Buzzard Love

Driving home from work on a road I drive five times pissed off and five times happy per week, I saw two buzzards.  They were sitting on top of a 30 foot tall concrete utility pole.

Now, not being an expert on buzzards or seeing any necessity to lie at this point and say I am, I don’t know whether they were mates, friends, partners or stuffed.  But for the sake of starting an internal conversation with myself, I took them to be married birds.

Birds that mate for life, in fact, was my assertion.  Yep, that’s what they were, loyal and steadfast soulmates, making their way through life in their carrion eating way.  As I motored on past them, probably an hour or so ago, I saw them dive down during a break in traffic, to pick at an armadillo carcass – which is a revolting thought since it’s about 90 degrees today and I happened to see that armadillo in the road this morning when I was driving in the opposite, pissed off direction.

Now, knowing that the facts of the situation would be the same, would my assumption about those two turkey buzzards (my expertise has grown) have been different in my PO’d state of mind?

Maybe.  Perhaps if I had seen two buzzards in open road ahead of me as I drove toward work, my attitude about them and their happy buzzard marriage would have been different.  I might have honked or cursed or made a disgusted gagging sound uncharmed by their morning breakfast ritual.

Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t begrudge the buzzards their right to eat all of the roadkill that they can in lapses between cars and trucks passing by.  But no matter how you look at two buzzards, pissed off or happy or even weekend happy, you have to wonder:  How fucking rank must their breath be?

The ring, the nipple and the twenty

Right up front, I’ve got a little – maybe a lot, of OCD rattling around inside my head. Well, in my case, it wouldn’t be right to say it’s rattling around in there. It’s sitting there, watching, keeping tabs on things. Keeping things in order. While clomping around before coffee today, I opened up the laptop to check tweets, emails, etc. I noticed a software update available. Now, doing the software update prompts a recommendation to plug into a power source. So, as I do, I took the recommendation as a mandate. It’s a habit of the OCD developed during my years as a residential PC user to take any and all precautions advised.

Because of the many and varied experiences that reinforce the notion that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong without any help from me, I follow the instructions even though the mac has yet to capitalize on an errant moment to invite viruses, glitches, bugs. So, unrolled the cord from the little arms that extend from the adapter and took the nipple off the contact end. It’s not really a nipple, you couldn’t suckle from it, but it’s a protector. But come on, if you have the choice of saying nipple or protector, go for the nipple. Besides ‘protector’ sounds prophylactic and military. Back that nipple. Being obsessive, I put the little nipple on the 3/8” ledge of tile on the counter backsplash.

Naturally, it fell. It didn’t fall far or even to the floor, just to the gray and black countertop. So, as usually happens when someone drops a contact lens, I froze. Shuffled through the mail accumulated there and moved aside the as yet unused, uninstalled weather monitor that my wife chose out of a catalog given to her for her 15th anniversary being employed. After a few minutes of rifling, sifting, looking at eye level across the 2×3 desk area, I moved on to the floor. Checked the 9.6 lb cat’s bowl for it, nothing but crunchy kibbles there. Under the fridge? Not that the dust would reveal. Finally, beginning to accept that mission failure was an option, I shook out the wicker mail holder and ta da! There it was. The annoying experience of looking for it, followed by the unexpected victory was a little rush.

That little rush made me start thinking about finding stuff. Not necessarily stuff that has been a personal loss that’s recovered, but finding anything. I’m leaving out money, but it is nice to find a twenty in the pocket of some sloppy jeans that you wore to the Home Depot two months ago. Personally, the most satisfying recovery find I ever had was a ring that was missing for three years, buried under ligustrum shrubberies that I planted by the front porch.
In deference to the OCD, not rattling, just sitting, not rattling in my mind, I feel compelled to pull together the nipple, the ring and the $20. That being said, with thanks and credit to Black Diamond:

The Ring, the nipple and the twenty

Shiny Things

Sometimes the only way to get out of yourself is to just start typing. Sure, it might not lead anywhere, but who said we were leaders anyway. Also, if you’re following us, good luck.

There’s a reason we can easily amaze ourselves with endless chatter about virtually nothing. We’re like kittens, just fascinated by almost anything shiny that catches our eye. In fact, if you’ve ever noticed, kittens will make shit up to chase and run from if there’s nothing there.

When you first see it happen, you might wonder, “Is that just a defective cat?”. No, they all do it. The love the trill of the chase. On the other hand it could be the same type of thing that causes my neighbors to wonder if I’m crazy when I cut bait and run from the lawnmower, flailing arms like a third grade girl, across the yard when a bee or wasp gets too close. Sure, it’s embarrassing, but so is walking around with a bee-wasp-sting-welt as big as a golf ball on the side of your face for a week.

You have to choose your battles.

And that’s the point of today’s diatribe – choosing your battles. Now, in these modern, some would say, civilized times, we don’t have the pleasure of facing real battles too often. I don’t mean battles started by governments, armies, warlords or even corporations, I mean real, personal battles. About the closest most of us get to a battle is jockeying for position in our daily commute. “I’m gonna run that asshole off of the road for cutting me off back there!”

But, honestly, how many of us actually do it. Not many, I watch the news and monitor the police channels, I know. Another of the few chances at daily competition might be in the grocery line or a non-queue defined approach to a concession stand.

You observe, jockey for position a little bit, count the number of items in the old lady’s cart in the express lane or might even go as far as to say “I was here first.” A very unsatisfying reaction when compared to the hand to hand combat scenarios that can run through your mind when protecting your turf at the deli counter.

But hey, who’s got the energy for that anyway? Besides, there’s a whole display of shiny mylar balloons to stare at.

Summer vacation is coming to a close. And the Lounge is hurriedly making repairs to it’s ceiling, walls, roof, fixtures and flooring. These are not upgrades, of course – merely required by law. Most of the major appliances here stopped working years ago but the A/C is still run on pure asbestos – keeping everyone bitter and frigid, just the way you like them.

As you know Scoot has been keeping all of us safe during the break with his snippets of summer safety. Had you not finished K – 3rd grade, you probably even learned something.

Tony’s been hiding out. While his scathing adios to the gloved one made it seem as though he was happy to see Bubble’s Dad bite it, visits to his home by the Lounge have found him shivering in a closet, his hair lightly jheri curled and he’s typically wrapped in a moth ridden red-leather jacket accentuated by shiny zippers and buttons. We may have lost him until November when the new Battlestar Galactica movie premieres on Sci-Fi Channel. That is, if he can get beyond the channel now being called SyFi. Seriously – WTF?

Mike got hitched and took a long trip to Italy with his lovely new wife. Will had a kid. Actually, neither of these are related. I mean, I’m not trying to say Mike married Will and they had a kid. I’m just saying these two events happened. Will was there at the wedding. But he wasn’t in it. And Mike wasn’t in…well…you know…nevermind.

Kathy was there….at the wedding. Remember her? No…she neither married Mike nor had Will’s kid. From what we understand she is enjoying her new life up North where she’s found herself through vegan-poetry, boxed wine and huffing Raid bug sprays.

Anyway, enough of this catch-up. We’ve got one more snippet with Scoot to grind out and then it’s time to look ahead to an all new season of GGL!

Of course we’d like to say we have all sorts of cool ideas and things to talk about. But most likely it’ll just be the same old shit over and over.

But who honestly gets sick of talking about the Christmas Story House, huh? Yea, that’s right. No one. Not even you dick nose.

Bye-yo Jacko!

Farewell Jacko and thanks for giving us all one last carnival ride.

Your death has been the pop-culture-make-news event we needed leading into a summer holiday. Truly, you’ve outdone yourself. In bars and clubs, TV and the Internet, people have really gone into ‘halcyon-colored-glasses’ mode. People are digging your music. Your popularity has re-energized those who had written you off as just too weird to like. There have always been those rabid fans that were supportive even through your child molestation trial, plastic-surgery metamorphosis and toddler dangling.

“Michael’s just a child. He’s so innocent that you evil-accusers can’t understand his sensitivity”, the true believers would protest. Anyway, no matter what weirdness – from the hyperbolic sleeping cabinet, to the military clothing, finger bandages, face masks even the adoption of a chimpanzee for a best friend, there was always the music and the dancing.
The last defense for the maladjusted, disturbing behavior was your talent. If put into a corner, the final defense from your legions was always “Uh, well, ok. But look at his talent. What a dancer! What an entertainer!”

The phenomenon is that your death has pushed you back into the mainstream. Totally eclipsed poor Farrah – who by the way had really done a lot of lead-up work to publicize her imminent demise. Sadly, that tactic seems to have been like an overly promoted movie that gets sucker-punched on it’s opening weekend by a sneaky sleeper hit.

Truth is, it’s more comforting to forgive and forget those accusations than to hear, over and over again about the terrors of butt cancer. BUT, to be effectively pardoned in the court of public opinion for accusations only NAMBLA endorses is miraculous. How did you do it!?

Well, number one, you’re no longer a threat to children. And secondly, after the wave of “King of Pop Forever” merchandising passes, no more disturbing photos in our faces. No more appearances where non-believers are cheering for your nose to defect from your face.

Even as details of forged coroner reports and incessant replays of the 911 tape assault us, rationalizations for your bizarreness are being formulated by seemingly normal people.

Here are the facts as I’ve had them explained to me:

• Daddy Joe beat you when you missed a note or dance step. So, naturally, as you matured and started looking like him, you shaved your nose down to the size of an eel’s. Check. Ditched the ‘fro for Jheri curls, but that caught on fire from Pepsi. Really? Ok.
• Beset by vitilago and with millions on the bank, you decided to even out your skin tone. Oh, that’s understandable.
• Robbed of your childhood, you made your home into a place where you could feel young forever. A’ight. Then, to make up for all those sleepovers you missed while you were on the road touring, you brought in kids to have sleepovers.

Uh, well, ok. But look at his talent. What a dancer! What an entertainer!

Celebriticianals

Why does it seem like celebrities and politicians are always being arrested, indicted, posing for hideous mug shots, etc.?

Are we so much more interested in the misdeeds of the rich, famous and powerful or does it just get more clicks, readers and viewers? On any given day, the blogs and nightly news are full of stories about the mighty and how they have fallen. Of course, news focuses more on the people that audiences and readers are most interested in; namely celebrities.

The pretty and rich people seem to live lives that the rest of us can only dream of. With politicians, it’s more of a love/hate relationship. To begin with most politicians are supported by less than 50% of their constituencies in terms of votes. Once elected, some are able to convert supporters through deeds or words, but even then, loyalty is fleeting. Nothing brings out the shark in us like a little blood in the water.

To be honest, doesn’t it feel like the playing field gets evened out a little when one of the privileged few is knocked off of their pedestal? For people in power, the banalities of everyday life seem so far away. They appear to glide through life unaffected by the little hurdles that punctuate our days in the form of errands, chores, meal preparation, shopping, and on and on.

It’s the lack of those mundane activities that allows them to float at a level where they actually begin to believe that it’s just all so beneath them. That’s why visiting a grocery store, waiting in line for coffee or *gasp* a bad hair day is such a noteworthy event that it’s twittered, pappaparazified and covered like the announcement of a major medical breakthrough by the entertainment press.

It’s all for US. We eat this crap up. You ever watch the newsy news? BO ARE ING most of the time. Sure, we can elevate to watch the president now that he’s good looking, well-spoken and has a made for TV beautiful family. Even then, be honest, how long can you listen to what’s actually being said? I’d say that I saw the president on TV, online or in print 15-20 times in the past week. What did I learn? He looks really serious when he’s getting ready to kill a flying pest.

From what I can tell from the tone of the intro and outro music on the Today Show, there’s some very serious, thoughtful and downbeat shit going on. No kidding! Obviously – there’s a pest control issue at the White House for godssakes. And, now that the weakness is exposed, how long before the terrorists infiltrate with nano-warriors straight out of a made for Sci-Fi channel movie? SEE!? The real news is terrifying.
Speaking of terrifying, have you seen Phil Spector’s mugshot?

Judgment from the Steering Wheel

I remember when I got my driver’s license. It was so exciting. It represents freedom, independence, and a milestone in the path to being an adult. Then, assuming you’re able to survive the first few years of driving, it becomes second nature. Routine. Even a little boring.

For many, the short errands, daily commutes and long road trips that seemed like adventures, blend in with other daily tediums. I still love it though. It’s not that I have a sporty car with a lot of horsepower. I don’t turn many heads with my auto’s sleek lines and buffed out shine; it doesn’t have those.

Let me add, I don’t mind just being a passenger either. What I like about driving or just being on the road is the window it provides into other people’s lives, personalities, even their aspirations, if only for a second.

The image that an automobile conveys is strong. The power of ‘auto-image’ is everywhere in ads, online and pop culture. On the road, it’s the first impression we have our motoring neighbors. From mini-sized green gas-misers, to behemoths of black metal, ultra-dark tint and blinding trim packages, what we drive says a lot about who we are, or at least how we see ourselves. The exhaust emitted, age of dents and dings, taillights long ago replaced with red tape, and even a car’s alignment belie the machine’s condition and maintenance.

Is it immaculate, muddy or just plain deteriorating? Is there a headliner hanging down into the passenger compartment? Rebel flag and shotgun rack? Has it been tricked-out and accessorized beyond the reasonable limits of form over faux-function?

For many drivers, the act of operating a motor vehicle becomes so automated, that it becomes a kind of background noise to the important business of talking on the phone or putting on makeup. I like to see people doing those things. I look for the cars that are listing back and forth through their lanes. When approached with caution, and keeping a safe distance, fascinating things can be seen inside other cars. There’re a lot of nose-pickers out there. Whenever I rent a car, I sanitize the steering wheel. In my estimation, 70% of all drivers pick. Does the air inside a car actually dry mucous and cause increased booger production?

Judging by the number of women applying makeup in cars, there’s an option left unfilled in home construction. Builders should offer a ladies dressing area designed like an auto interior. It’s hard to believe that there’s any time savings achieved by applying makeup as you drive; it looks miserable. Of course, almost everyone has used a rear-view or vanity mirror to check his or her hair, complexion, teeth and nostrils.

Dining is another popular roadway pastime. People drive along eating, lurching over the plate or tray sitting on the passenger’s seat, scoop up a mouthful and chomp away. Reading? Sure, I’ve seen drivers with books propped up on the steering wheel, glancing up occasionally to check the road. Shaving? You bet. So far, I’ve only seen electric razors used, though. But, one of my favorite things to see is conversation.

Watching people talk to each other when no one else is looking (or so they think) is very entertaining. These situations are best viewed in the rear-view mirror. Often times, one of the participants is very animated while the other sits, apparently silent and just listening. Some exchanges that appear very dramatic and confrontational fizzle to a disappointing stand-off. Other times, I’ve seen one or both parties get out of the vehicle, argue and then get back in after the horns of other motorists call to attention the spectacle they’re making.

When I make eye contact with someone, I usually just smile and it’s either ignored or returned. But, the one reaction I see most is the quick eye aversion. In traffic or at a stop light, the vast majority of times that I look to my left or right, I’ll see someone who has just averted their eyes from looking in my direction. What are THEY looking at?

Moment of Clarity

Life can be overwhelming. Responsibilities to our families, jobs, bills, groceries, pets, jobs, and errands and on and on– We live in busy times.

Media, in all forms, bombards us at every turn. Television, radio, Internet, pop up ads, inserts in the mail, billboards, cereal boxes, magazines; everywhere we look, we’re being sold to.

Wouldn’t you like to get away? Sometimes you wanna go – oops wrong show.

These are the times when the opportunity for a moment of clarity can smack you right in the kisser from straight out of the blue. One moment, you’re watching a squirrel dig for a tiny scrub oak acorn in the backyard. Then, like the parting of the clouds in the opening credits of “The Simpsons”, you have a moment of clarity.

You probably don’t see your name written across the sky like that, especially not in cartoony letters, but you do hear those ‘Ah aahs’.

Now, where you go from there is up to you. Sure, you could go write the first thought that comes into your mind on a chalkboard a hundred or so times, hop on a skateboard and terrorize the local citizenry. Hell, you might even want to drive your car down the street and pull a hot piece of nuclear fuel out of your shirt. Go crazy! Scan your kid on the conveyor at the grocery store. Now drive your car straight on at your 8 year old in the driveway and stop just short of crashing through the back wall of the garage, jump out, run into the house and ….WHOA! Stop right there.

Consider the consequences of launching yourself onto that couch. Because, if you break your couch, where are you gonna sit to soak up the escapism that only the sweet glow of the TV will provide?

See? Moment of clarity.

OK, maybe that lacks the profundity that you’ve come to expect from a visit to the Lounge. So, how about this…

Why do things always seem to take 5 or 10 minutes to do? Most people live 20, 25, 30 or 45 minutes from where they work. How can it never take 37 minutes for someone to get to work?

Job assignments are given with deadlines of a week, two weeks, a month, etc. “Whew, that’s a lot of work, boss. I’m gonna need at least 11 days to get this done.”

“Time is the fire in which we burn”. There. Consider that a warning shot over the bow. You never know when you might be slapped in the face with a quote from Star Trek.

I like that one though. It’s a great statement. Sure sounded important when Malcolm McDowell said it. Time is a complex concept. Usually, we just accept it as a constant. Well, not really a constant since it’s always changing, but you get the idea.

It provides us with order. Structures our lives into understandable segments. But, in the end, just like evolution, there’s no objective, defining proof of it. Right, Governor Palin?

Our time, is based on the earth rotating around the sun to define years. How long areas are exposed to the sun defines days – roughly.

Right about now, you may be asking yourself, “Self, isn’t there something else I could be doing? Is this really the best use of the 350,000-475,000 minutes I have left (based on Lounge demographics of 18-40 year old listeners)?”

I’ll just say this. If you are asking yourself that question. If you do, indeed, find yourself question whether this or any other brain cell sapping activity is worth your time, indeed a worthy pursuit or an answer to your true calling. Then, I submit, you , my friend, are having a moment of clarity.

A Time For Sharing…and Healing

Recently, as a public service, we aired a segment on the dangers of home invasions. As you probably recall in terror, our stories of home intrusions were both communal and healing. Sharing the horrors of experiences that had made some of us feel vulnerable, cowardly in some cases, and in all cases considerably less human.

I suppose to the casual listener, the stories shared seemed ‘kooky’, ‘whacky’, even I daresay, ‘zany’. Don’t’ be mistaken though, there were tears being shed. It was a special time. A time where my fellow Loungers put it all on the line. Laid themselves bare. Just think about that. Think about it!

Read on when you’re done.

Well, an apology is in order. At the time, it just didn’t feel right to share what I’m about to. For anyone who may have experienced what I’ll describe here and felt like they may be the only one, I sincerely say, “Sorry ‘bout that. My bad — bros”. I guess maybe the time just wasn’t right for me. Maybe I needed more time to truly accept what had happened before I could ask others to.

I remember the time like it was only two nights ago.

Actually, I guess it was and I’d only had one Full Moon Winter. Maybe it’s called a Full Moon Winter Seasonal. Whichever, it’s a lot like Full Moon, a really nice wheat beer, but I think they just call it white beer in Belgium.

So, I’d had one of those and then a Leinenkugel. Maybe it was a Leiny-light. I’ll have to ask Mike. I think he may be trying the whole light thing because of the health benefits and he’s a little more freaked out about the Steve Jobs situation than he lets on. So the Leiny or Leiny-light was Mike’s. But he would have let me have it. He’s a generous host, which you already know because you’re visiting the Lounge. Duh.

So, the second beer I had up to that point was his and I took it because I didn’t want to get up and go to the fridge. It was cool though. He hadn’t drunk from it when I took it from him. Seriously, we don’t sit around drinking each other’s drinks. That’d be a little weird, eh? I know what you’re thinking now; two things:

• Is drunk the right word to use back there? He just said he wasn’t drunk. It IS correct. I thought the same thing. Seriously, I wasn’t drunk though. Spell-check said to use that version. So, we’re OK on that, right?

• Are you an asshole? You just said what a generous Croggl Mike is. That’s right, Mike’s the Croggl. (See the Bloggl). Anyway, at times, yes, I’m an ass, but not in this case. It was OK to just take the beer and not march my own lazy self over to the fridge because he already was drinking a Jaeger and something AND had the two unopened Leiny or Leiny-lights sitting there and just getting warm. Plus, the one I took still had the cap on and everything. So it was totally fine.

So, I hadn’t drank that much. So that helps too. But I digress.

Those guys were really opening up to each other. It was all on the line, but when it came my time to share, I told the owl story. Sure, it’s a true story. And a safe one.
The story that needs to be told, that I NEED to tell, though, is a story about a frog.
Wait – I can picture it all now! I DID try to tell the frog story, but they talked all over me. Maybe they’d already heard it and didn’t want to endure it again. Maybe I told Mike about it before and he was being all Croggly and censoring me.

Those air hogs were probably so busy listening to their own fascinating stories that they couldn’t make time to listen. Or, maybe they weren’t ready to face it. I was, though. Damn it, it was my time for revealing my fearful experience. I’d hate to impose on them. I’ve lived with it this long, I don’t have to tell it now.

But, I’ll tell you this, all of those stories about reptiles and amphibians coming up through your toilets – they’re true.

I’m glad I stole his beer.

Bloggl

Time after time, people ask us, “How can I get into the Green Guy Lounge way of thinking, being and speaking. In an attempt to satisfy this outcry for more and more things “Green Guy”, we’ve compiled the following glossary of Loungespeak.

In the interest of brevity and as an introduction, we’ve limited the scope of this glossary (Gloggl as you’ll see). It is our sincere hope that this will, in some small way, satisfy, if only temporarily, your cravings for all things GGL.

• Gloggl – glossary of Green Guy Lounge terms. Pay attention. You should have already known that one if you read the introduction properly.

• Foggls – Friends of the Green Guy Lounge.

• Bloggl – The weblog, or blog, of the Green Guy Lounge.

• The Croggl – The Creator without whose seed of inspiration, the world would be a little less green and little less loungy.

• Woggl – Will of the GGL, original cast member and Bloggl contributor. Kickball and motorcycling enthusiast.

• Toggl – Tony of the GGL, original cast member and Bloggl contributor. Decidedly less enthusiastic than Woggl.

• Scoggl – Scoot of the GGL

• Faoggl – Featured contributor of GGL (see Scoggl)

• Gglam – Green Guy Lounge Automobile; approved mode of transportation for conveying The Croggl, Woggl, Toggl, Scoggl and Foaggls to GGL events

• Choggls – Charities approved by the Green Guy Lounge

• *Loggls – Listeners of the Lounge

• *Roggls – Readers of the Bloggl

• Choggly – Adjective describing traits *Loggls and *Roggls.

• Oggling – Simple use of the suffix –oggl to take the first letter and implied associaton with any designated word to create a term that is, at once, Greener and Loungier than designated word would be in its original form.

Obviously, some of the GGL-approved nomenclature is controversial. Strong feelings on both sides of the “Lounge Lizard” lobby vehemently oppose use of the terms *Loggls and *Roggls. While this debate works it’s way through the courts, legal counsel has advised us that we may use the terms *Loggls and *Roggls in a limited capacity and that such use will be accompanied by an asterisk (*) noting that said use is neither an endorsement or rights infringement in the event that “Lounge Lizard” is found to be the term implied by writers of the U.S. Construetution.