Guess Who #16

It’s getting late and the wine is beginning to have its desired effect, an effect magnified by the gazillion or so invisible germs who successfully put Spike down earlier in the week and are now attempting to do the same to me. The tiny fools—as if I’d ever let them make me sick.

Still, it’s the end of a long week (Well, actually it’s been a short week, what with the holiday and all.) and I grow weary. And by now you regular readers know just where this literary flotsam is headed. That’s right, boys and girls, it’s time once again to play that exciting game that should be, but for some reason isn’t, sweeping the nation. It’s time for Guess Who!

“I hate Guess Who,” I can almost hear Peachpit whine. Well tough noogies, babe. I’m the sheriff of this here blog. For those of you who have been around for awhile, Guess Who needs no explanation. And for those of you who are new to this site—that’s my fault? Figure it out for yourselves. Like I said, I grow weary.

So go ahead. Have fun and figure out who Mr. X is. And when you do…feel free to keep it to yourself. I already know the answer.


Mr. X was born in Norman, Oklahoma

Mr. X married his wife just fourteen days after they met.

Mr. X was hospitalized with a bleeding ulcer in 1979.

Mr. X had quintuple heart bypass surgery in 1988.

Mr. X had both knees replaced in 2000.

Mr. X seems to be falling apart.

In 1959 a magazine published Mr. X’s measurements as 44-33-40.

Mr. X helped organize Martin Luther King’s “March on Washington.”

My Mom thinks that Mr. X used to be the most handsome man in Hollywood.

Mr. X was the first actor to co-star with Julie Andrews in three movies.

Mr. X is a fan of the Oakland Raiders. (Ew!)

Mr. X has said he won’t do a nude scene because “I don’t do horror films.”

Mr. X received the Purple Heart during the Korean War.

Mr. X. has won an Emmy and been nominated for an Oscar.

Mr. X has starred in three popular TV series.

Holy Cow, how many hints do you want? So who is Mr. X?

Hats Off!

Hey, have I told you recently that when I was a lad going to the movies only cost 25 cents and candy bars were a nickel? Well I’m telling you again. Or perhaps I’m just reminding myself of the economic environment in which I was raised, because tonight I find myself a bit confused. It’s been forty-eight hours and I’m still wondering what ever possessed me to spend $27 on a baseball cap.

No, it was not signed by Mickey Mantle nor did Barry Bonds snort steroids off its brim. And no, I wasn’t in the middle of some meteorological shit-storm looking for immediate protection. In fact, the truth is I don’t even wear baseball caps, or hats of any kind. And yet…

OK, I should explain that a big part of the cost came from having the damn thing embroidered with my company name on a fancy machine right there in the mall. What company you ask? It doesn’t matter—you don’t need my services. Nobody does. What does matter is that I thought it might be cool to have a cap with my company name on it. You know, to give the illusion that I’m actually a professional.

I shouldn’t have said I never wear a hat. While that’s almost true, I do drive a convertible and there are times when I hunker down behind the wheel disguised behind a cap and sunglasses. You’ve seen us before: middle-aged former hippies in tiny sports cars racing along the coast and freezing our decrepit asses off. The only thing different about me is, unlike all my counterparts, underneath that hat I’m not bald. Not yet, anyway.

So I keep a hat in my car, but it’s more of a souvenir, emblazoned as it is with the name of the major corporation I used to work for. Which corporation? You really don’t need to know. I’ve got more to say here, and I’m not about to burn the last rickety bridge that remained standing when I left the job in a huff. (Actually, I left in a Nissan.)

There were two styles of caps to choose from, the classic baseball cap or the new style-- with the larger brim and smaller cap that sits higher on your head. I’m pretty much old school in everything, but I finally selected the newer version. Why? Who the hell knows why I do any of the things I do? Maybe it’s because it’s the style worn by Larry David. (Who is, incidentally, bald.) Still these new caps have a less secure fit to them, especially when you have a bushy headful of Brillo-type hair. Trying on that hat felt like I was wearing a yarmulke with a brim. I bought in anyway.

And so Spike and I leave the mall and we’re speeding topless down the Interstate when I decide to break in my new cap. And ten seconds later my $27 hat is lying by the side of the road about a quarter of a mile behind us. I quickly pull off to the side of the freeway and put on the emergency blinkers. What do you mean this wasn’t an emergency? Didn’t you read the part where I said the hat had cost $27?

Why is it when you see some guy walking down a freeway away from his parked car, often carrying a gas can, you just assume he’s an asshole? Well, on this day I was the asshole. But I didn’t care. I had to go get my hat.

And a short time later I was back in the car with my hat shoved safely back into the bag it had come in. Terrific. I had just spent enough on a baseball cap to buy over five hundred 1962 candy bars, and I couldn’t even wear it. Well at least I still had my Comcast cap. (Or, uh, whatever former employer I might have been referring to earlier. Heh-heh.)

Actually during the time she was waiting for me to return with my wayward hat Spike had put on the Comcast hat. I told her this was fine. It was, after all, constructed differently and I had worn it many times while driving the convertible.

But never, apparently, when I was driving the convertible on a freeway. And so two minutes later I glanced into my rearview mirror and saw my Comcast hat helplessly bouncing around the middle lane as it was unceremoniously and repeatedly flattened by the speeding traffic. And I knew there would be no retrieving this one.

Spike, to her credit, was very apologetic. I responded by telling her that I didn’t really care, and the truth was I really didn’t. Just between you and me, I had actually taken no small amount of sadistic delight in seeing that hat and its familiar corporate logo being crushed again and again under the weight of tons of rolling steel. Whoops, looks like I’ve finally burned that last bridge. And just when I could use a free hat, too.

Drawn to Scale

It had been a while since I’d stepped on the scale, and I’d be lying if I said that the effort it took to bend down and wrestle the hideous thing out from under the bathroom sink wasn’t part of the reason why. But yesterday morning I made the effort and was pleasantly surprised to see the dial stop spinning at 224 pounds.

I know, I know—most of you would collapse in a dead faint if that number ever came up on your scale, but please consider that the last time I weighed myself I had matched my all-time high of 238 pounds. So somewhere along the way I had obviously lost 14 pounds, and it sure felt good. And so the pontifications began immediately:

“You see, I’ve been walking along the beach a few times a week,” I preached to the woman who several of my friends often describe as my “long-suffering wife.” “And I’ve also paid closer attention to what I eat, and of course I swim every week.” I continued. “You see, it’s not a question of either over-eating or starving yourself on some silly diet. In Buddhism we try to follow what is called ‘the middle way.’ All things in moderation you might say.”

Boy, I was really expelling the hot air at this point, but perhaps you’ll find it in your heart to forgive my gassiness. After all I had just stepped on a scale and received an uncommon and unexpectedly happy surprise. I was so happy, in fact, that I decided to weigh myself again, just to confirm the joyous news. And by now you have no doubt anticipated that the news was not good. I was now looking down at a big 230.

OK, so perhaps I hadn’t lost the full 14 pounds I thought I had, and maybe I wasn’t quite as centered on that middle way as I’d hoped to be, but my weight was still lower, and that my friends counts for something. I then weighed myself three more times, and saw three different numbers on the dial.

As you know I believe in the pursuit of truth, and there was now one absolute truth that was staring me in the face. And that truth was this aged and rusty bathroom scale was about as accurate as a Bush State of the Union address. And so on our visit to the mall Spike and I agreed to chip in for a new, digital scale. (We each paid half, and I consider this arrangement more than generous: Spike could have made me pay more simply by arguing that since I would be putting about two-thirds of the total weight on it…)

Forty-five seconds after we got home the scale was out of the box and on the floor cringing in anticipation of my initial climbing aboard, which I did. And then I saw a number that I believe I had only previously seen in academic math problems—complex math problems. The second worse thing was that my spiffy new electronic scale told me I weighed an astounding 241.5 pounds. The worst thing was that it told me I weighed 241.5 pounds five times in a row.

I immediately assigned the blame where it belonged. I mean, how could my old scale have been off by seventeen pounds? Excuse me, seventeen and a half pounds. Where was this piece of junk made, in the Soviet Union during the 1950’s? I proceeded to work my way through Kubler-Ross’s stages of being a fat-ass.

I had already passed through Denial and so now I entered the Bargaining phase. I really didn’t weigh that much, I reasoned, because it was late afternoon and I always weighed myself in the morning. And besides, I was fully clothed; that had to account for what, thirty or forty pounds? (Which would be true, I suppose, had I been wearing a suit of armor.)

OK, next morning bright and early I again got on the scale. Naked. (Sorry for the image, but hey, life isn’t always pretty.) And as expected I was nowhere near the previous days mark, but a full three pounds lighter at 238.5. And someday I’ll have to find a qualified therapist to help me figure out what kind of denial I must be living in for this to have actually made me happy.

Suddenly I realize that most of you reading this have never met me and are therefore getting a somewhat distorted picture of my physical appearance. True, these numbers that I am throwing at you are both accurate and fairly high, but you must keep in mind that I tend to carry the weight better than most human beings. After all, I may be 238.5 pounds, but you must also factor in that I do stand six foot eight in my stocking feet. Ahem.

Breakfast With Spidey

“Better set the alarm clock,” I said to Spike last night. I was joking of course. After all the movie didn’t start until 11:00, and since we’re almost always awake by 8:00, (and out of bed by 9:00 or so, depending on how things go if you know what I mean and I think you do) there really was no need for an alarm.

Still, there was one thing of which I was fairly certain and it was that I had little if any desire to see Spider-Man 3, and had even less desire to see it on the Memorial Day weekend. And even if I did want to see Spidershrekpirates, I didn’t want to fight the throngs of families who inevitably crowd into the theaters on such holidays in order to guarantee that for at least two hours they wouldn’t have to look at or talk to each other.

Most of the movies I see are in the afternoon, during the week. Sometimes there are several other people in the theater and sometimes there aren’t, which is fine with me. When it comes to watching movies I live by the credo, “The less the merrier.” But on the weekend if I go with Spike it’s her turn to choose the film, and I know this. I also know that almost always her choice will be some sappy romantic comedy. So when she said she wanted to see Spider-Man 3 I was a little surprised.

“OK, but we have to go to the earliest show,” I said. And so we did. It’s a technique I use often when going to the movies on a weekend. Get there for the first showing, avoid the crowds and feast on pretzel nuggets for breakfast. And while doing this doesn’t assure me the near-empty theater that I prefer, as least it keeps the mob, and its accompanying commotion, to a minimum.

But I knew this system would not be much help today. It was Memorial Day, the official launch of the summer movie season, and Spider-Man, Shrek and Pirates of the Caribbean would all be greedily grasping for my not-so hard-earned dollars. And frankly I would have much preferred to be over in Palo Alto at some art house reading sub-titles, but it was not meant to be.

Despite getting to the theater even earlier than usual I found that my favorite seats were already taken. (Right behind railing, center.) And speaking of taken seats, it was still about twenty minutes before the movie’s scheduled showtime when the drama began. In a nutshell, some guy had left his jacket on three seats to “save” them while he took his too young sons to the restroom. Upon his return he found a family of three (Mom, Dad, Kid—you have to be so specific these days.) sitting in his seats. And if this wasn’t insult enough, he also found that his jacket had been unceremoniously placed on the floor.

Needless to say, a discussion ensued, although it wasn’t as loud or heated as you might expect. In fact, I didn’t even know it was going on until Spike told me. Suddenly the man walked briskly by me, his two kids trailing behind, and said aloud, “I’m going to get security.” Now it’s true that he sounded like some child whining, “I’m telling mommy!” but before you judge him too harshly you have to factor in that the man was right. After all, he had saved the seats.

A few minutes later he did indeed return with “security,” a serious-looking young man who I suspected would any day now be old enough to begin shaving. To his credit the young man (Are they still called “ushers” or has that term become as politically incorrect as “stewardess”?) calmly interviewed the seat stealers. The lady seat stealer offered up a defense so weakly that it could only have been delivered by someone who was truly guilty, and knew it: “Well, he left…”

The usher then asked if they had moved the man’s jacket. I didn’t hear the response, if there was one, but thirty seconds later the seat stealing family was up and relocating to new seats, ones that offered a distinctly different view of the screen. The theater was now nearly full, and so for their crimes this family was now condemned to watch Spider-Man 3 from seats in the in-your-face second row. Now I don’t know if Tobey Maguire was fastidious about keeping his nasal hair trimmed while shooting the movie, but I bet these people could tell me if I asked.

Eventually everything calmed down. So much so that I spent the first half of the movie struggling mightily to stay awake. And to my credit, I succeeded. I really don’t know why I don’t follow my instincts and stay away from these blockbuster franchise movies. I mean, we all know going in that they’re created to take in the most money possible and therefore are guaranteed to appeal to the lowest common denominator.

First off, yes the special effects are great, but that’s no longer enough to carry a movie. Sure, show this film to a 1940’s audience and their heads will explode. But it’s 2007 and we’ve seen Spider-Man swinging down a street of tall buildings many, many times. And yes, every time the movie uses humor it works, but there are far too many Sahara-sized stretches of dullness before we get to that humor, or to the action scenes for that matter.

And let me settle one thing here: I’ve actually heard people (Well, not people. Guys.) debating about whether Kirsten Dunst is attractive or not. Are you insane? Of course she’s attractive. That’s why she gets to be on that giant screen while you have to sit in the dark stealing people’s seats. But I knew going in that, this being a mass-appeal sort of flick, I wasn’t going to see anything sexier from her than what used to be called a “well-turned ankle.” So there’s another reason to avoid these summer blockbusters.

Look, when I see the gazillions of dollars that these movies make and then see some wonderfully creative and entertaining ones die a quiet and lonely death it’s a little disheartening. Wait, what the hell am I saying? In truth I want you folks to keep shelling out for each new bloated and ponderous re-telling of Spiderman or Pirates of the Caribbean.

For only then will I be assured of always getting my favorite seat in a near-empty theater, chomping on my pretzel nuggets and watching a great movie that almost nobody has ever heard of. Hey, shouldn’t you be rushing on down to the box office to order your tickets? I hear Spider-Man 4 is coming out soon, and it’s going to be awesome.

Pay? For Airfare?

If I were the head of an airline company do you know what I’d do? I’d get together with all of the heads of the other airlines and get them to all agree to scrap those frequent flyer programs, immediately and permanently.

Between the attacks of 9/11 and the skyrocketing cost of fuel most airlines have had a rough go of it over the last few years. Some have come very close to filing bankruptcy and others actually have. So why do they insist on giving away thousands of free tickets every year? Well they have to, because the other guy does.

But if all the airlines agreed to stop the mileage awards these programs would simply disappear, like the free glasses you used to get at the gas stations. (Too obscure a reference for you young ‘uns? I’m so sorry. Love, Grandpa.) And stopping the give-away would do nothing but boost each airline’s profits. After all, the free tickets only serve to help the traveler decide which airline he’ll be flying on, not whether he’ll be flying at all. Believe me, nobody is going to be taking Greyhound cross country because there are no more airline freebies.

Here’s what started this whole thing: I’ve been planning a trip back east for this summer and I called each of the two airlines that I generally use, United and American. Spike and I have gone back east twice over the last year or so and, thanks to our accumulated air miles, haven’t had to pay for a single ticket.

So imagine my shock when the rep from each of these airlines informed me that there were no free tickets available for the week we wanted to fly this summer. It’s a holiday week and it is, after all, summertime. And so I was faced with a prospect so hideous, so repellant to my nature that I literally tasted the bile as it crept up into my esophagus. The reality was that if I wanted to fly that particular week I was going to have to actually buy a ticket.

I’m amazed by the amount of air miles I have, and how quickly they accumulate. I’m not a fanatic about it, and I’ve long ago stopped charging every item I buy, such as groceries and gasoline, to my air miles credit card. Still the free tickets keep coming. Certainly any large purchase will go on one of the mileage credit cards. Also I recently opened a new business credit card for myself and instructed Spike to do the same. That’s another 16,000 miles in our accounts—each. (And no, we don’t use the credit cards after the initial required purchase. We’re not idiots.)

Each year I use the credit card to pay my property taxes and I have actually charged, and I’m not particularly proud of this, a funeral on the card, thus picking up another chunk of miles. (Hey, just because she was no longer going anywhere doesn’t mean that I can’t, right?)

Today I checked out the ticket prices on the web and found that if we wanted to fly during that particular week it would cost somewhere between $400 and $500. Now keep in mind that back in 1976 when I had to make an emergency trip back east the ticket had cost about $400. So here it is 2007 and I have the audacity to whine about paying the same amount for a ticket that I did three decades ago!

I suppose that airline tickets for me have become what music is to the younger generation: something they could never conceive of paying for. The difference, of course, is that I’m simply taking advantage of a legitimate sales promotion. Those little iPod-playing bastards are stealing.

So what to do? The decision for me was simple, and after about four or five hours of brow-beating and bullying Spike came around to my point of view. We pushed our travel dates back a few weeks and now I’ll be able to get my greedy paws on the free tickets that I so richly deserve. So it looks like the disaster has been averted and, at least for the foreseeable future, I won’t be buying any airline tickets. Oh, and I won’t be buying any airline stock either.

Canadian Idol: Young Neil Young

I supposed I’m still a little surprised by that Wayne Newton fan who left the comment on these pages that she had never even heard of Neil Young. True, Young is not quite a household name (though even that would depend on the particular household), but since the woman said she was 59 years old I thought that would place her smack dab in the middle of the hippie movement, and all that glorious music that went along with it.

Perhaps, but perhaps not. Although she was 23 when Neil Young recorded the newly-released Massey Hall 1971 concert she might very well trace her strongest musical influences to perhaps ten or twelve years earlier, when she was 12 or so. I know that’s the age when music began for me. And so it’s not inconceivable that this woman was more into Elvis than Neil Young, or even the Beatles for that matter. And that, my friends, goes a long way towards explaining the Wayne Newton fixation.

Why should you spend your hard-earned cash on the Massey Hall 1971 CD, just to hear a concert that was, after all, recorded 36 years ago? Because you’d be hearing a future legend, already famous from his time served with Buffalo Springfield and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, at the peak of his youthful fire and creativity.

During the concert Young mentions that he is going to do mostly new songs. In my experience when a performer makes this announcement it is usually cause for a sigh of disappointment. It’s almost always a letdown—after all, you come to hear an artist perform the songs for which he is well known. Sure, Eric Clapton plays some great blues, but you want to hear Layla too.

At first glance when you read the list of songs contained on the CD you might think that this is a greatest hits disc. And it’s remarkable to think that, while most of these tunes have over the years become Neil Young classics, on this night in 1971 the people in the audience are hearing most of them for the first time. This is never more clearly illustrated than when Young sings Heart of Gold, perhaps his most commercial hit, and there’s no applause of recognition from the crowd. The day when the song would be released as a single and subsequently played to death over the radio had not yet arrived!

Young almost apologizes when he says that he’ll be doing mostly new songs, but he explains, “I’ve been writing a lot of new songs and I can’t think of anything else to do with them but sing them.” This line gets a good laugh and applause.

Inside the CD’s sleeve (Neil can be such a pain in the ass: The CD is issued only in a cardboard sleeve, and not in the standard plastic case like the ones protecting your other 500 CD’s. I suppose this is intended to be some statement about the use of petroleum products, but it’s annoying none the less. What if something gets spilled on it?) is part of a newspaper review from that long-ago concert. In it someone named Jack Batten says that Neil Young’s “songwriting isn’t his strongest talent. His lovely clean voice is.”

Well, that has to be the dopiest non-Bush statement that I’ve read all day. While Young’s signature high-pitched voice is strong and obviously projecting from the heart, there’s no doubt that it’s the haunting melodies and evocative lyrics of his simple yet beautiful songs that have made him a musical hero to millions over the last forty-plus years.

And nowhere does this songwriting shine brighter, because on Massey Hall 1971 you get the basics: The pure essence of Neil Young free-based down through only his voice, guitar and piano. If you love Neil Young this CD will confirm that your musical instincts are true. If you are unfamiliar with Neil Young, you’re in for a treat. Yes, even if you’re a Wayne Newton fan.

Joan the Receptionist

“How do you like our friendly receptionist?” sniped one of the women, as the other cackled along with her. The comment from my co-worker had an ugly feel to it, and for some reason I decided not to join in. I can’t say for sure why I chose not to laugh along with the two women; certainly it was not that I was incapable of such low behavior, or had never participated in it in the past. Still, this time something stopped me from joining these women in their nasty verbal attack.

The truth is I liked Joan, the receptionist at the company for which I worked. Oh, we weren’t particularly close friends nor did I even look at her as a potential sex partner. We did talk once in a while, and she always laughed at my jokes.

Yet I too had noticed the recent change in her behavior. Never a particularly outgoing person, Joan would now barely respond when she was greeted or asked a question. And, perhaps the worst crime of all, Joan no longer was interested in my jokes, or in anything else I had to say. Joan had retreated into her own world, and I’d be lying if I said that I, too, didn’t resent her attitude just a bit.

It was just before Joan’s change in behavior that I approached her reception desk and suddenly noticed that she was on the phone and that she was crying. Oops, I thought, time to beat a hasty retreat. I had no desire to intrude on, or to become involved in, anybody’s personal drama, and that went double for problems of the female variety.

A month later Joan went out on sick leave and a new, more cheerful, receptionist was hired to take Joan’s place. And a few weeks after that Joan died of cancer. And suddenly I knew what had caused the sudden and dramatic change in Joan’s personality. I also knew why Joan had been crying on the phone that day and what she was being told.

I don’t know if those two women ever realized why Joan’s personality had changed so suddenly and dramatically, or if they felt guilty about what they had said. Hopefully not, for surely they meant no harm and their crime, when taken in context, was minuscule. Still, I’ve always been glad, and perhaps just a bit relieved, that I chose not to betray my friend Joan on that day. You really can never be sure what somebody else might be going through, can you?

My Two and a Half Million Readers

If a man writes a blog in the woods and nobody reads it, blah, blah, blah. Now there are writers out there who claim that they don’t care if anybody reads their work, because they write only for themselves. And I congratulate them for that approach, though I suspect that they either must be very self aware or else very full of it. And I know which way I’d vote.

But as for me--and I’d guess just about every other writer--I need to have an audience. I feel much like a radio host—I need to know that there is somebody out there listening and that I’m not just babbling my nonsense into the void. And that’s where my cute little pumpkin hits counter that you see at the bottom of the page comes in handy.

On some days the number doesn’t increase by very much at all and on other days it jumps a surprising (at least to me) amount. But at least I know that each and every day that number is going to increase, even if on some days I’m fully aware that almost half of the daily hits are from me.

In addition to sending out my semi-regular “reminder” link, which many of you are fortunate enough to receive, I’ve also been exploring other ways to raise the number of hits this site gets and thus allow me to cast a wider net and to further share my pearls of wisdom. (Put up your umbrellas, everybody—it’s raining metaphors!)

So I signed up for this thing, and “thing” is about the best way to describe it, that promised that I could send my website link once a day to two and one half million people. And at the cost of only $25 a month!

Now I like to think that I know a bargain when I see one. I mean, what’s the point of slaving away on these literary gems if they’re not going to be seen by anybody except the 150 lame-o’s on my mailing list? (I’m not referring to you, of course. I meant the other lame-o’s.) And so I decided to join up and see how it all worked. What did I have to lose? (Besides the twenty-five bucks a month, I mean.)

It’s actually quite clever the way this thing works. First off, they make a point that this is not spam, and in truth it really isn’t. It seems that the 2.5 million people are all folks who are trying to drag people to their websites. So when you sign up (Quick—what’s 2.5 million times $25?) you agree to receive e-mails from the rest of the gang, as they agree to receive yours. See, no spam.

I was pretty excited as I sent out my first e-mail. Immediately my head began to fill with the potential problems such an onslaught of new readers might cause. Oddly, I first thought about my pumpkin counter, which after all is only made to register the first million hits. Obviously I’d be going over that mark, and fairly soon I’d assume, so should I swap it out now for a new counter that allowed for ten or even one hundred million hits?

Also, what about my supply of books? With two point five million new readers surely a percentage of them would want to purchase my books. What if I ran out? How long would it take the printer to run off another batch, a second edition as it were? It would be truly bad business to have to turn down orders because I was out of books, and if my experience with printers thus far is any indication I wouldn’t be getting new ones for a long, long time.

Do I really have to tell you that there was no noticeable change in my pumpkin hit counter after my initial e-mail went out? Nor was there any change after the second or even the third. Of course I was not really surprised that the number of hits to my website didn’t go through the roof, but the fact that there seemed to be no increase at all was a tad…disconcerting.

Tell me, how is it possible that a link is sent to two and one half million people and nobody, nobody, clicks on it? I mean, out of a pool of people that large you figure there must be at least a few shut-ins who click on anything that comes their way. There have to be a few people who click on my link hoping it’s porn. And there must be a few folks who might even accidentally click on it when trying frantically to delete it, right? Hey, I’m used to being ignored in small numbers but it just didn’t seem possible that I could be so aggressively snubbed on such a grand scale.

But let’s take a look from the other side. Just as I began to send out my daily e-mails I started to receive the promised e-mails from my fellow entrepreneurs. I’d get forty, fifty and more every day, and most of them had a common theme: How I could stay home sitting on my ass and make an obscene amount of money with an Internet business. Here are just a few of the subject headings: EARN EXTRA INCOME! $250 A DAY GUARANTEED! MONEY IN YOUR PAYPAL ACCOUNT! GIVING AWAY MONEY—JOIN FREE!

And yes, all subject headings were indeed capitalized. As, in fact, were mine.

Well you get the idea. Of course I didn’t click on any of these links, and that’s when I realized that the people getting my link weren’t clicking on it either. And I suppose that’s how it’s possible to send a link to two and a half million people and not get any hits.

The people who run this thing are, in my estimation, very clever. They’ve set up a second daily mailer, one that runs on credits. So now I can send out the link to my website twice a day. All I have to do is have enough credits in my account. And how does one accumulate credits? Well, if I click on one of the sites from the e-mails and stay there for fifteen seconds, I will be awarded 50 credits. I can then use these credits to do my second daily mailing!

Are you still with me here? Even forgetting about the goal of generating more hits for my site I think this stuff is pretty darn amazing. That a computer is able to tell if I go to a website, keep track of how long I stay on that site, and then credit me with points for doing so—whew. Pretty trippy stuff.

And now lately I’ve noticed a bit of an increase in my daily hits. Nothing too dramatic, of course, but enough to keep me around on this program for maybe another month or two. I mean, even people trying to push bogus sales programs onto naïve, none-too-bright shut-ins need something funny to read once in a while, right?

Right! The proof that I’ve picked up at least one new reader was dramatically illustrated in the comments section a few days ago. My e-mail had announced that I was writing about Wayne Newton and this person, obviously a big Wayne Newton fan, couldn’t resist checking it out. And voila! a new pissed-off reader was born! And, even though I probably won’t be trashing Mr. Newton on a daily basis, I hope our new friend decides to stick around. The more the merrier, eh?

I'm Such A Meanie

Have you come across one of these guys? (And for some reason they always seem to be guys.) You’re sitting down somewhere, in this case it was at a picnic table at a local street festival, and to be polite you begin talking to the old guy sitting near you. (Yeah, I’ve gone back to using the classic words like “old” and “fat” and “stupid.” Keep your adjectives short—that’s what all the writing books say.)

So I’m talking with the guy for a few minutes and the conversation keeps coming around to age. It doesn’t take me long to realize what I’ve stumbled upon here—another old fart who is just bursting to tell me exactly how old he actually is. Trust me, I’ve met them before.

There are two times during the short scamper through our lives when we are particularly proud of our age; so proud that we can’t wait to tell anybody we can corner long enough to listen. One time is of course when we are very young. Who among us hasn’t felt the urge to strangle some little rug-rat in order to stop his incessant, “I’m five, I’m five, I’m five…” Hey kid, I used to be five too and, although it was quite some time ago, I still remember that it was not that big a deal. So how about clamming up for two seconds?

And then there’s the other end of the spectrum, and one of these geezers currently had me trapped at the picnic table while I was trying to eat my hotdog. I blame Spike for starting the whole thing by innocently asking the coot if he lived here in town. I can’t swear that he actually scoffed at the fact that we’ve live here for only four years, but he was quick to point out that he’d lived here his “whole life.” Uh-oh, I thought.

“Yep, the population is 12,000 now but it was 800 when I was born,” he began. My legs involuntarily tensed into the classic biological “flee” position, while a line from a great old cartoon flashed into my head: Really, Commander, we really must be going…

We talked a little more when somehow I mentioned that my mom enjoyed going to the casino. The fossil perked up at this and asked how old my mother was. When I told him she was 79 he was quick to mention that he had “a few years on her.”

And still I couldn’t do it. All this harmless old relic wanted was for somebody, anybody, to ask him how old he was, and then to exclaim with disbelieving glee, “Really? You don’t look like it!” I continued to cram the hotdog down my throat so I could then beat a hasty retreat, but I didn’t cram fast enough. I had looked away and pretended to be delighted by the enthusiastic brats who were dangling from the nearby climbing wall, but the dinosaur could contain himself no longer and so finally and proudly blurted out to Spike that he was 87 years old.

Let me say here what I couldn’t force myself to say to his face: The man looked nothing like 87. If forced to guess I might have gone 15 or even 20 years younger. And so what? How you look, although perhaps an indicator of how you’ve cared for yourself combined with a bit of luck, doesn’t make you one day younger than you actually are. Enough with this “you’re only as old as you feel” nonsense. If that were true then I’d be 87 too.

And so we politely bid farewell to the old man (And his wife, who for a second there I had thought of as "do-able." I really do have some issues I need to work on.) And honestly, would it have really been such a big deal, would it have taken that much effort, for me to make the old fellow’s day by playing along with his harmless game? Apparently it would have, yes. Besides, you don’t want to encourage this sort of behavior—it’s dangerous and it must be nipped in the bud. Or maybe it all comes down to what I’ve already advertised on the top of this page in 18-point type. Maybe I am just a meanie.

Danke Scheisse

“I can’t write about this,” I whispered to my cousin as we exited the theatre. “It might hurt your mom’s feelings.”

We had just donated an hour and a half of our dwindling lives sitting through the Wayne Newton show, and nobody was happy about it. My cousin’s mom, my aunt, had wanted to see Wayne Newton for her 70th birthday and so good sport that I am I went along with the group. And I dragged my long-suffering wife with me.

It’s too cheap and too easy to use this space to bash an aging showman who has, after all, spent the last forty years entertaining millions of people. So let’s begin. I’m just kidding but, if the truth be told, the experience had not been a good one. Not good at all.

Still, how could I write an article about how horrible the experience was for me, and apparently my wife and cousins as well, if seeing Wayne Newton had been for my aunt something of a dream come true? And then I saw it. We had only been out of the small theatre for about two minutes when my aunt abruptly removed the Wayne Newton pin my cousin had given her and shoved it into her purse.

“I’ve never been so disappointed,” she said. And I knew it was go time.

Peachpit had warned me before I even went to Vegas that Wayne Newton’s voice was shot. I didn’t particularly care because to me it didn’t matter. If Newton had the voice of a young Pavarotti I still wouldn’t have been interested in seeing him, especially at a cost of $90. Hell, that’s six visits to the movies, and that’s including the pretzel nuggets!

I’ve never been a fan of all that glittery, tuxedoed Vegas-style bullshit. That stuff belongs back in the days of Frank and Dino and Sammy and the rest of the Rat Pack; it was before my time and aren’t we glad that something was? I cut my teeth on rock music and, more specifically, during the golden age of the singer/songwriter.

It matters not a bit to me if John Lennon, Paul McCartney, Paul Simon, Neil Young or Bob Dylan had a “great set of pipes.” In fact none of them did. But they were songwriting geniuses and in my mind will always stand elevated above those who make their living simply singing songs written by other people.

Oh, Newton must be a talented person, to be sure. Nobody gets that kind of a ride for that long without at least a smattering of natural ability. And after over 30,000 shows you know he’s got the mechanics down to a science. Why then couldn’t I just sit back, shut up and enjoy it for what it was? Well, for lots of reasons.

I’ve already mentioned that I’m pretty much repelled by that hokey finger-snapping horseshit, but I never expected that I would notice that Newton can no longer sing. What do I know about singing? And yet I noted that he cleared his throat on several occasions, was strongly supported (not physically—not yet) by two very talented singer/musicians, and when the show ended I estimated that he had performed no more than four complete songs. He did spend a lot of time taking bows and talking about his career, including his seven Top Ten songs. (Quick—name the other six.)

And then there was the humor. Listen, I’m the first one to rebel against this current ethnic over-sensitivity that is costing people their jobs on a daily basis, but holy cow, did I really need to hear Newton again mention that he’s a “Native American” (he’s actually half) and then go on an interminable Vegas-themed routine that went something like: Walkum? Walkum on Stripum? Seeum hookum? Payum hokum?

This side-splitter was later followed by some banter with his Puerto Rican drummer who put on the thickest Latino accent this side of the Frito Bandito. At one point I had to stop and look at my watch, because I could have sworn that it was suddenly 1958. And the illusion that we had indeed traveled back in time was confirmed when the impressionist did his renditions of Jimmy Stewart, Archie Bunker and God knows what other extinct celebrities.

Newton played some guitar, certainly much better than I do after 45 years of trying, and produced a few notes from the piano and violin. And then he lost me completely. He announced that, although he was not political he thought we should get rid of all the politicians. What a rebel. If there’s a cheaper way to get a round of applause from an audience, I don’t know what it is.

Oh yes I do. Newton used one of the oldest showbiz tricks around by getting people to stand by singing America the Beautiful, and then he threw in some rant about “the godless terrorists.” And so he left the stage to yet another standing ovation, which was too bad, because all those people on their feet made it hard for me to see, firmly and stubbornly planted on my ass as I was.

“Oh, he’s old,” more than one person has said to me, as if that justified Newton’s poor performance. Listen, Jacko, he’s the same age as Paul McCartney, and that guy is still rocking stadiums. Hell, I saw George Burns perform when he was ninety-five years old.

Danke schoen, my ass. Somebody owes me ninety bucks.

I Coulda Been Somebody

OK, we’ve already established that only a natural born idiot would think that pumping money into a slot machine is an integral part of a sound financial strategy. So let’s see how I did.

I hadn’t even paid my first visit to the ATM when I took one of only three twenties out of my wallet and watched as the slot machine greedily gobbled it up. And I had only been playing for a short time when I saw two Five Times symbols appear on the pay line, along with a Double Bar. (Hey, I know I said last night that I had played nothing but the Ten Times Ten Times Ten machine, but I lied. For literary purposes. Actually I had started out on the Five Times machine. It was only later that I discovered the Ten Times machine and so, in accordance with my general philosophy of life, why settle for five when you can get ten?)

And so now finding myself up $125 I did the sensible thing. I cashed out. Sure, some other sap would have pumped the jackpot right back into the machine in a quest for an even bigger payoff. But not this sap. I was ahead, plus I was going to be in Las Vegas for four days. Pace yourself, Boy, yeah, that’s the ticket.

And I didn’t put as much as a penny in a slot machine until late that evening. I had finally found my Ten Times machine and so I settled my Royal Hawaiian on a comfortable chair and made the necessary deposit. And I assure you it wasn’t a penny.

And again I was only playing a short while when I hit another jackpot, this time for $250! And again I immediately (well, almost immediately) cashed out and calculated that I was now ahead $350! If you knew my history on slot machines you’d know how atypical this experience was.

When I visit a casino for an extended period of time (more than, say, five hours) my plan is to set a daily limit, a limit that happens to be $100 a day. (Yeah I know, you go through that in an hour. Goody for you, Hot Shot.) And so even before I begin to gamble I’m virtually assured that I won’t lose more than $400 over a four day period. Yeah, virtually.

But ho! Here I was on my first day and, inconceivably, I was $350 ahead. And why not? I had a great system: It’s impossible to lose if you stop gambling whenever you get ahead. Your winnings will just keep growing. Why that’s the only advantage a gambler has: Quit while you’re ahead. I’m surprised I have to explain these things to you. And since there were only three days left, and since I would only allow myself to lose $100 a day, I knew that the worst, the worst I could do on this particular Vegas trip was to win $50. In other words, there was no conceivable way that I could go home a loser.

Day Two can be thought of as the battle of the fifty dollar bills. I first lost $50, reducing my profit to $300. I then won back that fifty and cashed out. I finished the evening by again losing the fifty, cashing out and calling it a night. And so I found myself in the unfamiliar and gloriously exciting position of greeting the morning of Day Three still ahead by $300. This meant, of course, with only two days left the worst I could do was go home with $150 profit. And the best I could do? It was unlimited!

I spent a good part of Day Three away from the machines. I went to the pool. I invested in a Pina Colada. I watched as scores of young women spent half their valuable vacation time adjusting their bathing suit tops. (You didn’t take the quiz, did you?) And it wasn’t until late in the evening of Day Three that I sat down at the slot machine. I was $300 ahead, I would be leaving tomorrow and I had a $100 daily limit. I was golden.

One thing I noticed about playing the slot machines is they’re a lot more fun when they’re paying you as opposed to when they’re not. I sat stoically at the machine and watched repeatedly as those spinning reels landed in frustrating combinations that returned me little or nothing. My eyes glazed over and my face began to droop as the balance of my hundred dropped faster than a Bush approval rating. And then I tapped the button for a final spin and my hundred was gone.

And that’s when my brain began to talk to me. Hey so what? it said. You’re still ahead $200. You could quit right now and go home a winner. But why would you? You’re having fun, right? What are you going to do if you quit, watch other people gamble? Go back to the room? Really, what’s $200 these days, three visits to Starbucks? Besides, you’ve got to win that hundred back. And so I slipped a second hundred dollar bill into the machine.

So what? my brain said again a short time later. You’re still ahead $100. Besides you’re smart. You know it takes a while for these things to pay off. One more jackpot and you’re right back where you were yesterday. And even though I was aware that The Fever had now taken control of my actions I was helpless to do anything but slip another hundred into my former friend, the Ten Times Ten Times Ten machine.

“How’d you do?” mumbled Spike as I crawled into bed at around 2:30. Now there were two ways to answer this. First, I could say that I had lost $300 in one night, which was certainly the truth. But I chose to go with the other truth, which sounded to my ears so much better. “I’m even,” I said.

I woke up on Day Four refreshed but with somewhat less enthusiasm than I had on the previous days. After all, even though most times I would have been absolutely delighted to leave a casino while still even, I was now no longer a winner. I knew the only way I could now leave as a winner was to win today. I didn’t need to be at the airport until late afternoon, so I had the time. I also had my daily $100 limit.

Without so much as an apology for its previous night’s abuse of me, the machine swallowed my hundred. The freefall continued and without hitting anything larger than a $25 payoff on the way down the hundred was gone. And now I was down $100, a situation that I found untenable. After all, for nearly the entire trip I had been playing with the casino’s money. Now they had some of mine and that, my friend, was unacceptable.

When the second hundred of the morning was gone I stood up on shaky legs and headed back to my room. I had to be at the airport in a few hours to undergo the airline’s particular brand of abuse and I still had to pack. No, I would not be going home a winner, although on this particular trip, where I had been handed two early jackpots, doing so would have been the easiest thing in the world. But that’s the trouble with doing the easiest thing in the world. Sometimes it’s not so easy.

Ten Times Ten Times Ten

About thirty or so years ago James Garner made two rather funny westerns called Support Your Local Sheriff and Support Your Local Gunfighter. In one of them, and you know by now that I’m too lazy to look up which, Garner’s character had a bit of a gambling problem. “Why a man would have to be a complete fool to play that game,” he would say each time he walked past a roulette table. And then he’d put everything he owned on a number and of course he would lose.

Let me tell you that in comparison to the slot machine player, anyone who bets on roulette is nothing short of an Einstein-level genius. I write this as a sort of disclaimer: I want you to know that I know what an absolute waste of money it is to play a slot machine. There.

Now that that’s out of the way does it surprise you to learn that I played nothing but the slots on my recent visit to Las Vegas? No? Well then, does it surprise you to learn that I actually only played one slot machine during my entire time there? Ah ha, that one caught you off guard just a bit, eh?

Some of you may not be familiar with what I call the Ten Times Ten Times Ten slot machine. The goal is to have one, or two or three of the Ten Times symbols land on the pay line. If one hits and is part of a winning combination the lucky player is rewarded with ten times the usual jackpot. If two of the symbols land on the pay line the jackpot is multiplied by one hundred. (That’s Ten Times Ten, for those of you who were educated in California.) And if all three symbols land on the pay line you’ve hit the mother lode—you’ve won the maximum jackpot possible.

I’ve only seen two Ten Times symbols line up on the payline once in my life, and that was a long time ago in Tahoe. And I’ve never seen all three symbols line up on the payline. Well I have, but not on my machine. But some day I’m going to, which is why I don’t play any other machine. I have to use ever fiber of my being, every ounce of my energy to conquer this one: The Ten Times Ten Times Ten machine

And we’re not talking about some colossal jackpot that would allow me to sleep late, not work and go to the movies in the afternoon. (Oh wait, I do that now.) No, I play but fifty cents a spin and the ultimate jackpot is only $2500, certainly enough to elevate my mood for a few hours and perhaps even buy dinner for the gang, but realistically that’s about it. But still I desperately long for the day when I’ll finally see those three symbols on the payline so that I can cash out and once and for all be done with this electronic monster and move on to other things. (Such as a new slot machine that needs to be conquered.)

And that day will come, my friends, and I will walk away with those 10,000 quarters that have forever tantalized and mocked me without mercy. I’ll laugh in the face of that dim-witted machine that has held me captive for so long and stolen hours and hours of my precious life. I’ll be filled with the arrogance of victory and the unbridled joy of knowing that I won twenty-five hundred dollars! And no, it won’t matter one bit that it had cost me over $37,000 to do so.

What Comes Out Of An ATM in Vegas, Stays In Vegas

Miss me? ‘Course you did. Well, sorry folks but I didn’t have time to deliver my usual nightly ramblings…I took off to fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada! And was it three straight days of hedonism and debauchery? Of course not. Please keep in mind who’s writing this thing. It ain’t Frank or Dino, I can assure you.

Like a lot of old folks, I’ve mentioned more than several times about how cheap things were when I was a kid. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve mentioned that candy bars used to cost a nickel, well I’d be sitting around the pool in Mandalay Bay. And I don’t mean the hotel.

So I’m not really sure why the prices of certain items seemed so outrageous in Vegas. Is it because, as Peachpit points out, I am indeed a fossil and whining about the high cost of everything is what fossils do? Or do the folks who run Vegas overcharge for most everything simply because they can? Perhaps it is a combination of the two, which I suppose is another way of saying, “How the hell should I know?”

Still, it seems like only a short time ago that I was a fresh-faced lad paying but twenty-five cents to go to the movies. OK, no it doesn’t—it actually seems like epochs ago. But even if this long ago era was a few decades back, to me the mere passage of time is not enough to justify some of prices I paid, or refused to pay, on my trip to Las Vegas.

Well, maybe it’s me and maybe it’s not. Why don’t you take the test, check out the answers and see what you think? It might very well change your plans for your next vacation. And remember, prices may vary.

1. How much is a pork chop at the fancy restaurant at the Forum in Caesar’s Palace?
a. $35
b. $45
c. $55
d. $65

2. At the pool bar at THE Hotel at Mandalay Bay, how much is a pina colada?
$6
$8
$12
$14

3. At the pool at THE Hotel at Mandalay Bay, how much does it cost to rent an inner tube?
a. $5
b. $10
c. $20
d. Nothing. They’re free.

4. At the pool at THE Hotel at Mandalay Bay, how much does it cost to rent a towel?
a. $2
b. $4
c. $6
d. Nothing. They’re free.

5. At the pool at THE Hotel at Mandalay Bay, what percentage of time does the average woman spend fiddling with her bathing suit top?
a. 10%
b. 35%
c. 50%
d. 85%

6. At THE Hotel at Mandalay Bay, how much would it cost you to have room service deliver a dozen spicy hot wings to your room?
a. $15
b. $25
c. $35
d. $45

7. How much did I have to shell out to see friggin’ Wayne Newton?
a. $60
b. $90
c. $120
d. $150

8. On average, how much per hour are the services of a hooker working the strip?
a. $100
b. $200
c. $500
d. Now how would I know something like that?

9. How much was a twelve-ounce can of soda from the mini-bar?
a. $3
b. $4
c. $5
d. $6

10. What is the maximum amount you can bet on a single spin on the “Paris” penny slot machine?
a. $0.15
b. $0.85
c. $1.28
d. $2.10


ANSWERS

1. $45. I’m sure the price of a pork chop varies greatly throughout Las Vegas, but this item on the menu caught my eye. Good thing I seldom eat pork chops, and I never eat $45 pork chops.
2. $12. And I’m not talking about some giant frosty monstrosity either. This pina colada was in your standard 8 oz. (6 oz.?) plastic glass. It did come with a little plastic surfboard, though, which made it a real bargain.
3. $20. I mean, $20! I went up to ask for one and was shocked when I thought the girl had mumbled that they cost $10 to rent. When she cleared her throat and told me they were $20 I told her I would float on my back. There are few things I won’t do, but paying twenty bucks to rent an inner tube that I can buy for three dollars is definitely one of them.
4. NOTHING. THEY’RE FREE. And here’s why: Anybody who has ever stayed in a hotel or motel knows that they absolutely hate it when their guests bring the room towels down to the pool. So even if they charged as little at a dime for a towel most people would say, “Screw it, get the one from the room.” That’s why.
5. 85%. OK, I made that up, but really what is it with you chicks and your bathing suit tops? If they had spent as much time fine-tuning the space shuttle as you gals spend adjusting your boobs NASA would still have a perfect safety record. No wonder the people of Europe laugh at us.
6. $45. Yeah, I couldn’t believe it either. That’s $3.75 each. Perhaps the wings were not from a chicken, but from a bald eagle?
7. $90. More on this later. Count on it.
8. NOW HOW WOULD I KNOW SOMETHING LIKE THAT? Besides, if I’m too cheap to buy a pork chop you know I won’t be coughing up any of my hard-earned bucks just for some temporary, and possibly infectious, female companionship.
9. $3. Not so bad, eh? That’s why, unlike the pork chop or the hooker, I broke down and actually bought one. (Cokes were seven cents when I was a kid.)
10. $2.10. Not that I play the penny slot machine. That’s Spike’s domain. But you can imagine how many frugal people hit the “Play Max” button and are surprised to find themselves playing over two bucks a spin on a penny machine. There’s more coming on slot machines, too. Stay tuned.

The Big Bits and Pieces of 1937

I know, I know--we just did a Bits and Pieces a week ago, but of late I’ve been thinking in these tiny segments and besides I’ve got all these little post-its sitting around driving me nuts. Also I’m about to take my Mothers’ Day break and I don’t want to hear any grief about it. You think it’s easy raising a spirited young turtle like Ellsworth? When he’s not refusing to eat his vegetables then he’s prolapsing his genitals. You should try it sometime. (Raising a turtle, not prolapsing your genitals.)

I’ve never had the desire to work in a Hallmark store but now I really don’t want to work there. I was in one the other day and all I could hear were the tinny snippits of songs that drilled into my ears every time somebody opened one of those new-fangled cards. I felt like Quasimodo in the bell tower. How many times can you listen to the first line of Who let the dogs out? before you take the Precious Moments figurine display and throw it through their glass window?

********

Has it become cool for baseball fans to pretend that they don’t care that the all-time homerun record is about to be broken? It is, as Artie Lange says, the most important record in sports. Oh that’s right, we all hate Barry Bonds because he took drugs. Listen up, chump: I think we can safely assume that it has been several years since Bonds has used steroids. He is nearly 43 years old and is currently batting .339. As of this writing he is on pace to hit 50 home runs this year and drive in over 100 runs. I’m just saying…

********

Does it bother anybody else the way the media, and people in general, seem so filled with glee because Paris Hilton is going to jail? Yeah, she shouldn’t have been driving drunk, (her alcohol level was .08% the lowest illegal level possible) but she didn’t kill anybody either. We’re not talking O.J or Bush here. And even if you think she should be put in jail, why does that make you so happy? Listen, I know you’re jealous that Paris has this incredible life and you’re just getting by fixing mufflers in your daddy’s shop, but I got a headline for you, Claude. After Paris serves her 45 days she’s going to go right back to that enviable life and it’s still going to be a thousand times better than yours. Hell, it might even be better than mine!

********

I was wandering aimlessly the other day (one of my favorite pastimes) and I again began to fume about the price gouging that takes place every Valentine’s Day (I have trouble letting go.) when florists jack up the price of a dozen roses to levels that might get you stoned to death in less civilized countries. It dawned on me how foolish it is for a man to get married on Valentine’s Day; for as romantic as it might seem at the time, he has just condemned himself to sixty years of buying anniversary flowers at inflated February 14th prices. But lo, then I did a little more aimless wandering and realized that, while most of us have to buy flowers on Valentine’s Day and on our anniversary, the man who gets married on Valentine’s Day only has to buy one bouquet of flowers to cover both dates! I think I need to do a little more aimless wandering to get a definitive answer on this one.

********

I talked to my mom today and she told me that she had made a bet on last weekend’s Kentucky Derby. She had picked a horse I had never heard of named Storm in May. The reason she chose this particular horse was because she found out that it, like my mom herself, only has vision in one eye. Now unless you are made of stone you have to agree that this story is about the sweetest thing you’ve heard all day, right? I thought so too. Unfortunately the horse finished sixteenth out of twenty, and every horse bettor knows they don’t pay for that. Well of course the horse finished sixteenth, I thought. He only has one friggin’ eye. Then I thought about the horses that finished seventeenth, eighteenth, nineteenth and twentieth. Those nags were beaten by a horse with only one eye! Boy, I bet the other horses sure laughed at them for that.

Happy Day to all you Mothers!

The Advocate

As I promised last night I’ll make this one short and sweet. And that’s as much for my benefit as yours. I need to stop whining about my problems with Dell before I completely Lenny Bruce it into the ground.

You may recall if you read last night’s post, which you didn’t, that somewhere along this hellish path attempting to get my new computer to work I interacted with a fellow who was identified as a Dell Customer Advocate. It was actually he who originally contacted me. It seems that he had read my now-famous Dell-bashing blog of April 12th. See, I told you somebody out there was reading this nonsense.

His e-mail sounded quite professional and my spirits immediately lifted when I received it. Now something was going to get done. My computer, my brand new computer, was sure to be working in no time. After all, he was a Customer Advocate!

I sent the man a long e-mail (Not as long as last night’s screed, but still long.) bringing him up to date on my computer situation. I told him about the two and three–hour phone calls I had been through with the support techs with little or no results, and once even with worse results. His e-mails reassured me. He would find the appropriate person within the vast Dell network and get back to me. Hurray! Success was at hand!

Over the next few days he sent an e-mail or two. And then he didn’t. And when I prompted him and asked him how it was progressing he apologized for taking so long to respond. And then finally one day I received an e-mail from the Dell Customer Advocate. After hearing my story, after learning about what I had already been through, the money and hours I’d already wasted, after working on my problem for ten days, he had the answer: Attached to the e-mail was a document with instructions about what to do if your printer doesn’t work.

I couldn’t believe it. I sent him an e-mail that went something like this: LOL. A document that tells me how to hook up my printer? That’s your solution? Too funny.

He responded with a polite and apologetic e-mail about how this was a first step, blah blah, blah, but I’ve been around long enough to know when I’m being jerked around. I also know when not to waste time on somebody who talked a good game but could do nothing for me. The Customer Advocate was probably a good idea but in reality is obviously little more than a paper-shuffler position.

By sending me a document he had now “dealt with” the problem (me) for that day and could push me back in his file, calling me in three or four days to see how much “progress” I had made. I used to work with people who did stuff like this all the time. OK, let’s be honest: I was a person who did stuff like this all the time. I wrote and told him I took a chance to see if he could actually get anything done or was just blowing smoke. And now I had my answer.

Oh, I sent him last night’s blog. Just because. He called today and left a message. I hope he’s not waiting by the phone. Because Spike talked to a tech supervisor on Saturday and I think that’s the route we’ll pursue next. The problem with the Customer Advocate is that he spends all his time telling me what he’s going to do instead of actually doing it!

And speaking of the Dell support techs, let me ease off the venom for a bit and tell you that, although they are unable to repair the glitch in my computer, to a man (or woman) they have been polite, friendly and fiercely determined to get my computer working.

One woman, who it turns out was talking to me from the Philippines, was absolutely obsessed with fixing the problem. We were on the phone for three-and-one-half hours and she would not give up. I have no doubt had we been talking on a video-phone I would have seen froth coming out of her mouth. She reminded me of one of those movie doctors who keeps banging on the chest of the flat-lining patient even as the steady whine of the machine in the background tells us that it’s all over.

“Live, dammit!” I could almost hear this woman yelling over the phone, and I’ve no doubt that if she were here she would have been banging on my computer’s chest. Wherever that might be located. Eventually it was I who had to play the part of the nurse who leads the doctor away and says, “Let him go…” And so, even though she couldn’t fix my computer, I think you really have to admire that kind of determination.

That Dell Customer Advocate should watch more doctor movies.

Rhymes With "Hell"--The Agony Continues

What is the purpose of this space? It’s always been my belief that certainly the goal of these daily diatribes should be to entertain; to perhaps provide a laugh in the middle of an otherwise routine day. And yes, maybe once in a while we will also take a look at the world situation or the human condition and maybe even attempt to right some wrongs and raise a consciousness or two, if I may resort to borrowing a sappy phrase from the 1970’s. Isn’t it beneath myself, or any writer, to use the space allotted here to whine about my own petty grievances or to tilt in vain at some behemoth corporate windmill when all else has failed?

Perhaps, but then I am suddenly visited by the ghost of the late and underrated comedian Alan King, who blows cigar smoke in my face and reminds me of the time that a major airline had lost the tuxedo that he had planned on wearing on the Tonight Show. (Or was it Ed Sullivan?) He warned them that either he would have his tux in time for his appearance or he would explain to the audience of millions why he didn’t. And he would name names.

And so on we go. But first, you have to do a little homework. If you are not familiar with the suffering I have already undergone simply because I chose to buy a new computer from Dell, please take a few minutes to re-read the post from April 12th in order to bring yourself up to speed. April 12th! Have I already lived nearly another month without the use of my brand new printer? My, time sure flies when you’re banging your head against the wall.

So after I’d wasted my time suffering through four nearly interminable calls to Dell they finally figured that I had suffered enough and had now earned the right to talk to their “escalations” technical people. Apparently this is a select group of folks who actually do know how the damn things work. But you can’t just call in and expect to talk to one of them—you have to start at the bottom. You have to pay your dues and believe me I did.

To be honest, I could tell right away that I had been kicked upstairs to a different level. My new escalations tech’s name was Jose. That is his real name and I liked the guy immediately. And although he too was unable to fix my printer problem, I gave him a good review in the customer survey at the end of the call. Maybe that was because I felt confident that sooner or later, Jose would be the one to end this unending Dell nightmare. Or maybe it was because the calls to him had been mercifully short.

Finally Jose reached the conclusion that I myself had reached two months earlier, three days after I had purchased this damn this—somebody, a real person, would have to be sent out to my house. Merciful heavens, was this the end? Was my long national nightmare finally over? Yes, yes! To the house! Of course that’s what you should do!

And so an appointment was scheduled for last Friday. I think this was after an earlier scheduling mix-up, but I don’t remember clearly so let’s just drop it. The appointment was scheduled for between 2:00 and 4:00. Ex-x-x-x-cellent! Of course the phone rang about 1:30 and the computer repair guy, an independent contractor, started going into his build-up about how Dell had told him this would be a printer repair job but had sent him a new computer part. I just listened, not sure why this made a major difference to him, and certain that it made none to me. Then the guy surprised me and said, “But I can still be there before 3:00.” Huh? I thought sure he was setting me up for the inevitable cancellation. Well I was tickled pink, let me tell you.

He didn’t make it to my house by three but I saw him pull up just a few minutes after. OK, OK, stay calm, he’s a busy man. And he is here. I waited a few minutes and when I didn’t hear the knock on my door I again looked out the window. And there he was, sitting in the front seat of his car, shoving food into his mouth. OK, OK, we all gotta eat. And the appointment really was for between two and four.

Finally the knock came on the door, and as I always do I smiled and said “Hi, I’m Len,” and extended my hand. He looked at it as if I was trying to hand him a cobra, but then he eventually shook it. “Tom,” he said tersely. And that’s not his real name because, unlike my pal Jose, Tom was a bit of a dick.

Without another word I walked him back to my office and then he asked me what the problem was. OK, OK maybe he’s like a cop and needs to hear the story over and over again. Still I wasn’t about to go through the entire tale of woe even one more time. Hell, if he needs the gory details I’ll just send him to this site. (Read April 12th first!)

And so I told Dick, I mean Tom, that the printer didn’t work. He gave me a look that was so incredulous you might have thought I had just said that the Devil Rays had won the World Series. And then he repeated the problem, slowly, disbelievingly and not without, I might add, more than a trace of sarcasm: “The printer doesn’t work?”

Screw you, fatso. If I knew in more detail what the problem was I could fix the damn thing myself. And so he went to work while I adjourned to my nearby bedroom to read a book. Five minutes later I heard his triumphant, “Done!” I couldn’t believe it. And I base my disbelief, of course, not on some inborn pessimism but on my experience with Dell up until this point. Have I mentioned yet that we’re dealing with a Dell?

“Do you want to know what was wrong?” he asked in a manner that may have been smug. Then again by now I was probably not completely unbiased and perhaps a little sensitive besides. He went on to explain that the printer would not print because I had left a picture on the scanner .(A cute shot of me snorkeling in the Bahamas, with a photo-shopped shark swimming nearby. I’ll send you a copy if you want.)

Now one thing I know is that during my hours and hours of telephone conversations with the Dell support people we tried every conceivable combination to get this damn printer to work. There’s no way that this was the problem. He saw the skepticism in my eyes and added that part of the problem was the port that the printer had been plugged into. Sorry, tubby, but I had already been down that road too.

But who cares, as long as it worked, right? So show me. And we found a one page letter in my documents and attempted to print it. And thirty seconds later we learned that Dick, I mean Tom, had done his victory dance a tad prematurely. The same error message, the one that was now as familiar to me as my Mimi Rogers nude photo, had popped up again. And so Tom continued his work and I went back to my book.

An hour later Tom, somewhat less enthusiastically this time, again declared that he had fixed the problem. I’m not going to bore you with the technical details. You don’t want to hear them and frankly I don’t remember them. I do remember that he told me that the part that Dell had sent to him (Is there such a thing as a “motherboard?) was defective and so he couldn’t install it. So Dell had sent this guy a part for my computer that may or may not have fixed the problem but we’ll never know because it doesn’t work anyway. Are you surprised by this? Nah, me neither. God bless them, they never let me down.

But then we printed a page. And then we printed another. And it was good. Clearly the printer was now working. Tom began to gather up his stuff, but before he ran off I thought it would be a good idea to make sure everything was working, including the scanner and copier. And so I asked him to show me how I could scan a document directly from the computer. And Tom said:

“I really don’t know how the Dell printers work.”

May I repeat that? The tech, the expert, that Dell had hired and sent out to fix my printer when asked to show me how to operate my printer said:

“I really don’t know how the Dell printers work.”

Many years ago I was driving whatever piece of junk I owned at the time through a small desert town in the middle of nowhere called Mojave. In a way I was fortunate that my clutch went out in the town, rather than fifty miles earlier or later in some desolate and empty place. I was able to walk across the street to an auto repair shop, and two hours later, miraculously, I was back on the road.

Now the mechanic who fixed my clutch had warned me that he had basically fixed it with cardboard and baling wire (I exaggerate, but just a little) and that I should get the car properly repaired as soon as I returned home. Once Tom had refused to show me how to work the printer and had practically run out the door (probably to return to his half-eaten sandwich) I was left with much the same feeling I had when I got on the road with that junky old car with the half-assed repair job. It was only a matter of time.

The car, by the way, made it all the way home and ran well for weeks after that. The printer, however, stopped working less than twenty-four hours after Tom had dashed out the door. I knew it the instant I heard Spike yell. She had been in the office working on some school papers when I heard, “The printer stopped working!” And so it had—right in the middle of printing Page Three of a three-page paper.

Years ago my wife and I had a mutual friend who often described Spike in this manner: She wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouthful. Which is true. Despite the tough-sounding nickname you will never meet a sweeter more even-tempered person. That’s why I keep her around. And yet I would almost swear I could see visible steam shooting out of her ears as she realized that once again our computer, our Dell computer, was, to put it kindly, failing to live up to expectations.

“I’m calling them, I’m calling them!” said the fuming Spike. I argued with her a bit, pointing out that it was the weekend, and besides there was no way she’d be able to relate the agonizing process I had already been through with them. Then I thought, what the hell, let her have a taste of what I’ve been going through. It will be good for her, help her to empathize. It might even be funny, or would have been if only my stomach hadn’t once again clenched itself into a tight monkey-fist knot.

And so she called Dell. And I did laugh as she had to hit all the buttons on that long miserable trek to speaking with a human. I gave her my plastic card that contained the tag number, service number and all the other assorted bullshit she’d need to relate before she could even begin to say what the problem was.

To her credit she came across as more frustrated than rude. She even admitted that it had been she who had talked her husband (Yo!) into choosing Dell in the first place. For my part, I had declared myself done. I didn’t want to talk to anybody, answer any questions or again sit at the computer for three hours while some non-escalations tech attempted by trial and error to find out what was wrong but never, ever would.

She must have said something right because it took only about ten minutes before she was connected to a supervisor. Hell, I’ve talked to them for over ten hours and still haven’t spoken to a supervisor. I wasn’t even sure they had any.

The supervisor assured Spike that they would get someone out here (With a new motherboard! Maybe even one that wasn’t pulled from an old ’68 Chevy!) immediately. Of course, immediately is a relative term. No, they can’t come out Monday. Sorry, Tuesday’s no good either. And since Spike and I won’t be available the rest of the week here we are again back in limbo.

You know, I had planned to write a column this week called To Be Fair. I was going to say that, while it had been an expensive and time-consuming inconvenience, Dell had eventually set everything right. I really do believe that it would be the honest thing to do, but now, at the rate things are progressing, I suspect that it is more likely that the article will still eventually be written, but by my grandchildren.

Oh, dig this: I left out the best part. There is such a thing as a Dell Customer Advocate. I know this because one of them contacted me, right out of the blue. I apologize for the length of tonight’s entry, which admittedly is more of a tirade than a literary exercise, but I figure I’m entitled. I mean, it’s not even particularly funny, but more the sad, plaintiff wailing of a frustrated Dell customer who has finally come to the end of his rope. OK, let’s try this: How about if I meet you back here tomorrow and I’ll tell you all a real short tale about my hilariously frustrating experiences with the fellow who calls himself a Dell Customer Advocate? Cool. See you then.

in delicato flagranto morto

“What a great idea!” I thought. And leave it to Shadow Dancer and her one-track mind to come up with it. She’s right, you know. I mean, who wants to hear about people who died from laughing when you can hear about folks who died from boinking? And so tonight’s topic was born.

And then, a surprisingly short time later, it died. Well I had just assumed that the Internet would be absolutely stuffed with stories about people who had shuffled off while engaged in the horizontal bop, but alas I had assumed wrong. Oh, there are scattered stories to be sure, most of which are based on nothing more than conjecture and rumor. And some others are flat out not true.

You’ve heard many times that Katherine the Great died while trying to have sex with a horse, yes? By now you know that this story is completely bogus. But the one person I knew for a fact who died while having sex was the former governor of New York and Vice President, Nelson Rockefeller. But it turns out that while he did have a fatal heart attack while “in the presence of" a twenty-six year old woman, that’s really all we know for sure.

What a disappointing thing to learn after all these years. Hey, power to him. If at 71 I’m alone in a room with a young woman, even if it’s just to play checkers, I’ll be more than impressed with myself. Hell, it’s a lot better than I’m doing now.

I did find a short post from some ancient (2005) blog that claimed that four popes had died while having sex. The author, who goes by the name SexyRobot, (And doesn’t that name just reek of journalistic credibility?) claims that Pope Leo VII died while having a heart attack during sex. This happened back in 939. And, contrary to what we generally assume, in this case the long ago time period might actually add some believability to the tale. After all, back in 10th Century Viagra was still in the early stages of development, so who knows what could have happened? It’s much safer now. I hope.

SexyRobot goes on to say that both Pope John VII and Pope John XIII were murdered in the act by cuckolded husbands. Now that’s a great story, but for me here’s where the seams start to unravel a bit. You see, SexyRobot gives the dates for John VII’s term as pope as 955-964, and that of John XIII as 965-972. It seems to me that, much like a poorly planned mansion that has fifty rooms and only one bathroom, you’ve got a lot of missing Johns here.

And finally SexyRobot would have us believe that Pope Paul II is supposed to have died in 1471 while being sodomized by a page boy. OK, now that one sounds like it might be true. Oh, wait, I thought that said 1971. Never mind.

Fatal Hilarity

Yup, that’s a real phrase. It was first written down in 1596 and refers to the act of dying of laughter. And yes, it has happened.

One of the earliest cases of fatal hilarity took place over 2,200 years ago and involves the Greek philosopher Chrysippus. Apparently these old-timey philosophers were not the stuffed shirts (or stuffed togas, I suppose) that we have been led to believe. At least Chrysippus wasn’t, that’s for sure.

On one particularly slow day in the philosophy biz it seems this ancient funster decided it would be an absolute hoot to give his donkey some wine. (There’s a “laugh his ass off” joke in here somewhere but really, who has the time or energy?) The inebriated donkey then made a clumsy attempt to feed on some nearby figs. Apparently the visual on that was so hilarious that Chrysippus laughed and laughed. And then he died.

Thomas Urquhart was a 17th Century Scottish aristocrat. It is said that he died laughing when he heard that Charles II had become king. (Uh-oh. For my own well-being I better cover my ears when they first announce the start of the impending impeachment hearings.)

But these events happened so long ago. You really can’t believe anything that is supposed to have happened two thousand years ago. Or two hundred years ago. (Or two days ago, for that matter. Especially if it’s on FOX.) There are, however, a few documented cases of fatal hilarity that happened within our lifetime. Ok, within my lifetime. I know we have some of the young ones out there reading this column.

In 1975 a 50-year-old bricklayer named Alex Mitchell was watching a British television show called The Goodies. He began to laugh during a scene in which a man uses a bagpipe to battle a particularly nasty pudding, and he continues to laugh for twenty-five minutes. Then he slumps over dead on the couch. The widow later sent a thank-you note to the Goodies thanking them for making her husband’s final moments so pleasant. Really, are there any people on Earth more polite than the British?

In 1989 a Danish audiologist named Ole Bentzen was watching the movie A Fish Called Wanda. It was later estimated that his heartbeat rose to somewhere between 250 and 500 before he died of cardiac arrest. You know, I remember when A Fish Called Wanda came out and all the hype that surrounded it as it was hailed as one of the funniest pictures ever made. Personally I found it only mildly amusing and vastly overrated, which I suppose is a major reason why it’s me sitting here writing about Ole and not the other way around.

So far, I’m happy (and admittedly a little disappointed) to report, there have no known cases of fatal hilarity occuring as a result of people reading this column. That’s not to say it can’t happen. It’s entirely possible that someone, maybe even you, could one day die from reading one of my incredibly amusing columns. (Not this one, of course, but one of the other, funnier ones. Ahem.)

You know what? I’m not going to take any chances. Within the next week I’m going to be sending each of you a legal disclaimer to sign. (You’ve seen the meager totals on my hit counter, so you know there’s no need to worry about any harm coming to the environment due to the amount of paper I’ll use for this. I'll need a quarter, maybe half a tree--tops.)

Meanwhile, if it happens that one day you’re reading this column and feel a case of the giggles coming on, stop reading immediately, shut off the computer and go take a walk. When you have regained your composure, and only then, come back and finish your reading. Follow these rules and you’ll live a longer, healthier life. And I’ll have a higher hit count.

Bits and Pieces Walks Among Us

There are so many Post-It notes piling up on my desk that they’re beginning to look like prescriptions at Elvis Presley’s house, and you know what that means: It’s time once again for Bits and Pieces! Oh, if you’re curious, Elvis’ personal physician Dr. George Nichopoulos prescribed thousands of pills for the King in the year and a half before he died. The drugs prescribed included, but were not limited to, amytal, biphetamine, carbrital, hydrochloride cocaine, demerol, dexamyl, dexedrine, dilaudid, hycomine, ionamin, leritine, lomotil, parest, perodan, placidly, quaalude, tuinal and valium. Whew, my spell-check nearly blew a fuse there. At his malpractice trial the full list of prescriptions prescribed by Dr. Nick for Elvis filled eight pages of a legal-sized pad. Just say no!

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I was in a bookstore the other day and I heard some guy come up and ask if they had The South Park Diet. The clerk and I had a good laugh over that, but it’s fun to imagine what such a weight-loss program might include. Go ahead—send me your ideas. I got nothing. And be sure to use the phrase, “I’m not fat, I’m big-boned!”

********

Same day, same bookstore and I decided to get a chocolate chip cookie to go with my over-priced cup of java. “I’ll heat this up for you,” offered the young girl behind the counter.” I told her thanks, but I’d prefer my cookie at room temperature.” “No, these are gourmet cookies, so I’ll heat it up.” I swear, I thought it was going to come to fisticuffs. I mean, I have no problem with her calling it a gourmet cookie—I know she’s just trying to justify the two and half buck sticker price. But I really prefer to eat my cookies at room temperature, especially when I’m pairing them with a hot cup of coffee. I actually had to look her in the eyes and use my command voice, as if I was trying to repel a threatening mountain lion, but finally she handed me the cookie as is. It tasted OK, I suppose. It probably would have been really good heated up.

********

In light of recent events you know I just had to look up the history of presidents who threw out the first ball on opening day in Washington D.C. In 1910 William Taft was the first president to throw out the ceremonial first pitch. Since then the Washington team has had 63 home openers, and a president was there to throw out the ball 45 times. Washington went through a period of 33 years when it did not have a major league baseball team, but that drought ended in 2005 when Bush threw out the first pitch for the new Washington Nationals. Last year Cheney did the honors and was roundly and embarrassingly booed. Last month Bush failed to show for the second year in a row. When asked if perhaps our hapless and doomed president turned down the invitation because he feared being booed, a Bush spokesperson replied, “Certainly not.” Too bad he wasn’t there on Bat Day.

********

I was watching a game show the other day when the question was, “Which one of these could hold all the blood in an average human body?” The choices were a quart container, a two-liter soda bottle or a two-gallon jug.” “You gave away the answer!” I yelled at the screen. Do you see how they gave away the answer or would you like me to explain it to you?