Creative Quips on Qualifying Quirky Qualities

I have once again been tagged by Roxy of Roxiticus Desperate Housewives to carry out one of her humiliating tasks of self-evaluation and public exposure. I don’t know why she feels it necessary to unload her particular requests upon me, but for some reason I feel the need to comply. After all, the latest “homework assignment” involved publicly revealing my special quirks or idiosyncrasies, as if I had any of those to begin with. To me, this was a big assumption on Roxy’s part, because I personally view all of my personality traits as normal extensions of my being. And should some of my habits happen to be a little different than the average person, I certainly wouldn’t call it a quirk. I think of these individual attributes as “qualities” rather than quirks, but perhaps that’s because I’m just more advanced than some people. (i.e., a certain Desperate Housewife.)

Nevertheless, I will try to assemble what I consider to be some of my most interesting “qualities,” several of which may have been referred to at one time or another as a “quirk.” Certainly not by me, of course, but by other people. After all, aren’t your quirks really pointed out by someone other than yourself? Because without their input, you might think everything you’re doing is perfectly normal. Unless one of your quirks happens to involve strange rituals with pig blood and dead chickens, in which case you might actually be displaying cult behavior rather than a quirk. But I digress.

Another interesting assumption of Roxy’s request was the requirement of listing six different quirks. As if everyone had six basic quirks they could easily assemble at any given moment. Like having six senses, your six quirks were as obvious as your eye or hair color. (The proverbial sixth sense being your ability to see dead people, like Bruce Willis’s career.) But what if you had seven quirks, or a hundred and eight? Or what if, God forbid, you only had two? And you had to make up the rest just so you wouldn’t be embarrassed. Or even worse, what if one of your “quirks” was the fear of actually having to talk about your various quirks? What then, Miss Roxy, what then?

So now that I’ve successfully drawn out my sarcastic introduction to a fourth paragraph, I think it’s time to tackle the issue at hand: the public pronouncement of my most interesting “qualities.” And here they are:

One of the major “qualities” that distinguishes me from the masses is my obsession with anything animated. Disney animated movies are my favorite, but I also like classic Saturday morning cartoons like Scooby Doo and Bugs Bunny, as well as the more artsy Japanese animation from Hayao Miyazaki. I believe that in a former life (if there is such a thing), I probably started out as an animated character. Perhaps a pencil drawing or a sketch on a napkin. (You may even have seen me as a forest animal in “Snow White” or as one of the puppets in “Pinocchio.”) Animation is magical to me. I am literally drawn to the colors, the characters, the stories and the overall feeling that “everything will be all right in the end.” If this is a quirk, I gladly accept it with all the candy-coated optimism such an attribute implies. After all, without optimism we have nothing.

A second quality of mine is that animals love me. I’ve been told by many pet owners that their dog or cat is usually hesitant or fearful around most people, but feel immediately at ease around me. I’m not sure if it’s because I smell like a butcher shop or I remind them of a fire hydrant they once peed on, but I definitely have a kinship with our four legged friends. And I don’t mean in a Horse Whisperer sort of way; more like an understanding of what it’s like to be the underdog. (Literally) My black cat, Trey, who appears in the Cat Clips videos, sleeps by my head every night as if there to protect me.

I’m addicted to chocolate chip cookies and peanut butter. (Not at the same time. Although I have tried mixing them in the past, and rather liked the results. Though my waste and teeth do not.)

I don’t drink coffee unless it has some kind of flavored creamer in it. And I don’t mean the powdered kind, which never really provides the fatty creaminess one requires in their cup of coffee. (For more on my coffee requirements, please refer to My Quest for the Perfect Cup of Coffee)

I sleep in the nude. This isn’t really a quirk. More of an advertisement.

I love the glamour and mystique of Old time Hollywood. From the silent comedies of Charlie Chaplin and Harold Lloyd, to the Film Noir classics of the thirties and forties, to the big MGM musicals of the fifties and sixties, I’m a classic film buff. (I also like movies produced after the sixties, but there is something very special about the older films that I truly appreciate. ) Hitchcock is one of my personal favorites.

And finally, and probably most significantly, my constant need to “create” is one of the driving forces in my life. It doesn’t really matter what form it takes (playwriting, drawing, singing, blog writing, making movies, etc.), as long as it gives me the opportunity to express myself. That is what gives me the most pleasure, and is probably my biggest quirk. Though I think of it as more of a gift. And if others happen to like what I create, that’s just icing on the cake.

But that’s just me. What are your six “qualities” that people might consider quirky?

Henson's Hell Wins An Award!

Henson’s Hell has won an award. And I didn’t even know such things were possible. But Jon from The Ups, Downs and Sometimes Insane World of Freelance Writing has given me the esteemed “Arte y Pico Award.” It is part of a tag initiative from the “Arte y Pico Blog,” where you pass along the compliment to other bloggers.

I am truly honored by this award, and have so many little people to thank for helping me achieve such recognition. Yes, it has been a long struggle to win this achievement, and yes, I had to compromise every moral and value I held sacred just to scratch and claw my way to the winner's circle. But now I am here, and I have no one to thank but myself. And all the millions of pixels that help form my blog every day. (Forgive me for this little sarcastic interlude, but I just couldn't help myself.)

Now on to the important stuff. To follow are the rules and then my own personal selection of five deserving winners:

1) You have to pick 5 blogs that you consider deserve this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and also for contributing to the blogging community, no matter what language

2) Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.

3) Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.

4) Award-winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of "Arte y Pico" blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award. http://arteypico.blogspot.com/.

And though I wish I could tag everyone with this special honor, I can only choose five. And here they are:

Meltwater. Torrents. Meanderings. Delta.

Roxiticus Desperate Housewives

Magic and Moments at Dragonfly Cottage

Daisy the Curly Cat

The Roller Blog

Please visit all the great blogs above, and see why they are at the top of their game.

Cat Clips--Litter Etiquette

Please click on the photo above to watch a short one-minute video from the "Cat Clips" series entitled "Litter Etiquette." In this episode, our two cats discuss the finer points of proper cat box policies.

When Memory Manifestation Leads to Physical Ramifications

Did you ever have a sense memory that was so strong it could illicit a physical response from you just by thinking about it? For instance, when you hear the sound of a lawn mower, or the smell of freshly cut grass, does it suddenly harken you back to your youth when perhaps you were responsible for that family chore? Or does the smell of cinnamon cause your mouth to immediately start salivating? Perhaps a song comes on the radio that takes you back to a favorite time in your life, or a sad memory of someone no longer with us?

Actors are taught to become aware of these types of sensations so they can use them in their creative process. The more an actor can associate with a specific emotional response, the more credible their performance. That’s why some actors can cry at the drop of a hat—they’ve trained themselves to recall a specific memory in their lives that will always help them get that kind of reaction.

I have a very strong sense memory from my days playing a clarinet in band that still gives me the same kind of sensation today as when I originally experienced it. In fact, sometimes the sensation is even stronger than the original incident that inspired it. I’m speaking of the feeling you get if you’ve ever tried to play a clarinet with a dry reed. Not only does the instrument produce a loud high pitched shriek, but you also experience a physical reaction similar to what you might feel when someone drags their nails across a blackboard. Both the sound and the action combined are what set off your physical response. For me, my neck and shoulders scrunch up, and my face stretches out in a very pained expression as if I’d just bitten into a sour lemon. I also get some kind of tingly sensation which ripples down my back, as if my muscles were being individually repulsed by the experience.

(Side note: As I was trying to find the words to describe my physical reaction for you, I actually had to keep recalling the sense memory over and over again like some kind of masochist. And to be honest, right now my back and mouth are physically exhausted from the efforts---that’s how strong my sense memory of this silly little event is. I can physically make myself uncomfortable just by recalling it.)

And though not recommended, this type of skill might be useful if you ever wanted to get out of a social obligation or avoid a specific type of chore. All you have to do is try and recall how it felt to be so physically sick you couldn’t even get out of bed, and you’ll be surprised how your body will react to that kind of committed recollection. The more you concentrate and try to remember, the worse you’re going to feel, giving you an outward physical manifestation of your internal memory. The problem is, sense memory can sometimes be so strong and your abilities so effective, that you actually might start to trick yourself into believing you’re actually sick. In which case, I would counteract those feelings with sense memories of how good you felt once you recovered.

Anyway, I find it interesting that my body can retain a physical response from something that happened to me over thirty years ago, and repeat it verbatim any time I happen to recall the event. But then again, I have friends who will actually start to vomit just by mentioning the word “vomit,” so I guess I’m lucky my sense memory doesn’t include a weak stomach as well.

But that’s just me. Do you have a strong sense memory that gives you a physical reaction any time you think of it?

Does a Desire for Dance Denote a Decade of Depression?

There has been a very interesting phenomenon taking place in the last few years which is both encouraging and disturbing. I’m speaking of the reemergence of dance into our national psyche. With a slew of shows, from the ever-tacky and totally addictible “Dancing with the Stars” to the more exciting “So You Think You Can Dance” to the horribly dull “Dance Wars: Carrie Ann vs. Bruno” (should have been renamed “Dance Bores”), America has been lapping up dance shows with a hunger I’ve never witnessed before.

When I was a child, I loved to dance. I would put on my records and dance around the living room as if I were Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire. It wasn’t until later, when I tried dancing around my first grade classroom that I discovered this was not acceptable behavior for a boy. The unfortunate consequences I experienced later on the playground further solidified my realization that dance was something best left to the girls. Of course, when I was in college and started going out to clubs, dancing was an acceptable part of the dating ritual. (Though I also learned you should never look like you’re enjoying it too much. Just bob your head and move your body, and keep a slight grimace on your face. That was acceptable dance protocol in my neck of the woods.)

But now dancing has come back with a vengeance, with unlikely support from macho sport stars like Emmet Smith and Helio Castroneves. It almost feels like “opposite day,” because even ballroom dancing has become “cool” again. But why is this phenomenon occurring now? Why are Americans so thirsty for talent, and entertainment, and a good pirouette? Could it be that the last four or five years have been so stressful, and the current state of the economy so scary, that we are harkening back to the days of the Great Depression when big Hollywood musicals were the best escape from the harsh reality of life?

Seems plausible. Only this time it’s different, because there appears to be a new respect for dancing, fueled by wild new moves of energetic street performers and new dance forms like crumping and hip hop. So though I am very happy that dancing has become “cool” again, I’m afraid it points to a much bigger problem. Depression. When people are depressed, or when there is a depressed economy, people naturally turn to something that is out of the norm. They gravitate towards fantasy or romance stories, and find comfort in the energy and talent they observe in extraordinary individuals. No wonder talent competitions of all kinds have emerged over the last few years. We need someone to root for. Someone to throw our support behind. Someone who will ultimately unify as a country. How appropriate that we turn to an art form that is the ultimate expression of man’s strength and versatility, of his creative and emotional capacity, of his triumph over challenges and difficulty. If only our country’s leaders had a little more of those qualities, we might not be in the current state we’re in.

Even Paul Abdul, not the brightest lightbulb in the lamp, seems to have hit upon the current collective thought with her appropriately titled "I Want to Dance Like There's No Tomorrow." I'm hoping the song isn't also prophetic as well.

But that’s just me. What do you think of the current dance craze?

How to Deftly Deal with a Distracted Listener

Have you ever been in the middle of a conversation with someone when you suddenly realize they’re not even listening to you? Sure, they appear like they’re listening—they nod their head at various intervals, or interject pointless questions to keep you going. But as far as "active listening" is concerned, they obviously “checked out” long ago.

This practice is becoming a standard during phone conversations, when people are easily distracted by other factors while talking to you. Especially people who insist on calling you when they’re in traffic jam, so you can listen to them constantly scream expletives at other drivers. (So much fun!) Or the parent who calls you just as his child is having a tantrum, so you can suffer through two simultaneous conversations—the one the parent is having with you, and the one the parent is having with his child. And guess which conversation eventually wins? That’s right, the escalating argument with the child. Sometimes the parent even leaves your conversation to go yell at his children, and then never returns. They also forget to hang up the phone, allowing you an uncomfortably intimate peak into their domestic dynamics, an opportunity best left untaken. (Trust me!)

Nevertheless, I am used to people zoning out during phone conversations. We tend to be a society addicted to multi-tasking, so most phone conversations now take place while people are working, driving, on the computer, reading a book, or any number of other actions which allow them to talk at the same time. (However, if I ever hear anyone flush a toilet at any time during our conversation, I immediately end the call. After all, there are certain “distractions” I don’t need to be a part of.)

So during phone conversations, I give some leeway when it comes to a person’s attention span. But when someone is standing directly in front of you and you suddenly notice their eyes glaze over, or their attention shift to the table next to you, chances are they’re thoughts are elsewhere. At this point, I usually stop talking, allowing their processing system to catch up on their lack of participation. The more abrupt, the better, because this will immediately jolt the inactive listener into “defense mode.” They suddenly become very attentive and scramble to remember the last tangible thing they heard you say. Usually it was something you said at the beginning of the conversation, a realization that not only embarrasses your distracted listener, but hopefully keeps them attentive for the remainder of your exchange.

So whatever happened to good listening skills? Have we become so busy and over-extended in our lives that we need our conversations served to us in small bite-size portions in order to fit them into the rest of our schedule? To me, there is nothing more satisfying or stimulating than a good conversation with people I enjoy. I hope the era of text messaging doesn’t eventually encapsulate our interchanges into a series of blips and beeps, because the human voice is a terrible thing to waste.

But that’s just me. What do you do when you notice someone zone out during a conversation? Or do you even notice? (Which may have completely different implications.)

Cat Clips--Social Outing

Please click on the photo above to watch a short one-minute film from the Cat Clip series called "Social Outing." In this episode, two cats discuss their dinner plans with another cat couple.

Wearing Out the Work-At-Home Wardrobe

My commute to work is a short one. I roll out of bed, step into my slippers, and meander down the hallway into my office, which is literally ten feet away. It is not a stressful or difficult journey, and I don’t have to interact with anyone along the way. Except maybe a few cats, whose only interest in me involves the distribution of their morning meals. Once that particular ritual takes place, they remain fairly quiet for the rest of the day.

Otherwise, I arrive at my work without any of the anger or anxiety that sometimes accompanies the morning commute. It is a true blessing, not to mention a real money saver on tolls, take-out lunches, and office birthday parties. (The ladder being a double-edged sword, as you’re no longer asked to contribute to the birthday present fund, nor are you given any more birthday presents either. Que sera, sera!)

Anyway, the casual relaxed atmosphere also means that my office attire has been significantly pared down from a colorful assortment of designer clothes and expensive shoes to a few old t-shirts and a growing supply of lounge pants. Yes, lounge pants. I know they’re just glorified pajamas bottoms, but I really love them. I have a pair in every color, pattern and print imaginable. And now I finally understand why the much lampooned “house dress” was such a favorite among housewives in the sixties and seventies. You could literally walk around with everything hanging out, without actually having everything hanging out.

It also explains why one of my drama teachers in college insisted on wearing a pair of sweatpants to work every day. His standard outfit was a white polo shirt, sweat pants and tennis shoes. He directed many of the musicals at school, so I guess he never wanted to feel constricted should he suddenly need to launch into some kind of intricate choreography, or demonstrate a proper arabesque. Not that he ever did. Being a rather large overweight person with a prominent stomach, his range of dance technique never strayed far from the traditional cakewalk, a device he utilized in almost every musical he directed. (Including the annual Nativity reenactment, which was no easy task! Imagine a chorus of sheep, goats and Wise Man doing the cakewalk across the stage behind the Manger. Pure inspired lunacy.)

But as a role model for untraditional work attire, the teacher was a ground-breaker. And though at the time, I found his clothing choice to be somewhat undignified for a man of fifty-five, I totally understand now why he did it. Comfort, pure and simple. Now I’m not suggesting that every office environment change their attire to gym clothing, but if you’re a work-at-home individual like myself, comfort is key when it comes to what you wear around the house.

Not to say this overly casual wardrobe doesn’t have its drawbacks. For instance, any time the postal worker or UPS man knocks on my door with a delivery, I must quickly change from lounge pants into jeans because I wouldn’t be caught dead answering the door in lounge pants. Especially since I tend to wear the same shirt and pants for several days in a row, a practice which has been observed and commented on by more than one of my neighbors. Talk about embarrassing.

But before you accuse me of being uncleanly, I assure you that I do not wear clothing that has experienced any sort of spillage or staining due to food or drinking mishaps. Nor do I lie around in perspiration infested garments that make me smell like a litter box. If the clothing doesn’t smell good, I don’t wear it. I’m not a sloth, after all. Just a very relaxed and happy employee.

But that’s just me. What is your favorite work-at-home attire?

The Procrastination Against Picking up Pennies

Have you ever noticed a penny lying on the floor and not bothered to pick it up? Even though the old adage says “Find a penny, Pick it up, All day long you’ll have good luck.” And yet you inherently know that a penny isn’t worth that much, so you pass it by without a second thought. In fact, if someone ever said to you “A penny for your thoughts,” you would probably insist on getting at least a dollar before you responded. (Am I right?)

Even when a penny falls out of your pocket, you never bother to pick it up. You just leave it wherever it lands. Over by the bookcase, next to the bathtub, caught between the floorboards. You see them all the time, lying in their place, waiting to be picked up. You mean to pick them up. You tell yourself to pick them up. But you don’t. They’re just not worth enough to you. So you leave them lying there. Alone, abandoned, gathering dust. Is this just a case of laziness on your part, or do you perhaps have a serious issue with anti-penny-ism?

All kidding aside, what if this act of defiance against copper currency actually represented a much bigger problem? What if ignoring the penny is really our way of procrastinating against something we don’t want to deal with? As if it’s showing us that we aren’t attentive to the little things. I mean, if we can’t even bend down to pick up a penny off the floor, what does that say about the other little “issues” in our life that we’re ignoring?

So the pennies start to pile up. They become a sort of physical manifestation of our chaotic state of mind. The more pennies we see, the more we probably need to resolve some kind of conflict in our life. And until we confront the problem, there will always be pennies lying around to remind us. That’s why it’s so hard to pick them up. It means facing our demons.

Anyway, it’s just a theory. It probably doesn’t work with dimes or quarters, though. And definitely not with Susan B. Anthony dollars.

Getting Irrationally Angry at Inanimate Objects

Have you ever had one of those days where everything seems to be going against you? It all begins when you wake up to find yourself tangled in the sheets. Naturally, you try to get yourself untwisted. But the more you attempt to unravel yourself, the deeper into the sheets you go. Eventually, you end up rolling off the bed, as the sheets magically unwrap themselves on the way down, as if they’d never been a problem to begin with.

Slightly irritated, but still a little groggy, you venture into the bathroom to pull yourself together. But as soon as you flip the switch, the light burns out, leaving you in the dark long enough to slam your toe into the toolbox you forgot to remove from the middle of the floor the previous evening. (And why did you bring a whole toolbox into the bathroom anyway? You were only going to hang a picture, so all you really needed to bring was a hammer and a nail…not the entire collection of Stanley Tools you got for Christmas.) Nevertheless, you curse the toolbox and the defective light, and hurry downstairs to the kitchen to make yourself a nice hot cup of coffee. At least that will make you feel better.

Only you forgot to buy a new supply of coffee, and the only thing resembling caffeine in the household is an old can of International Flavors somebody gave you for Memorial Day a few years ago. (Who gives presents on Memorial Day, anyway?) The flavor is some kind of mint chocolate guava mixture that sounds more like an ice cream than coffee, but you open the can anyway, hoping that a quick shot of caffeine will help you face the day.

After preparing the coffee and taking your first sip, you notice something strange about the contents. The coffee appears to have a crunchy aftertaste, which you find a little odd. So you reopen the can of International Flavors to take a closer look. Sure enough, the powdered mixture appears to be moving. You quickly spit out the remaining coffee in your mouth and run to the bathroom for Listerine. Only you forget about the missing light and the toolbox (which you still have not removed from the middle of the floor), and once again slam into it with your toe. Although this time it’s the other toe, so at least you’re getting a fair distribution of pain.

After cleansing your palette of any residual maggots, you decide to take a shower to clear your head. But once you step into the shower, you slip on a small piece of soap lying on the floor. You manage to catch yourself by grabbing the shower caddy attached to the wall, an action that has more consequences than you could possibly anticipate. First, the caddy comes unhinged from the wall, sending you downward again. Then, on it’s way down, it manages to open, spilling its entire contents allover your body.

And this is when you finally lose it. You begin swearing and screaming at the shower caddy as you throw its various contents out of the tub. One of the bottles manages to hit your bathroom mirror, cracking it ever so slightly in one corner. Another bottle lands in the cat box on top of a freshly produced pile of crap. Each of these incidents causes you to get even angrier, until every inanimate object within your reach becomes your enemy. The rugs on the floor are ready to trip you, the toothbrush wants to stab you, the scale will lie about your weight. It seems like everything around you is on a mission to drive you mad. And the more irrational you become, the more it seems like you’re on an episode of “When Inanimate Objects Attack.”

If I were being logical, I’d realize all the mishaps I suffered were my own doing. But since I can’t possibly blame myself for such antics, I tend to lash out at the objects around me, as if they were formulating a giant conspiracy against me. It’s stupid, I know. And ridiculous. But it’s one of those behaviors you don’t realize you’re doing until after you’ve already done it. And by that time, you’ve already destroyed half the bathroom with a passionate need to avenge your honor.

But that’s just me. Have you ever gotten irrationally angry at an inanimate object?

The Incredible Journey of Wine

I’ve never been a particularly big wine drinker. Except for the occasional sip of wine I got during church communion, wine never held much interest for me. And because of a rather embarrassing incident at a recent wine tasting party (humorously recounted in the online mystery “It Happened in Plainfield”), I don’t think I’ll have occasion to ever raise a glass of Chablis again. And yet I still receive bottles of wine as presents from friends and relatives. Even though most of them know I don’t drink wine, they still insist on bringing me a bottle every time they come for dinner or a visit. Unless they were intending for me to open it while they were there, I can’t really see a reason for the gesture. (In fact, it really seems more like an empty gesture, because they hadn’t bothered to listen the last seven times we discussed my dislike for the beverage…but I digress…)

Anyway, the best thing about getting a bottle of wine is that you can pass it along to someone else at your next dinner party, or birthday celebration, or family intervention. (Well, maybe not the latter.) Which is exactly what I do. Every time I need to give someone a present, I go to the trusty old supply of wine bottles I’ve accumulated, and pick one that doesn’t look too dusty. And since I know very little about wine, or their preferred expiration dates, I’m not really sure if a 1993 Pinot Noir is better than a 2007 Chardonnay. And frankly, I don’t care, either. As long as my host is happy with my selection, that’s all that counts.

And though I’d like to think I pay close attention to the intricacies of the bottles and the types of wines that pass through my doors, I rarely look at them before banishing them to the bottom of the liquor cabinet. All except one particular bottle which I happened to notice one day. It had a very unique design on it, but I also discovered that someone had scratched my name on the back of the label. The writing was small and almost undetectable, but it was obviously someone’s attempt to separate this particular bottle from the masses they intended to distribute. As I stuffed the bottle into an overpriced gift bag to give away that night, I tried to remember who might have given me that particular bottle. But after searching my memory for maybe two minutes, I was distracted by something else and never thought of it again.

Until two months later, when I happened to notice the same bottle on the wine rack of a friend’s house. It was not the same friend I’d given the bottle to, but rather someone else who had apparently received the bottle from them. And I knew it was the same bottle, because I found my name still scratched on the label on back. Obviously, no one else had the eye for detail that I did, though I certainly didn’t mention my discovery that evening.

Then about three weeks later, I attended a birthday party and found the EXACT SAME bottle of wine among the gifts. At first, I found it terribly amusing. But then I began to wonder if somehow the bottle of wine was stalking me. Maybe it was trying to punish me for giving it away in the first place. Maybe I was meant to keep that bottle of wine for some reason, and there was some kind of universal karma that was constantly bringing it back to my attention. Or maybe I was just a little tipsy from too many jello shots, and so the bottle of wine took on much more significance that it needed to.

Needless to say, the bottle did eventually make it back to me. Nearly a year after it was originally given it out, the winsome wine had made an incredible journey around my social circle, and eventually ended up right back where it started. And who knows how many other homes it had visited besides my friends? It made me wonder if all bottles of wine go through a similar journey on their way to the proper owner. Too bad you couldn’t put a notch on a bottle every time you gave one out, so others would know how many times it had already been passed before they received it. You could even make a game of it. Track the journey of wine.

At any rate, this amazing bottle of wine now remains a permanent fixture in my cupboard. It deserves a special place in my bottle collection, because like a young adult, it went out into the world, had a little adventure, and now has come home to age gracefully. And who knows, someday I might even drink it. After all, should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought some wine? I think not.

Mouth Organ Karaoke--ROCK AND ROLL

Please click on the photo above to watch a short one-minute movie from the "Mouth Organ Karaoke" series. In this film, a small baby goes on an adventure and experiences a different type of "Rock and Roll."

The Blatant Overuse of LOL, ROFLOL and Other Electronic Acronyms

I recently got an e-mail from a friend with the following acronym in it: FMTYEWTK. Not being a frequent acronym user, I was a little confused as to what he was trying to tell me. Later in the letter he also used LSHMBH and WYSITWIRL, which made me wonder if I needed some kind of special Superhero Decoder Ring in order to translate his message. I realize we live in a world that is moving too fast, and people just don’t have time to write out entire sentences anymore, but come on!!! What the hell am I supposed to make of a bunch of letters strung together in a nonsensical fashion unless I’m already privy to the secret language it’s composed in?

I think some e-mail, text message and IM users have forgotten that some of us still live in the real world where communication means using actual words and phrases instead of generic fillers like LOL (laugh out loud) and ROFLOL (rolling on the floor laughing out loud). These two acronyms have been used so often, you’d think we had a nation of giddy idiots. Every time I see ROFLOL used in blog postings or in e-mails, I immediately begin to imagine what the person looks like as he’s rolling on the floor laughing so hard. And if he uses the abbreviation more than once in a paragraph, I’m tempted to call the local Psych Ward to go check him out. After all, if someone can’t control themselves from falling on the floor in a fit of laughter, they may have something akin to epilepsy, which is certainly nothing to laugh at.

And I also don’t think everything that someone says or thinks is LOL funny. I rarely laugh out loud, except in the privacy of my own home. So when someone describes their day, and uses the LOL acronym after every sentence, I begin to wonder how good their sense of humor actually is. “I went to see my mother. LOL. She was in the hospital. LOL. The nurse was very cute. LOL. I ate all her Jell-O cubes. LOL. She got mad at me. LOL. Told me never to come back unless I brought ice cream. LOL.” As with everything, less is more.

Another variation of this acronym is ROTFLMAOWPIMP, which literally means “Rolling on the floor laughing my a** off while peeing in my pants.” I don’t think I need to tell you what kind of colorful imagery that phrase invokes.

Students and twenty-somethings are probably the biggest abusers of this new form of electronic language, because they’re the ones obsessed with text-messaging their friends at every opportunity they get. A visit with my nieces now means frequent interruptions in our conversation; because they must constantly respond to the other five “text” conversations they’re having at the same time. Undivided attention appears to be a thing of the past, as multi-tasking conversations is now the “new Black.”

I guess I wouldn’t mind all the acronyms, if they were short and made sense. But right now, it takes so much time to figure out what each letter means that reading a simple one-paragraph e-mail might require a half hour of deciphering. Especially for someone like me, who falls into the “PCMCIA” category (People can’t master computer industry acronyms). And don’t get me wrong, I love a mystery. I just don’t think every e-mail should be akin to solving the Sunday Junior Jumble.

At any rate, I felt the need to expound on this topic for some reason. So for those of you who are also a little shaky when it comes to cracking an acronym, here are the meanings of the various phrases in the first paragraph. LSHMBH means “Laughing so hard my belly hurts” (Maybe you should go see a doctor about this) and WYSITWIRL means “What you see is TOTALLY WORTHLESS IN REAL LIFE!” (I can’t even imagine ever having the need to use this phrase, so I’m still not sure what my friend was trying to convey with it either.)

But perhaps the most important acronym is the very first one, FMTYEWTK, which means “Far more than you ever needed to know,” a clear reference to how I feel about the content of this post.

But that’s just me. What do you think about the overuse of acronyms?

"Filler Television" Pads Programming with Unnecessary Bulk

How dumb do television producers think we are? Apparently pretty dumb, based on the growing phenomenon known as “filler television” that seems to permeate a number of very popular TV shows. And I don’t even know if “filler television” is the correct term for all the “padding” producers use to extend their lack of content into longer programs; but it seems like an appropriate moniker.

If you’re not sure what I’m referring to, I will give you some examples. “American Idol” is the biggest and most popular abuser of “filler” television, especially when they extend a two-minute elimination ceremony into an hour-long event. (Or a two-hour event, in the case of the overly hyped season finales.) Having little original content in which to fill the time slot, they regurgitate footage of the last episode over and over again until our brains are turned to mush. To me, this is insulting. Why would I want to sit through highlights of a show I saw only last night? Do they really think I won’t remember what happened unless they replay it for me? Am I really that vacuous?

I also think it’s ridiculous when the show comes back after a commercial break and before we can continue the program, we must sit through five minutes of recap on what we just saw before the break. This is not only insulting, but degrading, as the producers are clearly indicating that we can’t even remember what happened five minutes ago. Which makes me wonder if television is still geared toward the lowest common denominator, or we’ve all just become “the lowest common denominator” because we watch television.

If I want to watch a TV show again, I’ll wait for a rerun. I don’t need you to show it again the next day in bite-size pieces as if I’m suffering from Alzheimer’s. It only contributes to the dumbing down of America when you have to give a recap every twenty-four hours to make sure we're paying attention. Imagine if that convention spilled over into “real life,” and someone would have to remind you the day after your wedding that you’d actually gone through with it.

“Last night, the couple fought for their relationship in a nail-biting matrimonial ceremony that can only be referred to as ostentatious. Hearts were joined, wine was spilled, and the Best Man ran away with the new Mother-in-Law. Yes, it was an exciting evening of thrills and surprises. But it’s nothing compared with what the Honeymoon might offer. Stay tuned for upcoming scenes.”

All I can say is, Thank God for DVR. It used to be that I would only use it this helpful recording device to fast forward through commercial breaks. But now I’ve found that I can actually fast forward through most of the shows, too. Last night, I watched the results show for “Dancing with the Stars” in a record-breaking four minutes. And you know what? I didn’t miss a thing. And today, I feel like some of my brain cells are actually started to regenerate themselves.

The Incredible Lightness of Blogging

Ever since I can remember, I’ve enjoyed writing down my thoughts. Even if it was only for little notes I’d pass to friends in Algebra class, I always made the most of my writing endeavors. My teachers were not always thrilled with my literary accomplishments, however. Especially on the days when my private missives were rudely intercepted by the Teacher’s Pet. (And I mean this literally. Our Algebra Instructor had a lizard in her class, which had a nasty habit of hopping out of its cage to chase after the many notes I’d throw to my friends on the other side of the room. If the Lizard was lucky enough to retrieve one, he would immediately run to the front of the class and deposit his “treasure” at our teacher’s feet. This led to a very uncomfortable confrontation between the teacher, the lizard and me; the end result being a week of detention for me and an extra can of crickets for the lizard. Needless to say, I’ve never been very fond of either Math or Reptiles.)

At any rate, once I learned about blogging, I thought this would be a perfect avenue for my “note” writing. I could jot down my thoughts about anything and everything, and then send them out into the world to see where they landed. If someone read them, fine. If not, they would just meld into the ever-growing universe of data out in cyberspace. But even then, I still felt like I was contributing to something. (Even if what I was contributing to was just a giant junk pile of jargon.)

Today I am celebrating another year of sending my missives out into the world via the Internet. It has been a great experience, allowing me to write about topics I wouldn’t normally give much attention to. (At least not in public.) But the universe is vast, and so are the topics in which to cover. And though I tend to gravitate toward the amusing side of pop culture, there are other times when I’ve felt like ranting on topics of a much more serious nature. (Not TOO serious, though. There’s only so much grimacing one can do in a day before it starts to affect the elasticity of your skin.)

Therefore, I try to keep my “column” light and reader-friendly, looking at the world through humorous-colored glasses. I find that it’s much easier to attract readers if you keep things light. And they might even come back more than once if they find your writing funny. (Even if they only come back to drop another Entrecard in your box, it’s still an opportunity for you to grab their attention.)

In conclusion, this blog has given me a great outlet for my creativity and imagination to run wild. So if you care to join me on my journey at any of the various “stops” (i.e. postings) along the way, I welcome your company. And don't feel the need to bring any of your own baggage with you. Because with me, you’ll always be traveling “light.”

Taming the Terrible Talker with the Two Minute Tip

Have you ever been to a social get-together where one overly-talkative person “hogs” the conversation? No matter how many times other people try to contribute, they are constantly interrupted by the “hog’s” incessant need to speak? And though everyone around him seems to notice his lack of social etiquette, nobody is rude enough to point it out. So the “hog” continues to roll around in his own mud, spewing out stories and anecdotes until you are literally covered in his material. It becomes more of a “Hogversation” than a true social interaction, leaving the participants feeling tired and suffocated by such a domineering orator.

But how do you tactfully tell someone to shut up when you are certain to hurt their feelings and cause embarrassment to everyone around them? It is not an easy thing to accomplish, especially if the oblivious talkers assume their listeners are thoroughly captivated with lengthy diatribes. (Stay-at-home parents are often guilty of this type of excessive talking, as they are usually hungry to speak to anyone over the age of ten. These types of diatribes are sometimes sub-categorized as “Momversations,” referring to the repetitive nature of the subject matter.)

My favorite rule of thumb is to gently introduce the “Two Minute Rule” into the conversation. The basis of the Two Minute Rule is pretty simple--NEVER dominate a conversation for more than two minutes. To talk longer than two minutes makes you sound like you're giving a speech, and this should be avoided at all costs. True, some stories might take longer than two minutes to tell, so naturally there are exceptions to this rule. But if you tend to be the type of person that links five or six stories together without taking a breath, than perhaps you too suffer from “Hogversation.” It’s much better to bring up a topic, ask others what their opinions are, and then contribute your ideas or opinions during the intervals.

I have one friend who has a severe case of “Hogversation,” as she happily recounts one tale after another (usually about her children), and seems oblivious that others might want to speak as well. And when the rare opportunity for entry into the conversation is granted, she usually has a better story about your “topic,” and therefore interrupts you to immediately tell it. Most of the time they never get back to your story, and are onto another topic within minutes.

To avoid this type of situation in the future, I suggest instituting the two-minute rule at the beginning of each social gathering. It will make everyone aware of the etiquette right off the bat, so you don’t have to embarrass anyone later. And then if someone does “break” the rule, you can jokingly remind them without making it sound like an attack. You can even make a game of it. (“Hey, let’s play the two minute rule tonight. Anyone who breaks it has to take a drink.”) Not that you necessarily have to make every conversation a drinking game, but you get the idea.

But that’s just me. How do you tactfully train a Conversation Hog?

Are We Really Entitled to Feel So Entitled?

What makes someone feel “entitled”? Is it something innate or something we learn? Personally, I've never felt "entitled" to anything, so I'm constantly amazed when I meet people who are blatantly arrogant regarding their rights and liberties. Yes, we have freedom of speech and freedom of choice, but do we also need to impose that freedom every opportunity we get? Has the “I can do anything I want” mentality become so completely ingrained in our culture that we can’t see past our own selfishness?

A feeling of entitlement can rear its ugly head in even the smallest of ways. When someone goes to the front of a line and cuts in, because they don’t feel it necessary to wait like everyone else. Or when someone suddenly cuts you off in traffic because they felt “entitled” to get somewhere faster than you. Or a co-worker who constantly complains about the salary and benefits they feel they’re entitled to, even though their position or job performance doesn’t warrant such perks. Or my favorite—“That’s not my job!”

I’ve met many people who feel they’re entitled to a better life, a better job, a better salary. Because of their age, experience, resourcefulness, dependability, etc., they should be further along on their career path. I understand these kinds of feelings and frustrations, because they’re part of a natural ambition to succeed. However, when those feelings escalate into attitudes of superiority and self-importance, they’re imposing their need for distinction on everyone else around them.

I am especially surprised when feelings of entitlement are displayed in children and teenagers. Last year on a TV show called “Kid Nation,” a young girl named Taylor perfectly embodied this brand of youthful arrogance. She referred to herself constantly as a Beauty Pageant winner who shouldn’t have to get dirty and help with chores because Pageant girls “don’t do dirty work.” She refused to help on many occasions and basically did whatever she wanted. And if someone ever questioned her actions, she would just yell back at them, “Deal With It!” And this girl was ten years old. Can you imagine how much that attitude will manifest itself by the time she’s in her twenties? And can you imagine what her parents must be like?

To me, the only kind of entitlement we all share is the right to air and water. If we were born on this earth, than we can assume those elements are freely at our disposal; everything else is up for grabs. In America, we are lucky enough to have constitutional rights that give us freedoms and privileges not afforded to many people around the world. So does that also give us the right to feel entitled to anything we want?

When I think about my life and all the “things” I have, I don’t feel entitled. I feel lucky. Lucky that my life is not too stressful, that my accommodations are more than comfortable, and that I can make a good living at something I enjoy. But even with all that, I don’t feel “entitled” to anything. I worked hard for what I have now. I wasn’t ever handed anything on a plate that said “Here, you’re entitled to this.”

So what’s the point of all this ranting? I guess I felt the need to put down into words the feelings that have been festering in me for quite some time. If we are all human beings, why are some people more “entitled” than others? Aren’t we all made from the same clay, processed in the same manner, and sustained with the same basic food and drink? Is there some rubber stamp somewhere that brands certain individuals with different rights and status? Because if there isn’t, I wish some people would just get off their “high horses” and put their sense of self-importance into perspective.

Feeling empowered is one thing. I feel empowered all the time, but that doesn’t make me also feel entitled to anything. It just makes me feel like I can accomplish my goals if I’m diligent and put forth an effort. It doesn’t mean I’m looking for a short-cut just because I feel I have a right to it. Because once empowerment changes to entitlement, there’s a dramatic shift in perspective which can keep you running on a negative treadmill for years. Empowerment can move you forward, while entitlement can keep you stuck in the same place, forever complaining about the wrongs you’ve suffered, or the rewards you haven’t gotten.

So there you have it, my essay on entitlement. I have no idea why I felt so empowered to write such an opus, because I certainly wasn’t entitled to it. Or was I?

Where Do You Stand on Butter vs. Better vs. Whipped?

I've always loved frosting. A good chocolate frosting, to be precise. The actual cake it sits on top of, not so much. Because for me, it’s the frosting that makes or breaks a cake. If the frosting is good, then the cake will at least have something to compliment it. If the frosting is bad or less than satisfying, then it really doesn’t matter how good the cake is; the overall taste has been tainted.

When I was a child, I once asked my parents for a giant bowl of frosting for my birthday. I didn’t even want the cake. Just the frosting, and maybe a couple of candles. To my surprise, that is exactly what they gave me, and the next day I understood why. The resulting stomachache I got from eating all that super sweet frosting forever cured my need for an entire bowl of it. At last, I finally understood the purpose of the cake. It was to cut the taste of the frosting. From then on, I never ate frosting without some form of cake attached.

Which brings us to the point of this article: what is the best form of frosting for a cake? Many people seem to enjoy the light airiness of a whipped cream frosting. Famous NYC bakeries like The Cupcake Café cater to this type of taste. Their cupcakes are beautifully crafted and designed, but the cake is usually refrigerated so it tends to be rather dry. This would be okay if the frosting atop it had a creamy sweetness to counter the cold, almost stale interior. But a whipped cream frosting doesn’t have any weight to it, so the heaviness of the cake tends to overpower it, leaving the consumer gasping for more substance. (At least this consumer does.)

The other kind of frosting currently popular at bakeries is known as “Better” frosting (not to be confused with good old fashioned “Butter” frosting, which is my personal favorite). Better frosting is somebody’s idea of a healthy combination of a whipped cream and butter frosting, with the result that neither expectation is fully satisfied. Most grocery store bakeries tend to use “Better” these days unless you are adamant about requesting a pure butter frosting. (And even then you’re taking your chances.)

Then comes the cream of the crop: Butter frosting. Pure butter, confectioner’s sugar, a little vanilla, and lots of other flavorings make this traditional cake frosting my all-time favorite. And I’m talking about the homemade variety; not the canned version, which has a metallic aftertaste I find less than appetizing on my various cake creations. This type of “manufactured” frosting also shows up on products made by Entenmann’s, or any of the other snack cake companies, where you can practically taste all the preservative s and other chemicals more than the flavor of the frosting. They are poor excuses for the creamy coating that only a butter frosting can provide.

But that’s just me. Where do you stand on the controversy of Butter vs. Better vs. Whipped?

Sometimes All You Need is a Good Chocolate Cake

The past week has been a rather sluggish one for me. Other than watching an inordinate amount of television and moping around the house, I didn’t really do anything one might call “productive.” My lethargic mood was further enhanced by a visit to my Accountant, who informed me that I would NOT be getting a sizeable tax return this year. In fact, I wouldn’t be getting a return at all. I’d be owing money. Harsh! What a great way to start the weekend.

So there I am, lying on my couch all Saturday afternoon, catching up on old episodes of “Lost” and “Kyle XY” and “Lipstick Jungle.” (The latter show easily understandable when played at high speed without the sound on, leaving you with the same empty feeling you’d get if you watched it in real time.) I couldn’t motivate myself to work out, or go outside, or even go to the store. I was stuck in a rut and didn’t know how to get myself out of it. So to escape from my depressing plight, I climbed into bed and slept through the rest of the afternoon.

But then something interesting happened. While I was sleeping, I had a dream about making a chocolate cake. It all seemed so real, from the preparation of the cake, to putting it in the oven, to the eventual frosting of the top and sides. The dream was so vivid and detailed, that when I woke up, I immediately went down to the kitchen to have a piece. Only there wasn’t a cake to eat. Nor were there any ingredients to prepare such a treat. So with renewed vigor and energy, I pulled on some clothes and jumped in the car to do some much needed grocery shopping.

By the time the early evening rolled around, I was not only preparing the cake, but also a rather nice hearty meal consisting of chicken, corn and rice. My dull day had suddenly turned into something quite different, as the activity surrounding the making of the cake had revitalized my senses. And later that evening, when I actually got to sample my chocolate creation, I was amazed at how good it tasted. And how good I felt because I’d taken the time to make it. In fact, my weekend had suddenly become much more productive just because I had a simple little dream.

Now I am tackling the laundry and who knows what might be next? Which leads me to believe that when you’re blue or lethargic, sometimes all it takes is a good chocolate cake!

Scan Wars: A Case of Crazy at the Cash Register

Did you ever have a dream job that had nothing to do with reality? In other words, it wasn’t really an occupation you planned on pursuing, or in any way connected to your career path, but it just looked like a fun job to have.

When I was a kid, my dream job was to manage my own store. At the time, I wanted it to be a comic book store, or something to do with entertainment, but ultimately it didn’t really matter. As long as I had the ability to create the space, set up displays, design marketing materials, and run the cash register, I would be happy. But as there weren’t too many twelve-year-old entrepreneurs in my area, I had to settle for repurposing my bedroom to achieve my goal. And repurpose I did. I spent days setting up the bed, desk and other furniture so the room took on the look of a small convenience store. As people entered the room, they passed a counter that displayed current comic books and movie paraphernalia, as well as a copy of the latest store circular (All printed out by hand).

It didn’t matter to me that my parents were the only ones who ever visited the store; my active imagination dreamed of a day when I could expand beyond the confines of my rather limited accommodations. Perhaps even create a chain of bedroom-inspired boutiques.

Until that time, however, I would have to settle for continually redesigning and reorganizing the same10 x 10 space. My father was always fascinated with what he called my “knack for creating environments,” and even attempted to purchase several items during one of his visits. But this is where a real store and my version differed. I never wanted to actually sell anything I had on display; I just wanted it to look like I was selling items. Which really meant my room was more of a museum than a store, but why quibble?

Yet despite my bedroom’s continuing evolution as a non-commerce venue, the one key ingredient I always lacked was a cash register. And to be honest, the cash register was one of the main reasons I wanted a store. I’m not sure why, but I always found the buttons and noises and rings so fascinating. And even though it was nothing more than a glorified adding machine, there was something almost powerful about the person who got to operate it. (At least in my eyes.) They controlled the money. They controlled the transaction. They controlled the machine with all the bells and whistles.

Like many kids, I thought being a cashier would be a fun job. You got to “play” on the cash register all day, count out lots of money, and talk to all the customers. It seemed like such a cool and powerful position to have. And yet, all during my teenage years, I never had a job that allowed me to work behind a cash register. It wasn’t until college, when I worked at the school bookstore, that I actually had my turn behind the machine. Finally, my “right of passage” into the world of commerce and commercialism had been achieved. And yet after a few months of “living the dream,” I eventually realized my “cash register fantasies” were perhaps a little misplaced.

These days I no longer have the desire to be a cashier, though I sometimes have a slight relapse every time I go to a grocery store checkout. Especially if I get to use one of those self-serve checkout lanes, where you scan the products yourself. I don’t know why, but I love doing it. I love scanning the item, hearing it beep, and then sending the item down the conveyer belt to be packaged by the bag boy. (Which also happens to be me.)

Lately, I’ve even begun to notice a competitive streak that comes over me when I’m at one of these check-outs. As if I’m in some kind of race with the other self-serve lanes, trying to get my groceries down the conveyer belt and into the bags before anyone else. And if I happen to notice someone watching me while I’m scanning, I begin to do little tricks with the items as if I’m putting on some kind of show. (Pathetic, really, as I can’t imagine many people who would ever pay good money to see someone performing grocery acrobatics. Except maybe in Europe.)

But the really weird part comes when I notice a new customer pulling up to the check-out lanes and deciding which line they’re going to stand in. This is when I really feel the pressure to be the best scanner in the store. I begin to sweat as I see them watching me along with the other contestants…er, I mean customers. Which line will they choose? (Pick me, pick me. I’m the best.)

Are they noticing how I find each bar code quickly and run it through the scanner? Are they amazed when I can find a vegetable key code without the use of reading glasses? Are they thrilled when I don’t hold up the line further with a multitude of coupons I must try to stuff into the abnormally small coupon slot? Or are they wondering when the nice men in white coats are going to come and take me away? Whatever their thoughts might be, I get a ridiculous sense of satisfaction when they choose mine. How sad that my sense of self worth can now be measured by a scanner.

But that’s just me. What would your silly dream job be?