Author: admin

Chickpeas & Lime Zest

Women change. Evolve. “Grow.” Guys don’t. We’re like dogs. We just age. Over the years we like the same food. The same music. The same underwear. The same snacks and treats. A favorite old coat with tattered cuffs. And we have at least one pair of jeans that should have been thrown out when the first Bush left office.

I loved brownies as a kid. I still love brownies (without nuts). For some reason my evolver finds it necessary to deviate from the tried-and-true staples of man-life, mostly with food.

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Frolicking Curmudgeon

Uh oh. Does everyone know what season it is? It’s here. The much anticipated Christmas Hallmark Channel season or what I refer to as the season of TV love triangles, tears, snowball fights, and hot chocolate. And much like the artificial world of afternoon soaps, Hallmark’s snow globe reality sets an expectation for holiday frolicking to which an employed guy – without access to a personal helicopter, yacht, hotel chain, or royal lineage – might have a problem measuring up.

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Bob “Fish” Fishelson

If you’re lucky, you knew Bob. But who didn’t? Of all the people I’ve known, Bob has been the common thread, the guy that has proven the human connection theory of six degrees of separation. He was simply everyone’s friend. Bob “Fish” Fishelson got tired and left us today.

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Perfect Fruit

WAIT! before sending angry emails and rainbow emojis, read on. This isn’t a rant about RuPaul’s Drag Race or some other in-your-face transgender or alternative life-choice. It’s simply a non-political commentary on Americans’ often irrational expectation for perfection, irrespective of personal effort to achieve even basic mediocrity.

As consumers we’ve learned to expect – no demand – perfection. We sort through piles of consumer goods on a quest for perfection, foregoing scuffed packages for ones that look bright and fresh, as if taken from an ad agency photo shoot. What’s inside is the same as that in the rejected box that’s been shoved aside, relegated to the Island of Misfit Toys or the desperate grasp of a waterlogged homeowner that will settle for that last sump pump in a beat up box on a dusty shelf. Continue reading “Perfect Fruit”

Festusitis

That’s it. I’m gonna start talkin’ like Festus Haggen. (If you don’t know the name, Google it.) He had his own little language going on, yet everyone seemed to understand what he was saying. I, on the other hand, have reached the ghostlike status of verbal invisibility, even when making an exaggerated effort to annunciate.

Siri started it, forcing me to focus on my lip movements to form words like a frightened immigrant. But it doesn’t matter. Either from lack of interest or short attention, my apparent semi-intelligible yammering is met with confusion. Even my wife’s dog stares at me in bewilderment with her head cocked, apparently thinking, “Did the giant say ‘TREAT?’ I think I heard ‘treat.’ Yeah, yeah… it was definitely ‘treat.’ So where’s my treat?”

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