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?
Sunday, June 28, 2015
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.
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