Party Like It's 799

In surprising news Mahmoud Amadinnerfool was declared the winner in the Iranian national elections. I gotta say, I don't think anyone saw that coming.

Boy, they sure do count fast. And no hanging chads!

No, likely the only thing hanging are the bodies of disloyal opponents who dared support a candidate running against the mock Democratic dictator.

And what a unique display of civic pride; beatings, killings, car bombings, the rare US flag burnings by young mask wearing Iranian men shaking their fists at the almost never present news cameras.

Will the world ever tire of such wonderfulness?

He Hears But Does Not Listen

Somewhere along the line the man's mother, ex-wives and/or girlfriends taught him the hard lesson that listening was a good thing.

But as often is the case, the skull of a man returns a robust echo, teaching doesn't necessarily imply taught, and "listening" for this guy had somehow come to be understood as "giving the appearance of listening".

His eyes were bright, his brow jauntily arched in what appeared to be earnest concentration. His head was inclined just right, nodding at appropriate moments, the occasional, "oh really?" or "you don't say" uttered at strategic intervals. His conversation partner, a chippy gym bunny, was going on and on about who knows what, I honestly couldn't say, but her gestures and body language suggested that after climbing Mt Everest in a two piece bikini, she did yoga with the Sherpas, and cured an entire Tibetan village of amoebic dysentery.

I was beginning to appreciate this chap's fortitude, his willingness to engage in this rather lengthy, one-sided love fest. Personally, I would have bailed out long before the first signs of moss began growing between my inert cross trainers. Please forgive the slight exaggeration, but in the time this conversation took before it earily went off the rails, the man's beard noticeably thickened, and he began graying at the temples.

I focused briefly on my set. In the minute or so my mind was focused elsewhere, the man had a blow out and was now upside down in a ditch, on the side of the road.

"HAVE YOU LISTENED TO A SINGLE THING I'VE SAID?"

The color had drained from the man's face and he now resembled the underside of a trout.

"What are you talking about? Of course I was listening to you."

"Oh really? You were listening to me? You heard me? Let me see if I have this right. I say, "she was stricken with cervical cancer" and you say "Excellent".

"I wasn't saying "excellent" to the fact that she had cervical cancer, I was saying "excellent" to the fact that they caught it in time."

"IN TIME FOR HER FUNERAL!? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?"

I took this as my queue to flee. The woman was becoming more animated, the guy was shrinking back within himself. He needed a rear view mirror glued to his forehead for all the back pedaling he was doing. Although in his defense, the beat and a half glance he gave the blond at that critical conversational juncture might have been worth it.

The lesson here my friends is that listening and hearing are two different things, a distinction that often ricochets off the male cranium. Unfortunately, some men never learn the lesson. Those that do can be identified by a characteristic slump to their shoulders and a shuffling kind of walk that would indicate their testicles reside in a Manolo Blahnik shoe box on their wives's side of the closet.

He Has A Semi For His Hemi

I suppose a passing reference to my absence is in order, but in general, I don't really care where I am at any given moment, so why should you? Still, it seems proper to at least provide some comment about my whereabouts, if for no other reason than to fill precious blog space.

I once had a cushy desk job. I'd come to work, plop down behind my desk, push my stapler and assorted papers from one side of the laminated expanse to the other, and be ever diligent about my coffee refills. After about an hour of real work, I would set it aside, compose my thoughts and crank out a blog post.

Long about November of last year, my company, a mid-sized bank, was seized by the Federal Government and sold for parts and scrap metal to a much larger bank. This seminal moment contributed to a cascade of events that involved my own lay-off, and subsequent rehire by this large institution. And as is the case with large, healthy, efficient corporations, they quite reasonably expect a days worth of work from their employees for a day's wage.

This is where my blog went off the rails. An average day for me now starts at about 5 am, where if I'm so motivated, I'll go to the gym and workout. If not, I'll turn my computer on and start working. These days most work days end by around 6 or 7 pm with virtually no down time. The schedule is both exhilarating and exhausting, but in this day and age, and for what I do, I'm quite happy to be employed.

So there you have it. Busy work schedule equals dismal blog schedule, but as this post would suggest, I do have your best interests at heart.

Now for the real reason I peaked my head out. I have observed that people immortalize all sorts of things in various ways. For instance, a client of mine had this very large oil painting hanging above her fireplace mantel of a toy poodle sitting on an ornately festooned orange crate.

"That's my first dog "Fluffy" who passed 26 years ago", she said in answer to an unspoken question I apparently had about the piece.

"Oh", I replied, "you must have been very attached to him."

"Her. Not really", she said, "She was a favorite of my ex-husband's, but we never got along very well, on account of foul temper and bad gas."

"Your husband's or your dog's?", I thought to ask but didn't.

Others may immortalize their loved ones, living or deceased, with pictures on a wall or in a photo album on the coffee table, or in some instances, on their necks with prison ink.

These overt displays of devotion are understandable, but recently I witnessed an overt display of devotion that had me puzzled. On the tailgate of a rather nice truck, was a painting, done no doubt at great expense and with great care and skill. Alongside an alpine river, adorned with pine trees, redwoods, and towering snow capped mountains, was not this man's wife or dog, or even his dearly departed Mother. No, sitting prominently within this idyllic setting was a picture of the very same truck I was following.

His wife must be very pleased.

Sign Of The Times

The woman on the corner was waving a sign that said "Ortho Mattress Sale". She was talking on her cell phone while waving the sign, evidently unaware that she had turned the sign away from traffic and upside down.

I'm thinking multi-tasking is not her thing.

I'm not up to speed on cell phone plans but after doing a little research, family plans charge about $0.10 per minute, which according to my calculations is about $6 per hour. I'm also not up to speed on those sign waving jobs, but if I were to hazard a guess I'd say she might be pulling in $6 per hour after taxes.

I know I'm going out on a limb here, but I'm guessing she's not a math major.

Habanero, I'm Out Of Bullets

It might be likened to the suicidal fascination mosquitoes have with the Bug Zapper, but I have a potentially unhealthy, certainly obsessive relationship with jalapeno and habanero peppers.

If you find the man next to you at El Porkito with the wildly euphoric grimace on his sweaty, purple hued face blowing copious amounts of air out of his ears, nose, and throat, it just might be me.

Pull up a chair and introduce yourself. Take no offense if I don't respond. Tongues with third degree burns have trouble forming coherent sentences.

Have a chip. Oh, and you're welcome to pick up the tab while you wait.

Why Yes, I Am Annoyingly Whiney

Perhaps you have an area of your home that you would like to forget. Perhaps also this area is critical to the flow of your home, causing you to have sleepless nights, thoughts hopelessly diverted from daisies, ponies, and babbling brooks, to nightmares involving Herculean efforts or bank breaking sums of cabbage.

For me this room is the garage and while it is neither critical to the flow of my home, or a budget buster, Hercules would have had an easier time dispatching Cerberus the three headed dog.

What started as a modest little undertaking, so that my daughter could have a place to enjoy some of her toys and crafts, turned into an effort of biblical proportions, and when I say biblical, I'm not referring to something easy like parting the Red Sea or walking on water, I'm talking about 40 years in the desert with nothing to feast upon but manna.

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And by the way, in case you were wondering, manna tastes surprisingly similar to camel dung, only moderately less appetizing.

If I Were King

A couple of weeks ago I took my wife's advice and purchased a new dress shirt for a job interview. Originally I was going to wear one of the dozen or so shirts I already own, but after being reminded that most of them were purchased during the first Bush administration, I was pursuaded that a fresh look was in order.

On that note, I have a confession to make. I absolutely love shopping. And by love I really mean hate, and if not hate, then certainly an emotion that would approximate taking a cheese grater to your testicles. And because I'm so fond of shopping as a viable use of my recreational time, I tend to set workable goals for myself, like never spending more than five minutes inside of any store. If I have to spend more than five minutes in a store, I will come apart like a dynamite ladened suicide bomber.

The problem with shopping as I see it is that stores are clearly geared towards female patronage, even those that cater exclusively to men. If men were the designers of the shopping experience, stores would be arranged quite differently. For one, stores would be staffed exclusively with attractive women, women who take their breaks by jumping on trampolines in front of the cash registers. Racks of clothing would be far enough apart to accomodate male bodies without knocking clothes off hangers. Television sets would be arranged throughout the store so that while searching for that special silk shirt or break-away trouser, you can still watch a Laker game, Tiger Woods sinking a 20 footer at the Masters, or even a James Bond thriller.

And beer would be served. Lots of beer.