A Bit of Navel Gazing

My friend Joanne S. stopped me in the hallway at work last week and asked me why I took up blogging? My immediate response was something like: "Since it is unlikely that I will be contributing to the human gene pool, I wanted to do something that in some small way contributed to society - and the great internet brain." Granted, it was a sarcastic response, but having given it some thought since then, it is in some ways true.

Flashback to when I lived in Greensboro, fondly referred to as "my seven years in exile." I was selected to participate in a leadership retreat along with members of our upper management team. One of the team building exercises started with the instructor stating that although the people in the room sat in close proximity during work hours and spoke to each other daily, that we really knew nothing about each other beyond our job descriptions. This lack of knowledge prevented us from gelling into an effective team because we did not know how to work in a way that kept everyone motivated. I thought this was a little too touchy-feely - particularly for a group of senior management (men) and up-and-comers in the company. There is a reason it is called a PRIVATE life after all.  

Anyway, we had to share three things about ourselves with a partner chosen at random. My partner was an ultra-conservative, pro-war, Rush-head, who was nice enough in passing, but I had no desire to know him better. But part of the exercise was to answer three questions:

1. Who was a person who had a lasting influence in your life?
2. What accomplishment are you most proud of?
3. What are you most afraid of?

My partner shared with me some inspiring stories about his handicapped brother and the numerous surgeries he had survived (1), his children (2), and losing his wife who is his soul mate (3). I was impressed by his honesty, so I thought, what the hey?  I might as well go balls to the wall and be as honest as possible with this guy. So, my grandmother who shared her love of reading with me (1), earning my second degree (cumma sum laude) while working full time (2), and that when I die, I will not leave anything behind me to be remembered by (3). 

Of course the second part of the exercise, that I did not see coming, was to introduce your partner to the group based on the shared information. When it was my turn, I sanitized and "butched" up all the teary-eyed sharing, threw in some sports references, and made my partner seem like a pretty good guy.  When it was his turn, he pretty much repeated everything I had said in my moment of sharing - but his introduction made me seem like a nerdy, scared, bookworm. The entire group assumed a look of understanding pity for me. 

I felt like such a puss for the rest of the retreat - somehow less than a man in the eyes of my peers and bosses - who were all men.  Uggh!

The next day, I returned to work, greeting the participants from the retreat as usual. When I sat down in my cube I read the following quotation that I had printed out some months earlier and taped above my computer monitor:

What is success? To laugh often and much, to win the respect of 
intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the 
appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false 
friends; to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others; to 
leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a 
garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to know even one 
life has breathed easier because you have lived. That is to 
have succeeded.
	- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Somehow, the embarrassment and feelings of being less than the other men in the room dissipated. I knew that by this definition I was successful.

Perhaps that is the answer to the original question of why I started blogging. In some small way this blog is part of my contribution. After all, what goes on the internet stays there forever - Just ask Rep Anthony Weiner.  Hahaha!

And that is why I decided to start blogging.
XOX  

A View from the Queue #2: Hairdressers, Gadflies, and Love Dolls

Sometimes there are patterns that occur at random but are only recognized when you have the chance to look back over the recent past.  By sheer chance, the Netflix queue last week delivered up three movies with a shared theme. This was pure serendipity, but I found it odd that all of these movies dealt with characters on the fringes of society.

The first movie was Tim Burton's Edward Scissorhands (1990), which when boiled down to its basic parts is a modern day remake of the classic Frankenstein movie (1931), but with a pastel, suburban twist.  I am not sure how I missed this film when it was released, but I found it to be quite wonderful.  The visual contrasts are stunning and the movie itself is quite charming. And, how can you not love a boy with a heart made from a cookie, who also can trim the hedges and style your hair? I mean really...nothing by delicious sweetness there. (Rating: 3 cookies out of 5)

The next movie was Capote (2005) which earned Phillip Seymour Hoffman an Oscar. I am torn on this film.  The cinematography reminded me a little of Mad Men (one of my favorites), but that may have been all the skinny ties and smoke filled rooms. The acting was outstanding.  Hoffman fully embodied the 5'2" mincing, high-pitched lisp, and professional party guest / gadfly that Truman Capote became following the publication of Breakfast at Tiffany's (1958) and the movie of the same name (1961). My only memories of the actual Truman Capote was from his talk show circuit appearances in the late 1970's in which he retold, quite humorously I might add, numerous stories about classic Hollywood stars. I appreciated the technicality and the acting, but I was unable to connect with any of the main characters due to their lack of moral clarity. The movie itself left me feeling as if the main characters sold their souls for immediate fame at the expense of longevity and continued literary production. Capote achieved lasting fame for the book he wrote as chronicled in this movie, but it was his last complete work. (Rating: 3.5 lisped S's out of 5)

The biggest surprise of the week was Lars and the Real Girl (2007). This is an outstanding independent film that could have easily devolved into a one joke movie: however, the characters, directing, and writing allowed for the story to expand beyond the comedic bounds in which it could have become mired.  The basic story line is about a functionally autistic man who orders a Real Doll off the internet and proceeds to introduce her to his family, coworkers, and the citizens of his very small upper mid-western town as his girlfriend. Coincidentally, this movie also stars Ryan Gossling in another quirky, touching role.  I think this guy is soon to be my favorite young actor.  He is outstanding in this movie as the "village idiot," but what makes the movie so touching is that the village goes along with his delusion because he is THEIR idiot. Needless to say, the tears were flowing by the end of the movie, but they were tears of the happy, cleansing type. This is, without a doubt, my recommendation of the week. (Rating: 4 tacky sweaters out of 5)

From the Lists: WWII, DADT, and 1950's Censorship

In my blog introduction I mentioned that I was working my way through the 100 best novels of the 20th century. This list includes some popular novels that eventually became Hollywood movies and some novels included solely for their literary achievements, such as Finnegan's Wake (#77) or Ulysses (#1). Needless to say, some are more enjoyable than others, but I am a determined reader. When possible, I try to read the novels in order from 100 to number one, but sometimes due to availability, I have to skip over a book or two. And, in the interest of time, I am also not re-reading all previously read novels. There are quite a few novels that I consumed when pursuing an English Literature degree.

The middle of the list contains several novels about the the big wars and I just completed #51. The two novels discussed below were both published in 1951 and focus on the war in the Pacific, rather than the war in Europe. For plot summaries of these novels, click on the links below:

#51 The Naked and the Dead / Norman Mailer (c) 1951 (Film by the same name released in 1958)

#62 From Here to Eternity / James Jones (c) 1951 (Film by the same name released 1953)


It has been fairly well reported that war is hell. Based on these two novels, it seems to have been more hellish and at times rather incomprehensible for the enlisted men. As one states in The Naked and the Dead: "Going to war to right a wrong is like going to a whore house to find a cure for the clap."  But no matter the amount of suffering piled onto the characters within these novels, it is their human spirit, and weaknesses, that the authors focus upon, rather than the historic details of war.

From a historical perspective, it is important to remember that the US military was not integrated during WWII. However, the lack of African American characters in these two novels, is more than made up for by the inherent separatism displayed by the characters against anyone outside of their own group identity - Italian, Irish, Jew, Mexican, Polish, Japanese, Hawaiian, rural, urban, illiterate, educated, rich, and poor. Both authors clearly depict the societal divisions that we all recognize, but perhaps no longer express.

During his brief run for the Presidency, General Wesley Clark once said, "There have been gays serving in the military since there has been war." I thought it would be interesting to talk about these two novels in that context - 60 years following their publication - particularly since the Don't Ask, Don't Tell law will soon be repealed.

Both novels address the "gays in the military" issue, but quite differently. The censorship laws of the time prevented the distribution of "profane" material through the mail. (As we all know, there are few things more profane than some good 'ole man-on-man action - hahaha!)  If a novel was considered to be profane, it could not be shipped across state lines and could not be delivered through the mail. Therefore, if an author of this period had any dreams about his novel being a best seller or to be included in the Book of the Month Club (founded 1926), he had to be quite mindful of content and language. Hence Norman Mailer's use of "fug" as an expletive.

Within these two novels the presence of gays in the military are addressed quite differently. Mailer subtly hints at the questionable sexuality of Captain Cummings - the officer in charge of a Pacific island invasion force. The references are limited to the captain's youthful desire to be noticed by an upperclassman in military school, his wife's search for sexual fulfillment from other men, and a two sentence description of an incident in Italy with an "insistent, short, hairy man" during a moment of weakness. While his sexuality is not examined in detail, the captain's need to hide or repress his desires colors all of his personal and professional decisions - including the rather King David-like action of sending his personal aid who rebuffed his friendship to the battle front. This character is obviously doing all he can to repress / hide / deny his desires in order to obtain his military career goals.

On the other hand, Jones dedicates a sizable portion of his 800 page novel to the gay community that gathered in "support" of the troops in Hawaii before the Pearl Harbor attack. This novel repeatedly addresses the symbiotic relationship between some military personnel and their "queers." In the novel, it is an "open secret" among the characters that when straight-identified service members run out of money, they can hang out at a particular bar and get free drinks from their gay admirers. Several characters openly discuss the benefits of having their own queers and of picking up a few dollars between paychecks by allowing themselves to be serviced. There is an affection displayed between these characters and their gays, but on both sides, it is an amused, pet-like relationship. Oddly, there is no moralizing in Jones' discussion of this darker side of military life. Even the suicide of a gay platoon member following a periodic raid by MPs on the bars in which these trysts occurred, is not fully understood by his platoon mates, although they all knew he was a regular part of that community.

I found Jones' approach particularly brave for the time, but his novel focuses on the morally ambiguous and supposedly principled choices made by his deeply flawed characters. Indeed, one of the most iconic movie scenes in American film history re-purposes a line from the novel ("I never knew it could be like this")  that originally followed the rather tawdry seduction scene of the captain's wife by the captain's own staff sergeant.

For different reasons, I highly recommend both of these novels. Jones tends to focus on two morally ambiguous characters who are serving in the Army in Hawaii prior to the Pearl Harbor attack. Mailer's novel is more of a character study of men thrown into a physically difficult situation and how their personal backgrounds affect their actions.

My $1 vintage copy of The Naked and the Dead barely made it....

I has anal gland?

Hey, this is Roxy. Glenn is my person. He's not so bad to live with. He does what I want because he knows that my revenge will be silent, stinky, and well placed. And , after three years together, he has learned that I am a strong, independent, beautiful feline. As a wise man once said: "When dogs look for god, they look at their master. When cats look for god, they look in the mirror." That may be a slightly inflated interpretation of the truth, but it was written by a man, not a cat. All I know is that a well placed hair ball can ruin a person's day.

Before I met Glenn, I lived in the big wide world. I was pretty and I was a bad girl. Not biker-cat bad, mind you, more like single teen mother bad. Kind of like those whiny bitches on MTV, but I was hot - smokin hot. And you know, its hard out there for a sexy kitten mom trying to make it for her family in a drainage culvert. Then some social workers came along, tricked us with some free food, grabbed us, and took us to some place with cages, bad lighting, sharp needles, and lots of other single mother cats - and dogs. While we were there, my babies were taken away and given to people, one at a time until it was just me.

Then the big darkness came. When I awoke, my beautifully furry belly had been shaved and my abs were killing me. There was another pain in my ear, and my hips were aching. I felt like hell. But the people brought food twice a day and scooped the box. Compared to raising children on the street, what's a little discomfort? It was warm, dry, and cozy.

I was rescued by a veterinarian assistant, "socialized," and then a person showed up with a plastic cage, shoved me in, and relocated me to a downtown condo. I promptly set up camp under the bed, to wait it out. But like the previous place, there was always food, the litter box was clean, and there were lots of things to shred in the dark. After a few days, I got bored, and came out for some loving. I mean that is my reason for being - and I turned it on. All the charm and sex appeal at my command. He fell for it. I was prancing around on the sofa table, getting my purr on, when my heels got caught in the lamp cord. Clinging by my front paws, I tried to pull myself back up, only to pull the lamp down on top of me. I promptly moved back under the bed and stayed there for 4 months.

One day, I ran away for about 20 minutes, but decided that I really did like living under the bed better than living in a parking lot - again. Plus I think Glenn was trying to get rid of me. He had never left the door open before. So, once again, I put on my cute kitten face and meowed at the door until he let me back in. That was a close call. Since then, I have avoided all open doors.

Fast forward 4 months and the furniture started disappearing one piece at a time. Then there were boxes piled up everywhere, my hiding places were gone, and I was shut in the bathroom to wait. Two days later, the plastic cage showed up and I was once again forced into it. Another trip to the vet and then we were in our new home. Oddly, all of my furniture had been replaced by items that were only two inches off the floor. There was nowhere to hide, so I made some rules.

Rule 1: No touching on the floor
Rule 2: No touching on the stairs
Rule 3: No company
Rule 4: No touching by company
Rule 5: No treats, no snacks, no toys
Rule 6: No moving of pillows or blankets on the bed
Rule 7: Food (fresh / crunchy) and water required twice daily
Rule 8: Brushing once a week is acceptable
Rule 9: No loud noises, including surround sound.
Rule 10: No touching

Seemed like a good compromise. As time has gone by, the rules have been relaxed a little. Touching is now sometimes allowed on the couch and the bed only.  When I do not feel as if I am getting what I need, I just stand on Glenn's lumpy chest until the pressure of my tiny triangular feet begin to work their way down between the scrawny little chest muscles he is so proud of and he can't take it anymore.Then he lifts my legs off and moves me to the side. Of course I am right back up there, until he gives me what I want - ATTENTION!

So now that you know a bit about my story, something really embarrassing happened last week. I was standing on the chest, watching a bit of TV when Glenn grabbed my back legs. I was so taken aback that I lost control. A thick, musky, fishy smelling liquid sprayed from under my long beautiful tail. Steamy, oily, brown globules landed in Glenn's face, in his hair, and dribbled into the cracks between the sectional sofa.

I have never heard such noise. I mean, I have vomited hair balls and semi digested cat food onto the white shag area rug too many times to even count over the last 3 years without more than a grunt of exasperation and a questioning of my impeccable aim. There was retching, vigorous washing, some sort of foaming scrubby stuff, and lots of fabric spray. I think he actually washed his hands four times. Did I mention he is a bit OCD when it comes to keeping things clean?

I don't know what all the fuss was about, but after watching him slather on a second application of Febreze and wash his face one more time, I retired to the end of the sofa, gave myself a lick, and tried to figure out what all the fuss was about. Tasted fine to me.

But now I know, I has super power.
XOX
Roxy

Inspired by the wildly popular website I can has cheeseburger? from LOLcats. This website is part of the reason the internet is currently ruled by cats.

Smokin Hot Cat (aka Roxy)

Thoughts from the Saddle

Today's thought from the saddle is really an observation following the dismount...

Based on the puddle left on the cycling seat, I am guessing that the padding in my cycling shorts either is not intended to be absorbant or that it reached its maximum capacity somewhere around mile 15.

A View from the Queue #2

Two season threes were in the queue this past week and they could not have been more different in subject, content, or execution. 

Generally speaking, the first season of a television series mostly introduces the characters and the situation. The second season provides a bit more insight into the character's motivations through flashbacks, back story, and exposition.  If the series makes it to a third season, the writers have to introduce some sort of crisis or shake-up to keep the audience's attention for a longer run.  This type of story arc is common to most types of literature and entertainment.

I tend to be a rather loyal fan of a television show.  Once a program makes it onto the DVR recording list, unless it turns god-awful bad, it stays there until the demise of the series, or there is a broadcast schedule conflict.  Then a difficult decision has to be made. Should I trade in an old friend who may be fading a bit for something shiny and new? Or should I stick with the comfortable friends and situations I know?  It can be difficult at times. That is one of the reasons that I am such a big fan of AMC and FX.  They introduce quality new programs that are usually about 12 episodes long, so that each episode progresses the story arc without any of those annoying filler shows, and the shows are repeated throughout the week.  So I can always record a 1:00 AM showing without having to toss a friend off the schedule.

So on the recommendation of several friends, an aunt, an uncle, and Facebook, I added Rescue Me to my Netflix streaming queue.  The show follows the life of New York fireman Tommy Gavin (Dennis Leary) in the years following the 9/11 attacks. In the first season, Tommy is haunted by a cousin who perished in the twin towers, as well as other fire victims that Tommy was unable to save in subsequent fires. The second season took the hallucination idea a bit further, in that as Tommy tries to get sober, it is a sarcastic Jesus and jealous, put-upon Mary Magdalen who populate his hallucinations.  While all this sounds a bit heavy, it is the cast of characters from Tommy's family and his firehouse that keep the stories from devolving into a giant alcoholic pity party.  All of the characters are broken in their own ways, but the topics, the acting, the casting, and the humor keep this series fresh.

The third season picks up shortly after the tragic events that ended the second season. True to the third season formula, all of the characters are faced with life changing choices. And true to their character's history, none of them can actually make the choice. In some ways, it seemed that the writers were preparing for the end of the series. Every character was at a crossroads that would have taken them out of the firehouse and thus off the show. And at the last minute, they do not pursue the choices before them.  But, I think that is why I like this series so much. All of the characters are seriously broken human beings, and yet they find humor and camaraderie that keeps them in the game - if not really moving forward.  I am looking forward to starting the fourth season.

The next third season in the queue was HBO's True Blood. When I was traveling for work, I would occasionally catch an episode in a hotel, but I never actually watched an entire season. Once again, Netflix came to the rescue. I thought the first season was quite fun. Like my Harry Potter obsessed nieces, I like my vampires to be dirty, sexy, and to explode in the sunlight - not sparkle. As a brief aside, my nieces (14 and 16) informed me last Christmas that "sparkly vampires are gay."  I was slightly taken aback by this until I confirmed they meant gay in the bad way and not gay in the good way.

The first season of True Blood delivered good dirty adult fun. Unfortunately, I let someone convince me that the subsequent seasons did not live up to the first season. However, when my brother was last visiting he attempted to bring me back to the darkness. And, I am so glad he did. Yes, the second season was a little odd, but the third season, really paid off. I loved the ironic humor, the back story of Eric Northman, and the deliciously humpy nazi werewolf digression.  Who could not love that as an escape from the mundane human world. Plus, there are more abs per frame in this series than any other program currently in production.  

One thing that I particularly find fun about the True Blood series is the vampires are attempting to get equal rights since "coming out of the coffin." In the opening credits there is a church sign stating "God hates fangs," which is oddly reminiscent of Westboro Baptist Church that has a similar headline on their home page. Of course, throughout the series, there has always been the background noise of talking heads debating vampire rights, but this season the dark hidden vampire world of kings, queens, sheriffs, the magister, makers and their progeny is more fully explored. Also, true to the season three formula, bad guys turn out to be good guys and vice versa providing some interesting story lines for the seasons to come. Thank you my brother for the recommendation. I look forward to the release of season four.

Next week's queue is chock full of odd little gems.  So until then, happy watching.

The Meat Parade

The job continues to take more time outside of business hours, my refuge at the gym is now teeming with refugees due the closing of the other downtown gym, and it is so hot my constant sweating is melting through my defenses. I am not a type A personality, but lately I have found myself shouting in the car at other drivers or at people who walk out into the street against the light, or grumbling at people who block the grocery store aisles, or folks wondering without purpose blocking the sidewalk.  So it is fair to say that my grumpy old man is, at the very least, enjoying his bit part this summer.

It has been difficult this week keeping him hidden from view. I feel him lurking just beneath the surface constantly struggling to make his appearance in the movie of my life. Usually, a deep breath, a reassessment of the situation, and placing things in perspective is enough to push the grumpy old man back behind the curtain. However, this week has proven to be a challenge and he has become more persistent in demanding his time in front of the camera.  After all, he has been waiting a long time for his starring role. He knows his time is coming.


Thursdays are my usual night out at the pub (Tir Na Nog) to blow off some steam. It is $4 cheeseburger night, which means a tasty burger and a few PBR's for around $15 or so. I usually join my friend Jason who enjoys debating burning societal issues, our respective Homeowner's Associations, travel deals, downtown parking, and complaining about his job. Jason is also one of the few people who instinctively knows the combination to open the doors that let my angry, grumpy old man out into the open. However, I did not hear from him Thursday and planned to stay in and watch a bit to TV. 

Therefore, I was grateful to receive an invitation to celebrate Cathy H's birthday at the pub Thursday night.  Thursday's are also Local Beer / Local Band night at the pub. The micro brew beer special is tasty and free live music is always a plus. Usually I am heading home around the time the band gets started, but tonight was a special occasion, and I had prepared by having a quick nap after work. I arrived a little early and joined Mark H at a sidewalk table between the entrance and exit to the pub. Although the heat was still oppressive at 9:00 PM (88F 70% humidity), our table was perfect for watching the sweating crowds milling around downtown. Lowell arrived shortly after I did, and was soon followed by Cathy and Arjay who crowded in around the table.

It appeared that the local college students are returning to town ahead of schedule this year. It is also possible that they are on schedule and I am just not prepared to hand the pub back over to them. But, with that said, the parade of young, juicy, sidewalk meat was particularly entertaining Thursday night.  Mark and Arjay were impressed by the number of free-range boobies the ladies were sporting. Cathy and I discussed the inappropriate pairing of light brown suede ankle boots with black cocktail dresses. Arjay and I wondered when male fashion actually moved so far beyond us. The boy hipster uniform of choice in Raleigh seems to be skinny jeans with a plaid short sleeve shirt. Throw in a shaggy haircut, bushy unkempt beard, hole stretchers, geek-chic glasses, some tattoos and you too can achieve this look.  It appears that young men's fashion is now favoring hobbits - the hairier the better.

With a few more beers, our enjoyment of the meat parade waned. One can only pass judgement for so long without feeling a little dirty and/or bitchy. So, our group turned in on itself for some witty conversation, snappy observations, brilliant insights, and a bit of gossip. After settling our tabs, we headed home around 1:00 AM. My grumpy old man must have surrendered his struggle early Thursday, because he was not to be found as I crawled into bed, wandering how the time had passed so quickly.

The Proper Care and Feeding of Your Colon

Warning: This post may be a little salty or, at the very least, a bit distasteful (pun intended).

I am not sure what my mother did to us when she was potty training my sister, brother, and I, but if you put the three of us in a room for more than 45 minutes, the conversation will devolve to some sort of potty humor.  We seem to have no limits of decorum about the subject and mixed company does not deter us from our mission. So this posting goes out to all the new parents out there - and to my mom.  Be careful of the training you do now, because the effects will be long lasting.  Hahaha.

Work has been a little hectic over the last few weeks. The company was recently renamed and we released a new user interface for our premier product. Up to and immediately following the release, it has been all hands on deck tweaking and fine tuning. As such, the internet has had to read itself. I just have not had time to do more than skim through the headlines.  But the internet must have been missing me, because yesterday the following headline appeared in my iGoogle news feed: Colon Cleansing: Not so Healthy, Analysis Says.

Three of my favorite things all in one place: Cleaning, Health, and Colon. OMG! I could not click on the link fast enough. It was really a bit unfair to be honest.  How could I not follow the link?  A boy has to be informed - particularly since my sister is now studying to be a nurse and is brimming with new and disgusting fun facts about the human body. And, to be honest, I work with a very enlightened group of folks - so I needed some lunchtime conversation starters - like little appetizers.

For those of you who do not fall asleep with the Discovery Channel on and wake up at 4:00 AM to an infomercial blaring the health benefits of a clean detoxified colon, you may need additional information about this practice: "Colon cleansing, technically known as colonic hydrotherapy or colonic irrigation, is a popular treatment, usually performed at spas. It often involves the use of chemicals in the body and in hydrotherapy, the colon is flushed with water through a tube inserted in the rectum."

Doesn't sound so bad.  I mean in some communities, a clean colon is simply good manners.  As Dan Savage so elegantly stated on the Savage Love Podcast: "You wouldn't have oral sex with a mouth full of food, so why would you have anal sex with a butt full of poo?"  See - I am devolving quickly here.

The article went on to state: "Researchers also noted that many of the "spas" that offer colon cleansing have no trained clinicians and even organizations such as the National Board for Colon Hydrotherapy and others who promote colon cleansing require technicians who perform professional colon cleansing to have little more than a high school diploma."

OK. Where to start?  There is a National Board?  If you followed the link above, you will notice that the website is way out of date and the pictures fail to load. Could be a blessing. However the mission of the NBCHT is to:

• provide a quality voluntary system for certification and recertification for practitioners of colon hydrotherapy.
• promote the status and credibility of the profession.
• safeguard the public trust by establishing and maintaining a set of competency standards that establish minimal safety.
• advance uniform standards of practice and ethical conduct.
• help clients and employers choose practitioners through a referral program.

 Can it get any better?  Of couse it can. According to the article you can be certified to shove an irrigation wand through someone's brown starfish and up into their descending bowel with little more than a high school diploma and a few training classes. I can only imagine the certification process.  Do the students practice on each other, or do they have volunteers, like in a painting class, come in, disrobe and submit themselves to the tender ministrations of the amateur irrigator?  And do you get any fancy initials to add after your name - like CCI (Certified Colon Irrigationist)? Do you start with a drip irrigation, or do you jump right into the full force power cleaning?

Dear reader, it only gets better. One of the authors of the study goes on to say: "When you flush your colon out with a hose, it's like giving yourself an enema on steroids. You shouldn't put things up there that really don't belong there.... Imagine 60 liters of water going through your colon. The stress it puts on the system, and the hose, if not used correctly, could puncture the organ."

60 LITERS?  Is that expert level or beginner? REALLY?  That is 15 gallons of water - or as my friend Amanda L put it "That's 30 two-liter bottles of diet coke!"  And with that Diet Coke, all you need is to pop a Mentos for the perfect, minty fresh colon.

Wow - what a perfect day! My conversation basket was filled for the entire afternoon!

I missed you too Internet!

Hugs and Kisses

Raleighboy444 CCI

For the full, original article click here.

Worst Fortune Cookie Ever

I do not particularly like the flavor of fortune cookies, but I enjoy reading the fortunes - and adding the requisite "... in bed" to end of the fortune.  An alternative to this sophomoric game is to add "... at the orphanage" for a droll twist.  I learned that one from Jeffrey M.

But how do you have fun with this fortune: "For better health, eat more Chinese food."

For better health, eat more Chinese food - in bed.
For better health, eat more Chinese food - at the orphanage.

This was not a fortune. It was an advertisement. Humph!