Ho, Ho, Holy Guacamole, It’s Winter

I’ve never been much of a winter guy. And no, I don’t go around whining when the temperature drops below my age. Okay, I do whine a bit more than necessary, but dog-gone-it, the reason I moved south from Northern California was the awesome weather. Oh, and the hope that I might run into some stars. Matter of fact, I thought I saw Steven Tyler of Aerosmith at the beach the other day, but it turned out to be just an old bag lady with whiskers. So taking into account I also don’t ski, snowboard or partake in any other sport that involves sliding or tumbling down a frozen mountain at 60 miles an hour, living in close proximity to where the Donner Party developed a taste for Mutton Jeff doesn’t do much for me. On the other hand, I don’t surf, body board, or in any way make myself chum for the sharks, but do visit the beach more than I ever went to the mountains. 

Although we are in a drought, the news people are crying wolf for rain this weekend. This is disconcerting to us (and them) because we wear really cool shoes here, and if they get wet we might get mad and never watch the news again. So even if the chance of rain is as slight as running into Kanye West at a Mensa conference, they warn us anyway. And besides, it gives them something to talk about besides shootings, high-speed chases, sports, and cute puppies that need a new home.

Now, being as anxiety ridden as I am, I always use plenty of waterproofing spray on my shoes so if there’s ever rain, a water main break, or a Grande Latte spill at Starbucks my shoes will still look fabulous, and that’s all that really matters here, right?

The one upside to rain is the squirrels will stop glaring at me through the window every time I chug a bottle of Sparkletts.

I realize El Niño is just around the corner, but as I finish this, the sun is still shining outside my patio door. I’ve heard it never rains in Southern California, or so goes the old song. Of course, it’s also said that rock-n-roll never forgets, but tell that to The Electric Prunes.

K.G.

To Know Us Is To Love Us

To Know Us Is To Love Us

I knew who I was this morning, but I’ve changed a few times since then.

-Alice in Wonderland

I talk to myself constantly. That’s not to say I don’t find you interesting enough to converse with, I just find myself more fascinating.

-Kenneth Goorabian

Don’t take it personal. My wife doesn’t. Although she will let out a scream reminiscent of Jurassic Park’s main attraction if I repeat myself more than two (three is my average) times. But I understand. It’s sometimes difficult living with all of us.

According to her, I have more than a few personalities lurking within. Let’s not confuse this with crazy. I’m not stand-on-a-street-corner and yell at people crazy. Squirrely might be a better term.

Here’s a typical exchange.

Me: “That looks good. I think I’ll wear that. But, the color makes you look fat.”

Her: (From the other room) “Are you talking to me?”

Me: “No. Stop interrupting us.”

I believe her when she says it’s like living with mini- me’s.

The Musician Me

The ultra-cool (coulda been a contender) rock star me. Been slinging the ‘ol six-string since I was knee-high to a Vox AC30. That’s cool musician talk for “I’ve been playing guitar as long as most Congressmen have been in office, but unlike them, haven’t got rich or made an intern cry.”

The Fashionista Me

How do I love thee, oh, Heidi Klum? Let me count the ways.  Fashion and rock –n- roll go together like a Chinese spare rib. Brightly colored and slightly greasy. 

I’ve been experimenting with fashion since junior high, when on the first day of 7^th grade I wore a cow-hide (sorry, PETA) poncho, white skintight pants and knee-high boots. I was a hit for the first five minutes until they politely (ha, this was the ‘60s) told me to go home and change. Now I live vicariously through televisions shows like Project Runway and America’s Next Top Model. Pretty fly for a straight guy.

The Hypochondriac Me

After starting out my young life with a string of hospital stays, I’m sure it would come as no surprise I might occasionally self-diagnose my illnesses. So far, I have had cancer three times, two heart attacks, flesh-eating disease and a hundred or so runs-ins with Ebola, e coli, and the fish one, Salmonella. I attribute my miracle recoveries to prayer and fasting (gave up Del Taco bean and cheese burritos for a year). My wife gives the credit to eating unprocessed food, my therapist, and a lifetime prescription for anti-anxiety medication.

The Fitness Me

I adore working out. Okay, not true, but I do love my skinny jeans, so workout I must. I split my time between running and lifting. I have installed a 40-lb toilet seat cover so when I run to the bathroom 10 times in the middle of the night I work the biceps lifting the seat.  Just kidding. Really, I just run up and down the hills of Fullerton, which at my age is akin to taking the stairs to the top of the Empire State building three times a week with a backpack full of Jumbo Jack’s. I also lift weights for maximum moob control. For you lazy/busy guys, they now have men’s Manx shirts with built-in pecs and shoulder muscles.  Can you say, “Ahem, turn out the lights, Honey, while I slip into something more comfortable and chubby”?

I once used biking as my weight-control method.  The only problem with biking is I had to ride ten times as far to achieve the same results as running.  The upside was I had a much better chance of outdistancing the coyotes if they suddenly developed a taste for aged beefcake.

The Humorous Me

I believe he is my wife’s favorite.

You can shower a woman with love, attention and gifts, but if you can’t tickle her fancy, she will likely go looking for someone with a bigger feather.

-Kenneth Goorabian

Not My Circus, Not My Monkey

But I wish it was.

I think monkeys are the coolest animals, I would love to have one as a pet. Unfortunately, my wife is vehemently anti-simian and there’s pretty much nothing short of a Forensic Files episode that will get her to change her mind. And don’t think I haven’t tried. I’ve used every argument I could dream up.

A.    A companion for me while she’s globetrotting for work.

B.     He could clean the rain gutters without worrying about falling off the roof.

C.     Someone to eat all the brown bananas she says I waste.

D.    With a squeezebox thingy and a sweet hat for my monkey I could make some extra cash when I’m hanging out at the mall.

E.     They’re irresistibly cute

My wife says she’d rather have a baby (ain’t gonna happen) than a monkey. Okay, let’s go with that for a moment.

Babies wear diapers. So do monkeys. You can dress a baby up as ridiculous as you want and they won’t complain. Monkeys can’t talk so I’d say that’s a wash. Babies

are warm and cuddly, so are monkeys. Babies require many doctor visits; vets are slightly cheaper. Babies don’t shed, so there’s that. Babies throw food. Monkeys throw their po… okay, the baby wins that one. But can a baby swing from the chandelier? I think not.

She finally suggested I get a dog.

The thought of making a friend out of something that frequently uses its tongue as a washcloth doesn’t appeal to me in the slightest. I believe this is why Michael Jackson wisely chose Bubbles over Fido.

Monkeys rule…dogs drool

K.G.

Cathy Christa Connolly

Cathy Christa Connolly

Loves caterpillars most

She can take or leave a slimy snail

Convinced they’re just too gross

She’s not concerned with beetles

Nor noisy flying bugs

When confronted by a centipede

Cathy Christa merely shrugs

She camps out in the garden

In an old cuffed pair of jeans

With cousin Courtney’s looking glass

She crawls on hands and knees

She searches under turnips

Under beets and celery

She’ll leave no fragile leaf unturned

‘Neath the carrot’s canopy

She’ll get down in the clover

Where the creepy crawlers crawl

But she’s never met a crawling thing

That gave her creeps at all

She probes the blocks of cinder

By the creek around the bend

Where spiders like to build their webs

To dine on all her friends

They hide in cracks and hollows

Seeking crunchy insect snacks

Traps of sturdy silk they spin

For crickets they must catch

Please hurry home for dinner

Her mother loudly called

Your father’s coming up the drive

Let creepy crawlers crawl

I’m giving you this warning

Don’t pretend that you don’t hear

If any bugs come through that door

You won’t sit down for a year

-© 2015 Kenneth Goorabian

Howard, Brian and Me

Wash four distinct and separate times, using lots of

lather each time from individual bars of soap.

-Howard Hughes

The only reason I'd ever get a sex change operation is

to see what it's like to be right all the time.

-Brian Wilson

It just amazes me that in this day and age one can live

virtually (pun intended) free of any interference from the outside world.

Modern technology is so cool.

-K. Goorabian

Got a new computer today. The old one was getting too slow and as a writer or porn star, you’re only as good as your tools. Am I right? I also deposited a check from my iPhone for the first time today. I consider it fortunate that I hadn’t discovered these modern conveniences earlier.  Having an itty-bitty (my wife is shaking her head) problem with anxiety, had I been brave enough to explore these new technological marvels on my own I surely would still be hiding in my man-cave, shades drawn, marathon binging America’s Next Top Model with a Little Caesar’s pepperoni pizza (ordered on-line of course) perched precariously on my chubby little belly.

Ah, but fate in the form of a lovey lassie (wife, not the dog) intervened, which is a good thing. My therapist said I was about a year away from becoming a less rich and infinitely less interesting Howard Hughes. I disagreed. After all, I cut my nails and hair on a regular basis and had never made a bad B-Movie. In fact, I considered myself more of a better looking, though not even close to as talented and slightly less crazy Brian Wilson kinda guy. I even briefly flirted with the idea of having artificial grass installed under my computer desk. Sand is way too messy and eventually ends up in the most irritating and embarrassing places. Maybe this is what drove Brian crazy. Just a thought.

Anxiety isn’t so bad though. Through the years it’s kept me from doing a lot of stupid things; like buying a new BMW I probably wouldn’t drive with my first royalty check. Although, having a vintage Beemer with no miles on it might fetch a few dollars. I have enough things I don’t use in the garage already.

I am, thanks to my wife, coming around. I now have a part-time job. I’ve also said goodbye to my therapist, but cling doggedly to my psychiatrist due to the fact she has my best interests at heart and is in control of the prescription pad. She’s a pretty good doctor. Well, except for making me take a drug test because of my incessant use of the word “eat” when talking about my meds. Doesn’t everyone eat their pills? Oh well, I am a product of the ‘60s. I blame the culture. I still get misty eyed when I see a pair of bell bottoms.

Life is good. My waistline is way less than my age, and I have a fabulous wife. All in all, I’m grateful to just be alive and not playing in a country band.

Yet.

K.G.

Leaping Larry Leoni

Larry Luigi Leoni

A leaper extraordinaire

Discovered he loved playing leap-frog

On a leap from his Grandma’s stairs

He launched himself off of ladders

Building his leaping strength

Then constructed a lovely launching pad

To increase his leaping length

He‘d warm up leaping fences

Then strike a handsome pose

While leisurely licking a lollipop

Before landing on his toes

He mastered leaping autos

Then leapt a Greyhound bus

Before too long Luigi

Was causing a local fuss

One day a man called Lewis

A jumper from way out west

Challenged young Larry Luigi

To determine whose leaping was best

They started by leaping four houses

Then a lopsided circus tent

They leapt over rivers, streams and lakes

Lifting higher with ever ascent

They leapt over ten locomotives

Then on to a forest of pines

They leapt over fields of white daisies

Then acres of lemons and limes

They leapt over mountains and valleys

Hurdled a large flock of geese

The leaping was getting out of control

They both knew the leaping must cease

But Larry had never been lazy

And Leoni’s weren’t known to fail

His long-jumping title in jeopardy

He refused to let Lewis prevail

Larry took three long steps backwards

Gave Lewis a lavish bow

Not one for long-winded, drawn-out goodbyes

He lastly saluted the crowd

Larry ran like a leopard

Then let out a warrior’s cry

With a lick and a promise he leapt from the ground

In the air Leaping Larry did fly

Higher and higher went Larry

Passed a lavender hot air balloon

An orbiting satellite he left behind

Soon Larry was passing the moon

The folks left below began cheering

Jumper Lewis was merely forlorn

Streaking ‘cross the heavens with a long tail of light

A comet named Larry was born

© 2015 Kenneth Goorabian

Hello… Hello… Hello… Is There Anybody Out There?

Scientists say they’ve found water on Mars? Well, not water per se. More like a briny liquid. Now I know why aliens are described as little green men.  
#pickle people

You might think that’s totally ridiculous, but I’ve been studying UFO flight patterns. There’ve been dozens of sightings around Imlay City, Michigan. What’s in Imlay City besides Parks Show Cattle Online Steer & Heifer Sale, Lucky’s Steak House and 3,589 bored Imalayins? Ah, my ET lovin’ amigos, that would be the Vlasic Pickle factory.  No, I’m not gherkin your chain.

  
I’ve always been a bit suspicious of any food that needs to be preserved in a vinegary substance. Perhaps they’re hiding something. Could life actually exist out there in space, and aside from being friendly, also be quite tasty?

I’ve seen pictures of Mars. Totally barren. Have we, like some super-race of Peter Pipers, been pickin’ more than a peck of pickled Martian peppers? Are we now on a quest to find new worlds to enslave, jar and serve next to a pastrami on rye with a smear of deli Dijon?

According to the guy with the weird hair on Ancient Aliens, space beings have been visiting us pretty much forever.  After a bit of archaeological Internet digging I have uncovered the truth. This pickling process goes back as far as 2400 B.C. Coincidence? Maybe the little green guys have good reason to avoid us.

So the next time you’re tempted to top your salad off with a few artichoke hearts (ever wonder why they call them hearts?), stop and consider the possibility you might be cannibalizing some inferior, though delectable race of beings who want nothing more than to share in the American dream. This more than likely doesn’t involve becoming a garnish for your Dodger dog.

Relish their friendship.  

K.G

Rambling Roger Rukowski

Rambling Roger Rukowski

Was a ragtag man indeed

He rode the rails, telling tall, tall tales

From Rhode Island to Tennessee

He hailed from Reno, Nevada

But had relatives as far as Quebec

A cousin named Dolly who lived up in Raleigh

The rest he just can’t recollect

Now, Roger always relished adventure

And the rails represented a chance

So before the spring rain, he hopped on a train

With a rucksack and not a dime in his pants

Some called him a rag tag Tom Sawyer

A penniless Renaissance man

‘Cause he traveled the road by a personal code

Don’t return to where you first began

He loved to recount the old stories

He was known for his clever retorts

Though he’ll rarely retract, what he swears are the facts

But to laughter he’ll often resort

He’d said he’d been a rodeo cowboy

Rode the back of a reluctant horse

But he fooled more than one, so the best rule of thumb

Don’t believe ‘ol Rukowski of course

So if he says he was a reindeer wrangler

Taught Elvis to rock and to roll

Invented the refrigerator

Roller skated to the North and South Poles

Repaired a few heads at Mount Rushmore

Or taught the first Rottweiler to howl

Remember to wink, or despite what you think

He might rent you the Panama Canal

© 2015 Kenneth Goorabian

Hair Today, Gone To Maui

Dear Abby,

I have women issues. Can’t seem to have any long-term relationships. There are never any red flags, no odd behavior, no “it’s not you, it’s me” speeches, just an unannounced vanishing act. What’s a guy to do?

Signed,

Frustrated in Fullerton

Unfortunately, I once again (heavy sigh) find myself alone. I’ve never been one to mope, but I’m starting to think I’ll never find (and keep) “the one.” And try as I might to be a desirable partner, I can’t seem to keep a relationship with a woman going. Oh, I briefly flirted with the idea of “switching teams.” This was quickly dismissed.  Sharing my innermost thoughts and dreams with another man just don’t float my boat. So here I am, sitting in the dark at the keyboard trying to self-analyze just what went wrong for the umpteenth time. 

Was I really doing my best to be a desirable partner? I thought so. I was generous with my time and money, never cheated and showered her with praise her every time we met. I wasn’t jealous when she spent time with other guys, waited patiently when I showed up and she wasn’t ready, and always tried to keep the conversations intelligent and current, but also wouldn’t avoid the deep subjects. I made a point never to bash or compare her to my ex’s, and when I called and said I was coming I always kept my word. I encouraged her to be herself and if she wanted to experiment a bit, well, hey, I was all in.  So what gives?

I guess in the end we just wanted different things. She wanted bigger and better and I was happy with the status quo. I’m sure the age difference was a factor. I couldn’t really expect a 21-year-old to hang with a 61-year-old man for long. She wanted to climb mountains, I was into naps. Pipe dream at most. But when we were together I felt so special, like I was the only guy in her world.  

I miss her a lot. The thought of having to find a woman to replace her sends my anxiety levels through the roof. But in the end I will. I always do.

My wife is always supportive when I go through a crisis like this. And I love her for it. But she says I am starting to look shaggy so I’d better find a new hairdresser.

New relationships are always so challenging. It’s all a matter of trust.

K.G.

No Vain, No Gain

Disrobing in front of a full-length mirror is like slowing down at the scene of an accident. No matter how hideous it is… you just have to look.  -K.G.

It’s one in the afternoon, 89 degrees outside, I just finished a six-and-a-half mile run over the rolling hills of Fullerton, California, and I’m sweating like a gray-haired pig in a sauna. Crazy you say. I would give you a high-five if I could catch my breath long enough.

I absolutely hate exercising. There, I said it. It sucks bugs. I would be much happier laying on the couch in my Sponge Bob undies with a tub of Rocky Road balanced on my stomach and a slightly stale (like ‘em with a little snap) box of Red Vines clutched between my chubby little fingers while binge watching Project Runway.

Why do I torture myself, you ask? After all, Walmart sells clothes in larger sizes and black compression socks are kinda in. I often ask myself this same question. It’s all vanity. There. I said it again. I plan to be buried in a pair of skinny jeans and a slim-fit V-neck tee. If you don’t see my feet, know that I’ll be rockin’ some righteous Chucks when I hit the pearly gates.

I’ve been reading about a new pill that tricks your muscles into thinking they just worked out; burns fat without leaving the couch. Can I get an Amen for that? And if you exercise while taking these miracle pills the effect is amplified. So if you go to the fridge for a beer, and to the bathroom say, twice an hour, before you know it you’d look like that guy with the abs who’s shacking up with Sophia Vergara.

Science is so much fun. Way more fun than exercising. I assume cloned new bodies won’t be far off. Think I’ll stretch out on the sofa with a gallon of Ben & Jerry’s Boom Chocolatta and watch Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

K.G.

Water, Water Everywhere, but not a Drop to Drink

“California’s so dry…someone snatched my bottled water but left my iPhone.”

-Unknown

 

In case you haven’t noticed Southern California is in a drought.

As I stand by helplessly and watch my lush, green lawn turn a beautiful shade of Jerry Brown, the whole drought thing is starting to hit home. I wrote about this a while back when it wasn’t such an issue; a rather dry, tongue-in-cheek look at our water woes. Well, the tide (okay, no more puns) has now turned. Water wasting has become a serious offense. You may soon be given ten to life for overindulging your begonias or hosing down your BMW.

This is not good news for me. Not because the ol’ Beemer is getting dusty (don’t own one), but because I love long, hot showers. In my opinion, the Wild West wouldn’t have been so wild if there were hot showers. I do believe the water heater is man’s second greatest invention. The first is obviously the BLT. I mean, who doesn’t like a good BLT on sourdough with mayo?  Am I right?

Come to think of it, why aren’t we discussing H2O *pipelines? Canada has all that ice they’re not using and we’re parched. Seems like a no-brainer to me. Forget the oil. Who wants to get in a car with someone who smells like woolly mammoth roadkill?  Here’s an idea. Maybe we could trade them a few dozen used movie stars for some water.

*Could someone please begin a Kickstarter campaign for a pipeline? The whales and dolphins are all set. Let’s save the Dove. I’m talking soap here. Without water, soap is basically useless unless you want to vandalize the windows on someone’s Beemer or stop your kid from mouthing off.

On the positive side, the ocean is nearby. If you don’t mind a few Great White sharks, a gang of neoprene-clad, over-possessive surfers, and a few gooey tar balls, there’s a huge salt water bathtub just up the road. And if that doesn’t wet your whistle (sorry), most grocery stores still provide free handy wipes at the front door. Who doesn’t want to smell lemony fresh?

All this water talk has made me thirsty. Think I’ll strain a little Crystal Geyser through some Starbucks Italian roast and then hit the shower.

Have a good, long soak. You’ll feel better.

K.G.

Quirks, Quarks and Quotes

I'm no Einstein.

-Albert Einstein

My wife refuses to acknowledge expiration dates on food. She would eat a week-old dead possum as long as it wasn’t pink inside and she had some A-1. I, on the other hand, have a hard time eating yogurt that still has a few good days left before retirement. I know this is silly. It’s already spoiled milk, right?  How much more rotten can it get?

We both have our quirks. She loves mangos, papaya, kiwis. I consider any fruit that hasn’t been cubed, drowned in syrup, canned and labeled “cocktail” some sort of alien life form.  She doesn’t appreciate slightly ajar cupboards, drawers or open closet doors. Some childhood Boogeyman thing maybe? Not sure on this. I’m positive I close them… most of the time. She says I don’t. I’ve decided we must have a poltergeist because I’m also missing some socks.

I think it’s great that we are different. She watches Dancing with the Stars and occasionally I watch it with her. I do this so she will watch the shows I like which revolve around bubble theory, quarks and quantum physics. Unless Heidi Klum is on. Project Runway trumps the string theory any day.  Quizzically, she also loves Moonshiners. I don’t get shows where subtitles are required for people speaking English. Okay, I did like Honey Boo Boo so there are always exceptions.

Being around someone who likes everything I do would get on my nerves after a while. I mean really, I don’t even like myself most of the time. My wife has opened so many new doors for me. Encouraged (forced in some cases) me to crawl out of the box and if not smell the roses, at least point at them from across the street. She took me to Italy with her as a piggyback honeymoon/work trip. It was one of the best experiences of my life. Only had two or three panic attacks the whole trip and she didn’t have to chase me down even once. Ah, the memories.

Who’d have thought the fourth (yikes, guess I’m a slow learner) trip down the aisle would be the one. Finding your sole mate (little pun ‘cause we both love shoes) is magical. Quite frankly I thought it was a load of Hollywood hooey, but what do I know. I though Arnold Schwarzenegger was a good actor.

K.G.

I am Iron Man

First off, this has nothing to do with comic books, Black Sabbath or Ozzie Osbourne, so if you're a comic geek or metal-head, I apologize. Not that I have anything against you, you are probably all really nice guys.

This is self-examination, if you will. A peeling back of the pungent layers of my psyche to expose what makes me tick. I'm saying this in the most literal sense. Truth be told, I'm not Iron Man. I dare say if I was a super hero I would probably be Cool Shoe Man or Shopping Mall Guy. As I've said previously, I'm totally in touch with my feminine side, which poses no problem unless called upon to listen empathetically to a friend, at which time I'll generally fidget, look at my watch and start thinking about what time the mall closes.

As some of you may know, I recently re-entered the work force. My days of doing it my way (i.e. sipping Pina Coladas by the swimming pool while listening to Frank Sinatra’s greatest hits) came to a screeching halt. Okay, I was actually drinking coffee while lying on the couch in my boxers, but why get technical.

After working for a few months, I've come to appreciate just how difficult work is, but I can’t complain. No. Really. I can’t. I'm surrounded by coworkers half my age and the last thing I want to do is look or sound like a wussy. Sometimes it’s hard work being so vain.

Occasionally, I must resort to some sleight of hand like the James Brown deadlift. When picking up something heavy I shout out, “Ow, somebody hep me… please." This not only covers a multitude of grunts, but also any escaping gas.

On the upside, I've become quite familiar with chemicals required to dispatch ants, roaches, bed bugs, rats, mice, gophers, etc. Not only does this make me popular with the customers, but it fills my brain with a plethora of valuable information should I ever want to do someone in (wifey, beware) without leaving any pesky Internet searches for the Forensic Files guys to find. Work can be cool and have future benefits.

On the downside, I'm on my feet all day. This presents a shoe dilemma. Should one go for comfort or style? I'd generally go for style every time because the wrong shoes can spoil even the sharpest outfit. After the first few days I caved. Don't get the wrong idea, I’m not wearing nurse-white Dr. Scholl’s, but I have ditched my B&W Converse for a sweet pair of Brooks running shoes in a metallic hue (metallic is a neutral, just ask Clinton or Stacy from WNTW) and am very pleased with the result. I guess maybe you can have it all. 

K.G.

Necessity is the Mother of Invention

“Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work.”

-Thomas A. Edison

 

“Jazz isn't dead. It just smells funny.”

-Frank Zappa

Recently, I went to the funeral of my aunt. She lived to be 102. Crazy, right? Hard to imagine living that long.

It got me thinking about the marvels she witnessed during her lifetime. When she was growing up the term “Fast Food” meant something you had to run after to catch. And prior to the internet, browsing actually meant using your legs to walk around. Kind of like exercise.  Barbaric, I tell you.

We are so blessed. We live in a time where 7-11 sells pizza, a tall Starbuck’s coffee is still slightly less than a gallon of gas, and we are able to genetically scramble our food so the bugs won’t eat it. Just spitballin’ here, but if they won’t eat it, should we?

I have a few ideas of my own all you rocket scientists should be working on.

1. Tweak my Cap’n Crunch so it won’t get soggy in milk. All the once wasted cereal would go a long way towards solving the hunger problem.

2. Rearrange my* dog’s genes so he will take himself for a walk and clean up his own business. People would have so much time on their hands they would be free to tackle such pressing issues as world peace and stuff.

*Okay, I don’t have a dog. I think my wife’s words were “Over my dead body,” so as soon they genetically mutate one to fit in my wallet… woof.

3. Modify pizza cheese so it won’t stick to the roof of my mouth like mozzarella napalm. This seems like a no-brainer. I’m surprised the military hasn’t made a bomb out of hot pizza cheese.

4. Make a banana that turns into bacon when it rots. Oh, yeah. Bananas would be flying off the shelves. This would turn around the economies of many third world countries.

5. Create a chicken with four wings. I really like chicken wings.

K.G.

Low T, Mr. T and Xylophobia

As one grows older, time whizzes by like the 90 seconds it takes me to wolf down a super-sized bowl of frozen yogurt and less like waiting in line at the DMV. Funny, but when you’re young, older seems to be where all the action is.

Note to anyone under 25, being a grown-up has its perks, but mostly kinda sucks. Not for the squeamish.

But I must admit that as I’ve grown older I have become somewhat wiser. You notice I said somewhat. Even very cool older people (such as Mr. T and me) do foolish things. This newfound wisdom brings forth semi-serious introspection. You can travel through the worm hole to a place in time before hair sprouted from the most awful places and ears morphed into something resembling a wrinkled baby pachyderm. This look back has given me a basic understanding of how I became the creative, anxiety ridden, shoe loving writer I am today.

Caution: I do this mental reboot of my life with the help of a personal power trio of professionals (wife, therapist, and psychiatrist) assisted by a  mood-swinging back-up band, the pharmaceutical manufacturers of America. Do not try this at home. It may cause one to regrow mullet or search thrift shops for day-glow-orange tube top.

My mother had two desires for me; to be a dancer and to play the xylophone. What the !!!**@@ was she thinking? Okay, anyone who knows me at all knows I don’t dance. I make Seinfeld’s “Elaine” character look like Miley Cyrus.  As for the xylophone…. Please! Did anyone ever get a hot chick playing the xylophone?  My mother did introduce me to books, though. I am and have been an avid reader since childhood so I thank her for that, but am grateful not to be lugging a xylophone over the sand dunes to a singalong around the beach fire pit.

Being the second of four boys I had the feeling she sometimes wished one of us had been a girl. Well, she didn’t get that wish. Instead she got me.

Not into sports as a spectator or participant; fast cars or monster trucks do nothing for me; and I will not leave the house with clothes that don’t match unless as a fashion statement. But I do love to shop, am a shoe-aholic, never miss Project Runway (Heidi Klum….grrrr) or America’s Next Top Model. So as you can see, I am in touch with my female side.  Oh, I also watch The Walking Dead so I do have a smidge of testosterone.

K.G.

Elvis, Trivialities and the Human Brain

Just how much useless information can one’s brain store before it rebels? When forced to add to the clutter of irritating commercial jingles, bad movie dialog and elementary (I before E except after C) grade school gobbledygook will it one day say I’ve had enough, I quit?

I’ve heard from reliable sources that the mind is the second thing to go, but I wanted to keep this PG rated so I will forgo the joke about the honeymooning seniors, two Popsicle sticks and a roll of duct tape.

Time inevitably marches on and pop culture twerks right along behind it. Seems like only yesterday that Elvis Presley was known as the “King of Rock –N- Roll.” Now he is commonly referred to as the dead fat guy in the rhinestone jumpsuit. Before you know it Kanye West will be nothing more than 20 down; a nine letter word for the second idiot who married the Armenian chick with the big butt.  So, as I get older I begin to care less about what movie star gets a DUI (They’re rich. Couldn't they afford Uber?) and more about keeping incontinent dogs and partying teenagers off my lawn.

Side Note:

I pondered this subject while scouring the internet in a vain attempt to discover the ingredients for Honey Boo Boo’s world famous butter and ketchup spaghetti sauce.  Apparently this is a carefully guarded formula right up there with Coca-Cola, KFC’s top secret herbs and spices and Flame Broiler’s “Magic Sauce.” If anyone has discovered HBB’s recipe, please forward it to me.

Anyway, I find it fascinating that I can belt out the theme song to The Brady Bunch verbatim, but couldn't tell you what I had for breakfast this morning.  As a lifelong musician this is somewhat comforting. That means I could probably get up on stage with a band I was in thirty years ago and play Hit Me with Your Best Shot flawlessly. The flip side is it would take me an hour to remember where I parked my car afterward.

I was considering going on one of those websites where you exercise your brain, but for the life of me I can’t remember the web address. Probably just as well. This morning I could barely recite the first two verses of the Gilligan’s Island theme song. The possibility exists that if any more info was crammed into my aging noggin I might forget the tune altogether. Wouldn't want that. After all, a man must have priorities.

Someday I’m sure they will discover a way to erase brain clutter like we do on a computer. That would come in handy. I would start with anything I ever heard, read, saw regarding Justin Bieber, the Kardashians and the helpful Honda guy commercials. Oh, and Kanye West too.

K.G.

Once More into the Fray

Got good news today. My wife and I decided a while back it was time for me to get up of the couch and get a job. Well, one of us decided. I believe I was napping when the vote was taken. I hear you snickering. Don’t laugh; writers do some of their best work while in the horizontal position. We might look like we’re asleep, but the brain is in constant motion searching for that perfect metaphor, verb or witticism to complete the great American novel. Not buying it? I will say my wife is very happy now that I will be leaving the house occasionally.

This is not to say I never work. Over the last 5 years I have many times strapped on the old tool belt, crawled under a few lonely single women’s sinks and fixed a few leaks.  And no, that’s not this writer’s clever metaphor for how I got the nick name Hot Grandpa. I was a real handyman. Stop it. I’m not kidding. All minds up and out of the gutter.

For most of my life I was gainfully employed. But as a musician/writer (i.e.: starving artist) I found my mind in the clouds more times than not. Anyone will tell you the words daydream and circular saw don’t even belong in the same room let alone the same sentence. So after twenty years and all ten digits present and accounted for (in hindsight, as a two finger typist it might not have mattered) and knowing my lucky streak couldn't last forever, I retired to pursue my second dream of becoming a writer. Okay, I was laid off when the housing bubble collapsed, but retired sounds better even to me.

Retired is a funny word, isn't it? On one hand it means to give up one's work, business, career, etc., especially because of advanced age. On the other it can mean to go to bed (see paragraph one). I love words.

I’ll admit I’m a bit anxious about returning to work. I tried to get my psychiatrist to write me a note excusing me from anything stressful like getting up early or missing my afternoon nap, but she said she doesn’t generally do that sort of thing. She also mentioned it might be good for me to get out and interact with people.

So, after she woke me up (she told my wife I fainted. I say it was a cat nap.) and got me on my feet again I thanked her, put on my sunglasses so nobody would see how red and puffy my eyes were and pouted all the way home.

I only have two days to get myself together and report for duty. I think I can do this. Oh, and they said I have to wear collared shirts. No V-Neck Tees!!! Will the madness never end?

K.G.