Crick

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Crick: (n) a sharp painful spasm of the muscles, as in the neck or back

We listen for it very carefully.

For you see, if we are not bigoted by color nor prejudiced by culture, we certainly become the Ku Klux Klan when it comes to word usage.

I have had the honor of traveling all over the United States of America many, many times. I am never ashamed of my education nor embarrassed by my lack of knowledge, but I am fully aware that if I decide to use certain terminology in certain regions of the country, I am certainly judged.

There used to be about four dialects of the American English language.

There was the Southern accent, the Midwestern homogenized version, the West Coast speed-talk, and the East Coast Brooklynese.

Of course, there were other accents you could encounter, but those four endured nearly everywhere.

And each culture, tongue and pronunciation was fully aware of itself, and could tell when any syllables or phrasings were introduced that came from a “foreign” United States.

Yes, a United States that was part of our country in map only.

For instance, if I went to the West Coast and said, “I have a crick in my neck,” all the people around me would assume I was a raging conservative, against all plans to aid poor people and that I traveled with a huge King James Bible in my suitcase.

Likewise, if I was traveling in the South, eating at a truck stop, ordering “Twelve Lookin’ At Ya’” (which is a dozen eggs sunny-side up) and then requested a Mocha Latte, I would suddenly be surrounded by whispers.

People from Brooklyn are not, generally speaking, vegan extoling the wonders of humus, but rather, talk about “picking up a slice” on the way Uptown.

In the South, “picking up a Slice” would mean resurrecting an old canned, carbonated drink and before heading toward the softball diamond.

Each culture has its own little way of saying thing,

But there are words that are certainly forbidden in nearly every quarter. Therefore, I do not know many places where discussing a “crick” in anything would be accepted—unless it was complaining backstage at the Grand Ole’ Opry while eating a pulled pork sandwich with Memphis barbecue sauce, while sippin’ your Jack Daniels.


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Cocoa Butter

Cocoa butter: (n) a fatty substance obtained from cocoa beans used for a variety of cosmetic purposes

Long before SPF meant anything in the world around me, I was a very white, fair-skinned, blond man who wanted to get a tan.

There were those who warned of the danger of too much exposure from the sun, but it was like they were speaking their concern in a private closet adjacent to a loud dining hall.

Nobody was listening because everyone wanted to go to the beach and get brown.

There was a consensus that in order to get brown, first you had to get red. And getting red meant you had to spend some time with Papa Sun unmercifully beating down upon your pale skin.

Now, I traveled in a music group with two girls. One of these ladies was very health conscious. She rubbed her body with cocoa butter before going out into the blaze.

The other girl used a concoction of baby oil with four or five drops of iodine added, shaken up and spread all over the skin. The concept was that the baby oil would fry you up like a good fritter, while simultaneously the iodine would paint your epidermis.

I chose her potion.

I got the worst sunburn I ever had in my entire life. It was so painful I couldn’t wear pants. I went to a drug store and they gave me some spray–“Solarcaine”–but my skin was so hot and inflamed that the spray turned into little balls of cotton.

I was miserable for two-and-a-half days. But on the third day, I began to turn a little bit brown. So for the entire summer I used baby oil and iodine–as the other female comrade favored cocoa butter.

I got browner and browner. She stayed as white as the Ku Klux Klan.

In the middle of August, I noticed that my iodine–which I thought had melded into my skin–began to flake off–at first, little tiny portions, but then, bigger chunks. Soon I was a combination of white, red sunburn and iodine tan.

The girl who used the cocoa butter called me “Leopard Boy” because I had spots.

I now realize the wisdom of SPF. But for that summer, I was temporarily brown and looked damn good.

I couldn’t have done it with cocoa butter. I needed what my other traveling friend referred to as “Baby-I.”

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Clash

Clash: (n) a violent confrontation

Does it really need to be violent?

Have we reached a point in our society where we think if arguments and struggles remain non-violent, then they’re perfectly acceptable?
Because a clash can take a toll without ever breaking a bone or cutting the flesh.

A clash is when we go into a time of interaction with our fellow-humans, believing we are right instead of being open to the possibility of being a little wrong.

In that situation, it doesn’t matter what the subject matter is or the circumstances. People clash because they think they know there’s a fight coming–so when there’s a hint of a skirmish, they’re ready to explode.

This is why people of the black race who come out to protest the Ku Klux Klan have already envisioned a fist fight between the two parties long before any such confrontation crops up.

A husband and wife who return home in the evening grouchy, having had a bad day at work, will pick at one another until they create a clash.

A clash always occurs when ego, meanness, self-righteousness and circumstances collide at the same moment. If any one of these is removed, the clash can be avoided.

Is anyone willing to do that?

Am I prepared to consider a life where I bring ideas–minus opinions–to gain deeper understanding?

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