A Hair Affair to Remember

This happened yesterday. Because I still haven’t broken myself of the habit of looking at a woman’s breasts before I look at her face I didn’t immediately recognize her when she walked into the shop. Then she spoke and my gaze instantly snapped northward to her once-familiar face.

“Hi!” she said. “How have you been?”

I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t an awkward moment, as it would be for anyone running into someone you used to see on a regular basis but don’t anymore. And I had seen her regularly for over a year, until I ended it; suddenly and without explanation. And now here she stood in front of me, all innocent and full of unspoken questions. And I, I’m ashamed to admit, could not even recall her name.

We made small talk for a while. Yes, she still lived in San Francisco and I still in Half Moon Bay. Her business was still doing well, in fact more so since a new grocery store had opened next to it. She told me that I was looking good and I laughed that I hadn’t heard that since the Carter administration. I still felt awkward and tongue-tied and so didn’t think to return the compliment, even though she too was looking good. Real good.

We chatted for a while longer, the conversation stilted and threatening to die out with the end of each sentence. She didn’t ask the question and I never did offer an explanation. Finally there was only one thing left to say, and so I said good-bye. Besides, she already knew.

Of course I was seeing somebody else. I didn’t need to put into words what was already painfully apparent. Just look at me. I hadn’t seen her for nearly two years, so if I wasn’t seeing somebody new, well, wouldn’t my hair be down to my shoulders by now?

It would have been cruel to explain why I had suddenly disappeared from her life. There was no reason to rub her face in the fact that once, when we first met, she had given me great haircuts but over time her work had gotten sloppier and sloppier, until I often walked out of her shop with my head looking like an explosion in a mattress factory. Yes, I was seeing someone else.

...The Fountain of Youth

We’ve all (except for, apparently, the cute chick from Pleasanton) heard of Ponce de Leon and his legendary search for the Fountain of Youth. But the belief in rejuvenating and restorative waters does not begin with this Sixteenth century Spanish explorer, nor does it end there.

In the Third century legendary tales of the adventures of Alexander the Great were quite popular. In one story Alexander crosses through the Land of Darkness to discover a spring with rejuvenating properties. This story is believed to be the basis for the later Ponce de Leon legend.

Today if you find yourself in St Augustine, Florida you can visit the Fountain of Youth National Archeological Park. It is a popular attraction created in 1904 by one Luella Day McConnell, who often made up tales about the fountain’s powers that sometimes amused and sometimes appalled visitors to the attraction. And even though the waters that flow today from the park’s fountain have no more magical properties than a glass of New Jersey tap water, you can on any given day see tourists drinking from the fountain.

The Fountain of Youth is admittedly a fascinating legend but, sadly, it is just that: a legend. Still its dual message of hope and hopelessness has caused me to break what has up to now been an iron-clad rule. I’m going to, just this once, post an image. Here is a painting from 1546 by Lucas Cranach the Elder. It is called The Fountain of Youth. Looks like fun, huh?

Ponce de Leon and...

What do you think of when you hear the name Ponce de Leon? The Fountain of Youth, right? That’s pretty much all most of us know about him, except that he was a famous explorer or conquistador, depending upon which side of the Atlantic you called home. Still, I’ve often wondered what the story was with this guy. Did he actually believe in a Fountain of Youth? What was he, some kind of a nut?

So I decided to dig up a little research on old Ponce, and happily I’m going to drag you along with me. And that’s the first thing you should learn—his first name was not Ponce, it was Juan. He was born in 1460 and accompanied Christopher Columbus on his second voyage to the New World. He was the first governor of Puerto Rico and is believed to be the first European to set foot in Florida. (The first one under 90 anyway. Hahahaha.)

As a young man I never much understood the attraction of a Fountain of Youth. What would anybody need something like that for? After all, I was already young. No, back then I didn’t understand the dream of a Fountain of Youth. But I sure do now. As did Ponce de Leon, I’m sure. The thing is, his name was never associated with the Fountain of Youth until after his death. He may well have looked for and even believed in it, but it can never be truly known what is fact and what is legend.

It was in 1535 that Gonzalo Fernandez de Oviedo, Spanish historian and apparent loudmouth, claimed that Ponce de Leon was looking for the healing waters to cure his sexual impotence. Poor Ponce, I mean Juan. He only missed the invention of Viagra by a mere 500 years.

In 1513 Ponce de Leon outfitted three ships at his own expense and set sail for Florida where he landed sometime between April 2-8. It is generally accepted that he came ashore at what is today St. Augustine, but evidence shows that he may have landed further south at Melbourne Beach. He named this new land Florida, either because of the flowers he saw there or because he arrived during the season of Pascua Florida, or Flowery Passover.

In 1521 Ponce de Leon returned to Florida, this time with 200 men, including farmers and artisans, as well as 50 horses. The Calusa Indians, apparently no slouches in the art of deduction, saw that the interlopers had obviously come to stay and so attacked them almost immediately. During the attack Ponce de Leon was wounded by a poison arrow in his shoulder.

Fountain or no fountain, Ponce de Leon quickly took his men and skedaddled to the relative safety of Havana, Cuba. Unfortunately he had made his retreat a bit too late, and so without the benefit of a Fountain of Youth Juan Ponce de Leon soon died. His tomb is in San Juan, Puerto Rico.


TOMORROW: THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH!

Today: A Suite in Four Movements

#1
It was so disheartening I wasn’t even going to write about it. Spike noticed that our washer was leaking and, being the white flag waver that she is, she immediately wanted to call the plumber. I on the other hand instantly snapped into non-action and observed wash cycles over the next few days until I discovered the source of the leak. I then went to the hardware store and for about one-tenth of what the plumber would charge I replaced the pipe. It was a simple repair—even I could do it. There was no reason on Earth why the problem shouldn’t now be resolved, and yet I knew in my heart it wasn’t. And the very next time Spike used the washer I was proved correct. Tonight we watched a TV show that talked about how early American farmers grew their own crops, cured their own meat, made their own clothes and built their own barns. And yet I, for some reason, am incapable of unscrewing one pipe and screwing in another. Like I said, it was very disheartening.

#2
Spike called in sick today, which is a very rare event. There have been other times when she has woken up ill, but when I tell her to stay home she insists that there is nobody to fill in for her. Without getting into too much of the disgusting details I’ll tell you that today was different. Let’s call it a stomach virus and leave it at that. I even asked her if she wanted to go see a movie, but she declined. She knew she couldn’t last that long. “As Larry David said,” she responded, “I think today I need to stay close to my home base.” Enough said.

#3
I took a drive down the coast today and went on a short hike. When I returned to the parking lot I noticed that a puddle had formed underneath my car, which as we all know is never a good sign. I used the tried and true mechanical technique that I like to call “ignoring the problem” and drove home. Once in the driveway I waited a minute or so and soon confirmed that the car was still dripping. The strange part was that the liquid was coming not from under the engine, but near the side door. I got down for closer inspection and found that the liquid was not transmission fluid, oil or even coolant, but only water. Where the hell would water be coming from that it would drip from the side of a car? I went into the house, found a piece of Tupperware and stuck it under the drip. What good this is going to do I have no idea, but at least I felt as if I had done something. Tomorrow I’m expecting a mechanic will be telling me just how expensive stopping a few drops of water can be.

#4
Nine dollars for a small jar of dried meal worms seems expensive, but that’s only because it is. And that’s why this morning I made sure that Ellsworth the Turtle stayed in his feeding tub until he finished his breakfast. I wasn’t about to let even one of these overpriced annelids go to waste. I needn’t have worried, as Ellsworth didn’t miss a single one. Four hours later I was regretting my choice in turtle food. I had forgotten that meal worms have a predictable yet eruptive effect on Ellsworth’s apparently delicate digestive system, and hundreds of remnants of that effect were now floating around his just-cleaned forty-gallon tank. I sighed, got the net and started scooping.

And so we arrive at the conclusion of today’s little narrative, a conclusion that takes the form of a question that I will put to you, Dear Reader. Why does it seem as if just about everything and everyone in my life is currently leaking?

Homo Scrabblecus

I was watching a semi-interesting anthropology program on one of the eggheady channels (You can’t be watching Bridezillas 24/7 you know.) and they were talking about a species of Mankind’s ancestors. Well, they weren’t technically ancestors since they were one of those loser lines that suddenly hit an evolutionary wall a few hundred thousand years ago and disappeared.

I don’t remember the name of the species, nor do I recall the years when it existed. What I do remember was a point the program made about the hunting technique of these extinct people. They had indeed evolved to where they used tools and evidence showed that they used sharpened stones to attack their prey and kill it, up close and personal-like.

In fact this group existed in much the same way for over a million years—they attacked and killed animals with their stone knives. The point the program made was that at no time during the million years did a single one of these fellows come up with the sensible idea of tying a stone knife onto the end of a long stick and thus making a spear. The advantage would have been obvious. The extra distance they could put between themselves and their wild prey would have been a real stress reducer. Hell, they could have even thrown their spears and kept an even safer distance. But nope, nobody ever thought of it.

The narrator of the program was quick to point out that it wasn’t because these people were dumb, and we should not be so quick to judge them. They had not evolved to the point of coming up with such an advanced idea. They simply were incapable of such thought.

Clicking around the dial today (Yes, Junior, we used to have actual dials and they most certainly did click!) I stumbled upon a Scrabble championship on one of the ESPN channels. I’ve been playing Scrabble since I was a young kid. It was a popular game in our family as well as with some of the neighborhood kids. I used to play fairly often with my family, relatives and the girl who lived a few doors down. (She also once played wearing a bathing suit top that helped me get my first successful “cheap shot” as I covered a Triple Word Score square, but that’s a story for another day.)

One of the more tedious aspects of a game of Scrabble was turning all the lettered tiles face down before beginning a game. You’d open the box, take out the board and invariable it seemed as if at least 75% of the tiles were face up. And so each player helped to turn the letters over so that they all were face down. Then we shook the box to mix the tiles and stifle the urge to cheat, careful not to flip any letters. The chore was boring and time-consuming, but hey, what else could we do?

I laughed today when I saw one of the champion Scrabble players draw his tiles. He picked up the felt pouch that held them and lifted it above eye level, lest he too be accused of cheating. Then he reached in and pulled out the tiles he needed.

I don’t know how many years, or decades even, we all played Scrabble and began each and every game by turning all the letters face down. I also don’t recall a specific moment when somebody suggested that the tiles be put into an opaque container of some sort, a brown lunch bag perhaps?

I do know that we played hundreds of games and wasted many hours turning those damn tiles face down when we didn’t need to. But like the narrator of the caveman show admonished, don’t be too quick to judge us. We had not evolved to where we could come up with such an advanced idea. We simply were incapable of such thought.

A Most Disturbing Clown Quiz

Nobody likes clowns. I don’t, you don’t and the people next door to you don’t. And as for children—a recent study showed that they hate clowns most of all. And now I must correct myself. Do you know who likes clowns? Loyal readers Janice and Carolyn, that’s who. I know for a fact that each of these lovely ladies has a collection that contains not dozens, not scores, but hundreds of clowns.

Pictures, figurines, stuffed clowns—you name, they own it. And the best part is that Janice and Carolyn are sisters, providing what I believe to be incontrovertible evidence that the desire to collect clowns is genetic. A genetic defect, actually.

So this quiz goes out to you, Janice and Carolyn. May your collections of these little freaks continue to grow and prosper until the day they merge and you find yourselves the proud custodians on the biggest pile of clown crap in the world! Oh and by the way, I’m expecting nothing less than a perfect score from each of you.

1. Which city was never the home of Ringling Brothers Clown College?
a. Baraboo, Wisconsin
b. Venice, Florida
c. Sarasota, Florida
d. St. Augustine, Florida

2. What famous clown character was created by Emmett Kelly?
a. Hobo Harold
b. Weary Willie
c. Fast Freddie
d. Tommy the Tramp

3. Which Seinfeld character was afraid of clowns?
a. Jerry
b. George
c. Kramer
d. Elaine

4. Who created Bozo the Clown?
a. Alan Livingston
b. Pinto Colvig
c. Larry Harmon
d. Bob Bell

5. Who wrote the song, Send in the Clowns?
a. Richard Rodgers
b. Stephen Sondheim
c. Judy Collins
d. Bobby Hart

6. Which movie and TV star was inducted into the International Clown Hall of Fame?
a. Jerry Lewis
b. Lou Costello
c. Red Skelton
d. Phyllis Diller

7. Who has played both Ronald McDonald and Bozo?
a. Bob Keeshan
b. Regis Philbin
c. Willard Scott
d. Al Roker

8. Who was known as The Clown Prince of Baseball?
a. Max Patkin
b. Emmett Kelly, Jr.
c. Ronnie Mund
d. Jose Canseco

9. Which clown type is a forebear of the modern clown dating from 16th century Italy?
a. Whiteface
b. Auguste
c. Harlequin
d. Character

10. What is the fear of clowns called?
a. Tokophobia
b. Coulrophobia
c. Emetophobia
d. Common sense


ANSWERS:

Brrrrrr. It gave me chills just writing this damn thing. Let’s see how you did.

1. The Ringling Brothers Clown College was never located in ST. AUGUSTINE, FLORIDA. The college was closed in 1997.
2. Emmett Kelly created the clown character WEARY WILLIE. His son Emmett Kelly Jr. portrayed a similar character, sparking a feud that left the father and son estranged for many years. Yeah sure, we’ll have world peace some day.
3. KRAMER as a child went to the circus and was frightened by the clowns. Is he still afraid of clowns? “Yeahhhh.”
4. Although Pinto Colvig, Larry Harmon and Bob Bell all played Bozo, the clown was created by Alan Livingston in 1946. He created the first combination children’s story-telling record and read-along book, and called it Bozo at the Circus. Larry Harmon, who passed away earlier this month, bought the licensing rights to Bozo and then sold local television stations the right to each hire their own Bozo.
5. The song Send in the Clowns was written by Steven Sondheim for the musical A Little Night Music. Judy Collins recorded a popular version of the tune in 1975, which is why you picked her.
6. RED SKELTON, along with Emmett Kelly, was among the six original inductees enshrined in the International Clown Hall of Fame on April 23, 1989. George Bush will become eligible in 2009.
7. Now appearing in the roles of Ronald McDonald and Bozo…The Today Show’s weather guy Willard Scott. Scott has also received the Lifetime of Laughter Achievement Award from the International Clown Hall of Fame.
8. MAX PATKIN was known as the Clown Prince of Baseball. Quick, for five extra credit points, who was known as the Clown Prince of Basketball? Why, Meadowlark Lemon, of course!
9. The HARLEQUIN was one of the comedic servants from the Italian Commedia dell’Arte, and is believed to be the root of slapstick comedy. Wow, has this quiz suddenly gotten too cerebral for you? Because it sure has for me.
10. The fear of clowns is called COULROPHOBIA. Tokophobia is the fear of childbirth and emetophobia is the fear of vomiting. Not too cerebral now, is it?

The Other Dark Night

I have nobody to blame but myself. It seems to be something over which I have little control. Every time M. Night Shyamalan comes out with a new movie something compels me to see it. Immediately. This despite the steady, nearly measurable, decline in his movies since he broke big nearly ten years ago with The Sixth Sense.

And I wasn’t even that big a fan of The Sixth Sense. It was good, sure, but I’ve always been a little confused about one aspect of it, a possible flaw that I don’t have the memory or desire to go over with you right now. I’ve always assumed the flaw was in my perception rather than in the script, and I agree with most everyone that it was a damn fine ghost movie.

And so when Unbreakable came out the next year, well of course I was first in line to see it. (Not literally, you dunderhead. It’s an expression.) And I suppose it was alright—a watchable film with a nice twist of an ending. And then came Signs, Night’s first movie that gave me a full-blown case of the WTF’s. Did I fall asleep or did somebody forget to tack on an ending?

But there I was two years later sitting heavy-lidded and head in hand through The Village. Once again Night had returned to his trademark “surprise” ending, although I could spot this one like a rhinoceros at a tea party. And I’m not particularly good at spotting surprise endings. Or rhinoceroses either, if you want to know the truth.

Night followed this disaster with Lady in the Water which, for me, was the first uptick in his seeming unstoppable slide in quality. It was a minor, nearly imperceptible, uptick to be sure, but it was there. Could it be true? Had Night finally hit bottom?

I thought perhaps he had. And then a few months ago I saw The Happening, the blandest of science fiction thrillers with not even an attempt to come up with any kind of ending, surprise or otherwise. With confidence I declared this the bottom, for how could it get any worse? Would Night next attempt a remake of Plan Nine From Outer Space?

And so the two questions that are in my head are 1) Why do I keep going to see M. Night’s Shyamalan’s movies and 2) Why do the people in charge of such things continue to let him make them?

I think I keep (Make that “kept.” I’m done with this guy.) going to see his movies because I was looking for a return to the glory of The Sixth Sense. Also, the promo for The Happening, with the floating bodies and stuff, was pretty cool. The man can’t seem to write a decent script but he does create some nifty imagery.

And some of the reasons that Night is permitted to keep making movies are:

The Sixth Sense - $294 million
Unbreakable - $95 million
Signs - $228 million
The Village - $114 million

As a fist-threatened Linus once told Lucy, “Those are good reasons.”

Listen, the main reason I’m writing this is because I want to go on record and make a prediction. I’m generally pretty bad at the prognostication game, but I’ve had my moments. (Years ago I predicted David Duchovny’s return to television. Ta-daaaa!) Now I predict this:

Sometime in the not too distant future M. Night Shyamalan will also find himself on television. He will produce and write a Twilight Zone-type anthology series. It will be called something like M. Night Shyamalan Presents…Night Stories or some such nonsense. Unfortunately it too will suck and probably not even make it to Season Two. (Unless it’s on Showtime and shows naked breasts. Then it will run for years.)

Bewitched, Bothered and Deleted

It’s a little embarrassing, you know. Every now and then when I Google myself (And you don’t?) I come across the page on Wikipedia where their editors discussed whether the short entry on yours truly should be deleted. It eventually was of course, and rightfully so, but that doesn’t make their snippy little remarks hurt any less. I’m human too, you know. Well, nearly.

Check this out: There is a new warning on that discussion page with the word ATTENTION emblazed across the top. It looks like something you might see at a Nazi checkpoint. It’s even got a scary red triangle with a big exclamation point in it. It warns, in essence, that people who have come to the page because of what was written on my blog should realize that inclusion in Wikipedia is not a majority vote sort of thing. It’s up to the editors to decide. Achtung!

What’s really cool is they’ve now included a link to the very article that I wrote telling you, my loyal reader(s), to go there. Say what you will, the folks at Wikipedia are not fucking around. Here are some of the things I read that might have hurt my feelings if I wasn’t such a brave little trouper:

According to the first editor, who voted to delete me, the big problem with leaving my article on Wikipedia is apparently an issue of meeting their notability standards. So I guess what they’re saying is that they have all the room in the world for slackers like Lincoln, Gandhi, Jesus and McCartney but none for me. Can you imagine? Plus the guy has an issue with the fact that my first book was published by Signature Imprint, an “extremely obscure publisher.” Well excuse me all to hell, but maybe I just didn’t feel like dealing with HarperCollins and their snotty attitude.

Another editor claims that my article has zero value, zero sources and zero notability, and then condemns a somewhat rambling screed posted by a crazed fan. Which is fine. But then he asks whether anybody really believes there is actually a book entitled, Heywood Jablomi: The Internet Essays 1848 – 1853. Hey Clem, how about doing some research and look it up on Amazon. In fact why don’t you buy a copy while you’re there, you cheap little prick?

There is something to be said for a writer who is succinct in his message. No flowery prose, convoluted sentences or ten-dollar words for this next editor. He simply votes to delete me because, “this article is crap.” Sure it’s insulting, but I kind of admire his style.

And finally, the last editor claims that I am simply a writer of a “random blog and a few microscopically-tiny-press’d books.” All of which is, of course, completely true, but he doesn’t have to announce it to the whole world, does he? He insinuates that I am in command of an army of “meatpuppets” who I am using to keep the article about me posted on Wikipedia. The final cruelty, however, occurs when this editor is corrected by a commenter who does a little research and informs him that apparently my blog has only one reader. Which shows you how wrong some people can be: I have three.

________________________________________________________________

Hey Meatpuppets, check out the fun at:

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wikipedia:Articles_for_deletion/Leonard_stegmann

Little Boxes

My first mistake was renting Weeds. I’ve been noticing that Showtime has been coming up with some quality television series of late. Nothing to rival HBO of course (don’t be silly) but some good shows just the same. We’ve already caught up on all the seasons of The L Word and then whipped through David Duchovny’s Californication is about a week. Then we ordered the first season of Weeds and things came to a grinding halt. Not so good. But we both liked the opening song.

Spike had never heard the catchy ditty called Little Boxes before, but she was soon singing it all day long. Well, at least the first five words of it. Over and over and over again. I, not content to merely sing along, chose instead to educate Spike a bit. “The song was written and recorded by Laura Nyro in the sixties,” I explained. And that was my second mistake.

I was wrong! I know—I could barely believe it myself. But I got online to find out more about the tune and Laura Nyro was nowhere to be found. And perhaps the biggest shocker of all was not simply that Nyro didn’t write the song. It seems that every singer on Earth has at one time or another covered Little Boxes. Everybody, that is, except Laura Nyro.

I was correct, at least, in pointing out that the rows of small houses in Daly City visible from Hwy. 101 were indeed the inspiration for the song. And I have never been able to drive past them without thinking of Laura Nyro and what I thought was her song. And despite what I’ve now learned I suppose I will continue to do so.

Little Boxes was actually written by Malvina Reynolds in 1962 and its most popular version was recorded the following year by Pete Seeger. It’s a criticism of suburbia and the conformity therein. Legendary musical satirist Tom Lehrer (who just turned 80, if you can imagine) has called Little Boxes “the most sanctimonious song ever written.” He may be right but, with due respect, I’d like to offer up my choice: Signs by The Five Man Electrical Band. But I digress.

Below are the original lyrics from Little Boxes. Self-righteous or not, it really is a catchy little number. Check out some versions of the song on youtube.com. Then you too can bounce around the house singing it out loud and bugging the hell out of your spouse.



Little Boxes

apparently not by Laura Nyro

Little boxes on the hillside, Little boxes made of tickytacky

Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes all the same
There's a green one and a pink one and a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.

And the people in the houses all went to the university
Where they were put in boxes and they came out all the same,
And there's doctors and there's lawyers, and business executives
And they're all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.

And they all play on the golf course and drink their martinis dry,
And they all have pretty children and the children go to school
And the children go to summer camp and then to the university
Where they are put in boxes and they come out all the same.

And the boys go into business and marry and raise a family
In boxes made of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.

The Other Lenny

Tonight for the first time in the history of this space we have a guest writer. I’m sure you’ll all agree that being allowed to write on this blog is quite an honor, and I hope you enjoy her story. And remember, Ladies, you too can become a guest writer here. You simply need to earn your place just as Spike has…by sleeping with me.

The Other Lenny

by Melinda Stegmann


In high school I was trying to fit in and be popular with the boys. My best friend Kate had more boys around her than I had changes of underwear. Kate and I did all kinds of crazy things, but I will never forget meeting the Other Lenny.

Kate and I went to the roller skating rink a lot. On this particular school night the skating rink was crowded. I was wearing light blue dittos (that I had to lay on my bed to zip up) and a striped shirt with a Bugs Bunny pin. As we were skating a guy skated next to Kate; he was not the first or last guy to skate next to her. Then the skating rink announcer said, “Couples only.”

I hated hearing those words. For me it meant three minutes of sitting down by myself while some guy skated with Kate. Again, this night was no different--the guy who had been skating next to Kate asked her to dance while I was left sitting on the bench, watching once again. I wanted to be like Kate or at least as popular.

After what seemed like an eternity couples skating was over, and it was back to regular skating. Before entering the rink Kate introduced me to her male friend. She introduced him as Lenny. Under the lights of the skating rink Lenny looked much older than any of the other guys Kate had introduce me to. I always shook hands with the guys and this time was no different. I shook Lenny’s hand and said my usual statement, “It is nice meeting you.”

The three of us skated together for a while, until the announcer once again said, “Couples only.” I was in shock when Lenny asked me to dance with him. None of the other boys had ever asked me to dance. I can’t remember what song we dance to, all I remember is how sweaty my hand had become and that Kate for the first time that I could remember was sitting down watching me skate with a guy.

After this dance the three of us skated together until it was time to go home. As Kate and I were walking out of the skating rink Lenny came up next to us. He took Kate to the back of the skating rink, and again I had to wait. I did not know what they where doing. Then, after what seemed like a long while, Kate and Lenny reappeared. Then came my biggest surprise--Lenny took me in back of the skating rink.

He grabbed me and kissed me. This was not my first kiss, although it was the first time I ever kissed an older man. While he was kissing me he was putting his tongue inside my mouth. I had no clue what he was doing, or what I was suppose to do in return so I just kept kissing him. He kept putting his tongue in my mouth. After my less-than-enthusiastic response he eventually gave up and we walked to the front of the building. As we walked I saw Kate’s dad waiting to take us home. I was never so happy to see him.

Kate and I always both sat in the back seat of her dad’s car. Here we whispered our secrets to each other. Kate whispered how Lenny had put his tongue into her mouth and I whispered that he had put his tongue into mine. This was the first time that night that I realized that Lenny had tried the same kiss on both Kate and I.

I found out from Kate that Lenny was in his late thirties, much older than any high school guy that either Kate or I had ever kissed. We giggled all the way home--neither of us knew what a French kiss was or what it was supposed to feel like to have someone else’s tongue inside your mouth. I was happy to find out that even though Kate had more experience with boys than I did, this was also her first French kiss. Someday I’m going to call Kate and tell her that twenty years after that night I married another older guy named Lenny, and that my French kissing technique has improved greatly.

Wanderin'

“It will take about two or three hours.”

It was pretty much what I expected to hear. I decided today to finally get my new Sirius radio installed in my car, and I knew I’d be spending some time just waiting. Waiting and wandering.

Which is not always a bad thing. Sometimes when I drop my car off at the Toyota dealership I simply stroll over to the movie theater just a few blocks away, and I’m entertained until my car is repaired. But today I was at Circuit City, a store that as far as I could tell wasn’t within walking distance of anything entertaining.

Well, I’d make the best of it because, by golly, that’s the kind of guy I am. Stop laughing. My first stop was at the Rite-Aid, where I strolled up and down the aisles. There really wasn’t too much that interested me here, but I must admit that the birdhouses caught my eye. Plus they were reduced for clearance, marked down to a mere seven bucks. They sure were tempting, especially the one with the cute bears, but I’d be damned if I was going to lug the thing around for the next three hours.

I walked down to the book/magazine rack. Maybe I could buy a book to occupy the time? Yeah right. Like I’m going to spend seven bucks on a new book when I could get the same book on Amazon for three dollars and, with the shipping charge, pay only…seven bucks. Instead I looked through the magazines and saw a copy of Mad magazine. That’s it! I’ll buy one and later on walk over to that grassy area and have lunch and read Mad, which had, of course, been a minor contributor to the corruption of my youth.

The kid at the cash register said $5.44 and I said how much? He repeated the amount and I went through my Grandpa Granola routine. “I guess they’re not twenty-five cents anymore?” I asked. You know, you probably think the kid didn’t want to hear about “the way things were in the good old days” but his face showed genuine interest and surprise. “They used to be twenty-five cents?” he asked. I told him they had been, but I generously spared him my famous lecture, “A Brief and Boring History of the World from 1963 to the Present.”

I skipped the TJ Maxx (Do I have that name right?) because it appeared to be a store for women--angry women who did not want their shopping disturbed--and walked into Ross. A big sign in the window said that on Tuesdays shoppers 55 and older get a 10% discount. Five dollar Mad magazines and now this. I was getting less cheery with every store. There wasn’t much to interest me in Ross as it was mostly clothes, and seeing how I had just updated my wardrobe in 1993 I wasn’t in the market.

I looked though a bin of DVD’s and saw a few good ones, including a two disc set about the airborne in World War Two. Dad would enjoy this, I thought, and I picked it up. Then I saw the long line of women at the cash register and put it back down. The store had just opened—where did all these chicks come from? Tough luck, Pops.

There was a K-Mart across the street, which I figured would occupy me for a while. I did a few laps around the place but can’t even report to you what I looked at. Besides the hot young girl choosing a pink bra, I mean. Here too I walked up and down the aisles but never really did find what I was looking for, which by this time was a bathroom. Oh, I’m sure they had one and I could have asked, but I couldn’t be bothered. I left the store and walked to a Shell station.

With that need taken care of it was time to focus on another: food. And so into the Trader Joe’s I went. I don’t like any of these supposedly “hip” food stores. Whole Foods, Trader Joe’s, New Leaf—they can all kiss my ass. Why? Because I’m a grumpy old bastard who remembers when you could get a Mad for a quarter, that’s why. The truth is I walked around that store three times looking for something for lunch and it was only when some women chirped to her little kid, “Let’s go get our hummus!” that I walked out empty handed.

And went straight to the 7-11, where I bought a Diet Coke and brick-like and plastic wrapped chicken salad sandwich. I then strolled over to the grassy area and sat under a shady tree. OK, with the traffic zooming by and my pissy attitude it wasn’t exactly Huck Finn, but it would do while I waited for my car to be done.

I was sitting in the shade struggling to read the blurry pages of my Mad and wondering what the ten year old Leonard would say if he knew that in 45 years not only would he still be reading Mad but that he would require powerful reading glasses to do so. I sat there for a while and gradually became aware that I was feeling more discomfort than contentment. Why was that? Of course—I was freezing my ass off! And so I picked up the Mad, and the remains of my Coke and sandwich, and moved fifteen feet into the sun.

What a difference. The air was warm, the grass was dry and with the additional light I could even see my Mad more clearly. I leaned back into the lush grass, basked in the new-found warmth and began to read a clever take-off on the movie Iron Man. This was turning into a pleasant afternoon after all.

And then the phone rang. My car was ready. My car was ready and I was upset about it. I had just gotten comfortable and I couldn’t believe that they had installed the radio so quickly. I closed the Mad, put the rest of my sandwich in the bag, sighed and got to my feet. You know, some people are never satisfied, and clearly I’m one of those some people.

Guess Who #24

Talk about denial. One of the many unhealthy things I do repeatedly and to excess is looking up the names of actors and actresses who were once famous and have now disappeared from the national radar. Some have become so obscure that I’m not even sure if they are still alive. The silliest thing of all is that when I find out that some old codger is still with us I am immediately cheered. They may be brain-dead in some institution being fed from a tube, but I’m so happy to know that they are alive, even if they don’t know it themselves.

It’s as if I want to believe that these people have achieved immortality. They beat the system, I think. Good for them! It’s an absolutely pure form of denial, and I practice it nearly every day. And then, of course, I hear one day that the person has died and I’m sad and disillusioned. For example, that s.o.b. George Burns kept me in bubbly denial for decades, until shortly after his 100th birthday when he too shuffled off. They say nobody gets out alive and I’m starting to suspect that there may be some truth to this.

So a name popped into my head the other day, an actor who even in his prime was not particularly well-known. Let’s just say he found a niche in the acting world. Yeah, a niche, that’s it. So I looked him up and to my delight he’s very much alive. Some of that delight was diminished a bit when I realized that this relic from the distant past isn’t a whole lot older than I am. A lot older, yes, but not a whole lot older.

OK, I don’t want to give it all away before you even read the first clue. So tell me, old-timers, (and that certainly includes you, Shadow Dancer) who is this Mr. X?

Mr. X joined the Mickey Mouse Club TV series in 1955.

Mr. X was born in Louisville, Kentucky on December 10, 1941.

Mr. X had a legion of fans after he played Joe Hardy in The Hardy Boys serial.

Mr. X starred in many Disney classics, including Old Yeller, Swiss Family Robinson, Babes in Toyland and The Absent-Minded Professor.

Mr. X was released by Disney in 1964 when they discovered that he was gay.

Virtually blacklisted, Mr. X’s career then went into a tailspin from which it never recovered.

Mr. X became depressed and turned to drugs, almost dying at one point.

Mr. X created a successful carpet cleaning business.

Mr. X’s most recent film credit is The Education of a Vampire in 2001.

Mr. X said he quit acting because, “I just got sick of it and stopped.”

So tell me, who is this poorly-treated star of yesteryear?

Sring is in the Air

Is there any bigger waste of time and mental energy than carrying around the regrets of things that happened long ago and that we can’t do anything about? And yet we all do it. Well, that’s a rather presumptive and frankly stupid statement. How do I know if we “all do it”? I only know that I do it.

Here’s one that has always bugged me. About fifteen years ago I was having dinner at a friend’s house when one of the guests asked me about my trip to Africa. After I had answered a few questions about my travels another woman, a snippy little bitch as I recall, asked me if I went on a tour or by myself.

Now, I was pretty proud of the fact that I had gone to Kenya on my own, and just weeks after the end of the first Bush’s war at that. It was a dangerous time to travel, but I had simply purchased a plane ticket to Nairobi and gone, with no particular plan or itinerary.

“No, I didn’t go on a tour, I went alone.” I explained. “Once you get there you can take these three day camping safaris to different areas of the country.”

“You mean a tour,” the bitch said with an absolute finality as if she was Perry Mason proving her case. I said nothing. If I had it to do over again I might have patiently explained, once again, that I did travel to Africa by myself. Or better, I might have just emptied the gravy boat over her smug face.

But that’s not the story I wanted to share with you today. This one actually bugs me less. In fact, you might even think it’s cute. But still…

I was the shining star of Mr. Z’s fifth grade class, and as such I was chosen to help put up the new hallway bulletin board. I would estimate that back then my artistic ability was stuck somewhere about the third grade level, where it remains today, and so I wisely and naturally chose to work with the bulletin board’s lettering. My job was to staple the cut-out letters to spell the board’s theme, which was “Spring is in the Air.” Which I did.

Or I thought I did. A few hours after I had completed my task the school’s principal pointed out to Mr. Z (between cigarettes in the teachers’ lounge no doubt) that there was a letter missing from the bulletin board, which now read, “Sring is in the Air.” What I remember most about this was how goddam funny those two thought my mistake was. Ho, ho, Sring is in the air! What a riot!

So Mr. Z approaches me and attempts to let me in on the joke. “Wouldn’t it be funny,” he simpered, “if you wrote a letter to the principal and said that you know the difference between sring and spring and blah, blah, blah.” You know, I was ten years old and still a long ways from becoming the brilliant humor writer I am today, but even then I wondered what was so fucking funny about that? Hadn’t I been humiliated enough? And so, as I had often done with many suggestions made by adults, I simply ignored it and it quickly shriveled up and died a lonely death.

This story brought to mind a kids’ joke that I remember from about the same time period. (Did I ever mention that I spent a good part of the fifth and sixth grade reading every joke book I could get my prepubescent hands on?) OK, so there’s this kid and he raises his hand and asks the teacher if he can go to the bathroom.

“Yes, you may,” says the teacher, “but first I want you to recite the alphabet.”
And so the kid says, “ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOQRSTUVWXYZ.”
“Where’s the ‘P’?” asks the teacher.
“It’s running down my leg.”

Ha! Still a classic. Now just imagine if that snoopy hall-patrolling principal had come up to me after reading “Sring is in the Air” and asked me, “Where’s the ‘P’?” and if I had said, “It’s running down my leg.” Boy, then I would really have a great story to tell you tonight.

DeBakey/Snow

Dr. Michael DeBakey died this past weekend. He was 99 years old. He has been called the “greatest surgeon ever,” and personally performed over 60,000 operations. He pioneered surgical procedures to bypass blocked arteries in the neck, legs and heart. Dr. DeBakey was also a leader in developing machines that could assist failing hearts, helping to make open heart surgery a reality. Dr. DeBakey’s procedures have been performed on millions of patients all over the world, and have no doubt saved countless lives.

Tony Snow died this past weekend. He was 53 years old. Snow was a syndicated newspaper columnist and a commentator for Fox News, but is best known for serving as Bush’s press secretary for seventeen months. He once called the position the “most exciting job I’m ever going to have.” It was during these exciting times that Snow represented and defended the policies of the Bush administration, policies which included pre-emptive war, torture and spying on American citizens. Some estimates claim that as many as one million innocent people have died as a direct result of the policies that Snow justified daily.

Below is a reprint of my column on Tony Snow from last year.

Tony Snow Has Cancer

White House press secretary Tony Snow’s cancer has returned and spread to other parts of his body, including his liver. Deputy press secretary Dana Perino announced today that the cancer, which originated in his colon, has attached to the liver but is not in it. She then broke into tears.

Lawmakers and the general public have been sending get well wishes to the White House throughout the day and Snow’s heath problems have been getting extensive coverage in the media. Snow’s colleagues at the White House upon hearing the news were described as “shaken.” Bush was quick to spew a cliché of support. “He is not going to let this whip him,” said the doomed president.

It must be a horrible, fearful time for Snow, his family and his friends. I’ve no doubt that everything humanly possible will be done for Snow so that he will be able to continue that most precious of gifts—his life. Medical experts say that recent advances in chemotherapy now allow people who have this type of cancer to return to good health. It is hoped that Snow will eventually return to his job, a job which includes the daily justification of an immoral war that has already claimed the lives of hundreds of thousands of innocent people—people who wanted to live their lives just as much as Mr. Snow does.

A few months ago someone I know went on vacation to Mexico. He is both a friend of mine and a supporter of Bush’s war, which is a rare combination and perhaps the only example of a weak spot in my personal iron-clad wall of intolerance. My friend was swimming in the warm Mexican waters when he realized he had ventured out too far, and did not have the strength to make it back to shore. He spotted a buoy a short distance away and swam for it. There, clinging to the floating marker, he shouted to some people passing in a small sailboat and was soon rescued.

My friend did not drown, but for a moment he had stood at the edge and stared into the abyss. And it had chilled him. “I almost died!” he told me over the phone, the shock audible in his voice. It was as if he couldn’t even conceive of his own death, nor the horror or finality of it. I took this opportunity to remind him of the thousands of innocent Iraqi men, women and children who had died because of the war he supported. “What makes your life so valuable and theirs so expendable?” I wondered aloud. He had, of course, no answer.

Tony Snow is 51 years old and has a wife and three children ages 10, 11 and 14. I have no doubt that he wants to live with every fiber of his being. I know that he believes that life is precious, and never more so than when it’s his own. With all my heart I hope that Tony Snow is able to heal his body. I hope that Tony Snow is able to heal his mind.

The Naked and the Brain-Dead

There was curious weather out there today, at least for this particular corner of the planet. It was foggy, which is not unusual, but it was also warm. A breeze blew in from the Pacific, which also is fairly common, but it was a warm breeze. In fact the air was downright balmy, perhaps in no small part due to the heavy amount of ash that has infected the air as Mother Nature pushes on in her quest to entirely cremate our beloved state.

Ah, but the East Coast-style weather made it a wonderful day for a visit to one of our local nude beaches. This time I chose Bonny Doon, just north of Santa Cruz, for the day’s disrobed diversion. It’s an eye-poppingly beautiful beach, and the nude section is nestled protectively in the bosom of a horseshoe-shaped cliff, safe from any temperature wind, if not from lofty gawkers.

And speaking of bosoms, Bonny Doon is also one of those rare bare-ass beaches where you’ll find a decent ratio of women to men, assuming you think that one-to-three is decent. And today was no exception. During the course of the day I saw a wide selection of women (not to mention a selection of wide women) soaking in the hazy sunshine. Why, there must have been seventeen breasts out there.

And yet I don’t think I’ll be returning to Bonny Doon anytime soon, and here’s the reason. I’ve always maintained that, despite the claims of “naturists” and “family-friendly” clothing optional locales, wherever you have grown men and women running around starkers you’ll always find at least an undercurrent of sexuality. And sometimes a lot more.

As I lay in the sun at Bonny Doon, and forgive me for putting that image into your head, the ambient mood was far from anything erotic, exotic or even relaxing. In fact for the most part it was damn annoying. All around me the languid atmosphere was being destroyed by the incessant babbling of the naked sunbathers.

If I turned my head to the left I could hear a group of people, my age and yet somehow still attractive, jabbering incessantly about their recent high school reunion. When I turned my head to the right I was able to successfully tune them out, but their chatter was replaced by another group talking non-stop about their favorite forms of exercise. In the distance a third group talked loudly about the latest iPhone. I swear I could have heard more exotic conversation at a Catholic school PTA meeting.

Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t expect, nor want, to hear wild orgiastic talk spewing from all these folks, but a more enticing atmosphere might have been created if I could had simply listened to the regular crashing of the waves instead of what size medicine ball the muscle-bound bald guy liked to throw around in his yard.

And as I lay there surrounded by blithering naked baby boomers I couldn’t help but wonder: How did this generation, my generation, grow up to become so deathly dull? Let’s face it folks, if you’re boring when you’re all sitting around naked, then my friends how tediously dreary must you be when you’re actually wearing clothes?

Doubling Down on Obama

I’ve heard it a sickening number of times: If you don’t vote you can’t complain. To which I always respond, sure you can! And I do, regularly. And you know what else you can do even if you don’t vote? You can bet on the election!

The wagers I’ll be talking about tonight are those between me and Mr. Zero. So far this year only one of our bets had been finalized. Back in March Mr. Zero was insisting that Carl Sandburg’s poem Fog was based on the San Francisco Bay Area. I argued, and for the most part proved, that the Burgmeister was actually describing the fog he had seen during the many years that he lived on Lake Michigan.

After an exhaustive search of the Internet I discovered a bit from a Sandburg biography that agreed with me. Unfortunately I also found a few folks who described the poem as a tribute to San Francisco’s famous fog. I conveniently dismissed these uninformed yokels and at the end of the day I received, albeit begrudgingly, a hundred dollar check from Mr. Zero. (And how about us betting on poetry like that? Pretty hoity-toity, I’d say!)

Our next bet, also for $100, is on schedule to conclude next month. This time the facts are less murky and, unfortunately, leaning the wrong way. Months ago Mr. Zero and I had a bet on who would emerge as the Democratic nominee. He picked Obama and I picked “not Obama.” Sure it seems obvious to you smart-asses now, but at the time, and to Mr. Zero’s credit, it wasn’t even a particularly close race. In fact I was still convinced that the white male, John Edwards, would emerge victorious, this country being what it is.

And so when Obama accepts his party’s nomination next month I will be out a hundred bucks. There goes my fog money. But worry not, because we’ve already placed our bet on the November election. Mr. Zero has picked McCain and I have Obama. And here lies the problem.

Some odds-makers already have Obama as a two-to-one favorite to win, and as such I feel fairly secure in recapturing my fog money. In fact I’m so confident that I’m doing everything I can to get Mr. Zero to double up on his bet. But I’ve also been around the block a time or three and I’ve seen things. I’ve seen the 1969 Mets and I’ve seen Buster Douglas. And most frighteningly, I’ve seen the interviews with some of the West Virginia voters after their May primary.

One woman said that she didn’t vote for Obama because he’s a Muslim. Another woman said Obama didn’t get her vote because, “We’ve always had trouble with that race.” An exit poll showed 20% of the voters admitting that race played a part in their decision. Now if 20% are willing to admit to racism, how many more feel the same way but keep it to themselves? I’m guessing around 80%.

And so, while the country is busy hailing Obama and pretending that racism no longer exists, I’m getting a little worried about my bet. After all, Obama no longer has to win for this country to start patting itself on the back. “Well, he lost, but look at us. At least we nominated a black man to run for president. No racism here!” I’ve no doubt that rather than elect a black man this country may decide to install in the White House a decrepit white throwback and evil clone of the worst president in history. And then I’ll be out a hundred bucks.

Fortunately when I’m feeling this way I know a sure-fire cure. I simply pull up that famous 2004 photo of a sweaty, closed-eyed and seemingly ecstatic McCain dry-humping a waving George Bush. This picture is now everywhere, as I predicted months ago, and this is the image that will be the fatal stake in McCain’s political heart. Yeah, I think I’m ready to double down now, Mr. Zero.

Going Away Party

“It’s stupid!” I said with youthful conviction. “Just when everybody is starting to feel better we have to go do that and then we all get depressed again.” That was me arguing over thirty years ago about the foolishness of funerals. The old folks, who incidentally were younger back then than I am right now, patiently tried to explain the value of tradition. But at 23 tradition was just one more thing about which I couldn’t have given less of a damn.

And now it’s 2008 and my parents are informing me that they have made their final arrangements, and these arrangements do not include any funeral services. I am stunned. No funeral? Why the hell not? Don’t you think it’s important that your family and friends gather together to remember the good times and to celebrate your life? And barring that, what about the psychological healing value of communal grieving? Surely this is part of a primal process that is imbedded deep within our genetic code.

Is it my imagination or is there a trend against the holding of funeral or memorial services? And if so, why is that? Is it because we have now convinced ourselves that we are leading such oh-so-busy lives that we simply don’t have the time to spend an hour in quiet contemplation and remembrance? Perhaps we’ve gotten to the point where we’ve decided that if something can’t be done over the Internet with a few clicks then we can’t be bothered.

My brother had requested that no services be held upon his death, and when he died a few years ago his wish was honored. Now, I’m sure he and I would have agreed that a somber service in some stuffy church stunk up by incense is the last thing we would want, but couldn’t there be some informal gathering, with jokes, laughing and exchanged memories?

It began as a chore: A few weeks after he died some family members were sitting around the kitchen table. Most of the horrible duties, the closing of accounts and the disposition of possessions, had been done. What we had left to do sat in front of us: a huge plastic trash bag filled with hundreds and hundreds of my brother’s photographs. I didn’t know then and I don’t know now how it came to be that all of his photos wound up in a giant trash bag. All I knew is that we had years of pictures to go through, organize and put into photo boxes.

It didn’t have to take all those hours to get the job done. The reason it did was because we were constantly interrupting ourselves. Look at this one! Remember this? Look how young we were! Who are these people? Look at what he’s wearing! And we laughed more during those few hours than we had in weeks; more than we would laugh in the long weeks ahead.

And so now if someone asks me if we ever had a memorial for my brother I say, despite his wishes, yes we did. There was no dusty church, no priest spewing false words and no competitive weeping. Instead, in a cramped kitchen on a quiet night over cups of coffee, handfuls of M&M’s and a huge bag of photos, we remembered and celebrated a life.

Split Decision

There is a call from many in this country to boycott the upcoming Olympic Games in China. Barack Obama, while not demanding an absolute boycott, has said that Bush should not travel to the opening ceremonies and that he should consider a boycott. Make fun of Obama’s long legs if you will, but they sure can come in handy when he straddles a fence like that.

I’ve always been against, albeit mildly, the use of the Olympics as a political tool. It’s not a strongly held belief and lord knows I’d rather sit through a Pauly Shore film festival than actually watch those damn boring games. Still, in my possibly naive way I’ve felt that no matter how badly things are in the world, if countries can put aside their differences for some friendly competition then maybe there is still a glimmer of hope. Perhaps through the common ground of sport the seeds of an understanding can germinate and even bloom into something wonderful.

And yet…

A comedy performance can be many things. It can of course, be funny. As many comics know it can also be not funny. It can be dull, insightful, obscene or satiric. But rarely is a comedy routine brave. Stephen Colbert’s performance at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner on April 29, 2006 was not the funniest performance ever by a comedian. It wasn’t even close. What it was, however, was brave; brave and historic.

The White House Correspondents’ Dinner is an annual event where, in theory, members of the press and the administration forget their antagonisms for one evening, let down their hair and have some fun. Traditionally the president makes humorous remarks and a good time is had by all. Who can forget an earlier dinner in 2004 when Bush commented on a projected slide of himself looking under some furniture. “Those weapons of mass destruction have got to be somewhere!” he snickered, as thousands of innocent people died due to his actions.

Colbert didn’t tweak the president with his comedy routine. He didn’t poke fun or tease him. Stephen Colbert attacked Bush, in a blistering and now legendary verbal assault that elicited few laughs at the time and left the doomed president and his wife so infuriated that it came across on camera. When it was over the First Lady wouldn’t even shake his hand. Score!

Stephen Colbert was called “rude” for his performance that night. Many said, predictably, that no matter what you think of Bush he deserves respect because he is, after all, the president. These are the same breed of people who would have said in 1939 Germany, “No matter what you think of him he is, after all, the Chancellor.”

CNN is currently airing a program that examines the claims made by Bush and his administration in the run-up to the invasion and occupation of Iraq. Many Germans condemned the Nazis’ actions in 1946 and later. But history doesn’t smile on those who look back with a “tsk-tsk” years after the fact. No, history honors those who take a stand at the time.

Colbert (probably) didn’t put his life on the line with his performance on that night. But he did officially put himself on record. He was given an opportunity and he used it. He must have seen the absurdity and immorality of breaking bread and laughing, even if only for a single evening, with a war criminal. And so he attacked the monster and he wounded it; and in its own lair.

Today many people are asking how can we play games with a country that continues to suppress the rights of the people of Tibet? How can we run races with a country that does nothing to stop the slaughter in Darfur? And yet somehow I still see the hope of a peaceful world that these damn boring games might, in some small way, help to create.

I see the hope, but I also understand the outrage.

Everybody Hates Raymond's Kids

Remember the recent column I wrote about Entertainment Weekly’s list of the “new classics”? Of course you don’t—you didn’t bother to read it. In fact I can’t believe you’re even taking the trouble to read this. Anyhow, on the list of the best television shows of the past 25 years you’ll find Everybody Loves Raymond, which probably deserves to be there. It ranked #70 on the list, and it probably deserves to be there, too. It was an amusing, occasionally hilarious, show that lasted for nine seasons, a near-impossible feat in the sitcom world.

Tonight I’m here to say that Everybody Loves Raymond might have ended up higher on the classics list, and certainly higher on my list, were it not for two little problems: Those zombie-like twins who played Ray’s sons. I know, I know, can I really stoop so low on these pages as to criticize innocent little children? Of course I can, so let’s begin.

The twins on Raymond were played by Sawyer and Sullivan Sweeten, real life twin brothers. They began appearing on the show in 1996 at the age of one, and continued until the show ended on May 16, 2005, four days after their tenth birthday. And every time I see them on the show, whether they are nine or five or two, I can only think of one thing: My God, they suck.

Well I’m sorry, but it’s drives me nuts watching these expressionless gargoyles, and it must have driven the director and writers batty as well. Watch them for just a short amount of time and you realize that you can’t give them lines and you can’t give them direction. But if the script calls for a vacant stare, you got the right kids. In the end it was obviously the editors who saved the day, relying on quick reaction shots and cutaways that lasted the one or two seconds before these robots looked off camera and ruined the shot.

Oh yes, they’re only ten. You know who else was only ten? Abigail Breslin, when she starred in Little Miss Sunshine. So was Macauly Culkin, when he made Home Alone. And what about Oscar nominee Haley Joel Osment in The Sixth Sense? Oh, forgive me on that last one—Osment was eleven when he received his nomination. And you know what else he was? Only the eighth youngest actor to get an Oscar nomination. Eighth! And let’s not even mention Shirley Temple, who received an Oscar at age seven. You know what Shirley Temple was doing by age ten? Accepting lifetime achievement awards, that’s what!

You think it’s unfair, don’t you, that I should compare these two kids to all these talented child actors? Well, that’s exactly my point. There are many, many talented child actors out there. These kids just didn’t happen to be two of them. I always wonder at what point the producers started kicking themselves when they realized they were stuck with these two mannequins for the entire run of the series. And they shouldn’t have been—hell, if you can switch out the Darrin’s on Bewitched, they certainly could have gotten away with dropping these twin androids.

I finally remembered to look up Sawyer and Sullivan Sweeten on IMDB and it seems to support my premise. Neither one of those goofballs has an acting credit past Everybody Loves Raymond. It looks as if they might have taken the advice of, well, probably everybody they know and given up on acting. Good for them. I hope these boys are happy and are enjoying at least some semblance of a normal childhood. I hope they are doing well in school and are surrounded by lots of friends. And most of all, I hope they stay the hell off my TV screen.

A Second Chance

Now that I’ve finally learned how to operate Spike’s (and since we reside in California, my) new digital camera I thought today that maybe I should start bringing it on my afternoon bicycle rides. It seems that every time I ride the bluff coastal trails I am treated to a glimpse of native wildlife or an ocean scene of breathtaking beauty.

And then almost immediately my brain began to offer up reasons why I shouldn’t bring the camera. I haven’t learned to transfer the pictures. I should really ask Spike’s permission first. I don’t know where it is. I might drop it. I might lose it. I’ll take it next time. And then I left for my ride.

Half an hour later I was looking down from the bluffs in disbelief. No, it was not a rabbit, dolphin, goldfinch or snake. Nor was it Bigfoot or Jimmy Hoffa or Elvis. It was something far more unexpected and wondrous. It was a naked woman. A young naked woman. A young, beautiful naked woman. A young, beautiful…did I already mention that she was naked?

She was posing for a man with a camera in a semi-secluded canyon. And she wasn’t shy. She posed with her front towards the camera and her back towards me, with her hands on her hips. She posed sitting on a rock. She posed with her back towards the camera and her front towards me. (Hooray for our side!) And despite the fact that I was watching the show from the cliffs above, she didn’t seem to be that far away. I can only assume she would have appeared even closer when viewed through a zoom lens. Like the one on the camera that I had been too lazy to bring.

I suppose I should look on the bright side. Think of all the people who took a bike ride today and didn’t get to see a naked girl. Think of all the starving children in India who may never get to see a naked girl. I should be thrilled with how lucky I was today. “I suppose,” says my brain reluctantly, though still with the pouty lower lip.

But no! I will not accept that. Screw the starving, naked girl-less children in India. I want a picture of that naked girl and I’m going to get it. And so pedaling furiously (and actually popping my bike out of first gear for the first time this week) I arrive back home in minutes, burst through the front door and look behind the pillows where the cameras are kept. Nope, that’s our old film one. Nope, that’s my brother’s old one. Where is that damn digital? Why do they have to make them so goddam small? Ah ha, here it is! And back out of the house and onto the bike I go.

Sometimes, not often, the fates are kind. They look down, (or up or whatever) and take pity on the truly pitiful. They will bestow on some poor slob like me the rare, unexpected and oh so longed for second chance. Yes, sometimes the fates will do that.

But not this time.

The New Classics (Albums and Books)

Ah, you’re back. Good. Let’s continue with the second part of our examination of Entertainment Weekly’s compilation of the best in pop culture over the last 25 years. God, I love having EW do all my work for me.

ALBUMS

There was a time not so long ago, geologically speaking, when I could immerse myself in a copy of Rolling Stone and be as comfortable as if I had eased into my own bathtub. I knew the names and I knew the music. In fact I still know those names and their music, but unfortunately most of them are dead now. And so forgive an old hippie if he is unfamiliar with today’s groovy sounds. Oh Christ, I sound like your grandpa.

According to the folks at EW the best album (and yes, they still are calling them albums, smart ass) was Purple Rain by Prince. Hey guess what? I know his name and I know the song. Well, at least I can sing six seconds of it. I’ve heard really good things about this Prince kid. What’s that you say? The album is 24 years old and last month Prince became eligible for AARP? You don’t say.

Here’s another surprise for you. You would have to go all the way down to #22 to find an artist that I have not at least heard of. This would be De La Soul, whose 1989 record 3 Feet High and Rising takes that spot on the list. Now the music is another story, and the only album in the top 29 that I’m familiar with is Paul Simon’s Graceland, which landed in the #8 spot. The next album I know is Appetite for Destruction by Guns N’ Roses, which is #30. Oh, you’re surprised, are you? Well, did you know that the first song Spike and I danced to at our wedding was by Guns N’ Roses? See, you don’t know everything about me.

So now I’ll just scan the rest of the list to see if maybe there is another hanger-on from the good old days other than Paul Simon. First off, there is not one album on the list by an individual Beatle. Were the boys really done and done by 1983? It would appear so. (And yet I invite you to listen to McCartney’s latest, Memory Almost Full. You may be surprised.)

I see Bob Dylan has made the list and let’s see, who else…Neil Young! There’s my boy, clocking in with Harvest Moon in the #57 position. So if you don’t have this great album, go buy it. Whoops I forgot it’s the 21st century. What I meant to say was, go steal it.

BOOKS

No, no, no, I’m not going to whine that none of my books (Available at www.LeonardStegmann.com. Buy two or three as gifts.) made it onto the list of New Classics. I’m delusional but I’m not insane. Now here’s a category that I would expect to be at least a bit more familiar, but I’ve never heard of EW’s pick for the best book of the last 25 years: The Road, by Cormac McCarthy. It must be some book—and off to Amazon I go.

As we work our way down the list the terrain becomes somewhat more familiar. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire checks in at #2 while Oprah’s, I mean Toni Morrison’s Beloved is #3. Two of my favorite writers from the olden days make the top 18. First is Philip Roth’s American Pastoral, which has been on my to-do list for some time, and at #18 John Updike’s Rabbit at Rest. Another favorite writer, Larry McMurtry, is at the #24 position with Lonesome Dove. Do you know which book of McMurtry’s I don’t like? Me neither.

Oh good, there’s The Kite Runner and A Prayer for Owen Meany. But where is it? How is it possible that Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett didn’t make the list? In all my years, which we earlier established are many, I have never seen a reaction like I saw with this book. Mr. Zero lent it to me when it came out in 1989 and from there it made the rounds through a varied assortment of friends and relatives, each with the same reaction: everybody, everybody loved it.

A few weeks ago I was looking at the best-seller list and saw that Pillars of the Earth was on top. I thought it was a mistake—the book is almost twenty years old. But there was no mistake. Apparently Oprah had added it to her book club or whatever the hell she has, and it was born again. And deservedly so! Don’t be snobby and pass up this incredible historical novel just because Oprah bestowed her blessing on it. It would be in my book club too!

Oh, the folks at EW have also done a little research for me and with the tiniest of effort I’ll pass it on to you. Did you know that Stephen King has written 60 books? John Updike has written 61 and Ruth Rendell 70. But tip your cap to the most prolific of them all: Joyce Carol Oates clocks in with a total of 119 books! (Have I mentioned that I’m only 55 years old and have already written…three?)

The New Classics (TV Shows and Movies)

The title comes from the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly, which I suppose has now become my favorite magazine, if I were forced to designate such a thing. In fact I’ve recently let nearly all of my magazine subscriptions lapse into oblivion. Skeptic and Reason were boring, Playboy was about as sexy as Laura Bush and Maxim, well let’s just say I had issues (pun!) with their thinly-veiled support of the war. And those little photo captions weren’t as funny as they used to be, either. So there.

But I just renewed my subscription to Entertainment Weekly. In fact they offered a free gift subscription with the renewal, which I offered to give to Peachpit if she’d only come with me to the nudie beach. (I had been saving back issues for her.) And despite her immediate, unequivocal and somewhat high-volumed response I gave her the subscription anyway.

In the current issue of EW they list the best Movies, TV Shows, Albums and Books of the last 25 years, and these then are The New Classics. I thought many of the choices were correct, but some were way off base. The criteria for correctness, of course, is whether or not they agree with me. Still, I thought it might be fun to take a look at some of EW’s selections. And remember, these are not my picks, which just makes life so much easier for me.

TV SHOWS

A few months ago Time called The Simpsons the “best show ever.” Entertainment Weekly appears to concur by naming it #1 on their list of New Classic television shows, saying “It will go down as the most revered, beloved comedy in TV history. For 19 seasons this exquisitely crafted gag machine has been rat-a-tatting out penetrating deconstructions and celebrations of the dysfunctional American clan.” Whew. Of course I point all this out to Mr. Zero and he just scoffs, “You’re 55 years old and you still watch cartoons?” But I’ll say no more because Mr. Zero is one of my dearest, dearest friends and, of course, an idiot.

My choice for best comedy of all time, Seinfeld, ended up #3 on the list, right behind The Sopranos. In fact I was either a mild fan or a huge fan of all of the top six shows, which also include The X-Files, Sex and the City and Survivor. Some of my other favorites that made the list are (the admittedly overrated) South Park #12, The Daily Show #14, The Larry Sanders Show #28, Curb Your Enthusiasm #45 and my beloved and apparently not forgotten Mystery Science Theater 3000 #63. Oddly enough, and I can’t imagine who would even care, Charlie Rose didn’t even make the list.

MOVIES

I’d have to spend some time thinking about what I’d pick for the best movie of the last quarter century, but if EW says it’s Pulp Fiction I can’t think of any reason to disagree. To become a classic a movie should be like something we’ve never seen before, and Pulp Fiction fits the bill. Not to mention the fact that I can’t seem to click by it whenever it appears on my TV screen.

The rest of the top ten is a little choppy for me, however. Second is the Lord of the Rings trilogy, which is supposed to be wonderful. To be honest I haven’t seen them. I think I still have the taste of boredom in my mouth from trying to read the damn books all those years ago. Titanic is #3. It also made about a gazillion dollars, back when the dollar had value, so nobody cares what I think. I never did understand all the hubbub about Blue Velvet and Silence of the Lambs, although they both appear in the top ten. Woody Allen’s Hannah and Her Sisters takes its deserved place at #7. (Actually I might have put Crimes and Misdemeanors in there instead, but as long as Woody’s represented that’s cool.)

But how on God’s polluted Earth can Moulin Rouge be #10? How could this complete waste of two hours slither onto any list that does not have 24-point letters proclaiming “The Worst Movies of All Time” at the top of the page? Come to think of it, Moulin Rouge did make such a list. A few years ago Maxim declared it the #7 worst movie ever made. Maybe I’d better rethink that subscription cancellation.


TOMORROW: BOOKS AND ALBUMS