This Travelling Around…

This week, I received an email from a fellow alumnus of the St John’s High School (Toledo) class of ‘79. Yes, the class who, in our senior year, declared it the “Year of the Titan,” but fell short on city league sports championships in a number of high profile sports. But what did we know?

Anyway, the email from my fellow alum alerted me to the fact that I was listed among the “lost alumni” of my class.

What? I was lost? How could that be? I’m not lost. I’m living in Austin, Texas. I wasn’t lost when I lived in Toledo and attended my 5th, 10th, 15th and 20th year reunions. I wasn’t lost when I left Toledo for Bucyrus, Ohio, then Lima, Ohio, then Columbia, South Carolina, then Annandale, Virginia, then Falls Church, Virginia, then Martinsburg, West Virginia, then Berkeley Springs, West Virginia, then Hagerstown, Maryland, then back to Martinsburg, West Virginia, and now Austin, Texas. I was never lost. How could SJJ have designated me as lost?

So I called the school and gave them my current information and the following bio update:

Cliff Kurt continues in his now 23-year career with the Better Business Bureau. He served (sometimes with distinction, sometimes without) at the BBB of Toledo, then as president/CEO of the BBB of Lima, Ohio. Following that, he served as president/CEO of the BBB of Columbia, SC, then as Director of Marketing and Training at the BBB’s national offices in Arlington, Virginia. After too many years of a daily three hour commute (each way), Cliff moved to Austin, Texas, where he now serves as Executive Director of the BBB’s consumer education foundation. Pretty good for a guy whose resume lists his greatest education achievement as passing Father Schario’s British Lit class in just enough time to walk with his fellow graduates.

Cliff has three grown children, one of whom looks so much like Cliff it has stunted the poor boy’s personality. His other two children are delightful young women. All three kids are the finest offspring of any SJJ alumni, past, current and future.

Cliff is engaged to be married this fall to Shelley Aikens, a fine woman he met while they pursued their shared interest in community theater in Martinsburg, West Virginia. Cliff continues his musical interests, and he invites his fellow classmates to peruse his blog – www.cliffkurt.wordpress.com, where soon there will appear an entry about the upcoming SJJ reunion weekend.

Cliff is proud to be known as the most famous alum of the class of ’79 – due to his lackluster but professional-looking appearance on Wheel of Fortune in April of 1997. Cliff won $2,300 and $25 worth of estrogen therapy. He spent the $2,300 before he received it, and the estrogen therapy made him lactate. But he’s still proud to be the most famous member of the class of ’79.

So this summer, our class will celebrate our 30th year reunion. I don’t feel this old.

Back in the day, I dee-jayed my older brother’s 20th year reunion, and I remember thinking, “These guys (in their late 30’s) are so OLD.” Oh, to be in my late 30’s again.

I don’t think I’ll attend this summer’s reunion. Too many travel plans surrounding my daughter’s graduation and later her wedding, and my own honeymoon with my dear Shelley.

It’s probably a good thing I won’t be in attendance at the reunion. Too many enemies still likely hold animosity towards me:

* Scott, who was one of only two people I ever struck – this during a fistfight at lunchtime in the commons. Neither of us won the fight;
* Bill, the other guy I ever struck – following choir practice in which he got me into trouble with Mr. T. Of course, the next day, his brother pummelled me mercilessly, teaching me an important lesson on the sanctity of family;
* Father John, who I stupidly suggested might not make it into heaven because he didn’t ‘believe’ in the Four Spiritual Laws brochure I showed him that was given to me at a restaurant;
* Father Joe, who probably still smarts from our likely false accusations that he was seen coming out of the Westwood Art Theater in Toledo which was screening “Oriental Blue;”
* Cheryl, from one of the girl’s academies, for the time I pranked her into thinking there WERE waterheads on Spook road;
* Bruce, the Toledo police officer, who arrested me for aggravated menacing while we were filming a short for Comm-Arts class;
* Jeannie, who I often referred to as Bruce, because she had the same red hair and fair skin as officer Bruce;
* Mark, who went on to become a priest (what is it with me and priests? But I digress…), and who I called 15 years after we graduated, out of the blue, and without identifying myself, told him I had to talk to a priest about my having killed a man.

And there were some non-high-school people who won’t be glad to see me return to Toledo anytime soon:

* Bonnie, the loan collector from Ohio Citizens who had to call me too many times when I fell behind on the payments for my Olds Cutlass (but that was one helluva car!);
* Alexandria, the attorney of a prominent credit collection agency, whose staff had to call me too many times to collect on the hospital bill for the birth of my oldest daughter because we didn’t have insurance and daughter spent a week in neo-natal ICU;
* Unnamed Toledo Police Department officers who threatened to arrest a couple of us when we tried to “paint the bridge;”

I could go on, but who needs to revisit trouble. Although I’m starting to see maybe why I move around so much.

Fellow alums, sorry I won’t see you this summer. My best, have a beer on me, and be kind about any stories you might tell without me there to defend myself. Especially you, Scott. Or I’m gonna finish what I started that lunch hour in the commons!

10 Days on $1.83 -You do the Math

I’d finished swimming a half-mile at the local pool, a great swim in warm, sunny weather. I went to the men’s locker room and changed out, dried up and dressed to go home. As I started toward my car, I reached into the pockets of my shorts and found a $5 bill! “Wow!” I shouted to nobody in particular. But a lady near me saw my exuberance and chuckled.

Yes, I was excited. It was the day before payday and I was down to my last $10. This unexpected find of $5 increased my net worth by 50%. (Shelley will point out this is wrong – my “net worth” is actually much healthier than $10. I have a car that’s paid off and a no-longer chunky 401K IRA; however, her logic doesn’t blog as well as mine. But I digress.)

So I off-handedly told the lady that I’d just found $5 and was happy to increase my net worth by 50%. And I went on my way.

Life didn’t change much when I increased my net worth 50%. I still made the same dinner when I got home and watched the same two episodes of Judge Judy. So, you see, I can honestly say that if I ever get a job at AIG and become the recipient of undeserved multi-million dollar bonuses, I won’t change much.

I was now down to my last $15. No big deal. It’s been worse. I was once down to $1.83, which I had to live on for ten days. It was an interesting exercise, and I blogged it. But that was at a time when I was in the dating pool, and I didn’t want anyone from Yahoo Personals to google me, find my blog, and learn I was dirt broke. So I removed it.

I’m no longer dating, no longer trolling Yahoo Personals. And my babe Shelley – she KNOWS I have bouts of being dirt broke and she still loves me. So I now share with you my original essay on making $1.83 stretch for ten days:

How it came to be that I had to make $1.83 stretch for ten days is not relevant. I suppose it may the more interesting topic, but the occurrence of my occasional blogging does not obligate me to reveal all personal details of my life. Suffice it to say, I beg, that this occurred through no fault of my own – no poor planning, no reckless spending elsewhere.

Nonetheless, $1.83 it was, and the forced experiment began six days ago, with four days to my next payday.

How many foolish times I’d seen a dime on the floor and walked right past. Or I’d round up an already generous gratuity an additional eighty-five cents. I thought the concept of being “nickel-and-dimed to death” was an antiquated one, something only the older generation could relate to, having lived when nickels were the equivalent of today’s dollars.

But in the midst of my desperate poverty, I was elated to find a quarter underneath the seat of my car. (No, I wasn’t looking for errant French fries. I wasn’t that desperate – yet.)

The first trick to surviving ten days on $1.83 is to become creative with the food staples sitting around the house. I never knew I had such a way with making meals out of seemingly nothing.

If one is very careful to spread the Goobers pb&j a bit thinner than usual, one can actually double the life of the jar. And speaking of which, Goobers isn’t just for bread anymore. It goes great on hamburger buns (especially when there are no hamburgers to put on said buns), hot dog buns, even the saltine crackers you get for free at Wendy’s.

Spaghetti sauce is a great thing. It’s cheap, it’s healthy, it has lipolipids or whatever those things are that are supposed to be good for us. And when you mix 4 parts sauce to 1 part water, you’ve gotten an additional 2o% life out of a jar. When cooking the pasta to go with the sauce, give it an extra 2 or 3 minutes in the water to plump it up more, thus requiring less actual product to make a meal. This stretches the box of spaghetti some.

Bottled water is a luxury. I’ve learned the art of finding good tap water (my office) and recycling those bottles to keep an ongoing supply of drink. (I’d never dream of drinking the Martinsburg tap water – awful!)

Hot dog chili sauce doesn’t have to be saved for hot dogs. One can of the stuff can make a nice, hot lunch. If you’ve exhausted the hot dog buns by use of Goober’s, cut a hot dog or two into the bowl for an extra treat. If you have enough hot dogs.

And now a word about friends…

God bless people like roommates. A roommate can be a very good cook and generous with his provisions. Luckily, during this trying time, my roommate treated me to several scrumptious dinners – leg of lamb one night, pork steaks another night, roast chicken a third. And scrumptious is an understatement. Roger is a killer cook – he should open a restaurant!

Then there are the friends one has been generous with in the past. Got a pastor who you regularly treat for lunch? Invite him to lunch but let him know it’s his turn to pay the bill. This works especially well if he’s handsomely salaried and has attempted, unsuccessfully, to pay for lunch several times prior. (Hint: go to Wendy’s where you can score a handful of saltine crackers for free.)

Are you doing a favor for someone at work? Lightly say, “I’m happy to turn this around for you in an hour. But it’ll cost ya some pop tarts from the vending machine.” Chuckle. Then act surprised when he brings them to you. “Oh, hey, I was just kidding. But thanks!” Voila!! There’s a meal.

This next hint is a bit embarrassing, but what the hell. If my stature hasn’t diminished in your eyes by now, you’re blind. Okay, here’s what ya do. Look around your home for unopened store purchases. Wal-Mart is perfect for this. I found a package of pillowcases and some razor blades I hadn’t opened. I took them back to Wal-Mart and scored a gift card with $6.41! That bought more Goobers, a loaf of bread, a can of spaghetti sauce and spaghetti noodles. 3 dinners and 4 lunches!!

Oh, when you’re down to your very own $1.83, forget about driving anywhere. The car is history. Save the last quarter tank of gas for an emergency. Walking isn’t all that bad.

Lastly, the best thing about making $1.83 stretch is the weight loss. So far, it feels like I’ve lost ten pounds. This is a great way to start a diet and get over the most tempting first few days. One certainly can’t sneak a bowl of ice cream or a pack of Reese’s peanut butter cups when all one has is $1.83.

It’s six days into this experiment and I’ve spent a bit of my $1.83. Today, I’m down to .71 cents. Unless I find another quarter, and I increase my total net worth by 33%. There’s always hope!!!!

Wow – a bad trip down memory lane. I wrote that essay six days into the 10-day experiment, and I survived, of course.

It feels pretty darn good to have $15 in my pocket when payday rolls around. Make that $20. When I got home, I found ANOTHER $5 – this one on the sidewalk around the corner from my apartment door. HEY! I think I’m gonna head down to the crush of people on 6th Street celebrating South by Southwest and look for money.

(Right now, my kids, as they read this, are saying to themselves, “Look for money, look for money, look for money.” Right, kids? LOL)

P.S.: Editor’s note – in an attempt to drive more traffic to my blog, I am now, starting with this entry, including the word “boobs” as a tagword. Those things are good on so many levels!

Penmanship and the God Gene

I received a “certificate of completion” in the mail today. I’d attended a great “train the trainer” seminar sponsored by the folks at MoneyWi$e Consumer Action and Capital One. Not particularly noteworthy for blog purposes, except for the fact of one of the signatures on the certificate. A guy with a long-ish last name signed his name with his first-name initial, and then a mark which I suppose is to pass for his last-name initial.

I had to chuckle – he of the short scribbly signature and I share the same job title – Executive Director. And my signature isn’t any more decipherable, but I get points for at least attempting to spell out Clifford Kurt.

I’m not sure when my poor excuse for penmanship developed. Looking back at some high school work, I used a relatively neat writing style. I suppose my proper penmanship was the product of necessity, as my teachers had to read my writing. (Do teachers actually fully READ their students’ essays? I digress.)

At some point upon joining the work world, when cruddy penmanship was replaced by rampant typos, I no longer needed to rely on the ability to communicate visually. And penmanship became nothing more than mere nostalgia.

These days, the only time I use anything that can be argued as penmanship is when I scribble my name upon a document.

Now here’s the strange part. A few years ago, I came across some old report cards. Very funny. Things like, “Cliff is a very social boy. He would do better in his studies if he applied himself.” (Never mind the fact that I was a solid A student up until the year of my parent’s divorce.) The teacher comments were almost a mirror of some of the job performance reports I’ve received over the years.

But what struck me as most interesting was my father’s signature on the report cards. Back in the day, the student had to show the card to his or her parents, and the FATHER had to sign. Not the MOTHER – the FATHER. The school marms knew who were likely to be the disciplinarians in the homes.

My signature is almost identical to my father’s, including the very kurt way we sign our last name. Freaky, freaky stuff. This would imply to me that there is a penmanship gene in every person. I got my Dad’s.

Imagine if we could isolate that penmanship gene. And then perhaps splice it with what scientists are claiming is the God gene. Then we secretly inject what I now call “KGP Gene 0824” (K for Kurt, G for God, P for penmanship, 0824 for my birthday because I’m vain)… We secretly inject KGP Gene 0824 into all of our world leaders. This would cause them to only sign godly documents. No more declarations of war, no more orders of genocide. No more budgets that benefit the lobbyists at the expense of the people. No laws which violate godly principles. Ah, perchance to dream!

Hey, here’s an idea! I might even secretly inject KGP Gene 0824 into my boss. No more “Cliff is a social boy but one who needs to apply himself” garbage. I might could be onto something here.

Talk to Me, You Hairy Beast!

SPOILER ALERT: IF YOU ARE A JUDGE WITH THE OLD OPERA HOUSE NEW VOICE PLAY FESTIVAL, PLEASE DO NOT READ FURTHER!

Okay, now down to work. Why are we fascinated with talking animals? Not the parrots and such, although those are wondrous in a frightening “can it read my mind?” sort of way. No, I’m talking about talking dogs, bears, ants, etc., that populate our cartoons and our literature.

Recently, I had cause to write up a humorous sketch and then a short one-act play. In each case, I found myself relying on the talking animal theme.

The comedy sketch was written as an “audition” for a comedy troupe forming here in Austin. I’d been watching a lot of Judge Judy (way too much Judge Judy) and had been thinking it would be funny if her greatness heard a case involving a man suing a bear who had mauled him.

Well, the concept is funny, maybe. Turns out the sketch wasn’t that funny. I didn’t get the gig with the comedy troupe. Now, in all fairness to that sketch, when I submitted it, I did propose to the guy that we form an all-naked comedy troupe.  So maybe it wasn’t the sketch that was unfunny, but the view of my naked body running around on stage that was funny.  But I digress.

The play.  Last night, I sat down to pen a quick, one-act play. I’d had a dream a few nights earlier about my trying to grab an ant in our living room. In my dream, the ant tried to scurry underneath a baseboard at the bottom of a wall. I managed to grab one of its hairy little legs. (Now I KNOW ant legs aren’t hairy, but the one in my dream WAS hairy. Just like my belly is tight and trim in just about all my dreams.)

My play features a wise ant who offers relationship advice to the protagonist.  As  they say, a writer should write what he knows. So, I wrote a play about a guy whose mental acuity is slowly diminishing as he chases an ant around his home.

Is it funny? I’m not sure. I asked a good friend to review it, and he said, “It started out awful, but it picked up speed. By the end, I liked it. It’s just like all your other plays.”  Did he mean my other plays which start out sucky but get good by the end? Probably so.

My friend didn’t read the Judge Judy bear sketch. My girlfriend did, however.  And she read the ant play.  She seemed to like them both, in the same way she “liked” my god-awful poor man’s potato dinner Saturday night.   God bless my dear Shelley. She’s so protective of the fragile artist within me.

Maybe talking animals are just life imitating art. Among my siblings, two of us have taught our dogs to talk. I taught my dog Buckeye to say, “I love you.” That exercise was probably less of a “teach my dog to talk” effort, and more of a means to  hear those words spoken more often than I was hearing them at the time.

And my sister Peg taught HER dog Buddy to say “Redrum.” She was trying to teach him to say “martini.” I guess Buddy’s more of a brandy dog than a gin and vermouth dog.

All this talking animal stuff will, I swear, someday send me over the precipice that is my barely-hanging-on neurologic stability. Until then, I think I’ll sit down with Buddy and Buckeye over a snifter or three of brandy. We’ll invite the talking ant, and fire up some Dr. Phil on the TIVO. And laugh at his mediocre attempts at fixing couples. Until the bear shows up. Then it’s every verbal mammal for himself.

Of Hands and Feet and Disrespect

A recent headline on the Drudge Report reads, “Miss World Finalist Loses Hands and Feet.” And I thought to myself, “Wow! Now THAT’S an impressive performance for the talent portion of the competition.”

I clicked to read the article and was sad to read that this wasn’t an elaborate samputation (self-amputation) for purpose of winning the tiara, but a surgical removal to prevent some killer bug from taking her life.

Nothing funny about that after all. But when you think about it, she could, with four very convincing-looking, break-away prosthetics and an unaware audience, certainly blow their minds with an unbelieveable magic trick.

Now, let me digress.

Shame on the liberals who disrespect our country.

Living in a heavily liberal part of Texas, I encounter, on a daily basis, Obama supporters. This is nothing new for me. On my last job, among 20 close work colleagues, I knew of only one fellow conservative.

But I’m shocked and apalled at the willingness of liberals to spew hate speech against President Bush.

Feel free to disagree with his policies. I’ll disagree with Obama’s of course! But when a divergent view on political issues turns into a virtual spitting upon the former leader of our country, this becomes disgraceful.

Yes, I know free speech entitles anyone to make these disparaging remarks, and I find it highly ironic that they spit upon the man who so effectively protected their free speech rights for eight years.

On the evening of Obama’s inauguration, I happened upon a restaurant where an inauguration party was being held. A band, led by Austin singer Leeanne Atherton, was singing songs of celebration and victory. No problem.

But then Ms. Atherton pointed to a pinata hanging from the ceiling, with pictures of President Bush’s face on it, and announced that later that evening, everyone would have a chance at smacking him.

I expressed my displeasure to the manager, he alerted Ms. Atherton to the situation. Instead of quietly removing the pinata, she chose to announce to the crowd that “ONE PERSON HAS TAKEN OFFENSE,” and proceeded to rile the crowd to boos against this one person.

She then said, “I’ll take down the pinata,” and proceeded to growl and bark as she bashed the president’s face. At this point, I left.

In a later conversation I had with Ms. Atherton, she claimed to be a peace-loving person whose political activism dates back to the Vietnam War.

Peace loving? Using hate speech on the bully pulpit of her band’s stage, and encouraging others to violently attack an effigy of our former president is a show of peace? I think not.

Liberals have long been accused of disingenuity, and this is yet another example. Out of one side of a mouth comes accusations of conservatives engaging in hate speech and bigotry, and out of the other side of the mouth comes a tirade of hatred and disrespect.

You will never hear me disrespect President Obama, and if I hear it around me, I will stand up for decency. He’s my president, he’s our president, and he deserves respect.

He, nor any current or former president, deserves to be hung in effigy, the image smacked about violently. Shame on Ms. Atherton and shame on anyone who demeans our great country by disrespecting our leaders.

D x DI – SV/(A/AxPQ)=S%

This morning, I participated in an interesting conversation with some work colleagues about this seeming inability men have of successfully hitting the toilet when we pee.

I excused myself and sat down at my computer and came up with the following:

 

D x DI – SV/(A/AxPQ)=S%

 

Where:

D=Diameter of Toilet Bowl

DI=Distance from Subject to Toilet Bowl

SV= Stream Velocity

A=Age

AxPQ=Age Times Prostate Quotient*

S%=Likely Percentage of Success**

 

* – Prostate Quotient calculates the age of the subject and the likelihood of prostate enlargement, thus affecting the stream velocity

** – Success percentage is defined as the subject’s ability to deposit all specimen into the bowl without any collateral splash

 

So I created a macros which runs this formula through millions of configurations, and in EACH case, the likely percentage of success hits 17% or less.

 

The only time I was able to get a higher success percentage was when I modified the equation, adding in a figure for “months dating or married.” In those cases where months dating or married was less than six, the percentage of success hits in the upper 90 percentile range.  Go figure. 

 

I excitedly shared my findings with my co-workers, prompting one (a woman, of course) to ask, “Why don’t men just sit down.”

 

Sheesh.  For the same reason we men don’t ask for directions when we’re driving.  Because we can’t think when we’re sitting on our brains.  Any woman will tell you that!

The Taqueiro Versus the Cymbalta

I was so sad. But this was a different sadness. This time, the blues manifested physically, because it actually hurt in 4 of my toes (3 on the right foot, 1 – the ring toe – on the left foot).  And it hurt in my spleen.

I tried the usual home remedies: a Three Stooges marathon (it feels weird to be sad AND laughing); a Kurt Russell film (it feels weird to be sad AND nauseated); a few beers (it feels normal to be sad AND drunk). Nothing beat back the sadness.

Then I saw an advertisement for Cymbalta, an anti-depression medication.

This is totally true. The following is the verbatim text of the advertisement. Read it carefully, especially the disclaimers.

   “Where does depression hurt? Everywhere. Who does depression hurt? Everyone. Depression is emotional. Sadness, loss of interest. And it’s physical, too. Aches, pains, fatigue. Cymbalta can help.
   Cymbalta is a prescription medication that treats emotional and painful physical symptoms of depression.
   Tell your doctor right away if your depression worsens, you have unusual changes in behavior or thoughts of suicide. Anti-depressants can increase these in children, teens or young adults. Cymbalta is not approved for children under 18. People taking thyrozidene or who have uncontrolled glaucoma should not take Cymbalta. Taking it with anside pain relievers, aspirin or blood thinners may increase bleeding risk. Severe liver problems, some fatal, were reported. Signs include abdominal pain and yellowing of the skin or eyes. Talk with your doctor about medications, including those for migraine, to avoid a possible life-threatening condition, about alcohol use, liver disease, or before you reduce or stop taking Cymbalta. Dizziness or fainting may occur upon standing. Side effects include nausea, dry mouth and constipation.
   Ask your doctor about Cymbalta. Depression hurts. Cymbalta can help.”

Upon listening to that ad, I became even more depressed. I couldn’t imagine going on this medication. The fears of side effects alone would send me into a deep spiral of depression, like that time my prom date tossed her baby into the dumpster. But I digress…

So I went down to the black market drug area of East Austin, hoping to score some street Cymbalta.

I asked one hombre, “You got any Cymbalta?” He said, “Si, twenty – I get you simbata, taquerio simbata.” I gave him my $20 bill, and he came back with two breakfast tacos and a miga. What the hell?

I ate the food and felt momentarily better, but I knew this would only kill the sadness temporarily.

So I drove around some more, and finally was able to score some real Cymbalta.

I came home, sat down at my little dining table, and pondered what I was about to do. Looking at the four tablets in front of me, I wondered, “Was I really willing to take medication purchased on the streets? Without being under a doctor’s care and watch?”

I recalled the time I won $25 worth of estrogen therapy as a “lovely parting gift” on Wheel of Fortune (true). How after a few days, the medication made me lactate. But it gave me gloriously shiny fingernails.

What the hey. I downed two of the Cymbalta with some apple juice and waited for the hilarity to return to my life  I should have eaten clown for breakfast. The Cymbalta didn’t do a thing.

After about half an hour, I started feeling a bit odd. Not funny – that would have solved my problem. Just odd.

My fingers were turning yellow. (I secretly cursed that I didn’t know about this phenomenon when I dressed as Homer Simpson for Halloween.) My cirrhosis of the liver started acting up.

Then my stomach started to hurt, badly.  I stood up to go to the bathroom. I got dizzy and almost fainted. By now, the nausea was raging. I wanted to scream, but my mouth was too dry. I let out a raspy yelp, and was afraid my bowels were going to let loose, but they didn’t because, luckily, I was constipated.

Not wanting to let this escalate, I rushed to the hospital. I told the ER doctor what had happened, and showed him the two remaining Cymbalta.

He said, “Son, it’s fine. These aren’t Cymbalta. They’re Advil. You were ripped off.” Stupid drug lords! Selling me fake Cymbalta!

“Gee, thanks, doc. But what about these symptoms?”

“Have you eaten any black market tacos or migas?”

Stupid taqueiro lords…

(Editors Note: The above is almost entirely fabrication, except the verbatim script from the Cymbalta ad, the fact that I won $25 worth of estrogen therapy on Wheel of Fortune, and the fact that any Kurt Russell film would nauseate anyone.)

Dreams of Dust Jackets

As I woke this morning, I dreamt I was reading the dust jacket of a biography of Judge Judy.  It read, “When the padded cell becomes as its word and is a deterrent, then we can call society civilized.  Until then, there’s Judge Judy, solving all the world’s problems, one court case at a time.”

Ugh!  I can’t believe I would write that, even in my dreams?

So then I thought of some more “bad” dust jacket bios:

“He lives in a world of black and white, the keys of the piano mimicking his conflicted soul. Billy Joel IS the Piano Man.”

“When it stops working for him, he’ll quit.  Until then, we’ll always have Dr. Phil.”

“Why is that?  I don’t know. I don’t think so.  I’m Andy Rooney.”

“He’s the world’s most misunderstood prisoner.  Until now, only the rat who visited his cell truly knew him.  Now, you too can know Charles Manson the way the rat knows Charles Manson.”

“For years, we laughed at his foibles and it made him rich.  But all the money in the world won’t keep his shoelace clean when it touches the bathroom floor.  He’s his generation’s Pagliacci.  Jerry Seinfeld IS the Tragic Clown.”

Maybe some day I’ll become a famous author and live the dream, and see what someone else writes about me on my dust jacket.  Kind of like reading your obituary after you die.   I hope mine (my dust jacket AND my obituary) fabricates my life.  A LOT.  Nothing more annoying than a boring dust jacket with mundane details about that time I sliced off part of my finger with a razor cutter, or how I forgot to put the dishcloths into the washing machine and it was too late because the machine locked and now I have to wash dishes with a slightly dirty dishrag for a few more days until I do laundry again and my life SUCKS because I hate to use a slightly dirty dishrag and… 

Well, I’m digressing.  And my sliced up finger is starting to hurt from too much typing.

“He wordsmiths with the expertise of a board-certified cardiologist performing his 1,000th valve resection, even with a sliced up finger and a dirty dishrag in the sink.  He’s the world’s least-read blogger.  He’s Cliff Kurt.”

Now What?

(Note – this blog is a departure from my typical attempts at humor.  Thanks for allowing me to pontificate.)

 

Okay, Barack won.  Now what?  Well, consider this:

My girlfriend is a liberal.  How did she and I manage to get along?

We focused on those things on which we agree,  few though they might be, and limited discussion of the things about which we don’t agree.  And when we did discuss them, we did so in a mutually respectful way, examining the philosophy of our beliefs and never questioning each other’s character or intellect.   And it worked.

So here’s where conservatives can count our blessings…

1) Barack broke the color barrier.  Despite the fact that his politics are liberal, it’s about time this barrier was shattered.   This opens the door to other African Americans and, hopefully, women – conservative and liberal – and the nation only wins when ALL have opportunity to serve and be effective.

2) Barack will be a good ambassador to the world.  Yes, we’ve heard him talk about the world’s needs taking priority over America’s needs, but the fact is, the world wanted to see Barack in office.   This will work to restore our standing in the eyes of the rest of the world, and that will be a good thing. 

 

3) The man is intelligent.  Where the liberal media unfairly painted Bush as a moron (equating folksy language and a southern dialect with intelligence – shame on them), nobody could suggest Barack lacks for brains.

 

4) This election has the potential to tear down racial divides among Americans.  I say potential – Barack will do everyone a service if he convinces all of us to stop looking at color of skin.  Whether it’s whites prejudiced against blacks, or blacks demanding concessions because of the claimed (sometimes real) disparate treatment.  Maybe this will finally let us realize people are people, plain and simple.

 

5)  The democratic process is alive and well.  Frankly, I was very freakin’ proud when Barack was elected last night.  We live in the greatest country on the planet, because it’s OUR country.

A former co-worker yesterday called me a “dumbass” when he heard I was supporting McCain.  Mostly jokingly.  But this demonstrates where we as conservatives can shine.

For how long have we heard liberals vehemently rage against George Bush?  Songs whose lyrics include “Fuck Bush, fuck this war,” nasty, vitriolic bumper stickers, etc.  This from liberals who love to accuse conservatives of being filled with hate, exclusion, etc.

We, as conservatives, MUST embrace Barack for what he is – OUR PRESIDENT.  We must respect him and honor him.  We can (and at times, will) disagree with his policies, but we must do so in a way that does not belittle the man behind the policies.  This can show that we are people of good character, we are patriotic and we are inclusive of all.  After all, one of the greatest tenets of conservative philosophy is that ANYONE should have the opportunity to accomplish his or her dreams.

In my 11 years living in Washington, DC, I worked with a LOT of liberals.  And I came to learn that there are conservatives who are far more smarter than any liberals I know, and there are liberals far more smarter than myself and any conservatives I know.  It’s not about intelligence, it’s about philosophy and world view.  Shame on anyone who regards a conservative as a dumbass, and shame on us conservatives if we dismiss or disrespect Barack and his supporters simply because they are liberal.

So, let’s rise above and show the world how we conservatives are not the hateful, bigoted, spiteful persons some on the left would believe.  Who’s with me?  Let’s goooooooooo…..

 

More Fun Than a Barrel Full of Reporters

What in the hell has happened to our world?

The following blurb appeared on today’s home page of www.dcrtv.com, a website dedicated to reporting news on TV and radio in the Washington, DC area:

WTOP reporter Amy Held was bitten by a capuchin monkey named Armani when she tried to ask it who it favored for president. The attack was captured by a Fox5 news crew. Held was treated at Georgetown University Hospital with a tetanus shot and antibiotics for a bite to her pinky finger. Later, the Rockville owner of the monkey said it was supporting Obama.

Sending a reporter to ask a monkey who it favors for president?  Why not send the reporter to ask a dishmop whether it favors union representation for the nation’s restaurant workers, or ask a coat hanger its views on partial-birth abortion.

I suppose WTOP recalled the long history of monkey involvement in the political process:  Bonzo, J. Fred Muggs, Michael Dukakis. 

(Note to reader:  As I wrote this blog, I googled “ronald reagan’s monkey.”  The first entry read, “Ronald Reagan’s monkey spoke to me. ‘Judas was entrusted to disband the law firm of prosecutors that orchestrated the political crucifixion of the Savior…’”  But I digress…)

Any reporter worth her salt would have quit on the spot.  But I’m sure reporterette Amy Held is still at work chasing down the  hard news stories in the nation’s capital.  Maybe next they’ll send her to the local animal shelter to do some exit polling. 

Sigh.