Why We Must Never Forgive Their Pro-War Vote

“In 2003 I was saying, where are the ties [between Iraq] and al-Qaida? Where are the ties to 9/11? I knew it; where the fuck were these Democrats who said, 'We were misled'? That's the kind of thing that drives me crazy: 'We were misled.' Fuck you, you weren't misled. You were afraid of being called unpatriotic."

The above quote is by actor George Clooney and, like him, I was aware from the beginning that the invasion of Iraq had nothing to do with the attacks of 9-11. And please believe me that this is not a case of Clooney (or myself) now coming forward to brag about how very smart we are. In fact, if you re-read Clooney’s statement you’ll realize that he is actually saying almost the exact opposite.

What Clooney is saying in the above quote is that if he, a mere actor, knew what was going on during the run-up to the Iraq War then how can the members of Congress pretend that they didn’t? Jokes about the intelligence of our elected officials are commonplace, but in truth these people are, for the most part, intelligent and accomplished. And you don’t win an election to a high national office without somewhere along the way acquiring a firm grasp about the way things “really work.”

There were no members of Congress who voted on the Iraq War Resolution, giving Bush the power to attack Iraq, who were unaware of his family’s close connection to the oil industry. There were no members of Congress who were unaware of Cheney’s five-year stint as the CEO of Halliburton. There were no members of Congress who were unable to connect the dots. Just unwilling.

So knowing how the world worked, knowing that the attack on Iraq had little to do with national security, why did future presidential hopefuls like Hillary Clinton and John Edwards vote yes on the resolution? For that very reason: they were future presidential hopefuls.

They assumed, and correctly so, that a force as powerful as the United States military would make quick work of toppling Saddam Hussein’s government. And then, after the Iraqi people had been “freed”, the shiny new American military bases had been built and all that delicious oil was under control, the Iraq War would quickly fade into history like the blip it was expected to be. Let Bush have his day. Sure the images of Bush arrogantly wearing the wreath of laurel might assure his re-election in ’04, but their day, too, would come.

Voting for the war was probably the right thing to do from a career point of view. The last thing they wanted was to have a vote against this expected glorious military victory on their record. Yes, politically it seemed smart; morally, it was reprehensible. Neither Clinton nor Edwards, nor too many others, could have anticipated a war that would be raging four years after Bush put on his costume and declared victory. And while they also may not have foreseen the slaughter of a hundred thousand innocent Iraqis they certainly had to be aware that their vote might very well lead to many unnecessary deaths.

It was clearly a war being fought for fraudulent reasons, and yet they simply “went along.” They went along to appear patriotic, to seem to support our military and to, most importantly, protect their bright and shiny political futures. And perhaps we could be more forgiving if nobody in the House of Representatives had voted against the resolution, but history, for it is now just that, tells us otherwise. A majority of the Democrats in the House voted against the resolution. A total of 156 members of Congress voted against the Iraq War Resolution. John Edwards from North Carolina and Hillary Clinton from New York were not among them.

Edwards was the first major presidential candidate to publicly admit that his vote was wrong. Clinton has yet to make such a statement, and it’s become obvious that, if and when she eventually does, the timing will be closely tied to her rating in the polls as well as, apparently, the direction of the wind on that particular day. Ultimately it doesn’t much matter if any of the congresspeople, presidential candidates or not, who voted for this war admit to making “a mistake.” It doesn’t matter if they claim to have been “misled.”

History has already recorded who stood up for what was right and who chose to “go along.” And while it is certainly naïve to think that every person who voted against the war did so for solely altruistic reasons, it is just as naïve to believe that the likes of Hillary Clinton and John Edwards have learned from this experience, from their “mistake,” and can from here on be counted on to make decisions based on their core beliefs which they hold so dear. I’m sorry, did I say that it’s naïve? What I meant, of course, is that it’s laughable.

The Midnight Waffler

“How many friggin’ waffles do you need?”

That was me, this morning, being my usual cheerful Sunday morning self. And I’m not sure I said “friggin’”. I had just opened the door to the freezer side of the fridge to retrieve a few bits of the remaining bacon I had secreted there. (Bacon, like ice cream, has a short life expectancy in this house, or pretty much in any house where I might be a resident.) I was about to cook us breakfast because, well, somebody has to.

First, if you are a regular reader (Hi Mom!) you already know that I divide the people of the world into two categories: those who are willing to run out of something before replacing it and those who are not. If you don’t remember that article, or are just itching to read it again, check out the post from March 6th of this year. Go ahead, skedaddle. I’ll wait here.

Back already? OK, so now you know I think it is perfectly acceptable to run out of an item (except for maybe toilet paper) and even to go a day or two without it. I would even venture to suggest that the temporary deprivation might be character building. Spike, on the other hand, tends to have more back-ups than NORAD. She also has a waffle just about every morning of her life. (She might have two, but that would greatly diminish the absurdity of this situation and ultimately my point, so let’s not sweat the actual facts and say she only eats one. Just think of me as the Fox News of blogging.)

So while looking for my prized bacon stash a box of waffles slid out of the freezer and hit the floor. Yes, it would have been funnier if it had landed squarely on my bare foot, but it didn’t and so I’ll stick to the truth. (Hey, maybe I’m not Fox after all!) That’s when I looked into our limited-space freezer, saw the collection of waffles that was choking off all of our valuable freezer space and grouchily emitted the above line.

Now at this point I’m going to leave you for a bit, because I really do want to be accurate. And so I’m heading off to the kitchen, pen and post-it in hand, to do a late-night waffle inventory. (And so this, then, is what my life has become.) Be right back.

OK, right now in our tiny freezer I found two new boxes of waffles, each containing ten of the frozen dough circles. On top of those was a plastic bag which held an additional eight waffles. As I was closing the door I glimpsed another two plastic bags on the side rack, one containing five waffles and the other containing two more. So let’s see that makes a total of ten, twenty, carry the two—Thirty-five waffles! Oh, I almost forgot. I also found a lone waffle on the same rack, unprotected by any plastic wrap and as dried up and desiccated as Karl Rove’s heart. I believe I did the right thing by immediately throwing it into the trash.

“So what’s the big deal?” I hear some of you muttering under your breath. (And yes, I can hear you. This new computer is amazing.) Sure, you probably have a freezer in your garage the size of Raymond Burr’s coffin and could store ten thousand waffles if you wanted to. Well goody for you, but our freezer is just a small section of our average size refrigerator. It wasn’t designed to be a waffle storage facility. And remember, each waffle in our freezer is taking up valuable ice cream and/or bacon space. Why can’t you see that? What’s wrong with you people?

The Black Death: A Fun Quiz!

You know we’ve all heard the terms Black Plague, Black Death and Bubonic Plague, but it dawned on me that I really don’t know much about the specifics, and I bet you don’t either. I mean, I have a vague notion that a plague happened sometime during the Middle Ages and I’m fairly certain that several people died, especially in Europe. Oh, and rats may or may not have been involved.

But what are the details? Well, as you know I’m not simply here to entertain you chowderheads but to educate you as well. There are many ugly things happening in the world today, so what better time for me to provide a little light escapism. And what better way to brighten your miserable day than with this delightful little quiz about the Black Death? So go ahead, don’t be shy. Enjoy yourself! You might even want to multi-task and take the quiz while you’re eating your lunch!

1. The Black Plague first came to Europe in what year?
a. 1220
b. 1288
c. 1347
d. 1395

2. About what percentage of Europe’s population was killed by The Black Death?
a. Less than 10%
b. 33% - 67%
c. 75% - 90%
d. 100%

3. About how many people died world-wide from The Plague?
a. 50,000 – 75,000
b. a million
c. 75 million
d. 200 million

4. Where is it believed that The Plague originated?
a. Sicily
b. South -Western Asia
c. Northern China
d. Crawford, Texas

5. It is believed that The Plague returned to Europe every generation until when?
a. The Early 1500’s
b. The Early 1600’s
c. The Early 1700’s
d. The Early 1800’s

6. What event is often credited with beginning The Plague’s downfall?
a. The Great London Fire
b. The Pretty Good London Fire
c. The So-So London Fire
d. The Lousy London Fire

7. The Plague is generally thought to have been caused by which of these?
a. Virus
b. Bacteria
c. Fungus
d. Bad attitude

8. To what does the word “bubonic” refer?
a. Bubbon, one of the first cities struck by The Plague
b. The Latin word for “punishment”
c. Buboes, which are painful swellings of the lymph nodes
d. Bubbles, a traveling clown from Milan who infected millions

9. Which was one of the minority groups that Christians tried to blame for The Plague?
a. The Jews
b. The Jews
c. The Jews
d. The Jews

10. Which animal is generally believed to have transmitted The Plague to humans?
a. The Brown Rat
b. The Black Rat
c. The Gray Rat
d. The Blue Rat

Yuck! That’s just about enough of that, How’d you do?

ANSWERS:

1. In October of 1347 a fleet of ships reached Messina in Sicily. By the time they docked all of the crew members were either infected or dead. Or both, I presume.
2. It is estimated that 33% - 67% of Europeans were killed by The Plague. Did you actually choose 100%? And where are your parents from? OK, how about the guy sitting next to you? You’re such a dope.
3. About 75 MILLION people died in the Black Plague.
4. The Great Plague is believed to have originated in SOUTH-WESTERN ASIA. If you chose “d”…give yourself extra credit.
5. Although the Great London Fire of 1666 is believed to have sent The Plague into a decline, significant outbreaks occurred until the EARLY 1700’S. And yes, there are still isolated outbreaks occurring today. How's that pet hamster of yours?
6. What did I just say?
7. Without going into a historic debate here (I lied-I’m really only here to entertain) it is believed that The Plague was caused by different types of BACTERIA.
8. BUBOES are painful swellings in the neck, armpit and groin. They oozed blood and pus and damaged the skin until victims were covered in dark blotches. Hey, how’s that lunch?
9. What a surprise!
10. It is believed that a large part of the population of BLACK RATS and their deadly fleas (I have all their cd’s!) died in the Great London Fire, to be replaced by the brown rat, which did not transfer The Plague to humans.

You Really Can't Go Home Again

With the recent death of Kurt Vonnegut I was again reminded of an experience that I had many years ago as a fresh-faced (and mouthed) college student. It was another cold day in Upstate New York but I, along with my fellow students, were snug and warm in our freshman (or maybe sophomore) English class. The class was held in a basement room, a room that had survived many a frigid winter day and was no less prepared for this one.

The heating system kept the room at a temperature which in later years might be referred to as “toasty.” It was this warmth, hissing slowly from the old-style radiators, which was mostly responsible for creating the cozy and somniferous atmosphere. You would have thought it was steamed Ambien that was billowing out of the antique pipes and filling the tiny classroom.

Admittedly, details are sketchy. Give me a break, it was thirty-six years ago. What I do recall was that the teacher, Mr. Short, and I were suddenly having a lively discussion about the Vonnegut book we were currently studying. Exactly which of Vonnegut’s books it was I can’t be sure. I’ve always assumed it was Slaughterhouse Five, but recently I’ve come to believe it might have been Breakfast of Champions.

No matter. What was important was that I was actually taking part in a discussion, perhaps my first and probably my only one of the semester. But it was the first Vonnegut book I had ever read, and it was as if an entire new literary world had opened to me. And I could tell that Mr. Short had caught the enthusiasm for, although the rest of his over-heated and possibly stoned English students might be slowly slipping into semi-consciousness, here at least was one student who was inspired. And he had done the inspiring!

Our discussion was lively, but did not last a particularly long time. And yet for a while it was as if Mr. Short and I were the only two people in the room. I suspect most of the others didn’t know what we were excited about, and frankly didn’t much care. But I cared, and soon went on to read most of Vonnegut’s books. And over the last three and a half decades I’ve thought about this discussion often; certainly I can claim it as a watershed event in my educational journey.

I’ve also occasionally toyed with the idea of contacting Mr. Short, who the Internet told me was now Doctor Short, and who was still, amazingly I thought, teaching at my old college. I decided that the death of Kurt Vonnegut, though sad, presented a fine opportunity to contact my old teacher, relate my memory of that long-ago day, and let him know that his long years as an educator had not been spent in vain. For here I was, no longer a teen-ager (actually AARP-eligible, if the truth be told) still remembering how being in his class had inspired me, and grateful for the experience. Teachers love that kind of shit, right?

So I sent Mister, I mean Doctor Short an e-mail and related the story much as I have told it to you. I was careful not to mention the sluggishness of the class that day, for fear of insulting his teaching skills, or the specific Vonnegut book we had been discussing. I suppose my biggest concern was, if I did mention a specific book, to have him write back and tell me, “I never taught Slaughterhouse Five.” As it turns out I didn’t need to worry about which Vonnegut book I used in the tale.

You know by now that these little stories of mine usually, almost without exception, turn out worse than I ever expect, and certainly much more embarrassing. Thank you, it’s what I do. I received a response from Dr. Short the very next day. He began by stating that he actually remembered me and that I had taken a couple of classes from him. Now I really couldn’t believe that he would remember me, and I was ready to forgive him for forgetting that I had taken only one class from him. But then I began to think about it and I really couldn’t be sure. You know, I believe I might have taken two classes from him after all.

And then he dropped the bombshell. He appreciated the e-mail but said that he had taught very few fiction classes and never taught a Vonnegut book. He thanked me for writing and suggested that “you search your memory for the proper recipient of your message.” It was a polite and friendly e-mail, and it hit me like a brick.

Remember, this was not some long dormant memory that was suddenly shocked back to life when Vonnegut died. No, I’ve kept this episode in my mental In Box and more or less active since the day it happened. I may not remember the name of the book or what we specifically discussed, but I certainly couldn’t forget the teacher who had lit this literary fire in me. Could I? Hell, I can still name most of the 1969 Mets. And their numbers!

(I just thought that perhaps tomorrow I’ll dig through my old college papers. I know the chances of finding a clue, such as a paper about Vonnegut with Mr. Short’s name in the “teacher” space, are remote. But knowing me I’ll probably do it anyway. We just cleaned the garage—I know just where that old crap is.)

But how sure am I that the legendary Vonnegut discussion truly happened with Mr. Short? Well, I’d bet ten bucks on it. “Would you bet your 401K on it?” asks that annoying voice in my head that won’t go away. And in truth, no I would not bet my 401K. Sad to say, I’ve already discovered several memories that, upon investigation or recent evidence, turned out not to have happened in the way I thought they had. I tell you kids, it’s a little unsettling.

So I believe I’ll leave that ancient episode just as I told Mr. Short I’d leave it when I answered his shocking e-mail. The lively and enthusiastic discussion about one of Kurt Vonnegut’s books that took place between myself and Mr. Short will always, for me, remain a fond and treasured memory. And that’s whether it actually happened or not.

Relaxing at the Restaurant (Part II - The Catsup Bottle)

OK, so they got their free drink. What do I care? Believe me I’ve got bigger things on my mind. For example, those three people sitting over at the table to my immediate left.

They appeared to be a father and his two young daughters. The girls were maybe ten and twelve years old. Where was mom? Who knows? Oh, and they were Asian. Does this matter? And does it matter that the couple I wrote about in Part I were black? If the information about the race of these people (these people!) drastically changes your POV, well, maybe that’s something for you to examine on your own time. Leave me out of it and for god’s sake don’t send me any e-mails.

Anyway, I see that the father in the group to my left has ordered a big greasy cheeseburger accompanied by a nice American-sized pile of French fries. (Remember “Freedom Fries?” My god people are idiots.) And along with those fries comes the requisite bottle of catsup. And it’s a good thing there was this bottle of catsup, because obviously I was done with the “free drink” people and so I was now in desperate need of something else to be annoyed about.

Well, the bottle of catsup was upside down. Now you wouldn’t be able to tell this from a distance, because the large wide base was touching the table while the spout was pointing provocatively towards the sky. But a few years ago some makers of catsup finally recognized the existence of gravity and so created a bottle that would stand on its spout end, thus ensuring that a bottle of catsup, when placed correctly, would always have the product at the spout, ready to squirt without pounding on the bottom or having to go excavating with a knife.

What the catsup people also did to help slower folks become familiar with this revolutionary new concept was to put the label so that it was now right-side up when the bottle was pointed spout down. I saluted the catsup companies, as well as the mustard and mayo folks, who came up with this concept, because while it meant less waste it also meant less sales for the company.

After all, if you are now able to use more of the catsup (mustard, mayo…) in a bottle doesn’t that mean, ipso fatso, that the companies are selling less? There is a famous quote that I’m too lazy to look up by an executive of a catsup company, who said something like, We don’t make our profit from the catsup people eat, we make it from what they leave on the plate.

OK, I’m not really that naïve. If this upside-down catsup (mustard, mayo…) bottle really cost the companies money I know, like the water-powered car and that cancer cure, it would be hidden away in some dark and guarded warehouse in Area 51, never to see the light of day. They must have raised the price of the catsup (mustard, mayo…) to compensate for the reduced sales. Or maybe the new-concept bottle actually helped to increase sales. After all, Americans are not wasteful people.

Hahahahahahaha! Whew, that was a good one. But seriously, what’s the point of these innovative companies achieving wondrous technological breakthroughs if some guy having a burger with his daughters is not going to place the bottle on the table the way it was designed to be placed?

And that goes double for the home. I swear if I open the refrigerator one more time and see that bottle of catsup standing in what would have been the correct position in 1958 but is now, in the 21st Century, clearly upside-down I won’t be held responsible for my actions. I mean, all you have to do is look at the label, Spike. Uh, or whoever happened to put the catsup in the refrigerator that way.

Relaxing At The Restaurant (Part I-The Free Drink)

“Oh, and waiter, I found this pebble in my salad,” said the lady sitting at the table next to me.

And here we go, I thought to myself. I recently finished reading a book that told the true story of a group of American sailors who were shipwrecked off the African coast in 1815 and were taken as slaves. During their captivity they were forced to survive for two months on a diet comprised mostly of discarded goat bones and camel urine. And now this lady had found a pebble in her salad.

The waiter took the salad from her and a short time later returned with a fresh salad (or so he claimed) and told the woman that it was on the house, and that they would also like to offer her a free drink to compensate for her horrible ordeal. (Word choice and obvious sarcasm are mine.)

The woman tried valiantly to pooh-pooh the situation and act as if it was no big deal. She wasn’t fooling me for a second. As soon as the waiter left she grabbed for the drink menu. It soon became obvious that she wasn’t much of a drinker, but she certainly was not going to let that little obstacle get in the way of her snagging that free drink. Hell, I think she would have grabbed some alkie right off the street to consume it if need be, but luckily such drastic measures weren’t necessary. Her husband was sitting right there and was more than happy to oblige.

“We should really fuck them over,” she said when the waiter was out of earshot but the blogger wasn’t. “What are you going to get?” Well these two put their diabolical minds together and decided that they would celebrate their good luck by ordering a Martell V.S.O.P. which, at $9 a glass, I had assumed was the most expensive drink on the menu. Hell, I don’t even know what Martell V.S.O.P. is, cognac?

Anyway I just looked up the menu on the web and I was wrong. The Martell was only the second most expensive drink. You could get a glass of “20 Year Old Port” for ten bucks. I don’t know if the couple had not ordered the port because they had not seen it, didn’t like wine, or wanted to order something new. Either way, I couldn’t help but notice that they had sure elevated their tastes in a hurry. Up until they had stumbled into the free drink offer they had seemed quite content to sip on their tiny glasses of beer. Domestic, I’m sure.

If nothing else, I always try to learn from my keen observations. And what I learned this night at the restaurant is that the next time I dine there I’ll be a little more prepared. After all, this is my favorite eating establishment and I’ve always wanted to try the surf and turf, but have been too, uh, economically challenged to do so. So next time I just might happen to show up with a handy pebble ready and waiting in my pocket, or maybe even a small selection of assorted goat bones. Hell, it might even be worth giving up a fingertip to pull this stunt off. I mean seriously, have you seen the price of the surf and turf?

Lesbians Are a Few of My Favorite Things

Look, I’m not saying it’s a big deal. I’m just saying that if I had written the song My Favorite Things I’d be thinking about filing a lawsuit right about now.

Oh, hi there. I didn’t hear you come in. Say, have you ever seen The L Word on Showtime? Well in truth I’m too cheap to get Showtime, but recently I’ve been ordering the DVD’s from Netflix and watching every episode, starting from season one. And no, it has nothing to do with the fact that the show features a dozen or more gorgeous young women, often half or fully naked making hot lesbian love in ever changing configurations of twos and threes.

OK, it has everything to do with that, but that’s not what I want to talk to you about today. Spike and I have been having a bit of a disagreement. After only about two or three listens I became convinced that the opening theme song to The L Word, a jaunty little number called The Way We Live, sounds an awful lot like that annoying bit of musical treacle from The Sound of Music called My Favorite Things. Spike does not think they sound alike at all.

And no, they are certainly not the identical melody. I’ve tried singing the My Favorite Things lyrics to The Way We Live with limited success. But there are undeniable similarities between the two tunes. Yet the most striking evidence that there is something foul going on here is not in the music but in the lyrics. It’s not just that the words of the older song fit so perfectly with the L Word theme, but the similarity of the words has to be more than just a coincidence. That’s right—I’m charging rip-off here.

And this is where you come in. I’m much too lazy (and non-technical, but mostly lazy) to download both songs for you to compare. Do that on your own time, Skeeter. But below are the lyrics to the two songs. Take a look and tell me what you think. Am I right or is Spike just wrong?

OK, I admit I’d much rather watch The L Word than see Julie Andrews singing and running around that mountain like a mental patient. After all, she doesn’t even get topless in The Sound of Music. (She does in a later movie though—after years had passed and nobody much cared anymore.) Anyway, here are the lyrics of the third verse of My Favorite Things, as written by Oscar Hammerstein II.

Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes,
Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes.
Silver white winters that melt into springs,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Uh, it gives me the creeps just seeing those words again. My dad played that album incessantly when I was growing up and it scarred me forever. In fact just the other day I took an on-line Sound of Music quiz and scored 100%. And, sadly, there is no cure.

OK, now here are the lyrics to The Way We Live as performed by the group Betty during the opening of the hottest lesbian show on television. (Yes, including The Ellen DeGeneres Show.)

Girls in tight dresses who drag with mustaches,
Chicks drivin’ fast, ingenues with long lashes.
Women who long, love, lust, women who give,
This is the way, it’s the way that we live.

Oh for god’s sake, they’re almost identical! Or they would be if Hammerstein had been a gay woman. Not only are the rhythm and meter the same, but the first two lines of The Way We Live actually rhyme with the lines in My Favorite Things. They didn’t even change “lashes”! And girls in white dresses and girls in tight dresses? That’s it, I’m having Spike’s hearing tested first thing tomorrow.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I appeal to you. (Oh no you don’t! -Vaudeville, 1924) Is there anybody else out there who doesn’t see the obvious plagerism here? I’m right again, aren’t I?

Sleeping Beauty Confidential

Pssst, Buddy. C’mere. Yeah, I’m talking to you. You know that old fairy tale Sleeping Beauty? ‘Course you do, ‘course you do. Well listen, give me a buck for a cup of joe and I’ll tell you how it really went down. Hey, would I lie? Thanks, man, now sit back and relax and I’ll tell you the way it actually happened…


It’s true. The original story of Sleeping Beauty, and many other of our most beloved fairy tales, bears little resemblance to the watered-down and sanitized version with which we are all familiar. The purification of these nasty old tales began in 1697 when Charles Perrault published a book called Tales of Times Passed, a book we know today as Mother Goose Tales.

The book contained eight stories which had been passed down from generation to generation and seven of these, including Cinderella, Little Red Riding Hood, Puss in Boots and Sleeping Beauty have become classic stories for children.

And while Perrault did not write these tales, he did clean them up quite a bit. The first known written version of Sleeping Beauty was actually published in 1636 and it was quite a bit, uh, edgier than the story we know today. And I’m talking about Quentin Tarantino edgy. In fact here’s a word of warning to you parents out there: If Disney ever makes a film of this particular Sleeping Beauty, animated or not, don’t take the kids.

Once upon a time (Just thought I’d try to soften this up for you.) there was a king, who of course had a beautiful daughter named Talia. Some wise men whose job it was to advise the king warned him that Talia would be destroyed by a poison splinter that somehow had found its way into the palace’s supply of flax. (Have you noticed you can’t find good flax these days? I’m not talking about the crap you buy at the flax store at the mall—I’m talking about the really good stuff.)

Well somehow Talia did find the poison splinter, which of course ended up stuck in her delicate and royal finger. Bam. Case closed. Stick a fork in Talia, that chick is done. The king of course is heart-broken. He lays his daughter’s body on a velvet cloth, closes down the castle and heads out to begin life anew. A life in which he still remains king, I’m sure. After all, he may be heart-broken, but he’s not an idiot.

It turns out that the king is not the only nobleman who is “laying his daughter’s body on a velvet cloth.” I told it was going to get rough. In walks this knight and he actually has sex with Talia. No, we’re not talking about a kiss on the lips here. This guy walks in, sees a dead chick lying there and figures, What the hey, nobody’s around and my horse can’t talk, and so he goes for it. My god, this is at the very least a case of rape, if not worse!

So as you might expect, the dead Talia gets pregnant and nine months later she gives birth to twins, a boy and a girl named Moon and Sun. (Damn those Hollywood names.) One day the boy (We don’t know if he was Sun or Moon.) is sucking on his dead mom’s finger (I’ll leave it to the Freudians to figure out why.) and out pops the poisonous splinter. And of course Talia comes back to life. Don’t laugh, I think I saw this exact story on CSI: Miami.

Happy days are here again, and a few months later who should come slithering back to the castle looking for a second helping? Yup, the so-called nobleman. He confesses that he is the father of the children and then Talia, instead of calling the cops to bust his twisted ass, proceeds to have a short but wild fling with this pervert. That is until he has to suddenly leave. Where does he go? Well, back to his wife, of course. What a scumbag.

Well the wife, who is never as much fun as the girlfriend—in both fairy tales and real life, decides to capture her husband’s bastards and make them into a hash to serve for dinner. He’s midway through this tasty meal when she informs the big dope, “You are eating what is your own.” Oh, yuck. (Didn’t Eric Cartman pull a stunt like this?)

But unlike Cartman, it turns out the cook is an old softy and so substitutes goat meat to make the hash. The wife finds out and boy is she pissed. She orders that Talia be captured and burned at the stake. But, as in all good stories, she is saved at the last minute by the nobleman and they, say it with me, live happily ever after. They don’t tell you what happens to the wife but I suspect the nobleman wasn’t bright enough to get a pre-nup and so his ex really lived happily ever after.

Quite a tale, eh? Why not read this one to the wee ones after you tuck them in tonight? I can pretty much guarantee that the whiney little rugrats won’t be bugging you to read them another bedtime story for a long, long time.

The Long-Awaited Sex Quiz

How ironic. Yesterday I travel to a bamboo garden where nothing happens and I somehow am able to write a blog about it. And today I actually do have a remarkable adventure, an adventure which I dare say many of you, perhaps even the majority of you, will never experience, and yet I can’t write about it. How sad it is for me to realize at this late date that I am just as constricted by the conventions of our society as everybody else.

No, there’s no sense in begging. I can’t tell you the story. Oh, perhaps someday over a glass or six of wine I’ll let it “slip.” But not today. And not in this forum. Besides, there might even be some children who visit this site and the last thing I need is to have my mom yell at me again for some adult content that appeared on these pages.

OK, let’s compromise. I can’t tell you anything about today’s incredible adventure but I can spice up this website a bit. I’ve been planning to do one of my hugely popular quizzes (I’m nothing if not delusional.) on everybody’s favorite subject. No, not American Idol. I’m talking about sex. And don’t worry, I’ll keep it very clinical and clean. So even if there are any kiddies visiting they can use it as an opportunity to learn something. Ah, who am I kidding? The little perverts will probably score higher than you!

1. In what month do more Americans lose their virginity?
a. January
b. June
c. August
d. December

2. About one in every two hundred women is born with an extra…
a. rib
b. ovary
c. nipple
d. sex chromosome

3. What percentage of men have had sex at work?
a. 10%
b. 27%
c. 56%
d. 88%

4. About how much semen will a man ejaculate in a lifetime?
a. a pint
b. a quart and a half
c. four and a half gallons
d. Why, do you need a battleship floated?

5. How long was the smallest erect penis ever recorded?
a. less than half an inch.
b. 1.5 inches
c. 2 inches
d. 2.5 inches

6. Who were the first couple shown in bed together on prime time television?
a. Ozzie and Harriet Nelson
b. Rob and Laura Petrie
c. Archie and Edith Bunker
d. Fred and Wilma Flintstone

7. How many more times likely is a man to view sexually explicit material on the Internet than is a woman?
a. twice as likely
b. six times as likely
c. one hundred times as likely
d. a woman is more likely

8. About 1% of women can have an orgasm simply from what?
a. an odor
b. intercourse
c. breast stimulation
d. receiving jewelry

9. What is the average speed of an ejaculation?
a. 28 mph
b. 50 mph
c. 200 mph
d. depends on traffic

10. Research shows about what percentage of men raised on farms have had a sexual encounter with an animal?
a. 5%
b. 10%
c. 25%
d. 50%

OK, pens and everything else down. This was kind of a fun one, huh? Let’s see how you did.


ANSWERS:

1. JUNE, just as you figured. Do I hear a prom dress ripping?
2. NIPPLE. And if I ever meet one of these women Spike is gone!
3. 56%. And you wonder why the Japanese are kicking our ass?
4. FOUR AND A HALF GALLONS. Which contains half a trillion sperm. Half a trillion potential little guys with my genetics. But is the world ready for that?
5. LESS THAN HALF AN INCH, and I’m going to sue. The guy with the tape measure told me this information would never be released!
6. FRED AND WILMA FLINTSTONE. You might have known that but for my money the hottest episode was when Betty and Wilma were in bed together. Hubba.
7. SIX TIMES AS LIKELY. Good thing it’s multiple choice, huh? I myself would have probably said about a billion times more likely.
8. BREAST STIMULATION. And right now most guys are thinking, oh women like it too? That’s cool.
9. 28 mph. I bet you guessed a lot faster, didn’t you? Hey, we’re not talking about inter-planetary travel here.
10. 50%. Yup, half. I wonder what percentage of men raised on farms voted for Bush? There’s a connection here—I just know it.

Bamboozled!

One of the nice things about writing these pieces, perhaps the only nice thing, is that when I go somewhere or do something I have a place where I can document and even share the experience. If the experience is a good one, like say attending a Neil Young concert or posing with some hot porn stars at the Exotic Erotic Expo, it can make for a pretty good article. And when the experience is a bad one, like say paying $200 for a couples’ massage or $2000 for a DELL computer, it can make for a really good article.

But while going someplace often translates into at least a readable story for this space, it’s not always a slam dunk. A day trip to somewhere new does not guarantee a blog for that evening. Sometimes, rarely, there is simply no story. Sadly, the trip may offer nothing good in the way of experience and, even more sadly, it may offer nothing horrible either. And this was the case when Spike and I drove (Well, I drove. Both ways. As usual.) an hour and a half to feast our eyes on what was billed as “The Biggest Bamboo Garden On The Continent.” It wasn’t fun and it wasn’t wretched. To quote the lady from long ago, there simply was no there there.

It was only after I arrived and took the quick stroll through the bamboo that I realized how I had been misled. While I had been expecting acres and acres of towering bamboo to hike and explore I had to admit the blurb in Via magazine had promised no such thing. They had only said that this was the largest bamboo garden in North America. It didn’t have to be huge to be the biggest—after all, bamboo isn’t native to North America. It’s like having the biggest piece of ice in Hell. Maybe you only have a single cube, but nobody else has any!

Did you know that there are 1400 kinds of bamboo? Neither did I, and I suspect I could have finished out the rest of my life in reasonable comfort even without ever knowing that tidbit of information. And don’t get me wrong—walking on the trail through the mini-forest of towering bamboo was pretty cool. And that’s the whole story. What else can I tell you about it? Nothing. Exactly.

Oh, here’s something. I found that I enjoyed knocking on the bamboo, as you might knock on a door. Why? How the hell should I know? And I’m too cheap to pay a therapist to find out and even if I did do you really think bamboo-knocking is my biggest mental issue? You really haven’t been paying attention to my writing, have you?

We picked up one of their free maps and it clearly showed that there was a pond on the property and dammit I wanted to find it. Did I mention that I had driven an hour and a half to get to this place? And find it I did. And friends, let me tell you that I have gazed at the jagged and verdant peaks of Tahiti and the snows atop mighty Kilimanjaro but believe me that looking at this pond was in comparison…an absolute waste of time. From the waterfall that cascaded down the plastic sheeting to the maze of metal pipes that lined the pond’s bottom to the terrified-looking group of tiny goldfish that huddled in the middle praying for either some vegetation in which to hide or a quick death, I’ve seen more natural settings at a Styrofoam factory.

And so to the tiny gift shop, where you could buy some rather attractive picture frames, birdhouses and other junk made out of, of course, bamboo. Like I said, I wasn’t hating the day and was determined to squeeze some fun out of my bamboo sojourn and so I decided to buy a t-shirt to commemorate my visit. After all, they were only fifteen dollars and that’s not bad for a cotton t–shirt.

Except these weren’t cotton, at least not 100%. It turns out the shirts were constructed, and I think I’m using the right word here, of 30% cotton and 70% bamboo. Well, great! It’s a shirt and a conversation piece! Spike suggested that I buy the only XXL they had left. I’m not sure what she was implying but I do know that I have over two dozen t-shirts in my closet and every one of them is XL. Why would I want to risk getting something that will be too large to wear? I mean, I just spent twenty minutes wandering through bamboo that appears to grow over 100 feet tall. It didn’t seem to me that bamboo is something that might shrink.

And so I bought the XL, flirted with the gift shop chick (like I said, I was trying to save the day) and then drove the hour and a half back home. I rushed into the house, tried on the t-shirt and informed Spike that she was now the lucky owner of a brand new bamboo shirt. It was much too small for me.

Perfect. Have I reached 500 words yet?

Rhymes With "Hell"

It’s about 11:00 at night on December 14th, 2042. The old, old man in the hospital struggles for every breath he takes, and none of the relatives, friends or medical staff who surround his bed are willing to bet that each one will not be his last. His once brown and thick hair is now white and sparse. And his formerly bright smile has been reduced to a few yellowed stumps randomly spaced in a red and wrinkled maw. Wearily the man, just weeks shy of his 90th birthday, looks up and signals for a young girl to come closer.

It is his granddaughter, which is strange because he never had any children. Gasping for air, he repeats, “If only, if only…” several times. The words are barely audible to the gathered people and so the granddaughter, always the old man’s favorite, leans in so that he can whisper into her ear. And so he completes the sentence, his final sentence, and with a sigh from somewhere deep within his body, or perhaps his soul, the old man dies.

Some of the people cry, some sniffle and some stand quietly. But all are sad, at least to some degree. Finally one man addresses the granddaughter with the question that is now in the forefront of everybody’s mind: What did he say? The granddaughter, now teary-eyed and herself struggling to speak, answers the man.

“He said, ‘If only I hadn’t wasted so much of my life on the telephone talking to DELL Technical Support.” Yes, dear readers, that old man is, or should I say will be, me.

Why is it so difficult to keep a brand spanking new computer working properly? Why have I been forced to go through this electronic cyber-hell from the first day that I decided it was time to treat myself to a new computer? I’m going to get up and check my Naked Hawaiian Girl calendar right now so that I can let you know the exact date that this nightmare began. Excuse me.

March 9th. On March 9th the geek from DELL came here and hooked up my sparkling new computer. Oh, I could have saved a couple of hundred bucks and hooked it up myself, but I chose not to. I didn’t want any problems. I wanted it done right.

March 9th. That’s just barely over a month ago. In fact if I want to be even more dramatic, and I do, it was only 35 days ago. And in that month, in that 35 days, I have been on the phone to DELL Tech Support—I’m sorry I can’t finish that sentence. In truth I don’t know how many times I’ve been on the phone to DELL Tech Support. I do know that a pair of those conversations lasted two hours. Each.

One of those conversations did nothing to fix the problem and the other required me to purchase an additional service plan for over $200 before the creeps on the other end could even begin to repair the problems. The many problems. And frankly I don’t know if I bought the plan from Tech Support or some other twisted arm of DELL or what. At this point I could have been talking to the people who make Hostess Cupcakes for all I knew. I only heard a guy tell me that they could begin to work on my computer just as soon as I had given them my credit card number. And don’t give me any lectures—I know it was from DELL and not some scam. (Correction: I know it was from DELL. I really can’t speak to the scam aspect of it.)

The second two-hour phone call ended in a stalemate. A pop-up one morning had suddenly informed me that Microsoft could not confirm that my new software was “genuine” and so my computer was frozen; shut down like a federal prison after a riot. A visit to the Microsoft website to verify the software was no help, either. You know what? Fuck Bill Gates, too.

And so, after a few phone calls out of the Yellow Pages I was forced to unplug my brand new computer (Have I mentioned yet that it’s a DELL? DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL, DELL—Sue me, you bastards.) and bring it in to a local shop for repairs. Yes, a one month old computer was now costing me an additional $225. “Oh, you should make DELL pay.” “Oh you should be covered by a warranty.” “Oh, you should send the bill to DELL.” You know what else? Shut up—you’re not helping.

And so today I decided I would like to scan a flyer from a house which is for sale in my neighborhood. Well it was the first time I tried to scan anything since the repairs and why don’t you just go ahead and finish this sentence for me. And once again I made the fateful mistake of calling DELL Tech Support with my problem. I reasoned that since the Printer and the Copier part of my All-in-One were working, this would be a simple fix. No way would I be subjected to the agony of yet another two-hour call.

And I was right. It turned out to be a three-hour call. The woman on the other end, to her credit I suppose, refused to give up and so continued to “try things” long after I realized the situation was hopeless. I had used my previous scanner only three times before it ceased working and lay dormant for years and now I had used this new one but once. Wasn’t it obvious? God clearly did not want me to have a scanner. He works in mysterious ways, you know.

At the two hour mark of my DELL Tech Support call we had reached the stage where not only had the scanner not been repaired, but now the printer had ceased to function as well. One more hour of “do this” and “do that” and the printer again worked but the scanner still did not. In other words, three hours after the nightmare began we had worked our way back to where it had all begun. My patience was now gone and even the chick on the phone had to admit that she was out of ideas.

“I’m going to order you a new printer,” she said, as if this was a good thing. But it’s not; it’s not a good thing. It’s not going to work any better than the one I have. Remember, my current scanner worked fine before I had to have the computer repaired, repairs that included the complete wiping of my hard drive and the saving and reinstallation of everything. It’s obviously a software issue. There are two things in my computer which are acting like Martin and Lewis after the break-up: They’re simply not talking to each other. And trying every printer on the West Coast is not going to help that problem one little bit.

But in truth nothing has happened that I did not expect to happen from the minute I decided to retire my seven-year-old Gateway. I knew I’d be entangled in technical glitches for months, if not years, to come. Glitches which, I might add, have been helped along in no small part by that new technical monstrosity known as Vista. Thanks again, Gates, I love being used as a guinea pig.

Ah well, no matter. I now fully accept that it is my fate to continue to spend large chunks of my dwindling time and money attempting to get my new computer to function properly. After all, that’s what happens when you get a new computer. Or, more accurately, that’s what happens when I get a new computer.

Schlachthof Fünf

The young soldier’s mother had just committed suicide, but this tragedy did nothing to prevent his government from shipping him overseas to Germany to fight in World War II. The soldier was an advance scout and so was soon captured during the Battle of the Bulge.

The soldier was held as a prisoner of war in the city of Dresden. From February 13th to February 15th 1945 the Allied forces staged a horrific and now-controversial attack on Dresden. The soldier, along with several of his fellow captives, huddled in an underground meatpacking cellar and was thus able to survive the firestorm that killed tens of thousands of civilians.

It turned out that the fortunate soldier was one of only seven American POW’s who survived the fire-bombing of Dresden. After the attack the Nazis put him to work gathering up the bodies of the dead for a mass burial, but they soon found that there were simply too many. Instead the bodies of the dead were destroyed by flamethrowers. The soldier would later describe the scene in Dresden as “utter destruction” and “carnage unfathomable.”

The soldier was awarded the Purple Heart and went on to use his experience in Dresden as the theme for the most famous of his nineteen books. The soldier’s name was Kurt Vonnegut and he took the title of his classic work from a sign which had hung outside the meatpacking room in which he and his fellow soldiers had hid. The sign had read Schlachthof Fünf, or as it would be translated into English, Slaughterhouse Five.

I'm Not Jewish! Part II: The Story That Could Have Been Really Funny

I come home about two weeks ago and there’s a message on the machine. It’s from yet another person that I know, but not particularly well. But still a friend. After some greetings and chit-chat (we hadn’t spoken in several years) the message goes on to say that she is calling for a particular reason. Specifically, she’s been looking for someone to portray Jesus and she decided that I was the perfect candidate!

At first I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The idea that someone would want me to portray anybody, much less Jesus, in a play or pageant was almost beyond my scope of understanding. Everybody knows that I don’t perform in front of people. I hide behind my keyboard and release vile thoughts from my Pandora’s Box of a mind when I’m all alone and in the dead of night. What could she possibly have been thinking?

The message rambled on a bit more about another subject and then returned to the main event:

“Yeah, the more I think about the more I know I’m right. That’s what we need, a real Jewish Jesus.”

Ah ha! So that’s it. She didn’t put it into these exact words, but apparently what my friend was looking for was a real jewy Jesus to be in her little show. In fact it sounded like she wanted to say the jewier the Jesus the better.

I immediately picked up the phone, not to return the call but to talk to my pal Mr. Zero. He is one of those friends I mentioned last night who is always trying to get me to admit to being Jewish, although he knows I’m not. I knew that he, and I, would get a major kick out of this phone call.

“That is so funny,” he agreed right on cue when I related the contents of the bizarre message. And he was right, of course. Seriously, no matter what my religion, or lack of, can you even begin to imagine me portraying Jesus in some passion play, or whatever the hell she had in mind?

First off, I don’t think Jesus should be portrayed by someone who still carries the remnants of a fairly thick Long Island accent. I mean, wouldn’t some of the solemnity of the story be destroyed if when the Roman soldiers arrive to arrest Jesus he greets them with a, “How ya doin’?”

Also, although there is no photographic record of Jesus, I think we can safely assume that he probably didn’t weigh anywhere near 220 pounds. Pity the poor director who would be forced to hire a dozen carpenters just to be able to stage that crucifixion scene, and with me refusing to remove my shirt besides.

And again, although we can’t know for a fact that Jesus didn’t have gray hair, we do know that he only came within seventeen years of being eligible for AARP, whereas I, had I not been stuck in denial, could have joined that organization for the decrepit four years ago. Add all this to the fact that I couldn’t act my way out of a one-ply tissue and you’ll agree that any idea about me portraying Jesus would be beyond absurd.

And this is where I wish I could end the story. But as I explained last night, I am nothing else if not truthful to you, my loyal readers (reader?) and so now the rest of the story. And believe me it’s quite a letdown.

I finally returned the phone call. Well of course my friend didn’t want me to play Jesus on a stage or in a pageant or on video. When she suggested I “portray” Jesus she meant in a screenplay. She thought it would be a good idea if I wrote a screenplay about Jesus, and by that she meant the real Jewish Jesus, at least as she perceived him to be.

I get this quite a bit, you know. (Nearly as much as I’m asked about being Jewish, in fact.) People find out that I am a writer (or at least play one on the computer) and immediately begin to tell me about all the great writing ideas they have. And they all suffer from the same problem—they can come up with a limitless supply of creative concepts, but they get stuck when it comes time to sit down and actually put them on paper. And it’s right about here that I’m always forced to remind them that the part where they sit down and put their ideas down on paper? That’s the writing.

So I’m sorry for how this ended. It would have been truly hilarious if someone had actually asked me to play Jesus on a stage. And who knows, if the money had been right I might have even done it. After all, these are different times in which we find ourselves. If we can entertain the notion of a black president or a woman president maybe we’re ready for a chubby, gray-haired and middle-aged Jesus with a thick New York accent. Then again, maybe we’re not.

I'm Not Jewish! Part I: Not That There's Anything Wrong With That

Let me warn you at the outset that this could have turned out to be a much funnier story than it did. But at least I’m telling the truth about what happened, which might make me feel good about myself but it also eliminates any chance I might have had to be selected for the Oprah Book Club.

Throughout my life, from the time I was a teenager and probably earlier, people have thought that I was Jewish. To this day I have several good friends who kid me about “coming clean” about my heritage. I say that they’re kidding, but I suspect they’re half-kidding at best. And if I’m objective about the whole thing I suppose it’s really not difficult to understand why.

I was born in New York, more specifically Long Island. Do you know how many times in my life when I’ve told people where I was from they immediately respond with the exaggerated, “Oh, Lawng Guy-land!” Not that there’s anything blatantly anti-Semitic about this, but subconsciously? Yeah, I think it’s there. It’s like that commercial for Pace picante sauce, where the Red State cowboys are reading a label (or having it read for them) and one of them says, “This sauce is made in New York City!” You don’t need subtitles to know what he’s really saying is, “Hey, this stuff is made by Jews!”

My name, both first and last, would also quite logically lead people to assume I’m Jewish. For my whole life I’ve heard a rule of thumb which states that if a “man” surname ends in two n’s it’s German, but if it ends in one n it’s Jewish. Is this true? How the hell should I know? I do know I’ve spent a good chunk of my life correcting people on the spelling of Stegmann. “With two n’s,” I’ve said about a million times. But that has nothing to do with my proclaiming or denying my heritage—I just want my name spelled correctly. Right? Right?

As a kid I worked in a drive-thru dairy store. Yes, I’ve had quite an illustrious employment career—right from the beginning. One time I had a slight run-in with one of the customers, a teen just a few years older than I. I don’t remember what the fracas was about; perhaps I had refused to sell him beer or cigarettes. What I do remember was as he pulled away he looked at me through his car window and spat, “You Jew.” And even though I’m not Jewish, and had neither the time nor inclination to explain this to that delightful chap, I got a small taste that day of the bitterness that is prejudice. I never forgot the feeling.

A few months ago I was working with a guy I know, but not particularly well. It was Christmas-time and I could see he was struggling with my "Jewishness."

“So do you celebrate Hanukah?” he asked.
“No, I’m not Jewish.” I answered. I could see the slits of his eyes narrow in doubt.
“What are you?” he asked.
“Well, I was raised Catholic.” Immediately I knew he had seized on the phrase “raised Catholic.”
“But one of your parents was Jewish,” he challenged.

I told him that no, as far as I knew I had no Jewish blood. The conversation ended there, but I could tell he was not convinced. I have no doubt that one of this guy’s next conversations included the phrase, “And then he tried to deny that he’s Jewish!” That’s okay, I was relieved enough just knowing that the inquisition had ended without me being tied to a rack.

I have dealt with many situations similar to this over the past four decades, and yet each time it still surprises me. I no longer wonder why people think I’m Jewish (hell, I’ve even played it up when trying to close a big account) but I do wonder why they care so much. Why is it so important to these people for me, someone who to them is obviously Jewish, to step up and admit “the truth”?

Another bizarre aspect of these questioning sessions is that I’ve often gone through them two and even three times with the same person. It might be months or even years later, but there I am once again answering questions about the Jewish faith while at the same time denying McCarthy-style that I am not now nor have ever been a member of it. And the all-time classic story, or at least what could have turned out to be the classic story, happened just a week or so ago.


TOMORROW: THE STORY THAT COULD HAVE TURNED OUT TO BE REALLY FUNNY!

The Pet Rock Quiz

I’m driving around and, as I often do, I’m thinking about things that really piss me off. You have no idea how I suffer, knowing that there are so many false “facts” floating around out there and so little time for me to correct them. Frinstance, I was contemplating all the people I’ve come across over the years who continue to believe that the guy who invented the Pet Rock made enough money to make himself rich enough to never work again. (Actually I couldn’t think of a single person who ever told me this, but I know you’re out there.)

Now when I was working in advertising, well not actually in it but certainly on its frayed edges, I heard that the creator of the Pet Rock took the money he (or she) made and used it to go on a nice cruise with his family. And then he went right back to work. But I had heard this tale many years ago, before we all had the greatest gift from the gods since fire at our disposal.

And so I checked out the facts about the Pet Rock on the Internet, and what do you know? It just goes to show you you’re never too old to learn. Too stubborn, yes, but not too old. But I actually did learn some things about the Pet Rock and if you take the quiz below you might just learn a thing or two yourself. And won’t that be fun?


1. Who is the creator of the Pet Rock?
a. Paul Willis
b. Gary Dahl
c. Joan and Julia Donner
d. William Raines

2. Where was the Pet Rock conceived?
a. Chico, California
b. Livermore, California
c. Los Gatos, California
d. Berkeley, California

3. How much did the original Pet Rocks cost?
a. $3.95
b. $5.95
c. $7.95
d. $9.95

4. In what year was the Pet Rock fad?
a. 1970
b. 1975
c. 1980
d. 1985

5. From where were the Pet Rocks imported?
a. Mississippi River Delta, Louisiana
b. Lake Victoria, Canada
c. Yosemite Falls, Yosemite National Park, California
d. Rosarito Beach, Mexico

6. About how many Pet Rocks were sold?
a. 50,000
b. one million
c. five million
d. twenty million

7. About how much profit did the creator actually make from the Pet Rock?
a. Less than $10,000
b. $150,000
c. One million dollars
d. Seven million dollars

8. The Pet Rock was introduced at a gift fair in which city?
a. San Francisco, California
b. Los Angeles, California
c. Chicago, Illinois
d. Toronto, Canada


OK, that’s enough. I’m not going to kill myself trying to squeeze a full ten questions out of a dopey rock. How did you do? Let’s find out.


ANSWERS:

1. The Pet Rock was conceived by advertising executive GARY DAHL while drinking with his buddies. Where the best ideas come from.
2. LOS GATOS, CALIFORNIA. I’ve been there many times and have never seen a Birthplace of the Pet Rock sign. They should get one.
3. You could bring home a Pet Rock of your very own for only $3.95
4. Which was a pretty good deal, even way back in 1975.
5. The Pet Rocks were stones from ROSARITO BEACH, MEXICO. The first one came from a builder’s supply store in San Jose, California and cost Dahl a penny.
6. During the brief fad (is that redundant?) about a MILLION Pet Rocks were sold.
7. Dahl had planned to make at least a dollar profit on each Pet Rock, and so made roughly a MILLION DOLLARS. Yeah, I know—a lot more than the cost of a family cruise. Get off my back, OK?
8. Because he knew the toy market to be so cutthroat Dahl introduced the Pet Rock at a gift fair, in SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA.

The Dumpsters of Time/Pennies

I’ve spent the last week or so rummaging through the dumpsters of time, and I certainly see no reason to stop now. Pennies was written in 1985 and was featured in the legendary Midnight Bulletin, a four-page bit of scrap paper that I published for five issues. I’ve already recycled a couple of the tired old chestnuts from that rag on these pages and thought I was done.

But then our friend, the attractive and talented Shadow Dancer, stepped in and posted the essay on her website. (Check her out at http://www.shesayswithasmile.blogspot.com/.) Well Shadow added her little comments and took away the capitalization, and at one point said that Pennies was “the funniest story ever.”

Well, thank you Shadow, you sure know how to turn a boy’s head. But I’m sad to say I’m not sure that I agree with your analysis. I mean, I think we can all agree that the funniest story ever is indeed posted somewhere on this website. But ah, which one gets the honors? That is a debate which may well be raging for the next hundred years. Like the war.

And so tonight I find myself encouraged enough to present, for the first time in twenty-three years, Pennies. I’m not going to bother updating some of the references, although if I was sending it out for publication today there would surely be some changes made. For example, I don’t think I would use the “AIDS virus” metaphor in 2007. And I’m almost certain that First Interstate folded up its tents years ago. Plus I’m not even sure people still wrap pennies anymore. I don’t—I just throw them away, just as I promised to do all those years ago.

Oh, and please forgive the non-existent paragraph spacing on this one. Blogger is not responding--I suspect because I copied and pasted Pennies from Shadow's website. I supposed I could always do it right and type the whole thing over. Hahahahahahaha!


Pennies


It all started when the jug that I keep pennies in became full. Roll 'em up, cash 'em in and start over, I thought cheerfully. So the next time I found myself at the drive-up window at my bank I asked the girl in the glass booth for some penny wrappers. When the cylinder returned it contained a total of six wrappers.

"We're a little low," said the girl in the booth.

"You're a bank, for chrissake," I didn't say.

Went to the local Lucky's later that day and asked the cashier if she might have any penny wrappers. She answered politely that she didn't.

"We're a grocery store, for chrissake," she didn't say.

And so I waited in line for twenty minutes at the bank next door, and was amply rewarded with about twenty wrappers. I returned home delirious and rolled up my pennies. I went back to the bank the next day, but they wouldn't take the pennies because I didn't have an account there.

And so I returned to my bank (the name of which I won't mention because First Interstate would probably sue me) waited in line and then told the teller I wanted to cash in these pennies. Fine, I was told, but first I had to write my account number on each roll. I quietly stepped aside and began the task. I'm not unreasonable, and I realize that there are sound reasons for this requirement. I mean, some less-than-honest type could cash in a batch of 49-penny rolls and then hot-foot it to Nevada before the bank even knew what happened, taking with him a cool thirty or forty-cent profit.

Having written my account number on each roll I got back in line (why make trouble?) and soon found myself unloading my pennies in front of a large and somewhat grumpy teller. She stared at the first two rolls as if they were test-tubes full of the AIDS virus and then began to load them into a plastic tray, sighing mightily as if Atlas had just asked her to hold the world while he went for a pack of cigarettes.

"How much ya got?" she growled.

"Excuse me?" I said as if I hadn’t heard her.

"How much money is here?"

I thought of taking a chance and saying there was fifty thousand dollars, but I suspected she was too sharp for that old trick. And so I told the truth and she finally parted with the nineteen bucks as if it were her own.

"Excuse me," I said again, "but could you spare a few more penny wrappers?" In today's orderly plastic world there are so few opportunities to experience genuine danger. And with a look that could kill small animals she huffed away and returned shortly with the booty.

I have a few hundred pennies left, which I intend to roll up and cash in. After that, however, I'm going to change my method of loose-change organization. I'm going to use my now-empty jug for the nickels, dimes, and quarters. And I'm going to take the one or two pennies I accumulate each day and toss them directly into the trash. I've got enough problems.

A Letter To Myself (Part II)

Ah, so you’re back? I knew you would be, you little snoop. As promised we’ll be taking a look at a letter I wrote to myself almost exactly a third of a century ago. (Seems kind of like a long time ago when I put it like that, huh?)

What I’ll do is put the words of the actual letter in italics and my comments right beneath. I don’t know what I’m going to say, and so if it comes out too personal or too embarrassing, well I’ll just chuck the whole thing and we’ll play a fun round of Guess Who? instead.

But that outcome isn’t very likely, is it? Of course not. I’m a master at only letting you see what I want you to see, and keeping everything else locked inside. Why do you think I’ve had a headache for ten straight years? Ah, but I digress. Let’s just relax, strap ourselves into the way-back machine and take a look at the way life was, or at least the way my life was, over thirty-three years ago. Allow me to invite you to share in reading…a letter to myself.

Jan. 6, 1974

Yes, that was my 21st birthday alright. Incidentally, that day was also only 23 hours long, because the government chose that day to set the clocks ahead earlier than usual to try to conserve energy. My, we’ve sure come a long way. And somebody still owes me a birthday hour!

Dear Len,

I would have sworn that I was always “Lenny” until I was thirty.

It’s strange writing to your future self, but it should be interesting. You’re thirty now and life should be quite different from your 21st birthday. (Today.)

Hey Kids, here’s a hint for you future writers. Don’t rely on the word “interesting” when you’re too lazy to come up with a better adjective. And I don’t know why life would be so dramatically different from twenty-one to thirty. From where I sit now they’re pretty much the same—young.

Today I’m a student at Plattsburgh. I’m studying psychology now, but you’re probably working in a totally unrelated field, if at all. I hate work but love money!

This blows my mind. I knew even then that I hated work, but I think I added the money line just as a joke. I have no great love of money, although I’ve learned it’s better to have it than not. I still hate work, and suspect that this sentence might be written proof of the existence of the long rumored “lazy gene.”

Are your married? My guess is five years already, but I have no idea to who.

Do the math. I wrote this at twenty-one, to be read at thirty. So I must have believed that I would be married within four years, at the age of twenty-five. I must be psychic, because I was only off by a scant twenty-one years. I got married for the first time at the tender age of forty-six.

Do you remember any of your friends from 1974? My guess is you still see Richie Rose. We’ve been friends for eleven years now.

I guess when you’re twenty-one nine years seems like an eternity. Yes, Richie was still my friend at the time of my thirtieth birthday and remains so today. And yes, of course I’m changing the names here.

How about Tom Tulip, Paul Petunia and Geri Geranium?

As of 2007, yes, no and yes.

Right now you’re going out with Virginia Violet. What happened here? This should make your wife jealous. Doris Daffodil has been over for a year. See her around?

Here in 2007 I still occasionally swap e-mails with Virginia. Which is not nearly as much fun as college, where we swapped bodily fluids. I have no idea where Doris ended up, but I once heard she had five kids. She may very well be a grandma. Yipe.

Right now is a time of gas shortage, Watergate and high prices. I hope 1983 is better.

It was, but that innocent young lad couldn’t begin to comprehend what we’re witnessing in 2007. Oh and I worked in a gas station six months before I wrote this letter. Gas was thirty-five cents a gallon.

Nixon is president and things are a mess. Who’s president now? Humphrey? Kennedy? Rockefeller? Lindsey?

Oh you foolish, foolish boy. If I had a time machine I would drag you here to see what we have currently infecting the White House. You’d think Nixon was Mother Teresa. Oh, and you spelled “Lindsay” wrong. (John Lindsay was a former mayor of New York who died in 2000.)

Do you have any kids? You still didn’t want any at twenty-one, remember?

I am nothing if not consistent.

How’s Mom and Dad?

Fine and leading the good life in Florida. Thanks for asking!

Rob and Eric?

The saddest part of the letter, as both of my brothers are now gone.

Well, no more room. Happy Birthday from your former self. Lenny.

Well thank you, former self!

P.S. Did the Beatles ever get back together?

Sorry, no. And regarding that, brace yourself. You’re about seven years away from quite a shock.

A Letter To Myself (Part I)

I’ve been somewhat awash in a wave of nostalgia over the last few days. “That’s what old people do,” says Spike sarcastically. That girl is getting quite the mouth on her. And what she says is partly true, to be sure, but I think the real reason I’ve been spending a lot of time looking back is because I’ve recently, finally, been in contact with my boyhood friend Arthur.

You might remember a few guest appearances by Arthur on these pages. (He was the one who originally noticed that the number 313 had been coming up in our lives a little too frequently for his comfort.) We became friends in fifth grade and remained so until freshman year in college, the last time we saw or heard from each other. Last week I got his e-mail address from a mutual friend and we’ve since swapped a few messages.

Which inspired me to dig around a dusty old box in the garage and there, under a stack of about fifty underground comix (eBay here I come!) I found what I was looking for—my, our, high school yearbook. And there we were, Arthur, me and the rest of the class of 1971 in all our cocky and hirsute glory.

Inside the front cover I spotted an envelope, along with some old jokes I had written and the Playboy centerfolds of two women I had coveted (And probably still would, though they must now be in their sixties.) I knew immediately what was inside that yellowing envelope. On it was printed: To: Len Stegmann, to be opened January 6, 1983. And underneath that date was written: Opened December, 1989.

On January 6th, 1974, my twenty-first birthday, I had written a letter to myself; to my future self, in fact. Oh, did you think my oddness simply and suddenly materialized two years ago when I began this column? Pshaw, I’ve been odd for years! The instructions on the envelope indicated that I was to open the envelope on what would be (and in fact was, as it turns out) my thirtieth birthday. Well somehow I missed the date and didn’t open the letter to myself until nearly my thirty-seventh birthday, seven years late. Hey, I was busy.

And so I stood in the garage and read the letter for the third time in my life, this time more than thirty-three years after it was written. I was struck by the contrast in the things I read. Some were absolutely insignificant and some were quite insightful, perhaps even profound. At least they were to me personally. And more than once I laughed out loud.

One thing that was insignificant and yet interesting to me was that I had addressed the envelope to Len Stegmann and began it with Dear Len. I have always proclaimed that I was not known as Len until about my thirtieth birthday and had prior to that always been addressed as Lenny. This letter proved that even in my distant youth I was sometimes referred to as Len, if only by myself. Who cares, right? Well, I don’t give a damn about the history of what you call yourself either, but there you have it.

But you’re a bit of a voyeur, yes? And you’re at least a little curious about what is in the letter. Well I might not have let you read it before I checked it out, but since I’ve gone over it I thought it might me fun to publish and deconstruct this ancient missive. I mean, it's not the Dead Sea scrolls (“No, it's older!" Spike might have said had she been given the chance.) but they do provide a brief glimpse into the not-too-distant history, both personal and American, of thirty years ago. So meet me back here tomorrow and we’ll read, and I’ll comment on, a letter to myself.

TOMORROW: JUST WHAT THE HELL IS IN THAT LETTER?

Reign Over Me: Could I Really Be THAT Wrong?

You know me. I don’t even go out of my way to be sociable to people I know. So what could have possessed me to approach the two women who walked out of the theater with me? It sure must have been something powerful.

“Excuse me,” I said as I approached one of the women. I could see the half frightened what-does-this-idiot-want look in her eyes.

“What did you think of that movie?” I asked. I don’t remember what she said. In fact I suspect I barely gave her a chance to answer. I suppose I was more interested in telling her what I thought rather than listening to her opinion.

“I thought it was great, and what Adam Sandler did on that screen was amazing!” I said, and then left the poor women alone. My heart was racing as I walked into the sunshine and I realized that Reign Over Me had left me positively giddy.

Yes, that’s what I said. Adam Sandler was amazing. The same Adam Sandler who has been turning my stomach with his infantile movies and comic songs for years. The same Adam Sandler who starred in the only movie that I ever walked out of in my entire life. And now I believed with every bit of my being that he should win next year’s Oscar for Best Actor.

You may well be asking yourself that if I was so repulsed by Sandler what was I doing at one of his movies. There are two reasons: first, the preview looked intriguing and second, I’m somewhat of a fan of writer/director Mike Binder.

Binder is a former stand-up comedian who gained some amount of fame for his HBO program The Mind of the Married Man, which, if not brilliant, I had always found enjoyable. Binder also wrote and directed The Upside of Anger, a wonderful film from a couple of years back. And now Binder has given us Reign Over Me.

Binder doesn’t make films featuring car crashes, bullet-riddled bodies or massive explosions. He makes movies about people, broken people. His characters are real, vulnerable and often in great pain. And perhaps none so much as Charlie Fineman, brilliantly portrayed by Adam Sandler.

I went into this movie thinking Sandler got the part mostly to generate ticket sales and would probably do OK in the role, as would nearly anybody else. I came out thinking that nobody else could have played the part like he did. Watch his face. Without a doubt there are some Sandler-like outbursts in the movie, but for the most part he is quiet. He does not say out loud, “I am in unbearable emotional pain," but he shows us in every scene.

Sandler plays a man who lost his wife, three daughters and even the family dog in one of the planes that crashed on 9-11. Others have incorrectly written that this is a film about 9-11, which is absurd. The truth is it didn’t matter if those people died on September 11th or March 2nd. It was about a shattering human loss, and I was mesmerized watching this story as Charlie, with the help of a true friend, struggles to get back his life. And yes, while some aspects of the ending are perhaps a little too pat I still wanted to cheer as the final credits rolled. Not for the achievements of the characters, but for people who had made this wonderful movie, especially Binder and Sandler.

I like to see movies before I read the review, which is not always possible. I succeeded in the case of Reign Over Me and rushed home to read what the real critics inside my computer had to say. There is a page on Yahoo! which features reviews by eight movie critics. And these aren’t some blogger wanna-be’s, these are the heavy weights: E! Online, Entertainment Weekly, Richard Roeper (and before him Roger Ebert when he was healthy), the San Francisco Chronicle and others. Each critic gives the movie a grade, and the average is posted on top of the page.

C+. That was the average grade for Reign Over Me. Some of the reviews were mildly approving while others were insulting. The highest grade given to the film was a single B+. My head was spinning. There are many times when I’ll love or hate a movie and some of the critics will agree and some won’t. But there seemed to be an almost unanimous consensus that Reign Over Me was mediocre at best. And while I didn’t read all the reviews, I doubt very much that the words Oscar and Adam Sandler appeared together in even one sentence.

So what happened? I never pretended (ok, maybe a little) to know a great deal about movies. When I judge a movie either in print or on my lame little cable show I usually go by one criterion: How much I enjoyed it. I enjoyed Reign Over Me immensely. I thought Adam Sandler was brilliant. And remember, I hate Adam Sandler.

If I were all-powerful do you know what I’d do just for kicks? I’d go back in time and release Reign Over Me again, except this time instead of Mike Binder I’d put Martin Scorsese’s name in the credits. Or even better, I’d release it as a French film with English subtitles, maybe in black and white and starring Alain Sandlier, and show it only in sticky-floored little art houses. And then when the reviews came out I’d smile to myself when I saw how good they were. And then later when the Academy Award nominations were announced I suspect I’d really be laughing my ass off.