Separated At Birth

It’s Friday night, the end of a long week and I always think that’s a great time for a new and relaxing fun quiz. The concept for this quiz was born when I found out that two historic figures, and I mean these guys are a couple of biggies, were born on the same day. (That means the same year, too.) So I did a little research (actually I did a damn lot of research) and found more pairs of famous people who were born on the same day.

And I hope you appreciate all my effort. Not only did I have to find famous people who were born on the same day, they also had to be names that were readily recognizable. Do you know who Zulfikar Ali Bhutto is? Neither did I, and so even though I found out he was born on the exact same day as Walter Mondale I didn’t use him. He’s too obscure and that would make the game less entertaining. So you see, I do it all for you.

For each question below you will find a date and four pairs of names. Your job is to pick out the two folks who were both born on that date. Sound like fun? No, I guess not. Do it anyway.


1. June 1, 1926
a. Harry Belafonte & Alan Watts
b. Earl Scruggs & Desi Arnaz
c. Marilyn Monroe & Andy Griffith
d. Tom Wolfe & Liz Claiborne

2. September 8, 1971
a. David Faustino & Jessica Biel
b. Brooke Burke & Pink
c. Jolene Blalock & Shaquille O’Neal
d. Freddie Prinze, Jr. & Emmanuel Lewis

3. June 18, 1942
a. Reggie Jackson & Joe Namath
b. Pete Townsend & Cher
c. Jerry Mathers & Marv Albert
d. Roger Ebert & Paul McCartney

4. February 12, 1809
a. Johann Strauss Sr. & Napoleon II
b. Charles Darwin & Abraham Lincoln
c. Otto Von Bismarck & Hans Christian Andersen
d. James Buchanan & Franklin Pierce

5. January 6, 1953
a. Leonard Stegmann & Pierce Brosnan
b. Leonard Stegmann & Angus Young
c. Leonard Stegmann & Debra Winger
d. Leonard Stegmann & Sugar Ray Leonard

ANSWERS:

1. Marilyn Monroe & Andy Griffith. Can you believe it? I mean, they look so much alike.
2. Brooke Burke and Pink. Hell, I didn’t know who half of these young punks were anyway.
3. Roger Ebert & Paul McCartney. Yup, they’re exactly the same age. Pretty strong argument for the vegetarian diet versus the movie-size Goobers and popcorn diet I’d say.
4. Charles Darwin & Abraham Lincoln. This is the one that started it all. Older folks might have remembered that Lincoln’s birthday used to be celebrated on February 12th. And you got that day off no matter which day of the week it fell on.
5. Leonard Stegmann & Angus Young. You should have gotten this one too, simply because Young’s was the least known name up there. Besides my own, I mean. (He’s in the band AC/DC.)

OK, how did you do? If you got five out of five I’m very impressed. There were very few hints in that quiz. You must be a good guesser. I could have come up with a few more questions for you but as I said, the research on this one was a bitch. Remember for each question I had to come up with six additional names of famous people who were born around the same time as the matched pair. Yeah, I know, boo-hoo. First the World Trade Center and now this.

Still, I’d be remiss if I didn’t share with you some of the other discoveries I stumbled across. For example, writer Colleen McCullough and Morgan Freeman were born on the same day. How about that? No so much, eh? And if I make it a threesome by adding Linda Lovelace? How about George Foreman and Sal Mineo? Mineo! Sal Mineo! OK, never mind on that one. Richard Chamberlain and Shirley Jones, anyone?

I was also going to make one of the choices Mary Kate Olsen and Ashley Olsen and see how many of you got that one right. You all should have because, after all, they’re twins!

And finally I found it interesting that, while not born in the same year, Howard Stern and Rush Limbaugh share a birthday: January 12th. That’s kind of a fun thing to know, isn’t it? Hello?

Himicanes

“Why are hurricanes always named after women?” goes the old joke. “Because if they were named after men they’d be called himicanes!” Classic, huh? And totally dated, since hurricanes are now named after both men and women. This change, of course, is today universally hailed as the most prominent accomplishment of the women’s movement, what with the failure of the ERA and all.

I thought I was done writing about hurricanes for a while, but it seems that a new feature has made its way here to the ol’ blog: We apparently now do requests! One reader wrote in to say that she was at a meeting of sixteen women and they were wondering who chose the names for each year’s hurricanes. (Another reader has requested an alcohol quiz, which I promise is coming very soon.) So our resourceful reader volunteered that I would certainly be able to come up with an answer for her chatty little group. Sixteen grown women and not a single one knows how to search the Internet for hurricane information? Oh no, Ladies, don’t get off your delicate heinies. Please allow me to do the research for you!

And you know what really burns my ass? (No, not a candle about this high, as my college dorm mate used to say.) I know that one of these ladies just happens to be one of only two people who have ever asked to have their name removed from my little blog reminder e-mail list. And you know who you are. Don’t tell her anything! Ah, never mind. Feel free to share the following info with the entire group. But remember I’m like an elephant. I never forget. Also, I often have peanuts on my breath.

OK, here we go. And please keep in mind that I am receiving this information from the FEMA website, so it might be a little slow to arrive. Cheap shot, huh? Hurricanes have been given names for hundreds of years. In the West Indies they were named after the particular saint on whose day the storm occurred. It was an Australian meteorologist in the late 1800’s who first began giving female names to tropical storms. Why? I don’t know. Maybe he had issues. Maybe he was married.

It was in 1953 (a truly glorious year for so many reasons) that the U.S. National Weather Service first began using female names for hurricanes. In 1979 the National Organization of Women decreed that paying a woman twenty percent less than her male counterpart was perfectly acceptable as long as hurricanes bore both male and female names. Everyone agreed and that new system seems to have worked out just fine.

Did you know that there are only six lists of names for hurricanes? Of course you didn’t, that’s why I had to look it up for you. Each year a different list of twenty-three names is used and when six years have passed it all begins again. Oh, and on each list there is one name that begins with each letter of the alphabet. Some of you may still recall (And frankly I had to pause here myself, but I’m drinking a Seagram’s Bahama Mama. What’s your excuse?) that there are twenty-six letters in the alphabet. The letters Q, U, and Z are never used to name hurricanes. Did you just actually ask why? Because it’s too goddamn hard to think of names that begin with Q, U, and Z, that’s why. Jesus.

So if you’re looking for a hurricane with your name on it and your name is not on one of the six lists, you’re out of luck, Zeke. There is, however, one way that your sorry name can actually make it on to the list. (But not yours, Zeke.) If a hurricane is particularly destructive and deadly the name will be retired and a new name chosen to take its place. Currently there are fifty-four names on the list, including, I’m proud to say, “Lenny.” I also have no doubt that the name “Katrina” will soon be added as the fifty-fifth name. Just as soon as FEMA gets around to it, that is.

It looks like, for this year anyway, our pal God in his intergalactic wisdom is pretty much done slapping us around for a while. At least with hurricanes. But 2006 has some treats in store for several of my friends. So listen up, pals. Next year you can look forward to finally getting a little of that special attention that you so desperately crave, because in twelve months or less we’ll be talking about hurricanes named Joyce, Sandy, Michael and Leslie. And be patient Mom and Dad; they’ll be a Hurricane Teresa in 2009 and a Hurricane Otto in 2010 !

Rollin' With Joe

If you’ve never spent a day pushing someone around in a wheelchair then you’ve missed out on one of life’s unique experiences. Not a uniquely wonderful experience, nor a uniquely horrible one, but unique all the same. Somehow the world looks different, and looks at you differently, when you’re standing behind a rolling wheelchair.

I went down to Santa Cruz today to pay a visit to my friend Joe, who is in a wheelchair. Save your sympathy, it’s only for a few more weeks. And believe me that makes a world of difference in the way you are perceived by the folks who walk past you on the street. But first, a little background.

About a month ago Joe arrived home at his apartment in Berkeley at the end of a long workday only to discover that he had left his keys in his office in San Francisco. Now you and I, had we found ourselves in this annoying but hardly tragic situation, would most likely have decided to simply knock on the door of the building manager and asked to borrow the spare key. Joe, for reasons that he is currently reviewing in his mind dozens of times each day, decided that it would make more sense to climb up the fire escape, creep along the narrow ledge, climb onto the balcony and crawl in through his bedroom window, which he knew he had left unlocked.

About a minute after beginning his ascent to the balcony Joe landed on the concrete sidewalk twenty feet below. He landed with his weight distributed evenly enough so that he shattered both his right leg with a compound fracture as well as the heel of his left foot. Ironically he landed right outside the window of his building manager’s apartment. Yes, the same building manager who had Joe’s spare key. It would have made a better story if, from his crumpled position on the sidewalk, he could have looked through both his agony and the manager’s window and seen his apartment key hanging mockingly on the wall. Sadly, it didn’t happen this way, and so I am compelled to only tell you the truth. I’m nothing if not honest.

Two operations and over one hundred stitches later and we find our failed Spider Man recuperating in the home of his sister in Santa Cruz, confined to his wheelchair for at least another month. This is where your hero (that’s me, dummy) comes in. I went to visit my chum today to get him out of the house for a while, help him take care of some chores and cruise the streets of downtown Santa Cruz.

Initially I noticed the little things that you don’t even think about when you’re able to walk around on your own legs. The hauling of the heavy wheelchair out of the trunk at every stop. The absolute necessity for an elevator when you’re forced to park on the third floor of the parking garage. The ramps built into sidewalks so that you don’t have to bump up and down curbs. These are things that I had always taken for granted and had even considered at times superfluous. After all, how many people were actually out there in wheelchairs?

At one point we watched a young guy hobble by on a pair of crutches. Everybody else on that busy Santa Cruz street, including myself, felt sorry for him. Except Joe, who was jealous. He couldn’t wait for that day in the not-too-distant future when he too would be able to enjoy the increased mobility of crutches. And really, that’s what made today interesting, exciting and even fun. The difference between being temporarily confined to a wheelchair for what is in reality a relatively short period of time and having to use one permanently seemed to me the equivalent of closing your eyes and counting to ten versus being permanently blind. If Joe had been permanently crippled in his accident everybody today would have behaved differently. I wouldn’t have been making jokes, (“Ready to roll?” I asked after we had finished lunch. Ha!) strangers wouldn’t have asked the questions they did, and Joe would have been horribly depressed instead of a guy out having some fun with a friend.

But happily for Joe the situation is temporary, he’ll be walking soon, and so today we were able to go out and have a good time. What I found particularly interesting was the reaction of the people we met along the way on our little odyssey. First, everybody seemed friendlier, helpful and more willing to get out of our way. After a while I began to feel like a celebrity, or even royalty. On several occasions I caught people as they were looking at us. Sure, I knew that one grown man (with an earring no less!) pushing around a thin man in a wheelchair looked like a scene out of some horribly sad 1990’s AIDS movie. I was tempted to introduce Joe as my “longtime companion” but I suspect he would have jumped out of the chair, broken legs or not, and chased me down the street. And probably caught me, too.

But people seemed to suss out the situation rather quickly and realized that Joe had been in some sort of accident, and that his situation was indeed temporary.
“What happened to you?” people kept asking him in a familiar manner as we rolled along. Now, can you imagine people approaching one of Jerry’s Kids and asking, “What happened to you?” Of course not. Muscular Dystrophy is permanent (despite eighty years of telethons) and strangers treat its victims accordingly.

But stupid accidents are temporary and so Joe was required to tell a seemingly endless parade of nosy bastards that he had fallen off a building. This, of course, was a little embarrassing. At least for Joe. Finally I decided his tale of woe could use a little embellishment. After all, these were folks that we’d never see again.

“What happened?” asked one large, seemingly inebriated fellow as we were rolling down the street.
“I fell off a building,” Joe answered in his usual way.
“What did you do that for, haw-haw?” laughed the giant alky.
“Well, at least he saved all the children,” I chimed in.
You should have seen how quickly the expression on the big oaf’s face changed from one of mocking joviality to one of admiration.
“Well, that’s the importantly thing,” said our now suddenly serious new friend, as we rolled down the street and continued our journey.

I could have played this game all day. There were endless stories I could have created for Joe to explain his mangled condition: He’d just gotten back from Iraq. He’d run with the bulls in Pamplona. His parachute hadn’t opened. He’d saved an old lady from a mugging. He’d worn Payless shoes. The possibilities were endless but the idea of pursuing this avenue of entertainment didn’t come to me until later. Hopefully next time Joe breaks his legs I’ll have more time to prepare and we can generate some sympathy points (and maybe even sympathy sex!) instead of just derisive laughter.

And so we continued our adventure. We rolled into bookstores, into a music store and past a group of drug dealers, one of which was quite sympathetic. (But not so much so that he offered any free samples of his wares to poor crippled Joe, or to his stalwart wheelchair driver for that matter.) And everywhere we went we were getting special treatment. People seemed genuinely sorry for Joe, stuck in his wheelchair as he was, but were also amazingly quick, I thought, to recognize that he’d only be in the chair for a short while.

It was eye opening for me, too, to push another person around in that chair. I did it for a few hours. Others do it their whole lives. And after a day of friendly conversations, sympathetic looks and a newfound empathy for the permanently disabled a strange, barely recognizable feeling began to grow inside of me. Yes, as bizarre as it may seem, for a few hours on a sunny afternoon while pushing a friend in a wheelchair around the streets of Santa Cruz I actually began to like people. Fortunately I soon returned home, laid down on the couch, turned on the news and that alien feeling quickly went away.

Disconnect

By combining gossamer wisps of faded memories with good old-fashion logic I know that I once lived in a time when there was no Internet. That time now seems vague and nebulous and I can no longer recall any of the specifics of that long ago epoch. In fact, until yesterday I couldn’t even begin to imagine what life must have been like under those harsh and inhospitable conditions.

Science tells us that between the time that primitive man communicated by drawing on cave walls and the birth of the World Wide Web there was indeed a middle time, an era of newspapers and letter writing and telephones with cords. I’ve had a taste of that barbaric existence over the last twenty-four hours and even for that short amount of time I can confirm that it was nothing less than a horrifying experience. I can’t even begin to imagine the hellish torture of having to live that way all the time. And yet I’m told that I once did.

Yesterday morning both my Internet and e-mail services went out. This has happened before, but, after I spend an uneasy hour or two, the service usually comes back on. This time was different. I had gone to visit a friend (And you thought I didn’t have any!) in Santa Cruz and found upon my return eight hours later that I was still disconnected. This new reality was, as you can imagine, somewhat disconcerting, but still I somehow managed to go to sleep in a positive state of mind, with visions of e-mails and porn sites dancing in my head. I awoke full of hope the next morning and found that, to my unspeakable horror, the computer had not healed overnight.

I soon grasped the seriousness of my situation and a tingle of fear ran up my spine like an electric shock. I was disconnected. What was I to do? How was I going to stay in touch with what amounted to basically every aspect of my life? Pressing questions began to whirl restlessly inside my head. What time does the A’s game start? How is the dollar holding up versus the Euro? Did Uncle Duke in Doonesbury relocate to Louisiana? Did that cute chick in Pleasanton send me an e-mail? Has Bush been indicted yet? Where is that new movie playing? How did my 401K do yesterday? What’s the current temperature in Paris?

With shaking hands I immediately picked up the phone and called my old chums at Comcast, who told me that they would send a technician out tomorrow to get me back on-line. Tomorrow! That would mean going forty-eight hours without the Internet. Forty-eight hours in a row! I can’t live like that--I’m not an animal!

This devastating disconnect from the world lead me to take drastic action. Seeing no other alternative I forced myself to turn off my crippled computer, put on some shoes and go outside! The brilliant sunshine and vivid blue sky seemed to be mocking me as I headed for the beach. I walked barefoot along the sand, explored tide-pools and gathered several shells that I found particularly unique. Later I sat on a dune of sugar-like sand and gazed at the sparkling and almost painfully blue ocean water while listening to the crashing of the white-capped waves. I inhaled the sea air deeply and leaned back on my elbows. I knew then that I was feeling the rhythm of the Earth, the very pulse of existence and, bathed in warm sunshine in that idyllic setting, I couldn’t help but wonder: What exactly are the next three movies on my choice list at NetFlix.com?

After doing some shopping I returned home to a miracle. The message on my answering machine told me that Comcast had discovered that the problem was not simply with my connection, but had occurred over a wide area. And they were canceling my appointment because they had already fixed the problem. Could this be true?

I dropped the bags of groceries on or near the counter. Melting ice cream, squashed fruit, broken glass, --I would deal with that later. Right now I had to attend to bigger issues. I switched on the computer, the screen flickered and the world poured in. There were my stock quotes, my news, my baseball schedule, my maps, my movies reviews, my e-mail from the cute chick in Pleasanton, my comics, and the entire collected knowledge of Mankind just waiting to be retrieved with a few clicks on my keyboard. Anything I needed to know was right there. I could even search to find out exactly what type of shells I had just brought back from the beach. And I would do that, eventually. But first I really needed to check on my movie list over at NetFlix.

I Gloat, Therefore I Am

And Bam! Just like that, there it was. I clocked it 11:49 PST on Saturday morning. I was watching Fox News (Fox News? Yeah, I know, but I was really just channel surfing and I haven’t yet installed my bullshit filter) when I heard the phrase “dodged a bullet” for the first time since Hurricane Rita hit. Exactly as I predicted I would last week. And even though I did not follow this non-story, I was to hear the phrase again on the radio and read it one more time on the Internet. You know, I’m not one to say “I told you so” but…

I told you so. If you remember reading the brilliantly titled article “Lovely Rita, Media Made,” last Tuesday (Go back and read it if you haven’t already. In fact, go read it even if you already have.) I spoke of how I expected that the potential impact of this storm (due to the devastation of Katrina) was probably being blown all out of proportion. This, of course, went against all the dire predictions of the grim-faced media as well as those of my wife, who wanted to bet that I was wrong. (The bet seemed in bad taste at the time, but now I wish I had.) And who wouldn’t have made that bet with me, with the way the news channels were carrying on like panicky schoolgirls?

I’m not psychic and I don’t have a crystal ball. I based my accurate forecast on one thing: common sense. Hurricane Katrina, the largest natural disaster in 200 years of U.S. history, is not going to be followed up by another largest disaster in U.S. history just a few weeks later. We always tend to look at the last disaster, natural or man-made, and expect the next one to happen immediately and in the same way. We were all waiting for planes to fly into buildings when the tsunami hit. We were all looking for tsunamis when Katrina hit. And now we’ll be looking at hurricanes until the next major disaster comes. And it will come, but it won’t be a hurricane!

I do want to thank the FEMA folks for giving me a good laugh. The rain was still falling when they were already patting themselves on the back for Rita’s low loss of life. They were grabbing credit like kids under a busted Pinata grabbing candy. They were prepared this time, they bragged, and it was their brilliant evacuation plan (Operation Everybody Run!) that saved lives. And here I am thinking that maybe it had something to do with the storm’s change in direction and its relative weakness to begin with. Hell, the only loss of life (barring the Mississippi tornado victim) was actually not a result of the hurricane but of the evacuation!

Saturday morning the news channels were at a loss. The anchors stared blankly from the screens, their disappointment palatable. They had whipped themselves into a near frenzy in anticipation of this monster storm and when the skies cleared the next day what did they see? No bodies. No washed-away towns. No devastation. It was hilarious to watch as they showed row after row of beachfront houses in Galveston still standing. On skinny little stilts! Except, of course, for that one sloppily constructed building which had its side wall blown away. Boy did that shack become an instant TV star!

Later in the day the news folks started to regain their footing. The nearly deserted soup bowl that is New Orleans had, of course, again flooded, so that at least was something. And there may or may not have been a thousands people trapped there. And Lake Charles looked pretty choppy. That made for some good video. Plus, due to the evacuation of Houston, millions of people were stuck in a traffic jam. A traffic jam? Oh no! And the people who spent five days at the Super Dome with no food or water thought they had it bad!

And so the round-the-clock coverage of the national disaster that never was continues even as I write this. Oh, by the way, about 200,000 of your fellow Americans marched in Washington on Saturday. Just thought you’d like to know in case you missed it.

Useless Information: The Conqueror

My pal Tron first told me this curious tale about a John Wayne movie that was shot near an atomic bomb test area and caused many of the cast members to contract cancer. I had forgotten about the vague story until this afternoon when I was watching an episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000 (Yeah, well what do you do in the afternoon that’s so great?) and one of the quips was about this very movie, The Conqueror.

The story sounds like it has all the making of an urban legend, but apparently it does contain some truth, and perhaps a whole lot of it. The Conqueror was shot in 1955, in canyons near the town of St. George, Utah. Two years earlier our ne’er-do-well government had tested eleven atomic bombs in Yucca Flats, Nevada. As you might expect, these massive explosions created huge clouds of radioactive dust, some of which were blown about by the wind and eventually settled in Snow Canyon, Utah. Which also seemed like a darned nice place to shoot a movie.

In this film John Wayne plays Genghis Khan. Yes, you read that correctly. I actually remember seeing this monstrosity on TV years ago, and it’s not a pretty sight. Anyway, the actors and crew shot on this location for thirteen weeks, and almost certainly inhaled a goodly amount of the poisonous dust. As if that wasn’t enough, would-be movie producer Howard Hughes actually shipped sixty tons of the dirt back to Hollywood to be used in any retakes that might have needed to be shot. And thus the phrase, “It seemed like a good idea at the time” was born.

It should be mentioned that Howard Hughes suffered a great amount of guilt from the eventual results of his actions, and also that many of the actors and crew were not completely unaware of the local radiation. There is, in fact, a photo of John Wayne using a Geiger counter while on location. There is no absolute proof, of course, that anybody contracted cancer by spending time in St. George, Utah in the 1950’s (Golly, I sound just like a government spokesman!) but the numbers over the next few decades tell a pretty gruesome story.

There were 220 people who worked on location in Utah to film The Conqueror. By the early 1980’s 91 of them (45+ %) had contracted cancer. Forty-six of these would die from the disease, including Susan Hayward, Agnes Moorehead, Director Dick Powell and John Wayne himself. The Conqueror is now often referred to as “An RKO Radioactive Picture.”

The numbers are even grimmer for the town of St. George itself. Thirty years after the atomic bomb tests were conducted fully one half of the residents of that hapless community had contracted cancer. So please, stop asking me if I’m going to be getting one of those government-sponsored flu shots this year.

Three Card Monte: Inventions

I got the idea for this round of Three Card Monte when I came across a wildly creative and somewhat disgusting device that is offered for sale on the Internet. I was going to use it in our game as one of the three inventions, but I decided that typing out a detailed description of an artificial urinary system was more than I could, or wanted to, tolerate. Briefly, this is a device that is used when you’re forced to take a random company drug screening and don’t think your own polluted bodily fluids will pass the test.

It’s called The Whizzinator, and believe me the people who created this contraption have thought of everything. Besides the handy belt that straps around your waist the Whizzinator comes with a heater pack, a supply of pure synthetic urine and, finally, what they euphemistically call a Number One device. That means a fake wiener. Apparently these days companies don’t simply ask you for a sample of your precious fluids, but they want to stand there and watch as it’s being produced. And by golly it had better be coming out of your own flapdoodle. And it had better be warm. And so—The Whizzinator! Technology: is there any problem it can’t conquer? Oh, and calm down ladies, of course they make a Whizzinator for your own particular nether physiognomy!

OK, enough of that nonsense. Let’s play Three Card Monte. Below are descriptions of three inventions. Two of them are real—they have patents and everything. One is fake, although it is an idea I’ve been carrying around in my head for quite some time, and a pretty darn good one at that. Your job: Pick out the fake invention. Ready, Set, Go! (Which I guess could also be the slogan for The Whizzinator.)


INVENTION #1

There you are sitting at the kitchen table like a confused dope. You’ve still got half a doughnut and a quarter of a glass of milk. But horrors! Due to the mystical force that we know as gravity the remainder of your milk has uselessly settled way down at the bottom of the glass. How is a pastry-munching slob such as yourself supposed to dunk the remainder of his sugar-encrusted doughnut? Why, if your fingers were long enough to reach the bottom of the glass you’d be a concert pianist instead of a (insert title of your current crappy job here.) Fear not, my carbo-loading friend! Allow me to introduce the Dunk Glass. It holds about ten ounces of milk, and is cunningly made with a false bottom. When your milk runs low you simply press the plunger along the side of the glass and the false bottom rises to bring your milk to well within dunking range. Amazing! And happily, for all you coffee drinkers a Dunk Mug is also available.

INVENTION #2

Oh joy. Here’s an invention that can actually be used in tandem with The Whizzinator. Gentlemen, you know how exhausting it can be standing at a urinal for twenty, thirty or even forty long seconds while you’re waiting to complete your business. (For our AARP-aged readers simply convert that figure to twenty, thirty, or forty long minutes.) Well once again science has rushed to your rescue! For you there is the Forehead Support Apparatus, a soft, compressible cushion that can be mounted directly over the urinal to provide the support your head needs, for as long as you need it. Women, who always find a comfortable waiting seat whenever they repair to the loo, will scoff at the idea, but men, with our long years of uninal-leaning experience, will cheer it. Especially drunk men. And very especially obscenely drunk men.


INVENTION #3

Attention all my chubby chums! Now you no longer have to waste thousands of dollars and endure the incredible pain of stomach-stapling surgery. For little money and no pain (when used correctly) you can lose weight through the scientific breakthrough known as The Anti-Eating Face Mask. It’s based on the same principle as the chastity belt; that is if you want to eliminate an offending intrusive behavior, what better way than to lock up the accepting orifice? The Anti-Eating Face Mask is made of a hard durable plastic, but is punctured with tiny holes to allow for those all-important functions such as talking. And breathing. The mask is attached by a system of straps that hold it snuggly, but comfortably, into place over the mouth and chin. When worn properly The Anti-Eating Mask is very effective in eliminating the ingestion of food. Of course what use would this valuable gadget be if you lovable gluttons could simply whip it off every time you get within sniffing distance of the nearest Home Town Buffet? The Anti-Eating Mask can be locked in place and the key, I assume, left with someone with hopefully more self-control than you gorging gourmands. And while The Anti-Eating Mask may not make any positive fashion statements and could actually limit your desire to be seen outside the house, it’s guaranteed to be 100% effective in reducing caloric intake. Why, it’s unfathomable scientific advancements such as these that make old-school solutions such as diet and exercise seem absolutely barbaric!


OK, Smarty-Pants. Which is the fake (though brilliant) invention? Answer tomorrow in the Comments section.

Eat At Joe's

There’s really one thing that I want to know,
Why are so many restaurants named after Joe?

At Joe’s Shanghai the Asian food is the best,
For slobs like me there’s Sloppy Joe’s in Key West.

Joe’s Crab Shack in Houston has a crustaceous fare,
After Hurricane Rita I hope they’re still there.

Famous Joe’s in New York may be a popular spot,
But when you call yourself famous you’re probably not.

Visit Joe’s Gizzard City if you really are nuts,
And ask for their special, deep fried chicken guts.

Joe’s American Grill must serve apple pie,
San Rafael Joe’s is near me, I should give it a try.

Joe’s Stone Crab Restaurant you’ll find in Miami,
Trader Joe’s will sell groceries to rich guys like Hammy.

One Indiana restaurant holds no interest for me,
It’s named Average Joe’s, so how good can it be?

Milwaukee Joe’s features sweets for your kiddie,
They’re known for their ice cream, can you guess in what city?

In Washington D.C. Joe’s Pizza is hopping,
If Bush orders one please make pretzels his topping.

Original Joe’s serves great seafood and such,
The food is original, the name not so much.

In Venice a restaurant is owned by a Joe,
He named it Joe’s Restaurant, now what do you know?

There’s even a Queer Joe’s, and no, I’m not kidding,
But a restaurant it’s not, it’s a blog about knitting.

Isn’t it amazing just what you can find,
When you’re playing on Google and have way too much time?

Lovely Rita, Media Made

First off, that is just about the best goddamn title I’ve ever written, and it only took me about forty-five seconds to come up with it. Let me stop typing here for a bit so that I can free up my hand to pat myself on the back. You know, I wasn’t even going to write this piece, and then that title popped into my head. Now I have to.

Remember my article called “Lightning”? Of course you don’t. You never read it. In fact you’ve never even heard of it until right now. No matter. It was a short treatise on how after one event happens everybody keeps looking for that event to immediately repeat itself. And it seldom does. At the time I was talking about the tsunami in Indonesia, and how everybody was now preparing for the next tsunami. I mentioned that they were even planning to install emergency speakers here at our local beach.

In the article I pointed out that, yes indeedy, another big disaster was heading our way, but it sure wasn’t going to be a tsunami. And then Katrina hit. Have you noticed that you don’t hear too much about tsunamis anymore?

Recently, thankfully, they have revised the number of victims from that hurricane way down. While gruesome estimates were being made of three, five and even eight times the number of dead as from 9-11 and 25,000 body bags were being ordered, apparently I made my own prediction. Spike reminded me that I had said that the total would be nowhere near that many, and so it came to pass.

Curiously, I didn’t remember making the prediction, which is very unlike me. While it’s conceivable that I may have readily forgotten having made some keen observation that later proved to be ridiculously wrong, it’s strange that I’d overlook one when I was right. And it’s not like I’m psychic. There’s always going to be another disaster coming. And soon. And secondly, the early reports of the number of Katrina’s dead were so low that you knew those initial catastrophic predictions wouldn’t hold.

So tonight as I’m clicking through the news channels and again seeing those colorful and now-familiar maps of the Gulf of Mexico it seemed to me there was a lot of wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth going on. Phrases like, “Rita could rival Katrina” were everywhere. Bush has probably already rolled up his sleeves and begun to practice hugging black people.

“Notice,” I said to Spike, “that they’re not saying it will be as big as Katrina, but that it will rival Katrina. Or better, that it could rival Katrina.”
Well, how else are they going to get you to watch?

Listen, I’ve been listening to bogus weather predictions since I was a kid praying for a snow day that never came. As I write this Rita has been upgraded to a Category Three, and that’s major, I know. The school buses are ready to begin evacuations in Texas, as well as in the United States. So I’m no dummy—I know that something is going to happen. It’s just hard to imagine that, a few short weeks after what has been called the biggest natural disaster in U.S. history, another biggest disaster is about to happen. I told this to Spike and I think she was itching to make a bet on it, but we couldn’t come up with a tasteful way of doing it.
“Aren’t I always right?” I asked modestly.
“Yes, 95% of the time,” she hedged.
“But not this time?”
“Nope.”

Hunter Thompson, formerly my favorite living writer, once wrote an article about panicky weather predictions. He also made some incredibly inaccurate predictions of his own, in both sports and politics. Still, right or wrong, he had the nerve to write them down, to put them out there before the event.

I was going to write an “I knew it” article after the fact, if indeed Rita turned out to be less of a big deal than the pants-wetting hysteric television reporters would have us believe. Instead, in memory of the Good Doctor, I have tonight retrieved my balls from the dusty box where they are stored, put them on and have decided to write down these thoughts and insights about Hurricane Rita before we know the outcome.

So let’s watch and see if God this time shows his infinite love by sending Rita to New Orleans, which would be cruel, to Houston, which would be ironic or to Mexico, which would be ignored. Sit back and we’ll see if Hurricane Rita turns out to be the second coming of Katrina, as we’re being led to believe right now, or if in a few days we start hearing terms like “not as bad as it could have been” and “we dodged a bullet.”

And if it turns out that I’m wrong, well it won’t be the fir—actually it may well be the first time. And if I’m not wrong it will be a double blessing. First, because maybe this time around a lot fewer people will be hurt. And second, of course, it means that I was right. Again.

MPG (Miles Per Gato)

So I had to chase three different cats out of my yard today. Now don’t get all worked up there, Nellie, I’m not some grumpy old cat-hater. Well, I am grumpy and I’m certainly not getting any younger, but I don’t hate cats. I mean, I don’t particularly love them. I love chocolate chip cookies. I love breasts. I love vacations. Cats? I can take them or leave them.

The reason I chase these critters from my yard is that Ellsworth, my turtle who you’ve all come to know and love, basks and swims out there in his kiddie pool. And cats, well, they’re cats. So I’m just protecting my little green reptilian pal.

But listen, did you read the story the other day about the German inventor who claims to be able to make cheap fuel out of dead cats? Ain’t that something? It’s been causing quite an uproar among animal rights groups, as you can imagine. Me, I say if the only things the Germans are rounding up are cats then we’re ahead of the game. So don’t piss them off.

The article says that Dr. Christian Koch invented a process to transform old tires, weeds and other assorted materials, including dead cats, into cheap diesel fuel. The article also claims that each full-grown cat could produce over half a gallon of fuel. So turn your head away in disgust if that helps you to feel superior, but by my calculations that’s nearly two gallons of gasoline that I chased out of my yard today. Hmmmm...

And here’s the real question for me. The article states that it would take about twenty dead cats to make enough fuel to fill an eleven-gallon tank, which my car happens to have. So I’m wondering if I can attract three cats with one turtle does that mean I can attract 21 cats with seven turtles?

Even if I only put them outside once a week, that’s enough cats for me to keep my car going strong without ever again having to go to a gas station. And even after factoring in the cost of the additional turtle food, with gas at three bucks plus I still come out way ahead of the game. And if I lose a few turtles along the way, well maybe they can be used to power something too. Perhaps my lawn mower? Hmmmmmm...

A Yummy Candy Quiz!

I was thinking about how to open up this discussion about candy, because I felt it would be rude (and lazy) of me to just go ahead and drop the quiz on you, which is probably the only reason you’re reading this anyway. These damn quizzes always seem like an easy way to do a blog and they turn out to be the most difficult, what with the research and coming up with credible fake answers and especially trying to line up those goddamn numbers and letters. Who needs it? But, as always, I do it all for you.

I reflected on the number of times in the last week that candy has come into play in my life. For their anniversary I sent my parents a five pound chocolate bar. No, it’s not a Caribbean cruise but at least I know it’s something that they’ll use. I looked up on the Internet to find out how to get to the PEZ Museum, which is here locally. (Really, isn’t PEZ a crappy candy? It’s the only one where the container is more fun than what’s inside.) Regular reader(s) will remember Harry, the cute little neighborhood kid that I ordered candy from last week. I notice I’ve been starting to get a little antsy about the delivery date. (I want my candy now!) Spike and I went to an Open House a few days ago and helped ourselves to the M&M’s that were offered. (Yes, even though we were just looky-loo’s with no intention of buying that overpriced pile of cracking stucco. So sorry, Mr. Agent, if the ten cents worth of candy we filched cuts into your $40,000 commission.) Spike mentioned that her school will be selling See’s candy at Christmas time. Wow, that’s a lot of candy references in just a few days, and I’m not even taking the time to really think about it.

I was in Weight Watcher’s years ago. I’m not saying I didn’t belong there, but I had also thought that since I had just broken up with my girlfriend it might be a good place to meet women. Pudgy women who might appeal to my encoded Italian genetics. It didn’t work out quite that way, but that’s a tale for another day. The instructor at one particular meeting announced a change in the eating plan. Previously you could eat all the vegetables you wanted, but there were limits on fruit. Now they were removing those limitations.
“How many of you are here because you eat too much fruit?” she asked.
No hands went up.
“I thought so,” she said.

Exactly. It’s no secret that I, and all my new chubby lady friends, were there because of cookies and cakes and pies and ice cream. And many of us were there because of candy. If I might steal one of my brother’s most famous lines, “It’s not my fault that Snickers tastes better than broccoli.” Snickers, by the way, is the best selling candy bar in the world. I forgot to put that into the quiz. (See, contrary to what you may have believed, I do take the time to re-write these damns things.)

There is a small percentage of you who could care less if you ever had another piece of candy again. I have no scientific evidence but I suspect you are the same folks who don’t watch television. Well, good for you. You know what? Why don’t you do us all a favor and go grab an apple and a book and hit the old StairMaster for a few hours. This is a quiz designed for we humans.


1. George Smith, who trademarked the name “lollipop” in 1931, claimed it was…?
a. Named after his hometown
b. Named after his daughter
c. Named after his favorite racehorse.
d. A variation of “lollygag.”

2. Forrest Mars invented M&M’s after watching soldiers eat sugar-coated chocolate in which war?
a. World War I
b. Spanish Civil War
c. World War II
d. War Against Drugs

3. The origins of the Candy Cane go back how many years?
a. 50 years
b. 150 years
c. 350 years
d. Over 2,000 years

4. Where did cotton candy first appear in 1900?
a. The Ringling Bros. Circus
b. The Paris World’s Fair
c. Loew’s Picture Arcade in New York
d. The World Series

5. What are Peeps?
a. Chick-shaped candy
b. Marshmallow candy
c. Just about the worst thing you can find in your Halloween bag.
d. All of the above

6. The name PEZ comes from what?
a. The initials of the inventor’s children.
b. The German word for peppermint.
c. The initials of the company’s owners
d. The name of the inventor’s pet dog.

7. What is inside the candy coating of Good and Plenty?
a. Caramel
b. Licorice
c. Chocolate
d. The missing WMD’s

8. Which country has the highest per capita consumption of candy?
a. The United States
b. Switzerland
c. China
d. Denmark

9. Nearly three-quarters of American chocolate lovers prefer what kind?
a. Dark chocolate
b. White chocolate
c. Milk chocolate
d. Free chocolate

10. On average, Americans each eat about how much candy per year?
a. 2 pounds
b. 6 pounds
c. 14 pounds
d. 26 pounds

Time’s up! Pencils down! Eyes straight ahead, Mister!

ANSWERS:

1. Smith claimed he took the name from his favorite racehorse, Lolly Pop. Others point out that in Northern England another word for tongue was “lolly” and the word was created there. Who knows?
2. Spanish Civil War. This allowed soldiers to eat chocolate without it melting in the hot Spanish sun. M&M’s did, however, gain widespread popularity during the War on Drugs. At least in my smoky dorm room they did.
3. They started as a white candy stick about 350 years ago, and were shaped into canes to represent a shepherd’s staff shortly after.
4. At the Circus, of course! Did you know that cotton candy is 100% sugar? That’s even better than Captain Crunch!
5. I wouldn’t eat these hideous things if they were the only candy in the house. And that’s saying something.
6. PEZ comes from the German word Pfefferminze, meaning peppermint. They started out as a cigarette substitute.
7. Licorice. Not my favorite and you don’t see them around too much anymore, but they beat the hell out of Peeps.And PEZ.
8. Denmark. And if you guessed China it simply means you don’t understand the phrase “per capita.”
9. Milk chocolate. Easy one.
10. Twenty-six friggin’ pounds a year. Does that seem like a lot to you? That’s over two pounds of candy every month! I better put down this Hershey’s bar and recheck my research.

All Hail The Cross-Eyed Seamstress

All that glitters is not gold, Children, and not all change is a step forward. Many ancient customs and beliefs have survived through the millennia not simply due to habit and tradition, but because they have their roots deeply embedded in wisdom and common sense.

There is an age-old tradition in Nepal that I believe makes as much sense today as it has for innumerable generations. In some rural areas of that spiritual and venerable country it is common practice to confine women, during their menstruation, to a cow-shed. I know, I know, but we’re not talking about some long banishment from the household here, but merely four days. Four short days out of a month does not seem like that big a sacrifice to me. Especially when you weigh the many benefits.

If you are shocked by the above custom and think it barbaric I would venture to guess that you have never lived with a woman as she goes through the wondrous process of what is euphemistically called her “time of month.” I’d even go a step further and speculate that not only have you never lived with one, but more likely than not you are one.

And so now the Supreme Court of Nepal, in a decision totally devoid of common sense, has ordered the government to begin cracking down on this practice. The judges, in their dubious wisdom, have declared that this honored and practical tradition is somehow discriminating against women. There is, however, so far no word on whether being forced to suffer through an endless and emotional stream of complaints about cramping, bleeding and bloating for nearly a quarter of our pitifully short lives is considered in any way discriminatory against men.

Every month around a certain time I jokingly ask my wife if she’d like to go sit in the woods for a few days. I even offer to drive her. I’m really a lot of fun to live with. I never dreamed that my oh-so-hilarious suggestion was not only based in reality, but that it is still being practiced today by what can only be described as the most advanced society on Earth. And now they want to end it!

OK, to be fair, part of the problem is that the women are not treated with kindness. They are banished to what is usually a dirty, unsanitary cow-shed and are often fed poor quality food. But that’s in Nepal. The United States is the richest country in the world. I would never dream of banishing my wife or girlfriend to a dirty old cow-shed. (Not to the same one, anyway. They might talk. Heh-heh.) I’m proposing that we build comfortable, modern huts for our women folk to use during their time of need. If we can construct special housing for our tools and our cars and even our dogs, then why not for our crampy, bloated women? Don’t they mean more to us than our tools, cars and dogs? Well, certainly our tools, anyway.

And you know what? I truly believe that you gals would grow to look forward to these “mini-vacations” in your Menstructure. We could hook up cable TV for you, put in comfortable furniture and even occasionally slide you flowers and chocolates through a slot in the locked door. And then after four days of glorious solitude you’d be released, refreshed and ready to return to the main house and reclaim your place in normal society: calm, content and practically human. Until next month. .

Kids-Part II

We were seated around the table with my wife’s relatives on Labor Day when I noticed that the two-year-old girl was toddling unsteadily toward the open basement door. I kept an eye on her and when it became apparent that nobody else in the room was going to do anything I felt the need to say something. I had this horrible vision of this kid tumbling down the stairs.

“Uh, should she be walking over to those stairs?” I asked.
Suddenly all the women at the table were looking at me as if I was, if not exactly a complete idiot, then certainly one that was nearly assembled.
One woman finally spoke up. “Oh, she’s fine. That’s no problem.”

And then it dawned on me. Every person seated at that table knew what a two-year-old was capable of. Except me. Unlike everybody else, apparently I don’t know at what age a child can safely climb up and down stairs. I don’t know at what age they learn to talk. Nor do I know when the average child begins to walk. (I started walking at ten months, which I’m told is fairly early. I strongly suspect that this quick start all those years ago may well explain why I’m so exhausted now.)

Let me take you back a few months. A friend comes to visit and brings along her nine-year-old son. We walk down the beach and her son heads right for the water. Now besides it being too cold for a human to remain in for more than three seconds, the water is also very rough. The kid, however, seems to be having the time of his life and goes in no deeper than his waist; but again I don’t know if he’s old enough to be splashing around out there or not. And more importantly, I don’t know who will be expected to jump in and save him if he gets into trouble. (Although I do have a sneaking suspicion.) After a while I calm down a bit. Hell, there were drummer boys in the Civil War who were nine-years old. I guess it’s no big deal if the waves knock this kid on his ass once or twice as he frolics in chilly water.

Go back another couple of months and I’m talking to a friend on the phone. He gets another call and puts me on hold. And like a fool, instead of immediately hanging up to protest the evil that is call-waiting, I wait. The other call is from his twelve-year-old daughter. I know this because while I’m simmering on hold, due to some technical glitch no doubt, I can hear their conversation.

Well, I’m actually much more polite than you think I am, and I immediately make my presence known. His daughter is surprised, and my friend tries to explain to her who I am. She can’t seem to remember me, which really should be expected. After all, I last saw her when she was six, which may seem like a short while ago to me but is half a lifetime to her. We talk a bit and then she says, “Just what I always wanted, a three-way with Lenny.”

OK, even I knew enough not to touch that one. Sure she had left me a huge opening to respond with some witty and off-color rejoinder, but that voice inside me head (the one I almost always ignore) told me to, just this once, shut up. The girl is twelve years old. So I did good and steered the conversation in a different direction. Still, between you and me, I’m pretty sure that girl, twelve years old or not, knew damn well what she was saying.

And no wonder I’m confused about what kids know and at what age. It seems like every parent I’ve ever talked to always says the same thing. Their little Johnny is very bright. Why, the little genius is already reading on a second-grade level. His teacher is so impressed with his math skills. And you should see him play those video games. And don’t get me started on how quickly he ties his shoelaces. Our Johnny is so very spe-e-e-e-e-c-i-a-l.

So where are all the dummies? Somebody out there must be rounding out the bell curve. Just once I’d like to hear some parent say, “Yes, that’s our little Billy. He’s a happy child but he’s a bit S-L-O-W.” See, if everybody was honest with me about their child’s abilities (or lack of) then maybe I could better gauge exactly what the average child is capable of at any particular age. Plus I wouldn’t have a near stroke every time a two-year-old walks toward a flight of stairs or a six-year-old picks up a spoon.

Kids-Part I

There’s this great kid who lives in our neighborhood. He’s eight years old and his name is Harry. I first met him a few months back when he knocked on my front door. He scared the crap out of me because he actually used the metal doorknocker that I had thought was merely a decoration. And he didn’t use it gently.

Harry was pulling a wagon that was loaded with rags, cleaning supplies and a small assortment of hand tools. He explained that he was going around the neighborhood looking for chores to do. I mean, seeing this cute blond kid with his baseball cap, pulling his wagon and politely asking if I had any work for him was both a little unsettling and yet unarguably nostalgic at the same time. I felt like I had been whisked back to the 1940’s. Or onto the set of The Little Rascals.

Trust me: This Harry is a kid that you just can’t turn down. I really couldn’t think of any chores that needed to be done (I assumed he was too young to build me a deck.) but then I asked him how much it would cost to wash my car. I almost flipped. Did he just say thirty dollars?
“How much?” I asked in not-pretend shock.
“Three dollars.”
"Oh.”

Well, I was about ready to give this kid a lecture about the danger of undercharging for his services, but I figured what the hell? Let him wash the car first. I can always set him straight later. After I had given him his three dollars, of course.

So the kid set right to work cleaning my car. At one point he asked if I wanted the car windows done. I said, nah, I’d do them myself, but Harry insisted on doing them anyway. He figured it was part of the job. Where the hell did this kid come from?

Just before he finished his task my wife pulled into the driveway and I introduced her to Harry. Job complete, he said his good-byes, packed up his supplies, pulled his wagon out of the driveway and disappeared down the street in search of his next client.

“Can’t we keep him?” asked my wife. So it seemed that Harry had worked his third-grade magic on my wife too. I told her that his parents would probably be upset if we did that, and besides I’ve seen the house where Harry and his family live, and it’s at least twice the size of ours. Rather than moving in with us, I think everybody concerned would be a lot better off if we moved in with him. I wonder if they have a pool back there?

So Harry came around again the other day. Again he scared the crap out of me by using the doorknocker. The plumber doesn’t even knock that hard. (But he sure charges more.) Harry was now selling stuff to raise money for his school, including magazines, wrapping paper and chocolates, and wanted to know if I was interested. (He’s got me pegged, accurately, as a soft touch.) He explained in his serious way that if he sells 150 items he wins an iPod, whatever the hell that is. I figured I’d humor the kid, so I pushed out my stomach, patted it and asked him which item he thought I wanted.
“Chocolate,” he said without missing a beat. “Hey, you got a turtle?” he added, as he looked past me and peered into the house.
“Sure, you can go in and take a look at him if you want.”
So Harry spent a few minutes checking out Ellsworth and then told me he’d like to someday get a turtle. Or a snake.

“Well, you should go down to that field at the end of the road, “ I told him. There are plenty of snakes in there.’
“I know,” Harry replied. “But I wouldn’t want to take one out of the wild.”

Is that the perfect answer or what? I tell you this kid is sharp and ambitious, but he’s also got soul. I truly hope he doesn’t allow that soul to get sucked out of him in twenty years by working for some spirit-crushing corporation.

“Yup,” I agreed. “You should leave those snakes in the wild.” And that was it. It suddenly dawned on me that I had no idea what to ask him next. Apparently I have no idea what an eight-year-old knows or thinks. And that seems to apply to kids of any age as well.

Well, I shouldn’t say I have no idea. I mean, I know enough not to offer him a beer or ask him if he’s getting any. And I learned a long time ago how not to talk down to kids, but to talk to them like adults. Within certain limitations, of course.

You know, I don’t think the problem is that I don’t know how to talk to kids, but that I really have no concept of where children are developmentally at any particular age. What do they know at two years old? Four? Eight? I mean I know that generally a kid should be reading by age ten and potty-trained by twelve, but I’m afraid I’m unable to pinpoint it any more accurately than that.

See, this all started when we were visiting my wife’s relatives last week and someone left the basement door open. I sat at the dining room table and watched nervously as the two-year-old began toddling closer and closer toward the open door and those steep basement stairs…



TOMORROW- PART II: WHAT DOES A TWO-YEAR-OLD KNOW?

Entourage

I once had a girlfriend who told me her husband (yeah, you read that right) decided that they were watching too much television and so, in a fit of anger, he ripped the TV cable right out of the wall. At the time I thought this guy must be a quite a lunatic (and if this is how he treated his TV, what would he do if he ever ran into me?) and I still believe he was being a tad overly dramatic with his cable-yanking tantrum. Most televisions do, after all, come with an “off” button. Still, I kind of understand his point of view.

I once knew a woman who watched television all day, every day. Seven days a week. From the time she woke up at 9 a.m. until the time she went to bed fourteen hours later she was “plopped” (as Mom used to say) in front of the T.V. And sometimes I also understand her point of view.

Some people have no interest in television at all, which is fine. But others can’t wait to steer the topic of conversation around to television, just so they can announce that they never watch it. “I wouldn’t even own one!” they brag for all to hear. To these people I say, “Your loss, Toots.” Television is an art form, and like any art form most of what it produces is garbage. But also like any art form the cream rises to the top, and there are many great programs, wonderful programs that we are fortunate to be able to see.

We always say, “Turn off that TV and go outside, take a walk, do some gardening.” Can you imagine how some poor mud farmer in the Middle Ages would react if he suddenly had television? Suddenly he can see sporting events that are taking place thousands of miles away and check on the progress of wars in distant lands and enjoy Mr. Shakespeare’s plays right in the comfort of his own hovel. If he heard of some nut-job yanking the cable out of the wall he’d surely thinketh him a foole. “If I had access to this wondrous machine,” he’d claim, “why, I would never leave the house!”

OK, I know that 90% of the stuff on TV is crap, but I’ll tell you what has me so worked up tonight. (And why I’m writing this column much later than usual, despite that fake time that you see posted there.) The reason I’m starting this column almost three hours later than usual is because the good folks over at HBO (whose collective ass I have previously and frequently kissed on these very pages) decided in their wisdom to run six consecutive episodes of their brilliant show business-themed program Entourage. These happened to be the very episodes that I missed during that dark, dark year when I thought I could live without HBO. Ah, what a fool I was back then.

I had watched this series from its first episode, enjoyed it immensely, and thought that it was my little secret. A few months ago I heard one critic call Entourage the best show on television. As much as I liked the show I scoffed a bit at that. Now I think he might have been right. True, you can probably feel that I am typing this while still riding the three-hour high that I got from watching the six shows tonight, but boy Entourage seems more sharply written, funnier and more entertaining than it was last season. And last season was great.

OK, so I’m a lackey for HBO. Sue me. But remember, I’m only here to help. So if you happen to own a television set, and have not yet ripped the cable wire out of the wall, there are worse ways to spend your valuable TV watching time than getting familiar with the boys on Entourage. Give it a try--you’ll thank me later.

Spaced Out

I can still remember being eight years old and running home from school bursting with patriotic pride. “We did it! We showed those Russians!” God, what an idiot.

What had me in a dither was the success of America’s first manned flight. Believe me, kids, this was pretty exciting stuff back then. As American astronauts began to orbit the Earth people talked of little else and wore pins to commemorate the event. “Around the World in Ninety Minutes!” these colorful buttons would proudly proclaim.

I even remember making a chart so that I could immediately know which orbit an astronaut was on at any given time. In school we’d always watch the blast-off on television (T.V. in school back then was near-blasphemy) and throughout the day fellow students would approach me to ask what number orbit our brave astronaut was now on as well as other space-related questions. Of course I had based my calculations on a ninety-minute orbit, and when it became generally known that an orbit actually only took eighty-seven minutes my chart, as well as my opinion, soon became worthless. God, what an idiot.

Well, that was over forty years ago and it doesn’t take much imagination to know how that goofy eight-year old would feel today if he got a chance to look at the state of space exploration in this bleak year of 2005. Hell, in 1968 the classic 2001: A Space Odyssey came out, and men were heading to Jupiter! With a talking computer! That took place four years ago and not only haven’t we landed men anywhere near Jupiter, we seem incapable of even sending men to New Orleans! And nobody even bothers to watch a space shuttle launch any more, unless of course the previous one exploded.

Ah, but things will swing back the other way, as they always do, and manned exploration of space will continue. But until that day arrives please join me in reliving those early, heady days of long ago when the Space Age was new and exciting and bursting with unfathomable possibilities. Here’s a little quiz I put together for you. For you old farts it will be trivia that you may or may not be able to recall and for you youngsters it will be just one more wonderful thing, like the Beatles or pre-AIDS sex, that you poor saps missed out on.


1. Who was the first man in space?

a. John Glenn
b. Alan Shepard
c. Yuri Gagarin
d. Timothy Leary

2. Who was the first man to orbit the Earth?

a. John Glenn
b. Alan Shepard
c. Yuri Gagarin
d. Neil Armstrong

3. The first animal in space was…

a. A cat named Mars
b. A dog name Laika
c. A rabbit named Mr. Fluff
d. A baboon named George W.

4. What was the name of John Glenn’s historic space capsule?

a. Friendship 7
b. Neptune 3
c. Triumphant 12
d. Oakland Raiders 0

5. Which man was not one of the original seven U.S. astronauts?

a. Scott Carpenter
b. Gordon Cooper
c. Walter Schirra
d. Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin

6. Put the American space programs in chronological order.

a. Mercury, Gemini, Apollo
b. Gemini, Apollo, Mercury
c. Mercury, Apollo, Gemini
d. Apollo, Mercury, Gemini

7. Which is not true of astronaut Virgil “Gus” Grissom?

a. He nearly drowned when his space capsule sank.
b. He died in a space capsule fire at Cape Kennedy
c. His 85 Earth orbits is still a record to this day.
d. He was one of the original seven U.S. astronauts.

8. America’s first manned space flight lasted about how long?

a. Fifteen minutes
b. Ninety minutes
c. Five hours
d. Twenty hours

Pencils down! Eyes front, Mister! So how’d you do?

ANSWERS:

1. YURI GAGARIN, from Russia.
2. Got ya! It’s YURI GAGARIN again. His historic flight lasted almost two hours as he did one quick lap around the planet.
3. LAIKA. I actually knew the answer to this, but for some reason I didn’t know that the poor mutt died up there. From stress and overheating. Those damn puppy-killing Russkies, huh?
4. The FRIENDSHIP SEVEN. I even remember seeing it on display somewhere. Pretty cramped, but I’ve lived in smaller.
5. BUZZ ALDRIN may be the best remembered, but he wasn’t one of the original seven. He was, however, the second man to walk on the Moon. He should have been the first—maybe he would have gotten that line right.
6. MERCURY, GEMINI, APOLLO. One astronaut, two astronauts, three astronauts.
7. Grissom, the second American in space, orbited the Earth but three times on Gemini 3. There is still speculation about whether he panicked and caused his capsule to flood and sink on his Mercury mission. Some also speculate that had Grissom not died in that tragic fire he may well have been chosen to be the first man to walk on the Moon. The Pete Best of astronauts.
8. FIFTEEN MINUTES. That’s just a mere fourteen minutes longer than the first controlled flight by the Wright Brothers.

Not Much. Went Shopping. Almost Killed My Wife. And You?

So my wife Spike and I went to The Great Mall of the Bay Area today, and first off I’m here to tell that, while it’s a good mall, it’s not really a great mall. We usually drive out there at Christmas to do some shopping but for some reason I thought it might be a nice place to wander around today. I forgot that it is made up of one sporting goods store, one bookstore, and five hundred women’s clothing stores, all of which my wife had warned me she planned to visit. And so I braced myself for a day of dog-tied-to-the-parking-meter-style waiting and entered the mall.

Before I take you through the near-tragic events of the day, let me get this out of the way. Ladies, why do you ask us how you look in a pair of pants if you really don’t want an honest answer? Spike had gone off to the fitting room with a pair of pants while I stood leaning on a clothes rack, staring into space and bored to numbness. My revelry was interrupted by Spike calling me from halfway across the store to ask me what how I thought the pants looked on her. My mistake? I told her. And so I spent the next half hour deflecting snide asides about those incredibly perfect pants and feeling guilty because it was somehow my fault that she hadn’t bought them.

There is one ladies’ clothing shop that I actually don’t mind going into and that, of course, is the bra shop. It’s funny: it’s like a movie that you can only get in if you’re accompanied by an adult. If a guy (especially a shifty-eye lecher like me) walks into a lingerie store by himself it’s like a wolf has infiltrated the flock and the sheep start to get a little nervous. The only defense we helpless wolves have is to go into that confused boyfriend/husband mode, complete with the dopey look on our face. Oh, I have to buy a gift and this was the first place I saw after I fell off the turnip truck and won’t one of you bright gals who truly understands the complex mysteries of women’s underwear please help me? Hyuk. Hyuk.

So Spike is pawing through racks of bras, trying to resolve the eternal underwire/no underwire debate, and I’m nearby (don’t want to make the sheep nervous) watching the other customers and visually scanning the huge assortment of brassieres on display. Now I play my little game. What’s the biggest size I can find? I easily spot some impressive thirty-eight D’s and even a proud forty double-D, but the game really isn’t over until my gaze is captured by a truly remarkable forty-two triple-D! And suddenly I’m in a fantasy about camping out in this store and waiting for that glorious day when a woman arrives who fits perfectly into that magnificent bra. Ah, ‘tis a timeless tale, yes? Think of it as a Cinderella for perverts.

And listen, lest you think I was the only retard in that store, a couple of young girls (about 34-B I’d say) came along, giggling and laughing. And then one of them picked up the bra, (yes my trophy bra!) and put it on her head like a hat. They both broke into peals of laughter. I thought it was pretty funny, and so I laughed too. Now their excuse was that they were silly little sixteen-year-old girls. My excuse? Well, I’m not sure I really have one. Poor potty training?

Somewhere during the hilarity I noticed that my bride had wandered off to the far end of the store and, being the bundle of infinite joy that I am, I decided to bring some additional cheer into her life. I quietly walked around the racks so that I could come up behind her unnoticed. My plan was to sneak up behind her as she was picking out a bra, cup her breasts and say something incredibly witty such as, “Yes ma’am, I think that’s about your size.” I’m really quite the bundle of fun, as you can see.

And so, stifling a giggle, I snuck up behind her with an Indian-like stealth that I didn’t know I possessed, grabbed her breasts and said, “Yes, ma’am, I think-“

And that was as far as I got. If I said Spike was “startled” it would be an understatement on par with Custer’s “Hey, I think there are some Indians over there.” The word “terrified” would more accurately reflect her reaction to my hilarious prank, and I knew immediately that I had, and not for the first time today, made an error in judgment. I leaned in to hug her, calm her down and begin the mandatory I’m sorry’s when I realized something was wrong. The little scenario was not winding down to its expected peaceful conclusion.

Oh, did I mention that before we had entered the ladies’ underwear store Spike had stopped at the gumball machines and purchased a jawbreaker the size of a glass eyeball? Yeah, I thought I had neglected that little tidbit of information. So now, simply by connecting A to B and B to C you are already realizing that this jawbreaker, which had been in her mouth just before I began my inspired gag, was now lodged somewhere in her surprised and somewhat un-accepting throat.

Whoopsie. To my credit (Oh, you don’t think that I deserve even a speck of credit? OK then, you may be right.) I immediately put my arms around her waist and assumed the Heimlich position, but it was a maneuver that I was not going to perform unless it was absolutely necessary. Don’t want to attract too much attention. I’m kind of shy about public displays, especially of affection or suffocation. I asked Spike several times if I should do it, but she didn’t really give me a clear answer. This, of course, may have had something to do with the giant jawbreaker that was currently wedged in her throat.

Well, of course there was a happy ending. You have to assume if it were otherwise I probably wouldn’t be taking the time on the very day of the disaster to type it out for your amusement. Right? Right? Through hand gestures Spike let me know that the jawbreaker was dislodging and that the Heimlich wouldn’t be necessary. And suddenly-pop- the sugary obstruction was happily back in her mouth. With much relief I began the I’m sorry’s and even joked that I had saved her life. (OK, I probably wasn’t joking. Can you believe my nerve?) I even told myself that it hadn’t been that big a deal and I’d never been particularly worried, but the sweat that I was now wiping off my forehead spoke a different tale.

On the bright side I no longer had to hear about the pair of pants that she hadn’t bought because of my callous comments, but sadly this void was soon filled with frequent and dramatic outcries about how I had almost killed her. I even generously sprang for lunch, for god sake, in a valiant attempt to make amends, but I tell you I’m starting to accept the fact that this little fiasco is something I’ll be hearing about for quite some time. Geez, sometimes you women just won’t let go of things.

The good news is that I’m not a complete dunce and today’s scare has indeed taught me a valuable lesson. And so I vow tonight before all of you that the next time I’m in one of those lingerie stores and I come up with what I think is a remarkably funny idea, I swear to you that the bra-shopper’s breasts that I grab will most definitely not belong to my wife.

Having a Blast at the Winchester Mystery House

First off, I don’t like fart jokes, or for that matter scatological humor of any kind. I think it’s coarse and cheap. In fact if you check the nearly eighty articles on this site and the one hundred-plus articles on my other site I doubt that you will find that I have written the word “fart” even once before now. And if I have, it most likely was used not in the sense of a bodily function, but in referring to someone as an “old fart.”

Some of my favorite comedians, such as George Carlin, will tell fart jokes. At these times I don’t think they are at their comic best. I listen to Howard Stern every day, and I think he too can be brilliant, but not because of the fart jokes for which he is well known. In college a friend of mine used to have farting contests with his girlfriend. I thought it was crude then and I still think so today. (Although they have now been married for over thirty years, so maybe they were on to something.) And I was shocked in sixth grade when my true love Janie told me to do “The Name Game” using the name Bart. And no, I’ve never fully recovered.

The reason I’m telling you this is to let you know that I am not relating the following tale to be shocking or crude, or to get an easy laugh. Though it does involve the repeated and somewhat aggressive expulsion of gas, it is certainly not a fart joke. In fact it’s not a joke at all, because it really happened.

After leaving my job as a stockbroker I interviewed at the Winchester Mystery House to work as a tour guide. At the time I wanted to temporarily go some place where I could sharpen my public speaking skills. I don’t remember why. It must have been before I accepted my fate to always hide behind a keyboard. You can get all the info you want about this historic house on the Internet, so I’ll just let you know that it is a huge, 24,000 square foot mansion built by the widow of Oliver Winchester. Winchester, you may know, was the gun guy who manufactured the famous Winchester repeating rifle, known as “the gun that won the West” or “the gun that slaughtered all those Indians” depending your own particular POV.

Now Mrs. Winchester, it seems, was a bit of an eccentric. That means she was a nut-case with a lot of money. The story goes that a spiritualist told her that she would never die as long as she kept building onto the house. (I think my next-door neighbor with the hammers and the power saw at six a.m. believes the same thing.) And so the Winchester Mystery House was created. You see, I told you to go to the Internet. I didn’t want to get sidetracked by all this nonsense about Mrs. Winchester.

So I went to a mass interview, wore a suit and was naturally selected from the drug addicts, old farts (See!) and other assorted losers who were also hoping to land a job as a tour guide. Having just completed six years as a come-and-go-as-you-please stockbroker, it was a bit confining to once again enter the world of the Nazi-like employer. There were lots of rules here. Shave your beard. Wear this striped shirt and bowtie. (I still haven’t forgiven my wife for her cruel laughter on the first day I returned home from work in my uniform.) And never, ever, use the restroom without punching out first. (Translation: Pee on your own time.)

But the Winchester Mystery House is truly a grand old house, and one of the best perks that came along with this job was getting to come in an hour early during my training to wander around and get a feel for the place. To have access to the many rooms of this house when nobody else was around was both exhilarating and spooky. (There have been reported sightings of Mrs. Winchester’s ghost, you know.) So I was feeling pretty special when the day finally came when I was allowed to come in early and wander around that big empty mansion all by myself.

I spent the first ten or fifteen minutes in wide-eyed wonder, as I walked down narrow hallways, explored hidden rooms and climbed staircases that suddenly and mysteriously ended at the ceiling. I was feeling quite excited and having quite a good time when suddenly BLAT! I farted. Loud, quick and clean. And then BLAT! I farted again. And then again.

I felt my stomach gurgle and tried to remember what I had eaten for dinner the previous evening. And before I could come up with an answer BLAT! I farted again. All of this, of course, was very strange behavior for me, but I wasn’t particularly concerned. In fact as I continued to move from room to room I began to let myself fart at will. In truth it gave me a curious feeling of freedom. I was, after all, by myself, nobody was being hurt and I was actually feeling better and better with each loud BLAT! that I allowed to echo off the historic walls. Have you ever felt the emancipation of strolling down a beach completely naked on a warm, sunny day? It felt kind of like that. Even my posture was straighter.

I continued in this manner for some time. Master bedroom. BLAT! The séance room. BLAT! Mrs. Winchester’s private shower. BLAT! BLAT! By the time I strolled across the main ballroom I was feeling like a rolling calliope come to town, spreading my cheery one-note tune throughout a score of rooms in the mansion. I felt so alive! And then I saw them.

There’s no way that the two maintenance men who were hunched over the faulty electrically outlet had heard my entire bi-labial serenade from every room I had been in, but there’s no doubt that they had heard a good part of it. I was within but a few feet before I saw them there. I stopped (everything) suddenly and sheepishly wished them a good morning. They did the same, although to this day I don’t know how they did it with a straight face. I then continued on my tour of the house, more subdued to be sure, while they went back to fixing the outlet. As I walked away I was surprised to not hear any laughter.

The Winchester Mystery House is located in San Jose, California. The tours last about an hour and are a little pricey, but worth the cost, I think. It’s an intriguing 19th Century architectural jewel with 160 rooms, 47 fireplaces, and 1260 windows, and would make a lovely day trip for you and your family. And as you wander through the various rooms of this mansion I hope that you’ll remember reading this article and know, thanks to my special morning fifteen years ago, that the spirit of Mrs. Winchester isn’t the only thing that still lingers there.

Honk If You Hate Geese

Cats are quite friendly,
And dogs sure are fun,
An eagle can fly,
And a cheetah can run.

Dolphins are smart,
And they show it with pride,
Donkeys are not,
But they’re fun to ride.

Snakes seem to inspire,
A whole lot of fright,
But they’ll move out of your way,
So they’re really polite.

Horses are graceful,
When they leap over a hurdle,
And if you want to see cute,
Meet Ellsworth, my turtle.

Elephants are majestic,
When you let them roam loose,
But I don’t understand,
What good is a goose?

The noise that they make,
Is annoying as well,
All that honking and squeaking,
Sounds like a creature from Hell.

I once fed some geese,
And they started fighting,
When the food was all gone,
It was me they were biting!

All of God’s creatures,
Are deserving of lovin’,
And I love geese best,
Right out of the oven.

Look Back In Hunger

I read this formula a while back theorizing that the age of a man is roughly equivalent to the percentage of men who are bald at that particular age. Yeah, I know, huh? Let me clear it up for you. This formula claims that about thirty percent of thirty-year-old men are bald, forty percent of forty-year-old men, half of fifty-year-old men and so on. It sounds like nonsense to me, but who knows? After all, it’s just a rough rule of thumb. I mean, ten percent of ten-year-old boys are not bald, nor are all hundred-year-old men. You know what? Forget I even brought it up. What I planned on writing about tonight is the school lunches we used to get in grade school. How the hell am I going to segue from bald men to school lunches? Watch and learn, children.

I’ve recently come up with my own formula that probably has as much basis in fact as the above bald man theory. That is, none what-so-ever. My theory claims that the age of a person (and yes, you ladies can play along in this one) directly corresponds to the percentage of time one spends thinking about the past. You still with me? In other words, a twenty-year-old will only spend about twenty per cent of his time thinking about the past, while a seventy-year-old will spend seventy percent of the time thinking about the past. And the hundred-year-old? Sadly, he thinks about nothing but.

What led to the creation of this insightful theory was noticing that I had been repeatedly thinking about the past, or more specifically, one particular aspect of the past. And no it’s not about regrets or lost loves or any of that morbid auld lang syne crap. For some reason I’ve been thinking about the school lunches I used to eat when I was in grade school. (Wham! Did you see that? From bald men to school lunches in three short paragraphs! Man, am I something or what?)

The main thing I remember about the school lunches we had in grade school is that they were so damn good! To this day I can distinctly remember the look and the taste of at least five or six different meals that the good cafeteria ladies would serve. No lie: Just now my memory conjured up a ghostly whiff of a grilled cheese sandwich that was served forty years ago. Spooky, huh?

Once a month the school would print a menu, and I can still remember the tantalizing way that the descriptions were worded. “Barbeque Beef on Buttered Bun.” Spaghetti with meat sauce, cheese and Italian bread.” “Chow mein with noodles, rice.” Jesus Christ, I just remembered what the bread that came with the spaghetti looked and tasted like! And now I remember the incredible French dressing on the salad. Boy things really stay with you, don’t they? No wonder I can’t get those fucking catechism questions out of my head.

There were two kinds of kids back then: those who brought their lunch and those who bought their lunch. In the vernacular you were known as either a Hot Lunch or a Cold Lunch, which smacks less of class distinction than the Haves and Have-Nots, don’t you think? For the longest time we, my brothers and I, were Cold Lunches. We’d bring our sandwiches and cookies and a piece of fruit to school in a brown bag every day. I can still remember sitting in class around eleven o’clock, listening to some teacher drone on endlessly about some arcane subject that I’ve long since forgotten, as the fumes from my baloney and catsup sandwich wafted from the brown bag and toward my accepting nostrils, like beckoning finger-shaped smoke tendrils from some classic old cartoon.

No, for a long time we were not to be counted among the Hot Lunch people. Who could afford it? The Hot Lunch back then, including milk and dessert, cost a whopping thirty cents! (And I swear to you this is not being written by some eighty-year-old man. Who has but twenty percent of his hair.) Sure, scoff now, but figure three kids, a buck a day, twenty-plus bucks a month. It adds up. And that’s 1960’s dollars, chump. Baloney was definitely the fiscally responsible way to go.

Then around fifth grade everything changed. Either my mom finally grew weary of making three lunches a day, every day, or my dad finally got off his lazy butt and got that third job in order to feed his three growing Baby Hueys. But for whatever the reason, we suddenly became Hot Lunch People. And these then are the lunches, despite my having since eaten countless wonderful meals in restaurants all over the world, that have stayed in my head for over forty years.

I still remember the spaghetti. It was fatter than average (Who wasn’t?) and completely filled the plastic blue-green plate on which it was served. A generous amount of parmesan cheese always dusted the top, and of course you’ve already met the bread. The cheeseburgers tasted charbroiled, because they probably were. I don’t know if the chow mein bore any relationship to actual Asian cuisine, but boy it was good. The barbequed beef was delicious, and always had one little piece of cooked celery in it, which, incredibly, was also delicious!

When they finally do invent that time machine for home use, one of the first things I’m going to do (after subjecting the young Barbara Bush to a mandatory sterilization, of course) is to go back to my grade school, plunk down thirty cents and have lunch. I’m truly curious to learn if the culinary treats I remember would be quite as appealing to the middle-aged palate as apparently they were to a child’s.

Sadly, I’ve heard that my old grade school no longer exists; or rather it has been greatly expanded into some monstrous office complex built to serve the whims of the school district. That’s unfortunate, because I think the board really missed an opportunity here. I believe they would have been better served to convert that old school into a restaurant. I, for one, certainly would have eaten there. Especially on barbeque beef day.

That's One Small Misstep For Man

Have you ever really blown a line? (That’s “line” not “lion,” you sick twist.) Perhaps you messed up some complicated Shakespearean soliloquy in one of your school plays? Never having possessed the nerve or the talent to actually get up and perform in front of others, I have very little experience in having blown any lines at all. The worst case that I can remember happened when I was in fourth grade and was called upon in class to read aloud from a textbook on agriculture. For some reason I said “crap” instead of “crop.” And nobody laughed, so I’ve never been completely sure that any of my classmates were even paying attention.

Do you know what the worst blown line in history was? Quick, what were the first words said on the Moon? If you said, “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” you got it absolutely correct. That’s exactly what Neil Armstrong said, and it was he, and not you for once, who made the mistake.

Think about it. What does that sentence mean? Don’t “man” and “mankind” mean the same thing? ‘Course they do. What Armstrong had meant to say, what he had actually rehearsed saying, was “That’s one small step for A man, one giant leap for mankind.” Ah-ha! Now that makes a lot more sense, doesn’t it? In other words, the putting of a foot on the dusty surface of the Moon was just a small step for a man, that man being Neil Armstrong, but it was a giant leap for mankind i.e.: all of humanity. Or at least it will be, as soon as we find some oil up there.

The truth is that Armstrong, in front of the largest audience in the history of the world, had flubbed his line. Right after wire service journalists in Houston heard that famous line live in July of 1969 they quickly gathered for a meeting in the pressroom. This was one of the most famous lines in history and it was their responsibility to make sure they got it right. And they did. They reported what they heard, not what they thought they should have heard.

Well, the folks at NASA, like all good government agencies, were quick to fabricate a tale that they hoped would make everything right. (Or did you think that outrageous bullshit was suddenly born at the dawn of the present administration?) Armstrong, they argued, had said “a man” but unfortunately the “a” was obliterated by static. Unfortunately, this time anyway, this not-so-new concept of the government telling you what you actually saw or heard did not fly with the public. A listen to NASA’s own recordings revealed that Armstrong’s words were clearly audible over any static. He had indeed left out a word.

For a while Mr. Armstrong himself was in deep denial, and as late as 1986 he is quoted in a book addressing the issue. “There must be an a,” he said. “I rehearsed it that way. I meant it that way. And I’m sure I said it that way."

Shortly after that someone played a recording of the famous line for Armstrong and to his credit he (unlike certain arrogant presidents and cynical bloggers) was willing to admit he had made a mistake. “Damn, I really did. I blew the first words on the moon, didn’t I?” he said.

Yes, Mr. Armstrong, you certainly did. And yet it would be unkind not to cut you at least a little slack. After all, you had just landed on the Moon, put on a bulky space suit, had been awake for twenty-four hours, were preparing to be heard by millions of people and had just broken the circuit breaker that controlled the switch that started the engines that were needed to begin your trip home. That you could form words at all is a testament to your coolness.

Besides, even though it is your fault that for centuries to come school children will be forced to memorize a quote that makes absolutely no sense, one has to admire the classy low-profile public demeanor you’ve exhibited since your historic trip. We don’t see you on TV supporting shady politicians seeking political office. We don’t see you hawking on Coca-Cola or McDonald’s or even Tang commercials. In fact, we don’t see you at all. And you’re the first man on the Moon! Frankly, if it had been me, my first words on the Moon would have surely begun, “That’s one small step for me, Leonard Stegmann…” Yes, Mr. Armstrong, you may have fucked up the biggest line in history, but you’re still a better man than I. Happy 75th Birthday!

Seen Any Good Movies?

A bunch of you have recently asked me if there are any good movies out there. (OK, it was actually only two people, and one was my Mom, but still…) You know what? After co-hosting a movie review show on cable TV for sixteen years and writing I don’t know how many other reviews I’ve finally arrived at a painfully obvious conclusion: I’m a lousy movie reviewer.

Part of the problem is that almost any movie I see I’m probably going to enjoy, at least to some degree. Not always, but almost always. So while other “critics” are giving out F’s and D’s I’m thinking, “Well, it wasn’t that bad. C+.”

Besides, can you really stomach reading a two thousand word review about a film and the director and the last ten movies he did and the subtle techniques he used, and why, if he had only hired his regular director of photography, this would have been a much better film, maybe even a classic? Who cares? My main criterion for judging a film can be free-based down to one simple question: “How much fun am I having?”

And don’t let the word “fun” confuse you. It does not simply apply to comedies and other light fare. Sure a new Christopher Guest/Eugene Levy movie is “fun,” but so is Schindler’s List. You may be watching a horrible story about man’s inhumanity to man, but you know it’s a movie. It’s entertainment. It’s fun. Trust me, it goes against every single genetic grain in our selfish human nature to shell out ten bucks (And ten more for snacks!) in order to subject ourselves to something that we do not find, on some level, enjoyable. Damn, am I starting to get close to two thousand words or what?

OK, the bottom line is we all have a limited budget for movies and you poor working slobs have limited time as well. So it might have some value to receive feedback on the current crop of movies eagerly offering to relieve you of your hard-earned cash. And so, rather than doing those interminable reviews that demonstrate my incredible insights into a two hour movie but take four hours to read, I think I’ll just defer to our collective short attention spans. Here’s what’s out there now:

THE CONSTANT GARDENER-B
I liked it. No action. No car chases. Not even any cool animals, even though it takes place in Africa. Just a good intelligent story with a satisfying and refreshing ending that I’m not going to reveal or even hint at.

THE ARISTOCRATS-B+
I like comedians and the chance to see dozens of them in one movie is irresistible. Listen, I actually don’t like crude humor, but that’s not what this movie is about. It’s about creativity, technique and ultimately about permitting ourselves to laugh again three weeks after 9-11. The “plus” is for originality. Unclench for a couple of hours and go see it—words can’t hurt you.

DEUCE BIGALOW-EUROPEAN GIGOLO-C+
See what I mean? I couldn’t find any other reviewer who gave it higher than a D. I’m no good at this. Of course it’s not a great movie, but I did laugh out loud several times. Once I actually tried to stop myself, because that little Catholic boy inside of me (who I thought I had killed years ago) said I shouldn’t. How messed up is that?

THE FORTY YEAR OLD VIRGIN-B-
On the other hand…this flick is a tad overrated. It’s got some mildly appealing characters and a story that could have been a winner but ultimately isn’t. Some laughs, but too many “easy” laughs and comic dead ends. Never underestimate the value of a great title.

JUNEBUG-B+
Never heard of it, huh? Well get off that Dorito-filled ass of yours and go find it. Probably the best movie I’ve seen lately. I don’t know who Amy Adams is but I wouldn’t be surprised to see a Supporting Actress Oscar (little R in a little circle) nomination in her future. If she does I’ll refer back to this incredibly insightful prediction. If she doesn’t, well, this column never happened.

SKELETON KEY-C+
I love good ghost movies and this isn’t one. All of the scares are of the cheap “Boo!” variety. Most of the picture is slow and boring. Then why a C+ instead of a D? Well, I got to eat nachos and it was more fun than going to work or cutting the lawn. Plus it is in it’s own unique category. Did you ever see a good movie that let you down with a bad ending? Of course you have. (Didn’t you read my column about Matchstick Men?) Well Skeleton Key is a mostly dreadful movie that somehow comes up with a good ending. In fact, a very good ending. I can’t remember ever seeing that phenomenon in any other movie.

BROKEN FLOWERS-B
I still think of Bill Murray as the second or third tier player behind Belushi, Chase and Aykroyd on the original Saturday Night Live. So there’s yet another reason why I’m a crappy reviewer. When did he become this minimalist comic genius who we all must worship? OK, I’m still not totally sold on Murray, but he’s undeniably made some great movies. This isn’t one of them, but you could spend your money on worse. (See above.)

So how’s that? Seven movies in 947 words. Pretty good, I’d say. After all, we are Americans dammit, and we demand that our wars be won in a week, our disaster victims rescued in a day and our movies reviewed in thirty seconds! Or less!

So what movies have you seen?

Useless Information: Carole King

If I asked you all to write down the greatest American rock and roll songwriters a handful of names would probably appear on most of your lists. Paul Simon. Brian Wilson. Paul McCartney. Some of you might even name Neil Diamond, but you would be wrong. My guess is the name that would be conspicuously absent from most lists would be Carole King.

Carole King has been called the greatest female pop songwriter ever. Most remember her for her hugely successful album Tapestry, which was released in 1971. Her success actually started a full decade earlier when The Shirelles hit #1 with Will You Love Me Tomorrow?, which was written by King and her partner/husband Gerry Goffin. King was then just nineteen years old and thus began one of the most successful songwriting careers in the history of music.

I could list enough songs composed by the prolific Ms. King to fill this entire page. In fact I once printed out her entire song sheet and it covered nearly four pages. Here are a few songs that you might remember that came to us from the gifted pen of Carole King: Take Good Care of My Baby, (You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman, One Fine Day, I Feel The Earth Move, Chains, The Loco-Motion, Pleasant Valley Sunday, Up on the Roof, It’s Too Late, So Far Away, You’ve Got a Friend, and the deliciously politically incorrect He Hit Me and It Felt Like a Kiss. And that’s just a tiny sampling!

I suspect that King does not get the recognition she deserves because, whether in movies or in music, it’s usually the performer who gobbles up the lion’s share of the acclaim, and not the writer. Yeah, I know, boo-effin’-hoo. Still, I don’t know how far that illiterate hillbilly from Tupelo would have gone without the talented songwriters who gave him something to do with his mouth besides eat fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. And what if actors had to write their own dialogue? Give me a break. But I digress.

Just so you don’t think that I’m alone in appreciating the brilliant writing of Carole King here are just a few of the talented folks who have chosen to cover her songs: The Everly Bothers, Bobby Vee, The Righteous Brothers, The Monkees, Connie Stevens, Marianne Faithful, Rod Stewart, Steve Lawrence, Ben E. King, Blood, Sweat and Tears, Dion, The Drifters, The Four Seasons, The Animals, Dusty Springfield, The Byrds, Andy Williams, and yes, even the goddam Beatles!

Oh, and speaking of The Beatles, I know damn well that McCartney is not an American, despite what I wrote in that first paragraph. I purposely put that in there so that you goofballs could enjoy a feeling of superiority, no matter how temporarily. Don’t you know by now that I’ll always be one step ahead of you? Plus if any of you tries to correct me on the error I’ll know you didn’t read this entire column. And there will be consequences to pay.

Now go listen to some Carole King music.

Get Out! The Call Is Coming From Inside the House!

What if your phone rang one day the name on the caller ID was Brad Pitt? Or Angelina Jolie? Or Jack Nicholson? Imagine Jack Nicholson on the other end of the phone waiting to talk to you! How cool is that?

Well, there is a web site called HollywoodIsCalling.com and for a nominal fee you can have a celebrity call you at home! I think this is a great idea, not just for your own selfish amusement but as a unique gift for someone special. Now of course the call will be of limited duration; after all these are some damn busy folks. But the cost for the call is only $19.95! A live telephone chat with a real celebrity for only $19.95! You can’t even go to the movies for that. What a deal!

Oh, there’s only one little catch, as there often is. You see, you won’t be chatting with Brad Pitt. Or Angelina Jolie. And a loser like you is certainly not going to be getting a phone call from Mr. Jack Nicholson. There are quite a few celebrities from which to choose at Hollywood Is Calling. And some of them you may actually have heard of.

Let’s be fair. It’s true that these people are not exactly your A-list actors and actresses, but what do you want for $19.95? Hell, I wouldn’t even call you for that. OK, yes I would. I forgot the damn mortgage is due again. Still there are at least a few celebs on the list that you might have heard of or even remember fondly from long, long ago.

For example, does the name Kathy Garver ring any bells? You might recognize her if you saw the photo displayed on the site. That’s right, she played Cissy on Family Affair. Now I myself was more of the Marcia Brady type, but you may well have spent your wonder years lusting after Cissy as gallons of hormones raced through your awakening body. Well, now you can receive a phone call from Cissy herself! Yes, for only twenty bucks you can finally make one of your favorite pubescent fantasies come true. That is, of course, if you’re really as quick as your wife tells me you are.

I know I’ve heard the name Greg Evigan. You know what he was in? Me neither. Wait here and talk quietly among yourselves while I go check the site. I said quietly! I’m back. Greg Evigan’s credits include B.J. and the Bear, a show I’ve never seen, plus a list of shows on which he made a guest appearance. One of these is my all-time favorite detective show, Columbo. Believe me I’ve seen them all, but for some reason I can’t recall which one starred Greg Evigan. Hey, here’s an idea. Spend twenty bucks and have Evigan give you a call. And then, as long as you’ve got him on the phone anyway, ask him which Columbo he was in. I’d appreciate it. Oh, also see if he can get Peter Falk to give me a call. And ask Evigan how he earned the embarrassing nickname of “B.J.”

You probably don’t recognize the name David Naughton, but I do. I’ll give you a little description and then you’ll say, ”Oh yeah, him.” First, he had the lead role in a unique and better than mediocre film called An American Werewolf in London. He also starred in a couple of sitcoms, including a “disco adventure” series called Makin’ It and My Sister Sam, starring Pam “Mindy” Dawber. You older folks might even remember him as the singing and dancing spokesman for Dr. Pepper. Remember “I’m a Pepper, you’re a Pepper, he’s a Pepper too!” ? No? Jesus, just how old am I.? I actually followed his career for a while, that is until I started seeing him pop up in some sleazy soft-core sex flicks. I mean, I would have seen him in them if I had ever watched those kinds of movies. Which I most certainly did not. A-hem Anyway, why not spend the double sawbuck and have David dial you up and sing the Dr. Pepper song? I’m sure it would be a big thrill for both of you.

There are a lot more celebs that, for the right price, could be calling you on your next birthday. You Mom might forget, but they won’t! They are, after all, professionals. And besides, they need the cash. Let’s do a quick rundown on some of them, followed by a brief description.

Oliver Gruner-don’t know him.
Linda Harrison-don’t know her.
Lillian Muller-don’t know her.
Lauren Chapin-Kitten on Father Knows Best!
Karen Gorney-don’t know her.
Glenn Shadix-don’t know him.
Evan Karagias-don’t know him.
Russell Johnson-The Professor!
Dennis Haskins-don’t know him.
Art Mann-don’t know him.
Lou Ferrigno-The Hulk!
Bill McKinney-don’t know him.
Bradley James-don’t know him.
Glenn Shadix-still don’t know him.
Larry Holmes-are you kidding me? What do these fighters do with their money?
Bill Johnson-don’t know him.

OK, enough of this nonsense. You get the picture. And if I wanted to spend my time typing the names of people that nobody ever heard of I’d get a job writing the phone book.

Hurricane Katrina--What We'll See Next

"If it’s on television, it’s entertainment." —Howard Stern

On the bookshelf of history the story of the hurricane called Katrina will probably take up considerably less space than will the attacks on the World Trade Center, but each day this story seems to grow larger and larger, like a gelatinous blob in some old science fiction movie. The make-up and structure of each story, however, is quite different from the other. September 11th was a quick, sudden shock that was over practically before we knew what had happened, leaving the media with nothing to do but show that surreal footage of the collapsing skyscrapers over and over again.

This story of Katrina and its aftermath grew slowly, increasing in strength on a daily basis, much like the hurricane itself. We saw the hurricane coming from miles away, with days to prepare and leaving a path of destruction, which, if worse than predicted, was certainly anticipated at least to some degree. And unlike 9-11, which had a unifying, albeit short-lived, effect on the country, the finger pointing and affixing of blame for this mismanagement of Katrina has begun even before all of those poor unfortunates are rescued from what used to be New Orleans. If you pay attention at all to how the media functions in this country you know that certain images are bound to pop up on your TV screen over the next few days.

Well, I’m no psychic, but I sure wouldn’t be surprised to see:

…Al Sharpton, breathing heavy after running full out to the nearest TV camera, hinting, implying or stating outright that aid would have arrived a whole lot faster if the stranded victims of the hurricane had been predominantly white. And I’ve seen enough of the workings of humanity in my lifetime to know not to disagree.

…Bush scoffing at the idea that the slow response to the disaster was because the needed National Guardsmen were off fighting in Iraq. After which he’ll verbally stumble about the huge numbers of troops (probably exaggerated) that are rushing to the disaster area even as he speaks. Or attempts to.

…Cindy Sheehan scoffing at the idea that the slow response to the disaster wasn’t because the needed Guardsmen were off fighting in Iraq. And then subsequently calling for their immediate return.

…An interview with Fats Domino. For several days the legendary singer had been reported missing after he chose to remain in his New Orleans home and ride out the storm. It is now being reported that he was rescued from his flooded neighborhood by boat.

…That cute little kid with the sad face and the jutting lower lip getting his fifteen minutes. Have you seen the mug on this kid? He’s a natural! He’s looking right into the camera with a face on him that’s drooping as if his puppy had just died. And for all I know it did. CNN has already made his pathetic expression the central image on their commercial break graphics. I see somebody plucking this kid out of that New Orleans hellhole and getting him a trip to Disneyland or an appearance on Leno. After which, of course, he’ll be completely forgotten and sink back into obscurity and poverty with his soon-to-be-faded scrapbook of clips and photos tucked snuggly under his arm.

…An American flag flying proudly amidst the storm’s wreckage. OK, I’m cheating. I’ve already seen this one, but you’ll see it again. And by the way, there’s a picture of a flag that is being used by both Drudge and CNN. You can tell it’s the same flag because of the tear pattern. Now in the photo on Drudge it is flying upside down, which you may be aware is a signal of distress, like SOS. On CNN it was part of a photo collage and it was flying proudly in the upright position. What gives? My guess: It was flown upside down as a call for help and CNN inverted it to drag out that old “tattered but still flying” cliché once more.

…House Speaker Dennis Hastert tap dancing and be-bopping about how his statement that perhaps the rebuilding of New Orleans might not make sense was taken “out of context.” And it probably was. Rather than learning more about an issue, it’s always easier for folks to take one line of a statement and hold it high while screaming in outrage and self-indignation. If it doesn’t fit on a bumper sticker, we don’t want to read it. But that’s OK, because it’s always fun to watch a politician squirm, eh?

…Nancy Grace looking disgusted. How do they get that look on this repellant chick’s face every single night? Do they actually rub dog poop on her upper lip and then hide it with make-up? Maybe or maybe not, but however they do it, it never fails. She’s endlessly repulsed by the failings of her despicable fellow humans whose sub-standard behavior falls well short of the expectations set by her own colossal moral superiority. And she’s always rabidly eager to tell us all about it.

And that, my friends, is entertainment!