The Cheese Stands Alone

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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.

© 2009, Herb Williams-Dalgart

Rocking My World

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.

© 2009, Herb Williams-Dalgart

A Day At The Park

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…

© 2008, Herb Williams-Dalgart

Memo to My Future Self

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.

© 2008, Herb Williams-Dalgart

Flying Monkeys of Mass Hysteria

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?

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.

© 2008, Herb Williams-Dalgart

It’s a Weird World After All

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

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:

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


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


3. I have an inexplicable craving for Jamba Juice
   
4. 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.

© 2008, Herb Williams-Dalgart

Wanna be the first to know?

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

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.

© 2008, Herb Williams-Dalgart

Your Heart or Your Head?

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