There is tremendous satisfaction in knowing I’m able to provoke a thought or two with my words. But, with that being said, I also am extremely grateful that I’m able to get a reader, here or there, to crack a smile or two while they read my drivel.

Some refer to it as a gift. There are times I almost feel it’s a curse. The reason I say that is that I have found myself sitting here, hour after soul-searing hour just trying to pry a few choice chucks out of my psyche. Oft-times what I end up creating during those sessions is something deeper and less than replete with cunning punch-lines.

So…the question is; why is that important. Well, to start with, I love to laugh. Truly, deeply love a tear-invoking laugh session. You know the kind. The ones that leave you reaching for the aspirin cos your head hurts from all the blood that rushed into it.   If it’s a really good chucklefest, you might even pee your pants. Aaah, how I live for ridiculous irony and the truly sadistic art of a rip-roaring, gut clenching laugh out loud. And in saying that, I want to be the guy that brings that to the party. Problem is, sometimes I just seem to come up short.

So…what makes me laugh. Well, rude, obnoxious humour, à la Monty Python makes me laugh. Roseanne made me laugh. Brett Butler REALLY made me laugh. Erma Bombeck, my idol, she made me laugh.

And…there are times that I make myself laugh. It’s true. Every once in a great blue while, I will backtrack through my works. I do this mostly to check on my progress as a writer. The exercise will more often than not leave me cringing from all the grammatical errors, run on sentences, what have you. But every now and then, I’ll stumble across a nugget, and I have to say that I’m kind of impressed that I was able to string together a thought that hit my very own funny bone. I feel so narcissistic suddenly.

Perhaps I need to do a walk of shame to the rape shower, like the ones you used to see in bad after school specials. Camera focuses on the cleansing water, diluting the tears on your face as you comically slide down the wall, crying oh so dramatically.

I’m sorry, that stuff, all by itself is as funny as funny gets. Now, I’m not  implying that rape of any sort is funny, nor am I stating that laughing at a person’s emotional state after such a traumatic experience be taken in such a light-hearted way. But those “scenes” were so badly acted, you just cannot help yourself. You want to feel bad for the actress on your TV, soaked and performing her little heart out, but truthfully, it never comes off as planned.

Take for instance the “Heritage Moments” we had showing on television years back here in Canada. They were produced to give Canadians a sense of self-pride. And, for the most part, they did precisely that. But, there is that one little video. You know the one I’m referring to. Well, if you’re Canadian, you do. Burnt toast. This vignette extolled the accomplishments of one Doctor Wilder Penfield. We, as a country, all sat there feeling awful about the snickers that escaped our tightly clamped lips as that  dreadful actress went into her “fit”.

Ok, it’s not nice to deprive the world of its God-given right to see what I’m talking about, so here…take a look at this gem.

The one thing that actress will never hear…”And the Oscar goes to”.

So, as you can see, “I’m a little bit twisted, I’m a little bit off my meds” Sung to that golden nugget I’m a Little Bit Country, I’m a Little Bit Rock and Roll.

My chorus has now decided to become The Osmond Brothers, and are threatening to sing One Bad Apple if I ever play that song again. Best I leave the voices in my head harmonizing Carpenter’s tunes. Less likely to make me walk up to some rooftop in a stupor with an Uzi.

Humour can come from a great many places. My biggest source of amusement is tearing myself apart in scribe, but I’ve learned from others that I needed to find a new gig, so I now try to see funny beyond my mirror.

And, funny I do see. Take, for instance, children’s toys. Has it ever occurred to you that the little gifties you give your sweet child might help them form the wrong idearz?

Let’s start with the queen of the toy section, Barbie. Because of her shiny blonde locks and her impossibly stacked rack, we now have three decades worth of silicone and Botox leering at us through our theater screens and television sets. With few exceptions, North America has become one big cesspool of Restalyne.

Mattel, proudly warping little girls for over 50 years.

When I was a kid, violence was funny. Anvils were funny. Hell, my mother dressed me funny. Not that I’m complaining about the bread bags in my leaking rubber boots, mind you. And I am especially thankful for the purple velvet number I got to wear in my Grade 3 school photo. Thanks, Donny! Hope I can repay you one day for that fad!

But I’m kind of disturbed that they gutted Bugs Bunny. Apparently some years back, parents groups had the “consequence” scenes taken out of that classic cartoon, effectively gutting its punch lines. Perhaps they were afraid kids would throw a 6 ton boulder off that cliff that they tricked a sibling into running off of beforehand.

Well, you know, all you had to do was hand the little shit a teeny umbrella and a sign with some clever expression on it. We all knew that protected the Coyote. If it didn’t, he’d not be back in the next scene, once again annoyingly trying to trick the Road Runner into yet another trap. As if Acme would ever send me an anvil to throw at my sister! Riiight!

Speaking of the Road Runner. You can tell that Warner Bros. had to have been high when they made that damned cartoon. I mean, between that bird and the hopped up mouse, Speedy Gonzalez (I want to apologize to all my Mexican readers for that one), you know the writers and animators had to have puffed on a few Jamaican fatties while creating that jive. Both of these characters had to have done speedballs. That’s the only explanation for them. Of course, the character that inspired my own online nic, the Tasmanian Devil was a total crack whore. Proof was when he shredded entire forests looking for rock or crystal meth. Less said…

And my mother worried about Puff the Magic Dragon?

So, you see, I grew up in a warped time to begin with. One that actually included the Time Warp. I was born just before the Age of Aquarius, got to witness the world going “Space Happy”, got down with the “Me” generation, was oh so lucky to have sex forever ruined with the threat of AIDS being thrown in my face at every turn. I survived The Macarena and The Chicken Dance, not to mention The Bump and The Hustle, and that dreadful Urban Cowboy inspired Line Dancing.

Now, mix that with two oh so prolific eras of music and style, you know, the seventies and eighties? I loved the eighties especially. It released the hounds when it gave us Brian Mulroney, the mullet, Da Da Da and Don’t Worry, Be Happy. I’m honestly amazed that I am able to form complete sentences on my own after all that. The eighties also saw to it that little boys watched Transformers cars and trucks change into Autobots while little girls watched sweet, badly drawn music heiresses turn into tawdry ho’s called Jem and The Holograms. I swear, some kids watched both and ended up trans-gendered!

And in among all the madness, we burnt a hole in Mother Natures ozone, and found ourselves threatened daily with nukes by the world’s “stupor” powers.

And people wonder why I talk aloud to myself. Well, actually, they don’t. With  hands free Bluetooth, you can have entire conversations with yourself now, and no one bats an eyelash. And I’m wondering when I’m going to be told my brain has a cellphone shaped tumour on it as a result.

All in all, I’d say it’s been a frigged up 46 years so far. But, without it, I’d have nothing to poke fun at, nothing to satirize, nothing to make me smile about when reminiscing over “simpler” times.

I think, honestly, that we, as a species, well, we’ve kinda forgotten how to laugh. We’ve become so wrapped up in serious business, work, debt, unemployment, terrorism, ect, that we’ve lost the ability to truly look at ourselves and just let ‘er rip. If more people would just let go of that ball of confusion they’re running through life with, and instead, just bounce that mother until they got the laugh track running full tilt again, I honestly think a WHOLE lot of problems would suddenly not look so threatening.

I’ll take crinkled laugh lines around the eyes over worry-generated stress cracks any day!

So, as I close this little blurb about nothing, I’d like to leave you with a thought.

It’s not what hand your dealt, but how you play that hand. And it’s not about that Escalade in the showroom window. It’s about how you feel about yourself. Take a moment, pretend you’re wearing your tighty whities outside your pants, and go dance merrily through the office. Everyone will think you’re insane, but man, I promise, you’ll feel a ton lighter once you reach the elevators.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cheerz.

As I rapidly careen towards my “golden years”, I’ve noticed as of late that there are far too many people out there that seem to have forgotten that growing older is a very natural process.  And in saying this, I must remark, here and now, on the word “natural”. For instance, there are elixirs that promise to go to war on old age ranging from vitamins, creams, clinical procedures, what have you.

There is hardly anything natural about the way some people handle ageing.

Now, I must take into account that the most famous examples, all Americans, I might add, are living in a world that demands youth from their idols. However, with that being said, where does the line, clearly delineated in pretty much anyone’s common sense rulebook, get crossed.

Well, we could look at a home-grown example. Celine Dion. Woman is over 40 now, a mother of three charming science lab procedures, and still going strong. And she looks good. Doesn’t seem to have played Russian Roulette with Botox. Yet, she bumps and grinds across the stage in a mini-skirt. This confuses me, because I’ve seen this woman do the same thing in elegant clothing in her youth, yet, for some inexplicable reason, when she crossed over that magic “don’t” age, she did.

Lotta people might question what I’m about to write here.

See, the point is, she still looks good (for being Celine, that is), so why should she lower the hem? Well, there’s a few fashion faux pas out there that were written to prevent train wrecks from occurring. One such rule is, and it’s a big one, “No mini-skirts after 36.” The logic behind this is largely due to the shifting of sands as one gets older.

Legs, even great ones, are attached to bodies that have a lot of parts being pulled south. That, and the idea that with age comes sophistication and worldliness. It’s hard to exude an air of class and elegance when your cooter is yet mere inches from saying “Hi” to your audience. What works for a 21-year-old should never become a fashion accessory for anyone heading towards middle age.

Yet, by anyone’s standards, Celine is harmless. She might have gotten things backwards, but she’s still got an air of respectability surrounding her. In writing that, I feel I need to scrub myself clean with a brillo pad for paying her any sort of tribute. Bad Taz…BAD BAD TAZ!

Now, those of you who’ve followed my writing over the years know I’ve touched on these subjects before. And you’d be perfectly right in asking why I’m repeating old news. Well, truthfully, it has a lot to do with a recent exchange I had on Facebook with a Madonna fan. I posted an “inspirational” poster to my timeline, and got into a friendly argument over the reasons I’m less than charitable about her wardrobe and surgical choices. While admitting that I absolutely despise Madonna, due to hypocritical comments, failure to age with grace as well as insulting people of size in a magazine article during her “Hard Candy” pre-release promotion, I also look at her objectively, despite evidence to the contrary.

OK, so she’s making money. Great. I don’t begrudge her, or anyone else their income. But, there comes a point when we all have to grow up and mature. And, for a while, Madonna did. The whole “Ray of Light”/”Music” era is proof of that. She let her music, rather than controversy, speak for itself. But one flop release changed all that. And it didn’t take long for her to have a tourniquet installed in the back of her head. Nor did it take long for Madam M to start flashing her gristly old bag wares in costumes best suited to a woman half her age. Through all this, I lost complete respect for a woman I hoped would turn on the class, and age like an American version of Sophia Loren.

I can still hear the soundtrack from “Sunset Boulevard” playing through my mind’s inner ear: “why do they still write me fan letters every day? Why do they beg me for my photographs? Why? Because they want to see me, ME, Norma Desmond.” Fast-forward a few decades and bear witness to what is on stage across the world featuring Madame M. Clearly, unlike Norma, she has fans, one that forgive her just about anything. But with that being said, we creatures that regard ageing as a reward and not a punishment just shudder at the thought of a fifty-three year old hooter being brought out for some air one steamy night on stage in Istanbul.

But I don’t want to spend all my time here harping about the ladies. Male celebs are also guilty of a few crimes themselves, although not as readily obvious to the world sometimes.

A rapper we all know by the name of Snoop Dogg has his own crimes to answer to. He’s not guilty of showing off too much of the carnal goodies, however. What he is guilty of is failing to recognize that it’s no longer 1998. His evolution as an artist is not in question here. Nor is his talent. What is in question is his choice of threads.

You see, at this stage in the game,  his hip-hop image might benefit as one etched out in deadly, kick-assed threads. Yet, he’s still dollied-up like a stretched version of Skee-Lo.

Things that make you go Hmmm.

While I admit, freely, that I don’t understand why a lot of rappers run around covering up clearly decent bodies in layer upon layer of jersey, thus effectively disguising their herculean efforts at the gym, I understand even less why I’d want to see some 40-year-old man’s underwear while his pants are halfway down the crack of his skinny black ass! Now, you know you can do “Gansta” with style. It’s so simple. Dressing “fly” for your evolving image simply takes throwing your nineties hip-hop leavings into the charity box. Or better yet, giving them to your kids.

That mess is right up there with pathetic ageing white men driving around in convertible sports cars with their comb-overs whipping in the wind.

And then there is Kenny! Mr. Rogers, heart-throb to millions of housewives, destroyer of traditional Country music and fried fowl entrepreneur. And now, apparently, a man of, shall we say, Asian persuasion?

It’s odd how one little thing can lead to such a travesty. For, back in the eighties, Kenny packed on a few. Not enough to put off his fans, but obviously enough to bother him. So, he partook in gastric bypass, and with that, he slid down a very slippery slope.

He should have kept the teddy bear thing going. But, like so many others in the same boat, he opted for a drink at the fountain of youth. It’s too bad he also chose to swim in it, and then piss in it at the same time. Perhaps that Halloween mask that once was a face that many older men envied, in time, might again start to resemble his original race. Let’s hope so, otherwise, instead of singing “Lady“, he’ll be better suited crooning “Sukiyaki“. And, while we’re hoping for such miracles, let’s send out a prayer to Mickey Rourke as well. He certainly could use a little help with the mess those Ginsu knives made of his face. Makes me want to draw anime eyes over their pictures. At least it would stop making them both look so damned creepy!

So why do these celebrities go to such lengths to look so utterly ridiculous? Well, the easiest answer is so that they can stay relevant in a world that has otherwise written them off. Honestly, it’s disturbing just how far some will go to keep up with a market that has long since sped past them. But, what disturbs me more is that none of them seem to have ever considered stepping back from the spotlight, and maybe delving into other roles within their industry. Madonna, for a while did that, and the result was Alanis Morrisette. There was no reason she couldn’t have gotten involved in continuing to foster young talent. Yet, she decided to be that young talent, all the while, ignoring those that point and laugh at her pathetic death-grip on her long-departed youth.

Sometimes, you just have to wonder what makes a person tick. But, when it comes to outright shameful ridiculousness, the trophy has to be handed to the incomparable Cher! This woman is my mother’s age, and she is literally still running around in clothing that she outfitted herself during her original “cougar” phase. Now, people all regarded her nearly naked costumes in her forties as either brave or pathetic. Like her belly baring image in the seventies, Cher pioneered a reverence for the older woman. Not since “Mrs. Robinson” has a mature gal been so in-your-face. And the world just lapped it up.

Cher showed everyone that age was just a number. And, for a while, she had us all in the palm of her hand. But, like so many others, one procedure too many, one exposed bit of aged flesh too often reclassified her Jurassic-era tattooed ass. Where once she blazed trails, she now partook in the “dope” show. And by using the word dope, I don’t mean drugs. In saying this, I’ve often wondered what she is feeling as she graces the stage, a woman of 66, dressed up like she’s trolling the streets of Sunset after dusk. The fact that she’s pulled off the illusion does not make it so. Like Celine, Cher’s displayed her ability to truly put on the dog when she chooses to. Bob Mackie has seen to that on innumerable occasions. Yet, she still manages to convince herself that a Brazilian wax-essential garment is a good thing.

Um…it sorta worked when you were still MILF. But, and I say this with kindness (not), on your GILF encrusted self, it makes me long for the days of the Gibson Girl. From head to toe, grandmamma’s decked out in full length skirts, cameos on frilly blouses, soft, beautifully ageing women you inherently felt good about seeing.

I wonder what would have come of her has she been born in the days of the Salem witch hunts. All that silicone bubbling away on the pyre…..yeah.

In the final analysis, what frightens me is that these people are all held up on pedestals, continually worshipped by the blind, the weak and the crazed. Not to say that sane, seeing people don’t also worship them as well. But some

of their fan-base tend to have a lot of that “monkey see” mentality. So, does this mean that men grow more Asiatic while women chop themselves up to the point that they convince themselves they’re fetuses, long after they lose the ability to manufacture such miraculous things?

What we don’t need are baby-boomers (or post boomers) running around with “surprised” expressions on their non-moveable faces. And yet, that is precisely what is happening the world over.

Madonna was someone Kylie Minogue has openly admitted to deeply admiring. And while it’s yet to be proven that she’s had any surgery outside of breast reconstruction from her near-fatal brush with breast cancer, it’s odd that a woman of 44 can’t move her seemingly ageless face.

And there’s Britney Spears with her ever-changing cup sizes. And Xtina with her once near-perfect body mutilated with ginormous breast implants. And the list goes on and on.

Bottom line is, whatever happened to growing old? Better yet, what about growing old with grace? Whilst Barbara Streisand does a rare interview with so many filters on the camera lenses you can barely see the details in her face, the Judy Dench’s, Lauren Hutton’s and Sean Connery’s of the world all prove that being older does not mean having to look younger. Like so many others in past generations, they all chose to eschew objectification in favour of letting father time do his work by his own set of rules.

The results are beautiful. I could no more imaging Gena Rowlands or Jane Fonda (who did have some enhancements, but then chose to let nature take its course) with immovable faces then I could abide by Sir Ian McKellen suddenly smiling at the world with that whole “Joker” thing that too many have ended up emulating of late.

God meant for each and every one of us to love ourselves as his children. For those that don’t believe in God, we all still need to accept our minds and spirits as our greatest assets, while allowing the course of nature to traipse down it’s path of physical destruction. Now, I’m not going to tell anyone what to do with their bodies. It’s not my place to do so. And, for some, a little clipping here, stitching there, well, it’s improved and revitalized. So sometimes, a bit of help with the natural is OK. But, when it comes to accepting your age, and doing the right thing for that period in one’s life, I’m up in arms (and legs). I want to see images of beautifully ageing women and men instead of a parade of filler and implants. I long for the days when glamour supplanted dewy newness. In short, I want to see people on my TV, movie screen, what have you.

It sure beats the Botox Zombie Apocalypse coming out of California in the here and now.

I’d hate to see the soil samples out there in forty years. I can’t imagine Restalyne and silicone is fabbo for the groundwater and rose bushes!

From the lips of the most famous caffeine addict on television: “Coffee, the finest organic suspension ever devised” (Captain Catherine Janeway, Star Trek Voyager.)

What is it about a cup of mud that makes it so damned alluring. I often wondered why I love it so. From paper cups to travel mugs, I’ll take it anyway I can get it. But why?

Have you ever stopped to contemplate what it is about caffeine that draws us so closely to its bosom? I honestly never gave it too much of a ponder until one day I decided to forgo the “Joe”. I quite literally spent the day dragging my considerable asses across the linoleum, wondering where the five-alarm headache came from. Got myself home, and just poured a jar of instant coffee down my throat, sucked some hot water out of the kettle, and waited for Nirvana to arrive.

Addicted, hopelessly addicted.

It occurs to me that caffeine is probably more important than food in the grand scheme of things. Take, for instance, my ex-roommate, Grant. Now, Grant was the king of the Java-Junkies. Man could not function without it. It got so bad for him, he bought an espresso machine just so he could get it into his system that much quicker. In saying that, I must also add that there was a dramatic change in his demeanour when the stuff hit his system. He would literally start like Wall-E before his morning charge. Coherence and functional grey matter didn’t factor into his equation whatsoever. But as the drug coursed through his veins, he literally turned into a tornado with feet. It had to be seen to believed. His face would quickly snap into place, his posture would morph from its Pre-Cambrian  state of evolution into Jim Carey’s stunt double. Amazingly, there was a 360 degree switch in his speeds…like an LP being played on 78. You couldn’t understand a thing he was grumbling before the coffee, and you struggled to process the speed in which he spoke and reacted afterwards.

Musta been how it was in Whitney’s house.

Well, in saying all that, I now find myself hooked on the junk as well. I’m literally non-functional without it. That, and the fact that I’m capable of things Charlie Manson would be so proud of without my fix, well, it goes without saying. I just need to keep the cuppa cuppa flowing.

So, is there a point where you can have too much coffee? That’s an interesting question. And my answer is hells no! I will take my coffee anyway I can get it. If it is chocolate covered, I’ll pack in the insulin. If it’s baked into a cake, I’ll be round for seconds. If it comes in a carafe meant for fifty people, I’ll bring a Big Gulp cup to the party. There just isn’t enough mud out there to keep my itch scratched. Whether it be 3 AM in the morning on a sleepless night, or offered at some free seminar, I’m there, salivating.

As a person that kicked nicotine, you’d think I would have a handle on it. I mean, how hard can giving up coffee be? Honestly, out of the two evils, and I was REAL addicted to the coffin nail, coffee would be the most arduous of the two. You see, with cigarettes, you get to stink up the world, your clothes, your kitty, what have you. Also, you have to sell internal organs these days to be able to support the habit. That, and smoking out in sub-zero weather just puts being a ciggy-butthead into simpler terms when it comes to giving it up. Of course, you do suffer when you quit them, but you’re never having to deal with the horrible headaches that go with the caffeine withdrawal. Also, no one looks at you with scorn when you’re drinking a cup inside a bus shelter.

So, whether it be french-pressed, steamed, boiled, perked, served up as a side, I am hopelessly in love with caffeine. And I’m afraid the love affair is mutual. It’s my reason for living some days, and allows others to live every day. For without my aromatic liquid goddess, I’d be doomed to a life behind bars for the sheer carnage I’d leave in my wake.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Timmy’s anyone?

I often sit here at my keyboard, sometimes for hours on end, wondering…

Wondering what. Where time goes when it leaves the moment I just occupied? Hells no! Well, honestly, what, pray-tell do I wonder and wander about.

World peace? Naw, too politically charged. World hunger? Nope, just makes me want to raid the fridge.

Honestly, I have no reply, no answer, no explanation. But, in saying this, I must also admit, to you, friends, that I do have fragments of the strangest swill enter my thoughts, then cast out into the abyss, alone, and without a second glance. And yes, that sentence is so badly structured, I will find myself beaten with a mallet. But I digress. Well, back to stranger than fiction, Tazzy style.

I do, as some (most) men do. I visit “questionable” websites, looking for something fun, something new, something exciting and different. Where I inevitably end up is not fit for print. I’m a male, shoot me. We’d be running around in garbage bags and living on pizza and hamburgers if it wasn’t for civilization frowning upon such joyful abandon. Even the “refined’ of the species has this set of lowered reasoning going on, someplace deep and unfathomable within. Well, with that little nugget of nonsense out-of-the-way, I found myself perusing the joys of XTube, and one of those little fragments suddenly entered my mind. But, for a change, I seized the little mother and gave it some airtime.

What I wonder is….why do we men feel this need to “announce” when “that particular moment of joy” has arrived. I’m being very careful with my words here, as ladies sometimes stop by to read, and I don’t want any feathers ruffled, or sensibilities offended.

I sat there, and clip after clip played, and outside of the clips that either did not “complete” or were silent, there was not a single one seen that didn’t tell the world what he was about to do. And, as if that wasn’t odd enough, each one of them did it with such passion, such conviction, such pride and certainty that you honestly thought he had come up with the cure for world hunger-peace…take your pick.

It was then I started laughing…hysterically.

Why???

OK,  boys develop into good little boy scouts in most homes. We all pretty much get to rub two sticks together. Well, as it turns out, it’s a primer for our later years, because we inevitably end up practising the art-form on just one stick. It is as if it almost becomes the centre of our universe. Without being able to check where it is, how it is, why it is or isn’t almost consumes a part of our lives, almost daily, for years, it would seem.

I somehow don’t think Emily Post would approve.

And the media seems to understand this. That, I think, is why there are so many coming of age “classics” being released, year after bloody year. It’s a conspiracy, I swear.

From the album cover “Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass ‘s “Whip Cream and Other Delights”, to Porky’s, American Pie, Transformers, Baywatch, 20 Minute Workout, I could go on and on,  there is a constant stream of “stick flix” to tantalize and titillate what’s left of the male mind, the part that isn’t absolutely consumed with “Johnson’s will.” If a guy isn’t thinking about it, these offerings certainly switch that about.

Of course, there are the asexual and type A personalities. These types tend to focus on anything but…um, yeah. They funnelled all that energy into other pursuits. Good for you. Now, be sure to tip the hooker on the way out.

In short, for a period of our lives, whether we act upon it, or admit it, we guys are completely obsessed with it, and what it can do.

But…there is light at the end of the tunnel. It’s called “middle age”.

You see guys, we all hit this roadblock. No one escapes it. Some get hyper-paranoid about its lack of attention, and go AWOL. Suddenly, wives find themselves shed, right along with common sense. That twenty year old with a boil on her neck loves you for you. She’s just ga-ga about your “just for men” youth formula, comb-over and hip, happening clothes. Some of us might buy a convertible, and treat it as our “playground extension”. Like young boys ricing up a Honda Civic, middle-aged coots think their rides are the greatest chick magnet. What they fail to realize is that any girl who would be impressed enough to jump on board your “love machine” will usually leave you with more of an itch to scratch than you bargained for. That, or you may find yourself in need of a bottle of penicillin or two. Then, there are the guys that take a good, long, in-depth look at themselves, and decide that self-improvement is the key to happiness. I’m one of these guys. We go and strive to pull our boot straps up, search new frontiers that previously hadn’t occurred to us, what have you. And suddenly that obsession that took hold all those years ago doesn’t have the pull it once did.

Well…that’s debatable.  If I’m so bloody evolved, why do I find myself staring at the cast of “Caligula” online. I have no answer, no rebuttal, no defence. I can only go on record as stating that I’m male. So roll your eyes and shake your heads. We defy description at times.

So…in closing, I’m born with one. I live with one, and I’ll die with one, God willing. And with that in mind, if I’m fortunate enough, I’ll be staring at my keyboard, wondering about what I’m wondering about, while perusing things in the wonderful land of Aaahs, not noticing I’m taking my last breath, as my evolved mind is otherwise occupied, someplace south of the Equator.

Keep smilin’.

Da Taz!