Let thine donate thy stuff and forsake what thou stuff is – March 20, 2007
Okay, IRS, you've really done it now. Thanks to new restrictions, I can no longer just give stuff away to Goodwill or ARC or RUFF (Really Ugly Furniture Foundation), I must now document it in detail lest I face an audit. Gone are the days when a blank receipt from MOOMPS (Monkeys Outraged over Misdemeanor Prison Sentences) would suffice. Why can't we just leave well enough alone? Can't you just trust that I'm giving a honest donation to WIFFO (Women Interested In Finding Football Odors). You know whose going to really suffer? The non-profits who collect this stuff. I heard a news report last night recommending you photograph the items you are donating. Are you kidding? Now I'm really going to think twice before I donate my crusty old pairs of boxer shorts to PEEPOU (Puppies Encouraging Enthusiastic Parting Of Underwear) because that's just not something that should be digitally preserved. Once again, the small people will be hurt. I dread having to say no when SCROG (Scooters Courting Really Old Grandmas) calls and asks if I have items to leave on my front porch). Call your Congressman, call your uncle, we must do something. I can't stand to see great organizations like SSIDR (Sisters Stuck in Dressing Rooms) fall by the wayside.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
The best of No Means Know
It's still cold out there – January 10, 2008
I know I probably speak sacrilege but I'm not a big fan of Bob Marley songs. Death be to me, if his kids, Ziggy, Dweezil, Moonfrye and Frodo come with flaming torches. Moreso, I'm not thrilled with the compunction of local radio stations which will not be named (97.3 KBCO - World Class Rock) to play his tunes on particularly cold days. You Marley fans may call it a testament to how his music continues to resound, to me it is some psychological mind trick to make me think it isn't cold out. "Here, we'll transport you to some Caribbean island with bongo drums, marijuana and Cheetos." I'm not fooled, I still need a coat outside. And, at this rate, they might as well play some Hawaiian luau songs or, gulp, Don Ho.
I know I probably speak sacrilege but I'm not a big fan of Bob Marley songs. Death be to me, if his kids, Ziggy, Dweezil, Moonfrye and Frodo come with flaming torches. Moreso, I'm not thrilled with the compunction of local radio stations which will not be named (97.3 KBCO - World Class Rock) to play his tunes on particularly cold days. You Marley fans may call it a testament to how his music continues to resound, to me it is some psychological mind trick to make me think it isn't cold out. "Here, we'll transport you to some Caribbean island with bongo drums, marijuana and Cheetos." I'm not fooled, I still need a coat outside. And, at this rate, they might as well play some Hawaiian luau songs or, gulp, Don Ho.
Friday, June 6, 2008
The best of No Means Know
Dora sans Diego – May 24, 2007
As the father of a 17-month old girl, I'm becoming more and more familiar with the daily children's TV fare – JoJo's Circus, the Wiggles, Judge Judy, The View. The following is a critical review of one such popular show – Dora the Explorer.
How many times can one person's heart break? I found myself wondering that the other day as, once again, I found myself tuning into the gut-wrenching, emotional roller coaster that is Dora and Diego. Allegedly cousins, according to my wife, these two young lovers have seen their share of hard times including their recent breakup and Diego getting his own show where you can find him sauntering through the jungle with some leggy, brunette home wrecker. I assume it's the same woman that kept Dora alone so many nights with no one to keep her company except her friend, Boots and a singing backpack. But occasionally, like last week, Diego pops back into the newly self-dependent Dora's life (usually swinging on a vine like above) and exposes all of her frailties. He reminds her that she can't live without him, that she can't build any serious relationships since their split and then, under a guise of friendship, he goads her into dangerous and often unnecessary tasks like trying to save baby jaguars from the clutches of the man. And Dora, again stripped of her womanality, is eager to oblige. Luckily, they do a song and dance and end the day's show before we have to see Dora forced into the role of a Martha-Stewartish domestic goddess where she cooks Diego a big meal and he eventually passes out on the couch with a beer watching "I Love Lucy" reruns. I hope each day for Dora to get the nerve to throw Diego and all of his belongings to the curb including that fancy fly-fishing vest he wears. And I'll keep watching until she gets the courage to become her own person. And I'll keep wondering, is my daughter getting the same thing from this show?
As the father of a 17-month old girl, I'm becoming more and more familiar with the daily children's TV fare – JoJo's Circus, the Wiggles, Judge Judy, The View. The following is a critical review of one such popular show – Dora the Explorer.
How many times can one person's heart break? I found myself wondering that the other day as, once again, I found myself tuning into the gut-wrenching, emotional roller coaster that is Dora and Diego. Allegedly cousins, according to my wife, these two young lovers have seen their share of hard times including their recent breakup and Diego getting his own show where you can find him sauntering through the jungle with some leggy, brunette home wrecker. I assume it's the same woman that kept Dora alone so many nights with no one to keep her company except her friend, Boots and a singing backpack. But occasionally, like last week, Diego pops back into the newly self-dependent Dora's life (usually swinging on a vine like above) and exposes all of her frailties. He reminds her that she can't live without him, that she can't build any serious relationships since their split and then, under a guise of friendship, he goads her into dangerous and often unnecessary tasks like trying to save baby jaguars from the clutches of the man. And Dora, again stripped of her womanality, is eager to oblige. Luckily, they do a song and dance and end the day's show before we have to see Dora forced into the role of a Martha-Stewartish domestic goddess where she cooks Diego a big meal and he eventually passes out on the couch with a beer watching "I Love Lucy" reruns. I hope each day for Dora to get the nerve to throw Diego and all of his belongings to the curb including that fancy fly-fishing vest he wears. And I'll keep watching until she gets the courage to become her own person. And I'll keep wondering, is my daughter getting the same thing from this show?
Thursday, June 5, 2008
The best of No Means Know
It's vacation time but I couldn't leave you high and dry. We've picked out the best of No Means Know to keep you entertained.
Give me thine sample old lady – published April 9, 2007
I've had it, fed up, enough already. I've had an ongoing beef (or lack of beef) with the old hags that divy out the samples at our local wholesale retail stores. This weekend, at a store I will not name but ends with AM'S, I was especially troubled. My wife, I and the girl were closing in on some crackers smeared with Brie when Grandma Goodwrench actually pulled the crackers back from her sample table as if she saw us coming. Ridiculous! C'mon, beside a 900-ton bottle of detergent and a 10-pound plastic container of cheese balls, why do we go to these places? This isn't my first problem. A few weeks ago, I snagged a sample off one of those little metal tables (on loan from the county coroner's office) and had the audacity not to say thank you. As I walked away. I received a sardonic "thank you" from the woman. I wanted to smack her over the head with a box of 600 muffins. Pardon me, aren't we supposed to take the samples or did I just accidentally stumble into your kitchen. This is all complicated by my experience a couple years ago when my Dad and I actually watched a sampler pack up her Peanut Nut Roll in a plastic container ( there was still plenty) and head for the door. Leave the sample on the table lady, we'll take over from here. I don't know where they get these women from – I presume they truck them over from the nursing home. I don't mean to demean old people, I love old people and, someday, hope to be one. But these women are mean, they're grumpy and, unfortunately, they've got the goods.
Give me thine sample old lady – published April 9, 2007
I've had it, fed up, enough already. I've had an ongoing beef (or lack of beef) with the old hags that divy out the samples at our local wholesale retail stores. This weekend, at a store I will not name but ends with AM'S, I was especially troubled. My wife, I and the girl were closing in on some crackers smeared with Brie when Grandma Goodwrench actually pulled the crackers back from her sample table as if she saw us coming. Ridiculous! C'mon, beside a 900-ton bottle of detergent and a 10-pound plastic container of cheese balls, why do we go to these places? This isn't my first problem. A few weeks ago, I snagged a sample off one of those little metal tables (on loan from the county coroner's office) and had the audacity not to say thank you. As I walked away. I received a sardonic "thank you" from the woman. I wanted to smack her over the head with a box of 600 muffins. Pardon me, aren't we supposed to take the samples or did I just accidentally stumble into your kitchen. This is all complicated by my experience a couple years ago when my Dad and I actually watched a sampler pack up her Peanut Nut Roll in a plastic container ( there was still plenty) and head for the door. Leave the sample on the table lady, we'll take over from here. I don't know where they get these women from – I presume they truck them over from the nursing home. I don't mean to demean old people, I love old people and, someday, hope to be one. But these women are mean, they're grumpy and, unfortunately, they've got the goods.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Devil gets due with Faustian-Rockies
All through the Colorado Rockies miraculous playoff run last fall, I tried to level my expectations.
I was ready to brace myself for that eventual fall when the national sports cynics said the law of averages would catch up with the Rockies. And even though they were quickly dispatched in the World Series, it didn’t matter. They had come so far. The positives far outweighed the negatives.
Even in February as I dropped down more than $100 for a set of seats to two games of Opening Weekend, I tried to be realistic. There was simply no way the Rockies could repeat the sheer glory of clinching their first pennant on my birthday.
Is it actually possible the Rockies miserable start to the season has defied my lack of expectations? How can someone who expected so little be so utterly disappointed?
This season has been like a bad musical. First, the pit orchestra doesn’t show up and then the lead actress breaks her leg when she falls through the stage apron.
The first is inexcusable. The second is just mere bad luck.
Prepare the barrage of rotten tomatoes.
So, it is with the Rockies who got off to a horrible start and now have been decimated by a spate of untimely injuries. I thought I saw the mascot hobbling around on crutches the other night.
Still, I try to wrap my head around what went wrong with the Rockies. Round up the usual suspects, shoddy pitching, lack of clutch hitting and expensive hot dogs (sorry, a personal gripe there).
But this is essentially the same team from a year ago. It is the same team that captivated so much of this state.
And yet it is not. If it hadn’t been for last year’s glimpse of what the baseball season could be, it would simply be another bummer season that we have all came to expect.
In my deliberation, it came to me.
This is also the same team that was once mockingly referred to as “God’s Team,” in a Time magazine article that spotlighted their Christian-like clubhouse atmosphere.
Of course, God, in his gracious mercy, had granted the Rockies only one playoff berth and scant winning seasons.
So, sometime around the middle of September as we all began to turn our attention to the Broncos, the Colorado Rockies, in Faust-like fashion, made a deal with the Devil.
In that story, a downtrodden Faust makes a deal that he will serve the Devil in exchange for experiencing the zenith of human happiness. At that point, the Devil may take his soul.
Retelling that story almost makes me wonder if the gig was up when they made us suffer through that horrible online ticket fiasco.
There is only one hope in the tale of Faust as this inexorable season grinds along.
God intervened at the last moment and the Devil didn’t get Faust’s soul.
Lord help us, or it’s going to be a long, long summer.
I was ready to brace myself for that eventual fall when the national sports cynics said the law of averages would catch up with the Rockies. And even though they were quickly dispatched in the World Series, it didn’t matter. They had come so far. The positives far outweighed the negatives.
Even in February as I dropped down more than $100 for a set of seats to two games of Opening Weekend, I tried to be realistic. There was simply no way the Rockies could repeat the sheer glory of clinching their first pennant on my birthday.
Is it actually possible the Rockies miserable start to the season has defied my lack of expectations? How can someone who expected so little be so utterly disappointed?
This season has been like a bad musical. First, the pit orchestra doesn’t show up and then the lead actress breaks her leg when she falls through the stage apron.
The first is inexcusable. The second is just mere bad luck.
Prepare the barrage of rotten tomatoes.
So, it is with the Rockies who got off to a horrible start and now have been decimated by a spate of untimely injuries. I thought I saw the mascot hobbling around on crutches the other night.
Still, I try to wrap my head around what went wrong with the Rockies. Round up the usual suspects, shoddy pitching, lack of clutch hitting and expensive hot dogs (sorry, a personal gripe there).
But this is essentially the same team from a year ago. It is the same team that captivated so much of this state.
And yet it is not. If it hadn’t been for last year’s glimpse of what the baseball season could be, it would simply be another bummer season that we have all came to expect.
In my deliberation, it came to me.
This is also the same team that was once mockingly referred to as “God’s Team,” in a Time magazine article that spotlighted their Christian-like clubhouse atmosphere.
Of course, God, in his gracious mercy, had granted the Rockies only one playoff berth and scant winning seasons.
So, sometime around the middle of September as we all began to turn our attention to the Broncos, the Colorado Rockies, in Faust-like fashion, made a deal with the Devil.
In that story, a downtrodden Faust makes a deal that he will serve the Devil in exchange for experiencing the zenith of human happiness. At that point, the Devil may take his soul.
Retelling that story almost makes me wonder if the gig was up when they made us suffer through that horrible online ticket fiasco.
There is only one hope in the tale of Faust as this inexorable season grinds along.
God intervened at the last moment and the Devil didn’t get Faust’s soul.
Lord help us, or it’s going to be a long, long summer.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Moment of thought
Do me a favor. When you get home tonight, hug your kids and spend an extra five minutes with them. Then read the story about Sidney Weber in tomorrow's Brighton Blade.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Shapely buildings
In my neighborhood, we are soon going to be bookmarked by two different fitness centers. Obviously, it could be seen as a desperate plea for me to get in shape. It makes me curious though that in these busy times we still can find the time to visit these fitness centers to "get in shape." It's curious because we can't, Americans are getting fatter and until we change our way of life, these facilities are just a waste of precious space. I'll start taking them seriously when we start building them on top of McDonald's.
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