Blunt Wit

Sometimes I take small liberties with the truth in my blogs. Poetic license, so to speak, nothing egregious, just some embellishment around the edges. Some fictional imaginings to spice up my otherwise dull life. With this one, however, I’ve added no accouterments. It is the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

So our kitchen table is on her last leg, literally. If she were a horse we’d have taken her out back and shot her. My father, who was visiting a while back and is handy with things like ailing tables, put a second stud screw through the leg to fasten it tight. Thus bolstered, I thought she had a few more years in her but no… she has pulled up lame yet again.

So on this dreary, rainy day we headed to IKEA. Note I typically mispronounce it ‘Ick eee ya’ (as in icky) as opposed to the supposed correct ‘Ay key ya’. I think IKEA is Swedish for ‘you’ve got a meatball stuck in your throat’ or maybe that’s just the sound you make when you do. Anyway, I’m not so fluent in Swedish. Our mission was merely reconnaissance for a new kitchen table. Or so I thought.

First problem hit us before we even reached the parking lot. A huge sign on the side of the road read ‘autos turn to park in 800m’ and ‘over height vehicles 1200m’. So tell me this, when the hell did we start using the metric system in the good ole US of A.

I’m actually quite used to metrics having lived several dog’s lifetimes overseas. But like some foreign language you are required to THINK in metric. You can’t be translating back and forth. I mean who besides Einstein has time to do all of those funky calculations in their head. Especially while driving in the pelting Californian rain.

And I’m in an SUV. Is an SUV classified as an auto or an over height vehicle? Would I have to stop and measure it? Would I need to measure in meters or feet? While thus spazzing-out thank goodness I noticed the mini-van in front of me turning into the auto turnoff so I followed figuring that if his or her top sheared off I’d just come to an abrupt stop and back out.

Once in the store, I immediately got sucked into the IKEA cheap eats café laden with subsidized goodies to get the unsuspecting clod jacked up on meatballs, cheap wine and European coffee for their ensuing consumer frenzy.

Thus slightly inebriated, highly sugared and over caffeinated I sauntered into … the maze. If I’d been smart enough to carry my cinnabun with me, I could have left small crumbs along the path and maybe, possibly have found my way out. As it was, the place twisted and turned in a confusing blur of blind furniture alleys. I’m telling you not even mice chasing overripe cheese would have gotten out of there. Even with the funny arrows on the floor supposedly taking you to some promised land or the cash register, you’re always getting lost. The maps make little sense. I guess they figure if they confuse you enough you’ll buy something, anything just taste sweet freedom.

Needless to say, wandering in this furniture desert, we eventually came across the “perfect kitchen table” like manna from heaven. I was not so gently persuaded to buy it by my spouse. So much for reconnaissance. At least we finally had our ticket to freedom. That, my friends, is the secret. Once you’ve decide to spend your hard earned cash, the road to salvation and the cash register lights up with alacrity. Life is but a maze to be navigated.

Have you ever felt lost in the maze of life? How did you ever find your way out?

One lazy summer afternoon in my youth with nothing better to do we devised a wicked new game. Using a rickety ladder I climbed up on the roof and threw darts at a dartboard propped at an awkward angle against a tree down below. My two younger brothers sat under the eaves of the house. They came out to collect the handful of darts after I let off a volley and would then gently toss them back up for me to launch the next round.

I know at least half of your brain is thinking … hell, what an invention. Roof darts, I wish I had thought of that. JD you’ll be rich beyond your wildest dreams! While the other half is thinking … that JD, what an idiot, that’s got to be the stupidest idea since the bass-0-matic.

Anyway, after a few gripping minutes into this endeavor, I fired a volley of three darts simultaneously while withholding another three for individual throws. My elder younger brother thinking that I had sent them all, suddenly came darting out to collect them. At that very moment I loosened a single red dart at the bull’s eye. And I still contend to this day that never as true a twang as ever been tossed in the history of the sport, and I clearly would have hit the bulls eye square, if not for his bone-headed move.

Anyway, the dart entered smack in the back of his head.

The terror I felt in that moment still haunts me to this day. I thought I had killed him … a direct dart to the brain! Without thinking, I jumped down from the roof thus spraining my ankle in the process. Ouch! Such agony as I hobbled over to him. He just stood there looking at me with a blank stare like I was some sort of lunatic.
“Are you alright?” I yelled.
“What?” he returned quizzically

Hell, he didn’t even realize that he had a red dart sticking out of the back of his head like some bloodied single feather on an Indian scout.

I told him to be still as I reached around and plucked the dart out of his head. Like an idiot, I explained to him what had happened. When full realization he had been red-darted hit him, he began balling.

“Wah, wah, wah!”

In the ensuing mayhem, as usual, I got blamed for everything bad in the world. I was subsequently punished. He, no worse for wear, got the sympathy of friends, relatives and complete strangers. Life’s so unfair sometimes!

So what’s the worse you’ve ever done to your brother or sister? What the worst thing they’ve ever done to you?

© 2008 Bluntwit.com

So for my last blog I offered up A terrible confession of an imaginary affliction in which I afflicted my poor mother with imaginary tuberculosis to escape the clutches of a smoke deranged serial killer.

The week prior to that fateful train trip we were nestled around a circular table of a ritzy hotel restaurant high above the Shanghai skyline. Around the dais sat my friend Dave, his girlfriend, his Japanese godmother, my mom and me.

An outbreak of Hepatitis A raged in the streets below, apparently ignited by a rogue shellfish some days earlier. I could be wrong but I could have sworn I saw crustacean wanted posters dotting the city. For the uninitiated, Hep A spreads like wildfire, mostly through improper food handling. The Chinese government had practically locked down the entire city. Food stands and most low-end restaurants were shuttered. And it seemed as if banks were being robbed right and left as everyone wore suspicious white face masks.

Being the self appointed expert, I took the liberty of ordering a pot of Jiaozi, or boiled dumplings, for everyone. I then haughtily went about explaining the proper technique for eating these scrumptious delights properly.
“First step is to grab your bowl just like so.”
I poured a smidge of soy sauce into my square bowl.
“Not too much, not too little.”
“Dip in just like so … and eat.”

Everyone fired silent darts at my condescending and typically long-winded explanation as they were hungry after a long day of sightseeing. When the dumplings arrived, they soy sauced up their respective bowls and dove into them with gusto. Just then the waiter came up and with a look of sheer horror blurted out,
“You are all eating out of the ashtrays!”

Everybody simultaneously barfed up their partially digested dumplings. My face beeted red. The waiter immediately changed out our ashtrays for proper dipping bowls. I tried to make light of the situation,
“Look on the bright side. At least by using ashtrays we were significantly cutting down our risk of contracting Hep A!”

So tell me, what’s your most embarrassing moment?

© 2008 Bluntwit.com

So many years ago I was doing my best not learn Chinese while studying in Beijing. This was before China had opened up and become the economic juggernaut that it is today: pre Olympics. pre-Tiananmen, hell, it felt Pre-Cambian.

Anyway, as a student we had to wash our clothes on a washboard, there was no hot water in the shower, and we were watched closely by our communist handlers. We compared our living conditions to that of being on an extended camping trip in prison.

There were no 7-11’s, no slurpees, no Coca Cola, nothing to quench your thirst on a hot day. We bought fake antique Chinese vases and created a miniature water factory filling them with scalding water and letting them cool before pouring them into our canteens.

We took these water vessels with us on our various excursions. One was to the Great Wall of China, a couple of hours drive north of Beijing. Maybe you’ve heard the canard that “the Great Wall is the only man-made structure that is viewable on earth from the moon.”

Anyway, we got up there on a crisp summer morning. It had been boiling hot in Beijing with the hot sands whipping across the city from the Gobi desert and into our eyes. Thus we were woefully unprepared for the surprisingly cold, freezing wind up on the wall, dressed in our shorts and t-shirts. So we bought Russian fur caps and extra layers of clothes for spare change from the hawkers milling around.

Being stupid kids we hiked away from the crowds further and further along the wall. I half expected to come across Mongol hordes filing in through the various cracks we surveyed. At one point my roommate and good friend Andy gave me his camera and said wait until I say go. He climbed to the highest point on the wall, lowered his pants and flashed his plaster white butt in my general direction and yelled “Go.”

Later he developed the picture and added this caption … “The only man-made moon to be seen from the Great Wall of China.”

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?

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.