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!

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...