I gots ToTS bad. I guess it will get worser as I get more aged.
Tip of the Tongue Syndrome (ToTS). The most recent case involved “those little cars that go down the hill.” Soap Box Derby cars. They are big in our town, we have one of the top three Soap Box Derbies in the world here.
Sometimes all you can think about is something similar, say another actor who is often in the same types of films. It’s this memory that seems to block the retrieval of the one you really want. Other times there’s apparently nothing blocking the memory’s retrieval other than your mind’s stubborn refusal.
Doesn’t that drive you nuts?
It happens to all ages, but younger minds memory synapses fire quicker and they recover without a hesitation. I remember being young and when an old fart would stutter and stammer around to find the right word wanting to administer a well placed dope slap.
But my mother calmly explained that this would not be proper etiquette – especially to my grandmother.
So I would patiently wait until I got a little signal that she would really like to be let off the hook. The bobbing of the head, stomping of a foot and drool was a good signal.
Now I am one with ToTs. I hate it.
Nancy and I have an arrangement: we just blurt out whatever is crossing our brain – ie: instead of “little cars that go down hill,” I might say: “dogs at White Park.” Derby is one of our dogs, the race is at White Park. We would work it out. Or not.
I think just for a while, I would like to experience lexical-gustatory synaesthesia. One can taste the word rather than say it.
Oh shit, never mind.
Heres some old fun posts
- Toys for Tots Needs Fixing NOW Every other not-for-profit has to tug at your heartstrings to motivate to you to open your moth infested money purse and release a few coins for their cause. Not the Marines. The few. The proud. The Marines. So why is namby-pamby Dr. Phil their spokesmouth? Pointless Banter nails it. In fact I nominate Gunnery Sergeant Hartman from Full Metal Jacket to head up this new version of Toys for Tots. In our town, they put a nervous fireman on camera to ramble about Toys for Tots. I'm not even sure if they have a Marine in the spot that's how much of an impact it has on me. But picture this: Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Have you donated to Toys for Tots this year? Me: No I haven’t y…. Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Get the fuck out of my food court. Now. Move it. I’m going to rip your balls off, so you cannot contaminate the rest of the world. I will motivate you, if it short-dicks every cannibal on the Congo. Me: *Laughing * Uh ..ok… whatever.. Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: You little scumbag! I got your name, I got your ass! You will not laugh, you will not cry, you will learn by the numbers, I will teach you! Now get up off your face! You better unfuck yourself before I unscrew your head and shit down your neck! Hell yeah, I'm motivated!
- Dads And X-Wing Fighter Cars Are Spoiling the Soap Box Derby Smallburg has a massive Soap Box Derby race on a specially designed and built track with grandstands, food tents, wi-fi, loudspeakers and timing traps. And that's sad. ...David Brinkley, was also getting ready to race. He was scheduled to participate in the Nat Love Memorial Race for adults. The entry fees will be donated to children’s charities. The dads once again are having too much fun at an event that is designed for kids. Dads killed the Soap Box Derby once before. A kid was caught cheating by adding a magnet to the nose of his car. When the starting plate dropped the slight additional pull to the car was enough to give the kid a unbeatable margin of victory. The kid's wheels were also doped to be extra slick while turning on the axle. His adult guardian (not technically a dad) was indicted for deliquency of a minor. The dads had messed up. That was in 1973. Today, in an attempt to eliminate cheating, all the cars must be purchase from the Soap Box Derby company. There are build clinics that must be attended by an adult with a kid. Cars are as close to identical (except for graphics) as possible. The cars are impounded the night before the race, wheels are removed and reassigned on the day of the race. There are heats, it's no longer a one and done race. It is a great family event. But this hasn't stopped the adults from having their Soap Box Derby fun... adults are forming their own division. Rules are not strict so we can keep it fun. Be inventive! Be inventive! Have fun! On the front page of the rules: kit cars are strictly prohibited! Kit cars are for kids. So the dads are building Soap Box Derby cars like this X Wing Fighter from Star Wars. Is it cool? Absolutely. Would a kid just love to fly the X-Wing Fighter down a hill? Absolutely. Is it a Soap Box Derby car? Absolutely not. In Smallburg, adults who work for companies who sponsor the Soap Box Derby cars are allowed to participate in the Adult Oil Can Derby the Thursday afternoon before the Friday/Saturday Soap Box Derby. I had as much fun as the rest of the sponsors. Currently, there are only two cars for the Oil Can Derby. I'm not optimisitic. Adding a Dad's Division is not a good sign. Hopefully, the guiding forces for the Soap Box Derby will realize this and clamp down on the adult events. I'm not optimisitic. In a town that races mini-Corvettes in a charity race and is dominated by professional mechanics, it's only a matter of time before the Soap Box Derby for kids is over-shadowed by the Soap Box Derby for Adults. Gentlemen, Start Your Cheating.
- A Chart on Why We Don’t Go to the Dog Park A turf track for horses nearby is having some time on Saturday for dogs to run on the track. We thought about taking Derby because he is fearless and still likes to run. And we got him on Kentucky Derby Day, so he is our 'horse.' Others: Sedona just moseys. Oliver is a lump. Sofi is just too tiny and would get trampled. Tons of rain expected so Derby probably won't get to run. But then again, it would be a lot of fun and I can hose him off if he came home looking like a mudder. But I found this from Jonco that describes why we don't go to the dog park. It still applies at a Horse Park.
- It’s Official; I Have Crossed a Line. I’m Now a… It took me a while, but you can't say I didn't anticipate it. There have been the early signs: ToTs (Tip of The Tongue Syndrome.) I don't get sarcasm, unless it virtually drips off the page. I read the Fuck Death blog and send them stuff to use. I cancelled my MySpace page. I bought my first box of cigars. This single act, according to my daughter and SIL pushed me over the line. I smoked the first one this evening. I got a free sample cigar last summer so I gave it a go. Free, I could always chuck it, no harm no foul. It was nice. So Mushy gave me his cigar connection and I used it. Or it may have been one of his buds, I can't remember which. There is a ritual with cigars. A ritual far superior to cigarettes (which I smoked in college.) With cigarettes, one pounds the cigs to firmly packy the tabacky. Since I smoked Winstons in a box, I learned to bounce the package so that just a couple cancer sticks popped up. Lifting the box to my mouth, I would grab one with my lips, flip closed the top and replace it in my shirt pocket. That is a one hand operation, BTW. Then the lighting ritual. Zippo in hand, quickly downward against leg, to flip open top, upward to move striker to make flame. Light up then slapping the top shut to bring maximum attention to one's self. No friggin' flickin' Bics back then. If you smoked you had a Zippo. I was a preppy in college. Mine had initials engraved in the case. Cigar ritual: First, there is the humidor. I had my first cigar right from the box, because the eBay auction isn't over with yet. I don't own a humidor, but will in 1 day, 8 hours, 38 minutes. It is a "rich rose wood exterior with cedar wood interior... the humidor is meticulously made and has gold plated hidden quadrant hinges, felt bottom and holds twenty cigars." It also has a hygrometer so I can keep the humidity at the proper level. So I will go to my Rich Rose Wood Humidor and choose a LaDiferencia Cubana from the Dominican Republic. It will not have cellophane around it because I will have removed it so that it will age properly in the cedar wood interior. Second, I will then carry it outdoors to light it. Since I'm a man, I will bite the end of the cigar just where the curve starts to meet the shoulder. Ptooey, I spit the little chunk of tobacco at the nearest dog. I remove the paper band. I REMOVE THE PAPER BAND, so just shut up. Third, to light the cigar, one must hold it above the flame (my barbeque lighter works great) and rotate the end of the cigar to get the embers glowing. Fourth, keeping the cigar away from the flame, one draws the flame to the cigar, all the time rotating it to get an even burn. Stogey delight. It's 72 degrees, sunny, Nancy has freshly mowed the grass, a couple dogs at my side, just enough birds chirping to mask my tinnitus and I gots me a see-gar making just a fine ash of myself. No wonder Fidel lived such a long happy life. Wonder where I can get some brown fatigues? I surf the web, watch the tree rats, watch airplanes, admire the lovely ash on my fine cigar. Then, to keep piece in the family, I have to come in thru the back door, remove all my clothes and put them in the washer, take a shower, and brush my teeth a full two minutes.
- Nancy’s Gonna Kill Me Two reasons really. First, she's away, but we video chat or Skype a couple times a day. Her first question is invariably, "Do I still have four dogs." Until today, I could answer "Yes." Without equivocation. Derby went missing. Derby is our street dog-rock star He sneaks out of the fenced yard occasionally just to roam the neighborhood. As soon as he hears me call he is looking to hightail it back inside - taking the most direct line possible - which usually is through the hedge or his secret escape hatch. Today was different. It was time for me to pay attention to the dogs. I fussed over Sofi, 'cuz she's a girl and girls like being fussed over. I patted Oliver on the head because he is aloof and really doesn't give a shit what I do or when I do it. Sedona is my pal and came over for her share of rubbin'. Derby was... missing. Not on the back of the chair. Not in a sunbeam. Not in the backyard. Not shut up in the garage. Not roaming the neighborhood. He was gone. I wasn't freaking because he likes me and I figured eventually he would show up. On a whim, I asked Sedona, "where's Derby?" Oh she busted him good. Not a second's hesitation, she took me from the kitchen through the living room, into the bedroom and into the closet. Why? I have no clue. I guess he misses Nanc' and decided to hang in her closet. Maybe the fact I found Derby will get me off the hook for the second reason she will kill me: posting this picture of her closet. Bah, she'll get over it.