SHORT-TERM MEMORY FOAM LOSS.

My mattress might have short-term memory foam loss. It doesn’t seem to remember my recent positions. But what if its long-term memory foam has eroded, too? It might not remember any of my positions, especially the ones from my Golden Age of Recreational Sleeping. I went to the drug store and looked, but I couldn’t find any memory foam. (I thought I might rub some, like Rogaine, on the bed.) I mean, Odysseus returned from his Ten Years Odd-at-Sea and his old mattress remembered him! (It also seemed to remember the positions of various Penelope suitors, but that’s another epic altogether.) To comfort myself in moments like these, I often play a game of Celebrity Stinky / Not Stinky. For example, Bill O’Reilly: Stinky, Pitbull: Stinky, Howard Stern: Stinky, Dr. Oz: Stinky, Mitt Romney: Not Stinky, but dirty in a bright, defensive way, The Offshore Way. I clicked on the television just to catch a snippet of the washed-up boxer responding to allegations that he once ducked an opponent. “I ducked awl hith puncheth,” he said. “Unleth it wuth a ludicrouth attempt like he ran outta the busheth drethed ath a bahbarian in Hannah Bahbaric timeth!” Consider a world with different values, I suppose, if that’ll make you feel better about your lot in life—that, or exchange the word “ice” for the word “beef.” You’d no longer go to the Ice Capades, but to the Beef Capades, instead, and you’d no longer listen to Ice-T and his song “Ice Ice Baby”, but Beef-T, and “Beef Beef Baby”, instead, and you’d no longer recite the poem “Fire and Ice” but “Fire and Beef.” The world will end in beef. Perhaps I’ll go down to the stinky discount mall, you know, the Olfactory Outlet, for some Reverie Foam.

IT IS, AND IT ISN’T, DÉJÀ VU.

Gratuitous Julie Christie picture. FML.

Stopping to think “I’ve seen [insert sight] in a previous life” doesn’t really convince me. Oh, the train brooded on the spur-track the same way as it did once before; Oh, the sky filled with thunder and wind the same way as it did once before; Oh, the State of New York awarded Woody Allen’s spouse her own university, SUNY Previn, as it did once before, “I SAY HAH.” Whereas, stopping to think about stopping to think—now, that might be déjà viewable. Seeing as it only happens twice—[i.e., stopping to think]—things often travel beyond irony into steely damn. Hey, I think I’ve seen this typeface on a previous occasion. It’s Omar Sans Sharif, the font of an Egyptian actor who gets to freak Julie Christie in Dr. Zhivago. Speaking of actors, Al Pacino plays a wily mountain cop who blows the whistle on high-altitude corruption in Nepal. The flick’s called Sherpaco. CHECK IT OUT. Maybe it’ll be your punishment in the underworld to keep approaching the same station in a crowded conveyance, everyone shoulder-to-shoulder and Enya aficionados to boot. Yeah, it’ll be summer, and the strap-hangers will smell like a bean casserole or just plain muggy overalls straight outta the hamper. A pot of chili and good ol’ American B.O.—[when you really think about it]—really do estimate one another. Perhaps your punishment in the underworld will be to keep appearing in a spinoff sitcom, I Dream Of Hygenie. Hey: Language matters: Dignity matters: No matter how many times you may stop to think “I’ve seen this [insert slander] in a previous life”: No; language matters; Hot Dignity Dawg.

TOP 7 REACTIONS WHEN COUNTING TO 60 BY UNITS OF 1-MISSISSIPPI.

[1.] Why Mississippi and not another state, country, movement, or debacle?

You got your 1-Arid Desert, 2-Arkansas, 3-Micronesia, 4-Tea Party, 5-Global Warming, 6-Federal Debt, 7-Mississippi, 8-Lewis & Clark’s Route to the Pacific, 9-Colorado River Basin in Crisis, 10-Took a Wooden Nickel, you know? There’s a lot of ways to count, to 60. So OK so.

[2.] Shouldn’t you begin with “Zero-Mississippi”?

It’s not like the Universe began, and it was already 1-Mississippi outside. No, it was less than 1. Headed there, but not yet 1. So, I mean, shouldn’t you go “Zero Mississippi”? What would the world be like, without Mississippi? Delta-less? Delta blues-less? See? It’s more than you think.

[3.] There’s an infinite amount of time between 0 and 60.

Don’t believe me? Divide a half in half. You get half & half. They call it half & half because it comes out of cow that has mixed ethnicity. Whole milk, on the other hand, comes out of a pure-bred cow. They have both types in Mississippi, pure cows and halfies. Lots o’ cows, yep.

[4.] Does anybody ever make it to 60, and if so, who?

I bet that Gandhi counted to 60 a few times, although I doubt that he ever said “Mississippi”. They have a statue of him in Washington, D.C. In the statue, he braces himself with a walking stick and wears a thin wrap. I worry about him when it gets below freezing. He must be mighty cold!

[5.] The 1960s is a distant target.

You could count to the 1960s by year and by Mississippi, so you could go “1900-Mississippi, 1901-Mississippi”, and so forth, but by 1960-Mississippi you’d be too exhausted to enjoy John Coltrane’s music, which transformed so much turmoil into beauty … but I digress.

[6.] What does each unit of 1-Mississippi indicate?

The lightning is 3-Mississippi away. You are 1 Mississippi closer to chasing your friends. In 9-Mississippi the CEO will issue a public statement but will shy away from making an apology. It takes Umpteen-Mississippi to achieve happiness unless you experience Premature-Mississippi.

[7.] Let’s try the Stuff Smith Counting Game in French

One = un. Two = deux. Three = trois, et cetera. So OK so: Un-deux// trois-quatre// cinq-six// uh-huit// neuf-woof. Which is how a lot of French ends, with silliness like neuf-woof. You don’t get silliness when counting via 1-Mississippi. You just never get to 60. But at least you have dignity!

TOP 5 WAYS TO COPE WITH A BRO, BRAH, OR BRUH.

Chocolade voor de vuist bump!

Study Representations in Popular Culture

A cartoon dog, sensing danger, intones “Bruh Roh!” to his owner. It must be the start of a pub crawl, and the Brahs are rushing to meet homies at a bar. “On my way, Bro!” they shout into mobile devices. Give them some leeway. They’ll need Bromoseltzer in the morning. “Go [Team]!” they holler. They don’t holler “Brah! Brah! Brah!” unless there’s a round of rum and diet on the bar. One of them likes Brahms, but he ain’t sayin’.

Apply Conversion Tables

Bro time doesn’t elapse like sidereal time, so expect great incongruence when it comes to the basic activities of daily living. Let’s take After-Flatus Shame, for instance. It may endure for ten minutes in the Dumb Animal, and for 10 hours in the Arch-Liberal, but the Bro, Brah, or Bruh may continue onward for 10 months without exhibiting any After-Flatus Shame. There he is, in Harris Teeter, like, shuffling a deck of cards: no remorse!

Know Your Bro

Maybe the fellow developed substance abuse troubles and wound up on a ranch in Arizona, in Brotox. Maybe he received a few cosmetic injections there, too, we don’t know, but the point is—take him for a good meal. Go for Italian. Order him a big old plate of Brotini. Or fry him up a steak. He needs his Brotein. Just don’t judge when you see him walking with a gaggle of Bruhs and Brahs in salmon-tinted backward caps, k?

Understand Social Tendencies

The Dumb Animal sniffs other Dumb Animal rather immediately in the park. Even turtle. “He’s one of my kind,” thinks the Dumb Animal, “he just has a carapace, is all.” The Arch-Liberal has no friends, not even the guys down at Socialist Action Network, and as such, despises Acts of Greeting. He would avert his gaze as the Bro might exchange the suite of handshakes, chest bumps, snaps, and fist bumps with feral Brahs and Bruhs.

Embrace Areas for Self-Improvement

Are you Bruh-averse? If so, you may need to Brah-reverse. Join the Bro at the Nautilus station. You can work your pecs and delts; flaps and wings; flanges and giblets. The Bro thinks that “gluten free” means an exercise he must complete without the help of his gluteus. Mentally, he spells ‘em “buttix.” He wavers between “buttix” and “butix.” He bows his head. “Shoulda paid attention in college,” he thinks. He doesn’t think for long.

STANDING SHOULDER-TO-SHOULDER WITH HUMANITY EVERY DAY, MY FRIEND, FOR YOU.

  [1]

One can repair the world in English, too—no need to “redefine community” in the process. If that makes me narrow-minded, then confront me again during National Selfie Week, during which I plan on posting my Rejection of Sameness Selfie. Meantime, my race horse is Exacta Pound of Flesh and my jazz record is Mingus Ah Umlaut. The stipulation of the situation requires a horn. If everything that ferments must converge—then honk.

  [2]

How To Walk Home (Tight) From The Pub, Chapter 1. First, remove the “Barfly For Sale” sign scotched to your back. You’ve got two options: Socialize Up and Hook Up. (Rarely can you achieve both in the same constitutional.) In the former scenario, you might be expected to perform from a list of jumps: Meatballs in the Fridge Jump; Jim Dandy Jump; Indie Dude Aloofness Jump; Tats in the Attic Jump; Twitchy Jump. Don’t get all stodgy lest someone dub you “So hook up.”

  [3]

People sure do trust in the lulls: The Wine Tasting Lulls; The Big Box Retailer Joke Lulls; The Sniper Day Lulls; The Train Leaving Baltimore Lulls; The Take Your Pills Lulls, people sure do trust in the lulls. Here we go again, Big Money vs. Little Money. I always see Big Money dining at Ruth’s Ludacris Steakhouse, whereas Little Money bickers endlessly in their front stoop High Life gear. “Suggestive humping lull?” “Why yes!” “Carry on then.” “You bet.”

TOP 5 LAMENTATIONS.

[1] “Now I need third floor flood insurance!” Yes, in the era of global climate change, floods will routinely imperil residents who dwell above the first two floors of buildings. If you think that only ground level residents will face water, mud, and vermin: think again. You will face water, mud, and vermin, too, and not just 100 Year Vermin or 50 Year Vermin, but a regular vermin, a perennial vermin, an exasperated vermin. Lo, the floods will weaken the earth in April, and in the first week of May, cometh the loosening. To the holidays we must assign different names. May 5^th, for example, will henceforth be known as Sinkhole de Mayo.

[2] “My sinew hurts!” Rather than suffering from painful teeth, bones, and joints, the newest ache centers around connective tissue, and at that, we mean tendons. We mean tender tendons. By this, we are in-sinew-ating everything. People at the doctor; People in the HR cubicle; People at the alternative lifestyle kiosk; People at the guru; People at the blood pressure cuff in Wal-Mart all complaining of sinew. “My sinew hurts!” in Cleveland. “J’ai mal au sinew!” in Quebec. “Me sinew pains me so!” in the stands at Sheff Wednesday Football Club. Sinew Jack City, as they say, with so much sinew bound in gauze and medicated strips. 

[3] “Water is being turned into products that’ll prevent it from being water again!” Water becomes ink, and paint, and Orange Julius, and wallpaper paste, and conditioner. Meanwhile, fish aren’t very salty, except for a shark, which is salty, and while it isn’t a dolphin, which is, instead, a whale, a shark, by virtue of its salt content, contains less water than a whale, such as a dolphin, or a fish, except a kin-shark. So, the shark will not suffer this appropriation of waters as much, but a fish and a whale will suffer, should we transform more water into consumerism, and desktop snow ornament, and nuclear coolant, and brake fluid, and McDonalds.

[4] “Institutional culture is causing me to second-guess my lifestyle!” As a young adult entering the job market, you craved Institutional Culture—especially throwing your tie over shoulder at lunch spots, and at that, ordering the string beans w/ hot peppers. Back then, people shanked you in the traditional way: with false accusations after you vacated the break room. Today, the leaders of Institutional Culture wear beatific smiles and they don’t shank you, at all, so much as they shank the whole Going Concern, at once. By that, I mean they bankrupt the Corporation amid great festivity. Second-guessing as the balloons drop. Yep: that’s America.

[5] “A person can’t just be a ‘Son of a Gun’ (singular)!” A person could be a son of a gun and a son of a gun, and still turn into a relatively dependable taxpayer, depending upon her or his recessive phenotypes. Gregor Mendel studied this phenomenon in his table of hybridization. A person could be a son of a gun and a son of another weapon, or a person could be a son of another weapon and a son of another weapon, and still just want to give back to the community. Again, consider the recessive phenotype. Either way, even Mendel (“Duh!”) would confirm that a person couldn’t just be a son of a gun (singular). Lest she or he be a Deity.

THYME OF A RIVAL.

Forget love . . . Learn karate!

Skeletor and He-Man don’t burn fossil fuels, but they do have The Power. We, as a global society, ought to investigate this circumstance, since many of our woes revolve around the generation of so much electricity. If only we could holler, “I have the power!”, and FZZT, on go the lights. Some people actually identify with Skeletor. Bad people admire Skeletor, as well as those goodie-goodies who also groom a Dark Side, and the people who dig Skeletor often are the same folks who prefer iguanas, or iguana jokes. “Iguana go home now.” Stuff like that.

***

So you traipse home rumpled and distressed and disgruntled. You plant an herb garden. (You’re a liberal after all.) Your neighbor plants an herb garden, too, although not for the same reasons. Little by little, you grow obsessed with your neighbor’s garden. He’s arranged it wild, like in the wild, with sprouts like gangbusters. He discovers you, at night, crouching in his garden, without a good excuse. Is there ever an excuse, you wonder, for crouching in a neighbor’s herb garden? You continue to crouch, long after social decorum would have otherwise dictated a rise-up. 

***

Your neighbor may be, or may not be, a linguist. When you think of the word “linguist”, you think of pasta and butter on someone else’s palate. You embarrass yourself with your own thinking, even though it’s all in your head. The neighbor wants to bury the hatchet so invites you for breakfast at a diner. He orders the Three Egg Umlaut, but when the waitress offers a puzzled brow, he relents. But he won’t bury the hatchet, oh no he won’t. He jabs a finger into your sternum and goes, “Thyme of a Rival.” He means, by this, too many herbal off ramps.

***

When a Hungarian wishes to gain the attention of another Hungarian, is there an audible “Budapsst” that one can hear? There should be a phone service in which the phone, upon receiving a call, reveals the caller’s basic instinctual drives. The service would be known as Caller Id. Johnny Depp is all set, apparently, to star in a sequel to Benny and Joon, the romantic comedy in which two eccentrics find love. Only, this time, the Depp character, Benny, decides to study quite a lot of karate, and the sequel will be appropriately dubbed Benny and Joon Rhee.

*** 

Speaking of sequels, you’re excited to rent Tug Boat III, the third in a series of flicks set on tug boats. The director must’ve run out of money, however, as the film keeps showing a Fisher Price skiff bobbing in a bathtub. You realize that the movie takes place inside the apartment where the bathtub lives. Smoke wafts through the “galley”, to suggest fog. You realize that Tug Boat III is a movie about manual love, a love of manual dexterity, a love of the tug. You just don’t want to watch every time the foghorn goes off—tuba TUBA, womp WOMP—there it goes again.