Modulate, Please!

Who are these people?  You know the ones, those loud-talkers that call attention to themselves in places that were once civil and respectable establishments.

Take this recent dining experience—I’m sitting with the one I love, sifting through my salad, enjoying “normal” conversation, when this sudden noise, this garish shriek of uninteresting garbage, this overloud television commercial of a human being intrudes upon my space to share their day’s events with me, instead of quietly with the person across from them.

I find myself asking an unanswerable question: “Why does this clueless fool feel the need to share their banal personal life with the rest of us?”

Sadly, I always conclude with the obvious:

“Because they appear to indeed be clueless.”

At least I hope that’s why.  Because if ignorance is not the reason for being one of those loud-talking louts who interrupt (dare I say sabotage?) decent social behavior, then the only other conclusion would be selfishness, rudeness, or maybe just plain mean arrogance.

That is a rather frightening thought.

To those scary souls I say:

“MODULATE, PLEASE!”

But it’s not just in restaurants, not just clueless loud-talkers, sharing endless streams of trite drivel.  How about those cell phone gum-flappers?  Or those parents who publicly scream at their kids?  You know the ones that must be suffering from a mild case of amnesia, thinking that they are in their living rooms as they demand that little Sally or Bobby—for the tenth time!—pick up that toy RIGHT NOW!  ONE…TWO…Don’t make me count to THREE!

There is a rudeness going around these days, like a virus, only one with no hypodermic needle available as a remedy for this bizarre epidemic.  I say bizarre because the solution is simple manners, common decency, and the ability to differentiate between acceptable public behavior and the unacceptable.

But that’s just it.  Sadly, again, I am not sure enough people actually understand what acceptable public behavior is anymore.

“MODULATE, PLEASE!”

Blame can be doled out in several places, starting with the breakdown of family values.  These things need to be taught at home, at the beginning of one’s early development, as necessary as learning to read or walk.

Technology is an easy target.  After all, with electronic communication and social networking readily available at the touch of one’s fingertips, folks feel that the world is in their living rooms.  But is that any excuse for selfish, rude, intrusive behavior?  Sadly, again, it is not.

Frankly, I’m befuddled.  Because while I embrace having the world at my doorstep and fingertips, I have never used my cell phone in an intrusive, rude, or selfish manner.  Never imagined doing so.

Leading me to conclude that this problem—be it loud-talkers in public places, rude cell phone barkers, heavy bass music blarers, or oversaturated cologne and perfume spritzers—is linked to the spirit, the essence of our existence.  Basic tenets of decency taught to most of us…but somehow recently forgotten.

Simple, basic—HUMAN—behavioral traits like:

·        Kindness

·        Unselfishness

·        Being charitable

·        Politeness

·        Giving

·        Sharing

·        Considerate

·        Common decency

Anyone who argues that they are all of the above yet exhibit any of the sad behavior mentioned in this post are not only fooling themselves, but polluting the world.

Think about it.

Until next time…

peace (and quiet),

Mike

Walking My Pet Peeves

Most of my writing—and I certainly hope that you would agree with this—focuses on the positive, from my nutritional and fitness tips, to my motivational and inspirational messages—even my music and humorous stuff is created to not only entertain, but to educate (yes, even this sad self-deprecating homage to follicle longing).

Yet (and some close family members and lifelong friends may be inclined to debate this) I remain a human being, one with flaws, faults, foibles, and faux pas (and those are just the “F”s). I do not wear my Mike Foster-goofy-grin-with-green-teacup face all the time, especially while I am in a car, either driving it or witnessing someone else manning the wheel.

Certain peccadilloes of human bizarre behavior seem to present themselves more frequently while scooting through traffic, many of these irk, irritate, infuriate, and raise my ire (and those are just the “I”s) to the point of adding them to my list of pet peeves.

Take, for example, the directional signal. This is one misused, seldom used, and overused instrument of driving that drives me nuts.

Scenario One: You’re driving in a queue of traffic, approaching a left-turn-only turn lane, you:

a) drive into the lane, idle in traffic while waiting for the light to turn, then when the arrow turns green, and as you proceed to turn you put your left blinker on, effectively indicating to the other drivers that you are going to turn left…IN A LEFT-TURN-ONLY LANE!!!

b) Approach the intersection, start to weave into the left-turn-only lane, you stomp on your brakes, slow down to a maddening crawl, pull into your lane of choice…THEN PUT ON YOUR DIRECTIONAL, effectively indicating to the poor soul behind you that which he already knows.

c) You flip your directional indicator on several miles before your turn, click-click-clicking away in oblivious nirvana, then actually get into the left-turn-only lane, blinker blinking away like a manic tweaker, sitting in queue, click-click-clicking the obvious, then when the light turns green, continue through the intersection, your directional still snapping away as you proceed to make a left turn around the world.

d) all of the above...are idiots!

As you can see I have a bit of a problem with the left-turn-only lane and the misuse of the directional signal. But my annoyance with blinkers does not stop there, oh, no. How about the guy who swerves in front of you, sans blinker, then slams on the brakes…THEN PUTS HIS DIRECTIONAL ON!! Why bother, buddy?

Or how about what this guy has to say about pet peeves?

WALKING MY PET PEEVES



Then we have the fast lane versus the slow lane, or the left lane, what we used to call the passing lane back when I went to driver’s education, and the right lane, the lane reserved for those who are related to snails.

Can someone explain to me why anyone drives in the left lane, the supposedly passing lane, and refuses to drive the speed limit—I’m talking about driving BELOW the speed limit?! Anyone?

While this pet peeve rankles, riles, and ruffles my feathers (that’s right, those are just the “R”s), I also use it as a self-challenge in practicing patience…excellent time spent plotting diverse ways at torturing the slow-Joe creating his own personal parade in the high-speed lane. And then, after a month of driving behind this joker, I am finally able to pass, casting a stink-eye glance at the culprit…only to see that it is some harmless, kind-looking, elderly woman who bears such a striking resemblance to my mother my guilt overwhelms me to the point of almost driving into a tree.

Okay, I understand that most of us behave differently inside the protective, stereo-blasting, French fry-eating, cell phone-chatting, Facebook-updating safety of our own vehicles, but my last pet peeve so bothers, bugs, bewilders, and befuddles (uh-huh, just the “B”s) me I am almost at a loss for words…key word being “almost.”

Smoking. Anyone or anything. Anywhere or anytime. I will never understand why anyone who has ever learned to read past the third-grade level would ever smoke a cigarette. Besides being the most rude, reprehensible, repulsive, and ridiculous (need I say that those are just the “R”s?) habit I can imagine, it has been proven to be so unhealthy for you that to ingest burning leaves of tobacco into your once clean lungs can only be the actions of a crazy person…or someone who needs my help.

***Serious segue*** You can stop smoking, by the way, I did and millions of people have. My video site, livelife365.com, has hundreds of videos that can help. And even though I am about to go off on a tangent aim in your general direction, I really do feel for you…to a point.***

Anyway, where was I? Right, discussing in the form of a diatribe about how smoking is disgusting, dangerous, damaging, and degrading. Anyone who has ever shared an elevator car with someone who has just spent their fifteen minute break puffing away on a cancer stick understands what a preview of hell might be like.

Let’s pretend smoking doesn’t smell horrendous, or will kill you sooner rather than later, what about that dreaded smoker’s cough? Working in an office, I am serenaded daily by the hacking wheeze of the chronic smoker’s phlegm-filled foghorn bellowing from the mouths, throats, and, sadly, lungs of my clueless coworkers. Do I feel empathy and compassion? Yes. But I also feel sad and peeved, prompting me to take steps…like writing this blog post, and praying and hoping that someday, very soon, these misdirected and weak individuals will get the help they need to live the life they surely desire.

So, next time I am driving to work, watching the click-click-clicking of a misguided directional signal in the car in front of me, who is also hogging the passing lane for reasons known only to he or she, and I am finally able to pass this “interesting” person, and I glance over and notice that he or she is puffing madly away on a cigarette, I will—gulp—nod, wave, smile, and continue on my way, ready to embrace my day, knowing that when in doubt:

TAKE YOUR PET PEEVE FOR A WALK!


You’ll be glad you did.


Until next time…


peace,


Mike

You're Doing What, Mom?

I just got off the phone with my mom. She lives Back East. She is a recent widow. This past December, my stepfather passed away, and my mom now occupies their large home by herself. While still grieving, she is determined to move on with her life, to persevere, to live life 365, like the website says. Little did I know how determined she is!

Like I said, I just hung up the phone (or, in this age of flip-open cell phones: I snapped it closed and slipped it back into my pocket) after experiencing a rather odd conversation with my mother. Now, more often than not, a conversation with my mom borders on oddness, meanders around the strange, and all too frequently is laced with nonsensical utterances. This one was no exception, except she also added that, a mere three months since the passing of my stepfather, she is “seeing” someone. Not “dating” someone. According to those seventy-something romantics, “seeing” is strictly dining and watching a movie together. While “dating” is something that my fifty-something brain cannot, will not, and refuses to wrap itself around. The bizarre conversation went something like this:

MIKE: Hi, Ma, how are you holding up?

MOM: Oh, fine, just fine…doing better.

MIKE: That’s great. So, what’s new?

MOM: Oh, you know, nothing much. (sounds of fork and knife against dishes and food being masticated)

MIKE: Same here. What are you doing, eating? Want me to call back?

MOM: Oh, no, it’s okay. (whispering sounds away from the phone)

MIKE: Is someone there?

MOM: Huh? (giggle)

MIKE: Ma?

MOM: I’m here…(away from the phone): No, let me get that, Dave (not his real name)

MIKE: Dave?

MOM: Oh, he’s trying to put the dishes away.

MIKE: Huh?

MOM: Huh? (giggle, sounds of dishes clattering, more chewing sounds, and something that may or may not have been a belch)

MIKE: Huh?

MOM: Michael?

MIKE: Ma? What’s going on?

MOM: Oh, you remember Dave? From the neighborhood?

MIKE: Dave? What’s he doing there?

MOM: (away from the phone): Michael says “hi.”

MIKE: Ma?

On and on it went like that, only it got worse, took stranger and weirder turns until my head was spinning like a gyro. Through my dizziness, I finally found the fortitude to say goodbye and hang up. After several minutes of mental Ping-Pong, I debated having my first drink of alcohol since 1993, then opted instead to create this video:



You see, besides my shock at discovering my mom was “seeing” someone less than three months after my stepfather went off to meet his Maker, I was taken aback by her choice of gentleman callers. Not that there is anything wrong with Dave (not his real name); actually, Dave is a great guy. Now. But back in the day, when I was a wild child, a hyperactive menace, an energy-driven sports junkie, I kicked, tossed, hurled, belted, flipped, flew, flung, booted, upchucked, and projectile-vomited every known object of recreational activity—baseball, bat, glove, Frisbee, tennis ball, football, badminton racket, golf club, shuttlecock, and kickball—into our neighbor’s fenced-in backyard…into our neighbor Dave’s (not his real name) yard. And do you know what Dave did? Hmmm?

HE KEPT THEM! ALL OF THEM! EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM!

Today, as a moderately mature adult, I can certainly understand where Dave (still not his real name) was coming from. Who would want some snot-nosed brat shucking and shoveling every ball or sports equipment known to man into his backyard? Not me, now! And certainly not Dave, then!

But as a kid, an athletic kid who adored sports and wanted nothing more than to run wild in his yard playing make-believe Red Sox games in which he was at bat in the bottom of the ninth with the winning runs on base, I was devastated. And out a lot of balls. But I got better, got over it, moved on, actually forgot about it as the decades came and went and the balls of my youthful dreams evolved into balls that, in the name of good taste, shall remain nameless.

And don’t even get me started on the differences between “seeing” someone and actually “dating” them. To quote my mother:

“Oh, no, Michael, we’re just friends, it will never come to that, and he understands that.”

Me: “Ma, come on, he’s a man, even if he’s in his seventies, he is a man and men would much rather ‘date’ someone that merely ‘see’ them.”

Leading me to this conclusion: what can ya do? I mean, she’s a grown woman who knows, for the most part, what she’s doing. If she wants to “see” the guy who used to steal my balls, then God bless her. It’s better than “dating” the guy who used to steal my balls, I guess.

But do me one favor, huh, Ma? As this “seeing” eventually evolves into “dating,” and that morphs into something I CANNOT EVEN BEGIN TO IMAGINE!...can you do me one big favor? Huh?

Can you ask Dave (okay, really, not his real name…not even close) if he still has my balls? And if he does, can I have them back?


Until next time…

peace,

Mike

Is It Just Me?

Picture this peaceful scenario:

I'm relaxing upon my sofa (or couch), in my serene living room, TV on, muted (as always), watching my beloved Red Sox as they battle for the pennant, my faithful laptop warming my lap (and transmitting God-knows-what variety of electrons and microwaves and unspeakable potential doom into my nether regions), enjoying the fruits of my (and my lovely wife's) labor. Ahh, nothing like living the American Drea--

VRRRRRROOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!
SCCCRRREEETCCCCHHHH!!!!!

A car. Moving very fast. Speeding along my street. A street, by the way, that has a speed limit of 25 mph. A street, I might add, that stretches not much longer than the size of five house lots. (This being California, the Golden State, otherwise known as the state-with-postage-stamp-sized-lots, those lots are not large.) A street, if you will allow me to continue, that is situated between two stop signs, with my house smack-dab (I have never used this expression before, but it sounds so good here, doesn't it?)...ahem...smack-dab in the middle of those two stop signs.

My point being (and I DO have one, you know), is that one (and when I say "one," I'm talking about dozens of [add your favorite expletive here]) would have to really, really WANT to seriously exceed the 25 mph speed limit to buzz so fast past my house--AFTER STOPPING (sometimes) at one stop sign, and then seeing (and knowing) that they need to stop again (rarely) at the next sign, a mere 100 feet (give or take; I've not measured it...yet) away.

IS IT JUST ME?

Or are these people (using the term very loosely) who are speeding through my neighborhood, to get to their neighborhood, not really people at all? But some as-yet-named (or discovered) species of animal (apologies to the Animal Kingdom) that feel it is okay to disrupt (and possibly endanger) my quietude (and solitude and, more importantly, my RED SOX GAME!) so they can practice their Indy maneuvers just so they don't miss a minute of Wheel of Fortune.

I am confused. (Guess I should be used to it by now.)

IS IT JUST ME?

I've talked about this before, and still have not come up with a solution that would keep me out of federal prison, so I shall move on to the next scenario.

You're sitting beside your lovely spouse, inside a swanky restaurant, maybe holding hands (or a shrimp, recently dipped in tangy cocktail sauce; me: a limp carrot stick), enjoying the ambiance. The background music is perfect, just loud enough so that you barely notice it, while not too much that it becomes a distraction. The service has been stellar, your beverages chilled just right and working their magic (hers, an appletini; mine: bottle spring water...with a twist). Your salads arrive..."oh, yes, please, some fresh ground pepper would be wonderful, thank you--"

"HELLO? OH, HEY, YA, NO, NOTHING. JUST HAVING DINNER. GLAD YA CALLED. OH, YEAH? HAHAHAHAHAAAA! THAT'S FUNNY!"

No, it's not.

IS IT JUST ME?

Or should people (call them what you want) who loudly yak on their cell phones in pubic places (especially restaurants!) be:

a) tarred and feathered
b) placed in stocks and be publicly humiliated

c) hog-tied and forced to watch as you delete the memory from their iPhone
d) dragged into the restaurant's kitchen and stuffed inside a:

1) dishwasher
2) deep fryer
3) Turducken
4) all of the above

Where was I?

Right, enjoying a very complicated, yet incredibly rewarding, daydream fantasy.

My point is:

CUT US ALL A BREAK!

The utter gall and deluded imagination involved in thinking that ANYONE other than your mother (and she's vacillating a bit, too, I might add), wants to listen to YOUR conversation while they are trying to enjoy a nice dining experience is beyond comprehensible, well past ludicrous, and speeding right past ridiculous.

IS IT JUST ME?

I mean, really? Is it--

Hold on, I gotta take this.

"YO? AH, NOTHING, JUST WRITING A BLOG POST. NO, I'M IN MY CAR. SURE, BE RIGHT THERE. 'BYE."

VRRRRRROOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!
SCCCRRREEETCCCCHHHH!!!!!

Until next time...

peace,

Mike