I wrote some new lyrics to an old Christmas song. It's a Christmas song I always really liked as a child, ever since Big Bird sang it on my Sesame Street Christmas album which they don't make anymore, and which Elmo totally wasn't on, and that wasn't a bad thing. No offense Elmo.
The new song is entitled:
It's Beginning to Feel a lot Like Christmas.
It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.
Soon it'll almost be cold.
And the thing that will make it cold
Is the chilling, morbid thought
That we're making the world inhospitable for ourselves.
A pair of gas powered boots
And some gas powered suits
Is the wish of Bobby and Ben.
Gas powered socks
And a gas powered clock
Is the hope of Janet and Jen.
And mom and dad are hoping for
A brand new Ex-cur-sion.
It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.
Jesus would be so proud.
And the thing that will make him smile
Is knowing it'll just be a while
Before we're all up in heaven with him.
Is the beginning of winter supposed to be hot?
Our planet's becoming a giant crock pot.
Gas powered this and some gas powered that
Throw in some smoke and some gas powered gas.
And mom and dad are trying to decide if they should just smother us in our sleep at night so we don't have to face the future.
It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.
Christmas.
Christmas.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Dad's Glasses part 2
So I'm in the back seat of my parent's car riding to work this morning when my father begins to explain why his glasses no longer have a spool of scotch tape wrapped around the bridge. It turns out that last night Dad got it into his head that what his glasses needed was superglue. And of course it could not wait so he did it right away.
I'm sure he was careful. I'm sure he laid copious amounts of paper on the table so as not to spill glue all over the place. I'm sure he had appropriate lighting and he probably even had special tools besides to aid in his project. What he didn't have was patience.
The way Dad tells it you would think that he immediately picked up the glued glasses and put them to his face, but I'd like to think that he waited at least a minute or two for the glue to dry. I don't wish to speculate. Anyway, he said that he put the glasses on and glue just started pouring down the lenses. It's a wonder he didn't glue the damn things to his face.
My father did not panic, however. He did what anyone else might do, and what I will caution you all against doing right now. He very calmly ran the glasses under water to wash away the glue.
Ok. Superglue is not the same as Elmers, which some children eat. Here's a bit of trivia that may someday save your glasses. The catalyst for most kinds of superglue is.... water. That means you pour the glue where you want it and the moisture in the air speeds the drying process up. That is why superglue might stay wet for hours on a dry piece of paper but as soon as you put your moist and oily little finger on it the paper dries right to you and you have glue on your skin for several days.
So then Dad had glue drippings permanently dripping down his glasses. So he brilliantly told my mother to do whatever she could to get it off; it didn't matter if she scratched them because he couldn't see out of them anyway. So my mom got a knife and began to scratch off the glue and gouge the lenses in the process.
Note number 2 that may someday save your glasses: Most superglues can be removed with solvent. It is a special chemical designed to make glue "let go."
"So," said Dad as we drove down one of the busiest roads in Atlanta, "I really can't see anything."
"So why didn't you just let Mom drive?"
"Are you kidding?" he asked. "I want to make it to Christmas."
Ok, the last two lines didn't happen, but he really did tell me as we drove down Peachtree Industrial Boulevard that he couldn't see anything.
I'm sure he was careful. I'm sure he laid copious amounts of paper on the table so as not to spill glue all over the place. I'm sure he had appropriate lighting and he probably even had special tools besides to aid in his project. What he didn't have was patience.
The way Dad tells it you would think that he immediately picked up the glued glasses and put them to his face, but I'd like to think that he waited at least a minute or two for the glue to dry. I don't wish to speculate. Anyway, he said that he put the glasses on and glue just started pouring down the lenses. It's a wonder he didn't glue the damn things to his face.
My father did not panic, however. He did what anyone else might do, and what I will caution you all against doing right now. He very calmly ran the glasses under water to wash away the glue.
Ok. Superglue is not the same as Elmers, which some children eat. Here's a bit of trivia that may someday save your glasses. The catalyst for most kinds of superglue is.... water. That means you pour the glue where you want it and the moisture in the air speeds the drying process up. That is why superglue might stay wet for hours on a dry piece of paper but as soon as you put your moist and oily little finger on it the paper dries right to you and you have glue on your skin for several days.
So then Dad had glue drippings permanently dripping down his glasses. So he brilliantly told my mother to do whatever she could to get it off; it didn't matter if she scratched them because he couldn't see out of them anyway. So my mom got a knife and began to scratch off the glue and gouge the lenses in the process.
Note number 2 that may someday save your glasses: Most superglues can be removed with solvent. It is a special chemical designed to make glue "let go."
"So," said Dad as we drove down one of the busiest roads in Atlanta, "I really can't see anything."
"So why didn't you just let Mom drive?"
"Are you kidding?" he asked. "I want to make it to Christmas."
Ok, the last two lines didn't happen, but he really did tell me as we drove down Peachtree Industrial Boulevard that he couldn't see anything.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
time
So I got to the Park and Ride in plenty of time today. I'm supposed to get there by 7:15 and I was there right at 7:15. But my carpool, aka Mom and Dad, were not there. I am not the most punctual person in the world, but I am rarely more than 5 minutes lates. Lately I have been making a concerted effort to be there on time.
Anyway, they were not there. So I waited. And waited. At 7:35 I called my Dad and he answered the phone this way:
"Yes, we're on our way. I'll be there in a minute and your mother is right behind me."
---note to you environmentalists: We normally do not take 3 cars. My parents drive together and pick me up at the Park and Ride and we carpool in. I like the environment. But today my mother had to leave work early so Dad and I are riding the bus home.
"Ok," I said. "I just wanted to be sure I wasn't supposed to ride the bus in."
The night before my mother had called and spoken to me for about fifteen minutes while I played Star Craft on the computer. When I got off the phone with her my wife asked what we had talked about and I could not, for the life of me, remember. So I was legitimately afraid that she had told me to ride the bus.
"No," he said. "I'll be there in a minute."
I wasn't exactly mad. I've been late some too, so I wouldn't complain. But it seems to me that whenever I am 5 minutes late I get cross looks. If I am ten minutes late, which does not happen often, I get a phone call and sometimes cross remarks about respect. But when Mom and Dad are late it isn't their fault. And when they are on time and I am already there I hear comments like last weeks, which actually came from my mother, "Did you get some good traffic?" Which translates to: "How are you here early?" I wanted to say, "I'm frequently early. If you were frequently on time you'd know that." But I have been late some, and it is not uncommon for them to be at the Park and Ride before me. Still, there is a double standard there.
So Dad drives up 5 minutes later and hops out of his car. I don't look at him, (because I'm a bit upset) and he says, "It took me forever to get your mother moving this morning. I swear if I hadn't been there she'd still be asleep. I got in the shower and when I got out she was still in bed. Then I got her up and she went through her usual ritual of letting the dogs out and getting breakfast, even though she was twenty minutes late."
Incidentally, he is not one to talk. Dad is rarely late himself, but if he is not going somewhere and you are he has absolutely no qualms about talking and talking to you so that you are late. And then he just shakes his head like you don't understand the importance of time. So his ranting was only serving to make me more irritated.
Then he walked around to the other side of the car, though I still had not looked at him directly, and he said, "Time means nothing to your mother. She doesn't comprehend the disrespect or the inconvenience associated with making people wait. It just doesn't matter to her." By this point I was staring at the asphalt; just plain mad.
Then I looked up and everything changed. I looked at Dad and saw that his glasses had been taped together at the bridge. Imagine those Revenge of the Nerds movies with the guys taping their glasses together, only instead of using masking tape my father used Scotch tape, and not a small amount. The tape was so bunched up that it stuck off his face almost an inch. He kept ranting about Mom, but I was too busy trying not to laugh.
~sigh~
Anyway, they were not there. So I waited. And waited. At 7:35 I called my Dad and he answered the phone this way:
"Yes, we're on our way. I'll be there in a minute and your mother is right behind me."
---note to you environmentalists: We normally do not take 3 cars. My parents drive together and pick me up at the Park and Ride and we carpool in. I like the environment. But today my mother had to leave work early so Dad and I are riding the bus home.
"Ok," I said. "I just wanted to be sure I wasn't supposed to ride the bus in."
The night before my mother had called and spoken to me for about fifteen minutes while I played Star Craft on the computer. When I got off the phone with her my wife asked what we had talked about and I could not, for the life of me, remember. So I was legitimately afraid that she had told me to ride the bus.
"No," he said. "I'll be there in a minute."
I wasn't exactly mad. I've been late some too, so I wouldn't complain. But it seems to me that whenever I am 5 minutes late I get cross looks. If I am ten minutes late, which does not happen often, I get a phone call and sometimes cross remarks about respect. But when Mom and Dad are late it isn't their fault. And when they are on time and I am already there I hear comments like last weeks, which actually came from my mother, "Did you get some good traffic?" Which translates to: "How are you here early?" I wanted to say, "I'm frequently early. If you were frequently on time you'd know that." But I have been late some, and it is not uncommon for them to be at the Park and Ride before me. Still, there is a double standard there.
So Dad drives up 5 minutes later and hops out of his car. I don't look at him, (because I'm a bit upset) and he says, "It took me forever to get your mother moving this morning. I swear if I hadn't been there she'd still be asleep. I got in the shower and when I got out she was still in bed. Then I got her up and she went through her usual ritual of letting the dogs out and getting breakfast, even though she was twenty minutes late."
Incidentally, he is not one to talk. Dad is rarely late himself, but if he is not going somewhere and you are he has absolutely no qualms about talking and talking to you so that you are late. And then he just shakes his head like you don't understand the importance of time. So his ranting was only serving to make me more irritated.
Then he walked around to the other side of the car, though I still had not looked at him directly, and he said, "Time means nothing to your mother. She doesn't comprehend the disrespect or the inconvenience associated with making people wait. It just doesn't matter to her." By this point I was staring at the asphalt; just plain mad.
Then I looked up and everything changed. I looked at Dad and saw that his glasses had been taped together at the bridge. Imagine those Revenge of the Nerds movies with the guys taping their glasses together, only instead of using masking tape my father used Scotch tape, and not a small amount. The tape was so bunched up that it stuck off his face almost an inch. He kept ranting about Mom, but I was too busy trying not to laugh.
~sigh~
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Magic Eye
Have you ever looked at those magic eye optical illusion puzzles. They are pretty neat. You have a picture that is really just a jumble of patters that repeat on a piece of paper and you are supposed to focus on the middle of the paper with it close to your nose, then, as you pull the paper away, you are supposed to keep your eyes from refocusing and in the double vision, on the patterns in the picture, you will see a three dimensional object floating before you. It's quite cool when it works, which for me is only about a third of the time.
Now, can you imagine being the clever guy who thought of that and then trying to explain to someone what you have. How many people do you think looked at his (or her) paper for hours on end and finally said, "This is bull-shit!"
"Now you say this is three dimensional?"
"Yes, there is a 3-D bunch of bananas."
"All I see is this tree and monkey pattern over and over again."
"Well, you have to kind of look past the page."
"You mean it's on the next page?"
"No, it's on that page."
"I don't see any bananas."
"You have to sort of cross your eyes and blurr your vision."
"Well then I won't be able to see anything."
"No, not at first. But after you stare at the page for a while a bunch of bananas will pop out."
"It's gonna pop out at me? Is this a pop-up book?"
"No, I don't mean really pop out. It's a figure of speach. The bananas will seem to pop out."
"So then I stare at this page until I imagine a bunch of bananas?"
"Well, no. They are really there, in the picture."
"Where?"
"On the page, but you can't see them."
"You can't see them? Are they invisible?"
"Sort of."
"Then how can people see them?"
"By looking at the page for a long time."
"So, there is a bunch of bananas on this page that has no bunch of bananas..."
"Yes."
"And you can't see the bananas to look at them, but the only way to see them is to look at the page?"
"Exactly."
"And you want me to publish a whole book of these things?"
Now, can you imagine being the clever guy who thought of that and then trying to explain to someone what you have. How many people do you think looked at his (or her) paper for hours on end and finally said, "This is bull-shit!"
"Now you say this is three dimensional?"
"Yes, there is a 3-D bunch of bananas."
"All I see is this tree and monkey pattern over and over again."
"Well, you have to kind of look past the page."
"You mean it's on the next page?"
"No, it's on that page."
"I don't see any bananas."
"You have to sort of cross your eyes and blurr your vision."
"Well then I won't be able to see anything."
"No, not at first. But after you stare at the page for a while a bunch of bananas will pop out."
"It's gonna pop out at me? Is this a pop-up book?"
"No, I don't mean really pop out. It's a figure of speach. The bananas will seem to pop out."
"So then I stare at this page until I imagine a bunch of bananas?"
"Well, no. They are really there, in the picture."
"Where?"
"On the page, but you can't see them."
"You can't see them? Are they invisible?"
"Sort of."
"Then how can people see them?"
"By looking at the page for a long time."
"So, there is a bunch of bananas on this page that has no bunch of bananas..."
"Yes."
"And you can't see the bananas to look at them, but the only way to see them is to look at the page?"
"Exactly."
"And you want me to publish a whole book of these things?"
About me.
I haven't written much in a little while because I've been very busy at work, which is really the only place I can write since my Internet at home has been disconnected temporarily. So I thought I would write a bit more than normal today since it seems like it might be a moderately slow day.
I just rode the elevator up from the snack room and I shared it with a man who smelled nicely of Drakkar Noir, which is not a bad scent really, except that a lot of people put way too much on and it can totally become noxious in larger doses. But the man in the elevator had a nice amount on. I haven't smelled Drakkar in years, but it is one of those smells you don't really forget. Smells can be very nostalgic for me. Some smells remind me of family trips to Florida, or my Aunt Bob's house, who is actually a woman; Bob is short for Bobbie Taylor. I imagine when she and my parents decided she would be called Aunt Bob they got a real laugh out of it. I, however, grew up with the name and didn't realized it was funny until I was in my twenties. Her house smells of laundry detergent, hard wood floors, and discrete ancient cigarette smoke that has hidden in decade-old crevaces and refuses to come out, but over time does not smell harsh or irritating, but smells rich and hearty. When I smell any of these things I am taken back to mornings spent on her fold out couch with my brother and sister and cousin watching the Flintstones. Some smells remind me of the summers I worked at Camp Glisson as a counselor, and some smells remind me of the days I worked at Macy's one Christmas time. Drakkar reminds me of those days at Christmas. Drakkar would probably remind me of Christmas anyway because Christmas time means more time at the mall and malls almost always smell like perfume.
I have a tendency towards hypochondria. I went to the doctor last week, but I was really sick, I had a sinus infection, and I considered asking the doctor what a person needs to do if he is haunted by the fear that he might be a hypochondriac. I assumed she would think it was funny, but then she would say see a therapist.
I fear dying of a heart attack because I don't take care of myself. I go in spells where I work out a bit, but it isn't enough to help. But that would be my fault. I wouldn't be able to blame anyone if I died of a heart attack or heart disease or of a stroke.
I also fear dying of some exotic disease that you can't control getting and you never know you have until it is too late like Chaggas or Mad Cow. One of the office secretaries told me about Chaggas a while back and now I fear getting whenever I have a mosquito bite that I don't remember getting. Chaggas is a fungal type parasite that gets into your blood when a Chaggas bug bites you. Actually, the parasite is found in the Chaggas poo which it poos on your skin while it is biting you and you scratch the bite then get the poo in the wound and therefore get Chaggas. Chaggas takes many years to show up, but by the time you show real Chaggas symptoms there is no cure. If memory serves it eats away at your musculature. At first I was not afraid of this because mostly people in South America get it, though there have been some cases as far north as North Carolina. But now I'm more afraid of it because I worry that my doctor will not be looking for such an illness and it will go undiagnosed. In the early stages it is treatable.
Last night as I was decorating my house for Christmas I scratched my finger on a tiny nail. When I pulled back I did not see blood so I didn't think anything of the wound, but later that night I realized that I had bled a little bit, so now I'm wondering if my last Tetnus shot is still good. It must have been over ten years that I had one.
I love Christmas time.
I hate the song Christmas Shoes.
I like just about every other Christmas song, however. I like Christmas trees and Christmas wreathes. I like the little Christmas villages and fancy ornaments. I like Christmas cartoons and holiday specials.
I don't like beer.
Last night as we were decorating for Christmas my kids decided they wanted to go outside with me. It was dark and pretty cold, but I guess outside with daddy was less scary that inside alone, even though I had a Christmas cartoon on the TV. There wasn't much the kids could do in the way of helping decorate. It required a lot of standing on the ladder and holding tons of cords and such. After we had been working for about fifteen minutes my daughter said, "Hey Daddy, let's pretend we're having fun."
I just rode the elevator up from the snack room and I shared it with a man who smelled nicely of Drakkar Noir, which is not a bad scent really, except that a lot of people put way too much on and it can totally become noxious in larger doses. But the man in the elevator had a nice amount on. I haven't smelled Drakkar in years, but it is one of those smells you don't really forget. Smells can be very nostalgic for me. Some smells remind me of family trips to Florida, or my Aunt Bob's house, who is actually a woman; Bob is short for Bobbie Taylor. I imagine when she and my parents decided she would be called Aunt Bob they got a real laugh out of it. I, however, grew up with the name and didn't realized it was funny until I was in my twenties. Her house smells of laundry detergent, hard wood floors, and discrete ancient cigarette smoke that has hidden in decade-old crevaces and refuses to come out, but over time does not smell harsh or irritating, but smells rich and hearty. When I smell any of these things I am taken back to mornings spent on her fold out couch with my brother and sister and cousin watching the Flintstones. Some smells remind me of the summers I worked at Camp Glisson as a counselor, and some smells remind me of the days I worked at Macy's one Christmas time. Drakkar reminds me of those days at Christmas. Drakkar would probably remind me of Christmas anyway because Christmas time means more time at the mall and malls almost always smell like perfume.
I have a tendency towards hypochondria. I went to the doctor last week, but I was really sick, I had a sinus infection, and I considered asking the doctor what a person needs to do if he is haunted by the fear that he might be a hypochondriac. I assumed she would think it was funny, but then she would say see a therapist.
I fear dying of a heart attack because I don't take care of myself. I go in spells where I work out a bit, but it isn't enough to help. But that would be my fault. I wouldn't be able to blame anyone if I died of a heart attack or heart disease or of a stroke.
I also fear dying of some exotic disease that you can't control getting and you never know you have until it is too late like Chaggas or Mad Cow. One of the office secretaries told me about Chaggas a while back and now I fear getting whenever I have a mosquito bite that I don't remember getting. Chaggas is a fungal type parasite that gets into your blood when a Chaggas bug bites you. Actually, the parasite is found in the Chaggas poo which it poos on your skin while it is biting you and you scratch the bite then get the poo in the wound and therefore get Chaggas. Chaggas takes many years to show up, but by the time you show real Chaggas symptoms there is no cure. If memory serves it eats away at your musculature. At first I was not afraid of this because mostly people in South America get it, though there have been some cases as far north as North Carolina. But now I'm more afraid of it because I worry that my doctor will not be looking for such an illness and it will go undiagnosed. In the early stages it is treatable.
Last night as I was decorating my house for Christmas I scratched my finger on a tiny nail. When I pulled back I did not see blood so I didn't think anything of the wound, but later that night I realized that I had bled a little bit, so now I'm wondering if my last Tetnus shot is still good. It must have been over ten years that I had one.
I love Christmas time.
I hate the song Christmas Shoes.
I like just about every other Christmas song, however. I like Christmas trees and Christmas wreathes. I like the little Christmas villages and fancy ornaments. I like Christmas cartoons and holiday specials.
I don't like beer.
Last night as we were decorating for Christmas my kids decided they wanted to go outside with me. It was dark and pretty cold, but I guess outside with daddy was less scary that inside alone, even though I had a Christmas cartoon on the TV. There wasn't much the kids could do in the way of helping decorate. It required a lot of standing on the ladder and holding tons of cords and such. After we had been working for about fifteen minutes my daughter said, "Hey Daddy, let's pretend we're having fun."
Friday, December 01, 2006
Red Shoes Rising
If I were a werewolf then the Christmas song "Christmas Shoes" would be my full moon.
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