patents pending

 

For some reason, my neighborhood has more labradoodles than most. Makes me wonder if there’s some kind of canine genetic engineering facility in Uptown, disguised as a Vietnamese restaurant or a bike repair shop.

 

 

I don’t usually weigh in on bioethical issues, being a comedy writer, and I realize the labradoodle was bred to be a service animal, but I think it’s a slippery, if adorable, slope. What’s to prevent an enterprising breeder from crossing a crow with, say, a raccoon, creating a frightening flying destruction machine, swooping down on trashcans in the alley, all claws and beak? Point being, you open the door to labradoodles, and eventually the bus stop at my corner will end up looking like a bizarre, surreal bio-lab.

Despite my skittishness about tinkering with genetics, what is typically called ‘Frankenfood’ doesn’t bother me.  If a some scientists can come up with a way to breed garlic cloves that you don’t have to peel, or brussel sprouts that taste…different than brussel sprouts, I say give ‘em a grant. If there’s a way to breed broccoli so that it’s all florets and no stems, that’s science helping mankind.

I’ve always dreamed of being an inventor, but my dreams have always been stymied by my lack of actual inventions. I also can’t draw, and I have no mechanical aptitude, so I have to basically describe my inventions with words. This has made my ideas harder to pitch, what without some sort of…thing to show people.

I’m sure if I had a workshop, and knew what one did in a workshop, I could build something that would be huge. Not sure what it would do, but I’d make it really big. Understand that my visions require you to not only think outside of the box, but to actually get in a second box and think outside of that.

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For example, the Bicycle Ashtray™. Let’s face it. Not everyone bikes for their health. Sometimes you bike because you need to get to the store for a pack of smokes. But what if you want to have a smoke WHILE you’re biking?

Attaching to the handlebar at an ergonomically designed angle, the Bicycle Ashtray™ is, technically speaking, an ashtray, attached to the bicycle. Some of these things invent themselves, people.

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We’re Americans, and as Americans, we like as many vices at one time as we can handle. Soda pop with extra sugar? Check. Chocolate-flavored wine? We got that. Vodka AND Red Bull? Who doesn’t want ox bile extract in their cocktail?! So why not caffeinated cigarettes?

The reality is, the few people who actually have jobs are very busy. And I’m sure there are times at work, when you need a pick-me-up, but you don’t have time to get a cup of coffee on your smoke break.

Now you can enjoy the jangly buzz of the bean and the edgy heart-racing of a cigarette in every puff! Hello? Phillip Morris? Might want to jump on this. Call ‘em, Sippin’ Cigs™, and put a cartoon hipster with dreads on the box.

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If you live anywhere that has winter, you know that not everyone is diligent about getting the ice off their sidewalks. Well if the landlord isn’t gonna hunker down with a bag of rock salt, do the next best thing—walk in shoes that have the salt already built in!

With each step, tiny holes in the bottoms of your Slushers™ will release enough snow-melting salt to turn treacherous sheets of ice into whimsical puddles (note: focus groups seemed to resist the idea of keeping a bunch of salt in the bottom of each shoe, and having lots of tiny holes in their shoes…this concept may need more work).

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Love to read? Love hot baths? Until now, you couldn’t take your favorite author into the bath with you without getting your Dan Brown damp and your Ludlum limp. And I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to take your Kindle or Nook in the tub at all. So…..waterproof books!

These would be special versions of current bestsellers, each page laminated with a splashproof coating. You can finally read underwater! Sure, an eight-hundred page laminated novel might be a little cumbersome, but none of those eight hundred pages will be wet. Here’s a slogan for you: “Bath Books™–making reading almost too relaxing.”

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Lastly, as a novice cook, I’m all about the gadgets, especially gadgets that have more than one use. Then I got to thinking, why not combine every essential kitchen appliance into one mega appliance! You’d have the OmniChef 3000™! The bottom part would be a broiler, then above that a toaster, and coming out on the sides would be an electric can opener, a blender, and a cappucino maker.

Then on top of that you have a built-in wok/steamer, and coming out from that would be various sharp things you can use to peel potatoes, husk corn and zest whatever you want to make zesty. At the very top would be four electric burners, with a removable lid for grilling. Oh, and I picture a foldout cutting board, and probably a mandoline.

Sadly, in addition to some potential safety issues, the original design would have to be about four feet tall and three feet wide, require a special power cord, and cost about seven thousand dollars each to manufacture, but for the right kitchen they’d be perfect.

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Despite the obvious genius in these inventions, I’m far too busy mocking things to actually make something, so I’m giving these ideas away. That’s right, free. Are you good at makin’ shit, but not so good at thinkin’ up shit to make? Here you go—knock yourself out. If you make a few bucks, good for you.

Category: COMEDY | 1 Comment on patents pending

viggo, iggy and me

We are a nation of immigrants, and we have made great strides toward inclusion, but there is still work to be done. Sorry–I thought I was running for office. My point is that, for too long, one group of Americans has been ignored despite its contributions, either marginalized or ignored. I’m referring, of course, to Danish-Americans.

A million and a half Americans have Danish ancestry, which amounts to over one half of one percent of the entire population. That means if you find yourself in a room with two hundred people, at least one of them has Danish roots. But where are the Danish pride parades? Why is there no Danish history month? I’ll tell you why—danskaphobia.

I blame the Swedes. And the Norwegians. And to a small extent the Finns, but mostly the Swedes, with their Swedish…meatballs, and their stupid gigantic stores filled with reasonably-priced furniture. Well let me tell you—Danish people make furniture too, and they don’t force you to assemble it yourself! Ever heard of ‘Danish Modern’? Ever bought an end table? Yeah, that’s what I thought.

I live in Minnesota, where Scandinavian roots run deep. Yet even here, when most people hear the word ‘Danish,’ what do they think of? A pastry. Well, I am here to say that I am not a pastry—I am a Danish-American, and I think it is time for Danish-Americans to recognized and, yes—celebrated.

Eighty-nine thousand people in Minnesota can claim Danish ancestry, but are state offices closed on June 5th for Grundlovsdag? No! Why are there no parades to celebrate the Great Northern War of 1700-1721, during which Denmark regained control over parts of Schleswig and Holstein? It’s obvious—anti-Danish policies.

Try to imagine a world without Danes. And I don’t mean a world without Claire Danes, as horrifying as that would be. A Dane carved Mount freaking Rushmore, fer chrissake! You can thank Gutzon Borglum for that. Without Mount Rushmore, South Dakota would be known for the fact that Citibank bases its credit card division in Sioux Falls.

I could go on and on about Danish contributions to our daily lives. And I will. Ever thought to your self “I like cream in my coffee, and I wonder whom I should credit with patenting the first centrifugal cream separator?” That’d be a Dane. Football fan? How ‘bout the all-time leading scorer in NFL history, Morten Hedegaard Anderson. Twenty-five hundred and forty-four points, bitches. Ever listen to…music? Then you’ve probably listened through Jensen speakers—and yeah, Jensen was Danish. Wondered why Two and a Half Men is still on the air? You can thank Arthur Nielsen, creator of the Nielsen ratings. Wait, that’s not a good thing.

At this point, you’re probably thinking, “So Danish-Americans have done some interesting random things, but have they had any impact on politics?” I’m glad you asked. Janet Reno, first female attorney-general, ring a bell? What about Lloyd Bentsen, one of the most famous unsuccessful vice-presidential candidates in U.S. history? That’s right—Danish.

You want celebrities? You like heavy metal? Metallica’s founder, Lars Ulrich? Big ol’ Dane. Scarlett Johansson, Viggo Mortensen, Iggy Pop…if you’re looking for someone to crawl through broken glass onstage, or someone to play a Russian gangster onscreen, or someone to be…insanely attractive–you’re gonna want a Dane.

I’m guessing some of you use a Bluetooth for all those important business calls. Well, the first king of Denmark, the son of Gorm the Old, a guy named Harold Bluetooth! When you were in college, did you ever spend Spring Break in the Virgin Islands? Guess who sold the Virgin Islands to the U.S.—yep, that would be Denmark.

It’s important for Danes to hang on to our traditions. Traditional foods, like liver paste and beet sandwiches. Yum! When we raise a toast and say ‘Skol!,’ we need to remember that the word ‘skol’ comes from the Viking tradition of drinking from the skulls of our enemies. How cool is that?

As Danish-Americans, we have much to be proud of. We have two national anthems—obviously, everyone knows Der Er Yndigt Land, but there’s also the much more hummable King Christian Stood By Lofty Mast. And don’t forget—we’re in charge of Greenland. So, the next time you sit down to enjoy some rød grød med fløde in a Royal Copenhagen bowl, think of how much Danish-Americans have done for this country. We will be ignored no longer—Danish pride! Det er et lille land, men i det mindste, vi har universel sundhedspleje (We are a tiny country, but at least we have universal health care.)

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a birthday epiphany

Birthdays are funny things. I know, because I’ve had fifty-one of them. Frankly, I’m not sure I plan to have any others. Don’t panic–I still intend to get older, I’m just done counting birthdays.

Certain ‘big deal’ birthdays were less than ‘big deals’ for me. Eighteen—woohoo, I can vote and go to war!—yeah, even when I was eighteen I realized that tradeoff sucked.

Twenty-one—Yes! I finally can have some of that ‘alcohol’ I’ve heard so much about but never had the chance to try! True story: for my 21st birthday, mom and dad took me to LasVegas, because nothing says ‘You’re a man, now’ like standing in line at the breakfast buffet with your parents…it was like going to the prom with my Aunt Joan.

In theory, turning thirty is a big deal, because by thirty, you’ve become established in your career. Unfortunately, I had the distinct lack of foresight to choose standup comedy as a career, and never got the memo that the standup comedy boom would end in about 1992. Actually, turning thirty-four seemed more significant, because it meant I had outlived Jesus.

I think around birthday number forty, birthdays stopped being a big deal for me. Look, a good chunk of my adult like was spent creating crises for myself, yanking myself out of one crisis, moving across the country (‘cause that fixes shit), and…manufacturing new crises. You make enough bad choices in life, you start to feel like EVERY birthday is bonus time—“Really—I made it to forty-five? Yeah, that’s cool—but keep it down! I don’t wanna jinx anything!”

For this reason, turning fifty was a big deal, celebrated with all the requisite “I love you, man”s and “You look great”s. I was embarking on the second half of my life (yeah—half—like I’m gonna see a hundred…) with renewed vigor and a passionate lust for seizing the proverbial day.

Or, some days, I’d just be kinda tired. Sometimes, ‘seizing’ the day just sounds exhausting, and I’d rather…sneak up on the day. Herein lies the beauty of being post-fifty. I’ve given myself permission to NOT do anything. Don’t get me wrong—I’ve been non-productive before, non-productive on an Olympian scale–but it always looked like I was busy doing shit. It was always in the guise of “Things are really crazy right now, so that’s why I haven’t been able to do any of those things I should have been doing.”

Then I figured, “What if I just stopped being a crazy person? Might that possibly make my life, in fact, easier?” Turns out, now that I’m not trying so hard to ‘get my life together,’ I’m actually getting my life together. I’ve actually come to the conclusion that I may not have enough time to finish every project, avenge every injustice, and fix all my broken pieces, and I’m cool with that.

It’s like with anger. I’ve been righteously indignant about one thing or another since high school, when I refused to smile for any of my yearbook pictures because I felt smiling ‘on cue’ made it fake and I wanted to have integrity and blah blah blah. I think, looking back on it, I may have been pretty tedious as a teenager. And my mom wasn’t happy that the yearbook she paid for included at least ten pictures of me looking like I’d won The Most Miserably Unhappy Student trophy.

But though I still feel strongly about what I believe, what used to be a rolling boil is now down to a simmer on the burner of life. I still Rage against the Machine sometimes, but I’m just as likely now to try to understand the machine or, more likely still, ignore the machine entirely and focus on my little corner of the world. Besides, getting existentially peeved at the world has not, apparently, changed the world.

Anger, like youth, is wasted on the young. The girlfriend and I were watching some video by some band of angry twenty-somethings, screaming their angry lyrics about how angry…something made them. I think the song was called “Paid My Dues.” You’re in your twenties! What dues, exactly, have you had to pay! You’ve had to endure…sitting quietly in a classroom? Oh, the inherent cruelty of it all!

Look, you PBR-drinking, soul-patch-sporting, doc marten-wearing whiners–the world could not possibly have fucked you enough yet to warrant this much bile. Why don’t you guys take your girlfriend to a movie at the mall, play a little pick up basketball to blow off steam, and then write some songs about how, at your age, life is pretty fucking cool if only because you haven’t had enough time yet to piss away any opportunities or burn any bridges!!!

Now at my age, I’ve seen enough of the cosmic crapstorm to feel justifiably angry—I can now emipirically prove that some shit ain’t fair. But here’s the bitch about aging—by the time you have enough evidence to make a case for how evil people can be, how unfair the government is, how wrong the system is… you’re just too damned tired.

But I am not by nature a cynic. I believe there are younger folk out there willing to fight the good fight (and young enough that they don’t use the word ‘folk’—jeez!). Kids who are all hormones and hyperbole, who will take up the banner of protest. And that’s as it should be. But as I keep adding numbers to my age, I think I’ll find a comfortable chair and watch some of the fighting from the sidelines.

As you get older, you realize that your body should have come with some sort of extended warranty. At least for the factory parts. Beyond the obvious design flaws (the knee? Hello? Little extra padding would have been nice…) there’s the planned obsolescence—every part of me that moves now is either stiff, or it aches. If I can move it or bend it, it probably hurts. But in the spirit of making nice with Old Man Aging, I’ve have found some perks to being ‘of a certain age.’

I no longer feel obliged to try new foods, or new ways of cooking foods I hate because it will broaden my horizons.  I hate brussel sprouts, and I don’t care if you dip them in chocolate, deep fry them, coat them with maple syrup and serve them on a golden plate, underneath, they are brussel sprouts, and I believe they were not meant to be eaten.

I am OK with wearing pajamas during the day, and if I have to leave the house, I’m OK with just pulling my sweats over my pajamas. When you’re older, it’s all about easy-on, easy-off.

I can now convincingly pull off the ‘shaking your fist at the heavens’ gesture if I get pissed.

When I process the pros and cons of aging (CON: things don’t work like they used to; PRO: you’re alive to bitch about things not working), I realize the number itself is the problem. Hence, I will acknowledge no future birthdays. I’m done counting. I made it to fifty. I’m in bonus time. But I’m not gonna say I’m fifty-one, or fifty-seven, or sixty-eight. From now on, when asked my age, I will simply respond, “I’m at least fifty.” It’s accurate, but it avoids all those negative connotations associated with being ‘over fifty.’

You kids out there—keep on yelling. Just remember the old adage—What doesn’t kill you, weakens you so it’s easier to be killed the next time. L’chaim!

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