Mickey: Caught! (Part III)

When the ex-neighbor arrived it took about fifteen minutes of her babbling the most god-awful baby talk to get Mickey to come out from under the bed. The ex-neighbor stayed for about an hour (And during the time I had planned on watching The Simpsons, no less! Can you imagine?) trying to calm her frightened feline. She asked if Mickey could stay in the house that night--just for one night, pleeeeeze? What are you going to say?

So I threw, I mean placed (I really don’t need a call from PETA.) Mickey and Celine into our guest bedroom and closed the door. Celine, always the queen of the hill, immediately got comfortable on the top of the bed and dozed off. Mickey, more nervous than al-Maliki’s insurance agent, headed straight for underneath the bed. And that’s where he stayed until this morning.

And then some. Before she headed off to work Spike tried to get the dopey cat to come out from under the bed, but no luck. I scoffed at her concern. “Look, I have a four-year college degree. The cat has a brain the size of a cashew. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to figure out how to get him outside.” Yes, I was pretty cocky this morning. Experience has since made me a lot more humble.

Of course no amount of verbal entreating would get Mickey to come out from under the bed. I finally concluded that it was time to forget about my college education and take two giant steps back on the evolutionary scale. Getting this ten pound bag of fur was going to take some good old-fashioned brute force.

Well, not really brute force, of course. (PETA is everywhere.) What I meant was it would take some “gentle coaxing.” I went into the closet, got the broom and began an attempt to shoo Mickey from under the bed; in a gentle, oh so gentle, way of course. I had also had the foresight to open the bedroom screen door, figuring once the cat decided to run he’d could head straight to the great outdoors. And I could finally drink my coffee in peace.

And run he did. That tiny fight-or-flight mechanism in his tiny brain finally triggered, and Mickey was out of the guest room and into the bedroom in a flash. Success! I got up, knees again popping like bubble-wrap, and rushed to the sliding screen door. I wanted to close it before the little fleabag decided to come back in. Except he had never actually gone out. A whiney sound from under the bed told me that Mickey was still cowering, but now he was doing it under a different bed. Mine, in fact. A knee-popping squat and a look under the bed confirmed my theory.

And this time he was not going to move. A hellish cacophony of noises emanating from the bed told me Mickey was there to stay and no amount of pushing, prodding or beating with the broom would change his mind. Well, not beating. Heh-heh. Yes, I had a four-year college degree. And yes, Mickey had a brain the size of a cashew, and probably a small cashew at that. And yet Mickey, apparently, had won.

I left the room and closed the bedroom door because I couldn’t think of anything better to do, but I left the screen door open. Maybe he’d leave the room on his own. Maybe he’d stay under my bed for the rest of his life. Or maybe I’d just sell the house with him still in it.

I returned about a half hour later and immediately looked into the back yard. And there he was, huddled by the bowl of cat food doing what he did best: stuffing his fat cat face. I immediately shut the screen door and sighed, now knowing how a relieved priest must feel at the end of a successful exorcism. The evil spirit was gone—Hallelujah!

Later that afternoon the ex-neighbor dropped by and delivered another shipment of her special cat food. I relayed the tale of how Mickey had spent the night but “left” that morning. “Oh, it would be so great if you and Spike could adopt Mickey,” she gushed. Yeah it sure would, I thought. It would also be great if I could fly or turn myself invisible whenever I wanted. But that’s not going to happen either.

Mickey: Caught! (Part II)

“Gotcha!”

And I did too. Catching Mickey had turned out to be a lot easier than I expected. But, like the proverbial tiger by the tail in miniature, I had the little monster grasped firmly with my rhinoceros-hide covered hands but now what to do with him? The main goal, of course, was to straighten out the twisted collar that was around his neck and right leg.

I didn’t want to take the chance of Mickey getting loose and scampering away to parts unknown, so I immediately brought the wriggling and unhappy fur-ball into the house, closing the screen door behind us. Spike got on the phone and called the ex-neighbor. “We have your damn cat,” she didn’t say, although it certainly would have been justified, at least from my POV.

For my part I knelt on the floor, firmly holding onto the terrified cat, and attempted to remove his leg from the twisted collar and then put it on correctly. I’m sorry if it’s a disappointment to you, dear readers, but this part turned out to be a relatively simple operation. Within twenty seconds the collar was back around Mickey’s neck and only his neck, right where it belonged.

Mickey seemed to deduce that he was now back in good repair, and so he chose this moment to panic. He wanted out the door and if he had to climb over me he would, not failing to employ his razor-sharp talons to get a good grip on my delicate back and shoulder skin for optimum traction. Do you know that feeling you get when your masseuse accidentally substitutes ground glass for massage oil? Of course you don’t, nobody does. It’s never happened. But if it ever does happen, well, I already know what it feels like.

Somewhere in my aging and dust covered brain I apparently still retain enough functioning synapses to trigger a response that told me to hold the flailing cat out at arm’s length. Slashing my back, shoulders and neck had been horrible enough, but I still preferred that he didn’t get anywhere near my face. True, my face may not be what it once was, but I am still very much attached to it, figuratively and literally, and all things considered, would prefer to keep it that way, at least for a while longer.

I finally put the panicked pussy on the floor and he immediately scampered under the bed. Fine, I thought, stay there until your owner comes. And then I stood and opened the screen door to head into the yard to retrieve the bottle of kitty snacks. I was already outside when I realized what I had done. The screen door was open and the cat could seize this window of opportunity (or door of opportunity, I suppose) to make his get-away. I used my final working synapses and slammed the screen door closed, just as Mickey had emerged from hiding, ready to bolt. Ha! Seconds from a clean get-away. Well, you snooze, you lose, kitty cat.

Now we were presented with an interesting situation. As I looked back through the screen door I saw that Mickey, in his panic, had used his pointy claws to climb to the very top of the screen door, and there he currently hung like that kitten in the famous poster. From his elevated level we could now look into each other’s eyes. I, for one, saw the obvious irony in this predicament and from the look in his eyes I would not bet that Mickey didn’t see it too.

For here I was, staring through the screen door and wanting to get in, but not able to for fear of letting the cat escape. And here was Mickey, staring through that same screen door, wanting to get out. We both stood looking at each other, lost in the absurdity of the moment, until Spike came up with a solution. “I’ll go around to the garage door and let you in that way,” she said. You see, that’s why I married the girl.


TOMORROW: MICKEY’S NIGHT IN CAPTIVITY!

Mickey: Caught! (Part I)

You might remember a few weeks ago my next door neighbor was moving, and so were, I had optimistically and prematurely assumed, her five cats. Well the neighbor is indeed gone, moved into a nearby no-pets apartment, but somehow the cats remain. And no she didn’t abandon the fuzzy little darlings, so don’t get your peter, or PETA, in an uproar.

The cats now, I suppose, have become the wards of the neighborhood. It takes a village, eh? There are three or four households who keep an eye on Celine, JoJo, Mickey, Bootie and Jimmy. The cats spend the day roaming around doing whatever disgusting things that unsupervised cats do, and then at night they usually return to spend the night in their new foster homes: JoJo and Jimmy sleep at the lady across the street’s house, Bootie bunks at the home of the couple who live two doors down and Celine, well I guess Celine now belongs to us. Or vice-versa. And then there’s Mickey.

Mickey is the shyest of the cats and seldom gets close to humans. Or to me either, for that matter. I have occasionally gotten near enough to feed him a snack, and maybe to bestow a quick pet or two, but mostly Mickey keeps his distance. He comes by to eat on a regular basis and, as I’ve mentioned, is not above begging a tasty tidbit or two. They’re all basically snack-whores, you know. But where he stays at night is anybody’s guess.

Which is fine, for he seems healthy, happy and well-fed. For all I know he could be shacking up at the Half Moon Bay Ritz-Carlton, although I doubt that he can raise that kind of money. I’ve never seen him work a day in his life (nor him me, to be honest) and besides, he’s just a cat.

But the other day on one of his scrounging visits to our yard I noticed that Mickey had somehow gotten his right leg tangled in his collar. He could still walk ok, and didn’t seem to be in any discomfort, but we knew that situation had to be straightened out. The only problem was that Mickey had to first be captured.

My first attempt to catch Mickey led to him scooting away and jumping onto the fence, taking the time to look back over his shoulder to give me a dirty look. “You think you can catch me, old man?” he seemed to say. (They warned us back in college that taking that stuff could make us hear voices later in life.) We immediately called the ex-neighbor who arrived a few minutes later. She spent the next hour walking around entertaining the neighborhood with her high-pitched calls of “Mick-e-e-e-e-e! Mick-e-e-e-e-e!” Of course no cat came running. This is not Lassie we’re talking about here.

Now I had a challenge. I promised the ex-neighbor that I would do everything I could to catch the little bastard (I didn’t call him that out loud, of course. These cat people are nuts.) and tonight I had my chance. The call came at about 7:00, when Spike yelled, “Mickey’s in the yard!” and I knew it was go time.

My first step was to put on long sleeves and my rhinoceros-hide gardening gloves. This was, after all, not my first experience with cats. I armed myself with a bottle of cat treats, said a quick prayer (as if) and headed confidently into the yard. And there he was, sitting under the patio chair where the bowl of food is kept, happily stuffing his fat cat face. For free. I squatted down into a less threatening position and hoped that he would not be frightened away by the loud popping sounds emanating from my knees. I tossed out a few snacks to draw him closer to me, but he wasn’t having any of it. “Keep your crappy snacks,” he seemed to say. “I’m already stuffed.” (I really should have those voices checked out.)

And so it looked like I had but one option: I would have to go to him. And so I did, one squatty knee-popping step at a time. I stretched out my rhinoceros-hide-protected hand and slowly made my way towards the skittish cat, getting ever closer, closer…


TOMORROW: CAUGHT!

The Ingredients Quiz: What's In That Crap?

You’ve heard it many times. You should eat whole foods, like fresh fruit and vegetables, and avoid the processed stuff. No flour, no sugar and no hormone-injected animal flesh. And I agree with all of this, in principle anyway. I know it’s right and I know that a healthier diet leads to a healthier and happier life. But as my brother always said, “It’s not my fault that Ho-Ho’s taste better than broccoli.”

But here in 2007, and especially here in the U.S., we have gotten so far away from a diet that even slightly resembles the food your body is intended to consume. I’ve heard people say that we should eat what a caveman would eat, which I pretty much do, assuming the caveman is Fred Flintstone. So let’s try to be a little bit responsible tonight and take a quiz that asks the eternal question, “Exactly what’s in that crap that you’re eating?” So have fun, no cheating and no taking breaks for a Ho-Ho or Ring-Ding or Devil Dog or Scooter Pie or Yodel or Sno-Ball or Twinkie or Zinger or…

And yes, all this junk below is coming from my cabinet.

1. Which can not be found in a can of Chicken of the Sea albacore tuna?
a. Vegetable broth
b. Salt
c. Pyrophosphate
d. Monosodium glutamate

2. A serving of Sugar Free Jell-O contains none of the following except?
a. Saturated Fat
b. Sodium
c. Carbohydrate
d. Trans Fat

3. Which does All Natural Pam Olive Oil Spray not contain?
a. Olive Oil
b. Grain alcohol
c. Ferrous Sulfate
d. Lecithin

4. Rice-A-Roni contains three of these unpronounceable things. Which one did I make up?
a. disodium inosinate
b. disodium guanylate
c. ferric orthophosphate
d. ferric crossthemersey

5. Which contain fructose?
a. Berries
b. Corn
c. Parsnips
d. All of the above

6. Why are there only six questions in this quiz?
a. I’m running out of products in my cabinet
b. This quiz is boring me spitless
c. The Daily Show is starting
d. All of the above.


ANSWERS

1. MONOSODIUM GLUTAMATE. So what?
2. SODIUM. So Jell-O has a trace of salt. It won’t kill you, you big baby.
3. FERROUS SULFATE. Didn’t I say it was “natural’?
4. If you laughed at FERRIC CROSSTHEMERSEY you have a great sense of humor. And you’re old.
5. ALL OF THE ABOVE. It’s high fructose corn syrup that comes from, well you figure it out.
6. ALL OF THE ABOVE. But mostly “b.” I knew I should have tossed this post-it the other night when I had the chance.

Bits and Pieces Vs. Gamera

If you’ve been dying to know what the number one song was on the day you were born why not hop on over to www.JoshHosler.biz? I did, and discovered that on the glorious day of my arrival the country was singing Don’t Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes by Perry Como. That’s Como, Perry Como. OK, maybe it was some time ago, but at least it wasn’t some thick-browed caveman beating on a hollow log. I also checked on my somewhat younger than me, and nearly as lovely, wife Spike and found that The Beatles’ I Want to Hold Your Hand was topping the charts on the day she was born. And so I began to wonder if there was some connection between a person’s personality and the number one song on their day of birth. I mean, people find fortunes in the stars, numbers, Chinese cookies, auras and bumps on the head, so why not this? I, of course, believe this to be total nonsense. Or at least I did until I decided to check the birthday of a friend who spends a good part of her life puffing the magic drag in, if you know what I mean and I think you do. The number one song on the day she was born? Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.

***************

Do you know what I think the most American of expressions is? “I could eat.” I’m sure you’ve heard somebody say this over the course of your life. Perhaps you’ve even said it yourself. I know I have. You’re walking along with a friend or relative, usually bored out of your mind. “You hungry?” asks your companion. “I could eat.” Only in America is the cue to eat not hunger, but simply the lack of feeling completely stuffed.

***************

I was in the local pee-oh the other day when a humming Muslim man walked in with his wife. The wife was wearing the traditional head covering, and the man looked somewhat uncomfortable and maybe even paranoid. Uh-oh I thought, profiler that I am, that we all have become in this foul century. Sure this was only a small town post office, but it was a government installation. Maybe these were underachieving terrorists with low self-esteem who were content to blow up only small post offices in towns with populations of fifteen thousand or less. I walked past the man as I was leaving and then laughed, mostly at myself. The man had obviously already been well assimilated into American life and culture. What he had been humming was the opening theme to the Looney Tunes cartoons.

***************

I still hear a lot of people using the expression, “I respect your opinion, but…” (Not to me, of course. Nobody seems to respect my opinion.) I used to say the same thing myself, until I thought about it. What you mean, in most cases, is not that you respect somebody’s opinion but that you respect their right to their opinion. If somebody told you they believe that a warthog would make a fine president you might respect the person’s right to believe that, but you certainly wouldn’t respect the actual opinion. (Yes, yes, I know—a warthog would, at this point, be an improvement. Can’t I take one night off?) But now I’m discovering that not only do I not respect some peoples’ opinions but I’m moving into a mode where I no longer even respect their right to have that opinion. And I want them silenced. Or arrested for being stupid. Am I getting crotchety, or what?

***************

Let me proclaim once again that I don’t particularly care for scatological humor. It’s cheap, it’s crude and in my 530 postings I doubt that you could find a single use of the word “fart” unless I am referring to someone as an “old fart.” (Except of course for my classic tale, Having a Blast at the Winchester Mystery House. No, I don’t know what date it’s under—look it up yourself.) Still, I was sitting in the hot tub the other day and not coincidentally I thought about how absolutely surprised I was years ago when I first discovered that when you fart in the bathtub you could smell them after the bubbles had risen to the surface and burst. Before then I would have bet anything that something like that was impossible, sheer foolishness comparable to the old Popeye cartoons where Olive Oyl would yell underwater and as the bubbles burst you’d hear, “Help! Popeye! Help!” But now I’m older and I know better. Live and learn, eh?

1969

Yeah, I heard you. You little darlings were only three or five or eight in 1969, or the most annoying, “I wasn’t even born yet!” So how could you possibly know anything about what happened in 1969, right? Well listen, chump, I wasn’t around in 1776 (believe it or not) but I’ve heard of Thomas Jefferson.

In the wee hours of the morning of July 20, 1969 I was sitting in my basement watching the fuzzy images on the TV screen, as was most of America. (Watching TV I mean, not sitting in my basement.) Neil Armstrong was about to set foot on the Moon. Oddly enough I don’t remember this as being a particular exciting moment for me. I was sixteen at this time and gone were the days when I would burst with a youthful national pride with each advancement in America’s fledgling space program. No longer did I know the names of all the astronauts as I did when the original Mercury astronauts had launched a new era in exploration. I was now, after all, a teenager, and thus filled with my share (and then some) of adolescent cynicism and angst. Some thug named Nixon was running the country and I was but two years away from being eligible for the draft and Vietnam. I surely would not be saluting the flag that Armstrong would be erecting on the surface of the Moon, but I watched the landing anyway. It was, after all, a monumental moment in history. And there was nothing else on anyway.

It was August 17, 1969 and my family was in upstate New York, on our way back from a week’s vacation in the Catskills. We had stopped for a red light at some small intersection in some small town when a group of about ten or twelve long-hairs on motorcycles thundered by right in front of us. They seemed to be celebrating something, but I couldn’t imagine what it was. My dad filled in the gaps. “Oh yeah,” he said, and not enthusiastically. “They had that hippie thing this weekend.” And indeed they had. Less than a hundred miles away the Woodstock Festival was winding down. It would become legendary as, if not the biggest, the most famous music festival in history. Every three or so years Spike will once again ask, “You went to Woodstock, right?” and I again have to remind her that no, I did not, and that I was, at the time, merely an awkward and sullen adolescent sitting in the back seat of my daddy’s car. I suspect that with age and the expected memory deterioration it won’t be too long before I begin to answer, “Yes, as a matter of fact I was at Woodstock.” And I’ll believe it too.

And though I was somewhat blasé about the lunar landing and well out of the loop concerning Woodstock, there was one event that occurred that year that went a long way towards confirming that 1969 was nothing short of miraculous. As a loyal Mets fan I had struggled for several years rooting my then cholesterol-free heart out for what was truly one of the worst teams in baseball history. In 1962 the New York Met finished the season with a 40-120 record, still the worst record ever. Or in other words they lost three out of every four games they played, for an entire season. There were two ten-team leagues in those days, and until 1969 the Mets had never finished higher than ninth, nor had they ever come close to having even a mediocre season. In 1969 the Mets finished the season with a 100-62 record, and captured first place in the brand new National League East division. They swept the Atlanta Braves in the league’s first ever play-off series and moved on to face the mighty and heavily favored Baltimore Orioles in the World Series.

Boog Powell, Frank Robinson, Brooks Robinson, Jim Palmer—yeah those Orioles, a team still considered by many, with their 109-53 record, to be one of the greatest ever. The Mets lost the first game of that World Series, and it seemed to this sixteen-year-old that the bubble had finally and irreversibly popped. Well, I thought, it had been a fun season. While it lasted. And then a series of improbable events occurred. Al Weis, who had hit only six home runs in his seven year career, hit another. Ron Swoboda, never known for his outstanding defense, made two remarkable plays in right field, one of which still appears regularly on Top Ten lists. And the Mets pitching staff gave up a measly seventeen hits over the course of the next four games. The Mets won all of those games, the World Series was over and the legend of The Miracle Mets was born. The Mets 1969 season and subsequent World Series victory still remains the greatest, most glorious sporting event of my life. At the time it almost made my $1.35 an hour job as a busboy in a pancake house seem tolerable. But not quite.

Tossing the Post-Its

“Len, where do you get all your wonderful ideas?” Do you know how many times I’ve been asked that question? Well, never actually, but don’t be so quick to scoff. It could happen someday.

On my desk I have a collection of post-it notes, and on each of those notes is written an idea for a potential future column. I’ve been working this way since I started writing this nonsense. Sometimes it’s been very useful and sometimes it’s been a colossal waste of time.

The thing is, often I think of what I’d categorize as a “pretty good idea,” but the post-it will end up lying there like a frigid first lady until I finally toss it out. In reality most of the ideas I write about occur to me on the same day I post them. I’ll think of a topic, feel the rush of excitement and I’m on my way, the new idea completely leapfrogging over the other, lamer ideas in my post-it collection. The truth is that if these ideas had been so great to start with I never would have written them on a post-it, but rather would have written them up the same day.

So tonight I thought I’d do a little post-it weeding and share the experience with you. What, you don’t think that sounds like a very exciting way for me to spend my evening? Well let me ask you this: Which is more pathetic, me weeding through my post-its or you reading about it? Yeah, I thought so. Let’s begin.

Post-it #1:
I had an idea for creating a fake question and answer column where I would answer questions sent in by my “readers.” The answers would be funny, hopefully, and it would be obvious that they were made up. I did this for a column I wrote 25 years ago. It was mildly amusing. And into the garbage can goes the post-it.

Post-it #2
I wanted to write a Useless Information about Ian James. Who the ef is Ian James? you ask. Exactly. That’s why it’s a Useless Information. He’s the guy who, fifty years ago this month, introduced his friend Paul McCartney to his other friend John Lennon. Just a few years ago he sold the guitar he had lent to McCartney to use for his audition for John. You know what? I’m going to keep this one.

Post-it #3
No lie. I just picked up the next post-it and it said “Tossing the post-its.” It’s an idea to write a column about going through my post-it notes. Brilliant! In fact I’m going to change the title of this to Tossing the Post-its. As I write this it’s called Weeding Through the Post-its. It doesn’t really have the same ring, does it? Good Christ, I’m stealing from myself!

Post-it #4
This is the only stack of post-its I have. It’s a collection of short ideas that, once I have accumulated five or six of them, will become my next Bits and Pieces. It looks like there are now five topics there, so the next Bits and Pieces can’t be that far away, and aren’t you just wetting your pants with excitement?

Post-it #5
This one says “Seven New Wonders.” A few days ago they, whoever that might be, announced the list of the new Seven Wonders of the World. And you think I have too much time on my hands? I thought it would be funny if I came up with my own list of seven wonders. The only problem was I couldn’t think of any, except for aluminum foil. I suspected that I would struggle mightily with this topic and in the end I’d end up with something that smelled like a Carl Reiner/Mel Brooks skit from the 1950’s. So into the garbage it goes.

Post-it #6
A while back I did a column on the antique Stephen Foster song Swannee River, and we all thought it was fascinating. OK, I thought it was fascinating. And so I have written the words O Susanna on a post-it. Hey guess what? I just went online to check the spelling and found out that this song was also written by Foster. How about that? And don’t you want to hear all about it? Nah, me neither. And into the trash it goes.

Post-it #7
This one has the words “Tammy Faye” written on it. So what should I do, write the column or just toss out the post-it? Ha! Trick question! I wrote it last night, you ninny, and aren’t you ashamed for not having read it? C’mon, get with the program.

Post-it #8
I’ve played a few Name that…games where I present rhymes about specific people and you have to guess who they are. The catch is they all have the same first name, such as Name that Fred or Name that Sandra. On this note I have written Name that Leonard. The trouble is I’m not sure if I’m allowed to include people named Leonardo, Leo, Lenny or Leon. The hell with it—into the garbage.

Post-it #9
I enjoy the quizzes I create, don’t you? C’mon, lie to me you bastards--I’m very delicate. Would you take an Ingredients Quiz, where I’d ask you about what you might find in diet soda or corn flakes or canned ham? Too bad, because I think I’m going to write this one up. And you had damn well better play.

Post-it #10
If I’m going to be honest with you, and I thought I might try it just this once, this next one isn’t a post-it but rather a business card. And on it I have written not one but two ideas for future columns. The first is about yawning and the second about the year 1969. I think I’ll skip the topic of yawning, although I find it amazing that I have already yawned involuntarily just from reading about this topic, and so have you. I might, however, go ahead and write about 1969. Some pretty cool stuff happened in that year. Like what? Well stay tuned, Cletus.

Post-it #11
I keep a list of unique words that I come across and occasionally, actually rarely, I will drop one of them into my column. Just for fun. (I really must get out more.) Here are the words that are currently on the list: anent, buncombe, manumit, contumacious and brobdingnagian. Ha, even my spell-check is blowing a fuse over that last one. Manumit: coming soon to a column near you.

Post-it #12
The intriguing title of this one is The Strange Tale of Robby, Jr. It’s a true story about an ill-fated goldfish that I had named after my brother. I’ll write this one up someday, but I have to be in the right mood.

Post-it #13
A few months back I tried a new topic called Making Your Miserable Life Better. I offered five “secrets” that you could incorporate into your life to improve it, such as eating popcorn with shredded cheddar and watching Entourage. Have you done them? No, you haven’t. So why should I bother with another installment? Besides, all I’ve come up with for next time is joining NetFlix. OK, here goes another post-it into the trash. No wonder there are no trees left in the forest.

Post-it #14
I wanted to do an article about all the things that Spike keeps Under the Sink. Actually this could be a series. I could list all the cans and jars that come tumbling out every time I open the door to the cabinet under the bathroom sink. There must be a hundred items in there, and I have no idea what they do. The same situation exists under the kitchen sink. And then there are the medicine cabinets behind the bathroom mirrors. We have three medicine cabinets—guess who has filled two? And then there are the drawers in our dresser. There are six—guess who has filled five? On second thought this sounds like too much work, and besides, revealing the contents of the medicine cabinets might prove embarrassing. Not for me, of course. I have no shame.

Wow! Look how clear my desk is!

Tammy Baye Fakker

I sit in front of my TV screen and am appalled as I watch Larry King positively gush about Tammy Faye Bakker. It seems nothing short of ludicrous that the death of this freakish and ridiculous woman would rate any more than an insignificant crawl across the bottom of the screen. But there she is, smiling in a picture taken in better days with the dates 1942 – 2007 below. And I wonder exactly what is going on here. After all, Tammy Faye Bakker was not Mother Teresa. Hell, she wasn’t even Princess Diana.

What Tammy Faye Bakker (I mean Tammy Faye Messner—sometimes I get her two jailbird hubbies mixed up.) was, at best, was a national punch line; a joke. She was a blubbering, mascara-wearing Tiny Tim or Clara Pella; she should have had her fifteen minutes and been out of our consciousness forever. And at worst she was, along with her eel-slippery ex-husband, a huckster and flimflammer; a slick con-artist selling lifetime memberships to her special Jesus club to the gullible and easily bamboozled masses.

By the time of the collapse of their infamous hocus-pocus religious empire Jim and Tammy had accumulated several houses around the country, a fleet of Cadillacs and had become international laughingstocks for such extravagances as their gold-plated bathroom fixtures and air-conditioned doghouses. Nowhere is it written, I suppose, that one is forbidden to live in comfort while doing God’s work.

In some ways I feel a special affinity to Jim and Tammy, as if I had a hand in discovering them. I used to watch them, with equal parts of amusement and outrage, long before they became household names. I’d be clicking through the channels late at night and suddenly there they were: This baby-faced, self-righteous preacher and his outrageously painted-up wife.

To me she always seemed to be a former cocktail waitress, or worse, as she would invariably ruin her colorful clown-like make-up by crying rivers of crocodile tears as her husband begged, (on behalf of the Almighty no doubt) for the viewers to send him money, always more money. A hundred years ago these two sleazeballs would have been peddling snake oil out the back of a medicine wagon, always sneaking out of town in the middle of the night one nervous step ahead of the local constabulary.

Tammy Faye Bakker struggled with cancer for over ten years. Ultimately a victim of her own religious indoctrination, she endured the bleeding caused by her colon cancer for over a year because she was too shy to see a male doctor. She never killed anyone nor was she ever indicted for any crime. The unspeakable suffering she endured far outweighed any racket she may have perpetrated on half a million American dupes.

And yet it is curious to note that in Dante’s classic work we find that those who actually do commit violence against their fellow humans are condemned to only the Seventh Circle of Hell. It is the fraudulent who occupy the Eighth.

My Big Book of Sexual Regrets

Do you like that phrase? It’s the working title of a book I hope to write someday. It won’t be my next one or even the one after that, but someday. Maybe I’ll have it released after I’m gone. (And before I return.)

For many years I congratulated myself for having only one sexual regret in my life. Not a bad track record after so many years in the game, I thought to myself. Without going into too much detail (Buy the book!) the regret happened about thirty years ago and involved my girlfriend, her Korean roommate, a nude beach, a shower and some baby powder. You do the math. And the regret, it turns out, is not for something that I did, but rather for something that I didn’t do.

I was discussing my book concept with Peachpit and she mentioned that she, too, has a few regrets stashed away in her memory trunk. In short, they were mostly one night stands that had happened years ago. She came to realize that they weren’t much fun and simply had not been worth the trouble. What caught my attention was that all (And there weren’t that many. I certainly don’t want to give you guys the wrong impression of Peachpit, although I do have her phone number if anybody wants it.) of Peachy’s regrets were for something that she had done, whereas all of mine were for something I hadn’t done. And I began to wonder if this was just the case with us or was it a universal distinction between the sexes, as if we need another one.

Yes, I said all of mine. After years of self-delusion I re-examined the issue of sexual regrets and soon realized that the episode (or lack of one) with the Korean girl was not the only one, nor was it the earliest or even the most regrettable one. And the more that I mentally retraced the twisted path that represents my twisted life the more of these regrets made themselves known.

Eventually I began to write them down and even pondered the idea of making a book out of them. Well a pamphlet anyway, as there surely would never be enough examples to fill an entire book. But still they kept coming. I would barely finish writing down one name or experience when two more would pop into my head. Just today I wrote down what I hope will at last be the final regret that returns to haunt me, a woman I met in Cabo, but I suspect and dread that my list is still not quite done.

I transferred this list onto my computer a few days ago and threw out the envelope that contained the jumble of paper scraps and post-it notes. And yes, I remembered to back it up—I don’t want to have to trip down that particular memory lane again. I also decided to number each item on the list, and that in itself was quite an eye-opener. It turns out that claiming that I had only one sexual regret in my life was “self-delusional” was a bit of an understatement. When I added the Cabo lady to the list I was surprised to find that she was assigned number 27. And guess what? Not a single one of them is a regret for something I actually did and wished I hadn’t.

Which is bad in some respects, because that seems like an awful lot of sexual regrets in what is, really, a relatively short span of time. But it’s also good, because even if I limit each of my tales of woe to a very conservative 1500 words (the Korean girl story alone should run over 3,000) that would mean I would have about 40,000 words, about the same length as my second book. (Available at www.LeonardStegmann.com.) And that’s assuming that nobody else is added to the list by the time I actually write the book, and I think we all know that’s not very likely.

Oh, I almost forgot to tell you the best part: each chapter of the book ends with a rating for the story. It’s given a number from 1 to 10 on the Regret-O-Meter, depending on how big a regret that particular experience was. For example, the lady in Cabo might only register a 4 on the meter, but the Korean girl would easily achieve an 8. What fun! You’d buy a book like that, right?

And Then You Remember

And so you’re listening to Howard Stern and Gilbert Gottfried is the guest and you laugh a lot because Gilbert, with his quick wit and off-beat impressions, is a very funny man and then he begins to talk about his personal life and how just a few months ago he became a father for the first time, which of course causes Howard to ridicule him mercilessly since everyone knows that Gilbert is an “older” man who is well beyond the average age at which most men first become fathers and then you remember that Gilbert is fairly close to your own age, although you can’t be sure exactly how close, so you turn on the computer and go to imdb.com where you find out that Gilbert is two years younger than you but you notice that he was born the very same week as your brother, which is a funny coincidence considering how often you heard your brother talk about how hilarious he thought Gilbert was and you wonder, just for a second, just for a second, if your brother even knows that he and Gilbert were practically born on the same day and so you make a mental note to tell him the next time you send him an e-mail because it’s sure to make him laugh and then you remember.

Guess Who #17

Whew! After taking yesterday’s test you probably thought that every day around here is a day at the beach. Well yeah, technically every day is a day at the beach, since I live here, but there are times when it’s work, work, work. Well, maybe not three works, but definitely two. And today was one of those days.

Oh calm your ass down, I’m not here to tell you all about it. So what is all this pathetic whining of mine leading up to? Well if you’re a regular reader, or if you’re capable of reading that title up there, you know that on days like today, when my highly-unappreciated efforts to entertain you are reduced to little more than a mind-numbing slog, there is only one solution: It’s time to play that not-so-very-popular game that is neither sweeping the nation nor much of anything else. So let’s play Guess Who!

And for our slower but no less important brethren, please allow me to explain the game for the seventeenth effin’ time. Below is a description of a famous person. Read the clues and then tell me who it is. And it’s no fair using the Internet, and I will find out if you do. Cheney and Santa aren’t the only two keeping an eye on you knuckleheads.


Ms. X’s nicknames include Clara Bixby and Eunice.

Ms. X was born in Cincinnati, Ohio.

At age 14 Ms. X was in a car crash that almost ended her dancing career.

Ms. X is a vegetarian.

Ms. X is a co-owner of the Cypress Inn in Carmel, California.

Ms. X measured 36-25-36 in 1953.

Ms X turned down the role of Mrs. Robinson in The Graduate.

Ms. X is referenced in songs by Reunion, Underworld, Wham!, Billy Joel and The Beatles.

Ms. X was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2004.

Ms. X voted for George Bush in 2000, so I shan’t be watching any more of her movies.

Ms. X is now 83 and was born on April 3, 1924, the same day as Marlon Brando.

Ms. X was named the top box office star of 1963.

Ms. X has appeared in 39 films, the last in 1968.

Ms. X has been married four times. (So far.)

Holy cow, that’s a long list of clues. Now the easy part: Who is Ms. X?

My Day: A Quiz

So you think you know me, eh? “No, Leonard,” you answer in that delightfully snotty way of yours that makes me want to slap you silly. “I don’t know you and I don’t want to know you.” Well too bad, Chumley, because tonight for once I’d like to make this column about something near and dear to my heart. Just this once I’d like it to be about me. “For once!” you exclaim, somehow sounding incredulous and sarcastic at the same time. Hey, don’t make me come over there.

1. What did I have for breakfast this morning?
a. Yoghurt and fruit
b. A bowl of corn flakes
c. Fried liverwurst
d. Left-over pizza

2. About what time did I wake up this morning?
a. 7:30
b. 8:30
c. 9:30
d. noon

3. How much did I spend at the grocery store today?
a. $30.00
b. $50.00
c. $70.00
d. $90.00

4. What caused me to accidentally walk into somebody’s shopping cart?
a. They pushed it right in front of me
b. My contact lens slipped
c. I was staring at an incredibly attractive girl
d. I was staring at an incredibly attractive guy

5. Which did I not buy at the grocery store?
a. Cherries
b. V-8 juice
c. Flour
d. Maxi-pads

6. What did I bury in my backyard this morning?
a. A dead mouse
b. A dead cat
c. A dead Mormon missionary
d. A live cat

7. I watched part of my favorite Johnny Depp movie tonight. Which one was it?
a. Benny and Joon
b. What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?
c. Ed Wood
d. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

8. What was new on my front lawn this morning?
a. A fully-open rose
b. A newspaper
c. Dog poop
d. A seagull

9. What cartoon character is on the t-shirt I’m wearing right now?
a. Bugs Bunny
b. Kyle from South Park
c. Butters from South Park
d. Homer Simpson

10. Which did I not do today?
a. Brush my teeth
b. Eat a candy bar
c. Sit in the hot tub
d. Talk to a friend


ANSWERS:

1. YOGHURT AND FRUIT. Yeah, hard to believe but I have that a lot. It’s what helps to keep me consistently under 300 pounds.
2. 7:30. Spike can be so noisy when she heads off to work.
3. $90.00! Did I ever tell you about the days when my parents could feed a family of five for a week on $27? True, Dad made twelve cents an hour, but still.
4. I WAS STARING AT AN INCREDIBLY ATTRACTIVE GIRL. Of course. I bumped into some kid pushing a cart and his mom yelled at him to be careful. Bummer. Oh, and the only time you’ll catch me staring at an incredibly attractive guy is when I’m looking in the mirror.
5. MAXI-PADS. And you better have gotten this one right. Sure I’m married but I’m not beaten. (Not regularly, anyway.)
6. A DEAD MOUSE. Spike and I have been feeding, sheltering, cleaning and playing with a local cat, so this morning the cat brought us a gift. I guess she figures we’re even now.
7. ED WOOD. Don’t miss it. Martin Landau wins a much-deserved Oscar.
8. DOG POOP. Again. And I don’t know where it came from. I mean I know it came from a dog, but I can’t figure out which one. When I do I’ll be digging a much bigger hole than the one I used for that mouse.
9. HOMER SIMPSON. It has the words “Department of Unathletics" across the top. This would be an embarrassing shirt to be wearing when you have a fatal heart attack.
10. EAT A CANDY BAR. And I’m not happy about it.

How did you do? If you got nine or ten right you did OK. Anything less and you’re obviously paying too much attention to yourself and not enough on me. Work on that.

Meeting The New Neighbor

When you have a neighbor who has been nice to you, who has watched your house and fed your turtle while you were on vacation and who generally has not been a pain in the ass, it’s always sad when they pack up and move away. And once the good-byes are said and the obligatory promises to “keep-in-touch” are uttered the sadness is quickly replaced by a curious sort of excitement and anticipation. OK, they’re gone and they’re not coming back. So who is going to move in? Who is going to be my new neighbor?

“Maybe a crew of flight attendants will move in!” I joked to Spike.
“And maybe they’ll be men,” Spike joked back, failing to understand that some things simply aren’t funny and therefore should not be joked about.

I received my first hints regarding the new neighbor on Wednesday afternoon of last week. I had walked out front (Because really, what else have I got to do?) and saw the moving van parked next door. Something was definitely happening.

Not being the nosy sort, at least not to any extraordinary or illegal degree, I came into the house and sat at the computer. It was about an hour later when I heard it.

“Yip!”

Dear Jesus, no! I thought to myself. But the prayer, like all prayers, was an exercise in futility and I immediately heard the irritating noise again.

“Yip!”

This yip was followed by another and another, and then a veritable torrent of them was unleashed, as well as a cacophony of other hellish and inhuman sounds besides. And so I was forced to face the truth: The only thing that I knew for sure about my new neighbors was that they had brought with them one of nature's most annoying and aggravating of creatures: the yappy little dog.

The yapping continued throughout most of the day as the dark clouds gathered over my head. I tried to read, I tried to write but always, always it was the piercing yip, yip, yip that dominated my consciousness like the relentless beating of a heart in some ancient tale by Poe.

Let me tell you one thing that you already know about the difference between owning a home and renting a home: When somebody rents the house or apartment next to you and they possess a disagreeable trait such as say, oh, being a terrorist or worse, owning a yappy little dog, there is a chance that you can grin and bear it. You might be able to ride out the situation, as they may very well move out in several months.

But when somebody buys the house next to you and they own a yappy little dog, you only have one hope and that is that the rat-sized mutt is already sixteen or seventeen years old, or extremely accident-prone, and you’ll only have to listen to him for a short time. I’m no dog expert, but I could tell by the frequency of the yips and the energy behind them that what we were dealing with here wasn’t much older than a pup; a pup who might very well be around long enough to happily yip on my grave. Despite a life filled with experiences that should have taught me otherwise, I was still somehow surprised by how cruel the fates can be.

The next day I was sitting at the computer when I heard someone moving things around in the yard at the house next door. I decided it was time to do the polite thing and introduce myself to the new neighbor. I went into the backyard and heard noises that confirmed someone was indeed there. (I also heard other, more irritating noises that confirmed that the yappy little dog was there as well.)

I looked through a crack in the tall redwood fence and saw only a patch of skin. Human presence now confirmed, I climbed onto a horizontal board and said in my most neighborly voice, “Hi, how ya doing?” (What a wit. And you wonder why I communicate more through writing than speaking?) I had yet to clearly see anybody, but I was able to discern that I had startled the person and immediately began to apologize. Meanwhile I got my footing steadied on the fence and so was better able to take in the vision that was to be my new neighbor.

It took my usually agile brain more than a moment to process what I saw. For there, standing just a fence-width away, was a beautiful young woman wearing a bikini that was made out of less material than my gardening gloves. And the fit was a whole lot better. She was gorgeous, she had an incredible body and, best of all, she was my new neighbor.

That’s the trouble with the world today. People only care about themselves and very little about the happiness of their fellow humans, whether they live in the house next door or half a planet away. We are all one big family on this big blue marble, boys and girls, and if we can’t even make the effort to tolerate, even welcome, a yappy little dog, then really what does this say about us as people?

Three Card Monte: Weddings

Believe it or not, there are some things at which I excel. For example, I’ve never lost a game of Trivial Pursuit. In fact I remember one time when I played against two women. I let them be on the same team, which allowed them to share their pools of knowledge. I also stipulated that I would have to complete the game twice before they finished once in order to win the game. And you know what? I did.

As I said, there are some things I’m good at. The fact that I was alone with two attractive women and chose to play a board game should indicate that there are also some areas in which I don’t particularly shine. Sadly, I’m starting to suspect that one of these areas is writing stories for this Three Card Monte feature.

I believe that somewhere in the foggy recesses of my old posts there must have been at least one time when I fooled at least one person, but I’ll be damned if I can remember when. I know that in the last several entries I have fooled no one. Well, no one who was brave enough to go on record in the Comments section, anyway.

And I really think I should be fooling someone. I do a lot of research on these and try not to tip my hand. I choose the order randomly and make sure each story has about the same number of words. And so I’ll keep playing this game until I know that I have written a Three Card Monte that finally fools someone.

Oh, let’s be totally honest here. I’d be happy if I fooled anybody, but I’d be thrilled if I tripped up that cute chick from Pleasanton. She’s been on quite a streak winning at Three Card Monte and I think she needs to be knocked down a peg or two. Yes, I’m throwing down the gauntlet, or at least I would throw it down if my shoulder didn’t hurt so much. OK, let’s roll.

Oh, and if you’ve never played: There are three stories below. Two are true and one is not. Pick out the fake. Apparently it’s not that difficult. The topic is weddings. How romantic.

Story #1
A marriage really isn’t off to a good start if both the bride and the groom are arrested at their wedding reception. But that’s exactly what happened to Tracey and John O’Donnell . Despite being warned not to, new groom John fed his new bride the traditional wedding cake in a manner that Tracey later described as “too rough.” Tracey, no slouch herself in the cake-cramming department, immediately returned the favor and soon a nasty fight broke out. It was so nasty, in fact, that both the bride and groom were arrested. They were charged with disturbing the peace.

Story #2
The wedding ceremony was over and the guests had now gathered at the reception. They sat quietly in anticipation, believing that they were about to see a videotaped replay of the ceremony. Imagine their surprise when the image popped on the screen and they realized that instead of watching a romantic exchange of vows they were seeing a naked 59-year-old man in compromising positions with…a dog. Apparently the sick twist, who was named Derek Jeffrey, had lent his video camera to a friend to record the wedding, but had forgotten to erase a tape he had made of himself having sex with the neighbor’s dog, a bull terrier named Ronnie. He later told a jury that he felt disgusted and ashamed. After he had sobered up, that is.

Story #3
Six months before his wedding John Spencer found himself alone with just his future mother-in-law in her upscale home. She was a very attractive woman, and John was shocked when she suggested that the two of them should make love. She tempted him by saying that soon he was going to be married so he might as well have his fun now, and she then walked seductively into the bedroom. Immediately John hurried out the front door and headed for his car, only to see his future father-in-law wearing a big smile on his face. He explained that this had been a test of John’s loyalty and he had passed. The wedding took place as scheduled but sadly the young couple was divorced a short time later. It seems that John had let it slip to his loose-lipped best man that the only reason he had gone out to his car that night was to get a condom.

OK, smart-ass, which one never happened?

My Top Ten Favorite Websites (Part II)

Uh oh. I’m looking at the five remaining websites written on this post-it. Of the millions of web pages on the Internet are these truly my favorites? I suppose they are. Fine. So perhaps I’ve not chosen a particularly noble group with which to represent myself, but deep inside I know the results could have been worse. Much worse. After all, they could have all been porn sites.

5. YouTube.com
Even as recently as a few weeks ago I might not have included YouTube.com on my list. It seems, however, in the last fortnight or so this vast collection of video clips has provided me with more entertainment than any other website. (OK, make that than any porn website.) I have watched the seemingly antique videos of the Beatles performing during various concerts. And I have also watched every clip which features the Dave Clark Five. Now I have a task for you “kiddies” out there, as Ed Sullivan used to say. I know you are familiar with the Beatles and may well be sick to death of hearing about them by now, but do Grandpa Granola a favor and take a look at a few of the Dave Clark Five videos. Sure you can giggle at the hair-dos and funny clothes, but listen to the music and let me know what you think. These guys were once the biggest rivals to the Beatles, until the Stones put an end to all that.

My equally ancient childhood chum Lenny has for years been talking about an old TV show called The Wonderful World of Trains. He can’t seem to find a copy of it anywhere. Even I, who have lived through everything and forget nothing, can only muster up the wispiest of memories of the show. Yet today I found the program right there on YouTube. I e-mailed it to my friend, knowing that I had just made an old man very happy. (Just funnin’, Lenny!) I also found a clip of Sonny Fox and even Claude Kirschner, although I couldn’t find one that included Clownie and just what the hell is this lunatic talking about? No matter—YouTube is great!

4. Drudge Report
I know, I know. It’s no secret that Matt Drudge’s website leans more than a little to the right and he clearly selects stories that reflect this bias. But the truth is…he’s not that bad. Actually when compared to those shameful lackeys over at Fox “News” Drudge comes off looking more like Das Kapital.

Still, because of the way the Drudge Report is set up I know of no quicker way to catch up on all the breaking news (or at least the right-leaning news) than with a quick scan of this popular page. It has become a tremendously influential site, and I suspect was the inspiration behind that big shiny board at Wolfie’s Situation Room at CNN. And on top of it all Drudge is now getting over fifteen million hits a day. That’s over twice as much as I get on this site.

3. Snopes.com
Every day you get e-mails that purport to tell you about some fascinating facts of history or to warn you about the latest criminal scan. Many times these articles sound like bullshit, and in truth they often are. That’s where Snopes comes in. If you want to find out the truth about an Urban Legend, this is your next stop. Will a tooth dissolve if left overnight in a glass of Coca Cola? Does microwaving food in plastic containers release cancer-causing agents? Does hair grow back thicker after it’s been shaved? Does George W. Bush have the lowest IQ of any president of the last half century? You’ll find the answers to these puzzlers and hundreds more at Snopes.com. Oh, and the answers to the above questions are No. No. No. And (surprisingly) No.

2. Wikipedia.com
When I want to learn about a subject Wikipedia.com is my first stop. This online encyclopedia is written and edited by the readers themselves. Sure this leaves the door open to factual errors and you should go in with your eyes open. As Stephen Colbert says about the site, “If you make something up and enough people agree with you it becomes reality.” Still I’ve found it to be a most valuable source for just about any topic I want to learn more about. For example, I just purchased a book by writer H.L. Mencken. I wanted to learn more about him and so searched him out on Wikipedia. I learned that Mencken lived from 1880 to 1956 and is described as a journalist, satirist, social critic, cynic and free-thinker. In other words, my kind of guy. Years ago a friend of mine described his version of Heaven: It’s a place where you can look up anything and find out the truth. Well Wikipedia may fall short of that lofty goal but for now it’s the closest thing we have.

1. Voyeurweb.com
Have I ever once claimed that I should be put on a pedestal and worshipped as the symbol of the moral standard towards which all others should strive? OK, maybe I did once, but at the time I was whacked out of my skull. Taking pictures of naked women at a beach, in a shower or elsewhere and then posting them on the Internet is a despicable violation of a person’s basic human rights and should never be tolerated. OK, now that I’ve got that out of the way let me tell you about Voyeurweb.com.

Pictures taken of unwitting naked women make up only one of the sections at Voyeurweb.com. There are also other categories to peruse featuring posing women who know damn well that they are being photographed. The various sections include Private Shots, Exhibitionist Photos and Freestyle Photos. And second best of all, new pictures are added every day. And best of all, it’s free! Check it out, ladies. Maybe I’ll see you there.

Honorable Mention:
Salon.com
TheHun.com
HowardStern.com
Tickle.com
ICasualties.org
CraigsList.com
IMDB.com

My Top Ten Favorite Websites (Part I)

We sure do enjoy our Top Ten lists, don’t we? I wonder why that is. I suspect it’s because we like to receive and digest our information in small bite-sized morsels. Keep it simple and keep it short and we’ll all get along just fine.

And not only do we like Top Ten lists, but we enjoy them even more when the items are ranked in some sort of order. How annoying is it to find a Top Ten list and then see the words “In No Particular Order” underneath the title? No particular order? Well you damn well better put them in order, you spineless weasel.

I have in front of me a post-it on which I’ve written my favorite websites. In no particular order. But worry not, for I am a real man and as such I shall put them in order. And I will, of course, be using the famous Letterman style: I’ll start with my tenth favorite and then work my way up to my most favorite website of all and won’t that be exciting?

And at this point there are two things which I can honestly say: One, I have no idea which of the sites will come out on top and two, I’ve suddenly decided that I will create this list over two nights. I mean, I’m already closing in on 300 words and I haven’t yet named even a single website. What a windbag.

Oh, and I’m not going to name any websites created by my goofy friends and relatives, so that should eliminate me having to listen to any griping or whining come Thursday morning. I hope.

10. Practical-Pet-Care.com
Any of you who are parents are sure to understand that raising a young energetic turtle is no day at the beach. That’s why you can often find me seeking advice from the experts at Practical-Pet-Care.com. Sure, I’ve had one expert tell me that eggshells are one of the best things for Ellsworth to eat while another one told me to never give eggshells to a turtle. Still, for the most part I receive valuable information, and so I’m willing to make allowances. After all, I understand that most of these “experts” are pimply-faced teenaged boys creating turtle farms in their basements when they should be out smoking dope or looking for girls.

9. Zillow.com
Whether you are a conscientious homeowner who wants to evaluate its current value or you are a nosy bastard who wants to see a satellite photo of your friends’ house (and hopefully of your friends, those perverts) Zillow.com is just for you. True, the estimated value of homes is seldom dead-on, but then again that’s pretty much the definition of an estimate, isn’t it? You can also see a satellite photo of your house, a technology which somehow manages to be both frightening and cool at the same time. Hey, check out the aerial view of my house and you might even see me floating naked in the hot tub. But don’t judge too harshly—everything looks much smaller from space.

8. Amazon.com
Despite what you might think, Amazon.com has not become one of my favorite websites just because I can find copies of my books on there. (And so, by the way, can you.) I’m not that superficial. OK, yes I am, but I have other reasons for visiting Amazon as well. Was it really that long ago that if we wanted to read a book we had to trudge to a bookstore and buy it new or (shudder) visit a library only to be told they don’t have it? With Amazon’s very convenient and very dangerous One Click feature I can find a book I want, often at a “used” price, and with a click of the mouse the book is on its way to me. The only thing that could ever be easier would be if I clicked and the book instantly appeared in my hands. And that’s coming, my friend, that’s coming.

7. AntiWar.com/RawStory.com
Since the very beginning of this cruel disaster AntiWar.com and RawStory.com have been there, providing comfort to the outraged with their daily collection of gathered anti-war columns and articles. Biased? Of course they are, but for our side, so it’s OK. Many of the pieces actually do come from the mainstream media, but are obviously hand-picked for their anti-war message. Trust me, there are no pictures of Bush patting Barney on the head at these sites. AntiWar.com and RawStory.com have gotten me through many a dark day, and I’ll always be grateful.

6. RateMyBoobies.com
No, I’m not particularly proud that RateMyBoobies.com ranks higher on my list than the serious and important anti-war sites, but hey, you have to at least marvel at the, uh, technology. At RateMyBoobies you are presented with a photo of a woman’s breasts, sent in by a loyal RMB fan, and your job is to rate them on a scale of one to ten. Demeaning? Probably. Sexist? No doubt. Fun? You betcha! And once you give your grade a new picture pops up on the screen and the process begins again. I find it a pleasant way to spend a few minutes, and frankly the folks at RateMyBoobies.com should be quite proud: they're the only ones who ever motivated me enough to cast a vote.

TOMORROW: MY TOP FIVE FAVORITE WEBSITES!

Me and My Mustache

I’ll be the first admit that a mustache is a silly thing. Imagine, going through the trouble of shaving your entire face but leaving a little caterpillar of hair to crawl across your upper lip. What’s the point?

It still amazes me that I have had my mustache continuously for, well to be honest I don’t know exactly how long. I do know that I had it when I arrived in California in 1975, and I’m almost certain that I have not shaved it off since. No, I wouldn’t bet my life on it, but I’d certainly bet yours. Gosh, that’s a long time to have a mustache. Now I know how Lou Gehrig must have felt--I feel like the iron man of facial hair.

Imagine that--your humble and AARP-eligible narrator has had a mustache that he first grew when he was in his early twenties. Isn’t that amazing? Or if not exactly amazing, it’s certainly ridiculous. Is it really possible that I have not seen my very own upper lip in over three decades? I mean, there are other parts of my body I haven’t seen, but to do so I’d have to get a hand-mirror and…well, let’s end that train of thought right here, agreed?

The other day Mr. Zero was looking at a picture of me and a couple of my friends and commented, and not in a particularly positive way, that we all had mustaches. “Why do you and all your friends look like you’re still living in the seventies?” The truth is that I doubt that any of us wears a mustache because we think it’s stylish or hip. Unlike the trendy Mr. Zero we don’t care about that sort of thing, and if you don’t believe me come by sometime and take a look in my clothes closet. It looks like The Neil Young Collection.

I should point out that for a good part of my mustache-wearing years it was accompanied by a full beard. You see, it wasn’t the mustache that I liked so much, it was the mustache and beard. In fact I almost always wore a beard—right up until the day I walked into a house at Christmas-time and one of Spike’s relatives shouted out, “Santa Claus!” It turns out I like having a brown beard quite a bit; a gray beard, no so much.

Remember the time I smuggled back a bottle of absinthe from France so I could drink it and share the effects with you? Or the time I ate Brussels sprouts for the first time since I was a kid right here at the keyboard? Well it’s another one of those nights. Yes tonight, for the first time in over thirty years, I am going to shave my mustache. And I’m going to share it all with you, you lucky devils.

But unlike the absinthe and the Brussel sprouts, I really don’t want to do this. I’ve been planning on writing this story for a while now, but I keep putting it off. I have twenty post-its in front of me crammed with delightful column ideas that are ready to go, so why tonight? Frankly I have no idea, except for the fact that I’d just as soon get it over with combined with a deep-seated (no, it’s not “seeded”) belief that no man should continuously have a mustache for thirty-plus years.

Many years ago, back when I actually did occasionally shave my mustache, I recall claiming that there is less of a dramatic change when a man (or woman—I don’t want to be accused of anything here) shaves his beard and leaves his mustache than when a beardless man shaves his mustache. I’m not sure whether or not this is true, but I’m now about to find out. Ladies and Gentlemen, as well as the large majority of you, the next words you read will be typed by a man with a cleanly shaved upper lip. Talk quietly among yourselves--I’ll be right back.

You know we’re not just randomly stumbling through life here. There are reasons why we do things. There is a reason why I kept my mustache for over thirty years. If I didn’t like how I looked without it when I was 21 whatever made me think that the situation would be improved now that I’m 54? What am I supposed to do now, walk around in public like this, with my bare face hanging out? Frankly, and I’m at a loss to explain exactly why, my naked lip looks…obscene.

That’s it. Don’t be surprised if you don’t hear from me for awhile. For the next two weeks I won’t be writing. I also won’t be driving, eating or watching TV. (Well, maybe I’ll eat a little.) No, I’m going to be focusing every minute and every ounce of energy I can muster towards the completion of one monumental task: I’m going to grow back my mustache. Or I’m going to die trying.

You Know You're Out of It When...

The big doings this weekend, of course, were the various Live Earth concerts staged around the world. The concerts were televised on two channels, at least at my house, and I periodically clicked over to one or the other to see who was performing. There was a great diversity among the musical styles of the various artists; in a short period of time I saw a rapper, a rock group and even an opera singer. And though each was creating music that was unique and quite different from the other performers I soon noticed that all the artists had one thing in common: I had no idea who the hell they were.

Was it really that long ago that George Harrison organized that famous concert to bring attention to the plight of the people of Bangladesh? Yes it was, and yet I can still recall the performers who took the stage that day. I remember Harrison, Bob Dylan, Ravi Shankar, Eric Clapton, Ringo Starr, Leon Russell, Badfinger—and that’s just off the top of my head. I knew them and I knew their music. And why not, it was my music too.

Years later when the Live Aid and Farm Aid benefits took place I still knew a lot of the performers, but I was beginning to notice that there was a crop of young ‘uns sneaking in, and I didn’t know their names. Or if I did, more often than not I didn’t know their music. But that was OK. I was willing to sit through some young punks doing a cover of a Beatles song because I knew that after it was over Neil Young would be out, and then we’d have some fun, let me tell you.

I have found a list of artists who performed at the various venues for this weekend’s Live Earth concerts. After a little thought (damn little, in fact) I discovered that they can be divided into three categories: those I’ve heard of and can name at least one of their songs, those I’ve heard of but can’t name one of their songs and those I’ve never heard of.

I’ve just done a quick count and found there are a total of 108 artists who performed during at least one of the eight concert venues. And if there were more (or less) concerts held or more or less artists performing please do me a favor and keep it to yourself. I only know what I read on the Internet. OK, let’s see how the performers break down.

ARTISTS I’VE HEARD OF AND CAN NAME ONE OF THEIR SONGS:

I clicked around enough and finally got what I was looking for. I got to see part of The Police set. I was a bit of a fan of The Police when they first came out in the late 1970’s. Actually I was proud of myself at the time because this was the first “new” group that I paid attention to. Before then it was all about hanging onto the relics of the ‘60’s. The sad part is I still think of The Police as a new group. And of course I’m still hanging onto the relics of the ‘60’s.

This part is shameful. The list of performers that I know well enough to actually name one of their songs is so short I’ll list them right now: The Police, Roger Waters, Duran Duran and Madonna. That’s it, four out of 108. Actually I had originally given myself credit for Melissa Etheridge because I knew one line from a song that I thought was something like Look Through My Window, but then I got online and found the correct title. So that’s makes 4/108, or 3.7% for this category. God, I’m pathetic.

ARTISTS I’VE HEARD OF BUT CAN’T NAME ONE OF THEIR SONGS:

It’s hard to believe that the results in this category are even more humiliating. I mean, who can’t name a single song by Genesis or Bon Jovi or even Kelly Clarkson for godsake? Well, I can’t. Oh I could name some songs by Phil Collins or even one or two by Peter Gabriel if I’m pressed but Genesis? Nope, sorry. (But aren’t you impressed that I knew that Collins and Gabriel were in Genesis? Not really, huh?)

Oh, I know a lot of the names, and I know I’ve heard the music of Linkin Park, UB40 and Crowded House. I just don’t seem to be able to name that tune. Hell, I can’t even hum a few bars. OK, of the 108 artists who performed at Live Earth there are 34 whose names I recognize but can’t name any of their songs. And two of these probably shouldn’t even count. Jack Johnson is a name I first head just a few hours ago when he was mentioned by Jimmy Buffett in the current issue of Time. And Toni Collette I know as a brilliant actress. She sings too? How about that? The totals for this category are 34/108 or 31.2% percent. How the hell can I not know a single song by Metallica?

ARTISTS I’VE NEVER HEARD OF:

Bloc Party, O Rappa, Xuxa, Jota Quest, Razor Light, Snow Patrol…who or what are these? I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard any of them playing over the PA system at the AARP meetings. Seriously, you have to cut me a little slack in this category. After all, some of the concerts, such as in China and Australia, featured a line-up that was heavy in local talent. Sure go ahead and tell me you’re a big fan of Huang Xiao Ming, Winnie Hsin, Eason Chan and Evonne Hsu. You’re such a liar.

Still simple mathematics shows that this was the largest category. Add it up, Junior. That 70/108 tells you that I did not know a single song nor had ever even heard of 65% of the Live Earth performers. Holy cow! Put me in the rocker with a shawl over my legs. Hey listen, Chum, laugh all you want. It’s not my fault if The Dave Clark Five didn’t show up!

July 6, 1957

On July 6, 1957 I was four and a half years old. I don’t remember the day, of course. Perhaps some cultures celebrate half birthdays; perhaps even some families in our culture do. Mine didn’t. In fact I don’t particularly remember any day from the year I was four years old, though I’m told it’s quite possible that I could. The point is that I don’t readily recall the day I turned four and a half, and I was most certainly unaware that it was day so historic that it would have a profound effect on me for most of my life.

On that same day thirty-three hundred miles away, while I was celebrating my obviously unmemorable half-birthday, a band named The Quarrymen was performing at the Woolton Parish Church. The band’s leader, a brash 16-year-old named John Lennon, spotted a friend of his named Ian James. James has brought to the fete a friend of his own, another budding musician, specifically to hear Lennon’s band. The friend listened to the Quarrymen perform, and was then introduced to Lennon. The friend, of course, was the fifteen-year-old Paul McCartney.

Lennon was immediately impressed that McCartney could so easily tune a guitar, knew the lyrics to many of the rock ‘n’ roll songs of the day and could show Lennon some new chords. As McCartney later said of the historic meeting, “I showed him a few more chords he didn`t know. Ian James had taught me them, really. Then I left. I felt I`d made a good impression, shown them how good I was." Because of that meeting Lennon asked McCartney to join the band.

We didn’t have a cake or presents or anything on that day. It was, after all, just my four and a half year birthday. And there was no way I could know that on that same day across the Atlantic a simple meeting between two rough-and-tumble teenagers in Liverpool would have such an effect on my life.

It was less then seven years after that meeting took place, after that obscure half-birthday, that the Beatles exploded onto the world stage, and onto my consciousness forever with the happiest sound I would ever hear. And yes, there are a thousand zigs and zags that might have occurred on July 6, 1957 and prevented the meeting from ever happening. But it did happen.

And it was fifty years ago today.

The Fountaintail

If you’re currently struggling to do something out of the ordinary with your life, and are constantly being ridiculed by critics or even “advised” by well-meaning friends may I suggest that you take a couple of hours out of your day and watch the 1949 film The Fountainhead?

I’ve never paid much attention to actor Gary Cooper. The main reason for this is by the time I was becoming aware of individual movie actors he was already dead. There’s a prejudice that the young and living sometimes exhibit towards the old and dead, and I’m afraid this is a crime of which I was guilty. Luckily we live in a time when we can do our penance by renting wonderful old movies and appreciating the message they continue to send us from over half a century ago.

The Fountainhead is, of course, based on the book by Ayn Rand. She also wrote the screenplay. In a nutshell, Cooper plays an uncompromising architect who passes up opportunity after opportunity to achieve fame and financial success because he wouldn’t be able to accomplish it on his own terms. At one point he has only $14 left to his name but turns down a commission that would have made him famous and wealthy because the clients want to make changes to his design. He also turns down a handout from a friend.

Without a doubt some of the film comes off as preachy and over-the-top, but we’re dealing with major principles of life here. But if you’re in need of a dose of someone who sticks to what he believes and the hell with what everybody else thinks then The Fountainhead might be just what the doctor ordered.

As the movie ended I found myself inspired by the message. Spike, too, enjoyed the movie, although I don’t think she related quite as much. I ejected the disk from the DVD player and we switched back to watching television. Suddenly a commercial that I had written and produced came on the screen. I must admit, it looked pretty good.

“Do you know what I would have done if the client had refused to pay me unless I made some changes?” I asked Spike.

“You would have made the changes,” she said.

She was right, of course. After all, standing up for principles is all well and good, but a boy also has to eat, you know.

A Striking No-Hitter Quiz

It’s July, the weather is beautiful and my Oakland Athletics are right in the heart of the an amazingly mediocre season. You know, maybe it’s time for me to switch allegiances to the Giants. Hold on, let me check the standings. OK, never mind.

Let’s put the unremarkable play of our local heroes aside for a moment but stay with the subject of baseball again tonight. Howsa ‘bout if we have a little fun by testing your knowledge of the no-hitter? Batter up!

1. On average about how many no-hitters are thrown during a season?
a. 1
b. 2
c. 3
d. 4

2. What was noteworthy about the no-hitters thrown by Dave Stewart and Fernando Valenzuela?
a. Both were thrown on the same day.
b. Both pitchers were over 40 years old.
c. Both pitchers hit home runs in the game.
d. Both pitchers lost the game.

3. How many no-hitters have been thrown in Major League history?
a. 34
b. 128
c. 234
d. over 500

4. How many pitchers have thrown more than one no-hitter?
a. none
b. 5
c. 15
d. 25

5. What makes Johnny Vander Meer unique in baseball history?
a. He threw a 14 inning no-hitter.
b. He threw back-to-back no-hitters.
c. He pitched two no-hitters and lost them both.
d. He threw a no-hitter as a teenager.

6. How many perfect games have been thrown in Major League history?
a. 6
b. 17
c. 44
d. Over 100

7. Nolan Ryan pitched seven no-hitters. Who has the next most with four?
a. Steve Carlton
b. Tom Seaver
c. Cy Young
d. Sandy Koufax

8. What makes Don Larsen unique in baseball history?
a. He threw the only World Series no-hitter.
b. He threw the only World Series perfect game.
c. He threw the only post-season no-hitter.
d. All of the above.

9. What was unique about Bob Feller’s 1940 no-hitter?
a. It was the last game Feller ever started.
b. It was on opening day.
c. He didn’t strike anybody out.
d. He went five-for-five at the plate.

10. What was unique about Bobo Holloman’s 1953 no-hitter?
a. It was his first major league start.
b. It was one of only three career wins he would have.
c. A few months after pitching it he was out of major league baseball forever.
d. All of the above.

ANSWERS:

1. On average about 2 no-hitters are thrown each season. What’s so rare about that, you whine? Well, about 160,000 babies are born each day and we still refer to the little bastards as "miracles," right?
2. Both of these no-hitters were pitched on the same day, that day being June 29th, 1990. Two no-hitters were also thrown on the same day way back in 1898.
3. There have been 234 official no-hitters thrown in Major League history. And don’t make me remind you about all those damn babies again.
4. 25 pitchers have thrown more than one no-hitter.
5. One of them was Johnny “Double No-Hit” Vander Meer, who threw his no-hitters back-to-back. This question is a gimme for any true baseball fan, and if you got it wrong my friend Greg would tell you to “Go put on a skirt!”
6. There have been 17 perfect games thrown in Major League history. Did I ever tell you about the time I almost saw Tom Seaver throw one? He lost it in the ninth because somebody named Jimmy Qualls got a hit. I’ll never forget that punk’s name. Never.
7. Sandy Koufax pitched four no-hitters in his abbreviated career. Ryan pitched for 27 seasons and also threw 12 one-hitters.
8. Don Larsen threw the only no-hitter in a World Series. It was also a perfect game and the only post-season no-hitter. Yeah, Chump, that makes it All of the Above. And every real baseball fan knows this one too. Better pick out a blouse to go with that skirt, eh Greg?
9. Feller’s no-hitter was pitched on Opening Day. You guessed (d) didn’t you? God, I’m so tricky.
10. If you have been reading my column as religiously as you should you would know that Bobo Holloman pitched a no-hitter in his first start, only got two more wins, and was out of the majors before the season ended. That’s if you have been reading my column religiously.

There's No Ten-Run-Rule In Baseball!

Saturday morning I showed up for swimming as usual only to discover that the pool was closed for repairs. Physically unmotivated as I am, I naturally greeted the news with mixed emotions, but in order to alleviate my guilt I decided to hit the nearby trail. I figured that a 1/20 mile hike would give me the much-needed exercise I would otherwise have missed.

From the trail I was able to look over a part of the high school grounds to see a baseball field that I had never known existed. And it wasn’t just any field—it was beautiful. The grass was a lush green, the outfield was bordered by a perfectly uniform wall and high over left field stood a professional looking scoreboard, and an electronic one at that.

And there was a game going on!

Well I had to see this. So I hustled down to the field, thereby increasing the length of my hike to 1/14 of a mile, and checked out the game, which was between two high school teams. I watched a couple of pitches and then glanced up at that marvelous scoreboard.

Well, the scoreboard may have been marvelous, but the score certainly left something to be desired. It was the top of the eighth and, unless there was some electronic glitch, it seemed that our local team was taking a drubbing, losing by the score of 13-1. The enemies from Palo Alto continued to bat, or more accurately walk and get hit by pitches, until our hapless home team was finally and mercifully able to get that elusive third out. The scoreboard now read 17-1.

“Don’t they have a ten run rule?” asked a lady of a man standing nearby.
“Yes, but the home team has to get its last at bat.”

Ten run rule? What kind of crazed nonsense is this? Oh, I understand (I don’t really) the need for the ten run rule when there are third-graders on the field. After all we don’t want these children to be so thoroughly trounced as to scar their impressionable little psyches for the rest of their lives. I mean, one 48-2 loss and they might grow up to become alcoholic coke-heads, tragically incompetent presidents or, heaven forbid, both. We must, after all, protect the little darlings.

But these guys on the field were no little darlings. They were seventeen and eighteen years old. Guys younger than them have played in the majors, for chrissake. The bottom line is that by the time you are playing for your high school baseball team you should be playing baseball and not some sissified watered down version of it. If you’re losing 17-1 after eight innings do you know what you do next? You play the goddam ninth inning! And if you give up another 10 runs and lose 27-1, well that would be the final score, wouldn’t it?

It was August 5th, 2001 and the Cleveland Indians were in deep trouble. Things had not gone well and after only two innings the Tribe found themselves down 12-0. The scoring pace evened out after that, but now it was the bottom of the seventh, the score was 14-2, time was running out and the Indians were facing one of the toughest bullpens in baseball.

The Indians scored three runs in the seventh inning, four runs in the eighth and then, despite being down to their final strike three times, tied the game with five runs in the bottom of the ninth. They won the game on a run-scoring single in the bottom of the eleventh, capping off one of the most exciting comebacks in the history of the game.

And that, folks, is why there is no ten run rule in baseball.