WEIRD PEOPLE? LIKE WHO

 

Weird people you know invite you over for a backyard barbecue.

That’s the scene.

What could go wrong?

They pull this out: Hearts and Gizzards.

Let the grilling begin.

Chances are good that this has never happened to you.

Why? Because stuff would all fall through the grill.

What really happened is I picked up a pack on a grocery run, the first for me.

I like the Gizzard texture; it reminds me of escargot minus the shell.

The plan was to sauté them, grind them up, stuff it into a snail shell and tell my wife, “Who’s ready for the Paris Olympics?”

Light the candles, set the mood, and bonsoir.

What happened instead?

I forgot about the hearts and gizzards until she smelled something weird in the fridge.

Could it be decomposing chicken hearts and gizzards? It was, but they weren’t spoiled, just getting there.

So I cooked them up and offered them to the wife without waving chicken organs on a fork in front of her face.

She declined politely because she was raised in LA where polite sounds like, “Get that stink out of this house.”

What I did instead? I chopped them up and they became a garnish on streamed vegetables and salads.

Who knew? Score for the weird people and chicken entrails.

As an old white baby boomer I’m always on the lookout for new things.

 

The Trusted Lookout On Duty

This is a four day old picture from the run to Cannon Beach where we all learned you can’t scrub sand off a sweaty face.

But my wife tried. She tried hard. Too hard.

She’s a big science girl who understands physics, at least the part about friction while she ground my face with what felt like 60 grit sandpaper.

It was part of our marriage vows.

Along with love and honor, we included picking and grooming like jungle animals in a zoo.

 

Wife: What’s that?

Me: What’s what?

Wife: Your face is covered in dirt.

Me: Sand?

Wife: From your hat. Can’t you wipe it off? I’ve got a rag, I’ll do it.

Me: Ouch.

 

I’m the first to say not every idea I’ve had has been a good idea.

But my bad ideas weren’t bad for anyone but me. For instance:

Was buying the Evelyn Wood Reading Dynamics program at the age of twenty a good idea?

I was an Army Pfc at the time and no one I knew was in the class, just a bunch of middle-aged people meeting in a downtown Philadelphia hotel.

What was I thinking? I’d be out of the Army and back in college sooner than later and wanted to be ready to read everything ever printed. Weird ambition?

The Army was full of weird people, so was Philadelphia and the Mummers.

We were all a good match for each other.

Turned out that I was back in college sooner and later, which was a good idea.

 

The Problem With Weird People

The weirder they are, the more unimaginable they become.

Remember the man who ate uranium to calm fears about radiation?

Remember the trainer with the hungry whale?

 

Tilikum was a beloved orca at the park and would perform in theatrical shows and experiences, including “Dine with Shamu,” where visitors would sit alongside a tank and observe him while they ate.

It was during a “Dine with Shamu” session that Tilikum killed Brancheau—the trainer who was with him at the time.

 

Take my advice and don’t eat uranium or sit near a killer whale during dinner.

But weird people do things the rest of us see and say, “Oh, fuck no.”

You tell ’em, Johnny.

Is it weird to allow people a choice in what they do?

Too weird to allow women to make decisions about their bodies?

Who is in favor of arbitrary prison sentences spouted by a presidential candidate?

Weird people have a tendency to do weird stuff, just not weird enough for their followers to abandon them.

Think of someone you admire, someone who represents what you believe in.

What would it take to sour you on them?

 

Read The Screen Weirdos

This is my garage where I watch TV on a set once owned by my step-dad.

I think of him when certain shows come on.

He was a big fan of the Rachael Maddow Show on MSNBC.

That was the last show he watched before he died.

I thought of him when this image popped up, so I took a picture.

That’s not too weird, right? Do people take pictures of their TV, or is it just me?

Maybe it’s just me, but what would you do if saw a report like this on your neighbor, your dad, or your husband?

If it were me and I saw that I was guilty of fraud and sexual abuse, I wouldn’t leave the house until things died down. I’d lay low.

 

 

If it was somebody I knew, they would be someone I used to know, not someone I’d cross the street for, drive to see, or buy merchandise from.

 

 

There’s no room in my garage for guys who see insurrection as just another day in the office.

My guide for such things in Dr. John.

He takes a stern view of those who wrong him.

 

A visiting Anglican minister, Rev. Herbert Beaver, learned the price of questioning the fidelity of their relationship when his description of Marguerite as “a female of notoriously loose character” provoked McLoughlin’s most aggressive act of physical violence—a beating of Beaver in the public courtyard of Fort Vancouver.

 

I like a guy who knows how to handle his critics. No whining, no pouting, just a sound, public, ass kicking.

In modern times, that sort of revenge won’t work, so the offended take another path in the courts of law with Grand Juries and trials.

Tell me why he’s still on my garage TV? I’m usually out there doing research, my own research.

I’ve been at it a while, studying WWII documentaries that always fail to show how the German leader made his case against his country.

My conclusions? He had good help doing bad things, the kind of good help that found itself swinging on the end of a rope, the business end of a gun, or a poison tab for just such emergencies.

This is the group of helpers who decided they didn’t fail Germany, Germany failed them.

Their failure has been haunting humanity ever since as a caution against letting the guard down against raging fuckers with an ax to grind on whoever is convenient.

Weird people always find someone convenient to grind on.

It could be you, me, or some poor old bastard who can’t believe so many fans line up for shitty people.

Be more like Dr. John:

After considering a move to California, he remained in Oregon City with his family for the rest of his life.

There, he managed his mercantile and milling interests, served briefly as the city’s mayor.

No one was bigger than the Father Of Oregon. He knew when enough was enough.

Weird people never do.