Too Much Time on My Hands

“Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.”

― Kurt Vonnegut

“The future is uncertain, but the end is always near.”

― Jim Morrison

The invisible enemy.

I’m slurping Top Ramen (by choice, for now) and staring out the window. It still looks the same. No killer virus attacking the glass trying to get in. Well, at least that I’m aware of. Those viral droplets are cagey little fellows. Too bad they’re not the size of basketballs. Going outside would be like playing lethal dodge-ball. Unfortunately, a virus is more like the creepy new reboot of The Invisible Man; you just never know where they’re hiding.

Making news more fun.

Since we're all holed up in our homes, many of us have had the news on 24/7 to stay abreast of the COVID-19 spread. We've been inundated with stats and facts, so I'm thinking of more ideas on how to make news more fun.

Here's a thought: The networks should let the narrator from the Curse of Oak Island do the intro to all the broadcasts. If you haven’t invested hundreds of hours watching these guys hunt for treasure, only to be let down week after week after week, you’re missing out, well, eh… on nothing, I guess.

My point, you ask? The narration is quite (unintentionally) humorous due to the fact that most of what he says is couched in the form of a question.

“We’ve been told… to shelter in place? Millions… could be infected? Toilet paper stocks… are severely limited? Could the Knights Templar be involved?"

Fun with math.

What I find interesting about these times is if you've driven the LA or OC freeways at any time during these past few weeks, you've seen the digital LED billboards lit up with messages about COVID-19, avoid social gatherings, and such. One message even instructed on hand-washing.

So here's where my brain went with that message. Let’s say you wash your hands at a minimum of 5 times a day. There are 327 million Americans currently residing in the good 'ole U.S. of A. So if I'm doing my simple arithmetic correctly, that’s roughly 1,625,000,000,000 hand washings a day x 15 days. Forget the toilet paper, I’m hoarding Dove soap.

The upside, our sewers have never been cleaner.

Social distancing.

Interesting new term this "Social distancing" directive. As an anxiety ridden, introverted musician, I’ve been practicing social distancing all my life. I've often been compared to Howard Hughes, sans the long fingernails and personal wealth.

Encouraging me to avoid people and stay home, is like telling a Disney-a-holic that they have to take up permanent residence in the Magic Kingdom.

Score one for the anxious!

All geared up and no place to rock.

With clubs, bars and restaurants cancelling all live music for the immediate future, gigging musicians are relegated to playing with themselves(mind up and out of the gutter, please). Maybe it's better said, "By themselves."

Anywhoo, this isn’t an issue for most guitarists. All they really want to hear is themselves anyway. Truth. Personally, I find that a loud rhythm section always covers a multitude of free-form, fret wanking sins.

Practice is imperative with all this time off. At the end of the two weeks we've been ordered to stay at home, we should all be as technically proficient as Eddie Van Halen. Okay, we'll possibly look like hairy vagrants but we'll have very clean hands.

Prison with a view.

Being under this stay-in-place quarantine seems a lot like livin' behind bars except the jails have better Internet speed, (AT&T, I'm talking to you!) and don’t have to ration toilet paper. With everybody working from home, I'm just watching my Google search screen as it spins and buffers and buffers and buffers…

What crime can I commit that won't look so bad on a rap sheet? I gotta get some work done here.

Ladies and Germs, what’s next?

As I have time to ponder, and my mind begins to wander, he's where it goes. 

·         When this whole pandemic is over will this forced isolation cause us to crave the company others?

·         Will we finally be kind to the people who cut in line at Starbucks?

·         Will we willingly talk to our neighbors?

Biggest question of all, will we find out who hoarded all the toilet paper?

Don’t expect any miracles, my friends.

‘til Death Do Us Part

Either this man is dead or my watch has stopped.

-Groucho Marx

I don't believe in an afterlife, although I am bringing a change of underwear.

-Woody Allen

A few days before our wedding I was dying.  Really.  Laugh away.  I was convinced I would never set foot on Italian soil for our business trip/honeymoon.  I would undoubtedly clutch my chest and crumble to the ground, all the while watching the wedding ring roll across the floor in a grainy, black-and-white, slow-motion like a scene from an Orson Wells movie before I could croak out, “I do.”

The phone call to future wife went something like this. Or at least how I choose to remember it.

Bonnie:  Hi, Babe.  What’s up?

Ken:  We need to talk.

Bonnie:  What?

Ken:  I’m dying.  I won’t live to see Milan.

Bonnie: (Crickets)

Ken:  Don’t weep for me.  Just start a home for abandoned hamsters in my name.

Well, it went something like that.  Bonnie agreed to meet me after work, (so much for compassion), picked me up and we went to the doctor.  Luckily, I was still alive by the time we arrived at the office. 

After checking my blood pressure and pulse, I was weighed and measured (for undertaker’s purposes, I surmised) and invited to spend some time alone in a cold drawer… er…room, waiting for the doctor.

Side Note: Doctor’s visits are like Disneyland, where you’re convinced you're near the ride until you reach the corner and discover something constructed by the same sadists that designed rat mazes.  Only at the doctor’s office they shuttle you from room to room and you don’t get cheese.

After a wait that seemed no shorter than showing up at DMV without an appointment, a female doctor (who could have played Gidget if they rebooted it today) entered.

Doctor Gidget:  What seems to be the problem?

Ken:  Holy minestrone, I’m dying. (All right, the Gidget quote wasn’t in there, but I wanted to say it.)

Bonnie:  He’s not dying.  We’re getting married.

Ken:  She’s an optimist, not a doctor.

Let’s cut to the chase.  She checked my heart and lungs (both still there) and then pronounced me fit, and free to get married.

Ken:  It’s not that I don’t believe you, but is there anything else you can check?

Bonnie:  Stop.  You’re not dying.  We already paid for the trip.

Ken:  You can carry me in one of those urns, but not a fancy one.  Something plain, in blue…  I’ve always looked good in blue.

Bonnie looks at the doctor and shakes her head.

Doctor Gidget:  We can do an EKG (My first thought was Electrocute Kenneth Goorabian, but that’s how my mind works) if you like.

Ken:  How much will that cost?

Okay, I was in for $80 so far and dying or not, I am a freelancer.

Doctor Gidget:  $60

Ken:  Let’s do it. If I’m dying who cares about the bill.

Bonnie: (Gives me a look that would scare a terrorist off a plane.)

After a few minutes, the doctor came back with the results.

Ken:  How much time do I have?

Bonnie:  Oh, my gosh.

Ken:  I just bought these shoes.  I want to get some wear out of them.

Funny how the mind works.  Apparently, it was a simple panic attack due to my already-existing generalized anxiety, the wedding, the trip abroad, moving, yada, yada, yada.  The doctor presented me with my first Xanax prescription.

Lesson I learned:

I’ve seen my share of doctor shows, so I knew what an EKG was, but was not so happy when I came out looking like a dog with mange after they hacked away my chest hairs to attach the electrodes.  My chest looked like a smiley face.  If I had to do it all over again, I would visit both a tanning and waxing salon before submitting myself to this procedure.  I really want to look better as a corpse.

Kenneth Goorabian

www.kennethgoorabian.blogspot.com

Less Talk-a-Lot, More Chocolate

“Nine out of ten people like chocolate. The tenth person always lies.”

-John Q. Tullius

“Chocolate’s a lot like sex. I always finish it too soon.”

-Kenneth Goorabian

If veggies were made of chocolate

I’d chew them up in bunches

Every meal would be filled with glee

Dinners, breakfasts and lunches

I wouldn’t hide from lima beans

Squash I’d gobble down

I’d roll in fields of broccoli

All covered in gooey brown

And if offered cauliflower

I’ll admit, I used to hate

If veggies were made of chocolate

I’d gladly fill my plate

Kenneth Goorabian

Sad Day in Mudville

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons
-T.S. Elliot
I could live without coffee… But I’d probably be a serial killer
-Kenneth Goorabian

The inevitable finally happened: the perfect storm of weekend overindulgence and
laissez faire attitude has culminated in a gut-wrenching awareness that I’ve run out
of coffee.

To some (who are you people?) this may seem rather silly, but I assure you, this is no
good ship lollipop to this Surly Temple. Without my morning cup ‘o joe, I tend to get a
wee bit anxious. But I’m no moodier than say… Jack the Ripper. Okay, slightly less. I
would only hurt someone if they were standing between me and the coffee pot.

I was a late bloomer to this miracle bean. In my younger years, I forsook coffee shops
for apartments wallpapered with tapestries and black-light posters; rooms pungent and hazy from cheap head-shop incense. With age comes wisdom though. I finally saw the light.
It was a glowing orange orb coming from my new best friend, Mr. Coffee.

And yes, Mr. C and I are still together. Oh, I was seduced over the years by newer, sleeker,
high-maintenance models, with their hourglass decanters and K-Cups, but always
returned to my first love. I’ve come to realize that relationships require hard work. Others promise increased satisfaction with less energy. I for one find no grounds for divorce.

Remember….  Death before Decaf

Kenneth Kona Goorabian

Guy-Polar

“I told my wife the truth. I told her I was seeing a psychiatrist. Then she told me the truth: that she was seeing a psychiatrist, two plumbers, and a bartender.”

― Rodney Dangerfield

“When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained”.

-Mark Twain

Feeling a bit down in the dumps lately. Not what I’d call serious depression. I mean, not do a Greg Louganis off the Golden Gate bridge or join a tribute band kind of depression, but I have been eyeballing a week-old hard-boiled egg with morbid interest. To most that may seem rather harmless, but for someone with severe expiration date-o-phobia, this would be akin to playing Salmonella roulette. And if you had ever witnessed my usual reaction to expired food, you'd quickly surmise I was now one nip and tuck short of Caitlyn Jenner and banish me to a rubber (though fabulously upscale and chic) room.

I guess the depression could be nothing more than winter blues. After all, the temperature has been in the low 70’s and it did rain for two (don’t be a hater) days. Added to that, I find it extremely hard to work out when it’s chilly. Lay off the weights too long and my body begins to resemble a marshmallow left out in the sun too long. It may also be the ridiculously bad haircut I received recently. I sincerely believe if 100 monkeys were given scissors, a cheap rental space, and three weeks, they would be outperforming Supercuts by the fourth week. 'Nuf said.

I was thinking a new hobby might get the old juices flowing again. I briefly considered teaching myself how to play the violin, but I love my wife too much. And knitting is out of the question as I am not allowed to play with sharp objects. Origami might be doable because no cutting utensils are required.

One of my millennial co-workers suggested I get a tattoo. You know, colorful body art might make me feel better about myself. Hmmm…

Got one of those. At 18, under the influence of something, I allowed my friend to wrap a needle with a bit of thread (don’t wanna go too deep now) and then proceeded to give me a permanent reminder of my teenage stupidity, that hurt like ##%!! and "branded" me like an ex-con.

Oh, and we used the wrong ink. The day after the vicious micro-assault, I had half of a faded tattoo. It took another two hours of embroidering ink into skin that was now as raw as hamburger for my new tat to be realized. I don’t recall, but I assume much cursing and drugs of some sort were needed for this second session.

After all, I couldn’t go through life with half a hoosegow tattoo, could I?

Seems teenagers occasionally make good decisions, right?

K.G.

Sweets, Sex and Sixties

“You may have noticed we have no sex lives. As a result, there's lots of chocolate in this house.”

― Keryl Raist

When I woke up this morning, my wife asked, “Would you like a cookie?”

My reply was, “That sounds so gross right now.”

What she actually said was “quickie,” and if she starts talking to me again,

I’m sure we’ll laugh and laugh.

-Kenneth Goorabian

If you were standing outside our bedroom door in the morning, you might think we’d been“in flagrante delicto.” Oh, how I wish it were true. I actually make those moans and groans every day when I get out of bed.

Growing old can certainly be trying. Not only does one’s hearing begin to falter, but the memory as well. This last one isn’t so bad now, as I’ve finally memorized the way to the bathroom in the dark due to the frequent trips. I confess, my aim’s not what it once was. Then again, it’s not like I’m shooting at intruders.

One fun thing I’ve noticed as I’ve matured (like a fine wine), is an increased appetite for sweets. I believe I could live on frozen yogurt and neon sour gummy worms if I had to.  If pressed to choose between sex or frozen treats, I’d be inclined to order a side-by-side freezer for the bedroom. It’s come to the point that when I see a beautiful woman walk by, my only sinful thought is wondering if she has a Snickers in her purse. Is that odd?

Confession: I just ate a chocolate and vanilla ice cream bar during the writing of this piece.

Sweets cover a multitude of sins.

K.G.

No Way You’re Going to Make a Monkey Out of Me

“Wouldn’t it be funny if I shaved one of those monkeys.”

-God to Michael

If evolution is true, why aren’t my arms longer so I don’t need glasses?

-Kenneth Goorabian

I assume Darwin sat around watching chimps one day and thought, hey, they look just like me. We must be related. Hmmm…

If that supposition holds true, then turtles must be aliens because they look an awful lot like E.T. sans the shell. Wait a minute.  A turtle’s shell is saucer-shaped and very similar in appearance to a UFO. Am I the first one to make this connection?  Just blew my own mind.

It’s my belief that life would be easier if we were monkeys. Getting our recommended intake of fruit and veggies without complaint would be eliminated, we’d be totally oblivious to the awesomeness of pizza, deep fried chicken wings and Twinkies, swinging in the trees is great exercise and we could run around naked. Plus, having a hairy back wouldn’t be a turn-off to the opposite sex.

Just think, if I were a monkey I could have skipped all the trepidation in high school when ordered to climb the rope. I’d have scampered up that thing like poop (ask your grandpa) through a goose, all the while grinnin’ like a … well, like a monkey.

I pondered this as I shaved my chest and back. Unfortunately I am more simian than I would like.

Maybe we are actually de-evolving. After all, monkeys have long arms and don’t wear glasses. Think about it.

K.G.

If Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder, When will He be Holdin’ Me? (Excerpt from A Boomer’s Adventures in Cyber-Dating)

Welcome all seekers of cyber love and romance. 

It’s been said there's a soul mate out there for every one of us. No matter if you look like Quasimodo, smell like a yak, have more hair than an orangutan, or less teeth than a Louisiana gator hunter, the guy or gal of your dreams is somewhere waiting for you with a hump massage, aromatic shampoo, a stiff back comb, and a dental referral. This is very good information to know. I'm comforted by this. We're all wonderfully made by a loving God who has put it upon another’s heart to see beyond our warts and wrinkles and get a glimpse of our inner beauty.

Can I get an Amen?

One factor that plays a major role in our quest for true love is patience. I was going to add a second, panic, but we are not that desperate are we? Of course we aren’t.

Patience:  The ability to endure delay.

Ouch. Endure and delay are words most of us aren't fond of. But we forget that a simple jaunt to the 7-11 by our ancestors involved hours of staring at the hind quarters of a horse, and a trip abroad on an ocean-going vessel with fewer creature comforts than the local Motel 6 could take weeks. How’s that for patience? I imagine the lovely lad or lassie that we wooed with our perfect penmanship and flowery repartee might be married with children long before our declaration of undying love was delivered by the local postman.

A sweet lady sent me the following question on cyber-dating:

“Guys flood my inbox with email, but before I can even answer they send another saying they are moving on. What gives?”

My response was as follows:

“When wandering through a valley awash with thousands of beautiful flowers of every color and hue, some just don't have the patience to wait for a particular rose to bloom.”

Patience (along with Elvis) has left the building. We live in a society of instant gratification, instant oatmeal and instant messaging. We get miffed if someone at Starbucks orders an extra drizzle on their mocha frappucinno, or question the basic addition skills of the person in front of us in the 15-items-or-less lane at the grocery store who has obviously overstepped the boundaries of all fairness by having ignored the posted limit.

 

Patience, when it comes to romantic endeavors, is of the utmost importance. I have been accused of having little (or none). I’ll admit the lady was right. I had a propensity to slap a big old Evinrude outboard on the row boat of love and strangle the throttle for all it’s worth.

Do you rush into relationships? Maybe your biological Timex is ticking so loud it’s keeping you awake at night, or perhaps your mother is getting tired of doing your laundry and wants to turn the doublewide’s spare room into a Wayne Newton shrine.

Whatever the case, you must learn to gently tap the brakes of your emotions or run the risk of whizzing by the huge red flags alerting you to the fact that the swiftly approaching bridge of happiness is closed for repairs. Stop and smell the roses so you’ll be certain that nasty virtual smell is actually fertilizer and not something your future love bunny has stepped in and will never be able to completely scrape off the bottom of their shoe.

Crawling through the virtual weeds in order to find the perfect flower takes loads of patience and persistence. This can be harder than finding the perfect pair of jeans. You ladies should relate to this. They shouldn’t be too tight or clingy as to restrict freedom of movement. They must have a little room to grow; be soft and comfortable, like an old friend; the stitching strong; the materials impeccable; not so long that we step all over them; the right color; the right style; hold us in all the right places; flatter us; make us feel good about ourselves; and never wear out. Impossible you say?

Hmmm…  Impossible for us, perhaps, but with God, all things are possible.

Choose wisely my friends.

K.G.

This is my Brain on Drugs

La, la, la, spring is here. Birds are chirping, flowers are blooming and meds are being re-evaluated in an attempt at drool control.

For those who read my drivel (Hi, Mom), I apologize for not keeping up my end of the bargain by putting fingers to keyboard. Time -among other unmentionable things- has a tendency

to shrink as I grow older.

Why, back in my day…

I swore those words would never leave my lips, along with “Get offa' my lawn,” and my personal favorite, “Honey, could you add Depends to the grocery list?" Well, so much for that.

Oh, how I wish I could go back. During childhood, hours seemed like days, and weeks like years. As a youngster, in the time it now takes me to relieve myself in the morning, I could've caught a frog, road my bike ten miles, and totally irritated the old lady next door with incessant attempts at playing the perfect E chord at ear-shattering volume until she called the police.

Ah, those were the good ‘ol days, weren’t they?

Here are three things I would do if I could go back in time.

1.  Pay more attention in English class (punctuation sucks!).

2.  Use paper-route money to buy stock in Disney, Apple and Microsoft.

3.  Find my wife. (Ew, wait. If I was thirteen, she’d be three. Strike that one).

Happy Trails,

K.G.

Sleepy Alligators

Sleepy alligators love to ride in elevators

They get lazy when it comes to climbing stairs

For the most they’ll do is scurry, even when they’re in a hurry

So you’ll rarely see them rushing anywhere

Llamas in pajamas long to lounge in the Bahamas

Though their traveling opportunities are few

The ocean makes them seasick and vacations make them homesick

So they never leave the mountains of Peru

Climate-conscious weasels won’t be caught dead driving diesels

Cause the carbon footprint causes them to wheeze

So they’ll call their good pal Goober, who’s employed these days by Uber

For his Prius always makes them feel at ease

Double-dealing dingo’s always cheat when playing Bingo

So it’s always wise to keep their paws in view

And it’s best to not assume, when you get up and leave the room

That they won’t switch the cards, cause dingo’s hate to lose

So though we’re not as hairy or have humps like dromedary

We’re no different from the birds and bats and bees

So next time you meet a ferret, who’s quite ornery, grin and bear it

And be grateful you don’t have to deal with fleas

© 2016 Kenneth Goorabian

Money, Money, Money, Money… Money

“There are three books my daughter felt were the most important influences in her life: The Bible, her mother’s cookbook, and her father’s checkbook.” - Joyce Mattingly

“Someone stole all my credit cards, but I won’t be reporting it. The thief spends less than my wife did.” - Henny Youngman

“My wife has been attending a lot of financial seminars. So far it’s cost me $1,000 for her to learn how to save us money.” - Kenneth Goorabian

Among us married folks, money has always been a hot-button topic right up there with the two S’s. They are, of course, sex and sandwiches. I adore both, but given the choice I will on occasion choose the latter if cheese is involved. We’re talking cheddar here.

As my wife and I perused Goodwill the other day, I was thinking about money and how lucky I was to have a low-maintenance woman who loves rummaging through other people’s discarded junk as much as I do. We have loads of fun, even though she doesn’t share my obsession with ceramic monkeys or 8-track tape players. But fear not, I don’t hold her less-than-enthusiastic attitude regarding fine art or cutting-edge technology against her. Every dog has to scratch its own fleas, or so my granddad used to say.

Having a frugal spouse is quite wonderful. She finds all kinds of uses for things we might never utilize. Take for instance the 500 (slight exaggeration) condoms she received as a gift at her bridal shower a few years ago. If you factor in my age and the sandwich equation above, I will die long before they are used up, but will go with a full belly and a cheesy grin.

The other day she came out of the bedroom with a handful of the aforementioned pickle protectors and strode like Peter Piper to the front door. Now, contrary to my claim about lack of precipitation in So Cal, it was pouring rain outside. Being the inquisitive (i.e. suspicious) husband/rat that I am, I begrudgingly abandoned my salami and Swiss on rye (only looking back once or twice with longing; call me Lot’s wife and turn me into a salt lick) and followed.

I found her kneeling on the flooded walkway and watched with fascination as she slipped the pickle protectors over the air conditioner’s condensate (Google this) line, which was now nearly submerged under the rising water due to poor (not mine) landscape design. Left unprotected, the water would have quickly traveled back into the house and cost us a fortune. Genius, I thought. Why hadn’t I thought of it? I was married to Miss-Gyver.

So the next time she makes a sandwich using the sourdough heels (completely throws off the bread to meat/cheese/condiment ratios don’t-cha-know) as a cost-saving measure, I will stuff my face with crusty pride. Maybe someday she’ll power up the lights using a lemon, chewing gum wrapper, and a few pieces of copper wire so I can tell Edison to take a hike.

K.G.

A Rose by Any Other Name

Cool nicknames are so in. Everybody seems to have one these days. JLo, JLaw, Black Mamba,

Caitlyn, Jay Z, ‘Ol Blue Eyes, Pitbull, etc. Even people I know have cool names like Skeeter, JPomp and Vinnie Pee. I’ve been giving this a lot of thought lately. I should have a cool name too. Something catchy and memorable.

Names I’m considering.

1.      Grand Pubah of the Universe. This has a nice ring to it, but it’s a bit long. And most people I know don’t know how to spell Pubah… Poohba… Puba? You get the idea.

2.      Captain Caffeine. Saving the world one double espresso at a time. I was up all night thinking about this one.

3.      One-Hit-Wonder-man. Follow for https://youtu.be/sBLHETjlwTI?t=10  shameless living-in-the-past plug.

4.      Sprinkle-man. This is my wife’s idea. She says I’m like Rain Man lite. I don’t quite know how to take that, to take that, to take that. And since starting medication, I’m beginning to really believe I’m much better looking than Dustin Hoffman, tic or no tic.

5.      Loquacious-man, External Processor Dude or for you native Americans, He Who Never Shuts Up. You may Google these if you must.

So, what’s the difference anyway? I guess it’s just fine to keep the moniker my parents bestowed on me. Still, I wish they’d had a better sense of humor when choosing a name.

I think Kim and Kanye’s new child would be much happier if his last name was Augustine. 

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