The Bruce Palma Report

I’m not stupid; I’m just mildly dumb. I thought by the time I turned 30 I’d have everything figured out. I thought once I graduated high school and took a few college classes ( History of Pants Hemming and Advanced Train Set Construction were my personal favorites) I’d be a genius—comparable to Einstein and Mickey Mouse.  But no. I’m just as dumb now as I was at 30. And I’m about to turn 60. I feel cheated. No one warned me I’d be a doddering old idiot with no hair as I entered my twilight years. I’m over-emphasizing for effect, but I still want to know why I don’t understand the gravitational rotation of Mars but I do know all about the latest Netflix rom-com. Not stupid, just mildly dumb. There are so many things I know so little about. Take, for instance, the ladybug. Why do I always save ladybugs but kill every ant I find in my home? If I found a ladybug in my room I’d give it a chair and hot meal. Ants get wiped out with nary a thought. Why does my body want more bread...

There comes a time in a person’s life where one must make major decisions about the usage of their precious moments living as a gluten-intolerant bi-ped on planet Earth.  You can’t just sit around frittering your hours away doing dumb things while the world awaits your genius (or the dishes need to be done); and so it is with heavy heart and tears of sorrow that I have decided to give up watching cat videos on social media. In the vastness of this universe where all dreams manifest if you work hard, eat your veggies and take a million masterclasses, I’m sitting around watching cats. Other people’s cats. Random stranger felines who could care less about me or my life’s goals. These aren’t even cats in hats. Not even Puss in Boots. They’re digital felines. Pixelated mammals with tails. Anonymous house pets. Attention hogs. But as of 2:35 pm today (or maybe next week) I have changed my evil ways. I have turned the page. My feline obsessed paw will no longer be glued to my phone. I wil...

Verily I say it’s hard waking up and worrying about your life before you’ve even had your first cup of coffee. And so one must do some re-aligning in their spirit.  Get focused and positive. Do some jumping jacks. Get the blood flowing.  Get some good feeling positive energy in your fingers and your toes. And then begin to battle the day with all its frustrations and worries, and cares, and cars and concerns. Or not… Maybe just breathe.  And smile. And be happy you have free will and don’t have to drink goat’s milk. One has many choices in life. One of them is to drink goat’s milk. I will pass. It’s not that I condemn anyone for wanting to drink the milk of a goat. I will allow anyone to drink goat's milk if they so choose. I have no authority over milk consumption—from goats, cows, sheep or pine nuts. Goat’s milk is just not in my Top 10 Beverage Choices list. I’d rather drink mosquito milk. Or flea milk. Or aardvark milk. Just not the warm milk from a hairy stinky goat ...

You would think the toilet provides as basic a function as one could imagine.  But there are probably more different toilet and toilet seat designs and variations than there are bird varieties in Brazil. But why? As they say in pre-school, it’s either “Number 1” or “Number 2.” Although if you’ve been out drinking all night and eating crab enchiladas laced with bacteria, you might be needing the toilet to help you with, “Number 62.75.” And why shove a poor crab in between a corn tortilla anyway? After visiting my local giant big box home supply store, the one with the tall ceilings, harsh lights and canned music, and seeing the over 100 different toilet seats for sale (all displayed like fine art in an art museum—hung on the wall like so many Picassos), I realized that we humans have gotten way out of control with our imagination and productivity. Someone is spending way too much precious time thinking up and designing endless variations for a simple waste receptacle. ...

. It’s 4:16 am in the morning and I’m drinking coffee to wake up and crush my day. I’ve resigned myself to being a black coffee drinker, non-organic, non-fair trade, non-certified everything.   Just plain ol’ black coffee. Chock Full of Nuts to be exact. I’m not sure how the beans are grown, harvested and shipped in a steel can (says so right on the can) to my local grocery store and then to my shelf, then to my coffeemaker, and then, to my mouth.   It’s one of the few great pleasures in my life I will not, under any circumstances give up.   I’ll give up carbs (for at least 2 hours), sugar (for at least a day) and even cheese. As much as I don’t want to give up cheese, some inner diet coach says “lay off the dairy, buddy, and eat a pine nut…”   But I won’t give up coffee.   The only reason I’m telling you is that many people seem to have the perfect prescription for life. Not their life, mind you. But yours… And for a nominal or quite substantial fee.  ...

I tried to give up sugar today.  But I didn’t. I tried.  I tried real hard. It didn’t work. The cookie won.  I put up a good fight.  But the cookie won.  It was oatmeal. With big raisins. Why did it win? Because it’s called “cookie” and not rutabaga.  I’m weak. The cookie was strong.  Why should I even give up sugar?  Because I should. Every healthy choice I make will help me live another 50 years.  But I can’t live the next 50 years without sugar. I’m weak and I need my treats. Like some spoiled cat in a milk chocolate mansion.  And I don’t want no sugar-free treats. They have artificial sugar with weird names, like sucralose and maltitol . And maltodextrin . What the hell is a “maltodextrin”? I feel like I’m eating a science experiment.  And artificial sweetener causes cancer in lab rats. I read it on the internet. Is it true? I don’t know. I read it on the internet. You tell me. I bought a lab rat to find out, but then I felt ba...