Pants de Leon and the Fountain of Youth

It’s so good to be back. Today’s subject is fashion; jeans to be exact.  I mean, who doesn’t love a good ‘ole pair of jeans?

Once I graduated from the generic dungarees with iron-on knee patches of childhood, my jeans of choice were the classic Levi 501’s. Funny how loyal I was to that youthful, rugged, everyman denim look that all my friends were rockin’. Peer pressure perhaps? Problem was they never fit quite right. In today’s vernacular, if it’s “all about the bass” I had always been cursed to abide in the ample mid-range camp where handles of love abound. With one size up “baggy-butt” or “side-spillage” the only options available, I opted to fit (no pun intended) in the best I could. I guess I could have gone south and struggled into three or four pairs of tighty-whities to beef up the bass. That’s a joke. Don’t own any white Jockeys. And besides, I prefer the term Superman underwear. But I quickly learned an extra-large t-shirt would cover a multitude of seams…er….sins.

These days (cool way of saying “Why back in my day…“ without sounding like an old geezer) it appears as though filling one’s denims to overflowing doesn’t have quite the stigma it once had. Encapsulating a super-sized portion of McMuffin into some type of skin-tight clingy material is de rigueur. That’s so nice. I’m really glad this generation has abandoned the body self-image hang-ups in favor of letting it all hang out. Good for you. Why should skinny people get all the good clothes?

Just recently my wife and I went shopping for a new pair of pants for yours truly. She suggested I try on some different jeans. Different? Jeans? I felt faint.

Okay, lest you think I’ve been wearing 501’s all this time, relax, I am way too vain to go into middle (don’t laugh) age without kicking and screaming all the way. I have since switched to 514’s in various colors. There was a brief, passionate fling with Jordache in the late 70’s. A couple parts of my anatomy still ache to this day just thinking about it.  So with slightly less cajoling than it took to get Ben Affleck to don the Batman attire, I tried on some new super-slim jeans that cost about as much as a new car. Dang! They fit like a glove. Cotton with spandex or something.  I felt ten years younger. My wife winked her approval. Oh, yeah, so did the salesman. No comment.

Did I buy them? Well, sort of. Went to Nordstrom’s Rack and got a similar pair for less than the price of a Roman holiday. One can be hip and also frugal dontcha know. And being a musician means that even at my (younger than Keith Richards fer sure) age I can wear just about anything cool and not get much snickering.  Well, not too much.

K.G.

I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For

Raise your hand if you enjoy television reality programs. Don’t be embarrassed. What’s not to love? Where else can you find such a corn-ball-ucopia of butter-eatin’, toothless, moonshine swillin’, tantrum-throwing misfits that look and act more like sideshow carnies than TV stars? Well, besides the bus station or nearest freeway off-ramp.

I’ll admit that this particular reality genre is not my cup of tea. No offense, but since when did we need closed captioning to understand simple English? Okay, Sofía Vergara is a bit challenging at times, but she’s so darn cute. If I offended anyone I apologize.  I’m not here to spit on your gator wrestlin’ parade.

I confessed a few posts ago that I actually watch a few reality programs myself. Most are of the “I’m going to make you waste an hour of your time while I search for something I’ll never find because it doesn’t exist” variety. It’s a genre bandwagon that P.T Barnum would have jumped on without hesitation and beat within an inch of its life. I’m sure the producers are snickering all the way to the bank.

But is this type of program really that popular? Does Bigfoot poop in the woods?

The answer to the first question is youbetcha. As for the second question, I am of the opinion that he does not. Surely someone would have stepped in it by now or at least noticed their shovel missing.

I’ve once again been wood-shedding some new reality concepts of my own, because I’m pretty sure I can search for nothing just as well as the next guy. After all, I am 100% convinced that my car keys exist but I can rarely find them, so looking for imaginary beings, ghosts, lost treasure, aliens and giants shouldn't be a stretch.

The first is “Finding Elvis” where I would follow clues like cities where the most peanut butter, bacon and black hair dye is purchased, and allow the viewing audience to text in sightings a la “America’s Most Wanted.” Every week I would question 7-11 employees and jumpsuit manufacturers far and wide (no fat Elvis pun intended) until I found the King of Rock-n-Roll, no matter how many seasons it took.

Or perhaps “SNIPE: An American Legend.” Armed with infrared, heat sensitive cameras and a truck full of Nacho Cheese Doritos for bait, you could watch spellbound as I spend weeks searching the darkness for the elusive Snipe, who we all know is stealthier than Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster combined; a larger-than-life creature that has been hunted by thousands of Boy Scouts but has yet to be seen by anyone. This would be reality TV at its finest.

I was at first torn between the Snipe and the infamous Jack-a-lope, but the former is a true legend while it was brought to my attention the latter can be found (why am I always the last to know) in every tourist gift shop east of the Rockies.Author’s Note:

The last is “Switched at Birth: Search for the Lost Kardashian.” It’s pretty obvious to just about anyone who watches television that something went horribly wrong at the hospital 27 years ago. Rob K. (hereto referred to as the “Shemp” of reality TV) cannot possibly be a Kardashian. Number one, he’s not photogenic. Two, he has no business sense (Socks? Really? Someone should fill one with nickels and whack him a few times), and number three, he’s male and not even cool. If Kardashian girls were spiders, they would have eaten him a long time ago.

So, with a camera crew in tow, we (I’m thinking Bruce Jenner in drag as my female sidekick) would interview nurses, search hospital records and doggedly track down every lead until we got to the bottom (no Kim jokes, please) of this mystery. My money is on Zac Efron. Same age, born in the same area, good looking, talented. What??? I guess you’ll have to watch the program to see if I’m right.

K.G.

Bigfoot, Ebola and Ugly Shoes

Do you sleep with a .357 loaded with silver bullets under your pillow on the off chance that a werewolf might pull a Goldilocks while riding through your hood?  Or perhaps have a huge crucifix stashed in the nightstand just in case the pierced and pale teen from across the street really is a bloodsucker and not just making a fashion statement?

The most common fear is the “Little Miss Muffet Syndrome” or Arachnophobia.  I for one will admit I don’t like spiders. If I see one in the bedroom I will begin an archaeological search of Indiana Jones-ish proportions, leaving no cushion unturned, until the evil entity is safely entombed in a wad of Charmin and banished to the nether regions of the sewer. Whatever did our bug-killing forefathers do before the invention of toilet paper?

The next three are heights, tight spaces and flying. Hmmm. It’s a wonder any airline can stay in business.  And if we don’t have enough anxiety already, along comes Ebola. Now, even though this doesn’t scare me, I still go a bit Michael Jackson when I have to grab the black, rubber escalator thingie at the mall. What were they thinking?  It’s like a never ending germ smorgasbord. I have my eye on glove sales at the moment; might be a good future investment.

Bigfoot isn't an issue for me because I don’t spend a lot of time traipsing around in the woods. Not that I’m a camp-o-phobic, but I live near a freeway entrance so I am used to big, smelly, hairy guys approaching me. I am a bit sketchy when it comes to clowns though. Didn’t used to be. I blame Stephen King. I never looked at a clown the same after watching the movie “It.” And no, I don’t eat at McDonald’s.

My Top Five Fears:

5. Ugly Shoes

My best friend’s teenage son once commented on a new pair of shoes I’d just purchased. And I quote, “I guess you’ve just given up then?” Can you say, where’s the nearest Goodwill?

4. Going Bald

I think God knew it would be too traumatic for me so he let me keep my hair.  Besides, I have a funny shaped head and don’t look cool in hats. Never have. I’m so vain. Case closed.

3. Bad Guitar Tone

Okay, you non guitar players will not understand this, but the quest for “great tone” is as old as the desire for a nicely marbled brontosaurus steak and almost as impossible to attain. There is nothing worse than spending years crafting the perfect tone only to have someone say “that’s the best you’ve ever sounded” while playing through someone else’s crappy gear.

2. Being Licked by a Dog

Anything that frequently uses its tongue as a washcloth is automatically in the “gross” column. I threw up a little in my mouth just thinking about it.

1. Being Eaten by a Shark

They say the odds are greater that I will get struck by lightening.  But isn’t swimming in the ocean dressed like a seal similar to prancing around in a thunder storm decked out like the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz? Think about it.

K.G.

I'm Not Afraid to Be Naked

I’m Not Afraid to Be Naked

Is it my imagination or has the whole “au natural” thing gone up a notch? Has reality television suddenly discovered th

My wife and I watch “Naked and Afraid,” but only for the articles or so goes the old Playboy joke. Seriously though, we love survival shows, “Survivorman” being one of my favorites. Lately both of us have been enjoying “Running Wild with Bear Grylls.” This is the show where he flies celebrities to remote locations and forces them to behave somewhat human like the rest of us or else look like complete wussies.at updated versions of old reality programs might go over better if stripped down to the bare essentials.

Who doesn’t love seeing that?

Now, since the networks have already decided that naked sells, I have a few ideas of my own.

Running Wild and Naked with Bear Grylls

Since most of the hot (okay, I’ll admit there are a few I wouldn’t pay to see) women in Hollywood have had their iPhones hacked, and practically everyone except for maybe a Mennonite third grader in Pennsylvania has seen them naked, here’s a golden opportunity to let it all hang out.  May I suggest Jennifer Lawrence as the first guest?

Naked Wheel of Fortune

I am well aware that not one person on this planet, aside from maybe his wife, wants to see Pat Sajak naked, thank you, but as for Vanna White? Grrrr…  I believe I would watch just to hear a contestant say…

“I’d like to by a vowel and a towel, Pat.”

And spinning the giant wheel might make the game a wee (no pun intended) more dangerous for any over exuberant male guests.

America’s Next Top Naked Model

There is no reason to even debate this one. I mean, really. This has monster-hit written all over it as long as they keep Kelly Cutrone under wraps, if you know what I mean. I just threw up a little in my mouth picturing her naked.

Naked Wipeout

Naked athletes, huge rubber mechanical devices, water and slippery goo… sounds like good clean fun or a David Beckham sex tape.  My version will give chest bumps, belly-flops and cannon-balls whole new and rather painful meanings.

Tag Line: Kind of like the Three Stooges, except naked.

Naked Biggest Loser

Okay. I’ll admit this is more for motivation than titillation. I would make it like strip poker in reverse. For every 50 lbs. lost, they would be allowed to put on one article of clothing bearing a sponsor’s name. Not only would this allow ample space for onscreen advertising thereby increasing revenue, but it would give the old term “Jiggle Television” whole new meaning.

Aside from the sweat factor, this might be a winner.

Tag Line: Strip Porker

America Has Naked Talent

Who hasn't longed to see acrobats, dancers, comedians and singers hit the stage in their birthday suits? No ifs, and's or butts about it. It would be like Vegas sans feathers, sequins and stilettos.

I understand that getting all that dangling flesh in perfect synchronization might be a bit tricky and  magicians might balk at having to find new places to hide their (watch while I pull a rabbit out of my… Ewww!!) props, but I expect most of us would simply ooh and aww at the spectacle of seeing 25 hairy Armenians tumbling naked across the stage to Pharrell Williams’ “Happy.”

As Seinfeld’s Kenny Bania would say “That’s gold, Jerry. Gold.”

K. G.

The Forrest Gump Syndrome

The Forrest Gump Syndrome

(Excerpt from “Hot Grandpa: A Boomer’s Adventures in Cyber Dating”)

Now, let’s examine the following quote:  “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get.”

Monsieur Gump’s above statement so embodies the online dating experience most of us have experienced that I almost cringe when I read it.  I dare say there’s more fudging (pun so-intended) on cyber-dating profiles than on most income tax forms.  Does filling out a simple love questionnaire suddenly cause temporary Alzheimer’s?  I believe someone should do a study on this.

But Mr. G’s sweet proclamation is spot on, isn’t it?  He was a visionary and philosopher; a true renaissance man.  Way ahead of his time, if you ask me.

The only other person to come close is Patrick Starfish, sidekick to SpongeBob SquarePants.  And I quote:  “Being grown-up is boring.  Besides, I don’t get jazz.”

Sorry.  Occasionally my inner child sneaks out of the crib.

Continuing with the box ‘o chocolates analogy, I find that hours spent searching for love online can be compared to blissfully nibbling away on an unlimited supply of cyber bon-bons in the hope of finding a diamond while trying desperately not to chip a virtual sweet tooth on a hidden blue-eyed CZ.

Another problem is the box of chocolates keeps growing larger and larger every day, which, in turn, causes us to completely disregard the age-old “bird in the hand is worth two in the bush” lesson our ancestors understood so well.  It becomes so hard to settle for fluffy nougat when a few rows over could be the cherry center of your dreams.

Let’s get real, shall we?  There are only so many raspberry truffles to go around.  Sometimes one must take a chance on a coconut crème or a Peppermint Patty.  Who knows?  It might just be a flavor you could fall in love with.

Caloric Side Note:

Statistics say couples gain on average 14 pounds once they get comfortable in a new relationship.

Really?

So, as you hunt and peck your way to sugary surrender, keep in mind:  If you’re advertising yourself as a soft, creamy caramel in the hope of snagging the love glutton of your dreams, sooner or later he or she will be inclined to take a bite and quickly find out you’re really just a wee bit nutty inside, which to some other unsuspecting nibbler might just spell sweet success.

So be real, be yourself, and remember these words of wisdom from Charlie Brown’s creator:  “All you need is love.  But a little chocolate now and then doesn’t hurt.” -Charles M. Schulz

Jusqu'à ce que nous nous reverrons,

K.G.

Being Liam Neeson

Being Liam Neeson

(Jump-Starting Your Inner Alpha Male)

I always thought of myself as your average, regular guy. Well, except for the fact that I’m not into sports and would rather watch Project Runway than American Ninja. Oh, and I have way too many pairs of shoes. But if you set that aside, I’m the guy next door.

All through childhood, like most late bloomers, I dreamt of being the alpha dog. That brooding, Ray-Ban wearing James Dean type that every guy wanted to be and every girl wanted to date long enough to drive her parents crazy before settling down with a podiatrist in Brentwood. Unfortunately for me, the family gene pool I was swimming in was teeming with short, pear-shaped DNA and I would ultimately end up face down in more toilet bowls than a platoon of thirsty German Shepherds before graduating high school.

If you are a tie-died in the wool California pessimist like me, you’re probably thinking it’s too late. You’re sure that your inner alpha male, like fat Elvis, has left the building. Not to fear. All we need is a mentor. Someone who possesses an overabundance of testosterone, insane karate skills and wit as sharp as the samurai sword wielded by Blade, thus assuring us that much needed “grande cajones” infusion.

Hmm… who might this self-assertive sensei be?

Here is my short list of bad dudes that I would consider emulating.

Sean Connery:

I’m talking Bond… James Bond. With his sleek sports cars, crazy gadgets and gorgeous girls from around the world he’s unarguably the coolest guy ever, toupee or not.

But there are a few things to consider. I don’t own a single suit, my sexy English accent makes Kevin Costner’s performance in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, sound like Sir Laurence Olivier, and the only gadget I own is a portable Pizza Maker that plugs into my car’s cigarette lighter.

The third-degree burns on my crotch are healing nicely, thank you.

Bruce Willis: 

Old and bald he may be, but he still has the best catch phrases of any make-believe hero ever.  Anyone who loves action movies will tell you, “The catch phrase lives on, after the muscles are gone.” Speaking as a diehard shoe lover, my favorite Willis line is, "Nine million terrorists in the world and I gotta kill one with feet smaller than my sister." A classic footwear putdown and he nailed it. Heidi Klum would be proud.

Kurt Russell:

Who wants to follow this scruffy, eye patch wearin’ dude with the macho “Snake Plisken” moniker to the gates of hell? I do, I do. Oh, yeah, kickin’ butt and takin’ names. He may not be my final choice, but just in case I have a drawer full of tight, black t-shirts with the sleeves cut off at the ready. I’ll worry about what to do with my SpongeBob Squarepants tattoo later.  Life is always full of tradeoffs.

Liam Neeson:

I obviously saved what I consider the best for last. He's like Jason Bourne’s and MacGyver’s pissed off step-dad. But it’s the voice that sets him above the rest, right? The only other person to come close to Liam’s gritty vocal eviscerations was Dirty (one of my favs, though I will admit, a .44 magnum, one-trick pony) Harry Callahan. I honestly believe once I’ve mastered the “I’m going to rip your testicles off and slowly feed them to your wife and girlfriend,” voice, then the world will truly be my Rocky Mountain oyster.

I am Liam, hear me roar.

K.G.

Being Liam Neeson

Where’s the Chocolate Chip Cookies?

When do I finally decide enough is enough, abandon Macy’s, and start buying clothes in bulk at Costco? Is there a magical age one reaches when the desire for a waist size that’s less than the size of a rotisserie chicken fades? Does one suddenly begin to crave the comforting, gentle hug of elastic around one’s midsection?

The other day as I was searching the cupboards for something to eat that wasn’t fattening, didn’t taste like tree bark, and would calm my cravings for French fries smothered in chili, nacho cheese and Ranch dressing, I came across an open bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips. My wife had purchased said chips in order to convince me of her storied past as a baker in a well-known Beverly Hills establishment. Not that I didn’t believe her, but the proof is in the puddin’ (or cookie) and I had as yet to sample anything resembling a “Toll House.”

Now, in my mind (and on any cookie-lovin ‘ planet in this galaxy I will presume), an open bag of semi-sweet morsels equals homemade chocolate chip cookies. Without warning I was in bloodhound mode, using every available sense (except “common” I suppose) as I frantically searched for this delicious hidden treasure while trying not to slip on the drool.  Just then my wife came into the kitchen. Our conversation went something like this:

Ken: Where’s the chocolate chip cookies?

Bonnie: What?

Ken: The cookies. There must be cookies. Where are they? I said, wiping the spider-web sliver of drool from my chin.

Bonnie: I didn’t make any cookies.

Ken: But I found the open bag of chips. Why would you open the bag if you weren’t going to make cookies?

Bonnie: I wanted chocolate so I ate the chips.

Ken: Who eats semi-sweet chocolate chips? Aren’t they for making cookies?

Bonnie: STOP CALLING ME FAT!

Weight is a somewhat (pun so intended) heavy subject for most people, and I touched on one of her emotional triggers. We all have them. On Friday night I played a gig (musician’s term for “didn’t get paid”) with my band sMalltime.  Our bass player commented that I appeared to have gained some weight. Hmmm…

Instantly, my inner 15-year-old girl took over. I wanted to scratch his beady little eyes out even though I knew what he said wasn’t true. As a matter of fact, I’ve been on a hardcore (okay, hardcore for a 60-year-old man) training routine for months, was eating well, and felt better than I had in years.

Did I learn something? Of course.  Bass players are stupid.

K.G.

Fungi, Clowns and Crazy

I had my first visit to a psychiatrist today. And no, I am not crazy unless you count the time I left the house wearing a pair of red jeans and brown tee with a mushroom on the front that said “I’m a Fungi.” I say it was a fashion statement and I’m sticking to it.

My therapist thought a second opinion (and possibly some chemical enhancement) might not be a bad idea.  Then again, she was the one who determined I was an “External Processor” which was about $1,000 worth of “You talk too much.” My wife could have told her that in the first 5 minutes and saved me a bundle.

I did my best to convince her there was nothing wrong with me because there’s a lot of stigma attached to seeking professional help. I mean, who wants to admit they’re two nuggets short of a Happy Meal? Not to say I am, but there may be a connection between this duo of missing nuggets and my fear of people with over-sized shoes and bright red hair. Perhaps a professional could help me sort this out.

Also one must count the cost. For $350 (doctor’s initial visit) I could buy 35 of every item on McDonald’s value menu and make lifetime friends out of every “will work for food” guy within a twenty-mile radius. Okay, that is a little crazy, but I was just spitballing.

Things I’ve learned:

•   The more you try to convince someone you’re not crazy, the crazier you sound.

•   Sitting down on a couch in a psychiatrist’s office and exposing your mental foibles to a complete stranger is no different than the crazy homeless guy who walks around town asking for spare change while carrying on a conversation with Abraham Lincoln. Neither of us will get the answers we seek, but he'll make a few bucks while I'll have to forfeit my daily Starbucks latte for three months.

•   There are worse things than being a few neurons short of normal. I could be Justin Bieber’s mom or Rob Kardashian.

K.G.

Singin’ in the Rain

Unless you’ve been living under a rock or get your news from Honey Boo Boo, most of you know we Californians are having water woes; a severe drought to be specific.  So as a loyal native (not to be confused with the people who own the casinos, but I was born here) I always try to do my part when things go a bit south.

I have heard that bathing in European (E.U = P.U.) countries is not part of their daily routine.  A little pit (B.O. pun so intended) stop once a week seems to be the norm, but, like most civilized Americans I make it a point to bathe at least once a day. Occasionally, a second or third dunking might be required due to strenuous workouts, a job interview or excess caffeine, but once is the general rule of scum, er… thumb.

Here are a few suggestions on how to stay clean, keep your water bill down and avoid the California Water Police.

• The car wash shower. When at the car wash, pretend you left your baby unattended inside the swagger van, then rush into the soapy water. Apologize profusely that it was all a silly mistake while standing under the giant blowers.

• The pool shower. Most apartment complexes have showers in the pool area. Who doesn’t enjoy a refreshing shower at poolside first thing in the morning? If the manager gives you any flack, simply dive into the pool while pointing at the “Shower before entering Pool” sign. If you don’t live in the complex…. Run.

• The beach shower. If you live near any beach, they also have free outdoor showers. Only drawback might be the lack of hot water, but it’s worth it not to airmail a “reek-o-gram” to the hot girl who sits next to you at work. As a last resort, there’s the ocean. You will smell like rotting seaweed, but if you die at work the salt will preserve your body temporarily, so you might get a couple extra hours in.

• Shower with your Honey. Now this is a bit trickier. Climbing into the shower with your love bunny may sound like a good way to conserve water, but from personal experience water + soap-on-a-rope + skin = Late for Work.

Lastly, I hear that because of the drought, all California Starbucks stores are going to begin brewing coffee made with leftover coffee.  Genius. Tentative name:  “No Sleep ‘til Brooklyn.”

 K.G.

I Want to Look Like Heidi Klum

I Want to Look Like Heidi Klum…

 … but I’m 5’2”, brunette and 50. 

The above statement was made by my wife in response to my desire to have the body of a 20-year-old male model, complete with a six pack and buns of steel. My name is Kenny, I’m 60, gray and delusional. Okay, you can laugh now.  Body self-image is such a strange thing.

Is it ego that keeps me striving for the impossible dream? Possibly. Sometimes I long to chug chocolate milkshakes while sitting in my La-Z-Boy attired in an undersized Polo shirt, plaid Bermuda shorts, black dress socks and wingtips; moobs to the wind. Is that too much to ask?

Being a rock musician for almost 50 years (yeah, I saw Jimi, Janus and Morrison; don’t be jealous), my greatest fear is stepping onto the stage and having people assume I play in a blues band. Now, I have nothing against the blues, a few of my earliest influences were B.B. King and Peter Green, who IMHO were two of the greatest guitarists who ever lived, but as one ages it appears as though there’s an unwritten rule that states one must hang up the rock and roll power chords for a twelve bar blues progression in the key of “A”. Yawn.

My Vows:

 I vow to never even consider looking at a “Manx” Website. I work out like a madman in a vain attempt to fight my arch nemesis, GRAVITY. Moobs are not an option, nor do they come as standard equipment.

I vow to never shop at Costco, or go on stage wearing “old blues band guy attire,” which includes “Dad” jeans and a Mexican Wedding Shirt. If you are unfamiliar with this shirt, and you play in a blues band, look in your closet. You probably have several.  If you still want to dress hip and cool without looking silly, this can be done. There is no written rule that you have to be gay to dress well. Don’t let your wife buy your clothes in bulk. Khaki is not a pop of color.

I vow to limit my French fries intake. Well, some things are nearly beyond the realm of human possibility, but that purple, slim-fit, V-neck is slammin’. I could totally rock that.

K.G.

Statistically Speaking

Let’s talk statistics.  . Generally, I find most of them boring and a complete waste of time, but occasionally they are giggle worthy.

Example:

• Statistics say that one in four people are insane.  So take a look at your three BFF’s and if they're all normal, then it’s you.

• If you pet a cat 70 million times, you will generate enough static electricity to power a 60-watt light bulb for 1 minute.

Did someone actually try this?  That would be one patient cat.

Baby-Boomer statistics are quite interesting.

Here are some more fun ones:

• During the Boomer era, 1946-1964, according to the US Census, 77 million people were born, or if you prefer, “a whole lotta shakin’ was going on,” to paraphrase Jerry lee Lewis.

• Every 7 seconds an American celebrates a 50th birthday. If I worked for L’Oreal or Grecian Formula I’d be thrilled to have 12,500 potential customers every day. Another survey say every 7 seconds is how often men think about sex….  Sorry, where were we? I was thinking about something else.

• Scarborough says Boomers make up 35% of the American adult population. I myself would challenge this. I rarely meet an adult under 50, and when I do, they are usually selling insurance or managing a 7-11.

• ICSC states that the 55+ age group controls more than three-fourths of America’s wealth, but that Boomers have lately begun to see a decrease their net worth. I truly believe if their kids would get up off the couch, shave, get a job and move out, this would turn around instantly.

• Those Boomers love them some technology. 72% are active on the Internet and 36% own a smartphone, although it’s my guess that 33% of them don’t know how to put someone on hold while they take another call, or is it just me?

• Lastly, to quote the US Government Consumer Expenditure Survey (I wonder how much they paid someone to come up with that name) 55-64 year olds outspend the average consumer in nearly every category, including food away from home (we now have the Gay Whopper, so how about the Gray Whopper, Burger King?), household furnishings (please bring back the “Shag” carpet), entertainment (I hear “Nip and Tuck”, eh… you know… Manilow and Newton are slayin’ them in Vegas), personal care (hmmm…guess it “Depends” on what they’re buying) and gifts (they just love to spoil those grandchildren, don’t they?).

(An excerpt from “Hot Grandpa: A Boomer’s Adventure in Cyber-Dating”)

Bye for now,

K.G.- AKA “the loquacious expounder of Sisyphean drivel.”

Big Bro

Most have heard the old saying “People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.” Pretty simple concept, I think. Don’t call your friend an idiot for wearing tie-dyed t-shirts and listening to the Grateful Dead if you’re following Justin Bieber on Twitter. But with each passing day, it becomes more evident that this common sense-ical adage has been kicked into the proverbial (pun so intended) gutter like MySpace and left to rot like a still-twitching appendage from The Walking Dead.

Okay, that was obviously a joke, but as I just finished 1984...

Musical Clarification: The George Orwell book, not that lame Van Halen album where Eddie V. decided that being a rock-guitar god wasn’t enough so he turned into the keyboardist for Flock of Seagulls. Jump? I would have if I lived anywhere near a bridge.



Anyway, I reread this book last week. Aside from the obvious fact that Big Brother is indeed watching us, yada, yada, yada, it’s crazy how many things that this author wrote about are coming true.  Just one is  the statement “Ignorance is Strength” (we have to pass the bill to find out what’s in it; huh?), fiddling around with history; America =bad/ Socialism =good. 2+2 equals 5 these days fer sure.

It’s strange how much my good old U.S. of A. has transformed in just the last ten years. Take what Mr. Orwell calls the “Thought Police.” Isn’t this already happening? I am surprised that taping private conversations with a cell phone and using it to destroy a person’s life is legal, let alone suddenly so popular.  Why isn’t anyone up in arms about this?  Isn’t this what people are accusing the government of doing, and so against? I would bet a billion dollars that a close friend of yours could testify (and confirm my suspicions) that you have said something that could be considered racist, politically incorrect or just plain old-fashioned stupid in your life. We all have. If you said you haven’t, you can add liar to your list.

Now, because of the drought and subsequent restrictions on water consumption the “Water Police” have arrived in California. As if we don’t have enough problems just avoiding the “work for food” guys, we are now are encouraged to seek out and turn in (rat out, if you will) those disgusting water wasters. Oh, it’s all confidential (wouldn’t want to be known as a Ra…er… tuner inner. In case you get the wrong idea, I am not in favor of wasting water. The thought of not being able to bathe is enough to cause me to spend every waking hour walking the streets looking for those who haven’t quite figured out that concrete is not alive, and will not grow no matter how much you soak it.

I think we should have fast food police.  We could deputize all the Vegans and send them out to bust the people who eat too much junk food and force them into gobbling down a few carrots. Or perhaps we could establish a “skinny jean, crop top and make-up” task force that would monitor bad fashion and stop people from purchasing garments that are too small. Or my personal favorite, the “Idiot Police.” Of course, most politicians would be instantly out of work. Oh well, there are plenty of programs they would be entitled to sign up for.

Yes, my paranoid friends, Big Bro is coming soon to a neighborhood near you.

K.G.

Se-Man-Tics

It’s been quite a week, no?  Things seem to be heating up quickly, which is no surprise considering who is running the asylum we call home.  Dare I say the devil’s in the details? Oh, you know I do.

So much liberal vs conservative rhetoric being bandied about has got me thinking.  Who dunked the world in a giant vat of Kool-Aid?  Oh, yes, brothers and sisters, that deceiver and father of all lies; the guy formerly known as “Prince of this World”; you guessed it, the Devil. It seems that this administration (talking the devil here, not the president; but I can understand the confusion) has swept rationality under the tree-hugging, global-warming, climate -changing,  “we’re all racists” rug along with pretty much all propriety and good old American common sense. There are so many lines being drawn in the sand between believers and non-believers, and in some cases, between believers and believers, that most Christians who believe every jot and tittle of the Word is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God,  can feel the ocean lapping on their heels.

The lines are being blurred. Two cases in point:

A Christian teenager I know has expressed views that kind of surprised me. He said he won’t eat at one burger franchise because of the overtly sexual content of their ads, but sees no reason to avoid another burger chain who has decided to dedicate a burger to a small segment of the population and have kidnapped God’s rainbow, slapping it on a burger wrapper as some kind of weird statement about us all being the same inside. Really? Can't a hamburger just be a hamburger.  And besides, wouldn’t a hot dog in a hamburger bun have been more apropos? (That was a joke. Not a hater, racist or homophobe.)

The second one is about a video I was watching the other day. They were discussing climate change, weather remodeling or atmospheric alterations; I can’t remember; whatever it’s called this week.  The question of Christians came up. It was stated because of our unwillingness to believe their “truth,” we would most likely have to be re-educated. Huh? Calling George Orwell.  But that wasn’t the interesting part. He said because we refuse to believe this “truth” about climate change doesn’t change the facts, and that if they’re wrong on this, no harm, no foul, but if they’re right, well, buddy, the Christian naysayers are in trouble. Now, I ask you, if I exchanged their truth for our truth, you’d basically have the message we’ve been trying to get them to understand. It’s a matter of semantics. That not believing in God or Jesus doesn’t mean they just cease to exist. The only difference is if the climate guys are right we get a little hotter, but if we’re right….

Maybe we could use this to open up a dialogue.

K.G.

Let’s Get Physical

Greetings cyber-space cowboys, it is I, Hot Grandpa back with more thought-provoking tidbits guaranteed to make you wonder just who is out there and do they really think we might taste like chicken.

Funny Fitness Anecdote:

Last week I purchased a tank top at a secondhand store with the name of a well-known swimsuit company printed on the front. At the grocery store today, the checkout clerk asked me if I was a “Speedo” model. My wife will miss work for the next few days. I believe she broke something while rolling around on the floor.

As one gets older, it becomes crystal clear that years and years of eating food distributed by happy clowns and little red-headed girls can begin to reshape the human body into something resembling a sumo wrestler. I wanted to say Fat Albert but I was afraid that would be misconstrued, so I will pick on the aliens instead.

I do some form of exercise every day:  walk, run or lift a few weights; anything to keep my waistline (and other manly parts) from turning into a wasteland of lumps, humps and jiggly bumps. Am I successful? Well, the jury is still out, but judging by my ability to run downhill without a sports bra and not get pummeled in the face, I’d say I’m making progress.

Anyway, all this working out got me thinking. If there is life on other planets, do they have the same problem? Do the little green men have little round beer bellies and sagging butts from sitting in their saucers for millions of miles? I realize they probably don’t have beer, but I’m sure they've found something to overindulge in, like an extra-large order of radioactive grubs from the planet Xazzabba, or perhaps a super-grande, Venusian tar-crab smoothie. I for one would not be surprised in the least.  Any intelligent civilization will have stumbled on dessert. I mean, without Twinkies we’d be nothing more than savages.

My point is, if they've been around a lot longer than us, then they have no doubt discovered the joy of stuffing the ‘ol pie hole with high-calorie krapolla, and are more than likely sporting some serious zero gravity moobs and alien love handles. So just maybe, if we were invaded, they would be at least as out of shape as we are and all we would have to do is out run them. Besides, we’re already used to the gravity here, so I think we would have a slight edge.

I am going for a walk now. I want to be ready. I for one am not going to get probed by a chubby alien.

K.G.

Klaatu Barada Nikto

Live long and prosper my lonely cyber- cadets. I applaud you as you search the outer reaches of cyber-space and beyond in an attempt to find truth, justice and good Chinese take-out.

Been pondering this whole alien thing (outer space ones, not illegal ones; though the “illegal” case could be made for both, I suppose). In a HuffPost/YouGov survey, one fourth of Americans said that they think aliens have visited us, while a third said “Yeah, when pigs fly.” The rest of the respondents were trying to get their medical marijuana cards and really just wanted to find the nearest Jack in the Box. Among those who were convinced that life exists on other planets, 45 percent said that aliens visit Earth often and possibly own one of the local Quicky-Marts.

Even noted Physicist Stephen Hawking (when not hitting on women) took time to respond. Mr. Hawking, in that weird, robot-like, digitally-voice, said that intelligent life on other planets probably exists, but that if little green men had visited Earth it would have been a "much more unpleasant" experience than any UFO sightings. So I guess being “tied down and probed” could be filed under “not that unpleasant”, especially if they bought you a Proud Whopper and dropped you off at the front door after.

College grads that were surveyed were more willing than non-college graduates to believe that life exists in some form elsewhere in the universe, although no more eager to admit that aliens have actually visited. Their reasoning, “Hot chicks just don’t go for crazy guys.”

Older respondents were much more likely than younger ones to state firmly that Earth has played Motel 6 to alien visitors, but this could be due to easier access to prescription medication.

I think this whole alien craze is just another way to keep our spirits up when we fail at dating sites like eHarmony and Tinder. We are so desperate to believe that there is someone out there for us, our “willing to travel for love” distance has expanded to include the rest of the universe. As for me, well, I have a hard time driving twenty minutes to get a Mocha Frappuccino, and I never really cared for girls with tentacles.

My hypothesis:
Aliens have been visiting the earth not to poke and prod us (though this sounds like good clean fun), but to dump their garbage here. It’s their radioactive trash in the atmosphere that is making us lose all common sense an accuse each other of being racist, homophobic, and overenthusiastic about World Cup soccer (Stephen King; you may use this for your next novel for a nominal fee).

K.G.

To Serve Man

Hello, my Web-wondering whippersnappers. I am back to doing what I do best; looking at the world through woes-colored glasses, and seeking out humor amid the overall craziness that seems to have invaded our planet like the pods from “Invasion of the Body Snatchers.”

Bonnie (my better ¾’s) and I, lately have had spirited discussions regarding “Customer Service” or the lack there of. It seems that good old customer service is a dying art, seemingly lost on a large portion of the populace. Could this have something to do with the increasing dependence on social media and the tendency to conduct personal interaction on a tiny screen with a tiny keyboard where one might say anything one wishes without getting punched in the nose real-time? This fascinating subject came up as we were listening to two employees at an upscale burger joint argue about tips while we stood at the register waiting to pay our bill.

Now, I want to say something without sounding like an old geezer, but I am an old (although nicely dressed and coiffed) geezer, so I will attempt to spit it out without drooling on myself.

Why, back in my day…

Napkin, please.

Open letter to America’s waiters and waitresses:

Dear Tammy and Troy,

I am choosing to spend my hard-earned money in the place where you work to be treated special. I can stay at home in a pair of threadbare boxers and be like the Invisible Man. Wait.  Come to think of it, having you wait on me is actually just like being at home. My own kids also ignore me, speak only in grunts and broken sentences, and they want me to pay them, too.

Get off the iPhone and make me a sandwich.

Sincerely,

K.G.

First Lady to Launch New “GreenTeen” Program

In an effort to stem the growing teen obesity problem and provide new green jobs for the millions of teens who have been displaced in the entry level fast food job market by the growing immigrant work force, First Lady, Michelle Obama, is heading up a new program aptly named “GreenTeen”.

According to a White House press release, the new program revolves around getting teens off computers and onto a modern version of the “rickshaw”, so popular in other countries. Teens across the country would be issued a government owned rickshaw which would be leased for a nominal fee plus interest, thus not only promoting physical fitness, but also teaching the teens how to manage finances. Each rickshaw would also have ample space for advertising, “the ads alone would bring millions of dollars into the government coffers,” one spokesman said.



Teens would be generously paid a new $2.00 an hour GreenTeen sliding scale, minimum wage which would fluctuate up or down depending on the teens weight. “The whole idea,” Mrs. Obama was quoted as saying, “Is to motivate the chubby kids to make more healthy choices.”

An unnamed union source within the Genovese organization said, “The teens would be required to join the Taxi Drivers Association at a reduced rate until their eighteenth birthday at which time they would be afforded all the rights, privileges and protection of any other card carrying member.”  A special rickshaw driver’s license would also be issued and monitored by the DMV, who would regulate license and registration matters along with other environmental fees.

The program is set to roll out in Washington DC this month when all low level government employees will be returning their state issued vehicles and be assigned a “GreenTeen” in its place.

“We are really pleased with this new initiative,” U.S. Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid said yesterday. “We are seriously considering issuing GreenTeen’s to all congressional and senate members. I mean, who couldn’t use another intern, am I right?”

Expect  this new “GreenTeen” program to ride into your state in the near future.

K.G.

McDonald’s to follow Seattle’s Lead

B yK.G.

Just as news of Seattle’s plan to begin raising the minimum wage to $15.00, burger giant McDonalds is tossing its own clown into the ring by doing something analysts  were sure would never happen; raise the wages paid to its employees. As one of the largest employers in the world, McDonald’s not only chose to follow Washington States lead, but have upped the ante in an attempt to ward off any future boycotts by the hundreds of thousands employees who daily serve the billions the fast food chain claims on its signs.

A spokesman for the company explained that the minimum wages paid would be bolstered by the addition of “Happy Bucks” that could be used to purchase items off the extensive menu, which when added to the current wage would bring the new hourly wage up near the $20.00 mark.  “Employees are pretty thrilled about this new program,” an unnamed manager was quoted as saying.

On a side note, Civil Rights Lawyer Gloria Allred is filing a class-action lawsuit on behalf of the predominantly Catholic workforce. Allred said, “We won’t be happy until the Fish Sandwich is included in the deal.”

There's a Fine Line Between

Genius and


Well ... you know



Fantastic and



Fanatic



Talent and



Aw... forget it

Traveling With K.G.

Ciao cyber-pals. How’s life treating you? Today’s topic is traveling, and I don’t mean from the La-Z-Boy to the fridge.

Who doesn’t like to travel; explore faraway places, eat exotic food, use long forgotten math skills to figure out how many pairs of underwear are necessary? I mean really, don’t want to get caught short (pun so intended).

Just returned from an awesome trip to Italy recently; Rome and Milan respectively. I believe these are the only places on earth without a Starbucks on every corner. Of course, there are coffee bars every five feet, so having caffeine withdrawals is not likely. The Italians are so much worse than us. We won’t drive more than a block to get our morning fix, and they won’t walk more than a few feet. Probably because they have cooler shoes and don't want to wear them out.

The Coliseum was… well…colossal. An ingenious feat of human imagination and engineering, I must say. So how come all the streets are uneven cobblestones? Does it take a genius to make a flat road? Just asking.

Oh, and I took my first trip through that naked camera thing at the airport. What the heck are the requirements for that job? Good eyesight and a strong stomach I think.

More on my trip later.

K.G.

Am I Old Fashioned?

Let’s see, I remember when tips were for people who actually provided some sort of personal service for me, personally. Now I know it’s really difficult to pour a cup of coffee -I drip all the time- so perhaps this is a skill that should be rewarded with a tip. Coffee is also dangerously hot so maybe hazard pay is also in order. I expect any day now my wife will place a tip jar on the kitchen counter next to the receipt for a pair of asbestos gloves. Will I tip her? Youbetcha.

I remember life before cellular phones. Has the smart phone made my life easier? Hmmm…, the jury’s out on this one.

Smartphone Downside:

I don’t have an excuse for not calling people right back.

I take terrible “Selfies”.

“Stocks App” – I don’t have any stocks and it makes me feel inadequate.

It’s impossible to misplace a pay phone.

Smartphone Upside:

I no longer have to wrestle a drug dealer out front of the Quickie-Mart to use the pay phone.

Don’t have to memorize phone numbers.

With the “Map” function, I can always find my way home (My wife will argue whether or not this is an upside).

I can use the “Selfie” function on the camera to make sure there’s nothing stuck in my teeth (See wife comment above).

Fun Facts

Remember phone booths? If Superman was around today, he’d have to strip down in the tiny backseat of his smart car. Not to mention that blond lady in “The Birds” movie would have been pecked to death in the first twenty minutes if not for this modern marvel. I kinda miss those.

History of Fashion

I wore Converse sneakers (wanted Beatle boots –insert sad face) long before they were hip and cool. Also saggy pants. In my day they called them hand-me-downs. I was so ahead of the curve.

H20-No

I hope you’re feeling better dear
This lovely Tuesday morning
May I suggest you get some rest
Since you didn’t heed my warning

So just remember this, my love 
You gave me much joke fodder
So next time you fly far away
Please don’t drink the water

-© 2014 Kenneth Goorabian

Intro

Hello fellow cyber-nauts. It is I, "hautegrandpa" - AKA “the loquacious expounder of Sisyphean drivel”, lover of humor, coffee and small, furry rodents coming at you live from this endless universe of mind-numbing flotsam and jetsam we lovingly call the Matrix. We are going to have such a good time, oui? Since we have only just been introduced, here's a few posts to get our new friendship rolling.

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