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.