Happy Birthday, Brother John!

The man standing next to Ernst Stavro Blofeld is my Big Brother John, who turns mrphmty-murmph today. Called him earlier (earlier than usual, anyway) and we had a good chance to chat after I gave him the traditional serenade of "Happy Birthday" in the inimitable Wison fashion (off-key, and deliberately slow). He fairly cackled that since My Seester got her cell-phone, he could leave "Happy Birthday" on TWO voice-mails (Man! Wish I'd thought of that--he's always smarter than me!).

Happy Birthday, Big Brother. We'll be talking.

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What a wondrous sight to behold at this time of year. There at our front-door, was a jolly fat man with hair and beard the color of snow, a red bob of a nose, cap on his head and a laugh that made his belly shake.

It was Barney, the Electrician.

A few weeks ago (Hallowe'en, in fact), K and I were watching "The Innocents" when the set started to flicker, then konked out along with the reciever and DVD player. Right at a scary part, too. Killed the mood. But we got out another surge protector and plugged everything into that and plugged it into the bedroom socket. Everything worked fine. But ever since, the house has been electrically...intermittent: a socket would go dead. you'd plug something into another socket and it would come to life. Lights would flicker and die, with perfectly decent bulbs screwed in. Electrical efficacy would bounce around the house, with us chasing after it with our little gadgets plugging them into one socket, then another until they purred to life.

Which would be fine...be merely an annoyance...if we didn't live in a completely wood cabin. Then it gets to be a matter of concern. So, we called the last electrician who'd come out. Didn't return our phone-call. That's to be expected on "The Rock," the contractors get hired for some new development and all of a sudden you have to make an appointment to get a phone-call back. I tried. K tried. No spark. A couple of days ago, I tried again. I called, left messages--I did get one "live" one, though. He said he was booked up to January 17th, and he figured that might be a little long to wait. With such keen instincts I wanted to hire him on the spot, but I decided to make other calls.

I made ten, then called it a fine day of one-way convesations. Thirty minutes later, Barney called. He said he could be out first thing Thursday, I gave him directions, and he asked if I wanted him to call before showing up. "That'd be nice," I said. "It'll give me a chance to stash the dog some place." "Mean dog?" Barney asked, warily. "Nah, I said. More protective, territorial a bit." "Ah well, that's his job! Ya WANT one like THAT!"

Barney called Thursday morning: "See ya in thirty minutes!" And I took Smokey out to K's car with some chewey snacks, and half an old banana. When Barney showed up, Smokey didn't make a peep. Strange. After getting over the sight of Father Christmas in blue cover-alls, I said "The dog didn't bark." "Nah!" said Barney. "But he was sure curious! Where do you want me?"

I pointed to the walls with the problems--the one behind the wood-stove and the one with the view-windows. "I'll start over there." He pointed to a socket in the open. "I like to start with the easy ones." "Just like eating dessert first," I remarked. "Yup," said Barney gravely. "Life's uncertain."

As if to prove his point, he started to pound on the walls. "You'd be surprised what good this does," said Barney. "Sometimes in the cold weather, it'll just solve the problem, but at least if I see a light flicker, I can trace it." He opened out his pen-amp-meter, looking to see what sockets were "hot." "Yeah, I've had enough of winter," he said as he sat in a corner to test the plug by Smokey's crate (I wondered if winter had even started yet).* Every breath was a grunt and a wheeze as he made his way from one socket to the next alternately pounding the wall, and making his pen chirp. "Lemme go look at the box," he said, and K came out from the office to see what all the noise was about. Suddenly, from the bedroom, he yelled, "Number Six!" "Go see what that's about," said K, and eyes eide, turned to go into the office. I was curious myself. Had the last electrician put in those exotic No.6 fuses by mistake? "What's up?" I said.

"Oh!" he chuckled. "Number Six! I saw your coaster here. The Prisoner! I loved that show!" He was looking at a coaster NPR Dan had sent us from Portmeirion in Wales, where they'd filmed "The Prisoner" in the '60's. It was one of my and K's favorite shows, too, and we'd planned for some time to go there one day. NPR Dan beat us to it, but sent us some piquant tchotchkes. "Man, I loved that show! Too bad it was a limited one!" We gabbed about the show for awhile--a friend of his had made the "kit" car that Patrick MacGoohan drove in the opening. "Aw nuts, here's a white wire," he said, and did something about it. We moved a chest of drawers to see if there was a socket back there, and though we didn't find one, we found the sneakers that K had been missing for months. Then we turned to the plug where all the trouble began. He tested it. No problem.

"Have you got a...?" He opened the door to the bedroom. "Yup! Here's an outlet behind the door." It was the one we'd plugged the surge-protector into. We thought it was the only thing in the vicinity that was working. "You got a flashlight?" asked Barney on the floor. I didn't think to question why a socket-jockey didn't have a flashlight, but I dutifully went off to get one. I handed it to him. "Wait a minute!" I said. "I've got a better idea!" I handed him my baseball cap with "The Bug" on it--the LED clip-light my sister-in-law got me one Christmas. "Try this on for size," I said. "Woh!" said Barney. "That's a BRIGHT one! That's GREAT! I'm almost ashamed to BE here!" He replaced the socket, corroded and with a couple scorch-marks on it, and he managed to do it with one hand, holding the socket in his paw, and using his fingers to twist the wires. Quite the trick. Then he screwed everything in place. "I think I've screwed enough screws to go to the Moon and back," said Barney. Then with a large grunt, he got off the floor and lurched into the living room. "He found it!" he joked to K, as I wrote him a check for $85 (pretty darn cheap, we thought). "Well, have a Merry Christmas" he said as he roared out of sight.

Be seeing you, Barney. I have half-a-mind to send him a "Bug"...and one of my "Prisoner" coasters for Christmas. I think he'd genuinely enjoy that.

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Speaking of bologna, I got some at the store the other day, I'm not sure why, but maybe it has something to do with my Father. I've been thinking of him a lot since the 7th, and I remember him once walking into the kitchen, and looking at the lunch my Mom had made him. "Ya know," he said a bit wistfully, "last night I had a dream where I was sent to Hell, and all there was to eat was bologna sandwiches." My Mom shot him a look that spit daggers, but he'd made his point...and maybe he didn't get a bologna sandwich the next day (if he was lucky to get a lunch at all!)**

So, I'm eating a bologna sandwich a day until his birthday, December 26th. I mentioned this to K, who thought it was a bit wierd that I'd be focussing on bologna, but I did manage to keep the dog away from her while she was eating dinner by tempting him with the word "bologna" said in the same reverential tones we say the word "bacon." I knew he'd like it, but I didn't expect the ecstatic look on his face when he tasted it for the first time. He looked like he was going to cry, he enjoyed it so much. I walked into the bedroom where K was eating, with my bologna sandwich, and told her about Smokey's reaction. "Actually," she said, "the way I've been eating lately (she's been on a strict, almost harsh diet), I'm wondering what it tastes like--I'd like to try it..." I gave her a bite. "That is really good," she said.

Ah, bologna.

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K. mentioned that "Alvin and the Chipmunks" was playing at the local drive-In, and wanted to know if I wanted to go. I didn't particularly (it sounds like "My Name is Earl" with extra vermin), but Smokey might like a trip to the Drive-In. I asked her if she wanted to go, and she said "No. I hate the Chipmunks--always have." ***

I told her we could check out "Enchanted" (which we might), but I really want to see "I Am Legend." I told her the story--it's one of my favorite books, and she became intrigued, especially at the premise of deer running up Broadway. "He just stays in his barricaded apartment with his German Shepherd," I said. "Just like a New Yorker," she said, going back to her paper, "...keeping a German Shepherd in an apartment..."

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*Nope. Not 'til December 22nd. Glad I didn't tell Barney.

** Which brings to mind an ethnic joke, and for the requisite "dumb" minority I will use "Irish Catholic" since they're taking a lot of hits lately, and since I was one, I can get away with it.

Three construction workers, a Latino, an Italian and an Irish-Catholic were sitting on a girder, eating from their sack-lunches. "Madre Dios!" says the Latino. "Tacos again!! I swear if I get tacos for lunch again, I'll throw myself off this building!" The Italian looks at his lunch. "Mama Mia!!" he says. Another meat-ball sandwich!! I swear on the souls of my grandparents that if I get another meat-ball sandwich I will throw myself off this building!!" The Irish-Catholic looks at his lunch. "Faith and begorrah!" he says, "Ecumenically blesssed corned beef and cabbage AGAIN!! I swear, by all that's holy that if I open this bag tomorrow and see ecumenically blessed corned beef and cabbage, I will throw myself off this building!"

The next day at noon, the three open their lunches. "Tacos! Tacos again!" yells the Latino and throws himself off the building. "Ayee," says the Italian. "Meat-ball sandwich again!!" and throws himself off the building. The Irish-Catholic looks in his bag and yells "Ecumenically blessed corned beef and.." and he's dead before he can get the whole thing out.

At the funeral the wives are bereft. "Oh, if only I could have made burritos that day," says the Latino's wife. "If only I could have put in a slice of pizza...anything different...he'd still be here," wails the Italian wife. They look expectantly at the Irish-Catholic's wife.

"Well, don't look at me," she says. "He made his own lunch!"

Thank you, try the salad bar, we'll be here all week.

*** Last time in Portland a DJ (on 106.7 "K-HITS") played "Christmas, Don't be Late" and ended the song, saying "Looove the Chipmunks...especially roasting on an open fire")

On this same radio station, this same DJ made a joke about the O'Jays song "Used to Be My Girl" that went something like"...and here, from the soundtrack of 'The Rene Richards Story'--'She Used To Be My Girl." I thought "That's a rather arcane reference for a joke about a sex-change..." and it was right then I realized I'd made the exact same joke when I was a DJ...it wasn't so arcane back then.

Just in Time to Celebrate the Birth of the Baby Jesus...*

Happy Black Friday

Every year for the longest time, I had a Christmas Tradition. I would go out and buy the tackiest Christmas ornament I could find--the one that least celebrated the True Meaning of Christmas, in the Schulzian sense. First one I ever bought was an ornament of Shaquille O'Neal hanging off a basketball rim. There have been some great ones--a Harley Davidson motor (with sound!), the killing of the Wicked Witch of the West from "The Wizard of Oz" (it just SAYS "Christmas" doesn't it? "Whattaworld, whattaworld!"), and Star Trek ornaments of "Worf" with a Klingon scimitar (as if to say "Honor the Holidays..or I'll sever an artery!!"), and "7 of 9" in a skin-tight bio-morph cat-suit. I can't even make a joke of that one.

Well, finances keep me from buying it, but I've found the ornament for this year.

Don't you want an Airstream trailer hanging from your tree in all its silver glory? Why, look, it even has the propane tanks on the hitch! The wheels turn and (subsequently, I'll bet) the awning extends. Now, if Mary and Joseph had one of these babies they wouldn't have had to sleep in the barn! This even beats out the "Star Trek II" ornament that has a space battle between Kirk and Khan (with animation and sound!)

* That's a quote from Phil Harper (RIP), who, as one of the most prolific of Seattle voice-actors, took a decidedly irreverent tack when doing commercials. Every ad for Christmas, he would intone with a wildly enthusiastic introduction "Just in Time to celebrate the Birth of the Baby Jesus!..." to be followed by news of 50% off sales, holiday chocolates, jewels, furs, whatever. Phil would inevitably end commercials with "...so go out and buy some of this shit to-day!" I miss that.

And I should mention that as a promotion to ad agencies in town to use his Claus-like voice, he sent out a newsletter that said "Let Phil be your Christmas Ho!"

It's Cartoon-Time, Kids!!*

"Sunny" Day sent me this and I laughed so hard (and K laughed so hard) that I am compelled to share, despite the fact that I can't embed the damn thing. No, you have to go to all the trouble of clicking on a link.

Rest assured, you are going to a safe site (it's Yahoo!®Video), but this is the only place I've been able to find this cartoon.

It's worth it, though.

Joy of Cat

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*Of course, that line comes from every kid's show ever transmitted through a photon tube, but the guy I remember saying it the most was Chris Wedes, aka "J.P. Patches." Today the Mayor of Seattle declared November 5th "J.P. Patches Day," which hardly seems like enough. The man would pull down 2 shows a day and one on the week-end and then go out and open every single grocery store in the Puget Sound region. To read more about the self-proclaimed "Mayor of the City Dump," click on the "City Dump" link over there on the right, and enter the peculiar (and mostly ad-libbed) world of J.P. It's an understatement to say he had an influence on my life and career. Here's a check-list that I still have from J.P.'s show:

And Now, For Something Completely Different...

Q: If you had an infinite number of marshmallows, how many Lincoln-Logs would it take to reach the moon?

A: No, because ice cream has no bones!

This was first thrown at me in a High School English class by a smart-ass who wasn't following an argument I was making about some novel of some kind. It did exactly what it was meant to do: it stopped me cold, derailed my train of thought and made me shut up for a few seconds while I was dealing with the flow of non-sequitirs.

Now, so many years later, I can use that timeless (and time-twisting) poem:

Turn backward, turn backward,
Oh, time in your flight,
Just thought of the comeback
I needed last night*

...which would be:

1) That the best you can do: babble nonsense at me?

2) If you don't have a valid argument, why don't you shut up and let someone speak who does?

3) What's your point?

4) That was a good line when Groucho Marx said it, but what's it got to do with this?


That's what I should have said...(wish I had a Time Tunnel)

* Just a sneaky way to plug the fact that you need to turn your clocks BACK one hour Sunday morning! A Public Service Message from this station.

The Political Haunted House

It's not too late. We can still do this for Hallowe'en.

I was reading Stephen Colbert's guest editorial in the New York Times,* (here's the link to it, it's hilarious), and the image that stuck with me the longest was his vision of Dick Cheney driving a tractor through the Times newsroom while drinking sweet crude oil from Keith Olbermann's skull. That stayed with me for days, and though I'm a flaming liberal, not only could I imagine it, it was something I'd like to see. It got me to thinking: here it is the time of year every radio station and/or charity group--wait a minute, aren't they the same thing?--trots out any old abandoned warehouse/church/crack-house** and turn it into a "Haunted House." (OoooOOOOoo, spoo-oo-ooky!) The only people who like these paper-mache nightmares are kids in the narrow slice of life from 8 to12, and frat-boys who can get a cheap feel and blame it on the volunteers dressed half-heartedly as ghouls and trasvestite vampires.

And seeing as it's the start of a new political season, AND Hallowe'en season--wait a minute, aren't they the same thing?--why not COMBINE the two into your very own

POLITICAL HAUNTED HOUSE!! (thundercrack!)

a concept that just drips insincerity

But what (I hear you cry) WHAT would you PUT into the Political Haunted House (tc)? Bwa-ha-haa! Funny you should ask...Step this way..lead with your left or your right, it doesn't matter...and mind the broken step, the troll might grab you.. (Back off, Ron Paul! Put down that torch!!) Now we'll start in the foyer (yes, there's lots of cob-webs which indicates inactivity, but we're trying to make this an exact replica of a legislative chamber!). Any direction you go is better than no direction at all, and if you know that, why aren't YOU running for office? Oh, you hear screaming? Pay it no mind. That's Howard Dean.

Off with you now.

The Dick Cheney Halliburton Bunker Maze (and Shooting Gallery)- It's a House of Mirrors buried deep underground in the moral and physical swamp-land that was Washington, D.C., but now more resembles a quick-sand field. Good! It can't go to Hell fast enough. Step inside the distorting House of Mirrors, 'cause if you happen to shoot somebody, you'll only be shooting yourself. And if you don't like what you see in one mirror, there'll be one you like somewhere down the line. See how many dead-ends you can hit and still bluster that it's the way to go, anyway. There's a time-limit, but don't get the clock-ticking confused with your pace-maker. Either way, time is limited, so spend your capital--political and financial--as fast you possibly can. Who knew that when you said you weren't going to go to Viet-Nam because you had "better things to do," it was planning how to destroy THIS country, instead! Good job....Dick.

The Emperor George W. Bush Quo Vadis Vault- A man of many talents, "W." fiddles while effigies of American landmarks, made up of bricks of cash, go up in flames. One can't help wonder that, though he takes his marching orders from the "Other Father," the tableau looks more like the Other Place, with the Commander-in-Cheat as it's...Commander-in-Cheat. It's actually a good thing that if we're going to go to Hell as a Nation, his tax-cuts were just enough that we can buy a hand-basket to go in. And they're flammable. The only thing that could douse the all-consuming flames would be a level-5 hurricane--and we know how effective he is against those.

The Condy Rice Ti-tanker Room - If you're going to be on a sinking ship, it might as well bear your own name. The oil-tanker Condoleeza Rice (I'm not making that up) is seen going down for the first and last time, while on the prow Condy, Rummy and Paul Wolfowitz, their arms extended, scream "We're Queen of the World!" And when they go under, the only open arms they'll find will be their own. But of course, I'm being facetious--they''ll be on the board of directors of an oil company in the very near-future. Trouble is, with their wrong-way of looking at the world, they see a sinking-ship as a prelude to deep-ocean drilling.

Rudy Giuliani's House of Rubble: Six years after 9-11, the only thing that's been built on the site is a clueless campaign for President by the Mayor who thought the best place to put a disaster center was the place that had been bombed years before, and would be a crater years later. We won't even bring up the cross-dressing, the shameless exploitation of a national tragedy, or the rotating mistresses. The only reason he's running for President is no one'll give him a job in New York. And if the best thing you can say about him is "He went to a lot of funerals," it makes you think. But this room does exactly the same thing its namesake does--blow a lot of smoke.

The Hillary Rodham Temple of Dominazons: Every Haunted House should have something REALLY scary, kids. And nothing scares males (and some females) more than a woman with power over your life...or your career...or your government. In this little tableau, all the deep-seated insecurities from Mommy-fixations and parent domination are given a damn good prodding--This will HURT! (Whack!) But it's GOOD for you! (Whack!) And my health-care will cover any permanent DAMAGE (WHACK!)--your life will be regulated, curfews fixed, and you'll be "carded" for everything, while personal information is gathered and distributed. Sort of like now, but with a really bitter den-mother where an "all-hat-no-cattle" cowboy used to be. Four years of "Mommy, may I..." sounds bad, but think of the First Husband (which implies there could be a second!)--he gets the karmic experience of finding out what it's like to be on your knees in the Oval Office. Payback is a bitch!

The John McCain Tilting Balance Room--It's tough to keep your balance when the room turns on a whim--lurching to the left--lurching to the right. You begin to think that the best position to take is low to the ground...but WHOOPS!..there goes your balance off in another direction. But see, that's the funny thing about tilting rooms. They start off balanced, but if you make a move, everything shifts with you, and you usually end up over-compensating and looking like a fool...or flat on your ass. Whoops! Off to the right, again! Not to worry. This installation is temporary, at best.

The Alberto Gonzales Memorial "Crafts" Room: The only thing different from when he was A.G. are a few more cob-webs, not only on that unused Constitution, but high up in the rafters. But don't worry, the place is still doing a cracking business, just not with the same "fresh zeal" when everything was a new experience. Why, the world was your gulag with everything from psychological brow-beating in a hospital room to full-on electrified alligator clips. Come on in and desecrate a sacred text, play with the dogs (or their feces) or practice your simulated sexual positions. It's a party, and the music is loud and 24/7! Need a break? Step into the relaxing water-boarding room (it's like bobbing for apples, only you're the apple!) Be sure to get directions to this one, because the location is a secret. It's quick! It's painful! It's unconstitutional! (And as a parting gift, you get a web-page of black-hooded memories). The Alberto Gonzales Memorial "Crafts" Room: He may be gone, but his legacy lingers on--you know how slow the kangaroo-court system is!

The Al Gore Conversation Pit and Aquarium (Sunken)--Yes, it's underwater. Yes, you have to go in there. But at least, you don't have to LIVE in there...not for forty years, anyway. Yes, the price of global warming will be lots of developments that might as well go by the name of "Atlantis," for all the good it'll do ya. You think those climatologists who doubt the ice caps are melting are all wet? Wait a year, they WILL be! But you can help stop it by buying "carbon credits." After you've bought all those carbon credits, all you'll afford for Christmas is a lump of coal in your stocking. Carbon Credits is a lot like buying insurance. You throw a lot of money you may never see again, even if you do get sick. Don't worry, though, you've got a choice: Take the moral high ground now, or scramble for high ground later. In the meantime, I've got some swamp-land to sell ya.

Actually, Swamp-land futures.

Actually, Texas.

Hope you enjoyed your visit to the

POLITICAL HAUNTED HOUSE (thundercrack)

Just remember--it's only for Hallowe'en! What? It's just the same outside the Haunted House?

Ooooooh---SCA-RYY!!

*He was subbing for Maureen Dowd--a writer I just can't get behind. For all her crowing and lambasting of the Bush Administration these days, back during 2000 -election-time, she was one of the lazy reporting bunch who would parrot back the latest mis-characterization of Al Gore's speeches portraying him as an ego that invented everything, when a simple reading of his words--or...you know, research?--would have revealed that it was merely niche-reporting by the scribblen-lumpen, that Dowd and her ilk would just parrot back and howl about over their gin-and-tonics. Meanwhile they kept giving Bush the benefit of the doubt when he proved to be not as stupid as they assumed--and they had a grudging admiration for the unapologetic craveness of his campaign. After he was elected, these reporters were stumbling all over themselves with sober pontifications of "He's very smart--He's smarter than we thought he was--Smart, Verrrry smart!" Now, he's been proven to be the incompetent boob anyone who looked at his record as a businessman knew he would be, and these bandwagon reporters, who a few months ago were still fawning for press credentials and White House Invites have decided that they're now working for the Good of the Nation. Wrong, as always. She may be a leader in the Press Corps, but it's a Corps of lemmings, and chickens. If you want to lead a stampede in no particular direction, send the Maureen's.

** For years, I lived across from the building that was the traditional "haunted house" for one particular Seattle radio station (couKJRgh!). It was originally the site of Children's Hospital. Then The Seattle Police Department turned it into The City Morgue (talk about "cradle to the grave!"). Then, after the Morgue moved (and became a part-time Haunted House), someone got the bright idea to make it an assisted living facility. Someone with a short-term memory problem, no doubt. In fact, they're probably living there now.

More Poetry of Spam

EDRIC Messersmith has created Holiday postcard for you at irritant.com:

Hello! I am tired this evening. I am nice girl that would like to chat with you. Email me at (censored_e-mail_adress.oog) only, because I am writing not from my personal email. To see some pictures of me.


The spam has increased and congealed of late in my Inbox and while it's not causing my computer any "Irritable Bowel Syndrome" (they sponsored a day-part on the Radio the other day...which part I wonder?), it makes me think that the so-called "Spam King" is doing some extra work to pay off his lawyer's bills. So, in honor of the occassion, we're going to blow out our system with some more "Poetry of Spam."

Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
giddy as good kids playing hookey.
Is the moon to grow
As if your human shape were what the storm,
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings.

Now, Where, as I discover as I go through
To pick up even the quickening of wind
From there. Toward . . .Not daring to oppose
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.

Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts
Silent patch of ultimate paint. You are
Homeward into the howling woods, although
they sit with their wives all day in the sun.

The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
Trampled snow is the only rose.
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
In the sound of the snow.

With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
As it sits there like an eventual
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;

Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
Covering the land—In the woods, close by,
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.

It's snowing, it's returning to a town
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
Seized from creation by nonentity,
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
That desire has ever built, have approached
The road, but not far enough ahead.

I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
That desire has ever built, have approached
Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
The high whites spread over the buried earth.

Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
Allowing me to let your picture form and wake
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
Even if they are staring
At the end of the road.

Yes. The obvious
Coextensive with everything? How could they know?
Away from their profundity of surface.
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort
grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
Merely a mockery of spring

The purest form is always the one
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;


"Spam Haiku?" "No, no, this is "Spam Poetry." You want "Spam Haiku," you go here.

I have a friend who suddenly was being flooded with spam from China. He read that to solve the problem, you report it to the affected source (of course), but you reply with this:

Subject line: Thanks for the donation

Dear Fellow Compatriot,

Thank you for your request to join our Democracy Club. Your donation is appreciated and we always welcome financial contributions. If you have any further information about wrongful incarcerations of protestors in China that you want forwarded to the American Press, please feel free to send it. What you have sent so far is very appreciated and will be published. And we certainly understand how upset you are that you cannot legally join a Falon Gong group in China. I am glad that you understand that violent protest by the people is sometimes the only way to create a democracy.

Best Wishes,


Democracy for China, Users Worldwide

To which I can only add: Sic Semper Tyrannis!

Have You Heard the One About....

Here's another one of those jokes I've known for years and years and never been able to get out of my head. I think I've always liked it for the simple set-up, and the build-up of information to the punch-line (no pun intended). It also has that element of giving you more information as it goes along while increasing the mystery to the surprise. I have no idea what the source of it was:


During the occupation of France, four people shared a train compartment: a German officer, a French officer, a pretty French girl, and a dowager. When the train entered a tunnel, everything in the compartment went black. Suddenly, there was the sound of a kiss, followed by a loud SLAP!

When the train emerged from the tunnel, the German officer was massaging a painful-looking bright red hand-mark on his face.

The dowager thinks: "Good for that girl! That terrible German got just what he deserved!"

The German thinks: "Gott in Himmel. That French swine kisses the girl and I get slapped for it!"

The girl thinks: "Strange. Why would the German kiss the old woman rather than me?"

The Frenchman thinks: "Viva La France! I kiss my hand, slap the German and no one's the wiser!"
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True-Life Update: "Baby Huey" is now flying quite well, but is extraordinarily vocal, no doubt yelling the eagle equivalent of "Hey, ma, lookit what I'm doing! Look! Lookit!! Ma, Lookit!! Lookit!!"

K. Update: Today, "Baby Huey" flew right over the cabin, it's wing movements are very slow and when it made it to the opposite tree, "it clamped on for dear life." Then it turned and flew back to the nest.
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Of Marginal Importance is a video Mark Evanier had mentioned on his blog that just cracked me up all the way through it's eight minutes--it's a sales presentation for LaChoy products produced in the 60's by The Muppets. I miss Jim Henson. He was far more anarchic than the Corporate Muppets are today. Also to the side is a nifty series of Hitchcock quotes, which will continue until the next Hitchcock installment (which will be a week from Sunday--Hitchcock, man, he's killing me!).

But I Wanna Tell Ya....

The next in a series of jokes that I've remembered for years and years.

I first heard this said by Wally Cox on "Hollywood Squares:"

There once was a man from Japan,
Whose poetry never did scan.
When told this was so,
the man said, "I know,
But I always try to fit as many words into the last line as I possibly can."

I've found two variations of this, though the changes are subtle:

There once was a man from Japan,
Whose limericks never did scan.
When asked why it was,
He said, "It's because
I always try to fit as many words in the last line as I possibly can."

And:

There was a young man of Japan
Whose limericks never would scan.
When they asked him, Why?
He said, with a sigh,
"It's because I always try to get as many words into the last line as I possibly can."

And while doing that research, I found this one:

A poet who lived in Peru,
wrote limericks that stopped at line two



Hmmm. Looking at this, 36 hours after writing it, I've always suspected I liked that "Japan" limerick because I struggle with "writing too much" (as anyone who's visited here can attest). One of the bromides that has haunted me in life is "Brevity is the soul of wit," and I've always wanted to achieve that balance where I can convey the most information in as concise a form as possible, and I suspect that's why, of all the limericks I looked at on the web, the one that caught my eye is the "Peru" one. Of course, it's truncated, but it does convey all the information it needs to. That's the joke.

Then I look at my career path. I started out writing in a forum that demands getting as much information into a limited time-frame (30 second and 60 second commercials) which I found frustrating, abandoned that, and went into a discipline where 70% of the job was editing.

Now, here I am, writing to my heart's content, and I find that I'm suffering, to carry the metaphor, from an enlarged heart. And I continue with the quest to write more, while writing less.

The punchline? If my last words are "Well, that's it."

Ba-dump-bump
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ALERT ALERT!

Next week, I'm going to do another week-long look at one song-writer's lyrics, but I've only got four of the five days covered. So, I'm taking requests--Anybody got a Leonard Cohen song they'd like put up? Better give me two, just in case I'm already using your suggestion (which I probably am).
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Meanwhile, this week another review--maybe two, a couple Netflix came in, a second batch of Spam-Poetry, and either something about the current state of comics criticism, or immigration, whichever crosses the finish line first.

But Seriously...

They say music soothes the savage breast, but I'd make a case for humor. Ask any public speaker cowering behind a lectern, the best way to open a speech is with a joke. A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.

It works! Take President Bush (Please!! *Ba-dum-bum*). My approval rating for him went up a tenth of a point--to roughly a tenth of a point--when he appeared at one of those White House Correspondent suck-ups, er, dinners. His opening shot: "Last year at this time my approval rating was in the low 30's...my Supreme Court nominee had just withdrawn...and my Vice-President had just shot someone in the face! (pause) *sigh* Those were the good old days!"

Good line. In fact, a perfect line. Everyone I've told that joke to, even rabid Bush-haters, have chuckled and said something like "That's really good!" or "Didn't know he had it in him!" To disarm, to ingratiate, to pull one to your side--there's nothing like a good joke to do that.

I used to read those "Peanuts" collections* as a kid, and, being the annoying sprat I was, every time I came across one I thought was especially good I felt I had to read it out loud to any hapless adult near-by. I wanted to see their reaction. I wanted to see if what made me laugh, made them laugh.

I still want to do that. So every once in a while, I'll tell one of the jokes that have left a permanent divit in my brain over the years. If I've remembered this many years, it must be good.

Well, I think they're good, anyway.
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The Obscene Parrot

A man had a parrot with behavioral problems: it would curse like a sailor. Whatever the man tried, the parrot would not stop cursing. Rewards, punishments, ignoring the bird--they only made matters, and the bird's vocabulary, worse. It got so bad, that people stopped coming to his house because of the constant stream of verbal abuse.

Finally, the man became so fed up that in desperation he grabbed the parrot, threw it in his freezer and slammed the door. The parrot's muffled obscenities continued for many minutes.

Then, it abruptly stopped.

The man became alarmed: Did he just freeze his parrot to death?

He opened the freezer door, to see the parrot looking chastised. The parrot looked at him and spoke. "I know my behavior has been terrible, and I've tried your patience and for that I really am sincerely sorry. I realize now the problems I've caused you and I regret the suffering I created, and I vow to never again betray your trust and from hereon out, never use such terrible language again, if you will only forgive me."

"Well, sure!" said the man. "C'mon out."

"Thank you!" said the parrot who hopped out of the freezer onto the counter. "Thank you very much! Now that that's over, can you tell me one thing?

What exactly did that chicken do?"
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Bumper sticker of the day: Mid-wives help people out
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* Now, of course, Fantagraphics Books has come out with those definitive "Peanuts" collections that collect everthing in two-year chunks with an archaeological zeal. There's a wealth of surprises in them. Sparky would be proud...well, tinged with guilt and a sense of unworthiness. "Good Grief!"

Opening Fool's Day

It's a rare thing when Opening Day of baseball season and April Fool's Day are one and the same (unless, of course, you're a Cubs fan!). So there's no more appropriate way to acknowledge this convergence of National Pastime and Prank-time (and celebrate both) than to bring out Lou and Bud, that perfect ying and yang--or id and ego--of comedy teams, to offer up the best written (and performed) comedy routine about baseball (and I'm not so sure its not the best comedy routine ever):

The Worst...The Best

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Crude Oil Prices close today at $60.07 per barrel, yet the price of a gallon of gas (regular) jumped 20 cents at one of my ear-mark gas stations to $2.69.

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Song in me head: Did You See Jackie Robinson Hit That Ball?

Song I'm whistling: I Go to Pieces (Peter and Gordon version--lyrics by Del Shannon)

So Bad it's Good Friday

There's a guy at the Ranch who likes to share stuff. Like the "Robot Bastard" movie from a few weeks back. "Off"-stuff. Wierd stuff. But stuff I find amusing. Sure, it might have the budget of a week's buying of groceries at the P-X, but there's some spark there that makes it worth it. Some knowledge of "yeah, it looks like crap, but we know what we're doing" that brings a smile to the face.

So here's a British series (comedie) that embraces the cliches of really bad-tv, and the egos that don't have a clue they're producing bad-tv. That's all the set-up I'll give you, other than to warn you this is a retrospective of a (*kaff*)70's horror series (that, according to the show's creators--in their DVD like commentary--was "too much ahead-of-its-time to broadcast,") and so, has some "shocking" amounts of badly-realised violence.

I give you "Garth Marenghi's 'DarkPlace.'" *


Oh man, where do I start? Of course, there's a bit of "Ray Bradbury Theater" in there, and "Orson Welles' Great Mysteries," throw in a dash of Stephen King and Clive Barker and amp the ego to "11." "DarkPlace" Hospital looks like one of those cardboard settings in Gerry Anderson's puppet series. Lots of nice little jokes about bad dubbing and out-of-sync dialog...and just BAD BAD BAD writing. Wow. In one of the "interview" segments of the show, they try to compare Garth's "acting style" to that of Emmy Award winner William Shatner, but I see a lot more of Patrick McGoohan there (much as I love "Secret Agent" (or "DangerMan") and "The Prisoner."

This is good stuff. A lot of knowledge went into this. And it's bad. But enjoyably bad. I've seen some of the films of Ed Wood. And I'd watch them fully expecting to be entertained, but I'd always end up feeling annoyed. Even a little angry. Wood didn't make films so bad they were good (as Michael Medved** would have you believe). He made films so bad, they were just...BAD. I've never found incompetence entertaining (which is why I guess I'm not a fan of "American Idol"), so, I've never found Wood's films entertaining in the slightest. The best thing you could say about Ed was...he didn't not know how to use a camera. Is that faint praise enough?

But...I have this sense of...loss. Of...(pause) some-thing left un...done. But....(long interminable pause...is that long enough, yeah, I think so) whatcoulditbee?
Oh! Yeah! I let William Shatner off the hook. Here's Bill doing "Rocket-Man" from the 1978 Sci-Fi Awards Show.*** They broadcast it, unfortunately.

The memory...still haunts.

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K is still sick, so 1) I'm not taking her to "DarkPlace Hospital" and 2) I won't show her the Shatner video. No need making her sicker in either case!

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Crude Oil prices continue to rise--it's at $60.95 a barrel today. Expect a gas-hike in the near-term.

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Song in me head: Still blessedly free of what the Germans call (roughly translated)"ear-worms." Believe me, you don't want to know what the last one was....

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* What you're seeing is Part 1 of Episode 1. If you go to your local YouTube constabulary there are Parts 2 and 3 of Episode 1, a complete Episode 2, a Garth Marenghi movie "War of the Wasps," and a spin-off interview series "Man to Man with Dean Lerner." It's a franchise, people!

**Medved can be co-credited for the re-appreciation of Wood in his book "The Golden Turkey Awards." Thanks for that, Michael.

*** The thing I like about Shatner? He is self-aware. But he charges right over that thar' cliff, anyway, bless him.

SuperThunderStingCar!

For anyone growing up the the "Super-Marionette" shows of Gerry Anderson, this should be a treat. Anybody else seeing it will think it's just bizarre. It features Peter Cook and Dudley Moore.
(For the record, I was a "Supercar" fan)