Fears and Loathings

"My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music."
-- Vladimir Nabokov

Here's five of each.

Fears

1. Losing it.

2. Being lost.

3. Losing them.

4. Finding nothing.

5. Finding nothing and calling it everything.

(5a. Emitting in a crowded elevator what I thought would be an SBDF [silent but deadly fart] but which tragically turns out to be a VLBDF [very loud but deadly fart].)


Loathings

1. Mainstreaming of the word "pimp" (despite a dumb advertisement that shows up on this site).

2. The concept of so-called multitasking. (See The Laughorist's June 22 post on "Age Quod Agis" = "Do what you are doing.")

3. Weed-whacking devices and leaf blowers -- and the horrid sounds they make.

4. Not replying (to "thank you," or to something one said in the cubicle although the cubicle neighbor expects a ready reply to every comment he or she makes, or to emails, because you need not deign to reply to factotums, or not replying to whatever ad nauseam. Not replying. It bothers me. I see the therapist tomorrow, okay?).

5. Pushing forward in line ("queue" is the word in the British Commonwealth, is it not, ol' chap?) while saying, "Excuse me" or "pardon" (or, don't you invoke "sorry" in the U.K. in such instances?).

5a. Littering. It strikes me as a solipsistic blow to civilization. I suppose the concept of "littering" can apply to verbal littering (but how can you pick up and properly dispose of words once they are said? And is blogging a form of verbal littering?) and to the proliferation of consumerist crap (CC). One of these days you are likely to read of my demise because I had the audacity to challenge a litterer directly.

5b. Politicians who cannot say these three words: "I was wrong," and by extension a climate that ruins a politician who utters those words, and by further extension a society that does not allow itself to admit the wrongness of any of its actions on any level (also known as imperial arrogance), and while we're at it, the hollowness of politicians of all stripes -- a hollowness that prevents them from exhibiting one honest thought, one original idea, or one authentic emotion.

Now give me five. (More or less).

Of yours.

Laugh. Or....
Else.

Mowing The Last Lawn

[written in 2004, I think . . . maybe longer ago than that]


After this time maybe I’ll put the mower in the basement
this hand-operated machine which I chose not for any benevolent reason
the previous one always stalled and sputtered the hell with it
for it to sit down there all winter
among dried ordure and braided grass
catshit and hairballs, a dead toilet
goggle-eyed toys and aquariums and art project monsters
and a living washing machine and dryer.
This Saturday it is almost too hot, me with my panama hat.
I’m not doing this with the anger I see and hear and smell on most Saturdays
the suburban armies of the noon fighting off their decay
with a vengeance.
I leave a clovery patch in the corner by the graveyard of drooped sunflowers
spent and seeded and looking pretty sad about it
just to leave something undone.
I like the sound of the cuttings their spin
the weavery of it.
The back of the lot hardly has grass at all dead leaves and twigs.
I yell over to Joe working on his porch
how I’m sick and tired of stepping in dog shit for the fourth time
well you do have a dog he says.
And I don’t know if he is scolding me or being neighborly.
The vines on the back rusted fence are the color of orange skins left in an oven.
I don’t want to know the names of all the leaves
just the secret fire that erupted from the green veins.
My own fire never was too secret was it
they saw it a mile away.
Look at those drunken hedges raucous since I cut them in
what June when I cut the cord once again and tried to see if I could
snip the chain-link fence.
I’ll let the hedges stay unruly till the spring
(like the hair my father railed against and took as a personal insult
did it matter at all, now, Dad)
if I make it that far.
Those wasp nests I sprayed and swatted and crushed back in May
was that the way to go?
I wonder where they’re hiding now
what hidden fire to keep them through a long Syracuse winter
and if they are taunting me.

Washing The Soap

Maybe I should take some kind of waterproof notebook and pen into the shower. My imagination seems to percolate like soap suds washing down the unclogged drain, if you can mix metaphors, or more accurately similes, like that.

What if (purely hypothetical now) one were (again, note the subjunctive mode, which is dying in the English language) to drop the bar of soap IMMEDIATELY after the aforeposted peeing? Well, you'd have to clean that soap, wouldn't you? (Again, asking just hypothetically, because this is all purely conjectural.) If you're asking me, yeah, clean off the soap, wash it, purify it, however redundant or tautological that action may seem.

Following up on my last post, which caused so many of you to splash in with yourinary comments, I have a few more confessions to make (BTW, the other day The New York Times had a feature on confessional sites, including one from an evangelical church in Denver, plus perhaps even one with cyber-absolution; ironic, ain't it? I spent languorous Saturday afternoons of my youth sitting in a pew with friends, gossipping and flirting and sweating, and then confessing our sins and emerging feeling crystal clean and bright after the penance was performed after the "Ego te absolvo..." of the priest -- one of whom used to actually nod off! hey, did I not "sin boldly" enough -- to borrow Martin Luther's phrase)...where was I, oh, the confessions:

1. As one who is not inclined to sweating and one who does not perform sweat-inducing labor as a job, I simply do not take a shower every single day (unless it's hot -- OH FECKIT! I do not have to defend this). Americans will be aghast at this. The rest of the world will shrug. A couple of years ago, one of my brothers howled in derisive laughter when I casually alluded to this practice in what was a friendly chat until then. I think since he is so well off now he remembers our rather poor upbringing, with its Saturday night baths, with shame. I do not.

2. I rarely use a washcloth. (I can see a new online informal poll here.) (This may explain my intimate textural connection with the soap. There's no good segue to this, but I wash dishes with the aid of detergent and sponge, but it is the hands that can feel if the object is clean or not. Other Americans, especially Republicans in the suburbs and exurbs, will be aghast that we have no electronic dishwasher.)

3. I recently bought a bar of soap at Crabtree & Evelyn for seven bucks plus tax. Soap for men with an uppercase M, okay Mr. Tough Guy? (Really, it was because my son's fiancee works there, I wanted to drop in and say hi, she wasn't there, I couldn't say, no, blah blah blah. I partially lie. I like it. It gives me a chick-magnet-inducing pheromone.)

The Laughorist, being a former seminarian, will end on a preachy note inspired by Azgoddess's I'm Sorry World blog and some of her blogging friends (Morning Martini and the Lehigh Valley Rambler):

Speaking of metaphors, aren't we in need of cleansing the alleged cleaners? Isn't it time to dethrone our self-righteously pure Talibanic ayatollahs? Isn't it time we jump in the shower and awake from our collective sleepwalk?

Laugh. Or....
Else.

Water You Know

I was in the shower this morning wondering what to blog about. Then it hit me (rather, I hit it; more on that later). I have a little confession to make, une petite confession (no, not la petite mort -- that's something entirely different but just as liberating). This is something I haven't even told my therapist.

Um, sometimes, maybe, I, sort of, allow myself to pee in the shower.

There, I feel better already. I got that off my chest (you're right; literally speaking, that function is performed a few feet south of my chest).

Okay, so it's probably a GDT (Gender Differentiator Thing).

But you don't expect me to get out of the shower, perform the deed, and hop back in, do you?

I think it has something to do with the warm water.

Do I hit the drain? Does it matter? (I do keep the water running to keep things filtered and flushed and purified.)

So, Marcel Proust was right. Anything can be made into "literature," not that The Laughorist claims such lofty status despite his use of the hifalutin third person singular.

But Proust undoubtedly took baths, not showers.

This is where I loudly proclaim, "No further comment."

Through The Looking-Glass

As she was snipping my hair, I looked into the large mirror in front of me. Who is that man, I thought. (Fortunately for her, as well as for me, I did not translate this existential query into audible words in English, or any other language. Imagine how troubling that would be to my hirsute administrator -- and add to that all the sharp implements in her hand or nearby [editorial break-in: note how I did not say "close proximity." I typically edit out the "close," figuring it is moronic to assume a distant proximity, but that's the editor in me. Most style books would support me on this, though some would say it is a bit pedantic. Where were we?]

Who is that man staring back at me?

He looks exceedingly sad or tired at the end of a day, or a life. I want to tell him, it's not all that bad. Cheer up. It's just a feckin haircut.

I was incapable of describing to her how to cut my hair. A number one? Yes, in the back especially. Tight along the sides. Especially short in back. I breezily added, "I used to tell Don, 'Make it a Princeton,' but would end up telling him to make it shorter. So make it short. You can't go wrong."

Don, my regular hirsute administrator cum therapist, had gone home early, his partner, Bob, said when I walked in (Bob must've seen the look of fear and dread on my face). Don's been in the hospital twice recently. He is twelve years older than I am, to the day. December 18 [a craven wish to have legions of readers note this for future reference].

I had my glasses off but the image staring back at me in the mirror still unsettled me. This is a person who needs serious therapy! (But wait, he's already in therapy...has been for years....[I cannot stand it when people refer to themselves in the third person!].

I tried a smile. The Buddhist Thich Nhat Hanh says smiling is mindful happiness, or something like that.

This forced smile gave the impression of constipation.

How's that? she said.

A little shorter. She used a number two on the sides and a number four on top. She didn't use the scissors at all. Don does.

I raised my unibrow. I try to do that if for no other reason than to ease the deep furrows in my forehead. The raised unibrow scarcely ever seems to last more than 15 seconds. I need to meditate more (more? what a liar!).

I now looked like an optimistic assassin.

Maybe the furrow and the frown and the somber look are me.

How's that? Feel the back of your head.

That's fine, I lied. I just wanted it over with. I was hungry.

I walked to the car, rubbing my hair.

In the car, I looked in the rear-view mirror.

I hate this feckin haircut.

As I walked in the grocery store-eatery-rich person's hangout, I tried to jauntily raise my eyebrows, casually smile, not frown.

For about sixteen seconds.

And the sandwich sucked.

(The chips and iced tea were fine.)

That was yesterday. And as Chad and Jeremy sang in The Sixties, "But yesterday's gone."

When I alluded to this in the vaguest of terms tonight (of course, I had to point out that I even had a haircut; days go by before I notice my wife's had a haircut [URGENT BULLETIN: I just remembered. It says on the calendar that she was supposed to get a haircut this morning, and my daughter announced earlier she had a trim. I'm screwed once again by a fatal attack of acute solipsism and better sleep now in the spare room, with my subliminal frowns and all], my nine-year-old daughter assured me sweetly that I was young, or words to that effect, and my wife said I was...was [pause for dramatic impact] "young at heart."

Not bad, dear. Sort of reminds me of what folks say at a wake: "Gosh, he looks so young!"

Maybe that's why I'm opting for cremation.

Through A Glass Lightly

Tension Envelopes. See? There it is. Or they they are, to be more grammatically correct.

Oh, don't be so smug.

We're all in some kind of envelope of tension.

At least sometime.

It's just a question of sealing the envelope

or shredding it

or tossing it to the wind

or simply holding it up

to the light

to see what's in there

and nodding, yes, that's all it was, yes.

Laugh.Or....
Else.

Ones for the Road

These are great. They are humorous, invented highway signs. None of my submitted creations saw ink, cyber- or otherwise. To be honest, I don't remember in the slightest if mine were funny or not.

But these are.

Enjoy.

They are from The Washington Post's humor contest:

The Style Invitational.

Report From Week 672

In which we asked you to compose overhead highway signs, of no more than three lines, 20 characters per line, that we could "write" on the electric sign on Atom.smasher.org (the winner is depicted here). Too frequently submitted for individual ink: "This Highway Paved With Good Intentions." "This Sign Intentionally Left Blank" and "If You Lived Under This Bridge, You'd Be Homeless."

4

ENTERING NYC
INCREASE
SPEAKING SPEED
(Phil Frankenfeld, Washington)

3

REPORT
PHONE-USING DRIVERS
CALL 202-555-3147
(Mike Connaghan, Alexandria)

2 The winner of "The Worst Picture Ever Painted":

HONK IF YOU'RE
AN IMPATIENT MORON
(Art Grinath, Takoma Park)

And the Winner of the Inker:

NOW ENTERING
THE WILSON BRIDGE
SCENIC REST AREA
(Lisa Younce, Key West)

And a Few More for the Road

REST STOP CLOSED
CROSS LEGS
NEXT 23 MILES
(Sue Lin Chong, Baltimore)

SHOW US
YOUR HEADLIGHTS!
(Jay Shuck, Minneapolis)

IF YOU LIVED
IN YOUR CAR YOU'D
BE HOME BY NOW
(Elwood Fitzner, Valley City, N.D.)

HAVE YOU
BELTED YOUR KIDS?
(Bird Waring, New York)

WHATEVER YOU DO
DO NOT LOOK IN
YOUR REARVIEW MIRROR
(Bruce Alter, Fairfax Station)

BRAKE! BRAKE!
NEVER MIND.
MY BAD.
(Kevin Mellema, Falls Church)

END ROAD WORK
I MEAN IT.
END IT NOW!
(Lawrence McGuire, Waldorf)

DO THIS
DON'T DO THAT --
CAN'T YOU READ?
(Stephen Litterst, Ithaca, N.Y.; Stephen Dudzik, Olney)

BRINKS TRUCK
SPILL AHEAD
EXPECT DELAYS
(Barbara Turner, Takoma Park)

DETOUR AHEAD:
HARBOR TUNNEL
UNDER WATER
(Marty McCullen, Gettysburg, Pa.)

NON-TEXT PORTIONS
OF THIS MESSAGE
HAVE BEEN REMOVED
(Jay Shuck)

TUNE RADIO TO AM
FOR POOR
SOUND QUALITY
(Russell Beland, Springfield)

KEEP KICKING YOUR
BROTHER -- DAD CANT
TURN THE CAR AROUND
(Jonathan L. Kang, Washington)

HITTING STATE
INSECT: $200 FINE
(Michael G. Peck, Alexandria)

PUT DOWN THE PHONE
NOW AND NO ONE
WILL GET HURT
(Melissa Yorks, Gaithersburg)

3 CAR CRASH AHEAD
1 IS FLIPPED
BEST VIEW LEFT LANE
(Michael Platt, Germantown)

WASHINGTON 1
NEW YORK 229
WP: GLAVINE LP: ORTIZ
(Dan Seidman, Watertown, Mass.)

2 RDS DIVERGE,
SORRY YOU
CANNOT TRAVEL BOTH
(Brendan Beary, Great Mills)

HEY YOU IN THE H2
PULL OVER SO WE
ALL CAN SMACK YOU
(Michael Doughten, Arlington)

ALL LANES
EXACT CHANGE
TOLL 1.95
(David Kleinbard, Jersey City)

HONK IF YOU'RE IN
AN UNMARKED CAR
(Lisa Younce, Key West, Fla.)

YOU IN THE PORSCHE!
YOU GONNA LET THAT
PRIUS PASS YOU?
(Art Grinath)

I'M JUST DOING THIS
TILL I GET A GIG AS
A BROADWAY MARQUEE
(Brendan Beary)

IN CASE OF RAPTURE
HELP YOURSELF TO
UNATTENDED VEHICLES
(Alexander D. Mitchell IV, Baltimore)

ORDER 8X10S NOW
OF YOUR TRAFFIC
VIOLATION PHOTO
(Kevin Dopart)

ROCK 1 MI
FOREIGN POLICY 2 MI
HARD PLACE 3 MI
(Russell Beland)

DAYS SINCE LAST
SIGN-FALLING
ACCIDENT: 02
(Mike Connaghan)

EXITING DC
KEEP FAR RIGHT
NEXT 2500 MI
(Kevin Dopart)

RIGHT LANE ENDS
500 INCHES
(Jon Reiser, Hilton, N.Y.)

SLOW TO 45 MPH
WHEN DROPPING OFF
PASSENGERS
(Elden Carnahan, Laurel)

TIME: 417 PM
-- OR IT WAS WHEN
WE SET THIS THING
(Jay Shuck)

ARE WE THERE YET?
ARE WE THERE YET?
ARE WE THERE YET?
(Joseph Newman, Bethesda)

YOUR WAIT TIME TILL
NEXT ACCIDENT:
APPROX 4 MINUTES
(Brian Fox, Charlottesville)

GAS THIS EXIT --
MUST BE PRE-APPROVED
FOR FINANCING
(Drew Bennett)

COULD SOMEONE
PLEASE EXPLAIN
TODAY'S ZIPPY?
(Jay Shuck)

CONSTRUCTION AHEAD
A BIG DELAY EXPECTED
MEN WRITING HAIKU
(Tiffany Getz, Manassas)

THRU TRAFFIC KEEP LEFT
HAHA! LIKE U R MOVING!
I CRACK MYSELF UP!
(Cheryl Davis, Arlington)

NO HUMMERS
PERMITTED
PLEASE BUCKLE UP
(Art Grinath)

ANY OF YOU KNOW
HOW TO TURN OFF
THE CAPS LOCK?
(Kim Herman, Centreville)


Laugh. Or....
Else.