The Mylar Balloon

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There was a Mylar balloon in my yard this morning.  I only mention it because finding a Mylar balloon in my yard is part of a very long list of things that I’ve never experienced, but today that list is one experience shorter.  I discovered it when I took my Pit Bull, Bailey, out for her morning walk.  Normally, she waits at the front door until I release her, and then she races onto the front yard and attempts to rub the Gentle Leader from her muzzle.  But this time she stopped, jumped back like a startled horse and growled her low, sub-sonic growl.  When I looked in the direction that her rigid frame was pointing, I, too, was startled.  It’s just not something that you’re ever prepared to see. 

The balloon read:  “Happy Birthday” and its string (ribbon, really) was entangled in some rose bushes that I have yet to remove from their containers and plant.  Every other attempt at transplanting has ended crispy, brown and poorly, so I’ve opted to let living plants be.  But that’s a different story.  There was still a little helium left and the balloon swayed back and forth like a tranquilized cobra.  Appropriately, Bailey proceeded to slink around, low to the ground like a mongoose, all the while growling at the festive intruder.

While Bailey was still apoplectic, I couldn’t help but smile at this random fugitive of joy that had escaped and found its way here.  When I was a young boy, I loved the idea of untethered balloons, riding on a thermal, continually climbing until the helium inside and the thinning atmosphere reached equilibrium.  Slowly, the helium would escape and the balloon would gradually descend.  I thought how magical the place at which it came to rest must be.  Surely it was God Himself who put it there because that’s who was in charge of such monumental decisions.  To choose one place out of infinite places is a choice just too big for humans. 

At my grandfather’s funeral, we released eighty-five red, white and blue balloons, but before we did, we wrote something special on a small card that was knotted to the string.  For the life of me, I can’t remember what I wrote, but I hope it wasn’t trite.  Maybe someone saw it, maybe they didn’t.  Maybe a bird used it to build a nest.  Or maybe it got tangled in someone’s rose bushes.

There was no such message on the Mylar, Happy Birthday balloon littering my yard.

That’s the funny thing about litter.  If it were the foil from a cigarette pack sticking to the thorns, I might have been momentarily indignant, but because this particular bit of litter was used for joy, I saw in it the wry smile of Fate.

I don’t know from where it came; there were no stamps like those on a cartoon steamer trunk.  Nor do I know for whom it was intended; it wasn’t personalized.  To you I say:  If it was or is your birthday, Happy Birthday indeed.  And to God, who sent me your balloon, I say:  Message received.  Thanks for thinking of me.

 

-Dylan

Dying Prematurely and the CDC

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I recently read an article stating that smoking kills 443,000 prematurely each year.  The statistic comes from the CDC, the Center for Disease Control.  I take exception to this statement.  I have no problem with the “smoking kills” part or even the number.  What I take exception to is the “prematurely” part.  Clearly, this implies that humans have a maturity date (like a Certificate of Deposit) and, upon reaching it, then and only then are they allowed to die.  Anything less would be “premature.”

If this date is known to somebody, and you happen to be reading this Blog, do us all a favor and tell us what it is!  In the bible, it’s “three score and ten” so 70 years.  In the movie “Logan’s Run,” it’s 30.  According to the CDC, it’s unspecified but if you die a smoking related death, whether it’s at 30 or 70, it’s shy of what it should be or, in other words, “premature.”

I have a question for the CDC:  If a person reaches their maturity date, can they expect your blessing to begin smoking?  And will you actively hunt down those who exceed their maturity date and force them to engage in risky behavior?  And what if smoking temporarily saves a person’s life?  Let’s say he bows his head to light a cigarette and a sniper’s bullet misses him by exactly that much.  What if a mad man (by which I mean a crazy guy; not a hunky ad exec from the 60’s on AMC) threatens pull the pin on a grenade unless he gets a cigarette?  In this case, a smoker with a square to lend may save a dozen lives.  Of course this begs the question:  Is a death due to a bullet or grenade considered premature?  Or are those deaths filed under “Right On Time?”  If a smoker dies due to something other than smoking, is his/her death considered “post-mature?”  I imagine that the CDC, as their name would imply, centers around disease control, and I don’t think that bullets and grenades are considered diseases despite the staggering lack of ease that they inflict.  Therefore, bullets and grenades would fall outside the CDC’s jurisdiction.

And just who is in charge of keeping the books on our maturity dates?  I would think it would be God.  If so, is the CDC doing God’s work by enforcing our maturity dates?  Perhaps they should change their name to the Church for Disease Control.  They can even keep their current abbreviation.  Oh, and CDC, since you have a working relationship with the Almighty, could you ask Him why bad things happen to good people?  And then could you ask Him if He could create a burrito so hot that even He couldn’t eat it.  I’ve always been curious about that.

-Dylan

Drivers in the Daytime

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If you ever drive around Milwaukee’s freeway system during the day, you’ll notice that there is a kind of driver on the road that can only be described as “really, really bad.”  The nine-to-fivers have paid upwards of twenty-five dollars to store their cars for the day, but the people who still have access to their automobiles and the wherewithal to drive them are free to turn the highway into a Drivers Training film for the rest of us.  It’s as if they think that the road is lined with soft bumpers that will gently nudge them back on track if their car strays from the lane while they study those strange sticks protruding from the steering column that make the arrows light up on the dashboard.

Thankfully, most of these drivers are off the road when the chutes open and the nine-to-fivers’ cars are released.  In stark contrast to the meandering free-for-all that occurs on the road while they are behind their desks, the nine-to-fivers take to the streets with a finely-focused aggression.  They sit in gridlock like rodeo bulls behind their gates poised to lunge at the slightest opening.  There will be an accident, oh yes, just like one impala will be taken by the crocodile waiting in the watering hole.  It is Darwin’s Rules of the Road, but that’s the agreement.  This is the driving world to which I am accustomed.

This is why I cannot process being rear-ended at three miles per hour by a mini van while waiting at a stoplight.  Surely I was seen or else the mini van would not have been traveling at three miles per hour, right?  My presence could not have surprised her, and yet she drove right into me.  Is this a technique used by daytime drivers?  Approach the stoplight slowly until you feel impact?  Does it reduce wear on the brake pads and shoes by transferring the momentum to another object like me?  Is a complete stop due to another’s car somehow considered an impingement of personal freedom?

Daytime driving is truly like walking among Zombies.  Daytime drivers are slow, aimless and random yet strangely outcome-oriented.  The word “obstacle” is absent from their vocabulary.  According to Dictionary.com, an obstacle is “something that obstructs or hinders progress,” but if you refuse to have your progress hindered, ipso facto there can be no obstacle.  It’s actually quite brilliant in a Zen-like and completely egocentric way.

When I looked in my rearview mirror, I saw that, among the many expressions not displayed on her face, culpability was at the top of the list.  As if Newton’s Third Law of Motion had suddenly been reversed, and my equal and opposite reaction was somehow the cause of her action.  Like the Insurance Companies’ mind-blowing rule that you’re 10% at fault during any accident because you were there.  As long as Insurance Companies are evoking the Butterfly Effect, by that rationale, isn’t it really my parents’ fault for conceiving me in the first place?  And if that’s true, then we have to hold Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer accountable for removing their inhibitions.

I didn’t get out of the car.  I knew there was no damage to speak of because with today’s plastic bumpers you know immediately.  Instead, I swallowed my indignation like a good boy where it will either dissolve or link up with more of its ilk to form a tumor.

A word of advice for you nine-to-fivers:  Stick to rush hour; it’s safer.

-Dylan

Dear Maxim Magazine

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Dear Maxim Magazine:

 

When I went out to my mailbox today, it smelled particularly sexy, and sure enough there you were.  I suspect today’s fragrance was emanating from page 45, the thick page featuring Josh Hartnett and Emporio Armani Diamonds for Men.  Believe me, in a pinch, I will peel open the page and wipe your sticky sample on my pulse points.  However, I must confess, I don’t know who Josh Hartnett is.  Is he an actor?  Musician?  A Pirate?  I base that last guess on his wardrobe and the location and concentration of his facial hair.

 

For the last year, I’ve passively received your magazine.  I say “passively” because, for the life of me, I don’t remember subscribing.  Oh, I’ll leaf through, mainly out of respect.  I mean, you took the trouble to send it to me and it would be rude not to at least scan it.  I find your information regarding pop culture to be very shiny and bright.  And there’s no doubt that your attempts to accommodate youthful consumerism are perfectly honed, especially the ad for a trust potion called “Liquid Trust.”  Finally, the Sensitive Man’s alternative to Roofies!

 

But here’s the rub:  I’m almost 40 years old.  That makes me old enough to be the father of many of your airbrushed cover girls.  Despite their “come hither” looks behind smoky eye shadow and their heaving bosoms exposed by falling shoulder straps, the fact that I could be footing the bill for their college tuition makes any lustful thoughts that you’ve intended very creepy and disconcerting; especially when it’s accompanied by an article entitled:  “How to Vote Off Her Panties!”  Then again, whatever gets the kids interested in their civic duty and the democratic process is aces in my book.

 

I will admit, many years ago, I was a subscriber to Maxim Magazine.  That was back when I lived in a studio apartment, worked at a home improvement store and was eager for any advice as to getting “Her” panties off, voting or otherwise.  As I mentioned, I’m now pushing 40, married and am very knowledgeable when it comes to panties as I regularly launder those of my wife in our large capacity, Sears washing machine.

 

I suspect the woman who delivers my mail is roughly my age, too.  I often wonder what she thinks when she tucks my property tax bill into the Maxim Magazine so it falls out like one of your subscription cards when I open it.  Does she think:  “Now here’s a man who proudly embraces his Peter Pan complex.  Maybe it’s just the Liquid Trust talking, but I find that refreshing.”  Or is she going to report me?

 

Maxim Magazine, it is with a heavy heart, due in no small part to the arterial sclerosis common to men of my advancing years that I would like to terminate my non-subscription to your publication.  And believe me when I say:  It’s not you, it’s me.  I think it’s great that you’re introducing kids to the fashions that have survived in my closet lo these twenty years only to reappear, irony-free, in your style section, and if you need an authentic Members Only jacket, mesh tie and Topsiders, don’t hesitate to ask.  My closet is like the Smithsonian. 

 

So long, and thanks for all the breasts,

 

Dylan