The 59th Year

There really isn't anything too awful special about someone's 59th year. No pre-determined landmarks, just a signpost or two. Some are fortunate enough to be able to officially retire in a year and half I suppose. Unlike the 17th year, the year we turn 16 and climb behind the wheel solo for the first time, the 59th year is rather mundane. Turning 58 doesn't really mean much in the scheme of things...unless you choose it to be special.

For me, the simple fact that I will celebrate this birthday above ground is quite consequential. I try not forget that, along with all the other things and people I am fortunate to have surrounding me.

Tonight, Loretta and I will go out to dinner at a popular, local Italian restaurant (not the O.G.!). We will be going compliments of two new found friends who also happen to be my employers.

Yesterday, another new found friend surprised me with a birthday present...a new electric guitar. I sold my old guitar last year because I wasn't playing it, a decision that became regretful as I missed the diversion it provided me.

A couple of weeks ago, Loretta bought me a new "smart" cell phone, something that has made my new endeavor much easier to manage.

I spoke to my cheerful Mom, Betty, via that new cell phone last night. We always wax nostalgic around my birthday, me being her first born. "Geeze", she often says, "If my son is that old...how old does that make me!" And then we laugh together. I usually retort with, "If I'd known I was going to get this old, I would have taken much better care of myself!" And then we laugh some more.

My best friend, Bob, calls me several times a week. I'm sure I will hear from him today as well, "Ya' feel older?", he might say as I answer the phone. Or maybe, "Man, you're an old fart!" Then I remind him that he is nine months older than me, and we laugh...and trade a few more old man jokes.

So, I choose to make my 59th year on this earth the best it can be...by savoring the good and calmly dealing with the bad. As I pledged on New Year's Day...to try to do anything better this year than last.

There will be a date, probably sometime in May, that will most likely come and go without much fanfare. That will signal the beginning of my 60th year of life. But, since that date also coincides with my parents wedding anniversary, I just may tip a glass or two to that red-letter day!

Joe DiMaggio...where have you gone?

With a San Joaquin Valley winter blowing just outside the window on this dark, early morning, maybe it's time for a few random thoughts...

I don't know about you, but I've kind of had enough news about the presidential race. This whole Hillary/Obama squabble has gone overboard. Now they both look more like grade schoolers on the playground, trading insults and throwing parts of their lunches at each other. I suppose it will always be that way in the political arena, some years are just worse than others.

The Heath Ledger thing. A sad state of affairs, especially for his family. Even though everyone is claiming it wasn't suicide, who knew he was so depressed? I guess I'll never understand the celebrity depression epidemic. Unfortunately, I am quite familiar with the disease. Too bad his epitaph will include playing the role of The Joker in the new Batman movie.

I tried to watch The Number 23 last night (for the third time). Didn't make it through to the end again...fell asleep. I'll try again some other time, it's on cable now.

I'm getting burned out on watching Andrew Zimmern scarf down Bizarre Foods. The manner in which is chomps and savors immense worms, goat brains, gastropods, and other food items found under rocks or destined for the garbage is getting tedious to watch. Even Bourdain ventures into that cuisine much too often. What's wrong with normal food? Are they simply bored of the mundane? The answer is "Yes". And it makes for sensational television we cannot turn our eyes from. Kind of like a car accident on the side of the road. I just wish Simmern would stop saying, "That's absolutely fabulous!" through a mouthful of crickets or potato bugs!

Did you know the Number One most popular beer in Canada is Coors Light? Number Two is Bud Light. Those facts were the most disturbing things I discovered when in Toronto a few weeks ago. And Canadians are a beer-drinking bunch, but not so much their own brews evidently.

I have never enjoyed January...December neither for that matter. I lost my fascination for the holiday season long ago. My birthday is in January (tomorrow, the 26th). And that date has lost its luster for me as well. No one wants to get older after the age of 25. I remember my mid-20's as being when I had the most self-confidence as well as the most self-doubt...in equal amounts I think, a very ambiguous time in my life. It was kind of like Autumn, not really Summer anymore, not quite Winter. The Equinox of my life. Sure, there have been many moments of joy and satisfaction since I was 25. But I just don't want to get any older. The old man in the mirror just ain't what he used to be. I must keep reminding myself that there is nothing I can about the passing of time. I must keep trying to be little better as each day and year goes by. My 59th year starts tomorrow...maybe it will be my best yet!

Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio?

remissitude

Actually, the word that comes to mind is remiss, showing neglect or inattention. From the Latin, remissus, from past participle of remiterre, to send back, relax.

e.g., "Skippy, it appears you have been remiss in taking care of your aquarium, indicated by the motionless fish carcasses floating near the surface".

e.g., "You lazy, thoughtless S.O.B. How could be so remiss as to not write anything in your blog for almost a week?"

True. I have exhibited much remissitude of late. In blog writing, phone calls to relatives, emails to same relatives and friends...I have been remiss.

The lame truth of it is, not much time or brain processing space left over for such activities.

The new pub/restaurant is almost complete, staff training begins in two weeks. Hiring and pre-training begins in the next few days. Most everything has been built, installed, painted, wall-papered, glued, hammered, and screwed in. Only a few details remain (100 or so) including plugging in the equipment, lighting the burners, uncorking the valves, and cleaning off the rest of the sawdust, metal shavings, and dirt. Literally tons of restaurant "smallwares", pots, pans, silverware, spatulas, plates, glasses, cups, and doo-dads are due to arrive this week...all needing to be unpacked, washed, and mis-en-placed. After that daunting task...we only need await the arrival of cases and cases of chicken breasts, burger patties, steaks, produce, soft drink mix, kegs and kegs of beer, bottles of alcohol, and margarita mix. It's almost time to start "playing restaurant" for real.

Bear with me, my blogmotic remissitude is inexcusable. I promise to do better. Photos of the above project in its splendiferous completed form forthcoming. If I haven't been institutionalized first, that is. In that case, I still may be able to blog a bit, as I have become very adept at typing with my feet.

We'll be firkin open soon!

So, I'm a smartass. And, that's a good thing, how?

An exchange between myself and my mother, circa 1963...

Me: So, why can't we join a nudist camp?

Mom: Well, we just don't do those kinds of things.

Me: What kinds of things do we do? This family is so boring.

Mom: Watch your mouth or I'll tell your Dad when he comes home!

Me: Billy's parents do that sort of thing. He says they run around naked in the house and by the pool all the time.

Mom: Fine. Someday, we'll all go to a nudist camp.

Me: Can we start practicing today...like around the house?

Mom: Don't be a smartass!

When you're a 13 year old San Fernando Valley kid smack dab in the middle of puberty...you're also a smartass...that's a given. Evidently, living in the San Fernando Valley is not a prerequisite for such adolescent recalcitrant behavior. Being 13 years old is! In the male homo sapien, this type of personality defect may last, and quite often does last, well into the 80's...and possibly beyond life itself. Male amoebas may possess a basic cynicism that only female amoebas can decipher, thus making this trait completely genetic and evolutionary. Except for the fact that amoebas are hermaphrodites (I think), this behavior may not be gender specific in early lifeforms. Anyway...

So why is being a smartass at age 13 such a liability, when being a smartass at age 57 considered an asset? Well, maybe not as much of an asset as it is part of one's "personality". Let's face it, some folks have made quite a handsome living from the spouting of copious amounts of sarcasm, cynicism, and irreverent critical rhetoric. They have succeeded in capitalizing on being smartasses.

I was recently told that one of the reasons I was chosen for an employment position was due, at least in part, to the fact that I was a smartass. And that this "smartassitude" was detected through reading my blogs. Apparently this trait (or personality defect) I possess has proven to be an asset...finally.

So with that in mind, I raise my glass to smartasses everywhere. And hereby decree the word "smartassitude" be submitted to the Oxford or the Webster dictionary folks as an official damn word!

smartassitude - smart-ass-ih-tood - A complex mental state involving beliefs, feelings, values, and dispositions to act in certain ways as to exhibit sarcasm, cynicism, and an overall shitty and sometimes negative outlook on life. e.g. We hired the sonofabitch because of his smartassitude on life. He's a fucking crackup...at times...and will fit in with our culture.

To all 13 year old smartasses out there: Be patient. Someday you'll be appreciated!

Reality Sucks

On a recent T.V. commercial during playoff weekend, (in a commercial for something I don't recall) Colts quarterback Peyton Manning delivered the most apros pro quote for anyone hoping for those so-called "rock hard abs".

"You know...let's face it. If you're not under 23 years old or a professional football player, those "rock hard abs" you're hoping for...probably not gonna happen! I would suggest you just buy bigger shirts."

Now that's reality for the New Year!

Minutia

A recent exchange between myself and a clerk at Target...

Me: Excuse me...but can you tell me where the pots to piss in are?

Clerk: (blank stare and long pause) I'm not sure exactly what you're looking for.

Me: Well...I'd like to know if you carry pots to piss in. I don't seem to have one any longer.

Clerk: Try Aisle 37...that's where the bathroom stuff is.

Me: Why thank you, my good man!

Miscellany

Did you know that if you lay a cat on its side on a linoleum floor and spin it around in circles several times, when you're done spinning it...your Dad will kick your ass?

Recently seen on an employment application I was going over (under Past Employer): Waitress at O'Brain's Bar & Girll. Hmmm...on which pile should I place this one?

You know you're getting old and fat when after tying your shoes you need a few toques off the old oxygen tank.

What's green and red and goes around in circles real fast? A frog in a blender.

Seritonin inhibitors...don't start your day without them.

Anyone remember this one? Milk...milk...lemonade...around the corner fudge is made?

The other day I asked a driver getting out of his car in a parking lot, "Do you know how to drive?" His answer, "How do you think I got here, jackass?"

What do you mean smoking pot makes you stupid? I quit smoking it, didn't I?

You can't always get what you want. But if you try sometimes...you just might get what she needs.

If there really is reincarnation. I would like to come back as a dog. Except for that butt smelling thing, could we talk about that? Oh, and that snacking out of the kitty litter box thing. And, that sleeping on a flea-infested blanket in the garage thing. And the no-thumbs thing. Come to think of it...I'd rather come back as a cat. If things aren't too good, I can just run away to the neighbor's house. Except for that spinning on the linoleum floor thing.

Nude Mud Wrestling

Unfortunately, there will be nothing in this blog post concerning wrestling or nudity. It will mention the word mud at least once though. Just curious to see how many porn surfers tap in with a title like that.

I thought about titling this post "Kirsten Gum...wow!" That line alone should unearth a slew of horndogs as well. You see, I searched for anything and everything I could find on Kirsten recently. And, I was a little disappointed. Not much out there really.

Kirsten Gum is host of a Travel Channel show called Cash and Treasures. It's one of those dumb "travel" programs whereby the host travels the world in search of, well...Cash and Treasures. This includes so-called treasure hunting, treasure diving, digging in rock quarries, looking under rocks for valuable mushrooms, and so on. Searching for "buried treasure" if you must. Cash and Treasures is really another weak attempt to masquerade showcasing an extremely appealing host (or is that hostess?) in high definition. Calling Kirsten Gum extremely appealing, or the lessor pretty, is pretty much of an understatement. She's a knockout...as well as being smart as a whip in a tomboy girl-jock model sort of way. She ain't afraid of gettin' down and dirty either! Groveling in the mud, muck, and mire with un-manicured fingernails, then sticking them right into a closeup camera lens to proudly display a small emerald she has found...well, you gotta hand it to her. She's comes across as quite unfettered by the usual cutesy vanity you see in the Giadas, the Rachels, and the Sandras of T.V. show hosting fame. I'd like to see that Giada woman all sweaty and dirty, hair sticking to her neck, mud on her knees butchering a chicken or something. Maybe that would knock the perennial silly faux cheshire smile off her over-sized face. And, by the way, I kind of like watching Giada. As for Rachel? Not so much any longer. Too much in a short amount of time. She's exhausted what appeal she had in her two dimensions. That exhaustion occurred after about 10 minutes of watching her staccato caffeine fed blathering while attempting to demonstrate how to cook a gourmet meal in 30 minutes or less. I keep waiting to see the headline, "Food TV Network Star's Head Explodes Live On Camera!" Brains (what little there was), hair, teeth, and EVOO everywhere. Oh, the humanity of it all!

Back to Kirsten Gum. What a doll! Prior to the Cash and Treasures gig, she worked on ESPN (Nascar specifially) as well as many other sports-related broadcasts. I saw her interview a driver trackside not too long ago, and I couldn't get over just how vivacious her on-camera presence was. Not to mention the apparent ease with which she made the interviewee feel comfortable. Who wouldn't feel comfortable standing right next to her? By the way, she was much taller than the driver she was interviewing. That could be a little intimidating. Smart...beautiful...charismatic...vivacious...and tall!

I have only one criticism of Kirsten Gum. Work on that manicure when you're not digging for treasure in the mud. Like that detraction would actually make a difference!

P.S. I couldn't find any nude photos of her on line. Sorry guys.

Some Pie Hole musings...

I don't rightly remember when or where I first heard the term pie hole used. Probably in a movie or T.V. show, or quite possibly in a book. The latter is least likely as I just don't really that many books any longer (A.A.D.D. you know). It's just an amusing, and somewhat derogatory, term for one's mouth...the body opening through which an animal takes in food (such as pies), the cavity lying at the upper end of the alimentary canal, commonly regarded as the source for sounds and speech, etc.

The term pie hole might be appropriate in the following examples of colloquial expression...

"Hey, dipshit. Shut your f&%*ing pie hole and get back to work!"

"If that politician used his pie hole less and his ears more, he might get elected!"

"How'd you like me to shove my fist down that pie hole of yours?"

The term pie hole might be inappropriate in the following examples of colloquial expression...

"I still can't hear what you are saying. Open your pie hole and speak up please!"

"Oh my...the baby has put something dangerous in his pie hole!"

"Honey. You have the prettiest pie hole I've ever seen on a woman."

Pie hole is simply fun to say as well. Like the number 13. "I've told him 13 f*%#ing times to clean up his pie hole." I digress.

That's enough out of my pie hole for the time being. Tomorrow...maybe a closer examination into slang synonyms for buttocks and anus. Hmmm, let's see...caboose, rear end, poop shoot, ying yang, fart box...what fun we'll have with that one!

Day One

I slowly and carefully pulled back the bed sheet from over my eyes and peered into the bedroom. Groggy vision revealed the room was still dark. Was it morning yet? My little digital alarm clock on the nightstand glowed 7:16 am. I could see through small spaces between the window shades that there was light, gray light, but no sunshine.

I pushed my head further into the pillow, then covered my head once again with the sheet and blanket. Was it finally over? Had it come to a peaceful end? I realized it had indeed concluded some seven hours and sixteen minutes earlier. My mind began to clear a bit more. The year of 2007 was truly and officially over, complete, spent, history. Thanks goodness! I'm not sure I could have withstood much more of one the most difficult years of my life.

Being a self-professed pragmatist, I'll admit there have been tougher years than last year. It's all relative to your own space in time right now. I know for a fact that 1986 is right up there on the list of lousy years for yours truly. Among many other things transpiring that year: a heart attack and my first angioplasty. Ah...thanks (to myself) for the memories!

We all hope and want to believe that this year will be better than last year. Perhaps it will, perhaps it won't. Quite possibly 2008 will present even bigger challenges than 2007 or 1986...or 1994 (divorce)...or 1969 (dodging the draft by enlisting in the Navy)...or 1996 (quintuple bipass)...or 1957 (Pacoima plane crash)...or 1950 (the year I was born, how much more challenging can it get than that?). A slap on the butt and taking that first breath of air, the first two things I remember of this life, were quite dramatic!

I remember thinking at that moment, "Are these things called lungs gonna keep working past one single breath? Let's try it again. Yeah...eureka! They do work correctly. Thanks, Mom. Good job with me these past nine months. However, why does my ass sting so much? And why am I hanging upside down?"

The first few days of my life are a little blurry, figuratively and literally...I could not yet see, you know? But when I finally could see more than just abstract shapes passing in front of me, I had my first epiphany. I realized that I was surrounded by people who thought I was the greatest thing since sliced bread! There was my Grandma "Chris" (short for Christiansen). My Grandma Hansen. Some Aunts and Uncles who would present me with cousins someday. There was my Dad, Jim, and his brothers out in the kitchen, smoking cigars and sneaking a shot or two of hooch. And of course, there was my Mom, Betty, holding me tightly and snuggly and warmly in my first baby blanket. They were all there. It was the middle of winter, and that means cold and snow in South Dakota...though I didn't know anything about the cold yet. The chariot that carried me home from the hospital, a 1937 Oldsmobile, sitting just outside covered in snow.

My Dad had yet to called up by the Navy reserve to serve in Korea, that would come later in the year. And he would be gone for quite a while during my first couple of years. It's one of reasons why my Grandma Christiansen christened me "Skipper" soon after I was born. A nickname that has stuck for almost 58 years now. Although I prefer the more succinct "Skip", I am often referred to as "Skipper" by folks who take a liking to me. I guess I'll have to continue to reluctantly live with that moniker. Could be worse! Butch...Billy Bob...Pie Hole...Shitbird...Worthless. Like I said, I could have a worse nickname.

At this point in life, I try not to have epiphanies or make resolutions any longer. Much too disappointing later on. That first big epiphanous moment in 1950 was a good one, hard to top that. Everything from that point on has been "gravy".

Day One underway. Full steam ahead. After all, I am the Skipper.