Omens and Otter Pops
I've come to the conclusion that Otter Pops don't taste the same way anymore. I also don't remember there being a banana flavor. I thought they were much bigger than they are now, and I remember than being much more easy to tear open with your teeth, a thought that should send shivers down every mothers spine.
There are a few continuous truths about Otter Pops that remain untarnished. First, come summer time, they are always around, you can have as many as you want and your mom will forget to put them in the freezer the night before the hottest day of the year and it will take another millenium before they're cold enough to eat, so the first few batches will be more cold liquid than tasty ice. Second, after the first few hundered are consumed, you will notice that the roof of your mouth will be so scratched up you might as well ave been sucking on glass shards. The plastic too, is razor sharp and your entire pie hole will be a throbbing mess and you'll have to invent entirely new ways of consuming them. You'll have to break them up in the wrapper and use your hands to soften and liquify the cold blue goodness and drink it slowly as if it was the last form of liquid you are gonna get till you get to the end of the desert.
And there is a final truth about Otter Pops that is not so much the consumming of the classic summer treat, but the disposal of the evidence.
Every mom in the world knows that no matter how diligent you are in picking up after your little angel, you will continue to find empty wrappers throughout your household long after your children have gone to college. My mom finds empty Otter Pop wrappers hiding in the cushions of furnature that she purchased long after I was married. They are sticky, promiscuous, and scietifically the least biodegradable substance on earth.
(Thats not entirely true. But they do rate a close third behind nuclear cooling rods and yellow lego pieces.)
Calvin loves his Otter Pops. Every twenty minutes or so the door will open, I'll hear him prance into the kitchen, the opening and closing of the freezer, the little snip snip as he clips the end off (the end by the way that becomes a pile of ends in the kitchen sink) and then finally the door opens and slams shut again. Because of this, it is impossible to nap during Otter Pop season.
I really shouldn't be napping anyway.
I gots way too much to do.
Releasing an album takes more than just a few clicks of the mouse. There are shows to book, websites to build, videos to shoot. I've got to find cool clothes and cool musicians to play with. I've got to diet and exercise, budget my time, budget my money, budget my life. this one is different than the last. Its bigger, its better, its faster, and bolder, and meaner, and catchier. This one means more than the last and I owe it my due diligence.
Cause the world is about to change. I can smell it in the air. I can feel it beneathe my skin. There's a tingle of unlimited possibility that I haven't felt since I was young enough to enjoy an Otter Pop on a hot day.
And I know I'm gonna cut the roof of my mouth trying to suck all that wonderful blue goodness, but thats cool. That's how you know you're alive.
There are a few continuous truths about Otter Pops that remain untarnished. First, come summer time, they are always around, you can have as many as you want and your mom will forget to put them in the freezer the night before the hottest day of the year and it will take another millenium before they're cold enough to eat, so the first few batches will be more cold liquid than tasty ice. Second, after the first few hundered are consumed, you will notice that the roof of your mouth will be so scratched up you might as well ave been sucking on glass shards. The plastic too, is razor sharp and your entire pie hole will be a throbbing mess and you'll have to invent entirely new ways of consuming them. You'll have to break them up in the wrapper and use your hands to soften and liquify the cold blue goodness and drink it slowly as if it was the last form of liquid you are gonna get till you get to the end of the desert.
And there is a final truth about Otter Pops that is not so much the consumming of the classic summer treat, but the disposal of the evidence.
Every mom in the world knows that no matter how diligent you are in picking up after your little angel, you will continue to find empty wrappers throughout your household long after your children have gone to college. My mom finds empty Otter Pop wrappers hiding in the cushions of furnature that she purchased long after I was married. They are sticky, promiscuous, and scietifically the least biodegradable substance on earth.
(Thats not entirely true. But they do rate a close third behind nuclear cooling rods and yellow lego pieces.)
Calvin loves his Otter Pops. Every twenty minutes or so the door will open, I'll hear him prance into the kitchen, the opening and closing of the freezer, the little snip snip as he clips the end off (the end by the way that becomes a pile of ends in the kitchen sink) and then finally the door opens and slams shut again. Because of this, it is impossible to nap during Otter Pop season.
I really shouldn't be napping anyway.
I gots way too much to do.
Releasing an album takes more than just a few clicks of the mouse. There are shows to book, websites to build, videos to shoot. I've got to find cool clothes and cool musicians to play with. I've got to diet and exercise, budget my time, budget my money, budget my life. this one is different than the last. Its bigger, its better, its faster, and bolder, and meaner, and catchier. This one means more than the last and I owe it my due diligence.
Cause the world is about to change. I can smell it in the air. I can feel it beneathe my skin. There's a tingle of unlimited possibility that I haven't felt since I was young enough to enjoy an Otter Pop on a hot day.
And I know I'm gonna cut the roof of my mouth trying to suck all that wonderful blue goodness, but thats cool. That's how you know you're alive.
Friday Five: Things I'd be terrible at.
I am thinking today about what I could do with the rest of my life.
Played a little music. I'd be pretty good at that.
Fondled my tomato plants. I'd be a reasonably decent farmer if I could get up that early, work that late, or look reasonably good in overalls. Not a big fan of hats though. That might be a problem.
Did some desktop publishing for my promotional CD case. I actually did that for a living once. Once. And I wasn't very good at it then, I'd be better at it now. Mostly cause now the computers can move faster than I can think. Back in the day it took forever to move a picture from the top of the page to the bottom. For Ever! So most of the time I was just being paid to yell at the monitor and go for coffee.
I fixed a flat tire on my bike in less than ten minutes. I could totally be a mechanic. Cause I know how to use tools and I look smashing all covered in grease. The overalls might still be a problem.
Got a phone call from a woman asking me if I was interested in selling my house. I told her no thank-you and that I didn't have any friends or family who is interested either. But I insisted she have a nice day cause she sounded as though she could use the encouragement. Made me think that earlier this year she made a similar list to mine and came up with cold calling home owners as a viable option for what she should do with the rest of her time on planet earth in this particular body.
I would be terrible at that.
Terrible.
Just terrible.
Which, of course, makes me think of other things I'd be terrible at. Things that no matter how hard I tried, I would never do well. Or at all.
It's good practice to check things off your life possibilities, like how you're never going to get a tattoo and you're never gonna bungie jump, and how no matter how much she complains you're never gonna let your wife replace the carpet in your studio.
Actually, we may have to revisit that last one. My wife nods yes.
So here it is for our Freedom Loving, God Fearing, American Patriots who love their Life, Liberty, and Pursuit of Happiness;
Five Things I would be terrible at:
Number One:
Cold calling home owners to see if they want to sell their homes. In fact, lets just about bundle every kind of work that requires the use of a phone. I am terrible over the phone. My voice gets high pitched, I speak too loud, I can't form normal sentences, I pace furiously and I sweat tiny little droplets at the top of my butt crack. I do not know why this is, but I have learned to accept it and the fairy god mother that washes my underwear is grateful that my chosen profession requires eye contact.
Number Two:
Any job that involves children. I don't like them very much. Not really much at all. Especially my own.
Number Three:
Athlete. Now I know I'm not in the best of shape at this exact moment, but I'm no slouch. I can run, jump, shoot (hoops and arrows), after three months of little league I can throw a ball again, I can swim, I can ride, I can even bend a golf ball the way Beckham bends a fütball. But I've never been able to get the hang of competition. If I'm not winning handily, like lets say a foot race between me and a seven year old in the grocery store parking lot, I seize up like a yugoslavian rental car. I hate loosing. I hate it so much. I hate it more than I hate cleaning out the U-Joint underneath the kitchen sink.
Number Four:
Plummer. There is just a certain smell from cleaning out the decay of clogged pipes. No amount of bleach seems to cover it up. And if I start to think about what that slimy stuff actually is, I have to stand outside for a few minutes and breathe and possibly fondle my tomatoes. And of course, there's the problem with the overalls again. And I'd prefer to minimize butt crack sweat to phone calls with my tax adviser.
Number Five:
Dental worker. I couldn't possibly go to work if everyone hated me as much as everyone hates their dentist. Of course we still go, cause you have to, but you hate it and you hate them, and they're so nice and accommodating and reasonable and they seem to only want what's best for your teeth, and yet they poke at you with sharp pokey things and they never use enough Novocain the first time through and their walls are covered with pictures of decayed gums as if Edgar Allen Poe was their interior decorator. And I would have a terrible time convincing people to brush three times a day.
Here's a great Mitch Hedburg line:
"I know how difficult it must be for people to quit smoking, cause I know how difficult it is to start flossing."
He was a funny dude.
He too would have made a terrible dentist.
Oh, well, whatever, never mind.
"Yes." I reply.
"Can I have it?"
"Sure, but it only plays music."
"Oh, well, never mind."
Fresh Cut Flowers
Well lets make one thing perfectly clear.
192 is not a good weight for me.
I can deal with the love handles and the special places I've learned to sweat, but I'll be damned if I'm going to buy any more jeans.
Joann and I flirted with just going balls out crazy for another month to see if I could hit 200.
Just to say I did.
But 192 is far enough. So its back to diet and exercise.
Everyone's favorite.
I need to invent a cheese burger that scientifically burns calories. In fact, while I'm at it, I need to invent a cigarette that brings more oxygen to your blood and a type of scotch that gives you better diction, makes you more attractive and brings an eloquent wit to your lame ass jokes.
I need to invent a comfortable way to read.
Until I do these things, and I will do them, I need to work on my core exercises and cut carbs like a good little fatty.
But this isn't one of those kinds of blogs.
There will be no "Before" and "After" photos and I certainly don't need any encouragement.
Putting on my shoes without breaking a sweat will be encouragement enough.
But I told you that story so I's could tell you this one:
So I'm out for a a bike ride, which is the kind of thing one does when one no longer wants to ask for help pulling a T-Shirt over one's head, and out of the corner of my eye I see a sea bright spring colors. It catches my attention because flowers are not usually fond of 100 degree weather and the field I was passing was just littered with them.
Then I remembered that I wasn't looking a pretty grass field with an easter bouquet of wild flora.
I was riding past a cemetery.
I forget sometimes how close we live to our local cemetery. Its just like one block over, but its hidden by the houses at the end of the cul-de-sac and the entrance is nearly four streets away, so its easily forgotten.
But there's a little break in the line of houses a couple of blocks over where one could snatch quite a lovely view.
If one finds cemeteries to be lovely.
And since it is Monday, all of the flowers that have been laid upon the final resting places are still aglow with their greenhouse vibrancy from the day before.
I didn't stop to observe or think much about those flowers, had to keep my heart rate up if I'm ever going to be able to enjoy a Chipotle Burrito again, but it did occur to me in the shower how beautiful it looked in retrospect.
And yet sad.
So, so, so very sad.
Cause the people who lay those flowers on those final resting places are doing so in order to celebrate lives loved lost, or to pay homage to a special connection they once had, or to find a place to let their grief be for just a while. But someday those people will find resting places of their own and those flowers will cease being laid upon those places and what once looked like a beautiful garden on a blistering hot Monday, will simply become an underground parking lot.
And then I thought about my own resting place, cause, doesn't everybody? And I found it sweetly sentimental to imagine my son putting some pretty flowers down at the foot of my grave and thinking about all those times we played catch.
And yet . . .
And yet . . .
The scene pulls out a bit and I see my grandchildren in their sunday best, tired and fidgety in the hot sun. I think about the tremendous effort it took to get the family out of the house, the whining, the complaining, the "What do you mean we have to stop at the store and gets flowers too!? Its not like WaitGrandpa even cares, he's dead.!"
(my grandchildren are real shits.)
I think about all that and it occurs to me that there might be another way to do something special to remember me.
Instead of lilies, I'm thinking my son should just take a long drag off a vitamin enriched Marlboro Light, take a big bite of a gut-be-gone double quarter cheese burger and wash it down with a brain food beer, remembering all those times I let him sit in the front seat of the car and be happy that he decided not to have children.
"Here's to you, pop." He'll say.
"Here's to you."
And he'll have to pick up flowers cause his life partner is gonna smell the booze and smoke on his breath and not be very happy about it, so the florist will not be going out of business in this future economy.
Which is good.
Nobody likes to see an out of work florist.
192 is not a good weight for me.
I can deal with the love handles and the special places I've learned to sweat, but I'll be damned if I'm going to buy any more jeans.
Joann and I flirted with just going balls out crazy for another month to see if I could hit 200.
Just to say I did.
But 192 is far enough. So its back to diet and exercise.
Everyone's favorite.
I need to invent a cheese burger that scientifically burns calories. In fact, while I'm at it, I need to invent a cigarette that brings more oxygen to your blood and a type of scotch that gives you better diction, makes you more attractive and brings an eloquent wit to your lame ass jokes.
I need to invent a comfortable way to read.
Until I do these things, and I will do them, I need to work on my core exercises and cut carbs like a good little fatty.
But this isn't one of those kinds of blogs.
There will be no "Before" and "After" photos and I certainly don't need any encouragement.
Putting on my shoes without breaking a sweat will be encouragement enough.
But I told you that story so I's could tell you this one:
So I'm out for a a bike ride, which is the kind of thing one does when one no longer wants to ask for help pulling a T-Shirt over one's head, and out of the corner of my eye I see a sea bright spring colors. It catches my attention because flowers are not usually fond of 100 degree weather and the field I was passing was just littered with them.
Then I remembered that I wasn't looking a pretty grass field with an easter bouquet of wild flora.
I was riding past a cemetery.
I forget sometimes how close we live to our local cemetery. Its just like one block over, but its hidden by the houses at the end of the cul-de-sac and the entrance is nearly four streets away, so its easily forgotten.
But there's a little break in the line of houses a couple of blocks over where one could snatch quite a lovely view.
If one finds cemeteries to be lovely.
And since it is Monday, all of the flowers that have been laid upon the final resting places are still aglow with their greenhouse vibrancy from the day before.
I didn't stop to observe or think much about those flowers, had to keep my heart rate up if I'm ever going to be able to enjoy a Chipotle Burrito again, but it did occur to me in the shower how beautiful it looked in retrospect.
And yet sad.
So, so, so very sad.
Cause the people who lay those flowers on those final resting places are doing so in order to celebrate lives loved lost, or to pay homage to a special connection they once had, or to find a place to let their grief be for just a while. But someday those people will find resting places of their own and those flowers will cease being laid upon those places and what once looked like a beautiful garden on a blistering hot Monday, will simply become an underground parking lot.
And then I thought about my own resting place, cause, doesn't everybody? And I found it sweetly sentimental to imagine my son putting some pretty flowers down at the foot of my grave and thinking about all those times we played catch.
And yet . . .
And yet . . .
The scene pulls out a bit and I see my grandchildren in their sunday best, tired and fidgety in the hot sun. I think about the tremendous effort it took to get the family out of the house, the whining, the complaining, the "What do you mean we have to stop at the store and gets flowers too!? Its not like WaitGrandpa even cares, he's dead.!"
(my grandchildren are real shits.)
I think about all that and it occurs to me that there might be another way to do something special to remember me.
Instead of lilies, I'm thinking my son should just take a long drag off a vitamin enriched Marlboro Light, take a big bite of a gut-be-gone double quarter cheese burger and wash it down with a brain food beer, remembering all those times I let him sit in the front seat of the car and be happy that he decided not to have children.
"Here's to you, pop." He'll say.
"Here's to you."
And he'll have to pick up flowers cause his life partner is gonna smell the booze and smoke on his breath and not be very happy about it, so the florist will not be going out of business in this future economy.
Which is good.
Nobody likes to see an out of work florist.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)