Saturday, February 27, 2010

A Kid Named Oscar

When I was a kid growing Up in District 9, all I ever wanted was An Education. But every day at school those Inglourious Basterds would throw me against The Hurt Locker, and beat the beejezus out of me. And so I never graduated. My future was Up in the Air. I was young and hungry and A Serious Man, but the only work I could find was as a part-time Avatar when the circus was in town. That didn't last long, however, because early on I was hit on The Blind Side, and fell from the trapeze like Lucifer from heaven. Lucifer, though, didn't have to spend eight months in the hospital semi-recuperating.

Many years later after those unfortunate events, my Crazy Heart remained erratic and unhealthy. I had Precious little to live for, until I met the little woman. Jonka changed my life---after she insisted I change my name from Oscar.

Friday, February 26, 2010

Umings and Ulrans

From the Not-So-Peachy Salon Names Department:
"Four Eye Hair Porch" (sign in English on a salon in China)

From Those Little Computer Postmen Too Deserve a Break Department:
Tech support: "Hello. What's your problem?"
Customer caller: "I was going to send an e-mail to someone, and wanted to know: will it get delivered today, even though it's Presidents Day?"

From the When He Calls, You Answer Department:
Dialog in an American film: "That's when I got my call from God."
Subtitle as it appears in an European version: "That's when God telephoned me."


Thursday, February 25, 2010

Precious Bodily Fluids

I would really like to have a personal title. "Mr." is so mundane; whatever academic "titles" I might have were bought from diploma mills, about which everyone knows anyway; and although I could buy the title of baron or viscount (nothing higher allowed) through my membership in the Monarchical Society, people wouldn't respect that. So I devised a plan. At my Monarchical meetings, Flat-Earth Society meetings, Luddite Society meetings, Big Moose Society meetings, Rotary Club meetings, New England Farmers Association meetings, and School-Crossing Guards Union meetings, I repeatedly interjected "protection of our precious bodily fluids" into the various conversations, no matter what the specific topic: "precious bodily fluids" this, "precious bodily fluids" that. The members eventually realized that I was quoting the famous phrase from the deranged Army colonel in the movie "Dr Strangelove." They then began to dub me "the Colonel." Hot damn, it worked---now I have an earned title.


Is That a Target on Your Back?

And what's with this Olympics winter sport in which the contestants ski a quarter-mile or so, stop, drop to the ground, and fire their rifle at a target, then arise to ski another quarter-mile, drop to shoot, repeating this cycle over and over? Is this insane? Why do we issue rifles to a group of athletes who don't speak one another's language, and who are hyperexcited in heated, angry competition with one another? Jeez, we don't arm even school-crossing guards.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Family Crest(fallen)

No one I know is more interested in himself than I am. And yet even I don't care about my genealogy. What my great-great-great-grandfather did isn't any more interesting to me than what your own great-great-great-grandfather did, especially since in both cases it was farming. I come from a long line of people who don't care about our long line of people. Whenever I asked my grandparents where their parents came from, they would all launch into the same speech about how western France and eastern Germany endlessly switched borders.

If, then, I ever visit a Mormon church, it'll be to see its large statues of oxen, not to use its genealogical library.

Monday, February 22, 2010

Reality Bites

You know, I think I'm ready to pay---PAY, I tell you---to have such programs as "Green Acres," "The Brady Brunch," "Little House on the Prairie," and anything with Gary Coleman return to prime-time tv, if they would replace such stuff as "The Bachelor," "Biggest Loser," and "The Nanny."

Most Likely To Succeed

Ah, "The Onion"; headline: "Former Prom King Now Living Anonymously among Commoners"

Real Snow

Several rock or pop singers have done songs on the topic of cocaine. My favorite is the slow, sad-funny "Cocaine" by Jackson Browne. I think I need a mid-winter shot.


Sunday, February 21, 2010

When Your Well Runs Dry

She just had to have one. When the little woman and I became settled and in Seine a while back, she decided the water from the system in our crumbling old house was "hard" and "distasteful." Alright, then, I harvested more beets and squash to raise money to buy a new water-filtration-recycle-whatever-it's called system. Cost me an arm and a leg.

Things went fine with the new contraption for months until last night or, I should say, early this morning. At 3:00 a.m. we were awakened by an erratic, booming sound from our garage. We rushed to the kitchen, opened the door to the garage, and found the water-system cylinders a-shaking and a-squealing and a-belching. The whole thing was on the verge of doing something dreadful! What to do, what to do? We hadn't a clue.

Then I noticed that the meter or dial with the flashing red and yellow lights on it was in a countdown mode! It read "30" or so when we entered the garage, but now it was down to about "15." Dear Lord, it was about to explode, and take us and the garage with it! Jonka and I screamed! We ran back into the kitchen yelling for help! I pulled her with me under the table for some protection. We looked at each other between screams. She babbled something about being sorry for having fed me tiny bits of rat poison in my food years ago. I babbled something about being sorry for never having told her my second middle name is Clarence. We briefly stared at each in silence, then both burst again into tears and screams as we hugged each other in the dwindling few seconds of the countdown a few yards away.

Then it happened! The chugging, the puffing, the bellowing, the flashing lights on the giant water cylinder ceased. We left the table, slowly walked into the garage, and cautiously gazed at the tank. Its dial now read "3:15, Regeneration Cycle Complete." We looked at each other. I ran back into the kitchen, turned on the faucet---everything was working fine. Without saying another word, we returned to bed. Well, Jonka did. I couldn't sleep---stayed up and watched most of "The Poseidon Adventure" on tv.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Eplizzes and Ekrusts

From the This Is Why We Never Want To Be Landlords Department:
"Weakest Link" host Anne Robinson: "What 't' are people who live in a house paying rent to a landlord?"
Contestant: "Terrorists."

From the Truth in Advertising Department:
"99 Cents or Less or More" (sign in a 99-cent store in Toledo, Ohio)

From the Typical Marriages Department:
"Couples should contact the pastor at least six months in advance of marriage, even if a firm hate has been established." (in a church bulletin in Eugene, Oregon)

From the Bureaucratic Help Department:
"All large envelopes will be required to be rectangular in shape. This includes square pieces."
(on a U.S. Postal Service website concerning changes in rates)


Obeying "No Swimming" Signs

Well, it now looks as if I'll make it through my whole life without ever having been attacked by a shark.


Snowed

I call them the neighborhood Nazis. They're a few members of our farm-and-neighborhood association who volunteer to keep watch on public things in our geographical area. In the spring and summer, e.g., they report which neighbors have too many weeds in their yards, and in the winter they report which ones haven't yet shoveled their sidewalk. In short, these crypto-Nazis are spies who are wanna-be policemen.

Anyway, I was in my front, snow-covered yard when I overheard a couple of these "detectives" in the old Miss Olga's yard next door. These Nazis were standing next to two tall snowmen which had been built by Olga's grandkids. But alongside the two snowmen was an unusual, small pool of water in which were floating a snowman's hat, button eyes, and scarf.

The Nazi cops were closely examining the "remains" of the third snowman. "Strange," said one Nazi, "the weather hasn't been above freezing."

"So this is no accident," said the other.


Friday, February 19, 2010

Blood, Sweat, and Tears

Comes news from the Vatican that the late Pope John Paul II, who is now a candidate for canonization, engaged in private flagellation, sleeping on the floor, extreme fasting, wearing a hairshirt, etc. This is the kind of stuff which the Vatican traditionally has regarded as probable signs of unusual sanctity in a person considered for sainthood. But I doubt that the general public and most of the Catholic public will look kindly on this news; it will strike them as eccentric, "medieval," or even repugnant.

Even more-surprising news followed that these details of the pontiff were made known by the Vatican-appointed priest who himself is the investigator-promoter of John Paul's case for canonization. The priest wrote a book about this. That's the end of that guy's ecclesiastical career.

Black and White and Red/Read All Over

After returning from New Orleans, I was pleasantly surprised to hear from the newspaper office in Dover. They wanted to hire me for the newspaper route for which I had applied!

My appearance at the newspaper-prep station was met with laughter and derision as I appeared on my rusty, red 1957 Roadmaster bicycle equipped with front-bar basket and back-wheel saddle bag, which I used on my paper route from my youth. To hell with them; I wasn't going to deliver papers from a car, which is "the way" it's done these days.

The route took me four hours, but I was out of practice. I couldn't deliver, though, to houses in the side streets still covered with feet of snow. My supervisor didn't like that, and chewed me out for it. But let's see him drag a 150-pound bike full of newspapers through snow. There's gotta be a better way.

I don't know if I'll be able to continue the route. Jonka doesn't appreciate having to spend two hours tending to my near-frostbitten hands and feet.

Mardi Gross

Well, I've returned from Mardi Gras in New Orleans. I went alone, didn't take the little woman; she had to work the graveyard shift at the doily factory here in town.

Things didn't go too well. The taxi I took from the N.O. airport to downtown encountered a flat tire on the freeway. When we finally arrived at the station on Loyola Ave and I quit the cab, I discovered that one of my two wallets had fallen into its back seat---goodbye, wallet. I managed by city bus to make it to St Charles Ave. It was crowded with families watching the parade. The large branch of the sidewalk tree under which I was standing and upon which a couple of kids were perched cracked, sending the kids onto my back---damn. I left that, and made my way to the downtown Canal St area. Luckily the Zulu parade was in progress; unluckily, the spear and shield of one of the marchers nabbed and cut my shoulder as he walked right next to me. I walked, or, I think, was carried by the wave of the crowd, into the French Quarter. I immediately was accosted on Bourbon St by some older hootchie-kootchie woman. Pushed into a group of drinking fellow celebrators, I had their cups of beer splatter across my shirt. Then a few rings of beads strongly thrown from an apartment balcony hit the side of my head cutting above my eye. Before long I was accosted by some older hootchie-kootchie man. As I backed away my shoes stepped into the street gutter full of junk and crap.

Filthy, stinking, and already worn out, I fought my way to the Cafe' du Monde at Jackson Square in an attempt to find food and respite. No such luck---the crowds were overwhelming. Only one thing left to do, only one place left to go: St Louis Cathedral. As I barely was able to enter its door, the people packed inside gave me no room to sit or rest. Up the stairs I climbed and into the choir loft. But the things I saw there I can't mention. I saw only one door to some room or closet in the loft, and entered it. It introduced me to a high stairway with small steps, so I took it. And there I terminated. in the belfry. My shirt have torn off, my head and face bleeding, my body reeking of beer, my arthritic-dystonia body bent over from exhaustion, I gingerly made my way through the complex of bells and the shaky floor. On the edge of the belfry I suddenly found myself at an open window overlooking the square. And then I heard it: the crowd below erupted into chants of "Look, it's the hunchback! Hunchback! Hunchback! Jump, hunchback, hunchback!" I can't remember a moment in my life of more embarrassment.

And I thought being a pseudo-gargoyle was exciting enough.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Return of The Dark Knight: Matman

This is truly a blessed day! As I've said before, it warms the hearts of all of us old teachers when some of our former students decide to pursue the academic profession. (It would also warm the hearts of us old beets-and-squash farmers if some of our former students would become farmer students.) Recall my earlier contest in which I sought readers to create a word which I secretly had in mind, a word which would be the best (in my judgment) conceptual-grammatical opposite of the word "catastrophe." A few readers submitted their contributions, which I acknowledged as tentative first placers.

But now comes a submittal by one of my ex-classroom-desk occupants, Matthew Miller, Ph.D. cand. The good Dr. Miller of Yale University not only surmised the precise word I had in mind, but backed his conclusion with an well-researched, lengthy, erudite report in which he analyzed the etymological, literary, and even eschatological and theological context for what he was convinced was the logical word: benestrophe. "Benestrophe" retains the Greek suffix of "catastrophe" while switching its prefix to Latin, thereby keeping the new word crisp, simple, parallel to "catastrophe," and remindful to the reader-listener of the now-"punned" meaning of the first word. Of course, some thought must be given to the linguistic-cultural meanings of "catastrophe" and "benestrophe," and Matthew did exactly that.

In light of his labor, I predict that future students or readers of Matt will be seriously engaged by his intellectual acumen. The prize of $1,000, the amount of which I won in an illegal poker game, is hereby sent in my name and Matt's name to Catholic Relief Services for food and medicine for the earthquake victims in Haiti, as the generous Matman would want. As we speak, little Haitian children are eating our money, moving them ever so slowly from catastrophe to their own benestrophe.


Thursday, February 11, 2010

By the Light of the Silvery Moon

Thank goodness. After all these recent books and movies featuring skinny, pasty, dour, mildly effeminate, California-styled vampires, who fly around like nutcakes, and who make women and girls swoon, we'll soon have a return in the movies to the man's man, the werewolf, with the new quality movie, "The Wolfman," starring Benicio Del Toro and Anthony Hopkins. Darn good actors and story; I wanna see the fur fly.


Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Wulluzes and Warrols

From the And His Left Shoe Once Had a Sunburn Department:
"Years ago the patient had frostbite of the right shoe." (written by a nurse on the patient's medical chart)

From the And We Hear That the Jail Spa Is Closed Too after Lights Out Department:
"It's so cruel what has happened to her. She wasn't allowed to wax or use a moisturizer. Her skin is so dry right now." (a friend of Paris Hilton commentating on Paris' two-days imprisonment)

From the Little-Known Greek Myths Department:
"We didn't treat them like some Greek myth; there was no Godzilla out there." (Giants player David Tyree his team beat the Patriots)

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Who's Passing Gas?

In this morning's local metropolitan newspaper are fourteen obituaries, all written by families of the recently deceased. Of the fourteen, twelve say the loved one has "passed on," one says she has "now joined her beloved husband in heaven" (all the obits, of course, say that the loved one is now in heaven---a belief treated as some obvious kind of fact), and only one says the person has "died." Why in the hell (no quasi-pun intended, I suppose) are Americans in the last couple of decades so fearful to say "died"? And yet these same persons, apparently finding "died" and "death" too harsh to be used, don't hesitate to commit their loved ones to the contemporary, violent, semi-barbaric practice called cremation.

The little woman had better be sure that my tombstone says I "died," and that my body in my grave contains the smelly, oozing, putrid fluids from the embalmer.

Monday, February 8, 2010

The Prophet

Didn't I indirectly predict that the Saints would win the bowl? Stick with me, reader, and I'll help you win the lottery.

Friday, February 5, 2010

Better Run a Criminal-Background Check

You remember Crazy Emory. He's my neighbor in the farmland here. Emory is a secretive, scary, but bright old coot, a former teacher-librarian-genealogist who now runs his onion farm next to my beets-and-squash field. I didn't know until now that he splits his time between St Louis and Delaware---i.e., some days he's in Missouri and some days he's in Seine. I wish I could go places like Emory; it seems I'm always in Seine.

I discovered Emory's travelabouts when, upon leaving for St Louis, he asked me to feed his goats which graze next to his onion patch. Ugly creatures, they look strikingly like their master. Anyway, Emory gave me the key to his house. I browsed his kitchen, finding on the table four old, empty, large boxes of pizza, a gallon jug of vinegar, two books by Alexander Sohlzhenitzin and one by Ayn Rand, a purple scarf, and a set of dominoes. "Hell," I thought, "nothing here worth swiping." But I did "steal" some definitions of words Crazy had written on his notepad on the table:

osteopornosis: a degenerate disease (I might have that)
decafalon: the grueling event of making it through the day consuming only those things which are good for you
caterpallor: the color you turn after finding half a grub in the fruit you're eating

The vinegar might be getting to Emory.




The Caress Scent City

I caught some of the ABC-TV report on pre-Super Bowl Saints fans and New Orleans food and culture. The Saints are in the Big Dance on the near-eve of Mardi Gras. Can you imagine! It made me miss the old city. There were the Orleanians in the streets of the city, cheering, laughing, dancing, jazz band playing, spicy, rich, food local cooking on the outdoor tables. "That's it," I said to meself, "that picture is the illustration of Louisiana being recently rated the happiest state in the nation and the most-unhealthy state in the nation."

Then my mind drifted back to my initial arrival in N.O. It was a few months after the assassination of President Kennedy. I obtained a part-time job at the International Trade Mart (now demolished), then owned and occupied by Clay Shaw, the businessman whom the N.O. District Attorney claimed was behind the assassination plot, and across the street from where Lee Harvey Oswald held a few of his small pro-Soviet rallies. My job in that building was as a telemarketer for "Time" and "Life" magazines. All of us in that office would use pseudonyms during our phone calls. I wanted something a little different, so I chose "Harvey." Big mistake.

New Orleans was (and is) an exciting and interesting city, especially for single people and those with some historical or artistic appreciation. I was fortunate to live for awhile in its beautiful Garden District. It was also a city where I was frequently drunk.

Where?

Pete and Repeet were in a boat together. Pete fell out. Who remained?

Pete and Repeet were in a boat together. Pete fell out. Who remained?

Pete and Repeet were in a boat together. Pete fell out. Who remained?

Pete and Repeet were in a boat together. Pete fell out. Who remained?

Pete and Repeet were . . .

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Mice and Rug Rats

And just what is it with Mickey Mouse? I saw him in a tv cartoon the other day. He still wears these huge gloves, and still hasn't married Minnie. Is there some connection here? I don't know if I can continue to allow my grandchildren to watch M. and M. anymore.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Slices of Life

The Oscar nominees are announced. I don't want to see a special-effects, simplistic-story's-been-told film such as "Avatar" win as best movie. I hope "Inglorious Basterds" or "A Serious Man" gets the nod, as I think the titles of those latter two are a pretty accurate description of me. For best actor, I favor Jeff Bridges in "Crazy Heart" in what is a role parallel to last year's Mickey Rourke in "The Wrestler."

Just Spell My Name Correctly

I just can't win with the little woman.

"So you've finished writing your obituary?" she asked me.

"Yes, would you like to read it?" I replied.

She scanned it, and said, "This is all a bunch of hooey. You made up most of this stuff."

"That's a matter of interpretation," I retorted.

"And Rhodes scholar isn't spelled 'R-o-a-d-s,' " she concluded.




What Doesn't Kill You Simply Makes You Stronger

It's so frustrating. The tv and radio commercials and magazine ads for prescription drugs, which bombard me left and right, simultaneously waste my time and frighten me with their extended information on the multiple negative side effects (including the extreme of death) of the drugs. No one needs all this blather. All the commercial or ad has to say is "This drug has some negative side effects. Ask your doctor about them." There, done.

On the other hand, when I see commercials for other products such as cars, appliances, financial services, the "negative side effects" are hidden from me. Instead, what we viewers get are two-second, very small-print lines of information, sometimes a dozen or so long---much too small and too fleeting for the human eye to read. The bits of information which I have been able to read from those lines always express some restriction or even contradiction of the benefits which the commercial itself has just claimed.

Go figure.




Fit To Print

Ya just gotta love those newspaper headlines from "The Onion":

"Bald Eagle Tired of Everyone Just Assuming It Supports War"

"Packers Fan Announces He Will Return to Drinking for Another Season"

"Colts, Saints Blinded by Natural Light upon Arrival at Miami Stadium"


Unsportsmanlike Conduct

At last! As a boxing fan, I've endured all these years the reaction of people, most of whom don't like boxing but prefer football. "Boxing's too violent," has been their usual reply. "Look at all those punch-drunk ex-fighters," they say.

I would reply, "What's not violent and what's fair and balanced about a guy running down a field with a football in his hands, then suddenly being hit head-on or from a blind side, then tackled, crushed, and ground up by two, three, five giant opponents? In the boxing ring, at least it's one-on-one with your opponent never leaving your defensive sight. I myself played both sports in my youth---though not very well---and I would prefer the ring any day."

"Ahh, those football players are having fun doing that," my pro-football friends would answer.

And now we have reports unfolding about the serious, multiple, or undetected brain concussions which have been and are still being suffered by football players---a larger number than previously known---not only pro and college players but also high-school and even peewee players. For decades orthopedic-physician groups have complained about the unreasonableness of teenage and pre-teen boys having their growing bones broken in football games. Add brain injuries to the list of temporary or permanent medical consequences.

"Okay, then," I currently reply to anti-boxingites, "in light of the brain concussions (resulting in dementia, tremors, etc) in football, we now can speak of "pigskin-drunk ex-footballers" as frequently as "punch-drunk ex-boxers. If those helmets aren't doing football players much good, we might as well give them to boxers to wear in the ring."

But not to worry---I'll be there in front of my tv this Sunday with beer and popcorn in hand, enjoying the gladiator spectacle of colts stomping upon their opponents, and sending them as saints to heaven. I just hope to see a couple of heads---not merely helmets---go flying off on the field before the game concludes.