Category Archives: B words

Centenarian

Centenarian: (n) a person who is a hundred years old

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this. Well, maybe not a lot.

But as each birthday comes along, I realize it’s a toss-up.

There’s a thrill in just being alive, but it is far exceeded by the thrill of being alive and productive.

When do we cease to be productive? Perhaps a definition is in order. To me, productive is: to achieve better purposes, I will need to learn how to do different things.

Once you stop having a desire to learn and you begin to settle for whatever is available and provided based upon your willingness, things kind of start going downhill.

The fun in life is being surprised–and rather than acting shocked, imitate invigorated.

There you go.

It doesn’t mean you actually are invigorated. It just means that acting shocked is a waste of time.

So as I thought about the word “centenarian”–a person who has reached a hundred years of age–I considered how marvelous it would be if you could do so, still pursuing a learning path, while being productive and invigorated.

But at any point along the way, if settling for something that is privately unsatisfying is the name of the game, then a lengthy life can end up being a curse.

 

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Census

Census: (n) an official count or survey of a population

Every census is shortly thereafter followed by a tax. This began with Caesar Augustus in the Christmas story and continues today.

We want to find out how many people there are so we have some idea on how we should divide up the horrific amount of expense that’s involved in the process of us being people.

It’s a fussy way of reminding small towns that they’re shrinking and becoming less important.

The government can also determine where to send its money, and where the census tells them there aren’t as many voters, so no need to be nice.

It begins at an early age, when you plan a party at your house. The following Monday morning, after the party, the normal question is, how many people showed up?

Did you do a head count? Was the party successful because people had nothing else to do so they came to it?

No one asks if the chip dip turned out tasty. What flavors of pizza did you select? Was the discussion lively?

No. It all has to do with numbers.

We are a society obsessed with proving the value of our concept by collecting statistics on how many people are aware that we had a concept in the first place. We fear obscurity.

Yet no one enters the tomb with a companion–no census in the grave.

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Censure

Censure: (n) the expression of formal disapproval.

Why is it not illegal to be an asshole?

I’m not speaking about capital punishment or even hard jail time. But certainly a stiff fine would be in order for being such a damn stiff.

We censure everything else. We raise our eyebrows in disapproval over a myriad of common human behaviors. Why is the asshole able to flee the jurisdiction of decency?

Wait. I see your problem. You would like me to define what an asshole is:

  1. An asshole is someone who tries to steal freedoms from other people simply because those folks don’t measure up to the favored code.
  2. An asshole is a person who hurts someone’s feelings and then pretends that it was nothing personal.
  3. An asshole is an individual who blows his or her horn in traffic instead of slowing up just a little bit, to let someone enter.
  4. An asshole is a Bible-thumper who quotes scriptures in a buffet line.
  5. An asshole is a jerk who posts articles on Facebook about other assholes

Honestly, I could go on and on, but then I would be in danger of becoming an asshole myself.

It is time to use the intimidation of censure to achieve some goodness in our society instead of thinking that goodness is achieved by censuring any fresh, new idea.

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Censor

Censor: (v) to examine a book or movie and officially suppress unacceptable parts of it.

The human race is completely devoid of any cohesive code of behavior. This is why we hire people to censor everyday life, trying to bring it into a pleasing mode of operation.

Yet even though various commandments and ethical standards are touted from generation to generation, they are systematically either
ignored or replaced.

So I have decided what is valuable and truthful for my life. The reason? Many things I hold dear have been left for dead as arcane concepts or old-fashioned ideals.

Every time we carve out principles in stone, there are those who come with a sledge hammer and smash them to powder.

The whole thing would seem very bleak, and perhaps even sinister, unless you possessed the wisdom to understand that when it comes to morality, spirituality, ethics and values, each one of us takes a journey of our own, gathering what we hold dear and reaping the rewards for inspired behavior.

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Cemetery

Cemetery: (n) a burial ground; a graveyard

No racial tension.

The same space available for everyone.

No complaints.

No gender bias.

No discussion about sexual preference.

No religious distinction.

No hurry.

No worry.

No flurry to scurry.

No argument.

No political debates.

No special treatment.

No punishment.

No ego.

No money required.

No need to tout your resume.

No disease.

No more death.

Welcome to the cemetery.

Come and spend a spell.

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Cement

Cement: (n) a powdery substance used to make concrete.

I was young. My idealism and passion were running far ahead of my common sense.

I met a fellow who wanted to start his own construction company. He explained that he had the knowledge–just not the bucks. An
opportunity had come his way to lay down the cement for a very large driveway.

All he lacked was the front money.

I was not totally stupid. I inquired of him. I asked him if he knew how to do the job–if he had any previous experience.

After about half an hour, I was convinced that all the gentleman needed was the chance to get his seed money so he could do the task and therefore give himself a decent start on a new career.

Matter of fact, he invited me to come down and watch him lay the concrete. So I did.

The truck arrived, poured out the cement. But my friend did not have enough workers to spread it out and smooth it down, so it began to harden–lumpy, uneven and just generally ugly.

I watched as he became frantic and finally gave up, as the cement refused to be pushed around anymore.

It was a disaster. Not only did he lose the money I gave him, but the client demanded that he make restitution and pay another contractor to do the job.

I learned three things that day:

  1. If you don’t know what you’re doing, don’t invest in it.
  2. Passion is no replacement for experience.
  3. Cement hardens much quicker than we want it to.

 

 

 

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Celsius

Celsius: (adj) a scale of temperature in which water freezes at 0° and boils at 100°

I was terrified.

I had to believe it was true because my Weekly Reader printed it.

This was the small newspaper handed out to me when I was a young boy. It had stories about recent discoveries as well as projections on
 what would happen in the future.

The Weekly Reader informed me that the metric system would take over in the United States in the next few years.

I believed it.

I was so frightened that I went out and tried to learn it.

That was many decades ago, and aside from a few signs adding the word “kilometers,” two-liter bottles of Coke and packaging putting milligrams in parenthesis, the United States is still metric-free.

Likewise, we still honor Farenheit over Celsius.

Even though the contention for metric and Celsius is that it’s easier to comprehend, we Americans–a sturdy lot–choose to pursue abstract numnbers, like “36 inches makes a yard” and “freezing is 32 degrees, Farenheit.”

Occasionally when my travels take me to the border of Canada, the local newspaper will list the daily temperature in Celsius. The numbers are so ridiculous. How can a 90-degree day be captured in a 40-plus Celsius?

It’s confusing.

Do I think we will ever go on the metric system or that Celsius will become the rule of the thermometer? Probably not.

It gives me pause to wonder what else was in error in my Weekly Reader. Does this mean we won’t have flying cars by 1999?

 

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Cellulite

Cellulite: (n) persistent subcutaneous fat causing dimpling of the skin

If it’s got your thoughts, it’s got your soul.

I just find this to be true.

What corrals my attention, stimulates my brain and makes me contemplate pretty much sets the agenda for my entire human experience.

With that in mind, I am very careful not to focus on anything that has to do with the flesh and pretend that it has any worthy emotional or spiritual implications.

Women have cellulite. Men have cellulite. You can feel free to attempt some simple exercise or treatment to get rid of it.

But if you find yourself going on a trip to the beach wearing sweat pants, talking to everyone on the journey about your cellulite, frightened to death to expose your legs, then you’re in the middle of what I would refer to as a “self damnation.” Simply defined, this is a curse each one of us places on ourselves to forbid us from heavenly conclusions because of our hellish fear or lack.

At no time whatsoever during a romantic encounter does it matter one little bit if a man or woman has cellulite. It only matters if you’re watching them from a distance, determining whether they would be worthy of such intimacy.

But you must understand that anyone who has worked hard enough to not have cellulite may just be as demanding of the partner they select.

 

 

 

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Cell phone

Cell phone: (n) short for cellular phone.

Heaven is reserved for those who are not spooked into proclaiming the party line.

It is a good thing to be positive. It is a bad thing to lie. If we could get that straight, we might be able to make progress.

Case in point: there is nothing more handy than a cell phone. If you need to call someone, you don’t need to pull your car over, find a phone booth and hope you have enough change. (Matter of fact, nearly 40% of the population might not even know what a phone booth is.) You also don’t have to wait for people to call you back because they’re not home.

But to ever present the idea that cell phones are preferable in quality and durability to the original home phone is ridiculous.

They actually remind me of the walkie talkies I was given at Christmas when I was twelve. When I was in range, the antenna was pointed just right and the weather was good, my walkie talkies were amazing. Any variance to these conditions created everything from crackling to no service.

Cell phones make it hard to hear, difficult to speak on and unpredictable. Giving them cute names and coming out with the next derivation of the previous inadequate model does not alleviate the problem.

So is it possible to be grateful for the object provided, yet practical on its actual application?

If you’re able to do that, cell phones are magnificent.

If not, you keep hoping that the next number they create will suddenly be reliable.

 

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Cellophane

Cellophane: (n) a thin transparent wrapping material made from viscose.

I love cellophane. Not intimately, but certainly personally.

You can see through it. It’s great for wrapping sandwiches. They call that “Saran-Wrap.”

I have two complaints. (It is very American of me to lead with the fact that I love something and then quickly explain why it also annoys the hell out of me.)

So doing my duty for God and country, I will tell you that cellophane sometimes gets too attached. You try to remove it from a package or unwrap something and it clings to your hand.

The first instinct is to reach over and remove it with your other hand–but then it clings to that hand. So you end up shaking your paw in the air to dislodge yourself from the sticky situation, resembling an exercise one might do to alleviate stress.

Clingy.

“Don’t cling to me, baby. I’m no good for you.”

It won’t listen.

Secondly, there are times it refuses to cling. I have lined up a whole series of sandwiches, preparing to wrap them up, only to discover when I finished, and it was time to put the last fold down, it would not stick to itself–popping up in the air to mock my efforts. So then that side of the sandwich has to be carefully placed on the bottom of the cooler, to make it look like the sandwiches are well-wrapped (when you know in your heart they aren’t.)

And then when you arrive at the family picnic, someone always says, “Who wrapped this sandwich?”

They are fully aware of which cooler they took the sandwich from–it’s just a way of humiliating you.

So even though I do love cellophane, I certainly have my beefs against it.

Maybe someday we will work out our differences. And then I will be happy.

And it will be a Glad Wrap.

 

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