A Minimalist Approach, Sweat Tsunami, and What Really Matters

August 19, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

And people wonder why I don’t trust the media.

The more I read in the news, or worse, the more TV news I’m subjected to, the more I discover that most of it is not only insanely trite and boring, but also not very applicable to me.

Unless that volcano is erupting in my back yard, or my bed is above that 500 foot-across sink hole, I’m inclined not to give a rat’s ass. I really don’t need to know about it, either.

I will be so glad when the Y pool is opened back up again (this is week 2 of 2 weeks of scheduled maintenance) for two very good reasons.

I hate TV news. I’m starting to get Don Henley’s point. Even if I am listening to my headphones, the various news networks are plastered on the TV screens in the machine room, and they’re captioned. That wouldn’t be so bad, except I am compelled to read anything in print. (This is one of the things about hyperlexia that can really suck- that compulsion to read everything that’s in print.) For me, visual always trumps auditory. What I hear never drowns out what I see.

I am coming very close to hitting my personal vapidity overload threshold. I could care less whose school is on delay, what cologne my dogs should be wearing this season, and the less I know about Obama’s vacations and Obama’s flagrant violations of the Constitution, the more sane I can try to remain.

Obama is thoroughly corrupt and loathsome. I don’t need to keep on observing the media’s attempts to make him look good.

There really isn’t much in the morning news that has any sort of relevance in my life. Now I know why I don’t watch it voluntarily. I know most of the normals watch TV news- which is why it’s on during the morning workout hours- but the way I’m wired there are certain things I can only take in tiny doses, such as the Kardashians, gay men who try to tell me how I should dress, and natural disasters in divers parts of the world. I get what news I really have to have on a need to know basis, usually online. That minimalist strategy helps me turn down the mental noise. Why should I get my undies in a bunch over things I have no control over?

No self respecting straight man would be seen dressed like these two- not even on Halloween.

Even though I have my coping strategies, being on the spectrum makes it easy for me to overload and get overwhelmed and depressed, so I have to make a conscious effort to try to be somewhat careful what I load up in my head. It either has to be practical, or at least funny.

The other thing I sort of dislike about working out on the elliptical machine vs. swimming laps in the pool is I hate sweating and I hate being hot. After 40 minutes on that machine, my clothes are completely soaked and one can actually wring the sweat out of them which is absolutely disgusting. Even though my morning workouts are always followed by a thorough, insanely soapy, and ultimately freezing cold shower, that icky sticky sweaty feeling is nasty while it lasts. Not to mention my clothes- they go directly in the wash when I get home.

I see people wearing workout clothes for more than one day at a time and I sincerely hope that either a.) they don’t sweat like I do, or b.) they’re washing that stuff out every night. I’m not OCD or a germophobe- at least not to extremes- but my workout clothes are absolutely unwearable after one workout until they’re washed again.

40 minutes of exercise is 40 minutes of exercise, but it’s a lot more pleasant in the pool. At least then all I have to wash off is the chlorine.

I am thankful to be able to have a Y membership, don’t get me wrong, but it can be frustrating when I have to shift to a different plan. I don’t mind doing the elliptical now and then as a change of pace, but every day, and in the summer- not so much. In the middle of winter it might not be so bloody hot.

At least I’m working out. I don’t look like the buff chick on the machine up there but at least I don’t look like this:

Ignorant and Blithely Oblivious, Part Two

August 14, 2013Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

I gotta love this Plastic Jesus guy for this particular prank.

I have to wonder how many people tried to buy the Useless Plastic Box. I can just imagine the look on the Best Buy Team Member‘s face when he/she got questions on that one. Then again, where I live, I’d be happy to find any retail store with a Team Member who a.) speaks English as a first language, and b.) actually gives a rat’s ass about the poor suckers who buy their crap.

The greater question would be, “Who would want to?”

I also have to wonder about the WalMart creatures. I know it’s not polite to make fun of other people’s poor clothing choices especially when those choices appear to be motivated by extreme drug abuse and/or profound brain damage, but it is funny. I freely admit that I don’t score high in “ability to empathize with others” at times. Appearing in public looking like a stoned and deranged circus clown (no offense intended to actual circus clowns) should invite derision as far as I’m concerned, not only from me, but from society at large.

These two could use a rear view mirror.

Speaking of society at large, we seem to have grown a substantial “Emperor’s New Clothes” mentality. When you know what you’re seeing all around you is completely ridiculous, uncalled for, trite, and without substance, but you’re afraid to speak out about it and call it for what it is, you end up with wannabe vapid figureheads in lieu of leaders.

My question is, how deep do you have to be mired in denial to fail to see that the gutless wonders in government and in the public sphere at large are devoid of substance and incapable of leadership?

Need I say more?

How long does it take to understand that there are moral absolutes just as there are physical and material absolutes?

I’d also like to know, while I’m at it, why it’s OK for black thugs to victimize and kill other black people, which happens hundreds of times a day, and that gets a pass from the media, law enforcement and the “leaders” of the black community, but it’s positively offensive for a white (or Hispanic) guy to defend himself against a black thug when he fears for his life? Where’s Al Sharpton and/or Jesse Jackson speaking out against black on black violence?

Don’t get me wrong, violence and thuggery are equally wrong and I don’t give a rat’s ass what race the perpetrator happens to be. How about looking at the crime and not the color of the perpetrator’s skin? Why is there some kind of crazy “affirmative action” that gives black perpetrators a pass?

You want true equality, then stop giving anyone of any race preferential treatment because of race!

It amazes me still as well that the most adamant critics of capital punishment are the staunchest supporters of abortion on demand. I don’t get this “logic:” Kill and brutally dismember the innocent for being inconvenient, but let’s all shed some crocodile tears for some unrepentant jackwagon axe murderer who slaughtered eighteen shoppers in a convenience store in a fit of drug-fueled rage. Let’s give the axe murderer three hots and a cot, cable TV, and a free education for his trouble. Give me a break. Public execution was a deterrent against violent crime and swift public execution for those convicted of egregious capital crimes needs to make a comeback.

And murderers and child molesters too! In public!

When I was growing up there were Things You Just Don’t Do. Those things were forbidden not because they were dangerous things, but because they were disrespectful. Walking on people’s graves, for instance. It wasn’t cool to be trampling all over someone’s Aunt Sadie’s final resting place. Eating or drinking stuff in the store before you pay for it, (still a pet peeve of mine when someone is letting their rug rat eat out of a box of not-yet-paid-for-snacks,) or failing to clean your plate at dinner if you had been invited to someone’s house to eat as a guest. Even if what was being served was positively vile and/or would make you violently ill.

Yep. The metal ring too.

Many of the Things You Just Don’t Do had to do with behavior in church. As Mom is and was a very strict old-school Catholic, if you missed any part of the Catholic calisthenics during Mass you were wide open for swift retribution ranging from a relatively subtle Vulcan Death Grip to being yanked out of church by the hair and getting a good whacking on the stairs. You did not forget to bless yourself with the holy water. You did not forget to genuflect in front of the altar before sitting down. You said all the responses at the proper times. You sang all the hymns. You sat quietly during the homily and did not occupy oneself by doodling on the missal. You did not get a pass on any of these things even at age two or three. The Catholics (ironically enough) don’t believe in having an nursery where you can take infants and toddlers during worship. A good Catholic mother takes those rug rats to Mass from day one and makes them mind in church during Mass no matter what. Up to and including flogging their offspring to get the point across.

I don’t condone praying to saints- but I would have to have added: “That Mom doesn’t go over the deep end when she beats us!”

I can sort of understand Mom’s obsessive detail to our behavior in church because it taught me that God is watching- but He’s not just watching to make sure a scared little kid is doing the Catholic calisthenics the right way. I learned about the wrath of God long before I discovered His mercy. There’s something to be said for that in a way, but it makes it a bit more difficult later in life to be merciful, to be forgiving, and to try to see the other side. I’m not very good at it.

Ignorant and Blithely Oblivious, Part 1

August 8, 2013Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

It’s going to drop. Murphy’s Law says so.

It has been said, “ignorance is bliss.” Perhaps in the short term that’s true. It’s sort of hard to have fun when one can see the Sword of Damocles hanging over one’s head.

I remember the most miserable vacation I’d ever had. When I was in seventh grade I had a rather difficult time with math, and I didn’t particularly like the math teacher to boot. She was one of the teachers that assumed that since I had aptitude for and achieved in every other subject that I should excel in math as well. Yeah. Right.

In those days you got a report card every six weeks, that your parent/guardian/resident adult had to sign and return to the teacher. In my family it was worse than that- DAD had to sign it, as his signature is rather ornate and hard to copy. He always perused my report cards with particular scrutiny before signing them. Anything less than straight A’s usually got me grounded, and usually the only subject that was difficult for me to get an A in was, of course, math.

That six weeks before Thanksgiving break I’d barely ended up with a C- in math class, as well as the teacher had included a nasty note on the report card that implied that I was a horrible slacker because I didn’t do well in her class.

The signed report cards were due back the Monday after Thanksgiving. Joy.

Dad wasn’t particularly worried about report cards that Thanksgiving break as he was preoccupied with a long-planned trip to my grandmother’s in St. Louis. Normally I would be thrilled about getting to see my grandmother (Mom’s Mom) who I only got to see once or twice a year and, if I was lucky, for a week or two in summer, but this was a miserable trip.

I’d rather have been stranded with the Griswalds.

I kept wondering when Dad was going to ask about report cards, and/or when my oldest sister would remind him. She was normally quite anxious to get hers signed. She usually got mostly A’s and a B now and then. Dad didn’t usually give her any trouble unless she got below a B in anything. But even my sadistic oldest sister wasn’t in any real hurry to show off her report card this go-round. I would discover later that she had gotten 3 B’s and a bad conduct comment from the gym teacher, which wasn’t quite normal for her either. Her conduct usually was bad- no surprise there- but she was generally very good at hiding her sadism from adults. It was unusual for her to get caught.

My other sister always got crappy grades (Dad usually didn’t get on her if she at least got C’s)- but she had mostly C’s and one D- so she wasn’t in any hurry to have Dad sign her report card either. None of us had the courage to hit Dad up for signatures until the last minute- mostly because nobody wanted to spend an eight hour road trip (one way) listening to Dad seethe and fume on about how bad our grades were. I know I didn’t want to be around Dad in close proximity for four days when he’s pissed. Let him be pissed on Monday when he’s at work and I don’t have to deal with it.

Even so, all I could think about the entire trip was a.) the inevitable browbeating I would get over Mrs. Vitriol’s (not her real name) catty comments, and Dad’s predictable volatility and malaise for the next six weeks. I wouldn’t be going anywhere besides school and the library for a long time.

Mrs. Vitriol’s note was NOT this nice.

I actually tried to find an example of a “nasty note from school” online, and uncovered nothing more than vapid entreaties to parents that they should encourage Suzie or Jimmy to be his or her “best self” tomorrow or similar tripe. My note was to the effect of, “Your daughter is lazy and doesn’t care if she achieves in my class or not.” A little something to make Dad go medieval on my sorry ass. Which he did- with extreme prejudice. Nothing got Dad hot faster than having any teacher accuse me of slacking in school, warranted or not.

The sad irony is that math was the only class I ever really did study for. It just didn’t make sense to me, and still doesn’t once I get beyond what I call “accounting math-” the basic addition, subtraction, multiplication and division one needs to navigate in daily life. I can balance a checkbook, I can figure out what kind of mileage I get, and so forth, but that’s about the extent of my mathematical ability. It was a real struggle for me to get to the point of having that much understanding. I have about as much aptitude for things mathematical as I do for sports.

I would have had a lot more fun on that trip to my grandmother’s if I hadn’t gotten that report card until after vacation. In that instance maybe ignorance would have afforded a little bit of bliss.

Perhaps, but intellect has its advantages.

The Grateful Dead said, “I may be goin’ to hell in a bucket, baby, but at least I’m enjoyin’ the ride.” Apparently that’s how the ignorant go through life.

Biker Wisdom 101

One thing I can say for that philosophy is it probably cuts down on stress. After all, most stress comes from worrying about things that never happen anyway. Unfortunately I find myself taking the Murphy’s Law approach most of the time. I figure everything’s going to go wrong anyway.

In all seriousness, though, worrying about things that a.) will happen anyway, and b.) I can’t change, really is a waste of time.

Insight From the Empathy-Impaired, and an Ode to Caffeine

August 7, 2013Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

I have feelings. Sort of. When I choose to acknowledge them.

I am not a warm and fuzzy individual. I never was, and probably never will be. If I live to be my great-grandmother’s age (she was 94 when she passed) I will probably end up like the old battle-ax that lived across the street from my parents’ house who was dead and decomposing for months before the water meter reader had the bad fortune of being downwind.

By that time it was high summer, and the coroner opined that she’d expired some time in February. Nobody missed her for that long. Thankfully she hated animals as much as she did humans, otherwise some little ankle biter (I couldn’t imagine this woman as a dog lover at all, but I really can’t imagine her having a real full size dog) would likely have developed a taste for human flesh.

Dogs are not gourmets, nor are they picky. (note: this incident of “dog eats humans” happened in the UK.) Mom had one dog (of the ankle biter persuasion) who would dine on soiled feminine hygiene items, and another that would eat entire pairs of underwear. Decomposing, rotten old fossil would probably be a step up from those culinary delights.

I think I just found my next Halloween costume.

Mom’s dog really did eat these things though. Another reason for my disdain of ankle biters.

Even considering my fear and loathing of most social interaction, for some bizarre reason, I end up being everyone’s twisted Ann Landers. Perhaps my carefully crafted outer façade is too good. I’m trying to blend in and navigate through the sea of humanity with all its complex nuances and petty flourishes, but I’m not asking to get pulled into the fray. Most of the time I just want to be left the hell alone.

An iron skillet is a multipurpose tool.

I considered the collection of iron skillets in the kitchen for a brief moment last night. Yes, they are excellent for making fried chicken and/or cornbread (ironically, two foods I no longer indulge in) but I have to admit I was not amused by Jerry’s drunken forays into my room at 9:30 and again at 11:00.

I’m generally out by 8:30 or 9PM. I don’t do late nights very well, especially when it’s a Tuesday night and I have to work the next day. I have no idea how he can party like a rock star during the week and not fall asleep (or worse) at work. I know I’m a long, long way from the days when I could party all night and go all day long too. 44 is a long way from 17- but 56 is even longer. I don’t know how he can remain vertical the next day, especially after both swilling Natty Lites and staying up until all hours of the night. I can’t do it even with coffee and Monster.

I figure if I were going to die from caffeine overload, it would have happened back in the day.

Ah, the good old days- when “nutrition” for me meant the Four Food Groups: nicotine, caffeine, sugar and grease. I gave up the cigs and generally avoid both sugar and grease whenever possible, but I don’t see me giving up the caffeine entirely. I’m one of those people who likes coffee “thick,” and I’m not referring to loading it up with extraneous crap. I like my coffee black and thick, almost like espresso. I like espresso too, come to think of it, with nothing in it but coffee.

No liquor. No sugar. No cream. Just coffee. Concentrated. Mmmmmm.

I could use a double shot right about now, come to think of it. I like iced coffee too, as long as the coffee is super strong and there’s nothing in it other than ice and coffee, unless I don’t have anywhere to go, then I don’t mind adding a couple of shots of Bailey’s. I don’t drink often, but I actually like the taste of Bailey’s and coffee- iced or hot.

A shot or two of this in some iced coffee would be a beautiful thing right now.

The Curious American Fascination With Royalty, and Other Strange Vestigialities

July 31, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Is that a weasel or a ferret?

I never knew Queen Elizabeth I was enamored of weasels or ferrets, (the creature on her arm is an ermine- a polite name for a variety of weasel) but in Elizabethan times I’m sure a lone member of the Mustelidae family wouldn’t have added much to the general pestilence of the court. Bathing wasn’t terribly high on the priorities of most Elizabethans. Royalty did bathe more often than the peasantry, who I would assume would only get a good douching in a rainstorm. I think the royals did bathe relatively often- once a week or so- and they did have access to perfumes and soap. I shudder to think about toileting arrangements for the masses and their livestock back then though. No wonder all those people died from typhoid and cholera. Not to mention the plague, which has recently been identified in a squirrel population in California. Too bad it’s the wrong kind of squirrel population.

These aren’t the squirrels to which I refer.

I’ve always thought it a bit strange that Americans still seem to be enamored of British royals. Truth be told today’s royal family- the Windsors– (or should I say Saxe-Coburg and Gotha) are probably more German by ancestry than anything. The name change to Windsor was in response to anti-German sentiment surrounding WWI.

Germans with English names. Sort of like Steve-o, who has an English name, but has more German ancestry than the rest of the family.

Today’s royalty are more or less figureheads with no political authority, but back in the days of the American Revolution, kings (and sometimes queens) held the power of life and death for their subjects. Yeah, that kind of power would be kind of cool, but it could also lead to all kinds of witch hunting and cronyism and the mysterious disappearance of political opposition. Oh, the Obama administration rings a bell, at least as far as the scandal and sleaze factors go. What’s worse about Obama is whatever privileges he thinks he deserves were usurped via dishonest means (i.e. only natural born American citizens are eligible to hold the office of the Presidency) as well as egregious voter fraud. I haven’t forgotten about that- and I’m not going to either. History will prove me right in the end.

The fascination some people have with today’s royals to me is a sort of a modern-day hold out of the fairy tale myth of the all-powerful ruler. The closest thing America has to royalty (don’t even think the Obamas, even though they think and behave as if they have royal entitlements) is the Hollywood crowd.

I think the British royals to be far less sordid than Hollywood, and far more admirable than the Obamas. The royals (unlike most of Hollywood) even have some redeeming features, such as sponsoring legitimate charities, and serving in the military.

I don’t see the Duchess of Cambridge out there screaming about “reproductive rights” (aka: abortion advocacy) while at the same time crying crocodile tears and telling everyone that eating meat is murder. I don’t hear of the Queen telling her subjects that she could have been Trayvon Martin 30 years ago either. I can see where she might show some affinity for Elton John, as he and the Queen share similar taste in hats, but I can’t see her claiming Trayvon.

Now this guy is back in the news. Wiener. Wiener. Wiener.

I don’t think I would vote for this guy- except to piss off Hillary Clinton. She probably has a bigger unit than him, so she shouldn’t be too upset. If I really want to sausage-gaze I think there are better endowed specimens than Wiener (in spite of the name) to be found online. Then again it’s one thing if women are requesting sausage shots from our friend Mr. Wiener, and quite another if the sausage shots are being sent unsolicited. To me it wouldn’t be nearly as perverted if the women are asking for the pics. Then at least they’re getting what they deserved.

Now, for a guy to just randomly send a portfolio of Mr. Happy to every female for whom he has contact information, either he’s a 13 year old pulling a rather sick prank, or that’s a cry for attention.

Am I the only one creeped out by dancing food? Especially dancing wieners. Wiener. Wiener. Wiener.

Wiener. Wiener. Wiener. Wiener. It’s just fun to say wiener.

I’m not a snake. I don’t prefer to consume my prey whilst it’s still alive. I don’t want my food to dance. Especially wieners. I want my food to remain perfectly still until I decide to move it from the plate to my mouth, unless of course I’m eating Jello.

Another Dog? Yes I’m Nuts, and More Obvious Truths

July 17, 2013Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

I am surprised that I’ve been 2 1/2 months with only two dogs. Clara and Lilo don’t seem to mind one bit, as they have been constant companions for the better part of a decade, but I know what I’m thinking in the back of my head, and what Jerry’s thinking in the front of his head. Our dogs are treated better than most people’s kids, but they still are working girls. They don’t just look cute and eat high dollar dog food. They are our home security. In this day and age I don’t want to be dog-less. It’s hard enough to sleep at night as it is.

I am more than mindful of the fact that a dog’s lifespan (ideally) is about 15 years, though a large dog’s lifespan can be shorter than that. Sheena was only about seven when she died, although Sheena had Issues that Clara and Lilo don’t have.

Sheena’s laundry list of health problems finally caught up with her- at only seven years old.

Clara’s 11. Lilo’s 10. Both of them are in good health, but they are not young dogs by anyone’s standards.

Kayla (right) at age 14, Clara (left) at age 2

Kayla was almost 16 when she passed, which is almost unheard of for a large GSD. We were given the responsibility to care for Kayla in her retirement (she was 11) and were told, “they don’t live much past 12.” Kayla was an effective security dog up until the last six months of so of her life- after she had already had Clara well-trained. I know that Kayla’s lifespan is the exception rather than the rule. Heidi (also a GSD) didn’t “live much past 12. ” She was 12 when she passed-but Heidi had some of the same issues Sheena did. I almost want to avoid GSDs completely because of all the health problems they’re known to harbor, unless I luck upon another Bavarian import like Kayla. Even though Kayla was from a good bloodline and enjoyed good health for almost 15 of her nearly 16 years, most GSDs are not that fortunate.

To make the whole dog-finding process more complex, I really want a Belgian Malinois, or barring that, at least a Malinois/GSD mix. I’m probably going to have to spend $800-$1000 to get the dog I really want, and I will probably have to make a substantial road trip to boot. I’m willing to do that for the right dog, but if I can find a shelter dog that fits the bill, better yet.

Here’s what I’m looking for- a young female Malinois. 16 weeks to 2 years would be ideal- the younger the better.

I have time, and I’d rather keep a lookout for suitable shelter dogs or rescues, but Jerry is Jerry. He can procure or find just about anything that exists. The girls need a protégé.

I’ve never had a male dog, and don’t particularly want one, as the girls tend to have fewer health problems (when spayed) and longer lifespans. That, and I really can’t deal with dogs that hump people, and that hump other dogs, or unfortunate petite black cats. I know not all males are humpers (and some females oddly enough, are) but the visual of Jerry’s Mom’s weirdo odd-eyed Shih-Tzu humping poor Isabel is burned into my retinas. That might not be entirely fair, as ankle-biters are strange anyway. As far as I’m concerned, a dog should be at least 50#, and I have a strong preference for the “protection” breeds. They seem to be more intuitive and intelligent than the average ankle-biter.

When anyone is “more equal” by merit of their race, gender, behavior choices, et cetera, there is no equality and no justice.

I don’t believe in the concept of retribution when it is not directed toward the original wrongdoer. I understand that people of certain races were targeted for unfair treatment in the past, up to and including torture, lynchings and genocide. The problem is that those wrongs are not “made right” today by denying justice simply because a person is of a certain race or ethnic group.

In order for justice to be just it has to be colorblind- not politically correct or expedient for certain “more equal” pigs.

If someone breaks into my house and threatens me and I am in fear of my life, I’m going to blow his/her head off and I’m not really going to care if that person is black, white, green, straight, gay, bi or furry. I have to agree with the Zimmerman acquittal for that reason. I have a right to defend myself if I am being attacked and am in fear of my life. I shouldn’t have to think twice because my attacker belongs to a “protected” group, like the Al Sharptons and Obamas and other race baiters of the world want us to believe.

Should black people be able to perpetrate crime against white people with impunity because some black people were victimized by white people in the past? Obviously the race baiters would scream bloody murder should anyone suggest the opposite scenario, (and they do even when it’s not warranted) but why should crimes perpetrated by ANYONE get a pass? Deeper yet, why should any person have to forfeit his/her right to self defense when he/she is being threatened by a perpetrator of any color? The Trayvon Martin issue was conveniently crafted into a racial issue- when the real issue was the right of self defense.

It seems like a white person using a white toilet is enough to get the race baiters going. It’s reverse racism and it’s just as ugly regardless of who’s being racist toward whom.

To those who are protesting the Zimmerman acquittal, perhaps the real issue is crime- and remembering that in this country, much to Obama and Al Sharpton’s chagrin- citizens still do have the right to defend themselves.

The Second Amendment is crucial to the preservation of American freedom…which is why Obama and others who are anti-freedom can’t stand it.

Then again, the best way to know if a public policy is wrong- and/or in support of the criminal element- is if Obama supports it. That’s why he’s all for gun control, abortion, punitive taxation on commerce, and letting every third world terrorist nut job in the country. I wouldn’t be surprised if he is trying to set us up for a takeover by his friends in the terrorist world.

It’s long past time for this country to get beyond race and start addressing the entitlement culture and the nanny state, which are the real roots of both poverty and crime.

So Easy to Play Up Your Breakdown, 80’s Wisdom, and Life on the Trains

July 12, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Who needs those excess phalanges?

Sometimes it’s fun to play Captain Obvious, but sometimes it bothers me that society is so dumbed down that we need warning labels on hot coffee, and detailed instructions on how not to put our hands in, on or near sharp things. If you are aware of what a chainsaw does to wood, it’s not much of a stretch to imagine what it might do to body parts, but if you need a visual, consider the following the instructional video for “chainsaws meet body parts:”

Though it was originally released in 1974, this was the granddaddy of all the 80’s slasher films I enjoyed so much.

Then again, with the word “massacre” in the title, you know it’s going to be good- if you dig slasher flicks, that is. I’m not as enamored of the horror genre as I used to be (though I admit I did enjoy the Saw movies) but I can still appreciate a slasher even though the plots are usually predictable and most of the special effects are computer generated. I’m more into funny movies, though I especially like dark humor. Shaun of the Dead and Weekend at Bernie’s- as well as Monty Python’s Meaning of Life and the Quest for the Holy Grail come to mind.

Two to a bed…I’d been the first to volunteer for the top bunk.

My grandfather served the last year of his service during WWII on the troop trains. I find it hard to imagine the things he saw- although there are pictures to be found of flatbed cars loaded down with tanks and jeeps as well as pictures of young soldiers boarding trains. I am sure that he realized that some of these guys would be coming back on the same trains- only they would be traveling in metal boxes in the freight cars instead of on the passenger seats and in the sleeping berths.

Efficient, but how would they be off-loaded?

Scratching for ten months? That would really suck.

If you weigh more than 500#, toileting would be an endeavor to begin with.

In fact, most land mammals that weigh 500# or more take care of their toileting either in the pasture, or in the barnyard.

Victorian Ephemera, Patent Medicine and Today’s Mollycoddled Offspring

July 11, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Here’s a Victorian-era product that probably wouldn’t go over too well today. Except maybe to NAMBLA members.

I know that knee pads are available for kids today – as well as shin guards, mouth guards and bike helmets- but these I think were designed more to preserve expensive clothing rather than to prevent injury. One need only examine some Victorian-era playthings to understand that safety wasn’t first. Or fifth. From the looks of some of that stuff, safety couldn’t have really been considered at all.

I can only imagine the geek factor involved for kids whose mothers required them to wear these, but then again, boys of the Victorian era typically wore those awful little man-capris with knee high socks. Knee protectors couldn’t make that dreadful fashion too much worse.

Screw the pellet gun- let’s just give them rocks and a mace!

Granted, Steve-o had toys, ranging from the innocuous to the deadly. He had Legos, Thomas the Tank Engine, Power Rangers, those annoying little finger skateboards, a BB gun (I’m still picking BBs out of the walls) and a Zippo (not to be confused with a flashlight.)

He had the latest video games, and a lot of other electronic toys too, but I didn’t want him to simply sit on his ass and watch as it grew huge, so I did allow skateboarding and in-line skating, which were responsible for both times he broke his right arm, once at age 6 and then again at age 11. I should have stopped at the BMX bike, but even the BMX bike proved quasi-deadly. Some little ass-pilot at his school decided to jam the rear wheel so the bike wouldn’t move when he went to take off on it. Unfortunately the little ass-pilot behind the engineering of that prank didn’t have much understanding of physics. Steve-o went to take off on the BMX and as the rear wheel was jammed all 160# of his 14 year old body went over the handlebars and landed square on his mouth- blasting his two front teeth to smithereens, though by some miracle of God sparing his skull.

$3800 (that insurance didn’t cover,) three root canals, and two crowns later, Steve-o was redeemed from a lifetime of Billy-Bob mouth. I was redeemed from $3800. I guess the love of money is the root of all evil. The only thing is, I’ve never been able to hang on to money long enough to fall in love with it, so I’ve not gotten to test the theory.

Wrong on many levels, but still cute.

Patent medicines have always fascinated me. They would have been awesome if they actually worked. One of my favorites is the wash-the-fat-away soap. If only one could scrub away the bingo wings and thunder thighs.

Wash away the lard- and eliminate the ravages of time. What’s in this shit? Acid? Flesh eating worms?

Even better are the adjectives used in patent medicine ads to describe overweight people- “corpulent,” “stout,” “too much flesh,” and just plain “fat. “

Hey! You! Lard Ass! Try this shizzle. It’ll CURE your fatness! Or should I say “corpulency” and “stoutness?”

Maybe the fat reducing ideas of the Victorian era were more effective than the potions and fads we try today, but then I would wager there were fewer fat people back then because everything one ate or drank had a good probability of giving one Montezuma’s revenge. You got to crap your way thin whether you wanted to or not.

Then again…

Perhaps if you lived on salt pork and corn cobs, constipation may just be an issue. I have to say that using a bird (presumably that’s a crow) to hawk (pun intended) a constipation remedy is brilliant. None of nature’s creatures craps more often or in more quantity for its size than birds. The subliminal is right here: Take these pills and you’ll shit like a bird!

Who I Don’t Want to Be, Memory and the Crotch Rocket

July 10, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Why does the whole business of living have to be so difficult? I don’t want to end up one of those bitter, wrinkly dried up old bitties who have nothing better to do than give me the stink-eye in the locker room because I’m not an old bitty wanting to shoot the shit, but I am in the pool at 5:30, and therefore invading “her” space. I find myself getting close to that stink-eye to the world mindset sometimes though, and it scares me. I get pissed at myself because I’m not much of a risk taker, and because I usually don’t have the courage to be anything more than a tired old door mat. Always cordial, always concessionary, always blending into the scenery. Stealth and avoiding confrontations are survival skills I’ve cultivated since childhood. Most of the time avoiding conflict and/or scrutiny are exactly what I’m aiming to do in the first place.

The past should remain in the past- and I’m usually pretty good at not letting those vexing whirlwinds of emotions get to me- but there’s one person who can conjure a tempest in my heart every time. Being insanely in love with anyone, regardless of how compelling he is (or was it lust, or simply the novelty and the sweetness of forbidden fruit, who knows,) is completely out of my character. After 20 years (and then some) it’s time to let sleeping dogs lie and get back to reality, but memory is a hard taskmaster. Every time I hear from him- and I do still consider him a friend- I end up going down the path of what once was and what could have been and all that noise- even though I can wish in one hand and shit in the other and know which hand is going to fill up first. There is a plethora of technicalities that I would rather not rehash yet again- all the reasons why and everything that has remained unsaid-they are still the obstacles they have always been, but when all is said and done memory is just that. Nothing more.

Even knowing what an exercise in futility such revelries are, it seems as if the further back I go, the more vivid the imagery of memory becomes. Oh, to have one of those days where I could just sit and watch the wheels go round, (to quote John Lennon) but I have to keep at least one foot grounded here on earth.

As usual, I’ve been too busy, too preoccupied with the business of making it through one day to the next, so when I do get a reminder that there is more to life than getting up, going to work and going to bed, it’s startling. I’m reminded that I’m still alive, still taking up valuable oxygen, and still haven’t really accomplished jack shit.

Busy is probably better for me than I realize. At least it’s keeping me out of trouble.

The illustrious POMC is busy with his latest acquisition- a crotch rocket. Although I enjoy motorsports, for me it’s pretty much a given that a vehicle involved in motorsports should have four wheels. I don’t share his enthusiasm for this purchase, and I don’t see myself attempting to ride this beast either.

I know it’s better that old ghosts stay in the past where they belong, though nothing would do me better than an evening and a drink with a friend. I miss the conversation, strangely enough. There are precious few people who I really want to converse with alone, one on one.

Maybe I should find some courage and make that a point. NOT riding the crotch rocket- that’s not happening, but the conversation with an old friend that is long overdue.

The Most Redneck Phrases Ever Uttered, and Workout Etiquette for the Courtesy Impaired

July 3, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Ah, a repurposed ’84 Ford Escort. It beats replacing that pesky head gasket again.

“I broke my leg falling out of a deer stand.”

How many PBRs preceded your unfortunate tipsy tumble, and isn’t it rather unsporting to take the high ground when you’re hunting a large terrestrial creature such as a deer? I could understand taking the high ground to hunt for squirrels who live in the trees (and therefore would be easier to shoot from the heights,) but deer?

“Bubba, cain’t nobody understand ya without yer teeth in.”

Ironically (which I shouldn’t point out, being largely of Anglo descent myself) most rednecks have genetic ties not only to each other, but also to our friends in the UK, who are known world wide to be the most dentally challenged people on earth. The UK, Kentucky and West Virginia, that is.

I love the Brits, but like many of our Appalachian friends, they aren’t known for straight teeth and dazzling white smiles.

Clean up after your damned self in the locker room!

I’ve actually come to enjoy morning workouts, but I’ve also found that Jerry isn’t the only person out there who was raised by wolves. Civilized people should know enough to “leave it as you found it.” Especially in a locker room. I don’t want to see your dirty towels, used snot rags and heaven only knows what else strewn all over the benches and the vanity and the floor. That’s just nasty.

I also take care not to indulge potential “taco watchers.” Just as there are “meat gazers” in the men’s locker room, there are “taco watchers” in the women’s. I am not one of those women who simply wanders about with naughty bits all out in the open. I keep everything covered at least with a towel, even as I’m changing clothes or getting ready to shower. Nobody wants to see that. And if the watchers are women, I really don’t want them to see that.

Civilized people should also have the courtesy to wear swim caps in the pool so I don’t end up back stroking and ending up with human hair sticking between my fingers. Chlorine does not dissolve hair. It can, however, strip the color out of it, which is why I am always careful to have my swim cap on.

My ultimate dream is to have my own indoor pool (complete with pool boy) but at least I have access to an indoor pool so I am very grateful for that. I just wish that other people would be considerate of their surroundings and of other people by observing some simple courtesies.

Then again, I’m old, and I wasn’t raised by wolves.

“

ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL:

Because comedy is the flipside of tragedy

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