Category Archives: Mookie’s Thoughts

World Ending . . . News at 11 . . . . AKA, Mookie Ponders the Simple Joys

When the world turns south, the humor wanes . . . and then when it has gone so far south that it begins coming back around and going north again just so it can turn around and go south some more . . . well, at some point the humor returns, if only in a “Oh, my crap, can you BUHLIEVE?” sorta way. And that’s where I am this cold, rosey day. Hear that sound? It’s the sound of savings evaporating, 401Ks draining, and all your plans for the Good Life waving goodbye as it drives away in your 2010 Camaro to vacation in Hawaii with your dreams of retiring one day!

As I contemplate our worsening economy, all the cliches comes to mind:

– Tough times pass; tough people remain.

– Trying times are times for trying.

– This too shall pass.

– Leggo my Eggo.

– Remember, no matter where you go, there you are.

Ah, so much wisdom. But, after the initial fear that we will never experience the ‘Good Life’ again, what I find is that when things get difficult we focus on the basics of life, and on the simple joys (my wife calls them the “simple mercies”). For me, they are (or at least include) the following:

– Waking up to the smell of bacon frying.
– Stories told by seven year olds (” . . . and then, . . . . and then, . . . and then, . . . “)
– Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon”
– Watching your boy enjoy little league football
– Baking a pie and having people actually enjoy eating it
– Chicken noodle soup
– Honest pay for honest work
– The prayers of a three-year old
– A good book and a whole uninterrupted Sunday afternoon to enjoy it
– A wife who likes playing video games and watching movies until 3am
– Chips and salsa
– Walking in the rain
– The look on your son’s face as he tells you about getting his first job
– Comforting your daughter in the middle of the night after a bad dream
– Playing catch
– Serving others
– Raking leaves
– Finishing a book
– Fixing a leaky faucet
– Chocolate milk

I guess my point is, when the world sidles up to The Brink, count your many blessings, and remember where the Good Life is really found.

And that’s all I have to say about that

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Will Someone PLEASE Fix This Kid’s Face?!

Has anyone else out there been bombarded with the online ads featuring the following unfortunate child:

Will someone please fix this kids face already?  I mean I hate to be all problematic and unfeeling and all, but this kid’s face has been ooging me out for months now.  Everywhere I go — Yahoo, Drudge Report, Boston.com — I’m greeted by this kid’s mug.  OKAY — I GET IT — there’s kids out there that need help, and we need to be more caring, and we need to give of our plenty to remedy their lack — but I’ve given, and I gave again at the office, yet this kid is still staring at me as I try to check ball scores.  Just sew the kid’s face up already.  See, I can’t do it — I’m here, and I don’t know how to fix the kid even if I were there . . . but you, the person posting this picture, you had the kid in your clutches at one point, and I’m hoping to the great Is above that right after you took the kid’s picture you had the common sense to take the kid to a doctor to fix that hole in his head.  How’s the poor kid eating soup?

So, again, I don’t want to be unfeeling or anything — best wishes to the kid, and I’ll contribute again next paycheck, and Kumbaya, and just say no, and all the other PC cliches and catch-phrases — but let me just conclude with another plea:  WILL SOMEONE PLEASE FIX THIS KID’S FACE?!

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My One Subway Critique

Mookie here; not dead, just way too busy — what with work, and vacation, and work, and so on and so forth. Don’t have much time, and I certainly do not want to detract from the hilarious musings spewing forth from my Hetero Life Partner Skippy, but I did want to chime in with a brief crumb that has wedged its way between my back molars . . . and it is all related to our favor-ite good-food-served-quickly restaurant, Subway!

Okay, so what is it with the Subway Sandwich Technicians that they cannot, for the life of them, cut a foot long sandwich in half ALL THE WAY THROUGH?!

I only have my own experiences to go by, but in the Umpty-Thousand times I have gone to Ye Olde Subway and ordered my Footlong Sandwich Du Jour, when I have settled in, unwrapped, and gone to begin upon a half, the sandwich has NEVER (and I repeat NEV-ER) been cut all the way through — there is always a little piece of the bread on the bottom, by the “hinge” (that’s Mookie-Speak for the portion of the sub-bun attaching the top and bottom halves), that is still attached . . . let’s call it the “Lepticus”. The result of a Lepticus is that, to one extent or another, the Sub Eater (that’s me) has a difficult time separating the two halfs of the Sub resulting, in the mildest Lepticus instance, in a slight delay to your Sub enjoyment as you rip the Lepticus, to, in the most severe Lepticus instance, a wholesale dismantling of the sandwich as you try and rip through a particularly tenacious Lepticus which tears the Sub not at the Lepticus but half-way down one side or another of the Sub thereby spilling the delicious goodness inside and turning your sublime Sub into nothing better than an oblong open-faced sandwich.

This just will not do.

So, perhaps this is just me (if it has happened to others, please leave a comment and let me know — perhaps I will start a petition), but to the good gods of Subway, to the Subway Sandwich Technicians and SST Trainers, to the officers, directors and shareholders of Doctors Associates, Inc., and its network of franchisees worldwide — PLEASE, slice true, and slice well, and rid the world of the nefarious Lepticus! We, the Sub Eaters of the world, thank you.

These are the problems I face on a daily basis; in thy mercy; Amen.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

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We Love you George

I’m having a stark vision of George Carlin at the Pearly Gates, but the only thing running through my mind is,

“What are you, the Statute of Liberty, Dunn?”

“Oh, sorry Father.  Anyhow, Father–let’s say that you didn’t make your Easter Duty.  And it’s Pente-cost Sunday; the last day.  And you’re on a ship at sea.  And the chaplain goes into a coma.  But you wanted to receive.  And then it’s Monday, too late…but then you cross the International Date Line!”

Here’s hoping that all your Heavy Mysteries are now answered, George, and that Buddy Christ has welcomed you and Cardinal Glick home.

Rest in Peace.

(Note From Skippy: The YouTube link below is of the longer version of the bit that Mookie’s excerpt comes from.  If you have never heard it – set aside 10 minutes and listen.  If you have heard it, I think you’ll find it is as funny as it ever was.)

 

 

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I’m Free! I mean–I’m Here!

No, Skippy did not kill me — though the means, and how he’d hide the body, did seem to jump quickly to mind, there Skip’, eh?

Frankly, the Skipster is much more talented than I in the whole writing-of-the-words thing. And much more entertaining. The whole idea for the blog came from the fact that Skippy is a 33rd Degree Master Rant-ster. I’ve been laughing at him his ideas his comedic stylings for YEARS. He’s Komedy with a Kapital K!

Yes; I have been preoccupied for the last little bit, and I have been neglectful in letting the juices flow on our little page here. Too much work; which in this economy is a good thing. My current projects at the office are taxing on my little brain, so when I get done at the end of the day I have sufficient neuron firing capacity to play with my kids, watch the Magic Picture Box, and follow the on-field heroics of my beloved BoSaux.

Also, I forgot the password, but luckily my wife’s machine had it memorized, so here I am!

So I’m enjoying my brand new Latitude/Longitude DoorMat,

and I think to myself, “Why don’t people go to museums more.” So today I decided to fix that and took Boy 2 and Girl 1 and meandered on down to Ye Olde Air & Space Museum.

And what I found was, actually, lots of folks go to the Air & Space Museum on a Saturday in June. So, we’re walking around, enjoying the national treasures, historic achievements and overall museumy goodness, and as I’m wandering through the narrow hallways of the Aircraft Carrier display–next to a Vulcan Gatling Gun used for carrier point defense–I get a whiff of B.O. that would kill a goat. I look around to spot the culprit and it’s obviously the middle-aged gentleman in the khakis and blue oxford with the David-Crosby-right-before-he-left-The-Byrds-full-head-of-bushy-shoulder-length-hair, and I’m thinking, “Dude!?” I mean, this was stink that even stink would think was stink. I could almost see the BO cloud seeping off this guy. It was like a mix of carrots and throw-up, with shards of little stale yogurt and hair cream. So here I am, with my children, in the narrow confines of the fake Aircraft Carrier thinking, “How do I get out of the display, with kids in tow, and NOT have to wade through this guys wake?” Lucky for me this guy was way into Aircraft Carrier point defense (or else he saw my involuntary retch), because he did not try to follow as I pushed my children through the hatch into the Pri-Fly display and out onto the “bridge” to escape the guy.

But what I’m thinking is, “Does this guy not know that that stench he can’t escape is him?” How does that work? I mean, after a day of exertion I can get ripe–I’m not saying that man-stink is not a fact of life we all deal with. But it’s not like I was in a 7-11 at midnight, or in line at the DMV at 6:30am — it was 10:30 in the flippin morning in a museum! I don’t expect the museum going public to dress in their -Sunday-go-to-Meetin’ clothes, but some awareness of personal hygiene is simply safe for the Common Good of society, no? And we’ve all smelled these guys. Do they have no one in their life who’s willing to say, “Hey, Emmett, you stink. Here’s a hot shower and some Lava. Keep scrubbing until the water runs clear, and then slather on Old Spice until your skin burns.” If the guy was homeless that may be one thing, but this guy was obviously not homeless — just hopelessly clueless, or criminally uncaring of the welfare of others.

So, please, Emmet, or David, or whatever your name was — if you’re out there within the sound of my voice, please, for the sake of the children, get some help. And maybe a trim, because, man, not even David Crosby can rock the David Crosby look.

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Camaro — Why doesn’t my Wife Understand?

Okay, see, here’s the thing — in the first quarter of 2009 Chevy is coming to market with an early 2010 model Camaro based closely on the concept car they introduced in 2006.  It will premiere with the coupe in three trim levels, with the convertible coming later in the year. . . . .

And I want one.

And my wife, for the life of her, cannot understand why.

And, to be wholly honest, I don’t fully understand myself.  But just the same . . . . I really, really want one.

Granted, I was taken in by the concept car — the sleek lines, the low profile, the chrome and leather interior with just the right mix of retro and modern.  I was taken IN.  And now it appears the production model will closely mirror the concept, particularly in the interior styling.

Now, I’ve never been a “car” guy.   Though my Daddy taught me all about how to service cars, since I’ve had my own I’ve always Jiffy Lubed it.  And it’s not like I spend a lot of time handwashing and waxing my car — I don’t.  I’ve never tinkered with the engine, or added ground effects, or even tinted the windows.  I’m not a CAR guy.

But for some reason, I’m really in the mood to get behind the wheel of my own American Muscle car.  It almost feels like a right of passage that I never passed through.  When I was a teen our family had a whole slew of cars.  I learned to drive in a 7 year old Volvo Station Wagon — thing was friggin tank, and then quickly transitioned over to a Dodge Colt which I think my dad found in an oversized box of Cracker Jack.  And we had an 8 passenger Ford Van with a V-8 engine, two gas tanks and a fold out rear seat.  They were great (the Van almost killed me, but that’s another story), but I never had the sports car experience at that age. 

Since then I’ve mostly been an SUV guy.  Yep, I’m one of those — a guy who lives in the suburbs, in a temperate state, where we have significant snowfall maybe once every three years, but I MUST have a Four Wheel Drive capability at all times.  I had a couple of Ford Explorers, which were great, but they acccelerated like a grizzly bear after a large meal.  I’m currently sporting a Toyota 4Runner (the Vomit Comet–but that’s also another story) which I have loved, but I’m starting to feel the need for something lean and mean.

Which is part of the problem.  I’m not just a guy; I’m a Dad.  And I have more than 1.5 children; which means that having a sports car will mean having to take the Mini Van anytime I want to take them all somewhere without the Mom (and No, my reluctance to drive the Mini Van isn’t some misogynistic gag-reflex–it’s just that our Mini Van rocks that oh-so-lovely french fries and kid-sweat smell) — and taking the kids somewhere without the Mom is one of the great treats to being a Dad.

But regardless — the Camaro wish is still there (the kids will take turns going with Dad, right?), and I’m wanting the Wife to put away the crook eye and look forward to our first speeding ticket in my Mid-Life-Crisis-Mobile!

Maybe she’s right.  It’s not too practical.  Gas mileage is too low; new models are too expensive; too few passengers; increased insurance premiums . . . . .  She’s right, I’ll look like a creepy, middle-aged poser trying without success to re-live a youth best left in the past.  Instead I should act my age and buy a used, hybrid station wagon . . . . 

 

NAW  —  CAMAROS ARE COOL, AND EVERYONE KNOWS IT!!!

 

And that’s all I have to say about that. . . . .

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The Other Side of the Great Mayo Debate

Skippy, Skippy, Skippy . . . though I will concede a particular dislike to the notion of mayonnaise mixed with a good salami or pepperoni (as we all know, the most sensual of the salted, cured meats), and a true gag reflex to the story you tell about the mayo-bacon soup you say that woman ordered, you cannot so simply dismiss the subtle yet quintessential role that mayonnaise plays in the proper sandwich.

In mayonnaise we have a connection to the Old World, where mayonnaise has a history dating back to the mid 18th Century, and where it has been a staple of French cuisine.  Ambrose Bierce, and American journalist of that time, wrote that that mayonnaise is “One of the sauces which serve the French in place of a state religion.”  It is the base for such culinary staples as aioli, sauce remoulade Thousand Island Dressing and Tartar sauce.

In the properly constructed sandwich, a thin layer of mayo on each slice of bread forms a moisture barrier keeping the juicy tomato, the plucky pickle, and the spicy relish from turning the sandwich into a soggy ball of mush.  The mayo also allows for structural integrity by allowing for adhesion among the various sandwich-strata, allowing for the proper ratio of ingredients in each bite. 

Without mayo we would not enjoy the ease of Tuna salad sandwiches; the joy of Egg salad sandwiches; the mystery of Seafood salad sandwiches; the versatility of Ranch Dressing; nor the sublime joy of a properly mixed Fry Sauce.  Mayonnaise and the good ol’ American Hamburger?  No Summer delight can rival the savory sauce created by a grilled hamburger patty nestled in a fresh bun spread with a light layer of mayonnaise sprinkled with a few grinds of black pepper — one of the true culinary gems of the Backyard Grill Warrior.

OH MAYO, WE MOURN THE RECENT MALIGNING OF THY NAME, AND PROMISE TO MAKE GREATER EFFORT TO EXPOUND THY GOODNESS AND VERSATILITY IN THE REALM OF GOOD CUISINE SERVED QUICKLY.  IN THY MERCY, Amen.

So, again, I concede it is not to be gooped about mindlessly, nor served unjudiciously — but used properly it is truly a marvel that deserves our love and respect.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Mookie

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