Facebook Gobbledegook

I love Facebook. I really do. It has provided me a convenient way of keeping up with family and friends who I am too lazy to call. It’s also an easy way of finding out what is going on with your friends, from heady issues such as their health or what their children are up to, to the critical stuff. Like pics of what they ate for lunch. You also learn a lot about these people not gleaned from face-to-face conversations. Not to mention the opportunity to snipe some uber cool memes. (I will never tire of Grumpy Cat) -->

But there are some things people post that make me take pause. Things that, when I see them, I think, dude srlsy?

Here are a few things that make me smh…

People who talk to their dead relatives – You know what I’m referring to. Posts like, “Mom you died thirteen years ago today but I still miss you.”

Okay, let me get out of the way the fact that many people do miss their deceased loved ones. Me included.

But what makes you think that heaven has internet?

Shit, my mom never touched a damn computer her entire life. If I Facebook posted while she was alive that I loved her, she would never have read it. So there is zero reason to think that her passing included a sudden spate of tech savviness.

People…dead folks don’t have Facebook accounts.

Yeah I know. These kinds of posts are people’s way coping. Cool. I’m down. But really – if you want to remember your dead dad, go lay some flowers on his grave.

Share if you love Jesus!

And if you don’t you’re going to burn in hell.

Apparently that’s the message. Lemme ask – can I love Jesus without sharing this post? Is that allowed? This is remotely related to my previous beef. We all agree that Jesus died some two thousand years ago, a horrific death which included nails being driven through his extremities. So he’s dead. Some think he now sits at the right hand of God. Okay.

But why does my feelings towards him hinge on whether I share your zealous post or not?

Political Opinions That Can't Be Backed up – Look. Those who know me know I love a good political debate. However, many do not understand what the word ‘debate’ means. They think they can post their view through some kind of politically-based meme and get three thousand likes.

Well, forgive me if I might have questions. And forgive me further if I ask them.

What usually happens when this occurs is one of two things: Either the poster explains they did not intend to engage in debate, or I am told how stupid I am for having a different opinion. Either reply leads to the same conclusion:

You got no business telling us your opinion in a public forum.

So stop it.

Game Invites – I don’t know what Farmville is. I have no interest in finding out.

So I guess these are usual irritants which occur when the collective moshes on a website. I wonder if Mark Zuckerburg saw this coming?

Actually, I wonder if he’s too busy counting his money to care.

My Brain on Yoga

So I have written a couple of stories over the past few months regarding my newest obsession – yoga. What I have found out is there are a number of misconceptions about it, the first of which is that it’s some kind of incense-burning, chanting, group meditation communal get in touch with your inner child lovefest.

Uh, no.

It’s exercise. Somewhat strenuous exercise at that. No, it doesn’t involve bench-pressing compact vehicles or swimming across large bodies of water, but make no mistake. It is exercise. You will discover muscles and tendons you did not know you had. And once you discover them, you will rue their very existence as they are contorted in ways you thought were only the purview of ladies who make their living spinning on vertical poles with dollar bills jammed in their G-strings.

Then again, I bet they do yoga.

Anyway. I now do yoga twice a week, Monday and Thursday nights, the 5:30pm ‘Hatha All Levels’ class led by my Yoga Hero, Lee. She’s beautiful…

ANYway, for those that have not experienced what a typical yoga class is like, I am going to walk you through one from the point of view of my mind:

5:15pm: I arrive at the yoga studio with my mat, towel and bottled water. I am excited for the upcoming hour, as the stress of work has manifested itself usually in my neck and shoulders. I walk into the studio, shuck my shoes, roll out the mat, silence the phone, and get into some semblance of a lotus position on the mat.

5:20pm: Others arrive, mostly women. I am usually the only guy in the class. And I’m good with that.

5:25pm: In comes Lee. She’s beautiful…ANYway, she greets everyone with her empathic, warm, gentle soul greeting. It’s all a mirage. She’s about to go Drill Sergeant on our asses.

5:30pm: Class starts. Lee takes us through a few minutes of breathing in order to attune our mind and body. We are usually in Child’s pose or some other restful position. I call this my last respite before hell.

5:35pm: Into our first Downward Dog of the night. DD is a staple yoga move, where you basically shape yourself like an upside-down letter V. I’ve gotten better at DD & can hold it for upwards of ten seconds now.

5:40pm: First Vinyasa. A Vinyasa is a movement through various yoga poses, usually from a low lunge position, to a plank (think push-ups) position, to body on floor to raise your front torso up (Cobra), to plank to Downward Dog. “Meditatively move” is Lee’s entreat to us. “Don’t pass out” is how I translate this instruction.

5:45pm: Time for twists! With one knee on the mat & the other bent (picture Tebowing), Lee instructs us to place our hands in Namaste (picture praying hands), and then to take the left elbow and place it on the outside of the right knee. It hurts to even type this, let alone to do it. I get there, and my spine is now wondering what it did to get punished. This gets repeated for the other side (right arm over left knee), but not before another…you guessed it…Downward Dog.

5:50pm: I am now cursing myself for showing up. The thought enters my mind to ditch class early, feigning some kind of lame injury. All it takes to snap me out of this is to look around the room & see all the women gracefully moving through the poses. The Alpha Male in me kicks in. I stay.

5:55pm: I am hyperventilating

6:00pm: I am hyperventilating.

6:05pm. Still hyperventilating.

6:10pm: Time for inversions! When I was a kid we called this standing on your head. And when I was a kid I could do it instinctively. At 53, it requires an act of Congress. I place my head on the mat with my hands, palms down, on either side for support. Every brain cell is screaming ‘Do this and you will be in traction the rest of your life’. Alpha Male says ‘Don’t be a wuss, you…wuss.’ I inch my feet towards my hands, raising my torso in the process. Body weight shifts from my hands to the crown of my head. I am picturing my neck snapping like a dried out twig. Lee is imploring, “Keep the weight balanced between the head and the hands, lift up!” For a nanosecond my feet actually leave the floor. Two seconds later my brain realizes this and defense mechanisms kick in, which means I fall over like a Jenga tower.

6:20pm: More Downward Dogs.

6:25pm: More hyperventilating. But the end is now in sight, as the best part of the practice is only five minutes away. It’s called Savasina, and I probably misspelled that. What it means is, rest.

6:30pm: Rest begins. I am prostrate on my mat, arms and legs splayed out like someone who just landed on the pavement after dropping from the twentieth floor. Just draw a chalk line around me.

6:35pm: Lee comes by and places a peppermint-scented cold washcloth over my eyes. It is at this point I want to marry her.

6:40pm: Rest ends by Lee slowly bringing us out of our reclined positions and up into a seated position. A couple of light stretches of the arms, and then we put our hands together at our chest, turn to one another, bow, and say Namaste. We are done.

6:45pm: I leave, but on the way out I tell Lee I cannot wait until the next session and to keep up the peppermint-scented cold washcloths.

I love yoga. But not before I go through hating it each time I am there.

Guilty Pleasures

We all have them. And I got mine.

Now sure. Some of a more prurient nature that I won’t get into here, and please, keep yours to yourself too (unless I am part of them). But we all have those things we do that, deep down, we are not really proud of, as we feel if they were found out it would somehow lessen how people view us.

Well, I am getting too old to care about such fronts. I yam what I yam. And here are a few of my guilty pleasures that may make you view me differently. I’m ready for the fallout.

Cici’s Pizza

Being half Italian, I may get disowned for this. Some of my more distant ancestors would likely give me a Youngstown Tuneup over the revelation that I occasionally frequent a place where their ‘Italian food’ as about as Italian as French Fries are French.

Sue me.

I subscribe to the theory that pizza is like sex - when it's good it's very good, and when it's bad...it's still pretty good.

C’mon $5.99 for all the pizza, pasta, salad, breadsticks I can eat? So what if it’s pimply teenagers making the pies instead of Mario? And so what if it’s not authentic? It tastes pretty good and there’s plenty of it. Look, there’s a half zillion pizza joints in this town, and if I wanna go plunk down twenty bucks so some sweaty Vito makes me a triple meat authentic pie I can. And I do. But more often than not I cruise over to Cici’s for a nice thirty minutes of shoving as many types of kind of okay pizzas as I can into my mouth.

And the coup de grace with Cici's is two words:

Dessert pizza.

I rest my case.

 

Techno Music

This is definitely going to get me branded as a hypocrite, given the tomes of stories I have written about rock music, what bands rock and which ones are lame-o-matic. I have certainly set myself up for criticism as I have painted myself as a Rock Snob.

Well, I am. When it comes to rock I like to think I have high standards and a discernment over what has integrity/talent and what sucks canal water.

Fortunately Techno isn’t Rock. It’s my diversion from it. And yes, I know it is a manufactured sound, something concocted in a studio replete with over-dubs, drum tracks and synthesizers. Something that cannot be duplicated on stage, but only on a computer.

But I loves me some FatBoy Slim. And Crystal Method.

Sorry.

 

Celebrity Apprentice

Donald Trump is a major assbag. A tool of the highest degree. But for some reason I get a vicarious kick out of watching celebrities chuck each other under the tires in the boardroom, trying to permanently attach their lips to The Donald’s backside. I don’t give a damn about the first 90 minutes of the show, but I must tune in to see if Dionne Warwick or Gary Busey goes sideways. The last half hour is must-see trash TV.

Plus Ivanka is smoking hot.

 

Wal Mart Socks

Actually, lemme alter that. Wal Mart undergarments. No wait – stuff from Wal Mart.

Seems like whenever I go to Wal Mart I check out with a typical Wal Mart slate of purchases: Fruit of the Loom underwear, orange juice, motor oil, an Alumina-wallet, some crappy DVD from the three-dollar bin, plums, Q-tips.

And socks. I don’t know who George is, but he makes good socks. Three pair for 8 bucks. Unless they got the price slash thing going on, when I can score three pair for 6 bucks. I’m talking argyle, reinforced heel and toe, office attire sock that I gladly wear under my $300 suit for special work occasions, like preventing unemployment or sucking up to the boss.

If he only knew.

But then again, now he does.

What’s Your Sign?

Every now and then, when I am in the middle of a, say, work conversation on a technical matter, I will preface a statement with “Well, the Virgo in me wants to know…”

The reason I do this is, according to the day I was born, I am supposed to be cerebral, pragmatic and inquisitive. I am also supposed to be anal retentive, critical, and generally a pain to be around. I would make a good accountant but a lousy chef. I am able to balance budgets but cannot get more creative than adding two plus two. Virgos are meticulous perfectionists. Supposedly.

Guess I better straighten up around here then in case the Zodiac Police drop by.

Look, I don’t want to poo-poo astrology, but the, ahem, Virgo in me has a hard time believing that your personality is predicated on what day you were born on. And further, that every single person on the planet that was born between August 23 and September 22 has the same traits. And if you were to go with the Chinese zodiac, they go by years (Happy Year of the Dragon, y’all). So in their system everyone born in a specific year have the same traits. So everyone born this year, 2012, will be like this:

The key to the Dragon personality is that Dragons are the free spirits of the Zodiac. Conformation is a Dragon's curse. Rules and regulations are made for other people. Restrictions blow out the creative spark that is ready to flame into life. Dragons must be free and uninhibited. The Dragon is a beautiful creature, colorful and flamboyant. An extroverted bundle of energy, gifted and utterly irrepressible, everything Dragons do is on a grand scale - big ideas, ornate gestures, extreme ambitions. However, this behavior is natural and isn't meant for show. Because they are confident, fearless in the face of challenge, they are almost inevitably successful.

Sounds like we’re gonna have a glut of porn stars in about 20 years.

I was born in the Year of the Dog. So maybe if we mix the traits of a Virgo with the traits of the Dog, we can get a bit more specific. Yeah, that may work, since now we’re talking about September 1958, 1970, 1982 and 2004:

Dogs can be a bit overwhelming, due in part to their attentive natures. They can march in and take control of a situation, even when it doesn’t involve them directly. This can lead people to think Dogs are nosy or gossipy, but in reality, he just means well. Money and status don’t matter to the Dog. He is more concerned with the welfare of his family and friends and will do whatever it takes to help them out of a tight squeeze or a rough spot.

Hmmm….so the Virgo says I am critical…but the Dog says I am concerned for the welfare of others. Yeah, okay – I am concerned over your inability to know bullshit when you see it.

Did I mention that Virgos are also known for their sarcasm?

I don’t believe in this astrology stuff. But I have to admit that it is interesting, and I find many things I don’t believe in interesting. Like the Tea Party. But I digress. I readily admit that talking about personality traits tied to astrological signs is great party conversation. It even has a certain fascination, as we tend to assess our personalities against what the zodiac says they should be. Invariably we find similarities that could make one conclude hey, there may be something to this. I find this happens when they talk about the ‘positive’ traits of their sign, but as soon as the negative traits are listed, they tend to go Oh no. That’s not me.

So people get what they want out of it. Hey, I’m down. Whatever works. But please – to let it run your life or plan your day? "Oh I can’t take Aunt Harriett to the store today…my eighth moon in the fifth phase of the third house says I’m gonna wrap my Prius around a tree.”

That’s a bit obsessive. Sounds like you were born in September.

Further, the signs say whom we are supposedly compatible with. Hey, many people believe that their mate must have a compatible sign lest the marriage degenerate into a miniature hell on earth. In my case, being a Dog, I am supposed to avoid Dragons. So all you 12-year olds are safe out there. But you 24, 36 and 48-year olds, watch out. We are supposedly oil and water.

Dang. And there’s some hot 24-year olds I would like to get to know.

But alas, I can’t. Not because I am old enough to be your father (shut up), but because your Dragon will devour my Dog. Which actually sounds kinda hot.

But I digress again.

Anyway, if you want to believe in this stuff, who am I to say you shouldn’t. It’s my nature to be skeptical. After all, according to the stars I am a vain, cold, unemotional automaton who falls asleep while making love. Virgos are supposed to make good bus drivers or pimps.

So don’t get on my bad side.

The Genesis of Dweebness

How does one become a geek? Is one born that way? Or is it more of a learned habit, of finding activities that one enjoys only to realize that they are judged as being the domain of societal misfits?

The answer, is, yes.

See, coolness is learned. But I believe we are all born geeks. I mean, how does a newborn know what cool is? They obviously don’t. What – did 3-month-old Fonzie shun his teddy bear diaper for a black leather one? No. The Fonz was in the same clueless pool of unknowing formula-suckers as the rest of us.

But somewhere along the way, the cool kids got something. Not a memo, but they just somehow became attuned to what others perceived as cool, and emulated it. God bless these perceptive people, as I was too busy wrapping my toy soldiers with paper from my mom’s adding machine as she cranked out numbers as an accountant. While The Fonz was out practicing how to impart a nuclear wedgie to the local sap geek, I was hiding from him – under my mom’s kitchen table, giving my plastic army men an armor coating of paper. Fonz was coolness in training. I was oblivious of what the world thought of, well, anything.

So we learn one thing that geeks have in common. Loneliness. Or more accurately, contentment in being alone. That was me. I was not a social kid. The majority of fun I had as a kid was in activities concocted in my mind, and executed without the assist of anyone. As a result, I was creative and kind of smart. And alone.

Cool kids are neither creative nor kind of smart. Or alone.

What cool kids are, is popular. That requires social contact. They thrive in social settings. My brother was very cool. So was my sister. Not surprisingly, they had – and still do have – lots of friends. They have PhD’s in popularity. They have always had an innate sense of what to say in a particular situation and it always came out…cool. They got the laughs. So did I, but never intentionally. Cool kids get people to laugh with them. Geeks get laughed at. Which just makes us wrap our plastic toy soldiers with more adding machine tape.

See, those toy soldiers don’t laugh back.

This sounds like a sad tale, and it is not necessarily so. It is just a matter of Darwinian selection. Everyone can’t be cool. If everyone were, then nothing would be cool. Cool is a special, ubiquitous quality that certain people just get. And Lord, there were many times I wished I could get splashed with what my siblings had, like a Holy Water of Coolness. I wanted to be able to saunter up to cute girls like I saw my brother do countless times, drop a couple of syllables, and have them walk off with me like they did with him. When I would try that, I would stand there slack-jawed, my brain erased of any thought, and oftentimes I would just drool or blurt out some kind of inane, insane comment about how nice the weather was…when it was ten below zero out. Consequently, the girl would laugh at me, then turn and walk away…and pass along to her friends that I was mentally retarded.

I didn’t have the gift. The Cool Gods didn’t lay their hands on me. And I never learned it under the kitchen table with all those toy soldiers and all that adding machine tape.

Dweebs are over-achievers. Cool kids are usually under-achievers. This stands to reason, since the cool kids got the respect just by being in that groove they were in – there was no motivation to achieve when the world was already eating out of their hand. This helps to explain, at least in my own case, why I got two college degrees and bristle at any perceived hint of rejection. Us dweebs try to construct a coat of respect, since we can never be just accepted…or so we think. Those formative years of being chased after school, de-pants'd in the playground, and being given held-down wet willies have permanently etched scars in our psyche.

Cool kids don’t have to go to therapy. They are very happy in a world that revels in their appearance. Geeks keep psychiatrists in business. Don’t believe me? How much you wanna bet that Freud was writing in his tablet, as the poor sap was on the couch, “Major four-alarm GEEK’…?

Okay, maybe not.

Because that’s another construct of geeks. The combination of isolation, societal awkwardness and too smart for our own good equates to major neuroses. We don’t see the world as it is, but rather, as the dangers to our fragile psyches that it can be. As I mentioned, we do not feel accepted…even when we really are. If a girlfriend says something like ‘I’m going to run to the store for some milk’ we hear, ‘She’s leaving me for good.’ We are a handful for anyone close to us. We feel misunderstood. We need constant reassurance that we are good enough. The vicious cycle in completed when the girlfriend leaves and we are left alone, clueless as to why she thought suggesting the Marvel Comics convention as a Saturday night activity was a bad idea.

Oh well. This is my lot. We are all – or most of us – constructs of our formative years. For many it takes a lifetime to overcome these experiences, if ever at all. In my case it is a constant cycle of gaffes and inner searches for why I do and act like I do. Why do I over-exert? Why do I try to be right? Why do I think someone will be impressed that I know the last 50 U.S. Open golf champions, when what is actually happening is they just want me to shut up?

Move over, I need a seat on Freud’s couch.

I have some experience in 12-step recovery programs. Want to find out where all the adult geeks are? They are at these meetings. One thing I have learned from my time in these gatherings is, we all share a common trait – we did not feel accepted; we felt like we never fit in.

Bingo.

Note that I didn’t say we didn’t fit in – I said we felt like we didn’t fit in. Chances are pretty good we were fitting in quite nicely, and that we were being accepted just perfectly. But we just could not believe it. You were all lying. I know you think I’m a societal leper. I want to get away from this. I want to get away from you. I want to go crawl into…a bottle of tequila.

Because tequila doesn’t laugh at you either.

And tequila also had the added benefit of…making me cool! Two shots and I was funny. Three and I am charming. Unfortunately, after the fifth I was vomiting. So there was a small window of opportunity for me to feel comfortable with you before I was doing technicolor yawns in the Men’s room. It was a delicate dance, and one that I could never seem to do correctly. But, it was in these recovery meetings that I found kindred spirits. People that felt just like I did. And acted out just like I did. And most importantly, showed me how to overcome these feeling of inadequacy and live a contented, serene life.

And I can also tell you this – I never heard anyone in these meetings say ‘I was the popular kid.’

Left Out

(For Andy - http://zipsclips.blogspot.com/2011/11/influence-silenced.html)

"I'm a lefty," Barack Obama joked  as he signed official papers as U.S. President.

"Get used to it."

Our country has a long, ugly history of discrimination aimed at certain groups – blacks, immigrants, gays. Religious persecution. Haves versus have-nots. It seems like we thrive on conflict; we have to have some group to demonize to feel superior. Well, this rant is not quite to that level, but there is a group of individuals that have quietly suffered in a world not designed for them…a world that specifically tries to make their experience trying.

I am speaking about left-handers.

I am a lefty. I am not ambidextrous. There is nothing I do right-handed, save one activity which I will not mention here due to decorum. Anything done with my right hand feels awkward, unnatural. Trust me – I have tried. When I was ten years old I tried to play golf with my dad’s right-handed clubs and ended up flipping the club upside-down with the toe on the ground so I could swing lefty. That worked. Years ago my then-wife (and fellow lefty) bought me a guitar. And since I had never even tried to play a guitar before, I figured I would learn right-handed. It just never worked. The rhythm hand for a righty is the right hand and I had no rhythm in that hand – my rhythm hand was busy pressing down strings to make chords. My brain rebelled. The guitar went into the closet. I should have just done what Jimi did - flip it over and play it left-handed.

There is a school of thought that says lefties are creative due to using their right brains. Half correct. We are very creative, but it has nothing to do with which side of the brain we tap into. It has everything to do with trying to deal with a world not created with us in mind. Case in point – a manual can-opener. You hold it with your left hand and turn the crank with the right hand – it is designed for righties. Watch a lefty try to use a manual can opener and you will understand what I am talking about. You start a car by turning a key with your right hand. And this is after you open the car door from the right side.

I am passive aggressive by nature so I’ve done a couple of things just to show righties what we have to deal with. For example, my home and office computers are set up lefty, meaning that the mouse has the buttons reversed and resides to the left of the monitor. I love to watch righties struggle with it as they hit a button and get that annoying ‘What’s this?’ popup on the screen….they think something’s wrong with my computer and they will look at me. I just say ‘Left-handed’ and smile.

When I bought my house nine years ago, which I designed from scratch, I designed the kitchen to be left-handed. I am sure the ninety percent of the population that are right-handed are doing a collective ‘WTF are you talking about’ at that statement, but trust me. I thought this through. Righties don't have to.

I have renters in that house now, and I have no idea if they’re right or left-handed, but there is a part of me that hopes they’re righties and are wondering at this moment, as mom is preparing Sunday breakfast, why she seems to have to make awkward moves to get around that kitchen. Because the owner meant it to be that way. When I go through a buffet line, and if righties preceded me, the vats of food show their marks – spoon on the right, the right side of the vat empty. I scoop my food up lefty and leave the spoon on the left, marking my presence.

 

A task as simple as writing is even a chore for lefties. Ever wonder why many lefties have that crook in their wrists when they write? It is because our hand is going over what we just wrote. If we are using a pen, that is why you see smudged writing. That is where the crook came from – we are trying to get our hand out of the way; doing whatever we can to adapt to your world. I choose not to conform. I hold my hand like anyone else would. Deal with my smudges. If it is some kind of official document, I put a napkin under my hand. 

I noticed there seems to be more lefties than there used to be. Thank goodness. I believe the statistic when I was young was that three percent of the world was lefty. Now it is up to about ten percent. And I believe that if there wasn’t religious persecution of us centuries ago (We were considered witches and burned at the stake. The Latin word for Left is Sinistra, or Sinister. The French word is Gauche, meaning clumsy or unrefined), and had teachers in the last century not forced lefties to write with their right hands and turned them into stutterers in the process, that percentage would be much higher. I would imagine it would be close to where it is supposed to me, which in theory would be half of the world.

And speaking of schools, look at a student desk. Righties get a nice extension to rest their right arm on. Lefties have to let their arm hang out with no support. Bastards.

So lefties of the world unite! Change your mouse buttons so you have to ‘left-click’ to open the menu. It is a small step but a good one to show these righties what we have to deal with. Don’t adapt - we've done that for long enough. 

Solidarity, my sinister brothers and sisters.

Phrases That Tick Me Off

I can sometimes be kind of picky when it comes to the English language. Don’t get me wrong – I have my set of quirks, such as ending sentences in a preposition, as in ‘Where are you at?’ I am not referring to those kinds of practices, although I am sure many cringe whenever I let my Midwesternness come out with those kinds of verbal tics.

What annoys me are clichéd or misused phrases. Especially when used by people trying to appear smart when they really aren’t. Yeah I know, that targets me as grandiose or better-than, but at least I try to be what I am. I would just ask the same in kind – if you don’t know what a word means, please do not act like you do, okay Sarah ‘Refudiate’ Palin?

Anyway. Here is the first phrase that makes me go cold whenever anyone says it –

“The fact of the matter is…”

First off, the phrase is “The fact is…” to add in ‘of the matter’ is some lingual infusion in an attempt to relevantize the issue being spoken of. What it really is is redundancy. Further, I highly doubt the person using that phrase has any idea what ‘the matter’ is anyway. But beyond the awkwardness of the phrase is the assumed hubris of the person using it, because what usually follows is their opinion. Not fact, let alone fact of the matter. Opinion. Think about this – how many times have you heard someone say ‘Well ya know, the fact of the matter is, monkey can indeed fly out of my ass.’

Okay, probably never. Work with me here.

Politicians use ‘The fact of the matter is’ often as a precursor of their stance on a given issue. They are about to launch into how the feel or think of a situation. Those aren’t facts! Ah, but a politician’s job is to convince people that what they say are indeed facts, whether they are or whether they are pulling shit out of their ass. Chances are good it’s the latter. So in summary, ‘The fact of the matter is’ can be translated into ‘I am about to give you my opinion framed with a fancy pretense so you’ll hopefully duped into thinking that I truly am stating some irrevocable truth of the universe. Vote for me.’

Well you know what? The fact of the matter is, you’re ignorant.

Next –

“At the end of the day…’

Arrgh. This hits 10 on the cringe factor. Some use it as an attempt at finality, as an attempt to get people out of the weeds of a discussion and to fast-forward to the endpoint. As in ‘At the end of the day, we are all in this together.’ Gee thanks so much for your insight, Gandhi. Can we now go back to giving each other verbal wedgies? Cuz that was kinda fun.

But really, it is just an attempt at predicting where things will go. In other words, giving your opinion couched in a fancy-sounding precursor. Save us the tea-leaf reading and come get dirty with the rest of us.

Here’s what I do at the end of the day. I go to bed.

NEXT! –

“Basically…”

How many times have you heard someone start an answer with this word, then launch into a five-minute dissertation that can be called any of a number of things such as complex, circuitous, grandiose, mind-numbing, or making you want to jab pencils into both eyes? Their answer is anything but basic. Therefore it cannot be categorized as basically. So stop it.

Because basically, the fact of the matter is, at the end of the day I want to filet these people like a legal-sized snook and use their skin as protective clothing and their bones as drumsticks.

But maybe that’s just me.

Confessions of a Dweeb

I have trampled on this planet for 53 years now. And while I have hardly been a world traveler, I have been around a little bit. Grew up in northeast Ohio, lived in Houston, Miami and Orlando. Have done some cool things in my life but have not partaken in many others – for example, I highly doubt I will ever jump out of a perfectly good airplane. People that know me consider me, generally, as a nice guy that’s kind of cool and with it.

It’s all a façade. 

I am a geek.

I was born a geek and I have been a geek ever since I was old enough to realize that I loved Lost in Space and wanted to be Will Robinson because I wanted a silver space suit. While other kids were aspiring to be football players, I was building model rockets and launching caterpillars into low earth orbit. When puberty hit me violently hard and late at age 15, I thought the girls would be impressed by my Hot Wheels collection. I played professional Putt-Putt golf. At one time I wanted to be a ventriloquist. In school my favorite subject was math and reveled in understanding L’Hopital’s Rule. Google it.

Or not. Cuz it is about the most uncool thing ever created.

When I got to college and starting rifling through calculus, I discovered drugs and alcohol, which was wonderful at the time, because it mainstreamed me into society but also landed me on academic probation – which was considered actually kind of cool. Girls paid attention to me, because after a few Budweisers I dropped the geektense and was able to ooze out smooth comments about their hair or butt. Comments like ‘You have nice hair and a nice butt.”

Suuuuuuu-ave.

During this time I let my hair grow out and by virtue of having grown about 6 inches in three months, was rail-thin. I looked like a Q-Tip. But for 1978, that was tres cool. And it was also the time of Disco, and being an aspiring head-banger (which was after being a geek fan of The Monkees until my really cool brother assured me they were a fake band of actors), I was able to at least understand that girls liked to dance and they didn’t like Led Zeppelin. So I pretended to like the Bee Gees. These actions were able to sufficiently suppress my inherent geekiness so I was able to get laid.

But I was not being true to myself. I looked cool. I acted (more or less) cool. But I was never cool. It was manufactured coolness with the aid of tight fitting pants, polyester suits, platform shoes, and marijuana. The geekness went into the closet, but it never went away.

My brother, bless his ultra-cool heart, tried to school me on coolness. He tried to impart upon me that girls didn't care about the capital of South Dakota or whether Johnny Miller won the 1973 US Open with a final round 63.  He tried to impart a modicum of bullshit into my persona in order to impress. For example, rather than saying I played miniature golf professionally, say I was a professional golfer. Or just flat-out lie to them. Say I was the bassist in Supertramp. They weren't going to check it out, and even if they did, it would be after I was able to tap that ass a few times.

I tried, I really did. Problem was (and still is), I am a terrible liar. That's another habit of geeks. The truth eventually comes out, usually about five seconds after the lie - "Hi. Yeah I'm a roadie for Zeppelin....no I'm not."

So here I am, 35 years later and much too old to care about such pretenses anymore. The problem is a re-re-programming to get back to my geek roots. This story is part of that process. Getting back to my true essence – reveling in knowing the last 50 US Open champions, understanding the value of regression analysis in determining transit ridership trends, and working on limiting the movement of my left foot in the backswing in order to keep from swaying off the ball. None of those things are impressive to anyone else. None are going to get me laid or invited to where the cool kids go. But I am too old to care now.

I am letting my Geek Flag fly.

100 Percent Polar Bear

So a baby polar bear goes up to his mom and asks, “Mom, am I one hundred percent polar bear?” The mom replies why of course you are. I’m 100% polar bear and your dad is. That makes you 100% polar bear. The baby polar bear then goes to his dad - “Dad, am I one hundred percent polar bear?” The dad says sure - I’m 100% polar bear and so is your mom, and both our parents were polar bears. That makes you 100% polar bear. Why do you ask?

The baby polar bear looks at the dad and says, “Because I’m freezing my ass off.”

I share this somewhat cute and amusing joke to illustrate this basic fact. I was born and raised in northeast Ohio as were my parents and their parents. But I live in Florida. Have for virtually my entire adult life. And when asked why I moved from Ohio to Florida I share the baby polar bear story.

I am a Buckeye through and through. Not the Ohio State kind of Buckeye; I went to Kent State thank you very much, but the Ohioan kind of Buckeye. I know what’s knee-high by the fourth of July. I can pronounce Mantua and Cuyahoga (Man-away and Ky-YOG-ah for those keeping score). The top of a house is called a roof, rhyming with woof. I have experienced Lake Effect Snow. I love and am very proud of my roots, and try to get back there every chance I get to see family and friends. So why did I leave?

Because I was freezing my ass off.

My issue with Ohio weather isn’t that it gets cold. It’s not that it snows. It’s that it does both for an inordinate length of time. The winters are too damn long, and linger on stubbornly. Usually by mid-October is the first snowfall. By early November all the leaves are off the trees, and just to be sure none are remaining a nice sleet storm rolls through to polish off the rest of them. By Thanksgiving the thermometer has retreated south of 32 degrees. By early December a blanket of snow ushers in the hibernation period which lasts until late March. When April comes it can be either 65 or 25 degrees. You’re not out of the woods when the calendar turns to May either. The rule of thumb for gardeners is to not plant anything before May 15, lest frost kills your fledgling seedlings. Finally by June any remnants of winter are erased. You know this because the temperature goes from too cold to unbearably hot. They get that for three months and the cycle repeats.

There is really only one good month in Ohio weather-wise - September. The days are sunny with temperatures in the 70’s. But you know it won’t last, as the sun gets lower and lower on the horizon each day until…

Baby polar bear leaves.

Having lived in Florida for over 25 years now, I feel blessed that I actually have two homes. I am equally comfortable in either place - whether it’s the fickleness of Ohio weather or the surliness of Florida people. But the people don’t really bother me, thus I can deal with them. The weather, however, is another story entirely. I cannot control it. I can just choose to not be in it.

One day I will be a snowbird. I will retire back to my home in Port St. Lucie and, when that third week of May arrives and with it the Florida humid rainy season, I will load up the car and head to Ohio, since by then I am pretty sure the snow has finished for the year. And I will stay until late September which, again, by then I am pretty sure that the snow hasn’t started yet for the year. I will play golf, eat Szalay’s sweet corn, and listen to the fellow Ohioans bitch about hot it is. And I will laugh when they do.

Because baby polar bear is warm and happy.

Dude, seriously?

As many know, my career is public transit management. On the glamour scale it does not even register. But I like it and I am pretty good at what I do, which is providing vital transportation services for those that do not have the luxury of a personal vehicle or for those that choose not to drive. Believe it or not, there are many such people.

Which brings me to the biggest misconception of transit riders - that they’re nothing but a collection of ex-convicts, DUI offenders or societal misfits.

Not true.

I challenge anyone to ride any route in our system (LYNX in Orlando), and tell me who they see. For those unwilling or unable to do so, let me do the work for you. Over two-thirds of our riders use the bus for employment purposes. In other words, to get to & from work. Not the welfare office, not to see their probation officer. To get to work. The other one third? Tourists. Shoppers. And yes, some homeless people. Hey it gets ballz hot here, and sometimes they just want a few minutes of a/c.

Much of my career has been defending these misconceptions. Oftentimes we actually have to adjust service based on fear, not reality. And the biggest fear I hear is, transit brings criminals to neighborhoods. Well here’s a very eye-opening article that talks to this -

http://www.tripplannermag.com/index.php/2011/06/burglar-on-a-bus/

Let’s elaborate on this for a moment. There are actually people out there that think someone is going to hop off a bus, rob a store (or a home) and then stand at a bus stop awaiting the Number 43 bus as their getaway vehicle.

Hey, crooks can be stupid, but nobody’s that moronic.

I am not a shoplifter. Never stolen anything from a store in my life. But if I were to do it, Here’s how I would: First, I would get a four-door car with big windows. Second, I would get a driver. Third, I would have the car idling right outside the store’s entrance, driver behind the wheel while I snatched an armful of Armani suits off the rack, bolted for the door, dove into the back seat of the car & told the driver to haul ass.

I can assure you I wouldn’t go to the closest bus stop and wait.

Recently a group of homeowners petitioned me to have recently-installed bus stops removed from their area because it brought “those people” to their bucolic slice of Americana. They told me that ‘strange people’ were prowling their neighborhoods after the bus stops were installed. They insisted, recruited the help of their local city commissioner, and much like a Casey Anthony protester, got very loud with the insistence they were right. Well, they’re not. They are wrong. But they did end up winning their little battle. I had to remove the bus stop signs.

However, I could not help but to point out to them that felons drive cars too.

Bus Chucking, and Other Colorful Phrases

The English language is, arguably, one of the most difficult to master. Us proud Amurricans seem to think that any foreigner that sets foot on our soil should have an honorable command of how we speak and be able to converse with those of us who have been here all our lives.

Sorry to tell ya Bubba, but that dog won’t hunt.

That phrase brings me to the subject of this story. American colloquialisms. Those idiosyncratic phrases that just roll off our tongues and usually elicit chuckles from those that understand, and quizzical looks from those that think we’re off our rockers (there’s another one). Our language is loaded with them: ‘Whatever floats your boat’, ‘That’s a horse of a different color’, ‘I’m down with that’ …to name a few. It’s no wonder people think we are weird. Because we are. But my favorite (or perhaps least favorite) colloquialism has to be -

‘He threw me under the bus.’

Hey, I work in the transit industry. I can walk out of my office right now and take the elevator down to the street level, walk over to our main terminal and witness about forty buses pulling in and out. I have yet to see one person brazenly chucked under the rear tires.

Yeah I know. It’s just a phrase. But it sucks.

I want to know where this phrase originated. Is it a mobster thing? Did Jimmy Tree Fingers back in the thirties face-plant some shy under the Number 14 Line in Brooklyn for not paying him? Or perhaps it’s just an urban thing; you know, you’re standing at a bus stop and as it approaches some sociopath wants to get his jollies so he plants a shoe in grandma’s back just as the bus is passing? I don’t know. Educate me.

We even use the phrase in my business - ‘Hey Jerry, how did the meeting go?’ ‘Ah was fine until Frank threw me under the bus.’ Which, if you think about it, being used by transit professionals, is akin to cannibalism. Or something. Do airline executives say ‘He threw me into the turbine blades?’

Nope. Poor transit gets picked on again. On a given day on a given street in a given town, ten thousand vehicles can whizz by of which maybe a dozen or so are buses. Does anyone ever get thrown under a car? A taxi? A goddamn rickshaw?

Nope. Always a bus.

Transit Causes Cancer

There are times in our lives when we have a moment of clarity, when we realize all that we had believed up to that point in time is essentially a sham. This usually occurs when new wisdom is bestowed upon us that contradicts what we have always believed and instead of kneejerkedly rejecting it, we instead give it ponder and conclude something like ‘Holy Mother of Sweating Jesus – I was WRONG.”

This is not one of those stories.

I work for a large transit system in central Florida. My job is to design, implement and modify bus routes. Mobility of my customers – bus passengers – is my raison d’etre. And we have a lot of them – 26 million riders took our buses this past year. Eighty-two thousand a day. If I make a change to a route that is unfavorable I am a targeted man. If they like it, I am deified.

I have always been of the belief that a clean, efficient, modern transit system is a major asset to a city. Mobility of people so they can avoid paying four bucks a gallon for gas & preventing their carotid arteries from bursting while they drive I-4 is a good thing. The entities that fund our $112 million a year operating budget surely agree, and they revel in the goodwill and opportunities that our buses provide to their constituents. Whisk them to jobs at Disney, get them to doctor’s appointments, even going to visit their friendly parole officer, whatever. We keep people out of cars. Good for the community, good for the environment, all good.

Except when I place a bus on a street where non-transit riders live.

This happened a couple of months back when I modified one of our bus routes off a two-lane bricked street with roundabouts over to a four-lane road with apartment complexes. Seemed like a good idea. Until some residents of that four-lane roads that have never stepped foot on a bus found out about our plans. Then something extraordinary happened. These fine people caused me to have a moment of clarity. How? Well, all that stuff I just wrote about the benefits of transit? Seems that’s all wrong. Transit is not an asset to the community; on the contrary – it is a scourge. A pox. It’s big-government intervention shoving something they didn’t want down their throats.

Worse yet, it brought those people to their neighborhood.

You know those people, yes? The smelly. The dirty. The non-medicated. Those that, either through a conscience decision or through a combination of life-choices use public transit. People that don't own cars. People that like the convenience of not driving. The elderly. The poor. Those people. Yes, by bringing transit service to their bucolic setting I turned their world upside down. To hear them tell, crime rose, children’s safety was threatened, trash appeared. People they don't recognize, clearly members of the those people brigade, walking through their neighborhoods. I even had one homeowner tell me that we contribute to obesity by not making those people walk. I am sure that by now they have tied my decision to the meltdown of the Fukushima Dai-ichi nuclear power plant in Japan and as a result I am to blame for cancer-causing cesium raining down upon them. It’s all so clear to them.

I wish I had such clarity.

Alas, I don’t. I have only done this gig for 25 years so what do I know? I am a product of my now-ridiculed paradigm that transit is good. It’s not! Clearly! Those homeowners now have my head spinning as to what is true in this world. Up is down. Cats sleep with dogs. And transit makes people fat.

So where do I go from here? There is, as I see it, one of two possibilities. Either I am an altruistic public servant blithely led astray through a quarter-century of force-fed facts on transit's benefits...or they’re xenophobic racist assbags.

You decide.

Shit Rolls Downhill

The family dynamic. Oh, the volumes that have been written to describe issues such as “Middle Child Syndrome” or “Is your twin Satan?” or whatever. Psychologists have lined countless bookshelves with tomes on why your big brother made you smell his farts under the bedsheets or why little sister microwaved big sister’s Barbie doll. For my family, there was a very simple explanation for this behavior –

Shit rolls downhill.

Yeah, I am the youngest. We were born girl-boy-girl-boy, which I have categorized as my family’s version of the rhythm method. So I have two older sisters and an older brother. And this is going to be a story about the family dynamic from the viewpoint where it seemed most of the shit settled.

The timing of our births tells a lot. The oldest, Barb, was born in 1950. Then in rapid succession came Kenny and Patty in 1953 & 1954. There was a four-year lag (where mom had to rest up I am sure) before I was born in 1958. Picture two bookends with two volumes – The History of World War I and World War II – in between, and you get a rough scope of the dynamic.

I do not mean that as some kind of slap to Kenny & Patty. They were stuck in the middle, and stuck together. They were the team. Barb and I were separated by age from this cabal. Now, in Barb’s case, being the older one, she was mostly above the fray. While Kenny & Patty were plotting overthrows of small countries – or at least of Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio – Barb was off to Wendy Ward Charm School, learning how a ‘lady’ walks and which side the salad fork goes on. She got married at age 19, and was gone.

That left Kenny, Patty…and me. Two against one. And that ‘one’ was five or four years younger than them. So picture a 14-year-old Kenny, a 13-year-old Patty…and a 9-year old Jerry. They had pet names for me. Kenny called me Nimrod, and Patty lovingly referred to me as Ricky Retardo. At that point in time, at least 6 city blocks were under their control, and their empire was spreading. I was just trying to figure out which end was up. And not surprisingly, I tailed them around. That did not go over well. Often, three would leave the house and two would return, and mom would ask, “Where’s Jerry?”

Tied to a telephone pole at Harrington Field would have been a good guess.

Patty, being the next-youngest, was often saddled with the task of babysitting me. THAT did not go over well either. Her actions at the time, which I took as abject hatred towards my very existence, were resentments for being separated from her friends in order to watch me. Of course, I did not realize this at the time – “Why does Patty hate me?” was a common refrain. The answer – because I was there. It wasn’t her fault – but it became her responsibility. And as I have come to find out, the worst thing you can do to a 13-year-old girl that wants only to talk on the phone & squeal at the arrival of a piece of fan mail from the Dino Desi & Billy Fan Club, was to babysit Ricky Retardo.

Kenny. Oh my. My CPU will give out long before I can keypunch out our dynamic. But roughly, it was this – I looked up to him for all the wrong reasons. Reasons, to this very day, affect me. But at the formative time of our teen years, Kenny was the man. He got the girls, was naturally cool, confident. I was none of those things - I was nervous, fidgety and a total dork. I wanted to be Kenny. The lesson, some thirty years later, is I cannot be what I am not. Because, to Kenny, they were natural. He didn’t learn them – he was them. And I have slowly learned to be not Kenny’s Little Brother but my own person. Our relationship, to put it midly, has been a combustive one.

Also not surprising are how our personalities have evolved from these formative years. Kenny and Patty are very social creatures. I am not. When Patty turned 50 her friends threw a surprise birthday bash for her. When I turned 50 there were no parties. Because I do not have a large group of friends. Patty plays in a Monday Night golf league with 30-odd friends. I play golf alone. I am not trying to elicit pity - it's just the product of our personalities and where we fit in the family dynamic.

So I write this with a bit of a ‘back through the looking-glass’ mentality. I could never understand why there was shit, why it rolled downhill, and why I was at the bottom collecting it all.

As I found out, the answer was simple.

Because someone had to.

Jargon

Two of my favorite activities, which I have espoused on in previous stories, are golf and poker. Each taps into a certain part of my personality and psyche that gives me pleasure. Golf is just a cool game - an all-consuming world-within-a-world activity that pushes your mental fortitude to its limits. Poker is a great interplay of luck and skill with a healthy dose of human psychology thrown in for good measure.

Ah, who am I kidding. What I really like is the jargon of each.

I love jargon. It is that ‘secret society’ language that makes you totally hip to those that know, and delightfully mysterious to those that don’t. Those that know give you that look in the eye & nod of the head that says “Dude I’m with ya.” Those that think you’re speaking gibberish tend to conclude “Either he knows something I don’t or he’s off his medications.” I am actually okay with either assumption.

I’ll give you a couple of examples. I have played golf for over 40 years now. So I have more or less grown up with golf lingo. I learned at an early age that I didn’t hit the ground behind my teed-up ball, I drop-kicked a heeler. I didn’t pull-hook the ball into the trees, I double-crossed on a fade. And for crying out loud, I did NOT slice the ball. I over-cut it.

In fact, that was the excuse Phil Mickelson used when he failed (jargon: he choked, spit the bit) to win the 2006 U.S. Open by making a 6 (Double-bogey, or just ‘Double”) on the final hole. On the tee, instead of playing safe he tried to hit driver (Let The Big Dog Eat) by curving it around the corner (fade). Instead he hit it waaaaay to the left, a major slice (Banana Ball), winding up in the trees (jail, no man’s land, dead). He then hit his next shot in the bunker (cat box, beach), before hitting onto the green (dance floor) and three-putting (three-jack, playing hockey). When asked about the slice he hit off the tee, he quickly interrupted the questioner - “I did not slice it. I over-cut it.”

Atta boy, Phil.

With poker, I am more of a newcomer, having only played seriously for about three years now. As such, it has been much more of an educational process in the ways of Poker Jargon. For example, when I would have, say, a five & six card in the hole, and the flop would come up 8-9-Q, I would think, ‘Okay, I have a chance at a straight here’ - WRONG. What I found out is what I had was a Gutshot four-outter requiring a major suckout in order to hit. Once there was a hand with three of us still in it, one was all-in, and I made a bet after that player was all-in. The third player in the hand was apoplectic - "What the f*** are you doing betting into a dry pot when you don't have the nuts?" I had no idea what she meant...but it sounded kinda hot.

What is it with jargon? I mean, the English language has provided us millions of words at our disposal, so you would think there would be more than adequate ones to simply state what we are thinking. But noooo. Where’s the fun in that? Instead we have to come up with new, more colorful terms that gives us the air of in-the know.

Which reminds me. The other day when I was playing golf, I had a 40-foot putt that stopped an inch short of the hole, going dead into the middle. That’s called a South America putt. Why?

Because all it needed was one more revolution.