Comfort Schmomfort

Comfort, Schmomfort. Schmomfort isch my teasching. Eschew Comfort, Choose Schmomfort.

Where hasch Comfort gotten usch? We're lazschy, clinging, never schatisfied, deep in debt, peeking out the blinds, the schades. That's the firscht thing I do, schurely every morning.

Yesch, it'sch scho! When all the time -- in plain schight, no lessch, and open to all -- Schmomfort opens wide thosche schmomforting arms, schaying, pleading, "Schmomfort, Schmomfort my people. Lischten to Schmomfort and rescheive Schmomfort in rische abundance." All the schmomforting Schmomfort you need and more. Schmomfort, scho musch that no one can schmomfortly take it from you. Let 'em try, huh?

Friends, let me schmestify: As I write thisch schmestimony I'm schitting in a broken chair. It'sch wobbly, appears to be on itsch last legs, and it isch. The armreschts, they're schtill a place to rescht my arms -- but there'sch scho much brokennesch that the rescht is schistory. I'm honeschtly nearly provoked to throw thisch chair away and get a new one. Only one thing schtands in my way: Schmomfort!

That's juscht me. What about you? And, no, I'm no one schpecial, just another schmo. But I can't schmomfortably let you go! I would tossch and turn and barely schleep if I tried. Maybe I schould let you go, and schettle myschelf schmomfortably in my own Schmomfort. Who wouldn't, if you know what I know? I'd have it all to myschelf! Can you guessch what'sch holding me back? Schmomfort itschelf, yes, the schame. That's Schmomfort, brother, schister.

Because Schmomfort isch without end. Comfort, too, of coursche, but Comfort takes us to a falls schend. True, huh? You go for Comfort, you getsch a falsche end. A big fat falls schend that you'll be schitting on forever. It's scho true! I've scheen the ravages of Comfort. Schtarts off with schitting a schpell, then on and on. Butt time fails me to schow and tell the whole teasching. Schuffice to schay, when you need a bigger schair, by then it'sch too late, butt time fails you two...

Have you already schlipped away? Are you scho far away you're outta schight? Have you drifted scho far, then hit the rusches of Comfort? Perhaps crasched on the schoals? If scho, what can I schay, go on, take your rescht. Don't let me dischturb you.

Schtill, friends, I have to believe there are schome here today -- schurly many -- who would be able to agree and schay: "Yesch, I hear the voisch of Schmomfort!" And you're ready to take the firscht schtep. Until it'sch schtep after schoothing schtep, all the blessched way on the scherene path to meet for yourschelf and know Schmomfort and Schmomfort's perfect peasche.

Pleasche, schtep out now.

The Wonderful Vistas of Life

It's a real pleasure for me to sit and type this. It's been a busy day, getting cool by lying on the basement drain, the lowest, coolest part of the house. It's my go-to place when everything's closing in, various family crises that we all face, like the morning paper was late, or, worse, a favorite show's been preempted.

We all need somewhere to clear our head -- I'm convinced of it. Some people like the rich variety of vistas out in nature, which is good, I suppose. But there's a few downsides to everything like that. Most of the great vistas are pretty far away, and you have to drive there, with all the troubles of traffic that are everywhere. I went to the grocery store one day and was cut off three times. Which wasn't the worst of it, since I had several near collisions with other people's carts.

I'm not saying the basement drain is without nuisances. It's wet, dank, and kind of ugly. When they came up with basement drains, it's starting to look like beauty wasn't a priority. They're instantly rusted. Somehow dryer lint shows up. And different sorts of unknown floor scum accumulates. If you watch dust bunnies under your bed, these are the basement equivalent of that. Which is fascinating, since entire moons, planets, and planet systems formed basically the same way.

But to each his own. Which is not to say I don't like the great vistas of life. I do. I'm just not easily enthralled by anything. Like standing at the edge of a cliff. That's a vista. You can look way out there, the horizon's so far away, but crystal clear. You think of what's going on at the horizon. Then you realize, it's just a place that looks like here. And if I were there, I'd be looking up here at this cliff and wondering about it. All kinds of things, then, can happen at a cliff. The most obvious is someone running up behind you and pushing you off. Or someone running past and diving off. You climb down, and he's dead.

Going to a beautiful lake, you're not immune to troubles. Loch Ness comes to mind. And rivers are full of disasters, which I know by watching the "River Monsters" show on Animal Planet. Of all the Animal Planet shows, I think "River Monsters" is the best one. I used to like to fish. But the best thing about it is now I'm appropriately wary of rivers. And  how about forests? Talk about a vista. I love to see forests from a distance. But then you get up close. There's bears, signs warning of leaving the trail and telling what to do if you find body parts, moose charging at you, and on and on. And vampire bats.

Meanwhile, right there at home, you've got the main line to coolness, the old shower drain in the basement. And all the privacy in the world. You can sit there in a silk kimono, which tends to cling in the dampness. Or you can just sit (or lie) au naturel ... as long as you can stand it, with your skin pressed against the coolness and hardness of that antique cement. (Some houses are more modern than mine.)

In my case, the old shower doesn't do a thing. It's rusty, too. Even if you could get it working, it'd probably run rust for the first three or four years. The bugs, the spiders, it might be too much, but it's nature. Ah, the spiders! They actually don't hurt anyone who doesn't mess with them. I can see their webs in the corner, and they seem to be minding their own business. It's all part of nature's balance.

Then I look over at the furnace -- this is a fantastic vista -- I can see the pilot light of the furnace, if I position myself ... just so. How peaceful, like a candle in the temple, a flickering, eternal flame. Good time for a little prayer. "Lord, please don't let that furnace blow up."

If you want the wonderful vistas of life, it looks like it's just as Dorothy discovered: There's no place like home, and the very best vista of all, right there nearby, in the coolness and privacy of your very own drain.

Everyone's Comfortable With Themselves

There's something very interesting I've noticed. The old discomfort people used to have with themselves seems to be gone. It's obviously a new day for self-confidence and pride, which I think is a great thing.

We used to have this whole thing with magnifying our supposed imperfections, thinking we were ugly, etc., and we didn't have the same attitude prevalent today. I don't know why we did it. I guess it could've had something to do with our parents, always worrying themselves sick with how we looked. "You can't go out with your hair like that! Is that what you're going to wear?! I'd be ashamed to be seen with you!" So we'd carry that attitude with us, like a constant burden.

But now everything's a lot more swinging. Babies get their ears pierced, parents are proud of everything their offspring do, and style is really any old thing you can throw on. I love it, it's a new day! Our lives are on display! Everyone's happy!

Another thing that might explain the lack of discomfort is all the cameras we're toting around. Digital cameras. We see people taking pictures of everything, whereas we didn't do that 40 years ago. You had a roll of 24 pictures and it cost money to get them developed. But with digital, it's all free, so everyone's walking around town taking pictures of themselves with the camera extended arm's length. "There's a cool expression! Look how I can cross my eyes! I'm cool!" It's great! You're more proud of yourself when you're clicking pictures.

I have to confess, I still carry over some of the old discomfort myself. I say, I'm too bald, too fat (although my doctor says I'm by no means obese), my teeth suck, there's nose hair where there used to be none, etc. It's hard to get with it, with the new way of doing things, but I'm really trying. I look and see guys who look far worse than me, only they don't know it. And I think, I should act like that, then think like that, and without comparing myself to those who look worse, be simply proud of myself.

People today, I honestly think, have got it going on! And I'm getting into the flow of things. I may be an old man, but I'm trying to be the best old man, even a folklore-looking codger, let's say, that young hipsters might like to have their picture taken with. I'm flashing gang signs that I just made up. I'm with the best people on earth, the average guy and gal on the street! Take off your suit jacket and break dance on the street. Spin on your jacket, it's just cloth! True!

So I'm out there ... and more. And what do I see? People who are psychically healthy, very healthy. They're proud of their tattoos, their bra straps, their headbands, shirt tails, and underwear. They're flashing cool hand signs everywhere, one finger, two finger with a gap, five fingers straight up, the A-OK sign, etc. They're proud if they're bald, furry, wearing black, wearing white, in make-up, without make-up, if they're Plain Jane or Jane Mansfield, Bubba or Burt Reynolds, whatever may be may be, world without end, Amen.

I was out today, sitting in a restaurant, and saw some of the greatest cleavage of my life. This was breakfast. I drooled egg yolk on my shirt, which I'm proud of. It's like a shirt tattoo. Lastly, my complexion -- like I said, I'm old, but once in a while I still, even I, get a pimple. Who cares? It's not like anyone cares anymore.