Priorities Smiorities. When did completing priorities get you anything other than more work. Just use your gut. Like, I’m hungry so I’ll eat a sandwich. Failing that, have a coin handy and flip it. I find fate the best judge of what anyone should do next.

4. Think Win/Lose. Face it, Win/Win is a strategy for suckers. Like Santa Claus and the tooth fairy it only exists in the minds of naïve babes. We live in a Dog eat Dog world. By the way, do dogs really eat dogs? Anyway, make sure you’re standing triumphantly atop the hill kicking all the other wannabes back down its slippery slope as you polish the brass ring.

5. Seek to Obfuscate then run like hell. Ever heard that a rolling stone gathers no moss. Keep your friends close and your enemies in another country (preferably without extradition treaty with the US).

6. Sexercise. Most management guru’s focus totally on the mind, the ego, and human motivation. They totally neglect the fact that physical health is critical to any individual’s or organization’s success. So I figure combine the ultimate of human motivation with a good healthy aerobic exercise … sex. I plan to add plenty of visual graphics to assist the beginner and professional alike.

7. Sharpen the hammer. If you’ve ever tried to sharpen a hammer I’ve got some choice inexpensive oceanfront property for you (please write me at arkansasbeachviews.com for details). Saws are used to cut things and must remain sharp while requiring ridiculous amounts of sharpening. A hammer on the other hand is a much more versatile device requiring little upkeep. You see it, pound it, done. Always use the hammer.

So there it is. Please let me know if you see this as sage advice for failed or semi-failed CEO’s, Captains of Industry or the normal joe down on his luck in the streets in our rat-a-tat-tat world or crap.

Do you read management advice books?
Which do you admire the most? Which one sits on your shelf collecting the most dust?
Which of the seven habits do you think epitomizes management today?

So I gotz ta thinkin the other day that the Jihadists and Muslim fundamentalists seem to have cornered the market on suicide bombing as a method to furthering their political aspirations. This seems slightly unfair. Something drastic needs to be done to level the playing field.

So I thought to create a rival system and organization to recruit a new crop of self-destructors for the purpose of promoting hope and world peace. No more will we sit idly by while some devout crazies attempt to sew terror and foment anarchy. Nay, we will rise up and meet ka-boom with ka-boom! Will you consider joining my crusade to save the human race?

The notion of self sacrifice is as old as civilized man itself. Wherever there has been an imbalance of power the siren song of asymmetric warfare has called. The Palestinians ratcheted up the Intifada with the destructive force of human negation. Of course the granddaddy of the cause has been Al Queda. These jokers took it to new levels of heinousness. Their main goal is to suck hope out of this world. But we needn’t let them.

So all of this leads us full circle to the state of the world today. War, mayhem, and bad television cause tremendous human suffering everywhere. What are we, as individuals, to do? Is loving thy neighbor enough? Is donating money, time and energy to good causes enough? Isn’t there more that can be done? YES, I say!!!

Join the Suicide Bombers for Hope or SuBoHo today. Our competitive advantage over traditional suicide bombers will be our use of advanced undetectable yet powerful PETting or personal explosive technologies. Sexy huh? We’re talking C4 and sophisticated spread spectrum radio devices. You will be custom fitted to the nines. We want you to look really, really good when you go explode.

Your demise will detonate hope and goodwill everywhere. Of course, your goal will be to harm as few good – while giving the most joy to as many – people as possible. You’ll be like a giant roman candle, a fourth of July fireworks display for peace – striking a blow for amity over annihilation everywhere. Think of the good you could do.

While we will not be offering you 72 virgins in the afterlife, we will, in conjunction with Walmart (yet to be positively confirmed), be offering great discounts on merchandise for you and your immediate family.

So whatdaya say? Will you join SuBoHo today and spread a little incandescent hope and goodwill?

Have done anything out of the ordinary to promote peace and goodwill toward men?

This story only makes sense if you know a little secret about me. I’m clueless.

Really.

I put on this act of worldly sophistication but in truth I’m just a country bumpkin. This means I trust far too easily and am pretty much blind to the wicked ways of the world.

Well, most at least. Words like ‘quaint’ and ‘gullible’ only go so far in describing my singular ability to misread the most obvious signs and step into danger.

Today’s story took place years ago on a cold winter’s day in Beijing near the Wangfujin district.

My mane had grown long and shaggy and in dire need of a haircut. So one Sunday afternoon I strolled out into the frigid Beijing air and set off for the barber pole not half a mile from our hotel.

A cute, bouncy girl two funky pony tails sticking out the sides of her head and too much make-up on greeted me. She asked if I wanted ‘full service’. Thinking this meant a wash and cut I said, “Why not!” matching her infectious enthusiasm.

I was then ushered into the back and handed off to a more demur woman named Xiaomei. She proceeded to wash my hair and cut it. Timid with the scissors, I couldn’t help noticing that it seemed as if she’d never cut hair before.

I watched her botch my haircut right before my eyes in the mirror. At one point – I guess when she inadvertently snipped off a piece of my ear, drawing blood – I thought about stopping her. But I was mesmerized by her complete lack of skill. When she was done I looked like Sid Vicious on an off day.

At this point she started to massage my shoulders. Hmmmm, I thought, this is weird, but it feels pretty good so I let it ride. I got so comfortable I closed my eyes. The next thing I knew she was attempting to unbutton my pants. Startled I jumped out of the chair.

She seemed genuinely crestfallen when I refused her ‘full service’ and skedaddled out of there looking a bit worse for wear.

Later in recounting the story to my colleagues at work they howled in laughter at my naiveté. Apparently, the barber pole was the common symbol for brothel in China. To think I went there for an actual haircut and left after paying for services not rendered.

Have you ever had a haircut, perm, etc. go awry? Watched it befall a loved one?