In-Tune News You’ll Want To Use

The day started out fine. I slept well and woke at 4:30 to email a fellow author who’s ghostwriting a book on The Power of Positive Thinking. I’d promised a few examples of my own philosophy. You know, the kind of stuff that is infused with optimism and oozes rhapsodic enthusiasm?

The email was more of a treatise on coping mechanisms, or “How to be happy when the world around you crumbles.” I recommend “taking pleasure in the little things” and cited some examples that have helped me in the past, such as soaking in the sunrise or absorbing the winter beauty of a wheat field glistening with ice. If all else fails, I list the things for which I should be thankful, such as: “At least I’m not laying in a ditch in Iraq like our poor, brave soldiers,” or “I’m not riddled with cancer.”

I know. It sounds downright naive. I’ve been called a male “Pollyanna,” before. But heck, it gets me through those tough times and… it actually works!

After writing, I showered, made my lunch, kissed my grandsons goodbye, and slipped into my parka. I fumbled around for my car keys. They were missing! I shrugged, decided to solve the mystery later, and grabbed the spare set. I ventured out into blackness of the early morning and headed for the car. The lights didn’t come on when I opened the door. A sinking feeling settled in my gut. There were my keys, dangling in the ignition, turned to the “ACC” position!

Daughter #3, home from college for Thanksgiving, retrieved something from the van and apparently turned on the key for some mysterious reason. There they’d remained over the long weekend.

I rummaged around the barn and found a set of cables. Next, I ran back to the car, grabbed a spare key for my mother-in-law’s car, and nosed it into position. In the pitch dark, I felt around for the hood release on my van. Where was that darned lever? I couldn’t find it. I grabbed the flashlight that had been smugly waiting for such an emergency in its holder since last Christmas, and searched again. There was NO latch!

Against every fiber in my being, I admitted that I needed to read the blasted manual. I found it after scrabbling around in the glove compartment. The print was tiny - I needed my cheapo drugstore reading glasses. I keep a pair on my bedside table and at work. I sighed, then remembered a rogue pair that was tucked inside my jacket pocket from my last book signing.

For the next five minutes, I flipped through the deceptive “easy owner’s guide” until I finally found a diagram of the car. There was a hood release, but it looked like it was on the seat bottom. I got on my knees again and searched. I pushed and prodded and pulled everything in sight. I scrutinized the diagram again with fingers covered in grease. Wait a minute! Did I read the diagram wrong? Maybe it’s on the lower left side near the gas tank lever! I dropped to my knees again. There it was, hidden around the corner so that I had to crane my neck inside the car to actually see it.

Good for deterring car thieves; bad for stupid new van owners.

The hood was up. I hooked up one side of the batteries. Red to positive, black to negative. The cables wouldn’t stretch from battery to battery. I needed another measly inch. I sighed, got in the other car, backed it up, and nosed it in closer. So close, that my riotous rose bush caught me each time I squeezed past it. Finally, it was done. The van roared to life.

But alas, it wasn’t over.

Breathe. Just breathe.

The radio flashed the word, “Code” and the clock was blank. A faint memory tickled in my brain… the security system! The salesman gave me a card with a code on it. Where had I stashed it? There it was, in my wallet. The only problem was, I couldn’t read the fine print. I patted my pocket for my glasses. They weren’t there. No, they were stuck on my peanut butter toast. I cleaned them off, reset the code, and headed to work.

I grumbled. Then the sun started to rise. The sun kissed the undersides of clouds that glowed gold, gray, and lavender on the horizon. As I drove north, the rays reached higher, splitting the pale pink fingers of dawn.

I started to feel good again, optimistic about the day, and actually looked forward to reconnecting with my colleagues at work. Then I spied the railroad crossing. I was already late for work, and prayed that I’d get across without having to stop.

The lights flashed and the guardrails came down. I put the car in park and laughed at myself. Out loud. It was a belly laugh. And it felt great.

Ah, the power of positive thinking.

Now, how do I reset that infernal dash clock?

Aaron Paul Lazar lives in Upstate New York with his wife, three daughters, two grandsons, mother-in- law, dog, and four cats. After writing in the early morning hours, he works as an electrophotographic engineer at NexPress Solutions in Rochester, New York. Additional passions include gardening, preparing large family feasts, photography, cross-country skiing, playing a distinctly amateur level of piano, and spending “time” with the French Impressionists whenever possible.

Although he adored raising his three delightful daughters, Mr. Lazar finds grandfathering his “two little buddies” to be one of the finest experiences of his life.

Double Forte’, the first in the LeGarde series, was published in January 2005. Upstaged, number two, is now available for purchase. Mazurka, number three, is ready to go to press. With eight books under his belt, Mr. Lazar is currently working on the ninth book in the series.

My wife and I were having breakfast one Sunday morning when a ruckus erupted from under the mud room step A hurried investigation ended in the garage with the most God awful stink I had ever experienced. My eyes watered and our noses burned as our ears were treated to a piercing shriek from our daughter’s bedroom. She came running into the kitchen, panic in her eyes and a towel over her nose, looking for the cause of her discomfit.

For weeks we had been hearing faint scratchings coming from the mud room, a small room off the kitchen containing a shoe closet, a back door and the door leading to the garage. A pair of skunks decided that the space under our mudroom step contained all the necessary ingredients for a proper skunk home. Featuring easy access to the outside, the winter temperature never went below freezing, the food source (garbage cans) was near by, and the house insulation provided the ideal nesting material. As long as no one disturbed their new tiny additions, no odors of defense issued from their home. Unwilling to disturb whatever was making the scratchy noises, the winter passed uneventfully. Until the smell could not be ignored,

It was the first warm day of Spring when one of the skunk babies got lost on the way back from the food source and wandered into the garage when the door was open. Finding itself locked in, the baby skunk panicked and, sensing my presence with only a lawn mower between itself and the enemy, let loose a small, but potent stream of stink juice. I saw the tail go up an instant before the release and managed to avoid the main stream. Even after three weeks of scrubbing, tomato juice treatments and daily airings, the garage retained it’s skunky reminder. I finally enticed the little tike out on the driveway with cat food and proceeded to board up the hole under the house while the family was away. They never returned, probably deciding that this neighborhood stinks.

Retired but not tired.

Hi seed!

Knowing that you have some strong opinions, that I mostly agree with; I was wondering where you stand on plastic surgery?

Does it matter if someone is born a 10 or if they pay to get there?

If you’ve had work done, and your sweetie doesn’t ask, when should you tell?

I mean, you shouldn’t have to say hello, I’m so and so and I’ve been cut open for vanity sake, right?

But you don’t want to be left to explain where your firstborns nose really came from either.

Cup-size dilemma

Dear CSD

Where do I stand on plastic surgery?

Fun. Finally a question that one can chomp down on and sink their teeth into. A question that doesn’t orbit the shallowness of relationship crises. A question that is not masked with superficiality. A question so filled with substance that it wouldn’t be appropriate to jump into a sarcastic laced tirade.

The mental exertion required to answer this important question will surely leave me enervated.

Boob, tits, high beams, hooters, d-cups, fun bags and lactation. Every hot blooded man would ache with excitement for an opportunity to advise women on what they need to do with their knockers.

I know CSD you are not necessarily talking about breast implants, however, after reading between the lines and seeing your picture I came to the conclusion that was the true intention of your query. Therefore, that is the prime course my answer will follow. Hopefully with style and grace. And, of course a little titillation.

CSD what the hell do you need implants for? You’re a hot young woman.

I’m ecstatic that you agree with most of my strong thrusting opinions. I’m more elated that you’ve taken the time to read them. After all I don’t want everyone to agree, I really prefer people to think for themselves and draw their own conclusion. Cause in the grand scheme of things if all we do is agreey, agreey (the previous word is not a real word) thingy, then what would be the point of all of us existing?

Ewwwweee I just had a horrible thought: what if we all thought alike and our thoughts were derived from the mind of GWB. I need to find a porcelain bowl - now. Masturbation would quickly become a thing of the past. Wouldn’t it?

Public Service Announcement

Please think for yourself.

end PSA

To get to the meat of your question. Boobs are really, really neat. They are fun to look at. They are fun to tweak. They are fun to watch go bouncy, bouncy when you run. They are fun to cuddle with. For us guys and you gals too - they are one of the first places we clamp onto when we are brought into this world. They provide us with both comfort and nourishment. For most guys the obsession starts with the first suckle and continues throughout our lives.

It is virtually impossible to write about boobs and sound intelligent.

For others life sends them south to different more hairy pastures. Not that there is anything wrong with that. If that’s the way you’re wired - that’s the way you’re wired.

For most women they represent a commonality with the sisterhood. Something to be explored and talked about during pillow fights. Something to control the minds and nether regions of us weak-kneed men. Boobs are power.

For others, they tend to linger. Mommy tries to pry their sultry lips away, but, she can’t. Their precious angels keep coming back for more and more. A tweak , a caress and a suckle or two.

“That’s all I want. That’s all I need.”

“Sherry you’re 23 now, shouldn’t you be heading south.”

“No. I love softball, soccer and you. Please let me stay. I beg of you.”

The above dialogue is entirely fictitious and is meant to illustrate a possible starting point for lesbianism. Not all lesbians play softball or soccer. They may. However, I’m pretty sure that they are a mixed bag like all humans. I’m also pretty sure they have a variety of interests scanning all aspects of life. The one thing I’m certain of is that they love your boobs. Not that there is anything wrong with that.

As for my stance. Frankly I don’t get it. Sure I love breasts. I love the human body. I can’t possibly understand what it is like to be a woman. Us guys have it simple, for us competition comes in the form of sports, business and in the current state of the world, war. Since the beginning of time we’ve been the hunter and provider. For you guys (the fairer sex), life seemed to be more about the softer aspects of life. Child-birth, nurturing, maintaining a home and providing emotional support. What a friggen hell that must be: taking care of our simple minds and over developed egos.

Then throw into the equation “equality” and how the hell are you guys (girls) supposed to cope? On one hand you still have to give birth, nurture and provide comfort.

On the other, you’ve now entered the business arena in search of independence and equality.

The thing is, none of us can ever truly be equal or independent for that matter. We need each other. I need boobs. Ooops, that just slipped in. That is what this big mess is all about. Finding someone to complement you. Or me for that matter. I truly believe that this equality we are all so desperately trying to achieve really relates to couples. Be it straight, gay or any other combination. Each partner provides strengths and weaknesses to the relationship equation and if it is the right combination it will balance it out and create a harmonious existence.

That brings us back to your tits. My opinion is: don’t alter them. I’m sure they are beautiful just the way they are. If you’d like: I could take a peak at them for you. Any guy who isn’t a big prick would be lucky to be able to gently caress and fondle them. I sincerely mean that. Like I said I can’t imagine what it would be like to be a woman. However, it really is not worth the effort to alter nature in attempts to win over some ass. And, I even like looking at fake hooters. But, and this is a big but, for me I wouldn’t be interested in a woman who got a boob job. Unless they were to get a brain job to adjust for their mental shortcomings too.

Looks and life are ephemeral. That is until medical research adds another gazillion years to our life-span. Even though I’m not sure we are supposed to be messing with our appearances for vanity reasons. It saddens me that so much emphasis is placed upon appearance that sometimes we have to just to compete. It’s time to change course and say *!**@!** it. Don’t you think?

CSD I know you’ll do whatever you feel. That is a good thing. And, if you’ve got it in your head to get some “work” done, you’re likely looking for someone to give you encouragement and support your decision. You’ll likely disregard those who don’t. I’m just not going to be the one who says: go ahead, alter yourself. I think that if you do you will be making a mistake and even if you catch the eye of whomever you’re looking for it will be a shallow, superficial victory.

Being a 10 may open doors for you, however, being a 10 of heart, mind and soul is of far greater intrinsic value. Unfortunately, often with looks comes shallowness and the pursuit of beauty can leave one empty. So, yes it does matter if you pay to get that way. If you pay - in my estimation you are nothing more than a fraud.

As for telling your suitors of the “work” you’ve had done. Well that is entirely up to you. If you’ve had a boob job and he can’t figure it out for himself: where are you trolling for your Neanderthals? The point is: it is your life and your past, what you choose to reveal is your business. Just don’t be retarded about it. We may be simple, however, most of us know the goods.

Finally, I’m sure you were being silly when you spoke of your first-born. Last time I checked: plastic surgery doesn’t alter genetics. Nevertheless, you bring up a good point. If one spends the big dough to go from troll to swan and then chooses to have children, instead of setting aside an educational fund for their offspring it may be necessary to set aside a surgery fund. Just think of the fantastic friggen message surgery sends to the kids. May as well start them off with illusions and lies.

What a ridiculous time we live in.

I’ve just about exhausted my key strokes on this one. Boobs, boobs, boobs, boobs, boobs…… switching from key to another kind of stroke soon. Just kidding.

I’m going to leave you with a little story. As much as I think that alteration for vanity reasons is ludicrous, I do believe that there are instances where it may be necessary. After all we’ve evolved as a society and part of the evolution is medical advances. Accident and assault victims spring to mind.

A good friend of mine had met a saucy little vixen from Seattle recently. He explained to me how their night turned into morning and with morning came passion. In this case, the passion turned to sex. In great exhaustive detail, he painted a picture of nudity and contorting bodies. His descriptions left little to the imagination. Seconds of bliss, turned to minutes and eventually turned into hours. Climax followed by respite was repeated in endless cycles of pleasure. Until…..until as he so aptly described his guest Jo Jo (name has been changed to protect her identity. Her real name is Joann.) was nearing release.

Next - during the heat of the moment, while in the throes of passion: CHOMP. My friend explains a penile vice was attached that was nearing the land of Bobbit. His screams were apparently so loud that every tenant on each of the 17 floors of his building must’ve heard them. He screamed repeatedly: STOP BITING! He tells me she looked hot, flustered, dazed and confused all at the same time.

Finally she unclamped. A tooth halo had formed around his junk. Skin was broken.

When he shared his ordeal, I was slightly disturbed.

“Seed, do you want to take a look at my dick?”

“Uhm, no.”

“You’ve got to see this.”

“No.”

“Please!”

“Ok, how about next Tuesday?”

“Sure, that will work for me.”

I’m hoping it heals by Tuesday. The point is: fake boobs won’t make you a better person.

As for Lesbians - I have an innate ability: I can spot a dyke in a lineup.

In my friend’s instance, if the clamp wasn’t released and he lost his tally-whacker, I believe plastic surgery would make perfect sense.

My question to you: re-attach or gender change?

Remember You Asked