Ellsworth Gets A New Home

The rule of thumb, at least according to the turtle information web site I frequent, is that for every inch of shell length a turtle needs ten gallons of water in which to frolic. (Disclaimer: That’s for aquatic turtles only. I figured I better add this before one of you idiots drowns your kid’s box turtle.) So Ellsworth (nee: Elspeth) is now five inches long. Quick, in how large an aquarium should he be?

Right. Unfortunately he’s lived his whole life in a 20-gallon tank. Now the PG&E guy who was here a few months ago said that he used to have turtles and the current tank was “just fine.” But he’s not a turtle expert. He’s just a PG&E guy. And the experts say Ellsworth needs more room.

To which I say, “Who doesn’t?” I mean, I’m sure if you looked me up in the Care and Feeding of Humans Handbook you’d find that I require a 3,000 square foot house with a heated pool and a couple of giggly maids. But guess what? Still, my conscience got to me and so I decided that today was the day to purchase Ellsworth’s new tank.

Have you ever seen a fifty-gallon tank? Sure you have, at the Monterey Bay Aquarium when you checked out the baby whale exhibit. It’s gigantic. And since, despite Spike’s protests, Ellsworth insists on being on the kitchen counter to better follow the household action, I knew I’d have to get something smaller.

The aquarium store had a 46-gallon tank for $250. Petsmart had the same tank for $179. (Did I ever tell you that this reptile originally cost me seven dollars? “What an inexpensive pet!” I thought.) Anyway, the 46-gallon tank was also too big for the counter, but the aquarium store had a lovely 36G (as we call them) for $140. Sadly, no Petsmart carried a 36G. So you see my problem, right? Follow me here: The 46G is $250 at the aquarium store and $179 at Petsmart, therefore $140 for the 36G at the aquarium store is most likely what? Right. A rip-off!

Ah, but what choice did I have? I’d shopped around and decided that I would get the 36G today. But how? I love my car; it’s fast, gas efficient, looks neat but has the load capacity of a Tonka Toy. There are only two seats and a trunk that wouldn’t accommodate a loaf of Italian bread. So I took a chance, purchased the tank, along with a colorful background sheet that drove the price, with tax, up to $160. (May I mention again that this is a seven-dollar turtle?) I turned down the generous offer of help from the clerk and carried the tank to the car by myself. (Frankly, I didn’t want to give the young punk the satisfaction. And I haven’t joined AARP yet either.)

The tank fit snuggly in the passenger seat, but only when the convertible top was down. I headed home and lugged the monster into the house. The first thing I did was begin to put the scenic plastic backing on the rear wall of the tank. You know, it’s got pictures of underwater plants and rocks, to trick Ellsworth into thinking he’s in an environment that he’s never seen in his life. He was originally delivered through the mail in a hamburger carton, for chrissakes.

I’ve never been good at precision work. Hey, I guess if you read my blog you already know that. I had just bought enough scenic backing for one try. I found a single edged razor, licked off the old cocaine residue (I’m kidding!) and went to work. I decided to take a Zen approach, focusing only on the task at hand. I did not cut with the razor until I was sure everything was lined up correctly. A short time later I had a piece of backing that fit as if it had been installed in a factory. Pleased with my handy-work I grabbed the roll of scotch tape and taped down all the edges. That backing wasn’t going anywhere for a long time, I thought. I had really done a nice job.

Except that I had taped the picture on upside down. I stood there and stared at it for a full minute, deciding what my next move should be. “Leave it,” said the lazy voice that moved inside my head when I was in Cub Scouts and never left. “What does it matter?” That’s true, I thought. I’ll leave the picture like it is and if I find that Ellsworth becomes confused and disoriented and begins to swim upside down, then I’ll fix it. And if any human notices the error I’ll just lie and say it’s a depiction of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.

Three minutes later I was removing the backing and re-taping it in the correct position. It wasn’t as neat a job as it had previously been, but at least the plants were now growing from the bottom. Then I hoisted the tank onto the counter and began to fill it with water. It could have been my imagination, but for some reason it seems like it takes nearly twice as long to fill a 36-gallon tank than a twenty-gallon one. Nah, I must have imagined it.

Tank filled, I turned on the heater, the basking light, the UVB light, the filter (all of which I purchased for this turtle who, you may recall, originally cost seven dollars) and now it was time for the big moment. After putting in the two guppies that Ellsworth has been unable to catch (What, you never had a bad day?) I placed him on his basking platform ($23) and pulled back to watch.

As usual he immediately plopped into the water, but it was clear from the expression on his face that something was different. (A turtle does so have expressions on its face.) His foot reached for the bottom but it wasn’t there! What’s going on? It took about thirty seconds before Ellsworth was swimming in his new home as if he’d lived there his whole life.

Two hours later and Ellsworth is frantically swimming back and forth, watching every move I make. He is into his “begging for food” mode, his spacious new home completely forgotten. I have spent an entire day, not to mention an entire day’s pay, getting this tank ready for him. And all he cares about is stuffing his green face. You know, my wife thinks we should have a kid, and I say “Why not?” After all, they don’t appreciate anything you do for them either.

Women In The Shadows

I visited Classmates.com today, which I rarely do, and discovered that 43 people have viewed my profile there. And of those 43 a total of none have been willing to cough up the $25 fee (or whatever it is now) to get in touch with me. Apparently they just want to know what I’m doing, not how I’m doing.

Which I totally understand, of course. I was thinking of surfing the site a bit myself to check on some people, people who, incidentally, I hardly remember. But I was unable to get over my cyber-paranoia. I wanted to check the info on some folks, but not unless I was completely sure that they would not be able to tell that I had checked. I wasn’t positive that they, like I, would not be able to see exactly who had viewed their profile, and frankly the last thing I wanted was an e-mail from one of these losers saying, “Hey, I see you checked my profile. How ya doin’?” Besides, I saw a notice that my 35th reunion was coming up and that depressed me enough to pack it in and move on.

Years ago I first subscribed to Caller ID service for one main reason: I was sure that a former lover was calling my number (or, more accurately, I couldn’t believe that she wasn’t) and I wanted proof. It took a few months but one day there it was. Her number was emblazoned across the face of my cheap plastic device. And she hadn’t left a message. Gotcha! I knew I was unforgettable and now I had the evidence!

Sometimes I think about the women who were once a part of my life, and I wonder if they’re thinking about me. Well of course they are, we all do it and always have. The difference now is that the Internet has made it so much easier to track down people and, if desired, re-establish contact. In fact two women from my past have already done so, and it’s been wonderful to hear from them.

I wonder, though, if there are any of you ladies from the past out there who read this blog without me knowing it. You see, my counter tells me that there have been nearly 4,000 hits on this site (Look out, Matt Drudge!) but, like Classmates, I have no way of knowing who the visitors are. And yet I feel your presence.

Have you ever Google’d yourself? It’s okay if you have, it won’t grow hair on your palms. Well, when I Google myself I get seven results. (Tom Cruise yields 53 million and Brad Pitt 30 million, so the three of us combined really generate some impressive numbers, eh?) So if you own a computer and are looking for me, I’m pretty easy to find.

And it makes me wonder: Chinese Girl, have you been to my site? Island Girl, how about you? And Kite-Flying Girl, surely you own a computer. Upstate Girl, are you still around? And of course Caller ID Girl, (or should I call you Mango Girl?) I know you must have checked on me, maybe not every day but at least once or twice . Yes?

So ladies, if I’m being completely delusional and you’re not there, well, you’ll never know about it. And if you are periodically checking up on me let me ask you this:

How ya doin’?

Good News, Just When We Need It Most!

Iraq. Iran. Korea. Fires. High oil prices. Earthquakes. Murders. Tidal waves. Nancy Grace. Sometimes you feel there is no place to hide, and the bad news just keeps coming. Well buck up Chums, because as some old radio announcer who I’m too lazy to look up used to say, “Ah, there’s good news tonight.” (It was Gabriel Heatter, so you smart-asses don't need to send me any e-mails.)

And the good news comes from, of all places, China! The people of China (or as I like to think of them, “our future overlords”) are today the happy participants in a robust and booming economy. Every day bold new advances are being made in the manufacturing sector of this no longer sleeping giant. And in one industry in particular those changes have been both dramatic and celeritous. I am speaking of course of the bra manufacturers.

The chest measurements of over 3,000 Chinese women were recently taken (How can I get a job like that?) and the results show that the average size has increased by a full centimeter over the last decade. Now, don’t you feel foolish that you stubbornly refused to learn the metric system in school and now have absolutely no idea what a centimeter is? OK, just this once I’ll be the enabler to your ignorance and let you know that it’s a little under half an inch. The credit for this unprecedented, uh, blossoming is given to the improved nutritional habits of Chinese women as well as their increased participation in sports.

One bra manufacturer has said for years he produced little but A and B cup bras, but now things are different. A Hong Kong based lingerie company has increased their production of C, D, and, yes even E cup brassieres! Chinese women with E cups! Can you imagine? For years I have asked God why, in his eternal and dubious wisdom, he would create this beautiful race of women and not see fit to give them boobs. And lo! He has heard my pleas at last, for He is a great and mighty God! Let there be hooters!

And so as our young but tired and bankrupt American Empire begins its slow but inevitable descent into second tier status, I for one salute the rise of this new Chinese Empire. Prepare yourself, America, for they are advancing towards us with unlimited manpower, they are advancing towards us with superior technology and most importantly they are advancing towards us jubblies first! Welcome!

Does This One Come In Children's Sizes?

Saw a comic on TV tonight. He was talking about a time when a four year old girl came up to him and said, “Hi.” Being a friendly sort he said “Hi” back, and before he knew it the little girl’s mom appeared, pulling the little girl away while shooting a less-than-friendly look at the comic. “Hey, I didn’t start it, “ he said in his defense. “She came on to me.”

I know that this was based on a true incident and I know how the guy felt. A few years back I was staying at a hotel for some goofy corporate seminar and as always I eventually found the hot tub. I was soaking my tired bones, probably after a hard day of doing nothing, when two kids—a boy and a girl—entered the tub.

After a while I was talking to them, and they began an underwater breath-holding contest. I helped out by timing them, using the large clock on the wall. I was really getting into the spirit of it, and suggested that they time me. Sure I was showing off a bit. I had never smoked cigarettes and as I ducked my head underwater I was hoping that the smoking of anything else I might have tried would not have the same deleterious effect on my lung capacity.

I stayed under for what I thought was a fairly impressive amount of time, impressive at least to a couple of six-year-olds, and I rose back above the surface fully expecting to hear exclamations of awe and wonder from the admiring kids. Instead I was faced with a stern looking woman in her thirties who was aiming that stern face directly at me as she gathered up the children. I’m sure they were given a good lecture about talking to people they didn't know and that they wouldn’t be playing the “hold-your-breath” game with any middle-aged strangers anytime soon.

I think that’s a shame. And yes, I know you have to be so careful these days and predators are everywhere and if you had kids you’d understand, blah-blah-blah. So OK, I think it’s a shame that there are people out there who harm children and create this climate of fear, making it almost impossible for adults to have normal interaction with kids.

For example, I’ve mentioned Harry before. He’s this cute kid who lives on our block and with his baseball cap and wagon he looks like he’s right out of central casting. The first time my wife saw this kid her reaction was, “Can we keep him?” Whenever he has something to hawk from his school or one of his clubs he knows which neighbor to visit. So when he knocked on the door the other day I knew it was about to cost me money. You just don’t say no to Harry.

This time he was raising money for his school by running around a track. He was taking pledges from people to pay a certain amount of money for each lap he completed. I signed up for a buck a lap, which seemed to be the average pledge for the event. And only then did I decide to ask a few questions.

“Do you run a lot?” I asked.
“Yes.” Shit. Not the answer I wanted to hear.
“What is this event held on, a quarter-mile track?”
“No, I think it’s a sixth of a mile.” Double-shit. This kid would circle that thing like a blonde electron, and cost me a mint in the process.

Then Harry asked how my turtle was doing and even apologized for not remembering his name. Can you believe this kid? He apologized because he didn’t remember a turtle’s name! Do your hotshot kids that you’re so protective of do that? I doubt it.

And then I faced my dilemma. The kid obviously wanted to see the turtle, but what’s the proper thing to do here? After thinking about it for about three seconds I let him in and he paid a quick visit to Ellsworth and then was on his way. (Hopefully to eat some fattening food so he wouldn’t be able to run as many laps.)

So there again is the climate of fear that exists in this country, and without getting too preachy I do believe that it is more prevalent in this country. I’ve been around a bit and I’ve found, almost without exception, that other places tend to be more, I don’t know, relaxed I guess. And I’m not just talking about interaction with children.

I hear a lot of people, when they discuss topics such as this, say that things are somehow different today compared to the way they used to be in some long ago and possibly fictitious past. Well maybe they were and maybe they weren’t. I grew up on a quiet street where we played ball nearly every day. Maybe the raging paranoia wasn’t present then at the levels we see today, but there were a few times that I recall when something mysterious was going on that I didn’t fully understand.

There was this man named Pat who rode around the streets on a bicycle and seemed to genuinely enjoy talking to the neighborhood kids. Mostly it was with the other kids, because I was fairly stand-offish with this guy. Perhaps even then I had developed some sort of Freak Warning System that the other kiddies hadn’t. Eventually the word came down from the parents on the block that we kids should stay away from Pat. Why we should was never explained, and we never asked. It was a dark and murky area that we didn’t know about and didn’t want to know. Pat may have been a perfectly decent and innocent man and the victim of a suburban verbal witch-hunt, but I’ll never know. I do know that there was something different about Pat.

My earliest memory of this sort of thing goes back nearly fifty years. James K Polk was president and—screw you, I’m not that old! Anyway I was walking around the block and I remember an elderly man (he was probably 38) giving me a quarter. Now that was major coin for a kid back then and I ran home to show it to my mom. I don’t remember her exact words, and there’s a better than even chance that my undeveloped mind got it all wrong, but at the time I distinctly recall getting the impression that I shouldn’t take money from strangers because that could, could, mean that they had just bought me.

Whew, that put the fear of the lord, and just about everybody else, into me, let me tell you. For the price of one quarter I apparently could have been swept away from my family, legally, and become the slave or plaything of this crusty old man. Man, that was a close one. Of course today I stroll the streets hoping to find a similar old man. I’m a little older now and a little wiser too, so if some old crank makes a similar offer I’ll be ready for him. Sure I’ll agree to the purchase but this time I plan to charge by the pound. If I’m going to do this thing I want to make sure I'm set for life.

Three Card Monte: Animal Whoopee

Hurricanes. Tornadoes. Cows with two heads. If you’ve spent any amount of time on our doomed planet you know that Mother Nature is one wild chick. But she has never been wilder than when coming up with the strange mating habits of some of our fellow creatures. (And I’m not talking about that freaky couple you stumbled upon last summer as you strolled down what you thought was a secluded beach.)

No, I’m talking about those non-human types with whom we’ve graciously chosen to share our planet, when it suits us of course. Some of the mating acts indulged in by our fellow animals make the swingin’ folks who spend their Saturday nights grappling at the San Francisco Power Exchange look as pure and chaste as the local priest. OK, bad example.

Well, it’s been a while since we played Three Card Monte, so let’s give it a whirl, hey? The game is very simple, because really how could you handle anything that wasn’t? Below are descriptions of the mating habits of three species. Two are absolutely true and one comes directly from the twisted mind of yours truly. Your job is to pick out the fake. Easy, you say? Yeah, you’re probably right, but do me a favor and play anyway. It makes me feel better about all the rest of it and besides, what else have you got to do?


Twisted Creature #1

While you’re walking the Earth and going about your dreary daily business there is an animal that lives below the sea that is into all kinds of shenanigans. It’s called the sea hare, and believe me this is no sexless denizen of the deep like Spongebob or Squidward. No, the sea hare is a true hermaphrodite, and before you decide to not get off your ass to look for the dictionary that you don’t own anyway, this means it has both male and female sexual organs. And yes, of course they both work—don’t be insulting. (Interestingly, the penis on the sea hare is located on the right side of its head, and Guys aren’t we glad that Mother Nature got that nutty idea out of her system early on?) Often when sea hares mate they do so not in boring couples like you or I (excepting that one lucky drunken night so long ago…but I digress) but in chains. The sea hare on one end will act as a female while the one at the other end will act as a male. And all of the other sea hares that make up the chain act as both! Whew, wild times on the ocean floor! And, unlike the aforementioned Power Exchange, it doesn’t cost a sea hare thirty bucks to get in.

Twisted Creature #2

I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this, but that drunken wife of yours was out with her dopey friends the other night, giggling like a schoolgirl after drinking three-quarters of her wine spritzer and once again referring to you as Quick Draw McGraw. Now it’s true that the snail is one of the lowliest and (excluding oil company executives) slimiest of God’s creations, but there is a thing or two we can learn from him. For example, when two snails are preparing to make hot mollusk love they will spend an hour or more slowly circling each other. At first this may sound as if it would be crushingly dull, but you must admit it’s more appealing than spending the time watching, say, Nancy Grace. Things begin to pick up in the next stage, as both snails fire darts at each other! The darts are tiny and sharp, and come from a chamber just behind the snail’s eyes. The first snail to fire a dart become temporarily passive while the other snail continues to circle and then fires his (or her!) dart. For some mysterious reason this exchange of darts is very exciting for both of the snails (I’ve played darts in many bars over the years. Nothing.) and soon leads to some red-hot snail hootchie-cootchie action.

Twisted Creature #3

The dik-dik is the smallest antelope in the world, and I’m going to refrain here from making a joke about their having little dik-diks because I’m simply a better person than you. They are native to Africa, stand about a foot tall at the shoulder and weigh between seven and eleven pounds. But even more unique to the dik-dik than its diminutive size is the male’s use of another species during the mating ritual! Once an eager young male has found a comely lady dik-dik he waits for her to “present,” to show her willingness to go on with the show. Once he has been accepted the male will find a nearby tree or patch of ground with a high concentration of small insects, usually ants or termites. Early explorers thought that the dik-dik was an anteater, but what the tiny antelope does is use his tongue and muzzle to pick up as many insects as he can and then transfer them to the hind parts of his lady. He then waits patiently, sometimes for three hours or more, as the female becomes excited by the movements of the ants on her body. What effect this erotic behavior has on the ants is not known.

There you go—which story did I make up? Oh and by the way, I’m on to all of your theories about the order I put these stories in or the fake story being the one with the most words. Well the order is randomly chosen with numbers I write on tiny pieces of paper (my god, I’m so lonely) and maybe the longest story is the fake one and maybe it isn’t. That’s for you to figure out, Chump. Good luck with that.

Scotty, We Hardly Knew Ye

In another example of “killing the messenger” White House press secretary Scott McClennan has been given the old heave-ho. Sure there’s a part of me which lumps McClennan in with the rest of the Bush gang, but I also know that if they ever actually did hold some sort of Nuremberg-style trials for these guys McClennan would be sure to get off with just a slap on the wrist.

After all, he was just a mouthpiece, saying what he was told to say by his boss. And besides, he’s got that cute pudgy face that you just know hasn’t changed since he was in knickers. Also, he may end up being happy that he got the boot when he did, as Bush continues to rearrange the deck chairs on his own personal Titanic.

SIDEBAR: Don’t you just love that expression? “Rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.” God how I wish I had said it first. The beauty of the Internet, of course, is I’m not limited to telling you that I didn’t create that wonderful phrase—I can actually do a little research and tell you who did!

The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations says that in 1976 one Rogers Morton was quoted as saying, "I'm not going to rearrange the furniture on the deck of the Titanic." Morton had lost five of six primaries as President Ford’s campaign manager. Ah, but not so fast! Recently a staff member at The Yale Dictionary of Quotations discovered a New York Times quote from 1972 that said, “Administrators [at Lincoln Center] are running around straightening out deck chairs while the Titanic goes down.” Don’t you find this stuff just so fascinating? Oh. Sorry.

Back to Scott. I’ve watch this loveable liar for the past few years and I felt an emotion for him that I never have (and never will) for any other member of the Bush White House: sympathy. I’m doing my best to keep the Bush-bashing to a minimum tonight (I’ve been doing it for five years and I’m exhausted. In boxing terms I’m what’s called “punched out.”) To me the job of the White House press secretary seems like a nightmare no matter who happens to be occupying the White House, but when it’s your job to go out to take on the press (as ball-less as they are) and defend Bush every single day, well, fill in your own blanks here.

With me still is the image of Ron Ziegler, who in 1969 at the age of 29 became the youngest White House press secretary in history. Unfortunately for Ziegler his boss was another doomed president, Richard Nixon. What I’ll never forget is the day when the press was hounding Nixon during his dark Watergate days when he suddenly stopped, put his hands on Ziegler’s shoulders and spun him around to face the approaching onslaught. It was a desperate action by a collapsing president, but it was also a public (and televised!) humiliation for Ziegler, whose career just a few years earlier had seemed so bright.

And now somebody is going take this job where he’ll have to defend the actions of George W. Bush for the next two years and nine months. (Or for however long Bush hangs on.) What a horrible way to make a living. I’d rather clean the grease traps at McDonalds.

Your Filthy Body: A Quiz

What an incredible machine is our human body. Is there anything on Earth that is so wondrous and so disgusting? From the internal mush of our slimy organs, putrid liquids and fetid gases to the vile and offensive waste that we each excrete into the Earth every day we all ride around inside this big flabby sack of goop and offal and there’s not a damn thing we can do about. Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that you were still eating your breakfast.

Sure the human body is an amazingly complicated bit of apparatus that has developed over millions of years or was created overnight by a grumpy old man with a beard, depending on how much thought you actually want to put into it. But how much do you really know about this remarkable living structure that you will call home for eighty years? Well, in addition to providing you with your daily dose of yuks we also try to educate here. And so may I present our latest and undoubtedly most repulsive quiz to date? Ladies and Gentlemen prepare to open your minds and suppress your gag reflexes, for I give you…The Human Body.

1. What’s the fastest a sneeze can travel?
a. 5 mph.
b. 40 mph
c. 100 mph
d. 250 mph

2. How many hairs are on the average human scalp?
a. 10,000
b. 100,000
c. 1,000,000
d. 10,000,000

3. About how long does it take a blood cell to complete one circuit around the body?
a. One minute
b. Ten minutes
c. An hour
d. Twelve hours

4. About how many people worldwide are inhabited by blood-sucking hookworms?
a. There have been no cases since 1952.
b. A million
c. 5-7 million
d. 700 million

5. About how many bacteria are on a square inch of human skin?
a. 100
b. A million
c. 32 million
d. None. Bacteria aren’t found on human skin.

6. By the age of 70 about how much skin does the average human shed?
a. Eight ounces
b. Ten pounds
c. One hundred pounds
d. Are you getting sick yet?

7. What is one out of every 2,000 babies born with?
a. A tooth
b. A tail
c. A third nipple
d. A shitty attitude

8. About how far would your small intestine stretch?
a. Five feet
b. Eight feet
c. 22 feet
d. 100 yards

9. What is 85% of the human brain composed of?
a. Gray matter
b. Nerves
c. Water
d. Dirty thoughts

10. Where are one-quarter of all of the body’s bones found?
a. Knees
b. Feet
c. Ears
d. Yeah, you wish.


ANSWERS

1. 100 MPH. So trying to duck a soggy sneeze blowing out of that fat guy in the IT Department is like trying to avoid a speeding freight train that is five feet away. Good luck.
2. 100,000. And don’t go looking for any bald jokes here. My brother used to make fun of my curly hair when we were kids and then he went bald. Hair Karma: it’s a bitch.
3. ONE MINUTE. Although yours probably stop a bunch of times along the way to catch their breath or grab a snack.
4. 700 MILLION. How friggin’ disgusting is that? And you’re worried about a fat guy’s sneeze?
5. 32 MILLION. More if you’re Canadian.
6. ONE HUNDRED POUNDS. Yes you shed one hundred pounds of dry, flaky crusty bacteria-ridden skin in your lifetime. You’re like some disgusting slithering reptile and that’s probably why you never get invited anywhere.
7. A TOOTH. I don’t know the stats on the nipple or tail and at this hour I’m not about to look it up. Do your own damn research and if it turns out to also be one in two thousand I’ll print a correction. Sure I will.
8. 22 FEET. You picked 100 yards because you’re sure you heard somewhere that they stretch as long as a football field, didn’t you? Ha, you’re such a sap, and putty in my hands to boot.
9. WATER. Because all those dirty thoughts need something to float in, right?
10. FEET. Which makes it even more amazing that you still trudge down the street looking like some barely-evolved knuckle-dragging baboon.

Heresy

Let’s spend one more night on the Beatles before we put them to rest for a while. They were, after all, the greatest musical act of the 20th Century and one of the major influences of my life, and so are entitled to any attention they receive. Which is why writing this article is so difficult for me.

We were heading across the bay this rainy Easter when I looked into the glove compartment of my wife’s car and discovered, among her usual Air Supply and Foreigner crap, the Sgt. Pepper CD. It had been a while since I had listened to this classic and with nothing but time and forty miles of wet pavement ahead of us I figured now would be a good opportunity.

Nearly forty minutes later the famous final chord of “A Day in the Life” was struck and once again I had confirmed the original opinion I had formed upon first hearing the album as a kid nearly forty years ago: Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band is not that great an album.

Omigod, did I just actually write that? Did I just say that the record that is #1 on Rolling Stone’s all-time greatest albums and at or near the top of every other list imaginable is not that great? I did, and it’s a very liberating experience. I feel so free!

Now of course Sgt. Pepper is a good album. It’s a Beatle album and so is good by definition. And it’s got some incredibly original packaging, from the brilliant cover to the included cut-outs to the printed lyrics on the back, a first for rock music. And of course there’s that “concept” thing, which we’ll get to in a bit.

But ultimately, aren’t records supposed to be about the music, about the songs? Many people will tell you that Sgt. Pepper is the best album of all time, but I’d argue that it isn’t even the best Beatle album of all time. Nor is it the second best or the third. Because despite the intricate and creative production values there are, with the possible exception of “A Day in the Life,” no truly great songs on the album.

Just go down the list and you’ll see what I mean. “A Little Help from My Friends” is certainly a catchy sing-along. “Fixing a Hole,” “Getting Better,” “Mr. Kite,” “She’s Leaving Home”—all moderately good songs that you’d brag about your entire life if you’d written even one of them. But they’re not great. I mean, when you catch yourself singing a Beatle song is it one of these? I doubt it. There’s no “Hey Jude,” or “Let It Be” on this album. There’s no “Penny Lane” or “Strawberry Fields Forever” either, although there might have been if they hadn’t been cut due to lack of space. (So they decided to include George Harrison’s nearly unlistenable “Within You, Without You” and cut these other two instead? Hoo-boy.)

Sgt. Pepper is often heralded as the pinnacle of the “concept” album, but it was none other than John Lennon himself who pointed out that it wasn’t a concept album at all. Except for the first two songs (and the Reprise at the end) there is no thread that runs throughout. Lennon also has stated that he certainly didn’t write his songs with the Sgt. Pepper concept in mind.

I’ve never written negatively about any Beatles' work before, and actually I’m not being negative right now. I’m not saying that Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band is a piece of junk or even mediocre; I’m simply saying that’s it’s not the Beatles' best work. In their brief and glorious career they produced dozens, and perhaps scores, of songs that are superior to nearly all the cuts on Sgt. Pepper.

And while I’ve never in the past been able to form these thoughts into spoken or written words, I now realize that over the last four decades whenever I reached for a Beatle album it was almost never Sgt. Pepper. And yes, perhaps it is very freeing to admit this publicly at last, and yet I’m wondering why I suddenly feel like some kind of musical Judas who desperately needs to take a shower.

I Remember Leon

A few nights ago I made a reference to Leon Russell, a singer-songwriter who was quite popular for a while back in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s, at least among my crowd of doped-up pseudo-hippies. I even heard from my old college pal and roommate who remembered Leon well and admitted to always liking his music. And let me be clear that this old college chum of mine was definitely not part of that doped-up hippie crowd. (He’s currently got about two years to go before retirement—we don’t want to fuck it up for him at this point, eh?)

Because I possess one of the most curious of minds, and also because I don’t have anything better to do, I searched for Leon Russell on the Internet and am happy to report that not only is he alive and well, but he is still touring. And I think the most surprising fact I discovered is that Leon is only 64 years old. For some reason I pictured him in his trademark long white hair and beard mumbling aimlessly on the porch of some old age home, well into his 80’s and boring his fellow octogenarians with endless stories about George Harrison that they’ve already heard about ten thousand times. Oh, and there’s another sign of aging: referring to someone as being “only” 64.

Did you know that Leon Russell has the honor of being the only rock star I saw perform with my parents? (No, I mean I was there with my parents, not that he actually performed with my parents, you idiot.) We had gone to a racetrack and performing after the races were both Johnny Paycheck and Leon Russell. What I remember most about the concert was that my Dad recognized immediately that Leon was a much more seasoned performer than was Paycheck and it showed, and also that my Dad didn’t really pay too much attention to the music because he couldn’t stop from swiveling his head around like an owl on meth as he spotted, commented on and imitated a dozen or so pot smokers in the audience.

I always wonder how much of an artist’s work is remembered as the years go on. I’d venture that there are damned few members of any post-sixties generation who know of Leon Russell or can name any of his tunes. Still I think one or two of his songs might be familiar to some if you heard them. You might not recognize the title “A Song for You” but you may well know it if you heard it. Like maybe in an elevator. Sigh. Too bad—it was big stuff in its day. Andy Williams covered it, for godssake! (One thing about Andy Williams—he had the ability to recognize some of the greatest songs of the rock era. Sure, he sucked the juice out of them and flattened them with a hammer before he recorded them for your droopy old granny’s listening pleasure, but he did recognize them.)

I had the chance to talk about music with a seven-year-old the other day, and she told me two or three of the current singers that she liked. To my credit I had actually heard of them. Of course I had to ask her if she liked the Beatles, and she said she did, sorta. I asked her who she thought was better, Kelly Clarkson or the Beatles, and she said Kelly Clarkson. And then she added “Easy” so that I would know that she knew what she was talking about. And why should that be a surprise? After all, we all grasp at the musical heroes of our own youth and readily dismiss those of others. “Every generation throws a hero up the pop charts,” as Paul Simon sang. So maybe this seven year old girl is right and history will show that Kelly Clarkson was indeed better that the Beatles.

What bullshit! Of course Kelly Clarkson isn’t better than the Beatles! I can say that without hesitation and without knowing anything about Clarkson or ever having heard her sing. I’m not even sure I’ve spelled her first or last name correctly and I’m not going to make the effort to look it up either. The Beatles are better than Kelly Clarkson and here’s the proof: Walk up to a seven year old child forty years from today and ask her if she likes Kelly Clarkson. I guarantee she’s never heard of her. Now ask her if she's heard of the Beatles, a band which broke up the same year her grandfather was born? Perhap, perhaps…

Hippity-Hoppity

I had been out of bed for about ten minutes and had not even finished preparing my initial morning cup of coffee when the pleading began: “Can I please look for my Easter eggs now?”

Well, sure. After all Easter, like Christmas and your lonely old Aunt Lou, comes but once a year. And she looked so cute gazing up at me in her baggy Tweety Bird pajamas and uncombed hair I couldn’t say no. I know it was my responsibility to make sure she started the day with a healthy breakfast, but like I said, it’s only once a year.

I had hidden seven plastic eggs filled with the chocolate she loved, as well as seven other gifts; a large chocolate rabbit, a small make-your-own stained glass piece, a small chocolate rabbit and a Smores-making kit that came in a container that looked very much like a paint can. I had thought this last one would be the most difficult to hide, but it ended up in the easiest and, if I do say so myself, most creative hiding place of all. I simply put it on the floor of the garage with a real can of paint on top of it. The brain is a funny thing: put one canned Smores kit on the floor and then put an actual can of paint on top of it in plain sight and the brain sees—two cans of paint!

The egg hunt began and when she hadn’t found anything in the first ten minutes I thought I might be in for a long morning. Still, I’ve read the books and understand the need for patience, especially when attempting to build these types of oh-so-fragile relationships. And slowly, with the help of some gentle prodding and rather blatant hints (Warm! Warmer! Cold! Warm! Hot! Hot!) she was eventually able to find all of the hidden objects.

Task completed, and although it was still morning, she sampled one or two pieces of candy, and I must confess I did the same, and then we began to get ready. It was a rainy day and it would have been fun to remain home eating candy and playing with the new Easter trinkets, but we were due at a relative’s house for Easter dinner.

A short time later, bathed and dressed, we left the house and walked towards the car. We knew we had a long drive ahead of us and after a short discussion we came to an agreement: she would drive there and I would drive on the way back. And so I climbed into the passenger seat holding my second cup of coffee, happy that I had created another successful Easter egg hunt for my wife who, at the tender age of 42, had again managed to find them all.

Two Old Men (On a Bench By the Sea)

Two old men were sitting this morning,
On a bench overlooking the sea.
The waves crashed below as a warm wind blew in,
And the sky was as blue as could be.

They watched as the sea birds came flying,
And soared overhead in the sky.
And they then watched so much more closely,
When the young girls began to pass by.

Teen Mexican beauties with eyes black as night,
And wild hair that waved in the breeze.
They wore tiny shorts with an arrogant pride,
And bounced freely in white skin-tight tees.

The old men on the bench watched in silence,
Lost in both joy and in sorrow.
They twisted their necks like two molting old owls,
(Though they knew this would hurt them tomorrow.)

The girls giggled and laughed and walked right on by,
The two old men by the sea.
But I saw the old men and I saw where they sat,
And I saw that the bench could fit three.

So I turned to the girls and I gave them a smile,
A smile that they seemed not to see.
And I laughed without mirth when I finally knew,
That the bench was now waiting for me.

Jumping Off The Tallahatchie Bridge

You young’uns may not remember the song “Ode to Billie Joe,” but let me tell you it was a monster hit back in the day, the day being 1967. It was written and performed by Bobbie Gentry and for a short time it became a bit of a cultural phenomenon. Part of the reason, in addition to the fact that it’s a pretty good little tune, was the national debate that raged over some of the perceived mysteries found in the song’s story.

Those of you who are old enough remember that the song told the story of Billie Joe McCallister committing suicide by jumping of the Tallahatchie Bridge. During the song it is also revealed that Billie Joe and the female narrator had recently been seen throwing “something” off that same bridge. What they were throwing off and why Billie Joe killed himself is never revealed, but forty years ago there was plenty of discussion about it, let me tell you boy howdy.

Nine years after the song was recorded a movie called Ode to Billy Joe was released (And if you’re thinking that I spelled “Billy” wrong in the movie title you’re absolutely wrong and I’m right. As usual.) to help clear up some of the mystery. In the movie it turns out that Billy Joe threw the narrator’s rag doll off the bridge, and then threw himself off because of a failed homosexual affair. (Or as Billy Joe himself might have said, “They don’t call me B.J. for nothing.")

Whatever Bobbie Gentry had in mind when she wrote the song, it sure as hell wasn’t that! In fact from the beginning Gentry has always insisted that the point of the song was how unfeeling the family was around the dinner table regarding the death, especially in light of the fact that Billie Joe was the boyfriend of a family member. When asked about the song again at the time of the movie’s release Bobbie Gentry admitted that she had no idea why Billie Joe killed himself.

Ah but what was that mystery object that was so carelessly tossed off the bridge? Again, Bobbie Gentry doesn’t know or isn't saying. It wasn’t meant to be the focus of the story. Yet some of the speculation turned out to be a lot of fun. I remember a comedy show at the time (Yeah, I can remember forty year old TV skits but not what I had for lunch. Go figure.) where a man was being threatened with a gun. He yelled, “Please don’t shoot, I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I’ll even tell you what Billie Joe threw off the Tallahatchie Bridge!” Sure, it doesn’t mean much now but trust me it got major yuks in the olden days.

In addition to the aforementioned rag-doll there was speculation that Billy Joe and his girlfriend were throwing drugs off the bridge. This of course would undoubtedly lead to BJ’s subsequent suicide. This theory was obviously created by some anti-drug organization that predated DARE and those other spoilsports. Another theory was that BJ and his girl were throwing their newborn illegitimate baby into the river, and the suicide was because of BJ’s guilt over this act.

I flipped the first time I heard this one. I love this theory, even though it’s obviously wrong. I think if this were the real meaning behind the vague lyrics it would have made the song twice as good as it already was. In fact if I had written the song I would have admitted (after the debates had died down and all the money was in, of course) that yes, this was indeed the meaning of the song. A baby! Priceless!

So do you remember the song? The movie? If this song came out today, what do you think that Billie Joe and his girlfriend would be throwing off the Tallahatchie Bridge? Typewriters? Oprah? An iPod filled with Bobbie Gentry songs? Come on, use your imagination and let’s have some fun!

It's Just Another Day

As many of you know, the word “blog” is derived from “web log.” A blog, in the strictest sense, is a daily journal of a person’s activities. Have you ever read a blog that actually tells you about the writer’s day? There may be duller things to read on this planet but I haven’t yet come across them, and that includes the ingredients on a can of soup. Who cares that you got a parking ticket or that your Aunt Gladys made another one of her goddamn carrot cakes? Not me and not anybody else either, chump.

I never write about my day. I assume that you will find that reading about it is just as boring as living it was. And yet as we all know rules were made to be broken (perhaps one of the dumbest expressions ever created) and so tonight I’ll break mine.

For those of you who read my whining last night you know I had a busy day scheduled for today. And at some point during my busy day I had a revelation. Instead of telling you about it I’m going to invite to join me in the way-back machine to visit the teenaged Leonard (yeah, the one with all the pimples) so I can tell him about my day. I want to get his reaction to a day in the life of Leonard in 2006, and to compare his reaction to my own.

Whirrrr—whirrrr---whirrrr. (Going back in time SFX.)

Hello, Young Leonard. You’re looking well. I see your skin is beginning to clear up. (Lie to him—it costs you nothing and makes him feel better about himself.) Yes, I am your future self from the year 2006. I’m sure you have many questions. Married? Yes, in 1999. Uh no, they’re of average size. Who’s president? Kid, you don’t want to know.

Enough already with all the questions! I don’t remember being this annoying. I’m really here to describe my day to you and to get your reaction. Ready? OK, I woke up today and drove to a town in Northern California. Yes, you live on the West Coast, about two blocks from the ocean actually. There I met a camera crew and directed a television commercial I had written myself. That took about four hours.

After that I drove my convertible sports car to another town where I entered a TV studio and hosted a television program, as I have done for many years. After that I drove back to the house I own, which by the way is worth over $650,000, and sat down at my own computer to write my daily column on the Internet. After that I watched one of my two color televisions, which get over 75 channels (including some that show naked women) and finally I checked the dust jacket to the new book I’d written for errors. And then I went to bed.

By now Young Leonard’s eyes are popping out of his head and, after asking one more question (“What’s an Internet?”) he waves farewell, bursting with the desire to project himself into this amazing and unfathomable future as quickly as he can.

I woke up this morning and it was raining, which was absolutely no surprise to anybody in Northern California at this point. I got an early start as I knew that with the rain and the traffic and the washed-out roads it would take me nearly two hours to get to Antioch. Not that I felt like making another commercial—after all I had already made about a thousand in my career with little to show for it. Still, a dollar is a dollar, and that insane California real estate mortgage is not going to pay for itself. Four hours later the shoot is finished and I have just enough time to pick up a stale turkey sandwich from the mall and squeeze into my tiny car for another two-hour drive down to Hayward.

It’s hard to believe that I’ve been doing this public access movie review show for seventeen years. It seemed so glamorous when I started back in 1989. For my nearly two decades of effort I’ve so far netted a total of two women and signed one autograph, all within the first three years. My TV career has earned me a total of zero dollars.

Two hours later another chore is out of the way and I again hop into the tiny car and valiantly try to keep it and myself from being blown into the bay as I drive across the windy bridge. I arrive home to the smallest and least expenisve house on the block, turn on the computer and wonder which feature won’t be working correctly tonight. It turns out it’s the “Delete” key on my e-mail. No big deal. I don’t know why it works sometimes and refuses to work at others, but sooner or later the computer gods will again grant me the honor of being able to delete my own e-mails.

I had planned to write about the old song “Ode to Billy Joe” tonight, but decided at the last minute to write about the thought I had had today. How if you just listed the activities I had participated in today it would seem incredibly exciting and a great deal of fun to boot. I was amazed how some things could appear one way on paper but be entirely different in reality. Each of these, the commercial, the TV show, the column and the proofing of the new book cover, were to me little more than chores that had to be done. I challenged myself to identify the thing I did today that was the most fun. It turned out to be eating that stale turkey sandwich.

Guess Who! #6

Don’t you just love playing this game? Of course you don’t; nobody does. But once again today has been a long day, it’s getting late and early tomorrow morning I have to figure out a way to drive to Antioch over 75 miles away, and through both the rush-hour traffic and this latest goddamn typhoon that is threatening to sink us all. Yeah, wah, wah, wah.

Ah, but I cannot disappoint! For I know that you, my loyal readers, are counting on me to come through with this daily bit of nonsense. And since we are now up to an astounding fifteen hits a day (Can you hear the footsteps, Drudge!) I take this responsibility very seriously.

And so for the sixth time I reach into my bag of cheap tricks and present another chapter of Guess Who! It’s easy and fast to write (or more accurately, plagiarize from IMDB) and will have me hitting the sheets quicker than you can say “no se puede.”

OK, let’s get going—my lids are drooping. Below is a list of clues—blah, blah, blah. Your job is to figure out who this person is. As always the person is quite famous, but I may change that next time around and make him more obscure. Won’t that be fun? Oh, and for the very first time our Guess Who! person is a woman. Yes, famous and a woman. Go figure.

Get to work and no cheating:


She was a direct descendent of King John, although it is by way of one of his illegitimate children.

Her grandfather, her uncle and her brother all committed suicide.

Her measurements were 34B-22-33

She was a natural redhead.

She was fond of Julia Roberts, John Travolta and Harrison Ford but particularly disliked Woody Allen.

An actress once won an Oscar for portraying her.

She was married once, to S Ogden Ludlow.

Her middle name was Houghton.

She graduated from Bryn Mawr College with a degree in history and philosophy.

She was once nearly decapitated by an airplane propeller while trying to avoid the press at an airport.

Anthony Hopkins has said that the voice of Hannibal Lecter was partly based on her voice.

Her favorite actress was Vanessa Redgrave.

She is known for taking cold showers.


OK, who is it? You know I could give you many single clues that would help you get it in two seconds, but that’s not how the game is played, is it?

Perfectly Clearasil

They still make this stuff? And yes, that question is rhetorical because I just saw a commercial for Clearasil on TV the other day, so obviously they still make it. But why?

The acne medication Clearasil first came to market in 1959 during those bee-boppin’ days of Elvis and Gene Pitney and Ricky Nelson and it continues to be sold by the truckload today, snatched up by a new generation of pizza-faced kids who are groovin’ to rap and hip-hop (and who are hip enough to know that anybody who uses the word “groovin’” is but few short steps from Medicare eligibility.)

What I’d like to know is during the nearly half-century that this product has been in circulation, has Clearasil ever so much as cured a single pimple? Or is it just one of the greatest and most insidious multi-generational marketing ploys ever devised? I know, let’s a take cruise in the way-back machine and visit a teen-aged and acne infected future blogger named Leonard. Now Leonard uses Clearasil every night, and awakes every morning hoping to see some improvement in his raw and cratered face. Sometimes he does, but more often he doesn’t.

It takes Leonard, never accused of being the sharpest knife in the drawer, forty years to realize that these were normal hormonal fluctuations in his skin’s appearance, and that Clearasil had very little, if anything, to do with them. He also has another revelation about the product. He remembers the cream very well, especially the distinctive smell that he took to bed with him each night. He also remembers the color, which was a light brown or tan. Actually it was more of a skin tone. And then the bulb lights up in his head. He wasn’t using Clearasil all those years ago to cure the acne. He was using it to cover the acne. My God, he now realizes that Clearasil was nothing more than Guy Make-up!

Listen, I don’t know what Clearasil looks like or smells like today. (My face cleared up nicely a long time ago and I had a pretty good run for a while. Frankly I wish I had some of that stuff today; it might prove useful in covering the bags under my eyes.) And I certainly don’t know if Clearasil works, or if it ever did. The only outbreak on my face I’m expecting at this point will surely come from small pox or the bird flu. Still I wonder how come modern medicine hasn’t advanced enough in the last fifty years to make Clearasil obsolete? I really thought it would be by now.

As always I’d like to leave you with a good laugh, but I’m afraid this time it’s going to take a little work on your part. The funniest line I ever heard about Clearasil was from my boyhood chum Lenny, who once said that the stinky beige paste made your face look like Leon Russell on the cover of Carney. Now, damn few of you remember Leon Russell and none of you remember his album Carney. But I promise if you visualize me and my teenage friends putting that goop on our faces and then find the cover of that album on the Internet you will laugh out loud. Hell, if you ask me nicely I might even e-mail the picture to you. Anything for a laugh, hey?

Bryant Gumbel, The Dead Seagull and Me

I spent a quick half-hour today going through the photo albums on the bookshelf but I couldn’t find that picture of the dead seagull. Maybe tomorrow I’ll drag out some of the boxes of pictures I have stored in the garage and give it another shot. I know that photo is around here somewhere.

Oh hi there, have you been here listening to me babble for long? Ah, but now you’re curious about why I want to find a photograph of a dead seagull, and even more curious as to why I would even have a picture of a dead seagull, yes?

OK, just sit back, relax and I’ll tell you an odd tale. And don’t worry because, as I told the girl who took my virginity all those years ago, this will only take a minute. Let’s go back about ten years. A friend has given me some passes to the Pro-Am golf tournament in Monterey and I’m having a pretty fine time watching celebrities like Clint Eastwood and Bill Murray whack that little white ball around.

So I’m standing near the tee of one of the holes, although who can remember which one? (They tell me there are about 18 of them.) Bryant Gumbel, a celebrity whose name I know but am only able to tell you that he was the host of The Today Show because I just looked it up, tees off and with a powerful swack! sends the little white ball soaring on its way. About a second later another sound is heard, similar to the swack but somewhat duller, and many in the crowd gasp and point to an explosion of feathers as the unluckiest seagull on the West Coast plummets to the ground. Dead.

I’m standing by a grove of tall trees when a few minutes later some dufus emerges carrying the dead seagull. My first thought is that if this clown wants a souvenir there are more attractive and more sanitary ones available for sale at the clubhouse. My second thought is to take a picture of the drooping victim. And so I do.

The next day there is a short article in the newspaper about Gumbel killing a seagull with his tee shot. I clip the article and when I get my film developed I put the article and the picture of the departed bird together in a box with a bunch of other photos. Somewhere.

So here’s what I’m thinking, and please don’t hesitate to tell me if you suspect I’m being a tad bizarre here. I know that somewhere I have the newspaper article about the seagull that Bryant Gumbel so callously annihilated, as well as a glossy color photo of that same hapless bird. On eBay today I found an autographed headshot of Bryant Gumbel that could be mine for a mere twenty-five bucks. (It’s not like he’s John Lennon, folks.)

Now don’t you agree that it would be undoubtedly cool to get that autographed picture and put it in a frame that also included the dead seagull photo and the corresponding newspaper article? Wouldn’t that be a unique and fun decoration certain to brighten just about any home? Sure it would. (Not as cool, of course, as having Gumbel actually sign the dead bird picture, but I think we all know that’s not going to happen.)

In fact looking back now I regret that I didn’t pick up a few feathers from that poor exploded bird as well. That really would have brought my display to life, don’t you think?

And God Created an Old Woman

One of the modules that make up my Home page is titled “Most E-mailed Photos.” There is always something fun or sexy or downright bizarre to look at in this section. For example, today you will find a picture of a mother monkey kissing her young one as well a shot of a kitten named “Cyclops” who was born with just one giant eye.

A few days ago one of the most e-mailed photos was a current photo of former film star and “sex kitten” Brigitte Bardot. If you don’t know the name it is probably because she is before your time. Hell, she’s almost before my time, if such a thing is possible. I remember I was but a young lad in college when Playboy ran a pictorial titled “Bardot at 40.”

Do a search on the Internet and you’ll see that Bardot was some hot stuff in her day. The reason that the photo of her current appearance became a most e-mail photo is because of how horrible she looks now. In thirty years she has gone from nude and sexy icon to haggard old crone. And we all seem to find that very entertaining. I myself found a photo of her in her hey-day and sent it out to several friends alongside the contemporary picture with the caption “Don’t Get Old!” Brigitte, we would all agree, has not aged particularly well.

And why exactly do we think that she has not aged as well as some other stars? After all she was born the same year as Sophia Loren and just a few before Jane Fonda, and you often hear lunatics saying idiotic things like “Sophia/Jane looks as good as she ever did.” Right.

What’s different about Brigitte Bardot is it appears as if she has made almost no attempt to keep herself looking artificially young. She has bags under her eyes, her jowls sag and her hair is an unruly mass of gray. Her face has not been pulled back so many times that she looks like an alien. Have you seen Burt Reynolds, Joan Rivers or Kenny Rogers lately? No? Perhaps you did, but you just didn’t recognize them. Did you see Sharon Stone in that dopey new movie of hers? A wittier writer than I (as if) declared that her face looks like a bed that had the sheets pulled too tight.

And some of you old-timers might remember the 80-year-old Mae West, whose dyed blonde hair and thick fake eyelashes created a caricature that made her look more like a Mae West impersonator than an actual Mae West impersonator. She even claimed that her octogenarian body looked the same as it had half a century earlier. OK, we’ll take your word for it, I thought at the time. Don’t make us look!

Brigitte Bardot is 71 years old and seems to have wholly accepted this fact, something that I suppose is difficult for most people to do and I would think nearly impossible for former great beauties. She has always projected a “remember me as I was” attitude, and for that she should be applauded. For while others are getting stretched, sucked, botoxed and lasered Brigitte Bardot is content to look and act like what she has become: an old woman. And that’s an attitude that we should find both refreshing and admirable. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to head out to Longs Drugs—they’re having a sale on Grecian Formula and I want to stock up.

January 20, 2007 Revisited

If you hush for a moment you can hear the wailing and moaning and gnashing of teeth as many of the moderates and leftists who supported Senator John McCain react to the news that the “straight-talkin’” presidential hopeful has agreed to speak at the commencement ceremonies at Liberty College, that glorious educational institution founded in 1971 by political activist and religious nut-job Jerry Falwell. McCain, formerly an occasional critic of Bush, has also been seen suddenly giving speeches about how we all must stand together behind this president.

I was watching some old clips of McCain and the subsequent interview on the The Daily Show last night. McCain really had no answers as to why he has flip-flopped from calling Falwell “an agent of intolerance” to planning a public kissing of Falwell’s wide and pompous ass on May 13th. Host Jon Stewart was in seeming disbelief that a man he had so admired would be guilty of such an uncharacteristic turn-about.

Well of course we all know that McCain is positioning himself for his 2008 run at the presidency, but as I watched the show a thought hit me like a thunderbolt. What if McCain is not simply readying himself to become president in 2009, but is also being groomed to become vice-president? In 2007.

And I was reminded of the article I wrote about a month back noting that the length of time that any man (or theoretically any woman, I suppose) can serve as president is not eight, but ten years. That means that anyone who becomes president after January 20th of next year could legally run for president in 2008 and for re-election in 2012. Starting to get the picture?

OK, except for a couple of cheap shots at Bush that I’m sure will pop up because I seem to have no control over such things, I’m going to leave the politics out of this tonight. I will, however, ask that you suspend your disbelief a bit, use your imagination and join me in a little game of “what if.” Who knows, it might even be fun.

Regular readers are aware that I made a bet with my friend Mr. Size a few years back that Bush would not, for whatever reason, serve two full terms as president. Clearly since the ’04 elections the odds are against me, but fear not, for my heart remains full of hope. What’s interesting is that I recently tried to make a similar bet concerning Cheney, and even though I offered it after the elections this same friend still turned it down. “I don’t think he’s going to make it,” Mr. Size said. Hmmmm…

There are nearly three years left before we celebrate the most-welcome end of this Bush/Cheney catastrophe. (See? I can’t help it.) Even assuming that Cheney doesn’t get impeached, arrested for some dirty Halliburton deal or drunkenly shoot another old man in the face, it’s no secret that our beloved veep is not a healthy man. In fact, should he ever be forced to resign you can be sure he will claim it is for “health reasons.”

Many people believe Cheney is now a liability to the Bush administration (as if Bush needed help—damn, there I go again.) What if Cheney for some reason left office and the popular straight-talking war hero McCain was nominated to take his place? If nothing else that would mean that the president/vice-president team would immediately become only 50% pro-torture! Woo-hoo! God Bless America!

From here there are two possible scenarios. In the first McCain performs well in his new position, manages not to shoot anybody and coasts into the 2008 elections as the sitting vice-president who strightened out Bush. He easily becomes the Republican’s nominee and if elected has the potential of securing the White House for the Republican for another eight years!

OK, stay with me here and let’s really go for a ride. Suppose this November the Democrats somehow manage to pull off the unlikely twin accomplishments of regaining control of Congress and growing a pair. They now go after Bush with a vengeance and get him booted out of office and run out of town before sundown. Or maybe Bush has a mental breakdown. (I would have by now.) Or falls off a horse. Whatever. With Cheney already gone McCain slides into the Oval Office and as long as it’s after January 20th 2007 he can serve two more full terms!

It’s a great plan, don’t you see? A wonderful plan! Sure a (mostly unplanned) version of the second scenario has been tried before, although admittedly that attempt proved to be highly unsuccessful. (But if Ford doesn’t pardon Nixon—who knows what would have happened?)

We’re in an intermission right now but please return to your seats. The collapse of the Bush Presidency will resume momentarily. And as Cheney has become a detriment to Bush, Bush has become one to the Republican Party. (Oh yeah, and to the entire world.) Why not position McCain for 2008 right now by making him publicly tongue-kiss Jerry Falwell, and by association the religous right, and become V.P. in the process? In business it’s called “the assumed close.”

Only time will tell if these events will come to pass or are the lunatic ravings of a drug-addled blogger who has had too little sleep and one of the worst prediction-making records of any human being in history. There is however one thing that I can guarantee: If my insight proves to be, well, insightful, and McCain is appointed vice-president then I absolutely promise that you will never stop hearing about it. And if tonight’s tirade has been nothing but a big steaming pile of hare-brained foolishness, be assured that I’ll certainly never mention it again and, if asked, will deny that I ever said it.

Useful Information: Desmond T. Doss, Sr.

When 87-year-old Desmond T. Doss was buried at a national cemetery on Monday he was given a hero’s send-off, complete with a horse-drawn hearse, flag-draped casket and 21-gun salute. Doss was a World War II veteran and winner of the nation’s highest military honor, The Medal of Honor.

However, winning the Medal of Honor was not what made Doss unique. After all, well over 3,000 Americans have been awarded this prize. What separated Doss from the others was that he never killed anyone and refused to even carry a gun.

It was on Okinawa while under enemy fired that Doss, working as a medic, carried 75 wounded men to a 400-foot cliff and then lowered them to safety. In a later battle Doss had his legs injured by a grenade but as he was being carried to safety he saw a man who had suffered more severe injuries and so crawled off the stretcher and told the medics to help the other man.

Doss was the subject of a book called “The Unlikeliest Hero” as well as a 2004 documentary. Today he remains the only conscientious objector ever to receive the Medal of Honor. A fellow veteran who attended the funeral described Doss by saying, “He wanted to serve. He just didn’t want to kill anybody.”

Rain Man

At this point I’ve pretty much come to the conclusion that it is never going to stop raining. As most of the country knows we folks in Northern California had 25 days of rain in March. We’ve also had 3 days of rain in April, which doesn’t sound too bad until you realize that today is April 3rd. I looked at the extended forecast today and it’s showing rain nearly every day for the next two weeks. There’s one thing I know for sure: Either this weather is a direct effect of global warming...or it’s just been a particularly rainy winter.

People really seem to enjoy it when some extraordinary weather or tragic event originates in their little corner of the country. As long as the tragedy doesn’t happen to them, of course. I’ve been singing the same old song about how much I love the rain my entire life and yesterday when my mom asked if I was tired of it yet I answered honestly and said, “Nope.” And I’m not. Like I said, I love the rain. So, to echo the thoughtless and callous words of our doomed president I say, “Bring it on!”

We’ve also had some thunder and lightning, which are rare in these here parts, and even a hailstorm that went on for some minutes until the neighborhood looked like a photo on a Christmas card. That was the best day so far--I even made a hailman. And to prove that I’m not just blowing smoke here, I’ll let you know that a few years ago I spent a vacation driving alone through the red states of Oklahoma and Arkansas in the hopes of spotting a tornado. (Unfortunately all I saw on my weeklong trip was two hours of drizzle and about 5,000 “Jesus is Lord” billboards.)

Once in a while the same extreme weather will happen in two separate parts of the country, and then watch out. The competition is on! For example (and you just knew I had one) tonight Spike’s aunt called from Hawaii, where they are also experiencing a tremendous amount of rain. I don’t know the woman that well, so when I began talking to her I figured this would be a neutral and natural topic for conversation.

“Whew, we’ve been having a lot of rain here in California.” This was my opening gambit.
“We’ve been having more, I think.” A challenge! The old lady has thrown down the gauntlet!
“Yes, well we had 25 days of rain in March,” I countered, using the statistics to my advantage.
“We had 46.”

Yes, that’s what she said. Now, the woman is nearly 80 and I wonder why, if she tells me that Hawaii had 46 days of rain in March, I’m not a big enough person to just let it go. It’s not a contest, there’s no prize—let it be, Leonard, just this once. It costs you nothing. But what I said instead, and not without a dash of sarcasm, was:

“In March?”

Later I was telling Spike about the conversation.

“Yeah, we were talking about the rain and I told your aunt that we had 25 days of rain in March...” I said.
“They had 46,” Spike answered. And suddenly I knew why my head has hurt non-stop for nearly a decade.
“Do you hear yourself? Are you saying that Hawaii had 46 days of rain in March?”
“No, not all in March. There aren’t that many days in March,” she answered.
“No kidding? And big deal if Hawaii has had 46 days of rain. Every fucking place on Earth has had 46 days of rain if you go back far enough!” I said. (Many writing instructors advise you to simply use “I said” rather than “I yelled” or “I screamed until my eyes bugged out of my head.”)

So I’m reasonably sure that we in Northern California have had 46 days of rain as well, if you go back to December or November. Or last May. Still, you know what I really hope happens? I hope it rains like hell in April. In fact I hope we get seven or eight weeks of rain this month. That should settle this nonsense once and for all.

The Impossible Seinfeld Quiz

So some of you think the Seinfeld quizzes have been too easy, do you? You, Berkeley Spider-Man, claim to have scored ten out of ten on both quizzes. And the same boast comes from you, Voice Man. Yes, nearly every one of you claim to have gotten a perfect or near-perfect score on those previous trivia quizzes. Except for, of course, Mr. Size the Stockbroker, who chooses to waste his time by living his life to the fullest instead of watching endless reruns of old TV shows. I’m sorry to report that this absurd attitude has caused him to score a perfect zero on both tests.

OK, hotshots, the gloves come off starting right now. Below is our very last Seinfeld trivia quiz. (That is, until I feel like doing another one.) On the previous tests if you claimed to score a ten you were called a Seinfeld Fan. Claim to score a ten on this one and you’ll be called a liar. According to the law of averages 100 monkeys randomly guessing would score an average score of 2.5. It is highly doubtful that you’ll do much better.

1. On what date did Susan die?
a. November 10, 1995
b. May 16, 1996
c. August 2, 1996
d. January 27, 1997

2. What branch of the military had Kramer been in?
a. Army
b. Air Force
c. Navy
d. Marines

3. What was the Drake’s first name?
a. Cedric
b. Scott
c. Julius
d. Richard

4. What is Elaine’s shoe size?
a. 5 ½
b. 6 ½
c. 7 ½
d. 8 ½

5. What was George’s high score in Frogger?
a. 570,000
b. 668,000
c. 700,000
d. 860,000


6. What was the name of Jerry’s apartment building?
a. The Towers
b. The Park View
c. The Sterling
d. The Windsor

7. What was the name of the busboy’s cat?
a. Paquita
b. Gato
c. Bonita
d. Miguel


8. What was the name of the farmer’s daughter with whom Newman dallied with?
a. Darlene
b. Susie
c. Georgette
d. Betty Sue

9. Which character is known to have a brother?
a. Kramer
b. Elaine
c. George
d. Jerry

10. What was the name of the cleaning woman who George had sex with?
a. Maria
b. Consuela
c. Lily
d. Evie



ANSWERS

1. According to her tombstone, Susan died on MAY 16, 1996. That’s one wrong, Chump!
2. For a brief time Kramer was in the ARMY. 25 of the monkeys knew that--did you?
3. Did you love the Drake? Then how come you didn’t know his first name was SCOTT?
4. Elaine’s shoe size is 7 ½. I figure you’ve gotten one correct answer so far.
5. George scored 860,000 on Frogger. Have you recognized Slippery Pete on the new VW commercials?
6. Jerry lived in THE STERLING. Did you guess The Park View? Well, then you’re wrong again, loser.
7. The cat’s name was PAQUITA. Congratulations! I figure at this stage you’ve fumbled your way to two correct answers. That’s a grade of 29% Takes you back to your high school days, eh?
8. The farmer’s daughter’s name was Susie. Susie was also the name that one of Elaine’s co-workers called her, and if I’m not mistaken (and I’m not) the name of Jackie Chiles’ secretary.
9. GEORGE is the only character to mention a brother.
10.George had sex in the office with EVIE. Was that wrong?


So how’d you do? If I may quote the Bubble Boy: Not So Good! So did get at least two or three correct and achieve chimp level? The bell curve suggests that a few of you might have guessed your way to as many as five or six. Any more than that would simply be a fluke. And if anybody claims to have gotten ten out of ten on this one I suspect that you’ll also soon be announcing that Newman is hiding weapons of mass destruction.