Hanna Americana

Well, we've been waiting all day for this Hanna storm (isn't she a broadcaster on ESPN?) to arrive. Pictured above, Hanna Storm. It's heading our way fairly soon. As of last night, our meteorologists were fairly certain that by this time of day, the worst would be over and here it is, this time of day, and the ship hasn't even hit the sand yet. But in an hour or so we have to head out to round up the family for my sister's surprise birthday party...so I will delay publication on the off chance that she's reading this...and hope there is electricity in the house (knock on wood) when we get home.

Ladies and Gentlemen, here's Hannah Storm, of ESPN.

I believe she used to be on the Early Show on CBS, but I'm hardly alone in not being sure about that.


This smiling visage greets all visitors to Delaware; Hanna will be one of them this afternoon, but it's unlikely that she will have need to enter a Happy Harry's Drug Store. That's Harry, beaming down on all who enter his emporia - which are statewide in the Blue Hen state - and I really have to hand it to him for coming up with the greatest name ever for a drug store. I mean, what do we have around here - CVS, Walgreens and Rite Aid? All of them lack in the name pizzaz of Happy Harry's! Doggone it, having a Happy Harry's in the neighborhood would make you want to run down there right now! to load up on Alka-Seltzer, hair preparations and those luxury creams and lotions so helpful in the prevention of chafe.

Springfield, home town of the Simpsons, has some highly cool names for stores...The Leftorium, Hairy Shearers (where Homer goes for haircuts) and Jittery Joe's Java Hut, among them. And while it's fun to need groceries and say "I have to go to Mars," it would be fun to have a Happy Harry's to visit as well. I don't ask for much.

One more thing to worry about

Just in case you woke up today, concerned because there is nothing else to worry about except how well the Ravens can do this year with a rookie quarterback playing (or, in sports talk, with a "freshman QB at the helm,") or the affects of Hurricanes Hanna, Ike and Josephine, or the likelihood that Bristol Palin's boyfriend, who just had her name elegantly tattoed on his ring finger in the style popularized by Hollywood's - and America's - sweethearts, Pamela Anderson Lee and Tommy Lee Anderson, will soon be appointed Secretary of Hockey, I offer this, from the wires of the Associated Press:

ELKTON, Md. -- A species of stinging caterpillar more common in southern climates appears to have arrived on the Eastern Shore.

Francis Breeding, a pest management consultant with the Queen Anne's County Extension Office, says a woman needed medical treatment last week because venom from a puss caterpillar traveled up her arm to her lymph nodes.

Breeding says puss caterpillars don't bite, but their hair contains the venom.

Now, I had thought that civilization had reached a nadir some time ago when I first got word of the notion of warming Dr Pepper in a saucepan and serving it as an apres-ski libation (with a slice of lemon floating atop), but this is even worse. I can see a new reality show on TLC next month: Nature's Deadliest, One-on-One! In which the puss caterpillar will duke it out with a tapeworm for the rights to take on a hissing dung beetle for the interstellar crown...

.

Tough Losses

In a world...where there will still be movies...they just won't sound the same any more, because Don LaFontaine
has passed away. His was the voice that did the voiceovers for half a million movie trailers, commercials and other recordings over the years.

And in that world, there will still be country music singers, comedians and guitarists, but there won't be Jerry Reed, a man who could do it all better



than most.

Two talented men, both lost on the same day. What a shame.

But You Can Copy Off My Paper

I got one of those quizzes and I will leave my paper out on my desk so you can copy off of it if you wish...

Four jobs I have had in my life:

A&P clerk, radio deejay, teacher, 911 Supervisor

Film I've watched more than once:

Caddyshack, The Music Man, Stripes, the entire Jackass oeuvre

Four places I have lived:

Providence, Pocomoke City, Prince Frederick, Parkville

Four places I have been:

Cape May NJ, Pensacola FL, Eleuthera, the Bahamas, and Williamsburg VA

Four people who e-mail me regularly

Peggy, Jonie, Cheri, Becky

Four of my favorite foods:

Rare pit beef, pizza, flounder, shrimp

Four places I would rather be right now:

Williamsburg VA, Cape May NJ, Baseball Hall of Fame, The Price Is Right stage

Four things I am looking forward to this year

Football season, Thanksgiving, fall foliage, snow

Four TV Shows that I watch at the moment:

That 70's Show (still funny!), King of Queens, Monk, Prison Break

Four reasons to vote for McCain / Palin:

Giuiliani ("America's Mayor!") figures that being mayor of some Inuit fishing village is good enough experience to prepare people for being president of the United States, Palin's daughter's boyfriend is bound to get into some hilarious hi-jinx once he gets to the mainland, McCain's wife's father owns a beer distributorship, and Giuiliani pronounces Alaska as "Alasker" and "Obama" as "Obomber."

Don't even mention the Dalai Lama

But first - live, local, legbreaking:

Things I have learned from listening to cracker jackass right wing radio shows:

...When John McCain left his wife, well, that was understandable, and when he married the daughter of a beer baron, well, who wouldn't, ya know? But when Bill Clinton had a brief affair, he should have been burned at the stake, the mountebank, the lothario, the despoiler of all things pure and good.

...When a Republican changes his or her mind about something, he or she updates their position or revisits the issue or makes a revision, based on newly-acquired information. A Democrat who changes his or her mind about something is just a flip-flopper.

...Jamie Lynn Spears was the most horrid slattern on earth, and should have joined Clinton at the Bill-B-Q, because she had a child before getting married, and this makes her a terrible example of the evils of sex and the unbridled libido. Jamie Lynn's annual income probably affords her the chance to raise her baby in relative comfort. Bristol Palin is a fine example of the American Way, a shining light in the Alaskan sky, because she like totally intends to like get married maybe one day next week if her Mom can like write her a note and she can get out of Algebra!!!

Now back to our regularly scheduled program, already in progress:

The debate has raged for years, mainly within me, over how to pronounce the name of that animal called the llama, that hump-lacking, smaller-than-a-camel South American cud-chewing animal. Any schoolkid* can tell you these beasts with the amusing Latin genus designation Lama glama (originally, Lama glama ding dong) are widely used as pack animals by the Incas and other natives of the Andes mountains, a South American mountain range where chocolate-covered mints grow wild and are harvested by locals riding...uh, guess what?

*Any schoolkid with access to Google and nothing better to do right now.

But while you can bet your bottom peso that South Americans say this cartoonish animal's name 'yama' (with the same "ll" sound as in 'Tortilla'), you can also bet that any time I would say it that way, I was sure to get a look of disapprobation. In fact, in one landmark decision, I got six months' disapprobation. I would ask friends whose native language was Spanish about it, and they all said sure, "you say 'una yama.' '' { "LL" is its own letter in the Spanish alphabet, although the Spanish were obliged to give up the letter "K" and a third-round draft choice to get it.} But not so with my English-speaking friends, who all looked at me as if I were Bristol Palin at an abstinence rally for using the original (correct) pronunciation. In that case, I would posit, we need to start calling the flatbread in which burritos are wrapped a 'tortila' and then where does that lead? Right down the slippery slope to anarchy!

But I concede now; I give up. Mr. Garrison Keillor, broadcasting from the Minnesota State Fair this past weekend, called them "lamas" so there's no further point in my carrying on about it. I never question Mr. Keillor's use of any language, so saddle up your llamas and ride on, vaqueros! My name is Mark; como se llama usted? Oh no, here we go again.

Labor Day Tradition

As a kid, I always knew that Labor Day meant we were piling into the Plymouth along with the neighbors and heading for the carnival and outdoor supper up at the Glyndon Volunteer fire house. Then, it was back to school the next day. I'd put on my desert boots, khaki pants and plaid sport shirt and head back to the salt mine. Substitute "Rockports" for desert boots and nothing much has changed in the wardrobe.

The past 43 years have meant that I obsessively watched the Jerry Lewis MDA telethon.


I make no apology for admiring Jerry as I do. He has his faults, a titanic ego being chief among them. But he has done so much - raised over 2 'BILLION with a B' dollars for muscular dystrophy and other allied afflictions, such as ALS, the dreaded "Lou Gehrig's disease." You can't take that away from him. And as a performer, he knows few peers in his niche of clowning. Shoot me for thinking it's funny for him to jam a water glass in his mouth and make it appear that he has a glass snout! Put me in jail for convulsing when he hollers "Hey Laaaaaaaaaaaaaa-dy!" File charges against me for re-running the classic scene from "The Nutty Professor" in which the professor drinks the potion that turns him into a monster - who turns out to be an unctuous egomaniacal nightclub performer, based on Jerry's own self-image.

He do get complicated, don't he?

But the showbiz corn-lover in me, the guy who thrilled when Sammy Davis, Jr., sang "What Kind of Fool Am I?", who nodded ruefully when Debbie Reynolds got dumped by Eddie Fisher and then broke her neck to race out and record "Am I That Easy To Forget?" - the same guy who thrills every December at the first "thrum, thrum" of "The Little Drummer Boy" - finds nothing more heartwarming than the end of the MDA Telethon, when Jerry does one last check of the tote board, and as the electronic numbers dance across the LED screen, Jerry straddles a stool, croons "You'll Never Walk Alone" and then walks off. Alone.

Really something when the joint is jumping!

I frequently get questions about what I'm talking about. In my dotage, I tend to go on about my early days and the cultural landmarks that dotted my horizon like nuts on a sundae. And the songs! And the stories about the songs! How about the one that I reference in the sand quote above, the beloved "Bristol Stomp" by the Dovells? To explain the song, I will have to use some expressions that have fallen from the current lexicon, such as "dance craze," "fire house record hop" and "The Dovells."

First of all, is there a dance craze now, a specific step ("little dances that look so neat," as The Showmen sang in "It Will Stand")? I know that people who go dancing all do a variety of hip hop or something. It all looks a little bit aggressive to me, as if the dancers really don't care for each other. Don't ask me. I never could dance, but I enjoy seeing people who could, which is why I was a regular viewer of the Buddy Deane Show on Channel 13 on those days when I didn't have detention after school. That's the show upon which John Waters based a movie that became a Broadway show which became another movie, all called "Hairspray." And for those seeking the essence of Baltimore, well, that's how we roll here. Anyone who can get three meals out of the same pot of stew is doing things the BallTEEmore way!
Buddy Deane

But all the cool kids on Buddy Deane knew all - or started all - the latest dances. The Madison, The Roach, The Mashed Potato, The Stroll...we viewers learned from the cool kids of Baltimore. We did not watch Dick Clark's American Bandstand out of Philadelphia, because we had our own show. In the spirit of ecumenism, Buddy did have some Philly-based guests on his show, in the fashion of an archbishop providing overnight shelter to a traveling pilgrim. But Buddy, like Dick Clark, was available for record hops...another vestige of that long-ago era. The deal was, someone rented a social hall or a volunteer fire hall, hired a radio deejay looking for part-time work, and then the deejay showed up with tons of records, a couple of turntables and amplifiers, and then they opened the door to kids who wanted to demonstrate their ability to dance what they had seen danced on TV all week.

It was at one such event at the Goodwill Hose Company hall in Bristol, Pennsylvania, that a group known as the Dovells, led by Len Barry (ne Leonard Borisoff - I love researching real names!) heard a record with a cool guitar intro that had been recorded by some local kids. It was called "Every Day of the Week." The Dovells got the idea to take that guitar riff and write a song about the cool kids dancing at a volunteer fire house in Bristol Pennsylvania. The dance they were doing was The Stomp. It only seemed natural to call the new song "The Bristol Stomp." A few minutes with a couple of professional songwriters, Kal Mann and Dave Appell, and the song was ready to record, and hit as high as #2 on the charts in November, 1961. People dashed to Kresge's to pay 79 cents for a 45-rpm copy of the song, so they could hear Barry's wobbly vocals and the insistent, even hypnotic, backbeat of the song.



Now you can hear it too, and even see it, and you don't have to put on your tshirt and drive to Kresge's, as if there were a Kresge's to drive to. All you have to do is click right here, and make believe you're at a fire house:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jDo9yYSuzkk


No one makes dance craze records any more; at least, I hear none that are devoid of calls to shoot or stab people or call them nasty names. There are no fire house record hops, or none that I've heard of for years and years. Len Barry had a couple of solo hits, "1-2-3" and "Like A Baby," but has not remained a huge part of the entertainment business we know today, what with Justin Timberlake being so popular and all.

And I sit here wondering why.

Seen at the Fair

Clearly, the best night to go to the Maryland State Fair is on a drizzly Friday. With the crowd down to only a few dedicated fair-goers, happy-to-be-there Farm Kids, and Goth Kids who will go anywhere to show you their pants with 147 chains on them, we stolled about at will, saw our favorite things (sheep and swine) and Great Gosh-a-mighty, look who's selling food at the fair!


We thought it was the flamboyant rock pioneer and Geico spokesperson


Mr Little Richard Penniman, but it turned out that it wasn't. I was told this in no uncertain terms by the woman behind the counter, who told me they didn't sell Tutti-Frutti Cheeseburgers, and also asked me to stop calling her "Lucille." A wop-bob-a-loo-bop, a womp bam boo!

Your Second Amendment in Action

Dontavious Mays is the name of a little guy from Northeast Baltimore city. Last Saturday, he was wounded by a bullet while he was playing outside at around 5 pm. Does anyone think that it should be unsafe for a six-year-old to play outside in his own neighborhood at dinnertime on a warm summer Saturday?

And I'm not going to get into a gun control debate or discussion. If you feel that the Second Amendment extends the rights of militia membership to local drug dealers, I'm just gonna ask how well-regulated that militia is, and all I'd get would be fatuous answers about how the Second Amendment protects us all from jackbooted stormtroopers showing up late at night, searching our houses and seizing the precious firearms that we all need in case of insurrection, or if the guy who breaks in to rip off the combo DVD player/microwave/fax machine should forget to pack his weapon and Harry Homeowner comes downstairs to play Dirty Harry Homeowner, only he's wearing those slippers with no heels, and some rather seedy pajamas, so the burglar laughs at him and so on and so forth. Not going there.

What really sticks with me about this story is that, when the reporter on FOX45 covered it, he mentioned quite dispassionately that young Dontavious was shot while "two men were exchanging gunfire nearby." Just like that, as if it were a fact of daily life. People exchange ideas, phone numbers, email addresses, baseball cards, insurance information after a traffic accident, and the dumb heelless slippers that everyone, including career criminals, laughs at when you wear them. Most guys exchange them for those slippers that sort of look like camp moccasins. It just should not be accepted in the course of human events that two random men should exchange gunfire at 5 PM on a sunny summer Saturday while a six-year old is playing outside.

Anyone else feeling it?

A cool webtoy

Let's say you always dreamed of being immortalized in cartoon form, but things didn't work out. Don't you worry; it's not too late. Here's a link to a website http://www.befunky.com/ which will turn this



into this!


Of course, this is a highly complicated scientific doodad we're tying into here. Sometimes the differences are very, very subtle, adjusted by master cartoonists working in undisclosed locations. It's stunning to see this photo of a largely discredited political figurehead



turned into this amusing lampoon cartoon with some deft touches:



Only, I'm not really laughing.

A sentence never spoken

Does this sound a lot like that wordplay contest they have in the Sunday Washington POST every week - to compose a sentence that has never been said by anyone, anytime, anywhere? George Carlin said , as an example, "Hand me that piano."

Here's my sentence-never-before-spoken:


"I've been thinking about Buddy Hackett all day."

I guarantee you, you have never said that! But I have been thinking about the late comedian Buddy Hackett (born Leonard Hacker) who personified the rotund clown so ubiquitous in the nightclubs and burlesque theaters of a long-ago era in show biz. But Buddy could do a lot of things - a little soft shoe, a little dance, tell a joke, do pantomime, appear on talk shows, play parts in movies, and more. I mentioned him yesterday for his work in The Music Man ( http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=buddy+hackett+shipoopi&search_type=&aq=0&oq=buddy+hackett+shi )doing the ''Shipoopi" and man, he was good at what he did. There was another performer who worked in much the same style, a man born Bernard Katzin, who achieved fame under the nom de show biz Stubby Kaye. What a great name! You can't say the name "Stubby Kaye" without smiling...must be the "k" sound.
Stubby Kaye (1918-1997)

Buddy Hackett (1924-2003)


Stubby Kaye died the day my father died in 1997. Buddy Hackett died on my birthday in 2003. Michael Phelps shares my birthday, my height and my high school, and there the similarities end, because I am about as great a swimmer as Buddy Hackett at this point. Don't tell me there's no conspiracy about him passing on my birthday! The signs are all over. But I don't get mad about it, because Buddy Hackett left behind a bit of philosophy that resonates within me every time I get the urge to get mad and stay there: "While you're holding grudges, they're out dancing." Out of the mind of a Borscht Belt comic came this nugget of wisdom. So valuable, so meaningful, so true! We've all done this - get into a brouhaha, and then get right into a snit, and sit around brooding for a week ("that lousy #$(*(#...why, I oughta....") and meanwhile the other person is out at the Dizzy Ballroom, tripping over the fantastic lights, not even thinking about us, not even a little bit. Leonard, Buddy - you were right.

Shipoopi!

Wells Fargo Wagon!

As a major fan of the TV cartoon Family Guy (and, some have said, an uncanny double for Stewie) I watch the episodes of that show with the same attention that an art lover might use while strutting through the Louvre. There's an episode in which dad Peter dances and sings the "Shipoopi" song from The Music Man while performing as a member of the New England Patriots.

Peggy, always the realist, points out that probably only a small percentage of the Family Guy audience has ever watched The Music Man and seen the original "Shipoopi," done by Buddy Hackett. It's a great movie; it tells the story of a con man whose game is bilking hick town residents out of money under the guise of organizing and training a boys' band. The angle is, he sells the instruments and uniforms, and then splits - usually. Go rent it and see how it plays out, or stop by: I have it on VHS and DVD, and the soundtracks (Broadway and movie) on LP and CD.

The story takes place in 1912 Iowa, and in one scene, the whole town of River City gets all worked up because the Wells Fargo wagon is rolling into town. That was sort of like the UPS or FedEX of its time, although there is some doubt as to whether or not the drivers wore shorts. But it's on my mind because I have a friend who is so sophisticated; she got a package from UPS the other day and did not bother opening it for some time. It turned out to be macaroons, instead of a textbook or something, but imagine being so cool that you get a package delivered and you just say, "I'll have to get around to opening that later on." I admire that coolness. Myself, I get all churned up when the US Mail truck shambles up our court. Who knows what might be in today's mail? A note from a long-lost friend? An invitation to a party, a wedding, a gathering of like-minded souls? This week's New Yorker? This week's Pennysaver, or Coupon Clipper, or Val-Pak (doesn't that sound like an antibiotic you have to take for 9 days straight?)

The mayor of River City calls people who live there the "Citizenians" of River City. Maybe they are so excited about the same thing that makes my heart leap when a package shows up:

lyrics to "Wells Fargo Wagon" by Meredith Willson:

First Voice

I got a box of maple sugar on my birthday.

Second Voice:
In March I got a gray mackinaw.

Third Voice:
And once I got some grapefruit from Tampa.

Fourth Voice:
Montgom'ry Ward sent me a bathtub and a cross-cut saw.

People:
O-ho the Wells Fargo Wagon is a-comin' now
Is it a prepaid surprise or C.O.D.

Fifth Voice:
It could be curtains!

Sixth Voice:
Or dishes!

Seventh Voice:
Or a double boiler!

Eighth Voice:
Or it could be

People:
Yes, it could be
Yes, you're right it surely could be

Eighth Voice:
Somethin' special

People:
Somethin' very, very special now

Eighth Voice:
Just for me!

People:
O-ho the Wells Fargo Wagon is a-comin' down the street.
Oh, don't let him pass my door!
O-ho the Wells Fargo
Wagon is a-comin' down the street
I wish I knew what he was comin' for.

Ninth Voice:
I got some salmon from Seattle last September.

Tenth Voice:
And I expect a new rockin' chair.

Eleventh Voice:
I hope I get my raisins from Fresno.

Quartet:
The D.A.R. have sent a cannon for the courthouse square!

So, I'm not cool. If that UPS truck pulls up out front, I'm gonna dash out there like Cindy McCain at a hair dye giveaway and see what Doug or Deacon have brought me! I hope it's somethin' special!

Mark's thoughts (with a nod to Hank Kingsley)

I was three years old here. Notice the grim determination, the rapt attention to duty, the mirthless countenance. Note that I am wearing a watch. I was three years of age, and yes, I knew how to tell time. I also knew how to cut chamfers and cross-hatch a 2 x 4. Punctuality has been a big thing for me for all these years.

...If you had the secret knowledge of how to make a fortune in real estate, would you a) open a school to teach others your secret knowledge and run incessant radio commercials inviting others to come and learn how they can make a fortune too by talking other people into selling them their houses cheap and then you just sell it for a huge profit or b) go make a fortune for yourself and keep your secret secret ?

That's what I thought you would do. As would I.

..."Back-to-school" in my long-ago day meant going to Kresge's or Murphy's to get some new pencils and pens and a blue binder, upon which to emblazon the image of Fred Flintstone in Magic Marker. I see the supply lists required for kids in elementary school these days, and I don't think that infantry soldiers who chased Rommel across Africa with my namesake had as many items on their supply lists.

...One item I look forward to receiving in the email every day is the word of the day from Merriam-Webster (sign up at www.m-w.com). The etymology of words we employ daily is endlessly fascinating. Take today's word: dilapidated. We use it all the time, and we also use the word lapidary all the time as well, any time we speak of someone who cuts or polishes precious stones. And that's pretty much all the time, right? Anyhow, it turns out that the two words share a common root in the Latin word "lapis" (stone) , and that the original meaning of dilapidated was "pelted with stones." Endlessly fascinating.

...If you could go back to the age of 18 and lay out a plan for your life, could it possibly be as much fun as your real life turned out to be?

...I miss the days when everyone got all worked up about the new car models coming out in September. Now all cars look basically alike, are either black or silver or red, and have no distinct personalities.

...I don't see why they can't make new episodes of The King of Queens. Or SWAT. Or, at least, some new Andy Griffith Shows.

...Toothpaste makes an excellent emergency spackle for when you remove that picture of Uncle Albert posing with Admiral Halsey during WWII from the dining room wall and there's that hole where the hanger used to be. Not only that, but new Crest with GL-47 has proven to be an effective dentifrice, and part of a conscientious program of oral hygiene.

...When I was in 4th grade I thought a dentifrice was the person in the dentist's office who cleaned your teeth.

...I have to go now; I feel all dilapidated.

Say it!

A sad time...I've had a couple of deaths among friends and former coworkers in the past couple of weeks. I have one piece of advice to pass along for those who care to hear it, and that is, if you have something nice to say about someone, say it now!

I found out too late a few years ago that once a person is gone, they are gone, and with them has gone my last chance to say something to them face-to-face. So - if you have always thought someone was funny, enjoyable company, reliable in a tight spot, or good to be around when things were sad, tell them now! What the hell are you waiting for?

If you like how someone looks in their new sweater, why not let them know? If you appreciate how someone came through for you a couple of years ago when things looked bleak, they will likely be glad to hear about it. It might even encourage them to be there for someone else somewhere down the road.

I remember an essay by Bob Greene (the sometimes-corny former Chicago columnist, not Oprah's diet guru) in which he talked about a Japanese woman who had come here to go to college and, in a phys ed class, had trouble mastering the intricacies of setting a volleyball, until a kind person on her team touched her lightly on the shoulder and said,"You can do this." From that moment on, the student felt confident and capable. And that student? Well, sorry, I'm not Paul Harvey; I have no idea whatever happened to her, but I'll bet she went on to do things with a sense of capability. All because someone took a minute to say a kind word.

Sometimes, people who were just paid a compliment will look at you and say, "Do you really mean that?" Speaking for myself, I am not able to say things I don't mean. I cannot act, cannot take on any persona other than my own, so I make it a point to mean what I say and say what I mean.

And if you go on the theory that no matter what, there is always something good to say about everyone, well, that George Bush certainly keeps his hair looking well-groomed at all times.

There. I did it!

Going Daily?

You might have noticed that, of late, publication for this blog has been, well, erratic at best. I could trot out all the usual reasons: the rising cost of newsprint and ink and gasoline for the delivery trucks that get this to your front door every morning (but that would be a fib!) or just plain laziness. Now, that would be the truth. You ain't met the man as lazy as I in the summer. The heat and humidity just sap me of all energy except for that required to do my job, and bake blueberry muffins (my secret recipe: Jiffy Baking Mix and fresh blueberries. Follow instructions on box and add twice as many blueberries as they say to.)

So as to instill within myself a bit of discipline, I am going to impose a requirement that this blog be published daily from now on! Or I'll know the reason why! And sometimes I will go off on one my patented rants about politicians, oil companies or the producers of certain television shows, movies and other forms of entertainment. And sometimes, I might just share a favorite poem or funny picture.

Take this one: well, now you don't have to, because I already took it...but just look at it for a second, ok?


I took this photo in the unisex necessary room of the great Beans Coffee Shop in Woodstown, NJ. Can't tell how old this ad for witch hazel might be, but it sure did seem to someone that witch hazel could just about cure everything! It cured boils, carbuncles, even felons! Dag, this stuff even lowered the crime rate, not to mention cutting way back on itching eruptions.

Tomorrow's topic will be much more pastoral in nature. Meanwhile, let's reach for the witch hazel.

Be funny if she came from Reading, PA.

So I had to run down to one of our sites today for a clinic, and when things were well in hand I headed back to the main office. Right on a main road I drove in the center lane. A woman in her early-to-late 60s was driving in the right lane. I say she was driving, because she was doing something more than driving. She was reading a book. I swear this is true.

I thought at first that she was looking down at the steering wheel on acct. of some sort of mechanical problem. The mechanical problem was that the last time her mechanic serviced the car, he should have disabled the starter. I pulled up next to her and saw that the book was, I guess, a novel. I mean, who reads Toynbee or Edith Hamilton while they're driving their car? What fun would that be? Anyway, she and her paperback pageturner rolled along. Just before the traffic light at Josenhans Corner, she turned the page, no doubt in eager anticipation of what was to be revealed on the next page.

Having learned long ago from the wisdom of "Animal House" ("You'll be glad later if you're not here now") I vamoosed away from her, fast as I could. For all I know, she's still out there tonight, reading her Danielle Steel, being a menace to society, driving her little white econobox. A Corolla, I think it was, and you know, that's kind of a frugal chariot, am I wrong, Emily?

There Is No Frigate Like A Book
Emily Dickinson

There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!

I hope to avoid her on the roads forever..my pickup also bears a human soul who's in no rush to earn his wings, Clarence!

Why Oprah Hates Me

Some days, friends, this old blog just writes itself. All I need is a quick look at the paper and brief listen to the radio news, and I'm rip-roarin' to rip into it. Wanna take you back to 1979... a simpler time in America. Skylab plummeted to the ground in July, and that followed widespread fear that the space research lab might land on and crush Sex Pistol bassist Sid Vicious, and it very well could have, had Vicious not died in February of a heroin overdose ingested at a party thrown to celebrate his release on bail over charges that he killed his girlfriend, Nancy Spungen. In a poignant touch, Sid's mom, herself a former registered heroin addict in England, said, "He knew the smack was pure and strong and took a lot less than usual." Ah, the support of a kindly old mama.

While the nation mourned the loss of El Sid and regrouped, we also saw a return to the inconvenience of 1974-style gasoline lines. In those faraway days, oil barons reduced the amount of gasoline available for sale so as to create artificial shortages and drive up the cost. As I say, it was a simpler time. Now they just raise and raise and raise the price and don't even worry about the national leader doing a damned thing about it! It's like asking Colonel Sanders if he thinks we should eat more chicken!

But that's old news. In those halcyon days, channel 13 here in B'More had Oprah Winfrey reading the news on the early-morning Good Morning America cut-ins. Already, the Big 'O' had shown a predilection for doing a talk show, newsreading clearly not being her strong suit. So. every day as I pulled on my socks, Ope would close her five minutes with "So remember, join Richard Sher and I at 9 for 'People Are Talking.'

After a while, time spent waiting for someone to give her a little grammatical backup, I called the station and asked that they point out to OW that she needed to use the objective case, and should be saying "Join Richard Sher and me...."

Actually, she should have been saying "Go read a book !" but she didn't.

Next day, when Oprah closed the local newscast, she got as far as "that's it for now; be sure to join Richard Sher {and at this point she got a look on her face quite similar to the way Earl Weaver would look as he attempted to chicken-peck an umpire with the bill of his Oriole cap} AND MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!! for People Are Talking!"

Uh oh. The Oprah had become upset.

So that's been the extent of our relationship over the years. Peggy has watched her show a lot, especially the Book Club and Oprah's Favorite Doggone Things episodes. Considering her show to be a daily exercise in self-glorification, I generally lean toward more fulfilling fare at 4 PM...such as Judge Joe Brown, Judge Hatchett, and the saucy, sassy Sandra Lee with her Semi-Homemade offerings (Jello chocolate pudding + Cool Whip = fake chocolate mousse!) But all day and all night, we hear the Oprah promos on the local outlet, and last weekend she was hollering about the saddest thing I have ever heard.

Oprah was promoting a show "from New York City!" and the final guest she mentioned was "My Cousin, Lisa Marie Presley!!!!!!!!!"

Now, friends, various estimates of the wealth of Oprah place it somewhere between the gold bullion reserves at Fort Knox and the total wealth of most of the Scandinavian countries. She is rich. Rich beyond your wildest dream and my wildest dream, and my wildest dream involves me and Peggy scooting up to the Jersey shore on a magic carpet. Oprah owns about 47 houses, and one farm in Indiana somewhere, and has the wherewithal to hand every member of her audience the keys to a new Pontiac. And the new Pontiac that goes with the keys! You hear your friends say "I wish I had a nickel for every time somebody blah-blah-blahed..."? Oprah has that many nickels. In fact, she's probably only vaguely aware that nickels are still being minted, preferring to keep her wallet full of Grants, Franklins and Clevelands.
In fact, when she endorsed Barack Obama for president as representing "change we can believe in," Ope thought of buying up all the dimes and quarters in circulation.

So, I have to wonder, just how sad it must be to have all that success - and I cannot gainsay Oprah's success and how hard she has worked to achieve it - and yet, with all that fame and all that power and all those bigshot friends like John Travolta and Julia Roberts and Steven Spielberg and a cheery consort named Stedman Graham
she still is not satisfied with the way her life has turned out. How sad, to have to claim to be the cousin of the daughter of the King. Which would make her, what, Elvis's niece? And who is Oprah's best friend? None other than Gayle King! And whom does my Mom watch every night on CNN? Larry King!

The similarities boggle the mind. And while I reeled from this news came the news that some clown in Canada had been arrested for DUI, and, once in custody, had claimed to be David Lee Roth,
the erstwhile and current (for summer touring purposes) lead singer for Van Halen. Dave's wizened image (above) is proof positive that spandex is very harsh on the constitution, not to mention the Constitution. Apparently driven mad by Canadian bacon and Anne Murray records, the Canadian claimed to be Roth and blamed his erratic driving on a peanut allergy.

Contacted by undoubtedly-frantic US Customs officials, Roth turned out to be in Arizona at the time that the Mounties were busy getting their man above the border, as always. He denied having been in Canada, and stated for the record that he is the victim of no known nut allergy, although it's fairly common knowledge that he avoids Valerie Bertinelli. Rudimentary tests ruled out any capacity for shape-shifting on Roth's part, so he couldn't have been in two places at once, let alone two nations. But if he possessed one scintilla of Oprah's sense of showmanship and self-delusion, he would have claimed to be Conway Twitty's uncle's second cousin's grandchild by marriage.


And that's why Oprah is where she is now and DLR is in Arizona, for the love of Pete. Let's hope his career will get a boost from this publicity, and be reborn like a Phoenix. Or at least, maybe Oprah will give him a Pontiac.

It's The Cool Thing, #3

When you're playing in a dixieland band...some of that hot jazz...and just after the halfway point in the song...while the trombonist is making a noise on his horn that sounds like the time the dishrag got caught in the InSinkErator because Aunt Glenn wasn't paying attention that Thanksgiving night when the entire family was full of kraut and vinegar and under the influence of an ennui so sizable that it had its own zip code...just before the end of that hot trombone lick...the cool thing is for a member or members of the dixieland band to holler "Yeaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

Cool thing 3A - when you're driving down a narrow street, cars parked on either side, and you see a guy driving a beat-to-hell Mustang coming your way and there's no room for the two of you to schqueeeeeze through at once...and he pulls back the reins on his Hoss to let you go...the cool thing is to give him The High Sign - the motorist's acknowledgment of all-too-rare courtesy. Cool way to give The High Sign is the certified Jerry Stiller method - head slightly bowed in reverence, index finger suddenly pointed at the benefactor, lips slightly pursed.

It's not like that, George!

Still wrong, Jenna!


Proper High Sign technique

Speaking of Highway Courtesy, wha' happen' to that deal where everyone was running around doing random acts of kindness: to wit, paying bridge and tunnel tolls for the people in the car behind them? Did anyone ever really do that?

You Asked For It

Today I felt like Woodward, or Bernstein, maybe a little of both. It was strongly suggested to me, in quite an odd manner, that I ought to blog about certain events currently transpiring in the lives of two people I know. I tossed it around inside the old melon (only current other thoughts in there: another heartbreaking Orioles loss, and how good Kunzler All-Beef Franks are when grilled in beer and wrapped in a wrap) and figured, what the heck, the whole world needs to know this story, and if some hearts get broken along the way, well, remember: some will win, some will lose, and some are born to sing the blues.

I guess the way to begin weaving the tale is to illuminate the differences between the two people involved here. She was just a small-town girl, living in a lonely world. Later on, she took the midnight train going anywhere, and we all know where that leads! As for him, well, he's a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit. He was also fated to take the same midnight train going anywhere, but at least we know where he started out!

Well, they got involved with each other. Some say they met in a revolving door at the bus depot and just started going around together. But all the ingredients were there...a singer in a smoky room, a smell of wine and cheap perfume, and that's tough, because you can't smoke inside rooms any more, and have you ever tried getting the aroma of wine and cheap perfume out of a denim jacket? We heard later that she was working in a redundant position at a free dental clinic, because according to one of her postcards, "For a smile they can share the night... It goes on and on and on and on" (italics mine.)

The night can be a lonely place, and the heart is a lonely hunter. She saw strangers waiting, up and down the boulevard, their shadows searching in the night. Apparently, some of the people she met worked as support poles for nocturnal illumination outlets, because in a email to his cousin Francie, he described "streetlight people, living just to find emotion, hiding somewhere in the night." It is very hard to hide when outfitted as a light pole, as Allen Ginsberg could have told you.

On the Fourth of July last year, we got word that someone had seen him on ESPN in that hot-dog eating contest at Coney Island, where he reported that he was working hard to get (his) fill. He told interviewers that it was true that everybody in the crowd wants a thrill at such an event, but when total abdominal stretch-out has been attained, the experienced competitive eaters among us are out there paying anything to "roll the dice" (euphemism for tossing one's cookies, as it were) just one more time.

Some WILL win, and some WILL lose, but only Robert Johnson, Howlin' Wolf, Bo Diddley and (debatably) Barry Manilow were born to sing the blues. Last we heard from our Greyhound lovehounds, they were attending a Matthew McConnaughey cinematic retrospective, where it truly seems like the movie never ends: it goes on and on and on and on.
Don't stop believing, you two crazy kids. Hold on to that feeling. Glad to be able to share your story, if only out of coercion.

And for the sake of the PowerPoint presentation for this saga, here's one of those charts that are often the last thing someone attending a daylong training session can remember from the post-luncheon part of the class:

Open Wide, Please

Listen, I know that this makes me another kind of Philistine for even suggesting that hotshot commercial photographers are overdoing something, but I saw a magazine ad with Lucy Liu's face on it, except she had her eyes closed. I know, I know, it's more of that over-stylization that was so doggone popular a few years ago, but here I sit, hoping that someone - anyone - can tell me how a picture of anyone is more attractive with their eyes intentionally shut. Unless it's an ad for eye shadow or some other makeup. And what family album would be complete without a really great group photo of the time Al took everyone for a nice picnic, and then when the pictures came back, Uncle Ray or Cousin Selma blinked at the exact moment that the camera's aperture did, leaving countless descendants to try to figure what happened: did Ray blink just then, or was he sound asleep with the family all gathered around him anyway?

So - arty or not - please, photographers, unless your subject is praying or demonstrating sleep techniques or makeup, this closed-eye-and-smiling pose is way overdone.

And then we turn to another favorite topic - warnings! I think I first noticed this about twenty years ago when I bought a sledge hammer, and walking out of the store I hefted the hammer and saw a little decal on the shank, a warning sticker that advised me that I should refrain from striking any part of my body or anyone else's with the hammer because it could cause bodily injury! Dag, who would have thought of that? But then I realized that the corporate lawyers had told the hammer manufacturers, "Listen, guys, we have to put this sticker on the hammers or else someone will smash their clavicle and then say, 'Well, no one warned me not to!'" And so now we see the commercial for McDonald's:


We viewers are to believe that these attractive people have nothing better to do than to collect a lot of free Coca-Cola glasses from McDonald's by purchasing certain meals, and then run home, place the glasses on a table, and turn the glasses into a rhythmic glockenspiel. OK, they're having fun, but almost at the end of the spot a warning flashes on the screen

G L A S S E S . A R E . B R E A K A B L E.

"Well, cut off my legs and call me 'Shorty' ! Turns out, glass is breakable, Elviry! Guess we oughtn't to smash 'em together too hard, lest shards of tinted Coca-Cola advertising pierce a major artery, leading to an untimely exsanguination !"

Next thing you know, you'll see warnings posted against leaping from tall tree branches, trying to cross a busy street with your eyes closed (unless some hotshot commercial photographer is snapping pictures of you at the time), and discussing theater in a crowded firehouse. But the warnings that ought to be posted, never are! Such as "Do not vote for drug-addled playboys" or "Do not expect Alex Rodriguez to be a faithful husband"...and so on, and so forth. Heed the unwritten signs, too!