In 1962 when I was a high school senior Dad gave me my first car, a ’51 Plymouth. The car had a secret weapon, its emergency brake. It would decide on its own that a stretch of dry pavement was an emergency worthy of a blistering, locomotive-style, sparks-flying, screeching halt that would throw me and my posse from here to breakfast, or at least a little too close to the windshield.
Those sitting in the back would be hurled against the front seats, leaving nice impressions on their foreheads. Even so, my little group was willing to ride with me. One of this merry band spoke up while we were cruising through Greenup one spring evening.
”I can’t believe the things you get away with, Dan,” Dick said.
What things I wondered—I had the reputation of being a “good boy”, which was the kiss of death to a teen age guy. I guessed he meant that I was driving around downtown Greenup with no adult supervision. Not only that, I had a couple of guys in tow, Dick and his buddy, John, who was a year older than Dick.
John had failed the book portion of Driver’s ED, but it wasn’t his fault: the class was held right after lunch when he was too sleepy to focus.
Dick couldn’t take driver's training until he was a sophomore, which wouldn’t be until next fall, a long ways off.(At 15, he was in the throes of teen-age rebellion.) Dick's sister, Linda, had her license, but didn't have a car. What she did have was a younger boyfriend who also didn’t have a license. Such was my posse.
Do you see a common thread here? I was the only one with wheels. This gave me a certain amount of status. Guys would ask me about my ‘51 Plymouth —they had heard it had a powerhouse motor.
I was clueless: I was pretty sure it had a motor; it was always there when someone (not me) opened the hood. Just before I blurted out something really stupid, Dick would rescue me by explaining the Plymouth’s V-8 Chevrolet motor, or whatever it was.
Dick also came to my rescue that afternoon at the filling station. I used to dread getting gas for fear an attendant would tell me my oil was a quart low, and askwhat kind I wanted. I would try to think: Gee, black, maybe?
Dick saw me struggling and said, “You use 10-30 don’t you, Dan?” The gas jockey nodded as though I had made a wise decision.
And on this fine spring evening with 50 cents worth of gas—about two gallons—under the Plymouth’s belt we were going to the show. (It was usually called “the show”, not the movies, as in “Are you going to the show?”, or “Who are you going to the show with?”)
After cruising Greenup's main drag a few times-- a short trip, as Cumberland Avenue was only six blocks long--we pulled up in front of the Old Trails Theater.
At this time angle parking was the norm, which made it easier for me. Even so, I had gotten a couple of tickets within a week of getting my driver's license. I had trouble staying within the lines. I was grateful we didn't have parallel parking. I knew the only way I could manage that was to be helicoptered in.
Within minutes of buying tickets and loading up on popcorn, I lost Dick and John. Determined to catch up with them I did a quick search of the theater, using my pen-sized flashlight that was great if you wanted to zero in on a guy’s shirt button.
While trying to juggle my flashlight and a tub of popcorn, I managed to toss half of it in the face of Buzz Henry, a guy who had made a career of sleeping in class, but was unluckily semi-awake at the show. He came out of it and growled in my general direction.
"Buzz, you want the rest of my popcorn?"
He accepted the tribute. I think he had a soft spot for me, as I shared my lunch with him at school—I was a picky eater and often would have a entree for him. He would gobble it down and slump over to get a little rest so he would have the strength to sleep through his next class.
I was about to continue my search when I heard: “Hey, Wild Man, why don’t you sit down before you put somebody's eye out with your pen light?"
It was my buddy, Malcolm, a preacher's kid who liked to call me “Wild Man”--he signed my yearbook as "Civilized". Malcolm’s Dad was also a English teacher at our high school; I think Malcolm chafed under this double burden, but he was very good humored about it.
The theater then got unusually quiet, for we were about to see Blue Denim, a movie about teen age love, which meant it would require our full attention.
Blue Denim, was released in 1959, but it didn't make its way to the Old Trails Theater until 1963. Usually movies showed up on TV before they landed in Greenup. I suspected some movies were projected on bed sheets in Third World villages before we ever got them.
I quickly got absorbed in the movie, but I was shocked at some of the language. One of the characters actually swore: said "hell" and "damn". I was stunned—what a corker of a show! I forgot all about looking for Dick and John.
Malcolm enjoyed the movie, too, but in a more sophisticated way. He didn't elbow me when somebody said "pregnant”; he understood the phrase going “all the way”, which I thought was a Frank Sinatra song. Malcolm, at times, pitied me for being so clueless.
After Blue Denim was over, I was a little choked up—it was kind of sad.
“You’re not going to cry, are you, Wild Man?”
I got my hanky out: “It's my allergies”.
Luckily, Dick and John interrupted us. I asked, "Hey, where were you guys? I looked all over for you."
Dick winked at John and said, “We've been around. How was the movie?”
“Oh, it was good. Didn't you watch it?”
“Nah, we had better things to do,” John said. “Dick, you really took that curve—thought you were going to lose it.”
“What are you guys talking about? Was this last week when you went to Toledo with Buzz?”
“No,” Dick said with a grin. “It was tonight.”
“You mean you left the show?”“Yeah, we went to Newton”.
I was staggered, as the county seat was a nine mile journey. And even more stunned to realize that Dick and John had taken off in my car while I, clueless, watched the movie.
“But how did you get that far without the emergency brake acting up?”
“Didn't have any trouble with it. It doesn't do that for anybody but you, Dan.”
“Oh.”
The next Monday when I rolled up at school we had the usual crash landing.
“Gee, Dan, can't you keep your knee off the emergency brake?” Dick asked while rubbing his head.
We then ran into Malcolm as he was getting off the bus.
He glanced at Dick’s forehead: “I see you've been riding with Danny again".
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Sunday, October 07, 2007
High School Days: First Date
Late in my high school career (fourth period, 12:40 PM) I agreed to go on a double date. It seemed like a good idea at the time, though the girl in question was later suspected of being a gang member. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
The date came about mainly because I had a car. A couple of friends, Mike and Sharon, wanted to double date. Sharon's angle was she wanted to go out with Mike who didn't have a driver's license yet. Sharon set me up with Suzy, the new girl in town. This was big of her.
I had agreed to pick up everybody at Sharon’s house. I pulled up in my snazzy 1951 Plymouth and jumped out to open the passenger door for Suzy.
“What are you doing?” Mike asked. Sharon shot him a look as though he might take a lesson. Suzy didn’t seem to be impressed by my gallantry. She was a decent looking girl if you didn't mind a few tattoos.
We were going to a movie at Casey's Fairview Drive-in, a nine-mile trip. We had barely gotten out of the driveway when Suzy decided to light up. There was nothing wrong with that—I smoked myself.
I thought I was a pretty cool smoker. I had a pack of Marlboros hidden in my right sock, which made walking a little tricky. The preferred method, the coolest, was to have the pack rolled up in your T-shirt sleeve. That wouldn’t have worked for me, as I didn’t want my folks to know I was smoking.
Mike and I decided to light up as well. He had a decent lighter. I carried a box of matches, which meant my sock runneth over. Suzy dug an industrial strength Zippo and a pack of Camels out of her purse.
Of course I had to keep driving while lighting up--something I overlooked when I bent down to get my cigarettes. I felt a sudden flash around my eyebrows. Suzy’s lighter—a blowtorch really—had singed me.
I handled it well. My car was equipped with an emergency brake that I managed to engage while trying to see if I had any eyebrows left. The sudden braking pitched us all forward. Then the car, which seemed to be operating on its own, took off for a block or so before the brake kicked in again.
After a couple of blocks of me riding the Plymouth like a bucking horse, Mike finally yelled, “Shoot it—kill it—turn it off!” We were on a quiet residential street—nobody was hurt unless you counted my eyebrows.
We pressed on to the drive-in, which was just out of town next to the cornfields. I found a parking place and rolled the window down to attach the speaker that was mounted on a post.
The posts were planted in gravel with a splash of crabgrass that attracted local livestock, who generally grazed there during the day. Usually by show time they were in bed, but occasionally a cow would appear at the snack bar and order popcorn.
I had just got the speaker sound adjusted when Suzy announced she was going to the snack bar to make a phone call. Sharon tagged along.
The girls had barely got out of the car when Mike said: “You wanna kill her, or do you want me to?” He was speaking of Sharon, of course, who had engineered this double date from hell.
In a few minutes Sharon came back. She had overheard enough to learn that Suzy was planning to meet another girl who had just escaped from the State Home For Budding Gang Girls. Sounded like they had big plans to start their own sewing circle. Sharon said we had to get Suzy back to her foster parents and call them later about their would-be runaway.
We then sat through a double feature of "Reform School Girls" and "The Explosive Generation" shown in thrilling black and white. Suzy seemed to be rooting for the bad girls. During dramatic moments she would fish out her Camels. Just to be on the safe side, I hugged the driver’s seat window whenever she fired up.
We got Suzy back to her foster parents, but we weren’t looking forward to seeing her at school, as she would know we had turned her in. We figured she had gang member friends—Sharks or Jets—who would be looking us up. But we never saw her again. The rumor was she was sent up the river, or to reform school as we used to call it.
The following year I thought I saw her again; she seemed to be in a movie called "Gang Girls Behind Bars". She was obviously playing herself. I noticed the other actors gave her a wide berth. Especially when she lit up.
The date came about mainly because I had a car. A couple of friends, Mike and Sharon, wanted to double date. Sharon's angle was she wanted to go out with Mike who didn't have a driver's license yet. Sharon set me up with Suzy, the new girl in town. This was big of her.
I had agreed to pick up everybody at Sharon’s house. I pulled up in my snazzy 1951 Plymouth and jumped out to open the passenger door for Suzy.
“What are you doing?” Mike asked. Sharon shot him a look as though he might take a lesson. Suzy didn’t seem to be impressed by my gallantry. She was a decent looking girl if you didn't mind a few tattoos.
We were going to a movie at Casey's Fairview Drive-in, a nine-mile trip. We had barely gotten out of the driveway when Suzy decided to light up. There was nothing wrong with that—I smoked myself.
I thought I was a pretty cool smoker. I had a pack of Marlboros hidden in my right sock, which made walking a little tricky. The preferred method, the coolest, was to have the pack rolled up in your T-shirt sleeve. That wouldn’t have worked for me, as I didn’t want my folks to know I was smoking.
Mike and I decided to light up as well. He had a decent lighter. I carried a box of matches, which meant my sock runneth over. Suzy dug an industrial strength Zippo and a pack of Camels out of her purse.
Of course I had to keep driving while lighting up--something I overlooked when I bent down to get my cigarettes. I felt a sudden flash around my eyebrows. Suzy’s lighter—a blowtorch really—had singed me.
I handled it well. My car was equipped with an emergency brake that I managed to engage while trying to see if I had any eyebrows left. The sudden braking pitched us all forward. Then the car, which seemed to be operating on its own, took off for a block or so before the brake kicked in again.
After a couple of blocks of me riding the Plymouth like a bucking horse, Mike finally yelled, “Shoot it—kill it—turn it off!” We were on a quiet residential street—nobody was hurt unless you counted my eyebrows.
We pressed on to the drive-in, which was just out of town next to the cornfields. I found a parking place and rolled the window down to attach the speaker that was mounted on a post.
The posts were planted in gravel with a splash of crabgrass that attracted local livestock, who generally grazed there during the day. Usually by show time they were in bed, but occasionally a cow would appear at the snack bar and order popcorn.
I had just got the speaker sound adjusted when Suzy announced she was going to the snack bar to make a phone call. Sharon tagged along.
The girls had barely got out of the car when Mike said: “You wanna kill her, or do you want me to?” He was speaking of Sharon, of course, who had engineered this double date from hell.
In a few minutes Sharon came back. She had overheard enough to learn that Suzy was planning to meet another girl who had just escaped from the State Home For Budding Gang Girls. Sounded like they had big plans to start their own sewing circle. Sharon said we had to get Suzy back to her foster parents and call them later about their would-be runaway.
We then sat through a double feature of "Reform School Girls" and "The Explosive Generation" shown in thrilling black and white. Suzy seemed to be rooting for the bad girls. During dramatic moments she would fish out her Camels. Just to be on the safe side, I hugged the driver’s seat window whenever she fired up.
We got Suzy back to her foster parents, but we weren’t looking forward to seeing her at school, as she would know we had turned her in. We figured she had gang member friends—Sharks or Jets—who would be looking us up. But we never saw her again. The rumor was she was sent up the river, or to reform school as we used to call it.
The following year I thought I saw her again; she seemed to be in a movie called "Gang Girls Behind Bars". She was obviously playing herself. I noticed the other actors gave her a wide berth. Especially when she lit up.
Monday, March 19, 2007
William Henry Harrison, or Old Tippecanoe (1773-1841)
William Henry Harrison became President because he was a war hero. His campaign slogan was “Tippecanoe and Tyler Too”, which came from the battle of the same name. This battle or skirmish in 1811 involved 700 Indians under the command of Tecumseh's little brother, who was called The Prophet because Tenskwatawa was too hard to spell.
Many details have been lost in “the fog of war”, but Harrison was clearly the hero on the scene thanks to a pool of embedded reporters. American was a young country that was nervous about its future, particularly in 1811 when everybody knew the War of 1812 was scheduled. So a future leader was born.
Thirty years later, Harrison became the first man to campaign openly for the presidency.[i] (He was out of a job at the time.) He had been in Congress and most notably had been the Governor of The Indiana Territory, which included the future states of Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, Wisconsin, and the eastern part of Minnesota, the Land of the Lakes Trading Post and Souvenir Center, and anything else not nailed down.
The campaign was notable for suggesting that Harrison was brought up in a log cabin and was just an ordinary Joe. This was not quite accurate in that Harrison came from a Virginia family of means. He even went to a sort of prep school, something like the Leander Smith Fairchild School for Sissies. When Harrison was shown an actual log cabin of the type he had claimed to have lived in, he fainted dead away.
Harrison, our 9th President, set several records for the Presidency including dying in office after only 31 days. “Old Tipp” (short for Tippecanoe) was actually the oldest president elected (67), a record that stood until Ronald Wilson “The Gipper” Reagan was elected in 1980.
On a cold, windy March day Harrison made news again by giving the longest inaugural address in history, over 8,000 words. He would have gone on even longer, if his teleprompter hadn’t malfunctioned. It took Harrison over two hours to read his speech; he had forgotten his overcoat and managed to catch a very bad cold.
His advance men neglected to make arrangements for a canopy to shelter him, but the balloons they ordered showed up three hours after the speech was over, so it wasn’t a complete failure.
During Harrison’s brief tenure in office no states entered the union and he appointed no Supreme Court judges, so you can’t say he didn’t accomplish anything.
Much of his time was taken over by office seekers who stormed the White House the month he was President. (Several good post office jobs were up for grabs.)
But mainly he was trying to get over his cold. Many medical experts were consulted including barbers who did a little medical work on the side such as blood letting. One suggested therapy was the use of snakes. (A Harvard man thought this was a good idea.)
Eventually, however, nothing worked and Harrison went on to The Happy Hunting Ground of Warriors that he had fought against.
Harrison today is largely forgotten; a hint of his future obscurity was provided the day he died by ex-President Andrew Jackson, who was taking a nap at the time. When told the news about Harrison, Jackson said: “President Who?”
[i] The Founding Fathers had stayed at home and filed their nails, but they kept their cell phones handy so they could answer their country’s call.
Many details have been lost in “the fog of war”, but Harrison was clearly the hero on the scene thanks to a pool of embedded reporters. American was a young country that was nervous about its future, particularly in 1811 when everybody knew the War of 1812 was scheduled. So a future leader was born.
Thirty years later, Harrison became the first man to campaign openly for the presidency.[i] (He was out of a job at the time.) He had been in Congress and most notably had been the Governor of The Indiana Territory, which included the future states of Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, Wisconsin, and the eastern part of Minnesota, the Land of the Lakes Trading Post and Souvenir Center, and anything else not nailed down.
The campaign was notable for suggesting that Harrison was brought up in a log cabin and was just an ordinary Joe. This was not quite accurate in that Harrison came from a Virginia family of means. He even went to a sort of prep school, something like the Leander Smith Fairchild School for Sissies. When Harrison was shown an actual log cabin of the type he had claimed to have lived in, he fainted dead away.
Harrison, our 9th President, set several records for the Presidency including dying in office after only 31 days. “Old Tipp” (short for Tippecanoe) was actually the oldest president elected (67), a record that stood until Ronald Wilson “The Gipper” Reagan was elected in 1980.
On a cold, windy March day Harrison made news again by giving the longest inaugural address in history, over 8,000 words. He would have gone on even longer, if his teleprompter hadn’t malfunctioned. It took Harrison over two hours to read his speech; he had forgotten his overcoat and managed to catch a very bad cold.
His advance men neglected to make arrangements for a canopy to shelter him, but the balloons they ordered showed up three hours after the speech was over, so it wasn’t a complete failure.
During Harrison’s brief tenure in office no states entered the union and he appointed no Supreme Court judges, so you can’t say he didn’t accomplish anything.
Much of his time was taken over by office seekers who stormed the White House the month he was President. (Several good post office jobs were up for grabs.)
But mainly he was trying to get over his cold. Many medical experts were consulted including barbers who did a little medical work on the side such as blood letting. One suggested therapy was the use of snakes. (A Harvard man thought this was a good idea.)
Eventually, however, nothing worked and Harrison went on to The Happy Hunting Ground of Warriors that he had fought against.
Harrison today is largely forgotten; a hint of his future obscurity was provided the day he died by ex-President Andrew Jackson, who was taking a nap at the time. When told the news about Harrison, Jackson said: “President Who?”
[i] The Founding Fathers had stayed at home and filed their nails, but they kept their cell phones handy so they could answer their country’s call.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Boundless
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
“Boundless is an album by Finnish a cappella ensemble Rajaton, released in 2001.”
For those of you who are behind in your Finnish acapella news, this department (Shipping and Shoelaces) has a report on “Boundless” by Rajaton. Below is a rundown on several tracks that look promising.
1. Butterfly
This track explores the life of a poor butterfly who gets lost at the mall. She has no credit cards or cash so she has to fly back to Finland. “Life is hard!” she sings after stopping at London to refuel.
2. Un-Wishing Well
This song is based on the famous folk tale about young lovers who make a wish to live happily ever after. As luck would have it, they made their wish at the Un-Wishing Well and were struck dead by Topher, the god of Water Rights.
3. The Lark in the Clear Air
This soaring rendition concerns the Lark who never flies in bad weather; he is known to call the airport prior to takeoff. Since 1994 larks worldwide have been grounded.
4. We Walk in a Fog
This track concerns a group of friends who do everything together, as they fear they may somehow be parted. When the fog rolls in, they join hands and sing. We understand this sounds better in Finnish.
5. Dobbin's Flowery Vale
Irish folk music has never sounded so lilting as in this tale of Dobbin, a poor student who picked flowers in the vale for his love, who being allergic, sued him for all he was worth. He spent the rest of his days singing “O my flowery vale” over and over. Neighbors grew sick of this and had him shot.
6. Armahan Kulku (The Lover's Path). This thrilling song is enhanced by being performed in its original Finnish version. It concerns a couple who make a wrong turn on the highway of love.
7. Kaipaava (Longing)
The best track was saved for last as Longing, or unrequited love on a cracker, is practically the national anthem of Finland. The arrangement by Wuorela and Chydenius, the Simon and Garfunkle of Europe, is possiby their best work to date. Although purists might prefer their rousing version of “I am, I said to the chair that wasn’t there.”
If you find that this album merely whets your appetite for the Finnish acapella of Ragaton, you may want to check out their latest work, Out of Bounds (2006). To quote from the album notes:
“The English texts are not direct translations. In the first two, Stephen Hatfield attempted to write English lyrics that matched many of the vowel sounds in the Finnish versions.”
Oh, bring it on.
“Boundless is an album by Finnish a cappella ensemble Rajaton, released in 2001.”
For those of you who are behind in your Finnish acapella news, this department (Shipping and Shoelaces) has a report on “Boundless” by Rajaton. Below is a rundown on several tracks that look promising.
1. Butterfly
This track explores the life of a poor butterfly who gets lost at the mall. She has no credit cards or cash so she has to fly back to Finland. “Life is hard!” she sings after stopping at London to refuel.
2. Un-Wishing Well
This song is based on the famous folk tale about young lovers who make a wish to live happily ever after. As luck would have it, they made their wish at the Un-Wishing Well and were struck dead by Topher, the god of Water Rights.
3. The Lark in the Clear Air
This soaring rendition concerns the Lark who never flies in bad weather; he is known to call the airport prior to takeoff. Since 1994 larks worldwide have been grounded.
4. We Walk in a Fog
This track concerns a group of friends who do everything together, as they fear they may somehow be parted. When the fog rolls in, they join hands and sing. We understand this sounds better in Finnish.
5. Dobbin's Flowery Vale
Irish folk music has never sounded so lilting as in this tale of Dobbin, a poor student who picked flowers in the vale for his love, who being allergic, sued him for all he was worth. He spent the rest of his days singing “O my flowery vale” over and over. Neighbors grew sick of this and had him shot.
6. Armahan Kulku (The Lover's Path). This thrilling song is enhanced by being performed in its original Finnish version. It concerns a couple who make a wrong turn on the highway of love.
7. Kaipaava (Longing)
The best track was saved for last as Longing, or unrequited love on a cracker, is practically the national anthem of Finland. The arrangement by Wuorela and Chydenius, the Simon and Garfunkle of Europe, is possiby their best work to date. Although purists might prefer their rousing version of “I am, I said to the chair that wasn’t there.”
If you find that this album merely whets your appetite for the Finnish acapella of Ragaton, you may want to check out their latest work, Out of Bounds (2006). To quote from the album notes:
“The English texts are not direct translations. In the first two, Stephen Hatfield attempted to write English lyrics that matched many of the vowel sounds in the Finnish versions.”
Oh, bring it on.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Contributors to this Issue
Contributors to this Issue
This issue will be late due to circumstances entirely of our own making. We clicked on to the wrong thing; our computer icons are now on the right hand side of the page, laughing at us when we try to coax them to the bottom where they belong.
We are planning a burial at sea for our computer, if we do not throw it out the window first. Even so, we plan to press on and tell our readers a little something about the private lives of our contributors, which shouldn’t be hard, as they never shut up about themselves.
John Lamont Thurgood, late of Harvard, took his PHD in literature from Yale with his thesis: Moby Dick, Whale or Not? after watching the video version by John Huston. His current article “Tolstoy’s Little Girl Characters” follows on the heels of his “The Bronte Cousins: Men or Mice?”
Eliza Dart Hennings, our staff reporter, is fresh from the Continent (Australia) with an in depth look at world peace and the mating habits of mongoose.
Leonard Q. Waling is just down from Oxford with the latest news from Ole Miss about Faulkner’s Weirdo Characters Whom He Left Out of His Nobel Prize Speech.
Louisa Short Siddons has another of her series “Why Men Are No Damned Good”, which she is busy turning into a screenplay for the Lifetime network. Her devoted readers plan to watch the movie while sticking pins into male dolls.
Ezra Lysander Dudley has an exciting proposal for Peace in the Mideast, or Peace in Our Time, which he calls the Neville Chamberlain solution. (All the participants go to their respective corners and are sent notes to come out swinging their umbrellas.)
Pauline Simon, our celebrated film critic, will do another of those re-appraisals for which she is justly famous. In this case she turns her ever-fresh eye upon the work of Ed. Wood, whose cinematic mastery has been woefully neglected. She gives us the first close reading and textual analysis of the script Glen, or Glenda? This work has baffled film scholars for decades, as it was written on unnumbered napkins.
Arlington Tobias Clinker has written an outstanding account of his trip to Three Rivers, Michigan; the article is enhanced with his candid Polaroid shots of leafless trees and bare spots where Ernest “Papa” Hemingway once stood briefly before popping another beer. (Clinker has been working for twenty years on his Hemingway biography, and has now got the author up to age six.)
We also had requested manuscripts from Thomas Wolfe and Stephen King, but they never replied to our numerous e-mails; their agents indicated they were too rich to be bothered.
This issue will be late due to circumstances entirely of our own making. We clicked on to the wrong thing; our computer icons are now on the right hand side of the page, laughing at us when we try to coax them to the bottom where they belong.
We are planning a burial at sea for our computer, if we do not throw it out the window first. Even so, we plan to press on and tell our readers a little something about the private lives of our contributors, which shouldn’t be hard, as they never shut up about themselves.
John Lamont Thurgood, late of Harvard, took his PHD in literature from Yale with his thesis: Moby Dick, Whale or Not? after watching the video version by John Huston. His current article “Tolstoy’s Little Girl Characters” follows on the heels of his “The Bronte Cousins: Men or Mice?”
Eliza Dart Hennings, our staff reporter, is fresh from the Continent (Australia) with an in depth look at world peace and the mating habits of mongoose.
Leonard Q. Waling is just down from Oxford with the latest news from Ole Miss about Faulkner’s Weirdo Characters Whom He Left Out of His Nobel Prize Speech.
Louisa Short Siddons has another of her series “Why Men Are No Damned Good”, which she is busy turning into a screenplay for the Lifetime network. Her devoted readers plan to watch the movie while sticking pins into male dolls.
Ezra Lysander Dudley has an exciting proposal for Peace in the Mideast, or Peace in Our Time, which he calls the Neville Chamberlain solution. (All the participants go to their respective corners and are sent notes to come out swinging their umbrellas.)
Pauline Simon, our celebrated film critic, will do another of those re-appraisals for which she is justly famous. In this case she turns her ever-fresh eye upon the work of Ed. Wood, whose cinematic mastery has been woefully neglected. She gives us the first close reading and textual analysis of the script Glen, or Glenda? This work has baffled film scholars for decades, as it was written on unnumbered napkins.
Arlington Tobias Clinker has written an outstanding account of his trip to Three Rivers, Michigan; the article is enhanced with his candid Polaroid shots of leafless trees and bare spots where Ernest “Papa” Hemingway once stood briefly before popping another beer. (Clinker has been working for twenty years on his Hemingway biography, and has now got the author up to age six.)
We also had requested manuscripts from Thomas Wolfe and Stephen King, but they never replied to our numerous e-mails; their agents indicated they were too rich to be bothered.
Lifetime Plans Movie Network for Men
Lifetime Plans Movie Network For Men
The Lifetime Channel announced today that it is launching a new movie network devoted to men’s issues. A spokesperson explained, “We want to attract male viewers, who probably watch the network only at the insistence of wives or girlfriends”. (Or, as one reporter suggested, at gunpoint).
The theme of the movies will be that men’s problems are caused by women. Network executives explained that the vast Lifetime Library would be the source of the new male stories with a few minor alterations such as sex and name changes. Donna Louise Kelly, for example, would become Donald Thurgood Pendleton.
The Pendleton character will be in The Moment of Truth Series, which will feature a defining moment when the male character realizes that women are no damned good.
The scripts will feature the various women who have ruined the characters’ lives. Many stories will be devoted to “Mom”, who though lovable, managed to screw up every man-child of her own as well as neighborhood boys whom she just stopped to zip their jackets. One overly zealous Mom is shown pulling a grown man out of a taxicab to dab his ears with a spit-laden hankie.
Another script heavy category will be “Mothers-in-Law” who are also lovable, but have a tendency to drive guys nuts. In one script a character wheelbarrows a horse’s head to his mother-in-law’s bed—just a little something to show her how he feels.
Ex-Wives will also come in for plenty of airtime. Divorced, alimony-receiving women will be portrayed as the bloodsuckers they are. This will be distaff side of the Lifetime (male) scumbags who leave the state and never pay alimony, child support, or separate maintenance, which means maintaining someone in a lavish beachfront condo, while the guy lives in a discarded Sears A/C box.
The male characters will have problems similar to Lifetime’s current heroines—they will, for example, be hounded by stalkers and harassed by phone calls from strangers who turn out to be someone (gasp!) from the characters’ past.
Male characters will also be plagued with bad seed sisters who were mean to them during childhood. These definitely not nice girls will show up frequently wanting to borrow money to start their own meth business.
There will also be the obligatory movies where the male character tries to reform an abusive spouse, as deep down, he knows she’s a good person even though she goes to bed every night with a knife and a pistol strapped to her arms.
Sexual-harassment stories will also be a staple. The male characters will be plagued with women who tend to get fresh (as in putting their hands down a guy’s pants kind of fresh).
The network’s press kit stressed that the male actors have had to be educated that this behavior is unacceptable from either sex. And the writers are instructed to write only politically correct scripts with sensitive guy characters that cry when accosted by strange women.
“Why, oh why, can’t they just leave me alone?” one guy character wails in the script titled: Female Professor Scoops up Male Teaching Assistants and Uses them as Boy Toys, or The Gary Sanders Wright Story. (Writer alert: male characters without middle names will be assigned one the first day of shooting.)
Men who have been plagued by women treating them as sex objects, or have been otherwise abused, are encouraged to submit their stories to the new network.
One gentleman has e-mailed that he has a great idea, but is stumped on naming the character. Currently, he is leaning towards Harold Dean Snodgrass.
The Lifetime Channel announced today that it is launching a new movie network devoted to men’s issues. A spokesperson explained, “We want to attract male viewers, who probably watch the network only at the insistence of wives or girlfriends”. (Or, as one reporter suggested, at gunpoint).
The theme of the movies will be that men’s problems are caused by women. Network executives explained that the vast Lifetime Library would be the source of the new male stories with a few minor alterations such as sex and name changes. Donna Louise Kelly, for example, would become Donald Thurgood Pendleton.
The Pendleton character will be in The Moment of Truth Series, which will feature a defining moment when the male character realizes that women are no damned good.
The scripts will feature the various women who have ruined the characters’ lives. Many stories will be devoted to “Mom”, who though lovable, managed to screw up every man-child of her own as well as neighborhood boys whom she just stopped to zip their jackets. One overly zealous Mom is shown pulling a grown man out of a taxicab to dab his ears with a spit-laden hankie.
Another script heavy category will be “Mothers-in-Law” who are also lovable, but have a tendency to drive guys nuts. In one script a character wheelbarrows a horse’s head to his mother-in-law’s bed—just a little something to show her how he feels.
Ex-Wives will also come in for plenty of airtime. Divorced, alimony-receiving women will be portrayed as the bloodsuckers they are. This will be distaff side of the Lifetime (male) scumbags who leave the state and never pay alimony, child support, or separate maintenance, which means maintaining someone in a lavish beachfront condo, while the guy lives in a discarded Sears A/C box.
The male characters will have problems similar to Lifetime’s current heroines—they will, for example, be hounded by stalkers and harassed by phone calls from strangers who turn out to be someone (gasp!) from the characters’ past.
Male characters will also be plagued with bad seed sisters who were mean to them during childhood. These definitely not nice girls will show up frequently wanting to borrow money to start their own meth business.
There will also be the obligatory movies where the male character tries to reform an abusive spouse, as deep down, he knows she’s a good person even though she goes to bed every night with a knife and a pistol strapped to her arms.
Sexual-harassment stories will also be a staple. The male characters will be plagued with women who tend to get fresh (as in putting their hands down a guy’s pants kind of fresh).
The network’s press kit stressed that the male actors have had to be educated that this behavior is unacceptable from either sex. And the writers are instructed to write only politically correct scripts with sensitive guy characters that cry when accosted by strange women.
“Why, oh why, can’t they just leave me alone?” one guy character wails in the script titled: Female Professor Scoops up Male Teaching Assistants and Uses them as Boy Toys, or The Gary Sanders Wright Story. (Writer alert: male characters without middle names will be assigned one the first day of shooting.)
Men who have been plagued by women treating them as sex objects, or have been otherwise abused, are encouraged to submit their stories to the new network.
One gentleman has e-mailed that he has a great idea, but is stumped on naming the character. Currently, he is leaning towards Harold Dean Snodgrass.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
The Stock Market A P
The Stock Market: A Party You Might Not Want to Attend
Do you enjoy browsing in the financial pages? Is your fire lit by phrases like “non-farm employment numbers”? Do you follow Federal Reserve Bank Chairman Alan Greenspan’s every pronouncement? Or do you move on to the sports page? (This is not a bad idea actually).
The problem with Wall Street is that it is run by a very nervous group of people. The least bit of news will have them rushing to sell or perhaps to buy. (It depends on what everybody else is doing). A job numbers report may have investors dumping stocks in the morning; by afternoon they may buy again when the Fed hints it may not raise interest rates.
The news cycle was much slower in our previous history. To cite only one example: Andrew Jackson’s victory over the British at New Orleans was somewhat dampened when he heard the War of 1812 had ended the year before. The General was quoted as saying: “Great Jumping Jehoshaphat! Why didn’t somebody tell me?”
Nowadays we hear way too much in real time, which the investment community cannot handle. For example, Fed Chairman Greenspan and his little playmates are watched around the clock in case they slip up and actually say something in English.
The Open Market Committee proceedings are not well understood. It is not all that complicated really. Greenspan and his friends will meet for breakfast and do a little shopping at an open market (hence the name); they will have a Danish and coffee. Sometimes they will have their hair done before going to the office.
They will then announce the latest interest rate, which is unchanged, or is higher or is lower. Any of these three results will set off a frenzy of buying or selling depending on investors’ interpretations.
Some investors pretend to be real people with minds of their own, but the strain causes them to throw up in their wastebaskets. They soon catch up with the herd, which is butting heads on the trading floor to be the first to sell or buy depending on what the consensus is that the news calls for.
Are you really interested in all this? Should you be in the market or not? It depends. What is your risk profile? Let’s say you lost 30% of your life savings overnight in the market, would you (a) Remain calm and stick with your buy and hold strategy or (b) Would you sell out and have nightmares for months afterwards?
If you’re in the “b” category, you may want to skip investing and go directly to saving. Or spend your spare cash in the hope that your money will never run out. This strategy may keep you working until you drop which may not be your plan.
So what should you do with your discretionary funds (mad money)? Love it, keep it, but be cautious about sending it to market. With the market your stake can change every minute. You can make yourself a nervous wreck. All this is unnecessary. You don’t have to worry about diversifying your holdings either, which only means losing money on both stocks and bonds.
You also don’t have to concern yourself with asset allocation. Do you have to be told where to allocate your money if it’s already tied in up your home and liquid assets (beer)?
When the latest news story stirs up the market, you can skip it unless it’s one with some human interest attached. Let’s say Juan Valdez (The Mr. Coffee of Columbia) is interviewed by CNN when it is rumored that coffee prices are going lower.
Juan is caught on camera without his burro saying the coffee market is going to hell in a hand basket. This upsets commodity brokers worldwide who huddle to decide if they should dump coffee or if should they buy in case Juan is all wet? Decisions, decisions. You might follow this story just to see if Juan has got a new outfit lately or if his burro is the same cute one or a new one who is considered more photogenic.
But if you enjoy following the financial news and would like an expensive, time-consuming, stressful hobby, the market could be just the thing for you.
Do you enjoy browsing in the financial pages? Is your fire lit by phrases like “non-farm employment numbers”? Do you follow Federal Reserve Bank Chairman Alan Greenspan’s every pronouncement? Or do you move on to the sports page? (This is not a bad idea actually).
The problem with Wall Street is that it is run by a very nervous group of people. The least bit of news will have them rushing to sell or perhaps to buy. (It depends on what everybody else is doing). A job numbers report may have investors dumping stocks in the morning; by afternoon they may buy again when the Fed hints it may not raise interest rates.
The news cycle was much slower in our previous history. To cite only one example: Andrew Jackson’s victory over the British at New Orleans was somewhat dampened when he heard the War of 1812 had ended the year before. The General was quoted as saying: “Great Jumping Jehoshaphat! Why didn’t somebody tell me?”
Nowadays we hear way too much in real time, which the investment community cannot handle. For example, Fed Chairman Greenspan and his little playmates are watched around the clock in case they slip up and actually say something in English.
The Open Market Committee proceedings are not well understood. It is not all that complicated really. Greenspan and his friends will meet for breakfast and do a little shopping at an open market (hence the name); they will have a Danish and coffee. Sometimes they will have their hair done before going to the office.
They will then announce the latest interest rate, which is unchanged, or is higher or is lower. Any of these three results will set off a frenzy of buying or selling depending on investors’ interpretations.
Some investors pretend to be real people with minds of their own, but the strain causes them to throw up in their wastebaskets. They soon catch up with the herd, which is butting heads on the trading floor to be the first to sell or buy depending on what the consensus is that the news calls for.
Are you really interested in all this? Should you be in the market or not? It depends. What is your risk profile? Let’s say you lost 30% of your life savings overnight in the market, would you (a) Remain calm and stick with your buy and hold strategy or (b) Would you sell out and have nightmares for months afterwards?
If you’re in the “b” category, you may want to skip investing and go directly to saving. Or spend your spare cash in the hope that your money will never run out. This strategy may keep you working until you drop which may not be your plan.
So what should you do with your discretionary funds (mad money)? Love it, keep it, but be cautious about sending it to market. With the market your stake can change every minute. You can make yourself a nervous wreck. All this is unnecessary. You don’t have to worry about diversifying your holdings either, which only means losing money on both stocks and bonds.
You also don’t have to concern yourself with asset allocation. Do you have to be told where to allocate your money if it’s already tied in up your home and liquid assets (beer)?
When the latest news story stirs up the market, you can skip it unless it’s one with some human interest attached. Let’s say Juan Valdez (The Mr. Coffee of Columbia) is interviewed by CNN when it is rumored that coffee prices are going lower.
Juan is caught on camera without his burro saying the coffee market is going to hell in a hand basket. This upsets commodity brokers worldwide who huddle to decide if they should dump coffee or if should they buy in case Juan is all wet? Decisions, decisions. You might follow this story just to see if Juan has got a new outfit lately or if his burro is the same cute one or a new one who is considered more photogenic.
But if you enjoy following the financial news and would like an expensive, time-consuming, stressful hobby, the market could be just the thing for you.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
The 3 X 5 Card Guide to Life
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.”
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.”
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.
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