The Exotic Erotic Expo

A companion and I attended the Exotic Erotic Expo this past Saturday afternoon, not to be confused with the Exotic Erotic Ball which was held later that evening. I had attended the ball a few years ago and, while it was a somewhat good time, it is nowhere near the wild bacchanalian orgy that people seem to think it is. Oh, don’t get me wrong. There are such places in SF, and I’d be happy to tell you where they are, but the Exotic Erotic Ball doesn’t happen to be one of them. Nor does it claim to be.

The Expo is held before and during the ball. My companion and I arrived about an hour after it began. It’s perfect for people like me; those of us who want some of the sleazy excitement of the Exotic Erotic Ball but are too cheap to cough up for the ticket. The Expo is only twenty bucks and the best way to think of it is as a swap meet for perverts.

Upon arrival I was a little disappointed by the small size of the event. There were about twenty or thirty booths set up in one of the cold and hardly exotic or erotic concrete hallways of the cavernous Cow Palace. There weren’t a great many people there, and after a quick trip through to check out all the booths I was beginning to suspect this event would be anything but twenty dollars well spent.

But I didn’t want to spend twenty bucks on something that only lasted ten minutes, unless it had gone up my nose. Scratch that—I don’t want that shit anymore either. And so my companion and I decided to do another lap around the Expo; this time more slowly and consciously.

I won’t bother describing what items were for sale. This is not that type of blog. OK, at least tonight it’s not. Use your imagination. There were, of course, booths that sold DVD’s and booths that sold clothing and booths that sold, uh, toys. But the best exhibit of all were the people walking around.

There were porn stars wearing the bare minimum of clothing allowed. And there were regular everyday folks in revealing outfits. There were beautiful women wearing nothing but the spray paint that had been applied to make them look like jungle beasts. And there were more than a couple of middle-aged women walking around braless in sheer shirts—probably for the first time in twenty years.

And I hope not the last. Go for it ladies—life is short. As we walked around I began to pick up a vibe, a good one. Everybody was so friendly. There was a relaxed atmosphere that I began to enjoy more and more. The people attending the Expo were friendly, the porn stars were friendly and even the guy who ran the oxygen booth was friendly.

Have you ever been to an oxygen bar? I hadn’t and I figured here was my chance to try something new. For six dollars each my companion and I sat on a stool (well, two stools) and had that tubing that you always see sick people wearing strapped to our faces. At each station there was a choice of four flavors of oxygen. There was lavender and jasmine and vanilla and even one called sex on the beach. I, being the wild man that I am, tried them all.

I believe the desired effect of inhaling concentrated oxygen is not intended to be relaxing, but rather invigorating. It’s just as well, because the friendly guy who ran the thing didn’t stop talking to me for a second, making relaxing completely out of the question. Mostly he was berating me for still owning a non-digital camera and also a computer that is seven years old. “That’s two generations back!” he exclaimed as I tried to uphold my end of a serious discussion with several feet of plastic tubing shoved up my nose and wrapped around my ears.

The oxygen, as far as I could tell, had no effect on me. “I just spent six dollars on air,” I thought glumly as I returned the apparatus to the friendly talkative guy. Actually we were told to keep the apparatus and that if we brought it when we came back again we’d get a dollar discount. Don’t hold your breath, I thought, and then laughed at the irony.

Without a doubt the best part of the Expo were the porn stars. They were manning (really bad choice of word there) various booths with assorted lace and leather garments covering select sections of their impressive anatomies. And they were really friendly, and I’m not sure why this surprised me. After all, I’ve seen many of them in porn films and they’ve always seemed to be quite friendly in those.

At one booth a stunning blond and a petite leather clad brunette performed some sort of S&M whipping ritual. Besides not owning a cutting edge computer and a digital camera, do you know what else I don’t have? A picture-taking cell phone. Ah, but about twenty guys did, and they were all now standing around the girls, phones at arms length and aimed as they attempted to get that perfect shot to show off to their work buddies on Monday in order to create the illusion that they do indeed, despite rumors to the contrary, have a life.

I myself did happen to have my old-school camera with me and after the crowd had dispersed I approached the blonde beauty and asked more politely than I have ever spoken to anybody in my life, including traffic cops, if I could take a picture with her. “Of course,” she said in that friendly porn star way, and the next thing I knew she had her arm around me while my companion took the shot. I thanked the porn star more politely than I have ever thanked anyone, walked away and began to berate my companion for taking the picture horizontally instead of vertically. “It was two people standing up! Listen, her breasts had better have made it into the shot,” I threatened. I was only half kidding, of course. Well, a quarter kidding. My companion shrugged. She’s a good sport.

Well the picture came out fine. There’s me with a dopey faked look of shock on my face with my arms around the beautiful porn star who may well have been thirty years my junior or more. I kept this in mind when I put a name to the photo. I called it “The Old Man and the C-Cup.” Get it? Hemingway? Ah, why do I bother…

We walked around the Expo a bit longer and I took pictures of some of the other porn stars. I even posed with another one—the little brunette who had previously been expertly whipping the buttocks of the blonde beauty with who I had taken the first photo. I even talked my companion into posing with one of the porn stars, which turned out to be one of the cutest photos we took. Not erotic or exotic mind you, but cute nonetheless.

When the film in the camera was done so were we, and so we left and hiked back to my car, leaving the Exotic Erotic Expo behind. We quickly found our way to a local shopping center and were soon breathing in the familiar and unflavored mall air. The Expo had been fun for a few hours, but now we had returned to our element. We browsed in a few stores, watched the groups of normal, modestly dressed people as they strolled by and went to the food court for lunch. I had Chinese food and my companion had Burger King.

The Night My Brother Fell In Love

For this one we’ll have to set the way-back machine to well over two decades ago. Let’s call it 1983. My brother and I had taken a trip together to Hawaii and as we pick up the action it’s a balmy tropical night that finds us in the hotel suite that we were renting on the island of Kauai.

My brother was in the living room and I was lying down in the bedroom staring at the ceiling. Both of us were whacked out of our minds on some of the local product. I had shared a joint earlier in the day with a local grower I had met, and had been nice enough to pocket the roach in order to share it later on with my brother. Yes, we were both in a near-catatonic state from simply having shared a single roach. People will tell you that grass wasn’t that powerful back then, but this stuff remains the strongest I’ve ever smoked and hopefully the strongest I ever will.

My body may have been deadly still on that hotel bed but my mind was soaring among the stars, fluttering from planet to planet like a moth at a light bulb convention. I heard no sound coming from the living room except for a thin layer of background music from the television. Suddenly I heard my brother’s voice and my mind immediately was whipped back into my body like a snapped bungee cord. With no small amount of effort I rose from the bed, steadied myself and plodded into the living room.

“What did you say?” I muttered. Looking back, it’s more probable that I said, “Did you say something?” After all, although I knew I had heard a voice, in my current condition I couldn’t be sure from where it had originated. All I knew for sure was that somebody had spoken to me.

“This chick,” said my brother, his drooping eyelids valiantly attempting to protect a pair of bloodshot eyes. “She’s kind of weird, but there’s something really attractive about her.”

I directed my gaze at the flickering TV screen and attempted to focus. MTV. My brother had been watching music videos while I had been space traveling. Then I focused a little more and zeroed in the object of my brother’s newfound lust. Oh, good God.

“So you think she’s pretty hot?” I asked, or something that was roughly the 1983 equivalent. I’m not sure that we described people as “hot” back then unless they had a fever.
“Yeah, I know she’s strange looking but I think she’s real sexy.”
“Uh yes, you’d make a lovely couple, “ I sighed and then lowered the sound on the TV and turned to face my brother.

I was, after all, the older one, and as such felt it my responsibility to help guide him through some of life’s confusing moments. Still, I must confess to being a little surprised, as my brother was always the one who was much more aware of the newer, more current music. I on the other hand was, and continue to be, hopelessly and blissfully stuck in the music of the sixties. And it was for this reason that I simply could not believe that my brother had never before seen or even heard of Boy George.

The Culprit Unmasked! (Sorta)

First, an apology. I know I promised last week that my Thursday night column would reveal the name of the dirty dog who actually gave away their signed copy of my book to a bookseller. (I’m not going to get into a whole back-story here—go back and read the damn thing yourself.) And yet when you visited the site on Friday I could almost feel your disappointment and, yes, anguish when the answer was not revealed.

And I know you did visit the site. Who would have thought that this little cliffhanger would turn out to be my own little “Who Shot J.R.?” episode. I’ve never seen my pumpkin hit-counter jump like that. Why, if my calculations are correct, over the last few days my daily hit average has approached nearly .000031% of Drudge’s! Starting to hear footsteps, Matt?

When we last met I had discovered that a copy of my first book was for sale on a website for booksellers. The description said the book was “signed by the author and inscribed.” (Goddamnit, I said I wasn’t going to do a back-story.)

I wrote to the bookseller and asked him exactly to whom the book was inscribed. He was kind enough to reply and, after a few cracks about the book obviously being written by someone who had recreational drug experience, informed me that the book was inscribed “To Kenny.” And again I’m sorry, but I’m not going to use the real name of the culprit.

Case closed, right? Except I knew for a fact that I had signed books for two friends named Kenny. And so I immediately sent out a single e-mail to them both (they’ve never met) and asked the guilty party to confess.

Kenny #1 said that he didn’t think that it was his book because he “would never give it away, even though he had just moved and donated a box of books to a library and didn’t he just see a copy of one of my books lying around somewhere and maybe his wife had somehow given it to…” The guy was babbling more than one of those meth freaks you see get pulled over on Cops.

If nothing else, Kenny #2 was much clearer and much more concise in his response. Obviously not having read that particular column, (and probably not any others, either) he said that he had no idea what this was all about, was at work and had no time for such nonsense. Well! Employed people can be so snooty.

Despite his denial, I’m almost certain that Kenny #1 is the villain here. All the signs are there: changing residences, donating books, guilt sweat on the upper lip. (Yes, I can tell that through an e-mail.) I don’t think I have enough evidence to prove beyond a shadow of doubt that it’s Kenny #1 and I certainly wouldn’t bet my life on it. But would I bet yours? Absolutely.

Postscript: After my exchange with the bookseller he declared that my book now had a “provenance” and he raised the price from $9.54 to $95.00! Check it out--you can now buy it on Amazon.

Or if you’d prefer you can buy as many copies as you need directly from me for twenty bucks a pop at LeonardStegmann.com. Provenance included.

Inscribed and Signed By The Author

OK, who’s the culprit? Sure I’m an egomaniac, but I’m an inquisitive sort of egomaniac and somewhat of a bibliophile to boot. And believe me, the biblios that I phile the most are the ones I’ve written. So imagine my surprise when I searched my own name on www.abebooks.com (and not for the first time) and found a copy of my first book for sale!

The description says that the book is inscribed and signed by the author. Well, of course it is. Try and find a copy that isn’t. (Outside of the ones sitting in my garage, that is.) The blurb goes on to say that the book is FINE, which immediately swelled my head until I realized it referred to the physical condition of the book and not to the quality of the writing. The description also contains the phrase “clean, tight and square” which, again, is referring to the book and not the author.

As I mentioned earlier, I’m a curious sort. And right now I’m wondering how a signed copy of my book, an inscribed copy at that, ended up with some bookseller. I guess what I’m really asking is which of you had the audacity to give my book away? (And you most surely must have given it away, since the bookseller is able to sell it for a mere $9.54. A First Edition signed “Stegmann” for less than ten bucks! What is this world coming to?)

So, am I petty enough to buy back my own book just to track down the criminal who thought that the 153-page volume took up too much room on his or her precious bookshelf? Sure I’m petty enough, but I’m just too cheap to do it. But, and be warned my friends and/or family, (After all, who else bought the book?) I’m not above sending an e-mail to the seller to ask to whom the book is inscribed. That’s free, after all. In fact I already did exactly that between writing the second and third paragraphs of this article. Starting to feel the noose tighten, eh?

I expect the bookseller to respond sometime tomorrow, or certainly by Friday. And when he does I’ll know. And then I’ll be wanting some answers, by God! And so you, my fair-weather fan, now find yourself with about 48 hours to come up with an acceptable reason why the book I so generously signed for you (After you had, of course, shelled out over twice its apparent worth. Ahem.) is now sitting among the dusty stacks of far lesser books in some bookseller’s basement in Richmond, California. And it had better be good.

TOMORROW NIGHT: THE VILLIAN UNMASKED!

After The Sun Sets

In front of me I’ve placed a book called After The Sun Sets. I know it sounds like erotica, but it is not. It’s actually a book that I’ve owned for decades, since childhood in fact, and yet knew exactly where on the bookshelf to find it tonight.

Many old books smell wonderful; a dusty blend of intellect and time. This one, however, does not. In fact it kind of stinks and I’m looking forward to finishing this article so I can return it to the shelf, perhaps for another decade or two.

The book is brown and fairly beat up. And, much like a Democratic congressman, the spine is missing. Under the title on the front cover, is a two-color depiction of a knight charging on a horse. There is a line below the illustration that tells me that After The Sun Sets is one of The Wonder-Story Books, whatever the hell they are. I mean, were.

Inside the three hundred page book is a collection of stories, most of which have been known to us in one form or another since we were children. Hansel and Gretel, Cinderella, and Snow White all make appearances. There are also some lesser-known characters; for example, who the hell is Aiken-Drum the Brownie? Who cares, he’s probably dead by now.

After The Sun Sets is not just some ordinary book that I’ve carried with me for most of my life. No, it is so much more. In fact it is a book that I’ve felt guilty about owning ever since it was given to me nearly half a century ago.

This happened in either first or second grade. Let’s say first. Our teacher, Mrs. Clerk, had to leave for some unexplained reason, and so our class was shuffled across the hall to be combined for a few hours with the other first grade class. Mrs. Clerk had warned us to behave while she was gone and reminded us that we were, in fact, guests in this new classroom. And so she left, but not before delivering a final promise: When she returned she would have a present for each of us; at least for those of us who hadn’t needed to be “spoken to” by our temporary teacher.

A short time later I was sitting in a chair in the over-crowded classroom, listening attentively to this unknown teacher, relaxed with my hands clasped behind my head. I must have looked a little too relaxed for this rigid 1950’s-style educator, because suddenly the impossible happened.

“You! Yes, you! Put your arms down!”

I was stunned. I lowered my arms as told, but my mind was racing. Why was this teacher talking to me in this sharp manner? I was, after all, a star pupil. Didn’t she know that? And, worst of all, had I just been “spoken to”?

My brain was still in a confused anguish when Mrs. Clerk returned and herded us back into our home classroom. And then she asked the question:

“Was anybody spoken to while I was gone?”

One kid whose name is lost in the foggy recesses raised his hand, and this was no surprise to anybody including Mrs. Clerk. I may not remember this child’s name, but I do recall that he was a complete fuck-up.

“Anybody else?” Mrs. Clerk asked.

Of course I couldn’t raise my hand, and it was not that I so desperately wanted whatever gift Mrs. Clerk was planning on handing out. It was that I didn’t belong in that “bad student” category. Why, had I confessed, I frantically justified, it might give an old lady like Mrs. Clerk (she was probably about 35) a heart attack. I was, after all, one of her prize pupils.

And besides, exactly what did it mean to be “spoken to” anyway? She should have more clearly defined her parameters. My only surprise was the silence of my classmates. I truly expected one of them to snitch at any minute, or at least bring up the incident for a class discussion. But nobody did. And my arm remained at my side.

This incident took place around 1960. After The Sun Sets was published in 1938, and so each of us “good” students was rewarded with their very own copy of a 22-year old book, a book that had obviously been discontinued by the New York City Board of Education.

That then is the end of the story and so finally I can take this now nearly 70-year old book and return it, along with its foul odor, to the dark obscurity of my bookshelf. And no, the boy who confessed did not receive a copy.

Keep Your Pulitzer--I've Got A Triple Plus Mark!

Somewhere during that long ago summer between fourth and fifth grade I came across a fellow student in the playground. It might well have been on the monkey bars.

“So who you got next year?” he asked, his grammar completely disgracing his fourth grade teacher and all those who had come before.
“For the coming school year I’ve been assigned to Mr. Z.” I replied. In truth my grammar had probably been no better than my friend’s, but this is, after all, my article.
“Mr. Z? Man, all he teaches is poetry.”

This statement by my monkey bar-swinging friend caused me a little bit of concern, but not that much surprise. Frankly this was not the first time I had heard this about Mr. Z, but I was young and trusting. After all, whatever Mr. Z decided to teach must be OK, since they allowed him do continue to do it. Right? Right??

As it turns out Mr. Z taught all the required subjects and did indeed concentrate on poetry. And I don’t think anybody in that classroom came out worse for the experience. Of course I would say that, since I eventually became, if not the “teacher’s pet," then certainly one of his favorites. And you know what? I kind of liked him too.

By the way, you just don’t get to be teacher’s pet. You’ve got to earn it. I’m sure I did many wonderful things that year to achieve my lofty status but it should be no surprise that my coup de grace was poetry related.

Part of Mr. Z’s teaching method included the handing out of Plus Marks. If you did something good, if you gave an answer to particularly difficult question, if you performed a kind act, you earned a Plus Mark. It was a good feeling when Mr. Z gave you a Plus Mark because there was a certain amount of ceremony involved. He’d stop whatever he was doing, reach way down into his lower desk drawer and pull out his grade book. And right then and there your Plus Mark was entered into your record. Your permanent record.

I don’t remember receiving any one particular Plus Mark, but I’m sure I accumulated a crateful. To me, and to others I’m sure, the Plus Mark was not that big a deal. Why? Because there was such a thing as the Double Plus Mark.

These, as you might deduce, were much harder to obtain than the regular old Plus Mark, and therefore much more rare. I’ve no doubt that I also received my share of Double Plus Marks along the way, although once again I don’t remember how they were earned. Hey, give me a break—it was over forty years ago. There was, by the way, no such thing as a Triple Plus Mark.

Until…

We had been spending another day learning about poetry. Mr. Z. was teaching us about what constituted a Shakespearean sonnet. Pretty egg-heady stuff for ten year olds, wouldn’t you agree? Good for him. And then he dropped the bomb: Mr. Z announced that he would award not a Plus Mark or even the coveted Double Plus Mark, but a previously non-existent Triple Plus Mark to anyone who could write a Shakespearean sonnet!

Now I don’t remember all the details and I am certainly not motivated to look them up, but I believe a Shakespearean sonnet ( and remember I’m going back four decades here) is made up of fourteen lines—three quatrains followed by a rhyming couplet. The rhyme scheme is ABAB and the meter is iambic pentameter. And not only do I still remember all that, but I still know what it means. So again, good for you Mr. Z.

As a topic for my attempt at writing a Shakespearean sonnet I chose the Ford exhibit at the 1964 World’s Fair. That’s where the Mustang was introduced, by the way. It’s funny that they don’t seem to have World’s Fairs anymore. I wonder why? Perhaps there are already enough terrorist targets out there so we really don’t need to be spending time and money building more.

This morning when I woke up thinking about this poem I was surprised at how little of it I actually remember. Despite my jokes to the contrary, I seem to have a head stuffed with useless facts and information that won’t allow erasure no matter what I do. But oddly enough, I don’t remember the title of this poem or anything much past the first four lines. Those I think went something like this:

If you want to see the very best sight,
It’s at the 1964 World’s Fair.
Something-something-something-right,
Something-I know, ‘cause I was there.

OK, give me a break. I was ten. Wow, I guess I should have really written it down somewhere.

I was standing in line at school for lunch (entrée, vegetables, bread, milk and dessert—35 cents) when Mr. Z came running up to me all out of breath. I can’t speak for any aspects of Mr. Z’s social life outside of school, but I couldn’t imagine him ever becoming much more excited than he appeared to be at this moment. His eyes were bulging in his head and he was clearly out of breath. This was possibly more a result of his heavy smoking and three-hundred-pound frame than my poetry, but still…

I had done it. The meter was correct, as were the rhymes and the number and organization of the lines. I had, at the age of ten, written a Shakespearean sonnet. And more importantly I was to be awarded the first Triple Plus Mark ever recorded in all of human history. And, I still like to believe, the last.

Regular readers might recall that this was the same year that Mr. Z. had asked each girl in the class to whisper in his ear the name of a boy they had a crush on. He then announced that the results were “unanimous.” He didn’t mention any name of course, but trust me, we all knew.

And tonight I ask you to not be jealous simply because I wrote a Shakespearean sonnet and had the love of twenty giggly schoolgirls all in the same year. Sure it sounds like it was fun, but remember there’s always a down side. Believe me, life is long and difficult and it’s not made any less so when you must face the fact that you reached your peak in the fifth grade.

Best Bitch Ever

A few weeks ago I had started to watch The Last Seduction and, although I had already seen it at least four or five times, I figured enough time had passed since the most recent viewing that I could enjoy it once again. I don’t remember on which cable channel I was watching it, but somewhere along the way I realized that the film had been edited. Early on I became suspicious when some truly foul words appeared to be missing from the dialogue, but when I realized that the Sex By The Trash Cans scene was missing completely I immediately turned the channel. I would no sooner watch an edited version of The Last Seduction than I would listen to the Beatles through only one speaker.

Since their inception movies have always been filled with evil women. We’ve been horrified as Bette Davis pushes her wheelchair-bound sister down a flight of stairs and turned our heads in disgust as Glenn Close boils a bunny. But for sheer unrepentant evil, combined with a smoldering sexiness that refuses to be extinguished, I’d pick the brutally icy Bridget Gregory, as portrayed by Linda Fiorentino.

I was talking to my Mom today and since she has finally discovered the joy of renting videos (now that they’re DVD’s) I told her about The Last Seduction. As I began to relate how the movie began I could feel myself getting into the story all over again, until my mother had to interrupt and say, “Don’t tell me anymore!” She didn’t want me to ruin the movie before she could send my Dad out to fetch it, and I’ll extend to you the same courtesy. Simply allow me to whet your appetite: Linda Fiorentino is married to a doctor who turns an illegal drug deal and comes home with a cool $750,000 in cash. While he’s in the shower she takes off with the loot. And from there The Last Seduction is off and running.

Years ago (the film came out in 1994) I heard the rumor that because The Last Seduction was first shown on HBO before being released to the theaters Linda Fiorentino was ineligible to receive an Oscar nomination. I was able to verify from two sources online that this indeed is correct, although neither source mentioned HBO specifically, just “television.”

This is of course unfortunate, but I doubt that Ms. Fiorentino is losing sleep at night feeling cheated, knowing as an actor that a brilliant performance in a great movie is something that lives on forever. On the other hand if someone had been foolish enough to treat Bridget Gregory in such a dismissive manner—well, I wouldn’t want to be around when she extracted her cold, calculating and oh-so-sexy revenge.

The End of the Baseball Season

And that’s that. If those pathetic Mets had won by two runs or more tonight I would have picked up about $500. Even if the Mets had won by only a run I still would have gotten $225. But the Mets, the far superior team and playing at home, of course lost and I ended up winning zilch. Zip. Nada. And so now we face a World Series between a mediocre team and a second-place team. Enjoy it, Folks. As for me, I’m declaring the baseball season officially over.

But before we leave baseball I heard an interesting tidbit the other day, so of course I jumped right onto the web to see if it was true. Someone said that Joe DiMaggio had a lucrative promotional deal waiting for him during his famous hitting streak of 1941.

The story goes that the Heinz 57 company had offered Joltin’ Joe the sum of $10,000 for an endorsement if and when he hit in his 57th consecutive game. As all true baseball fans know, the famed streak ended at 56, and so Joe never received the money. And by the way, that ten thousand was no chump change. Sure you can’t even buy a car or bribe a congressman for that today (well, depending on the district) but those were pre-inflationary gold-backed 1941 greenbacks, Clyde, and ten thousand of them was the rough equivalent of $136,000 today. Oh, now you’re interested.

I went to my favorite destroyer of urban legends and other assorted bullshit, http://www.snopes.com/, but could not find a definitive answer. DiMaggio himself said that there was never any agreement and it was just talk, so that’s good enough for me. But that got me to thinking about that 56 game hitting streak of long ago.

Today DiMaggio’s streak still remains the longest consecutive hitting streak in baseball history. It has been referred to as “the record that will never be broken.” As a young adolescent baseball fan I never really understood this. What’s so great about getting a hit in every game for 56 straight games? After all, a player could go 1 for 4 for 56 games in a row and still only end up batting an anemic .250 for that period. Yes, in my ignorant youth I was fairly certain that “the record that will never be broken” would indeed someday be smashed, and probably within just a few seasons. And if not that quickly, then certainly within my lifetime.

(How about the Buffalo Bills losing four consecutive Super Bowls—now there’s a record that will never be broken. I mean, what with parity and all it would take a minor miracle for another team just to get to the Super Bowl four years in a row.)

And yet, although Ruth’s homerun records have fallen and Gehrig’s iron man streak is gone, DiMaggio’s 56 game hitting streak remains intact, 65 years later. In fact nobody has even come particularly close. (Pete Rose had a 44 game hitting streak in 1978. The best Ty Cobb ever did was 35.)

So what do I know? Maybe this truly is a record that will never be broken, although never is a long, long time. So am I willing to bet today that it will be broken? Hey, why are you asking me now? Didn’t I just finish telling you that baseball season is over?

Now What Am I Supposed To Do?

It was just about three years ago that I stormed out of my job in an artistic snit. Actually that’s not even close to the truth, but it sounds a lot cooler than what really happened, and so the sentence stands as is.

Anyhow, I like to think I’ve had a few accomplishments over this period of time. Oh don’t worry, I’m not going to bore you with the entire list. (Are two items considered a list?) I will tell you, however, that I completed one of those glorious achievements on this very day, and aren’t you just dying to hear all about it? ‘Course you are.

Over the last three years I have taken on and completed the super-human feat of acquiring, organizing and watching all 198 episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000 ! Ta-daaaa! OK, that’s another lie. I have indeed watched every episode of this program from Seasons 1-10, but before the show went national there was a first a season shown locally in Minnesota. These shows are generally referred to as Season 0.

So in truth I have not yet watched Season 0. And as long as I am being honest I am currently waiting for two episodes from Season 7 that I somehow missed to arrive in the mail. And as long as I’m being super-honest, I don’t know for a fact that the two episodes are from Season 7 and I’m too damn lazy to get up and look. There.

OK, so of course I’m planning on watching the dozen or so episodes from Season 0, but this is not going to be easy. I’ve seen a bit of the first one and as a local program it is not nearly as entertaining as the classic MST3K that we all grew to know and love. (Except for those of you, which I suspect includes most of you, who have never heard of it.)

But OK, I’ll watch all the Season 0 episodes. And by then the two programs from Season 7 (or whatever) should have arrived, so I’ll watch them too. And then I’ll truly be able to look you in the eye and say that I have watched all 198 episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000 ! (To which you’ll probably respond, “Get away from me before I call the cops, you weirdo!” And trust me, you won’t be the first.)

Even as my aging brain is deteriorating not only to the point of not remembering what I had for breakfast but not knowing exactly which of the three daily meals is breakfast, I still know that it will be a while before I’ll forget enough of the shows so that I can begin to watch them again. And yes, when I finally check into the old-age home I’ll be able to watch them anew with my other senile, half-deaf ("What did that little robot say? Turn it up!”) friends, but what am I supposed to do until then?

Oh sure, I can go through the entire collection of discs (which I’ve artistically and chronologically organized in a nifty black zippered album, I might add) hoping to find an episode that I have somehow skipped, much like a drooling cokehead might crawl through his filthy shag carpeting searching for a non-existent dropped rock. And I know that I too will find nothing.

For I realize that once I’ve watched Season 0 and the two episodes from Season 7 (or whatever) there can be no denying the truth: I will have seen all 198 episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000. I will be done. There are no more. And then what am I supposed to do?

So, what’s your biggest problem?

The Sound I Least Want to Hear

It was one of those mornings when 7:30 found me still in a deep sleep. So deep that I failed to notice Spike get out of bed, or hear the shower running or even the rattling of kitchen utensils as she prepared her mandatory daily waffles. In fact I remain asleep until it’s time for the customary kiss good-bye. I have not yet figured out a way to accomplish this exchange while still remaining asleep, but I’m working on it.

I have, however, pretty much trained Spike to not enter the bedroom and loudly exclaim, “Good-bye!” before the kiss. It took a bit of work, but believe me it was worth the effort. There’s something that’s just a little more special about a day that doesn’t begin with somebody’s loud voice scaring the living shit out of you.

And then the front door closes and that’s usually my signal to get up. Usually, but not always. Like this morning for example. I knew that I would go back to sleep, as I had been up until about 2:00 in the morning. And what had kept me awake until that god-awful hour, you ask? I had been slaving away over the keyboard writing some dopey quiz about lightning solely for the amusement of you ingrates. And as it had only been about five hours since I had gone to bed I knew I was heading right back to dreamland. And without guilt, too. Somebody owed me more sleep, damnit!

There is one sound that I never want to hear after Spike has left the house. Can you guess what it is? Oh I mean besides the obvious ones such as a 747 crashing through my roof or the drunken bellow of an armed and angry husband yelling, “I finally found you, Stegmann!” No, it’s the sound of the door re-opening after Spike has already left.

For this sound can mean only one of two things. The first, and much preferred, is that she has forgotten something and has run in to retrieve it, delaying my return to slumber by just a few seconds. The second, and deadlier, alternative is, say it with me: her car won’t start.

When the door re-opened this morning I listened with a hushed stillness that rivals that of a mouse as he waits for an army of cats to march by. When I heard those three steps heading for the bedroom I knew I was doomed. She didn’t have to say the words, but she did anyway. “My car won’t start.”

And like the prisoner being summoned to his execution I know there is no way out. I climb out of bed, put on some pants in honor of the neighbors and before I am halfway to the door I hear another horrible sound: The incessant bleating of a car horn alarm.

And it’s not stopping. In my half-asleep stupor I wonder could it be mine? I swore I was going to have that thing disconnected last time I was at Toyota. I aimed my little clicker thing at my car and pressed any button my thumb landed on. No results. But by now my head was clearer and I could plainly see it wasn’t my car throwing the electronic tantrum but Spike’s. I also instinctively knew something else, something that was becoming more apparent with each beep: She hadn’t the faintest idea how to turn it off. And of course neither did I. Not my car.

I barely remember now that I had groggily jumped into her car and began pressing buttons at random. Wiper buttons, cigarette lighter, smiley face sticker—I pushed them all. Anything to make that clarion from Hell stop. This aural attack had already been going on for some time and I realized that by now all the neighbors hated me. Well, I mean even more than they already did. I even tried to lift the hood, something else I didn’t know how to do. And it’s a good thing I didn’t, because I would have had no compunction about locating the horn and silencing the noisy bastard with a few sharp whacks from my trusty axe.

Finally I did the only thing I could think of to reduce the ear-splitting noise—I went back into the house. There I almost immediately evolved about 10,000 years and so came to the point where I was capable of using a portion of my brain. I looked up “Alarm System” in the car’s owner’s manual.

“Turn the door key!” I yelled to Spike. She did and a blissful silence filled my ears. For a bit. And then the noise began anew. And not only was the horn of Spike’s car blaring again, but the alarm on our neighbor’s truck had gone off as well. Can you even begin to guess, and I swear this is true, the single word that popped into my mind when I saw two unoccupied vehicles honking their horns and flashing their lights at the same time? “Aliens!”

Eventually Spike was able to figure out what triggered the alarm and what stopped it. Both had something to do with the door key, but I’m still unclear on the specifics. And since I now had use of both the owner’s manual and my newly evolved brain I decided to check the index and find out exactly where those bellicose Germans had hidden the goddamn hood latch. Well what do you know, there it was right where I thought it should be.

Now with the hood open I asked Spike where her jumper cables were. Even though I knew I had given her a complete emergency road service kit a few years back I wasn’t at all surprised when she said she didn’t have any jumper cables. Now maybe they went with the new owner when she sold her old car and maybe they didn’t. Or maybe they were taken by the aliens. I didn’t care. It was about fifty degrees out, the cars and the ground were covered with a cold, almost icy, thick morning dew and I was standing on the driveway in my bare feet.

And so I acted completely disgusted, as if any chance of starting the car was now lost because Spike neglected to carry jumper cables. I did this, mind you, knowing full well that I had a set of jumper cables in my own car. Why would anybody act like this? Well, I could give you a lot of complicated psychological reasons for my behavior, but I believe that the main reason, and you’ll probably agree here, is that I’m an asshole.

The moment of truth had come. The alarm was off, the cables were hooked up and the neighbors were pissed. But would the car start? Five minutes from this instant would either find me back under the covers trying desperately to catch up on my much-deserved sleep while attempting at the same time to warm my nearly-frostbitten tootsies, or driving Spike over the hill to her job and then driving back home and then driving back again to pick her up this afternoon and then driving back home.

I won’t keep you in suspense. Although it took a few cranks Spike’s car finally roared to life and within three minutes and thirty seconds I was back under the covers. Within four I was asleep.

So let me ask you this. None of us stands alone. Spouses, lovers, friends, family or even strangers—we’re all here to help each other in times of need, big or small. And I, despite an admittedly crappy attitude, had done just that. But the next time Spike’s car won’t start at 7:30 in the morning or her car alarm screams likes a London siren during World War II, would it be terribly rude of me to simply bark, “Call Triple-A” and then put the covers over my head to muffle the noise as I happily return to sleep? Just wondering.

A Positively Shocking Lightning Quiz

I am never more convinced that, despite the passing of the centuries and the technical advancements that have been achieved, mankind basically remains the superstitious ape who thousands of years ago divided his spare time between slapping mud on the crumbling walls of his hovel and praying to insects and the occasional astronomical phenomenon. It never fails that when I’m into one of my patented blasphemous screeds (which I perform regularly--partly because of my own beliefs and partly to entertain/horrify the attending rabble) at least one seemingly intelligent person will step back and declare that he doesn’t want to be nearby when God strikes me with lightning.

And the person is only partially joking. I can assure you that making fun of the big guy in the sky makes people very nervous, even if it’s only done in a light-hearted way. And I never do it in a light-hearted way.

Believe me, God had more than ample opportunity to strike me down once and for all on my last visit to Florida. As I’ve mentioned before, Florida is a humid, infested swamp that I’m sure was never intended to be inhabited by humans, but boy they get some great lightning storms down there. And I enjoy them immensely.

But apparently not everybody does. We were driving to a local restaurant with my parents, Spike and I sitting in the back seat, when the ominously dark skies suddenly put on an electrical display that rivaled anything I’d ever seen. And I’ve seen things, man, I’ve seen things. Spike on the other hand, born and bred in a virtually lightning-less community near San Francisco, was enjoying the storm…less. Now I can’t swear that she actually peed her pants on the way to that restaurant, and as an objective reporter it wouldn’t be right for me to even speculate about how close she came to doing so. Still, as a betting man I’d take even money that the answer is “pretty damn close.”

People in Florida know a lot more about lightning for much the same reason that Eskimos know more about polar bears—it’s a part of their lives. After watching that tremendous display from the backseat of my dad’s car it dawned on me how little I actually did know about lightning. Like, is the back seat of your dad’s car a safe place to be? Or if I was outside should I stand under the nearest tree or would that be the rough equivalent of sticking my tongue in a socket? See, I don’t know these things and neither do you, unless you live in Florida.

Or maybe you do know a thing or two about this beautiful and fatal type of weather we call lightning. Let’s find out together, shall we? Tonight’s quiz is a shocking little piece about our high-voltage friend, Lightning.

1. Where would you be safest if caught in a lightning storm?
a. Under a tree
b. In your car
c. Lying flat on the ground
d. Standing in a stream

2. How hot can a bolt of lightning get?
a. 212 degrees Fahrenheit
b. 500 degrees Fahrenheit
c. 5,000 degrees Fahrenheit
d. 50,000 degree Fahrenheit

3. Of the two thousand people who are injured by lightning each year, about how many die?
a. About 5%
b. 25-33%
c. Over 80%
d. Only the sinners die.

4. Park Ranger Roy Sullivan has been struck by lightning more than any other person. How many times?
a. 7
b. 22
c. 67
d. Over 100 times

5. Who was reportedly struck twice by lightning during the filming of The Passion of the Christ?
a. Actor Jim Cavielzel, who played Jesus
b. Assistant Director Jan Michelini
c. Director Mel Gibson
d. All of the above except the known anti-Semites

6. On average, how often does lightning strike the Earth?
a. 100 times a week
b. 100 times an hour
c. 100 times a minute
d. 100 times a second

7. Which is the lightning capital of the world?
a. Singapore
b. Florida
c. Rwanda
d. Norway

8. Which part of the U.S. gets the least amount of lightning?
a. Puget Sound
b. Southern North Dakota
c. Northern South Dakota
d. Central California Coast

9. What is the number one weather killer in the U.S. ?
a. Tornadoes
b. Floods
c. Lightning
d. FEMA

10. Which statement is not true?
a. Rubber shoes can help protect you from lightning
b. Talking on the phone causes the most inside lightning injuries
c. Standing under a tree is extremely dangerous during a lightning storm
d. Most lightning deaths in the U.S. occur during the summer.


ANSWERS:

1. IN YOUR CAR. Contrary to popular belief, there is no truly safe place outside during a lightning storm. Hell, there are damn few safe outside places left even when there isn’t a lightning storm
2. 50,000 degrees F. That’s three times as hot as the sun and approaching the average August temperature in Florida.
3. About 25-33% of those struck by lightning die. I mean, from the lightning. The rest all die too. Eventually.
4. 7. See how I slipped in the answer as the lowest, just to throw you off. “Only seven times?” you thought to yourself. Listen you sadistic bastard, you go out and get hit by lightning seven times and then we’ll see if “only” is still in your vocabulary.
5. Both Cavielzel and Michelini were reportedly struck twice each. I guess God’s waiting to nail Gibson until he says something offensive.
6. 100 TIMES A SECOND. Good guess.
7. SINGAPORE or RWANDA. Give yourself credit if you chose either. This is like one of those questions you had in school where your teacher fucked up and had to accept two answers. Except I didn’t fuck up. I simply found two different answers at two different websites. You’re welcome.
8. CENTRAL CALIFORNIA COAST. Yup, right about where I’m sitting at this very moment. But I love lightning, so why in the world am I living here? Must be the nude beaches and great dope.
9. FLOODS. Well come on, did you think I was going to make it that easy? If it makes you feel any better lightning is number two.
10. RUBBER SHOES won’t do a damn thing for you during a lightning storm. On the other hand, rubbers may protect you if you’re having sex with the town sleaze during a lightning storm.

Inside Information For The Ladies

It’s a cool and damp and there is a chance of a minor storm blowing in off the Pacific. Ah, but the candles are lit, the incense is burning, it’s late at night and the wine glass is full. And so ladies, as we find ourselves this evening in the environment that you seem to treasure the most, let’s talk a bit.

Do you like stories? Of course you do, so let’s begin with one—a true one. Our tale takes place oh, say five years ago. A friend of mine, who I’ll call James, is on vacation. Let’s put him in Paris, as that is sure to get your romantic juices flowing, oui?

Now James had been in the City of Lights for about three days when he meets a fellow tourist--a woman. What shall we name her? Actually, why go through the bother—it truly doesn’t matter to the story.

Now James has one main goal while he is staying in Paris, and trust me it’s not to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower or to eat snails. James wants to get laid. And now that he has met (damn, now I wish I had given her a name) this woman he feels his chances of achieving that goal have greatly improved. And so they have.

Now please forgive me if at this point the details become a little sketchy. Remember this is a true story told to me directly by my friend James and only some minor facts have been altered. Facts such as my friend’s name, the city in which these events occurred and how long ago it took place. And maybe a few others.

So perhaps James took this woman to dinner or perhaps they just strolled along the Seine (or whatever river happened to flow through the city they were actually in.) Eventually James knew it was time to make his move.

But James also knew that he could not bring the woman back to his hotel room nor could she bring him to hers. Why this is so is not important. No, neither one was married. Just trust me on this, it is nothing more than an insignificant detail of little consequence. So after the couple enjoys some heavy bouts of tonsil hockey along the Seine (or whatever) James suggested they get a room at a four-star hotel.

Four-star hotels in Paris, as you must be aware, can be very expensive. Four-star hotels in any city can be expensive. And the exact price that James paid for the room is, sadly, another one of the details that has receded into the fog-filled crannies of my deteriorating brain. But if a number is truly needed in order to make this story come alive for you, I don’t think it would be too far off to suggest that James paid about $200 for the room. And then James got laid.

Fast-forward twenty-four hours. James and the woman are together again. Would you like them to be walking hand-in-hand along the Seine? Fine, you got it. Things once again begin to heat up and James realizes that he would not mind a rematch of last night’s action, and judging from the lip lock being administered by the woman he’s thinking she feels pretty much the same way.

I’ll spare you the gory details. Just know that James for the second night in a row had sex with this woman. I don’t want to speculate or get too graphic but I’m sure there were some aspects of the act that were similar to the first encounter. There was, however, one difference. Some, actually almost anyone, would call it a major difference. For this time when our two eager lovers created the beast with two backs it was not in the warm and snuggly confines of a king size bed in a high-end hotel. No, this time when our hot-pantsed romantics went at it they did it in the dark, damp and olfactory challenging confines of a public restroom.

Ladies, allow me to save you five or ten bucks a month. Don’t waste your time reading those articles in Cosmo or any of those other female rags that promise you "Ten Secrets That Will Drive Him Wild" or "How To Make Every Night A Honeymoon." No candlelight or bubble bath or wig or French maid’s outfit is going to re-ignite that spark in your tired old man. And the reason is because under all that fluff and nonsense, and I mean no disrespect here, you are still you.

I must give credit to comedian Bill Maher who puts it accurately and succinctly. There are no secrets when it comes to figuring out sexual attraction in men. Men divide women into two groups, and they have nothing to do with height, weight, age or bra size. To us you are simply old or new. Either we’ve had a woman before and thereby conquered her, or we haven’t, but hope to.

How else would you explain why a Hugh Grant, who had a gorgeous Elizabeth Hurley waiting at home, would be crawling around in a back seat with a slobbering Divine Brown? How else do you explain a toad like Billy Joel getting tired of a Christie Brinkley? There is only old and new: that is all ye know and all ye need to know.

And that, Ladies, is why my friend James was willing to shell out $200 (or more!) for a few hours in a hotel just to bed a woman with whom he had never been with before. And that’s also why the very next night James had sex with the very same woman (who was certainly no longer the same to him) in a dank cement bunker of a crapper beneath the romantic streets of Paris.

Or wherever.

The Mess Who

Yeah, I thought it was pretty gosh darn clever to have the answer to last night’s Guess Who quiz be the classic rock band The Guess Who. I never expected I would have so much trouble coming up with decent clues for you all. The reasons for this are varied.

Right off the bat regular readers (yes, both of you) should have noticed that the mystery subject was for the first time not referred to as Mr. X or Ms. X. How could I, when the subject was not a single person, but a group?

And yet even though The Guess Who was (is) a group I didn’t want to give it away with clues that began with “They formed in 1962” or “They toured Canada in 2000.” I mean, once it was known that our mystery guest was a rock group even the simplest of readers could have made the leap and figured out the answer to last night’s Guess Who was The Guess Who. Hell, even you could have figured it out. Probably.

Personal trivia was also eliminated because the subject was a group. I might say that Mr. X had twins in 1977 or Ms. X once fell off a horse, but there aren’t many such facts that would encompass an entire band. (Well, there may have been rock bands in the ‘60’s that “had twins” but that’s another area of discussion altogether.)

And the history of the Guess Who is such a mess, and that made creating clues even more difficult. For example, as I admitted last night that even among the few clues I managed to come up with one was practically bogus. Now it’s true that Burton Cummings and Randy Bachman, the two most famous members of the group, did indeed give a benefit concert during some disastrous floods that took place near Winnipeg, but guess what? At the time they could not legally bill themselves as the Guess Who. So I twisted the facts a bit, but it was solely because I was so desperate for decent clues. I swear it will never happen again. As far as you know.

The best part of doing the research on the Guess Who was uncovering bits of information about their long and twisted history as a rock band. For example, the original name of the band was Chad Allan and the Reflections, later changed to Chad Allan and the Expressions. Who knows why they changed it? It hardly seems like it would be worth the effort.

They had a #1 hit in Canada in 1964, but their record company, in order to create an air of mystery about the record, credited the performers as “Guess Who?” The hope was that rumors would be created about what famous musicians might actually be playing on the song, perhaps even a member or two of a rock band from Liverpool that was also experiencing some degree of success in 1964.

It’s anybody’s guess if this little trick had much of an effect on the success of the record at all, but for the next two records the band was billed as both Chad Allan and the Expressions and Guess Who? Disc jockeys, however, continued to refer to the band as Guess Who? and so a permanent name change was forced. The question mark was dropped from the name in 1968 (Maybe it was picked up by The Mysterians. Too obscure?) and the final name the Guess Who lives on today in the various mixings and matchings and reformations of the many members who at one time or another were members of this popular band from the golden era of rock.

And now you know the mess of the story.

Guess Who # 12

Well, it’s been about two weeks since out last Guess Who and I really don’t like to overuse the game. As you know I like to keep the Guess Who game in my bag of tricks for those special (i.e. drunken) nights when I don’t have anything particularly interesting to say. “Ah, but Leonard,” I hear you smugly asking, “if that were true wouldn’t we already be on Guess Who #2,876?”

You know what? Bite me.

Actually I’ve been itching to use the subject of tonight’s Guess Who ever since I wrote the last one. (Well, that’s one of the reasons I’ve been itching.) In fact I almost switched them at the last minute last time but I didn’t because I’ve always been a person of great patience. You’d know that if you knew at what age I lost my virginity.

But alas, like that glorious night with Jennifer not so many years ago, I can wait no more. (And her name really wasn’t Jennifer and it most certainly wasn’t at night.) I want to play the next Guess Who game right now because I think it will be fun, and especially because I think the answer is so goddamn clever and cute I almost can’t stand it.

You know the rules. Figure out who I’m talking about below without using the Internet. That would be cheating and I will find out about it.


The subject of tonight’s Guess Who game:

Had a #1 Hit in Canada in 1964.

Had only U.S. #1 hit in 1970.

Had a final hit record about legendary DJ Wolfman Jack.

Performed a benefit concert for Winnipeg during the 1997 floods.*

Toured Canada in 2000.

Performed during Flower Power Concert Series at Walt Disney World in 2006.


Yep, that’s it. I guess this didn’t work out quite as well as I expected. You’ll agree that’s the worst (and shortest) list of clues I’ve yet to come up with. And one of the clues is hopelessly flawed, besides. Ah, but there are legitimate reasons for that, my friend, but enough of my whiney excuses. Just tell me, who is the subject of tonight’s Guess Who?

It Was Forty Years Ago Today

Watching late-night TV the other night when I happened to stumble upon a couple of episodes of The Monkees. I was shocked to realize that it had been forty years since I had first watched this once-popular program, and in fact a good many years since I had last seen it. So what the hell—it was a great night for a trip down memory lane.

I remember watching The Monkees from the moment it premiered in 1966. It was a hugely popular show and the Monkees became a hugely popular band. In fact in 1967 they had four #1 albums, a feat that had never been accomplished before or since been repeated. By anybody. That same year Monkees records outsold the Beatles and Elvis combined.

I recall listening to the radio in the kitchen just waiting to hear their hit Last Train to Clarksville. I also remember the shock I felt when my friend Arthur (remember him?) told me that the Monkees was a band that had been created specifically for a TV show, and not a TV show that had been created for an already existing band.

Of course the Beatles and the other British Invasion groups had been our mainstay for several years, but there was no doubt that the Monkees were becoming extremely popular, both as a TV show and on tour. John Lennon himself was a fan of the show and my childhood chum Lenny, my fellow life-long Beatlemaniac, once said that he was beginning to like the Monkees more than the Beatles. (He’ll deny this today of course, but I remember. And the reason I do remember is because, although I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut at the time, I had been sort of thinking the same thing.)

Watching the show the other night I found the humor somewhat silly and laughed only occasionally. Many would say that is to be expected, as ones sense of humor is sure to have matured over four decades. Regular readers of these pages know that this is simply (and sadly) not true, at least not in my case.

What I did find interesting was my thorough enjoyment of the music. I kept clicking from The Monkees to other TV shows, but made sure I returned in time to hear each song. None of the songs I heard were their hits (and yes, they had many) but each was a good song, and I sang along and surprised myself by remembering a large percentage of the lyrics.

Well, of course the Monkees had good songs. The show producers had hired some of the best songwriters in the business, including Carol King, Neil Diamond, Harry Nilsson and Boyce & Hart. Hell, even I could have had a hit record with those guys writing for me!

OK, no I couldn’t, but the Monkees could. And although they took a lot of criticism at the time for having other people play the instruments as the Monkees sang other people’s songs today musical history takes a more kindly view of the Pre-Fab Four. They did go on tour, they did eventually play their own instruments and write many of their own songs, and they did make musical history. When a list of the greatest rock groups is created it is not likely that you’ll see the Monkees name anywhere near the top. Nor should you. Hell even I, in my nastier moods, have wondered aloud what kind of cruel God would kill off Beatles while allowing all the Monkees to remain alive. And yet here it is forty years later and I’m still writing about them and you are reading about them. As Monkees' drummer Micky Dolenz said a few years ago (Or one of them said, anyway.) you can say what you want about the Monkees but you cannot deny that “something happened.”

And so I watched nearly all of both of the episodes and was having a fine time singing the songs, reliving my youth and remembering what it felt like to be thirteen again. That is until a commercial came on. It seems the sponsor for these classic shows was a treatment for men who suffered from enlarged prostates.

As I watched the animated illustrations of an enlarged prostate and listened to the announcer describe the various and horrible symptoms this condition can cause I, along with thousands of other middle-aged men who had also been enjoying this music from long ago, was instantly and cruelly dragged back to reality. I was reminded of the words of Thomas Wolfe who said, “You can’t go home again.” Well maybe you can, I thought to myself, but apparently you’re going to have to make quite a few stops along the way in order to pee.

God Bless Jorge Posada

It must seem strange to you that just one night after my mean-spirited and admittedly foul-mouthed lambasting of the New York Yankees I am asking that one of them receive a special blessing from that imaginary old man in the sky. Confused? Allow me to explain.

I had two bets down on Saturday’s Tigers-Yankees game. I had bet on the Tigers to win and I had bet on the “over.” Now considering the over was a somewhat elevated 10 runs you might think that was a pretty ballsy bet, and you’d be right. Still, I was expecting some offensive fireworks from the two teams that day and as it turned out I was right. Well, half right anyway.

After five innings the Tigers had an 8-0 lead and so I was fairly certain that my bet on Detroit winning the game was pretty much a lock. Not that a team has never overcome an eight-run deficit before, but you could tell by the rusty gate swings of the Bronx Bummers that it was not about to happen this day. But you know me—I’m a greedy little bastard. I wanted to win both bets.

And, with eight runs already scored before the start of the sixth inning, my over bet was looking mighty fine, let me tell you. And then suddenly and without warning the scoring came to a screeching halt. And so it was that the already whipped Yankee ball club eventually came up for their last at-bat in the ninth inning trailing 8-1. (For you readers who were educated in California that makes a total of nine runs for the game.) Remember I needed ten to tie my bet and eleven to win.

All too soon there were two outs and, although the Yankees had a runner at first, it looked like another game where I would end up splitting my bets, winning one while losing the other. Many of the Tigers were already perched on the top step of the dugout in anticipation and the stadium employees had already hung the plastic sheeting to protect the locker room from the champagne celebration that was sure to begin momentarily or sooner. And then Jorge Posada stepped up to the plate.

They say Babe Ruth actually once pointed to where his homerun would land. My Dad was at the game where Bobby Thomson hit his “shot heard ‘round the world.” I myself was watching in a bar when a crippled Kirk Gibson stunned the entire city of Oakland with his historic homer. But it was the homerun by Jorge Posada last Saturday that made me elicit a “Whoop!” that may well have been heard by some of my neighbors, neighbors who already have some suspicions about me, and well-founded ones at that.

For nearly every other baseball fan on Earth, with the possible inclusion of Posada himself, the homerun meant nothing. It simply delayed the inevitable Tiger victory for a few minutes and changed the final score from 8-1 to 8-3. Ah, but that 8-3 score! Instantly my doomed over bet had zipped right past a push and straight into a win!

And so from myself, and probably thousands of other over bettors who got that incredible surprise on Saturday when all had seemed lost, we thank you Jorge Posada. We don’t know you, but we love you. And listen, Jorge, now that you guys are out of the post season and just watching it on TV like the rest of us slobs why not drop on by if you’re in town? The first beer is definitely on me.

Fuck The Yankees

Ha! Fuck the Yankees. Have a nice trip back to the Bronx, you losers. God, how much fun was it to watch these pinstriped posers humiliated by the Tigers? How glorious was it to watch the huge-salaried “A-Rod” taking a swing at a pitch that made him look like the retarded kid who was kindly being allowed to play in a sandlot game?

I had planned on writing this tirade against the Bronx Bummers after they beat up the Tigers, as they were expected to do. And in truth that might very well have been just before they beat up on our beloved Athletics. But they didn’t beat up on anybody, did they? They managed to win the first game of their play-off series and then rolled over like Blair coaxing Bush to rub his tummy.

The mighty Yankees went on to lose three straight games to Detroit. Sweet! No, they would not be advancing in the play-offs this year and they most certainly would not be going to the World Series. And the reason this is a surprise is because the Yankees were supposed to go to the World Series this year. Hell, they’re supposed to go every year. Why? Because they’d already bought and paid for it, that’s why.

Yeah, that’s my gripe. And it’s not against the Yankee players per se, who are, after all, merely plying their trade and trying to make the most they can in the span of a career that can be all too short and suddenly ended. Hell, I guess I’m not even bitching against the Yankee organization, who are, after all, simply playing by the rules; rules which say that a team can spend as much as it wants to pay their players. Of course a big-market team that spends a full 60% more than the number two spending team and nearly double that of the third highest spending team is going to get the best players. And be in the play-offs year after year after boring year.

Here, take a look at the chart below. This is the 2006 payroll for each of the 30 Major League Baseball teams. It tells quite a tale, doesn’t it? Have you heard anybody say lately that they’re sick of hearing about the goddamn Yankees and Red Sox every year? Well I have. In fact it may well have been me who said it.

1 New York Yankees
$194,663,079
2 Boston Red Sox
$120,099,824
3 Los Angeles Angels
$103,472,000
4 Chicago White Sox
$102,750,667
5 New York Mets
$101,084,963
6 Los Angeles Dodgers
$98,447,187
7 Chicago Cubs
$94,424,499
8 Houston Astros
$92,551,503
9 Atlanta Braves
$90,156,876
10 San Francisco Giants
$90,056,419
11 St. Louis Cardinals
$88,891,371
12 Philadelphia Phillies
$88,273,333
13 Seattle Mariners
$87,959,833
14 Detroit Tigers
$82,612,866
15 Baltimore Orioles
$72,585,582
16 Toronto Blue Jays
$71,915,000
17 San Diego Padres
$69,896,141
18 Texas Rangers
$68,228,662
19 Minnesota Twins
$63,396,006
20 Washington Nationals
$63,143,000
21 Oakland Athletics
$62,243,079
22 Cincinnati Reds
$60,909,519
23 Arizona Diamondbacks
$59,684,226
24 Milwaukee Brewers
$57,568,333
25 Cleveland Indians
$56,031,500
26 Kansas City Royals
$47,294,000
27 Pittsburgh Pirates
$46,717,750
28 Colorado Rockies
$41,233,000
29 Tampa Bay Devil Rays
$35,417,967
30 Florida Marlins
$14,998,500


This year I’m happy to say that only one of the top ten spending ball clubs, the Mets, has made it to the final four. The Cardinals are the next closest, at #11. And look at my poor little A’s, down there near the bottom, not that many steps above the Devil Rays. The Devil Rays, for chrissake! The worst team in baseball! And yet on Tuesday night my team will be playing their little gold and green hearts out as they fight for the pennant against those Yankee-squashing Tigers. And the winner of that series will go up against either the Cardinals or the Mets in the World Series.

And so of course I’ll be rooting for the A’s to win it all, knowing full well that by next season I’ll be watching as Barry Zito and possibly other A’s stars are lured away by the irresistible siren song of big money, as were Canseco, McGwire, Giambi, Tejada etc.

But no matter what happens be assured that I will be at peace. For even if the A’s fail to win the World Series I’ll know deep inside that they gave it their best. And I’ll know that I’ll appreciate them for giving us a very exciting baseball season.

And perhaps best of all I’ll know that whoever wins the 2006 World Series, whoever is jumping up and down on the pitcher’s mound in a crazed and joyous frenzy and whoever ends up in drenched uniforms beneath foamy waterfalls from spouting bottles of champagne I’ll still have joy in my heart. Because there is one thing of which I can be certain: It won’t be the goddamn Yankees.

"I'm Hopeless"

Listen, as long as I still have the way-back machine plugged in I’m going to use it again tonight. This is another sports-related story that dates back to the misty recesses of my long-ago youth, but this one doesn’t star me. It features my childhood pal Arthur.

I’ve written about Arthur previously on these pages but I don’t think I’ve related this particular story. If I have and I’m repeating myself (and I’m sure Ms. Cheeks will let me know if I do) I apologize. Besides, I’ve written 350 of these damn things so if I cover the same ground once in a while cut me a little slack, OK?

Arthur, you may recall, was a close friend of mine from fifth grade right up until high school graduation. You may also recall that he is the only person on Earth that I’ve ever admitted might, might, be smarter than me.

Yes, in the classroom Arthur was indeed a wizard. If I remember correctly he went through high school taking nothing but Honors classes. (Unlike yours truly.) He also had a wicked sense of humor that perfectly complemented my own, which I suppose explains the friendship as much as anything else. Arthur did however have one flaw: he was a complete spaz.

In sixth grade our school held a sort of Recess Olympics. I certainly can’t remember all the events (or what I had for breakfast this morning, for that matter) but I know there was a high jump, a hop, skip and jump and some inane relay race with wooden pins. Each student was required to compete in an event. Memories are suddenly rushing back. I believe that I personally competed in the relay race, which is surprising since it was the type of event usually reserved for only the swift. (Although today, ironically, my wife often tells me that I am indeed fast, although sadly not in a way that would win a schoolyard competition.)

There was also an event called the standing broad jump. It was the most basic of the tasks and was exactly what its name implied: The contestant started from a standing position and simply had to jump. It was a distance competition, the goal being, obviously, to see who could jump the farthest. As it seemed to require the least amount of athletic acumen, and perhaps even no coordination at all, this was the event that Arthur chose. Or had chosen for him.

I still remember where I was standing and at what angle when it came time for Arthur to make his jump. I watched my friend as he got into a slight squat, made his jump, tripped over his feet and fell to the ground. Within two seconds of hitting the pavement Arthur was up on his feet, embarrassed and with arms flailing, proclaiming loudly and disgustedly to the world, “I’m hopeless!”

Five years later Arthur, myself and two others from our group found ourselves sitting in the bleachers of the high school gym. This was the first meeting of those sophomores who had decided to try out for the school football team. The coach, who I had previously only known as my math teacher, was giving his recruitment speech about how great playing football was. He was making the point that when you hit a player from the other team and he went down it was “a better feeling than getting laid.”

I tell you honestly at the age of 15 I had only the vaguest notion of exactly what “getting laid” was, but I was pretty sure it would feel a lot better than knocking down some dopey high school kid. (A few years later I was more qualified to research the coach’s theory and so was able to confirm what I had only previously suspected—that guy was nuts.)

That meeting was the end of my high school football career. Of the other three of my group, one attended one practice and promptly joined me on the sidelines. The other two continued to attend practice, made the team and played the entire season. One of the two was Arthur.

I never did see Arthur play in a game. Nor did I see him after our freshman year in college. I’ve made attempts and have been unable to track him down, but I hope he’s out there somewhere enjoying himself. I’m sure he’s still smart and has accomplished a great deal with his life, but I suspect the season he played on the high school football team remains one of his proudest achievements. I never told him, but I too always thought it was pretty cool.

That Championship Season

I suppose it was all the excitement over the current baseball play-offs that reawakened the memories. Or maybe it was just another example of the random, haphazard manner in which my brain, and yours too, operates. Whatever the reasons I today recalled a day that happened a long time ago during my first of two stints as a member of a Little League team.

The details are sketchy at best, and probably contain inaccuracies besides. So what? I’m not a journalist and there’s nobody around to correct me anyway. As I said, this happened a very long time ago.

I know I was in second grade at the time so that would put my age at what, seven? I also know that this was the first time I had played for any organized team or had worn a team uniform. (Correction: I had two years earlier owned a hot, itchy New York Yankees uniform. I had asked my Mom if she could sew a number 7 onto the uniform, and when she didn’t respond quickly enough a friend of hers said she would do it. Which she never did. In fact neither one of those broads ever sewed that number 7 on my little Yankee uniform. As you can tell I’m still a little miffed about that, but next year, seeing how it will be the 50th anniversary of that brutal soul-scarring refusal, I may be willing to forgive the crime. And then again I may not.)

Before the Little League season began there was a parade in which all the teams would march. I remember as we began to march one young punk on the team directly in front of us turned and asked the name of our team.
“The Braves,” responded one of my teammates.
“Ha,’ laughed the evil little bastard. “They should call you the Chickens.”

And somehow, although we had yet to play a single inning or even hold a practice, I knew he was right. I instinctively knew that the fates had landed me on what would prove to be the crappiest team in the league. I also seemed to know that this was something I had better get used to in life. And, for the most part, I have.

But I’m not here to wallow in the miserable season that the Chick—I mean the Braves struggled through that year. I don’t really remember very much about it, except for one particularly painful game when we lost to a team sponsored by a local gas station called Marty’s Esso. The final score was 18-2. Ouch.

Ah, but this is not a story of gloom and defeat, but rather a tale of personal triumph. More specifically, it’s about my personal triumph. It’s about the best day I had as a member of the Braves. It was a day that for the first (and only) time as the sorriest member of that sorry team that I felt an emotion that resembled something close to “pride.” It was the day I got a hit.

Again I ask you to bear with me because the details are vague at best, and becoming more vague each year. I don’t know how many games we played that season. Eight? Ten? I don’t recall if we won any, although I’m pretty sure that we didn’t. I don’t even remember what position I played though I suspect I had been banished to right field, where I would do the least amount of damage. And I don’t remember how many at bats I had over the course of the season.

What I do remember is that before this magical day late in the season I had not gotten any hits. Nope, not a single one. And not only had I failed to reach base safely even once, I also was never throw out or had a fly ball of mine caught. Yes, up until this day I had never even once made contact with the ball. Which means, of course, that I had struck out every single time I was at bat! I’m not even sure whether I ever even hit a foul ball or tipped one, but I’m fairly sure that I did not. Pretty pathetic, huh?

Ah but this day would be different. As I stepped up to the plate and as the first pitch approached me I saw that it was unique. Never before had I been able to see a pitch so clearly, to track it so accurately. There could have been numerous reasons why this was so, but even today I know the truth of the situation. No, my skill or eye-hand coordination hadn’t suddenly improved. My practice batting sessions weren’t about to pay off either. The reason this pitch was different was because it was coming in real s-l-o-w. Or, in other words, the kid pitching on the mound stank.

I can’t say for sure, of course, but I’d bet half my 401K that I swung at the first pitch this kid threw. Who could resist with the ball floating in like a cloud and looking about the size of a watermelon? And then “crack!” I hit it!

I would ask you all to please stop here and kindly lower your expectations. Did you imagine that I had sent the ball deep into left field and over the fence for a homerun? Let’s get real, shall we? I never actually did see where the ball went but I was able to deduce that it trickled back to the pitcher.

What happened next I didn’t know then and I still don’t. Did the pitcher muff the play and drop the ball before he could throw it to first, thus committing an error? Perhaps, but I don’t want to know about it. All I know is that when the dust had settled I was standing safely at first base and just about bursting with pride. Yes, three quarters of the way through this miserable season the improbable had happened: I had gotten a hit.

And now the story gets better and even a little strange. As I stepped up for my next time at bat I was a little saddened to discover that I would be facing a different pitcher. And yet I became more hopeful when it turned out that this new pitcher was the twin brother of the guy off whom I had gotten my hit. I’m not kidding!

And, glory be to God, he threw exactly the same as his brother; that is, like an 85-year-old arthritic! And so once again the pitch floated in, again I swung and again I connected. And again the ball trickled back to the pitcher. The twin must have been a better fielder than his brother however, and despite my best efforts to race down the baseline for the second time that afternoon (and the second time that season) I was, alas, thrown out at first.

And yet being out at first hardly seemed to matter. I was giddy with the success of my day. I had hit the ball twice and almost, almost had gotten two hits. For someone who had struck out during his previous ten or fifteen times at bat this was like single-handedly winning the World Series. Perhaps even then I knew I would never forget the feeling as I stood on first base after my hit, trying to act cool as I listened to the smattering of applause I was hearing for the first (and last) time that season. It felt wonderful. And it still does forty-six years later.

Of course by the next game things for me had returned to the familiar and humiliating status quo. I never did come close to getting another hit that first Little League season. How could I? I never got a chance to bat against those lame-ass twins again.

Because You'll Believe Anything

Isn’t it fun to get free stuff in the mail? Last week I got a sample of coffee that I’m certain that I’ll try as soon as my regular supply runs out. I’m equally certain that I’ll never actually drink this coffee again, unless they send me another free sample.

And just yesterday I received a brand new Fusion razor in the mail. I was a bit surprised when I opened the box and gazed upon the shiny new face-scrapping implement. Believe me, the Fusion is not some cheap plastic razor that you use five times and then send off to the landfill. No siree, it’s a carefully designed instrument that appears to be made up of more parts than the Space Shuttle and is certainly more complex than George Bush’s thought process. (Yeah, I know. So is a toothpick.)

Many years ago some genius decided that one blade was not enough and so the double-bladed shaver was born. This was just about the same time that Saturday Night Live had come into being. I remember this because soon after the new razor was introduced SNL did a hilarious mock commercial for a new razor that featured three blades. The announcer on the commercial carefully explained why three blades were necessary, much as the actual commercial for the two-blade razor had. It went something like, “The first blade pulls the hair away from your face, while the second hair then cuts cleanly…etc.” And I’ll never forget the closing line of the SNL fake advertisement: “Because you’ll believe anything.”

I can only hope that the original writer of that SNL bit lived long enough to see the creation of the three-bladed razor. This, of course, was followed by the four-bladed razor, which now in turn has been upstaged by…the five-bladed Fusion.

Call me barbaric, but I’ve never shaved with anything that held more than two blades. Those blue disposable jobs were good enough for my Grandpa and they are good enough for me. (OK, I’m kidding. Grandpa actually used a straight razor, a leather strop and shaving mug with a picture of the Kaiser on it.)

But as you all know I will stop at nothing to both entertain and enlighten you, my reading public. And so tonight, as I have done previously by eating Brussels sprouts and by drinking absinthe, I will again share a new experience with you. Yes tonight I am going to shave with not two, not three, not even four, but with the five-bladed shaving tool of the future—the Fusion!

By the way, I hope you appreciate all the things I do for you. It’s late at night and I’ve got three or four days of growth on my face, which should indicate to you that I don’t even like to shave during the generally accepted shaving hours. And now I’m off to the bathroom with this new-fangled contraption to put my life on the line for your edification and amusement. Nah, you wouldn’t give a damn if this thing cut my head off.

OK, enough whining. I’m off to use the Fusion. I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes. God willing.

I’m back. I’ve placed a pile of dishtowels on my desk in the hope of mopping up the pools of blood that are accumulating around my keyboard and making it rather difficult to type. Oh, I’m just funnin’ with you.

The first stroke of the Fusion on my delicate face felt horrible. I think it was mostly due to the pivoting head. I never trusted those. I always thought that the fewer moving parts you have when dragging a razor across your throat the better.

But guess what? Once I got going I was forced to grudgingly accept that the shave from the Fusion felt smoother. I barely could feel the blade-on-skin sensation that is so apparent with the disposable razors. After a few strokes I was whipping that thing around my neck and face like I was piloting a high-performance racecar at Indy. I even sped much too recklessly over my chin and guess what? Nary a sign of a cut or a nick. And when I was done I had to admit that the shave did indeed feel smoother.

But despite its apparent superior performance I won’t be switching to the Fusion anytime soon, and there are two reasons for this. First, I simply don’t care if I get a better shave. I don’t care if my face feels smoother. I’ve got enough bullshit to worry about. And second, and now we are getting to the crux of the matter, I went to Long’s today to buy a pack of my loyal disposables and happened to see the razor selections. There they were—the three blade cartridges and the four blade cartridges and yes, even the exalted Fusion five blade cartridges.

Did you know that a four-pack of blade cartridges for the Fusion costs about fifteen dollars? Fifteen bucks every time I need to re-load that snappy-looking Fusion that I received in the mail for free. Well, of course it was free. Those people at Gillette aren’t selling the Fusion—they’re selling the goddamn blades!

Back at Long’s I smiled at the exorbitant prices posted beneath each of the many cartridge types and reached for a ten-pack of my handy disposables. I did some quick calculations and I figured that for the cost of the Fusion blades I could supply myself with enough cheap plastic razors to keep myself shaving for months and still have more than enough money left over for the Band-aids and possible emergency medical attention I would surely need over that same period of time.

Yakkers

A couple of times a year Spike pays a visit to the spa at a local hoity-toity hotel. I won’t tell you the name of the hotel, of course, but it’s a very famous and high-end chain. Oh OK, here’s a hint: think Cracker Brand-Cigarette Brand. Ha! That should keep you busy for a while.

For some reason Spike likes to get facials. And it’s not just at the Cracker-Cigarette either. Nearly every time we go on vacation, in whatever part of the world we happen to be, Spike will find someone who is more than happy to relieve her of one hundred, one-fifty, even two hundred dollars and slap goop on her face. And apparently she’s not alone—women seem to love this spa treatment. Someday I’ll explain it to you, right after I figure out the other 75,784 nutty things that women like to do.

Last week Spike went to our local hotel for her semi-annual facial. When she returned I asked her how her facial was, since pretending to care about stuff like that is a big part of my job. She responded with a less than enthusiastic, “It was O.K.” Just OK? Uh-oh, I knew there was trouble in Goopville.

And there was. It seems that the therapist/technician/goopologist or whatever the hell they want to be called was a yakker. She talked non-stop through the entire process, making the facial experience much less relaxing than Spike had hoped it to be.

When you’re a captive going through a treatment, either for relaxation or repair, do you ever get a yakker who just won’t shut up? Oh sure, you may be the type who wants to talk while you’re getting your massage or hair cut or teeth cleaned but what do you do if you’re not? In most cases answering questions with a terse yes or no will give the yakker a clue, but every now and then you get one who just doesn’t get it.

I told Spike that I wanted to make an anonymous call to the hotel, (Is an anonymous phone call still electronically possible?) tell Spike’s story and politely suggest that they mention at the next Goopers Meeting that they shouldn’t talk too much when their client is paying $180 to relax. I wouldn’t mention my name or the name of the yakker. Nobody would get in trouble—they’d just learn to shut the hell up. After all, this isn’t some half-assed $20 treatment conducted in a moonlighting co-worker’s stinky kitchen. This is the Cracker-Cigarette!

Spike, of course, wouldn’t hear of it. She politely told me to MYOB, (Maybe it wasn’t so politely, now that I think of it) and I’ve respected her wishes. Still, on the off chance that one of you facial babes from down the road is reading this, (and believe me I know the odds are about the same as Gorbachev leaving a complimentary note in the Comments) how about cutting down a bit on the yapping? If you want to talk non-stop for an hour perhaps you can take the two bills you make from the facial and go see a shrink. He’ll be more than happy to listen to your endless blabbering—it’s his job.