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 ...

Icebreaker

Beyond the usual--checking out the person's shoes, odometer, and choice of beer--when I really want to get to know someone, I ask them the following three-part, three-part question: You're just getting to know the person you think you might want to spend the rest of your life with. What three CD's, movies, and books would you give to this person in order to say, if you really want to know who I am, experience these. Not necessarily all-time favorties, but cultural stuff that means a lot to you in some kind of personal way. People are always intrigued by the question, but rarely are they able to come up with answers for all nine parts. For me, the answers change by the quarter hour, which might be telling. But as for this quarter hour, these are my picks (explanations can be provided if you send a SASE or simply e-mail me; what are yours?):

CD's

The Replacements, Let It Be

Van Morrison, Astral Weeks

Bob Dylan, Blood On The Tracks

Movies

The Big Lebowski



Dr. Strangelove




The Last Detail




Books

Herman Melville, Moby-Dick

Flannery O'Connor, The Complete Short Stories

David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

The Replacements-Favorite Thing

Details

The poetry reading was a rousing success. If you missed it, be very sorry. If you were there, my deep gratitude, and apologies, if necessary. I'm off on a mini-vacation, but will return next week, with plenty of fodder (I'll be alone in a car for 17 hours; the mind's gotta get in gear a bit, I would think) for more regular posts than this last hectic couple of weeks. In the meantime, enjoy some old posts and this little tidbit about...

...my dear old friend Machiavelli Smurts, who claims I changed his life with one little snarky comment. A few weeks ago I had the occasion to call Smurts about a joint venture we were kicking around for this summer: see which one of us could go the longest posing in the manner of Rodin's The Thinker sculpture directly underneath The Cleveland Museum of Art's Thinker sculpture. Anyway, Smurts, who purports to be a much busier man than in reality he is (the posing thing was his idea), didn't take my call, so I had to deal with his voicemail: "On purpose or by accident, you have reached the electronic answering device of Machiavelli Van Halen Smurts III. Please leave a detailed message, and I will call you back when I find the time." Now obviously the entire "outgoing" message is absurd, but for the first time in thousands of similar messages from dozens of people, I was struck by that admonition to leave a "detailed" message.

"Detailed?" my message began, "you want a detailed message? What kind of Fascist directive is that? Call me, asshole. Detail that. And there's a comma, signifying a pause, between me and asshole, asshole. What kind of details do you need? With today's phones, the caller's number is already there for you, and the time they called. Anybody you know is going to obviously tell you what they need to tell you, and anybody who doesn't know you either has their own agenda and thus will leave what details they want, regardless of your instructions, or they're somebody you don't want to know, let alone call back, so telling them to leave a detailed message is just inviting more aggravation on your part. Cut the pedantic, totalitarian BS and just tell them to leave a message, if they so choose. By the way, the architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe--a relative of yours, Mach?--said, 'God is in the details.' He was talking about art and design, not phone messages. There are no atheists in foxholes, and no gods leave phone messages. So change your life, and if not that, change your outgoing message. Bye."

Turns out I was just calling Machiavelli Smurts to share an oldie but goodie joke: What do you call a dog with no hind legs and steel testicles? Sparky. So when he didn't call back, I didn't think much about it. But my gosh, two weeks later, when Machiavelli Smurts did call back, I was hardly prepared for the onslaught. Naturally, I was blogging at the time he called (nobody interrupts my devotion to you, dear blogee) so I got to hear what he had to say via his excited, and, well, obviously detailed message:

"Dude, you've changed my life. You're amazing. The message thing. The detailed message thing. I was paralyzed for like two days after I heard it. It really made me question everything. Well, not everything, but a lot. You're so right. Not only is it obnoxious to tell people to leave a detailed message, but it's pointless. I did a detailed analysis of my incoming phone calls, and, for empiricism's sake, I took a closer look at how I leave messages. Now you know I catalogue every phone call I make and receive, don't you? That's part of the reason I don't have time to read your blog, let alone make anyone's birthday party. Do you realize that 90%, with a margin of debatableness of +/- 4.5%, of my phone calls are practically 100% meaningless? Ergo, the overwhelming majority of phone messages, given and received, are utter nonsense. Forget god, man, the devil is what lurks in the details of nonsense. Example, and this is a mere ordinary example, nothing extreme. 'Mach, dude, I'm in the beer cave at Speedway. What's the name of that new malt liquor you were telling me about? Call me back before I freeze.' I mean, really, I don't need those details. We're all getting older. There's less and less time to spend in frivolous conversation, especially when it's a monologue delivered to somebody's else's recording device. Besides, the whole 'detailed' thing is so bland. I've been experimenting. I've asked people to leave vague and ambiguous messages. I've suggested they leave messages totally irrelevant to me. I've invited people to leave cryptic messages. Heavily accented messages, nostalgic messages, fire and brimstone messages, Victorian era messages, messages as if they were Jane Austen, messages as if their mouths were filled with Malley's bacon, covered in chocolate!, all sorts of messages that are anything but 'detailed.' Dude, I've never had so much fun and gained so much enlightentment from listening to my voicemails. I'm this close to doing away with cable for good. I can't thank you enough."

So I've improved the life of someone's life which was in need of improving. I deserve a few days off, I believe.

The Replacements-Answering Machine

The Twipping Point

No, this post is not about a guy with a lisp dropping acid, though that would be infinitely more exciting and informative than hearing yet another TV or radio news report about how some agency or other such entity is now using Twitter. Two weeks ago it was a story about the Mall of America using Twitter to inform drivers about available parking spaces; today I heard that the Ohio Department of Transportation is using it to update road condition reports. Wonderful, I say. If you're unlucky enough to be driving in Ohio in January, or damned so thoroughly that you have to find a parking space at the Mall of America, then you deserve all the psychic and electronic help you can get. But why the hell do I have to be told about it again and again from my news sources? Good God, we've got underwear bombers, NBA players bringing guns into the locker room, Rush Limbaugh being released from the hospital--bad news all over for news junkies like myself to sink our teeth into--and every day I hear about someone else using Twitter? My old journalism professor is probably spewing red ink in his grave right now (the grave I probably helped to send him to with my feeble attempts at writing cogent, succinct leads [what, prof? no parentheses allowed in leads?]).

I have nothing against Twitter myself, probably because I've never used it (though--full disclosure--I did sign up once because a friend invited me to, but then he never tweeted, twatted, twutted, so I stopped logging on, if indeed that is what one does to Twitter, log on [do you think, years before computers, the phrase "log on" was used by lumber town hookers to describe what they did last night: "Oh honey, it was pay day for the lumberjacks. I logged on all night long"?]). But I think seeing that this is 2010, the year after Twitter became so ubiquitous (if you refrain from partaking in something that is ubiquitous, are you ubiquitting?), it is high time to stop making its use "news." I realize that new technologies can change our world drastically, but eventually, like now for Twitter, they become rather dog bites man like the rest. Frankly, I can't believe people once lived un-psychotically in a world without readily available ice cubes, and while there once was a time when "Jay's Mini-Mart now carries ice cubes!" was undoubtedly big news, that time has now passed. So too with reports about who is now using Twitter. I don't want to hear another word about it until they come out with a device that will alert new mothers and fathers that their babies need a diaper change. Twetter, obviously. Good night--it's time for me to listen to some 8-tracks and play some pong.

The Replacements-Shutup

Touch, Part 2

So anyway, what brought on yesterday's reminiscence about my one-armed smoking professor was a sidebar article in the British music magazine The Word titled "You Still Here?" about things that, according to the author, should be obsolete but are still hanging around in the 21st century. Among the items listed that I still find various degrees of use for (let alone fondness for) are stamps, newspapers, umbrellas, spectacles (hell, I just got my first pair a couple months ago), cigarette lighters in cars, and razors. But the one that piqued me the most was this one, "Wind-up Watches: As anachronistic as walking around in a tweed suit." Aside from the non sequitur of the whole thing (how can a watch be anachronistic?), I felt the sting of this jab most acutely. Recently an old (as in, was my grandfather's) watch of mine was repaired after years of being out of commission. The repairman was almost apologetic when he explained that the watch had to be wound, manually, thirty "winds" every day or so.

Now there's certainly a sentimental reason for me to love having a functional watch on my wrist again. But is there any other reason? I had gone watchless for several years, and it really was no problem. With all of the mechanical/computerized devices around these days, the time of day is never far from our apprehension. I was late to cellphones, but now I carry one everywhere, and it has become my de facto "go to" time-telling device. I've also become pretty adept at spying people's watches and telling even upside down time from them across tables and counters. And in a pinch, ala my color blind "the world is light or dark," I can always tell if it's day or night.

But I have to exclaim, I love winding my newly repaired watch! It's such a pensive, wholly task to be done, task completed few seconds of my day. The feel of the tiny ridges on my fingers, the repetitive motion of tiny winds, the I am not an animal, I am a human being celebration of my opposable thumb--it's all such a small pleasure, let alone a nostalgic one. I'm always transported to being a little boy again, feeling important with my first watch. I suppose I could also get quasi-poetic and sling the verbiage about having control over time, but such metaphysical joy pales in comparison to the physical, tactile thrill of it all.

It ain't news, but we live in an increasingly push-button world, and contemplating the joys of winding my watch makes me think about the all of the quotidian, tactile pleasures that we have lost or are losing. I love the challenge and feel of opening a cardboard milk or juice carton, but when was the last time we got to experience that wonder? I love still having to open my car door by inserting and turning the key, and I'm sure eventually I'll upgrade to a car whose ignition I won't have to start by inserting and turning. With the recent purchase of some nifty Velcro sneakers, I can go weeks, even months without having to tie a shoe. Remember when writing used to mean having to actually write something? And don't get me started on phones. Beyond the tactile, remember how many phone numbers you used to know by heart? Or even with the arrival of push button phones, when you could remember a person's number only by fake-"dialing" it by stabbing your fingers all around the keypad? Now how many numbers do you know? Once programmed (even remember when that word had such fascist/totalitarian connotations?), all you need to do is push one button. Oh, but remember the physical excitement of actually dialing a phone number on a rotary dial phone. The quick jab of the one's and two's. The resistance/force thrill of a nine and that great feeling of release and the sight of the dial spinning all the way back. And of course that sweet spiral sound of the dial rewinding. They always say smell is the most nostalgic of the senses, but revisiting any of these once-ordinary tactile experiences sets the mind reeling to equal the effect of any effete French cookie.

I know, I've got old fart Luddite fumes spewing out of me at the moment. The man who in college (oh, those days!), after a debate about American League vs. National League, wrote on his graffiti-covered dorm room wall, "If tradition were adhered to, we'd all still be crapping in outhouses; succumb to the modern age and bow to the DH," is now sounding like the old man he's becoming as somebody much greater than he continues to wind the ultimate watch. But pleasure is pleasure, folks, and winding a watch, tying shoes, writing a letter, getting that cardboard spout to jut origamically correct out at you, feeling the heavy click of the door's lock turning--all of it is becoming extinct. Hell, even the good-deed-accomplished rush of a good toilet flush is replaced by buttons to merely push and automatic sensors. Think of it, we have acquiesced our human powers of touch to the point that we have welcomed, with nary a hue and hardly a cry, automatic sensors in our bathrooms! We are the generation that likes to push and to be sensored.

In a million years, will evolution bring us to the point where our sense of touch is obsolete, vestigial at best, like nipples on men? Take a stand. Reach out and touch and work and manipulate something today, before it's gone.

The Replacements-20th Century Boy

The Kinks-The Village Green Preservation Society

That Roy Guy

I admit, I can't stand the guy. He's a fickle con, the source of much consternation, embarrassment, and harassment in my life. Come to think of it, he might be the only Roy I've ever known in my life; ergo, I've never met a guy named Roy I liked. And just what the hell is Roy short for? Any saints named Roy? Didn't think so. If/when a Roy is ever canonized, I cast my vote for making him the patron saint of aggravation.

Mr. Biv, I'm talking about, as in Roy G. I'm color blind, okay, are you happy? It's genetic, I have no control over it, so don't blame me when I'm driving at night and the green lights look like regular street lights and the reds blend in too well with any other lights there might be (that's right, you don't want to ride shotgun with me at the wheel after sundown). Do you know what it's like to live your life praying that every light you come upon turns yellow when you approach it? I've always liked yellow. There isn't much fudging with yellow.

So yes, I'm quite biased against old Roy, or as I like to call him, based on how I see things, Virgboy. I'm still getting over the trauma I suffered in first grade art class at Catholic school when I inadvertently created a polka-dotted tissue-paper Easter Bunny. When I finally had enough of the inner torment, about five years ago, I went to see a therapist. Turns out it was an art therapist. Told me I was suffering from the blues, I said, "You mean the pinks?"

I've adapted, though, quite well, I think. When I go clothes shopping, I have no qualms about introducing myself to the clerk, saying, "Hello, my name is Dan, and I'm color blind." Once, though, I succumbed to potential peer pressure. I needed a spring jacket, and found a nice light gray one in a sporting goods store. Trouble was, there was a long line, and while waiting, I suddenly grew insecure, thinking maybe the jacket was pink, after all. Normally I would have had no problem asking the register person what color the jacket was, but this particular time I thought if it does turn out to be pink, then I'll have to say no thanks, put the jacket down and leave the store, wasting all that precious time I had spent in line and leaving the rest of the customers to laugh hardily. So I didn't say a thing, bought the jacket, and stashed it in my car until later that day when I was out with a friend. "What color is this jacket?" I asked. "Kind of a light gray." "Bingo," I said happily, and donned the jacket.

It's that "kind of" that gets me. I don't mean to sound sexist, but women seem to get the most kick out hearing about my color blindness, and, ironically, these self-expressed mistresses of all-things-color never seem to have a clear-cut opinion on colors. It's always, "kind of" some color, like charcoal, or rust, or teal--colors that even my nemesis Roy G. doesn't seem to account for, unless that G. stands for something like gingivitis or something. Yes, women and colors; wherever two or more are gathered, there's a snit about color just waiting to happen. It always goes something like this at a party or something: "Nice shirt, Dan." "Thanks. Got it for Christmas. By the way, what color is it, just wondering." "Kind of charcoal." "No it isn't! It's kind of rust." "Bullshit! It's kind of teal, if nothing." And I'm the one who's laughed at, all because I thought it was something definite like green.

All of this is simply to say that today might be the most colorful day of the year. It's one of the few days when I can almost say I can almost see what Van Gogh must have seen. Trees with leaves all sorts of electric colors, offset against wet black trunks. Those leaves hanging on for dear life (for all of us, I think; they know once they fall, winter's here and we're all glum) in the rough and steady wind. Still a lot of leaves on the trees, but a helluva lot more on the ground than there were yesterday. Could wake up tomorrow morning to bare trees and a five-month Cleveland funk. Today's one of the few days I feel like I live in a world colored with all kinds of kind of colors, rather than my usual, "the world is dark or light, that's all you're getting out of me, folks."

I once was forced to give a classful of rantipoles five bonus points after I bet them I could answer one trivia question correctly. They asked me what color the blackboard was. "Black, of course." A tsunami of pubescent guffaws. "No! It's green!" Obviously, this was when I taught boys. Girls would have still been fighting among themselves about all the kind of colors other than black the thing was. But green blackboards? Who knew?

Enjoy my kind of color blindness test (below, not that Biv-approved monstrosity above) and two favorite songs with "color" in the title, though not in any literal way I can make out. Figurative colors, my favorite kinds.

The Replacements-Color Me Impressed

Cat Power-Colors And The Kids

The Back

I know what you're thinking. It's Tuesday, October 13, the stores have been opened for an hour or two, surely Mr. Spitoutyourgum has already purchased the new Bob Dylan Christmas album (yes, you heard me right, Bob Dylan has a Christmas album--Christmas From The Heart) that comes out today, listened to it once or twice, and will now give his (undoubtedly) five-star review. Well, no. I have heard some snippets, and I know I'll like it, though I foresee three, maybe three-and-half stars (it's a Christmas album after all).

It's just that I'm not ready to bow to Christmas just yet. You see, in my line of work at the bookstore, it's been coming on Christmas for about two months now. No joke: calendars, kids xmas books, sideline junk people only buy at the holidays, and massive shipments of product for the "holiday build-up" have been pouring in for weeks. Coupled with the chilly temps here lately, it feels to me like Christmas should be next week, and because it isn't, I don't want to think about it. Soon enough I'll be hearing holiday music round the clock at work, so as much as I love Bob, I know his soothing voice will still be there for me when I'm in the mood (probably next pay day; a full review will be forthcoming next week).

In the meantime, while the thought of holiday shoppers is making me cringe, I thought I'd pass along a little nugget of holiday shopping advice to all of you, whether you'll be doing your shopping today or sometime over the next 72 days. The advice concerns that mirage called "the back," the place every customer assumes is filled with everything they want, as opposed to the junk on the sales floor. I don't want to preach, so I'll attempt to show and not tell, hoping you get my drift. The following little passage is from Fine Spines and Dead Dollys, a knee-slapping murder mystery spoof I have written (alas, the novel is unpublished; agents and people with connections to the publishing world take note, and contact me). To "set up" the clip, all you need to know is that the narrator, Guff, has recently switched allegiances, leaving his longtime job at a small, independent bookstore, Fine Spines, and gone over to the dark side, taking a job at the national chain mega-store, Tomes. Roll tape (and take notes, consumers).


“How can I help you?” She was about sixty, and the only pertinent description of her is that she looked very insistent.

“I noticed you had only one copy of this on the shelf.” She held out a large paperback, How To Wash Your Face. “But this one is a little ruffled. Could you check in the back to see if you have a better copy?”

"I'm on it.” What the hell, I thought, I could use some exercise.

The Myth of the Back. Every Goddamned Customer thinks the Back is some mega-Xanadu of goods, merchandise, product; as excessively American as Gatsby’s shirts, Babe Ruth’s hotdogs, Oprah’s Midas smile; a mass-consumer Shangri-La with regional offices in Kalamazoo, Colorado Springs, Flagstaff, and Little Rock, with corporate HQ in Trenton; an omnipresent shrine to our crass hopes and national motto—More For Me. Well folks, there is no Back. It’s filled not with merch for you and you only, but with packaging popcorn, unrepentant smokers, pop-up books some little fiend has destroyed, honor-system snack packs stocked with peanut butter cheese crackers and obscure candy bars. It’s the place where the music department geek is hitting on some underaged overworked espresso girl who’s just trying to take a break, and three clerks are playing chicken with box cutters for five minutes before emerging with a shrug, “Sorry sir, I didn’t find a copy for you.” I didn’t know any clerks well enough to engage in swordplay, so I took the opportunity to send out a page for customer service to the men’s room and clock in everybody who was out.

"Sorry, ma'am, no extra copies."

The Replacements-Customer

Amy Rigby-Knapsack