PunkKittyDiddy

R.I.P. George

Why is it that the Grim Reaper shows up pretty much like clockwork to cull the smart, sassy, gutsy, feisty, freethinking and groundbreaking ones, while Paris Hilton or Britney Spears give that whole mortality concept the finger as they repeatedly get plastered, climb into a convertible sports car and drive the winding roads of the Hollywood Hills with apparent impunity? 

OK, so Carlin was 71, but it still feels premature.  Along those lines, it also feels like the above-noted dimwitted dingledwarves and their kind, regardless of their relative youth, have been plaguing society for forever already.

George was one of my favorites.  I'm just another fan, and this is just another homage, but I thought I'd revisit some of my favorite Carlinisms in memoriam - actually, pretty much everything he said was my "favorite," so it's more appropriate to consider these just a random assortment:

• Think of how stupid the average person is, and realize half of them are stupider than that.
• Honesty may be the best policy, but it's important to remember that apparently, by elimination, dishonesty is the second-best policy.
• Have you ever noticed that anybody driving slower than you is an idiot, and anyone going faster than you is a maniac?
• I have as much authority as the Pope, I just don't have as many people who believe it.
• What if there were no hypothetical questions?
• If a pig loses its voice, is it disgruntled?
• When someone is impatient and says, "I haven't got all day," I always wonder, How can that be? How can you not have all day?
• Swimming is not a sport; swimming is a way to keep from drowning.
• I don’t own a camera, so I travel with a police sketch artist.
• I went to a bookstore and asked the saleswoman, "Where's the self-help section?"
  She said if she told me, it would defeat the purpose.
• If man evolved from monkeys and apes, why do we still have monkeys and apes?
• If the "black box" flight recorder is never damaged during a plane crash, why isn't the whole airplane made out of that stuff?
• If you try to fail, and succeed, which have you done?
• Is it true that cannibals don't eat clowns because they taste funny?
• May the forces of evil become confused on the way to your house.
• One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.
• Whose cruel idea was it for the word "Lisp" to have a "S" in it?
• Why is it called tourist season if we can't shoot at them?
• Atheism is a non-prophet organization.

The Miraculous Stunt Wallet!

I recently developed an ingenious device intended to spare me from both immediate financial crisis and longer-term economic inconvenience.  I hereby reveal to you all (particularly those of you who are parents to toddlers) my new invention:  the Stunt Wallet.

As dear Z. quickly encroaches upon the rocky terrain of terrible two-dom, one of her favorite games is removing my wallet from my purse and scattering the contents like chum in shark-infested waters.  If you think this description carries with it an overbearing stench of melodrama, you try retrieving a wad of currency once it has been cast to the winds in a public park, or finding a debit card that has been buried in a polyester tomb of sofa cushions and further encrusted within an impenetrable seal of food crumbs and lint by a tiny criminal mastermind who, even after being caught and questioned about the crime, reveals herself to possess both a maddening lack of fluency in English and a wholesale disregard for authority.

So I was cleaning out my closet (sort of) and found an old wallet of mine that contained a number of expired credit cards, frequent shopper cards, depleted gift cards, and so on.  After doing a bit more rummaging in random desk and kitchen drawers and rarely used (these days) evening bags, I located other similar items, and even an expired driver's license of mine from another state.  A stickler for detail, I then gathered up a smattering of Monopoly money just to complete the illusion.  Oh yes - from these raw materials I quickly forged a highly authentic-looking Stunt Wallet!  I placed it in an easily reached, even conspicuous locale within my handbag and waited to observe the amazing Stunt Wallet in action.  Would the results of my field study back up my hypothesis that I am in fact a genius, or at least a moderately clever person?

No.  It seems Z. can readily find gainful employment working for any number of local, national or even international law enforcement type agencies who run any sort of elite Counterfeit Task Force.  She sniffed out the impostor wallet within seconds, and after examining its contents all too briefly (I wasn't clocking her speed or anything, but I estimate it was about one-twentieth of the time it took me to actually assemble my invention), she tossed the offending item aside in her haste to locate the real deal.

Still, feel free to borrow the idea.  Your mileage may vary.  

Euro 2008: Germany 3 - Portugual 2

  Portugal got spanked.  I'm glad, because Ronaldo is such a sissy boy.  I don't care how many goals he's scored.

Incidentally, it wasn't my intention to provide consistent coverage of Euro 2008, but damn it, the players have such awesome-sounding names.  Like the first goal by Germany today came courtesy of Schweinsteiger!

Rock me, Amadeus!

Hey - what if Turkey and Germany wind up playing each other?  My tongue will explode in an ecstatic splatter of guttural consonant splendor!  Ugur Boral going toe to toe with Herr Schweinsteiger?!?!?!?  Good NIGHT, nurse! 

 

Euro 2008: France 0 - Italy 2

 I'm sorry, but both the Italian and French teams are overflowing with players who display a capacity for near-menstrual levels of hysteria and melodrama.  I haven't seen this much gratuitous writhing in the supine position since we subscribed to the premium cable package that included those after-hours nudie movies on Cinemax.

I do miss Zidane, though.  At least he gave those noodle-noshers something to actually cry about.

Euro 2008: Turkey 3 - Czech Republic 2

Of course Turkey was a shoe-in.  They have players named Volkan, Gokhan and, best of all - Ugur Boral.  Their manager is nicknamed, "The Emperor."  I'm guessing these guys had ancestors who waged decades-long campaigns to plunder, pillage and annex their way across entire continents without blinking (or bathing, by most accounts). 

What's 90 minutes of kicking a ball around a piddly little patch of grass?!

Sex Sells, But a Whiff of Disembowelment Also Piques Interest

Sometimes a news headline just leaps off the page (or computer screen) at you for inexplicable reasons.  Like this tidbit, fresh off the AP presses:

"Ringleader of Body Parts Scheme Apologizes"

You bet I clicked the link.  In my defense, maybe my interest in this story isn't purely macabre.  There are common sense considerations here.  Like, does this guy live next door to me?  Also, out of curiosity, how does an apology for "looting hundreds of corpses" go?  I often struggle to deliver a basic, "Uh...sorry..." to I.G. if I snap at him over something stupid at the end of a long day.  How does one find the words to express regret over conducting illicit and illegal acts of Frankenstein-ian magnitude?  (The once-regal host of Masterpiece Theatre, Alistair Cooke, was apparently but one of the unlucky cadavers to be carved up unceremoniously like a Thanksgiving turkey in this enterprise.  I wonder if his organ recipient found him- or herself weirdly infused with a sudden and uncharacteristic preference for gentle drawing room comedies and brisk cups of tea.)  

I'm generally a big fan of recycling, but I think one should draw the line when terms like, "body snatcher" are getting bandied about......

Now, If Only Twinkies Imparted Spiritual Awakening or Social Responsibility.....

Word of the day:  metacognition.

It means, "thinking about thinking."  I stumbled across it quite by accident as I planted wee Z. in front of the TV to watch Blue's Clues.  Prior to the commencement of the episode in question, a message appeared upon the TV screen, bearing the news that this seemingly innocuous kiddie show actually develops "metacognition" in its viewers.  So, basically, I was subjecting my preschooler to a potentially potent force of unknown subjective origins (good?  evil?) without having any idea what I was doing.  I mean, sure, I could piece together the gist of it.  I know "meta."  And I know "cognition."  Yet I exposed her to a concept whose meaning I had to confirm in a dictionary before I could fully grasp the repercussions. 

Is that bad parenting?

Worse, what if metacognition had meant, "to instill an affinity for monster truck rallies and aerosol cheese" instead?  We would have been totally screwed, because I probably still would have let her watch it, since I had some freelance business to attend to and was desperate to buy myself a little uninterrupted time at the computer.

Every day brings a new obstacle course of moral and ethical tripwires in this marathon of parenthood.

Party, Party, Party! WHERE: Bottom of the Market! WHEN: Now! BYOTP! (Bring Your Own Toilet Paper!)

By all accounts, the housing market (both on a local and national level) isn't looking the least bit pretty.  I've read scores of recent articles in which experts in both real estate and finance are insisting there is no foolproof means of timing the bottom of the market.  That's not stopping amateurs like me and my other half from obsessively pouring through MLS listings, a giant imaginary stopwatch ticking above our heads, encased in that cartoon bubble in which exclamations like, "D'OH!" or "#&@*#&^$!" normally reside. 

Despite what the experts might otherwise say, there is a pretty reliable sign that real estate armageddon is upon us, and this is it:  

I.G. and I are actually contemplating taking the plunge.  (If that's not a sign that the market has all but tanked, I don't know what is.)

So far, we're little more than casual tourists out for a Sunday drive through Pre-approval-ville.  We've obtained listings from a broker and are spending every waking moment pouring over an array of speculative and slightly horrifying mathematical hypotheses ("If we only eat every other day, and each sell a kidney on the black market, then could we afford this?").  We've spent several weekends now doing the obligatory drive-by ogling of prospective properties and have honed this exercise down to a maneuver of military precision - I.G. gunning for glory behind the steering wheel, with me alternately barking out map coordinates and casting one eye over my shoulder, wondering how much longer Z.'s napping prowess will hold up. 

Lots of junkers are well within our budget.  Alas, we don't possess the additional capital to actually de-junk 'em.  The houses we like (the clean-ish, vaguely habitable-looking ones) tend to have ga-zillions of offers are already on 'em, but we just aren't in a position to win any bidding wars (unless maybe we're pitted against a kindergardener clutching a penny-plugged piggy bank), so I'm wondering how many times our hopes will be dashed upon the rocky shores of prospective home ownership before even setting foot on dry land.  And as for the "location, location, location" mandate of real estate ownership?  I counter with, "Ha, ha, ha!"  If we do pull this off, we would be well and truly banished to the most remote netherregions of this giant metropolis we currently reside in.  I guess it's not all that surprising that lately I.G. and I lay in bed every night WIDE awake, twitching, eyes plastered open like crack addicts.     

Which doesn't stop us from imagining: 

• a life in which a torrent of rent money isn't gushing into the pocket of our landlord on a monthly basis;
• not sharing a room with the baby (beloved though she is); 
• not sobbing when our adored neighbors (who are parents to Z.'s first and so far only toddler friend) announce they are moving out of our cozy little four-plex and into a home of their own, because it turns out we're not the only ones afraid of living in apartment limbo forever with kids in tow;
• possessing an asset more valuable than a Wii; 
• hanging a picture or painting a wall without mentally deducting the repair cost from our security deposit every time;
• flopping a doormat down outside the front door with the word "HOME" on it, and having it be true in the literal sense.     

It's all so scarycrazyexhilaratingterrifyingfun.  We'll see what eventually transpires.  We have a pretty decent life as is - not the end of the world if we can't pull this off.  And hanging out here, poised just beneath the bottom of the market, maybe all we'll have to show for it is getting crapped upon in the end.  But it's still inspiring to aim for something higher.

Fast but Filling Film Fun at the Film Floozy Cafe

Howdy, hon! 

If you're hungry for a bit of hooey, please stop next door at the Film Floozy Cafe and grab yourself a seat.  I'll pour you a hot steamin' cup of hogwash and serve up some fresh- (albeit half-) baked mutterings about movies.  While it's none of that fancy gourmet gab that you can expect from serious film critics, the portions are generous, and I can dish it out like nobody's business.  Yup, the Film Floozy is nothing if not hot, fast and cheap............. 

Today's special is No Country for Old Men - a meaty slab of shoot 'em up action paired with sharp dialogue and smothered in a tangy neo-noir sauce, served with a side of extra-crusty Tommy Lee Jones.

Or, if you're hankering for lighter fare, help yourself to the fluffy little fragment in which I writhe in estactic anticipation over the upcoming release of Mamma Mia, the movie.....

All this and more, available 24/7 - there's always fast but filling film fun at the Film Floozy Cafe!  Come on by!

  

"Me, Toddler! You, Hapless Servant Whose Sole Purpose Is To Do My Bidding For The Rest of Your Life!"

Z.'s newest, most favorite word in the entire English language is, "Mine!"

She's not all that concerned with the standard technicalities affiliated with its usage, either.  She will grab things that aren't hers and wield the word loudly, without blinking.  In fact, if you were to conduct a random inventory as she stood by your side in the middle of any candy aisle or toy store, in which no actual purchases had yet been made on her behalf, she would nonetheless confidently stake her claim on everything in sight - or at least those items that other toddlers were showing an interest in.  

Shortly after she started using this word in what I deemed at the time to be incorrect fashion, I chimed in with the earnest attempts to correct her - at first offering a simple, "But, uh...that's not yours!" or "No, honey, that belongs to your friend there......!", and quickly working my way up to, "Actually, that belongs to your daddy - it's a very expensive daddy toy!  It's called a Blackberry!  Which buttons have you pressed there?  Please tell me you didn't just dial your grandparents!  Not the ones in England?!  Good lord, it's peak useage time, and we have the after hours package!  Do you have any idea to what extent our current calling plan frowns upon such things??!?!?!"

The derision with which she has regarded me during these little exchanges eventually convinced me that this is not an issue of incorrect usage after all. 

It turns out that few toddlers her age are able to speak in complete sentences.  It's a whole minimalist Tarzan thing they've got going on.  Whereby, "Eat!" is spoken in lieu of, "I'm rather famished, dear mother - could you possibly procure some delectable food items for my dining pleasure?"  And so on.  Who knew??!?!  (Besides all the more experienced parents out there.  Me, I'm still winging it, because I never seem to have enough time to read far enough ahead in the relevant chapters of the relevant parenting books.)

So Z. simply does not yet possess an ample enough vocabulary to preface, ".......mine!" with additionally informative and descriptive verbiage along the lines of, "I declare this...." 

I stand corrected.