Jeff Cutler’s Bowl of Cheese

Not so gentle ramblings about the inane and insane

Friday
06/26/09

5:06 pm

Do you cross the line?

The other night I was at a social-media conference in Boston. After that event I wandered over to a networking event where they had set up RockBand.

If you’re not familiar with this arcade-style game, it allows a bunch of participants to actually pretend they’re a rock band. Two people can play guitars, one can play drums and one can sing. I think it allows for more people on stage too, but I’m so musically inept that I lost track at three.

Well, we gathered a few of us onstage and chose a song by Johnny Cash. It was Ring of Fire.

With me on vocals we barely got away without being booed off stage, but that’s not the point. Since I had been thinking of Johnny Cash I was drawn to his I Walk The Line song. And when I thought of lines I thought of how infrequently I see drivers pull up to a stop line.

Seriously.

When’s the last time you looked beside you at a light (or, horrors, in front of you) and were satisfied that all vehicles had come to a perfectly lined-up stop at the stop line?

The state and town have done us a favor by painting these lines in fluorescent paint and putting signs up with arrows to tell us where the stop line is, but people still don’t obey?

In fact, today I was riding though Hingham on 3A and stopped at the light by the Shipyard. The car next to me had in it a guy smoking a cigar and doing his best to hide his stop-line aversion. How do I know that?

He stopped shy of the line by three car lengths!

Then you have people who roll past the line and nearly into the intersection making it impossible for a pedestrian to stay in the crosswalk unless they open the rear doors of the car and stagger through the car to the other side.

What is the world coming to is people can’t even stop at a light?

Are you one of the maniacs who drives faster than 15MPH in downtown Hingham and never stops perfectly at the line? Do you also text while you drive and park in more than one spot at the Derby Shoppes?

Whoops, sorry for the rant. I guess all this rain has made me a little annoyed at being cooped up. I didn’t mean to cross the line.

More to come…

Friday
06/12/09

3:06 pm

I hear you knockin’. Oh, wait. NO I DON’T!

For the love of god would someone get legislation passed that makes people knock before shaking and turning the handle of a restroom door?

I’m serious about this. I have Crohn’s disease and have had a good portion of my intestines removed. That means that I have to frequently visit a bathroom.

These visits necessitate me using a stall and I cannot - in the limited time and space I have here on Earth - explain to you how nerve-wracking and scary it is to hear that knob or handle turn without the courtesy of a knock.

What if the door flew open?

What if I was in the midst of wiping?

C’mon, how about a knock before you rush headlong into the stall with me.

Further, the idiots who designed the little notifying color bar that lets people know if a stall is occupied, erred by making the colors a close green and red. Nearly 7% of the population can’t tell those colors apart ensuring the handle jiggling will continue.

What I’ve started to do when someone strides up to the stall - and bear in mind that I get to do this half a dozen times a day - is yell at the top of my lungs “THANKS FOR KNOCKING. NOW I’VE GOT TO START ALL OVER!”

Are you going to be the next person who jiggles the handle? I hope not.

Wake up and just knock. It’s the right, and polite, thing to do.

More to come…

Sunday
05/31/09

8:05 am

Inspired by kittens. Looking back at the nose of a clown.

The cats stole the nose from my childhood clown.

Well, not both cats. But Brisket - the grey cat - discovered the pom-pom nose that had been on a clown in a box of stuff in our storage room. I traipsed around with that clown as a toddler and all that’s left is the dirty little pom-pom.

When I saw it in Brisket’s mouth I worried about losing my childhood.

Seems a bit odd, but I’m the man-child who kept a six-inch scrap of fabric around for 30 years in my underwear drawer.

That scrap was the number 12 from my Bob Griese, Miami Dolphins jersey. The first one I ever had. Why I kept it is between me and my psychologist.

But let’s focus on clown noses.

In world compressed down to 930 square feet, we’ve suddenly doubled the population. Two adults and two cats now roam the rooms.

That means stored memories are now part of the kittens’ landscape and I’ve had to adjust my focus on things.

What happens if they chew through a pair of headphone cables? Other than a swift kick across the room, the cats don’t really feel the consequences.

While I bemoan the loss of an $80 headset, they’re searching for the next chewable heirloom.

Am I wrong to be annoyed a little at the little chewing machines?

Should I kitten-proof the place a little better until they’ve grown out of their curious stage?

Or should I take the stance that my history isn’t the things around me, but the memories in my head?

Do I need John Denver record albums to remember his influence on me as a kid? What about signed baseballs from Ken Griffey Jr. and memorabilia from the 1975 Red Sox? And what about scraps of articles I wrote for various publications back in 1988?

My father just took 1000 photos from 1949 to about 1972 and had them scanned into digital files. The photos evoke amazing memories for him and provide a link to the past. His childhood and Bar Mitzvah. His long-dead parents and their siblings and friends. Even my family - shots of us as tiny kids on the beach in Quincy.

Is that where the value lies? In creating a spark that then blossoms into full-blown memories?

Maybe all we need is the tip of the iceberg when it comes to nudging our reminiscences. The tip of an iceberg perhaps, or the fuzzy, dirty round pom pom that once served as the nose of a clown.

More to come…

Friday
05/22/09

5:05 pm

Open-air cafe musings. Nothing makes sense.

Sitting in an open-air cafe this week I saw three things that captivated my attention. A hideous baby, ridiculous fashion decisions, and a penny on the sidewalk.

Let’s start with the baby…oh, I also saw 7 kids leashed together and pulled along the causeway by a rather large woman who was presumably a teacher or aide. But I digress and ugly children are fun to ridicule.

So, this baby entered the cafe in the backpack of a tall man. I could see that the child was of average size and had to wait until it was extricated from the pack before I nearly lost my breakfast.

As the woman pulled the baby out and turned it around, I was assaulted by whispy black hair, an extreme - Stephen King-esque forehead, and a face that looked like the hind quarters of a badger.

BTW, I only know the badger-parts image from too much time spent on Animal Planet.

Quickly averting my eyes to save my vision and my sanity - yes, still having night and daymares - I evaluated the parents. They were pretty normal looking. To confess, the child had the father’s eyes and the mother’s hair color, so I assumed it was their biological child. But I  couldn’t help wondering why they had accepted it upon checking out of the hospital.

Seriously, we’re accustomed to returning everything from a pair of underwear to chewing gum. Why would leaving a child at the incubator room be any different?

Speaking of underwear, let’s move on to fashion faux pas. But these aren’t simply faux pas, they’re FAUX PAS!

Starting with the 28-year-old woman at the table in front of me, I can see more crack down the back of her jeans than I’d ever find at a pipe-fitter’s union meeting. It’s not simply a matter of letting jeans ride low, these were practically open in the back. Not that it would make it better, but there was no hint of underwear (thong or otherwise) in her ill-advised trousers.

Next up, let’s talk muffintops. No, not the tasty treats you might pay extra for at Panera or other bakery. I’m talking about the overflow flesh/fat/bulges that sprout between a woman’s pants and top. It’s bad enough that the crop-top shirts some women wear allow you to almost see under their breasts, but do we really need to see these rounded flesh patties surrounding a woman’s waist?

I concede that some men also sport muffintops, but guys are so fashion backward that they just untuck their shirt and effectively hide the offending flesh.

Lastly, let’s talk about footwear. Really. When did it become acceptable for anyone to wear flip-flops to formal functions, job interviews, on scooters and anywhere but the locker room or the beach? They’re pervasive.

The other day I attended a reception for Massachusetts Speaker of the House Robert DeLeo. I saw no fewer than 10 pairs of flip-flops in the room. And the event had an audience of about 100 people.

What’s next? Will people just decide they want to go barefoot when and where it suits them? That’s certainly not putting your best foot forward.

Speaking of moving your feet, sidewalk strollers are often oblivious to the world around them. Which brings me to the tale of the penny.

On the brick sidewalk outside the cafe, I spied a shiny penny sitting tails-up. Instead of grabbing it to ensure good luck for the rest of my day, I watched the coin as nearly 43 people walked over, on and around it.

After 15 minutes of watching, I heard the coin clink. An older woman has started to pick up the coin and then realized it was only a penny and dropped it back to the sidewalk.

Another 10 minutes went by before someone finally grabbed it and pocketed the penny.

What’s going on. The value of a penny is still the same in relation to other coins in our arsenal. None of our coins might be worth much, but why not collect coins where you can and see what they add up to?

Where’s the line? If you drop a nickel do you keep on walking? What about a dime? What about two nickels? What about a nickel, a dime and a penny?

You’re walking the same path, you’re living the same life. Why not pause for a moment and grab the coin?

So here I sit in an open-air cafe thinking about people. Musing about ugly babies, fashion retards and individuals who are indifferent to microwealth.

I sit here trying to make sense - or cents - of it all.

More to come…

Tuesday
05/12/09

10:05 am

Fancy Pants - The Jonathan Coulton Episodes

Somewhere in the archives of Bowl of Cheese I’ve commented on Jonathan Coulton. He of the IKEA song and Fancy Pants and other brilliant musical missives.

Well, I interviewed the artist in March 2008 and we talked about everything. The interview went for more than an hour and now he’s agreed to allow me to make it available for public consumption in podcast form.

Just visit A Life of Play podcast to get the first episode…or subscribe in iTunes. All five segments will be available this week and each is about 20 minutes long.

You can see more about Coulton at his site.

And if you have comments or questions, please leave them here or in the show notes at A Life of Play.

If you have an idea for an A Life of Play interview, gimme a shout on Twitter @jeffcutler or send an email to jeff [at] jeffcutler [dot com].

Thanks!

More to come…