Pocket Change

Been raining a lot here, yesterday was the 10th day in a row, so I have been spending a great deal of time watching television.  There is a commercial currently running that I just cannot seem to grasp.  It is a Hallmark Card commercial, I like Hallmark Cards, and they seem to stir something deep inside that is an old familiar feeling.

The newer versions that have the music in them are a kick in the … well …. I like them too.  Not long ago the grand babies got me one and it was childish, immature, and it brought a smile to my old tired face.

Hallmark is alright, they are aces in my book.

Two cards that readily come to mind are the old professor and the girl who becomes a teacher (“I have misplaced my glasses would you read it to me?”).  The other is the small Italian kid, who delivers the card to the foxy older gal, and she gives him a kiss for a reward and the next day her doorstep is full of young boys.

These two commercials stand out.

We also watch the Hallmark specials that run from time to time, because we consider them wholesome and quality programming.  Out of all their programming, the commercial that would apply to me would be the old coot in the nursing home.  If Hallmark made a card for me, it would be close to the “cranky old uncle in the nursing home” that gets a card on his birthday.

In this commercial that is currently running, the wife is slipping into the husbands’ pockets a card and then later on she is shown handing him the jacket as he hurriedly leaves for work.  The kids are at the breakfast table and the pace is fast and loose, typical America.

Another rushed thru breakfast where no one is actually talking to each other, time is of the essence, and no one in the room, has time for family. Typical American faire, too busy living to be living would sum it up.

The husband scoops up the jacket, grabs the cup of coffee on the run, and heads out the door.  He then briefly re-appears with the card in his hand, embraces the wife, and then blurts out, “And I love you too honey!” or some other sappy line that escapes me at the moment.

This is the part that kind of sticks in my craw, I just for the life cannot get into it.  I know it is supposed to register a familiar chord with the man of the house, and we are inclined to respond in like fashion, but hey, let’s get real here.

This is close, but it doesn’t get any cigar.

My wife is in my pockets all the time, she has for over thirty years dropped by from time to time and rummaged thru the cloth depositories of this and that.  I can truthfully, equivocally say, that I have never, ever, received any kind of refund of change or paper money from the family laundry or the through search and seizure of coinage or bills in my pockets.  And furthermore … She has NEVER at any point in time, stuck a card in there.

She has deftly removed car keys, handkerchiefs, numerous twenty-dollar bills, lunch money, receipts, gum, candy, fun money, mad money, gas money … But never has she has never so much as left a card or note.  If she had, it would tersely read “I need you to pick up milk at the store or don’t forget the kids at daycare, I need grocery money today.”  Something tender and touching like that.

My absolute favorite has to be the Reo Speedwagon commercial.  Now there is one commercial that hits really close to the house.

The old rockers in the car, where he opens up the card and they hear the old music and they are mystically transported back to another place in time, and then suddenly meet in the middle of the car for a passionate embrace and lip lock.

That is a good commercial, that makes you smile.

This card in the pocket thing is okay, but like they say in my neck of the woods, “that dawg aint gonna hunt” it doesn’t fit, its not hot enough from a male perspective.  As we all know, it is truly hard for one to love someone who is constantly living in your pockets!

(Yeah I know, don’t write me any letters)


Cinco De Whatever

More rain!

Whole  bunch of hoopla concerning “Cinco De Mayo” this week.  Having never personally taking five years of Spanish between high school and college, I am not acutely aware of what this Mexican Holiday represents.  I think it celebrates some kind of Mexican war victory in some south of the border skirmish, but I am not sure.

While clearly no Dieciseis de Septiembre (Mexico Independence day) or Dia de los Muertos (The Day of the dead, another one I clearly do not understand) Cinco De Mayo has, in the United States at least, become something of a Spanish St. Patricks Day or Mexican Oktoberfest.

Now what I really don’t understand is why the City in which I live, fully supports this foreign holiday, and drinks and dinners are half-price, free celebrations all week long in the business district and all this other Cinco De Mayo crap is celebrated.

I’ll lay you six to five, parking is even free downtown.

Memorial Day goes virtually unnoticed with the possible exception of the Indy 500, or when July 4th rolls around and OUR holiday is traditionally observed, no such amenities are offered up.  Why is it in this country, we are always pandering and catering to the foreign element, but when it comes to the home grown American traditions, they go mostly ignored.  Have we been colonized to the point where America is no longer recognizable in the wreckage that used to be our country? That should be enough to heat up the email box again, but I am glad I said it.

Cinco De This

So, once again, I make an honest attempt to bounce it off someone who is saner than I.  I read this post aloud to the wife, she replies:  “Careful, your red neck is showing again” … No blog of the month award here.  But this is how I feel about it.  You see patriotism is no longer ad hoc, it is not cool to be a patriot in America anymore. We are labeled red necks or bigots when we exercise our opinions and they happen to be Pro-American in nature.  We are socially being choked to conform to the norm, someone else’s reality.

We have to be Politically Correct.

Texas A&M University has a contest concerning word applications each year, calling for the most appropriate definition of a contemporary term:  This year’s term was Political Correctness.  The winner wrote:  “Political correctness is a doctrine, fostered by a delusional, illogical minority, and rabidly promoted by an unscrupulous mainstream media, which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely possible to pick up a turd by the clean end.”

I have to agree.

Such is my dilemma this day.  What to do with this bogus, illegal foreign holiday.  Strong in my resolve, I have decided that I am going to quietly celebrate this Cinco De Whatever it is.  I am going to go by Wal-Mart grab me a mean nasty greeter and take him downtown to that new joint that opened up.

Assuming the corner of an old red-brick building, built around the turn of the century.  It was recently opened by a family of Nigerian-African Americans and Illegal Mexicans, joint effort, it is called “Not-cho-Mamas.”  Ample parking around back.

Ambiance aint much but I hear the food is just delightful.

Or I just might skip it all, and wait until the 8th of the month, when all the gay people get together for their annual “Carnality Ball” they have at the Public Farmers Market.  It is somewhat akin to a Cirque-Berserk affair (come to think of it, “holding it in a fruit market” might be totally appropriate).

Step right up, ladies and gentlemen!  Get an eyeful of the world’s greatest assault on decency, the Carnality Ball.  Deviants and debutantes, sinner and saints, exhibitionists of all shapes and sizes will be flocking to Oklahoma City to witness the wonder and spectacle while indulging in their most carnal desires.

This extravaganza of flash and flesh is not for the faint of heart.  $15 in advance, $20 at the door, VIP tickets $50.  Don’t forget your condoms.  And then they wonder why straight people don’t want to hang around with them.  We celebrate all the wrong things in this country; we know the cost of everything, but the value of nothing.

Man, I need some sunshine.