Of late I’ve found a rudimentary architectural kit and it’s taught me so very much about stacking like things atop their brethren. But strangely, even at my own age, absolutely nothing about anything about physics or gravity (or any such related Newtonian thing) could have prepared me for the stack-tumbling sadness about to strike.
Admittedly I don’t know stacking from Adam or physics from Isaac, but I know what makes me happy, and with this kit of blocks in hand, my happiness is piling this onto that, and the higher the better. Two to three high is good, but sky high would be better, all things being equal (which I’ve noticed they never are).
But high, higher and highest, oh man, this stacking joy is sheer delight and a totally natural high. The only artificial chemicals in my system are the paints on the blocks, and I assure you the fumes departed long before I discovered them. It’s much like stacking the Daddy-O’s rare, antique books, but when this tower (invariably) tumbles it doesn’t involve the heartbreak of irreplaceable dollars dissolving before his very (old) eyes.
If you’ve never recognized similar shapes (regardless of color, as it turns out) nor thought to place them atop one another, you can’t possibly understand this. Count this your wake up call and tutorial, and trust me when I tell you, it’s a joyous thing.
Now I’ve had some weeks to review, revisit and rethink this matter and it seems Santa even heard my plea, as he got and brought me a “My First Lincoln Log House” set. Talk about yer stacking delight, these things are notched and measured for even greater ease of wonderful top-stacking. Oh honest Abe, I’ve loved you since your maple syrup and snowman top hat, this kit only reaffirms for me your just placement on Mount Rushmore.
It’s shortly enough after Christmas that I just can’t spend another second on this. I’ve got way too many new toys to play with and this job ain’t nothing but work.
So to (hastily) conclude, if you’re not a stacker, get with the program and start yer stacking, ladies and gentlemen. If you are a stacker, well then you get me. Either way, take it to a new level, specifically one in the general upward direction. Take part in the joy that I so dearly (have just learned to) love.
I’m an all-weather reporter, and this chilled winter season is likewise included. As much as I miss funning around naked, I love the benefits lent by my freedom to wear the myriad warm yet adorable noggin doilies, or “hats” if you’d prefer.
Let me sum it up for those younger and/or less worldly than myself;
It gets cold, so,
You put a cap on your head to warm up, and,
It’s adorable… that’s it.
Now I’ll admit I don’t know cuddly from boo (which I think is Valentine’s from Halloween, but who can be sure,) but I do know that the donning of the fashionable accessory hat makes me feel both warm and appreciated visually. But if you see the hats I’m talking about you’d understand and feel the same way too.
Thanks to the miracle of photography you can see them and you should understand… If you don’t, well, that’s kind of a “you” problem, not a “me” problem, you see.
So right about there is where no less than a handful of my funny and/or adorable hats come warmly in to play, right there atop my head. I’ve agreed to wear them, even the itchy ones, and I’ve loved their warmth as well as the attention they bring to me in the form of outsider “oohs”, “ahs”, “look at that kid”s, and “did you see that’s?”
But seriously, don’t I look dapper as heck?
For every bit as good as I look I have to warn you, come warmer months I’ll have nothing handsome atop my noodle at all. No, in those times the best I’ll have to hope for is a hideous sun visor, and one which, despite its vibrant colors and complicated logo of distant destinations as yet most unimaginable, a thing I’ll eagerly tear off my head, even if it means squintilly staring my fragile eyes straight into the sun… which it will.
So now I’m off to try on another half dozen precious lids. Don’t know which will win but I have a sneaking suspicion they’ll all come out “on top”.
Child celebrities are often enjoyed but rarely appreciated, and as just such a dog in the household family, I can appreciate at least an ounce of what this poor pooch has gone through. He’s been dressed up, made to site and pose, and brought joy to countless strangers with rarely more for his trouble than a biscuit… but hey, I like biscuits too.
It was in the near of Christmastime and Daddy-O ventured us out to see the holiday sights. I say “holiday” rather than “Christmas” because there are still those humbugs out there who prefer to remain ubiquitous about it, even though the tree has only got one name and so does the Christ after whom it was named.
But I digress, as I so often do.
So we’re strolling hither and yon, just minding everyone else’s business when what should come our grateful way but a hound of highest holiday cheer. I mean, he was smiling as much as he could across his floppy cheekskins. He didn’t bark, he was generally giddy to be alive, but through all of it he was verily dressed up like a complete and utter idiot.
Dogs don’t wear antlers, even I can tell you that, but holly and jingling bells? Now that’s just insulting. I say refuse them, the worst you’re going to face is a night in the dog house, but how is that any different from the other 364 nights you endure?
He’s a reluctant holiday hero in the truest sense and I feel bad for him. Could you imagine that? Living your life at the beck and call of strangers who want you to pose and dance for their little charade? I for one would be offended if I had to endure such events, and I feel bad for anyone in this kind of situation, even if it is just a dumb dog.
And that doesn’t even account for the frustration weathered by his master. That guy just wanted to shop but ended up spending every other minute stopped for photos with unappreciative kids, parents and newly liberated teens. The master suffered too, but I’ll argue he earned his grief. I mean, come on people, he’s the one who dressed up his pooch like this, the least he can do is suffer a delay for the total humiliation poor Rover endured.
But now I must let you go. Seems I have to pose for something or other. Not sure what it’s about, but I’ll tell you this, man, the parents sure love to take a ton of photos.
As our world spins and teeters, the brilliant marketeers within it come up with ever-more-clever devices by which to solicit and push new ways of making a nickel while sharing a penny with those of us who make them thusly four times as rich. As such, our very own staff has entered a new and exciting penny realm… male modeling.
It was a stretch for us, and even as I write this I’m struggling to remain balanced about it, but our product was weak, our photographress even more so, and our introduction without fanfare. Even still we hit the scene of male modeling quite hard, but even harder than that, we hit each other.
Speaking for myself (and heck, why not, I’ll speak for my co-model Dominic too) I’ll tell you what happened. We got caught up in the moment, and that’s all there is to it. The camera was loving us and we were loving the camera right back. But if you’ve ever been caught up in a love affair you know how it has to be — monogamous from beginning to end.
Even though it was a group shoot (for a terrible mockery of a product at best) we both wanted to get our gorgeous mugs to front and center. As any model will tell you, to get to the forefront you have to fight dirty… and though only a few minutes into our modeling careers, we fought dirty.
We hung out, clipped our wavy locks, smiled politely, slapped each other (though likely me to him more than vice versa), climbed atop one another and then turned our inherent beauties to the ways of ever greater ugliness. Truly terrible, but necessary in the business for sure.
What would you do in such a situation? I love my brother as dearly as if he was my own flesh and blood, which technically and literally he is, but that’s an old and boring love. This camera love I’ve got is new and exciting, so what’s so wrong about trampling him to advance this new crush? Heck, it’s got “crush” right in the infatuation!
The love me and my brother share is a young and budding relationship. What better sells the camera on unconditional love than thrashing one’s own sibling?
No matter, let us let these indiscreet indiscretions go for now (or forever, if you’d be so kind).
So for now you can look for us in the upcoming edition of Bag Clips on Kid Heads Semi-Annual. You’ll have no trouble spotting us, we’re the ones who are us.
I recently had the chance to sit at a great place. In terms of the house it was the stairs, but my gaze spoke of it as a far greater place than that, one of curiosity, intrigue and even hope. I said nothing, not because my mind was as vacant as my stare, but rather because I knew I had a choice to make and I was weighing the weight of my options’ consequences.
As most anyone would, upon coming in from the cold, I sat upon the stairs to take of my blinking-lighted Pooh shoes. Once off, the powers that be (in my house at least these “powers” are parents) asked me to come back down and join them in festivities most familial… but should I?
To the question of “must I”, I know full well what the answer is, but should I? I’d never considered it before, but my unanswering gaze was truly a comtemplative stare of a gaze.
I knew what awaited me down there. Rascally brothers and a pair o’ parents for referees, but what about upstairs? There’s toys and forbidden stuffs up there, and with my entourage in the livingroom I knew I’d have it all to myself if I could make it… but could I make it? I had to weigh all this on my scales of justice (or in my case “just is”) and I had to do it super fast.
For conversation’s sake let’s just say I went upstairs and basked in the wealth of independent delight, OR let’s just say I conceded to go back downstairs so I could preserve the mystique for another day… let’s just say those things, but I’m telling you now, they’re both untrue.
The actual truth is somewhat less exciting. In fact I headed up, got about three steps and was promptly snatched up and brought back down… not so exciting when I sell it in the legitimate way like that. Either way it’s an embarrassing excuse for a fractional cop out.
So the article (as well as the stair-stare) concludes, my mischief entirely curtailed, but not my escalatory curiosity. Though I’m on a single (though populous) floor of the house (with my all too familiar gaggle o’ clan), but it ain’t over.
I know now what’s upstairs and what’s down, and further beyond that I know who’s in which and when… I’ll be heading back up before you know it and, God willing, when you don’t know it and least expect it.
“Hey” is a great proclamation and one useful in so many situations. In Gary Larson’s illustrated documentary series “The Far Side” it was even shown with the translation device from Dog to English that all the dogs ever say, whether at the water bowl or the mailman, is “Hey!”
But some people like to retort that “hay is for horses.” I’ve often heard it, never understood it. Now, just slightly older, wiser and more experienced, I get the joke. Now I just don’t appreciate it.
It’s also important to point out that the likelihood of a person quipping “hay is for horses” can be directly correlated to the number of wrinkles the person has, and even more so if the wrinkles are “furrowed brow” related. Get it? I’m saying older and grumpier the worse.
LEFT – So this is what all the fuss is about, huh? Sheesh, with all the hullabaloo you’d think it was more than just grass.
My education on this matter came when I got to meet a horse. I’ve met horses before but this time I had the chance to ask her about it and watch what she did when I put it near her mouth… and what did I feed her? As it turns out it’s hay… Hey, wait a second, that’s not even spelled the same!
Now I get it. When I say “hey” these humbugs think I’m saying “hay.” Well that’s just silly, even I know better. Can’t my meaning be derived from context? If a prize toy is snatched by a mean brother of mine, and I yell “hey” could anyone reasonably believe I mean the other kind? I mean, why on earth would I yell “hay”? Utter nonsense!
So the figure of speech holds true, hay is indeed for horses. But if you are in doubt, or worse still, one of those curmudgeonly jerkfaces who say this ridiculous phrase, count this your formal notice, and count this article as an exposé on you people to the world. Your quip is so ridiculous.
If you know better and still say it, you’re an even bigger meanie-head than I thought. If you don’t know better, you’re a much more difficult simpleton and you need to get smart. I’d suggest school, it works wonders for me.
So let’s put this phrase to bed already. It’s late and the phrase is as tired as it’s advocates are grouchy.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to Nelly. She’s a nag alright, but I like her and she’s just crazy about this hay stuff.
* I should also point out to posterity-me that I don’t actually say “hey”, at least not very often if ever, and never in a way that’s come back to irritate me.
It’s not like me to stare a gift horse in the mouth nor stare a charty mau in the mouth, but when we had our school’s Christmas party and thusly a chance to meet (arguably) the biggest celebrity in the history of our people, it was all kinds of grand. Still, something within and without me alike insists that as much as this so called “Santa” fellow may embody celebrated reality, he may not be all he’s cracked up to be.
I’ve met celebrities from Frosty to the Bluest of Clusery, yet none were so ballyhood as this Santa, and none so much as this particular Santa on this particular date… It’s almost as if he’s someone more than Santa, and that this is somehow something more than a day of standard Christmas joy.
I’d like to say I know the hows and whys behind it, but I don’t. I’d also like to say I get why the joke is truly on me, but likewise, I don’t, and I think that’s probably okay. I’ve still got my joy here and I can’t take that away from myself. Well, I won’t at least.
What I would like to offer is this — Santa, don’t be mad — my doubt is not to discredit you nor your absurd claims of ability to bring toys to goodly Christian girls and boys on the night of Christmas Eve, nor any doubt to your other-worldly magnanimoushood… It ain’t that by a darned sight, it’s more my doubt of this kind, tall, athletic guy who came to my school under the pretense that he’s you.
But I’ve got to say, I’m not sure I’m buying it…. I mean, I’m sure this guy is nice and all, but “Santa?” I’m ain’t convinced he’s all that.
As any journalist knows, when we accost someone (anyone, but most specifically a person or corporation with the funds behind him or “it” as debatably as unlimited as “Santa” we risk alienation in our reporting. Still I have to say right here and now, I’m not entirely convinced this guy is Santa, no matter how old, respectable and parentally respected he may be.
But if you are Santa, I beg you see this article as no more than critical questioning (and I’ll welcome your journalistic Payola if you offer it.) I’m not trying to discredit you or anything. You are already canonized (aren’t you Saint Nick?) I’m just trying to discredit your detractors and imposters. Don’t be mad, Santa, I’m on your side, really I am.
Oh, and if you’re not Santa that’s your problem. I write these bits for the majority, but if the one person (in the minority) who reads it is in the party of power, well, consider me as greedy a turncoat as you’d surely be. (Come on man, don’t pretend you wouldn’t be, I mean, for real, Santa might be reading this!)
And if you aren’t Santa, you’ve got bigger problems to deal with than this article. Something tells me you’ll be on the naughty list for a very long time.
Reasons why I suspect our Santa du jour wasn’t the real thing:
Throwing out signs
This alleged Santa kept “throwing out signs” like he was a baseball catcher or something. It would be one thing if we were here to scout out some baseball star (in preschool? Hey, they take sign ‘em younger every year) but this is a Saint Nick meet & greet. Why would he do finger signs like a catcher?
RIGHT – Even if he isn’t a major league, all-star, golden glove, olympic gold medalist, future hall of fame ballplayer, there’s always value to be had in teaching toddlers the signs in baseball, right? One finger means a fastball, but what’s this “three” business all about? Three fastballs? Befuddling.
Parents a little too excited
I mean, what’s that all about? Who is this guy if he’s bigger than Santa? What, has he hit walk-off home runs? Has he grand-salami’d in a pinch? Has he stolen home on a wild pitch? Has he thrown out a million players trying to steal second? Not if he’s Santa Claus he hasn’t.
Parents wanted pictures too.
It’s one thing when us kids want our pictures taken with the Jolly red giant, I mean, come on, he’s the biggest celebrity we know, but the fact that the grown-ups wanted their mugs clicky-snapped too was a bit odd. Something not quite “Santa” about it, if you know what I mean?
Santa was autographing baseballs
I’ve seen the ho-ho chuckling philanthropist a handful of times in my life, but this is a new one on me. I’ve seen him drink milk, eat cookies, tote a fat sack of toys, even whip a half dozen bucks, but putting his John Handcock on a baseball? It’s just out of place for a reindeer riding man of the north pole, don’t you think?
Looks suspiciously similar to former Seattle Mariners catcher Dan Wilson
I’m a pretty big fan of the game, baseball, so when I see a world-series ring wearing, all-star, gold medalist, I almost always take notice. If it was such a person, I didn’t, but that’s not the point. I know, I know, you say I can only see him from brow to snout, and that’s true, but if he’s a catcher, that’s all you’ll ever get to see on him, and something looked suspiciously “Dan (the man) Wilson” about him.
No wait, I’ve got it figured out. This guy isn’t Santa at all, he’s a helper Santa. You know, like those skinny Korean teenagers at the mall dressed up in red and white and the photo booth. Nope, I’ve got it. Yep, Santa is real, this just ain’t him. This is a public relations kind of Santa helper.
LEFT – Okay, maybe it was just me shining up my brass danglies, but I got over my transient shyness and went right up to Santa and told him I wanted another toy… Look on with envy if you must, but see that I got what I wanted and walked right on away… Santa you say, I think it’s just a dude in a suit.
Oh man, I feel so much better now knowing that my doubts were founded. I didn’t want to question the big guy, you know, the one who brings toys to good little girls and boys.
Well, whomever you are kindly man in a suit most red, I thank you from the depths of my heart for your time, and strangely, somehow, so do the parents. Not just mine, but of all these kids… wierd, isn’t it?
Whether you’ve missed a baptism or failed to be confirmed, you can still take in all the joys of this holiday season with or without a briss. For simplicity’s sake I’ll call it a nativity, even though I now that’s Jesuscentric. But consider if you’re able that a nativity may worship an even more dominant God, that of the almighty dollar.
A nativity is little more than a nonsensical scene of unimaginable meaning, debatable validity, and questionable consequence. Once upon a whenever it was three wise guys and a baby who got to leave the front door open (you know, because he was born in a barn) but today the setting is set by the most powerful folks in the history of all that’s even been.
Before my big reveal, let me put this big power in perspective:
Religion has dominated almost every established nation since forever, but today even that has been pushed out of everything from schools to courthouses to Congress.
The mafia ran Vegas until these people forced them out.
Wares were propagated and warred by nations until these people edged them out.
Education, innovation, invention, health and the well being of the world were all controlled by public demand and the ruling parties’ recognition of need, until these people bought it out, overhauled it, reorganized it, downsized it, deemed it unprofitable and outsourced it to an under-funded but wholly owned charity sister company.
In case you haven’t guessed it by now, I’m talking about corporations. And not just a regular corporation or the Corporation of the United States of America, LLP, I mean the mega corps of the world.
But this highly researched and refined flavor of secularism is the party of the most activist sort. The corporation that owns and operates Christmas these days can be none other than Hallmark. And dare I say they’re as brilliant with it as they’ve ever been.
So if you take away all the misery, suffering, prophecy, salvation and Jesus, what’s left in the nativity? Sure it’s homogenized almost beyond recognition but you get snow, a couple of snowmen, and some fake (though festive) pseudo shrubs. What’s not to like?
The sum package is bright, merry, delightful, secular and yours to take home for a mere $249.95.
But you can do that with anything of value. Distill it down, strip out the dead weight and before you now it you’ve got something that’s pretty on the eyes, appealing to parents and gimme-kids alike and easily produced for pennies on the dollar overseas from unrecyclable products. We all may worship different gods, but we spend the same almighty dollar, and that’s where Hallmark wants your tithe.
Now before the right-wing hate mail starts flooding in, let me be the first to admit that I love this stuff as much as anyone. We’ve got pudgy mermaid decorations on our tree and bright, blinking lights. We buy the cheapest products and we relish the kitsch like all our peers. We shop at huge, corporate stores and buy almost entirely imported goods. I’m not holier than thou and I ain’t telling you how to live, just maybe encouraging a moment’s thought.
If you can’t see the commercial appeal in such a scene or think you have moral sensibilities superior to that of an almost three-year-old like me, that’s your problem. But if you really want to put the Holy Christ back in the Christmas season, you just need to look as far as the frosty Christ-free nativity and make your feelings known, presumably with a “holy Christ!” proclamation of your own.
I like toys as much as the next kid and I know that because in my case that “next kid” is my brother, and he’s as crazy about them as I am. And dedicated playroom — and I do mean truly, deeply dedicated — is a lot of fun, sometimes our mess is plain overwhelming.
Our parents subscribe to this crazy school of thought that sleeping rooms are for sleeping so, because of that, us boys share a single bedroom to sleep in that’s devoid of toys and almost every variance of fun. On the flip side of that same, shiny token, we get a whole room dedicated to nothing but fun, tom-foolery and toyrompery… I know, it’s not a word, but with that silly-many toys on hand, how can you be troubled to make sure your words are real?
So we’ve got a whole, entire, desirable (and dare I speculate “covetable”) room set aside for absolutely nothing but us boys hanging out and playing with toys, raising our raucous (rukki?) and watching select movies about select things, assuming they’re of modest educational or moral value, and only assuming the TV is now out of reach of us boys pulling it down to the floor.
So as we’re obligated to do, we play with the toys… and, oh honey, we gots us a ton and then some. We’ve got fully 72-feet of shelf space to contain these toys, and that doesn’t count the floor, the closet, the big toy chests or either of the two huge nets that contain our stuffed animals. Left unchecked we could reasonably exhume a fair billion toys for play, litter and disposal in as little as about ten minutes.
They check in on us, the fun-killing elder folk, but even if they do it at 8-minute intervals it’s simply too late, the toys are resurrected and frankly all out on the floor, in our hair and all over the entirety of our greater known world as it exists in its entirety.
But then I have to suggest, I mean, come on, this place is a dang ol’ mess! Who did this? I don’t remember throwing out this many toys. I didn’t, did I? No, right? So seriously, who sullied this sty to this magnitude? I’d argue it wasn’t me, and by my reckoning I’m infallible, so there you go.
I could go on like this for days, and trust me, once my dictation is done, I surely will, but for now I’ve got to go. The parents are throwing this back on us saying we need to clean things up and we’re appealing it saying it’s their fault for giving us such freedoms; but, in either case, this place is a darned sty and it’s just about unsanitary.
If you have short-ones you love, whom you care about and claim or wish to protect, don’t let them live like this. Sure, this is only about 15-minutes of mess, but it doesn’t matter. You have to protect your junior folk, even if that means you have to check in every minute on the half minute.
If not for yourself or your juniors, do it for me. Look at me here, I’m crying. It’s not the gate and it’s not my desire for freedom, it’s all about my inability to safely walk back to the television without toes all stubbed, and that’s just not okay with me, you, the government or any of the many advocates who love me more than the logic that demands I make the very mess I can’t stand.
Once upon a time we came home in the evening to find much of our block cordoned off for, as I understand it, road constriction. Thus far, many moons and suns later, I have to declare their mission a success – This road’s been constricted alright.
See, apparently our sidewalk ramps weren’t very friendly for wheelchairs; but I wouldn’t know that because I travel in style. I ride in a big, cushy stroller. I wouldn’t know if there’s a problem, all I do is buckle up and yell “mush.” The next thing I know, I’m where I’m going.
But even for strollers they weren’t quite up to snuff, or so that glass-half-empty mama says. Take her with a grain of salt (or a whole salt lake, but flavor to taste) because when it comes to my ride in the high fashion stroller, all she really is, is pushy.
LEFT – If you’ve ever had a yard gnome or pink flamingo litter your lawn you can surely appreciate the value of a handsome ton of kitsch in front of your house. For you it may be a ten foot tall blinking neon santa, but for me it’s a set of attractive safety barrels.
So the good local magistrates took it upon themselves by fiscal proxy of our tax dollars to set things right, and the only way you can do that is with a lengthy, costly and inconvenient campaign of constriction.
We’ve been driven out of our parking spot and inconvenienced in other ways, but there’s a pair of payoffs to the story. First of all we got the joy of these handsome (and might I add, cost-free) curbside decorations. Hey, if you like big and orange you’re in hog heaven… or a grove in Florida, but I’ve never been there, so I’m just guessing.
The second benefit is, now that it’s winding down, we can actually traverse the sidewalk lesser-so-encumbered.
And to top the sundae with a dollop of whipped cream, the actual constriction part is now also gone. Yeah, they’re done constricting and traffic is now moving along like a movement of highest octane prunes… but I’ll leave that one at that, and so (I pray) will everyone who knows the inside scoop on that one.
Though the tacky ornaments are gone, they are not forgotten –mostly because they’re now just a couple blocks down the way — while the benefits of better curbs is ours to keep. For that matter, if you do require use of a wheelchair or other such device, well, you get to enjoy our neighborhood as it is now, ever closer to compliance with the ADA. Yahoo!