No Good Deed...

I was reading about a professional interrogator who said that often under questioning a guilty party will lower his head and perhaps even cry, while an innocent person will maintain his sense of outrage almost indefinitely. There’s no doubt that the falsely accused will, in general, behave a certain way. If I believe that O.J. is guilty it’s not because of some half-bullshit case trumped up by the LAPD, but rather due to the man’s behavior in the days following the infamous murders.

If you’ve ever been wrongly accused of something you know that it’s not pleasant, although I venture to say that it’s not quite as bad as being rightly accused! Still, the times when this has happened to me have festered in my mind, often creating resentment years after the fact and, oddly, creating guilt as well.

I was standing on a busy San Francisco corner talking with some co-workers when I was approached by a young woman looking for a handout. The girl was not unattractive, more of the scruffy hippie homeless type rather than the true down-and-outer. As I gave her the money I must have said something pompous, along the lines of “Maybe someday you can help somebody.” In truth I was trying to emulate a guy who had years earlier said much the same thing to me after he had pulled over and fixed my stalled car. It was my own version of “Pay it Forward.”

You should also know that this was about twenty years ago, shortly after I had begun to explore Zen and Buddhism. What’s the expression? “God save me from a reformed anything.” Well I was glowing in my newly-learned precepts of Buddhism and I wanted to share with the beggar. My co-workers, stockbrokers all and therefore soulless, scoffed at me. And so I felt compelled to pontificate to them even more.

“You can always do things to help someone,” I preached. “There’s always something you can do, even if you don’t have money.”

Suddenly I heard a woman whisper in my ear: “Like I’d ever suck your cock, you pig.”

No! That wasn’t what I had meant! I was talking about helping and goodness and kindness and doing unto others. And this woman that I had given money to had heard me, misinterpreted what she had heard, made her crude comment and quickly disappeared into the crowd. (Without returning the pig’s money, I might add.)

I looked for her among the bustling throng but she was obviously a professional at melting unseen into a mob. I had really wanted to find her; I had really wanted to explain what I had said and what it meant. But she was gone forever and I never got the chance.

Know Your Sinclairs!: A Quiz

Hey, remember a while back when I wrote that quiz about the differences between Florence Nightingale and Clara Barton? Of course you don’t. You wouldn’t remember it even if you had read it. Which you didn’t. Well I was reading You Can’t Go Home Again last night and saw that when giving examples of American writers Wolfe mentioned Sinclair Lewis and Upton Sinclair in the same sentence. And while I’m literate enough to know that they were not the same person I found myself stumped when trying to come up with examples of each individual’s work. OK, maybe I wasn’t stumped at all but decided to create this quiz to help educate you. Yeah, that sounds a lot better. Let’s go with that.

1. Which one wrote novels?
a. Upton Sinclair
b. Sinclair Lewis
c. both
d. neither

2. Which one was born in the last quarter of the 19th Century?
a. Upton Sinclair
b. Sinclair Lewis
c. both
d. neither

3. Which one wrote the novel on which the movie No Country for Old Men is based?
a. Upton Sinclair
b. Sinclair Lewis
c. neither

4. Which one wrote The Jungle?
a. Upton Sinclair
b. Sinclair Lewis
c. Lewis Carroll
d. Lennox Lewis

5. Which one wrote over 90 books?
a. Upton Sinclair
b. Sinclair Lewis
c. both
d. neither

6. Which one lived on the socialist commune called Helicon Hall Colony?
a. Upton Sinclair
b. Sinclair Lewis
c. both
d. neither

7. Which one won the Nobel Prize for literature?
a. Upton Sinclair
b. Sinclair Lewis
c. both
d. neither

8. Which one wrote Elmer Gantry?
a. Upton Sinclair
b. Sinclair Lewis
c. both
d. neither


Get any right? Let’s see…


ANSWERS

1. Both.
2. Both. Sinclair Lewis was born in 1885 and Upton Sinclair in 1878. You should have gotten this one right just based on how convoluted the question was.
3. Neither. You’re thinking of There Will Be Blood, which was based on the 1927 novel Oil! by Upton Sinclair. Sucker.
4. Upton Sinclair. My fifth grade teacher told us that Teddy Roosevelt never ate sausages again after reading it. Sinclair said the public missed the whole point of the book.
5. Upton Sinclair. My third book should be out shortly. And I’m exhausted.
6. Both! Can you believe it? Upton created the commune and Lewis worked there for a while as the janitor!
7. In 1930 Sinclair Lewis became the first American to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. One of his most famous quotes is, “I love America, but I don’t like it.”
8. Sinclair Lewis. It was made into a movie starring Burt Lancaster in 1960. Burt got an Oscar.

2007: Year of the Movie

As some of you may know, in addition to writing a blog that nobody reads I also co-host a movie review TV show that nobody watches. In a couple of weeks I’ll have to present my annual awards list, which includes my choice for the best movie of 2007. And frankly I’m stumped.

And the reason I’ve hit a bit of an impasse is not because no picture is worthy of my prestigious award, but rather because quite a few are. You see, thanks to skyrocketing oil prices, George Bush, the Iraq War, the mortgage meltdown, George Bush, the collapsing stock market, the specter of recession and George Bush 2007 was by any measure a pretty foul year. But, perhaps paradoxically and perhaps not, it turned out to be a great year to hide in the dark with a box of Goobers and watch a movie.

But picking a best one is a lot more difficult this year and, in case you missed them, here are some of the reasons why:


EASTERN PROMISES

Viggo Mortensen didn’t earn his Oscar nomination because of that brutal and nude fight scene in a men’s restroom. Or maybe he did. What the hell do I know? Well, I know that Eastern Promises was an exciting and well-written gangster film that occasionally reminded me of The Godfather. And what’s better than that?

THE LIVES OF OTHERS

There’s a damn good reason why The Lives of Others won’t win an Academy Award this year: the German film already won one for Best Foreign Language Film in 2006. Still, it apparently didn’t go into wider release until after winning the award, so it’s on my list for one of the best movies I saw in 2007. Why not make it one of the best movies you’ll see in 2008?

BEFORE THE DEVIL KNOWS YOU’RE DEAD

Phillip Seymour Hoffman was nominated for two Golden Globes for his performances in two different 2007 films. Neither of them was Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead, though that would have been equally deserved. (See, not everybody had as bad a year as our president.) This is a dark and gripping story about a pair of loser brothers who concoct a plan to rob their parents’ jewelry store. What could possibly go wrong?

MICHAEL CLAYTON

George Clooney makes some really intelligent movies. And although he’s been rewarded with an Oscar nomination for his performance it’s the script that is the star of this one. As you watch Michael Clayton it keeps getting better and better until the thrilling climatic scene: a conversation in a hallway between two people? Yup, no guns, no explosions—just dialogue that nearly throws off sparks.

THE KITE RUNNER

If they take a book you love and make it into a movie you’re usually going to be very disappointed. Usually, but not always. The Kite Runner manages to be everything the book is and, perhaps more importantly, avoid being what the book isn’t. The movie works as both an adventure and a character study. It’s warm and insightful, but never preachy. Unfortunately, unlike the hugely popular book, the movie seems to have been a bit overlooked. Fear not—that’s why God invented DVD’s!

THERE WILL BE BLOOD

I was already thoroughly and hopelessly confused about the best picture for 2007 when I went to see There Will Be Blood. To be honest I didn’t want to like it, and the reason was because I already had a groaning board of great movies from which to choose. I just wanted to push myself away from the cinematic table with a “No more for me, thanks. I’m stuffed.” Daniel Day Lewis and this movie had other ideas, and so kicked down my defensive wall like it made of Saran Wrap. I sat watching There Will Be Blood for over two and a half hours and when I felt it coming to a close I was upset: I wanted more. Is there any higher praise than that?

BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE!

No, I won’t be picking any of these next movies for best of the year honors but that doesn’t mean they weren’t wonderful and entertaining pictures, and might even have won my best picture honors in a less cornucopic year. Hopefully they won’t get lost in the crowd. So after you’ve seen all the flicks above, don’t miss: Juno, Reign Over Me, Sicko, Knocked Up and La Vie En Rose.

There. These should keep you busy and out of trouble for a while.

Mount Trashmore

A few years ago I was wandering around Realtor.com and becoming enamored of the seemingly bargain prices for homes in Florida. In fact today you can still get a three-thousand square foot home right on the beach for about $12,000. OK, that last part isn’t true, but the prices did seem remarkable, especially when compared to our own merciless California market.

Now you know and I know that I wouldn’t do well in Florida’s oppressive heat. I suspect that I’d last about two, maybe three, days before I hopped the next direct flight to Greenland, never to be heard from again. I often have this fantasy about God coming on Judgment Day and yelling, “What the hell are you doing? I never intended for people to live there!”

At about the same time I was checking out the Florida real estate I had asked two friends who had come from Florida to send me, just for fun, their top ten reasons for not moving there. I wish I had saved what they wrote, because both lists were very funny and I could have easily published them here on these pages and passed them off as my own.

I do, however, recall one of the reasons given for not moving to Florida. “You don’t want to live in a state where the highest point is a garbage dump.” This is hilarious if true, and while I’ve been able to locate several people on the Internet who repeat this claim I find no name for the particular dump or any hard evidence that the claim is valid.

The official high point in Florida is some place called Britton Hill. It towers 345 feet above sea level, and is surely destined to become Britton Island after Al Gore gets his way and Florida disappears beneath the Atlantic. The second highest point in Florida is Oak Hill at 331 feet, followed closely by High Hill.

Perhaps the most interesting thing about the list of the eleven highest points in Florida is that five of them are man-made. In fact, we can even name the man. You see, all five happen to be rides at Disney World. Funny, sure, but not nearly so much as that trash heap story. I guess I’ve got some more research to do.

On The Beach

In the film Broadcast News a man tells Holly Hunter, “It must be nice to always believe you know better, to always think you’re the smartest person in the room” to which Hunter replies, “No, it’s awful.” Frankly, I never thought it was all that bad.

So Spike is standing by the open door yelling “Fuzznutz, Fuzznuts!” into the relentless rain to try to get that dopey cat to come in. “Jesus Christ,” I yell. “he’s got a brain the size of a cashew. Just leave the door open and leave him alone and he’ll come in when he gets wet enough!” Less than five minutes later Spike walked into the back bedroom to find the soggy feline drying out on a rug. I just seem to know these things.

Which reminds me, here is your chance to take advantage of my remarkable skills. And for free even. Within the next few days go out and find yourself some starry-eyed idealist who thinks that thanks to South Carolina Obama has the nom all sewn up. And then bet big on Hillary. The gullible chump will be counting bills into the palm of your outstretched hand before he knows what hit him. And don’t forget where you heard it first.

Oh yeah, On the Beach. When this album came out over thirty years ago there wasn’t much positive noise about it; not from the critics and not from the fans. Rolling Stone called it “the most despairing album of the decade.” But I liked it, and would tell that to anybody who would listen to me which was, much like today, not very many people. So now I read that the record has achieved some sort of cult classic status. Who knew? Well, I did, for one.

Since I don’t own anything by Perry Como I suppose that On the Beach is my second mellowest album, the first being The Trinity Session, by the Cowboy Junkies. (Not only is it more mellow than On the Beach, but it may well be an even better album.) And is it possible that I have gotten this far and neglected to mention that On the Beach is by my old pal Neil Young? Man, I might be getting just a little too mellow my own self.

We listened to On the Beach on a long drive yesterday. “Better turn that off,” quipped Spike, “or I’ll fall asleep and drive into a ditch.” In fact it’s not the entire album that is mellow but mostly what we used to call the second side, back in the days when albums had sides. On the CD it would be the last three songs. They’re hypnotic.

I was driving through the heavily wooded Woodside area today, not too far in fact from Mr. Young’s home. The winter rains had indeed come pouring down, as Mr. Young explained on his Journey Through the Past, and I am nodding to the flip side of On the Beach with no company except for a steaming cup of decaf. Yes, life does occasionally get better than this, but it also gets much, much worse.

Recent research tells me that the somnambulant tone of On the Beach may be due to, at least in part, Young and the other musician’s consumption of “honey slides” throughout the recording sessions. Honey slides, I’m told, are a goopy mixture of sautéed marijuana and honey with an effect, according to Young’s manager, “much worse than heroin.”

Ah but where would On the Beach have been without those synapse-gumming honey slides? It might have ended up as something akin to The Best of Tony Orlando and Dawn rather than the head hanging, eyelid drooping classic it is today. I was thinking that perhaps I too should whip up a batch of this magical formula and see what wisdom comes dripping from my keyboard, but alas I seem to be out of one of the key ingredients. No honey.

Good times are coming, I hear it everywhere I go,
Good times are coming, but they’re sure coming slow.

Vampire Blues
Neil Young
On the Beach
1974

My Wedding: A Quiz

Remember in math class when they talked about sets? (I said “sets” not “sex,” you sickie. Man, you really only hear what you want to hear, don’t you?) For example, if Set A contains only tall people and Set B contains only women then the part where they intersect will contain tall women. Or if Set A contains all the presidents and Set B contains slow-witted alcoholics from Texas then the part where they intersect would contain…well, you get the idea.

So now imagine a set that is made up of all the people who regularly read this column and a second set of all the people who attended my wedding. The part where they intersect would contain, well, Mom and Dad. But I’m not going to let that stop me from doing a quiz about a topic that almost nobody on Earth could possibly be interested in. After all, that’s never stopped me before. (We know, we know.) And so may I present for your enjoyment (if you happen to be my parents) My Wedding: A Quiz!


1. In what year did I get married?
a. 1988
b. 1990
c. 1999
d. 2000

2. How many people attended my wedding?
a. 35
b. 52
c. 90
d. 150

3. How much did my wedding and reception cost?
a. $5,000
b. $10,000
c. $15,000
d. $20,000

4. How many bottles of wine were consumed at my wedding?
a. 10
b. 25
c. 48
d. none

5. How old was I at the time of my wedding?
a. 35
b. 42
c. 46
d. 49

6. What were released at my wedding?
a. doves
b. butterflies
c. kittens
d. inhibitions

7. Spike walked down the aisle to the music of what instrument?
a. harp
b. violin
c. piano
d. comb and wax paper

8. Where did my wedding take place?
a. San Francisco
b. Half Moon Bay
c. Sea Ranch
d. Monterey

9. Where did we go on our honeymoon?
a. Greece
b. Fiji
c. Australia
d. Hayward

10. What was served at the reception?
a. Roast beef
b. Chicken Marsala
c. Penne primavera
d. I don’t remember and the menu is buried somewhere in the garage.

ANSWERS:

1. 1999. I had tried to pull a George Costanza and push it back to 2000 to make all future math easier, but Spike wouldn’t hear of it.
2. 35 people attended the wedding, several of who actually remained sober.
3. $5,000. It wasn’t that long ago, and yet try to plan a wedding today with five grand. You want fries with that?
4. 25. Of the 35 people there I would estimate that maybe 25-30 were drinking. That means we had to spring for almost a full bottle of wine per drinker. Of course take Mr. Zero out of the equation and those numbers plummet.
5. I was married at the tender age of 46. Just a child, really.
6. BUTTERFLIES. They had spent the night in a refrigerator, as per the instructions, and so didn’t greet us with a great deal of enthusiasm. (ie. They mostly clunked to the ground upon release.)
7. HARP. You’d be amazed how great Purple Haze sounds on a harp.
8. MONTEREY. Well, strictly speaking in Pacific Grove.
9. AUSTRALIA. You might say I went down down-under. (That has several interpretations. Please choose the one with which you are most comfortable.)
10. I really don’t remember. I think we started off with some kind of carrot and ginger soup. Yummy. I’ll have to dig out the file someday. It’s the one on which I affixed a picture of a guy walking down the aisle with a noose drawn in around his neck. I’m such a card.

So how did you do? Don’t feel bad—Spike just took the test and got 8 out of 10. You know, I could have sworn she was there.

No Country For Old Bits and Pieces

I’ve been saving these receipts just for tonight. About a month ago I was forced to finally buy a new pair of sweat pants after our experiment to let Mickey the cat spend one night in our bedroom ended with what seemed like ten pounds of odiferous cat poop on my sweats. Luckily I was not wearing them at the time and both the pants and Mickey ended up being thrown into the backyard. I bought the new pants at Sears and they cost $16.23. They were the only item I bought and yet I was handed back a total of five receipts. Now that I look at them I see that three are actually coupons for discounts on kid’s clothing and men’s cold weather accessories, whatever they are. There is also something called a “future purchase coupon” and of course the actual receipt for the purchase. I just now taped all the receipts end to end and while the resulting strip of paper isn’t quite as tall as I it’s pretty damn close. Jeez, all I wanted was to replace a pair of sweat pants that a cat pooped on. No wonder there are no trees left in the forest.

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

Seventeen years ago I spent an idyllic week at a jungle-fringed Kenyan beach right on the Indian Ocean. The place I stayed was obscure and exotic. It was called the Twiga Lodge and has always remained an exciting memory from my African adventure. Now I find I can just search “Twiga Lodge” on the web and pull up pictures of the place like it’s a Motel 6. Anybody can. Look, I love the Internet as much as anybody, but when we get to the point where every nook and cranny of our planet can be so easily accessed and exposed I think we will have lost something.

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

Here is my final edict on reality shows. They’re almost all garbage. This fad of watching other people living, and often destroying, their lives instead of us living (and destroying!) our own lives can’t possibly be healthy. That said I found myself watching a few of these programs recently, what with the writers’ strike and all. I’ve discovered that I enjoy Scott Baio’s reality show and that of comic Kathy Griffin’s as well. In one we find a comic who is struggling for a successful career while in the other we see a man who obviously doesn’t want to get married or have a kid torturing himself by doing both. I find there are real life lessons on these shows, and so can only arrive at this conclusion: If it is a reality show that I enjoy then we can say that it is both insightful and intelligent. If it is one that I don’t happen to watch then it’s obviously a piece of crap.

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

Do you remember the hottest thing you’ve ever eaten? I was once seeing this Chinese girl who was an amazing cook. And by that I don’t mean she slaved in the kitchen all day. You could show up at her house and inside of fifteen minutes she would create a delicious six or seven dish dinner out of seemingly nothing. She had this one creation where she julienned a raw potato, poured boiling water on it and it was delicious. OK, there was probably a little more to it than that, but it sure didn’t seem that way. Now I’ve always believed that food, unlike sex, should not be painful, so I’m not sure why I picked up that red pepper from one of her entrees and popped it into my mouth. The only way I’m able to describe the pain is to tell you to imagine you’re biting into one of those mini-cacti with the tiny, tiny needles. When I was finally able to talk I turned towards her and said, “Wow, that pepper is hot.” “Oh, don’t eat that,” she said casually. And belatedly.

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

I heard a knock on the door the other day and when I opened it I was surprised to see two very young and very attractive teenage girls. They were just bursting with juicy hormones and wore low-cut tops in order to proudly display their happy breasts as if they had just grown them that morning. What on Earth could they possibly want with me? I thought, which is kind of sad when you think about it. “Hi. Can we borrow two eggs? We’re baking a cake.” Even as I was getting the eggs I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was going to turn out to be some sort of practical joke. Hell, I didn’t even know people borrowed eggs from their neighbors anymore. I handed the eggs to the girls, bantering with them all the time. I was just about to say, “Now make sure you bring me a slice of that cake!” when something stopped me. The last thing these chicks wanted to do was promise cake to some guy who was triple (and that’s being generous) their age. And so I just said good-bye, sighed and closed the door, both physically and symbolically. No, I wasn’t going to be getting a piece of cake. In fact I wasn’t going to be getting a piece of anything.

How Damn Long Does It Take to Carve a Mountain Into an Indian?

It’s the summer of 1971, I’m eighteen years old and I and my two equally non-svelte brothers are all jammed in the back seat of the family’s 1962 Chevy Bel-Air. It’s cramped back there and we’re fighting for space, as we will continue to do for the next four thousand miles. We are on a family vacation to South Dakota. We’re on our way to see Mt. Rushmore.

And, of course, points along the way. There is a sense of adventure in the air; an opportunity for new experience. And the new experiences begin at the Illinois State Fair. Now up until that point my only knowledge of a state fair was through some blurry photos in a school textbook about alien cultures, such as Illinois, and that corny old movie starring Pat Boone. (I’m too young to remember the really old one with Dick Haymes.) And now I myself was at my first state fair, complete with cows, sheep and pigs. It was exotic beyond words.

After we had arrived in South Dakota, many uncomfortable miles later, and viewed Mt. Rushmore we learned of another mountain that was being carved right at that very moment. How lucky for us to have arrived during the actual creation of the Crazy Horse monument, even if we had almost no idea who Crazy Horse might have been or why somebody would want to carve his image into a stone mountain.

After seeing Mt. Rushmore the Crazy Horse monument was something of a disappointment. Actually it would have been a disappointment after seeing just about anything. From the viewing platform we looked off in the distance to see a flat rock with a hole cut through it. A mural on a wall told us that the flat part of the rock would be Crazy’s extended arm and the hole would be, well, his armpit I suppose. The entire experience reminded me of the episode of The Flintstones when they go to see the Grand Canyon and discover only a trickling stream. “They expect it to be a big deal some day,” says Fred.

I was not an unromantic kid (all that came later) and as I stood there I looked forward to the day when I would return to see the completed sculpture. In my young mind I estimated that it would probably take about four, and maybe as many as five, years to get the job done. After all, we had read that the guy who was doing the carving was now being assisted by his sons, so I figured that with the whole clan chipping away they’d knock it out in no time.

Over the years a photo of the monument under construction would occasionally appear in a newspaper or magazine, and invariably I’d clip the article and send it to my parents or they’d clip it and send it to me. And the only constant in these photos was that Crazy Horse seemed to look exactly the same as he had back in 1971, armpit hole and all. I was sure that there was progress being made, but I’d be damned if I could see it.

And now we are in the computer age and it is a simple matter to keep track of the memorial’s progress. A quick trip to Wikipedia reveals a picture of Crazy Horse as he looks today, and damned if he still isn’t a big rock with an armpit. OK, to be fair, Crazy Horse now has a face. In fact a dedication ceremony was conducted about ten years ago. For the face.

And no doubt there was at least one teenager at that ceremony who looked up at the giant rock with the armpit and made a silent vow: One day soon he would return to see the finished product. Keep dreaming, kid.

Football Talk: For Men Only

Listen ladies, we’re going to be talking a little football tonight so this one will be for the men only. No, nobody’s saying you don’t have as much of a right as any man to enjoy the sport blah, blah, blah, but I’m going to be discussing odds and point spread and things like that and if I have to stop every two minutes to attempt to explain it all to you well, we’ll be here all night. You understand, right? Why don’t you gals just run along and crochet a doily or bake some muffins? Hey I know, you could complain about your cramps--you all seem to enjoy that! And then we can all meet back here tomorrow, OK? Thanks, Honey. Go on, scat.

Hey guys, how’d the games turn out for you? Things were going just fine for me until the late game. I mean, I never expected the Chargers to win today and of course they didn’t. Hey, I lived in San Diego for years and know that with the perfect weather, beautiful beaches and quality dope there are just too many distractions down there for that city to field a championship team in any sport more than once in a generation.

But that fourteen and a half points was just too tempting a fruit to leave hanging there. San Diego played a good game, but in the end they did what they always do. “Hey, we played a team that is undefeated,” they’ll be whining tomorrow as they pass the joint around at the beach. And so they did, and that team is still undefeated, but who cares? The Chargers beat the spread with points to spare (although I sweated a bit at the end there) and I won my bet. The day was off to a good start.

I don’t think that I’m one who readily subscribes to the hype, but the Packers at Lambeau on the much ballyhooed “frozen tundra” seemed like a lock, even if I had to give up seven and a half points to purchase that lock. The bet, however, was as good as lost well before the game officially ended. When the score was tied at twenty late in the fourth quarter I knew that my hope of the favored Packers winning by eight or more was gone. And then when the game went into OT, well that was that—I was officially dead. Hey guys, aren’t you glad that I sent the women away so you don’t have to try to explain why a team can’t win by eight in an overtime game? You’re welcome.

Which reminds me: I’d like to send out a big THANK YOU to the folks at Comcast, who thought that the fourth quarter of a tied championship game would be the perfect time for the TV picture to go black. We had to sit around the television like we were radio days throwbacks listening to the adventures of Hopalong Cassidy. Well at least I’ll have a little cash coming when Comcast does the right thing and sends out refund checks for my inconvenience and for having failed to deliver their service during the most crucial game of the year. Yeah, I’ll go out right now and wait by the mailbox.

Still, despite my loss in the late game (I did pick up a few bucks on the over, so it wasn’t a total disaster) it turned out to be a fun day, betting-wise. And can you imagine if it had been Green Bay that kicked the field goal to win the game by three? That would mean that I had bet on San Diego and won my bet even though they lost, and that I had bet on Green Bay and lost my bet even though they won. How’d you like to explain that to some chick? No, I didn’t think so.

Guess Who #18

Peachpit hates these so let's make it quick. I’ve already told you a million times how to play. No cheating. Ready--Set--Go!


Mr. X had four Top 100 singles, including a #5 record in 1962.

Mr. X was born in Swampscott, Massachusetts.

Mr. X began to play old men while still in his thirties.
(Mom will get the answer after this clue.)

Mr. X worked in vaudeville and then joined the army in World War I.

Mr. X believed that the 1960’s anti-war and civil rights movements were run by overseas communists.

Mr. X was the first actor to win three Academy Awards.

Mr. X is said to have "cackled with delight" upon hearing of the assassination of Martin Luther King.

Mr. X lost most of his teeth in an accident in 1932.

Mr. X’s vocal chords were ruined by poison gas in World War I, giving him his famous high-pitched voice.

Mr. X portrayed the grandpa in a popular television show from 1957 – 1963.


Well come on, come on—who was Mr. X?

Outliving Mr. Wilson

Despite the wailing and gnashing of teeth exhibited by some of you (and you know who you are) when I take a night off from this nonsense, it really isn’t something that happens that frequently. And on the rare occasion that it does occur it’s more often than not due to one thing: my childhood chum has given me a call.

My chum and I go way back together; in fact we go back far enough that we still use the word “chum.” And although we’ve been friends for over forty years we don’t get the opportunity to talk on the phone that often. And that’s why our conversations usually last two, three, or even four hours. Which causes me to chuck the writing thing for the night.

My chum called a few nights ago and as usual we discussed the topics that are important to us, including the things we like (The Honeymooners and The Beatles) and the things we don’t (regular employment and George Bush.) On this particular phone call we spent a good amount of time talking about old-timey television shows. So much so, in fact, that I spent part of the three-plus hours parked right here in front of the computer, where all the answers we needed were only seconds away on IMDB.com.

I can’t imagine how we got around to the topic of the old Dennis the Menace show. I don’t think it was ever one of my chum’s favorites, and it certainly wasn’t one of mine. The show starred Jay North in the title role. As Dennis he was annoying and cloying, which may or may not have been the attributes that aided him most when he later became a Mormon. I can still hear his fake, “Gee, Mr. Wilson!” delivered in a voice that could make fingernails on a blackboard sound like a Mozart concerto.

Ah, but Mr. Wilson. Now here was a character worth observing. Old and grumpy, all he really wanted was to be left alone. To him Dennis was nothing more than the irritating little bastard from next door, which tells us that, if nothing else, Mr. Wilson was very perceptive.

My chum and I realized that neither of us knew much about the actor who portrayed Mr. Wilson, and so to the Internet! We discovered that the part was played by Joseph Kearns an actor who was, ironically I suppose, from Salt Lake City. It turns out that Kearns died near the end of the series run and was replaced in the final season by legendary comic actor and Lucy stalwart Gale Gordon. (Who himself died in Escondido, California, the very town where my chum was calling from. And the wheel keeps on turning…)

I read a little more about Joseph Kearns and then relayed his dates to my chum. It seems that Kearns died five days after his 55th birthday. A look at the calendar and some speedy calculations told me that as of last Saturday I had now lived longer than Mr. Wilson. Yes, the old, old man who lived next door to Dennis. I for one didn’t find that news particularly heartening, and my chum, only a few months younger than I, felt the same way. You know the Internet, with its immediate access to all of man’s knowledge, is a great invention and a wondrous tool. But there is such a thing as too much information.

A Plaque on the Wall

Spike and I headed to Santa Cruz today, each with separate goals. For me the day wouldn’t be a success unless I visited the wharf and allowed half a dozen or so sauced oysters to merrily slip and slide their way down my gullet. As for Spike, she wouldn’t be content until she had beaten me in a round of Skee-Ball. As if. (OK, she’s beaten me before. Often.)

As usual my immediate needs were given top priority. We topped off the oysters by sitting in the sun, amid the sounds of the sea and the seals, munching on fried clams and shrimp. It took all my willpower to not give a freedom fry to a soulful-looking seagull who stared at me patiently throughout the meal, but those are after all the rules. And we must obey the rules.

Bellies full, except for my poor feathered friend, we strolled over to the Casino. Now if you haven’t been there the building is called the Casino, a holdover from its glory days, but it is more accurately an arcade. Inside you’ll find an impressive assortment of mechanical amusements from the latest video games to specimens dating back to the turn of the century. No, the other century.

Of course there is a catch if one hopes to see all these wonders: the Casino has to be open. Which of course it wasn’t. And why should it be? Here it was the middle of the week in the middle of the winter. Why should an arcade stay open simply for the enjoyment of two job-averse beach bums? Well, it shouldn’t and it didn’t.

We strolled aimlessly around the side of the Casino, longingly looking at all the places that we couldn’t get into, and eventually came upon a plaque on the side of the building giving its history. Heck, I was always curious about the building’s past, and here was a perfect opportunity to educate myself. Besides, what else did I have to do? Apparently the plaque was the only thing open.

Except I couldn’t get close enough to the plaque. In front of us stood an old couple, effectively blocking my view. This was bad enough, but for some reason the woman insisted on reading the entire sign out loud. I tried to read the information by peering over her shoulder, but the dissonance of what I was reading mixed with what she was bellowing proved to be too much.

Still I was able to gather enough info to find out that this building had been known as The Cocoanut Grove in the 1940’s, and many of the famous big bands had performed there. I eyed the list and even recognized a couple of the names, which included Benny Goodman and Artie Shaw. In the corner of the sign was a fuzzy black and white photo of a band performing back in the day. The caption read The Buddy King Orchestra, 1946. Never heard of them.

Suddenly the old man in front of me let out with a loud, “Oh my God!” and turned towards me. I thought he was having a stroke until I noticed he now had a look of happy surprise on his face. If this was a stroke it would be the cheeriest one on record. The old man pointed to the picture and looked me right in the eyes. “That’s me!” he said.

He was the piano player in the photo. He told me how he had played piano for the Buddy King Orchestra when he was just out of high school, and he had later gone on to tour with his own band. “Well, it looks like you’ve been immortalized,” I said, partly because it was what he wanted to hear and partly because it was true. The old man chuckled and, still obviously excited by his discovery, nodded and walked away.

I’m near the end of Thomas Wolfe’s You Can’t Go Home Again. In it Wolfe discusses the nature of fame. He posits that it is one of man’s strongest desires and yet the one to which he is least willing to admit. I suspect he might be right. Whether it’s an aged and blurry photo on a wall, a book with your name on it or your initials surreptitiously written into wet cement, we all need our own little bit of immortality. We all need to say, “I was here.”

Higher Than a Cat

I’m a doubter. Each week my inbox is infected by one or more e-mails boasting claims that I know or suspect aren’t true. Sometimes I’ll take the time to do the research and set the sender straight, knowing full well it’s a waste of time. Other times I’ll just choose the simpler action: laugh and delete. I scoff, therefore I am.

While I never did actually scoff at catnip and its reputed effects on our fuzzy feline friends I never completely understood it either. Does catnip really do anything to, or for, a cat or do they just like the smell? And if it is some sort of high for them, what’s the delivery system? Do they ingest the plant or sniff it? Certainly they don’t use a bong…no thumbs.

I have a fairly large redwood tub in my driveway in which I recently planted some catnip. It seemed to be doing nicely too, which I’ve found to be a rarity here on the rugged northern California coast. (I’ve had a scraggly raspberry plant for four years which has yet to yield even a single tiny fruit. I often think I hear it weeping forlornly at night.)

Two nights ago I walked out to my driveway and there was one of the neighborhood cats in the tub, on his back and rolling around in the catnip. The silly thing was writhing and squirming as if he was starring in some x-rated cat film. (Kitty Porn! Ha!) And even more amazing, while I can’t swear to it I think the furry little freak was…smiling.

And so away to the Internet! It turns out that, unlike the myths of the sugar high and the WMD’s, cats really do get off from catnip. According to Wikipedia (which I am still gracious enough to use despite the fact that they recently booted the entry about me), “When cats sense the bruised leaves or stems of catnip, they may roll over it, paw at it, chew it, lick it, leap about and purr, often salivating copiously.” Well we’ve all been there, eh what?

Research is still being done, but many believe that catnip has the same effect on larger cats, including lions and tigers (and bears, all high!) Other research suggests that catnip will affect lions but not tigers. One group of researchers used catnip to lure a jaguar. They reported that the jaguar reacted to the stuff in much the same way as a regular housecat--euphorically.

Apparently it’s hard for humans to understand the reaction of cats to catnip, as there is no corresponding scent in our experience that will send us into such a tizzy. (I once had a girlfriend who would leap about and salivate at the smell of hundred dollar bills, but this is anecdotal evidence and therefore not valid in any true scientific discussion.) Still, I think I’m going to take a stroll out to the driveway and give what’s left of that plant a really good sniff. You know, just to be sure.

The Hat

And tonight I present yet another way we can divide people into two categories. For this one let’s set the way-back machine to eighth grade, and more specifically to one of the many after school eighth grade dances I attended.

And that’s exactly what I did—attended. My memory is a bit foggy but I’m pretty sure that I went to at least a dozen of these hormone-driven rituals and yet never danced a single dance. Hey, I said I could divide the world into two main groups; I didn’t say that I was cool.

So there I am in my usual place high atop the bleachers, watching most of the girls and several of the boys dance to electrified music of a band made up of four of my classmates. (All of the bands had four back then. Why? Because the Beatles had four, silly.) And so I sat atop my perch, too shy to dance, and listened to the music of four guys my own age who not only were not too shy to dance but had no trouble standing up in front of the entire school singing and playing instruments.

I don’t remember the name of the lead singer of the band. I recall that he didn’t play a guitar but only sang, and that I was surprised to see him up on the stage because up until that afternoon I had known him only as one of the school thugs. He was a low-brow and a bully, and I think he even smoked. But there he was giving it his all up on the stage, singing his foul black heart out into the microphone. I gave him credit.

I also recall that he was wearing a hat as he performed. Some of you may know that John Lennon sometimes wore a Greek fisherman-type hat while the other Beatles did not. It was an early show of individualism from one of four young men who up until then had been viewed as a single living organism: the Beatles.

The singing thug had obviously been influenced by Lennon, and clearly understood the axiom which states that one member of a band wearing a cap is infinitely cooler than all four wearing a cap. One person who definitely did not see it that way was the school’s gruff and unyielding assistant principal.

I watched from my outpost in the bleachers as the white-haired old fart spoke to the thug. I later learned that he had asked if the hat was part of the band’s “uniform.” When told it was not he commanded the thug take it off, which he did, and the dance continued.

In his mind I’m sure the assistant principal felt that he was being quite fair, even liberal. If every member of the band had been wearing a hat, well sure, it was obviously part of their costume and perfectly acceptable, like a Catholic school uniform. But only one guy wearing a hat smacked of subversion and rebellion, and that needed to be quashed immediately. And so it was.

So we can see that people can be divided into two groups: the ones who rise, proclaim, create and wear hats while singing in a band and those who suppress, oppress, destroy and force people to take off that damn hat, and I mean now, mister! How about you—do you understand why one member of a band wearing a hat is cool? If not I think we’ve established to which group you belong. In fact there might be an exciting future waiting for you in the lucrative assistant principal business.

Grandpa Goes Bowling

Do you know how long it had been since I’d gone bowling? Me neither—that’s how long. Bowling for me was always right near the bottom of that list of things to do when you’re absolutely desperate for entertainment; somewhere between cutting your toenails and watching Nancy Grace. But what the hell. It’s the week of my 55th birthday so it’s time to go wild.

I was surprised that the cost to bowl a game was less than I thought it would be. To me $2.25 seemed like a reasonable price. That is until I found out that the shoe rental is now five bucks. I grumbled something about bowling barefoot but plunked down my twenty and grabbed the stinky ten-and-a-halfs from the clearly unamused bowling lady.

The biggest difference I noticed was the new and vastly superior ball organization. Gone were the ubiquitous black balls of long ago. A quick scan of the racks made me feel like a midget inside a gumball machine. The balls were red, green, yellow—and all color-coded by weight. It was the kind of stark efficiency we might have enjoyed decades earlier if only the Nazis had won, and I liked it. I picked up a fourteen pound orange beauty.

On Spike’s first roll in God knows how many years she almost got a strike. Uh-oh. I didn’t fare nearly as well and hadn’t felt so physically uncomfortable since I was on my back in Mt. Eden Hospital with a brace around my neck and tubes up my…well I was pretty uncomfortable.

And it didn’t get any better as the game progressed. Pop quiz: What do my neck, wrist, knee and pride have in common? Answer: They were all starting to hurt pretty badly by the sixth frame. And instead of dragging it out let me give it to you quickly, like ripping off a band-aid: I lost. The final score was 117 to 103.

103! Before we had left the house I had thought about a list of goals I’d made for myself many years ago. Most of them I had accomplished. I had written a book. I had seen elephants in the wild. I had…well you know—that thing with the chicks. But I had never bowled a 200 game. And I didn’t see why I couldn’t. It was just a matter of concentration and focus, right? And then this: a score that would even embarrass most of Jerry’s Kids.

We were halfway through the second game when it finally clicked. (No, not my spine, wise-ass.) Spare. Strike. Spare. Strike. Strike. I finished the game with an astounding 139. Amazing! That was only eleven points short of the score they used to give a trophy for…when I was in fifth grade. Better late than never, eh what?

By the end of the third game my long dormant bowling muscles had loosened up a bit. I finished with a 122, a miserable score to be sure but enough to beat Spike for the second game in a row. I mean, losing even one game to your 120-pound wife is bad enough. You know how it is: they beat you a few times in bowling and next thing you know they want to be president.

Finally it was time to return the stinky shoes, drag my creaking body out to the car and recover from this physical ordeal. Nothing I had done in the last ten years, from swimming to sex, had made me feel that I had indeed aged as had these three games of bowling.

I was sitting in the booth at Denny’s, recuperating and looking at the menu, when Spike began to laugh. I looked up to see what was so funny and she turned her menu to show me the back page. It said, “Meals for Our Guests Fifty-Five and Over.” Perfect.

Starbucking It

Originally my plan was to go to my favorite restaurant, sit on the patio wearing my cool $1.99 sunglasses and let the world watch me bask in both the sun and my own glory as I corrected the proofs of my new book. “Yes,” I would tell the chicks who would of course be unable to keep away, “this is my latest book. It’s coming out soon.”

I mean, why stop lying to women at this late date? They don’t need to know the depressing details, like they’ll never find the book at Borders and will only find it on Amazon in about, say, a year and a half. I’ll just sit here in public conspicuously flashing my 280 page prop and the babes can reach their own conclusions.

Except I never did sit in the sun editing my book at my favorite restaurant. (Which is, by the way, The Half Moon Bay Brewing Company. Check it out.) Why? Because certain people, and I include myself in this group, took a long-ass time to get this thing together and so by the time I received the proof it was already mid-December. And raining. And so to Plan B.

There are a lot of things that I simply don’t understand about Starbucks. I don’t understand why people will stand in line for half an hour for the honor of paying four bucks for a cup of coffee. And I certainly don’t understand why people will spend hours in the place reading or working feverishly on their laptops. Isn’t this a task that could be accomplished more efficiently at home? Maybe it’s got something to do with the communal desire to be around people. Well no wonder I don’t understand it.

But I went anyway, clutching the baggie that contained my unbound book (complete with a really nifty cover, by the way.) I ordered a decaf for two bucks and staked out a place on a short couch right in front of the fireplace. Cozy, huh? All I needed was a pipe and a sweater with leather elbow patches and the image would be complete: the author at work reviewing his latest literary masterpiece.

I began to review the pages. The title page looked good—everything spelled right, in large print. Same with the dedication. And then—uh oh. It became apparent that if I was going do a good job of editing I would have to put on my reading glasses. Boy that sure fucks with the image, doesn’t it? I mean, sunglasses—cool. Reading glasses—not so much. So now I had a choice: Should I look cool at Starbucks or publish a book that didn’t contain five hundred grammatical errors?

I put the glasses on. At this point I didn’t much care. As delightful as the new book is, going over it for the fifth or sixth time was going to be something of a chore. Besides, it was becoming clear that I was not about to be surrounded by a horde of screaming groupies. In fact the only screams were the ones coming from the bawling two-year-old sitting in the corner with his middle-aged mom, who had chosen to spend her four bucks on a cup of over-priced coffee rather than adding it to Junior’s college fund. No wonder he was screaming.

I got through about forty pages when I’d had enough. I packed up my pages, put them back in the baggie and headed home. It would be a lot quieter there, I’d have more privacy and I could also make myself another cup of coffee. For about thirty-five cents.

Lovely Parting Gifts For Obama

No, I’m not going to claim that I predicted Hillary’s victory tonight as I did her Iowa drubbing just a few days ago. How could I, when every poll, every pundit, every person on Earth was telling me that Obama’s double-digit New Hampshire victory was in the bag. As was South Carolina. Lay down the palm leaves in his path and sing hosannas to the sky, for your next president has been delivered unto you this day. Not hardly.

What I did do, however, was to make a hundred buck bet with Mr. Zero, before New Hampshire, that Obama would not get the Democratic nomination. I didn’t think the party would allow it. Hell, they don't even have the huevos to put up a white anti-war candidate. And the New Hampshire results show that I am right. Again. (By the way I’m predicting that Obama does not get the nomination. I’m not saying that Hillary will get it. A paradox? We’ll see.)

Oh ho, you say in that annoying way of yours. Isn’t it just a little too early, just hours after the first primary, to be doing your victory dance, Mr. Smarty Pants? I don’t think so. I watched Obama’s speech tonight and was reminded of the night that Howard Dean also realized that his presidential aspirations had come to a sudden and unexpected conclusion. The consensus among the general public is that Dean lost the nomination because he screamed on that stage. The truth is, of course, that Dean screamed on that stage because he had lost the nomination.

These political machines that successful politicians create are powerful, powerful weapons. And they aren’t dismantled when a president leaves office. Why, keep them in good running order and the next president might even be your very own idiot son. Or your wife.

If you’re like me, and I know I am, you enjoy the absurd theater and the tantalizing numbers of these ersatz elections, without taking the trouble to actually get involved. If so, take a look at this great website: InTrade.com. Here you will find a functioning market where you can actually buy and sell shares in the candidates! For example, a week ago you could buy a share in Hillary for about $63 and Obama for $28. After Hillary was crushed in Iowa the numbers flipped, with a share of Obama now going for more than $60.

Unfortunately I wasn’t able to deposit any money in my account before the beginning of the primaries. You see this is a foreign site (England) and it takes quite a long time to mail them a check. And, thanks to the spoilsports in Congress, it is no longer legal to use credit cards on this “type” of site. So despite my stunning prediction I couldn’t place a bet on Iowa.

OK, unlike the politicians I’m betting on, I’m going to be honest here. If I had been able to get some funds into my account I would have bought shares in…John Edwards. There, I said it. Not because I thought he was going to win Iowa, but because I thought he would come on strong. Being a white male and all. Plus the fact that Edwards shares could be scooped up for a bargain five bucks a pop.

Well, Edwards did well in Iowa, but the next day his shares dropped to $2. Good thing I wasn’t able to get that money to England, eh what? That’s OK, I still have Mr. Zero when I want to win a bet. Just tonight he sent an e-mail agreeing to double his bet on Obama getting the nomination. How strange. I wonder why Mr. Zero doesn’t know that it’s all over for Obama? Obama does.

The Second Storm

The first storm arrived at night, announcing itself with hurricane force winds. It howled throughout the night, its intensity increasing rapidly and dramatically from “it sure is windy out,” to “I wonder if the roof is going to hold.” The cacophony was multi-layered, a near-symphony composed of the roar of the ocean, the wind through the trees, the incessant whipping of a neighbor’s piece of fabric that would surely be gone by morning and topped off with an other-worldly howl that boasted that this was no ordinary meteorological event.

The rain began early in the morning and continued throughout the day. By sunset the storm was spent, with even some patches of blue cautiously poking through the dramatic but now distant and benign clouds. The TV weatherman said I should tune in at eleven o’clock to learn about another powerful storm that would be arriving the next day. He baited his audience by saying the new storm would be different, but didn’t elaborate, and I became curious. But not curious enough to tune in at eleven. I hate local news. I’d rather watch cartoons—they’re more thought provoking.

The difference in the storms first became obvious early the next day as a barrage of hail turned everything white, if only for five minutes. A short time later, in the part of the country where it is statistically least likely to thunder and lightning, it began to thunder and lightning. And then the rain returned.

I got into the car to take care of a chore over the hill, but first I turned left and drove the two blocks to the ocean. I had to see. I struggled through the wind to the edge of the bluff to look down at the ocean below. Gone was the postcard picture of only a few days ago. The ocean was no longer made up of neat little blue furrows with white caps, politely waiting their turn to approach the beach in a harmless and orderly fashion. Today the ocean was grey and roiling; random and disorganized.

It was a pissed-off ocean, an ocean so angry it would think nothing of swallowing a boat and its entire crew in one gulp and spitting it back the next day without so much as a single salty droplet of remorse. I stood looking out at the chaotic scene for as long as I could, the nearly frozen rain painfully pelting my face, the howling and unrelenting wind chilling my body. I sucked in a lungful of violent sea air. God, it felt good to be alive.

So That's It?

We want the world and we want it NOW! Remember that nonsense? And sure it took a while but in November 1992 we Baby Boomers did finally get what we had so loudly and mindlessly demanded all those years ago. It came in the form of Bill Clinton, the first Baby Boomer president. And eight years later he was succeeded by the second Boomer president, George W. Bush.

In case you don’t know, there actually is a strict definition of what constitutes a Baby Boomer: you had to be born between 1946 and 1964. Clinton and Bush, born only six weeks apart in 1946, were two of the first Boomers. Spike on the other hand was born in 1964 and is one of the youngest Baby Boomers. Ironically none of the Beatles, those gods of the Baby Boomer generation, were themselves Boomers.

I still remember the night the newly-elected Clinton and Gore stood happily on that stage, grinning broadly and waving to the delirious crowd as a Fleetwood Mac song blared in the background. There could be no doubt that with the defeat of the Bush 41 presidency the torched had been passed by the World War II generation to the Boomers. It doesn’t seem possible now, but maybe I really did feel a bit of optimism on that night that was, after all, not so very long ago.

And so now tonight, after only fifteen years of a boomer as president, I heard the gushing commentators signaling that today’s surprise (Unless you read last night’s column!) Iowa victory by Barack Obama was perhaps a signal that “the torch was being passed to a new generation.”

Already?

Well, ok, Clinton will not go down in history as a great president. An intelligent man and a wily politician, I’ve heard it said that Clinton may well have been remembered as a great president if he had had an occasion to rise to. But alas, he didn’t. As for Bush—well he was “fortunate” enough to have such an occasion, but we all know what he did with that opportunity.

And yet if we want to be technical we can note that Obama was born in 1961—much later than our last two presidents but still well within the Baby Boomer parameters. He just doesn’t seem like one. I mean, can you imagine this guy sitting in his dorm room using an Iron Butterfly album to roll a joint while listening to the groovy sounds of the Moody Blues? I don’t think so.

No, Obama isn’t one of us, not really. But then I look back at the record of what the Boomers who wanted the world NOW accomplished when they finally got it. And I think that maybe not being one of us isn’t such a bad thing after all.

Tomorrow's Headlines Today!

Obama scores!
Edwards surprises!
Hillary stunned!

Ah the presidential election process: it’s as silly as midget wrestling and twice as much fun to watch. And it begins now. And as I always do I should qualify my above predictions with a disclaimer about my past record. When it comes to predicting—elections, sporting events, awards, anything—my consistency is unparalleled: I’m just awful.

But I don’t let that stop me. Just as I don’t let the absurdity of the presidential selection process stop me from enjoying it. Did I read that Hillary delivered coffee and bagels to a busload of reporters today? Well that clinches it. Forget her hawkish stand on the Iraq war—anybody who delivers breakfast treats gets my vote. Or would if I voted. Which I don’t.

It’s all theater, isn’t it? And I’m not talking the Shakespearean kind, but something more akin to vaudeville. It’s a baggy pants and seltzer show loaded with pratfalls and kicks in the rump, but it’s one more thing to entertain us after the Super Bowl is over. And just like you do every four years, after two candidates have been carefully selected for you, you’ll sigh heavily and complain like clockwork, “Is this the best the country has to offer?” as if you knew what you were talking about.

So what the hell, enjoy it for what it is. Hardly anybody pays attention to the records of these hucksters. Most of America knows that the Democratic caucus will be won by either the Black Man, the White Woman or the White Man. And my guess is that when the smoke and hot air clear it will be the White Man, as usual, who secures the Democrat Party nomination.

And then he’ll run in November against the Republican nominee. We don’t yet know who Jesus will choose for this role, but you can bet your 401K that he too will be the proud owner of a penis. And that penis will be white.

Banished From The Kingdom!

The Wikipedia kingdom, that is. Dig this: Some clown has recommended that the Wikipedia entry about me, your favorite writer, be considered for deletion. Delete me? Can you imagine?

So far two Wikipediots have cast their votes. One is recommending deletion and the other is “leaning” towards it. They are saying that there are very few links to my books on the Internet and that the publisher of my books is “extremely obscure.” You know, his mother might read that. (She has no idea that he’s extremely obscure.) Also one guy read on my website that I have sold a total of 43 books. (At least he admits that this might be a joke. Of course it’s a joke, you ninny. I only wish I had sold 43 books…)

My major crime and the main reason for my pending deletion seems to be that I don’t meet Wikipedia’s “notability” standards. Me, not notable? It’s to laugh. You know me don’t you? And the fact that if you are reading this you are most likely either a friend or a relative should not affect my notability rating in the least.

OK, something has to be done about this. You can’t let them do this to the swell guy who has been providing you with quality entertainment for the last two years. I need to remain on Wikipedia. It’s fair. It’s right. And it impresses the chicks. Dammit, I belong in an encyclopedia—even a fake one. So here’s what you’re going to do:

Go to Wikipedia.com and find the LEONARD STEGMANN entry. Try not to scoff at the fact that the description explaining the upcoming deletion of my entry is actually twice as long as the entry itself. Click on “this article’s entry” and then the “edit this page” tab at the top. Then explain in the box below that I am so goddam notable it’s almost beyond the realm of human comprehension. Lay it on thick. Tell them my books are funnier than Dave Barry’s and contain more witty social commentary than Mark Twain. That right—lie. It’s Wikipedia for god’s sake, it doesn’t have to be true.

Thanks for your help.