Page flutter

I am usually an open book. This makes it hard to be a poker player in a live setting. With emotions and sleeves and all, I’m often tempted to wear sleeveless shirts. However, those who know me know I don’t necessarily pack a lot of heat in the guns department, so anything that shows off my arms is usually more embarrassing than whatever part of my fragile emotional base I’m giving away.

A big part of this has to do with impulse control. I only bring this up because I just had to take my kid’s train set away from him. He is developing a nasty habit of pushing down his preschool classmates and, in lieu of smacking him around a bit, I took away his most prized possessions. His teacher–who also happens to be a very understanding good friend–suggests the kid’s impulse control isn’t necessarily keeping up with the rest of rapidly advancing brain. I worry sometimes that might be my fault.

That’s not actually not why I sat down to write. In fact, I sat down to tell you I’m not going to give much away today. Instead of an open book, I’m going to be more like the fluttering pages of a book when you’re flipping through it looking for a picture, or money, or a note from an old girlfriend. I’m not being coy, nor do I have any big secret. I’m just feeling a bit like a camel right now.

So, a bit of an early week mental massage for you.

Massage #1: After some good research and a weigh-in from Brother Otis MD, it appears that trying to measure the volume of a giraffe’s vagina as compared to a cow’s vagina is a futile activity. Apparently, a better way to measure is to consider the size of of their male counterparts’ junk. Some quick research shows a bull has about a three-foot penis (one-inch in diameter). I don’t have the exact measurements of a male giraffe’s penis, but a picture provided in the comments of the last post indicate the giraffe ain’t as well hung. So, thereya go? Oh, and why did I want to know?

Well, some of the places I play poker aren’t necessarily frequented by gentlemen. As such, I actually heard the phrase, “Tighter than a giraffe’s pussy” at a game last week. That spawned a long discussion about the relative tightness and, eventually, how it compared to a cow. I argued that despite the relative height, that a giraffe would have a smaller vagina. So, thereyago.

Massage #2: I love the theme songs from 1970s and 1980s TV. These days, people don’t write many show-opens or show-closers that are worth much. Jerry Bruckheimer users music to open a lot of his shows, but he is such a big fan of The Who that we don’t get any original material. Think back to the 1970s and 1980s and you’ll remember a ton of good theme songs. From “Cheers” to “Moonlighting” to “Barney Miller,” the music was about as good as you could want for the era.

I have long argued that the two best theme songs ever on television actually came from the same TV show. Which was that? Well, “WKRP” of course. Now, everybody knows the opening song. The outro is the lesser-appreciated tune. I spent years trying to figure out the lyrics. As it turns out, according to IMDB, while there is singing in the song, there are no lyrics. Apparently the exit song was the work of a bunch of studio musicians in Atlanta. While recording, they needed a vocal track to help them keep time with the music. So, somebody recorded a bunch of gibberish (which I’m sure contains the word “bartender” at least twice), and laid it down. When the producers heard the tune with the gibberish vocal track, they said, “We’ll take it!” And that was that. What I’d really like to know is where those studio musicians ended up and whether they ever recorded anything else I like.

Massage #3: As you might have read elsewhere, my wife’s car was burgled over the weekend. Lost in the crime was one of my most prized technological possessions: my Bose QC3s. At first I was like, “Ah, well. Them’s the breaks.” However, upon further thought, the Bose QC3s completed my technological circle. Without them I feel empty and leaking. And that makes me sad.

And that’s all, except for a picture of the resident therapy mutt–a great thinker on the subject unconditional love, provided that unconditionality doesn’t involve a fight for food or the new neighbors’ dog.

Labels: Mental Massage, Music, Parenting, TV