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

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.

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.

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.