Hey, De-e-e-e-a-a-a-a-n-n-n-n!

So what, now I’m going to start telling you what books to read? Who am I, friggin’ Oprah? Listen I don’t care what you read or if you even read at all. In fact, I suspect that in the future they’ll prove that television is actually five times better for your brain than reading. Yep, you read it here first.

It’s been quite a while since I’ve pick up a book and read the entire volume, or nearly, in one sitting. It happened to me today when I read Dean & Me by Jerry Lewis. I’m too young (boy I haven’t written that in a while) to remember the comedy team of Martin and Lewis, but I was a big Jerry Lewis fan as a kid. Hell, I’m still a Jerry Lewis fan. You read that blog where I suggested that Lewis finally be given an honorary Oscar next year, didn’t you? Sure you did.

Well, to refresh your memory, the comedy team of Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis was one of the biggest acts in show business from 1946 to 1956. They cast a huge comedic net, which included radio, television, movies and, of course, nightclubs. Oh, the fun people must have had in those nightclubs.

In 1956 Martin and Lewis went their separate ways, each destined to create his own wildly successful career. They didn’t speak to each other for twenty years, until Frank Sinatra reunited the pair on Lewis’ telethon in 1976. I remember that reunion because to this day I remain pissed off that I fell asleep watching the telethon that year while my friend Lenny stayed awake and got to see this historic show business event. By happy coincidence Jerry Lewis was on Larry King tonight (not really that much of a coincidence since Lewis is currently out promoting his book) and they showed that nearly thirty-year-old clip. I think I got more choked up watching it than Lewis did, and I wasn’t even in the act!

Because that grainy clip from so long ago was about friendship. And that’s what Dean & Me is about: an incredibly strong friendship between two very different men. It’s also about show biz and a golden age when you could go to see the new Martin & Lewis movie and when it was over they’d come out and perform live. It was a time of nightclubs and gangsters and movie stars and people going out just to have fun.

Warning: Do not cheat yourself out of reading this book because you don’t happen to be a Jerry Lewis fan. Read it and you may become one. Lewis' writing is fresh, sometimes crude, and completely honest. He writes like the nearly 80-year-old man that he is, with a fascinating tale to relate and nothing left to hide. The book is funny and sad, but mostly it’s the story of two friends who hit it big, really big, and then weren’t friends anymore. And then they were.

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! No, It's Another Dopey Quiz!

Sweet Lorraine, who you might remember requested the alcohol quiz a while back, has now asked for a quiz about Superman. There may be some sort of alcohol/comic book link going on there, but so what? Who are we to judge? Besides, we all love Superman and have admired his blue hair and manly exploits ever since he first appeared in…ah, but let’s not give anything away. So get out your pencils, Kids, and see how well you score on this quiz all about our strong, speedy, and annoyingly self-righteous pal, Superman. By the way, we’ll be taking most of our questions from the old-school Superman folklore tales and not the post-Crisis ones that DC came up with in 1985. Sorry about that, youngsters. And keep your x-ray vision on your own paper.

1. What color was the sun on Superman’s home planet of Krypton?
a. Yellow
b. Blue
c. Red
d. Mauve

2. Who played Superman on the popular 1950’s TV program?
a. Steve Reeves
b. George Reeves
c. Christopher Reeve
d. Martha Reeves

3. Superman first appeared in 1938 in what comic?
a. Superman Comics #1
b. Justice League of America Comics #14
c. Weird Tales Comics #22
d. Action Comics #1

4. What was Superman’s dog’s name?
a. Farfel
b. Streaky
c. Krypto
d. Superman didn’t have no damn dog, man.

5. Where did Superman imprison criminals?
a. The Phantom Zone
b. Planet Crios
c. The Lost City
d. Crawford, Texas

6. What is Clark Kent’s middle name?
a. Joseph
b. William
c. Clayton
d. Clark Kent didn’t have no damn middle name, man.

7. Who is Jor-El?
a. Superman’s mother
b. Superman’s father
c. Superman’s sister
d. Superman—it’s his real name

8. What were the first names of the Kents, who adopted the baby Superman?
a. John and Mary
b. Jonathan and Martha
c. Eben and Sarah
d. All of the above

9. Which form of kryptonite permanently removes Superman’s powers?
a. Red Kryptonite
b. Green Kryptonite
c. Gold Kryptonite
d. Blue Kryptonite

10. Where did Superman keep the shrunken city of Kandor?
a. In The Phantom Zone
b. In an abandoned barn in Smallville
c. In the Fortress of Solitude
d. In his tights


How’d you do? Most of these are fairly simple for those of us who rotted our youthful brains on comic books, but there are a few facts in there that I was surprised to discover. (Not to mention the ones you’ll be correcting me on tomorrow.) I’d say if you score an 8 or higher you really know your Superman.

ANSWERS:

1. RED SUN. Everybody knows that.
2. GEORGE REEVES played Superman on that classic TV series and may or may not have killed himself. Christopher Reeve played him in the movies. Steve Reeves played Hercules. And Martha Reeves had many hit songs with her group Martha and the Vandellas. (Heat Wave, Dancin’ In The Street, etc.)
3. ACTION COMICS #1. Superman got his name on his own comic the next year.
4. KRYPTO. He was Superman’s pet on Krypton and was launched into space in a test rocket by Superman’s nutty old dad. Streaky was the name of a super-cat. There was also a super-horse named Comet and a super-monkey named Beppo. Yes, really.
5. IN THE PHANTOM ZONE. Remember the Phantom Zone Projector? Sure it looked like a plastic piece of crap with two buttons but it sure got the job done, eh?
6. JOSEPH. Give yourself full credit if you thought it was Jerome. That’s the name they’ve been using on Smallville to honor one of the creators of Superman, Jerry Siegel.
7. SUPERMAN’S DAD. His mother was Lara and his real name was Kal-El.
8. ALL OF THE ABOVE. I so sorry for this question, I really am. And if it ruined your perfect score, well tough toenails. Originally the Kents first names were John and Mary. They were later expanded to Jonathan and Martha and were named Eben and Sarah on the TV series. No, I don’t know why--leave me alone.
9. GOLD KRYPTONITE will take away Superman’s powers for good. Green Kryptonite causes pain, and can kill Superman if he’s exposed to it over a period of hours. Red Kryptonite causes some bizarre but temporary effect. The effect is different each time and has over the years transformed Superman into a giant, a midget, a lunatic and an creature with an ant’s head. Blue Kryptonite kills Bizarros, so be careful out there.
10. IN THE FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE. In a bottle. The post-1985 DC Comics version will tell you that the city has been restored to its normal size and moved to another planet, but for me, I think I’ll just stick with the original story. They’ll be no revisionist history for this Superman fan.

Getting Sirius

I’m glad I waited until now before putting down my thoughts on my new Sirius satellite radio hook-up. I bought the radio last week and spent nearly four hours waiting for it to be installed. The sales punk had told me it would take about an hour and a half. Yeah, I know, boohoo, first the World Trade Center and now this. Still, satellite radio is not something that I ever wanted and if it weren’t for the fact that Howard is jumping ship I never would have gotten it.

I don’t listen to a lot of radio, or at least not to a great variety of radio programming. I do listen to Howard Stern most every morning (Funny how I put “most” in there so you don’t think I’m some kind of damn groupie. OK, take it out--I do listen every morning.) If I’m in my car in the afternoon I’ll usually listen to Dr. Laura. I know, she’s a bit of a whack-job, but there are times that I find myself agreeing with her. Unless, of course, she’s talking about religion, Iraq or celibacy. Then she’s just plain nuts.

Each Spring I take a three or four day road trip by myself. Sometimes I’ll drive as much as 2,000 miles and rarely will the radio be on. I don’t believe that you need constant electronic background noise in life, unlike those idiots who insist on blasting a radio at the beach so that you can’t even hear the ocean. Life has its own soundtrack, if we’ll only take the time to listen. (I’m pretty fucking profound, huh?)

Frankly, Sirius annoyed me right from the beginning. I was annoyed that I had to buy the receiver for the car plus a boom box if I wanted to listen to Howard in my house and in my car. Total cost: $250. (There’s a $50 rebate that’s supposedly coming. I had to spend half a day filling out forms and cutting and pasting bar codes before I could send it in. OK, not half a day, but you know.) I was also annoyed that installing the thing requires hiding the wires in dashboard seams, plugging it into the cigarette lighter and sticking it to my windshield with a suction cup, for chrissake. This is 21st Century satellite technology? And when the suction cup kept falling off I finally had to lick the thing to get it to adhere better. Pretty cutting edge, let me tell you.)

On my first drive with my new satellite radio I was surprised that the stations kept cutting out every time I drove past a grove of trees, a hillside, or a particularly large cat. I was also surprised how static-y the reception was. At times I felt like some kid from the 1940’s trying to pick up a signal using his homemade crystal radio kit. (Was that reference too obscure? Should I have gone with a Marconi joke instead?)

Perhaps my biggest surprise is the number of commercials, or even the fact that Sirius has commercials at all. I know Howard has hemmed and hawed when asked about commercials on his new show, and now I understand why. You might have heard Sirius advertising bragging about “commercial-free music” and it’s true. None of the music channels, and there are many, have commercials. But some of the others such as the comedy channels have plenty. Why should I have to listen to commercials on a premium service that I am paying for?

On HBO the only advertising you get is for HBO, which is fine. Likewise, in the movies the only commercials that should be tolerated are the previews, which are advertisements for new movies. So I wouldn’t mind Sirius running commercials for Sirius, which they do, but all the other ones seems excessive and somehow unfair. Then I remember that Howard’s $500,000,000 is not going to be magically delivered by the tooth fairy and so I relax. After all, what’s the big deal about listening to a few commercials if it means that Howard can buy a house in the Hamptons and continue to frolic with models half his age?

So here’s the big question. I’ve now had the service for over a week. Would I, given the chance, return the Sirius radio for a full refund? The honest answer is No, I would not. Would I want that refund if Howard weren’t on it? Maybe, but maybe not.

I find that Sirius is growing on me. Now I never listen to terrestrial radio and so, like high school typing class and full-time employment, Dr. Laura has become just a distant annoying memory. I have yet to fully explore the 150 channels on my radio. On Sirius, as in my love life, I seem to keep going back to the same three or four favorites. Two of them are the comedy channels. These feature stand-up performances in two versions, which can most simply be described as “clean” and “dirty.” And while they seem to be a little too heavily loaded in favor those yahoo blue-collar comics that are currently so popular, I’ve also been pleased to hear Steven Wright, Bob Newhart, Sam Kinison, Bill Cosby and other stand-up legends.

There is also a channel that features old-time radio programs, something I’ve wished was available on my radio for a long time. (Although I’m starting to wonder why. These shows, too, are classics, but for the most part are pretty dated. Frankly I admire the old-style comics, but the truth is that for sheer entertainment I’d much rather listen to George Carlin than Fibber McGee and Molly.) And then there is music, tons of it. I of course listen to the old fart’s-- I mean classic rock--channel but there is an endless variety of music on Sirius that I could list for you if I wasn’t too damn lazy to get off my ass and go find the programming guide. But, alas, I am that lazy.

Bottom line: The reception isn’t as bad as I experienced on the first day and while the cutting out of the signal can be annoying (except during Jeff Foxworthy, when it’s a blessing) it’s not a deal breaker. I would think that for real music lovers having a Sirius radio would be a slice of heaven and once you shell out for the hardware the $12+ a month fee is far from exorbitant. Besides, Howard lost a chunk in his divorce, so he’s got some financial catching up to do. And now you can help.

Useless Information: Pykrete

I can understand why you haven’t, but how is it possible that I’ve never before heard of Pykrete? Look at that, even Spell Check has underlined “Pykrete” in red and informed me that what I really meant to type was “pirate.” So what the heck is Pykrete and aren’t you just dying to know?

Pykrete has been called “the ice that never melts.” While this claim is a bit of an exaggeration, Pykrete does have some unusual properties. Pykrete was invented by Max Perutz and contains only two ingredients: sawdust and ice. A mixture made up of 86% water and 14% sawdust is created and then frozen into a block. And there you have it: Pykrete!

During World War II Geoffrey Pyke (from which Pykrete gets its name) proposed to the British Navy that virtually unsinkable aircraft carriers (or more accurately, floating islands) could be made from Pykrete, because in addition to its slow melting time it is also an incredibly durable substance. In fact Pykrete’s properties are closer to that of concrete than ice. Imagine, huge floating blocks of ice where planes could land! Pyke convinced Lord Mountbatten of the worthiness of Pykrete, and tests were conducted on the material. Charges that were the equivalent of a direct torpedo hit were attached to slabs of Pykrete. The resulting explosions left only minor dents.

Later a 60-foot ship made of Pykrete was built jointly by the United States and Canada on a Canadian lake. Although the ship didn’t melt, even through the hot Canadian summer, further experimentation with ships made of Pykrete was abandoned, due to the high cost and the approaching Allied victory in the Atlantic.

So what is this miracle material, this surreal substance, this boon to mankind used for today? Short of providing topics for desperate blog writers, I couldn’t come up with a damn thing. There is good news, however. Did you know you can make your own Pykrete quickly and cheaply? All you need is some toilet paper (preferably unused) and water.

Simply shred the TP into the water and then freeze the mixture in a mold such as an ice cube tray. Let it freeze solid and there you have it—your very own clump of ready-to-use Pykrete. Build a permanent igloo! Keep your drink cold for months! Create a habitat for homeless penguins! Or…?

Maxwell Who?

Was it Ghandi who used to sleep with two young women every night? He didn’t do it for sexual purposes (‘course not) but to hopefully maintain youthful vigor by close association. Or maybe it was somebody in the Bible. King David perhaps? I know there is someone in the Bible who slept with two young girls in his old age “for warmth.” (Right, warmth. You know, I’m starting to feel a bit chilly myself.) I just can’t seem to remember who it was who embraced this early Hefnerian lifestyle, and I can’t find it on the web. By the way, did you know there’s a talking donkey in the Bible? (And five thousand years before Shrek, too!) Now that I remember.

Anyway, I’m here to inform Ghandi or the Bible guy that staying youthful by maintaining close proximity to young people is a nice theory but it doesn’t work. I had that painfully proven to me this Thanksgiving as I sat in a living room with three teenage girls and watched a TV show.

The program we were watching was That 70’s Show, which I have seen only rarely but always found mildly entertaining. The girls seemed to be following the plot, but I was simply passing the time waiting for the next appearance of Tommy Chong on the screen. That dude has always cracked me up, man. (Hey, you aging hippies, guess how old Tommy Chong is? Try 67! Put that in your bong and smoke it!)

Finally a scene featuring Chong came on, but I ended up missing it because I couldn’t resist playing the role of Grandpa Granola for these young ladies.

“Do you guys know who Tommy Chong is?” I asked.
“Uh, not really,” one of the youngsters admitted.
“Have you ever heard of Cheech and Chong?” I ventured.
“Uh, I heard the name but I don’t know what they were.”

What! OK, what can you expect? The oldest person in the room (not counting your creaky and decrepit narrator, of course) was eighteen years old. But still, Cheech and Chong? They had a fairly successful movie career going for a while. I was going to do my part to educate these kids by advising them to rent the classic Up In Smoke but then I thought better of it. Do I really need their parents running into the room to glower at me while their kids pointed their fingers yelling, “That’s him! He’s the one who told us to rent that dope movie!”

Later the conversation did turn to movies and one young lady asked me if I liked The 40 Year Old Virgin. I told them I thought it was over-rated, but I don’t think this was an age thing. Pretty much everybody thought this movie was hilarious except me. (I also believe that they stole the title from a classic underground comic book called The Forty Year Old Hippie.) Still, here was my chance to show them how current and hip I actually am. Earlier that day I had read on the web (Yeah, I spent part of my Thanksgiving Day surfing the net. Sue me.) that Steve Carell, star of the The 40 Year Old Virgin, was currently working on a movie based on the Get Smart! television series.

“Hey, do you guys remember Get Smart?” I began.
“No.”
“No.”
“No.”
And thus ended that conversation.

And really, why should they have heard of Get Smart? (I know the show’s title has an exclamation point in it, but an exclamation point and a question mark look somehow wrong right next to each other. Like Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick.) After all, Get Smart! went off the air nearly twenty years before these girls were even born. And Don Adams just died at the age of 82! (True fans of the show would have hoped he made it to 86.)

And so with a sigh I leaned back to shut up and enjoy the rest of That 70’s Show. The story was about the pain of a teen-age break-up, and I thought the writers captured that particular heartbreak very well. (At least from what I can remember from way back then.) Eventually I stopped fighting the inevitable and instead of the teens I began to relate to the goofy parents on the show. After all, they too were fairly amusing and were fossils just like me. Besides, my three teenaged TV companions had already proven to me that the Youth By Association Theory simply doesn’t work. Sorry about that, Chief!

I, Turkey

I’m proud that I’m a turkey,
A bird with so few peers,
Did you know we’ve been around,
For about ten million years?

I also bet you didn’t know,
We’re among the fastest birds alive.
We can run at 30 miles per hour,
And fly at fifty-five!

Benjamin Franklin called us a symbol,
He thought we were quite regal.
And if old Ben had had his way,
You’d be feasting on bald eagle.

We often spend the night in trees,
We have caruncles, a wattle and snood.
See, I’m rather smart and can name all my parts,
And I know what they are, do yood?

Not all of us gobble, only the boys.
Our females talk with clicks.
We have 3500 feathers,
Which makes us cute to chicks.

We have no ears, but we hear real well,
And we can nearly see behind us.
Which is why when you hunt us in the woods,
It’s really hard to find us.

We turkeys are such friendly birds,
We’re never mean or malicious.
The only bad thing about being one,
Is that we’re so delicious!

You're Soaking In It

Despite my previous rejection of the telescope, however, I have found that there are indeed big-ticket items that you can buy that actually can elevate the quality of your life and bring you hours of enjoyment. Take the hot tub, for example.

At the time of our marriage six years ago my wife and I had a combined credit card debt of $50,000. If that sounds like a lot now, it sounded like much more in 1999 dollars, believe me. Since we were combining two households (OK, we had already combined them. See you in Hell.) we didn’t feel that we needed any of the standard wedding gifts and so we received mostly cash. (Ironically, we still don’t own an iron.) Once the wedding bills were paid we found that we had about $2,000 left over. The way I figured it we had two options:

First, we could do the responsible thing and put that $2,000 towards our monstrous credit card debt. Or-r-r-r-r-r….we could buy one of those Softub hot tubs, which coincidentally sell for $2,000, and start living the hedonistic style I’d always planned for myself. When I freebased these two options down to their basics I realized that our choices were to live with the $50,000 debt and a hot tub, or to have no hot tub but still have $48,000 debt. When I put it like that the decision was easy.

Listen, I’m not here to plug Softubs. (Although we’re about due for a new one, so if the folks who manufacture that fine product are reading this…) I just know that many nights we eased into the steamy water held by our reliable green friend and said, “This is one of the best things we ever bought.” And it has been. When I was a kid if you told me I’d grow up to have my own Jacuzzi and be able to watch any movie I wanted right in my own living room I’d have thought “I’m going to grow up and be Hef!” Now, thanks to the modern technology that has created the VCR and the portable hot tub, even out-and-out failures like me can enjoy the good life!

Here are a couple of hot tub confessions. First of all, it was only a few months ago that I became the first person to ever enter my tub wearing a bathing suit. When we lived across the bay we had a backyard that must have been built by a nudist; tall fences and taller trees provided total privacy. The situation is not quite the same in our new home, and so if I ever decide to take a soak in the afternoon (while you’re slaving away at that dopey job of yours) I usually will deign to cover my nether regions. I say usually, but walk on by some afternoon and you might get lucky. (And by lucky I mean you won’t see me at all.)

I’m having a real problem with this second confession, as my thoughts are often dominated with fantasies of bacchanalian orgies and depraved scenes right out of the Playboy mansion grotto. Nope, I just can’t admit to this. The best I can do is give you a choice and thereby leave it vague. So here we go: Including my wife, how many naked women have been in my hot tub over the last six years? Hint: The answer is either 1, 4 or 17.

My favorite time for sitting in the tub is late at night, usually after I’ve just finished writing another one of these idiotic things so that tomorrow morning three people will have something to read. It’s very quiet, dark and peaceful. (Unless those new neighbors across the street are illuminating half the block with those damn spotlights they’ve mounted on their garage. Some nights their house is lit up like the Palace of Versailles.) The tub is a great place to relax and look up at the stars while listening to the waves crashing a few blocks away. (Here’s a clue about human nature, or at least about my nature: Some nights from the tub I can hear the ocean. On other nights I can hear the traffic from Highway 1, also just a few blocks away. You’d be surprised how similar these two sounds are. And yet on the nights that I hear the ocean I think it’s the most delightful sound in the world. On the nights I hear traffic I want to scream.)

Nah, I don’t really want to scream. My hot tub is a place of refuge. It’s while I’m sitting naked in this 104-degree water (Sorry about putting that image in your head. A few years of intensive therapy should clear it right out for you.) that I am relearning the stars and constellations that I knew as a kid. It’s here that I sat to ponder a senseless tragedy in the family. And it’s here in the warmth of this artificial womb that I recall people and events from the past and speculate about those yet to come.

So that’s about all I have to say. It’s late, Orion is rising in the sky, and the neighbors with their prying eyes are securely locked in their homes. So I’m heading to the tub. Would you care to join me? (And by “you” I of course mean “you ladies.” I’ve got to do something about that pathetic number before either me or the hot tub falls apart.)

Quiz: The Planets, Part II

Oh, so now you’re back. You didn’t bother to read Part I, but suddenly you show up all giggly and expect to have the fun of taking the Planet Quiz, eh? And why did you not read Part I? Because you didn’t get a little e-mail notice telling you to, am I right? Listen, The Drudge Report gets ten million hits a day (and without nudity!) and have you ever gotten so much as a single e-mail from them? Ah, that’s all right, Daddy’s not mad at you. To prove it, here’s an amusing and educational quiz that I made just for you about the planets in your very own Solar System. Have fun with it and maybe you’ll even learn something. Like how to bookmark your favorite website.

1. Traditionally, how many planets are there in the Solar System?
a. 8
b. 9
c. 10
d. 11

2. Which is the second farthest planet from the Sun?
a. Neptune
b. Uranus
c. Saturn
d. Jupiter

3. Which is the smallest planet?
a. Venus
b. Pluto
c. Mercury
d. Mars

4. Earth is what number planet from the Sun?
a. Second
b. Third
c. Fourth
d. Fifth

5. How many moons are known to exist in the Solar System?
a. 1
b. 22
c. 158
d. over 1,000

6. Which planet’s orbit is an ellipse rather than a circle?
a. Venus
b. Neptune
c. Pluto
d. Jupiter

7. The word “planet” comes from the Greek word meaning what?
a. Wanderer
b. Circular
c. Jewel
d. Goat-lover

8. Which is the fastest moving planet?
a. Earth
b. Pluto
c. Mercury
d. Venus

9. Which planet is known as the “blue planet”?
a. Neptune
b. Earth
c. Venus
d. Uranus

10. The Great Red Spot can be seen on which planet?
1. Venus
2. Mars
3. Jupiter
4. Uranus


Pencils down! And remember, some of these questions were taken from websites that are mainly for grade-school kids. So if you don’t do well you should be utterly ashamed of yourself. Come to think of it, I guess if someone actually needed to look up this information in order to create this quiz in the first place he should be equally ashamed. Ahem.

ANSWERS:

1. There are currently NINE recognized planets in the solar system. There is a tenth body that is larger than Pluto that has been discovered, but as of this writing it has neither been named nor recognized as a planet, although it may be in the near future. So if you said TEN to this question, give your self no credit and stop being such a smart-ass.

2. NEPTUNE. And I had to go back to the kid’s site to check the answer yet again, so good for you if you got this one right.

3. PLUTO is the smallest planet. It also is the furthest from the sun, has the strangest orbit and is the only planet named after a Disney character.

4. Earth is THIRD from the Sun. We’re Number Three! We’re Number Three!

5. There are 158 known moons in the Solar System. You keep looking for trick questions, don’t you? That’s why you picked “1” as your answer. Sucker.

6. PLUTO is the only planet with an elliptical orbit. Its orbit is also tilted much more than any other planet. What was God thinking when it came up with this oddball?

7. WANDERER. And I hope you remembered this from fifth grade.

8. MERCURY. Did you actually get this one wrong? Mercury? Messenger of the Gods? Wings on the feet and helmet? Is any of this ringing a bell there, Clarence?

9. Jesus, how many “gimmees” do you want in a row?

10. JUPITER. So if you happen to see a big red spot on Uranus—dammit, I promised myself that I’d get through this thing without resorting to an obvious and crude Uranus joke. I’m hopeless.

Quiz: The Planets, Part I

I was a little surprised a couple of months back when I hit a $750 jackpot at the casino and then couldn’t think of anything I wanted to buy in order to treat myself with this “found” money. How peculiar, I thought. Have I finally achieved some Zen-like balance of inner peace where I no longer crave material possessions? Not bloody likely. It’s more probable that for once I was being sensible and was saving the money in order to “treat” myself to the thrill of squeezing out one more life-sucking mortgage payment.

One material possession that I always thought I’d own at some point is a telescope. That is I thought that until last night. Spike and I had just returned from a sunset walk when we saw Neighbor Stan peering through the rather impressive looking telescope that he had set up in his driveway. I suspected that Stan, who is a salesman, had hit on a good-sized commission and, after paying some bills and buying some clothes for the brats, had treated himself to this fine telescope.

We stopped to chat and I told Stan about my mild but life-long interest in astronomy. (My celestial studies have, sadly, become limited to basically soaking naked in the hot tub late at night and occasionally looking up.) In fact, as a child I once voluntarily attended summer school in order to take a six-week course in astronomy. (The school had invited a handful of students to attend, and who was I, compliant and impressionable little blob of protoplasm that I was, to say no?) And so forty years later, my educational credentials established, Stan invited me to take a look at Mars through his hot-shot new telescope.

Several years ago Mars was very close to the Earth, and I remember leaving my apartment at night and looking up to see the somehow comforting reddish spot in the sky. Last night however, with the naked eye and even through the telescope, the planet looked white. Nobody has been able to explain to me why this is. (Actually, I only mentioned it to Stan, and he didn’t know. How could he? He’s a salesman, for god’s sake. ) We then repositioned the telescope to take a gander at Jupiter, which looked like another white spot, with a diameter considerably less than a pencil eraser.

Stan had bought himself a decent telescope. Recently QVC offered a telescope with a three-inch mirror as their daily “Special Value.” (No matter what we’re watching on TV Spike has to check the Special Value at 9:00 every damn night or she won’t be able to sleep. I tell you it can drive you fucking nuts. But I digress.) Stan’s telescope had a nine-inch mirror, making it much more powerful. (It’s those astronomers with the nine-inch mirrors that get all the girls.) And still Jupiter, the largest planet in our solar system, cast an image not bunch bigger than a zit.

Stan’s disappointment in his purchase was obvious, and every time I mentioned that I too would someday like to purchase a telescope he scoffed a warning and suggested that whenever I got that feeling to just come over and look through his. And just like that I no longer have the desire to buy a telescope, nor do I expect that, barring a seven-figure jackpot score, I will ever own one. I’ll just look through Stan’s once or twice a year and that should do it for me.

So about now you’re wondering, hey where’s that quiz? Actually, this story was originally intended to serve as a short, two-paragraph introduction to the quiz I’ve been planning to put together for you about the planets. Somehow I’ve managed to create a full 800-word diatribe about the guy across the street and his dopey telescope. When it comes to this article I guess you could say I didn’t “planet” correctly! Ha!

So let’s do this. In tonight’s delightful morsel I offered you a peek into how exciting life on my street can be. Let’s just call it “Part I” and tomorrow I’ll put the quiz together and make it “Part II.” How does that sound? You know, I think I’ll even make it into a bit of an experiment. Do you think there’s a chance that if I send out one of my popular e-mail reminders for Part II that any of you clowns will make the effort to scroll down and actually read Part I? No, I didn’t think so. You’ll just take the stupid quiz, get a “3” and then go back to your boring-ass job or surfing the Net for porn. Ah well, it’s off to the hot tub with me. See you tomorrow.

TOMORROW: QUIZ: THE PLANETS, PART II !!!

Useless Information: Big Money

Here’s something I bet you’ve never said: “Hey Buddy, you got two fifty-thousands for this?” Actually, nobody has ever said it, because there never was a fifty thousand dollar bill printed in the United States. There have been, however, one hundred thousand dollar bills. And don’t you wish you had a bucketful?

Don’t bother checking your wallet. The $100,000 bill is illegal for a private citizen to own and were only used for transactions between governments. Did you know that I’ve installed software that can post images on this site, and I could very easily display a picture of a $100,000 bill just to show you how cool it looks? But I’m just too lazy to make the effort—do your own damn research. Oh, and it’s Woodrow Wilson who graces the bill, just because you’re bursting to know.

In addition to “The Big Woody,” as that bill was never called until this very moment, there were other large denomination bills that were printed until 1940. There was a $500 bill featuring William McKinley, a $1000 bill starring Grover Cleveland, a $5,000 bill showing off the boyish good looks of James Madison and a $10,000 with a portrait of Jesus. Nah, I’m just kidding—the $10,000 bill has Samuel Chase.

A quick search on Ebay, and really that’s the only kind of search I can be bothered with, reveals no $10,000 bills are being auctioned at this time. I did find one $10,000 bill currently on sale on the Internet for only $93,000. You’re probably wondering what kind of an idiot would pay $93,000 to buy $10,000? Probably the same kind who would print a book for $21 a copy and sell it for $15. (Available at www.LeonardStegmann.com.)

For years at Binion’s Horseshoe Casino in Las Vegas there was a display of one hundred $10,000 bills. (That adds up to a million bucks, for those of you who went to school in California.) The bills were encased in reinforced glass, and many people still recall having their picture taken at the popular exhibit. The Horseshoe Casino no longer exists and many of the famous notes have been sold to private collectors. I’ve even found a wonderful black and white photo of the valuable showcase but, again, it’s really too much trouble for me to post it for you. You’re simply not worth it.

Today the largest bill that is still being printed is, of course, the $100 bill. And yet in 2003 at a grocery store in North Carolina a customer bought $150 worth of groceries and presented the clerk with a counterfeit $200 bill, complete with a picture of George W. Bush. He even received $50 change! I personally have never seen a bill like this, although I have seen numerous rolls of another popular paper product with our president’s likeness printed right on it.

Noise

I really must get out of the house less often. It started at the movies today, where I endured a pair of old ladies (or as I now refer to them, “peers”) on my left talking through the entire picture while another pair of old ladies on my right (I think I went to high school with one of them) also yakked non-stop.

Back out in the real world I spent the rest of the day being audio-bludgeoned by a seemingly endless cacophony of unwanted sounds. In the small restaurant where I had lunch there were people at two separate tables shouting into their cell phones. During the course of the day I endured half a dozen more. In a parking lot an unattended car’s horn was rhythmically bleating. Everywhere I turned I heard chirps, and not those of the little birdies in the trees but of hundreds of car electronic entry systems triggered by people too damn lazy to use their key. Meanwhile all around me headphone-wearing teens avoided the omnipresent assault on their eardrums by directly piping in their own pre-selected brand of noise into their empty heads.

You know, I’m not anti-technology. I love shooting these missives into cyber-space to brighten your miserable day. I would much rather drive a car than ride a horse. And you all know that I believe that cable television is the greatest gift from the gods since Prometheus snagged fire so we could warm our sorry primitive asses. It just seems like there’s an awful lot of unnecessary electronic crap out there.

I am, I suppose, sort of a technical retard. A “tech-tard” if you will. (Copyright 2005 by LenStegCo.) I’ve had call-waiting on my telephone for over a year now (Imagine that, a whole year!) and I tried to use it the other day while talking to my friend Joe. I kept hitting the “star” button, and I kept returning to Joe. (Who changed his voice every time I said hello. He’s a funny guy.) He finally let me in on the secret of the "flash" button.

I also have a cell phone, on which I make about one call every other week. At $40 a month it’s not difficult to calculate my cost-per-call expense. I could be chatting with some shepherd in Mongolia for that price. I do know how to dial my cell phone, but I think I’ve forgotten how to retrieve messages. Or never knew how. Actually I’m not even sure which button to hit to answer the damn thing. Luckily it never rings.

OK, this really all began when I went to Circuit City today. I finally pushed myself to get that Sirius Satellite Radio hook-up. Listen, I’m not a big fan of radio, but I do enjoy Stern every morning, so when he says jump to satellite we, his loyal subjects, say how high? And how much? So while they were installing the radio, I had an opportunity to look around Circuit City. Luckily they took almost four hours to do the job, so I had plenty of time to check out the latest advances in personal electronics. (Hey, I’m not complaining about the wait. In some parts of the world people stand in line all day for a wormy bowl of rice. And they don’t even get to listen to Howard while they’re waiting.)

After buying all the Sirius Satellite garbage and asking a few hundred questions of the patient salesgeek (who apparently was trained on how to identify and deal with a tech-tard) I began to look around the flashing, buzzing electronic paradise. First stop, the computers. Now, I bought this obsolete hunk of plastic and circuitry on which I’m now banging about five or six years ago. I might as well have bought it during the Taft Administration. Earlier this week I tried to purchase an update for my anti-virus protection (See, I can sling the lingo when I need to!) but I was informed (electronically, of course) that the 2006 version doesn’t work with my antique Windows ME program. What happened? It seems like only yesterday that my ME was the cutting edge!

I’m also told that computers don’t use disks anymore. It all plug in. And the monitors have flat screens. And by using a Pentium 3 I am the cyber-equivalent of that old lady in the Tweety Bird cartoons who wears a shawl and drives around in a jalopy. Yet I know the timing of my next computer purchase will be decided the same way the purchase of my new car was: I’ll buy a new one only when the old one absolutely refuses to function any longer. One fine morning I’ll turn on this heap and see smoke wafting out of the ancient unit. Then I’ll know it’s time.

After being completely demoralized by the baffling array of computers I wandered over to the television department. Despite what I might have said in previous entries, the images on some of these things are indeed stunning. And they had over one hundred of them from which to choose. Where do you start? Well, I began my education by finding out the difference between LCD and Plasma. Luckily the TV salesgeek had also gone through tech-tard-training. He answered my questions and then I looked at the prices. Do you know when I’ll be buying a new TV? Well, one fine morning I’ll turn on my television and see smoke wafting…

Finally I stumbled upon a whole wall of shiny crap that’s made to go with your iPod, and yes I know what an iPod is, thank you very much. Sorta. It plays music, right? I remember last Christmas my wife’s 12-year-old relative was rather upset. His parents had given him an iPod, but it was the one that only holds 5,000 songs. He wanted the one that held 10,000 songs! Why the fuck would anybody need to have 10,000 songs? Where’s my calculator? OK, here we go: If each song is three minutes long it would take that punk nearly three weeks of non-stop, twenty-four hours a day listening to hear them all. Hey kid, you got that much time? Read a goddamn book!

The Look In My Grandfather's Eyes

It was a long time ago, but I remember it still,
The old man on the stretcher who was terminally ill.
He stared at me briefly and I thought on that night,
That the look in his eyes was a curious sight.

What must he have seen when he looked up at me?
A longhaired young rebel, so sure and so free.
A vibrant young satyr, all bearded and tan,
Looking down with distaste on this sickly old man.

To my great relief the visit came to an end,
(It was getting late and I was meeting a friend.)
And it’s not so uncommon when an old person dies,
So I left with the memory of my grandfather’s eyes.

There were places all over the world to explore,
Each year brought adventures behind every door,
I found magical potions, exotic foods to feast on,
And women to love when their husbands were gone.

This room where they’ve put me is the last place I’ll know.
And I have no more answers than I did long ago.
Though I’ve learned very little and grown old but not wise,
I now know what I saw in my grandfather’s eyes.

Three Card Monte: The Movies

I know you’ve all been enjoying the occasional blog about Brussels sprouts or thirty-year old military atrocities, but you may have noticed that lately I seem to be writing quite a bit about the movies. And why not? Everybody loves the movies, and if we do happen to find one on which we disagree, well, nobody gets killed over it. Most of the time, anyway. So what better topic for today’s game?

It’s been a while since you’ve been treated to a boisterous round of Three Card Monte, but I’m sure you still remember the tune. Below are three stories. Two of them are true and the third was squeezed through no small effort out of what little is left of my feeble mind. So good luck picking out the ringer, and remember I’ll be keeping an eye on the word count of each story and choosing the order by lot, so don’t even think about trying any of those oh-so-clever little tricks of yours.

STORY 1:
The movie Babe was a box office sensation and quickly became a favorite with children and adults alike. Did you know that there were no less than twenty different pigs that played the part of Babe in the film? During filming it was discovered that different pigs excelled at different tasks. For example, while one pig excelled at climbing a ladder, another might look better in a close-up. Also, when shooting ended most of the pigs were donated to local Australian farmers, but several of them were given to the principal actors. The fate of most of these pigs is unknown, but actor James Cromwell, who in the film played the stern but patient Farmer Hoggett, has said publicly that his particular “Babe” ended up as the main event in a barbeque that he threw about two years after the movie premiered. In fact when asked about Babe in a 1998 interview for Premiere magazine Cromwell quipped, “He was the most delicious co-star I ever had!”


STORY 2:
Barry Cossey was born in 1954, and by the time he was eighteen he decided that life just wasn’t worth living unless he could live it as a woman. And so Barry changed his name to Caroline, began hormone therapy and got breast implants. Two years later at the age of twenty Barry/Caroline underwent what is euphemistically called “sex reassignment surgery” and his transformation was complete. Five years later Caroline began a career as an actress and model, but her big break came in 1980 when she won a part in the James Bond film For Your Eyes Only. So remember, Guys, be very careful the next time you’re watching some old James Bond flick and ogling those bikini-clad beauties. At least one of those curvaceous Bond Girls that you’re drooling over used to be a man, baby!

STORY 3:
Harrison Ford had already spent three months in the blistering Tunisian sun while shooting the classic Raiders of the Lost Ark. The temperature often rose as high as 130 degrees and cast and crew members had to constantly fan their mouths to keep the bugs from flying in. Ford himself had contracted a bad case of dysentery and therefore was highly motivated to spend less time on the set and more time in the men’s room. As written, the famous scene when Indy is confronted by the flashy swordsman was three and a half pages long and would have required three full days of shooting. Ford came up with the idea of having Indy simply pull a gun and shoot the swordsman right after the original confrontation. He then convinced director Steven Spielberg to give this greatly shortened version a try. And so, because of a bad case of diarrhea, the funniest scene in that legendary movie was born.

OK, Smarty-Pants, which story did I make up?

Where Are You Now, Lt. William Calley?

I’m a little concerned that we had so much fun playing musical trivia last night that I left you with the impression that the Sixties were some sort of magical time when everybody had long hair and danced and ran carefree and braless through lush meadows covered in colorful flowers while singing “Aquarius.” Tonight I’d like to bring you crashing back to Earth with the reminder that the Sixties were also an ugly time filled with hate; a time when the country was nearly torn apart by deep divisions in culture and politics that to this day have yet to fully heal.

Yes, I know it’s very popular to describe it as a time when a corrupt president tried in vain to wage an unpopular war that eventually led to the collapse of his administration. “Ho-ho, things sure have changed!” we then bleat with glee, as if we’ve uncovered some incredibly insightful revelation into our own times. Believe me, it was not the same. There was real anger back then; war protests were common, volatile and did not take the vague and frankly contradictory position of “condemning the war but supporting the troops.” Images of riots filled the TV screens and at one point political assassination seemed to have become an integral part of our way of life.

So I was thinking back on this time as I was creating that trivia quiz last night and along with the names of some of the popular musicians I also began to remember other minor players who will always be associated with that turbulent time. People like Jerry Rubin, Timothy Leary, John Dean, and Lt. William Calley. And it dawned on me that somewhere along the way I had completely lost track of Calley. I knew he was tried and found guilty, but what ever happened to him? I wasn’t naïve enough to think that this convicted war criminal was still rotting away in a prison somewhere, but I wondered what paths his life had taken since his conviction, and so I did a little research.

In case you’re young enough or silly enough to believe that American war crimes began with Lynndie England and her pals at Abu Ghraib, a little review: Lt. William Calley was the American army officer who led the 1968 My Lai Massacre. The massacre took place in a tiny hamlet called Song My, near My Lai, Vietnam. The horrific testimony at his trial revealed that Calley had ordered about 500 unarmed civilians to be gathered in one location, where they were then shot to death by American soldiers. Most of the victims were women and children. Some of the women who survived the slaughter were then gang-raped.

Twenty-six American officers and soldiers were charged with having participated in the massacre, or in the subsequent cover-up. Only Lt. Calley was convicted. Although some claimed that Calley was being used by the Army as a scapegoat he was nevertheless sentenced to life in prison in March of 1971.

One day after his sentencing President Richard Nixon ordered Calley’s release from prison. In August of that same year his sentence was reduced to twenty years, and ultimately Calley ended up serving just three and a half years of house arrest in his quarters at Fort Benning, Georgia. He was released by a federal judge in 1974.

Yesterday I watched a travel program that recommended Vietnam as a desirable tourist destination, touting the beauty of the land and the friendliness of the people. Today Lt. William Calley is 62 years old and works as a jeweler in Columbus, Georgia. Today, too, the victims of the My Lai Massacre who were slaughtered by Lt. Calley’s order remain dead.

The Great Aging Hippie Trivia Quiz

And you know who you are. You remember that golden era, don’t you? That special time back when Rod Stewart was still a rocker and Led Zeppelin music wasn’t used to sell Cadillacs?

Sure, you’re old now. You’ve got that gray ponytail, an earring in one ear and an AARP card in your wallet. But you remember it all: the protests, the drugs and the music. The wonderful, wonderful music. And you still thank God, who you don’t believe in, for allowing you to come of age at a time when popular music hit its high-water mark, and not during the Disco or Rap eras. (Shudder.)

Ah but brothers and sisters, do you truly remember? Or have all those long ago years of physical and mental “experimentation” finally gummed up your aged synapses, just as they warned us it would? Let’s find out, shall we? Let’s take The Great Aging Hippie Trivia Quiz!


1. Which of the following groups did not appear at Woodstock?
a. Jefferson Airplane
b. Steppenwolf
c. Santana
d. Creedence Clearwater Revival

2. Which founding member of the Rolling Stones drowned in a swimming pool?
a. Eric Richards
b. Stu Sutcliffe
c. Brian Jones
d. Keith Moon

3. Which of the following was not the name of an actual rock band?
a. Mott the Hoople
b. Strawberry Alarm Clock
c. Vanilla Fudge
d. Chocolate Acid

4. In 1971, what group sold out Shea Stadium in only 72 hours?
a. Grand Funk Railroad
b. The Who
c. The Beatles
d. Led Zeppelin

5. Who were, respectively, the lead singers of The Lovin’ Spoonful and Big Brother and The Holding Company?
a. John Kay and Linda Ronstadt
b. John Sebastian and Janis Joplin
c. Lou Reed and Grace Slick
d. Ian Anderson and Cass Elliot

6. Complete the lyric: “Out here in the fields…”
a. “We made swords and shields.”
b. “I dug in my heels.”
c. “I fought for my meals.”
d. “Where gravity yields.”

7. Who sang the hit songs Lay Down, Brand New Key and Look What They’ve Done to My Song, Ma?
a. Iron Butterfly
b. Melanie
c. The Grateful Dead
d. Donovan

8. Members of The Hollies, The Byrds and Buffalo Springfield formed what group?
a. Pink Floyd
b. The Velvet Underground
c. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young
d. Sly and The Family Stone

9. What do the Yardbirds, Cream and Derek and the Dominos have in common?
a. Eric Clapton was in each band.
b. Each was an opening act for The Rolling Stones
c. All were signed to Apple Records, the Beatles label
d. All had top-ten singles of the same song

10. What musically historic event happened on July 6, 1957?
a. The term “rock and roll” was used on the radio for the first time
b. Buddy Holly and others died in a plane crash
c. John Lennon and Paul McCartney met.
d. Jim Morrison was born.

OK, Hippie, put down that pencil and that joint and let’s grade this thing.

ANSWERS:

1. Steppenwolf did not appear at Woodstock, although they did appear with many of the same groups at the time. John Kay is still performing, although he looks like he’s wearing a bad wig. Sigh.
2. Brian Jones. He was a pretty messed up guy and missed out on a lot of fame and fortune by checking out early. That’s him on sax on the Beatles’ You Know My Name, Look Up the Number.
3. Choclate Acid. But it could have been, eh?
4. Grand Funk Railroad. The Beatles took 80 days to sell out Shea. Also, they broke up in 1970, dummy.
5. John Sebastian and Janis Joplin. Joplin died in 1970 (it was a rough year—Hendrix went too) and you might also remember Sebastian’s song Welcome Back, the theme song to the hit show Welcome Back, Kotter. Sebastian is also seen occasionally on TV hawking rock music CD’s.
6. “I fought for my meals.” That’s from The Who’s legendary guitarist, songwriter and fearless kiddie porn investigator Pete Townshend.
7. Melanie. You do remember Melanie I hope? The original flower child? She was a huge star for about 18 months and appeared in more than one of my hormone-driven adolescent dreams.
8. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. Trust me, these guys were huge during my high school years. Luckily electricity had caught on so we could play their records.
9. Eric Clapton was in each of these bands, and about 500 others. Man can’t seem to hold a job.
10. John and Paul met. Thank God.

SCORING:

1-4 Correct: Listen Junior, why don’t you run along and listen to your Rap or Hip-Hop or whatever other crap you poor kids are into these days. It’s a fact: Our music was better. You missed out. Deal with it.

5-8 Correct: Congratulations! You obviously lived through the glorious sixties and emerged intact on the other side. You still have a few boxes of LP’s stashed in your garage, don’t you? Far out.

9-10 Correct: Cheater! If you lived through the music of this period then, unless you were a social leper, you smoked a lot of grass. And if you smoked a lot of grass there’s no way that you would have remembered enough to get that many right!

Somewhere, Over The Rainbow...Gray Birds Fly

Those of you who have been blessed with the extreme good fortune to know me personally have probably at some point heard the famous “Theater of the Mind” speech that I subject my companions to whenever the conversation rolls around to the picture quality on the new high-tech television sets.

Now don’t get me wrong—the first time I saw a plasma screen showing a travelogue of Italy in high-def I was completely blown away. The picture was immaculately clear and I’d truly never seen anything like it. In fact, it was the same reaction I had forty years ago when I saw my first color television program.

But what I didn’t say forty years ago, and didn’t say again when I saw the Italy show, was “It’s just like being there!” You know why? Because it’s not. Listen Kids, as you drag your sorry ass through this life you’ll eventually come to realize that the only thing that’s exactly like being there is…being there! I often argue that the folks in the 1950’s who laughed their asses off to Milton Berle or The Honeymooners or Jack Benny didn’t get one iota less enjoyment out of these programs just because the pictures came into their homes on a tiny, fuzzy black and white TV that needed to have its “rabbit ears” adjusted every ten minutes.

And the reason is, or so my theory goes, that all the action really takes place in the mind. We know that Ralph Kramden isn’t really climbing out on a balcony above the streets of Brooklyn, but our brain takes those fake-looking images, fills in the gaps and voila! we have the complete story in our head.

Yeah, that’s how my theory went, but I’ve got to tell you that tonight I watched part (Well, I couldn’t very well miss Desperate Housewives, could I?) of the digitally-restored Wizard of Oz, and whoa, I almost felt as if I had never seen the film before. And trust me, I’m not even watching it on some new, flat-screen plasma or LCD television. I still have one that is fairly old school. (No, it doesn't have rabbit ears.) Hell, I think half the reason I came up with my “Theater of the Mind” theory is that I’m too damn cheap to go out and buy a new TV.

Part of the problem is that after color TV came in I no longer watched The Wizard of Oz very often, as I had already seen it endless times in glorious black and white. (It’s a great film, but it’s not a grabber. What’s a “grabber” you ask? Damn you, haven’t you been reading these blogs at all?) So for me the yellow brick road was always light gray and the ruby slippers were dark gray. And even tonight I was a little shocked to find that the Wicked Witch (Did you know Margaret Hamilton was only 37 when she played that part?) was bright green!

But what really caught my attention was the vividness of the details. When I watched it as a kid the focus was on the main characters, while the sets were little more than hazy gray voids in the background. Tonight I could see the greens and yellows of the cornfield and that the Scarecrow had straw coming out of his ear! The acting of the performers, especially the facial expressions during close-ups, also came through like never before and I developed a new appreciation for the wonderful talent in this movie. (Ah, but technology is a double edged sword, my friends, and the giant painted scenery mattes that looked as real as anything else in black and white came across in digital color as…giant painted scenery mattes.)

But the faces! Even those of minor characters like the Munchkins or those goddamn ugly flying monkeys were more animated than I had ever seen as a kid. Oh and, by the way, it’s true what some anonymous but incredibly observant fellow noted during last year’s presidential election: The grumpy tree who yells at Dorothy for picking his apples does bear a remarkable resemblance to John Kerry. Perhaps Kerry should have gone to see the wizard to ask for electoral votes. (Bush, of course, would have probably had to fight the scarecrow for ownership of that elusive brain.)

You know what? I’m sticking to my theory. Although seeing the Wizard of Oz through 21st century eyes definitely increased my appreciation of the film, I don’t think that I enjoyed it any more than I, and millions of other kids, had when I first saw it on an antique TV somewhere back in the Pleistocene Age. For if it turns out that television programs are actually more enjoyable with the new technology, that would force me to admit that one of my patented theories was wrong. And, as you all know, we certainly can’t have that.

Addendum: About 15 years ago I made a bet with a friend. She insisted that the reason, the only reason, that the beginning of the Wizard of Oz was in black and white and the Oz sequences were in color was for creative purposes; that is, to show the glory of Oz. I argued (and backed it up with five bucks) that there was some additional reason involved, although I could never fully explain what that reason might be. Well, I haven’t seen my friend in over a decade. (Rumor has it she has moved to SF and joined the other team.) Still, unless I hear of some other theories or discover new info on the web, I think that if I ever bump into her again I’m just about ready to pay off. I think.

Grabbers

It was very late and both the clock on the wall and the xanax in my bloodstream told me it really was time to crawl off to bed. And then I made the mistake of clicking through the HBO channels and I knew that I would be up for at least another hour. How could I go to bed now? Goodfellas was on!

Do you have any of these? Movies that you’ve already seen a bunch of times and yet when you stumble across them on television, no matter at what point in the movie, you have to watch to the end? I have a few of these movies myself, and I call them “grabbers.” Well, in truth I’ve never in my life called them grabbers until I wrote that last sentence, but I think it’s a good name and besides I do need a title for this thing, yes?

I divide grabbers (see how readily the word slides into the lexicon?) into two categories. No, I haven’t named the categories yet. The first category is reserved for the classics, the movies you watch every time you click on them because they are truly great movies. For example, I’ve never been able to land on The Godfather (I & II only, thank you very much) without watching it to the end. No shit. It’s The Godfather for crissake, the greatest movie ever made. (How can I put emphasis on that movie title in the last sentence? It’s already in italics as a title. I can’t double italicize it, can I? Underline? Nah. This is all so very confusing.) I would also include the above-mentioned Goodfellas (The “Almost Godfather”) in this classics category as well as Annie Hall, which I’ve probably seen more than any other movie. (Not counting those “special” ones I store behind the box in my bedroom closet.)

To me it’s the second category of grabbers that is more interesting. Again, these are movies that you must watch to the end every time you stumble across them, but they are different than those in the first category in that they are not considered classics or great films. In some cases it can be argued that they are not even particularly good films. And yet you watch them over and over.

My number one grabber of all time has to be Vanilla Sky. Despite the cheap shots people enjoy taking at Tom Cruise he has made some great movies, and Vanilla Sky is my favorite of all his films. I watch it every time it comes on and I cringe every time I hit the description button and see those two measly stars on the screen. How can I be so enthralled with a movie that only gets a two star rating? I don’t know, but I am. I probably own two soundtrack CD’s (plus the Easy Rider LP that’s rotting away in my garage) and Vanilla Sky is one of them. This movie is a head-trip. It’s a thinking man’s flick, but I like it anyway. If I knew it was on right now I’d think nothing of cutting this babbling short and leaving you all hanging to go watch it. Now you know.

The first of the two star movies that I remember watching over and over again was Against All Odds. What is it about this movie? Is it because it was the first time I’d seen James Woods, and what an evil bastard he was? Was it because it was about sports and gambling or the exotic Mexican locations or the great Phil Collins title song or the naked and sweaty Rachel Ward making hot Aztec love in the hundred degree heat inside a dark pyramid? Yeah, probably that last one. How many movies can you name where one of your favorite shots is on the closing credits? Here we watch a young and lovely Rachel Ward as she continuously looks into the camera, and even works up some tears, as the credits roll on by. Two stars my ass.

You know what? I think The Brady Bunch Movie is a four star film. So there. So many of you missed this dead-on spoof because you felt that the original TV show was stupid. Of course it was stupid. It was beyond stupid. And nobody knows that better than the folks who put this hilarious picture together. If you hated The Brady Bunch, you’ll love The Brady Bunch Movie! (But skip the unnecessary and unfunny sequel.)

Yes, I know there are about 753 bare tits in the movie Blame It On Rio, but that’s not the reason I watch it over and over. Well, it’s not the only reason. Sure it’s a middle-aged man’s wet dream, but it’s also a very funny movie. Michael Caine and Joseph Bologna make up a comedy team that, at least in this one film, rival some of the greatest comedy pairings of all time. Oh, and did I mention there are a lot of tits in it?

The newest addition to my list of grabbers is Jody Foster’s movie Contact. Again, it’s an intelligent film (Intelligent like Vanilla Sky, not intelligent like Blame It On Rio.) and a tribute to intellectual pursuit. (That’s how Mankind used to spend its time before the advent of reality shows.) Look for an early appearance by Mathew McConaughey and some great cosmic eye candy. It an enthralling, multi-dimensional film and I watch it every time it comes on. Just be willing to swallow your disappointment when Jody travels 500 gazillion miles through time and space only to end up on some white-trash beach in Florida.

Guess Who?

I was going to write about a particular famous person and deliver my annual plea asking that he or she receive a well-deserved honorary Oscar while still alive to enjoy it. Then I thought, Hey, let’s make a game out of it! See if you can identify our mystery icon. My only hint for you is that this person will turn 80 next year. From here on we’ll call him Mr. X., so there’s another hint for you—it’s not a woman. So good luck and remember, if you use the Internet to get the answer you’re only cheating yourself!

Mr. X had open-heart surgery in 1983.

In 1995 Mr. X became the highest paid performer in Broadway history when he played the Devil in Damn Yankees.

Mr. X was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in 1977.

Mr. X refuses to wear a pair of socks more than once.

Mr. X is referred to in both The Simpsons and Seinfeld.

Mr. X’s first marriage produced five sons.

Mr. X was the top box office draw in 1957, 1959 and 1961-1964.

Mr. X underwent surgery for prostate cancer in 1992.

Mr X is known as “Picchiatello” in Italy.

Mr. X has diabetes.

Mr. X’s actual first name is “Joseph.”

Mr X loves baseball and for years trained with the Los Angeles Dodgers.

Mr. X has pulmonary fibrosis.

Mr X has recorded a record that to date has sold over four million copies.

Mr. X taught a film class at the University of California. His students included Steven Spielberg and George Lucas.

Mr X. encouraged the seven-year-old Christopher Walken to become an actor.

Mr. X reportedly has an I.Q of 145.

Geez, how many clues do you want? Did you finally figure out who it is? Well, it’s about time. Don’t you agree he deserves an honorary Academy Award?

Ants

As difficult as it may be for you to believe, going through life as an incredibly stubborn asshole has not always worked out to my advantage. Take that time I got caught for speeding, for example.

I was on one of my legendary annual road trips, or “man trips” as Spike calls them. I do not remember which obscure non-ocean-touching state I was in (say Nevada if it makes you feel better) but I do remember that I was barrel-assing down this mountain road at what surely must have been over 80 miles an hour. If you’ve ever driven though one of these barren states you know that driving 80 or 90 mph can often feel like you’re standing still.

Which I wasn’t, and neither was the cop car that suddenly appeared in my rear-view mirror, lights a-flashing. Being adverse as I am to having warning shots fired into the back of my head I immediately pulled over. It wasn’t long before the cop, a pleasant looking young man, appeared at my passenger window. We went through the usual “Do you know why I stopped you?” dance, but it was really just a routine. Each of us knew I had been speeding, and I wasn’t about to embarrass us both by denying it.

There was a girl, oops, I mean woman, I used to work with who I call Patty. (I’ll use a fictitious name because she happens to be on my blog mailing list and therefore might read this. Not likely, I know, but still, don’t I already have enough bullshit in my life?) Now Patty is one of these “I am woman, hear me roar,” type chicks, so I was surprised one morning when she described how she had again gotten out of a speeding ticket. I thought she might have claimed harassment or sexual discrimination, or just verbally bludgeoned the cop with a barrage of feminist rhetoric, but no, her method of avoiding her much-deserved punishment was the tried and true method that has been used by women to get what they want since about a month after we all descended from the tree-tops: She cried. And she didn’t want to hear any feedback from me about the hypocrisy of a modern woman, strong and independent, resorting to such subservient and frankly clichéd tactics. Crying worked for her and that was all that mattered.

No, I didn’t start to cry after the cop pulled me over on that Nevada highway. If I had, I know I certainly would have gotten out of the speeding ticket. In fact by doing any number of things that take no more effort than swatting a fly I could have gotten out of that ticket. Why didn’t I? Didn’t you read the first sentence of this story?

The cop who stopped me was a wonderfully friendly guy. We talked for a while and I told him all about my road trip. We agreed that this was a truly beautiful area of Nevada (or wherever the hell I was) and he shared how he had been born right near here and did a lot of hunting and fishing in those very mountains. Why, we were like two old chums shooting the breeze on a crisp Spring day, except for the fact that we were parked by the side of a highway with traffic whizzing by, and he was a cop who had pulled me over for speeding.

We continued to chatter away like the best of chums until at one point the conversation lagged a bit and the cop glanced down at the ground. I sat there in amazement as the officer began to tell me that he was standing on an anthill, and he laughed as he described how the ants were crawling all over his shoes. By then I knew the truth of the situation: this friendly policeman did not want to give me a ticket. He was now standing by the side of my car practically stubbing his toe in the dirt like some shy schoolgirl waiting for a goodnight kiss. No, he most certainly did not want to give me a ticket. All I had to do was ask.

It would have been so simple. “Listen, can you just let me off with a warning this time?” “Do you have to give me a ticket?” “How about you don’t give me a ticket and I slow down from here on in?” I guarantee you, any of these would have worked. He liked me. We were friends. He just wanted to hear the words, that’s all.

I couldn’t do it. With one well-chosen sentence I could have saved myself from a $120 fine, or worse, another hellish day in the bowels of some brain-numbing traffic school. I knew it. And he knew it, too.

And so I heard myself making one of my famous witty comments, this time about the ants crawling over the cop’s shoes, and a short time later I was again on my way rolling down the highway, although this time more slowly and with a crisp new speeding ticket tucked securely into the visor. As difficult as it may be for you to believe, going through life as an incredibly stubborn asshole has not always worked out to my advantage.

The Great Brussels Sprouts Experiment

It’s funny, I think, how our taste in food matures as we grow older. For example, as a kid I wouldn’t think of putting anything except catsup on my hot dog. Now, of course I have the sophisticated tastes of a mature adult and so mustard is my condiment of choice. (And if you are a vegetarian please do write to tell me in disgusting detail about all the vile little creatures that somehow hop, slither or crawl their way into becoming ingredients in the modern American frankfurter. Mmmmm!)

Many kids are content to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch seven days a week. If fact some won’t eat anything else. Yes, I can hear your middle-aged voice piping up that you still love PB&J, but is it your favorite? Would you like to eat it every day? Please do me a favor and write your answers to these questions on a sheet of paper and then, as quickly as you can, feed it through your shredder. Twice.

I never did like broccoli as a kid, nor lettuce, or anything else that was green and didn’t come out of a bag of M&M’s. Today I enjoy a salad just about every day, and while I can’t say that I love broccoli I do eat it on a regular basis and like it. Not as much as chocolate chip cookies of course, but at least it doesn’t make me gag.

Brussels sprouts never made me gag either, but probably have brought me closer to that sorry state than anything else in my life short of a Bush press conference. I have not eaten a Brussels sprout in over forty years and yet I can still remember the acrid odor that is emitted when they’re cooked, and the horrible, vile taste when they’re eaten. It’s hard to imagine why something that is leafy and green and comes from the earth would taste so repulsive. It’s all part of some grand cosmic plan, I’m sure.

We rarely had Brussels sprouts when I was growing up, and when we did they were usually swimming in a cream sauce. I don’t know if I’ve ever actually eaten an entire Brussels sprout at any one sitting, although I do remember that I greatly enjoyed the cream sauce.

I live in an area where you can drive along the highway and see acres upon acres of lush, green Brussels sprout plants. This leads me to believe that I must be missing something. I mean somebody must be eating all these damn things. Additionally, at our last Boys’ Night Out (we’re pretty wild—sometimes we stay out until eight or even eight-thirty) my friend Mark mentioned how he loves Brussels sprouts sautéed in butter and garlic. He actually made them sound pretty good.

So here’s the deal: Tonight for the first time in over four decades I’m going to eat a Brussels sprout, and you’re invited to come along for the ride! Imagine, the last time I even had half a sprout in my mouth (Does that sound dirty to you? Maybe I’ll rewrite it later.) Lyndon Johnson was president, a new home cost $19,000 and a gallon of gas was thirty cents! I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason why I haven’t eaten one of these vile little cabbages since the middle of the last century, and tonight we may just find out what that reason is.

Do you remember the blog when I sampled absinthe for the first time? Of course you don’t. Why do I even bother? I could be watching Columbo. Anyway, tonight I will be conducting a similar experiment. After I complete this paragraph I will be leaving you for a short time and adjourning to the kitchen. There I will prepare three or four Brussels sprouts a la Mark. Actually, as I don’t have any garlic and only have margarine it will be closer to a la Leonard, but the results should be similar. Once they are cooked (and I’ve just read that it is over-cooking that releases sulfur from these little brutes and causes the foul smell, so there’s yet one more thing that you don’t have to write to me about.) I will bring them in here to my office and will continue to share the experience. OK, I’m heading to the kitchen. (I do hate to lie to you, my loyal readers, so I must clarify and tell you that first I’ll be heading to the living room to watch The Daily Show, then the kitchen to cook the sprouts and then back here.) See you in a bit.

I’m back. It’s about forty-five minutes later, The Daily Show is over (Tonight we learned that a sizable majority of our senators voted against the use of torture. Makes you proud, doesn’t it?) and I’m sitting in my office holding a plate of freshly sautéed Brussels sprouts. OK, I’m obviously not actually holding the plate or else I wouldn’t be typing, but you get the picture. There are eight halves of sprouts on the plate and the underside of each is, while not exactly burnt, a bit brown. I snuck in to do a little rewriting while they were cooking (I’d to get to bed sometime tonight) and almost burned them. They are for the most part bright green and shiny, and while they don’t stink exactly, I’m detecting a familiar odor that makes me hesitate to take the next step. But take it I will, for this is science, damn it! I am now going to take my first bite of a Brussels sprout in over forty years. Please stand by for the results.

You know, I spent a good part of today planning on how I would begin this particular paragraph. Should I use “Yuck!” or “Bleah!” or even the more Mad Magazine-ish “Bleecchhhh!” I fully expected to take a small nibble out of one of the Brussels sprouts and then spit it back onto the plate and rush to the kitchen for a gulp of palate-purifying cranberry juice. It would be the perfect ending to an amusing experiment.

Except I ate nearly all of them. I can’t say that they were delicious. Don’t be ridiculous. Pizza is delicious. Milk shakes too. My Brussels sprouts were, at best, just a wee bit better than edible, but really not bad at all. Strangely, there was no hint of that horrible aftertaste I remember from childhood and the butter and salt actually made the little bastards almost tasty.

So I didn’t get the dramatic ending, with all the retching and gagging, that I was looking for in my experiment. This culinary adventure wasn’t a total loss, however, because I’ve now discovered another nutritious vegetable that I am able and even willing to eat. So yes, I fully expect that I will give these odd little cabbages called Brussels sprouts another try in the near future. I mean, if they tasted pretty good in just butter and salt, imagine how great they’ll be swimming in an ocean of cream sauce!

The Naked Hawaiian Girl Calendar

How do you mark the passing of each year? What annual event is it that makes you pause, perhaps just for a moment, and acknowledge that another 365 days of your life is in the can? Some people do this at Christmas. Others stop to reflect as the clock chimes twelve times on New Year’s Eve. Most often, of course, people feel the passing of another year as the lights are turned off and they blow out the flickering candles on their birthday cake. Me? It’s when I once again send in my check to The Calendar Company to order the coming year’s Naked Hawaiian Girl Calendar.

Which I did today. First of all, that phrase from the last paragraph shouldn’t even be in caps. That’s not the actual name of the calendar—that’s just what I call it. It’s almost become a new word that I created and have been using for years with family and friends. “Meet for lunch on the 12th? Sure--let me just write that on my Naked-Hawaiian-Girl-Calendar.”

The truth is the girls on that calendar aren’t naked at all. They’re simply topless, and that’s just fine with me. I received my first of these calendars in 1978, when my parents returned from a trip to Hawaii and brought back two of these calendars—one for me and one for my brother. I think my brother continued to reorder the calendar for another five years or so and then quit. Slacker. I’ve ordered the calendar every single year since 1978 and, if I was forced to by some provision of the Patriot Act or something, I could probably search the house and come up with every copy. That’s 28 Naked Hawaiian Girl Calendars. And if you figure that there were twelve of these native beauties (I’m not sure how “native” they all were. A few of them look somewhat like the Long Island Jewish girls I grew up with.) on each calendar that’s 336 topless Hawaiian girls that have hung on my wall. And if you multiply that by two, that’s 672 beautiful, tanned…OK, you get the picture.

Another thought, this one more frightening, also crossed my mind today. Most of these girls seem to be in their twenties, although at my advanced age it’s getting increasingly difficult for me to estimate the age of any woman under the age of 40. They’re all starting to look the same: young. But say the average girl in those calendars is 25. That means that the little hussies I was drooling over when I got my first calendar in 1978 will this year be about 53 years old. And that’s fine. Aging, as we all know, is an inevitable and natural part of life. Even so, when my brand new 2006 Naked Hawaiian Girl Calendar arrives in a few weeks, I just hope they’re not on it.

Useless Information: Columbo's First Name

Bush’s recent (un)popularity numbers are not the only polls that prove that once again I was right all along. A few years ago TV Guide conducted a survey to name the most popular television cop of all time, and of course the winner was the rumpled and lovable Lt. Columbo.

I don’t recall when the poll was conducted. In fact I don’t remember if it was for “most popular cop” or “most popular detective” or what. In fact today I was on the phone with a customer service person from United Airlines and I couldn’t remember the name of the street I lived on just two years ago! But that’s OK, because I figure the sooner my memory evaporates completely the sooner I’ll be able to re-watch all the Columbo episodes as if they were brand new. Can’t wait!

Fans know that one of the recurring gimmicks on that classic TV series is that Columbo never mentions his first name. If he is ever directly asked the question his answer is invariably “Lieutenant.” But if you search the web you may find several sources that will tell you that Columbo’s first name is Philip, and there’s a very interesting tale how this came to be.

In the 1970’s Fred Worth was a writer of trivia books. A former air traffic controller, Fred just had a feeling that trivia was about to become very popular, and he was right. By the end of 1984 a game by the name of Trivial Pursuit had generated over a quarter-billion dollars in sales. Fred, being the trivia aficionado that he was, took a careful look at Trivial Pursuit and noticed that the questions seemed a bit familiar. After more research Fred claimed that fully one-third of the questions in the game had been lifted directly from his books. And he had a secret weapon to prove it.

There is an old mapmakers trick where map companies sometimes include fictitious towns or lakes in their maps. If these geographic locations ever turn up on the maps of their competitors they know that their work has been stolen. Fred used a variation of this trick in his trivia questions. In one of his books he inserted the question, “What is Columbo’s first name?” He then randomly chose the name “Philip” as the answer. When the same question and answer turned up in a later edition of Trivial Pursuit, he knew he had his evidence, and sued the game’s makers and distributors for $300 million dollars.

God, I would love to put an exclamation point at the end of that last sentence and end the story here but sadly, despite the admission by the creators that they had indeed “borrowed” Fred’s questions, Fred did not win his case. It was first thrown out of a lower court and through appeals eventually was rejected by the U. S. Supreme Court. The old saying proved to be true: If you steal from one source it’s plagiarism; if you steal from many it’s “research.”

Addendum: Speculation persists concerning Columbo’s first name. The strongest piece of evidence I’ve seen is a still picture taken from an early episode where the Lieutenant is showing his badge and I.D. A blowup shows a signature with a first name that appears to these tired old eyes to be “Frank,” although others have seen different names. Listen, if you’ve read this far you must really be interested in this mystery or so bored at your job that you’re ready to scream. So, as a reward for you patience, I’ll be happy to e-mail you a copy of the photo upon your request. Then you can tell me what name you see. Trust me—it ain’t “Philip.”

Honesty

The dictionary defines “honesty” as—you really didn’t think I was actually going to use that tired old opening, did you? Here’s a clue for you all: if you ever read an article or listen to a speech where the first words are, “The dictionary defines…” you are in big trouble. Because my friend, you’re dealing with a writer who hasn’t got a clue as to what he wants to say or how he’s going to say it. Trust me, that clown’s idea gauge will be on “E.”

When I was a kid growing up in the wilds of Long Island we played baseball quite a bit. On occasion a play would be very close and since we didn’t have umpires (hell, we barely had a ball) I was sometimes asked to be the arbiter. Since I was also a member of one of the teams this was quite an honor. It was generally accepted that I would make an honest call, even if the call went against my own team. And sometimes it did.

Have you ever cheated on a test in school? Well who hasn’t, right? I haven’t. Ever. In fact I recall one time when I was about ready to hand in a test when I heard two kids behind me discussing an answer. I suddenly realized that they had come up with the right answer and the one I had written on my paper was wrong. Regardless, I stood up and handed in my paper without changing my original wrong answer.

Aren’t I something? That’s why I was a little surprised when I took an “honesty” test a few years back and came in with a middling score. I was not deemed to be “Dishonest” of course, but I also didn’t fall into the “Honest” category. My rating was, and I remember this quite clearly, “Honest When It’s Convenient.” Oh my!

Today I went to buy a few personal items at Longs Drugs. It’s none of your business what I bought—that’s why they’re called “personal.” But I will tell you that the most expensive item was Crest White Strips at a whopping $29.99. (But worth it. These things really do work. Where do you think I got this dazzling smile? Make sure you get the “classic” package, though.)

I had paid for my items with my United Airlines credit card (those miles really do add up) and was halfway across the parking lot when I realized that the total of my bill didn’t make sense. It should have been higher. So I checked my receipt and sure as hell the skinny gay cashier had neglected to scan my very expensive White Strips.

You know I didn’t even hesitate (not for long, any way.) I went back into the store and looked around for the cashier, who was no longer at his post. I almost stopped one of the managers who was busy filling the candy shelf, but I thought about it and didn’t want to get the cashier in trouble for having made a mistake. (Golly, I’m practically a saint, aren’t I?) I eventually tracked down the cashier and paid what I owed. What. I. owed.

What would you have done? Maybe come up with some lame excuse like, “It’s their fault because they made the mistake.” I asked my wife and she admitted she probably would have kept walking. Yes, I thought, I must truly possess a superior sense of right and wrong. And then my brain automatically added, “when it’s convenient.”

Twenty years ago when I first moved to the Bay Area (No, not Tampa. The real Bay Area.) I used to work as a clerk in a motel. I was paid four dollars an hour and walked to work since I couldn’t afford a car. I went shopping for groceries once a week, and when I was done I was left with about five dollars spending money for the week. Now of course back then I wouldn’t have been spending thirty bucks on some tooth whitening crap, but I can’t help but wonder what I would have done had some long ago cashier rung up my groceries and made a thirty-dollar error in my favor. To return with the money would certainly have been honest, but it also would have been inconvenient. Extremely inconvenient.

And here’s one final thought. How pure is an act of honesty when you know you’re going to go home and later that night write all about it on the Internet? There’s an old Jewish or Italian or Swedish saying that says, and I’m paraphrasing like a bastard here, the greatest acts of charity are the ones that nobody ever knows about. Wouldn’t the same be true about acts of honesty? And then I realize that, even after writing about this on my blog, today’s act of honesty remains pure. After all, based on the number of readers I get, I can almost guarantee it is an act that practically nobody will ever know about.

So You Think You Know Me?

Spike and I have the cutest little tradition here at our homestead. If you come to visit we take your picture and post your mug on our refrigerator. We’ve been using these weak-ass magnets shaped like smiling vegetables to try and hold the pictures on, but invariably the pictures slip or even fall off with nearly every opening of the refrigerator door. (And around here that’s a pretty frequent occurrence.)

So one day Spike said she found these magnetized picture frames that are designed specifically to go on your refrigerator. She might have even made an attempt to show me the product in one of her catalogues, but I wouldn’t hear of it. I didn’t want any refrigerator picture frames. I like the random, free-flowing display style that we were currently using; I didn’t want my pictures lined up in neat little rows like some brainwashed little grade-schoolers, no siree.

Well, I thought the woman had taken leave of her senses when the box arrived containing two sets of these frames. I had said I didn’t want them, and yet she had bought them anyway! What manner of madness was this? And so a short time later I found myself sitting in the living room chair huffing and fuming as Spike removed the pictures from the refrigerator and sat on the couch putting each photo into its own stupid frame. I didn’t watch her do it. In fact I didn’t say a word, but here is an approximate transcription of the dark thoughts that were marching through my brain:

“I said I didn’t want those frames and she went ahead and got them anyway. It’s so stupid. The frames are going to take up the whole refrigerator. You’re not even going to be able to see the pictures. I thought this was my project. I’m the one who came up with the idea, not her. How can she just take them down and put them in frames after I specifically said I didn’t want that? Who does she think she is? Don’t I have any say in what happens to my own project? Hell, I’ll just take them down and we won’t have any pictures on the refrigerator, so there. And we won’t take pictures of our friends when they visit and what started out as a nice idea has been ruined because she got those frames that I told her not to get and it’s all her fault!” Wah-Wah-Wah..etc.

Fifteen minutes later and I could hear that she was done with what apparently was now her project. (Wah.) I waited a few more minutes and then decided it was time to inspect the new display. Still silent and fuming I got out of the chair and walked into the kitchen fully intent on telling her how horrible it looked. I walked directly to the sink as if I had come into the kitchen solely to refill my water glass, and then turned and looked at her handiwork.

OK, you already know that it looked great. Better than great, it looked stunning. I know, how could a few plexiglas frames make that much of a difference, right? But they did. It really looked nice—classy even. And there stood Spike waiting for me to tell her how crappy it looked.

You think you know me? So what did I say about the pictures on the refrigerator? Did I actually take the high road for once in my life or did I remain the petty little bastard who, when given the option, will always choose to be right rather than honest? So tell me, what exactly did I say when I first saw the lovely framed photo display that my wife had so painstakingly created on our refrigerator door?

A. I actually did take the high road and told her how great it looked. I also asked her to order some more so we’d have enough for future pictures.

B. I’m not proud of it, but I told her that I liked it much better the way I originally had it, although I magnanimously allowed the frames to stay because of all the work involved.

C. I didn’t say anything. I stopped for a quick look at the pictures, picked up my glass of water and returned to my silent pout in the living room chair. (I am planning to reveal just how much I like the picture frames, but not just yet.)

When I'm 84?

Sir Paul has a problem, or at least as much of a problem as a man with two billion dollars and a fashion model wife who’s just a bit more than half his age can have.

As we’ve already heard much too often, next June Paul McCartney turns 64. Yeah, the same age as in the song. So of course every writer and reporter desperate for an idea (and I know what I’m talking about here) will be broadcasting that the former Beatle is finally hitting that landmark age that he mocked in a song so long ago. The trouble is McCartney doesn’t quite know how to handle the approaching media blitz.

In a recent interview McCartney has said that his children have encouraged him to keep a low profile for the year. McCartney himself is thinking that he might just go out and embrace the event. He recalled a woman who once told him that when she sang the song she changed the lyrics to “When I’m 84,” because 64 sounded too young!

Well of course McCartney, or any 64-year-old for that matter, is going to love hearing this nonsense. He’s even thinking about re-recording the ditty using the older age! What is it with us baby-boomers (And yes, I know that technically none of the Beatles were boomers. I know everything.) and age? Face facts hippies, every generation eventually gets old. Yes, even the really annoying ones.

I hear a whole lot of rules out there about which age is the most difficult to accept. Apparently the degree of difficulty can depend on various factors, the most common of which is gender. In a relatively short amount of time I’ve been subjected to various (unsolicited) theories about how specific groups handle age milestones. Women have trouble turning 30, while men have more difficulty accepting 40. Women hate turning 40, but only if they haven’t had any children. Men have no problems with any age until they hit 50. And the latest: the most difficult age for women is 35. And these theories are usually followed by long (again unsolicited) explanations as to why these statements are true.

Listen folks, it’s all relative. When I was a kid I remember hearing that Jack Benny (And if you don’t know that name perhaps you should just run along. This article doesn’t concern you.) would always lie about his age and say he was 39. Frankly, at the time I never got the joke. If he wanted to seem young, why would he choose an age that was so old? I went through the same thing when I was told about my grandfather, who died a month after I was born. “He was so young, “ they’d tell me. “He was 46.” Well, make up your minds, I thought. Was he young or was he 46?

That said, I guess I personally had the most difficulty turning 40. At least that’s what people who were there tell me, and who am I to disagree? Besides, it sounds about right. When you turn 30 you know that you’re still quite young, and by the time you hit 50 you realize that there is no way out of this mess and so you completely give up. So yeah, 40 sounds like the big one to me. I also remember that I had four pictures of famous people that I had coincidentally found in magazines that year: Edgar Allan Poe, John Lennon, Lenny Bruce and Jack London. I kept their faces displayed over my desk as a cheery reminder that each of these accomplished men had died at the age of 40, while I, now at that same age, had yet to achieve a goddamn thing. (I still haven’t but I’m now over 50 so, as I mentioned above, I’ve given up. See how it works?)

Recently I had the chance to have dinner with my college roommate and his wife and kids. And there’s another thing about getting old. The dinner actually happened a decade ago, but at this point that seems “recent.” During the dinner I remember my friend saying something to the effect that, “Well, 40 now is not the same as when our parents were 40.” No? How about asking your ten and twelve year old kids if 40 is old. Of course 40 is old. And it doesn’t stop being old until you’re 50. Then you look back fondly and wonder what all the anxiety was about.

So what’s my point, you ask? And I answer that I’ve written over 100 of these dopey screeds and now you expect me to start having points? OK then, the point is that to Paul McCartney 64 no longer seems that old. It’s certainly not like when his parents’ generation was that age. And he’s so delusional that he’ll change the song lyrics to fit his fantasy. And I say if Sir Paul wants to believe that 84 is the new 64, who are we to burst his bubble? He was a Beatle, for crissake.

And that’s who I’d really like to talk to, Beatle Paul, who in 1967 (the year before his wife was born) at the tender age of 25 wrote “When I’m 64.” And if I could I’d ask him right to his face, “Hey, Beatle Paul, is 64 old?” And I’m pretty sure the young, baby-faced, non-hair-dying McCartney would answer with something like, “Of course it’s old. That’s why I picked it for the song.”

Plane Talkin'

Listen, you whiners. Yeah, I was gone for a bit and excuse me all to hell for not announcing on this blog, on the Internet for crissake, that my house would be sitting empty for nearly a week. Maybe next time I’ll just hang a banner from my roof so people who drive by will know I’ll be out of the state for a while. ”Key’s under the mat, folks, so just help yourself to whatever you need.”

Ahem. Anyway, I’m sick of people complaining that they no longer serve meals on the airlines. “We flew all the way to Idaho and all we got was a granola bar. Wahhhhh.” Listen Chubby, it won’t kill you to go two consecutive hours without stuffing something into that pudgy face of yours. And in case you haven’t heard, most of the airlines are bankrupt or damn near. There was that little thing a while back where they knocked over the World Trade Center and nobody in the country had time to buy an airline ticket because they were all too busy peeing their pants. Yeah, not you though. Right.

I really don’t like flying, but I do like going places. So what are you going to do? You get up, find a ride to the airport, check in, and then subject yourself to a dehumanizing security check that would make a guard at a Turkish prison cringe. Then you wait impatiently for them to call your row so that you can rush onto that tin can and god forbid if anybody tries to cut ahead of you. Then you squeeze into one of those horrible seats that I’m told are not dissimilar to what Rumsfeld uses on prisoners at Gitmo. And they set off controlled explosions under the wings and the pilot then somehow manages to use those explosions to guide this incredibly heavy metal tube crammed with overweight people to faraway places. Then you rush to get out of the plane and god forbid if anybody tries to cut ahead of you.

Prediction: It won’t be much longer before security stops making you take off your shoes and putting the stinking things through the x-ray machine. Remember, this all started because that one nut on a flight over the Atlantic tried to touch a couple of wires he had in his shoes in order to set off a bomb. Fortunately he was stopped, and I don’t believe the shoe bomb thing has been tried since. I for one say thank god he had the bomb in his shoes. What if he had one installed in his head with the wires projecting from his nose? Them minimum wage security types would be shining flashlights up our nostrils before they let us get on a plane. Or worse, what if that that maniac had those two wires dangling out of his…oh yuck, even I don’t want to think about that!

We got stuck for a time on the ground at Dulles. First off, the last place I want to fly out of with a full tank of gas these days is Washington D.C. It’s basically a city of targets and I don’t want to be sitting inside the projectile. But, alas, I had gotten these particular tickets for free, so there I was. The pilot announced that the skies were too crowded so it would be a few minutes until take-off, and in order to save fuel they were going to turn off the engines. (Here’s a stumper you might be able to help me with. The voice that came over the speaker said “This is your pilot speaking” and yet it was the voice of a woman! I’ve been trying to figure this one out since I got back and it’s really got me baffled. I thought maybe it was some sort of electronic glitch in the system, but now I’m positive the voice was female and yet she did declare herself to be the pilot. What do you think was going on here?)

And so after more than a few minutes and various strange airplane noises, the pilot came back on to let us know that the engines that had been turned off would not start up again. “Call Triple-A” I piped up. Did you just laugh at that? Well, neither did anybody else on the plane. There’s a reason why my stand-up career lasted a total of seven minutes.

The reality was they actually were waiting for a crew to come out and start the engines. And then we would at last be on our way. But what’s this? Some sort of commotion in the row behind me? A woman was crying! The stewar—I mean, flight attendants were trying to calm her down. They were also trying to isolate her from the rest of the people on the plane so that she wouldn’t cause a panic and trigger a stampede.

At first it seemed silly that this woman would so readily fall to pieces. True we were sitting on the runway, in D.C., in a plane that currently had no functioning engines, lights or air conditioning and whose doors couldn’t be opened without activating the emergency slides. Oh, and the pilot had just announced that once the engines were started we would be taking off, even though we wouldn’t have auxiliary power. “It’s not something we need in order to fly,” the pilot informed us. Huh. I wonder then, why they even have it in the first place? Maybe if we took the time to think about our current situation we would all be crying.

Nah, you know why this for me was little more than an annoyance? Because it was all happening while we were still on the ground. Now if the engines had failed or the lights went out or that lady had cracked up or they ran out of pretzels while we were thirty thousand feet above the terra, that would have been a different story. But it didn’t. And the engines were started and we took off and even with a chick pilot and without the auxiliary power we had a boring, uneventful flight that terminated with me arriving back here sitting at my computer talking to you.

And listen, Chump, the next time you discover that I haven’t posted in a few days just assume it’s because I’m sitting with my pit-bulls in the living room cleaning my crossbow and waiting for some pinhead to barge through the front door because he thinks that I’m flying across the country. OK, enough of this. It’s midnight, which means it’s 3 a.m. for me because I’m still on East Coast time, plus I hardly got any sleep last night. Yeah, boo-hoo and all that, but I’m jet-lagging all over the keyboard and can’t even keep my eyes open to edit this thing. Still, I better get it posted for tomorrow because who wants to hear all the caterwauling if I don’t? Not me, that’s for sure.