The 3 X 5 Card Guide to Life
I was getting dressed for work when my wife asked, “Are you taking these cards with you? What are they anyway?”
“My 3X5 Card Guide to Life. The idea is to make a card for all those darned things that keep coming up over and over again. Here’s one for my dentist: ‘You may clean my teeth; you may fill them; you may pull them. That’s it! I don’t want any procedures that last two hours followed by a return visit of one hour. Understood? No? Let me read the card again.’ ”
“Did you read this to your dentist last week when she talked you into a crown?”
“No, I caved in. She said she could do one in an hour and fifteen minutes. The last guy told me it would take two hours. Anyway this dentist lets you watch TV. I’ve got a 9:00 appointment-- thought I could catch a couple of Dawson’s Creek episodes.”
“Do you want people at the dentist’s office to know you watch Dawson?”
“Why not? It’s the greatest show in the history of television—and I don’t mind telling them that.”
“OK. Wait a minute--you’ve only got six cards here, but the dentist is No. 17?”
“It sounded like a 17. The cards are part of a W. I. P.”
“Which is?”
“Work in Progress.”
“You are a work in progress.”
"Exactly.”
I retrieved my pants from the bed as our dog, Precious, had stretched out on them while munching a treat. My wife still lays my clothes out for me even after twenty years of marriage. Precious has always thought this an excellent idea. She got off the pants to take up residence on my shirt. I gave her my handkerchief to play with so I could finish dressing.
My wife glanced through the cards. “Are you going to read these to your friends at work?”
“Why not? I’m just trying to be helpful.”
“What if your boss sees them?”
“He’s got a great sense of humor.”
“You keep telling me that, but what about this Card for Management?”
“Oh, that’s a good one. Don’t worry, he’ll like it.” I read it aloud after rescuing my socks from Precious. ‘Please check my job description. Nowhere on it am I described as your glorified gopher.’ That’s telling them, isn’t it?”
“You’ve got a few years to go before retirement; I would watch it if I were you, Buster.”
“I’m glad you brought that up. I did some figuring on my 40l-k—technically I could retire this minute if I wanted to.”
“How long could we survive on your 401-k?”
“If we’re really careful, about two weeks.”
“Dream on, Boy. Your breakfast is ready.”
“Don’t you think the 3 x 5 card guide would make a great how-to book? Can’t you see it being a best seller?”
“Not if you only have six cards.”
“Oh, I’ve just got started. I’m going to cover everything. Even some dating tips.”
“Dating. Now there’s a subject you know a lot about. You’ve always said you’d only been on a few dates before you met me.”
“That’s true. They may have been the worst dates in history. Still I learned all the things not to do. I can tell guys, for example, they may want to be careful about a girl with a tattoo—she may beat you up at the end of the evening.”
“You never dated a girl with a tattoo; and you never got beat up. Why do you say these things?”
“The only reason I didn’t get beat up, it was a double date. The other couple pulled the tattooed girl off me. She left right afterwards—I think she was late for a gang meeting.”
“Sure she was. I think you change that story every time you tell it. You know you’re going to be late for work”.
“That’s OK. I got that covered by Card No. 5: ‘Don’t keep people waiting. Just call and tell them you won’t be there in the first place. It’s only polite.’ ”
“I’m sure your boss would love that.”
“Oh, he will. I plan to read him the one on management today.”
“Not a good idea.”
I rescued my hat from Precious and started out the door. “ On second thought I may not read the cards. It may be time to pretend to be somebody else for the day. What do you think? I haven’t done that for a while.”
“Oh, don’t do that. I know you’re just kidding around, but some people will take you seriously.”
“That’s part of the fun. I think it’s time to play Dr. Phil. Whenever somebody says something I don’t agree with I’ll just quote the good doctor: “What an utter and complete load of crap!”
My wife sighed. “Why don’t you just read the cards?”
“Good idea, Sweetheart.”
Saturday, August 13, 2005
The Founding Fathers, or Why You Don't Need to Follow Politics
This is a public service announcement for all those who worry about the USA. Don’t. It’s all working according to plan; the Founding Fathers gave us the Constitution. My theory is that the guys in funny suits who flew in for the Constitutional Convention knew what they were doing. (Well, they didn’t fly of course, but we can’t just stick to the facts: we’ll never get on talk TV that way.)
There are many learned folk who have droned on about the Constitution, but they seemed to have missed the point. That’s all right—I’m here to explain it; it’s my duty as a citizen. The Founders (a/k/a the Framers when they recorded under another label) knew the biggest problem the new country would face would be: politicians. In other words, they were concerned about protecting the country from the likes of themselves.
They knew most normal folk would fall asleep as soon as politicians started talking. Normal people would be busy raising families, making a living, and working in a little time for important sporting events. Regular people would never dream of running for office, or even in voting in many cases. (I gave up voting many years ago, as I was afraid it would only encourage politicians.)
The Founding Fathers thought the country would work as long as the officeholders could be kept under control. In order to do that they set up a system of checks and balances. (Washington would write the checks and Hamilton would track the balances of the country’s new account which he was careful to make sure included overdraft protection.)
The idea was to keep the political types busy with each other so they would leave the people alone. The Right and the Left would always be at each other’s throats, but it was better them than us the Founders thought.
The great thing about the framers was they intended to save us from themselves. They knew they couldn’t be trusted even though they were wise; they shuddered to think of future generations who might not have their smarts and self-awareness.
So they set in motion the plan to give politicians plenty of opportunities to do each other in. And if at the end of the day nothing much got done so much the better. A Do-Nothing Congress led by a Do-Nothing President was their ideal.
The rest of the country could then occupy themselves with real life: Joining the private sector and keeping the wolf from the door. The private sector at the time of the Convention was mainly Ben Franklin, Inc. (dime stores, insurance companies, and investment firms that offered stocks and bonds that to this day have remained excellent ways to lose money.)
And if the politicians were busy with their own version of reality they wouldn’t be such a drag on the private sector. They would busy going to lunch with lobbyists and raising money for TV commercials. They wouldn’t have much time to meddle with the private lives of citizens. Life would go on happily from generation to generation with time out for the usual wars and depressions.
And things have pretty much worked out as planned. Why then are so many upset with the Government? This is easily explained: people think they need to be well informed, or at least have a notion of what’s going on. Wrong. The news is everywhere, but it must be avoided except for important stuff like Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. (What’s wrong with that girl?)
I myself only check headlines—I seldom actually read a story. I particularly don’t waste any time reading about The President whoever that happens to be. The President is only a hired hand—he’ll be out of office soon. And he will be forgotten like his predecessors unless a national holiday is named after him that will provide new shopping opportunities.
So don’t worry—tend to your own affairs, or as one Founder (the bass player) said: “Mind your own beeswax”. (Alexander Hamilton, Federalist Paper No. 69, line 213).
Next week I plan to explain the stock market so you won’t have to worry about that either.
There are many learned folk who have droned on about the Constitution, but they seemed to have missed the point. That’s all right—I’m here to explain it; it’s my duty as a citizen. The Founders (a/k/a the Framers when they recorded under another label) knew the biggest problem the new country would face would be: politicians. In other words, they were concerned about protecting the country from the likes of themselves.
They knew most normal folk would fall asleep as soon as politicians started talking. Normal people would be busy raising families, making a living, and working in a little time for important sporting events. Regular people would never dream of running for office, or even in voting in many cases. (I gave up voting many years ago, as I was afraid it would only encourage politicians.)
The Founding Fathers thought the country would work as long as the officeholders could be kept under control. In order to do that they set up a system of checks and balances. (Washington would write the checks and Hamilton would track the balances of the country’s new account which he was careful to make sure included overdraft protection.)
The idea was to keep the political types busy with each other so they would leave the people alone. The Right and the Left would always be at each other’s throats, but it was better them than us the Founders thought.
The great thing about the framers was they intended to save us from themselves. They knew they couldn’t be trusted even though they were wise; they shuddered to think of future generations who might not have their smarts and self-awareness.
So they set in motion the plan to give politicians plenty of opportunities to do each other in. And if at the end of the day nothing much got done so much the better. A Do-Nothing Congress led by a Do-Nothing President was their ideal.
The rest of the country could then occupy themselves with real life: Joining the private sector and keeping the wolf from the door. The private sector at the time of the Convention was mainly Ben Franklin, Inc. (dime stores, insurance companies, and investment firms that offered stocks and bonds that to this day have remained excellent ways to lose money.)
And if the politicians were busy with their own version of reality they wouldn’t be such a drag on the private sector. They would busy going to lunch with lobbyists and raising money for TV commercials. They wouldn’t have much time to meddle with the private lives of citizens. Life would go on happily from generation to generation with time out for the usual wars and depressions.
And things have pretty much worked out as planned. Why then are so many upset with the Government? This is easily explained: people think they need to be well informed, or at least have a notion of what’s going on. Wrong. The news is everywhere, but it must be avoided except for important stuff like Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. (What’s wrong with that girl?)
I myself only check headlines—I seldom actually read a story. I particularly don’t waste any time reading about The President whoever that happens to be. The President is only a hired hand—he’ll be out of office soon. And he will be forgotten like his predecessors unless a national holiday is named after him that will provide new shopping opportunities.
So don’t worry—tend to your own affairs, or as one Founder (the bass player) said: “Mind your own beeswax”. (Alexander Hamilton, Federalist Paper No. 69, line 213).
Next week I plan to explain the stock market so you won’t have to worry about that either.
The Naked Dream
The Naked Dream
I’ve always considered myself to be a fairly discreet person. After all my job at the bank requires it. I only let my hair—what’s left of it—down with my friends and family. I’m sure the public would say I’m a mild-mannered, polite fellow; they would probably say the same things about me that are said by next-door neighbors of the guy who turns out to be a serial killer. (“Quiet, kept to himself, didn’t get out much”.)
I have to admit my wife thinks I’m a little too free with our personal information. This may stem from the way I introduce her to people. I always begin by gallantly admitting that she is much younger than I—eleven years younger in fact. There is nothing wrong with that of course. She doesn’t mind if I tell people that.
I also like to say that my wife was only seven years old when I began working at the bank, which is true. I will then say—just in case someone would get the wrong idea--we didn’t start dating until she entered junior high. For some reason this sets my wife off.
“Why do you tell people that? Somebody might actually believe you”.
“I know, but it makes a better story.”
“You and your stories. You make yourself sound like Jerry Lee Lewis marrying his twelve year old cousin or something.”
So maybe she has a point. But I have learned over the years it’s good to open up to other people, to offer information that they might be curious about. For example, I have told people I have this fantasy where I return to high school and slap certain people silly. And darn, if they hadn’t had the same fantasy; and we would have a warm moment, locked in the notion of revenging our high school selves.
I must admit I have at times taken this idea too far. Recently I confided to a few co-workers that I sometimes have “The Naked Dream”. I explained that this is the dream where you seem to be rehearsing a different play than your fellow actors, and what’s worse, you realize that you are not in costume. In fact, you’re appearing in the altogether with the community theatre lights showing your every wrinkle.
Other times I said –this was turning out to be a monologue—I showed up naked at work. What was funny about the dream was no one else seemed to notice I was naked In the dream I’m always a little slow to realize that there is a problem. When I do, I’m terribly embarrassed. But everyone around me seems to be oblivious.
I stop mid-monologue when I realize my friends have puzzled looks on their faces. They each tell me that they’ve never had “The Naked Dream”. I am staggered by their comments. Why, I say, Dr. Freud assured us that this dream was universal—that everybody had the naked dream. (I consider myself something of an authority on Freud since I once read two paragraphs of his Civilization and its Discontents.)
And after I had repeated the word “naked” several more times, I noticed my coworkers trying to get my attention. I had forgotten the lobby was open. My little homily had drawn several customers who thought they had stumbled onto a very strange staff meeting.
One older gentleman that is a little hard of hearing asked me to repeat myself. “What did you say was going on in that play you were in?”
“ Well, it was only a dream”, I explained. “I thought I was naked.”
“You thought you were what?”
After several attempts to get the word across, I fairly shouted: “ I THOUGHT I WAS NAKED!”
“ No kidding!”
He turned to his wife and said: “He was naked, he says! Must have been some play! You should have told me you were in a naked play—I would have been in the front row.”
By that time we had set the world record for repetition of the word “naked” in a bank lobby. And before nightfall the rumor had spread all over town that I had appeared naked in a play.
So I may have been indiscreet on this occasion. It will take me a while to live down this latest incident. The staff likes to refer to it as my “I have a naked dream” speech.
It’s no wonder management loves me so much.
I’ve always considered myself to be a fairly discreet person. After all my job at the bank requires it. I only let my hair—what’s left of it—down with my friends and family. I’m sure the public would say I’m a mild-mannered, polite fellow; they would probably say the same things about me that are said by next-door neighbors of the guy who turns out to be a serial killer. (“Quiet, kept to himself, didn’t get out much”.)
I have to admit my wife thinks I’m a little too free with our personal information. This may stem from the way I introduce her to people. I always begin by gallantly admitting that she is much younger than I—eleven years younger in fact. There is nothing wrong with that of course. She doesn’t mind if I tell people that.
I also like to say that my wife was only seven years old when I began working at the bank, which is true. I will then say—just in case someone would get the wrong idea--we didn’t start dating until she entered junior high. For some reason this sets my wife off.
“Why do you tell people that? Somebody might actually believe you”.
“I know, but it makes a better story.”
“You and your stories. You make yourself sound like Jerry Lee Lewis marrying his twelve year old cousin or something.”
So maybe she has a point. But I have learned over the years it’s good to open up to other people, to offer information that they might be curious about. For example, I have told people I have this fantasy where I return to high school and slap certain people silly. And darn, if they hadn’t had the same fantasy; and we would have a warm moment, locked in the notion of revenging our high school selves.
I must admit I have at times taken this idea too far. Recently I confided to a few co-workers that I sometimes have “The Naked Dream”. I explained that this is the dream where you seem to be rehearsing a different play than your fellow actors, and what’s worse, you realize that you are not in costume. In fact, you’re appearing in the altogether with the community theatre lights showing your every wrinkle.
Other times I said –this was turning out to be a monologue—I showed up naked at work. What was funny about the dream was no one else seemed to notice I was naked In the dream I’m always a little slow to realize that there is a problem. When I do, I’m terribly embarrassed. But everyone around me seems to be oblivious.
I stop mid-monologue when I realize my friends have puzzled looks on their faces. They each tell me that they’ve never had “The Naked Dream”. I am staggered by their comments. Why, I say, Dr. Freud assured us that this dream was universal—that everybody had the naked dream. (I consider myself something of an authority on Freud since I once read two paragraphs of his Civilization and its Discontents.)
And after I had repeated the word “naked” several more times, I noticed my coworkers trying to get my attention. I had forgotten the lobby was open. My little homily had drawn several customers who thought they had stumbled onto a very strange staff meeting.
One older gentleman that is a little hard of hearing asked me to repeat myself. “What did you say was going on in that play you were in?”
“ Well, it was only a dream”, I explained. “I thought I was naked.”
“You thought you were what?”
After several attempts to get the word across, I fairly shouted: “ I THOUGHT I WAS NAKED!”
“ No kidding!”
He turned to his wife and said: “He was naked, he says! Must have been some play! You should have told me you were in a naked play—I would have been in the front row.”
By that time we had set the world record for repetition of the word “naked” in a bank lobby. And before nightfall the rumor had spread all over town that I had appeared naked in a play.
So I may have been indiscreet on this occasion. It will take me a while to live down this latest incident. The staff likes to refer to it as my “I have a naked dream” speech.
It’s no wonder management loves me so much.
Identity Theft
Lately I’ve been brooding about a public service announcement that featured a creepy character that was rejoicing in his stolen identity. Or that was what it seemed like. Maybe you saw it. I haven’t dreamed this up, have I?
Anyway I thought it had a valuable clue for me in searching for my “usable past” (this is a literary phrase I’ve been dying to work in for some time now). I’ve been looking for my self, or sometimes a former self.
I’m in the midst of my third mid life crisis, which seems to have something to do with identity, which come to think of it, was what my other two mid-life crises were about. (How did I resolve the previous two crises, you may ask. And that’s a darned good question, too. I got married at forty; I forget what happened at fifty.)
I’ve been trying to write a few memories of my early days—for example, an account of when the folks and I headed for the Oklahoma land rush in 1889. My scheme is if I can find the boy I was, it will indicate the man-child I became. Deep down I’m trying to figure things out. I realize that Trying to Make Sense Out of Things has ruined many a boy’s life, so I’m trying to tread lightly.
It occurs to me that my self or my identity has been stolen. Four days out of seven I don’t seem to be at home or at work for that matter. I’ve noticed a stranger at my workplace. He uses my coffee cup and sits at my desk. I know he’s an impostor, but I don’t say anything. (I try to get along with everybody.)
This would explain a lot. I can’t write about a missing person, somebody who is leaving behind a trail of credit card charges and is making tracks to an undisclosed location. My latest brainstorm on memoir writing is to interview my self, or my former selves. So far, it’s been a bust.
Whenever I do try to interview myself about the past, Self appears to be out of town. When I do locate him, he pleads memory loss. 1963? He can’t recall it. In other words, he hasn’t been very helpful. Self seems to be unclear even about the present. He gets up in the morning and can’t remember what day of the week it is. Maybe it’s the weekend, and he’ll sleep in. Wrong!
I guess I should have picked a better collaborator than Self. I probably need to find a good ghostwriter who has led an exciting life and wouldn’t mind sharing.
In the meantime I think I’ll work on the identity theft idea. I’m pretty sure I used to be somebody. (Sometimes I see an old customer who’ll ask: “Didn’t you used to work at the bank? How’s retirement?” Forgotten, but not gone, as George S. Kaufman once said of somebody.)
I think I’ll try calling the ITB (Identity Theft Bureau) again. They may have a record of me. I tried the number earlier today and got put on hold when I selected the option for Seriously Deluded People Who Think Identity Theft Means Somebody Stole Their Selves As Well As Their Credit Cards.
I can see this group waiting by the phone for a return call from the Bureau in which everything is explained. (“Your self is living in Mexico City and wishes you were there.”)
The lot of a memoir writer—ask General Grant—is hard.
Anyway I thought it had a valuable clue for me in searching for my “usable past” (this is a literary phrase I’ve been dying to work in for some time now). I’ve been looking for my self, or sometimes a former self.
I’m in the midst of my third mid life crisis, which seems to have something to do with identity, which come to think of it, was what my other two mid-life crises were about. (How did I resolve the previous two crises, you may ask. And that’s a darned good question, too. I got married at forty; I forget what happened at fifty.)
I’ve been trying to write a few memories of my early days—for example, an account of when the folks and I headed for the Oklahoma land rush in 1889. My scheme is if I can find the boy I was, it will indicate the man-child I became. Deep down I’m trying to figure things out. I realize that Trying to Make Sense Out of Things has ruined many a boy’s life, so I’m trying to tread lightly.
It occurs to me that my self or my identity has been stolen. Four days out of seven I don’t seem to be at home or at work for that matter. I’ve noticed a stranger at my workplace. He uses my coffee cup and sits at my desk. I know he’s an impostor, but I don’t say anything. (I try to get along with everybody.)
This would explain a lot. I can’t write about a missing person, somebody who is leaving behind a trail of credit card charges and is making tracks to an undisclosed location. My latest brainstorm on memoir writing is to interview my self, or my former selves. So far, it’s been a bust.
Whenever I do try to interview myself about the past, Self appears to be out of town. When I do locate him, he pleads memory loss. 1963? He can’t recall it. In other words, he hasn’t been very helpful. Self seems to be unclear even about the present. He gets up in the morning and can’t remember what day of the week it is. Maybe it’s the weekend, and he’ll sleep in. Wrong!
I guess I should have picked a better collaborator than Self. I probably need to find a good ghostwriter who has led an exciting life and wouldn’t mind sharing.
In the meantime I think I’ll work on the identity theft idea. I’m pretty sure I used to be somebody. (Sometimes I see an old customer who’ll ask: “Didn’t you used to work at the bank? How’s retirement?” Forgotten, but not gone, as George S. Kaufman once said of somebody.)
I think I’ll try calling the ITB (Identity Theft Bureau) again. They may have a record of me. I tried the number earlier today and got put on hold when I selected the option for Seriously Deluded People Who Think Identity Theft Means Somebody Stole Their Selves As Well As Their Credit Cards.
I can see this group waiting by the phone for a return call from the Bureau in which everything is explained. (“Your self is living in Mexico City and wishes you were there.”)
The lot of a memoir writer—ask General Grant—is hard.
High School Days: Driver's Ed.
High School Days: Driver’s Ed.
I never actually drove when I took Driver’s Ed. I showed up for the course sophomore year and got an “A”; it’s too bad I couldn’t drive the book.
I didn’t drive, as I was AWOL sixty days during the second half of the school year. This isn’t exactly true, as I had a heart murmur that got me (finally) out of Physical Education. The down side was I missed the driving instruction.
I was a senior before I learned to drive; I wasn’t too interested as I had an idea of how wrong things could go with me at the wheel. My physical abilities had peaked in my cowboy stage when I managed to twirl a rope for two seconds before knocking off my glasses. (I found this very irritating, as it was something that never happened to Roy Rogers.)
But any misgivings I might have had were put aside when my niece Linda and my nephew Dick moved to Greenup that fateful year and volunteered to get me up to par. Our relationship was more like that of cousins, as I was the youngest of seven children, most of whom—including their mother, my sister Betty-- had left home before I was born. The three of us had grown up together in Hidalgo, IL (POP. 100, about seven miles south of Greenup).
Dick, a freshman, had learned to drive shortly after he got out of diapers. He was remarkably patient with his Uncle Dan, although an occasional caustic remark would escape him. Sometimes he rode in the back seat with his head in his hands as though he didn’t want to see the next near miss, while Linda sat up front with me.
The idea was to get me good enough to pass my driver’s test. This was more of a challenge then as we all drove manual transmission cars. We didn’t call them that of course. The preferred term was straight shift, or if you were really cool, straight stick. There were a few bumps along the way, but I didn’t cause any serious injury or property damage.
I did somehow manage to run over my Dad. . We had stopped at a gas station where I dropped him off. He got out the car and was just getting ready to close the door when for some reason—continual nervousness behind the wheel, probably-- I decided to back up. This command decision caused the car door to swing around and hit him in the head.
Now you know why Dad wasn’t my driving teacher. He never said a word to me about the incident. He just gave me a look and went about his business. In later years he would tell family members about this and by then he seemed to think it was funny.
So you can see Linda and Dick had their work cut out for them. My first problem was taking off—my clutch work was such that the car would die every five seconds. We spent several sessions in which we never left the back yard.
One afternoon Dad came out of the house just as Linda and Dick were getting ready to send me out on the mean streets of Greenup. Mom was right behind him, continuing a conversation that he was trying to escape. He stopped when she said, “Dad, I’m worried about that boy driving”.
“For crap’s sake they haven’t got him out of the back yard yet!”
Mom was always concerned something might happen to me, and I always was afraid it wouldn’t.
We were soon cruising the main drag of Greenup. I didn’t think of it that way, as I was worried about my gear shifting and the possibility I would run over something. This was a legitimate fear as the highest praise I would get after a training session would be: “Well, at least you didn’t hit anything”.
At first we just drove up and down the main street, Cumberland Avenue. Greenup, then as now, had fifteen hundred population. We lived at 606 East Cumberland, which meant it was six blocks to the “You are now leaving Greenup” sign. By the time I got shifted down to third gear we were out of town.
My maiden tour through town gave Linda and Dick pause, as we had a brush with the law. Greenup was a lawless town, as we had no police force. But the law of sorts managed to show up that afternoon.
I had gone about three blocks and had passed the IGA Foodliner, the cultural center of town, when I managed to miss a squirrel only by climbing the curb and crashing into an outside display at the dime store.
Dick was roused out of his near- miss- head- in- hands position and started yelling. Even Linda was a little excited. “Oh, my gosh. Are you alright, Dan?” I was fine except I was dying of terminal embarrassment. But everybody was all right; no harm had been done to the dime store or its fine display of picnic baskets and lawn chairs.
So all would have been well had not a local citizen been alerted. His name was Ted, a retired policeman. At times, he forgot he was no longer on duty. He (naturally) decided to spring into action the afternoon I jumped the curb. He was wearing his official police cap and his old black trousers. He would have been more impressive had he not been unshaven and wearing a formerly white, tobacco juice stained t-shirt with a child’s toy badge pinned to it.
After deputizing a bystander to watch me, Ted ran into the dime store to get a pad and pencil so he could write me a ticket. Of course a crowd had gathered by then. (Ted’s arrests always made good entertainment.)
There was no chance this wouldn’t get back to my folks. Linda and Dick talked Ted out of hauling me in despite several locals who egged him on. He gave me a very stern warning ticket instead, or as stern as it could be written in a first grader’s notebook.
After this fiasco, which was known to everybody in the two county area before dusk, I begged off the training sessions for a couple of days. Linda (Dick was neutral) kept after me to try again, which we did after I smoked three Marlboros in a row to build up my courage. The next couple of sessions were luckily uneventful, as the local merchants had almost cancelled their sidewalk sale after my dime store caper.
It wasn’t long before we started going out of town, which usually meant a trip to Toledo, population eleven hundred, five miles away. The focal point of our existence, Cumberland High School, laid half way between the shining cities of Greenup and Toledo. It was bathed in splendor, just off the highway, surrounded by cornfields.
Leaving town made me an even more cautious driver. Sometimes when I was waiting to get out on the highway, Dick got a little impatient, “Dan, you don’t have to wait for the whole darned town to go by!”
Learning to drive to other communities was important as more than likely I would find a job out of town—but not too far out. I didn’t want a long commute, as I would still be living at home until my folks threw me out. (This never happened.) Still driving would be a requirement. I was sure Linda and Dick wouldn’t be around to chauffeur me the rest of my days.
After a few more practice sessions, Linda and Dick thought I could probably pass my driver’s license exam. We pulled up at the house. Mom and Dad were curious how things went. Linda said, “Dan did fine”. Dick said, “Well, he didn’t hit anything”.
Dad (bravely) went with me to take the test. I remember the driver’s license examiner noting shortly after I started that I might slow down, as it was not considered good form to knock over the town’s new parking meter. Otherwise things went pretty smoothly.
I was mightily relieved. On the way home I said that I was glad to have it over with. Dad allowed that it was something that had to be done. He was pleased, I think, even if he didn’t say so. He was glad I would be able to take Mom to the store (the IGA was always referred to as “The Store” as in “Do you need to go to The Store?”).
When we got home, Linda and Dick were waiting. Dad (with a wink at Dick) said: “He didn’t hit anything”.
So the three of us had wheels, as Dad let me use the family car occasionally; it wasn’t long before we were planning a road trip. We decided to go to Hidalgo.
I never actually drove when I took Driver’s Ed. I showed up for the course sophomore year and got an “A”; it’s too bad I couldn’t drive the book.
I didn’t drive, as I was AWOL sixty days during the second half of the school year. This isn’t exactly true, as I had a heart murmur that got me (finally) out of Physical Education. The down side was I missed the driving instruction.
I was a senior before I learned to drive; I wasn’t too interested as I had an idea of how wrong things could go with me at the wheel. My physical abilities had peaked in my cowboy stage when I managed to twirl a rope for two seconds before knocking off my glasses. (I found this very irritating, as it was something that never happened to Roy Rogers.)
But any misgivings I might have had were put aside when my niece Linda and my nephew Dick moved to Greenup that fateful year and volunteered to get me up to par. Our relationship was more like that of cousins, as I was the youngest of seven children, most of whom—including their mother, my sister Betty-- had left home before I was born. The three of us had grown up together in Hidalgo, IL (POP. 100, about seven miles south of Greenup).
Dick, a freshman, had learned to drive shortly after he got out of diapers. He was remarkably patient with his Uncle Dan, although an occasional caustic remark would escape him. Sometimes he rode in the back seat with his head in his hands as though he didn’t want to see the next near miss, while Linda sat up front with me.
The idea was to get me good enough to pass my driver’s test. This was more of a challenge then as we all drove manual transmission cars. We didn’t call them that of course. The preferred term was straight shift, or if you were really cool, straight stick. There were a few bumps along the way, but I didn’t cause any serious injury or property damage.
I did somehow manage to run over my Dad. . We had stopped at a gas station where I dropped him off. He got out the car and was just getting ready to close the door when for some reason—continual nervousness behind the wheel, probably-- I decided to back up. This command decision caused the car door to swing around and hit him in the head.
Now you know why Dad wasn’t my driving teacher. He never said a word to me about the incident. He just gave me a look and went about his business. In later years he would tell family members about this and by then he seemed to think it was funny.
So you can see Linda and Dick had their work cut out for them. My first problem was taking off—my clutch work was such that the car would die every five seconds. We spent several sessions in which we never left the back yard.
One afternoon Dad came out of the house just as Linda and Dick were getting ready to send me out on the mean streets of Greenup. Mom was right behind him, continuing a conversation that he was trying to escape. He stopped when she said, “Dad, I’m worried about that boy driving”.
“For crap’s sake they haven’t got him out of the back yard yet!”
Mom was always concerned something might happen to me, and I always was afraid it wouldn’t.
We were soon cruising the main drag of Greenup. I didn’t think of it that way, as I was worried about my gear shifting and the possibility I would run over something. This was a legitimate fear as the highest praise I would get after a training session would be: “Well, at least you didn’t hit anything”.
At first we just drove up and down the main street, Cumberland Avenue. Greenup, then as now, had fifteen hundred population. We lived at 606 East Cumberland, which meant it was six blocks to the “You are now leaving Greenup” sign. By the time I got shifted down to third gear we were out of town.
My maiden tour through town gave Linda and Dick pause, as we had a brush with the law. Greenup was a lawless town, as we had no police force. But the law of sorts managed to show up that afternoon.
I had gone about three blocks and had passed the IGA Foodliner, the cultural center of town, when I managed to miss a squirrel only by climbing the curb and crashing into an outside display at the dime store.
Dick was roused out of his near- miss- head- in- hands position and started yelling. Even Linda was a little excited. “Oh, my gosh. Are you alright, Dan?” I was fine except I was dying of terminal embarrassment. But everybody was all right; no harm had been done to the dime store or its fine display of picnic baskets and lawn chairs.
So all would have been well had not a local citizen been alerted. His name was Ted, a retired policeman. At times, he forgot he was no longer on duty. He (naturally) decided to spring into action the afternoon I jumped the curb. He was wearing his official police cap and his old black trousers. He would have been more impressive had he not been unshaven and wearing a formerly white, tobacco juice stained t-shirt with a child’s toy badge pinned to it.
After deputizing a bystander to watch me, Ted ran into the dime store to get a pad and pencil so he could write me a ticket. Of course a crowd had gathered by then. (Ted’s arrests always made good entertainment.)
There was no chance this wouldn’t get back to my folks. Linda and Dick talked Ted out of hauling me in despite several locals who egged him on. He gave me a very stern warning ticket instead, or as stern as it could be written in a first grader’s notebook.
After this fiasco, which was known to everybody in the two county area before dusk, I begged off the training sessions for a couple of days. Linda (Dick was neutral) kept after me to try again, which we did after I smoked three Marlboros in a row to build up my courage. The next couple of sessions were luckily uneventful, as the local merchants had almost cancelled their sidewalk sale after my dime store caper.
It wasn’t long before we started going out of town, which usually meant a trip to Toledo, population eleven hundred, five miles away. The focal point of our existence, Cumberland High School, laid half way between the shining cities of Greenup and Toledo. It was bathed in splendor, just off the highway, surrounded by cornfields.
Leaving town made me an even more cautious driver. Sometimes when I was waiting to get out on the highway, Dick got a little impatient, “Dan, you don’t have to wait for the whole darned town to go by!”
Learning to drive to other communities was important as more than likely I would find a job out of town—but not too far out. I didn’t want a long commute, as I would still be living at home until my folks threw me out. (This never happened.) Still driving would be a requirement. I was sure Linda and Dick wouldn’t be around to chauffeur me the rest of my days.
After a few more practice sessions, Linda and Dick thought I could probably pass my driver’s license exam. We pulled up at the house. Mom and Dad were curious how things went. Linda said, “Dan did fine”. Dick said, “Well, he didn’t hit anything”.
Dad (bravely) went with me to take the test. I remember the driver’s license examiner noting shortly after I started that I might slow down, as it was not considered good form to knock over the town’s new parking meter. Otherwise things went pretty smoothly.
I was mightily relieved. On the way home I said that I was glad to have it over with. Dad allowed that it was something that had to be done. He was pleased, I think, even if he didn’t say so. He was glad I would be able to take Mom to the store (the IGA was always referred to as “The Store” as in “Do you need to go to The Store?”).
When we got home, Linda and Dick were waiting. Dad (with a wink at Dick) said: “He didn’t hit anything”.
So the three of us had wheels, as Dad let me use the family car occasionally; it wasn’t long before we were planning a road trip. We decided to go to Hidalgo.
Why I Can't Write Today
Why I Can’t Write Today 5-14-05 9:13 AM
I can’t write today because I have too many worries. I am worried, for example, about my job. Only yesterday my superiors gave me a new chore, which I thought was pretty cheeky of them considering I keep busy enough trying to dodge the tasks already given me.
I must confess management generally leaves me alone. It helps that my office is downstairs; they often forget, I think, that I’m still working. Many customers think I have retired, or even possibly dead as sightings are infrequent.
I do make an appearance later in the day as I go to our branch in town at noon to provide teller relief for two hours. This is more onerous than it sounds, as sometimes I actually have to wait on a customer. The nerve of people! To come to a bank just because the sign says “Open”, and expect to be waited on! I have never understood those who say, “They just love people”. Clearly they have never met any. Or at least they’ve never had to meet the public in their line of work.
If my work wasn’t enough to worry me, there are my teeth, which are complaining every time I take anything cold. Cavities, my wife the nurse assures me. I have a checkup scheduled for next month. I will be told to come back for two additional appointments for fillings, which will only take two hours each. (Additional time has to be allotted to take pictures of the offending teeth in living color and then bounce them off the computer screen for my viewing pleasure.)
I am also worried about my hernia; this is a new worry, as I didn’t know I had one until last Thursday when during my routine checkup my doctor mentioned it casually, as though it were common knowledge. So now I worry that I will soon be doubling over in pain and will be carted off to the ER, where I will be forgotten for days before being tested with cattle prods and other new medical devices.
Health matters are constantly on my mind, as I seem to acquire new aches and pains daily. When I ask my doctor why things seem to be converging on what’s left of my body, the answer is always: “Oh, it’s just your age. It’s common for a man your age”. I love the phrase “a man your age”. I take it to mean I’m just lucky I’m not actually residing in a nursing home. Thank you, Doctor. Any more good news?
I worry about my weight as well which is strange, as I’ve actually lost twenty pounds in the last couple of years. I can’t keep my pants up, but I still have very nice “love handles” which stay no matter how many pounds I shed.
I’m actually a very lucky person: I have a wonderful wife, a devoted puppy dog, and several friends and family members who still talk to me. But I don’t waste much time thinking about these matters. I don’t have time. I have too many things to worry about. Just now while posting away a new worry has struck me: I’m worried about my birth certificate, which is incorrect (all three names). I probably won’t be able to collect Social Security unless I get this straightened out. This means of course I’ll be in the poorhouse.
No, I can’t write today. I have too many worries.
I can’t write today because I have too many worries. I am worried, for example, about my job. Only yesterday my superiors gave me a new chore, which I thought was pretty cheeky of them considering I keep busy enough trying to dodge the tasks already given me.
I must confess management generally leaves me alone. It helps that my office is downstairs; they often forget, I think, that I’m still working. Many customers think I have retired, or even possibly dead as sightings are infrequent.
I do make an appearance later in the day as I go to our branch in town at noon to provide teller relief for two hours. This is more onerous than it sounds, as sometimes I actually have to wait on a customer. The nerve of people! To come to a bank just because the sign says “Open”, and expect to be waited on! I have never understood those who say, “They just love people”. Clearly they have never met any. Or at least they’ve never had to meet the public in their line of work.
If my work wasn’t enough to worry me, there are my teeth, which are complaining every time I take anything cold. Cavities, my wife the nurse assures me. I have a checkup scheduled for next month. I will be told to come back for two additional appointments for fillings, which will only take two hours each. (Additional time has to be allotted to take pictures of the offending teeth in living color and then bounce them off the computer screen for my viewing pleasure.)
I am also worried about my hernia; this is a new worry, as I didn’t know I had one until last Thursday when during my routine checkup my doctor mentioned it casually, as though it were common knowledge. So now I worry that I will soon be doubling over in pain and will be carted off to the ER, where I will be forgotten for days before being tested with cattle prods and other new medical devices.
Health matters are constantly on my mind, as I seem to acquire new aches and pains daily. When I ask my doctor why things seem to be converging on what’s left of my body, the answer is always: “Oh, it’s just your age. It’s common for a man your age”. I love the phrase “a man your age”. I take it to mean I’m just lucky I’m not actually residing in a nursing home. Thank you, Doctor. Any more good news?
I worry about my weight as well which is strange, as I’ve actually lost twenty pounds in the last couple of years. I can’t keep my pants up, but I still have very nice “love handles” which stay no matter how many pounds I shed.
I’m actually a very lucky person: I have a wonderful wife, a devoted puppy dog, and several friends and family members who still talk to me. But I don’t waste much time thinking about these matters. I don’t have time. I have too many things to worry about. Just now while posting away a new worry has struck me: I’m worried about my birth certificate, which is incorrect (all three names). I probably won’t be able to collect Social Security unless I get this straightened out. This means of course I’ll be in the poorhouse.
No, I can’t write today. I have too many worries.
Shower Songs
I like to take long, hot showers. I spend so much time in the shower my wife warns me I’m venturing into prune country. But the shower is where I do my best songwriting. The hot water relaxes me, and the words pour forth. I usually write country songs.
I’m somewhat lacking in the singer-songwriter department as I’m tone deaf. But I like the sound of my voice even if I can’t carry a tune. I can stay in the shower for nearly an hour, which gives me time to work on several sets of my compositions.
I may start out with “Going Through the Motions”: “I walk around and I talk to people as if I was still alive. But I’m just going through the motions.” Country songs can be pretty sad; I try to stay true to the tradition.
My saddest song is not a typical country song—it’s not about lost love. It’s about a guy who lives a quiet life. I sometimes sing it during the “Requests and Dedications” portion of my shower. I call it “Watching TV”.
“My friend Larry is watching TV—he’s trying to get a clue what his life should be. He used to live at home with the folks; he went to work, and he watched TV. Then one day when he was 33, he moved out and got his own place. He went to work and came home to his apartment and watched TV. He was still trying to get a clue what his life should be.”
“Larry” didn’t exactly live the wild bachelor life. He had a few work friends—he was well liked. He didn’t get out much. I saw him once at the mall—he had moved back home. I asked what he was doing these days.
“Oh, you know, going to work, and watching TV. There’s a lot of good stuff on, you know.”
So I think of Larry when I’m singing about other sad people who at least lived enough to have their hearts broken. I sing the song to remind myself that but for the grace of you know who went I. I escaped Larry’s fate twenty years ago when I found the girl who became my wife. Until that time I had spent forty years on the shelf.
So sad songs don’t seem nearly as sad to me as they once did. And “happy songs” just don’t do it for me. I like a good torch song, something that gives you a chance to hit those high, lonesome notes in the shower.
After “Requests and Dedications” and maybe a number where the singer talks a little—I love it when singers talk—I may move on to another favorite: “Recorded Love”. It’s about this fellow whose girl has dumped him. He keeps calling although he knows she won’t pick up-- she has caller ID. All he gets is her recorded voice. He sings: “I could leave you a message, I could give you my recorded love, except I know you don’t want it anymore.” He’s just calling to hear her voice again—even it’s only a record. Gets me every time I sing it.
I often finish my shower with what may be my masterpiece, “Ever Friends, Never Lovers”. “Ever friends, never lovers—that’s how our story ends, or so we tell one another. We can’t love each other, yet we can’t love another.”
This song is a mystery story. Why can’t they love each other? At the end of the song the guy spills his guts: “I remember you when you were a little girl, and I remember the young woman you became. I know why our story ends. I love you too much to ever be your lover. Ever friends, never lovers—that’s how our story ends”.
If I sing a couple choruses of this, I’m an emotional wreck. I have to dry off, and lie down.
But within minutes I’m planning my next shower. I think about what songs to include. I may start off with another favorite, “Falling Again”: “Falling for you again was the last thing on my mind. Falling for you only means falling out of love again.”
Then I’ll probably move on to “It’s All I Can Do: “As I drive through this old town, it’s all I can do not to go by your place. I remember exactly where I was when I got the news that you had stopped loving me. It’s all I can do to watch you with somebody new.” Another heartbreaker.
It’s not all that sad, really—at least the guy wasn’t just watching TV.
I’m somewhat lacking in the singer-songwriter department as I’m tone deaf. But I like the sound of my voice even if I can’t carry a tune. I can stay in the shower for nearly an hour, which gives me time to work on several sets of my compositions.
I may start out with “Going Through the Motions”: “I walk around and I talk to people as if I was still alive. But I’m just going through the motions.” Country songs can be pretty sad; I try to stay true to the tradition.
My saddest song is not a typical country song—it’s not about lost love. It’s about a guy who lives a quiet life. I sometimes sing it during the “Requests and Dedications” portion of my shower. I call it “Watching TV”.
“My friend Larry is watching TV—he’s trying to get a clue what his life should be. He used to live at home with the folks; he went to work, and he watched TV. Then one day when he was 33, he moved out and got his own place. He went to work and came home to his apartment and watched TV. He was still trying to get a clue what his life should be.”
“Larry” didn’t exactly live the wild bachelor life. He had a few work friends—he was well liked. He didn’t get out much. I saw him once at the mall—he had moved back home. I asked what he was doing these days.
“Oh, you know, going to work, and watching TV. There’s a lot of good stuff on, you know.”
So I think of Larry when I’m singing about other sad people who at least lived enough to have their hearts broken. I sing the song to remind myself that but for the grace of you know who went I. I escaped Larry’s fate twenty years ago when I found the girl who became my wife. Until that time I had spent forty years on the shelf.
So sad songs don’t seem nearly as sad to me as they once did. And “happy songs” just don’t do it for me. I like a good torch song, something that gives you a chance to hit those high, lonesome notes in the shower.
After “Requests and Dedications” and maybe a number where the singer talks a little—I love it when singers talk—I may move on to another favorite: “Recorded Love”. It’s about this fellow whose girl has dumped him. He keeps calling although he knows she won’t pick up-- she has caller ID. All he gets is her recorded voice. He sings: “I could leave you a message, I could give you my recorded love, except I know you don’t want it anymore.” He’s just calling to hear her voice again—even it’s only a record. Gets me every time I sing it.
I often finish my shower with what may be my masterpiece, “Ever Friends, Never Lovers”. “Ever friends, never lovers—that’s how our story ends, or so we tell one another. We can’t love each other, yet we can’t love another.”
This song is a mystery story. Why can’t they love each other? At the end of the song the guy spills his guts: “I remember you when you were a little girl, and I remember the young woman you became. I know why our story ends. I love you too much to ever be your lover. Ever friends, never lovers—that’s how our story ends”.
If I sing a couple choruses of this, I’m an emotional wreck. I have to dry off, and lie down.
But within minutes I’m planning my next shower. I think about what songs to include. I may start off with another favorite, “Falling Again”: “Falling for you again was the last thing on my mind. Falling for you only means falling out of love again.”
Then I’ll probably move on to “It’s All I Can Do: “As I drive through this old town, it’s all I can do not to go by your place. I remember exactly where I was when I got the news that you had stopped loving me. It’s all I can do to watch you with somebody new.” Another heartbreaker.
It’s not all that sad, really—at least the guy wasn’t just watching TV.
Hidalgo: The Town, Not the Horse
Not long ago commercials were running for the movie “Hidalgo” which brought back
memories for my family, as Hidalgo is the name of our hometown. We agreed it was good our town was in the news even if people did confuse it with a horse.
In 1950 Hidalgo, Illinois, population one hundred, was a thriving little town that had at least four grocery stores—for a time our mom ran one of them. I was just five then, but I took time out from my serious work of being Roy Rogers to help Mom with the grocery business. My main duty was to run out-- cap guns blazing--to rob the noonday train. The engineer, who knew my folks and about everybody else in town, played along--held up his hands as though I were Jesse James.
A town of only one hundred couldn’t even be called a one-horse town, but thanks to my dad, we could at least be called a one-pony town. Dad brought home a black and white Shetland when I was around four. Jiggs—that was his name -- only weighed about 60 lbs.—a baby actually.
There are pictures of Jiggs and me, which showed at that time, I was taller than my mount. Jiggs was on the frisky side—he liked to jump the fence and head for downtown Hidalgo which didn’t take him long as we lived just a block off the main drag. My older brothers would be in hot pursuit with a lasso.
We eventually had to find Jiggs another home as he had an attitude problem. He apparently thought of himself—little pony that he was—as a wild stallion that wasn’t put on earth to carry little kids on his back. He was also mighty tired of having my brothers chase him with a rope every time he wanted to take a little tear through town. But he escaped once too often and was found-- with all four wheels up-- lounging in a neighbor’s prize flowerbed.
So I was a cowboy without a horse—I was on foot for a spell as it took me a while to learn to ride a bike. Even after I did learn I was accident-prone. I once was sent to buy a carton of pop at Cousin Pete’s garage. (We called it “pop”. When people talked about soda we assumed they meant something medicinal as in Arm & Hammer.)
I had loaded the pop in my bicycle basket, and taken off for home without allowing for some loose gravel. I managed to break all 6 bottles—probably 25 cents down the drain. Cousin Pete came to my rescue—helped me to my feet and put another carton of Pepsi in my basket at no charge. “Hey, Danny, accidents happen. I wish that was all the money I’d ever wasted in my life.” He gave me a wink and waved me on home, a two- block journey.
Although I was an awkward boy who fell over almost anything in his path—this was compounded when I added spurs to my cowboy outfit-- I joined the Cub Scouts at the age of 8. I wasn’t a promising recruit.
I relied on my Cousin Gary who was a couple of years older to help me with any projects requiring agility. My main physical skill was falling down. The only real job I was allowed to hold was that of Keeper of the Buckskin, the term for the recording secretary. I kept minutes in a spiral notebook and made special mention of whose mother had brought the cupcakes and ice cream when one of us had a birthday.
After three years it was time to move on up to the Boy Scouts. I ran into trouble as more was expected of me—I never made Tenderfoot, the entry-level scout position.
We camped out overnight at the Cumberland Co. Fairground where it became clear I wasn’t scout material. We had to use our hatchets to make a tent stake. This was demonstrated for us, but I was lost. Eventually I had to take my turn, which was risky, as I could have chopped off my fingers. I hacked my way through it only by wrestling the wood to the ground-- the finished product looked like a club.
After this ordeal we were supposed to scale a wall—practically boot camp to my way of thinking. I disappeared during this operation—I sat on a cot in the tent drinking a bottle of Pepsi, conserving my strength. A surviving picture of me in my scout uniform at the fairground showed me with a worried look as though I feared I might be shipped out.
We moved the year I became a Boy Scout—the Hidalgo years were over. And I didn’t join the scout troop at Greenup, population fifteen hundred—a big and scary place.
I decided to concentrate on something I was good at: playing cowboys. This phase lasted nearly until high school when I gave up my cap guns. I had the feeling that girls might not go for a guy in a Roy Rogers getup.
My family and friends still like to talk about Hidalgo and the other little towns of the area. For us, Hidalgo is still the town, not the movie. Although I’ve never seen the Hollywood version, I’m sure it’s not the picture I have in mind.
In my movie Jiggs the Pony jumps the fence and tears through town as though he’s trying to reach wild horse country before dark. He makes a pit stop at Emil’s Grocery when he spies an outdoor display of fruits and vegetables. He stretches out among the produce, and munches a few apples. It’s still early afternoon—he has plenty of time to reach mustang country before nightfall.
It was just another day in Hidalgo.
Literary World Agog Over Bloom Announcement
Professor Harold Bloom's announcement that he is considering inclusion of popular humor columnist Andy Borowitz in the nextedition of his book The Western Canon has set off a literary firestorm.
The furor seems to center on Bloom’s high-brow status as Yale Professor—his Western Canon examines Shakespeare and other great writers—and Borowitz’s roots as a TV sitcom writer. They do seem like an odd couple even though Borowitz’s humor is published in The New Yorker. Critics from the New York Times and The New York Review of Books are picketing Bloom’s office at Yale, or they would be if they could find their way out of town.
When pressed for comment, Professor Bloom said: “Let the lemmings jump over the cliff. Borowitz is too deep for them. It is clear the anxiety of influence is operating in their fevered ramblings.”
Or that is what it sounded like he said. Fellow professors admit Bloom is brilliant, but note his pronouncements tend to be obscure even to literary scholars. But within hours of the original announcement Professor Bloom appeared to be backing away from his plan to include Borowitz in The Western Canon.
Insiders close to the story believe Bloom went over the edge and off his rocker when he claimed Emily Dickinson paid him a late-night visit.Informed sources-they had drinks with the above insiders--said Dickinson appeared in a ghostly white dress just as the Professor was getting ready for bed.Ms. Dickinson wasted no time in telling Bloom that she was a poet, not an intellectual. She noted that the Professor prized intellect and imagined that the writers he admires are as subtle as he.
She was further displeased that Bloom claimed to get headaches every time he taught a certain poem of hers (No. 761), which repeats the word "blank" about eleven times. Dickinson said she had been having a "bad hair" day when she wrote the poem. She thought she had tossed it in the wastebasket, but her busybody relatives found the discarded poem. She further told the addled Professor that he was giving himself headaches to no purpose. And just before she disappeared, she cryptically remarked, "The rose is out of town", a line from one of her poems.
Speculation among those close to the story was that Bloom was so distraught that his close reading of Dickinson was wrong, or just plain dumb, that he went around the bend to left field. He then took up of the cause of Andy Borowitz's canonization. Bloom has been keeping himself scarce since his private séance with the Belle of Amherst.
Borowitz supporters are dismayed that their hero will not, after all, be included in The Western Canon. One still hopeful fan was quoted as saying: "Well, there's always the Nobel Prize."
481 words)
The furor seems to center on Bloom’s high-brow status as Yale Professor—his Western Canon examines Shakespeare and other great writers—and Borowitz’s roots as a TV sitcom writer. They do seem like an odd couple even though Borowitz’s humor is published in The New Yorker. Critics from the New York Times and The New York Review of Books are picketing Bloom’s office at Yale, or they would be if they could find their way out of town.
When pressed for comment, Professor Bloom said: “Let the lemmings jump over the cliff. Borowitz is too deep for them. It is clear the anxiety of influence is operating in their fevered ramblings.”
Or that is what it sounded like he said. Fellow professors admit Bloom is brilliant, but note his pronouncements tend to be obscure even to literary scholars. But within hours of the original announcement Professor Bloom appeared to be backing away from his plan to include Borowitz in The Western Canon.
Insiders close to the story believe Bloom went over the edge and off his rocker when he claimed Emily Dickinson paid him a late-night visit.Informed sources-they had drinks with the above insiders--said Dickinson appeared in a ghostly white dress just as the Professor was getting ready for bed.Ms. Dickinson wasted no time in telling Bloom that she was a poet, not an intellectual. She noted that the Professor prized intellect and imagined that the writers he admires are as subtle as he.
She was further displeased that Bloom claimed to get headaches every time he taught a certain poem of hers (No. 761), which repeats the word "blank" about eleven times. Dickinson said she had been having a "bad hair" day when she wrote the poem. She thought she had tossed it in the wastebasket, but her busybody relatives found the discarded poem. She further told the addled Professor that he was giving himself headaches to no purpose. And just before she disappeared, she cryptically remarked, "The rose is out of town", a line from one of her poems.
Speculation among those close to the story was that Bloom was so distraught that his close reading of Dickinson was wrong, or just plain dumb, that he went around the bend to left field. He then took up of the cause of Andy Borowitz's canonization. Bloom has been keeping himself scarce since his private séance with the Belle of Amherst.
Borowitz supporters are dismayed that their hero will not, after all, be included in The Western Canon. One still hopeful fan was quoted as saying: "Well, there's always the Nobel Prize."
481 words)
Dental Woes
The dental crisis of my life began—naturally—after my dentist of twenty-five years left town under mysterious circumstances. In a flashback—the video is of the security camera quality—I see a Mafia soldier on Dr. C.’s doorstep—he looks like a Soprano cousin who used to be a big earner, but has come down in the world—he knows his days are numbered. He’s ready to spill the beans on the Big Guy. Dr. C. is wearing a wire; he’s already signed up for The Witness Protection Program-- he will soon be treating patients in the Arizona desert.
The real story is that Dr. C.’s wife wanted to relocate to be closer to their grandchildren. I like the Mafia version better. And I’m sure the children are adorable, but I prefer to think of them as holy terrors working on their advanced degrees in Pillaging and Burning.
Not that I’m bitter, but Dr. C. was a fine fellow who got you in and out in twenty minutes; he didn’t sit up nights thinking of new ways to torture his patients.
But he had hardly left town when I began finding teeth parts in my breakfast toast. I made an appointment with a local dentist who was almost booked up after taking on many of Dr. C.’s patients—I got in just under the wire. Lucky me.
I learned I needed several fillings and a couple of crowns. I’ve never had a crown done before. I was told it would take two sessions with the first one lasting two hours. I immediately thought: “You’ll have to catch me first”.
I really didn’t care for the doctor’s bedside manner—what there was of it—either. The office was semi-dark when he came in wearing a mask. I’ll skip his name—I called him The Masked Marvel. I couldn’t see him clearly—I also couldn’t hear him mumbling through the mask.
He had an unusual technique as he lowered the chair practically to the floor before he
started his examination. The whole procedure reminded me of how auto mechanics hop on a dolly and slide under your car. I had a fear I would pass out and wake up looking at my oil pan.
I then found a more congenial dentist, a young woman who on the personality front at least had one. By this time I had lost even more teeth parts. She agreed to pull the tooth that The Masked Marvel wanted to crown, and that went like a charm.
But then I was advised I needed five fillings plus a crown. I would also be treated to not one but two cleanings, with the first one taking an hour. I was not happy. But at least you could watch television –a welcome innovation—while you were being worked over.
Although I would just get absorbed in something—say an Oprah panel on the problems of adult children who stayed in bed until noon-- when it was time for heavy drilling in which all I saw was the ceiling. Another novelty, which I didn’t care for, was a mint green fluoride cocktail, which made my stomach roll every time they served me one.
My lady dentist’s office organization also required an adjustment as she has many patients and will work on three or more at a time. I was often in the chair for over an hour—sometime so long I thought the entire dental staff had left the building. What were they doing—their Wal-Mart shopping? Taking computer classes in speed billing?
And when they came back they would add another wrinkle. They have a camera they’re particularly proud of which is used to take Polaroid pictures of the offending tooth. The camera looks large enough to have been used to film “ I Love Lucy”--it comes with a long rod, which would be about right to harpoon a whale. But they try to jam the whole thing into your mouth. Makes me long for Dr. C.’s two –count ‘em—pictures of your entire dental work.
I still have it in for Dr. C’s grandchildren. I can see them visiting their grandpa’s office. One of them is hanging from the chandelier; the other is letting the water out of the fish tank. Poor Dr. C. Serves him right.
Danny Dunne
402 Deere Run Lane
Casey, IL 62420
217:932-2136
dunne@joink.com
Word Count: 735
`
The real story is that Dr. C.’s wife wanted to relocate to be closer to their grandchildren. I like the Mafia version better. And I’m sure the children are adorable, but I prefer to think of them as holy terrors working on their advanced degrees in Pillaging and Burning.
Not that I’m bitter, but Dr. C. was a fine fellow who got you in and out in twenty minutes; he didn’t sit up nights thinking of new ways to torture his patients.
But he had hardly left town when I began finding teeth parts in my breakfast toast. I made an appointment with a local dentist who was almost booked up after taking on many of Dr. C.’s patients—I got in just under the wire. Lucky me.
I learned I needed several fillings and a couple of crowns. I’ve never had a crown done before. I was told it would take two sessions with the first one lasting two hours. I immediately thought: “You’ll have to catch me first”.
I really didn’t care for the doctor’s bedside manner—what there was of it—either. The office was semi-dark when he came in wearing a mask. I’ll skip his name—I called him The Masked Marvel. I couldn’t see him clearly—I also couldn’t hear him mumbling through the mask.
He had an unusual technique as he lowered the chair practically to the floor before he
started his examination. The whole procedure reminded me of how auto mechanics hop on a dolly and slide under your car. I had a fear I would pass out and wake up looking at my oil pan.
I then found a more congenial dentist, a young woman who on the personality front at least had one. By this time I had lost even more teeth parts. She agreed to pull the tooth that The Masked Marvel wanted to crown, and that went like a charm.
But then I was advised I needed five fillings plus a crown. I would also be treated to not one but two cleanings, with the first one taking an hour. I was not happy. But at least you could watch television –a welcome innovation—while you were being worked over.
Although I would just get absorbed in something—say an Oprah panel on the problems of adult children who stayed in bed until noon-- when it was time for heavy drilling in which all I saw was the ceiling. Another novelty, which I didn’t care for, was a mint green fluoride cocktail, which made my stomach roll every time they served me one.
My lady dentist’s office organization also required an adjustment as she has many patients and will work on three or more at a time. I was often in the chair for over an hour—sometime so long I thought the entire dental staff had left the building. What were they doing—their Wal-Mart shopping? Taking computer classes in speed billing?
And when they came back they would add another wrinkle. They have a camera they’re particularly proud of which is used to take Polaroid pictures of the offending tooth. The camera looks large enough to have been used to film “ I Love Lucy”--it comes with a long rod, which would be about right to harpoon a whale. But they try to jam the whole thing into your mouth. Makes me long for Dr. C.’s two –count ‘em—pictures of your entire dental work.
I still have it in for Dr. C’s grandchildren. I can see them visiting their grandpa’s office. One of them is hanging from the chandelier; the other is letting the water out of the fish tank. Poor Dr. C. Serves him right.
Danny Dunne
402 Deere Run Lane
Casey, IL 62420
217:932-2136
dunne@joink.com
Word Count: 735
`
High School Days
I spent my last summer before high school playing with cap guns. I wasn’t ready for “The Wonder Years”. I had started grade school in a small town (POP.100), but we had moved to a much bigger town (POP. 1500) by the time I started high school. I never adjusted to life in the city.
But there I was, a picky eater, making my way in the lunch line on the first day of high
school. My plan was to blend in—to go unnoticed. I then sat down at the wrong table. The guy I sat by “suggested” I get up as the seat was reserved. Taking the hint, I picked myself up and crashed into a couple of chairs on my way to another table—so much for keeping a low profile.
I then attracted the attention of a very tall senior who noticed I wasn’t a big eater. He asked for my leftovers. I was glad to get rid of the stuff as I had a firm rule: eat nothing you can’t identify. My tray had something that looked like a small tree smothered in cheese—broccoli, I later learned. My new friend checked in with me every day after that.
My cafeteria experiences were mild compared to physical education where I always had a
good chance of being maimed or killed. I was never interested in sports and was spectacularly uncoordinated. I had a knack for being in the wrong place at the right time—I was knocked down and ran over on a regular basis. I spent a lot of time passed out on the gym floor.
P. E. was particularly bad that year. I remember, for some reason, I had to tote my gym bag back and forth every day. I probably couldn’t work the gym locker combination, or
I had lost it. I kept the bag in my hall locker which I could at least open. The bag of course contained an “ athletic supporter ”which I originally thought meant a pep club booster. I was slow for fourteen.
I was always having big hairy guys—they had been shaving since they were twelve—ask me why I carried the bag every day.
Big Hairy Guy: “Hey, twerp! Taking your laundry home to Mommy?”
Me: (Inaudible.)
Second Big Hairy Guy: “ What’s that in your shorts? A peanut?” (Big Hairy guys were nothing if not witty.)
One day I opened my locker to discover the bag was missing. Just as I was about to try to find it—I had twelve seconds before the bell rang-- the school counselor handed it to me; he said I had left it in the hall. This was the most useful conversation I ever had with our guidance counselor.
Of course there were only a couple of minutes between classes. Once—I had a sudden pain—I made an emergency bathroom run which made me late. I was sent to the office to get a pass—the only time that happened in four years of playing beat the clock.
Getting sent to the office was not part of my normal school routine as I was what was known as a “good boy”. This reputation did not help me with girls of course. Girls were not a problem, as I didn’t know any.
There was one girl I had liked since sixth grade who went off my radar screen once we started high school. She became very mature and sophisticated and even took up—the shock of it—smoking cigarettes. Tobacco and alcohol were the drugs of choice in those innocent days.
I still liked her, but as a guy that had only recently given up playing cowboys I knew she was out of my league. In fact any girl I would have been attracted to would have been a problem since I couldn’t carry on a conversation and stand upright at the same time.
My fellow classmates were not good examples of boy-girl relationships. They were already too advanced for me, as they had been old hands under the table since seventh grade. Boy-girl stuff took a back seat for me—okay, actually I was never in the car. I was too busy applying band-aids and Mercurochrome to my P. E. injuries and trying not to fall down while carrying a load of books.
By senior year we had several couples that managed to beat the stork to the altar. At graduation when the roll was called it was almost like Miss America as several girls had at least four names: Susan Elaine Smith Porter, Karen Sue Williams Snodgrass, etc.
I haven’t seen most of my classmates since graduation—the official end to ”The Wonder Years”. I sometimes daydream about going to my next class reunion. I imagine that The Big Hairy Guys have just walked in. It’s all they can do to get to the table with their beer bellies.
But there I was, a picky eater, making my way in the lunch line on the first day of high
school. My plan was to blend in—to go unnoticed. I then sat down at the wrong table. The guy I sat by “suggested” I get up as the seat was reserved. Taking the hint, I picked myself up and crashed into a couple of chairs on my way to another table—so much for keeping a low profile.
I then attracted the attention of a very tall senior who noticed I wasn’t a big eater. He asked for my leftovers. I was glad to get rid of the stuff as I had a firm rule: eat nothing you can’t identify. My tray had something that looked like a small tree smothered in cheese—broccoli, I later learned. My new friend checked in with me every day after that.
My cafeteria experiences were mild compared to physical education where I always had a
good chance of being maimed or killed. I was never interested in sports and was spectacularly uncoordinated. I had a knack for being in the wrong place at the right time—I was knocked down and ran over on a regular basis. I spent a lot of time passed out on the gym floor.
P. E. was particularly bad that year. I remember, for some reason, I had to tote my gym bag back and forth every day. I probably couldn’t work the gym locker combination, or
I had lost it. I kept the bag in my hall locker which I could at least open. The bag of course contained an “ athletic supporter ”which I originally thought meant a pep club booster. I was slow for fourteen.
I was always having big hairy guys—they had been shaving since they were twelve—ask me why I carried the bag every day.
Big Hairy Guy: “Hey, twerp! Taking your laundry home to Mommy?”
Me: (Inaudible.)
Second Big Hairy Guy: “ What’s that in your shorts? A peanut?” (Big Hairy guys were nothing if not witty.)
One day I opened my locker to discover the bag was missing. Just as I was about to try to find it—I had twelve seconds before the bell rang-- the school counselor handed it to me; he said I had left it in the hall. This was the most useful conversation I ever had with our guidance counselor.
Of course there were only a couple of minutes between classes. Once—I had a sudden pain—I made an emergency bathroom run which made me late. I was sent to the office to get a pass—the only time that happened in four years of playing beat the clock.
Getting sent to the office was not part of my normal school routine as I was what was known as a “good boy”. This reputation did not help me with girls of course. Girls were not a problem, as I didn’t know any.
There was one girl I had liked since sixth grade who went off my radar screen once we started high school. She became very mature and sophisticated and even took up—the shock of it—smoking cigarettes. Tobacco and alcohol were the drugs of choice in those innocent days.
I still liked her, but as a guy that had only recently given up playing cowboys I knew she was out of my league. In fact any girl I would have been attracted to would have been a problem since I couldn’t carry on a conversation and stand upright at the same time.
My fellow classmates were not good examples of boy-girl relationships. They were already too advanced for me, as they had been old hands under the table since seventh grade. Boy-girl stuff took a back seat for me—okay, actually I was never in the car. I was too busy applying band-aids and Mercurochrome to my P. E. injuries and trying not to fall down while carrying a load of books.
By senior year we had several couples that managed to beat the stork to the altar. At graduation when the roll was called it was almost like Miss America as several girls had at least four names: Susan Elaine Smith Porter, Karen Sue Williams Snodgrass, etc.
I haven’t seen most of my classmates since graduation—the official end to ”The Wonder Years”. I sometimes daydream about going to my next class reunion. I imagine that The Big Hairy Guys have just walked in. It’s all they can do to get to the table with their beer bellies.
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