Smellin' (Not) Like A Well-Spent Buck

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):

1. Destroys Unique Odor Targeting System
2. Deep Cleans Powerful cleansers rinse clean without drying
3. 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

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

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

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

1. Thou shalt leave thine cellphone in the car.
2. Thou shalt wait thine turn and never assume that simply yelling, "Excuse me!" will grant thou instant service.
3. 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.
4. 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.
5. 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.
6. 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.
7. 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.
8. 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.
9. 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.
10. 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

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

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

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?

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?

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

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

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

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

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?

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





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

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

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

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 ...

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

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

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

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.