O, Nanny, where art thou?

Okay, so I'm checking out the New York Times on the web and come across an article by Eric Konigsberg called "Let's Face It, This Isn't a Job for Supernanny." Needless to say, I was intrigued.

Check out the link:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/28/nyregion/28nanny.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

There's something about nanny's. They are very cool. I guess they have to be to deal with various and sundry situations involving bubblegum, poison oak and Flintstone band aids. (Am I talking about nannies or Erma Bombeck?)

In my experience as a middle-class Rocky Mountain denizen, the only official "nanny" I'd ever heard of was Mary Poppins. She had a lovely British accent, a clean, stalwart Nanny uniform, and an amazing soprano that could reach high "C."

As a teen, I didn't enjoy babysitting. Not. One. Bit. But that didn't stop my parents from setting me up to babysit their friends kids so they could all go out. I dug in my heels and refused. And it wasn't about the money. I just didn't like babysitting. Period.

I suppose I could have pretended I was a nanny, like Julie Andrews. Sing to the kids about raindrops and roses and whiskers on kittens. Give them spoonfuls of sugar and watch them bounce off the walls. Sew clothes for them out of draperies. No, I don't think so. The chaos would be my undoing. I'd be tempted to pop open my magic umbrella and escape into a Magritte painting.

Everybody Likes It Hot

“Nobody’s perfect.” Maybe Osgood Fielding III had it right. Or maybe not. When it comes to “Some Like It Hot,” that clichéd platitude just doesn’t hold water. Directed by Billy Wilder and starring Tony Curtis, Jack Lemmon and Marilyn Monroe, this 1959 film is a perfect example of a genre-buster. There’s something for everyone.

The story: Chicago, 1929. Joe (Curtis) and Jerry (Lemmon), two down-on-their luck musicians, witness the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre and find themselves on the run. They elude Spats Colombo and his mob by skipping town disguised as women in an all-girl band. That’s right, folks. Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon in drag! ZOWIE!

So what kind of movie is “Some Like It Hot”? A comedy, of course. But more than a comedy. Much more.

It’s a Buddy Film: Joe (aka Josephine) and Jerry (aka Daphne) are best friends. They even share the same blood type (type “O”). But when the omelet hits the fan, they change from guys to gals faster than you can say “Pass the lipstick.”

It’s a Musical: Monroe as Sugar Kane “boop boopy doo’s” herself into Joe’s heart while Jerry and Osgood dance a sizzling tango with such elegance that they make Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers look like a couple of chimpanzees on roller skates.

It’s an Action Movie: Car chases, machine guns and a birthday cake. Danger lurks around every corner as men in skirts and high heels run for their lives on slick linoleum.

It’s a Romance: Flowers, diamond bracelets, booze. Love is in the air. Joe loves Sugar…Sugar loves Junior…Osgood loves Daphne…the bell boy loves Josephine…Spats loves buttermilk.

It’s an Art Film: Shot in black-and-white, it’s a hard-hitting social commentary about the politics of Prohibition, trans-gender issues and the universal truth that blondes really do have more fun.

It’s a Family Movie: Okay, maybe not.

It’s a Drama: Just try to hold back your tears when Sugar tells about her obsession with saxophone players and how she’s always getting the fuzzy end of the lollypop. Not to mention the squeezed-out tube of toothpaste.

It’s a Suspense: Does Jerry’s wig fall off while swimming with the girls? Will too much Sugar put Joe in a diabetic coma? And what’s the significance of the bicycle? Is it derivative of “Citizen Kane” and the mysterious “rosebud”?

Perhaps the genre that best describes “Some Like It Hot” is the Chick Flick. Sig at the talent agency summed it up nicely: “Ya gotta be under 25…ya gotta be blonde…and ya gotta be girls.” SNAP!

There’s Sweet Sue, the hard-nosed career woman who rules her all-girl band, the Society Syncopaters, with a rod of iron…Hillary Clinton of the Jazz Age. On the other side of the spectrum is Sugar, the voluptuous ukulele player who wants to marry a millionaire. Men go ga-ga over her despite the fact that she is so NOT a size four.

One of the fun things about chick flicks is watching the fashions. You won’t be disappointed. Joe’s adorable faux fur collar is to die for, and Jerry’s chic evening gown will make you downright jealous. And while it’s true that Joe has sexier legs, Jerry’s hair style is way cuter.

But it gets better. As women, Joe and Jerry have no trouble attracting the opposite sex (uh…meaning men, not women…I think). Joe is pursued by the bell boy, while Jerry catches the eye of Osgood, who even proposes marriage! If Joe and Jerry can snag a guy, there’s hope for single ladies…and gents…everywhere.

In this movie appearances can be deceiving. Women are men. Men are women. Seams are straight. But one thing is certain. Everybody likes it hot.

Fat Cat

Introducing Princess Chunk, a 44-pound cat found waddling around New Jersey. She is in the care of a local animal shelter and is awaiting adoption. One can only hope she gets on the Jenny Craig Program asap.

Standing in Line at the Movies

MOM: If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times. NO MILK DUDS!

LITTLE BOY: You said I could have whatever I wanted. I want Milk Duds.

MOM: They stick to your teeth. You can have Skittles.

LITTLE BOY: I hate Skittles.

MOM: Then how about Butterfinger?

LITTLE BOY: No.

MOM: Okay, forget it! You get nothing, do you hear me? NOTHING!

LITTLE BOY: You're mean!

MOM: We're going home!

LITTLE BOY: Okay, I'll take the Skittles.

*****

MAN: This movie got great reviews. Two thumbs up.

WOMAN: That’s funny. I read that it was a real snooze fest.

*****

TEEN GIRL ONE: Josh is going to meet us in the balcony.

TEEN GIRL TWO: Omigod! You’re mom is gonna kill you.

TEEN GIRL ONE: Not if she doesn’t find out.

*****

MIDDLE AGED WOMAN ONE: I don’t care what they say. The Musical is not dead. Explain “Chicago,” “High School Musical,” “Hairspray.”

MIDDLE AGE WOMAN TWO: I can’t. But don’t tell me John Travolta in drag is a box office draw.

*****

BOY ONE: I’ve seen this movie six times.

BOY TWO: Don’t tell me how it ends.

BOY ONE: The guy dies.

BOY TWO: Shut Up!

*****

OLD MAN: Twenty dollars for popcorn and soda. What’s the world coming to?

OLD WOMAN: Nobody said you had to buy snacks.

OLD MAN: Are you crazy? You can’t go to the movies without popcorn. It’s sacrilegious.

OLD WOMAN: Well, at least we got the senior discount.

The Elevator

Jerry Milligan entered the vacant elevator and pushed the “down” button as the doors swooshed shut. Thank God it was empty. He wasn’t in the mood for chitchat. Especially today.

His meeting with Vincenzo hadn’t gone well. Jerry had borrowed some money from Mr. “V” to pay off a gambling debt. Four thousand dollars to be exact. “Borrowed” wasn’t really the right word…it was more of a “loan.” A loan with strings attached.

Jerry figured he could pay it back after Saturday’s horse race. He had gotten a tip that Placebo’s Dream was a shoo-in to place in the third. Well, Placebo’s Dream became Jerry’s nightmare. The horse didn’t keep up his end of the bargain and now Jerry had to ask Vincenzo for more time.

Alone in the elevator, Jerry recalled what had transpired just moments before in Vincenzo’s suite on the 19th floor. As Jerry offered his explanation in a calm, albeit panic-stricken manner, Vincenzo sat quietly in an oversized plush chair, his fat round belly extended to his knees. A Buddha statue in an Armani suit. Cigar smoke swirled around his head and his beady snake-eyes never blinked.

Vincenzo’s silence made Jerry even more nervous and he just kept rambling. Finally, the fat man spoke. “Good day, Mr. Milligan. You may leave now.”Jerry started to speak again, but changed his mind as Vincenzo pointed toward the door with a stubby, ruby-ringed finger. He left the room in a hurry and figured he was getting off easy. If Vincenzo was going to kill him, he wouldn’t have let him go, right? He would have called in one of his goons to escort him into another room where they would “discuss” the situation. A friendly little meeting that might involve brass knuckles, a blowtorch, blenders, bullets, boards, bed knobs, broomsticks … or any number of torture devises that begin with the letter “B” and end with Jerry bleeding all over his Birkenstocks.

Jerry had vowed to quit gambling over and over again, but every attempt had failed. The longest he had gone without playing the horses was six weeks … the worst six weeks in his life. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t sleep. He got headaches and night sweats. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore and went to the track. Standing at the betting window and sliding his cash to the clerk, he salivated like a beagle in a meat market. That was when he realized the truth about himself … he was a compulsive gambler, and he always would be.

Consequently, his gaming lifestyle put him the company of some pretty shady characters. Guys like Vincenzo who hung around casinos and racetracks, using their “patsy” radar to zero in on poor suckers who lost all their dough and needed some quick cash for a sure thing. Jerry didn’t like dealing with those bums. But two weeks ago, he had run into some bad luck at the track and Vincenzo was more than happy to help out.

Jerry’s worrisome thoughts were interrupted as the elevator stopped and the doors slid open. A man walked in wearing a black suit, his long hair tied in a ponytail. He was well over six feet tall and looked like he could lift a Buick with one hand and not even break a sweat. Jerry caught a glimpse of a gold front tooth as the man glanced his way.

The man positioned himself in the middle of the elevator, arms folded, looking at the numbers above the door. Jerry retreated to the corner. The only sound was Jerry’s raspy breathing and the muffled swoosh as the elevator made its descent. The piercing sound of a cell phone shattered the silence. Mr. Ponytail flipped open the phone and spoke with a pronounced lisp: “Yeah...I’ll take care of it, bosth…don’t worry…I’m on my way.”

Jerry tried to keep from wetting his pants. This was Vincenzo’s goon sent to give him the “business.” But did he know that Jerry was in the elevator just an arm’s length away? Mr. Ponytail seemed oblivious. Of course, he could just be pretending, acting like everything was kosher. And then when they got outside…a shiny black sedan and a couple of gorillas ready to shove him into the backseat for a ride “downtown.”

But maybe the man didn’t know it was Jerry. Maybe Vincenzo gave orders to nab Jerry at his apartment. Yeah, that had to be it. Hope flinched in Jerry’s gut as he planned his escape. As soon as the doors opened, he’d make a run for it. He figured he could out-run the goon, if it came to that. But what if Mr. Ponytail pulled a gun and started shooting?

Jerry couldn’t think that far ahead. He had to get out of here! His eyes focused on the doors and sweat broke out on his forehead. His tongue swirled around his dry lips in anticipation. Suddenly, the elevator lurched to a complete stop, slamming Jerry and the man against the rear wall. The lights near the doors lit up like the control panel in a nuclear power plant at melt down. Jerry’s fingers shook as he randomly pushed the buttons, but nothing happened.

Jerry looked at the man and stammered, “I…I think the elevator is stuck!”

“Don’t worry, Misther Milligan,” the man replied. “You’ll be on your way down in no time.” He smiled at Jerry and his gold tooth glimmered in the fluorescent light.

The Other Coast by Adrian Raeside

"Take Your Dog to Work" Day

Yes, it's official. June 20 is "Take Your Dog to Work" Day. For those of you planning to participate in this exciting event, I offer a few "pointers" (pun intended) to make it a pleasant day for all:

1) Before taking your dog to work give him a nice bath. And please, don't torture the dog with soap and water...let him swim in pond scum. Dogs love to splash around in algae and plankton. Be sure that your dog is still a bit wet when he gets to the office. The scent of wet dog always gets a reaction. In fact, Calvin Klein is creating a new perfume inspired by this potent, organic aroma.

2) Be sure to introduce your dog to all your coworkers. Especially those who are allergic to dogs. Of course, they may run down the hall panting for breath with their tails between their legs (the coworkers, not the dogs), but don't let that deter you. Deep down inside, these people love dogs. It's for their own good. Remember the adage: "That which kills us only makes us stronger."

3) While at the office, your dog may get a sudden urge to gnaw something. Don't bring a chew toy from home. Let the dog explore the office and find his own chew toy: the only existing copy of the 30-page marketing report that Sally worked on all weekend...the computer cables in IT...Harvey's brand new $500 Italian leather briefcase.

4) Of course your dog may have to "piddle or poop" while at the office. Responsible dog owners always clean up after their pets. Have a supply of plastic bags handy. Scoop up the "droppings" and discard them in the garbage bin in the break room. When your coworkers take their coffee break, they can't help but smell the offensive fumes, thus ruining their appetite for donuts and helping them to lose weight. They'll thank you for it.

5) Allow your dog the freedom to follow his natural instincts: barking, jumping, running, scratching, licking, crotch-sniffing. Don't worry about offending your coworkers. Many people who work in offices practice these behaviors as well. Photographs taken at the last office Christmas party attest to the fact.

6) Remember, just because your dog is at the workplace doesn't mean that there will be less productivity. To avoid encounters with your dog, your coworkers may choose to lock themselves in their offices, refusing to come out until quitting time. The result? Your boss will encourage more "Take Your Dog to Work" days.

Metamorphosis

It had to happen sooner or later. It was only a matter of time. Unfortunately, poor old Marvin was the hapless victim. People looked up in the sky, shook their fists and shouted, “Why Marvin? He never hurt a fly!” There was no answer. And there never would be.

Marvin Gardner was a 64-year-old banker, who always wore a gray felt fedora, even though they had been out of style for thirty years. In fact, his entire wardrobe was acquired from a second-hand store that sold “authentic” clothing from the 1950s.

As was his custom, he arrived at DaVinci’s Deli on 63rd Street in Chicago promptly at 1 p.m. He’d eaten lunch at DaVinci’s every day for the past 24 years and he always ordered the same thing: corned beef on pumpernickel and a cup of black coffee. He sat in his favorite spot at a table near the window where he liked to watch people pass by. Rich ladies in their mink coats. Winos begging for coins. Punks with purple hair and safety pins in their noses.

But that afternoon something unusual happened. Something totally unexpected. Something that parents would tell their children about for generations to come. Something unprecedented since the dawn of time.

On November 16, 1984, at 1:13 p.m at DaVinci’s Deli, while eating his corned beef on pumpernickel, Marvin Gardner transformed into an ape.

Thick, coarse hair started to grow on his hands and face. He began to slouch and his visage favored King Kong’s younger brother. His first clue that something was amiss was the looks on the faces of the other patrons in the deli. Looks of fear and confusion. Looks of surprise and dread. Marvin tapped the shoulder of a woman who was seated at the next table to inquire what was wrong. She looked at Marvin and ran shrieking from the deli.

At that signal, everyone screamed and dashed out the door as fast as they could, occasionally looking back at Marvin in utmost terror.

Marvin suspected that he was the cause of the chaos. As he reached up to adjust his glasses, he noticed his hairy hands. Panic-stricken, he charged into the men’s room to investigate. Staring wide-eyed into the mirror, he discovered to his horror that he, indeed, had become an ape.

He took off his clothes and examined his body. He was ape all over. It took a while for Marvin to recover from the shock. How did this happen? What could it mean? How would he function day to day? What would his friends and family think? Should he go to a hospital? What kind of warped disease was this? Was it even a disease? Who ever heard of a man turning into an ape? Would he gain celebrity status and become rich and famous? But what good is money and fame if you’re an ape? And what about his sex life?

Marvin was going through a terrible time thinking about his future as a primate. They could send him to a zoo. Perform experiments on him. Quarantine him for fear that he might contaminate others. They could even kill him.

These thoughts raced through Marvin’s mind, rendering him incapable of action. Every few minutes DaVinci, the deli owner, would peek into the men’s room to get a look at Marvin, and then quickly shut the door when Marvin made eye contact. Marvin grew more and more uneasy. He knew he couldn’t spend the rest of his life in the men’s room at DaVinci’s Deli. But he was afraid to leave. He feared the humiliation of exposing himself to the public. The leering glances. The questioning eyes.

When he finally summoned the courage to open the door and walk out, he saw that the deli was empty. But not for long. The cops stormed the deli and soon reporters arrived with their cameras and microphones. Outside, crowds of people pushed and shoved to get a better look at Marvin … a 224-pound gorilla in a sixty-dollar suit.

So it was that man became ape. The significance of this phenomenon was unsurpassed in human history. Marvin was soon caught up in a frenzied media blitz. His face was plastered on the cover of newspapers and magazines. He was featured on “Sixty Minutes,” and even made a guest appearance on “Cheers.” Writers bombarded him with offers to publish his story. He was probed and analyzed under the cynical eyes of doctors and scientists. There was no explanation. The greatest minds in the world could not comprehend how a man could metamorphose into an ape. Marvin was an enigma.

Immediately after the event, authorities closed down DaVinci’s Deli. It was thought that the food caused this freakish transformation and DaVinci was losing money. But savvy businessman that he was, he turned the deli into a tourist attraction and grew rich. Everyone wanted to see the place where Marvin Gardner went ape.

Marvin longed for the good old days when he could walk down the street unnoticed. How he wished he could sit at his favorite table at DaVinci’s and eat his corned beef on pumpernickel. But it was not to be. Marvin was an ape and there was nothing he could do about it.

Marvin’s metamorphosis caused a dramatic change in his way of life. He used to read the newspaper in the morning while sipping his coffee; now he just wanted to swing from the branches of the sycamore in the front yard. He used to listen to Bach and Mozart on his stereo; now he could amuse himself for hours playing with a jack-in-the-box.

Marvin’s future was uncertain. Scientists wanted to keep him in their laboratories for observation. Hollywood offered him a movie deal. Barnum & Bailey insisted he become their main attraction. None of these options appealed to Marvin. He needed solitude and a place where he could reflect on his predicament. When animal rights activists suggested that he be sent to a pristine rainforest where he could live out the rest of his years in his natural habitat, Marvin agreed wholeheartedly. He was on a plane to Brazil before he could say “monkey’s uncle.”

Months passed. Marvin enjoyed the jungle. Squawking parrots in their colorful plumage. Lazy anacondas basking in the sun. Stealthy jaguars prowling the forest. He liked sitting in a high branch of his favorite tree where he could watch the action while he ate a banana.

And to Marvin’s delight, his banana always tasted like corned beef on pumpernickel.

Free Range by Bill Whitehead

Bubblegum Voodoo

I'm one of those people who likes to dabble in bubblegum voodoo. That's what I call popular cultural trends that determine your personality traits and life path. The word "voodoo" refers to mysticism and magical thinking, while "bubblegum" connotes childlike innocence and not taking things too seriously. Bubblegum voodoo is pink. Bubblegum voodoo is gooey. And before its approval by the FDA, bubblegum voodoo caused mad cow disease in laboratory rats.

One of the most well-known aspects of bubblegum voodoo is astrology, inspiring the famous pick-up line "What's your sign?" I'm a Taurus, which, according to the charts, proclaims that I'm a stubborn, bull-headed rose-sniffer who overeats and listens to Mozart.

Despite my affinity for flowers and Wolfgang, I wasn't too happy with this analysis, so I found out what the Chinese have to say. According to the Chinese Zodiac, I was born in the Year of the Rooster, which means I like to primp in front of mirrors, go shopping and tell everyone else what to do with their lives. That's more like it.

I also get a kick out of those personality quizzes in magazines and online. There's something intriguing about answering a few multiple choice questions and discovering that because you prefer mashed potatoes over French fries, you're a fiery extrovert with anal tendencies who would do equally well as a blackjack dealer or a marine biologist.

A few years back, color analysis was the big thing. To succeed in life you needed to know which "season" you were: Spring, Summer, Autumn, or Winter. According to the experts, each person looked best in the colors that matched his or her skin tone and hair. As a "Winter," my colors were, among others, red, white and blue. I couldn't wear an orange pant suit, but drape me in an American flag and I was good to go.

And let's not forget numerology. This ancient art determines your Life Path by assigning you a number between one and nine. By calculating the numbers in my birthday, I learned that I am a nine. This means I'm generous, artistic, passionate and spiritual. Cool. But it also means that I have the managerial skills of a cockroach.

As a psych major, I studied handwriting analysis. Loopy letters meant the writer was friendly and creative. Angular letters depicted someone who was methodical and exacting. My handwriting varied between perfect penmanship and psychotic scribbling. To this day I'm still trying to figure out whether I'm more like Martha Stewart or Britney Spears.

"To sleep, perchance to dream." The first time I read a book on dream analysis I was hooked. The interpretations were so correct it was eerie. My dream of a polar bear storming through my kitchen looking for scrambled eggs obviously meant that my purchase of plaid Bermuda shorts was a huge mistake. You better believe I took them back the next day for a full refund!

And just when you thought a coffee table was just a coffee table, along comes Feng Shui. Who would have guessed that the arrangement of the furniture in your home effects your success and well-being? According to followers of Feng Shui, your front door is the portal of positive energy, also known as "chi." The chi must be allowed to flow around your home unhindered. Mirrors will deflect the chi. A heavy sofa will stop the chi. A chipped plate will anger the chi. Best advice: hang wind chimes to soothe the chi. Afterward, make the chi a cup of hot cocoa and tell it a bedtime story.

Don't worry, the chi is polite. It won't stick its bubblegum on the bedpost before it goes to sleep.

The Sloop John B

I should have known there would be trouble when I opened that birthday card from my grandfather. It had a picture of a sailboat on the front and inside were two round-trip tickets to the Bahamas. Nassau, to be exact.

“That’s right, boy. We’re going sailing. Just you and me.”

“Wow, Gramps, this is really a…surprise.”

He took a swig of his Michelob, which dripped down the gray stubble of his chin onto the front of his stained Hawaiian shirt.

“You’re twenty-one years old and it’s time to party! And what better place to raise hell?”

When we got to Nassau, we didn’t stay in a hotel. Gramps had chartered a sailboat called the Sloop John B. I was surprised to see that the crew were not native islanders, but Americans. Weird hippie-types in their 60s, like Gramps. In fact, Gramps told me they were buddies of his from “back in the day.” These guys lived in the Bahamas and made their living taking tourists on sightseeing trips around the islands.

I have to admit, those dudes looked scary. They all wore stained Hawaiian shirts like Gramps and spent most of the day passed out on the deck or walking around in a drunken stupor. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was in a Dennis Hopper version of “Pirates of the Caribbean.”

The first night we made port on one of the islands and went to a local tavern. I had more than a few beers and started feeling loopy, but Gramps and the crew were drinking tequila. The next thing I knew, some humongous dude with a skull-and-crossbones tattoo started arguing with Cheech, the first mate. Soon everybody in the place was fighting, just like in the movies. I ducked as a bottle of beer barely missed my head. This was not my idea of a fun vacation.

The only guy I got along with was the cook. They called him the Egg Man. His specialty was corn and grits, which weren’t bad. But one day he sort of went crazy. I was eating breakfast and suddenly he grabbed my plate and dumped the grits into the garbage. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he ate all of my corn. I couldn’t believe it.

“Egg Man, what are you doing?”

He ignored me and stumbled over to the side of the boat where he barfed into the ocean. That’s it. I was ready to go home.

I found Gramps playing poker with some of the crew.

“Gramps, I’d really like to go home now.”

“Sure thing,” he slurred. “But we have a little problem. Sheriff John Stone took Cheech to the jailhouse.”

“What happened?”

“He broke into the captain’s trunk and stole his tiki doll.”

Cheech was released the next day and we set sail back to Nassau. I was so glad when Gramps and I finally got on the plane for home. This was the worst trip I’d ever been on.

THE END

Turtle: Running at Large

Okay, I am NOT making this up.

Our local newspaper printed a story about the city council's decision to change the city's animal ordinance to make it easier to prosecute owners of unruly pets.

Under the current ordinance, the owner is ticketed only if a pet's bite breaks the skin in an attack. With the new law, owners can be ticketed and ordered to appear before a municipal court judge if their pet "bites, attacks or causes bodily injury." Also, pets that make a second trip to the Cheyenne Animal Shelter would have to get a microchip ID implant.

The following is a snippet from the actual discussion at the council meeting:

Councilwoman Georgia Broyles: The change will make a difference in the health, safety and welfare of our citizens.

Councilwoman Judy Case: A constituent called me about a pet turtle. It has bitten people on occasion and he was concerned he'd have to purchase a microchip ID for his reptilian companion.

Broyles: Is the turtle running at large?

City Attorney Claudio Angelos: I do not believe the ordinance applies to turtles.

Case: It was my understanding the ordinance applies to animals with spines.

Angelos: If you're referring to animals with vertebrae, yes, I suppose you could have a turtle with rabies, but I don't think it would be running at large.

Movies: Best Supporting Dog Award

Verdell (As Good as it Gets)

Queenie (The 'Burbs)

Einstein (Back to the Future)

Waffles (Manhattan)

Bear (Crimson Tide)

Buster (Legally Blonde)

Toto (Wizard of Oz)

Brinkley (You've Got Mail)

Precious (Silence of the Lambs)

Speck (Pee Wee's Big Adventure)

Erma Bombeck

A friend never defends a husband who gets his wife an electric skillet for her birthday.

Did you ever notice that the first piece of luggage on the carousel never belongs to anyone?

Housework, if you do it right, will kill you.

I come from a family where gravy is considered a beverage.

Guilt: the gift that keeps on giving.

ABSOLUT - ly!

A controversial Absolut Vodka ad has some Americans up in arms. It appears that the company created ads in Mexico to market their product. The ads feature a map of Mexico, showing parts of Texas, California and several other southwestern states, approximating the borders in the 1840s before the U.S. annexation of Texas. The ad copy reads: "In an Absolut World."

Extremists groups in the U.S. are upset about the ads. These fringe groups believe American sovereignty is threatened by the Reconquista movement, which seeks to reclaim U.S. territory for Mexico.

These groups boycotted Absolut. So in order not to alienate the United States which accounts for more than half the company's sales, Absolut issued an apology:

"As a global company, we recognize that people in different parts of the world may lend different perspectives or interpret our ads in a different way than was intended in that market, and for that we apologize."

Not surprisingly, one of Absolut's competitors took advantage of the situation with this ad:

"SKYY Vodka, made in the USA, proudly supports treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo."

Metaphysics and the Macchiato

If it weren’t for that double-shot caramel macchiato with extra whip I wouldn’t be in this mess.

Okay, let me start at the beginning. I was already late to the Philosophy Club meeting when I decided to stop off for a caramel macchiato. Heavy doses of sugar and caffeine were essential as I would be participating in lively discourse on Existentialism, Rationalism and “Which Came First – The Chicken Or The Egg?” It was going to be a long night.

Coffee and scone in hand, I jumped in the car and raced to the community center. I enjoy these weekly discussions with other armchair philosophers. We understand each other. No one even raised an eyebrow when I confessed that I own a full-color poster of Aristotle in a “beefcake” pose.

Reuben is the facilitator. Pompous, arrogant and anal retentive, he can be quite intimidating. You can’t really blame him. Despite a Ph.D. in philosophy and a Master’s degree in anthropology, the only job he could get in our small town was at Sears. Fortunately for Reuben, he works in “home electronics” where he can watch PBS to his heart’s content.

I was late to the meeting and tried to be inconspicuous as I took my seat in the semi-circle of folding chairs. Reuben despises tardiness, among other things. He glared at me and continued his opening remarks. I carefully placed my drink on the floor so I could take notes. And then it happened.

As Reuben expounded on Kant and the metaphysics of morals, I accidentally knocked over the macchiato with my foot. The pool of liquid oozed toward Reuben’s brown leather wing-tips. By the time he looked down, it was too late. He took a step forward and slipped, falling flat on his back.

No one moved. Time stood still. Reuben struggled to his feet, but slipped again, sloshing around like a harp seal among the coffee and whipped cream. He finally managed to stand up and, in a sinister voice, told everyone to go home. We were alone. The silence was deafening and the smell of caramel filled the room. I glanced at the door, wondering if I should make a run for it. He seemed to read my mind and walked to the door, locking it. I panicked. I had no idea what Reuben was capable of. Certainly not ending a sentence with a preposition.

My mind raced. Reuben was a philosopher. A man of reason and intellect. Surely he wouldn’t do anything rash simply because of embarrassment and ridicule. I was wrong.

And that’s how I ended up locked in a closet with a flashlight and Reuben’s dog-eared copy of “Philosophy for Dummies.”

Free Range by Bill Whitehead

Shakespeare's Birthday Tribute

In honor of the Bard, I pilfered some quotes from "Shakespeare's Insults" by Wayne F. Hill & Cynthia J. Ottchen:

(All quotes from The Merry Wives of Windsor)

How shall I be revenged on him? I think the best way were to entertain him with hope till the wicked fire of lust have melted him in his own grease.

What tempest threw this whale, with so many turns of oil in his belly, ashore?

He shall die a flea's death.

I'll provide you a chain, and I'll do what I can to get you a pair of horns.

If I be served such another trick, I'll have my brains ta'en out and buttered, and give them to a dog for a New Year's gift.

The philosopher went out...

...on his first date with a woman and took her to a restaurant. They sat quietly for a while and he finally says, "Do you like philosophy?"

She says, "No."

He says, "Do you have a brother?"

"No."

He says, "If you had a brother, do you think he'd like philosophy?"

(from A Prairie Home Companion Pretty Good Joke Book)

I Jog, Therefore I Am

I’m a jogger. I don’t consider myself a “runner,” though technically jogging and running are the same, the only difference being that runners are faster than joggers. I don’t know at what point a jog turns into a run. Maybe it’s when you realize that you’re actually faster than that 85-year-old lady walking her Pekinese.

Being a runner might have something to do with the clothes, too. Fashion attire for the runner includes spandex leggings, a skin-tight tank top and designer socks. The jogger, on the other hand, prefers sweat pants, a baseball cap and the “I’m The Jogger Your Mama Warned You About ” t-shirt. And while runners carry MP3 players or ipods for their favorite tunes, joggers enjoy vintage Sony Walkman cassette players and can be found bobbing along to “Help Me Rhonda.”

But there’s one thing runners and joggers have in common: shoes. When I first started jogging in the early 1980s, it didn’t take long for me to realize that it was not a good idea to go on a three-mile run wearing my K-Mart “Dennis the Menace” canvas sneakers. Not only did they cause painful blisters, the soles were so thin that I could feel the cracks in the sidewalk. I still remember the shocked stares of passers-by as I found myself maneuvering down a gravel path, waving my arms and screaming in agony every step of the way. Children clung to their mothers in fear and loathing. Young lovers ran for their lives. Even stray dogs ran whimpering with their tails between their legs. Oh, the humanity!

Needless to say, I was forced to journey into a strange new world called “Shopping For Running Shoes.” I discovered that there are hundreds of brands, and each brand had hundreds of features. “Running Shoe” terminology was foreign to me: multi-piece heeling system, stability, pronation, lug patterns, gel pods, forward propulsion, shoestring theory. I needed a Ph.D. in physics to figure it out.

After finding the perfect shoe, I was ready to explore the training rituals of the die-hard runner. One of these is a delightful little secret called “carbo-loading.” This takes place the night before a marathon when a runner will feast on huge amounts of carbohydrates such as pasta, bread and potatoes to improve his performance. I won’t tell you what happened when I did this the night before my three-miler. Let’s just say between the stomach cramps and the feeling that I was wearing cement shoes, my typical 35-minute jog took four hours.

I’ve come to the realization that I will never be a “runner.” I have no interest in marathons, training journals and stopwatches. I’m happy to just jog down the road, smell the lilacs and try to outrun the lady with the Pekinese.

W. Somerset Maugham

"There are three rules for writing the novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are."

-- W. S. M.

Secret Asian Man by Tak Toyoshima

Quote of the Month (March)

"Daniel Day-Lewis makes American actors look like giggly junior high school boys playing Nintendo during the prom..."



--Libby Gelman-Waxner

The Three Little Candidates

Once upon a time, in the Land of the Free, there were three little candidates, Giuliani, Romney and Huckabee.

Giuliani built his campaign on Blue-Haired Floridians. He proclaimed that if every child in America doesn’t get an “A” in algebra, the terrorists win.

One day, Big Bad McCain knocked on Giuliani’s door and spoke in a high-pitched whine, “Open the door and let me in.”

Giuliani scurried under the bed and cried out, “9-11! 9-11!”

“Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your campaign in!”

So Big Bad McCain huffed and he puffed and he blew Giuliani’s campaign in, then gobbled him up in one bite.

Romney built his campaign on the Soft Housing Market. He vowed that Holy Underwear would have no place in his administration.

Big Bad McCain knocked on Romney’s door and whimpered, “Open the door and let me in.”

Romney hid in the closet and cried out, “Reagan Conservative! Reagan Conservative!”

“Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your campaign in!”

So Big Bad McCain huffed and he puffed and he blew Romney’s campaign in, then gobbled him up in one bite.

Huckabee built his campaign on God and Rock ‘n’ Roll. He promised to make Elvis’ birthday a National Holiday.

Big Bad McCain knocked on Huckabee’s door and meowed, “Open the door and let me in.”

Huckabee grabbed his guitar, cranked up the amplifier and began to sing, “One for the money, two for the show, three to get ready now go, McCain, go!”

“Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your campaign in!”

So he huffed and he puffed and he puffed and he huffed, but Huckabee’s campaign wouldn’t budge. The sound of Rock ‘n’ Roll blared through the walls.

Big Bad McCain called for reinforcements, and with the help of two Dwarfs named Limbaugh and O’Reilly, managed to bust out a few windows and jimmy open the back door. McCain gobbled up Huckabee in one bite.

But Huckabee still had a death-grip on his guitar, which was plugged into the amplifier, which was plugged into the wall. Zapped with a lightning bolt from God, Big Bad McCain fell to the floor unconscious.

Suddenly, the whole campaign shook on its foundation. Obama the Giant approached with a deep, rumbling bellow, “Fee Fie Fo Fum, I smell the blood of a Republican!” Limbaugh and O’Reilly ran for their lives.

Obama the Giant gobbled up McCain in one bite. He began a rampage through the Land of the Free, destroying everything in his path, including Billary, the two-headed Cyclops. He didn’t stop until he reached the White House.

As President, Obama the Giant ended Poverty, established World Peace and gave every citizen a Cadillac.

And they all lived happily ever after.

THE END

There Will Be Blood (movie review)

When hubby and I were discussing what to do for Valentine's Day, he suggested dinner and a movie. Perfect. His favorite thing is eating and my favorite thing is going to the movies...what could be better?


Actually, we do the "dinner and a movie" on a fairly regular basis. It's our big "date" night and we have a blast. He suggested a romantic comedy for the occasion. I, on the other hand, wanted to see "There Will Be Blood."


HUBBY: "There Will Be Blood"? Are you crazy? That's not very romantic.


ME: I know, but the previews were amazing! And it's nominated for an Academy Award. I want to see what the fuss is about.


HUBBY: Wouldn't you rather see "Fool's Gold"?


ME: I want to see "There Will Be Blood." Please, honey?


Despite Hubby's adamant statement that he would hate the movie, he agreed. I was so glad when Daniel Day-Lewis proved him wrong.


At the theatre, the opening sequence took us by surprise. There was no music and no opening credits. In fact, there was no dialog for several minutes. Just a man (Day-Lewis) mining for silver. An infant appeared on the scene. A train ride to the future as the infant became a boy. Then all hell broke loose as we saw Day-Lewis take the movie by the horns and wrest it to his will. I've never seen a character portrayed so well. We were mesmerized.


Don't even get me started on themes and motifs: God, Satan, Lies, Greed, Despair and Loneliness, as well as Life, Love and Hope.


The cinematography was superb. Every frame a work of art...light, color, contrast, shape, form. It was like I was at an art museum and every time I turned a corner, the beauty of the next scene took my breath away.


The music in the film was a character as well. For example, the boy becomes deaf due to an oil well explosion. When we are viewing the world from the boy's perspective --- music (cello, violin, viola) reveals the lonely, silent world of the deaf child. A stark contrast to the death and destruction that takes place throughout the story.


The powerful final scene resolves the conflict between Day-Lewis' character and his nemesis: Eli Sunday, the false prophet. Day-Lewis is not a hero in this film. He is evil. He is alone. He hates Man and he hates God. It is not a Hollywood ending where the protagonist changes his stripes and realizes the true meaning of life. He ends the way he began.


After the film, Hubby admitted that he enjoyed the movie, saying it wasn't at all what he expected. It wasn't what I had expected, either. But as far as I was concerned, this film would go down in history as one of the greatest of all time.


Later, at our favorite Mexican restaurant over margaritas, we raised our glasses, looked in each others' eyes and made a Valentine's Day toast: "There Will Be Blood."

State of the Union by Carl Moore

Obama...Yes I Can!

As a die-hard political junkee who cut her teeth on Rush Limbaugh conservatism in 1992, I am more than intrigued with Barack Obama. I consider myself an "Independent," although I've voted Republican in every election since 1984. I'm not what you would call a hardline conservative at all...but in the past I've agreed with the GOP on most issues facing the nation.



This year it's different. I have become an Obamaniac! Listening to his speeches and reading his books, I've come to the conclusion that Obama should be our next president. I have never in my entire life been as inspired by a political candidate. He has a certain quality that draws you in and makes you think that anything is possible.



For the record, I also admire John McCain. I like the fact the conservative base despises him. It shows that he doesn't tow the party line but has the courage to stand up for what he believes in, repercussions be damned.



If Obama and McCain are the nominees for their respective parties, I will be in the delightful position of having to choose between two candidates I would like to see in office. This has never happened before. In the past, I've been forced to choose the lesser of two evils.

A Winter's Tale

Shakespeare Quote of the Day (A Winter's Tale)

The words of a jealous husband, Leontes, King of Sicilia, spoken of his innocent wife Hermione and Polixenes, King of Bohemia:

ACT I, scene ii:

LEONTES: (to Camillo, a lord of Sicilia) Is whispering nothing? Is leaning cheek to cheek? Is meeting noses? Kissing with inside lip? Stopping the career of laughter with a sigh -- a note infallible of breaking honesty? -- Horsing foot on foot? Skulking in corners? Wishing clocks more swift? Hours, minutes? Noon, midnight? And all eyes blind with the pin and web but theirs? theirs only, that would unseen be wicked? Is this nothing? Why, then the world and all that's in't is nothing, the covering sky is nothing, Bohemia nothing, my wife nothing, nor nothing have these nothings if this be nothing.

Shakespeare Quote for the Day: Portia

The quality of mercy is not strain'd;

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:

It blesses him that gives and him that takes.

(Merchant of Venice)

Thought for the Day

The pen is mightier than the sword.

Birdbrains by Thom Bluemel

Keeping It Real

I call in sick today and Benson is suspicious. Whatever. I sit at my computer and flip the switch, bringing the blank monitor to life. The chat room calls. My name is BANE.

SPAZZ is on again. All he can talk about is his divorce and how he hates his wife.

SPAZZ: Is it against the law to hire a hit man? Just kidding.

BANE: I’ve heard of too many cases where a hit man was more trouble than he was worth. Much better to do it yourself. Just kidding.

SPAZZ: Don’t temp me.

BANE: I’m just voicing what you really want to do. Hear me out. If you’re not afraid.

A dog barks. I look out the window. A woman is walking a dog, but it keeps tugging at the leash. She’s using one of those choker collars. The more the mutt yanks at the chain, the tighter it becomes. The dog stops barking and begins gasping for air. The woman continues to jerk the leash, and as they turn the corner out of sight, I can hear the dog’s toenails scraping on the concrete. The scene repulses me and I think about Benson. My jaw begins to clench.

SPAZZ: I don’t think I hate her enough to kill.

BANE: That’s the problem with people. They think too much.

SPAZZ: Okay. How would you do it?

Yeah, I told SPAZZ that people think too much, but some serious thinking was in order to answer this question. I ran a picture through my mind of the perfect murder. Gunshot. Strangling. Stabbing. Explosion. Carbon monoxide. Poison. Not to mention the various methods of torture. The list is endless.

I smile for the first time in weeks.

BANE: Logic and reason are your friends. You can’t afford to be ruled by impulse. Murder is a fine art.

SPAZZ: You sound pretty serious. This is a joke, right?

BANE: Of course. We’re just hypothesizing.

The phone rings. I feel the tension in my neck and back. Sweat begins to bead along my forehead. Caller ID says BENSON. He’s checking up on me. I take a deep breath as I pick up the phone.

“Hello…Mr. Benson?...yes, sir…not too good…I think I might go to the doctor if my fever doesn’t break soon…I should be back to work in a couple of days…I just need some rest…I appreciate your concern, but it’s not necessary…no…I couldn’t trouble you…it’s out of your way…of course you can drop by…if you insist…goodbye, sir.”

Looks like I’ll be having company later. Benson’s making a special trip to see me and he’s bringing the Hamilton file. He thinks I can work on it at home when I start feeling better so I won’t be so far behind. My lucky day. I look at my computer screen. SPAZZ hasn’t missed a beat.

SPAZZ: How exactly would you kill my wife?

BANE: You need to observe her behaviors. What is her daily routine? Where does she go? What does she do? Then you need to establish an alibi. That is very important. A documented phone call or an airplane ticket.

SPAZZ: Seems like an awful lot of trouble.

BANE: Yeah, but the stakes are high in the game of murder. You have to really want this person dead. Nothing else matters. You embrace a perpetual hatred toward the object of your wrath. Your life is meaningless as long as she is alive.

SPAZZ: I guess you’re right.

BANE: It requires commitment and patience. Observations of her behaviors may take weeks. Even months. But in the end it’s worth it.

SPAZZ: What about motive? If you hate someone that much, you’re bound to be the first suspect.

BANE: You’re right. You have to speak well of her in front of others, especially her close friends and associates. In fact, go out of your way to be kind and thoughtful to her. This is all part of the preparation period.

SPAZZ: Hey, you’re good.

BANE: Compliments will get you nowhere.

SPAZZ: The weapon of choice?

BANE: Poison. It’s silent. No fuss. No pain. Easy clean up.

SPAZZ: You give her a martini, or what?

BANE: A dark-colored carbonated beverage works best. Hides the fizz.

SPAZZ: Since we’ve gone this far, how would you dispose of the body?

I thoughtfully stroke my chin. Slicing and dicing is no good. Much more fun but way too messy. Blood everywhere. Incineration is good if you have a fireplace or furnace, however, it would have to be in winter, otherwise it will arouse the curiosity of neighbors.

BANE: Bury it. Preferably in a basement underneath the concrete or in a wall. Like a tomb. You can use chemicals to dry out the body to prevent odor.

SPAZZ: Seems like you have an answer for everything. I’m impressed.

BANE I haven’t mentioned the most important thing.

SPAZZ: What’s that?

BANE: The test comes when they begin to question you about what happened. At this point, you must be very careful. Everything depends on it. Act too upset, they’ve got you. Act too casual, they’ve got you. Be ready for any question. They’re experts. If you can beat them on the psychological level, you’ve won. Keep your story straight. That’s the key. They will have you retell the story over and over, asking different questions each time, trying to trip you up. And they’ll analyze every movement. Every facial expression. Every nuance of speech.

SPAZZ: Congratulations. You’ve committed the perfect murder.

The doorbell rings. It’s Benson with my “homework.”

BANE: Have to sign off now. Talk later.

I log off. As I walk to the door, I smile for the second time in weeks. On the kitchen table are two glasses and a six pack of Coke.

Graveyard Party

(A song parody sung to the tune of "Garden Party")

I went to a graveyard party to reminisce with my old friends
A chance to share goth memories, and quote Anne Rice again
When I got to the graveyard party, they all knew my name
But I didn’t recognize them, they didn’t look the same

CHORUS
No clove cigarettes, black fingernails or chains
You see, their tattoos said “Hummers Rule,” and they voted for McCain

Goths arrived from miles around, everyone that I knew
But Spider flashed her wedding ring and raved about her “dude”
And sitting on a headstone, scribbling little notes
Crow was on his laptop, checking NASDAQ quotes

CHORUS
No clove cigarettes, black fingernails or chains
You see, their tattoos said “Hummers Rule,” and they voted for McCain

Just as I was leaving, I saw my old girlfriend
Ophelia said, “How are you?” and gently took my hand
Her corpse-like deathly pallor really turned me on
But she just wanted a donation for a Rush Limbaugh telethon

CHORUS
No clove cigarettes, black fingernails or chains
You see, their tattoos said “Hummers Rule,” and they voted for McCain

Tradition

Newlyweds in elevator, embracing and snuggling throughout conversation.

YOUNG WOMAN: Darling, when we get to our new apartment, are you going to carry me over the threshold?

YOUNG MAN: Of course I am, sweetheart. It’s tradition.

Elevator stops. MIDDLE AGED WOMAN and MIDDLE AGED MAN step into the elevator; 40s/50s, nicely dressed. Husband carries a bottle of wine. Young couple moves to the side. MIDDLE AGED MAN pushes button.

MIDDLE AGED WOMAN: Why do we have to bring wine to a dinner party?

MIDDLE AGED MAN: You have to bring wine. It’s tradition.

Elevator stops. OLD MAN and OLD WOMAN step into elevator; 60s/70s. They stand at opposite sides with the other two couples in between. OLD WOMAN pushes button.

OLD WOMAN: I can’t believe they didn’t have oatmeal on the menu.

OLD MAN: Who eats oatmeal at a Chinese restaurant?

Elevator stops.

YOUNG MAN: Well, here we are, love muffin. Home sweet home. (Young couple exits).

OLD WOMAN: And I didn’t like what my fortune cookie said. “Live long and prosper.” What in the world does that mean? Is that a crack about my age?

OLD MAN: It’s from “Star Trek.” Sign of the Vulcan.

Elevator stops.

MIDDLE AGED WOMAN: Eighteen dollars for a bottle of wine! Unbelievable! (Middle aged couple exits. OLD MAN and OLD WOMAN are alone. Long period of silence.)

OLD WOMAN: What’s the point of the fortune cookie anyway? Tradition?

OLD MAN: No, I don’t think so. It just means the meal is over.

THE END

The Coffee Shop Incident

My friend Abigail and I were having coffee at Starbucks and talking about everything from birthday cakes to chick flicks. We were right in the middle of a personal discussion concerning Abigail's treatment by a rude and obnoxious guest at a recent barbeque picnic, when a man began browsing the newspaper shelf near our table.

The man was standing so close to us we could have combed his hair.While we were talking, we kept looking at him from the corners of our eyes. We were aware that he could hear every word we said. I signaled to Abigail to stop talking so we just sat there in silence waiting for the guy to leave. He didn't. At least not right away.

The silence was so great that Abigail couldn't stand it and asked me, "So, have you been playing the piano lately?"I launched into "piano mode" and rattled off my repertoire, all the while hoping this guy would go away. Finally, he did and we were able to finish our discussion about the boorish behavior of the oaf at the picnic.

Later on, we laughed about the newspaper guy. We thought we should have pulled that stunt in the Seinfeld episode where Elaine, Jerry and George are sitting in the restaurant and a woman is eavesdropping on their conversation. They find out someone's listening to them so Elaine says to George and Jerry: "So you're gay. Who cares? Come out of the closet already."I should have said to Abigail, "So tell me all about your sex change operation."

Coffee Klatch

A One-Minute Play
by Luana Krause

(Cordelia and Phoebe are sitting at kitchen table drinking coffee.)

CORDELIA: So where is he now?

PHOEBE: In the basement.

CORDELIA: The basement? How did you get him down there?

PHOEBE: It wasn’t too difficult. I had so much adrenaline flowing through my body I could have lifted a bulldozer. I wrapped a towel around his head and dragged him by the feet.

CORDELIA: Good idea. The towel, I mean.

PHOEBE: His head still thumped on each step, though. Couldn’t do much about that.

CORDELIA: What time did you…?

PHOEBE: Four-thirty.

CORDELIA: I was watching “Oprah.”

PHOEBE: Yes. We were both watching “Oprah.” Here at your house. Right?

CORDELIA: Right.

PHOEBE: Who was on the show?

CORDELIA: Um…I think it was Nathan Lane.

PHOEBE: Well, was it Nathan Lane or not?

CORDELIA: Yes. I’m sure it was Nathan Lane.

PHOEBE: He’s wonderful. Sorry I missed it.

CORDELIA: Me, too. More coffee?

PHOEBE: Yes, please.

THE END

Quest for the Potato Oles

Some may say it was a coincidence. Others may say it was random luck. But I say it was Divine Intervention.

Saturday I pulled into the drive-through at Taco Johns and ordered a crispy taco, a bean burrito, a small potato oles and a Pepsi. I should have known that Armageddon was right around the corner when this exchange took place at the pay window.

Worker: You ordered the taco and burrito?

Me: Yes. And potato oles and a Pepsi.

Worker (looking at his register): Oles and a Pepsi? Uh…yeah…right. That's $5:10, please.

Sure enough, when I got home, the potato oles were nowhere to be found. I had broken the Cardinal Rule of fast-food drive-through: I failed to check my bag to make sure the order was correct. My bad. I could have driven all the way back to get them, but that’s not my style. I hate confrontation. I would rather be trapped in an elevator and forced to listen to hip-hop music. I was hungry and exhausted; I just wanted to eat my dinner and watch King of the Hill. So...no potato oles for me.

The next day, Sunday, I was driving home after a church council meeting and decided to stop by Taco Johns again for dinner. This time, I was determined to acquire the coveted potato oles.

I saw the long line in the drive-through, so I parked the car and went inside to place my “to-go” order. It was the same as before: crispy taco, bean burrito, small potato oles and a Pepsi. But this time the price was $6:39, a difference of $1.29 from yesterday’s order. I was confused, but went ahead and paid. I don't know why I didn't ask about it right then, but before I could say “taco bravo,” I had already passed the point of no return.

It was then that I realized that my order was already in the "computer" and automatically displayed on a monitor in the kitchen where the workers were furiously filling orders. A spirit of dread filled my soul as I approached the kid at the counter who had taken my order.

Me: Excuse, me what's this? (I showed him my receipt and the initials SPO)

Worker: That's super potato oles.

Me: What are super potato oles?

Worker: A large potato oles with meat and cheese on it.

Me: But I ordered a small potato oles.

Worker: Sorry, I thought you said super potato oles.

Me: No, I just want the small potato oles.

Worker: Are you sure you don’t want the super potato oles?

Me: No, thank you. I’d rather have the small potato oles.

Worker: Uh...okay…

Immediately, beads of sweat appeared on the kid's forehead and his hands started shaking. His face turned white with fear. With great trepidation, he reported the mix-up to the workers in the kitchen. He was Frodo facing the fires of Mount Doom. I heard someone scream at him, "Are you crazy! I don't have time right now! I'll fix it later!" Frodo came back to me and said they would take care of it soon. I had ruined his day…what was left of it, anyway.

In the meantime, I sat at one of the tables to wait for my order. As I observed the huge crowd in the restaurant and the chaos in the kitchen, I knew this wasn't going to be easy: the kid would have to re-calculate my order on the register, give me a refund, and then they'd have to prepare another potato oles…all the while serving the hungry, impatient multitudes.

Next thing I knew, a worker solemnly emerged from the kitchen with two orders of potato oles on a tray, reminiscent of an altar boy bearing the cruets of wine and water at Mass. At first I thought they were for me -- bonus potato oles to atone for the sin of screwing up my order. But, alas, he handed the tray to a family that was waiting nearby.

A few minutes later, a worker found me at my table and handed me my order. I thanked him and looked in the bag. Yep. There they were. The hated super potato oles mocked me, determined to make my life miserable.

Saddened and angered by my misfortune, I asked myself, “What would Hank Hill do?” The answer came to me in an apparition as I stared at the meat-and-cheese-topped super potato oles in my hand. I obeyed the vision. On my way out the door, I threw the horrid spuds in the garbage!

Looking back, I should have given them to another patron. I hate to waste food...but by trashing them, I was hoping to attain a state of stoic indifference to replace my despair and unexpressed rage. I can’t bring myself to yell at people or make a scene in public. EVER! I’ve turned the other cheek so often that I make Mother Teresa (God rest her soul) look like Paris Hilton.

I say that my Taco Johns experience was Divine Intervention because it was two days in a row that I had tried to acquire the Holy Grail, aka the elusive potato oles, and both times I failed. Maybe God was trying to save me from the fat and calories; He probably figured a taco and burrito was all I needed. So, I'm thankful I was spared the discomfort of "over-eating” and the resulting misery. God works in mysterious ways.

I just hope He turns the other way next time. I've got my eye on that "Oreo Spoon-Bender Milk Shake."

Losing Wait

Hubby recently turned fifty-five, that middle-age milestone when you realize that no matter what else happens decaf is here to stay. You also become aware that for the first time in your life, your thirty-something coworkers are calling you “Gramps.”

A sure sign that hubby was beginning his inevitable journey through the Golden Years began five years earlier when he received his first issue of “Retirement Today” magazine, featuring such riveting articles as “When Tennis Elbow Kills.” In addition to this informative periodical, hubby now enjoys the added benefits of senior discounts at movie theatres, department stores and Bubba’s Bistro.

Reflecting on this sad state of affairs, he made the life-altering decision to get a complete physical to assess the damage caused by decades of armchair football. The diagnosis wasn’t surprising. Hubby is fifty pounds overweight, his cholesterol is off the charts and his blood pressure exceeds that of an espresso-addicted monkey. Consequently, the kitchen counter has become a pharmacy with bottles of pills for his various ailments, which include the aforementioned maladies, along with acid reflux, back pain and shin splints.

Following doctor’s orders, hubby undertook a mission to lose weight and get more exercise. Over the years he had tried every diet known to man: Northwest Beach, the Twilight Zone, Cupcake Busters. His favorite was the Gazpacho Jack Daniels Diet; every meal included a bowl of tomato soup with a whiskey chaser.

Despite his failure in the past to lose weight, he was enthusiastic about changing his lifestyle and determined to slim down. His excitement was inspiring. Just the other day at the grocery store I was delighted to see him rounding the corner with a bag of fat-free potato chips and a six-pack of diet root beer.

Hubby had better luck with his exercise regimen, which meant a work out at the gym three times a week. He used the treadmill for aerobics and lifted weights to tone his triceps, biceps and abs. I’m sure there were abs in there somewhere. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. But apathy set in about two weeks later and the excuses started flowing like melted butter on corn-on-the-cob. Weak ankles. Blister on toe. Denver Broncos didn’t make the playoffs.

After thirty years of marriage, I’ve learned that hubby needs my encouragement and support if he’s going to achieve a healthy lifestyle. I’m up to the challenge. Maybe an incentive will work. When he loses his first fifteen pounds, we’ll use his senior discount and make a reservation for two at Bubba’s Bistro.

Dinner Talk

Rebecca’s hands tightened into fists and she furiously shook her head, trying to dispel the obsessive thoughts that assailed her daily. She didn’t know that studying for “Jeopardy” would be such a challenge. She had memorized hundreds of facts that were crammed in her head like a box of crayons with every color under the rainbow. Black forest, red velvet, white wine, blue cheese, hash browns. STOP IT! Unable to sleep more than a few hours a night, she was exhausted. This had been going on for weeks; Rebecca wasn’t used to getting such little sleep. Little John, Friar Tuck, Will Scarlett, Maid Marian, Sheriff of Nottingham. KNOCK IT OFF! Offend, runoff, official, offshoot, trade off. NO!

Her friends Zoe and Marla had joined her for dinner to celebrate her being chosen a contestant, and tomorrow Rebecca would be flying to Hollywood. Her greatest fear was that she’d look like a complete idiot. Buffoon, dolt, laughingstock, moron, lunatic. NOT AGAIN! What was she trying to prove, anyway?

Rebecca wiped her hands across her apron as she turned to the pot that was now boiling over. When she was putting the hot pan in the sink, she noticed a movement in the reflection of the window. She turned quickly, but Zoe and Marla were still sitting motionless, right where she’d left them. Rebecca didn’t want them to know how nervous she was about the show, or about the voices. At first, her rambling thoughts only happened when the room was quiet. But now it was getting worse and she had trouble controlling it. She took a deep breath, and with a forced smile, carried the bowl of steaming pasta to the dining room.

“Penne pasta and marinara sauce!” said Marla. “Beck, you’ve outdone yourself this time.”

“I adore your cooking, Cheri. This delightful repast reminds me of a funny story. Have I told it before? I don’t think so. Or have I? No, I’m fairly certain I haven’t. Anyway, when Roger and I were in Paris last summer, we dined at this quaint out-of-the way bistro…”

Rebecca didn’t hear the rest. Her thoughts carried her away into another category. What is the Louvre, Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Champs-Elysees?

“…and can you believe it? The waiter forgot the wine!” Zoe finished her story with a dramatic shriek of laughter.

What is Bordeaux, Champagne, Alsace, Burgundy, Roussillon?

Marla chuckled politely for Zoe’s benefit and then glanced in Rebecca’s direction, “Are you okay, Beck? You look a little flushed.”

“I’m fine. Too much wine I guess. How’s the salad?”

“Wonderful,” said Marla.

“Divine,” said Zoe.

“Good. I wanted tonight to be special.”

“You’re not nervous about the show, are you?” asked Marla.

“No, not all.”

Zoe sipped her Chablis and said, “You have nothing to be afraid of, my dear. You’ll reign supreme!”

Who is King Louis, Queen Elizabeth, Tzar Nicholas, Ferdinand, Isabella?

“In fact, Beck, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were one of the all-time winners!”

“Well, I don’t know about that…” said Rebecca.

“Don’t be so modest,” said Marla. “You’ve told us how it’s always been your dream and how you’ve never had the courage until now. We know you’re ready for this. Don’t worry.”

Rebecca nodded and a faint smile played at the edge of her lips. She didn’t deserve such devoted friends. Marla and Zoe were right. She would be just fine.

“Marla, darling, what exhibits are on display at the gallery this season? I’m dying to see something new,” asked Zoe.

What is renew, Newport, newlywed, New Delhi, newsworthy?

“Well,” said Marla, “in December we’re showing works by an artist from New Orleans by the name of Jim Stone.”

What is amethyst, topaz, emerald, zircon, sapphire?

“Never heard of him. What has he done?” asked Zoe.

“He’s a sculptor. Specializes in Old West motifs,” Marla replied.

Who is Buffalo Bill, Crazy Horse, Wyatt Earp, Annie Oakley, Geronimo?

Zoe sniffed in disdain. “Old West? I didn’t know there were cowboys in New Orleans.”

“You’d be surprised, Zoe. New Orleans is quite the Renaissance city.”

Who is Da Vinci, Copernicus, Botticelli, Cervantes, Monteverdi?

Marla continued, “It’s not all about Cajun cuisine and Jazz, you know.”

What is gumbo, jambalaya, ragtime, bebop, swing? STOP IT! Rebecca stood up abruptly.

“Is everyone ready for coffee and dessert?”

“Absolutely,” said Zoe.

“Do you need some help?” asked Marla.

More than you know, thought Rebecca. “No, I can handle it. Just make yourselves comfortable in the living room. I’ll be right back.”

In the kitchen, Rebecca sliced three generous portions of German chocolate cake. Eins, zwei, drei, vier, funf. Suddenly her hands started shaking uncontrollably. Just slight tremors at first, but quickly turning into sharp, jerky movements. She dropped the knife. As it clattered to the floor, she bit her knuckles in fear. What’s wrong with me?

“Beck? Are you okay in there?”

“Just dropped the knife. I’m okay.” Monet, soufflé, Bombay. The room was spinning around and around like a carousel and Rebecca was getting dizzy…fizzy…tizzy. Her head hurt and the voices grew more persistent. Jupiter…hickory smoked…For Whom the Bell Tolls…

Rebecca screamed, dropped to the floor and crawled into a corner of the kitchen. Marla and Zoe ran in and found her there in a fetal position, clawing at her hair and moaning in agony. Bermuda Triangle …peregrine falcon…Margaret Thatcher….NO! Sardines…quantum mechanics…Prohibition…HELP ME! Centigrade…Dow Jones…Frosty the Snowman…MAKE IT STOP?

As Marla dialed 911, Zoe reached down and stroked Rebecca’s cheek, speaking words of solace. “Don’t worry, Cheri. We know you’re a tiny bit anxious about your appearance on the show and that you’re terribly afraid of looking like a fool, but you’ll be fine. Just fine.”

Therapy

SHRINK:
I will now say a word and I want you to say the first word that comes to your mind. Ready?

PATIENT: I think so.

SHRINK: "Word."

PATIENT: Okay, go ahead.

SHRINK: I already did. "Word."

PATIENT: I'm waiting.

SHRINK: The word is "Word."

PATIENT: You just said that. I don't have all day.

SHRINK: "WORD"! "WORD"!

PATIENT: I'm not deaf. Just give me the word and we can get started.

SHRINK: You're impossible!

PATIENT: That's two words.

SHRINK: I've had it!

PATIENT: Three words. I thought you said it was going to be one word?

SHRINK: SESSION OVER!

PATIENT: Back to two words. Make up your mind.

SHRINK: OUT!

PATIENT: "In."

SHRINK: GO!

PATIENT: "Stop."

SHRINK: LEAVE!

PATIENT: "Stay."

SHRINK: DIE!

PATIENT: Which one? "Dye" as in color or "die" as in dead?

(SHRINK runs out the door screaming)

PATIENT: That's five therapists in as many weeks. Must be something in the water.

Previously on "24"

The following takes place between 4:00 am and 5:00 am. Federal agent Jack Bauer interrogates a suspect at the Counter Terrorist Unit (CTU) in Los Angeles.

JACK: We don’t have much time, Pyle! The entire city of Los Angeles is going to be annihilated in less than 15 minutes! Now … WHERE IS THE BOMB!?

GOMER: Gol-ly! You talk just like Sergeant Carter!

JACK: Carter?

GOMER: He’s my sergeant at Camp Henderson. A real nice feller. He was the first person who took an interest in me when I moved here from North Carolina. You ever been to North Carolina? That’s where I’m from. Mayberry, North Carolina.

JACK: Is that where you got the bomb?

GOMER: Well … I don’t think we have any bombs in Mayberry. Unless you count the cherry bombs they sell at the fireworks stand on Maple Street. But that’s only on the fourth of July. I’ll never forget the time me and Goober got a whole bag full of cherry bombs and lit ‘em all at once. You should have seen the…

JACK: Who’s Goober?

GOMER: Goober’s my cousin. He works at the Mayberry gas station. The best gosh darn mechanic in town. Well, actually, the only mechanic in town.

JACK: So he’s the one who built the bomb.

GOMER: The bomb?

JACK: Don’t play dumb, Pyle. We know you’re the brains behind Operation Aunt Bee.

GOMER: Aunt Bee’s having an operation? Gol-ly!

JACK: (His cell phone rings; he answers) Bauer here … Kim, I can’t talk now. I’m interrogating a suspect…I told you, not now! Okay, but make it fast…uh huh…yeah…I’d go with the pink nail polish. It’ll match your skirt … I love you, too, sweetheart. (Hangs up phone)

GOMER: Pink nail polish is pretty. Lou Anne always wears pink nail polish. It looks real nice.

JACK: Lou Anne Poovie. We know all about her.

GOMER: Then you must have heard her sing at the Blue Bird Café! She’s got the sweetest voice. Just like an angel.

JACK: She’s a terrorist, Pyle. She’s been working for the underground in Pakistan for the past five years.

GOMER: Hmm…that must be why she always breaks our date on Thursday nights.

JACK: Time is running out! We have to find the bomb NOW!

(Suddenly, the interrogation room shakes from a nuclear explosion near the city)

JACK: The bomb has gone off! (Jack runs for the door but can’t get out)
Open the door!

VOICE OVER LOUDSPEAKER: Sorry, Jack. The attack has automatically sealed all the doors at CTU. No one comes in or goes out for the next 24 hours.

GOMER: Surprise, surprise, surprise! Now we have all the time in the world for a nice long chat. Did I ever tell you about…

(JACK assumes a fetal position in the corner of the interrogation room. He proceeds to suck his thumb and whine “Mommy”)

The Tube Sock Killer

I was sitting in the back row at the county courthouse scribbling notes for tomorrow’s edition of the Cheshire Catterwall. This would be my first front page story in months; a welcome reprieve after stock reports and obituaries. Pork futures be damned. Reebok Wilson, aka the Tube Sock Killer, was walking.

After only two hours of deliberation, the jury had made a decision. Judge Hanes’ face showed no emotion when the foreman read the verdict: Not guilty. The courtroom erupted into chaos as the families of the victims screamed in outrage and Wilson’s supporters wept with relief.

The Tube Sock Killer started making headlines four years earlier when a college girl was found dead in a field on the outskirts of town. She had been strangled with a tube sock, which was still wrapped around her neck when the cops showed up.

Two weeks later, another tube sock victim was discovered floating in Loom River; white male, mid-thirties. Months passed and the Tube Sock Killer snuffed out twelve more people of varying age, race, gender and whatnot. There were no similarities among the victims except that they were from Cheshire County and murdered by strangulation with a tube sock.

Reebok Wilson was arrested and charged with the killings. It happened just like in the movies. A highway patrolman pulled him over for speeding and noticed several packages of tube socks in the back seat. Let’s just say Wilson’s excuses didn’t hold water, and after a few hours under the lights there was enough evidence to win Wilson a hot date with Old Sparky.

Wilson’s attorney, Kalvin N. Clyne, was once a sleazy, ambulance-chaser; the guy you called when you spilled hot coffee on your lap at Wendy’s or slipped on the ice in front of Wal-Mart. He negotiated settlements quick and easy and never saw the inside of a courtroom. But a few years back he got fed up with civil suits and switched to criminal law, fancying himself the next Perry Mason. Defending the Tube Sock Killer was his first important case and his ego was as big as a Mickey Mouse balloon in a Thanksgiving Day Parade.

The morning after the acquittal, I was at Victoria’s Café for a late breakfast when Clyne sauntered up to the counter and took the stool next to mine.

“Saw your story in the Catterwall today, Harry. Whatever happened to objective reporting?” Clyne’s beady eyes focused on the laminated menu.

“I reported the facts of the case, Clyne. Sorry if the truth hurts.” But I wasn’t. And he knew it.

“You cut me to the quick, Harry. To the absolute quick!”

“I do my best.”

“You left out a few facts, my friend.”

“Indeed.” I sipped my joe and peered at Clyne over the rim. I hoped the look I gave him would send him crawling back under his rock. But no luck. He was more brazen than ever.

“As you know, Dr. Gerald Jawkey swore under oath that Reebok Wilson suffers from chronic acid reflux, which manifests itself randomly and renders him virtually catatonic. We also know that the killer is right-handed. Wilson is left-handed. And, of course, Wilson’s airtight alibis held up under intense scrutiny by the prosecution.”

“You don’t say.”

“I’m surprised at you, Harry. Very surprised. Why didn’t you mention those facts in your story?”

“Maybe because the acid reflux defense was proven irrelevant. And Wilson isn’t right-handed. He’s ambidextrous.”

“Semantics.”

“And you know as well as I do those ‘airtight’ alibis leak like a flat tire.”

“That’s not how the jury saw it, did they, my friend?” Clyne smiled, his thick gray mustache danced above a chorus line of straight, white teeth. Teeth I wanted to smash into a million pieces all over Victoria’s shiny linoleum.

I tossed a few bucks on the counter and walked toward the door. “See ya in the funny pages.”

About two a.m. I got a call from my source at the sheriff’s office. It was the scoop of the century, served up sweet with whipped cream and a cherry on top. My exclusive story appeared that morning on the front page of the Catterwall:

Tube Sock Killer Strikes Again! Just after midnight on October 13, Kalvin N. Clyne, Attorney at Law, was found dead in his apartment having been strangled with a tube sock. Red-striped Hanes, extra-large with reinforced toe.

The Egg Movie Channel

The Good, the Bad and the Scrambled

The Egg That Came to Dinner

It Happened at Breakfast

The Egg Man of Alcatraz

Lord of the Yolks

With Six You Get Egg Roll

The Shelling

Yolk of the Baskervilles

The Egg That Wouldn't Die

The Invisible Yolk

Six Degrees of Separation

To Poach With Love

The Eggsorcist

The Big Over Easy

Yolks From the Black Lagoon

Invasion of the Body Poachers

Bride of Quiche

Strawberries to Sinatra

My favorite things that start with the letter “S”:

Strawberries
Shakespeare
San Francisco
“Steppin’ Out With My Baby”
Seattle

Shopping
Screwball comedies
Sunshine
Stephen King
Secret agents

Sinatra
Saucony
Sheep
Showers
“Schindler’s List”

Schubert
Snow
Spaghetti
Seinfeld
Spinach

Spring
Suspense
Secretariat
Symphony
“Singing in the Rain”

Harpo Frizz

A brand new ice cream just arrived on the market. The Harpo Frizz. It's made of the finest quality ingredients. Lemony sherbet with cocoanuts and animal crackers.

Advertising Jingle:

My ice cream has a first name
It's H-A-R-P-O
My ice cream has a second name
It's F-R-I-Z-Z
Oh, I love to eat it every day
And if you ask me why I'll say
Cuz Harpo Frizz will curl your hair
And make you honk 'til people stare

Testimonials:

Scarlett O'Hara:
After a busy day washing Ashley's polo shirts and ironing his jockey shorts, I always look forward to a cool, refreshing Harpo Frizz. The sweet taste brings to mind my halcyon days at Tara before the Yankees burned Atlanta to the ground and forced me to make a dress out of Mama's portieres. As God is my witness, I will never be without a Harpo Frizz again!

Don Corleone:
I'm an honest man. Would I lie to you? No. I tell the truth. And the truth is that Harpo Frizz is the best ice cream in New York. Did I say, "New York"? No. The best ice cream in America. Did I say "America"? No. The best ice cream in the world. If you don't get Harpo Frizz, I can't guarantee your safety. Accidents happen. I have no control over what other people do. It's an offer you can't refuse.

Rick Blaine:
If you don't get Harpo Frizz, you're gonna regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon. And for the rest of your life.

Dirty Harry:
I know what you're thinking. Did he have six Harpo Frizzes or only five? Well, to tell you the truth, in all the excitement I kind of lost track myself. But you've got to ask yourself a question: Do you want another Harpo Frizz? Well, do ya, punk?

Tweety Bird

(A song parody sung to the tune of "Yesterday")

Tweety Bird
Smeared in mustard with a side of curd
Scrump-deli-ishus is the only word
Oh, I must eat that Tweety Bird

Tweety Bird
Singing swinging in a cage pampered
Granny konks me 'til my vision's blurred
Oh, I must eat that Tweety Bird

When that anvil fell on my tail
I screamed in pain
He said, "Now take that
Puddy Tat!"
Then waxed insane

Tweety Bird
Some consider you a harmless nerd
But you're sadistic and a tad absurd
Oh, I must eat that Tweety Bird

Silence of the Eggs

Chester stared at the eggs on his plate. Their soft yolks mocked him, but they wouldn’t get away with it. The eggs were smugly confident, sitting alongside his Smuckers-smeared toast, their whites jostling the bacon for more room.

The woman standing by the stove had her back to him. That was good. Keeping one eye on the woman, he tossed a piece of bacon to the drooling Cocker Spaniel at his feet. Then another. The dog ate fast, swallowing the bacon almost whole. The toast was next.

Now he had the eggs where he wanted them ... alone and defenseless. How he loathed them. Their hideous yellow faces shivered as he gently shook the plate, teasing them. With his fork, he cut off a piece of egg white and impaled it on the tine. His mind heard their agonizing screams and Chester smiled. He flipped the offensive tidbit to the dog and proceeded to hack off another piece, being careful not to touch the yolk.

How he delighted in torturing them. Their cries and moans only increased his joy. He continued cutting off the whites and feeding them to the dog until all that was left were two jellied orbs staring back at him. The end was near and they knew it. To Chester, that was the best part...their awareness of their own fate. And being helpless to do anything about it.

The time had come. He looked again at the woman, who was still busy at the stove. Excellent! He slowly placed his index finger on the egg, hearing it gasp in fear. He giggled to himself, but continued the pressure. NOW! Chester pushed harder and harder until...the yolk splattered! It created a ghastly river of slime on the plate. He immediately punctured the yolk of the other egg and watched in glee as the two yellow streams merged into one.

He had to hurry. The woman would turn around soon and see the devastation. He quickly lowered the plate to the dog and anxiously waited while the evidence disappeared right before his eyes. When the plate had been licked clean, Chester put the dish in its proper place on the table and relaxed. The eggs were gone. Forever.