Succor For The Succor-Seekers

As any scribe should, I have nothing but the utmost respect for the actual people who were, and the entities who are now, Dear Abby and Ann Landers. And while I admire them deeply, I can honestly say I am hardly in their league. That said, among the variety of services I hope this blog provides its readers--including, but not limited to amusement, provocation, enlightenment, wisdom, diversion, etc.--I aspire at times also to gift you all with sound advice pertaining to your mundane lives, and I mean mundane in its literal, non-judgmental sense. With the aid of a little technology, I believe I am able to do so.

You see, behind the scenes here at spitoutyourgum, I am able to see all of the keywords/phrases, all of the search terms, that have led people, eventually, to this blog. Quite a handy tool, I must say. After wading through the most popular search terms--"take me to the best blog ever," "oh, interweb, make me laugh my ass off," "genius,"--I find the more obscure "one-offs": people looking for something very specific, and, it seems, very important to their lives. Sometimes I have to scratch my head and wonder how the combination of search terms led them here (and scratch my head further wondering if anything they might find here could possibly help them in their time of need). My hope always, and isn't it the root hope of all bloggers, is that even if readers don't find exactly what they're looking for, at my blog ultimately they will find succor. My blog truly succors. That's my purest hope.

And so, firm in the belief that there is a succor-seeker Googling every second, on this day of un-labor I will labor to provide succor to the succor-less. I must qualify things a bit before I begin, though: Although I happily play doctor, I am NOT a doctor; any advice given here is purely the fruit of years of sweaty experience and the wisdom therein gained--in other words, it ain't AMA-approved. Wade at your own risk. The following "questions" are the actual, verbatim search terms people have used to find their way to this blog.

Is a shot glass of nyquil deadly?

You're coughing up a storm, dude, and your nose is a train wreck, your throat is in agony, and your head begs for transplant and sleep is impossible--you better hope and pray NyQuil is deadly, or what's the point? Deadly, that is, not fatal. I find that at the first sign of any of the above symptoms, if I read the warnings carefully and with consideration, and pour as per instructions that red gold liquid into the plastic cup provided and gulp it greedily and chase it with nothing more potent than tepid tap water, within thirty minutes I'm out cold for the next eight hours and wake up feeling like Milton Berle in a gingham dress--natty, to the nines. Key words, "plastic cup provided." Not some Hooters shot glass you overspent for or the dreaded highball or the hoity toity snifter.

Should I wear a bra to bed?

I am creative. I do have an imagination. But I ain't no Joyce, Tolkien, or O.J. Simpson. I could not create or imagine such a question. It is a genuine query that somehow made it to this blog. Just what kind of answer the questioner gleaned from the heretofore contents of this blog, well, I plead the current let's not go there. But in my dedication to be the succorer to the succor-seeker, let me attempt to provide some support here. A former boss of mine was big on asking the "clarifying question." Oh, the clarifying questions that initial question conjures. But let's not be a boob about this. Am I correct in thinking that "to bed" means "going to sleep"? Because one might take to one's, or another's, bed for many reasons--attempting the day's crossword puzzle, eating cheese and crackers, removing the mattress tag, etc. Having never slept in a bra, I can't experientially comment on the pro's and con's of doing so. I just know that the thought brings to mind the word encumbrance and its delightful cousin-word unencumbered. Encumbered sleep offers little succor, from my vantage point. Having seen paintings of healthy-breasted women painted long before the invention of the bra (and doesn't the word brassiere have such richer connotations than the word bra?), I can hazard the guess that sleeping bra-less does no visible damage. That said, speaking from all points of view except a religious one (consult your minister, swami, guru, rabbi, whatever), I believe you should do what feels right for you, regardless of others' views, when it comes to going to sleep, to whatever degree of clad or unclad you feel okay with.

What does it mean when you dream of spit out your gum?

I notice the question is not "...when you dream of spitting out your gum." I also notice that it isn't spitoutyourgum, but still, I have to make the determination that the question pertains not to dreaming of any expectorative action but indeed dreaming of this particular blog. In which case, you obviously care more about this blog than I do, which all I can say is someone should. After due consideration I conclude that dreaming about this blog means one of two things: Either your life is fully unencumbered and you truly are living the dream, or you seem to be mixing something a bit edgy with your nightly NyQuil doses. Whichever, it sure beats dreaming of Mitt Romney, doesn't it?

What does your dreams mean when you can't spit out all of your gum?

On the surface, your question means you need some grammatical help with regard to subject verb agreements. Digging deeper, as a true succorer does, I believe the dream signifies a self-considered deficiency in being able to communicate effectively on your part. This blog takes its name from the Bob Dylan line "your words are not clear/you better spit out your gum." Thus, at its zenith, the wisdom dispensed by this blog is via Bob. You feel able to communicate somewhat--you clearly can spit out some of your gum--but not to the extent that you want to. If you're a woman, I suggest the usual remedies: a weekend at a spa, a month's worth of Dr. Phil TiVoing, joining a drum circle group, ice cream. If you're a man, buck up son, it's your lot in life--spit when and what you can and just chew on the rest, it gets better with age and other people's begrudging tolerance of you. I'm also kind of thinking, and it's merely inchoate musing at best, so take it for what it's worth to you, but maybe your nagging dream has something to do with sleeping in a too-encumbering bra.

Where is Cleveland Ohio?

All right, I can go on only my wise instincts here and deduce that that question, resulting as it did in the eventual arrival at spitoutyourgum (headquarted, coincidentally in Cleveland, Ohio, so I guess the short answer is "right here, relax, you found it"), is not a literal, geographic query, but a more philosophic, existential one. Where is Cleveland, Ohio indeed. It's smack on the faultline/divide of hope and despair. It's not the buckle but the third notch (the one you unhappily shift to after you've eaten seven too many pirogis in one sitting) on the Rust Belt. It's south of nowhere. If the obscure outpost up river Willard stumbles upon in Apocalypse Now is indeed "the asshole of the world," then Cleveland, Ohio is that itchy part on your back you can't reach without a long pencil. It is the place that Hollywood decides Detroit or Milwaukee represents better and is a decent stand-in for Stuttgart, Germany. It is the cluttered box in your basement where obsolete technology winds up. If it's not quite home to, it's the real-life destination for, those who sleep fitfully, encumbered as they are with NyQuil paranoia, mouths of unwanted gum, and bra quandaries, and are just hoping to toss and/or turn into the arms of a competent succorer.