Being Liam Neeson

Being Liam Neeson

(Jump-Starting Your Inner Alpha Male)

I always thought of myself as your average, regular guy. Well, except for the fact that I’m not into sports and would rather watch Project Runway than American Ninja. Oh, and I have way too many pairs of shoes. But if you set that aside, I’m the guy next door.

All through childhood, like most late bloomers, I dreamt of being the alpha dog. That brooding, Ray-Ban wearing James Dean type that every guy wanted to be and every girl wanted to date long enough to drive her parents crazy before settling down with a podiatrist in Brentwood. Unfortunately for me, the family gene pool I was swimming in was teeming with short, pear-shaped DNA and I would ultimately end up face down in more toilet bowls than a platoon of thirsty German Shepherds before graduating high school.

If you are a tie-died in the wool California pessimist like me, you’re probably thinking it’s too late. You’re sure that your inner alpha male, like fat Elvis, has left the building. Not to fear. All we need is a mentor. Someone who possesses an overabundance of testosterone, insane karate skills and wit as sharp as the samurai sword wielded by Blade, thus assuring us that much needed “grande cajones” infusion.

Hmm… who might this self-assertive sensei be?

Here is my short list of bad dudes that I would consider emulating.

Sean Connery:

I’m talking Bond… James Bond. With his sleek sports cars, crazy gadgets and gorgeous girls from around the world he’s unarguably the coolest guy ever, toupee or not.

But there are a few things to consider. I don’t own a single suit, my sexy English accent makes Kevin Costner’s performance in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, sound like Sir Laurence Olivier, and the only gadget I own is a portable Pizza Maker that plugs into my car’s cigarette lighter.

The third-degree burns on my crotch are healing nicely, thank you.

Bruce Willis: 

Old and bald he may be, but he still has the best catch phrases of any make-believe hero ever.  Anyone who loves action movies will tell you, “The catch phrase lives on, after the muscles are gone.” Speaking as a diehard shoe lover, my favorite Willis line is, "Nine million terrorists in the world and I gotta kill one with feet smaller than my sister." A classic footwear putdown and he nailed it. Heidi Klum would be proud.

Kurt Russell:

Who wants to follow this scruffy, eye patch wearin’ dude with the macho “Snake Plisken” moniker to the gates of hell? I do, I do. Oh, yeah, kickin’ butt and takin’ names. He may not be my final choice, but just in case I have a drawer full of tight, black t-shirts with the sleeves cut off at the ready. I’ll worry about what to do with my SpongeBob Squarepants tattoo later.  Life is always full of tradeoffs.

Liam Neeson:

I obviously saved what I consider the best for last. He's like Jason Bourne’s and MacGyver’s pissed off step-dad. But it’s the voice that sets him above the rest, right? The only other person to come close to Liam’s gritty vocal eviscerations was Dirty (one of my favs, though I will admit, a .44 magnum, one-trick pony) Harry Callahan. I honestly believe once I’ve mastered the “I’m going to rip your testicles off and slowly feed them to your wife and girlfriend,” voice, then the world will truly be my Rocky Mountain oyster.

I am Liam, hear me roar.

K.G.

Being Liam Neeson

Where’s the Chocolate Chip Cookies?

When do I finally decide enough is enough, abandon Macy’s, and start buying clothes in bulk at Costco? Is there a magical age one reaches when the desire for a waist size that’s less than the size of a rotisserie chicken fades? Does one suddenly begin to crave the comforting, gentle hug of elastic around one’s midsection?

The other day as I was searching the cupboards for something to eat that wasn’t fattening, didn’t taste like tree bark, and would calm my cravings for French fries smothered in chili, nacho cheese and Ranch dressing, I came across an open bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips. My wife had purchased said chips in order to convince me of her storied past as a baker in a well-known Beverly Hills establishment. Not that I didn’t believe her, but the proof is in the puddin’ (or cookie) and I had as yet to sample anything resembling a “Toll House.”

Now, in my mind (and on any cookie-lovin ‘ planet in this galaxy I will presume), an open bag of semi-sweet morsels equals homemade chocolate chip cookies. Without warning I was in bloodhound mode, using every available sense (except “common” I suppose) as I frantically searched for this delicious hidden treasure while trying not to slip on the drool.  Just then my wife came into the kitchen. Our conversation went something like this:

Ken: Where’s the chocolate chip cookies?

Bonnie: What?

Ken: The cookies. There must be cookies. Where are they? I said, wiping the spider-web sliver of drool from my chin.

Bonnie: I didn’t make any cookies.

Ken: But I found the open bag of chips. Why would you open the bag if you weren’t going to make cookies?

Bonnie: I wanted chocolate so I ate the chips.

Ken: Who eats semi-sweet chocolate chips? Aren’t they for making cookies?

Bonnie: STOP CALLING ME FAT!

Weight is a somewhat (pun so intended) heavy subject for most people, and I touched on one of her emotional triggers. We all have them. On Friday night I played a gig (musician’s term for “didn’t get paid”) with my band sMalltime.  Our bass player commented that I appeared to have gained some weight. Hmmm…

Instantly, my inner 15-year-old girl took over. I wanted to scratch his beady little eyes out even though I knew what he said wasn’t true. As a matter of fact, I’ve been on a hardcore (okay, hardcore for a 60-year-old man) training routine for months, was eating well, and felt better than I had in years.

Did I learn something? Of course.  Bass players are stupid.

K.G.

Fungi, Clowns and Crazy

I had my first visit to a psychiatrist today. And no, I am not crazy unless you count the time I left the house wearing a pair of red jeans and brown tee with a mushroom on the front that said “I’m a Fungi.” I say it was a fashion statement and I’m sticking to it.

My therapist thought a second opinion (and possibly some chemical enhancement) might not be a bad idea.  Then again, she was the one who determined I was an “External Processor” which was about $1,000 worth of “You talk too much.” My wife could have told her that in the first 5 minutes and saved me a bundle.

I did my best to convince her there was nothing wrong with me because there’s a lot of stigma attached to seeking professional help. I mean, who wants to admit they’re two nuggets short of a Happy Meal? Not to say I am, but there may be a connection between this duo of missing nuggets and my fear of people with over-sized shoes and bright red hair. Perhaps a professional could help me sort this out.

Also one must count the cost. For $350 (doctor’s initial visit) I could buy 35 of every item on McDonald’s value menu and make lifetime friends out of every “will work for food” guy within a twenty-mile radius. Okay, that is a little crazy, but I was just spitballing.

Things I’ve learned:

•   The more you try to convince someone you’re not crazy, the crazier you sound.

•   Sitting down on a couch in a psychiatrist’s office and exposing your mental foibles to a complete stranger is no different than the crazy homeless guy who walks around town asking for spare change while carrying on a conversation with Abraham Lincoln. Neither of us will get the answers we seek, but he'll make a few bucks while I'll have to forfeit my daily Starbucks latte for three months.

•   There are worse things than being a few neurons short of normal. I could be Justin Bieber’s mom or Rob Kardashian.

K.G.

Singin’ in the Rain

Unless you’ve been living under a rock or get your news from Honey Boo Boo, most of you know we Californians are having water woes; a severe drought to be specific.  So as a loyal native (not to be confused with the people who own the casinos, but I was born here) I always try to do my part when things go a bit south.

I have heard that bathing in European (E.U = P.U.) countries is not part of their daily routine.  A little pit (B.O. pun so intended) stop once a week seems to be the norm, but, like most civilized Americans I make it a point to bathe at least once a day. Occasionally, a second or third dunking might be required due to strenuous workouts, a job interview or excess caffeine, but once is the general rule of scum, er… thumb.

Here are a few suggestions on how to stay clean, keep your water bill down and avoid the California Water Police.

• The car wash shower. When at the car wash, pretend you left your baby unattended inside the swagger van, then rush into the soapy water. Apologize profusely that it was all a silly mistake while standing under the giant blowers.

• The pool shower. Most apartment complexes have showers in the pool area. Who doesn’t enjoy a refreshing shower at poolside first thing in the morning? If the manager gives you any flack, simply dive into the pool while pointing at the “Shower before entering Pool” sign. If you don’t live in the complex…. Run.

• The beach shower. If you live near any beach, they also have free outdoor showers. Only drawback might be the lack of hot water, but it’s worth it not to airmail a “reek-o-gram” to the hot girl who sits next to you at work. As a last resort, there’s the ocean. You will smell like rotting seaweed, but if you die at work the salt will preserve your body temporarily, so you might get a couple extra hours in.

• Shower with your Honey. Now this is a bit trickier. Climbing into the shower with your love bunny may sound like a good way to conserve water, but from personal experience water + soap-on-a-rope + skin = Late for Work.

Lastly, I hear that because of the drought, all California Starbucks stores are going to begin brewing coffee made with leftover coffee.  Genius. Tentative name:  “No Sleep ‘til Brooklyn.”

 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.

Statistically Speaking

Let’s talk statistics.  . Generally, I find most of them boring and a complete waste of time, but occasionally they are giggle worthy.

Example:

• Statistics say that one in four people are insane.  So take a look at your three BFF’s and if they're all normal, then it’s you.

• If you pet a cat 70 million times, you will generate enough static electricity to power a 60-watt light bulb for 1 minute.

Did someone actually try this?  That would be one patient cat.

Baby-Boomer statistics are quite interesting.

Here are some more fun ones:

• During the Boomer era, 1946-1964, according to the US Census, 77 million people were born, or if you prefer, “a whole lotta shakin’ was going on,” to paraphrase Jerry lee Lewis.

• Every 7 seconds an American celebrates a 50th birthday. If I worked for L’Oreal or Grecian Formula I’d be thrilled to have 12,500 potential customers every day. Another survey say every 7 seconds is how often men think about sex….  Sorry, where were we? I was thinking about something else.

• Scarborough says Boomers make up 35% of the American adult population. I myself would challenge this. I rarely meet an adult under 50, and when I do, they are usually selling insurance or managing a 7-11.

• ICSC states that the 55+ age group controls more than three-fourths of America’s wealth, but that Boomers have lately begun to see a decrease their net worth. I truly believe if their kids would get up off the couch, shave, get a job and move out, this would turn around instantly.

• Those Boomers love them some technology. 72% are active on the Internet and 36% own a smartphone, although it’s my guess that 33% of them don’t know how to put someone on hold while they take another call, or is it just me?

• Lastly, to quote the US Government Consumer Expenditure Survey (I wonder how much they paid someone to come up with that name) 55-64 year olds outspend the average consumer in nearly every category, including food away from home (we now have the Gay Whopper, so how about the Gray Whopper, Burger King?), household furnishings (please bring back the “Shag” carpet), entertainment (I hear “Nip and Tuck”, eh… you know… Manilow and Newton are slayin’ them in Vegas), personal care (hmmm…guess it “Depends” on what they’re buying) and gifts (they just love to spoil those grandchildren, don’t they?).

(An excerpt from “Hot Grandpa: A Boomer’s Adventure in Cyber-Dating”)

Bye for now,

K.G.- AKA “the loquacious expounder of Sisyphean drivel.”