Hey. In case ya haven’t noticed, I haven’t posted anything new in quite a while. That’s because: 1) I’ve been a lazy turd, and 2) I’ve been on vacation. Going on vacation when you’re retired is kinda like one of them oxymorons; retirement is a permanent vacation, so it’s like taking a vacation from being on vacation.
Anyway, The Wife and I took a drive up US 395 to Bishop California, past Mammoth and Mono Lake up to Carson City Nevada to visit her sister (and play penny slot machines which really cost 30 cents a shot – I won $30!!!). We then drove up 395 through central Oregon, ending up in Olympia Washington, to visit even more family.
What was amazing is my blog stats didn’t really suffer during my absence. In fact, on July 29th, the day we left, I had the most visits or ‘clicks’ than I’ve had in a long long time. Go figure.
The only thing I could come up with is: Less is More. An Orwellian truism which I immediately interpreted as: If I get more visitors by not blogging, than by blogging, I should stop blogging altogether and watch my stats soar.
And speaking of oxymorons, it appears that there’s a lot of morons out there that are filthy perverts, Googling all kinds of nasty perverted shit that Google sees fit to link to my blog. How can that be? Oh well, ya don’t mess with success.
“It’s amazing how paranoia can drive ya to take action to avoid the stuff ya fear.”
“Everything is an experiment”.
“Vote with your pocketbook, and do it often.”
“Picking one’s teeth can be a meal in itself.”
Back in my college daze, when I was actively enjoying the benefits of non-medical marijuana. I wrote a little booklet containing Hansi’s Words of Wisdom. Sayings which made little sense unless you were stoned. Like: “Life is a candle made of earwax”, or “Picking one’s teeth can be a meal in itself”. Loadie logic which sounded deep and insightful when high, but in the reality most people share, was a bunch of psychedelic bullshit.
Well maybe not all of it. “Picking one’s teeth’ is still as profound today as it was in 1969. Not so much a meal any longer, but still certainly a nice snack. Mmmm potato chips.
“Voting with your pocketbook” works for me today. If some organization or corporation irks my liberal leanings, I don’t buy their shit. If ya can’t stand the present day income disparity, shop locally. You know, ‘Mom and Pop’ stores, like your local dispensary. Ya might wanna try that one sometime. “Everything is an experiment” after all.
What’s so cool about retirement is: ya get to do whatever ya want. You don’t have to be at a certain place at a certain time, nor do anything ya don’t want to. If you just wanna lay around all day and not do jack shit…well you can! Of course The Wife is likely to jump in your shit should you choose to never get of your sofa. Then there’s doctors appointments. Gotta be on time for them. [Seeing the doctor is enough to ruin your whole day].
I however, choose not to lay around the house all day. Not because I fear spousal shit-jumping so much, as it’s just unhealthy. Plus, there’s lots of fun things to do, like going to the Gym, puttering in the garden and riding my bicycle to the record store. All that stuff never gets old, so I can do it everyday if I want. But getting in all three of these activities everyday can become a little compulsive, if ya know what I mean. So instead of Gym, gardening and record store, I break it up a little bit and sometimes do gardening, then Gym, followed by record store.
The day is never complete without at least two hours of listening to records or CDs laying on the sofa with the earphones on not doing jack shit. Doing that ensures I listen to least three full albums daily. One must keep up with their music appreciation; it keeps ya young.
* I enjoyed laying on my living-room sofa so much, just letting my thoughts
wonder wander, while trying to write ‘em down as fast as possible, that I thought I’d do it again. Not that it’s any different from the usual blitherings I crank out here, it’s just a reflection of where I’m at at a certain time. Just as the Children of Israel sojourned in the land of Egypt, and then in the Wilderness for forty years chasing clouds and pillars of fire, I too have been sojourning (but not in a biblical sense), on my sofa.
The only problem is: I forget more than half of the my funniest stuff . Maybe it’s because I’m too busy laughing at my own cleverness, that I get wrapped up in the giggles, and forget what was so damned funny in the first place. I guess short term memory loss is the price one has to pay for coming up with so many creative ideas.
During my nightly psychedelic sojourn on the sofa is when I come up with most of the stuff I post on this blog. When I say most of it, I really mean All of it, cause I rarely think about stuff to blog about when not sojourning on my sofa….psychedelicized. Most of the time (and now I don’t mean All of the time) I’m havin’ pleasant thoughts while listening to records from the Sixties, enjoying unrealistic fantasies about how good times where back then. Forgetting about the JFK assassination, Watts riots of 1965, the RFK and MLK assassinations, police beating the shit out of anti-war demonstrators outside the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, and how my ass almost got drafted and sent of to war in Vietnam. One’s euphoria can sure turn to absolute terror thinkin’ bout all that shit going down in the good ol’ U S of A (assassination?), land of the free and home of the brave.
Now that I’m in My sixties, I sometimes look back and think, “How’d I survive all that crap?” – Lucky I guess. Don’t get me wrong. Everything wasn’t scarier than hell. College was cool. I spent four glorious years of draft differed fun living on campus at a small California college. I majored in Art. As did my wife (aka The Wife), got married and wound up working at Camarillo State Mental Hospital on the children’s units. After six months we were
drafted asked to be surrogate parents in a grant project, living with and treating four autistic kids from the hospital in a home setting.
From there to two years as a welfare worker to becoming a probation officer, was a strange time (the 70’s). Never thought I’d end up a P O. Especially after all the pot I smoked in the prior decade. But I found correcting people came naturally to me. Bureaucratic bullshit didn’t. Having a ‘career’ was bizarre. I never thought of work as something ya liked to do, but rather something ya had to do. The only cool thing about being a P O was the shock value people got when they asked me what I did. “You must work with some really bad people”, they’d say. “Only if ya consider addicts, rapists and pedophiles bad people”, was my usual response.
The last three years of my ‘career’, I found myself working with the mentally ill again. Mostly Bi-polar clients with substance abuse problems, in a grant program to keep mentally ill non-violent misdemeanor offenders out of jail. Housing them in county jails was Real expensive. And because our former Governor, Ronald Reagan (ray-gun), thought it was much too expensive to keep them in State Hospitals, local communities ended up swamped with the mentally ill wondering around the streets with no place to go when they acted out and broke some law, except local jails and county short-term treatment facilities.
Meanwhile, thanks to all the getting tough on crime that politicians were riding into office on, Jails and Prisons were starting to fill up with all the eternity-length prison terms being dished out. Who would of thunk that all that incarcerating would end up costing so much money, and leave our prisons bursting at the seams? Now, the latest and greatest idea to solve our state problems is: Hey lets have local county probation departments supervise some of these convicts an deal with them in the ‘community’.
Weird how some things just get re-cycled and re-cycled. I think I’m just about ready to take my sojourn into the bedroom, and dream of Strawberry Fields Forever.
Art-work at the top courtesy of Branden, age eleven.
Makes ya wanna churn-out.
Nonsense without a doubt.
Once I was a Boy Scout.
Don’t know what that’s all about.
Okay. Not exactly a haiku. Not only do I enjoy nonsense words like dingles and fingles, and fear in my old age a bad case of the shingles, I like to rhyme words (to death), and see what I come up with. And what better way to use rhymes (I hate rap music) than with limericks of questionable taste (dirty). Nothing filthy, maybe naughty, and leaves you with an image indelibly etched into your mind.
Well, I had such a success with my 2 prior posts wherein I supplied in advance, the answers to your questions or statements. [Got two comments] I thought why not beat a dead horse into the ground and do something similar with limericks? That way, I can supply the rhyming endings, and (here’s the cool part) you can provide all the filth, slim and grossly inappropriate stuff ya want. I’m just harmlessly doing some rhyming; like my timing?
So…..her’s two limericks using my real name: Hans. But with two different pronunciations. The first one uses the German pronunciation (sounds like honz). The second is with a Scandinavian pronunciation (sounds like dance). See, I’m half German and 1/2 Norwegian. Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m Hans or Hans.
So here we go:
***** **** *** * ******* named Hans
*** **** ******** *** schwance
******** * ***** shy
*** *** his fly
*** ******* ******* *** nonchalance.
****** **** *** * ****** named Hans
*** ****** **** *** **** ***** his pants
** ***** ***** why
** ** *** ** *** sly
****** ** *** **** ****** *** romance.
Wow. I can hear it now, and my ears are bleeding. Not only do some of you have quite the Potty Mouth, but a disturbing imagination.
I love it!
I lost my straw hat that I wear out in the garden, and protects me from the sun. Not that I’m afraid of the sun. I worship it, cause it’s what brings life to all my plants who just suck it up. I like being outside in the sun, but I don’t wanna get exposed to radiation and all the other shit that is bombarding us daily because there’s huge holes in the ozone layer which is supposed protect us from all that crap from outer space – like death rays from Mars.
So now when I go out in the garden, I feel a little vulnerable and unprotected. Just as ya always wanna practice safe sex, so do ya always want to practice safe gardening. What good is that luscious peach or perfect carrot, when all the skin on your face is peeling off like a leper, cause ya forgot to put on some sun-screen?
Do you ever wonder if there’s gardening on other planets? Or what their food looks like? Does it have four legs and a tail? or is it some gelatinous blob that oozes out of weird plants, half of which wouldn’t mind eating you. Maybe it’s all hydroponic, cause their home world is desolate desert planet with no water. Or maybe they raise it in tubes?
Well, I gotta be pedaling my bicycle down to Big 5. I got an ad in the mail (the only type of mail I get these days), and it said that they have wide brim straw hats for only $9.99. I know ten bucks is a lot of money, but I think I’ll get my monies worth in all that protection I’ll be getting. Better get my helmet first. I also practice safe bicycling. In fact, everything that you practice should be done safely.