Two Small Shrubs Recently Sentenced to Death

Every year about this time the neighborhood is abuzz about an exciting annual event.  For the old timers it's an opportunity to kick back and relish a lifetime of failures, albeit none their own.   My wife and I are the foils for their entertainment.  We are springtime  Santa Claus bringing joy to those gathered at their windows and perched on their patios.  The Oxford Height lifers; Frank-with-the-limp and his wife, Ticked-that-the-park-has-gone-to-the-dogs Connie; our back neighbors, the king and queen of the Colorado casinos, Catherine and Norm; and fast-talking gossip monster Priscilla and her hubby, Ray, who has heart surgeries like we have dental visits, all watch for us to emerge from our winter hiding.  While Puxatony Phil has a bigger following we provide a lot more excitement.   For it is  spring and time when we once again try to plant things that will eventually die.  Our biggest success so far is the one large tree/shrub thing that keeps growing five feet a year despite our attempts to kill it.  So, wait, that would be a failure, too.

The little bushes pictured to the right must have been awful criminals in their past lives.  They have been buried in the grisly remains of many other plants that have died their slow death on 'the row'.    The two in the middle are the new arrivals.  The two evergreens on the ends are the wardens.  Prisoners of the hard life--with a dog park closer than a fire hydrant they're hardened by humiliation.  Our newbies are called Lodenese Privet.  That is not the kind of prissy name you want in these botanical  badlands.  

All we can do is pray for them.  Tortured as they are, sitting in the afternoon sun, peering over the yard bricks at the unforgiving expanse of simmering asphalt.  I don't know how my wife and I became the executioners we are, but every hole we dig is another grave. 

Evil Brain

If I had my choice I'd dream about naked women and pizza.  But, alas, I think my brain hates me.  Of course that's understandable since I've spent many a waking hour culling it's precious herd of cells.  And I think day after day of surfing the Internet isn't quite the food it needs.   So to get back at my poor conscious decisons, my brain waits until I'm sleeping and screws with my head. 

For example I leapt out of bed at 3:30 this morning and have not slept since.  Why?  My pissed off brain sent me back to high school.  I was in a familiar place, on the bench of junior varsity basketball game.  I truly was a perenniel bench-sitter, but last night was especially painful because I was 31 and wearing my high school uniform.  I was sitting amongst a bunch of middle schoolers and begging the coach to let me in the game.  It sucked being all grown up and not getting to play.  The coach--my actual high school roundball skipper, Steve Beck--finally relented. 

My brain turned up the torture.  When I was on the bench the guys on the floor were little and white.  But when I got out there they were very tall, muscular and black.  The first thing I did was give up my dribble at half court.  Stuck with nowhere to go one of the guys towered over me and invited the whole arena to join in the fun of teasing me.  While he waved on the jeering fans I leapt into his outstretched arms and drew a foul.  I was rewarded three foul shots.  The ref threw me the ball which turned out to be one of those real old ones that are all smooth and beaten to a slippery shine.  I could barely get my little hands to grip it and did all I could to get it near the backboard.  I missed the first two badly.  One guy on my team said I needed to work on my free throws.  Well that ticked me off and I said "I've only missed two!"  I had to prove something with my third.  I gave it all I had and the ball sailed over the goal and into a dark abyss.

And it just got worse from there.  The little, white guys joined the tall, black guys and they all were svelte and pretty.  I was sweaty with tufts of shoulder hair escaping my jersey.  Panicked and angry I yelled at the coach to put me back on the bench.  And then I double dribbled and everybody laughed....

Well, anyway, my point is that my brain thinks I'm an a-hole.  Well I have a tit for its tat.  Tonight I'm drinking.   

Bye-bye bitter little cells!   

Colorado Avalanche up 3 games to none. Game 7 should be thrilling.

For Colorado sports fans there is no greater agitation than having your team on top by a huge margin.  The Broncos, the Avs, the Nuggets and our minor league baseball team, the Colorado Rockies, all despise the comfort and boredom of handily beating the opponent.  Maybe it's good sportsmanship but our teams feel it only fair to let the other team back in the game.  Last night while we watched one of the best hockey games of the year, Av fans rejoiced in the bliss of being one game away from advancing in the playoffs.  These fans know not their team.  Perhaps the Avs have been paid off by the networks to make their games more dramatic, but the further they're ahead, the more likely they'll wander.  Practicing their triple axles and skating along daydreaming of their mother's chicken gorky goulash, my team will awake to a must-win game 7. 

Now you might think this pessimistic, but I grew up with the Denver Broncos.  When we were down by twenty we could comfort ourselves that there was still a chance we might win.  John Elway would lead the team on a fourth-quarter comeback.   When the Broncos were playing from behind it was more exciting.   Elway, sacked into early dementia, would summon whatever courage had not been beaten out of him and put on a show.  We never lost.  We always very nearly won.  And we could always blame it on the kicker.  (At the time it was the barefoot wonder Rich Karlis who my father nicknamed Rich Kotex.  But honestly the rules never were in his favor.  A team really should garner more points for hitting the upright.  Now that takes skill.  Especailly WHEN YOU DESTROY A CHILDHOOD BY DOING IT WEEK AFTER WEEK AFTER WEEK!)

But when we were ahead all we could do was lose.  I'm scarred, perhaps more than most, because the first Bronco game I remember was against the New York Jets.  It was 1977.  At halftime we were up 28-3.  The Broncos lost 31-28.  (Notice my acquired defense mechanism:  when we're up then I am 'we' with the team.  When they lose than they, not we, are the losers.)     Another example of the Broncos ineptitude--the first three Superbowls aside--came on a cold winter's day in the late '80's.  We were beating the hated Raiders 24-3.  My father called from the bar and asked if I wanted to put fifty bucks on the 'Donkeys'.  See, he'd been a fan for so long he knew that by being ahead twenty points they had a better chance of losing.  If they were down by thirty he would have never bet against them. 

Being a rookie I took the bet.  Monday Night Football, the Broncos up big on national TV--how could I lose?  Well, I did.  And so did they.  The Raiders came back and beat Denver 30-27.  

I won't even go into John Elway setting the record for the quickest score in Superbowl history.   After that the Redskins scored 42 unanswered points and I had tears streaming through orange and blue facepaint.  

Tomorrow the Avalanche only need to win one more game to take out the Dallas Stars.  If the situation were reversed I'd be much more comfortable.  But for now all I can do is hope is that we get behind early in game 7.  

Say Yes! to Sex Even When You're Tired or Stressed

That's on the cover of this month's 'Self' magazine that just arrived in our mail.   I'm beginning to doubt that women ever read these things.  Well, ladies, you should.  They really seem empowering and enlightening. 

Humuhumunukunukuapuaa, or humuhumu for short

While snorkeling off the coast of Moorea, French Poly, this cute little fellow attacked my wife.  It didn't bite or squirt poison.  It just shot out of its placid corral paradise and  right up into my wife's mug.  It did a little posturing and then swam away.   Since one moment she was subdued by a magical world of underwater beauty and the next something very fast and potentially very hungry launched at her,  Sarah's soul very nearly leapt out of her body.  She grabbed her chest and lurched backwards.  Being her chivalrous husband I laughed so hard I nearly drowned. 

I only mention this because an article on www.newsvine.com mentioned this:   The humuhumunukunukuapuaa officially lost its title as the state fish more than a decade ago but is set to reclaim the honor.  A bill reinstating the critter — known as humuhumu for short — passed the Legislature on Monday and heads next to the office of Gov. Linda Lingle for a signature.
The little fish with the long name was deposed in 1990 by a clause in the law that gave it its crown, which made the measure expire after five years.

I imagine this Humuhumunukunukuapuaa went back and high-finned his buddies for frightening the much larger water creatures.   Or maybe it was just aggressive election tactics.  It's got my vote. 

Babies, friend-stealing egomaniacs

Babies are cute, yes, and they are our future, correct.  

Or so they would have you believe.

A baby’s hidden agenda isn’t so precious.  Have you ever noticed how it’s always about them?  You’ll never meet a baby that cries because someone else is hungry.  You’ll never hear of a baby that weeps on the behalf of another.  Guarantee that if you hear a baby crying at a funeral that it has nothing to do with the deceased.  It won’t happen.  And worse, they’re stealing all of my friends.  I used to know this group of guys and gals that on any given Tuesday could drink and stay up all night playing foosball and darts.  Now babies are running their lives.

How selfish are babies you ask?  Well imagine your personal set of principles includes driving a fuel-efficient vehicle.  A baby demands a mini van.  Why?  It’s completely counter-intuitive to buy the biggest vehicle on the market to carry a seven-pound human.  But a baby demands the legroom and the space for its portable all-in-one jungle gym/breast pump/diaper Genie/booger baster.  Not so long ago, my friends, the ones who have been robbed of their will by babies, would never skip a Bronco game for an episode of Veggie Tales.  They do now.  Why?  That’s what the baby wants.  The little bugger can entertain itself for hours with an empty box or a dead bug but it just loves to impose its will on the bigger people.  It’s a game they love to play.  And we’re all losing to the babies.  
 
I’m going to conjure up a couple of these babies and show them who’s the boss.

Morons tagged, sent back into civilization

People call this the information age.  They never say whether it's good or bad information.  I'm leaning towards mostly bad.  Aside from the Internet driven by advances in the porn industry--which I'm not necessarily saying is all that awful--it must be noted that much of the messages we receive today are unwanted garbage.  Everything is screaming at us to get prettier and skinnier while demanding we unlock our jaw and pack in as much McDonalds and beer and Viagra as possible.  Celery is an important part of this diet.  You can use a stick of it to tamp everything down.   But beyond that there is yet another source of knowledge we can do without: loud idiots on cell phones.  And I know, we all do it, but we can't stand other people on their phones.  Some of us have probably been cut off by someone chatting on their phone and immediately called someone else to vent about it.  The problem, however, is bigger than dangerous drivers, theater interruptions and crane operators distracted by their Pantera ring tone.   It's that at one time you  were never so exposed to the lives of others.  Occasionally you might flip past an episode of Cops and be forced to see some shirtless wonder getting the beat down.  And that's about all you needed to see.  You could surf back to the Antiques Roadshow or Gilmore Girls and know the world was cultured and witty.  But now, anywhere you go that same idiot running from the po-po, whose life's details used to be safely incarcerated in jail or the trailer park, is sharing his latest run-in with the law or recently acquired fungus with everyone in earshot.  I've been in WalMart, a place depressing enough already, and nearly broke down weeping to the dire sound of a woman detailing her gastric bypass surgery.  You see, her insurance wouldn't pay for it but her friend Becky said she could sue which she might do because she knows a lawyer who helped the father of her children get out of his second DUI. 

It's those details we rarely ever had to stumble into.  Unless we watched Rikki or took a wrong turn into Commerce City (insert your own scary town here).  Now everyone is talking.  And it isn't just those people simple enough to be entertained by cars driving in a circle for 500 miles, but those you might otherwise respect.  The most common culprit is the twenty-something gal just out of college and freshly indoctrinated by her first big company job.  She'll loudly act out her indignation about Frank, who's old and gross and works in production, and his utter lack of understanding of the market economy.  Then she'll usually dovetail that with some gossip about a female co-worker and finish with how exciting her evening's plans should be.  And the whole time everybody in a fifty-foot radius is getting dumber.  In a natural defense mode, when confronted by waves of needless information that could rob you of vital gray matter, your brain starts shutting down.

But it just gets worse.  When cell phones first became as ubiquitous as oxygen people brandished them on their belt, in their shirt pocket, wherever they might best be noticed.  Somehow paying a company to ensure you're electronically leashed to them is cool.  Today, cell phones are still a huge measure of social status.  Apparently the highest form of this order is wearing it on your ear.  Yes, while hearing aids are still not en vogue, sitting in a restaurant and appearing to talk to no one but yourself is all the rage.  That used to mean you were crazy.  But now, just attach your phone to your ear and you look cooler than ever.  Everyone gets to look like an extra in a crappy WB sci-fi show!   The man pictured on the right is of such a high-ranking status that people may need to contact him on a Sunday during breakfast.   The calls are urgent too.  There's no time to lift the phone to his hear.   The conversation must begin immediately.  

But I had no idea the Sons of Silence were into costume jewelry.  I don't think he ever did get a call but I so badly wanted his number so I could tell him there was something big and goofy attached to his head.  His breakfast accompaniment (not pictured) was of the cell phone walkie-talkie set.  You know the type.   In line for a Big Mac and "brrreeep!"  "Yah, it's Crystal."  "brrreeep!"  "Uh, make sure you get a side of ranch"  "brrrreep"  "OK.  Did you want an extra McRib?"  "brrrreeep!"  "No, maybe a pie."  "brrrreeeep!" 

And that vital conversation was made possible by the important technological advances of the information age.