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Category Archives: stupid observations

In sixth grade, I was Tom Cruise. Five days a week, weather permitting, I was Tom Cruise. Between 8 am and 8:15 am, or as long as it took me to walk to school, I was Tom Cruise.

I wasn’t trying to be a fighter pilot; this wasn’t about a boyhood aspiration. My Tom Cruise moments weren’t even about pretending to engage a flurry of befuddled MIGs, and I didn’t imagine myself in the kind of dogfight where the ground and sky zap into a single blur. No. It was simply about being and feeling cool, Tom Cruise Cool. My experience on those walks to school was a sixth-grade, approximated version of the feeling that followed the heinous dogfight, came after the aircraft carrier landing, after the cockpit high five. It was a taste of the coolness that was a fortunate symptom of being a fighter pilot. As far as I was concerned, this version of me radiated an aura identical to the one Maverick projected as he rode his crotch rocket into the fiery Jerry Bruckheimer sunset, knowing all the while that he was a complete badass.

Careful, Charlie. You might get burned by the cool. (He even looks like me.)

I didn’t even walk to school; I floated an inch above the ground accompanied by my own bass-heavy theme music.

This was my sixth grade cool.

Mom and Dad bought me the jacket for Christmas. It was a classic bomber jacket from Burlington Coat Factory made with fake leather, adorned with fake military patches, and finished off with a fake fur collar. But it was the sweetest thing I’d ever worn. It still might be. I mean, I slid my arms into those sleeves and my biceps grew, my mind a flutter with memories of hard battles, carbon-stained teeth, and the women who helped me clean them. I’m pretty sure that jacket accelerated puberty. It was wearable testosterone.

There were also the accoutrements of my Tom Cruise Cool. Hair gel—I used enough to choke an Iceman. Combed it down into a nice clean part, the comb leaving evenly spaced rows in my hair like striations on the barrel of a gun. You’ve got to wear jeans with a bomber jacket, which I did, or a sweet pair of camo green cargo shorts, just in case a tactical situation arose. Never knew when I might need a bunch of pockets. Finally, since naval aviators didn’t eat breakfast, neither did I. I was much cooler with an empty stomach.

L.A. Looks: The gold standard in aviator hair products.

You’d think that glasses would have been a necessary piece, a nice mirrored pair of aviators. But I was smarter than that. After all, how would my flock of female admirers see into my hardened, yet benevolent soul if they looked into my face and only saw their own reflection? Thanks, but I’ll leave the glasses at home. In doing this, I even out-badassed Maverick.

During a walk that spanned a single Strasburg block, I was the guy.

Authentic cool.

Sixth grade was when coolness started to take shape, when I knew the feeling and could name it and understood what it meant for me—confidence, rightness with the world. In many ways, cool is and has always been comfort. I was a twitchy goober in sixth grade, but those walks to school allowed me the comfort of being less goobery for about fifteen minutes.

The feeling of cool is an important one, so are its cousins: phat, groovy, funky, happening, fly, chic. And we all have our own bomber jacket, our own artifacts that catalyze the emergence of cool or uncover the personal phatness residing always somewhere inside. Those artifacts, if only for a little while, help us to brush aside airport lines, bills, empty gas tanks, debt crises, poor cell reception, and chirpy Starbucks baristas, with a feeling of… cool. For some, maybe it’s the sound of a basketball that triggers the memory of the time in high school they scored at the buzzer the feeling of which generates a moment of crowd-cheering cool. Someone else might feel their cool creep in as a hip-hop drumbeat reaches their ear. Even the still-goobery thirty-something me feels a tickle of cool at the memory of that jacket.

What awakens your cool?

-MC J Light

P.S. The quirk of my cool is this: it’s often tied to movie character types that I imagine as very cool. I have never been these characters, but I have felt their particular brand of cool.

The Guy Who Knows the Band – This is the guy who has the pull to get backstage. He may not have the musical aptitude to be in the band, but he’s the guy all the band members with they were. He is, in a sense, the wind beneath the band’s wings. His traits include; street smarts, shrewd business sense, and music industry pull.

The Cowpoke – This guy shares drinking water with his horse. Happy on the open plains with nothing more than a harmonica and the soreness from riding all day. His traits include: really good at chewing toothpicks, believes the saloon girls deserve more respect than they get, tough but only when provoked, happily eats beans and cornbread.

The Kung Fu Master – Similar temperament to that of The Cowpoke, quiet, compelled toward the way of peace, speaks in nature-centric metaphors. Traits: Good posture, baggy clothes, wiry, makes would-be aggressors look stupid without laying a hand on them.

The Guy Who Girls Find Undeniably Cute but Won’t Approach Because They Think He’s Out of Their League Even Though He’s Actually Pretty Down to Earth – No explanation necessary.

Others: The Sports Star, The Werewolf Sports Star, The Comedian, The Rap Star, The High-Powered Lawyer, and The Mountain Man.

For starters, I’m irritated because I had a lot of things planned. I was finally going to learn the Chicken Dance. I was going to make my signature brownie & peanut ice cream this summer. I was going to teach myself the sweetest slap bass solo ever right after I learned how to play the bass. More importantly, I had a party all planned for the night of December 20th, 2012 (The Eat-Like-A-Fat-Pig-Before-The-World-Ends Party), which was supposed to be Judgement Day Eve, followed two days later by the Why-Did-I-Eat-A-Cheesburger-Baked-Inside-Of-A-Cheesecake 5K Fun Run. It was going to be awesome. I was going to invite Lance Armstrong.

I’m even more irritated about the beginning of the world’s end on May 21st, as this group claims on their website, because that’s the exact day of Dave the Cat’s birthday. Let’s face it, he’s not a kitten anymore; he’ll be six in human years. That’s about 40 in cat years. Middle age, David. On this birthday he should be taking out a second mortgage to lease a Porche and cruising for co-eds, not dancing around crevasses and avoiding lava flows. It’s a real bummer when a meteor crashes onto your butter cream-frosted birthday cake. And, yes, he will have a birthday cake, but not carrot cake because David hates carrots.

This isn't Dave, but you get the idea. He would look much cooler and have a least three gold chains around his neck.

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So I saw this story on CNN.com a while back. I also read the bible passages they cite and did some of their calculations. These folks have conviction in their conclusions and that’s fine. I cannot say that this group should be faulted for believing in their beliefs. Their right to do so is not in doubt. Their actions, though…

Check this out:

Study this picture for as long as you want, but this is still a custom-painted, doomsday Winnebago. This RV and others like it are currently touring the country. Its drivers wear t-shirts and hats that are no less garish. They hand out pamphlets and talk to those who will and won’t listen. Apparently we’ve come a long way since the old “The End is Near” sandwich board. But with such a loud delivery you’d assume there’s a constructive take-away message, something worthwhile and beneficial.  There must be a call to action. Repent. Find God. Go to church. Be a better person. Something. Right?

Not exactly. Actually, their message goes something like this: a) the world is ending on May 21st, b) your status (chosen or forsaken) has already been decided by God and was actually determined before you were even born, c) there’s nothing you can do to improve your odds, d) but, hey, we just wanted to let you know cause that’s the kind of people we are, e) so, uh, have a great next four weeks.

Okey dokey.

 __________________________________________

If someone wielding a hammer asked you to put your hand on a table then said, Hey, in five minutes I’m going to smack your finger with this hammer and you can’t do anything about it, what would you be thinking about for those five minutes? You’d be thinking about how much it’s going to hurt.

So… is that it? That’s what they want us to take away? We’re all out of luck. Don’t start stocking up on batteries and potable water because it won’t matter. Oh, and it’s going to hurt.

I suppose my apocalypse anxiety is my own fault. It’s not like I have to listen. After all, the world is saturated with people willing to share their opinions. And it’s easier than every to disperse those opinions with youtube, podcasts, recreational vehicles, and ridiculous, long-winded blogs. I could always choose to ignore this as I do every other piece of wannabe propaganda and opinion—be it offensive or insightful; stupid or smart. But I’ll admit, I’m antsy about this sort of thing. I have trouble brushing it off. A big part of me finds this threatening, pre-destined, resistance-is-futile prediction a little disturbing. Call me weak or gullible if you will because I’m probably a little of each.

So I guess what I’m really asking is: why can’t these people be more considerate of me? (Perhaps selfish, but I think it’s okay to ask for baseline respect from the world around us.)

Possible answers: Could be plain old egotism at work or fear mongering under the guise of virtue. The RVs are part of a quest to be the smartest people in the room, the ones who said, I told you so. They want to be the ones laughing when the hammer finally falls.

Maybe there’s a fame factor here too. I can see the temptation behind religious-oriented fame. If you’re a fame connoisseur it’s probably the awesomest kind of fame because it lasts for a long time. Way longer that Paris-Hilton-famous-because-you’re-famous fame or Kerri-Strug-sticks-the-landing fame or William-Wallace-they-cannot-take-our-freedom fame. Then again, if the world ends on May 21st, no one’s going to care about who predicted it. There will be no sitting on Oprah’s couch, no 60 minutes interviews, no action figures. No reality shows.

Jesus: more famous

Kerri Strug: less famous

And maybe I’m missing the point completely; I’m not enlightened enough. Perhaps this is supposed to be a good thing, whether you’re one of the chosen or not. They do call it The Rapture. But that’s a tough pill to swallow.

I just want there to be some good in this message for people like myself. My hope is that this group just wants us all to live better while we can, to reorganize things. Not a bad message at all. But why not just say it. Keep the hammer out of it and paint the sugar-coated version on the side of your RV for me, would you:

Start living better. Skip work and go to a baseball game. Drink a chocolate shake. Pray. Eat nachos your recliner. Love. Kiss your family and your pets. Sit on the porch. Be nice. Help someone. Laugh at bad jokes. Watch your favorite movie twice in a row. Tolerate. Meditate. Learn something new. Be spiritual. Go to your place of worship. Read. Don’t watch Jersey Shore. Take pictures of things that don’t make sense. Take a minute to not talk. Run really fast. Keep pretending you’re cool.

If we do only have a few weeks left, I better get going on more blogs.

-MC JLight

Adios

Dear Colombia,

My sister, Keely, is a wonderful person. You shouldn’t deport her. She’s funny and smart. She works with orphans. She is the wind beneath my wings because she knows that children are our future. See, her secret is to teach them well and let them lead the way and, in doing so, show them all the beauty they possess inside, thus giving them a sense of pride to make it easier. But in your infinite wisdom, you’d prefer she didn’t spread goodwill throughout your country. You’re not really into the whole “working with orphans” thing. You don’t see the point of “helping kids with developmental problems.” Allowing one to use one’s very expensive education to “better the lives of others by offering free physical therapy” isn’t your racket. Interesting, Colombia. Very interesting.

Love, Josh

P.S. I do find it a little funny. Thanks for the material.

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As funny as it is, before I get into the aforementioned postscript material I’m obligated to come to my sister’s aid the best way I know how: with my words. Being a natural complainer who is unwaveringly intolerant of all things stupid, I will take up this cause for one entire paragraph. Why? Because in her own blog my sister the transcendent one has refused to go on complaining about being deported. Blaming the government would be counterproductive. Like a duck, she lets the water, or the orphan tears, run off her back. That’s nice and I respect her position. However, someone’s got to address this. I’m not saying that my banter is or will be any good, but it’s all I have.

So she didn’t have the correct paperwork. She had a tourist visa when she should have had a volunteer visa. But isn’t there some leeway for a do-gooder from Colorado? It’s not like she requested a volunteer visa as a front for selling Colombian mail-order brides. In fact, she went the other way; she positively expanded upon the activities typically expected of a tourist. I mean, what is a tourist visa anyway? It’s just the government giving permission for one to lollygag. So by helping orphans and personifying the greatest love of all, she’s being punished for not puttering. No, Mr. Colombia says. No, no, no. You promised us you were going to dilly-dally and you, Missy, are not. We want tourists, tourists who take pictures of crazy Colombian toilets and fill rolls of film with photos of every McDonald’s they encounter. We expect tourists who mock the misconceptions about our drug problem by posing in front of a Welcome to Colombia sign with a handful of baby powder. You are trying to teach about the greatest love of all? Please leave. Don’t let the puerta hit you on the way out.

C’mon, Colombia.

(This is where I’d lean in, whispering into Colombia’s ear.) She can be like that sometimes. She’s always going a step beyond. She did, after all, decide long ago never to walk in anyone’s shadow. Maybe she had it coming and needs to learn that she can’t go around selflessly helping other people willy-nilly.

The doctor's robe. The glowing aura. Need I say more.

She couldn’t even lie about her good deeds to Mr. Colombia when he questioned her. Of course, it’s hard to lie when you’re a do-gooder. But it could have been as easy as this:

Mr. Colombia: What is your business here?

Keely: I’m learning to salsa dance and I’ve fallen in love with a Colombian man without whom I am lost. I am drinking a lot of coffee. Also I took fifty three pictures of the Iglesia.

Mr. Colombia: Which one?

Keely: The one in the city.

Mr. Colombia: And that is all?

Keely: Yes.

Mr. Colombia looks at her suspiciously.

Keely: I do have one question. Where can I find Columbia Studios?

Mr. Colombia: (smiles) You’re just the kind of moron we want here. Enjoy your stay in Colombia.

Mr. Colombia emphatically stamps her visa.

Instead she probably shared her whole plan, talked about the special equipment she built for the orphans. She must have gone on and on about the greatest love of all happening to her. Defiant, she marched up and said, “If I fail, if I succeed at least I’ve lived as I believe. No matter what you take from me, you can’t take away my dignity.” Yeah, yeah.

———————————————————————————————-

Los Stupidos.

Come to think of it I’m might need to thank Colombia because I’ve been looking for something to hold over her head for a while. Back off. I’m not trying to be mean. In fact, I can write this because I love her dearly. But you have to understand that I am a selfish person and she’s been making my brothers and I look like a bunch of sideshow doofuses for 29 years. Granted, some of that is our fault as the level of stupidity to which the three of us have fallen is truly staggering and could fill a year’s worth of blogs. (Frankly, we’re lucky we have all our limbs.) On the other hand, Keely—or as we call her, The Mailman’s Kid if the mail man was a bongo-playing, Matthew McConaughey-resembling ex-Peace Corps worker who dabbled in organic chemistry “just for fun”—has always set a high standard. But now I have a comeback. Next Thanksgiving when Mommy and Daddy are scowling at me for slapping my brother with a piece of breast meat I can simply point across the table at Keely and say, “El Deporto.”

Of course, they will respond by pointing at me and saying, “El Stupido.” Then they’ll make me go to my room. Darn.

Los Stupidos II.

If any of my three readers are worried, fear not. She will almost certainly find a way to make the best out of Colombian Deportation 2011. She will convert this turd of a situation into glittering fairy dust. She told me the other day that she’s going to spend some time in Peru while she waits for the correct Colombian visa. Figures. She’s going to visit Machu Picchu where she will almost certainly make a discovery of particular worldly significance—a new species of flower, the petals of which can be used in lieu of gasoline in any internal combustion engine and whose only emission is love. She will stumble upon a band of never-before-seen Incan orphans who need help with their motor skills. She will write a book about her experience. It will be titled, Thanks, Deportation. I’ll open the book’s cover and hear the binding crackle as it does on any new book. On the dedication page I’ll see my name. It’ll say:

To my brothers, Josh, Jack and Andy, For every right, there is a wrong. Thanks for being my wrong.

You’re welcome. I’m going to chase my tail for a while.

-MC JLight

For a nothing-doer I’ve been awfully stressed lately. When I get stressed I get cranky and there’s only one thing I can do went I get cranky: rant. It’s about to happen. Don’t judge me. I hope you’ll keep reading.

Without further ado, I present to you my first annual List of Things that Might be Stupid or The 2010 Parade of Stupidity.

Humidity. Humidity, I’m pretty sure, is stupid. Think about this: I’ve walked outside my apartment during the summer and my glasses have fogged up. I’ve had to flip on my car’s defrost because of the humidity… DURING THE SUMMER. So stupid. Sometimes I feel like I’m wearing a wetsuit and hanging out inside a giant mouth. It’s disgusting. Things get sticky. I chaff in certain places that I don’t like to talk about.

People Who Don’t Know When It’s Appropriate To Have A Loud Cell Phone Conversation. On a bus, in a quiet restaurant, at a golf tournament, in a doctor’s office, in a movie theater, in a napping lion’s enclosure, while you’re in the pool, when you’re in line somewhere, in a public restroom, at your arraignment, in a movie theater, in a movie theater. This is a short and very incomplete list of places and situations in which people do not need to start yelling into their cell phones. But without fail, someone always does and doing so is very, very stupid. Quite stupid. Sure, things come up, but not that often. Please don’t interrupt my bus ride by screeching into your cell phone about the totally hot guy you met at the party even though you were totally hammered, the guy who totally held your hair back while you puked and who’s so totally sweet. I don’t care. To deal with you he must have been totally hammered too and totally doesn’t remember you and totally lost your phone number and he totally wouldn’t call you anyway because you’re a total loser. Shut up.

Shut your trap, Buddy. No one cares.

Here’s the underlying problem: The convenience of cell phones has slowly conditioned us to believe that because they can be used anywhere, they should be. No, no, no. Save some conversations for the house.

My Hair. It’s always been a little stupid, but I don’t realize it until it gets longer than usual. That’s when I remember why I always cut it so short. I have what you might call a puffy problem. And the humidity (see above) doesn’t help anything. The longer it gets the closer I get to being able to safely ride a bike without a helmet.

The NBA. Overwhelmingly stupid and frustrating. Where do I begin with this one? How about with the officials who don’t really enforce rules anymore. Instead, they kind of, sort of call certain fouls on certain players, but only if the foul is really obvious or really imperceptible depending, of course, on the player committing the foul or receiving the foul and they bend certain, but not all of the rules to favor certain players and often they forget the rules completely to ensure that the game is exciting and they always look good doing it, making sure that they gesticulate wildly so as to show everyone how athletic they are and how, if they wanted, they could be playing basketball too and, most importantly, they ensure that at the end of the game the viewers know their names even though it’s ludicrous to know any official’s name in any sport. There’s no other sport in which the casual fan can notice and name so many officials. Officials are an apparatus of the game for God’s sake. We shouldn’t know anything about them. What’s next? Are the commentators going to start talking about the baskets before the game? Maybe discuss where the iron’s origin. Or, better yet, let’s make every one different so that the players have no idea how big it is. Maybe they can’t even get the ball through it. And they can also change rims after each quarter to really keep the players on their toes.

I’ve become so angry that this doesn’t even make sense.

I love basketball. That’s why I love the college game. The NBA, however, isn’t basketball anymore. It’s a player popularity contest and a showcase for officials who are given way too much leeway.

Soggy Apples. Nothing worse than being eager to sink your chompers into a nice crunchy apple only to find that the stupid thing is actually filled with apple sauce. Mealy texture, apple flesh falling apart before you can even chew. When this happens I sometimes pretend it’s a pear just to make myself feel better. This, however, does not take away from the stupidity of the situation.

Get after it, Pal.

Golf. Usually stupid. How else do you describe the act of trying to hit a little ball into a little cup? Twain was right, golf is a good walk spoiled. I’d like to go further by saying that golf is a good walk that quickly becomes an angry, obscenity-laden slog. Even more stupid, I continue to play it.

There are way too many good angry golfer pictures to choose from.

Parents Who Refuse to Recognize the Messes Generated by Their Children. Let me begin this rant by saying that I love ankle-biters; I am by no means anti-child and I understand that they specialize in making messes. But, parents of the world, if you go to, say, a restaurant and your child makes a mess of cosmic proportions at least recognize that some else will be cleaning it up. A simple “Sorry about the mess” will do just fine. I’m not asking you to get on your hands and knees and coral all the Cheerios on the floor. Just say thanks to the person who does.

P.S.-This segment is brought to you by a family of four who I waited on last Sunday, the children of which made a colossal mess by throwing rocks all over our outdoor dining area while the parents simply enjoyed their mojitos then quickly scooted out the door after leaving me 10%. Truthfully, the tip doesn’t matter. What matters is that I spent thirty minutes sweeping rocks back into the garden. An oopsy-daisy would have made it all better.

Moving. S-t-u-p-i-d. People say that a good friend will help you move. I’d never do that to a good friend. I say you should only ask people who you really, really hate.

Moving. Is. Stupid.

Pat Robertson. He insinuated that the people of Haiti had it coming because they don’t share his religious beliefs. Enough said.

Rants. They don’t make you feel any better. They only get you more worked up about the things you dislike and make you notice other things you didn’t realize you disliked in the first place. Dammit.

When I’m in the middle of doing nothing—I mean, when I’m really doing it well—I’ll sometimes Google little questions that I’m looking to answer. Are soul patches cool? Turns out they’re not as cool as they used to be. Where did Waldo go? Somewhere in the South Pacific. How much money should I save each month? More than I currently do. Am I too old to get pregnant? Yes.

Here’s one that I did today, just cause I worry about this kind of thing: How old is too old to change careers? I asked Google this for several reasons. First, honestly, if I got a real job, even my dream job, I’d consider it a career change, as I am currently the VP of Jack Squat. Second, I’m extremely worried that my chosen career path is evaporating before me. And third, because I feel like I’m starting to get past the age where anything is possible.  You know, I’m not sure I can go back to school and I doubt if people want to hire someone my age as an intern and I’ve got to earn money somehow. So basically I wanted to know if all hope for me is gone… And Google seemed like the place to go for this vital info. Besides, my Magic Eight Ball was broken. It just kept saying, “Ask again,” so I threw it into a lake.

The first link that popped up directed me to a message board on which a man of my exact age came a-wondering if he was too old to become a journalist. The responses poured in and were all very positive. Of course not. You’re only as old as you feel. Never say never. One person mentioned many famous people who started careers later in life.

But one response stood out. In it the respondent questions the asker’s negative language, which, strangely, is a lot like mine, e.g. I won’t go back to school. I can’t find a job that makes me happy, etc. He suggested that the wannabe journalist ought to rework his vocabulary. Agreed. For many people, positivity has worked miracles in the past. Our forefathers’ positivity helped found this great country in the face of insurmountable Red-Coated odds. Positivity has helped countless sports underdogs (notably the 1997 Denver Broncos). And who hasn’t used a little positive thinking on a road trip through Nevada when there’s fifty miles ahead until the next rest stop and fifty miles have past since you stopped at Taco Bell for a bagful of bean burritos.

So me and the wannabe journalist should go with positive stuff. I will…. I can… Fine. Sort of. Perhaps I’m a Negative Nancy, but I usually reserve I will for certain things that I will do. I will take out the trash. I will eat some ice cream. I will take you to the airport. These are things over which I virtually have complete control. The wheels stop turning, though, when I try to be positive about tasks of less certainty (I will drive this ball down the middle of the fairway) or, even scarier, goals that depend on the willing participation of others (see below). Those scare the dickens out of me

Most applicable to my “professional” life is something like this: I will sell/publish this or that screenplay/story. **Silence, cricket chirp, cough.** Oh boy. Again, I may be a Debbie Downer, but how can I even begin to utter such a sentence. My brain starts working overtime: I have little control over such an event, I might jinx myself by saying it, I’m setting myself up for disappointment. C’mon, the only way I could convince myself that it was possible for me to write a novel was by getting a few words of it tattooed on my body as motivation. Because who wants to be the guy who had a small portion of an unfinished/unrealized novel permanently etched on his skin? Not me. So what’s next? Do I need to brand myself? (This is the kind of situation that leaves me wanting to eat a carton of fudgesicles and veg out on the couch watching The Joy of Painting with Bob Ross. He makes me feel better.) Moreover, if I can’t utter the aforementioned difficult sentence, how am I supposed to get anything done, much less take myself seriously as a writer?

But wait. You’re saying there’s another word between will and won’t. And you’re right. There’s also that lovely word: try. I love this word. I fall back on this word. It’s cuddly. It’s theoretical positivity. It’s exact middle. It’s hoping for the best without being cocky. I like that.

But Yoda had to step in and be a jerk. In The Empire Strikes Back he clearly says, “Do or do not. There is no try.” He took a choice, the best choice, away. I can’t even try to be positive. I can’t try to not try. I have to do or not do. I have to either be negative, which is nearly impossible for me (even though I’m a quasi-pessimist, I don’t like quitting), or there’s that other thing…

Crap.

-MC JLight

My friend Benjamin recently posted the following as his Facebook status: “kinda wish plants would have sex in private and not all over my car. yellow.”  He’s referring to the amazing amount of pollen in North Carolina. It’s all over the road and on every car in town. On today’s run I saw clouds of the stuff. Little particles swarming like Africanized honey bees. I saw a car actually emit pollen from its exhaust. Seriously.

Benjamin - irritated about plant sex.

Sound like a good time? It ain’t. I have what doctors refer to as “allergies.” Which means the abundance of pollen, or male plant sex dust, in the air gives me fits. Honestly it’s the only thing worse than the heat here. And I think they’re doing it on purpose.

Personally, this is the first time I’ve seen plants have sex so haphazardly. No regard for personal boundaries or religious beliefs. Just frivolity. Usually they’re so docile, so Martha-Stewart-ish. But right now it’s like the floral version of spring break. Female plants parading around with belly rings and too-tight bathing suits. Male plants ‘roided-up and glossy, their sexual awareness heightened by a mixture of Red Bull, hormones, and tequila shooters.

When parents around here give “the talk” I doubt it’s even necessary to use the old birds/bees euphemism, namely because the flowers here don’t need birds or bees to make little flower babies. Instead it should go something like this:

Well, little Kenny, when the male part of the flower really loves the female part of the flower it departs its pollen in heavy sheets onto a tall man’s 2002 Toyota. Then the tall man comes out of his house and inadvertently inhales the pollen. The rush of histamines makes him so dizzy that he bumps his head on the car. The yellow devil dust gets in his hair and on his favorite Broncos t-shirt. After a long sneezing fit, buckets upon buckets of snot, eyes so itchy they might fall out, and a lot of cursing, the tall man gets out of his car and a gust of wind blows the pollen off of him and onto the female part of the plant. And that’s how baby plants get made.

Think about it. Little Kenny can go to school the next day and brag to his friends about his new-found knowledge of the Tall Man and the Toyota. Or the Sneeze and the Snot. He can tell the story of an angry man with snot raining from his nose and how that man makes baby flowers. Sure it may lead to years of confusion and a few therapist bills, but it will stick with him.

That isn't magic fairy dust.

Hell, parents of North Carolina, you could even use this copious plant sex as a deterrent. Let’s say you have an allergy-prone teenager in the house and you want to deliver the old Wait-Until-Marriage Sex Talk. Don’t. Talk is cheap. Action speaks volumes. Just sit the kid outside on the patio and tell him or her to breathe deep. As he’s sneezing uncontrollably, crying, writhing in pain, and begging for a Zyrtec you jump out and say, “And that’s what happens when you mess around with gratuitous sex like those hornball plants. Keep your hands to yourself until there’s a ring on your finger.”

I’ve come to blame the tree-hugging liberals of North Carolina and, specifically, Chapel Hill. (Even though I am mostly liberal myself.) I imagine they parade around encouraging the trees and flowers to explore their bodies, to do what feels natural, to make love, not war… Blah, blah, blah, achoo. Colorado allergy season was nothing like this. They somehow keep their plants in order. Granted, there are plenty of liberals in CO. I mean Obama carried the state in 2008. But there’s also the Focus on the Family influence. While I may not agree with everything that organization stands for, at least they keep plants from sexing all over the place.

Yes, I need a hobby. More nothing to come…

MC JLight