Guess Who # 14

I learned a long time ago that you can’t fight the power of the holiday season. At my job I found that the closer you got to Christmas Day, the more difficult it was to get any work done. Clients weren’t into it, co-workers weren’t into it and if the truth be told I wasn’t much into it either. Then again I never was particularly into it, no matter what the time of year.

And then there’s that magical, half-speed week between Christmas and New Year’s. Sure you still go to work but there’s a slower, more relaxed atmosphere. For these four or five days in late December there’s less work that needs to be, or can be, done and for once your job is almost…not horrible.

Some of my co-workers would take vacation days during this week, but not me. I could never understand why anyone would waste his precious vacation days on a week when you would probably end up doing very little anyway. For me this was often the most enjoyable workweek of the year. I’d generally stroll in when I felt like it and make up for it by leaving early. And once I was there most of the day was spent talking to co-workers or on the phone to friends, and roaming around the office looking for boxes of See’s candy or festively decorated cookies that had somehow survived the initial holiday onslaught. I used to call these magical times “touch-your-desk” days.

And then one year the company got wise. Perhaps they even heard of my quaint holiday office practices. And so they shut down for that week and I was forced to go through the holiday season without a single touch-my-desk day. It was then that I thought that perhaps the powers that ran the show just might be a tad smarter than I had given them credit for. (Later events would show, repeatedly, that this was simply not the case.)

Obviously I no longer work for that or any other company, but I do spend a fair amount of time and energy writing this column. And as I look back at my last few entries I see that I have continued to give you, my dear reader, the top-drawer reading material that you have come to expect every day. And I’m proud to say that there has certainly been no slacking off in quality just because it’s the holidays. For me there has been no touch-your-desk day.

Until now. And what do I always do when I feel in need of a break? That’s right! And so it’s time once again to play the game that is catching on virtually nowhere: Guess Who. And I’m not going to explain how it works for a fourteenth damn time. You’re not an idiot—figure it out. I’m on a break.

Dammit, I just realized I’m already at almost 500 words. I could have made this the column and saved the stupid game for another time. Just for that I’m going to make this the toughest Guess Who yet.


Ms. X’s real name was Loretta Mary Aiken.

Ms. X was born in 1894 in Brevard, North Carolina.

At the height of her career Ms. X earned $10,000 a week.

Ms. X was billed as “The Funniest Woman in the World.”

Ms. X began her career at the age of 14.

Ms. X once said, “There ain’t nothing an old man can do for me except bring me a message from a young one.”

Ms. X played Carnegie Hall in 1962.

Ms. X died in 1975.

It was often rumored that Ms. X was actually a man.

Ms. X recorded more than 20 comedy albums.

Ms. X was nearly 70 years old when she finally became popular with mainstream audiences.


OK, who is it? Wrong! Guess again. And no Internet!

A Christmas Gift From Harry

Get this: You all remember Harry, the cute little kid who came around a couple of years ago looking to earn some spare cash doing chores for the neighbors. I paid him three bucks to wash my car, and ever since he drops by during his school fundraisers because he knows I’m always good for a few bucks.

For example, last year he said he was raising money for his school by running around a track. You know how it works—each person that he signs up pays a certain amount for each lap he completes. I didn’t really think it through, but simply pledged the same amount that the person above me on the sheet had—two bucks per lap. After all, I didn’t want to look cheap.

It was only then that I thought it might be a good idea to get more information about the event. I asked Harry if he ran a lot, and he said not so much. And then, mostly trying to make conversation, I asked if he’d be running on a quarter-mile track. No, he said, the track at his school was only a sixth of a mile.

Uh-oh. That’s sure to increase the lap count, I thought. And I was proven right when the kid came back a few weeks later and told me he had run twenty-three laps. I did some quick math in my head and realized that he hadn’t even run four miles. And then I did the really important math and realized I owed the little hustler nearly fifty bucks!

And so a few months ago when Harry again knocked on my door I was prepared. They were raising money with that same lap nonsense again, but instead of signing up for an amount per lap I simply signed up for a flat amount. Twenty bucks is all you get kid, whether you run until your sneakers burst into flames or you fall on your face after three steps.

Harry came by two weeks ago and I wrote him the check for the twenty. He was thankful and polite as always. I didn’t think about him again until Spike and I came home on Christmas night and found a box of chocolates on the doorstep. Scrawled on the box in the handwriting of a ten-year-old was: To Len, From Harry.

Well, of course I was touched. How many kids of that age are so thoughtful? In addition to being touched I was also hungry, and so immediately opened the box and ate probably more chocolates than I should have.

Make that definitely more than I should have, especially those particular chocolates. It was less than two hours later that the piercing stomach cramps began. A short while after that I found myself in the bathroom, sweaty and nauseous, where I pretty much remained until the sun came up six hours later. I won’t go into the details of my agonizing night except to mention that my toilet eventually had accumulated more flushes than a professional poker player.

I was confused by my sudden illness, an illness that could only be traced back to the chocolates. But why? And so during one of my brief reprieves from the bathroom I found the offending box of chocolates and read the ingredients. While it wasn’t exactly a replica of the government's recommended foods pyramid I noticed nothing listed that might cause such a violent physical reaction. And then I saw the note.

It was tucked down under the plastic holder that lined the box, with just a corner of it sticking out, which I now assume was the idea. I pulled the sheet out of the box. There, written in the tentative handwriting of a ten-year old, were the following words: Hi Len. Hope you enjoyed the candy. Maybe next time you’ll give me a check that doesn’t bounce. Harry.

____________________________________________

What you have just read is a work of fiction, for the most part. Everything up to and including the line …“probably more chocolates than I should have” is true. Harry did indeed leave me a box of chocolates and I did, as is my custom, eat too many of them. But with no ill effects. I simply decided to try some fiction tonight and so came up with the somewhat dark and twisted ending to this cutesy real-life event.

I was going to post the story as it was, without this explanation, but then I thought better. I didn’t want to be accused of pulling some Orson Welles-type War of the Worlds stunt. True, the danger of starting a panic is somewhat reduced this time, as Welles had millions of fans and I have about five, but I didn’t want to take the chance that maybe Harry was one of those five regular readers. What would the poor kid think if he read that story?

And so for the record Harry is real, he’s a great kid and he did leave me a box of chocolates. And for my part I haven’t bounced a check for quite some time although, sadly, that particular circumstance remains well within my realm of possibility, and probably always will. And finally please know that in no way, shape or form has Harry ever tried to poison me. At least not yet.

Witchy Woman

I never identify her by face when I’m watching an old movie, but always by her voice. I was watching a bit of the 1937 classic spook comedy Topper last night and when I heard the familiar high-pitched trilling of Mrs. Topper’s voice I once again said to myself, “Hey, that’s the lady who played Glinda the Good Witch in The Wizard of Oz!”

And so it was. A quick check of the credits reminded me that her name was Billie Burke and we all remember her immortal query to Dorothy: “Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” But as I watched Topper I heard her deliver a somewhat less famous line that left me a little confused. Yes, even more so than usual. And so I ran immediately to my computer, pulled up imdb.com and found the surprising answer.

And now, because I’m just a bundle of fun here to brighten your day and you really have nothing better to do anyway, I’m going to present you with a short quiz. The good news is it’s the kind of information that people like me find absolutely fascinating. The even better news is there really aren’t too many people like me. Never mind--let’s see how you do.

OK, all real Americans have seen The Wizard of Oz a dozen times or more. We’re all familiar with that glowing celestial babe Glinda, the Good Witch of the North. (And if you thought her name was “Glenda” you should be ashamed of yourself. In fact I forbid you to continue with this game. Go away.) And it’s a good bet that we are all even more familiar with that ugly, scarecrow-burning, slipper-coveting, flying monkey-loving Wicked Witch of the West. Still with me?

OK, you may know (but probably don’t) that the Wicked Witch was played by Margaret Hamilton, and I’ve already told you that Billie Burke played Glinda. (Do a spell check on “Glinda” and guess what pops up?) You only need to come up with two answers for today’s little quiz. First, how old was Billie Burke when she played the Good Witch? And of course, how old was Margaret Hamilton when she played the Wicked Witch?

You get one point for each year you are off, on each of the women’s ages. The lower the score the better. (Yes, just like in golf and cholesterol but not presidential IQ’s.) If your total comes to ten points or less I will be very impressed indeed. So much so that I might think of you as one of those few people who is just like me. Lucky you.

ANSWER: As I personally hate it when the answers to a quiz are not provided I’m going to avoid becoming even more of a hypocrite than I already am by ending the suspense. And if you didn’t play but just scrolled down to check the answer, damn you. I hope the next time you’re in Oz the Wizard hits the wrong button and removes your spleen.

Billie Burke, who most young boys from the time those hormones begin pumping through their dirty little bodies and minds recognize as not just the Good Witch but a major babe as well, was fifty-four years old at the time she filmed The Wizard of Oz. You’ve already lost, haven’t you? Well hang on to you hat, Junior. Margaret Hamilton, who also played the Toto-stealing evil old lady Mrs. Gulch, was just thirty-seven!

And so I can’t help but wonder, armed as I am with this new information and in spite of the fact that Burke easily wins the on-screen beauty contest, which one of these two witches would have looked better naked? I think we now all know the answer but it just doesn’t seem possible, does it?

# 400

Ouch! That hurt! I guess I’m not as flexible as I used to be. Oh, hi. Been there long? Well, you just caught me giving myself a pat on the back. That’s OK, I’m not embarrassed because I truly believe that I deserve it. For once.

By now you know the story, but it seems like every time I hit one of these century marks I’m compelled to tell it again. And so I will. I originally set out to write enough articles in order to build a big enough stash so that I could cull 88 fairly decent ones for a new book. For some reason that escapes me now I thought that I would have to write 120 articles in order to assure having the required 88 good ones. Basic mathematics tells me that I had estimated that three out of every four blogs I posted would be good enough for inclusion in my book. Looking back, I may have over-estimated the quality of my writing just a tad.

And so what? For here I stand tonight having completed those 120 blogs a long time ago, and gone on to write an additional 280 besides. Hooray for me! And for those of you who remember the yardstick I use to gauge my output let me remind you I am rapidly closing in on a total word count equal to not one, but two Moby-Dick’s! And as always I’ll modestly point out that I’m well aware we’re talking about quantity here, not quality.

I received an e-mail the other day from a stranger who had accidentally stumbled upon my website. She had searched my favorite Dorothy Parker quote, which is “I hate writing, but I love having written” and it led her to this site. It seems this nice lady had received a school assignment asking her to explain what Ms. Parker had meant by this statement, and she admitted in her e-mail that she didn’t have a clue.

I could think of only two explanations why the seemingly obvious meaning of the quote would remain obscure to this lady. First, the wording of the quote, while not yet archaic, is a little dated. The phrase, “having written” might be a little more confusing than if Parker had said, “But I love it when I write something.” Doesn’t quite have the same ring though, does it?

The second explanation is that the nice lady who wrote to me had not yet sat down to actually write something of length; something of which she’d be proud to have created. I assured her if she ever did the statement would become quite clear to her, and quickly.

I also came up with a nifty analogy for her in which I compared writing to doing the dishes. Actually I borrowed the concept from an old Mr. Natural cartoon. For five panels we see Mr. Natural washing his dishes and grumbling throughout the process. In the final panel we see Mr. Natural beaming with pride at his stack of sparkling dishes as he says, “Another job well done!”

It’s one of life’s little ironies that as I write this I do happen to have a small stack of dishes sitting in the sink, and they’ll be sitting there until morning (at least) because I’m writing this instead. But take a look over at the list of months on the right side of this page and realize that each one of these links will take you to a collection of about twenty articles that I wrote during that particular month.

And I can assure you that each one of those articles was written with much Mr. Natural-style grumbling, not to mention frustration, aggravation, and a generous amount of good old fashion cussin’ as well. But as of right now all of that is forgotten, because I recognize that that pile of articles is my very own stack of sparkling dishes. And as of tonight it now stands a full 400 plates high.

Why Soldiers Are Young

“When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.”

The above quote is generally attributed to Mark Twain, but no matter who came up with this gem it speaks to a universal truth: When we’re young we think we know it all, but as we grow older we eventually realize what little knuckleheads we actually were. And you can attribute that quote to me.

For example, I recently read Truman Capote’s classic Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Having just seen the movie for the first time in decades I was curious how it deviated from the book. (And I knew that it had because they had said so on an episode of Seinfeld.) And yes, although you can certainly recognize the movie in the book, there are also major differences.

But that’s not what we were talking about. The copy of Breakfast at Tiffany’s also included three short stories by Capote, one of which I remember reading in high school. Or, more accurately, being forced to read in high school. Back then I’m sure I was a little surprised to see Capote’s name in one of my textbooks, the author at the time being most well known for his brutal In Cold Blood, certainly not recommended reading for children, then or now. I also remember my reaction when I finished A Christmas Memory all those years ago: “Yeah, so?”

I suppose I could have simply skipped over the story when I came upon it last week. I could have dismissed it with a, “I’ve already read this,” and moved on. But I didn’t. After all, fate must be once again forcing this tale down my throat for a good reason. And so I read it.

Well of course it turned out to be a heart-warming tale about the bonds that sometimes are formed between two people, despite their being at nearly opposite stages of their lives. It also tells how other people can unwittingly, but still cruelly, tear those bonds apart. It was a great read, especially at Christmastime, and when I finished I felt both gooey and melancholy inside. And I thought back to the first time I read the story. Boy, was I clueless.

I now remember a teacher I had in high school. He was an older man who was always carrying on about some long-dead writer named Henry David Thoreau. “I went to the woods to live deliberately!” he would proclaim loudly at least two or three time a week in his mildly Southern accent He was very passionate about this quotation, and Thoreau in general, and tried his damnedest to impart this passion to his students. I, for one, had absolutely no idea what the hell he was talking about.

It was many years later that I first picked up a copy of Walden, and I would return to it time and time again. I’d be lying if I said I’ve read the book straight through, but I’ve found that over the years it has become a sort of secular version of the Bible for me. When life gets hectic, when things go bad, when I’m feeling particularly stressed (as opposed to regular stress) I have always found that reading a few pages of Henry David will put me right back on track. And at least now I know what that crazy old teacher of mine was yelling about.

In high school they also forced me, and probably you too, to read Catcher in the Rye. Like the Capote and Thoreau works I didn’t really appreciate it back then. Still, I suspect that here we have yet another example of a book that was thrust upon us (well, me anyway) before we were old enough to truly absorb its meaning. I also suspect that Catcher in the Rye is another brilliant, powerful work (After all, it compelled a man to slay John Lennon.) and that I’ll be going on Amazon in the very near future to order a copy and then read it for a second time, forty years later. And you know what? This time I think I’ll get it.

Media Malefaction

At this stage of my life it’s becoming more and more apparent that the closest I’ll ever again come to feeling like a smuggler is when I’m in the post office sending a package via Media Mail. You know about Media Mail, don’t you? It’s the cheaper (and one would assume, slower) way to send books, CD’s, DVD’s and tapes. Being the giant-sized media mogul that I am, naturally I use Media Mail quite a bit.

Now I know you and I know how your brain works, and so does your government. Right now you’re asking yourself, “Hey, what’s to prevent me from sending any package Media Mail, whether it qualifies or not?” The answer is nothing, except of course the law. If you want to send your Aunt Millie a pound of those chocolate-covered grasshoppers that she so dearly loves and tell the clerk your box contains the new version of The Bible, complete with alternate endings, you can do it.

But be prepared for “The Look.” Every single time, and by that I mean every single time, I have asked the postal clerk for the Media Mail rate I get that look. As well as the questions, of course: It’s usually, “What’s in here?” or “Is it books?” or something along those lines. And I always get that sphincter-clenching feeling that I remember so well from every time I’ve gone through some country’s Customs check.

I always tell the postal people the truth. If they ask me if it’s a book I will only say yes if it is. Otherwise I’ll say no, it’s two CD’s or four DVD’s or whatever. I feel this makes me seem more honest, which is ironic because I actually am being honest. And also I know the rules, because I’ve read all the signs: Media Mail is subject to inspection!

Well hell’s bells, it’s the sixth year of the Bush presidency. I had just assumed that everything is now subject to inspection. And the bottom line is I don’t want some overworked postal clerk ripping open my carefully sealed package only to find that it truly contained books after all. (And I certainly don’t want him to find that it doesn’t contain books!)

I saw a very entertaining exchange at the P.O. the other day. A guy brought in a fairly large package. It was about two feet by three feet, but only a few inches thick. When I heard the guy ask for the Media Rate I just had to listen in. I mean, being a fellow media mogul and all. The short female clerk was on this guy like Kathy Bates on a Twinkie.

“It’s a book,” the guy answered to the clerk’s first question.
“A book? What kind book?” she asked sharply, eyeing the odd shape of the package.
“A rather old book.”
“Oh, old book?”
“Yes, and could you please stamp it Fragile?”
“Fragile? What is it, a glass book?”

OK, I had to laugh out loud at that one. Score one for the postal people. The man to his credit didn’t cave, but patiently explained that it was indeed a book, a rather delicate book, which is why he was sending it separately from the others that he had in the box right beside him. He added that he owned a bookstore.

And so the postal clerk believed him, or at least she didn’t open the package for inspection. I believed him too. I’ve collected enough books and been to enough book fairs to know that books, especially old books, can indeed be as frangible as glass, and sometimes even more so.

And then came my turn. Would she find back-to-back Media Mail requests suspicious? Would I have to take the hit and have my package inspected because of the clown ahead of me?
“It’s a book,” I told her, to which she just smiled and affixed the postage.

In a way I was sad that she didn’t ask me what kind of book. Because I had an answer all ready for her:”Well, it’s an absolutely hilarious book that would make a wonderful gift for any or all of your friends and relatives, or even a special treat for yourself. And at only $19.99 it’s a bargain that is sure to bring you pleasure for years to come. Your own copy is waiting for you at http://www.leonardstegmann.com/. Buy it now!”

Yup, that’s what I would have said.

Man of the Year

I’m honored, of course. Being named TIME Magazine’s Man of the Year is no small thing. And so, in addition to the pride I am naturally feeling I am also somewhat humbled. By the way, did you know this is the second time that I have achieved this honor? It seems like just yesterday, but it was forty years ago that TIME chose “Youths Twenty-five and Under” as Man of the Year. That was my first win. And now, finally, I can be absolutely sure that TIME likes me. They really, really like me!

In case you haven’t heard, the knuckleheads over at TIME have named “You” as the Person of the Year for 2006. Citing popular websites such as YouTube and MySpace (but curiously not They Can’t All Be Gems) the magazine has declared that this new cyber community has changed the world by making great strides towards “wresting power from the few.” Yeah, good luck with that.

I remembered the “Youth” choice from 1966, but after taking a look at the complete list of Man of the Year winners I was surprised that TIME has made several of these wacky, generic choices before. In 1950 the award was sprinkled over The American Fighting Man. Ten years later U.S. Scientists grabbed the award. In 1969 they covered the largest group yet when the Man of the Year title was bestowed upon The Middle Americans. (Could this have been my third award? Perhaps not—I probably didn’t make enough to qualify since I only had a paper route at the time.)

In 1988 the Man of the Year was The Computer and in 1988 it was The Endangered Earth and, I assume, every living thing on it. Man, that’s a lot of statues to engrave, eh? In 1993 The Peacemakers won the award, while in 2002 The Whistleblowers got the nod.

You know what? What don’t we put this Man/Woman/Person of the Year nonsense to sleep once and for all? Either pick a person for the title (Or a small group of people—and I mean small. No more than three, dammit.) or let’s just chuck the whole silly-ass thing.

Because the truth is TIME Magazine copped out this year. TIME had compiled a list of newsmakers who they thought could reasonably be named Man of the Year. The list included Pope Benedict, Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld. The list also included, of course, George Bush. And frankly, whether you hate him or despise him, you have to admit that he has had a major influence on world events.

But TIME editor Richard Stengel has admitted that if the magazine had chosen a single person for Man of the Year it would have been Iranian president Ahmadinejad. But they didn’t. They chose “You” instead.

TIME is always attempting to explain their yearly choice by claiming that the title is not necessarily for the man or woman who has done the most good. This is not the Nobel Prize. If a person has had a huge negative effect on the planet, well then he might also be named Man of the Year. And they are always quick to point out that Hitler was named Man of the Year in 1938. And Stalin won the title twice.

But Mr. Ahmadinejad has been making a lot of unpleasant noise lately. First he has the audacity to continue his country’s nuclear program after the United States specifically told him to stop. And then he holds a conference to investigate if the Holocaust actually happened. Oh my! He may well have deserved to be named Man of the Year, but TIME Magazine is, after all a business. Their job is to sell magazines, not to offend people with the truth. A Holocaust denier as Man of the Year? Not likely.

And so with their already diminutive journalistic gonads rising to the warmth and safety of their lower abdomen TIME Magazine scratched Ahmadinejad from their Man of the Year list and gave the award to “Everybody Else.” They even put a mirror on the cover so you can see yourself. How cute!

And God Said: Let There Be Television

I was driving along today with my Sirius radio tuned to the Classic Radio channel, listening to an ancient broadcast of Father Knows Best. (And let me just say right here that I am in no way purposely plugging Sirius radio or attempting to goad you into buying one, even though I do happen to have a too-large percentage of my retirement invested in the company and if that pig of a stock doesn’t make some kind of move, and soon, I’ll may well be spending my golden years scrounging food out of the dumpster behind your grocery store. I’m just saying is all.)

Where was I? Oh yeah, I can barely remember the television version of Father Knows Best, and until today I didn’t even know that the program, like so many others, had had its genesis on radio. Oh who am I trying to kid? Of course I remember the television program quite well. I also remember hula hoops, air raid drills and President Eisenhower, because I’m old. There, are you happy now?

I actually only caught the last part of the radio program today, which was even more sickly sweet than its namesake TV show, if that’s possible. After it was over a promo for Sirius came on talking about their upcoming broadcasts and about how much fun grandparents are sure to have with their grandchildren if they listen to these classic radio programs together in the warmth of their living rooms.

No they won’t. Can you picture Grandma and Grandpa gathering their bratty grandkids into the living room and forcing them to “enjoy” one of these old time radio shows? Can you imagine them being successful at this for even five minutes? How long will it be before a cell phone rings or one of those little monsters whines, “Grandma, this is so b-o-r-ing! Can I go play a video game?”

And you know what? The little bastards will be right. I think the time has finally come to bury this nonsense that somehow things were better in the olden days because people sat around as a family and listened to radio. And the reason that this was so wonderful was because children could use their imaginations to visualize what they were hearing rather than just staring at a screen. Oh yes, radio was truly theater of the mind!

What a load. There is only one reason why people sat around listening to radio back then, and let’s say it together: Because they didn’t have TV! Listen, tonight I watched two episodes of Entourage followed by the two-hour finale of Survivor. Now that’s entertainment. Do you honestly believe I would have preferred lying on the floor staring at some radio as big as a refrigerator while straining to listen to some static-y and cornball performance of Green Hornet or Little Orphan Annie instead of watching the boys highjack Ari and head to Vegas to judge a stripper beauty pageant? Get real.

Let me spell this out for you. Do you know why in the thirties and forties radio was so hugely entertaining and popular? I’ll tell you--because it was better than nothing. It was better than what had preceded it, which was staring into a fireplace or worse, at your mother as she sat in a rocking chair making a broom. And as radio replaced broom-watching as the dominant form of evening entertainment, so television replaced radio. Because television is better. I’m surprised I have to keep explaining these things to you.

Is It The Last Minute Already?

What a shock! It looks like Christmas is going to fall on December 25th again this year! I just don’t get me. From last December 26th I knew this Christmas was on its way, and yet here I was today trying to still buy presents at what is apparently the last minute. And I’m not even talking about going out and fighting the panicky maniacs at the mall, but rather simply parking my Royal Hawaiian at the computer and banging on the keyboard for half an hour. Except it took a hell of a lot longer than half an hour.

The sad thing is I used to have to write down all the presents I had to buy and then keep it folded in my wallet, scratching off names as I went along. Back then the list usually included about thirty names, and yet somehow I managed to get it all done. And well before December 15th, let me tell you.

Now sadly my Christmas list has shrunk to truly pathetic dimensions. I don’t have an exact count, but I assure you it’s less than ten. Some are off the list by mutual agreement or folks have dropped out of my life. Others have too soon shuffled off this coil. And so when I sat down at the computer today I really had only three gifts that I needed to secure.

To make things even easier on myself I decided to get two of the three people the very same present. They live on separate coasts and will never meet. And since I won’t be seeing either over the holidays the gifts have to be mailed anyway. Hell, if I could have ordered one gift and split it between them I would have done that, but Hershey’s didn’t offer that option.

Yes, I got a Hershey’s catalogue in the mail yesterday and, as I’m at a point in life where I drool over pictures of chocolate much like I used to drool over porn, I decided I would find some nice gifts among its festive pages. Which I did. Really, who in their right mind wouldn’t want a large personalized Hershey bar in a big box surrounded by dozens of other Hershey products like kisses and nuggets and miniatures? Besides a diabetic, I mean.

Totally out of character I decided to call the Hershey’s 800 number rather than order off the Internet. Normally I try to avoid contact with humans as much as I can, but this process looked simple enough and I was ready to answer any questions they might throw at me. I had my phone, credit card, catalogue and address book within easy reach. I was ready. (Ready to get this nonnsense over with, that is. Bah, humbug.)

Those people at Hershey’s truly are standing by. It was like the chick on the other end was just waiting around for my call. (A reaction I’m not used to from women, by the way. But that’s a story for another day.) I told her I wanted to order a couple of things and she asked me for the Item Number, which I was immediately able to produce. I told you, I was ready. Heck, this would take no time at all.

“I’m sorry sir, but we’re out of that item...” the Hershey girl said.
“OK, well then I’ll take…”
“Actually, all we have left is a few of the tins. How about some nice chocolate pretzels?”
“Are you telling me that Hershey’s has run out of chocolate?”

Well of course not, she explained. They were just out of most of the Christmas items. The baskets, the towers, the combination boxes—in other words anything you might conceivably want to send as a gift. As apparently the rest of the country already had.

I wished her well and clicked over to the Ghiradelli website. There I found a very nice basket of chocolate goodies that I spent the next hour trying to order. Finally I got a message that said that the number of items I wanted to order exceeded the number that they had on hand. Wild man that I am, I had tried to order…one.

I chose a cheaper basket and when I finally got their ordering system figured out a warning came up that my ATM card had been rejected. I tried another ATM card and it too was rejected. And so I spent another half hour trying to figure out why my invoice address was not the same as my billing address. Finally I saw the problem—I had typed in my ZIP code incorrectly. Damn you, computer! You know I live in California! You know my ZIP code starts with a nine! Don’t go by what I typed, go by what I meant!

And so problem solved, I went through the process twice and sent the two chocolate gift baskets. Having not suffered enough I hopped over to another site and, after wrestling with their screwed-up website, finally was able to send out the third gift.

Spike buys about five times as many gifts as I do, and she buys them throughout the year. I laugh when I see her pick up a Christmas gift for someone in April or in July. How foolish! I think. It’s silly to buy so early when it’s inevitable that you’re going to come across an even better gift later in the year. I often wonder how I got to be so damn smart?

Why Apocalypto Isn't Great

For years I’ve noticed that whenever an actor decides he is suddenly a filmmaker the product usually looks exactly like what it is: a film written and directed by an actor who imagines himself a writer and director. For the most part I’ve found these efforts to be somewhat thin, light on both plot and character development. There just seems to be something missing from these movies. Oh yeah, a writer and a director.

There are always, as the cliché goes, exceptions that prove the rule. But lately, in the last few decades, there seem to be more and more actors who are proving that there is a lot more depth to their talent than simply speaking lines in front of a camera. They truly have become filmmakers. The leader of this pack must surely be the squinty-eyed spaghetti western star Clint Eastwood. From Unforgiven to Mystic River to Million Dollar Baby Eastwood seems to now hit one out of the park every time he steps up to the plate. And at 76 ( ! ) he doesn’t seem close to running out of steam, having produced and directed not one, but two Oscar contenders in 2006, Flags of Our Fathers and Letters From Iwo Jima.

To a lesser extent, credit as a filmmaker can also be given to Robert Redford, who produced and directed such films as Quiz Show, Ordinary People, The Horse Whisperer and A River Runs Through It. For a brief moment in time it even looked as if Kevin Costner would be joining this august group of actors turned filmmakers, that brief moment being 1990 when he produced and directed Dances With Wolves. Since then Costner has done little in the producing/directing arena to lead us to believe he will be joining the above elite pair anytime soon, but then again Costner is a much younger man and presumably has more time to make his mark. (I’m finding it a hard pill to swallow that not only is Costner about a quarter-century younger than Eastwood, but he is actually two years younger than me!)

Which brings us (finally) to everybody’s favorite anti-Semite, Mel Gibson. Like Costner, Gibson is an actor with a short resume as a director. And also like Costner, Gibson has an Oscar sitting on his shelf for his directing skills. I also suspect that Mel might be expecting a second gold statue for his work on his current hit movie, Apocoypto. Sadly for Gibson there are two reasons why this is simply not meant to be. The first being, of course, that there are sure to be at least one or two Jewish people involved in the actual Oscar voting.

But secondly Apocolypto, while a good movie, is not a great one. And here’s why. The movie can be divided into three parts, parts of different lengths. The opening scenes depict tribal life on the Yucatan peninsula in the early 1500’s. It’s very engrossing to watch as Gibson not only shows us how these people eked out a survival in the jungle, but also the love, friendship and sense of fun that is common to all people, then and now.

The second part of Apocalypto is a treat for the eyes and the mind. We are transported out of the jungle and into a Mayan city as Gibson imagines it might have been. How accurate is his portrayal? How the hell should I know? I do know that he takes the images of the old Mayan ruins that we have all seen in person or in pictures and makes them come alive. For the first time we can see that these famous structures are more than mere piles of rocks from a long-ago time.

And so ends the educational part of our movie.

Unfortunately we’re only about halfway through the film when the chase through the jungle begins. A captive member of the tribe escapes and is pursued by a band of his bloodthirsty and highly focused enemies. And from here on Apolalypto is little more than a chase movie. To his credit, Gibson provides us with a very exciting chase, but any pretensions of insight into the Mayan culture or history are out the window, and they’re not coming back. (Save for the final Planet of the Apes-style scene that, even through the thick jungle foliage, you can see coming a mile away.

And that’s why Apocalyto is not a great movie. We’ve all seen chase movies before, even ones that take place on foot. The cowboy being chased by a band of yelling Indians. An explorer being chased by a pack of Africans. Heck, if you want to see a great foot-chase movie rent Cornel Wilde’s 1966 flick The Naked Prey. It too has a lot of running and chasing and, like Apocalypto, with precious little insight to get in the way of the fun.

Not Such Good Guys

They call themselves Good Guys, and maybe they are, but they’re certainly not great guys. Still, I found myself today in their electronic store because I knew it was about time for me to squeeze myself among the other shoppers and get Spike’s Christmas present. I told her not to read tonight’s column, but just to be safe I’ll not mention what I got her. I’ll just tell you it’s one of these new-fangled electronic gizmos that she’s been wanting and that should suffice.

I knew exactly which model I wanted when I walked into the store, and that was, of course, the cheapest one. Straight to the bottom of the line, that’s me, like a catfish diving to the ocean floor. Hell, why would any sane person need to have more than 500 songs at their immediate disposal anyway? (Whoops! Now you’ve guessed it!)

I hunted down one of the clerks and showed him the device I wanted, and now we were off to the races. Do you want to get the earphones? Hey, let me show you the types of battery chargers we have. How about a carrying case? Extra battery? No, I said. I’ll leave that up to her—I don’t know which type she would want. (Translation: I’m too cheap to spring for another hundred bucks in accessories.)

And then we came to the golden moment of any electronic purchase: Sir, would you like to get the extended warranty? It’s only $59 and covers all repairs for the next blah, blah blah. No thanks, I said, probably with a scoff of disdain but I didn’t really mean to.

The guy wouldn’t let up. He kept telling me all the benefits of the warranty. What if I dropped the device? What if that little wheel stopped working? Finally I told him politely but firmly that I never buy the extended warranties and that I was sure as hell not going to donate an additional 40% of the purchase price to this little scam of his. And that should have been the end of it. But of course it wasn’t.

Now the guy was saying that “for their records” they would like to know why I wasn’t interested in purchasing the extended warranty. (I tell you I could have smelled the high-percentage commission a mile away.) What could I tell him—because I’m not retarded? I decided to take the friendly route and asked the guy if he ever watched The Simpsons. When he answered a confused “No” in his broken English I knew I had just turned down the wrong road, but it was too late.

Oh, I’m not one of these types who makes fun of someone because they speak two languages and I only speak one. And it bothers me not a wit if my ATM is in English and Spanish. Having to press an additional button is not for me the end of the world. And when I’m 98 years old and one of only a few dozen remaining Americans who still speak English I hope the people in charge then will be just as tolerant as I am today.

Still, I immediately realized that trying to explain a very funny bit from The Simpsons to this guy would be damn near impossible. But that doesn’t mean I can’t pass it on for your enjoyment: It seems that through an x-ray they discovered that the reason that Homer Simpson was not too bright was because a crayon that he had shoved up his nose as a child was still pressing against his brain. The doctors removed the crayon and suddenly Homer became very intelligent.

As time went on Homer realized he was happier the way he had been, and so the doctors agreed to re-insert the crayon into his nose. They kept pushing it further and further up while listening to Homer’s comments. The doctors knew that Homer was back to his old moronic self when, after one final push of the crayon, they heard him say, “Extended warranty? How could I lose?”

Pining Away

You must be familiar with that hillbilly comedian Jeff Foxworthy, the guy with the one-note routine that starts: “You know you’re a redneck when…” Yeah, I don’t particular relate to his tobaccy-stained red state brand of humor either, but I was thinking of him when we were decorating the tree last night.

Why? Because I just might start my own stand-up comedy routine that begins: “You know you’re married when…” And my first line occurred to me as I began the tree-trimming task: You know you’re married when…you happen to hang the very first ornament on the back of the tree and you hear, “You know, you have to put some on the front of the tree too.” Many years ago there was a show called Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman where a wife stabbed her husband with a Christmas tree. It probably aired twenty-five, thirty years ago but I’m only just now beginning to grasp the humor in that particular scenario.

Oh, I shouldn’t complain. Until Spike came along I had pretty much given up even bothering to put up a Christmas tree. Here I was, all alone in my bachelor pad (on a golf course and with a fireplace) with nobody to keep me company except for a one-eyed cat and the constant parade of obliging and nubile young women who passed through my bedroom. Thank God I was eventually rescued from that shallow existence.

I remember that long ago Christmas when we were in the basement of Woolworth’s and Spike decided I would indeed be getting a tree, and therefore would need to stock up on decorations. We walked up and down the aisles as Spike loaded me up with boxes and bags of glittering new ornaments, tinsel, garland and what ever else she thought I’d be able to carry. In fact she did everything to make sure I had the proper amount of decorations for my tree. Everything, of course, except pay for them.

I still recall the total bill for that impulsive holiday spree of hers—fifty dollars. Fifty bucks for a bunch of crap to hang on a tree, a tree that I hadn’t even bought yet. Hang on a second—I’m going to flip over to the Net and calculate what that fifty bills is equal to in today’s dollars. Talk quietly among yourselves--I’ll be right back.

$78.75! Holy smokes, I spent the equivalent of nearly eighty dollars on tree decorations. Wow, I must have been young and in love. I can’t imagine what it would take to get me to spend that much today. After eighteen years of togetherness I doubt that Spike still has the power to cajole me into a purchase of that magnitude. Few people do, unless their names happen to be Angelina or Salma. And quite frankly I don’t even think either one of those babes could accomplish the task individually. They’d have to work on me together as a team. (Excuse me, I suddenly have this delightful image in my head that I’d like to be alone with for a few minutes.)

I’m back. Ahem. Anyway, those are issues from long ago. At this point Spike has enough Rubbermaid containers filled with accumulated ornaments and such that we could contract to decorate the tree in Rockefeller Center and not leave any bare spots. Oh, I just thought of another one: You know you’re married when you hear: Take that down. We are not having a stuffed Mr. Hanky on top of our Christmas tree!

Yep, it had both a golf course and a fireplace.

Getting a Grandma Tree

Do something once and you’ve got yourself a unique experience. Do it twice and what you’ve got then, son, is a tradition. And always remember that traditions, like lunatic girlfriends and fungal infections, can sometimes be awfully hard to get rid of.

And so it was back to the same Christmas tree farm for the fourth consecutive year. This farm really is quite a place—they have six different varieties of trees growing on 640-acres. I know this because I just read it on the sheet of paper they hand you when you drive in. They also have a Santa’s Village, and free train rides, candy canes and hot cider. And suddenly their Christmas tree prices are beginning to make a lot more sense.

Last year, after a lifetime of full-size trees, I decided that I was now at a point in life where it was OK to switch to a “grandma tree.” You remember, the two-foot tree that your old granny would take three minutes to decorate and then proudly display on a small end table in her overheated living room. On a doily.

Well, I really haven’t yet gotten to that point. Last year we got a tree that stood about four feet tall and by the time we decorated it and put it up on a plastic box (covered daintily with a festive tree skirt) it stood a respectable six feet. From the window any passerby would think it was a regular sized tree. I thought of the tree as the Tom Cruise model, and the plastic box as lifts.

The most expensive variety of tree on the farm is the Noble Fir. Noble—it even sounds expensive. They’ll run you about $75…for a dead tree. The least expensive tree is the lowly Monterey Pine, at only $35. The section that grew these losers was strategically placed way in the back of the canyon in the loneliest section of the farm. You really had to work to get to it, which I’m sure was no accident. No matter. I’d gotten my tree there the three previous years and could probably have driven to it blindfolded.

And so once again we parked in the same spot we’ve used since 2003 and began the search for the perfect grandma tree. Or at least I did. Every time I suggested some small but respectable tree Spike pointed to one of her choices, which was always at least six feet tall.

“But I thought we were getting a smaller tree again this year,” I whined.
“Yes, but that’s not a tree. That’s a bush.”

Clever girl, using subconscious political psychology on me like that. She knows I hate that word. I won’t even buy Bush beans. But I held strong. I truly prefer the smaller tree. They’re easier to transport home, easier to decorate and a lot easier to bag and throw out on the trash at the end of this joyous holiday season. Aren’t I just a glittering bundle of Christmas cheer?

And so we trudged from tree to tree for over two hours, never really finding a decent tree-- tall or short--and never, of course, crossing the border out of our safe and relatively inexpensive Monterey Pine haven. (Oh, at times we could see the others, all snooty and smug with their nice winter clothing and yuppy catalogue boots dragging a ten-foot Grand Fir to their shiny and huge SUV. What suckers they are paying $75 for a tree, we thought jealously.)

And so after rejecting trees of all sizes, some with hearts of dead brown needles and others with huge bare spots on one side or the other, exhaustion took over and because of it I won the day. Spike finally exhaled a defeated “fine,” and before she could change her mind I quickly sawed down a small and rather narrow tree and carried it with one hand like a suitcase to my car. Once home I again carried the tree with ease into the house.

For some reason Christmas tree stand technology, with those painful screws, has not changed since the 1950’s, but because I had been wise enough to purchase a grandma tree that was readily supported this agonizing problem was a thing of the past. And what’s this, we only need one package of tinsel and one string of lights? And see how beautiful the tree looks!

As I said, do something twice and it’s a tradition. And so it looks like as of this year getting a small Christmas tree has become a family tradition. With a little luck and some diligent whining the trees will each year continue to decrease in size, if not in price, until a couple of decades from now when I too will be free to proudly display a diminutive two-foot tree on a small end table in my over-heated living room. Yes, on a doily.

If I Can Make It There...

I spoke to Mr. Zero today. It seems he was in New York last weekend and so I asked him if he had witnessed the lighting of the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center. Well he had, and of course he had viewed it as he has so many other events in his adult life: over the rim of a glass filled with booze.

Each night the Letterman show begins by claiming that New York is the greatest city in the world. I’m not sure what criteria they used to come to that conclusion, but I am sure that I don’t want to turn this article into some anti-New York screed. To some New York is a fantasy vacation destination. To others it is the only place on Earth that they would deign to live. For me New York is…well, just listen to my story.

More than one and less than three decades ago, for reasons that now seem alien to me, I pursued a job as a stockbroker. Somehow, despite having worn a brown tweed sports jacket to the interview, I was hired. Upon passing the license exam (some might call it a “license to steal” and I wouldn’t object too strenuously) I and my fellow new-hire Paul were sent to New York for a month of training. To some, I knew, this was like a dream come true. As for me, I wasn’t so sure.

The cab driver who picked us up at the airport and drove us into Manhattan thought he was a riot. Obviously he lived for the days when he would pick up some yokels and regale his captive audience with forty-five minutes of his clever New York witticisms. I was kinder back then, and so I didn’t spoil his fun by telling him that I had not been born under a turnip wagon in Beaverfeet, Arkansas, but rather in Queens, just a few minutes from our present location. And so he went on with his hilarious and obviously prepared routine about the filth, crime, rats and AIDS in New York. The people who live in that city wear this stuff like a badge and love to talk about it, and invariably their speeches end with, “But I’d never live anywhere else.”

During the four weeks I spent in New York I was sick for two of them. And they weren’t even consecutive weeks, but the second and fourth. In other words I got sick the second week I was there, got well, and then got sick again the last week. It was winter in New York and there were a lot of people confined into a lot of small, cramped places, like the subway or the offices or the training classrooms. And there were a lot of germs.

Each morning I put on a suit and then a heavy jacket so I could tolerate the bitter cold as I made my way to the subway station. The clothing felt like I was wearing a suit of armor and the subway like a cattle car. By the time I arrived at the company offices to begin the day of training I was totally exhausted. And it was only 9 a.m.

Most days were spent in the over-heated classroom learning about the things that eager young stockbrokers were required, and hopefully eager, to learn about. It was boring stuff, and when combined with a hot classroom and a dose or two of NyQuil I don’t know how I didn’t fall asleep. Or maybe I did. Who remembers?

There are many wonderful cultural activities in New York, many unique things to see and do. During my extended visit I saw no plays, went to no museums and listened to no symphonies. On weekends I took the train to nearby Long Island to visit my family and during the week I struggled to drag myself to the training session in the morning and then back to my hotel to collapse at night.

Oh, and that was another thing. I shared a room with Paul, which really should have been no problem. He was a good guy, and we became friends. During the day. At night, however, he snored like a rhinoceros. I tried several techniques to deal with the situation: First I tried to force myself to fall asleep before he did. Have you ever tried to force yourself to sleep? Then I got these gooey earplugs that were like sticking Gummi bears into my ears. And finally I came up with the idea of reaching over and violently shaking Paul’s bed when he began to snore, and then pretending to be asleep when he was jolted awake.

This worked the first night, but that was all. Paul was by no means a stupid man, and he knew exactly what was going on. He was also fresh out of the military, an officer, and had been a boxing champion at Annapolis as well. Just before he turned out the light on the second night he looked over and said, “Good night. And if you shake my bed tonight I’m going to come over there and kill you.” And so Paul, unlike myself, slept peacefully through that night, and through every subsequent night for the entire month.

I spent my “fantasy" month in New York sleepless, sick, bored and completely miserable. And finally one day it was over. We flew back and landed at the San Francisco airport and were met by Paul’s wife, who graciously drove us back to the East Bay. Here it was nearly spring, and as I sat in the back seat as we drove across the San Mateo Bridge my eyes feasted on the color of the fresh, emerald hills, gulping it in like some delicious green wine.

My enjoyment was somewhat limited, however, by the sharp, stabbing pains that I was experiencing on the left side of my chest. Up front Paul and his wife continued talking to each other while I debated whether to ask them to take me to an emergency room. Dammit, I thought, here I am barely out of my twenties and that ghastly city has killed me!

I didn’t say anything about the pains, and happily they soon subsided. My body eventually realized that I was now safely back in California and everything was going to be just fine. I haven’t returned to New York City since that horrible experience of long ago, but maybe someday I will. It is, after all, the greatest city in the world and I hear it’s just lovely in the summer.

B All You Can B

I enjoy Maxim magazine about as much as a quinquagenarian can, seeing how its target audience is mostly made up of young punks in their twenties. It’s also a little depressing that I have to dig out my reading specs in order to focus on the photos of the babes in their underwear, and frankly I haven’t been too thrilled over the years with Maxim’s pro-Bush stance. Still, I just renewed my subscription for another year. (I’m generally not one to stand on principal when there are semi-naked women involved.)

Anyway, an ad caught my eye in the latest issue. It’s called Big 100, and it’s a GNC “dietary supplement” made up of mostly of Vitamin B. Or more accurately, the Vitamin B Complex. And so a few weeks back I went to the local GNC and thought I'd give Big 100 a try. And I’ve been taking it ever since.

I just grabbed the bottle and for the first time looked at what’s in the stuff. It’s says it’s got 100 mg of Vitamin B-1, which is, according to the chart, 6667% of the Daily Value. Is it just me or does that sound like a whole lot of Vitamin B-1?

And it’s the same as you read down the list. Big 100 contains 5882% of the Daily Value of Vitamin B-2, 5000% of Vitamin B-6 and 1667% of Vitamin B-12. Oddly, a Big 100 tablet contains only 33% of the Daily Value of Biotin, whatever the hell that is. So I can already see the handwriting on the wall: I’m going to become incredibly healthy from ingesting all these mega-doses of Vitamin B only to end up dropping dead due to a Biotin deficiency.

So a few days ago I’m watching Seinfeld (Well, I’ve got to do something between issues of Maxim) and in it George is suddenly feeling energized from eating a few pieces of Kramer’s mango. “I fell like I’ve had a Vitamin B shot!” he exclaims. And a ding goes off in my head. (Don’t be concerned—I hear those dings in my head all the time. It’s like a toaster-oven in there.)

Lately I had been feeling quite a bit more energized and, well, cheerful, but I had not made any connection with the Vitamin B I was taking until I heard that line from Mr. Costanza. I’ve also noticed that my weight, despite an admitted slacking off on my weight-loss regimen, was holding steady at each weekly weigh-in, and even going down. Could these be benefits associated with the high doses of Vitamin B that I was consuming? (And please don't laugh at me if in five months it turns out that my weight loss was not a benefit of the Vitamin B but rather an early symptom of some horrible, wasting disease.)

Hey, I’ve scoffed at people who were “cured” of their aches and pains by wearing a copper bracelet or by dipping their fingers in Holy Water, and frankly I tend to look askance at just about any advertising claim. And in truth I don’t even remember what the Big 100 ad said that compelled me to buy the stuff in the first place.

I also didn’t expect to actually feel any benefits from taking the Vitamin B. I’ve been taking vitamins for years and have never felt any differently. I always figured that the benefits were prophylactic in nature, and the fact that I had had but one minor cold in the last decade was due to my daily vitamin intake.

Then I got on the Internet and looked up the benefits of Vitamin B. Why look at that! It boosts the metabolism and helps reduce stress. No wonder I’ve been feeling more energetic. In addition I learned that Vitamin B also helps maintain healthy skin, but I didn’t concern myself too much with that one. My zits disappeared about 35 years ago and I don’t think they’re coming back. Good God, I sure hope not.

Listen I’m not here to help sell product and make money for GNC or for anybody else, at least not without getting a little taste for myself. (Hell, I’ll sing the praises of aluminum foil beanies if the price is right.) All I can tell you that as of right now, in the early stages of my mega-Vitamin B consumption, there seem to be some positive effects. So give it a try, don’t give it a try—it’s up to you. All I know is that we’re all going to need some extra energy to get us through the upcoming impeachment trial and Vitamin B just may be the answer.

All the World is Sad and Dreary

I was taking a shower today (and aren’t you just thrilled that I’ve inserted that particular image into your head) and I started singing, which is something that I do often. But today’s choice of tune was different from the usual fare. It wasn’t a song by The Beatles or The Who or even Ol’ Neil. No, the song I began to sing, for reasons I can’t even begin to fathom, was Old Folks at Home.

I didn’t remember all the lyrics. In fact I’m not sure that I ever knew them. I started thinking about the song and realized that I knew very little about it. I did know that it was popular a very long time ago and I suspected that it had been written by Stephen Foster. And that it is lyrically quite evocative and beautiful.

And so to the Internet! And to a wealth of information that I didn’t know about Old Folks at Home. First, it was written in 1851, more than a century before I was born. It was, at the time, the most popular song ever published, and sold hundreds of thousands of copies. (That’s sheet music, not cd’s, you nitwit.) The Swanee River mentioned in the song was a misspelling of the Suwannee River, which is in Florida. Foster never saw the Suwannee River, or even visited Florida. Legend has it that he chose it as his brother read off the names of rivers from an atlas. The popularity of the song single-handedly triggered the Florida tourist industry and in 1935 Old Folks at Home, after some updating of the lyrics, was appropriately named the state song of Florida.

The song has occasionally been criticized as offensive as the original lyrics were written in the dialect of 19th Century black Americans. In fact, Stephen Foster spent years encouraging performers to portray blacks on stage in a more respectful manner. The lyrics that are familiar to us are actually a modernized version. Here is the first verse of the song as it was originally written 155 years ago:

Way down upon de Swanee ribber,
Far, far away,
Dere’s wha my heart is turning ebber,
Dere’s wha de old folks stay.

Man, those old-timey words are driving my spell-check crazy. But no matter, for despite the current sad state of the human condition I suspect that we are still sometimes capable of rising above petty quibbles and political correctness. I believe we can still scrape off the century and a half of dust that has settled on these melancholy lyrics and appreciate the eternal human feelings that lie beneath. I found a brief description on a college website that explains the meaning of Foster’s words. And it is done so well I’m going to let the unknown author do a little of my work for me:

“No matter how far we may travel or what sadness the world imposes on us, all our hearts ache for the best memories of childhood, the security of a family and parents, the familiarity of a home.”

And so I wonder which songs will be sung in the shower 100 years from now. McCartney’s Yesterday? Mancini and Mercer’s Moon River? Hammer’s U Can’t Touch This? Perhaps there won’t even be showers 100 years from now. Maybe humans will cleanse themselves with a whoosh from the shiny sterilization chamber that comes with every home. Or maybe they’ll attempt to refresh themselves once a week with a splash from the brackish, radioactive water from a nearby puddle.

Either way, it’s entirely possible that at least a few of our descendents may occasionally sing or hum a snippet from an ancient, nearly forgotten song called Old Folks at Home. And it will make them sad.

My Career in Politics--The Results

Sadly, the student council presidential election of 1963 was poorly documented, and so I am left with but a few wisps of memory from that historic event. Here’s what I got:

There was a scandal and I was at its center. I recall that Mom helped me with this bit of politicking, although I don’t blame her and she was not named in any of the subsequent charges and accusations. Originally it might have been her idea, but then again it might have been mine. No matter, because it was the idea itself that was important, and that idea was to make construction paper circles with the words “Vote for Len” written on them. Actually, to be accurate I’m sure they said, “Vote for Lenny,” as I was known up until about the time of my 30th birthday. (I had been introduced to a cute girl in a bar and she had responded, “Glenny?” It had sounded like she was talking to a five-year-old and the rest is history.)

Every “Vote for Lenny” circle came with a safety pin so each of my loyal subjects, uh, supporters could proclaim the wonder of me proudly and colorfully on their developing chests. The catch to this gimmick, and where the trouble started, was that each badge had a small two-piece box of Chicklets (That’s gum. Do they still make those things?) dangling from it.

The day after I began to pass them out we had a student council meeting. Well, from the outrage expressed by the faculty advisor you would have thought I had sent some of my fifth-grade henchmen to break into the Watergate Hotel. “You can’t give these out!” she exclaimed in a manner that even I, though only ten years old, knew was a bit of an over reaction. “That’s bribery!” she practically screamed. And so I ended up simply passing out the badges sans gum, which I’m sure (despite the lack of hard statistics to support my theory) was considerably less effective in winning over the votes.

But as I mentioned last night (Don’t stand there looking confused like a big dummy—scroll down and read it.) the real issue came down to demographics. Even at such a young age I knew enough to be worried that Peggy would take the majority of the sixth-grade votes and the majority of the girl votes. That seemed like an unbeatable combination to me. And what chance did I have of beating Frank for second place? He was, after all, just about the most popular kid in the school. (If Frank was also worried I doubt that he ever showed it. After all, he was Frank, and as calm and cool as his hip namesake. Ring-a-ding-ding.

I was sitting in class on the day of the election. The votes had been cast and I knew they were currently being counted. I was doing my best to pay attention to what my teacher was saying when the student council faculty advisor walked into the room. Yes, I don’t remember much, but I do remember what she said.

“I’d like to introduce the new vice-president of the student council, Leonard Stegmann.”

The class broke into applause. I’ve actually only heard applause a few times in my life (at least applause directed at me) and it’s always created the same combination of emotions in me—pride and embarrassment.

So did I win or did I lose? When I walked to the front of the room to shake the advisor’s hand I know I felt like a winner. But in truth I had finished second in a three horse race. You can’t get much more middling than that. Still, even before the applause had died down I knew finishing first had meant a lot less to me than not finishing third. That would have been humiliating. And so, if not me, who was this unfortunate grade-schooler who was now fated to carry this humiliation around for the rest of his life?

Or should I say her life? Yup, despite all the polls Peggy had somehow managed to capture neither the sixth grade vote nor the girl vote. And as the applause died down I knew two things for sure: One, I could feel the embarrassment that she would now be forced to carry and two, I was so genuinely glad that it was her instead of me.

Oh, of course Frank had won the election. As I said, he was Frank—a fifth-grader so cool that he had friends in the sixth grade. And as for me, I was more than content to serve as vice-president and possibly even be allowed to bask in some of Frank’s reflected glory. But sometimes, even at this late date, I can’t help but look back and wonder: Could I have beaten Frank if I had been allowed to distribute my Chicklets? I guess I’ll never know.

My Career in Politics--The Prelude

So it looks like Hillary is about to throw her hat, or whatever it is that ladies are using for head covering these days, into the presidential ring. The problem is she’s not going to become president. Hell, she’s not even going to get the nom from the Democrats. I hope that when events prove out you’ll remember where you read it first.

See, this country is not about to elect a woman president any more than it’s going to elect a black one. So you can scratch Obama off the list for now too. (And Barack, may I be so bold as to recommend a name change? How about Barry O’bama? I think you’ll gain more acceptance if some people think you might be Irish.)

No, I’m looking for those spineless Dems to pull the rug out from Hillary as they did to Howard Dean in ‘04, leading to a John Edwards (you just can’t beat a handsome Southern boy) versus John McCain race in 2008. And as long as I’m making predictions for which I will never be held accountable, I think Edwards is going to be running against Vice-President McCain, or even President McCain. How can this be? Stay tuned, Children, it’s going to be a fun two years. (Except, of course, for all the dead civilians and soldiers and stuff.)

Say, did I ever tell you about my own illustrious political career? Well tonight’s your lucky night, compadre. Pull up a chair—this won’t take long. It all began (and ended, actually) in fifth grade. I was running for president of the student council. The position was open to fifth and sixth graders and the rules were slightly different than what we see in our national presidential elections.

You see this was a democratic election, not a representational one. In other words, we voted directly for the person of our choice, not for a representative elector. Not only didn’t we have anything similar to an electoral college back then, we couldn’t have even begun to explain the reason for one existing anywhere. Hell, we still can’t.

And so it was decreed that both fifth grade classes and both sixth grade classes were eligible to vote and the candidate who received the most votes would become president of the student council. Ah, but here’s something that’s also a bit different from our modern presidential elections—the person with the second highest number of votes would become vice-president. (Did you know that that’s how John Adams became our first vice-president? He finished second in the Electoral College vote to George Washington. You see, I entertain but I also inform.)

There were two candidates running against me in my quest for the student council presidency. I still remember their names and I’m going to use them, lawsuits be damned. OK, I’ll just use their first names: Frank and Peggy.

Frank, although only a fifth-grader like myself, was without a doubt one of the most popular kids in school. Athletic, good-looking and smart, he was like the leader of our own mini-Rat Pack. In other words, just like in the real Rat Pack, everybody wanted to be Frank.

Now Peggy was a sixth-grader, the only one among we three candidates. And although I had a casual friendship with Frank (just call me Dino) I didn’t know Peggy at all. Like I said, she was a sixth-grader--she lived in a different world. And it was her uniqueness, as both a girl and as a sixth-grader, that made this election so intriguing.

After all, Peggy was the only girl in the election, so would that give her a lock on the chick vote? And what about the fact that she was also the only sixth-grader? Wasn’t she likely to garner a huge majority of their votes? After all, what self-respecting sixth-grader would vote for a lowly fifth-grader?

And if Peggy did succeed in putting together the landslide that the demographics seemed to be predicting, who then who would claim the silver? Who would finish second to claim the office of vice-president? And more importantly, who would finish in the lowly third (or last) position, and thereby become the only candidate to win nothing; to be forced to shamefully slink away with head hung low and body stooped in political disgrace?

For the answer to these questions, and so much more, meet me back here tomorrow for the results of that historic election!