American Airlines: Taxiing to Honolulu

You know, it’s hard enough for me to keep correcting the fallacious e-mails I get from family and friends on a near-daily basis. Why do I have to be the one to send you people over to Snopes so you can learn that no, drinking cold water after a meal does not cause cancer and Barack Obama was not sworn into office on the Quran? Listen, I’m not complaining, I’m happy to do it. And by “happy” I mean I hate it.

But now, it seems, I find myself obligated to provide the same truth service to major corporations. I’m terribly sorry, really I am, but I must draw the line somewhere. I am, after all, but one man. And barely that.

Here’s how it all started. I received an e-mail from American Airlines soliciting me to join their Admirals Club, and I actually read it. I am, after all, one of their AAdvantage members, and besides it was refreshing to finally get a piece of spam that was not trying to sell me Cialis. And then I read the disclaimer and I couldn’t believe it. I’m printing it below. See if you can find the error. (It shouldn’t be that hard. Mr. Zero found it in about thirty seconds, and he still claims Bush is a “great man,” so you know he’s no Rhodes scholar.

No purchase necessary. Open to legal residents of the 50 contiguous United States and the District of Columbia 18 years or older. Employees and agents of Sponsor, Administrator and each of its parents and affiliates, agencies, distributors, wholesalers and retailers, and members of such employees' immediate families and individuals living in the same household with such employees, are not eligible to win.

Did you spot it? It’s right there in the very first line. There are, of course, not 50 contiguous states, there are 48. Now if some fifth-grade student had written this and thrown in “contiguous” to impress his teacher with a ten-dollar word, well that might be understandable. But an airline? Do they understand that Alaska does not share a border with the rest of the United States? Do they comprehend that it is not possible for a plane to taxi from California to Hawaii?

So, once again selflessly performing my valuable service, I replied to American Airlines. I politely (read: sarcastically) pointed out that there are only 48 contiguous states, not 50, and then I suggested that their copywriter pick up a dictionary and look up “contiguous.” I ended my little note with a question: “What do I win?” Because frankly I’m tired of setting you all straight for free.

I haven’t heard back from American yet, but when I do you’ll certainly be able to read all about it right here. Meanwhile, what does it say about an airline, a travel service that perhaps should know a little more about geography than the average company, when it sends out millions of e-mails saying there are 50 contiguous states? Does it give you a warm secure feeling all over? Nah, me neither. I sure hope they’re a little more knowledgeable over at Amtrak.

Guess Who #25

Well first I had to catch Uncle Bill’s convention speech. My, he sure has done a 180 on Obama. It seems like only a few months ago he was telling everybody who would listen that Obama wasn’t ready to be president. I wonder what could have possibly changed his mind? And then after that I had to catch up on the last three episodes of Weeds-Season Three. And in less than an hour Jon Stewart will be on the The Daily Show, reporting from the convention in Denver. I’m certainly not about to miss that.

So where does that leave tonight’s column? You guessed it. It’s time to once again play the game that’s sweeping the nation. And boy, if a nation was ever in need of a sweeping it’s this one. But enough of that palaver. Let’s play Guess Who!

Mr. X was born in Chicago.

Mr. X has four children, ages 55, 53, 18 & 16.

Mr. X graduated from the University of Illinois with a major in Psychology.

Mr. X worked as a copywriter for Esquire, but quit in 1952 when he was denied a $5 raise.

Mr. X’s first wife once told him that she had an affair. He has called that “the most devastating moment of my life.”

Mr. X has donated millions of dollars to USC’s School of Cinematic Arts.

On June 4th 1963 Mr. X was arrested for selling obscene literature.

Mr. X has admitted to having sex with men.

Mr. X suffered a mild stroke in 1985.

Mr. X is 82 years old.

Mr. X has a subspecies of rabbit named in his honor.

Mr. X is the sponsor for the letter “Y” in the famous Hollywood sign.

Nah, I’m not even going to put in that last hint. This is already too easy. OK, Hot Shots, who is Mr. X?

...But You Can't Tune a Fish

Tonight: a mystery. And it involves tuna fish. And why is it that we have to add the word “fish” when we talk about tuna? We don’t say salmon fish or halibut fish or shark fish. Where else do you see this type of qualification? Oh sure, we sometimes say kiwi fruit, but isn’t that simply so we don’t confuse it with the bird of the same name? And before you start yelling about monkfish, I think the qualifier there is absolutely necessary, so as not to give the impression that you are dining on a religious person. Holy cow, only 102 words in and I’ve already gone completely off course.

The mystery I present to you tonight has nothing to do with the phrase “tuna fish.” It’s about tuna itself, specifically canned tuna. Now for years I’ve believed that when I was a college lad, way back during the Hoover administration, a can of tuna (fish) cost 99 cents, just about the same as it costs today. Upon reflection I’m beginning to suspect that my memory is a bit faulty and that it actually must have cost 49 cents. Either way, the price certainly hasn’t skyrocketed in price at the same pace of other commodities, such as gasoline and marijuana. (They tell me.) But our mystery is not about the price of tuna either.

The facts of this case only go back a few months. It was then that I decided that perhaps I didn’t need to bottom-feed in every aspect of my life. Maybe I don’t drive a Porsche or vacation in my French villa, but after 55 years of dragging my ass around this planet aren’t I entitled to upgrade on something? Aren’t I allowed to treat myself to the Solid White Albacore tuna and finally leave the college student world of …holy shit I think I just solved the mystery! And you’re getting to read the latest developments…as they happen.

I left the world of Chunk White Tuna a few months ago and started to buy the Albacore. I had of course, always eaten the Chunk White since I was a child, always packed in oil and always mixed with many generous dollops of delicious, nutritious mayonnaise. Years ago I finally learned the difference between tuna that is packed in oil and tuna that is packed in oil. Specifically, a can of tuna in water has about 150 calories, while a can in oil about 12,000.

Eventually the low-grade Chunk White tuna was starting to look pretty bad to me. The ingredients seemed like the piscine equivalent of whatever they put in hot dogs. Each new can I opened reminded me more and more of a pile of ground up cat guts. (I suppose any kind of guts would have worked here, but I love getting a reaction out of you kitty lovers.) But when I started to buy the Albacore (which also can, if they’re having a sale and the wind is just right, be purchased for a buck) it was heaven. It was white, flakey and delicious. (Much like myself.)

And then a few weeks ago it all ended. I was still buying the Albacore but for reasons that I couldn’t begin to understand the Albacore had turned into cat guts. It was now absolutely no different from the Chuck White tuna that I had so recently renounced. In my head I had all sorts of reasons why this might be: it could be the brand, the season, or an industry-wide scam aimed directly at me. But frankly I didn’t have a clue—until about four paragraphs ago. I’ll have to check out my theory the next time I go shopping, but I suspect I’m onto something here, and so I won’t be needing your help with my little mystery after all.

You see, I’ve been focusing on the word “albacore” thinking this was the white flakey tuna I wanted. And a few minutes ago when I went to search for a picture of a can of tuna I found one that said Solid White Albacore. The cans in my cabinet are Chuck Light Albacore. Eureka! It’s the Solid White Tuna that I was buying until recently. And will buy in the future. Oh, you already knew all this stuff about tuna? OK, never mind.

My First Cussin'

You think you had it rough? Try being a curly-haired boy growing up during the Beatle Era. I tell you, I’ve known real pain. And it was this pain that on one particular day in 1964 caused me to utter my first curse word. Yes, I may not remember what I had for breakfast but I sure as hell know when I said my first obscenity.

I would have killed for a Beatle haircut at the time, but even then I knew it was never going to happen. My locks, if allowed to grow, were and always would be more of the Art Garfunkel variety. I was still combing my hair with the wave in front, and I was still frustrated by one little curl that refused to stay in place. It never failed—five minutes after I emerged from the boys’ room with damp hair plastered into place the errant follicles would curl around to form a near-perfect loop. And I hated it.

On this day my fifth grade teacher Mr. Z had asked me to deliver a message to Mrs. B., who had been my fourth grade teacher. Now as a teacher Mrs. B. had been a bit of a hard-ass and escaping her class to Mr. Z.’s was like being released on parole. I’m tempted to further describe her as an old, old lady but you remember how that goes: It may be that Mrs. B. was at the time younger than I am right now. So let’s just say that I believe that Mrs. B. was a decaying old fossil, but I wouldn’t bet my life on it. Yours yes, but not mine.

Mrs. B. didn’t have to say anything more than a simple thank you when I delivered the message. And I would have returned to Mr. Z.’s class with my verbal purity still intact. But no, Mrs. B. had to open her wizened mouth and make a comment. It was a question actually, and this is what she asked:

“How long did it take you to make that curl?”

I didn’t explode. And if you’re thinking that I cursed at her you’re way off. I was furious, yes, but I wasn’t an idiot. I answered her question with some sort of joke and walked down the hallway to return to my classroom. And just because the steam that was coming out of my ears wasn’t visible to Mrs. B., myself or anybody who happened to be in the hall doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.

As angry as I was I cannot deny that vocalizing the curse word was calculated. I waited until I was far enough away from Mrs. B. to be out of earshot. I looked up and down the hallway, and then I muttered under my breath, “Damn her.”

I don’t think it felt particularly good or bad to finally use an expletive out loud. It was simply time to do it, and a relief to get it over with. It was, in a way, much like losing my virginity. But unfortunately that particular rite of passage took a lot longer to accomplish, and with a lot more effort. And it’s a story for another day.

ADDENDUM: I lied to you. This was actually the second time in my life that I had used a curse word. It was, however, the first time I did it consciously and also the first occurrence that I remember. There is a delightful family story that I must share. According to my parents, when I was about two I was in the playpen trying to climb out. My parents, curious if I could actually do it, kept encouraging me. Finally, bursting with infantile frustration and resignation, I yelled out, “I can’t do it, goddammit!”

I was such a special child.

Harbin: Beneath the Surface/Night

There were five of us in the small sauna: two guys, one woman, my companion and myself, all nude. And then, as if responding to the sheer force of my will, the guys left. And so I sat in the sauna with two naked women, nobody saying a word. That is until my companion whispered, “It’s too hot--I’m leaving.” And so she did.

And there I sat, about three feet from this wildly attractive woman, neither of us speaking a word. Silence, you remember, is more often than not the rule at Harbin Hot Springs. And the truth is I didn’t care a bit if I could speak or not. In fact if I had been struck mute at that moment it wouldn’t have bothered me at all, just as long as I could continue to gaze upon this remarkable creature. Take my voice, take my ears, but please God, don’t take my eyes!

We sat in steamy silence, she relaxing with eyes closed and I fantasizing like a maniac. I’ve never been a foot guy because, after all, I have feet. But for some reason I found myself tremendously attracted to hers. I suppose I wasn’t simply lusting after her feet—I was just considering them a starting point. And then suddenly the light in the sauna went out, and this glorious woman and I were sitting, silent and sweaty and naked, in near darkness.

What was going on? First everybody leaves except me and this goddess, and then the lights go out. In my head I could hear God’s voice: “Is there anything you need me to do?” But still I did nothing, except for expelling an occasional and audible sigh. This was, after all, Harbin. And grabbing a woman’s foot, or whatever, in the sauna was simply not acceptable behavior. One false move and security might drag me from the sauna, naked and screaming, and throw me through the front gate and into the parking lot.

And as if to confirm my thoughts the woman stood up and walked out the sauna door. I watched as she moved away and it was an even better view than her feet. I exited the sauna about ten seconds later and met my companion, who had been waiting for me on a bench right outside. “The light went out,” I said, and we proceeded to the soaking pools.

There are a variety of soaking pools at Harbin. Each is a different size and contains a different temperature of water. And has different rules. Once outside of the sauna my companion and I headed for the heart-shaped conversation pool. This pool contains body-temperature water and is the most sociable of the pools—at least if you’re referring to talking. Even so, the discourse is rare and seldom rises above a whisper. It’s very pleasant in the conversation pool and the tepid water allows for a long dunk, but I was eager to move on.

A sign at the meditation pool prohibits talking. It also warns against “sexual contact.” It was because of this sign (but not only) that my companion and I began to refer to this one as the “sex pool.” After all, if it didn’t have the potential to become such a thing, why put up the sign?

There were about ten or twelve people in the sex pool, a number that changed regularly. Some were single and a few were couples. The singles for the most part stood silently with their backs against the wall, equally spaced, looking for all the world like carvings of gods and goddesses that might have decorated some ancient temple. The couples mostly clung to each other. In one corner, underneath the canopy of fig leaves that covered half the pool, two guys were kissing. Down at the other end a pair of black women had just entered the pool. Within a minute they had clutched so close together that what had originally been two heads now, through the steamy darkness, appeared to be one. And more than once I heard them giggling.

Other couples chose various positions, often with the man in a sitting position with his back against the wall while his partner straddled his lap facing him. Unless you count light kissing I saw no sign of any sexual contact in the meditation pool. Then again, like icebergs, I could only see the top part of the bodies. I had no idea what might be going on beneath the surface.

At one point I silently signaled to my companion to lie on her back and I gently, quietly, floated her in the warm water. Then she faced me and we put our arms around each other as I guided her around the tranquil pool. It was like dancing in space, weightless and warm. At one point I looked up through the fig leaves and gazed at the stars peeking through. Peace.

But there was more to do. Periodically one or two people would climb some steps out of the meditation pool and disappear into a small attached building. Finally I did the same and found that the room-sized cement enclosure contained yet another pool. I took a step down the stairs, allowed my foot to touch the water, and immediately thought that something had gone horribly, horribly wrong. It felt as if I had stepped into a pot of boiling water, and I immediately yanked my foot out.

This was the very hot pool that I had read about. At least I hoped it was. It was hard to imagine that there might be an even more scorching one. The water was 112 degrees, which is actually only eight degrees hotter than my backyard hot tub. You know, it might as well have been sixty degrees hotter. That’s how it felt. Still, as they said in a movie that I’ve forgotten the title of: what one man can do another can do. And since there was already a man (and a woman!) in the searing water I knew that I must go in too.

After overcoming the initial fear that I was on my way to being served with crusty bread and drawn butter the hot pool turned out to be a surprisingly pleasant sensation. Like a mud bath, the warmth was soothing and all encompassing. And unlike a mud bath there was no foreign matter getting stuck in private places best left uninvaded by mud, muck and other foreign substances.

I was soaking for about three minutes when my naked companion strolled through the door. Immediately a huge grin appeared on my face as I waved her in. This, I knew, would be good. Like me she placed her foot onto the first step to test the water. And like me she immediately pulled it out. But unlike me she simply waved good-bye and disappeared through the door and back into the tolerable waters of the sex pool. She wouldn’t be coming back.

I was feeling well-cooked, but I knew that I had one more pool to try. With an incongruous combination of regret and relief I pulled myself from this hottest of tubs, walked outside into the night air and climbed the wooden walkway which led further up into the fig tree to another wooden deck and another soaking pool. I put my foot into the water and this time it was just what I expected. The water was a chilling 60 degrees. Soon I was fully submerged in the icy spring water and, like every other pool I had tried, it was delightful. The 50-plus drop in water temperature had produced the desired effect: I felt truly and wondrously alive. And five minutes later, after the chill had settled into my body, I knew that if I wanted to stay alive I had better return to the warming waters of the sex pool.

A short time later my companion and I returned to our cottage, relaxed and invigorated at the same time. We slept well that night, naked and unbridled and filled with dreams. We awoke early and climbed out of bed some time later. We packed what little we had brought and checked out of the peace of Harbin and back into the real and suddenly noisy world. We didn’t even have to say it—we knew we’d be back.

Ironically Harbin Hot Springs is located within spitting distance of Robert Louis Stevenson State Park; ironic because it was Stevenson who once described sightseeing as “the art of disappointment.” Which only goes to show you: you can be a literary genius who writes classics like Treasure Island and Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and still not know everything.

Hey There!


Who are you reading this summer? Hemingway? Twain? Shakespeare?

They're all hacks!

The perfect book for this summer is

Leonard Stegmann's

A YEAR ON PLANET MERCURY



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Now, Dammit!

Harbin: Beneath the Surface/Day

The hotel at Harbin Hot Springs was full, so my companion and I decided to upgrade to something called the Manzanita cottage. It turned out to be a lot larger than either one of us expected. “It’s larger than my house,” I thought, although once inside I realized this was an exaggeration. But it didn’t much matter, as the interior was--and I rarely use this word--lovely. The far wall featured a malachite-trimmed fireplace, with an antique claw-foot bathtub nearby. The entire cabin was decorated with an eclectic display of art which included a framed poster of an unfamiliar Louvre painting, a faded print of The Bear Dance and a rather unique portrait of a pelican head that eventually grew on me.

Just outside the cottage people relaxed on the trim lawn. They read, did yoga or napped. Doing their best to fracture the serenity were a couple of young men who insisted on dominating the entire lawn by throwing a Frisbee. One was an amiable airhead with his hair tied in a top knot who couldn’t resist making a friendly comment to everybody who walked by. His partner was nude; a South Seas-looking type with a toned and chiseled body just like the one I used to have way back never. I don’t know whether the pair had suddenly achieved enlightenment or they were spoken to by someone, but they abruptly took their frisbee and left. A little grumbling from the amiable airhead led me to believe the latter.

From the Manzanita cottage my companion and I climbed the nearby wooden walkway to discover the swimming and soaking pools. We shared a quick sandwich from the poolside café, all the while eyeing the sparkling water of the pristine pool. The temperature was approaching 90 degrees and if I’ve ever seen a more inviting body of water I don’t remember when. (Actually the Indian Ocean just south of Mombasa on a sweltering African day probably tops the list, but that was some time ago.)

A short while later I was sighing mightily as I eased into the perfect temperature of the pool. Around me people were swimming, floating or just quietly talking. One or two people wore bathing suits, a few women just the bikini bottoms, but the overwhelming majority of people were nude. There were a dozen of us in the pool, with many more walking around or sunning themselves on the various decks like the naked shiny seals you see on the wharf in San Francisco.

And always it was quiet. There are some locations at Harbin where people rarely talk above a whisper. There are other places, like in the meditative pools, where you are forbidden to talk at all. During the day children are permitted to use the pools, but they are to be kept on a very short leash. Not literally, of course, but that might not be a bad idea. In fact I'd argue that Harbin is not a particularly good place to bring young children. They belong in parks and Disneyland, running around and screaming their heads off. And leaving me alone.

It was with mixed feelings that I finally pulled myself from the unimaginably refreshing pool and sat down in the sun. All around me naked people were quietly enjoying the ideal weather and the halcyon atmosphere. And yes there were all shapes and sizes, but any preconception I had that Harbin was mostly populated by aging hippies and saggy seniors was soon dispelled. I could be wrong—I didn’t conduct a census—but I would guess that there were more women there than men. And the majority of these women were young, healthy and gorgeous. I thought that at some point I might grow weary of gazing at their beautiful bodies, but for some reason that moment never arrived. It was what I imagined it must be like to hang out at Hef’s place, but without all the silicone.

As the sun began to sink towards the horizon my companion and I picked up our towels and returned to the cottage. The quiet and exercise had had an effect and we crawled onto the bed’s overstuffed and old-fashioned mattress to enjoy a short nap, and the delightful, and occasionally unsettling, feeling of our brains unwinding. We would rise a short time later to eat a light dinner and explore the resort’s grounds.

There was a restaurant, a café and a general store. We took a short quiet hike to visit the meditation temple and pushed open the nearby squeaky gate to explore the lush and wondrous gardens. It was here that we were approached by a friendly though somewhat whiny cat who deigned to allow us to pet him for a while. His nature seemed as peaceful as the surroundings that he called home, and I couldn’t help but notice that he wore no identifying tags. I deduced that Harbin must extend its open lifestyle to animals as well, and had therefore instituted a collar-optional policy.

Dark descended upon Harbin at a casual pace and my companion and I sat on the porch of our cottage enjoying the eternal nighttime symphony that still exists even if few of us bother to listen to it anymore. And when we deemed it was late enough we again headed towards the wooden walkway and climbed the steps into the warm night air, nude. It was time to explore the soaking pools.


SUNDAY: THE POOLS

The Obligatory Olympics Column

I’m not sure what’s going on, but my little orange pumpkin hit counter is telling me that this space is now getting over double the visitors than we got even just a few weeks ago. In fact my calculations tell me that we are now up to getting .0000018 times the daily hits that the Drudge Report gets. Starting to hear footsteps, Matt?

Could it be that some of you are coming over just to read what I have to say about the Olympics? If so, I imagine you are fairly disappointed about now. If somebody relied on this space for their Olympics coverage, why, they would barely know that there was an Olympics going on. And for this I most certainly do not apologize because, well, I do not apologize.

I don’t care much about the Olympics. And if you’re looking for me to trash them—welcome to yet another disappointment. I don’t much like them and I don’t hate them either. I’ve watched short bits of the competitions and my strongest emotion so far has been mild interest. (Except for my reaction to that blonde chick who plays beach volleyball. But tonight for once I’m going to take the high road.)

And so, like my emotions during the Olympics, my observations are of the mild variety, and very limited in number and scope as well. Here they are:

1. If I was made King of the Olympics I would keep everything the same except the whole “landing” thing. Stick the landing, did she stick the landing, if only he could stick the landing. With me in charge this whole landing obsession is now gone. Time and time again I see these incredible athletes performing super-human feats only to have their score crushed when they move their feet upon hitting the ground. Why should this matter so much? (This is rhetorical. Do not, I repeat, do not write in with your annoying attempts to enlighten me.) From now on how you land counts for zero. If you did a great routine you get a great score, even if you finished by landing on your head.

2. One of those impressive performances was by a guy on the rings. I mean all of the ring performances were impressive, especially when I remember that I couldn’t even reach the damn things in high school, but this one guy did something that apparently many of the competitors didn’t believe could be done by a human until they saw it. (By the way, I won’t be looking up the names of the people or sports I talk about here—I just don’t care enough. Do your own damn research.) This guy did a variation of what I guess is called the cross, except he did it with his back rather than his chest facing the ground. Are you following me here, because it’s hard to describe? I know, because I tried to explain it to Spike when she came into the room. “His legs were out like this,” I said, “and his arms were stretched like this. In fact this is pretty much the position he was in, except, of course, it was much more amazing since he didn’t do it while lying on a couch.”

3. I watched very little of the Olympics but I heard this commentator at least twice, and possibly thrice, use the phrase, “more perfect.” And each time I wanted to slap him. And I shouldn’t have to explain why, so I won’t.

4. The United States swept in the hurdles race, claiming all three medals. (Is it the high hurdles, 100 meter hurdles? Whatever.) And I doubt that there wasn’t a single American watching who wasn’t consciously aware that all three runners were black. I’d love to find out in what percentage of homes this was verbally noted, either through an innocent observation or an outright racist slur along the lines of the jokes that befoul my inbox two or three times a week. This country is in the midst of pretending that racism has gone away, and the truth will out in November. Still, I’ll say we’ve truly succeeded on the day that three black men win a race and all anybody sees is three really fast guys.

5. I’m giving out a Gold for the best line (not counting the bikini line on that volleyball chick) I heard from an athlete. Happily they all didn’t spend their microphone time being good sports or thanking Jesus. One woman swimmer apparently lost her race when her competition touched the wall only a hundredth of a second before she did. “I guess I shouldn’t have filed my fingernails last night,” she said.

Hot Chick Marketing

In the old days I usually lived in an apartment or small cottage in the back of a main house. One of the advantages to this, besides being safely hidden from the wrath of dangerously outraged husbands, was that I didn’t have a front door that faced onto the street. I seldom had to deal with salesmen or religious nuts interrupting my day. Of course at Halloween I also never gave out candy to cute little trick-or-treaters, but I’ve never quite decided if this was a positive or a negative.

Nowadays, overfed white middle-class landowner that I am, I get people knocking on my door all the time. I try to be civil to all of them, but I find this more difficult with the Bible-thumpers than I do with the magazine sellers. I’d like to think this is not simply because the religious folks are generally women about my age while the magazine sellers are often hot college chicks. Yes, I’d like to think that.

Usually the college chick will begin by chattering away about how they’re having a contest and if her team gets the most points she’ll win a trip and blah-blah-blah. I usually jump in the middle of her prattling and ask, “What are you selling?” or sometimes, “You want me to buy magazines, right?”

And these babes know all the tricks and are always disappointed after I flirt with them for a while but don’t buy anything. They seem to think that I just rolled out from under the pumpkin truck and combed the straw out of my hair that morning. Hey, I’ve been around the block a few times (In fact I went around it when it was all empty lots.) and I know that the money men in charge of this operation gathered up a herd of these young beauties and set them loose in my neighborhood, assuming a certain percentage of horny old codgers like me won’t be able to resist their eye-batting charms.

And under different circumstances I could’t. It’s just that I’m not buying some damn magazine just because this nubile young thing has her top button open. So wiggle that cute ass down the driveway, Toots. This is one old coot who knows he can read just about anything you have to sell on the Internet for free. And I can see chicks a lot hotter than you on there too. Naked.

You Know You're Married When...

Saturday. That’s the day that I always go swimming and the day that Spike always goes over the hill to do whatever it is married women do when they run wild. Surfer Boy, who has gone swimming just about every day since he was eight, often makes fun of me for swimming only once a week. I don’t care. It’s something I’ve stuck with over the last five years and still enjoy. I remind him of what Lou Grant said when Ted Baxter actually achieved a minor success: When a donkey flies you don’t criticize him for how long he stays in the air.

But I didn’t swim this Saturday. Oh, I made the effort and showed up at the pool right on time, only to learn that it was unexpectedly closed. The realization caused mixed feelings. One was disappointment, as I do enjoy swimming weekly (and weakly) and always feel better afterwards. On the other hand I couldn’t deny that other feeling: Yippee, I don’t have to swim today and it’s not my fault!

And now what to do? I was already out and about and now this hole had materialized in my schedule. Wasn’t that little fair in Pescadero happening today? Maybe I should drive to that. It’s a beautiful day for a drive down the coast.

Percadero is a quaint little throwback of a town just a mile or so inland from the Pacific. Each year they hold the tiniest of fairs and each year Spike and I go. Together. And we always have the same experience. We look at the art, scan the dozen or so booths, listen to a local band and then look at our watches. “It’s 12:30, what do you want to do now?” one of us will say. And so we find ourselves in the middle of nowhere with an afternoon to kill and no place to kill it.

Now to be honest we had never discussed going to the fair this year, but to be honester I suppose it is something that’s understood. We always go to the Pescadero fair together. But so what? Has my life truly come to this? Spike is over the hill somewhere, no doubt enjoying herself. Aren’t I entitled to enjoy myself too? Aren’t I allowed to go to a damn fair by myself, even if we have some unspoken “tradition”? I’m a full-grown, AARP-eligible man, for chrissake!

And so I went, but not alone. I took a big steaming pile of guilt along with me. Well, I’ll only stay a short time, I said me myself. I’ll only look at everything superficially. And if Spike wants to come back tomorrow I’ll readily agree to do so. I'll even volunteer to drive.

In fact I went through the fair twice and I was still out of there in about half an hour. I looked at the art. I listened to the local band that performed on the stage. I saw the authentic Indian jewelry, no doubt exact replicas of what stylish Native Americans wore in the 1800’s as they starved to death and were intentionally exterminated with small pox. I also passed the face-painting booth, where I would each year tell Spike that if she gets it done she’d better use two coats. Aren’t I a joy?

Later that evening Spike arrived home. The first thing out of her mouth was “Hello.” The second was to tell me that the Pescadero fair was this weekend. “I already went,” I told her.

Instant Quiz:

What was Spike’s response?
a. How was it?
b. Was it sunny there?
c. Did you buy anything?
d. But I wanted to go.

Do you really need me to go through the motions of typing out the answer?

TO: Howard Stern RE: Sal the Stockbroker

Dear Howard,

I generally listen to the entire show nearly every day and I know the people involved as well as most listeners. And yet I never could have guessed what Sal was going to say when he came into the studio today, and I would bet neither could anybody else who was there. His belief that you secretly want him to pull a stunt at your wedding was not simply wrong, it was bizarre. It's as if Sal is from another dimension or planet. He regularly comes up with twisted shit like this and always ends with, "I didn't understand, but I do now."

The fact is Sal doesn't understand. You are right when you claim that Sal is not bright, but that's just a part of it. And arguing with him is like trying to change the mind of a Jehovah's Witness. He just doesn't get it. There's something seriously wrong with him. He's queer, and I don't mean in the sexual way. He's simply not right in the head. His thought process is askew. I listened to the Wrap-Up Show and Gary's interpretation and insights were dead-on. He has Sal pegged.

Sal, like Artie, is on self-destruct mode, though Sal's in not in any physical way. He's so happy to be working there just as he was happy to be invited to the wedding. And like the wedding invitation it won't be long until he finds a way to fuck up his job too. He won't be there much longer. And that's OK. Any regualr listener has already come to the conclusion that Richard, as odd as he is, is the creative force in that partnership. He comes up with the clever ideas. He makes the best of the technology. Richard, of course, will rush to defend Sal. That act is growing tiresome too. Sal's idea of comedy is to paint his balls blue or slap a pumpkin with his dick. Artie was right when he said that you hired a wack-packer.

I thought it was cruel that you and Beth weren't inviting Sal to your wedding, and it was an admirable act of kindness when you changed your minds. Now I believe that if you allow Sal to attend the wedding you are insane. All attention will shift away from you and Beth and to Sal and his stunt: Will he or won't he? I don't know what it was in Sal's past that made it so that he feels obligated to be the focus of everything but I know it's not going to change anytime soon. Artie was right again when he said Sal is a phoney. His claim that his idea to stage a stunt at the wedding was "just a thought" and he only cares about you and Beth having a happy day is pure lip service. It's bullshit. As I said, Sal is just not right in the head, and you can't expect him to ever understand. And you certainly can't trust him.

And sorry Fred, but you were wrong. Sal should not be kept 60 miles away on the day of the wedding. He should be kept 600 miles away.

Love,

Leonard

Our House

I punched in the address on Zillow.com, hoping to find a photo of the old place to e-mail to my parents. And there was a photo, and in it I could clearly see a For Sale sign sticking out of the front lawn. Our old house was for sale.

And so over to Realtor.com, where I easily found the listing, along with eight glorious photos. This was the house in Queens, New York that I lived in from the time I was three until I was seven. It seems like a short period of time now, but remember, at the time it was over half of my life.

Back then the house was a big gray colonial, and it still is. I have had occasion to drive past it several times since we moved out in 1961 (although I haven’t done so for over twenty years) and it’s always been gray. The cold numbers on the listing say that it was built in 1925 and that it’s but 1360 square feet. I would have guessed a lot more. It seemed bigger back then.

But it’s the photos that capture my attention. There’s the backyard where the swing set used to be. It too seems tinier than I remember. Yet it was large enough for my father to build me a snow cave in the winter and to accommodate huge family gatherings in the summer, populated by a score of laughing, noisy people who for the most part now live only on the fragile 8MM reel that lies somewhere in a dusty shoebox at my parents house.

The kitchen has been upgraded to modern counters and appliances, as I would expect after a half century, but the actual space is as recognizable as if I had just been there yesterday. I remember the morning Dad made me my first, and only, bowl of Maypo. My expectations had been high, thanks to an unrelenting TV advertising campaign, but they were soon dashed when I tasted my first spoonful. Despite what the animated cowboy on TV had promised, Maypo tasted and had a texture like sweet sand.

And there was the kitchen window, in the very same spot it had been on that day in 1958 when my three year old brother declared with all his toddler bravado that he was going to knock the inflatable standing Popeye punching bag right through the window. And then he did. My next memory is from about an hour later, and it is of a repair man measuring the window frame.

I also remember the bathroom, the only one in the nine-room house. The sink, bathtub and toilet are new of course, but they maintain their eternal positions. How many times had I plopped my little fanny on the toilet in that exact location? Common sense tells me hundreds, yet I don’t recall a single time. I do remember two events that happened at that sink, probably because I was crying hysterically both times: the first time because I couldn’t shut off the water tap and the second because I had realized that someday I would die.

Only the edge of the bathroom door is visible in the photo, but I remember it well. It was this very door that my mother knocked on one November morning when my brother and I were in the bathroom getting ready for school. When we opened the door my mother stood there showing us the front page of the newspaper. John Kennedy had been elected president. My brother and I cheered. For whatever reason we had both wanted Kennedy to win. My parents had both voted for Nixon, but Mom was at least being a good sport about her crushing defeat. Both men, of course, would go on to create even more dramatic, and tragic, headlines.

The listing does not include any photos of the living room, dining room or the enclosed porch. Or the staircase. That steep and far-from-childproof staircase that we climbed each night to go to bed and bound down every Christmas morning in the rush to check out our loot. Perhaps it’s just as well—the real estate photos would be of nothing but empty rooms. They would show the size and shape and color of the space, but not the memories.

They wouldn’t show my grandmother playing a toy xylophone to amuse her giggling grandchildren or my uncle mercilessly but good-heartedly teasing his older sister. They wouldn’t show twenty or so relatives, dressed in their best 1950’s holiday apparel, laughing and shouting, smoking and drinking, and asking for nothing more than to enjoy each others’ company.

I’ve mentioned to Spike more than once that it’s hard to imagine that someday other people will live in our little beach home. They’ll hang their own pictures, paint the walls in any color they choose, and have absolutely no knowledge that we once lived here. That once upon a time it was our house. Nor will they care.


It’s a dream, only a dream,
And it’s fading now,
Fading away.

Only a dream,
Just a memory,
Without any place to stay.

-Neil Young

An Entourage Quiz, and You Better Take It

Listen up. I’ve just about had it with you idiots. For years I’ve been telling you, and others who are unfortunate enough to be just like you, that you should be watching Entourage. It’s a funny, sexy, dramatic and occasionally poignant look at how movies get made in Hollywood. And it’s got great guest stars.

I’ve watched Entourage since its very first episode in 2004, before all the popularity and before all the awards. Does that make me a genius? Of course not. I was a genius long before that. Besides, how popular the show is or how many awards it has won shouldn’t be what motivates you to watch Entourage. Didn’t I tell you it’s my favorite TV program? What other reason could you possibly need?

In just a few weeks Entourage will be coming back, finally, for its fifth season, and I expect you to be there. Don’t have HBO? Get it. Spend the extra five bucks a month to have it added. It won’t kill you to have one less of those soy caramel frappuccino bulllshit things you are always wasting your money on at Starbuck’s. Besides, they’re going out of business anyway. Four dollars for a cup of coffee, indeed.

Until then I’ll whet your appetite with an Entourage quiz. You won’t have a clue what it’s about, but maybe it will help you to finally realize what you’ve been missing. And I’m sorry for being so harsh. Wanna hug it out, bitch?

1. What is E’s actual first name?
1. Ernest
2. Eric
3. Erwin
4. Jonas

2. What actor has twice won an Emmy for his work on Entourage?
a. Mark Wahlberg
b. Kevin Dillion
c. Adrian Grenier
d. Jeremy Piven

3. Who uses the expression, “Wanna hug it out, bitch?”
a. Ari
b. Johnny
c. Lloyd
d. Billy

4. Which movie did Vince not star in?
a. Aquaman
b. Queens Boulevard
c. Medellin
d. After Midnight

5. In what TV show did Johnny Drama star?
a. Viking Quest
b. Murder, Etc.
c. Harry Sets Sail
d. Space War

6. Which Oscar-winning actor appeared as producer Bob Ryan?
a. Ben Kingsley
b. Timothy Hutton
c. Martin Landau
d. Geoffrey Rush

7. Which actor has not appeared on Entourage?
a. James Woods
b. Larry David
c. Scarlett Johansson
d. Mimi Rogers

8. What is Ari’s last name?
a. Gold
b. Green
c. Brown
d. White

9. Who directed Aquaman?
a. Martin Scorsese
b. James Cameron
c. Tim Burton
d. Ridley Scott

10. Where are the boys of Entourage from?
a. San Fernando Valley, California
b. Houston, Texas
c. Queens, New York
d. Hollywood, California



ANSWERS

1. E’s full name is Eric Murphy. Kevin Connolly had actually retired from acting when he was offered the role. Isn’t that interesting? Well, I thought it was.
2. Jeremy Piven has twice won the Outstanding Supporting Actor Emmy for his portrayal of super-agent Ari Gold. (Yeah, that’s his last name.)
3. The expression is used by Ari Gold, and was actually created by actor Jeremy Piven.
4. Vince did not star in a movie named After Midnight. I do know it as an old blues song but before I say it’s not a movie I’m going to hop over to IMDB. Be right back. Oh hell, there’s a bunch of ‘em, going back to 1927. Isn’t that interesting? Well, I thought it was.
5. Vince’s brother Johnny Drama starred in the short-lived Viking Quest. I made up the other titles, which is not to say they don’t exist. But I’m not going back to IMDB. You don’t appreciate it.
6. Martin Landau was hilarious as aging producer Bob Ryan. And I’m happy to report he will be appearing again in Season Five.
7. Mimi Rogers has not appeared in Entourage. Just in my dreams.
8. Ari’s last name is Gold. He originally planned to name his agency The Gold Standard, but was forced to change it when he became partners with Barbara Miller. The new name was Miller-Gold. “We sound like a beer!” Ari whined.
9. Aquaman was directed by James Cameron. Hey, the man loves the water.
10. Vince, Eric, Johnny and Turtle are from Queens, New York. And I can’t believe I didn’t include a question about Turtle in this quiz. Hey, you know what other talented sex symbol was born in Queens? Oh stop, you’re making me blush.

Sew What?

It’s a timeless image: a young woman sitting in chair sewing the material she has draped across her lap. In this case the young woman was one of those hard-bodied water-nazis who each week make sure I don’t drown as I drag my middle-aged carcass from one side of the pool to the other. And the object she is sewing is not a pair of her husband’s pants or a jumper for her toddler, but rather a rubber wetsuit in need of repair. But still, it’s a scene that still evokes images of long ago, of a pioneer woman, or perhaps a woman sitting in the glow of a radio dial, trying to make do with what she has. And it caused me to wonder: do women still sew?

My grandmother had an antique sewing machine. Oh, it wasn’t antique when she had it but it would certainly qualify today. So would Grandma, now that I think of it. It didn’t run on electricity but rather was powered by a foot pedal underneath it. It seems that sewing was a pretty big thing back then. Not only did Grandma own a fairly intricate, and probably expensive, sewing machine but she kept it and used it in a sewing room. That is, a room dedicated specifically and exclusively to sewing. And for getting away from Grandpa, no doubt.

My mother also had a Singer sewing machine. (I’d say we were a loyal Singer family but then again what other sewing machine company is there? Does the Federal Trade Commission know about this monopoly?) But unlike Grandma’s sewing machine, Mom’s used electricity. It was operated by a sickle-shape piece of metal that she pushed with her right knee to get the needle to go up and down.

I recall the sewing machine was not some piece of apparatus like a pasta maker or a ThighMaster--purchased, used a couple of times and then thrown into a closet to corrode into a pile of useless scrap metal. No, Mom used that sewing machine a lot. Socks, pants, shirts--they all got repaired to be worn another day. Hell, if the needle had been strong enough she probably would have used it to re-attach those hanging shoe soles that made that annoying tell-tale sound, announcing our poverty as it flopped noisily when we walked down the street.

Spike does not own a sewing machine. In fact she does not own a needle and thread. There are rumors that Spike knows how to crochet, but I’ve seen precious little evidence of it over the last twenty years. I myself keep one of those travel sewing kits in my underwear drawer for emergencies. It sees the light of day perhaps twice a year, when a seam bursts on a relatively new shirt or when I need a needle to lance a blister. There was a time when a woman might spend an entire evening “darning” her family’s holey socks. Now the socks get thrown into the trash at the first sign of wear. Hey, why make the effort when you can get six pair for $4.99 at Wal-Mart?

Still, there was something eternal about that young woman sewing at the pool last week. For a moment I toyed with the idea of asking her, as a joke, if next week I could bring a few of my worn socks for her to stitch up. But I didn’t. It is, after all, the 21st century. And besides, I didn’t want to give her a reason, if the opportunity should arise, to just let me drown.

Fiction: My Best Friend Ever

Ryan Morse was a bully. I knew this first-hand from having been on the wrong end of a pummeling he administered when we were in fourth grade. I was not the first or the last kid that Ryan beat up during his time at Northgate Elementary, but that was the last time that he ever got physical with me.

I can’t say that we became friends, because we never did. It would be more accurate to call it a mutual, if grudging, respect. He wanted what I had, which was an above-average intellect. And now after all these years I suppose I can admit that I wanted what he had: power and the fear-induced respect that went along with it.

No, Ryan Morse and I weren’t really friends but we understood and perhaps even liked each other. You’d never see us hanging out together but you also wouldn’t see Ryan knock the books out of my hands as he strode down Northgate’s pale green hallways like a grade-school colossus.

At the time of the incident Ryan and I were heading in opposite directions; our fifth grade careers were clearly on different trajectories. I had just won our classroom’s spelling bee and would soon be competing in front of the entire school for the Northgate spelling bee championship. Ryan, on the other hand, had recently gotten into a spot of trouble by shoving a fourth grader named Stewart into a bank of lockers. Stewart was a chubby and bespectacled innocent who had simply taken a little too long in getting out of Ryan’s way. Ryan was now a merely a foul word or a dirty look away from suspension.

Of course I was nervous on the day of the school spelling bee. Hell, I had barely been able to remain conscious when I had to spell in front of my class, and that was only about thirty kids. Now I would have to perform in front of hundreds. The truth was I cared more about not embarrassing myself in front of the entire school than I did about winning the contest. I knew I could spell.

And as I stood there with the other five contestants, Mr. Milner looking pompous and important at the podium, I knew I was in big trouble. And it wasn’t about the spelling. Have I mentioned yet that back then I had a small bladder control problem? Oh, it wasn’t something that happened to me all the time. In fact it rarely occurred at all—only when I was very, very nervous.

It happened somewhere in the middle of Ellen Boynton spelling, ironically, “subaqueous.” First I felt only the not unpleasant warmth, then I felt the panic. And then I mentally berated myself for choosing today of all days to wear my tan pants. I knew my accident would be unnoticed as long as everyone was focused on Ellen, but soon all the attention would focus on me; me and the dark and painfully visible wet spot that I knew was currently spreading over the crotch of my stupid tan pants. I also knew that within minutes I would become a legend. Throughout the school and for years to come I would always be remembered as “the boy who peed his pants on stage.” I was doomed.

“That is correct. Very good, Ellen,” Mr. Milner was now saying into his microphone. And then he began to turn his head in my direction. I was torn somewhere between crying and running off the stage, and perhaps doing both, when it happened. It hit me with enough force to elicit an “oof,” but I soon realized my muffled outburst was only a result of surprise and fear at having been hit in my private area by an unexpected and unidentified projectile. I wasn’t feeling any pain at all.

I immediately looked down at my now even more drenched pants and saw the bits of red plastic. I had been hit with a water balloon. I looked out into the stunned audience just as two teachers rushed to grab Ryan Morse and began to haul him up the aisle to meet his terrible fate. He was half walking and half being dragged, but that didn’t prevent him from turning around to look at me. For one second our eyes met, and if I had only suspected the truth at that point I had it confirmed a second later when Ryan Morse smiled and winked at me.

I never saw him again. He was immediately suspended and never did return to Northgate. At various times I heard reports that he had enlisted in the army, had become a mechanic in Illinois or had ended up in prison, but I never learned the truth.

Because you see, Ryan Morse and I were never really friends. And yet, though I’ve had many good friends over the years, nobody has ever done for me what he did back in fifth grade. And if you’re thinking that all I did was go from the boy who pissed his pants on stage to the boy who got hit with a water balloon on stage, well that’s just fine. I’ll take it.

And Brendan Fraser as Huckleberry Hound

There’s an actor out there who might amaze ya,
Who goes by the name of Brendan Fraser.

And that’s all I got. This one originally was going to be a poem about some of the dubious movie roles that Brendan Frasier has chosen, but it was turning out to be more trouble than it was worth. And so I’ll just rant.

I think it’s a rare actor who excels at both comedy and drama. Kevin Kline comes to mind; he was unforgettable in that heaviest of movies Sophie’s Choice and yet won his Oscar for a comic performance. Vince Vaughn, too, I think belongs in this category. Brendan Fraser is a very talented actor and has been in some good movies. If you’ve seen Gods and Monsters and School Ties, and more recently Crash and The Quiet American, you know what I’m talking about. But there seems to be something about Fraser that makes him unable to pass up every cartoony, gimmicky role that comes bouncing his way.

It’s great when an actor plays against type and tries a two-dimensional comic book-type role. Look how much fun Jack Nicholson had as the Joker. But Fraser, man, he seems to want to play every goofy cartoon character out there. It’s fine when a talented actor wants to be in a George of the Jungle or a Dudley Do-Right or a Looney Tunes or a Monkeybone or even a mummy movie or three, but this guy has starred in all of them. Plus he’s been in at least, at least, three Pauly Shore movies.

Look, it’s like you tell your kids: It’s OK to have a piece of candy once in a while but a steady diet of it will rot your teeth. But Mommy, what if somebody pays me millions and millions of dollars to eat all that candy? Yeah, you’re right. Gobble up all the candy you want, Brendan. I’m just jealous.

My Dictionary

I have used the same dictionary for many years. The cover says it’s a “college” dictionary, but apparently there are no strict age limits. In fact I thought this might be the dictionary that I actually did use in college, but a quick check of the copyright page tells me I got it after I graduated, though not that many years after.

The English language is constantly changing, but it doesn’t change that quickly so there’s no need to run out and buy a new one every year like I would with the latest style clothes. Ah who am I kidding—my clothes haven’t been in style since 1974. (“And not even then,” my college friends would say if they were here reading this.)

My dictionary is over 25 years old, and I think I like it just as much for what’s not in it as I do for what’s in it. For example, there is no listing for AIDS in my dictionary, although there would be in editions just a few years down the line. And while both Washington and Lincoln are listed in my dictionary, there is not even a whiff of George Bush--either one of them. I really like my dictionary.

I also like my thesaurus, although I must confess that I almost always use the online version. Or are you one of those people who tsk-tsk at the idea of a writer using a thesaurus at all? There was a time when instructors would vilify the thesaurus as some sort of literary crutch and forbid their students to use one. The thinking here is that one’s writing would take on an artificial and pompous quality if it became filled with words the writer didn’t really know, and that were probably used incorrectly to boot.

I was a follower of this thinking for many years: “write what you know” I had heard and believed. It was only when I read somewhere, and I believe it was in William Zinsser’s classic manual On Writing Well, that of course a writer should use a thesaurus that my habits changed. The purpose of using a thesaurus is not to attempt to sound more educated and intelligent by using ten-dollar words that you never heard of before, but to peruse a selection from the vast array of English words, in all of their glorious shades and inflections. As Mark Twain said, “The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.”

I always wanted to write an article for young writers called How to Write Gooder but I never will, and for two good reasons. First, the title is a direct “borrow” from a piece written over thirty years ago by the late Michael O’Donahue, who used the more subtle title How to Write Good. And second, except for the advice about using a thesaurus I really don’t have a damn thing to pass along to the aspiring young writer. Oh, except get paid.

So I guess I‘ll continue to pound away on the keyboard, crank out reams of this twaddle and occasionally rely on the once-maligned thesauraus. I truly believe it helps to make my writing more ameliorative.

69...Awright!

It only lasted for a short patch of my junior high school career but at the time it seemed like it would go on forever. The sexual expression “69” had just become popular and was making the rounds, bouncing daily off the pale green walls of our school's congested hallways. To this day I don’t know if the term itself was new or if it had simply found its way into our pubescent awareness.

I only know that the phrase seemed to be everywhere, and that I lived in a state of fear and embarrassment that the foul number would again raise its obscene head. And part of the reason for that embarrassment was no doubt because I, unlike apparently every other guy at school, had no idea what 69 meant.

There was one large and loud fellow named Steve who seemed to take particular delight in the number. In fact he appeared to live for the mention of it. He was like some coiled but chubby panther, patiently waiting for his next opportunity to pounce at the next hint of the number. If the teacher said, “Please turn to page 69,” Steve was there to bellow “Sixty-nine! Awright!” almost instantly.

It got to the point where I would scan ahead on the page we were reading, dreading that the offending digits would make an unwelcome appearance. I once innocently told Steve that my friend and I were in the midst of playing a tied curb-ball game that already was in the 62nd inning. “You’ll have to play seven more innings!” he said predictably and loudly. I became so embarrassed by the ubiquitous number that I even began to dread the approach of 1969, even though it was still over two years away.

I was on a school bus on the way to a field trip when I began to overhear the conversation of Larry and Kevin, the two kids in the seat in front of me. Apparently Kevin was like me in that he too had no idea what 69 meant; but he was unlike me in that he was willing to admit it. Larry, no older than we but somehow perceived as wiser in these matters, was about to answer all his questions. I leaned forward. This was an unexpected educational opportunity that I was not about to miss!

“69 means different things in different parts of the country,” began the school bus sage. “In the South it means a blow---” Now I knew instantly that this didn’t sound right. (I’ll not specifically describe the different sex terms that Larry enumerated because I don’t need my Mom to yell at me about this column again.) Maybe I didn’t know what 69 was exactly, but I knew that it was the same thing no matter where the hell you lived. Wise Old Larry, it seems, was nearly as much in the dark about this taboo term as the rest of us. I listened anyway.

The phase where Steve, and others, would yell out “69! Awright!” every time the number came up soon faded, joining other dusty and now fading memories from our school days. The term became so insignificant to me that I don’t even remember the first time I found out what 69 meant. Hell, I don’t even remember the first time I did it. And so instead of dwelling in the foggy past I’m going to conduct a little experiment using only my stopwatch and computer. Ready…go!

Amazing. Through the use of the Internet I was able to find the definition of 69 in 39.34 seconds. Man, having a computer even for just a minute back then would have saved me months of suffering in embarrassed agony. Believe me, Kids, it was a dark, dark time.

Catastrophe on Page 186

It may not seem particularly significant to you, but to me it felt like a kick in the teeth. Frankly, I’m not one to go back and re-read my own books. I haven’t even opened either of my first two books in ages, and I only occasionally read anything from my new one. There are two reasons for this: First, during the editing process I have to go over the same crap time and time again until my witty and insightful words are worn down to the edginess of oatmeal. And second, I’m afraid of finding a mistake.

Mistakes in books are not uncommon; we’ve all come across them. Well, at least those of us who read have. Just the other night I was reading a book by a wonderful writer named Nanci Kincaid. One sentence read, “Daddy hires Mrs. Foster to stay with use whenever he goes out of town.” Of course you noticed that the word should be “us” and not “use.” The thing is, I have no doubt that Ms. Kincaid knows the difference between the words, and besides, this is more likely a printing error that somehow went through the entire publication process unnoticed.

And so there I was on page 186 on my book, reading the article that oh-so-cleverly compares Bush to Barry Bonds and then wham! There it was—a mistake. And it’s not one of those “blame it on the printer” mistakes either. Nancy Kincaid has an excuse for the error in her book. I, alas, do not.

Oh, I know there was a mistake or two in my previous books but I thought this new one was different. I’ve been through it so many times and never found one before. Did I think the book was flawless? Yes, I suppose I did. I’ve mentioned before that I enjoy having my writing in book form because it creates a certain longevity and timelessness. I like the idea that someone fifty, or even one hundred years from now may read what I wrote today and laugh. (Or not laugh, I suppose.)

And now, due to this error, I find myself face-to-face with the specter of a person in the distant future reading the Bush/Bonds article and simply scoffing, the obvious error destroying what little credibility I may or may not have possessed. Why, the people back in 2008 must have been illiterate baboons, he’ll smugly say. And I’ll not be able to offer up a defense, partly because he’ll be right but mostly because I’ll be dead.

Here, take a look and see if you can find the mistake that is torturing my very soul. (OK, it actually just annoys me a bit. When did I become such a drama queen?) The flub is contained within the first three paragraphs of the article, which I have printed below.


Bonds vs. Bush: The Quest to be Number One

If you’ve heard the expression, “May you live in interesting times,” and wondered if you do, let me put your mind at ease. Right now two men are racing to achieve the top spot in the history of their prospective professions, and what a thrill it is to watch them in action!

Despite the media pretending not to care, few people are unaware that Barry Bonds is but one home run away from tying Babe Ruth for second place on the all-time home run list. After that he has to hit only 42 more four-baggers to become the greatest home run hitter of all time. (Yeah, and Gaylord Perry won 314 games throwing illegal spitballs, so should we take away his records too?)

At the same time George Bush is in a free-fall that is bringing him ever closer to the lowest presidential approval rating of all time. With his latest numbers sagging to a dismal 29% Bush has now tied for fourth place for the lowest recorded ratings in the modern era. And to make the story even juicier, the president he has just tied is…his own father!

Did you find the goof? Did you find several? Oh Christ, I sure don’t want to hear about that! Even though the error seems blatant to me (finally) I’m still hoping that nobody else sees it. I can dream can’t I? Oh, and if you don’t care about the mistake but simply can’t live without seeing how the Bush/Bonds story turns out you can buy all the books you want at http://www.leonardstegmann.com/. And yes, they all contain the error and no, you can’t have a discount.