The Mind is Willing, but the Body is Tweaked

What a long, strange trip it’s been.

-Jerry Garcia

I realized something today. Not only am I no longer interested in climbing the corporate ladder, but I get dizzy just standing on a step stool.

-Kenneth Goorabian

I’ve finally reached the age where I have nothing new to write about except my aches and pains. Well, unless I have an accident while writing this and then we can add incontinence to the list.  Which in itself wouldn’t be too awful. Wearing an adult diaper would save me the ten minutes it takes to decide between my Superman briefs or Sponge Bob boxers. Some people wear strictly one or the other, but I find some days you just want to swing free and easy, or to quote Seinfeld’s Kramer be “out there and lovin’ it.”

I bought new glasses the other day. It was either that or have custom arm extensions made. The glasses seemed like a cheaper alternative. But to be honest, having bad eyesight is sometimes a plus. If I take off my glasses my wife looks like a teenager again. Still can’t get her to slip into her old cheer leading outfit though.

These days I maintain a strict diet of coffee, oatmeal, coffee, string cheese, coffee, and the occasional Jumbo Jack with a large coffee. Eating healthy can be challenging, so I always ask for extra lettuce and ketchup. One mustn’t ignore the veggies. For snacks I’ll generally have a protein bar, which I have chosen (I find they taste better if I convince myself I a Milky Way) to call candy bars, much to my wife’s chagrin.

I guess life after 60 isn’t so bad. I have most of my hair and teeth, and I have no desire to play

in either a country or blues band. Okay, I’ll admit I do accept the senior discount at Supercuts and Denny’s.

Hey, I may be old, but I’m not stupid.

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.

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.