The Nothing Room

A man has something a woman doesn’t have. Get your mind out of the gutter. It’s not what you think it is.

A man has a space – a space in his brain that’s completely unoccupied, devoid of any synapses or other links to thought. In this cranial space he doesn’t think. He does nothing – absolutely nothing – and for long periods of time.

This space, that only a man has, is called his “Nothing Room.”

A woman’s brain is totally different. A woman’s brain is jammed with designated thought areas. A woman has a spot to store every thought she’s ever had and will have until her last breath.

And her last thought will probably be something like this, “I wonder why today was my day? Can we talk about this?”

Ergo, women are very jealous of a man’s nothing space.

A woman can tell when a guy is in that space because she’s been trained by masters. She recognizes his blank vacant stares … that bit of drool … monosyllabic responses to complex questions.

A man goes to his Nothing Room frequently because he’s learned it’s the only space he has that is truly his. As the owner of a Nothing Room, a man must be ever vigilant that a woman doesn’t gain entry to his nothing space.

Attempts to occupy a man’s Nothing Room may go something like this:

Partner: “Hi hon, what ya thinkin’ about?”

Man: “Oh, nothing.”

Partner: “You gotta be thinkin’ about something. You can’t be thinking about ‘nothing.’ What’s going on in there?” (This is a thinly veiled attempt to gain illegal entry.)

Man: “Really – nothing. I’m not thinking about anything.”

At this point a smart woman shrugs and walks away, leaves the man to his thoughts about nothing and allows him to continue to hang out in his cranial vacuum.

Researchers have been unable to locate or verify the man’s Nothing Room. This shouldn’t be a surprise since there’s nothing to find in the Nothing Room. Nothing is visible, nothing is scope-able.

And be forewarned. A man’s Nothing Room has absolutely nothing in it because he wants it that way. Nothing to dust. No decorator colors, no dried or silk flowers, no Martha Stewart towels, no nothing!

Every man knows that a decorated room instantly becomes a “Something Room.” It would have to be cleaned, maintained, rearranged and taken care of. The man would feel responsible for it. It would become just another designated thought space in his already cluttered mind … Lunch, football and sex
Remember, there’s a reason men call it their “Nothing Room.” We’re just sorry women don’t have Nothing Rooms of their own.

I Yam what I Yam & I Yam Green

In case you weren’t aware of it, this Thursday, March 26th is National Spinach Day, the day reserved for celebrating all forms of spinach.

I love holidays – all holidays. Holidays are days worthy of celebration.

If it weren’t for holidays, I’d have no reason to get out of bed. Holidays give me a reason to make it through another day. Celebratory behavior is my built-in excuse to find something to drink and someone to drink with.

So spinach, I salute you. Here’s to spinach!

To help me focus, I need a holiday icon. Christmas – Santa. Easter – Bunny. Thanksgiving – Pilgrim or Turkey. Get it?

And for NSD (National Spinach Day) I have that rough and tumble tattooed waterfront tough guy, Popeye the Sailor Man.

“I’m strong to the finish, ’cause I eats me Spinach, I’m Popeye the sailor man, toot, toot!”

Sure, Popeye’s spinach was canned; but it was “fresh from the can.” He didn’t bother cooking it. In a last ditch Herculean moment, Popeye would squeeze the can, his spinach popped up through the lid and he downed it in one gulp.

Just like a real man!

For Popeye, spinach existed only as an emergency ration to help him out of scrapes with Bluto, or to save his beautiful Olive Oyl, or beat back nefarious enemies and denizens of land and sea.

Once he ingested his spinach, Popeye became the earliest Transformer, morphing from a weakling into a muscle bulging dervish of strength and speed.

No one could stop Popeye and only the foolhardy tried.

Long before the first popular nutritionist tried to tell us what to eat and not to eat, Popeye exemplified the virtues of eating spinach. And who knew that spinach actually contains steroids which accelerate muscle development.

So there you are athletes of the world. Want steroids? Eat you fricking spinach and then challenge anyone and everyone to a urine test!

The fact that you would have to eat about 2.2 pounds of spinach daily might be a deterrent, but you’ll still pass those tests. And, think of the money you’ll save!

So get in the spirit of this noble holiday, and let’s all build a bit of muscle.

I’m celebrating National Spinach Day with some spinach dishes, maybe even a dessert.

Hey, spinach sorbet can’t be all bad.

And I’m definitely indulging in my National Spinach Day holiday libation – mulled fresh spinach with a squeeze of lemon in my vodka rocks.

“I Yam what I Yam … Toot, toot!”

Rock on, you crazy sailor!

Bumper Sticker Madness

We’re clearly in a time when publicly sharing our personal lives is the norm.

Still I think it’s kind of weird when people I’ve never met reveal their private thoughts, political positions, family deaths and religious beliefs on the back of a car.

But I have to admit I’m hooked.  It’s  always “pedal to the metal” to catch-up with a car that’s plastered with enough window decals and bumper stickers to create a soap opera on wheels.  It’s like I’ve  found a really good book and can’t put it down.

I have to confess that of all the bumper stickers out there, the ones that mystify me most are the ones that read something like this:  “Proud Parent of …”

The other day I got close enough to the car in front of me to cause my wife to press her imaginary passenger-side brake before I read:  “Proud Parent of a Kiwanis Terrific Kid.”

That one threw me.

We’ve all seen “Student of the Month” bumper stickers.  But I hadn’t seen a bumper sticker this generic, this amorphous.  I immediately wondered, “What the hell is a Kiwanis Terrific Kid?”

All manner of possibilities crossed my mind.

At least with “Student of the Month,” one presumes there is some sort of grading system involved.  But what specifically constitutes a “Kiwanis Terrific Kid?”  Grades?  Helping little old ladies (and men) cross the street?  Walking dogs?

I don’t want to be the one throwing the wet blanket on Kiwanians or terrific kids, but it seems that we’ve lost all sense of what it takes to earn recognition.  Maybe they should’ve placed an asterisk on the bumper sticker with a website address so we could determine just why this kid is terrific.

Taking this a step further, which I always like to do, I decided that if a Kiwanis Kid could be labeled as terrific and a parent could therefore feel proud, I could create bumper stickers for parents of other “lesser terrific” kids but who’s parents still felt proud.

Maybe we could have a “Proud Parents of Tanya Harding,” or Proud Parents of Charles Manson, or even Proud Parent of Cheezwhiz (aren’t our inventions, even those leaving oil slicks, our children?).  Or maybe I’m just pissed that we didn’t have bumper stickers when I was a kid so my parents could celebrate being proud of me.

Hmm … As I think about it, it might have been a bit humiliating to read my parent’s view of me on the rear bumper of their car, “Proud Parents of a Recalcitrant, Oppositional Brat Who Never got Past the Terrible Twos.”

Just sayin’.

Bucket List or F%&k-It-List?

I don’t get this idea of a Bucket List.  It misses the point of life which is best described as “living.”

I don’t want to spend my limited time in the here-and-now seeking physical thrills or trying to outdo other humans in a never ending quest for the top thrill of my life.

I’m very comfortable dodging the vicissitudes and participating in the thrills of everyday life.  For instance:

Driving on 4-6 lane roads without getting sideswiped or run off the road by drivers who do not want to go where you’re going but still want to beat you there.

Matching wits with service people whose sole (maybe soul?) purpose is to provide no service for maximum fees.

Keeping the medical establishment’s killing-me-softly-and-slowly machine away from my cave door.

Trying to figure out what the hell my various insurance policies actually insure other than ensuring an income stream for insurance companies.

Wondering about daily reports of extreme weather events & how many million people they may effect.

And, this does not even scratch the surface of our latest “public sport”: shoot the cop, the citizen, the kids, wives, girlfriends, partners or random passersby.

Nor does it cover the possibility of being beheaded, kidnapped for ransom, or run off the road because you have somehow insulted the basic human integrity of the person who happened to be driving next to you on that given day when you passed, honked your horn, or got too close in order to read the 35 bumper stickers on his car declaring who and what he is for, or who and what he is against.

I have concluded, therefore, a Bucket List is the creation of those folks who cannot see the thrills that come with day-to-day living.

So, you may ask yourself, “What does Huss have if he doesn’t have a Bucket List?”

And the answer is … I have created my very own “F%&k-It-List.”

This is serious business.  My F-I-L is used whenever I get the feeling that my life is not exciting … enough.

It’s really simple.  Each time I have an urge to do something that represents a challenge to my dwindled testosterone, I write it on a piece of paper and throw it into my personal F%&k-It-List.

I also measure my successes in life in tangible ways.

With every piece of paper I throw into my F-I-L, I calculate the money I have not spent, estimate the time I have not wasted, and thank the “List Gods” for the death wishes I have not fulfilled.

As a result, I enjoy huge amounts of success.

I encourage all of you to seriously and vigorously pursue your own F%&k-It-List.

Think of the money, time, and angst you’ll save.

Think of how much happier you might be.

Just sayin’.

The Cha-Cha King–Banana Cha-Cha Salsa

Jorge leans nonchalantly against the far wall of the ballroom as he gazes across the floor.  His steely, unusually blue eyes float easily from body to body as he searches for his next partner.  Only the most pliant, the most supple woman will satisfy him.

His world’s right here … on the ballroom floor.  When he’s in his groove, his connection with the floor disappears.  He glides on an air cushion,  his feet inches above the polished hardwood.

Jorge pushes away from the wall.  With the grace of a Jaguar, he moves through the women, his eyes making fleeting contact as he brushes by.

He wonders who she will be.  Who will be the one to feel the rhythm with him.  Move as one.  Hear the music but not be controlled by it; sleek, smooth, conjoined.

This dance, the cha cha, calls for his partner to think she is in control.  But, after moments with him, she must submit to his will, to his motion and movements.   Feeling a cad, he’s tried less sexist approaches, only to fall short of his goal–to win the Cha-Cha Championships–to be crowned “The Cha-Cha King.”

But Jorge has a problem.  Only one, but indeed it’s a problem.  His problem isn’t a “big” problem.  Rather it’s just the opposite.  Jorge has a “small” problem.

It’s the pants.  How he dreads the pants.  The ordeal.  Humiliation.  It’s obvious as soon as he dons his skintight black leather dance pants.  They reveal nothing.  Jorge suffers from a complete lack of maleness.  His is a problem of P.D., Protuberance Dysfunction.

He’s the victim of his own DNA.  His is the true weenie in his family!

How can he pick and choose when the women won’t even make eye contact with him?  It’s as if they know.  He senses their rejection.

Jorge has tried everything.  Socks stuffed in his crotch.  Codpieces ordered via He-male.  Shaped plastic cups to boost his ego.  He is so desperate he’s ready to answer the penile enlargement ads that litter his email in-box.

Sideling past the elegant buffet prepared for the occasion, Jorge notices a delectable salsa dish surrounded by a few ripening bananas.  The light bulb some call a bright idea blinks in Jorge’s otherwise dimly lit brain.

“Aha,” he proclaims, to no one in particular.

A furtive glance to the dance floor.  Judging on size and suggestive curve, Jorge snatches the most appropriate banana.  Slips behind the velvet drapes.

With just a few adjustments, Jorge emerges from behind the curtains.  Head erect, he struts his new found stuffed look.  Is it his imagination, or is he detecting seductive glances from the room full of females?

Jorge smiles and struts.  Struts and smiles.  Lips sealed.  Pants zipped.  Secret contained.

The music pulses through Jorge.  His hips sway.  Eyes glisten.  He holds his hand out for Tanya.  She accepts.  Gazes up at him.  Back erect.  Her chin a slight tilt upward.  They start on the down beat moving together as a unit.

Jorge moves with a new confidence, leads Tanya with easy firm hand pressure in the small of her back.  A finger press here, palm there as they move with the sensual Latin beat of the marimba band.

One-two cha-cha-cha …Turn-two cha-cha-cha.  Now the dip, the circle around.  The intensity of the chase and pursuit of the female by the male predator notches up.  Sweat pops on Jorge’s forehead.  He’s floating.  In control.  Totally absorbed by the sexual chase.

Tanya’s smooth and elusive.  Cha-cha’s just beyond Jorge’s magnetic pull.  She smiles. Her eyes act as lures pulling him in to her sphere.

Jorge increases his pace.  Arms drift up and around Tanya as they cha-cha to center floor with frenetic movements.  The spotlight moves with them following each movement.  The pace quickens.  As the band rises to a final crescendo, Jorge executes a magnificent driving dip.  Tanya’s long bronzed hair skims the dance floor.  The audience breaks into spontaneous applause, shouts and whistles.  The couple bows gracefully.

No one notices the bright yellow banana on the floor sharing the spotlight with them.


This is a great complimentary dish for just about any meal, but most outstanding with seafood dishes and Latin dishes.  This will serve 4 people as a side dish.


1 1/2 tablespoons of fresh lime juice

1 tablespoon of dark brown sugar

1 tablespoon of olive oil

2-3 ripe but firm bananas…peeled and diced in quarters

½ red pepper and ½ green pepper seeded and diced

1 scallion including greens Finely chopped

2 tablespoons of fresh cilantro

1 1/2 teaspoons of fresh ginger root peeled & minced

½ tablespoon of fresh jalapeno pepper finely minced


In a small bowl, mix fresh lime juice, dark brown sugar, and olive oil.

Immediately add the remaining ingredients.

Gently mix together.

Place in refrigerator and serve within an hour.  I serve this on a Romaine leaf that forms the shape of a boat or a scoop for the Salsa.