Spit Out Your Gum

This Blog Closed Today For A Private Party

2012-01-28T11:08:00.000-05:00

Don't you just hate seeing that sign when you go to a favorite restaurant or bar? Sorry, but I got caught up in a long, blog-like email. Be back tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. In the meantime, try the drive-thru down the street.

Eye Eye

2012-01-26T10:36:00.000-05:00

Can I ask you a question? Is the question, "Can I ask you a question?" not one of the most leading, instantly nerve-wracking questions there is? Doesn't it just scream I'm curious about something I know you don't wanna talk about? Isn't asking the question a bit like practicing dialing the number for a phone call you're nervous about (yes, I've done that)? Isn't it a bit like asking someone if you can sucker punch them, right before sucker punching them? Forget the ha ha response to the question of "You just did" and walking away. When you graduate from the 4th grade you can really ponder the baggage that goes along with the question "Can I ask you a question?" Obviously it's a question the questioner hesitates to ask, one he or she thinks might be too prying or too annoying or too something for the answerer to answer comfortably. Right? Don't you kind of cringe and immediately start battening down psychic hatches when somebody comes up to you and asks, "Can I ask you a question?" Your mind races to come up with plausible responses to the question, "Where are the bodies buried?"

And so it was the other day when in the middle of doing The Job, Co-Worker asked me, "Can I ask you a question?" Paranoia immediately struck deep, as it always does when I'm asked that question. I checked my fly. I quickly glanced down to make sure I was wearing exactly one, no more or less, pair of matching shoes. I activated the stand-by button on my mantra chant, "No comment. There will be no comment at this time." I did my best to maintain my usual cool and braced myself for being asked if the piece of lettuce stuck between my teeth was some kind of fashion statement, or if I was aware I had a 50% Off sticker stuck on my butt.

(Now having said all this, and before revealing the question that needed to be prefaced with an introductory question, let me state that Co-Worker is one of the most polite human beings I know, truly. He is not one to not only ask if he can throw a sucker punch, but he is not one to actually wish to, contemplate, or indeed truly sucker punch anyone. As it can get pretty busy and distracting while doing The Job, in retrospect I honestly believe Co-Worker was just being polite as ever when he asked me if could ask me a question; there was no intent on his part to actively induce a paranoia attack in me. This should all be clear when I get around to revealing what his question was, which, given the entire context [which said Co-Worker didn't provide as a prelude to his question {the actual question, not the pre-question question} which, not providing the context, is the source of all this bafflement, but which, ironically, makes the whole story pretty funny and worth--trust me--telling you about], really isn't as odd as it first seemed. Anyway, my point is to absolve Co-Worker of any blame for using the pre-question question as anything but a polite request for my time.)

So, in the middle of doing The Job in our own separate ways and not having had any immediate previous conversation, Co-Worker asks, after asking if he can ask me a question, let's not forget, "So how did Marty Feldman actually die?"

Marty Feldman, ladies and gentlemen. Crazy-eyed actor. Died December 2, 1982, of a heart attack, though read further about how six packs of cigarettes a day, a surprise guest, and a shared food-poisoned knife might have been involved. (Okay, full disclosure here--yesterday I wrote about a two hour, very funny post about all of this, but somehow before publishing it I lost the last hour and a half of work; what you've read so far is what was salvaged; I'm having trouble re-creating it all, so trust me, what follows is not nearly as good as what's floating around the ether, never to see the light of day again; we beat on, boats against the current).

I must admit, even though my vast knowledge of arcane nonsense is fairly well-known and thus I receive a lot of bizarre questions (including a drunken post-midnight call from a friend in Chicago calling to confirm that the Book of Lists once ranked Cleveland as a windier city than Chicago) as a sheer out of the blue, devoid of context question, the Marty Feldman question now tops the list as the strangest, beating out the nearly thirty-year-old question from a deep slumbering college roommate who woke up long enough to squint down at me from his lofted bed to ask, "Did you ever get the feeling Henry Fonda was about to walk in?" After quickly checking the door and considering the possibilities of Henry Fonda making an appearance at my fraternity, I turned back to tell him no, but by then he had rolled over and was snoring again.

What, do I look like a card-carrying member of the Marty Feldman Fan Club? What is it about me that when people get a crazy question in their mind they think, Oh, I bet Dan will know the answer, though before asking him I should ask him if it's okay to ask him a question first? Turns out Co-Worker was assessing the worth of a Marty Feldman DVD at the time, so his question wasn't that much of a non sequitur, but still. Though I might just add here that my immediate response, while my mind was going WTF, was, "I'm not sure, I think it was a heart attack." Grace under pressure, folks. That's me.

Now although the sainted George Noory always claims, somewhat eerily, that "there are no coincidences," I'd sure like to know what pattern, what significance for my life put me in position the very next day to answer another Youngun Co-Worker's question that led to another eye-related, long-forgotten (or never even known, as was the case) celebrity reference. Said Youngun Co-Worker pointed to the Bette on a Bette Davis book and asked me, "It's pronounced Betty, right?" "Yes it is," I helpfully and non-judgmentally answered (a fair enough question coming from a mere 20-something), but I couldn't help adding, "She of the famous eyes." "Hunh?" Youngun Co-Worker replied with a twisted face (no sweat, by now I'm used to twisted-face hunh replies to half of my utterings). "You know," I prodded, warming up the singing pipes, "'She got Bette Davis Eyes' by Kim Carnes." I must admit, her reply of, "What the hell are you singing about?" was a new one for me.

How old am I? Older every day. Because not only did said Youngun Co-Worker profess no knowledge of Kim Carnes (wiki refers her to as "the female Rod Stewart" for her husky voice, so, Rod-bashing other Youngun Co-Worker, investigate no further) and her ubiquitous 1981 smash (nine, 9 weeks at No. 1, second biggest single of the entire 1980s next to Olivia Newton-John's "Physical") "Bette Davis Eyes," but two other Youngun Co-Workers professed/confessed to similar ignorance. True, all three delightful and very intelligent Co-Workers were not yet born in 1981, but one might assume with I Love the 80s saturation and everything else that they might have heard the song by now. Sorry, Kim, fame is fleeting; my sympathies. Needless to say, though, when talk turns to any TV show of the last twenty years, let alone last night, I'm helplessly clueless; one man's Kim Carnes is another's Snooki, I guess.

Can I ask you one final question, though? Aren't you jealous that I co-work with so many friendly, inspiring, and fun Co-Workers?

Fore

2012-01-24T11:37:00.000-05:00

Of course I'm prejudicial. And you're not? At least I have a system, a method to my mad prejudices. When faced with meeting a person, I quickly apply my elevator test: What would it be like to be stuck indefinitely in an elevator with this person? Might I commit murder in the first fifteen minutes? When meeting two people, I apply the Simon & Garfunkel test: Which one's Paul, which is Artie? Things, as you can imagine, develop from there. Three people, it's the Love Triangle question: Which one's bound to be the odd one out--that's my new compadre. Five people, I envision a basketball team and gravitate naturally toward the point guard. Six on up it's a crapshoot; I usually find myself bonding with either the cutest, the richest-seeming, or, most effectively, the one who is most likely to listen to the most Bob. Criticize my methods, sure, but I've got the best friends in the world; you can't argue with success.

But you notice that I skipped a group of four people. Yes, that one's a bit trickier. Whereas the other tests are usually pretty quick and intuitive, a foursome (for whatever reason) calls for a lengthier examination, one based on hard empirical evidence. I can't help it, I've got caddie blood in me, probably because my most impressionable years (age 13-22) were spent looping it, hauling golf bags and chasing carts and catering to the whims of golfers of all stripes. A lifetime education indeed. Thus, when confronted with meeting four people at once, I take my time and envision caddying for them over the course of four (one hopes) or maybe even six (forget it, I'll go it alone, folks) hours.

And so, confronted (an apt word, I believe) with the four remaining Republican candidates for the Presidency (full disclosure--not that I'm likely to vote for any of them, especially when I would never vote for two of them), I've decided to make my caddie test of them public, in the hope, as always, that my words do not necessarily merely persuade, but truly enlighten.

The most difficult job for a caddie is the two-walker, two-rider foursome. You lug two bags and tend to every need of the walkers while still having to keep eyes on the two riders, spotting their golfballs' travels, raking everybody's sandtrap mess, reading putts, cleaning balls, fetching clubs, pampering one and all. An ADHD nightmare, especially if the sun's blazing hot and the breeze is on strike.

Romney and Santorum are the walkers while Newt and RonPaul (some kind of weird amalgamation of RuPaul and Pope John Paul II I keep seeing there) ride. The first introduction for a caddie to the next four plus hours of his life, even before meeting the golfers, is the load--the bags he will carry, which often is all he needs to know about how the day is going to go. Romney's bag is sleek, relatively light, and very manageable. Santorum's is too big with a too small strap that will dig into your shoulder all day. The clubs are of the department store variety and are separated in the bag by individual "tubes"--not a good sign. Add to that the extendable ball-retriever that can't be quite unextended so that it sticks out of the bag like a giraffe amongst horses and the short little golf towel, emblazoned with the logo of some Kiwanis outing from seven years ago, attached to the bag with a metal hoop which will dig into your thigh all day, and already you're cursing this guy.

Get to the first tee for the introductions. Romney, dressed nattily, introduces himself to you right away and asks your name, and you know he won't forget it and will call you by it throughout the round. Santorum just says hi and proceeds to duck into the bag and spend five minutes sifting through dozens of balls to come up with two decent ones (never the same make) to stuff into his pocket. You naturally uncover his driver and hand it to him and he politely says, "No, I can't hit that. I tee off with my five iron, usually." You immediately want to kill him, to save yourself from five hours of torture, but there's something kind of tolerable about him, a small guy out playing with the big guys, an underdog in this foursome, that makes you think, based on past experience, that he might be the only one you like by the 18th green, and the only one to come through with a decent tip. So you leave the jury out on him and stroll over to the cart to meet those duffers and see if there's any way you can ingratiate yourself with them from the start.

RonPaul acts like you don't exist, in fact like nobody exists, and you wonder how he got into this foursome to begin with. His bag is old (a Burton, I believe) and crammed with even older clubs, a genuine "niblick" and woods, actual woods. He's dressed decently, if not fashionably. As you start cleaning off Newt's very old-mud-encrusted clubs (there must be seventeen of them in the bag, you estimate, and are thankful his large, garish, six-toned bag is sitting on the cart and not your shoulder), he introduces himself by farting loudly as he waddles off the seat and, with no further salutation, tells you to clean up the three Top-Flites he hands you absently. His shorts are too short and his purple golf shirt has sweat stains on it and looks impossible to tuck in short of giving the guy a cardiac arrest.

Romney, the de facto chief of this foursome, expertly spins his tee to determine partners and honors. When RonPaul dribbles his first shot, Romney graciously tells him to take a Mulligan. Santorum's five iron dives wickedly right off the tee; his Mulligan merely slices into the rough 150 yards out and he seems deeply relieved as you reach for the club; "No, I use this until I'm up around the green." A definite hack, you realize, but at least he'll be easy to deal with, you think. Romney looks like a real golfer right away as he tees up his ball, takes a couple practice swings, goes through an efficient and well-grooved pre-shot routine, and laces his drive straight down the middle well over 250 yards. Well alright, you think. You look hopefully up at the clouds as Newt limbers up, exposing his ample white belly. "Shit," he mutters as his first shot dribbles barely past the ladies tee; by the time he gets to "-it" of the shit he's got another ball out of his pocket and teed up again. "Crap," he says a little louder as his Mulligan pops up to the right and knocks around a half dozen branches before meekly bouncing back up the cart path. As he puts another ball on the tee, Santorum seems a little offended. "Are we playing 'hit 'til you're happy'?" "This isn't a Mulligan," Newt announces. "The third is called a Callista." He promptly strokes it right into the creek running along the left side of the fairway. "Damn wind. I'll drop from up there," he announces as he shoves his driver back into his bag and dives into a pocket in search of more balls.

As an experienced looper, you can almost predict the entire round just from the doings on the first tee. Santorum blithely walks the right rough with his five iron, requiring little assistance until he finally gets close to the green, where you hand him this "trusty" chipper and then his putt-putt putter. You double check him as he stands on the green looking back over the hole and visibly recounts his strokes; he's always honest when reporting his sevens and eights and occasional fives. RonPaul's short game is pretty impressive, saving him countless bogeys and a few pars. Your only interaction with him is on the 13th green when you pick up his pitching wedge for him. "Thank you," he kind of whispers and heads back to the cart. Romney's easy. He's usually in the fairway and actively seeks your valued input. After telling him to hit the seven instead of the eight on the third hole because it's more uphill than it looks and the wind's picking up, he sticks it to within four feet, smiles, and says, "Good call." From then on he relies on your club selection and reads. He magnanimously gives not so short putts, though Newt quickly takes advantage of this and gives himself all his third putts. Callistas abound for Newt and he's constantly talking about how the layout of the course could be better, what kind of grass the greens should be, and how they need to move that bunker over there--the one he never offers to rake. He calls you "son" all the time and leaves two or three clubs per hole on the green for you to retrieve. Needless to say, the rule about staying on the cart path and walking to your ball doesn't apply to him. By the turn you've lost track of your mental math adding up the differences between his actual strokes and the "gimme a five" he boldly announces after picking up his ball. Afterwards you try to remember if he ever holed out.

After the round RonPaul quietly hands you a twenty and says, "Thank you." Santorum, seemingly proud that he almost broke 100, pats you on the back awkwardly and gives you all the loose change from his pocket and fails to notice the absence of his ball retriever which, on general purposes, you tossed in the pond behind the 14th green. "My favorite hole, the 19th," Newt announces as he walks right past your ostentatiously outstretched hand; lucky for you, he left behind in the cart the third package of Oreos he bought from the beer cart girl. So at least you've got that going for you, which is nice. Romney thanks you by name and shakes your hand vigorously as he hands you a crisp fifty. Nice guy, you think, but you get the feeling he's just going through the motions, as he has all day.

Turn The Page On Page-A-Days

2012-01-19T23:32:00.000-05:00

How far behind are you? Have you given up yet? The New Year is almost three weeks old already, so these questions are very pertinent. Resolutions? Hell no, I'm not talking about New Year's resolutions. If your New Year's resolutions aren't long-ago-broken and forgotten by now, you either didn't aim high enough or you're a much-too-together person to ever waste time reading this blog. I'm talking about the biggest Christmas present scam ever, the most useless and unused but always sold in droves item--the ubiquitous page-a-day calendar. Read those questions again now: How far behind are you? It's still January 4th, isn't it? Have you given up yet? It's buried under two weeks of desk crap, isn't it? And those are merely the questions for you Type-A people. For you Type-B people, the only question is, are you ever going to open it and tear off at least one page, just to, you know, validate the gift in some way?

I got to thinking about page-a-day calendars (pad-cals) because some poor fool was still looking for one today. Look folks, if you really need a calendar in today's high-tech world and you haven't gotten around to getting yourself one by January 19th, there's a whole lot of shit you need to get together in your life before you go calendar hunting.

Now I'm as all-around guilty as I'm sure all of you are--I have given and received my fair share of pad-cals in my time. Let me just say, blanketly, to those I've given, I'm sorry. To those who gave me a pad-cal, thank you, the thought really counted, and I appreciate your generosity.

But let's be honest, they're a waste of paper and money. Not time, really, because who ever spends even the ten seconds necessary to rip off the previous day's page and read the present day's tidbit? Coincidentally, I'm thinking that January 19th was the furthest I ever got ripping off each day's page. Anybody out there ever make it to March? Didn't think so. And then there's the sad guilt of ripping off, en masse, like two and half months' worth of pages just to bring yourself literally up to date. You know that clump of pages, don't you? I will say they make good scratch/memo paper, though. Still, I defy anyone alive to swear on the playground's proverbial "stack of Bibles" (does God differentiate lies? "Well, you only swore a lie on one Bible, so, what the heck, in you go. But you, now, you swore that lie on a genuine stack of Bibles, sixteen, if memory serves Me well. It's Downstairs for you, kiddo. Might want to take off that sweater.") that he or she has made it through an entire year assiduously tearing off one page per day every day (and not right away peeking ahead to one's birthday to see what that special tidbit is) for 365/6 consecutive days (just don't do it--the swearing that you did do this--in my presence because, frankly, you're not the type of person I want to know). That said, to prove my point about no one in the history of pad-cals ever actually making it through the year tearing off a page a day, I will offer any maker of pad-cals free publicity (as long as you provide the web-cam equipped with automatic time-date stamp) for an entire year. Send me your calendar and the above-mentioned computer hardware, and next year I will post video of me reading and ripping a page a day (which makes me think--do these pad-cal manufacturers even bother to write copy on days for the second half of the year? they must know no one ever gets half that far).

Now I'm not totally condemning pad-cals here (as I said, they make for handy scratch paper). I remember fondly a Quote-a-Day one I received and a Weird Word-a-Day one. Great stuff, but really, how can anyone expect anyone else to keep up with the daily chore? (There is probably some poor secretary out there who is chastised daily for not keeping the boss's pad-cal up to date.) I just think enough's enough. With the Internet and smart phones and everything, do we really need these pad-cals anymore? Yes they're quaint, but, I believe, quaint is just another word for what the hell is this thing still around for?

Alas, I'm afraid they're here to stay. Such an easy gift, such an easy thing to wrap. But come on, no more. Why the fruitcake still gets kicked around as the go-to default Christmas joke, the present no one wants and everyone gets (and really, when was the last time you saw, let alone received, a fruitcake?) is beyond me when pad-cals seem to be everywhere. You heard it here first, folks: Page-a-Day Calendars are the new Fruitcakes (I can only hope you readers have short memories, because I think I just doomed myself to receiving nothing but pad-cals for Christmas next year).

But, but, there is one pad-cal that makes sense, and is probably the only pad-cal that hasn't yet been produced--The Anal Retentive Page-a-Day Calendar. Now that one makes sense and might actually be an appropriate gift for the AR person on your gift list. Can't you just see it? Each page would have a message like this: "Is this the correct date? Did you tear off yesterday's page yet?" On Fridays it could read, "It's Friday. You might want to tear off today as well as Saturday's and Sunday's so that when you return to work on Monday, your calendar will be just right." Just a thought. It's your's for the taking, pad-cal industry. I admire you bastards.

Our First Inductee: Dagwood Bumstead

2012-01-17T12:26:00.000-05:00

I found twenty-seven cents in an old pair of jeans the other day when I was cleaning out my kitchen cupboards (a long and ultimately not funny at all story), and for once not dashing off to the nearest bubblegum machine, I decided to "do something" with this unexpected windfall. As I mulled my options, the word philanthropist kept popping up in my consciousness. I felt the urgent need to endow something. Thus, after a not-enough-donuts-and-too-much-talk-about-Green Initiatives-from-that-gadfly-Troy meeting with spitoutyourgum's Board of Trustees, it was decided that we would create a Hall of Fame, mainly because there just aren't enough of them around these days. And so, today I am proud to announce the opening of the American Fictional Character Hall of Fame (AFCHoF, pronounced how it reads).

The idea is a genius one, if I may boast. Since the idea is to honor fictional characters (American only; the Board is vehemently anti-globalization as I found out), there is no need to erect an actual Hall or hold elaborate induction ceremonies because nothing is really real, right? It's all fiction. Ergo, the initial $.27 endowment should last forever. Which is all not to slight the idea or the great American fictional characters that will be honored with enshrinement; it's just nice to have such a gleaming monument to America's imagination without any overhead costs.

The list of characters who will, I'm sure, be inducted to the AFCHoF in time is long and glorious. But where to start? The rules of induction stipulate that only one character be inducted at a time, to prevent Inductee Class Envy (ICE). Which fictional character will be able to bear the burden of being the AFCHoF's initial inductee? That question plagued me for a few torturous minutes (I mean, how is it possible to rate and rank the cultural influence of such stalwarts as Huck Finn, Rick Blaine, Ishmael, Hester Prynne, The Dude, and Carla Tortelli?) before I was able to come up with a most deserving, and, I believe, in the spirit of all-men-are-created-equal America, a most representative American fictional character: take a bow, Dagwood Bumstead, for you are the inaugural inductee to the AFCHoF!

The Blondie comic strip, created in 1930 by the estimable Chic Young and now written by his son Dean, was one I must admit I had long merely tolerated on my comics page, reading it only when I was bored or wasting time and decided to read all of the comics, instead of just my favorites (oh, where have you gone, Herman, The Far Side, Calvin & Hobbes, Foxtrot?). But as I've grown wiser (sic?), I've come to not only enjoy Blondie daily (sans italics, a man can dream, can't he?) but to look forward to its joie de vivre, its insouciance, its downright Zen-like effect on me. Most of this comes from Dagwood who, despite the title of the strip, is now pretty much the focus. If Dagwood isn't the embodiment of the good old American Male, I don't who is. He seems to want nothing out of life but naps, a hassle-free job, a good couch, a great sandwich, and the love of a wonderful family. And although these aspirations are nearly always thwarted in some way, he still ends up relatively happy and content. Like the aforementioned Huck and Ishmael, Dagwood possesses an uncanny ability to adapt, survive, and endure, with humor, good will, and a great deal of hard-earned wisdom. I can think of many characters--real and fictional--who are a lot less qualified to stand as role models in daily life, and few better. Dagwood, you're an inspiration, even though you're merely a figment of someone's imagination. Congratulations on your induction to the AFCHoF. It is well deserved.

Sesquipedalian or Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobe, Which Are You?

2012-01-15T12:52:00.000-05:00

Co-Worker was in my way the other day, which frequently happens when you're a frantic little drone always scurrying to the next task like I am. Fine, I'm not so little and as far as I know, only mice and nuns scurry. I'm stocky and I kind of tugboat my way to the next task. The point is, Co-Worker was standing with her back to me right in my path. As usual, in such a situation, I applied the WWSFoAD test: What Would Saint Francis of Assisi Do? Unfortunately, as usual, the answer was "go feed some birds," which would have been pleasant but not while on the clock, so I went to Plan B and its ice-breaker question: If I start a fight with this person, can I emerge unscathed? Well, that was a fifty-fifty proposition, but with the box cutters she was holding, I made the split second decision to cease and desist all potential bellicosity. So, like much of life itself, I just waited, if perhaps a little too close to her and breathing a little too loudly. Soon she turned and saw that she was blocking my path and quickly moved and apologized. I told her no problem and that I hadn't wanted to disturb her contemplative mood. That's when things got combative.

"Ooohhh, contemplative," she sing-songed, as if we were eight and on a playground, not adults in the hallowed workplace. "You just love using big words, don't you?" This is why I mainly drink decaf. If I had the slightest little juiced-up buzz going in situations like this, in which I tend to find myself quite often, blood would spill. Scrutinize her words and tell me there aren't at least half a dozen jumping off points for verbal, if not physical, fisticuffs. Any inquisitive (accusatory) sentence with the "You just love ... don't you?" construction screams donnybrook, no? And, big how? A word merely containing a lot of letters or a word that, God forbid, might make people actually use the greatest secular bible (outside of the rules of golf) known to humankind, the dictionary? Classifying the word "contemplative" as a big word fails on both accounts, I believe, and only serves as further proof of our (humankind's) rapid descent to inarticulacy, illiteracy, and idiocy. Thirteen letters is a nice round, medium-sized word. Contemplative, "given to or characterized by contemplation; a person devoted to contemplation," is hardly an obscure, difficult word, if one takes some time to think about it. And that insidious "just." No, Co-Worker, I don't "just" love using big words, I revel in, delight in, and celebrate--gleefully and willingly, proudly and gluttonously--employing erudite, eclectic, and even esoteric words. I feast on language's panoply and invite all (co-workers, too, troglodyte or not) to indulge likewise. What's the fun of going to an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord (buffet) (and how come you never see any s'mores at a smorgasbord?) and electing to eat only a salad with like two garnishes and no dressing? I am not an animal; I am a sentient, intelligent human being--I utilize an elephantine cornucopia of words.

(As an aside, it was in this specific moment that I experienced satori re my relationship with Co-Worker. In the split second of comprehending her loaded question, I saw completely the inseparable gulf that divides us. She adores Reel Big Fish, I worship Bob Dylan; she is a baker, I consume baked goods; she loves manning (sic) the portable phone at work, I despise it. Now I'm sure, like that thing that takes two separate pictures of people and merges them into one hideous Frankenstein, there is an app out there that could find common ground for the two of us between RBF and Dylan, baker and eater, phonephile and phonephobe, but at that moment I refused to believe there could be any common ground between a "big word" lover and a hater; go ahead, Mr. Venn, have at it. This all made me sad, because despite our obvious differences, Co-Worker and I--up unto this point--had achieved a tacit, delicate detente that had enabled us to co-work quite well, even convivially, I might suggest. But this, this contretemps, nay this wrangle, would brook no brooking. We had reached the Rubicon of our cooperative co-working.)

But, dammit, I had been drinking decaf so I couldn't pick a fight with her then and there, and I couldn't say all of this because the perfect riposte, a sentence consisting of but three words, one a contraction (I'm), one a one-letter, never-to-be-mistaken-for-a-"big"-word (a), and one the killer, the put-you-in-your-place biggest word of all big words (um, um, um) had gotten side-tracked on its journey from my brain to my tongue: I couldn't remember how to pronounce that one great, I'll-show-you word. And so, my only response to her finger-pointing, mocking accusation that I just loved to use big words was a paltry, "I've got work to do." I then scurried--it's true, for the first time in my life--I--channeling an inner nun I knew not I possessed--scurried off to find a dictionary where I could find that nuclear bomb of a word and its correct pronunciation:

sesquipedalian [ses-kwi-pi-dey-lee-uhn, -deyl-yuhn]. I am not an animal! I am a ses-kwi-pi-dey-lee-uhn! Sesquipedalian: a person who uses long words; a long word. Admittedly, not in the moment, my rushing back to inform her that I am a sesquipedalian did not carry the same heft that an immediate response would have had, but, like any Cleveland sports fan, I'll take any victory, as small and merely moral as it might be. It was then, as Mick Jagger says, surprise surprise: I discovered that Co-Worker is quite possibly, against her most fervent wishes perhaps, a closet sesquipedalian. Because, with the aid of a computer, she taught me a new word, a truly big word, a word I had never even heard of, a word (naturally) I couldn't have even dreamt of in my most noxious nightmares: Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia, the fear of long words. Wikipedia lists it as a "fictional or jocular" phobia. Fictional I would like to believe, but I guess if there are sesquipedalians, the laws of physics or something or other demand that there be hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobes as well. Jocular, definitely--such -phobes are to be laughed at.

And so, in the best Hegelian, resolution-out-of-conflict way, Co-Worker and I have reached a deeper, more complete detente. We talk openly and deliciously of a Reel Big Fish-Dylan collaboration; we fantasize about bacon chocolate cinnamon scones; we playfully toss that cordless phone back and forth. She is coming to terms with being a sesquipedalian, and I have a new "big" word to love--hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia (with, in the true yin yan fashion of this whole experience, a meaning I despise). All of this, obviously, makes me think of that oft-seen image of frail, sinful human beings marching in line up the sky into a cloud on the Day of Judgment. I'm pretty sure, now, after this experience, that up in the cloud there's a sign that reads "Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobes to the Left, Sesquipedalians to the Right." I know which side I'm on, you?

Addendum Fee (NSFW If You Work In Ireland Or Have A Boss Named Paddy)

2012-01-12T10:06:00.000-05:00

I can think of no better follow-up to my previous post about the insidiousness of fees. I don't know where I've been because I've never heard of this amazing group, Fascinating Aida, or seen this video, despite it having over 4 million hits on youtube. But better late to the party than not there at all. Having coined the verb feek (to charge a fee) last time, I think it's quite obvious now that its past tense form would be feck.

Fee, And Other Nasty Three-Letter Words

2012-01-10T11:18:00.000-05:00

Are you like me? Kind of tired of all the hype over four-letter words? Oooh, that guy just used a four-letter word! Big deal. Everyone now uses four-letter words in this crass age, but somehow the chic stigma still clings to those words, so much that I believe those words are the only ones classified by their amount of letters. You don't hear anyone specifically calling out six-letter words, or twelve-letter words, do you? Well, in these down-sizing, budget-cutting, less-is-more times, I think it's high time we turn the spotlight on the maybe-not-so-attention-hogging-but-damn-so-much-more-insidious three-letter words. These are the real bastards of our modern day, and it's about time they get vilified for what they are: crap. That's right, it takes a big bad four-letter word to describe the overall essence of these tiny tortures. I'm talking words like sin, tax, yap, zit, lie, die, bug, pus, rat, pol, dun, and irk.

True, true, there are three-letter words, just as there are four-letter words, that delight, positively sing with vim and brio and panache: par, lit, pun, gay, tea, tee, zip, tit, wit, nap, hug. It's only fair. But still, you have to admit the fact that that venomous list of three-letter words back in that last paragraph carry as much negative weight, if not shock value, as any four-letter word you could hurl. Let's face it, those famous four-letter words (five of George Carlin's famous list of seven naughty words) are mainly just epithets, shock words. But it's these three-letter ones that really wreak the havoc in our lives, these little nuclear bomb words that cause us to lie awake at night cursing with four-letter words our lot in life. Now scribblers far more adept, and angrier, than I have taken on sin and tax to death, but today I'm focussing my ire on the biggest tiny word piece of bunk in the world--fee.

What a miserable excuse for a word, fee. It's like an amputation. It's a sound, not a word. And a pretty paltry sound at that, something you might emit, not even utter, Job-like, after you've just lost everything you've ever had in the world and you realize it's all one cosmic joke at your expense and you don't have any fight or bile left in you and you observe the smoldering embers of your life--"fee." It's the last fart of air passed from a dead balloon, an infant's utterance at best, and yet, there it is, staring us all in the face day after day with its niggling pawing at our purse-strings--"more."

I just bought a car, a process that in my world compares unfavorably to root canal. But, to be honest, with the help of Marcus, the experience was fine. And I'm very happy to be driving a car with modern amenities, to be driving a car in which the winshield wipers wipe, the brakes brake, the windows roll up and down (electrically, who knew?), the heater heats, the engine purrs not curses, the lights light, the radio (and CD player, what brave new world is this?) plays. The only negative to the whole thing was one line on the bill of sale: Documentary Fee. What, am I being filmed taking bruised used cars out for a test drive? Not coincidentally, my not-too-conpsiracy-theory-laden mind thinks, the Documentary Fee was exactly equal to the "value" of the car I traded in (not much, mind you [see above] [okay, I'll admit it, I was driving a car that brought a whopping $250.00 in "trade" {yes, the amount of zeros and the decimal point placement are correct; I wanted to peel off and keep my beloved "This Aggression Will Not Stand, Man" bumper sticker, but I thought such action might reduce the trade-in value by at least $100}], but still). Documentary Fee. From the looks of them, Michael Moore's made films for less money. Documentary Fee. I half-expected to open the glove compartment and find an original copy of the Declaration of Independence (the irony would have been worth it). Granted, to get out of the dealership and drive away in my new old car, I had to sign about forty-four pieces of paper, but come on, $250? Go to Staples and buy a ream of paper for $5.99. Documentary Fee, my ass.

See, that's the problem with "fee"--there's literally no accounting. The Suits just figure, we're not getting enough out of this deal with the advertised "sticker" price, so let's really 'sticker' the bastard with a fee, round it up, Jake, always up. I want documentation. I want an audit of every one of those 25,000 pennies. You see, as maligned as the word tax is, at least (thanks to those original [not the pseudo- modern day pretenders] tea partiers) there is representation with taxation. You see or hear the word tax and you obviously grumble, but deep down you know that at least there's a system and somehow it was voted on, approved. But with Fee, who knows? Just add it to the long list of itemized costs, Vic, and they'll never even notice, especially using such an inept, three-letter word like fee. I don't know about you, but I'd be much happier if they'd all (and it's everyone, not just car dealers--let's not delve into the abyss of banks and airlines) just be a little more honest (a tough task, admittedly) and jettison the non-word Fee and substitute a real word, a great word despite its meaning, a word with character and flair--Gouge. "And what's this $250.00 charge here?" "Oh, sir, that's our Gouge." "Oh, right then, where do I sign?" No problem, and being a five-letter word, gouge is above all scorn, right? Now if you look it up, (don't worry, I already did, for which there'll be a fee, but I'm coming to that), fee can also be a verb, but really who uses it as such, and come on, verbs are allegedly "action" words and fee just doesn't move, does it? But there has to be a verb for what these people do, right? Assessing fees (yes, some call it a fee, others fees, trying to make it a big bad four-letter word, I'm sure). May I then just coin (fee for that, too, naturally) a new verb--feeking. "What, just what are you doing reaching into my pants pocket like that?" "Just feeking you, sir." "Oh, of course." Feeking without representation, accounting, auditing, or documenting--that's what commerce has become in the 21st century.

I assumed the word fee had some nefarious origin, maybe coming from the word flea, another nasty irritant. Or maybe it's some cruel joke, a play on the word free, thinking the human eye, so primed to read free in anything, will gloss over the fact that the 'r' is missing (little boomerang-shaped whisp of a letter; maybe it's piratical in origin--"you thought the graciousness of our company was free, but we've taken the rrrrrrrrr, along with all of your booty--call it a fee!") But no, fee, quite appropriately, comes from fief, from feudal times. So, even in these enlightened times, we are all just lowly, forking-it-over subjects of the corporate fiefdom.

But, but, the lonely would-be insurrectionist, the Chinese man with the shopping bag stopping the line of tanks in me cries, but if feeking is truly wreaked without representation, accounting, auditing, or documenting, why the hell shouldn't I, shouldn't each one of us, raise a solitary fist (or some part thereof) of protest and start doing some frickin' feeking of our own? Be a feeker, dear reader! Who's to stop us when nobody, it seems, has the power to stop anyone else from feeking us to death? As of right now, I'm going feeking nuclear. Read my parenthetical asides, boom, there's a fee. Laugh at something I say, pay up (a tee-hee-hee fee; and, ooh, you hit your patella on that bon mot, that'll be five bucks--knee-slapping fee). There will be a listening fee assessed for all you windbags out there I have to endure, you elevator orators, long-line palaverers, adjacent urinal pontificators (zip up and pay up, buddy; I shouldn't have drunk so much coffee), and Deadheads (if you dare to tell me about Jerry's awesome solo on "Box of Rain" from the second Tulsa show in 1975, I'm taking your last 32 cents and your hacky-sack). And for you really insufferable nabobs of nonsense, there'll be a strict, graduated toleration fee--ten dollars for the first 60 seconds, thirty for the next 45, and so on. Time is money, so if you ask me what time it is, two bits, plus you have to listen to me sing a verse of Chicago's "Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is," for good measure (you can opt out for a one-time three dollar fee). Call me Buddy, Boss, Guy, or Hey You? Fifty clams, minimum. Make a right turn in front of me without using your turn signal? Seventy-five bucks, plus I get to peel off one of your bumper stickers. And that's not all when it comes to my feeking. I'm also introducing an echo fee. If, within three seconds of assessing me a fee, I snap back, "Fee Fee!" you have to reimburse me 50% of the fee, argue and it's 60%.

God it feels good to join the feeking ranks. And what contentment. Usually it's mid-July before I decide on a motto for the New Year. Ten days into this one and I'm all set--Feeking: I'm Gettin' Mine in 2012!

Elvis @ 77

2012-01-08T10:37:00.000-05:00

Yes, The King turns 77 today. It's become a tradition here to celebrate his birthday every year because, well, he's Elvis, and it's either celebrate his birthday or weigh in on the Republican primaries. When I was thinking about Elvis this morning, I thought of my two wonderful trips to Graceland. Coming up with one or two memorable moments from those excursions is difficult (there are so many), but what came to my mind was the gold sink in the bathroom of the Lisa Marie, Elvis's late-career TCB jet (I think you need to purchase the premium ticket at Graceland to gain access to the Lisa Marie [parked across the street], but why anyone would go to Graceland and not shoot the works on the premium ticket is beyond my ken). A gold sink! And then I remembered a video that was playing, probably in some gift shop, or maybe it was at the racquet ball court (the mind gets dizzy with Graceland memories)--an early 70s Elvis singing Neil Diamond's warhorse "Sweet Caroline." I've always remembered the cheesy (but in a good Elvis way) little dance move Elvis does after singing "Caroline" and "inclined." Well, I found a video (maybe not the actual one, but a good one) of the performance (alas, I can't get it to embed here, just click the link, it's worth it). Elvis is still pretty lean and good looking here (even in white boots, of which we get a close-up), but there are hints of what's to come: the performance at times gets a little lazy, the chain things on the jump suit seem to anticipate an expanding girth, and if you look closely, there seems to be a rip in the jumpsuit (Elvis's right pelvis, appropriately) that Elvis not so discreetly tucks away during the performance. Anyway, have a
look and raise a toast to the The King!

The New PMS: The Password Is ...

2012-01-05T10:12:00.000-05:00

Mama never told me there'd be decisions to be made like this. But then again, if Mama could have foreseen the complexities of 21st century life she would have raised me to be a Reality TV star. To cut to the chase, though, I have to change my password. The one at work, not the one to get on my computer, not the one to get my email (or to get my other email), not the one to write a blog, not the one to get money from my bank, tunes from itunes, books from amazon, and on and on. I hear your moans. Is there anything more mind-messing these days than Password Management Stress (PMS)?

Ah, remember the good old days of, say, ten years ago? Back when passwords were like five letters and you could get away with something as simple as "genius"? And you could use the same one for everything and never have to change it? Gone the way of the five cent cup of coffee and actually talking to a live person on the telephone. Now you practically have to write an original algebraic formula and change it every time Sarah Palin announces she's not yet ruling out a run for the White House, "at this time."

For a week now everytime I log on at work (on the average, six to ten times a shift) I get a message that my password will expire in so many days (I think I've still got a week--at least the computer recognizes this decision is not to be taken lightly and it gives me ample time to compose [because let's face it, and this I believe is my point, present-day password coming up with is a creation, an exercise in cryptic personal poetry that only Emily Dickinson could fully appreciate]). Now of course I could have been efficiently snarky and, the first time I got the message asking me if I want to change my password now, just typed in as my new password, "noIdont666" and been done with it (actually, that sounds like a good idea; wish I'd thought of it then). But no, one (and now let me take back my earlier praise of the computer's thoughtfulness in giving me such an early warning; with 15 days of countdown time and having to navigate the message every time I log on, I now realize that computer is just contributing to my PMS, making me think I've got plenty of time, but constantly reminding me that the clock is a-tickin' and constantly making me think about starting over from scratch and composing another little gem of personal identification that I can live happily with for the next three months [because that's what it is, isn't it? a password? your own little island of personality and identity in this cold, personal, identity thieving world of ours? and let's not forget that not only am I a tail-cusp Baby Boomer {which automatically should qualify me to be excused from all this technogobbledygook but I'm also a tail-cusper when it comes to typing class, just before the advent of "keyboarding skills" and I didn't grow up banging on a keyboard and I'm a complete doofus when it comes to hunting pecking looking at the keyboard and btw for every typo that finds its way into this blog there are three score that have been corrected in medias res (i.e. these posts don't just roll off my fingers) and now I have to come up with longer and longer passwords for everything and worry about capitals and symbols and numerals {let me here just make an addition to the previous post's modern Roman Numerals: TEBOW=6 out of 22) and then I have to remember the stupid thing {screw the poetry, a password is no such thing, it's stress, man, pure stress, only and always] when I've just gotten used to blindly tapping in the previous one, and speaking of tapping and getting back to the whole typing-challenged thing, it works better for me if my passwords are all accessible by one hand, preferably the left, so my passwords need to be basically all left of the 6yhn keyboard equator and why can't I just type in my obscure middle name, six simple easily typed letters and leave it at that but no for a week now I've trying to come up with the perfect password that satisfies all my special needs and one that won't be rejected when I first plug it in and of course have to enter it at the right moment so in case problems do arise I can reconfigure without customers and Co-Worker and Boss breathing down my neck to complete transaction/log off already and has it really come to this a world full of cyper terrorists and malevolent hackers and identity thieves [wasn't adolescence all about identity crisis, one where you emerged not unscathed but functional and with your identity in cement? and now look at me this new-fangled PMS has got me to the point where for the first time in my life I've lost control of my parentheses and brackets and grammer and punktuation and spelling concerns have fled the ship and metaphor management is three sheets to the rain and somebody please help me i need a password that works and can remember i just want qwerty and correction tape a laddie pencil and futuristic ads about wonderful life will be with computers and where am i what decade is this how do I finish this thing ){]({}]

Roman Numerals For The XXIst Century

2012-01-03T21:13:00.000-05:00

I discovered the other day that Co-Worker has made a little "Roman Numeral Cheat Sheet" that she keeps near a computer. Now I don't work for the Super Bowl or for a bunch of monks (is there a collective noun for monks? a shhh of monks? a pate of monks? a thelonious of monks?), but in our business one sometimes has to wrestle with Roman numerals. As somebody who attended grade school before calculators, studied (sic) Latin, and loves watching movie and TV credits roll by to see how quickly he can convert those lettered "numerals" into numbered numerals (I'm so competitive in the stupidest of things that I often toss and turn all night because both of my sides want to be the one to be slept on), I must admit, I'm pretty good with Roman numerals, though that D=500 thing always makes me pause. But after pondering Co-Worker's cheat sheet, I started wondering about those RNs. Are they still taught in school? I asked youngest Co-Worker that very question. He said yes, but then failed pretty miserably my pop quiz; surprisingly, it seems, L=50 eludes a lot of folks.

So, in the spirit of "the glory that was Greece, the grandeur that was Rome" (or however E.A. Poe put it) I started thinking it might just be time for a bit of a Roman Numeral Revival. And where else to launch such a thing as this ever-pertinent, ever-serious blog? The time seems totally ripe to celebrate numbers that are actually letters, or vice versa. We live in a time when nothing is as it should be, don't we? We have phones that are used for everything but calling people (and especially returning calls!), we seem to be rapidly giving up on a world rife with a variety of crazy despots (though who knows, Newt hasn't taken himself out of the race yet), and somebody named Snooki has published a book before I have. So what the hell, let's have numbers that are letters, right?

Naturally, though, we need to modernize things a bit for our (generally) non-toga-wearing way of life. The old standbys I, V, X, L, C, D, M (did the Romans count beyond 3,999?; what's 5,000 or 10,000 or one trillion?) are fine and very useful, but our needs in this century are much greater than Caesar's and the boys', don't you think? What follows (admittedly in the Beta [Greek, Roman what's the difference?] phase only, and certainly open to 21st century tweaking by committees and sub-committees) is a jumping off point for a new era of Roman Numerals. Tell me what you think.

YOY=the estimate the auto repairman gives you
OHPLEASEOHPLEASEGODOHPLEASE=the numbers you play each week in Lotto
UMMMMM=the number you report to the score keeper after hitting two balls out of bounds, one in the water, and three-putting on a short Par 4
OHSHIT=the difference between the price of what you've just purchased and the amount of money in your wallet
P=the cost of a pay toilet (do pay toilets still exist?)
XXX=30, still (perverts)
DMV/BMV=infinity
BYOB=the going rate of a liver transplant on the black market
WTF=the number of people who will voluntarily vote for Newt Gingrich in MMXII
DREAMONOLDMAN=the year Cleveland will next celebrate a sports championship
CELIBACY=the total amount of $ Tiger Woods will spend in his lifetime on alimony and hush money payments
LOL=what your dentist charges for a hit of nitrous oxide
Nth=the number you get from the pull-a-number thing at the bakery
BRRRRR=the temperature in Cleveland tonight
TnA=the standard cover (sic) charge at your local strip club
BUYGOLDGUNSANDSOUP=the tipping point of the national debt
FUBAR=the national debt
T=the price of tea (CWE) in China
SNAFU=the overdraft fee your bank charges
HELL=the price of your soul

My Middle Ten For 2011

2012-01-01T10:12:00.000-05:00

The older I get the humbler my pleasures seem to be. This morning when I woke up the greatest feeling I got about it being a new year is that finally all the Top Ten lists of 2011 will stop. I used to be a sucker for these things, top ten movies, records, books, top ten pictures, influential people, events, etc. I used them to measure my hipness and to gain lists of further things I needed to check out. But that was all back then when there were about a dozen, two score tops, of the things. Now everyone's not only got an opinion but the means to broadcast it to the world. We're saturated with best of lists, and the result is cultural inflation; look hard enough and just about everything makes it to somebody or other's list. I don't know how many best of music lists I've scanned in the last month or so, but I can tell you there is an incredible absence of overlap in them. If that's good or bad in your calculus I don't know or care, really, but it reminds me of Lester Bangs's prediction that "we will never agree on anything like we agreed on Elvis," or something like that.

Thus, you'll get no best of list from me. Only dead fish go with the flow, right? But the flow flows still, doesn't it, and as a fellow blogger, it would be horribly remiss of me if I didn't offer some kind of list at this time of the year. And so I offer you what follows below, a list of the exact middle ten on my holistic best of the year list (I mean figuring out your top ten of anything and then justifying the order of them doesn't take much gumption, does it?, but calculating the middle ten of every best of experience of the year, well now, that takes some genius, and I know such effort and accomplishment is what brings you expectantly to this blog).

I came up with the idea of a holistic best of list a couple years ago, when I realized that life is not compartmentalized into movies, records, books, events, experiences--it's all knit together in some grand latticework of life, innit? So, quite simply, what I do is catalog my entire year's life constantly--any experience that has any positive impact (no need to catalog the negative ones; they loiter with no effort on my part) on me at the time gets logged onto my virtual hard drive--i.e., my memory. Periodically throughout the year I sift through this particular file, deleting what turned out to be mirages of bestness or ones that proved to be wholly fleeting, while also adding those that lingered, slowburning, not qualifying at the time to be considered a best, but whose impact over time proved to be undeniable. Anway, enough of the science. This year (this morning, actually, because you can't really construct your year's best of list until the year is actually over) I took the time not only to count but also order my best of list. It turned out I had 438 best experiences this year. Not bad, not great. What follows are numbers 215-224. Read on and you'll get a decent approximation of how averagely best my 2011 was, which (this middle list) is a lot more accurate a representation of me and 2011 than anybody else's probably fudged-a little-to-make-it-seem-holier-than-it-really-is top ten list. Extremes are fickle; the middle is where we live, whether we like it or not. Read, ponder, and have a fair to middling 2012 you can look back on with contentment.

215. The "bear claw" croissant bought at the Monticello-Green BP station and consumed on my way to work, October 23. A breakfast staple when I'm working mornings, this particular croissant seemed perfect--moist and not too flaky. For some reason I was able to pay for the delicacy--along with the daily paper and my coffee--with exact change, the banter with my second favorite cashier there was wittier than most days, and I not only got to make a right on red while masticating the croissant, but also then made the following left hand turn unimpeded, which is a rare occurrence. All in all, a great croissant experience.

216. In the middle of a movie-going spree, before viewing Moneyball, I saw for the third time the trailer for some wacky woman private eye comedy thriller coming sometime soon (not yet, I don't think) which convinced me that all the good parts of the movie were in that trailer, so I needn't waste time and money going to see the movie when it does come out, but which, at about 3 minutes, was still pretty entertaining and provided me with enough knowledge that I could easily feign having seen it in case co-workers some day are engaged in a giggly discussion of the movie or in case it winds up on a majority of best of lists next December.

217. That late afternoon nap on March 6. Sometimes I wonder if I've ever completely awakened from it. Glorious.

218. Sitting in a bar listening to a band play but watching intently a marathon of The Big Bang Theory on a big screen TV above the bar. Even without the sound on, and too far away to read the closed captioning, I was able to get the gist (and some of the nuances) of the show during the band's relatively short set. For a man without a TV, having a working knowledge of yet another TV show is always a good thing. Funnier than I had assumed, that Big Bang.

219. Ironically, my annual July 2 "half the year's gone" party. About half the people I invited showed up, which is good because I had dropped the second 12 pack of beer I had bought and all the bottles broke. We grooved to new albums by Paul Simon, Darryl Hall, and Sam.

220. The chuckle I got from hearing co-worker say, after rounding a corner and being bumped into by a customer, "Good thing I'm sturdy," and then spending a few hours contemplating what a great, and much underrated, word "sturdy" is.

221. Hearing my 12-year-old nephew say, while walking stiffly into the house covered in mud from a soccer game, "I'm in need of a major shower."

222. The interaction I had with a customer when I made note of the book he was buying (either one by David Mitchell, David Foster Wallace, or David Brinkley--I can't remember the exact one, just that it was one of the three Davids in my pantheon). "Oh God," I gushed, "I love this book." To which he replied, without a British accent, btw, "It's for my nutzo brother. It's the only thing he wants in hospital."

223. The new Tom Waits song, "New Year's Eve." We've heard it all before, Tom, but it sure feels nice. Nice like slipping into your favorite pair of Long John bottoms on the first cold day in December, especially if you've washed them since the last time you wore them in early March.

224. Discovering this great picture of Bob Dylan, avec moustache, which I had never seen before:

Smellin' (Not) Like A Well-Spent Buck

2011-12-28T13:26:00.000-05:00

Pre:

I will be taking a shower very soon. Go ahead, hurl all the jokes that statement might elicit (TMI; Hallelujah, Praise the Lord!; the visual's killing me; in lieu of the arrival of Godot [or even Guffman], world peace, a cure for cancer, or a championship in Cleveland, I guess we'll take it; no, you don't take a shower, a shower takes you; is there enough water in the world?; I'd alert the media if you hadn't already alerted the whole world)--I can handle it. You see, I haven't looked forward to a shower this much since the one I took in Pennsylvania twenty-five years ago after taking hundred-year-old tin plating off a ceiling and getting covered in a century's worth of coal dust. Because this shower promises to make me a new man.

Let me explain, as best as my soon-to-be-old self can. Yesterday I shopped for sundries at my new favorite shopping place, the Dollar Tree store. Now I could fill a month's worth of blogs about the pleasures of this store, but then the lines might get longer, so I'll just say that when I turned into the soap aisle I was a little discombobulated. Instead of facing a rack filled with generic one dollar bars of soap like I half-expected, I was met with myriad choices of all sorts of name brands. Though I do indeed cleanse regularly, I have never developed a personal favorite among all the various bar soaps to be had. Soap's soap, right? Momentarily thrown off by the fact that all the soaps came in packs of two, rather than the three you normally see at the "higher end" establishments (I worried about what buying just two bars rather than three might do to my rigid hygienic rhythm), I quickly zeroed in on a two-pack of Irish Spring (manly, yes, but she likes it too!), figuring any suggestion of spring in late December couldn't help but lift my spirits, and the word Irish, in my lexicon, equals Guinness, which equals good. But somehow (fate? a Guardian Angel? the psychology of advertising?) my arm strayed and I found myself picking up a two-pack of Dial. Oh God, you're thinking, this is all about Dial soap? How mundane. Alas, this was no regular two-pack of Dial soap, but something different (thank God for product extension)--Dial For Men 3-D! Did any wandering Israelite glimpse the Promised Land with more euphoria than I beheld that two-pack of one dollar soap? God only knows. For right there on the outer plastic packaging I was promised "All Day Odor Defense with Odor Control Agents." Good God, I was ready to lather up right there in Aisle 4. Hold your suds right there, mister, I cautioned myself, having endured nearly fifty years of ad-speak, misleading and downright false claims by hucksters, shysters, pitchmen and -women, endorsers and furry talking animals. Certainly the proposition that my body would be protected "all day" (I must admit I was too giddy with the possibilities to consider the fact that odor might occur at night, too) by "agents" was quite persuasive (I envisioned a tag team of Daniel Craig as Bond manning the extremities and sultry Barbara Feldon as Agent 99 protecting the more intimates as my personal Odor Control Agents), but I had to investigate further. Thankfully, and handily, the back of the two-pack package assuaged all my fears of being taken in by mere marketing malarkey. There, in an easy-to-read pseudo-PowerPoint chart, the 3 D's of the All Day Odor Defense 3-D were clearly spelled out, under the actually trademarked (you know they mean business and are totally on the up and up when they take the time and expense to trademark such things) heading, Odor Protection Covered From All Angles (I thank the Dial Corp. for assuming my body can be classified as angular):

Destroys Unique Odor Targeting System
Deep Cleans Powerful cleansers rinse clean without drying
Defends Deodorant Booster for all day confidence

Dial for Men, indeed. You had me at Destroys and sealed the deal with Defends. Codespeak for testosterone-laden, no doubt. The thought of a high-tech team of Agents and Targeting Systems working on my body absolutely thrills me; I'm sure that when showering I'll picture a Tom Clancy scenario of computers and highly competent men, led by the estimable Brian Dennehy, waging a clandestine all-out war on my natural body odors. And to Irish Spring, I say "Ha!" I now have a "unique" system, full of blipping radar/sonar screens, I'm sure, targeting my odors. "Deep Cleans," "Powerful cleansers"--I see power hoses and loud machines manned by guys named Gus de-gunking me thoroughly (though I'm a little puzzled with the whole "rinse clean without drying" thing: showering without drying? shouldn't "rinse clean" be considered redundant?). And no doubt my Mennen Speed Stick will appreciate the "boost" as it works up its daily sweat trying to keep me deodored all day.

Sold! 3-D me Dial, I'm getting naked now just for you!

Post:

Betcha don't smell me now, do ya? Go ahead, press your nose up against the screen and breathe deep. Nada, right?

(Nomenclature announcement: The blogger formerly known as Mr. Spitoutyourgum will henceforth go by the handle of Lord SupremelyManlyandUnodored.)

What can I say? Dial Corp. (a Henkel Company), of Scottsdale, AZ 85255, I'm ready for my endorsement contract. Send all inquiries and remunerative offers c/o spitoutyourgum, Cleveland Heights, OH 44112.

As a preamble, a kind of A-List opening act, I treated myself to an infrequent shave before my shower, albeit with a brand new Mach 3 blade (baby butt smooth, my face now). But I did hesitate before stepping into the, well, what will forever now be known as The Shower That Changed My Life. I thought for a second about waiting a few days, holding off on the Dial For Men 3-D until the New Year, as a symbolic gesture, but once I got a look at that bar of soap, well, it was full speed ahead, men, damn the odors! The sight of the actual bar did shock me at first, I'll admit. Rather than the usual neutral tone of soap, Dial For Me 3-D sports a bold blue (okay, I'm colorblind, maybe it's purple; the two colors are pretty much the same in my eyes) look that made me think of all those wads of bubblegum my mother warned me against in my full-toothed youth. Restraining the urge to take a big bite out of the bar, I looked at it solemnly and said, "Agents, to the ready. All systems go," and stepped into the tub. It would take a much better thrice-weekly blogger than I to describe the instant ecstasy and sensation I felt upon soaping up. All I know is that an instantaneous feeling of manliness suffused my body and (what a targeting system!) my soul. The tiled walls yelped "Hell, yeah Man!" when I involuntarily started singing Ted Nugent's "Catch Scratch Fever"; a complete 180 from my usual shower-warbling of Dan Hill's um touching, though I admit kinda unmanly "Sometimes When We Touch" ballad. Oh the joy of seeing all those Daniel Craig and Barbara Feldon suds racing over my body to do there protective power cleansing (rueful sidenote, though: I regret the mention of Brian Dennehy above; no naked person, no matter how gloriously he or she revels in his or her nakedness, should be subject to thoughts/visions of Brian Dennehy). That "Unique Odor Targeting System" is truly amazing, and, Dial Corp., screams to be trademarked ASAP. I actually have had intermittent periods of not smelling in my life, but never so, well, uniquely unsmelling. By the time I got to the end of "Cat Scratch Fever" I distinctly heard a sud's voice cry out,"Code Red! Code Red! Left knee, dorsal," to which another replied, "Copy. Got it covered, Jack. Job well done, men. Let's head for the drain and call it a day." Somewhere Tom Clancy shivered with pride.

Silly me, I was halfway through absently toweling myself dry when I realized, but why? I already was noticeably "rinsed clean without drying." I guess towels in my life will soon become, like my nipples, just a vestigial presence. As a coup de grace, an unexpected cherry on the top to what had been a colossal ice cream sundae of a daily (more or less) ablution, when I applied my Mennen Speed Stick, instantly my armpits sang with glee: "Great God! What a boost!" Folks, I'm ready for the day unlike any day I've ever been ready or not for.

But the inquisitive part of me--power cleansed & rinsed clean without drying like the rest of me--was still a bit unsatiated. What is it, what is the secret of this miracle, this Dial For Men 3-D? Once again I consulted that already-pored-over plastic wrapping. Here, in toto and verbatim, are the ingredients (in case you're too cheap to spend a buck yourself and want to attempt to duplicate this wonder of modern chemistry at home):

INGREDIENTS: Soap (Sodium Cocoate*, Sodium Palm Kernelate*, Sodium Palmate*, Sodium Tallowate*), Water, Talc, Coconut Acid*, Palm Acid*, Tallow Acid*, Palm Kernel Acid*, PEG-6 Methyl Ether, Fragrance, Farnesol, Glycerin, Sorbitol, Sodium Chloride, Triclocarban, Pentasodium Pentetate and/or Tetrasodium Etidronate, Ultramarines
*contains one or more of these ingredients

The armchair chemist in me weeps in amazement. First of all, I'm very happy that the first ingredient in this particlular brand of soap is soap. Consumer confidence? Check. Quite frankly I am also amazed that such a perfect product seems to leave a lot to whimsy in its construction: those maybe/maybe not asterisks, that and/or (I'm hoping my two bars contain the Tetrasodium Etidronate--sounds so cool), although, clever clever clever Dial Corp., maybe all those maybe's are just there as red herrings--you might think you can replicate the wonder of Dial For Men 3-D at home or in a competitor's lab, but good luck hitting on just the right combination of all those sodia and acids (I think I new a guy in college, from Hawaii no less, who swore by [and ultimately drifted by and by] coconut acid). And see, just see, how the Dial Corp. goes the extra mile? Just any old PEG Methyl Ether might me good enough for other soaps, but only Dial Corp. procures the really good stuff, the PEG-6. And who knew there was an actual entity called 'Fragrance"? Say Bill, go out and get me another couple vials of fragrance. The true secret, of course, comes at the end of that mind-numbing, ADHD-tempting train of chemicals: Ultramarines. No wonder the soap's so manly, so systematic, so agented--ultramarines (not just any rank and file Marine, but an ultra- one [wonder what those haircuts look like]). Semper Fi, man. Dial For Men 3-D, as long as I have a buck in my pocket, I'll always be faithful, from this clean, unsmelling day forward.

And so, now it's time to go to work, to unleash my new unsmellingness to the outside world. I've never been so excited to go to work on a non-payday before. Will I be able to contain myself, though? Can I be humble and wait for the inevitable torrent of "Gee, Dan, you don't smell at all, today. What's up?" and "I don't mean to pry, but did you receive some special Odor Control Agents for Christmas" comments, or do I (proudly) immediately and constantly pepper people with, "Smell me yet? Didn't think so" boasts? Who knows what awaits in my brave, unodored new world?

I once read something about some professor who allegedly went a whole year conversing in nothing but Bob Dylan quotes, an impossible, extravagant, though admirable to me endeavor. As for right now, newly and uniquely cleansed, I'd be happy just to be on the receiving end of the line from the Replacements' song below(alas, either dropped or indecipherable in this rendition): "You're the coolest guy that I ever have smelled." Or not smelled, to be precise.

and, well ...

I Can Tell By Your Body Language That You're A Tea Drinker

2011-12-26T11:10:00.000-05:00

Is an insight into human behavior that has been gleaned because of envy still valid? The other evening, co-worker and I had just returned from our breaks when I saw her drinking from a paper cup with one of those cardboard cozy/the-cup's-too-hot-to-handle things. Immediately I was simultaneously mad at myself for not thinking and jealous of her for thinking to grab a to-go coffee to aid in enduring a holiday shopping madness evening. "Damn," I said, probably slugging my forehead at the same time, "I should have gotten myself some coffee too!" She replied, "It's tea." But "replied" hardly does justice to the totality (at yesterday's Christmas mass, the priest used the word "totality" at least three times, I swear) of her response. No, she cuddled and huddled compacted and retracted her whole body around the center of gravity that was that paper cup as if she were hugging a five-minute-old puppy, and let out a quietly proud but weirdly defensive (not defensive in an "I'm ashamed to be seen drinking this" way, but defensive in an "I'm hoarding the family jewels in my hands here, please don't bother me" way) eek of declaration, "It's tea." At that moment, as my senses were flooded with the image of her folding herself inward to surround that cup of tea and hearing that wanly whispered "It's tea," I realized that co-worker (lovely person that she is) was no individual but just another tea drinker, any old tea drinker, at once both the apotheosis of tea drinkers and also maybe just the ten billionth tea drinker in the history of the world. Because in that moment of her quiet (in volume) but cacophonous (in terms of total body/soul language) I saw what I have always seen but have been too blind to notice, what everybody always sees but never really acknowledges--if somebody is drinking tea and you ask them what they're drinking, there is only one possible response, one genetically/chemically/culturally (whatever the origin)-determined verbal and physical response for that person to give: a hunching, cuddling, slightly defensive but also very proud, somewhat whispered eek of, "It's tea."

Just try it. The next fifty people you see drinking something obviously warm from a paper or ceramic cup, go up to them and ask (accuse them of) them if they're drinking coffee. You'll either get a simple "yeah," "hell yeah," or, depending on the person's level of caffeine addiction, "hell effing yeah, it's coffee," or you'll get the same old cuddled whispered eek, "It's tea." Well, sure, there are degrees of that cuddled whispered eek (CWE) but it's there nonetheless. I mean, far be it from me to ever entertain, let alone utter, let even more alone publish a sexist thought, but I do believe as a whole, women might CWE a bit more pronounced than men, but even in the roughest toughest beer guttest truck drivin' tea drinker, you'll get a CWE. Who knows, maybe it's just a phonetic thing, that quiet squeal that has to be made pronouncing "tea" that makes one have to enfold oneself a bit and meekly announce what one is drinking (think Georgette from the Mary Tyler Moore Show admitting she's just won a hundred million in Lotto--that's the overall effect of one's--anyone's, everyone's--announcement that he or she is drinking tea). Trust me, you can search the world over, seek out the gnarliest urban back alleys and the most remote rural thickets, and you will never ever find anyone who will answer your query with a robust, Moses-parting-the-Red-Sea expansive gesture, "It's fucking tea I'm drinking, shithead, now sod off!" Physically impossible, that. CWE, exclusively, universally.

Now I have nothing against tea, and I am categorically NOT impugning tea drinkers. Once in a while I like a cup of tea myself (hot tea, we're talking, though I guess the proper terminology is brewed tea; I've never "gotten" the appeal of iced tea. I appreciate that many people swear by it and that's fine. I love lemonade, which seems to me to be the dog to iced tea's cat. But iced tea never has appealed to me, and while I certainly like libational concoctions, don't even mention Long Island Iced Tea to me--you lose me at Long Island), and I am sure that on those rare occasions when I am drinking (and loving, I'll admit) some hot brewed tea, if anyone would ask me what I was drinking, I would respond with a modest CWE. How could I not? (And no, I'm not going to get into the differences involved in drinking other warm drinks--the worlds of espressos and cappucinos et al. are not worlds I care to tread into or rub elbows with.)

It seems to me there's a whole culture, a benign secret society, that goes along with drinking tea, as opposed to the Joe the Plumber, rather mundane world of drinking coffee. You drink coffee from a mug, but tea from a "cup." You buy somebody a generic coffee maker (face it, the most famous coffee maker is just good old Mr. Coffee), but you buy somebody a "tea set." You make coffee in a pot, tea in a kettle. Is there a more quaint word than "kettle"? Even the fanciest, most aerodynamically designed coffee cups are merely crafted. Tea cups and kettles are works of art. The fastidious Brits are notorious tea drinkers. Swarthy Latin Americans are coffee drinkers. Again, not casting any aspersions, facts are facts, but tea drinking--compared to coffee drinking now, not miniature doll-making or curling (the "sport," not curling the hair on a miniature doll)--is just a little twee, ain't it? (I lead a busy life, I don't have time to research the etymology of "twee" but here's fifty bucks saying it came about because of a speech impedimented tea drinker.)

Which all leads me to the bigger picture, the bigger question. Do all classic liquid refreshments possess unique body/verbal language signifiers, like tea has its CWE? Is there a certain getting-ready-to-fight tensing up and side-of-the-mouth snarled "whiskey" that emanates from whiskey drinkers when you ask them what they're drinking? A hyperkinetic human trampolining "Jolt, man, want some? You can't have any of mine" when you ask Jolt drinkers what they're drinking? A louche, uncontrollably disdainful smirk of "Martini"? A torso expanding proudly kick ass man exclamation "Beer, dude"? A jejune just the facts ma'am muttered "Grain alcohol"? A calorie burning strut of a sermonizing "Carrot juice"? A flatlining shadow of a shoulder shrug that merely hints "Absinthe"? Who knows? I am not an anthropologist. Just a blogger, done for the day and looking to re-fill his coffee mug.

Christmas Greetings From The Spitoyurgum Family

2011-12-22T11:00:00.000-05:00

Well Ho Ho Holy Gee Willickers Friends, it seems like just yesterday Randall and Dewey were beating the heat with their homemade Slip'n'Slide, and now it's Holiday Time! My how time flies here in the Cleveburg Metropolis. Not to worry, though, Drake and Polly have knitted each other their Yule sweaters (23 years and counting for that tradition!), and the boys (sorry, Randall, man and boy) have rigged up another Wow-O lighting display (you can see it driving by the old homestead, or maybe, on a cloudless night, from Outer Space!) using the new Survival Generator Dewey designed in his la-bor-a-tory (formerly Polly's laundry room). As long as Santa can navigate all the motion detectors, alarms (silent and not so), and trip wires Dewey has rigged the house with, I'm sure we'll all have a splendid Christmas once again.

The big news for the Spitoyurgums in '11 is the new member of our family. Now hold on there a minute, Drake and Polly haven't gone back to cross-stitching or anything; the new Spitoyurgum is none other than Wiccandood, a beautiful, though nosy I might just add (and, alas, camera-shy), ferret that Randall won at his annual excursion to the Unsound & Furry Con in Decatur, IL. After the not-really-necessary 911 call following Polly's fainting spell upon first meeting Wiccandood, the family has embraced its newest member. In a related note, if you're in the neighborhood, stop on by to "check out" the new carpeting and drapes we've installed (as well as the elaborate "apartment" Dewey built for Wiccandood--after he quite amusingly "threatened" that "either that rodent gets put in a cage or they're going to put me in one for 20 to life for the havoc I'm fixin' to wreak"--Boys! How does Polly survive living with 1, 2, 3 and now 4 of them??!!!).

Dewey continues pursuing his myriad interests as he makes his way through 11th grade. He has started a club at school, the Students United to Draft Col. Oliver North To Run For Czar of the United States, serves as the trusted "roadie" for his two "buddies" William and Theodore, who are among the state's most promising aspiring air guitarists (finished fourth at the Hocking County Fair, despite what Dewey claimed was "a totally senile sucky third judge"), and of course spends the bulk of his free time "tinkering" in his lab (Dear Santa, bring more portable fire extinguishers, please!). In his first gesture toward "style" and "being his own person," fashion-wise, Dewey cut a unique and distinctive wedge from the side of his bangs (look at him so proudly pointing it out in the photo! Polly's baby's growing up!).

Dewey's older sibling, Randall, has been busy these few months exploring all the opportunities presented by his "gap" year. To date he has attended 26 Renaissance Fayres, where his continued mastery of the panpipes has won him quite a "cult" following. He is also quite the budding jousting expert. Claiming that he is "bored to the gills" with technology, especially the "social" aspects of social media (these kids and their lingo!), Randall has taken up the ancient art of smoke signals, creating quite a haze in the backyard most nights, sending out signals in search of "a true soul mate" (Santa, how about some more kindling wood and blankets?). From the proceeds he garnered by selling his beloved and vast trove of Magic Cards on eBay (tears were shed, Polly will admit, if not Randall himself), Randall purchased a bus ticket to Tulsa, OK and had himself a ball at the inaugural Male-AdjustedCon; he reports that "drum trapezoids" will soon be all the rage. And just look at that well-kempt goatee he returned with!

Papa Drake has spent a fair amount of time this year trying to interest the Guinness people (book, not beer) in his "gotta be some kind of a record" streak of wearing a different sweater vest for 734 (and counting!) straight days. Polyester Perseverance indeed! In his very best Gandhi-like, civil disobedient, if-you-can't-lick-'em-join-'em mode, Drake has taken to volunteering at the Unemployment Agency as a greeter and all-around ad hoc ombudsman, putting his vast experience to, well, work, aiding people in directing them to the appropriate line to stand in, advising them on which forms need to be filled out and which can be, as he puts it, "sh--canned," and apprising them of the current going rate for plasma. A true public servant. And of course, he has his "side" business of appearing as Waldo for kids' Where's Waldo-themed parties.

And Mama Bear Polly keeps rolling along too! In March she reached a milestone, clipping her one millionth coupon, and in August she received "special mention" at the Tuscarwaras County Fair Bake-Off for her tasty parsley muffins. Her audio book club thrives (time off this month for the holidays but the group will re-gather in her living room come January 17th to listen to Nicholas Sparks' True Believer, once again read by the author; all are welcome). And, as you can see from the picture (you better see!), Polly has shed a few pounds this year; she is investigating the possibilities of writing a book tentatively titled Walking Your Ferret To A Skinnier You! Drake has kindly offered to read the audio version. Other than all that, she continues her domestic endeavors: putting the seat down, finding (and counting) more uses for Krazy Glue (that's her other proposed literary effort--1,001 Sane Uses For Krazy Glue), and trying to interest her boys in the benefits of a good old-fashioned iron.

Here's wishing you all a happy and blessed Christmas and New Year, from all of us Spitoyurgums: Wiccandood, Dewey, Randall, Drake, and Polly!

The Ten Commandments Of Holiday Shopping: How Not To Be A Cranky Customer

2011-12-20T12:36:00.000-05:00

The other day a co-worker (perhaps at the end of her shift, at the end of working six straight days of holiday madness) ~~suggested~~ told me to blog about cranky customers. Now being the autonomously creative guy I am, I usually pay no heed to ~~requests~~ demands, and as I was in the first hour of working after a couple days off and the John Denver and The Muppets Christmas CD was NOT playing at the time, I was in a rather good mood, when all holiday-shopping customers looked like they had just walked out of Johnny Mathis's rendition of "Winter Wonderland" and the only thing cranky in my world was my old war-wound left pinkie (a victim of a thumb-wrestling bout gone awry with a Salvation Army bell-ringer back in the 80s). Thus, I kind of dismissed the idea that customers could be cranky at all. Well, a few hours later, I had an inkling. But far be it for me to Scrooge all over anybody's Yule time cheer. So instead of whining all about nasty customers (maybe 1%, how ironic?) and recognizing that they are truly the lifeblood of, well, of my paycheck, to be blunt, I will simply offer some tips on how you can avoid being called a "cranky" customer by some hard-working, well-meaning, friendly (and trust me, they don't get much friendlier than said co-worker) retail employee. Now I know I have covered some of this before, but this is official; I am codifying these behaviors in the ALL POWERFUL form of TEN COMMANDMENTS (all I've ever wanted for Christmas is Charlton Heston's mien). Follow these dicta and you won't necessarily achieve eternal salvation, but I promise you you will not contribute to others' madness, which in this silly world is a pretty good merit badge to earn.

The Ten Commandments of Holiday Shopping

Thou shalt leave thine cellphone in the car.
Thou shalt wait thine turn and never assume that simply yelling, "Excuse me!" will grant thou instant service.
If thou art paying with a check, have thine driver's license handy and use the time in line to make out the check as completely as possible; nothing unnecessarily slows down a long line (the line thou've been silently [or not so silently] cussing for ten minutes) than an unprepared check-writer.
Thou shalt realize that holiday shopping is not some kind of quasi Price Is Right game; don't gather a bunch of merchandise, have the register person ring it all up, then start asking the register person to "take that one off" until thou reaches thine spending limit; either do the math in thine head while gathering, or bring a non-cellphone-feature calculator.
Especially as we get closer to Christmas, thou shalt not hold the store, or especially the specific employee trying to help thou, responsible for not having the item thou seeks. Lots of people celebrate the holidays by purchasing merchandise for others--it's definitely possible that the item thou seeks hast been sought by others who have gotten here first (see the early bird thing for further clarification). Thine loved ones love thou. If thou can't purchase the only thing they want for Christmas, in all likelihood (if they're really worth loving) they will still love thou even if thou doesn't buy them that particular thing. So chill out, thou.
Thou shalt certainly make sure thou hast an acceptable form of payment (most stores don't operate on the barter system anymore, 'tis a pity) and that thou hast sufficient funds available in that form of payment, before thou reaches the point of having to fork over the payment.
If thou art paying in cash, please arrange the bills so they're all facing the same way and hand them to the register person when he or she is ready to accept them; thou shalt not toss a bunch of crumpled bills on the counter in disdain that thine purchases cost as much as they do. Furthermore, an endless search for the correct change is almost as bad as waiting until the last minute to search for thine checkbook and start making it out, asking what the date is, what is the name of this store, how much was that again--making change is easy for a register person; really it's no problem.
Thou shalt never say, in the event of a piece of merchandise not having a price sticker or not immediately ringing up, "I guess it's free, then, hunh? (chuckle chortle snort chuckle)." Nothing is free in life, and thou art only the billionth person to utter that bon mot.
Thou shalt not make the assumption, especially the week of Christmas, that all the "good" merchandise is still stacked in some nebulous "back" just waiting for thou to show up and shop. What's on the shelves is what's available for purchase; what's not, is not.
Thou shalt realize that obscure items that were "on that table right there" back in August have probably been moved and quite possibly been sold, gotten rid of, or even stolen since then. Shit happens. Merry Christmas.

Twosome: Year's Best Golf & Music In One Fell Swoop

2011-12-19T14:34:00.000-05:00

Just the idea makes all my top ten lists for the year; the ad-lib lyrics push it way on top.

Nothing Like The First Listen

2011-12-17T11:57:00.000-05:00

The other day a co-worker asked me to make him a mix of tunes. There are few greater small pleasures in life for me. Now he didn't specify what kind of a mix, which would have been easier. No, he didn't request a mix of songs exclusively by British fops or songs only recorded south of the Mason-Dixon Line or songs only about animals--requests that would have been easy to accomplish. So, I had my usual response to the general "make me a mix" request--I went overboard, zealously. He'll be receiving a nice box set of mixes from me, filled with universally great songs as well as some geared more specifically to his personality and perceived likes (though he is a vociferous Rod Stewart hater, how could I refrain from including "Every Picture Tells a Story"?). Of the hundred or so songs I've collected for him, I'd be willing to wager 90% of them will be new to his ears. Just the thought of how thrilled he might be to hear such gems as Dan Reeder's "Work Song" or R.L. Burnside's "Stole My Check" or The Coasters' "Shoppin' For Clothes," or some other unpredictable song for the first time, has me giddy.

I started thinking about this phenomenon--the first time you hear a song destined to be one of your all-time favorites--and was struck by how few of the thousands of "all-time favorite" songs on my list I actually remember in detail hearing for the first time. Why? Shouldn't everybody remember vividly the first time they heard "Satisfaction" or "Like a Rolling Stone" or "Mamma Mia" (sic)? Maybe it's the saturation of listening to such songs so many times over years and years that dims the memory of the first time. Maybe some songs have just always been in one's consciousness. Who knows?

One song that stands out is a rather obscure one, "Boston," by a guy named Dave Derby. I was in a record store, the only customer at the time, and all of a sudden the song came over the speakers. Looking back on it all, I can't say I wasn't the victim of that great record store ploy employed in High Fidelity when John Cusack announces he's about to sell five copies of the Beta Band's 3 Ep's record, puts the record on and everyone in the store starts grooving and asking what the record is. Maybe the guy in the store I was in, who certainly knew a little of my tastes in music, knew that I'd respond to the beautifully gloomy, dreamy "Boston." Halfway through the song I had to ask what was playing, by the end of the song I had bought the record.

Having been a big Meat Puppets fan for several years, I of course was excited when their 1987 record Huevos came out. I remember playing the record for the first time late one night in an apartment I shared with two other guys, after they had gone to bed. Not being able to crank the volume became torture when I heard the first riffage of the great "Look At The Rain." But when the band kicked in again the glorious wailing of the title phrase after a false fade-out, well, in some ways I've been swooning ever since ("I gotta shirt that costs a dollar twenty-five/I know I'm the best-dressed man alive!").

I was at a friend's when he played me Bill Fox's epic Shelter From The Smoke album for the first time. Those jangly first notes and the not-expected high lonesome voice of Bill singing, "Over and away she goes ..." spelled instant addiction. I am blessed to see Bill play often, and often he begins his set with "Over And Away She Goes" and I am able to re-live that first-time thrill of being granted admission to a singular world once again.

Strangely, the most vivid "first-time" listening experience I remember is a bit confusing; I don't remember the exact song I heard. I had just returned to college and had to get up at dawn on a snowy, dark morning to return a rented car. As I drove down empty streets, the radio played the Roches' "Hammond Song," or was it "Losing True"? Seeing that "Losing True" is kind of a re-make of "Hammond Song" (I bet many Roche sister fans wished they'd make more and more re-makes--gorgeously strummed acoustic guitar, three angelic voices all-entwined, and a touch of Frippery thrown in for seasoning), nearly thirty years of memory have confused me as to which one I actually heard on that drive. All I know was that I had to have that song, that sound. Funny, though, I can't remember the first time I actually heard the song I didn't hear that morning.

Here's hoping thirty years from now, when my co-worker is reflecting on his lifetime of good listens, he'll remember a moment listening to one of the mixes I've made for him.

Be Thankful For What You Wish For

2011-12-14T20:58:00.000-05:00

Today was a day of celebration. I was celebrating an off day after six straight Christmas-shopping retail days of work, and celebrating last night's successful poetry reading (successful not so much in terms of mass adulation from a five-figure crowd, but successful in terms of not being heckled, not having my poetic license revoked, and not provoking any audience member to run from my words out of the room screaming, "My God, I'm going to be sick"). How did I celebrate? By putting my nose back to the grindstone by doing loads of laundry and some much-needed grocery shopping, all wrapped around a nice afternoon nap. A pretty normal off day, to be honest. But the celebrating came before during and after all the domestic chores: I've been happily munching Fig Newtons all day.

What, you say? I knew poets were crazy, but you've gone 'round the bend, boy. Fig Newtons = Celebration? As Sarah says, youbetcha! Now I've had nothing but a pleasant history with Fig Newtons. But the emphasis is on history. I liked them as a kid, but I can't say that in all my grocery shopping since childhood I've ever bought a package of Fig Newtons. But chalk up my newly-revived admiration for the delicious cookie to the holiday season. See, we recently had a Secret Santa thing ($15 limit) at work. Weeks ago we pulled names and this past Sunday at our party we revealed and gifted. Early on in the process, as I was talking Secret Santa strategies with a co-worker, I jokingly told her, "If whoever is my Secret Santa asks you what to get me, just tell 'em to get me $15 worth of Fig Newtons." It was good for a laugh. Little did I know that said co-worker would turn out to be my Secret Santa. So there I was Sunday night, as said co-worker handed me a big shoe-box wrapped with a gold ribbon. Having completely forgotten about my Fig Newton joke, I opened the box not knowing what to expect. Inside, among other goodies (look out for a future post extolling the deliciousness of pure maple sugar genuinely Canadian Maple Leafs) was a package of the genuine Nabisco Fig Newtons. Ah, how my jokes come back to me in cookies of superiority!

Damn these Newtons are good. So small yet so dense--in a good way. And to think I'm eating a cookie with "natural fruit"! It must even be good for me. And I'm no design expert, but the shape and look of the cookie, the more I consider it, it's pure art. Now Oreos, duh, are the Platonic ideal of cookies; I think we are all in agreement on that. But really, with Chips Ahoy kind of losing a certain magic since childhood for me, I gotta say the Fig Newton stands as Silver Medalist in the mass-produced, corporate cookie world. I mean, suddenly I feel like going out and buying some figs, and when was the last time you ever said that? I'm serious--indulge yourself today and go out and buy some Fig Newtons. You won't be sorry. I'm certainly not sorry I joked about Fig Newtons a few weeks ago, since the payoff is munching on them now. And to think I gave my giftee nothing but the new Tom Waits CD (nothing against Mr. Waits, I love him and all, but come on, a gravelly-voiced rabblerouser vs. near-perfection in a cookie? It's not even close.).

My only disappointment in this whole Fig lovefest is finding out that Fig Newtons are so called because the company that first mass-produced them, the Kennedy Biscuit Company, was located near Newton, Mass. (Fig Clevelands, anyone?) Kind of boring, especially when I was all set to wax paeans to some Col. Figacious T. Newton, a Civil War Hero from somewhere like Biloxi who loved his figs almost as much as his bourbon. Oh well, there's nothing fictitious about the culinary pleasure of Fig Newtons. So, yes Laura, there is a Santa Claus. My gratitude.

Eyebrows Make The Man?

2011-12-10T21:11:00.000-05:00

I've been told on a couple of occasions that I "dress up well," which probably is just a euphemism for, man you're a slob but a shave, a comb, a shower, and some nice duds make you look halfway presentable. Personal grooming, beyond the necessary, is not a great passion of mine. But maybe, just maybe, that's all going to change after my experience this morning. I had my eyebrows done.

To be honest, my eyebrows are about the last location of my body's temple that I have ever thought about. I can do the double brow lift, a tacit "hey, how you doin'," and I can do a decent left eyebrow arch, the hmmm, intriguing thing, though for the life of me I can't get the right brow to budge on its own. And that folks, is all there is to know about my eyebrows, or was to know, until this morning.

I've been spoiled my whole life. Up until recently I had probably had my hair cut 99% of the time in my life by one of about five barbers. But lately I've been on the lookout for a new one. Over the summer I found a great one, a guy named Lu (perhaps most of why I loved the guy was that he's Lu, not Lou). He cut my hair twice. Alas, he's 87 and I just learned he retired. I learned that today from the woman who cut my hair, just three doors down from Lu's old place. Now both times I sat in Lu's chair he asked me if I wanted my eyebrows trimmed. Nobody had ever asked me before, and the first time I politely declined, thinking Lu was just doing what he had been doing for nearly 70 years. The second time he asked I declined again, thinking, I'm not one to care about brow grooming. But afterward, I started to get a little defensive. Is there something wrong with my eyebrows? Are they hideously bushy? Do people talk about me behind my back: "Lookout, here comes Bushy Brow"? I'm sure for the first time in my life I took a long hard look in the mirror at my brows. They looked inoffensive enough, but who knows, maybe Bushy Brow Guys are the last to know. But, since I've never really worked any kind of a definable 'do--just get it cut whenever it starts to bug me-- time passed and my thinking about my eyebrows returned to normal, which is, never.

But today, this rather sassy, though perfectly pleasant woman who was cutting my hair just announced, after seemingly finishing with my haircut, "Now we'll take care of your eyebrows and we'll be all finished." It was morning, I was on my way to a Saturday in December retail job, I wasn't thinking clearly yet, so instead of throwing my arms up over my eyes and declaring, "Nobody, ma'am, but nobody touches my brows!" or at least finally breaking the taboo and shyly asking, "What is it with my eyebrows all of a sudden? I'm just getting used to trimming old man hair tufts from my ears and nose; must diligent attention to my brows be paid too?"--I just sat there and acquiesced to the woman's trimming implements. It took about thirty seconds, with absolutely no excitement, pain, or sensation whatsoever.

And so, for the first day in my life, I am sporting trimmed eyebrows. Big deal, right? I sort of nonchalantly considered the whole ordeal as nothing much at all while walking out of the place, but my God, the difference! I was amazed at how swift I felt doing my usual pre-work 40 yard dash warm-ups in the back parking lot. Prepared with the usual retort of "Yep, all fifty-three of them," for when people at work would invariably ask me if I had gotten a haircut/hair cut (yuk yuk), I was flabbergasted when, within the first hour of work, three different people came up to me and said, "My God, Dan, your eyebrows. What have you done to them? They look fantastic!" Then, as I shopped at the Everything's A Dollar Store (sometimes I shop, other times I just go in there and pick up random things and ask new employees, "How much is this? This? This too?"), buying some Christmas wrapping paper, the cashier lingered while giving me my change and finally hissed as she dropped four pennies into my hand, "Your brows ... so ... alluring." At the Dollar Store no less.

Anyway, a big day. Now I'm just wondering where a guy can get a manicure on a Sunday.

I Can't Stand The Cold; Where's The Kitchen?

2011-12-07T19:22:00.000-05:00

I understand there is much I don't understand, but the main mystery I'm shaking my head at today is why, on a thirty-five degree, barely breezy (not even windy) day such as today, I am so cold when in two months an identical day like today will make me ready to dig out some shorts and start screaming "Play ball!" I was freezing today and it's not even at the freezing mark. I can't be any colder than this, I kept telling myself, trying not to think of the fact that in a couple weeks it will probably be at least twenty degrees colder, possibly for weeks on end. I know, I know, that everything is relative and we all adapt, and it's not as if I haven't survived a couple scores of winters, but my God am I cold today, and to think that it will be so much colder so soon doesn't make any sense. It can't be colder.

Now I'm on record as hating the heat, and I believe I'm on record as saying I'd rather be cold than hot, because the sensation of being warmed up is better than that of being cooled off, but still, heat seems to be a little more lenient than cold. 95 is horrendous (and about as bad as it gets around here--plus some killer humidity), but 75 is Heaven. Why then, when minus 5 is about as bad as we get here (plus some killer wind chill) is 15 so awful, let alone how horrible 35 was today? As awful as heat is, at least its window is pretty small (for my rather timid tastes, it's too hot at 86). But 40 or so degrees of cold cold cold? Seems patently unfair, in a kind of 1% wealth vs. 99% of the rest of us kind of way. Plus, there's hot and heat, an adjective and a noun, whereas there's only cold, both adjective and noun. Cold, the ultimate four-letter word, sums it all up, no spin-offs necessary. Those wise ancestral wordsmiths knew when they had hit perfection on the first swing--cold, nothing more needs to be said.

Now I don't want to launch into a litany of cold laments (there are four more months of blog posts to do that), though that awful getting into and starting a cold car is about the worst, but I will say how psychological it all gets: Yesterday, when I was complaining about all the rain we've been having, but then added, as a predictable end to a predictable conversation about the weather, "but at least it isn't snowing," my co-worker said, in all innocence, and maybe just trying to defend Mother Nature a bit, "Well, it's been a pretty moderate winter so far." Depressed we both were, a minute or two later, when it dawned on me and I reminded her that technically winter doesn't start for another couple weeks. You see what the cold does to our already fragile minds? Fittingly, a man named Blaze said it best:

Ragged But Right Rigamarole, Or, More Garbled Nonsense

2011-12-05T13:11:00.000-05:00

As happens, somebody used a colorful word the other day in my presence, and I've been obsessed with it ever since. Rigamarole, or maybe more properly, rigmarole, though I love that extra syllable. How can you not just quake in wonder at that word, a poem in and of itself? Rigamarole--any long, complicated procedure; a set of incoherent or pointless statements; garbled nonsense. Yes, "garbled nonsense" was a close also ran when it came time for me to bestow a name on this humble blog. Unfortunately, rigamarole seems to be a 100% pejorative term these days. "I don't want any of your rigamarole, Lou." "What's all this rigamarole then?" You don't ever really hear something like, "Oh, thrill me with your rigamarole, kind sir," do you? Too bad, because garbled nonsense has quite a literary tradition; I mean, where would the Western Canon be without Tristram Shandy, Finnegans Wake, and all of Jane Austen? And if half the tunes of Bob Dylan and The Band's Basement Tapes aren't the rockingest garbled nonsense of all time, then curse me with having to listen to Journey the rest of my days: nonsense without the essential garble is just nonsense.

But whence the word? Appropriately, its source is found in literature, 1700s literature. It comes from ragman roll: a list, probably a roll used in a medieval game, wherein various characters were described in verse, beginning with Ragemon le bon, Ragman the Good (and no relation to Simon, as far as I can tell). Ragman Roll to rigmarole to rigamarole--makes perfect nonsense sense to me. And, lo and behold!, eighteen months or so before those sainted Basement Tapes, Bob Dylan was beginning his own nonsensical description of characters, "Stuck Inside of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again," with these lines: "Awww the Ragman draws circles, up and down the block/I'd ask him what the matter was, but I know that he don't talk." Coincidence? Or did Bob know all about the intricacies of rigamarole? I know my verdict.

Rigamarole. Sounds like what a proud trucker may declare as he sets off for the road in his newly loaded new truck: "Rig-a-ma-roll!" I'm sure some hip bakery somewhere has ripped off the deliciousness of the Everything Bagel and concocted something called a Rigama-Roll, right? And, of course, back to Bob Dylan. In 1972 Rudy Wurlitzer (is there a cooler, non-made-up name?) sent Bob his screenplay for Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid, hoping Bob would write some music for the movie. Bob not only complied ("Knockin' On Heaven's Door" and the ineffable "Final Theme" among others), but he also was interested in being in the movie. Rudy and director Sam Peckinpah obliged and the character Alias ("Alias anything you please") was born. They rigged him a role.

Well, enough sense. Time to try my hand at a Ragman Roll.

Ragman the Good
Did what he should
Eschewed wood
Built a cabin of food

Bagman the Nasty
His lot cast he
With the mob, see
Now swims with the fishies

Lagman the Slow
Didn't wanna go
Exchanged his turbo
For a stick of pogo

Cragman the Klutz
Navigates the ruts
Up the rock he struts
Splatter go his guts

Hagman the Rich
Hankers for a witch
Nothing but which
Can ever scratch his itch

Dragman the Queen
Does nothing but preen
Never is he seen
In a dress sans sheen

Wagman the Dog
Got lost in the fog
Now that old bog
Has got quite a clog

Sagman the Fool
His pants did kinda drool
Skipped out of school
Tripped and fell uncool

Nagman the Twit
Didn't know how to quit
Started many a snit
Ended in a shallow pit

And finally, there's Riley Puckett, pictured above. With a face like that, but with a voice like his, he certainly knew what was ragged but right. Holy rigamarole, this song:

Press 1 For Weeping Willow

2011-12-03T10:56:00.000-05:00

I was on the phone yesterday with a large corporation, going through that modern ritual that somehow must have its roots in all the kindling gathering, blanket shaking, and rubbing two sticks together preparations our ancestors must have endured in order to send out a concise, cogent smoke signal: the "menu selection." As usual it was one of those inevitable "our menu options have recently changed, so please listen carefully" joints. Before I get to my point, let me first register my resentment at the choice of the word "menu." Menu, being such a weird (not a whole lot of words end in "u" do they?) and seductive word, should be used only when presenting a list of things that can be eaten. When I'm on the phone trying like crazy just to speak to a human about a usually pretty basic question I have, I don't need to be reminded that instead I could be spending my time sitting in a chic restaurant mulling food choices, or, with that "our menu options have changed" spiel, at least in my corner Applebee's pondering why they need a new menu every two weeks to tell you about the same old food.

Anyway, there I was, punching all sorts of numbers (by the time a live human being finally answers your call, your phone screen is covered with digits that look like one of those "are you Mensa material" tests with a series of scores of numbers and you have to figure out the sequence and guess the next logical number). But I flatter these corporations' phone systems--there is no logic. Case in point: On my call yesterday, after entering an account number, a zip code, and hitting several numbers to inch closer to the info I needed (and yes, I was guilty of at least one instance of zoning out which led to that two second panic of dead air when you're thinking, "oh no, there is no number for my particular issue, I'm screwed," until finally that voice, which had been irritating but now seems so comforting, offers, "If you would like to hear the menu options again, please press 24," which then yields a "repeat" of the menu options, but I swear they must be playing tricks on me because this time 2 was the obvious option for me, how did I miss it?), and I swear this wasn't an audio hallucination, I heard this option offered to me: "If you would like a tree planted in your name, please press 5."

What? I was not calling the Sierra Society or the Audobon Society or TreeHuggers Anonymous. This was a corporation, one that is probably taking steps to secure its facilities in the event of a flash mob occupy scenario. Is this some kind of joke, I wanted to scream at that automaton's voice. Is this the corporation's idea of community involvement, a "we're going Green" initiative, buried deep inside their automated phone system where only the most clueless, desperate people are ever going to hear it? Some kind of "obviously you don't know what you're doing if you're still on the line without punching an appropriate number, so you might just be the kind of person who wants to sign up to have some alleged tree allegedly planted in your name miles and miles away from where you actually live, what the hell it's the least we could do for making you suffer through all this mindless number punching without getting a satisfactory answer to your trivial question" thing? I felt like a mouse who had taken a dozen wrong turns in a maze only to find himself dead-ended with an ort of dry cheese waiting for him: good try, kid. Now I really like trees, and I have participated in tree-plantings in somebody's name, which are always moving ceremonies, and I would be humbled to have a tree named after me some day (press 3 for elm), but really, I don't need some corporation who can't manage to get me an answer to a simple question without inducing carpal tunnel syndrome and madness doing my tree planting. I think we'd all be better served if, after reaching the dead end of a corporate automated phone system, the automaton bluntly said, "Fine, you're a dimwit. Press 6 and we'll send you a $5.00 gas card. Go smoke a cigarette and try this thing again."

Of Decals, Would-Be Napoleons, And Other Cockamamie Stuff

2011-11-30T12:06:00.000-05:00

I admit, beer was involved. Which may be the reason I forget the exact context (though I'm pretty sure the word wasn't directed at me or one of my pontifications), but the other night while socializing with a friend, said friend used the word "cockamamie." Naturally, even without the company of my good friend and the fine product of the Guinness company, just the appearance of such a rich word immediately bumped that conversation into Top Ten status (yes, I keep tabs) for the calendar year that is quickly evaporating.

Now obviously I was aware that the word means "nonsense, ridiculous, pointless, etc.," but of course I was instantly intrigued with where and how such a goofy word came from and into being. As usual, I soon found out I didn't know as much as I thought did: I thought the word was actually cockamanie, figuring it was shorthand for a crazy, probably headless, chicken running amok--ridiculous to the extreme, right? Wrong. It's cockamamie. Getting warmed up to this game of figuring out where words come from, I thought maybe the word was a recent invention, from the 1950s, and had something to do with, "That's a crazy idea, Hugh, you might as well propose punching the First Lady. Cock-a-Mamie, I say." Surprisingly, wrong again.

Here's where it really gets, well, cockamamiacal. Believe it or not, there is a word "decalcomania," which, though seeming to mean a shared obsession with stickers, actually is the "art or process of transferring pictures or designs from specially prepared paper to wood, metal, glass, etc." (that etc. no doubt includes, mainly methinks, skin, which accounts for those great lick-on tattoos, the kind that got me into trouble with a nun in sixth grade when, after applying one, I was pulled aside by said nun and told that I was hanging around the wrong kids). So, in case you were wondering, that's where the word "decal" comes from, which is an easier, though very less poetic, word for cockamamie, which originally meant a "paper strip with an image which could be transferred to skin when moistened" (moist, of course, being a five-star word in itself). Somehow, wordsmiths believe, in America during the 1940s (not too far from the Ike & Mamie 1950s), decalcomania/cockamamie got thrown in a blender with such expressions as cock-and-bull and poppycock, and voila, cockamamie, in its present sense of nonsense, was born. So there you go: Next time somebody accuses you or your ideas as cockamamie, just respond, "No, my ideas and I have absolutely nothing to do with transferring images from paper onto wood, metal, glass, or skin," and walk away in a self-satisfied huff. That'll fix 'em.

Or, better yet, for the sin of using the word cockamamie with no knowledge of its artistic, sticky origins, accuse the person of being a cockalorum (yes, my friends, when looking up one word in your dictionary, make sure you take in the surrounding neighborhood). "Cockalorum" means "a self-important little man," or in general, "bragging talk or crowing." Which, obviously, leads to the possibilty of using what might just end up being my "newly discovered sentence of the year" (yes, I keep tabs)--"Oh, stop all your cockalorum you cockalorum!" Fling that just once at somebody and see if it doesn't become a habit.

All of which leads us, naturally, to Frank Sinatra. Frank, I think the jury's in on this, was a rather self-important and, at 5 feet 7.5 inches tall (sic), little man. But I'm not here to accuse the dead of being a cockalorum. No, more interestingly, in the early 1960s I believe, Warner Bros. Records, to appease Sinatra (I bet that was a long line back in the day) pretty much created the Reprise Records label for Frank. Although it would be fascinating to believe, it doesn't seem that Frank had much input on the artists who wound up on Reprise. Case in point, the great Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band, who, in 1970, released on Reprise a great album titled Lick My Decals Off, Baby, the titular song being a sort of anti-Beatles, anti-innocent love song with its memorable opening line, "Rather than 'I wanna hold your hand,' I wanna swallow you whole ... " and proceeds to raunchier, though more philosophical, heights. I guess that if the Captain had known, the song/album might have been Lick My Cockamamies Off, Baby, which would have been quite interesting. Finally to show how much the world has changed in 40 years, it seems Reprise even produced a one minute commercial for the album. Remember, this was before cable TV and the Internet, so I imagine this was an actual network TV commercial. Cockamamie, indeed.

Connect The Dots: Video Version

2011-11-28T16:51:00.000-05:00

Did she really pronounce man's best friend as ur-EYE-nal? I love the British. And speaking Britishly, I suppose I could take the piss out of this news segment and the pub, and stand up for a long time and make little comments about streaming video games and such, but in ~~loo~~ lieu of all that, I'll just remind you of this video from 24 years ago, proof once again that R.E.M. was not only ahead of its time but, with their recent break-up, knew when it was time to quit, that their prophetic mission had been finally accomplished.

Where Should We Shelve You?

2011-11-26T00:25:00.000-05:00

Some notes from the front line on Black Friday: In a much appreciated decision regarding my beauty sleep, the boss had me work the late afternoon/night shift on the year's biggest shopping day, as opposed to the early, as in 6 a.m., shift, so I missed out on the doorbusters madness. Happy to report, though, that there was no pepper spraying, trampling/trampled customers, or other such ugliness. It seems that the only casualty was the toilet paper dispenser in the men's room. It was busy but not crazy, and the only real difficulty I had was with a customer over the intricacies of the words "may" and "shall" (trust me, too insipid even for me to expound on any further). My best interaction, besides seeing a good old former bookstore colleague I hadn't seen or talked to in years, came early in my shift when I asked a woman, who had the undeniable look of someone looking for something she couldn't find, if she needed any help. "No," she replied, "just tell me where you put my husband." Not as quickly as I might have hoped to qualify as a true witticism, I said, "Antiques?" She chuckled.

Which made me think of a great philosophical question, of the parlor game variety: Where would you be shelved in a pretty comprehensive bookstore? The possibilities are myriad, and I realize the answer for most of us might be subject to change at anytime, given all sets of circumstances, but think about it--if ten of your friends were asked to shelve you in a particular section, what would it be? Self-help? Psychology? Ancient History? Crafts? Science Fiction? Humor? Mystery? New Age? Auto Repair? Clearance? Meditate for three days and get back to me.

Homework Beer? I Never Got That Syllabus

2011-11-21T21:20:00.000-05:00

Kids today. Drinking in a computer lab. And complaining about getting caught at it. Try "banging out" your business paper on a manual typewriter and believe me, boy, by the time page 48 comes around you'll be tapping the second keg, if you haven't already passed out due to an OD of liquid paper fumes.

To be honest, though, I almost want to defend the undergrad, because really, what's the harm, but anybody who describes what, from all apparent evidence, seems to be a rather kind and generous security guard's handling of the situation as, "got all up in my grill," needs a little law and order exacted upon him. If your neighbor starts yelling at you about your unmown lawn as you're barbequing some ribs, or if the ghetto drug dealer starts pulling your teeth against your will because you don't have enough money, then the expression "got all up in my grill," qualifies as appropriate. Otherwise, nope, dude. Meander over to the hard science labs and they'll assure you it is physically impossible for the phrases "banging out my business paper" and "got all up in my grill" to coexist anywhere, especially in a computer lab.

Secondly, while I admit I have absolutely no idea what "business capping" is all about (I do give you credit for banging out 48 or so pages on the subject [and readers of this blog think verbosity is a problem!]), let me instruct you in some Latin, as in non sequitur, as in, loosely translated, what the hell does that mean? Look son, grab a twelve pack and write me a 58 or so page paper explaining what this sentence means: "Fact: Drinking in the Donnelly Computer Lab is undeniably frowned upon, making this write-up absolutely valid." Now, sure, I understand the stress of the incident (whose blood pressure doesn't geyser when somebody gets all up in one's grill?) combined with the KO of a Rolling Rock can seriously mess with one's equilibrium, but am I to deduce from this logic that anything that is "undeniably frowned upon" (technically, frowns, and, when you think about it, the act of frowning upon something, are pretty clear-cut entities; has one ever manufactured a deniable frown?), is ergo something that can be validly written-up? Good God, man, unleash the kegs, there's going to be a lot of writing-up around here. Let me clue you in on something, kid: If every interaction between a college kid drinking where he isn't supposed to be and a (perhaps, though I see no evidence of it, overzealous) campus security guard validated a "write-up" from the student, well, the world would have drowned in write-ups about two years after higher education and alcohol first met (which brings up a rather interesting side question, ala chicken and egg: which came first, college or beer?). And congratulations, kid, you're the one billionth beer-drinking college kid in history to have his grill all gotten up into by a campus security guard. Welcome to the club, here's an insulated beer cozy for your efforts.

And furthermore, kid, do you know how lucky you are to being attending college in this PC Age of sensitivity training? My favorite part of this whole thing is that security guard demanded the student save his paper before ushering him to "security." Talk about good cop/bad cop being embodied in one man. One minute the guy's all grill getting up into and the next he's looking out for the kid by "demanding" the kid save his work. Take a stand, son: If The Man demands you save, delete instead. That would be the only valid thing to do, from my 99% viewpoint.

Oh to be young again and so impassioned. I certainly hope the young man treated himself to a diatribe beer after all the all-up-in-his-grilling his homework beer got him.

Exercises In Inauthentic Grammar, Number Two: The Reflex Clause

2011-11-18T19:42:00.000-05:00

Yes, it's time for another installment of Exercises In Inauthentic Grammar, in which we veer from the educationese term "authentic grammar" and delve into the alternative, yet equally credible (since it too is spoken and written with regularity among some people), world of inauthentic grammar. Today's lesson concerns the reflex clause. I'm sure we're all familiar with the so-called authentic entities known as the reflexive pronoun and the relative clause; well, the reflex clause is a modifying clause (loosely; it's more of an involuntary, culturally ingrained editorial comment) that, like a hammered kneecap or an onioned nose, is difficult to control, as it too, when triggered, quickly asserts its own mind and body with spasmodic emanations. Reflex clauses have long been in existence (read, a bane) but with the advent of computers, word processing software, and continuing generations of so-called smart keyboards, the inauthentic grammar that is the reflex clause is now universal. We've all been there: You start to type something and before you finish the word your screen lights up with what it perceives you intend to write. One quick wham on the return button and the whole thing appears, saving you precious time and energy. The reflex clause is similar--when writing certain words or phrases, an entire clause presents itself to modify the word or phrase you have written. Blame computers who are too familiar with your thought and composition patterns, but even in manual writing (wikipedia that one, kids, if you're clueless) reflex phrases are known to afflict the seasoned scribbler too. Among the governing board of inauthentic grammarians (of which I'm an ex officio emeritus, thank you very much) the standard example of a reflex clause is this dated, but still worth a chuckle or two bon mot: The AMC Pacer, which is built so wide so as to contain the owner's stupidity ... Get the point? If not, here are more examples, both pretty much acknowledged ubiquitous ones and ones more personal to my own partcular writing habits. Study them well so as to beware of them and save yourself time erasing, scratching out, deleting; or, if you're not much a proofreader, to spare yourself future public embarrassment.

Pittsburgh, ooohhhh, yuck ...
Metal detector aficionados, really folks, get a life already ...
Lindsay Lohan, the troubled hoyden ...
Clevelanders, my sympathies ...
Sarah Palin, just go away ...
Mushrooms, look out, I'm gonna heave ...
Bob Dylan, god ...
LeBron James, #$@&*! ...
Bacon, right here, garcon, schnell! ...
The upcoming Presidential election, Oh god, not again ...
Exacerbate, stop laughing class; it simply means to aggravate, to increase the severity of ...
As Al Gore said, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz ...
Dancing With The Stars, nope, never seen it ...
Guinness, you had me at G- ...
Stuffing, I'm staying! ...
Regular readers of spitoutyourgum, I love you I love you I love you ...

P.S. Sin Of Omission

2011-11-17T09:29:00.000-05:00

Bless me, Father Rock, for I have sinned. How, in my previous post about the Postal Service, letters, and rock's most famous letters, I could ever leave out former mail carrier and all-around mensch John Prine and his great song "Dear Abby," is beyond me and beyond embarrassing. I apologize. Please add this song to my top five list, making for an overstuffed mailbox, the best kind.

Dee-Li-Vah De Let-Tah

2011-11-16T21:45:00.000-05:00

I mailed something other than a bill yesterday. I sent a small birthday present to a friend of mine. Chances are, with her living just across town, that she received it today. I hope she does, today being her birthday. When I stopped to think about the process yesterday, once again I was amazed by the U.S.
Postal Service. Despite all the technology, and despite the fact that the package is only traveling a few miles, it still wows me that you can put something in a slot one place and within a day or two it arrives exactly where it's supposed to, with nary a problem. I mean, how many times have you had serious problems with the mail? Once, maybe twice in your lifetime? For all the mail you've sent and received? Say what you will about the federal government, but can you imagine the hassles that would ensue if something like the banking industry took over the mails?

Sadly, I can't remember the last time I actually mailed something other than a bill. Multiply me a few million times and I guess it's no wonder we keep hearing about the financial problems of the Postal Service and how it's in danger of going under. What a pity. Is there a greater inexpensive thrill than seeing a letter or package in your mailbox? Is there better nervous excitement than waiting that day or two for something you sent someone to arrive and hear back from that person? I've never been a consistently prolific letter writer in my time, but I've had periods when I sent and received a lot of personal mail. It's a singular sensation that is vastly different from a telephone call (which has pleasures all its own) and one that emails and texts and tweets and such can't even touch.

Now I'm not here to rant about the disappearance of letter writing; times change blah blah blah. But, but. Maybe if we had a national day of letter writing/mailing, people might be reminded of the pleasures once again, and then maybe make the effort a bit more frequently to do so, and then maybe the Postal Service will survive better. And maybe pigs will fly and the Cleveland Browns will make the Super Bowl too. But I'm going to do it, dammit. I promise to mail a letter this Friday, November 18th. I don't know to whom I'll write or what I'll write about, but I'm going to do it because I love the USPS. Join me, won't you?

And while we're on the subject, I'm wondering what are the five most famous letters in rock music. Actually I have wondered for some time because I'm admitting a kind of defeat. I've long wanted to actually write those famous rock letters. It would be a great exercise in imagination and voice. How would the body of Paul's (it is Paul, isn't it, Beatles fanatics?) letter that ends so famously "P.S. I Love You" read? Or what kind of heartfelt sweet things did poor Elvis write in that letter that kept getting returned to sender/him? When you think about it, the words in the Box Tops' "The Letter" must have been pretty hot. I mean to send adolescent Alex Chilton scurrying to an airport because he "ain't got time to take a fast train," and not caring about the cost of it all, phew! All we get of the letter is that "she couldn't live without me." There must be more than that in the missive, no? What? I want to know.

So those three are among the top five most famous letters in rock history, we all can agree, right? The next one on my list is perhaps the most intriguing--the letter that appears at the end of Bob Dylan's "Desolation Row." After verses and verses and verses and nine minutes, thirty-four seconds of Bob describing the weird goings on in/on Desolation Row, he pulls back a bit and begins the last verse talking about a letter:

Yes, I received your letter yesterday
(About the time the doorknob broke)
When you asked me how I was doing
Was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they're quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name ...

God almighty how much for years I've wanted to write that letter! But how to do it justice? And how to solve its various conundrums (conundra?)? That parenthesis is used in the official Lyrics 1962-2001 book (which is hardly definitive, I know), but even then it still poses the question I've long had--was the letter concerning the time the doorknob broke, or did it arrive around the time Bob's doorknob broke? (Trust me, in the glorious world of Bobarcana, no small point to ponder). And "all these people that you mention"--specific to the letter, or are they the people (rearranged/renamed) Bob has just told us all about? How can one even attempt to write this letter with these questions unanswered? God I love it.

The fifth letter in my all-time Top Five Rock'n'Roll letters (and these are not in any kind of ranked order--I think you can tell what would be my #1) is one you're all probably saying, well of course, get to it, after all it's chronologically the first one your list. Ah, but there's a catch. Is there an actual letter in the Marvelettes' marvelous "Please Mr. Postman"? No, there isn't. She's waiting on/hoping for/begging for a letter from her "boyfriend so far away," but nothing (for all we know he's run off with the girl who keeps sending Elvis's letter back). Now isn't that sad, the poor girl pleading with the postman to look one more time in his bag to see if maybe there's a letter? Just like all of us in these days of no-more-letter-writing. So, do your part--not only for the USPS but for that someone pining near the mailbox. Someday soon write and actually mail a letter to someone. You'll make their day. And maybe inspire another great song--by my reckoning here, there hasn't been a great song about a letter--real or imagined--in nearly 45 years. Name me one.

In The Meantime ...

2011-11-14T21:44:00.000-05:00

Dearth of inspiration of late, which only means a 1500 word, geniusly amusing, digressive screed is imminent. In the meantime, taking my clue from some other blog, here are not one but three songs that never fail to make me happy.

(didn't know that about Marilyn Monroe, did you?)

(onions)

(actually I was looking for a good clip of Joni Mitchell's "Carey," but this, which I never knew existed, is much better; tell me after seeing this you wouldn't want to have a beer with Cass Elliot over discussing art with Joni or politics with Mary anyday)

Doughnuts For Dummies, or, Donuts Are Good, Eat Them

2011-11-13T00:03:00.000-05:00

A co-worker of mine who likes to eat (okay, she lives to eat) asked me today if I had blogged lately. I told her I would be doing so after work. A couple minutes later she suggested I blog about donuts (my preferred spelling). I said okay. But then I started to think, what can one possibly say about donuts? They're kind of like air, aren't they--ubiquitous, one would hope, and so essential that there's really nothing to say about them. Everybody loves them, and I guess you could pretend to get antagonistic and start showering favor on one kind of donut at the expense of another, but really, what's the point? They're all good, some are just better than others.

I'm certainly no mathematician, but I guess it's possible that with now 7 billion + people in this world, there may be one or two who haven't encountered a donut, maybe even don't know what a donut is. If, by the thinnest of odds you are one of those people and have found your way to this blog, here's all you need to know about donuts. They're a supreme being's idea of bread, way better than pizza. They've never been known to let a human being down. Go out now and find a couple and eat them. Welcome to the human race.

Quick, Somebody Teach Me This Game

2011-11-10T23:07:00.000-05:00

Even though the World Series ended only a couple weeks old, I already miss baseball. Tonight there's snow on the ground for the first time in months, which, cutting to the quick, means there are months of it to come. Three days ago I played golf. Driving home tonight I felt for the first time all year that I should be listening to a basketball game. You see, it's not just the game of baseball I love, but the daily joys of following it. Once a week football is okay, but it's not daily and besides, football, especially in these parts, is not much fun these days. Who knows when basketball will return. So I'm jonesing for a sport to follow day in and day out.

I don't know a thing about cricket. Don't even know if it's much of a daily sport. When I was in England for a summer I read about it in the papers, but never really understood it. And once I saw an exhibition of it where they tried to explain the rules, but they might as well have been explaining colored fractals for all the sense it made to me. But I was thinking of a beautiful song, Roy Harper's "When An Old Cricketer Leaves The Crease," and I started wishing I knew the sport, to understand the song better, and so that maybe I could follow it in this fallow, wintry time. So if anybody out there knows anything about cricket, please let me in on the pleasures. Until then, I'll just count the hours until spring training and hum this song.

Waves Upon Waves

2011-11-08T20:46:00.000-05:00

We were chatting idly while working diligently this morning (yes, the professional that I am and the professionals I work with are capable of such negative capability, oxymoronic functioning) when for no apparent reason the word 'redundant' raised its Hydra-head and duly became the word of the day. In a moment of fantasizing I wondered how much fun it would be to reply to everyone who spoke to me with a curt raising of the hand and an even curter "Redundant!" Ah, Walter Mitty has nothing on me.

Redundant, of course, means "excessive, superfluous; characterized by verbosity or unnecessary repetition" (and how about those two n's, two s's and two ti's in "unnecessary repetition"?). This month, of course, is the year's redundant month, when you have to write two 11's every time you date something (and let's not even mention the arrival in a few days of the sure to be overhyped 11/11/11 [is that a threedundancy?]). Maybe my fondness for the particular word today stems from my early morning voting experience. Being a part-Irishman who spent part of his life in Chicago, I've long possessed some weird, maybe natured/nurtured desire to just once vote several times in one day (outside of a poll worker loudly telling everyone in the cramped, small room not to vote a certain way on a certain state issue because it would do away with "Obamacare," my voting experience was pleasantly rapid and garnered me not one but [see the pattern taking root?] two "I Voted Today" stickers [which both lost their stickiness about five minutes later]).

Later in the day somebody's phone went off with the distinct ringtone of "This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius." I know like 40 years ago the song was a bit redundant, but not having heard the song for something like, oh, 39 years, I kind of grooved to it. I looked up and spied the twelve people or so in the vicinity. Before I could make an educated guess as to whose phone it might be, the one genuine hippie in the crowd opened his phone up and started talking. Now I don't like trafficking in stereotypes, but I believe this guy would self-describe himself (Bingo!) proudly as a hippie. Not some nouveau, look at my store-bought $50 tye-dye, but the real thing, going on 45 years in the club. Anyway, I know it doesn't quite fit the definition, but all I could think of when Hippie Apotheosis Man's phone went off singing "This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius" was, "that's kind of redundant." Now I know you can have all sorts of different ringtones for all sorts of different people who might call you, and that "Aquarius" might not be Hippie Apotheosis Man's "default" ringtone, but come on, unless Marilyn McCoo or Billy Davis Jr. is a personal friends of his, I've got to suspect "Aquarius" is in fact Hippie Apotheosis Man's default ringtone. Which is perfectly fine, and it sure beats "San Francisco (Be Sure To Wear Flowers In Your Hair)," it just seems, well, redundant.

So I'm thinking about redundant all day and of course at some time I fixate on the re- part and I start to wonder whether there's a word dundant out there (along the lines of the reiterate/iterate thing, where reiterate is in fact a bona fide redundancy); if redundant is superfluous, maybe dundant is just right. Sounds like it, doesn't it? Dundant=doned it. "Don't sweep the floor, dude! That would be redundant since I already doned it." But no, a little research taught me that redundant comes from the Latin word redundare (to flow back, overflow, be excessive). The really interesting thing is that it all starts with the Latin word unda, a wave. Which of course is only too perfect. An early Latin guy, charged with coming up with words for all sorts of things, takes his assistant along with him to the beach. They see waves--though of course don't know what they're called just yet, that being their job--think they're cool, and the guy sends the assistant out to the surf to test them out. The assistant wades out, is exhilarated by the experience, waves (not a redundancy, a whole other word, a moving of one's hand in genial greeting), and shouts to his boss, "So what are you gonna call them?" Just then a big white-cap totally swarms the poor assistant. "Unda, what else?" the boss shrugs his shoulders and picks up some weedy stuff soon to be named kelp.

Our Lady Of Perpetual Chewing Gum's Parish Bulletin, Tidbits Column

2011-11-06T09:57:00.000-05:00

Kudos to Jerry Gilligan's 800 series in the parish Top Tier bowling league last week, just three weeks after his double hip replacement/hernia ordeal ... And "shame" on Ralph Lawson for missing his second 9 a.m. Sunday mass ushering assignment in 28 years in order to accompany his lovely bride, Marge, to the Inter-Parish Association of the Great Lakes' Bingo-thon! this weekend in Peoria (Here's hoping the weekend's full of B 7's for you, Marge) ... A note from Ed Flick: Please refrain from knowingly putting Canadian coins in the collection basket; it slows the count considerably ... God Bless Mr. (and especially) Mrs. Patrick McLatchey on the births of triplets Omar, Levon, and Plutarch, which by our count brings the brood to 13; better save two pews at the front left of the 10:15 from now on ... The Miller sisters once again report a bumper crop of their scrumptious melons. They'll be displaying their wares and selling them to benefit (as always) the Retired Priest Fund after all masses this weekend. Getcha some ... Dorothy Luger apologizes for two of the three batches of chocolate chip cookies sold at last week's Garden Club bake sale; she promises to offer free brownies at next week's Bridge Club bake sale ... In a related note, Iggy Reilly is resting comfortably at home following his recent three-day hospital excursion ... Little Timmy Dobek requests prayers for his hamster Zoltron who went missing during last weekend's visit to his Firlik grandparents ... Speaking of prayers, this week Luckie Pennington would like to thank saints Jude, Anthony, Tobias, Annika, Philbright, and especially Aurelio for favors granted ... Sign up now for the Marginally Mature Club's (that's the "old" Fifty Plus Club) day trip to Wheeling (ID required at the bus door!). As past president Lou Ferragamo likes to say, "Whatever goes on in Wheeling is usually forgotten on the bus ride home." ... Betty Springer reports that "the hay's in the barn and my corns are gone; thanks all for your kind thoughts and prayers." ... Chuck Berrigan seems to have forgotten again to whom he loaned his sump pump; if it's you, kindly return ... Father Fugi says that Rick Strick says that the new cushions for the kneelers should arrive and be in place by Advent ... Sister Jane laments that the school's basketball pump has once again gone missing ... Even though we're heading into winter, it's not too early to order your year's supply of sunblock and sunscreen to benefit the 8th grade's annual trip to Zoar ... Finally, Father Stein reminds one and all to please refrain from texting in the confessional.

Five Flicks For A Friday

2011-11-04T10:47:00.000-04:00

In my world it's not Friday but Wednesday today (long story, of no consequence). Anyway, I'm busy, but I thought I might give you all some suggestions for weekend entertainment in case all the big football games, the continuing stories of Justin Bieber's alleged thirty-second procreative performance and Herman Cain's immolation, and 48 hours of sleep don't pique your interest. Here are the trailers (except for Life Is Sweet, 2 minutes of representative dialogue) for five movies I love but which don't seem to appear on too many people's radar screens anymore, if they ever were. Seek them out and watch them--the pleasure will be all yours.

When Twitter Twits Get Hitched

2011-11-02T13:09:00.000-04:00

dear mailordergroom.com: I ordered a bold one! bOld.
sorry abt yr flat, ma, but the organist has a bar mtzvh in like 30 mins. we cldnt wait
kinda busy for the next 2 wks, sergio. i'll call you later ; )
pre as in pre-nup means after, right? i always get those things before words mixed up. postfixes i think.
it nvr seemed like the right time, anyway he likes surprises. he'll find out my real name is Doug eventually.
2nd cuz, Shelly! I said he's my second cousin.
quick, Tina, what his name again?
that 'poorer' part is just figurative language, right?
so what if it's white, Sarah? at least I didn't sleep with all the groomsmen and the minister too!
does my new husband make me look fat?
can anybody tell me what was in that punch last night?
can you believe I said 'I do' like five times? as if! LOL
how come when I Google 'Facts of Life' all I get is pix of Charlotte Rae?

ps: is that photo-bombing STOP sign symbolic or what?

Everyday Monster

2011-10-31T13:00:00.000-04:00

If you're over the age of thirteen, I just don't see the point of Halloween, other than a little candy indulgence and the long overdue veneration of orange, a most underrated color. Do we really need a day to celebrate monsters and such when our daily lives are filled with all sorts of demons, succubi, Mary Kay reps, and politicians, who wear no discernible costumes and arrive unannounced by any kind of multiple choice trick or treat demands? But I guess if it's good for the economy, it's good for the U.S.A., to speak redundantly in this day and age.

We all have our personal hobgoblins--The Bore, The Mean Weller, The Self-Appointed Sage at Work, etc.--so in the spirit of the day and in an attempt to spread some virtual garlic around my sphere in the hopes of warding him off for a few months (and maybe allowing you to suffer evil torments vicariously and thus freeing you to live an unscary day), today I will discuss one of my everyday monsters, Dr. Julius Schanke, aka The Guy Who Shows Up At The Least Opportune Times. Schanke pronounces his name to rhyme with manque (manque), but everyone I know calls him Doc Schanke, rhyming with crock crank, though I've taken to referring to him simply as TGWSUATLOT. I first had the misfortune of meeting Dr. Schanke (professor emeritus of Ingestibles, Ballistics, Dirigibles, and All Things Nauseous at The Ohio State University, Ashtabula extension campus) back in 1992 at an in-person meeting of the alt.phlegmatics BBS community. He introduced himself as "the suave Brahmin of the slimy, a sort of crypto 'suami', if you will." I wish I hadn't. I can abide heavily bearded men and women with assorted shards of food adorning their countenances, but not--incredibly and in seeming opposition to the three laws of physics I'm familiar with--clean-shaven ones. I'm wagering that soon after his inevitable (?, one never knows) death, halitosis as we know it will be known henceforth as Schanke Syndrome.

In the nearly twenty years since our fateful meeting, six months have not gone by without my running into TGWSUATLOT, or more aptly, his ambushing of me. And, true to his title, these tete a tetes never occur when I'm wiling away a couple hours in a coffeehouse or mulling the slings and arrows while observing a single leaf of grass somewhere, but always when my dander is in the blood red zone and Old Father Time is goosing my ass something savage. For example, a few years ago, I--merely trying to buy a stamp in order to post remittance for an overdue municipal tax bill of $2.32 and dangerously in jeopardy of being late for my drive-thru, voluntary/cosmetic root canal appointment--was stuck in line at the Post Office behind a woman attempting to get passports for her brood of seven children all under the age of four (who were howling, climbing, drooling, and defacing government property) and a man of questionable heritage trying to mail what he swore was a box of nails and demanding to pay with six different money orders he had yet to purchase. In the midst of this maelstrom I suddenly heard, "Ergo, in re of our discussion in re of the use of obfuscating foreign phrases, I regret to inform you ... " Damn!, I shuddered, TGWSUATLOT. Forty-seven minutes later, with nothing to show for it but a wrinkled, self-adhesive Kwanzaa stamp (this was mid-July, btw) in need of licking, I stood in the parking lot dodging wrong-end of the dashboard driving mail scooters and attempting to assuage growing-hostile TGWSUATLOT with scores of "I see your point," "I'll have to get back to you on that," and "Really, I must be going," would-be placating phrases. Luckily my ersatz oral surgeon had an open schedule that afternoon and a shortage of anaesthetic, so I was eventually distracted.

Another time, as I was waiting in line at the confessional for my annual reconciliation appointment, who steps out of the box but TGWSUATLOT. He instantly lit up a nefarious smile, took me rather roughly by the elbow and quietly intoned, "My boy, don't waste your time with that quack," a quick lurch of his shoulder back at the confessional box, "for I've been going in and out all day, changing my voice radically each time and confessing to a panoply of sins, and all the poor man can come up with is, 'Say a baker's dozen Hail Mary's and scare up a nun to hold a door for.' Come with me rather, and I'll shrive your sins the holistic way over some rhubarb tea I brew in my car with the help of my cigarette lighter." I don't know how or why, and the memory is still too raw to detail, but I ended up doing two weeks of penance spraying Ly-Sol in every extant phone booth in Portage County.

Anyway, I'm sure you too have TGWSUATLOT in your life, maybe (hopefully) not as annoyingly monstrous as my TGWSUATLOT, but bothersome nonetheless. Perhaps my public sharing of my travails with my TGWSUATLOT will serve as sufficient vicarious terror for you, liberating you to enjoy your day sans Halloween foolery. Just call me your Halloween scapegoat, thank me when you run into me (God, I hope I'm not somebody's TGWSUATLOT!), go ahead, eat some candy, and get ready for two months of real holiday mania.

And finally, just in case you need a little more diabolical pondering to surfeit your market-imposed craving for something evil today, debate this question with yourself: Who is the greater monster in your life, the One-Upper (the person who can always top your present joy) or the One-Downer (the person who can always bottom your present woe-is-me warm wallowing)? No need to share your conclusions.

No. 3,205,425,579 Seeks No. 4,000,000,001

2011-10-29T21:46:00.000-04:00

I've always seen it as a genetic thing, not a matter of choice: I'm a word guy, not a number guy. Nonetheless, I am fascinated by all the talk going around that soon, some say even as early as October 31, the Earth will reach the 7 billion mark in population. Makes me wonder what 7 billion pieces of bacon laid end to end would measure. It also makes me think of myself as a pretty insignificant speck. To make matters worse, the numbers crunching chaps at the BBC are offering a quick way to find out just where you stand in the horde, in case you really do want to feel as if you're just a number. I took the plunge and discovered that I'm number 3,205,425,579 on this planet.

A funny thing happened, though, after finding this out. Somehow I felt empowered. The more I looked at the number, the more I liked it. I like that it's an odd number. I like that it's divisible by three. I like the plethora of fives and love the fact that there are no sixes. I've duly memorized it, played it in Lotto, and will be getting it tattooed on my chest Monday. It's my number and no one can take it away from me.

The more I studied my number and got accustomed to its look and curves and sound, the more I started thinking about the ideal complementary number. After meditation, comtemplation, and some high powered calculus, I've determined that my long-sought soul mate is definitely 4,000,000,001. Trust me, I've done the math, double checked all my work, and even cross-checked it all on my trusty Tandy abacus. 4,000,000,001 is the one for me. So here's my message in a bottle, 4 bill +1. If it washes up on your shore, let me know. Together we'll make 7,205,425,580, which if that isn't the coolest number ever, I know nothing.

Exercises In Inauthentic Grammar, Number One: The Co-Dependent Clause

2011-10-28T06:44:00.000-04:00

I hear that in education these days there is something called "authentic grammar assessment." Ah, I love educationalese, love any -ese, really. Being a contrarian and a Gemini, naturally, I like to consider the yang to any yin and vice versa or whatever. So, here is the first in a series of exercises in inauthentic grammar.

Although I know it's past four in the morning and you're not in the best mood and I promise this won't be like last time (yes, I looked up the word harangue and I'm sorry if I came off that way but I promise this won't be anything like that) and you know I don't like to meddle--would rather be known as a haranguer than a meddler any old day--and this may not seem to make much sense and I know me making sense isn't a regular enough occurrence, at least the way you see it, and by that I'm not saying that you need some kind of communication bi-focals or something, I only mean we're two different people, right, and sometimes it can be difficult (no, I promised myself I wouldn't use that word, sorry), it can be a challenge, not that you're not up for a challenge and that you don't meet them head on, but, where was I, oh, it can be daunting, how's that, daunting, to not only walk in someone else's shoes but just putting them on, feeling comfortable and all (and anyway I hope and pray and trust that what I am saying, or am about to say, really, I hope that it in no way changes anything between us, beyond, of course, recognizing--both of us, recognizing--that what I say could be something that maybe changes us, for the better of course, not that I'm saying we, you, us, need to change, just entertaining the possibility that, you know, as they say, change is good, I mean not for change's sake, naturally, but you know, if the prospect of change is available and all and seems like maybe it might be kind of a good idea, from your perspective, of course, we're talking what you want, obviously, right, you understand that, right, and really after all is said and done, any change in, well, anything, would be, could be, a pretty small one, relatively speaking meaning of course you would have to assess it and measure it according to your scale of small, medium, or large, two people, you know, two different perspectives and all not that I'm like some auditor or something doubting the accuracy of your, you know, measuring instruments, or anything, I'm just saying, you know, and really all of this, well not all of this, but all of this I'm about to say, is only meant as a suggestion, okay, you understand that, right) and I apologize for rambling on a bit, please note that, that I started this all with an apology, I just want to say ...

Something To Sneeze At

2011-10-26T15:47:00.000-04:00

Some days it all comes together. Yesterday someone used the old phrase, "That's nothing to sneeze at," which got me wondering (which action always causes parentheses to line up like so many cannon fodder unfortunates) about the origin of the phrase, and, naturally, those things in life that warrant being sneezed at. And then today, all day, the cat I begrudgingly share domestic space with has been sneezing like it's finally discovered that it should be allergic to itself. Meanwhile, the hottest stories on the Internet at the moment appear to be Cher's tearful response to son (nee daughter) Chaz's being voted off Dancing With The Stars, Aerosmith's Steven Tyler's shower mishap (Dude might look better after losing some teeth) and Denise Richards admitting she regrets getting breast implants at the age of 19 (one woman's regret is another man's treasure[s]).

Now I proudly thought I had said all there was to say about sneezing in a poem years ago, but pondering that "nothing to sneeze about" phrase, I find that there's more, much more. Think about it, is there anything more uncontrollable, more of-a-mind-of-its-own, more totally involuntary, more inarguably and unequivocally inevitable than a simple sneeze? Hell, in comparison death and taxes are mere nuisances relatively procrasinatable (to coin a word I've meaning to for some time now). I mean, every other bodily function/annoyance (burps, farts, coughs, giggles, nature's calls, indelicate itches, even [outside the group shower scenario] arousals) can be somewhat diverted, delayed, suppressed, hidden, squelched, tempered, muted, etc., but a sneeze knows no brooking. Yes, shit does happen, but usually, hopefully, on one's own terms, but sneezes are wholly immediate; the phrase should be sneeze happens, shouldn't it?

And what an experience a sneeze is. There's the instant, oh God here it comes feeling (and is there any incident in life that is more limbo-inducing than waiting for that sneeze to arrive if it doesn't immediately follow the here-it-comes feeling?), the wind-up (the bracing yourself and the searching frantically for something to sneeze into), the skull-rattling explosion (and, if it isn't true I can't confirm it and don't wanna try, the fact/myth that it's impossible to sneeze with your eyes open or you'll blow them out along with all your phlegm [I just sneezed, btw, looking up phlegm to make sure of it's spelling--Good God, can I be allergic to the dictionary?], which makes me think what if Malcolm McDowell had to sneeze when they were filming that part of A Clockwork Orange where his eyes are kept open--did he get extra pay for risking his eyes like that?),

and the aftermath re-adjustment to real life and the clean-up. All of which is profoundly/artistically (until about the one minute mark when it can get rather gross, just warning you) displayed (thanks to those crafty South Australians) in this video:

But then, with all of its inevitability and uncontrollability, I cannot think of one famous real-life (as opposed to Woody Allen's cocaine-induced sneeze in Annie Hall) sneeze. Ever. Can you? Think of all the live, real-life action that's been caught on tape/film for more than a hundred years. Can you remember any famous/infamous sneeze? Kind of hard to believe, isn't it? I wasn't around at the time, but JFK's inauguration looked pretty cold--is it that hard to imagine "Ask not what your AAAACCCCHHHHHOOOOO country can do ... "? (and while we're on the subject, I know there's a strange fetish out there for everybody, but really, is a sneeze ever sexy? Don't think so. I mean if Marilyn Monroe had sneezed during her "Happy Birthday, Mr. President" sultry rendition, would it still be so devastatingly hot nearly fifty years later? Nah.) Lincoln's Gettysburg Address took place on November 19--wouldn't it be great to discover some crude recording of it where Lincoln, on a probably chilly, here-comes-winter-folks day sneezes right in the middle? Tell me Walter Cronkite, Regis Philbin, or even Sally Jesse Raphael, in all their TV time, never had the sniffles that resulted in an on-air sneeze. I don't believe it. And yet, where's the evidence? Fascinating.

But back to the "sneeze at" phrase. Beyond it's how-in-the-hell-did-that-phrase-come-about nature, doesn't it imply that one can sneeze at will? Now we all know (or least did know in sixth grade) those gross magicians who could burp and fart on demand, but have you ever known anybody who could sneeze on demand (ignoring the existential question of whether anybody would so desire)? It seems that as inevitable as a sneeze is, it is just as impossible to conjure one without some olfactory or tactile stimulus. Could there be anything scarier than someone pointing a gun at you and saying, "I'll give you five seconds to sneeze or I'll blow you away"? Outside of Chaz Bono tapping you on the shoulder asking for this dance, I think not. Sneezes, thus, are the ultimate ineffable currency--you can't get them when you want them or avoid them when you've got them (which might be why they provoke a "God bless you" like nothing else; sneezes are godlike like nothing else [incidentally, it seems people used to believe the soul left the body during sneezes, thus the blessing to safeguard people at such a vulnerable time]).

And so, I did some research. Boiled down, it seems that a few hundred years ago (interestingly, the 17th century, when Reason was all the vogue) people believed that a sneeze was a sound way to clear the mind. So the elites took to all means and manners to induce sneezes in themselves (hello, snuff!; so, in effect, sneezers were the original 1%), and sneezing in public became a sort of social status thing. Which then, overuse being what it is, evolved into conjuring a sneeze only to show boredom or derision. So, you sneezed at something you didn't like or at the least didn't interest you. Thus, something that was important, or at least interesting, was "nothing to be sneezed at." God I love language.

And so, cuddle your cats, sniff some pepper, or pull a nosehair out--there's plenty to sneeze at in this day and age, and it seems to me about time we start full-scale sneeze assaults on those things, if only to revivify that great phrase and give some much needed value to those things in life (there are still some, I truly believe) which are not to be sneezed at. Beyond the present plights of Cher, Steven Tyler, and Denise Richards (in Denise's case, her regret only; do your best, boys, to squelch all sneezes in the presence [real or imagined] of those implants),

may I suggest a rather spontaneous, off-the-top-of-my-head-and-by-no-means-exhaustive list of some things that should be sneezed at with full gusto:

political debates for at least the next 12 months
any member of the media talking about the media
talk of the revamping of the Boston Red Sox
Tony Romo
anything about hipsters
anything involving the phrase "Steve Jobs would have..."
anything negative about bacon
LeBron James on anything except the joys of a manicure
Mitch McConnell
anything using the word "buzz" that doesn't involve astronauts or apiaries

Records Are Made To Be Broken

2011-10-24T11:54:00.000-04:00

Anybody else remember when records were just records, not the retro-chic-sounding hipster jargon of today--vinyl? I like the look of that y in vinyl (and basically any word with a v in it, even though for the past few months I've had trouble with the v key on my keyboard and have to press it like it I'm trying to win a stuffed animal at a carnival, otherwise my haves become haes nots), but really, the word vinyl immediately conjures horrid images of 70s jumpsuits. Albums, man.

But I'm not here to wax nostalgic about wax and fold-out sleeves and such. I'm here to break them. Or at least tell you how I used to (as with most things connected with albums, it's a "used to" story) break them. Not that I was pathological about it or anything, but by my count within eight years I deliberately broke three albums, basically for provocation purposes. Like most discoveries that turn out to be useful and very fun, my first broken record was a spontaneous, un-meditated thing. It was a small gathering of friends around the end of high school, a gathering that included a guy named Mike who was enamored of Led Zeppelin, especially their second album (I know the mere mention of that album makes the more cognizant reader immediately start air-guitaring and mouth-guitaring the gargantuan riff from [more accurately, riff that is] "Whole Lotta Love." Mike was an interesting fellow. During our high school years he was passionate about exactly four pieces of music: "Don't Fear the Reaper" by Blue Oyster Cult, "The Devil Went Down To Georgia" by the Charlie Daniels Band, "Lola" by the Kinks (kinda until he finally realized--after a good year or two--the song was about a guy being picked up by a transvestite), and the entire Led Zeppelin catalog (diverse and wonderful as it is, isn't really the entirety of Zeppelin just one piece of music? I mean you don't hear Zeppelin fans arguing over which is the best album like Stones/Beatles/etc. fans. For Zeppelin fans it's all Zeppelin and it's all kick-ass)--any other music was just filler for Mike until one of those four popped up on the radio. Anyway, I had a very beat up, used copy of II (at the risk of being called a heretic and milquetoast, let me confess that as much as I love Zeppelin--really love it when I hear a particular song [just about any]--I've never been one to sit and listen to one of their entire albums straight through much). Eventually during this gathering, something wicked this way came into my soul and I told a couple friends, "Watch this." I took the album, went over to Mike and said, "Should I put this on?" The personification of ecstasy--that was Mike. "Or should I do this," I smiled and took the piece of scratched up vinyl out of the sleeve and right in front of his eyes started bending the thing in, as if (well, not as if, truly) trying to fold the thing in half. "What the--" was all Mike was able to manage before I managed to complete the folding. Shards of scratched up vinyl containing the holy engraved codes of "Whole Lotta Love" and all the others snapped and exploded all over the room. Roars of laughter from the peanut gallery as Mike's ecstasy instantly transformed to disbelief, grief, and anger (I think our friendship never recovered from that moment). God did that feel great.

My next record-breaking performance came four years later (something about being a senior, I guess), and I may have already told this story here before (if so, find it and see how accurately I re-tell the story). The house I lived in in college was a chaotic collection of individuals. One was Mark, a rather nice but rather rabid Beatles fan (and this was the mid-80s by which time the Beatles were already rather nostalgic; to be a rabid fan then was, in my mind, a bit passe). Anyway, Mark was sitting there reading the latest Rolling Stone when he exploded indignantly with these exact words, "How can anyone have the audacity to name an album Let It Be?" (Rolling Stone was reviewing the Replacements' epic Let It Be album, my favorite album at the time, and one that has never left my all-time top ten since.) "Maybe because," I assholily retorted, "It's a much better album than the Beatles' one of the same name." I received a look thousands of martyrs must have received just as the stakes were being ignited. Should have been the end of it, I know, but college is the time for excess, no? Later that night, much later, I took my pretty vintage (red Apple label) copy of the Beatles' Let It Be--sleeve, dustjacket, album all--and hurled it several times against the holy wall in my room on which I had been writing graffiti for months. Satisfied only when I could feel that the vinyl disc had been reduced to dozens of pieces, I then proceeded to go upstairs and shove the whole thing under Mark's door. Have I ever been crueler in my life? Forgive me, I hope not, but after all, this was only rock'n'roll and as much as I've always loved the Beatles, they're not above having their pedestal rocked and rolled over a bit (which reminds me of the time I somehow wound up manning a beer stand at a Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers concert; there was no orderly line and we were selling cans which had to be opened and poured into cups [most inefficient]; so of course right before the show we were overrun with I-just-wanna-be-swilling-beer-and-screaming-"Refugee"-man-not-standing-in-this-clump-of-the-same-you-call-a-line-waiting-for-you-to-open-pour-and-gimme-my-beer-man folks; just as I was on the verge of another nervous breakdown the first chords of the night started up [possibly "Refugee"] and the pushingshovingyelling got worse; one dude screamed in my face, "Come on, man, the concert's starting"; folks, let me tell you, when Sheer Genius comes accompanied by a Guardian Angel, you've reached a perfection in life you never knew existed: without thinking, duh, I screamed back [probably told this story once or twice before, too; oh well, I'm old, I contain repetitions] at the would-be hooligan, "Relax man, Tom Petty isn't god!"; dead-on accuracy notwithstanding, in most parallel universes such a comment at such a time to such an individual would have gotten me [justifiably if you recruited your jury near the beer coolers at any Open Pantry location] killed rather instantly, but as I said, my Guardian Angel was riding shotgun with Genius that night, and the guy just shrugged his shoulders like "ah, satori to you too" and said, "Yeah, you're right"). Anyway, the next day Mark was not too delighted at the Apple scruffs I had left under his door, but eventually I loaned him my Replacements album, he kind of liked it (and, more important, taking the higher road, returned it unscathed) and we got along fine.

Within a few years I called upon all of this experience to create a truly "teachable" moment in my class of thirty high school boys. We were reading the great Anne Bradstreet's poem about how her house burns down and she ends up thanking God for the lesson that indeed, all earthly possessions are "vanity." So how does one make such a Puritan woman's poesy come alive to thirty late 1980s high school boys who probably couldn't give a rat's ass? Call on the Glimmer Twins, naturally. I brought in my first pressing copy (before the Law made them alter it) of the Rolling Stones' Some Girls album, with its iconic cover of famous girls and Stones as girls. I spieled to the class about how this was the first new Stones album I had ever bought, the collectible (if not for how my cheap needle had worn it out over years of steady play) nature of the album, how despite owning hundreds of albums, this one was still one of my favorites, both in a musical and sentimental sense, blah blah blah. I then attacked the thing mercilessly, cracking up the vinyl into dozens of pieces in my by now familiar way, mangling the cover, etc, and then tactlessly chucking it all into the big round classroom-standard metal trash can. "Vanity!" I harangued the boys (some who were duly impressed, some actually frightened, some, as usual, who couldn't give a rat's ass), "all of it!" I then invited, not mandatorily assigned, them to bring in some symbolically similar item of their own the next day and ritually destroy it in front of class to experience the same thrill of "de-possession." The next day, there were few takers (or, more accurately, sacrificers). But I'll never forget quiet Carl coming up with a pretty valuable baseball card, explaining to the class how he had a big collection and this card was one of his prized ones, dismissing my calls to think twice about what he was about to do and the howls from his classmates not to do such a stupid thing, and triumphantly shredding that card into tiny pieces, tossing them in the trash can, and returning to his seat. Carl, I don't know whatever became of you, and I hope that card wasn't the equivalent of a down payment on a new car these days, but always know you melted this teacher's heart that day.

The feeling of deja vu is overwhelming--forgive me if I said this all before (thus, I, um, guess, coming off sounding like a broken record). But think about it--Beatles, Stones, Zeppelin--for many the holy trinity of rock (I'm saving the Dylan album breaking for my senility, naturally). Destroyed, all of them. Happily, and maybe instructively (and, yes, cruelly) so. Maybe it's in the blood. Every Christmas I look forward to hearing my mother tell the story about how her grandmother sat on her mother's long-sought-after, treasured 78 rpm copy of Bing Crosby's "White Christmas." I think my grandmother's look at her mother-in-law's face was probably akin to the one I received from Mike when Zeppelin II bit the dust.

Ah, nostalgia. What's the fun of breaking a CD or an iPod? Or, God forbid, a Cloud? No, maybe my record of breaking three records will never be broken.

I'm Keeno On Geno

2011-10-22T21:34:00.000-04:00

Beware, I'm prepared this year. Like no other off-election year in history, I'm ready for 2011. With nothing at stake besides some local elections and boring issues, one might question my fervor. But that is the point. The even year elections are the exciting ones; it takes nothing to get riled up for them, as long as you're still breathing. But these off-year ones usually pass by with nothing but an extended yawn. But this year--maybe it's the Occupy atmosphere, or the seemingly already-underway nastiness of a Presidential campaign--I've decided to revel in my right to vote and prep myself for the ballot-punching process like never before. I'm keeping a sharp ear out for the radio commercials (while again being so thankful I don't own a TV); the ads I end up hating the most, I am sure to vote against (State Issue 2, it's neck and neck). I'm also keeping a detailed spreadsheet charting the contents of my mailbox and the things left in/on/around my side door (if you're a front door candidate, I don't even recognize you)--not that I read any of the little placards, but I'm counting, and voting in indirect proportion to the number I receive. Let's just say there's a certain Cleveland Heights City Council wannabe who's about two leaflets away from not only never receiving any kind of a vote from me, but if I see any of his kinfolk on Halloween, I'm not giving them any Smarties.

Admittedly, as much democratic dedication as these above-mentioned strategies demonstrate, they are a bit passive. I realized this the other day as I drove to work--through about six different towns--and saw all the various campaign signs on people's lawns. Gee, I wondered, how much democratic zeal would it take for me to do something so active? To actually take the time and effort to walk outside on one of these cold, rainy days and stick something in my front yard? And even if I did eat something strange that gave me such gumption, what the hell, I live on a side-street whose cut-through rate is pretty insubstantial. So again, the standard existentialist-democratic question reared its effete, ugly little head--what difference does it make? Then it hit me. I blog, dammit, I've got a virtual front yard that stretches across the globe. I can make a difference.

For nearly forty years I've watched politics with a fan's dedication. And long ago I came to the conclusion that the coolest, most useful role one can play in politics is not voter, not candidate, not poll worker, not aide-de-camp, but endorser. Nothing spells importance and true American egotism more than, Listen to me, folks, I'm going to throw open that measly curtain they hang on voting machines and tell you all just how I'm going to vote, because I think that much of myself to think that I can persuade you to vote the same way I am. And so, for the last few days, I've been a man on a mission--searching far and wide for a candidate worthy of spitoutyourgum's inaugural endorsement.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, Geno Trunzo. Geno is running for city council in Mayfield Heights, Ohio, a suburb east of Cleveland. He gets my vote, if I had one in Mayfield Heights, and I hope he'll get yours, if you have one in Mayfield Heights.

I do not know Geno personally. As far as I know I do not know him impersonally either. I don't know why he is running for office or what his views are. I know one person who lives in Mayfield Heights. As far as I can tell, I have no readers who live in Mayfield Heights. So why, you're all scratching your heads, why would I gift, with my precious and much-sought-after inaugural and sole endorsement, someone I don't know or know of, in a race where I have little or no pull?

Because I love the man's name.

Look, as I said, I drive through six different communities to get to work every day. In a year of nothing but local elections, do you realize how many different signs with different colors and slogans and names I encounter? Hundreds. And I can't name a single one of them for you right now because they're all a blur. All expect for Geno Trunzo. Geno: Clarity In The Blur. What a name. Say it. Just go ahead and say it. And if you can do so with a full, Pabst-influenced good old Cleveland accent, you'll really get the effect--Geno Trunzo. A doubly trochaic masterpiece. How can you not admire, nay, trust, a name like that? It rhymes! It's got a great vowel to consonant ratio. It's got that down-to-Earth, man-of-the-people "Trun" followed by that zippy, charismatic "zo" flourish--meat, potatoes, and chocolate mousse! Tell me this country wouldn't be better off if along with (or in place of!) all the John's Andrew's, and Franklin's, we had a few more Geno's living at 1600 Penn. Ave. Although I don't live there, I feel my life will be better every day just simply driving through Mayfield Heights and knowing that a man named Geno Trunzo is sitting on city council there.

You might not like my politics, my music, or my sports teams, but if you're a regular reader of this blog (yes, all five of you), you must trust my love of words. Well, I'm telling you, as far as candidate names go, it gets no better than Geno Trunzo. And I don't care if you don't live in Mayfield Heights either. If you get lost in the morass of bland and nefarious-sounding names on your local ballot, remember the name Geno Trunzo and write him in. If he doesn't make it in Mayfield Heights, maybe he'll make it where spitoutyourgum has some real pull, like, for instance, Wasilla, Alaska (seven hits in the last 30 days!).

Go Geno!

Siri With Some Fringe On The Top

2011-10-20T20:22:00.000-04:00

It's a cruel irony that as one's hipness (I'm too square to even attempt to use the word hipster) quotient diminishes, the pain in his or her hips increases. A prime example of how far away from the zeitgeist I seem to be: For several days recently I kept running across references to Siri. Thinking that Siri was some new reality TV star or that afternoon's hot new chanteuse, naturally I paid her little mind. Only by accident (well, maybe not that accidental--I figured if Siri was getting all this media attention, there had to be shots of her in a bikini somewhere) did I discover that Siri is the voice-recognition/activation software app on the new iPhone. Silly me. I've since seen this headline: Is Siri Racist? We've lost our minds.

Now as someone who still misses the thrill of dialing 0 on an old rotary dial phone, I am obviously not the person to comment on Siri's efficacy, pros/cons, or feelings about racial "others." But it seems to me that unless you are paralyzed or have had your arms amputated (and don't have the foot dexterity of Daniel Day-Lewis), a voice-activated phone is as superfluous as a poetry reading at the Republican National Headquarters. Punch in the damn numbers or person's name yourself. But I know, geeks, phones are much more than just phones these days. They're personal assistants (don't get me started). But I, still clinging to my Model-T cell phone, thought 99% of the cachet of owning one of those so-called smart phones was impressing people with how deftly you worked that swooping finger thing to access all your cool stuff. I guess I'm just a Charles Ingalls trying to merge his horse-drawn Conestoga onto this Information Super Highway I've heard so much about.

But look, this colorblind technoramus won't be colored impressed until Siri starts working some real magic, not the broken-down circus feats of dialing someone's number or reminding me of someone else's birthday that are presently wowing all the faddists. Do me a favor, Siri, don't call me or activate me until you can do most of the following: When I say, "scratch that itch," get the job done, especially in those hard to reach places. When I say, "beer me," fetch me a perfectly tapped pint of Guinness. When I say, "warm the seat," warm that toilet seat by means other than somebody else's arse. When I say, "bacon," produce. When I say, "play me the world's greatest song," my iPod (the one I don't own yet) better start playing one of about the five hundred songs that qualify. That's the kind of voice-recognition/activation software acumen I'm interested in.

While I'm thinking about all of this (which is a sad thought in and of itself), the Siri capability that I most treasure is a voice-activated voice. When I'm caught in some totally mundane, sanity-oppressing "conversation" with some total bore, I want to be able to whisper to Siri, "do it," and immediately have the application co-opt my voice and utter the dozens of "uh huhs" and "definitelys" and "ooohhh, interestings" that are necessary to continue the conversation unrudely while my brain and soul and total consciousness are free to roam the astral planes. Then, Apple, and only then, will I believe you all really do think differently and really are doing something significant for mankind. Until then, I'm on mute.

Let Me Get This Out Of The Way

2011-10-18T11:11:00.000-04:00

I'm an organic kind of guy. A feel guy. An "it's not the destination, it's the journey" (which I'm guessing Columbus was the original, or better have been, his destination being half a world away from what he thought it would be) guy. An inchoate (in an initial or early stage; pronounced in-KO-it) guy. A true believer in the "how do I know what I think until I see what I write" kind of guy. And so, after more than two years of writing this blog (with the ~~experiment~~ ~~detour~~ mistake of spending a month writing nothing but posts about pogo sticking well behind me), I've finally envisioned, sculpted, and varnished its mission. And so, with no further ado (i.e. parentheses), I unveil spitoutyourgum's Mission Statement, an ethos, an attempt to define the culture of this blog, a symbolic lighting of the torch which, if not always so in the past, I vow will serve as the guiding lighthouse for this blog from this post onward. Cuddle up and be edified.

Spitoutyourgum blog treasues the individual and the infirm (in fact, we proudly salute all "in-" peoples: the innocuous, the incredulous, the ingrates, the inert, the inept, the indeterminate, the Inuit, the intelligentsia, and hell, even the in flagrante delicto [if you folks are reading this, my, what talent!]). We believe in universal respect and aim to practice it when doing so doesn't conflict with what we value, namely, expediency. We celebrate diversity, basically writing about whatever comes into our divergent little minds. We exult in the Royal We whenever we speak of ourselves (another tip of the hat to the individual's right to be diverse). We not only talk the talk of thinking outside the box, we walk the walk--we are 100% box-free. Well, 99%. We have one box on site, situated exactly in the middle of our offices, so that we are always literally "outside the box." We do love plastic bins, though, and reams and reams of scrap paper. Obviously we are environmentally sensitive. Okay, full disclosure--we're allergic to the cat that shares a lease on our offices. What we bring to the table is ourselves. Well, if we had a table. As it stands now, we have a desk and a love seat that functions more like a table (and really, isn't a table just an uptown word for junk drawer?). Anyway, we are committed to bringing our committed (committable?) selves to this metaphoric table, i.e. literal love seat, every day. Well, we try to write every couple of days. We go beyond valuing our customers; in general we slobber over them. But since we're not selling anything here but simply offering mindless diversion for free, screw you, you get whatever we give you. As always, puppies and children under 12 eat for free. We offend no one with a funny bone, and defend anyone with ready cash. We embrace wholly the concept of the early bird gets the worm, but we prefer bagels with cream cheese, Malley's chocolate, and spaghetti. Our religion is words. Especially holy ones like canard. Bunkum is our sole tenet. In bacon, truck drivers, the boundless melancholia of Cleveland, and insouciance we trust. We love music but not to the arcane lengths of many a blogger; and we've grown sick of Big Brother publishing companies stomping on the fun of proselytizing about favorite songs. We shruggingly hug our Ludditism. Coffee is our drug, peanuts our fuel, indoor plumbing our crutch, tobacco our vice president. Readers our delight.

And for you ADD, Cliff's Notes-preferring, pull quote sound byte folks, our mission in seventeen words: All the free malarkey we and you can fit into our/your busy every other (hopefully) day.

How Come I Never Get Invited To The Cool Funerals?

2011-10-16T21:51:00.000-04:00

Yes, I've been to an Irish wake or two in my time, and it is usually true that the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish wake is one less drunk, but on the whole I've got to say that my years of attending wakes/funerals have been kind of a drag (yes, I know, somebody has died and these occasions aren't supposed to be jovial, rip-snorting, ass-kicking events, but still). Not that I spend my days and nights pouting about such things, but a recent news story really drove home the point that I have got to start seeking out better wakes/funerals. It seems that out in California (this can't be a made up story because California is too trite; anyone with such an imagination would have set this bogus story somewhere, anywhere else) at a funeral service for a person who indulged (while still alive) in medical marijuana-laced brownies, somebody passed around a tray of brownies. Yes, the brownies were pot brownies, in a kind of tribute to the recently deceased. The interesting part is that no one told the three senior citizens--who ate the brownies and wound up in the hospital--that the brownies were "special." All's fine with the old folks, so not to worry.

Unfortunately, my list of "best of" funerals/wakes pales heavily in comparison. About the best I can muster is the wake I attended for a guy who was always on the phone. As a tribute, his family put his beloved phone in the open casket next to his corpse (this was a few years ago, before voice mail; it was a battery operated cordless phone complete with an attached answering machine). Maybe it was the grief that distracted the well-meaning loved ones, but nobody thought to turn the thing off. So there, right in the middle of the wake, as several of us were mingling and saying nice things, the phone rings/bleats. Before anyone could figure out what was going on and how to stop it, the caller's voice boomed out of the answering machine: Newt Gingrich, Robo-calling, urging the dead man to vote for a certain Republican Congressman in the upcoming election. Needless to say, those of us liberals in attendance walked out in a huff.

Then there was the funeral of a friend of a friend I got roped into attending after losing a bet. Maudlin beyond belief. The presiding minister kept mispronouncing the deceased's name, some four-year-old in attendance was screaming for his Elmo throughout most of the service, and at the end when it came time to play the deceased's favorite song--Bob Dylan's "Knockin' On Heaven's Door" (I love Bob, but really, talk about trite)--the person manning the boombox got mixed up and wouldn't you know it, out blared Bob's "Rainy Day Women # 12 & 35"--the one that goes, "Everybody must get stoned ..." (which, come to think of it, would have been appropriate for that California funeral).

I won't go into the details of the funeral I attended for an avid roller skater. Or the one for the woman who died of a lip balm overdose. Suffice it to say, if you hear of a probably-cool funeral taking place, give me a buzz. I'll bring the Kleenex and the Doritos.

You Don't Expect To Be Bright And Bon Vivant ...

2011-10-14T20:30:00.000-04:00

I don't know. I've been sick all week, and just today when I started feeling better it's rainy and gray and the wind's blowing like it knows for the first time that winter's on the way. On the radio are competing news stories of folks lining up at 4 a.m. to buy a new phone and further reports from Occupy Wall Street. And more than a year away, I'm already weary of the coming political circus we know as a Presidential election. It seems fitting,somehow, that yesterday, a day after Columbus Day, Paul Simon turned seventy (did you know his middle name is Frederic?). Turns out he wrote the quintessential song for today more than thirty-five years ago, more than half his life ago. Appropriately, I guess, you have to put up with a little (going a long way) Dick Cavett to enjoy this American Tune.

The folks at Buzzfeed.com have some great photos of the whole Occupy thing. This one is Pulitzer-winning scary (look at that left hand, that right finger).

This one is pure haiku.

Make Me Nervous: Happy Birthday, Dad

2011-10-12T11:07:00.000-04:00

My father would have been 85 today. Beyond the initial smile his memory conjures for me, my next thought--obviously, selfishly-- is, man, I'm getting old. One thing he liked to say (well, probably not liked, more like, couldn't help but) was, "Stop that! You're making me nervous," usually when I was doing something mindlessly repetitive like shaking my leg under a table. Not nervous like, oh no, I can't possibly speak in front of five hundred people, but nervous like You're Getting On My Nerves Here. I guess I'm sorry for provoking this outburst enough that I remember it so keenly, but how was a young kid to know, in his naturally solipsistic way, that one's inane actions could so irk someone else? In a way, though, I'm grateful. Operating under the assumption that nothing exists without the words that name it, without the memory of my father's momentarily fraying nerves I might have gone through life unaware of all the myriad things that can truly bug the hell out of me. Such ignorance would have made for a decidedly less colorful, more apathetic life. Naturally, armed with this genetic memory, I soon found myself echoing my father. But I always honored him whenever some student of mine was doing something stupid like constantly tapping an empty water bottle on her desk: "Hey Sara(h), as my father used to say, 'You're making me nervous. Cut it out.'" Ah, the tree-hugging fallen apple.

So, as a paean to dad and the wonderful phenomenon of genetic transmission, I offer this bit of poetic whimsy. May it also serve as fair warning if you should ever enter my sphere of existence.

You're Making Me Nervous Here, You With...

Your faintest threats of bagpipes,
Your stubborn cotton wads blocking my path to much-needed aspirin,
Your ravenous clawing through your crypt-like purse looking for three pennies with which to make exact change; I've got plenty of change right here in the register but hardly enough serenity for this transaction,
Your scraggly, starter's-kit moustache,
Your jukebox punching up of Journey,
Your insistence, anywhere but on the first tee, whenever your ball is playable, if not desirably so, on pulling one more out of your pocket and declaring, so dismissively of rules and etiquette, "I'm gonna hit another one,"
Your mildly tapping of my shoulder for emphasis when we've known each other for all of two minutes,
Your failure to flush,
Your neglect of your turn signal,
Your private cellphone conversations conducted so publicly loud,
Your cats,
Your own over-active nerves.

MOE's, OOers, and the Po: The Percentages Of Occupation

2011-10-08T10:58:00.000-04:00

This morning I'm occupying my porch. Why? Because it's a beautiful morning, one where autumn seems to be yielding the floor a bit to old man summer's dotage. It's truly a "99%" porch--an open-air slab of concrete with a couple of mismatched second-hand chairs and a beat up yellow plastic table. Even the constantly scampering chipmunks find it a bit cramped. But all in all it's a nice relaxer. I'm also occupying what passes for pajamas in my world--in this case wholly opposing plaid patterns on top and bottom. And, once Mr. Coffee stops gurgling, I'll be hard at work de-occupying a cup or two of java. Later I have to go in and occupy my occupation for 16 out of 24 1/2 hours so I can continue to occupy the place where I'm an occupant. Otherwise, I'm occupied writing this.

Since my doctor has sworn me off pie charts, and I lack the necessary poetic chops to write a 2011 update of Walt Whitman's great opus, "I Hear America Singing," it's a precarious thin line I'm attempting to tread here--between mathematical bells and whistles and poetic artistry--all in the service of trying to make sense of this whole "Occupy Wall Street," "Occupy Cleveland" (it's about time somebody does), and "Occupy Whatever." Now I'm all for exercising one's Constitutional rights, and railing against Greed, though a bit nebulous, seems like a pretty healthy, right-minded thing to do. My problem with it all is this 99% thing. The protesters are saying they are the other 99% of the population, in opposition to the 1% who are Greedheads and control everything? I'm not buying it. Outside of loving ice cream and kinda had it up to here with Nancy Grace, there is nothing that can claim the support of 99% of the population. We're talking 297 million, I-contain-multitudes Americans, give or take a few million.

Give or take, that's one of the big questions (I guess, quite literally, Give or Take is what this is all about, isn't it?). In every so-called scientific poll/survey/study, there's always that ambiguous give or take thing--margin of error (and isn't it always +/- 2.5%-5%? How come scientists--supposedly anal, precise folks--are allowed to get away with this Margin of Error thing, but no one else is? Why not gamblers? Try pulling this one at a Blackjack table: "Well you see, Mr. Dealer, 22 is within the realm of the margin of error, so I didn't actually lose. Gimme my chips back, please." Or, "I took the Browns and the seven-and-a-half points, Mr. Bookie. They lost 23-14 [yes, the Browns are capable of scoring 14 points {give or take 2.5-5} in one game], which is within the margin of error. Can I have my money back in crisp tens, sir?"). So right away we've got to knock that 99% down a tad to account for the Margin of Error (MOE). And trust me, there are a few MOE's walking around out there--the truly marginalized. The guy walking down the street with earbuds singing along, way out of key and pitch, to some song, usually exhorting someone to "get your booty on the dance floor." The woman obsessed with finding the nearby Holiday Inn where, in the Elmhurst Room, the American Idol paper doll figures convention is taking place. Anyone presently in line at Graceland who won't be buying the premium tour ticket. These people and so many more are the MOE's of American Life who certainly can't be accounted for in some simplistic 99% vs. 1% demographic matrix.

And what about the OOers? The Otherwise Occupied? In a more orderly world they might passionately side with either the 99% or the 1%, but as of right now, they're otherwise occupied. I mean it's obvious I'm not an Einstein with numbers, but out of 300 million Americans, there has got to be several thousand people currently suffering a raging toothache. You ever had a raging toothache? Let me tell you, it occupies you 100%, no MOE. What about brides-to-be? In the months--let alone weeks and days--leading up to her wedding, you think a bride-to-be can possibly be occupied with anything other than wedding plans? What about all the Jehovah's Witnesses faithfully going door-to-door as we speak, and all the homeowners politely opening their doors to them? You're going to say these people aren't otherwise occupied? The hungover? The folks waiting in line at a discount drug mart? Parents trying to placate an unhappy kid at Chuck E. Cheese? Pundits excoriating the 99% protesters? OOers, all of them.

And of course there's the Po, who are always with us, kind of. The Pre-occupied. The woman I run into now and then who's obsessed with "Shirley and Laverne," to the point where I can't even get a word in to inform her it's Laverne and Shirley. The folks busy making bladder control issue TV commercials. The folks in need of bladder control products. Any and all adolescent boys (aged 12-40, +/- 2-5years). Owners/renters/renting-to-own-ers of metal detectors. Zombies. Curling enthusiasts. Lana Del Rey fans. Bloggers. Civil War re-enactors. You can't count people in on the new Occupy X movement if they're already preoccupied, can you? Multi-task, fine, but it goes against the laws of physics, I believe, to multi-occupy.

And so, doing the math, rather quickly and with that comfortable margin of error crutch propped nicely in my right armpit, the sum of the MOE's, OOers, and Po comes out to roughly 150 million Americans (proper-birth-certificate possessing ones only, naturally). Which makes for one half-assed America. Which, if you have any sense of history, is about par for the course, status quo--which, for the 99% of those who are non-golfers and non-Latin scholars, is same as it ever was.

Back to the porch.

Flatteredific

2011-10-06T12:29:00.000-04:00

One woman's accusation is another man's flattery. Yes, I stood accused yesterday. And make no mistake about it, the disdainful tone of voice, the arms akimbo, the fists clenched squarely on the hips, even the eyebrow action all spelled nothing but a-c-c-u-s-a-t-i-o-n when she said, "You've read the dictionary, haven't you?" "Well," I mumbled in true humility (the humility of one not caught in nefariousness--that would be humiliation--but one who feels flattered but knows he's not perfect, that he could feel flattereder), "I skipped around a bit."

This all stemmed from being disappointed that a so-called baseball dictionary didn't include the wonderful word "donnybrook" (a free-for-all or brawl). There was doubt written all over her from the get go about the currency/legitimacy/existence of the word, so when I resorted to hauling out a "standard" dictionary to prove my point, I was greeted with "hunh"--not the genuinely intrigued, well-now-I-just-learned-something-I-hadn't-hitherto-known-before hunhs, but a more exasperated, fine-I'll-let-you-have-this-one-but-that-doesn't-mean-you're-still-not-quite-the-pill-in-my-book hunh. Which all led to me erupting a few minutes later with, "You want a really good word? A word most people have never heard of, let alone use?" (Of course these questions were rhetorical, as if anyone would answer them in the negative, so I didn't wait for her to reply). "'Hoyden'--a high-spirited, boisterous, or saucy woman." "What the--" was her rather, well, hoydenish (and only then did I realize the appropriateness of gifting this, yes, rather boisterous woman with such a splendid word) retort. The look she gave me screamed you're a huckster (which, incidentally is right across the page from hoyden in my dictionary), but her look changed soon enough when I whipped out the dictionary again and showed her "hoyden" in all its obscure but legitimate glory. That's when the downright accusation/flattery took place. Guilty/accepted.

Case in point (or maybe just a self-serving diversion to make this long post even longer): The other day I felt the urge to look up the word "torpor." Yes I already knew the word means "a state of inactivity or insensibility; lethargy, apathy," but the stickler in me (a close acquaintance who goes by the name of Leonard) wanted to be sure (okay, I'm borderline nuts, as if anyone could pronounce it any other way) of the word's correct pronunciation (let me make this clear right now, although those r's made me a tad skittish and I wanted to be sure, I am NOT one of those pronunciation commandos who go around pedantically correcting people's mispronunciations of words ["the word is pronounced zo-ology, not zoo-ology, unless, of course, you live in a zoo!" he said rather nabobily], although I still get a kick, years later, out of the for-all-intents-and-purposes-quite-learned person who in public once pronounced the exquisite word "gibberish" as gib-ber-ish rather than jib-ber-ish [though maybe that was the person's point--gibberish to the nth degree is not just jib-ber-ish but downright gib-ber-ish]; and oh, why not, we're already quagmired in parentheses, how about the fuss over the pronunciation of the word "forte" [something in which one excels]: for years everybody went with for-tay, but lately more people are going--a bit peevishly, in my view--with the one syllable fort; technically the word comes from the French and should be pronounced fort, but the Italian musical term forte [for-tay] meaning "in a loud, forceful manner" [Pierre corrected forte my mispronunciation of the word forte], has kind of been mixed up in it all and most people seem to say for-tay, as in "correct pronunciation of obscure words is one of my many fortes"; most arbiters of these kinds of things [we all have crosses to bear] accept this Italian usurpation of the French [commendable choosing of sides there!] and acknowledge the legitimacy of for-tay along with fort [which all makes sense to these ears; somehow one's strong points sound much cooler when they're for-tays rather than mere forts, which if we had a day or two might be kind of ironic; although wouldn't for-tay sound cooler, if maybe not as manly, for the word that--unimaginative military types--means "a fortified place"? "Whatcha building with all those couch cushions there, Billy?" "It's my super neato for-tay, sir!"; although in strict military terms, I guess the word might be a bit effete [rhymes with defeat, so there]: "No one will be able to penetrate our well-fortified for-tay, will they Maurice [pick either Morris or Mor-eece, whichever makes the joke funny/ier]?"). (And of course, I think it's clear that my mere picking up the dictionary and making the effort to look up "torpor" simply to confirm its correct pronunciation [let alone all the divergent thoughts such action provoked and the subsequent ramifications of the act, of which this post is the {hopefully} ultimate], prove that at the time I most definitely was not in any way in a state of torpor.)

But back to my original point about the joys of dictionary reading. In the few seconds it took me to find torpor in the dictionary, I chuckled thinking about what a great word torporific would be: "Geez that meeting was torporific." "Imagine that! I looked up the word operatic in my thesaurus and the only word there was torporific." "'Ostentatiously torporific' said the critic about my dance interpretation of Mein Kampf." But the joke was on me, because right there in the holy dictionary, after the pronunciation and definition was this: torporific adj. Great minds think alike notwithstanding, this discovery made me curious about ific. At first glance, and one usually doesn't get beyond that, I assumed it was a very positive suffix thing. As in terrific or splendific. I can't be the only one who kind of in some way equates ific with chocolate, right? But then I thought about horrific. If there's such a word as horrific, why not torporific? And then, deeper--wouldn't terrific, ironically, come from terror? Kind of like awful coming from full of awe? Such lexical miscegenation of good and bad--are the Tea Partiers aware of such evil?! I had to get to the bottom of this ific thing (of course if my years of Latin class had been more studious I would have, um, already been at the bottom). No Luddite I, for convenience's sake I took to the World Wide Web (and what happens if, as any devoted Coast To Coast A.M. With George Noory follower knows is imminent, full disclosure of extra terrestrial life becomes reality and we learn that aliens from other worlds/galaxies/universes/dimensions are tapped into life on this Earth and even tapped into our Internet? Might there indeed be a Steve Jobsless future of a Universe Wide Web? Would we have to change all our url's from the ubiquitous, don't-even-mention-it-anymore WWW to UWW?). At (http://www.)dictionary.com/ I learned that that nifty ific tag comes from the Latin fic, "a combining form meaning 'making,' 'producing,' 'causing.'" Fics sense to me. Something that's torporific causes torpor, horrific causes horror. Duh. But the best part, no really, was that in the list of examples, included with honorific, pacific (never thought of that one, did you?) and prolific, was this word--frigorific. Oh, the mind reels and careens. Frigorific (definitely frig-or-if-ic, not fridge-or-if-ic). "That friggin' frigorific meeting was so torporific I feel like hurling myself in the friggin' Pacific." Alas, such action just might be a tad frigorific, because that word (heretofore unknown to and unheard of by me, but ecstatically welcomed like a little lost lamb) means "causing or producing cold." Come wallop me, winter. I'm fortified (or fortayified) like never before: "It's not the snow, it's that frigorific wind." Fortified for the coming political storm, too: "Look, I met the guy. I could never vote for someone with such a frigorific handshake." Fortified for anything, now that I've got this word in my arsenal. "It'll be a frigorific day in Hell when I disown my dictionary." Unfortunately, the word is supposedly now "obsolete." Well, I say, come on 99%, unoccupy frigorific Wall Street and let us all occupy the word frigorific and make it unobsolete.

I love the ific idea. Causing, producing, making. Seems to me there's a motivational fortune to be made with the "From Iffy to Ific: Transform Your Life Now!" slogan.

But anyway, enough's enough. Or is it? Yes I have read and continue to read the dictionary. Got a problem with that? In fact, I'll go so far as to say I vociferously advocate the dictionary as your next Book Club book. The choice is yours. You can either spend ten hours of your life wading through the latest "middle-aged hoyden has donnybrook with frigorific husband, quits her day job to follow her bliss and exploit her forte of crafting natural, environmental-friendly donuts, flirts too terrifically with the decidedly unfrigorific truck driver (OMG!) who delivers her dough, sinks into the abyss of torpor, and is eventually re-awakened to the joys of her unmanque life via Pilates and Rhoda reruns" tome and then spend another two hours discussing all the empathetic epiphanies the book inspired with a dozen of your closest buddies, or you can spend a mere three hours rummaging through and across and up and down and back and forth some ratty under-utilized dictionary, experience epiphanies out the wazoo, truly turn your life from iffy to ific, and have a riotous two hours sharing your discoveries with those same friends. I dare you.

And btw: another great word, drivel (kind of rhymes with civil).

Truckin'

2011-10-04T10:40:00.000-04:00

The calendar says it's October 4th, 10-4, which means only one thing here at spitoutyourgum: our (kinda) annual salute to the world's truck drivers. They supply us with what we need and like, haul away what we're through with, amaze us with their maneuverability skills, and daze us with fantasies of life on the road. Or whatever. But getting to know a few drivers over the years, I've come to respect them and appreciate the fact that they're great characters. So, in celebration of these men and women, I humbly offer a poem I wrote nearly twenty years ago (don't think the red light factoid is still fact), before I really knew any drivers. A bit of splenetic piece of poesy this, an imaginary kiss-off, an all-purpose empathetic paean to the you-broke-my-heart blues--a message so hefty I felt only a qualified, and quality, truck driver could be trusted to deliver it. Thank you, drivers.

Driving You Away

I need a big
18-wheeled truck
To haul away
The memory of you.

The truck driver
(I see him as a cussing type,
Impressively fat with a mustache
That'll cut your nose
When you kiss him),
I'd give this guy,
Who I'm gonna call Hector,
I'd give Hector enough quarters
To get through all the tolls
To get to where I'm sending him.
You see, I'm willing to pay the price.

I'll start him heading south on 71
Out of this panic-quick Cleveland town
'Til the sign for 70 west Indianapolis
--which humdrum he's gonna bypass--
But he's going right through East St. Louis
West to St. Louis where he's gonna drive around some.
I like a big rig on city streets,
Makes you jittery
Making wide right turns,
Cutting commuters off
With that Arch in sight always
--whatever goes up, baby
comes metallic down the other side--
Then a run red light
And it's dirty river south
Down 55 through Memphis and Jackson and deeper.
And he will be instructed
Not to acknowledge any scenery
--not that Hector is wont to do such a thing--
But he will not stray from his mission:
He's driving you away,
And after this ride,
You will not come back.

Down into Louisiana he's gonna
Catch that desperately long Pontchartrain bridge
And when he gets to that halfway point
Where he can't see land ahead of him
Or behind him,
He's gonna stop that rig, shut it down,
Irregardless of traffic
And courtesy
And he's gonna shout from his cab perch,
“Not yet, baby! You ain't being abandoned
In this nowhere, yet. We got traveling to do.”
Then he starts up again.

And when he hits land he heads fast right
West on 10 way west
Past the sun through wide Texas
Where he can smell wasted Juarez, west.
And he will not jacknife.
And when some newly jerked kid
Pulls his arm down
From a mother-driven Aerostar
Just outside of Phoenix
Hector's gonna oblige and blow his horn loud
And that mother's gonna jump in her seatbelt
And slap that kid well to remind him
And Hector's gonna roll on west
1,947 miles times 18 wheels from New Orleans to L.A.
But he's not gonna push you off
The continent, baby, no.
He's heading 5 north now,
Largely for symbolic reasons:
It gets cold up north.
But in the desert of Sacramento
He's gonna start to circle 'round
--heading east on 80.

No,
Don't even think about it.
We're just toying with you, Hector and me.
'Cause somewhere out on 80,
Out in the dead west,
There's one red light
--the only red light left on 80, baby.
And that's
where the memory
of you
gets out.

Appropriately.

Happy Birthday Groucho Marx

2011-10-02T21:40:00.002-04:00

Barked Up The Wrong Tree

2011-09-30T10:56:00.000-04:00

It's a chicken or egg thing, isn't it? Folks and their names. You either better have a great sense of that infant sitting in your arms when you stick a name on it, or early on you better have a great sense of what your name means so as you can arrange your life accordingly, because if not--in either case--someone gets stuck with the wrong name and their whole life can be a rather painful exercise in disconnectedness. Take the above-pictured Stanchion Landreaux for instance (he's the one on top, the human; the dog below is Cooter, Tuck Jennings's bitch). With a name like Stanchion Landreaux you'd think he'd be a lord of the manor type, an expert tamer and ruler of his back 40, someone at peace with the chaos of nature, the wilderness. Far from it, though. As far as possible. The name notwithstanding, Stanchion Landreaux has the personal make-up of the guy standing in an office cubicle, licking glazed donut shards off his fingers and warning people that the toner is low, not like he knows how to do anything about it. If his daddy had been half as wise as he purported and comported himself to be, he would have named his only son something like Phil and done away with the whole Landreaux thing and just made it Landry. Folks is dumbasses most of the time.

It's not like Stanchion is a idiot or nothing. He's got qualities on the plus side. There ain't nobody in the county organize a better pancake breakfast, logistically speaking, than Stanchion. And if you don't mind the odd wince or cringe, his homebrew tastes pretty...well, it gets the job done. Takes the best action photos of the high school's cheerleaders too. That's something. But take him anywhere beyond the smell of a drive-thru or sight of concrete and that boy is more helpless and useless than tits on a shotgun.

So it was with much trepidation in my soul, and I know Curtis Loganbeck's too, when that fool Armsted Callow invited Stanchion along on our annual hunt this year. "Somebody don't get killed or maimed, I'll take it as a happy accident," I told Loganbeck. "Sureshit," he replied, feeling loquacious.

"I'm gonna get me a bear," Stanchion announced when we were still setting up camp t'other side of T.C. Creek. Honey Bun, Stanchion's wife, is gonna have to re-pile that bouffant of hers when she gets the Visa bill for all the hunting haberdashery Stanchion treated himself to. To be kind, the man's portly. Why he needs seventeen layers of vests and such I have no notion.

"If'n a duck don't get you first," Armsted cackled.

"Sureshit," said Loganbeck, feeling convivial.

Anyway, but time passed, as it will insist on doing. We got a few bucks the second day, enough to keep me in venison jerky past March. Stanchion proved to be merely incompetent, which I took as a not insignificant victory. The third morning we was just finishing up the squirrel fritters--the Lunk Stevens way, not the Buddy Mac way, too reedy, them--when Armsted finally cracked with what Stanchion had been doing with the bacon grease every morning. Cracked as in, "Just now what in the hell you doin' with that bacon grease near every day, Stanchion?"

"Soaking my hankies in it," Stanchion replied like duh, as the young ones say. "What else you think I'm doin'? Blow your nose in a sea a bacon aroma like I do, you don't mind the allergy sniffles t'all."

Nonplussed, we all was, at that.

So that day we trekked a ways west, out toward Tuck Jennings's, looking for that big buck we'd seen the day before. "Got a trailer wall just begging for that buckhead," Armsted crowed. I know that trailer wall, opposite the Elvis painting. Call me prejudiced, but that buckhead'd look much better in my den.

"Buck schmuck," Stanchion spat. "I want me a bear. I do believe I'm getting the hang of this hunting thing right quick."

"Well," I offered," how about right quick hanging that shotgun elsewhere? I do kind prize my face is all."

"Sureshit," opined Loganbeck, feeling altruistic.

Half a mile later we were all zipping up, getting rid of Armsted's coffee in some brush, when the barking started. Cooter can smell Loganbeck across about five acres; I do believe the two of them are some kind of long lost kin. Well, a minute later that fyce comes charging down the trail running to Loganbeck, whose arms were already open wide waiting for the embrace, when Stanchion let out an "eeekkk!" (Jesus render me mute if it was anything but a bona fide housewife-encounters-mouse eeekkk!) ear-shattering enough to de-buck the whole county and half of the next one over, too. He--Stanchion--takes off running from whence we came like a monk who just stumbled onto Beale Street. Poor old Loganbeck, standing there waiting for a reunion slobbering like a 60-year-old spinster waiting on an "I do" and that dog run right past him hot on the trail of the turned-tail Stanchion, who by now was maxing out what little speed his corpulence allowed him and yelping sounds I ain't heard since Turgid Noyes had his unfortunate confab with that demonic chainsaw of Bullet Mull's. As he ran for what he thought was his life, Stanchion doffed layer upon layer of his still neatly creased togs, trying to gain more speed I reckon, in a exhibition of dexterity I would have bet anybody but Snipey Horne was far beyond Stanchion's capabilities. Provisions and all whatnot were falling out of pockets as Cooter's barking got closer and closer to Stanchion who, not unwisely if he had possessed the arbor-scaling skills of the twelve-year-old lithe boy he never had been, made the quick decision to get airborne in the nearest tree. But the result, well, that picture up there tells it more succinctly than I could ever muster words for.

That picture, by the way, was snapped by Loganbeck on Stanchion's very own leaping-cheerleader-full digital camera that had fallen out of one of his jettisoned vests' pockets. And as Armsted rolled in the mud cackling, and Tuck Jennings trotted toward us snarling, "c'mere, hound," and Cooter growled and wouldn't let go of Stanchion's ass pocket, and Stanchion whinnied "Help me, Sweet Jesus, help me!" and I surveyed the whole tableau with mild disgust at the entirety of human endeavor, Curtis Loganbeck, after the whizzing sound of the camera's "click," peeked out from behind the camera and, obviously feeling aesthetically proud, said, "Sureashellshit."

"Sixty-five dollars for these trousers," Stanchion lamented afterward, twisted all around and pawing at the bitten-out hole that used to be a back pocket and now just exposed a flabby glute. "Fourteen bucks for a lookalike brand at Wal-Mart," Armsted put in. Cooter lay on the ground snuffling the remains of Stanchion's pocket and hanky; we had been able to separate the dog from Stanchion's ass, but no sane man was going to try to separate dog from fabric or scent. "Beast loves her bacon," was all Tuck offered in the form of explanation or apology.

Yep, Phil Landry would have made sense, but a Stanchion Landreaux barked up a tree with a bacon-soaked hanky makes a man question everything he thinks he knows about anything.

Speaking of which, I know I need to apologize to Orville Schank. God rest your soul, Orville, I know there ain't nothing useless about tits on anything.

The Red Sox Win Nothin'! The Red Sox Win Nothin'!, or, The Two Greatest Baseball Games I Experienced Without Seeing Or Hearing Either One

2011-09-29T12:02:00.000-04:00

Any truth to the rumors that, twelve hours later, when you call the Boston area Suicide Hotline you're still getting the "all circuits dead" message?

Oh God, is baseball not the greatest game ever? Yes, a month or so after giving up all hope in my Cleveland Indians' surprise season, I've rebounded to take full part in the city's second favorite pastime: taking extreme pleasure in the sports heartbreaks of other cities. You'd think nothing could top this spring's LeBron-led Miami Heat's flame out in the NBA Finals, but really, that wonderful event pales in comparison to last night's baseball goings on in Baltimore and Tampa. LeBron, after all, is nothing but a misguided, fingernail-chomping, insecure kid. Sure it was great for us Clevelanders to see him lose, but it was strictly a one-man show. But Boston? Red Sox Nation? Good Bucky Dent to see it all collapse on the BeanTowners is nothing short of sports nirvana for this Cleveland fan.

Now it's true that my father was a native New Englander and a lifelong Red Sox fan. And it's true that when growing up in the fallow 70s when Cleveland Indians baseball was beyond lousy, I actively rooted against the Red Sox in both '75 and '78 while watching the games with my father. But it was never some antagonistic father-son psycho-drama--I just didn't like most of the Red Sox players then (and who wouldn't take the Big Red Machine or the Bronx Zoo Crazies over the Bosox in those years?) and through the years I have never much cared for their players. But as I grew older the whole force (farce) that is Red Sox Nation grew more and more tiresome. "Long-suffering (i.e. insufferable), rabid Red Sox fans"? Bah. They give both suffering and rabies a bad rap. Such Bosox fans (no need to forgive me, father; you liked them but never were obnoxious about it) are the stray strand of hair on the sumptuous plate of sports--joykillers in extremis. I'm on record as saying I'd rather see the Yankees win 10 straight championships than watch the Red Sox win anything. The Yankees are the devil, yes, but like the devil, they're kind of good to have around, if for nothing more than keeping one's faith life alive and kicking. Plus, their drama is fun, while Red Sox drama is just so much theatre of cruelty stuff.

But I digress. I also, it seems, am regressing. After growing up watching baseball on TV (anyone else remember Harry Jones and Mudcat Grant calling Tribe games on WJW-TV 8 or Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubeck on NBC's beloved Baseball Game of the Week? It's against all my instincts of being a gentleman to even mention Fox Sports and Joe Buck and Tim McCarver), over the last fifteen years or so, having eschewed much of TV, I have discovered the absolute pleasures of following baseball on the radio. But last night, during baseball's greatest night since at least Kurt Gibson's limp-off homerun in the '88 Series, I went back in time even further. Maybe, unbelievably, there's a latent Conserative (I can't even spell the word correctly) Republican lurking deep inside of me who wishes to experience a young Ronald Reagan re-creating Cubs games in a radio studio somewhere in the outback of the Midwest, because I absolutely delighted in following the simultaneous Oriole-Bosox, Yankee-Ray melodramas on ESPN.com's Gamecast.

Trust me baseball fans, you haven't lived until you've followed a game (or two) you really care about until you've stared at your computer screen and seen what ESPN does with a game. There's an (barely) animated diamond graphic (think the ancient video game Pong crossed with the cheap APBA-knockoff dice baseball game I used to play with a small cardboard ballpark and red plastic things representing baserunners), more stats than you could ever dream of, and an almost real-time pitch-by-pitch report popping up. You get each pitch's location on a strike zone graphic. You get pictures of the batter and pitcher. You get up-to-the-out-and-even-pitch probability percentages for runs scoring that inning and "projected winner" of the game. But the best--each pitch is depicted with a small white dot zooming from mound to plate. When a blue light comes on signifying that the pitch is "in play" the white dot slowly, torturously slowly, traces the path of the real-live ball thousands of miles away. I logged on just as Evan Longoria hit the three-run homer in the eighth last night that pulled the Rays, who were down 7-0 at the beginning of the inning, to within 7-6. In what must have taken fifteen excruciating seconds, the white dot lofted away from home plate and (I love this, you could see the ball's shadow on the field) slowly made its way to and beyond the left field fence. Of course, every mere pop out from then on started out looking like a homer, adding an incredible amount of suspense to the experience. My imagination, hopes and fears (and blood pressure) rose and sank, twisted and turned with each slow-moving white dot until finally I could read the result of "in play." I've ridden world-class rollercoasters whose thrills were nothing compared to charting the course of that white dot and waiting for the word on what just happened. Exuberance.

Now this is not the first time I've followed an inning or two on Gamecast, but since the last time I did, ESPN (but wait, there's more!) has added something more--real-time Tweets from various reporters on the scene. In my ethos, Twitter means less than the price of twine in Botswana, but I did get a kick out of reading these instant thoughts while waiting for that white dot to stop its crawl to the seats or somebody's glove. The best came in about the 11th inning in Tampa. A guy wrote, "when this game started, Tommy John still had feeling in his elbow." I hadn't laughed that hard with regard to baseball since Mark McGwire expressed his intention not to talk about the past in front of Congress. Little did I know at the time that in a few minutes, right 'round midnight, appropriately, would I be laughing ecstatically when in the span of about three minutes, my Gamecast recreations would show me Baltimore's two-out two-run walk-off win rally to KO the Bosox, then Evan Longoria's second homerun of the night, a walk-off solo shot in the bottom of the 12th that kicked the dirt onto the Bosox corpse.

But I digress again (funny how writing about Boston's historic, worst-ever September collapse just keeps intruding). That paragraph's real intention was to write about those Tweets. Besides the great Tommy John line, I must say I was distracted by the beguiling Twit-pic of Boston Globe reporter Amalie Benjamin (so not all things in Boston are cringe-worthy; I feel your pain, Amalie).

The great thing about Longo's walk off (well, great in proportion to the Rays, who I believe started the year with baseball's lowest payroll [or near the bottom, anyway], rallying so mightily [in all of September, in just this game] and obliterating the Red Sox, who were everybody's pick back in the spring to win not only the AL but the Series as well, after another off-season spending spree) was that instead of soaring high on the Gamecast screen, the white dot made a bee-line down the third base line (a dying, dilatory bee--the thing must have taken twenty seconds) all the way to the wall, leading me to believe, after first thinking it was a bunt, then a routine grounder to third, that Longo had doubled down the line. But the little (I don't know what color) blob signifying baserunning Longo didn't stop at second, so I'm thinking triple?, and then didn't stop at third, so I'm thinking, a ~~walk~~sprint-off inside-the-park-homer to cap off an unbelievable comeback win to put the Rays in the playoffs and kill off the Red Sox--too much, way too much for this amazing night. Well, that would have been too much. As it was, eventually Gamecast told me Longo hit it over the fence. The thing is, when I actually saw the highlight video, that homerun was indeed a line shot right down the line, so that bee-line white dot, rather than a default soaring one, was completely accurate, as accurate as a cheap, Pong-like animated recreation could be. ESPN, I'm hooked. I'll be Gamecasting throughout the playoffs.

What more could I wish for? A perfect, thrill-filled ending to a glorious night of baseball. Introduction to a new technology that improbably helps me regress further in my love of baseball. A reason to finally follow someone on Twitter. And, best of all, the Boston Red Sox go down in a monumental victory manque.

What more? Well, maybe this as the new "Welcome To Boston" sign:

I Know It's In Here, or, I'm Glad I Don't Own A Purse

2011-09-27T10:04:00.000-04:00

We've all been there, whether you're young, old, male, or female--a woman opens up her purse and starts the hunt. Hands disappear in a sea of stuff, things bubble up from down below you and even the woman are amazed at ("Oh, so that's where my tube of fix-a-flat went to"), pens, keys, and tissues fly out like so much shrapnel, and upon that golden "I know it's in here, just give me a second," you go blank and begin to ponder eternity's breadth. As a man who occasionally works a cash register, the overstuffed, disorganized purse is one mighty bane. Nothing kills the quick handling of a long retail line like a woman with a messy purse looking to write a check. You hover with a pen at the ready, knowing that if after finally locating her checkbook (now there's a money-raining app to develop--a mini-GPS tracking device for the stuff in one's purse, though I guess most women would put the device in their purse and have to find it first before they could use it to find all the other stuff) she then has to suss out a pen, the man behind her buying just one two-bit item might die or kill, depending on how much he fears mace or a handgun lurking somewhere in that purse. If I'm in a puckish mood, I wait until after the check is (finally) completely written before saying, "I'll need to see some ID, please." Makes a guy wish he had a Monty Hall haircut and a wad of dough: "I'll give you fifty bucks if you can rummage out some dice, and another C-note if you come up with my missing teal sock."

This is all cramming my mind like tubes of lip balm, hand sanitizer, and white-out in a purse because the other morning I woke up to this tidbit on the radio--during her lifetime, the average woman goes through 111 purses. Well, owns/utilizes 111 purses; my estimate would be she "goes through" a purse about 111 x 111 times in an average month. Now I have a friend who's probably getting close to buying his one hundredth golf putter, but beyond such eccentricity, I can't think of any male equivalent to this 111 purses per woman stat. Now don't mistake all of this for a sexist rant. In reality, I'm thanking God men don't have purses; if so, this world would be in even worse shape than it is. I mean, let's face it--women stuff all of their stuff in a relatively small, portable place. Men spread their junk out everywhere. My car--glove compartment, passenger seat, back seats, and trunk--functions merely as my "clutch" purse. I've got closets, drawers, and a Pisan mountain of boxes serving as my real purse. And if I had a garage, ooh baby, it would be a large, shoulder-strapped imitation leather one with all sorts of hidden pockets. I heard a woman recently say this about her house--her husband gets the basement for his stuff, she gets two closets. Good God, if the average man had access to a purse, commerce, diplomacy, and for all I know sexual relations would cease to exist. As frustrating as it is, a woman digging through her purse looking for something pales in comparison to what a guy digging through his would be. Try this test to prove my point. Approach any middle-aged couple in a shopping plaza. Kindly ask the woman to dump her purse. Take stock of all the junk in it. Look at the husband, size him up, and imagine all the crap he would have in his purse. Repair to the nearest tavern to wash away the psychotic vision.

Not to say that a purse can't be an attractive, even tempting item for a man. Not in an "ooh, tres chic" way, but simply in an "oh, that's damn functional" way. I'm sure I'm not the only red-blooded, gadget-loving American male who's long been fascinated by those purse commercials on TV (it's been nearly twenty years since I've had regular access to a TV, but I assume those commercials are still out there). The ones that brag about the magic purse's disorganization-proof design. The purse with the fifty-two pockets and easily accessible key-ring snaps. But wait, there's always more--hidden zippered caches "for your valuables" (like you're gonna stuff your mink stole into it), and an umbrella that shoots out of nowhere the second the purse gets wet. Oh, the allure of the organized life! As a kid I'd watch those long commercials in amazement, thinking, if I were a woman, that's the purse I'd own, and wishing I had the means to get one for my mother (what could possibly be a better present for an 11-year-old boy to get for his mother than the Wonder Purse?), but alas, what with school and all, even if I did have the monetary means, the D of COD would have been difficult to manage. Those commercials were so persuasive to me that I used to roam the malls of my childhood astounded that every woman on the planet didn't own an Amazing Purse.

So ladies, today I celebrate your purses. That you have them, endure them, and don't swing them at snarky guys like me who roll our eyes every time you take the plunge and go spelunking in them for God knows what. Go ahead, splurge today and make your way one purse closer to that magical 111. May I suggest this brand...

Didn't Fall On Me

2011-09-25T21:07:00.001-04:00

Excuse my absence the last few days; I was out trying to catch space junk.

Yep, when I read that the odds of a person getting hit by that falling satellite were much better than winning lotto, I decided to cast my catch-lightning-in-a-bottle-get-rich-quick-scheme dreams on the sky instead of an obviously fixed governmental agency computer and bouncing ping pong balls.

I packed some peanut butter crackers, bug repellent, and an old polaroid camera and set off for the wilderness, having paid heed to those NASA wags who said the school-bus-sized piece of space age jetsam would most likely land in an uninhabited area. That's how I ended up spending my weekend in downtown Cleveland. Being a symbolic sucker, I stopped by a sporting goods store and purchased some catcher's equipment. I duly scribbled my favorite Mitch McConnell quotes of the week all over the not-too-broken-in mitt and found a nice sized field of rye sprouting up in what used to be a nice sized Giant Tiger parking lot. Soon, reeking of Off and chomping on crackers, I pounded the mitt, looked heavenward, and started to sing the late R.E.M.'s dreamy "Fall On Me" song. Visions of a guest appearance on Coast To Coast A.M. With George Noory, probing debriefings from NASA, and a million-dollar offer to tell my story to Parade magazine made me squint a little harder into the sky for a piece of falling used space trash. Nothing.

Some hours later I took to squatting behind a makeshift home plate (really just a discarded New York Yankees dew rag) and every so often flipping my catcher's mask off in a hurry, running back to an imaginary screen, and shouting Yo La Tengo while holding the mitt basket catch style. I caught a wayward leaf once, but nothing else.

As day turned to night then to day and then to night again, and my mitt remained empty, I started to ponder this latest expedition of mine, some kind of nerdy Sandford & Son odyssey in search of pie in the sky space junk. Is this what the American Dream has come to, I wondered, sitting around waiting for a school bus to come crashing out of the sky at my feet? Still, I concluded, it'd make a helluva story. I stuck it out another 24 hours. Caught a cold, a warning from a cop, and a chipmunk named Sal. But no space junk, no glory, no quick riches.

So this afternoon I called it quits. I sauntered over to the site of old League Park, buried my catcher's gear there behind what looked like it mght have been home plate, and wended my way home, silently repeating that great Jack Nicholson line from One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest: "Well I tried, didn't I? At least I did that!" And upon returning home (which is what all journeys are about, aren't they?) I found a thing much rarer than falling space junk--a comment. From Alaska. Email me Will.

Get Your OWG Right Here

2011-09-22T09:13:00.000-04:00

So I'm feeling pretty good yesterday, just like a man who effected the perfect mix of caf and decaf in his coffee maker should feel. On my way to work I had the quickest, most efficient post office stop of my life--no waiting for me but I managed to make the clerk wait while I shuffled through my wallet looking for the five bucks to pay for my ten stamps. Yeah, it was a day to whistle. Then, as soon as I walk into work, I'm greeted by my boss's slyly smiling mug. To make a long story short, the boss asked me if, when I was working at Borders, I had ever made a mix tape for a customer. Well, seeing that I have made mix tapes for just about every sentient person on the planet, of course my answer was yes. A couple years ago a customer was upset that the CD he ordered, a Lee Michaels one with his only real hit, "Do You Know What I Mean," on it, was unavailable. So in the best customer service, which is my natural default setting, I told the guy, no problem. The next day I had a CD with the guy's much-coveted song along with a bunch of great obscure original versions of songs that became famous via covered versions (operating on the seemingly false assumption that "Do You Know What I Mean" was covered by Peter Wolf/J. Geils Band). Anyway, I called the guy up, left a message that his personalized CD was waiting for him, and that was it. He picked it up sometime when I wasn't there, and I never heard from him again. Well, it turns out the guy has been trying to track me down, I guess. He told my boss he had been to various bookstores looking for me. The kicker, the thing that made my boss smile slyly, was that at first the guy thought my boss was me. Now in a very general, squinting across a football field kind of way, my boss and I kind of resemble each other. The guy thought my boss might have been me because, in his words, he was looking for an "older white guy."

I'm two years older than my boss, the oldest guy at my present place of work. Methinks the biggest contributing factor to my boss's let's face it shit-eating grin is that although he might have felt old being confused for an "older white guy," he could take comfort in the fact that although he may be an old white guy, in this case there is an older white guy, namely me.

As they say in the Major Leagues, it's a short passage of time between being a prospect and being a suspect. If indeed one's forties are a time of middle-age crisis, a renewed "search for identity," then I guess my search is now concluded--I am the Older White Guy (OWG).

I think we can all agree that one of the greatest one-liners in all of musical history is this one from Prince's "Kiss": "Act your age, not your shoe size" (for the record I'm exactly six times my shoe size). I was reminded of this line yesterday as I bristled with all sorts of mixed emotions. I was kind of elated that my admittedly great mix tape had encouraged a total stranger to seek me out. But I was also a bit depressed at being described as an OWG, well, really just the O part. But then (and let me just add here, for the benefit of my younger readers who may not be aware of such things, at one time the pop universe virtually revolved around the diminutive Purple One's skinny, pastel-thonged ass) Prince's squeal echoed through my consciousness. What I heard in that wonderful, double-tracked exhortation was not admonishment, but encouragement--embrace it, Dan, embrace.

And so I stand before you today (actually sit, my back's killing me) a fully proud, fully accepting, Older White Guy. Now I realize the OWG moniker might not possess the same hip cachet of Older Black Guy or Older Native American Guy, but dammit, I've got wisdom, too. I can rub my knee with hard-earned experience and tell anybody within earshot, "S'gonna rain, you watch." I can proclaim with equanimity and first-hand knowledge, "Nixon had some good qualities." I can add cryptically, after any youngun's long rant about the state of the world, "I seen it all before." Geez, come to think of it, I can now fart loudly, if not totally proudly--yet--in public, knowing that the only response will be, "Oh, it's just OWG, they can do that, don't mind him." God, this is going to be fun.

I can now fully take ownership of that phrase that's been creeping into my speech more and more lately--"When I was a kid." Time was, when I was a kid and some OWG said, "When I was a kid," all I could see in my mind was a grainy black and white photo of boys in knickers selling afternoon papers with the headline "Japs Surrender" for a penny from a wooden cart. What do these goddamn kids today see when this OWG cranks up the "when I was a kid" wax cylinder of his voice? Day-glo pictures of bell-bottomed freaks protesting against the man? I'll take it over what those goddamned kids twenty, thirty years hence will picture when they're enduring their OWG's reminiscences--goateed, dorky glasses-wearing tenth-generation hipsters watching YouTube videos of their cohorts planking.

Of course, I should have seen all of this coming. A couple weeks ago, a very nice young co-worker, in all sincerity, asked me how I dealt with the Vietnam draft. Seems like I remember playing with my beloved Talking GI Joe Doll (God, what that must be worth on eBay these days), as I was all of nine years old when the U.S. ended its involvement in "Indochina." OWG, indeed.

I should have seen it coming when, just minutes before encountering my boss's I'm-old-but-you're-older-guy smile, I heard the news that the band R.E.M. have called it quits. I was the perfect age, 19, when R.E.M. burst on the scene, so I duly swooned. I literally watched them grow from bar band (Peabody's Down Under, summer '83, with the Replacements opening--the two bands that made up 75% of my listening pleasure circa '83-'87) to arena rockers. I own the picture sleeve early 45s and 12"s. When people--goddamned kids, all of them--at work snidely reacted with, "I didn't know they were still together"--I countered, "I did. I own all their albums, including their last one, released a few months ago" ("there's a couple of good tracks on it, really"--the sadly too-often-used opinion I've been defending the REMsters--as Neil Young called them back when they were just goddamned kids--for years now). Why? Because I am what I am, OWG. So, REMsters, join me in embracing our new status, OWGs. Fart proudly Bill, Peter, Mike, and Michael, and thanks for all the great music and concerts you provided me over the years, all the way back to when I was a kid. And sir customer, whoever you are, stop by and look up this OWG and I'll make you a couple killer R.E.M. mixes.

Now excuse me, it's getting late and I must go trim my white nose hairs.

Leftovers

2011-09-20T21:32:00.000-04:00

For the second night in a row I had a plate of leftover spaghetti and meatballs, which means I've eaten spaghetti and meatballs for three nights in a row, which is a mere 362 nights short of my dream. Sure a little something is lost via the microwave vs. fresh out of the steaming pot, but even two-day-old leftover spaghetti and meatballs tastes great. Almost as good as leftover meatloaf. Of course, nothing beats leftover chili, which actually seems to get better (if that's possible) after a day or two. Thanksgiving leftovers get all the good press, and they certainly are good, but nothing beats the holy triumvirate of leftover spaghetti and meatballs, meatloaf, and chili in my book.

Alas, there does come a time, however, when one must clean out the tubs of leftovers in the fridge, that slippery wedge of cranberry sauce, that styrofoam box of cold french fries, etc. In such a spirit, then, presently I'm going to clean out this blog's fridge of leftover ideas and false and aborted posts. These are the what-might-have-beens, the notions that for one reason or another didn't quite gel into the usual genius posts my readers--you--have grown so accustomed to. I'm sure even DaVinci had some crumpled up half-sketches in his wastebasket. Take them for what they are, the calisthenics, perhaps, that result in the finely-honed prose you read here regularly.

having never watched an entire episode of Friends in my life, maybe take a week off from everything, view the complete series, and share with the world the wisdom you glean
I'm writing this post on May 1, 2011, and will post it on October 1, 2011: Hah, if the Indians are in first place this late in the season, there's no stopping them this year. Not injuries, not inexperienced players, and certainly not a Detroit Tigers hot streak toward the end of the year. I told you so.
what's a rightover? a mysterious container in the fridge you finally remove and throw away without even checking/assessing the contents of? a plate of stuff from somebody's party you don't want that they insist on wrapping up for you and which you know you'll take right over to the trash can when you get home?
a long, incisive piece about the aging watershed for the Children of the 70s that is the impending onset of menopause for Chastity Bono
just what is my hang-up with the word "effluvium"?
is it too soon for another blog about how great Bob Dylan is?
which sport would be easier to learn and take up and be good at into my 50s? cricket or jai alai?
There was a young man from the county of Orange/Who da da, da da, da da da da/He tried a banana/But those winds of Santa Ana/Da da, da da, da da da da

How To Enjoy The Cleveland Browns' Game Day Experience

2011-09-18T10:35:00.000-04:00

Yes, that headline should read How To ~~Enjoy~~ Endure The Cleveland Browns' Game Day Experience, but I can't figure out how to make that strike out thing in my headlines, much like the Browns can't figure out how to have a winning season, so, like any Browns fan, you're just going to have to live with it.

For me the Browns' season begins today, the second week of the NFL season, partly because I had to work last Sunday and missed most of the game--the part where they were winning--but mostly because after 40 years of fandom, I've learned that it takes one real game to re-set all my default disappointment settings. Truly, even after 40 years of assiduously following this team, it takes the opener's usual slap in the face to remind me that the implausible, nay, the impossible, is not only possible but a sure thing, that surrealism is a realistic warhorse on the shores of Lake Erie, and that dreams are for rubes. Once these universal truths of "Browns nation" (which if it were truly a nation, would mix the worst of Lichtenstein, Chad, and the stateless Palestinians) are re-established, then one can progress to enjoying another season for what it's worth--basically masochistic diversion, not that there's anything wrong with such a thing.

Since their Phoenix-like rebirth in 1999 (they've got the burning up thing down pat; the rising thing is a perpetual work-in-progress), the Browns have been a rather capable substitute for reading the Book of Job. They once lost a game after winning it (on opening day, mind you--a Bunyanesque wake-up slap in the face) because a member of the team took his helmet off in celebration a few seconds early, and have won a game after losing it (a crazy scenario in Baltimore, no less, a few years ago which involved a ping-ponging field goal attempt and an "after further review" replay conducted while the teams were doffing their pads in the locker room; they then had to don them again to play some OT). So, in the spirit of this every-game-we're-not-in-Kansas-anymore spell that oppresses the Browns, and the fact that nobody has come up with the magical ruby red cleats yet, I offer some hard-won wisdom on how to endure, survive, and just maybe enjoy a minute or two of this season's Browns football.

Listen, Don't Watch--The Browns stink. Ergo, the announcers assigned for the television broadcasts of their games are third-tier nobodies, which in itself stinks, but they're usually annoying nobodies to boot. Some lousy play-by-play announcer who can't pronounce half the names correctly spends half the game talking about the always inevitable revitalization of the City of Cleveland and some two-bit backup running back "the Browns brass is really high on." The color analyst you know only because you used to be really obsessed by the game and knew the rosters of every team, including the Atlanta Falcons' practice squad. But mainly you don't want to watch because some things just shouldn't be seen by the naked eye, namely, the Cleveland Browns attempting to play football. Believe me, anything that happens in the game that you might want to see will be replayed endlessly over the next few days, so you can always see it eventually. I mean, everyone will happily gawk at an accident seen after the fact, but no one wants to be involved in the accident, right? And my gosh, on radio you get to hear Jim Donovan, talk about endurers and survivors (welcome back, Jimmy). Donovan should get the gig for play-by-playing the coming Apocalypse; he's well-experienced and he can make it sound fascinating and humorous. Though one can't forget the late great Nev Chandler, the radio voice of the Browns in their last heyday 20+ years ago. Whenever the Browns ran a trick play you could always count on Nev saying, "The Browns are engaging in a bit of chicanery this afternoon." The word chicanery on an NFL broadcast--genius.
Take To Bed--If Sartre is correct that Hell is other people, Ultra-Hell is having to experience a Browns game with other people. Let's face it, a Browns game is nothing more than a metaphor for delving deep into the nooks and crannies of one's dark psyche and encountering all the hypocrisies, oxymorons, dichotomies, and gunk that lie therein. You don't want to inflict these personal devils on anybody else, and you really don't want to expose yourself to those of others. We enter this world alone and leave it the same way--use a Browns game to remind you of this cold truth. Besides, if the game gets out of hand you can always get something useful done, like turning your mattress or drifting off to harmless sleep.
Don't Drink--Save that 'til after, when you can either happily celebrate the anomaly of a Browns win or drown your sorrows properly. But good God, man, never imbibe in medias res. The Wallendas didn't chug a few before or during their tightrope ambles, heed their perspicacity. You don't drink while operating heavy machinery, right? Taking in a Browns game is the mental equivalent of maneuvering a half-dozen crates of fragile china with a fork-lift on a blizzardy rush hour I-480. Though, after some thought, drinking heavily well before the game might make some sense as really, nothing replicates a hangover like a Browns game.
Eradicate Hope--You know why I ask for a new dictionary every Christmas? Because I've wisely ripped out the page containing the word hope from my dictionary every year on September 1st. Hope is a friend indeed when buying Lotto tickets, facing a ten-foot, ten-dollar putt on the 18th hole when you have five bucks (plus the standard three pennies for ballmarkers) in your pocket, and when walking into a singles bar, but it serves absolutely no purpose, in fact is way counter-productive when it comes to the Cleveland Browns (notice I don't say "rooting for the Browns" because, well, admitting I do that just might be the straw that breaks the back on the camel that is the forces keeping me away from institutional commitment). If there were an equivalent song in football for baseball's "Take Me Out To The Ball Game," Browns fans would sing not "so let's root root root for the Brownies..." but "so let's endure endure endure the Brownies, for if they don't win it's all the same..." Hope with the Browns is like a condom in the wallet of a eunuch--pointless and only a cruel reminder of what could be but won't.

So, to sum up: In order to best experience another Cleveland Browns football season, be a sober, bed-ridden, hopeless Luddite. God, there's nothing like football, welcome back old friend!

Guest Host Post: It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time

2011-09-15T20:09:00.000-04:00

I thought it was a nice gesture, if not the epitome of magnamity. A guy I know, Russ, for the last couple of years has hosted a charitable golf outing, The Luddite Open. The charity is Russ himself. He swears 100% of all proceeds go to help pay his alimony. Since everyone who knows Russ likes his ex-wife Doreen a lot more than Russ, it seems like a good cause. The Luddite part comes in when you get to the course and Russ hands you a beaten up wood wood, most of them circa 1967 (Russ has strange collecting tastes; just ask Doreen about the amount and variety of whoopee cushions he amassed over the course of their 12-year marriage), and a dozen Top-Flite range balls fished out of a reservoir adjacent to a driving range outside of Clyde, Ohio. All the participants must play the entire 18 holes with the water-logged Top-Flites and must tee off on every hole with a wood wood. And the only carts allowed are the pull kind.

Anyway, somehow Russ is able to get people to donate door prizes, skill prizes, hole sponsorships, and items for a silent raffle that is the climax to the whole event--in true Luddite, guy-who-struggles-to-pay-his-alimony fashion, the "meal" at the end of the round consists of Kool-Aid poured from suspicious looking plastic pitchers, loaves of Wonder Bread and containers of generic peanut butter and jelly, and marshmallows for toasting on a small grill (BYOS--bring your own stick for those). So this year, obviously overestimating the popularity of this blog, I donated for the silent auction the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to "Guest Post" my blog. Whoever ponied up the most money for the privilege would be allowed free range on this blog to rant/rave/entertain/shill/whatever for one post. Knowing the kinds of participants the Luddite Open draws, I was thinking conservatively when I told Russ I thought the offer would bring in one, maybe two C notes--which is no small portion of Russ's monthly amount due.

Unfortunately, on the day of the outing my other altruistic endeavor, manning the phone lines for the local Grammar Hotline, got in the way: Just as I finished my round I got an urgent call regarding a semi-colon pile up at the home office of a summer school correspondence course woman who was trying to complete a term paper on just how Mia Farrow could fall in love with both Frank Sinatra and Woody Allen in one lifetime. So I missed the after-golf shindig. Nevertheless, I was anxious to find out who had won the guest-blogger prize. Russ was evasive when I called him a few days later. "Damn, I don't have the list of winners in front of me," he claimed. "I'm sure it's someone you'll know and they'll be getting in touch with you soon enough." Well, that was eight weeks ago, and quite frankly I had forgotten about the whole thing until I got a call from a guy named Lou last week wondering how he could claim his prize. After a weird chat of about five minutes it became clear Lou had no connection with Russ, indeed had never played golf in his life, and didn't even know what a blog is. I had to investigate.

The following is not pretty. After much badgering Russ admitted no one had bid on my donation and that he ended up giving it to some guy named Ralph who was a guest at the outing of our friend Ray and who, Ralph, was pissed that his door prize was a whoopee cushion signed by Soupy Sales. Ralph turned out to be a bit of a Neanderthal who told me he gave the "stupid thing" to his miscreant daughter Raynelle. Tracked down in a high school parking lot cutting class and smoking Native American Spirits, Raynelle, after I convinced her I wasn't trying to lure her into a circus life and that I wouldn't tell her father anything, admitted she used the piece of paper on which I had written my generous offer to write a rather raunchy note to some kid named named Ricky in Mr. Jettison's chemistry class, because, "like, he'll flunk you on the spot if he catches you texting, man." Ricky was a scared little would-be hood who confessed upon some arm-twisting (both figurative and, as it turned out, literal) that he had used the paper to wad up some gum ("my mother always told me to dispose of gum properly, not to just spit it out") when he went joyriding after school with some wayward friends who had stolen the car from the maintenance staff's parking lot and who ended up totalling it and abandoning it. Enter Lou, who drives a tow truck for a wrecker.

"I work in salvage, so I salvage. Everything's got some value. I want mine. Now what the hell is a blog?" Thus my introduction to Lou. Turns out the guy, though not particulary loquacious or creative in blogging terms, is a pretty nice guy. We've made plans to go bowling over the winter. Anyway, after much cajoling and attempted creative jump-starting, I here present Lou's blog post (Lou isn't much of a typist, so his entry was dictated):

Lou Barbuto's Top Ten List Of The Use Of The Number Ten (10)

10. "I can't really think of a tenth one. Are we finished now?"

9. "Technically it's not really a use of ten, but I liked the old ten dollar bills with the cars and the people on the back. Did you know you can see a guy hitchhiking, if you look really close?"

8. "Top ten lists, I guess. What the hell?"

7. "The Aerosmith song, 'Big Ten Inch Record.'"

6. "Ten fingers seems perfect to me. I once knew a guy named Ron who was born with six fingers on each hand. Looked freaky if you ask me. Toes I don't care about."

5. "First and ten. Football. Ten yards for a first down is excellent."

4. "Bowling. Ten pins perfectly arranged in that little triangle. Huh? And ten frames of course. It's all pretty cool." (note to self--write a blog about the differences between bowlers and golfers re what is cool)

3. "Pearl Jam's Ten album. Kick some ass, man."

2. "The Ten Commandments. Not the movie, I hate Heston, but the actual Ten Commandments. Gotta give God his due on that one."

1. "That bathing suit. Those cornrows. Bo Derek, the movie Ten."

(I'll be back next post.)

In Dreams, I See This Guy?

2011-09-13T11:07:00.000-04:00

Do you Coast? I've been Coasting faithfully for five years or so. I'm talking the greatest radio show ever--Coast To Coast AM With George Noory (though I also love George's Saturday night fill-in, Ian Punnett). Aliens, conspiracy theories, Bigfoot, all the 2012 dope you need to know--it's all here, nightly from 1 a.m. to 5 a.m. in the East, though my radio station usually plays the previous show's last hour from midnight to 1 a.m. George is a bona fide St. Francis of Assisi of the airwaves, always polite and comforting to all his crazy and/or intelligent listeners and guests. The best.

Anyway, last night I caught last Friday's last hour, the usual Friday "open lines." A lot of people were calling in telling George about their most significant dreams (the sleep movies, as opposed to the one-day -I'll-have-my-own-reality-show type). I was amazed at how vividly some people claim to remember dreams they had when they were little children. Of course I have vivid dreams all the time, but the ones I remember clearly upon waking are few and far between, and they certainly kind of evaporate over time (how many times, like this morning, do I wake in the middle of a particulary lively dream and can almost feel the memory dissolve and crinkle before my mind's eye?). So as I'm listening to people's most memorable dreams last night, as I myself was trying to drift away to dreamland, I started thinking about one particular dream that has stayed with me over the years, one of about five or six that haven't faded away altogether.

It must have been at least twenty years ago. In my dream I was ushered into a series of increasingly more secretive rooms by a few people who were strangers to me. Without knowing what was going on, I knew it was important. Finally I reached the final room. There, very much alive, but obviously on his death bed, lay Lenin, the (in)famous leader of the nascent Soviet Union. Lenin, himself, he of the steely facial hair and the imposing forehead. The purpose of my visit, it soon became clear, was to be allowed the obvious honor of touching the dying legend's forehead. I timidly stuck out my hand and Lenin actually leaned forward a bit off his death pillow, and I touched the famous forehead. End of dream, as far as I can remember.

Now eventually I have come to regard the dream as completely meaningless, the product of some short in my dusty synapses. But there was a time when the dream fascinated me for what it might mean. Could I (who, despite what some of my trueblood Red-state friends in this decidedly Blue county might think, possesses no Communist sympathies except when somebody brings a plate of homemade brownies to work) be destined to grow some cool facial hair, lose even more of my head hair, and end up leading the second great American Revolution, after having the torch passed through that forehead touch? So obsessed with finding the meaning to this dream was I that one crazy night in the French Quarter of New Orleans I decided to blow my last ten bucks not on a very budget tattoo but on a very budget Tarot card reading from one Madame Knew. In her smoky, ill-lit parlor I told Madame Knew all I could remember of the dream. She nodded her head gravely and then began turning over cards, making all sorts of unintelligble noises as each card was revealed. Unfortunately Madame Knew was a struggling single mother of four misbehaving boys; one of them had apparently mixed his baseball card collection in with his mother's Tarot deck, so when the ultimate card was flipped it ended up being a 1979 Topps Bucky Dent card. Madame Knew winced and shuddered then regained her composure and shrugged her shoulders. "Well," she looked at me with daggers in her eyes, "if you're a Red Sox fan you're destined for a life of continual heartbreak. If not, well, enjoy your great smile. End of session." She swept the cards off the table and ran out screaming, "Beauregarde, I'm gonna wring your little neck."

And that's it. When I think of the Lenin dream, as I did last night, I just smile.

Lenin, or as more intelligent, sophisticated people call him...

Oh, That Guy: Bravura!

2011-09-11T20:41:00.001-04:00

I love the Internet. Years ago, it had to be at the wonderful Cleveland Cinematheque, I saw a short film that's mesmermized my memory ever since. So mesmerized that I could never remember its name. But over the years, whenever I've had conversations about great movies, I always bring it up and try to describe it, but all I am able to say is that it's basically a one man show about some English Lord talking about his estate. Wickedly funny. And it stars Jim Broadbent. Broadbent is one of those "oh, that guy" actors. A lot of people don't know his name, but he turns up in a lot of movies--always the better for his acting--and is easily recognizable. I think I first fell in love with him in Mike Leigh's amazing film, Life Is Sweet. He's one of those actors who will pull me to a movie just because he's in it. Anyway, tonight I was determined to re-discover this short film. A few clicks not only gave me the name of the film, A Sense of History, directed by, of course, Mike Leigh, but also the film itself.

If anything, the film is even better than I remembered it from nearly 20 years ago--it's a British TV film from 1992. Broadbent is brilliant, and if you stick around for the credits (watch them all, there's one more bit at the end) you find out he also wrote the thing, which only serves to raise the man that much higher in my pantheon of cultural heroes. If Ray Davies wrote screenplays and acted instead of writing Kinks' songs, this is what he might have come up with on a dourly very good day. The film is a classic of black humor: macabre at times, witty, hilarious, and oddly moving. The language--the writing and how Broadbent delivers it--astounds me.

I can go on and on. I'm just happy to have found it after all these years and to be able to share its wonders. So, go get something to drink, settle in for a mere 25 minutes, and enjoy.

Voluntary What?

2011-09-09T11:20:00.000-04:00

So I'm sitting around this morning waiting for a plumber to show (Samuel Beckett got a modernist theatre of the absurd classic out of the same situation; I, and therefore you, get this measly blog post) and before I know it I'm reading the police blotter in the morning paper (yes, Cleveland has only one daily paper, but having been a paperboy for the late [roughly thirty years of late status] Cleveland Press afternoon paper, I curmudgeonly cling to nostalgia)--call it involuntary boredom. Anyway, amidst all the usual CVS and Target shoplifter items I found this story:

Voluntary intoxication, Coventry Road: A 20-year-old man from Illinois was arrested for voluntary intoxication following a call at 3:35 a.m. Sept. 2. The man reportedly attempted to enter a limousine without consent, leading to police being called.

Sounds like a Raymond Carver story written by Ernest Hemingway. Now the obvious first question, of anyone with any local knowledge, is just what in the hell is a limousine doing on Coventry? It's like a hackey-sacker wearing a football helmet (do people still hackey sack, by the way?). And you know what? If you've parked your limousine on Coventry at 3:35 a.m., I'm afraid you've lost any claims to actually granting consent to anybody who wants to attempt to enter it. It's 3:35 in the morning--anybody walking/staggering around then is going to be involuntarily wowed by the sight of an idling limo; the fact that they're going to want to check it out goes with the territory. Motor out to Pepper Pike if you're all hung up on the consent thing.

Needless to say, though, the bigger absurdity of this story is that "voluntary intoxication" nonsense. Is this what legalese has come to? Come back, George Carlin, all's forgiven. Unless you're under the age of let's say ten and/or a captive of somebody, intoxication is hardly involuntary. I mean, come on, "involuntary intoxication"? "Honest officer, I was going to stay home tonight and read me some Willa Cather, but my buddy called and his girlfriend just broke up with him. I didn't want those nine beers. I was just trying to be a friend who's 'always there.'" Or, "Your honor, I was just following good golf etiquette. How freaky is it that an entire fivesome makes holes in one and is obligated to buy everyone a drink? I was perfectly content with my Arnold Palmer."

And don't the laws of physics or something similar apply here? In order for something to exist, its opposite must exist, right? So if there's such a thing as voluntary intoxication there must be something called involuntary sobriety, right? Well, I guess being forced to watch a Republican Presidential Primary debate qualifies. At least that's a new one for the inevitable hundred-times-a-day "how are you doing" question: "Involuntarily sober, you?"

I don't know but I just don't like this intentional obfuscation of language we continue to involuntarily have to live with. Bring back the Mayberry World. At least back then Otis was what he was, the town drunk, not the regional municipality's reportedly voluntarily intoxicated person of interest.

It's In The Contract, Honey

2011-09-07T10:31:00.000-04:00

Say what you will about the French, but don't say their legal system doesn't stand behind the nation's image as THE place and people for love. Or at least what seems to pass for love in these jaded times--sex. I saw this story the other day about a French court fining a man 10,000 Euros for not providing his (now ex-) wife with enough sex over the course of their 21-year marriage (not being too versed in foreign currency exchange rates, I'll leave to you the figuring out of what a year's worth of marital sex amounts to in greenbacks). Essentially, it seems, the court ruled that sex is a mandatory, enforceable part of the marriage contract.

Now I don't know le squat about French culture, but something tells me if the ramifications of this ruling waft over the pond to these litigious, infamously Puritan/Gomorrahan, Saturday night/Sunday morning American shores, Judge Judy and her robed brethren and sisteren are going to be inundated with alleged sexually neglected spouses of both genders. Eventually the Roberts Court will have to decide the ultimate question of just how much is enough (can't wait to hear Scalia on that one). Could be an interesting federal/states rights argument, too. I mean can one Supreme Court mandated number ("couples should and must have sex X times in the course of one [non-leap] calendar year") possibly be sufficient for such a "contain multitudes" diverse American culture? Is the young South Beach trophy wife's makin' whoopee needs equal to those of the 40-year married "and damn proud of it" Rotarian (well, maybe Kiwanian) hardware proprietor from Pierre, (North/South I never remember which) Dakota?

I don't know, but it seems inevitable to this cultural wag that eventually the actuaries will have to get involved so that every spouse will be assured of his or her rights. "Well folks, from the data you've submitted and that I've run through our latest tables, I guess I'm happy--certainly kind of envious, to tell the truth--to inform you two that you really shouldn't leave the bedroom until April of every year." Or, "Can't say I've ever seen these results before, but you two 'life of the party' types seem to be, well, overdrawn. You might have to wait until time travel technology is perfected and then go back and feign a headache or two on those Pocono getaway weekends you used to take in order to, well, even up your, um, scores." Which types of results will only lead to the inevitable "marriage bed" tax and that braggart neighbor of yours smilingly complaining about his tax bill, nudge nudge, wink wink. "Okay, honey, I'll get out that negligee, but it's going to cost us come tax time." Leave it to the French to screw up a good thing.

Succor For The Succor-Seekers

2011-09-05T12:05:00.000-04:00

As any scribe should, I have nothing but the utmost respect for the actual people who were, and the entities who are now, Dear Abby and Ann Landers. And while I admire them deeply, I can honestly say I am hardly in their league. That said, among the variety of services I hope this blog provides its readers--including, but not limited to amusement, provocation, enlightenment, wisdom, diversion, etc.--I aspire at times also to gift you all with sound advice pertaining to your mundane lives, and I mean mundane in its literal, non-judgmental sense. With the aid of a little technology, I believe I am able to do so.

You see, behind the scenes here at spitoutyourgum, I am able to see all of the keywords/phrases, all of the search terms, that have led people, eventually, to this blog. Quite a handy tool, I must say. After wading through the most popular search terms--"take me to the best blog ever," "oh, interweb, make me laugh my ass off," "genius,"--I find the more obscure "one-offs": people looking for something very specific, and, it seems, very important to their lives. Sometimes I have to scratch my head and wonder how the combination of search terms led them here (and scratch my head further wondering if anything they might find here could possibly help them in their time of need). My hope always, and isn't it the root hope of all bloggers, is that even if readers don't find exactly what they're looking for, at my blog ultimately they will find succor. My blog truly succors. That's my purest hope.

And so, firm in the belief that there is a succor-seeker Googling every second, on this day of un-labor I will labor to provide succor to the succor-less. I must qualify things a bit before I begin, though: Although I happily play doctor, I am NOT a doctor; any advice given here is purely the fruit of years of sweaty experience and the wisdom therein gained--in other words, it ain't AMA-approved. Wade at your own risk. The following "questions" are the actual, verbatim search terms people have used to find their way to this blog.

Is a shot glass of nyquil deadly?

You're coughing up a storm, dude, and your nose is a train wreck, your throat is in agony, and your head begs for transplant and sleep is impossible--you better hope and pray NyQuil is deadly, or what's the point? Deadly, that is, not fatal. I find that at the first sign of any of the above symptoms, if I read the warnings carefully and with consideration, and pour as per instructions that red gold liquid into the plastic cup provided and gulp it greedily and chase it with nothing more potent than tepid tap water, within thirty minutes I'm out cold for the next eight hours and wake up feeling like Milton Berle in a gingham dress--natty, to the nines. Key words, "plastic cup provided." Not some Hooters shot glass you overspent for or the dreaded highball or the hoity toity snifter.

Should I wear a bra to bed?

I am creative. I do have an imagination. But I ain't no Joyce, Tolkien, or O.J. Simpson. I could not create or imagine such a question. It is a genuine query that somehow made it to this blog. Just what kind of answer the questioner gleaned from the heretofore contents of this blog, well, I plead the current let's not go there. But in my dedication to be the succorer to the succor-seeker, let me attempt to provide some support here. A former boss of mine was big on asking the "clarifying question." Oh, the clarifying questions that initial question conjures. But let's not be a boob about this. Am I correct in thinking that "to bed" means "going to sleep"? Because one might take to one's, or another's, bed for many reasons--attempting the day's crossword puzzle, eating cheese and crackers, removing the mattress tag, etc. Having never slept in a bra, I can't experientially comment on the pro's and con's of doing so. I just know that the thought brings to mind the word encumbrance and its delightful cousin-word unencumbered. Encumbered sleep offers little succor, from my vantage point. Having seen paintings of healthy-breasted women painted long before the invention of the bra (and doesn't the word brassiere have such richer connotations than the word bra?), I can hazard the guess that sleeping bra-less does no visible damage. That said, speaking from all points of view except a religious one (consult your minister, swami, guru, rabbi, whatever), I believe you should do what feels right for you, regardless of others' views, when it comes to going to sleep, to whatever degree of clad or unclad you feel okay with.

What does it mean when you dream of spit out your gum?

I notice the question is not "...when you dream of spitting out your gum." I also notice that it isn't spitoutyourgum, but still, I have to make the determination that the question pertains not to dreaming of any expectorative action but indeed dreaming of this particular blog. In which case, you obviously care more about this blog than I do, which all I can say is someone should. After due consideration I conclude that dreaming about this blog means one of two things: Either your life is fully unencumbered and you truly are living the dream, or you seem to be mixing something a bit edgy with your nightly NyQuil doses. Whichever, it sure beats dreaming of Mitt Romney, doesn't it?

What does your dreams mean when you can't spit out all of your gum?

On the surface, your question means you need some grammatical help with regard to subject verb agreements. Digging deeper, as a true succorer does, I believe the dream signifies a self-considered deficiency in being able to communicate effectively on your part. This blog takes its name from the Bob Dylan line "your words are not clear/you better spit out your gum." Thus, at its zenith, the wisdom dispensed by this blog is via Bob. You feel able to communicate somewhat--you clearly can spit out some of your gum--but not to the extent that you want to. If you're a woman, I suggest the usual remedies: a weekend at a spa, a month's worth of Dr. Phil TiVoing, joining a drum circle group, ice cream. If you're a man, buck up son, it's your lot in life--spit when and what you can and just chew on the rest, it gets better with age and other people's begrudging tolerance of you. I'm also kind of thinking, and it's merely inchoate musing at best, so take it for what it's worth to you, but maybe your nagging dream has something to do with sleeping in a too-encumbering bra.

Where is Cleveland Ohio?

All right, I can go on only my wise instincts here and deduce that that question, resulting as it did in the eventual arrival at spitoutyourgum (headquarted, coincidentally in Cleveland, Ohio, so I guess the short answer is "right here, relax, you found it"), is not a literal, geographic query, but a more philosophic, existential one. Where is Cleveland, Ohio indeed. It's smack on the faultline/divide of hope and despair. It's not the buckle but the third notch (the one you unhappily shift to after you've eaten seven too many pirogis in one sitting) on the Rust Belt. It's south of nowhere. If the obscure outpost up river Willard stumbles upon in Apocalypse Now is indeed "the asshole of the world," then Cleveland, Ohio is that itchy part on your back you can't reach without a long pencil. It is the place that Hollywood decides Detroit or Milwaukee represents better and is a decent stand-in for Stuttgart, Germany. It is the cluttered box in your basement where obsolete technology winds up. If it's not quite home to, it's the real-life destination for, those who sleep fitfully, encumbered as they are with NyQuil paranoia, mouths of unwanted gum, and bra quandaries, and are just hoping to toss and/or turn into the arms of a competent succorer.

Bob And Baseball

2011-09-03T21:27:00.000-04:00

During my non-blogging August, I failed to address two main events of much import: The fact that I saw Bob Dylan in concert once again back on August 6, and the incredible fact that the Cleveland Indians are still playing meaningful games this late in the season, with an outside chance at running down the Tigers and winning the AL Central crown. Both wondrous events defy description, so you'll just have to content yourselves with this bit of whimsy--Bob Dylan song titles combined with baseball names and terms (can you spot the one football interloper?). Hail Bob, Go Tribe.

A Bob Dylan Baseball Hall Of Fame

Open the Door, Homer Bush
Desolation Preacher Roe
From a Buick 6to Lezcano
Every Grain of Sandberg
Driftin’ Too Far From Ernie Shore
License to Killebrew
Chuck Rainey Day Women #12 & 35
Lay Lady Lay Down a Bunt
Watching the Mickey Rivers Flow
Maglie’s Farm
Under The Red Schoendienst Sky
Blind Willie McGee
When I Pitch My Masterpiece
Precious Angel Hermoso
Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dummy Hoy
Batter’s Up To Me
Subterranean Homestand Blues
Bud Black Crow Blues
Ballad of a Thin Manny Mota
Like a Rolling Steve Stone
Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie Montanez
Tiny Jeff Montgomery
Going, Going, Gone to the Bullpen
Solid Rock Raines
Buddy Groom’s Still Waiting at the Altar
Obviously 5 Basestealers
Idiot Wind Blowing Out of Wrigley
Property of Jesus Alou
Just Like Tom Trebelhorn’s Blues
Visions of Joe Adcock
Absolutely Sweet Lou Piniella
4th Time Around the Order
Lenny Dykstra Bruce Kison
Song To Woody Fryman
Lily, Rosemary and Jack Clark
It Ain’t Me, Babe Ruth
I Pity the Poor ImmiGrant Jackson
Not Alvin Dark Yet
Shelter From the Storm Davis
Please, Mrs. Henry Aaron
Temporary Like Al Cowens
Million Dollar Bash Brothers
It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue Moon Odom
Stan the Man In Me
It Takes A Lot To Laugh, It Takes Walter The Big Train Johnson To Cry
I Dreamed I Saw Saint Augustine Busch
The Ballad Of Frankie Frisch Lee May and Judas Priest Holmes
Honey Just Allow Me One More Dean Chance
You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go Back to the Minors
Masters of Warren Spahn
Ballad of Ollie Brown
If You See Tommy Herr, Say Hello
Buckets of Chuck Rainey
Father of Ray Knight
My Back Mitchell Pages
Gates Brown of Eden
Ruben Sierra Remus
I Threw It All Away, (E 5)
Three Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim
One More Cup of Coffee in the Big Leagues
Joey Cora
Saving Mark Grace
Are You Randy Ready?
Mel Queen Jane Approximately
Alvin Dark Eyes
The Lonesome Death of Hattie Clay Carroll
Ring Them Buddy Bells
Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Clyde Wright
Can’t Waite Hoyt
Boots Day of Spanish Leather
Restless Wes Far(ew)ell
Man In The Dale Long Bud Black Coat
David Justice Like a Woman
One More Ray Knight
Country Pie Traynor
Peggy Boots Day
Champ Summers Days
Never Say Hey Goodbye

Special U.L. Washington Wing:

I’ll Remember U.L. Washington
I Want U.L. Washington
Sweetheart Like U.L. Washington
To Be Alone With U.L. Washington
Tonight I’ll Be Staying Here With U.L. Washington
`Til I Fell In Love With U.L. Washington
Something There Is About U.L. Washington
What Can I Do For U.L. Washington?

Daily Meds

2011-08-31T11:11:00.000-04:00

God save the British! Not since a bunch of long-haired Limeys nearly fifty years ago re-introduced the joys of the Blues to Americans and Benny Hill more than thirty years ago taught Americans how to laugh again has a British import brought so much excitement--and truth!--to its offspring's shores. No, I'm not talking about the announcement that Prince Harry is coming to the USA to train in military helicopters. I'm talking about the study published in a British medical journal saying chocolate is good for you, in a medicinal, healthy way. Who needs Santa Claus anymore?

Whooosh! Just like that, gone are the days of unsheathing the long, sharp knife to saw in half a tiny Lithium pill to get the dosage just right. Goodbye to the days of reading long, fine-print ads in Men's Health magazine (not me, certainly, but I'm sure a few folks do) and then consulting your physician about the pro's and con's of Lipitor. Ciao to nights of politely saying to the waiter, as you pat your belly, "No, thank you. No dessert for me." Rather, say hello to days of regimented Hershey's therapy and nights of raising hot fudge sundae glasses and sincerely toasting your dinner compadres, "Here's to your health." Free at last, free at last!

I foresee so many "game-changing," "polar-shifting" effects stemming from, to this salubrious-minded fellow, this cataclysmic, on-the-scale-of-the-earth-revolves-around-the-sun-not-the-other-way-er-around scientific discovery that life as we know it will soon be divided not into pre- and post-computer time but into pre- and post-chococentric time. A few specific examples to merely hint at the cultural upheavals to come: Picture a group of senior citizens, getting together for their weekly "let's arrange our pills for the week into our plastic daily pill boxes" social gathering. Now the pill boxes will be much larger, able to accommodate a king-size Hershey with Almonds bar, and thus able to spell out the entire day instead of just simple M, W, F, etc.--imagine the confusion that will eliminate! Imagine the sweet sounds emanating from their table: "I take my Almond Joy Monday mornings, but not my Mounds until Friday night." "My doctor tells me to wash down my Wednesday morning Snickers with a Wendy's chocolate Frosty." "Didn't your pharmicist tell you about the dangers involved in the interaction of Milky Way and Three Musketeers taken the same day?" "I find chopping up my Saturday Baby Ruth and sprinkling it on my Cocoa Puffs has the best result." And so on.

Imagine the delight to millions of TV viewers, and the zing to users, when those inane separate-tubs Cialis commercials are replaced by ads showing a happy couple feeding each other Zagnuts in a frothy hot tub, together! Imagine how watching the Nightly News will be so much more endurable, nay, fun, when all those mysterious disease/syndrome commercials are replaced by singing, healthy Goobers and Raisinettes. Imagine the relief we'll all feel not having to witness a cardiac-frantic guy trying to fish little nitro pills out of a tiny tin container, but instead seeing the guy simply rip open a bag of plain M & M's and pour 'em down the hatch. Jeeze Louise, I just might find myself actually walking into a health food store for the first time ever, knowing they stock only the freshest Dove Bars. And, needless to say, the masterpiece that is the Heath Bar will finally be recognized by one and all as the word "penicillin" goes the way of the "typewriter." Screw that sinful apple; soon a Chunky bar a day will keep the doctor away. Take two Hershey Kisses and call me in the morning. Willy Wonka = Jonas Salk? Oh, what brave new delicious world is this? Pass the Reese's Pieces, Doc.

Let All The Children Boogie

2011-08-30T12:28:00.000-04:00

Okay, my public has spoken. Tired of my estivating (i.e. summer slacking off), they demand better attention be paid to this blog by yours truly. So, in light of summer's unofficial ending this weekend, and the fact that this is now spitoutyourgum's third year (2nd birthday was yesterday, thanks for the balloons and well wishes and your support), here's a hopeful pledge to wax inane more frequently.

It seems I work (day job, though it entails many nights) on the exact dividing line between the two poles of childhood excitement. You see, equidistant from my place of employment stand Chuck E. Cheese on one side and the bureau of motor vehicles/highway patrol testing station on the other. On my daily break I sit on a bench between the two and watch the traffic. Going one way are kids, tiny, barely walking (yet running with all their tottering glee) and barely verbal (the thrilled chants these kids emit would be indecipherable without the knowledge of their destination--duckee deeesssseeee, ucky ease, etc.). You would think Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, Grandma, and endless apple-juice-filled sippy cups were all gathered there. Rarely have I ever witnessed such determination as I see from these tykes running ahead of their adults, heedless to all calls of slow down, wait up, stop. For sheer, innocent, unbridled excitement, it's a sight to behold. The fact that by my unscientific observations over the last few months fully 33% of kids under the age of six leave Chuck E. Cheese screaming, hollering, bawling only signals to me the dawning of consciousness of the dichotomy between innocence and experience that takes place for some of these kids--alas, the world, while certainly full of Chuck E. Cheese-like wonders, is also large enough to contain the drudgery of many not-wonders. William Blake would have a field day sitting where I sit.

And on the other side...backs turned from Chuck E. Cheese, facing the wide open unknown-ness of the unclosed part of the shopping plaza, usually sitting, are the polar opposites of the Chuck E. kids--teenagers sitting in idling cars, having just completed their driving tests, waiting in the limbo between the highway patrol person's exit from the car and their (the teens') parents' arrival at the car from inside the testing station. By this time the particular teen's fate has been determined, though usually, uncommunicative teens as they are, it's hard to tell whether they've passed or failed. You have to wait that half minute as the patrol person goes in to fetch the parent; sometimes, it seems, the patrol person keeps the news from the parent, allowing the teen to deliver the thumbs up/down. But when it's good, it's usually really good: The parent, if he or she is unaware of the final result, emerges from the storefront and walks tentatively toward the car until the kid eventually shows his or her cards--a relaxed, confident, of-course-no-problem smile, a heaving, thank-God-I-did-it grin, or the utter joy (usually by girls, curiously) of fists pounding the steering wheel, whooping cries, and washed over glee. It's hard to tell how far the apple has fallen from the tree, though; sometimes the parents are way more or less excited than the teen, but other times their exuberance is a perfect match for their offspring's. Then the parent gets in the car, the newly minted driver pulls around to park, the pair gets out of the car and heads back to the BMV to get that shiny license. The license, after all, that is as much about proving one's exit from childhood and the Chuck E. Cheese-initiated wonder as it is about proving one's road worthiness. The dances and beaming smiles the teens sport upon their departure from the BMV with their licenses still warm in their hands are sadly beatific--genuinely happy and proud, but just maybe, as some little tyke heedlessly hurries by them grunting "icky zees," conscious of the fact that with the licensed keys to the car, responsibility now trumps reckless indulgence in some of life's wonders.

Of course, not all the teens pass the test. I speak not only from recent observation, but from painful experience. You see, years ago, before there were Chuck E. Cheeses, to my knowledge, I failed my first driver's test (the "maneuverability test" had just been instituted, and I took the test in a '74 Chevy wagon that was big enough, I believe, to warrant the President's wife [stalwart Pat Nixon, at the time, in her shabby coat] cracking a champagne bottle on its hull as it rolled off the assembly line). I know the no glee, thumbs down, frustrated despair of a failed test (you try driving a '74 Chevy wagon through tightly arrayed cones and sticks and not catching one of those polls on a sideview mirror). Some kids leave Chuck E. Cheese howling, some teens leave the BMV silently trying to pry some chrome molding off the side of the car as they're driven away by a licensed adult.

I passed the second test a week later and have never stepped inside a Chuck E. Cheese.

Anyway, as I was thinking of all this last night, I came across this wonderful clip of David Bowie and the late great Mick Ronson having fun singing "Starman" back when that Chevy wagon was still on the drawing board. Their evident joy in singing "Let all the children boogie" instantly seemed the perfect soundtrack for those dizzy tots heading for Chuck E. Cheese amid the tad-more restrained but just as happy teens earning license to drive into adulthood.

Why Should This Guy Get To Ask All The Good Questions?

2011-08-22T10:50:00.000-04:00

Lately on various blogs I've seen a scattering of questionnaires about albums and movies that bloggers respond to themselves, which, the more you read, seem like one more way to display the writers' eclectically hip cultural inventories. I find myself drawn more to the questions rather than the answers, having been a teacher and loving the thought-provoking leading question that might inspire some good writing. My favorite music magazine, Mojo, has a couple of standard questionnaires in each issue that are pretty good, and Vanity Fair magazine has long run its "Proust Questionnaire" of famous people on its last page. The Lord Prince of these types of questionnaires, though, of course, is the estimable James Lipton (that's him above, if you're woefully ignorant), host of Inside The Actors Studio. Has there ever been a more pompous glance than when James turns from his note cards and interviewee and stares at his audience? Lipton's famous questionnaire is one adapted by him from Bernard Pivot's adaptation of the famous Proust Questionnaire--which isn't really Proust's; it only became famous, I guess, after Proust answered it (btw, Bernard Pivot is a rather mundane name, seemingly more fit for a Matt Christopher novel, but the way Lipton hams up the pronunciation you'd think it was the greatest French food invention since what they did to toast and the potato).

Anyway, I decided to concoct my own questionnaire, adapted from all of the above and then some, in the hope that one day, maybe long after I'm gone, some erudite media heavy might adapt it to his or her needs, and thus the Spitoutyourgum Questionnaire will live on in infamy, or better, in famy. Alas, I had hoped to debut the questionnaire by interviewing Jamie Farr, but he balked at some of the questions, so I just answered them myself. Here goes.

If you could be reincarnated as the non-private body part of any famous person, what would it be?

Humphrey Bogart's upper lip.

Name an album that you once dance naked to in front of a mirror, later disowned completely and sold for peanuts, and then still later found yourself weirdly nostalgic for (the music, not the naked dancing) and went to all sorts of lengths to download it.

Oklahoma, original cast recording.

'I' is the middle word in the word 'idiot'--comment.

'I'? Really? I thought it was 'Dio.'

If Heaven exists, and somehow you end up there, what is the first thing you'd expect to hear upon your arrival?

Well, being more of a visual person rather than an auditory one, and having lived my whole life in Cleveland, I suppose I'd be greeted by a hastily written sign that says, "Be back in 5 eons."

Frick or Frack?

Oh, Frock, most definitely.

Name a movie that made you cry, not for its content but because you spied the object of your desire snuggling with some twit three rows ahead of you.

Well, Tank Girl would probably be the first.

If you had nothing in your possession but these three CDs--.38 Special's Greatest Hits, The Darker Moods of John Tesh, and Dan Hill Remixed--in what ocean would you prefer your desert island to be located?

Can I invoke the fifth? Any fifth?

What is your favorite curse word?

Pittsburgh.

What garment, from the musical, literary, and cinematic worlds, best expresses your personality?

Are sunglasses considered a garment? If so, Jim Keltner's. If not, any random muumuu from Mama Cass's wardrobe. Literary would have to be Benny Profane's sailor suit. I suppose The Dude's bathrobe has already been retired from this question due to overuse, so I'll go with the band-aid on the back of Marsellus Wallace's neck.

I have a suitcase filled with ten million dollars. It is yours under the condition that if you accept it a man in China will fall off his bicycle and be killed. Do you take it?

American dollars?! At this present moment in history? Live your dreams, China man. Now if you're talking gold, maybe even silver, well, then, wear a helmet, buddy. Accidents happen.

If you had the power to switch two literary characters' places, who would they be?

Moby Dick and Asta.

What is your favorite body of water?

Cheryl Tiegs, Sports Ilustrated Swimsuit Editon, circa 1974.

How you feel about your sporadic blog postings of late?

It's summer, no shit happens.

What is your favorite color?

Blue. No, green.