A Toast to the New Year

As 2011 swiftly connects to our foreheads with a sickening “crack,” we are left to reflect on the bitter, metallic taste of 2010 that still lingers in our mouths.

2010 proved to be twelve more years of soul-crushing minutia and subjugated emotions for us all. The precious few glimpses of joy we experienced were completely buried in an avalanche of emotional scarring and soul-deep shame. It will take years to forget 2010, and even longer to forgive.

But 2011’s promise is still fresh, bright, and new. The nagging, dull ache of reality will soon swallow it whole, however, and we will once again be left alone and afraid, mere husks of the people we once dreamed we could be.

As our hearts and souls are constantly haunted by the faces of those we’ve wronged, and as we struggle to bury the secrets and lies that we wear on our haggard, shame-filled faces, let us clutch to the shallow, fleeting glimpses of false hope the beginning of the year only can bring. After all, these first few days of January bring us the only tiny twinges of pleasure we will ever experiences in our lives bereft of all joy and meaning.

Please, my fellow friend, join me as I choke back the bile of resentment and raise my glass of suppressed dreams to my one and only fleeting friend, the year of 2011.

Well You're Invited!

Well, hi! Turly Peterfield here, coal miner at the old Dry Rock Mine outside Nickel City. Gotta say we have a great celebration lined up for the 145th Anniversary of the old mine, and well, you’re invited!

Rumor has it that the mine proprietor, Old Mr. Gunnison himself, may drop down in his personal heli-pod and make an appearance, too! Old Mr. Gunnison, bless him, has been such a benefactor to us employees, hasn’t he? Remember that time Scrawny Willis got appendage blown off in a mine accident, and Old Mr. Gunnison bought him a pizza lunch? And even breadsticks? What a fine man!

And now this celebration! With a real live karaoke machine! I hear nobody’s going to come!

- Turly Peterfield, Coal Miner

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!

Hoops, and a Realization

I found myself keeping score for the City of Idaho Falls Parks and Recreation 4th grade basketball league last week. After my excessively short fourth grade self similarly running up and down the court paid my memory a visit, I found my mind completely occupied with how unbelievable weasel-like the young high school kids refereeing the games were

I'm still having trouble deciding if I'm too young to lament away about how disrespectful and unmotivated the rising generations of youngsters are, or too close to a young age myself to wish that they'd quite typing away on their phone machines and playing on their FaceTube pages on the World Wide Interweb and sit down and read a book for a change. But that's what I found myself doing as I kept track of the points and fouls of the little players while these kids half-heartedly trotted up and down the court and muttered calls half the times they were supposed to. And it was raising my stress level.

Should I tell them to quite being lazy and work hard? Should I notify their supervisor of their negligence and poor attitude? Should I chide them for swearing and gulping down fattening fast food when they should be helping the young kids play a safe, clean game?

That's when I had a revelation. It simply wasn't my problem. My problem was making sure I stopped the clock when I was supposed to and correctly tally up the kids' foul shots. The young teenagers were to do what they were going to do, and I did not need to waste any worry on them. So I kept to my task and enjoyed the games as I more clearly realized my role.

The Learnings of a Bayou Orphan

I had some exceptional teachers as a young elementary school student. Mr. Magleby, in particular, really put his heart into his job. He taught us about art, English, and most of all made us feel smart and important.

But there were some weirdies, too.

My first grade teacher, for instance. She told us that if men and women serving in the military said the pledge of allegiance with any hint of variance in their voice or slouch in their posture, they would be shot by their superiors. She would even use that information to scold us if any of us acted up during the pledge. “There are some of you in this class that would be shot today if we were in the military,” she said. She also had each of us write our senators asking them to make flag burning illegal as a civics assignment.

My fourth grade teacher spent most of the year teaching us about bees. It wasn’t fourth grade. It was bee grade. And everybody knew it. It was just what you learned about if Mr. Hicks was your teacher.

And why did we spend most of fifth grade history singing songs about cannons, pilgrims, and Uncle Sam?

Just Wondering

I wonder which of my friends is going to help me see success. I know an older gentleman in his fifties that just lost his wife and is looking for a relationship. He might. He certainly is unique. His son and son’s girlfriend are there to help him along, though. It’s possible that they could lead me to success.

Then there’s always that little British boy that doesn’t have a home. He’s currently living with a wealthy, scowling gentleman that has great plans to make the boy help become a town hero. And even though the boy doesn’t know it, the gentleman’s butler is his father. They definitely have potential to help me out as well. And if they don’t, the two members of the mob they have ties to are sure to.

But I also know two college roommates that might be able to assist me. One guy’s got his own special set of problems, one of which is the friend he has a fatal crush on. I used to think they’d be able to help me out, but I’m not so sure now. I’m going to try the others out first.

Not that I’m not happy and successful now. There’s just more I want to do. And it will have to be with the help of my friends, whether these or others I haven’t created yet.

OK, So, Now What?

Guess I’m done with my bachelor’s degree. A couple follow up calls to make sure the transcripts get to U, and that’s it. So now what?

I remember walking home from school in fourth grade and asking Billy Anders if he was going to go to college, and he said yes, he was. Me too, I said. That was fourteen years ago. Now I’m done. So now what? What do I do now that I’ve accomplished a task that’s consistently been looming in my subconscious for eight years?

Easy. I realize that a bachelor’s degree in English isn’t all that impressive and go study for the GRE.

Long Live Pills

I love pills. Pills are a gift from the gods. Long live pills.

Pills help me sleep, pills help me calm down, pills help me stay happy, and pills help my heartburn go away.

I take pills to dislodge my mucus, pills to help my digestion work better, pills to raise my HDL cholesterol, and pills to ease the pain of headaches.

I enjoy taking pills that fortify my digestive tract, pills that contain vitamins and minerals, pills to help my eyesight improve, and pills that boost my immune system.

I love my pills that help my hair grow more full and thick, pills that make my fingernails more sturdy and healthy, pills that help the cartilage in my ears form in a manner congruent to the shape of my head, pills that increase my ability to memorize new fractions and vocabulary words for the GRE, and pills that open up my third eye to the secrets of the 5th and 6th dimensions.

I can’t live without my pills that make green look blue, wrong look right, and meat smell like a rolling meadow of wildflowers and blueberries. I must have my pills that make all my food taste like minty chocolaty goodness and turn every word I read into a smiling, singing song that jumps up and gives my heart a warm, hearty hug.

I love my pills. I need my pills. I live to praise and serve them. Don’t you?

Consider the Egg

Eggs. Aren’t they weird? I mean, when you really think about it?

Practically on a daily basis, we are all eating chicken ovums surrounded by layers of membranes, cracked free from their outer casing. Strange when you stop to think about it.

And yet they are so delicious, so good for you, and so versatile as a means of cooking. Since embarking on my mission of counting my calories and shrinking my slightly-less-rotund tum, I have eaten a lot of eggs. Egg whites, actually. An interesting thing about eggs is that the most yummy bit, the vitellus (yolk), is full of cholesterol. 70% of your daily intake, which is a lot. So I just eat the albumen (white). Less delicious, but a lot better for my cholesterol, which has dropped significantly since I gave up meat and started eating only egg albumens.

So, the next time you’re cooking up a meal or thinking of a snack, consider the egg. High in protein and taste, these little oval ovums won’t let you down.

Happy Tofurky Day

Two nice young ladies from PETA were at the corner of Broadway and Park this week, handing out free Tofurkys to all that passed by. I grabbed two, and with them will recognize my first Thanksgiving as a pesco-ovo-vegetarian.

"Why are you a vegetarian?" many people ask me when they discover me passing on the bacon or munching on a Boca burger. "For health reasons, or . . . otherwise?" It's the "otherwise" they hope I won't bring up. No one wants to hear a rant from one of those tree-hugging, polyester-wearing hippie freaks that hold secret meetings in dark rooms, munching on tofu burritos and deciding which pork proccessing plant to set fire to next. If I wanted to get a good reaction of them, I would say "to avoid the condemnation of the Almighty." But I usually just pat my slightly less round tummy and say "so I won't die."

We've been meatless since July, and have no regrets. Since eliminating almost all sugar and counting my calories carefully as well, I have lost 13 pounds in a month. So it is indeed worth it. The only hard part is that meat tastes really, really, deliciously good. But it's that or unclogged arteries, and I'll take the latter.

[MY PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE OF CHOICE] for President

Editor's note: This article has been run through The Best of Times’s new non-partisan censorship machine.

I sure am excited about the upcoming presidential election. That is because I am confident that [my presidential candidate of choice] is going to win the election.

I like [my presidential candidate of choice] because he stands for [this particular item of political action] and is tired of the [certain type of political action] people like [a different politician] stand for. He wants to [engage in a certain political practice] as well, which I am all about because [a particular political situation] is in dire need of [a certain type of treatment] in order for [a certain part of the American public] to experience [a specific benefit].

I am sure that all members of the GG subscribership agree with me in thinking that [my presidential candidate of choice] possesses the [positive attribute], [specific type of personality], and [particular brand of character] necessary to excel as president of the United States. Join me in rocking the vote next week, and we will all come out as winners (except for [the presidential candidate I in no way support], of course)!

It's Time to Admit That Superman Isn't That Cool

I think the time has come for all honest, free thinking individuals everywhere to admit to themselves and each other that the comic book character Superman isn’t actually all that cool.

Sure, he’s had his own comic book legacy, feature films, TV shows, cartoons, lunch boxes and underpants permeating the public subconscious for over 70 years. He’s one of the most recognizable fictional characters of all time and he’s made a lot of people a lot of millions of dollars.

But did any of us stop to take into account the ridiculousness of his suit, the flatness of his character, and the ease at which he conquers the problems of the world?

Most other superheroes have one or two special powers. They can walk turn invisible or walk through walls. Other superheroes (the coolest ones, in my opinion) have no superpowers at all – simply smarts and resources, like Batman and Iron Man. But Superman’s super powers? He’s faster than anyone, stronger than anyone, can fly, can blow freezing air, can melt anything with his eyes, and can see through anything.

Oh, and he can’t die.

Don’t sing me a song about lead and kryptonite, his supposed “weaknesses.” They’ve posed no real threat to him. In reality, Superman is a Superflat, Superbloated, Superboring character that needs to retire, Superfast.

Stuff that in your stockings, Mr. Kent.

The Strange Vocabulary of the Rising Generation

I just don’t know what to do about the young kids these days. I can hardly keep up with them, what with their You Tubes, Pokémons, Nintendo machines, and I don’t know what all. And their language! Sometimes I can hardly discern what they’re trying to say to one another, and that’s if their talking at all instead playing those god-awful computer games or huddled over their fancy little phone units.

I’ve decided that the only way I might connect with the rising generation is by reach out to them. So my brother and I compiled this list of “hip” words we remember from our personal days as young teens. We’ve even divided them into categories for easy usage. My plan is to give these lists to some of these youngsters so they can understand how we used to speak, and perhaps even use them at the school carnival or swing choir practice themselves. That’s sure to make them the bee’s knees of their peer group, if not the toast of the town!

EXCLAMATIONS
oish! • booyah! • snap! • badical! • radical • dudical! • gnarly! • excellent! • bodacious! • boss! • tight! • for real! • sweet! • righteous! • aws (pronounced oss)! • solid! • hot! • smooth! • rockin! • jivin! • jammin! • swingin! • slammin!

CONSTERNATIONS
flip! • fetch! • fudge! • fuzz! • freak! • frick! • buggin! • whacked! • that sucks! • that blows! • that stinks! • that reeks! • that bites! • that eats! • bogus! • as if! • exsqueeze me? • spank you! • your mom!

RETALIATIONS
don't go there! • oh no, you di'nt! • sike! • not! • whatever! • not even! • says you! • pu-lease! • kiss off! • grow a brain! • have a cow! • fine then!

There now, wasn’t that a gas? So go ahead, if you’re young or old! Use my list and have a swell go of it! “Peace!”

National Breast Cancer Awareness Month

You may notice that the "The Best of Times" is pink this month. That is because I am doing my part in honoring National Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

As a member of the male gender, it might seem a little strange to hear me speak of this disease. But in truth, it is hard to find anyone that hasn't been affected, directly, or indirectly, by breast cancer. (It also a little known fact that, because the breast is composed of identical tissues in males and females, breast cancer also occurs in males. But incidences of breast cancer in men are approximately 100 times less common than in women.)

In 2005, breast cancer caused 502,000 deaths worldwide, which was 7% of cancer deaths, and almost 1% of all deaths. While it will impossible to prevent every death until a cure is found, there are still things we can do to bring that number down. Women are much more likely to survive incidences of breast cancer if it is detected early. Every woman, from teenager to senior, should conduct a breast self-exam once a month. An easy-to-follow, printable guide on how to do so can be found at www.komen.org/bse.

Also, do your part to make those around you more aware of breast cancer this month. Douse your website in pink, where a ribbon, or print on pink paper. A great step to prevention, detection, and a cure, is simple awareness.

Stuffing My Inner Child Silly

I can’t stop pumping quarters into the mini NFL football helmet machine at the grocery store.

I feel like I’m ten years old again. This is probably because when I was ten years old I couldn’t stop pumping quarters into the mini NFL football helmet machine at the grocery store.

I loved my little helmets. I gave them positions and statistics. I created a system wherein they made plays, had contests, scored touchdowns and tallied up points. I recruited my family members to be a part of my Fantasy Football Helmets League.

The new helmets are a vast improvement. Many of the team’s logos have been updated. And they come printed right on the helmet, not on a sticker I would have to put on myself in the old days. The facemasks are more intricate and realistic. And they cost 50 cents, not 25.

Props to me for feeding my inner child, I suppose. Or perhaps another reason for my loved ones to be worried that I’m not spending enough time in reality.

Whatever the case, let me know if any of you other collectors out there don’t have the Kansas City Chiefs. I have an extra and I’ll trade you one.