The Wizard of Oz:  ”Child, you’re talking to a man who’s laughed in the face of death, sneered at doom, and chuckled at catastrophe… I was petrified.”

Idea for iPhone Man App

Gentlemen let’s get right to the point ( unlike the chicks we are in a relationship with). We love them but they talk too much and wont stop texting. This whole social media phenomena plays RIGHT into their hands and their existing skill sets way more than it does ours. With the exception of Gaming, Pandora and Mapquest we get little or no added value from having a sweaty, brain tumor causing iPhone and microscopic keyboard attached to our heads and thumbs 24/7. Women, Israelis, and most gay men living in Los Angeles love it and wouldn’t mind having the whole shebang surgically implanted like pacemakers to allow easy hands-free access and a constant hi-fi signal while they shop, remotely launch Drone attacks on suspected terrorists in the Gaza strip, and talk to their Hollywood publicity agents, respectively.

Dont get me wrong, each of the groups mentioned has a legitimate reason to be perpetually connected. However, most guys in this country do not. In fact, there seems to be an undocumented Law of Physics that states the following: Girlfriends and wives tend to text and call MOST when it is MOST inconvenient. Taking a crap and looking for a little peace and quiet? They call. Manage to just finish doing your “business” on the John and getting ready to wipe? They text. Cutting up a raw chicken with probable salmonella or e-coli bacteria all over your hands? They call or text and our phone is always DEEPLY HIDDEN in our pants pocket. This INSURES that our trousers or shorts will be radioactively infected with deadly microbes very likely to cause an outbreak requiring the CDC to make a home visit in full HazMat suits.The wives and gfs wont care and will only ask more questions like, “Who’s there? I hear voices. Are you with someone??” Speaking of drones, I dont want to drone on like an old lady about this and am way more interested in a manly solution to the problem.

If technology is the source of the problem then it can also be the key to the solution. We need an algorithm, bros. We need to put the greatest masculine minds of the 21st century onto developing a mathematical model and super sensitive computer program that can generate automatic responses that are gender sensitive and so artificially intelligent that women cant tell we are still on the golf course, watching the game, drinking beer with buddies they despise, or more likely, just avoiding the all around too much talking and texting about stuff we dont care about. If IBM’s Big Blue the computer can plan multiple chess moves that beat the Grandmaster Chess Champion of the world, then we can build an iPhone app that responds appropriately to absurd questions and inane comments that over time make gaping holes in our head and are possibly lowering our sperm count. We have to set the bar high on this one because women are crafty and have very sensitive b.s. radar. You can only respond to stupid texts with, “lol!”, “loveu2”, “exactly”, and “good point” for so long before they counter with, “is this Cliff?” and “I can tell you’re really not listening to me. Dont u even care?” As a guy you probably know that awkward moment and bad feeling when you know your woman knows you dont give a flying fuck and our emotional-reptile man brain is thinking, “should I avoid, apologize or just leap over the railing of the 300 ft bridge I am jogging on?”

We can do better then mere “flight or fight”. We can employ technology that will respond masterfully to complex questions like, “What are you doing?”, “thinking about u, what are u thinking about?”, ” Kim Kardashian is such a whore!”, “I love Brittany, the conjoint twin best….”, and the dreaded “I called you 4 times. It’s not your new phone. What is your problem?” It’s Band of Brothers time. Big Blue and a couple dozen super computers need to synch up and derive a perfect solution to every permutation of possible she-text and respond back with utmost sensitivity, empathy, patience, and extreme unremitting interest. You know, all the stuff we hate to do.

My son Eli says that I share too much of “myself” on Facebook and in my WordPress blog. Meanwhile on Facebook, he has 248 pictures of himself in Atlanta dressed in custom made, super-hero costumes at DragonCon with 50,000 other people dressed similarly. They all pose provocatively in skintight spandex that would make me look like Barney Fife at an Underdog Halloween party, or if I really was a super-hero, I would be Baby Boomer Man with his loyal dog FUPA (see previous blog).

On a good day people say I look like Mr. Clean or Dustin Hoffman after chemotherapy or before the Juice fast. Honestly, I dont have the body anymore, so I suppose I rely on my sarcasm, wit, and my rapidly decaying memory. The point is we all have our strengths, and I like to think that humor is mine. Looking at this obviously absurd world in a funny way, especially when one is not suicidally depressed, is a necessary tonic for preserving ones sanity and dealing with adversity. People who lose their sense of humor typically dont do as well. A recent article in the New York Times about James Holmes, the Colorado Batman shooter (see link below) depicts a socially inept and quirky Ph.D. student who was weird but moderately funny…up until he started flipping out. In other words, what his peers and instructors most remember about him was how he lost his sense of humor along with his frickin’ mind. He got deadly serious and delusional simultaneously.

That is probably really why I write my CaptCliff blog, to remind myself (and my friends) to laugh and not get too serious. Ok, I admit I am also narcissistic as hell and enjoy exhibiting my nutty perspective to the world somewhat like a nudist at the beach likes to walk up to the outdoor Tiki bar with all his junk showing. We all know how THAT looks, especially if the guy is 50+ years old, and, now that I think about it, that is very likely EXACTLY how my grown-up children feel about my “confessional”-style of writing, ie. “Oh God, that’s my Dad ordering a Mai Tai….look away!”  Yet they indulge me, and on a very VERY good day, they even take the time to press the “like” button on Facebook. I guess that is part of what love is all about. Don’t worry, my dear beloved sons, I will NOT be posting a picture of myself sans clothes and with full FUPA at the Tiki Bar. I promise.

First they find trillions of diamonds in Russia and now this article (see below) says there is new evidence to show that Jesus was MARRIED. What the hell is going on? So if Jesus had a wife, why cant we hear her side of the story? Maybe it went something like this:

(Found on a papyrus scroll in a cave outside of Jerusalem)

Dear Diary,
Jesus was gone for three days. I didnt hear one holy word from him the whole time. Then all of a sudden he shows up looking like complete dreck, with his clothes in tatters and dripping blood from large holes in his hands. I yelled at him and told him, “What, just because you believe you’re the son of God you think you can disappear for days and then come back hungover drunk and dripping blood all over the cave floor?? You have zero respect for your helpmate! Also, its time you get a real job. This wandering sage, mystical healer thing is obviously not working out! Look at yourself for Yahweh Sake!! At least carpentry is a decent trade, even if you never fix your own furniture when it breaks. The kitchen stool you made is a piece of camel dung and dont even THINK about telling me one of your stupid three legged stool metaphors. Save it for your shmendrik disciples that think you’re so great …….Oy, I’m not talking to you until you take a bath. You stink and your breath is HORRENDOUS.”

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/09/18/the-gospel-of-jesus-wife_n_1891325.html?1347990916&icid=maing-grid7|main5|dl3|sec1_lnk3%26pLid%3D207309

In what seems like a rather unusual act of vengeance and unnecessary hot-dogging by Yahweh, aka the Divine One, the Lord Our God, etc., a dramatic display of hellfire and brimstone was recently reported in Australia. Terrified citizens and Aboriginal tribe members managed to videotape a “fire tornado” (see web story below) in between babbling incoherently, repenting for their earthly sins and running for their lives. Those who were stupid enough to look back at the horrible sight were turned into a pillar of Kosher salt, which is at least good for cooking and certainly useful in divinely inspired ice-storms. The nearly impossible to imagine meteorological event, also called a “fire devil” touched down in the Australian Outback and lasted at least 30 minutes before disappearing into a large cloud, followed by a golden chariot adorned with Cherubim (Holy Angels).

Despite the presence of multiple high quality video images and digital cell phone photos depicting God’s wrath and displeasure with the way modern humans are conducting their lives, the Australian military and various government officials are calling the occurrence a “normal variation of Australia’s unpredictable weather” and do not endorse the event as an unmistakable sign of eternal damnation for mankind.

http://www.aol.com/video/caught-on-tape-fire-tornado-rips-through-australia/517481898/?icid=maing-grid9|maing6-video|popular-videos-5min|sec2_lnk2|126987

Therapy Secret Revealed:  I know that mindful meditation is all in vogue today, but here’s another simple suggestion. When life gets too weird, chaotic, ironic or unpredictable, try turning on Law and Order to regain ones composure and sense of stability. Fortunately, there is ALWAYS a Law and Order episode playing 24/7 in every part of the known universe. I watch Law and Order in bed, on the treadmill, on the computer and if I have to go to the bathroom, always leave the door open so I can hear when the recognizable “Ta-Dum” sound occurs signaling the start of the show. Someone somewhere in the black trash bag piled streets of NYC has been killed or victimized and we the vicarious “living through others” people of Earth seek justice, and maybe some violent retribution. In fact, I’m pretty sure there are  tribes in remote jungles somewhere in Brazil or New Guinea who hunt, forage and dig for wild yam during the day and at night gather together in a smoky communal hut to watch Law and Order SVU. It’s not inconceivable, especially with Satellite and Dish TV.  Like me, the pygmies and loin cloth wearing Cannibals wonder why the police and the SVU team never see the enraged female gunman or family member on the courthouse steps who predictably guns down the smug rapist or child killer (who just got off on some obscure legal technicality). Of course the difference is that the Cannibals would celebrate the episodes oh-so-predictable ending by dismembering the bad guy, eating his body and ingesting his soul while I’m satisfied that karmic justice has been served and that Nancy Grace will likely be in a less hysterical mood. I may or may not also celebrate the fact by going downstairs to the kitchen and eating a turkey sandwich on rye bread with Durkees Dressing….

Why do I think the world is so weird and filled with irony? Most of us are too busy to notice and as human beings we swim in ironic circumstances like zebra fish in a large murky aquarium. We dont see the great irony until it’s brought to our attention. One small example from my life may suffice.

I was trained as a sex therapist under the auspices of a particular pre-Viagra time and place (San Francisco circa 1976) which worshiped the pioneers of the burgeoning field of sexology. The big Kahunas were Masters and Johnson, a team of Washington University, St. Louis researchers who also happened to have written a 1966 best seller called Human Sexual Response. In 1971, William Masters divorced his wife and married Virginia Johnson, his research partner.  Maybe all that steamy stuff in the lab went to their heads, or maybe they just fell in love. At UCSF we learned to use the Masters and Johnson method of treating sexual dysfunction and helping struggling couples improve their physical intimacy. Trust me there were alot of “take home” assignments given to individual clients and couples back then including specialized reading, watching certain “movies”, sensate focus and self-stimulation exercises (aka, “jerking off”), back-rubs, and, well, body rubs of all kinds. You didnt just see people for a few minutes and tell them to “get out there and do it, dammit”. Nor did we have magic blue pills to throw at them and say, “This ought to do it…just call me in the morning”.

Well, that was then and this is now. Masters and Johnson, the gurus of sex therapy and intimacy got divorced in 1992. William Masters died in 2001. So is that the irony? No there is more. Earlier this year William Masters III, the son of the esteemed sex therapist was arrested for exposing himself in New York’s Central Park. You might say it was an accident or a unfortunate fluke, but this week he was busted again for showing off his sex-related junk to two female undercover police officers posing as kayakers in rural Michigan. I guess they skip the Bait Car and To Catch a Predator routine up there and go right to the Bait Kayak maneuver. He is, as the links below shows, a dead ringer for his dear old dad. Now that’s irony. If you don’t mind I’ll stop right there and turn on another Law and Order. I think it’s the one where Stabler goes bananas on a perp and Olivia is working on her PTSD issues. God bless them.

Picture of the Old Man and Pioneer Sex Researcher:
http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.biografiasyvidas.com/biografia/m/fotos/masters.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.biografiasyvidas.com/biografia/m/masters.htm&h=162&w=188&sz=6&tbnid=xM7Ot5amiB8VwM&tbnh=0&tbnw=0&prev=/search%3Fq%3Dwilliam%2BMasters,wiki%26tbm%3Disch%26tbo%3Du&zoom=1&q=william+Masters,wiki&usg=__AIPVamUlmCHDxw5GsLMfusva9fk=&docid=EVSgyIvjG9wgoM&sa=X&ei=ySZJUL7eBoHI9QSwioDoAw&ved=0CF8Q1Rc

Picture and Story about Sonny boy and his recent “Northern Exposure” problem:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/09/06/william-h-masters-iii-exposing-exposure_n_1860616.html

The Agony

Have you ever gone on a Florida vacation and had one “nightmare” dining day and night followed by the best and most wonderful meal the very next night? How about the other way around? We stayed in Longboat Key and thanks to free accommodations figured we would “splurge” and try out the finest that LBK and Sarasota could offer food-wise. When I say finest I mean best tasting and highest quality, not necessarily the most expensive. My AMEX isn’t Black, Platinum, Gold or any other precious material that I know of, unless you consider battleship grey plastic to be a semi-precious substance.

All in all, it was a perfect trip minus a small glancing hurricane and an inexplicable swarm of tiny and relentless biting sand flies called “noseeum”, which are almost impossible to see until they have taken their microscopic, vampire-like pound of flesh and liter of blood. Google it, I swear I’m not making them up!! They are the unseen “bedbugs of the beach” and they prefer certain people whom they descend upon like a plague of locusts and then leave their victims itching and scratching for days like Mississippi hound-dogs with a bad case of fleas. I know. I know. Next time bring “Skin So Soft”. Now the Florida residents tell me. Why dont they just post a large sign at the beach that said, “Forget the Sharks, Watch Out for the Noseeum”?

After layering ourselves in three coats of Calamine lotion and popping a  handful of Benedryls we decided to mellow out at  the Mar Vista Grill on the North end of Longboat Key. Mar Vista is right next to Moores, the famously overpriced but popular Stone Crab and seafood restaurant. We wanted more privacy, less waiting and didnt want to hear, “Bernstein, party of 12″ all nite and throughout our meal. Plus, the admittedly delicious Stone crab claws were not in season. Believe me, if I could have caught a fresh Stone crab myself I would have cornered one, stabbed it multiple times with a sharpened stick, clobbered it with a large boulder ala Survivorman and parboiled it over a campfire with or without the necessary permits.

Mar Vista is more an intimate “pub” like atmosphere than Moores and recently has added a nice outdoor area to it’s fishing shack/bar dining decor. We should have noticed there were few customers outside and those who were dining “al fresco” were scratching themselves vigorously and rubbing their ankles against each other in between looking around for missing wait staff. You know that “craning neck” gesture and half raised index finger and hand motion that means, “Im trying to be laid back and relaxed on my vacation but if I dont get some service soon I might either start a fire by rubbing my itchy ankles together or go POSTAL on someone” look?  Well, now imagine six or eight tables doing that simultaneously. It became ridiculous at one point and, perhaps due to an allergic reaction to sand flies and the Benedryl (in addition to a pretty watery but potent Long Island Ice Tea) I began to fantasize that beach zombies had eaten the entire Mar Vista kitchen staff and both bartenders. Worse yet, I figured the servers, if not at the restaurant, must be somewhere on the beach by now faceless, horribly maimed and covered in a Tsunami sized swarm of noseeum.

I was shaken from my horror show fantasy when a young frowning waitress came up and without so much as a smile or apology said, “Do you know what you want because I’m really busy!”  Whhhhhaaaat? I couldn’t believe my ears. I swear to you she said this in a pitch perfect “Mean Girls” tone that suggested either her father owned the restaurant or she was currently auditioning for the Sarah Michelle Gellar bitch part in Sarasota’s stage production of Cruel Intentions. She even had the bored, spoiled rich girl body language down pat. Regarding the unbelievably long wait for my drink (“What is this, Gilligan’s Island?”) the rude waitress mentioned that, “our bartenders are all backed up.” Wait, it’s now 9PM and almost everyone is gone……or in anaphylactic shock.

I realize most people would have cut their losses at this point and left, maybe to forget dinner altogether or go directly to the  dessert line at the Loft (above Euphemia Haye). Unfortunately, we had already had three straight day’s worth of Euphemia Haye’s Apple Walnut Crumble Pie, and even more sado-masochistically, I wanted to know how this epic epicurean psychodrama at Mar Vista was going to turn out. Surely the fresh seafood and famous clam chowder would counterbalance the sand flies, invisible insects and sickeningly spoiled sorority girl server. Isn’t that usually the way the Universe does it? Did I not have the reverse experience in my younger hippie days in the jungles of Palenque, Mexico where after ingesting magic mushrooms and stripped naked to emphasize my spiritual receptivity and primal innocence I experienced God in all his natural splendor….only to find out later that my whole body was covered in blood sucking jungle leeches? Leeches, I hate leeches……and noseeum too.  Luckily I wasn’t allergic to leeches, and some local farmer took pity on me and poured several cans of gasoline on my blood-sucked tush and sunburned body. Noseeum and mosquitoes are, however, a totally different story. I should have bought stock 40 years ago in Benedryl and Skin So Soft, but who knew?

Allow me to cut to the chase as you probably know where I’m going. EVERYTHING at Mar Vista was horrible as in horrendous, haphazard, and hideous. The tuna “fusion” appetizer was stringy and “sushi-grade” ONLY if you happen to be in grade school and dont know anything about sushi. The clam chowder tasted neither of clams or vegetables and the “authentic award winning” creamy broth tasted artificial. Better to have called it Potato Filler Soup. I tried to doctor it up with the sherry-soy dipping sauce that came with the Cat-grade tuna appetizer but to no avail. The fresh Gulf coast mussels were overcooked, chewy and Dead on Arrival and so was my patience. Adding insult to injury we had moved our table inside in an attempt to survive both the rainy remnants of Hurricane Isaac and the biblical plague of insects but STILL could not find our waitress, a restaurant manager, a standing bartender, or any signs of life whatsoever besides one older couple who appeared to be on an E-Harmony or Christian Mingle inspired first date. May the Good Lord be with them because he certainly wasn’t with us that cursed night. Aargh!

Next blog: The Ecstasy