lordy

So here we are.

I can’t remember exactly how old I was when I first saw black birthday balloons on someone’s mailbox during a Saturday headed-to-another-garage-sale drive, but I know I was young and/or naïve enough to wonder if that wasn’t gonna be the best funeral ever. 

And as the Reagan era marched along and the boomers-turned-yuppies waved their flags extra fast due to cocaine jitters and decided that blisters and foot odor were small prices to pay for style in the form of sockless loafers, more black balloons appeared on suburban mailboxes, accompanied by matching streamers, bunting, and yard signs, all screaming the same slogan:

“LORDY LORDY, SOMEONE’S 40!”

The proliferation of Over-the-Hill birthday decorations was my introduction to gallows humor. Oh, I get it, I thought, like an alien observing some new planet’s civilization, they’re laughing about the fact that the birthday boy’s/girl’s life is over! That’s funny and sad! Like a clown! Which is appropriate for a birthday!

wee smalls

So here we are.

Some people get up at 5 AM. Some people go to sleep at 5 AM. But I think there is one thing that both groups of people can agree upon: that after the clock gets dialed back to standard time, there is no darker, colder hour in New York City than 5 AM.

Except 4 AM.

Make no mistake: this city does indeed sleep. I think that Kander and Ebb meant that there’s always someone awake in New York, New York; it sleeps, just not all at the same time.

50% chance

So here we are.

50%. It can mean so many things. Half. Half full. Half empty. Hours to go before your phone’s battery dies. A coin’s flip. An F grade. A fighting chance for life. Enough grays to require the permanent hair dye. Splitting the check, the profits, the assets. Reduction. A huge supply of your daily requirement of fiber. 

I am growing concerned. Over the last few days, it has been forecasted that there is a 50% chance of rain on Thanksgiving. Now all of a sudden, 50% only means yes, definitely, count on it. 

I am still aware that a 50% chance of rain means that there is also a 50% chance that it will not rain. But it’s going to rain. I just know it. 

punch line television

So here we are.

Remember Hee-Haw? 

I remember watching this, or should I say, I remember being forced to watch this back in the era of single-television households, when I was a kid. Cheap, syndicated corn-fed laughs served up on giant hay bales by toothless hicks in overalls and busty farmer’s daughter-types spilling out of their gingham, floating on hooch fumes and sticky with sweet chicken-fried metaphors you could sop up with a biscuit.

And Benny Hill? That was another one I was forced to sit through. Cheap, syndicated tweed cap-topped laughs served up with a side of steak and kidney pie by bawdy old Brits in derbies and busty young birds spilling out of their nurse’s uniforms, awash in Guinness and double-entendres, and somehow always ending with a fast-forwarded chase featuring character actors in various states of undress that ultimately makes one wonder what took us so durned long to break from our motherland’s monarchy.

full

So here we are.

I sit here immobile, ever spreading, in front of a box of long-awaited nirvana. I am thoroughly stuffed, but I continue to cram ‘em down, one after the other, as life goes on outside my window. I am bleary-eyed and silent. It’s all so rich and delicious that my heart is about to explode.

I speak of course about the complete series of The Larry Sanders Show, finally out on DVD. Yes, we’d purchased the first season when it was released ages ago, as well as the “Not Just The Best Of” discs that came out a few years after that, and I’d even caught a few in a brief window on Hulu this past spring. But it wasn’t enough. They were appetizers, tiny snacks on the banquet table, mixed nuts with hardly any cashews or pecans. There was no possible way to be totally satiated until we had every single episode in front of us, densely packed, on a platter.

brave or stupid

So here we are.

Recently, I had a tough call to make, and as I was deliberating, I came to the realization that I was teetering on the high wire between bravery and stupidity.

(I would say that there’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity, but once you sing a certain lyric that is captured on an album, you can never say it without someone giggling and pointing and telling you, “hey - you said that thing you sang!” So thus I have to be a little more creative in my phrasing... and I am aware that the high wire thing may not be the most accurate metaphor. Apologies to all circus employees.) 

Continuing... 

robots

So here we are.

The robots woke me up this morning. Of course, this being Election Day, it was to be expected. The robots have been busy this fall. They robo-call a lot. I hate them.

Remember when the thought of a robot calling you seemed like an incredibly exciting prospect? So futuristic! So cool! Cooler even, than my Speak-n-Spell! (It speaks! It spells!)

You know, “hate” is such a strong word. I don’t really hate the robots. It’s hard to truly hate something that has no capacity to comprehend or respond to the hate, making it a complete waste of perfectly good time and hate. Plus, there’s way too much hate floating out there right now and I’m not going to add to it with something as silly as robots and their super-dialing powers.