hopeful curmudgeon

Post-ceremonial Vacation

2008-09-09T13:31:00.008-05:00

Although it's more about fishing for yucks now, I really DID have some difficulty referring to our trip as a "honeymoon." So I think the word sounds a little gay - friggin shoot me.

I can say in all earnestness and honesty: The 10 or 12 days which made up our wedding day and the moon of honey were among the best I've ever had. Part of it was simply that we had a cool wedding...no big deal and yet quite special and memorable. A best friend - Doc DoLittle - performed emcee duties. The dog ran around for awhile and made it into some of the photos before settling down about 5 minutes into the 15-minute ceremony. (I forgot to put her outside before we started, but it worked out great and we are glad she is in some of the pics.)

Toward the middle of the ceremony, our cats came part way down the stairs and watched us say our vows.

The moon of honey ended up flowing as smooth as a Yeti into the woods.

The rugged Pacific coastline, the combination of both rustic and luxurious lodging, the awe-inspiring Redwoods, and one of the best cities in the world - San Francisco - it was truly one of the best weeks of my life.

The fact that I got to enjoy it all with my beautiful, funny, smart, grounded bride (I am still pinching myself over what a lucky man I am!) was nothing short of magnificient...We are off to a wonderful start!

Okay - a little salt to offset all this sugar-coated sweetness: etymology of "honeymoon:" The first month after marriage, when there is nothing but tenderness and pleasure" (Samuel Johnson); originally having no reference to the period of a month, but comparing the mutual affection of newly-married persons to the changing moon which is no sooner full than it begins to wane; now, usually, the holiday spent together by a newly-married couple, before settling down at home.

And: The word honeymoon has its roots in the Norse word "hjunottsmanathr" which was anything but blissful. Northern European history describes the abduction of a bride from neighboring village. It was imperative, that the abductor, the husband to be, take his bride to be into hiding for period of time. His friends assured his and her safe keeping and kept their whereabouts unknown. Once the bride's family gave up their search, the bride groom returned to his people. This folkloric explanation presumably is the origin of today's honeymoon, for its original meaning meant hiding. The Scandinavian word for honeymoon is derived, in part, from an ancient Northern European custom in which newlyweds, for the first month of their married life, drank a daily cup of honeyed wine called mead. The ancient practices of kidnaping of bride and drinking the honeyed wine date back to the history of Atilla, king of the Asiatic Huns from A.D. 433 to A.D. 453.

The Politics of Marriage

2008-09-05T09:02:00.002-05:00

I just like that for a title...I'll spare you a 3-part treatise on the punditry of matrimony.

I AM a little bummed it took me so long to get to another post, but between getting hitched, the post-ceremonial vacation, and the ensuing recovery (I was sick the night we returned and that lasted for a week - plus I was already behind at work from being gone for 11 days).

That's my excuse, anyway. To say nothing about the conventions...which have been eating up my time, too. I just feel that my efforts are better spent writing letters to the paper than the kind of self-serving fluff that usually ends up in most public diaries...er, blogs.

I promise: the next entry will be marriage/honeymoon related, with pics...in the meantime, my letter to the editor:

An Eloquent Deception

Palin gave a fine speech, as was expected. Did anyone think she'd stutter or freeze with stage fright? My critique of her speech is the same critique I have of the Republican Party in general: they have no substantive ideas or positive arguments.

One example of Palin's deception: She was for the "Bridge to Nowhere" before she was against it. And, Palin kept the $400 million that was slated for the bridge and used it for other pork-barrel projects in Alaska - it's not like she returned that money. To make matters worse, she also spent $39 million on the road that led to the defunct bridge - after knowing the bridge would not be built. Talk about wasteful spending!

What caught me off guard were the mean, sarcastic, small-minded barbs of anger delivered with a derisive smile. There is nothing in the Republican playbook about appealing to our higher selves or challenging us to become a more unified nation. I guess I expected something more, something better from a McCain-led campaign. Instead, he has become that which he despised.

McBush, Palin and the Republican leaders want to keep us on our present course: a road to nowhere. Don't be fooled again! America is better than this.

Is Bigfoot a Vegetarian?

2008-07-30T08:46:00.005-05:00

I sure as hell hope so!

Me and Mortgage Partner are gearing up for the Big Day...and hence, the Big Week to follow. Our post-ceremonial vacation (what is commonly referred to as "the honeymoon") should be spectacular.

We head to the great Northwest the day after the Big Gig...to northern California and southern Oregon. For three of our seven days, we will be immersed in the heart of Bigfoot country. Though (like the god-thing) I do not consider myself a believer, neither am I so closed-minded as to be a staunchly rabid sceptic (from the greek: skeptomai, to look about, to consider).

An ancient myth dating back at least 400 years in North America (the term sasquatch is a Native American word for "hairy giant"), no hard evidence (bones, skulls, genetically distinct hair) supporting their existence has ever been discovered. It doesn't help the believer's cause that A) two hoax films have been uncovered, B) a corpse known as "The Minnesota Iceman" raised more questions than it answered (it's a great story, involving J. Edgar Hoover, The Smithsonian Institute, a carnival owner and an eccentric millionaire), C) people have been caught creating false prints with special boots that have large wooden feet on the bottom, or that D) a company even mass-produced strap-on feet so that you could prank friends and family.

I think the best story I've run across yet is that of Albert Ostman, a Canadian lumberjack. It was 1924. Albert was prospecting for gold when he claims to have been captured by a family of Bigfoots. The held him hostage for a week before he finally escaped. He didn't tell anyone about the incident until 1957 because - get this - he didn't want people to think he was crazy! My favorite part of Albert's tale is that the Yetis are apparently a progressive bunch, shunning traditional roles: Father and Daughter guarded him while Son and Mom prepared the meals. (Or maybe the boy was just a good cook and the daughter was a great softball player :).

Okay...maybe that's NOT the best story about Bigfoot...maybe THIS one is: Mortgage Partner agreed to marry me because she found out my college nickname was "Bigfoot" for a reason!

Q: Is Hell Freezing Over?

2008-07-26T09:52:00.007-05:00

A: No...I just finally came to my senses.

I can't tell you how many times I've heard that phrase in the past month or so - ever since I went public with the news that Mortgage Partner and I will be pulling the trigger on this relationship thing. (Not to be confused with "pulling the plug..." In my cartoon head, "pulling the trigger" is akin to "finalizing," whereas the former is more like "abandoning." Yeah: I am a cheesy romantic sap - I know.)

Some of the more memorable verbal reactions:

"Get the fuck out of here! Cranial Midget is NOT getting married!!!" I heard this one through the phone line, as a good friend's wife (who probably knows me better through "reputation" than through reality) was told of the news.

"Excuse me?" said a co-worker. He then turned around so his ass was facing me, and said, "Could you tell me if pigs are flying out my butt?"

"Well, I guess we can finally put the door back on its hinges," said an old friend, referring to a semi-public facility where - a long time ago, when I was in my late-teens/early twenties - I would often go to have sex. Seedy stuff: it was the back room of a gathering place and the table, which took up most of the space in the small room, was just the right height. The old crusty bass turds who ran the place (and who weren't getting laid) were jealous and decided to take the door off its hinges.

And, just last weekend, I was given this gem: "Can I tell you something? Something my mom always sat me down and told me whenever I had been dating a boy for more than a few months?" asked a friend. "The fucking stops and the fighting starts when you get married. Don't ever get married, darling. That was about the only advice my mother ever offered me...now I offer it to you."

"Wow. That is so awesome! I never thought I'd live to see the day...she must be pretty special. You two must have a lot of fun together," exclaimed one of my less-jaded friends.

Yeah...yes she is. And yes - yes we do.

Having Mortgage Partner in my life is like getting a whole new box of crayons and a brand new coloring book, adding dimensions to my existence I never knew...opening my eyes to colors I didn't know were there.

And: she doesn't mind the fact that I still can't (won't?) draw inside the lines! (Although she prefers it when I do.)

Keepin' the Streak Alive

2008-07-22T08:03:00.007-05:00

Movie Quotes:

"There are 108 beads in a Catholic rosary. And there are 108 stitches in a baseball. When I learned that, I gave Jesus a chance."

- - Bull Durham

"A good friend of mine used to say, 'This is a very simple game. You throw the ball, you catch the ball, you hit the ball. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, sometimes it rains.' Think about that for a while."

- - Bull Durham

"Well I can't rightly say which player hit the ball hardest, but the home runs Babe Ruth hit got smaller quicker." - Walter Johnson in Ken Burns' "Baseball"

Good Ol' Yogi:

"You give 100 percent in the first half of the game, and if that isn't enough in the second half you give what's left."

"If you don't know where you are going, you will wind up somewhere else."

"I made a wrong mistake."

"I didn't really say everything I said."

American Zen:

"See if you can notice when you're hitting and not paying attention. The way to learn to pay attention is to notice when you're not paying attention."

- - Jeff McKay, founder of Be Your Own Coach Baseball Camp

The Mexicutioner

2008-07-16T09:38:00.011-05:00

Classic All-Star Game Tuesday night.

Old Yankee Stadium (built in 1923) grudgingly said goodbye to the national spotlight. (Since the Yankees aren't having a very good year, it's unlikely they will get to the post-season - making this the last time "the nation" will be focused on The House That Ruth Built). Being a true Yankee-hater, I'm not shedding any Royal Blue tears over this...

Nonetheless, it was pretty awesome watching George Brett give the pre-game pep talk to the A.L. players, seeing Yogi Berra throw out the ceremonial first pitch - and, best of all, getting to see our boy, The Mexicutioner, take the mound with the game tied in the 11th.

Did I mention that the 9th inning began at the stroke of midnight - seriously. That's one reason I LOVE baseball - there are just so many odd things that happen - almost enough to turn a hardball atheist into a softball believer (whatever that means).

This is just one of my favorite examples: In 1961, on the last day of the season, Roger Maris broke Mickey Mantle's single-season home run record by hitting his 61st homer in his 161st game of the season.

(As an aside, after the 1998 season, a mathematician recognized a mathematical property BECAUSE OF the home run chase that year:

A mathematical property is named after Maris, along with Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire. Two numbers form a Maris-McGwire-Sosa pair if they are consecutive numbers such that when you add each number's digits to the digits of its prime factorization, they are equal. Engineer Mike Keith named this property after the sluggers because he noticed that the numbers 61 and 62 have this property, and McGwire and Sosa both hit home run number 62 in 1998, both passing the record of Maris, 61.)

Baseball is America in microcosm. Our history of race relations, immigration, labor vs The Man, popular culture and patriotism, wide open spaces...it's all in there.

Americans began playing baseball in the early 1800s, using local rules. But it wasn't until Cartwright formalized the modern rules of the game and formed a "league" (consisting of two teams) in 1846 that it started to become our "national pastime."

Think about it: A ballpark brings together total strangers. Since that first recorded game, baseball has blurred the social barriers of age and race and language and social status. It unites people in highly vocal rivalry (known as "heckling" and also referred to as a 2-party Democracy). It’s an urban game played on a wide open, grassy field. And: it is a game that's as much about the mind as it is the body. Whitman would be proud!

Just look at all the words and phrses we use every day that come from baseball: "In the ballpark" or "a ballpark estimate." "Batting a thousand." "Big league" and "bush league" (the latter has a whole new meaning since the Idiot-in Chief took over, eh?). The term "Charlie horse" was first used in association with baseball - and may have been coined by ballplayers. "Cover all your bases." The media threw him a "curve ball." "Way off base." "Rain check." "Pinch hit."

And then there's sex: "Getting to first base," "Getting to home" or "Striking out." "Switch hitter," "Pitcher" and "Catcher"...the lexicon goes on and on...as can a baseball game (or a blog entry)!

Seriously, though: a baseball game can, in theory, go on forever. There's no time limit and no limit put on the number of extra innings - adding to its "spiritual" or supernatural (outside the limits of time) quality. (A couple of double A teams hold the official record: the game began on Saturday, April 18, 1981 and continued through the night and into Easter morning before the league president was reached by phone and made them suspend the game.)

If you pay attention, watching a ballgame can truly be a zen-like experience. Many Americans have developed ADD and therefore think the game is too boring. But there is always some titillating match-up or strategy or sleight-of-hand going on...you just have to be aware.

Anyway, we're getting into the late innings here. The 15-inning, 5-hour mid-summer classic was a thing of beauty. The House That Ruth Built just wanted to keep that light shining on her as long as she could. Can't say that I blame the old gal.

All of this has just been a drawn-out way to give a shout-out to our boy, Joakim Soria, aka, "The Mexicutioner." He is the Royals closer and, just 24-years-old, is arguably the best at his position in baseball.

Me and Mortgage Partner thought we were in a tiny fan club of Soria-obsessed geeks. Then we saw the above illustration - which a company recently printed onto T-shirts. After pitching a flawless 11th inning in the All-Star game, it seems everyone knows him now...

...well, everyone except my friend, LT - self-proclaimed Royals fan who didn't even recognize Soria's name when I mentioned him earlier today! Oh well, let that be a lesson to each of us: we ALL need to pay a lot more attention than we do. Heck, MP had to tell me I was rooting for the wrong team one time!

Survival of the Santas

2008-07-12T08:26:00.009-05:00

What do a bunch of grown men who spend their lives perpetuating a fairy tale do when they gather and have too much free time?

They form an organized religion, of course!

I jest.

In this case, they formed the group, Amalgamated Order of Real Bearded Santas. I shit you not.

And, they happen to be in town this weekend - or, what's left of them is in town.

The group started back in the 90s when 100 of them were hired to do a commercial for a German mail-order company. The filming lasted from 3:00 in the afternoon until 5:00 the next morning. Red-suit delirious and sleep-deprived, they decided to form a fraternal order and get together once a year.

Back-stabbing, infighting and just general "unsanta-like behavior" ensued...leading to a major schism in the fraternity and reducing their numbers from the hundreds to several dozen. Splinter groups have formed, lawsuits have been filed, and there are even threats of sabotage as the original group gathers this weekend for their annual convention.

Ahh...brotherhood...peace on earth and good will toward all.

I say we settle the matter by getting them all together in the Octogan of the Ultimate Fighting Championship, include their elves, put it on pay-per view, and let them decide the matter like real Saints - may the biggest-bellied, strongest son-of-a-bitch in red tights win!

(Kinda like the Inquisition.)

DOE! DOH! DOUGH! DODO!

2008-07-03T10:44:00.004-05:00

DOE! As in...earlier this week, I had an experience that seemed to transmigrate my being straight into a French Surrealist movie from the 1920s (or maybe a David Lynch or Paul Thomas Anderson sequence). In a pre-caffeinated stupor, I went outside to retrieve the morning paper, like I do every day of the week. Only this time, an odd sound struck my ear just as I was taking the first of 13 steps off the front porch, beginning my descent to the sidewalk. It sounded a bit like horse's hooves hitting asphalt. A brown blur caught my eye. A flash of white. Understand this: I live in the 'hood - I mean, really: the 'hood. We are two miles from the heart of downtown KCMO. Eight minutes by car to the west and you are in the new Power & Light District. So I literally didn't believe my senses when I finally focused on a deer ("a female deer") running up the sidwalk across the street. I looked away, shook my head and looked again. It had stopped at the intersection of a (not busy) street three houses up. It then turned around, crossed the street and ran past me, into a neighbor's backyard. I went to look...but it was gone-daddy-gone. The apocalypse is nigh.

DOH! As in...wow. My dear (get it?) friend Elizabeth shook me out of my blogstupor. Will it last? I doh!no - but I applaud and appreciate that someone even noticed my absence from the blogworld.

Dough! As in...mmm...someone brought in Lamar's Donuts to work today...and shared!

DODO! As in...I have allowed the Hopeful Curmudgeon to go the way of the friggin dodo bird... it's become extinct or obsolete, it's fallen out of common usage or practice, it's become a thing of the past.

Will the resurrection sustain itself?

HA! I guess (if anyone is still checking) you will have to check back in (again) to learn the answer!

The "W" is for "Whack"

2008-02-26T13:57:00.001-06:00

Seize the Day

2008-02-19T08:20:00.004-06:00

Poem of the day:

Let America be America again.

Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed -

Let it be that great strong land of love

Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme

That any man be crushed by one above.

For all the dreams we've dreamed

And all the songs we've sung

And all the hopes we've held

And all the flags we've hung,

The millions who have nothing for our pay -

Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again -

The land that never has been yet -

And yet must be -

the land where every man is free.

(Excerpted from "Let America Be America Again," by Langston Hughes)

Headline of the Day:

Ex-Homecoming Queen Beats Sister With Fake Leg In Trailer

How NOT To Do an Intervention

(from Pittsburgh)

Article of the Day:

Poverty is Poison

“Poverty in early childhood poisons the brain.” That was the opening of an article in Saturday’s Financial Times, summarizing research presented last week at the American Association for the Advancement of Science.

L. B. J. declared his “War on Poverty” 44 years ago. Contrary to cynical legend, there actually was a large reduction in poverty over the next few years, especially among children, who saw their poverty rate fall from 23 percent in 1963 to 14 percent in 1969.

But progress stalled thereafter: American politics shifted to the right, attention shifted from the suffering of the poor to the alleged abuses of welfare queens driving Cadillacs, and the fight against poverty was largely abandoned.

In 2006, 17.4 percent of children in America lived below the poverty line, substantially more than in 1969. And even this measure probably understates the true depth of many children’s misery.

America’s failure to make progress in reducing poverty, especially among children, should provoke a lot of soul-searching. Unfortunately, what it often seems to provoke instead is great creativity in making excuses.

(excerpted from Feb 18, NYT article)

Thought of the Day:

Each time someone stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against an injustice, they send forth a ripple of hope. --- Robert F. Kennedy

Do Until You Die

2008-02-12T14:47:00.003-06:00

I don't want to give the impression that I am playing off a movie that looks as cheesy as a Wisconsin kurd bucket. But I think February is a great time to be thinking about what place(s) we want to see or thing(s) we want to do before another year passes.

Also, I don't really need help with my "Things To Do Before I Die" list. Nonetheless, I think it'd be cool to hear what some of you have on your lists - and what others might be planning on marking off this year.

I have never been to the great Northwest, but have always imagined I'd love it there...which sets me up for a two-fer this autumn: seeing southern Oregon/northern California AND climbing a titan Redwood. (Okay: so I'll be climbing an old growth Douglas fir tree - not a Redwood - get over it. It's still a 300-footer!)

There's something about these majestic millenia-old beauties that has grabbed me by the 'nads and won't let go. Not sure about the firs, but the titan Redwoods don't even have any branches until you get about 200 feet off the ground. They actually have to shoot fishing line over them with a high-powered bow, tie a climbing rope to the fishing line and then pull it back over.

The scientists who study them aren't sure just how old they become - their best guess is between 2,500 and 3,000 years old. The massive trunks of the fallen are often hollowed out - it's a survival mechanism that let's them live through forest fires. The botanists remain a little baffled about how they manage to stay alive...though they've learned a lot, there is still much they don't know about them. It's only been in the past 25-30 years that botanists have even gone exploring forest canopies.

One woman got lost in a "trunk cave" while climbing a live, still-standing tree. She went in to explore and was lost for about 20 minutes, unable to find her way out: that's how enormous these suckers are.

In the eco-adventure trip linked above, they spend a few hours teaching you (on the ground, thank Dog) how to use the ropes. Then one of them goes up with you (climbing at your side). They feed you when you get near the top, then strap you into a treeboat (hammock) and spend the night up there. (The hammocks are called "treeboats" because the whole tree sways around in the wind and people often have "sea legs" when they get back on terra firma.) The guides feed you breakfast and coffee, then you come back down.

Like I said (if you couldn't tell), I am juked-up about this.

Also, thanks to a friggin' awesome job (no gloat - just grateful), I'll be knocking off Africa this year, too. More about that later...

What has you enthused? What are you hoping to be able to scratch off your list this year - and come back (hopefully) enriched in some way?

enthusiasm = en theos = with god. Not that you need a trip or something out of the ordinary to get enthused - daily life offers plenty of opportunity for that, I hope.

I just believe you gotta be enthused about something or you're not really living.

Let's talk!

Faux News - Insanely Imbalanced

2008-02-08T08:25:00.000-06:00

No one reading this is gonna be shocked or surprised by this headline.

"Faux News really isn't fair and balanced? Oh my!"

Nonetheless, the Dupert Mularchy Machine marches on...finding new ways to propogandize even as their dogmatic faithful remain tuned-in and deluded.

The screenshot captured here has not been doctored in any way...they really did run this clip of McCain speaking in front of the Conservative Political Action Conference yesterday, identifying him as a Democrat. No shit. No tongue-in-cheek...no commentary about the "mis-labeling." Nothing. Well, nothing except pure ideological hate-mongering lies.

The only reason I care is because more people watch Faux News than any other cable news channel. WTF is wrong with these Americans?

Well, I guess I shouldn't be surprised (even though it seems to always amaze me).

We didn't elect Bush once. No...he was elected twice.

At least we have a chance to break out of this divisiveness. A chance to redeem ourselves.

We have a lot more in common as Americans than these idealogues (particularly on the right - but both sides are guilty) want us to see or admit to.

Mamas for Obama: Unite!

:~)

Old Man Racing (part 2 of 3)

2008-01-21T11:10:00.000-06:00

From your car, you see the back of the old man's head through his rear window. Closing in, you see the white hair. Assume a receding hairline. Next to him now, at the red light, you see a full mane. This pisses you off. No, you are glad for him. As you're trying to decide, the light turns green. His tires don't exactly screech but there is a prolonged, high-pitched YAWP! You should be able to catch him, because you have a stick and his acceleration is so smooth that it must be an automatic. It's one of those boxy Chryslers. Late 80's model. Advantage: you. But you don't reach him until you hit the speed limit. Through some kind of testosteronic telepathy, you both know not so much that he has won as that you have lost.

At the next light, engines idling, you feel a spike in the testes. Surging. You're ready this time. Ready to run the tachometer into the red if you have to. Maybe you laugh internally at the absurdity of male machismo and the infantile way it sometimes plays out. Still, you understand and respect the gravity of the situation. The old man lights a smoke. Funny. He doesn't look like a smoker. Watch the light controlling the cross traffic and the moment it turns yellow, you release the clutch. A good jump. He puts up a decent fight but you watch him in your side-view mirror. You win this one.

There is much you don't know about this racing old man whose sun is setting. Perhaps he served a tour in W.W.II. He may have fought his way out of poverty to buy a house and make a home, provided for his wife and saw to it their 2.8 children had all they needed. He paid for their college instead of fulfilling his dream of seeing the rest of the world. The old man might be on his way home from hospital, having spent the past eight hours at the bedside of his dying wife. The way he sees it, he spent more time than that working every day of his life while she was well and he took it all for granted. So maybe he feels this is the least he can do, keeping vigil. Or he is racing against time. Raging against the Reaper - the way we all should. Or the old man is sad to the point of madness. Never again will he feel a firm breast in his worn hands unless he pays cold cash for it.

He is racing toward oblivion and there's not a damned thing he can do about it. That's why he's racing you on this hot summer eve. Even better, this is why you are racing him: He is you in some cycle of moons from now.

Time for the sugar game. You look at him. His eyes never waver from the road. Maybe he hasn't been racing you after all. He's blind to your existence. It's a weak bladder and he's just rushing home to piss. You think about this and the light turns green and he takes off in a haze of burning oil and rubber. He is two car-lengths ahead of you and you are redlining it, shifting to third at forty...closing the gap. The old man's brake lights blink on and you catch a final glimpse of his silhouette as he turns off without a look. Your momentum carries you right on by. Perhaps the old man is forgotten by the time you get home. Maybe you realize you're not that far behind him and decide to keep on racing.

"Yes We Can"

2008-01-09T09:41:00.000-06:00

Refraining from editorializing (yes: my tongue is swollen and bleeding from gnawing on it!), I will just allow these two incidents to speak for themselves. The incidents perfectly encapsulate, I believe, a big chunk of who the two candidates are - and what their respective campaigns are all about:

On the night before the New Hampshire primary, Hillary and Obama were both heckled during their evening rallies.

Clinton was interrupted by Fat, Sloppy Bass Turd, shouting, "Iron my shirt!" and holding a big sign with the same words on it.

"Oh the remnants of sexism, alive and well tonight," Clinton said as Fat, Sloppy Bass Turd was dragged out. "As I think has been abundantly demonstrated," Hillary continued, "I am also running to break through the highest and hardest glass ceiling."

Obama had about 10 hecklers, who began shouting from a balcony, "Abortion is an abomination!" (Okay - a brief editorial here :) Had they been a little brighter, perhaps they'd have created signs playing off the candidate's name and the word "abomination."But they weren't.) Obama's vocal supporters began chanting back "Obama! Obama!" and drowning out the protesters' voices.

Obama quieted the crowd. Then he said, "Let me just say this though. Some people got organized to do that. That's part of the American tradition we are proud of. And that's hard too, standing in the midst of people who disagree with you and letting your voice be heard."

Old Man Dancing

2007-12-28T08:35:00.000-06:00

Bored.

You are bored as wood. And although you tell yourself you aren't lonely, you try a little too hard to believe it. Take another sip on your third gin and tonic and peek out the window.

You see the old man across the street - in the slice of space between the drapes in his living room window. You know it's his living room because you've observed the old man many times before. The side of a rust-colored easy chair. Part of a picture. The entry to a small ktichen in the background. This is about all you have seen.

You know the picture is of a woman because of the night you took out the binoculars...a night when the drapes were open wider than usual. Wider than even tonight. Couldn't quite tell if that picture was a photograph or a painting. Becasue of its size, you guessed a painting. Now you are not so sure.

It's a portrait of an attractive woman wearing an elegant black dress. Dark hair frames an angular face. With the binoculars, you thought you could see the beginnings of delicate lines around the eyes. You remember thinking that even had the lines not actually been visible, the artist made her more beautiful by the addition of those fine strokes mapping her life.

And you remember wondering why you thought that.

Sometimes, a cat is resplendently perched in one of the old man's windowsills. It never quite looks like the same cat, but given the darkness and the distance and the mysterious nature of cats, who the hell can tell? Not you.

Tonight the old man is up late. It is nearly midnight and he is milling about - gaining momentum as the clock and calendar approach. Pacing now. His sillouhette passes through the slit of the drapes every few moments.

The oddly cylindrical effect of the binoculars adds an avant garde quality to your vision. The old man has quit moving. Minutes pass. Your eyes strained, you lower the binoculars.

Finishing off the gin and tonic, you flip on the TV. Not that there's much difference, but you notice that Letterman is having a particularly bad hair night. He is talking to some CEO of some Internet company. TV off.

The old man has moved. He is out of your line of vision. Then, through the binoculars, one of his pants trousers appears briefly and is gone. You are about to call it a night when he reemerges in full. What is the crazy codger doing? He's dressed up...in a suit and tie. His movement is graceful. Circular. Fluid. Slow. You suddenly realize this isn't something you wish to witness. You are feeling something like anger - or maybe it's embarassment - and toss the binoculars onto the couch. Pull your curtains tight. Head straight to bed after draining the gin and tonic, the polished ice cubes falling gently like shattered glass against your lips.

You climb into the cold sheets and this bond between you and the old man is perturbational. With eyes closed, the image of that painting begins to feel like an apparition hovering just above you. Then a thought you know is going to need one more drink if you are to get any rest at all: Today is February 14th and the old man is different from you. He once had someone with whom he still misses enough to dance.

Awesome Super Powers (Austin Stupid Powers?)

2007-12-04T08:59:00.000-06:00

[The image above was found on a now-defunct? blog credited to Adam Mathes - thanks Adam!]

Since those goddamned Hollywood writers are still on strike (why is it that throughout history, writers are always the ones stirring the pot?), that means no more "Heroes," no more "Pushing Daisies," no more "My Name is Earl" and no more "Reaper." Thankfully, I think that my "Everest: Beyond The Limit" is untouchable.

But no "Heroes?" WTF!?!

So, that got me to thinking about "super powers." Everybody would like to fly - that's a no-brainer. (Well, maybe those with altophobia - but would having this power make a fear of heights go away? How about aviophobics? Surely the fear of flying would disappear?)

What about the lesser-known powers? Are there any you can think of? What are the implications of having such powers? I offer a few - and a forum - for you:

1) Power to telepathically interact with and manipulate any electronic/mechanical device.

- The reason I'd like this one so much is primarily because of what I could do while driving. That dickhead who gets in the far right lane at a stoplight even though it is clearly marked on the road and via signs that "his" lane ends in 50 yards - because he is too special to get in line like the rest of us? ZAP! I'd temporarily make his engine shut off. That asshole in the SUV driving 75 mph during a snowstorm (why is it always the SUV driver)? POW! I'd force his power-steering to steer that bastard into a ditch...thereby making the rest of us a little safer. (Would I care if he or she got hurt? Maybe a little...but truth be told - they are putting themselves and everyone else at risk - so I doubt I'd lose sleep over it.) Man, this would be a fun power to have! I only hope I could be entrusted to use it righteously instead of self-righteously. The other no-holds-barred, completely selfish reason I'd like this one? Never again would I have to stop at a stoplight!

2) Power to make pet-poop and piss just disappear.

- How awesome would that be? If you don't have a menagerie of 6 pets like me and Sweetness do, the magic of this one may be lost on you. Trust me...it would be such a magical, time-saving delight to possess this power.

3) Power to time-travel.

- Where - and when - do you think you'd spend most of your time? Who would you really like to spend a few days with? Why? If you could only travel once (forward or backward) when and where would it be? Why? If there was a 1% chance that you'd get stuck there, would it change your answer as to the 'where' and the 'when'? Would you still take the chance? (I like this power and these questions because I think it reveals a lot about a person. Maybe I'll reply in the "comments.")

4) Power to communicate with animals at least as effectively as I can with humans - and them with me.

I'm not sure how this would work - or what it would sound like - but I know I'd dig it. When the dog starts panting and getting all excited - and I know it's not food or potty-related, I could just ask her, "Yo. What are you all juked-up about, dawg?" It would be cool to know what's going on in her mind when she seems to be so aggressive toward humans of a certain pigmentation. We sure as heck didn't teach her that. Also, I'd like to know what ails the dog and kitties on those days they seem to not be feeling well. And I 'd give anything to know the answer to this: Hey Cat, what the heck is up with chasing your own tail with such ferocity that you knock the wind out of yourself? Do you REALLY think it's not a part of YOU?

What else can you think of?

The Jester Isn't Just a Joker

2007-11-29T13:38:00.000-06:00

Well, Doc didn't get (or didn't appreciate) the use of humor in the previous post regarding genocide and America and Thanksgiving. In case he's not alone, I offer a brief explanation before expounding on the role of the jester:

Perhaps because I am supposedly between one-eighth and three-eighths Native American, my thoughts always turn at Thanksgiving to America's shamefully violent actions against the native population. So, the fact that most modern Americans (in my experience) mutter grateful prayers to a Christian deity for their bountiful lives and for the many blessings heaped upon them simply because they won the geographic and genetic lottery is offensive.

I guess the gratitude itself isn't offensive; rather it is the the fact that so many people take the time to recognize their blessings without an iota of thought (better yet: a moment of silence) given to the Native Americans we slaughtered and who still suffer more than any other group at our expense. So, that thought entered my head as a kind of fantasy I'd like to have expressed - had I been asked to "say grace" this Thanksgiving. Gratefully, no ritualistic practices of holding hands and saying prayers were forced upon me this year during the family gathering...

...which brings me to the Joker: his or her influence in history and in policy-making is under-appreciated. The jester's role in ancient China through the monarchies of Europe to the comedic artists of today has been to point out the flaws and dark underbellies of policy-making and culture. A criticism that might not be heard or otherwise heeded (or that might result in the beheading or imprisonment of a commoner) was allowed by the Fool. Today, writers and other artists ("The Daily Show with Jon Stewart" or the roasting of the President during the annual White House Correspondents' Association Dinner) are the descendants of this fine tradition of social criticism.

"The foolishness of the jester, whether in his odd appearance or his levity, implies that he is not passing judgment from on high, and this may be less galling than the "holier than thou" corrective of an earnest adviser. One of the most effective techniques the jester uses to point out his master's folly is allowing him to see it for himself. Rather than contradicting the king, the jester will agree with a harebrained scheme so wholeheartedly that the suggestion is taken to a logical extreme, highlighting its stupidity. The king can then decide for himself that maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all." [Excerpt from "Fools Are Everywhere" a book by Beatrice K. Otto]

So, what do you think? Is humor an effective tool for social criticism? Are there topics too horrible for the use of humor? Is anything too taboo for the foo' ? What instances of artistic cultural criticism (comedic or not) have made you squirm?

Movie scenes I can think of include "Borat" (and any interview D Ali G conducts - that shit leaves me laughing and squirming like a whore teaching Sunday school), the scene in "American Beauty" when it looks like Spacey just might bang the teenage Thora Birch, and the twisted humor of comedic violence in "Pulp Fiction."

I know it's a subjective call - but I'd like your thoughts/experiences/perspectives.

What have you got for the Curmudgeonly Fool?

Giving Thanks

2007-11-26T14:06:00.000-06:00

The family asked me to say grace over Thanksgiving dinner. Knowing my spiritual beliefs don't really include a god-concept that makes sense of prayer, this was rather surprising. So, this was all I had...

"Genocide - it ain't always such a bad thing."

Who knows? Maybe god was talking through me.

Upon reflection, I realize that I am not the only one in the family who has to practice tolerance and patience, kindness and forgiveness during our family get-togethers!

Outside the Box

2007-11-23T17:23:00.001-06:00

A great friend of mine lives his life in a truly authentic fashion - perceiving the world through his own set of whacky lenses.

He was rambling last night about a hole in the roof of his '89 Honda...a hole that he spoke about repairing two years ago...a hole I just assumed he'd fixed some time over the course of the past 730 days or so.

I was wrong.

The thing leaked on him again yesterday and his solution to having a puddle form in the floorboard of his car was a unique one.

Most of us would stop a leaking roof by fixing the hole in the roof.

Not this guy.

"I don't mind getting dripped on," he admits. "But I have to wear these damned goofy-looking shoes with the holes in them." He lifts up one foot for all of us to see. He is wearing Crocs. "I have to wear these stupid fucking things because they're the only shoes that don't aggravate my bunions. And the hole in the roof of the car sits just above and in front of my nose. So the water drips down on my feet and gets 'em wet. I can't be walking around in this cold weather with wet feet. So I just drilled a hole in the floor of the car where that water hits. Worked perfectly. It's keeping my feet dry."

He solved the leak by drilling another hole.

Crazy old dude is one of my mentors. Maybe some day I can think like that.

Friggin' genius.

Like Billy Idol - I'm Just Dancing with Myself

2007-11-20T19:06:00.000-06:00

Well, okay. I guess I am just talking to myself here. The only comment I received about Barack's studmuffin status came from...ME.

Depressing.

The friggin Iowa caucus is just over a month away. And, once again, it looks like we are going to get the kind of leadership we deserve. Entrenched politicians indebted to PACs and lobbyists. Fuck it. I'll do what I can and I'll can what I can't.

If you don't wanna get onboard the Audacity of Hope bandwagon, I hope you have at least thought through the whole scenario as clearly, critically and intelligently as possible. Right now, Obama still has a better chance of beating any of the Repug candidates than does Hillary - if you look at the polls. She just can't get enough "Reagan Dems" and independent voters on her side...and it is my belief that she never will.

And even if she somehow manged to win the White House, no clear-thinking person believes a) She will bring about the kind of somewhat radical change that Obama would at least try to, or that b) She would be able to bridge the divisiveness and vitrol that exists in Washington - and throughout the nation. (This isn't a nation of red states and blue states, said Obama, this is the United States.) We have serious issues - internationally and domestically - that are going to require someone who is able to get more than 52% of the people to rally behind them. That ain't Hillary. Obama might be able to do that.

That said, I am hopping on the Obama bus - literally - one of these Saturdays in the next month to head to Iowa and canvas for Barack. His voters tend to be younger and less experienced (but more educated) than Hillary's. Therefore, the big concern is they don't realize that on Jan. 3, it isn't just a matter of going to a booth and pulling a lever. They may have to spend many hours engaged in debtes and discussions:

On caucus night, Iowans gather by party preference to elect delegates to the 99 county conventions. Democratic candidates must receive at least 15 percent of the votes in that precinct to move on to the county convention. If a candidate receives less than 15 percent of the votes, supporters of non-viable candidates have the option to join a viable candidate group, join another non-viable candidate group to become viable, join other groups to form an uncommitted group or chose to go nowhere and not be counted. Non-viable groups have up to 30 minutes to realign, if they fail to do so in that time, they can ask the for more time, which is voted on by the caucus as a whole. If the caucus refuses, re-alignment is done and delegates are awarded.

So, the Obama camp really needs volunteers to devote a Saturday to hopping onboard a bus and spending 4 hours walking around telling people why they should vote for Barack and explaining the process...in the hope that they will actually follow-through on caucus day.

All aboard the Audacity of Hope bus...all yea who still dare to hope for something better.

OUT

Baraka Studmuffin

2007-11-17T13:13:00.000-06:00

Well, I can't say this very often about political candidates: The more I learn about Obama, the more I respect, admire, and wish to work for him. The last time this happened was in 1992, when I worked for "Governor Moonbeam's" presidential campaign.

(When Jerry Brown announced his intention to run for president against President George H.W. Bush, many in the media and his own party dismissed his campaign as an ego-trip with little chance of gaining significant support. Ignoring them, Brown embarked on an ultra-grassroots campaign to, in his words, "take back America from the confederacy of corruption, careerism, and campaign consulting in Washington." To the surprise of many, Brown was able to tap a populist streak in the Democratic Party, a feat that many would later see as the precursor to the 2004 presidential campaign of Governor Howard Dean. Amazingly, if not for a major gaffe late in the campaign, he just might have pulled off getting the nomoination - despite only accepting $100 donations from individuals!)

But I digress. I'd like for you to read this article from Slate. I am aware that people are busy and Americans don't like to read all that much (although I suspect the devotees to Hopeful Curmudgeon are way above the norm in this category). So, forgive my skepticism, but I'll Cliff's Note it for you.

The article is titled "In Defense of Obama's Patriotism." It addresses the fact that there is a misleading email making the rounds. Containing the above photo, the email text says that Obama refused to hold his hand over his heart during the Pledge of Allegiance. It is actually from a video in which the national anthem is playing. (Not a whole lot of difference, probably, to those who cheer a vacuous and cheap version of name-brand patriotism.) Either way, Obama actually was breaking a law when he did not place his hand over his heart. This might make interesting fodder for a future post, but for now, I'm focusing on what this says about Obama.

What this lack of symbolism represents, I think, is a helluva lot - at least, symbolically. Do you know that Obama also has made the decision not to wear the American flag lapel pin? If you aren't a political geek, you may not know that virtually every politician started wearing those things on Sept. 12, 2001. Obama spoke for many of us, I think, when he explained he isn't wearing the pin because he believes it has become a cheap substitute for true patriotism.

The author of the article, Ron Rosenbaum, asks (rhetorically) whether others feel the way he does: grateful to be an American but increasingly uncomfortable about the compulsory rituals of flag-worship other forms of peer-pressure...like putting your hand on your heart and standing to face the flag during the national anthem when all you really wanted to do was watch a good ol' American baseball game with a few friends?

There may or may not be a conscious pattern to Obama's resistance to lip-service patriotism. But given how carefully most politician's "images" are cultivated, (epsecially at the national presidential level) I have to believe he is speaking to those of us who feel the same way. It may be naive of him to think he can get away with this - but it may also be true that he is willing to go only so far in selling his soul. And, it just might be true that his audacity of hope extends to the American electorate - a hope that we will elect someone who doesn't just say what we want to hear, but what we need to hear.

He told a group of American auto workers in Detroit that he would push to increase MPG standards - 4% a year. That huge union ended up not endorsing him. He has told similar truths in front of farmers (about subsidies) as well as senior citizens (about Social Security). Is Obama perhaps giving us, the American electorate, the benefit of the doubt...is he testing us to see if we are in fact ready for someone different? Someone who will not just conduct politics as usual? Someone who will not only lead us in a different direction, but who will actually tell us the truth?

And if we aren't ready for that, well then, perhaps he doesn't want to lead us...yet?

Maybe.

And if so: What a stud.

Into the Mild

2007-11-12T06:09:00.000-06:00

I loved the book, "Into the Wild." And, while I had a few issues with the way it was edited, the recently-released movie version was a great flick. True to the book, it captured Alex Supertramp's infectious zeal for life and his contagious enthusiasm to live "authentically."

To oversimplify, this kid took Thoreau seriously when the sage from Walden Pond wrote, "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."

I've made solo jaunts into wilderness (though nothing like camping on my own in the backcountry for weeks, much less months). And I've done it long enough to recognize there truly is something essential within us that seems to become visible only when alone and/or in nature. Despite what the fundies wish were true, I am fairly certain the planet is more than 3,000 years old...and that we humans are glorified monkeys. As such, my theory is that there is a kind of artificiality to modernity that obfiscates elemental truths about ourselves. There is something in nature that allows us to get in touch with a lost (buried?) part of our being.

Don't get me wrong: This thing that Edward Abbey called "syphilization" is great - I am glad to not be foraging daily (like the monkey I am) for food. Add I'm awfully grateful I'm not having to fight off (or run from) animals with better fighting abilities (like house cats, for example). As for sleeping in a good bed with (relatively) clean sheets - well, yeah - I like that, too. But I do think getting to (or remembering) the essence of who and what we are is more likely to occur (is easier to access?) in "the wild."

I felt the call to abandon syphilization more than once. (And I still do from time to time.) But what this kid did was off-the-grid abandonment of mainstream society: what the hippies called dropping out. I never quite pulled that trigger, although I seriously contemplated it at several points in my life.

Chris McCandless did it.

The reason, though, that his story is so richly compelling is because of the moral complexities it raises. The kid felt an insatiable urge to do an American version of the walkabout. After graduating from college (the perfect time to do such a thing) he just took off.

I am not about to give anything away that you don't discover at the beginning of the book, so I do not feel the need to provide a spoiler alert here: the tragedy of his story is that he seemed to learn something esssential about himself just before he died. Namely, that he was not a loner hermit-type. He needed other people to share his experiences with...the authenticity he found - and the enlightenment he probably only discovered because he was alone - wasn't complete without companionship.

Almost without exception, the negative book AND movie reviews (and they were in the minority) mentioned that the kid was a self-absorbed, immature asshole. The "negative" camp seemed unable to separate their personal feelings about his decisions from the literature/art about Chris and his adventure.

Was it bunge-hole selfish of him to not contact his family for two years - leaving them worried as rats in a snake hole? Sure it was, especially given that he didn't appear to be the victim of sexual/physical or serious emotional abuse. But to merely label him as either a self-absorbed prick or a hero to be admired (as so many did) is too simplistic.

We get one crack at this thing. And it's an awfully short crack as far as I'm concerned. Our most important obligation in life is to be true to ourselves...whatever that means to you. I think it's equally important, though, that we learn how to love. That we continually strive to get better at practicing that love, by being kind to other creatures (including, but not limited to, fellow humans).

McCandless found out the latter after pursuing the former. Hence the tragedy. But then, there seem to be people who never discover the importance of learning to love. Or, they just can't figure out how to practice it. That is the mark of a truly wasted and tragic life.

It is when those two guiding principles (being true to Self and loving others) seem to be in conflict that the figurative bear scat really hits the wind turbine.

So far, at least for me (I think) I've been able to maneuver the narrow path laid down by those two parameters - with a LOT of help and guidance and patience from other people. Not to claim that I've never gone out of bounds, mind you...I've just been fortunate to have found my way back - unlike Alex Supertramp.

That's why I think I've gone more "into the mild" than "into the wild."

Phil Anthropy

2007-11-07T09:05:00.000-06:00

Well, you might as well check out this goofball...

About Seven Lifetimes

2007-10-24T16:22:00.000-05:00

Q: You know what I like about getting old?

A: Thus far, it still beats the alternative.

About a year ago, a good friend relayed his experience about turning...a certain landmark age. (That's as specific as I'm gonna get.) Suffice it to say I was "celebrating" a landmark year. He's a couple years ahead of me - so he'd already crossed that friggin moat.

He said that within a few weeks of hitting that age, three things happened to him:

1) His back went out on him and he was sprawled out for a week - unable to move, like he was in some sort of invisible traction.

2) He underwent his first root canal.

3) The optometrist told him he needed bifocals.

Oh yeah...did I say "three" things? There was a fourth: a doctor deflowered him with a long, greasy, inquiring finger.

I laughed my arse off at the time...then spent the next few weeks worrying about the karmic repercussions of my belly-busting guffaw. And then I forgot all about it.

Funny thing about karma: it doesn't care about time...it could be instantaneous (I guess that's "instant karma") or 218 lifetimes from now. Infinity is all-encompassing and is therefore outside the realm of time and space (I think). In this instance, karma caught up with me about 10 months later.

Last week, to be exact.

I'm about 2 months shy of one year past the aforementioned landmark. And last week, without any (known) singular catastrophic precipitating event, my back freaked-out (as the docs these days like to refer to it). This provided me and Sweetness (run, Lola, run!) a glimpse of the glorious future. I was a whining, creaking, groaning, bent old man for several days. In case you've never experienced debilitating back pain, let me explain something about anatomy: the back is connected to everything. I drive a manual 5-speed and I couldn't shift that sucker without a great deal of pain racing through my whole body. For fuck's sake, just sucking in a deep breath hurt like hell.

The doc kinda fixed me up: even though I am nowhere near 100%, I am at least not in constant pain.

A co-worker, empathizing with me in his own odd way, said something at the proverbial water cooler that stuck with me. "It's such a relief to know that we are gonna die!" he said. Dude is still in his mid-twenties.

So on the one hand, death probably seems far off and fantastical to him. But on the other, how can you be that young and already have experienced enough life to think that death is the existential Tylenol for this angst-riddled veil of tears? Death as something to look forward to? And it's not like he's a Mormon or anything - with his own universe to look forward to lording over. He's not religous and doesn't believe in any kind of afterlife. He has a great job, a great wife and is as healthy as a California wildfire. No addictions...no major demons. None of that torturous crap. It was odd. Yet awfully prescient and wise, too.

Given the current limitations of science and the human body, I have no doubt that at some point in the next four or five decades, I will feel the same way.

But if we were able to age only, say, 15 current years for every 100, I think I could probably hang around in this incarnation - on this wonderfully strange and occasionally infuriating blue water sphere - for five or six hundred years before I got tired of it. Hell, I could live in different countries and continents, move every 20 or 30 years and start a whole new career each time. Sign me up for that gig! I dig life - even with the aches and pains (physical and otherwise) - a heckuva lot more often than not.

The only stickler to living that long is the whole monogomy/marriage thing. How would that work? (Sweetness?) We love each other as much as any couple, I believe - and we have a pretty darn healthy relationship that encourages each of us to live and be our best...but four or five centuries? I doubt she'd put up with me for that long.

But if everyone lived to be 500 or 600 years old, maybe you'd only be able to get marriage licenses in like, 25-year increments: 25, 50, 75 or 100 year marriage licenses...with an option to renew, of course.

Whatever. Even if I haven't worked out all the kinks to living for half a millenia, I'd still take the deal. And really, if Sweetness were part of the deal, I'd take that in a heartbeat! (With asterisks, fine print, and parenthetical options, of course.)

The Secret to Long Weekends

2007-10-17T16:37:00.000-05:00

Ususally, if you are anything like me, Monday morning rolls around and you are thinking, "WTF happened? Didn't I just leave work?" (Don't get me wrong: I actually don't dread heading to work...I dig the people I work with and I love what I do for a living...nonetheless, I am a huge fan of "free time.")

Well, I inadvertantly discovered how to make the weekend last forever.

A typical weekend consists of time outdoors doing yardwork, playing some sort of exercise/sport (also outdoors), a movie (at least 2 a month), dinner with friends (also at least twice a month), and (this time of year) vegging out in front of the tube for at least 3 hours of some baseball or football. This doesn't take into account the time spent doing laundry, giving the animals and Sweetness the time they deserve, or any of the other joys of homo-ner-ship or family obligations that inevitably crop up.

But a recent weekend was a little different. Sweetness left me in charge of the homefront while she spent a joyful weekend moving her mother from one house to the one next door. Aside from watching a ballgame with Dr. DoLittle on Friday night, the only time I left the house was for about 45 minutes to the grocery store.

By the time Monday rolled around, I'd felt like I'd had four or five days off.

Now, normally, I don't recommend doing nothing. It ain't easy. It's not for wussies. Amateurs should never try it at home without supervision. It's just flat-out hard work being lazy.

But it sure does make for a nice, loooooooooooooooooooooong weekend.

Boys of Summer

2007-10-03T12:20:00.000-05:00

I realize this will only be of interest to Kansas City Royals fans...and only of nominal interest to most of those. So, after dilligent market research and a great deal of polling, I've concluded that this one goes out to all 87 of us who really dig Royals baseball.

Me, a bunch of yahoos and Sweetness attended the final game of the Royals' baseball season on Sept. 30. Their season has (depressingly) ended with the start of meaningful baseball in October. This has been the case for OVER 20 YEARS now. That's right: The Kansas City Royals Baseball Club hasn't even tasted the postseason since winning it all in 1985. Man, I know the Bo Sox and the Cubbies (and others) went (or have gone) longer without a World Series...but that is one long-dong-daddy post-season drought!

To put this in perpective, consider:

* At the start of post-season in 1985, the number one song was Dire Straits' Money for Nothing. The week the Royals actually won the series, Stevie Wonder's Part-time Lover topped the charts.

* Best-selling books that year included: The Mammoth Hunters, Lake Wobegon Days, Cider House Rules and Iacocca: A Biography.

Those of us for whom the 80's are mostly a blur (and all the friggin kids born in the friggin 80's or later) probably don't remember this at all, but there were five separate terrorist attacks targeting Americans or American interests - just during the the 1985 baseball season. (And I guarantee the fear-mongering Repugs don't want you to remember this. "What? terrorism isn't a new kind of threat?" Without our collective American amnesia, all sorts of interesting questions with uncomfortable answers might pop up...) These incidents included car bombs, machine gun attacks, a hijacked plane and a hijacked cruiseliner. Scores of Americans died in these attacks. The only death in the hijacked cruiseship, however, was when the hijackers threw an elderly, wheelchair-bound American overboard. Nice guys, eh?

* On the cover of Time Magazine the week the Royals won the Series: "Turning the Tables: The U.S. Strikes Back at Terrorism." I guess the more your shit changes, the more it stinks just the same.

Wanna guess what I was doing the night they won the series? I drove around campus drunk as a coon in a moonshine vat. I mean, literally around campus...like where cars are not supposed to go. On sidewalks. I kind of remember these 10-foot high mounds of well-manicured earth that had wide sidewalks circling around them. Man, they were fun to squeel the tires around! Anyway, campus police chased me in their vehicle for awhile before I lost them.

Or so I thought. When I arrived home, Springfield, Missouri's finest were there - along with campus police - to arrest me. I spent the rest of that night screaming inside a jail cell. It being the first time I was ever arrested, I thought (because of watching TV), they HAD to let me make a phone call as soon as I demanded it. Little did I know they only have to do so within 24 hours of your incarceration. Hey, I was a rookie and I made a rookie mistake. I became a seasoned veteran rather quickly. Like I said, the more your shit changes...

The world keeps spinning and we've all gotten older, were born or died. It's also been a long time - since Brett retired after the '93 season - since the Royals kept a player for more than a decade. Following the strike-shortened '94 season, Mike Sweeney made his major league debut in a September call-up with the big team. He ended up being a stud with the bat...albeit an injury-prone stud-with-a-bat. Although the pickings were admittedly often slim, he made the All-Star team 5 times. He could have left the Royals for more fame and money (and a better team) but he didn't. He likes playing in Kansas City.

He played what is probably his last game as a Royal on Sunday. It tugged at my heart. I don't know what it is about me and baseball, but it's one of the things that can easily make me sappy and weepy. He obviously wasn't the best position player to don the Royal blue - but he is probably in the top 10. And he is a fundamentalist Christian. I'll be honest: most of the time, I have a problem with those people. But in this era of professional jock wife-beaters and murderers and roided-out jerks, having a fundie Christian on your team doesn't seem so bad.

We gave him 3 standing ovations during the game.

They also played a highlight reel on the video board of Sweeney's career...and that choked me up a little. But the real kicker came afterward, when they opened up the infield (as they do after very Sunday home game) for people to run the bases. Mike took the hand of his 3-year-old daughter and the hand of his 5-year-old son and ran the bases for the last time. They played "Good Vibrations" by the Beach Boys...and another summer officially ended.

It was friggin sweet and I don't mind admitting that tears welled in my eyes. Even if he is a fundie, and even if he was hurt a lot, he is a good guy. I'll miss seeing him at the stadium next April.

I guess not even Jesus can help this team get to the post-season...so next year, I will be praying to the Bowiesattva.

On Your Knees (to) Bowie

2007-09-21T10:16:00.000-05:00

With screwed up eyes and screwed down hairdo, what is it about David Bowie?

Like a leper messiah, he ranks somewhere between minor deity and major historical figure.

Hey man: he was ranked a few notches below Queen Elizabeth but a few above such luminaries as Thomas Paine, William Blake and Charles Dickens in the 100 Greatest Britons of All Time list. He was the first rocker to have his persona offered on the stock market, the first to offer his music via the internet and the first to appear in a video game. He presaged and pretty much single-handedly spawned glam-rock, being among the first rockers to consciously approach music as art. He has certainly had the most successful acting career among all the rock musicians.

The Thin White Duke sang in "Station to Station" (1976) about traveling down the Cabalistic tree of life: "...from kether to malkuth..." or, from godhead to earth. He became incarnate for us...for those of us able to hear him...he came offering a kind of aural pathway to enlightenment.

Waiting at the light, know what I mean...Jesus leads some to the light...others go with Muhammad or Buddha or Adam or Joseph Smith or The Three Friggin Stooges...me, I'm keeping all my dead hair for making up underwear: the holy undergarments we need to wear when Ziggy returns on the tail of comet, taking his true believers with him.

Top 10 Reasons Bowie is Better than God :*

1) You cannot reasonably deny Bowie's existence
2) Bowie has cooler clothes
3) David is less likely to cast sinners through the gates of hell
4) If you hear Bowie's voice in your head, it's probably because one of his kick-ass song's is stuck in your mind; if you hear God, you are probably whack
5) God couldn't tease His hair up that high - even with all the angels' assistance - even during the 80s
6) David has better shoes
7) Bowie looks better in drag
8) People don't accost you in malls to tell you, "Bowie loves you."
9) Attending a Bowie concert is much more life-altering than attending church
10) God doesn't paint His toenails

* Partially snagged from a site that snagged it from a (now-defunct) fan site

Dr. Fool, Ape-arms and the Political Pendulum

2007-09-20T10:55:00.000-05:00

Earth, Milky Way Galaxy --

My family keeps thinking I will become more conservative - more like them - as I get older. Well, perhaps I wear my political black-sheep-ness a bit too proudly, like a baa...baa...badge. The more they speak of such absurdity, the more left I lean.

Family dynamics and their psychological influences are downright Joycean in their complexity. Hell, there are entire industries based on them: Psychology and psychotherapy and psychopharmacy...not to mention all the Dr. Fool/self-help/codependent-TV-and-book markets. Many people spend an hour a week for the bulk of their adult lives on the proverbial couch trying to unravel such labyrinthian mysteries.

So, I am not going there. The point of bringing this up is to acknowledge the fact that my liberal beer belly just keeps expanding, despite my daily regimen of feasting on the anarchist's cookbook...and I don't really know WHY.

I guess if I had to wager on the biggest influence, I'd lay that thorny crown soundly upon Baby King George's ugly southern-fried cokehead. (And I'd do it with all the power my skinny ape arms could muster.) If the past 7 years haven't made you lurch at least a little leftward, there are too many droppings in your squirrel cage. Clean the fucker out!

I think most people are feeling this way right now... a friend told me this week that she was ready to try socialism. For some reason, I was reminded of a political philosophy I first heard about during the golden years of Clinton:"Communitarianism." I prefer to oversimplify rather than lull you to sleep: The philosophy contends that liberalism (the true definition - not some hijacked Lush Rimblah version) places too much focus on individual rights - to the point that it is (often) detrimental to the greater good. It is not hostile to liberalism; rather, communitarians prefer shifting toward a greater focus on community and society, rather than always emphasizing individual rights as being of utmost importance.

This philosophy is already influential...consider such notions as imminent domain. I suppose the most rudimentary example is the repression of free speech: no jokes about bombs or guns are allowed in an airport. No yelling "fire" (at least, if there isn't one) in a theatre. Etc.

For the environmental movement to succeed, societies will have to embrace some aspects of communitarianism. It will necessarily involve limiting people's (and companies') choices.

Like it or not, the same principle is behind Congress' approval of allowing wire-tapping on American citizens...or waiving the writ of habeas corpus.

Given the crumbling state of the states, the so-called Union, and - literally - the world, I am ready, willing and enthusiastic for a serious shake-up. There is a popular axiom about how the pendulum has to swing too far in the other direction in order to counter imbalances once things get out of whack.

Well, shit is whack alright. The pendulum on the American timepiece is gonna have to do a full 180 after George the Chimp is finally thrown from the tree. Either that or it will quickly cease to function. Not to be too Chicken Little about it, but shit! we seem to be running out of time.

I doubt most Americans have the cajones for it (not yet), but I say: apportez sur la révolution...

...or at least gimme Obama for 4 to 8 years. Por favor?

Mission Maybe

2007-08-28T10:07:00.000-05:00

In case you didn't notice, Hopeful Curmudgeon now has an official mission statement. (Subject to change, of course.) See above - under "Hopeful Curmudgeon."

The Crippling Curveball

2007-08-27T11:34:00.000-05:00

Doing the radio thing on the way to work, I heard a local (retired) sports star speaking about a charity event. (Sadly, they first had to discuss the fact that he was chosen as one of about 6 people in the city to be invited to breakfast with the Lost-Texas-Village-Idiot in-Chief, who happened to be in town this week. Sports Star actually said he thought The Idiot was a good man - which, I guess, MIGHT be true, and that he was doing a good job as Idiot-in-Chief, which is irrefutably NOT true.) But I digress...

By continuing to listen, I was able to hear a far better message, despite this proselytizing propogandic bullshit...

The charity he was pimping was founded by a woman and her husband several years ago. It raises money for research into spinal cord injuries. The reason they were into it just blew me away: The woman (who wasn't an old lady) went to sit in a hammock on a fine autumn day. Said hammock was about 2 feet off the ground. The hammock (as hammocks are wont to do) slid around on her and she fell to the ground - and broke her friggin back. She has been paralyzed ever since.

I'd like to say that in the ensuing days, I haven't felt a moment of self-pity - that I have been fully appreciative and grateful for all that I have. And for all that hasn't happened to me. But that, too, would be proselytizing propogandic bullshit. And I don't want to contribute to the huge gaping hole of ozone in the Sky of Truth. So I will just be honest: there have been many moments since I heard that woman's story when - after realizing I'd fallen into my shallow toilet bowl of how I'd like things to be different than they are - I was pulled back into reality...the reality that I have absolutely nothing to bitch about.

Life isn't fair. And for that ( so far) I am grateful.

Oh...yeah...I had to give a little something to the charity, too, because it always makes me feel a bit sleazy when I feel better about my life after hearing of another's misfortune. But her story certainly has given me some perspective.

If you see me, ask if I'm still grateful that life ain't fair - because you never know - life might just throw me one of those crippling curveballs between now and then.

Ancient Document Proves Christians to Blame for Letter "T"

2007-08-17T08:08:00.000-05:00

Sardinia, Italy - A discovery on the island of Sardinia, nestled between the Tyrrhenian and Meditarranean Seas, has brought into question the origins of the letter "T." A group of anthropologists - accompanied by linguistic experts and etymologists - claims to have uncovered evidence that the letter "T" originated as a propoganda tool by early Christians.

The symbol in English for the sound "T" originated from "tau," the twenty-second and last character of the ancient Hebrew alphabet. In its earliest form, it was written "X" but represents the letter "T."

Conspiracy theorists have long speculated that early Christians altered the letter's representation into the alphabet as Christianity moved from the underground - when use of the ichthus, or "Jesus fish," fell out of favor. The recently uncovered document - carbon dated to the second century A.D. - details an early Christian power struggle over the use of ichthus, which had been a pagan symbol of the Mother Godess' vulva. [See above illustration.]

"Although the letter 'T' had been in use prior to this," said Dr. Lowell Cunningham, the director of the project, "this document proves that early Christians played a significant role in altering the letter from what was essentially a plus sign [+] - with equal lines - to its current incarnation as symbolic of the cross [ T ]."

Pagans plan to march on the Vatican later this year in an effort to raise support for their calls to return the letter "T" to a plus sign. "What this does," exclaimed self-described pagan, Marcus Cross, "is verify everything we have felt to be true but couldn't prove. Christianity usurped not only our holidays, our symbols and many of our rituals - including the drinking of lamb's blood - but they have altered all English-speaking people's consciousness. Subliminally, every time a 'T' is written or read, at a subconscious level, you are forced to pray...we think the world has had enough!"

When asked about the fact that this is only true when one writes a small 'T' and not the capitalized version, he said the group is open to compromise.

A spokeswoman for the Pope officially denies any involvement by the Catholic Church.

Effing Funny

2007-08-16T13:20:00.000-05:00

The Sweetest Mortgage Partner Ever! had her 7-year-old nephew and 9-year-old niece stay with us for a few days. While they are incredibly sweet and ridiculously well-behaved, it didn't matter in terms of lessening my aversion to the apparently normal instinct that most mammals have to recreate themselves in their own image and likeness. (I just don't get it: It's like signing up for 20-25 years of indentured servitude. Really? You want to do that? I mean, willingly? Even enthusiastically?)

Whatever I am lacking or whatever defect I have, I thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster - daily.

The highlight of their stay may have been when we took them to their first big-league ballgame. They wanted to go back the next night. (Our measley money pile - an anthill, really - would not allow it.)

They are as good and as fun as kids can be...and it still made me check Sweetest Mortgage Partner Ever!'s birth control schedule and the condom stash. (Two-ply, thank you very much.)

Okay...on with the Effing Funny show...

The youngest nephew, who is three, had the following contribution to "Effing Funniest" while eating at a fast-food restaurant (that shall remain anonymous) during the kid drop-off:

Mom (eating a salad with soybeans): "What's the other name for these, besides 'soy'?"

SMPE!: "Edamame."

Youngest Nephew, not missing a beat: "And a daddy." Then he casually took another bite of burger.

And, while at the African section of the zoo:

SMPE!: "Doesn't this look a lot like the real African savanna?"

Nine-year-old niece: "Yes, it does. Except for all the park benches."

Gotta love the 9-year-old smartass. (Especially one who is too sweet to be aware of her own sarcasm.)

Blue-eyed Mullah

2007-08-15T09:48:00.000-05:00

some still wonder why
the blue-eyed prophet
passed with the new millennium

the twins were merely pawns
of the underworld
trudging toward a destiny

irrevocably
unspeakably
invoked

from the ancient dust
of father's
swollen tongue

weeping

the blue-eyed mullah
gathers his minions
for the quickening

as we rush to folly
marching with
a mad jester

one hand
touching the sun
as the other

drips red
upon corpses in the sand
mummified

by the evil
of our indifference
and their own

willingness to burn
for a blind
puppeteer

The Department of Homeland Ontology

2007-08-09T13:09:00.000-05:00

Destinations are never what we expect them to be. That is perhaps the greatest joy of travel.

We pack our miniscule lives into suitcases, pretend to be unburdened gypsies for a weekend...a fortnight...a month. But really, we are cramming our whole selves in there. Our obese lives. Our obscene egos. Our gargantuan hopes and dreams and delusions. Fears and passions and loves.

Whoever said, "You can't take It with you," lied. (It was probably a beauracrat or a businessman.) You can't NOT take It with you. Amazing that It ever all fits.

How do we decide what to carry? What to leave behind? The Department of Homeland Ontology has suggestions, but they are not very practical.

If you expect to encounter the unknown, and plan accordingly, does that remove the element of surprise from the Unexpected. Does it keep the breath from being knocked out of you? And if so, does preservation of breath curb the awe? If you wish to curb your awe, why even step beyond the curb?

And what of the journey? If destinations are pleasantly unpredictable, journeys are the inexplicable phenomena of chaos theory. Why do we always plan for the destination and treat the journey itself as a heroin-chic Harlot? Is it because the Harlot is too feral, too turbulent, too rapacious to prepare for? Or is it, rather, that we judge her unworthy of our wrapt attention? An obstacle to be side-stepped. A burden from which to be freed. A gnat darting in and out of our aural periphery.

The things we lose may be more important than the things we bring back with us. It is sinful to return more beset than upon departure...unless you unburden by laying your quixotic density on others. But then, aren't you saddling them with more things...things that further terrestrialize their existences?

Although it is good to go and and even better to return, there is a part of us that would prefer never leaving the cold comfort of our heroine, the Harlot. After all, it is what we don't know that makes travel so consumingly fascinating. The surprises along the way. And she is always revealing more to us. An ankle here, an earlobe there. The curve of her collarbone. The way afternoon shadows from the tree outside the window play with the color and texture of her skin.

And every once in awhile, if we watch closely, we see something ethereal yet substanial. Mind-boggling. Inspiring to the brink of madness. Don't take your eyes off of her - especially when she holds the mirror to herself. Be myopic when the time and place are right. She holds a treasure worth keeping at such moments.

You just might return home with the memory of having seen yourself through her untainted eyes.

Is 32 years of a Bush-Clinton White House Really a Democracy?

2007-08-08T08:38:00.000-05:00

What the hell is wrong with the American people? Counting the two terms that Bush senior served as V.P. - if Hillary is elected President - we are guaranteed at least 32 years of a Bush or Clinton in the White House! Is this the country that brought modern democratic principles to the world, or a friggin' aristocracy?

Look, if the Dems end up nominating Hillary, I will (almost) certainly have to vote for her. (Know this, though: I'd prefer Ron Paul over continuing this abhorrent rut we are in.) But let's not candy-coat a poopscicle, okay? She is the pure embodiment of an entrenched politician, albeit a female. Although it may not necessarily be her fault, she will perpetuate the divisiveness preventing us from solving our most serious problems. We really need someone who can, and will, break through this 51/49, Red versus Blue bullshit. And if you think Hillary Clinton is the woMan, you are delusional.

Edwards had plenty of promise...until he built a 30,000 sq. foot home. For a family of 4. The year before running for President. On a "Let's Help the Poor" platform. (Even if you dismiss the hypocrisy, the timing shows a serious lack of good judgement.) Oh, and did I mention that he railed against predatory lending, then went to work for one of the worst perpetraitors of such practices? Or that he went off on the rich for using off-shore accounts to avoid taxes, then did it himself? Or that he voted for "No Child Left Behind," and then spent years bashing Bush for the law. The Iraq debacle and the Patriot Act? He voted for them.

The John McCain of 2000 seemed like a decent man. That dude is gone-daddy-gone.

Of the remaining serious candidates who should be considered, that leaves us with Obama. Entrenched politician? No. (Not yet.) Does he seem to have the ability to unite a nation? Yes...he has the oratory skills, the ideas, the charisma and the ability to think critically. He has the best chance of bringing the nation together in a way we haven't been for a long, long time. His ideas for education, for helping the poor, protecting the environment, and his foreign policies all look promising. (The healthcare issue might have to be tackled in bits and pieces - maybe he is hoping to eat that monster a small piece at a time?)

Anyway, the Hopeful Curmudgeon is officially endorsing Barack Obama. And I am sure that means the world to him!

www.barackobama.com

CM

Funniest Effing Things I've Heard in Awhile

2007-08-06T08:48:00.000-05:00

"It was there when I was still alive."
(My good friend LT, discussing a landmark from her hometown.)

"Are you trying to poison me with your boobs?"
(Cranial Midget, to Sweetness, after kissing her bare right breast. I'd just showered and applied deodorant. Shortly after that, we were in preseason mode. I draped my arm across her chest just before the nuzzle. Her boob tasted like a combination of "Off" and strychnine. It took me a moment to realize what had happened...and even longer to recover.)

"Ouch!"
(CM, again to Sweetness, just moments after the above incident. This was my response to having a moustache hair yanked from my lip via her earring. Hey - I never said I was Cyrano de Romeo...)

"General Peter Pace said he didn't want homosexuals in his army. Well Peter, at least they know when to pull out of a shit hole." (Bill Maher, on his HBO special, "The Decider.")

"I always exaggerate."
(My friend, Dr. Do Little.)

Transcript from google chat:
Monkey: These emoticons are campy and girly and should only be used by gay or emasculated men.
CM: But what about non-emasculated straight men like me who adore David Bowie and Barney Frank?
Monkey: That's okay - as long as it's not both. One or the other.
CM: Why not?
Monkey: Because they're not artistic enough for Bowie and they don't look young enough for Barney.

And, speaking of Bowie (though it's far more funny to see the video):
"Does the space cold make your nipples go pointy, Bowie?
Do you use your pointy nipples as telescopic antennae to transmit data back to
Earth?" (From "Flight of the Conchords," Episode 6: Bowie)

Genesis Redux

2007-08-04T09:30:00.000-05:00

As promised, the Cranial Midget explains (or tries to provide some sort of illumination regarding) the rationale behind the second word of his blog's title. (If you missed the explanation of "hopeful," scroll down to "Genesis.")

The American Heritage Dictionary defines "curmudgeon" as "an ill-tempered person full of resentment and stubborn notions." Etymologically, the word first appeared in print nearly 500 years ago, and most etymologists concede that its origins remain a mystery.

So that leaves us with nothing but the definition to play with. And play we will...

Does the definition "fit" the Cranial Midget? While I concede that I most certainly possess stubborn notions, the ill-tempered person full of resentment label is more difficult.

My stubborn notions include things like: believing people should be kind to one another and to animals...we should try much more than we do to be good stewards of the earth...working just to make a buck is a sad waste of one's existence...big pharmaceutical companies and health insurance companies should be banned from lobbying legislators (and should probably be forced into "non-profit" status)...you are either part of the problem or you are part of the solution (regardless of the problem)- and living in the suburbs is part of the problem; those who contribute to suburban sprawl and then want to kill the wildlife (mountain lions, bears, wolves, alligators, etc) that threatens their babies and domesticated pets should themselves be shot...if America used its wealth and power more for humanitarian purposes and less for destructive purposes, it would have far greater success in achieving the ends it desires than by current methods...prosperous, prospective parents in the developed world should think more about adopting babies than creating replicas of themselves in their own image and likeness (and doing so shouldn't cost a friggin' arm and a leg)...the Kansas City Royals will play meaningful baseball games in September next year...Yankees fans who don't live in New York or weren't born there should be permanently demoted to double A fan-dom somewhere within Dante's 6th circle of hardball hell - say, the Tulsa Drillers, maybe?

Shewww...

...and those are just a few of my stubborn notions...

I concede: there are an almost infinite number of stubborn notions I possess which I firmly believe - should I awaken tomorrow endowed as dictator of the world - would make the world a better place. And some of them are quite stubborn. I relish inviting you to try banishing one of the above brain-barnacles from me.

But do I walk around in my internal daily life full of resentment, spewing vitrol and bitterness, ill-tempered and angry? No. (Well, okay - some days are better than others - but as a rule? Huh-uh...that ain't me.)

Hence, softening the hard edges of "curmudgeon" with the sweetly effervescent "hope." The word starts deep in the throat, with an exhalation, turning in the mouth to the "O" of surprise, of awe, demonstrating one's capacity for curiosity, realizing there is much still unknown, much to be enthused by and about. It ends with the satisfying smack of the lips...as in an air kiss or the culmination of a delightful culinary experience.

"Hope" is a great word (and an indispensible thing to have when needed), and not something I meant to diss(miss) too summarily in the last posting.

I'll just refer back to Lord Byron's quote and leave it with this: What the hell is wrong with "hollow-cheeked harlots?" Now, they give me hope...

Genesis

2007-08-01T10:31:00.000-05:00

In the beginning was the word. Words begat phrases and phrases begat names. Why did I choose "Hopeful Curmudgeon" as a name?

One thing at a time, dear cicadas. Let's begin with "hope," from which "hopeful" is derived. Hope, like happiness (and like most pharmaceutical drugs), is overrated and abused (at least, in America). But I wanted to offset the negative connotations of the second word in the blog name with the misperceived connotations of the first.

Etymologically, hope comes from the Old English "hopian," meaning "wish, expect, look forward to something." Some wordophiles suggest there is a connection with the verb "hop," as in "leaping in expectation."

Whatever.

The point is that if you are seeking hope, it implies you are not content with the present...with the moment - the now. It implies you want something you currently don't have, or you wish things were different than they actually are right now.

Hey, I don't deny there have been times in my life that I needed hope. I needed it more than I did the next hit of that sweet, sweet liquid or smoke. In fact, I needed hope in order to not take another hit of the sweet stuff that had turned so sour - and had made me bitter. I also needed it several years ago, when I'd lost a job I hated but subsequently struggled to find something else. I'd nearly given up, was close to throwing in the humanitarian towel and going to work for the Man...helping rich people get richer, when voila! something decent came through.

So I've been there - many times. And I undoubtedly will find myself in an untenable place again.

But in the meantime, I am gonna breathe THIS breath...feel the earth under THIS step...and fully appreciate all that I DO have right now. And the next time I think I need hope, maybe one of you will remind me of this truth:

Most of us here in the so-called developed world have everything we need. Your life will never be any better than it is right now (since it is always now). Waiting to enjoy it until some future something comes along or goes away places you in a perpeptual state of Never-Never land...might as well dig it as it is.

Lest you think I am on the verge of sounding hopeful, check back. I'll explain the use of "curmudgeon" soon.

So, what does "hope" mean to you? What am I missing? What do you think?

CM

Hopeful Curmudgeon Launching Soon!

2007-07-31T14:48:00.000-05:00

This should be fun, folks. I hope this isn't just a place for curmudgeonly diatribes...I can do that anywhere...hell, I DO that everywhere.

So, the hope is to foment fun, irreverent (but relevant) discussion that might elucidate or maybe even improve the lives of those involved. And, by extension, maybe we can slightly improve the world we inhabit.

Like I said, we'll have something soon. Something else.

Cranial Midget

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