Jack McGeehin: Stories

Wed, 13 Dec 2006 03:47:16 GMT

Loose change

<This story has two endings: one is fact and one is fiction. The truth is the stranger of the two.>

A few weeks ago I gathered up all the loose change from the small dish on top of my dresser. I also scooped up the spillage alongside the dish (which had been overflowing for months), the change in my pant pockets, in my car’s cup holder, in the junk drawer in the kitchen, every last cent that I could find. I put the whole kit and caboodle into a plastic Zip-lock bag and took it to the Coinstar machine at the grocery store.

I did this not because I needed the money, but because I needed a jumpstart in my life. It was a symbolic gesture. I was frustrated that I wasn’t writing. It was the usual writer’s block for me. I had succumbed to a revolving door of excuses: I didn’t have time; didn’t have fresh ideas; didn’t have energy. I was in a rut and all those coins were to blame, so they had to go. It’s probably worth mentioning here that symbolism isn’t always the straightest branch in the logic tree. The bottom line is I needed a scapegoat and that weighty Zip-lock bag of change was, in my mind, the physical manifestation of all my problems.

I must admit that I find it very satisfying to dump a large bag of change into a Coinstar machine. If you’ve ever used one, you know what I mean. I trade in my coins pretty regularly, even when I’m not trying to lick writer’s block with a symbolic gesture. I love the ring of the coins filling the hopper; the rapid fire ka-ching as the metal disks are mechanically separated and counted; the digital readout spiraling upward with the dollar amount I’m being credited. Coinstar’s cut for this transaction is 8.9 cents per dollar, a bit steep I think. But by the time I’m standing in front of one of these machines, change is my enemy and I’ll pay what it takes to be rid of it.

At the end of my Coinstar transaction the device spit out a receipt for $27.89 along with instructions to take it to a cashier to redeem. Yes, that is exactly what I was after on this day: redemption. I would buy back my creative spark by ridding myself of all this burdensome coinage.

Since I was at the grocery store, I figured I might as well apply the money on the chit to some food items that I needed. So I walked the aisles and picked up some milk and bread, pasta and marinara sauce, meats and cheeses, some salad makings, a bottle of wine, a tube of toothpaste, and so on. When I was satisfied that I had what I needed, I headed to the checkout lanes.

The store wasn’t very crowded, but there weren’t enough cashiers, so the checkout line was long. It took a few minutes before I was able to move my basket into the lane. Once there, I placed my items on the conveyer belt and put a spacer bar down behind my stuff. The woman next in line starting unloading her groceries. I couldn’t resist taking a look at what she was buying. I always do this. I suspect that everybody does. What a strange little voyeuristic experience: the casual association of strangers and the things they buy. “Whoa. Look at that. A tube of Preparation-H. Somebody’s got a little itchy-scratchy problem down below.”

As the cashier scanned my items, I fingered the Coinstar receipt in my shirt pocket making sure it was at the ready. Nothing worse than getting this far only to forget to turn in the receipt, which is only good for one day. Think of the psychological damage that would cause:

He never wrote a word after that day. For years he just wandered the streets begging change from strangers, and dropping the coins into public fountains wishing for God knows what…

The cashier finished with my order and read the total off the register. I didn’t hear the amount, focused as I was on my own little internal banter.

“Oh, here,” I said, “I need to cash this in.”

Ending #1

The cashier took the receipt from me, looked it over to verify that it was legal tender, then scanned the bar code. Next thing I know, he had his hand stretched out toward me. He was trying to give me something.

“Eighty-three cents is your change,” he said.

This caught me by surprise. I hadn’t considered change. Dollar bills, maybe, but coins to replace the coins I just turned in?

“No, you don’t understand,” I explained. “I traded in all my coins at the Coinstar machine so that I could have a fresh start. This is more than a Coinstar redemption. This is a personal redemption. A catharsis, of sorts.”

The cashier looked at me in disbelief. “Well,” he said after a moment, “your catharsis has change coming back.”

“You can keep it,” I offered.

“I’m not allowed to do that,” he countered.

“Well, don’t you have one of those little charity boxes that you can drop the coins in for me. You know, something that Jerry Lewis is heading up. That would be perfect.”

“Sorry. Not at the moment.”

“Look, I can’t take this change.”

“Well, you have to.”

“O.K., then I’ll buy something else. What can I get for 83 cents?” I reached for a candy bar from the rack behind me. “How much is this?”

The cashier scanned the jumbo-sized Snicker’s bar. “Eighty-two cents.”

“Hmm, is there anything that costs a penny more?”

Sensing the futility of this situation, the cashier leaned back and folded his arms, waiting for me to decide.

“All right,” I said, “I’ll take the candy bar.”

Visibly relieved, the cashier put the change he was holding back into the register and pulled out a single penny.

I considered refusing the coin, but the look on the Preparation-H lady behind me told me that she was either becoming agitated by all this or was in need of the aforementioned product. It dawned on me that my new jumpstart on life could be dampened if it started by pissing off people in line at the grocery store. What good is Yin if you don’t have Yang?

So I put out my hand and took the penny from the cashier along with a receipt for my groceries and a coupon for a pasta sauce I don’t particularly like. I grumbled “thank you” and started pushing my cart away, not really pleased with this outcome.

As I turned the corner, my cart bumped into something and…

…the penny I was holding in my hand suddenly came loose and dropped to the floor.

I’m sure you are thinking that I dropped it on purpose. I admit that I had repositioned the penny between two fingers so that I was barely holding on, like some sort of dried fleck from my nose that I wanted to get rid of. But it was the bump of the cart that ultimately dislodged the coin from my hand, and that part wasn’t planned.

The penny rolled forward ahead of me a few feet, then veered to the left into the next checkout aisle where it settled somewhere out of view. I don’t think anybody else saw the penny fall, but I never looked back. Nor down. Instead, I continued moving forward, pushing my cart through the automatic doors and out into the parking lot, thus starting the clock on this new phase in my life, which, not surprisingly, already includes a fair amount of loose change on my dresser.

Ending #2

The cashier took the receipt from me, looked it over to verify that it was legal tender, then scanned the bar code as I loaded my groceries into the cart. I pulled out my credit card to pay off the balance of what I owed, even though I had plenty of paper money in my wallet. This was a Coinstar redemption. A catharsis of sorts. The last thing I needed was change coming back. But before I could swipe my card into the reader, the cashier spoke to me.

“This is strange,” he said.

“What’s that?” I asked.

The cashier smiled and handed me the receipt. “Your bill is exactly the same as the Coinstar receipt.”

I looked at the blurry computer receipt and noted the zero on the “balance owed” line near the bottom. “Well, I’ll be damned,” I said laughing out loud. But I couldn’t spend too much time gloating, as the line behind me had grown longer and the lady with the hemorrhoid cream really looked as though she needed to get home and take care of business.

As I started walking toward the exit of the store, I was thrilled by the strange twist of fate that had just befallen me. This was a most excellent beginning to my fresh start on life. Looking over the groceries in my basket, I suddenly had a strange feeling that something wasn’t right. All these groceries had to have cost more than the Coinstar credit of $27.89. The bottle of wine alone was $10. The toothpaste was nearly $5. There were four full bags of groceries here. I stopped and read the receipt more closely. I was right; something was amiss. The cashier had accidentally scanned the Coinstar receipt twice. I was credited for $55.78.

So, in fact, my grocery bill wasn’t the exact amount of my Coinstar chit but exactly twice that amount. I owed $27.89, which was another strange twist of fate. What to do? Part of me was thinking, “well, it was the store’s mistake; your gain.” But another part of me was thinking, “this is bad karma…you’re going to walk outside and get hit by a bus.”

I must have stood there for five minutes contemplating my options. In the end, I decided this fresh start of mine would be tainted if I kept the ill-begotten money. I needed to do the right thing. And that’s what I did. The store manager thanked me for my honesty as I swiped my credit card and paid the money that I owed.

I left the store without a penny in my pocket, and yet I felt as rich as Bill Gates. Then I went home and started writing this story.

Tue, 28 Nov 2006 01:40:15 GMT

House of Slack

Hey, nice digs. Love the couch. I believe I am familiar with its pedigree. Mind if I sit? No, I can’t stay long. The shoes come off; the shoes go right back on. Just ask the argyles. I’m chilling now, but I can get busy in a hurry. I got the know how. I got the degree. I just got no place to be. This moment is a blank page in my day planner. Next moment could be different. The cell phone rings – just like that, maybe I’m moving on. Meantime, I would gladly partake of the contents in that snack bowl. Have you a beverage at the ready? Refrigeration is not absolutely necessary. It is, however, an appropriate luxury for first-world men such as ourselves. Hey, is that what I think it is? I haven't seen one of these since the 1980s. What are we talking here? Atari 2600? Sega Genesis? Of course, I am kidding. Your Playstation 3 is the pinnacle of gaming superiority. And it still has that new console smell. Sorry, though, I must pass the joystick. The wanton killing of intergalactic androids only serves to aggravate my carpel tunnel syndrome. Indeed, sir, it is as you declare: getting old bites. What say instead we sit back, click on the TV and see what's playing on the Discovery channel. I do believe those Mythbuster guys are sleuthing up some cool, scientifically verifiable entertainment. That would be channel 278 on satellite, 46 on cable. I see from the way your dog is pacing by the door that he wants to go outside. Isn't there someone else available to take him on his daily rounds? Someone less busy than ourselves? Someone who might also use the opportunity to drop by the pizza shop on the corner and bring us home a large pie with three topping that I know we could agree upon by compromise? I would certainly be willing to contribute this $2 off coupon that I have been carrying in my wallet for just such an occasion. Sounds like your neighbors upstairs really dig the Allman Brothers band. I too find them quite enjoyable. Shame about brother Duane dying in that motorcycle accident back in 1971, thus precluding a strictly-defined ‘reunion’ tour that we might attend by winning tickets through a radio station listener call-in promotional campaign. Ahh, these are the moments worthy of eschewing gainful employment, wouldn’t you agree? I could quite easily kick back in this plush, multi-positional La-Z-Boy reclining couch of yours, close my eyes and lull myself to sleep listening to the classic southern rock tunes pulsing through the walls of your apartment. Wake me when the pizza gets here.

Tue, 21 Nov 2006 02:11:20 GMT

Tag of tags

Last night I played a game of frenetic tag with my 11 year old son, Conor, in the kitchen. Frenetic tag is like the basic version of the game, except that both players are never more than an arm's length away and the "tag, you're it" exchanges happen, oh, say, every two seconds. He tags you with his right hand, you swing around and tag him with your left. He comes at you low, you respond by going high. He pretends the game is over and swats you like a fly while walking away. You slip a leg out and tag him on the butt with your foot just before he is out of reach. This re-energizes him and he comes back for more. It goes on and on. Last night, though, in the midst of our frenetic tag match (while I was it), I stopped and closed my eyes. Slowly, I turned my head skyward. My muscles tightened. I started to quiver. I was in a trance-like state. Almost religiously, I threw my hands up to the heavens and roared like some mythical beast. Finally, after an extended spell, I came back to reality. I opened my eyes. Conor, was looking at me, baffled. I reached over slowly and tagged him gently by poking my finger into his chest. "What was that all about?" he asked. I looked at him and told him that I had retreated deep within myself and, miraculously, I had come away with “the tag of all tags.” This tag had lain dormant inside of me since I was born and had been passed on to me – on this night – from my father who had gotten it from his father before him. "This tag," I told my son, "was good for 100 years…game over.” Conor thought about this story and declined to believe it. He swatted me in the shoulder and waited. I shook my head. “One hundred years,” I repeated. “Oh, come on,” he replied. I refused to relent. “O.K.,” he said, smiling, a bit too deviously. Conor walked around me. And around me again. Then, without warning, he reached into the back of my pants, grabbed the elastic waistband of my boxer briefs and yanked them. Hard! “Atomic wedgie!” he yelled, pulling higher and higher. While he had me in, well, a tight spot, my son explained that the “atomic wedgie” was much stronger than my lame “tag of tags” and that nobody knew how long its effects lasted – “certainly longer than 100 years.” I have to say, twenty-four hours later, sitting tenderly on this soft chair, he might be right.

Fri, 10 Nov 2006 15:52:36 GMT

Talk to the hand because the feet aren’t listening

We're cold! my feet are telling me. My feet don’t believe in global warming. No sign of warming down here, they point out. Well, I say…(I can’t believe I’m talking to my feet now)…global warming doesn’t mean every place will be warmer. Strange as it sounds, on a globally warming earth, some places may actually be cooler. The warming trend we hear about reflects a comparison of annual averages calculated from thousands of temperature readings around the planet – in cities, out in the country, on top of mountains, over the oceans. Regional and local temperature is controlled by the input of solar radiation, complex ocean/atmosphere circulation patterns and heat trapped by greenhouse gases. In fact, it says here in the newspaper today that the concentration of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere is at a record high and is expected to go much higher still. What does that mean? my feet ask. It means, more trapped heat – even warmer temperatures. Good, my feet say, wiggling in delight. We’re in favor of more trapped heat, especially inside of these thin socks. No, you don’t understand, I correct them. It’s not good; it’s not good at all. Higher temperatures may sound appealing, but there are very serious consequences: ice sheets and glaciers are melting at an alarming rate, sea level is on the rise, and drought threatens the fresh water supply of more and more people every day. We don’t like ice sheets, one of my toes says, speaking for the others. Ice is our enemy. The other toes grumble in agreement: brrrr…we hate ice…bad ice! Ah, hell, I say. This is what I get trying to reason with a bunch of dumb fat toes. What do you guys know, anyway? All we know, my feet fire back, is that we are always cold and this floor could use a good sweeping.

Mon, 17 Jul 2006 23:09:23 GMT

Postcard from Park City, Utah

Conor does a bungee-assisted double back flip

Early on in the cascade of days making up this mountain holiday, amid the bungee-assisted trampoline bounce, the 3300’ long (550’ vertical drop) alpine slide, rock climbing, hiking, swimming, mountain biking, fly fishing and horseback riding, someone in our group suggested we break for lunch in town.

“Ahh, man!” Conor could not contain his disappointment.

We told him we understood the need for immediate gratification when you are eleven years old, but there would be plenty of time to do everything.

“It’s not immediate gratification,” Conor corrected us rather sharply. “It’s just that I want to do more fun stuff right now.”

Perhaps there is a distinction worth considering there, but not on an empty stomach. You need food (and perhaps beer) for thought. On this particular day, lunch won out.

Tue, 11 Jul 2006 03:43:58 GMT

Peeling wallpaper (for real!)

What does this wallpaper say to you?

Ugly?

Psychedelic sixties?

Tacky?

Okay, maybe. But does this wallpaper say Jack to you? Well, it should. This was my wallpaper at one time. In fairness, I didn’t hang it on the wall. I didn’t go to the wallpaper store, drop acid and make free love with the proprietress in the back room on the faux zebra carpet, and say, “wow, that was great, now I’ll take three rolls of the naked chick wallpaper and I’ll be on my way.” No, my wife and I bought this place without knowing about the naked chick wallpaper. When we purchased the house, the bathroom had shiny silver 19^th century newsprint wallpaper with make believe historical headlines and advertisements for miracle-working elixirs. As difficult as it is to imagine, this outer layer of wallpaper was even worse.

We decided to peel off the shiny wallpaper one weekend shortly after we moved in. Surprisingly, it came right off. And there, underneath, were the beautiful naked ladies from the sixties. These walls were like a Roman archeological dig. And getting better with each successive layer! We briefly contemplated leaving the naked chick wallpaper up on the wall – well, that’s my recollection anyway – but in the end it had to go. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t go! Whoever hung this wallpaper did so on bare walls without sizing them first. Our attempts to remove this under layer of wallpaper also removed pieces of the wallboard. So we stopped. We left the ample-breasted nymphs on the wall – before we could do more damage – and papered right over them with some tasteful wallpaper purchased from a store that didn’t even have a back room with a faux zebra carpet. Still, for years after that, I enjoyed knowing that my girls were under that wallpaper waiting for me, thinking only of me. Eventually, I forgot about them (hey, I’m a guy). Then we moved.

Amazingly, we became great friends with the couple who bought our house (providing evidence that life blossoms even in the company of real estate lawyers). Carolyn and Jon, both regular readers of this blog, still live in our former house. Their history with this house and the neighborhood where it resides goes back further still, but I won’t digress one iota more.

Recently, Carolyn decided that the walls in her bathroom needed to be redone. So she pulled off the wallpaper that we had installed and, for the first time in nearly two decades, the naked chicks were free to let it all hang out again. Carolyn took the digital photo that you see above. I believe she is much further along now in her remodeling efforts. I think that she may have even made use of a sledge hammer in her quest. I don’t like to think about that. I prefer to remember these girls, umm, I mean walls, as they were back when I knew them: young, perky and devoted to me.

Be gentle, Carolyn.

Thu, 06 Jul 2006 05:39:28 GMT

Totally tubular

The other day I dismantled a toilet. Not the flappy bits inside the tank, the kind that spring a leak every so often and make the water run all night long. I’m talking about the seal down at the bottom of the porcelain fixture, at floor level. It’s a no man’s land down there, I’m here to tell you.

Really, when you think about it, a toilet is nothing more than an attractive interface between your large intestine and an even larger intestine, a 4” diameter plastic tube that snakes its way through the earth to god knows where. This plastic tube is ringed at the top by a wax seal that keeps what’s gross inside and on its way. Except that our wax seal had sprung a small leak. And while I am pretty darn masterful at looking askance from household projects that are calling for my attention (what do you think blogging is really about, anyway?), there was no denying that this breach of sanitary hygiene would have to be addressed. Sooner, rather than later.

The toilet in question was in our basement; the lowest point in the house. And the basement had only just been converted to a finished room with a half-bath a few years back. And thank heaven for that newness. The toilet came apart with ease. There hadn’t been enough time for rust or corrosion to cease up the connections and make this job any worse than it was by design.

With the porcelain throne off its base and the bulk of the old wax ring removed, I found myself on my knees staring down at a white plastic tube that dropped a few inches into the ground before curving sharply away. I have to admit that the tube looked remarkably clean. Clean as a whistle. Well, clean as a shit whistle.

The connector on the end of white plastic tube is the part that sits flush with the floor. It is perfectly round with a smooth, flat, inch-wide ring. The wax seal melds this surface with the bottom of the commode. The connector has a couple of holes in it to hold two bolts; these bolts when passed through holes in the base of the toilet and tightened down with nuts, keep the fixture from moving. The bolts sit in channels carved into the plastic connector and move in a limited fashion from side-to-side. This is because not every toilet has its fastening holes in exactly the same places, so you need to be able to slide the bolts a bit this way or that in order to line things up exactly.

Note that I am spending a lot of time here, describing in detail this small plastic connector. I could have posted a picture. But I wanted to paint one in your mind instead. Because I’m about to involve you, the reader, into the discussion.

The bolts not only slide side-to-side, but at the edge of their tracks the opening widens so that they can come off completely. It hadn’t occurred to me to take the bolts out as I scraped and cleaned in preparation for the new wax seal. I wasn’t even aware that the bolts came off until one did and fell down into the tube with a plunk. What’s worse, the bolt rolled down beyond the curve of the pipe, out of sight. Shit! Metaphorically and otherwise.

As I have already mentioned, the tube was remarkably clean. Certainly cleaner than I was expecting. But with the prospect of having to stick my hand down there in order to retrieve this bolt – a bolt that was absolutely critical to finishing the job – I was suddenly embracing a very different definition of cleanliness.

Of course, in the end, I did what needed to be done. I reached down into that tube all the way to my elbow. Not only that, but I had to blindly feel my way around in there. The bolt did not willingly produce itself. My fingers groped every inch of that pipe, and when I did make contact with the bolt, it slid away, as if taunting me. With my arm extended as far as it could possibly go into the tube (any farther and I would have had a “call 911, I’m stuck in a toilet hole” moment), with frustration mounting, I was finally able to reach the bolt and pull it out. After that, putting the toilet back together was a breeze. The best part is that the operation was a success. The toilet no longer leaks. As with all homeowner quick fix projects, it could have gone otherwise. That’s all I can say in the end.

Okay. Now, here’s your part. Tell me. What would you have done? Would you have stuck your arm down that shit hole? Having thought this over (and believe me have), your only other choice is another damn trip to the hardware store. For a bolt. I might add that not just any bolt will do. I assure you that you don’t have one of these bolts in your tool chest. And chances are you won’t find the right bolt even if you do go to the hardware store. It will be too wide, or too long, or not the right thread. So I ask you again…what would you have done?

Wed, 21 Jun 2006 03:09:24 GMT

One

Welcome to the Mid-Continent Airport Bar. How ya doin’ tonight?

One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do

Ahh, I see you’ve been to Wichita before.

Two can be as bad as one

You lost me there, fella.

It's the loneliest number since the number one

I see. Well, how about a drink then?

No is the saddest experience you'll ever know

No doesn’t have to be sad. Not really.

Yes, it's the saddest experience you'll ever know

Hey, I’m just a bartender. What do I know?

`Cause one is the loneliest number that you'll ever do
One is the loneliest number, worse than two

Wait a second. You’re from that band Three Dog Night!

It's just no good anymore since she went away

I saw you guys back in ’73.

Now I spend my time just making rhymes of yesterday

Those were the days, dude. Rock and Roll ruled.

One is the loneliest, number one is the loneliest
Number one is the loneliest number that you'll ever do

Okay. Okay. Just keep it down, my friend.

One is the loneliest, one is the loneliest

Jeeze, you really need to talk to someone about this – a professional.

One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do

Are you crying? Come on now.

It's just no good anymore since she went away

Look, man, it’s been like 35 years. You really need to get over her. Move on, you know?

(Number) One is the loneliest
(Number) One is the loneliest
(Number) One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do
(Number) One is the loneliest
(Number) One is the loneliest
(Number) One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do

Okay, you know what? No chorus. No chorus! You’re starting to unnerve the other customers.

One…

Two. Three. Time for you to go.

Wed, 07 Jun 2006 12:37:15 GMT

High and dry – for now

I am in Orlando gazing out on the Disney skyline from my 8^th floor balcony with its sparse plastic furniture and yellow stucco walls, listening to blackbirds squabble and air conditioners hum and a delivery truck beep as it backs up over some brown palm fronds on the ground, and I’m thinking about the flatness of the land from horizon to horizon, the muted orange sunrise just outside of my view, the miracle of the cup of coffee brewed in my hotel room and lightened with powdered milk substitute. I’m thinking about the originality and banality of the Disney concept all wrapped up in one. I’m thinking about how splendid this land must have been before Mickey ears in a bygone era when the rain fell and didn’t bounce off pavement. But even this halcyon thought of ribbons of grass and wading birds is interrupted by a car alarm in the parking lot below. I’m thinking about sea-level rise.

Sat, 03 Jun 2006 13:45:53 GMT

Head case

Don't try to get inside my head. It's a dangerous place. An LA freeway populated with Boston drivers. You'll get run over in there. Blindsided. It's fraught with danger, I tell you. There are hundreds of brain cells inside my head whose job it is to fully understand what the word fraught means and whether it could be used in an expression other than “fraught with _____.” That's how compartmentalized it is inside my cranium! There is an entire section of my brain that has for years been contemplating whether life would be worth living without french fries (right brain, philosophy section, subsection fast food). And another section, over in R & D, looking at new methods for pushing out those annoying songs that you can't stop humming once you've heard them. Last week these cells were experimenting with dispatching the Elton John song “Philadelphia Freedom” by visualizing Tammy Fay Baker naked and singing the lyrics in the shower, mascara streaming down her face. Unfortunately, involuntary convulsions ensued and the experiment had to be abruptly halted. That's the kind of danger you face if you start messing around inside my skull. Then there are the rogue brain cells. Those are the ones you really need to watch out for. The ones with their own crazy agenda. Just yesterday a small group of maybe ten brain cells somehow worked its way front and center in my consciousness demanding to know more about that brown spot that is developing in the front lawn. I don't have time for this, I told them. And I didn't! At that very moment I was working with the right brain, organizational section, subsection excessive children's toys cluttering the basement, on a management plan involving a bonfire. But there was no denying the brown spot commando cells. Next thing I knew I was out in my yard contemplating the application of green spray paint to cover up this blight. Sex. Just mention the word and every cell in every brain on the planet is brushing its teeth and combing its hair. I have about a bazillion brain cells dedicated to fear, each with its own cause. Very vocal, these guys. What about avian flu? Should we be worried about avian flu? Nah, the research is still... How about now? Like I was trying to tell you... Well, how about now? And so it goes with fear. At this very moment, it's quiet in my brain. Morning's are often like this. Peaceful. Calm. Without all the cerebral static, I can actually start making sense of things, one issue at a time. The committee on french fries just presented its final report. Apparently life is worth living without certain varieties of french fried potatoes. The committee pointed to those seasoned curly fries as an example. However, fresh homemade shoestring fries served piping hot with plenty of salt, those are to die for. Case closed. So, what’s next? What about avian flu? Oh boy.

Sun, 23 Apr 2006 18:00:23 GMT

Block that metaphor!

Each week in The New Yorker magazine, wedged in at the bottom of a page, often one hundred pages or more back, there is a small blurb taken from another newspaper or magazine that pokes fun at the writing to be found there. Sometimes, the chosen piece, never more than about fifty words, focuses on an unusual occurrence in a small town. A crime beat report, say, where a citizen is hearing voices (From the Amherst Bee: “A Peppertree Drive resident reported that his phone was talking to him and that he wants it to leave him alone.”) or a report of an accidental death (From the Financial Times: “On March 23, she fell into an elevator shaft. Police, who declared her death an accident, were unable to interview her.”).

The event itself doesn’t matter much. In order to make it onto the bottom of the page in The New Yorker the writing will usually be (how shall I say it?) ill-conceived. The editors of The New Yorker are vigilant in their quest for short, punchy snippets where the writing can be misconstrued in humorous ways. Double entendres, unfortunate word choices, bumbling clauses, unintended messages – one and all – that jump off the page at the reader, but somehow never occur to the author or his editor.

Another favorite category of The New Yorker editors is the metaphor. Over the top, groan-inducing metaphors end up in a category called “Block that Metaphor!” Here is an entry from the March 6, 2006 issue:

Block that Metaphor!

From the De Moines Register.

“I’m tired of being Charlie Brown and putting in more hoops for teachers to jump through and then pulling the football of higher salaries away at every turn.”

Here is another one from the April 21, 2006 edition:

Block that Metaphor!

From the Astoria (Ore.) Daily Astorian.

“Rather than wallowing in tears, let this passionate community strike while the iron is hot. It probably won’t cost the National Park Service a single penny, will be no skin off its nose, will heal the community and it presents a golden opportunity for first-person interpretation.”

Sure I groaned when I read that. But the thing is, I also feel sorry for the person who wrote it, probably late at night under deadline. If you are a writer, you want your work to be published in the New Yorker. But not this way! Imagine the deflation that follows when an old school mate drops you an email: “Hey saw your piece in the New Yorker. Hah!” Only you didn’t submit anything to The New Yorker and what did that “Hah!” mean? Perhaps you don’t subscribe to The New Yorker. And you can’t even get the magazine at any of the news kiosks in town because – hey, it’s a small town – there aren’t any news kiosks here. So you go to the library, find this week’s torn and tattered copy of The New Yorker on the shelf and start paging through it. Finally, you find what you are looking for, way in the back, the passage you wrote for the local newspaper many months before. There it is, larger than life, being lampooned by only the single most important literary magazine in the world. Phfffff.

I don’t know. All I can say is it’s a good thing the metaphor police at The New Yorker aren’t paying attention to blogs. At least, not yet. We all have comparably bad days out here in the blogosphere. I, for one, have been known to cook up some pretty wicked metaphors that stink like poker night in a one room apartment after a bean burrito dinner. Just don’t quote me on that.

Mon, 17 Apr 2006 05:21:43 GMT

Tucson

I was in Tucson, Arizona this past week. Oxford, England the week before. The time zones are like notches on a combination lock. Five ticks right. Eight ticks left. Three ticks right. My internal clock is messed up. I travel enough to know this feeling well. I know that sleep isn’t coming tonight of its own accord. So, I just knocked back a couple of sleeping pills. I’ve got a few minutes before they kick in.

I drove by a store front in Tucson that caught my eye: House of Hubcaps. I love the name. I love that stores like this still exist out there in America. As far as I know there isn’t a hubcap store within fifty miles of my house, maybe more. The House of Hubcaps is on a busy Tucson road with countless other small businesses stretched out across the desert from one mountain range to the next. Also on the House of Hubcaps sign, below the name, were the words:

BUY SELL NEW USED EXCHANGE

That’s useful information, I thought, driving by at forty miles per hour. Those five words pretty much said it all for someone in the market to buy, sell or exchange a new or used hubcap. Or two. Or four. Basically, this is your one stop shop for hubcaps. It kind of bugs me, though, that EXCHANGE is at the far end of the sign. Shouldn’t it be in the middle with the other verbs?

BUY SELL EXCHANGE NEW USED

This is what I was thinking as I drove on past the House of Hubcaps towards my hotel. That’s all I could think about. It’s hard for me to shake a thought like that. And I’m not finished thinking about it. This is going to stay with me for a long time. Perhaps forever. Five words. A nearly perfect advertising statement except one of the words is out of place. My brain is full of useless crap like this. It hardly seems fair. My car doesn’t even have hubcaps.

Sun, 09 Apr 2006 16:20:43 GMT

The Quad

The colleges of Oxford University have their quads. Small geometric patches of perfectly maintained grass bisected and surrounded by paved walkways. Thick green blades of genetically exceptional fescue all clipped exactly at the same low height. You may not walk on this grass. Not students, not teachers, not headmasters, and certainly not bright-eyed border collies with bandanas tied around their necks just itching to run down a Frisbee. Only one man may walk on this grass. The college lawn keeper. And he doesn’t so much walk on the grass as just above it. His feet leave no impressions on the turf as he tends the quad. Nor do the wheels of his lawnmower quite make contact with the grass. There is a loophole in the law of gravity that only Oxford lawn keepers seem to know about. They will never reveal their secret for fear that others will learn, and that can only lead to trouble. Soon after there would be students hovering about above the quad playing guitar, or lying on a blanket with their mates enjoying a few minutes of elusive sun, or, heaven forbid, playing a sport. You wouldn’t think that any of this activity carried out just above the grass would do the turf any harm. But the grass would not do well under these conditions. The additional shade cast upon it alone would undoubtedly lead to stress, and stress to brown spots, grubs. Do not pretend to think you know all there is to know here. Consider the detritus normally associated with students: the spit and spilled beer, the crumbs and cigarette butts and fuzzy bits. All of that would work its way downward through the thick verdant mat to the interstices of the soil and poison the delicate roots. Of this the lawn keeper is sure. He would ask you to trust his knowledge and professionalism, his love and respect for the quad – His quad. “Don’t mess with a thousand years of tradition,” he would tell you. “Please do not walk on or just above the grass.”

Tue, 28 Mar 2006 23:28:37 GMT

Spaced out

My blog turned 40 recently. Megabytes that is. I wasn’t aware of this. One day it was humming along; the next day it went clunk. Suddenly, I was unable to post. I thought it might be something I did in one of the templates. Something HTML related. I am the same way with HTML as I am with my car. I like to open the hood and stick my hands way down in the engine and wiggle something. I don’t know what that something is or does, but usually I’ll end up greasy in the process. If I wiggle something in my car engine and have to wash my hands with grease remover then I feel like I’ve given it my all. After that, I call and arrange for my car to be fixed by an expert. I like it when there is still a little grease under my fingernails when I arrive at the shop. I'll rest my hands on the service advisor’s desk, tap my fingers (dirty nails facing forward) and say, “yeah, all of that seemed O.K. when I checked it, but you might want to have the mechanic take a look.”

With a blog, though, there really isn’t anybody to call. You can ask some blogging friends or leave a message on a message board pleading for help, but in the end, you go it alone. I spent a couple of long nights loading and reloading software, making changes to templates. Nothing worked. Finally, I figured out that my blog was megabyte challenged. Radio Userland gives you 40 MB of space when you sign on. I figured I also received 40 MB of additional space every year when I renewed my license, but I was wrong. Truth is, I never looked. I finally found the place where such statistics about usage are kept. My blog weighed in at “40.1 MB of 40 MB available space.” No wonder I couldn’t squeeze in even one more story.

I did a little research and discovered that I could buy more storage. Fifty megabytes costs an additional $40 or so. But being the frugal guy that I am (except when it comes to buying overpriced sports equipment for my son), I figured I could create some space first by tightening things up around here. So, the blog went on a diet. Perhaps a better analogy is that the blog underwent liposuction. First, I sucked out all the pictures that I wasn’t using. Quite often when I am putting together a story I’ll place two or three jpeg files in my images directory and then choose only one of them to accompany the story. By rooting out the extraneous images I saved a little under a megabyte of space. And, just as I suspected, I was able to post new stories again. But that space quickly filled up. Then I found out that I could lipo-suck a few other files that didn’t seem to serve any purpose (at least none that I know about yet). That freed up a little more space, which also disappeared in a flash.

Out of options, well, out of “free” options, I was left with one more choice. A Sophie’s Choice. For every new story I created, an old story had to go. I’m talking deleted from the blog. Damn, that’s harsh. Old favorites cast out on the curb in favor of some new flavor of the moment. I tried that a couple of times, dispatching a few stories that were deemed expendable. (In fairness, I have back-ups of everything I’ve ever written, so I can always retrieve these stories should Scribner or Simon & Schuster come a’knocking.)

I couldn’t keep doing the Sophie’s Choice thing with this blog. It was just too painful. So, over the weekend, I broke down and bought the 50 MB upgrade for Peeling Wallpaper. Now, when I click on the status button for my blog I see 50 MB of available space. I feel like that guy who lost a bunch of weight from eating only Subway sandwiches. They always show him wearing his old pants, which are big enough to hold two of him. Only my blog didn’t really lose weight. I just bought it a bigger pair of pants.

Mon, 06 Mar 2006 02:41:05 GMT

The humor that stuck: The Little Rascals

I grew up concurrently with the Little Rascals television series. I was in grade school when the show first appeared on TV. The Little Rascal characters were ostensibly in grade school as well. The thing about America in those days was there were a lot of children. I hung out after school with enough kids to field both sides of a pick-up baseball game (with about ten kids in the outfield alone). The Little Rascals gang was big like that, too. IMDB lists the names of nearly sixty actors, most of them children, associated with the show (of course there was Petey the dog, Mrs. Crabtree the teacher and various school truancy officers). That’s what I liked most about the show. It was just a big gang of kids getting into all kinds of mischief just like me. And it was funny. Funny then and funny now. I rarely see the Little Rascals on television these days, but when I do, I stop whatever else I’m doing to watch and gleefully relive a little of those bygone days. Damn, life was simple then.

I discovered a long time ago that my good friend, Bev Wirtz, has a passion for the “Our Gang” stories that easily exceeds my own. There was no way I could post a story about Spanky and the gang without her input. So without further ado, please welcome Bev’s blogging debut with her tribute to the Little Rascals.

“You only meet your once in a lifetime friends... once in a lifetime.” – Alfalfa

As a youngster I watched the Little Rascals because they made me laugh. I never really thought about how they represented practically every walk of life - male, female, rich, poor, black, white, and even canine. I just knew that Spanky was cute, Darla was adorable, Froggy’s voice was hilarious, Alfalfa was obsessed with his grooming habits, Waldo was obnoxious, Chubby was so fat that his eyes were mere slits, Buckwheat was - well Buckwheat - Wheezer was the classic tag-along, Stymie should’ve been a lawyer, Mary Ann was the classic tomboy, Miss Crabtree was every child’s dream teacher, and Petey was the perfect pet.

During a time when America was so very segregated, and so very much divided by class, the Little Rascals presented us with an integrated neighborhood, something unheard of when they appeared on the silver screen in the 1930s and 40s. When they first adorned television screens in 1964 - thanks to King World Television - America’s cities were literally ablaze during the beginnings of the Civil Rights movement. They were far ahead of their time and we who watched them learned some tolerance - whether we knew it or not.

The Little Rascals episodes have been declared racist by some, and while there are obviously some racially stereotypical scenes - Farina licking his chops when contemplating the summer’s watermelon crop; Spanky, ruing the fact that he has to wash his face so often telling Stymie that he’s lucky - they are not presented maliciously. While not excusing these blatant stereotypical presentations, you see Stymie on a fairly regular basis getting the best of his mates. One of my very favorite episodes shows him, tired of eating mush for breakfast, convincing his white pals that he can make ham and eggs talk. Of course, the episode ends with Stymie getting his belly full of ham and eggs with the others wondering how they could’ve been so naive. There is also an episode where he and his sister Marmalade dupe Wheezer - who is trying to teach them math - out of half a dozen or so apples. These scenes are reminiscent of the old Uncle Remus stories where the rabbit always “outfoxes the fox.” Hal Roach, the Rascals producer, was no racist, yet many of these episodes are not shown in today’s politically correct climate.

Of course, the episodes may - and should - be enjoyed for their simple humor rather than looking for underlying themes! Anytime Alfalfa is on screen you know you’re going to laugh out loud - particularly if he’s singing! His crooning “I’m in the Mood for Love” to Darla is classic. He was the consummate geek, yet you had to love him as much as Darla did. Stymie and Porky standing at Miss Crabtree’s desk greeting her with the classic “Hiiiii Crabby” is priceless - what kid didn’t want to let a teacher have it with both barrels on occasion - particularly one name Crabtree?

The Little Rascals were seemingly always in trouble with the truant officer - none of them wanted to be in school. Usually by the end of an episode, the kids realized how important it was to get an education and that while fishing was great, it was something better suited to Saturdays and summertime. While it’s not clear whether the appeal of school was the lessons learned or the smile on Miss Crabtree’s face, it was always clear that school was the place for kids to be and they knew it.

The Rascals were innovative. They had an answer for every question and a solution for every problem - and all it involved was usually some string, a bed sheet and an adult looking the other way. Having Petey pull the wagon (or the lawnmower!) helped, too.

They had their spats - and their rivalries - yet they always managed to work out their problems and stick together. Above all, the Rascals were about friendship and loyalty. Nothing separated these kids for long - not gender, class, ethnicity or economic status all the while, teaching those of us watching about love and laughter, and – to quote Stymie – that’s “not too shabby.”

(You can comment directly to Bev at bhwirtz@yahoo.com)

Sun, 12 Feb 2006 20:57:47 GMT

The humor that stuck: Zippy the Pinhead

“Laundry is the fifth dimension.” – Zippy (created by Bill Griffith)

Zippy is the king of the non sequitur. I start every day with a cup of coffee and a dose of Zippy the Pinhead in the morning newspaper. I’ve been doing this for nearly 20 years. The only thing that’s changed is that I now need to hold the paper a lot farther away in order to focus on the tiny print.

Zippy the Pinhead starts his day with a glazed donut and a jar of taco sauce. Don’t get it? Well, you’re not supposed to, really. The trick is, you should approach a Zippy cartoon with a clear mind. (That’s why mornings are perfect: Bzzzzz.) Let the Zipster’s free association with words wash over you as you eat your cornflakes. Zippy’s dialog is all over the map. Yet, somehow he remains tethered to reality by the thinnest of hairs (like the ones on his head). This strip always brings me pleasure. The farther it goes into the realm of absurdity, the better. Sometimes, when Cynde gets to the funnys before I do, she will growl and say, "Jack, Zippy really pisses me off today." Then I know it's going to be a particularly good one. I think it would be fair to say that Zippy the Pinhead is an aquired taste.

The character Zippy is both naïve and aware. He’s like the harmless inner child of each and every one of us, after we’ve drunk six margaritas. Only one thing is certain in a Zippy comic strip: the words that come out of the Pinhead’s mouth are the last one’s you would ever expect. And I admire that – crave it, even. Especially considering the rest of the morning newspaper is entirely too predictable and depressing. Sometimes, I’ll catch myself repeating Zippy’s words, like a mantra, throughout the day: “Go on, ask me about bowling and laundry.”

Here are a few more of my favorite Zippyisms:

All life is a blur of Republicans and meat.

I’m thinking of having a mid-week crisis.

Loni Anderson’s hair should be legalized.

I’m having a big bang theory.

Karl Malden’s nose just won an Academy Award.

Zombies rule Belgium.

As a devoted fan, I am always on the lookout for roadside attractions for Zippy to have conversations with. (This has become one of Zippy’s favorite pastimes in recent years). Icons that I have found and photographed in my travels have appeared in two Zippy strips. Check out this one from my boyhood state of Pennsylvania. And then this one from Tucson, Arizona. Note the “tip” in the third panel of both strips.

http://www.zippythepinhead.com/

Mon, 30 Jan 2006 02:59:23 GMT

The humor that stuck: Archy and Mehitabel

Archy was a cockroach; Mehitabel, his best friend, was a sophisticated alley cat with an elaborate but sketchy history. They were both reincarnated many times. Mehitabel claims that she was Cleopatra in a previous life. Archy was once a free-verse poet. Being a cockroach made writing a challenge, but Archy continued to scribe the stories of his life whenever he could find a piece of paper in a typewriter at the newspaper office where he lived (and always after everyone had left the office for the night). Of course, he couldn’t push the shift key and a letter key at the same time, so Archy’s stories had no punctuation. What a wonderfully twisted concept. Thanks, Matt, for turning me on to Archy and Mehitabel so many years ago!

The Archy and Mehitabel characters were created by newspaper writer Don Marquis. They first appeared in his New York Tribune column in 1916. The stories were later compiled into a series of three books, one or two of which are still in print. Best, though, to pick up a tattered copy from a second hand book shop. Many of the stories were illustrated by cartoonist George Herriman of Krazy Kat fame.

This is a good website to read a few of Archy’s stories.

Fri, 27 Jan 2006 02:29:36 GMT

King Niall

Recently, a report came out in a scientific journal that links a genetic marker in the Y chromosome of three million men all the way back to the fifth century Irish king, Niall of the Nine Hostages. I know what you are thinking, what a great name, I wonder what it means. I was curious, too, so I did some research, which consisted of sounding the words aloud and trying to figure out the meaning in my head, thus avoiding all those boring history websites. By my reckoning, Niall of the Nine Hostages got his name by taking hostages. Nine of them, I’m guessing. Some kind of record. Otherwise, why bother to take on the nickname? I’m also guessing that the previous record holder had a similar nickname. Maybe it was Kyle of the Eight Hostages. Then Niall took Kyle as his ninth hostage for the title and the coveted Vince O’Lombardi trophy for most hostages in a lifetime.

A lot of people thing that Niall was the greatest king of Ireland. Unfortunately for those who hold NNH in such high regard, he may not have existed. Niall is considered quasi-mythological. Great word that. Another way of putting it, in technical jargon, is we are pretty darn certain that Niall of the Nine Hostages lived, but who the hell knows for sure – it was sixteen centuries ago, give us a break. Still, it’s fun to think about. Three million living descendents from old Niall of the Excitable Loin! That’s a lot of action, even by Irish standards. Statistically, one in twelve men of Irish descent can now trace their lineage back to a king! I imagine there are plenty of Irish-American guys like me out there fantasizing about being one of the lucky 8.3%. My odds might even be a bit higher because my great-grandfather came over from County Donegal, the heart of Niall's kingdom. Also, a family genealogy we had prepared many years ago (from a reputable expert at a renaissance festival) claims that there is a linkage from me to NNH.

Still, I am not swayed by visions of nobility. I remember my first visit to the northwest counties of Ireland. The land of my forefathers. I was struck by the beauty of the lush green landscape, of course. And how high the foam stood on a pint of Guinness. But what really caught my eye was the fences. Stone fences that ran up and over the treeless hillsides in all directions like giant tangled spider webs.

I am happy for those who can gaze upon this scene and see themselves as rightful heirs to the ancient throne, those who can envision a zigzagging genealogical line back through time to Niall of the Nine Hostages as he stood on this very hilltop surveying his expansive land holdings. As for me, I look out on these majestic hills and think, "Somebody had to stack all those rocks."

Mon, 23 Jan 2006 04:10:31 GMT

The humor that stuck: Woody Allen

Say what you will about his recent work, Woody Allen was a brilliant comedian in his day. His mix of nebbishness, intellect and absurdity was unparalleled at its peak in the 1970s. There was nobody like him back then and there still isn’t. Woody Allen has earned a spot near the top of my humor pantheon.

Here are a few funny bits from Woody’s movies, books and standup routines.

From the movie “Sleeper”

Miles Monroe (Allen): Perform sex? Uh, uh, I don't think I'm up to a performance, but I'll rehearse with you, if you like.
Luna Schlosser (Diane Keaton): Okay. I just thought you might want to; they have a machine here.
Miles Monroe: Machine? I'm not getting into that thing. I, I'm strictly a hand operator; you know, I, I... I don't like anything with moving parts that are not my own.

From the movie “Annie Hall”

Annie Hall (Diane Keaton): Oh, you see an analyst?
Alvy Singer (Allen): Yeah, just for fifteen years.
Annie Hall: Fifteen years?
Alvy Singer: Yeah, I'm gonna give him one more year, and then I'm goin' to Lourdes.

From the movie “Bananas”

Fielding Mellish (Allen): You're busy tonight?
Norma (Marily Hengst): Some old friends are coming over. We're gonna show some pornographic movies.
Fielding Mellish: You need an usher?

From the book “Without Feathers”

The lion and the calf shall lie down together but the calf won't get much sleep.

From the book “Side Effects”

There are two types of people in this world, good and bad. The good sleep better, but the bad seem to enjoy the waking hours much more.

From the recording “Woody Allen – Standup Comic”: a story called “The Moose”

I shot a moose, once. I was hunting up-state New York, and I shot a moose, and I strap him on to the fender of my car, and I'm driving home along the west side highway, but what I didn't realize was, that the bullet did not penetrate the moose. It just creased the scalp, knocking him unconscious. And I'm driving through the Holland tunnel - the moose woke up. So I'm driving with a live moose on my fender. The moose is signaling for a turn, y'know. There's a law in New York state against driving with a conscious moose on your fender, Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. And I'm very panicky, and then it hits me: some friends of mine are having a costume party. I'll go, I'll take the moose, I'll ditch him at the party. It wouldn't be my responsibility.

So I drive up to the party and I knock on the door. The moose is next to me. My host comes to the door. I say "Hello. You know the Solomons". We enter. The moose mingles. Did very well. Scored. Two guys were trying to sell him insurance for an hour and a half. Twelve o'clock comes - they give out prices for the best costume of the night. First price goes to the Berkowiches, a married couple dressed as a moose. The moose comes in second. The moose is furious. He and the Berkowiches lock antlers in the living room. They knock each other unconscious. Now, I figured, is my chance. I grab the moose, strap him onto my fender, and shoot back to the roads, but - I got the Berkowiches. So I'm driving along with two Jewish people on my fender, and there's a law in New York State ... Tuesdays, Thursdays and especially Saturday.

The following morning the Berkowiches wake up in the woods, in a moose suit. Mr. Berkowich is shot, stuffed and mounted - at the New York Athletic Club, and the joke is on them, because it's restricted.

Mon, 16 Jan 2006 03:48:03 GMT

The humor that stuck: Top Cat

Top Cat is the first television cartoon that I remember watching. I was maybe five years old. I loved Top Cat. Basically the show was about a gang of ne’er-do-well cats living in a Manhattan alley among the trashcans and debris. Their leader, Top Cat or T.C., was wily and sophisticated; he did most of the scheming and conniving that kept the gang in their kibble. Other denizens of the alley included: Benny the Ball, Choo Choo, Fancy Fancy, Spook and Brain. Officer Dibble, a stereotypical New York beat cop, was the gang’s main nemesis who routinely tried (unsuccessfully) to run the cats out of the city.

As I recall, these felines lived pretty darn well for alley cats. Their schemes often netted big money, but they always lost it by the end of the program. Somehow they scraped by. And they frequently played musical instruments – jazz – without opposable thumbs!

Top Cat premiered in 1961 on prime time television. It didn’t do well and was quickly moved to Saturday morning cartoons. There were only thirty episodes, but the show lived on in syndication for many years afterward. The basic story line for Top Cat was modeled closely on the Phil Silvers show from the late 50s, and T.C. in particular on the popular Sergeant Bilko character.

And how about this theme song?

Top Cat!

The most effectual Top Cat

Whose intellectual

Close friends get to call him T.C.

Providing it's with dignity.

Top Cat

The indisputable leader of the gang

He's the boss

He's a pip

He's the championship

He's the most tip top

Top Cat

Yes, he's a chief

He's a king

But above everything

He's the most tip top

Top Cat (Top Cat!)

He’s a pip?! They don’t write them like that any more.

Sat, 14 Jan 2006 00:44:32 GMT

So not fair!

I was in Denver this week for business. Whenever I travel to new places I am always on the lookout for strange sights and offbeat adventures that ultimately make for good stories. The problem with work travel is that my employer actually expects me to work. (Imagine that!) I can’t help it that I am drawn to an exit ramp off the highway on the drive in from the airport because of something I see, something I need to check out.

This is exactly what happened on this trip. We arrived at Denver airport just before noon and headed straight toward a restaurant where we would meet our hosts. After that a we had a full docket of meetings planned that would fill the afternoon. And, truthfully, I was looking forward to all of it. But then we came up on the National Western complex, a huge convention center of sorts, near the Denver city limit, where the marquee declared “Welcome to the National Western Stock Show.”

I had just read about the stock show in the airline magazine. The festival of entertainment and competitions involving exotic stock animals is the biggest of its kind in the world. It is celebrating its 100^th anniversary. There are thousands of animals that take part: cattle, bison, goat, llama, yak. I mean, come on. There were yaks in that convention center. Yaks and the men who love them. How could I pass on an experience like that? I was in the passenger seat as we drove by the National Western complex. Suddenly I was reminded of one of my favorite Far Side cartoons. The one with the cat pressed up against the picture window as two commercial trucks collide in front of its house: Bob’s Assorted Rodents and Al’s Small Flightless Birds. I felt like that cat. Let me out! Let me go!

We didn’t stop, of course. And there was no time in my schedule to get back there. So I don’t have a firsthand story to share. I read in the newspaper while I was working in Denver that there was even a parade downtown to kick off the National Western Stock show. Several dozen longhorn cattle had been marched through the heart of the financial district. Sure, rub my nose in longhorn dung.

When I got home from my trip I read more about the Stock show, which only made me feel worse about missing the extravaganza.

Check this out from the Denver Channel News: "If you don't like rodeo, we have the dancing horses set to the music of the Fort Collins Symphony Orchestra. If you don't like horses, we have the super dogs, which is a very entertaining event with all the dogs, performing stunts set to your favorite music of the 70s..."

Dancing horses?! Super dogs?! And I had to work.

Mon, 09 Jan 2006 03:37:05 GMT

The humor that stuck: National Lampoon

Are you old enough to remember National Lampoon in its glory days (1970 - 1975)? How about its predecessor, the Harvard Lampoon? Hmm, that's pushing it. Did you ever have a subscription of National Lampoon mailed to your house? Did you own a copy of the famous 1964 High School Yearbook Parody issue featured in the calendar this week? Do you still have it? Of course not. Your mother threw it in the trash bin the moment you moved out of the house, along with all the other “offensive” magazines you kept stashed under your mattress. Too bad. It would have fetched a nice price over at e-bay.

National Lampoon blew my socks off humor-wise when I first discovered the magazine back in the early 70s. I didn’t read much back then. Only what I had to in order to keep from failing out of school. Most of my humor fix came from television and movies. Sure there were comic books, especially Mad magazine. (There will undoubtedly be a calendar entry for Mad somewhere down the line; I was a big fan.) But National Lampoon was different. Lengthy humorous stories. Delicious satire that pushed the boundaries of decency. In your face, political incorrectness – before the phrase even existed! Drug humor. War humor. Sex humor. In short, exactly what this wide-eyed teen was looking for at exactly the right time. And, hey, I was reading. How could there be anything wrong with that?

Then there were the famous National Lampoon magazine covers. Oh those covers. Go here for a nice walk down memory lane. This one is arguably the best:

January, 1973

Sat, 07 Jan 2006 01:01:25 GMT

Who wants to be a millionare?

This advertisement appears in the current New Yorker as a two page spread. I find it a bit irritating.

I wish I could say the advertisement vexes me solely because of the underlying message that it's money that matters above all, that we learn this lesson at an early age, and that we spend our formative years running like greyhounds on a racetrack in hot pursuit of cold cash.

To be sure, all of that does bother me. But deep down there is also an ember of jealousy burning in my gut, for there's nothing wrong with being rich. But why this guy? Isn't he too young to be so wealthy? If not, then: Why not me? He and I are about the same age. Where's my million bucks? Huh? Sigh.

This alternate advertisement, based on my own humble financial situation, will not be appearing in the New Yorker any time soon...

"I wish I had a roll of quarters." "Now what?"

- Jack, age 5 - Jack, age 47

Wed, 04 Jan 2006 02:08:25 GMT

New Calendar!

Time to kick off the 2006 Peeling Wallpaper calendar. This year's theme will be the funny bits and funny people that helped shape my sense of humor over the years, from my first memories of laughter to the present. That's a lot of time and material to cover, so I'll be updating the calendar every week! Well, I'll try my best anyway.

Thinking back on my early years, focusing in on the first entertainers that made me smile, the path always seems to begin with Captain Kangaroo. Or I should say the Captain Kangaroo Show (1955-1984). Because it wasn’t just the good Captain (Bob Keeshan) that made me laugh but the entire ensemble, including various stuffed animals like Mr. Bunny Rabbit and Mr. Moose who had a knack for knock-knock jokes. There were also guest appearances by Shari Lewis and Lamb Chop. That’s right, Lamb Chop! I loved that sock puppet. You want to make something of it? Lamb Chop was a stitch. A mischievous wisecracker. Lamb Chop was the Robin Williams of the 1960 toddler set.

There was just something about Captain Kangaroo that kept me coming back. Well, to be honest, it was my mother propping me up in front of the television set while she attempted to get some things done around the house. But I didn’t mind. Captain Kangaroo was okay by me.

The photo in this week’s calendar shows Captain Kangaroo squeezing the air out of Mr. Bunny Rabbit. Somewhere along the line this year in I will undoubtedly post some stills in the calendar from Monty Python’s Flying Circus because of the huge influence that comedy troupe had on my sense of humor. In one memorable episode, John Cleese attempts to return a dead parrot to the pet shop where he bought it. To prove that it is dead, he screams in its ear “Hello, Polly, Polly, Polly…” and then slams it repeatedly against the countertop with a thud.

Mr. Bunny Rabbit. Lamb Chop. A dead stuffed parrot. Not so far apart when you think about it.

Thu, 08 Dec 2005 03:01:26 GMT

The interrogation lamp

The gooseneck halogen reading lamp that my wife and I had thrown away is back on the desk, plugged in and burning bright. I am perplexed by this until my son walks into the office and says, "I pulled it out of the trash." He is beaming. In part, he is beaming because of this damn light, which is so strong that it reflects off the desk surface and illuminates his face. Mostly, though, my son is beaming because he thinks he has done us a favor. It never occurs to him that we have discarded the lamp on purpose. That we hate the laser-like glare, the hot bulb that burns our skin when we brush up against it, the annoying clicking noise it makes after it has been on for awhile. In his mind, it must have fallen into the refuse bin by mistake. Maybe we were changing the bulb and it just dropped in there. This is the only logical explanation for him. After all, the lamp still works; people don't throw things away when they still function. That doesn't compute in his young mind. Just go into my son’s bedroom and check out the cache of toy pieces on the floor and you will understand that things don't get thrown away, even when they have outlived reasonable usefulness.

My son starts playing with the flexible neck on the lamp as I work in front of the computer. The intense white light is accidentally turned toward my face. My retinas immediately begin to fry. I put my hand up to block the light. Strangely, I imagine myself in the interrogation room from the countless cheesy detective movies I have watched over the years.

“Confess!”

“I don't know a thing, I tell ya.”

“Confess!”

“Okay. Okay. We did it. Your mom and I threw the lamp away. I admit it. We didn't like it. Are you happy now? And as long as we’re setting the record straight – babies come from having sex. There! I said it. And the dog didn't go to a farm, we had him put to sleep because he was old. And I stole $20 from your piggy bank once to pay the pizza delivery guy. And...and...there is no Santa Claus.”

"Dad?"

"Huh? What?"

"Why did you just say you wanted to see your lawyer?

"I said that?"

"Yeah. You said you had the right to remain silent."

"So I didn't admit to all that other stuff?"

"What other stuff?"

"Uhh, never mind.

"No, really. What did you say?"

"Some other time. Hey, don't you have homework to do?

"Yeah, but..."

"Well, get to it."

"Oh, alright."

“Son?”

“Yeah, Dad?”

"Need a lamp?"