She Certainly Can... CanCan Part II

Cell Phones with 'no minutes' serve as more than just paperweights. Our alarms would be set anywhere between 12:30 a.m. to 2 a.m. depending on which neighborhood we were set to pillage, adding in of course the time required to secure a rogue shopping cart, plastic bags, and safe arrival time. The most lucrative addresses were normally gang safe houses; Biker's occupied one form, Men Who Wore Red or Blue (Crips/Bloods) resided in the other. Neither was a safe place to be after dark.. or during the day for that matter if you weren't invited. After the risk was assessed by the Raccoon, he and the Scout had the daunting task of making a withdrawal after the lights were out.In the likely event there was to be climbing to a second floor balcony, it was to the advantage of the Scout to be a smaller frame than the other members. That made it easier for him to climb to where he 
needed to be, easier still for the Raccoon to 'hoist' him to where he needed to be, and then would begin the struggle between productivity with regard to low noise levels. His size would later be a major disadvantage when he was captured, cornered, or when he would disagree with the decisions made by the Raccoon. 

One group of favorite spots were massive party houses, they were organized by the owner's <everything in tidy piles>, there was enough loot to make any vagrant drool, and they were likely guarded by a 'Trespasser's Will Be Shot' sign. It was a deterrent to some, but not to those who knew most times these signs were as accurate as a McDonald's catchline. No one goes to the 'Golden Arches' with the inner thought 'I'm Lovin' It'. It's a last resort and everyone including the people who lick your cheeseburger before you eat it are in on the false advertising, they just hope you're stupid enough to 
'buy it' in every sense of those words. In time after time, night after night, we'd risked the sign and found they were camoflage at best; Our camp site had many of them surrounding our campfire. They made us feel somewhat safer.

The first times we'd gone to these locations, we'd worked the kinks out and streamed lined the process, since most of the loot was next to the houses we'd work to bring entire stacks, bags, and barrel's to outside of the yard and make the necessary arrangements to affix full plastic bags to the cart. 
Physic's rules apply here, the Ox can only fit five dollars of cans into the 'basket' of a shopping cart. When it's bottles he's reduced to four dollars in the easiest compartment, and he gets the added bonus of waking EVERYONE in earshot up as he makes his way as far from the original destination. 

Though I don't believe in magic I do believe in organization, physics, and creativity. That we <I> could commonly manage to fit and tranport over a hundred dollars of all of the above on a banner night defied all of these conceptions.

Bonus 'finds' were always appreciated. Not only would some people leave their empty container's in ridiculously open spaces in eyeshot, there were essentials that couldn't possibly be overlooked, or left behind. Rewards in the form of unopened beer in coolers, portable radio's, and yes even the 
occasional clothing item from a clothesline were reserved for the limited basket. Surrounded by empty 'decoy' booty we roamed the area knowing we'd make less noise when there was weight in the cart and items were concealing and minimizing the 'shock value' of bottles rattling in the wee hours of the morning. In the likely event we happened on more than 12 unopened beers work would be suspended until said containers were empty and once again had only the recyclable value of the other occupants. It's an unsuprising fact that after a number of beers during crucial concentration time, we would not only get careless regarding noise, we'd also get rather cocky so far as minding the decibels or 'p's and q's' for that matter.

I've said and will repeat the streets on these mornings were full of other occupants doing the legal version of what we were doing. 'They' would open and reseal bags of trash on the sidewalk, removing the three to ten cans that were often surrounded by used kitty litter or even worse. 'They' would be concerned with not tearing into the plastic bags so 'they' could be re-tied and no one would complain about the mess, 'they' did it quietly so no one could complain about the noise, and 'they' weren't completely repulsed by sticking their entire ungloved hand into a used diaper so long as up to fifty 
cents was the reward for covering themselves with someone elses fecal matter or rotten casserole. That these items were more regularly collected and shared smell and frequency upon discovery was what turned our operation a bit 'shady'. If there is a 'gray area' to be found, I'm admitting that our gray area was dark, very dark indeed. But, it was night and everything out there was dark, so who's vision is so 
sharp that the difference between 'smokey gray' and 'onyx black as night' is easily guaged? We weren't subtle at all, and when we 'celebrated' finding beer that required it's own form of recycling we were less subtle. Heart attacks are more subtle declarations than we were at times like this.

Mistakes would be made, both by the group and by it's individual members. The Scout would NOT be allowed to leave a balcony until 'every single can' was retrieved no matter how many lights came on, dogs barked, or people yelled out windows. The Raccoon was ruthless that way and wouldn't offer the 'help' down or out of these areas until the job was complete. The Raccoon might even threaten to leave 
you there, and without his protection the smallest member of the organization would be left to the original owner's of the aluminum, usually with horrible physical harm resulting. 

We had three different 'Scouts' that summer, including one that returned after such a night; His memory either hadn't fully grasped how terrible was his fate that night he left or the injuries erased said memories, for not closely 
following the strict retrieval rules of the Raccoon was punishable. That the Raccoon was ultimately 
revealed to be a dictator is another chapter. You're not the only one who's surprised this chapter never became very humorous. I'm working on it.

She Certainly Can... CanCan! Part I

I remember 'canning' or 'trolling for the nickel deposit on empty bottles and cans' for cigarette and vodka money during a rather 'odd' time in my life. Though I'm sure most people would rather omit this particular adventure from their memory, I choose to reserve a spot in my heart for it in the 'you-can-find-funny-anywhere-you-look-once-you-set-your-mind-to-it', but that's entirely different subject fodder.

Life is something that should be embraced in it's entirety, and if you've never been down and out? You simply haven't lived enough. If you've never been down and out and are now NOT currently down and out? You simply don't know if you can overcome enough, do you? I did, I laughed then, and I'm hoping we can all share a common thread of humor about it now. See what happens when you take criticizing yourself to a whole new creative level? 'Redemption' ensues... "Worst Pun... EVER!"

Three of us had paired together to form the 'Canning Team' that would redefine the entire scope of the task. From the attitude's of the people who did it singularly to the non-suspecting homeowner's who would ultimately rethink where to stash their bags of recyclable's, in a matter of weeks no one would be simply parking their cans under their back porches or balcony's. We were clever. We were thorough. We were tenacious. Frankly speaking? We were thirsty, nicotine addicted, and a bit selfish at the time. The money was there, it was nearly a 'victim-less crime', and there were so many other people doing the legal version of the same task it was nearly impossible to be caught, let alone prosecuted. If you have a modicum of pride you'll understand in our twisted way that 'working' for money  is still more respectable than holding a sign at a red light that says 'Will Drink For Food'.

Corny names detract from the story, and I'm not clever enough to conjur psuedonyms that are realistic sounding, so we'll reduce them to abbreviations and then to animals, shall we?

'R.M.' was the 'Scout'. His task during the sunlight hours was to roam the neighborhoods peering over fences and in general being on the lookout for bags under porches, stacked in backyards, or sheds that were either unlocked or had flimsy locks with plastic bags contained. The deduction was simple. If  'trash pickup day' had passed and these bags weren't picked up? There's a 75% chance that someone was 
saving their recyclable's until they had an amount that justified a trip to the recycling center. There was a chance they had compost, leaves or debris, but that chance was slim and we had all nite to follow up on locations that were worthy of a thorough search.

'B.Y.' was the 'Raccoon'. His task during the night hours were to lurk into the aforementioned yards, assess the risk in a sad equation format (movement sensitive lighting) + (proximity to the house) + (amount of loot) was combined with our (necessity and talent) + (how daring we were on that 
particular night) = SCORE. If the chance of reward was equal or greater than our likeliness to be caught? In a nod it was decided that it was a 'done deal' or just a 'pass by' until the reward grew or the risk lessened to acceptable levels. Even homeless alcoholics don't wontonly relinquish their freedom when three dollars of loud glass bottles could ruin your future plans to marginally exist within the confines of the few creature comforts you were afforded.

'B.L.' was the 'Ox'. It's not only important to have a brawny guy who can push a shopping cart full of recyclable aluminum for miles; You also need someone who can affix plastic bags in a 'tetris like' manner to every available surface of said cart in a timely manner and who will NOT abandon the cart or group when 'capture' becomes a distinct possibility. 

Every great equation comes equipped with a 'variable'. Our's was simply the fact that even if we were caught, most times not only were people not prepared for a prowler, but the sheer fact that in the middle of the night finding three physically imposing, stereotypical appearing  creepy 'homeless ogres' would in general cause whomever discovered us to a quick retreat back to safety.

Initially we weren't reduced to flaunting our 'physical powers of persuasion', but in a timely manner we learned it was to our advantage. In the time someone hastily returns to their indoors and calls 911, it's possible for three guys to not only stash the loot but change or remove identifying clothing, and break into three separate character's melding into the surroundings. 'Playing dumb' came naturally to most of us and was mastered by the remaining members. 

I know it doesn't sound funny yet, but all great stories require some background. All you have to do now is inject the <impossible to ignore> Stooge like qualities of the characters and situations and this poor allegory turns into an humorous anecdote. 

As Fall Set's In, And Other Thoughts Not Generally Attributed To March

I woke up and looked at the calendar on my computer. Since it says 02/03/2013, my mind still jumps and says instinctively "God, February 3rd... AGAIN!" before I make the minor adjustment and feel relief knowing it's March 2nd... When I was a kid? March 2nd meant that even though it could still snow, the end of the winter was well within view, there was light at the end of the tunnel, seasonally speaking anyway.
Around here? It means that Fall is upon us... When I was at the shops yesterday portraying my recently established friendly chatty consumer on his 'More American Than You Tour' one of the clerks pointed at the rain outside and said 'The summer is definitely over.... Well, after all, it is March.'

Wrapping your head around that is not easy for someone who's looked forward to March as the end of a weary five month period... I haven't experienced one in quite a while but it's still my understanding that from November until April isn't a time to look forward to. It seems to me that it was only a short time ago that I was sitting out by a fire pit with my sweatshirt covering my hands because they were chilly. In a daze I boarded a plane and was eating birthday breakfast at an outside cafe at seven a.m. only a mere 28 hours later or so. I can grasp it was the beginning of summer here but for some reason the holidays have a way of not synching up the way you understand them at all. Beach parties at Christmas and New Years, and I can't help but feel that now that Fall is upon us I haven't prepared my Halloween costume at all... but wait! It's March. There is no alternative Halloween season, the leaves don't even die for the most part around here. The only indication that the season's have changed <that I've noticed thus far> is a hardly noticeable dip in temperature that only occurs in the early morning hours. If need be? I can dig on the left hand side of the closet and take my 'winter sweatshirts' out of temporary storage and look forward to wearing  long pants a little bit more often. Wearing socks is another option I had completely forgotten both for fashion and protective reasons; it is a fact that I can count on one hand the number of times in the last four months I have pulled a pair of socks over my ugly 'fred flintstones'. What will come to be known as the 'Hottest Summer on Record in Australia' is officially a season of the past.

Trying to be compassionate without subconscious smugness rearing it's ugly head, I've had to endure parable's of snow and wind and cold and winter while understanding that eventually the sun was going to hit our balcony in such a way that we'd have to seal up our living room to protect ourselves from the heat and humidity that comes regularly in January and February.... Wait! What? I'm not complaining about the weather, it's undeniably lovely. I do have the right however to be momentarily baffled trying to make sense of the weather while acknowledging the coinciding dates on the calendar. It is still disorienting no matter what beach you're at celebrating a hot Valentine's Day on a wharf... in a tank top... watching people swim, surf, and tan. Occasionally I liken it to what the early stages of dementia must feel like... You are aware of your surroundings, but are completely put off and it's as surreal as waking up in a Wallace and Grommit animated feature... Only everyone else is behaving normally in response to the surroundings. I smile and appreciate it, but inside I'm wondering why it's remotely possible that no one is holding 'The End is Near' signage due to the impossible weather that can only be caused by a major climate shift. I may be in the Southern Hemisphere but my mind is still in Massachusetts. January and February are NOT the time to be wishing the mosquito's away and wondering if you'll ever get a good nights sleep again due to the warmth.

While I'm at it, when I think of graffiti I'm never thinking that a city tunnel could be decorated this ornately by teenagers. Though there may be some very VERY offsetting tags like 'DJ Crikees' or 'Jazzy Stingray'... <Okay, I MAY have concocted those Aussie Hood Monikers>, there is something to remind you that although winter may be ending somewhere else? It's completely Down Under Upside Down here. It's quite enjoyable and I never want to stop seeing the subtle differences. It's what makes it easier to look at everything through my eyes as new and never have a dull moment.

Funny Is NOT Universal, but 'God Bless You' Can Kill a Sneeze Anywhere

It's the oldest story in the world... One person or group of persons is watching The Three Stooges and laughing hysterically, and there always seems to be at least one person in the room who is watching the exact same exchange with the typical 'hater stare'... It's not necessary to utter aloud 'Why is this supposed to be funny?' but for some reason those people aren't content to simply roll their eyes in disdain and say nothing.

John has what seems to me to be the most annoying 'faux' laugh I've ever heard, and he reserves it for any occasion when I find The Simpson's or any other animated series on television funny. With animation you can attempt some humor that can be considered super offensive and if/when that's accomplished? Well, if there are any complaints you have the option of saying 'Calm down, it's only a cartoon.' When 'that's not funny' becomes more like a declaration rather than a questionable observation, and you happen to hear it as often as I seem to, it's only natural that a person would a. get defensive  b. get philosophical or c. admit defeat.

I've never really been placed in a position to understand why I laugh at things as often as I have been these days. It's equally unsettling that trying to understand what's provoked your laughter evokes the same reaction as someone saying 'God Bless You' when they see you're about to sneeze. The sneeze disappears and there's a loss of a satisfying 'from your toes' kind of sneeze. It's probably the only real form of palpable magic in a sense. 'God Bless You' before a sneeze is a magical incantation that can be phrased without the need of a corny looking wiccan wand, wicked looking hand gestures, or a wiggle of your nose (for all those Old School Samantha fans out there).

It's not always important to know why you're laughing at something. Laughter is supposed to be a reflexive reaction to a situation, not an invitation to a  highbrow/lowbrow debate culminating in an argument over what is and is not funny. If you're looking to be offended instead of entertained in this world let's face it; You don't have to look hard. People who are looking to be entertained instead of offended will find a laugh nearly anywhere they look as well. It's just that simply explained.

There is, however, good news. John and I have recently arrived at a DVD series called 'Summer Heights High'. It meets all the criteria for John's and my own collective funny bones; It's based on the profiles of three lives in a typical school environment, it's undeniably offensive, and some of the humor is blatantly obvious and some is buried and open to interpretation. I don't want to be 'the spoiler', but if you can't see that all three main characters are the same person (and some original viewers didn't immediately make that connection) you are going to be sincerely offended by it's content. What lays the foundation for the humor accomplished here is that they are all the same person portraying stereotypical characters in a mock high school world. If that world happens to appear real or familiar? Well then, kudos to the creator/actor/writer performing. In one unexpected twist after another he manages to take some of the most uncomfortable real life situations and allows you to laugh at them. It's truly a gem of a show, one I highly recommend. If you can please two completely different humor sensibilities this skillfully? Well, golf claps to you. Teen suicide has never been as laughable, it's true, but don't take my word for it.

To those who can't find laughter in these situations? I suggest you follow a complete stranger around for a bit and wait for the prelude to a sneeze. Say 'God Bless You' before the sneeze occurs. It's a cheap laugh, but it's one you can claim for your very own when you're thinking 'Wow, those really are magic words'. Fin.

Disney + IceCube = Apocalypse

In a discussion with my husband about whether past homophobic, classically remembered, stand up material now warrants Eddie Murphy to usher in Disney 'family-oriented' Fun as a well meaning and <dare I use the word?> snarky Donkey, I couldn't help but wonder how one makes such a spectacular ascension to mainstream America. Unless you consider in IceCube, whose former musical ditties such as 'Straight out of Compton' and 'F*ck the Police' are a stone's throw from the 'Are We There Yet?' franchise in originality these days, but you have to admit you'd be judged on the parenting skill for endorsing the former music samples as suitable for children. They're undeniably damn catchy songs, but if your kids were exposed to them you'd probably cringe a bit, after you ceased wanting to hit whomever was listening in their earshot with a bat.

Before anyone jumps all over me, it's really not that both these "actors" are African American. I know the most racist thing a fat, white, American guy can say these days is "I'm not a racist", so alas, my hands are tied and I'm going to have to let my real life actions justify any kind of assumptions and cross the threshold of name calling and mud slinging. What's the worst thing that could happen? Sticks and Stones, so they say, May Break My Bones. Words do hurt, and for some reason some stories last forever, factual or otherwise.

 Having such a successful pr team to reinvent yourself should probably be available for mass consumption, I'm sure I know of people who'd love to shed the skin of their former past. <This of course being a 'snake' euphemism and in no way related to color or creed. After all, let's face it; Snakes come in many more interesting and dazzling colors than humans and they do, in fact, regularly shed their skins.> Want to know more? Google it, or better still? Go to the library and support the fact that it's open to share information and not just a place where 'hobo's' go to take 'ho baths'; Pun intentionally made.

If the common man can be held accountable for the events leading to their nicknames and rumors that follow from childhood to their 25th high school reunion <and counting>, what secrets of evolution need to be uncovered to justify the reinvention of any one's personality, past history, or what was then rated NC17 now being completely acceptable to the General Audience if there is a rating system <and I cautiously suggest there is>?

I'm nearly sure that just like the Eddie Murphy 'Blue' album where he's in his blue leather suit, and which for some unexplainable reason you can't find anywhere anymore in a world where EVERYTHING is available on EBay or Amazon.Com., tales don't need to be commercially available. The past exploits of the common man don't need formal documentation. They survive rather in Urban Legend  rather than constant radio airplay or television saturation. Of the many examples, the ones that jump immediately to mind are the internally factually based reasons I never bought another Rod Stewart album after 1977 and still believe that kid Mikey in the LIFE cereal commercials is dead because he ate POP Rocks and drank COKE at the same time. I'm pretty sure I don't need to explain why I believe these things to anyone in my age group; This information isn't available in books or on video but is believed based of how old I was when I heard it, and the credibility I granted to the person sharing it.

History, they say, is damned to repeat itself. I, however, can't help questioning the Bible or most events I've read historical accounts for when it's currently ingrained in my logic that in some future eulogy, memoir, or E Hollywood Story some serious, honest, damning truth will be omitted. It's not the writer's I blame, I save blame for the editors and wonder about the motives; At the same time? I sometimes wonder where the hell in the Yellow Pages these editors are listed, and what the current rates are to legendarily and metaphorically 'Wipe Your Slate Clean'. No, not for me.... it's for a friend.  :)

You Only THINK You Make Sense At 4:30 A.M.

That 'At 4:30 A.M.' is probably not necessary.... but who cares?

John and I had our <read HIS> granddaughter over all this week, her Mom was called away and at a dinner party with too much wine I remembered uttering 'You don't need to ask us, just drop her off whenever you want!' before thinking about the repercussions of what so casually spilled out of my mouth... After the wine did of course.

This week has been too much fun in more ways than I'd thought it'd have been. It's nice when your jokes are new to a young audience, John and I had an outline for what we were going to accomplish that was pretty much discarded by Tuesday, and it's been awesome to have such an enthusiastic addition to the household. I could be sarcastic here but anyone with ANY life experience will tell you that when you have a guest for a week you remind yourself later of what you meant to do and wonder why you didn't do it. NOT the case here, it's been a week of nonstop chatter, laughing, constant exercise <both physically and mentally>, and in summary? I'd do it again. I wouldn't, however, do it again NEXT week.

There are things only an 8 year old can say to you that would be devastating if anyone older than 8 said them to you and it's been hard to maintain a straight face in wake of such abstract, non malice based truths. Sometimes you want to burst out laughing, sometimes you want to return the insult until you hopefully remember 'you're the adult here', sometimes you have to wait til later to dissect 'what the hell just happened?', but in a battle of wits? An 8 year old who isn't giving you a run for your money is either watching TV at the time or is completely disinterested in you and what you're saying.  I'll take the alternative of having someone who reveals to me I am old, I am boring, and the 'off' button I didn't think I had is CLEARLY trumped by her COMPLETE lack thereof.

Our walk to the beach in the morning included a coconut I'd never have considered carrying back home to draw on, instead of walking through the garden noticing nothing we skateboarded all over the garden more than once, and the times in the shops that I had the opportunity to leisurely stroll the toy department and see exactly what I'm missing by not being a kid anymore without looking creepy  <try doing that alone as a middle aged man without being reminded that only The Boogey Man strolls the toy department in any shop alone... EVER!>, I did get to see a few things outside the unexpectedly rigid confines that I believed I didn't have. When you find out what a kid thinks of you it forces you to open your eyes and redefine what you think of you, whether it's a really really good discovery or something to add to the 'self improvement super check list' any respectably insecure person wouldn't leave the house without scrolling through.

So? I've been told I'm old, fat, weird, goofy, evil, and a whole list of other adjectives that I still can't approach without whimpering a bit about when I whisper them out loud, but with the exception of John who I must say is enjoying our second honeymoon phase nearly as much as I am, it's incredibly reassuring to be accepted for who you are in the eyes of someone who'd clearly let you know otherwise because of an  awesome natural ability tell only the truth, the truth from her perspective anyway. I'm going to work a bit more on convincing her that I'm not fat. That one really stung.

45th Birthday Presence

I'm going to leave out the facts.. those being that I was racing to Sydney to celebrate not only John's birthday but mine as well, and a very anticipated 'Happy Anniversary' that was long overdue considering we were married October 28th... The God's <as if> planned a great arrival gift, in the form of a Total Solar Eclipse that was dimmed by the overcast weather south of Sydney in what's known properly as Botany Bay, but these were small details to consider.. especially since I had endured a thirty hour travel time to arrive in the rain at six a.m. and as an added bonus? Well, the flight was entirely under booked and though there were imbeciles who paid top dollar to recline in first class I can report that everyone in the coach section commandeered three seats, three pillows, and three blankets and stretched across their row and I dozed off last noticing the online mapping system had estimated 14.75 hours of travel remaining to our destination. I woke up and looked at the map again and got sexually aroused when the remaining estimated time was 2.33 hours. I had slept adequately to celebrate my birthday not only lucidly but well rested and down right perky!

After a long awaited embrace and public display of affection that made the nappy hairs on the Muslims in our proximity cringe? Well, then it was champagne on our balcony culminating in a great dinner party attended by  one of our daughters and granddaughters, complete with two versions of Happy Birthday, and I am saddened to report one version was NOT 'Lethal Weapon Style'.. see the movie, I like that version best.

It's been two days now and I'm remembering certain protocol, and having to remember our ATM password <Indeed I took the card to shop and was completely embarrassed to report that I couldn't remember my number but that 'no, you aren't taking my card'> and a myriad of other social etiquette functions like if you're trying to get someones attention? Whistling at 110 decibels is only polite if you're hailing a cab in Manhattan. Anywhere else? Well, you're going to scare the bejeezus out of not only the shop c.s.r. but also anyone standing in your immediate area, and then some.  Chortle.

The future is looking pretty damn bright for this middle aged married gay couple and we're currently beginning our battle plans for immigration to insure that we're never separated for three months. If I can be so bold, I was thinking it would take a garden hose with water to separate us yesterday, but that's an entirely different fact I'm also going to omit... Oh, wait... Damn it!... I guess the cat's out of the bag... or the 'rutting dog story' I wasn't going to declare.... Happy Winter/Summer, whichever applies to you, all I can report is I'm content and no material possession has ever provided me with the happiness I now experience.. I wish the same for everyone. Happiness is just blissful and priceless.