Ho, Ho, Holy Guacamole, It’s Winter

I’ve never been much of a winter guy. And no, I don’t go around whining when the temperature drops below my age. Okay, I do whine a bit more than necessary, but dog-gone-it, the reason I moved south from Northern California was the awesome weather. Oh, and the hope that I might run into some stars. Matter of fact, I thought I saw Steven Tyler of Aerosmith at the beach the other day, but it turned out to be just an old bag lady with whiskers. So taking into account I also don’t ski, snowboard or partake in any other sport that involves sliding or tumbling down a frozen mountain at 60 miles an hour, living in close proximity to where the Donner Party developed a taste for Mutton Jeff doesn’t do much for me. On the other hand, I don’t surf, body board, or in any way make myself chum for the sharks, but do visit the beach more than I ever went to the mountains. 

Although we are in a drought, the news people are crying wolf for rain this weekend. This is disconcerting to us (and them) because we wear really cool shoes here, and if they get wet we might get mad and never watch the news again. So even if the chance of rain is as slight as running into Kanye West at a Mensa conference, they warn us anyway. And besides, it gives them something to talk about besides shootings, high-speed chases, sports, and cute puppies that need a new home.

Now, being as anxiety ridden as I am, I always use plenty of waterproofing spray on my shoes so if there’s ever rain, a water main break, or a Grande Latte spill at Starbucks my shoes will still look fabulous, and that’s all that really matters here, right?

The one upside to rain is the squirrels will stop glaring at me through the window every time I chug a bottle of Sparkletts.

I realize El Niño is just around the corner, but as I finish this, the sun is still shining outside my patio door. I’ve heard it never rains in Southern California, or so goes the old song. Of course, it’s also said that rock-n-roll never forgets, but tell that to The Electric Prunes.

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

Howard, Brian and Me

Wash four distinct and separate times, using lots of

lather each time from individual bars of soap.

-Howard Hughes

The only reason I'd ever get a sex change operation is

to see what it's like to be right all the time.

-Brian Wilson

It just amazes me that in this day and age one can live

virtually (pun intended) free of any interference from the outside world.

Modern technology is so cool.

-K. Goorabian

Got a new computer today. The old one was getting too slow and as a writer or porn star, you’re only as good as your tools. Am I right? I also deposited a check from my iPhone for the first time today. I consider it fortunate that I hadn’t discovered these modern conveniences earlier.  Having an itty-bitty (my wife is shaking her head) problem with anxiety, had I been brave enough to explore these new technological marvels on my own I surely would still be hiding in my man-cave, shades drawn, marathon binging America’s Next Top Model with a Little Caesar’s pepperoni pizza (ordered on-line of course) perched precariously on my chubby little belly.

Ah, but fate in the form of a lovey lassie (wife, not the dog) intervened, which is a good thing. My therapist said I was about a year away from becoming a less rich and infinitely less interesting Howard Hughes. I disagreed. After all, I cut my nails and hair on a regular basis and had never made a bad B-Movie. In fact, I considered myself more of a better looking, though not even close to as talented and slightly less crazy Brian Wilson kinda guy. I even briefly flirted with the idea of having artificial grass installed under my computer desk. Sand is way too messy and eventually ends up in the most irritating and embarrassing places. Maybe this is what drove Brian crazy. Just a thought.

Anxiety isn’t so bad though. Through the years it’s kept me from doing a lot of stupid things; like buying a new BMW I probably wouldn’t drive with my first royalty check. Although, having a vintage Beemer with no miles on it might fetch a few dollars. I have enough things I don’t use in the garage already.

I am, thanks to my wife, coming around. I now have a part-time job. I’ve also said goodbye to my therapist, but cling doggedly to my psychiatrist due to the fact she has my best interests at heart and is in control of the prescription pad. She’s a pretty good doctor. Well, except for making me take a drug test because of my incessant use of the word “eat” when talking about my meds. Doesn’t everyone eat their pills? Oh well, I am a product of the ‘60s. I blame the culture. I still get misty eyed when I see a pair of bell bottoms.

Life is good. My waistline is way less than my age, and I have a fabulous wife. All in all, I’m grateful to just be alive and not playing in a country band.

Yet.

K.G.

Leaping Larry Leoni

Larry Luigi Leoni

A leaper extraordinaire

Discovered he loved playing leap-frog

On a leap from his Grandma’s stairs

He launched himself off of ladders

Building his leaping strength

Then constructed a lovely launching pad

To increase his leaping length

He‘d warm up leaping fences

Then strike a handsome pose

While leisurely licking a lollipop

Before landing on his toes

He mastered leaping autos

Then leapt a Greyhound bus

Before too long Luigi

Was causing a local fuss

One day a man called Lewis

A jumper from way out west

Challenged young Larry Luigi

To determine whose leaping was best

They started by leaping four houses

Then a lopsided circus tent

They leapt over rivers, streams and lakes

Lifting higher with ever ascent

They leapt over ten locomotives

Then on to a forest of pines

They leapt over fields of white daisies

Then acres of lemons and limes

They leapt over mountains and valleys

Hurdled a large flock of geese

The leaping was getting out of control

They both knew the leaping must cease

But Larry had never been lazy

And Leoni’s weren’t known to fail

His long-jumping title in jeopardy

He refused to let Lewis prevail

Larry took three long steps backwards

Gave Lewis a lavish bow

Not one for long-winded, drawn-out goodbyes

He lastly saluted the crowd

Larry ran like a leopard

Then let out a warrior’s cry

With a lick and a promise he leapt from the ground

In the air Leaping Larry did fly

Higher and higher went Larry

Passed a lavender hot air balloon

An orbiting satellite he left behind

Soon Larry was passing the moon

The folks left below began cheering

Jumper Lewis was merely forlorn

Streaking ‘cross the heavens with a long tail of light

A comet named Larry was born

© 2015 Kenneth Goorabian

Hello… Hello… Hello… Is There Anybody Out There?

Scientists say they’ve found water on Mars? Well, not water per se. More like a briny liquid. Now I know why aliens are described as little green men.  
#pickle people

You might think that’s totally ridiculous, but I’ve been studying UFO flight patterns. There’ve been dozens of sightings around Imlay City, Michigan. What’s in Imlay City besides Parks Show Cattle Online Steer & Heifer Sale, Lucky’s Steak House and 3,589 bored Imalayins? Ah, my ET lovin’ amigos, that would be the Vlasic Pickle factory.  No, I’m not gherkin your chain.

  
I’ve always been a bit suspicious of any food that needs to be preserved in a vinegary substance. Perhaps they’re hiding something. Could life actually exist out there in space, and aside from being friendly, also be quite tasty?

I’ve seen pictures of Mars. Totally barren. Have we, like some super-race of Peter Pipers, been pickin’ more than a peck of pickled Martian peppers? Are we now on a quest to find new worlds to enslave, jar and serve next to a pastrami on rye with a smear of deli Dijon?

According to the guy with the weird hair on Ancient Aliens, space beings have been visiting us pretty much forever.  After a bit of archaeological Internet digging I have uncovered the truth. This pickling process goes back as far as 2400 B.C. Coincidence? Maybe the little green guys have good reason to avoid us.

So the next time you’re tempted to top your salad off with a few artichoke hearts (ever wonder why they call them hearts?), stop and consider the possibility you might be cannibalizing some inferior, though delectable race of beings who want nothing more than to share in the American dream. This more than likely doesn’t involve becoming a garnish for your Dodger dog.

Relish their friendship.  

K.G