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!

Guns 'n' Poses

I've been oddly drawn to reading the Family Circus for years now. I think it's because they had a dog named ''Barfy.'' But here's Billy making a good point, one that Calvin made a dozen years ago: verbing weirds nouns!

I had a hard time not laughing at this picture in the paper yesterday:



This young woman with her crudely-lettered sign amused me. Not that it's even worth trying to argue with the Supreme Court definition of a ''well-regulated militia,'' now that the court has been packed with right-wing crackpots. Your Supreme Court just told you that your neighbors have the right to pack a piece and strut around waiting for someone to look at them crossly, and then watch the lead fly!


And the poorly-laid-out perspective of her home-style calligraphy (notice how "My gun permit" leans to the right, eerily reminiscent of Antonin Scalia) is a cause for concern as well. But the fact that she used ALL CAPS to spell out THE SECOND AMENDMENT when the font she copied clearly calls for lower case letters except for the first is bothersome. The least of the sins committed at Neverland Ranch was the use of ALL CAPS in the entryway to that Stygian hellhole:

And you know what? If people could only learn to be more careful with their capitalization, more precise with their spelling and more selective in their choice of artists, why, that would be awesome! Or awsome. Or something, I dunno...




I also read someplace about a survey that indicated that people who have been the victims of lightning strikes tend to have higher levels of irritability in later years. Well, for crying out loud, why shouldn't they? You get zapped with a little thunderbolt from above, you're entitled to be a touch cranky about it, I feel. And the bigger question, to me, is: why is it necessary to find out how petulant or cantankerous some poor Joe became after that July afternoon when he was crossing the street when BOOM! lightning hit him, and it came down in ALL CAPS! like that.

Riding up Harford Road the other evening, I saw a sign in someone's front yard that really gave me the willies:


I can't stand the thought. We're coming to the end of eight years of imprudent leadership by a vacuous, supercilious, obtuse party boy. It's time to think a little, folks. Remember the lesson they learned in Minnesota when a few voters thought they'd send a message to the big guys by voting for a wrestler for governor? So it was that a few too many votes were cast in this half-baked protest, and then the entire state had to suffer with having oafish grappler Jesse "The Body" Ventura as governor for four years. And the time on "Barney Miller" when Wojo brought one of those bolo ties for Barney when he came back from a trip out West, only Barney didn't know it was a gag and he wore the corny tie! Jimmy Buffett is the musical equivalent of a bolo tie, and we don't need another millstone around our necks after these past eight years, do we?

Two Weddings and a Moveout

It's been a busy ten days for Peggy and me, but there are senses of accomplishment and satisfaction and that indescribable feeling that comes from being in two rooms full of love. And, against all odds, I wore the same white dress shirt to two weddings in 6 days and befouled it not. No gravy, salad dressing, chocolate syrup, beer, pasta sauce or cheese spread found its way onto the front of my shirt, and so it shall be taken to the dry cleaners for laundering and starching, to await its next foray into the social world. Normally, one could have gotten long odds against any white shirt I wear to an event where food is served coming home with its front still as white as the snow that I wish had fallen around here last winter.

Do you ever sit and ponder, whom could you call upon if you really needed help? For instance, if I ever get word that a pack of enraged mountain men has vowed to "git" me, I know two distant relatives, both the size of Coke machines, who would be hearing from me. For any sort of eye question, I have the greatest optometrist in the world, Dr. Connolly, and she patiently explains my ocular situations to me, and helps me work out solutions. Last summer's cataract surgery never would have happened had it not been for her amazing kindness. I have never known a medical professional as kind as she.

And then you really need to ask, if I needed someone to run to the all-night Drug Town and pick up a prescription at 3 am, whom could I call?

Or, if I needed a hand with something, what friend could I call upon? Our friend Frank was just that sort of guy - genuine, down-to-earth, a great guy. And living proof of the adage that the good go young, because he passed away in April of '06, leaving his wonderful wife Cindy and their four amazing kids. I don't know any other way to put this, except to say that there are families and then there are FAMILIES, and these good people are the most together family you could hope to meet.

Not long after the world lost Frank, the highly-regarded cinematic classic Jackass Number 2 came out, and Cindy told Peggy that their younger son wanted to see the movie. Peggy said that I had already seen it and would love to go again, so we two guys went and guffawed as only guys can do. It was the reverse of the time Peggy and I went to see the stinkeroo of all time, The Bridges of Madison County, in which we are supposed to think it's ok for Meryl Streep to hop under rickety Clint Eastwood just because her husband, who only worked sunup to sundown as a farmer, was not as romantic as an unctuous traveling photographer. This gave Streep's character license to be licentious, you see, because the poor hick was out of town, taking the kids to the State Fair to show off their hogs or something, so naturally Meryl is open for business all weekend. It made me sick. So when that movie ended, I stood there, basking in the relief that, much like a proctological exam without the benefit of anesthesia, it was, at long last, over. All about the theater stood other guys, similarly buoyed by the blessed unspooling of the final reel of that waste of celluloid, and as we checked our watches and made plans for dinner, we noticed that all the women were still in their seats, sobbing and daubing at their eyes. Just the reverse at the end of the Jackass movies, for those paltry few of you who have not seen them. Guys stand up, punching each other in the shoulder and reviewing their favorite segments, while women remain in their seats in a sort of goggle-eyed shock. Clearly, the solution comes to mind. The Jackasses of Madison County! Bam Margera is now the traveling photographer, and he talks the woman into letting his crew bunk over for the weekend, and then darts around setting off fireworks at 3 AM and brings in all sorts of local fauna to do what local fauna do in every locale.

I simply must do something about this digression. Anyway, Frank and Cindy's younger daughter was married last week to a fine young man, and she will begin her teaching career this fall - at the same school where my beloved niece-in-law used to teach, this being Baltimore and all, where all things and all people are intertwined like a Kevin Bacon movie. We had a great time at the wedding, and one could feel that Frank was there in spirit. I believe that the dearly departed are still with us in many ways, and I believe that love lives forever. Yes, love forever changes, but true love only changes for the better, according to Heaven's plan for us all.

When I transferred to the Health Dept in '01, my new boss's assistant, Lois, really helped me out. My boss's idea of training me was to hand me a key ring (20-some keys, none labeled), show me my desk, and let me run things as I saw fit. While I liked the hands-off approach, I did need some illumination into some dimly-lit corners of my new job, and she helped me time and again, and we became good friends in the bargain. She's since moved along in the department, with a well-deserved promotion and lots of new responsibility, but I still love to talk to Lois and get her take on things and, yes, walk up to the wall of her cubicle and loom over the top, gazing at her as if I were a giraffe eating mulberry leaves while she recovers from the awful shock that must come from seeing my mug over the top of one's cube wall. Last night, her son married a young lady who works in my building, and we were invited to share in that special joy as well. Such a nice wedding. The priest gave the young couple such great advice, and once again, the room was full of love and happiness, and I wish them all the love their sweet hearts can hold. Theirs is another family filled with love and support for each other - the kind of people that one feels better about everything just by being around them! Her new daughter-in-law, just like last week's bride Laura, is a beautiful young lady through and through, meaning that she is as lovely in her heart and soul as in her beaming countenance. We had a wonderful time at both weddings, and today is a very special day for me and Peggy - 'twas on this very day in 1973 that we met on a blind date that is still going on, so what a week to be surrounded by so much sweet love. And thanks to both brides and their families for being wonderful parts of our lives - the best parts!

But I was wondering how did it come that when the DJ played Journey's Don't Stop Believing, the young people at the reception went wild? I was stunned to hear them all singing out loud..."Just a small town girl....living in a lonely world....she took the midnight train goin' anywhere...." After all, that song was a hit three years before the bride and groom were born! But a little Wikipedia research taught me that it was used in The Sopranos TV show, and has enjoyed a resurgence in popularity. That resurgence would seem to be missing for onetime Baltimore reception favorite The Chicken Dance, but I can hope that one comes back too.

I'll tell where I know I could round up a whole bucket of Chicken dancers, and that's the retirement community that Mom moved to amidst all this white-shirt wearing. (I must mention here that Peggy looked her usual stunning self at both weddings, and, with the ladylike grace that she exudes, she also had no bibdrops on her pretty clothes.) Yes, every 53 years, Mom just gets the urge to move, so she is selling the house to the nephew of the neighbors across the street, and the furniture moving to the retirement castle was done by the son of the people two doors down. This is Baltimore, remember. Everything is related! Mom's new condo is roomy enough for most of the furniture that Dad made, and for most of the mementos she has collected over her 4-score and 2 (and counting.) The view is of the woods surrounding Goucher College, so it will be almost like the old house in that regard, seeing trees, deer, foxes, semi-clad college students gamboling about (ok, cross out that last one, but still, the view is great, the chow is top-notch, the other residents are nice and some are even her friends - she ran into a woman with whom she went to High School the other day, so we're hoping this will be a good move.) We all did a lot of humping and lifting and hauling, all for a good cause. Of course, the phone company screwed up her order and she had no telephone for the first few days, but I made myself heard long and loud until - quelle surprise! - a tech suddenly cleared his busy toolbelt-hoisting schedule and got around to doing what he was supposed to have done in the first place!

Today I was mowing the lawn, listening to old country music cassettes, and one of the songs was Tex Ritter's "Just Beyond the Moon." Lyrics - for those who have never heard this one -

My mother and my father were in love for 50 years
So when dad died we wondered why my mother shed no tears
We asked her once about it but she wouldn’t tell us why
Instead she’d walk outside each night and smile up at the sky
Then just before she left us she called us to her side…
She told us what my father said to her just before he died

I remember when you said you’d never leave me
Through these golden years I’ve kept the same vow too
But now that I am going please don’t leave me
I’ll walk just beyond the moon then I’ll stop and wait for you

You can look up every night and you’ll see me light the light
Where I’ll watch for you to join me someday soon
We’ll go lookin' through the stars for the heaven that is ours
And I know we’ll find it soon somewhere just beyond the moon

I’ll walk just beyond the moon then I'll stop and wait for you

I’ll just sit there by a star and I’ll watch you from afar
Til I see you walking toward me someday soon
Then together hand in hand we’ll find our promised land
And we’ll settle down forever darlin’ just beyond the moon

I’ll walk just beyond the moon then I'll stop and wait for you.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I wish that much love for Cindy, for Frank, for everyone I love, and for the couples who so kindly invited us to their special days. The song makes me think of my Dad; he and Mom were married for over 50 years and he liked Tex Ritter and he liked John Ritter too, another good guy gone home too soon. Every day in which we are allowed to walk this earth, attend weddings, haul Mom's stuff to the retirement castle, listen to Tex Ritter: those are good days.

Listen to Tex: http://marybethwillemriper.homestead.com/files/
Tex_Ritter_-_Just_Beyond_The_Moon.mp3

Kool Kid

I sure was a grocery clerk, way back in the day. Peggy loves to hear me tell what the price of a gallon of milk, 5 lbs. of sugar, or a bottle of ReaLemon was when Nixon was president and I worked for the Great Atlantic and Pacific Tea Co. (the real name of the A&P chain, which is now called SuperFresh around here.)

You might have read the short story "A & P" by John Updike (http://www.tiger-town.com/whatnot/updike/). While Updike is both a fine writer of great renown and, along with Norman Mailer and John Irving, one of Tom Wolfe's three great enemies, I doubt that he ever worked at an A&P. He doesn't have the sense of purpose that came along with the hallowed red apron and name tag, from what I gather. But he did all right in his field, so perhaps a lifetime of Eight O'Clock Coffee, Jane Parker Spanish Bar Cake and Ann Page Fancy Salad Mustard was not for him.

Today I stopped at another supermarket for rolls and bananas. I had been at the bank, where the manager told me last week I needed a copy of a certain document to perform a certain transaction (which I can't discuss here; it's a matter of national security.) So I ankle in there today, and the manager is on vacation, and Miss Hathaway tells me that a copy won't do; she needs the original. And so the dance begins, before the NorthEast Baltimore area vice president in charge of the NorthEast Baltimore area finally rules, in a landmark decision, that I can have my $442.80. I parade down to the supermarket, and here is a verbatim transcript of what the (20-year-old, maybe) cashier said to me:

She: How are you today, sir?

I: Well, to tell you the truth, I am hot!

She: So am I, but I'm not bragging about it!

I: (uncontrollable paroxysm of laughter)

then

She: $5.56, please!

I: Here's a 5, and I thought I had two quarters in here....wait a minute...hold on

She: I took them out of your pocket while you were sleeping!

I: You are delightful; has anyone ever told you that?
She: You wanna buy me dinner? I mean, seeing as how you have five dollars and all...

Do you love it? I've been on that side of a cash register (when things got real busy, I stopped marking prices on cans of Vienna sausage with der kerplunker and took over a register, where I spent some time on the front lines of pure capitalism: separating people from their money in exchange for goods) and, while I would always try to chat amiably with customers, I was never so cool as to actually engage in an entire comic routine with a cooperative straight man (uh, me! in this case.) She was funny without forcing it, slightly impertinent without being impudent, and, altogether the perfect remedy for an afternoon of almost-100-degree temperatures and the officious assistant manager of the bank branch just an egg custard snowball's throw from the supermarket (and wouldn't I love to...)

Young Ms. Ashley, I wish you a thousand years of brightening the days of others, I wish that the world and its carborundum ways will never dull your razor wit, and I hope you know I thank you for the smiles.

It's The Cool Thing #2

Back in the days when the National Lampoon was really funny, they had a page of suggested license tags for each state. For my home state, they suggested a logo that read "Maryland: Cradle of Graft." People caught with their cookies in the hand jar are regular sights around here, and it takes above-average crookedness even to make the news in a state where onetime vice president and designated Nixon polemicist Spiro T. Agnew was still taking canvas bags full of money from paving contractors while he was vice president of the nation! So, in case you are thinking of pursuing a career in the lucrative field of being a crook, please be advised that we want you to Do The Cool Thing, namely, when you get out of your car and are met by a teeming horde of reporters, cameras, and sketch artists readying themselves for your inevitable indictment and trial, smile like a madman and wave confidently while carrying some manila folders, and your suitcoat over your shoulder, Sinatra-style. Ring-a-ding ding, baby.

Smile smile smile as if there were nothing wrong in anyone's world! That one look says, "I couldn't have done anything wrong, for if I had, I would look contrite and repentant and all sorts of sad for letting people down, no? "

Nah. What the heck. I will tell you a really cool thing though. There is a woman at work, with long flowing beautiful flaming sorta-blond sorta red curly wavy hair. I mean, this is shampoo-ad hair. And you add to that, she is one of those naturally enthusiastic, always-cheery, super pleasant types who just elevates the entire room just by entering it. I saw her the other day and noticed she had cut her hair to a chin-length bob - still a great look, and I said so. Later on, another woman from her workplace told me that the lovely one had given up her hair for Locks of Love, the organization that makes human hair wigs for children who have lost their tresses due to cancer and radiation. And when I had commented on the new way she had her hair, she just said, "Oh, it's just something sporty for the summer." Generosity and modesty! Can you imagine how wonderful some people can be? That was my feel-good story for the week, yea, the entire month!

Someone please tell me why when two groups oppose each other by pulling on a rope, they call it a Tug Of War? Shouldn't it be a War of Tug? I have to know...

I rate the fours!

It all started earlier today when I told Peggy that of the entire cast of "I Love Lucy,'' I found Lucy to be the least amusing. And then she told me how for years, the antics of Lucy have left her convulsed. This might be some sort of Rorschach test: what does it say when I rank the cast of "I L L" in this order of how-they-made-me-laugh?

#1 - Fred Mertz
#2 - Ricky Ricardo
#3 - Ethel Mertz
#4 - Lucy Ricardo

And I'm not about to say that Lucy wasn't funny. Just not as funny as gruff old Fred, exasperated Ricky or frumpy Ethel.

Beatles, you say? All right, then:
#1 - John Lennon
#2 - Ringo Starr
#3 - George Harrison
#4 - Paul McCartney

I don't think there is any question that John Lennon is tops. And who couldn't love Ringo, with his (as Tom Wolfe called it) "curious backwater adenoidal voice" ? And when Lennon was killed, George Harrison wrote "All Those Years Ago" and said he always looked up to John. Mr. McCartney, eyebrows hoisted, said "It's a drag, innit?" when asked about his late partner.

Ask me to rank the four seasons, and of course Frankie Valli is the top. But if we're talking solstices and equinoxes, please give me

#1 - Fall
#2 - Winter
#3 - Spring
#4 - Summer

I love the fall colors and the fact that fall leads to winter, which, although noticeably short on snow around here for the past several years, at least has bone-chilling cold going for it. Spring means pollen, and as soon as you get finished sneezing and infusing eye drops, better go get your shorts and your t-shirts out. Spring leads to summer as inevitably as July 4th means another Will Smith blockbuster is coming to the Googolplex.

It's The Cool Thing

#1 in a series...

And not that I am considered cool by any standards, but as a longtime observer of the scenes we live by, I have a graduated scale to measure ostentatious actions. For instance, when all of a sudden our parched celebrities became conscious of the need for rehydration, every time you saw a picture of Jack Nicholson, he was carrying a bottle of water and walking around with his eyebrows raised. The actions of Nicholson are pretty much a good way to gauge what is and is not cool.

But here's a move currently being employed by singers, American Idol contestants (and there is a difference), politicians and others who enjoy moments in the spotlight as applause rains down on them like hotdog wrappers at a ballpark on Safety Patrol day: Walking through the crowd as the tumult reaches its apogee, you point your finger or chin out toward a certain person in the audience. This doublecoats the image of adoration, because it leaves the viewer thinking "wow, all those people screaming for him/her and he/she spots a good friend in the crowd and gives them a fingerwag and a little personal smile and headnod." I don't know; it's like one of those shrinkwrapped deals where you buy a bottle of mouthwash and there's a tiny sample tube of zit cream attached at the bottleneck. Here's the Famous One, awash in a sea of love, and yet there is time to acknowledge someone from the home town, or their first parole agent, or the guy who has the keys to the car outside.


And a bonus cool thing: you get a dip recipe put out by some food manufacturer...let's say Kraft...and it calls for Worcestershire sauce, cheddar cheese, sour cream and Italian seasoning. The recipe will say, in boldface, that you should use French's Worcestershire sauce and Kraft cheddar cheese and Land O'Lakes sour cream and Spiceland Italian seasoning, because their integrated horizontal marketing strategies tell them to make you feel like a cheater for using Lea & Perrins, Cracker Barrel, Safeway brand, and McCormick...but go ahead! They can't stop you! There are no brand inspectors knocking on your door! And if anyone asks why you dared to stand up to corporate America, tell 'em you did it because it's the cool thing!

Love Forever Changes

This will be a rather short diatribe, as my posts go. It's just that I feel like Frank Sinatra in that movie where he comes back from wherever he was and goes to his hometown and no one recognizes him.

Actually, it's not like that. I recognize people all the time and I run into friends, acquaintances, and far-flung kin (and I fling them again, if need be) and that's the great part about living in The Biggest Small Town On Earth. Just yesterday at Giant Food I ran into a fellow from my class in high school. We both admitted to putting on a few pounds and letting our hair gray gracefully.

No, the lack of recognition I decry is for the great band LOVE, whose legendary 1967 album Forever Changes was recently released in expanded form, with alternate versions, outtakes and extra cuts. I feel terrible that the genius behind the band, Arthur Lee, died in August 2006 without ever receiving the acclaim that should rightly have come to him. I believe they are the best band ever because they fold so many types of music into one...rock, soul, blues, mariachi, classical - all there. Their three first albums, LOVE, Da Capo, and Forever Changes were revered by my buddies and me all through high school, and then when the band dissolved in a late-60's haze of drug troubles, crimes and misdeeds, their public support waned with everyone I know but me. Stubborn to the end, I urge you to visit http://love.torbenskott.dk/default.asp and
http://lovearthurlee.com/ and check it out. I am also available to proselytize for the band at any venue you choose. Ask any friend of mine - I WILL play their music at the very slightest drop of a hint.


Because I never know when I'll find another convert to the cause, someone to discuss the band's lyrics, their exquisite musicianship, Arthur's vocal stylings, the whole magilla. Peggy no longer makes me listen to them with headphones only! That's progress, right?

Dayf of future paft

Back in Baltimore! Always good to be there. Peggy and I went to Williamsburg VA last week - this summer marks the 35th anniversary of the day we met, and this December will mark the 35th anniversary of our gala wedding and honeymoon in Williamsburg VA. 35 years. I love Williamsburg, if only for the olde-timey signs that tell you where the gunfmith shop or the beft jeweller is.As does every sixth-grader from here to Montana, I went to Williamsburg in the fall of 1962, and then, a scant eleven years later, there I was, a married man, back in town. We arrived on a Sunday, and I remember the man who showed us to our room. Ever the swanky boulevardier, I asked him how I could score a six-pack of beer (apparently it would have been easier to purchase Thomas Jefferson's original legal pad than to buy six cans of suds on a Sunday down South) and he regarded us curiously, asking, "Y'all just weddin'?" You bet! came the reply, and he said he'd be back. Back he was, in a trice, and he handed me a crumpled paper sack with six different frosty cans of lager and his best wishes for marital happiness! Thank you, sir! Things are still going fine.

So off we went, down the road less traveled. Route 301 begins, for us, just south of the Baltimore Harbor Tunnel and takes you all the way down into deepest Virginia, and then you swing off 301 in an enchanting little burg we call Stanktown and pick up rte 30 right into Wmsbg. (I have decided, after years of going back and forth on the topic, to be one of those guys who says "we picked up 30 and took it down to 33, and then took that new cutoff..." It just sounds like you know what you're doing when you talk that way!) Now, the real name for Stanktown is West Point, Virginia. It's situated at the confluence of the York, Mattaponi and Pamunkey Rivers. If you'll recall the story from Animal House, Faber College was located near a grove of eraserroot bushes, a stand of pencilwood trees, and deep graphite mines, which gave rise to the pencil factory that endowed the college which educated Bluto and D. Day, among others. Well, right upstream from where all those Virginia rivers come together, there are forests just full of stenopad trees and soupbox elders, because the main occupation of residents in West Point seems to be the production of cardboard. Unless you have driven through Stanktown, you can't/won't believe how bad it smells. It's as if a hundred flatulent wet dogs were chased by two hundred skunks and then rolled around in wet cardboard, as I wrote to a friend last night. But, like people in some zombie movie, the people there seem unaware of the possibly-lethal stinkarama that envelopes them and renders air freshener and deodorant useless as we know them. The locals stroll through the miasma, playing golf, buying hair products at RiteAid, wolfing down Italian food at Maria's Italian Food Restaurant and wondering why so many cars with out-of-state tags roll up their windows as they career through town. What must it be like to sell real estate in that town, when out-of-towners get out of the car and cry, "What the hell is that odor??"

It happened again a couple of times, and I think it's time for some sort of national debate to occur on a topic that threatens to rend the fabric of America. I'm not talking about the rise in gas prices and the concomitant rise in oil company profits, assuming, as I do, that the good people in the Bush "administration" are doing their best as selfless defenders of the public weal, and turning their backs on their friends in the oil business. Surely, even as we speak, the president and his top advisors are working on a plan to lower the price of gas, just like right before the 2006 midterm elections when...what? He's not running again, nor is Cheney? Oh well, there goes that notion. And I'm going to leave the matter of the "racy" "topless" photos of Miley Cyrus to her family to sort out. I call for a national discussion on why so many people sit in a restaurant and bellow their business out so loudly. I mean, are there so many people with hearing loss that people speaking to them have to be so clangorous? On the way down, we hit a Popeye'sin Waldorf MD. Friends, if you're like me, you love that chicken from Popeye's, and you buy it and take it home and put it down your neck with alacrity, and also red beans and rice. But there is nothing like fresh Popeye's right out of the Popeye's pressure cooker! Lord have mercy, what a lunch we had, right in the middle of the town that Joel Madden of Good Charlotte calls home (and his ex, Hilary Duff, calls "a ghetto somewhere in Maryland.") (In happier days, here they were:) But among the other finger-lickin' diners in the opulent dining room sat a man of great knowledge and experience, and while he completed his toothy bowdlerization of a four-piece dinner, he occasionally paused to deliver, at stentorian levels, a rambling discourse which covered such topics as his friend who is in the Army in Iraq ("he can call home most every night"), the performance of his truck ("she was a-stallin' on me but I took her down to the crankshaft and rebuilt her"), his experiences at a Jimmy Buffett concert ("you know the guy I mean, that 'Margaritaville' guy"), and the beaver who only recently was inhabiting his backyard pond ("my dog, she like to dive right in there after that gawdamn beaver, and then, the last time, she done lit out and I ain't seen her since.") I had to hang around for the end of the last anecdote, since I couldn't discern at first whether it was the dog or the beaver who "done lit out," but I am here to report that the dog is still around, and it was the beaver that left for parts unknown - perhaps to a new pond owned by someone with a greater understanding of pronoun reference.

And then at the Williamsburg Woodlands where we stayed, there was a free breakfast every morning from 7 til 10:30, although Peggy pointed out that they really didn't expect guests to eat for three and a half hours. But you could! So here we were, toasting our muffins on that track-driven toaster where you place your baked goods at the upper aperture and hold your breath until, moments later, they tumble down, all golden brown from their journey through a land of red-hot coils. The hotel also served juices, cereal, fruits, coffee and tea and sweet rolls. There were a lot of middle-school kids around now, just as in 1962, but with iPods. I love kids for many reasons, one of which is they sit down and eat their breakfast and don't sit around yakety-yakking for hours on end. But some guy, a bit older than I, sat there holding court with his two friends, and again, daggone if he wasn't one or two decibels louder than that emotional man who talks about the stock market on CNBC. His talking points consisted mainly of relating whom he had spoken with last, and about what, but I lost interest, there being a total lack of beaver stories in his repertoire.

We had a great time in Williamsburg. For the most part, it's a quiet town, and from not one of the colonial kitchens did we hear "Kashmir" blasting out as we dined. And I'm pleased to report that I fought back the impulse to purchase one of those three-cornered hats to wear around. That's one of those things that are pretty cool to do while you're there but once you get home and unpack it, what do you do with it? Either put it in the back of the closet or get a job as drummer for Paul Revere and the Raiders, and either way, you're out $27.50.

George on my mind

I've heard it said that all of us can be broken down into four groups:

1 - People who know, and know they know: Learn from them

2 - People who know, and don't know they know: Tell them
3 - People who don't know, and know they don't know: Teach them
4 - People who don't know, and don't know they don't know: Avoid them

Of course, all generalities are bad. Comparisons are odious, but not as odious as giving billions in war supply contracts to your chum's war supply firm, who in turn improperly installs water pumps on showers used by our troops in Iraq, which is why soldiers are being electrocuted in Iraq. Check it out, but it's sad:
http://www.cnn.com/2008/POLITICS/03/20/electrocuted.soldier.ap/

And before anyone gets all up in my grill for constantly picking on the person in photo 4, anyone should remember that unlike Mr. Garrison Keillor, Mr. Arthur Lee, and Mr. Forrest Gump, the cute little shaver above is responsible for the deaths of countless individuals the world over.

I've been thinking about knowledge and its all-too-often missing cousin, wisdom. We've all known highly educated people who do stupid things (stick a knife in the toaster, try to add 12 gallons of gas to a 10-gallon tank, cut self shaving) and we've all seen flashes of brilliance in otherwise dim lights (viz. any Matt Damon movie.) My father worked with a man of no-more-than average standing, a guy who hardly spoke to anyone as he slumped about. Little known to his co-workers was the fact that the fellow had been stationed in England during World War II and had become fascinated with the days of the Roman invasion of England, and read everything printed about those days and spent his vacation every summer touring English archaeological digs, digging that he was digging up artifacts.

My father, master of subtlety, told me about this one summer when I was fourteen and on vacation at the beach, trying to amass enough Skee-Ball tickets to get a pocket comb. The lesson was not lost on me. In a recent comparison with every pre-schooler in my family, it turned out that I know much more about the Roman invasion of England than all of them! Ha!

It does take all kinds to keep this village raised. Knowing the steps to true enlightenment is valuable knowledge, yet when your carburetor malfunctions, you don't care whether the tech can find his way to Satori or not.

I see that Laura Bush will be "guest host" on "Today" the day after tomorrow. This, of course, places her maladroit husband squarely on the horns of a dilemma - should he watch The First Lady swap recipes with Natalie Morales after watching Ann Curry make sad eyes about a story involving a lost dog and then glad eyes about a story about a woman who found an original Van Gogh in a frame purchased at a swap meet, below a print of dogs playing poker - or should he stick with his usual morning fare of "Walker, Texas Ranger" on USA Network and that smart-aleck "Frasier" on Lifetime? Decisions, decisions.

Not many people even remember Senator Roman Hruska, (R., Of Course) who is best known for responding to criticism that Harold Carswell, who had been nominated by "Dick" Nixon to the Supreme Court in 1970, was a mediocre judge, by saying, "So what if he is mediocre?There are a lot of mediocre judges and people and lawyers. They are entitled to a little representation, aren't they? We can't have all Brandeises, Cardozos and Frankfurters and stuff like that there."

Mediocre people everywhere still rally to the stirring words of Roman Hruska, and heeded them en masse in 2000 and 2004. I can't help but feel that we would have been better electing my father's long-ago co-worker. At least he knew something about the invasion of sovereign foreign nations, and why there are damned few English men named Julius Caesar Wilberforce-Humphreys III.

Four things on my mind

Happy Saturday - and yes, there are more than four things on my mind, but let's go bloggin'!

The Baltimore area has had indignities heaped upon it like slag at a steel mill. If your home computer has been running a bit slowly of late, it might be because The Internets are too busy having videos of city school teachers being pummeled by their students downloaded onto them. These students, apparently driven mad by too much exposure to "enlightened" education (pause for laughter), are alerting their friends that they intend to smack the teacher down so that the cellphone cameras can be rolling. An art teacher at Reginald F. Lewis Academy was confronted by a student who asserted her plan to "bang" the teacher (terms do change their meaning over the years, it would seem) and so the teacher announced her plan to defend her space, if same was invaded. Moments later, the donnybrook was on, and yet the principal of this august academy of learning told the teacher she was inciting the student to violence by warning that she would be offering a defense.

And that's not even the indignity about which I planned to write, since educators are in their own little world about these matters. The indignity I had in mind is the imminent invasion of Jenna Bush (seen here in all her wedding finery :) and her husband. News reports are rampant, indicating that the twin daughter of the dense man who refers to the world wide web as "the internets" and to himself as "the decider" is planning to move to South Baltimore with her new husband, following their gala May 10 nuptials in tony Crawford, TX. Almost certainly with no outside help or influence, her fiance, one Henry Hager, has landed a big job with Constellation Energy, the monolith which even at this moment is generating the power that supplies this computer with the juice that says welcome to town, you crazy newlyweds, you. That $400,000 row house you bought in SoBa would have been available for about $8,450 back in the days when your father was a cheerleader for Andover and your mother was blowing stop signs, but that's the sort of economic progress that your beloved republican party has wrought upon our land, so drink up, kids!

Personal to all those who advised me to eat bananas to ward off the dreaded leg cramps - I have been eating at least one 'nanner per day for some time now, so I am loaded with potassium like a Penn Central rail car, but this morning as I lay abed, here came another one. The cool thing about my leg cramps is that I get this little signal that one is approaching - a little cramplet, one might say - a precursor to the biggie that feels as if some art student from Reginald F. Lewis Academy is running a bandsaw broadwise across my Gastrocnemius (Latin for "calf muscle that makes people hop like they just got a hotfoot.") As a former giver of hotfoots (hotfeet?) I see the karmic twist here. Advice to newlyweds or people who are just beginning to sleep together: if you suffer from nightly leg cramps, tell your partner, lest they be as stunned as Peggy that night, early in our marriage, when I woke her up, jumping around the bedroom as if the angels of death had come to call for me, several decades too soon. "Oh, I forgot to tell you!" I said, ricocheting off a chiffonier, "I get these leg cramps..." It was not to be the last big surprise of our marriage (see blog entry from August 1974, in which I was booked for suspicion as a Watergate co-conspirator.)


I was listening to Mr. Bon Jovi sing his "It's My Life" song, which has the line, "Like Frankie said, I did it my way." Francis A. Sinatra, a once-popular singer, did not write the song "My Way," and he was a bantam-sized man who kept himself surrounded by a coterie of henchmen. Anyone who incurred his bantam-sized wrath was soon set upon by Frankie's men. I'd rather do it my way, which means writing my own stuff and fighting my own battles. Just sayin'.

I feel that an important aspect of my life ended yesterday with the final broadcast of the "Don and Mike" Show. What I love about blogging - the reality, the human contact of real unvarnished lives - was all there with D&M. Sure they were sometimes tasteless, occasionally cruel, wildly funny, all those things, but they were on the air here since late 1991, and over the course of almost 17 years, a lot happens to people. We were there when Mike O'Meara's marriages ended, when his relationships with his daughters flourished, when he opened and closed his restaurant/bar, and so much more. And Don Geronimo, whose real name is Michael Sorce, as newspaper articles about his travails inevitably said, has had a life of triumph and tragedy, and he shared every single second of it on the air. His son Bart was known as "the six-year-old weather boy" when they came to town; he would read the weather for his Dad. Next month he will be graduated from Clemson. But Freda, Don's beloved wife, was killed by some damned fool driver going 90 miles an hour outside Ocean City three summers ago, and Don was never the same. He had to give up the show because being with the same workgroup every day reminded him too much of his loss, and he chose not to continue in sadness. His woebegone brother Jim (who married a woman who worked for the Frito-Lay factory but betrayed him by doing it with some co-worker atop a mountain of freshly-made Fritos), his battles with upper management, utility companies, and people who talk in movie theaters, his dealings with his birth mother whom he located after a long search, only to have her say "I gave you away because I didn't want you then and I don't want you now," his rejection of his adoptive parents and reconciliation with his adoptive mom after his adoptive father died....all fascinating, and no longer to be shared with us.

Good luck to Jenna's husband, any teacher who needs to don armor, and to Don and Mike.

The Six-Word Memoir

I was tagged by a blogger I love, Kat, from http://katry.blogspot.com. Her blog is called "Keep The Coffee Coming," and I read it every day with never a trace of jitters. So I'll accept the tagulation, and here's the assignment:

Write your own six word memoir.

Rowan at Fortify Your Oasis challenged his readers to do this because he was challenged by Grannymar who was challenged by Alice.

Post it on your blog, including an illustration if you’d like.

Link to the person that tagged you in your post and to the original post if possible so that it can be tracked as it travels across the blogosphere.

Tag at least five more blogs with links.

Leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play!

Here goes mine:
Winter
cold
Spring
Peggy
love
blooms

Now, here's what's funny. If you know me, you probably hear me use words such as garrulous, prolix or voluble to define myself in terms of speech habits. Many might say, "He sure can talk." Or the always-popular, "He was vaccinated with a phonograph needle." I've tried my hand at haiku, but there's a real art in minimalism that escapes me completely. So I don't think this is such a good six-word memoir, but it rings true to me. Out of necessity, it omits a lot of chapters from my life and references only the pre-Peggy chill that life gave me, and the joy that love has brought me continuously since the day fate joined our hearts.

I tried to go for the Burma-Shave school of poetry one time and couldn't even shorten my spiel enough to turn out great verses such as: HENRY THE EIGHTH / SURE HAD / TROUBLE / SHORT TERM WIVES / LONG TERM STUBBLE
Please read the greatest memoir of all time when you get a chance. Genius neurotic anxious pianist Oscar Levant (hey! that's a six-word autobio for you!) wrote Memoirs Of An Amnesiac, which I re-read more or less annually, along with The Catcher In The Rye and On The Road.

The following beloved bloggers are tagged:

Laura
Jamie
Abby
Sarah
Anne

I'll email y'all.