No. 3,205,425,579 Seeks No. 4,000,000,001

I've always seen it as a genetic thing, not a matter of choice: I'm a word guy, not a number guy. Nonetheless, I am fascinated by all the talk going around that soon, some say even as early as October 31, the Earth will reach the 7 billion mark in population. Makes me wonder what 7 billion pieces of bacon laid end to end would measure. It also makes me think of myself as a pretty insignificant speck. To make matters worse, the numbers crunching chaps at the BBC are offering a quick way to find out just where you stand in the horde, in case you really do want to feel as if you're just a number. I took the plunge and discovered that I'm number 3,205,425,579 on this planet.

A funny thing happened, though, after finding this out. Somehow I felt empowered. The more I looked at the number, the more I liked it. I like that it's an odd number. I like that it's divisible by three. I like the plethora of fives and love the fact that there are no sixes. I've duly memorized it, played it in Lotto, and will be getting it tattooed on my chest Monday. It's my number and no one can take it away from me.

The more I studied my number and got accustomed to its look and curves and sound, the more I started thinking about the ideal complementary number. After meditation, comtemplation, and some high powered calculus, I've determined that my long-sought soul mate is definitely 4,000,000,001. Trust me, I've done the math, double checked all my work, and even cross-checked it all on my trusty Tandy abacus. 4,000,000,001 is the one for me. So here's my message in a bottle, 4 bill +1. If it washes up on your shore, let me know. Together we'll make 7,205,425,580, which if that isn't the coolest number ever, I know nothing.

Exercises In Inauthentic Grammar, Number One: The Co-Dependent Clause

I hear that in education these days there is something called "authentic grammar assessment." Ah, I love educationalese, love any -ese, really. Being a contrarian and a Gemini, naturally, I like to consider the yang to any yin and vice versa or whatever. So, here is the first in a series of exercises in inauthentic grammar.

Although I know it's past four in the morning and you're not in the best mood and I promise this won't be like last time (yes, I looked up the word harangue and I'm sorry if I came off that way but I promise this won't be anything like that) and you know I don't like to meddle--would rather be known as a haranguer than a meddler any old day--and this may not seem to make much sense and I know me making sense isn't a regular enough occurrence, at least the way you see it, and by that I'm not saying that you need some kind of communication bi-focals or something, I only mean we're two different people, right, and sometimes it can be difficult (no, I promised myself I wouldn't use that word, sorry), it can be a challenge, not that you're not up for a challenge and that you don't meet them head on, but, where was I, oh, it can be daunting, how's that, daunting, to not only walk in someone else's shoes but just putting them on, feeling comfortable and all (and anyway I hope and pray and trust that what I am saying, or am about to say, really, I hope that it in no way changes anything between us, beyond, of course, recognizing--both of us, recognizing--that what I say could be something that maybe changes us, for the better of course, not that I'm saying we, you, us, need to change, just entertaining the possibility that, you know, as they say, change is good, I mean not for change's sake, naturally, but you know, if the prospect of change is available and all and seems like maybe it might be kind of a good idea, from your perspective, of course, we're talking what you want, obviously, right, you understand that, right, and really after all is said and done, any change in, well, anything, would be, could be, a pretty small one, relatively speaking meaning of course you would have to assess it and measure it according to your scale of small, medium, or large, two people, you know, two different perspectives and all not that I'm like some auditor or something doubting the accuracy of your, you know, measuring instruments, or anything, I'm just saying, you know, and really all of this, well not all of this, but all of this I'm about to say, is only meant as a suggestion, okay, you understand that, right) and I apologize for rambling on a bit, please note that, that I started this all with an apology, I just want to say ...

Something To Sneeze At

Some days it all comes together. Yesterday someone used the old phrase, "That's nothing to sneeze at," which got me wondering (which action always causes parentheses to line up like so many cannon fodder unfortunates) about the origin of the phrase, and, naturally, those things in life that warrant being sneezed at. And then today, all day, the cat I begrudgingly share domestic space with has been sneezing like it's finally discovered that it should be allergic to itself. Meanwhile, the hottest stories on the Internet at the moment appear to be Cher's tearful response to son (nee daughter) Chaz's being voted off Dancing With The Stars, Aerosmith's Steven Tyler's shower mishap (Dude might look better after losing some teeth) and Denise Richards admitting she regrets getting breast implants at the age of 19 (one woman's regret is another man's treasure[s]).

Now I proudly thought I had said all there was to say about sneezing in a poem years ago, but pondering that "nothing to sneeze about" phrase, I find that there's more, much more. Think about it, is there anything more uncontrollable, more of-a-mind-of-its-own, more totally involuntary, more inarguably and unequivocally inevitable than a simple sneeze? Hell, in comparison death and taxes are mere nuisances relatively procrasinatable (to coin a word I've meaning to for some time now). I mean, every other bodily function/annoyance (burps, farts, coughs, giggles, nature's calls, indelicate itches, even [outside the group shower scenario] arousals) can be somewhat diverted, delayed, suppressed, hidden, squelched, tempered, muted, etc., but a sneeze knows no brooking. Yes, shit does happen, but usually, hopefully, on one's own terms, but sneezes are wholly immediate; the phrase should be sneeze happens, shouldn't it?

And what an experience a sneeze is. There's the instant, oh God here it comes feeling (and is there any incident in life that is more limbo-inducing than waiting for that sneeze to arrive if it doesn't immediately follow the here-it-comes feeling?), the wind-up (the bracing yourself and the searching frantically for something to sneeze into), the skull-rattling explosion (and, if it isn't true I can't confirm it and don't wanna try, the fact/myth that it's impossible to sneeze with your eyes open or you'll blow them out along with all your phlegm [I just sneezed, btw, looking up phlegm to make sure of it's spelling--Good God, can I be allergic to the dictionary?], which makes me think what if Malcolm McDowell had to sneeze when they were filming that part of A Clockwork Orange where his eyes are kept open--did he get extra pay for risking his eyes like that?),

and the aftermath re-adjustment to real life and the clean-up. All of which is profoundly/artistically (until about the one minute mark when it can get rather gross, just warning you) displayed (thanks to those crafty South Australians) in this video:




But then, with all of its inevitability and uncontrollability, I cannot think of one famous real-life (as opposed to Woody Allen's cocaine-induced sneeze in Annie Hall) sneeze. Ever. Can you? Think of all the live, real-life action that's been caught on tape/film for more than a hundred years. Can you remember any famous/infamous sneeze? Kind of hard to believe, isn't it? I wasn't around at the time, but JFK's inauguration looked pretty cold--is it that hard to imagine "Ask not what your AAAACCCCHHHHHOOOOO country can do ... "? (and while we're on the subject, I know there's a strange fetish out there for everybody, but really, is a sneeze ever sexy? Don't think so. I mean if Marilyn Monroe had sneezed during her "Happy Birthday, Mr. President" sultry rendition, would it still be so devastatingly hot nearly fifty years later? Nah.) Lincoln's Gettysburg Address took place on November 19--wouldn't it be great to discover some crude recording of it where Lincoln, on a probably chilly, here-comes-winter-folks day sneezes right in the middle? Tell me Walter Cronkite, Regis Philbin, or even Sally Jesse Raphael, in all their TV time, never had the sniffles that resulted in an on-air sneeze. I don't believe it. And yet, where's the evidence? Fascinating.

But back to the "sneeze at" phrase. Beyond it's how-in-the-hell-did-that-phrase-come-about nature, doesn't it imply that one can sneeze at will? Now we all know (or least did know in sixth grade) those gross magicians who could burp and fart on demand, but have you ever known anybody who could sneeze on demand (ignoring the existential question of whether anybody would so desire)? It seems that as inevitable as a sneeze is, it is just as impossible to conjure one without some olfactory or tactile stimulus. Could there be anything scarier than someone pointing a gun at you and saying, "I'll give you five seconds to sneeze or I'll blow you away"? Outside of Chaz Bono tapping you on the shoulder asking for this dance, I think not. Sneezes, thus, are the ultimate ineffable currency--you can't get them when you want them or avoid them when you've got them (which might be why they provoke a "God bless you" like nothing else; sneezes are godlike like nothing else [incidentally, it seems people used to believe the soul left the body during sneezes, thus the blessing to safeguard people at such a vulnerable time]).

And so, I did some research. Boiled down, it seems that a few hundred years ago (interestingly, the 17th century, when Reason was all the vogue) people believed that a sneeze was a sound way to clear the mind. So the elites took to all means and manners to induce sneezes in themselves (hello, snuff!; so, in effect, sneezers were the original 1%), and sneezing in public became a sort of social status thing. Which then, overuse being what it is, evolved into conjuring a sneeze only to show boredom or derision. So, you sneezed at something you didn't like or at the least didn't interest you. Thus, something that was important, or at least interesting, was "nothing to be sneezed at." God I love language.

And so, cuddle your cats, sniff some pepper, or pull a nosehair out--there's plenty to sneeze at in this day and age, and it seems to me about time we start full-scale sneeze assaults on those things, if only to revivify that great phrase and give some much needed value to those things in life (there are still some, I truly believe) which are not to be sneezed at. Beyond the present plights of Cher, Steven Tyler, and Denise Richards (in Denise's case, her regret only; do your best, boys, to squelch all sneezes in the presence [real or imagined] of those implants),

may I suggest a rather spontaneous, off-the-top-of-my-head-and-by-no-means-exhaustive list of some things that should be sneezed at with full gusto:

• political debates for at least the next 12 months
• any member of the media talking about the media
• talk of the revamping of the Boston Red Sox
• Tony Romo
• anything about hipsters
• anything involving the phrase "Steve Jobs would have..."
• anything negative about bacon
• LeBron James on anything except the joys of a manicure
• Mitch McConnell
• anything using the word "buzz" that doesn't involve astronauts or apiaries

Records Are Made To Be Broken

Anybody else remember when records were just records, not the retro-chic-sounding hipster jargon of today--vinyl? I like the look of that y in vinyl (and basically any word with a v in it, even though for the past few months I've had trouble with the v key on my keyboard and have to press it like it I'm trying to win a stuffed animal at a carnival, otherwise my haves become haes nots), but really, the word vinyl immediately conjures horrid images of 70s jumpsuits. Albums, man.

But I'm not here to wax nostalgic about wax and fold-out sleeves and such. I'm here to break them. Or at least tell you how I used to (as with most things connected with albums, it's a "used to" story) break them. Not that I was pathological about it or anything, but by my count within eight years I deliberately broke three albums, basically for provocation purposes. Like most discoveries that turn out to be useful and very fun, my first broken record was a spontaneous, un-meditated thing. It was a small gathering of friends around the end of high school, a gathering that included a guy named Mike who was enamored of Led Zeppelin, especially their second album (I know the mere mention of that album makes the more cognizant reader immediately start air-guitaring and mouth-guitaring the gargantuan riff from [more accurately, riff that is] "Whole Lotta Love." Mike was an interesting fellow. During our high school years he was passionate about exactly four pieces of music: "Don't Fear the Reaper" by Blue Oyster Cult, "The Devil Went Down To Georgia" by the Charlie Daniels Band, "Lola" by the Kinks (kinda until he finally realized--after a good year or two--the song was about a guy being picked up by a transvestite), and the entire Led Zeppelin catalog (diverse and wonderful as it is, isn't really the entirety of Zeppelin just one piece of music? I mean you don't hear Zeppelin fans arguing over which is the best album like Stones/Beatles/etc. fans. For Zeppelin fans it's all Zeppelin and it's all kick-ass)--any other music was just filler for Mike until one of those four popped up on the radio. Anyway, I had a very beat up, used copy of II (at the risk of being called a heretic and milquetoast, let me confess that as much as I love Zeppelin--really love it when I hear a particular song [just about any]--I've never been one to sit and listen to one of their entire albums straight through much). Eventually during this gathering, something wicked this way came into my soul and I told a couple friends, "Watch this." I took the album, went over to Mike and said, "Should I put this on?" The personification of ecstasy--that was Mike. "Or should I do this," I smiled and took the piece of scratched up vinyl out of the sleeve and right in front of his eyes started bending the thing in, as if (well, not as if, truly) trying to fold the thing in half. "What the--" was all Mike was able to manage before I managed to complete the folding. Shards of scratched up vinyl containing the holy engraved codes of "Whole Lotta Love" and all the others snapped and exploded all over the room. Roars of laughter from the peanut gallery as Mike's ecstasy instantly transformed to disbelief, grief, and anger (I think our friendship never recovered from that moment). God did that feel great.

My next record-breaking performance came four years later (something about being a senior, I guess), and I may have already told this story here before (if so, find it and see how accurately I re-tell the story). The house I lived in in college was a chaotic collection of individuals. One was Mark, a rather nice but rather rabid Beatles fan (and this was the mid-80s by which time the Beatles were already rather nostalgic; to be a rabid fan then was, in my mind, a bit passe). Anyway, Mark was sitting there reading the latest Rolling Stone when he exploded indignantly with these exact words, "How can anyone have the audacity to name an album Let It Be?" (Rolling Stone was reviewing the Replacements' epic Let It Be album, my favorite album at the time, and one that has never left my all-time top ten since.) "Maybe because," I assholily retorted, "It's a much better album than the Beatles' one of the same name." I received a look thousands of martyrs must have received just as the stakes were being ignited. Should have been the end of it, I know, but college is the time for excess, no? Later that night, much later, I took my pretty vintage (red Apple label) copy of the Beatles' Let It Be--sleeve, dustjacket, album all--and hurled it several times against the holy wall in my room on which I had been writing graffiti for months. Satisfied only when I could feel that the vinyl disc had been reduced to dozens of pieces, I then proceeded to go upstairs and shove the whole thing under Mark's door. Have I ever been crueler in my life? Forgive me, I hope not, but after all, this was only rock'n'roll and as much as I've always loved the Beatles, they're not above having their pedestal rocked and rolled over a bit (which reminds me of the time I somehow wound up manning a beer stand at a Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers concert; there was no orderly line and we were selling cans which had to be opened and poured into cups [most inefficient]; so of course right before the show we were overrun with I-just-wanna-be-swilling-beer-and-screaming-"Refugee"-man-not-standing-in-this-clump-of-the-same-you-call-a-line-waiting-for-you-to-open-pour-and-gimme-my-beer-man folks; just as I was on the verge of another nervous breakdown the first chords of the night started up [possibly "Refugee"] and the pushingshovingyelling got worse; one dude screamed in my face, "Come on, man, the concert's starting"; folks, let me tell you, when Sheer Genius comes accompanied by a Guardian Angel, you've reached a perfection in life you never knew existed: without thinking, duh, I screamed back [probably told this story once or twice before, too; oh well, I'm old, I contain repetitions] at the would-be hooligan, "Relax man, Tom Petty isn't god!"; dead-on accuracy notwithstanding, in most parallel universes such a comment at such a time to such an individual would have gotten me [justifiably if you recruited your jury near the beer coolers at any Open Pantry location] killed rather instantly, but as I said, my Guardian Angel was riding shotgun with Genius that night, and the guy just shrugged his shoulders like "ah, satori to you too" and said, "Yeah, you're right"). Anyway, the next day Mark was not too delighted at the Apple scruffs I had left under his door, but eventually I loaned him my Replacements album, he kind of liked it (and, more important, taking the higher road, returned it unscathed) and we got along fine.

Within a few years I called upon all of this experience to create a truly "teachable" moment in my class of thirty high school boys. We were reading the great Anne Bradstreet's poem about how her house burns down and she ends up thanking God for the lesson that indeed, all earthly possessions are "vanity." So how does one make such a Puritan woman's poesy come alive to thirty late 1980s high school boys who probably couldn't give a rat's ass? Call on the Glimmer Twins, naturally. I brought in my first pressing copy (before the Law made them alter it) of the Rolling Stones' Some Girls album, with its iconic cover of famous girls and Stones as girls. I spieled to the class about how this was the first new Stones album I had ever bought, the collectible (if not for how my cheap needle had worn it out over years of steady play) nature of the album, how despite owning hundreds of albums, this one was still one of my favorites, both in a musical and sentimental sense, blah blah blah. I then attacked the thing mercilessly, cracking up the vinyl into dozens of pieces in my by now familiar way, mangling the cover, etc, and then tactlessly chucking it all into the big round classroom-standard metal trash can. "Vanity!" I harangued the boys (some who were duly impressed, some actually frightened, some, as usual, who couldn't give a rat's ass), "all of it!" I then invited, not mandatorily assigned, them to bring in some symbolically similar item of their own the next day and ritually destroy it in front of class to experience the same thrill of "de-possession." The next day, there were few takers (or, more accurately, sacrificers). But I'll never forget quiet Carl coming up with a pretty valuable baseball card, explaining to the class how he had a big collection and this card was one of his prized ones, dismissing my calls to think twice about what he was about to do and the howls from his classmates not to do such a stupid thing, and triumphantly shredding that card into tiny pieces, tossing them in the trash can, and returning to his seat. Carl, I don't know whatever became of you, and I hope that card wasn't the equivalent of a down payment on a new car these days, but always know you melted this teacher's heart that day.

The feeling of deja vu is overwhelming--forgive me if I said this all before (thus, I, um, guess, coming off sounding like a broken record). But think about it--Beatles, Stones, Zeppelin--for many the holy trinity of rock (I'm saving the Dylan album breaking for my senility, naturally). Destroyed, all of them. Happily, and maybe instructively (and, yes, cruelly) so. Maybe it's in the blood. Every Christmas I look forward to hearing my mother tell the story about how her grandmother sat on her mother's long-sought-after, treasured 78 rpm copy of Bing Crosby's "White Christmas." I think my grandmother's look at her mother-in-law's face was probably akin to the one I received from Mike when Zeppelin II bit the dust.

Ah, nostalgia. What's the fun of breaking a CD or an iPod? Or, God forbid, a Cloud? No, maybe my record of breaking three records will never be broken.  

I'm Keeno On Geno

Beware, I'm prepared this year. Like no other off-election year in history, I'm ready for 2011. With nothing at stake besides some local elections and boring issues, one might question my fervor. But that is the point. The even year elections are the exciting ones; it takes nothing to get riled up for them, as long as you're still breathing. But these off-year ones usually pass by with nothing but an extended yawn. But this year--maybe it's the Occupy atmosphere, or the seemingly already-underway nastiness of a Presidential campaign--I've decided to revel in my right to vote and prep myself for the ballot-punching process like never before. I'm keeping a sharp ear out for the radio commercials (while again being so thankful I don't own a TV); the ads I end up hating the most, I am sure to vote against (State Issue 2, it's neck and neck). I'm also keeping a detailed spreadsheet charting the contents of my mailbox and the things left in/on/around my side door (if you're a front door candidate, I don't even recognize you)--not that I read any of the little placards, but I'm counting, and voting in indirect proportion to the number I receive. Let's just say there's a certain Cleveland Heights City Council wannabe who's about two leaflets away from not only never receiving any kind of a vote from me, but if I see any of his kinfolk on Halloween, I'm not giving them any Smarties.

Admittedly, as much democratic dedication as these above-mentioned strategies demonstrate, they are a bit passive. I realized this the other day as I drove to work--through about six different towns--and saw all the various campaign signs on people's lawns. Gee, I wondered, how much democratic zeal would it take for me to do something so active? To actually take the time and effort to walk outside on one of these cold, rainy days and stick something in my front yard? And even if I did eat something strange that gave me such gumption, what the hell, I live on a side-street whose cut-through rate is pretty insubstantial. So again, the standard existentialist-democratic question reared its effete, ugly little head--what difference does it make? Then it hit me. I blog, dammit, I've got a virtual front yard that stretches across the globe. I can make a difference.

For nearly forty years I've watched politics with a fan's dedication. And long ago I came to the conclusion that the coolest, most useful role one can play in politics is not voter, not candidate, not poll worker, not aide-de-camp, but endorser. Nothing spells importance and true American egotism more than, Listen to me, folks, I'm going to throw open that measly curtain they hang on voting machines and tell you all just how I'm going to vote, because I think that much of myself to think that I can persuade you to vote the same way I am. And so, for the last few days, I've been a man on a mission--searching far and wide for a candidate worthy of spitoutyourgum's inaugural endorsement.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, Geno Trunzo. Geno is running for city council in Mayfield Heights, Ohio, a suburb east of Cleveland. He gets my vote, if I had one in Mayfield Heights, and I hope he'll get yours, if you have one in Mayfield Heights.

I do not know Geno personally. As far as I know I do not know him impersonally either. I don't know why he is running for office or what his views are. I know one person who lives in Mayfield Heights. As far as I can tell, I have no readers who live in Mayfield Heights. So why, you're all scratching your heads, why would I gift, with my precious and much-sought-after inaugural and sole endorsement, someone I don't know or know of, in a race where I have little or no pull?

Because I love the man's name.

Look, as I said, I drive through six different communities to get to work every day. In a year of nothing but local elections, do you realize how many different signs with different colors and slogans and names I encounter? Hundreds. And I can't name a single one of them for you right now because they're all a blur. All expect for Geno Trunzo. Geno: Clarity In The Blur. What a name. Say it. Just go ahead and say it. And if you can do so with a full, Pabst-influenced good old Cleveland accent, you'll really get the effect--Geno Trunzo. A doubly trochaic masterpiece. How can you not admire, nay, trust, a name like that? It rhymes! It's got a great vowel to consonant ratio. It's got that down-to-Earth, man-of-the-people "Trun" followed by that zippy, charismatic "zo" flourish--meat, potatoes, and chocolate mousse! Tell me this country wouldn't be better off if along with (or in place of!) all the John's Andrew's, and Franklin's, we had a few more Geno's living at 1600 Penn. Ave. Although I don't live there, I feel my life will be better every day just simply driving through Mayfield Heights and knowing that a man named Geno Trunzo is sitting on city council there.

You might not like my politics, my music, or my sports teams, but if you're a regular reader of this blog (yes, all five of you), you must trust my love of words. Well, I'm telling you, as far as candidate names go, it gets no better than Geno Trunzo. And I don't care if you don't live in Mayfield Heights either. If you get lost in the morass of bland and nefarious-sounding names on your local ballot, remember the name Geno Trunzo and write him in. If he doesn't make it in Mayfield Heights, maybe he'll make it where spitoutyourgum has some real pull, like, for instance, Wasilla, Alaska (seven hits in the last 30 days!).

Go Geno!

Siri With Some Fringe On The Top

It's a cruel irony that as one's hipness (I'm too square to even attempt to use the word hipster) quotient diminishes, the pain in his or her hips increases. A prime example of how far away from the zeitgeist I seem to be: For several days recently I kept running across references to Siri. Thinking that Siri was some new reality TV star or that afternoon's hot new chanteuse, naturally I paid her little mind. Only by accident (well, maybe not that accidental--I figured if Siri was getting all this media attention, there had to be shots of her in a bikini somewhere) did I discover that Siri is the voice-recognition/activation software app on the new iPhone. Silly me. I've since seen this headline: Is Siri Racist? We've lost our minds.

Now as someone who still misses the thrill of dialing 0 on an old rotary dial phone, I am obviously not the person to comment on Siri's efficacy, pros/cons, or feelings about racial "others." But it seems to me that unless you are paralyzed or have had your arms amputated (and don't have the foot dexterity of Daniel Day-Lewis), a voice-activated phone is as superfluous as a poetry reading at the Republican National Headquarters. Punch in the damn numbers or person's name yourself. But I know, geeks, phones are much more than just phones these days. They're personal assistants (don't get me started). But I, still clinging to my Model-T cell phone, thought 99% of the cachet of owning one of those so-called smart phones was impressing people with how deftly you worked that swooping finger thing to access all your cool stuff. I guess I'm just a Charles Ingalls trying to merge his horse-drawn Conestoga onto this Information Super Highway I've heard so much about.

But look, this colorblind technoramus won't be colored impressed until Siri starts working some real magic, not the broken-down circus feats of dialing someone's number or reminding me of someone else's birthday that are presently wowing all the faddists. Do me a favor, Siri, don't call me or activate me until you can do most of the following: When I say, "scratch that itch," get the job done, especially in those hard to reach places. When I say, "beer me," fetch me a perfectly tapped pint of Guinness. When I say, "warm the seat," warm that toilet seat by means other than somebody else's arse. When I say, "bacon," produce. When I say, "play me the world's greatest song," my iPod (the one I don't own yet) better start playing one of about the five hundred songs that qualify. That's the kind of voice-recognition/activation software acumen I'm interested in.

While I'm thinking about all of this (which is a sad thought in and of itself), the Siri capability that I most treasure is a voice-activated voice. When I'm caught in some totally mundane, sanity-oppressing "conversation" with some total bore, I want to be able to whisper to Siri, "do it," and immediately have the application co-opt my voice and utter the dozens of "uh huhs" and "definitelys" and "ooohhh, interestings" that are necessary to continue the conversation unrudely while my brain and soul and total consciousness are free to roam the astral planes. Then, Apple, and only then, will I believe you all really do think differently and really are doing something significant for mankind. Until then, I'm on mute.

Let Me Get This Out Of The Way

I'm an organic kind of guy. A feel guy. An "it's not the destination, it's the journey" (which I'm guessing Columbus was the original, or better have been, his destination being half a world away from what he thought it would be) guy. An inchoate (in an initial or early stage; pronounced in-KO-it) guy. A true believer in the "how do I know what I think until I see what I write" kind of guy. And so, after more than two years of writing this blog (with the experiment detour mistake of spending a month writing nothing but posts about pogo sticking well behind me), I've finally envisioned, sculpted, and varnished its mission. And so, with no further ado (i.e. parentheses), I unveil spitoutyourgum's Mission Statement, an ethos, an attempt to define the culture of this blog, a symbolic lighting of the torch which, if not always so in the past, I vow will serve as the guiding lighthouse for this blog from this post onward. Cuddle up and be edified.

Spitoutyourgum blog treasues the individual and the infirm (in fact, we proudly salute all "in-" peoples: the innocuous, the incredulous, the ingrates, the inert, the inept, the indeterminate, the Inuit, the intelligentsia, and hell, even the in flagrante delicto [if you folks are reading this, my, what talent!]). We believe in universal respect and aim to practice it when doing so doesn't conflict with what we value, namely, expediency. We celebrate diversity, basically writing about whatever comes into our divergent little minds. We exult in the Royal We whenever we speak of ourselves (another tip of the hat to the individual's right to be diverse). We not only talk the talk of thinking outside the box, we walk the walk--we are 100% box-free. Well, 99%. We have one box on site, situated exactly in the middle of our offices, so that we are always literally "outside the box." We do love plastic bins, though, and reams and reams of scrap paper. Obviously we are environmentally sensitive. Okay, full disclosure--we're allergic to the cat that shares a lease on our offices. What we bring to the table is ourselves. Well, if we had a table. As it stands now, we have a desk and a love seat that functions more like a table (and really, isn't a table just an uptown word for junk drawer?). Anyway, we are committed to bringing our committed (committable?) selves to this metaphoric table, i.e. literal love seat, every day. Well, we try to write every couple of days. We go beyond valuing our customers; in general we slobber over them. But since we're not selling anything here but simply offering mindless diversion for free, screw you, you get whatever we give you. As always, puppies and children under 12 eat for free. We offend no one with a funny bone, and defend anyone with ready cash. We embrace wholly the concept of the early bird gets the worm, but we prefer bagels with cream cheese, Malley's chocolate, and spaghetti. Our religion is words. Especially holy ones like canard. Bunkum is our sole tenet. In bacon, truck drivers, the boundless melancholia of Cleveland, and insouciance we trust. We love music but not to the arcane lengths of many a blogger; and we've grown sick of Big Brother publishing companies stomping on the fun of proselytizing about favorite songs. We shruggingly hug our Ludditism. Coffee is our drug, peanuts our fuel, indoor plumbing our crutch, tobacco our vice president. Readers our delight. 

And for you ADD, Cliff's Notes-preferring, pull quote sound byte folks, our mission in seventeen words: All the free malarkey we and you can fit into our/your busy every other (hopefully) day.