Tag Archives: TV

Birthdays, Brains and Books

Stanko & Tibor - Books vs TV

Birthday Makes Brain Go Bad

While walking with my younger daughter the other day, I was made painfully aware that my brain and most of its attendant functions peaked in terms of performance a number of years ago. Whether that number is in the single or double digits is a matter of speculation for people with mathematical and scientific knowledge. Neither of which I possess anymore since those bits of my brain probably fell out or were destroyed with loud rock ‘n roll music. To say nothing of the intense alcohol and chocolate danish abuse I have subjected my body to. But I digress.

While walking, she asked me a simple question that really only required me dipping into my porous memory for a name of someone I knew was somewhere in there, but I just plain forgot until she reminded me who it was. Which I forgot some 20 seconds after she reminded me.

Her follow-on question was even more perceptive and unintentionally hurtful. Why couldn’t I remember names of people I am supposed to know, not to mention simple things like how to reset that there device in the house? Without hesitation I had an answer for her, since I could explain it, I didn’t have to recall a fact real, imagined or alternative.

I told her that my brain has reached the point of maturity, or fermentation, where my goal is to prevent bits and bytes of info from falling out of my grey matter cells, albeit to little avail. You want me to quote horsepower ratings, the Simpsons, or Young Frankenstein, sure, no problem. However, other recent facts, and even not so recent ones, like my children’s dates of birth, are lost to the dark, detritus-filled chambers and recesses of my brain. Or my brain realized that the hippocampus has probably either hippo-like submerged into murky waters, or the campus part has decamped and left for distant shores.

My goal now at this ripe age of 50 is to desperately remember, without a worried look on my face,  where the hell I put my car keys, wallet and the password to my phone when my fingers are too wet or greasy from cooking for the fingerprint recognition to work. (I have debated getting the new iPhone X with its facial recognition, but I am told it doesn’t recognize hideous troll-like features my loving and pain-killer-addicted sister said I possess in abundance. So much for technology and sibling love.)

I would argue that to continue to be able to function at the Kindergarten level my brain normally does it has adopted the traits of file compression technology. In order to save a little space for name and facial recognition for my long suffering wife, not to mention car key placement memories and remembering which way is the front of my underwear (50/50 proposition at best these days) my brain has gone into disk space saving mode by compressing some data into ever smaller files to be stored and never recalled, like what my parents dressed me during most of the 70’s or why my dad always called me his “other son” at dinner parties. But I digress again.

Conversely my daughter is at an age where not only is she like the proverbial sponge, sucking and retaining information at a furious pace, she’s also using her brain to process and understand stuff. I explained that much of life doesn’t need to be understood — if you can reconcile the fact that, as my father, may he soon receive his medical marijuana prescription and a vape pen and not be scared to share it with my mother who needs it as much as he does, has keenly observed: people are stupid. When you’ve accepted that, you spend less time wondering how Donald Trump got the undeserved title “President” in front of his name.

But she, and her equally diligent and perceptive sister, persist in reading many books in a bid to learn and increase their horizons. While they are addicted to TV programs like all other people on the planet with an Internet connection, they still read a tremendous amount of books. Paper books at that. Not ebooks. They are surrounded by the printed word, and sop up stories and info like there’s no tomorrow. Honestly, the only way I could ingest that amount of info would be to literally suck the ink off the pages and then eat those pages as a shredded garnish on a salad. I can’t see it working with steak. And definitely not with ice cream. But I digress.

I really thought the skill of reading – in particular reading proper books given how it detracts from the time that could be spent in front of a screen that radiates images and most likely testicle-shrinking radiation – had died off. Heaven (or Amazon) knows I am not the most prodigious reader (car magazines notwithstanding), and I am a sucker for an animated show or a sports event (as a pretext for napping, of course). But it appears otherwise.

That’s kind of refreshing to see. Just hope I’ll remember this vomit of typed, incoherent thoughts twenty minutes after I publish it. Unlikely, since I forgot the password to log in to the system whose name I forget that allows me to publish this drivel.

I need coffee and a danish.
Johannes Not-So-Guttenberg Druker

Mr. President, Meet Mr. Crazy

Stank & Tibor - Mr. President

Dateline: May on a nice evening. Some place where the warden can't get me.

President Secret Agent

I would make a terrible secret agent, let a lone a president of a country. Let me explain. I spend too much time online and using social media, so I am easily traced, not a good spy quality to have. Furthermore, I hate sea food. It hates me too. If you’ve ever seen a spy thriller, there is often something happening down at the docks where it smells like fish — disgusting. I’d gag and complain. Or it takes place at some sunny seaside resort where the macho protagonist is eating a shrimp cocktail. The excludes me as my gout would explode after a few bites. How many secret agents do you know have to take anti-gout medication? Probably none.

I can’t imagine me doing one of those Mission Impossible slide-down-the-heat-pressure-sensitive-chamber on a wireline. I’d get dizzy and vomit, thus setting off the anti-vomit alarms, the dogs would come running, and I’m scared of them as it is, and I would be shot on site.

Worse, if I were merely threatened with torture, I’d spill the beans without hesitation, provide diagrams, videos and the credit card numbers of the other agents. I’d even drive the enemy to their houses if it meant avoiding a car battery to the testicular area.

To top it off, I have allergies galore. If I were a secret agent and I had to put up with one of the Bond villains petting his puffy, hairy cat, I’d either be wheezing and sneezing my head off or worse, I’d be all dopey from the antihistamines I’d have to pump into my blood stream to negate that evil cat. They’d catch me in a second.

So I decided not to pursue that career knowing I don’t have the “right stuff” to become a secret agent.

Not the Right Stuff

Along the same line of thought, I think Donnie Trump really doesn’t have the right stuff to become president. And not because he’s a colossal jerk-bully-ego maniac. I’d argue those qualities are highly useful for being the leader of the 32nd most indebted nation on earth. It takes some ego and bravado and general jerkiness to tell other nations what they are doing wrong while yours steadily increases its purchase of weapons after each mass school shooting where defenceless children are involved.

Also certainly not because he’s a womanizer, because there has barely been a two-term president in the past 100 years who wasn’t. Roosevelt, Kennedy, Clinton (all free-loving Democrats, I might add), and I am sure I am missing some of the older ones. Seems to be a must-have on the curriculum vitae. But I digress.

No, it’s most likely that Donnie the Dingdong Trump doesn’t have all his cookies baked, metaphorically speaking. Either too much hair dye has seeped into his brain or a recessive gene kicked in a while ago.

He is an effective sociopath, heaping blame on others when he screws up (Trump Steaks anyone?). He says whatever comes to his mind. Which is usually is a sign of advanced craziness. (See: North Korean leaders for reference) That “quality” might be fun on a TV reality show or at a dinner party where there is free shrimp and booze, but not so much in delicate political situations.

Chinese Food

Somehow I think if he does become, dare I say, the President of the US of A, I can foresee some bad feces happening. Like at a State dinner with the Chinese prime minister. I’ll bet you he’d lean over to the Prime Minister’s wife and say something like “How come all you Asian women have small breasts?” Or something like “I nailed an Asian broad once – I was not impressed. I thought you guys invited the Kama Sutra.”

No doubt come dessert time, he’d make a crack about fortune cookies and pull the corners of his eyes to make them more “Asian” shall we say. Then we’d have a real shot at World War III. Heaven only knows what he’d say if he were visiting Russia.

Half a Brain

How can a man who clearly lacks mental stability, a social filter, and a has a greater sense of self-worth than his own misrepresented wealth be able to handle the responsibilities of the President of the USA?

It must be because of his mastery of the unispheric brain. Simply, it means one half of your brain is working hard, and the other half is asleep. Ducks do that when they are sleeping so predators don’t kill them when they are nodding off. Donnie The Brain Boy Trump I think only uses half his brain most of the time while the other half is asleep (or dreaming of how he could trademark his ego.)

Whatever the case, he does look a fair bit like a hairy mole.

Stunningly dull and forever yours (unless I owe you money),

Miguel Confucius Druker

Are you a hairy mole?

Democracy for All

Well, it has been a long, long, long time since I last posted anything apart from two story updates that a) were written when adrenaline had kicked in after a severe lack of sleep and way too much caffeine needed to keep me semi- functional at work and b) displayed an uncanny literary and poetic quality that some of the most respected minds in the academic community have described in numerous journals and conferences as” a pile of steaming crap.” Yes, I took umbrage at those remarks but I was so busy blogging for the car ads, I couldn’t supply a witty rejoinder or a wry retort.

So after a long hiatus (I hear they have pills for that now), I am posting a comic that should have been posted well over a month ago when this whole Middle East thing went viral. Dictators were falling left, right, and center, and sure there was some bloodshed, but it made for gripping TV. Please recall the events of pre-Japan and then read this comic and laugh. O yell, Or take your hand gun and hold up a convenience store. Whatever and wherever the mood takes you. Just be sure I won’t accept responsibility.

I am about to repair to the bedroom for some intense TV-watching and then some eve more intense passing-out, followed closely by snoring and then maybe a mid-night jaunt to the bathroom hoping I don’t smash my toe on anything, and then probably a pee followed back crawling back to bed and snoring.

Aren’t you happy you read this email?

Keep the faith

Jonny D (also a blogger)

Living Off the Grill

OK, so this is where the story is going, and it’s going some place off the gird. Or in this case, it’s “off the grill.” The pun here has to do with the term “living off the grid.” For my parents’ generation, skeptics and general hermits without an Internet or TV hookup, this refers to:

Part of Speech: adj
Definition: not requiring utilities such as electricity, water, etc.; also written off-the-grid, also called off grid, off-grid
Etymology: referring to grid, electrical interlocking system of transmission lines and power stations
Dictionary.com’s 21st Century Lexicon
Copyright © 2003-2010 Dictionary.com, LLC
Cite This Source

In the last while, I have heard people from all sides talk about global warming, being green, using ethical energy, and other such terms. I have also heard lots of opponents to living off the grid, saying it’s a load of garbage. Just ask my dad, my cousin and others in the minority.

From my point of view, I can use it as a source for comic material, so I will reserve my opinion. As long as I make someone laugh or insult someone, then and only then will I feel as if I have done a good job.

Oh, and I feel I should add, my electrical bill is roughly that of a small, impoverished African nation when the winter rolls around — yes, I am complaining about my awful house again. It’s cold and although it may look like a house, it’s actually just bricks and cheesecloth.