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

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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

The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth

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

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

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:

1. 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.


2. 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?


3. 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**!"


4. 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.


5. 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!


6. 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.


7. 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...

© 2007, Herb Williams-Dalgart

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

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

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