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.

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.