Professor Hanley McGormick Needs You

A fine morning greeting, colleagues. Though I probably need no introduction, there is a slight chance that some of you in the audience that may not know who I am. I am Professor Hanley McGormick of Century University.

And I've done it again.

Oh, you'll be getting plenty of information about it in the papers. They always did have a way of proclaiming my accomplishments in the headlines in bold, black, inky letters:

McCORMICK HAS ANOTHER BREAKTHROUGH

PROFESSOR MAKES NEW SHOCKING DISCOVERY

McCORMICK DOES IT AGAIN

And the thing is, they're always right! Always right. Makes my heart smile just thinking about it.

I'm not joking!

- Professor Hanley McGormick, Century University

The Results Are In

Well, we just got the report from the lab, and what we suspected is true: Linds and I have tested positive for cuteness.

We suspected it all along really--the way we laugh naughtily during church meetings and the abnormally large amount of walks we take together were a couple of the first warning signs.

For a while we just shrugged it off, thinking, "I'm sure this is normal for all couples in love." But over time, the symptoms just got more severe. We started going on bike rides together and stayed up late night after night watching BBC mystery shows and popping popcorn. Friends and family started to drop hints, saying things like "you're going to be such good parents," or "you guys are so much fun to be around."

So we knew we should just get tested. Get it over with so we could know what to do about it. And you know what? I'm glad we did. It's good to put a name to what we're feeling all the time. "A textbook case of case of chronic cuteness and undying charm," the doctor called it.

Of course our next question was what to do about it. How to treat it. But the doctor said there was little we could do. "Just drink plenty of clear fluids and let it run it's course," he said. "It takes a lot of people a lot of years to get over a case like yours." Then he leaned in closely and whispered, "but I have a gut feeling you guys may never shake it."

If you suspect that you or someone you know may be suffering from cuteness, please urge them to get tested. Since we are familiar with the condition, Linds and I would welcome you telling us about any of the symptoms you may be feeling. We'll let you know how possible it is that it's due to cuteness.

The Grandeur of Music Time

Music Time. It is the pillar of my Thursday night, and a fulfillment of my childhood dreams.

I get together every week with some buddies from work to participate in music time. As we enter my buddy's basement and don our drumsticks and guitars, we shed our mantles of husband, father, copywriter or designer, and transform into something else. Something with a purpose. We become King Rhino and the Halftones, poised and prepared to rock Del Rio Circle with an an hour and a half of pure, unadulterated, rock and roll.

Cab writes the songs and plays rhythm guitar. I provide the beat. Frew saturates the songs with intricate solos on his guitar. We are loud and fast. We are quiet and thoughtful. We are music time, and we love it.

Bass players can apply at jclarkgardner@gmail.com. Prior experience and bass guitar not necessary.

Salt of the Earth Filmmaking

Boy, the kids today. I just don’t know what we’re going to do with them. If they’re not typing away on their Google Pods and Text Phones, they’re off listening to the rap music, growing their hair too long, or—worst of all—going to the Super-Plex to watch some gosh-awful picture show.

I tell you, I don’t have any desire watching a “flick” about people I wouldn’t want to meet in real life. The square-jawed blokes and buxom blondes on the silver screen are always so fast-talking and busy, drinking booze at parties and jumping from one flaming building to another. Not the “salt-of-the-earth” folks I’d rather associate with.

Why can’t they make a movies about a single mom living in the projects, driving a rusty Corsica to her waitressing job and trying keeping her alcoholic mother out of prison? Where’s the “block-buster” about the bi-polar 50-something agoraphobic man that keeps rusty pop can tops in a margarine bucket? That’s more interesting to me.

But I guess they won’t make any movies about someone that doesn’t type away on a Hand Pilot or a Blue-Berry in the back of a SUV limousine. And I’ll just have to learn to live with that.

Something Smells Like Falafel

Something smells like falafel, and I don’t know what it is.

Lindsay and I made falafel last night. We got the mix in the bulk section at WinCo, mixed it up, and fried it. Our pitas kept falling apart, but it was still yummy.

Falafel is Israel’s national food. It is made of mashed up chickpeas that are spiced and rolled into balls and fried. You can get falafel from street vendors and little fast falafel joints all over that area of the world, I’m told. Linds and I had some while visiting our uncles in New York, and liked it enough to try and make it ourselves.

But now I’m at work, and I can still smell falafel, even though I’ve showered and scrubbed my hands and I’m wearing different clothes.

Guess it’s going to smell like falafel for a while.

Stupid Inky Yellowy Nonsense

I don’t like phonebooks! With their stupid yellowy inky pages, poorly organized listings, abundance of ads for accident attorneys, and stupid stinky smells—I hate them!

Nobody likes phonebooks! Ever since the advent of the world wide interweb they’ve become nothing but a way to sell wimpy weak magnet ads for plumbers and orthodontists!

Who needs phonebooks? Nobody! They’re nothing more than books full of advertisements, delivered right to my door with the expectation that I’ll let them in and thumb through them of my own will!

If someone dropped of a DVD full of a thousand cheap TV commercials with phone numbers at the end, would you take it inside and watch it? Of course not! It’s the same with phonebooks! Who likes them? No one! Who needs them? Nobody! And that’s why I’ll never, ever let one into my house ever, ever again! Not even once!