Leafing

Having spent so many years on the sea, what I wonder about may appear to have an obvious answer to you more experienced landlubbers.

Why do people rake up, bag up, and cart away all the leaves in their gardens? And why do they follow up that process by going to the store, buying bags of mulch, and spreading them all over the now leaf-free land?

I'm not talking about the leaves on the lawn. I do know that grass grows better when not buried alive. I'm talking about gardens, ornamental and otherwise. Granted, so much of my life has been lived on the sea that my education in these matters is lacking, but I have noticed, while hiking in the woods collecting deer ticks, that the earth in forests, which is naturally mulched by fallen leaves, is lush and rich. Is there a reason why letting fallen leaves lie on ‘civilized’ landscaping is not acceptable?

A few of my theories:

Raking leaves into a big pile helps feeds that strong desire to leap without actually dying.

Containing leaves in plastic bags satisfies a desperate attempt to feel in control of one’s destiny.

Messing with mother nature helps kill time in an unemployed existence

There was nothing to watch on TV at the moment

Needed a place to hide the bodies

Am I close on any of those guesses?

Armageddon is Here

If you didn’t save yourself by stocking up before the day of the Turkeys, it’s too late now. You’re screwed. From this point on, you’ll have to take your life into your hands each and every time you venture out among the surviving turkeys that will be roaming loose in every store during this season of ‘I want it, it’s mine, and I’ll kill you for it.’

If you actually enjoy that sort of thing, risking angry crowds ready to trample you for a cheap bauble, standing in long lines of cranky, complaining, and most likely highly germ-ridden people, overpaying for that crap, well, what can I say? It takes all types to make the world go round and spinny.

If, however, you’d like to be saved from being one of those voted most likely to end up on next T-day’s table, I can help you learn how to have a calm, peaceful, non-angst filled holiday season, all without spending more than you could manage to rob from the bank.

Simply send $199 plus $400 shipping/handling to Alitloff Center, and I will send you the intimate details of how to use my program. Following my protocol will keep you safe, un-broke, un-flattened, and yet still show your loved ones just how much you care.

May you survive this holiday season unstampeded.

Is it abnormal to have formed a family out of a group of disparate, yet similar, people? Given that the vast majority of families are made up of oddballs who have nothing in common but the same nose and a genetic tendency towards dreaming about axes, I suppose it’s acceptable.

I now find myself part of a family that formed because we were all in the same boat, which had sprung a major leak and was sinking fast. A failed business leading to loss of home, a new business which will eventually grow strong, but is currently struggling in this economy, an illness that curtailed earning potential so much that keeping a roof overhead became a remote possibility.

By taking to the life raft together, we saved ourselves, drifting to this spit of land, where we became a semi cohesive unit, almost as dysfunctional as any of our blood relatives, loving each other nevertheless.

Later today, another stack of people, all of whom are unable to afford to be with their genetic families this year, will be bringing a dish to the table, joining us in sharing the warmth and love. Maybe we can even argue a bit, just as families do, discussing such things as, does this holiday seem like VJ day to some? Do certain tenants of this land really want to celebrate the day that their ancestors came along to save the carcasses of a bunch of sorry white folks who were completely unable to care for themselves in this land of bounty, only to be repaid later by being annihilated nearly out of existence?

Happy Turkey Day, because goodness knows there are plenty of them out there.

Naked Lobster Hunting

I was wandering down the dock one Friday morning, when a friend approached and asked me to go sailing with him later in the day. Already residing aboard a much nicer boat than his, I initially declined. Besides, I was scheduled to work that evening. But he begged. “I met this girl” he began. “She won’t go with just me on board, and everyone else is at work. You’re the only one around. And since you're also a girl, that would probably put her even more at ease about going.”

I let him talk me into chaperoning his date, as long as he promised to get me back in time to go to work.

She was a lovely girl from the Soviet Union, on vacation from doctor school on the mainland. We sailed through the harbor and out into open water, spending a lazy hour or so tacking in the lee of Diamond Head. On the return tack, my friend suggested dropping anchor not far from the break wall, so we could go swimming.

Now, this next part may come as a shock to all you puritanical Americans, but rest assured that a large portion of the world is not as freakazoid about the human body as we are.

There was no question of bathing suits, so we all stripped off. That in no way meant a water orgy was about to begin. It simply meant we were going swimming. My friend, who was part fish anyway, wanted to look for lobsters under some rocks about 30 feet down on the bottom. His plan was that if he found any lobsters, he'd return to the boat to get a sack and some gloves, returning to free dive for the critters. He leapt in wearing nothing but a mask, carrying a scuba tank tucked under one arm, its regulator stuck in his mouth. He wasn't even wearing swim fins. His date just wanted to swim, so she jumped in and began to splash around beside the boat. I wanted to see where lobsters lived, so I strapped a mask on my face before hopping over the side. Swimming on the surface, I began to follow my friend. He glided down to one set of rocks, but came up empty. Rising off the bottom about fifteen feet, he began swimming towards another pile of rocks.

Somehow, probably because we had visions of a yummy lobster lunch dancing in our heads, we missed seeing the dive flag floating on the surface. Intent on spotting lobsters, neither of us saw the group of Japanese tourists, who were taking part in a dive class on the other side of the rocks, until we were right over top of them. There were eight them, outfitted in full wetsuits and dive gear, sitting on the bottom in a circle, performing some exercise assigned by the two dive instructors who were with them.

The Japanese strive to do everything exactly as they’re taught. I could imagine the hours of instruction on the proper use of dive gear; how it can only be done just so. And when it comes to nudity, the Japanese are worse prudes than Americans. I could envision the instructors’ admonitions later, once the class was out of the water and back on the beach. No no no, never, that is not how you do it. Crazy haoles.

The expressions on those ten faces will live in my memory long after I’ve forgotten my name or where I live. The cloud of bubbles around them suddenly increased tenfold, as twenty pairs of eyes went round and huge in shock, all staring upwards at a stark naked man swimming over their heads, holding nothing but a scuba tank, shadowed by a naked woman. I laughed so hard I blew the mask right off my face, inhaling quite a bit of salt water, as my friend swam casually over the stunned group, waving the Hawaiian ‘hi’ sign at them. I followed suit.

What else could we do?

The Way to World Peace

It looks like your dad may have been right about that playing with dolls thing, but for the wrong reason:


-Toxins in plastic 'feminize boys'

Chemicals in plastics alter the brains of baby boys, making them "more feminine", say US researchers. Phthalates have the ability to disrupt hormones, and have been banned in toys in the EU for some years.

“ This feminizing capacity of phthalates makes them true 'gender benders' ”

Certain phthalates impact the developing brain, by knocking out the action of the male hormone testosterone.

Boys exposed to high levels of these in the womb were less likely than other boys to play with cars, trains and guns or engage in "rougher" games like playfighting.*


Finally, we’ve found a cure for what's wrong with the male species! I know what every little boy is getting from me this Christmas. Plastic, and lots of it.

C’mon, everyone, join me in this. Just imagine what, within a generation or two, we could achieve. An end to violent crimes. No more school/family murder/suicide shootings. No more big fights over silly stuff like oil and religion.

Peace on earth. Just like the Beatles said.


*read the full article here.

The Decaffeination of Mr. J

I’m finally going to confess publicly to something I did a decade ago.

I was living in San Diego, working in a sail loft. I had two bosses. One was fairly level headed, although when I first started the job, my impression was that he was a bit of a snothead. “Tell her to do this”, he would say to his partner, my other boss. He did that several times during my first few days, despite the fact that I could both see and hear him. Finally, being me, I said, ‘hey, what’s up? Are you allergic to girls? Are you scared of my fleas? Am I too lowly to be spoken to? Or is there some rule here that I wasn’t told about, where everything has to be translated through Mr. J?’

Turns out that he was just remarkably uncomfortable around new people.

Mr J, on the other hand, was not the least bit shy. He would talk to anyone, anywhere, any time. As the day wore on, Mr J’s caffeine levels would elevate as he consumed cup after cup of coffee. He would talk faster, becoming more animated and spastic with each refill. We all made comments about trying to reduce his caffeine intake.

But I actually did something about it.

Not long after I started, I was given a key and the alarm code, becoming the one who opened the loft in the mornings.

I chose to arrive early to open up for one reason, and one reason only.

So I could be the one who made the coffee. I hid a big can of decaf under my table, and slowly, over the course of three weeks, added a bit more decaf and less regular coffee each morning, until the only caffeine Mr J had roiling around in his bloodstream was what he came in with in the morning. The two pots of coffee he consumed at work were now 100% decaf.

The change was remarkable. Everyone, even regular visitors to the loft, noticed how much he had calmed down. He no longer followed people out of the shop with his mouth motoring at 600 mph, his arms rotating wildly like out of control propellers.

I told no one what I had done, simply continuing to keep the regular coffee jar filled with decaf. It was a small price to pay for the decreased maniacal activity of Mr. J. Although I was certain that eventually someone, especially the secretary, who was the one most likely to take petty cash to buy coffee for the loft, would notice that not one of them had bought any coffee in over a year, no one ever did.

About a week after the coffee decafalon was completed, the young kid who worked there was sitting on the steps, cup of coffee from the pot in hand, looking as though the night before had been hard on him. Staring woefully into his cup, he said, “I don’t know what it is, but this stuff just doesn’t seem to wake me up anymore.” It was all I could do not to break out in hysterical laughter.

I didn’t tell a soul.

Fast forward two years later, when it was time to give notice because I was moving back east. I knew that I couldn’t just leave things as they were, because the next time the coffee ran out, whoever bought it would buy regular, and Mr. J would probably die from the caffeine overdose.

I debated letting the secretary in on my deception, in the hopes that she could secretly continue the caffeine-free environment. But given her complete inability to keep anything to herself, I decided to start re-caffeinating Mr. J.

After spending a three week span of time reversing the process, he was back to two pots of regular coffee per day. And no one could understand why, after such a long period of calm, he was once again a blur of hyperactive motion.

I never told anyone what I had done. I just left. If they weren’t clever enough to think of doing that on their own, then they could just live with his caffeine wackiness, 45 hours, six days a week.

Don't Do It

Oh my god, the horror of it all! What is this world coming to? We need to address this disaster immediately. Bring out the lawyers, call the insurance company. Imagine my shock when I read this headline this morning:

Hot Tub Injuries on the Rise

"Although some steps have been taken to make hot tubs safer, increased prevention efforts are needed," said a representative for the coalition of hot tub sellers. “We are currently undergoing intensive research, by drinking champagne in the hot tub round the clock, to see what disasters may occur."

“Based on our findings, funded by a 6.8 million dollar government grant, we’ll suggest warning labels to be plastered all over hot tubs before they can be sold. However, additional research grant money may be needed to thoroughly investigate this deadly new danger, as well as to provide programs to educate the public about the hazards of using a hot tub. We may also need to research the use of safety harnesses, life jackets, knee/elbow pads, and helmets, for use while in or near a jacuzzi. Plus, funding should be made available to study the feasibility of creating a licensing class for any individual wanting to get within 50 yards of a warm, burbling tub of water. One way or another, we’ll work to keep these morons safe from their own stupidity. Not because we give a crap one way or another whether or not some bonehead slips and falls on a wet surface. We just don’t want to get sued.”

There you have it. Who would have imagined a wet surface could possibly be slippery?

Good Advice

You could heed that advice, or, you could:

I can't afford it

Let’s blame it all on the insurance company and the lawyers, shall we? If it weren’t for them, we could earn a decent wage, afford health care, right?

Wrong.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: As far as I’m concerned, the downfall of the free world began with that broad who stupidly spilled hot coffee on herself and then made a million off McDonald’s for being a dumb ass. Like no one could possibly have known that pouring hot coffee in your crotch would hurt. Suddenly, the common man looked around his environment, thought of that huge payout for lack of intelligence and coordination, and decided that spending a few years in court could be much more profitable than actually working at a real job. It would also solve that attention-getting need, by being in the center ring of the circus of law.

Now, human greed appears more rampant than ever, with everyone looking for any infraction as an excuse to sue for millions. Of course the insurance companies have fed off that greed. Of course law firms are looking for that big case that will set them up for life. They are all made up of human beings too, who all want the same thing.

An easy life without working for it.

Has anyone gotten that life from a lawsuit? Maybe a few, just like the few who have won lotteries. But the vast majority of us are paying the price for the greedy success of those few. We’re getting paid peanuts because our employers have to shell out so much money in insurance premiums to cover their asses against that lazy employee or ten, who would rather crush a limb in a press and sue for damages, than do the job.

And because Hep Huey sued the doctor over a hangnail, basic malpractice insurance now costs each doctor the equivalent of a house every year, and our insurance premiums are beyond what most can afford.

Now, whenever presented with a hangnail, the doctor must order every expensive test known to science, because if one thing is missed, the lawyers will be calling.

If your neighbor puts a fence around his property, will you sue for loss of view? If your neighbor doesn’t put a fence around his property, will you sue for having to look at his battered shed and broken tractors each time you look out your bathroom window?

Tip: Save the lawyer fees and stop staring at the neighbor, or he may have to counter sue you for stalking. Besides which, you knew when you bought your house that it was next door to a lawn mower repair shop. What the heck did you expect? You're as dumb as the moron who bought a house next to an airport and then sued because the planes were noisy.

Am I alone in thinking that if we strived to accept different perspectives and points of view, rather than suing everyone into agreeing with us, our lives just might flow more smoothly and freely? Is it worth considering that if we all relearned the art of forgiveness, instead of fighting bitterly for years over a trifle, life might just be kinder, gentler, and less expensive? When grandma in the battered Buick bumps your bumper, instead of opening your car door and falling out on the pavement screaming “I’m dying!,”get out, ask her if she’s all right, and get over that two inch scratch in the bumper. There’s a reason they’re called that, you know. Don’t waste the time of the ambulance, three police cars and two fire engines. Don’t spend years fighting with the insurance company about needing an entire new car because yours is no longer perfect. Suck it up. Accept that as long as humans have been around, and as long as they will continue to be around, accidents will happen. Mistakes will be made. It’s human nature.

The only way to solve the problem of human error is to get rid of the humans.
Which, if we keep reproducing so many of them, we’ll probably crush ourselves out of existence anyway. But that’s a subject for another post.*
*See, I told you everything I wrote was an acid rant.

I thought maybe if I tossed some negativity out there in an effort to get rid of it, I’d get my head clear and get back to entertaining myself with amusing anecdotes.
But maybe that’s hopeless this time of year. My brain cells turn brown and fall off with the leaves, not re-sprouting until spring, when the ticks come out again.

And yet, given a choice of going anywhere else in the world (a realistic choice, that is, otherwise if I won that million dollar lawsuit I’d be looking for a hut in the tropics somewhere), I would still chose staying here with the ticks and the dark and the cold and the snow and the rain and the ice and the naked gray trees and the coyotes looking to eat my lovely little dog.

There’s no accounting for human nature.