Dumb as a Doorknob Culture

Posted on September 9, 2015 by captaincliff
dumbface

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From the Urban Dictionary: A Yutz is an individual that is dumb beyond comprehension. One who displays, or regularly exhibits idiotic behavior. Someone who makes a habit of missing the point. The opposite of what others  call an intelligent person.

 Part One: Living in a Confederacy of Dunces and a Union of Yutzes
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I’d like to share with you my research on stupidity.  Throughout history people have wondered why there are so many douchebags walking around Planet Earth who otherwise have no obvious disability or explainable mental illness.  Unabashed stupidity would seem to defy evolutionary principles. While it takes a smart person to understand all the factors that contribute to making somebody as dumb as a door knob, I believe it is possible to identify the social and cultural variables that correlate with supreme idiocy. I’ve tried to limit my theory to the main determinants that apply to the average American moron wandering our city streets, strumming a banjo while mouthing racial slurs in Alabama or clogging the internet with ignorant and ill-informed personal opinions. Hopefully, this would also help to explain the growing plague of stupid videos online, the empty-headed dialogue on popular TV programs and the impossibly dumb Twitter feeds and commentary that somehow passes for reasonable human communication today.

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I believe that rampant stupidity boils down to three basic root causes: 1) a lack of healthy intellectual curiosity, especially about anything that is not reducible to a cell phone app or video game  2) a growing trend towards idiot worship in an existing culture of dumb (so dumb that most people don’t even know to be embarrassed about their mullets, missing teeth or obscene muffin tops) and 3) an insufficient appreciation for the many unique benefits of learning to read, getting an education beyond the 8th grade or human intelligence in general, including such things as the survival of our species.  I realize this may sound somewhat over dramatic, as if stupidity is more dangerous than global warming, mental patients and drug addicts with automatic weapons, or flesh eating bacteria. However, a lifelong lack of interest in anything except sticky buds, Grand Theft Auto, kitty videos and “knock-out game” vines on WorldStar is unlikely to produce someone with superior intelligence or critical thinking skills.  Nor is it likely to result in a person psychologically prepared to survive in an increasingly complex and rapidly changing world.

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Thus, the typical idiot, as defined above, is not what most social workers would call a “good environmental fit” in either a highly technological future or a post-apocalyptic landscape littered with disfigured mutants and hungry zombies. On the other hand, if zombies need a constant supply of blood-rich brains to feed upon for their undead sustenance, they will probably quickly starve and die off (again). At least zombies and cannibalistic mutants appear (from a review of the many incredibly stupid movies on the subject) to be smart enough to consume the more nutritious/vitamin-rich parts of the body such as the heart, liver, and brain. Meanwhile we are busy eating gluten-free Cheerios, Twizzlers and pounding  jello and Jagermeister shots. While single-cell amoebas are learning how to invade our bodies and brains and out-wit our immune systems, thousands of young boys and functionally illiterate teenagers are pushing each other off rooftops in shopping carts to see what happens. It doesn’t seem like a very fair fight, does it?  Not to worry because we now have “science-based” cable TV channels like National Geographic and Discovery. Unfortunately, most of their latest programs are about Aztec-extraterrestrial sex orgies (…as Ancient Alien theorists believe), trying to catch a Sasquatch, or proving that Casper the ghost really exists. As a result, we dont seem to recognize ourselves as slowly decaying and dying from dumb in its multiplicity of forms. This includes the many online discussion groups. Does it make any logical sense that on web forums for people who take psychiatric medication the most respect and deference is given to those participants who lists themselves as having the most severe mental illness, take the most medication and/or suffer from complex personality disorders?

A corollary to my stupid theory is that people are more interested in money and fame (or notoriety) today than they are about feeling the healthy dopamine rush of learning something new, mastering a difficult yet important life skill, or helping others and in so doing becoming a much better person.  Studies on empathy and game theory as applied to social relations  show that chimpanzees and their close relatives the bonobos are probably better at getting along and resolving conflict than most human beings. At least bonobos chimps realize that oral sex or a powerful orgasm are quite often effective methods to calm down an enraged clan member or uptight Alpha male. However, I dont see Donald Trump, Vladimir Putin, Kim Jong Un, or the rest of the Republican party Presidential candidates utilizing that bit of scientific knowledge, although I admit I’m not privy to what goes on behind closed doors in gaudy penthouses and palaces.  The point is there is a lot of stupidity that seems to be proliferating like wild rabbits in various socioeconomic strata of society and this cultural virus/”moron meme” is supported and condoned by many people. Otherwise there is no reasonable explanation for well known “celebrity idiots” like Snooki , the Real Housewives of Orange County, Mob Wives or ….this uber yutzy chick in the video below.

In Part Two, I will attempt to flesh out, so to speak, my unified “Theory of Dumb”, hopefully before the zombies, flesh-eating bacteria, and extraterrestrial lizard men consume us. If anyone happens to know what the f$#k this young lady below is saying or even trying to communicate in English-ish, please let me know because,  I’m curious about everything, even rampant stupidity.

Ok, I know it’s satire, but there are people who are writing in to agree with her…which is even scarier:

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Women!! What’s Wrong With Them Anyway??

Posted on August 31, 2015 by captaincliff

 woman hits man

 


Women! What’s Wrong With Them Anyway??

by Cliff Mazer, Ph.D.
 
“The great question that has never been answered, and which I have not yet been able to answer myself, despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, is ‘What does a woman want?”

In addition to the above often repeated quote, Freud also referred to women as the “dark continent”. It seems he may have died not only with cocaine residue in his nose and throat but with women firmly stuck in his craw. No doubt his whole “penis envy” idea didn’t exactly endear him to legions of women either. 
Question: As a man, as a Clinical Psychologist and as a Pirate crazy blogger, would I be committing social or even literary suicide by offering up a somewhat similar sounding generalization that many women are often not that easy to understand or get along with in serious relationships?  Did I just trigger some hidden microaggression alarm or APB alert in the PC governed blogosphere? Did I stumble over an invisible social justice tripwire by sharing such an obviously subjective gender bias in mixed company and not just among my beer swilling man code observingnbowling team bros? Given the permanent magic marker nature of the digital universe now I probably cant even take it back or claim it was a typo. Perhaps I could double check my white man privilege at the door or lie about just having  suffered a brain far. Lastly, following social trends I could go to rehab for a week or two with Josh Duggar, Anthony Weiner and every other clueless men who needs professional help to introspect and eventually own their elusive inner douche-bag.
 
 At least allow me to amend my bold statement and clarify that I really mean that women are not always easy to understand and get along with for extended periods of time, especially in long term romantic relationships (which often includes marriage) and that there are many clear exceptions to the rule.

One potential problem is that many women seem to think that they are the clear exception. Ladies, if you happen to believe that you are without a doubt the exception I speak of then I apologize to you profusely, altho to be brutally honest I harbor certain suspicions that you are either lying outright, fooling yourself or suffering from a sub-clinical delusional disorder.  Also, please dont just ask your sisters, best friends, deer-in-the-headlights boyfriends or browbeaten husbands to provide confirmation of your exceptionalness (my word) because such testimonials are flawed. First of all, that wouldn’t be scientifically objective and sisters or friends  would be subject to obvious bias. In the latter two cases of boyfriends and husbands…well that’s akin to asking cowering bank hostages with Stockholm Syndrome if they “like” the bank robbers. Before you freak out and conclude I am some Donald Trump misogynistic cretin, please note that most of my best friends are women and they are exceedingly easy to get along with. I think that might be because they know me so well (including most to all of my personal weaknesses) yet never take advantage of me because of my imperfections. They also accept me for who and what I am and understand that my idiosyncracies and foibles are part and parcel of who I am. In essence they readily forgive me when I behave poorly or act without thinking (or good sense) and trust that I feel genuinely bad about it.  As a result, these lifelong female friends remain steadfastly in my corner and I’m confident they would lovingly defend me to my main critics and various detractors. Finally they know I’m not perfect but realize I have a good heart, which I really hope that I do.
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So what the heck happens to women in marriage and many loving relationships?  I cant say I know for sure but probably I should admit for the sake of my good friends, family, female readership and cohabitating flame that it may well have something to do with me. Let’s face it. It’s a lot easier to be someones friend, favorite co-worker, or bff from high school than the “lucky lady” who has to come home every day to my spider den of convoluted inner-conflicts and complex dualities. Even tho I like to view myself as a super “nice guy” and overall mensch, I realize my psychological closet is overflowing with other not-so-very-nice personas and hidden subtexts. These include but are not limited to a well-worn cluster of highly narcissistic behavior traits, annoying personal habits like farting a lot and picking my nose, and a plethora of psychological mind games, interpersonal tests and Indiana Jones-like relational sinkholes. Notice I’m not even mentioning the snoring, the relentless sarcasm, or the ADHD….

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Now that I think about it, it’s a lot like the Kobayashi Maru no-win training exercise at Starfleet Academy; a brain-numbing, PTSD-inducing test that is literally impossible to pass unless you purposely cheat like Captain Kirk did. To be clear, I’m not just talking about me leaving messy dishes in the kitchen sink or accidentally on purpose forgetting to take out stinky black trashbags to the outdoor waste receptacle, although it very well might include those things too… I’m really speaking about my still unresolved psychodynamic trash from childhood that lies strewn about my brain and my perpetually remodeled home, by proxy. Together thats a lot of unfinished business.  I’m also referring to my accumulated man-sized “war wounds” and unhealed psychic scars resulting from a painful failed marriage of 14 years, my many personal losses and self-perceived failures, the death of loved ones (including my beloved pets), the stress and strain of single-parenting three sons and a long glorious career as a Crusader knight in the never-ending fight against erectile problems, psychological disorders, family dysfunction, and managed healthcare.

As a Ph.D. anointed Clinical Psychologist and licensed sex and marriage therapist one might think such a background and education would adequately protect me from psychological harm like a shiny suit of armor… or at least boost my immunity against all the work-related cooties and stress-related shrapnel my clients come to me suffering from over the years.  Alas, I am not Superman and my private life (if not my private parts) has never really measured up to my private practice success. It’s the old “plumbers cant quite manage to fix their own toilets” analogy. Hmmm…now that I read through this last paragraph it looks as if I have significantly blunted the razor-sharp edge of my original assertion about women as well as my main piratey sword point. How about we all just settle for a generic, “Umm, nevermind”, “Can’t we all just get along?” or “Well, it certainly takes two to tango. ”  Maybe it really goes both ways.

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The funny thing is my wonderful female friends say the same thing about their male partners and my gay men friends typically concur. Men, it would seem are just as much a mystery and source of frustration to women as they are to other men that they are romantically involved with.  Apparently, the well-worn male maxim, “It would be so much easier if I was gay” holds little or no water. Still, there are plenty of remaining stereotypes about men to perpetuate the myth that women occupy the role of the complicated gender who not only overthink everything but also over pack regardless how short or far the journey may be. Men, on the other hand, continue to be viewed as light travelers, especially in the head and overall psyche. By the standard definition, the average male today is a simple bipedal creature and hunter/gatherer who spend most of this time playing video games, working out, playing sports, reading stock quotes or fixing cars. The truth is that depending on his upbringing and belief system a man can develop into an extremely sensitive and psychologically complex individual or an empty-headed lugnut. On the downside, if enough goes wrong in his life and no effort is made to treat or correct the problems, a guy may grow into someone with more crossed wires in his thinking, feeling and behavior than a 1970 Jaguar XJ12. Trust me, I had one of those once that I got super cheap at a car auction and tried to restore. I ended up giving it away to a female neighbor and last I heard she went insane trying to make it work. I think, at the end of the day, we should all agree that the very best place to start to  understand others or “fix” a relationship is on ourselves.  Meanwhile, I will be hiding in the ship’s galley right next to the cast iron frying pans.
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Cliff Mazer, Ph.D. is a Clinical Psychologist, humorist, and Pirate-centric web blogger living in Sandy Springs, Georgia. He has written articles for various publications including Good Men Project. Contact: 404-932-7193  He is all about being honest and maintaining a good sense of humor.
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The Eyes Clearly Have it

Posted on July 25, 2015 by captaincliff

eyeball jello

Wyoming Man Found with 30 Eyeballs in His Anal Cavity



Repent for the Kingdom of God may well be at hand…or at least “at foot” as in Hoof and Mouth and Mad Cow Disease. Just how crazy is the world right now? Answer: As crazy as the craziest lunatic one reads about in the “weird news” that I monitor like a hawk with an eagle eye for the truly absurd. Some of these people are so crazy it leaves the rest of us “normal nuts” frozen in a semi-permanent “WTF!!” position once the depth of their insanity is revealed. Sort of like the “Do you SEE?!!” line in the movie Red Dragon. At that point it’s pretty difficult to look away…so to speak.


Thus, the power of cow corneas compels me to comment about one weird news story currently gaining “traction”. You can read it yourself (above) for fun and pure incredulity. A guy is busted by the police driving home from work at a meat processing plant in Wyoming. He is found to be bootlegging cow eyeballs up his pants and in his ANUS because he likes to EAT them. Also, surprisingly, they dont let you steal eyeballs at his job. Finally, he admits to being addicted to eating these tasty treats and says he has consumed “thousands” of them over the course of several months. Riiiiight……

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Ok, let’s pause to take a cleansing breath, possibly take a vomit break, and ask ourselves some pertinent psychological questions like, “What the fuck??!!” or “Holy Shitballs Batman..Why??!!”  Still, we must remain calm, clear and objective while also remembering to keep our collective third eye trained on the bouncing bovine balls. Is it conceivable that the fall-out from this “peeper pooper” in Casper, Wyoming may represent what sociologists term a “leading indicator” of the direction society is heading? Certainly all roads no longer lead to Rome as it does sometimes feel like the Universe is crumbling into chaos while ISIS barbarians and hive-minded Starbucks baristas march toward the undefended front gates of Western civilization. No, I would assert that most roads now lead to the toilet bowl and we can thank the internet for the privilege and gift of being privy to this special kind of riveting news and investigative journalism. Thank you so much Mark Zuckerberg.  I now know much more about space-age dildos, designer drugs, drag queens, and doggy-style sex among furry fetishists than I ever did before. I also know where all my friends live, eat, drink, shit, travel and take their pets to make potty. I am very tuned in and am so “connected” that I can (and often do) watch as the Facebook status updates change at 2 AM like the ever-changing stock ticker in Times Square… only way more irrelevant.  Hell, all this stuff about eyeball enemas and cornea kleptos may signal, if not directly trigger some new food fad or culinary social event such as a “Pop-up/Pop-Out” Eyeball challenge on Chopped or a Super Dirty Martini class for the hardcore mixology crowd. Who needs green olives when you have the whole “Minority Report” sight organ slung over your cocktail glass, optic nerve and all. Sort of makes that  love quote from Avatar, “I see you” just that much more ambiguous in these techno times of hovering drones, constant communication, and 24-hour surveillance.  Regardless, I say let’s not worry our pretty little human heads too much about it right now and once again raise our wine glasses so that I may say unto you all, the digital information overloaded people of Planet Earth, “Here’s looking at ya!” “LChaim!”

http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/2013/03/06/eating-eyeballs-taboo-or-tasty/

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CaptCliff Update: July 20, 2015

Posted on July 20, 2015 by captaincliff

penny saved


CaptainCliff hasn’t written much in the past 6 months. Just as there are predictable shifts and swells in the vast open ocean and changing seasons of the year…. so too are the days of our lives. Actually, wasn’t that best said in the classic television soap opera, “Day of Our Lives”? Growing up in Highland Park, Illinois, I remember Pinkie, my family’s angelic housekeeper watching this daytime drama religiously right up until she passed away from lung cancer. Pinkie left this Earth looking like a beautiful androgynous deity, a transgendered mix of Queen Nefertiti of Egypt and the Dalai Lama. Not an easy thing to watch but a very important event to witness out of love and respect. More difficult still was when my father died while I held his still strong and athletic hands and repeated the Jewish Shema blessing, and when I sat with my ex-wife’s body before her funeral and had one of the best conversations with her that we ever had.  I will never forget these extraordinary life experiences just as I will never forget the birth of my three beautiful children, Ari, Eli and Benjamin.
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Life and Death. In this virtual ocean voyage and treasure hunt called ones “lifetime” there are certain times that CaptCliff’s trusty feather quill pen is best stowed away to more fully absorb something truly important, even life changing. It isn’t something I can pre-plan or predict but is just something I feel I need to do instead of building more interesting (but probably unnecessary) rooms, creating found art pieces or writing witty stories about how crazy and precious life on planet Earth is.  On the other hand, I really like doing those other things too….. 🙂

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I now have two married sons, two newly-converted Jewish daughter-in-laws, and a faithful rescue dog that wont stop scratching, shedding, and stealing food from the galley of the pirate ship and creativity portal I call home. In general there is a “nervous-content” feeling push-pulling on my heart.  A typical Cliff-ish paradox whittled out of what would seem more like an obvious oxymoron.  I say nervous because if you know me then you know that my mind/body is hopelessly entangled with neurotic fears, narcissistic fantasies, endless inner dialogue and random floating bits of Triscuits, malted milk balls and other carbohydrate and sugar rich flotsam and jetsam. Fiber, I have learned from my sister Leslie is all important. If I could eat the soft pulpy popsicle sticks along with all the popsicles I consume on a daily basis I probably would. As it is, my bedside table and bedroom floor often ends up looking like a game of 52 pick-up-sticks or some kindergarten craft class recreation of the Stupey Log cabin in Highland Park. 
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More important, am I the only person who feels like the older they get the less willing one is to bend down and pick up things including dirty clothes and loose change on the ground?  I used to pick up every shiny penny for good luck or just logical necessity since almost every random bill, Starbucks tab or store purchase is $45.91 or $6.32 or $76.01. I swear they must do it on purpose and I end up with a sack of worthless coin in my pants pocket by nightfall. Now, however, I might spot nickels, dimes or even quarters on the floor or a sidewalk and I become suddenly philosophical and unusually circumspect. I pause to consider the “consequences” and long term “implications”. Is it really worth that much physical effort I ask myself? Am I  possibly “nickel and dime-ing” myself right into a more expensive set of chiropractor visits or a higher tax bracket?  More important, will I end up later in life seeing crisp dollar bills on the ground and blithely drive right over them in my Medicare hover chair due to rampant inflation or Wall-e like indifference? Frankly I doubt it since I’m a cheap bastard and in many ways my Jewish Pirate/buried treasure seeking tendencies are a peculiar form of exercise. “Stoop, Squint, Ponder” is my kind of calisthenics and personal training (see my past blog about the value of  “found objects”  below). Let’s just say I’m not a gambler. My last trip to Vegas (years ago) involved meticulously researching the best-bang-for-the-buck buffets and combing the casino floors for errant silver dollars and unclaimed poker chips.  Anyway, I thought I would provide a more serious and introspective update to my CaptCliff blog archive… especially since both of my loyal readers wondered what I was up to lately.

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Finally, I must thank any and all friends and family, Facebook-wise or human beings actually inhabiting the same plane and physical dimension who (either) attended my son Benjamin’s wedding in Atlanta or now just have to put up with all the photos on social media sites, ie. “Oh God, not another shot of Ben and Megan cutting their wedding cake, looking cute together, frolicking in Tuscany on their honeymoon or getting pick-pocketed in Florence” (actually that was me and Ben’s mother Rona in 1982). Regardless, this season of joy, while truly joyous will inevitably be followed by future life trials and tribulations (as well as other very wonderful moments to remember) because…well, that’s how life rolls and I do love a good Tootsie Roll along with my sugar-free cherry popsicle. In general… through my ever-present sadness and nostalgia, false bravado, silly self-deprecating humor and raging narcissisism, I am trying to say, “Thank you all for being my friend”.

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Toilet Wars: Stardate 2015

Posted on March 19, 2015 by captaincliff

 IMG_0011(6)

Lately I’ve been on a “Americans are pussies/These kids today cant fix ‘nuthin/Nobody wants to get their hands dirty/Mike Rowe-ish rant. My kids are frankly sick of it. My Facebook friends would rather me now complain about Obama or Newt Gingrich then go on ad infinitum about home improvement. When I go to Lowes or Home Depot (which is several times a day often for no apparent reason) I have this “strutting peacock” persona that comes over me as I electric slide my way down the various hardware aisles talking “Mr. Fix-it” jive to perky “sales associates” or nobody in particular. “Hey where y’all hiding the stainless European metric lugnuts? Oh yeah aisle 2, I knew that”  or  “Yeah, I’m here so often I bet you thought I was a damn vendor, didn’t you!” or the particularly gratuitous “frustrated contractor” banter, “Man if this rain dont stop I’m gonna have to tell the foreman to cut back the framing crew and push the subs back another week. This storm front is killin’ me!”  To be honest sometimes I am just there to try to return the 8000 things I have impulsively purchased over the last 10 years. If the return desk people dont see through my obvious ploy (ie., “Um, sorry but this Victorian weasel wrench hasn’t been in production since the first World War. We cant take it back, sir. Also, you were here yesterday.”) then the Karmic “Law of Bogus Returns” strikes which states in large capital letters:  IF YOU THINK IT’S FROM HOME DEPOT THEN IT’S FROM LOWES. IF YOU THINK ITS FROM LOWES ITS FROM HOME DEPOT. IF YOU THINK IT’S FROM ACE HARDWARE ITS FROM SEARS. IF YOU THINK ITS FROM SEARS IT IS BUT GOOD LUCK FINDING ONE THAT IS STILL OPEN OR THEIR PRODUCTS WHICH NO LONGER EXIST IN THIS SOLAR SYSTEM.

Anyway, I like to pretend I am Handy Andy with a Ph.D  I also like to think I am a man for all seasons and someone just about anybody can talk to by virtue of my “common man” Abe Lincoln blue collar roots…except that I was raised in Highland Park, Illinois among ridiculous extreme wealth and white privilege so extreme that I thought everyone on Planet Earth had a personal gardener and bi-weekly landscaping service. As far as I know, nobody knew how to fix anything when it broke because when it did you called somebody with a truck and lots of tools.

You probably want me to get to the point. Ok, I will.  Last week I fixed my son Eli’s kitchen faucet and I felt like a frickin’ champ. I considered the small callous I got on my right hand to be a kind of working man “badge of courage”. This week one of my toilets tried to get uppity with me and kept leaking and refilling itself over and over. What could be worse? I’m talking about a bad toilet that actually chose to overconsume water, our most precious natural resource!  AND THEN just like the Honey Badger, this master toilet  “just didnt give a shit”….or “flush a shit” to be more precise. This particular Kohler commode  became so rebellious and obstreperous that it ended up having THREE major issues at once, challenging my Star Trek engineering skills and stretching my “man with tools” self-image to it’s vertical limit. I even started talking out loud in Mr. Scott’s phony Star Trek-meets-Braveheart Scottish accent as I struggled mightily to replace a leaking rubber flapper while water began pouring out of the wall supply valve. Then, to my horror, it started dripping out of one of the dining room recessed ceiling lights a floor below.  “I cant change the Laws of Physics, dammit!, I protested from my yoga-twisted prone fetal position under the errant toilet.  “Aye, the haggis is on fire for sure“, I called out to the only other imaginary Enterprise crew member present, Harmony the black Labrador. Finally after an hour of turning wrenches in every direction and pretending to know what I was doing the water stopped leaking. .. sort of a reverse biblical miracle. I also managed to extract the deformed old-as-the-hills flapper valve that not only ended up looking nothing like any red rubber flapper of this century but was an absolute dead ringer for the Starship Enterprise (attached by a tractor beam to a ginormous  space marshmallow ala Ghostbusters).

Dont’ believe me? Just scroll up and take a look at the photo above and next time you’re whining about how to fix something and you wonder if you might need to call some alcoholic tradesperson on Craigslist or speed dial your obnoxious cousin Louis who never stops talking… or text your next door neighbor’s opiate-addicted halfway house residing formerly licensed contractor (who is still on parole for trying to hawk a client’s antique silverware set at a local pawnshop) pause first and take a deep cleansing breath. Then go ahead and call them anyway because this shit is really hard to figure out and there’s a damn good chance the toilet I think i fixed is going to explode tonight…..dayenu!

Atlanta Electric Slide: https://video.search.yahoo.com/video/play?p=youtube+electric+slide&vid=77351a6b11b8bd9aa85c5e5aba1593de&l=4%3A03&turl=http%3A%2F%2Fts1.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DVN.608014979887794892%26pid%3D15.1&rurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D-mOY2eWO2qw&tit=Marcia+Griffiths+-+Electric+Boogie+%28The+Electric+Slide%29+%28Promo%29+%28HQ%29&c=28&sigr=11b8tmt7k&sigt=124ftarej&sigi=11rbhm783&back=https%3A%2F%2Fsearch.yahoo.com%2Fyhs%2Fsearch%3Fp%3Dyoutube%2Belectric%2Bslide%26ei%3DUTF-8%26hsimp%3Dyhs-001%26hspart%3Dmozilla&sigb=1328shum2&ct=p&age=1273912004&fr2=p%3As%2Cv%3Av&hsimp=yhs-001&hspart=mozilla&tt=b

Hit That Hole Ya’ll:  https://video.search.yahoo.com/video/play?p=youtube+electric+slide&vid=42d89318412f99099d9323462dff17e6&l=2%3A15&turl=http%3A%2F%2Fts1.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DVN.608046182826183480%26pid%3D15.1&rurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DlSMb6Tnd-q0&tit=L.T+Electric+Slide+*%5BHD%5D*&c=14&sigr=11b3rn036&sigt=10p1jb0mi&sigi=11rhsr18f&back=https%3A%2F%2Fsearch.yahoo.com%2Fyhs%2Fsearch%3Fp%3Dyoutube%2Belectric%2Bslide%26ei%3DUTF-8%26hsimp%3Dyhs-001%26hspart%3Dmozilla&sigb=1328shum2&ct=p&age=1263438211&fr2=p%3As%2Cv%3Av&hsimp=yhs-001&hspart=mozilla&tt=b

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Garfield Goose, Bozo and Me

Posted on December 9, 2014 by captaincliff

Garfield_Goosebozograndprizegame

The other day it hit me that this coming year, 2015 it will have been 60 years since WGN-TV launched its wildly popular children’s show, Garfield Goose and Friends. As a  Baby Boomer and Clinical Psychologist it doesn’t take my Ph.D. to realize that Simon and Garfunkel were right to describe childhood in their  1968 song Bookends as “a time of innocence, a time of confidences long ago..” My time of innocence took place near Chicago, Illinois in the suburb of Highland Park.  Back then we were taught to believe in magical things like the tooth fairy and Santa Claus (unless you were Jewish) and instructed to trust and respect authority figures including meter maids, librarians and the President of the United States. It’s only much later in life that you realize there’s more going on behind the scene than meets the eye. For example, what appeared to be lighthearted TV entertainment in the late 1950’s -60’s turned out to also be an apropos metaphor for a postwar tug-of-war between opposing forces of various kinds.  This struggle for supremacy expressed itself in an ongoing battle between television sponsors over their best selling products, ie. Ovaltine versus Bosco, Coke versus Pepsi, etc.  After all, the Cold War was still going on and you never knew who might be a KGB spy, a secret agent with a cool shoe phone, or a brainwashed Korean war veteran programmed to liquidate somebody important at the very mention of some obscure phrase like, “Pop the Tang”.
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Fortunately, most of us suburbanized Baby Boomers grew up in a state of perpetual naivete, sitting transfixed and cross-legged in front of a black and white television watching campy Westerns like the Lone Ranger, perky adolescent Mouseketeers with budding breasts, or science fiction movies that regularly outdid William Shatner in overacting, ie. “This is the end of Flash Gordon!! Haha!!”
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Still, we tended to believe what we saw with our own eyes no matter how illogical and unlikely the stretch of the imagination. Case in point: the popular TV shows “Garfield Goose and Friends” and “Bozo’s Circus”. If you happened to grow up in Chicagoland circa 1960-1985, you would definitely remember this endearing and wholly impossible TV program starring a megalomaniac duck(Garfield Goose), a narcoleptic bloodhound (Beauregard Burnside III), and a vaguely asexual human host (Frazier Thomas) dressed in full military uniform. Today he might be diagnosed as delusional or be arrested for posing as a military veteran and end up stripped of his shiny medals and gold shoulder pads like Chuck Connors was in the television show “Branded”.
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Even as a kid in Highland Park, lazily stretched out after school on my parents black leather Eames chair, eating Twinkies and drinking ice cold milk (Sun Valley Dairy), I suspected there was another level of “reality” that was NOT being talked about on the shows “little theater screen”.  I somehow knew there was more to life than I could glean from my favorite cartoons and TV shows like Garfield Goose, Bozo’s Circus, Mighty Mouse, Beanie and Cecil, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Clutch Cargo, and The Magic Hands.
 
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While Frazier Thomas and friends lulled me into a false sense of security, Bozo’s Circus usually triggered my high anxiety. Certainly I reveled in the agony and the ecstasy of those young people brave enough (or fool enough) to actually GO ON THE AIR live with Bozo. At first I felt jealous of them and then later completely mortified and unreasonably angry towards the kids chosen by the “Magic Arrows” to play the Grand Prize Game (GPG). This was especially true for those hapless players who somehow flubbed the first or second toss of the ping pong ball into the Bozo buckets. I remember shrieking at the TV in the same exact manner my father did when his beloved Green Bay Packers dropped an easy pass or fumbled the pigskin.  “Are you kidding me?! All you had to do was let the ball go STRAIGHT DOWN to get a silver dollar!! Your life is ruined…get out of here you bum!!” I guess I perceived myself as the unofficial armchair quarterback or Vince Lombardi of the Grand Prize Game. My exaggerated frustration and anger no doubt masked my own trepidation and fear imagining myself blow the same easy “drop shot” due to over excitement, clammy hands or performance anxiety. If that happened I knew there was  NO WAY I could ever show my face in public school or Sunset Foods ever again. The psychological stakes felt that high to me and the potential self-loathing and never ending taint of failure on my soul even higher.  Regardless, this only served to reinforce the feeling that the larger story of life beyond Bozo’s Big Top was not being revealed to us. Of course, I hadn’t yet been exposed to the darker side of adulthood as portrayed in films like “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf” or “Dr. Strangelove”. In time I would find out and Simon and Garfinkel’s sentimental lyrics would slowly begin to sink in right down to the bone.
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 I’m not saying I was ever smart enough as a kid to know about the complicated dualities of human nature. I just never suspected that our handsome and heroic leaders like John F Kennedy might have been popping pain pills, shtupping Marilyn Monroe and turning the White House swimming pool into a Roman bath house when he wasn’t busy saving the world.  I was too busy “ducking and covering” like everybody else at West Ridge School in District 112.  Similarly, I never thought that commercial airplanes would someday fly into the World Trade Towers or that grown men would wear their pants around their butts or ankles.  My trousers only do that now when I am using a public toilet or struggling to get them off before going to bed. Hence, I was protected from “over thinking” or excessive speculation of any kind by Highland Park’s sweet suburban embrace. Case example: Never once did I ever consider that the stop-action cartoon “Hardrock, Coco, and Joe” (see link below) shown around X-mas on Garfield Goose might (as some ancient alien theorists believe…) have been a prescient warning from extraterrestrials about the satanic pleasures of hard drugs like crystal meth, cocaine and heroin quietly waiting to enslave our country’s vulnerable youth in the not so distant future. Maybe I should have…Hard rock?  Like I said, I was still naive and virginal in my critical thinking like everyone else.  All I did know was that there had to be more to life and that Clutch Cargo’s creepy lips seemed oddly effeminate as well as completely out of synch with his manly dialogue.
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When I look back on it, I still question whether it’s right to keep kids from knowing more  or protect them so thoroughly from harsher realities downwind rather than just pulling back the velvet curtain to reveal the all-too-human Wizard of Oz. Now when I watch that famous and fanciful film starring Judy Garland, everyone on screen seems incredibly wide-eyed and hopelessly naive. I know I wouldn’t let my teenage daughter (if I had one) go skipping down some yellow brick road with a bunch of weird looking slackers. It’s as if the entire cast had ingested those poppy plants or spent the whole evening doing jello shots with the Munchkins.  In the “real world” of reality TV even Matt and Amy Roloff (Little People, Big World) are apparently getting divorced after 26 years of marriage. Realistically they will probably end up hating each others smaller-than-normal guts once the lawyers take their final cut. Real life can be pretty damn rough. Bottomline: Aren’t we all somewhat hurt and traumatized by the disappointments of life? Who didn’t suffer upon learning that the Tooth Fairy was really your parents, mere mortals who eventually tired of the mythological ruse and one day having run out of quarters (or dollar bills) confessed so that they could just write a check and go to bed? Maybe that’s what maturity is all about, honestly facing and accepting reality. I just know that part of me, like Peter Pan, never wanted to do it….”grow up” that is.
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Honestly I dont have all the answers. My so called higher education fails me at such times of quietude and sobering reflection. Maybe Simon and Garfunkel were also right to suggest that we just try to cherish the memories captured in those old Instamatic camera photos that are in many ways all that’s tangibly left of our precious childhoods. What I can say for sure is that I miss those glory days eating Twinkies, drinking cold milk out of tall glass dairy bottles, and yelling, “Hot dogs, hamburgers, spaghetti and meatballs!!” in an attempt to wake up a sleeping hound dog exactly where he chose to lie….in a much simpler time and place that I so fondly remember.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6MHg1-mpcUY

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CaptCliff’s Post Thanksgiving Moment of Enlightenment

Posted on December 7, 2014 by captaincliff

 

In my never ending search for truth and personal enlightenment I have come to realize the slow unfolding nature of wisdom. It is on a daily basis that our human folly is revealed. For example, ever since Thanksgiving my heartburn has been worse than usual. I shouldn’t be surprised given the mass quantities of turkey, stuffing, green bean casserole, noodle kugel, brisket, pumpkin pie and cheesecake that I consumed. Plus, with cousin Donna, the garlic and hot chili oil Dragon Woman visiting from Boca, we had been eating spicy stuff pretty much non-stop. And that’s not counting what we ate at the actual sit-down holiday meal and throughout the following several nights as we regularly circled the granite topped kitchen island like Jewish turkey vultures picking through leftovers in various sized tupperware containers. After she went to bed I would sometimes return to the kitchen like some crazed food zombie needing to feast on another fresh brain. By that time heating anything up or even using human utensils seemed unnecessary.  My main concern was being discovered in my gravy soiled bathrobe ravaging a brie en croute with fruit compote at 3AM. Regardless, my hearburn was worse than usual the next day. What a surprise…. Luckily, I had anticipated such a result and had taken an extra dose of OTC Zantac prophylactically each morning. It may have saved my life.

Here’s where the wisdom part comes in. By today, Sunday, I noticed my heartburn had not subsided which I surmised was due to the fact that nobody remembered to bake or eat the 4 rolls of flaky Pillsbury biscuits we bought on sale at Kroger….so I made them and ate them myself. What other choice did I have? The human ego has many ways to rationalize its gluttonous lower-self nature. I actually caught myself thinking that eating a dozen biscuits wouldn’t be so bad as long as I used the zero calorie “I Cant Believe It’s Not Butter” spray. Of course I eventually abandoned the use of the annoying spray top and commenced to pouring the liquified butter flavored chemical mixture directly onto the crispy oven-baked carbohydrate mass. Even my Black lab, Harmony, a known foodaholic and kleptomaniac looked at me aghast and seemed by her quizzical look and tipped head gesture to say, “You need help, dude.”

Bottomline: When “garbage in” does not equate to “garbage out”, it’s probably time to put on ones detective cap and reassess a situation using the trusty scientific method. About an hour ago I suddenly remembered I had not been wearing my high powered Walgreens reading glasses when I took the Zantac. Donna insisted on buying me the kind that have the built-in mini-halogen headlights. I think I permanently blinded a waiter using this gadget at a Chinese restaurant in an attempt to read the menu earlier in the week. Unfortunately, they were almost 12 feet away when I needed them and who wants to expend that kind of extra energy? Once I retrieved them under the pile of sugar-free popsicle sticks at my bedside I carefully reread the foil pack and discovered I had been taking Loperamide Hydrochloride tablets, a potent ANTI-DIARRHEA medicine and NOT the Zantac 150 heartburn tablets. An understandable mistake given the uncanny similarity of their foil packaging but also about as critical a boo-boo as failing to check the rubber O-rings on the ill-fated Space Shuttle launch. In that disaster the proud and noble space vehicle blew up right after its well-publicized launch.  In my case I may never launch properly again. The idea of blowing up or even out at this juncture would now be perceived as divine intervention and absolute proof of God’s great mercy. If enlightenment does result from a progression of tiny progressive insights that finally lead to releasing ones over-inflated ego, then I anxiously await with feverish anticipation any such release…of any spiritual or material kind really.

constipatedbuddha  Grumpy Constipated Buddha

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Turtle as Spirit Guide/Totem

Posted on December 6, 2014 by captaincliff

Turtletotembowl

edited from various sources:

Turtle Spirit Animal
The turtle totem wisdom teaches us about walking our path in peace and sticking to it with determination and serenity. Slow moving on earth, yet often fast and agile in water, those who have the turtle as totem or spirit animal may, at times, be encouraged to take a break in their busy lives and look around or deep within themselves for more grounded, longer lasting solutions. Traditionally, the turtle is symbolic of the way of peace, whether it’s inviting us to cultivate peace of mind or a peaceful relationship with our fellow man and/or environment.

Turtle Symbolism
The turtle symbolism is characterized by the association with the Earth and earth symbols of groundedness and patience:
• Symbol of the world, of the Earth
• Ability to stay grounded, even in moments of disturbances and chaos
• Slowing down, pacing yourself
• Determination, persistence
• Emotional strength and understanding
• Ancient Wisdom, The turtle is also linked to the spirit of the water and the fluid as well as sometimes turbulent nature of emotions.

In general, the turtle totem symbolizes our peaceful walk on this earth. It represents the path we take as we embark on our journey through life.  In contrast to emotional or spiritual development occurring in bursts, the way of the turtle anchors our personal unfolding in a slower, more grounded series of steps and longer cycles of personal transformation.

The turtle is associated with our physical and embodied evolution on the earthly plane. Call this spirit animal for help to be more grounded over the long haul. You can also get help slowing down and pacing yourself, so you can take your next step with more confidence.

The turtle and ancient wisdom of the Earth
The American continent is referred to as “Turtle Island” in the Native American folklore. It is said that the Turtle carried the weight of the land of that continent on her back. This image is also present in Hindu and Chinese cultures, where the turtle is the animal literally carrying Mother Earth  and holding the world in balance.

Having the turtle as totem means that you have an affinity with the ancient wisdom of the earth. You are naturally tuned into the elements, land, plants, people and animals. You carry your home on your back figuratively speaking and feel at ease wherever you are. Home for you is where the heart is passionately attuned and in keeping with your highest principles. Home improvement and decoration means little to you unless it has deep personal meaning and resonance.

The turtle totem and determination
The wisdom of the turtle totem teaches us about determination and staying strong despite obstacles or distractions. This animal encourages those who have it as totem to listen deeply to their inner guidance and trust their path no matter what.
It is a great helper for those who need to provide a steady effort and persistence. You can call on the wisdom of the turtle when you need help to sustain your efforts and succeed in a long-lasting endeavor or one that is perceived as unpopular or “impossible” by others. By analogy with the biological attributes of this animal characterized by a long life, this spirit animal is also associated with longevity and ultimate success in the long run.
If you have the turtle as spirit animal, you may be inclined to base your decisions on a deliberate process of reviews and considerations. It may sometimes take you longer than others to make your big move or learn to stick with one thing (versus a million others) but when you do, the results tend to be long-lasting and solid.

The turtle and the way of peace
The turtle represents the way of peace – whether it’s external or internal. It is considered as the Peace-Maker in Native American traditions. This animal is also often associated with the feminine principle or feminine energy, which foster peace and harmony with all things. Women with the turtle animal totem are significant peace-makers in a world of strident differences and apparent conflict. Thus, they are human “bridge builders” who look towards finding shared perspectives and common ground, even among warring sides and hostile combatants.

Being inspired by the wisdom of the turtle totem, you can use your spirit animal to slow down when you feel you are getting overwhelmed by a situation or emotions and obtain rest (in a well protected space/shell) to gain a more grounded perspective. This spirit guide can assist you in taking time for yourself to better integrate all the aspects of a given situation or issue.

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Why CaptCliff Makes Peace Pipes

Posted on November 4, 2014 by captaincliff
Kabuki Pipe
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The Peace Pipe and the Therapist
I first began making peace pipes as a part-time hobby sometime in the 90’s. Actually I dont quite remember anymore. It’s been so long and memory fades. Initially I was interested in the idea of the Native-American peace pipe, its use in sacred rituals as well as its visual and symbolic representation as a “peace offering”. As a result much of my pipe art has a “tribal” or primitive look. I later began giving away some of my handcrafted pipes as birthday gifts to certain friends and occasionally random other people either as “retro looking” smoking devices or as unique home decor/display items. My friends’ enthusiasm for my art encouraged me to improve upon my coarse 8th grade Edgewood Junior High School woodworking skills and I began to create more elaborate pipes and pipe stands made from colorful “found objects” and sustainable materials including bamboo from my backyard.

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Exactly why I give a certain pipe, pipe stand or sacred container/box to someone is not always clear to me. If I know the person’s favorite animal, spirit animal or animal “totem” then it’s a no-brainer. Other times it’s just part of some unspoken creative or spiritual process that seems to have developed and underlies my pipe fetish/hobby. While often tongue-in-cheek and consistent with my super sarcastic personality I also consider my pipes to be a semi-serious and sacred form of healing art. Therefore the recipients of each pipe are the chosen “holders” of the energy (both male and female) imbued in each pipe and I like to believe they connect me to their new owners in some positive and/or heart-centered way.

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As a creative process (a bit like “free association” in psychotherapy and psychoanalysis) I just let the pipe-making “come” to me as I make them. I listen to what my inner voice (who I sometimes refer to as my “Picasso Pooh” aspect of self) has to say about the pipe I’m working on and the manner in which I choose to “adorn” it. I usually know if it is coming out right by how the process flows and what materials seem to want to be included (versus what falls off much to my frustration and OCD-ish dismay). If I find myself struggling to make something work, it probably isn’t right. Either way I often end up with alot of glue, paint, and bits of fabric on my hands and finger nails by the end of the day….It’s not a good look unless you happen to work at Cirque du Soleil.

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In Kabbalah it says we “give by receiving” and we “receive by giving”. By giving someone something unique, “special” and meaningful I also receive something positive from the pipes “receiver”especially if they choose to think of it in the same kind of way. At the very same time I think of myself as enriching and improving my connection to God…one peace pipe at a time. I believe there are over 400 of them at the last counting. Dont judge me. The deeper meaning or personal significance that each pipe represents is sort of the metaphysical cherry on top. While the act of smoking with my pipes is optional (sort of like nudity at the right designated beach) they can also be used as purely symbolic elements in a personal ceremony or ritual like a wedding, a divorce or a funeral or just as a potent visual representation of something unusually important.

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Spiritually speaking, I believe we are here on Earth in this confusing, conflict-ridden and complicated world not just to survive, amass wealth and compete with one another for survival but rather to explore the “art of living” through increased compassion, greater love, more forgiveness and if possible radical transcendent understanding. Sometimes such lofty objectives are easier said than done. Marriage vows, for example, speak of a lifelong mutual commitment to love, cherish and “be there” for our chosen mate. At times, however, we forget and fail to keep such a sensible and fundamental agreement. My peace pipes are therefore also meant as an everpresent reminder to give and seek forgiveness and to remain present (mindful) and focused on our own goals and individual core values. Just as we are free to choose a profession or life path filled with meaning, inspiration and creativity, we can also choose the kind of art, music, and mythology to use in our personal healing, recovery, and continual growth.

Cliff Mazer, Ph.D.

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CaptCliff on The Ghost and Mrs Muir Woods

Posted on October 29, 2014 by captaincliff

Muirwoods1Muirwoods2
Sometimes ones very best days are also their worst. It may have something to do with that annoying “dialectic” in life that really smart people and Zen Buddhists talk about. You know what I’m talking about. It’s the whole “light and dark”, “good and evil”, “two sides of the coin” opposites attract thing. Here’s a recent example.


Picture me in Paradise on a 10-day vacation, otherwise known as being in San Francisco, California. I’ve already stuffed myself to the brim with the “perfect” sushi meal in Japantown, the perfect dim sum in Chinatown, the perfect butter croissant in Berkeley, and a frothy near perfect Cappuccino in North Beach that by rights should make every Starbucks barista in the world turn in their apron and espresso machine and admit defeat. Thus I am riding a wave of peak number “10” culinary experiences and synchronicity that also included creating impossible-to-get parking spaces near the Ferry Building at the Embarcadero and controlling the weather. The sun is shining and the temperature is 73 degrees unless I chose it otherwise. The success of the San Francisco Giants in the World Series was possibly another small example of a baseball team riding my self-centered tsunami wave of good vibes, good food and “high-end” manifesting of the very best there is in the Bay area. Dont get me started about legal pot in California either as it was easier to score good weed in SF than it was in Colorado where they direct airport buses in Denver right to their ubiquitous medical dispensaries and sophisticated cannabis-based economic infrastructure. In contrast, we walked to Haight-Ashbury and before I could pass the McDonalds on Stanyan Street and Haight Street I was already hooked up by a business-minded hippie named Steve who was not only highly efficient but also didn’t require a picture ID or phony baloney medical card.

Anyway, picture me and the gf sallying forth one day to beautiful Muir Woods in Marin County to commune with nature and the giant Sequoia trees. It’s a perfect day…as usual. We then decided to take a 3-4 mile hike on the “Ocean View” Trail. The idea was to have an amazingly gorgeous yet reasonable little trek through the forest floor and then experience the majesty of the Pacific Ocean trailhead as we emerged triumphant into the sun-drenched eucalyptis-scented hills above Mill Valley. Of course thousands of other out-of-shape tourists do this every single day there so what could possibly go wrong?  Short Answer: My prostate gland.
Here’s what happened in a nutshell:  After 2 miles we both had to pee really bad.  After 3 miles we were both doing that squish-your-legs-together thing. At 3.5 miles I gave into temptation and decided to take a surreptitious whiz off-trail by carefully spacing myself between the Japanese couple behind us and the South American family of five far ahead. The plan involved using my gf as bait and primary “lookout”. My simple instructions to her were as follows: “Fall back to within sight of the Japanese and when I yell “GO” observe their progress and ONLY yell if they are coming around the bend. Keep in mind that my 60+ year old bladder was by this time more swollen and engorged than the Goodyear blimp seen flying over San Francisco’s AT&T Stadium. Fortunately, my pee-plan went flawlessly…until it didn’t and basically blew up just like the Hindenburg.  EXACTLY mid-pee, which every beer drinking man on the planet knows is the legendary “point of no return”, I heard a scream/guttural cry in the distance and immediately knew that meant there were “strangers in our midst” aka Asian tourists approaching near to my “mist”, so to speak. There was nothing I could do but accept the consequences of polyuria-interruptus. At that point I lost complete bladder control and ended up wetting my Docker safari shorts like an incontinent octogenarian or feral Siberian wolf-child. Dont believe me? You think I jest? Just check out the photos above. I know…..ewww.

Epilogue:   When the Japanese couple failed to materialize as expected I yelled back to my girlfriend, “What the hell happened? Where are the Japanese?”
She: “I dont know they sort of disappeared. Maybe they were ghosts.”
Me: “Then why the hell did you scream!?”
She: “Oh, that was a mistake. I just tripped on something while I was cropping a photo on my cellphone”. Riiiiiiight……….
Note to Self:  Come up with better safe words and nuclear pee codes….even in Paradise
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