The Art of Jaywalking

Trouble in McDonaldland

2009-10-15T10:00:00.000-04:00

Memo to: Mayor McCheese; Mayor of McDonaldland
From: Ignatius Counts, Lead Urban Consultant, Urban Industries Enterprises

Mr. Mayor:

Six months ago, per your guidance and direction, Urban Industry Enterprises (hereafter referred to as UIE) was contracted by the Office of the Mayor to complete a thorough, strategic review of McDonaldland, its surrounding suburbs and exurbs, focusing almost exclusively on its infrastructure, public works, crime prevention, fire and safety, education and general well-being. Following is the full report from UIE.

The Office of the Mayor

Beginning with the the highest office in McDonaldland, or, the "land," we have found that the office of the Mayor appears to be little more than a sham at best or, at worst, a front for perhaps a more nefarious organization. Bluntly, Mr. Mayor, you may be the most incompetent, bumbling civic leader we have had the privilege to meet. Your style of dress alone is worthy of a separate memo--the top hat, sash and pince-nez all seem a bit dated, unnecessary and irrelevant to the duties of a mayor. Your lack of leadership, were it not so dangerous and misguided, might be perceived as comical. You offer no guidance, no rules at all, for that matter under which the town can operate.

Crime

The land seems to be riddled with crime under the leadership of two principles: the Hamburglar and Captain Crook. Fortunately, these two reprobates appear to be largely inept (the Hamburglar, for his part is also unintelligible), limiting their misdemeanor and felonious activities to the theft of hamburgers and Filet-O-Fish sandwiches, respectively. It is also fortunate that a third crime ringleader, the Grimace, has apparently been rehabilitated and cured of his compulsion to steal milkshakes and ice-cold Coca-Colas.

However, the chief law enforcement officer of McDonaldland, Officer Big Mac, is challenged at all times to keep the Hamburglar and Crook in their proper place--namely, prison. The two arch criminals are elusive and, because Officer Mac appears to be the sole form of law enforcement, his hands are full. UIE recommends expanding your police force and filling its ranks with well-trained, competent officers, not oversize, cyclopean figures with enormous cheeseburgers for heads.

Education

It would appear that the Fry Kids are receiving less than an ideal education. The only teacher, or instructor, as it were, in all of McDonaldland--"The Professor"--appears to be little more than a so-called mad scientist in a lab coat. It is unclear where or how, he received his teaching credentials, if at all.

The One True Leader

Mr. Mayor, our report sadly concludes that you have squandered every opportunity to show great leadership and set the tone for a law-abiding, well-informed, educated and nutritionally correct citizenry. Instead, it would appear that you have left the town in the hands--and at the mercy--of a clown. Indeed, it is this fiery-haired red headed man with the oversize shoes who shows the most leadership, levelheadedness and calm (despite his proclivity to lead children toward an unhealthy diet).

It is our recommendation that you resign from office immediately and allow the government of McDonaldland to run its true course--namely, becoming a monarchy under the stewardship of Mr. R. McDonald.

Sincerely,

Ignatius Counts
UIE

Some Things I've Learned (in my 102 years on this planet)

2009-10-14T15:28:00.001-04:00

You cannot judge a person by his or her religious beliefs. Unless that person is Tom Cruise.
Always carry some breath mints so you can politely offer one to the man on the subway with the buzzard-killing halitosis.
No matter how many times you try, it's just not worth arguing with crazy people.
Hand sanitizing lotion is not only a fantastic idea, it makes a great booze-gel in a pinch.
The time it takes to find a parking space directly correlates with the distance you will park from your destination and the more open spaces you will find during your walk toward that destination.
Two things will never go out of style: Burma-Shave signs and the Lindy Hop.
Despite what you might think, most of you are not very good drivers.
Of all the things I'll miss as the twenty-first century drags on, I think local book stores will be the most conspicuous.
Ask anyone from my age group: Whatever it is you need, you can find it "on the computer."
You cannot judge a person by their talent or intelligence (or lack of it). Unless that person is Tom Cruise.

On the Magazine Shelf

2009-09-25T10:43:00.002-04:00

According to the American Magazine Association of America*, more than 15 new magazine titles appear per year**. The following are some we're looking forward to seeing:

Selfless--The magazine for practicing Buddhists.
Vague--For the barely fashionably aware.
Timeless--A bunch of articles on where your tax dollars are spent and reality TV.
Rage--For the angry man (lots of ads for Red Bull and Hummers).
OverIndulged--The magazine for people who will always be richer than you.
Better Than You--An offshoot of OverIndulged.
Overpaid Skanks--This month's issue: Brittany vs. Lindsay
Slack--We'll get around to publishing our inaugural issue. Eventually.
Procrastination Today (Maybe Tomorrow)--Publication date unknown (offshoot of Slack).
Modern Blowhard--This month's issue: Glenn Beck vs. Rush Limbaugh
American Dumbass--Mostly pictures, very few editorials.
Bad Driver! Text, drink coffee and chat -- all while mainting 80 MPH.
Road and Sky
Modern Kazoo Player
Laundry Today!--Not just a periodical (this week's lead piece: Removing Nasty Vomit Stains-- We're Not Judging)
Cave Sluts--A cross between National Geographic and Hustler
Modern Liberal Guilt Quarterly--This quarter's guest editor: Ralph Nader with "You're Still Driving that Gas-Guzzling Death Machine?"
American Shyster--Giving the term "ambulance chaser" a better spin
Fake--the definitive monthly guide to insurance fraud.
Red Meat Republicans--Eating beef and kicking ass.
Screechy Shrill Liberals--We won and we're still whining.
God damn Independents--Middle of the road, indecisive, unpredictable freaks

* This is a made-up organization
** This is a made-up statistic.

How to write a blog (Part 2)

2009-09-22T10:06:00.001-04:00

You may recall Uncle Moe's last column on how to write a blog. Some of you are still a little confused as to what a blog is and what it allows you to get away with. Spelling errors? You bet! Grammar? What are grammar? Details like .... oh ... facts to back up your argument? Who needs 'em?

Let's get into some tips for the serious blogger:

Make sure you confuse the words "ensure" and "insure."

To sound a little more erudite, use phrases and terms such as "in order to", "in terms of", "leverage" (as a verb), "due to the fact that", "vis-a-vis" and "inasmuch". This is especially helpful if you are writing a business blog. Also be sure to use words that, up until recently, did not exist or have been appropriated from their proper use such as "impactful" and "empower".

Use lots of "unnecessary" quotation "marks." This lets your readers know that you are "thinking" of "them" and gives your blog a little irony. Or "irony."

The passive voice should be employed as frequently as possible. This insures (see that?) that the author is respected and the piece is given an academic tone.

Include lots of pictures of your pets and family.

Let's talk a little more about "due to the fact that" and "despite the fact that." Under no circumstances should the words "because" or "even though" (respectively) be substituted. It's just too pedestrian.

Include pointless links.

Finally, and perhaps most important: This is your blog and this is America--you can say whatever you want, within reason. For example, if I want to call U.S. Rep John Boehner (R-Ohio), a chain-smoking, red-faced, rabble-rousing schmuck with an anger management problem, it's perfectly within my rights to do so. Or if I feel like saying that Glenn Beck is a bloated, loudmouthed, reactionary borderline psychotic racist, I may. I can also say that I think the Black-Eyed Peas just might be the most overrated, under-talented (and subsequently, worst) band of the decade, and the only recrimination I may suffer will be the wrath of their microcephalous fans.

Happy blogging, all!

Projects That Martin Scorsese Turned Down

2009-09-17T09:36:00.001-04:00

Mean Sidewalks: A day in the life of a group of suburban neighborhood toughs all aged 10 and under.

Buggy Driver: A gritty look at the life of an Amish cab driver as he goes to the brink and contemplates using an electric toaster.

Dumbfellas: Description not available at press time but was set to star Jim Carrey and Jerry Lewis.

The Gangs of New Bedford: A historical (and gritty) look at some of the tougher neighborhood battles in an otherwise quiet suburb in New Hampshire.

Fatfellas: Description not available at press time but apparently the catering budget was largely responsible for tanking this picture.

Mama, I Really Love Your Lasagna but Marie is My Wife: Paulie, a hardworking young man from Brooklyn, tries to shake loose from his mother's apron strings with hilarious results.

The Deeply Departed: A gang from the Bronx is forced to keep digging up and relocating bodies they buried in the 60s thanks to new neighborhood and business developments that keep cropping up all over the area.

The Priest: A young man is forced to choose between gang life and the priesthood with hilarious results.

I Shot That Son of a Bitch Three Times in the Head Just Like He Deserved: Description not available at press time.

Raging Mule (aka The Jackass): Set to star Ben Stiller.

The Last Temptation of Christ II: Jesus sets up a retail business and has three kids with Mary Magdalene. With hilarious results.

The Don and the Bobby Soxer: A mafia leader in 1950s Brooklyn is forced to choose between his Family (and the life) and a cute teenager who falls in love with him (and his Sinatra-like voice).

Insect Heaven/Insect Hell

2009-09-16T15:15:00.028-04:00

According to my older son, some bugs go to insect Heaven while others are doomed to insect Hell. A non-exhaustive list for each:

Insect Heaven

Bumble Bees
Butterflies
Praying Mantis
Some spiders (The really cool-looking ones, but venomous ones must give up the venom before entering the kingdom)
Grasshoppers
Ladybugs
Those little black bugs that look like rhinoceroses
Fireflies
Crickets--as long as they don't hang out in my doorway and panic (this actually happened at 5 a.m. and it took me, like, 15 minutes to figure out what in tarnation was going on and usher him safely outside.)
Some moths--at least the really colorful, exotic ones; others on a case-by-case basis
Woolly caterpillars
Dragonflies
Pill bugs
Earth worms --everyone needs bait on heaven. Plus you don't know the quality of the soil up there.
Inch worms

Insect Hell

Cockroaches
Water bugs
Flies
Gnats
Mosquitoes -- especially mosquitoes ... I hate them! I HATE them! I HATE them! They must all be destroyed!
Fruit flies ... just about any type of fly for that matter ... so let's start with maggots
Wasps
Hornets--May be allowed into insect heaven if they agree to remove their stingers
Ticks
Fleas
Stink bugs
Dung beetles--sorry fellas, nothing personal; it's your diet.
Most ants -- again, not a bad insect; they just tend to infest a house and ruin a good picnic--at least in books
Lice
Termites

Feel free to add your own ...

Lesser Known Hitchcock Films

2009-09-11T11:04:00.001-04:00

Alektorophobia (1950) A man with a deep fear of chickens is kidnapped and forced to sit in a chicken coop, eat a bucket of KFC and sleep on a bed of chicken feathers.

Roberta (1941) The new wife of an eccentric country gentleman is forced to choose between him and her unnatural love of sheepdogs.

The Post Mortem Puppeteer (1948) An aging, widowed mortician, bored with his dreary existence, decides to take up a new hobby by dressing up his corpses in various costumes and staging "human marionette" shows. Starring Vincent Price.

Pure Sleezeball (1947) Claude Rains plays a callous, cruel, indifferent, child-abusing, philandering, homicidal spy master bent on taking over his father-in-law's canning factory. Farley Granger must stop him before the factory becomes a haven of sin and evil.

The Turtles (1963) A small town is overrun by thousands of turtles large and small. Admittedly not as suspenseful as The Birds.

South By Northeast ( 1955) A man with a terrible sense of direction is framed for murder, bigamy and operating a sno-cone stand without a license.

Normal (1961) Perhaps Hitchcock's most puzzling (and shortest) work. A man with absolutely nothing wrong with him leads a quiet and happy life with his wife and two children.

Your Letters

2009-09-10T14:11:00.000-04:00

It's that time again when we answer our readers' mail. Let's get right to it.

From Caspar in Ohio: "Why don't you get off your duff and get a job or something?"

Oh, Caspar, you slay me. First of all, Uncle Moe is 102 years old. He's been retired for years. I can't remember the last time I drew a paycheck. Between my ample social security benefits and checks from my 128-year-old mother, I don't need to work. That's why I blog. (But I put up some ads just in case.)

From Joe in Detroit: "Dear Uncle Moe: Is it true that if you dream you die, you will really die?"

Joe: Not only is it true, it's dangerous. Please, kids, if you insist on dreaming about hazardous stunts and risky behavior, shake yourselves awake before you get to the so-called final destination!

From Millie in Minnesota: "Why are all your letters from the Midwest?"

Millie: If I may answer that question with a question, why are all my readers from the Midwest?

From Mike in Philadelphia: "You think you're so smart and clever. I think you're a fraud. (P.S. I am not from the Midwest.)"

Milk: I am neither smart nor clever. It's just that everyone else is so stupid.

From Amber in Kalamazoo: "What's the best way to get blood stains out of a brand new blouse?"

Amber: If you have blood stains on your blouse, your biggest problem is probably not laundry. OK, I got that from Seinfeld. Seriously, get to an emergency room.

From Ted in Miami: "Uncle Moe, is that your real name?"

Ted, please feel free to call me Mister Uncle Moe.

From Andrea in Scarsdale: "Mister Uncle Moe, my boyfriend and I fight all the time. He is always complaining that I am selfish and shallow. He also says I don't treat him with respect when in fact I show him the utmost courtesy and deepest respect. I try to remind him that he is always deep and first in my thoughts but he only wants to believe what he wants to believe. What should I do?"

Dear Andrea: When it comes to matters of the heart, you have come to the right man. I personally have had seven successful marriages (eight if you count that quickie wedding to the pole vaulter in Jersey). If you want to manage your relationship, you have to take charge. Show him how much you care by catering to his every need. Cook him a wonderful dinner, clean up afterwards and then show him a good time in the bedroom. Then vacuum his car, polish his shoes and maybe give him a little spending money. In other words, spoil him. Trust me, if he's anything like me he will melt in your arms. Listen, if it doesn't work out, send me a photo of you and your phone number. We can maybe work on a solution together.

From Ralph in Saigon: "Uncle Moe--Is it appropriate for an atheist to say 'Oh, my God'?"

Good question, Ralph.

Our Distinguished Panel

2009-08-28T12:00:00.038-04:00

We are pleased this year to offer an array of luminaries on our panel from academia and business who will share their insights and acumen with you. Today's panelists are:

Barry Eikwidth--Dr. Ekiwidth is professor of forensics at University of Illinois. He has been a teacher, lecturer and self-proclaimed lady killer since 1982. He received a BS in Irritating People from Harvard and a Masters in Smugness from Yale. Spell check often wants to correct Dr. Eikwidth's name with the words "awkward" and "width."

Cheryl S. Blanton--Ms. Blanton is the CEO of Blanton Enterprises LLC. We have absolutely no idea what they do. As far as we can tell, they don't manufacture anything, offer no services and pay no taxes. Ms. Blanton is currently under indictment.

F. Scott Murray Adenson--Besides having four names, Mr. Adenson also is the proud owner of four mobile homes, three of them his vacation homes. When he's not judging beauty contests, Mr. Adenson can be found lounging at his above-ground pool or competing in slot car races.

Jan Skanderfly--We don't know if Jan is a man or woman but we're going with man for now. We're pretty sure, anyway. Jan is the executive VP of Tandem Inc., which has nothing to do with bicycles built for two. Mr. (Ms.?) Skanderfly has a BS in Economics from Stanford and enjoys the smell of linseed oil.

Edward Scarsdale--Just a lazy bastard. He doesn't deserve to be on this panel. How he ever got anywhere is beyond us. We're stymied.

David Fleawhotten--We did not make that name up. Dr. Fleawhotten (it's pronounced just like it's spelled) is a highly respected neurosurgeon, author, inventor, columnist, sideshow performer, bassoon player, department store Santa and narcoleptic. His published works include Juarez on Ten Cents a Day, Neurology: It Actually IS Brain Surgery, and the popular children's book on coping with divorce, Mommy Just Doesn't Love You Anymore.

Regina Upington--Ms. Upington is the founder, president and chairman of Gobble, the people who brought you Turkey-in-a-Jar and Mumbo, the freeze dried mung bean (now available in convenient extra large servings --"Mumbo Jumbo"). Ms. Upington is the recent recipient of the Glasdow prize, a prestigious honor awarded each year to the richest woman with the most chins. She would like to dedicate her performance tonight to the memory of Millard Fillmore. She also highly recommends her products for Creole cooking (Jumbo Mumbo Gumbo).

How to Write a Blog

2009-08-27T20:54:00.017-04:00

First, pick a topic. (Actually, first, get a blog name and site and all that.) Make sure it's a topic you care deeply about--celebrity breast implants, long haired cats, great tuba players or underrated AL infielders--the field is wide open.

Next, write about that topic. Feel free to ignore the conventions of syntax, punctuation, spelling or grammar. Incomplete sentences? Fine. So is disagreements.

Keep writing. Your well on you're way! (Notice how I mixed up the possessive "your" and the conjunction "you're"? Neat, huh?)

Spread the word. Tell people about your blog. If you email them, make sure you essentially repeat everything from your latest post. If you post a link on your Facebook page, make sure you have a clever header, like, "Read my blog!" or "Have you read my blog?"

Encourage people to leave comments, no matter how filthy, nasty, random or immaterial. Here's a recent comment from my blog: "Did you know that you can get Cialis and Viagra cheaper? We have a whole drug store a click away!"

Respond to comments. Don't pander but if someone leaves a particularly salient point, try to respond with an equally witty rejoinder. Here's an example. I recently received a comment on my blog that said, "This is the third notice that your library books are overdue. We have no recourse but to suspend your lending privileges and ask that you return the titles or remunerate the library the costs of the titles." I responded: "Thanks for your note. I love hearing from my readers!" (Note how I did not pander.)

Finally, keep writing. Even if you go "off topic" and start veering off onto how Aunt Marge broke her hip, the poor dear and, well, frankly it's a miracle she's lasted this long ... well, it's still content and that's what matters!

Blog on bloggers!

America's Celebrity Shortage

2009-08-27T09:49:00.025-04:00

With the recent deaths of Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, Walter Cronkite, Karl Malden, Pat Hingle, Billy Mays, Les Paul and now Sen. Ted Kennedy and Dominick Dunne, America is facing a crisis unlike one it has ever seen before: a serious shortage of celebrities. This crisis is showing no signs of abating. The grim reaper has had a busy season indeed. If this trend continues, there is much speculation that we will have to begin importing celebrities from such far flung places as France, Italy, Russia and -- gasp -- India (we understand that Bollywood is gaining fast traction on our own celebrity culture).

What will that mean in terms of our celebrity economy? It may translate to higher costs for us. The price of importing just one major star from France of the caliber of, say, Jean Reno could cost each American as much as 12 Euros. That's more than US$17. That may not sound like much, but over the course of any young or middle aged celebrity's life expectancy, those costs add up. And that's only for one! Imagine if we import a dozen or more. (Perhaps we could get a bulk discount).

Another disadvantage of celebrity importation is twofold. On one hand, of course, is the possible culture shock that we as a nation will suffer by having Russian rock stars parading around. It will be difficult, at best to become acclimated to the news of members of Grazhdanskaya Oborona trashing a hotel room or its lead singer OD-ing in his girlfriend's apartment on the Upper West Side. It simply won't give us the same secret thrill; it's potency will be lost. The second prong of this two-part conundrum is that the imported celebrity themselves will be spread a bit thin. And we, as Americans, just aren't used to sharing.

Of course I realize that we are already importing several celebrities and have been for years. Among them: David Beckham, Ozzy Osbourne, Sacha Baron Cohen, Craig Furgeson, Heidi Klum and Rush Limbaugh. But these folks are already ingrained into the American culture. We have no time or resources for re-training new celebrities.

But we must remember to refrain from panicking. New stars are born every day. And with the advent of social networking, blogging, reality TV and self-publishing, you could be our big star. So have faith, keep your opinions floating on the Web and in chat rooms and that call may come.

Somewhere I Have Never Travelled

2009-08-14T19:43:00.008-04:00

I've traveled all over. I've been everyplace. Except Africa. And the Antarctic. Also Ireland. And Scotland. Nor have I been to Spain, Portugal, Germany, Switzerland or the Netherlands. Also have not been to Mexico--Christ, it's even connected to my country. While we're at it, I have never once visited a South or Central American country. Not one. Russia? Nyet. Israel? Lo. Not to mention Japan, China, India, Cuba, Iceland, Poland or Egypt, Morocco or Belgium.

But I have been all over this great land of ours (not to mention parts of Europe). Yes, I have been to California, North Carolina, Texas, Florida, Nevada, New Mexico, Arizona, and most of the contiguous states. And I have also been to Canada, our fifty-first state! Truth is, it's really hard to get out of the house. What with my aching back and so many chores. Send donations. I'll get out more.

Great Mob Nicknames, Part 2

2009-05-21T10:38:00.016-04:00

I suppose beyond "Buttons," another appropriate mob nickname for me would be Knuckles, though it seems a bit shopworn. However, I happen to have a proclivity for cutting, scraping or otherwise injuring my knuckles. (And it goes without saying that I am not a classic knuckle-scraper as most mobsters are portrayed in cliche movies, books and other media.)

At one given time, I nearly had a scrape on every single knuckle of my hands. Three were from hitting a heavy bag without proper protection. I had wrapped them (that's only to protect the wrists). There were no gloves around and I foolhardily believed that the wraps would be sufficient protection for my delicate little hands. Unfortunately, I was proved wrong in a glaring, conspicuous way. I had scraped off enough layers of skin to produce blood.

Shortly after my bad decision to hit a heavy bag without gloves, I was thrown from my bike thanks to a neglectful driver who opened his door on me while I was traveling at a relatively high rate of speed. Said driver did not look but flung the door open, causing me to crash into his open car door and flinging me hard, crashing down to the street, taking a pair of handlebars into my chest plate like a small but powerful fist. (I went to the emergency room later to ensure that I had not fractured my sternum or broken a rib.) (Another side note here--I hit his car door so hard, he was unable to close it, forcing him to be towed. Instant justice, folks.) Initially, I thought I had broken my right ring finger. I was indeed fortunate, for I had only slammed it into the door, causing some bleeding and a temporary loss of its use.

That's four knuckles down. Shortly after the bike accident, I cut another knuckle slicing cucumbers and whipped some blood from yet another while attempting to change a guitar string. The thing just flew off the fret and sliced hard into my thumb, taking a bite of the dermis in the process.

The lesson? It's a dangerous world. Protect your hands.

Great Mob Nicknames, Part 1

2009-05-19T21:49:00.016-04:00

If I were a member of the Mob--and I assure you Uncle Moe is not (and even if he were, he wouldn't tell you)--I think my nickname would be "Pockets." I utilize every pocket I have. I believe this is why the sport coat was invented. It's for the gentleman with ... a lot of stuff to carry. The older I get, it seems the more pockets I need.

Here's a list of the things I had tucked into my pockets today (and the various pockets used), just to meet a friend for lunch:

Eyeglasses (outside upper jacket pocket--up until now rarely if ever used)
Wallet (inner jacket pocket)
Mobile phone (inner jacket pocket)
One broken pair of sunglasses (shirt pocket)*
Receipt for broken sunglasses (inner jacket pocket)*
Checkbook (to pay for return of broken glasses--don't ask--inner jacket pocket)*
Keys (front pants pocket)
Lip balm (front pants pocket)
Pen (front pants pocket)
iPod (jacket hip pocket)
Journal (jacket hip pocket)

I still had three pockets free, including the Levi's extra mini-pocket tucked into the right pocket of my jeans.

Some have argued that I need a "man bag." And I admit to occasionally sporting a small knapsack or courier bag to carry all my extra stuff. The truth is I don't really like carrying all this stuff around but I just like to be prepared.

* Typically not part of my daily schlep, and I didn't make it to the Post Office to return them after all.

Ads!

2009-05-08T11:00:00.003-04:00

If you are a regular follower of this blog, then you have certainly noticed some recent changes (a new look among them). Perhaps most conspicuous of these changes are the ads. Some may argue that I've sold out. Some may say that I'm simply a practitioner of the times--merely following my entrepreneurial spirit to make some lucre from my hard work and limited time. But they are missing the forest for the trees. In what may be some calculated, cruel joke, it appears that Google saved its best ads for me. Where else can you find links to the best remedies for foot odor and feminine hygiene products? Clearly, they know my audience, my demographics and my content. No ads would be more appropriate.

A New Look

2009-04-22T21:51:00.003-04:00

It's a sure sign that I have little in the way of fodder for a fresh post when I spend more time redesigning the look of my blog than actually writing it. All the same, here it is in all its splendor--the brand new look for The Art of Jaywalking.

Rest assured fan(s) that we have not lost any of the solid, entertaining, informative content to which you have become accustomed. Quite the contrary. I believe you'll find the new look rather lends itself to our easy, folksy and ingenious style of prose.

And so welcome back dear friends (and a fresh welcome to new ones). Please take some time to peruse older posts. I think you'll agree they take on a fresh perspective and new light under our new redesign. They might even make more sense or seem to carry an air of resonance and import.

Dante Was Wrong

2009-04-15T22:38:00.007-04:00

Hell looks nothing like classical literature and biblical verse have portrayed it. First of all, it is not hot at all. On the contrary, it is quite cold. Not Arctic, freezing cold, which would actually hold hope for winter fun and frolic (there's not a whole lot of sledding, skiing, snowshoeing, snowman building or ice fishing in Hell). No, it's just cold enough to bother you. And it's constantly raining, Pelting little frozen rain drops that sting your eyes. The wind blows hard enough to skirt under your umbrella (if you're lucky enough to have one) and get your pants and shoes wet. And because it's constantly raining, your clothes never dry out. It kills your good temperament. All you want to do is get out of the rain. But you can't. There isn't even an awning in sight. As a matter of fact, a warm fire would be a welcome sight in Hell. Inferno, indeed.

Napsomnia

2009-04-02T21:31:00.007-04:00

If you have trouble sleeping, we have a word for it. But what if you have trouble falling asleep when you're trying to take a nap? Does that still count as insomnia? Naps are a luxury. So if you can't fall asleep when attempting one, it's as if you didn't deserve it in the first place.

I couldn't fall asleep a couple weeks ago when I was trying to take a nap. I chalked it up to bad luck, restlessness and general creeps. But was it insomnia? I suppose if you can't sleep at all and you go, say, four or five days without sleep (or without much, anyway) and you try to take a nap but fail, that could be considered insomnia. But I'm spoiled.

Evidently, as a society, we are severely underslept. Scientists blame continuous light, our work habits and the general 24 hour society we've become. Other scientists predict a stronger race of humans down the evolutionary line that will require far less sleep, if any at all. Possibly, but they'll miss out on all those delicious naps.

An Incomplete List of Movies I Should Really See

2008-12-16T20:55:00.009-05:00

In no particular order:

Donnie Darko
The Grand Illusion
The Killing
Fight Club (this one is iffy at best--it's more out of morbid, overhyped curiosity)
Talladega Nights (the whole thing, uncut, without commercials)
All About Eve (the whole thing)
Double Indemnity
It Happened One Night
The Best Years of Our Lives
The Conformist
The Bicycle Thief
8 1/2
The Godfather (No interruptions)
The Godfather 2 (No interruptions)
Satyricon
The Remains of the Day
All the President's Men
Barry Lyndon
To Kill A Mockingbird
The Seventh Seal
La Strada
Mephisto
The Bank Dick
The Ladykillers (The original and the remake)
The Night of the Hunter
Out of the Past
Alphaville
La Jetee
The Day the Earth Stood Still (Original)
Spartacus

Why Aren't You Reading My Blog?

2008-09-24T20:56:00.005-04:00

When I first started this profitable venture oh so many years ago, I dreamed of gaining an audience, a readership if you will. I had grandiose dreams of achieving immortality and fortune through the interconnectedness of the electronic marvel we call the Worldwide Web.

Oh, how naive. Friends, I'm going to put it bluntly when I tell you that since I initiated this little undertaking more than two years ago, I have had 1,207 hits. One-thousand-two hundred. And seven. Maybe I should have started a porno site. The saddest part of all? Many of the hits were me just re-reading all my ramblings. The rest were friends and family (and some employer prospects -- oops).

Oh, how I wish the blog had never been invented. Oh, how I wish I'd started a porno site!

Everything I Know About the New Testament I Learned from Jesus Christ Superstar

2008-07-31T22:15:00.016-04:00

Who says a rock opera can't teach you anything? As a Jew, I learned very little about that dude with long hair and a beard (and I'm not talking about Michael McDonald). But here's what I did learn about books Matthew through Revelation from countless and repeated listenings to JCS:

Judas was kind of a jerk.
Jesus was not without ego.
Mary Magdalene was a ... well, she wasn't exactly pure.
Peter denied his lord three times. THREE TIMES! What a sellout.
Pontious Pilate was kind of effeminate.
Jesus had a really great falsetto.
There were 39 lashes. Thirty-nine!
Judas was torn. He made some tough decisions, let's face it.
The apostles were lazy drunks (and a little war hungry).
Judas' last name was Iscariot. Pretty cool sounding name that you don't hear a lot anymore (not wondering why).
Jesus was really pissed off. Really at the whole situation. (Not saying I blame him).
Myhr was really expensive.
King Herod was quite a singer. And a bit of a dandy.

Everything I know About the Korean War I Learned From MAS*H

2008-07-31T21:53:00.007-04:00

Yes, the 4077 during its 12 season run taught us quite a bit about the Korean Conflict (or "Police Action"). Among the lessons during its extraordinarily long run:

The 49th parallel is somewhere in Korea (I presume it separates the North from the South).
A tracheotomy is relatively easy to perform. Even a priest can do it.
B.J looks like a douche with a mustache.
You can grow your hair much longer than Army regulations if you're a doctor (or in a M*A*S*H unit or if your show is popular in the 70s and 80s)
War ages you a lot. Hawkeye looks so much older between the first and last episode.
The war lasted from 1950 to 1952.
Never be a regular on a successful series. Look what it did for the careers of Jamie Farr, Loretta Switt, Gary Burghoff, Odessa Cleveland and William Christopher. Do we need to mention that it killed McLean Stevenson and Larry Linville?
Chinese are tricky little bastards. Frank "Ferret Face" Burns said so himself.
The Korean War is nothing like Vietnam.
You get laid a lot if you're a doctor in a war.

Match the Rock Star to His Unique Odor

2008-07-14T14:15:00.046-04:00

Hey Kids! See if you can match up the rock star to the unique pheromones he produces. It's fun! And easy! Just pick a rock star (numbered) and try to match him up with the smell he's most likely to produce during a gig (lettered, below). Answers tomorrow. Good luck!

1. Billie Joe Armstrong

2. Axl Rose

3. Alice Cooper

4. Eddie Vedder

5. Edgar Winter

6. Jack White

7. Iggy Pop

8. Greg Allman

9. Marilyn Manson

10. Kid Rock

11. Scott Stapp

12. Johnny Winter

13. Anthony Kiedis

14. Bobby Ingram

15. Gene Simmons

a. A very sweaty piece of salami.

b. An old boiled egg left out in the sun atop an aging slice of pepperoni pizza.

c. Just an old sock but a really, really old sock

d. Sulfur and cumin.

e. An octogenarian's anus (prior to the nursing home sponge bath)

f. A fat man’s fart on a humid, windless day.

g. Rat excrement with a dash of rotted garlic

h. A mildewed sponge soaked in bong water

i. The men’s room at Penn Station

j. A dead rose atop a pile of pig intestines baking in the July sun

k. Just plain death

l. Unidentifiable vegetable matter

m. A red onion peeled and left inside a retired basketball player’s shoe

n. A garlic bulb inside a slipper that has long become a dog’s chew toy

o. Feint overtones of white vinegar and bleach trying desperately to mask fresh human fecal matter

Crap! I Got Nothing to Say

2008-03-11T21:59:00.008-04:00

Why is it we bloggers think anyone is interested in what we have to say at all? A very intelligent , highly educated friend if mine told me she doesn't read blogs because she barely has time to read her own email. How arrogant of us to assume that people are interested in our thoughts, insights, screeds and diatribes! (by the way, I find some amount of irony in the fact that blogger's spell check highlights the word "blog" itself and all its derivatives, including "blogger," "blogging" and "blogged.")

We are indeed an arrogant and narcissistic bunch to assume that anyone is reading this tripe, much less responding to it. Are we so desperate for attention--to have our pitiful, mournful and high pitched voices heard? Do we have some special insight that the rest of the world does not, some precise, intuitive lien on society and mankind that bears broadcast? Perhaps some of us do, but I suspect most do not.

Is blogging simply the ham radio of the early twenty-first century? Is it some sad and unrequited attempt to be heard among a growing cacophony of multitudinous voices? After all, the more blogs there are to read, the more attenuated the attention span of the reading public becomes.

But stay tuned. I may have something good on here yet.

Uncle Moe's New Years Resolutions

2008-01-22T21:10:00.000-05:00

Only chew cigarette tobacco.
Ease up on the sheep molestation.
While I'm at it, ease up on the molestation altogether.
Pants first, then shoes!
Less cough syrup before noon.
Two words: oboe lessons!
No, wait ... bugle lessons! (Maybe bassoon).
Keep coughing fits to five minutes or less.
Work on lint collection and string ball.
Cut staring at floor to only two hours per day.
Download all Sousa marches from iTunes.
Stop sniffing at shoes!
Stop looking at others' shoes in hopes of getting a sniff.
Read all Beetle Bailey comics, compare/contrast with Sad Sack.
No more graffiti quoting Leviticus!
More graffiti quoting Nehemiah and Colossians.
Make New Years resolution list much, much earlier.

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

2007-11-21T20:56:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-19T20:16:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-07T12:29:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-18T10:04:00.000-04:00

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?

2007-10-02T21:36:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-16T21:28:00.000-04:00

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!

2007-09-11T11:40:00.001-04:00

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

2007-05-25T10:44:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-23T10:46:00.000-04:00

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?

2007-05-22T19:57:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-21T10:17:00.002-04:00

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:

Welcome to the Working Week
Shabby Doll
The Beat
Lover's Walk
Secondary Modern
Strict Time
Brilliant Mistake
Country Darkness
Temptation
Clubland
Beyond Belief
Kinder Murder
Alibi
Watching the Detectives
American Gangster Time
Lipstick Vogue
Riot Act
I Hope You're Happy Now
No Action
You Belong to Me
Waiting for the End of the World
High Fidelity
Uncomplicated
Radio Radio
The Impostor
Alison
Sleep of the Just
The River in Reverse
Monkey to Man (w/Alan Toussaint)
Yes We Can Can (Alan Toussaint solo)
Hey Bulldog (Beatles cover)
Pump it Up
(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

2007-03-01T20:47:00.000-05:00

"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

2007-02-26T20:37:00.001-05:00

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

2007-02-06T21:35:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-30T21:05:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-30T16:27:00.000-05:00

"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

2007-01-29T21:03:00.001-05:00

"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

2007-01-28T22:27:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-27T22:16:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-26T22:06:00.000-05:00

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.

Fellas, What's Up With the Double Names?

2006-12-17T20:43:00.000-05:00

Boutros Boutros-Ghali

Sirhan Sirhan

Ford Maddox For d

Duran Duran

Major Major

Mister Mister

Diary of a Delusional Man, Part 1

2006-12-07T21:33:00.000-05:00

Had lunch with David Bowie today. I was saddened to see that he has not given up smoking. And he still prefers Marlboros.
"How have you been?" I asked him.
He sighed. "Very tired. Working hard. Iman and the baby. You know."
We talked about his 60th birthday. Then I asked him who the Bewlay Brothers is based on. He just laughed. Sometimes I don't think he takes me seriously.
Then he leaned in and said to me, very earnestly: "Do you think you could help me with my next album?"
I was stunned. "In what capacity?" I said.
He leaned back, drew on his Marlboro, then said: "Producer."
I let some silence pass.
"Of course, David," I said. "Of course I'll produce your next album."

The Art of Jaywalking, Part 8 (Walk, Don't Run)

2006-12-03T21:16:00.000-05:00

Here we get into the real mechanics of it. It's important to remember, at all times--no matter how quickly a car is bearing down on you--that it is jay walking, not jay running. So it is absolutely imperative that you keep your head about you and not give into the temptation to so much as break into a light jog. Rather, the secret is to take long strides and push hard off the balls of your feet. This will give you the momentum to get across the street quickly and smoothly without giving the appearance that you're rushing. If oncoming cars sense your fear, it will only increase your panic. Stay cool. Move like a panther. Keep your destination in mind. Stay focused. You will arrive safely.

What Darkness is This?

2006-11-30T20:12:00.000-05:00

She despised the dark. In it lay mysteries and fear--gloomy seas and heartache. It was in the darkness she lost her father. It was in the darkness her lover left. Neither had said goodbye. Her father fell away. Her lover simply disappeared. It was a temporary blindness. It made her breathing difficult. Yet, there was a certain comfort in it.

"When did you first become aware of your fear of the dark?"
"I was very small."
"What happened?"
"My mother turned out the light, said goodnight and walked out of the room."
"And how did you feel?"
"Afraid."
" ... "
"But not quite terrified."
" ... "
" ... "
"And so when was your most recent encounter with the dark?"
"Last night."
"Ah? Yes?"
"Yes. I turned out the light."
"That's funny."
"I know. But it wasn't intended to be funny."
"I know... . I'm going to turn out the light now."
"I wish you would."

Reasons to Avoid Starbucks

2006-11-28T22:02:00.000-05:00

There are those of us who cannot live without it. There are those of us who have no choice. I am fortunate. I have a wonderful local coffee shop I visit just about every day. The service is friendly, the coffee is good, the atmosphere is down to earth. Yes, the service can at times be infuriatingly slow. But it's my coffee shop. And I feel comfortable there.

Starbucks, on the other hand, is like a rental. It's reliable, but there's something iniquitous about its environs. First, as you walk in, you are assaulted by that vicious odor -- a coffee smell too strong for coffee. Second, there is an artifice about the place. Something synthetic and unreal. Perhaps it's the uniforms, the clerk's forced smiles or the air of crass commercialism. I hate being upsold. Every time I've been in a Starbucks, they try to sell me something I have no interest in. "How about a muffin to go with that?" "Are you interested in any cookies?" Look, I'm not buying a suit. I don't need a shirt, tie and pair of shoes to go with it. Just give me my coffee and let me exit this pretentious, prefabricated place. And no matter how little I linger, my clothes retain that skunky over-roasted coffee smell.

So, yes, this has been done to death. Starbucks detractors have scrawled, screamed and scratched their screeds over the inherent problems with a McDonald's-like institution that serves caffeinated beverages. But just to keep the dialogue going, here's my four dollars and fifty cents.

Why I do everything I can to avoid Starbucks:

Overpriced--Nearly $4.00 for a large (or tall, or whatever the biggest coffee is)?!
Over-roasted--(See above) Their French roast smells like Pepe Le Pew stepped into a vat of grounds, then broke wind.
Overrated--I can get better coffee at Dunkin' Donuts.
Over-exposed--Lewis Black tells a great story about finding the end of the universe. It's in Dallas at the end of an alley. On one side of the alley is a Starbucks. Directly across the street is ... a Starbucks.

Reader's Mail, Part 2

2006-11-19T22:01:00.000-05:00

More mail from my faithful readers who opt to skip the comments section and send me a private email.

"Dear Glick: You must think you're something."

As a matter of fact, I am something. Mostly water.

"Do you ever get writer's block?"

No, but sometimes I get writer's cramp. And one time someone bought me a New Kids on the Block CD. It also gave me a cramp.

"My name is Ajit Prestashagun. I have a very high position with the Namibian government. We have recently suffered a loss at the hands of fate. A beloved rich man has died. In order to expedite his savings and bequeath his money to his heirs I would like to transfer $42 million U.S. into your personal bank account. You need to do nothing at this point. At a later time, after the money has accumulated some interest, please to write a check to my personal name in the amount of $40 million American. Yes, you will get to keep $2 million for yourself."

My troubles appear to be over. Thank you, Mr. Prestoshotgun. And I look forward to a lucrative and rewarding relationship with you. Please forward the money immediately.

"Dear Glick: What's that smell?"

You mean it's not just me?

Women Who Played Mothers to Men Too Old to be Their Sons

2006-11-19T21:37:00.000-05:00

Jesse Royce Landis (1896-1972) to Cary Grant (1904-1986) North by Northwest
Maureen Stapleton (1925-2006) to Dick Van Dyke (1925- ) Bye Bye Birdie
Angela Lansbury (1925- ) to Laurence Harvey (1928-1973) The Manchurian Candidate
Cindy Pickett (1947- ) to Matthew Broderick (1962- ) Ferris Beuller's Day Off*

* This is a close one. She would have been 14 when she had him, but given her character in the movie, it's unlikely.

A Lesson in Patience, Part 2

2006-11-06T22:09:00.000-05:00

A friend of my family's was throwing a brunch one Sunday morning and ran out to the store to pick up a few last minute items. The lines were extraordinarily long and he was in a bit of a rush. This was in the days before express lanes and he stood behind an elderly woman who had a cart full of groceries. He asked her if she would mind if he went before her since he only had a few items. She regarded him for a moment, then said, "Sonny ... I don't have as much time as you."

Names That Seem Less Threatening When Combined

2006-11-06T21:44:00.000-05:00

Lil Kim Jong Il
Charles Manson Reilly
John Wayne Gacy Allen
Al "Ted" Bundy
Jeffrey Dahmer Chrysler (Yeah, I know it's "Daimler")

The Art of Jaywalking, Part 7 (Body Contact)

2006-10-26T12:54:00.000-04:00

Jaywalking should not be a contact sport. However, you should think of yourself as a running back or wide receiver and use all parallel traffic as your defense. Even better, you're the quarterback and traffic and people are your defense. Oncoming traffic is the opponent's secondary. So if someone to your right begins crossing the street before you do, get in step with him/her. They may act as a human shield. The ideal situation is to have two defensemen on either side. Better yet, if you're at a four-way stop, move in rhythm with any cars traveling the same direction as you. There's no better defense than a couple two-ton vehicles. Unless it's Julius Peppers.

Words That Should Exist

2006-10-24T22:16:00.000-04:00

In the spirit of the Washington Post Style Invitational, here are words I've made up (ususally a combination of two words) and their attendant definitions. (Speaking of the Washington Post, writer Gene Weingarten has an excellent example of this little wordplay, known as conflation.)

Ludacrive (n) A financially successful but completely silly venture, such as the fashion industry or tabloid journalism.

Sparcasm (n) When sarcasm gets so heated, it almost comes to blows.

Cigaregrette (n) A feeling of queasiness following a cigarette. Symptoms may also include uncontrollable shaking and a bad aftertaste. Usually applies to recovering ex-smokers who swear that's the last one. Really.

Inplement (n) An observation that comes off like a compliment but really is not. ("Oh. You got a haircut. Huh." or "New dress. Hmm.")

Scarcasm (n) Sarcasm that is so scathing it actually leaves emotional scars on the victim.

Words I'd Like to Incorporate Into Conversation More Frequently

2006-10-17T13:17:00.000-04:00

(Special Thanks to Merlin)

Ersatz
Foreshortened
Immaterial
Glib
Inurn
Metric
Puckish
Knurled (or Knurly)
Scion
Adroit
Scarp
Predicate (as a verb)
Incurvate
Profane
Hermaphroditic

You Kids and Your So-Called Martinis

2006-10-17T12:26:00.000-04:00

Call me old fashioned (and I do enjoy one of those whiskey-based drinks occasionally). And, yes, this has been written about numerous times. But not by me. So I feel I must vent. And vent I shall. Please, for the love of Pete, stop calling anything in a cocktail glass (it's not a Martini glass) a "Martini." A classic Martini is Gin and Vermouth. It is served in a cocktail glass straight up with an olive or a twist of lemon. (If you use a cocktail onion, it's called a Gibson). It can also be served on the rocks. This Martini craze -- which I am relieved to say has finally crested -- was out of control for a while. Martinis do not contain chocolate, strawberry, raspberry or banana liqueur. Nor should you get Vodka when you order a classic Martini. It's getting so bad, one now has to specify a "Gin Martini." It used to be reverse. Vodka Martini drinkers were in the minority and had to specify their liquor of choice. Now it is we, the Gin drinkers, who are ostracized. Harrumph.

(The illustration above is a pork martini, offered by Josh Karpf on his Web site. I think Josh has ably summed up the depths to which this ludicrous trend has sunk.)

Readers' Mail, Part 1

2006-10-12T21:36:00.000-04:00

Occasionally I dip into the mail bag because some of you are just too darn shy to post a comment. Faithful reader Brick writes:

"Your blog is sufficient evidence for a diagnosis of bipolar disorder in which case [your medication] may well precipitate a manic phase. We should talk about the implications. If you start losing sleep or buying a lot of stuff, let me know right away."

Thanks, Brick. You can rest assured I've discontinued my medication altogether in favor of straight Scotch.

This comes from Schmick, in Harrisburg, Pa.:

"Are you interested in enlarging your penis? Do you have trouble achieving or maintaining an erection? Do you give your partner full pleasure? We can help ... ."

Thanks, Schmick, I'll pass for now. If I ever start thinking of erections as "achievements," I'll give you a call.

Why George Allen is Reluctant to Embrace His Jewish Roots

2006-10-11T21:48:00.000-04:00

No tobacco chewin' in synagogue.
The word "synagogue" in the first place: I mean, the first word is "sin."
Them yarlmulkees aren't very flattering to his hairline.
As a lifelong Republican, can't get behind the idea of reading from right to left.
All that hugging -- oy!

Sage Wisdom, Part 1

2006-10-08T20:12:00.000-04:00

Never Trust a Man:

Who doesn't drink (recovering alcoholics are exempt).
Who only drinks wine.
Who can't drive a stick.
Who lives alone and has more than two cats (two cats and one or more dogs is fine).
Whom you've never seen laugh.
Who spends more than 10 minutes in the bathroom.
Who doesn't have a firm handshake.
Who's never been to a live sporting event (does not have to be a professional game).
Who spends all his free time writing a blog.

Warning

2006-10-06T23:29:00.000-04:00

May cause drowsiness. Do not take without the express written consent of Major League Baseball or its executors. No salesman will visit. Operators are standing by. If you feel you've reached this recording in error, please hang up and try your call again. Did I mention no salesman will visit? Do not take if operating heavy machinery. Do not operate heavy machinery. Do not take heavy machinery. Do not take it if your boss asks you to operate heavy machinery. Do not take if still bitter over the 2000 election. We all did what we could. Stay clear of fan when engine is running. Stay clear of fan altogether. He's had too much to drink and his team is down by three touchdowns. Do not expose to direct flames. Why would you even think about doing that? May cause cramping, bloating, mild skin irritation or discolored bowel movements. If you need immediate medical attention, call 411 ... no wait that's information ... what's the number for 911? I have it written down, hold on. Keep away from children and pets. Seriously. I mean don't hang around them at all. They're irritatingly cute and silly. Do not take if you have: dyspeptic valve, dropsy, hydroxism, pyhria ... OK, I'm making some of these up. If found open, spit three times, throw over left shoulder, then retrieve. Lather, rinse, repeat. Lather, rinse, repeat. We are no longer the knights who say Ni! Do not take if you want to stay up and watch the World Series. Do not take more than three times, oh, let's say per day. Pregnant women should not handle. If you are pregnant or are trying to get pregnant and you get near this, chill. Just walk away like nothing happened. This product is not for everybody. May cause irritation. In fact, it probably already has.

The Art of Jaywalking, Part 6

2006-10-06T23:16:00.000-04:00

Keep your anger under control. After all, it's you who's making the illegal move here. After countless incidents where I've banged on people's hoods, trunks and even tried to kick out tail lights, I can tell you from personal experience that the old adage is true--you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. The message here is simple: be nice. Work with traffic, not against it. If you see a car approaching and the driver gives you the right of way, be a mensch and wave or tip your hat. Good karma goes a long way.

If David Mamet Wrote for Sesame Street

2006-10-05T10:01:00.000-04:00

Bert: What is it.
Ernie: It is, Bert. It just is.
Bert: I know, Ernie. That I know. Tell me ... .
Ernie: I cannot.
Bert: And why is that? Is it because that you do not know?
Ernie: That is not the ... reason. It is much more ... complex. The reason.
Bert: Is it.
Ernie: Yes.
Bert: I do not think so. (Pause.)
Ernie: And why is that, Bert? Why is that?
Bert: Ernie. Listen. Listen to me. Ernie. Ernie.
Ernie: Yes. (A beat.)
Bert: It is you. It is ... a thing. You are looking to go to a new thing.
Ernie: Yes. I think that I am.
Bert: And so the reason is ... ?
Ernie: I do not know, Bert. Still.
Bert: I will tell you. (Pause.) It is the letter N.
Ernie: The letter N?
Bert: The letter N, Ernie. That is the answer.

Worst Bands Ever

2006-10-04T21:04:00.000-04:00

Seriously, these bands just weren't really very good at all:

Toto
Poco (Can't distinguish between them and Toto, though I tend to think a couple Toto songs actually charted)
Little River Band
Pablo Cruise
Styx
Milli Vanilli (Too tragic)
Vanilla Ice (would have been interesting if he'd teamed up with Milli Vanilli, providing inspiration for a new Ben & Jerry's flavor)
That guy who sang "Convoy" (I guess I really shouldn't count one-hitters, which would exclude Mungo Jerry, Gilbert O'Sullivan and Pilot)
Tony Orlando and Dawn (do they even count as a "band"?)

The Art of Jaywalking, Part 5

2006-09-28T21:55:00.000-04:00

Multitasking: a word that did not exist until about 1995. For the jaywalker, the most dangerous distractions are not honking cars, speeding bicyclists, motorcyclists, buses or taxis. The worst distractions are those of our own doing -- mobile phones, cigarettes, coffee, PDAs and of course, the ubiquitous headphones. It is extremely important to keep your head about you when crossing the street. Put the phone down. Turn off the IPod. That email can wait. Look both ways. And keep your ears open. Yes, listening is just as important as looking. Never underestimate the power of the aural sense. (And I'm probably overstating this point. See The Art of Jaywalking, Part 3). Indeed, you may do well to shut down all but the most critical two senses -- eyes and ears open. So, at the risk of offending some of my reader(s), you may want to wait till you get to the other side of the street before even popping that stick of gum into your mouth.

Al Gore's Secret Diary Entry

2006-09-27T13:42:00.000-04:00

Bagged an elk today. A real beauty. Must have been half a ton, if he was a pound. Stalked him from the far off hills and scoped him from what must have been a mile and a half. That high-powered rifle Tipper got me last Christmas is a keeper. Got that same rush from the time Dad and I shot our first condor. Cheney and I got the coolies to help us load the animal onto the Hummer and we sped off into town looking for hookers and whiskey. That Cheney's a good guy. Promised me shares in Halliburton for my next birthday. May even make me a board member. I am psyched! Tomorrow is the opening of Quail season. Scalia and I are going down to Texas for that. Looking forward to catching up with him.

Why Some Cliches Aren't Always True

2006-09-26T21:42:00.000-04:00

A watched pot does boil.
No news is not necessarily good news.
A bird in the hand is probably worth three or four in the bush, given inflation.
How dead is a doornail?
While we're at it, how well do you know the back of your hand?
Not every tunnel has light at the end of it.

Ernest Hemingway's Shopping List

2006-09-26T10:30:00.000-04:00

One large ham
Swiss Cheese
Head of iceberg lettuce
Head of Alfredo Garcia
Key Limes
Shotgun shells (not those crappy ones I got at the Ketchum General Store last time)
9 mm cartridges

Rum (quart)
Bourbon (gallon)
Scotch Whiskey (Case)
Gin (Two cases)
Dog food
Cat food
Irish Whiskey (for dog)
Wine (for cat)

A Note to My Readers

2006-09-25T11:48:00.000-04:00

For all of my fans (all two of you), I pose a question. I require your input. If you've read at least two of the postings dealing with jaywalking, you may have picked up on the idea that this site has less to do with jaywalking per se and more to do with risk taking. (That, and just goofy-ass ramblings). Therefore, I'm weighing whether to change the subtitle from "Random chaos in a neat little package" to something like "A Guide to Taking Risks." My other option is to have rotating subheads and change them at will or whatever whim I'm having that particular day. Let me know what you think. Post a comment. Thanks.

memo too all emploees

2006-09-24T21:03:00.000-04:00

It has come to my attention that sum of you have been using company materiels for personnel use. This is a situation whcih cannot cuntinue. I have been informed that soem of you have been taking items from the office supply room such as but not limited to: paper clips, pens, pencils, erasers, staplers, staples, paper and even clocks and otehr electronic devices! And this is not for company use I'm hearing. If this does not cease soon I will have no otehr choice but to LOCK the supply cabinet and if you need any supplies you will have to see Margie or one of the other office driectors to get office supplies. Secondly, there have been reports of use of the INternet and E-Male accounts for personal use too. I cannot allow this to cuntinue. Personal letters and notes are for your time not office time. If you want too look at porn too you can do that at home not here. This will NOT be tolerated. (And sports scores and such -- I know who you are. And also games too.) Thirdly and finally. Going forward all official company emales and memos MUST be spell checked. You can not! send out a emale or letter to ANYONE unless you use the spellchecker. It is just common scents and also it's just much mroe professional. Thanks to all. -- Ed.

Lola's Profile

2006-09-22T13:36:00.000-04:00

Ohmygod! It has been like ... way too long since I have been on this site! So all you fellas who have been emailing me? thank you so much. But ya know I can't return every single email! Let's just say I have been busy! LOL. So I'm into yoga now. Makes me flexible. LOL. And also just got back from New Mexico where I learned all this like New Age Tantric stuff that will totally blow you away. And ...... what else? Ohmygod! I almost forgot! I got this new roomate? Jeff? He is totally awsome. He showed me this really cool workout technique to totally make my abs more defined. But the first time I tried it I got like a hernia or something. Ouch! So anyway keep those emails coming guys! Always love to hear from ya! And check out my new pics here! LOL. Kisses. -------- Lola

The Art of Jaywalking, Part 4

2006-09-22T09:53:00.000-04:00

Well, I never. On a website called DCist (which to me sounds like either "diseased" or "deceased"), there's a post arguing against the merits of jaywalking (see "Thoughts on Jaywalking"). The author of the article, one Alex Lundry (Dirty Laundry?) posits that jaywalkers in his quadrant of the city have increased the "number of vehicular homicides I've flirted with." Wow. Maybe he should not drive -- what with all his buried rage and barely veiled anger toward pedestrians. However, without reprinting the entire article here and attacking it point-by-point, I will say that Mr. Laundry Hamper does raise at least one cogent issue: Jaywalkers should not be arrogant. Yes, generally we have the right of way. But don't take advantage of that. Use the crosswalk when you can. If you absolutely must jaywalk, minimize the risks. Make sure there's a safe distance between you and any oncoming traffic. And ensure that you time it correctly. Timing is really everything. Give yourself plenty of time to get to the other side of the street. And, please, for the love of Mike, do not raise your hand up to an oncoming car in an effort to stop it. Don't taunt the enemy. Elude him.

Postcard From Aunt Tootie

2006-09-21T20:32:00.000-04:00

Oh gosh, where to start? We have just been having the best time crossing the whole darn country it seems in the Winnebago. It is so wonderful that your uncle Ed thought to get the one with the toilet. I can't tell you what a time saver that is. So your cousins Floyd and Ernie declined to join us. AGAIN! But we did stop in Topeka and peek in on your Aunt Susie who is doing much better since the stomach staple. (She's down to 350 pounds and looks GREAT!) And she also sends her love. (Her poodle is doing better too with the mange problem. Poor thing looked like a deranged sheep, though!) We stopped in an antique shop outside of Duluth and I just found the dearest little porcelain figures for my collection. I hope your Uncle Ed doesn't "break" them by "accident" again. Speaking of Ed, he has cut down some. He's only smoking a pack and a half a day. That's more than half what he used to smoke! He says he'll get the patch soon as they make one strong enough. Sigh. What else? Oh, he promised to stop smoking while driving. You know how that affects my asthma. Though now the doctor is saying it isn't "asthma" as such. Maybe just anxiety. Oh well, have to run! Tootles!

Tootie

The Art of Jaywalking, Part 3 (Look both ways before you breathe)

2006-09-21T10:06:00.000-04:00

Looking both ways is absolutely critical. Not only should you take the time to look before you cross, but while you cross as well. Why? Simply because a car or truck (or bus, motorcycle or bicycle, for that matter) may come out of nowhere. [Author's note: I almost got sideswiped by a psychotic bike courier once because I failed to look twice.] Almost as important as looking is listening. It's absolutely crucial that you listen for traffic as you cross the street. That means no IPods, cell phones or any other audible distractions. If you have a companion, refrain from speaking while you attempt your maneuver. Risk-taking should involve risk, not blind stupidity.

On The Existence of God (And Others)

2006-09-20T20:32:00.000-04:00

"I'm wondering about the existence of God," she said.
"Why?" he said.
"Because I want to know."
"Oh," he said. "Well, you'll never know."
"I may," she said.
"You may when you're dead," he said.
"I may know before that."
"I doubt it," he said and took a sip of whiskey.
"You're afraid," she said.
"Of what?"
"Of most things. Like most people," she said.
"I used to be afraid," he said. "I'm not anymore."
"You're not afraid of anything?"
He shrugged.
She looked at him. He had one brown eye and one blue eye. It used to disturb her. Now she was used to it.
"What are you afraid of?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"Fear is weakness," he said finally.
"Don't you want to know?" she asked.
"About what?"
"About God."
He shrugged.
"Not really," he said. "I don't really care."
She looked at him. His blue eye sparkled. His brown eye looked dull.
"We'll find out soon enough," he said.
"Soon enough," she said. "Soon enough."

A Lesson in Patience (and Humility)

2006-09-20T16:26:00.000-04:00

I was shopping for some wine while my wife and two sons waited in the car. I found two bottles that would service nicely but wasn't sure which one I should get. So I looked for the clerk, who was ostensibly an expert in these matters. A woman in front of me was buying a bottle of champagne. She had what seemed like an endless stream of questions. And she was, in my opinion, monopolizing the clerk's time. And therefore, she was intruding on my time. After a while it seemed as if her questions just simply turned to chit-chat. Well dressed, she was obviously affluent and, it would seem, in love with the sound of her own voice. My patience began to drain. I stood there with two bottles of $7 wine while she purred and blathered about her $100 bottle of champagne. Then, just as I thought it would end, she asked to have it gift wrapped. I felt a good, loud scream coming on. As the clerk wrapped the bottle, she said to him, "It's for my sister. We're celebrating her very last chemotherapy treatment."

I felt every fiber in my skin go lax. Then I took a deep breath and sighed.

The Art of Jaywalking, Part 2

2006-09-20T13:04:00.000-04:00

I just did a Google search and turned up about 45 results for "The Art of Jaywalking." I don't know whether I'm disheartened or encouraged. Apparently, the term "Jay Walk" dates back to 1884. According to idiomsite.com, it means "an annoying or stupid person. Later evolved to mean crossing in the middle of the street because anyone who walked into traffic was not considered too smart." That gave me some pause as well. I'm not sure everyone who jaywalks is an idiot. Impatient, perhaps. Yes, there are all kinds of stupid. And yes, crossing the street at the risk of being smacked by a one ton vehicle traveling in excess of 35 miles per hour may certainly be considered stupid. But so is having unprotected sex with a stranger. And apparently there are lots of folks doing that too. But I'm doing that thing again. You know -- where I compare apples to oranges? (See "Elvis is King"). So I'll stop there. But before I do, I want to make one more point about the idiomsite.com definition. The unabridged Oxford English dictionary makes no reference to the term "jay walk." Just makes me wonder exactly where they got their information. (Yes, I know there are all sorts of dictionaries. Still.)

Elvis is King

2006-09-19T21:12:00.000-04:00

“In addition to being an extremely talented songwriter, Costello [is] a hell of a rocker.” —Stephen Thomas Erlewine, allmusic.com

If you look very carefully at the checkerboard squares on Elvis Costello’s first album—My Aim is True—you see the words “Elvis is King” spelled out on every other square. Although this was probably meant to be tongue in cheek (interestingly, Elvis Presley died the same year the record was released), I look back now and think, by God, the man is King.

This is a man who has released an album of classical music, country-western, experiments with a string quartet, jazz and countless rock and roll albums. To say he’s an enormous talent slightly more than overlooked by the mainstream and underrated by many measures is an understatement. At the risk of invoking rock and roll blaspheme, I would put Elvis on par with no lesser talents than Buddy Holly, the Beatles, Bob Dylan, the Grateful Dead and any other so-called “classic rock” artists that have—at least in some cases—become overplayed on corporate rock stations across the country.

I first discovered Elvis as a Junior High School student. My brother went to college in 1978, the year This Year’s Model—Elvis’s second album—came out. During his first semester break, my brother brought home an armload of new records from artists including Blondie, Bruce Springsteen, Marshall Crenshaw and, of course, Elvis. I remember listening to My Aim is True and wondering what to make of it. It sounded at once familiar and very new. It was only after repeated listenings that I realized Elvis had perfectly synthesized the sound of the 60s (mostly soul) with a New Wave and Punk sensibility. He’d combined the sublime soulfulness of Sam and Dave with the anger and edge of the Sex Pistols. All of this at the age of 21.

As I matured (for lack of a better word), so did Elvis and his music. I remember listening to Armed Forces and being just stunned at how the man could turn a phrase (“She’s my soft touch typewriter/And I’m the great dictator,” from “Two Little Hitlers”). And the audacious and bold strokes of chords, effortlessly blending pop, reggae and soul. What 16-year-old flowering (yet ultimately unsuccessful) musician/poet wouldn’t be impressed?

But it wasn’t until 1982’s Imperial Bedroom that Elvis had sealed his place alongside George and Ira Gershwin, Cole Porter, Bob Dylan and Lennon and McCartney—in no small part thanks to the New York Times declaring him one of the greatest songwriters of the 20^th Century. And why not? The critics eviscerated the album but I found such a fondness for it. What’s more, it opened up Elvis’s repertoire to include such crooners as “The Long Honeymoon” and rockers such as the Dylan-tinged “Man Out of Time.” What’s more, Elvis had made a giant leap from pop songwriter to classic songwriter (not to mention crooner).

Interestingly, Elvis’s influence on the next generation of rockers seems to be limited. In a gushing piece for Rolling Stone, Liz Phair praised Elvis as a unique and single songwriter, with a noticeable paucity of imitators. Perhaps this is because other songwriters—no matter their skill or level of talent—just can’t live up to the Elvis oeuvre. Or maybe he’s simply inimitable.

Whatever the reasons, Elvis is singular and unique. And prolific. He did what few of his contemporaries could accomplish by putting out nearly an album per year between 1977 and 1986. And some of his albums boasted 20 songs or more. I tend to think he simply can’t stop writing music. He’s probably a music-writing junkie who couldn’t stop if he tried—or it might kill him.

Watching him perform is akin to watching a three-act play. Settle in at an Elvis Costello show and you may be in for a long (albeit enjoyable) evening. At a show I saw supporting his recent album with Allen Toussaint, Elvis said, “I’ve written about 170 thousand million songs. Allen has written about three trillion. We could play till dawn.” And they very well might have if management had allowed them. He’s as energetic as Springsteen and dry as Oscar Wilde.

So where are the other Elvis-heads? I see them at his shows—aging hipsters and punkers from the day sporting their graying goatees and fading tattoos—but we are far from united. Back when I was following the Dead, I felt a sense of community with the deadheads. I don’t feel that an Elvis show. And I should. There are enough of us out there, Lord knows.

But every time I scan a crowd at an Elvis show, I am encouraged by the numbers. In addition to us paunchy aging dudes I see plenty of young folks who’ve either just discovered him or are finally old enough to go to a show without their parents. Elvis transcends generations. Just like his predecessors, be they Beatles, Stones or Dylan.

And yes, I realize Elvis is not as underrated an artist as I may make him out to be. He gets plenty of airplay (though not enough in my mind) and was recently inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Still, he seems niche—an acquired taste. It’s as if he’s only reaching a very small segment of otherwise intelligent, sensitive listeners. And that’s a pity. I’m convinced if more people heard Elvis, we’d have more converts.

But, as I said, he is a bit of an acquired taste. Some people cannot stomach the idea of an endless stream of double entendres coupled with complex arrangements. (“I might make it California’s fault/Be locked in Geneva’s deepest vault/Just like the canals on Mars and the Great Barrier Reef/I come to you beyond belief.”) So maybe those folks should just stick to Dave Matthews.

At the same time, Elvis is completely accessible. Even though I like my music to be challenging sometimes, I’ve never felt intimidated by an Elvis song. On the contrary, his work makes me want to explore more. Upon finding out that “Less Than Zero” was about John Kennedy’s assassination, I dug deeper and found an early version now known as the “Dallas Version,” complete with alternate—and much more obvious—lyrics. (You can find the Dallas version—long a staple on Elvis bootlegs—on the second disc of the Rhino version of My Aim is True).

Just as there are no truly bad Cohen brothers movies, there has yet to be a truly bad Elvis album (though Goodbye Cruel World is in the running). Indeed, the worst of his work matches up to the best of what many bands can offer. But I’m doing that thing again where I compare apples to oranges. And I’ve been asked to stop doing that. After all, what’s the point of dissecting an album like Trust or The Delivery Man along side the likes of Hotel California or 52^nd Street. Then again, I believe the Eagles and Billy Joel dare to take themselves seriously enough to merit comparison to a true (and truly superior) artist like Elvis. So I’ll put it bluntly. The Eagles and Billy Joel suck. Elvis doesn’t.

And Elvis will keep thriving. Unlike the Eagles and Joel, who are stuck in a sad rut and time, Elvis continues to grow as an artist and a songwriter. Unafraid to take chances, he’ll be rocking, crooning, swinging, rhyming and timing for a long time to come.

The King is dead. Long live the King!

The Art of Jaywalking, Part 1

2006-09-19T20:46:00.000-04:00

It occurs to me that crossing a street, as fraught with peril and danger as it is, may be considered an art form. I live in a busy city. I've seen many people dodge six lanes of rapid traffic. I've seen pedestrians flub the easiest of jaywalks (one car 30 feet away and they somehow manage to wrangle with the driver over the right-of-way). This is an area where I believe people could use some instruction. Especially those who may live in small towns and come to New York, Chicago or any other major city for the first time. There are simple sets of rules to follow. The first is, be confident. Stride with full confidence across the street. Secondly, be careful. Jaywalking takes precise timing as well as caution. Third (and this may seem to contradict number two) you are not a deer. Don't freeze or hesitate. Be assertive. You have a right to cross the street. Even illegally.