I am thrilled to report that, in the past week, the readership of this blog has doubled; that's right, grown by a factor of 2 -- from two to four. I started this site one short month ago, never dreaming it would catch fire and take the Internet by storm as it has. To put it in perspective, every 7.5 days one more follower has jumped aboard. I wish I could personally thank each and every one of you . . . Well, I guess I can since there's only four, and one lives with me. Let me think about that.
My goal is to once again double my readership in the next month, to give four more lucky folks the benefit of my shallow knowledge, irrelevant opinions, and nonsensical essays. Call me a dreamer, you four out there, but one month from today I'll show ya. You betcha. So spread the word, share the wealth. With your help, I shall rise from the depths of obscurity to the heights of . . . whatever!
Monday, November 3, 2008
The Early Show, Part 2
Preface: If you read the preceding post, you know I am not terribly bright. Information obvious and apparent to most people has often eluded my grasp. Therefore, if the following post displays ignorance, you've been warned.
What is it with early voting? Did this always exist? I don't mean absentee ballots, but actual in-person voting at the polls. When did Election Day become Election Season? Reports are that up to one-third of presidential voting may take place before Tuesday. In some states, including battleground states, half of the votes may be cast in advance. Huh?
This astounds and confuses me. Suppose we awoke this morning to the airing of a photo showing Obama and Ayers fist-pumping at a "Death to America" rally somewhere years back. Or, to be fair and balanced, a video surfaced of McCain wearing a little black dress and stilettos at a time of year other than Halloween. I may wish to re-evaluate my support for either candidate based on this new information, but what if I already voted? I don't get it.
I assume the people who vote early are hard-core supporters of their candidate who will not be swayed by such revelations. It still doesn't seem right to me. Am I off base here?
What is it with early voting? Did this always exist? I don't mean absentee ballots, but actual in-person voting at the polls. When did Election Day become Election Season? Reports are that up to one-third of presidential voting may take place before Tuesday. In some states, including battleground states, half of the votes may be cast in advance. Huh?
This astounds and confuses me. Suppose we awoke this morning to the airing of a photo showing Obama and Ayers fist-pumping at a "Death to America" rally somewhere years back. Or, to be fair and balanced, a video surfaced of McCain wearing a little black dress and stilettos at a time of year other than Halloween. I may wish to re-evaluate my support for either candidate based on this new information, but what if I already voted? I don't get it.
I assume the people who vote early are hard-core supporters of their candidate who will not be swayed by such revelations. It still doesn't seem right to me. Am I off base here?
The Early Show
What’s with all this talk about early boating? I’m hearing of lines blocks long in several states, lines of folks waiting to enter the boating booth and cast off. When did boating become such a proletarian pastime? And where did all these boats come from, especially in landlocked areas; aren’t we on the verge of an economic apocalypse? We can’t afford a toy boat, let alone a real one. And why is it considered early? Seems to me that it’s a little late to hit the water; isn’t that more of a summertime thing?
"What’s that?" My wife Joan is peering over my shoulder. "It’s early voting, not boating? So, they're waiting to cast their votes, not cast off on boats?" That explains it. Sorry.
"What’s that?" My wife Joan is peering over my shoulder. "It’s early voting, not boating? So, they're waiting to cast their votes, not cast off on boats?" That explains it. Sorry.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Between Barack and a Bad Place
Three days to go. One man stands between Barack Obama and the radically altered America we shall have if Obama becomes President, an America featuring:
- A far-left Democratic monopoly of the executive and legislative branches of government. The cabal of Obama / Reid / Polosi, with henchmen like the repulsive Barney Frank, will be free to launch their version of Extreme Makeover, Nation Edition.
- Court appointments of judges (including two or three on the Supreme Court) likely to share the Senator's desire to use the Constitution as a vehicle for government activism, in direct conflict with the wishes of the founding fathers.
- An economic model driven by income redistribution, featuring anti-growth tax policy and unfettered government spending.
- A likely censoring of contrary media voices, via reintroduction of the Fairness Doctrine, with conservative talk radio taking the biggest hit when it will be needed more than ever.
- A certain international crisis, by admission of his own running mate, that will test the guts and resolve of a man who has demonstrated nary a shred of courage of any stripe, and has actively associated with numerous known haters of America and Israel.
- The elimination of the secret ballot in union voting, ushering in a new era of pressure and intimidation in the workplace.
- The gleeful gabbing and scribbling of the far left media and celebrity kooks who decided long ago that this young charismatic politician out of central casting deserved a coronation. The second best thing from a McCain victory, besides the better man winning, would be the crushed looks on the faces of Olbermann, Matthews and the rest when they declare him the winner.
- Worst of all, a President younger than me . . . a lot younger than me.
Come on, Johnny old man, put this youngster in his place.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
This is Serious
President-Suspect Obama must be denied the prize -- no ifs, ands, or buts about that. He and his ilk who will assume top government positions are dangerous. The United States Constitution will be shredded and rewritten to suit his and their notions of the hyper-active role that government should play in our lives. Before I heard the audio recitation of his governing manifesto, I was concerned, but not scared. I am now scared to death what this man's Presidency will mean for the country.
Granted, events have worked against McCain and he has run a less than perfect campaign, but he is and always has been a proud and dutiful servant of America, the America conceived by the collection of geniuses who crafted the Constitution, a document Senator Obama may have trouble defending.
I could be wrong; on second thought, no I couldn't. What has he done, aside from associating with known America haters while compiling a liberal voting record (when he actually votes) second to none? He advocates some global notion of "change" devoid of any specific substance and backed up by no prior accomplishments. He is a charlatan wrapped in a pretty and persuasive package. Hillary Clinton and Joe Biden knew this when they ran against him, for goodness sake.
Get it done, Senator McCain. Defeat this fraud.
Granted, events have worked against McCain and he has run a less than perfect campaign, but he is and always has been a proud and dutiful servant of America, the America conceived by the collection of geniuses who crafted the Constitution, a document Senator Obama may have trouble defending.
I could be wrong; on second thought, no I couldn't. What has he done, aside from associating with known America haters while compiling a liberal voting record (when he actually votes) second to none? He advocates some global notion of "change" devoid of any specific substance and backed up by no prior accomplishments. He is a charlatan wrapped in a pretty and persuasive package. Hillary Clinton and Joe Biden knew this when they ran against him, for goodness sake.
Get it done, Senator McCain. Defeat this fraud.
Boo!
The following essay is for those like me who are not Halloween fans.
I hate Halloween. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it. I didn’t like it as a kid, although I went through the motions draped in one dumb costume or another, and I detest it as an adult. I’d rather open my front door to home invaders than trick-or-treaters. I have not seen nor will I see the movie Halloween or any of its 15 sequels.
What accounts for this hatred of All Hallows Eve? It’s harmless, right? Wrong. I never warmed up to monsters and goblins and ghouls as a youngster. I preferred them to remain within the confines of my imagination rather than walking around the neighborhood knocking on doors. Hell, Howdy Doody scared the shit out of me back then. Even in my early twenties when I went to see the movie Alien with some friends, my head stayed locked in the down position after that hideous creature did his Road Runner routine out of the guy’s stomach.
Then there’s the pumpkin, the carved pumpkin or jack-o’-lantern, to be precise. I hate that thing, particularly when it ain't smiling. I had this fear that, since my name was Jack, I’d wake up with a pumpkin head instead of the one I was born with. I had a hard enough time with the girls; how would I fare with a huge orange vegetable as a head?
I did a little research and discovered that the jack-o’-lantern’s origin goes back to the Irish legend of Stingy Jack, a greedy, gambling, hard-drinking (surprise!) old farmer. One day he tricked the devil into climbing a tree and trapped him by carving a cross into the tree trunk. Displeased, the devil placed a curse on me, I mean Jack, condemning him to forever wander the earth at night with the only light he had: a candle inside of a hollowed turnip. I hate turnips too.
The final problem I have with Halloween is mischief. You guessed it: I hate mischief, especially when it is perpetrated against my person or property. If Halloween is considered a holiday, normally meaning a day of celebration or reflection or commemoration, why should naughtiness, or worse, vandalism, be part and parcel of the occasion? I don't want to wake up and find pumpkins smashed on our front steps, 50 rolls of toilet paper strung on the branches of the maple tree in front, or the remnants of a dozen eggs dripping off our front windows. I've never awoken on Christmas or Easter morns and felt compelled to go outside and assess the damage from the prior night of hooliganism.
Fortunately for our neighborhood hooligans, my wife Joan is a Halloween lover, thus our house will be well lit tomorrow night, not the dark forbidding place it was when I lived there alone. She's got the treats all set to go, and the scary decorations outside, so welcome to all the local witches, zombies, mummies, skeletons, Palins and Plumbers. As for me? I’ll be curled up in some dark corner of the house, praying I don’t wake up the next morning with a pumpkin atop my shoulders.
I hate Halloween. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it. I didn’t like it as a kid, although I went through the motions draped in one dumb costume or another, and I detest it as an adult. I’d rather open my front door to home invaders than trick-or-treaters. I have not seen nor will I see the movie Halloween or any of its 15 sequels.
What accounts for this hatred of All Hallows Eve? It’s harmless, right? Wrong. I never warmed up to monsters and goblins and ghouls as a youngster. I preferred them to remain within the confines of my imagination rather than walking around the neighborhood knocking on doors. Hell, Howdy Doody scared the shit out of me back then. Even in my early twenties when I went to see the movie Alien with some friends, my head stayed locked in the down position after that hideous creature did his Road Runner routine out of the guy’s stomach.
Then there’s the pumpkin, the carved pumpkin or jack-o’-lantern, to be precise. I hate that thing, particularly when it ain't smiling. I had this fear that, since my name was Jack, I’d wake up with a pumpkin head instead of the one I was born with. I had a hard enough time with the girls; how would I fare with a huge orange vegetable as a head?
I did a little research and discovered that the jack-o’-lantern’s origin goes back to the Irish legend of Stingy Jack, a greedy, gambling, hard-drinking (surprise!) old farmer. One day he tricked the devil into climbing a tree and trapped him by carving a cross into the tree trunk. Displeased, the devil placed a curse on me, I mean Jack, condemning him to forever wander the earth at night with the only light he had: a candle inside of a hollowed turnip. I hate turnips too.
The final problem I have with Halloween is mischief. You guessed it: I hate mischief, especially when it is perpetrated against my person or property. If Halloween is considered a holiday, normally meaning a day of celebration or reflection or commemoration, why should naughtiness, or worse, vandalism, be part and parcel of the occasion? I don't want to wake up and find pumpkins smashed on our front steps, 50 rolls of toilet paper strung on the branches of the maple tree in front, or the remnants of a dozen eggs dripping off our front windows. I've never awoken on Christmas or Easter morns and felt compelled to go outside and assess the damage from the prior night of hooliganism.
Fortunately for our neighborhood hooligans, my wife Joan is a Halloween lover, thus our house will be well lit tomorrow night, not the dark forbidding place it was when I lived there alone. She's got the treats all set to go, and the scary decorations outside, so welcome to all the local witches, zombies, mummies, skeletons, Palins and Plumbers. As for me? I’ll be curled up in some dark corner of the house, praying I don’t wake up the next morning with a pumpkin atop my shoulders.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Audacity Without Hope
I grew up the son of a "rich" man. My father, with his two brothers, built the plastics manufacturing company started by their father into a thriving enterprise, employing hundreds of people through 50 years in their Kenilworth, NJ location. These men -- simple, God-fearing, family men -- poured their collective guts into that business, "richly" deserving of every penny it provided to them. They were wealth creators -- for themselves, for their employees, for their suppliers, for their customers -- in the classic American tradition.
It distresses me that a hack Chicago politician -- Senator Obama, stand up, please? -- wholly ignorant of the world of business and commerce, decrees that similar successful business owners throughout the country must, in essence, hand over a higher portion of their hard-earned compensation to the government in the guise of a "middle class" tax cut. Then again, he represents the far loony fringe of a party that, I'm certain, pines for the good old days of 90% marginal tax rates that existed before JFK began the rollback that Reagan continued.
Here's a thought, Senator: If you want the vast middle class to do better, then unleash the owners/entreprenueurs like my father by cutting their taxes, thereby incenting them to take risks, to start and grow businesses that employ the middle class folks you choose to target through redistributive transfer payments. There are men and women out there who have amassed great wealth, and others who will do so if given the incentive, via more traditional means than trading in arcane financial instruments and managing hedge funds. "Working families" making less than $250,000 will fare a helluva lot better when "working families" making much more than that are not punished for doing so.
My dad sold his share of the business some years back, and at age 92 is still going strong. He may not be directly affected by an Obama redistribution revolution, but I'm sure he feels for his fellow business owners whose blood, sweat, and tears may soon yield far fewer rewards than deserved. An unhealthy, stagnant economy is the only result from such foolish policy.
It distresses me that a hack Chicago politician -- Senator Obama, stand up, please? -- wholly ignorant of the world of business and commerce, decrees that similar successful business owners throughout the country must, in essence, hand over a higher portion of their hard-earned compensation to the government in the guise of a "middle class" tax cut. Then again, he represents the far loony fringe of a party that, I'm certain, pines for the good old days of 90% marginal tax rates that existed before JFK began the rollback that Reagan continued.
Here's a thought, Senator: If you want the vast middle class to do better, then unleash the owners/entreprenueurs like my father by cutting their taxes, thereby incenting them to take risks, to start and grow businesses that employ the middle class folks you choose to target through redistributive transfer payments. There are men and women out there who have amassed great wealth, and others who will do so if given the incentive, via more traditional means than trading in arcane financial instruments and managing hedge funds. "Working families" making less than $250,000 will fare a helluva lot better when "working families" making much more than that are not punished for doing so.
My dad sold his share of the business some years back, and at age 92 is still going strong. He may not be directly affected by an Obama redistribution revolution, but I'm sure he feels for his fellow business owners whose blood, sweat, and tears may soon yield far fewer rewards than deserved. An unhealthy, stagnant economy is the only result from such foolish policy.
Fearless Fox
For those who have not yet downed the Obama kool-aid, thank God we have one broadcast media outlet that offers an alternative refreshment, a safe harbor in this perfect storm of events that have lifted an untested, unknowable, unworthy, unscrupulous pretender to the brink of election. That outlet, of course, is Fox News Channel. If the unthinkable happens, boys and girls, we might as well kiss "fair and balanced" goodbye.
Countdown
Perhaps Barry & Joe should use fellow traveler Keith Olbermann's nightly Countdown show to continue their steady countdown to the level of one's income above which one is considered to be "rich." Every time they open their mouths, millions of people who never knew they were "rich" suddenly become so.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
The List
The following conversation between Senators Obama and Biden may have occurred after Biden's recent interview with Orlando, Florida reporter Barbara West.
JB: Hello, yeah, Biden here, put him on, please?
BO: All right, Joey, what is it this time?
JB: Senator, Sir . . .
BO: How many times, Dumbo, do I have to tell you?
JB: I'm sorry, Mr. President, but I'm a little flustered. I just finished a satellite interview with some dame from Orlando.
BO: Yeah, so?
JB (crying): She asked me awful stuff, like, real tough questions. She even brought up that thing I said about you not being up to a crisis or whatever. Since when does anything we said before matter? It's not fair; it's not fair! (foot stomping clearly audible)
BO: Mohammed, I mean Jesus, stop blubbering, will you, and remind me again why I picked you? I should have fired your ass right after that fundraiser debacle. What do you want from me now, genius?
JB: My wife is supposed to talk to that bad lady next. Make her go away, please? Please, Mr. President?
BO: Who, your wife or the reporter?
JB: The bitch . . . I mean the news broad.
BO: All right, but this is the last mess I'm cleaning up for you, got that, Joey? You're killing me, goddamn it. And what the hell is it with that forehead of yours? It never moves.
JB: Oh, thank you, Sir, I swear I'll be good from now on. By the way, how will you make her, you know, go away?
BO: Never mind, Joey my boy, but get used to those kinds of people disappearing once I take office. Behave yourself, and I'll show you "the list" I've been compiling. One more knuckleheaded appearance, though, and you'll be on it! Bye-bye Biden! Got it?
JB: Yes, Mr. President, I shall make you proud. I can't wait to see your list. Is that bad man Joe the Plumber on it?
JB: Hello, yeah, Biden here, put him on, please?
BO: All right, Joey, what is it this time?
JB: Senator, Sir . . .
BO: How many times, Dumbo, do I have to tell you?
JB: I'm sorry, Mr. President, but I'm a little flustered. I just finished a satellite interview with some dame from Orlando.
BO: Yeah, so?
JB (crying): She asked me awful stuff, like, real tough questions. She even brought up that thing I said about you not being up to a crisis or whatever. Since when does anything we said before matter? It's not fair; it's not fair! (foot stomping clearly audible)
BO: Mohammed, I mean Jesus, stop blubbering, will you, and remind me again why I picked you? I should have fired your ass right after that fundraiser debacle. What do you want from me now, genius?
JB: My wife is supposed to talk to that bad lady next. Make her go away, please? Please, Mr. President?
BO: Who, your wife or the reporter?
JB: The bitch . . . I mean the news broad.
BO: All right, but this is the last mess I'm cleaning up for you, got that, Joey? You're killing me, goddamn it. And what the hell is it with that forehead of yours? It never moves.
JB: Oh, thank you, Sir, I swear I'll be good from now on. By the way, how will you make her, you know, go away?
BO: Never mind, Joey my boy, but get used to those kinds of people disappearing once I take office. Behave yourself, and I'll show you "the list" I've been compiling. One more knuckleheaded appearance, though, and you'll be on it! Bye-bye Biden! Got it?
JB: Yes, Mr. President, I shall make you proud. I can't wait to see your list. Is that bad man Joe the Plumber on it?
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Right On, Maureen
I applaud Maureen Dowd, in her column today, for expressing her eloquent disgust at what might be called "Wardrobegate," perhaps the most scandalous use of public funds since old William Seward's impetuous purchase of Alaska in 1867 for $7.2 million. I refer, of course, to the Republican National Committee's outrageous expenditure of $150,ooo for clothing, purchased at bourgeois stores like Saks and Neiman Marcus, to outfit the newly nominated Governor Palin for the campaign trail. I am ashamed at my prior support for the Governor, for her complicity in this fiasco clearly shows her disdain for the common people whom she has so strongly championed. May she be reminded every day for the rest of her life, maybe even longer, of this ugly episode in our nation's history, how she dared to go along with this unabashed affront to all things decent and wholesome. May God have mercy on your soul, Governor.
Ms. Dowd has a choice of subject matter for her twice weekly columns, and good for her that she chose this national insult today. After all, she could have chosen any one of the following irrelevant matters:
Ms. Dowd has a choice of subject matter for her twice weekly columns, and good for her that she chose this national insult today. After all, she could have chosen any one of the following irrelevant matters:
- The Obama campaign's censoring of an Orlando TV news anchor named Barbara West (a former aide to Peter Jennings) for daring to ask Joe the Senator to justify a vote for Obama when Biden himself claimed that Obama may not be up to handling the international crisis certain to erupt within six months of his inauguration. She also quoted from Marx (not Groucho), noting a similarity with Obama's wealth spreading creed, and asked Biden if it's reasonable to consider Obama a Marxist. Ms. West's station, per order of Campaign Obama, will not be granted any more interviews with the candidates -- nothing newsworthy there, no predictor of an Obama policy toward dissenting views in the press, nothing at all to be concerned about.
- The ruthless and probably illegal digging into the private life of one Joe Wurzelbacher (aka Joe the Plumber), all because he happened to be standing in his driveway when The Anointed One came walking by, and raised a question which elicited the Senator's ear-popping "spread the wealth" response. On second thought, this worthless ingrate, this non-plumbing, tax-dodging, publicity-seeking Republican stooge should be made to pay for being home at the time. Right, Maureen?
- The 20-year association of Mr. Obama with one Reverend Jeremiah Wright who seemed to have a rather narrow, pointed opinion of this Great Satan we call America. I understand Maureen's reluctance to examine this. Why on earth would anyone seek to explore that relationship when it might illuminate the Senator's real feelings toward this country and thus jeopardize his ascension to the Presidency of it, the outcome all real Americans so joyously await?
- The coziness between Senator Obama and Bill the Bomber, a genuine piece of American garbage who should be rotting away in some rat-infested cell, but instead uses his undeserved freedom to mock the flag and spread his anti-American venom. But wait, once again you're right, Maureen, for ignoring this. William Ayers is merely a distraction, a "washed-up terrorist" as McCain said, just a guy in the neighborhood who took his love for firecrackers a little too far as a youngster. How silly of me to think otherwise.
I don't know why I even mention these, because they pale in comparison to Wardrobegate. Thanks again, Ms. Dowd, for focusing our attention on the real villains, the real enemies of this country who should be hounded, jeered, and stripped of their expensive clothing and jewelry to boot. I urge you to continue exposing these reprehensible Republican women -- let's throw in Cindy McCain too -- for what they really are: arrogant, out of touch, two-faced, stupid, and unfairly attractive. Why can't they spread the beauty around a bit?
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Curious Prediction
Joe the Hair Plug Senator guarantees that, within the first six months of his presidency, Barack the Organizer will face an international crisis instigated by one of our "America must die" opponents, purely to test the mettle of the fresh young leader. Now, this means we should place our country's welfare in his hands, and pull that lever for him, because???????????????????
Monday, October 20, 2008
Powell Hits One Foul
I hate to criticize Colin Powell because he is a great American, a man of immense intellect, courage, and charisma. I can only surmise that he attended one of Madonna's recent shows, somehow fell under her slimy spell, and bought in to her depiction of Obama as Ghandhi and McCain as Hitler. Say it ain't so, Co.'
Saturday, October 18, 2008
A Pile of Trouble
A trip to the recycling center prompted this piece of nonsense.
I did a bad thing today. I brought a pile of newspapers to the recycle center. What’s so bad about that? Here's what: the pile was untied, the papers loose, in direct violation of the instructions issued by our town's Supreme Recycling Authority: Bundle and cross-tie newspapers with inserts. I deftly placed the untied papers underneath a bundle previously tied in the proper manner, and placed them in the trailer at the recycle center. Laziness overcame me this morning, plus it was nearing noon when the place would close. I was desperate, not thinking straight, thus foolishly carried out this defiant, possibly criminal, act. All throughout the two minute ride back to my house, I checked the rear view mirror, terrified that I had been spotted by the Recycle Man on duty, or by another town resident who could not let this deed go unreported.
What do I do? The guilt is beginning to overwhelm me. I’ve never murdered someone, but that can’t feel much worse; chances are the murder victim deserved it, and the world is better off as a result. No good can possibly come from my terrible act; it is a direct affront to authority, a clear disregard for civic duty and the rule of law, not to mention the norms of neatness.
Do I turn myself in, throw myself upon the mercy of the municipal officials and townspeople? With good behavior I could be released in, oh, two or three hours. Or do I flee, become a fugitive like Dr. Richard Kimball, pursued by some obsessive recycling cop hell-bent on capturing me and putting me away for good -- Chatham’s version of Lieutenant Gerard. At least Richard Kimball knew he was innocent of his wife’s murder; he just had to find the one-armed man he saw fleeing the scene. I have no “one-armed man” defense, no basis to claim innocence, no other human being on whom to pin this offense.
No, the life of a fugitive is not for me; the hours are unpredictable and the fringe benefits not at all sufficient. To hell with it, a few loose newspapers, big deal. It’s not like I failed to rinse out bottles, jars and cans. Let them come after me, but they’re in for a fight; they won’t take me alive. We all must face our mortality, and declare for what cause, noble or ludicrous, we are willing to pay the ultimate price. This particular one happens to be ludicrous, no question, yet I shall stand my ground, I won’t back down, and I won’t use any more Tom Petty lyrics. I’ll be remembered, celebrated in these parts for years to come as The Recycle Rebel. Come and get me, pigs, but try not to knock over the container at curbside filled with aluminum cans, glass bottles and jars, plastic bottles, and steel cans, all placed together in one container in compliance with your posted requirements? Thank you.
I did a bad thing today. I brought a pile of newspapers to the recycle center. What’s so bad about that? Here's what: the pile was untied, the papers loose, in direct violation of the instructions issued by our town's Supreme Recycling Authority: Bundle and cross-tie newspapers with inserts. I deftly placed the untied papers underneath a bundle previously tied in the proper manner, and placed them in the trailer at the recycle center. Laziness overcame me this morning, plus it was nearing noon when the place would close. I was desperate, not thinking straight, thus foolishly carried out this defiant, possibly criminal, act. All throughout the two minute ride back to my house, I checked the rear view mirror, terrified that I had been spotted by the Recycle Man on duty, or by another town resident who could not let this deed go unreported.
What do I do? The guilt is beginning to overwhelm me. I’ve never murdered someone, but that can’t feel much worse; chances are the murder victim deserved it, and the world is better off as a result. No good can possibly come from my terrible act; it is a direct affront to authority, a clear disregard for civic duty and the rule of law, not to mention the norms of neatness.
Do I turn myself in, throw myself upon the mercy of the municipal officials and townspeople? With good behavior I could be released in, oh, two or three hours. Or do I flee, become a fugitive like Dr. Richard Kimball, pursued by some obsessive recycling cop hell-bent on capturing me and putting me away for good -- Chatham’s version of Lieutenant Gerard. At least Richard Kimball knew he was innocent of his wife’s murder; he just had to find the one-armed man he saw fleeing the scene. I have no “one-armed man” defense, no basis to claim innocence, no other human being on whom to pin this offense.
No, the life of a fugitive is not for me; the hours are unpredictable and the fringe benefits not at all sufficient. To hell with it, a few loose newspapers, big deal. It’s not like I failed to rinse out bottles, jars and cans. Let them come after me, but they’re in for a fight; they won’t take me alive. We all must face our mortality, and declare for what cause, noble or ludicrous, we are willing to pay the ultimate price. This particular one happens to be ludicrous, no question, yet I shall stand my ground, I won’t back down, and I won’t use any more Tom Petty lyrics. I’ll be remembered, celebrated in these parts for years to come as The Recycle Rebel. Come and get me, pigs, but try not to knock over the container at curbside filled with aluminum cans, glass bottles and jars, plastic bottles, and steel cans, all placed together in one container in compliance with your posted requirements? Thank you.
Shame on Hugh
I'm glad to see Hugh Hefner, the energetic octagenarian, is moving on after the breakup with one of his harum's mainstays, Holly Madison. His femme du jour now is a 38-year old, four-legged, quadruple breasted blonde (surprise!) with the last name of Shannon, and the first names of Kristina and Karissa. That's right -- 19-year old twins -- and how proud their parents must be of their two little girls, using every asset at their disposal to advance in the highly competitive theater of Playboy palace promiscuity, the Hefner College of Carnal Knowledge. Yeah, nothing like round-the-clock rollicking in the raw with your great-grandfather, for God's sake. But at least they have each other; I mean, I hope they haven't had each other; oh dear, I mean nobody will come between them, well, except Hef I guess. Perhaps I should stick with political posts?
Friday, October 17, 2008
A Winning Ploy
Seeing McCain deliver an eloquent tribute to Obama at the Al Smith dinner last night, I'm thinking his best chance now is to actually endorse Obama. Why? Because there are enough dumb shit dopes in this country who will look at it like this: We hate George Bush and Republicans; John McCain is a Republican, therefore we hate John McCain, and oppose anything John McCain favors; if McCain favors Obama, we can't possibly vote for Obama, therefore, we'll stick it to McCain by voting for him.
Far-fetched?
Far-fetched?
Thursday, October 16, 2008
And Furthermore . . .
McCain did his best last night to make hay of Obama's association with the bomber Ayers and, of course, the honorable Illinois senator smoothly swatted it away. McCain called Ayers a washed up terrorist who he didn't really care about, but he should have gone on to say: "However, Senator Obama, if ever I have the misfortune to be in the same room as Mr. Ayers and his enemy of America wife, as you were, I shall spit in both their faces and kick him in the groinal region. I shall then politely excuse myself from their stench-filled presence."
John the Bummer
Game, set . . . not quite match but getting close. Obama has to be the greatest debating counter-puncher of all time. You just can't bloody that pretty face of his, or dislodge a few of those gleaming teeth. And holding the debate on the same day as another dizzying Dow dive, well, it looks like his stars are aligned.
And speaking of stars, how about America's guy Joe the Plumber? One day the bloke is crawling under somebody's sink installing a garbage disposal, and the next day his name gets mentioned 20 times in a presidential debate. And make no mistake: Joe exposed Obama for the whole world to hear, as he unwittingly admitted his "spread the wealth" philosophy. Alas, the twin demons of Bush and financial meltdown render that encounter a sideshow when it should have been a defining moment. Hell, Obama could have told Joe, "If you buy that business, Joe, my comrades and I will seize your ill-gotten gains and banish you to the secret gulag I'm starting for rich people." In this climate, it wouldn't have mattered.
And speaking of his comrades, if I ever run into Warren Buffett I'm going to punch him in the face. How dare he foist his guilt-ridden tax the rich hogwash on those whose "wealth" contains far fewer zeroes than his. Redistribute your own dough, but leave the rest of us out of it, Buffy.
And speaking of stars, how about America's guy Joe the Plumber? One day the bloke is crawling under somebody's sink installing a garbage disposal, and the next day his name gets mentioned 20 times in a presidential debate. And make no mistake: Joe exposed Obama for the whole world to hear, as he unwittingly admitted his "spread the wealth" philosophy. Alas, the twin demons of Bush and financial meltdown render that encounter a sideshow when it should have been a defining moment. Hell, Obama could have told Joe, "If you buy that business, Joe, my comrades and I will seize your ill-gotten gains and banish you to the secret gulag I'm starting for rich people." In this climate, it wouldn't have mattered.
And speaking of his comrades, if I ever run into Warren Buffett I'm going to punch him in the face. How dare he foist his guilt-ridden tax the rich hogwash on those whose "wealth" contains far fewer zeroes than his. Redistribute your own dough, but leave the rest of us out of it, Buffy.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Let's Get Physical
My recent physical exam prompted the following composition.
I went to the doctor recently for my annual physical which I schedule every three years or so. I arrived at the appointed time, checked in with the pleasant looking gray-haired lady behind the glass, who informed me: “We have a new computer system, so please complete and sign these multiple pages; and I need your insurance card, please?” Without fail, every time I come here, I fill out the same paperwork and hand her the same insurance card as I did the last time, and the time before that. I was tempted this time to check off something unlikely in my medical history, like “abnormal PAP smears.” I bet if I came back tomorrow for a follow-up appointment, she’d hand me the same forms on the same clipboard and ask for the same insurance card.
“But I filled these out yesterday, and you took a copy of my card. Do you change your computer system daily?”
“I’m sorry, Sir, but we need to make sure our records are current.” I suppose in 24 hours I could have changed jobs, changed insurance companies, developed and recovered from cancer, and divorced and remarried. Helluva day, though!
In this age of express medical care, a complete physical exam takes not much longer than a fill-up at the gas station. From when Dr. J. summoned me with the endearing greeting “You owe me some urine,” – to which I replied, “I’m fine, thanks, yourself?” – until he dismissed me, the elapsed time was 28 minutes. You can now get a physical on your lunch break and still have time for lunch.
For half of the 28 minutes I waited for him in the examining room clad in my boxers and socks, after making the urine deposit he so dearly sought. Three or four times I heard his rampaging footsteps approaching and figured, “Here he comes, this is it.” But he’d then rampage in the other direction. I was glad, though: I needed some time for the huge urine stain on my sky-blue boxers to dry; at age 55 these things happen.
Finally the door opened, and the handsome, white-coated Dr. J. burst in and ordered: “Hop on the scale. Let’s do this.” Fortunately, the stain had dried so I could stand without acute embarrassment. I checked in at 161 pounds, which on my five foot nine frame isn’t bad, but more than I’d like. “Weight looks good. So, have you been on vacation already, or is that still to come?”
“Well . . .”
“Okay, back here, take a seat.” Dr. J. is the fastest talker this side of a cattle auctioneer, whereas I speak at the laborious pace of Henry Kissinger. As he took my blood pressure and felt me up all over and put me through the deep breathing routine, he kept asking questions that I had no opportunity to answer. I didn’t mind, though; it was kind of like “doctor rap,” although Dr. J. ain’t no Dr. Dre, know what I’m sayin’?
So far, so good: weight okay, blood pressure perfect; whatever he saw in my ears and down my throat didn’t alarm him. What’s left? Take some blood, hook me up to the EKG machine, ram a fist up my ass. Oops, pardon me . . . perform a digital rectal exam to check the prostate. And so he did, and as always, how thrilling it was. My biggest fear with this exam is not the violation of sacred space, but that I might shit my brains out in the process. I like Dr. J.’s approach: quick, efficient, in and out real fast; no time to tense up and, thankfully, poop-free. Oh, and he felt a small and soft prostate; in this case, small and soft is good.
One standard selection from physical exams of yore – the “cough while your testicles are being squeezed” number – was omitted from the program. Such a pity; maybe next year.
Since I’m past 50, he always checks when or if I had that loveliest of medical procedures: the colonoscopy. He punched me up on his laptop which presumably was loaded with the new computer system, and saw that I passed that particular test in May, 2004. Doing some quick math, I calculated that next year will be five years; was I to do it again then or in 10 years? He didn’t say; I didn’t ask.
In a few days they’ll call me with the blood work results. Last time my cholesterol tipped the scale moderately, but nothing else of note. I’ve cut back my alcohol consumption over the last year, so hopefully I have more blood and less poison flowing through my veins. I can think of nothing more agonizing than waiting for the results of a true life-or-death test, like a tumor biopsy. It’s tough to whistle a happy tune while a pathologist is examining a piece of your insides through his scope, looking for evidence of “abnormal” cells that might just forecast a premature end to your life.
I’ve been blessed with good health throughout my life. When I see or hear of people my age or younger dropping dead of heart attacks, getting one cancer or another, or having some other chronic illness or debilitating condition, I wonder why them and not me, or someone close to me? I’m at the age now where shit happens, and I don’t mean as the by-product of a digital prostate exam. I mean real serious shit, like disease and death.
Henceforth, I’ll have my annual physical annually, and when handed the same medical forms to complete, I’ll say: “Yes, Mam, I’d be happy to fill out these same forms containing the same information I provided last year. And, of course, here is the same insurance card that you have on file.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“No, no, no, thank you for looking after my health. Please pass the clipboard?”
I went to the doctor recently for my annual physical which I schedule every three years or so. I arrived at the appointed time, checked in with the pleasant looking gray-haired lady behind the glass, who informed me: “We have a new computer system, so please complete and sign these multiple pages; and I need your insurance card, please?” Without fail, every time I come here, I fill out the same paperwork and hand her the same insurance card as I did the last time, and the time before that. I was tempted this time to check off something unlikely in my medical history, like “abnormal PAP smears.” I bet if I came back tomorrow for a follow-up appointment, she’d hand me the same forms on the same clipboard and ask for the same insurance card.
“But I filled these out yesterday, and you took a copy of my card. Do you change your computer system daily?”
“I’m sorry, Sir, but we need to make sure our records are current.” I suppose in 24 hours I could have changed jobs, changed insurance companies, developed and recovered from cancer, and divorced and remarried. Helluva day, though!
In this age of express medical care, a complete physical exam takes not much longer than a fill-up at the gas station. From when Dr. J. summoned me with the endearing greeting “You owe me some urine,” – to which I replied, “I’m fine, thanks, yourself?” – until he dismissed me, the elapsed time was 28 minutes. You can now get a physical on your lunch break and still have time for lunch.
For half of the 28 minutes I waited for him in the examining room clad in my boxers and socks, after making the urine deposit he so dearly sought. Three or four times I heard his rampaging footsteps approaching and figured, “Here he comes, this is it.” But he’d then rampage in the other direction. I was glad, though: I needed some time for the huge urine stain on my sky-blue boxers to dry; at age 55 these things happen.
Finally the door opened, and the handsome, white-coated Dr. J. burst in and ordered: “Hop on the scale. Let’s do this.” Fortunately, the stain had dried so I could stand without acute embarrassment. I checked in at 161 pounds, which on my five foot nine frame isn’t bad, but more than I’d like. “Weight looks good. So, have you been on vacation already, or is that still to come?”
“Well . . .”
“Okay, back here, take a seat.” Dr. J. is the fastest talker this side of a cattle auctioneer, whereas I speak at the laborious pace of Henry Kissinger. As he took my blood pressure and felt me up all over and put me through the deep breathing routine, he kept asking questions that I had no opportunity to answer. I didn’t mind, though; it was kind of like “doctor rap,” although Dr. J. ain’t no Dr. Dre, know what I’m sayin’?
So far, so good: weight okay, blood pressure perfect; whatever he saw in my ears and down my throat didn’t alarm him. What’s left? Take some blood, hook me up to the EKG machine, ram a fist up my ass. Oops, pardon me . . . perform a digital rectal exam to check the prostate. And so he did, and as always, how thrilling it was. My biggest fear with this exam is not the violation of sacred space, but that I might shit my brains out in the process. I like Dr. J.’s approach: quick, efficient, in and out real fast; no time to tense up and, thankfully, poop-free. Oh, and he felt a small and soft prostate; in this case, small and soft is good.
One standard selection from physical exams of yore – the “cough while your testicles are being squeezed” number – was omitted from the program. Such a pity; maybe next year.
Since I’m past 50, he always checks when or if I had that loveliest of medical procedures: the colonoscopy. He punched me up on his laptop which presumably was loaded with the new computer system, and saw that I passed that particular test in May, 2004. Doing some quick math, I calculated that next year will be five years; was I to do it again then or in 10 years? He didn’t say; I didn’t ask.
In a few days they’ll call me with the blood work results. Last time my cholesterol tipped the scale moderately, but nothing else of note. I’ve cut back my alcohol consumption over the last year, so hopefully I have more blood and less poison flowing through my veins. I can think of nothing more agonizing than waiting for the results of a true life-or-death test, like a tumor biopsy. It’s tough to whistle a happy tune while a pathologist is examining a piece of your insides through his scope, looking for evidence of “abnormal” cells that might just forecast a premature end to your life.
I’ve been blessed with good health throughout my life. When I see or hear of people my age or younger dropping dead of heart attacks, getting one cancer or another, or having some other chronic illness or debilitating condition, I wonder why them and not me, or someone close to me? I’m at the age now where shit happens, and I don’t mean as the by-product of a digital prostate exam. I mean real serious shit, like disease and death.
Henceforth, I’ll have my annual physical annually, and when handed the same medical forms to complete, I’ll say: “Yes, Mam, I’d be happy to fill out these same forms containing the same information I provided last year. And, of course, here is the same insurance card that you have on file.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“No, no, no, thank you for looking after my health. Please pass the clipboard?”
Poetic Politic
Tonight at the campus of Hofstra U.
The final debate many will view.
With McCain's campaign ailin'
Despite efforts of Sixpack Palin,
Johnny desperately needs the "W."
Will there be moments of high drama
Like McCain bitch-slapping Obama?
Will the moderator Schieffer
Ask if they smoked reefer?
Or Barack ally with the Dalai Lama.
It's McCain's last chance for connection
If he hopes to capture this election.
Else he'll assume the role
Of his old friend Bob Dole,
Talking about geezers' erections.
The final debate many will view.
With McCain's campaign ailin'
Despite efforts of Sixpack Palin,
Johnny desperately needs the "W."
Will there be moments of high drama
Like McCain bitch-slapping Obama?
Will the moderator Schieffer
Ask if they smoked reefer?
Or Barack ally with the Dalai Lama.
It's McCain's last chance for connection
If he hopes to capture this election.
Else he'll assume the role
Of his old friend Bob Dole,
Talking about geezers' erections.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
What's Your Hob?
The following idiotic essay was inspired by absolutely nothing.
I never had a legitimate hobby, a leisure pursuit that I stuck with for any period of time. I exclude sports and games from this assertion, because I don’t consider those hobbies; I consider them sports and games. A real hobby to me is knitting, or coin collecting, or snake charming, or writing. When I asked my wife Joan if she had a hobby (you think I’d know, right?), she said “taking care of other people.” I told her that while that is surely true, it is not a hobby, but more like a noble calling. Please do not characterize a lifetime of noble, altruistic deeds as a hobby, for goodness sake.
According to the Encarta Dictionary, a hobby is an activity engaged in for pleasure and relaxation during spare time. Let us further examine, and possibly amplify, this definition . . . .
You may engage in activity by running around in circles, or bashing your head against a bridge abutment. Clearly these, particularly the latter, do not seem pleasurable or relaxing. Therefore, if you use your spare time for these activities, do not claim them as hobbies. In reply, you may say, “It sounds weird, but I really do derive pleasure by bashing my head against a bridge abutment, and it relaxes me like all get-out. Why can’t it be my hobby?”
A reasonable question, to which my answer is this: “You are a singular freak; your concept of pleasure and relaxation is that of a masochistic psycho.” Thus, I offer a clarifying clause to the definition of hobby: an activity engaged in for pleasure and relaxation, as judged by a reasonably sane person, during spare time.
This also rules out illegal activities such as breaking and entering, entering and breaking, and mugging elderly ladies. However, I applaud those worthless lifetime criminals who take up legitimate hobbies to pass the time between crime sprees; this is an encouraging trend.
What about exercise – jogging, weights, treadmill, yoga – hobby or no? Emphatically NO! A hobby should not involve the wearing of any special outfit, such as workout clothes, uniforms, superhero costumes. You should be able to engage in your chosen hobby wearing anything, including nothing. For example, you may knit away in your work clothes, pajamas, or birthday suit (be careful with that needle, though). So we now have a second clarification to the definition: an activity engaged in for pleasure and relaxation, as judged by a reasonably sane person, during spare time, not requiring any special clothing to be worn.
In response, some fellow may say that he routinely uses the treadmill at his health club after work, still clad in his Hickey-Freeman suit and Johnston & Murphy wing tips, claiming “That is my hobby, damn it, and you can’t tell me otherwise.” Wrong, Ace. Running the treadmill while still in your work clothes is high folly, not hobby, so please seek the help of a mental health professional immediately.
I permit one exception to the “no special outfit” rule, and that deals with footwear for outdoor hobbies like bird watching, photography, and hubcap stealing (oops, sorry, illegal activity). Such hobbyists may don comfortable and/or durable footwear, as long as the shoes are not specially designed for the activity (like golf shoes). Clarification # 3: an activity engaged in for pleasure and relaxation, as judged by a reasonably sane person, during spare time, not requiring any special clothing to be worn, except in the case of footwear for outdoor activities.
To qualify as a hobby, are you permitted to make money from the activity? An excellent question, if I may compliment myself. The answer is yes, but, the compensation earned must be an insignificant percentage of your total income. Let’s say you collect baseball cards, a hobby for sure – provides pleasure, done in spare time, no special outfit needed. Why deny its hobby status by picking up a few bucks here and there from some valuable cards you may have? But what is an insignificant percentage of total income? Hell if I know, but let’s say 10% or less, just so I can keep this essay going. Therefore, my final revision to the definition of hobby: an activity engaged in for pleasure and relaxation, as judged by a reasonably sane person, during spare time, not requiring any special clothing to be worn, except in the case of footwear for outdoor activities; compensation may be earned but must not exceed 10% of one’s total income.
My last nonsensical point concerns the word hobby itself. Why should serious, often difficult, generally rewarding activities be labeled with a word that sounds like baby talk? Asking “what’s your hobby” is like asking “what’s your jobby.” “You can tell me, can’t you, you wittle darling? What’s your hobby wobby, now, Sweetie?” My recommendation is to drop off the last two letters and call it a hob. Henceforth, all hobbies are hobs.
Many who are still with me are asking, “Why the hell are you so obsessed with the precise definition of hobby, correction, hob; why write an essay about this?”
My answer is, “It’s my hob and, by the way, it is my spare time and I am wearing nothing whatsoever, feeling mighty relaxed, and the pleasure scale is off the charts. I sure wish this hobby could become my jobby.”
I never had a legitimate hobby, a leisure pursuit that I stuck with for any period of time. I exclude sports and games from this assertion, because I don’t consider those hobbies; I consider them sports and games. A real hobby to me is knitting, or coin collecting, or snake charming, or writing. When I asked my wife Joan if she had a hobby (you think I’d know, right?), she said “taking care of other people.” I told her that while that is surely true, it is not a hobby, but more like a noble calling. Please do not characterize a lifetime of noble, altruistic deeds as a hobby, for goodness sake.
According to the Encarta Dictionary, a hobby is an activity engaged in for pleasure and relaxation during spare time. Let us further examine, and possibly amplify, this definition . . . .
You may engage in activity by running around in circles, or bashing your head against a bridge abutment. Clearly these, particularly the latter, do not seem pleasurable or relaxing. Therefore, if you use your spare time for these activities, do not claim them as hobbies. In reply, you may say, “It sounds weird, but I really do derive pleasure by bashing my head against a bridge abutment, and it relaxes me like all get-out. Why can’t it be my hobby?”
A reasonable question, to which my answer is this: “You are a singular freak; your concept of pleasure and relaxation is that of a masochistic psycho.” Thus, I offer a clarifying clause to the definition of hobby: an activity engaged in for pleasure and relaxation, as judged by a reasonably sane person, during spare time.
This also rules out illegal activities such as breaking and entering, entering and breaking, and mugging elderly ladies. However, I applaud those worthless lifetime criminals who take up legitimate hobbies to pass the time between crime sprees; this is an encouraging trend.
What about exercise – jogging, weights, treadmill, yoga – hobby or no? Emphatically NO! A hobby should not involve the wearing of any special outfit, such as workout clothes, uniforms, superhero costumes. You should be able to engage in your chosen hobby wearing anything, including nothing. For example, you may knit away in your work clothes, pajamas, or birthday suit (be careful with that needle, though). So we now have a second clarification to the definition: an activity engaged in for pleasure and relaxation, as judged by a reasonably sane person, during spare time, not requiring any special clothing to be worn.
In response, some fellow may say that he routinely uses the treadmill at his health club after work, still clad in his Hickey-Freeman suit and Johnston & Murphy wing tips, claiming “That is my hobby, damn it, and you can’t tell me otherwise.” Wrong, Ace. Running the treadmill while still in your work clothes is high folly, not hobby, so please seek the help of a mental health professional immediately.
I permit one exception to the “no special outfit” rule, and that deals with footwear for outdoor hobbies like bird watching, photography, and hubcap stealing (oops, sorry, illegal activity). Such hobbyists may don comfortable and/or durable footwear, as long as the shoes are not specially designed for the activity (like golf shoes). Clarification # 3: an activity engaged in for pleasure and relaxation, as judged by a reasonably sane person, during spare time, not requiring any special clothing to be worn, except in the case of footwear for outdoor activities.
To qualify as a hobby, are you permitted to make money from the activity? An excellent question, if I may compliment myself. The answer is yes, but, the compensation earned must be an insignificant percentage of your total income. Let’s say you collect baseball cards, a hobby for sure – provides pleasure, done in spare time, no special outfit needed. Why deny its hobby status by picking up a few bucks here and there from some valuable cards you may have? But what is an insignificant percentage of total income? Hell if I know, but let’s say 10% or less, just so I can keep this essay going. Therefore, my final revision to the definition of hobby: an activity engaged in for pleasure and relaxation, as judged by a reasonably sane person, during spare time, not requiring any special clothing to be worn, except in the case of footwear for outdoor activities; compensation may be earned but must not exceed 10% of one’s total income.
My last nonsensical point concerns the word hobby itself. Why should serious, often difficult, generally rewarding activities be labeled with a word that sounds like baby talk? Asking “what’s your hobby” is like asking “what’s your jobby.” “You can tell me, can’t you, you wittle darling? What’s your hobby wobby, now, Sweetie?” My recommendation is to drop off the last two letters and call it a hob. Henceforth, all hobbies are hobs.
Many who are still with me are asking, “Why the hell are you so obsessed with the precise definition of hobby, correction, hob; why write an essay about this?”
My answer is, “It’s my hob and, by the way, it is my spare time and I am wearing nothing whatsoever, feeling mighty relaxed, and the pleasure scale is off the charts. I sure wish this hobby could become my jobby.”
Two Whores
On his new CNN gig last night with Anderson Cooper, David Gergen -- the ultimate political whore -- lashed out at McCain for not outright apologizing to the American people for the few "opinionated" folks in his rallies. No, all he did was snatch the microphone from one of them and practically endorse Obama himself. In the interest of fairness and balance (oops, wrong network), perhaps Mr. Gergen will prevail upon his latest pimp, Senator Obama, to repudiate one of his supporters -- Madonna, the ultimate whore whore -- for juxtaposing McCain and Hitler on her hideous concert video.
But wait, let's analyze this. In one case, you have a bunch of illiterate yahoos spewing irrational hatred toward a Presidential candidate in a public forum. In the other case, you have a deified "entertainment" figure using her inalienable free speech right to justifiably associate a Presidential candidate with the worst fiend the world has ever known. I'd say that's a wash; no harm, no foul.
But wait, let's analyze this. In one case, you have a bunch of illiterate yahoos spewing irrational hatred toward a Presidential candidate in a public forum. In the other case, you have a deified "entertainment" figure using her inalienable free speech right to justifiably associate a Presidential candidate with the worst fiend the world has ever known. I'd say that's a wash; no harm, no foul.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Monday Miscellany
I watched none of the Sunday talk shows and, as a result, my mind is completely empty, uh, I mean it is refreshingly clear of the competing claptrap of partisan politicians and pundits.
As far as the financial meltdown goes, let's look at the bright side . . . Imagine Jeopardy music is playing . . . Somebody help me here.
Which doesn't belong and why:
a) Barney Rubble
b) Barney Fife
c) Barney the Dinosaur
d) Barney Frank
The answer is d) Barney Frank, because unlike the other three cartoonish buffoons, the Massachusetts Madam's character is real and may never be cancelled.
As far as the financial meltdown goes, let's look at the bright side . . . Imagine Jeopardy music is playing . . . Somebody help me here.
Which doesn't belong and why:
a) Barney Rubble
b) Barney Fife
c) Barney the Dinosaur
d) Barney Frank
The answer is d) Barney Frank, because unlike the other three cartoonish buffoons, the Massachusetts Madam's character is real and may never be cancelled.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
The Keys
Today is our 12th wedding anniversary, Joan and me. It's worked out pretty well, considering we were just kids of 43 and 40 at the time. A fair body of literature has been published on the dynamics of a successful marriage, but I've boiled it all down to three keys . . . .
The first is communication: keep the lines open and flowing.
The second is tenderness: keep the lips moist and ready.
The third is humor: keep the laughs coming fast and furious.
Actually, there is a fourth key: the one for your automobile. Keep it handy to flee after botching the first three.
The first is communication: keep the lines open and flowing.
The second is tenderness: keep the lips moist and ready.
The third is humor: keep the laughs coming fast and furious.
Actually, there is a fourth key: the one for your automobile. Keep it handy to flee after botching the first three.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
The Chair
A visit earlier this year to a certain professional practitioner inspired the following essay.
For weeks the dread gnawed at me, slowly consuming my internal organs. My date with the enemy, once too distant to worry about, now was 12 hours away. Friday night, normally a time to unwind and relax, instead brought paralyzing anxiety and fear. A sleepless night lay ahead.
When the alarm buzzed at seven o’clock Saturday morning, I had been awake for hours, lying in bed and praying for a natural disaster to strike. My prayer specifically ruled out any loss of life; it petitioned only for enough mayhem to close every road in the state, thereby crippling all commerce and industry. No such luck, however. My wife Joan, knowing what awaited me, hugged me and kissed me, then sweetly said, “Get the hell up and face this like a man!” I didn’t want to; I wanted to bawl like a baby. I was a dead man shaving, a living corpse on the way to the embalming chamber. What should I wear? Does it matter? Does anything matter anymore?
8:00 A.M., time to depart. I embraced Joan so hard I nearly broke her back. Painfully she said, “Honey, you can do this, I know you can. Believe in yourself. I’ll be here when you return.”
But would I return? And if I did, would I be the same man who left? We’d know soon enough. Quivering and shivering – it was February in New Jersey – I set out to engage the dreaded adversary.
I arrived 15 minutes early, taking a seat in a pleasant enough anteroom, actually too light and cheery for the horrible business conducted there.
“Jack Shea?” I heard the female voice first, then the human form appeared. “Come with me, Jack.”
Do I have to? I thought, unable to muster even an ounce of courage.
“How are you this morning?”
“Oh I’m fine, I guess”, when really I wanted to say: How do you think I am, you twit? I have been unable to function for two weeks, and this morning I prayed for the end of the world. How does that grab ya, Sweetcakes?
“We’ll put you in here, and he’ll see you in a few minutes. Can I get you anything, a magazine maybe?”
“No thanks, well, how about a shot of whiskey?” She laughed nervously and ran from the room.
The room contained a single place to sit, in the chair of honor, a chair designed for one thing and one thing only. I noticed on the wall in front of me a painting by Leroy Nieman; it looked like a sailboat capsizing. Just perfect, I thought. What am I doing here? Run for it, to hell with the shame, the disgrace, the reputation reduced to rubble. I can live with that. The walls were covered with smiling faces, mouths opened so wide a good-sized bird could fly through. Why were these people smiling when, in mere minutes if not seconds, legal torture was about to take place?
As promised, he entered the room, smiling as grotesquely as the wall people. After a quick hello and a shake of my sweat-soaked hand, Dr. Edward Smith, DDS, said, “Okay, Jack, open up and let’s take a look, shall we?”
So there you have it: my semi-annual dental checkup was the source of my fear. I have nothing against dentists personally; I just abhor the profession they chose. You see, I am a gagger, one who feels death by choking is imminent when a human hand enters one’s mouth. For me and those similarly afflicted, an innocent dental checkup makes waterboarding seem like a walk in the park. Gagging is an awful problem, for the patient obviously, but also for the poor dentist and hygienist. Once it starts, it doesn’t stop. They can tell me to breathe through my nose until the cows return home, but that awful reflex keeps on keepin’ on. I wish he could put me to sleep, do his disgusting work, then slap me awake and send me off with my new toothbrush and supply of floss.
And then there are the dreaded x-rays, when they outfit you with that 50-pound vest that could stop a barrage of bullets. With that thing on you couldn’t run 10 feet before the weight brought you down. So you’re trapped, forced to endure the unendurable. Those 10 seconds – between the placement of the choke-inducing apparatus in your mouth and its release – are a damned eternity.
So how did I do? Not bad, actually; at least I didn’t throw up this time, or cause the hygienist to quit and find another line of work. I returned home to Joan with my masculinity not completely eviscerated. But guess what? I was told to come back in two weeks for a full set of those wonderful x-rays. I immediately started praying for that natural disaster to strike.
For weeks the dread gnawed at me, slowly consuming my internal organs. My date with the enemy, once too distant to worry about, now was 12 hours away. Friday night, normally a time to unwind and relax, instead brought paralyzing anxiety and fear. A sleepless night lay ahead.
When the alarm buzzed at seven o’clock Saturday morning, I had been awake for hours, lying in bed and praying for a natural disaster to strike. My prayer specifically ruled out any loss of life; it petitioned only for enough mayhem to close every road in the state, thereby crippling all commerce and industry. No such luck, however. My wife Joan, knowing what awaited me, hugged me and kissed me, then sweetly said, “Get the hell up and face this like a man!” I didn’t want to; I wanted to bawl like a baby. I was a dead man shaving, a living corpse on the way to the embalming chamber. What should I wear? Does it matter? Does anything matter anymore?
8:00 A.M., time to depart. I embraced Joan so hard I nearly broke her back. Painfully she said, “Honey, you can do this, I know you can. Believe in yourself. I’ll be here when you return.”
But would I return? And if I did, would I be the same man who left? We’d know soon enough. Quivering and shivering – it was February in New Jersey – I set out to engage the dreaded adversary.
I arrived 15 minutes early, taking a seat in a pleasant enough anteroom, actually too light and cheery for the horrible business conducted there.
“Jack Shea?” I heard the female voice first, then the human form appeared. “Come with me, Jack.”
Do I have to? I thought, unable to muster even an ounce of courage.
“How are you this morning?”
“Oh I’m fine, I guess”, when really I wanted to say: How do you think I am, you twit? I have been unable to function for two weeks, and this morning I prayed for the end of the world. How does that grab ya, Sweetcakes?
“We’ll put you in here, and he’ll see you in a few minutes. Can I get you anything, a magazine maybe?”
“No thanks, well, how about a shot of whiskey?” She laughed nervously and ran from the room.
The room contained a single place to sit, in the chair of honor, a chair designed for one thing and one thing only. I noticed on the wall in front of me a painting by Leroy Nieman; it looked like a sailboat capsizing. Just perfect, I thought. What am I doing here? Run for it, to hell with the shame, the disgrace, the reputation reduced to rubble. I can live with that. The walls were covered with smiling faces, mouths opened so wide a good-sized bird could fly through. Why were these people smiling when, in mere minutes if not seconds, legal torture was about to take place?
As promised, he entered the room, smiling as grotesquely as the wall people. After a quick hello and a shake of my sweat-soaked hand, Dr. Edward Smith, DDS, said, “Okay, Jack, open up and let’s take a look, shall we?”
So there you have it: my semi-annual dental checkup was the source of my fear. I have nothing against dentists personally; I just abhor the profession they chose. You see, I am a gagger, one who feels death by choking is imminent when a human hand enters one’s mouth. For me and those similarly afflicted, an innocent dental checkup makes waterboarding seem like a walk in the park. Gagging is an awful problem, for the patient obviously, but also for the poor dentist and hygienist. Once it starts, it doesn’t stop. They can tell me to breathe through my nose until the cows return home, but that awful reflex keeps on keepin’ on. I wish he could put me to sleep, do his disgusting work, then slap me awake and send me off with my new toothbrush and supply of floss.
And then there are the dreaded x-rays, when they outfit you with that 50-pound vest that could stop a barrage of bullets. With that thing on you couldn’t run 10 feet before the weight brought you down. So you’re trapped, forced to endure the unendurable. Those 10 seconds – between the placement of the choke-inducing apparatus in your mouth and its release – are a damned eternity.
So how did I do? Not bad, actually; at least I didn’t throw up this time, or cause the hygienist to quit and find another line of work. I returned home to Joan with my masculinity not completely eviscerated. But guess what? I was told to come back in two weeks for a full set of those wonderful x-rays. I immediately started praying for that natural disaster to strike.
TGITW
Thank God it's the weekend, all right, because that was the week that sucked. Time for the financial markets' dizzying death dive (Slaughtergate?) to take a breather, while we take inventory of the wreckage. Is there a patron saint for lost portfolios? No, we need to go right to the top on this one. A dose of divine intervention -- an awakening of McCain combined with an unmasking of Obama -- couldn't hurt right now.
As the abomination of an Obama nation appears more and more likely, is there anything to look forward to? Here's a hopeful thought: A special prosecutor is named to investigate the principals in the Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac debacles, among others, resulting in the indictment, prosecution, and conviction of the dishonorable disgraces Barney Frank and Chris Dodd, and their smug mugs are at last removed from our sight. Yeah . . . I feel better already.
As the abomination of an Obama nation appears more and more likely, is there anything to look forward to? Here's a hopeful thought: A special prosecutor is named to investigate the principals in the Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac debacles, among others, resulting in the indictment, prosecution, and conviction of the dishonorable disgraces Barney Frank and Chris Dodd, and their smug mugs are at last removed from our sight. Yeah . . . I feel better already.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Loose Change?
Whatever you can spare would be appreciated. Much obliged.
If only losing weight was as quick and easy as losing a fortune.
Now I wish I'd invested in that chain of soup kitchens, "Pour for the Poor."
Whatever happened to immigration and abortion as issues? Funny how the mass evaporation of wealth muscles everything else aside.
If only losing weight was as quick and easy as losing a fortune.
Now I wish I'd invested in that chain of soup kitchens, "Pour for the Poor."
Whatever happened to immigration and abortion as issues? Funny how the mass evaporation of wealth muscles everything else aside.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
What's a Dude to Do?
On the night of the first presidential debate, my wife Joan threw herself a 52nd birthday party. The following describes the zany events of that evening.
That question presented itself to me on Friday, the 26th of September, 2008 – a date that, to borrow a phrase from FDR, will live in infamy.
Two events, both scheduled long in advance and eagerly anticipated, dominated the evening. The first was the presidential debate between Senators McCain and Obama, occurring against the backdrop of domestic financial crisis and international military conflict and expansion of terrorism. The second event, happening under my own roof, was my wife Joan’s self-thrown 52nd birthday party, a girls-only affair featuring non-stop chatter, giggles galore, fancy dishes and fruity drinks, and a board game called “What’s a Dame to Do?!” in which one dame poses a hypothetical nonsensical situation for herself, and the others choose her most likely action from a list of equally nonsensical choices. To survive with my manhood intact, my game plan was as follows: to arrive home, pay my respects to the ladies, grab some manly chow and a beer or two, and sequester myself upstairs to watch the debate or whatever the hell else I pleased. Little did I know, and in no way could I imagine, the bizarre happenings that would foil a perfect plan.
The upstairs/downstairs scenario worked like a charm until the doorbell rang. All the guests had arrived, so who could it be? Perhaps a neighbor who saw all the cars and wondered why she wasn’t invited? Perhaps the Domino’s pizza guy at the wrong house? Perhaps the neighborhood teenagers acting like assholes? If only one of those were true. No, my friends, the organism behind the door, the creature my wife let in the house – well, he made Nightmare on Elm Street’s Freddy Krueger look like George Clooney. Imagine Woody Allen (younger version) clad in a form-fitting silver body suit, accessorized with a skimpy white tutu and a glittering crown sitting within the unruly hair atop the ugly head, brandishing a supposedly magic wand. If you can imagine that, then you have an inkling of what appeared before us. He called himself – with ample reason – the “Hairy Fairy.”
Even if we’d been warned, had some pre-conceived notion of what to expect, it wouldn’t have mattered. No one could have painted this picture and been taken seriously. No one could have described this . . . this freak show and withstood the reaction of horrified disbelief. Yet, it happened – “he” happened – and my poor wife Joan and her seven female friends may never – will never – be the same.
Only the most diabolical mind (or minds) could have conceived, planned, and executed this nefarious deed, this hideous home invasion. To conceive it is one thing – sick and twisted, but still only a concept. But then . . . to put the wheels in motion, to engage in pre-meditated planning, well, that is raw and that is cold and that is real. And finally, to give the go-ahead, to light the match, that is what separates the amateurs from the pros; and make no mistake, this was a bona fide professional operation – bearing all the earmarks of Nell’s Angels, that terrible trio of Southern belles -- Charlene, Gloria, and Patty -- who dared to turn loose the ugliest, homeliest of men, wearing the most unbecoming outfit, singing horribly off-key birthday tunes, showing up unannounced, unwelcome, and unwashed. Yes, these three fiendish femme fatales abolished all standards of human decency in the misguided attempt to give their adored employer a birthday to remember, to show her how much they love her. Have they no shame? Allow me to answer that: NO!!!!!!!! And they shall pay for this heinous crime. That’s right, at their annual Christmas lunch in Hilton Head, they shall receive their payback and it, I mean he, will not be pretty. Mark my words: The “Hairy Fairy” is heading south!
Once he became far too comfortable in our home, and once I became far too comfortable with him in our home, the “Hairy Fairy” in the tutu said ta-ta and was off to humiliate himself somewhere else. I prayed to God he was well compensated for his “work.” Given the nightmarish experience they experienced, I felt obliged to remain downstairs with the ladies, to give them the comfort of the presence of a real man who has rarely, if ever, worn a tutu. And what happened could not have been predicted, yet happen it did: I got hooked on “What’s a Dame to Do?!” I pulled up a chair to watch the action up close, to smell the . . . well, to sniff the . . . oh shit, to bathe in the feminine naughtiness that I’ve often dreamed about. These chicks rocked, they were hot, and they knew it! What’s a dude to do? I’ll tell you what: pull up a chair and watch eight broads play “What’s a Dame to Do?!”
To regain my composure I returned to the second floor, but before long the first floor summoned me again. This time it was music – not rock or jazz or rap or classical or polka – no, this was hypnotic, mesmerizing, almost tribal, like one might hear in the bazaars of Istanbul (or on your Turkish greatest hits collection). I was enchanted, virtually carried down the stairs by the pulsating rhythm. And when I reached its source I thought I’d died and ascended to heaven. Was she real? Was she the same meek, church-lady figure I had seen earlier? Va va va voom, baby! There she shook in our kitchen, wearing her very best “I Dream of Jeannie” costume, gyrating and swiveling and grinding with the ease of a professional belly dancer. And who knew? That’s what she is – young Sally, fresh out of the Penn State actuarial science curriculum, and holy hashish, how she must have put the pizzazz in that program!
So there you have it . . . another ho-hum Friday night in the Shea household, featuring a presidential debate, a hairy fairy, and a belly dancing actuary. Be sure to tune in next week, folks.
That question presented itself to me on Friday, the 26th of September, 2008 – a date that, to borrow a phrase from FDR, will live in infamy.
Two events, both scheduled long in advance and eagerly anticipated, dominated the evening. The first was the presidential debate between Senators McCain and Obama, occurring against the backdrop of domestic financial crisis and international military conflict and expansion of terrorism. The second event, happening under my own roof, was my wife Joan’s self-thrown 52nd birthday party, a girls-only affair featuring non-stop chatter, giggles galore, fancy dishes and fruity drinks, and a board game called “What’s a Dame to Do?!” in which one dame poses a hypothetical nonsensical situation for herself, and the others choose her most likely action from a list of equally nonsensical choices. To survive with my manhood intact, my game plan was as follows: to arrive home, pay my respects to the ladies, grab some manly chow and a beer or two, and sequester myself upstairs to watch the debate or whatever the hell else I pleased. Little did I know, and in no way could I imagine, the bizarre happenings that would foil a perfect plan.
The upstairs/downstairs scenario worked like a charm until the doorbell rang. All the guests had arrived, so who could it be? Perhaps a neighbor who saw all the cars and wondered why she wasn’t invited? Perhaps the Domino’s pizza guy at the wrong house? Perhaps the neighborhood teenagers acting like assholes? If only one of those were true. No, my friends, the organism behind the door, the creature my wife let in the house – well, he made Nightmare on Elm Street’s Freddy Krueger look like George Clooney. Imagine Woody Allen (younger version) clad in a form-fitting silver body suit, accessorized with a skimpy white tutu and a glittering crown sitting within the unruly hair atop the ugly head, brandishing a supposedly magic wand. If you can imagine that, then you have an inkling of what appeared before us. He called himself – with ample reason – the “Hairy Fairy.”
Even if we’d been warned, had some pre-conceived notion of what to expect, it wouldn’t have mattered. No one could have painted this picture and been taken seriously. No one could have described this . . . this freak show and withstood the reaction of horrified disbelief. Yet, it happened – “he” happened – and my poor wife Joan and her seven female friends may never – will never – be the same.
Only the most diabolical mind (or minds) could have conceived, planned, and executed this nefarious deed, this hideous home invasion. To conceive it is one thing – sick and twisted, but still only a concept. But then . . . to put the wheels in motion, to engage in pre-meditated planning, well, that is raw and that is cold and that is real. And finally, to give the go-ahead, to light the match, that is what separates the amateurs from the pros; and make no mistake, this was a bona fide professional operation – bearing all the earmarks of Nell’s Angels, that terrible trio of Southern belles -- Charlene, Gloria, and Patty -- who dared to turn loose the ugliest, homeliest of men, wearing the most unbecoming outfit, singing horribly off-key birthday tunes, showing up unannounced, unwelcome, and unwashed. Yes, these three fiendish femme fatales abolished all standards of human decency in the misguided attempt to give their adored employer a birthday to remember, to show her how much they love her. Have they no shame? Allow me to answer that: NO!!!!!!!! And they shall pay for this heinous crime. That’s right, at their annual Christmas lunch in Hilton Head, they shall receive their payback and it, I mean he, will not be pretty. Mark my words: The “Hairy Fairy” is heading south!
Once he became far too comfortable in our home, and once I became far too comfortable with him in our home, the “Hairy Fairy” in the tutu said ta-ta and was off to humiliate himself somewhere else. I prayed to God he was well compensated for his “work.” Given the nightmarish experience they experienced, I felt obliged to remain downstairs with the ladies, to give them the comfort of the presence of a real man who has rarely, if ever, worn a tutu. And what happened could not have been predicted, yet happen it did: I got hooked on “What’s a Dame to Do?!” I pulled up a chair to watch the action up close, to smell the . . . well, to sniff the . . . oh shit, to bathe in the feminine naughtiness that I’ve often dreamed about. These chicks rocked, they were hot, and they knew it! What’s a dude to do? I’ll tell you what: pull up a chair and watch eight broads play “What’s a Dame to Do?!”
To regain my composure I returned to the second floor, but before long the first floor summoned me again. This time it was music – not rock or jazz or rap or classical or polka – no, this was hypnotic, mesmerizing, almost tribal, like one might hear in the bazaars of Istanbul (or on your Turkish greatest hits collection). I was enchanted, virtually carried down the stairs by the pulsating rhythm. And when I reached its source I thought I’d died and ascended to heaven. Was she real? Was she the same meek, church-lady figure I had seen earlier? Va va va voom, baby! There she shook in our kitchen, wearing her very best “I Dream of Jeannie” costume, gyrating and swiveling and grinding with the ease of a professional belly dancer. And who knew? That’s what she is – young Sally, fresh out of the Penn State actuarial science curriculum, and holy hashish, how she must have put the pizzazz in that program!
So there you have it . . . another ho-hum Friday night in the Shea household, featuring a presidential debate, a hairy fairy, and a belly dancing actuary. Be sure to tune in next week, folks.
Giants Wanted
There are times, in the course of human events, when giants among men must emerge and lead a stunned nation through crisis. Welcome to the present day, folks. See any giants out there, any Lincolns, Churchills, Roosevelts, you know, that breed? If you do, please go easier on the dosage. If only Rudy Giuliani hadn’t proven to be a dismal dud on the campaign trail, because this financial crisis – with its clarion call to excise excess and corruption from the system – is right up his alley. Recall the eighties when U.S. Attorney Giuliani presided over one perp walk after another out of Wall Street houses, and those transgressions pale in comparison to the current nonsense. (In fact, some of those guys were unfairly railroaded). And, let’s face it, he acquitted himself fairly well following the World Trade Center attacks.
O’Reilly last night implored McCain to name Rudy and Romney today as Attorney General and Treasury Secretary. If he did, he’d be so far back in this race he might even take the lead. Yet, alas, no such grand gesture, no such bold action seems imminent. For heaven's sake, Johnny, do not let this unproven uppity upstart take this prize. Do something and do it now!
And speaking of pygmies among men, did you catch Barney Frank getting bitch-slapped through the airwaves by O'Reilly? If only they were in the same studio, I'd love to have seen Barney's fighting technique. He probably would have scampered behind the cameraman for protection. Holy shit! God save us all.
O’Reilly last night implored McCain to name Rudy and Romney today as Attorney General and Treasury Secretary. If he did, he’d be so far back in this race he might even take the lead. Yet, alas, no such grand gesture, no such bold action seems imminent. For heaven's sake, Johnny, do not let this unproven uppity upstart take this prize. Do something and do it now!
And speaking of pygmies among men, did you catch Barney Frank getting bitch-slapped through the airwaves by O'Reilly? If only they were in the same studio, I'd love to have seen Barney's fighting technique. He probably would have scampered behind the cameraman for protection. Holy shit! God save us all.
A Random Walk
"A heartbeat away." If I hear that one more time during this presidential race to the finish, I shall set myself on fire.
I check the obituaries every day, mainly to confirm I'm still alive. I notice that pictures accompany the writeups for some of the unfortunate deceased. I also notice that some of these pictures can't possibly show these folks on their best day. Why publish your deceased loved one's photo that shows them picking their nose or having an incredibly bad hair day? Perhaps they weren't so loved after all?
Do you ever reach into the drawer for a paper clip and come out with a string of them long enough to market as a necklace? I hate that.
Is a bomb-sniffing dog really, really smart or incredibly stupid?
I check the obituaries every day, mainly to confirm I'm still alive. I notice that pictures accompany the writeups for some of the unfortunate deceased. I also notice that some of these pictures can't possibly show these folks on their best day. Why publish your deceased loved one's photo that shows them picking their nose or having an incredibly bad hair day? Perhaps they weren't so loved after all?
Do you ever reach into the drawer for a paper clip and come out with a string of them long enough to market as a necklace? I hate that.
Is a bomb-sniffing dog really, really smart or incredibly stupid?
Maureen & Sarah
Recently Maureen Dowd (whose writing I love) traveled to Alaska -- Sarah Palin country. She no doubt sought to obtain a first-hand unbiased account of the Governor's emergence from backwoods obscurity into the bright light of Washington elite scorn. Let us imagine Ms. Dowd interviewing Governor Palin on her home turf, perhaps in Wasilla’s Beehive Salon:
MD: “First of all, Governor, congratulations on your nomination . . .”
SP: “Oh, Ms. Dowd, forget the Governor thing. Please call me Sarah, and thank you.”
MD: “Very well . . . Sarah. Please continue to call me Ms. Dowd.”
SP (laughing): “You’re funny, Mo.”
MD (not laughing): “No one calls me Mo, except Frank Rich and the other liberal Pulitzer Prize winning definers of the standards by which candidates for high office should be measured. By the way, do you really get your hair done in this . . . place?”
SP: “Hell, yes, have for years. You’re getting a little shaggy, there, how ‘bout one of the gals
works you over when we’re done?”
MD (shaking): “Uh, no thanks, Governor, I mean Sarah; I prefer to leave here the same height
as I arrived.”
SP (again laughing): “Gosh, Ms. Dowd, you should use that humor of yours in your writing.”
MD: “A couple of questions, if I may, Sarah. First, do you know the date on which Alaska became a state?”
SP: “You betcha I do, doggone it. That would be January 3rd, 1959, Ms. Dowd. That means we Alaskans will be celebrating our 50th anniversary of statehood right before John McCain and I are inaugurated on January 20, 2009. That’ll be a helluva month, huh, Mo? You may want to drink heavily all through it, Honey. Oops, I better take this call. ‘Yeah, all right, I’ll be right there’. Gotta run, tend to Governor things, you know. Let’s finish this over dinner later – Chepo’s Fiesta, best Mexican in Alaska.”
MD: “Uh, sure, is there a dress code? Oh no, wait, Governor . . . Sarah . . . please don’t leave me here alone!”
MD: “First of all, Governor, congratulations on your nomination . . .”
SP: “Oh, Ms. Dowd, forget the Governor thing. Please call me Sarah, and thank you.”
MD: “Very well . . . Sarah. Please continue to call me Ms. Dowd.”
SP (laughing): “You’re funny, Mo.”
MD (not laughing): “No one calls me Mo, except Frank Rich and the other liberal Pulitzer Prize winning definers of the standards by which candidates for high office should be measured. By the way, do you really get your hair done in this . . . place?”
SP: “Hell, yes, have for years. You’re getting a little shaggy, there, how ‘bout one of the gals
works you over when we’re done?”
MD (shaking): “Uh, no thanks, Governor, I mean Sarah; I prefer to leave here the same height
as I arrived.”
SP (again laughing): “Gosh, Ms. Dowd, you should use that humor of yours in your writing.”
MD: “A couple of questions, if I may, Sarah. First, do you know the date on which Alaska became a state?”
SP: “You betcha I do, doggone it. That would be January 3rd, 1959, Ms. Dowd. That means we Alaskans will be celebrating our 50th anniversary of statehood right before John McCain and I are inaugurated on January 20, 2009. That’ll be a helluva month, huh, Mo? You may want to drink heavily all through it, Honey. Oops, I better take this call. ‘Yeah, all right, I’ll be right there’. Gotta run, tend to Governor things, you know. Let’s finish this over dinner later – Chepo’s Fiesta, best Mexican in Alaska.”
MD: “Uh, sure, is there a dress code? Oh no, wait, Governor . . . Sarah . . . please don’t leave me here alone!”
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
A Contrary "View"
I never liked Barbara Walters and that opinion has only been solidified with her hosting of the wretched The View. Why in the name of rational discourse does anything happening on that show qualify as news, entertainment, or anything in between? I love Elizabeth Hasselbeck -- snappy looker, mixes it up despite being hopelessly outnumbered -- but her intellect will never be mistaken for the late Jeane Kirkpatrick's, if you get my drift. And those other dames? Please shoot me now. Whoopi Goldberg is the single most unattractive and unappealing show business figure alive. The next time Joy Behar makes me laugh will be the first. As for BaBa, well, any slight notion of her as a serious "journalist" has been torpedoed by this feminine freak show.
Bring back Rosie and Trump and let them go at each other; that at least had entertainment value.
Bring back Rosie and Trump and let them go at each other; that at least had entertainment value.
We Miss You, Tim
He was petulant, argumentative, looking his age, seemingly out of sorts, perhaps wishing he was home on the range out west. McCain in last night's debate? Hell no; I refer to Tom Brokaw, the moderator-in-chief whose mumbling and scolding fairly dominated the evening. How this nation could use Tim Russert right now, and how he must wish he wasn't dead so he could help us all sort through this mess by questioning these two in his hardhitting style.
What of the "debate" itself? The highlight, of course, was McCain referring to Obama as "That One." The lowlight was everything else. To lose now, the central casting candidate will have to wander off the reservation somehow, perhaps take a ride in a tank wearing that ear-flap headgear, or announce Bill Ayers as his Education Secretary. To win now, the senior senator will need to step aside and let his running mate escalate her Barack attack tack. If only she could wave a photograph to the cheering crowds, showing Obama and Ayers chortling in the midst of a "Death to America" rally somewhere.
It's a shame, really, for McCain seeks the Presidency for no other reason than a pristine desire to serve his country. Yes he's cranky, yes he's spiteful, and yes he's short. But he is not some guy plucked out of the Texas statehouse or the Illinois assembly and anointed as some group of unchosen ones' chosen one. The guy is a curmudgeon, a gadfly, meaning he has principles that he is loathe to compromise. No one knows what Obama is other than an attractive, flamboyant, manufactured pretty fellow swooned over by people who hate George Bush and Republicans.
Last word: How about a debate between Sarah Palin and Tina Fey as Sarah Palin, live on Saturday Night Live, co-moderated by Barbara Walters and Elizabeth Hasselbeck? A ratings tsunami, for sure.
What of the "debate" itself? The highlight, of course, was McCain referring to Obama as "That One." The lowlight was everything else. To lose now, the central casting candidate will have to wander off the reservation somehow, perhaps take a ride in a tank wearing that ear-flap headgear, or announce Bill Ayers as his Education Secretary. To win now, the senior senator will need to step aside and let his running mate escalate her Barack attack tack. If only she could wave a photograph to the cheering crowds, showing Obama and Ayers chortling in the midst of a "Death to America" rally somewhere.
It's a shame, really, for McCain seeks the Presidency for no other reason than a pristine desire to serve his country. Yes he's cranky, yes he's spiteful, and yes he's short. But he is not some guy plucked out of the Texas statehouse or the Illinois assembly and anointed as some group of unchosen ones' chosen one. The guy is a curmudgeon, a gadfly, meaning he has principles that he is loathe to compromise. No one knows what Obama is other than an attractive, flamboyant, manufactured pretty fellow swooned over by people who hate George Bush and Republicans.
Last word: How about a debate between Sarah Palin and Tina Fey as Sarah Palin, live on Saturday Night Live, co-moderated by Barbara Walters and Elizabeth Hasselbeck? A ratings tsunami, for sure.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Fire Them All!
The stock market is heading south faster than the snowbirds migrating from the northeast to Florida for the winter. The gargantuan house of cards that is the global financial system is collapsing around us. Are the two presidential candidates capable of grasping the enormity of the crisis, fashioning some type of reassuring strategy to deal with it, and communicating to the American people in a Rooseveltian manner? Allow me to answer that: NO!!!!!!!!!!!
I say we fire them all – McCain, Obama, Palin, Biden – and the sooner the better. Right now, I could care less about William Ayers, Charles Keating, and every other dubious connection the two candidates have in their pasts. Absent the cataclysm that threatens to eviscerate our economy, yes, I would want to hear Obama justify his association with a gleeful bomber of U.S. landmarks. Not now, though. Everything is secondary to the financial crisis, and tonight’s debate should be devoted solely to a probing of these two knuckleheads’ plans for leading us through it.
Am I wrong here? Do we need to be subjected to audience questions about boxers or briefs and whatever nonsensical topics are surfaced on the idiotic town hall stage? I say if these two can’t enunciate something positive and reassuring for the American people to come away with tonight, then get rid of them and find two others who can. The stakes are too high; the consequences are too perilous.
I say we fire them all – McCain, Obama, Palin, Biden – and the sooner the better. Right now, I could care less about William Ayers, Charles Keating, and every other dubious connection the two candidates have in their pasts. Absent the cataclysm that threatens to eviscerate our economy, yes, I would want to hear Obama justify his association with a gleeful bomber of U.S. landmarks. Not now, though. Everything is secondary to the financial crisis, and tonight’s debate should be devoted solely to a probing of these two knuckleheads’ plans for leading us through it.
Am I wrong here? Do we need to be subjected to audience questions about boxers or briefs and whatever nonsensical topics are surfaced on the idiotic town hall stage? I say if these two can’t enunciate something positive and reassuring for the American people to come away with tonight, then get rid of them and find two others who can. The stakes are too high; the consequences are too perilous.
The Dork Side
What has happened to me? I used to be a regular guy . . . I drank too much, I grabbed the sports section first from the Sunday New York Times, I watched sports on TV (or manly shows like CSI and 24), and if I expressed my feelings it went like this: “Hey, I feel like having another beer here.” Well, a funny thing happened on the way to the toga party: I sobered up, I grabbed the Book Review first, and I favored TV shows like Men in Trees and In Treatment, featuring the emotional pain inflicted by neurotic lovers, rather than the physical pain inflicted by psychotic killers. And you thought St. Paul underwent a conversion on his way to Damascus?
For the genesis of this transformation, let’s return to the evening of August 21, 2007. After downing the fourth cold one at my nightly watering hole, I told myself that’s it, enough is enough, stop the madness. I arrived home before my wife Joan and sat at the kitchen counter waiting to break the news. When she walked in I said, “It’s over.”
“What’s over?”
“It’s over.”
“What’s over?”
“The drinking, it’s over. I quit.”
Relieved I wasn’t declaring an end to our marriage, she hugged and kissed me and asked: “What prompted this?”
“I don’t know; I guess it’s just time to come in from the cold.” She hugged me again; I gave her the gift she was waiting for.
Soon thereafter I began seeing another woman. Let’s call her Stella, because that’s her name. She happened to be available, so it started; once a week – more often if I really needed it – at her home in a room specially designed for us. It didn’t matter if her husband or children were home; we went at it anyway. She listened, really listened, caring about what I had to say, urging me to let it all hang out. “Whatever you have to offer, any position you take, I can handle,” she said. If I didn’t feel like starting that night, she was happy to initiate the session; she was passionate once we started, unable to take her eyes off me. Sometimes when I arrived she’d make me wait, which I didn’t mind; it was her little game and I played along, edgy with anticipation. I opened up to her, shared my most intimate thoughts and feelings, yet she revealed nothing of herself. I longed to know her secrets, her dreams, her favorite color, but her ground rules were unyielding: “My personal life is off limits, understood, hot shot?” When we finished, she dismissed me cordially . . . pleasant smile, no emotion. “You were good tonight, Jack, see you next week. Call me if you need me.” It was as if she was expecting someone else; hell, for all I knew, she did this all day long.
How could I do this to Joan? What kind of monster was I? The fact is: Joan insisted I pursue her, that I continue seeing her for as long as I needed, for as long as her services satisfied me. “Stay with her, Honey, but make her earn it, make her perform.” Sick? Twisted? Perverted? I wish. No, Stella was my psychologist, whom I sat across from each week and spewed forth whatever nonsense rattled around in my head. Through her intense listening, probing questions, and insightful observations, I have discovered much more about myself, about the choices I’ve made, and the driving forces behind those choices. So there you have it: I’m seeing a shrink. Hey, if it’s good enough for my fellow Jersey boy Tony Soprano, it’s good enough for me, wise guy.
Yet even before I curbed the drinking and parked my bony ass on the therapist’s comfy chair, ominous signs of manhood slippage appeared. In the fall of 2006 there debuted a TV show called Men in Trees, starring Anne Heche as Marin Frist, a Manhattan relationship coach transported to the fictional town of Elmo, Alaska – sort of a cross between Sex and the City and Northern Exposure. This was chick shtick all the way, and I couldn’t get enough of it. I became so absorbed with this oddball collection of fictional characters that when the show disappeared from the air for an extended time, I nearly lost my mind. Will Marin and hunky mountain man Jack hook up and get married? Will loony innkeeper Patrick regain his memory and marry his sweetheart Annie? Will dreamy woodsman Cash bond with flamer hairdresser Terry who is donating his kidney to Cash? Will someone please relieve my misery and fire a bullet into my skull?
If that wasn’t enough, I got hooked on another show called Friday Night Lights, based on the book about a small Texas town whose residents live and die with their high school football team. At least this show had a sports theme, right? Lots of gridiron action, locker room antics, no drippy sentimental crap here . . . well, not exactly. The football scenes were great, but I became more interested in the people of the town, their relationships, their secrets, their dreams. I’d gladly have traded five minutes of football action for more time with Tyra and Landry and their forbidden romance. “Bring in the Kleenex, Joan. FNL is coming on.”
Early in 2008, HBO aired a nightly show called In Treatment. It focused on a psychologist played by Gabriel Byrne with his Irish brogue (he pronounced mother as moother), each night featuring a different patient, and Friday night he visited his own shrink. Well, this show was practically a gift from God himself, given my foray into the very world it presented. Joan watched it along with me and asked if that’s the way it really works, and my answer was absolutely, except for the incessant barking of the neighborhood dog on the show. One year earlier, you couldn’t have forced me at gunpoint to watch such baloney; now, I was drawn to an honest and deeply moving presentation of the complex dynamic between therapist and patient.
Let us travel further along my road away from matters masculine. I became an obsessive reader following my decision to stop drinking, mainly to fill in all the time I suddenly had available. I dove into books on all kinds of subjects: religion & spirituality, self-improvement, leadership, plus literary classics like the epic novel Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand, and biographies of gents like Shakespeare and Lawrence of Arabia. At any given time I’d have six or seven books in process. Previously, if I got through one book a year it was an accomplishment, and it would likely be the work of Tom Clancy or David Baldacci – plenty of action & mayhem. So what literary selections did I put on the list for my 55th birthday in April? One was a collection of essays by Truman Capote . . . yes, that Truman Capote. The ultimate MINO (male-in-name-only) replaced macho Tom Clancy on my reading radar. How the mighty had fallen.
In case you’re keeping score, here is a summary of my defections to date from “real man” status:
· I stopped guzzling beer like there was no tomorrow, preferring club soda with lime instead.
· I saw a psychotherapist once a week, meaning I actually gave voice to my innermost feelings.
· I preferred weepy, sappy television drama to the action-packed, blood- soaked shows of old.
· I immersed myself in classic literature, while back issues of Sports Illustrated and Golf Digest piled up unread.
Now for the final piece of evidence that I crossed over to, shall we say, the dork side: I began writing essays. Before this year, the last essay I wrote was into one of those blue books in college, circa 1975. I always had a talent for writing – fussy about grammar, spelling, proper sentence structure – but only applied this ability in the business context of memos, letters, manuals, and the like. Back in January, as another therapeutic diversion, I started writing about my life. To my surprise, the words sprung forth in a steady flow and have yet to let up. I came to learn that the genre I dabbled in had a name: creative non-fiction. Naturally, in line with my reading and learning obsession, I ordered three books on the subject and subscribed to several journals featuring said genre. I even entered a few pieces into online essay contests. When I told my much younger office friend PJ about this, she called me a “complete dork,” hence the title of this piece.
There you have it: the story of my transformation from ordinary male into a sober, emoting, literature-obsessing, essay writing fellow. Actually, I’m okay with the whole thing. I’m not hurting anyone, unless you count my poor father who is mortified seeing his only son turn into his fourth daughter. And I had a great birthday, getting all the books I wanted. That night I crawled into bed with Truman Capote and . . . dear God . . . Stella-aaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
For the genesis of this transformation, let’s return to the evening of August 21, 2007. After downing the fourth cold one at my nightly watering hole, I told myself that’s it, enough is enough, stop the madness. I arrived home before my wife Joan and sat at the kitchen counter waiting to break the news. When she walked in I said, “It’s over.”
“What’s over?”
“It’s over.”
“What’s over?”
“The drinking, it’s over. I quit.”
Relieved I wasn’t declaring an end to our marriage, she hugged and kissed me and asked: “What prompted this?”
“I don’t know; I guess it’s just time to come in from the cold.” She hugged me again; I gave her the gift she was waiting for.
Soon thereafter I began seeing another woman. Let’s call her Stella, because that’s her name. She happened to be available, so it started; once a week – more often if I really needed it – at her home in a room specially designed for us. It didn’t matter if her husband or children were home; we went at it anyway. She listened, really listened, caring about what I had to say, urging me to let it all hang out. “Whatever you have to offer, any position you take, I can handle,” she said. If I didn’t feel like starting that night, she was happy to initiate the session; she was passionate once we started, unable to take her eyes off me. Sometimes when I arrived she’d make me wait, which I didn’t mind; it was her little game and I played along, edgy with anticipation. I opened up to her, shared my most intimate thoughts and feelings, yet she revealed nothing of herself. I longed to know her secrets, her dreams, her favorite color, but her ground rules were unyielding: “My personal life is off limits, understood, hot shot?” When we finished, she dismissed me cordially . . . pleasant smile, no emotion. “You were good tonight, Jack, see you next week. Call me if you need me.” It was as if she was expecting someone else; hell, for all I knew, she did this all day long.
How could I do this to Joan? What kind of monster was I? The fact is: Joan insisted I pursue her, that I continue seeing her for as long as I needed, for as long as her services satisfied me. “Stay with her, Honey, but make her earn it, make her perform.” Sick? Twisted? Perverted? I wish. No, Stella was my psychologist, whom I sat across from each week and spewed forth whatever nonsense rattled around in my head. Through her intense listening, probing questions, and insightful observations, I have discovered much more about myself, about the choices I’ve made, and the driving forces behind those choices. So there you have it: I’m seeing a shrink. Hey, if it’s good enough for my fellow Jersey boy Tony Soprano, it’s good enough for me, wise guy.
Yet even before I curbed the drinking and parked my bony ass on the therapist’s comfy chair, ominous signs of manhood slippage appeared. In the fall of 2006 there debuted a TV show called Men in Trees, starring Anne Heche as Marin Frist, a Manhattan relationship coach transported to the fictional town of Elmo, Alaska – sort of a cross between Sex and the City and Northern Exposure. This was chick shtick all the way, and I couldn’t get enough of it. I became so absorbed with this oddball collection of fictional characters that when the show disappeared from the air for an extended time, I nearly lost my mind. Will Marin and hunky mountain man Jack hook up and get married? Will loony innkeeper Patrick regain his memory and marry his sweetheart Annie? Will dreamy woodsman Cash bond with flamer hairdresser Terry who is donating his kidney to Cash? Will someone please relieve my misery and fire a bullet into my skull?
If that wasn’t enough, I got hooked on another show called Friday Night Lights, based on the book about a small Texas town whose residents live and die with their high school football team. At least this show had a sports theme, right? Lots of gridiron action, locker room antics, no drippy sentimental crap here . . . well, not exactly. The football scenes were great, but I became more interested in the people of the town, their relationships, their secrets, their dreams. I’d gladly have traded five minutes of football action for more time with Tyra and Landry and their forbidden romance. “Bring in the Kleenex, Joan. FNL is coming on.”
Early in 2008, HBO aired a nightly show called In Treatment. It focused on a psychologist played by Gabriel Byrne with his Irish brogue (he pronounced mother as moother), each night featuring a different patient, and Friday night he visited his own shrink. Well, this show was practically a gift from God himself, given my foray into the very world it presented. Joan watched it along with me and asked if that’s the way it really works, and my answer was absolutely, except for the incessant barking of the neighborhood dog on the show. One year earlier, you couldn’t have forced me at gunpoint to watch such baloney; now, I was drawn to an honest and deeply moving presentation of the complex dynamic between therapist and patient.
Let us travel further along my road away from matters masculine. I became an obsessive reader following my decision to stop drinking, mainly to fill in all the time I suddenly had available. I dove into books on all kinds of subjects: religion & spirituality, self-improvement, leadership, plus literary classics like the epic novel Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand, and biographies of gents like Shakespeare and Lawrence of Arabia. At any given time I’d have six or seven books in process. Previously, if I got through one book a year it was an accomplishment, and it would likely be the work of Tom Clancy or David Baldacci – plenty of action & mayhem. So what literary selections did I put on the list for my 55th birthday in April? One was a collection of essays by Truman Capote . . . yes, that Truman Capote. The ultimate MINO (male-in-name-only) replaced macho Tom Clancy on my reading radar. How the mighty had fallen.
In case you’re keeping score, here is a summary of my defections to date from “real man” status:
· I stopped guzzling beer like there was no tomorrow, preferring club soda with lime instead.
· I saw a psychotherapist once a week, meaning I actually gave voice to my innermost feelings.
· I preferred weepy, sappy television drama to the action-packed, blood- soaked shows of old.
· I immersed myself in classic literature, while back issues of Sports Illustrated and Golf Digest piled up unread.
Now for the final piece of evidence that I crossed over to, shall we say, the dork side: I began writing essays. Before this year, the last essay I wrote was into one of those blue books in college, circa 1975. I always had a talent for writing – fussy about grammar, spelling, proper sentence structure – but only applied this ability in the business context of memos, letters, manuals, and the like. Back in January, as another therapeutic diversion, I started writing about my life. To my surprise, the words sprung forth in a steady flow and have yet to let up. I came to learn that the genre I dabbled in had a name: creative non-fiction. Naturally, in line with my reading and learning obsession, I ordered three books on the subject and subscribed to several journals featuring said genre. I even entered a few pieces into online essay contests. When I told my much younger office friend PJ about this, she called me a “complete dork,” hence the title of this piece.
There you have it: the story of my transformation from ordinary male into a sober, emoting, literature-obsessing, essay writing fellow. Actually, I’m okay with the whole thing. I’m not hurting anyone, unless you count my poor father who is mortified seeing his only son turn into his fourth daughter. And I had a great birthday, getting all the books I wanted. That night I crawled into bed with Truman Capote and . . . dear God . . . Stella-aaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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