Category Archives: Weird rant

On ice cream

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Speaking of foods that no one needs, this must be the most delicious example of one. Creamy, sweet, cold, ice cream is pretty much universally liked by everyone who has ever eaten any. Even bad ice cream is still pretty good. I suppose fish-flavored ice cream might be a little creepy and weird, but I’ll bet it’s been tried–anchovy, anyone? My personal favorite, besides chocolate, is anything with lots of butter and pecans in it. Most people, especially when they need to punish themselves, can eat an entire vat of ice cream, regardless of what the consequences might be–obesity, diabetes, heart disease, lactose intolerance, and death, of course. Common sense just seems to go straight out the window when ice cream comes into picture, including metaphors that make sense. Ice cream is food exaggeration taken to the nth degree. Filled with copious amounts of pure animal fat and dangerous amounts of sugar, this frozen concoction is a slippery slope toward decadence and corruption. Only Dorian Gray could ever eat all the ice cream he ever wanted and, at the same time, ignore the consequences. We kid ourselves and lie to ourselves, willing to justify more ice cream with any excuse no matter how lame and stupid our reasons might be. You know, you think it’s worth it, those few minutes of pleasure while you eat that huge cone of yoghurt and lemon ice cream, but later you feel guilty and hateful because you know you did a bad thing to your body. This is, of course, the great paradox of eating ice cream, that you love the ephemeral moment as the ice cream passes over your tongue, but you despise yourself for ingesting another 800 calories that you never needed in the first place.

On ice cream

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Speaking of foods that no one needs, this must be the most delicious example of one. Creamy, sweet, cold, ice cream is pretty much universally liked by everyone who has ever eaten any. Even bad ice cream is still pretty good. I suppose fish-flavored ice cream might be a little creepy and weird, but I’ll bet it’s been tried–anchovy, anyone? My personal favorite, besides chocolate, is anything with lots of butter and pecans in it. Most people, especially when they need to punish themselves, can eat an entire vat of ice cream, regardless of what the consequences might be–obesity, diabetes, heart disease, lactose intolerance, and death, of course. Common sense just seems to go straight out the window when ice cream comes into picture, including metaphors that make sense. Ice cream is food exaggeration taken to the nth degree. Filled with copious amounts of pure animal fat and dangerous amounts of sugar, this frozen concoction is a slippery slope toward decadence and corruption. Only Dorian Gray could ever eat all the ice cream he ever wanted and, at the same time, ignore the consequences. We kid ourselves and lie to ourselves, willing to justify more ice cream with any excuse no matter how lame and stupid our reasons might be. You know, you think it’s worth it, those few minutes of pleasure while you eat that huge cone of yoghurt and lemon ice cream, but later you feel guilty and hateful because you know you did a bad thing to your body. This is, of course, the great paradox of eating ice cream, that you love the ephemeral moment as the ice cream passes over your tongue, but you despise yourself for ingesting another 800 calories that you never needed in the first place.

On ties

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I have a passel of ties, but I hate wearing them–all that rigmarole with the fancy knot. Most guys don’t know how to tie the knot, so they do a simple slip-knot, and it always looks like hash. Crooked, I mean. Sort destroys the whole point of the tie if you can’t tie it properly. They are adjustable, you know, according to my friend, Sha. As far as a totally useless piece of clothing goes, the tie is the most useless. Except if you want to keep gravy off of your shirt, the tie has no known use or value. Some guys with fat necks use ties as a cover for not buttoning that top button, but all that means is that they need to buy bigger shirts or lose a little weight. Some might say that a tie adds elegance of color and design to a man’s suit, but that is just style and caprice, meaningless, in other words. So men collect ties, always looking for that perfect shade of red or that one odd shade of gray that will look good with their favorite shirt. Many ties are just flat out ugly. In fact, most ties are flat out ugly. Murphy’s Law of ties says that no matter how you place your napkin, you will stain your favorite tie with bacon grease no matter what. Polyester ties are the worst of the worst. Pink ties? I think paisley is coming back, so hang in there paisley lovers. Murphy’s second law is that you will forget your tie for that one important interview. Never run a drill press with a tie on. Men will never throw away a tie no matter how out of style it might be or how blood-stained it might be. One should never dab one’s mouth with your tie after slobbering on yourself.

On ties

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I have a passel of ties, but I hate wearing them–all that rigmarole with the fancy knot. Most guys don’t know how to tie the knot, so they do a simple slip-knot, and it always looks like hash. Crooked, I mean. Sort destroys the whole point of the tie if you can’t tie it properly. They are adjustable, you know, according to my friend, Sha. As far as a totally useless piece of clothing goes, the tie is the most useless. Except if you want to keep gravy off of your shirt, the tie has no known use or value. Some guys with fat necks use ties as a cover for not buttoning that top button, but all that means is that they need to buy bigger shirts or lose a little weight. Some might say that a tie adds elegance of color and design to a man’s suit, but that is just style and caprice, meaningless, in other words. So men collect ties, always looking for that perfect shade of red or that one odd shade of gray that will look good with their favorite shirt. Many ties are just flat out ugly. In fact, most ties are flat out ugly. Murphy’s Law of ties says that no matter how you place your napkin, you will stain your favorite tie with bacon grease no matter what. Polyester ties are the worst of the worst. Pink ties? I think paisley is coming back, so hang in there paisley lovers. Murphy’s second law is that you will forget your tie for that one important interview. Never run a drill press with a tie on. Men will never throw away a tie no matter how out of style it might be or how blood-stained it might be. One should never dab one’s mouth with your tie after slobbering on yourself.

On the common cold

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There are more than a hundred different rhino viruses that come under the heading of the common cold, so unless you’ve had all one hundred plus, you are always in danger of catching a cold someplace–the super market, church, school, work, the mall, the airport, wherever people gather. The cold is the perfect disease because it doesn’t kill it’s host, it only makes the host feel bad for a few days, and then it goes away. You get a runny nose, some fever, a sore throat, a few body aches, a nagging cough, but you are never in danger of dying, even when you feel like the contrary may be true. Sometimes a cold will make you feel absolutely crappy, especially at night when you want to sleep. Either the coughing keeps you awake, or the sneezing makes your ribs hurt, or you can’t blow your nose one more time or it will bleed. I think that high dosis of Vick’s work wonders, but I have no proof of that–I just think it’s right. You cough until you are blue in the face and just can’t cough anymore. You cough up nightmarish stuff that could gag a horse. If you take medicine, the cold lasts about fourteen days, and if you don’t take anything, it lasts about two weeks. Oh, people have their home remedies–vitamine C, zinc, chicken soup, hooch–of those only the hooch will make you feel better (for obvious reasons). The thing with the cold is this: you really don’t feel bad enough to stay put and stay home, which would kill the cold. No, you go out, spreading the cold from here to kingdom come, and the cold virus has a whole new world to infect. That’s why the cold is the perfect disease.

On the common cold

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There are more than a hundred different rhino viruses that come under the heading of the common cold, so unless you’ve had all one hundred plus, you are always in danger of catching a cold someplace–the super market, church, school, work, the mall, the airport, wherever people gather. The cold is the perfect disease because it doesn’t kill it’s host, it only makes the host feel bad for a few days, and then it goes away. You get a runny nose, some fever, a sore throat, a few body aches, a nagging cough, but you are never in danger of dying, even when you feel like the contrary may be true. Sometimes a cold will make you feel absolutely crappy, especially at night when you want to sleep. Either the coughing keeps you awake, or the sneezing makes your ribs hurt, or you can’t blow your nose one more time or it will bleed. I think that high dosis of Vick’s work wonders, but I have no proof of that–I just think it’s right. You cough until you are blue in the face and just can’t cough anymore. You cough up nightmarish stuff that could gag a horse. If you take medicine, the cold lasts about fourteen days, and if you don’t take anything, it lasts about two weeks. Oh, people have their home remedies–vitamine C, zinc, chicken soup, hooch–of those only the hooch will make you feel better (for obvious reasons). The thing with the cold is this: you really don’t feel bad enough to stay put and stay home, which would kill the cold. No, you go out, spreading the cold from here to kingdom come, and the cold virus has a whole new world to infect. That’s why the cold is the perfect disease.

On karaoke

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I was just at a place on Thursday night that featured karaoke. Like many forms of entertainment, this past-time is not for everyone, but most people think they can sing. Far be it for me to tell them otherwise, but the strange sounds emanating from the stage caused my beverage to go up my nose at one point. I am not a champion karaoke singer–let’s just get that out on the table, but to sing a popular pop tune just like the original pop star did is nye on impossible and very near hilarious depending on how weird either the song or its singer were in real life. One woman really knocked a Stevie Nicks cover out of the park, but the next guy’s rendition of who-knows-what sent foamy suds up my sinuses. But is that the fun of karaoke in all its kitschy phantasmagoria where popular culture mixes black velvet paintings of dogs playing poker with a live microphone, a drunk audience, and dark desires of fame and failure? You never were Engelbert Humperdinck, but you want to sing one of his crooner masterpieces just like he did? You never met Lynn Anderson, but you want to sing about unpromised rose gardens? It is amazing, however, how brave a person can get after a few beers. They pick up that microphone and stand up in front of their drunk friends and start to sing their own weird cover of “Knock Three Times.” I admire their courage, and although I have sung karaoke a couple of times, I’m not convinced that that little world of pop culture turned odd is for me. My karaoke will have to stay confined to the shower, and even then I know when to stop singing and let Johnny Cash do his thing.

On karaoke

Posted on by

I was just at a place on Thursday night that featured karaoke. Like many forms of entertainment, this past-time is not for everyone, but most people think they can sing. Far be it for me to tell them otherwise, but the strange sounds emanating from the stage caused my beverage to go up my nose at one point. I am not a champion karaoke singer–let’s just get that out on the table, but to sing a popular pop tune just like the original pop star did is nye on impossible and very near hilarious depending on how weird either the song or its singer were in real life. One woman really knocked a Stevie Nicks cover out of the park, but the next guy’s rendition of who-knows-what sent foamy suds up my sinuses. But is that the fun of karaoke in all its kitschy phantasmagoria where popular culture mixes black velvet paintings of dogs playing poker with a live microphone, a drunk audience, and dark desires of fame and failure? You never were Engelbert Humperdinck, but you want to sing one of his crooner masterpieces just like he did? You never met Lynn Anderson, but you want to sing about unpromised rose gardens? It is amazing, however, how brave a person can get after a few beers. They pick up that microphone and stand up in front of their drunk friends and start to sing their own weird cover of “Knock Three Times.” I admire their courage, and although I have sung karaoke a couple of times, I’m not convinced that that little world of pop culture turned odd is for me. My karaoke will have to stay confined to the shower, and even then I know when to stop singing and let Johnny Cash do his thing.

On driving in Houston

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First, let me say that the title of worst traffic in the USA (a designation given by AAA) is rightly deserved. I had to spend a few hours near the Galeria in Houston yesterday, and that traffic was brutal. To say that Houston drivers are aggressive is to really not understand the situation at all. Though it may be a cliche to say that Houston drivers approach driving as if it were a gladiator sport, I don’t think it’s too far from the truth. Too many cars in too little space with too little time to get anywhere equals gridlock almost twenty-four seven. The problem is too much individualism and not enough civic cooperation. Everybody wants to have their car and nobody wants to share, so traffic jams are full of angry and aggressive drivers who are all going nowhere all at the same time. Why they call it rush hour is a mystery to me because nobody is rushing anywhere. I understand the problem, but I can’t figure out how the people deal with this on a daily basis without going out of their minds. Or maybe they don’t? All roads are jammed, streets, feeders, and highways. You often have to wait two, three, or four cycles of the stoplight to get where you are going. Merging traffic brings flowing traffic to a complete standstill, and random construction zones throw a weird curveball into the entire chaotic mess. Sorry, Houston, I know you have lots to offer in terms of culture, food, sports, work, and shopping, but I’m not entirely sure it’s worth braving the traffic to get to any of it.