Herb Williams-Dalgart—A Writer's Blog

A Piece of My Mind... Or My Toe?

2011-09-30T23:03:00.000-07:00

Last night, my family watched, “127 Hours” in the family room while I hid out in the office. This is the movie that recounts the experience of that solo hiker who got his arm trapped under a rock while hiking alone in Utah and had to cut his arm free so he could survive the ordeal. The movie apparently shows, in explicit visual (and auditory) detail, just how the hiker carved off his limb.

I sat at my desk, trying to pay my bills online and working to update my Facebook status while my family screamed and groaned for what seemed an hour. This was all accompanied by the “sclorch” and “crunch” of special effects dismemberment. Just recounting it for you is making me queasy. Bleh. The family finally proclaimed victory when, by the end of the movie, they had managed to avoid barfing. It’s the little things, I guess.

Now, I’m a fan of movies, as you likely already know. I’ve written screenplays, read screenplays, and watched a zillion movies, including many bad ones (1986’s, “Howard the Duck” or 2000’s Battlefield Earth come to mind—mostly because they made me want to barf, too). And, though I understand “127 Hours” was critically acclaimed and allegedly well-acted, I don’t really enjoy the whole injury-porn thing.

The real guy who cut off his arm has nothing but sympathy from me, and a huge truckload of respect for being able to do the deed by himself. But a little part of me—the shameful part that I’m told to keep to myself—thinks that guy should’ve had a hiking buddy with him and that, on some level, he was just asking for trouble. Note to self: don’t criticize the premise of a real-life biographic movie immediately after others have watched it. They won’t be happy.

My point: there are just things you shouldn’t do alone. Hiking in an avalanche zone is probably one of those things. It seems, therefore, incorrectly celebratory to make a film about the whole ordeal—unless the film is used to scare people into recruiting a hiking buddy. I guess that’s the second note to self. Hiking buddy.

I recall a North Dakota teenager in 1992, alone on the family farm when he slipped next to the family auger (an auger is a giant drill bit on a tractor used to till the soil. Thank you Wikipedia!). Both the boy’s arms got yanked under the auger, which ripped them out, leaving him with bloody stumps and no one around to help. This kid kept his wits enough to run home, dial for help using a pen he picked up with his mouth, and then jump in the bathtub to keep his stumps from bleeding out. The kid not only survived, they reattached his arms! Well done. They make those farm kids hearty, don’t they? I’m switching from Coco-Puffs to bacon and eggs. Third note to self.

Again, though I’m happy and respectful for his bravery (incidentally, the accident would’ve killed a suburban wuss like me!), I humbly suggest that farming with giant drills might be another one of those things you shouldn’t do alone.

Last month, a dude in Colorado went to cut some wood in the forest. He was—you guessed it—alone! The trailer on his truck slipped and landed on his foot. He screamed for help, but no one was around. Of course, his phone was back in the truck and he was pinned twenty feet away by the foot with no one to help. And, though he forgot his phone, he remembered his pocket knife. How lucky! He lasted 30 minutes before deciding the toes had to go. Unlike his North Dakotan predecessor, reattachment was not an option.

I’m sure you know I’m the last guy to criticize (okay, maybe second to last). But 30 minutes? It may just be in my nature, but it would’ve taken me at least 3 hours before I gave up on moving the truck with my bare hands or before I stopped screaming my lungs out. I can’t say how long I would’ve waited before deciding these little piggies had to go wee-wee-wee all the way cut off. Come to think of it, my little piggies would’ve stayed home, gone to market, or had roast beef before taking me into the woods alone. Nevertheless, I do feel bad for the guy. I guess it’s an abject lesson in why you should keep your phone on you at all times. Note to self, Number Four. Man, I gotta lot of those notes.

Of course, now that I’ve recounted these dramatic incidents for you, I sorta see the draw for an audience to the near-tragedies. They are loaded with excitement, the stakes are certainly high, and there’s an element of heroism in braving the pain and horror. As far as I know, though, they never made a movie out of that auger kid’s story or that toe guy’s.

Maybe all those SAW movies cover the self-mutilation/injury-porn genre enough. How many of those have they made? Six? Can’t say I watched any of them. Not really interested. For me, they’re NOT SAW. NOT SEE? NOT SEEN? Oh, you get it.

In truth, I’m beginning to think they’re running out of movie ideas. Some recent flicks have seemed so bad they make me ponder my own self-mutilation. “Smurfs” made me consider scooping out my own eyes with a spoon. “The Chimpmunks’ Squeakuel” made me want to cut off my own ears, and someone has to explain why “Yogi Bear” had to be made. I nearly stuffed my hand through the TV screen when I saw the ad for that one! Really? Yogi Bear?

A quick note to movie studios (since I’m running out of notes to myself)—you don’t have to make every old cartoon into a live action/animated feature film. For that matter, you don’t need to entertain people with self-injury flicks, either.

Here’s my soapbox moment. In truth, I think I get the attraction. It’s the same reason tattoos and body piercings are so popular these days. It’s the new generation. Parents of this generation—the so-called “helicopter parents” who drop in on every moment of their kids’ lives and never let their kids get injured, take risks, feel bad or inadequate—these parents have forgotten that risk and danger lead to learning, and that kids will forever be fascinated by the things they are denied. You take away the risks, they seek them out. You keep them from getting hurt, they want to hurt themselves. The “Emo” kids, the self-proclaimed “cutters”—they slice themselves not just to get attention, it’s fascination.... it’s their need for risk. It’s to taste their mortality. I know it’s not all that simple. But it surely is part of the big picture.

I’m not suggesting we neglect our kids or intentionally put them in danger (although when they mouth off, I can’t say I’m not tempted to offer a little “inflicted danger”). I’m just saying, let loose the reigns a little. Let the kids take chances. Park your helicopter. Let the kids do things without you. It’s good for them. Builds character. Kinda like barfing at movies.

When it’s time to get your kids a birthday gift, consider a pocket phone instead of a pocket knife. Or, if you do give them a pocket knife, make sure they know when to use it on arms and toes and when to use it on other things, and then let them go with it. When they wanna go hiking, be a buddy.

And if they fall down on the path, congratulate them. You both just learned something.

Here are a few kid challenges that will drive parents crazy, but see what happens if you allow the kids to:

· Play in the mud

· Collect bugs

· Try a sip of beer

· Cross the street WITHOUT holding hands

· See a scary movie before bed

· Say a bad word

· Do math homework in PEN

· Eat dessert first

· Call someone on the phone without a parent’s help

· Ask for directions even when a parent has GPS

· Order what they actually want from the menu, even if it’s breakfast for dinner

· Skip brushing teeth one night

· Camp out in the backyard

· Take the dog for a walk down the street... alone

· Have a burping contest

· Stay up WAY past bed time

· Go to a midnight movie premier and eat candy (so long as the movie isn’t SAW 7, Smurfs 2, or Yogi Bear. Let’s not get carried away).

Adventures at "The Con"

2011-08-06T18:06:00.000-07:00

When you tell a 12 year-old boy you’re taking him to Comic-Con, it just feels right. For those of you newbies that don’t know what Comic-Con is, go Google it and come back. I’ll wait.

Okay, now that you know it’s a huge media extravaganza in San Diego with movies, comic books, celebrities, sci-fi memorabilia, and everything remotely related, you get the picture. This year’s Comic-Con boasted over 126,000 attendees, most of whom arrived in some form of costume, super-hero t-shirt, hat, makeup, or hairdo. It was a combination of Halloween, Mardi Gras, the last day of 7^th grade, and the Bellevue Mental Hospital family picnic day. Seriously, I think I saw more cosmetics, hair extensions, and outfits than in “Sex in the City 2.” (Ok, I’ll be honest. I didn’t see Sex in the City 2, but you get my point.)

Once there, you realize quickly that anyone that goes to Comic-con has to be nuts, or a huge sucker for his 12 year-old son, or maybe just a 12 year-old trapped in an nearly-adult sized body himself. You can figure out which is me.

Whatever your reason for going, once you get there you see it’s a feast for the senses, complete with sights that push your understanding of human nature. Most people’s costumes were quickly identifiable—Spider-man (red/blue and black costume), Superman, The Dark Knight, Green Lantern.... Others were a little harder to pin down, even for the seasoned cartoon-o-phile.

One dude, for example, had no shirt, a fake mustache (at least it looked fake), combat boots, and carried around a giant stuffed shark. Um. Which hero was he? I can’t claim to know them ALL, but I’m pretty sure Aquaman didn’t have a black mustache and boots. Was it Aquaman’s lesser known cousin, G-I-Joke? Was it a long lost ocean-bound Mario Brother? I honestly have no idea.

To give you a sense of the hilarity of the human (and super human) spectacle, I will list for you a few of my sightings, a couple favorite overheard phrases, and some interesting moments (isn’t that nice of me?). Think of this as time travel back to the event. Come to think of it, if you embrace that idea, maybe you’re ready for “The Con” yourself....

First, the sightings:

A man dressed as “the Flash” whizzing by on a Segway (funny, yet sensible, no?)

A pug dressed as Spider-Man being walked by a lady dressed as Electro-Woman (I couldn’t help but wonder who chose the outfits).

A man dressed as Electro-Woman (totally unrelated to the prior Spidey-on-a-leash Electro Woman; his costume was better, though he didn’t quite fill out the bustier portion.)

A dude in underwear that can best be described as a “banana hammock” holding a sign with an arrow pointing at his crotch that said, “The Real Thor’s Hammer.” (Editor’s note: that hammer couldn’t pound a nail or summon thunder. Sorry dude.)

Justin Timberlake!! (No, he didn’t ask me to join him for the N’Sync reunion. But he did forgive me for choosing not to tour with the guys in the first place. Peace out, J.T.).

A t-shirt with a picture of Ricardo Montalban from his role in Star Trek II with the caption “Comic-Khan” (if you don’t get this joke, Comic-Con was not for you. Live long and prosper).

Now some overheard conversations

While in any number of 3 hour lines waiting for a celebrity panel or advanced screening, I heard a few conversations that made me wonder, “Do any kids play outside anymore?”

In line for the “Futurama” panel:

Nerd 1: “I think you just fall in love with your first Dr. Who and every other Dr. Who just isn’t your Dr. Who.”

Nerd 2: “Yeah, totally. But Tom Baker was the best ‘Who’.”

Nerd 1: “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

In line for the Sony Pictures panel:

Geek 1: “I love your kilt!”

Geek 2: “Yours too!”

Geek 1: “I made mine.”

Geek 2: “Awesome. I kinda figured. Where else would you find camouflage kilt fabric?”

At the bootleg DVD booth:

Dork 1: “Sigmund and the Sea Monsters!”

Dork 2: “Sid and Marty Krofft must’ve been on drugs, dude.”

Dork 1: “Duh. Puff n’ Stuff?”

Dork 2: “Oh, right.”

Interesting moments:

Really, too many to list, but here are a few that still stick with me...

1. A lady dressed as one of the Mario Brothers (from the video games) taking a picture of a Star Wars Storm Trooper drinking a Starbucks coffee through a straw poking into his helmet. She thought he looked ridiculous. Her outfit was rubber. Comic irony?

2. A very attractive woman wearing a cog on a necklace guiding open-mouthed teenagers to a booth where they could try the “Gears of War 3” video game BEFORE its “official release.” I think a few of those boys “unofficially released.”

3. Pizza for breakfast (it’s amazing what Dad finds acceptable for the most important meal of the day when you’ve got somewhere to be and Mom’s not in the picture!)

4. My son meeting his hero, Matt Groening (creator of “The Simpsons” and “Futurama”). I think he almost wet himself. Maybe that was me.

5. A full grown man in sweatpants pulled to his mid-chest, waiting in line for a movie screening, picking his nose..... then eating it. And that was during the first hour of a three hour wait. We named him “Picker” (his super power was making us throw up in our mouths).

6. My son meeting actor Aziz Ansari who literally bumped into him while in line for my soda refill. Serves me right for sending the boy – he had the Hollywood encounter (again!).

7. Stan Lee... in the Marvel Comics booth! Stan!! The Man!! The real super hero. Excelsior!! (okay, now I’m the nerd!) I love Stan Lee!

All said, it was worth the lack of sleep, the failing nutrition, the gawking, the waiting in lines, the 3-D glasses-induced dementia, and the occasional fearing for my life. Comic-con is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Now the question is, am I up for it again next year?

Weiners and wieners

2011-06-11T13:52:00.000-07:00

It’s almost too easy. New York Congressman Anthony Weiner takes a picture of... well... his wiener, and then posts the photo on Twitter. Before long, everyone in the world saw the picture of the congressman in his undies. We knew he was a Democrat—now we knew just how far left he leaned (sorry, even I couldn’t resist that one!)

At first the congressman lied, said his Twitter account was hacked. Someone was playing a joke on him. Then he came clean—the wiener was Weiner’s.

The jokes, particularly the unintended ones were hilarious. For instance, Nancy Pelosi promised there would be a “probe.” Couldn’t she have called it an investigation? Ouch. The congressman himself said he “had people looking into it.” Um. Yep. People were looking into it. And onto it. And over it. And under it. Jeepers, see how easy this is? The jokes write themselves!

I just have to marvel at the arrogance of the congressman—did he really think he could get away with it?

The Weiner-man is sort of like my wiener dog—my dachshund, “Mr. B.” This dog is 15 years old, which in human years is dead. Like Weiner the congressman, wiener dog Mr. B thinks he can get away with anything. He urinates everywhere, poops where he likes, and even barfs in front of me while I’m watching TV. Right there on the rug, with the convulsing and retching and heaving. It’s gross. It’s like someone’s given The Exorcist’s Linda Blair some syrup of ipecac and let the hurl flow. Yuck. I’m just waiting for the dog’s head to spin.

The dog has no shame. Blow and go. Poop and go. Pee and go. He’s too old to care, or perhaps too old to control his bodily functions. His only defense against expulsion from our house—he’s cute, has big wet eyes, and the kids are crazy about him. Now, I just watch where I step.

What’s Congressman Weiner’s defense? I suppose he thinks he’s cute, too, but didn’t he think he’d get caught? I mean, think about all those political figures that came before him who should have been a warning to the Congressman:

· “The Governator” Arnold Schwarzenegger was caught. A Latino love child is hard to blame on a hacker. Hasta la vista, baby.

· Congressman Chris Lee posted a shirtless photo of himself on Craigslist while soliciting a male-to-female transsexual. Really? On Craigslist? I posted a picture of my patio table on Craigslist and it took a week to get any attention. Clearly, I don’t understand Craigslist.

· Congressman Mark Foley got caught sending inappropriate AOL instant messages to teenage male congressional pages. Oopsy daisy. The dude was chairman of the House Caucus on Missing and Exploited Children. Maybe he was just doing research. “You’ve got male.” Ahem.

· Senator Larry Craig from Idaho was caught tapping his foot in the Minneapolis Airport bathroom stall, hoping for sex. Turns out the tappee was an undercover cop. Talk about looking for love in all the wrong places! I had to giggle when critics said it was time for Craig to give up his seat. Uh. Yeah. And don’t forget to flush the wax paper seat sheet when you do give it up.

· President Bill Clinton got caught with Monica Lewinsky (don’t mess the dress)—and Bill had a whole entourage of secret service men to help with the secret servicing. Really Bill? Really?

· Senator Eric Massa got busted for inappropriate tickling of male staff members. Some people are just too “handsy” for political office. I just loved Massa’s CNN interviews when he explained it was no big deal and that he used to be known for his massages when serving in the Navy. Dude, not the right defense. Don’t ask. Don’t tell. Come on now!

· Senator John Edwards had a love child, even as his wife Elizabeth struggled with cancer. He was accused of using campaign finances to take care of his baby-mama. Bye-bye political aspirations; hello criminal investigation. Talk about reaching out to your constituents. Let’s just call it a welfare-to-work program and let him off the hook. Or not.

Now, Congressman Weiner joins a long, sad list of men who seem to think they can work under the radar while simultaneously working in the public eye. When you’re a public figure, secrets get out, Weiner-boy! Therein lays the “public” part.

At least Mr. B doesn’t pretend he’s serving anyone but himself. No alter ego there. He’s gross and proud of it. Or, at the very least, he’s indifferent. I think he suffers a little from doggy-dementia. He stares a lot at walls and jumps at unseen ghosts. It would be sad if he wasn’t so happy or blissfully clueless—haven’t yet figured him out. But at 105, he's just happy to be here.

When you think about it, Weiner’s name seemed to predestine him for scandal, like Eric Massa and his famous Massa Massages. Shoulda seen it coming! Please, don’t anyone elect Congressman Buttcrack or Senator Wang.

I don’t think I could handle the photos.

In Consideration of Cobras

2011-04-29T20:04:00.000-07:00

A bit of “true confessions”—I’ve never been a big fan of zoos. Yes, I know this point of view puts me at odds with the views of most people, sorta like my aversion to parades or my general discomfort with magicians. Yes, people, I have my quirks. Perhaps no surprise there...

It’s just that zoos challenge my view of how wildlife should exist. It truly makes me depressed to see elephants fenced in and sedentary, or to see spider monkeys trapped in cages. Even the macaws got nowhere to fly in a zoo. Just sad to me. Is it any wonder gorillas throw their poo? I get it, my silverback friend. Be angry. Toss your mess! Just say no! Cages are for Mel Gibson or Lady Gaga back-up dancers, but not for you!

My aversion to cruelty extends further. I don’t even like riding horses. From my point of view, it’s like a squirrel jumping on YOUR back and poking you in your ribs with his squirrel feet and expecting you to take him somewhere. Crazy squirrel, you’d say. But why less crazy when we do it to a horse? That’s just how I think. Squirrels and horses. I’m kind of a cartoonish visionary.

I understand the philosophical value of a zoo; how it makes kids excited about animals so that they care more about nature when they become adults, or the philanthropic mission of zoos to protect endangered species in the comfort of captivity, away from predators. I get it. I really do. But still. Squirrels and horses and apes throwing poo. Sorta sounds like a party at Charlie Sheen’s when I put it that way!

Now, snakes are a different story. Ask me about keeping snakes in tanks or cages... That, I’m okay with. Get the snakes out of circulation. Somehow, my aversion to caging animals disappears when it’s about caging the scary ones. Yes, I’m a hypocrite. I wear leather and eat meat (or like Gaga maybe I eat leather and wear meat...) But we’re talking about snakes, people. Put ‘em in a parade or pair a snake with a magician and I’m out.

As far as dangerous reptiles are concerned, I think of zoos as the Guantanamo prison of the animal kingdom. Baddies gotta go somewhere, and I’m pretty okay with that.

That’s why I found it shocking, perplexing, and a little unnerving that, last month, a cobra escaped the New York City Zoo. If you don’t believe me, Google it for yourself. I kid you not! Cobra on the loose in NYC.

Not exactly a comforting thought. I’m sure you agree. I’m not singing “Born Free”—I’m just thinking people should consider closed toe shoes this season (that’s a shout out to my gay friends. Hey-ya! Fashion first, kids.)

A snake free to roam, or slither, or hang, or strike somewhere in the city ain’t exactly a good thing. These critters have “hoods” for a reason—they’re the world’s first gangsters, and they know how to use their poison. Ug. And fangs. Double-ug.

Now, a cobra on the loose may live a happy life, feasting on New York rats and staying under the cover of NYC’s underground tunnels. I'm reminded of the legend of New York alligators in the sewers, who they say also live off the rats (rats never get a break, do they?). I can envision a little convention of reptiles in the sewers. Maybe Ann Coulter will be their queen (I know that was catty, but it’s Ann Coulter, people!)—I see Ann dislodging her jaw, licking the air with her forked tongue, and inciting her reptile minions to mischief.

These reptiles, if they can get organized, would really pose a threat. They’d become a cold-blooded union even the Wisconsin governor couldn’t thwart. No collective bargaining there. Humans despair! Bow to the Coulter and her scaly cronies! Where the hell am I going with this...?

Oh, cobras. Right. It was the “scary” part that got me on to Coulter. Either way, I don’t trust ‘em (cobras or Coulter). I can’t figure snakes out. Don’t understand their demands. They’re not as obvious to me as, say, the guy in the truck in front of me this morning on my work commute.

Here’s how obvious he was with his point of view... The dude had 3 bumper stickers:

STICKER #1: The Confederate Flag
STICKER #2: “This truck stops at HOOTERS”
STICKER #3: “Border Patrol – They put the ‘panic’ in ‘Hispanic’”

Kinda obvious how that guy thought. Was it Mel Gibson again? Or maybe it was Ann Coulter. Either way, the driver was no cobra. I knew what s/he thought about and what s/he was after (or at least I could guess). Not sure if I like my racism and sexism so blatant, but at least it’s out there and not something anyone has to stumble across. That was one snake who was out in the open, venom and all.

Muammar al-Gaddafi, the Libyan nut job (that is his official title, right?), is another snake who’s found his way out into the open. Not sure if he has a HOOTERS bumper sticker, but we know what he thinks, too (is it me, or does that guy look like a Halloween costume? Yeek).

The good news is, they caught the New York cobra. Put him back in the zoo. I guess I kinda hope that’s where they put Gaddafi, too. I’d pay to see him there. Maybe he and the cobra could do a show! So long as it’s not a parade or a magic show, I’m buying a ticket.

Whether it’s Coulter, Gadaffi, Gibson, or a racist, sexist, truck driver, I’d rather see my snakes coming than to stumble on them by accident. Then again, maybe they just belong in a zoo.

© 2011, Herb Williams-Dalgart

Change Comes in Shopping Bags

2011-02-03T21:32:00.000-08:00

In June of 1989, hundreds of Chinese men, women and children took to Tiananmen Square, publicly protesting the oppression and murder that had been wrought upon them by their communist government. Talk about a bummer. It had taken three thousand years, but they’d finally had enough. Very tolerant, the Chinese.

In response to the protest, dozens of government tanks (proudly built in Russia), rolled into the square to squelch further demonstrations by these students and professional Chinese who had thrown caution to the wind. As the tanks rolled, so did the cameras, capturing for the world to see, a single Chinese man with shopping bags as he stood in front of the line of tanks, daring them to squash him, expressing by his obstruction, his objection to their mission and to his government. He was serious enough to interrupt his day at the grocery store... he just had to get home before his pepperoni hot pockets thawed.

“Tiananmen,” ironically translates to “Gate of Heavenly Peace.” But it was hardly peaceful that June day as the square became a place of conflict, and the anonymous man in front of the tanks became a Chinese hero—a symbol of freedom and, arguably, a symbol of guerrilla shopping... and hot pockets. Yes, people. I’m writing hungry and you get to hear about it.

But before shopping man could be identified and named by his oppressors, the crowd drew him back, away from the tanks and into their breast to his presumed safety. Whether or not he was later found and killed for his actions remains a mystery, as does the man’s true identity. But everyone with a television in 1989 came to know the image of the tanks and that man with the shopping bags—that is, everyone except for the Chinese themselves, who were not permitted to see the footage or to even know about the protest, since the government carefully controlled all media and images. This was one reason they protested in the first place.

However, word traveled around China—but it was only word—that people in the city had been killed and that one man, armed only with shopping bags, had stood in front of the tanks that had invaded the gate of heavenly peace and for a short time became the symbol of the power of the people.

Sudan has been cranky with itself for over 50 years, and still hasn't found their own shopping bag hero. Now, after a so-called peace treaty between the north and south, put in place back in 2005, they’ve decided to call the whole thing off. There’ve been battles and protests, immigration to and fro and, in the end, they figured it wouldn’t work.

The North wanted religion to rule and the South just wanted hot pockets (I may have that last part wrong.) Nevertheless, the divorce is nearly final and on or around Valentine’s day (ironically), the word will likely be given—there will be two Sudans. No doubt just like Korea, the U.S. will pick one we like and one we don’t. It’s like every divorce; it’s hard to stay friends with both the husband and wife. Nevertheless, good for Sudan. They made a go of it. Didn’t work out. Moving on.

Now, I look to Egypt when people are again, crowding into a square to demand things must change. They’re sleeping there, dodging and throwing rocks, hoping for change to be swift and complete. This time, they all have shopping bags. I hope they also have some hot pockets with them, on account of how yummy they are, especially when you’re asserting your freedom. Pairs nicely with a Pinot Noir, don’tcha know? Also, if they have to throw one at someone, it doesn’t hurt as much as a rock and, maybe, the gesture could be happily misconstrued by their enemy as presenting them with a wonderful snack. Kill ‘em with kindness, I say. Maybe the Egyptians do need a shopping man of their own... Any volunteers?

What made me sad this week, watching the footage from Cairo, was that some folks in Egypt are using the unrest to loot and damage antiquities--someone busted a sarcophagus or two. Not cool. Aside from the fact that these are rare and valuable, they’re people! Am I the only one that saw “The Mummy” (or the “Mummy Returns,” or “The Scorpion King,” or that dragon one where the wife was some other actress)? The lessons were clear in those flicks: you disturb the slumber of Imhotep and you get dusted or liquefied or otherwise dismembered and not even Brendan Frasier can save you. Even if he had a hot pocket.

Let’s just make a rule right now—when looking to make social change, when protesting for your inalienable rights, let’s just all agree to leave the treasures and Wal-marts out of it. No stealing, no desecrating, no damaging unnecessarily (okay, you can topple a dictator’s statue, just please don’t let it fall on anyone). Make your posters, march ‘til your feet hurt, scream your head off, and sleep in a Volkswagen. I’m all about the peaceful resistance, the civil disobedience, the love-in (or love-out).

And while we’re contemplating new rules for social unrest, let’s trade guns for pillows and make it a big pillow fight. When it’s all over and the feathers have flown, you’ve replaced your leaders or split in two and everyone’s feeling groovy, we can pick up our shopping bags and go home (and please depart in an orderly fashion, don’t forget to recycle your bottles and cans).

When we get home, we’ll pick the feathers out of our hair, turn on the tube and watch it all happen, microwave our hot pockets and tell our kids we were there when the change was made.

And it smelled like pepperoni.

© 2011, Herb Williams-Dalgart

Fondles, Leaks, and Monkey Fingers

2010-12-01T17:28:00.000-08:00

The holidays are upon us and the craziness is on full throttle.

The TSA is touching our junk, our Wiki is leaking, and my parents have joined the Beatles in my living room. What’s the deal, people?

Let’s start with the TSA...

Everyone seems overly upset that their private parts are either getting X-rayed, photographed, or fondled. Is your junk so famous that you care about someone taking lousy, blurry, night-vision-goggle photos of your stuff? No one cares, people—no matter how fabulous you think you look. If your hoo-ha ends up on YouTube, good luck differentiating your night-vision-goggle version from someone else’s!

And fondling—was it so long ago that a little action wasn’t appealing to you? For the price of a flight you can get to second base. And I was complaining they took away the in-flight snack. Glass half full, people. Think of that!

But if you just don’t go for the touchy thing, don’t think for a minute that the TSA people are too happy about it either. You may be in love with your privates, but chances are, they aren’t. If you don’t believe me, imagine walking next door and fondling that guy... Yuck.

My advice: first, let them take your picture. If they pull you aside for the up-close-and-personal Easter Egg hunt, enjoy it. Or, just raise your hands, take a breath, close your eyes, and count Mississippis. It’ll be over soon.

Okay, now for these leaky Wikis...

First off, let’s not just jump to whether this Wiki dude was right or wrong to publish 250,000 State Department embassy cables (is it me, or does that WikiLeak guy look like a Bond villain?). Instead, tell me how these secrets leaked in the first place. Someone else should be in BIG trouble. MORE trouble. I thought the dude surfing porn at work was irresponsible. But sending out state secrets? That is bold. And from the State Department, nonetheless!

Now, you might agree, some of the stuff in those memos isn’t so secret:

Russia's president Dmitry Medvedev "plays Robin to Putin's Batman." (Love this one—some ambassador is a Dark Knight fan! Holy comic-book, Batgirl!)

French president Nicholas Sarkozy displayed a "thin-skinned and authoritarian personal style." (And his wife is HOT! And he smells like cheese. Sticks and stones, people. Give Frenchy a break).

Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi is described as "feckless, vain, and ineffective as a modern European leader." (But, in tights, he may be a great Bat-villain. The Italian Riddler...? Feckless and vain are perfect comic book villain characteristics.)

Hamid Karzai, is "an extremely weak man who did not listen to facts but was instead easily swayed by anyone who came to report even the most bizarre stories or plots against him." (The Penguin is coming with birds, Mr. President--each strapped onto a missile, aimed at your bathroom. Better send the bat signal. How’s that for a bizarre plot? Riddle me that.)

Not to make light of all these state secrets. When the documents also show what we know about Iran’s nuclear capabilities and how we found out, things start to get a little dodgy... But, why are we angry at the WikiLeaks dude? I mean, I’m a little angry. But that guy should never have gotten that stuff in the first place. Am I right? Bring me the geek with the thumb drive. He's the supervillain here! Or maybe the Technology Manager who made it so the geek with the thumb drive could actually get away with stuff. Bring him!

The Pentagon announced there would now be monitoring and limits to how much restricted information the drones at the State Department can download. NOW? These restrictions are being put into place only NOW?

My company has been monitoring what we download for years and I guarantee we don’t have anything nearly as sensitive as the State Department, let alone the Batcave (just can’t let it go, can I?). I have better restrictions on my Xbox than the government has on their computers? Yeesh. I think WikiDude may have done us a favor. He poured water into our bathtub and now we can find all our leaky Wikis.

Still, it would be fun to see him get in trouble. Guantanamo, maybe?

Now, let’s talk about the Fab Four. The Beatles are back in the news with John Lennon’s 70th birthday back in October and the release of the Beatles discography on iTunes in November. But the real Beatles news for me was that I have Beatles Rock Band in my living room (the interactive singing and instrument-playing game for the Xbox).

Fans of my blog will recall my parents’ last attempt at playing Rock Band. Dad sang, “Eye of the Tiger” like Sinatra, only without the voice, knowing the words, or liking what he was doing. Okay, maybe nothing like Sinatra at all.

This time, with Beatles songs, we got Mom’s attention and Dad seemed a little more perky about the whole thing. We started easy with, "I Saw Her Standing There." My brother strummed guitar, my daughter pounded the drums, and Mom sang in a strange falsetto that was oddly both on and off key. The dogs didn’t seem to mind, so I left it alone. Dad took pictures. Better, I thought, not to discourage them, but to just enjoy the spectacle in my living room.

Dad finally jumped in with “Can’t Buy Me Love” but didn’t seem as excited halfway into his own performance as he did when he first started. The words on the screen were too small for him to read and he was less familiar with the song than he claimed when he snatched the microphone from my incredulous mother. I think she secretly delighted in his failure.

It wasn’t long before Dad went back to the camera (dear God, I just realized this has all been recorded for future mischief). Mom enthusiastically agreed to sing, “Come Together,” but I knew we were in trouble when I asked her if she had “monkey finger” or “joo-joo eyeball” and she just looked at me blankly as though she thought I had suffered some sort of brain aneurism.

Once the music started, she plodded into the song, started singing the nonsensical lyrics, and prompted my Dad to think of one-liners to trip her up as she sang.

Mom sings, “He wear no shoeshine he got toe-jam football...”
“You play football?” Dad chimes.

“He got monkey finger...”
“Keep your finger to yourself.” Dad laughs at his own joke at this point.

“He shoot Coca-Cola...”
“Sprite. Dr. Pepper... um... 7-Up!.”

“He say ‘I know you, you know me...’”
“I don’t know you. Who are you?”

“One thing I can tell you is you got to be free...”
“Wish I was free. I don’t understand anything you’re saying.”

Dad’s laughing so hard at his own humor he can hardly finish his joke. Mom’s giggling and can’t sing the song (not that she knew what she was singing anyway). Before we “came together,” we gave up (rather like the real Beatles when you think about it.... Hmmm. Would Dad by Yoko in that scenario?).

In the end, Dad proudly proclaimed he played Beatles Rock Band, but really—he was just a heckler. A Yoko, band-breaking, heckler.

We tried playing “AC/DC Rock Band,” but that just got my brother screaming “You shook me, you shook me...” and the kids telling him he sounded like Gilbert Gottfried.

All in all, a wonderful Thanksgiving. Laughed so hard I had to take a WikiLeak.

Now, I’m left with only one question. How will we top it next Thanksgiving? And who do I have to fondle for a "Ticket to Ride?"

© 2010, Herb Williams-Dalgart

Ode to Fall

2010-09-01T00:56:00.000-07:00

It happened again. Summer has flown by and it’s nearly fall. To my way of thinking, fall is the best time of year. It’s really when I think people should start their resolutions—at least those folks inclined to resolve themselves. What possesses us to make resolutions in January, anyway? It makes more sense to start our processes, proclamations, commitments to change, and what have you when nature itself has decided to do the same. What really changes on January 1st except the calendar? It’s fall when it starts...

“Fall” is a good name, too. Leaves fall, darkness falls—even daylight savings time falls back to the way things were. Look around dudes. Fall is the season. Of course, I like the name, “autumn,” too. But let’s not get carried away with ourselves. “Fall” it is.

New TV shows start in the fall. It would be cool if there were mind-bendingly awesome shows on. Now there are okay shows, a few “more than okay” shows, one or two great shows, and a truckload of what-the-hell-were-they-thinking shows. Let me have a show, people. One show and I’d change the world! Or at least my world. The Herb Show, starring Herb, written by Herb, sponsored by Herb, winner of five Herbies. Nyah-ha-ha!! The evil plan is hatching right here. This is why you come to the blog—for late breaking announcements!

Anyhow, fall is change and change can be great! Change doesn’t have to be about turning red or yellow, dropping off your tree, or turning crisp to die. It can be about renewal and growth, improvement and achievement. It can be about transition, fixing things, repairing things, making things right that were wrong (or left). Leaves can change and die, but leaves turn green, too, people!

When I inevitably lose my marbles and climb up to my yet-to-be-constructed, currently-figurative tree house to write my rambling manifesto, I’m going to pick the fall to do it. Spring is too hopeful and I’ll lose the hard-won cynicism I need for my opening paragraph. Winter, too depressing to craft my clever closing and call to action. And summer, I’m just too busy with my playing and barbecuing and sun burning to climb the tree and craft the manic flow of the meandering logic. Dear God, have I already started writing it?

Change can be good, people. Think about it. Right now. Do it while I find that marble that just rolled out. Think about one thing you might want to change—it doesn’t have to be a big thing or an obvious thing. Maybe it’s just one little thing. It doesn’t even have to be a thing you want to change about yourself.

Maybe it’s the pillow on your sofa that needs replacing or that bulb that burned out months ago that you haven’t changed. How about that smoke alarm battery you took out when the damn thing started beeping? Jeeze, scare the bejeezus out of us, smoke alarm people. Why don’t you tell us that thing up there is gonna scream at us?

We took out that funny square battery just to keep our brains from leaking out our heads and haven’t been safe for months on account of how scary it was just getting the ladder out with all that screeching! Now we gotta change that damn battery. Hate batteries. Hate needing them, charging them, and having to change them. Isn’t it enough I remembered to get them in the first place? That’s it. Batteries are going in the manifesto.

What if you just changed a battery or fixed a something-something? Tighten a screw, replace that toilet seat. Change that one little thing that was annoying you... Or maybe two things.

There it is. A homework assignment. I can give you homework because I was an English major, people! I can create little metaphors, I can invoke fancy language, I can write horrible blogs, I can plan my manifestos, and I can assign homework. You tech heads out there can drop all the lines of code you want a dinner party. No one’s listening. It’s the poets who woo the crowds. Neener on you! Sorry, it’s all we got. You got Windows 7. We get manifestos and crowd wooing. Doctors get the money. Lawyers get the blame. Plumbers get the butt cracks. It’s just nature sorting things out.

But, really, homework. Change one little thing. See how it feels. Try it on. If you like it, maybe change one more thing. Don’t get carried away. Some things need staying the same. Things like air to breathe or food to eat. Don’t stop those things. But I bet you can find a thing or two that shoulda changed a long time ago. So just do that one and see where it takes you. You may have one thing in mind right now!

Or, if that doesn’t work, there’s always winter.

© 2010, Herb Williams-Dalgart

iSwoon

2010-07-02T20:59:00.000-07:00

It’s just a pocket-sized rectangle, thinner than my thumb. A single button in front, up-and-down buttons on the side, and a single hole on top. I’m talking about my new iPhone 4, people! And I think I might be in love.

I know what you’re thinking—how can a man love a machine? We don’t have that much in common. I mean, I do have a button in front, too, but mine is of the “belly” variety. I have holes, too, but let’s just leave it there.

Now, I have to tell you, physical differences aside; this iPhone really does it for me.

Truth be told, I had a brief affair with a phone before: the iPhone 3GS. I got my 3GS phone a mere 30 days ago. But when they announced the 4’s were coming out, my love for the 3GS waned. I wanted the 4. As luck had it, I was still in my trial period and, for the cost of a restocking fee of $30, the new phone was mine.

I know it sounds harsh. I left my first love for the next best thing. I suppose that’s true. But for those of you without an iPhone, let me break it down for you:

Imagine a relationship that’s all about you... You can be selfish and self-involved and it won’t get irritated. It will think only of your needs. And it will like it. It doesn’t care if you’re smart, or good looking (which, of course, we are!), and it is happy to keep things very simple for you without too much pressure. And, if you want it to do more, 99 cents will take care of that in the form of an “app”—a tiny application downloaded to improve or enhance its functionality.

The iPhone has needs, too, of course. But nothing a little plug-in for an hour can’t handle. Really, it’s that simple.

I sort of wish I was more like my iPhone. If I needed to do something I didn’t know how to do, I could just get an app for it. Imagine that! Can’t slam dunk a basketball? Dial me up an app and I’m LeBron! Don’t know how to make Beef Wellington? App me a Martha Stewart. It’s that cool! If George W. Bush had an iPhone, I have a feeling things would have been way different over there in the Middle East. None of those pesky tubes and hoses from the “Internets.” We’d have iPresident.

Too bad those BP fellas can’t get an app for their problems (iSpill? iLeak? Oh, the options!)

I realize this may be a phase. A boyish obsession. I mean, it’s just a phone, right?

WRONG! It’s so much more!

I know I’m starting to sound like Steve Jobs’ doting mother, what with the over-the-top loving here. But really, as I’m getting to know my new iPhone, I’m starting to believe it can read my mind.

Dialing the phone: “I wish it would just show me the keypad...” Voila! Keypad.

“Why can’t I listen to music while playing Scrabble?” Oh, you can, dirty boy. And where will you play that “Q”?

“This Web page would look so much better sideways...” Okay, now you’re just making it easy.

At Costco, I see they’re selling a movie I want. But should I get it? Is the Costco price the best I can do? Guess what? An app lets me use my iPhone camera to scan the UPC code and then tells me how much I can get the flick for online or at a nearby store (‘cuz it knows where I am, people!). Turns out, Costco has the deal and I buy the flick without any of that pesky buyer’s remorse.

What relationship does a man have that WON’T make him feel guilty? The iRelationship. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Oh, my. I’m starting to feel warm.

It can do videoconferencing, video recording, digital photography... Is it watching me now?

It even has voice recognition. I say, “Play music... Lady Gaga--”

--and it does, Poker Face! Now, full disclosure: On occasion my iPhone 4 doesn’t exactly understand what I say and when I asked it to play the game, “Pocket God,” it decided, instead, to dial someone on my contact list.... Classic misunderstanding. And what relationship doesn’t have those? Then again, was she trying to call some other dude? Okay, that’s just the jealousy talking....

I try to recall if I’ve ever felt this way about a machine. I did love my Atari back in the 80’s. We even had “Coleco-vision” for a while, but that seemed to go the way of the abacus. Come to think of it, I loved my abacus, too...

I sure did love my first computer—the Apple IIe. Why’s it always Apple? Does Disney have something going on with Apple, what with the addictive, pervasive, think-of-everything, stylings...? Hmm... Could evil be at work here?

Of course my first IBM ThinkPad rocked the house, too.

Maybe this is a habit. Maybe I’m too fascinated by machines...

I’m a little obsessed, I know. Of course, it may wear off. I may realize after a while that I’ve wasted hours on end, swooning and downloading, and pressing buttons and playing with holes (not mine, the iPhone’s. I mean, really, people!)

But if the time comes and I’m feeling down, I bet there’s an app that will make me feel better...

Or maybe that’s just how I’m wired.

© 2010, Herb Williams-Dalgart

The Cheese Stands Alone

2010-04-18T11:14:00.000-07:00

As an admitted Franco-file and a Scandinavian by birth, I have a rare and committed devotion to cheese. Soft cheese, hard cheese, stinky cheese, cheese with unpronounceable names, cheese with mold that would scare the US department of Health—I love them all. I’ve been known to smuggle cheese from foreign countries back to the U.S. counting down, like the tick of a bomb in Kiefer Sutherland’s pants, the hours between the purchase of the cheese and its inevitable expiration at the end of the flight, fearing (or hoping) I might have to eat the whole brick en route lest the whole thing go south. I doubt Keifer would eat a bomb, but I don’t really watch “24” so I’ll let one of you tell me if he’s ever contemplated the ultimate sacrifice via digestion as I have done. Yes, I’m saying it: Keifer’s a wuss and I’m a cheese hero.

Those familiar with my blog know too well the stories of my gastrointestinal adventures (sorry!). After internal probes that are typically prohibited by the Geneva Convention and an unsuccessful relationship with an alleged allergist, the source of my intestinal distress has heretofore gone undiagnosed.

So I’ve been forced to contemplate the worst possible thought—maybe it’s the cheese.

I long ago switched from regular milk to soy milk because it upset my stomach. I thought of that not so much as lactose intolerance. I was just “lactose annoyed.” But could my dear, delectable, nutty, smooth, creamy, silky, lovely, yummy cheese actually be causing my internal angst?

I had one of those “Men-In-Black” moments where Will Smith is offered a spot as a secret agent if he’s only willing to give up his identity—forever. He sits on a bench as the sun rises and falls, spending an entire day deciding if becoming a “man in black” was worth walking away from everything he knew. (Okay, duh? We’ve seen the trailers and it’s only 15 minutes into the flick. We KNOW he’s IN!).

But could I do it? Could I walk away from cheese? I knew it wasn’t just a brick, a slice, a wedge, a shmear. We’re talking pizza, fondue, mac and cheese, chicken Kiev (alright, I never really have that, but when you think you’re gonna lose something, you suddenly want it more than anything. I bet you want Chicken Kiev right now! Oh, yummy Kiev).

I had my sleepless night like Will Smith, the imaginary tastes of Comté and Brie swirling in my mouth dreaming of my fate. Forget sugar plum fairies, people. The cheese stands alone.

Then, I decided I’d go for it. I was in. It was time for me to cut the cheese.

Um, well, you know what I mean. I decided I could give soy cheese a try and ignore the siren-like call of the goat, the cow, the sheep, the buffalo…

Now, before you disparage soy cheese (and you should understand that I’m the first to protest the application of the world “cheese” to anything that isn’t), you should know that not all soy cheese is created equal. I actually have found “Veggie Slices’ to be a reasonably digestible and not unpleasant brand. It ain’t cheese, but on a cracker, I’d eat it.

So, I decided it was time. I applied my CRP (Cheese Removal Plan) and immediately saw results. I felt better. I really didn’t want to admit it. I still felt the pang of my lost love, being spoken aloud. Wondered if my cheese might miss me too. I know cheese can sweat. Can cheese cry?

But in the end, the cheese, my love, was not so kind to me. Like one of James Bond’s girlfriends, my cheese wasn’t just sexy and beautiful. It was dangerous. Don’t get me wrong—I love me the Bond girls. Lipstick and guns. Very compelling. Quite like cheese, really. I’m just koo-koo for queso.

But a week into the CRP, I fell off the wagon. Pizza, the sneaky cheese delivery system we stole from the Italians, delivered the deadly blow in a glorious way. Hoo-nelly. I was bloated like a blimp and feeling like one of the Keifer-pants-bombs ready to explode!

Then, came my second discovery—Lactaid. A chewable little pill you can take when you know the cheese is coming. Chew, swallow, and bring on the pizza, baby! It was like Bond’s gadget-guru, “Q” had given me a secret pill to fend off the effects of the bends or the airless impact of space travel or the poisoned lips of a Bond girl. And it worked!

Now, don’t get me wrong—it was chalky and horrible and almost not worth it (Note to the Lactaid people: Build a better mousetrap!) But that next slice of pizza was SO good. I’m not ready to eat Lactaid on a daily basis on account of the “yuck.” But there are now options. Bond can love ‘em and leave ‘em. Keifer can jump from the plane (or drop his pants?). Herb can eat cheese. It’s on that level, people!

My guts seem to agree. I’ve been more, shall we say, even-keeled. Not quite 100%, but notably better, if not a little heartbroken. I can’t always say yes, but I don’t always have to say no.

And I can now just say, “cheese.”

Put that in your pants, Kiefer.

© 2010, Herb Williams-Dalgart

The Indignities of a Humble Business Traveler

2010-01-20T22:21:00.000-08:00

In my quest for domination over U.S. airspace, I just finished my first of three consecutive out-of-state business trips. Hello, Gold Status! And while the explicit purpose of these trips was to further my business objectives (thank you, employer!), it’s become increasingly clear to me that there has been an inherent and disturbing pattern of discomfort and indignity which has characterized each of them.

Start with my persistent gastrointestinal discomfort. Truth be told, this began last August, but I’m still trying to blame that on something or someone. I’ll spare you the details (notice the moment of restraint? Yes, friends—personal growth!)

In my crusade to determine the cause of my intestinal strife, it was suggested to me that I might have some sort of food allergy. A little trip to the allergist revealed what I already knew: I’m allergic to cats.

So, after promising not to eat any of those, the question of what my guts are up to remained unanswered. To explore the mystery further, my allergist suggested (with what I now retrospectively regard as a maniacal smile) that I consider trying something called an “Elimination Diet.”

“It’s a little diet my grad school colleagues and I created,” he boasted. “I’ll go get the paperwork and review it with you.”

I waited expectantly, hoping to be presented with the new Atkins diet or some such magic to make me healthy and, perhaps, beautiful (Okay, I added, “beautiful.” I can dream, right?) The dude comes back with a near-empty single sheet of paper. Someone needs to explain to me how a single sheet of paper can be considered, “paperwork.” If true, then I’ve been working on my novel WAY too long.

Anyhow, the doctor (and I’m starting to wonder if he IS such a person) shows me his little one-sheet explaining the Elimination Diet. For those of you readying to Google the Diet, I’ll save you the trouble. Here it is:

Basic Elimination Diet

Foods Allowed:

Meats: Lamb, beef, turkey (boiled, broiled, or baked), and chicken that is non-basted.
Seasoning: Salt and honey (without preservatives).
Cereals: Rice, rye, barley, and oats all used with juice from fruit instead of milk
Vegetables: Fresh carrots, squash, lettuce, beets, sweet potatoes, and white potatoes
Fruits and fruit juices: Pears, peaches, bananas, plums, and apples (all fresh).
Beverages: Soybean milk, water, tea, natural cranberry juice, and Welch’s grape juice.

The sheer absence of food on the list raised an eyebrow and probably my signature, unintentional scowl (the one I’m accused of having ALL the time). On my lackluster response to his pathetic senior thesis, the doctor (disguised hobo?) says something like, “I know it seems a little boring…”

Boring? Ya think? I wanted to say, “Dude, your logo and list of partners takes up more space on the page than the list of food I’m allowed to eat. Where are the recipes? Where are the details? This isn’t a diet! It’s cruel and unusual punishment. Even a supermodel couldn’t’ throw that up.”

It didn’t occur to me to ask how “Welch’s” got a sponsor spot on a diet prescription. And I was too surprised by the brevity of the list to ask, “Since when is “honey” a seasoning?” Hello?

The parking lot attendant disguised in the white coat goes on to tell me that two weeks on the diet will eliminate any allergenic foods that may be troubling me. Then, after the two weeks are up, we can introduce more into my diet and gauge my reaction. If I react unfavorably to the new food, then, voila! Allergy identified. Mission accomplished. See you in two weeks. Will that be cash or charge?

Of course, when I check out, flummoxed by what’s passing for modern medicine, wondering what to do with a sweet potato, the appointment nurse tells me the doctor/corner fruit salesman is going on vacation in two weeks. She asks when I’m free during week three. Of course, I’m only free at the end of week three so we make my appointment and off I go.

As I drive home, contemplating the fresh hell I’ve now gotten myself into, I realize that Dr. Magoo’s vacation just put me on the diet for three weeks, not two. I don’t know which food to reintroduce after the two weeks are done! I was duped!

So, after a hastily baked, salted chicken and sweet potato dinner (do tears count as a seasoning?), I also realize I have my business trips to navigate. How will I manage such a Spartan diet when traveling? I’m here to tell you, rice cakes don’t travel well. And try explaining a sweet potato in your pocket to the TSA dude. Do I have to put that in a clear plastic bag?

Hungry and defeated, I take off on my trip, hoping for the best. Before and between my meetings, I manage to have oatmeal for breakfast, apple juice for lunch and naked lettuce for dinner. Yes, boring. And hardly nutritional. I fear I might faint from malnutrition (dramatic perhaps, but work with me).

Feeling more than a little sorry for myself and a little loopy, I decide I’ll try to sleep my way home during the four-hour flight. Instead, I find myself seated between two of the largest men I’ve ever seen—each easily pushing 400 lbs. I resent their girth. Wish I had it, or at least the food that caused it. Not good. And my starvation-induced delirium wasn’t helping. Oh, how I longed for a Ho-Ho, Ding Dong, Twinkie, Ruffle, Pringle, anything!

Needless to say, each enormous fellow passenger spilled over into my seat rather significantly so that I couldn’t see, let alone use, my armrests. I was practically squashed between them, feeling as though I was trapped in the cheeks of someone’s ass. No sleeping there.

And I didn’t know what to do with my arms. Very disconcerting. I kept gesturing unnecessarily to give my arms something to do and the flight attendants kept thinking I was flagging them down. It was like I was some sort of insane conductor of an invisible airplane symphony trapped between uninterested Teamsters. And the flight attendants kept eying me sideways and offering me Ginger Ale.

Don’t they know that’s not on the list? Ug.

Now, I was hungry, thirsty, trapped in a flesh prison, and afraid to/unable to breathe. I lost myself in my iPod (Corinne Bailey Rae really can soothe me, ya know?) and decided this was just going to be one of those weeks. (This blog pretty much writes itself, now huh?)

I landed back in California, waiting to exhale like Whitney Houston, never so happy to be home, oddly longing for salted chicken and sweet potatoes, my pants full of rice cake remnants, an inexplicable desire to join the Teamsters.

Sadly, my intestinal distress persists, but is now accompanied by emotional and spiritual distress—sort of the “Three Stooges” of disorders. And there you have it. Don’t ask too many questions.

My second business trip is next week. Week 2—New York City. The Big Apple.

And don’t worry, apples are on the list.

© 2010, Herb Williams-Dalgart

Holidays and Deleted Icons

2009-12-22T22:48:00.000-08:00

Happy holidays, true believers! Sorry I’ve been incommunicado lately. Busy with everything, finishing touches to the novel, moving into a new house, traveling for work, and fending off a kick-butt case of the stomach flu. Just finally catching my breath. Gotta take it easy, I know. Sounds like a new year’s resolution in the making.

If you’re like me, (and I hope for your own sake you aren’t) I can tell you I’m loving the annual angst of the holidays, starting with Turkey Day. Nothing says Thanksgiving like our annual trip to Arizona. All I can say is my people have crossed one too many deserts and it's starting to feel like being “chosen” may not have been such a good thing after all. Of course, Moses would have loved stopping at A&W Root Beer off Interstate 10 for a root beer float, or pausing to browse at the world-famous Hadley’s for some date shakes and Oriental trail mix. Talk about a Hanukkah miracle! Forty days and forty nights at the Cabazon outlet mall? Oy vey.

This year, dinner with my folks in Scottsdale was less about the turkey and more about helping my dad set up his new computer. Don’t get me wrong. The turkey was awesome. My stuffing came out well and the Hawaiian rolls added just the right, “je ne sais quoi.” But this year’s “Big Bird” was not the butterball, it was Dad’s new HP desktop with the widescreen HD monitor. Of course, we drooled over both the food and the machine.

Now, it should be noted that my folks aren’t exactly “tech-savvy,” though over the years, they’ve gained some skills like turning on the computer and monitor, burning a CD, printing out birthday cards, sending email, and surfing the Web. It’s been a journey fraught with potholes and darkness, late night “help-desk” phone calls, and conversations like:

“Hi, Herb. It’s Dad. It’s not too late to call, is it?”

“Of course not. It’s 7 p.m., Dad. What’s up?”

“Well, somehow I deleted all my icons.”

“How did you do that?”

“It happened after I deleted some files from my system folder.”

“Why did you delete items from your system folder, Dad?”

“I wasn’t using them.”

“. . . Um, how do you know?”

“What?”

“How do you know you weren’t using the files in your system folder?”

“You’re supposed to be impressed that I used the term, ‘system folder’.”

“Dad, you can’t just delete things you think you don’t use. Would you open the hood of your car and throw away parts you think you don’t use?”

“Of course not.”

“Ok, then.”

“So can you get my icons back?”

“Not a chance. You’re gonna need someone there in Scottsdale, Dad.”

“Will that cost money?”

“Yup.”

Soon enough, Dad found a kid willing to help and was off to the races. Now, seven years later, he was ready for a new machine and my arrival was the catalyst for the purchase. He found a sale, got his discount, and we got the thing home with plenty of time for me to help set it up.

The new system came with Windows 7, which was cool (though not as spectacular as the commercials would lead you to believe). A few new tricks and features and I was ready to roll up my sleeves. All the while, Dad's got his endless supply "helpful" suggestions (akin to deleting unnecessary system files). I felt myself slowly reverting to the surly, short-tempered teenager I once was and had to practice Lamaze breathing just to stay focused and avoid the use of colorful language.

In the end, I successfully set up the computer, I have a new appreciation of the medicinal effects of red wine, and my parents have a working, Internet-ready machine. They’re happy and I’m officially over it, though admittedly feeling a little tired. Loads to be thankful for!

Fast forward to December, and now I’m ready for our multi-ethnic, non-denominational holiday celebration of Hannukmas…. Kwanzakah? Either way, I’m enjoying the Reggae sounds of Matisyahu—the world’s best (and perhaps only) American Hasidic Jewish reggae musician. Oddly, it reminds me of the ceviche sushi at Riptide—an odd combination, but if you don’t think about it too much you’ll probably love it!

Somehow, it seems entirely fitting to the multicultural flavor that seasons my home at the holiday season. Or, perhaps it’s just that I like surrounding myself with such mind-bending accoutrements. You’re the better judge of that, than I am!

Now, the shopping is mostly done. The food is mostly purchased and awaiting preparation. Let’s just hope I don’t get that flu again! And as I look to 2010, I can’t wait until my parents’ next visit out to see me. Then, instead of playing Help Desk Herb, I can rope my parents into the new “Beatles Rock Band”—a Hanukkah favorite—where they can each don a guitar and play the part of their own favorite “deleted icon.” (Would that make my mom, Yoko?)

Maybe then I can breathe easier, calm my nerves, get some rest, and dream of the California desert, filled with root beer floats. You say you want a revolution? Well, you know, we all want to change the world.

© 2009, Herb Williams-Dalgart

What’s More Dangerous, Balloons or Cleavage?

2009-10-16T16:07:00.000-07:00

Greetings true believers. I’m sorry I’ve been negligent with the blog-making lately. Since my last entry, I’ve taken no fewer than six business trips out of state, sold my house, bought a house, and enjoyed my first colonoscopy.

Of all those aforementioned activities, I can’t tell you which the biggest pain in the ass was. Believe it or not, it probably wasn’t the colonoscopy. Another story for another blog—lucky for you.

In short, I survived it all, found my Internet connection, and now humbly throw myself back into cyberspace a-la-Meaghan McCain. Why do I love her? I think I may have a conservo-crush, and it’s not just ‘cuz of the whole “tank top incident.”

You didn’t hear about that? It’s really nothing. Meaghan wore a tank top, showed her Grand Canyon of cleavage in a photo posted on Twitter, then suffered the conservative backlash of those that want all Republican women to look like Nancy Reagan. Now, Nancy may very well wear the cleavage machine tank top at home, but she realizes she shouldn’t post a photo of her wearing it on Twitter. Now we’re really talking “don’t-ask-don’t-tell.”

Maybe I like the fact that Meaghan is tech savvy and her dad is tech illiterate. Or, maybe it’s that she knows she can’t see Russia from her house—and she’s not pretending to love the people who say they can, even though she’s Republican. I can’t put my finger on why I like Meaghan McCain—but if you can figure it out, let me know! It’s kinda bugging me.

But, now that I’m back online in the recreational sense, I’ve come across video news footage that I might generously place under the header of, “momentary lapses of parental judgment” or less generously under “reasons why they should require a license before allowing procreation.”

Let’s start with those goofballs in Colorado—the ones that made a homemade weather balloon/alien spy vehicle only to see it released 7,000 feet into the sky with their six-year-old son on board! The thing floated from Fort Collins to Colorado Springs and, by the time it crashed, the kid was nowhere to be found.

The government sent helicopters, neighbors raced after it like tornado chasers in their trucks, but they couldn’t find the kid.

Suddenly, and inexplicably, the parents realized the boy was in their attic playing all along. Um, hello? Was it more likely their kid was floating in space than playing in their house? Didn’t they look there? And why the hell do people make a homemade weather balloon and leave it unattended for the six year-olds to play with?

I came to find out later these same parents were featured on the ridiculous reality show, “Wife Swap,” begging the question—were they just looking for the media attention all along? And, come to think of it, the answer doesn’t matter. They’re ridiculous goofballs either way. How about “Brain Swap?” Seriously.

Then, just as I’m ready to dismiss this incident as anomalous, the next day, I see this news footage of a mother in Melbourne Australia, waiting for a train with her baby in a stroller. She turns away from the stroller long enough to let the thing roll off the platform, with the baby, onto the tracks, just as the train was pulling into the station.

Dudes, I made the mistake of watching that video while sitting in a café and gasped so loud they thought I was choking on a veggie panini. Holy crap. I made them give me the Heimlich maneuver, anyway. It showed they cared.

Don’t those strollers have brakes anymore? And what better time to use the brakes than when parking your infant on a train platform. Hello????!!

The good news is, the kid in the stroller miraculously survived with only a scratch—turns out the stroller took better care of the kid than the mother did. The bad news is, the mom gets to keep the baby. What is the deal with Australia? Does a dingo have to eat a baby to get people to wonder about the suitability of a person’s parenting?

I know I sound harsh, but I’m in a mood here. Maybe it’s Meaghan McCain’s cleavage, but I’m feeling a little angst.

Justified or not, I just want to say this: People, hang onto your children. Don’t send them up in balloons (or leave them alone in attics) and don’t let them roll away in front of an oncoming train or feed them to dingoes. Kids are perfectly capable of creating their own danger and drama. Parents are supposed to help them avoid that stuff! Duh.

“Where the Wild Things Are” (the movie) comes out this week and it’s about a kid that leaves his parents and sets sail on the seven seas to join a tribe of monsters on an island. You see? We’re scaring the kids away!

So, next time your kid is vegging out safely on the couch watching the tube or playing a video game, don’t go crazy with the cries of “too much television” or “go play outside.” Just enjoy the fact that they’re safe, they’re whole, they’re healthy, and they’re with you.

It could be worse. They could be posting revealing pictures of themselves on Twitter.

http://www.cnn.com/2009/US/10/16/colorado.balloon.boy/index.html

http://www.cnn.com/2009/WORLD/asiapcf/10/16/australia.baby.train.escape/index.html?iref=topnews

http://www.cnn.com/video/?/video/offbeat/2009/10/15/moos.mccain.twitpic.blowup.cnn

© 2009, Herb Williams-Dalgart

Ode To The King

2009-06-27T12:00:00.000-07:00

When I was twelve years old, I decided to buy my first record.

My family had just gotten a new stereo and my parents were playing their own albums over and over. Englebert Humperdinck and Herb Alpert spun, followed by Tony Bennett and, of course, Elvis and the Rat Pack.

When it was clear I wanted in on the musical action, my parents told me I could spend my allowance to buy my own record.

I immediately knew what I wanted. The kids at school had been talking about some album called, “The Wall.” I wasn’t sure whose album it was, but it was clear—if you wanted great music, you needed, “The Wall.”

So, off I went to the record store. Truth be told, it wasn't a record store, but rather the record section of the drug store. It didn't matter. My allowance was burning a hole in my pocket and there were records to be bought.

While my mom was off gathering aspirin and shampoo, I headed for the music. I was too embarrassed to ask for “The Wall,” because it meant I’d have to admit my ignorance—I had no idea who'd recorded it. Instead, I went right for the Pop Music section and started with “A.”

I thumbed through the records one after the other (and, kids, when I say, “records,” I mean those big, round vinyl numbers they put in cardboard sleeves). This was before CDs or iTunes, when we all had to work for our allowance. Yes, I’m a little bitter. Memo to kids—earn your keep!

Anyhow, I got to the “J’s” and found it—“Off the Wall” by Michael Jackson. He had sparkly socks and the album featured cool sounding titles like, “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough,” and “Rock with You.” I was ready!

I happily offered up my allowance, rushed my mother out of the cosmetics section with proclamations of her beauty and statements about the needlessness of such cosmetics, and raced to our Buick. I had the record out of the plastic and cardboard sleeve before I hit the living room.

For the rest of the day, I ate up my new Michael Jackson record. I spun my disk repeatedly until I had every song memorized, right down to each “hee-hee-hee” and “woo-hoo-hoo.”

I sang out loud, lyrics like,

It's Too High To Get Over (Yeah, Yeah)
Too Low To Get Under (Yeah, Yeah)
You're Stuck In The Middle (Yeah, Yeah)
And The Pain Is Thunder (Yeah, Yeah)
You're A Vegetable, You're A Vegetable…

I knew I was really onto something when my folks heard the music and liked it, too. Not so sure how they felt about my singing…

My mother came over and eyed the album. “Wow, he's so grown up now.”

“Who?”

“Michael Jackson was that cute little boy in ‘The Jackson 5’,” she explained. When I gave her my confused face, she sang, “A-B-C… Easy as 1-2-3….” Then I knew what she meant. I loved those kids and their symmetrical afros. "He was the little boy, the youngest one."

Kids rule, even when they grow up! Michael was our ambassador! Kid and grown-up all at once.

On Monday at school, I strutted the halls, unapologetically singing, “Momma-say, momma-saw, Ma-mongoose-saw,” (incidentally, NOT the real lyrics) when someone asked what I was singing. I proudly reported I got Michael’s “Off the Wall” album over the weekend and knew every song.

That’s when I was informed that the cool album the kids had been talking about wasn’t Michael's “Off The Wall.” It was, “The Wall,” by Pink Floyd.

Now, you’d think I would’ve been humiliated, embarrassed, and ready to return my album to the drug store. But you’d be wrong. It was too late. I was hooked. Michael had me at, “Hoo-hoo-hoo."

I never did buy that Pink Floyd album. I was a Jackson fan, and I didn’t care if it was cool or not.

I can only imagine now how the Pink Floyd Album would’ve changed twelve-year-old me. My parents would surely not have been as enthusiastic about Floyd. And if they think I’m a rebel now, imagine… (“Hey teachers, leave those kids alone!”)

I have to say, my love-hate-love of pop culture was (and still is) well served by Michael Jackson. Even through his scandals, eccentricities, surgeries, single silver gloves, marriages, baby-danglings, and his changes in color (it doesn’t matter if you’re black AND white!), I’ve remained a fan of his music.

“Thriller” got me through high school and “Bad” got me through college (okay, full disclosure—coffee helped a lot, too!). My point—Michael was with me all the way.

I was entertained by his toe dancing, wild spinning, and moonwalking (just try that in your kitchen!). I coveted his friendships with Liz, Diana, McCauley, and his monkey (who doesn’t want a monkey?). I even pondered questions I thought I’d never ponder—like what life would be like without a nose—all thanks to Michael.

Now he’s gone and I take pause. Think what you will about the man and his surreal life. But his mark was unmistakable and undeniable. He influenced a lot of little dudes like me who didn’t stop ‘til we got enough.

The King of Pop is dead and we’re on our own.

I have a new desire for sparkly socks and the nagging feeling that I might be the next king of pop.

And The Whole World Has To Answer Right Now
Just To Tell You Once Again . . .
Who’s Bad?

© 2009, Herb Williams-Dalgart

Age Inappropriate

2009-05-23T01:30:00.000-07:00

This month, the parental units came for a visit to our humble abode—their first since our addition of the Rock Band video game to our family dynamic; and by dynamic, I mean, dysfunction.

As a result, our living room, the central point of our house and shrine to our big-screen TV, has changed since their last visit. Now, it’s not just the place for the couch and the TV, it’s home to two guitars propped up against the wall and a black, plasticky but imposing-looking drum set.

I tell myself it’s like Jon Bon Jovi’s house, or at least how it would be if he was less famous, and, er, talentless, and, um, lame beyond words. Okay, it’s nothing like Jon Bon Jovi’s house, but it’s rocking now, okay?

Anyhow, the presence of the faux instruments draws the color commentary from the parents.

“Oooh, has someone taken up the drums?” Mom says this precociously, knowing my son has begun drum lessons (of the real variety).

“Those aren’t real drums, Grandma.”

Confusion.

“Those,” I explain, “are the ‘Rock Band’ drums.”

More confusion. “He’s in a rock band?”

“Uh, not exactly, Mom. Those are the drums and those are the guitars for our new video game, Rock Band 2. We play it on the TV.”

Disapproval face.

“You should play, Grandma!” My son thinks everyone should play everything. I love it. And he’s right.

I say, “Yeah, Grandma, you should play” (I say that ‘cuz I’m evil). “And Grandpa should play, too.” Oh, I love being evil. And my evil is equal opportunity. No one is spared.

“I don’t think so,” Grandpa grumbles. He crosses his arms.

My son’s enthusiasm gets Grandma excited, even if she’s confused. “Oh, come on, Grandpa. Let’s try.” She can’t resist her grandkids. She gives Grandpa a look and then appeals to me. “Tell your father to try.”

I say, “C’mon, Dad. It’s like karaoke.”

Ok, momentary sidebar: I have a rule—don’t air the family secrets on the blog. It’s not right, and not fair. Of course, I have another rule. If something is funny, break the rules.

So here it is; family secret: my parents love karaoke. They have a machine at their house plugged into the TV. The real deal. They croon to Elvis and Frank whenever company comes over. They’re like drunken Japanese businessmen, but without the sushi. They can’t help themselves.

It’s the same every Thanksgiving we go to visit. No quiet moments. Those are filled in with, “Jailhouse Rock” or “My Way.” In my dad’s head, he’s Elvis. And when he gets started, there’s no stopping him. He starts with “just one Elvis song” and then it’s suddenly American Bandstand. He’s like Angelina Jolie and African orphans. He can’t stop at just one.

“How is it like karaoke?” he asks. I’ve gotten his attention. “I don’t want to play the guitar or drums...”

“That’s okay.” I smirk and pause for dramatic effect. “You can sing.”

Big eyes and an Elvis smile. “Okay.”

So, I hand him the microphone and get the Xbox controller to scroll through the list of songs—rock songs from the 70’s, 80’s, 90’s, 00’s… “Go Your Own Way by Fleetwood Mac?”

Frown.

“Livin’ on A Prayer?” See, maybe it is like Bon Jovi’s house.

Nope.

“Hungry Like the Wolf?” I know I’m on thin ice now.

Dad scowls. “Don’t you have any Sinatra?”

Uh-oh… “No, Dad. It’s ‘Rock Band.’”

“Elvis?”

“Um, how about, ‘Eye of the Tiger?’”

“I don’t know that song.”

“Sure you do. From Rocky?”

Mom starts singing it for him. Dad frowns again.

“Just try it,” my daughter says smiling. She’s encouraging, I guess. Or, she’s inherited my sick sense of humor. Either way, I’m proud of her.

“Okay,” my dad says, though he doesn’t sound quite so excited anymore.

But, with my mom on guitar, my son on the drums, my daughter on bass and my father at the microphone, the song begins.

Now here’s a tip: If you haven’t experienced something truly surreal, put your AARP friends and relatives in a faux-band and sit back to watch. It may not be “American Idol” but it’s just as entertaining. And in the home version, you can be Simon Cowell.

“That was like the death cry of a cat, falling off a building. Hideous!” Why do we love that Simon? Maybe he’s got a little evil in him, too…

As the song proceeds, it’s clear my dad can’t read the lyrics scrolling across the TV, in spite of being a foot away from the big screen. Did Elvis ever have that problem?

Instead, Dad begins to sing from memory.

After a verse or two, it’s clear the memory ain’t what it used to be. I try to remember when Rocky III came out and whether or not my father has even seen the film….

Every few seconds he blurts the word “Tiger!” in beat with the song, and then mumbles the rest. It’s like, “Tourette Syndrome—The Musical.”

Hey, that’s good. Maybe I’ll write that down for later. Another good idea like my screenplays, “Supermodel Astronaut,” or my new one, “Ninja Leprechauns.” Man, how do I do it? The good ideas just flow, people. Get yourself an English degree. I’m telling you!

His blurting continues and the mumbling follows as the song plays on and Mom struggles between watching the TV, watching the guitar, and listening to my dad.

I’ll give him this—he mumbles on key. The blurting, not so much.

When the song is finally over, my mother proclaims, “Well, I sure do have respect for real guitar players, now!”

“That’s not a real guitar, Grandma.” My son is very literal.

“Well, I’m just saying it’s hard.” Then, probably out of fear that she’s upset my son, she adds, “But, that was fun.” She sounds only half-convinced.

After the one song, Dad hands me the microphone. He’s had enough.

My kids convince Grandma to try the drums and start a new song. “Hungry Like the Wolf” never sounded like that before, but they don’t know that song anyway, so it sounds perfect.

Halfway through the song, my mother realizes that the drums are color coded to match what’s happening on the screen and announces her surprise. “Oh, there’s the yellow...”

My son rolls his eyes.

My daughter smiles at me. We’re thinking the same thing. This is heaven.

In the end, I have to say—it was a great memory. I highly encourage you all to try the recipe:

Two geriatric participants—shaken
One tween, one teen—usually warm, sometimes cold.
Musical instruments (faux instruments work best and they’re cheaper to replace in case you have an “incident”)
An evil streak (not too hard to find, trust me)
A few free minutes (very hard to find, but do it!)

Blend these ingredients in your living room until totally uneven, misshapen, and inappropriate. Then, play.

Serves 6.

The kids seemed to enjoy it, but the real kudos goes to the parents for putting up with it. Afterward, Mom needed a nap and Dad wanted coffee.

The whole episode reminded me of last summer when the kids convinced my folks to try the “Harry Potter” jelly beans—the ones flavored like vomit, rotten eggs, and dirt.

Dad popped one in his mouth, knowing he might be in for a surprise, but apparently unfazed by the risk.

My son had asked, “What flavor is it?”

Come to think of it, my father had the same look on his face after “Eye of the Tiger” that he did after he tried that jelly bean.

He chewed, frowned, and then simply said, “It tastes like someone farted in my mouth.”

Then, like now, I had the same thought: Music to my ears.

© 2009, Herb Williams-Dalgart

What We Leave Behind

2009-04-03T12:38:00.000-07:00

Every kid is asked the same question when they’re young: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” It’s one of those safe questions asked by aunts, uncles, and complete strangers intended to solicit some sweet or precocious response from the kid. Innocuous, harmless, and fair to ask. The kid’s answer is often something totally imaginative and potentially impractical—cowboy, supermodel, astronaut, fire fighter, or veterinarian (right up until the kid realizes veterinarians have to put dogs to sleep, then it’s back to astronaut). Bonus points for those supermodel astronauts. Hey, that should be the title of my next screenplay, “Supermodel Astronaut.” Okay, people, that’s copy written, so leave it alone.

But what happens when you’re 40-ahem-something and people are still asking you what you want to be? You’ve tried a few things, with moderate success, but still feel like you haven’t quite hit your stride. Sound familiar, or is that just me?

The rude snit in me wants to reply, “Who says you have to grow up in the first place?” or “I’m still deciding. Wait for the memo.” I’m a work in progress, man!

Let’s be honest. We all want something to show for ourselves. We want to leave behind an indelible mark on the world; some brilliant accomplishment everyone can say uniquely defines us. But how long do we have before people stop waiting on us for our “mark”? Is it ever too late?

Dr. Steven Covey, the author of “Seven Habits of Highly Effective People,” tells us we should write down the things we want to accomplish in a mission statement with steps to achieving our goals clearly articulated.

This week, with the exception of this lil’ ol’ blog, all I’ve managed to write is a shopping list. I guess “leaving my indelible mark” must’ve gotten lost somewhere between “Cap’n Crunch” and “Paper Towels.”

And, one has to wonder if people who’ve actually done that—left their mark—even bothered writing a mission statement. I’m guessing, no. Sorry, Dr. Covey. Bad habit.

I do know this (courtesy of my pals at Wikipedia): many, MANY, famous people managed to make their mark when they were my age or even younger. Sit down for this list, true believers. It’s a bit of a shocker:

Thomas Jefferson—my favorite wig-wearing founding father was 33 when he wrote the Declaration of Independence (of course, he had help, but come on! 33?)

Dr. Martin Luther King—the leader of the civil rights movement was 34 when he wrote, “I have a dream,” 35 when he won the Nobel Peace Prize, and died at 39. Okay. I had a dream, too. Let’s just say Halle Berry and Nicole Kidman are very friendly in my dream and leave it at that. I know, I’m no Dr. King. But my dream is good too, people!

Elvis Presley—“Heartbreak Hotel” hit #1 when the King had just turned 21. That was the halfway mark. He died at 42. A little less conversation, a little more action, please.

Babe Ruth—the baseball legend was the first player to hit 60 home runs in one season when he was 32. The Babe retired at 40 years old with 714 homers. And kids, take note: no steroids. It was 100% chunky white man power back then.

Rosa Parks—That “old lady” who refused to give up her bus seat to a white man? She was 42 when she did that! A legend for sitting still. I think she was onto something. I love sitting still. And, why did we think she was old? Yeesh.

Theodore “Teddy” Roosevelt—Our 26th president got the job at 42. Of course, he was VP at the time and his President, McKinley, had been shot, so Teddy kinda slid into that one… I guess it still counts. Would Dr. Covey have wanted Roosevelt to write, “Get the boss shot” on his mission statement? Hmm…

Buzz Aldrin—flew to the moon when he was 39 and never stopped to ask for directions. I drove to Arizona from California when I was 39 courtesy of MapQuest. I guess Buzz wins. But I’ll tell you this: Buzz couldn’t stop at the outlet malls on the way. In your face, Lightyear! Kiss my $30 jeans!

Now, some people choose to take the “reality show” path to make their indelible mark. But, to me, that’s more like a dog leaving his mark on a tree. Not exactly indelible and not really how you want to be remembered. Unless your reality show is, “American Idol” and then you get Herb’s free pass. Love Idol, people! Go Gokey!

So where’s that leave us?

The sentimentalist would say our children are our mark.
…All I have to say to that is, ask your kids if they think of themselves as your mark. When they’re done laughing at you, come up with Plan B.

The pragmatist would say, not everyone has to leave his or her mark. Just do what you can, the best you can.
…Okay, but still not feelin’ the love. Dreams aren’t pragmatic. I’m reminded once again of Ms. Berry and Ms. Kidman. Dreams are for the non-pragmatic in us.

The defeatist would say, stop worrying about it. Your mark only matters when you’re dead.
…That’s our plan? Death? I’m thinking I wanna enjoy the mark I leave as long as possible. I’m all about the not dying.

Buddhists will tell you, if you don’t get a chance to leave your mark, you’ll get a “do-over.”
…I suppose you might just have to leave your mark as a chicken or a squid, but them’s the breaks. Yes, Buddhists say, “them’s the breaks.” Just ask a Buddhist.

I say this: Life is that thing that happens while you’re figuring out how to leave your mark. Some of us, through a confluence of skill and luck, get to leave a mark. The rest of us throw our fates to the wind. Maybe a mark. Maybe no mark.

But I know this—we all wanna try. It’s human nature. It’s in us like Gatorade.

So get out there people. Make your mark. Make it good. Make it something you’re proud of. Write that manifesto, build that house, sing that song, join that social movement.

Or, hey, get yourself a blog!

…And check back here—let me know what mark you’ve made, what you’re plan is, or how you’ve just resigned yourself to coming back as a very ambitious squid.

Rocking My World

2009-03-04T23:03:00.000-08:00

Okay, I’m officially a kook.

This was proven, once and for all, in one of those awkward moments of clarity while I was driving down the 5 Freeway toward Dana Point (that’s California, don’t cha know?). I passed a building with a sign that said, “Gas and Logs,” and my juvenile mind starting playing the word-association game show, “The Twenty-Thousand Dollar Pyramid.” See what I mean? A kook.

Folks my age or older will surely remember that show from the 70’s and 80’s. You kids out there—go to YouTube and you’ll see for yourself. Dick Clark was the host of the show, featuring a big pyramid built out of triangle panels that would spin around to reveal categories to the audience. A Hollywood celebrity would offer “clues” related to those categories in the form of seemingly random words, blurted out to a contestant who couldn’t see the categories. The contestant would have to guess the category from the clues.

So, JoAnne Worley or Tony Randall (do you kids even know who they are?) would say, “Cherries…Apples… Peaches…Little Jack Horner’s Thumb…” and the contestant would respond with a guess like, “Things in a Pie!” Bingo! Twenty-K!

The losers on the show got a lifetime supply of Legg’s pantyhose or Rice-a-Roni. There’s a lesson, kids: failure can be sexy and delicious. Wow, that’s like a fortune cookie thing! "Failure can be sexy and delicious." That there’s a keeper, my friends.

So anyhow, I’m driving along and there’s the sign—“Gas and Logs,” and my goofy brain blurts out, “Things that come out of an ass.”

I know. Totally random. I’m sure that’s not what the sign maker had in mind.

Apparently, I’ve been playing “Twenty-Thousand Dollar Pyramid” since 1979 and had no idea. Very disturbing. Where’s my Twenty-K? Or, at least my pantyhose and rice…

So, fast-forward to the very next day. My kids decide it’s time to cash in their holiday gift cards to buy the new video game, “Rock Band 2.” For those unfamiliar with this game, it’s like karaoke on your TV, but with instruments. We got ours to play on our Xbox. If you don’t have an Xbox, don’t worry. You must already know you’re a relic, and the absence of an Xbox in your home clearly makes you irrelevant. The world is passing you by, and you don’t need me to tell you that.

My kids, on the other hand, will be happy to explain that fact to you in excruciating detail. They explained it that way to me. Fortunately, I held out long enough so I didn’t have to fork over the 200 big ones. We got our Xbox free from Ellen DeGeneres. She’s nice that way, with the Xbox-giving. Totally another story, for another time.

So, with this Rock Band game, you get a set of faux-drums, a faux-guitar, and a faux microphone, and then you pick which one you want to use to demonstrate your faux-talent. I’ve now tried them all and can happily report, I am equally gifted at all three instruments, which is to say, not at all gifted in any of them.

But the game is fun! The catch is, you have to keep up with the music, or else you end up prompting the game’s audience to “Boo” and “Hiss” at you. Yes, folks, if you didn’t feel bad about yourself already, you can buy a game to make you feel that way. Ain’t technology grand? Come to think of it, kids perform that function, too, with the hissing and the booing.

Put them together and it’s a total hoot for the parents. Sexy and delicious, remember. Losers rule!! Woo-hoo. I’m losing it, people.

Now, I’m rocking with the guitar like Eddie Van Halen while my daughter sings and my son pounds the drums, with everyone laughing at how ridiculous we are in our suburban living room acting like we're cool. With no curtains on our windows, I can only imagine what we must look like. A family of kooks.

As I’m faux-strumming to “Hungry Like the Wolf,” my son says, “Dad, you’re doing it wrong.”

Ya' think?

I swap my guitar for the drums and seem to have better luck—I make it all the way through, “The Eye of the Tiger” without getting booed, and when I feel like maybe I've missed my calling and ought to have taken my show on the road, my daughter says, “You got 67%. You still suck.”

And so my brain says, “Things spoiled kids say to their parents”—Bingo! Twenty-K! And you twerps are goin’ home with panty hose and rice! In. Yo. Face!

I try to explain that I’m good at the Pyramid game, even if I’m not good at Rock Band, and that oughta count for somethin’. They say they’ve never heard of, “The Twenty-Thousand Dollar Pyramid” and I explain it was a game show.

Blank faces.

So there I am, old and pathetic, sitting on the couch in front of faux drums, recalling the good old days when twenty thousand dollars was quittin’ money, when game shows made for solid entertainment, and when kids wouldn’t tell their parents off in their own living room. Back when electronics stores were small shops run by old men with bifocals not “big box” stores run by kids with pimples.

Of course, Circuit City is closing and it occurs to me, as I muse over the good old days, that there may be deals to be had. In the morning, I rush over and get an extra Xbox guitar for Rock Band 2 for 40% off so that I don’t have to swap out when my kids wanna play the first guitar.

I may be a loser, but I got the credit card.

Bingo! “Things pathetic 40-somethings say to themselves to feel better.”

Sexy and delicious.

See, there I go again. Kook.

A Day At The Park

2008-11-30T00:19:00.000-08:00

I should have seen it coming.

After scheduling and rescheduling the trip, we finally decided it—the second Saturday of November this year, my family was going to Disneyland! True, we live only a short drive from Anaheim, but a visit to “the happiest place on Earth” still brings with it careful planning accompanied by a youthful thrill. One doesn’t just show up to the place. No sireee. You build up anticipation and then you go and go until you can’t stand a moment longer. That’s how it’s done in my family. Plan. Play. Throw up.

And, it was to be a particularly exciting trip this time since my parents were joining us.

I know. You think you see it coming already. But trust me, you don’t. Though I’m sure you can already tell, it wasn’t gonna be just another “day at the park.” Pun intended. I can do that. My blog. Intended puns are allowed.

Longtime fans of this lil’ ol’ blog will know that Disneyland has proven to be the source of much irony for me over the years. Look no further than my October 2007 or May 2008 blog entries to see what I mean. Yes, that was a moment of shameless self-promotion, but once again, it’s my blog. So, I can do that, too. What’s to stop you from getting your own blog? Do it. I dare you.

Now, where was I? Oh yeah. Happiest place on Earth.

Those who know me well know that Disneyland seems to press my mischief button, where I find myself marveling at the minutiae that Disney seems to foresee while simultaneously imagining just what I could do at the park to subvert their foresight. That’s quite a challenge. But it’s how my mind works. It always seems to be asking, “At this moment, in this place, what’s the absolutely wrong thing to do… and what would happen if I did it?” It’s a terrible trait and I’m not proud of it. But there it is. An honest moment of self-deprecation. And for free. Ain’t the blog the thing?

Add to my natural mischievousness, a certain surliness prompted, no doubt, by my proximity to my parents. The effect of this proximity is not unlike matter joining anti-matter, or dogs meeting cats, or Obama meeting McCain. It's all nice until it isn't.

It must be said that trips with my parental units have always invited a certain je ne sais quoi, where I revert to the irritable, impish teenager I once was and they become hyper-emphatic exaggerations of themselves. Tell me I’m not the only one this happens to. Jeepers, I’m over 40 and still….

So, with my natural badness enhanced by my regression, you have, my friends, just the right/wrong confluence of earthly forces which has been known to prompt natural disasters, topple nations, or at least make foreign visitors re-think the wisdom of visiting the old U.S. of A.
But on this day, I was behaving. It was all under control—no Tourette's-syndrome-like outbursts from me. I had found some sort of existential zen place, or maybe it was just the calm before the storm.

Either way, it was all business—until we began to notice that this Disney day was looking a little different than usual.

After dropping off a hundred coats and fifty bottles of water at the nine-inch square locker on Main Street, I started to notice that some of the other guests were looking a little bit… well, undead. In fact, a significant percentage of the patrons were wearing some sort of black garment, some manner of facial jewelry, gloves, makeup, bat ears, devil horns… you get the picture. It was like Count Chocula’s birthday party without the crunchy marshmallow parts.

People in Gothic-wear were everywhere! We’re not talking dozens. Not even tens or hundreds. My friends, we’re talking a sea of thousands. Mickey and Minnie were not the only characters in the park that day, but no one was taking pictures with the dude who had a ring through his nostrils.

The others like us—let’s call them “the non-Goths”—were catching on, too. Old ladies, children, foreign visitors, all had befuddled looks on their faces. Was this Disneyland? I’ve been there often enough to know this sort of death march down Main Street is not on the usual menu, but the newbies must’ve certainly been thinking, “There was no one with a skull belt buckle or lip rings in the brochure.”

I couldn’t help but smile. It seemed, after all, I wasn’t the only one who pondered the ways a person (or a horde of people!) could subvert the Disney order of things. I seemed to have an affinity with people who looked like they went bare-face bobbing in a tackle box. And I didn’t mind it. This was funny.

It turns out this day was called, “Bats Day.” It’s an annual event where “Goths” from all over the world (underworld?) come to Disneyland to be themselves, to roam the park amongst the living as though the Haunted Mansion ride had belched up its animatronic inhabitants.

The real humor for me began when a man (I think) who looked like Edward Scissorhands walked by us, fingering his pentagram necklace while walking with his girlfriend (I’m guessing here) who was dressed in a white bridal gown, black Doc Marten boots with buckles, and a top hat. Tres chic. Like Brad and Angelina after a dirt nap.

My 65 year-old mother turned to me and said, “What are they?”

“Goths,” I said.

“Is that their religion?” She was puzzled.

“Not exactly.”

“Well, what do they believe?”

Now I was puzzled. “I think they believe in wearing funny clothes and going to Disneyland. Kinda like us.”

She rolled her eyes on account of my making fun and stopped asking questions.

We went about our day, sharing rides and tables and places in line with these folks, and I soon came to realize that there were even Goth subcultures:

Pippi Longstocking Goths—characterized by the horizontal pigtails and penciled-in freckles… or was that the plague?
Dr. Suess Goths—the ones with the red and white striped leggings and the droopy gloves. Would you eat them with a fox? Would you eat them in a box?
Matrix Goths—long leather coats and the apparent desire to fold backwards as though dodging slow-motion bullets.
Mad Hatter Goths—those with giant top hats and inexplicable insanity. A very merry un-birthday to you, my pale little friends.
Renaissance Goths—the ones with the frilly shirts and collars. Ironic since “Renaissance” means rebirth and they looked dead. Ha! A little English major humor, don’t ya know?
Pin Cushion Goths—more piercings than a trout farm fish’s lip. Sorta like that guy from the “Hellraiser” movie—the human voodoo doll.

I’m sure there were more Goth subcultures, but to discover and catalog them all would have required more staring than I was prepared to do. They were nice, but I wasn’t gonna push it.

All said, the day was a raging success. It was both Disney and anti-Disney all in one great package. And I didn’t get in trouble once! No outbursts. No insults I couldn’t take back. No sideways looks from suspicious park security people. I was all on my best behavior. But, let’s face it—I had minions to do my evil for me this time around!

And, I’ll tell you this. Before the day was out I got myself an annual pass.

I can’t wait for the next Bats Day. I wonder what I’ll wear…

Memo to My Future Self

2008-11-02T23:13:00.000-08:00

Only two days until Election Day and I’d like to send my future self a memo. Did you kids know you could talk to the future? Look-see here. You can do it. Just get yourself a blog and you can be like Uncle Herb. Time-traveling, goofball, crazy Uncle Herb. Fasten your seatbelt Barbarella. Here we go.

Memo

TO: Future Me (Damn, you look more handsome with each passing day).

FROM: Younger Me (and did I mention you look mah-velous, Future Me?)

RE: The 2008 Election Results

Dude, don’t gloat.

Your guy just won the election handily and without any of those “count the ballot” delays of past elections. This time, it worked out. No chads hanging ‘round here, and that’s just fine. Florida dodged the bullet, and good for them. Cuba didn’t want them and, let’s admit it—that was on the table.

But, Future Boy, you need to take the high road, here. Your friends on the other side of the aisle just lost, and they’re not used to losing. It’s all new. Karl Rove forgot that chapter in his playbook. Should’ve been in there between the chapters on “Never Testify in Front of a Congressional Committee” and “Erase All Emails, Then Conveniently Forget Them.” Don’t be like those guys and rub it in their faces. Just win with dignity, nod politely, and be on your way.

I know what you want. You want an apology from them. Well, it ain’t coming. So, don’t make it all awkward. Just break up. It’s not them, it’s you.

Let them blame you as you snicker off and celebrate. You can drink your champagne, and gobble down your foie gras and cheer on your elitist, socialist, Marxist, communist, friends. But victory dances don’t happen on graves. They happen in end zones. Bury the dead with honor, no matter what you think the after-life will bring them.

Don’t make them feel guilty for eight years of waning international respect or disastrous and deadly foreign policy. Don't blame them for the dollars now worth pennies in your 401K. They know what they did. They pooped in their own diapers and now they have to sit in it a while.

Don’t yell at them, don’t curse. They saw what their votes got them. Let them just think it over. Give them a time out—it’s the new way we do things around here.

Maybe this will lead to a redefinition of their party. If they want Miss Wasilla as their queen, let them bring her back to their hive. I’m telling you now, they’ll lose a few drones. And honey, what could be sweeter?

No, Buck Rogers, your celebrating can’t last long. There’s work to do. You’re not just cleaning up after your party. You’re cleaning up after theirs. And you can’t do it alone. This time, change is big—and bigger than your guy can handle by himself.

So, make nice. Feel good. Job well done.

Suck down the bubbly, wipe those smirky lips on your shirtsleeve and get busy. Team Obama-rama must play clean-up. There’re wars to wrap up, apology letters to send, mop-ups to supervise, and middle-class boo-boos to bandage.

Tell Joe The Plumber to clear the pipes. It’s time for a clean flush.

And remember, there’s nothing worse than a sore loser, except a sore winner.

Oh, and one more thing you sexy future dude—in case I’m entirely wrong and things turned out the other way, blame those bastards. It’s all their fault. Always has been.

Flying Monkeys of Mass Hysteria

2008-09-25T22:44:00.001-07:00

Well, this month has been fun. No sooner have we entered the fall season than we’re faced with the fall of the economy. Just like the yellow leaves dropping from the autumn trees, Wall Street banks are dropping to the ground and starting to pile up. Notice the fancy metaphor? That’s what an English degree will get you, people!

With the threat of financial disaster looming, and the world wondering what you can get for a dollar, the administration is once again shooting up a flare, calling for hasty action and giving little regard to the impact its “solutions” may have on the average American. Drag out the bongo drums of fear and beat them again. Babaloo!

Anyone recall the Patriot Act? Vote first, ask questions later. Raise your hand—who’s willing to give up a few personal freedoms if it means you can sleep better at night? Yikes.

And remember the President’s plan for how the average American can fight terrorism? Go shopping! Oh, we went shopping, all right. We bought houses with magic mortgages. See how that turned out?

My dear friends, I don’t wish to become overly political here in my happy blog space. I like thinking that my blog is neutral; the Switzerland of the Internet. Yodel-lay-hee-hoo…! Do I smell cheese?

But you see? I can’t help it. I have the distinct feeling they’ve just substituted weapons of mass destruction with weapons of mass hysteria. Decide now, or face certain doom! It’s as though our President has, once again, released his army of flying monkeys to swoop down and pull our hair until we’ve given in to the madness. Vote by Friday or the economy will melt down! These are our choices? Do as they say NOW or give up all hope? Surrender Dorothy! And your little dog, too.

Take a breath, America! This is when we need smart, qualified, consensus-building people in leadership positions. It’s the smart people who ask questions. Questions like:

Why do we need to decide our fate by Friday?
Did someone order lunch?
Who the hell is Hank Paulsen and who put him in charge of our money? (okay, that’s really two questions)
Why is 700 billion dollars the right number to fix the economy?
Hey, where’s my lunch?
Why would McCain need to suspend his campaign to fix this? Does he have the secret code?
Who ordered the pastrami?
And, the painfully obvious question: why would we contemplate giving fix-it money to the same greedy goofballs who caused the problem in the first place? Hellooo?

I know “regulation” is a four-letter word to my right-leaning compadres, but I think we just finished conducting the open-market low-regulation test. Test over. Didn’t work. Click your heels together, people! Wake up. There’s no place like accountability! Let’s give this thing some teeth. Regulate!

We’ll go ahead and give you kids the 700 billion dollars, but you can’t spend it on candy and records, okay? And, your mother and I are going along on the date. We’ll just sit in the back to be sure everyone keeps their hands to themselves.

Mr. President, put your flying monkeys back in their cages. They can throw poo at us from there, if they must. Somewhere over the rainbow we’ll get our economy back on track without you, thank you very much.

In the meantime, you’ll forgive me for a month or two while I stuff my diminishing Monopoly money under my mattress. I think I’ll also start wearing a top hat and a monocle, just to get people talking. Do people wear monocles anymore? They should. Maybe McCain should wear a monocle. Sarah Palin's glasses caused a stir. How about a McCain monocle? A McMonocle.

Anyhow, here’s my action plan: We’re gonna put smart leaders in Washington—smart people with the willingness to ask questions, speak truthfully, and inspire confidence. People with international experience and respect overseas, you know, cuz of the whole global economy thing. Duh!

I’m sorry, Mr. McCain. Love that you served the country. You took one for the team and we really owe you one, there. But it’s NOT our vote we owe you. Sarah Palin? I mean, really? I think Mayor McCheese has more relevant public service experience. At least McCheese admits he’s a meat head. And he’s been to foreign countries. Couldn’t you find anyone else? Wasn’t H.R. Puffenstuff a mayor? I seem to recall Puffenstuff wearing a sash connoting some importance. He even knew a kid with a magic flute and had experience negotiating with evil powers. That could come in handy. Maybe a sash would help Sarah Palin, too. No, come to think of it, she already has a sash. I think it says, “Miss Wasilla—Runner Up.” Yeesh.

Okay, here’s my point: I know how I’m voting. I’m voting for change. I’m voting for smarts. I’m voting for inspiration. That's what I need. You vote how you like, but please vote because you expect something good from the leaders you choose. Come out, come out, wherever you are and vote, my munchkins. Accept only someone smart. Someone who inspires goodness and hope.

Remember, good ideas can stand scrutiny. Bad ideas crumble under scrutiny. Good ideas can take a little time. Those who offer bad ideas don’t want you to think about them for too long. And you’ll know a bad idea cuz it dissolves when you get it wet.

And you’ll be left thinking, what a world, what a world…

And the monkeys won’t know what to do.

© 2008, Herb Williams-Dalgart

Grinding to a Halt? What’s Brewing?

2008-07-20T01:17:00.000-07:00

Like almost every American adult (and a few wired kids), I drink Starbucks coffee. Not because it’s the best coffee out there—I don’t believe that it is—but because it’s always an arm’s length away. We’re talking convenience, folks.

Need a hot java? Starbucks is there. Want a pound of dark roasted beans ground up for home brewing? Find the ‘bucks near you. Even if you just want the latest Sheryl Crow CD, guess where you can go? Functional, there-when-you-need-it, convenience: It’s the American way. And, the caffeine can never be too close. When you need the jolt, you need it NOW, right?

There’s a Starbucks in the strip mall on the corner. If that doesn’t work, there’s one across the street from that one on the corner. You can even see the cross-the-street one while standing in line at the corner one. Wave at the other barista, kids! Hellooooo!

Yes, it’s ridiculous.

So, why should it have surprised anyone when Starbucks announced it would be closing 600 of its stores? We’re lousy with Starbucks. You can’t throw a Starbucks without hitting another Starbucks—even if that did make any sense.

But isn’t there enough coffee to go around anyway? What the hell did we drink before all those Starbucks? Did we ever drink coffee? Well, maybe we did, but most Americans never drank lattes or espressos. We had a dirty cup of Sanka from Denny’s or that swill from McDonald’s. Does anyone remember “instant coffee?” It’s almost offensive now. And was there even such a thing as a “Frappuccino” before Starbucks? I believe they made that up.

Those people are inventors of food and language! Like McDonald’s. Who ever heard of a McNugget before those dudes?

And I can tell you this—before Starbucks, I thought drinks only came in small, medium and large; you know, like tank tops and sweatpants. But now, you’ve got, “tall” (which is small), “grande” (that’s medium) and “venti” (which really should have been called, “enormo”—that’s a kooky name everyone would have understood). Come to think of it, they should let me name things. That’d be my job. The Namer. Cool. I’m writing that down on my résumé: “The Namer.”

Starbucks created its own vernacular, with its venti sized half-pump, double-shot, half-caf, macchiatos. Say what? What ever happened to the cup-a-joe? If I was going to open a café and name my drinks, I would have called them, “cup-of-yodel-de-doo in sizes wee, chunky, or giganto.” Crazy fun names. See, I can name things as good as them. Hello, franchise!

Speaking of fun, here’s a fun trick you can try yourself: Go to a Starbucks and ask for a small cup of coffee. Watch and listen. The heavily-pierced kid behind the counter will look at you like you’re a crazy person talking an alien language. They’ll say something smirky and annoying like, “Do you mean a tall drip?”

You look right back at them, okay? And squint like Dirty Harry, and say, “No siree, pin cushion kid. I meant what I said—gimme a small cup of coffee.”

When they see you’re serious and unwilling to look away, they’ll admit it. They know just what you want. It’s fun. It’s like playing chicken. Try it out and let me know if it works as well for you as it does for me. One warning—from that point forward, when you go back to that Starbucks, they’ll know EXACTLY who you are: troublemaker. Of course, if that’s uncomfortable, you could just switch to the other Starbucks across the street. Then again, they may be closing that one. Hmmmm....

Now, I must say it, since you may see me at Starbucks ordering it: I’m a fan of the triple grande soy lattes. Hypocritical, you say? Perhaps. But, in my defense I can only say this: I like what I like. And those things, I like. It may have taken me a while to figure out what to call them, and even longer to realize there was such a thing as “soy milk.” But now I know my drink. By the way, how do you milk a soy? Do beans have udders? I guess I’m still confused.

My problem is, at four bucks a pop, I can’t afford those soy lattes very often, even though I now know how to pronounce them and what size a grande is. It’s sad, because I’ve figured out the Starbucks-to-English size conversion. I’ve even managed to learn how to order without laughing. Just when they start closing ‘em down!

But, with the economy in the crapper, I now just order a cup of coffee. Seems like most folks are just getting plain old coffee now, too—the sorts of drinks missing the “achino” and “achiato” at the end.

And, even though it’s a bit sad that they’re closing down a few of these Starbucks, I get it. Less money in the coffee-coffer means fewer coffee shops. And maybe people are tired of converting their language for the sake of those who are also taking their money.

When is convenience too convenient? Apparently when we stop giving funny names to our expensive coffee drinks and just go back to the small, hot, cup of joe. Maybe someday soon, when the economy is back on track and we’re feeling frisky again, Starbucks will open more stores, come up with more ridiculous names, and we’ll be waving at, what will then be, the two or three Starbucks in the same mall.

When that happens, I’ll have you over to my new alternative café and you can order my signature chunky, yodel-de-doo, with soy milk. Then again, I won’t laugh if you just ask for a hot cup of joe—small, medium, or large. Don’t worry, there won’t be Sanka or McSwill. Just coffee.

But don’t ask me for a macchiato. I have no idea what those are.

It’s a Weird World After All

2008-05-28T23:18:00.000-07:00

May was weird. Here in So Cal, we’ve had a year’s worth of weather packed all into one month—rain, cold, wind, sweltering heat, you name it. Yeesh. Does anyone wonder anymore if climate change is real? Wake up, people! Polar bears are floating away on ice caps and Southern Californians are being knocked unconscious by giant hail. Not that anyone has noticed we’re unconscious. They just think we’re laid back. And we are.

And with the wacky weather, there seems to be a host of bizarre world developments of the social sort (not the cyclones and earthquakes, mind you—but those were weird, too!). I’m talking about the wave of weird news from such erstwhile partners in evil as Apple and Disney. Darth Vader and the Emperor. Bush and Cheney. Captain and Tennille. Okay, maybe just Captain. Tennille was less evil. Captain didn’t talk and I never trust the quiet ones. Anyhow, I digress.

First, Apple. I learned that Apple has announced they’re fresh out of iPhones. Yup. It’s true. They made only so many of their first generation gizmos, and folks apparently sucked them all up. Now, we either buy them on eBay or, if you’re like me, you wait for the next generation model (or maybe even the next).

Let the money-burners deal with the quirks and bugs of the first generation devices, I say. I’m no “early adopter” when it comes to expensive technology. I believe in guinea pigs and canaries in coal mines. It’s always a risk to be the first to try something new. It’s like I imagine it must have been for the first cave people that decided to try eating an artichoke. Have you thought about it? That must’ve been hilarious. “No, Grock. I think you have to boil it first, and then you pull off those spiky leaves. Only eat the soft part, Grock. Oh, no! Silly Grock. Can someone help him with the bleeding, please?” And who decided King Crabs were edible? Talk about trial and error. Wish I could’a seen that!

But, Apple isn’t saying that the first iPhones were buggy or glitchy and quirky (it’s my techy friends that tell me that). Rather, Apple says, “The first phones were AWESOME! But, um, they were so awesome that we not only stopped making them, we’re not, uh, making any more. So, there. Just wait for the next model.” Okay, whatever. I wasn’t buying anyway.

The second weird piece of news comes from Darth Apple’s evil twin, Darth Disney. It appears the rumors in Anaheim are true. Disneyland’s famous ride, “It’s a Small World” is officially closed for renovation. I’ve heard the evil empire must refurbish the flumes and the boats because the ride’s passengers (i.e. you and me) weigh more than the average rider weighed back in the 1960’s when the ride was designed. We’ve surpassed our parents, but in all the wrong ways. Those sixties radicals (I was a mere infant, so don’t blame me) were apparently thinner than we are now in the new century. It’s us, their offspring, who have fat asses. Of course, you’re thinner when you’ve burned your bra, right?

The thinnies from the sixties were the perfect size for the ride back then. But now our friends, the Disney “Imagineers” have to make the ride’s flumes deeper and the boats more buoyant to keep the ride from coming to an embarrassing and screeching halt every time our weight causes the boat to hit bottom. Too much ass for too little boat, so they say. Or maybe they didn’t say that. Okay, that was just me. Disney folks can’t say “ass”—they strike those words from the press releases, don’t cha know?

I’m sure the Disney engineers had a field day with their ideas for a fix which were, no doubt, shot down by the top brass (or top dog—would that be Pluto or Goofy?). The dorky engineers and their evil corporate bosses must’ve had a conversation like this when they were listing solutions to the "scraping-the-bottom" problem:

Engineer: How’s about we allow fewer people per boat?
Executive: No, that would mean longer lines and crankier guests. Next?

Engineer: How about we add more boats?
Executive: You gotta be kidding? We’ve already bribed the Fire Marshal to allow the bazillion boats we already have lined up, port to stern, inching through this ride!

Engineer: Why not just encourage healthier snacks in the park and reduce the weight of the average rider in the first place?
Executive: What?!! Healthier snacks cost more! You’re clearly not Disney material. You’re fired. And you’re dorky.

Don’t get me wrong. I think people of all shapes and sizes should have equal access to the fun and frolics offered by Darth Disney. And I’m no stranger to the churro. But, it does make one stop to think about how long ago these rides were designed—and what the assumptions were back then. At least on “It’s a Small World,” the ride goes so slow, the risks have been relatively small. But what about the speedy coaster dashing through the Matterhorn? Did they assume people had a better grip than they do now? We all have carpal tunnel, blackberry finger disease these days. We can’t be expected to hold on!!

All I know is, on that ride, the person sitting in front of you better be someone you know well BEFORE the ride, or you’ll surely know them well by the time the ride is over. I’m talking about a free lap dance, my friends. “Happiest Place on Earth?” Oh, yeah! And, no, lap dances are not mentioned in the press release, either.

Well, I suppose I should be happy that Darth Disney is updating a ride for safety and comfort reasons. Lately, all the “upgrades” have been about adding Johnny-Depp-Jack-Sparrow to the “Pirates of the Caribbean” ride or putting new music in Space Mountain. Maybe it’s time for the real upgrade.

And maybe that’s what Apple has in mind, too. Maybe, these days, it’s all about the upgrade. It’s an election year, right? Maybe we’re all hoping to make things better…

Then again, smaller asses would be good, too—or at least considered an upgrade. Like I said, weird month.

© 2008, Herb Williams-Dalgart

My NRA Card

2008-04-12T01:04:00.000-07:00

Today, my National Rifle Association membership card came in the mail.

Okay, full disclosure: it was a temporary NRA card—one of those plastic deals with my name slightly misspelled, placed with sticky goo on a letter so that it can be seen through the plastic window of the envelope in which it came. Of course, after opening the envelope, I quickly learned (should I choose to pay twenty-five patriotic dollars) that a permanent, personalized card would soon follow.

And a bit more disclosure—I consider myself a liberal with no desire to own a gun, touch a gun, use a gun, or write a manifesto explaining my need for a gun. Let it be known, if I ever write a manifesto, I’ll post it right here for you. Because I love you. Because nothing says I love you more than a blog-posted manifesto. But I digress…

Back to my envelope. Much to my surprise, upon receiving my NRA card, I was thrilled—thrilled because an organization that I would NEVER join has wasted its money to send me their solicitation. It was the same thrill I felt when I got a letter in 2004 from George and Laura Bush along with a signed photo, asking for my support in George’s bid for re-election. My wife refused to let me frame and hang the photo in the house. Where did I put that thing?

I couldn’t help but think then, as I do now, that I’d love to follow the Byzantine trail that leads from me to the conservative spam list on which my name must appear. Did it all start when I printed my email address on the contest form to win the Hummer at the mall while my wife wasn’t looking? Guess it serves me right.

But my ironic thrill did not end simply at the arrival of my new NRA card. No, my thrill grew once I read the letter which accompanied my temporary card, warning me that the “freedom-hating Hollywood elite” were recruiting allies and spending millions to ban and confiscate our guns, “just like they did in England, Canada and Australia.” Heaven knows what hell-holes those countries have become. Tea-drinking, crumpet-munching, Queen-loving, non-gun-owning freaks. No thank you. Sign me up for the real card.

The letter went on to reveal that there are many benefits of an NRA card. These benefits include (if I act now!) a heavy-duty duffel bag bearing the NRA logo. Cool! This duffel would be the perfect place to carry my guns of choice when visiting a local mall or place of higher education or Jamba Juice. Ooh, I love those. Have you had the Mango Madness? Yum. Pairs well with expressions of your Amendment II rights.

Another amazing benefit of true NRA membership is one’s choice of NRA magazines filled with, “eye-popping photography, information-packed reviews of the hottest new guns, gear and ammo, hundreds of hunting tips plus all the news and strategies you need to defend your freedoms.” Tempting, my friends. Oh, so tempting. I just hope the magazines are worded clearly enough so that a knucklehead like me doesn’t confuse my hunting tips with my strategies for defending my freedoms. Here, I’m reminded of Dick Cheney shooting his lawyer. Which was that—a hunting tip or a freedom fighting strategy?

But my favorite is the third benefit—an NRA member “credentials package,” including a guide to insurance, Friends of NRA events, safety training, and up to 60% off on Starkey® hearing aid products.

Guh-wha? Hearing aid products? I kid you not. It says that verbatim!

That tells me that either gun ownership harms people’s hearing (and I believe that it does—but isn’t that a fair price for freedom?), or that there’s a skew towards gun ownership by people already hard of hearing. Is there a deaf militia out there? Who knew?! That’s either very liberating or entirely scary. How do you plead for your life when the man with the gun to your face can’t hear your pleas? Not fair.

Charlton Heston—once president of the NRA—passed away this month. Think what you will of the man, of the roles he played in “The Ten Commandments” or the equally Biblical, “Planet of the Apes,” but I was surprised my solicitation for membership didn’t evoke Mr. Heston’s memory. Lost opportunity, perhaps?

Then again, I always wondered how the NRA reconciled Heston’s leadership with their indictment of the aforementioned “freedom-hating Hollywood elite.” Maybe they regarded him as an exception to the rule. I’m sure he would have been happy to put a bullet between the eyes of one of those “damn dirty apes.” (Again, “hunting tip” or “freedom strategy”? Maybe both). Did Heston like Jamba Juice? What the hell am I talking about?

At this point I only know four things:

I’m on some sort of conservative spam list and sort of loving it

Charlton Heston is dead and officially being left out of NRA solicitations

I have an inexplicable craving for Jamba Juice
I have a new item on my to-do list—write a blog-posted manifesto sometime in the future

Is this what it’s like to be a card-carrying conservative? I’m giddy.

Wanna be the first to know?

2008-03-22T20:23:00.000-07:00

Hey!

If you want to be the first to know when I've added a new post to my blog, leave a comment here with your name and email address. A link will be sent each time! Happy surfing!

The Great Time Famine

2008-03-11T21:57:00.000-07:00

Daylight savings is killing me.

Don’t get me wrong—I love the idea of sunlight at the end of my day. I’ve just never been fond of waking up in the dark. Way too confusing. When I wake up from a dead sleep, my brain only works binary: Dark—Bad; Light—Good.

Now, having cranked the clocks back an hour, I don’t just start my day tired, I start it confused and in the dark. And it doesn’t help that they’ve changed the months when we’re supposed to mess with the clocks, either. Just more confusing. And confusion only makes me more tired. Evil cycle!

But, let’s admit it. We’ve been tired for a while; tired before we jimmied with the clocks (to be honest, I’ve been confused and in the dark for a while, too. But that’s another story). There simply aren’t enough hours in the day to do what needs to be done:

- Dog fed
- Lunches made
- Kids to school
- Me to work
- Wife to work
- …Worky-work-work… (a whole other time crunch there!)
- Kids picked up
- Kids taken to soccer/tae-kwon-do/baseball/sport-of-choice
- Cooking the din-din
- Eating said din-din
- Homework reviewed
- Oops, feed the dog again!
- Bills paid
- Calls returned

… and that’s just Monday!

Okay, I just felt my blood pressure rise. It’s too much! Fifteen pounds of work crammed into a ten pound bag. And you’ve no doubt observed that, if this was Tuesday’s list, there would be no time for “American Idol.” That’s what Tivo’s for, right?

This weekend, when I was in the middle of sorting through our six-point-font family calendar (designed to capture all the crazy details of every crazy week) my kids suggested that we don’t play outside with them enough.

Hello? Could that be because you’re at soccer/tae-kwon-do/baseball every moment you’re not in school and I’m not at work? Don’t they let you kids outside at recess and lunch anymore? I’m getting migraine headaches from overhead fluorescent lights and my eyebrows are frozen from recycled air conditioning. I’d love to have recess outside!

Of course, it’s on the weekends I actually do get outside, but those are the times they hold the games for those sports activities they practice at during the week, not to mention the time we chauffeur the little mongrels to the birthday parties, sleepovers, and shopping dates. It’s also when we crack the whip on the house chores, or balance those anorexic bank accounts, drained by all that gallivanting we’ve done throughout the week...

But their point is not lost on me—and here it is: The kids don’t have enough time, either. They want to play ball, go to tae-kwon-do, play soccer, AND spend time outside with their parents.

Don’t be mistaken. We do spend time inside with the kids. We play family games a few nights a week or cheer on the American Idol du jour (provided the mongrels aren’t grounded from television).

But, what they really want is to play outside, breathe in the not-so-fresh air, hear the asthmatic birds chirping, or feel the warmth of all that daylight we’ve supposedly saved by shifting back those infernal clocks.

So, now that the sun is out later, I can already see it—playing outside will find its way into the family calendar (hello, five-point font!), and all those other evening activities and chores will be pushed further and later into the night.

That only means I’ll be getting to bed later and waking up even more tired, more confused, and more in the dark. Did I mention the evil cycle? I’m so tired, I forgot.

And that, my friends, is why they make coffee.

Your Heart or Your Head?

2008-02-03T00:05:00.000-08:00

Ah, February. The runt month of the year. Usually only twenty-eight days long, but alas this is a leap year. February gets twenty-nine days. Still not enough to be like all the other months, but let’s hope for February’s sake, it takes the sting off of the inadequacy. Twenty-nine days of love. Which brings me to Valentine’s Day.

Now, you’d probably guess that an old cynic like me would have a load to say about how commercial and wrong Valentine’s Day is—that it’s just some money-grubbing scheme set forth by geriatric Mrs. See and those scabs at Hallmark, designed to rob guilt-ridden young people of their money or face the ire of their snubbed loved ones. And actually, that sounds about right.

Then again, I’m a romantic at heart (no pun intended). As corny as it sounds, I do love my wife and at Valentine’s Day, I like to let her know that. I even tend to include my children in the gift/card/candy/flower cornucopia, letting them know I’m rather fond of them, too. My wife always says I love the dog the most, but in February, that’s hard to prove.

I’ve learned in recent years that the legends of St. Valentine which have prompted our pronouncements of love may have been entirely misunderstood or misrepresented. As far as "they" can tell, these legends were taken from the English writer Geoffrey Chaucer’s interpretation of Valentine’s Day in his Middle English bore-fest, “The Parliament of Fowls.” As an English Major, I wasn’t a big fan of the Canterbury Tales—Middle English just wasn’t the language of my peeps—and this "Parliament of Fowls" I simply never read. I preferred Blake. I loved Milton. Chaucer—not so much. And now, it appears he may have been more than just a Middle English blabberer, he may have been a gossiping misinformer! (Okay, did I just get my English Major Membership Club Card revoked?)

According to the always reliable Wikipedia (is it me, or does that conjure up thoughts of witchy wiccans?), there were no fewer than eleven dates recognized as St. Valentine’s Day prior to 1969—and multiple dudes who came to be known as St. Valentine! And, if any of the legends are true, not a single one of them has anything at all to do with romantic love.

The best they can figure, the guy we now recognize as THE St. Valentine went to jail for trying to convert Emperor Claudius to Christianity (no comment there—just too easy!). In prison, he apparently blessed the blind daughter of his jailer and miraculously restored her sight, just before getting his head lopped off for offending the Emperor in the first place. Ah, the good old days.

Now, it may be a stretch, but as a man who’s been married for nearly 17 years, I can totally see the connection between romancing the woman I love and getting my head lopped off. Happens all the time. As cuddly and loveable as I am, I tend to say the occasional offensive thing which inevitably leaves my head in a basket, my wife scowling over me/it.

Which brings us back to chocolate and cards. Nothing puts a head back like candy and swoony words. So, maybe Chaucer was actually brilliant. Maybe he’s the man who foresaw the way it all would play out in the future, and knew we’d need at least one day each year to make nice with the loved ones. So, hurrah for old Mrs. See and hello, Hallmark. Tell them all, Geoffrey Chaucer sent you.

And before you go cursing Valentine’s Day, remember where your head is.

© 2008, Herb Williams-Dalgart

The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth

2008-01-20T02:02:00.000-08:00

So, last week I’m merrily pounding away on my new Dell laptop when I find that the “Q” key only functions intermittantly (and here, I thought that was “dub-ya” that only worked half the time!)

Anyhow, I know that Dell offers online support, so I dive into chat-land with “Zack” the help-desk dude from who-knows-where—Houston, Bangladesh, Trenton…? He offers to update my drivers, but I tell my new friend Zack that drivers probably ain’t the problem. I got a “Q” issue.

He says, “no sweat.” The laptop is still under warranty. He’ll replace the whole keyboard. He asks if I want a tech to come out, or if I want to do the swap myself.

The voice in my head, which sounds hauntingly like my wife, reminds me that I tried to fix my daughter's camera last month. Instead of fixing it, I managed instead to give myself a small shock…twice. Ahem. Yeah. Felt those in my teeth. Still can’t concentrate.

But I consider myself technically proficient (if not technically adventurous) so I ask what sort of work a swap like that would entail. My man Zack sends me a link to a web page with instructions on the swap to help me make an informed decision. I get to the part of the page where Dell says if I screw up my swap, the warranty’s kaput (not in those words, of course. But the point isn’t lost on me—no do overs.)

I tell Zack to send the tech, and two days later, Justin arrives.

From here on, I’ll refer to Justin as the Dell child, since he looks like some boy from my daughter’s junior high school class. She’s thirteen.

Dell child arrives at my office wearing a blue, long-sleeved dress shirt which I immediately presume he nicked from his dad’s closet. To match, he wears ill-fitting dress slacks and chunky black sneakers, passable as “dress shoes” if you don’t look too hard.

I fought heartily—you’d be proud of me—not to ask Dell child if his mom knew he was skipping class to come replace my keyboard. I almost asked for a note from home or a hall pass before letting him continue. I have a bit of a cruel streak, don’t ya’ know?

He said very little, most of which was spoken in a voice that screeched up and down the scale like puberty had just hit that morning. Awk-ward.

He sat at a table, pulled out a set of tiny tools, and swapped my old keyboard for a new one in less than five minutes. It was like watching Orange County Botox—it was over and done with before I knew it, and I didn’t feel a thing. Of course, I could still speak without drooling, so the Botox metaphor just doesn’t work, does it? Erase. Do over. Never mind.

He rose from his seat and recited a cute little speech about how I might get an electronic survey from the folks at Dell about his service, and how he’d love it if I could give him all “fives” or some such thing. His recitation reminded me of the little girl who came to the door this week in her Girl Scout outfit and rattled out her rehearsed lines about cookie sales. In fact, Dell child and Girl Scout may very well have been the same person. When you get older, the young kids all blend together. I didn’t really listen to her and I was too distracted to listen to him.

It occurred to me in a rush not unlike nausea that my world requires this kid. I rely on my computer every day. But as it turns out, my computer relies on Dell child. Kids run things. Kids run everything. I’ve just been too busy to realize it.

Now, of course, since my encounter with Dell child, I’m seeing it everywhere. Kids. Running everything. Been to the movies lately? Hate to tell you, but that place pulls in a hundred grand a day and the eight people running the joint were all born in the 90’s!! I think the popcorn has been there longer than they've been alive.

I swear, I’m going to card my optometrist—he's young, too. Is it “bring your kid to work” day? It’s bad enough to be told you have to wear glasses to read. Does a kid have to be the one to tell me? Sheesh! Move over insult, here comes injury.

Man, I’m getting old and now I’m sounding old.

Starting tomorrow, I’m devoting two hours a day to playing on my son's new Wii. That should keep me young!

Of course, if that thing breaks down, I know who I’ll have to call to come fix it.

© 2008, Herb Williams-Dalgart

Holiday Symbolism in the Suburbs

2007-12-16T11:58:00.000-08:00

As a writer, I’m obligated to seek and find symbolism in the world at large. Blame my 10th grade English teacher. Blame Hawthorne’s, “The Scarlet Letter.” Or blame me for taking the obligation to heart in the first place. But symbolism is out there for those who seek it.

This time of year (December/holidays) is ripe for finding symbolism, sort of like fishing right after they stock the lake. Symbolism lurks everywhere, no matter if you see the world through rose-tinted glasses, or if, like me, you’re torn between cynicism and sentimentality at the holidays. For instance, screaming children collapsing on the floor of Toys ‘R’ Us at the feet of their incredulous parents always has me singing, “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.” The parents don’t like that at all. No humor there. I don’t recommend you try that.

Yesterday, driving home in the too-early winter darkness after battling the parking and shopping at the local mall, I was feeling particularly cynical—$200 at Crate and Barrel will do that to you. I weaved my way through my neighborhood streets, passing the nauseating holiday lights and decorations in my blindingly lit suburb. I passed by “the house”—the one that every Orange County neighborhood seems to have. The one that has a dozen inflatable winter holiday characters and the Edison-draining light show.

However, this night, something must have come unplugged, because the five foot tall Frosty, Santa, Rudolph, and Mrs. Claus were all deflated and slumped over on the lawn, like the scene of some North Pole drive-by shooting.

There it was—symbolism in my own neighborhood. The very creatures dragged out from the garage rafters to herald in the holiday seemed to lack any enthusiasm for their performance, and instead had taken their final bow. Hell with the holidays. I’m out. Ka-thump.

For the first time ever, I slowed to enjoy the scene. The glowing light from the house’s eaves now looked more like a police spotlight, shining on the scene of a crime than like the holiday festivity they hoped to evoke. I laughed and laughed like a crazy person, as though I was the culprit who shot up the lawn creatures, frankly wondering why I hadn’t thought to do that very thing each year prior. It was brilliant and horrible all at once. My sentimentality and cynicism had found a comfortable symbol, right on my neighbor’s lawn.

After wiping away my evil tears, I came home to my own house, my lighted tree seen through the living room window, the roof lights still tucked away in the garage waiting for me to keep my promise to the kids. And then I felt bad. Those lawn characters were haunting me like Scrooge’s ghosts. Why had I laughed? Was it really that funny? Or was I just feeling joy at the expense of my neighbor, secretly feeling guilty over my own negligence about my own decorations. Theirs had fallen, mine hadn’t yet even been displayed.

Then I thought about my kids. My neighbor’s kids were proud of their house, and mine were still wondering if I’d come through on my promise. Even droopy lawn people were better than no people and no lights in the minds of my kids.

You see, the kids haven’t yet developed that cynicism. Their symbolism is just about what’s good and what’s beautiful, not what’s wrong with the world. And, while I admit a have a certain desire to see my own kids develop a sense of cynicism (albeit just enough to make them question what’s right and wrong), I do not wish to see them lose their hopefulness, their joy, or their sentimentality.

So, now I’m off to the garage to haul out the ladder, drag out the lights, and hang them around the eaves of my own roof. The sentimentality of the season has won out again. I noticed today that my neighbor’s North Pole crime scene has been restored—Frosty and Santa and friends now smile and stand erect for all to see. Joy to the world.

And while this little Christmas lesson has warmed my begrudgingly sentimental heart like a hot toddy in a stowed-away lunch thermos, I can’t help but wonder—how can I unplug those damn inflatables without anyone noticing?

© 2007, Herb Williams-Dalgart

Trouble with Tweedles

2007-10-30T22:07:00.000-07:00

August was bloody hot—the wrong month to visit Disneyland. As an Orange County resident, I knew this. But you can’t keep out-of-town guests from the happiest place on Earth. That's the Disney evil at work.

About halfway through the sweltering day, my brother in-law and I made our way from Frontierland toward Tomorrowland to get a half-dozen frozen lemonades; a small treat for our crowd-weary wives and kids, whom we had just left on a bench near the Jungle Boat cruise.

We crossed the roundabout at the end of Main Street, just before the entrance to Sleeping Beauty’s castle. There, we saw a small crowd parting to form a path at the castle drawbridge. They were making way for two round dudes emerging from Fantasyland: Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum from the Alice in Wonderland film.

These two characters (and I mean that in every sense of the term), were holding hands and skipping, their enormous plastic heads bearing sinister smiles, locked in place for eternity. I wondered which Tweedle was which and then quickly decided I didn’t care. I was hot and just wanted lemonade--and they were getting in the way.

The two spherical hulks skipped closer and closer to me and my brother-in-law, so we stopped, expecting them to cross our paths in the circle. However, as they approached the roundabout, I could see the Tweedles were on a collision course with the plaster horse hitching posts that lined the perimeter of the circle—and they weren’t slowing down. I’m sure the posts were considered a stroke of decorative genius at some park planning committee meeting at Disney corporate HQ. But now these three-foot pillars, probably intended to evoke feelings of a simpler time, were nothing but an accident waiting to happen. And, brother, it happened.

Those big heads must have afforded little visibility to the Tweedles as they skipped merrily along. The crowd, now cluing in to the impending disaster, let out a unified gasp. But it was too late to stop Tweedle—uh, let’s just say, "Dum." Tweedle-Dum ended his skipping routine, and perhaps his Disney career, crotch first on a hitching post. I think I heard a "clang"—but that may have been my cartoonish imagination at work.

Therein followed a series of moments; vignettes—each forever etched in my memory like snapshots taken at a car accident. The consequences unfurled as follows:

Tweedle-Dum screamed—a no-no for the characters at the happiest place on Earth. It supposedly ruins the illusion for us parkgoers when we hear a beloved character use a human voice. Yep. I agree. Illusion officially ruined.

Tweedle-Dum, in unimaginable pain, violently buckled forward with such a sudden force that he unhinged his enormous plastic head and catapulted it into the roundabout. The rubbery mound came skidding to a halt at my feet where it lay, disembodied and still smiling at me. Did I mention, illusion ruined?

His pal, Tweedle-Dee, still smiling (it was a mask, right?), started patting his fellow Tweedle on the back and whispering something to him. I’m guessing it was something like, "Hey, buddy, are you okay?" or maybe, "Holy sh**!"

The crowd could now see Tweedle-Dum’s all-too-human face, clearly sticking out of his oversized body. He was a white guy with a red bandanna on his head. I’d tell you his eye color, but his eyes were squeezed shut in pain. His face was contorted in a way that only a man can truly understand. Think "soccer-ball-to-the-nads" and you'll know what I mean.

Tweedle-Dee realized Tweedle-Dum was missing his head and, after a double-take between his friend and his friend’s head, left his hunched over tweedle-buddy to retrieve the errant cranium still sitting at my feet. He lifted it off the ground with his giant gloved hands like my mom used to lift hot pies out of the oven with oven mitts, sized perfectly for this task. How could Disney know those giant hands would come in handy in just this way? Damn, evil is smart. Of course, in retrospect I realize I could have helped the Tweedles, but I was frozen like the lemonade I was still craving. Now that I think of it, a lemonade would’ve been the perfect libation to accompany this show!

Tweedle-Dee returned to Dum and pushed the scuffed rubber head back onto his sideways friend. A black streak now scarred Tweedle-Dum’s left cheek. No getting around it now. They’d have some ‘splainin’ to do back in the dressing room underground at the Disney dungeon.

After some additional back-patting and whispering, the two Tweedles stood again (Dum stood a little more slowly). They clutched hands, turned on their heels, and skipped off, back into the castle from whence they came. Of course, one Tweedle’s skip was a little less enthusiastic than when he first came out. But the guy was trying, so I think he gets bonus points, a medal, and the respect of every wincing man in the park who saw the travesty. I know I wouldn’t skip after a shot like that!

Now, I can’t recall the faces of the other onlookers. I can only imagine they struggled with the same challenge I did—laugh or be mortified? Help, or watch the Disney machine do its thing?

I’ll never know if poor Tweedle-Dum got in trouble. I've heard that breaking the cardinal employment rules by talking or removing one’s costume in view of the parkgoers usually results in the Disney death penalty or worse—Disney is licensed for its own law enforcement, so I’m told. Rumors are, Tigger isn’t so bouncy or flouncy after a few of his own infractions out in Florida. Why’s it always Florida?

In the months since last August, I’ve been back to Disneyland (the evil allure even has it's hold on cynical old me) and I've noticed two things: Costumed characters are now accompanied by cast members of the non-costumed variety. Not sure for whose safety this arrangement has been made—ours or theirs. But, accompaniment is now par for the course. Like Britney visiting her kids. Gotta have a normal dude go with you.

And, those horse hitching posts have been removed. Gone. Kaput. Totally missing. Again, like Britney’s kids. Come to think of it, she used to be a Mouseketeer… It’s like Disney knew I’d someday draw the metaphor…Hmmm… Did I mention evil was smart?

I suspect when it was all said and done, Tweedle-Dum could have used a couple of his own frozen lemonades to ease the day, or at least cool his cahones. Is there anything a couple of frozen lemonades can’t fix? Or maybe that was Disney's evil plan all along--to emphasize the perfection of their frozen lemonades...

From Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland:

'Now, I give you fair warning,' shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she
spoke; 'either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time!
Take your choice!'

From Bob Dylan’s Tweedle Dee & Tweedle Dum:

Well, they're living in a happy harmony
Tweedle-dee Dum and Tweedle-dee Dee
They're one day older and a dollar short
They've got a parade permit and a police escort
They're lying low and they're makin' hay
They seem determined to go all the way
They run a brick and tile company
Tweedle-dee Dum and Tweedle-dee Dee

Isn't It Ironic

2007-10-26T12:06:00.000-07:00

Irony is at the heart of every good story. From movies, to books, to real life—people are drawn to irony.

Jerry McGuire—Tom Cruise is a sleazy agent who can’t be happy until he chooses to be honest. Irony.

Harry Potter—Harry can’t survive to fight Voldemort until Harry himself accepts his own death. Oh, irony.

Paris, Britney, Lindsay—famous, beautiful, and have it all…except sobriety and happiness. The fabulous life is nearly killing them. Yeah, baby. Irony.

It’s everywhere—school shootings perpetrated by the kids no one paid attention to. Shocking irony.

Preachers and priests accused of harming the very children they were supposed to teach and protect. Sick irony.

CEOs made famous for their business savvy going to prison for fraud. Beautiful irony.

Industries which made the U.S. leaders in the world economy are the same industries responsible for the worst global warming. Hot irony.

It’s everywhere. Life itself—our whole existence—is ironic. We’re born and then struggle, we live to find happiness, only to die in the end. Cruel and unusual irony.

So, the next time a bird poops on your car as you're leaving the car wash, or when you hear that OJ is in trouble with the law (again!), or when the dork gets the girl in the latest romantic comedy, remember—you saw it coming.

© 2007, Herb Williams-Dalgart

*******

And lest you think life’s beautiful irony is going unnoticed, remember the fantastic Alanis Morissette. Lyrics to “Ironic” noted below with reverence and appreciation:

An old man turned ninety-eight
He won the lottery and died the next day
It's a black fly in your Chardonnay
It's a death row pardon two minutes too late
Isn't it ironic... don't you think

CHORUS:
It's like rain on your wedding day
It's a free ride when you've already paid
It's the good advice that you just didn't take
Who would've thought... it figures

Mr. Play It Safe was afraid to fly
He packed his suitcase and kissed his kids good-bye
He waited his whole damn life to take that flight
And as the plane crashed down he thought
"Well isn't this nice..."
And isn't it ironic... don't you think

REPEAT CHORUS

Well life has a funny way of sneaking up on you
When you think everything's okay and everything's going right
And life has a funny way of helping you out when
You think everything's gone wrong and everything blows up
In your face

A traffic jam when you're already late
A no-smoking sign on your cigarette break
It's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife
It's meeting the man of my dreams
And then meeting his beautiful wife
And isn't it ironic... don't you think
A little too ironic... and yeah I really do think...

REPEAT CHORUS

Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you
Life has a funny, funny way of helping you out
Helping you out

Welcome to the 21st century

2007-08-24T18:40:00.000-07:00

Hey, true believers. Okay, a few free moments to pretend I know what I'm doing. I've updated my blogspot and my earthlink Web site. If you're brave (or just bored), check out: http://home.earthlink.net/~herbwd/home and let me know what you think. Drop a line at herbwd@earthlink.net.

Au revoir!

© Herb Williams-Dalgart 2008