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## what're you lookin' at? 04/20/2013 0 Comments From The Desk of Walter's Brain: There were over 311 million people in the United States in 2011 and AC Nielson says 290 million of them are television viewers. Not so surprising, 290 million. Not as surprising as the other number— the 311 minus 290 number. Because if 290 million butts are in 290 million La-Z-Boys at any given time, where are the other 21 million butts? I always figured there must be SOME strange people out there who didn’t watch TV, some weird lone wolves trying to buck the system, but 21 million? That’s a lot of unsedentary asses. What’re these people staring at instead of Survivor? What other diversion have they come up with to tick away the irretrievable minutes on their life clocks? How do they keep busy while eating dinner? These folks can’t all be mountain men, living by their wits, unplugged, in the wilderness. Even hermits can get Dish TV nowadays. Are they street people? Heroin addicts? Smug college professors? I feel sorry for them, these poor losers; they’ve missed so much already. I’m sure none of them can quote Seinfeld catch phrases. Or sing the Empire carpet jingle. I bet they’ve never Danced with the Stars. And odds are, they’ve never seen one, single Girl going Wild. It’s their own fault, you know. TVs are everywhere. If these oddballs aren’t watching one, they’ve only themselves to blame. I suppose they’re too busy watching sunsets and surfing the actual ocean. Or talking to each other. Maybe they’re doing something really scary: like reading. Add Comment ## yawning of a new era 04/02/2013 0 Comments From The Desk Of Walter's Brain: I was treated again to an unedited view of the inside of a stranger’s mouth today. Fillings, bridgework, Juicy Fruit, the whole show. A lady, and I’m stretching the term here, on the train let loose with an all-out, open-mouthed, hippo yawn. It was like Animal Planet a foot and a half away. People do these now, the wide-open cavern yawn. On the street, busses, stores, wherever. Extending their jaws like snakes swallowing a pig. Maybe they don’t remember where they are, unaware they’re outside. Or they don’t see thirty other people around. Could be they don’t realize they’re yawning. Maybe they’re just really proud of their dental work. I think about these yawning hippos as I dodge the globs of spit, hocked up loogies spattered freely across the city’s sidewalks interspersed with cigarette butts, burning and not burning, and samples of crap products nobody seems to want even for free. Ah, but then I think, you know, that open-mouthed yawn could’ve been an uncovered sneeze. Add Comment ## Movin' On Up 03/22/2013 0 Comments From The Desk Of Walter’s Brain: I never took advanced placement classes in school. No honors English. No AP Biology. I was definitely not a candidate for skipping a grade. In fact, in some cases, I kind of went in the other direction. But the conventional wisdom goes like this: “Whoa, Johnny’s doing really well in Freshman Algebra. He’s acing all his tests, 104% on everything he does. He understands the theories easily, absorbs information like a sponge. He’s way ahead of any other kid in his class.” The conventional solution for Johnny’s terrible predicament goes like this: “Since Johnny’s doing so incredibly well, sailing through his present level, it obviously means he’s not being ‘challenged’ by the work. Learning what’s expected of him and getting straight A’s must be boring to poor Johnny. Let’s pull Johnny out of that tedious, ol’, age-appropriate, Freshman class and stick him into a more ‘advanced,’ more ‘stimulating’ Sophomore class.” In other words: let’s take Johnny out of an environment where he’s far superior to everyone around him, a situation where he can excel, and artificially introduce him into a new environment where he’s just average again. Congratulations Johnny, you’ve just been rewarded! (Said the kid in remedial reading.) Add Comment ## go bless yourself 03/13/2013 0 Comments From The Desk Of Walter's Brain: I stopped saying “bless you” to people when they sneeze. I used to be a big bless you guy, jumping in mid-sneeze before the spittle even settled. Dutifully blessing total strangers, if necessary, calling out into crowds sometimes, blanketing the room to catch the anonymous sneezer, leaving no expectoration unacknowledged. Not to single out anyone’s deity, I went with the non-secular bless you and left the God part to someone else. It’s an old custom; it’s polite. It’s up there with “please” and “thank you” and “your zipper’s open.” It’s the thing to do. Then I started thinking about it. One theory says, a long time ago, back when we all wore buckles on our hats, we believed “bless you” could ward off the Black Plague. Another theory says people thought demons would somehow occupy our body or our soul or our sinuses, I guess, whenever we sneezed. Commanding God to bless the sneezer soon after warded off the devil spawn and kept the hay fever sufferer demon-free. “Prithee kind sir, whilst I work my magic and keep thee absent of nasal imps.” Or something like that. Which made me think some more: Okay, there might be a God out there someplace, but demons? I’m not so sure. I can’t say I possess that kind of expertise. And battling evil spirits who can jump into your very soul the split second between Ahhh and Chooo, that’s really outside my skill set. I certainly don’t feel I wield the kind of power it’d take to keep them at bay so I stopped pretending I did. I stopped saying: “bless you.” And now there’s this huge empty space after the sneeze when the sneezer looks at me, waiting, waiting, narrowing their eyes after they don’t get the expected response. They’re thinking: Hey, what’s gotten into this guy? I don’t know, demons, maybe? Add Comment ## Eat Me! 01/27/2013 0 Comments From The Desk Of Walter's Brain: Whenever I see one of those big guys, those beefy athletic guys, not roly-poly chubby guys, but stocky ex-high school jocks, that kind of guy. Every time I see one of them coming my way, especially in shorts, I think: “Man if I were ever stranded on a deserted island, no food, and had to resort to cannibalism, I’d sure like to have a guy like that along.” Okay, I’m not a big fan of cannibalism, don’t get me wrong, I’m not a practicing cannibal; I don’t make a habit of it. But I respect it as a lifestyle choice, I guess, like vegans or the Rotary, if that’s your thing. So if the situation ever came up, if I was ever pressed into making that decision, and it’d be a tough one: eat human flesh or starve in the Andes, I really want to have a big beefy guy nearby. I’m not thinking about his ass at this point, this meal ticket, when he’s lumbering toward me, though that’s where the biggest chunk of meat is, the rump roast. I’m not imagining that to be a tasty morsel. I’m turning my head to the side; I’m looking at his calves. I’m eyeing those two big drumsticks, those huge Fred Flintstone drumsticks. I’m picturing Wilma serving them to me on a giant, prehistoric dinner plate that tips my car on its side. There’s no real point to the supermodel matchstick gams. Nice to look at, sure, but save those for the first course, the hors d’oeuvre platter. No, give me the six hours on the Stair Master ham-hocks, that softball-in-the-park, honkin’ juicy dark meat. Think about it the next time you get on a plane. Switch seats with your fellow passengers until you’re next to the beefiest guy in the cabin. He may come in handy! Add Comment