New for 2012: The 2-Door (Hatch) Back Spasm!

Maybe its just me.  Whenever I see the little car known as the Fit (by a car maker whose name rhymes with "Rhonda"), I cannot help but laugh.

You see, when I read the word Fit, I don't think of it in the senses of "appropriate for the circumstances" or "suiting the dimensions and shape of something".  I mean, I do, but not when I see that word applied to car.  When I see it capitalized and in a logo, my mind automatically leaps to the definition of fit as in "having a tantrum" or "a state of being characterized by involuntary spasms, tics or outbursts, and usually associated with extreme emotional upset".

So when I see the Fit on the roadways?  I laugh, and I hope there won't be a fit.  What about you?

Schlubs

I'll own up now, I am not a fashion plate.  Never have been, probably never will be.  I clean up well but sartorial endeavors are generally not on my screen for most of daily life.  So I'm not sure just how much credibility I have in this particular area of human interest.

This is not to say I am completely ignorant of how to dress, or what to wear, or at least how to put on clothes and not look like a dweeb when I leave the house.  Most of the time I do want to maintain a minimum standard of neatness and decorum, just by personal inclination.  What that means is that sometimes I even tuck in my t-shirts.  And I don't go grocery shopping in flip flops and cutoffs.

Which brings me to the subject of this post:  Schlubs, and the women they inflict themselves upon.

I took Wee Lass out for dinner over the weekend, after which we went for a stroll down the main street to window shop and have ice cream.  Something was bugging me, though, something that started during dinner and came into full bloom while we were out walking.  There were an unusual number of schlubs out that evening.  It started with the guy in the restaurant who was wearing a tank top and what looked like satin basketball shorts, along with bizarro black tennis shoes complete with red piping.  He looked like he had just crawled out of a hamper.

His wife (I assume she was his wife, they were eating together with two kids and behaving like a family unit) on the other hand was dressed casually, too, but so much more put together.  Simple black top with white capri pants and canvas deck shoes.  Maybe not knock-'em-dead elegant, but it looked good.  It looked like she gave a hoot about simple things like matching! and neat! and 'I didn't just get up!'.

When we left the restaurant I was sensitized to the phenomenon, as I really started to notice the walking fashion victims attached to arms of (for the most part) much more 'with it' lady companions.  Wrinkled t-shirts, river rat shoes, baggy cargo shorts, ragged jeans with flip-flops and far too many logos for beer and cars and drinking establishments.  All of these contrasted with nice summer dresses, well-fitting shorts, interesting shoes (I confess, my knowledge of womens shoe etiquette is sketchy), even just simple tops and intriguing accessories.  While it wasn't a top hat and tails evening, just a casual weekend night out, the ladies looked a lot better than the dudes.  Like they actually thought about it.  The guys, they made me wonder in some cases if they had scintillating personalities (or money) or if maybe they were just plain lucky to be in the company of the women with them.

In the interest of full disclosure, I was wearing a plain tan t-shirt (tucked in), off white shorts and canvas tan casual shoes with light brown laces.  I wouldn't have won any awards for world-class casual dress, no doubt, I felt I could hold my own against the Larry, Darryl and Darryls out that night.  My daughter was wearing a casual summer top over flower-patterned shorts, along with her favorite golden sandals

To paraphrase Al Pacino in And Justice For All..."Don't you care, guys?  don't you even care?".

I know it isn't earth-shattering, maybe even flirts with shallowness, but I bring this up because I didn't used to care. And now?  I do.  I don't know why, I just do.  While I'm not so much a block head that I would try to outshine the sun, I do want feel like I belong in the same part of the sky.  And that means, for better or worse, that I have to care about how I shine.

Irish Gumbo's Handy Breakfast Tips: Edition the First

I know we all need a little eye opener in the mornings many days, but here's a little tip for you:

When sprinkling a favorite spice on one's breakfast cereal and bananas, make sure that spice is cinnamon and not cayenne pepper.  Otherwise, that may be more 'zing' than one is looking for to jump start the day.

Just sayin'.

Tidbits From The Gumbo Pot, Edition the Second

Wow.  The first edition of 'Tidbits from the Gumbo Pot' came out in February 2009. That was two years ago.  Holy shite.

Well, here goes.  A glimpse behind the curtain of Gumbo.  Herewith, I give you some screen shots that caught my attention, in Go.og.les sidebar.  Things usually get weird in the "More About" sections...

How I got from bird watching to swearing and Scrabble,  I'll never know.

Nothing says fun like a spraying, constipated cat!

So that's my take on a little randomness for your Tuesday.  If you have any insights as to why stuff like this shows up in my sidebar (psychological, not algorithmic) please let me know.  Gumbo can be made from a whole lot of things, but these? I don't know...

Gork, or Stylin' with Irish Gumbo

Well, dear readers, its confession time.  I am, it seems, a geek.  Or maybe a dork.  Perhaps both.

Aha!  I'm a GORK!

"Hey, Irish, don't be hatin' on yo'self!  Why you think that?"  I can hear you say.  Although why you would say it that way, I don't know.  It amuses me, I guess.

Anyway, as to why.  Two things have made me think I'm a gork.  To wit:

ITEM THE FIRST:
Earlier today I finally did my taxes for the year.  I had been dreading it, so I put it off as long as I thought I could.  The weird thing was, once I got into them...I enjoyed it.  You read that right: I enjoyed it.  Best I can figure, I enjoyed it because I turned off the radio and the TV, sat down and really focused on something for a while, and got it done.  No interruptions, no distractions, I FINISHED A THOUGHT, for the first time in months.  Hooray!  What's wrong with me? 

ITEM THE SECOND:
How many of you have two pairs of glasses, one regular for most tasks and one tinted for outdoors/driving?  Show of hands...good!  Those of you who do, listen up, I am about to offer a lifestyle tip.

If one wants to appear self-assured, cool, even, then make sure that when you get in the car and you go to put on your driving glasses...that you remove your regular glasses beforehand.  Trust me, it will save some embarrassment, and no one will point and laugh at you flailings and pokings.  Not that it has happened to me...within the past week.

So there you have it, dear readers, two of the many steps on that steep slide into gorkdom.  Take your time, be careful, I'll be waiting for you at the bottom, wearing my two pairs of glasses...

But True Happiness Comes With A Side of Mash

Sometimes, these things write themselves.  Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls and those undecided, I pass along to you The Secret, courtesy of g.oog.le targeted ads in my sidebar:

 

 
Perhaps I'll change my handle to Irish Bangers...

One of My Favorite Things

It has been a little heavy here of late, I know. Just so you know it isn't a total drag, I bring you this little gem:

I have some good Irish butter, too...

Hot Soup! MMMM, MMMM, blechhh, cough OW!

That pot o' goodness, above, was a big batch of soup.* It was my dinner.

I'll call it Tired 'N' Lazy Soup. Because I was real tired when I got home...and feeling lazy. So it was some broth and noodles from the pantry, some fresh carrot, and (alas) canned peas and corn. Ordinarily those ingredients, left all alone, would have filled the belly but bored the tastebuds. I have a big jar of bay leaves on top of my Chinese Medicine Cabinet, and they always add some oomph to basic broth. A nice leaf in the pot, I say, along with a few white peppercorns. Nosing around in the fridge, I spied a serrano chili pepper lounging in the vegetable bin. Yeah, man, just the thing. So I minced up the pepper and put that in the broth.

Looks innocent, yes?

Now, I wasn't expecting this to be a culinary masterpiece, and that was the case. It did what it was supposed to do, which was feed me without a lot of fuss.

But remember that bay leaf?

I finished the soup, and was ladling it up, when I snagged the bay leaf to get it out of the pot. Bay leaves (as many of you already know) are meant to flavor food, not be the food. This I know, but somewhere between the stove and the sink I forgot...without thinking I stuck the leaf in my mouth and for who knows why I bit down on it. 

Oh good lawd...talk about bitter. My mouth twisted up like it had just discovered the King of the Lemons. Blechhh, erk...I quickly spit it out. I was licking my lips and scraping my tongue like a golden retriever with a mouthful of Jif. Fortunately, the soup and a glass of beer removed the taste of alimony from my mouth.

So dinner was over, I'm cleaning up. Full belly and time to relax! I went to the bathroom to wash up. On the way there, something ended up in the corner of my eye. I reached up with a fingertip to try and dislodge it.

Remember that serrano pepper?

I hadn't washed my hands after cutting up the pepper. The capsaicin was still on my fingers. It quickly made its way into my eye.

Ow. OW. OW! Jay-zus, that hurt! I looked like Popeye as I staggered into the bathroom.

After my eye stopped burning, I made a beeline for the couch, staying far away from the leftover soup. It sat there on the counter, staring at me...I think it even laughed...

*Really? Gee, thanks, Captain Obvious, for illuminating that for us!

For the Calorie-Conscious Caffeine Freak

Seen at a gas station/convenience store:

Now you can be twice as amped and still be calorie-conscious! After all, you wouldn't want to put any junk on your system, now would you?

Photo credit: Irish Gumbo

Stick It In The Fridge, Stick It In The Fridge...

...I like cool beverage...

Right now, in my refrigerator, there lurks 2 bottles of Anchor Bock and 4 bottles of Guinness Extra Stout. Plus, I have some chips. Anyone wanna come over and watch 'Family Guy' with me? Bring some onion dip, please.

What's in your fridge?

Don't Let The Terrorists Win: A Capitalist Theory of Same-Sex Marriage

"MARRIAGE WORKS."

"MARRIED PEOPLE MAKE MORE MONEY."

So say the billboards that loom over part of my daily commute into and out of Mobtown. The words jump out, brightly illuminated by the sun or floodlights, depending on the time of day. These trite phrases are accompanied by huge, full-color photos of a beautiful couple smiling bovinely into the camera as if wedding clothes and a cameraman hovering over them were the neatest thing since being told now they could have sex since they were married.

Couple in this context meaning man and woman. The billboards are sponsored by some sort of 'Save The Family and/or Marriage' type outfit, who believe that marriage can only mean God-approved gender relations.

Yes, the traditional (which in this country means "Western/European/American/Christian") definition is a union between a man and a woman*. But the definition of marriage varies quite a bit, through time and across cultures. Some of those definitions include same sex marriages, some say nothing of procreation. With that in mind, I noted to myself the first time I saw those billboards did not say "Marriage between a man and a woman Works" or "Married men and women Make More Money."

The first billboard doesn't mention human beings at all. The second says "PEOPLE".

Married PEOPLE Make More Money. Hmm.

I think that is probably true. But gender roles are not essential to making money. Making money depends on skill and training and character and environment and sometimes luck. My theory is that married people make more money** because they are more likely to be in a stable relationship with shared interests, coupled with a desire to be together out of love.

Stable, loving relationships are also not defined solely by gender roles. They are defined by the character and interests and abilities of the people involved to make them work.

So let me get this straight: 

Marriage works, and married people make more money.

Married people make more money because they are in a stable loving relationship.

Those relationships are not solely defined by gender roles, but by the character of the people involved.

SO...Married people = more earned money = bigger tax base + discretionary income.

Thus, same-sex marriage could be a much needed boost to the economy. Talk about a stimulus plan, look at the potential gains to be had in granting equal rights to a huge untapped demographic!

Gee whiz, with all the economic woes facing the country, you'd think the 'pro-business, less government' conservative *coughRepublicancough* folks would be all over this, wouldn't you? Especially since if more people had more money to spend on consumption, the terrorists have even less of a chance to win!

*It bears pointing out that in much of Western history, marriage was more about solidifying economic and political ties than it was about a romantic notion of "Three-makes-family". So spare me the platitudes about fulfilling God's design...unless you mean that design was for the greedy and manipulative to force their worldview on everyone else for the sake of gain.

**Assuming that is really true. I'm very skeptical of the methodology and criteria that the advertising organization used to make that claim. Statistics and data can be bent in many ways.

Alternative Energy Takes a Strange Twist

I was toy-shopping in a big box store, watching my Wee Lass devolve into 'paralysis-by-analysis' while trying to decide on what to spend her Valentine's Day greenbacks (courtesy of grand-mère et grand-père), and came across this most curious sign:

Can I get a green energy tax credit if I use it power my house? Although, I'm not sure how I would hook it up...

Return of The Ba-Donka-Donk

As many of you may recall, I chronicled my first street encounter with 'ba-donka-donk' HERE. More precisely, my first encounter with the term outside of a television show. That has officially changed.

Ladies and gentlemen, last week, I had my first remote encounter with a real live ba-donka-donk. Right there in front of my car. It was while waiting at a stop light, a major intersection on my daily commute. It is a busy intersection, one with significant foot traffic in addition to the cars. I have seen a lot of derrieres cross the road at that intersection, fodder for idle observation whilst wasting time waiting on the light to change. Derrieres of all shapes and sizes, some very nice, some spectacular, even. I wouldn't say that any approached 'ba-donka-donk'-ness, however, at least as I am familiar with the term.

This one was different. 

It was...big, but not outrageously so.

It was...round, but not abnormally so.

It was...encased in jeans that approached the level of paint rather than fabric. It appeared to meet all the criteria for classification as a ba-donka-donk.

She, as the kids say, had it goin' on.

The road was still littered with snow and slush, the median piled with snow. This young lady was even wearing low heels, and doing a commendable job of navigating the hazards, with skill and grace and...workin' that ba-donka-donk. Wow.

To my credit, I did not start singing "Baby Got Back" by Sir-Mix-A-Lot*. Also, bumper sticker exhortations notwithstanding, I did not honk at the ba-donka-donk**. Perhaps next time, when I am not so gobsmacked by the sight of a ba-donka-donk in the wild.

I leave you now with a bonus video that never fails to make me laugh like a hyena. Turn it up loud and shout it proud:

*Who knighted him anyway? And for what?

**'I Did Not Honk At The Ba-Donka-Donk' - a hitherto unpublished story from the vaults of Dr. Seuss.

On Not Knowing What I am Doing

Okay, ten minutes...go!

I gave myself a little push, said "Take ten minutes and just write something, then stop!" I have avoided those types of exercises in the past, because I hated the idea of having to stop on an artificial deadline. Then I thought "Yeah, but isn't all of life on some kind of deadline?"

Totally derailed my train of thought. No, not derailed, wrong word, let us say redirected onto a different track. I avoided this stuff in the past because it seems to me in the past so much of the angst I feel about getting things done is predicated on deadlines, because I have always been a firm believer in the "work on it until it is finished" approach, not the "work on it until the timer says to stop working on it".

I once worked with a gentleman who often joked that "There's never time to do it right, but there is always time to do it over!". At which point everyone laughs heartily and says stuff like "Good one!" or "What a kidder!" The real problem was that he believed it, and acted accordingly. The slapdash approach to doing anything drives me nuts, and that was a particularly bad example. Wait, it is a good example of what is a bad example. It always frustrated me that if we just took the time to do it right the first time, which may take a little bit longer than rushing through something, we wouldn't have to waste time doing something over, and thereby wasting more time and resources.

It still gets on my nerves. I have struggled mightily with this problem, in the workaday world. Everything is linked to efficiency, which is tied to productvity which (you saw this coming) is linked to money.

Yeah, okay, we all want to make money. This is an unavoidable fact of immersion in a money economy. The catch to that is it ends up being about pursuing the money to keep making money, which repeats ad nauseaum.

Earlier tonight (the night I am writing this) I saw a short video called "The Resolution Will Not Be Televised" by Jay Smooth*. In it, he says "My eighth resolution would be, Spend as much time as possible doing one thing at a time". Hells to the yeah, that's what I'm talkin' about! I would love to do that because it fits in with my natural inclination. It fits in with what makes me focused and comfortable: being able to do one thing at a time, and do it well. Therein lies my greatest calm, my inner peace. Inner peace: a beautiful butterfly which has yet to alight on my soul.

And that, dear readers, is my ten minutes. Fifteen, actually, because I had to fix the links, but still...

*It's on his blog, illdoctrine.com, a 'hip-hop video blog' hosted by the aforementioned Mr. Smooth (grin). I found quite good. A special thanks to the lurvely Anndi at transition, for bringing Jay to my attention. Word, Anndi!

Some People Need Practical Advice

 "Don't get run over by a bus!" 

- George Carlin

My daughter is nothing if not observant. She is very quick to pick up on the wrongs of others (witness the recent "language incident" involving a deity and an exclamation) and she is a keen student of what people and animals can do. She gets a lot of conversational mileage out of commenting on birds flying, squirrels and chipmunks eating nuts, and all sorts of animals running. She will very often mime the actions she has seen or compare herself to whatever furry or feathered beastie happens to be the topic du jour. In turn, I get to hear some unique commentary from the mouth of the princess. To wit, on the way to school earlier this week:

"Those birds are fast, daddy."

"Yes, they are."

"You know who is fast, daddy?"

"Who, sweetpea?"

"Bongo. (Bongo is her cat) He runs really fast!"

"Yep, he's speedy sometimes."

"I am too! I'm fast, but not as fast as Bongo. He's good at running up the stairs, daddy. That's because he has four legs. But I don't run up the stairs."

"No, sweetie, you should be careful going up the stairs."

"Daddy, you should be careful going down the stairs, too. Don't run, so you don't crash your face into the rail."

So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, your Wee Lass safety tip of the day. No one wants to crash their face, into rails or anything else!

Hold On, Let Me Check...Uh, No?

Rare is the day that I do not see something interesting on my way driving to and from the Big City wherein I earn my daily bread, and last Monday was no exception. The parking lot of the building where I work slopes down to a busy road, and when leaving I often have to stop and wait for traffic to clear.

Idling at the bottom of the slope, on a bluish workday evening, I was absentmindedly staring across the road when a bright pink blur passed in front of my car. It was a Dodge Intrepid, and it was a brilliant shade of Pepto-Bismol. Clean, too.

Wow, I thought, you don't see that very often. A courtesy shuttle for a "gentlemen's club", perchance?

So I turned right out of the parking lot, and found my car right behind the Bismolmobile. It sort of looked like a taxi that had been retired from service. I was looking for any faded taxi sticker marks or company name when I noticed the bumper sticker on the back. There it was, big as day, and it read:

"HONK IF YOU GOT A BA-DONKA-DONK!" 

I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. Nope, still there.

I'm slightly sad to say, I did not honk. But only slightly.

I hadn't been that bemused since a few years back, when I saw a guy wearing a shirt that announced in big, bold caps: DON'T ASK ME FOR SHIT! Roger that, Sparky, you needn't worry that I'd ask you for anything, least of all THAT...

What Up, J-Money?

 "Dude, don't harsh my mellow..."

The bearded chap pictured above showed up in the Gumbo mailbox earlier this week.  He arrived in a thickish packet along with a few other pages of printed material. Now, me and JC, we ain't exactly best buds, but neither do I have a quarrel with him. Most often when I receive this sort of junk mail, I skim it to the extent that I can identify that it is indeed junk, and I then toss it. I've always had a weird curiosity about religious artwork of all types, and I was bored and a little intrigued, so I kept it to read while eating dinner.

It offered me some insight, but left me scratching my head. The first page, photo below, actually warmed my heart. I was able to set aside some of my usual cynicism, and take the passages for simple, heartfelt statements that, in truth, have some relevance to my current life situation. Read on:

Not bad. Not overbearing, none of that in-yer-face, fire and brimstone, goin-to-hell type stuff that really turns me off. I don't need someone telling me I'm a sinner; I already know that. So it was nice to read something that basically says, "It's going to be alright, I'm here with you." Though it was taken from the Bible, it reads as if it could have come out of any major faith. I thought that was pretty cool. The header on the next page said the following:

I suppose it is, isn't it? Very nice, I thought. Munching on my red beans and rice burrito, I turned to the next page. And wouldn't you know it:

And here I was scrambling around looking for a financial planner I could trust, when all I really needed was the red patent leather Bible I received on my confirmation day. It's right there on the shelf...

To drive the point home, naturally, they kindly provided some examples, just so you know its genuine...I love that the second to last number is so oddly specific:

32 cents, 'cause the good Lord is all about balancing the books.

Even though I have what seems to be a low success rate when it comes to prayers, I don't begrudge nor do I discourage others from praying however they want for whatever they want. 

But why, why, why does it always seem to end up being about money? I'm happy that some folks who seemed in need got what they needed, but...why not...peace of mind?

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

BECAUSE GOD LIKES A GOOD LAUGH TOO:

"Hey, J.C.! What's up?" Wait, it's just Cheech Marin...

 

 Jesus: "Give that back, you big meanie!"

Satan: "Neener, neener, neener!"

 AND FINALLY....

 

We are soooooo busted...

Okay, But What Kind of Meat?

I went to a local museum last weekend with my Wee Lass, to attend a birthday party for two of her classmates. In the room reserved for the festivities, I saw this sign upon the wall:

Everyone is a specialist these days. I think I'll pick...baloney.

In other news, I have been selected for another award, for a Post-Of-The-Week honor from the one, the only, the lovely Comedy Goddess! Please stop by, drop some luv and let her know I sent you. Please. Plus, she has wine!

No Wonder There Is An Epidemic Of Brushfires and Children Smoking...

 I was going to light some candles, but couldn't find a responsible adult.

 

1 down, 6 to go...

...and your pride is here on earth.

I guess the wages of sin pay pretty good, but how are the benefits?.