Some Signs That You May Actually in Reality Be a Total Creep

You're well over 25 and live with your parents.

You live alone and have more than two cats.

You smell your fingers. A lot.

You still listen to Marylin Manson.

You have a calendar in your place of employ that features partially or fully unclothed ladies.

You wear tinted shades indoors.

You wear tinted shades at all.

Your mustache is of the same approximate volume, size and style as it was in tenth grade.

My First Prostate Exam

Well, children, what can I tell you? Uncle Moe is getting to a certain age and men of a certain age must go through a certain procedure every certain time of year uncertain of what the result might be. Oh, the horror. Oh, the shame.

It started in my GP's office. He told me it was time. I had to put on the paper gown and lie on the examining table on my side, knees pulled to my chest. (Some make you bend over the table). I could hear the latex smacking against his hairy Russian hand. Did I mention that my doctor is Russian? Not that it matters one way or another, but he has a somewhat blunt manner, regardless of his nationality.

So there I am on my side, knees to chest, all exposed back there, bracing for the worst. "The worst" does not quite describe what happened next. Yes, I do exaggerate. But having a pair of thick lubricated Russian fingers up your private privates (where no man has been and won't be again if I can help it) is less than a picnic on the beach with a couple Victoria's Secret models. Yes, I realize I sound incredibly homophobic, sexist and otherwise Field and Stream/Guns & Ammo here, but friends, it was humiliating and painful. So you'll excuse me.

When it was all over, I was sure he left something up there. No, he assured me, anything up there was now completely removed. Then I realized it was the lubricant. He easily left a good four or five ounces of the stuff up there. I swear. Gobs ... OK, you may want to bow out now if you're squeamish. Or it may be too late.

Unfortunately, this was not the end of it. My doctor now announces that I have a nodule that he'd like a urologist to look at. So on top of this, I have to fill out more forms, get a referral and show up at a complete stranger's office to have him perform the same procedure. Bad enough I have a doctor I have known for 15 years get all up in it, but now a complete stranger gets to feel his way around the nether of Moe-land. Needless to say, I could barely wait.

The big day arrived. And, friends, as bad as the fist exam was, I am pleased to tell you that the next went unprecedentedly smoothly. The doctor was punctual, polite and speedy. He was in and out before you could knock me over the head with a 2x4 and call me Johnson. (He favored the bend-over-the-table approach, by the way). He did seem to go a lot deeper and linger a bit longer than my GP but so what? Once he was done, he calmly told me I had nothing to worry about. My prostate, like most men's my age, was beginning to enlarge slightly but there were no concerns.

So, people, the equipment is fine, I am a little more humble ... and the moral? Boys, get your junk checked out. Don't wait till there's a problem.

Boycott Yahoo

All I can say is, based on the news stories I've read, the company is absolutely reprehensible. I'm closing my account today and I will use all my efforts to drive the billion dollar company out of business. I know it's a Herculean (maybe even Sisyphustic) task. But shame on them.

Get the full story here.

Write nasty notes, call your congressman ... do something! Yahoo is scum.

The Dalai Lama is Evil

Yesterday the Dalai Lama was awarded the Congressional Gold Medal. A formal ceremony took place in the Capitol Rotunda where such luminaries as Elie Wiesel, congressmen, senators and President Bush praised the Dalai Lama for his spiritual guidance and his approach to nonviolence.

What these great leaders fail to realize is that the Dalai Lama is pure evil. Yes, he has an agenda (despite his statements to the contrary). His mission? Autonomy for Tibet! Imagine! This little country nestled in the foothills of the Himalayas wants autonomy from its open-minded, kindhearted and beneficent overlord, China. The nerve. The sheer audacity. China, the benevolent mother to 1.3 billion people, only has Tibet's best interests in mind. When its troops gently sauntered--practically danced breezily--into the country in 1959, it was only looking to do good. It's not their fault the Dalai Lama fled over the hills to India like a frightened calf. Some leader.

China has rightly "declared Buddhism 'a disease to be eradicated.'" Why, this populist cult is nothing more than a bunch of hippie peaceniks parading about in saffron robes preaching tolerance and nonviolence. Like there's anything wrong with violence. And tolerance is way overrated. How dare they. If China had any guts, frankly, they'd take the same road as Burma and simply shoot the bums on sight.

I happened to be on the West Lawn of the Capitol yesterday as the Dalai Lama made his departure out of its majestic doors onto the steps f the Capitol building. It was as if Mussolini emerged to cheering throngs of fascists. I was disgusted. This abrasive man who is adored must be put in his place.

China is right to crack down on anyone who is caught so much as carrying a picture of this miscreant. He is nothing short of a power-hungry demagogue. Sure, he wants Tibetan autonomy now. What next? Religious freedom?

Is it Me or is Dane Cook Just Not Funny?

OK -- so I've been avoiding this latest, supposedly greatest comic to come down the pike and I decide to YouTube him. And here's the thing: he ain't funny. I didn't even smile. He's juvenile, insipid, probably has ADD, immature, hyper, repetitive, inarticulate and foul-mouthed.

Maybe I'm just getting old. Maybe ADD-challenged, pacing, screaming comics are the thing now. But for my money, give me an entertainer like Mr. Don Rickles, Myron Cohn, Mort Sahl or the great Norm Crosby.

In my day, comics didn't have to use such coarse language to make a point. And they didn't go on and on. They told a joke and that was it. "Two old ladies are on a cruise. One says, 'The food here is terrible.' The other says, 'I know. And such small portions.'"

Now that's a joke. Oy. Mr. Dane Cook could learn a thing or two. Now I need to grab my Maalox and go to bed. Oy.

Xs and Os

It's common knowledge that Xs and Os are bitter mortal enemies. Their history is legend. They've been battling for turf since time began. And no one -- not even the Xs or Os themselves -- can be sure when (or how) it all started. It's one of those chicken and egg knots. Still, the hatred, the bitterness, and the clash exist. And it flares up violently from time to time.

"No one asked them to take the corner area," X leader Malcolm told me in a recent interview. He was speaking about a recent influx of Os into the corner square. "No one invited them."

I pointed out that that area had been legally declared theirs by an international decree. The area -- that small parcel -- was indeed theirs.

Malcolm patiently nodded his head, having heard the argument many times. "They are not entitled to that area at the expense of many Xs. Thousands ... tens of thousands of Xs lost their homes to Os. Tens of thousands became refugees in their own territory. They were forced out."

I spoke to Harry O, the acting leader of that group. "We have suffered for many years," he said. "We have been displaced," he added, shaking his head sadly. "And now we finally have a home. And they want to take that away from us? Is it fair? Is it right? We will fight for our territory as long as we have to."

"They are greedy," Malcolm said. "They take one corner and then they want more. Soon they want the whole game. They want to encroach and take our territory." His voice grows louder as he grows visibly agitated.

"We only want what is ours," Harry said dismissively. We want no more than we're entitled to. And we're entitled to a place where our people can live, work, grow and thrive."

At risk of sounding cynical, this battle is likely to go on through eternity, long after generations and generations of Xs and Os have sacrificed their homes, their lives, perhaps their very souls, to defend what they see as rightfully theirs.

Negotiations have proved fruitless. They bring about a temporary peace. But eventually, the whole skirmish begins again, with different names, different faces, different causes and in a different quadrant. But the cause and result are both the same as they've been for centuries--pure hatred.

Bad Blogger!

Al Franken used to appear on Saturday Night Live as a character named Stuart Smalley. A low grade new age self help guru, Stuart had an access cable show called "Daily Affirmation." On the show, Stuart would often refer to a "shame spiral" he found himself trapped in for one reason or another. A shame spiral (as I understand it) is one of those situations where you, say, put something off and feel guilty about it. So you try to comfort yourself about that and do something that makes you feel even more guilty. To get over that, you commit another guilt-inducing act. And so on. Or you can be so frozen with fear, self-pity and guilt, you do nothing at all.

Well, folks, that's where I find myself today with this blog. This is my first post in nearly four months. Though not quite as far gone as a full blown shame spiral, I must admit I'm pretty embarrassed. When I started this blog, I launched with guns blazing, no shortage of ideas for posts and a certain amount of enthusiasm (in my own unique jaded way). And there have been pauses, to be sure ... but four months is an awfully long time to keep such avid fans waiting. Now I know how Britney feels -- releasing her first album in almost four years. Her fans have suffered enough -- don't you agree?

And so, dear readers, I am pledging here and now to never, ever make you wait so long for a post. Four months is a ludicrous amount of time in our instant gratification culture. If a customer service rep told you an air conditioner repairman couldn't be at your house for four months, you certainly wouldn't accept it, would you? So, readers, I promise that you will wait, oh, let's say no more than THREE months for a post from me at any given time. After all, you've suffered enough.

Disclaimer, Part 2

May cause dry mouth, shortness of breath, dizziness, constipation, diarrhea, vomiting, ulcers, lacerations, a proclivity toward violence, hallucinations, bed-spins, internal bleeding and incessant babbling. May also cause a fondness for 70s rock, especially Joan Jett and Ozzy Osbourne.

Please contact your doctor should you experience any desire to sue us. He'll talk you out of it.

Please contact us should you have any desire to wait interminably on hold listening to cheesy music. Oh, and if you want to be passed from voice prompt to voice prompt. Let me give you a preview: "If you wish to speak to an associate, press one. If you have accidentally taken too much medication, press two. If you are now listening to Joan Jett or Ozzy Osbourne, press three."

Please do not drive or operate heavy machinery. Ever. I've seen you drive.

Please call me. I gave you my number. I thought we really hit it off. Don't make me wait by the phone.

Please please me.

Phrases You Will Not Likely Hear My Mother Utter

• That's none of my business.
• Of course I don't mind if you don't come up for the holidays.
• Jimi Hendrix rocks!
• I'm not going to interfere--you work it out.
• I love what you're wearing--it's totally appropriate.
• Frank Sinatra was a hack--and ugly too.
• Who cares what everybody's wearing this season?
• George Bush and Dick Cheney are the two greatest men alive!
  

Why Do I Bother?

I'm reading the very brilliant Philip Roth's Goodbye Columbus. Every time I read a piece of work of such stature, such grace, written with so seemingly little effort, I wonder why I even bother attempt to practice the (art?) (craft?) of writing.

Ladies and gentlemen (and perhaps others), in short I am a hack. A talentless waste just burning up his time on this mortal coil. Or just a self-defeating wannabe. Take your pick. Take a passage such as the following (bear in mind that Roth was a mere 26 years old when he had this novella published) and you can see what I'm up against:

... I would go into the men's room [at work] on the main floor for a cigarette and, studying myself as I expelled smoke into the mirror, would see that at some moment during the morning I had gone pale, and that under my skin ... there was a thin cushion of air separating the blood from the flesh. Someone had pumped it there while I was [working], and so life from now on would not be a throwing off as it was for Aunt Gladys , and would not be a gathering in, as it was for Brenda, but a bouncing off, a numbness. I began to fear this and yet, in my muscleless devotion to my work, seemed edging towards it ... .

So rarely do you encounter such perfectly constructed words--words that, despite their inner clumsiness, capture the human spirit so wholly. (I know, dear readers, that this sounds like a lot of pretentious claptrap--but so what? It's my blog. Stop reading if you must. Because it's about to get a whole lot worse.)

Mr. John Cheever, another great American master storyteller, also makes me feel unworthy. Take this little passage that he just casually typed into his journals one day:

Mr. Hitchcock ... took each morning a massive tranquilizer that gave him the illusion that he floated, like Zeus, in some allegorical painting, upon a cloud. Standing on the platform waiting for the 7:53, he was surrounded by his cloud. When the train came in he picked up his cloud, boarded the no-smoking coach, and settled himself at a window seat, surrounded by the voluminous and benign folds of his tranquilizer. If the day was dark, the landscape wintry, the string of little towns they passed depressing, none of this reached to where he lay in his rosy nimbus. He floated down the tracks into Grand Central, beaming a vast and slightly absentminded smile at poverty, sickness, the beauty of a strange woman, rain and snow.

Bear in mind, folks, this is the stuff he just tossed out--didn't use in any of his short stories or novels. In other words, this was practice work. Like a Picasso sketch.

So maybe you understand my plight. Maybe you have no sympathy. Maybe you gave up reading this entry long ago. But you read it just the same. There's hope.

Elvis Costello's set list 9:30 Club, Washington, DC 5.18.07

An amazing, electrified, energetic show at Washington DC's famed 9:30 Club. Elvis poured out 33 songs, mostly from his old vault, in just under two hours. An acoustic version of Alison brought down the house and me nearly to tears. The Washington Post said this:

Costello's willingness to fling open the back pages of his extraordinary songbook is one of the qualities that make him such a superb live performer. Of course, his daring would be in vain if the tunes didn't kill, but aided by the Imposters, Costello drove home the curios and the kinda-hits with such unrelenting kinetic force that you barely had time to remember the chorus of one tune before he counted off the next.

Here's the complete set for you other EC geeks:

1. Welcome to the Working Week
2. Shabby Doll
3. The Beat
4. Lover's Walk
5. Secondary Modern
6. Strict Time
7. Brilliant Mistake
   
8. Country Darkness
9. Temptation
10. Clubland
11. Beyond Belief
12. Kinder Murder
13. Alibi
14. Watching the Detectives
15. American Gangster Time
16. Lipstick Vogue
17. Riot Act
18. I Hope You're Happy Now
19. No Action
20. You Belong to Me
21. Waiting for the End of the World
22. High Fidelity
23. Uncomplicated
24. Radio Radio
25. The Impostor
    
26. Alison
27. Sleep of the Just
28. The River in Reverse
29. Monkey to Man (w/Alan Toussaint)
    
30. Yes We Can Can (Alan Toussaint solo)
31. Hey Bulldog (Beatles cover)
32. Pump it Up
33. (What's So Funny About) Peace, Love & Understanding?

A special message to my no. one-and-a-half fan, DW: I finally posted something. So that set list I kept wasn't a complete waste after all.

Cheers Y'All,

Moe

Molly Bloom's Diary

"Yes because he never did a thing like that before as ask to get his breakfast in bed with a couple of eggs since the City arms hotel when he used to be pretending to be laid up with a sick voice ..."

And so it begins--and ends--a rambling, lengthy monologue, just going on and on and on and on and ... so this is literature. And so it is. They told us it is and so it must be. It must be, I mean, yes, it must be. Because they told us so and so it is. Yes, I said yes, yes it is ...

Speaking of lengthy, rambling monologues ...

Time Magazine, Jan. 9, 1934:

What is it all about? Trusting readers who plunge in hopefully to a smooth beginning soon find themselves floundering in troubled waters. Arrogant Author Joyce gives them no help, lets them sink or swim.

Arrogant? Such a petty insult. Brilliant, yes. And I'm sure at times insufferable and indeed even perhaps arrogant. As for his intentions--to purposely confuse, confound and frustrate his readers? Possibly. To be positively obtuse and difficult? No doubt. Isn't that the trait of a great author?

I have found that many great works of art require a bit of work. At least on some level, even the most seemingly simplistic work contains hidden context, meaning, juxtaposition, what have you. Take Leonardo's "Last Supper" for example. Art historians have studied this piece for centuries, looking for its studded clues, its subtle reminders of mortality, spirituality and sexuality, only to mention a few themes. And yet hundreds of thousands of visitors flock to Milan each year to view this piece and enjoy it on its most basic level.

So that brings us to enjoying art on its face. Some people read mysteries. Very black and white. Others read Umberto Ecco, a mystery writer in his own right. "Ulysses" hardly seems the candidate for the kind of literature one just breezes through while lounging on the beach. (And I must confess, I've never read the whole thing myself). However, it does have its entertaining passages.

Bronze by gold heard the hoofirons, steelyringing.
Imperthnthn thnthnthn.
Chips, picking chips off rocky thumbnail, chips.
Horrid! And gold flushed more.
A husky fifenote blew.

Our critic from Time (1934 -- when the book finally made its way to American shores) suggests that only the most educated Odyssey scholars can make sense of this. Be that as it may, you had better have more than a familiar passing with Homer to get this book. Joyce weaves at least a dozen languages into this dense novel, plus innumerable puns, parables, allegories and other word tricks. To read it is to be awed. Or bored beyond dead. Take your pick, beach readers.

The Art of Jaywalking, Part 9

I've noticed a disturbing new trend in my humble town. As if the sidewalk did not exist at all, people have taken to walking in the street. And not just on the side of the road, mind you. No--they walk right down the middle of the street. Cars be damned, they just saunter down the middle of the road. I just don't understand. Are the sidewalks not wide enough? Smooth enough? What's worse, some of these people walk their dogs down the middle of the street. And some of them barely step aside to allow a car to get by. They have their iPods plugged in, cranked up to max volume or they're talking on their mobile phones. Not one sliver of attention to the cars bearing down on them.

In these situations, I believe in survival of the fittest. I believe that my 1,900-pound car (a weakling by today's standards) could squash your puny 200-pound ass. And your little dog's too. Sorry, folks, but the law does not give you the privilege of just strolling casually wherever you'd like. It's for your own good. It's the same reason you have to be 21 to buy liquor and can't buy heroin at all. Just looking out for your welfare. We don't want you doing anything stupid.

So, folks, stay off the smack and stay out of the street. Jaywalking is one thing. But taking up the whole street is just asking for it.

Diary of a Delusional Man, Part 2

I was looking over some old letters and came across some from Frank. Ol' Blue Eyes really knew how to make me laugh. Even at my most dire moments. And vice versa.

Here's a passage from 1962:

Had breakfast with Sammy today. He sends his regards. He was kind of blue. Played the Sands last night and he felt his performance fell short. He beats himself up almost every night. And he has a set of golden tonsils, let me tell you. Talent to burn. I just don't understand it. Wish you'd been there buddy to cheer him up. And to see my set! Man, it was smokin'!

And so on. Ah, we would laugh. That night he coughed up blood. OK, not so funny but later ... ? Oy. We were doubled over. At least he was.

I miss him. He would write nearly every night he was on the road. The highs, the lows. And everything in between. He would let me in on all the details. I felt as if I were there. Here's one from 1958:

The joint sure was jumping tonight. Lester and the orchestra sounded marvelous. When I broke into "These Foolish Things," the crowd went wild. I wowed 'em, baby. Just wowed 'em! Knocked 'em dead. They were on their feet at the end of the number. And yet I feel an emptiness after every performance. A hollow, sinking feeling that only the wild, appreciative applause of 300 people can replace. It puts me in a lonely place. But I'm back again on that horse tomorrow. And when I feel that low again, I can always drown my sorrows in some gin.

Yes, Frank could be mercurial. And cruel, God knows. He went for months without writing. I never heard from him. And when he did finally break his silence, there was not one word of apology or even an acknowledgement that he'd cut me out of his life (even if it was temporary). I would lay in bed and let the tears stream down my face thinking how he had hurt me. But I knew it was unintentional.

Many people ask me about my relationship with Frank. My therapist is especially curious. Some folks even try to suggest that it was not "real" or "imaginary." I tell them all the same thing. It was a real as any relationship I've had with any other human being in the wonderful world of entertainment.

More people with double names

Yo Yo Ma
Evans Evans
William Carlos Williams*
Dudley Dudley, former Democratic state chair, New Hampshire (who has the added distinction of being a woman with a double male name)
Lisa Lisa (and the Cult Jam)
Humbert Humbert (fictional, yes, but also double named)

*This merits special mention since it's not the same two names in a row.

Phrases I want to drop in everyday conversation

"Why, I oughta ..."
"Say, what's the big idea?"
"I oughta sock you right in the puss!"
"Scram! I said, am-scray!"
"Say, what do I look like, some sorta sap?"
"What gives?"
"That is one hep hepcat."
"Sez you."
"The jig is up, boys!"
"Don't flip your lid!"
"Get outta here, youse mugs!"
"What are you -- some kinda wise guy?"
"Good day, sir! I said, good day!"

the Point

"I guess I believe there's a point
To what we do.
But I ask myself is there
something more besides you?"

Cowboy Junkies

The point is, what's the point? They have a point -- asking what the point is. Secondarily, who is the "you" in this song--a lover, a friend, God? It hardly matters, I think, in the larger context.

We're always looking for a point. See the movie. We want our answers neat and tidy--tied up with a very pretty little bow. Quick and ... to the point. But answers are often not simple. They are complex, ugly, difficult. We want to skip to the end ... see what's waiting. But isn't the journey half of it?

OK -- I think I've laid out quite a few cliches and platitudes.

The Crash, Part 12

And so, with the end near, he was unsure if anything he had learned would matter. It seemed to him that the cold, lonely lessons were merely academic strictures that had no applicability in the broader world. The firm handshake, the nervous smile, the glances, coughs and vocal tics meant less and less as he approached the final stop.

Even meaning itself held little or no meaning. He now felt as if he were entering a gigantic void, surrendering to a sense of nothingness. All the wisdom, all the mistakes, all the knowledge he brought with him would be left behind like so much clothing to shed before a bath.

He would gladly surrender these things for the peace of mind that he was sure to trade it for. But there was no guarantee of that. It was risk. And he thought it was unlikely that he had a choice.

The Crash, Part 2

He would often think about his childhood but only in vague, nondescript terms. He had no concrete memories, no complete stories to tell. There were only fleeting images and passing scenes--dreamlike--that evoked just a flicker of emotion before evaporating.

He had no solid picture of his mother in his mind. Nor his father. He had only fragments and they were not detailed. He wasn't sure what color his mother's eyes were. When he tried to conjure her up, they appeared gray, an ill defined, indiscreet color.

And so it was with all of his memories. They took on a gray, indistinct, murky feeling.

The Crash, Part 1

He was at home. That's where things were. All of his things in a neat tidy bundle--his razor, shaving cream, his shoes (sorted by color --brown and black--in his drawer), his magazines, his records. And so much more. His photographs. Perhaps they meant more than anything. They could raise the past like nothing else. Except his albums, which he never played anymore. He kept them in a corner near the untouched stereo. To play them would be too heartbreaking. Yes, the aural was a much more powerful tool to dredge up old images and memories than the visual.

He had kept a diary. Just short entries. Very specific and short on descriptions. "Had lunch with X today. He complained of his parents." And so on.

He made the same breakfast every day. Toast, butter, jam and eggs. The only variant was how he cooked the eggs. Sometimes scrambled, sometimes sunnyside up. Never over easy.

Life would not end here, he hoped. And yet it felt as if it ended every day. And then, invariably, without pause or delay, it would begin again.