It's taken me a while to get around to this post because I've been channeling my energy into my other writing. I'm basically a monotasker when it comes to creativity. (I haven't even been to the gym lately, because, like I said, it's hard for me to do two things at once.) I don't want this blog to just sit idle, though, so here are some random thoughts about this and that and the other thing and this thing over here. . . .
The Seattle Seahawks are 0-2 this week. I think this is a good thing, because as a fan I get tired of all this win, win, win stuff after a while. It's nice of Pete Carroll to mix it up now and then.
I thought I knew what the most unintentionally hilarious bad movie was, but I was wrong. It's something from the 1960s called "Manos" The Hands of Fate. This movie is such a gutbuster that the Mystery Science Theater 3000 episode it was featured in was only marginally funnier. Both versions are available on YouTube. You have been warned.
Possible title for a horror movie: If You Lived Here, You'd Be Dead Now.
The best teriyaki restaurant in Boise just closed its doors for good. Yokozuna Teriyaki on 8th Street downtown is no more, and gourmands have been leaving wreaths and lit candles out on the sidewalk all week. Of course, there is another Yokozuna Teriyaki farther south on Vista, which is only, what, a couple of miles away. That's not the point, though. I can't eat there and still watch the browsers strolling by the 8th Street Public Market on Saturdays. Maybe I should feel fortunate that this is the biggest tragedy in my life right now.
Does Lorne Michaels really think he can make Donald Trump any funnier when the new season of Saturday Night Live debuts?
Best artificial scents: jasmine incense, Yankee Candle Spiced Pumpkin, Glade Cashmere Woods room spray.
I read in the news this morning that a female motorist who saw a spider on her shoulder in the rear view mirror leaped from the car in terror while it was still moving. I didn't read the rest of it carefully, but I believe the spider took the wheel and was last seen doing 95 in a school zone (or was it doing 25 in a school zone and the kids were doing 95?).
The GOP is once again threatening to shut down the government if it doesn't get what it wants. That's a simple declarative sentence based on numerous news sources; you can't refute it. What I want is for presidential candidates, Democrat and Republican, to promise this: "If elected, I will never shut down the government if I don't get what I want." Anyone who doesn't gets a time out until November 2016.
OK, that's it for now. At this length, I think I can handle one of these every week or two. See you then.
Monday, September 21, 2015
Friday, September 4, 2015
September 4, 2015
I woke up this week to find it was too chilly outside to read or write. I'll miss that quiet time as the days grow colder (I'll have to go to The District to keep up my routine), but hey, I still love fall! Pulled out my long pants and my hoodie. Slept without the a/c.
*
Reveling in Turner Classic Movies at the house where I'm cat-sitting; I haven't watched it since dropping cable. Two standouts:
Reveling in Turner Classic Movies at the house where I'm cat-sitting; I haven't watched it since dropping cable. Two standouts:
He Ran All the Way, with John Garfield and Shelley Winters. It was Garfield's final film, and it's a real nail-biter. I doubt a female screenwriter even then would have been comfortable with Winters' character, but I quibble. Garfield's a wanted criminal who hides out in Winters' apartment with her parents and young brother. His gift as an actor was getting us to feel for this cop killer even as we loathe what he's done. The last scene, outside the apartment building where they live, is unforgettable. Unfortunately, this is on a DVD that won't work in American players. Best to keep an eye on TCM's schedule, as it pops up now and then.
A Patch of Blue, one of my favorites since I was a kid. Elizabeth Hartman (her first film) plays a blind girl in an abusive (to say the least) household who befriends a kind businessman (Sidney Poitier) in a park. The girl is white, and this was at the height of the civil rights era. But the story is timeless, like Hartman's performance. Shelley Winters (again) won an Oscar as the mother from the pit of hell. She makes Hannibal Lecter look like a charm school instructor. Three things are indelibly etched in my brain: the girl's sheer elation at using a pay phone for the first time, her farewell scene with Poitier, and what he does with a music box after she leaves. I didn't understand what that music box bit meant when I was a kid, but I knew it was a perfect movie moment. Wonderful score, too, by Jerry Goldsmith. Sadly, Hartman battled depression all her life and committed suicide in her 40s, jumping from a five-story window.
I know he's not a household name, but Wallace Ford, like Winters, was also in both films, and also terrific in both.
I know he's not a household name, but Wallace Ford, like Winters, was also in both films, and also terrific in both.
*
My friend Ang posted this funny observation on Facebook:
The pros and cons of making food
Pro: Food
Con: Making
*
I've always liked the James Taylor song "Never Die Young," but I never knew what it was about. After learning this week that he doesn't know, either, I'm able to enjoy it more.
*
You know what word's misuse bugs me? "Arguably." "This is arguably her best column." "He is arguably the best painter of his generation." Well, of course it's arguable. Any opinion is arguable. You know what's not arguable? "The sun is hot." "The sky is blue." Can you imagine someone saying, "That was arguably the first time the U.S. celebrated a bicentennial"? If it's an opinion, it's a given it's going to be arguable. Sheesh. I understand that people use it this way to let others know they're not being dogmatic, but it still rankles. (Apologies to Tami, who has already heard me rant about this.)
Don't even get me started on "literally."
*
The pros and cons of cat-sitting:
Pro: Sitting
Con: Cat
I jest. Actually, Lucy is a great cat. (That's in case she's reading this.)
*
I've worn a hole in my shoe from all this walking I've been doing, but I'm not paying $150 for a new pair. Off to Walmart!
*
Can't say I've done much beach reading this summer. I meant to, but somehow I ended up reading two books about the Holocaust, a book-length poem about crimes in the U.S. at the turn of the last century, and a bio of Charles Manson, who, it turns out, was not a nice man. I'm not hopeless, though -- all this time I've been dipping into a couple of Get Fuzzy collections. In my opinion, it's the second-funniest comic strip going these days, right behind Pearls Before Swine. Arguably.Thursday, August 27, 2015
August 27, 2015
Working on three poems right now; even after 45 years, my style is still evolving. I've got kind of a constipated thing going on, a very slim tight vertical construction -- picture a small intestine if you stretched it out and filled it with words.
I saw this clever sign outside a Mexican restaurant across town: "Our Competition Is In Mexico."
The Dark Knight never gets old. I try to avoid superhero movies, but this is a classic, if "classic" means the one superhero movie that all other superhero movies (all thrillers, for that matter) should be measured by. Brilliant script, on-target social commentary, a score that sounds as good on CD as it does in the movie, and of course Heath Ledger's legendary performance. When I think of any other character he's portrayed and then watch him as the Joker, it's difficult to believe he's the same actor. Also, I enjoy moral quandaries in stories, and the climactic ferry sequence is like catnip for me. I bring this up because I watched it again over the weekend with three friends, two of whom had never seen it. Nothing like living vicariously through the eyes of a movie virgin. "You want to know how I got these scars?"
Two things I learned Friday at the Western Idaho Fair: (1) There's a good reason to keep honoring Christopher Columbus: He brought the first goats to America in 1493, and I like goats. (2) There's a bad reason to like gelatin: It's made from bone marrow. I liked gelatin until Friday. (There was no gelatin at the fair, but my friend happened to mention it on the Ferris wheel.)
(500) Days of Summer is another movie I watched again recently. Here's the saddest exchange in a movie filled with memorable dialogue (heck, one of the saddest exchanges in any romantic movie): Boy meets girl and falls in love. Girl becomes girlfriend but has no intention of falling in love. Boy accepts this. Then girl marries someone else. They run into each other again, and boy asks girl how she could do it. She replies:
"I woke up one morning and I just knew."
"Knew what?"
"What I was never sure of with you."
Argghh. Zooey kills me every time.
So I'm at the Rite Aid checkout counter. The cashier has just put half my stuff in a small bag. I have a larger item that's going to stick out of the second bag, so I ask if she can put it in a larger bag. She says yes, but it would be better to put everything else in the larger bag as well and give her back the small bag. "We have to save the world," she says. She is perfectly serious. OK, so maybe the fate of the world really does hang on how many plastic bags I use, but it's unprofessional of her to make a customer feel crummy about it. (I'm careful about not using too many napkins when I'm in a restaurant, but I once ate at a place that had a sign saying, "Napkin = tree." I took a dozen napkins, crumpled them up, and left them on the table with a note that said, "Mess = forest." Even though I did it to make a point, I still feel guilty sometimes.)
Blue tattoo on the upper back of a high school girl in line at Fanci Freez -- "To thine own self be true." Was it a homework assignment?
LinkedIn is haunting me. I haven't used it since I stopped working professionally nine years ago, but I still get notifications, endorsements, and requests for endorsements. I try and try, but it seems to think "unsubscribe" means "I love getting these things."
Eleven days until Labor Day. Almost time for fall, and pumpkins, and cider, and setting the clocks back. Can you tell I love fall? It wasn't always so. When I was in elementary school, I had to write a poem about my favorite season, my very first poem. I still remember the first two lines:
"I love winter for so many reasons.
First of all, it's my favorite season."
Logic wasn't my strong suit at ten (neither was poetry), but I got a nice grade out of it anyway.
*
I saw this clever sign outside a Mexican restaurant across town: "Our Competition Is In Mexico."
*
The Dark Knight never gets old. I try to avoid superhero movies, but this is a classic, if "classic" means the one superhero movie that all other superhero movies (all thrillers, for that matter) should be measured by. Brilliant script, on-target social commentary, a score that sounds as good on CD as it does in the movie, and of course Heath Ledger's legendary performance. When I think of any other character he's portrayed and then watch him as the Joker, it's difficult to believe he's the same actor. Also, I enjoy moral quandaries in stories, and the climactic ferry sequence is like catnip for me. I bring this up because I watched it again over the weekend with three friends, two of whom had never seen it. Nothing like living vicariously through the eyes of a movie virgin. "You want to know how I got these scars?"
*
Two things I learned Friday at the Western Idaho Fair: (1) There's a good reason to keep honoring Christopher Columbus: He brought the first goats to America in 1493, and I like goats. (2) There's a bad reason to like gelatin: It's made from bone marrow. I liked gelatin until Friday. (There was no gelatin at the fair, but my friend happened to mention it on the Ferris wheel.)
*
(500) Days of Summer is another movie I watched again recently. Here's the saddest exchange in a movie filled with memorable dialogue (heck, one of the saddest exchanges in any romantic movie): Boy meets girl and falls in love. Girl becomes girlfriend but has no intention of falling in love. Boy accepts this. Then girl marries someone else. They run into each other again, and boy asks girl how she could do it. She replies:
"I woke up one morning and I just knew."
"Knew what?"
"What I was never sure of with you."
Argghh. Zooey kills me every time.
*
So I'm at the Rite Aid checkout counter. The cashier has just put half my stuff in a small bag. I have a larger item that's going to stick out of the second bag, so I ask if she can put it in a larger bag. She says yes, but it would be better to put everything else in the larger bag as well and give her back the small bag. "We have to save the world," she says. She is perfectly serious. OK, so maybe the fate of the world really does hang on how many plastic bags I use, but it's unprofessional of her to make a customer feel crummy about it. (I'm careful about not using too many napkins when I'm in a restaurant, but I once ate at a place that had a sign saying, "Napkin = tree." I took a dozen napkins, crumpled them up, and left them on the table with a note that said, "Mess = forest." Even though I did it to make a point, I still feel guilty sometimes.)
*
Forget Trump. Forget Iran. Here's the real breaking news of the day: I've shaved off my beard. I told someone I only kept it out of laziness, and then I realized what I'd said. I have a tan line just above my cheekbones.
*
Blue tattoo on the upper back of a high school girl in line at Fanci Freez -- "To thine own self be true." Was it a homework assignment?
*
LinkedIn is haunting me. I haven't used it since I stopped working professionally nine years ago, but I still get notifications, endorsements, and requests for endorsements. I try and try, but it seems to think "unsubscribe" means "I love getting these things."
*
Eleven days until Labor Day. Almost time for fall, and pumpkins, and cider, and setting the clocks back. Can you tell I love fall? It wasn't always so. When I was in elementary school, I had to write a poem about my favorite season, my very first poem. I still remember the first two lines:
"I love winter for so many reasons.
First of all, it's my favorite season."
Logic wasn't my strong suit at ten (neither was poetry), but I got a nice grade out of it anyway.
Friday, August 21, 2015
August 21, 2015
This is my second post-summer blog post (my post-post). I'm on a roll -- I might even write a third one if my brain can stand it.
Last Saturday I decided it was time to start thinking about housecleaning, so I walked down the street to Fanci Freez to think about it over some ice cream and a cherry Coke. The conclusion I came to is that I don't have to think about it again until next week.
My mom never had to think about housecleaning because she was already doing it. She never stopped. Every Saturday morning she chased my sister and me from our beds so she could wash the sheets. Then she tossed us outside (not literally but almost) so she could clean the place from top to bottom. We'd hear her call for us sometime after 3:00, when we'd remove our shoes before entering. If our shoes were muddy, they didn't come in with us. If we were muddy, we didn't come in with us, either. Here's how clean she was. She had hundreds of books shelved in bookcases with sliding glass doors. At least once a month, she'd sit down on the freshly vacuumed carpet, slide open each door, and dust every book. Did I say the books were behind glass? I'm talking clean here.
Is it awful for me to say that the Soda Fire, which has consumed thousands and thousands of acres so far here in Idaho, is making for some spectacular sunsets?
Lily Taylor plays Corey, a songwriting high school student, in Cameron Crowe's Say Anything (1989). Corey and Joe have broken up. In an early scene that takes place at a rowdy kegger, she sits on a sofa with her guitar and announces to the room, "I wrote sixty-three songs this year. They're all about Joe, and I'm going to play every single one of them tonight." I thought about that scene this week because I've been listening to Adele 21. Great CD, great voice. Great songs. But after the first five or six, I started to feel like the Best Pal who sits with you on the edge of the bed handing you tissue after tissue and telling you it's not the end of the world. Still, though, great CD.
After 18 months and four ophthalmologists (or was it five?), I finally have new prescription lenses. No more eyestrain or headaches. I should sue all of them for my co-pays. The night before, I dreamed I was telling a friend that I was finally getting back my "sight for sore eyes." I wish I were that witty in real life.
On film violence: As much as I revere The Godfather, I never found that street fight between Sonny and Carlo to be entirely convincing. On the other hand, what Woodrow Call did to that soldier for whipping Newt in Lonesome Dove really shocked me at the time -- I couldn't help but wonder whether CBS had had any qualms about airing the scene uncut.
The other night I had my first dream about Madonna, but it wasn't a nightmare.
I once got on an elevator in the office building where I worked while holding a copy of Hemingway's short stories. An executive standing beside me saw the book and said, "Taking a class?" Another time, I was working on a story on the porch of the apartment building where I lived. A girl who was probably no older than 14 stepped outside and saw me. "What are you doing?" she said. "Writing a story." This was her reply: "Do you have to?" Both times I wondered whether I should apologize for being literate or just do my reading and writing inside my little blanket fort at night.
It's Opening Day for the Western Idaho Fair, so I went this morning with my friend Tami and her two impeccably behaved boys. (If there's a Hall of Fame for Perfect Children, they're shoo-ins.) Tami and I enjoyed looking at the photo and quilt exhibits, but nothing really stood out for me. I was much more enamored of the Special Award ribbons themselves, which are a burst of primary colors. If there were an exhibit for ribbons, the Special Award ribbon would win itself. Because of the outlying fire, Boise's air quality level today was code red, or level red -- anyway, something red, red being bad. It didn't seem to affect us, though. The boys rode all the rides about 200 times and were still spinning upside down in the back seat when we left the parking lot to go home.
P.S. I tried my first-ever corn dog this afternoon. Let's just say I don't plan on waiting another six decades before having another one.
Last Saturday I decided it was time to start thinking about housecleaning, so I walked down the street to Fanci Freez to think about it over some ice cream and a cherry Coke. The conclusion I came to is that I don't have to think about it again until next week.
My mom never had to think about housecleaning because she was already doing it. She never stopped. Every Saturday morning she chased my sister and me from our beds so she could wash the sheets. Then she tossed us outside (not literally but almost) so she could clean the place from top to bottom. We'd hear her call for us sometime after 3:00, when we'd remove our shoes before entering. If our shoes were muddy, they didn't come in with us. If we were muddy, we didn't come in with us, either. Here's how clean she was. She had hundreds of books shelved in bookcases with sliding glass doors. At least once a month, she'd sit down on the freshly vacuumed carpet, slide open each door, and dust every book. Did I say the books were behind glass? I'm talking clean here.
Is it awful for me to say that the Soda Fire, which has consumed thousands and thousands of acres so far here in Idaho, is making for some spectacular sunsets?
Lily Taylor plays Corey, a songwriting high school student, in Cameron Crowe's Say Anything (1989). Corey and Joe have broken up. In an early scene that takes place at a rowdy kegger, she sits on a sofa with her guitar and announces to the room, "I wrote sixty-three songs this year. They're all about Joe, and I'm going to play every single one of them tonight." I thought about that scene this week because I've been listening to Adele 21. Great CD, great voice. Great songs. But after the first five or six, I started to feel like the Best Pal who sits with you on the edge of the bed handing you tissue after tissue and telling you it's not the end of the world. Still, though, great CD.
After 18 months and four ophthalmologists (or was it five?), I finally have new prescription lenses. No more eyestrain or headaches. I should sue all of them for my co-pays. The night before, I dreamed I was telling a friend that I was finally getting back my "sight for sore eyes." I wish I were that witty in real life.
On film violence: As much as I revere The Godfather, I never found that street fight between Sonny and Carlo to be entirely convincing. On the other hand, what Woodrow Call did to that soldier for whipping Newt in Lonesome Dove really shocked me at the time -- I couldn't help but wonder whether CBS had had any qualms about airing the scene uncut.
The other night I had my first dream about Madonna, but it wasn't a nightmare.
I once got on an elevator in the office building where I worked while holding a copy of Hemingway's short stories. An executive standing beside me saw the book and said, "Taking a class?" Another time, I was working on a story on the porch of the apartment building where I lived. A girl who was probably no older than 14 stepped outside and saw me. "What are you doing?" she said. "Writing a story." This was her reply: "Do you have to?" Both times I wondered whether I should apologize for being literate or just do my reading and writing inside my little blanket fort at night.
It's Opening Day for the Western Idaho Fair, so I went this morning with my friend Tami and her two impeccably behaved boys. (If there's a Hall of Fame for Perfect Children, they're shoo-ins.) Tami and I enjoyed looking at the photo and quilt exhibits, but nothing really stood out for me. I was much more enamored of the Special Award ribbons themselves, which are a burst of primary colors. If there were an exhibit for ribbons, the Special Award ribbon would win itself. Because of the outlying fire, Boise's air quality level today was code red, or level red -- anyway, something red, red being bad. It didn't seem to affect us, though. The boys rode all the rides about 200 times and were still spinning upside down in the back seat when we left the parking lot to go home.
P.S. I tried my first-ever corn dog this afternoon. Let's just say I don't plan on waiting another six decades before having another one.
Thursday, August 13, 2015
What I Did On My Summer No-cation
I hope everyone reading this has had a good summer so far. Labor Day and football season are almost here, so I decided since I'm just sitting here doing my usual monotasking at the computer, why not write a blog post and get the old creative juices dripping again?
You'll notice that today's blog is more personal than it has been. Is this, you ask, because I value your readership so much that I want to share with you the inner workings of my mind? No. It's because I ran out of ideas in May and my brain is still bankrupt. So since I have no inner workings to speak of, I'll just report on what's been going on in and around my life so that you can feel so much better about your own.
Let's see. . . .
My only sibling, Terry, flew out from Maine to spend eleven days with me. We hadn't seen each other in 3 1/2 years, our longest time apart, Turns out she likes Boise and all my friends so much that she's returning next year. (I'm assuming wanting to see me fits somewhere into her decision.)
Four movies were worth my getting out of the house for: Inside Out is possibly the best animated film I've ever seen, certainly one of the top ten. If you haven't seen it, you simply must. I laughed a lot watching Spy, featuring Melissa McCarthy's funniest performance since Bridesmaids. I didn't mind the R-rated language during the first half; in fact, it added a nice oomph to some of the best lines. However, the poopy machine must have gone haywire after that -- even Andrew Dice Clay would have been embarrassed watching it. Amy, about the late Amy Winehouse, is the best documentary I've seen this year. It was so intimate that when I saw the stretcher with the sheet over her near the end of the film, it felt like a punch in the gut, as if someone close to me had really died. Finally, I was going to skip seeing Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation because I doubted it could even be half as entertaining as the last installment, Ghost Protocol. Some friends talked me into going, so I went. Shows how much I know. At one nerve-racking point, I found myself laughing out loud with glee because it was just so perfectly done.
I had a mystery story and one or two poems published. It's nice when that happens. I've been playing Hemingway in Paris lately, too -- taking a notebook or a book of poems downtown to one of my two favorite cafes and sitting outside to read, write, and watch people going by. The two poets whose works I've been enjoying most are Gregory Corso and Charles Reznikoff. Corso is the only Beat poet whom I've found almost consistently interesting. I've only just discovered Reznikoff, whose collection Holocaust isn't exactly beach reading, though it's thoroughly rewarding.
In national news, Bruce Jenner became Caitlin Jenner and won the Arthur Ashe Courage Award. I understand I'm required by law not to joke about this.
I untied my Cable One bundle and released my cable TV connection. Living without television has been remarkably easy for me. (You have to understand that in grade school I could tell you what shows were on at what time and on which channels. The TV Guide Fall Preview issue was my Holy Grail.) However, when someone asked me how I planned to survive the 2015 football season, I realized I couldn't. So I bought an HDTV indoor antenna from Radio Shack (I know -- I didn't think they were still in business, either), and I'm all set. Instead of the four or five channels I expected to receive, I found out I actually get 33 of them, which makes me wonder why I ever bothered with cable in the first place. (True story: Within a week after dropping the service, I dreamed that I regretted it because Michael Landon had come back from the dead and was hosting Saturday Night Live.)
Without TV, I've been listening to much more music than usual. My summer passions have included Kasey Chambers, Adele, Hole, Emmylou Harris, Frank Sinatra, and Diana Krall. How's that for eclectic? Say what you will about Courtney Love (or I'll happily say it for you), but she can rock, and she's written some good songs. If you're not familiar with Chambers, an Australian country-folk performer, go to YouTube and check out her voice on the song "Barricades and Brick Walls." You'll know by the end of the first line whether you're destined to be a diehard fan.
Boise set a record for hot weather on June 28, and I understand that today (August 13th) we've done it again with a temperature of at least 105. It's surprising to me how easily I've adapted to temps edging past 100. Maybe it's because I spent so many years on the East Coast, where stepping outside Miami International Airport used to feel like someone pressing a hot washcloth over my face. Stepping outside today felt like I needed a few more sweaters.
In local news, a bicyclist accidentally set a 73-acre fire in the foothills when he burned some toilet paper he had just finished using. This is how Boise makes the national news. (My friend Guy told me the same thing happened here several years ago, only many more acres burned and the inadvertent culprit was an environmentalist.)
Maybe I should have put my YMCA membership on ice for the summer. I haven't been going much at all. The weather has been too gorgeous (even at 100 degrees), so I've been taking long walks instead. My goal has been to lose weight or maintain what I already have, but, unlike the treadmill at the Y, a long walk can take you past some awfully tasty restaurants. (I personally recommend the grilled foot-long dog at the Westside Drive-In, which has plenty of outdoor tables for relaxing.)
So that's been my summer, more or less. I'll report back with periodic updates on what it's like being me..
You'll notice that today's blog is more personal than it has been. Is this, you ask, because I value your readership so much that I want to share with you the inner workings of my mind? No. It's because I ran out of ideas in May and my brain is still bankrupt. So since I have no inner workings to speak of, I'll just report on what's been going on in and around my life so that you can feel so much better about your own.
Let's see. . . .
My only sibling, Terry, flew out from Maine to spend eleven days with me. We hadn't seen each other in 3 1/2 years, our longest time apart, Turns out she likes Boise and all my friends so much that she's returning next year. (I'm assuming wanting to see me fits somewhere into her decision.)
Four movies were worth my getting out of the house for: Inside Out is possibly the best animated film I've ever seen, certainly one of the top ten. If you haven't seen it, you simply must. I laughed a lot watching Spy, featuring Melissa McCarthy's funniest performance since Bridesmaids. I didn't mind the R-rated language during the first half; in fact, it added a nice oomph to some of the best lines. However, the poopy machine must have gone haywire after that -- even Andrew Dice Clay would have been embarrassed watching it. Amy, about the late Amy Winehouse, is the best documentary I've seen this year. It was so intimate that when I saw the stretcher with the sheet over her near the end of the film, it felt like a punch in the gut, as if someone close to me had really died. Finally, I was going to skip seeing Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation because I doubted it could even be half as entertaining as the last installment, Ghost Protocol. Some friends talked me into going, so I went. Shows how much I know. At one nerve-racking point, I found myself laughing out loud with glee because it was just so perfectly done.
I had a mystery story and one or two poems published. It's nice when that happens. I've been playing Hemingway in Paris lately, too -- taking a notebook or a book of poems downtown to one of my two favorite cafes and sitting outside to read, write, and watch people going by. The two poets whose works I've been enjoying most are Gregory Corso and Charles Reznikoff. Corso is the only Beat poet whom I've found almost consistently interesting. I've only just discovered Reznikoff, whose collection Holocaust isn't exactly beach reading, though it's thoroughly rewarding.
In national news, Bruce Jenner became Caitlin Jenner and won the Arthur Ashe Courage Award. I understand I'm required by law not to joke about this.
I untied my Cable One bundle and released my cable TV connection. Living without television has been remarkably easy for me. (You have to understand that in grade school I could tell you what shows were on at what time and on which channels. The TV Guide Fall Preview issue was my Holy Grail.) However, when someone asked me how I planned to survive the 2015 football season, I realized I couldn't. So I bought an HDTV indoor antenna from Radio Shack (I know -- I didn't think they were still in business, either), and I'm all set. Instead of the four or five channels I expected to receive, I found out I actually get 33 of them, which makes me wonder why I ever bothered with cable in the first place. (True story: Within a week after dropping the service, I dreamed that I regretted it because Michael Landon had come back from the dead and was hosting Saturday Night Live.)
Without TV, I've been listening to much more music than usual. My summer passions have included Kasey Chambers, Adele, Hole, Emmylou Harris, Frank Sinatra, and Diana Krall. How's that for eclectic? Say what you will about Courtney Love (or I'll happily say it for you), but she can rock, and she's written some good songs. If you're not familiar with Chambers, an Australian country-folk performer, go to YouTube and check out her voice on the song "Barricades and Brick Walls." You'll know by the end of the first line whether you're destined to be a diehard fan.
Boise set a record for hot weather on June 28, and I understand that today (August 13th) we've done it again with a temperature of at least 105. It's surprising to me how easily I've adapted to temps edging past 100. Maybe it's because I spent so many years on the East Coast, where stepping outside Miami International Airport used to feel like someone pressing a hot washcloth over my face. Stepping outside today felt like I needed a few more sweaters.
In local news, a bicyclist accidentally set a 73-acre fire in the foothills when he burned some toilet paper he had just finished using. This is how Boise makes the national news. (My friend Guy told me the same thing happened here several years ago, only many more acres burned and the inadvertent culprit was an environmentalist.)
Maybe I should have put my YMCA membership on ice for the summer. I haven't been going much at all. The weather has been too gorgeous (even at 100 degrees), so I've been taking long walks instead. My goal has been to lose weight or maintain what I already have, but, unlike the treadmill at the Y, a long walk can take you past some awfully tasty restaurants. (I personally recommend the grilled foot-long dog at the Westside Drive-In, which has plenty of outdoor tables for relaxing.)
So that's been my summer, more or less. I'll report back with periodic updates on what it's like being me..
Thursday, July 2, 2015
Closed for the Summer
This is my 50th(!) post, and I think it's time for a hiatus. Actually, I have no choice -- my brain is on strike and refuses to negotiate. So I'm going to take the next few months to come up with some fresh ideas (maybe) and return in the fall (probably). This will be good for me, as I've been neglecting my other writing duties lately. There's a chance I'll pop in now and then if something interesting occurs to me (don't hold your breath). Otherwise, see you in September (The Happenings, 1966).
Credits:
This blog has been brought to you courtesy of the following downtown Boise sponsors. (Not really. They have nothing to do with this. But I like these places and you should, too.)
Rainbow Books (say hi to Laurie and Lindy!)
Blooms Flower Studio (say hi to Julie and her dog Charlie!)
Yokozuna Teriyaki (don't say hi because I don't know anyone there, but they have the best teriyaki in town)
DK Donuts (don't say hi there either because I've given up donuts and I'm sure they've forgotten me, but try the maple bars)
The Flicks movie theater (nope, nobody, but if you show them my picture I'm sure they'll recognize me)
Credits:
This blog has been brought to you courtesy of the following downtown Boise sponsors. (Not really. They have nothing to do with this. But I like these places and you should, too.)
Rainbow Books (say hi to Laurie and Lindy!)
Blooms Flower Studio (say hi to Julie and her dog Charlie!)
Yokozuna Teriyaki (don't say hi because I don't know anyone there, but they have the best teriyaki in town)
DK Donuts (don't say hi there either because I've given up donuts and I'm sure they've forgotten me, but try the maple bars)
The Flicks movie theater (nope, nobody, but if you show them my picture I'm sure they'll recognize me)
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Klutz
I like to think of myself as being couth, coordinated, even graceful. But I need to face reality: I'm just clumsy. Most people would probably say I'm no clumsier than they are, but when it's you being clumsy all the time, it's hard to be objective.
Cases in point:
When I was eight, I broke my arm trying to ride my bike over one of those parking lot bumper curbs. Two other boys were doing it, too, but I was the one with the bright idea of turning the curb around so that the straight vertical side was facing me. Six weeks in a cast. Years later, I was riding a bike along the side of the road when my front tire got caught in the rut of the curb (a different kind of curb, but still a curb) and flipped me down onto the street. Two broken ribs. I've learned to stay away from curbs of all kinds. I don't even curb my appetite.
When I was ten, I slipped off the end of a diving board at summer camp and hit my head on the way down. I had to be fished out by one of the counselors in front of all the other boys. Birds and stars over my head. He suggested I walk to the end of the board instead of running, and I haven't run since. I didn't even dive for a few decades. When I finally decided to, though (just a few weeks ago, in fact), I found I'd lost the knack and could only belly flop. Red stomach.
One of my high school jobs was stocking dairy products in the cooler of a 7-11. I was the kid whose hand you'd see shoving the milk and eggs up to the front of the rows behind the glass doors. As you probably know, the entrance to those coolers is a door very large and extremely heavy. The one at this store also swung open left toward the glass door farthest to the right. It's just common sense to assume those doors have springs to stop their momentum when you pull them open. Ha. One night, with my hands full, I managed to crack open the door just enough to get my shoe inside and swing it wide enough to let me in. Next thing I knew, I heard the shattering of glass and the "Whoa!" of my fellow employee. I'd lasted at that job a full week, which at that point was a record for me.
I don't know if you can technically call the next series of accidents "accidents" in the sense that it was my fault. My knees are built funny. Each leg has one tiny bone missing that helps support the patella on the side facing the patella in the other leg. In other words, on rare occasions, I'm prone to dislocation. This is the worst pain I've ever felt (worse than a cortisone shot or listening to Madonna give an interview). The first time it happened, I was climbing up a grassy slope beside a canal. It's funny how the mind works. Because it had never happened before, I had no idea what had just happened and therefore it didn't hurt as much as the others would later on. In fact, as the paramedics were helping me to the ambulance, the kneecap just simply slipped back into place. Easy peasy.
The second time it happened, I was doing cartwheels in a friend's front yard at night. (OK, yes, I was all of 17, but I was a silly 17.) This was just a few months after the first knee had given way, and I think I'd been relying too heavily on the second one to support my weight. This time the thunk of it even told my friend something was terribly wrong, and I was in considerable agony there on the grass. An ambulance showed up, and one of the paramedics threw a sheet over me to keep me warm until they could get the stretcher out of the back. Maybe this paramedic was new or something, but he draped the sheet right up over my head. Meanwhile, my friend's parents drove up and promptly panicked. They were certain their son was lying dead on their front lawn. His mother rushed over, lifted the sheet just far enough to see that I wasn't her son, cried, "Oh, thank God," and covered my face again. She liked me, really she did.
The last time it happened, I was vacuuming. (Let this be a lesson to you clean freaks.) I crouched down to pull some wires out of the way beneath a table, and I made the mistake of twisting my body too far in one direction with my legs still in full crouch mode. Down I went. What made this the worst dislocation of all was that I was alone and not expecting visitors, so in order to get to the phone to call for assistance, I had to slap the knee back into place myself. I only made things worse, though, when I slapped it in the wrong direction. I ended up in a major, all-but-debilitating splint and crutches for many weeks. When I hobbled into work my first day back and told my coworkers what had happened, one of the guys whispered, "Shh! For God's sake, tell people it was a football injury."
Boot camp. I was too uncoordinated to carry a rifle (or "piece"), so I was a guide-on, which meant I carried one of the flags ahead of the company when we were marching. The flag was attached to a long, hollow, metal pole. One day, I heard something rattling inside the pole, maybe a tiny pebble. I shoved my finger inside of it as if this was going to do anything but get my finger stuck, which is what happened. The guys all crowded around me in the head as our Recruit Chief Petty Officer tried to remove my finger with warm soap and water. It was a festive atmosphere. Weeks later, just before graduation, two of the guys told me that was their favorite part of boot camp.
I see I'm being longwinded again (or "longfingered," since I'm typing), so here are some other highlights in brief:
Discovering that I have no equilibrium when wearing French earplugs. A sign language class I took in college went on a soundless field trip to a local sub shop for lunch, and I kept knocking the student beside me off the sidewalk and into the gutter.
Falling down during an 8-mile run and tearing a rotator cuff, only I didn't discover it for months until I turned my arm just right. Because it had been so long, bursitis had developed, and the surgeon said afterwards that it had been one of his most interesting procedures. He even pulled out some nifty color photos to show me.
Dropping a plate of flaming cherries jubilee onto someone's table at a church dinner.
Leaning on a friend's lit cigarette on a pool table.
Trying to stop a fire in my fondue pot by putting it under running water, which promptly scorched my ceiling. (Yes, I know now to cover it instead.)
Leaning my hand on a heavy wooden TV stand with a humungous old box TV on it and having the whole thing come crashing down with me on top of it. (I was dusting at the time. I really need to stop doing housework.) Two years later, I still have the remnant of a scrape across my stomach, which someone recently mistook for a surgical scar.
Finally, last week I cut myself opening a new box of tin foil. I was being very careful, sliding my finger inch by inch beneath the sealed flap, but I guess I wasn't careful enough. Those little metal teeth are fierce, and the pain was somewhere between a Madonna interview and listening to "The Twelve Days of Christmas." A Band-Aid wouldn't do it, as this was more than a cut; it was an open flap of skin through which my blood couldn't wait to flee from, as if it feared my next mishap. I had to wrap my finger in a gauze pad and hold it firm with a rubber band. Almost as painful: trying to lift the gauze pad off to replace it. Yikes!
So there you have it, Exhibits A through N. I could just as easily have rattled off a list of times when I didn't have an accident, but would a list of exhibits A through C even be worth it?
Cases in point:
When I was eight, I broke my arm trying to ride my bike over one of those parking lot bumper curbs. Two other boys were doing it, too, but I was the one with the bright idea of turning the curb around so that the straight vertical side was facing me. Six weeks in a cast. Years later, I was riding a bike along the side of the road when my front tire got caught in the rut of the curb (a different kind of curb, but still a curb) and flipped me down onto the street. Two broken ribs. I've learned to stay away from curbs of all kinds. I don't even curb my appetite.
When I was ten, I slipped off the end of a diving board at summer camp and hit my head on the way down. I had to be fished out by one of the counselors in front of all the other boys. Birds and stars over my head. He suggested I walk to the end of the board instead of running, and I haven't run since. I didn't even dive for a few decades. When I finally decided to, though (just a few weeks ago, in fact), I found I'd lost the knack and could only belly flop. Red stomach.
One of my high school jobs was stocking dairy products in the cooler of a 7-11. I was the kid whose hand you'd see shoving the milk and eggs up to the front of the rows behind the glass doors. As you probably know, the entrance to those coolers is a door very large and extremely heavy. The one at this store also swung open left toward the glass door farthest to the right. It's just common sense to assume those doors have springs to stop their momentum when you pull them open. Ha. One night, with my hands full, I managed to crack open the door just enough to get my shoe inside and swing it wide enough to let me in. Next thing I knew, I heard the shattering of glass and the "Whoa!" of my fellow employee. I'd lasted at that job a full week, which at that point was a record for me.
I don't know if you can technically call the next series of accidents "accidents" in the sense that it was my fault. My knees are built funny. Each leg has one tiny bone missing that helps support the patella on the side facing the patella in the other leg. In other words, on rare occasions, I'm prone to dislocation. This is the worst pain I've ever felt (worse than a cortisone shot or listening to Madonna give an interview). The first time it happened, I was climbing up a grassy slope beside a canal. It's funny how the mind works. Because it had never happened before, I had no idea what had just happened and therefore it didn't hurt as much as the others would later on. In fact, as the paramedics were helping me to the ambulance, the kneecap just simply slipped back into place. Easy peasy.
The second time it happened, I was doing cartwheels in a friend's front yard at night. (OK, yes, I was all of 17, but I was a silly 17.) This was just a few months after the first knee had given way, and I think I'd been relying too heavily on the second one to support my weight. This time the thunk of it even told my friend something was terribly wrong, and I was in considerable agony there on the grass. An ambulance showed up, and one of the paramedics threw a sheet over me to keep me warm until they could get the stretcher out of the back. Maybe this paramedic was new or something, but he draped the sheet right up over my head. Meanwhile, my friend's parents drove up and promptly panicked. They were certain their son was lying dead on their front lawn. His mother rushed over, lifted the sheet just far enough to see that I wasn't her son, cried, "Oh, thank God," and covered my face again. She liked me, really she did.
The last time it happened, I was vacuuming. (Let this be a lesson to you clean freaks.) I crouched down to pull some wires out of the way beneath a table, and I made the mistake of twisting my body too far in one direction with my legs still in full crouch mode. Down I went. What made this the worst dislocation of all was that I was alone and not expecting visitors, so in order to get to the phone to call for assistance, I had to slap the knee back into place myself. I only made things worse, though, when I slapped it in the wrong direction. I ended up in a major, all-but-debilitating splint and crutches for many weeks. When I hobbled into work my first day back and told my coworkers what had happened, one of the guys whispered, "Shh! For God's sake, tell people it was a football injury."
Boot camp. I was too uncoordinated to carry a rifle (or "piece"), so I was a guide-on, which meant I carried one of the flags ahead of the company when we were marching. The flag was attached to a long, hollow, metal pole. One day, I heard something rattling inside the pole, maybe a tiny pebble. I shoved my finger inside of it as if this was going to do anything but get my finger stuck, which is what happened. The guys all crowded around me in the head as our Recruit Chief Petty Officer tried to remove my finger with warm soap and water. It was a festive atmosphere. Weeks later, just before graduation, two of the guys told me that was their favorite part of boot camp.
I see I'm being longwinded again (or "longfingered," since I'm typing), so here are some other highlights in brief:
Discovering that I have no equilibrium when wearing French earplugs. A sign language class I took in college went on a soundless field trip to a local sub shop for lunch, and I kept knocking the student beside me off the sidewalk and into the gutter.
Falling down during an 8-mile run and tearing a rotator cuff, only I didn't discover it for months until I turned my arm just right. Because it had been so long, bursitis had developed, and the surgeon said afterwards that it had been one of his most interesting procedures. He even pulled out some nifty color photos to show me.
Dropping a plate of flaming cherries jubilee onto someone's table at a church dinner.
Leaning on a friend's lit cigarette on a pool table.
Trying to stop a fire in my fondue pot by putting it under running water, which promptly scorched my ceiling. (Yes, I know now to cover it instead.)
Leaning my hand on a heavy wooden TV stand with a humungous old box TV on it and having the whole thing come crashing down with me on top of it. (I was dusting at the time. I really need to stop doing housework.) Two years later, I still have the remnant of a scrape across my stomach, which someone recently mistook for a surgical scar.
Finally, last week I cut myself opening a new box of tin foil. I was being very careful, sliding my finger inch by inch beneath the sealed flap, but I guess I wasn't careful enough. Those little metal teeth are fierce, and the pain was somewhere between a Madonna interview and listening to "The Twelve Days of Christmas." A Band-Aid wouldn't do it, as this was more than a cut; it was an open flap of skin through which my blood couldn't wait to flee from, as if it feared my next mishap. I had to wrap my finger in a gauze pad and hold it firm with a rubber band. Almost as painful: trying to lift the gauze pad off to replace it. Yikes!
So there you have it, Exhibits A through N. I could just as easily have rattled off a list of times when I didn't have an accident, but would a list of exhibits A through C even be worth it?
Thursday, June 25, 2015
Famous People I Have (Never) Known
Welcome to Vince's Blog, Namedropper Edition. I've run across numerous famous people over the years, and I thought I'd take this special time to tiptoe barefoot through the memories of just some of these illustrious personages (as if they'd care). I'm omitting celebrities seen in concert, since I've been to a lot of concerts and anyway it's not the same thing. I'm also skipping Broadway actors and actresses I met outside stage doors with other fans, since I saw a lot of shows back when they were affordable to ordinary humans.
The first famous person I ever "saw" was John F. Kennedy, though I wouldn't know this if my father hadn't told me at the time. We were stuck in traffic somewhere in Miami during JFK's presidency, and it turned out that the jam was because his motorcade was crossing the intersection ahead of us. All I remember is the roar of motorcycles and someone's arm waving from a convertible. I assume it was his and not Jackie's.
But that didn't make me a Democrat any more than this made me a Republican. In 1968, when the GOP arrived in Miami for its presidential convention, two conservative friends of mine who were volunteering for Nixon invited me to join them as a volunteer. I had no allegiances and no political leanings at all, so I said sure, why not? We went to Miami International Airport to greet Spiro Agnew's plane on the tarmac with a throng of other supporters. Agnew was Nixon's VP running mate (who, like the latter, would turn out to be a criminal just a few years later). He came down the airplane steps and stopped to sign the bumper stickers wrapped around our Styrofoam campaign hats. I didn't have a bumper sticker on mine, but I handed my hat to him anyway. His pen broke right through. I told him that was OK, the little wet blot would do.
When our family moved into a brand-new housing development in Hialeah a few years earlier, Dan Blocker of Bonanza fame signed autographs in the model home that served as the development company's office. I have no idea why he was there -- Palm Springs North wasn't exactly the Ponderosa -- but he was very friendly, and when he shook my hand it was like the Jolly Green Giant crushing Tom Thumb.
In the early '70s, I was one degree of separation from Sonny Bono. He and Cher were performing at the Deauville Hotel on the beach, and my girlfriend was working there when she saw him cross the lobby with photographers in tow. She told me later he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. (What did that say about me?)
When I moved north and worked and went to school in New York City, I ran into my share of famous people on the streets, a semi-common occurrence there.
I saw Otto Preminger drop a dollar into a blind man's cup. This was contrary to his reputation, and I took a good look to be sure it was Preminger. It was.
I was crossing a side street in the theater district, not watching where I was going, when I literally ran into Jason Robards Jr. coming from the opposite direction. Since we both had to keep from tumbling down, I decided it was too awkward a moment to ask for his autograph. Anyway, I had such great respect for him as an actor that I'm sure I would have been tongue-tied. (His cameo in Melvin and Howard is one of the greatest supporting performances I've ever seen.)
My wife and I were walking through Central Park when Welcome Back, Kotter's Robert Hegyes (Juan Epstein) and his wife stopped us to ask for directions. That was a defining moment, since I finally felt like a real New Yorker, having someone else ask me how to get somewhere. There was a memorable moment when I first opened my mouth to say I knew who he was but he smiled in a knowing way that meant, "Yeah, it's me, but please don't make a fuss." They were friendly, regular folks, and I hoped we didn't get them too lost.
I went to see The Steinettes in a little uptown club, where they'd made the move from street corner singing to cabaret. Glenda Jackson came in and sat a few tables away. I felt bad for the Steinettes, because after the show the entire small audience rushed to Jackson's table to touch the hem of her garment. (I mean, heck, they don't even rate boldface here.)
Since I've always been on the periphery of po biz, I won't mention the various poets I've encountered, except for two: Down in Greenwich Village, at Chumley's, a literary bar that used to be a speakeasy back in the 1920s, I went to see Marilyn Hacker read her works. Another poet, Marie Ponsot, was sitting beside her. What makes the moment so memorable is that just as Hacker rose to approach the front of the room, Ponsot tugged on her blouse and whispered that her fly was down. I was seated behind them and overheard this. I love Hacker's formalist poetry and had eagerly awaited this reading, but that's the only single moment I remember from that day.
I saw a dead ringer for George McGovern at Mid-Continent Airport in Wichita, Kansas, and was so tempted to walk up and say who he reminded me of, but I didn't. Sure enough, a couple hours later, I learned that George McGovern was in town to speak at Wichita State that evening. He'd been one of my few political heroes, and I'm still kicking myself. (With each passing campaign season, he looks better and better.)
Here's the strangest encounter I had: In 1976, I made a pilgrimage to Massachusetts to visit Winthrop and Wellesley, the towns where Sylvia Plath had lived first as a child and then as a young woman. I was an ardent devotee of her poetry (especially Ariel), and, as a fledgling poet myself as well as a college English major whose focus was on Plath's entire oeuvre, I felt compelled to be there. Call it a pricey field trip. Anyway, in Wellesley, I found the house she'd lived in through her school years and where she'd attempted the suicide that became the focus of her only novel, The Bell Jar. I was a cocky lad and went right up and knocked on the front door, planning to say who I was and what I was doing there and ask if the current owners had any thoughts about the house's famous former resident. Well, the door opened, and my voice curled up in my throat and took a nose dive into my stomach. Aurelia Plath, Sylvia's elderly mother, was standing there. It had never occurred to me that she might not only still be alive but be living in the same house. I stammered something about her daughter and my admiration, and she sweetly acknowledged that yes, Sylvia certainly was her daughter, all the while fumbling for a pair of white gloves from a table beside the door. I suspect this strange guy trembling in the doorway spooked her, because as she put on the gloves she apologized for having to go out and excused me if she didn't continue our conversation. I thanked her for her time and walked out to the sidewalk and right into a tree. I kept looking back at the house for a couple of blocks, and sure enough she never did go out. I didn't blame her.
Finally, my greatest celebrity memory, forever etched in the stone obelisk of my brain:
I finagled an interview with Liza Minnelli for my high school paper in 1970. She was staying at the Playboy Hotel on Miami Beach, and for some reason I'd thought she'd be fielding questions in one of the big banquet rooms. Instead, I was directed to a room on one of the higher floors, where she sat curled up on a sofa while six or seven legitimate journalists were engaged in mid-conversation with her. They'd evidently been at it for some time, as Minnelli's publicist (or whoever) broke it up shortly afterwards. She had two white poodles milling around, and when I stepped into the long hallway, one of Minnelli's poodles tore through the door and made a dash for the opposite end. The publicist came out behind me and called him back. Well, he came running back all right, but instead of following her into the room, he latched onto one of my legs and started humping away. This, folks, is my greatest brush with fame. Envious, aren't you?
The first famous person I ever "saw" was John F. Kennedy, though I wouldn't know this if my father hadn't told me at the time. We were stuck in traffic somewhere in Miami during JFK's presidency, and it turned out that the jam was because his motorcade was crossing the intersection ahead of us. All I remember is the roar of motorcycles and someone's arm waving from a convertible. I assume it was his and not Jackie's.
But that didn't make me a Democrat any more than this made me a Republican. In 1968, when the GOP arrived in Miami for its presidential convention, two conservative friends of mine who were volunteering for Nixon invited me to join them as a volunteer. I had no allegiances and no political leanings at all, so I said sure, why not? We went to Miami International Airport to greet Spiro Agnew's plane on the tarmac with a throng of other supporters. Agnew was Nixon's VP running mate (who, like the latter, would turn out to be a criminal just a few years later). He came down the airplane steps and stopped to sign the bumper stickers wrapped around our Styrofoam campaign hats. I didn't have a bumper sticker on mine, but I handed my hat to him anyway. His pen broke right through. I told him that was OK, the little wet blot would do.
When our family moved into a brand-new housing development in Hialeah a few years earlier, Dan Blocker of Bonanza fame signed autographs in the model home that served as the development company's office. I have no idea why he was there -- Palm Springs North wasn't exactly the Ponderosa -- but he was very friendly, and when he shook my hand it was like the Jolly Green Giant crushing Tom Thumb.
In the early '70s, I was one degree of separation from Sonny Bono. He and Cher were performing at the Deauville Hotel on the beach, and my girlfriend was working there when she saw him cross the lobby with photographers in tow. She told me later he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. (What did that say about me?)
When I moved north and worked and went to school in New York City, I ran into my share of famous people on the streets, a semi-common occurrence there.
I saw Otto Preminger drop a dollar into a blind man's cup. This was contrary to his reputation, and I took a good look to be sure it was Preminger. It was.
I was crossing a side street in the theater district, not watching where I was going, when I literally ran into Jason Robards Jr. coming from the opposite direction. Since we both had to keep from tumbling down, I decided it was too awkward a moment to ask for his autograph. Anyway, I had such great respect for him as an actor that I'm sure I would have been tongue-tied. (His cameo in Melvin and Howard is one of the greatest supporting performances I've ever seen.)
My wife and I were walking through Central Park when Welcome Back, Kotter's Robert Hegyes (Juan Epstein) and his wife stopped us to ask for directions. That was a defining moment, since I finally felt like a real New Yorker, having someone else ask me how to get somewhere. There was a memorable moment when I first opened my mouth to say I knew who he was but he smiled in a knowing way that meant, "Yeah, it's me, but please don't make a fuss." They were friendly, regular folks, and I hoped we didn't get them too lost.
I went to see The Steinettes in a little uptown club, where they'd made the move from street corner singing to cabaret. Glenda Jackson came in and sat a few tables away. I felt bad for the Steinettes, because after the show the entire small audience rushed to Jackson's table to touch the hem of her garment. (I mean, heck, they don't even rate boldface here.)
Since I've always been on the periphery of po biz, I won't mention the various poets I've encountered, except for two: Down in Greenwich Village, at Chumley's, a literary bar that used to be a speakeasy back in the 1920s, I went to see Marilyn Hacker read her works. Another poet, Marie Ponsot, was sitting beside her. What makes the moment so memorable is that just as Hacker rose to approach the front of the room, Ponsot tugged on her blouse and whispered that her fly was down. I was seated behind them and overheard this. I love Hacker's formalist poetry and had eagerly awaited this reading, but that's the only single moment I remember from that day.
I saw a dead ringer for George McGovern at Mid-Continent Airport in Wichita, Kansas, and was so tempted to walk up and say who he reminded me of, but I didn't. Sure enough, a couple hours later, I learned that George McGovern was in town to speak at Wichita State that evening. He'd been one of my few political heroes, and I'm still kicking myself. (With each passing campaign season, he looks better and better.)
Here's the strangest encounter I had: In 1976, I made a pilgrimage to Massachusetts to visit Winthrop and Wellesley, the towns where Sylvia Plath had lived first as a child and then as a young woman. I was an ardent devotee of her poetry (especially Ariel), and, as a fledgling poet myself as well as a college English major whose focus was on Plath's entire oeuvre, I felt compelled to be there. Call it a pricey field trip. Anyway, in Wellesley, I found the house she'd lived in through her school years and where she'd attempted the suicide that became the focus of her only novel, The Bell Jar. I was a cocky lad and went right up and knocked on the front door, planning to say who I was and what I was doing there and ask if the current owners had any thoughts about the house's famous former resident. Well, the door opened, and my voice curled up in my throat and took a nose dive into my stomach. Aurelia Plath, Sylvia's elderly mother, was standing there. It had never occurred to me that she might not only still be alive but be living in the same house. I stammered something about her daughter and my admiration, and she sweetly acknowledged that yes, Sylvia certainly was her daughter, all the while fumbling for a pair of white gloves from a table beside the door. I suspect this strange guy trembling in the doorway spooked her, because as she put on the gloves she apologized for having to go out and excused me if she didn't continue our conversation. I thanked her for her time and walked out to the sidewalk and right into a tree. I kept looking back at the house for a couple of blocks, and sure enough she never did go out. I didn't blame her.
Finally, my greatest celebrity memory, forever etched in the stone obelisk of my brain:
I finagled an interview with Liza Minnelli for my high school paper in 1970. She was staying at the Playboy Hotel on Miami Beach, and for some reason I'd thought she'd be fielding questions in one of the big banquet rooms. Instead, I was directed to a room on one of the higher floors, where she sat curled up on a sofa while six or seven legitimate journalists were engaged in mid-conversation with her. They'd evidently been at it for some time, as Minnelli's publicist (or whoever) broke it up shortly afterwards. She had two white poodles milling around, and when I stepped into the long hallway, one of Minnelli's poodles tore through the door and made a dash for the opposite end. The publicist came out behind me and called him back. Well, he came running back all right, but instead of following her into the room, he latched onto one of my legs and started humping away. This, folks, is my greatest brush with fame. Envious, aren't you?
Sunday, June 21, 2015
Water
I wrote about ducks in a recent post. Now I want to write about water. A logical progression.
Seventy percent of our bodies is water. Experts say we should drink eight 8-ounce glasses of water a day, presumably to make up for the other thirty percent. I drink bottled water, which isn't the same as drinking out of glasses; I wonder if that counts.
I used to think people who drank bottled water were just being pretentious. "Oh, look at me, I drink bottled water, it's your serve, Muffy." Then I realized I wasn't drinking enough water by the glass. Too much trouble walking out to the well and back every hour. And what about when I was out and about? Carrying all those glasses to fill at water fountains was just cumbersome. So one day I noticed that a gazillion bottles of water only cost about $3 at my local supermarket. We'd gone from Perrier to generic house brands in just two decades. I realized it was OK for me to drink bottled water without having to tie a cashmere sweater around my neck. I've been drinking it ever since.
I think we've gotten past the era when what we drank was an indication of our social status (unless it's a bottle of Domaine Armaud Rousseau Pere et Fils Chambertin Grand Cru, which is French for "I'm better than you"). Today we'd just laugh at a Coke commercial I saw back in the '80s, which showed a guy on a tennis court holding up a bottle of Coke and saying -- I'm not making this up -- "It's conducive to my personal lifestyle." Coke contains orthophosphoric acid, which is highly corrosive. I hope that guy is rusting in a junkyard somewhere.
Of course, water serves many purposes. I grew up swimming in it. That's a no-win situation, though. Salt water in the ocean is bad for you if you swallow it. I swallowed lots of it when my family took my sister and me to the beach every weekend. It's hard to keep your mouth closed when you're eight years old and a wave that could sink a battleship slams into you. (Actually, they were just gentle swells, but I was a puny eight-year-old.) I felt much safer swimming in community pools. But chlorinated water can lead to respiratory defects, neurological dysfunction, and colorectal cancer. I guess I was just lucky. These days, no one seems to mind when I wear my armored diving suit to the Y.
I guess water is becoming scarce in this country. Most of the restaurants I eat at only serve water on request. That didn't used to be the case. Requesting water in a restaurant is tantamount to hearing "Press 1 for English" on the phone. It should be a given, right? Down the street at my neighborhood ice cream stand, where I go for my weekly dipped cone (my doctor says I'm not getting enough chocolate), it costs extra for a cup of water. The cost -- I'm not making this up, either -- is for "material and labor." I'll bet you didn't know that each Styrofoam cup is constructed by a crew of Teamsters back in the kitchen and that it takes three employees to haul one to the pickup window.
Water is also essential for taking a shower or, if you're fabulously wealthy, a bath. I used to have a bathtub, but I'm on a fixed income now. Still, I'm better off than I once was, when renting an affordable apartment depended on where the nearest bush was. I like my showers warm, but not hot. I know people who aren't satisfied until they can feel the water searing their flesh. To me, that's like ordering chili so hot you need a tongue transplant. Why go to extremes? Same goes for cold water. You'll never catch me taking one of those "polar plunges," where, in the name of charity, otherwise sane people run screaming with glee into water so cold even penguins stand on the shore just shaking their heads. I know I sound like Goldilocks, but warm water is just right.
Irrigation is another purpose water serves. I can't think of anything to say about that.
As Americans, we take water for granted. In many other countries, water is no laughing matter. But this post is supposed to be a lighthearted romp, so I won't say anything about that, either. (But check out www.water.org and don't say I sent you.)
In fact, I think I've said everything there is to say about water. Oh, except that our eyes produce their own water when we hear a good joke or someone we know is killed in a mine shaft explosion. Be careful to keep your mouth closed, though, when tears are running down your face. They contain salt, and you could die laughing.
Seventy percent of our bodies is water. Experts say we should drink eight 8-ounce glasses of water a day, presumably to make up for the other thirty percent. I drink bottled water, which isn't the same as drinking out of glasses; I wonder if that counts.
I used to think people who drank bottled water were just being pretentious. "Oh, look at me, I drink bottled water, it's your serve, Muffy." Then I realized I wasn't drinking enough water by the glass. Too much trouble walking out to the well and back every hour. And what about when I was out and about? Carrying all those glasses to fill at water fountains was just cumbersome. So one day I noticed that a gazillion bottles of water only cost about $3 at my local supermarket. We'd gone from Perrier to generic house brands in just two decades. I realized it was OK for me to drink bottled water without having to tie a cashmere sweater around my neck. I've been drinking it ever since.
I think we've gotten past the era when what we drank was an indication of our social status (unless it's a bottle of Domaine Armaud Rousseau Pere et Fils Chambertin Grand Cru, which is French for "I'm better than you"). Today we'd just laugh at a Coke commercial I saw back in the '80s, which showed a guy on a tennis court holding up a bottle of Coke and saying -- I'm not making this up -- "It's conducive to my personal lifestyle." Coke contains orthophosphoric acid, which is highly corrosive. I hope that guy is rusting in a junkyard somewhere.
Of course, water serves many purposes. I grew up swimming in it. That's a no-win situation, though. Salt water in the ocean is bad for you if you swallow it. I swallowed lots of it when my family took my sister and me to the beach every weekend. It's hard to keep your mouth closed when you're eight years old and a wave that could sink a battleship slams into you. (Actually, they were just gentle swells, but I was a puny eight-year-old.) I felt much safer swimming in community pools. But chlorinated water can lead to respiratory defects, neurological dysfunction, and colorectal cancer. I guess I was just lucky. These days, no one seems to mind when I wear my armored diving suit to the Y.
I guess water is becoming scarce in this country. Most of the restaurants I eat at only serve water on request. That didn't used to be the case. Requesting water in a restaurant is tantamount to hearing "Press 1 for English" on the phone. It should be a given, right? Down the street at my neighborhood ice cream stand, where I go for my weekly dipped cone (my doctor says I'm not getting enough chocolate), it costs extra for a cup of water. The cost -- I'm not making this up, either -- is for "material and labor." I'll bet you didn't know that each Styrofoam cup is constructed by a crew of Teamsters back in the kitchen and that it takes three employees to haul one to the pickup window.
Water is also essential for taking a shower or, if you're fabulously wealthy, a bath. I used to have a bathtub, but I'm on a fixed income now. Still, I'm better off than I once was, when renting an affordable apartment depended on where the nearest bush was. I like my showers warm, but not hot. I know people who aren't satisfied until they can feel the water searing their flesh. To me, that's like ordering chili so hot you need a tongue transplant. Why go to extremes? Same goes for cold water. You'll never catch me taking one of those "polar plunges," where, in the name of charity, otherwise sane people run screaming with glee into water so cold even penguins stand on the shore just shaking their heads. I know I sound like Goldilocks, but warm water is just right.
Irrigation is another purpose water serves. I can't think of anything to say about that.
As Americans, we take water for granted. In many other countries, water is no laughing matter. But this post is supposed to be a lighthearted romp, so I won't say anything about that, either. (But check out www.water.org and don't say I sent you.)
In fact, I think I've said everything there is to say about water. Oh, except that our eyes produce their own water when we hear a good joke or someone we know is killed in a mine shaft explosion. Be careful to keep your mouth closed, though, when tears are running down your face. They contain salt, and you could die laughing.
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
My Personal Academy of the Underrated
A few weeks ago, I presented my Personal Academy of the Overrated, inspired by Michael Murphy and Diane Keaton's own list in Manhattan. Now it's time for the sequel -- those people and things that haven't received the attention and acclaim I think they deserve. Hence . . . my Personal Academy of the Underrated!
Most Underrated State: Kansas
When you mention Kansas to most people, only two things come to mind: flatness and Dorothy. Well, many people come from Kansas -- Detroit Lions running back Barry Sanders, Alf Landon, the poet William Stafford, Martina McBride, Vivian Vance, the Clutter family, not to mention thousands of people nobody ever heard of -- and Dorothy isn't even a real person. As for flatness, I've driven across the state many times as a former resident of Wichita, and Kansas is not flat. It's a landscape of gorgeous rolling hills that enable a person to see grain silos from miles away. If it were flat, I never could have stayed awake during all those excursions. You want to talk about flat? South Florida is flat. Just think -- if the Everglades were comprised of rolling hills, alligators would be turning up in canals and people's backyards all over the surrounding municipalities. (Oh, wait -- they already do.)
Most Underrated Sport: Curling
What would the Winter Olympics be without curling? Curling is like shuffleboard on ice, only the disc is replaced by a round polished granite stone, and what I find to be an endless source of fascination is watching the two players ahead of the stone sweeping frantically with brooms. I have a broom at home, and if I could sweep that fast, my housecleaning would be over in seconds.
Most Underrated Performance By A Movie Actress in a Leading Role:
Jennifer Jason Leigh, Miami Blues
Generally speaking, crime dramas aren't usually noticed during awards season, and, as a result, actors and actresses in those movies get overlooked as well. But in Miami Blues, Leigh gives a positively Streepesque performance that I can't even try to be funny about. She plays a hooker/college student who gets involved with a deadly ex-con played by Alec Baldwin, who also has never been better. Leigh doesn't merely embody this role; she lives it. Her inflections, her quirky body language, her manifestations of doubt and grief, are all totally unlike anything she has played before or since, and they're true to her character. Just watch her in the supermarket scene where Fred Ward, also outstanding as a cop (this movie is filled with terrific performances), is informing her that her boyfriend is a murderer. She had promised Ward, who previously shared a dinner with her and Baldwin at her apartment, a homemade recipe, and as she tells it to him, her delivery is a perfectly modulated blend of ordinary chit chat and slowly mounting heartbreak. The movie is based on a novel by crime writer Charles Willeford, whom I mention because he, too is underrated.
Most Underrated TV Show: Then Came Bronson
This series ran from 1969 to 1970, which gives you some idea of how underrated it was. Michael Parks played Jim Bronson, a newspaperman who takes to the open road on a 1969 Harley Davidson Sportster after a friend's suicide and his overall disgust with "working for the Man." Each episode opened with Bronson pulling up to a stoplight beside an average-looking guy in an average-looking car. The dialogue is a perfect mix of Shakespeare and European existentialism:
Driver: "Taking a trip?" Bronson: "What's that?" Driver: "Taking a trip?" Bronson: "Yeah." Driver: "Where to?" Bronson: "Oh, I don't know. Wherever I end up, I guess." Driver: "Man, I wish I was you." Bronson: "Really?" Driver: "Yeah." Bronson: "Well, hang in there."
What did I tell you? I couldn't get enough of it back then -- that is, when I could hear it. You see, Parks was one of a new breed of Method actors who tried to sound and act like their ultimate rebel hero, Marlon Brando. In Parks' case, this meant lots of mumbling. I would watch it with my parents, and my father was forever going, "What the hell did he just say?" He didn't understand what being cool was all about. Then a few years ago, I came across a copy of one of the episodes, and after a few minutes, I found myself going, "What the hell did he just say?" I no longer understood was being cool was all about. I had joined the Establishment.
Bronson spoke to the free spirit I wanted to be at 16. I wanted to own my own Harley and travel the country and meet people at pivotal points in their lives and make everything OK before riding away again until the next episode. By the 2000's, though, I'd had enough of traveling, I thought motorcycles were rolling death traps, and people at pivotal points in their lives would have to solve their own problems; I had my own. Ah, youth.
Most Underrated Athlete: Floyd Patterson
Talk about boxing today and it's Ali this, Ali that. If not, it's Tyson this, Tyson that. You don't hear much about Floyd Patterson (1935-2006) anymore, and that's a shame. He's the only fighter I'd like to have met and shared a meal with. I won't bore you with the stats, except this: He fought and lost to Ali twice, the first time in 1965. (The second time was in 1972, when the fight was called after six rounds due to a cut and swelling that Ali gave him.) Ali had called Patterson an Uncle Tom because Patterson wouldn't call him Muhammad Ali after he dropped the name Cassius Clay. Ali considered this an offense to Islam. Patterson wasn't all that interested in Islam to begin with; he was a staunch civil rights activist, and this ran counter to Islam's beliefs (or something like that; I'm not sure exactly what the conflict was). Legend has it that because of this, Ali toyed with and tormented Patterson throughout the fight just to prolong the humiliation. But Patterson was suffering from a slipped disk he'd gotten during training, and it became evident pretty quickly that he was in considerable pain. Ali saw this and pulled back, thinking the ref would stop the fight. But the ref didn't stop it. Patterson said later that Ali's punches grew softer as the minutes went by, and he wondered if indeed Ali was mocking him. Ali ultimately won the fight with a TKO. Hmm . . . I thought I knew where I was going with this. It doesn't speak as much to Patterson's character as it does to Ali's, does it? Ignore this paragraph.
Point is, though, that Patterson was an activist who fought for desegregation, and, nearly as important to me, he was by all accounts a perfect gentleman to everyone he met throughout his life. Hence, our meal together.
Most Underrated Plant: Dandelion
Dandelions just want to be our friends. They look so cute with their little white afros, and they give us hours of pleasure when we blow on them. If you can't blow on them because you're weak from hunger, they're also edible. That's how much they love us.
Most Underrated Rumor: Millard Fillmore's Bathtub
It's long been an accepted fact that President Millard Fillmore installed the White House's first bathtub in 1850. He didn't. This was a hoax perpetrated by journalist H.L. Mencken in 1917 in one of his columns. He later admitted it was a prank and that he had only tried to boost morale during WWI. I'm sure our troops and their loved ones here at home rested easy knowing that Millard Fillmore went to bed clean every night. So I call this rumor underrated because I can't think of many others that have been so fully integrated into the national consciousness. Heck, I believed it my whole life until ten minutes ago. (Love you, Wikipedia!)
Most Underrated Band: Doug and the Slugs
Doug and the Slugs was a Canadian pop band that formed in 1977 and lasted until 1992. They had trouble getting gigs in the early days because of their name (can't imagine why), but they went on to become a very popular band in Canada and achieved a modest success here. Their (few) hits included "Making It Work" and "Too Bad" ("Too Bad" became the theme song for a sitcom called The Norm Show. If you remember it, then voila, you've heard of them.) I like them because they were quirky and self-deprecating, because their lead singer, Doug Bennett, wrote good lyrics, and because they had a smooth sound that I found infectious. Theirs were some of MTV's earliest music videos, and hey, I just happen to have one of them right here. The song is "Real Enough," a song I still can't get enough of. Just listen to this harmony. These cats swing!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qoRgcUJ66SY
Most Underrated State: Kansas
When you mention Kansas to most people, only two things come to mind: flatness and Dorothy. Well, many people come from Kansas -- Detroit Lions running back Barry Sanders, Alf Landon, the poet William Stafford, Martina McBride, Vivian Vance, the Clutter family, not to mention thousands of people nobody ever heard of -- and Dorothy isn't even a real person. As for flatness, I've driven across the state many times as a former resident of Wichita, and Kansas is not flat. It's a landscape of gorgeous rolling hills that enable a person to see grain silos from miles away. If it were flat, I never could have stayed awake during all those excursions. You want to talk about flat? South Florida is flat. Just think -- if the Everglades were comprised of rolling hills, alligators would be turning up in canals and people's backyards all over the surrounding municipalities. (Oh, wait -- they already do.)
Most Underrated Sport: Curling
What would the Winter Olympics be without curling? Curling is like shuffleboard on ice, only the disc is replaced by a round polished granite stone, and what I find to be an endless source of fascination is watching the two players ahead of the stone sweeping frantically with brooms. I have a broom at home, and if I could sweep that fast, my housecleaning would be over in seconds.
Most Underrated Performance By A Movie Actress in a Leading Role:
Jennifer Jason Leigh, Miami Blues
Generally speaking, crime dramas aren't usually noticed during awards season, and, as a result, actors and actresses in those movies get overlooked as well. But in Miami Blues, Leigh gives a positively Streepesque performance that I can't even try to be funny about. She plays a hooker/college student who gets involved with a deadly ex-con played by Alec Baldwin, who also has never been better. Leigh doesn't merely embody this role; she lives it. Her inflections, her quirky body language, her manifestations of doubt and grief, are all totally unlike anything she has played before or since, and they're true to her character. Just watch her in the supermarket scene where Fred Ward, also outstanding as a cop (this movie is filled with terrific performances), is informing her that her boyfriend is a murderer. She had promised Ward, who previously shared a dinner with her and Baldwin at her apartment, a homemade recipe, and as she tells it to him, her delivery is a perfectly modulated blend of ordinary chit chat and slowly mounting heartbreak. The movie is based on a novel by crime writer Charles Willeford, whom I mention because he, too is underrated.
Most Underrated TV Show: Then Came Bronson
This series ran from 1969 to 1970, which gives you some idea of how underrated it was. Michael Parks played Jim Bronson, a newspaperman who takes to the open road on a 1969 Harley Davidson Sportster after a friend's suicide and his overall disgust with "working for the Man." Each episode opened with Bronson pulling up to a stoplight beside an average-looking guy in an average-looking car. The dialogue is a perfect mix of Shakespeare and European existentialism:
What did I tell you? I couldn't get enough of it back then -- that is, when I could hear it. You see, Parks was one of a new breed of Method actors who tried to sound and act like their ultimate rebel hero, Marlon Brando. In Parks' case, this meant lots of mumbling. I would watch it with my parents, and my father was forever going, "What the hell did he just say?" He didn't understand what being cool was all about. Then a few years ago, I came across a copy of one of the episodes, and after a few minutes, I found myself going, "What the hell did he just say?" I no longer understood was being cool was all about. I had joined the Establishment.
Bronson spoke to the free spirit I wanted to be at 16. I wanted to own my own Harley and travel the country and meet people at pivotal points in their lives and make everything OK before riding away again until the next episode. By the 2000's, though, I'd had enough of traveling, I thought motorcycles were rolling death traps, and people at pivotal points in their lives would have to solve their own problems; I had my own. Ah, youth.
Most Underrated Athlete: Floyd Patterson
Talk about boxing today and it's Ali this, Ali that. If not, it's Tyson this, Tyson that. You don't hear much about Floyd Patterson (1935-2006) anymore, and that's a shame. He's the only fighter I'd like to have met and shared a meal with. I won't bore you with the stats, except this: He fought and lost to Ali twice, the first time in 1965. (The second time was in 1972, when the fight was called after six rounds due to a cut and swelling that Ali gave him.) Ali had called Patterson an Uncle Tom because Patterson wouldn't call him Muhammad Ali after he dropped the name Cassius Clay. Ali considered this an offense to Islam. Patterson wasn't all that interested in Islam to begin with; he was a staunch civil rights activist, and this ran counter to Islam's beliefs (or something like that; I'm not sure exactly what the conflict was). Legend has it that because of this, Ali toyed with and tormented Patterson throughout the fight just to prolong the humiliation. But Patterson was suffering from a slipped disk he'd gotten during training, and it became evident pretty quickly that he was in considerable pain. Ali saw this and pulled back, thinking the ref would stop the fight. But the ref didn't stop it. Patterson said later that Ali's punches grew softer as the minutes went by, and he wondered if indeed Ali was mocking him. Ali ultimately won the fight with a TKO. Hmm . . . I thought I knew where I was going with this. It doesn't speak as much to Patterson's character as it does to Ali's, does it? Ignore this paragraph.
Point is, though, that Patterson was an activist who fought for desegregation, and, nearly as important to me, he was by all accounts a perfect gentleman to everyone he met throughout his life. Hence, our meal together.
Most Underrated Plant: Dandelion
Dandelions just want to be our friends. They look so cute with their little white afros, and they give us hours of pleasure when we blow on them. If you can't blow on them because you're weak from hunger, they're also edible. That's how much they love us.
Most Underrated Rumor: Millard Fillmore's Bathtub
It's long been an accepted fact that President Millard Fillmore installed the White House's first bathtub in 1850. He didn't. This was a hoax perpetrated by journalist H.L. Mencken in 1917 in one of his columns. He later admitted it was a prank and that he had only tried to boost morale during WWI. I'm sure our troops and their loved ones here at home rested easy knowing that Millard Fillmore went to bed clean every night. So I call this rumor underrated because I can't think of many others that have been so fully integrated into the national consciousness. Heck, I believed it my whole life until ten minutes ago. (Love you, Wikipedia!)
Most Underrated Band: Doug and the Slugs
Doug and the Slugs was a Canadian pop band that formed in 1977 and lasted until 1992. They had trouble getting gigs in the early days because of their name (can't imagine why), but they went on to become a very popular band in Canada and achieved a modest success here. Their (few) hits included "Making It Work" and "Too Bad" ("Too Bad" became the theme song for a sitcom called The Norm Show. If you remember it, then voila, you've heard of them.) I like them because they were quirky and self-deprecating, because their lead singer, Doug Bennett, wrote good lyrics, and because they had a smooth sound that I found infectious. Theirs were some of MTV's earliest music videos, and hey, I just happen to have one of them right here. The song is "Real Enough," a song I still can't get enough of. Just listen to this harmony. These cats swing!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qoRgcUJ66SY
Sunday, June 14, 2015
And Now A Word From Our Sponsor
Commercials kill me. That's why I stopped watching them months ago. But unfortunately I have a steel trap memory.
Consider Cialis, for example. I never saw ads for erectile dysfunction when I was growing up, although I suspect it's been a problem for as long as there have been penises (which would exclude the 1950s). But if you have to advertise this particular malady, I don't think the brains behind the Cialis campaign have the right idea. You see a man and a woman holding hands or looking lovingly into each other's eyes while a doctorly voice warns us of all the reasons you shouldn't take Cialis. We're led to believe that the man in the commercial doesn't suffer from those side effects and has already taken a dose. So where do he and his beloved end up at the end? In bed? On the kitchen floor? No -- in bathwater. In two separate tubs. Outdoors, for goodness sake. I mean, come on, at the very least share a tub if this is foreplay. (I'll bet he'd be sharing a tub if he were walking hand in hand with one of the models from those Carl's Jr. ads.)
Then there's Jake from State Farm, or, rather, the guy on the phone with Jake from State Farm. Just why is he calling Jake in the middle of the night? Must be an insurance emergency, right? Then why doesn't his wife know? Can't it wait until regular business hours? And what is she doing up at that hour? She evidently already suspected him of talking to another woman. Could there in fact be another woman? Could it be he was talking to Jake about his wife's life insurance policy? Is she about to be bumped off? Will Jake squeal when the cops come down on him? Already I can see Oliver Platt as Jake and Vince Vaughan as the husband. I wonder who'll direct.
Of course, there is such a thing as a clever and successful TV ad. When I talk to people about commercials (which isn't often), Geico is the clear favorite. The company has come far in its evolution from cavemen to geckos, and now it's moved on to parodies, two of which are among my all-time favorite anything:
The first one features the cowboy who rides far off into the sunset because "I'm a loner, and a loner's gotta be alone." The Geico logo appears onscreen just in time for him to hit one of the letters and fall off his horse. Bravo!
My top favorite is the takeoff on horror movies, with four demographically correct millennials running in terror from something in the night. They come upon an old house and can't decide whether to hide in the attic or the basement. One of them cries, "Why can't we just get in the running car?" while pointing to, sure enough, a sporty red convertible idling behind them. "Are you crazy?" the guy beside her says. "Let's hide behind those chainsaws!" So they run behind a row of chainsaws hanging over the doorway of a shed while a creepy guy behind them lifts the mask he's wearing and shakes his head in bland disbelief. In the final shot, we see our four heroes running out from the shed with one of the guys yelling, "Head for the cemetery!" I really haven't laughed that loud over a commercial in years and years. Not even during the Super Bowl.
Being a guy, I tend to notice women in commercials more than I do men. The customer service character Lily of AT&T -- she of the bright smile and simple blue blouse -- is infinitely more appealing than Miss September chowing down on a Mile High bacon cheeseburger. At least it's clear what Lily is selling. Also, Southwest Airlines had a spot last year called "Dance Party" that featured a very energetic young woman dancing up a storm in three separate settings. What was notable was that she seemed to be having a genuinely good time. She made me want to run out and buy something so I could feel that way, too. The only thing wrong with that campaign (and Southwest has a sequel now called "Wedding Party") is that the dancer and the setting don't have an awful lot to do with airplanes. I don't come away thinking, "Book me on the next flight."
The character Flo, who's appeared in more than 100 Progressive Insurance commercials, isn't particularly funny or alluring (and let's face it -- Madison Avenue is all about alluring), so I don't know why that campaign has been so successful. But nothing else matters if Flo is selling lots of insurance, and for some reason more and more people are buying insurance from Flo.
We've covered the good and the bad. Now it's time to confront the ugly.
I don't care how cute the cartoon baby bear is -- he's got scraps of toilet paper stuck to his butt, and we know Charmin Ultra isn't for cartoon baby bears. I'd very much enjoy never seeing that one again.
A few years ago, Orkin, the pest control experts, came up with the idea of having a cockroach crawl diagonally across the TV screen in the middle of an otherwise ordinary commercial. The idea was that I'd think there really was a cockroach in my living room. I didn't go, "Wow, thanks, Orkin! I guess I'll use your product now in case a real cockroach crawls diagonally across my TV screen." No, I was thinking, "Boy, that was close. Another two inches and my shoe might have gone right through the set."
Then there are the Gross-out Twins. Instead of thinking, "I'll buy that product," I'm thinking, "I hope I can make it to the bathroom before I start blowing chunks." The twins are, of course, Mr. Mucus from the Mucinex commercial and Digger, the talking toenail fungus from Lamisil. Who thinks this stuff up? These are the anti-Cialis ads, guaranteed to ruin any mood (and without those pesky side effects).
I'd planned to move on to some of the more egregious TV infomercials, but that last paragraph just ruined my mood. Just as well, huh?
Consider Cialis, for example. I never saw ads for erectile dysfunction when I was growing up, although I suspect it's been a problem for as long as there have been penises (which would exclude the 1950s). But if you have to advertise this particular malady, I don't think the brains behind the Cialis campaign have the right idea. You see a man and a woman holding hands or looking lovingly into each other's eyes while a doctorly voice warns us of all the reasons you shouldn't take Cialis. We're led to believe that the man in the commercial doesn't suffer from those side effects and has already taken a dose. So where do he and his beloved end up at the end? In bed? On the kitchen floor? No -- in bathwater. In two separate tubs. Outdoors, for goodness sake. I mean, come on, at the very least share a tub if this is foreplay. (I'll bet he'd be sharing a tub if he were walking hand in hand with one of the models from those Carl's Jr. ads.)
Then there's Jake from State Farm, or, rather, the guy on the phone with Jake from State Farm. Just why is he calling Jake in the middle of the night? Must be an insurance emergency, right? Then why doesn't his wife know? Can't it wait until regular business hours? And what is she doing up at that hour? She evidently already suspected him of talking to another woman. Could there in fact be another woman? Could it be he was talking to Jake about his wife's life insurance policy? Is she about to be bumped off? Will Jake squeal when the cops come down on him? Already I can see Oliver Platt as Jake and Vince Vaughan as the husband. I wonder who'll direct.
Of course, there is such a thing as a clever and successful TV ad. When I talk to people about commercials (which isn't often), Geico is the clear favorite. The company has come far in its evolution from cavemen to geckos, and now it's moved on to parodies, two of which are among my all-time favorite anything:
The first one features the cowboy who rides far off into the sunset because "I'm a loner, and a loner's gotta be alone." The Geico logo appears onscreen just in time for him to hit one of the letters and fall off his horse. Bravo!
My top favorite is the takeoff on horror movies, with four demographically correct millennials running in terror from something in the night. They come upon an old house and can't decide whether to hide in the attic or the basement. One of them cries, "Why can't we just get in the running car?" while pointing to, sure enough, a sporty red convertible idling behind them. "Are you crazy?" the guy beside her says. "Let's hide behind those chainsaws!" So they run behind a row of chainsaws hanging over the doorway of a shed while a creepy guy behind them lifts the mask he's wearing and shakes his head in bland disbelief. In the final shot, we see our four heroes running out from the shed with one of the guys yelling, "Head for the cemetery!" I really haven't laughed that loud over a commercial in years and years. Not even during the Super Bowl.
Being a guy, I tend to notice women in commercials more than I do men. The customer service character Lily of AT&T -- she of the bright smile and simple blue blouse -- is infinitely more appealing than Miss September chowing down on a Mile High bacon cheeseburger. At least it's clear what Lily is selling. Also, Southwest Airlines had a spot last year called "Dance Party" that featured a very energetic young woman dancing up a storm in three separate settings. What was notable was that she seemed to be having a genuinely good time. She made me want to run out and buy something so I could feel that way, too. The only thing wrong with that campaign (and Southwest has a sequel now called "Wedding Party") is that the dancer and the setting don't have an awful lot to do with airplanes. I don't come away thinking, "Book me on the next flight."
The character Flo, who's appeared in more than 100 Progressive Insurance commercials, isn't particularly funny or alluring (and let's face it -- Madison Avenue is all about alluring), so I don't know why that campaign has been so successful. But nothing else matters if Flo is selling lots of insurance, and for some reason more and more people are buying insurance from Flo.
We've covered the good and the bad. Now it's time to confront the ugly.
I don't care how cute the cartoon baby bear is -- he's got scraps of toilet paper stuck to his butt, and we know Charmin Ultra isn't for cartoon baby bears. I'd very much enjoy never seeing that one again.
A few years ago, Orkin, the pest control experts, came up with the idea of having a cockroach crawl diagonally across the TV screen in the middle of an otherwise ordinary commercial. The idea was that I'd think there really was a cockroach in my living room. I didn't go, "Wow, thanks, Orkin! I guess I'll use your product now in case a real cockroach crawls diagonally across my TV screen." No, I was thinking, "Boy, that was close. Another two inches and my shoe might have gone right through the set."
Then there are the Gross-out Twins. Instead of thinking, "I'll buy that product," I'm thinking, "I hope I can make it to the bathroom before I start blowing chunks." The twins are, of course, Mr. Mucus from the Mucinex commercial and Digger, the talking toenail fungus from Lamisil. Who thinks this stuff up? These are the anti-Cialis ads, guaranteed to ruin any mood (and without those pesky side effects).
I'd planned to move on to some of the more egregious TV infomercials, but that last paragraph just ruined my mood. Just as well, huh?
Thursday, June 11, 2015
Fraidy Cat
I get afraid of stuff just like everybody else. When someone says, "He's afraid of his own shadow," I can relate. Shadows aren't inherently scary, but because I'm high-strung, a sudden something in my peripheral vision can startle me. Sometimes that can be a shadow. So sue me.
The first two scary entities in my life were women (sort of). My parents gave me a yellow 78 r.p.m. record of someone reading "Snow White" when I must have been three or four. The evil queen terrified me. I remember an aunt and uncle coming over to visit and my parents telling me to put the record on, but I wouldn't. I didn't even feel safe with four adults in the room, and I stopped eating apples. Right around that time, I had a dream in which I was trapped in our building's basement with a female mannequin who wanted to kill me. I tried to talk her out of it by inviting her to become part of our family. If she'd known my family, she would have run screaming to the nearest department store.
That was when I lived in New Jersey until the age of five. In Miami, where I did my growing up, my sister and I discovered the horrifying world of tropical bugs. Worst of all was the palmetto bug, basically a giant flying cockroach. Terry still won't go back to Florida. Some bugs you could find anywhere, like wasps. Why did God make wasps? I can't figure it out. However, just last week I read about a newly discovered species of wasp that actually does serve a purpose. It injects a venom into cockroaches that renders them nearly immobile, then eats them. I forget which country this is in, but Terry might like to go sometime.
I lived for movies and television, and I had a love/hate relationship with my favorite movies and TV shows because they were all scary. I was a masochist even then.
Five early films fried me:
Psycho (1960) (not even Mother was as unnerving as that psychiatrist in the last scene)
13 Ghosts (same year) (I lasted about 45 minutes)
The Haunting (1963) ("Whose hand was I holding?" -- scariest line in movie history)
Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1964) (so scary I actually peed in other people's pants)
Wait Until Dark (1967) (so much fun watching all that popcorn go airborne during the climax)
These three TV shows -- and three episodes in particular -- also destroyed me:
The Twilight Zone ("The New Exhibit" -- wax figures of famous murderers come to life -- eek!)
The Outer Limits ("The Zanti Misfits" -- ants from space with human faces -- yikes!)
Alfred Hitchcock Presents (which became The Alfred Hitchcock Hour in 1962) ("An Unlocked Window" -- dead of night, old dark house, serial killer on the loose, the biggest shock ending of its time for TV -- holy crap!)
I also had an unnatural fear of quicksand in those days. Blame it on Tarzan movies.
I enjoy flying on airplanes, but it's an enjoyment mixed with dread. I never, ever remove my seat belt. Absolutely any occurrence out of the ordinary, besides the occasional turbulence, and the words "next of kin" start floating through my head. What's worst is that I've yet to be on a plane when something unusual happens where the crew actually tells us what's going on. I was on a flight that had just taken off but didn't climb for what seemed like two whole minutes. Dogs were chasing us below. Yet the flight attendants said nothing. On another flight, we were this close to landing when, instead of doing it, the plane rose back up and completely circled the area before finally setting down. No word from the pilot. I just hate when that happens.
Oddly, I don't share the fear of public speaking that others have. I've read my poems in cafes and bars in New York City and stood before a decade's worth of classrooms in Kansas. The fear turns into adrenaline in those instances, and I feel almost a kind of power and control, because, unlike with airplanes, if anything's going to go wrong, the fault is only mine. I learned a lesson about fear through one of these experiences: Before giving a reading in a public library, I told myself that the adrenaline I was feeling was silly -- I was mistaking it for fear -- and I repressed it. Lousiest reading I ever gave. The lesson was that fear serves a purpose, and now I embrace it. Not that you'll ever catch me reading in public or teaching these days -- I mean, I'm not an idiot.
Maybe I live in Idaho because it's a catastrophe-free zone. Here are the natural (and not-so-natural) disasters that have threatened me all my life:
Florida: hurricanes
New York: smog so thick that sometimes you can't see across the Hudson from Jersey to Manhattan
Kansas: tornadoes
Washington: earthquakes
Maine: Nor'easters and Governor LePage
So far I think the worst I've had to fear in Boise are temperature inversions and the occasional stray mountain lion. And oh, of course, my shadow on sunny days.
The first two scary entities in my life were women (sort of). My parents gave me a yellow 78 r.p.m. record of someone reading "Snow White" when I must have been three or four. The evil queen terrified me. I remember an aunt and uncle coming over to visit and my parents telling me to put the record on, but I wouldn't. I didn't even feel safe with four adults in the room, and I stopped eating apples. Right around that time, I had a dream in which I was trapped in our building's basement with a female mannequin who wanted to kill me. I tried to talk her out of it by inviting her to become part of our family. If she'd known my family, she would have run screaming to the nearest department store.
That was when I lived in New Jersey until the age of five. In Miami, where I did my growing up, my sister and I discovered the horrifying world of tropical bugs. Worst of all was the palmetto bug, basically a giant flying cockroach. Terry still won't go back to Florida. Some bugs you could find anywhere, like wasps. Why did God make wasps? I can't figure it out. However, just last week I read about a newly discovered species of wasp that actually does serve a purpose. It injects a venom into cockroaches that renders them nearly immobile, then eats them. I forget which country this is in, but Terry might like to go sometime.
I lived for movies and television, and I had a love/hate relationship with my favorite movies and TV shows because they were all scary. I was a masochist even then.
Five early films fried me:
Psycho (1960) (not even Mother was as unnerving as that psychiatrist in the last scene)
13 Ghosts (same year) (I lasted about 45 minutes)
The Haunting (1963) ("Whose hand was I holding?" -- scariest line in movie history)
Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1964) (so scary I actually peed in other people's pants)
Wait Until Dark (1967) (so much fun watching all that popcorn go airborne during the climax)
These three TV shows -- and three episodes in particular -- also destroyed me:
The Twilight Zone ("The New Exhibit" -- wax figures of famous murderers come to life -- eek!)
The Outer Limits ("The Zanti Misfits" -- ants from space with human faces -- yikes!)
Alfred Hitchcock Presents (which became The Alfred Hitchcock Hour in 1962) ("An Unlocked Window" -- dead of night, old dark house, serial killer on the loose, the biggest shock ending of its time for TV -- holy crap!)
I also had an unnatural fear of quicksand in those days. Blame it on Tarzan movies.
I enjoy flying on airplanes, but it's an enjoyment mixed with dread. I never, ever remove my seat belt. Absolutely any occurrence out of the ordinary, besides the occasional turbulence, and the words "next of kin" start floating through my head. What's worst is that I've yet to be on a plane when something unusual happens where the crew actually tells us what's going on. I was on a flight that had just taken off but didn't climb for what seemed like two whole minutes. Dogs were chasing us below. Yet the flight attendants said nothing. On another flight, we were this close to landing when, instead of doing it, the plane rose back up and completely circled the area before finally setting down. No word from the pilot. I just hate when that happens.
Oddly, I don't share the fear of public speaking that others have. I've read my poems in cafes and bars in New York City and stood before a decade's worth of classrooms in Kansas. The fear turns into adrenaline in those instances, and I feel almost a kind of power and control, because, unlike with airplanes, if anything's going to go wrong, the fault is only mine. I learned a lesson about fear through one of these experiences: Before giving a reading in a public library, I told myself that the adrenaline I was feeling was silly -- I was mistaking it for fear -- and I repressed it. Lousiest reading I ever gave. The lesson was that fear serves a purpose, and now I embrace it. Not that you'll ever catch me reading in public or teaching these days -- I mean, I'm not an idiot.
Maybe I live in Idaho because it's a catastrophe-free zone. Here are the natural (and not-so-natural) disasters that have threatened me all my life:
Florida: hurricanes
New York: smog so thick that sometimes you can't see across the Hudson from Jersey to Manhattan
Kansas: tornadoes
Washington: earthquakes
Maine: Nor'easters and Governor LePage
So far I think the worst I've had to fear in Boise are temperature inversions and the occasional stray mountain lion. And oh, of course, my shadow on sunny days.
Sunday, June 7, 2015
Duck!
I know that many of you reading this right now have often said to yourselves, "I wish I were a duck." I don't blame you; most people do. Or maybe I'm merely projecting -- until recently, I wished I were a duck.
See, I always liked ducks -- mallards, mainly -- because I felt an affinity for them that I could never explain. Maybe it's because I'm a guy and I think the males would make good role models for guys: they're great-looking and have a good manly name -- Drake. When a drake steps into the pond, you hear a collective sigh from all the females. The females are pretty but in a plain-Jane kind of way, and they don't even have a special name. They're just Duck, or Hen, which is even worse because a hen is already a hen. A duck calling herself a hen simply confuses everyone, especially baby hens (called chicks, which is also what -- never mind). So she's just duck, or ducky, if the two of you are on a nickname basis.
Nothing relaxes me more in life than to sit on the grass at the edge of a lake and have ducks feed out of my hand. Ducks aren't like gulls. When ducks are done feeding, at least I still have my hand. Their bills on my palm are like butterflies landing and taking off. When gulls feed from my hand, they're like miners trying to excavate with pick axes.
At the outset, I used the past tense when I spoke of wishing I were a duck. My original intent had been to rhapsodize about the glory and splendor that is duck. But then I started collecting information to support my hypothesis, and what I found sent my web-footed role models flying off their pedestals and high-tailing it south for the winter. That's because, as it turns out, a duck's life is no waddle in the park.
For instance, ducks get no respect when we talk about them:
We don't simply say we have a slight problem. Instead, we're dead ducks.
Obama can't just be in his second term of office. No, he has to be a lame duck.
No one says, "Hey, look out for that anvil!" They say, "You're a sitting duck." A duck who's just sitting wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the anvil.
"Duck" as a verb means to drop down low in order to avoid something, like a bullet or, when I was a kid, an atom bomb (as in "duck and cover"). So of course ducks are cowards now, too.
Certainly the most offensive expression (cover your eyes if you're sensitive) is "f*** a duck." No duck I know would willingly let this happen; therefore, we're sanctioning violence. It would almost be better to be shot down from the sky, which is the fate of so many ducks who've already spent a lifetime having to listen to us degrade them.
It's a good thing we have the saying, "Lord love a duck," since no one else will.
Another strike ducks have against them is that they're tasty:
Peking duck
duck a l'orange
duck tacos
duck poppers
duck pastrami
duck pot pie
duck confit quesadillas
Not to mention duck sauce over everything. Do you want to know how many different duck dishes there are?
483!
I ate sweet and sour duck once when I was young and naïve. It tasted OK. No -- it tasted great! But sometimes we just have to sacrifice our happiness for the greater good. Next time you get a hankering for duck, try peanut butter and jelly instead. No animals are harmed in the making of your sandwich. (It's especially good if you squish the sandwich down before eating it.)
Yes, you might be thinking, but what about ducks in popular culture? Aren't they respectable representatives of their amatine family? (Amatine -- just like "bovine" or "canine," but for ducks -- I looked it up.) Well, ha, I say, ha! Take a look:
Walt Disney gave us Donald Duck. What's his claim to fame? He's a whiner. All he does is complain and throw tantrums. He must absolutely terrify his three nephews. It's a wonder Daisy never moved out and issued a restraining order.
Warner Brothers gave us Daffy Duck. His trademark? He's a psychopath. He bounces off the edges of the TV screen in fits of hysteria, heedless of the safety of others. He also lisps, which is highly offensive (not to people who lisp, but to people whose job it is to be offended by cartoon characters).
The comic pages feature Mallard Fillmore, who has his own strip. Very nice -- but what, no Democratic ducks? Why should our only political duck have to be partisan at all and alienate half the eligible voters this country? I say we write in a third-party duck on next year's ballot, someone soft on immigration (who'll let ducks from other countries fly north for the summer).
Movies: Howard the Duck. If I'd been a duck in 1986, I'd have renounced my species and moved to Antarctica to become a penguin.
Music: "Disco Duck." Yes, millennials, I confess, baby boomers actually danced to this back when men wore white polyester and women suffered nosebleeds and vertigo from their platform shoes.
Advertising: The Aflac duck made a comfortable living shilling for an insurance company. All he had to do was yell "Aflac!" for thirty seconds. But even his reputation was tarnished. A few years ago, it was revealed that the duck didn't say his own lines at all, but bill-synced them while Gilbert Gottfried did the voice. I understand that Gottfried, who is a comedian and not exactly an actor, spent months with a dialogue coach working on his big (his only) line. He was exposed as the duck's stunt voice when he was fired for tweeting jokes about the terrible Japanese earthquake and tsunami of 2011. Aflac had to comply with the duck's long-term contract, however, so they covered up by having him lose his voice in a mine shaft explosion while they searched for a new voice. When they learned that Sam Kinison was dead, they approached Fran Drescher, whose people are currently talking to their people.
Finally, sports mascots: You'd think college football mascots would be the lone beacons of purity and animal values. Well, think again. In 2007, the University of Oregon's mascot, known as the Fighting Duck, attacked Shasta, the University of Houston's mascot, and was suspended for one game. It was the only recorded instance of a duck beating up a cougar.
So is it any wonder why I have trouble admitting to people my rapidly waning admiration for ducks? I think I'm even going to start keeping my rubber duck collection under the bathroom sink from now on. (I still have my battleships.)
See, I always liked ducks -- mallards, mainly -- because I felt an affinity for them that I could never explain. Maybe it's because I'm a guy and I think the males would make good role models for guys: they're great-looking and have a good manly name -- Drake. When a drake steps into the pond, you hear a collective sigh from all the females. The females are pretty but in a plain-Jane kind of way, and they don't even have a special name. They're just Duck, or Hen, which is even worse because a hen is already a hen. A duck calling herself a hen simply confuses everyone, especially baby hens (called chicks, which is also what -- never mind). So she's just duck, or ducky, if the two of you are on a nickname basis.
Nothing relaxes me more in life than to sit on the grass at the edge of a lake and have ducks feed out of my hand. Ducks aren't like gulls. When ducks are done feeding, at least I still have my hand. Their bills on my palm are like butterflies landing and taking off. When gulls feed from my hand, they're like miners trying to excavate with pick axes.
At the outset, I used the past tense when I spoke of wishing I were a duck. My original intent had been to rhapsodize about the glory and splendor that is duck. But then I started collecting information to support my hypothesis, and what I found sent my web-footed role models flying off their pedestals and high-tailing it south for the winter. That's because, as it turns out, a duck's life is no waddle in the park.
For instance, ducks get no respect when we talk about them:
We don't simply say we have a slight problem. Instead, we're dead ducks.
Obama can't just be in his second term of office. No, he has to be a lame duck.
No one says, "Hey, look out for that anvil!" They say, "You're a sitting duck." A duck who's just sitting wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the anvil.
"Duck" as a verb means to drop down low in order to avoid something, like a bullet or, when I was a kid, an atom bomb (as in "duck and cover"). So of course ducks are cowards now, too.
Certainly the most offensive expression (cover your eyes if you're sensitive) is "f*** a duck." No duck I know would willingly let this happen; therefore, we're sanctioning violence. It would almost be better to be shot down from the sky, which is the fate of so many ducks who've already spent a lifetime having to listen to us degrade them.
It's a good thing we have the saying, "Lord love a duck," since no one else will.
Another strike ducks have against them is that they're tasty:
Peking duck
duck a l'orange
duck tacos
duck poppers
duck pastrami
duck pot pie
duck confit quesadillas
Not to mention duck sauce over everything. Do you want to know how many different duck dishes there are?
483!
I ate sweet and sour duck once when I was young and naïve. It tasted OK. No -- it tasted great! But sometimes we just have to sacrifice our happiness for the greater good. Next time you get a hankering for duck, try peanut butter and jelly instead. No animals are harmed in the making of your sandwich. (It's especially good if you squish the sandwich down before eating it.)
Yes, you might be thinking, but what about ducks in popular culture? Aren't they respectable representatives of their amatine family? (Amatine -- just like "bovine" or "canine," but for ducks -- I looked it up.) Well, ha, I say, ha! Take a look:
Walt Disney gave us Donald Duck. What's his claim to fame? He's a whiner. All he does is complain and throw tantrums. He must absolutely terrify his three nephews. It's a wonder Daisy never moved out and issued a restraining order.
Warner Brothers gave us Daffy Duck. His trademark? He's a psychopath. He bounces off the edges of the TV screen in fits of hysteria, heedless of the safety of others. He also lisps, which is highly offensive (not to people who lisp, but to people whose job it is to be offended by cartoon characters).
The comic pages feature Mallard Fillmore, who has his own strip. Very nice -- but what, no Democratic ducks? Why should our only political duck have to be partisan at all and alienate half the eligible voters this country? I say we write in a third-party duck on next year's ballot, someone soft on immigration (who'll let ducks from other countries fly north for the summer).
Movies: Howard the Duck. If I'd been a duck in 1986, I'd have renounced my species and moved to Antarctica to become a penguin.
Music: "Disco Duck." Yes, millennials, I confess, baby boomers actually danced to this back when men wore white polyester and women suffered nosebleeds and vertigo from their platform shoes.
Advertising: The Aflac duck made a comfortable living shilling for an insurance company. All he had to do was yell "Aflac!" for thirty seconds. But even his reputation was tarnished. A few years ago, it was revealed that the duck didn't say his own lines at all, but bill-synced them while Gilbert Gottfried did the voice. I understand that Gottfried, who is a comedian and not exactly an actor, spent months with a dialogue coach working on his big (his only) line. He was exposed as the duck's stunt voice when he was fired for tweeting jokes about the terrible Japanese earthquake and tsunami of 2011. Aflac had to comply with the duck's long-term contract, however, so they covered up by having him lose his voice in a mine shaft explosion while they searched for a new voice. When they learned that Sam Kinison was dead, they approached Fran Drescher, whose people are currently talking to their people.
Finally, sports mascots: You'd think college football mascots would be the lone beacons of purity and animal values. Well, think again. In 2007, the University of Oregon's mascot, known as the Fighting Duck, attacked Shasta, the University of Houston's mascot, and was suspended for one game. It was the only recorded instance of a duck beating up a cougar.
So is it any wonder why I have trouble admitting to people my rapidly waning admiration for ducks? I think I'm even going to start keeping my rubber duck collection under the bathroom sink from now on. (I still have my battleships.)
Thursday, June 4, 2015
My Personal Academy of the Overrated
In Woody Allen's 1979 masterpiece Manhattan, Diane Keaton and Michael Murphy play lovers who try to impress Allen by rattling off a partial list of what they call the "Academy of the Overrated," including such luminaries as Goethe, Jung, Lenny Bruce, Norman Mailer, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Isak Dinesen, and, to Allen's disbelief, Ingmar Bergman. He says, "I think those people are all terrific, every one that you've mentioned. What about Mozart? You guys don't want to leave him out. I mean, while you're trashing people..." We never do find out whether Mozart is on their list, but I've always wondered what such a list of my own might look like. So I'm about to prove I can be as pretentious as they are. (Your list might well include Manhattan itself, which only shows how subjective this post will be.)
Film: Pleasantville
Pleasantville starts out as nostalgic comedy, then does a complete 180, shaming viewers for enjoying what they've seen so far and spending the rest of the story applauding itself over the way the filmmakers believe things should have been. In the process, it manages to confuse fiction with reality, love with sex, and -- oh, stop me before my blood pressure goes up. (Had Don Knotts even read the script before saying yes to this?)
Singer: Madonna
Madonna is the only singer I know who repeatedly refers to what she does as her "art." Do real artists need to point that out? What exactly is her art, anyway? She's a pop singer posing as some sort of sex symbol who's telling us she's empowering women (or tweens, anyway). But do women really need Madonna telling them anything? I think she's actually telling herself that in an attempt to be the artist she's always reminding us she is. I've heard more than one person say she's no entertainer but that she is a good businessperson. I agree. She's an industry of one, changing her persona the way other people change socks, trying to stay relevant by upping the shock factor. She's on the cover of the new issue of Cosmo, and the header reads, "Madonna -- Need We Say More?" Yes, actually, a lot more, because I still don't get her. She's been wearing the empress's new clothes all these years. If she represents power, someone should turn off the juice. Her pretensions are exceeded only by her arrogance. Once, during an interview, she said Lady Gaga's music was "reductive," and when the interviewer asked what that meant, she replied, "Look it up." Need I say more?
Writer: Stephen King
His detractors say his novels need an editor with a chainsaw. I think maybe his characters need to go to military school. They're like undisciplined offspring whom King can't keep under control. It's one thing when characters take on a life of their own; I believe that's the most fun a novelist can have. It's another thing when we as readers can see the writer is out of control. It's the way I feel when trying to read his stuff. Bag of Bones was most disappointing -- the most promising opening chapters, then the sense that King was traveling without a map. I've restarted it twice and always hit the same speed bump. On the plus side, On Writing is one of the best books of its kind. Plus, he seems like an awfully nice guy. I just can't read him.
Food: Yogurt
I know, I know -- it's both tasty and good for you. But it looks like pus and almost made me gag the one time I tried it. Same goes for Spam (which doesn't look like pus but rather bologna left out on a highway).
Cartoon character: Scooby-Doo
Personally, I think a cartoon dog should either bark or speak. But Scooby-Doo is some sort of genetic mutation, not quite barking and not quite talking. He sounds as if he's trying not to swallow a mouthful of ball bearings. "Ruh-roh"? That's not human.
TV series: Friends
It's not the worst I've seen, but in proportion to its popularity it might be. Debuting as close as it did on the heels of Seinfeld, it smelled too much like a rip-off to me, and the laugh track wasn't there simply to tell us what was funny, it was there to bludgeon us into submission. The characters and performances were good, and admittedly some of the scripts were funny. But I never got hooked, and I never stop to watch the reruns when I come across them. Also, how could I laugh while feeling sorry for those poor actors who, judging from the actresses' blouses, had to perform in studio temperatures hovering around -20?
TV commercial: Carl's Jr.
Since when are hamburgers supposed to induce orgasms? These supposedly erotic ads also qualify as science fiction, since, as a friend pointed out, there's no way a woman is going to eat 1,200 calories at a clip and still look like that.
Movie actor: Adam Sandler
Sometimes funny on SNL. Never funny since. Probably a nice guy like Stephen King, but so what?
Movie Actress: Shirley MacLaine
It would take a lot for me to dislike the actress who gave us Fran Kubelik in The Apartment (1960), but unfortunately MacLaine makes it easy. She's still a good actress, but she just isn't very likeable in interviews. Of all the lives she's lived, why did she have to pick this one to come back in while I'm around?
Multi-billionaire: Donald Trump
It's the hair. I just can't get past it. Oh, yeah, and the ego, too. Can't forget the ego.
TV personality: Rosie O'Donnell
She was once known as the "Queen of Nice" on daytime TV, remember? Then she decided people might be interested in her opinions, and she turned into Ursula from The Little Mermaid.
State: Texas
Maybe if they just didn't think so much of themselves. No one likes a conceited person, much less a whole state. Texas has a rich and illustrious past; too bad they're still stuck in it. (Would I feel the same if I'd grown up there? Probably not. That's why I count my blessings every night.)
Poet: Maya Angelou
I'm likely stepping on some toes here, as Angelou is obviously some sort of national treasure to much of America. She led a fascinating, multi-faceted life, she survived a horrific childhood and wrote about it beautifully in I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, she was a true role model, and she was really really tall. But note the classification above: Maya Angelou was not a great poet. You can still be an admirable person and not be a great poet, and Maya Angelou was not a great poet. From one of her most beloved poems, "Phenomenal Woman":
Film: Pleasantville
Pleasantville starts out as nostalgic comedy, then does a complete 180, shaming viewers for enjoying what they've seen so far and spending the rest of the story applauding itself over the way the filmmakers believe things should have been. In the process, it manages to confuse fiction with reality, love with sex, and -- oh, stop me before my blood pressure goes up. (Had Don Knotts even read the script before saying yes to this?)
Singer: Madonna
Madonna is the only singer I know who repeatedly refers to what she does as her "art." Do real artists need to point that out? What exactly is her art, anyway? She's a pop singer posing as some sort of sex symbol who's telling us she's empowering women (or tweens, anyway). But do women really need Madonna telling them anything? I think she's actually telling herself that in an attempt to be the artist she's always reminding us she is. I've heard more than one person say she's no entertainer but that she is a good businessperson. I agree. She's an industry of one, changing her persona the way other people change socks, trying to stay relevant by upping the shock factor. She's on the cover of the new issue of Cosmo, and the header reads, "Madonna -- Need We Say More?" Yes, actually, a lot more, because I still don't get her. She's been wearing the empress's new clothes all these years. If she represents power, someone should turn off the juice. Her pretensions are exceeded only by her arrogance. Once, during an interview, she said Lady Gaga's music was "reductive," and when the interviewer asked what that meant, she replied, "Look it up." Need I say more?
Writer: Stephen King
His detractors say his novels need an editor with a chainsaw. I think maybe his characters need to go to military school. They're like undisciplined offspring whom King can't keep under control. It's one thing when characters take on a life of their own; I believe that's the most fun a novelist can have. It's another thing when we as readers can see the writer is out of control. It's the way I feel when trying to read his stuff. Bag of Bones was most disappointing -- the most promising opening chapters, then the sense that King was traveling without a map. I've restarted it twice and always hit the same speed bump. On the plus side, On Writing is one of the best books of its kind. Plus, he seems like an awfully nice guy. I just can't read him.
Food: Yogurt
I know, I know -- it's both tasty and good for you. But it looks like pus and almost made me gag the one time I tried it. Same goes for Spam (which doesn't look like pus but rather bologna left out on a highway).
Cartoon character: Scooby-Doo
Personally, I think a cartoon dog should either bark or speak. But Scooby-Doo is some sort of genetic mutation, not quite barking and not quite talking. He sounds as if he's trying not to swallow a mouthful of ball bearings. "Ruh-roh"? That's not human.
TV series: Friends
It's not the worst I've seen, but in proportion to its popularity it might be. Debuting as close as it did on the heels of Seinfeld, it smelled too much like a rip-off to me, and the laugh track wasn't there simply to tell us what was funny, it was there to bludgeon us into submission. The characters and performances were good, and admittedly some of the scripts were funny. But I never got hooked, and I never stop to watch the reruns when I come across them. Also, how could I laugh while feeling sorry for those poor actors who, judging from the actresses' blouses, had to perform in studio temperatures hovering around -20?
TV commercial: Carl's Jr.
Since when are hamburgers supposed to induce orgasms? These supposedly erotic ads also qualify as science fiction, since, as a friend pointed out, there's no way a woman is going to eat 1,200 calories at a clip and still look like that.
Movie actor: Adam Sandler
Sometimes funny on SNL. Never funny since. Probably a nice guy like Stephen King, but so what?
Movie Actress: Shirley MacLaine
It would take a lot for me to dislike the actress who gave us Fran Kubelik in The Apartment (1960), but unfortunately MacLaine makes it easy. She's still a good actress, but she just isn't very likeable in interviews. Of all the lives she's lived, why did she have to pick this one to come back in while I'm around?
Multi-billionaire: Donald Trump
It's the hair. I just can't get past it. Oh, yeah, and the ego, too. Can't forget the ego.
TV personality: Rosie O'Donnell
She was once known as the "Queen of Nice" on daytime TV, remember? Then she decided people might be interested in her opinions, and she turned into Ursula from The Little Mermaid.
State: Texas
Maybe if they just didn't think so much of themselves. No one likes a conceited person, much less a whole state. Texas has a rich and illustrious past; too bad they're still stuck in it. (Would I feel the same if I'd grown up there? Probably not. That's why I count my blessings every night.)
Poet: Maya Angelou
I'm likely stepping on some toes here, as Angelou is obviously some sort of national treasure to much of America. She led a fascinating, multi-faceted life, she survived a horrific childhood and wrote about it beautifully in I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, she was a true role model, and she was really really tall. But note the classification above: Maya Angelou was not a great poet. You can still be an admirable person and not be a great poet, and Maya Angelou was not a great poet. From one of her most beloved poems, "Phenomenal Woman":
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
Sunday, May 31, 2015
What's for "Desert"?
I found out today that Marie Antoinette never said, "Let them eat cake." She was only ten years old when Rousseau coined the phrase in his Confessions, although what he actually wrote was, "Let them eat brioche." Brioche is a French pastry that's more of a bread than a cake, but does it matter? Point is, if someone thinks they're doing me a disservice by insisting I eat cake or brioche, who am I to argue? "No, no, whatever you do, please don't force me to eat those vile petits four!" I'd have to do my best to mimic the throes of agony while begging them not to give me a fifth serving along with a glass of cold milk.
As you might have surmised by now, I like dessert. A lot. Probably most people do, but not all, which is fine as it means more for the rest of us.
Although I was twice school spelling champ when I was 11 and 12, I never could get "dessert" right. It wasn't atypical to see this sort of sentence in my essays: "I would like to live in the Mojave Dessert." In that instance, I would get marked off for spelling as well as for wanting to live in the Mojave. I had even more trouble with "desert," as in, "What's for desert?" I don't think people have as much trouble distinguishing the two words spoken as they do written. "Desert" was very likely coined before "dessert," but given that, whose idea was it to add an "s" to a word that already served a perfectly fine purpose? Did the first bakers taste their experimental concoctions and go, "Needs more
water"? We'll never know, I guess.
My favorite desserts are pies, particularly French silk, chocolate cream, and Key lime. I grew up in South Florida and never tasted Key lime until I was much older. A deprived childhood.
I've never eaten a banana split and never will. When my sister was very small, our family pulled up to an ice cream shop and bought a banana split for them to share with Terry and a vanilla cone just for me. For some reason, we were eating them in the car out in the parking lot. The three of them were in the front seat, and after they'd given Terry a few bites of a dessert she'd never eaten before, she promptly threw up all over the dashboard. That was the end of banana splits as far as I was concerned. Bananas belong in cereal, anyway. (Also in soup, but that was my mother's predilection and one I outgrew once I left home.)
My sister also instigated my lifelong boycott of mangos. Mangoes were plentiful in Miami, and when my parents gave her one for the first time, she became deathly ill. (Apparently they hadn't learned anything from the banana split.) I hadn't tried mangoes before then, and I thought it was a good idea to go on not trying them, just in case this reaction was genetic. Many years later -- last year, in fact -- Terry told me that in fact she hadn't tasted the mango at all. She'd touched it and developed a serious allergic reaction. So I could have spent all these years eating mangoes (while someone else held them for me). But I'm so used to not eating them that I think I'll just leave things as they are.
It's amazing how many desserts I've never tried. I had my first cherry cobbler and my first cheesecake only this year. I haven't eaten blueberries or blackberries. No squash. I don't even know from pomegranates. The only fruit pies I've had are apple and maybe peach. I've gone through 61 Thanksgivings without trying cranberry sauce. I've tasted pumpkin pie and don't like it, which always surprises me because it's so pretty to look at, and Yankee Candle makes a great spiced pumpkin scent. (Between my distaste for pumpkin pie and cranberry sauce, Thanksgiving meals have been pretty vanilla.) I like cookies, but don't even come near me with a Fig Newton. I tried a kiwi once, and I liked it a lot, but kiwis are something I just never think of when I'm shopping. Let's see, what else? I've never had an avocado, so I avoided guacamole for years, also because it looks like something that shouldn't even be a food. When I finally tried a friend's recipe, I was amazed that I'd deprived myself all those years.
I haven't included candy in this rundown because I consider dessert something that comes after a meal and not something you eat when you're not supposed to because it's almost mealtime. I doubt many dinners end with the words, "OK, now who wants a fresh Snickers?" It's the same with anything made by a certain pastry company I won't name here because I don't know a whole lot about libel laws, although I think I can name their products. "Is everyone ready for some Ding Dongs?" Frankly, I haven't eaten a Ding Dong or a Ho-Ho since speaking with a friend who once worked in the booming Twinkie industry. She asked me why I thought those little pastries stay so fresh so long. Turns out, she explained, they're baked in their own chemicals. This has been shot down as an urban myth, and I no longer believe it (hear that, libel attorneys? I NO LONGER BELIEVE IT), but I have to wonder why my friend developed a facial tic whenever I mentioned little chocolate donuts. (Little chocolate donuts were a staple of my long car trips, along with Mountain Dews. This might explain why I always showed up an hour or two ahead of schedule.)
So really, I'm not the most qualified person to be writing about desserts. Don't most people, though, latch onto a favorite food without seeing the need to try something else? Is it just me? I have my regular ice cream standbys and would never give a thought to rocky road or cookies and cream. You'll only see certain cakes in my fridge and never a fruitcake or a coconut cake or a fat rascal (British -- you don't even want to know). I think it's significant that fruitcakes are primarily gifts and that I've never actually seen anyone eat them.
If you have a dessert you think I might like, keep it, as I likely won't. But the jury is still out on mint chocolate chip ice cream and double fudge cake, so feel free to send me a sample so that I can be certain.
(That was a joke, by the way. But if you're considering Hostess products, feel free, since I NO LONGER BELIEVE THEY'RE BAKED IN THEIR OWN CHEMICALS! REALLY!)
As you might have surmised by now, I like dessert. A lot. Probably most people do, but not all, which is fine as it means more for the rest of us.
Although I was twice school spelling champ when I was 11 and 12, I never could get "dessert" right. It wasn't atypical to see this sort of sentence in my essays: "I would like to live in the Mojave Dessert." In that instance, I would get marked off for spelling as well as for wanting to live in the Mojave. I had even more trouble with "desert," as in, "What's for desert?" I don't think people have as much trouble distinguishing the two words spoken as they do written. "Desert" was very likely coined before "dessert," but given that, whose idea was it to add an "s" to a word that already served a perfectly fine purpose? Did the first bakers taste their experimental concoctions and go, "Needs more
water"? We'll never know, I guess.
My favorite desserts are pies, particularly French silk, chocolate cream, and Key lime. I grew up in South Florida and never tasted Key lime until I was much older. A deprived childhood.
I've never eaten a banana split and never will. When my sister was very small, our family pulled up to an ice cream shop and bought a banana split for them to share with Terry and a vanilla cone just for me. For some reason, we were eating them in the car out in the parking lot. The three of them were in the front seat, and after they'd given Terry a few bites of a dessert she'd never eaten before, she promptly threw up all over the dashboard. That was the end of banana splits as far as I was concerned. Bananas belong in cereal, anyway. (Also in soup, but that was my mother's predilection and one I outgrew once I left home.)
My sister also instigated my lifelong boycott of mangos. Mangoes were plentiful in Miami, and when my parents gave her one for the first time, she became deathly ill. (Apparently they hadn't learned anything from the banana split.) I hadn't tried mangoes before then, and I thought it was a good idea to go on not trying them, just in case this reaction was genetic. Many years later -- last year, in fact -- Terry told me that in fact she hadn't tasted the mango at all. She'd touched it and developed a serious allergic reaction. So I could have spent all these years eating mangoes (while someone else held them for me). But I'm so used to not eating them that I think I'll just leave things as they are.
It's amazing how many desserts I've never tried. I had my first cherry cobbler and my first cheesecake only this year. I haven't eaten blueberries or blackberries. No squash. I don't even know from pomegranates. The only fruit pies I've had are apple and maybe peach. I've gone through 61 Thanksgivings without trying cranberry sauce. I've tasted pumpkin pie and don't like it, which always surprises me because it's so pretty to look at, and Yankee Candle makes a great spiced pumpkin scent. (Between my distaste for pumpkin pie and cranberry sauce, Thanksgiving meals have been pretty vanilla.) I like cookies, but don't even come near me with a Fig Newton. I tried a kiwi once, and I liked it a lot, but kiwis are something I just never think of when I'm shopping. Let's see, what else? I've never had an avocado, so I avoided guacamole for years, also because it looks like something that shouldn't even be a food. When I finally tried a friend's recipe, I was amazed that I'd deprived myself all those years.
I haven't included candy in this rundown because I consider dessert something that comes after a meal and not something you eat when you're not supposed to because it's almost mealtime. I doubt many dinners end with the words, "OK, now who wants a fresh Snickers?" It's the same with anything made by a certain pastry company I won't name here because I don't know a whole lot about libel laws, although I think I can name their products. "Is everyone ready for some Ding Dongs?" Frankly, I haven't eaten a Ding Dong or a Ho-Ho since speaking with a friend who once worked in the booming Twinkie industry. She asked me why I thought those little pastries stay so fresh so long. Turns out, she explained, they're baked in their own chemicals. This has been shot down as an urban myth, and I no longer believe it (hear that, libel attorneys? I NO LONGER BELIEVE IT), but I have to wonder why my friend developed a facial tic whenever I mentioned little chocolate donuts. (Little chocolate donuts were a staple of my long car trips, along with Mountain Dews. This might explain why I always showed up an hour or two ahead of schedule.)
So really, I'm not the most qualified person to be writing about desserts. Don't most people, though, latch onto a favorite food without seeing the need to try something else? Is it just me? I have my regular ice cream standbys and would never give a thought to rocky road or cookies and cream. You'll only see certain cakes in my fridge and never a fruitcake or a coconut cake or a fat rascal (British -- you don't even want to know). I think it's significant that fruitcakes are primarily gifts and that I've never actually seen anyone eat them.
If you have a dessert you think I might like, keep it, as I likely won't. But the jury is still out on mint chocolate chip ice cream and double fudge cake, so feel free to send me a sample so that I can be certain.
(That was a joke, by the way. But if you're considering Hostess products, feel free, since I NO LONGER BELIEVE THEY'RE BAKED IN THEIR OWN CHEMICALS! REALLY!)
Thursday, May 28, 2015
Chairs
My first chair was a yellow rocker with a lamb painted on it. I must have been two or three. In restaurants, waitresses sat me in booster seats, which made it easier for the food I threw up to land clear across the table. Child safety seats weren't mandatory yet and neither were seat belts (though both existed at the time). So I sat unencumbered in the backseat with my sister, laughing at death every time our father pulled away from the curb.
Student desks in our grade school were big metal affairs with wooden tops that we lifted to store our books, notebooks, and used gum. The wooden tops had two recessed areas for pencils and a hole between them for the inkwell. Inkwells had gone out of fashion by around 1682, so none of us had any idea why our desktops had a hole in them. The desks stood just tall enough on their legs for us to be able to crawl underneath during emergency drills. These emergency drills were known as "duck and cover" exercises and were our best defense against an atomic bomb blast. We were just young enough to believe that this procedure -- and the solid reinforcement of our desks -- would protect us from a 300,000 degree fireball. (We also believed Underdog could fly.)
I mention the desks because we sat behind them in simple wooden chairs that were actually very sophisticated to a six-year-old -- no lambs, no boosting. We sat in the same kinds of chairs used by ten-year-olds, so we felt just a step away from adulthood. My first accident that I can remember happened in one of those chairs. I was an incorrigible kid. I was sent to the principal's office so many times that I ended up moving my desk there; when he'd had enough of me, he would send me to the classroom as punishment. One day in class, I was showing off for the other kids, holding onto the edge of my desk and leaning back on my chair's two back legs. I'd done this before and been reprimanded for it. So when the chair legs finally slid out from under me and the back of my head hit the floor, making a sound not unlike Roger Maris hitting one out of the park, our teacher, E. Braun, instructed the other students to ignore me and concentrate on Chapter 2 of Dick and Jane Survive an Atomic Blast. I ended up with a mild concussion, though unfortunately I was sent back to school two days later, where I was bound and gagged and left out in the hallway to rot.
I've sat in many chairs over the last 62 years, two centuries, and two millennia (concurrently of course, or else I'd be way dead). I can safely say that every friend I've had has sat in at least 10 or 12 of them. Let's take a moment to marvel at this timeless and ubiquitous necessity of everyday life.
OK, let's continue.
Chairs are everywhere, and they span the entire social spectrum. It's the only piece of furniture used by both kings and death row inmates. Curiously, a king's throne is also an informal name for a toilet. What do you suppose a king calls his toilet? Does he say to his court eunuch, "Watch my throne -- I'm going to use the throne"? This must perplex the eunuch no end. No, he likely assigns them ranks, in which case the royal throne would be "Throne #1" and the potty "Throne #2." If he wants to be specific, he might tell his eunuch, "Keep an eye on #1. I'm off to #2 to do #1 and maybe #2." The poor confused eunuch is likely looking for other employment opportunities by now.
Movie theater seats have certainly improved over time. It used to be that theater seats were simply functional: a seat for your seat, a back for your back. All seats were at the same level, so that if you sat behind Shaquille O'Neal or a woman wearing an Easter bonnet from 1890, you might as well just count your Goobers for two hours. (Actually, two hours' worth of Goobers is a pretty good deal.)
Nowadays, I think people go to the movies just to sit in the seats. They're tiered, so you never have to crane your neck to see over or around the person in front of you. They're ergonomically molded with lumbar support and restful cushioning, they rock so you can relax and even lull yourself to sleep if you're ever watching a revival of The English Patient. They come with movable armrests that you can lift for making out loveseat-style, particularly handy if you know the person sitting beside you. They have cup holders built into the armrests, though they're not large enough to hold the uber-mega-ultra-hyper cherry Slurpee you've bought at the concession stand for roughly the price of a 2015 Lamborghini Huracan. Warning: Be careful your date doesn't yank the armrest up while your refreshing beverage is in the cup holder, or the person behind you is apt to dry himself off using your face for a squeegee.
Speaking of movies, one of the all-time great visual effects is that wobbly chair John Cazale sits on in The Godfather Part 2. Fredo is telling Michael (Al Pacino) that he isn't dumb like the rest of the Corleone family thinks he is, that he's smart and deserves respect. But meanwhile the chair is saying, "He's a wimp, don't listen to him." It's such a perfect extension of his character. There should be an Golden Globe category for Best Chair in a Motion Picture (Drama). That's one acceptance speech I'd like to hear.
These days, furniture has taken its rightful place as an essential element in the business world. Only in a company meeting could you hear someone say, "The chair will table that for now." You wouldn't have heard that 50 years ago, before the non-human rights movement demanded that all furniture be treated equal. People began to realize that tables and chairs were more than just four pretty legs and some drawers.
Finally, I'd have to say that my favorite chair these days is the wingback. It's ideal for reading, which consumes roughly 23 hours of my day. Its arms feel as if they're embracing you, and you can rest your head against the high back for extra comfort. Give me a cushy wingback chair and an ottoman and you can keep your world peace. I could also make a compelling argument for chaise longues, but let's table that chair for another time.
Student desks in our grade school were big metal affairs with wooden tops that we lifted to store our books, notebooks, and used gum. The wooden tops had two recessed areas for pencils and a hole between them for the inkwell. Inkwells had gone out of fashion by around 1682, so none of us had any idea why our desktops had a hole in them. The desks stood just tall enough on their legs for us to be able to crawl underneath during emergency drills. These emergency drills were known as "duck and cover" exercises and were our best defense against an atomic bomb blast. We were just young enough to believe that this procedure -- and the solid reinforcement of our desks -- would protect us from a 300,000 degree fireball. (We also believed Underdog could fly.)
I mention the desks because we sat behind them in simple wooden chairs that were actually very sophisticated to a six-year-old -- no lambs, no boosting. We sat in the same kinds of chairs used by ten-year-olds, so we felt just a step away from adulthood. My first accident that I can remember happened in one of those chairs. I was an incorrigible kid. I was sent to the principal's office so many times that I ended up moving my desk there; when he'd had enough of me, he would send me to the classroom as punishment. One day in class, I was showing off for the other kids, holding onto the edge of my desk and leaning back on my chair's two back legs. I'd done this before and been reprimanded for it. So when the chair legs finally slid out from under me and the back of my head hit the floor, making a sound not unlike Roger Maris hitting one out of the park, our teacher, E. Braun, instructed the other students to ignore me and concentrate on Chapter 2 of Dick and Jane Survive an Atomic Blast. I ended up with a mild concussion, though unfortunately I was sent back to school two days later, where I was bound and gagged and left out in the hallway to rot.
I've sat in many chairs over the last 62 years, two centuries, and two millennia (concurrently of course, or else I'd be way dead). I can safely say that every friend I've had has sat in at least 10 or 12 of them. Let's take a moment to marvel at this timeless and ubiquitous necessity of everyday life.
OK, let's continue.
Chairs are everywhere, and they span the entire social spectrum. It's the only piece of furniture used by both kings and death row inmates. Curiously, a king's throne is also an informal name for a toilet. What do you suppose a king calls his toilet? Does he say to his court eunuch, "Watch my throne -- I'm going to use the throne"? This must perplex the eunuch no end. No, he likely assigns them ranks, in which case the royal throne would be "Throne #1" and the potty "Throne #2." If he wants to be specific, he might tell his eunuch, "Keep an eye on #1. I'm off to #2 to do #1 and maybe #2." The poor confused eunuch is likely looking for other employment opportunities by now.
Movie theater seats have certainly improved over time. It used to be that theater seats were simply functional: a seat for your seat, a back for your back. All seats were at the same level, so that if you sat behind Shaquille O'Neal or a woman wearing an Easter bonnet from 1890, you might as well just count your Goobers for two hours. (Actually, two hours' worth of Goobers is a pretty good deal.)
Nowadays, I think people go to the movies just to sit in the seats. They're tiered, so you never have to crane your neck to see over or around the person in front of you. They're ergonomically molded with lumbar support and restful cushioning, they rock so you can relax and even lull yourself to sleep if you're ever watching a revival of The English Patient. They come with movable armrests that you can lift for making out loveseat-style, particularly handy if you know the person sitting beside you. They have cup holders built into the armrests, though they're not large enough to hold the uber-mega-ultra-hyper cherry Slurpee you've bought at the concession stand for roughly the price of a 2015 Lamborghini Huracan. Warning: Be careful your date doesn't yank the armrest up while your refreshing beverage is in the cup holder, or the person behind you is apt to dry himself off using your face for a squeegee.
Speaking of movies, one of the all-time great visual effects is that wobbly chair John Cazale sits on in The Godfather Part 2. Fredo is telling Michael (Al Pacino) that he isn't dumb like the rest of the Corleone family thinks he is, that he's smart and deserves respect. But meanwhile the chair is saying, "He's a wimp, don't listen to him." It's such a perfect extension of his character. There should be an Golden Globe category for Best Chair in a Motion Picture (Drama). That's one acceptance speech I'd like to hear.
These days, furniture has taken its rightful place as an essential element in the business world. Only in a company meeting could you hear someone say, "The chair will table that for now." You wouldn't have heard that 50 years ago, before the non-human rights movement demanded that all furniture be treated equal. People began to realize that tables and chairs were more than just four pretty legs and some drawers.
Finally, I'd have to say that my favorite chair these days is the wingback. It's ideal for reading, which consumes roughly 23 hours of my day. Its arms feel as if they're embracing you, and you can rest your head against the high back for extra comfort. Give me a cushy wingback chair and an ottoman and you can keep your world peace. I could also make a compelling argument for chaise longues, but let's table that chair for another time.
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Our Traffic Is Worse Than Your Traffic
Last December, Yahoo! posted a list that certainly sounded authoritative enough: "What Every State in the U.S. Is Worst at." I can only vouch for the ones I've lived in, and these days I live in Idaho, whose claim to infamy is its "worst drivers." In Yahoo's! defense, it does say that we don't cause the most accidents, mainly because there aren't very many of us. But it concludes that "Idaho's drivers are just total jerks behind the wheel." You'd think Idahoans would be incensed at such a slur, but my friends here in Boise will be the first to tell you -- we do suck.
The problem with Boise is that its population is growing faster than the infrastructure can support it. This is most obvious during rush hour, when crosstown traffic rushes so slowly that it actually begins moving backwards. This breeds understandable frustration, and yet road rage between Boise drivers is not the epidemic it is in other cities, mainly because our drivers save their rage for bicyclists.
I don't drive here and never have, so I'm not an expert. However, I am an expert pedestrian, and I can state here and now that pedestrianing in Boise can be hazardous to your health.
The problems with negotiating local crosswalks is the same as it is in other parts of the country, I'm sure. But drivers in other parts of the country can't kill me because I don't walk there, whereas I'm a moving target for anyone with an Idaho license plate (or a California one -- no western state is immune to those).
It comes down to one thing: people are treating their cars these days as extensions of their homes. Fixing makeup, reading a book, chatting with the GPS lady, making toast and then looking for the jam jar -- there is little that drivers won't do to avoid focusing on that pesky thing in front of them known as a road. Or a red light. I've stepped off the curb as soon as I see the little green walking guy on the sign across the street, only to stop just in time as the cartoon blur of a car goes whizzing past, the driver preoccupied with clipping his toenails. It's no wonder their dogs are always hanging their faces out the window. They're not enjoying the ride; they're saying, "For the love of God, get me out of here!" Animals are always smarter than people. Even Idaho chickens know they'll never get across the road; they're just suicidal. Farmers all over the state are always finding little farewell notes in their chicken coops.
Personally, I think Boise drivers would do much better if they only had enough roads to accommodate them. In the other places where I've lived, however, I've been less optimistic.
In Miami Beach, for instance -- and I'm speaking now of fifty years ago -- most of the cars were rentals driven by visitors from Up North who were born there during the Paleozoic era. These were cautious and courteous drivers, using their turn signals to let us know they'd be exiting Collins Avenue in about 20 years. Those turning onto Collins Avenue would leave their signals on to proudly remind us how careful they'd been negotiating that tricky turn back when Dade County was a swamp. Honestly, it's a good thing they weren't driving all the way back home, or their families would never see them again.
I'm trying to imagine those same drivers surviving in their natural habitat. The Founding Sadists of New Jersey came up with something called the "jughandle." I think they used it as a form of torture to use on seditious colonists. The idea, as I remember it, is that as you approach a highway full of speeding, homicidal drivers, you circle this very short, curving road doing a full 60 m.p.h. and fling yourself into the maelstrom the way a discus thrower spins and then releases a heavy, unwieldy object without knowing where it will land or whom it might kill.
The New Jersey Department of Transportation classifies three types of jughandles: type "A," your standard jughandle; type "B," a more complicated jughandle; and type "C," which includes a rest stop 30 feet from the highway where you can have your last will and testament notarized and even meet with a priest who will absolve you of all your sins.
Wichita, Kansas, would get a lot of farmers driving in from outlying rural towns. That's the only explanation I have. I don't think the farmers knew it, though. Many Sedgwick County drivers commit what I dubbed the "Kansas turn." Let's say you're at a four-way stoplight with four lanes of two-way traffic on all sides. If you want to make a left, and you're a normal person, you make your turn wide enough to avoid the two nearest lanes of waiting traffic. But often, driving through Wichita, I'd see drivers who apparently weren't aware that there were two nearer lanes of waiting traffic. Their turns were tight enough to brush the left hand curb and alarm pedestrians. Of course, this usually happened when there was no waiting traffic. But every once in a while, you'd see a terror-stricken driver frantically trying to back up as a driver with a ball cap and a Slurpee came right at them. (Note: None of my Kansas friends ever did such a thing. I have to say that in case they see this.)
Seattle drivers only had one problem, and that had to do with their memory. Each winter, with the first infrequent snowfall, traffic would come to a standstill as everyone groped through their glove compartments looking for the instruction manual that would explain how to drive in 1/8th of an inch of snow. To Seattle's credit, many of these drivers had California plates on their beemers. (Actually, "beemer" refers to BMW motorcycles, and the slang term for a BMW car is "bimmer." But I'll start saying "bimmer" when you do.)
It's the same with rain. If Seattle goes two weeks without rain and then it begins to sprinkle, drivers abandon their cars on I-5 to run screaming for the nearest shelter. But again, many of these drivers are abandoning California bimmers. (See? I think it sounds silly, too.)
I lived in Seattle for 14 years, and I can still fondly recall those fifteen minutes in 1998 when the sun appeared. It was quite an event, with people from every walk of life stepping outside to point and marvel at the strange yellow orb over their heads. Mothers wept. New religions were founded. I think this happens every 75 years, like Halley's Comet.
So buck up, Boise. We're not as bad as we think we are. At least we still have our sense of humor, as evidenced by our bumper stickers, my favorite of which says, "My Doberman Can Eat Your Honor Student."
The problem with Boise is that its population is growing faster than the infrastructure can support it. This is most obvious during rush hour, when crosstown traffic rushes so slowly that it actually begins moving backwards. This breeds understandable frustration, and yet road rage between Boise drivers is not the epidemic it is in other cities, mainly because our drivers save their rage for bicyclists.
I don't drive here and never have, so I'm not an expert. However, I am an expert pedestrian, and I can state here and now that pedestrianing in Boise can be hazardous to your health.
The problems with negotiating local crosswalks is the same as it is in other parts of the country, I'm sure. But drivers in other parts of the country can't kill me because I don't walk there, whereas I'm a moving target for anyone with an Idaho license plate (or a California one -- no western state is immune to those).
It comes down to one thing: people are treating their cars these days as extensions of their homes. Fixing makeup, reading a book, chatting with the GPS lady, making toast and then looking for the jam jar -- there is little that drivers won't do to avoid focusing on that pesky thing in front of them known as a road. Or a red light. I've stepped off the curb as soon as I see the little green walking guy on the sign across the street, only to stop just in time as the cartoon blur of a car goes whizzing past, the driver preoccupied with clipping his toenails. It's no wonder their dogs are always hanging their faces out the window. They're not enjoying the ride; they're saying, "For the love of God, get me out of here!" Animals are always smarter than people. Even Idaho chickens know they'll never get across the road; they're just suicidal. Farmers all over the state are always finding little farewell notes in their chicken coops.
Personally, I think Boise drivers would do much better if they only had enough roads to accommodate them. In the other places where I've lived, however, I've been less optimistic.
In Miami Beach, for instance -- and I'm speaking now of fifty years ago -- most of the cars were rentals driven by visitors from Up North who were born there during the Paleozoic era. These were cautious and courteous drivers, using their turn signals to let us know they'd be exiting Collins Avenue in about 20 years. Those turning onto Collins Avenue would leave their signals on to proudly remind us how careful they'd been negotiating that tricky turn back when Dade County was a swamp. Honestly, it's a good thing they weren't driving all the way back home, or their families would never see them again.
I'm trying to imagine those same drivers surviving in their natural habitat. The Founding Sadists of New Jersey came up with something called the "jughandle." I think they used it as a form of torture to use on seditious colonists. The idea, as I remember it, is that as you approach a highway full of speeding, homicidal drivers, you circle this very short, curving road doing a full 60 m.p.h. and fling yourself into the maelstrom the way a discus thrower spins and then releases a heavy, unwieldy object without knowing where it will land or whom it might kill.
The New Jersey Department of Transportation classifies three types of jughandles: type "A," your standard jughandle; type "B," a more complicated jughandle; and type "C," which includes a rest stop 30 feet from the highway where you can have your last will and testament notarized and even meet with a priest who will absolve you of all your sins.
Wichita, Kansas, would get a lot of farmers driving in from outlying rural towns. That's the only explanation I have. I don't think the farmers knew it, though. Many Sedgwick County drivers commit what I dubbed the "Kansas turn." Let's say you're at a four-way stoplight with four lanes of two-way traffic on all sides. If you want to make a left, and you're a normal person, you make your turn wide enough to avoid the two nearest lanes of waiting traffic. But often, driving through Wichita, I'd see drivers who apparently weren't aware that there were two nearer lanes of waiting traffic. Their turns were tight enough to brush the left hand curb and alarm pedestrians. Of course, this usually happened when there was no waiting traffic. But every once in a while, you'd see a terror-stricken driver frantically trying to back up as a driver with a ball cap and a Slurpee came right at them. (Note: None of my Kansas friends ever did such a thing. I have to say that in case they see this.)
Seattle drivers only had one problem, and that had to do with their memory. Each winter, with the first infrequent snowfall, traffic would come to a standstill as everyone groped through their glove compartments looking for the instruction manual that would explain how to drive in 1/8th of an inch of snow. To Seattle's credit, many of these drivers had California plates on their beemers. (Actually, "beemer" refers to BMW motorcycles, and the slang term for a BMW car is "bimmer." But I'll start saying "bimmer" when you do.)
It's the same with rain. If Seattle goes two weeks without rain and then it begins to sprinkle, drivers abandon their cars on I-5 to run screaming for the nearest shelter. But again, many of these drivers are abandoning California bimmers. (See? I think it sounds silly, too.)
I lived in Seattle for 14 years, and I can still fondly recall those fifteen minutes in 1998 when the sun appeared. It was quite an event, with people from every walk of life stepping outside to point and marvel at the strange yellow orb over their heads. Mothers wept. New religions were founded. I think this happens every 75 years, like Halley's Comet.
So buck up, Boise. We're not as bad as we think we are. At least we still have our sense of humor, as evidenced by our bumper stickers, my favorite of which says, "My Doberman Can Eat Your Honor Student."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)