Something Stinks, I Think

Many bags of litter promise to reduce and/or eliminate odor, but the plain truth is that anything sufficiently neglected or merely glossed will eventually lead to toxic buildup and unbearable reek. I'm talking about more than the kitty litter, of course. Promises are easy to make when others are in control, but delivering is a different matter. Robert Redford's movie The Candidate remains as applicable today as it was when it was made. There's a new leadership in national politics coming into power, but that doesn't guarantee that the reek of the recent past will be properly cleaned out. Detritus accumulates and evades housecleaning. That's just the nature of things, whether in literal or figurative housekeeping. Sometimes the old litter just needs to be completely discarded, including the old litterbox. Sometimes, revolution is the only way to really clean house. I say, sometimes - not always. The bigger the pile of manure, the less likely throwing the entire container out will serve to eliminate the inherent stench.

What am I talking about?

Odd Comment?

Odd Comment
14 November 2006

Walking around one of the increasingly ubiquitous box stores today led to another increasingly ubiquitous sight: a Christmas decorations display depicting an ostensible slice of Americana – a small town square. There was a hardware store (significantly smaller and less comprehensive than the one I was in), a diner (filled with teens who evidently don’t have afterschool activities like sports or part-time jobs), a railroad station (without accompanying tracks nearby), a ferris wheel, (doesn’t your town have a ferris wheel erected near the town square?), a gas station (sans posted prices because, after all, who knows what those will be from day to day?), children skating on an ice pond, villagers chatting idly, and a couple holding hands.

Now here’s the thing: the female partner looked perfectly normal (aside from the fact that she was attired as a typical bobby soxer), but her male companion (I have to assume he was male,) was clean-shaven from the shoulders upwards, to the point of being literally headless. Why, you ask, was he headless? This question opens the door wide to all sorts of speculation… (see the gleam in my eye?)

Did some careless clerk or customer accidentally drop the paired figure and accidentally knock off this guy’s block or is this some more insidious social commentary being made in an otherwise innocuous public setting?

Did some irate worker take out her frustration on the defenseless figurine? (I saw two women workers clearing and setting up wooden fences forming pens for incoming Christmas trees; they didn’t look happy about their task, though they did look resigned to it.)

Did the fellow finally say something to cause his female companion literally to bite his head off?

Is this a set composed by an ardent feminist commenting on the figurative male condition? Is he lucky he was allowed to keep his pants on?

Was this, perhaps, vandalism perpetrated by someone whose significant other needs to be very very cautious tonight upon returning home, perhaps because he was laggard in unpacking his “stuff” recently? (Should the local constabulary be informed?)

With any luck, the answer will never be known, never make the local or national headlines. Still, it does leave the idle passerby wondering…

Toy Store

Wandering through a smalltown toy store is always interesting, particularly because there tends to be a collector's interest in toys of bygone days as well as the more common offerings one might find at places like Toys-R-Us, K-Mart, Wal-Mart, or Target. Wandering through such a facility is almost inevitable when it is located within easy walking distance of a like-minded comic collector's store.

What was particularly striking today, however, was the realization that the toy market has become so aggressive in its early imprinting of children as potential future consumers. There is not just one style of dollhouse any more, but a plethora of real estate opportunities from which to select an idealized domicile these days, just like those through which young couples intent on nesting must wade. It's easy to see how parents or children might be tempted to invest in the assembling of a year-round town or private suburb. Think of it as a great learning tool for that budding civil engineer. There are all sorts of accessories available for the barebones structures as well, so that the townhouse, loft, condominium, ranch-style single family dwelling, classic Victorian, or banal apartment complex need not stand empty for long. There are contemporary kitchens, dens with plasma tv screens, wrap-around sofas, bunk beds, etc. Playing house has, indeed, come a long way.

It's nice to see that yesterday's children have been stretching their imaginations, but seeing such toys does make me wonder what room has been left for the imaginations of the next generation. Will they be too busy processing input to develop their own output? Or will they simply take both play and productivity to yet another level? Optimistically, I'm still young enough that I expect to see the answer to this question in just a few years.

No Mystery Here

The World Poker Tour is on television this evening, somehow far more engaging than early election results. One fellow backed into a straight flush, always a cool thing to see, though more interesting in one's own hand than in someone else's, to be sure. Watching the final hand, however, completely lacks drama if one is a clock watcher, as I am. How can one possibly get excited about that last river card when the hour is about to strike, indicating the end of the broadcast? Likewise, someone who goes all in in the middle of an hour is surely doomed. Where, then, is the suspense?

Startlement, however, is abundant. There has just been a breaking news story that a college football player has been shot and killed this evening, details still pending. One might reasonably expect stories of shootings to be confined to nightly news reports on network television and dedicated news channels, but these days ballplayers at all levels seem as vulnerable as the rest of the population. Why is a mystery to me. So there goes the title to this piece, as the "real world" dares to intrude on what should be a safe haven from all but manufactured violence. That's sad.

Yeah, yeah, that's a weak thing to say, but it's a pretty pathetic truth to face as well.

Relapse

Relapse
5 November 2006

Woke up this morning feeling fine
Had absolutely nothing on my mind
Now that fluff is turning to gel
My head is starting once again to swell
My nose is running for all it’s worth
My Kidz are giving me a seriously wide berth
I’m literally snotty and redeyed today
Guess I just started too early to play
Now the Piper is here with a vengeance
I’ll not be stirring soon hence

Oh no! The pathetic rhyming has begun again
It must be a consequence of sitting in my den
Trying to cobble together a few thoughts
While avoiding all those encircling “oughts”
Personally I think all the cooking and cleaning
Is the real reason I’m feeling like I need my own reaming