When Hughie met Kristi

"You know, I have a theory that hieroglyphics are just an ancient comic strip about a character named Sphinxy." Harry Burns as played by Billy Crystal in When Harry met Sally (1989).

My wife and I have a yearly tradition. Every year, on December 31st, we take a half-drunk pilgrimage to our sofa and plop down to watch the movie "When Harry met Sally". A silly custom perhaps, and we have both seen it so frequently that we usually fall fast asleep in each other's arms - well normally she nestles her head gently into my shoulder.
Seems a bit redundant...
Not so much so as say waking up every morning at the exact same time, listening to Snap, Crackle and Pop - every morning, drinking your triple-shot, no foam, Kefir latte - every morning, driving the same route, seeing the same people day in and day out, witnessing the same crappy immobilizing headlines - everyday, wishing you had another one those ridiculously, long-named specialty coffee drinks that makes you feel like someone, when everyone in the same office is drinking the same damn thing, despite the fact that the apathetic barista has suggested that he would rather use that drink as an enema instead of a beverage...
We do not need to go out anymore. I have sewn my wild oats... I have a whole damn field of these fiber-rich experiences that should be harvested and burned. Japan. New York, Korea, West Virginia, California...
Everywhere that I have gone has been at some stupid point or other a personal conquest to philander, pillage and loot...
I am not proud.
My wife and I sit to watch this because we reflect on our past, and look to a future and we do it together. And the story, if you have never seen it is simple as Sally states it as they listen to "Auld Lang Syne" - "It's about old friends"
I'll take it a step further, and add experiences.
Life, folks, is not about getting from point A to point B, it is about the whole trip - those interruptions, sudden and unexpected... wonderful. Very cliche - very true.
And I guess that is what I have learned this year, as it slowly trails off into oblivion. It's not about politics; I don't care what monarchy is ruling the country. I am not paying any mind to the environment; I can probably be a better steward. Life is not about getting famous or rich, because those are such fleeting notions.
It is about interruptions and relationships. Our lives grow richer with them. Not from sitting passively on our enlarging backsides watching over-priced flat screened talking tools, dishing out affactual, opinionated news pitches.
You - make the news.
Our lives are short. I have been to parties. I have seen fireworks. And I have been inebriated.
As my wife puts our daughter to sleep for the evening, I have sat with her and watched this one silly movie every year, allowing us to reflect our lives, and what we can expect to be surprised about next year. We rest.
You should too.
Do us all a favor? Turn off the robot Dick Clark and Ryan Seamist. Put down the remote, walk over to some special and love them. Tell them that they are the first thing you want to see when you wake up and the last thing you want to see when you close your eyes.

God Bless you all!

The Barney Retrospective

Why in this world where uncertainty looms over all of us like a dark spector, was there ever created (even though dated) the likes of one Barney - aka "The Purple Dinosaur Sensation"?
Somewhere in the time since my daughter's birth, was given to my wife and I a recording of Barney. The recording of this once very popular children's program deals specifically with Mother Goose rhymes.
It's cute! Garsh darn it all, but it is!
I have watched this program several times, and never alone mind you. My daughter, at first, was as mindless of the program as I was turned off by it, and now she is becoming more aware, as I am becoming mindless of the multitudes of obnoxious candy-colored scenes and backgrounds - not to mention Barney's own much heralded optimism.
"Super-diiiiii-duper!!!"
I remember being younger and thinking to myself that a person would simply have to be nuts or high to watch this bilk. Indeed, I was part of a more subtle, less controversial Mister Roger's Neighborhood and I placed a great deal of stock in the "Electric Company", which starred the very young Morgan Freeman, Bill Cosby, and the timeless Rita Moreno.
I am indeed dating myself.
But Barney, the purple dinosaur...
Why this program is built on this non-sensical, over-stimulated, super-compliant, cult-like exuberance! It's nuts - I tells ya - nuts! If Barney tells your kids to drink the Kool-Aid, why he's so nuts about it himself that they all just might do it.
When Barney asks for help, the kids on the program jump with hypnotized smiles at the chance.
Weird.
And then there are the colors. In Japan, when Pokemon was sweeping the nation, there was a national complaint that the multitude and the frequencies between electric colors were so energized that they were sending kids into convulsions and fits on their living room tatami mats. Flashes of bright reds and blues can put a lil' Japanese kid down faster than an elementary school bully. Barney uses these color schemes to make the kids more irritatingly optimistic - welcoming.
I recently bemoaned to my wife about how "joy" escapes me. She and my daughter both know how to make me smile, and I get aggravated when that pain in arse - reality, steps in and wriggles its ugly truth, but that Barney... that purple T-Rex, with his never-ending supply of love for the kids and creative optimism is starting to get my daughter's attention. She watches with her eyes half glued on him and then back on me watching her.
It is like some left-wing conspiracy where everything is rosy and pleasant, where the funds are never-ending and the land has become that of milk and honey.
What's wrong with that?
Under a set of Christian values, Barney is sort of the pinnacle of the way a human is supposed to be - minus the girth and purple skin of course. He is optimistic, joyful, unconditionally loving, educational...
It has always been said that it is hard to smile and harder to make someone else do it, but that it brightens the day of the person recieving it... who in turn gives it away. And maybe that's what Barney is all about.
Barney was perhaps created because these days when the norm is confrontation and anger, deception, perversity and greed - going the opposing direction is the new epitome of cool.
As for me, I have always tried to be like Marlon Brando or the Fonz - hair and all, but maybe, for the sake of my daughter, I should get myself a pair of bright purple pajamas and sing her some happy songs on my "guit-box".

The World According to... Trois

"Out of the kitchen came my mother, flushed and sparkly-eyed, bearing two wineglasses filled with the special Walgreen drugstore vintage that my Old Man especially favored. Christmas had officially begun. As they sipped their wine we plunged into the cornucopia, quivering with desire and the ecstasy of unbridled avarice." In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash - Jean Shepherd.

I am not always wrong. I can honestly say that in my forty-plus years of experience on this Earth, I am not always right. When it comes to useless trivia and word choices, I stand a pretty good chance of keeping the line above water. For those who may require proof of sorts I can offer the following:
- Instead of saying "peaceful" or "harmless", I may say "innocuous".
- Instead of replying to a driver who cut me off, while my daughter sits ignorant of what has transpired, with a swear or the profetic "middle finger", I may reply with a very subtle nod.
- And without pause I may say "elle a pété" instead of "She farted."
Imagine all this because I am not a m-o-r-on. Indeed, I have some sort of insight to the human psyche, and am really humble about it too.
Which brings me to this contradiction. I now know pretty much nothing, when it comes to babies.
Yes, they are cute. They smile and coo at the same unexpected moments that they will cry. When they are screaming madly, you can probably assume three things: wet diaper, hunger, or sleepy. And when the room that they are in smells, they have 99% of the time, really did a job to their diaper, which one may rest well in knowing that it will be sticky and that you will will have crap on your fingers, their fingers, their freshly washed clothing, and yours.
In all of this certainty, I felt fairly assured that our first Christmas with our daughter would be as described in an earlier story; however, I got it wrong. I assumed that we would all be sitting quietly on the sofa, while I read the baby to sleep. I assumed that upon waking and presents that she would be playing in a mountain of paper, when indeed she was sincerely only interested in her old familiar toys and in a freaky, cult-like Elmo robot that giggles and laughs, and says in a really creepy voice, "Elmo love you!" I assumed that on Christmas morning, we would awaken after a long sleep through the night with our eyes bright-eyed, when in fact we were still quite exhausted.
I am not complaining. I have no reason to.
Christmas is a celebration of all that is unexpected, where surprises are as joyous as the first walk in virgin snow - as joyous as holding hands and kissing under that mistletoe - as joyous as seeing the smiles on a little girl's face, first thing in the morning.
I am not always right, and I guess I am fine with that. Indeed, life is as unexpected as the reaction to Christmas gifts for a child not even a year old.

Candigram for Ms. Wisdom

... "Lay hold of my words with all your heart; keep my commands and you will live.
Get wisdom, get understanding; do not forget my words or swerve from them.
Do not forsake wisdom, and she will protect you; love her and she will watch over you.
Wisdom is supreme; therefore get wisdom. Though it cost you all have, get understanding. Esteem her and she will exalt you; embrace her and she will honor you. She will set a garland of on your head and present you with a crown of splendor." Proverbs 4:4-9

For how long have I been on this, life's journey? At least forty-one years, not including the time I raged in my mother's womb. I have legally been an adult for at the very least twenty of those years. Married twice. Once to the right lady. And we have one child, whom we protect and nurture to a feverish rage against anything that may harm her.
Yet, only up until recently, even with my worldly travels and riches (neither of which I continue to possess), I am still a simple dullard in search of understanding and wisdom.
It would be daft to state that I have learned nothing. Indeed, I have learned a considerable sum of trivia, the sad majority of such remains in the deep recesses of my brain - that solid trap of miraculously underused sponge. Moments flash where amidst my ever-defensive, self indulging utterances, when I, by some divine source, aspire to announce something entirely profane, timely, brilliant, or perform some feat that through past experiences - both good and bad - astounds not only myself, however those bearing witness.
The norm, if you will, is that I fall short miserably, and retire to a place where things are comfortable, and in my misery which is my lack of wisdom and understanding, I search for others who perhaps possess it; and my ignorance proves and tests itself in discovering that those whom I have gone seeking to discover what true brilliance - true wisdom disguises itself as are typically no better and in some cases a great deal worse, to which I am unpleasantly astounded. The intelligencia. The enlightened ones have as many shadows surrounding them as myself.
The current medium for public scrutinization is no different from a Greek forum, but for the sheer number of lollygaggers, fame and thrill seekers, idolaters, adulterers, miscreants, imbeciles, self-indulging and over-indulging boobs of all walks, and sadly I am one of these in the forum, with the only difference - believing that my journey is somehow unique...
...which it is not, but for grace.
I do not envy the violent, but long for the righteous.
I am defending my daughter and my wife against the wicked.
I am no longer in attendance of the multitudes, but instead will choose the select - who are seeking wisdom, understanding and righteousness.
To which, I will pray for that which I seek.
A once self-proclaimed wise man once told me, "You gain knowledge through the righteous works of others. You gain wisdom when you perform them." R.H.Harper

The World According to... duex

Christmas is a joyous time of the year, especially in our house, as it is our daughter's first Christmas. I have to admit that I am not jumping with wild anticipation over it though, and I have mentioned this to my customers and friends who ask.
"Aren't you excited about the baby's first Christmas?"
"Well, yeah, sure I am..."
"You don't sound like it."
In truth, I am excited; I hate to downplay it, but it just is not here as a holiday yet. This is our busiest time at the cafe, there really is not much in the way of down time to imagine what Christmas morning will look like in our little duplex, with the tiny "Charlie Brown" Christmas tree, which I only just put up. My neighbors have had every single blessed ornament, light, twinkle, nativity, ornament, bow, inflatable piece of crap in their yards since Halloween... and I can appreciate that. And it will remain there, undoubtedly until well after the 2010 New Year arrives, in all of its wrinkled, deflated and wind-sun damaged glory.
"What are you getting your daughter for her first Christmas?" They melt.
"Not much - just the paper, boxes and bows. And then we will throw them out."
Scrooge. They wrinkle their noses, and scratch their heads.
Our daughter is not even one year old. She can not (and maybe I am just assuming this) comprehend the holiday, the presents, The Christ Child, the creepy, bearded moron at the mall in the filthy, red costume, who smells of testosterone and booze. Presents are just going to be tossed aside for the crinkling sounds of the paper, which will amuse her the most, and her clothes will be in the washing machine and gently placed in her drawer to make room for her crawling and walking and screaming at a pitch and decibel that only the dog can appreciate.
On Christmas Eve, when the lights are turned down low, with the exception of our lowly, inherited Charlie Brown Christmas tree, I will perform a Harper family tradition, with the soft glow of the radio playing Silent Night in the background, my wife and I will curl up on the sofa, with our daughter in her soft, nurturing, maternal hands, I will read about the first Christmas - that wondrous sacrifice of the very beginnings of Christendom, and then as her young eyes melt away into a gentle slumber I will regale her with the story my father read to my brother and I - The Night Before Christmas - where the creepy Santa Clause is not at the mall, but in the narrator's house.

Moo's the word

"Please, don't. This isn't going to work. I'm not qualified at all for this..."



"Sure you are."



I wish at that very moment that I had not been such a story teller... a fibber...



Okay - a liar.

My first vacation in two years. Two long years, and I end up in beautiful Querto del Major, Mexico.



Hell, I didn't know that the city that I was in, was not a city at all - at least not in the sense of known reality.



Okay, I made it up.



I said it. Querto del Major, Mexico - this exotic Mexican city, located in a beautiful cul de sac, surrounded by mountains of lush green forest, a city blanketed by rust-colored sand and six foot tall cacti - its rustic city scape with the leathery-skinned senors smoking handrolled cigarillos, under homemade straw hats - crap. The children, 20 of the roundest little faces at Santa Maria's poco parque de niños diminuto, laughing and playing in the courtyard, under my window at 10 in the morning - not real. The young lady who draws my bath, pulls my bed sheets down - made up. The lovely senorita who's 8-ball black eyes and raven-like hair - whose smile is veiled behind her soft, tanned skin, softly whispering in my ear, how much she "Le amos" me - pure medacity.

Oh yeah, the bull that is raging wildly behind what appears to be a gate made of tissue paper - not real! Not real! 8000 pounds of steak, raw angry beef - probably hungry too - made up.

This gay looking torreador outfit, which fits surprisingly well over my groin and overstuffed shoulders - fake.

My fear - real.

When someone tells me that I am full of bull, I wonder if this is what they had in mind.

This lady pushes my into the ring.

Typical vacation. Pushed around by tour guides, vendors, forced to pay exhorbitant admissions for this and that and why not?

I wave my hand to the mob.

"I am so dumb!"

That big fat 8000 pound bull "Moos" and snorts. It's not one of those docile, domesticated sounds either - unless you consider Hell its previous residence.

I am sweating now.

This costume is riding up my crotch. Really sticky.

My stomach gurgles, either from nerves or that chimichunga I just ate.

The crowd - I can't hear them.

Say, what's that little guy doing down by the gate?

Crap!

My moustache is itchy.

Oh! He's a big fella!

I don't have a moustache.

Smoke escapes from his flaring nostrils. A train. He's a train with two large, round angry eyes.

"Merde!"

He sees me.

The crowd is muffled behind my heartbeat and my slow breathing, but the appear to be mouthing, "¡mate al bastardo!"

I am thankful for that lip reading class, but wish that I had studied my Spanish a little more.

Trouble.

Here he comes!

Big as a train! Bigger!

The man who opened the gate has dissappeared - just gone!

The ground shakes!

Angry!

Rage!

¡Dios Mio!

This is not real.

I made this up. The city. The old people. The Liliputians in the courtyard. The really hot senorita. The tights that fit so well. The moustache. The sword.

The bull has a man's skull on one of its razor sharp horns.

I can feel its hot, sulfur breath.

Not real!

He stops.

Dead!

My sword is stuck swinging in its bleeding neck.

The crowd cheers. The senorita swoons.

They weigh the beast in at 23,002 pounds, and 3 ounces. And I stand victorious and real once again.

Now, that's a lot of bull.

The Scotsman's Kilt (just a sample)

On that day, dampened with the rain dripping down his sullen face,
Came a dream, with striking blonde hair, wearin’ a fancy hooping dress.
She was a beauty; he beamed, curling his filthy, wildly gnarled beard.
Life had been sheep, before this winsome lass who all in sudden appeared.
Her dress, so fair, was enlarged by flairs and by hoops of metal and wire,
Not of the rugged hill he knew, she rolled down through mud and through mire.
His eyes they grew and curses they flew, as his legs did wildly flail,
To catch the lass, over jagged rocks and grass to sadly no avail.
Suddenly, there came at some surprise a brilliant, peculiar sky of blue.
The lord shined down upon his face, and as a bird on wing he flew.
Perhaps ‘twas his ‘tato sack kilt that slowed his risky flight and crash,
But down he fell to a boat from hell – one filled with disgusting trash.