Monday, January 30, 2012

WHAT’S SO DARN FUNNY?

“The quality which appeals to the sense of the ludicrous or absurdly incongruous (meaning: inconsistent within itself – I looked it up). That’s how Webster tells us what “humor” is. That in itself is funny, but in a rather boring kind of way; don’t you think?
As a species, and we are superior at that, we believe we are the only ones who can laugh, smile, blush, balance checkbooks and watch Dancing with the Stars without puking. The last bit was an attempt in “humor”, as it made the sentence inconsistent within itself and absurdly surprising. If it made you giggle, you are on track; if you didn’t giggle, you don’t have a sense of humor, or you are in a really crappy mood – (it is funny; just so you know).
But Jane Goodall, our ultimate gorilla researcher, fully believes that her furry friends also laugh. I can swing with that, because we share about 96% of the same DNA structure with monkeys; some of us share even more than that, which explains why I have a constant craving for bananas and like to swing from tree to tree. (The old Danish joke is: to swing from tree to four-thirty… maybe it works better in Denmark!) I’m positive that Laughing Birds (AKA: Laughing Kookaburras, just in case you meet one) are not telling each other jokes and then roll on the jungle floor laughing, as those bird’s DNA does not even get close to ours (I hope).
So what is so darn funny? It varies on many levels and is really hard to explain. Just ask somebody why a joke is funny, and you’ll no doubt get the standard answer: “Because…” And I think that’s fair enough. I’m intrigued that we for the most are on the same track understanding the thinking, meaning and direction, when somebody says or does something funny, and I’m also fascinated by the speed of that understanding; we “get it” really fast.  
I like most jokes and humorous remarks, but rarely find below-the-belt jokes, meaning jokes about the lower parts of our anatomy and bodily functions, funny at all. I despise derogatory and mean-spirited jokes, as they are ignorant, cheap, stupid and despicable; it tells me a lot about the person who blurbs out that kind of junk.
And speaking about ignorant: I know a bunch of “dumb blond” jokes, but I seldom bring them up. But since we are on the subject, here’s my favorite “dumb blond” joke: Q: Why are dumb blond jokes so short? A: So men can understand them. You were a bit confused until the punch-line, huh? I like this one as it spells payback to all the men who tell these derogatory jokes, because that’s what they are – if you agree or not.
At times I find myself laughing out loud when I “see” a new joke. I was in Southern California and saw a billboard with a surfer and Hang Ten written in big letters; I assumed “hang ten” was a surfer term, as in ten toes wrapped over the edge of the surf-board, hanging on. I thought: “there must be a joke in there somewhere”. So this is what I came up with: “After the knife accident in the kitchen, Steven, the surfer-dude, could only hang seven”. So I met all Webster’s demands, especially the “absurd” part also known as the punch-line, and that’s the part that makes us laugh (if you have a sense of humor).
I like making people laugh, I really do. Am I good at it? I don’t have many friends, so you figure it out. Nevertheless, my tombstone will say: If I made you laugh – I lived.
When I poke fun of people around me, it is 99% as terms of endearment, and the last percent is about specific (absurd) things they say or do. I really believe that it is so healthy and refreshing when we can see the silly things we do and say ourselves; when we can laugh about it, we are not bad off at all.
Some people are funny and quick and not much around them escape their wit. Some people don’t get it and do not have the capacity to see the funny stuff we are constantly surrounded by – and I really feel sorry for them, because it is healthy to laugh - very much so. My Mother cannot say anything funny, but at least she knows when something is funny – and I enjoy making her laugh, as she has a terrific laughter, and then she is momentarily very happy.
Victor Borge said that a smile is the shortest distance between two people; I fully agree. But that distance is even shorter with laughter – (as long as nobody is laughing at me or what I wear)…
Let’s finish with a few jokes I have “constructed” and some that makes me giggle:
*** What do you call a gorilla that is into martial-arts? King-Kong-Fu
*** I have a dog that really likes children – preferably in Hollandaise.
*** A young woman is desperately searching the backseat of her car:
“What are you looking for?”
“My virginity; I lost it last night.”
*** Why do politicians kiss so many babies? Shouldn’t we be a bit worried? Should we call the police?

*** After people blow their noses, have you noticed how they check the results? For their information, brain-matter is reddish.

I like that a deciding factor of humor is explained as absurdity; other important ones are surprise and non-expected turns of words. So keep being funny, keep looking around and we will all laugh a lot more, because so many things are really funny. Taking ourselves too serious is not the way to forge ahead – only if we can laugh about it, of course.
 See you next Monday – HA HA HA
PS. Laughing triggers the release of dopamine (our bodies’ version of morphine). That’s why we feel so cleansed and relaxed after a good laughter. It's legal to get high this way, so let's go for addiction – okay?

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Monday, January 23, 2012

FACING A FEW PHRASES

I TRUST YOU AS FAR AS I CAN THROW YOU.
When I say that I trust you 2 feet 4 inches, you fully understand what I mean, huh? The gist of this phrase is that I trust you, but not a whole lot, because I can probably only throw you a few inches. I obviously trusted Victoria (my hamster) more than I trust you, because I threw her 45 feet and then some. I even trust she’ll return home any day now – I really miss her; wouldn’t you?
A BAKER’S DOZEN
This phrase dates back to 1200-something, meaning a bit more than 12. Not to short-change customers, bakers would add a loaf when they sold a dozen loaves, making it 13 (duh!) It was not so much about quantity, but more so about weight. Here’s a test for you: Go to your local baker and buy 12 loaves of bread and see if the baker-person automatically adds a 13th loaf – yeah, like that will happen. If not, remind the baker-person about this 812 year old law and the response will no doubt be “what?” Well, it’s worth a try, and good luck with that.
AWAY WITH THE FAIRIES
Not a phrase we use a lot today; most of you might not have heard this one at all – and here’s why: The phrase refers to a person who is not living or facing reality (politicians come to mind); they live in a dream & fantasy world of their own. Small elf-like beings are called fairies, and we can swing with that, but we can’t use that term if we feel an urge to be “politically correct” as it also refers to a sexual preference in a derogatory way. And isn’t that silly, because I do like the word “fairies”, but can only use it when I’m alone – and where’s the fun in that?
          For the most, phrases make immediate sense; we understand them right away, even if we haven’t heard them before. But again, why can’t we just say it like it is? “I don’t trust you” instead of that whole thing about throwing you around; there’s an idea. I’m still struggling with the Danish phrase (translated): “If and if and if, I wish my butt was pointed.” That’s what it says. Okay, so the deal is that we wish for something not attainable or so out of reach. But why wish for a pointed butt? Does anybody in Denmark know? Has anybody ever seen one? But of course, most phrases make for a more colorful language and I’m all for that; pointed butt or not.
A ROSE IS A ROSE IS A ROSE
Yeah, I know, not one of the more popular ones. It’s a line Gertrud Stein formulated in a poem back in 1913 and it refers to: “when all is said and done / it is what it is”. I have always liked this phrase, but more so because I was fascinated by the person who introduced me to it – go figure. I don’t use it often as the response for the most is: “What? – Gertrud Steiness who?” So I give up…
BASKET CASE
Here’s a phrase I never use, not even in my writing. When we do use “basket case” it is a reference to people who are out of it, miserable, suffering and so forth; we all get that. But it’s the origin I have a problem with. In World War I, the phrase was used concerning men who had lost their arms and legs, and could only be transported in a basket. The phrase was also used during other wars, but the medical establishment adamantly deny the use of this phrase as a medical term or a term used to describe such unfortunate patient’s condition; yeah, whatever. Even though the term is descriptive, it is rather cruel, insensitive and sad. So I refrain from using it, of course. Wouldn’t you?
A SKELETON IN THE CLOSET
Or a skeleton in the cupboard, as they say in England. Sure, real skeletons are found from time to time, but the phrase is referring to secrets of shame, stupid stuff we are trying to conceal. “Coming out of the closet” is a variant of that, and not solely to make public one’s sexual preference; but it has come to be used more so in that connection, than used in the garden-variety of so many other concealments and secrets.
AN ACT OF GOD
Believe it or not, the above refers to an act which is accepted legally as being outside of human control. Can you believe that? To me it’s the ultimate stretch to justify or rectify any action not explainable by humans (so we blame God, of course). I should have known this when I was a kid.
“Where’s your home-work, Peter?”
“It was an act of God, Sir…”
“Your dog ate it?” I didn’t have a dog, so I would go to plan B.
“No, God did; you go ask Him…” I would spend that afternoon in the principal’s office, being reprimanded concerning respect towards God and dogs.
THE APPLE OF MY EYE
The central aperture of the eye is called the apple, I believe; so let’s go with that. Being the apple of somebody’s eye is substantial, meaning somebody cherished and loved and all that stuff. The opposite of “the apple of my eye” is of course “the apple in my eye”… been there, done that – and it still hurts… I didn't know she hated me that much.
          I do like phrases, no matter how weird some of them are; they dramatize our languages and make them more alive. But with so many things we are saying, terms we are using, we don’t always know the origin and in some cases why we are using them; but we forge ahead anyway, keeping our languages colorful in the process and I have absolutely no problem with that; do you?
Tune in next Monday, please…
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Monday, January 16, 2012

WHAT’S IN A NAME? – A lot and then some

Peadar, Pedro, Pekka, Pere, Petro, Pierre and Pieter are just a few variants of the name Peter. My true favorite is the Latin version which is Petrus – but don’t ever call me that, as well as I don’t like to be called Pete – my name is Peter, and I’ll stick with that. Do you like your name and do you really know what it means?
Peter is also a biblical name, related to Saint Peter given to him by Jesus C., meaning rock or stone for some reason or another. When you really dig into what’s in a name, it can get rather interesting. I asked my Mother many years ago how she chose Peter and though there is so much to that name, her simple answer was: “I liked the sound of it.” Not really making me feel utterly special name-wise, huh?
We are often being blessed (and just as often not) with other family member’s names, dead or alive. When those names really suck, they are quickly turned into middle initials instead and will never be mentioned again. Just ask somebody what their middle initial stand for and you’ll see a stern lack of willingness to expose such deep secrets.
My middle initial is B and stands for Bo and has absolutely nothing to do with any dead or alive relatives of mine. My Mother was filing my name-documents after I was born and the woman behind the counter asked if she had a middle name for me. My Mother said “no” and the clerk told her that it was the thing to do at the time. My Mother asked the clerk if she had any suggestions and the clerk said “What about Bo?” and my Mother said “okay” (of course in Danish, which is pretty much the same as in English). So as the unimportance of Bo became clear, it quickly turned into the initial B, and not mentioned since; I could also tell you the B is for Byron, but that would be lying, wouldn't it? But Byron sounds so cool and aristocratic, don't you think?
I had only been in the USA for a week or so and was invited to this gallery-opening in Beverly Hills. The rituals here in America, when meeting new people, the introductions and all that, were totally new to me. In Denmark you could spend a whole evening chatting with somebody and know absolutely nothing about them when you went home. Here you exchange names and pleasantries up front; getting it out of the way, I guess.
One of the first persons I was introduced to said: “Hello, my name is Richard (whatever); and please don’t call me Dick…” I was a bit puzzled, since I had no reason to call him “dick” as we had just met and therefor didn’t know if he was. But then somebody explained to me that Dick was a shorter version of Richard – go figure.
I have never really cared for these abbreviated names. Like Robert is Bob, Rob, Bobby, Bert – but why? (I have always had a hard time with the name Bob; too often I spell it backwards). Katherine is a lovely name, but is often torn apart becoming Kat, Kate, Kathy, Katie and so forth. William becomes Bill (why?) Billy, Willie, Wilmot and Wullie (seriously, Wullie in some countries; Scotland, I think). The base name of William is Wilhelm, which I think is a glorious name. Deborah is a classic, but ruined by Deb and Debbie. Anthony is such a grand name, so why Tony. Mark Antony & Cleopatra would never have made it as Tony & Cleo would they?
And then we do that nickname thing. I know, terms of endearment is related, but some of these names – helloooo… Angel, Babe, Baby Cakes, Big Boy, Boo Bear, Bunny, Buttercup, Cuddle Cakes, Cutie Pie, Doll Face, Dream Boat and the list is long. My all-time favorite is of course Stud-Muffin... Well, anyway; when I was a young boy, my first Sister-in-law called me Nullermand. Translated from Danish it means Dust-Bunny, like those unwanted tumbleweed-like dust creations under your bed. I never figured out why she called me that, but I didn’t care because I liked her a lot – I still do.
On the other side we have rude and cruel name-calling, for the most uttered behind the target’s back. Fatso, weight-challenged, chatter mouth, four-eyes, slim, dingbat, nitwit, zit and feel free adding your own library; we all have them and they are not very nice, are they? That type of name-calling is ignorant and that’s why you and I don’t do it – true?
So how much do you know about your own name? Why are you named what you are? What does your name really mean? Why did you parents name you what they named you? And on a scale from 1-10 how really embarrassing is your middle name? I told you mine; now tell me yours.
I like the fact that my name Peter means rock & stone. But the only association related to me that I can see would be my buns-of-steel; though they have seriously tarnished over the last few years.
See you next Monday, Darling...
Petrus B. Steinuss (whatever)
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Monday, January 9, 2012

WE DANCE – but why?

We should be tired, because we have been dancing since 3,300 BC. Solid proof of that materialized under one of the Carnac Stones (from around 3,300 BC) located in Brittany (France), where archaeologists found the white bell-bottom-disco-pants John Travolta wore in Saturday Night Fever. If you don’t believe me, look it up yourself.

I like music, I got rhythm and I can snap, tap and whistle it all with the best of them. But can I dance? If you consider that I do not physically flow well with any music; that I feel utterly stupid on a dance-floor and you consider my overall dislike of social dancing: I can’t dance if my life depended on it. So why do you dance?

Dancing is rhythmic movements of our bodies to music (obviously not mine). It is non-verbal expression and communication that can be participatory, social, performed, ceremonial, competitive and erotic/sensuous (as in exotic North-Pole dancing, by Mrs. Santa Claus, remember?) We dance for spiritual and religious reasons; we do the ballet and modern dance; we folk-, square-, line- and ballroom dance; we dance for healing purposes as well as the everyday war & rain dances. And let’s not forget tap-dancing which can, for the most, be enjoyed outside occupied restrooms (toilets, as some readers call them).  And then we have my all-time favorite, the  mating dance– oh, that’s listed For Animals Only; but of course you still see a connection, don’t you?

For me, social (participatory) dancing was hell from the beginning. I was forced to go to all the school-dances. Girls lined up against one wall; the twisting, turning and in severe pain boys on the other wall. We had finally evolved from hitting each other as a sign of liking each other (and it had worked so well) to where we were now encouraged to dance with each other instead. The shy, the awkward, the weight-challenged, the ones with glasses, zits, low personal hygiene and bad breath were never asked to dance; not just in retrospect, but how cruel was that? I looked in the mirror back then and I, for one, would not dance with me either. Brutal rejections were noted on my dance-card and sadly accepted; just part of growing up, harvesting low self-esteem and being insecure.

But for a glorious moment, I did succeed in one bit of dancing – on wheels…

At 13 and fully interested in that other gender, I was seriously attracted to a much older girl (16) in school. I found out that she was into roller-skating-pair-dancing. I was a fairly good roller-skater so I got my Mother to sign me up at the same dance-studio; I never told my Mother the real reason. Jytte (the girl’s name) was paired up with another girl, as boys found roller-skating-pair-dancing to be a thing for fruitcakes and not macho on any level. I didn’t care because I was the only boy in the middle of 17 cute girls on skates and I was so much in love/lust.

Jytte was beautiful as she hovered above the floor, the short skirt and her long legs pouring into those white skate-boots. With hard work and practice, it didn’t take me long to prove myself worthy of her highly developed skating skills and we soon became a pair; though not precisely the kind of pair I had fantasized about. But still, getting to hold her and glide over the floor with her was heaven.

When we came in second in the first big contest we entered, she swung her arms around me, hugged me and kissed my very surprised lips for the longest time – really; and she didn’t let go of her trophy or my hand the rest of the evening. I have since wondered what would have happened if we had won the championship – oh well. A bum knee ended my world with Jytte – dancing was unfortunately all we ever did (sigh)…


Overall women dance better than men. I don’t know what it is, but we (the men-gender) look, for the most, uncomfortable, stiff and silly. We do that lower-lip biting, snapping fingers on the wrong beat, at the same time trying desperately to smile, chat and be utterly charming while unsuccessfully make them feet move in any form of pattern that would simulate dancing. I for one cannot do all those things at the same time. Women just swing their hips and bodies and dance along as if they really like to do so; and I’m convinced they do and that's why they are good at it...

And talking about performance dancing: back in my youth I was fortunate to hang around and party with members of the Royal Danish Ballet for a few years. This opened doors for me to their training and practices as well as the many performances at the Royal Theatre; ballet was new to me, but I got caught at once. The sensuality of these dance performances was and is stunning and utterly awesome. I never got into the stories they are telling, but more so the performance by each and every dancer on stage. The hard training, the sacrifices and the extraordinary discipline is still inspiring – and they sure knew how to party… Most performance dances still make me go: wow!

So why are you dancing? I asked some friends (for me that is called: extensive research) and both responded: music. I can swing with that, but isn’t there a lot more to it? I remember when I attempted dancing a few times, there were several reasons, but for the most it was to be physically closer to somebody (not just anybody, mind you), but somebody I found special. What are your reasons?

I rarely dance by myself, like some people do, especially not in the shower; I’m told that’s against the law or something – or is that singing? If there is a possibility to dance and my wife is around, she will drag me out on the floor and I admit that I like that, not the dragging part, but dancing with my wife – remember? Somebody special.

Don’t get me wrong, I truly respect people who like dancing, enjoy it for the sheer excitement, social interaction, movement, music and rhythm. I certainly respect those dudes who are desperately trying to hit the beat with hips, snapping fingers and too many feet while biting that lower lip; I think they are very brave – but that’s precisely why you’ll never see me out there; only if my wife drags me – but also because she’ll slow-dance with me; talking about a lucky guy…

Until next Monday: Cha-Cha-Cha

NOT my wife and me (my hair is white)


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Monday, January 2, 2012

PETS – are people too; whatever!

In the USA, 63% of households have pets (not including children acting like animals); to me, pets  are cats and dogs - but that's just me. We have about 164 million of those guys; we know precisely how many, because they all sat very still while we counted them - twice. Other so-called pets weigh in at 18 million small animals (rats and other rodents), 16 million birds (why?), 11 million reptiles (yuk!) and 148 million live Sushi (that would be fish…). We spent $45.4 billion on pets in 2009 and $17.4 billion of that on food alone; imagine the clean-up. Long live the pooper-scooper.
There are many reasons we have pet-relations. For some they enhance life (a splendid reason to get an 8 meter boa constrictor); they give you unconditional love (hamsters and turtles equally so); they help you relax (Pit-bulls on steroids are good at that); they motivate exercise (pet slugs are recommended); they lower our blood pressure and we can play with them, cuddle and love them. My cynical point is: wouldn’t it be great if we could get some of that positive stuff from human beings as well? There’s an idea.
Our cat Mindy adores small foam rubber balls. We throw them to the other end of the house and she runs after them, picks them up, brings them back, sits down and wait till we throw them again; and we do. To make it more interesting she soaks the balls in the water bowl. We keep telling her that she is not a blooming Golden Retriever; but she just looks at us, points at the ball and smile. Isn’t that adorable? Don’t you just hate listening to people’s stupid pet stories? I do; but I like telling mine, because they are so cute – go figure.
I am not a pet-lover, but Tess, our one year old Lab-Rottweiler mix is cute and lovely, great character and sweet as can be. Aforementioned Mindy is something else for a two-year old cat; but that’s about all the pets I can take. I am not fond of other people’s pets. I’m so sick and tired of being sniffed in crotch and butt by some dog I have no relationship with, while the owner is giggling: "Oh, I'm so sorry". I’m not keen on snakes and slugs, turtles and birds and other impersonal creatures. I know, when we admit we don't like pets, we are marked evil as can be, but I can’t lie about my pet-feelings; I could of course keep my mouth shut – but that’s impossible…
Overall we are positive and protective of our pets, which of course we should be. They do give us something special and that’s why we have had this relationship for thousands of years – and then they had to invent the pooper-scooper.
But we can also be cruel. In a small town south of here, they have an annual THE UGLIEST DOG pageant. So all these ugly dogs compete, and the ugliest dog win – and everybody is laughing and pointing and being very insensitive. Do the dogs care? I think they do. I must admit that last year’s winner was ugly, but in a unique and charming kind of way. But I still saw severe sadness behind those crossed eyes and that very long tongue just hanging there dripping saliva. The owner was ecstatic; in my opinion, the owner could have won the contest herself – paws down.
We humans have beauty pageants, but if anybody dare suggest an ugly pageant, that person would be executed as inhumane and ignorant (besides stupid and insensitive). But we can vote for an ugly dog – where’s the fairness in that?
And while we are on the subject (huh?): Have you noticed how some long-time couples start to sound alike? You ask him a question and she automatically answers and they finish each other's sentences. What is even more troubling is when they start to look alike. And finally they start to look like their pets – dogs for the most. Isn’t that weird? Of course in some cases it’s actually an improvement - no offense to the dogs…
Some say dogs are smart, but I’m not fully convinced. Sure they can bring a flock of sheep together (which can come in handy); they can corral a pair of slippers in seconds, retrieve sticks, balls and newspapers all day long; that’s smart okay. But then they clean that part of their anatomy with their tongues as well as they eat cat poop. Maybe I missed something, but where does “smart” fit in again? Yeah, I know, they are animals, no matter how domesticated we try to make them – and then we let them lick our faces; Yuk!

We do find comfort, love and trust from most of our pets; they make great companions and I can't fathom a world without them. When Mindy curl up in my lap and Tess gives out this long comfy noise lying next to me on the sofa, it does make me feel all warm and fuzzy – it really does. It momentarily makes me forget the feeling of my hand in a small plastic-bag, wrapping my fingers around a pile of newly dumped poop, still warm and so severely disgusting. I really despise that part – big time. What is worse is that you can’t hide the bag in your pocket because that would be gross and messy. The poop-in-the-bag has to swing along for the rest of the walk for all to see. Where’s the cool factor in that? Nowhere! But I do it because it’s the right thing to do and then I secretly think my wife looks at me as being responsible by doing my poop-duty; as long as I wash my hands when we get home - which I do most of the time...

Until next Monday: woof-woof


Aren’t they absolutely adorable?
If you want to hear more cute pet-stories just give me a call. I got thousands of them – I can’t wait to tell you.
But please don’t tell me yours, okay?
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