Yesterday Was A Tiring Day

Bang! The loud noise startled me, but as my car was still moving in a forward direction I chose to do what I usually do in these situations: I ignored it. By the time I had driven another thousand yards in the pouring rain my car was shaking and rattling like Apollo 13 and I knew I could no longer deny the obvious: I had a flat tire.

I didn’t stop driving until I came to a rest area about a half-mile down the road where I parked, got out, and walked to the rear of the car, still hoping that I’d see a perfectly round tire there. A boy can dream, can’t he?

I’ve only owned this car for a few months and thought that my mechanical annoyances had vanished, at least for a while, after I watched my crippled old ’92 Nissan with the 192,000 miles disappear forever on the back of a tow-truck last summer. After all, my new car had an engine with only 14,000 miles on it. It ran perfectly. The only defect, I now realized, was that in order for the vehicle to smoothly and efficiently move forward it required all four tires.

My first move was to get the can of flat fixer that I always keep in the trunk. I heaved a sigh of relief when I found that I had indeed moved it from my old car to this one. I grabbed it, squatted down by the offending tire and screwed the can onto the valve, congratulating myself on having the foresight to purchase such items. I pressed the can’s black button and whoosh! Suddenly there was foam flying everywhere! On the tire, on the ground, on my pants and in my eyes. There were about 500 cans of this shit in the store where I had bought it and I had somehow chosen the defective one. By the time I stopped spraying there was so much foam around that it looked like a pack of rabid dogs had spent the night. And then shaved before they left.

The rain was still coming down and I now had a decision to make. Do I dig out the spare tire and get to work or pick up the phone and call Triple-A? You know that voice in your head that tells you what to do in situations like these? It’s called “instinct” and it’s always right. And right now it was repeating one simple message: “Call Triple-A, call Triple-A, call Triple-A…”

And then there’s that other voice, the one that thinks too much. The one which is not on your side. The one that keeps telling Charlie Brown to trust Lucy and kick the damn football. Well that voice was reminding me about all the times I’ve heard guys berating other guys for calling Triple-A “just to change a tire.”

“Dude, you called Triple-A to change a tire? Are you gay?”
“Yeah, man, do you wear pink frilly panties too?”

I sat in my car thinking and finally came to two conclusions. First, whether or not I happen to wear pink frilly panties is nobody’s business except my own. And second, I would change my own tire.

“Uh-oh,” said my instinct voice.

It took a while to find where those devious Japanese had hidden the jack on my tiny import and just when I was cheered by the fact that I obviously didn’t have one and would have to call Triple-A after all, I unfortunately found it. I positioned the thing near the wheel and began to turn the screw to raise the car. And turn and turn and turn and turn…

After what seemed like half an hour I began to wonder why the jack no longer seemed to be lifting the car. Then I realized that somewhere along the way I had lost focus and started turning it the wrong way and was now actually lowering the car. At one point I also heard the sickeningly recognizable sound of sheet metal crumpling, but I chose to ignore that too.

“I knew it,” said my instinct voice. “This bozo can’t even operate a tape measure, much less a jack.”

Eventually I did manage to raise the jack to its maximum height and remove the faulty tire. But the car still wasn’t high enough to allow room to fit the spare. How odd, I thought. You would have thought the Japanese would have planned this out better.

So now I was stuck. My car was jacked up as high as it would go, yet it was still about a quarter of an inch shy of fitting the spare. I could lower it, I thought, and position the jack in a different location, but where? I didn’t want to put it under a part that might not support the weight. And frankly I didn’t have the patience to crank the damned thing for another hour like some deranged organ grinder. And so now, finally, it was time. I reached for my phone to call Triple-A.

“I told you so,” goaded the instinct voice.
“You pussy!” yelled that other voice.

It was still raining, but since the car was jacked up I thought it unwise to sit in it while I waited. For a while I stood under a tree, where instead of getting drenched by a steady downpour I was drenched by intermittent torrents of water that dropped from the sodden branches. Finally I decided to just pull out the hood from the jacket that I had kept in the trunk for occasions just like this and sit on the concrete wall near my car and wait.

When the friendly Triple-A guy arrived it took him about two minutes, with his super-jack and can-do attitude, to get the spare tire on. I fumbled nearby trying to collapse my own anemic jack and fit it back into the diminutive shiny case that I knew would never again hold it as it had when it had left the Japanese factory. The Triple-A guy also made a point of letting me know that I had indeed dented my shiny new car with my jacking expertise. Why did he need to tell me that? I had heard the metal bend, but had chosen to remain in denial. Why did he feel it was his job to ruin that for me?

The Triple-A guy handed me a form to sign, checked my Triple-A card and wished me a Merry Christmas. And stood there. I had now been standing in the rain for an hour and a half, my hands and clothes covered in grease. He had shown up just as the sun began to peak though and worked for 120 seconds. And now he wanted a tip?

“Yeah, Merry Christmas to you, too.”

I got in my car and drove the twenty miles to my regular repair shop. I asked them if they could repair a tire and was informed that they could have it done by tomorrow morning. Super.

“Just roll it on in,” said the cheerful grease monkey.
“It doesn’t roll—it’s flat,” I wanted to say but chickened out.

I carried the tire in and was seconds from returning home when one of the service guys told me I needed a new tire. Of course I did. That’s what happens when you drive nearly a mile on a completely flat tire. The rim shreds the rubber like dough going through a pasta maker. So now the service guy was on the computer to check the price for me. At one point I heard him mumble the number 85, and I almost went into shock. Then I realized that that was part of the tire’s model number, not the price. Whew!

“That tire costs $189,” he said.
“No, I just wanted to get one.”
“Yeah, they’re expensive. If you needed the DF-453-L it would be a lot cheaper but you’ve got the DG-654-11. They cost a lot more because they’re v-rated.”
“They’re what?”
“V-rated. That means they’re approved for high speeds.”

Terrific. I’m 52 years old and sometimes feel like I’ve spent half of those years in traffic school. I promise you I won’t be driving this car at any high speeds and therefore don’t need any “v-rated” tires. I just need a round one that will balance out the other three.

Well of course I had to get the tire to match the ones I already had. Any idiot knows that. So I ordered the v-rated tire and left with the mental image of this service guy getting high-fives from his co-workers for setting a new shop record by actually getting some shlub to pay $189 for a single tire.

“You beat the old record by sixty bucks, Charley!” I thought I heard them cheer.

I also drove home feeling bad about the minor dent I had inflicted on my car. I had not bought it new, but it had not had any flaws until I decided to create one myself. It was hardly even noticeable but it still bothered me.

“Don’t worry. It’s just a thing,” said my inner Buddha.
“Screw you, fat-ass.” I responded. “If you’re so enlightened how come you weight 350 pounds?”
That shut him up.

I went over to the shop this morning and had the new tire put on my car. I earned an additional 209 miles on my United Airlines credit card, and with Merry Christmases all around I drove out of the shop and on to finish up the day’s chores.

On my drive I couldn’t help but think about the new dent in my car. It really wasn’t so big, and probably with a little bit of hammering it would look as good as new. Of course a body shop was sure to charge me a small fortune for the work, no matter how minor the repair. And then I got a great idea! Maybe I’ll just do it myself!

White Christmas: The Weather Phenomenon

Even though I grew up in a place where there were regular snowfalls each winter I only recall one white Christmas. And if you want to be technical, it was a white Christmas Eve that I remember. I just assume the snow didn’t melt overnight and therefore there must have been a white Christmas as well. (I also remember a white Easter and even a white May 2nd in my college town that, although well south of the Artic Circle, often felt like it was well within it. Did I ever tell you about the time I walked a girl home when it was 35 below zero? Yes, well, I was a gentleman back then.)

Back to the white Christmas: I was about ten years old. It might have been a Saturday or it might have been a snow day, but for whatever reason there was no school on that snowy Christmas Eve. Come to think of it, I guess there was no school because it was Christmas Eve! Duh. My brother and I, along with some friends, had been sledding at the nearby state park. I say “nearby” but when I now retrace the route in my head it seems like an awfully long walk, especially when pulling a sled. Well as I said, I was ten. I guess now I’d probably drive there. Or just stay home. After all, there’s cable TV now.

As the winter night approached my brother and I stripped off our soaking wet jeans in the kitchen (no dripping allowed in the house), briskly rubbed our cold, bright red legs and put on our pajamas. My mother may or may not have been baking Christmas cookies, but since it greatly enhances the scene let’s just say she was. One thing I’m sure of is that she made us some hot chocolate and I reveled in its sweet taste, the warmth of the kitchen and the glow from the colored lights that twinkled on the Christmas tree in the living room a few feet away. And outside it continued to snow. I may well have experienced this same level of contentment at other times in my life, but if I did I no longer remember when.

Obviously a white Christmas is a weather condition almost exclusive to people living in the Northern Hemisphere. Just as obvious is the fact that the probability of a white Christmas varies greatly depending on which country you happen to be in. In England, for example, the prospects of a white Christmas are rather low, while in Canada your chances are pretty good. The odds are also fairly high if you happen to live in Scandinavia or northern Russia.

Just last year several locations in the United States that had little or no white Christmas experience were recipients of a fluffy holiday surprise. New Orleans (or as I like to think of it, Nature’s Plaything) experienced its first white Christmas in fifty years while just down the road a piece Houston experienced its first white Christmas ever!

My research has uncovered a list of American cities that gives the odds of various locales having a white Christmas. For example, if you absolutely feel you need a white Christmas this year then load up the family buggy and head to Marquette, Michigan. This northern peninsula burg is listed as having a 100% chance of a white Christmas. Now I’d never bet against the people of Marquette shoveling the white stuff come December 25th, but 100% ? That’s just a little too absolute a stat for me. More on this later.

Next up, and no surprise to anyone, is Anchorage, Alaska, with a 90% chance of a white Christmas. Now that sounds reasonable. Anchorage is followed by the syrup suckers of Concord, New Hampshire, who have an 83% chance of a snowy Yule. As does Fargo, North Dakota. This, too, sounds about right.

OK, quick, what do these cities have in common? Portland, Oregon, Dallas, Texas and our home base of San Francisco, California? Yup, all three are given a 0% chance of a white Christmas. Now I’d go along with a slight chance, but no chance at all? After all, it has snowed here in San Francisco, hasn’t it? (Not in the 25 years I’ve lived here, mind you, but certainly before. I’ve heard the stories.) So to me it’s slightly irresponsible to say that there is no chance.

No I’m not one of those glaze-eyed loons who runs around claiming that “Everything is possible!” I’ve been around long enough to know that many things aren’t. But a white Christmas in San Francisco is possible. Hell, an orange Christmas is possible, as is a Christmas where little green Martians land on the Golden Gate Bridge and sing Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer while using death-rays to level Oakland. It’s not likely—but you’ll agree it’s possible. And that, folks, makes the probability of a white Christmas in the city by the bay higher than 0%.

OK my friends, have a Happy Holiday. And if by some chance it does snow this Christmas in San Francisco, or Portland or Dallas or San Diego or Charlotte, North Carolina or any of those other 0% cities, I hope you’ll all remember where you first read that a white Christmas there was indeed possible. And just in case it's not San Francisco, slide down one of those snow-covered hills for me, will you?

White Christmas: The Movie and the Song

I caught the end of the movie Holiday Inn today, a film that I’ve always been confused about. My confusion stems from the fact that I always mix up Holiday Inn with White Christmas, which to me seems like a logical mistake. After all, both movies featured the classic holiday song White Christmas and both are old flicks made before I was born. (Although in the case of White Christmas, just barely.)

I don’t think I’ve ever watched either of these movies all the way through. In fact until today I don’t think I was even sure that they were two separate movies. All I remember is seeing one of them years ago and at the end they opened the doors of this lodge that everybody was staying in and the crowd went nuts because it was snowing. I even remember the classic line. They said, “It’s snowing!”

Before we try to draw a distinction between these two films let’s talk a bit about the song White Christmas. The story goes that Irving Berlin usually wrote at night. (All creative geniuses do. Especially around 11:43.) On the morning after he had written White Christmas he called to his musical secretary and said, “Grab your pen and take down this song. I just wrote the best song I've ever written – hell, I just wrote the best song that anybody's ever written!"

We can forgive Irving his bragging, for he must have felt the same incredible rush that Schubert felt when he wrote Ave Maria or McCartney felt when he wrote Yesterday or that I felt when I wrote my Thanksgiving turkey poem. The fact is that Mr. Berlin may also have been right in his original assessment. In fact White Christmas was the biggest selling single of all time until 1998 when Candle in the Wind 1997, Elton John’s goofy tribute to Princess Diana, passed it up. And my guess is that after another decade or two of Christmases White Christmas will again return to its rightful spot. (And listen, chumps, I know Ave Maria is not the actual title of Schubert’s piece, so there’s no need for you anal-retentive types to write in. Christ, it’s so hard to cover every base with you lunatics out there.)

So what’s up with these two movies? You know, I just read the descriptions of both movies and I suspect I’ll always be a little confused. Holiday Inn was released in 1942 and was about two entertainers opeing up an inn. White Christmas was released in 1954 (Ohmigod, it was made after I was born!) and was about two entertainers who try to save an inn. (The inn was owned by their ex-commanding officer and was going bankrupt due to a lack of snow. Hence, that final “It’s snowing, it’s snowing!” scene that I remember oh so vaguely.)

Both movies starred Bing Crosby, of course. After all, who else was going to sing White Christmas, Lou Costello? Der Bingle’s co-star in the earlier film was Fred Astaire. The happy hoofer was also pegged to co-star in the second film, but he turned it down because he didn’t like the script (You would think that if he like the script in the first one then surely…) and so Danny Kaye stepped in to fill his dancing shoes.

Maybe someday I’ll make a point of watching both of these classic films. One thing I won’t do is make the mistake of watching them on the same day, because they’d surely blend together and stay melded in my mind forever. Has that ever happened to you when you’ve seen two movies on the same day? Well take my advice and be careful with it. For example, don’t go see King Kong and Brokeback Mountain on the same day, or for the rest of your life you’ll be remembering a movie called Queen Kong. (Ha! I've been looking for a spot to drop that line!)

Oh, I almost forgot. Yes, the Holiday Inn hotel chain was indeed named after the movie of the same name. I just thought you needed to know.

Guess Who? #3

So here we are again. It’s already way past eleven o’clock and I’ve just finished my hot chocolate. A new storm is fast approaching off the Pacific and it’s creating waves that are crashing with a deafening roar that can probably be heard throughout the neighborhood, and most definitely from my hot tub where I plan to be just as soon as I knock this dopey thing out.

And so, as I have done in the past under similar pressing circumstances, I dig into my literary bag of tricks and pull out my seldom used but always reliable pal, The Guess Who? blog. It’s fun, it’s challenging, and best of all it will get me out of this dreary office, out of my clothes and into that steamy and lavender scented hot tub in no time flat.

Oh, I was going to use Catherine O’Hara as our subject tonight, but after some research there simply wasn’t enough trivia on her. I also feared that even when you were told her name many of you would have responded with a loud “Who?” Which is too bad. She’s really done a lot of good stuff in her career, from the classic television show SCTV to her movie work which has included such hits and/or classics as Home Alone, Beetlejuice, and all three (soon to be four!) of the hilarious Christopher Guest directed comedies that I consider to be the funniest movies being made today: Waiting For Guffman, Best in Show and A Mighty Wind. I’m not sure why O’Hara’s name is not better known. Sadly I suspect it’s yet another case of blatant racism—she’s Canadian, you know.

So there’s a big hint for you: Tonight’s subject is definitely not Catherine O’Hara. Also, and you probably would have picked this up from all the Mr. X’s in the hints, tonight’s subject is once again male. So here we go. Without cheating, can you figure out from the hints below who Mr. X is? Good luck and I’ll see you in the hot tub.


Mr. X’s middle name is Dennis.

Mr. X’s wife died one day before his 60th birthday

Mr. X is 68 years old.

Mr. X received a Hollywood Walk of Fame star in 1987.

Mr. X has won two Grammy Awards.

Mr. X appeared in The Simpsons as a former hippie in 1989.

Mr. X was both the first-ever host of Saturday Night Live and the first-ever host of Fridays.

Mr. X is of Irish descent.

Mr. X attended Cardinal Hayes High School in the Bronx, from which he was expelled.

Mr. X has said, “The reason Santa Claus is so jolly is because he knows where all the bad girls live.”

Mr. X has also said, “If acting was hard for me, I wouldn't do it. It is something that I like to do."

Well then, exactly who is this Mr. X?

Give Her a Chia and She's Sure to Say "See Ya!"

As I’ve mentioned previously, the only time Spike reads my blogs is when I make a point of telling her that she’s been mentioned in one. So I feel perfectly safe in writing about shopping for her Christmas present today. I simply won’t let her know that she was in this blog. And neither will you, right? Right? OK, then.

But wait! You’re talking about the Christmas present that you’re getting for your wife, and yet this piece is about Chia Pets? You can’t possibly mean…?

Of course I do. Oh, calm your ass down. That’s not all I’m getting her, but I have looked in a bunch of places for a Chia Pet. I know it shouldn’t be that difficult to find one, but you see I’m not just trying to hunt down any old Chia Pet. It has to be the Tweety Chia Pet. Spike’s a big fan of that faggoty little bird, and I’ve come across several Chia displays but have so far been unable to locate a Tweety model.

After spending half a day searching from store to store (and trust me that’s a big exaggeration right there) I started to think about the Chia Pet. (And really, what else have I got to think about?) Where does it come from? How long have they been around? What’s a “chia” anyway? Well hang on, Boys and Girls, because once again it’s Education Day here at the old blog. I’ve found me a bunch of info about the Chia Pet, and aren’t you just dying to hear all about it?

The first Chia Pet came on the market in 1982. Without cheating, how many of you can tell me what kind of animal it was? Yeah, I figured as much. Chia Pets, it turns out, are made right here in San Francisco by Joseph Enterprises, Inc. Can you name another fine product made by this same company? Of course, The Clapper! Clap on! Clap off!

One Chia display that I was directed to by the helpful and semi-attractive Rite-Aid employee was hidden away in one of the far corners of the store. After a little research I now understand why. When first introduced in the 80’s the Chia Pet was a big success. Since then its popularity has steadily declined, despite the addition of many new models, including the previously mentioned cartoon characters. All I know is that years ago a friend gave me one for Christmas and, despite my initial reaction upon unwrapping it, the Chia Pet turned out to be a lot of fun. I truly have to start getting out more.

For those of you who haven’t been so blessed, I’ll let you know that the body of the Chia Pet is made out of clay, and has grooves all over it. The moistened seeds of the Salvia columbariae plant are then spread over the figurine and a few days later sprouts begin to appear. Often the figures are designed so that the sprouts simulate growing hair or fur. There’s even a Homer Simpson Chia that finally gives Homer the luxurious locks that he’s always yearned for. (If you’re buying, get me that one. Or the turtle.)

The Salvia columbariae is an annual plant, but each Chia Pet comes with enough seeds for three plantings. Another interesting fact about the Salvia columbariae is that it is generally better known by its common name, the chia plant. Hah? Hah? It all makes sense now, doesn’t it?

So this Holiday Season why max out those credit cards on giant plasma televisions and cruises to exotic locales? Take a hint from your old blogger pal and give them what they really want, a Chia Pet from your local drug store. Trust me, there’s no better way to say, “I care, but not that much.”

Oh, and because I don’t want you tossing and turning all night I’ll let you know that the first Chia Pet was a…ram. How about that?

Bits & Pieces

Today I went against everything I believe in and went to see a mega-blockbuster on its opening weekend. Normally I’ll avoid the crowds and wait until all the hubbub simmers down, but there wasn’t much else out there that I wanted to see so I saw King Kong. It would be easy to dismiss the movie as little more than a state-of-the-special-effects demonstration, but that would hardly be fair. Or accurate. Heck, the film was over three hours long and I found very little of it to be draggy.

And of course the special effects were spectacular. Do you know what I always thought would be a cool thing to do, just as soon as they invent a time machine? I’d love to go back to a movie house in 1933 and show the 2005 version of King Kong to the unsuspecting audience. Can you imagine the reaction? There would be screaming and fainting and heart attacks—why our poor grandparents and great-grandparents would think it was the end of the world! Yeah, I sure hope I can do that sometime.

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Did you hear that they’re going to have to manufacture longer needles in order to make them more effective? Why? For the same reason they’re thinking of widening the seats on airplanes—to accommodate fat-assed Americans. In a recent study it was found that in 23 of 25 injections given to American women the medicine failed to reach buttock muscles and was thus rendered less effective. To me having to create millions of new needles is a waste of time and material. If the Ex-Lax people have been able to deliver their payload through chocolate for a hundred years why can’t the rest of the medical field catch up?

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In my wallet I keep a list of every book ever written by the late Lawrence Sanders. Sanders is a very entertaining and original writer, and is most famous for his first novel The Anderson Tapes. I don’t know exactly how many books are on the list, and I’m too lazy and it’s too late for me to track down my wallet to check, but I’m sure it’s well over thirty. When in a second-hand bookstore whenever I’d come across a book by Sanders I’d whip out the list to see if I’d read it. A few months ago I crossed off the last unread book on the list. It’s sad in a way, because I know there are no new ones waiting to be discovered. I did a little research on Sanders and discovered that this incredibly prolific writer didn’t write his first book, the afore-mentioned The Anderson Tapes, until he was fifty years old! It reminds me of that line by Walter Matthau in one of the final Matthau/Lemmon films: “It’s never too late as long as long as you’re still breathing. That’s why they call it dead!”

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Q. Why did the Siamese twins go to England?
A. So the other one could drive.
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OK guys, back me up on this one. Have you ever gone to a movie and the couple on the screen end up making love for the first time and the woman keeps her shirt on? Or occasionally you’ll see a variation of this when the woman takes off her shirt but wears her bra through the entire scene. I’ve been witness to this charade a bunch of times now and I’m here to tell you it’s absolutely absurd. Oh, I understand that the actress has an ironclad clause in her contract that states that she doesn’t do topless and that’s fine. (Well, it’s not really fine, but we’ll save that discussion for another day.) But in real life it’s never going to happen this way. Ever. There’s not a man on Earth, except for the ones who would never be in bed with a woman in the first place, who, when blessed enough to find himself in this happy situation, is not going to want to get a real good look (at least). After all, these are not some familiar ol’ breasts that he’s seen a thousand times before. Oh no, what our hero has stumble upon here is something much, much better. He’s found new breasts and they are not to be ignored! So listen actresses and directors, if you want to keep those body parts private that’s certainly your choice. Shoot the scene under a sheet or blanket showing only bare shoulders and we’ll get the idea. But please don’t ever again show us a man making love to a woman for the first time where the woman keeps her shirt on. It’s unrealistic and it insults our intelligence.

The Ghost of Christmas Presents

Don’t you love it? The smiling husband covers the eyes of his giggly, pajama-clad bride and leads her out of the house on Christmas morning. He takes off her blindfold and her eyes pop. For there in the driveway sits a shiny new Mercedes S500, complete with a big fat red ribbon on top. The giddy wife gives her man a look that is a combination of surprise and promised sexual favors and then runs barefoot to her new car. Ice? Snow? Broken glass? She doesn’t care—it’s a Mercedes!

My question is when did the Christmas present bar get set so high? So far this year I’ve seen several ads for auto manufacturers that feature one of their products with a big fat red bow on top. I’ve also seen a cruise line suggesting that an ocean voyage would be the perfect holiday gift. And then there’s my favorite commercial which features a black family (And I only mention their race to help you identify the particular ad, so don’t go getting all Al Sharpton on me. Jeez, you gotta be so careful nowadays.) in the living room, a showroom-full of electronic crap scattered at their feet. There’s a DVD player over there, and an X-Box over there and look! There’s Dad and Uncle Bill lugging a ten-foot plasma TV through the front door!

Does anybody remember those rubber straps that we used to keep our books together when we walked to school? They were what kids, especially boys, switched to when they were too old and/or too cool to carry a school bag. (I still remember the verbal abuse one classmate suffered because he was foolish enough to still carry his books in a school bag, or “fag bag” as some of the wittier thugs called it, even though we were in junior high.) Anyway, I recently recalled that one Christmas my brother gave me a couple of those straps as my Christmas gift. OK, even then it seemed a little cheap, but after all he did give me two. (Although I can’t imagine why you would need more than one. Hell, those things never broke. They could have been used to keep the heat shields secured to the space shuttle.)

So all right, no husband in 2005 is going to give his wife rubber book straps for Christmas after she has just seen a fake TV husband give his wife a Mercedes with a big fat red ribbon on top. Still there’s a whole lot of playing field between the straps and the Mercedes. What if he gives her a nice piece of jewelry? Well, unless it came from Princess Di’s personal collection the Mercedes is going to take a lot of the twinkle out of that particular bauble. Hell, he could buy her a fur coat (I really must update my references) or a snowmobile and still come off like a tightwad.

OK, this all began because I bought my wife’s Christmas present today. I suppose I could tell you what it is. After all, the safest place for me to hide anything from her, or from anybody really, is in one of my blogs. She’d never see it. And no, it’s not a Mercedes or a snowmobile or even a cruise, but it’s not a pair of book straps either. Now all I have to do is keep her away from those damn TV commercials for one more week and come Christmas morning I’ll look like a champ.

OK, here’s a hint: The cost of the gift is a lot closer to the book straps than to anything else I’ve mentioned here. Just so you know.

A Merry Christmas Quiz

I refuse to get involved. I absolutely refuse to talk or write or even think about this diabolical “War on Christmas” that has so outraged all these headline-seeking, talking empty-heads. We’ve all known for some time that there is a dumbing-down of America going on, but didn’t you honestly believe that at some point we’d reach a bottom?

Well, there’s not a religious bone in my body and I love Christmas. I like the lights and the music and paying forty bucks to cut down my own tree. (And I don’t like hanging it upside down; not because it’s Satanic, but because it’s non-traditional. And stupid.) I like going to the mall and I like both the hustle and the bustle. I like cold air and hot chocolate. I like receiving Christmas cards without having to send any, because that’s my wife’s job. I like not going to church and wasting valuable time that could otherwise be spent eating cookies and drinking eggnog.

I like Christmas now and I would have liked it 3,000 years ago when it was called Saturnalia, celebrated the return of longer days, and so of life, and included much hi-jinks and debauchery. (Did you think you put a pine tree in your living room because Baby Jesus had one in the manger? Decorated and with an electric train?) So enjoy the season, have fun, be kind and have a very Merry Winter Solstice!

Meanwhile, here’s a jolly Christmas Quiz just for you!

1. Who was Saint Nicholas?
a. An 11th Century Pope
b. A 4th Century Bishop
c. Son of the apostle Peter
d. Your parents, you dope.

2. How many ghosts visited Scrooge?
a. 1
b. 2
c. 3
d. 4

3. Quick! On the fourth day of Christmas, what did my true love first give to me?
a. French hens
b. Turtle-doves
c. Calling birds
d. A rash

4. Which is not one of Santy’s reindeer?
a. Blitzen
b. Vixen
c. Mincer
d. Dancer

5. What did Saint Nick smoke in The Night Before Christmas?
a. A pipe
b. A cigar
c. Virginia Slims
d. Nothing

6. What was Frosty’s nose made out of?
a. Coal
b. An icicle
c. A carrot
d. A button

7. What is the most popular topper for a Christmas tree?
a. An angel
b. A star
c. A nativity scene
d. A pointed ornament

8. In We Wish You A Merry Christmas, what kind of pudding is demanded?
a. Cherry
b. Figgy
c. Hasty
d. Jello

9. In A Charlie Brown Christmas, who wants to be the Christmas Queen?
a. Lucy
b. Peppermint Patty
c. Sally
d. Linus

10. What popular snack started out in 1902 as a Christmas tree decoration?
a. Cracker Jack
b. Pretzel twists
c. Cheese Doodles
d. Animal Crackers


ANSWERS

1. A 4th CENTURY BISHOP. Nick was reported to be one helluva nice guy who was famous for giving gifts to the poor.
2. 4. Not all of you forgot to count the ghost of Jacob Marley, but I bet a lot of you did!
3. FOUR CALLING BIRDS. Give yourself only half-credit if you had to sing out loud to get the answer.
4. MINCER is not one of Santa’s reindeer. Not yet, anyway.
5. Yeah, it was a PIPE. Hope you didn’t over-think this one.
6. A BUTTON. His eyes were coal and his ass was mostly snow.
7. AN ANGEL. This one was really a toss-up. I mean, how many Nativity scenes have you seen on top of a Christmas tree?
8. FIGGY. Damn, I almost got this one wrong myself. Then I would have had to suffer the slings and arrows of the Comments section. I thought it was Hasty Pudding at first, which I found out is made from corn. Then I remembered the song actually said Figgy Pudding. Still a pretty demanding tune though. “We won’t go until we get some!” What’s up with that?
9. LUCY of course. We all have out doubts about Linus, but he’ll become Christmas Queen about the same time Mincer is allowed to pull Santa’s sleigh and Nathan Lane becomes president.
10. Barnum ANIMAL CRACKERS. Didn’t you ever wonder what that string on the box is for? To hang on your tree, silly!

So You Think You Know Your Bible Quiz

Before there was Harry Potter there was The Bible, the number one best selling book of all time. And why shouldn’t it be? Sex, murder, war, incest and mind-blowing special effects—The Bible has it all. Did I mention sex? So why wouldn’t it be the hot read for millions of people throughout the Middle Ages and beyond? Unlike you, they didn’t have the luxury of Cinemax, you know.

So whether you’re a thumper who believes God’s colossal thumbprints are all over this thing or your basic blogger/pagan who recognizes The Bible as a remarkable piece of literature, you probably have at least some familiarity with the good book. How much familiarity? Well, take the quiz below and we’ll all find out.

1. According to The Bible, at what age did Methuselah die?
a. 228
b. 556
c. 969
d. Over 2,000

2. How long did Jonah live in the belly of the whale?
a. Three days and three nights
b. A fortnight
c. Forty days and forty nights
d. A year

3. How many of each clean animal did God tell Noah to take on the Ark?
a. 2
b. 4
c. 12
d. 14

4. According to the New Testament, how did Judas die?
a. Suicide by hanging
b. Falling headlong in a field
c. Both
d. Neither

5. In the Book of Numbers Balaam has a conversation with a talking…
a. Tree
b. Stream
c. Donkey
d. Insurance salesman

6. What was the name of Adam and Eve’s third son?
a. Shem
b. Seth
c. Ham
d. Eggs

7. What does the word “bible” mean?
a. Voice
b. Quench
c. Books
d. To reveal

8. The Bible was written over a span of how many years?
a. 50
b. 500
c. 1500
d. 3000

9. Which figure named in the Old Testament is mentioned most often in the New Testament?
a. Adam
b. Jesus
c. Moses
d. Abraham

10. Which is not forbidden in the Book of Leviticus?
a. Homosexuality
b. Trimming the hair around your temples
c. Slavery
d. Wearing garments made of two materials


Amen! Some of those were toughies, eh? OK, let’s see how you did.

ANSWERS

1. Methuselah lived to be 969. Now that’s how you get the most out of your Social Security!
2. Jonah spent THREE DAYS AND THREE NIGHTS in the belly of the whale. His first words after his emergence were reportedly, “It still beats working.”
3. 14. God told Noah to, “Take with you seven pairs of all clean animals, the male and his mate.” Look it up.
4. BOTH. It depends which book you read. Matthew says he hung himself, but Acts says he fell down in a field that he had purchased with his newly acquired cash. Thumpers have been trying to square this for years, speculating that the rope broke and so Judas fell in the field, but that whole “headlong” thing makes this one tricky maneuver.
5. Yep, it’s the DONKEY, one of my favorite characters in The Bible. (Not to mention in the Shrek movies.) It seems that ol’ Balaam got a little hot under the collar, or whatever the hell they wore back then, and hit his donkey with his staff. The donkey responded by saying, and I’m paraphrasing here, “Hey, what did I ever do to you?”
6. SETH was Adam and Eve’s third son. The dynamic duo also had other children, but they are not mentioned by name.
7. BOOKS. I didn’t know this, but once you see it in print there’s really no excuse for getting this one wrong. Bibliophile, bibliotheca, bibliography…c’mon the clues are there, people!
8. 1500 years. And you say I write my books too slow?
9. MOSES. And I had to re-word this question a couple of times in the hopes of avoiding an argument with some of you Thumpers. See if you can figure out why.
10. SLAVERY is just fine according to Leviticus. It just isn’t very helpful as to where I might purchase one.

A Beatles Quiz

The reason I remember buying and bringing home the Beatles’ single Let It Be back in 1970 is that when I ran down to the phonograph in the basement and played the record I got a chill. We’ve often heard people talk about a singer or a show that was so good it “gave them chills,” but this one time I really did get a chill down my back.

OK, so that was 35 years ago and I’m now starting to suspect that the Beatle days are over. No reunion, no more Beatle-mania, no mop-tops flying in from England. And no new Beatle music. I tell you, way back then we never saw this coming. We just assumed that the Beatles, along with our youth and nickel candy bars, would last forever. We were teenagers—who knew?

I’ve written often about the Beatles. There’s nothing left to say. They were the greatest, but you can’t keep living in the past. That’s why these days I find myself listening to rap music more than anything else. Did you actually believe that? Are you kidding me? The closest I’ve ever come to listening to rap music is Chuck Berry. Anyway, for your amusement, or at least for mine, allow me to once more write about the greatest rock band of all time. So may I introduce to you…A Beatles Quiz.


1. What was John Lennon’s given middle name?
a. Paul
b. Winston
c. Nelson
d. Ono

2. Complete the lyric: And when I awoke, I was alone…
a. Hugging the phone
b. Starting to moan
c. This bird had flown
d. The dog had a bone

3. Who was the shortest Beatle?
a. John
b. Paul
c. George
d. Ringo

4. Who was the oldest Beatle?
a. John
b. Paul
c. George
d. Ringo

5. What is Paul McCartney’s given first name?
a. Paul
b. Richard
c. William
d. James

6. What historic Beatle event occurred on March 31, 1964?
a. Ringo joined the band
b. The Beatles had the top five songs in the U.S.
c. John got married
d. The Beatles performed to a sold-out Shea Stadium

7. Which name did the band not go by before they became the Beatles?
a. The Leather Angels
b. The Quarrymen
c. Johnny and the Moondogs
d. The Silver Beetles

8. Complete the lyric: Blackbird singing in the dead of night…
a. The sun is rising, the day is bright
b. Sing your song with all your might
c. Take these broken wings and learn to fly
d. It’s only you who shines the light

9. Who was the Beatle lead guitarist?
a. John
b. Paul
c. George
d. Ringo

10. Who was Jimmy Nichols?
a. Original Beatle who left the group
b. Drummer who substituted when Ringo was ill
c. John Lennon’s father
d. Beatles first manager


ANSWERS

OK, grading on this one is simple. If you are under forty years old, 3 correct is passing. If you are over forty, 9 correct is passing. (Better take it quick, Sandra.)

1. WINSTON. He later changed his middle name to Ono.
2. THIS BIRD HAD FLOWN. This is from the song Norwegian wood, which I listened to for about fifteen years until I finally “got” it.
3. RINGO All of the Beatles stood 5’11’ except for Starr, who was and remains 5’8”
4. RINGO He turned 65 in July. Yipe. By the way, did I trick you by having two Ringo answers in a row? Sure I did.
5. JAMES. He later changed his middle name to Yoko. Just kidding!
6. THE BEATLES HAD THE TOP FIVE SONGS IN THE U.S. By April 11th they would claim 14 of the Top 100, breaking that hillbilly’s record.
7. THE LEATHER ANGELS You didn’t pick this one because you remembered all those pictures of them in leather jackets, right? Damn, I’m good.
8. TAKE THESE BROKEN WINGS AND LEARN TO FLY. Although any of my lyrics would have worked just as well.
9. GEORGE, although the next-to-least talented of the Beatles, was the lead guitarist. Go ahead, send in those cards and letters.
10. DRUMMER WHO SUBSTITUTED WHEN RINGO WAS ILL. He sat in with the Beatles during their Australian tour while Ringo was back in England having his tonsils removed.

Famous Last Words: The Quiz

It might surprise some of you to know that a good deal of what you read and see on the Internet simply isn’t true. I know, it’s shocking. For example, there is a story going around about Julie Andrews singing a funny parody of My Favorite Things during a concert on her 69th birthday. Unfortunately Andrews hasn’t been able to sing for years. And that picture of Bush reading a book that he is holding upside down is also a fake. No matter how badly we all want it to be true.

So naturally when I did my research to find the last words of some famous people I was a little dubious. I mean, it’s not everybody that can shuffle off while cracking wise or spouting high ideals. I suspect that some of these were later attributed to the late and great after they were gone. I’m sure that in reality many of them went out in the same manner that I expect to: crying and whimpering and screaming, “I don’t wanna die! Mommy! Mommy!”

But as we are all limited by the information that is available to us, I’ve used the research I came up with to create the quiz below. It’s easy—I’ll tell you the famous person and you choose his or her famous last words. Also, I think it would be a fun game to come up with funny or ironic last words of famous people who are still alive. I’ve come up with a good one, but I’m too cowardly to write it. I don’t need Rumsfeld attaching electrodes to my precious jumblies, thank you very much.

1. Humphrey Bogart, actor
a. Cut!
b. I should never have switched from Scotch to Martinis
c. Today seems shorter
d. Here’s looking at you, kid.

2. Gaius Caligula, Roman Emperor, party guy
a. I go to join the Caesars
b. I am betrayed!
c. I am still alive!
d. Attus, my sword!

3. Winston Churchill, British statesman
a. Mostly I’ll miss my cigars
b. We have accomplished much, my friend
c. And so, night
d. I’m bored with it all

4. Lou Costello, comedian
a. That was the best ice cream soda I ever tasted
b. Hey, Abbott!
c. I see my son
d. It’s ending too soon

5. Princess Diana
a. We’ve had an accident
b. Where are my children?
c. My God. What’s happened?
d. Camilla, you bitch.

6. Amelia Earhart, aviator
a. Can anyone hear me?
b. Gas is running low
c. What’s the vector, Victor?
d. Controls are not responding

7. Terry Kath, rock musician, Chicago
a. We’ll be back again next year
b. He’s not slowing down!
c. Don’t worry, it’s not loaded
d. Hit the water! Hit the water!

8. Dylan Thomas, poet
a. I’ve had 18 straight whiskeys. I think that’s the record.
b. Burn them. Burn them all.
c. I suddenly find myself at a loss for words.
d. A pen. Quickly.

9. Pancho Villa, Mexican revolutionary
a. I die, but Mexico lives
b. Viva la revolucion!
c. Viva la paper towels!
d. Tell them I said something

10. Luther Burbank, horticulturist
a. It’s very hot in this room
b. I don’t feel good
c. A daisy lives but a week
d. Tomorrow I blossom again


ANSWERS

Yuck. Remind me to never again create such a gruesome quiz. Not only is it depressing, but I had to come up with thirty fake last words for you knuckleheads. And frankly, I think I did pretty damn well. So how did you do on the quiz? This one was tough—if you got more than five or six right you are a remarkable fount of knowledge and a morbid son-of-a-bitch to boot. OK, let’s go.

1. I SHOULD HAVE NEVER SWITCHED FROM SCOTCH TO MARTINIS. Good old Bogie, cool to the end.
2. I AM STILL ALIVE. Caligula was killed by his own bodyguards. Sure, those are some pretty ironic last words but actually it was true when he said it. And I made up the name Attus. Fell for it, didn’t you?
3. I’M BORED WITH IT ALL Wow. And you thought it was the French who were nonchalant and the British more, uh, chalant.
4. THAT WAS THE BEST ICE CREAM SODA I EVER TASTED. Did you really think his last words would be Hey, Abbott? Really?
5. MY GOD. WHAT’S HAPPENED? And if you even so much as snickered at the Camilla line you will surely burn in Hell. See you there.
6. GAS IS RUNNING LOW. If you picked “c” head straight to Blockbuster and rent Airplane!
7. DON’T WORRY, IT’S NOT LOADED. He was playing Russian roulette at the time. What a loss. Had he lived Chicago might have made 200 albums instead of the scant 178 they recorded. This is my second favorite Famous Last Words of all time.
8. I’VE HAD 18 STRAIGHT WHISKEYS. I THINK THAT’S THE RECORD. I know. It’s hard to imagine a writer being so fucked up.
9. TELL THEM I SAID SOMETHING. And that, folks, is why the world needs writers. Fucked up as they may be.
10. I DON’T FEEL SO GOOD. Simple. Honest. And incredibly accurate. And since you’ve stuck with this ghoulish nonsense all the way to the end here’s a treat for you: my very favorite Famous Last Words of all time. They were uttered by Union General John Sedgwick during a Civil War battle. His last words? “They couldn’t hit an elephant at this dist—.” Classic!

The Howard Stern Quiz

Normally I work under the assumption that if it comes out of Bill O’Reilly’s mouth it must be false. Believe me, if I hear O’Reilly say it’s a beautiful, sunny day I’m reaching for an umbrella. But the other day he mentioned something on his show that startled me, but after thinking about it I realized it was true. Howard Stern is now the highest paid entertainer in American history. Wow.

It is reported that Stern just signed a five year, one hundred million dollars a year deal with Sirius Radio. I only started to appreciate the magnitude of those numbers when I began to think about movie stars. The top ones are getting about twenty million dollars a picture. So that means that Tom Cruise, for example, would have to make five movies a year for five years to equal Stern’s salary! And that’s assuming the top stars make that amount every time out, which they don’t.

So Stern is making more than Tom Cruise. He’s making more than Jack Nicholson, Shaq, Jay Leno and anybody else you can think of. How did this happen? Regular readers know that I am a big fan of Howard Stern, and have listened to his program nearly every morning for the past dozen years. I bristle at people who condemn him as a juvenile who does little more than make fart jokes. This is insulting to both Stern and me, because it implies that I spend two, three or more hours each day listening to fart jokes! I just always accepted that Howard Stern was someone who was appreciated by a relatively small but intensely loyal group of fans, sort of like a cult following. That now seems absurd. I think you kind of lose your cult status if you sign a contract for half a billion dollars!

So face facts. Your favorite entertainer makes less than Howard Stern. Unless of course, you favorite entertainer is Howard Stern. In which case you’ll be certain to score quite well on this quiz.

1. Who is not a member of The Wack Pack?
a. High Pitch Eric
b. Beetlejuice
c. Pinhead George
d. Wendy the Retard

2. How did producer Gary Dell’Abate get the nickname Baba Booey?
a. It’s how his infant son pronounced his last name.
b. He mispronounced the cartoon character Baba Looey
c. From a song by Desi Arnaz
d. It was derived from the nickname “baby boy”

3. What is Howard Stern’s middle name?
a. David
b. Joshua
c. Allen
d. He doesn’t have a middle name.

4. What is the name of Fred’s band?
a. King Norris
b. Vertigo Blue
c. Fred and the Dreamers
d. Dysfunction

5. What is Robin Quiver’s middle name?
a. Rose
b. Ophelia
c. Gwenivere
d. Lucerne

6. Who replaced Jackie the Jokeman?
a. Scott Salem
b. Gilbert Gottfried
c. Billy West
d. Artie Lange

7. What are the names of Howard Stern’s parents?
a. Howard Sr. & Rachel
b. Ben & Rae
c. Joseph & Gloria
d. Benjy & Allison

8. What year was Howard Stern born?
a. 1949
b. 1954
c. 1959
d. 1960

9. Why did Howard Stern withdraw from the 1994 New York governor’s race?
a. His family asked him to
b. As a Connecticut resident he was ineligible
c. His indecency convictions made him ineligible
d. He didn’t want to disclose his personal finances

10. Which has not been a regular feature on The Howard Stern Show?
a. It’s Just Wrong
b. Black Jeopardy
c. Hot Naked Christians
d. Lesbian Dating Game


ANSWERS:

1. PINHEAD GEORGE is not a member of The Wack Pack. He’s our president.
2. HE MISPRONOUNCED THE CARTOON CHARACTER BABA LOOEY. Dell’Abate collects animation cels from cartoons and said on the air one day in 1987 that he was considering buying a “Baba Booey.”
3. ALLEN. It’s me who has no middle name.
4. KING NORRIS. Extra credit: To what did Fred legally change his first name? Eric!
5. OPHELIA. I once had a friend who claimed that his high school gym teacher, Mr. Dick, had married a woman named Ophelia. I’ve never been able to confirm that.
6. ARTIE LANGE. I thought it was a big mistake at first. Lange has since proven me wrong.
7. BEN & RAE. Allison was his first wife’s name. His girlfriend Beth should become the second Mrs. Stern any time now---despite what Stern says. You read it here first. Get that pre-nup, Howard.
8. 1954. And like most comic geniuses he’s a Capricorn.
9. HE DIDN’T WANT TO DISCLOSE HIS PERSONAL FINANCES. He was the candidate for the Libertarian Party, and vowed to re-instate N.Y.’s death penalty and that all road construction in New York would only take place at night.
10. HOT NAKED CRHRISTIANS was never a feature on Stern. But it sounds like it could be a good idea, eh?

Useless Information: Arthur C. Parker

Arthur Caswell Parker was born on April 5, 1881, on the Cattaraugus Indian Reservation in New York State. His father was an Iroquois and his mother was English-Irish, and a teacher on the reservation.

Parker, whose Iroquois name Gawasco Waneh means “Talking Leaves,” began his schooling on the reservation. When he was eleven his family moved to White Plains, New York where he entered public school. He graduated from high school five years later.

It was then that Parker began to spend a great deal of time at the American Museum of Natural History in New York City, and he befriended many of the anthropologists there. Despite his interest in this field he instead entered the seminary, but left before graduating to become a newspaper reporter. He spent much of his spare time at archeological digs in New York, and volunteering at the Museum of Natural History.

In 1906 Parker became the first archeologist for the New York Museum and five years later helped to found the Society of American Indians. For five years he was the editor of American Indian Magazine. He published many books and articles on Indian archeological sites, history and culture.

Parker later worked for the Rochester Museum and co-founded the National Congress of American Indians. After his retirement from the museum in 1946 Parker became very active in American Indian affairs. Also upon his retirement Parker moved to a home in Naples, New York that overlooked Canandaigua Lake, because he felt that this is where his Native American ancestors had lived.

Parker died at the age of 73 in 1955. Five years after his death a children’s magazine would arrive at the home of a seven-year-old boy. The boy would ignore most of the contents of the magazine but would be enthralled by one particular story. Years later, fifty years after Parker’s death, the boy, now a grown man, would for a second time read and be enchanted by the story. It was a tale based on Indian folklore called The Ghost of the Great White Stag, and it was written by Arthur C. Parker.

Found Treasures

If it exists, if it ever existed, I’ve become convinced you can find it on eBay. What are you looking for? A lock of Beethoven’s hair? A pound of plutonium? The Holy Grail? If it’s not currently listed on eBay I’m sure it has been in the past. Or will be very soon.

However I find it a bit of a letdown that many treasures of my youth can be so easily and inexpensively acquired. It removes some of the glitter and mystery from these objects. For example, I started collecting coins as a Cub Scout. (Unfortunately this only lasted until I was a Boy Scout, when I switched to collecting…Girl Scouts.) One of the rarest of the Lincoln pennies was, and still is, the 1909-S VDB. Anyone who has ever collected coins knows about this coin. (I still remember what the “S” and the “VDB” stand for. Nope--look it up yourself.) I suspect that finding one of these legendary pennies as an eight-year-old would have given me much the same exquisite thrill as winning the lottery would today.

A quick check on eBay tells me that one of these oh-so-rare coins sold a short time ago for $710. That’s it? I figured by now if you had one of these things you’d be set for life. (“I quit, Boss, I just found me a 1909-S VDB!) Needless to say I took this news as quite a disappointment. The magic was gone.

Last night I spoke to my childhood chum Lenny and he mentioned that he still has two complete baseball card sets of the 1965 Yankees. At least they would be complete if he had ever gotten a Mickey Mantle. (He still thinks they’re worth something, and they might well have been if he had not, in his youthful exuberance, glued each one into an album. Yeah, collectors just love that.) So off I trotted to eBay and there it was. Actually there a whole bunch of them were: the elusive 1965 Mickey Mantle baseball card. The cost—as low as $225 ! Hell, I’ve spent more than that on dinner. OK, no I haven’t, but I know people who have.

Sure, it’s a little depressing to find that the lost treasures of your youth can be bought and delivered to your home for only a few hundred bucks. Still, there was one treasure that cost me less than a buck on eBay, and its low price and ready availability did nothing to diminish its worth in my eyes.

When I was about six or seven my mother cleverly perceived that her first-born was more likely to become a reader and a lover of words than, say, a professional football player or big game hunter. Or even a small game hunter. And so, after I had become too old to subscribe to Humpty Dumpty she signed me up for a kid’s magazine called Children’s Digest. (Why is spell-check telling me that “dumpty” is spelled wrong but “humpty” is perfectly fine?)

Well, I can confess now that I didn’t read a lot of the literature (and it truly was literature—often taken from the works of classic writers) in Children’s Digest, but I did absorb every joke, pun and riddle they offered. I did read one story, however, and it has stayed with me ever since. I’ve even remembered the title: The Ghost of the Great White Stag. Quickly, it’s about a powerful wolf who is basically a bully and tries to kill all the other animals. (And torture them and steal their oil.) The Great White Stag always protected the animals, but as the story opens we learn that the wolf has killed the Great White Stag and the animals, understandably, are somewhat nervous about their own future. I’ll never forget the end of the story as the ghost of the Great White Stag (hence the title) returns to kill the evil wolf, flying off into the night sky with the broken body of the wolf pierced on his antlers and silhouetted against the full moon. Quite an image, hey?

So a few years back I decided I needed to track down this story. I was either unfamiliar with eBay at the time, or maybe it didn’t yet exist. I came up empty every time I searched for the story’s title or for Children’s Digest. It was as if the magazine had never existed. I had pretty much given up the search when a few months ago I decided to try eBay, and searched Children’s Digest. Ding-ding-ding-ding. There were tons of them, many available in lots of twenty or thirty issues that sold for less than ten bucks!

Now the question was what issue was I looking for? Of course I didn’t know. I couldn’t even say in what year the story appeared, though I knew it had to be somewhere in the late ‘50’s to early ‘60’s. And so I started buying copies of Children’s Digest.

“”Why,” all the women reading this ask, “didn’t you just contact the seller and ask if any of their issues contained the story?”

See, that’s why you’ll never understand the male mind. I didn’t ask for the same reason that men don’t stop for directions. We have to discover things for ourselves. We’re hunters. And I was hunting down a very special copy of Children’s Digest. And after buying four or five lots of magazines I lay on the couch looking through my latest delivery one sunny afternoon and there it was, right in the April 1960 issue: The Ghost of the Great White Stag. I read it immediately and was amazed that 45 years after I had first read it the story was much as I had recalled. And I had remembered the title exactly.

I like books, and while I’m not an avid collector I do have some that bring me pleasure just by being on my bookshelf. I’ve got some first editions by Hunter Thompson and Larry McMurtry, and even a Flashman book signed by George MacDonald Fraser. And sitting right up there next to these collectibles is my treasured copy of Children’s Digest from April, 1960. I will even go back now and again to re-read the story. It gives me a glimmer of hope that even at this late date our own Great White Stag may yet appear.

Useless Information: The Eternal Flame

As a kid you may have imagined, as I did, that someday you’d be an old man or woman, enthralling the gathered young ones with recollections of the historic events you remember from your youth; events such as the lunar landing, the Beatles appearance and the Kennedy assassination. Why, you’ll be a living witness to history for these fine youngsters! And then one day you wake up and, except for the fact that the kids are more bored than enthralled by your aimless ramblings, that day has arrived.

Well Kids, you’d probably have to be over 50, or very near it, to remember the day Kennedy was shot. Want to hear what I did on that day? Of course you don’t. You think I should just shuffle off to the park and feed the pigeons so you can go back to letting your iPod make you deaf, don’t you? Well, screw you, maybe I will go feed the pigeons instead of trying to educate your dumb asses about American history. Punks.

Ahem. Actually, what I really have been wondering lately, besides the usual stuff like “Where the hell is my next mortgage payment coming from?” and “What does this persistent rash mean?”, is whether the “eternal flame” on John Kennedy’s grave is still burning, and has it ever gone out? (Isn’t this the same stuff you think about? No? Huh.)

The answer to the first part is that yes indeed the eternal flame is still burning as it has since 1967. (Oh, calm your ass down. I know Kennedy died in ’63, but he was moved to his permanent grave in 1967, and a new eternal flame device was installed. Jesus, you’re a pain in the ass.)

The request for an eternal flame came from Kennedy’s widow, Jackie, who probably got the idea from the one at The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. (I was just there a few months ago. And you weren’t. Ha!) The original flame on Kennedy’s grave was lit by Jackie in 1963 at the slain president’s burial service, an event seen by millions on national television.

And now for the second part: Has the flame ever gone out? The surprising answer: Lots of times. Tons of times. Millions of times. OK, maybe not millions, but it turns out the damn thing goes out all the time. When it snows, when it rains, when Jack observes the current president and spins. It seems that there’s an ingenious device that continuously emits a spark, so whenever the flame goes out it automatically re-ignites.

It kind of takes some of the mystique out of it, doesn’t it, when you find out that John Kennedy’s Eternal Flame is really little more than a glorified Bic lighter? Well, that’s what I’m here for. Perhaps it would be more accurate to call it The Intermittent Flame. Anyway, at least now you know how it all works. Now, do you kids want to hear about the time the Beatles were on Ed Sullivan? Nah, I didn’t think so. To hell with you, I’m going to feed the pigeons. Punks.

Guess Who? #2

OK, what do you do? It’s already getting late, you have a call in to your childhood chum and you know whenever he checks in you’ll be talking on the phone for an hour or two. Plus The Daily Show is coming on soon, and if you don’t get your nightly dose of Bush-bashing you just won’t feel right tomorrow.

I know! How about another round of Guess Who? Didn’t you enjoy the last one, with the list of hints that led to our secret celebrity, Jerry Lewis? Sure you did. So you want to play again? Sure you do. And this way tonight’s entry is 80% written by the folks over at http://www.imdb.com/, bless their souls. It’s almost like taking a night off without getting nasty e-mails from cranky fans!

OK, once again you’re starting off with a big hint because our mystery person is accomplished, successful and famous all over the world. So right away you know he has to be male. Let’s begin:

Mr. X speaks French.

Mr. X is 70 years old.

Mr. X was suspended from New York University.

Mr. X was chosen by Empire Magazine as one of the 100 sexiest stars in film history.

Mr. X has received more Oscar nominations for Best Original Screenplay than any other writer in history.

Mr. X’s son Seamus graduated from college at age 15 and was accepted to Yale Law School.

Mr. X became hooked on movies at age three when his mother took him to see Snow White.

Mr. X’s real last name is Konigsberg.

Mr. X’s first wife was Harlene Rosen.

Okay, who is it?

...But No Greetings From Hazelville

A few years back Spike’s mother passed away and Spike inherited the house. When we used to visit Spike’s mom I would call her house “Hazelville,” in honor of my mother-in-law’s first name, and it would usually get a laugh. “Time to go to Hazelville,” I’d say. It took a couple of years of hard work but we eventually got the house in good enough shape to sell. There was, however, a brief period of time when Spike and I discussed the possibility of our living there, and it was during this time that I discovered to my immense surprise, and probably yours too, that I actually do have some standards. They may not be high ones, but they are definitely there.

For you see I’ve always prided myself in my ability to find shelter at a very inexpensive rate. In fact, before I relocated to the Bay Area from San Diego the most I had ever paid in rent was $125 a month. I almost imploded when I began to apartment hunt up here and the cheapest dump I could find was $250. Now granted, this was quite some time ago, but through the years I still always managed to root out perfectly livable places where the rent was well below average.

Now the ultimate opportunity lay before me, the culmination of decades of seeking out the cheapest living situations. If I chose to I could now live in a three-bedroom house (with a huge backyard) absolutely free. Free! No rent and no mortgage. It would seem like a dream come true for a vagabond such as myself. And yet I chose not to.

Yes, of course it was the location. Not only was the house located in one of the dumpiest cities in the Bay Area (I won’t mention the town’s name because I don’t want to offend the fine people of Hayward) but it sat right on the end of a court that was a notorious meeting place for drug dealers and their clientele. Now, in another time I might have seen this as a convenience, even an opportunity, like living next door to a 7-Eleven, but at this point in my life I found the nefarious activities to be a noisy nuisance at best and downright terrifying at worst.

I think a sniveling little coward who kept his eyes to the ground and his mouth shut might have done just fine living in Hazelville. But I’m firmly convinced that a big-mouthed coward such as myself would have had the life expectancy of a cigarette-smoking housefly. My problem is I never liked bullies, whether they take the form of that greasy punk Tony Rizzo (who shoved me on the school bus in junior high) or a corporation or a national leader. And it’s not that I just don’t like them, but I also wont suffer them. Eventually I have to say something. Which is why I find my 52-year streak of not getting punched in the mouth by a bully (or a husband!) truly a remarkable one.

I was standing outside the front door of Hazelville one day a few years back when one of the local drug dealers pulled out of the court. I took a few steps forward and stared directly at his license plate for the entire time he drove down the street. Why, you ask, besides the obvious fact that I’m an idiot? It was my way of standing up to him, no matter how weakly. I wanted him to be nervous. I wanted him to know that I knew. Satisfied with my performance, I turned around and began walking back to the house when I heard the voice.

“Why you looking at my license?”
Uh. Oh. And there he was. Some young, shaved-head punk of indeterminate nationality parked right at the curb in his fine drug-dealing car. Talking to me.
“What?” I answered wittily.
“”Why you looking at my license?” he repeated.

People, if you too would like to survive 52 years without a punch in the mouth listen to me now: You have to learn how to tap-dance. And that’s just what I did. I went into a panicky yet brilliantly controlled soliloquy that went something like this:
“I wasn’t looking at your license plate. Oh, no. I was looking at your car. Gee that’s a nice car. What kind of car is it? Oh, didn’t they used to be called LeBarons? I’ve been thinking about getting a convertible. Do they leak when it rains? They don’t get too good gas mileage, do they? Oh, they do? Golly, that’s wonderful. Tea for two and two for tea…”

To this day I don’t know how much of my routine he bought. I suspect that he was still suspicious of me when he finally pulled away. Oddly enough, along with a good dose of relief, I also felt a bit of pride. I was pretty impressed with how quickly I had turned on the innocent act and gotten out of the jam. Of course a professional such as a police officer would have seen through my charade in about two seconds, but not this thick-skulled, drug-addled nitwit. And I can now call him these things because I’m doing it from the safety of my little office, several years and many miles away.

Still, if it turns out that this troglodyte has since learned to read and somehow tracks me down, please remember that once in my life I actually did hold to a standard; I had refused to move into Hazelville. Yes, even though it was free.

Greetings From Whoville

I live in a small beach town on the Northern California coast. It’s one of the most breathtakingly beautiful places I’ve ever seen, and in my travels I’ve seen a few. Although the population is only about 12,000 we are only 28 miles from downtown San Francisco, which makes us fortunate in that we can enjoy the best of both worlds.

I’ve never lived in a small town before, and I often find myself caught somewhere between loving its charming Mayberry-like flavor and feeling bemused by its corny traditional atmosphere. Though I’ve only lived here for three years I find myself appreciating and defending those corny traditions more and more each day.

The main street in town is called Main Street. Of course it is. There is a feed store, a church with a tall spire and a small jail that dates back about 100 years. A feed store! To someone like me, born in New York City, that’s more of a throwback than the century-old jailhouse. Bear in mind that when my friend and I drove out here to California thirty years ago we actually stopped the car in Colorado so we could take a picture of a cow.

My town, and it has become my town, creates more parades, events, festivals and other excuses to close down Main Street than you could possibly imagine. There are parades for the Fourth of July, Memorial Day, Christmas and for some Portuguese event that I forget the name of. And you know what? I’m not patriotic, I’m not religious, I’m not Portuguese and I’m not about to miss any one of these parades.

Tonight was the holiday Nights of Lights celebration, and so of course they closed Main Street to traffic, strung Christmas lights everywhere, and stocked the many shops with free cookies, candy canes and hot apple cider. And they had a parade. This parade was much like the other parades that occur throughout the year, in that it consisted of one half of the town walking down Main Street and waving while the other half stands on the sidewalk and claps. (For the next parade, everybody switch!)

The parade started with the local high school marching band. They were followed by what seemed to be every kid in town, each of who was strung out with various displays of colored lights. Most of these kids were very young and so walked along with, or were pulled in wagons by, their parents. (Many of whom, I speculated, were probably also strung out.)

After the kids came two or three more “floats.” One was a truck with a Christmas tree made of red and green lights attached to its bed. This was followed by a station wagon (And it was a station wagon, not an SUV. I didn’t know they still existed.) that towed a small Zodiac boat (You know, those yellow things that Greenpeace uses to stop Japanese whalers from making a living.) that held a small a wicker reindeer dressed in white lights. That was it.

Suddenly I felt a case of the giggles coming on, and as you know they usually can’t be stopped. Somewhere inside of me, like two storm systems, there was a collision between the absurdity and the wonderfulness of that dopey float. I went into a routine that sounded something like, “I know, let’s put the Zodiac on a hitch, attached that reindeer lawn ornament and pull it down Main Street.” Spike shot me a warning look, as if to say, “Don’t ruin this holiday parade for me,” but she needn’t have worried. Thanks to this goofy display I was now completely in the Christmas spirit. And if to punctuate my newly ebullient mood the next, and last, float featured ol’ Saint Nick himself, waving to the festive crowd.

After he passed many of us left the sidewalk and automatically followed the parade down Main Street. Up on a balcony, half hidden in darkness, stood a large group of people who reminded me of a scene from Mardi Gras. Except these folks weren’t throwing beads and flashing breasts. They were belting out a boisterous rendition of “Jingle Bells,” and damned if it wasn’t impossible not to join in and sing along.

So who ever thought that I, city boy and professional cynic, would turn out to be such a sucker for this homey nonsense? Why, wasn’t it just a few years ago that I wouldn’t even think of missing the annual Pride Parade in SF, always making sure to find a premium place to stand in order take as many pictures as possible of the dozens of topless lesbians who came roaring by on their motorcycles? And now…I’m cheering for a truck pulling a Zodiac with a wicker reindeer inside.

A few years back my brother was giving us a tour of the nudist camp in which he lived. With great pride he showed us the lake, the restaurant, the pool, the sauna, and many other amenities that you’d expect to find only at a high-end resort. It was then that I realized that life is too short to live in a place that you don’t like, someplace that isn’t in some way “special.” I knew then that I too needed to move to a special place, and I did.

Though I rarely see him, I talk to my pal K.C. nearly every day, and this has been going on for almost twenty years. You see, it’s my job to entertain him when he’s bored at work. A year or so ago I told him about all the cornball festivities that are held here in my new town, and he laughed and said, “You really live in Whoville, don’t you?” (For the record, that’s one funny thing he’s said over the last two decades, versus my total of 865,996.)

Well, unlike the Whos the folks in my town do not all hold hands, form a circle around a Christmas tree and sing “Ooh-wee-ah-wah” or whatever the hell it is that Whos sing. But once a year we do crowd onto Main Street and there, among the twinkling lights, we cheer the dinky parade, drink hot apple cider and sing Christmas carols with our neighbors. No, it’s not Whoville, but it’s close enough for me.

No Lights! No Camera! And Definitely No Action!

The word “blog” comes from the phrase “web log” and technically it’s supposed to be an on-line diary about the events in the writer’s day. Now, I don’t particularly like using the word “blog” and I don’t write about my day, nor would you be interested in reading about what I do each day. Jack Nicholson’s day, yes, but not mine.

But tonight I am going to write about my day because something interesting actually happened. No, it’s not earthshaking or life altering or even a little amazing, but then again I’m not Jack. It began when I decided to take in an early matinee. Today was a rainy, stormy day and a movie and some pretzel nuggets sounded like just the ticket.

I hadn’t been too eager to see the movie Jarhead, doubting that it was the anti-war movie I was hoping for and fearing it was the latest in a series of gung-ho movies designed to bolster the recruitment numbers for a increasingly desperate military. For some reason they’re having trouble getting kids to sign up. (I still haven’t seen that earlier recruitment film Top Gun, although I did see that guy on whom one of the characters is based weeping and apologizing on TV the other day.)

So I decided to give it a shot. After all, I still had those pretzel nuggets to consider. We were about a third of the way into the film, and I still hadn’t figured out the movie’s POV, or if it even had one, when suddenly the movie stopped and the theatre lights came on. The audience of about twenty or thirty people (Don’t worry, I still got the seat I like: in the row right behind the rails so I can put my feet up.) let out the requisite “aw-w-w-w-w.” I don’t think anybody was particularly surprised by the disruption, however. That’s what happens whenever it rains in California: the power goes right out and people forget how to drive.

After two or three false starts it became apparent that we would not be seeing the rest of Jarhead that day. Oddly, although I had been enjoying the movie, I was not that disappointed. Perhaps it was because I had already devoured my pretzel nuggets. (With cheese dip, of course.)

It’s an odd feeling sitting in a theater with a bunch of strangers when there is no image on the screen, no soundtrack and not even any music. The lights that were on obviously were hooked to some generator and created a twilight atmosphere somewhere between light and dark. Now it was going to get interesting. We each had to decide what we should we do.

It’s like one of those movies with a group of people isolated in a lifeboat or jury room, or deserted on an uninhabited island. (It was supposed to be a three-hour tour, dammit!) There are the leaders, the followers and the wait and see-ers. I was definitely in that last category.

Within minutes some young stud with more testosterone than brains (Ignore me—I’m a bitter old man.) bounded down the stairs and out of the theatre, obviously to take charge and “see what’s going on.” He came back a few minutes later and reported that the power was out in the entire building, all 20 theatres. At first we all just sat there. Those who were with another person (Shouldn’t these people be at work instead of at the movies on a Thursday afternoon?) discussed the situation to decide what to do. Those of us who prefer to go alone to the movies rather than to a job just sat there. I chewed ice.

Slowly, in groups of two’s and three’s the theater began to empty, until eventually there were only three of us remaining. (I only learned this later. With most of the seats behind me I didn’t know at this point if there were ten people left or if I was sitting alone in the theater.) I don’t know what the other two people were waiting for; perhaps they were still hoping that the power would come back on. I knew this wasn’t likely to happen, but I still remained in my seat, mostly because I was comfortable, but also because I was waiting for an usher (Are they still called ushers, or have they been upgraded to “cinematic associates” or “popcornial engineers” or some such bullshit. I wish I knew because I certainly don’t want to write anything inappropriate.) to come in and explain exactly what the refund situation would be.

Here’s what I thought would be fair: We had all dragged ourselves out of our toasty homes and driven to their crappy theater with its obviously sub-code electrical wiring. We’d paid our hard-earned, or otherwise-earned, money to see one of Hollywood’s latest fine products. The theater, for whatever reason, failed to deliver. I felt the fair thing to do would be to give people the choice of a full cash refund or two free passes, to compensate us for our time and trouble. After all, we are busy people and this was time that could have been spent in other pursuits. Like watching Springer. For some reason the theater owners didn’t see it this way.

Finally there he was, the neatly groomed young man in the snappy blazer. He had just walked into the theater and looked at the three remaining people as if thinking, “Why are there always a few who are so slow to catch on?” Then he told us the power was out (Oh, really? Hey, you’re right—there’s no movie up there!) and we would get a refund at the customer service counter.

I left the theater and entered the darkened hallway, and waited for the usher to go ahead of me. I pretended I was waiting to hold the door for him and the other two patrons, but frankly in the minimally lit hallway I didn’t know which way I way going. Also, and I’m not sure why, I found walking through the dark building somewhat eerie and yet strangely erotic. Maybe because the black walls and lack of lights reminded me of those swingers clubs over in SF. Uh, of course I mean the ones I’ve seen on the web. I found myself wishing that I had come with some wild woman so that we could duck into an unlit corner and finally give myself something that I could write to the Penthouse Forum about. (Dear Penthouse, I never believed these letters were true, but today at the movies…) Perhaps that girl who sold me the pretzel nuggets? Yes, I’m sure some guy twice her age who goes to matinees during the week and has a glob of cheese goop on his shirt is exactly what she’s looking for.

You may be amazed to hear that nothing exciting happened to me in those darkened corners, and I soon found myself in line to receive my refund. Hey, maybe I could get two free tickets, my deceitful little brain was now telling me. I’ll just go up to the girl and say “Two” and maybe point to somebody standing nearby as if they were with me. (Regular readers know that I once took a test that concluded that I am indeed honest—but only when it’s convenient.) I looked around and the only person not in line was a young black fellow leaning against the wall chomping on popcorn like he’d been waiting for FEMA to deliver it. He was wearing a baseball cap, backwards of course, and the incredibly baggy clothes one needs in order to achieve the very popular gangster, or gangsta’ as we hep-cats say, look. No, it didn’t seem likely that the customer service girl would believe I had come to catch a flick with that guy. The mere fact that I still use of the term “catch a flick” destroys any possibility of that scenario.

“One please, “ I said to the girl. (She was cute—I was back to thinking about the dark theater. What a perv.)

“Can I see your ticket?” she asked.

These people have it down to a science. They were not giving out one more ticket than they had sold. I immediately began the “pocket dance.” You know, when some authority figure suddenly puts you on the spot to find something so you begin to search frantically through all your pockets as if you were looking for nitroglycerin pills and your chest was really hurting. Luckily I hadn’t used the ticket to floss during the movie as I often do (There just hadn’t been time!) and so I handed over my ticket in exchange for a stub on which the words “re-admission ticket” were printed. Like I said, these people have it down to a science.

It’s a jolt to be sitting in a warm, dark movie theater one minute and then suddenly and unexpectedly finding yourself outside in a rain storm. I began the windy walk to the parking garage, realizing along the way that the stoplights were out and it would be a while before all of the ejected theater goers would be able to exit the garage. I stood on the second floor of the structure, watching the rain and waiting for the line of autos to diminish. Jarhead had piqued my curiosity, but not enough so that I’d be going back to the theater to see the rest of it. I’d catch it on TV, or get it from NetFlix, in the not-too-distant future.

I drove home in the rain, content with the world. Part of this was because in my simplistic brain I was almost convinced that I had somehow gotten a “free pass” for a movie and I was therefore way ahead of the game. But I knew that I had also learned a valuable lesson today. Those people who rush to get to their seats and then later go for snacks halfway through the picture are running a big risk. Get your snacks first, folks. You never know when the power is going to go out.