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I’m In The Mood For A Little TeeHee…

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Love to laugh

… I love to laugh …

Remember that little ditty from Mary Poopins?teehee… I mean Poppins

Some people laugh through their noses
Sounding something like this, dreadful
Some people laugh through their teeth goodness sake
Hissing and fizzing like snakes
Not at all attractive to my way of thinking

I love to laugh
Loud and long and clear
I love to laugh
It’s getting worse every year

When was the last time I laughed so hard that I shot a nostrilful of milk across the table?

I’ll bet my Grade 13 lunch mates at Sir Wilfrid Laurier School in Hamilton still remember…

Probably the only thing worse than being vomited on (I g-g-gag just thinking…)…. is having recycled cow squeezings snorted over you in a misty white shower while trying to wolf back an egg salad sandwich that your Mom so lovingly prepared.

Hmmmm…. and I wonder why my old buddies Larry or Renato won’t befriend me on FB…. oh yeah, the milk snort shower.

The world has been a shadowy, humourless place in the last 14 or 15 months with DJT (Da Jaundiced Twerp) running our planetary schoolyard. Maybe Orange(head) truly is the New Black.

Ha ha… AR-15’s. Ha ha… #MeToo marches. Ha ha Nuclear threats.  Ha ha Slow WiFi… where is the laughter?

First world problem

Another great Third world problem…

OMG, a great vacuum has sucked up the milk snorting Teehee’s.

Of course I can’t grouse too much because I can’t tell a joke (at least a funny one) if my life depends on it. My punchlines need some IV-administered Viagra…

Yes, it’s difficult sometimes to unearth a good laugh when living in the current version of the dark ages…. I wonder how many standup comedians traipsed the countryside during the Black Death Plague (courtesy of my old Microbiology lab friend Yersinia pestis) that ravaged Europe for 4 years in the 1300’s? So… do all curses come in 4 year stints?

Could Jerry Seinfeld, Tina Fey or Rita Rudner have made a livelihood while surrounded by the stench of rotting bodies in the streets? It’s hard to hear the giggles over the corpse crowd, the dead silence …”Smoking will kill you… Bacon will kill you… But smoking bacon will cure it.” Cue laughter.

It’s crucial to find humour in the dingy, dreariest of times. Haven’t most of us laughed through our tears at a funeral or at the bedside of a dying loved one as a way to cope with the inner anguish?

I have to find humour in any place that isn’t a mirror ’cause it’s so damned hard to laugh through the crevasses and white hair that accost me like a time thief when I see THAT reflection. All I can say is, “Thank God my eye colour hasn’t changed.

FUN FUN FUN… today I’ll risk my foolish pride by telling you the longest, best bout of laughter I’ve had in 2018 was at the local movie theatre watching…

Peter Rabbit.

Yup, a kids’ cartoon.

I laughed and snorted the whole way through.

I hope the couple sitting in front of me didn’t mind picking semi-chewed specks of popcorn out of their hair when they arrived home after the flick. Hey, it isn’t milk snort!

Peter Rabbit… a beautifully computer-animated version of the classic Beatrix Potter story with some not-so-classic silly voices of Peter, and his triplet sisters Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail (aka James Corden, Daisy Ridley, Margot Robbie, and Elizabeth Debicki).

 

It was clever, and irreverent, often silly but never totally jumped the garden fence into slapstick. It had drama and heartwarming moments, terrific animation, and a gentle love story to complete a great screenplay.

Benjamin Bunny: I’m still so out of shape.

Peter Rabbit: How’s it working with the putting the dressing on the side?

Benjamin Bunny: Good. But, I don’t understand why it’s healthier to drink it all at once.

OK, maybe it was the mood I was in.

Yes, our mood.

I recall gasping in laughter watching Woody Allen’s neurotic-laced Annie Hall the first time through.

On second viewing a few years later, I shook my head, wondering if I was watching the same movie. Where was the incredible humour that had me rolling in the aisle the first time?

Decades back I peed myself through the triad of Monty Python movies (Monty Python and The Holy Grail, The Life of Brian, and The Meaning of Life). I can watch them today and come away with contradictory sensations of laughter and absurdity.

Yes, our mood.

Humour isn’t always what is given to us in the moment. Laughter affects our taste buds differently with each serving.

Often, it’s what we bring to the moment in our own mood… where is our tipping point? Today, is our funny bone right at the surface or deeply submerged?

I love it that I can watch CNN in 2018 and shake my head in laughter more often than I frown. Absurdity is such great comedy.

Perhaps the next time I view Peter Rabbit, my mood may be different. I’ll wonder what the hell was so funny.

But today I’m still giggling the same way I did when I was 7 years old and good ole Mary Poppins gave me that first spoonful of sugar laughter….

spoonful

 

 

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Money, Music, and Confidence

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Baby pullup

Certain things come easy in life. Other things hard. Sound familiar?

There are intersections that bring together my areas of interest and passion, encouraging and reinforcing the sensation of confidence.

Money and music are areas of ease and comfort for me… like the sensation of wearing a warm knitted cardigan on my outdoor deck on a mild spring day like today, crayola-yellow sunshine filtering through the wool into my skin, red-winged blackbird trills and chickadee chirps ringing me in a quiet, happy symphony.

Of course to complete this bucolic scene, a waft of fragrant cigar smoke from a Cuban Calixto is the topper. You can close your eyes, feel divine prickling down your spine, and know that there is heaven in the air.

Money and music feed my confidence.

First, Money.

While never in huge supply in my world (do you have enough? is there ever enough?), money has played a part in most of my life choices since I was a wispy little paperboy tossing rolled up Hamilton Spectator newspapers at the front doorsteps of east Hamilton denizens.

larry-spec-carrier-tiff

These early indications of my 10 year-old lad’s interest in investing have coursed through my veins, like a lively Riverdance, over the many years since.

I’m in a serene zone of comfort when I read annual reports and dig through financial statements. Yeah, I know, weird. Numbers’ nerd.

Maybe this is because professional earning capacity has never been one of my overwhelming goals, an arrow in my quiver.

I have complex fears of taking on jobs/careers that pay lofty salaries.

WTH? Well, it’s because an unease swells inside me like a nasty necrotizing fasciitis when Monday-to-Friday vocation impinges on my desire for flexibility and freedom.

I love making a positive contribution to our world, our economy, and the welfare of others, but I’ve always shrunk from becoming a minion to any one area of life, paid or otherwise.

Hence, the ability to have passive streams of income has been my target, the beautiful bullseye in my sights.

Passive income lets me exercise my ADHD “Madly Off In All Directions” bent of chasing diverse pathways, and still afford the occasional chocolate Fruit and Nut bar.

Investments in companies that produce a growing river of dividend payments are wonder drugs that alleviate the nagging anxiety of lack of flexibility or freedom.

Dollars that flow over the riverbanks into my bank account while I sleep are a sweet delicacy to be savoured, even though some days I sigh and wish the flood would speed up just a little bit.

Money Confidence.

Cat band

Next, Music.

Music too (not just listening, but playing too) has been a meandering thread throughout my life… sometimes tenuous and tentative, but always present like a quietly insistent heartbeat in the background.

In my early days, I sat in the basement of my family home while my teenage brother Gord and his pals set up their electric guitars and drumsets and pulsed out “(Sittin’ On The) Dock of the Bay” or “Satisfaction“. My brother’s friend Bill would let me play around on his baby-blue electric guitar when they took short breaks. Nirvana…

Soon, I was taking a few guitar lessons from a neighbourhood “Rocker”-lad with greasy-slicked hair. Next thing I knew, I was front and centre at the Glen Brae Junior High talent show crooning out a cover of the Bee Gees “Gotta Get A Message To You” on my very own electric guitar. I was hooked.

In my teen years, James Taylor, Carole King, Elton John, and John Denver seduced me while I learned acoustic picking, soothing my teenage fears and angst. You’ve Got A Friend was surely a song about my Yamaha guitar.

When you’re down and troubled
And you need some love and care
And nothing, nothing is going right
Close your eyes and think of me
And soon I will be there
To brighten up even your darkest night

Music is a conversation I have with myself, and then I share it with others.

Learning and practicing music takes energy.

The conversation I have within my musical self can be difficult and complex and sometimes energy draining, but then the opposite happens when I share it.

Sharing our music is where energy is produced. I see it over and over again when performers come off the stage. I feel the energy myself. The endorphins are hurricane winds that can take a day or two to subside.

Music Confidence.

Little child girl plays superhero. Child on the background of su

For sure, confidence isn’t a blanket that spreads over all areas of my existence. It’s a patchwork.

Put me in front of a car motor in need of repair or maintenance and watch me shrivel and shrink like plastic wrap in a flame.

Set me in a room with math whizzes or history buffs and watch me stumble and fumble over concepts and intricacies.

Place me in a card game or at a chess board with moderately competent players and know that my lack of skill and aptitude will mark me as the sucker in a flash. 

Give me a basketball and ask me to throw 3-pointers. Watch as I toss airballs and rimshots over and over.

Lacking Confidence.

Confidence is a part of what we call Happiness… confidence feeds my self-esteem, my sense of control and competence.

The knowledge that we have skills and passions… money and music… or tennis and Italian cooking… or bowling and winemaking… or sewing and ultra-marathon running… or genealogy and Irish dancing… offers us the feeling of purpose that helps make our days more luminous, more intense, more meaningful.

Maybe one day… maybe… the making of music will become a minor money-maker for me. Nah, probably not…

… but it doesn’t really matter… because money investment and music ability each feed me in ways that build a stronger inner nucleus of confidence.

confidence sound of music.gif

 

Movie Boobs and #MeToo

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movie boobs

THANK YOU DONALD!

I love the cinema. I love movies. I love popcorn. I love the Oscars.

I’m a regular viewer of movies at the local theatre. Movie theatres are a dark dream heaven.

Crisp writing and amazing cinematic gifts are skilfully weaved together by hundreds of artists and technicians to deliver a funny or dramatic story… a story that resonates deep inside me giving birth to a magnificent song that elevates and enriches my world, and most importantly, feeds my own inner creative spark.

Of course, some flicks totally suck. That’s a good thing because it allows us to appreciate the really good stuff when it comes along.

And so, after seeing many of the year’s “best” movies, I tune in to watch the Oscars with excited anticipation.

Anticipation of the recognizable faces, the crescendo of orchestral music in Hollywood’s Dolby Theater, the beauty and majesty of sartorial elegance on full display like preening undernourished peacocks…

… and perhaps strangely, I always love the teary poignancy of the musical tableau of the In Memoriam section of the show… I know, how maudlin!

oscar in memoriam

Yes, I love the Oscars. Usually.

I remember five short years ago, in February 2013, I wrote a post (Movie Boobs) lamenting the inanity of the usually decorous and dignified Oscar broadcast hosted by Seth McFarlane.

That celebrity celebratory broadcast was an archaic affront to women (and men) then and if anything has only grown more antiquated and offensive in the short time since.

It’s like we were living a modern version of The Handmaid’s Tale in real life.

It took us 500 years to recognize Christopher Columbus as a race-decimating conqueror lout, but only 5 to see the McFarlane-led showcase for what it was.

Now that’s progress in a social media world.

(ASIDE: Your #Educational/CulturalMoment:

Because Columbus captured more Indian slaves than he could transport to Spain in his small ships, he put them to work in mines and plantations which he, his family, and followers created throughout the Caribbean. His marauding band hunted Indians for sport and profit — beating, raping, torturing, killing, and then using the Indian bodies as food for their hunting dogs. Within four years of Columbus’ arrival on Hispaniola, his men had killed or exported one-third of the original Indian population of 300,000.

Jack Weatherford –  Professor of Anthropology at Macalaster College in St. Paul, Minnesota. )

Sorry… back to our regular program….

Yup, in only 5 years we’ve gone from the gratuitous male-assertive setting where the theme tune sung by McFarlane and a hunky boyish band of singer/dancers was called WE SAW YOUR BOOBS …

… through that prehistoric misty haze all the way to this past week’s Oscar version where confident women and the #MeToo movement took centre stage instead of their boobs.

For sure, not everything has changed.

Boobs were still there and a part of the visual buffet, but they somehow seemed like an afterthought and, if anything, a determined statement that boobs are a beautiful part of strong, forceful womanhood. Feminism doesn’t mean the end of femininity.

You might say there’s been a TIT-for-TAT turnaround.

The tone of discourse on stage this year was far more respectful and balanced, the movement of the gender pendulum noticeable even though far fewer women won awards than men. Momentous change does take some time.

And for this change, just like the Black Lives Matter faction and the DACA lobby, we really have one person – one man – to thank for the surge in protest and anger and long overdue move towards equality…

… the envelope please… and this year’s Oscar for Best Dramatic Bungling That Inadvertently Leads To Progress goes to… Donald Trump.

trump oscar

Smiles and cheers. Cue the orchestra to launch into Pigs. Kiss (but please don’t grab by the pussy) the celebrity sitting next to you.

And as he gloriously struts toward the stage a screen lights up with brilliant quotes emanating from the pursed lips of The Donald:

“If I were running ‘The View’, I’d fire Rosie O’Donnell. I mean, I’d look at her right in that fat, ugly face of hers, I’d say ‘Rosie, you’re fired.’” 

“All of the women on The Apprentice flirted with me – consciously or unconsciously. That’s to be expected.”

“I’ve said if Ivanka weren’t my daughter, perhaps I’d be dating her.”

“You know, it really doesn’t matter what the media write as long as you’ve got a young, and beautiful, piece of ass.”

“You could see there was blood coming out of her eyes, blood coming out of her wherever.”

“You know, I’m automatically attracted to beautiful — I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. Just kiss. I don’t even wait. And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything…. Grab them by the pussy. You can do anything.”

Would we be celebrating the successes, the progress towards a measure of equality without the xenophobic, homophobic, sexist and lustful, misogynistic slime bag that creeps the Twitter corridors and nearly decimated hallways of the White House?

I don’t think so.

Trump is day-by-creepy-day galvanizing the world in a unified force against his narcissistic and perverted views.

We love to hate on those who offend our sensibilities.

Seth McFarlane may have started the derogatory Boob Ball rolling 5 years ago but Trump has lifted it overhead like a steaming double cheeseburger and claimed the WWF title belt.

Now we have a seething crowd that is ready to fight back and demand change and respect.

Maybe Trump is a small price to pay to set the world right for the many who have suffered and struggled for an eternity.

Maybe Trump is a blessing in pig’s clothing.

Maybe.

On the other hand, I’m feeling pretty exhausted by his rants.

I think a bit of momentary escapism in a hushed theatre might be a soothing tonic for us all.

I love the cinema. I love movies. I love popcorn. I love the Oscars.

oscars 2018

The Sock Hop Kiss and Other Lessons

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sock hop.jpg

I got dumped for my first time at the Grade 6 sock hop.

I paid the 10¢ admission for both Louise C and I, we danced to The Box Tops The Letter and the Bee Gees I’ve Gotta Get a Message to You. She was blond and pretty in a Grade 6 kind of way. It was heavenly

Then she ditched me (was it my purple paisley shirt?) before it was time for me to walk her home. Not a good date. Crap!

The second time was at the Grade 9 dance. She was a dark brunette and had some sexy dimples. We slow-danced to Black Magic Woman and Stairway to Heaven. We kissed for the first time at the exit door to the gym. It was heavenly.

Two hours later she was kissing my (soon-to-be-ex!) best friend Kevin in his basement rec room. Another bad date. More crap!

The third time was in a car riding back from the beach with my “girlfriend” and some high school work friends. She was moving on to a new guy (the driver of the car), but hadn’t quite told me yet. Triple Crap!

To be fair, the love ledger hasn’t always been one-sided, all credits and no debits. I’ve dumped others and seen the pain in their sad eyes and broken hearts. I think that is the crappiest.

Ultimately, I asked myself… What have I learned from the hurt, both mine and the others?

Today, I give you…

grease dance.jpg

8 Lessons I Learned at the Sock Hop and Beyond:

  1. My heart is fragile – love and desire – the chemistry and the butterflies – are gut-level emotions that don’t respond to logic. A love connection with someone else is a freak phenomenon that defies any sense of reality, a sci-fi animation where oxygen is no longer necessary to sustain life if someone you desire fiercely loves you back.
  2. My heart is strong – after a hurtful loss, and another, and another, we develop a resilience, the elasticity of experience that assures us that no matter the depth of anguish (whether it’s loss of love, or the loss of a loved one), the overwhelming sensation of pain will dull little-by-little. Pain lives on a bell curve that rises and falls. Time is the one friend that will never desert us.
  3. My life has many facets – love, desire, connection are major parts of our lives, but they are not the only areas that bring deep, genuine meaning. There are so many aspects to a full and rounded life that don’t require a dance partner e.g. pets, learning, exercising, music, books, working, volunteering, hobbies. Diversification on a personal level adds strength to our individuality.
  4. Lips are the gateway drug to romantic love – there’s good reason why some hookers won’t kiss a John (I’m told!)… a kiss is a powerful weapon, the key that unlocks the heart more than 1,000 words or “forever” diamonds ever will. That Grade 9 kiss I mentioned took me to the top of the mountain and then pushed me off the cliff.
  5. There are different dances in life – not all dance revolves around romance or courtship. Dance can be sexy and erotic. Dance can be friendly and cordial. Dance can be joyous and freeing. Dance can be technical and challenging. Dancing with your children can be the best dance you’ll ever have.
  6. Dance connects us to music – dance isn’t only a way to connect with another person … just close your eyes and feel the music infiltrate and massage deeply. Dance is a physical manifestation of what we hear and feel.
  7. Joy makes everything worthwhile – Joy is a stronger muscle than pain. Joy brings us back from the precipice when the night is dark and bleak. Joy is ultimately – thankfully – stronger than fear, anger, and grief. Joy should be a key piece of the movement of dance, a pleasure-drenched sway.
  8. A really great dance partner doesn’t laugh at my dance moves – Dance can teach us humility and grace… of course I feel like a dork when I dance. Doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it though. The average child laughs 300 times a day… the average adult…5 times a day. My dance moves shouldn’t be one of your 5 times. Yup, acceptance of our Elaine Benes dance stylings are the litmus test for when we know we’ve found THE one!

Alright, you may have figured out that I didn’t uncover these thoughts all in one go after the Grade 6 sock hop. The visions and impressions sift and settle over months and years and decades.

That afternoon sock hop in the Glen Brae middle school gym in 1968 was my first tuition payment, the first of many learning and growth experiences in my long life of learning and understanding.

Dance can unveil truths about us we never knew. I’ll stretch the metaphor of “dance” here a bit by recounting a clip from a favourite movie of mine.

In When Harry Met Sally, Jess (Bruno Kirby) and Marie (Carrie Fisher), at their wedding dance, thank friends Harry and Sally publicly for being so utterly unappealing as dates and partners, and as an unintended result, bringing the bride and groom together.

To Harry and Sally. If Marie or I had found either of them remotely attractive we would not be here today.”

A simple dance, a touch of hands, the shuffle of feet, is sometimes all it takes to define a worthwhile connection, or prove a sour attachment.

Dances are like diversifying your stock portfolio… you observe and connect with different partners (stocks)… some are wonderful but burn out too quickly, some totally suck from the first cha-cha, and finally, some burn with just the right intensity to sustain a lasting flame of prosperity.

Our lives are better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
But I’d of had to miss the dance
Yes my life is better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
But I’d of had to miss the dance (Garth Brooks)

School days. It’s funny looking back and thinking about the apparent innocence of a Grade 6 Sock Hop where the greater lessons learned that day didn’t occur inside Miss Taylor’s classroom.

dance with me.jpg