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.

Fruit Salad and the Zombie Apocalypse

As a person with a pretty firm grip on reality, but also a love for the celluloid adventures of the undead, I have come to the conclusion that the zombie apocalypse is finally upon us.

First, let’s set the record straight. I am about as far away from a tree-hugger as Kanye West is from a genius. I would much rather have an animal served medium rare on a plate with a baked potato and A-1 sauce than one frolicking around in my back yard. I get most of my daily fruit intake from jam (I prefer jelly-my wife buys jam-I live with it-marriage is all about give and take) in a sticky love fest with a generous helping of God’s greatest creation, peanut butter. So “Fruit” is a term that generally goes unused unless I am discussing the laundry and is followed by the words “of the Loom.” As for veggies, I agree with Garfield creator Jim Davis, “Vegetables are a must on a diet. I suggest carrot cake, zucchini bread and pumpkin pie.” Couldn't have said it better myself.

So being the kind of guy who would attempt to eat a Goodyear radial if it was deep fried and slathered in Ranch dressing, you’d assume that genetically-altered food would a “no biggie” on the list of things I’ll eat. I mean, it’s just food, right? Hmmm, I’m not really sure on this. Okay, I’ll admit that if broccoli could be genetically engineered to taste like bacon I’d probably be all over it, but in most cases I’d pass. I even went back to eating real butter after I found out that margarine is one molecule away from plastic.

I also read somewhere that scientists have created, for lack of a better term, a new GMO fruit they call the Arctic apple. Does it grow in the snow? I don’t think so. It is manipulated to not turn brown. Sounds good, but how do I know when it’s rotten? Nothing worse than a mealy apple. Well, maybe finding half a worm after taking a bite.

I believe genetically altering our food could quite possibly have some dire consequences down the road. Eating food that has been Frankensteined into some “thing” that never spoils conjures up images of the walking dead in my mind. Of course my mind sees spiders when I stand at the bathroom sink and stick my bare feet under the cabinet. Crazy, perhaps.

No comments from wife, hairdresser or psychiatrist.

K.G.

Skinny Jeans, Macramé and Gummy Worms

I’m kind of excited and anxious this morning. This isn't

too surprising. After all, it’s my first day on the new job, and I haven’t worked in quite a while. Okay, it’s been 5 or 6 years, but who’s counting? A power trio of mental health professionals (therapist, psychiatrist and wife) felt it was necessary for me to get out of the house on a regular basis.

Reasons included:

Pasty complexion due to lack of exposure to the sun made it possible for me to successfully hide from guests by lying on the bathroom floor, thus blending in with snow white tile.  

I had run out of things to say to the chair, the lamp, and the empty macramé plant hanger on the back porch, which was only spoken to on the rare occasion when the lamp and chair were being pissy. I mean, come on, I’m not crazy.

Thirdly, they suggested that meeting strange new people would give me ample material for my writing, which definitely struck a chord. I believe it was a B♭, but don’t take that to the bank. I’m a C♯ kinda guy for sure.

After spending a couple of hours deciding on what to wear, I went with a new pair of skinny jeans, a mandatory “collared” black Polo shirt (does anyone that’s not a golfer look good in these? I think not) and black Converse sneakers. What I call business snazz-ual.

For lunch I chose a simple roasted chicken sandwich on sourdough (I know it’s not healthy, but wheat bread tastes like the cardboard tube from a roll of toilet paper), an orange, and raw almonds (wife snuck in), an individual-sized package of Pringles (I snuck in), a granola bar, and a bottle of water. I wanted to bring a bag of sour gummy worms to share with the other ki… eh… my coworkers, but wife vetoed that; along with dropping me off at the front door. Her reason being all the other employees drove themselves and they might tease me if they saw her, but I think she’s just too lazy to get up.

I must admit it feels pretty good to have somewhere to go in the morning besides the bathroom. And all the new things I have to remember like my locker combination and what time lunch is and stuff will keep my brain sharp. Best of all, my boss said she might let me drive a forklift.

Well, not right away, but I do get to walk in front with the two colored flags like the airport guys.  But I will someday drive the forklift. A guy has to have goals.

K.G.

Make Me a Samich

Twenty-four hours ago the old saying, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life” took a wicked U-turn off the empty-nester road of rest, rejuvenation and rock-n-roll (never too old, right?),  and morphed into a poorly-lit, pot-holed highway to hell littered with Depends, catheters, bed pans and sponge (How I wish it was Bob) baths.

How apropos the term “Sandwich Generation” is when describing what has transpired. Not only is life suddenly full of baloney, but I seem to be coming in contact with a lot of stuff that smells like old cheese. Okay, I’m just a wee bit selfish but come on, I have finally been emancipated from the squatters (No details because you wouldn’t believe half of it anyway) I lovingly (right) call my children and now have been willingly sold into slavery a second time.  I think raising kids is just the prep course. You learn the patience with your kids that you need when dealing with the oldies.

I live 400 miles from my parents who are not in tip-top shape at the time I write this, and have been shielded from any responsibility in dealing with them. My older brother, sister-in-law and stepmother have shouldered the load, and for this they deserve a thousand gold stars and many thanks. But distance is no defense from the rights, lefts and uppercuts of life. Many of you may know I was recently married again, and darn, if she doesn’t have aging parents too. What??? Sometimes trials have a long-reaching, wicked jab that’s impossible to dodge and God has no problem (dang that Internet) finding me.

As newlyweds go we had a pretty good run. We managed a honeymoon in Italy and seven months of playing serious kissy face before being recruited for a second tour of duty.  I must admit though, I had fair warning. When we told my wife’s parents we were getting married the first words out of her mother’s mouth were, “Well, he’s going to have to help your father with the Christmas lights.” At the time I wasn’t sure if this was a statement or a stipulation.

Sorry to cut this short but have to run out for some adult baby wipes and an industrial-sized bottle of Milk of Magnesia. I hope my children are reading this. Payback’s just around the corner. Oh, I am so looking forward to getting old.

K.G.

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.