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The golden years.

Growing older is scary.

At least, it looks like it.

I recently had a run in with a man so old he has that “permanently terrified” look on his face.

Its a horrible way to go, the walking dead. (With a walker)

But where does that look of horror come from?

Is he seeing something we can’t?

Or has he seen enough over the years that the cumulative effect is one of complete terror breakdown.

Either way, it doesn’t look pleasant.

And its hard on the ears, mine at least.

I was at a friend’s house for an hour and I counted a baker’s half dozen times someone came up, patted the old guy’s knee and practically yelled in his face.

“HOW ARE YOU, BABA? YOU LOOK GOOD.”

He never so much as flinched. No one home.

I finally realized that they weren’t talking to him.

It was a tradition of sorts, for the benefit of the gathering.

Kind of like when the Notre Dame Fighting Irish football team takes the field, all the players have to touch a particular sign.

Its for the good of the team.

Same thing here.

I sat for a moment, and tried to look at it from behind his eyes.

Sit a mile in his velcro closured shoes as it were.

But from a brutally honest, somewhat sarcastic point of view.

The family, his family, product of his loins, are surrounding him.

While that sounds nice, the image of Custer surrounded by indians puts a different spin on things.

Its not a good looking bunch.

Call me prejudiced, but I come from good looking people.

Not Euro pretty, I said good looking and I meant it.

Few people are as consistantly good looking as the Scots/Irish. This is common knowledge.

And these folks are not Scots/Irish, mores the pity. (I keep this sort of thing to myself, its more polite.)

The kids are the worst.

Fugly is an accurate compound of words that really fits this situation.

Add to that the fact that the general level of intelligence is low, Gump type low.

The old man’s sons and daughters married poorly, as a group.

The chatter among the family is furiously hushed, like weasels bickering over a stray egg.

The food shows a lack of imagination and skill. (I am not necessarily trying to crap on these people, even though they would never know, but I think of it as an experiment.)

The more I thought about this, the deeper I got into it, I suddenly realized something.

My mouth was hanging open. I could feel my face twisted up into a mask of horror.

I closed my mouth as realization washed over me.

I got it now.

I know why the old man looks terrified. And it chilled me to the bone.

It was a bit of insight that left my ass in full clench.

I got a few stares from the guests that had noticed my momentary lapse.

And as time wore on, I realized that I would soon forget about this.

Hopefully, right up until many years had passed.

And it was my ass sitting in that chair.

With a terrified look on my face.

 
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Posted by on May 9, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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The annual food coma.

Do you mind, asshole?

There is something wrong with people.

Some sort of cognitive breakdown that occurs when some people get in public.

Specifically, it has to do with cell phones and videos.

Get a headset, bluetooth or old school plug in, take your pick.

The Starbucks is not a familiar one.

Its one of those “Sort of” Starbucks thats inside a Barnes and Noble book store.

They have the logo, but they are B & N people.

Its like a crack dealer that sells more ice cream out of the back of the ice cream truck than weed.

You know their heart is not in it.

To deal the beans, you have to understand the beans.

If you ever want to talk coffee beans, go to the Coffee Bean and ask the cashier about their Costa Rican brew.

The education is worthwhile, I can assure you.

Starbuck’s people know there stuff as well.

But my B&N brew tasted a little off, I asked the cashier what kind of roast it was?

She looked confused and then, looked at me with a straight face:

“It’s coffee.”

Wow.

I take my addiction seriously and I expect my dealer to as well.

But enough of that.

It’s Thanksgiving.

Time to visit The Family.

Holidays with my family is a lot like swimming in a tank with trained sharks.

When it goes well, everything is fine.

But never forget that the whole crowd can turn on you in an instant.

But, and this is the really important part, these are my people.

That unruly mob I mentioned that might chew up the unsuspecting and spit them out?

I am one of them.

I am the peasant with the pitchfork and the torch, screaming “Burn her, she’s a witch!”

In a manner of speaking.

 

Morning after Thanksgiving.

I noticed something pretty significant last night.

I used to be a severe turk-aholic.

Turkey, God’s gift to the pilgrims.

I used to live and breath turkey, but only on Thanksgiving.

Now? Not so much.

Now its the wine and desert.

Last night was a delightful Riesling paired with a dish without a name.

“Chocolate Crack” comes close, but not quite.

Let me describe the taste bud-gasm in detail.

A layer of chocolate.

A layer of marshmallow infused with cinnamon whiskey.

A later of caramel.

Another layer of chocolate.

A crumble across the top made of bacon, black pepper and Cayenne powder.

To call it rich is like saying a homeless guy could use some deodorant.

It is not something you wolf down.

It is something you take a small bite of, chewing slowly, discerning all of the different flavors and textures prior to taking a sip of wine to accompany it down your throat.

Just the memory of it has me both aroused and hungry.

And yet, if they sold it in the bakery case at Starbuck’s, I would never by it.

Because it all has to do with time and location.

Like a sandwich made by your mom when you were little, you’ve eaten better since, but they still stand out.

Happy Thanksgiving, hope you all enjoyed your people, I know I did.

 
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Posted by on November 29, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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