So my latest visual addiction has been 'Six Feet Under'. Go Figure. HBO made me fall in love with the Sopranos, and so, starting a new series seemed logical. Watching some of the previews for this series I can't honestly say that I was 'excited' about starting this series, but Mr. Home Box Office has proven me wrong. It's quirky and dark and definitely DIFFERENT, but more than anything, it's addictive.

Since every episode begins with a death, and of course the majority of the script revolves around said demise, it's easy to understand how a few hours of this show can quickly have you addressing your own mortality. And now that I know that someone is going to be 'prepping' me for a viewing (assuming I don't opt to be cooked), I'm more conscious than ever about how I'll "look" when I'm dead...This, compounded with the many autopsy shows I've stumbled upon during a remote control marathon in the evening hours made me think of the 'story' that I might be leaving for the coroner.

If you've ever seen a forensic study of old bones, they typically discuss some arrow stuck in flesh, or broken bone, or some other occurrence that the deceased encountered while alive, and with today's technology, it seems they can practically describe the incident as if peering through some time-shifting crystal ball.

This made me think of my own body, and what message(s) might be conveyed to whomever happens to have the onerous duty of 'preserving' me for my big send off.

I've never considered myself a 'quirky' person but like most people, I simply don't see myself through the eyes of others, and probably never will. It takes someone else to tell me that yes, I AM quirky. And since being told that (repeatedly) I've at least been a bit more aware of my 'ticks', one of which spurned the idea for this particular post. When I'm 'antsy' or bored or whatever, I (now, thanks to those who pointed it OUT.) make a lot of strange little movements with my body, not the least of which is my stroking my left lower eye socket with my index finger. This is partly due to my aforementioned 'tick' and partly because of the resultant damage done to the socket because of a (not so small) car accident. I guess I never got a hundred percent over that broken bone, now reset and resting just a hair above where it 'should' be sitting.

As children it seems that boys love scars, me being one of them. Of course as we get older, we're intimately acquainted with the PAIN that one must endure to get said scars, so the idea of getting said scares in the first place simply becomes less  appealing. Even as men there seems to be a certain fascination, and even satisfaction in having scars; because of the stories that are tied with them. So when I die and I'm being examined, what are the marks on my body going to tell some caregiver of the dead?

Well, I'd LOVE to let his imagination run wild and think of what a 'bad ass' I was in life; touring the country, living life to it's fullest, adding a few 'scrapes' to my canvas along the way. This person would most certainly first and foremost see the large tattoo on my back. Marine Corps. Hmm, good sign. Must mean the rest of the natural markings were acquired through a similarly 'rugged' means. A crescent-shaped scare on the abdomen, several broken shoulder bones, the broken skull bone below the eye socket, a scar on the right arm; this man was a badass...

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it) 'badass' was not in the equation for most of the bumps and scrapes that Life decided to permanently embed on my skin, and because of this I realize that it's only those you know and shared your life with that will really truly know who you are, what you've done (or haven't done) and the nature of your character.

I'd love to have some story about saving a platoon of men and having the scars to prove it, but it'll be those that were closest to me that know that the 'crescent scar'  on my stomach didn't come from something so noble, and that the breaks in my skull weren't from saving lives, but simply from life. Life emblazoned both quasi-heroic and embarrassing moments onto my flesh, and there are precious few people who will know which is which.

Can anyone say cremation?

If I had the opportunity to fix ONE thing about the American government, it would be to outlaw ANY existing or new legislation that interferes with a man's (or woman's of course!) ability to make an honest day's wage for an honest day's work. Of course the repercussions of this 'new' (ok, REBORN) altruistic nation would be far reaching and require extensive reworking of many cherished institutions. These would include a SERIOUS re-working of the Internal Revenue Service and it's extortion on the American public, taxes of all sorts from the Federal to the State level to be repealed in favor of forcing the 'powers that be' to actually run this country like a business, (another topic for another time) and most importantly, STOP creating ridiculous laws under the guise of ending income 'loopholes' that do nothing more than hurt people who choose to make a living by simply working hard. Examples are never-ending and I'm sure each of us has either directly been affected by such absurd rules, has had someone close to them affected, or at a minimum, has HEARD of some of the foolish measures that have been passed in the name of fairness, only to have the curtains quickly pulled back to discover what a tax-paying WASTE much of this is.

That being said, if this is to turn into a 'rant' (which I find can happen when I'm talking about something that ticks me off) I'd at least like to explain how this particular hide got chapped.

When I was in my very early teens, I lived in a middle of the road type of town that, like most others, had roadside litter on it's short list of municipal issues. In and around my neighborhood were a few locals that had become fixtures in my community, many of us feeling like they were at least 'acquaintances' despite never actually having meeting them. There was the ice cream man, the helado man (for those looking for frozen south of the border goodies) and the 'Can Man'.

Elderly in years, this man was hardly elderly in ability. As I left for school in the early AM, I would see him pedaling his dual-basketed three-wheeled bike (trike I suppose) and again throughout the evening as I played outside until the street lights came on. Looking back, I would guess that this short, rugged Mexican was in his late-sixties. Wire baskets devoid of anything but daylight, by evening I'd see them filled well past reasonably full with clear plastic bags, speckled with cans and bottles of every flavor. The weight of the day's crop would force a slow but steady pace as he cycled just fast enough to keep his treasures balanced on his journey. I remember stopping on several occasions to admire his balance, as his speed (or lack thereof) was such that no bicycle anywhere, let alone one so laden with burden, should still be upright.

As a 'youth' I never made any deep 'fiscal' observations about what I had seen, other than knowing that he was undoubtedly making a few (very few) bucks from his exhausting endeavors. I mean, this was WELL before the force CRV (California Redemption Value for those of you outside of the Golden State) tax. This poor man was making his money off of the actual weight of the material he collected.

As the years clicked off, the memories of a man who, too old to get a 'traditional' job, but far too young (and able) to simply not work, faded away, and probably would have been lost in my gray matter permanently had I not tripped over life's little mental reminders. You know, those moments or events that force your mind to recall certain insignificant moments, while infusing actual significance into them.

The passing decades had versed me intimately with the inner workings of government and began infusing a, dare I say it, HATE in the double, triple, and sometimes quadruple taxing by the government and it's various entities. (Definitely a topic worth exploring more at a later date.) But it was a stroll through an old(er) strip mall which re-ignited the synapses that would bring the Can Man to the forefront of my thoughts.

Why wasn't there a Can Man in this neighborhood?

The answer was simple. The government had gotten involved. The last time I redeemed a can (or rather, a large bag of cans) I signed a slip of paper and got my $12 cash placed neatly in my palm. But this was before the latest 'tax that's not really a tax, tax'. The CRV. I remembered a law that was passed not too many years after the California Redemption Value Tax was put in place. Now if you want to get the extra five cents you paid for that soda you bought (30 cents for a six-pack of, well, anything), you'll need to provide your first and last name, street address, and social security number. Seems like a lot of information for such a small amount of money. I wouldn't think the Can Man would care as long as he was paid for his Catch of the Day, but then the reality of what these Redemption Centers were asking for and WHY hit me. The government simply wasn't about to let some old man get all this money for 'free'. In the opinion of the government this was obviously a loophole that was being exploited by individuals that didn't have 'real' jobs that couldn't be tracked and taxed. (Okay, well in all fairness, since taxes were paid for the product and a CRV was applied, I guess 'Taxed Again' would be a more fair assessment.)

So the wheels of commerce are allowed to again continue. Unfettered by such nuisances as people trying to 'redeem' money from a recycle-redemption tax campaign. The 'good' news is that cities can resume spending more of our tax dollars to pay for the litter that needs to be cleaned. They can continue charging us to separate our cans and bottles for them, and then charge us for it....after having charged us for it (the bottles and cans). And for those (now few) that choose to try and circumvent the INTENT of the law, well, they can be taxed as well.

When visiting my old neighborhood, I don't see the Can Man anymore. It's been well over twenty years and I've been away for a long time. As much as the pain, scorn, and resentment of double and even triple taxation bites into me, I'd rather believe that it was government that took him off my street. My acquaintance was too strong to consider the alternative.

I'm as guilty as the next person in many ways when it comes to slowly turning the verbal & written word (which for MOST of it's existance was considered not just a function or communication, but of art and beauty) into nothing more than caveman grunts and gestures, for which the ONLY purpose is to pass information.

This is sad. Sad to the point that a simple 'communiques' from not more than 60 years ago; written by a husband to his wife, from a friend to a friend, or hell, a SHOPPING LIST is tantamount to poetry by today's standards.

We let things like "ebonics" and text messaging slip into our vocabulary, at first with mild resistance, then with acceptance, and finally ubiquity.

A perfect example of this is an often-used, but fairly recently (I believe the last decade or so, but don't quote me.) mis-quoted phrase: "I couldn't care less".

Notice the conjunction? Yes, the phrase would be: I could NOT care less. Think about the implied meaning of this for a second and you'll realize how ridiculous it is to tell someone "I COULD care less", which is the 'new-school' version of the phrase. My response is simply, "Well if you could care less, then that means you actually DO care about whatever the hell it was you just told me you care about." HUH?!?!?  Right. It doesn't make sense. The point is to tell someone you don't give a damn about whatever it is you just commented on. So then SAY it. For the sake of the english language, please just use it properly!!!

The examples of the abuses of the english language are nearly as long as the dictionary is thick, so I won't bore you (or myself) with such an exhaustive list.

At the risk of sounding a bit extreme, this is just another example of humans losing their humanity. For all of the good that technology and advancements have made in our lives, (like this blog!!) it seems we're quick to trade in a 'softer side' of our beings for the sake of 'efficiency' or sometimes just laziness.

I'm a human-ist, and as such, have great respect, admiration, and dare I say, AWE for what mankind has accomplished over these thousands of years. As our new achievements (especially over the last hundred years) trump our old ones, I continue to revel in our abilities. The never-ending creativity, ingenuity, and resourcefulness is astounding. But it seems we've hit (or almost hit) some sort of metaphysical apex that prevents us from leveraging our current advances with those of the past. Why CAN'T we communicate quickly and efficiently while still COMMUNICATING??!?!  Our language is quickly being demoted to nothing more than data transfer between one human to another, with well, no HUMAN in it.

We're quickly losing the warmth that can only be felt in a conversation that has been touched by a human mind; and it's sad. Technology has as many have said, both bridged the distance between people and simultaneously separated us from each other. As this paradoxical divide widens and technology continues, will it matter to us if there's a human on the other end? Will we care?  I will. I will always love the sincerity, brevity, humor, sadness, and so many of those other nuanced emotions that can only be created and felt when I'm talking with a real person. As my world gets filled with more 'automated' messages, that are now slowly being written (at least grammatically) better than my friends, my family, or my colleagues, I'm beginning to feel like they're automated as well....

Ever notice how (as Wil Smith once said) "the smell from a grill could spark up nostalgia"? That BBQ fragrance can get just about any American to reminisce about tossing the pigskin with 'Pops' in the backyard, camping with friends and family, or being seated in your favorite ballpark waiting for the big game to start. It's so ubiquitous to most of our memories that ad men religiously pitch this on T.V. and radio. It's one of those olfactory responses engrained in so many of us to recall (usually positive) memories that nearly everyone can relate to.

But what about those not-so-typical events that cause us to be briefly transported to another time and place?

Continuing the theme of the sense of smell, I recently ventured into a drinking establishment that could only be defined as "quasi-seedy'. Not full-blown biker bar, hay on the floor, waiting to get sucker-punched kind of sleazy, but definitely 'dirty' enough that you weren't going to expect someone to hand you a towel after using the comode. (This however, does ensure reasonable drink prices.) So after a few rounds of Newcastle, I found it necessary to visit this establishment's restroom, with low expectations. Aside from a lack of feces on the wall, it was everything that I expected; broken toilet, empty hand towel dispenser, and of course that oh-so-familiar urinal line-up. I dutifully headed on over to practice some target shooting and as I unzipped, was overwhelmed with a very strong sense of nostalgia. The co-mingling of piss and 'urinal-cake' brought me back to a younger, simpler time, spending hour after hour in the ridiculous Northern California heat at various car shows with my father. Yes, it seems that his penchant for beer would have us frequenting these fly-ridden water closets throughout the entire day of car browsing. As the older piss 'troughs' of yore (remember those?) gave way to traditional urinals, he kept it flowing, and apparently my mind was busy recording the scent of body odor, piss, and bad-smelling urinal biscuits for the express purpose of having me 'fondly' reflect on those simpler times.

As I finished my business and commenced to 'air dry' my hands (ie swinging my arms like an epilectic until my hands were reasonably less-than-soaked.) I was much less interested in finishing the beer resting on that floating porcelain flusher...and much MORE interested in hitting a car show, starting --- and finishing --- THAT beer, checking out some shiny Detroit steel, and icing the proverbial cake with some target practice on a hot stinky urinal mint... Dad would be so proud.

If I seem skeptical of the true intent of the latter-day 'conservationist', I believe I have good reason. Mired in ego and elitism, any 'good' that comes from (at least the loudest) of these groups strikes me as secondary. The importance of TELLING me and the rest of the world how much they're 'doing' in the way of recycling, hybrids, and law-passing most often takes precedence over 'just doing it'.

I find it fairly hypocritical to see a hybrid parked in the garage of a 3,000+ square foot home replete with 5 bedrooms of furnishings, multiple plasma TVs, yards of lawn to water, and every square inch filled with any and every piece of cheap plastic spontaneous purchase that the owners saw fit to buy. This isn't an issue of the 'haves and have-nots', it's a matter of conservation and the attitude of today's "environmentalists". Most of these 'finer' things that the purported 'eco-friendly' among us are purchasing are petroleum-based, and those that are not, require a variety of other chemicals that man-made factories must pollute to create. Those plush lawns require copious amounts of water to keep so lush and green. That pleasant 70 degrees in the house require hundreds of dollars a month in electricity to maintain. Cleaning supplies for carpets, drapes, furniture, etc; more waste. Trash collection? More of the same. What little doesn't go to a land-fill (a few bottles and cans) is minimal when compared to the clothing, trash, old electronics, and utilities that are consumed to maintain that lifestyle. The luxuries that life affords us are just that, luxuries, and that's fine and normal to want those things, but to propose that these people that recycle a can and buy a hybrid are somehow better than their neighbors who do neither is pretentious and absurd.

Conservationists have existed in many forms since this Country was formed, albeit without any necessity for labels to help identify the 'do-gooders' from those 'eco-abusers'. Examples of these people are still seen today which is why I am leery of the birkenstock crowd that 'claim' eco-consciousness. The TRUE conservationists are those like my aunt and uncle. Long before it was trendy to denounce using the most efficient energy source on the planet (um, oil!) or the 'abuses' of industry who are simply creating all that you currently use, these two people were quietly doing their part to keep their footprint on the planet to a minimum. They are the true conservatives. To save money and resources, (ie truly "re-using and recycling"), they grow their much of their own plants/food with fertilizer that is composted and mulched from waste that would otherwise see a city dump. Cheap, easily broken, (And Petroleum-based) Wal-Mart-esque products that will wind up in a land-fill with just a few years of use are shunned in favor of either home-made (often from free materials sourced from people that would otherwise dispose of it.) alternatives, or an initially costlier purchase that results in something that can be used for a generation or more. 'Luxuries' such as over-sized lawns are traded in favor of rocks and plants that use little to no water, keeping grass to a minimum. Things that are still functional though 'old/out-dated' simply are NOT thrown away. They will find someone, whether family, friends, or a charity, that can use it instead of tossing yet another item into the trash heap.

Ultimately, they purchase what they NEED and what they can USE, keeping what they 'want' to a minimum. Do they own a hybrid? No. But the 40 inch television they DO own has been in use for over 10 years. For vehicles, they own a small, fuel efficient compact truck (purchased used) for essential runs, and a 'gas-guzzler' (purchased new and owned for over 12 years) for towing trailers and hauling large items. Things that a hyrid simply CAN'T do. These people are EFFICIENT and consistent at it. What they own is actually USED and CONSUMED COMPLETELY before it is disposed of, and recycled for another use when possible. All of this while living IN TOWN and without feeling the need to tell me or their neighbors how 'wasteful' we are, or how much better THEY are because of how they choose to live their lives.

Welcome to the one and only Spork Maker. At some point I'll more than likely introduce you formally to the fascinating history of the spork, but for now all you need to know is that LIKE other blog spots, I have many interesting and varied topics. UNLIKE other blog spots, I'm not a (complete) idiot with special interests, ego-mania, spam to send, love chain-letters, and I definitely don't and never have owned a 'fanny pack', or anything that would or could fall into the "metro-sexual" department.