Grunt think

I read quite some time ago that one can’t have a thought unless the words exist to express that thought.  I guess that makes sense.  Must have been very difficult to be a caveman, though.

Although, since the word very and the word difficult didn’t exist, maybe not.  Maybe cavemen thought being a caveman was just; grunt, grunt.

On a related note: the Eskimos have roughly fifty or sixty words for snow, don’t they?  They must think about snow a lot.

–Be merry and bright, Rudolph the red, mama kissing Santa, knows when you’ve been, dreaming of a white, dashing all the way–

I really like Christmas.  I enjoy giving gifts.  I’m okay with decorating.  I don’t mind shopping.  Well, I mind the hassle a little.  I tolerate the lack of easy parking.  I don’t like the cold.

But what I hate, really hate, is that while we shop we can’t avoid hearing the same sugary renditions of the same, painfully familiar, irritatingly vanilla, relentless Christmas songs we all heard as children, repeated over and over in every mall, market, and Mart.

We hear them every year, as kids, as teenagers, then as young adults, and now as not so young adults.

Those songs are the meat and bones of the saying: Familiarity breeds contempt.

The audible onslaught starts well before Black Friday and relentlessly pursues us through New Year’s Eve.

It feels to me like what the Germans must have felt as the Russians drove them out of Russia that terrible winter of 1944.  No relief, no mercy, no respite from the misery.

Yeah, I know, that’s way over the top.  Our feet aren’t wrapped in rags.

My fellow citizens

I think writing a Blog is somewhat akin to a person in the 1800’s standing on a soapbox in a city park and yelling out whatever was on his or her mind to anyone within earshot.

Like most bloggers, most soapboxers probably had nothing important to say and were most likely ignored.

But some may have had something important to say and drew a crowd.  A few of those crowds probably started some kind of important movement that improved our lives, or animal’s lives, or the environment or something else worthwhile.

Good for them.

And those who had nothing to say at least got whatever they were crowing about off their chests.

In any case we can thank the Internet for our parks being quieter now.

Well, I’m glad I got that off my chest.

Bombs away

This is a bit from my novel, Stealing Time:

A mover came to the door with a powder blue chest on a dolly.  “Does this go in here?  The tag says end of the second floor hallway, but there’s no room at either end of the hall.”

“I’ll have to call you back, Dave.”  Charlie looked at the chest and cringed.  As he stared at it a twisted smile slowly grew on his face.  “Yeah, bring it on in, right over here.”

He checked the chest’s drawers to make sure they were empty.  “Yeah, this is fine.  Okay, lets bring it right over to the window.”  Charlie led the mover over to the window, opened it and looked down.  There was nobody below. 

He grinned.  “Perfect.  Right through here.  You lift that end, I’ll lift this end.”

The mover shook his head.  “I don’t think so.”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.”  Charlie laughed.

The very confused mover helped Charlie lift it up onto the windowsill and shove it through.  It did a perfect half Gainer on the way down, landed on a corner and smashed to bits on the patio below.

They both stared down at it.  “Yes!”  Charlie pumped his fist.  He leaned on the sill and smiled at his conspirator.  “See, I told you it would be fun.”

The mover stared down for a moment, glanced at Charlie, returned his stare to the pile of light blue kindling. 

Charlie laughed as he returned to his desk.  “Boy, I sure hope you guys have insurance.”

The mover choked out a moment of terror.

“Naw, just kidding.  This never happened -- and you were never here, right?”

The mover chuckled a sigh of relief.  “If you say so, sir.”

“Charlie.  Everybody calls me Charlie.”

“Okay -- if you say so, Charlie.”  The mover finally stopped glancing out the window, stared at Charlie, who was already back at his desk talking on the phone, and walked away shaking his head.  “Rich people are truly nuts.”

This is a story about a robbery, but Charlie isn’t the main character, he’s just the rich guy the story swirls around.

They can make a tie sound like a win

The advertising business has a clever way of using the English language.

When you read, or hear someone say:  “There are none better.”  It probably means theirs are exactly the same as everyone else’s.  Think about it.

The same goes for statements like: “No one can help you more than we can.”  Or: "You won't get a better deal."  Or: “There isn’t a faster acting pill, cough syrup, lotion, hair restorer, laxative, etc, etc.”

Oh, look, another plastic snowman

I like Christmas lights.  We live in the Southwest so we put a line of red chile lights around the front of our house and around the garage doors.  Many of our neighbors put up lights as well.  It makes driving home at night feel friendly, and warm, and peaceful.

Seeing those big, lit, plastic blow up figures, on the other hand, is a real turn off.

It’s rarely one; it’s usually three, or six.   Kinda stuck around the yard in no discernable pattern or order.  And they’re too bright.

They look to me like some dollar store version of the Macy’s Parade that stalled on someone’s front lawn.  Or a Saturday morning cartoon show stuck in freeze-frame.

Plus, they look even worse in daylight, all saggy, or flat as a pancake.  Like some giant plastic creature pooped all over the front lawn.

In any case, stop it, okay?  Get some lights.     

Talk about your sour notes.

To our dismay, the symphony in Albuquerque went bankrupt. 

But the musicians scrambled to form a new organization, and we gladly bought new season tickets to support them.

Isn’t it a sad commentary that, in a city this big, this could happen?

We have a fairly sophisticated population.  (I know what you’re thinking.  I was surprised to learn that too, when I moved here.)

But, thanks to companies such as Sandia Labs, Intel, the burgeoning movie business, the military base, the other secret military base, the Spaceport and dozens of small high-tech companies, the state is crawling with PhD’s, scientists, engineers, actors, artists, writers, Majors, Generals, pilots, spies, doctors, lawyers and Indian Chiefs.

Well, they don’t actually crawl, they drive expensive cars.

One might speculate that the Indian Chiefs might prefer driving Mustangs or Broncos.

Dumb joke, sorry.

Still, isn’t it sad that the arts suffer?  Isn’t classical music one of the things civilizations are remembered for?

Certainly not tacos or green chili stew.  Well, maybe the stew.