New Home

In an attempt to both maximize my postings and make my life easier, I have moved the infamous Bloggeronicus Rex to a new home - See the New Home HERE.

I hope you find the postings titillatingly fantastic and worthy of including in your feeds.

Read on blog addicts. Read on.

The Tyranny of the Remote Control

I can hardly remember television without a remote control. The only recollections I have are of a big circular metal knob. In between each channel as you turned it was a white noise blast mixed with a distinct clink.

I remember getting cable for the first time and HBO being the gateway for all things not allowed. MTV had real v-jays and not much else – song after song after song followed by a multi-colored astronaut dancing around with a flag. I think somewhere around that viewing option shift I lost sight of the stationary knob. Since then the remote control has lived in my home. I say lived because they seem to have a life of their own.

If I set the remote on the coffee table, it ends up in the kitchen. I place it on the end table and it wakes up under the sofa cushion. Almost without fail wherever he is put he resigns his position and relocates. I’ve checked the remote for any sign of locomotive ability and have come up empty and the family all suffer from amnesia when asked about his GPS.

He also refuses to keep his back. Not only will he move, dance, hide and slide but the cover plate for his batteries disappears too. I think it’s a remote control oath: Within the first week of your new home, ditch the back cover. With it gone we can have fun placing tape over the now loose batteries and giggle and wiggle the metal contacts. The maddening hassle ups the entertainment value.

I thought that the Houdini remote syndrome would be settled when someone bought me a remote control holder caddy. It’s quite nice and can hold six to eight remotes at once. I’m not sure how we acquired all the remotes we have. They seem to multiply at will for their number far exceeds the EDR (electronic device ratio).

I’ve also discovered that the caddy only works if the remotes are put in it. They seem to do well when put to rest there rather than in a foreign location. Somehow the company of other controllers quenches their desire to move.

So, like it or not, the remote control has integrated my viewing regimen. As I’m writing this I’ve noticed that one of my televisions doesn’t even have a way to advance through the fancy electronics and settings without the remote! So if that remote erroneously migrates to a new valley or is kidnapped by another television company’s replacement, I’m fried. Of course there are the generic adoptive friends you can pick up at Wal-Mart to replace the defectors and damaged victims but I’ve never liked the un-coolness of having a nonspecific remote. The tyranny continues.

Linguistic Rashes and the Art of Therapeutic Jargon

And so it seems as though I’m surrounded. No matter what cavern I descend or mountain peak I climb, enduring abusive therapeutic jargon is my lot. Not only do I find myself on the verge of a syllogistic coma, I must also carry around a tube of vernacular Benadryl to avoid being overrun by a semantic rash.

The word ‘issue’ and its plural variant have infiltrated every conversational crevice from chats and dialogues to blogs and confabulations. There are now issues for everything. They come in all shapes and sizes. There are computer issues and car issues and hair issues and facial issues and behavioral issues and travel issues and political issues and pet issues and issues with issues and social issues and serendipitous issues and client issues and food issues and employment issues and catalytic issues and … [insert ad nauseam here]

The dictionary defines ‘issues’ as “a personal problem or emotional disorder”. I suppose that definition is apropos since I have a personal problem with its descriptive usage. I was first introduced to the term about fifteen years ago through a liberal-minded California dwelling relative who used it in reference to the I’m-working-on-myself therapy bastion of phrases and lingo. Rather than using the word ‘problem’ or ‘sin’ or ‘grief’ or ‘difficulty’ the all-saving generic ‘issue/s’ has taken his throne.

Perhaps one day my spine won’t crinkle when I hear it. Perhaps one day the hives will stop and I can live in peace and harmony with this invasively euphemistic terminology. Perhaps one day I won't end up spinning on the floor like Curly gnawing on a Jungian lexicon while foaming at the mouth. But until then, I will continue on. I will engage in conversation and chat and joyful banter and do my best to not pass out as issue upon issue upon issue is dealt my way. God help me.

It Isn't Just For Breakfast Anymore

Kiddie Valium

To Do or Not to Do

Something occured to me.

Lists are a good thing. The challenge is in remembering to write them.

Then to remember to use them.

I think I'll make a list of reminders about the list.

In Honor of the Frie

Deep-fried lolly pop.
International potatoe rod.
A most wonderful accessory to a plate.
Starchy ketchup stirring stick.
Slender salt pole.

Three cheers for the elongated spud baton!

Introspective Inspection

"The heart is more deceitful than all else and is desperately sick; who can understand it?” Jeremiah 17:9


The broken-hearted prophet of Anathoth wrote about our hopeless condition of tainted introspection. Our hearts are deceitful.

We cannot see ourselves clearly. Our hearts are desperately sick, twisted and clothed with a robe of self-preservation and protection. Our hearts are corrupted and vile, we cannot understand the many channels where our wickedness hides nor can we perfectly ferret out the insidiousness that permeates the intentions we so carefully craft.

Recently I came face to face with this truth. Ultimately, God is the only one who can know our hearts. We have three sources for true inspection. The first is the Scriptures for since they are the breath of God they contain information, like the Jeremiah quote above, that give us some insight into who we are. If God made us then He knows us best.

Secondly, we have other people. Our behavior is best inspected by outsiders. They can observe how we interact and comment on how we come across to others. This gives us a good barometer reading although we usually claim immediate misunderstanding. Even though the specifics may be in dispute, more than likely the root contains enough weakness as to merit more fertilizer. We do well to hear them.

And lastly, there is us. While deceptive and skewed at times we can register introspective reports. We can as much as possible examine ourselves. Some like to flee to the corruption excuse while others like to flee to the third option as their only tool, but both of these are extremes that we should avoid.

We must use a thrice spun introspective inspection that is woven in prayer. That and that alone, is what will save us from becoming the most hated of men.