Monthly Archives: July 2018

Cologne

Cologne: (n) scented toilet water or aftershave.

Just for the record (and if my vote counts) I firmly believe that all toilet water should be scented. I don’t know what other purpose the water
 would have if it was out of its bowl, if it was not scented.

And I, for one, believe human beings are better if they smell good.

That may be because I’ve always been a portly fellow and greatly feared the stereotype of “all fat people stink.”

In other words, I don’t want some cloud of “p.u.” to descend on me in a moment when my deodorant is in retreat, my soap sniff has disappeared and my cologne is totally exhausted.

Without being too graphic, I put cologne everywhere. I don’t know why. There are places it seems unnecessary. In other words, not a normally high-traffic area. However, those regions are notorious for sprouting aromas which are generally deemed unpleasant.

So part of my morning ritual is to “smell up”–so that later on I don’t have to “smell down.”

I’ve been very fortunate. I’ve developed a reputation for nose approval.

I’m sure I’ve overdone it. For instance, folks should not be able to “smell you coming,” yet I have had people identify me from another room, knowing I was present long before they eyeballed me.

Oops.

I also mix fragrances of cologne–once again, depending on the different parts of the body, a splash may work somewhere and more expensive stuff to don the face.

I must acknowledge at this point that I have already overworked this subject. Possibly I lost your attention a couple of paragraphs ago.

You may think I am paranoid about any type of normal human body odor. You would be correct.

I am not trying to evangelize my obsession with cologne. I have met people who hate it, and some who even insist they are allergic.

But until future notice, I will be an island of fragrance instead of a land of “stinky poo.”

 

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Collusion

Collusion: (n) secret or illegal cooperation or conspiracy

It is quite astounding–the number of corporations, politicians and even religionists in this world, who look on the entire scope of humanity as their own personal lab rats. I don’t know what causes someone to become so callous to the emotions and pain of another human being, to view them purely as a means to an end.

But when it happens–when that broach is made–evil appears. I know we like to put evil in a devil’s costume and attribute it to forces beyond our control, but evil always arrives when human beings think themselves superior and collude to hurt other fellow Earthlings.

Sometimes the cause may seem noble, or at least patriotic. Usually it involves the potential of an influx of cash.

But the underlying reason for the collusion is always some sort of great desire to feel more powerful and worthy by denigrating perceived lessers.

Although collusion is very much in the news, we must not tie the word to one investigation or scandal. We must check our own hearts.

Who are we trying to cheat, lie to, leave out, cut off and reject, simply because we want to be able to go into a room with our friends and celebrate our triumph?

 

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Colloquialism

Colloquialism: (n) a word or phrase that is not formal, typically one used in ordinary or familiar conversation.

When did “fuck” become a colloquialism?

I apparently was out to dinner, and came back and there it was–all over my answering machine, Internet and television.

Was there a meeting?

Did anyone consider that trivializing such a powerful word was taking away the ability to use it when describing murders, mayhem, evil wars and genocide?

If everything is fucked then nothing is truly fucked, am I right?

If you discover that your hard-boiled egg is really soft-boiled, “fucking” that situation removes the potency to rail against some dictator who murders children.

Some words should not be colloquial. They should be saved up for special occasions when we need to rally with just the right word to rattle the room.

And it’s not just the word “fuck.”

I don’t like it when “sensitivity” is overused. Sensitivity is special. It shouldn’t be used when somebody brings you a second napkin.

And how about love? Yes, the word “love” has become a two-bit whore giving a blow job in an alley, or people explaining that even though they beat their children, they really do “love them.”

What? Did I take a really long nap? Am I Rip-van-Something-or-Other, waking up to the world going insane for no particular reason?

If I say “I love you” I want it to mean something.

If I discuss sensitivity, I want you to sense my heart and deep-rooted commitment.

And if I say “fuck,” I damn well want it to be fucked.

 

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Collision

Collision: (n) an instance of one moving object or person striking violently against another.

Striking violently.

Or is it just an accident?

Perhaps a meeting of the minds.

The truth of the matter is, our country, the United States of America, is a collision.

Instead of sitting around discussing why things are not working well, we should be admiring how well things are working, considering how often factions and faiths are colliding with one another.

Keep in mind, the Christian church does have a book that says that gay people are an abomination. It says a lot of other things, too, but it certainly mentions the
 homosexual community in a negative light.

Simultaneously, we have a document called the Constitution, which presents the concept that we don’t have any right to curtail another person’s pursuit of happiness.

We also have scientists who are quite convinced that the world is on life support due to the melting of polar ice caps and other unnatural calamities.

Then there are those who feel that worrying and being concerned about such things is mistrusting the Creator.

Shall we even mention the fact that men and women are in a continual collision?

So I assume that some people would try to eliminate the collisions.

But I believe the key is to make bigger bumpers.

 

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Collie

Collie: (n) a sheepdog of a breed originating in Scotland

I was eleven years old before I realized they were not supposed to stink.

I’m talking about dogs.

Up to that point, I knew one dog–and this dog stunk. Ironically, her name was “Queenie.” Any pomp and circumstance associated with that name were purely accidental. She stunk. I could tell very time I drew near.

And near I drew.

Queenie was my Grandpa George’s animal. She was his favorite beast, person and thing.

Queenie felt great security in her job, and so pursued no personal hygiene. Half the day she wandered through the woods, living the life of a wild dog, to come
 home to the little A-frame house as night was falling, to spend time with my grandpa.

I had jobs to do with Queenie. I kept praying that my grandpa would get old enough that he would become forgetful, and therefore fail to remember to ask me to do the job.

It was a two-parter.

Because Queenie was a collie, she had long fur which might have been lovely had it not been matted with dirt and grime, and filled with little stickers (which my grandpa referred to as “nettles”).

Grandpa wanted me to sit there during the visit, with Queenie’s snout lying in my lap, stinking up the room, and remove these little thistles from her fur. That was the first part.

The second part was that Queenie was a wild-type dog, and did not know how to get all the poop out of her butt with each bowel movement. So dangling from her backside were little sprinkles of dried turds, which Grandpa allowed me to remove by snipping them off with a small pair of scissors.

I will give Queenie one kudo: she never objected to any of the processes. Matter of fact, it reached a point that whenever I came into the room, she came over and laid her head on my knee, awaiting the treatment.

She smelled like everything bad that no one should ever inhale.

Her nettles always yanked out little pieces of hair, and the clippings from the back end–well, fortunately, time has healed me of the vision (as long as I don’t talk about it).

That is my experience with a collie. So you can see why, under no circumstances whatsoever, could I enjoy watching “Lassie.”

 

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Collide

Collide:(v) to hit with force when moving

I lied like a rug, therefore I assume my feet stunk.

I have no witnesses to the odor, just as there really were no “Amen-ers” to my testimony (which was really a lie).

Taking my old beat-up van onto the road, I was not entering the freeway with safety and concern.

The gentleman who was already driving on the freeway, probably using his cruise control, made the foolish assumption that I was going to honor his position,
perhaps coming in behind him.

I was yearning for something a bit more intimate.

So I smacked him in the side. Being very young, I decided to collide. So I smacked him in the side.

He was an older gentleman–perhaps in his late sixties or early seventies. He was so upset by the collision, and also how quickly the highway patrolman arrived at the scene, that I was able to come up with the story for the accident, which left him dumbfounded, bereft.

I explained to the policeman that I was already in the lane and that this gentleman came across and hit me.

The facts didn’t measure up, and if the cop had been any kind of investigative sort whatsoever he would have challenged me.

But since the older gent stood there slack-jawed, with bulging eyes, he looked horribly guilty. I, on the other hand, did my very best Shakespearean rendition, portraying much of the hurt and pain of Prince Hamlet of Denmark.

So not only was I deemed free from responsibility for the accident, but the ancient dude got a ticket.

I ended up getting a check for $450 from his insurance company to repair my van, which I chose not to do, since any part on my van I repaired would have been yelled at by the other parts, which were more terminally ill.

I so enjoyed my $450–and as far as I know, the innocent gentleman I hit went to court and spent even more money to cover the expanse of my lie.

Now, I know at this point we need a moral to the story. For instance, later on I saw the gentleman and paid him back, or I drove all night to the highway patrol station and confessed my misadventure.

None of this happened.

So I guess the true lesson from this story is, you should do things because they’re right–not because you’re expecting a payoff. And if you get a payoff, it certainly does not mean that it’s right.

“What goes around comes around.”

It doesn’t always come around your way.

Or go around, for that matter.

 

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College

College: (n) an educational institution or establishment

 

I never went to college.

I have used numerous excuses and lies to disguise this fact:

  1. “Well, the experience I’ve had is very similar to going to college.”
  2. “I took a few courses but never enough for graduation. Maybe I should check into that.”

Or the outright lie:

  1. “I am a graduate of Xavier University.”

(My thought? Most people would not know how to spell Xavier and would not pursue further.)

All through my twenties I felt like a dog without a collar. You know–a mutt rolling around the town, and everybody knows he doesn’t have a purpose or an owner
because he has no tags.

Yes, without college I felt a sense of self-discrimination. I was so convinced that people were looking down on me that I looked down on myself.

Then one day I simply asked my inner soul, do you wish you had gone to college?

I immediately realized that everything I had experienced would be gone in deference to the collegiate adventure.

That would include a wife, two kids, a music group, albums and writing a book. The case could be made that I would have eventually done these anyway–just with more book learning.

But one day–I guess I was about thirty-three years old–someone asked the question about college and I responded, “I never went.”

I really felt that the Earth moved beneath my feet–that the sky was falling in to trap me. But nothing actually happened. The person who inquired was a little surprised, since she felt I was very adept at what I was doing. But we were quickly on to talking about whether potato salad was better with mayonnaise or Miracle Whip.

You see, you don’t have to go to college for those kinds of discussions. Just have a heart, an idea you believe in and a willingness to be wrong.

I have found this to be the definition of higher education.

 

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Collect

Collect: (v) to bring or gather things

I collect.

I grab my basket and step into life, picking up things that suit my fancy, meet my needs or stir my soul.

From democracy I collect the value of personal freedom.

I collect a wisp of meditation from the Buddhists.

I collect tenderness, mercy and endurance from my sisters.

I collect devotion to country from communist China.

I realize the danger of eating too much pork from my Muslim brethren.

I collect the value of play from the children encircling me.

I collect my thoughts by rejecting my prejudices.

I collect the true history of my life by quieting the ideas I wish to promote.

I collect fruits and vegetables at a good price at Aldi.

I collect the power of the Golden Rule from my friend, Jesus.

I collect a searching, inquiring and probing mind from my atheist friends.

I collect a respect of science from God.

And I collect a respect for God from science.

I collect things that other people think are meaningless so I can have a personal treasure in my heart.

I collect a respect for things old, current and even those things which sniff of the future.

I stand in awe of Earth as I collect my trash and throw it in the garbage instead of allowing it to go “blowin’ in the wind.”

I collect my anger and force it into a small box, where it doesn’t think it is bigger than it actually is.

I collect those little boxes of anger and open them up in my private times to address the concerns.

I collect passion for my dreams.

And I collect dreams to welcome passion.

I am a collector.

Not much of what I collect has a dollar value.

Yet all of what I collect is valuable.

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Colleague

Colleague: (n) a person with whom one works

A colleague is what we call a friend we go into business with…and it’s the first day.

Day 4 we’re calling the same person a “partner.”

Day 10, the word “adversary” slips in.

And by Day 30, “son of a bitch” seems appropriate.

Thus is the evolution of human involvement.

We always start off with our ideals and goals way too high. Putting ourselves on such a pinnacle makes the fall from such heights nearly lethal.  I, on the other
hand, like to perch my dreams on mushroom caps–awfully close to the ground, with just a little rise and a nice wide seat for my big butt.

I realize that the chance of two people remaining colleagues while still abiding on Planet Earth is similar to finding a movie you really enjoy at the Cannes Film Festival. (I mean, you think you should enjoy the flicks. It’s pointed out to you why you should appreciate them, but there still seems to be something missing.)

And what’s missing with the concept of “colleague” is that we’re very human, and tend to be human with each other at the same time. For instance, if one person was human and the other a bit divine, it would be great. The idea of both parties being divine at the same time is, of course, ludicrous.

What normally happens is that two human beings arrive at the same situation, with raw human emotion–and act like monkeys. Perhaps I insult the little apes.

We revert. We begin to feel that if we don’t have top billing, we don’t have any billing.

Finding a colleague is similar to establishing a relationship with God.

You have to understand that He (or She) has a will.

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Collateral

Collateral: (n) something pledged as security for repayment of a loan

No one is ever interested in hearing about my successes.

Perhaps it’s the flash of arrogance that enters the human voice whenever we talk about ourselves in a positive way.

I gain empathy, friendship and humor with my fellow-travelers by “pranking” myself in a snarky way–especially when remembering a time when it appears that I was infested with the demon of stupidity.

To protect myself I always begin these stories with: “It happened many years ago.”

That way you know that I would not pursue this particular adventure today–and if I did, since I am older, I would have more money to address it.

I wanted to borrow two hundred dollars. This was back in a time when two hundred dollars was my “guesstimation” of the value of Aladdin’s castle.

The person from the bank told me that if I had some collateral he would be “willing to consider” such a loan.

I didn’t question any further–I asked myself, What do I possess that’s worth two hundred dollars?

Ruling out my kidney, liver and lungs, I came up blank.

Yet all at once, I remembered that in the basement of my parents’ loan company, there were some huge slabs of marble left over from when they had decorated the office. It seemed to me–since they were marble–that they were certainly expensive.

I wasn’t a rube, so I called a local lumberyard person and asked him what he thought such a slab would be worth.

After he understood the dimensions, he said that if I bought them at the store each one would cost me a hundred dollars.

I was thrilled.

All I had to do was carry three (playing it safe) marble slabs up a flight of stairs, around a corner and out the door, and I would have my collateral.

The problem was, the only person available to help me was my wife. Though sturdy, she was not at a strength level to lift her share of what probably was two hundred pounds each. This did not deter me. I decided the best thing was to put her at the bottom and me at the top.

It took two days. (Not full days. Twenty-minutes-at-a-time days.)

We took a lot of breaks.

Finally we actually unearthed from the basement tomb three two-hundred-pound slabs of marble, got them into the back of our van and drove them to the bank.

I was so damn proud.

I coaxed the banker to come out and see what I had to offer for collateral. Opening the back door of the van, he stared at the dusty pile of stone.

He laughed.

And not just a little. It may be the first time in my life that I was laughed to scorn.

He patted me on the shoulder, shook his head and said, “That’s a good one, man. I can’t wait to tell everybody about this one.”

I assumed the loan was a no-go.

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