Why Cats Are Better Than People

Well, a lot of people, anyway.

-They're furry and warm. While some people are somewhat furry, they aren't so much as cats, and a cat's body temperature is higher unless the person has a fever, which is beside the point.

-They fit neatly into your lap. Even a Maine Coon Cat can manage it. If you're talking leopard, well, that's a whole other kind of cat. We're talking Felis domesticus here.

-Cats don't lie to you. Oh, it isn't like they won't try, especially if something has been broken around the house. However, they're just not any good at it.

-They never make promises and then don't keep them.

-Their noses are usually nicer.

-Seldom do they go grey and prematurely bald.

-They're graceful. Mostly. When they're not, it's terribly funny and they always act like they meant to do it.

-When you're sick, they don't avoid you like many people do. A cat will come to you and spend time with you because it knows you don't feel good.

-Many people are just plain unsanitary. Cats groom themselves all the time. Sure, humans don't hack up hairballs, but they have other nasty habits which are worse. Such as politics.

-You can get a cat stoned out of its mind with a completely legal substance that doesn't require lighting up and avoids the expense of things like bongs.

-They really do catch mice. In the case of mine, they regularly take out lizards & roaches, and one of them knocked off a couple of snakes. Many people, upon seeing a snake, scream like a little girl. This hurts my ears.

-They PURR. Let's see a human come up with anything that tops that. And don't even bring some slobbering dog into the conversation. I don't need to point out that cats are better than dogs. This is the way God made them. Look it up, it's in the Book of Leviticus somewhere....

-Sure, they go into heat. At times. It isn't like people, who are in heat all the time and constantly looking for a score. This, too, can hurt my ears.

-If there's anything cuter in the world than a kitten, I don't know what it is. Babies, BABIES are not as cute as kittens. Most babies look a lot like Winston Churchill. Without the cigar.

-LOLcats are very popular. Are there LOLhumans? No, no, no....

-A cat will never ask you to turn on FOX News. Cats are blessedly apolitical.

-Kitties will sometimes lick you as if to groom you. Show me a person with that much courtesy.

-Cats come preternaturally disposed towards being trained to use a litterbox. It takes you a couple of years to get that through a kid's skull.

-Who hogs the bathroom, people or cats? Huh? Sure, the cat will sleep in the sink sometimes, but it won't use up all the hot water on you or flush while you're taking a shower.

-Cats don't fight over who has the remote control.

These things come to mind, among others, because my older cat, a Siamese named Arwen, died yesterday. She was 14, which is not exceptionally old for a cat, but she'd had major illnesses in the last couple of years and was frail. This time, even with the vet's best help, she couldn't win. She wasn't in pain or suffering, which is a grace, but I was very close to having her put to sleep just to let her rest. I'd made the decision to take her today, but she didn't make it. Maybe she knew I'd made the resolve to say goodbye. Cats know things like that. My wife kept telling me that she was tired and just wanted to rest; cats have no more sense of mortality than that. At least, as far as I know. Are there cats in heaven? Well, if it's a perfect place, then one would suppose there must be. Then again, that point of view means that other people would insist on dogs being there, too, and I can't stand the beasts. Suffice it to say that God's love will be enough.

And therein lies my point. God's love is all around us, even though we mostly forget to look, and He sends us reminders in all sorts of ways. We notice the big ones, like the significant people in our lives, but might miss something as simple as a cat's devotion. I didn't miss it in this case, thankfully. Look behind the eyes of any pet and you'll see a little something that reflects a higher power saying "I sent you this reminder to tell you I love you." I don't think I'm overstating it. A cat, by its basic nature, is a loner and a predator. Yet they've become domesticated, fond of our company and of one another. Coincidence? Nah.

I'll miss a lot of things about Arwen, including the way she'd lie against the keyboard and keep me from typing straight. She won't be getting a replacement any time soon. For one, I don't really have the heart right now, and for another, I have another wonderful cat, a Tonkinese named Bridget. Great breed, great fun, and just beautiful. She has a playmate in the form of my daughter's cat, Moose. So, even though a part of me is drooling over the entertainment value of a new kitten, it'll have to wait.

Still, none will ever quite be able to take Arwen's place because of the particular time she was with me. If you've never had a long-term illness, my advice is "Don't." Unfortunately, I can't seem to follow my own advice (as is so often the case in life), and Arwen was with me as it progressively invaded my life more and more. She visited me every day, never forgot to write or call, and always let me know that she cared. I can't say that for a lot of the people I know. But there she was, ready to hop up in my lap whenever I needed cheering up, or to commit such wonderfully entertaining acts as the infamous Ham Incident. I wrote about Arwen and the Ham Incident on my blog previously, linked here.

I have to laugh at the memory of that and other amazing stunts that she pulled. I'll also have to clean up my computer/music room here, where she spent her sick time, as there's fur everywhere. She was shedding like crazy, and one of my computer speakers is covered with hair from her rubbing against it. I guess she loved that speaker. Who can explain the affections of a cat?

So, remember not to take the small things for granted. If you can't think of any, then get a cat. It works for me and about 80 million other people in the US (outnumbering dogs by millions). They also have the unique ability, with their feline superiority, to remind you not to take yourself too seriously. "Who do you think you are? Now feed me, human" can be a helpful little nudge to renew your perspective: You're not the most important thing in the universe. OK, so the cat isn't, either, but together you make a pretty spiffy team.

Call me unnecessarily sentimental, but I think that's an awfully good thing.



P.S. Thanks to Mariann for some of the reasons that Cats Are Better Than People.

Whose Father Is It, Anyway?

Ten years is a long time.

I'm not that big a fan of Father's Day anymore. There are reasons for this, aye, and good ones in my own mind, but it comes around once a year whether I like it or not. For those of you that still have fathers living, by all means make an effort to appreciate one another today. Your time to do so is limited, and like all lives, they can end suddenly (yours or his). One of the saddest things I can think of is living a lifetime of regrets for things that were never said. In fact, I have a certain amount of impatience for that behavior, and maybe I'm just getting old, but wasting precious time in your life is a bit of a slap in the face of the Creator who gave it to you in the first place. Especially when you waste it wallowing in negativity.

But I digress. Sort of.

How does the ten years fit into this? Well, my father passed away just a little over ten years ago. Today is Father's Day. His birthday was June 16th. So we're at a bit of a trifecta, which practically begs for things like blog entries to be written about it. How can I stand in the way of this imperative?

The problem is, not all reminiscing produces good results. If you have lots of happy memories from your childhood, that is a grand thing. However, I was not a particularly happy child when all is said and done (and after all that was said and done). I'm inclined towards melancholia anyway, but it was a large and pretty dysfunctional household when I was a kid. I'm the third of six children, and I think all of us felt a bit lost in the crowd. We all tried to deal with it in our various ways.... somewhere around the seventh grade, I developed the tendency to never shut up. A cry for attention? Maybe. More likely, it's because I'm an actor; by our nature, we tend to be auditioning or performing for someone all the time, whether they like it or not. And I must admit that it has a special flavor of fun when they like it not. Such was my experience at home, anyway. My chief escapes were school, and especially, books. I've read a swutting lot of books, and I am very thankful that one thing I got out of my childhood was a love of reading (likely, blame my mother the Lit major, and those precious few years when I was the youngest). How did the others cope, and how well did it work for them? Well, you'd have to ask them. We've talked about it; the chief surprise was that each of us thought that others had it "better" than we did, and it wasn't really true.

Roundaboutly, do I approach my point.

I could just try to ignore it at this point, shrug it off and try not to think about what was, and what could have been. The things said that should never have been spoken, and what was left in silence. Actions taken, however ill-advised, and so much left undone. I know a lot of people who try to do precisely that: forget about it. But human beings aren't really designed to do that; just sublimating things underground heals nothing, and I'd even go so far to say that it'll make you physically ill. When something goes wrong in life, something has to be DONE about it, or it never goes away! My family (on both sides) had been a bunch of unhappy, repressed people for the last few generations. All the unwritten "rules" that governed the family were a stinking load of fetid dingo's kidneys rotting in the Mongolian desert.

Why Mongolia? Don't ask me now, I'm on a roll.

There was only one way out: BREAK the rules. This is what my generation (mostly) has done. We all shared a deep dissatisfaction, but didn't know how to deal with it. It's not fully agreed, I think, who started it, but we slowly began actually communicating with one another. This generally occurred when we were college age or older, and many of us were away from home. I tend to credit my oldest sister, who wrote me a gut-wrenching letter that revealed a whole lot of suffering that I'd never known she'd had to deal with. What's important is that we started to undo the past and form a family where there really hadn't been a whole one before. The beauty of it was that it was not because we felt we had to. We did it because we wanted to. Eventually, as a group (mostly....), we symbolically took the old "family code" out in the back yard, tore it up, burned it, and then spit on the ashes. Done, done and done.

The "infection" gradually spread backwards to my parents, who had also grown wiser with the years. Things actually got pretty good, and who cared if some certain members of the family whom I shall not name thought we were crazy? We're doing SO much better as adults, and have mutually resolved to never pass the old "traditions" down to our children. Enough, already. It's enough that we have our own personal foibles to deal with. I resolved to be a better parent to my child. I tried, managed to make some of the same mistakes my parents made, but mostly came up with my own. Fortunately, my daughter is very resilient, and I had a lot of good help. My chief regret is something that's not really my fault, but it hangs over me nonetheless. I have a long-term illness, and my daughter has had the backlash from it affect her whole life. It's stupid, I guess, but I'll never forgive myself for it. I will always feel like she didn't get my best.

It's forgiveness, though, that we have to thank for our latter-day family. Not covering up, not sweeping away, not pretending that the elephants in the room don't exist; we had to all forgive one another, parents and children alike, in order for the darker things to no longer hold power over us. It's forgiving oneself that can be hard. Still, the guilt was also part of the old "rules", so it has to go as well. That's an ongoing effort for everyone. Well, it gives us something to do. Things got significantly better when my father retired at 62, and was finally relieved of the major stress of his working life, and all of a sudden "Woody" (so was he called, for his first & middle names were, under the best circumstances, unfair) was a relaxed guy. It's a shame that he and the rest of us only got to enjoy that for about four years. When he was 66, he had a major stroke and wasn't expected to live. However, one thing we are as a group is cussedly stubborn, and he fought back. He even managed to live at home for a part of his last three years before the cumulative damage caught up with him at just 69. How very unfair, but we're fortunate to have had those three bonus years. We all learned a lot.

I think the proudest thing my generation has done was to break down the old walls. The proudest thing my father ever did was not just manage to raise six (adorable and talented) children and get them through school and all that. No, it was fighting back those extra three years. It wasn't because he wanted to (and I understand his feeling that way). He didn't do it because he wasn't ready to go. He did it because WE weren't ready for him to go, especially my mother. I cannot imagine how difficult that must have been, his right arm paralyzed, walking with difficulty, and simple communication beyond him (oh, I could get the gist of what he was trying to say when he talked, but his speech center never came back). Enduring all the doctor visits, the therapy sessions, dealing with other health issues at the same time, and the inevitable stay in a care facility.... which he did for others. If I inherit one thing from my father, that kind of commitment would be a good choice.

It's been ten years now, and I don't dwell on it except the nagging feeling that he got cheated. However, I have to keep perspective on it; a lot of bad things happen to a lot of good people, and we should be thankful that we didn't have it as rough as so many people in the world do. We were and are lucky, and we learned to get smart enough to make the best of it. Incidentally, we can, in all probability, blame smoking for the stroke. The doctors believe that a blood clot formed in his leg and broke off and hit his brain, the clot having formed in diseased arteries damaged by years of cigarettes. Please, for the love of your family, and in the name of common sense, quit smoking if you're addicted to those evil things. You will pay a price some day, and others may be forced to pay as well. We've known for decades what smoking does; there's no excuse for doing it now.

So, why are the ten years long? Mostly because we have a holdout: One sister, whose inner demons still have a hold on her, has practically not communicated with us since. I am still left wondering as to why exactly this is; I can guess at some things, but since she's not speaking to us, we don't really know. There is hostility, irrational anger and outright hate. It's very sad that she continues to choose not to join us in the "new" family, and live holding grudges in her heart. I've done what I can in the situation, but evidently I'm one of the more "guilty" ones. I am not angry, at least not for myself. I am angry for the part of my mother, who's been cut off from her daughter and her two grandsons for a decade. She has done nothing to deserve that kind of spiteful treatment, and that's what I find hard to live with.

My earthly father now resides with my Heavenly Father; his faith was quiet but sincere. Neither of them can approve of this situation, and my sister has turned her back on the memory of one, and on the love and mercy of the other. This is terribly sad, and I wish I had the power to do something about it. All I can do is pray.

So, on this Father's Day, my sister, if you really ever honored our father, then prove it by coming back into the lives of the rest of the family. We could, given the chance, help heal the hurts, the grieving, and deal with whatever it is that bothers you so much. However, the choice isn't ours. The ball is in your court.... and you'd better do it while our mother is still alive. She is, by the way. Not that you've asked. I'll allow myself one, somewhat bitter, comment: Get off your high horse, it isn't all about you.

It's Father's Day. And ten years is a long time. Too damned long in a life that's uncertain and mercurial. Make each day a Father's Day, and a Mother's Day, and the rest, because second chances don't always come along for a family. We're lucky that we got ours. Now, quit reading this blog and go call your Dad.

Blogaholism: Is One Blog Enough?

I am pondering this question, as it gets more difficult by day to bite my lip and abide by the "rules" I adopted when I started The Eye Wit.

To wit, this is meant to be a "general audiences" blog in which I don't attack subjects that are extremely controversial, and avoid such things as rabid profanity, although I'm very good at it. I am from Rhode Island, and if you'd paid any attention in Geography class (which I just know you didn't), you'd know that one of Rhode Island's chief exports is vile verbiage. Yes, we're the ones who invented all the variations of the "F" word. We're experts at taking perfectly innocent words am imbuing them connotations that the original lexicographation never intended. No, we cannot be stopped, because we're that kind of people. Tough. Rough and ready. Salty with our language because it's the Ocean State, and there's a lot of salt in the ocean, in case you didn't know that.

But I digress.

The problem that causes me to ponder this question is the news. The newspaper. Online news. Propaganda outfits like FOX News. After a brief exposure to any of these outlets, I find myself biting my lip in attempt to keep from screaming and shouting out things like the truth or rational thought (which no one appears to want to hear) in whatever way, shape or form that I can. That includes my blog here, which would doubtless have a post every day due to the unrest, troubles, disasters, and sheer stupidity that plague the world. Tempting. I don't post often enough as it is, and my volume would increase greatly, both in content and volume. However, that brings me right back to my ground rules, and thus I hold it in or rant at my cats, who either fail to appreciate my finer points or just don't care about such things as long as they get their daily fish.

Maybe they're a lot smarter than I am.

OK, so other than a pledge to myself to write here more often, what can I do about this? The only practical answer would be to start a wholly separate blog with different ground rules. That is to say, no ground rules, so as to be able to vent my spleen completely. Indeed, though, as simple as that sounds, there are problems. First, do I really need to take the additional time to do this (though such agitated ranting tends to go a lot faster than whimsy)? Second, does the world really need another world issues/political/all things controversial blog? Third, is it really good for my health to let myself get frothingly angry so regularly?

The answer to the first question is that no, I really have other things I ought to be doing. However, I could use that same argument right now. Also, as I said, real ranting tends to burst out more quickly. No definitive answer here. As for the second question, there is one pervasive fact that cries out loudly that there is a reason to add my voice to the cacophony: the fact that I'm right, and there an end on it. I can't argue with that, not even with me. Thirdly, I'm getting angry, frustrated and outraged as it is; would it not be better to vent some of that energy out into the ether of the Internet? That's a fairly valid point, too.

So, two out of three questions urge me on to do it. Hmmm. Then there's the fact that a friend of mine just started a second blog (for completely different reasons, but nonetheless), and I'm just competitive enough to want to keep up. That's ridiculous, but if I'm going to be honest, I cannot deny it.

Perhaps the most important question is: Who's going to care? How many people are going to be interested in what I have to say, even though I'm Right? (Right as in "correct", not which "wing" I lean towards). The challenge there would be to get word around so that people would know that they have a moral imperative to read the new blog. That's a bit of a pain in the neck, for you who do not blog; spreading the word, getting added to directories, trying to scheme so that Google will bring up "hits" for your page, all of these take time. Granted, I could be doing more of that for this blog whilst I was promoting the new one, but 'tis still a task I covet not. And there could be no coat-tailing from here; good heavens, I wouldn't want you to know what an awful person I can be at times, so the new blog would have to stand on its own and go so far as to be published without my name on it. Just the identity I'd create as the front. Is that desirable?

Well, I don't know. It's worth thinking about, though. After all, among the "real" things we have in life, aren't our original and personal thoughts high on the scale? I think so.... which once again gives me impetus to do it. Or at least try it. I can always delete the thing if I so choose. Actually, that's one of the fun things about blogging in the first place: You can't be deleted. Oh, people can ignore you, they can leave vicious comments on your site, they can talk about you behind your electronic back, but they can't make your blog go away.

Not being able to be made to go away, the idea that I can't be shut up no matter what anybody says?

Now, there's the most compelling reason of all!

Get Used to Disappointment

"It's just life!", as everyone will tell you.

Everyone, that is, who's not in on the disappointment. Because it's so easy for them to say.

Herein lies yet another of life's opportunities for laziness: Using words to indicate sympathy, while not putting forth a lot of effort to actually become sympathetic. Am I implying that a lot of sympathy is feigned? No, of course not. I'm saying it straight out. Not that I haven't been guilty of the same thing, and will likely fall into the trap again. That's not my point. My point is that we'd probably get along together much better if we tried to understand more precisely why something disappoints a person in a particular way and to the degree that it does. It tells you a lot about the person. Things that perhaps we're better off not knowing in some cases.... but those are the risks.

Take, for instance, my recent disappointment at not getting a part I auditioned for. To anyone who knows me a little, this must seem like a big deal. I'm an actor, after all, and this is what I do. So, my fate having rested in the hands of the director, I awaited "the call" and did not receive the news that I was looking for; a project that would have dominated my life through the end of May is now purely academic. Big part? Sure. Large musical show, plenty of attention, it was a play fairly unlike any other I've done (a big plus in my book), and even a chance to perhaps work on the same project as my daughter, which doesn't happen often.

Not to be. That is the question. Well, not the question, but the answer, but putting it that way didn't dovetail with a line from Hamlet. To say "Not to be, that is the answer" is to risk infuriating millions of Shakespearean scholars, all of whom read this page, by declaring that I have divined the answer to a debate that has raged for over 400 years, to wit: What was Hamlet really talking about in his famous soliloquy and what did he decide? You could start a riot by going there.

Besides, anyone who knows what they're talking about can tell you that the answer is obviously "to be" (otherwise the play makes a sudden, heaving halt right then and there), and that what he's talking about is taking on the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, getting off his dysfunctional royal butt and doing something about it (NOT about committing suicide; that comes later in the speech). Hence, the rest of the play ensues, and the price of the ticket seems more reasonable.

Let the riot begin.

But I digress. Hamlet was not the play in question. For one thing, there's no musical version of Hamlet, except in old reruns of Gilligan's Island. Which, to anyone of a discerning theatrical bent, does not count.

But back to the main point: Not getting the part. Most people's reactions to this are split: About half just don't get it, one way or the other, because they don't understand what artists do. The other half is in on the idea that you just didn't get a job. While there's (hopefully) more to it than that, this is technically correct. I say "hopefully" because not every acting opportunity is a gem. Some of them are; some are great parts in fabulous plays, a challenge of some sort, or something very new to you (such was this most recent case). Others ARE mere jobs. If you want me to do The Sound of Music, for instance, let's get right to the business of how much cash you're talking, because there's no other reason for me to do it.

There's no avoiding it; not getting the part is annoying on several levels, but one learns to cope with it and to live with the fact that this is part of the territory. The reality is, most of the time, if you're out auditioning on a regular basis, you don't get the part, whether it be a play, a commercial, or whatever. It's just like the stream of rejection slips that writers get; nasty and unfriendly, but part of the game. If you're going to play the game, you'd better have your coping mechanisms in place. Here are some of mine: First, it's not brain surgery! No one is going to die (well, probably not) if I don't get this part. Keeping a sense of perspective is a good idea. While I'm not rife with self-esteem, I do realize that "how good I am" doesn't rest on getting every single role I go for. Second, I don't spend a lot of time looking behind myself; this one's over, learn what I can learn from it (in this case, I need to get my singing voice back into condition, I haven't kept up with the discipline it needs for the style of singing required. Therefore most of the "blame" is mine), and move on. Which leads me to the third tactic: Always look ahead to the next things coming up. If possible, convince myself that these will be better projects anyway. Sometimes that's true; sometimes, it's something special that's passed me by. However, how I feel about it is, after all, largely up to me.

Would that I could apply this same rational thought process to more areas of my life. However, for some reason, it doesn't work as well. Maybe it's because I've spent so much focus developing the attitudes towards theatre. Maybe "real life" simply isn't as easy. That seems likely.

So, it may be just life, it may be life or death (see reference to Hamlet), but it's all relative. While I can't quite live like according to the Italian rules of driving ("What's behind me is of no concern"), I do think that it's healthy to keep yourself looking forward. After all, if you spend life facing backwards, the next opportunity that comes up will not be one that you see; it'll smite you in the back instead. Then, while you're trying to turn around to hook onto it, some other actor has already moved in and sniped the part. That won't do at all. Since a lot of actors are guilty of looking back, that creates extra opportunity for me.

And what's good for me is good for me. And that, as Martha Stewart says, is a "Good Thing".

25 Impudent Things About Being Raised Catholic

Really, I shouldn't touch this subject, but it's hard to resist!

I got the idea from a friend who wrote a list of trivia about herself, and called it "25 Reasons Why I'd Get Excommunicated from My Childhood Church." It turns out that she was not, in fact, raised as a Catholic, , nor was the list made up of that kind of trivia, but it immediately brought up a host (no pun intended) of memories that haunt me to this very day. The question is, can I come up with 25 items without getting utterly bitter and resentful?

I suppose that before I start, I should make clear that I don't think that the Catholic church fails everyone. No, not at all. All I know is that they failed me, but I have lived to tell the tale. Still, if you're easily offended as a Catholic, you probably will be.

Therefore, in no particular order:

1) The communion wafers taste like crap. Let's quit kidding ourselves, we've all eaten school paste (on a dare, at the very least) that tastes better than those things. Just another thing to suffer through, I guess.
2) The wine tastes like expired vinegar. Look, I don't want to get into the whole transubstantiation argument, but I'm pretty sure that the blood of Christ tastes better than that. Ever notice that the outside of the chalice is silver and the inside is all yellowed? Looks like chemical corrosion to me.
3) Nuns are trained in boot camps, and are required to have an SQ (Sadism Quotient) of at least 122. Maybe the nuns of today are a different story, but in my day (yes, I realize that using those words marks me as being old), they still wore those starched habits that would cut you if you, God forbid, came close enough to a nun to get brushed by one. You ask my brother, he'll tell you.... my kindergarten teacher was a Nazi, and my first grade teacher was a nun from Peru, about four feet tall, who bordered on sociopathy. Damn (no pun unintended), that woman was mean.
4) Metal-tipped yardsticks should be banned by the Geneva Convention. Were them nuns into corporal punishment? Every chance they could get! I still have scars on the back of my hands, and do you want know why my penmanship is as bad as it is? Try having your fingers broken and still write cursive. Do they even teach cursive anymore?
5) I always got in trouble for asking "Why"? Apparently, a kid is never supposed to question Sister or Father or Mother Superior, even when the question is perfectly legitimate and the product of a child's curiosity. Why should I believe in Salvation when all you do is tell me why I'm going to hell? They didn't like that one, trust me.
6) They don't teach the Bible. Practically never. They don't encourage people to read it. "No," they say, "let us interpret it for you." Horsefeathers! You could go to Mass every day of your life and never hear all of it. Be defiant and read it for yourself. You'll be astounded by all the things they have wrong and/or misinterpreted. Then go ask them about it. Bring first aid dressings for your hands, you're going to need them. It doesn't matter if you're 70, that yardstick is a-comin' out again.
7) The organists are zombies, undead and unclean. How else could they turn even "Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee" into a monotonous funeral dirge? Everything is played in a minor key and at half its intended speed. And, only Catholic organs have a "fingernails across the chalkboard" stop. It's a wonder that I still became a musician.
8) No Mass can be said without mentioning the "parish debt". It's just another guilt-mongering tactic. Among the many problems the church has failed to consider in wondering why people don't give more money is that a good Catholic family with eight children can't afford a full tithe. Mixed messages, people, mixed messages.
9) Priests shouldn't engage in marriage counseling. I don't care how many classes they've taken, what do they know about it? There's no good reason that they shouldn't, because:
10) Priestly celibacy is a crock of fetid dingo's kidneys. They made it up in the 11th century (don't take my word for it, go look it up), not wanting to have to pay to provide for the families of priests. Before that, priests (even Popes) could and did marry. Now, a thousand years later, they're knee-deep in a seemingly unending series of sex scandals, mostly involving priests and young boys. This is a serious and severe problem which I do not take lightly, but: If you decide to take the Word of God out of context and twist it into church dogma, then don't be surprised when it turns around to bite you. By the way, those large settlements they've had to pay out? Where's all that money coming from? See #8.

I'm getting dangerously tetchy, am I not? I'd better back down a bit to:

11) Why does anyone want to go back to Latin Mass? I'm just old enough to remember them. I had a missal (your basic little book that you bring with you to church; nowadays, they're paperback pamphlets that live there) with Latin on one side and English on the other. I admit that it has served me admirably in vocabulary and classical studies, but is there a good reason to take an already-unclear ritual and conduct it in a "dead" language?
12) How come the priests have to read the liturgy every week? Can't they memorize it? Look, I'm an actor and I memorize my lines.... these guys are doing almost the exact same thing every week, and they get to read it out of a book. Unfair.
13) "Sunday School" classes are not held on Sundays. No, they have this wretched thing called "CCD" (which, for the majority who do not know, including many Catholics, stands for "Continuing Christian Development") which they schedule at the most inconvenient times, either after school or in the evenings. The parents don't like it any better than the kids do, so why isn't there a revolt? See #5.
14) The Mass missals have no centerfolds. Come on, there must have been some racy saints....
15) I could never collect a whole deck of 52 holy cards. Also, if you attempt to use them in a game of Magic: The Gathering, you will get your butt handed to you. Saints preserve us!
16) Speaking of the saints, many of the stories are patently untrue. The whole business about Saint Patrick? Almost entirely blarney. Don't get me started on it, since I'm Irish and it hacks me off. Saint Genesius, of whom you have never heard? The patron saint of actors. Even the Catholic church acknowledges that the story isn't at all true. Saint Christopher got demoted because it got out that his story wasn't accurate. However, if you're in the mood to challenge them on this, remember #5.
17) Mary did not remain a virgin. Get over it. Oh, I've really done it now, haven't I? Look, she was a good Jewish wife, and certain things were required of good Jewish wives. One of them was producing children. She probably had a bunch. We know the name of at least one of them: "James, the brother of Jesus" is referred to in the Bible, and the root word in the original language means brother in the literal and traditional sense. Half-brother, to be sure, but they had the same mother. Argue with me all you want, I'll just get out the Bible and prove it. Same deal with the Assumption: It's not in the Bible.
18) The Pope is human, and therefore is fallible. See, the whole point of Jesus coming to love the life He did was that it isn't possible for a human to live a perfect life. You have no idea how much trouble I got into for contending this in CCD (See #13). It's simply a matter of logic. Besides, anyone can pick an issue about which they think the Pope is flat wrong, whether they're willing to admit it or not. For instance:
19) This whole argument over contraception is ridiculous. Most people cannot afford to have huge families, and only a few want to. Practically every Catholic couple I know engages in "family planning", as it were, and I think it's responsible to do so. No, abortion is a whole other issue and I'm not talking about that. However, "be fruitful and multiply" doesn't mean to do it with complete abandon. And we've already covered in #9 & #10 that the whole celibacy thing doesn't work. Also, even talented musicians can't make the "rhythm method" work.
20) They fail to admit that Nunsense is so funny because it's so true-to-life. I thought I'd stop breathing the first time I saw it. When they came out with the little metal "cricket" to call on the audience for an answer, I nearly died laughing. "Amusing satire", they call it. Hah! What's a "cricket"? You'd have to have attended a Catholic school to even know. I will say that it curiously resembles a metal roach. As opposed to a roach clip, which I've never seen a nun use. In class.
21) Holy water tastes like stale diet tonic water without a twist of lime but with a hint of toilet cake. Yes, I know you're not supposed to drink it. I was also a little kid, and logically figured that if I drank some, I'd be a better and holier person. Apparently, even if it worked, it's had no lasting effect, or I wouldn't be writing this.
22) There's a patron saint for every ridiculous thing you can think of. Think I'm exaggerating? Hah! For instance, if you're having trouble with your browser while reading this, then just pray to Saint Isidore of Seville Sanctus Isidorus Hispalensis, who's the proposed patron saint of the Internet. There's a whole site full of such trivia at Catholic Online. It's official and everything, so you can't have an opinion about it. Not unless you want to be in danger of #5, which we just don't seem to be able to get past.
23) Confession is too prone to extortion. I'm not saying that most priests would blackmail you.... or even that a lot of them would. It only takes one, and that's the one you're going to get. Also, it doesn't matter how many "Our Fathers" you say, nothing can atone for the Detroit Lions. My chief objection to this process is that it implies that God will not listen to you unless you're talking to a priest. Um, Jesus never said that and I can prove it. There's that pesky Bible again, it just keeps getting in the way. How is it really supposed to work, anyway? Do priests have a little iGod in with them and input it whilst in the little booth?
24) What's the deal with Purgatory? Huh huh huh? Only the Catholics have this "place" between heaven & hell where you supposedly go if you've been bad, but not too bad. Here, your venial sins (as opposed to mortal sins, which are more serious and usually involve more profanity) are burned away (no, that's what they told me as a kid) until you're "clean" enough to go to heaven. Look, none of us is "clean" enough to get into heaven; that's why we need Salvation, and that's why Jesus came, and that ought to settle it. It's just another thing they hold over your head. Like the metal-tipped yardstick. Except this one's in another dimension.
25) WILL YOU PEOPLE PICK A DATE FOR EASTER AND BE DONE WITH IT?? Every single significant occasion in the church calendar (don't forget that Bingo is on Tuesday) has a specific date for it, including Christmas, even though we don't really know on what exact date Jesus was born. Fine; a day was picked (there's a reason why it was December 25, but that shall remain unexplained, in order to create an air of mystery and wonder at this blog entry)(Mainly, you wonder why I wrote it). We all agree on it & use it, and it's the principle, the significance of the occasion that makes the day special. This one day is set aside to observe the birth of Christ. All well and good, and mostly everyone is happy with it, especially the merchants whose livelihoods depend so much upon the commercialization thereof. Oh, but not Easter.... it's a movable feast. Rather than taking the space to explain how they do it, if you're really curious, check out this "Explanation". The crux of the matter is why they do it, and the answer is this: It's based on the pagan lunar calendar. There are 13 months in the lunar claendar, which does not line up with our 12 month calendar. Toss in the fact that 13 lunations do not equal 365 days, and you've got a bit of a mish-mash on your hands. Come on, it could be much easier than that! OK, you want it always to be on a Sunday, because there's Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday and all that? Fine. Make it like Thanksgiving, which is the last Thursday in November. How about the first Sunday in April? Not the second or third, because that would be too close to April 15th, and there's that whole thing about death and taxes that doesn't fit in well with the whole Resurrection thing. Nooooooo, that would be too easy. They'd rather preserve their piece of mystery and wonder by making it too hard for the average person to figure out (although once you know the system, it isn't difficult). So, Jesus arises on a different day every year.... which day is it? You don't know, so you'd better be ready! Besides, see #5 and find out what asking them to explain it will get you. More of #4, just for starters, and then a healthy dose of #24. Ouch.

So, that's my experience with Catholicism by the numbers. The good news is that I have, over time, come to terms with all of these things, and come out all right in the end. One of the keys to this process was becoming "Not-a-Catholic-anymore", since we never could resolve the #5 issue. Oh, that doesn't mean that I don't believe in God or anything. Indeed I do! But, that's another story for another time. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to figure out when Easter is.... count back 40 days to Ash Wednesday, when all good Catholics come out of the closet with their smudge of ash on their foreheads, and most importantly, figure out what the day before Ash Wednesday is. The church calls it Shrove Tuesday; most of the rest of us refer to it as Mardi Gras. Now, there's a movable feast we can all enjoy!

25 Random Things

I got goaded into putting up this list on Facebook, and I figured that I'd put it here, too, just for the fun of it.

It's one of those things that you're supposed to do and then tag 25 other people for them to do the same. So far, the results have indeed been interesting, as well as the comments on my own.

25 Random Things About Me:

1. I was originally a pre-med major.... so along with my degree in acting & directing, I have a minor in science. Weird.

2. It takes me two hours to wake up and get going after I get up. I am SO not a morning person. Morning people should be severely punished.

3. I'm ambidextrous. I can write illegibly with either hand.

4. My computer/music room is painted royal purple. It's also royally disorganized.

5. I don't get stage fright (unless I have to sing classically; then I worry).

6. I'm a reformed Type A personality. Constant perfectionism takes too much effort, and other people find it annoying. I still have to fight it, though.

7. Few things make me angrier than being told what I think.

8. I like food that hurts (hot, spicy, bring it on!).

9. First, it was a one-book project, and now it's a THREE-book project, and there's nothing I can do about it but tell the story with as much truth and honesty as I can.

10. I don't have much talent for foreign languages. Despite this, I'm trying to teach myself Irish Gaelic.

11. I am a person who cares about cats. I dislike dogs intensely.

12. I hate dressing nicely (unless there's money involved). Ties are a kind of stylized noose.

13. In spite of its incredible simplicity, people misspell and get my name wrong all the time.

14. I'm a Christmas Eve baby. My birthday is September 24.

15. I fractured my skull by falling down a set of concrete stairs when I was nine months old. Some people feel that this explains a lot.

16. My high school nickname: Spock.

17. I'm an unreformed folkie, and I love singer/songwriter/guitarists.

18. I could have stayed in college my whole life, getting degree after degree. I love to learn, am eternally curious, and school beats the heck out of reality.

19. The more I read in the newspaper about the state of our nation, the better the idea of moving to Ireland looks.

20. I met my wife in a men's dressing room. I came in dressed as an Indian; she introduced herself, pulled my clothes off me and stuffed me into a nine-foot-long furry green crocodile suit. Absolutely true.

21. I have a picture of myself with Helen Hayes, first lady of the American theatre. One of us is dead now.

22. There are probably 2,500 books in the house.

23. I took two years of ballet in college.

24. I've picked up many skills as a result of being in the theatre.... For instance, I sew and have had my own machine for 30 years.

25. I can't draw, paint, sketch, or anything like that, and have always wished that I could. I stick to photography.

26. I know the rules call for 25, but I'm a dedicated nonconformist.

Topic Block

One of the problems that comes with not having added a post in a long while is that there is this great inertia behind the idea that the next topic had better be a darned good one.

Indeed, this is one of the many things that has kept me from posting. I can't say much for the part of last year when I had some surgery, things went wrong, and I took months to recover. In any case, I'm not going to talk about it, since it's not a "fun" topic. On the brighter side, I was involved in several artistic projects, which were challenging and rewarding. Those DO bear talking about, but then again, I'm not sure if I want that to be my topic.

Then there's the concept that it's just a blog post, and it doesn't have to be "about" anything. I hated Seinfeld for that very reason; watching a show that was proudly "about nothing" was irritating. I never made it through a whole episode. So, it seems that I ought to come up with some sort of solid idea.

But I digress. Which mostly proves that said idea has not come to me yet.

It is this kind of pressure, to do "something significant", that keeps a lot of people from doing things that they ought to do. Mostly, it's a fear of failure that drives this feeling; who wants to trip, fall down and look like an idiot? Well, I'm an actor and I do that with regularity, so that isn't what's stopping me. In fact, people enjoy watching me fall down and hurt myself. One of these days, I must figure out why that is.

So, here we are. 2009 is upon us. Idiot-Boy has gone home to Texas. The Super Bowl is nigh (though I don't know why I mention it, since I care so little about it that I don't even remember what teams are playing, and they're playing the stupid game in Tampa, which ain't far from this, my exiled cultural wasteland). A guy makes a textbook-perfect ditching of a plane in a river, and nobody loses their life.

Now, that's impressive.

Is this a hint of a topic?

I actually have little, if any, fear of flying, because I know that statistically, the chances of anything going seriously wrong are pretty small. Flying used to be kind of fun, before all this idiocy with taking off your shoes and such. It isn't so much the shoes that I mind, it's the belt. My buckle always sets the metal detector off. So, it isn't bad enough that you have to walk in your stocking feet to the nearest chair to put your shoes back on; no, you have to re-thread your belt, which means re-tucking your shirt.... it feels like getting changed in the dressing room sans the booth. the fact that everyone else is doing the same thing doesn't make it any more fun.

Side thought: Why don't underwire bras set the alarm off?

The whole security procedure is a nuisance that kills off any potential enjoyment of flying. It wouldn't be so bad if I couldn't think of a number of ways to "beat the system", which I think a lot of people can, at least in part. Sure, check my ID, by all means, especially since I don't have an actual ticket (online reservations mean that all you get is a boarding pass. Still, the airlines seem to manage the information all right. The downside to that is that they have an alarmingly large amount of information about you stored in their computers). But they don't look very hard at it. I've yet to have one of the TSA workers cross-check the name, look at the picture, and then look up to make sure that I am the same person. They also miss the chance to snidely observe that my driver license has one of the worst possible pictures of me on it. I wouldn't pass that up, as long as I politely followed it with some conciliatory phrase, such as "you poor, poor thing."

Then come the snake lines. DAMN the Disney people for having invented the snake line. OK, it saves space, I get that. However, it also means that you keep passing that same guy who's apparently never heard of deodorant in his life over and over. "Please," I think, "for the love of God, don't let him be my seat-mate on my flight." Thus far, God has been merciful and it hasn't happened. Then you have to put your bag with all your toys in it through the x-ray machine. I don't like this, because I don't like other people playing with my toys. Call me selfish, or call me the product of a large family. I don't care which.

You know what I miss, though? It used to be that you flew with people. This was before everyone was so self-absorbed in their laptops, their iPhones or their Gameboys. In the "old days", people were actually forced to say hello to one another. One time, I had this fascinating conversation with a woman who flew hot air balloons for Budweiser. She even gave me her card and hinted strongly that I should call her. Well, I never did, being spoken for, but it was nicely flattering and one of the most interesting travel conversations I've ever had. It would never happen today.

I suppose I've gotten just as guilty as other people in this regard, but not purposefully. I'm extremely sensitive to sound, so I have a noise-reducing headset on (not one of the fancy noise-cancelling headsets; would that I could afford them). Even walking the echoing halls of the airport, I have to have them on. People just assume that I'm listening to something, and leave me alone. I guess they're just being polite, when they aren't caught up in their e-devices. But I get my licks in my running my iPod ear buds underneath the headset and I listen to music for nearly the whole flight. I used to read on flights (you'll seldom catch me without a book), but even with the noise dampened, I find it hard to concentrate and enjoy the book.

So, sitting there with my headset and music standing between me and, say, the captain coming on the intercom, I might have missed the announcement to brace for impact that the USAir passengers were treated to just before they got introduced to the Hudson River in a very personal way (not actually; I can still hear such things just fine through my barriers, but it makes for a better example if I say otherwise).

Were I to be informed that my plane was about to crash, I think the firs thought that would run through my mind would be "What a stupid way to die." Then, for the sake of my family, I think I'd turn my cell phone on and text my wife & daughter goodbye and tell them that I love them.

What if everyone did that, which in this day and age seems likely? There you'd be, in with a hundred, two hundred people about to share the ultimate life experience (that is, having it suddenly taken away), and people would STILL be in their insular little electronic worlds. The news reports say that the passengers who crashed into the river didn't scream as it was all happening. Perhaps they were too stunned, or just didn't have the time.

More likely, however, they were all preoccupied with those same devices that are making the world smaller, yet making us more distant from each other every day. An interesting conundrum.

So, in light of that, and the extreme wave of emotion sweeping over the country as we've sworn in a new president, maybe it's not so significant that I couldn't come up with a brilliantly-written blog entry. In the cosmic scheme of things, it's not that big a deal, eh? On the other hand, I would have preferred something more than rambling, even though my rule for writing these things is "One draft, one revision, and post the darn thing." That's the challenge I've set for myself here, and to come up with a reasonably good result in the process. Sometimes, that works out well. The two very first entries I put up when I started The Eye Wit, I'm very happy with. Others, I'd love to go back and delete, but that's one of my other rules: No looking back.

So, if you happen to be reading this several months from its original date (and I hope you are while you've stopped in), let me just simply point out that they can't all be gems. Still, I have to start 2009 somewhere, and at least I have set the initial bar kind of low (he said, laughing bitterly at himself).

2009 is going to be a year where a lot of people are looking for higher "bars" than we've had in this country for a long while. Let's hope that we're all up to the challenges involved.

Election Day 2008

Get out and VOTE!

I could say a lot more, and probably will, but I have very little patience for those who are eligible to vote and are either not registered or don't bother.

Correct that; I have NO patience.

Too much was paid to obtain that right and to keep it.

All elections are important, but this one is particularly so. We have serious issues that this country must deal with. It's not a time to talk "patriotic" and not do anything about it.

If you're one of the ones who can't be bothered or just makes lame excuses (excuse ME, but there's early voting in many states, there are absentee ballots, and employers are supposed to make allowances to help their employees get out to vote), from here until the next election, SHUT UP. I don't want to hear any moaning or complaining from people who had every chance to participate and did not. Such people should lie back and take what they get, no questions asked.

As for those of you who have already voted, or will by the time the polls close, thank you. Whichever way you voted, it MATTERS. It says that you care about what happens to and in this country, and to its people and the people of this world. Myself included.

It isn't too much to ask, is it?

My First LOLcat Recaption

Taking It to Belgium

And let's face it; they have it coming.

My European friends tell me that in Europe, they tell "Belgian" jokes much as we used to tell Polish jokes. This, of course, has generally fallen out of favor because 1) We've maturely moved on to apply the same jokes to other ethnic groups, and 2) They aren't so damn funny to begin with, unless you're still stuck in a fourth-grade mentality, which is why these jokes are very popular in the White House.

Passing those by, there's not a lot to work with here. There are simply not enough clever lines to plague the Belgians with based on what they're known for: Waffles, chocolate, Brussels sprouts, banking, and postage stamps. What kind of material is that? Antwerp jokes? There are about two. No, clearly this must be a dull country if that's the best that they can come up with.

I would be remiss if I didn't at least mention Hercule Poirot, who is a fictional invention of Agatha Christie, but Belgian nonetheless. What a simpering, prissy, fussy and condescending fellow he is. What with all the time he spends meticulously grooming his famous moustache and eating like he's got 12 gourmets hiding inside of him, it's a wonder that he had time to solve anything. Think of Monk on steroids and sporting a high-cholesterol addiction. There. I just saved you the trouble of reading a lot of books. You can thank me later. Cash is the preferred form of thanks.

Belgium is also known as hospitable, to the point of surrendering even faster than France in World War II. "You need a way around the Maginot Line? Sure, come on into the Low Countries! There's more to see than you think!" Some countries shouldn't be allowed to have tourist bureaus.

However, now I have them where I want them, and this time, I'm striking at a source of considerable national pride. Something so important, that they'll be celebrating the whole year over it, this being the 50 year anniversary of its humble beginnings. Will there be parades and statues erected? I don't know, I suppose they will. Anything for a bank holiday. They have exported this product, this phenomenon, all over the world and boast of its genius and yea do they gloat because no one else can lay claim to them.

What could possibly be so important, so incredible, and so pervasive that you've been distracted by them so thoroughly that it escaped your attention entirely that they came from Belgium? What has Belgium chosen to be their symbolic presence in the world? Well, I'll tell you:

Smurfs.

That's right: Smurfs. It was just over 50 years ago that Pierre Culliford first committed these little abominations of nature onto paper. If he weren't already dead, he'd deserve to be for foisting these blasted, uber-annoying twerps (oh, I guess that's three) things on an unsuspecting world. What I really want to know is this: What the hell was the matter with that guy, and what is the deal with these things? More to the point: Why are they popular??

I could theorize for years about the latter and still not come up with a reasonable answer. The only observation I care to throw in that direction is a quote from Lazarus Long: "Never underestimate the power of human stupidity." Well, that, and the fact that the US electorate voted for four more years of George Bush in 2004, which is only proof of the first axiom.

But I digress.

Doesn't the "social structure" of the blue things bother you? There's one old guy, one chick, and seemingly thousands of guys. Right there, you have problems. Now, I don't generally have a problem with Papa Smurf, except that he's the only one who seems to be a parent, and the Smurfette is way too young for him. I don't care if there are some May-December relationships that work (shut up, Michael Douglas, you lucky bastard), it just isn't that way in cartoons. Ask Disney. Disney keeps it age-equivalent, even if there are too many Caucasian couples involved. No, from the dialogue I overheard from the countless times my younger sisters had this drek on the TV on Saturday mornings, Papa Smurf seems to be Smurfette's papa, too. If there's only one Papa, then all the male Smurfs must be his, too, so to reproduce, there's going to be incest involved. Is this the sort of thing you want your children to be watching?? Furthermore, you can't help but notice the tight white pants on the Smurf guys; clearly, there ain't no "package" going on there. So, if the Smurfette doesn't seem interested in any of them, you can understand why. And, if they can't get Smurfette to put out, no wonder the damn things are all blue. Apparently, it must spread.

Then there's the way they talk. One adjective in their whole vocabulary: "Smurfy". What is that all about? There is some logic attached to that, though: Yes, they really are that stupid. What else? Adverb = "Smurfily". Sounds like a venereal disease. Profanity: "Go Smurf yourself!" Considering how idiotic the whole Smurf thing is, that's actually a pretty harsh thing to say. What's the pluperfect subjunctive version of the verb "Smurf"? I don't even want to know.

The thing is, most cartoonists are observational in some way, directly or indirectly. Where did Culliford get his inspiration for Smurfs and their little society? Well, I think that we can say for certain that they don't resemble and human culture that we know of, nor anything in nature. Nature abhors a vacuum, and Smurfs are nothing but vacuous. That's human culture that we know of. Now, my question to you is: What do you really know about Belgian society? I'm betting the answer is bupkus. Nothing. They don't teach it in school, there's nothing in the papers about Belgium, nothing in everyday life that reminds you of Belgium.... except the Smurfs.

Logically, then, we can only conclude that life in Belgium and its people are represented by the Smurfs. Sure, I'm reasonable, and I'll bet that they don't all wear the same outfit, especially since it does get cold there, and I'll bet that there's at least more than one old Belgian. Outside of that, I'm not sure. It explains a few things: How did the Germans march straight through Belgium to invade France in WWII? Simple: How much resistance are a bunch of six-inch-high androgynous twerps going to put up? What's the deal with the waffles with the really big squares? Easy: The squares are for the Smurfs to curl up and sleep in. The famed chocolate? I'm afraid the only source that they have must be Smurf poo. Personally, I'm allergic to chocolate and can't say if Belgian chocolate tastes substantially like some brand of poo, but look at the stuff some of their neighbors eat. The French eat snails. Snails are gross. How do I know? I tried them once, and trust me, they're no kind of aphrodisiac. More like an emetic. The Norwegians eat lutefisk, which is fish cured in lye. You know, lye. The stuff that's the main ingredient in Drano. Case closed.

The only further proof I need to convince you that all of this is true is to use the deft logical reasoning of our friend, Hercule Poirot. He'd stick by me and my contentions, and we can trust his brain exercises much more than anything truly Belgian because he's a fictional character made up by a British writer. How was anyone to know that his existence was impossible, and that Belgians are all actually some mutant version of Smurfs? Because apparently nobody goes there. They don't have to. Banking is all electronic now, we have the waffle recipe, and the little boxes of poo, er- chocolate keep arriving.

No, I think you can have Belgium. I don't want to go there, I've read enough Agatha Christie, I can live without fattening food like waffles, and I am not touching the chocolate. I used to wonder how Belgium even got into the European Union, and then I found out that it came down to a very close vote. It was all tied up, with one faction wanting to dissociate themselves from the lowland blue demons, and the other side thinking how tacky it would be to leave a hole that big on the map. It came down to the Swiss delegation, and they're so persnickety about being neutral that they can't make up their minds about anything, so Belgium got in by default. That makes about as much sense as Guam having a delegate to the major parties' conventions. Why is Guam a possession of the US, considering where and how small it is? And who cares what the people on Guam think, in the larger picture? No offense, Guammarians, but you're not a Super Tuesday state. I'm sure you're all very nice people, and interesting to meet.

Plus, you're not little blue Belgians. Thank God for that.

Happy Freakin' Valentines Day

I hate "greeting card company" holidays. This is an axiom.

Life isn't difficult enough without some stinking corporate group taking out a monopoly on yet another date on the calendar? We're not smart enough, on our own, to know when it's time to do "that something special" for someone?

Actually, rhetorical in nature as they may be, the answer to both questions is "yes". Yes, life is plenty damned difficult. And yes, we're generally not smart enough to know when to do something special for someone; in this day and age, we generally stink at doing little things such as calling or writing someone just to let them know we care. That's a great pity, and a loss to us all.

This, however, is no excuse for Valentine's Day.

Valentine's Day is no excuse for Valentine's Day.

It's generally agreed that the day is Saint Valentine's Day, in observance of the martyrdom of some Roman named Valentinus in approximately 269 A.D. Defiantly did he cling to his faith in the face of persecution, the legend says. To his heathen detractors and their strenuous arguments in favor of free love and other fun ways of living, did he scoff "Your words don't even have a smidgenth of a point!" This made his detractors very angry. For one thing, they resented being patronized with a fallacious argument based on something as weak as mere diminuitive hyperbole. For another, they were mad because they didn't know what a "smidgenth" was, but they were pretty darn sure that it meant that Val was saying that something of theirs was small. Jumping to the usual conclusion along those lines, they decided that they'd show him that they had a point, after all. Lots of them. So they tied him to a tree, sharpened up a bunch of arrows, and shot Valentinus repeatedly through the heart. Normally, this is fairly lethal, but apparently he lived long enough to pose for several famous paintings before expiring, his eyes turned to heaven in that dramatic look saved for martyr icons which cries out "I didn't sign on for this!" Always just a smidgen too late.

By the way, the contention that this murder was carried out by a bunch of Juvenal delinquents from the theatre is just a nasty rumor.

But I digress.

That Valentine story always gets me all hot, bothered and libidinious, how about you? Don't feel bad, the Vatican wound up bailing on it and officially dropped St. Valentine from canonical celebration in 1969, coincidentally just two years after the historic Summer of Love. Coincidental because it didn't matter what the Vatican said, a lot of Catholics went and used Valentine's Day as an excuse for a lot of casual sex. Other days, they used completely different excuses in addition to fresh- well, perhaps I'm going into more detail than I need to. Let it pass.

Now, I could go through the whole bit about the obvious sexual symbolisms of the heart & arrow, and the sociological evolution of the exchange of thinly velied, sanctioned invitations to various forms of social intercourse, but it's been done to death already. It's not the point that I'm eventually trying to get at. Or rather, back to, since I already broached the subject.

Corporations. Doing their bidding for their profit, while we're supposed to blithely go along and think that it's our idea, spending billions of quatloos that we don't have each February 14th to let our "significant others" know that we love them. No, we dare not try to ignore it or risk failure; the fiendish truth is that they've so carefully contrived this "tradition" that it isn't our significant other we have to worry about looking bad to. It's everyone else!! Think about it: Are we not trained to ask each other what we gave/got for Valentine's Day to make sure we "meet the standard"? Haven't we been cornered into worrying about what everyone besides our significant others will think? Look, we have 364 other days of the year to get it right or wrong at home (personally, I think that a little bit of honest effort on a daily basis beats the concept of risking blowing the whole wad on 2/14), but people are not going to shut up about Valentine's Day for months, especially if you gave your wife a blender. If you give your wife a blender for Valentine's Day, you deserve what you get. I've done a lot of intense research into the field of innuendo, and there's nothing remotely sexual about a blender.

So, who are the robber barons in this sham of a holiday? Easy: Greeting card companies, florists, chocolatiers, jewlers, and plastic surgeons. Leaving the latter behind for another time, this group of corporate thieves are what finally bring me around to the center of my argument proving my point that it is mere money-grubbing, and that center is: Buddha.

No, not that Buddha. This was the nickname of a friend of ours, now sadly gone. However, he came, in his own way, to be the proof incarnate of the underlying insinuation of this whole enterprise: That if you give a woman the right gifts, then she has to have sex with you. Oh, don't look at me like that, that's what the whole Valentine's industry is focused on. Let me tell you a little story....

I was working with a local producer on a couple of television commercials for a very loyal supporter of the local theatre. As a way of thanking him, we were going to help put together a couple of TV commercials. This is a guy who doesn't fool around. He started off as a jeweler, and now sells jewelry, flowers, chocolates, cards, and fine wines and more, as a sort of one-stop guilt assuagement center. He is deadly serious about Valentine's Day. We made two; the first one I was in, but the second featured Buddha. Why was he called Buddha? Well, tipping in at 480 pounds, he kind of looked like a Buddha. Actually, what he really looked like was a grown-up Eric Cartman from South Park, and had many a personality quirk shared with Cartman. My concept was simple: We collected together ten very attractive women.... then took clips of them variously enjoying all the wonderful products from the store. Well, one thing led to another and soon it became a competition between them, seeing who could render a more "sensual" appreciation of their flowers, or candies, or whatever the case was. Then we cut to a group shot of them all together, all these women who were totally enchanted by these wonderful goodies..... suddenly the group split apart, revealing Buddha, who stood up and said "Yesssss!!" and thanking the store for his good fortune. Then there was some music, and he did a little dance.... all in all, this was a really cute 30 second spot. The gag, of course, was that even an overgrown Cartman could score with gorgeous women if he came to this store and bought the right things. Not just one, either; TEN of them! Obviously, this must be one hell of a store.

The commercial had been playing for a while, when I got a call from the owner telling me he was pulling the "Buddha" spot. I asked why, and he said he'd gotten a few complaints from callers saying that the commercial was overtly sexual, and that it implied that women could be bought with jewelry, flowers, chocolates, wine, and all the rest. This confused me for a moment, as I weighed the news and tried to put in in perspective, since we're talking all of three callers. I said "Tom, isn't that more or less the whole point of your store?" He paused on the other end and said he'd think about it. Prudes be damned, the commercial soon returned to the local airwaves.

So there you have it: "Insider information" that proves that the whole Valentine's Day scam is about profits and nothing else. We should be ashamed of ourselves for falling for it, but the effect is endemic. True to the deBeers commercials, I actually know men who have saved up and spent exactly two months' salary on an engagement ring. I'm sorry, but I refuse to buy into this whole Pavlovian response business. I prefer to do things my own way, thank you very much.

Which, uh, does not mean that I didn't send my wife flowers today. Yeah, I did, but I did it because I wanted to, not because of the expectations of---

You're not buying this, are you?

OK, I caved. I sent two dozen roses in red, pink & white to be delivered conspicuously to her at work. I did pass on the optional singing stripper, it seemed excessive. The bottom line is, while I feel perfectly comfortable (yea, entitled; I even feel obligated) to make fun of people for falling into this trap, I'm not comfortable with those same people making fun of me for falling down on the job when it comes to VD. That's "Valentine's Day", for those of you who just took the perverse meaning of the acronym. For it is we, who are of snide mind, who are best qualified to figure out a way to put an end to all this nonsense.

Uh, maybe next year.... right, guys?

Organized Stupidity

It's one thing to have stupidity present. It's another thing entirely to institutionalize it.

Case in point: We made the mistake a year ago of signing up for one of those IRS-approved Flex Spending Accounts for medical expenses. Such expenses do add up, and the advantage is supposed to be that you pay for them through this account with pre-tax dollars, therefore saving you money. I did the math, concluded that this could be true for us, and calculated a pretty darn accurate figure to have diverted from my wife's salary (since it's through her employer) into this account. The kicker, the dangling carrot, if you will, was that now they gave you a debit MasterCard which you could use at the health care provider (another overdone term that has crept into the vernacular) and access those funds directly. It sounded cool at the time.

Never, never get involved with one of these; what a mistake that turned out to be. For every single expense, down to one under $4.00, they insist on you providing more documentation than the IRS itself would ask for. What with the enormous amount of time I've spent dealing with this bureaucracy, and my time being valuable, I figure that we've actually lost money. In fact, we nearly lost a lot. We had a series of disputed amounts that added up to quite a bit. Specifically, $2,480 of our money. I had to send in the documents four times, the last one with an ugly letter saying what I was going to do if they didn't get it right this time.

Son of a betcha thought I was gonna swear! I got an update notice from the bureaucracy today saying that our submissions have been approved and that payment is pending. All $2,480, which has been already paid out of our pockets because the card stopped working early in the year. Naturally, I'll believe it when it's in my hands, banked & collected (like I trust the fools), but apparently someone must have read the part of my cover letter that said where I'd begin filing complaints. Either that, or we just got lucky for a change. I'll take it either way.

Naturally, it's the beginning of the year, so something on the health coverage just has to be changed. This time, it's the company serving prescription coverage. Now, this is a sensitive issue because the raw retail cost of what I take each month is rather a lot. Of course, drug prices are obscenely overblown here, but still.... our out-of-pocket is about $250 a month for all that, UNLESS you use the mail-in service which will save you 1/3 of the cost for most of what I take, because they'll send you three months' supply for the price of two (with me so far? LOL). Well, last year's company was so incompetent on the mail-ins that we gave up on it. However, for this year, they made a bureaucratic blunder: They accidentally went back to the company that's been by far the best in our experience. Imagine that! Let's see, that means we could save.... well, somewhere around $700 right there. In plainer English, I am expensive and a lot of trouble to have around. Whereas before I needed these medications, I was merely a lot of trouble.

Everything, it seems, is getting dumbed down, and this whole experience I've been having with these people is just another example. The basic forms you have to fill out are actually pretty simple (the rules and demands for accompanying documentation are more complex), so an "average" clerk ought to be able to dispense with one of those claims in maybe 5 minutes. Personally, I could do it much faster. However, these people take days, weeks, and in some cases, most of the year before getting it right. Where did they find these people? Another thing to beware of: The low bidder on a government contract. You can't even talk to these faceless (and nameless, as they don't tell you what it is in order not to be held accountable) drips on the telephone. That leads to a whole other set of headaches.

At least the medical plan covers the headaches. That's what some of the medication is for.

Isn't it aggravating when you call some business or agency (first, having to endure their automated answering systems, which is bad enough) where their "service representatives" don't know as much as you do about what you're talking about? Then there are their "scripts", which they deny having, but I used to work for a large corporation and I know that they swutting well do. The scripts are clearly designed for the lowest-common-denominator customers, and the clerks are so thick that they can't talk "off the page" and try to force you through the "stupid" path, refusing to actually listen to what you're saying, lest, all the gods forbid, they should wind up thinking. I mean, are people really that stupid? OK, maybe not the fairest way to put it. Yes, there are certainly SOME people that are that stupid. But, are there so many of them that it's necessary to construct all of society around them? Yes, there's plenty of evidence that there are that many, and a lot of this evidence is displayed at the voting booth. And television ratings. Why do people watch drek "reality shows"? Star-search me. Anyway, surely these people I've been dealing with are inbred relatives of the all the ones you've been dealing with in other places. Walk across the gene pool of your average telephone customer service representative or middle manager, and you won't even get your ankles wet. Where is Bob Barker when you need him? "Spay and neuter your morons", he would say. Maybe. If the price was right.

Today, one of the ultimate insults occurred. I don't know if you have this where you are (and I hope you don't), but now some companies are using automated dialing systems that call your number, and when you pick it up, they tell YOU to hold while you wait for the next available rep. What in the zarking fardwarks??? Do NOT call my phone and then tell me to hold; how rude can you get? I'd have hung right up, but I'd just been dealing with that other idiocy, and I let the woman who came on have it. I was loud, profane and probably abusive, and yelled at her to never again do such a thing. The nerve! If I call someone & am asked to be put on hold for a moment, fine. As long as I'm not left there interminably, I can have some patience for a working person. However, I'M the one who pays for my phone, and I'll be damned if I'm going to hold for some solicitor who shouldn't be calling me anyway, because I'm on the "do not call" list for solicitors. These same people who don't seem to understand the meaning of the two-letter word "No". Smoothly (for once), they move into the "overcoming objections" portion of their scripts, and won't be derailed by you saying "Excuse me? Didn't you just hear me say 'No!'?" Funny, I could swear that "no" means "no". Negatory. Unh-unh. No dice. Forget about it. Eventually, you often have to resort to rudeness, either by simply hanging up (which is your right, since it's your telephone), or by shouting them down and telling them to stop it! The latter happens more often for me, because I want to make sure that they take me off their calling list. "After the Apocalypse is when it's a good time for me", I say.

This is of no help, of course, when you're the one calling and you need something out of them, such as finding out if they've lost your paperwork (of which they disapprove merely because it represents some actual work they'll have to do) yet again. "Well, surely it must be your fault, sir; it says so right here on the script on my screen". It's enough to make you want to bite through steel.

But you can't, because your dental plan doesn't cover that.

Besides, that would mean dealing with the dental plan's bureaucracy, which is separate from regular health care, and they have their own fiendish methods of driving you mad. And they don't even give you a "happy" sticker anymore when you've had a good check-up.

I suspect that the whole purpose of this intricately-woven idiocy is to get you so frustrated that you'll give up, and then they don't have to give you any service at all, even bad service, and they get the bonus of keeping your money.

Well, it's not going to be that easy with me for these brain-impaired "friends". One, I don't give up easily. Two, from past work experiences, I know "where the bones are buried", I know exactly which people and agencies to complain to to make their lives miserable. I'm fair about it and let them know this, and tell them quite plainly that it will be much simpler for them if they just do what I'm asking them to do. Now & then, that works. Now & then, I go straight from a dimwitted supervisor to thermonuclear tactics. Do any of you want to waste portions of your life dealing with untrained parrots who never listen? 'Cause I don't.

The maddening topper to all this is that they could do better, but they won't. It's enough to give you an ulcer. But watch out; there's a clause in the health insurance plan that says they don't have to pay for injuries that they cause you, unless, for some reason, it involves a ficus tree.

Maybe I shouldn't have planted that one by the front door.

That About Wraps it Up for 2007

And not a moment too soon.

It isn't that the year has been entirely bad, not at all. It's just that I'm ready for something fresh, something no one has ruined yet; a virgin year, if you will. After your average New Year's Eve party, there'll be very little virginity left, generally speaking, but that's not my personal problem. Nor will it be nine months from now, when those persons' "personal problem" has gotten a lot more personal. This just goes to prove once again that drinking impairs good judgment. Also, it makes you forget or not care that you left something important in the glove compartment of your car. Even though you're in the back seat.

Once again, not my personal problem. I don't go out on New Year's Eve, and haven't for many years. Partly, I want to avoid those people who've been drinking, whose judgment has been impaired, who have forgotten important things, and are trying to drive from the back seat while they're busy doing something else. I don't drink, anyway, and there's a limited amount of fun sitting around watching other people get smashed. Especially since I don't have a video camera, with the which I might make a profit on the evening. The Small Business Administration seems to think that this enterprise is unworthy of a loan. I say, they've never looked at the Internet.

As always, I look back on the year with mixed feelings. Certainly, it was a landmark year in many respects: My spouse and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary, I went to my 30th high school reunion, and my daughter just graduated from college. These are all fine, wonderful things.

That make me feel old.

"You're only as old as you feel!", younger people cheerily claim. That's part of the problem. Take a lesson from the Eye Wit, my friends, and take the extended warranty out on your body. I feel a lot older at the end of 2007 than I did at the beginning. And why is this? Hair greying? Yes, but only about 20% so far, and it's not falling out, hooray. Wrinkles? Really haven't any, I stay out of the sun, since I come from a long line of pasty, white people. No, it's internal systems that are the culprit, and I kind of only have myself to blame. I managed to get in two plays and the annual Christmas program this year. All well and good; great, in fact. Both plays were a lot of fun and turned out very well. What more could one ask?

Glad you asked.

The first one was Godspell, a bit of a surprise to find myself in. It was a sort of left-handed deal and I got drafted, but this was fine. Until opening night, when I (playing the Judas part) ran out to do a bit of betraying, and bent my knee decidedly sideways. For those of you who did not take Anatomy by Braille as I did, let me point out that the knee is not meant to go that way. Alas, I spent the rest of the run in a knee brace and in a good degree of pain. Small wonder, as it turned out; I'd torn the meniscus cartilage in that knee. This required arthroscopic surgery, which went very well, and I can't say enough good things about the practice that performed it except that anesthesiologist and his cryptic billing practices. Prognosis: Back to nearly normal in a month, and in about six months, I'd supposedly never realize that anything was ever wrong.

So it might have been.

But then, I got into this other play. Deceptive thing it was, too; on reading it, it seemed a lot easier to do that it turned out to be. Oh, it wasn't the pratfalls that were the problem; I've had plenty of practice falling down, since I am one of the least graceful people I know. No, it was the part where I was jumping up & down because I couldn't get my trousers off to have some hot sex with my co-star (on stage, you perverts). Later, I had to hop on that one leg several times. All of this was inadvisable, since the healing process hadn't completed. I didn't know it at the time, but shortly after the play closed, my knee caught up with me, and has been going downhill ever since. That tends to make one walk funny.

So, I limp (not without some embarrassment) back to the orthopedic surgeon's office to see what the deal is. That was this last Wednesday, and I'll be heading for an MRI on Monday.... because it seems like I've torn some more cartilage, but in a different area this time. This will likely lead to some more surgery, and I might get back to normal (if I'm careful this time) right about the time that it will have been a year since I did the play that injured it the first time.

So, there you are. My knee is going to cost me an entire year of pain and inconvenience, not to mention the money. I'd like to convince myself that it's just the knee, but since the thing is connected to the rest of my body, it's hard to deny that the rest of it isn't as old as it is. While at a doctor visit last October, he was ordering up some routine annual blood tests, and began to talk about what we'd be doing when I'm 50. Thanks very much, but that isn't for another two years and I'd rather not talk or think about it. Sure, it's hysterically funny that my brother turned 50 this year, but let's keep our perspective in focus. I do not want a colonoscopy, Sam I Am, I'd rather have green eggs and spam.

So, there you have my chief complaint about 2007: Time marched on. I don't care if it's perfectly natural or the order of the universe; I got dragged along with it this time, and I'm a bit testy about it. OK, OK, I'm going to have to start being more careful and remember that not only will I break more easily now, it'll probably never be the same if I do.

Maybe I should start acting my age.

Nah.

Change Your Perspective, Change Your Day

Well, the Wit has been awfully busy the last couple of months, but will soon resume the festivities here.

In the meantime....

This is not usually the kind of thing I do here, but it so happens that some friends sent me links to three videos (about 5-6 minutes each) that really made a difference to me today. My thanks to them for lifting my spirits.

First, watch this one: http://www.slide.com/r/yEEUvHngxz-5I7R9qF_IQLgrt1ryM9mV

Next, this one: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eadD2-9ZrmE

And finally, this one: http://www.slide.com/r/kgABqIos6T8M0FG4VtXgTy-7rMosbzU2

I thought I'd had a really bad last couple of days.... while none of them are connected to the holiday season, I find myself feeling much more celebratory.

If I don't write anything else before then, a merry & blessed Christmas & wonderful new year to all.

Where You Been, Man?

A question that I often ask myself, as I sometimes fail to pay enough attention to what I'm doing.

My literary lapse, as it were, is caused by my rehearsing a play, and it's taking up most of my creative energy.... as well as my energy in general.

(More to be added later....)

BeLaboring the Point

Last year, on Labor Day, I remarked upon the utter bloody uselessness of the holiday.

This means that I have to come up with another way to mock it....

No problem.

First off, I'd like to say that if I hear one more person on TV call it "the last weekend of the summer", I'm going to do something extreme. To begin with, I live in Florida (for reasons that are not my fault), and we have nothing BUT summer here. Also, much of the nation's midsection is in the throes of a blistering heat wave, and they probably don't think it's so funny, either.... especially if they've also been "blessed" with several feet of rain. No, don't make jolly remarks about the weather, thank you very much.

Maybe if we applied some of the traditions of other, more successful holidays, we can do something to spice up this "blar" weekend.

How about a Labor Day Tree? What would that look like? Hmmm.... strings of miniature office fluorescent lights, festive ornaments with the AFL/CIO logo, union labels, tinsel made from the "Do Not Cross" tape of picket lines....

Sounds ghastly.

Borrow from St. Patrick's Day and get roaring drunk? Nah, too many people are doing that anyway.

Maybe we could treat it like Valentine's Day, and give loving little cards to all the working people we encounter in our lives, letting them know how much we appreciate them. That might be a good idea for some that you know; hopefully, it's a lot. However, it would get spoiled by some overly egalitarian crusader who will, like a grade school teacher, insist that everyone gets one so no one's feelings are hurt. Well, forget it. Kenny, who manages to keep his job at the McD's drive-through for reasons that escape me, NEVER gets an order right. I don't like him and I'm not giving him a card pretending that I do. I might jot him some wishes on a napkin for him, but the twerp always forgets to put any in the bag.

This isn't working at all.

Go door-to-door and demand goodies while issuing a veiled threat of vandalism? No, that's impractical. All they'd have to give out is barbecue, because everyone barbecues on Labor Day weekend because that's what you're supposed to do because it's the last weekend of the stinking summer. I've never understood why you're "supposed" to put the barbecue away after Labor Day, as if it's tacky to grill when it's cold. I'd rather stand next to a fire when it's cold than when it's 95 degrees outside and mosquitoes are trying to vampirize me. Call me crazy. Still, it wouldn't wind up being much of a treat, because most people are relatively lame barbecuists. The food's greasy, too, and would soak through your bag and stain it, much like your trousers when you've accidentally "lost control".

This whole proposition is going rapidly downhill.

Hunt dairy products in the yard? No, I'm lactose intolerant. Set off explosives? If you have the equivalent of rednecks anywhere near you, they're doing it anyway. Have a parade? What's the point since they passed that darned ordinance forbidding nudity on the floats?

None of the options seem workable. I think what irritates me the most about the situation is that I not only march to the beat of a different drummer, I bring my own drum. How am I supposed to do something different, something counter-culture, if nobody else is doing anything special in particular?

Let's face it, Labor Day is just no fun. It's a day off with nothing to do but the same stuff you've been doing every weekend for the whole summer, on the lame argument that you'd better, since this is "the last one". Call that recreation? 'Cause I don't.

I could spend the weekend writing, work on some of those projects I'm constantly thinking up, and pop out an especially scintillating blog entry to put here.

But, forget about it. It's Labor Day. I'm not working this weekend.

The Silver Lining

Today marks the 25th anniversary of the day my wife and I got married.

25 years. 9,130 days. 219,120 hours. 13,147,200 minutes.

All in a row.

That's pretty impressive, eh? Evidently, it is, as we've been greeted by a plethora of reactions, ranging from hearty congratulations to jaw-dragging-on-the-ground disbelief. Then there were the few cases of outright anger. At first, we thought this might stem from jealousy, but it turned out that these were merely people who'd lost in the betting pool. Nobody will tell me how many people have predicted the demise of our marriage or when. Their main reason for this is that they don't want me "throwing the game" at just the wrong moment and secretly collecting all the money.

It isn't that I wouldn't like to have large sums of cash, it's just that you can't put that kind of price tag on some things. Besides, I don't secretly have any money in the betting pool, and inflation having been what it has over the last 25 years, however much is in there won't buy nearly as much as it once would have. Betting pool money doesn't earn any interest, either. I wonder who it is that's actually holding the money? Traditionally, it's the minister that married you, but in our case, he's a rather serious fellow who would fail to appreciate the humor. I suspect that it's my best man, since it's been terribly hard to keep track of him. Even now, I know not where he's gotten himself to. He, in fact, is on his second marriage; even so, I did badly in the pool by having picked "15 minutes". Now, in my defense, you haven't met the man, and it was my feeling that once his bride thought about it seriously, she have realized that she could've had a V8. She might've happily spent the rest of the reception sucking down Bloody Marys, but she stuck with it for a while. Too bad it didn't last, I kind of liked her. However, these things happen, betting pools or not.

In the bigger picture, marriage isn't a money-making prospect, anyway. Oh, sure, it used to be, back in more ancient days. Depending on the culture, someone would make a profit right off the bat. Most people are familiar with the process of giving a "dowry" with the bride. The word "dowry" comes from the same root word as "endowment". The bride may or may not have been well-endowed, but you hoped that her father would be. The dowry was essentially a "Here, take this money if you'll only take this girl off my hands so I can have some peace around here!" payment. The conundrum was, the higher the dowry, the worse the potential bride was. In simple economic terms, this makes perfect sense. Nobody's likely to volunteer to take that shrew home with them for less than 20,000 crowns and a lot of land. Not unless they're some testosterone-pumped cad from Verona who thinks it won't matter.

In other cultures, it was exactly the opposite; the prospective groom had to pay the "bride-price". This was his way of proving to the girl's father that he had lots of money with which to support his daughter. This proof came in the form of handing a large portion of that money over to the father for the privilege of having the bride's hand (and the rest of her, which is what the prospective groom was chiefly interested in) in marriage. Once again, simple economics ruled: The more desirable the prospective bride, the higher the bride-price was.

In our "modern" way of thinking, this is a pretty awful way to behave, because it treats women as if they're property and something to be merely bartered over, and denies the concept of true love. However, we still symbolically follow these practices; the wedding itself is by custom paid for by the bride's family. Thus we have the "dowry". The rehearsal dinner is customarily paid for by the groom's family, thus rendering a watered-down version of the "bride-price". Naturally, there's a large difference between the dollar amounts in most cases because the guy is usually getting someone who's far too good for him in the first place. The "dowry" of a really nice wedding is often much more than the slob in question deserves.

That's not to say that it doesn't go the other way, too. Some of the most astonishingly elaborate weddings I've ever been to have been to marry off a young woman to what we all agreed was a naive and unsuspecting young man. These young men make a common, yet fatal, mistake: Take a good look at the bride's mother. If she's a whining, shrill fishwife, then chances are good that the young man is going to wind up with a carbon copy before he knows what's hit him. The "fishwife" effect is what gave rise to the idiom of a woman "hooking herself a man".

The bait, of course, is the money.

However, here's where romantic love does swoop back into the picture. This young man will have friends, good and wise ones, who can see what's coming. They'll desperately try to talk him out of this crazy commitment while he can still escape relatively unharmed. Nothing for it, though; he'll steadfastly refuse, saying that it doesn't matter because he's in love with her. He's also being sucked in by the ornate ceremony replete with a string quartet; if the bride's father is going to sling around so many bucks just on the ceremony, well then, he's sure to keep giving lots of it to daddy's little girl afterwards. But I wouldn't bet on it.

This doesn't mean that nice, wonderful girls are all married in the run-down bait shop at the end of the street. Of course not; many weddings are happy, sincere, and every dollar is lovingly spent on two wonderful young people starting a life together. Such was the case with us; well, one of us was wonderful, anyway. I'm still working on it.

However, these modernized versions of the dowry and the bride-price are exactly what caused the rise of the now-ubiquitous existence of betting pools on the marriage. Both sides have a potential interest in the marriage breaking up at some point in the future. Oddly, it's the families themselves that find the greatest motivation. The groom's family, having gotten off comparatively cheaply, will invest heavily, figuring that they can make a killing and come out smelling like a wedding bouquet. The bride's family is looking to recoup the dowry-esque cost of the wedding. Most of the other bettors are people hoping to make back the cost of the wedding gift that they gave. Others are mere cynical observers who derive sadistic pleasure at the idea of peoples' most important relationships falling apart.

And it is this, this that gave rise to the tradition of unpleasant in-laws; each side is hoping to bust the marriage at just the right moment to collect the pot. The worse their behavior towards their child-in-law, the closer it is to the time they picked in the pool. It's as transparent as can be. Sisters and brothers-in-law are in on this game, usually in league with their parents. They, being younger, are more impetuous and impatient, so they start acting out much sooner because they picked an earlier date, not wanting to wait to cash in and get a piece of revenge for the incident involving their just-married sibling and the night of their own senior prom. Few things will enrage a a sibling like another sibling ratting them out to their parents about the fact that the prom couple secretly booked a hotel room for after the prom. Siblings don't forget that kind of stuff.

Who really gets the upper hand in all of this? Well, call me a romantic fool, but I'd have to go with the newly-married couple. They have the opportunity to make nearly everyone suck cheese and lose their wagers by defying them, and staying married after all. Happiness turns out to be the best revenge. No, it won't mean that the couple themselves will win the betting pool by default; that isn't the way it works. However, sometimes, they do wind up eventually collecting those bucks.

This most often comes in the form of a doting aunt, who always had faith in the couple, and took the risk of betting "Never" when asked when the marriage would go south. If you hit your golden wedding anniversary, all "Never" bets are honored by default. Thus, it is a happy occasion when an elderly aunt passes away and leaves a sudden boon of cash to the now long-lived couple. Where did the money suddenly come from? Why, it's been around for 50 years, just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Tough cookies to everyone who bet against such a couple; they'll have lost their "investment", and the statute of limitations means that they won't be able to write it off on their taxes (besides, they probably long since lost their receipt).

As for me and my spouse, having made it halfway, we intend to go the distance. We love the idea of being spoilers, and collecting the spoils for ourselves. Heck, we only have to make it another 25 years.

If we haven't killed one another by now, I think our chances are pretty good. Besides, one of the best ways to screw up an entire complicated scenario such as this is to throw an unexpected monkey wrench into the works, to introduce something so illogical as to defy the very basis upon which the scenario was founded.

We call it "being in love". That's our game, and we're sticking with it. So there!

Taking Off and Flying

One of the hardest, yet most rewarding things in life is to start and own your own business. Wouldn't you like to be your own boss?

Not me; I'm much too hard to get along with. I'd drive me crazy. You should hear the things I recently said to myself when I submitted an article that I thought was good to four different publishers and got roundly rejected.

But I digress. So soon, so soon.

Anyway, a friend of mine, by the name of Teresa Trotter (and thus was what her parents thought was a good idea at the time; it has served her well since) is trying to get her own independent business off the ground, by being a Tupperware dealer. Representative. Agent. Distributor. Uh, all of the above.

Ah, but not the olden-days thing of being a part-time "party hostess" and making a few extra dollars on the side; nope, she's got her sights set on making it a full-time endeavor. My hat's off to her, and all my good wishes. 'Cause it ain't easy.

I used to work in the financial industry (though I usually deny it, and in fact, you did not just read that phrase), and one thing I used to do was to help new businesses get off the ground. It's tougher than most people think. A lot of well-intentioned entrepreneurs don't make it to the first year mark. Why? Oh, lots of reasons.... I've observed many people who had good ideas, but not the smarts & experience to make it work. Not so with Teresa; she has her eyes wide open and has very precise goals and benchmarks that she knows she needs to make it work. She knows her product line (a lot wider than I thought, too), and knows the ways that the parent company works.

Well, then, there's that parent company, right? Don't they provide all the marketing for her? Not really; sure, you'll see ads for Tupperware, but individual dealers have to create their own networks & markets. It really is her independent business. Well, I here at The Eye Wit (what kind of phrasing was that?) would like to help her kick off & reach those goals. I've added a link to her site in my Essential Links column on the left side, but here it is again:

VISION2WIN - Tupperware from Teresa Trotter

The most direct way to help get her off to a roaring start is to simply order directly from her site; make sure it says "Teresa Trotter" in the upper right-hand corner (if you use the link, you should have no trouble). You can scroll through the current catalogs & see everything, it's very interactive. Get yourself some quality merchandise; I went to a Tupperware party when I was in college (hey, I was a bachelor who knew how to cook, rare as that may be), and I still have & use some of the pieces I bought. That was a lot of years ago. That cheeseball stuff from the store has some uses, I guess, but it's not a good deal financially in the long run, and it just adds to the waste disposal problem.... if you can recycle them when they soon bust, that's a good thing, but where I live, they don't take that kind of plastic. I'd rather have the real quality material that I re-use & don't replace; I figure it's more "green". I'm a green kind of guy. Plus, as a good example, the one I got to keep our bread in will pay for itself within mere months by keeping the bread fresher, and keeping those bloody tiny ants out of it. We've thrown away half-loaves and two fishes because they were full of those bugs, which are hard to get out of your house. Why we threw away the two fishes with the half loaf, I'm not sure. We do a lot of things I can't explain.

So, that's the main deal. You can still host parties (and that can be a really good deal for you) and be a rep for Teresa, , and obtain discounts in other ways, but I ain't qualified to explain all that. Best thing is to call her & ask; her number's right on the top right of her home page.

I've made my first order, and we're going to gradually get our kitchen in order and make much better use of the food we buy. Heaven knows, we can use the storage space we'll gain, too. I'm liking them stacking sets for the cabinet, and my cats would like something to keep their food fresher, so it's on my list. I also got my first follow-up sale offer from Tupperware. Just keep a little eye out on those when you click further; make sure Teresa's name is showing as your representative on any screen that you're ordering from and in the actual order. That should mean she will get proper credit for follow-up sales, which is as it should be. I plan to play it on the safe side and click directly to her site (the link IS there) and place the order through it; I recommend doing it that way.

She doesn't stop there, though; nope, Teresa's got many talents. If you happen to live in Texas or have a big design project that covers expenses... she's also a Designer and Professional Organizer for both residential and commercial clients. She can do everything from start to finish. She can teach homes and businesses to utilize every ounce of their space and she likes to incorporate Tupperware where needed, for its attractiveness & long-term value. That sounds great to someone like me, whose house in on the smaller side. And for commercial clients, it's simply bad business to waste space. Teresa can take care of the whole bit, and make it aesthetically pleasing to boot.

Anyway, that's the deal. Sure, this isn't one of my usual digressive stories, but I think it's something better: An opportunity to help someone achieve something.

Those are things that we shouldn't let pass by. Give Teresa a "click" and you can help, too, and get a great value back for your effort.

Thanks!

Slán, Weekly World News

It was via Craig Ferguson that the notice of the demise of my favorite tabloid came to me. Unlikely as it seems, the Earth will be a lesser place without the Weekly World News.

For those of you who are too classy to have ever associated with it (which is most of you), the Weekly World News was one of that collection of brain-draining tabloids at the checkout at the supermarket, along with such authoritative and dignified publications as the National Enquirer. Enquiring minds want to know, they say; well, I want to know why they're killing the rag that gave us Bat Boy. Yes, that's the thing that will make you remember WWN; that picture of the half-bat, half-boy staring at you in glorious black and white. That was the other unusual feature; save a few special covers, the WWN was never printed in color. There are reasons for this, good ones, too. However, they've never bothered to explain what those reasons are.

Who cares, anyway? It was the quality of the stories. Why, take the Apocalypse alone.... do you know how many times the WWN said that the Apocalypse was coming? And every single time, they said that it was coming right after next week's issue. Over and over they did that, and the vast majority of the readership never caught on; they went and bought the next week's issue to find out what time it was going to hit, so that they could get that last nail appointment in on time. Oh, but wait; who could worry about the Apocalypse when Bat Boy is on the loose again? "Besides, Marge, it says right here that the next issue is an Apocalypse Special, so I guess I misread it last week. Too bad I already lined the cat box with it."

Them people was clever.

At this point, since it's going out of business, I guess that I can give away the information that I, as a tangential insider, am privy to. Hold on to your g-strings, this is gonna be a lulu:

Most of the stories in the Weekly World News were fake. There, there, dry your calloused tears; it's best to know the truth so you can get on with your life.... such as it is, if the WWN was at its center. Then again, it could be worse; personally, I'd rather read the WWN than a "real" newspaper any day. Even the Apocalypse is less depressing than the "real" news these days.

Some of the stories were actually true; just enough to lure in those hopeful folk who could point to the article on Billy Graham (no, really, they ran a number of them) and claim that it was, too, a real newspaper.

As it happens, I myself, the Eye Wit, have twice appeared in the pages of the Weekly World News. I kid you not! Neither story had an ounce of truth to it, but that was beside the point. Not only that, I actually got paid (not much) for them to use my likeness. How did this happen? As a matter of total coincidence, I got to know a woman whose uncle was one of the senior editors. Hers was the face of Serena Sabak, the world's sexiest astrologer. She also was a photographer, and supplied them with pictures to go with the articles. Many of these were just "head shots" of either the author of the alleged article or its subject, and some were more elaborate, intended for greater things. For the head shots, it was common for her to bring her camera to parties; after people had had a few drinks was a great time to ask them to let her shoot a whole roll of face shots. If they want to use one of them, an editor calls you up to make sure that you're OK with the story it's to go with. Thus did I end up in the guise of ace Latino reporter Antonio de Maguez, who was breaking a big story on a secret plan to trade Elian Gonzalez for a shipload of genuine Cuban cigars. Absolutely scandalous! For this appearance in a national publication, I got twenty bucks.

The other time, it was a photo spread to go with a longer story. In this instance, I was Blaine Terziche, an office manager who was such a chauvinist pig, that he made all his female employees dress as cheerleaders. Every two hours, there'd be a pep rally. We shot this little gem in the evening at an office I'd worked less than a week at. For this, I got fifty bucks. They were awfully good sports there, and many of the people in the office also wound up in the WWN. Funniest among them was one of the owners, who was supposedly the commander of an international group of mercenaries who'd been thrown out of their armies because they revealed that they were homosexuals. That name of the unit? "The Gay Team". Precious! Another friend was some poor sap in Tibet who'd been molested by a female yeti (I suppose it could've been worse....).

How can they possibly put an end to this kind of fun? The articles were such a kick, the ads were from some of the "finest" companies in the U.S., and every week, there was a genuine giant crossword puzzle. What more could you ask? Profitability is no doubt what AMI (the parent company) has in mind. So now, all you'll have to select from are the "celeb" tabloids, and nothing delving into the sheer nonsensical like the venerable Weekly World News. In its history, it even spawned a stage play version of Bat Boy: The Musical. See it if you get the chance, it's hysterical.

But all of this was not enough. I suppose that when the "real" newspapers are full of so many reports of the rampant absence of truth (cross reference: Washington DC), the stylish lack of truth in the WWN just couldn't keep up anymore.

I hate reality.

Bat Boy, we're going to miss you, old friend. Even worse, my budding career as a model in a nationally-distributed publication has been cut short, perhaps never to rise again. To all you crazies behind the Weekly World News all these years, who got PAID to generate all this outlandish material, I say a warm "Thanks!" Who cares if people looked at me oddly when I bought it? It was a welcome island of lunacy, and a neat little escape from the ugliness of what's really going on, even for just a little while.

And darn it, without the Weekly World News on the story, how is the Apocalypse EVER going to get here?

Most Excellent Furry Friends

Scientists have long tried to analyze the relationship between humans and cats. They've come to all sorts of interesting conclusions.

None of which are correct.

How dare I, a mere mortal, make such a claim? Because I am a True Cat Person, and cats will only reveal that kind of information to True Cat Persons. If some bloody scientist comes along and sticks a cat under a microscope, the cat is likely to get a little testy about it. The cat will then engage in all sorts of bizarre behaviors, just to skew the scientist's data.

Cats are like that. Cats are very intelligent animals, and deviously clever when it's to their advantage. I have an excellent example, which I forget if I wrote about before; if so, here it is again.

First off, I'd like to make it clear that I blame my wife, and even she admits her culpability in this case. It stems from the fact that she can be a real sucker for cute animals. Better the luck for me, or I wouldn't have a place to live myself.

She doth protest too much that she is not a cat person, but from the day we brought our Siamese cat, Arwen, home, Arwen decided that she was my wife's cat. Sure, my wife pretended to object, but she could not resist the feline powers that were weaving a web around her. Allergy to cat dander or no (and blame or not, a big round of applause to her for the fact that I even HAVE cats. Fortunately, Oriental short-haired cats' dander is different and much less irritating). Many's the time I'd catch the cat sitting next to my wife on the sofa, with my wife absent-mindedly stroking her head. Uh-huh. This leads to an interesting question: Who decides if you're a cat person? Is it you, or is it actually the cats? I'm not sure myself.

But I digress. On to the tale of "The Ham Incident".

It all began in the morning when my wife would be making a sandwich for my daughter to take to school. Arwen would come in, meowing & purring, rubbing against her legs, begging for a piece of lunch meat. Apparently, cats eat ham in the wild, because most of them love it. Well, me spouse would turn into a complete sucker and let her have some. Before long, she was "dropping" an entire slice of lunch meat on the floor in the morning. I asked her to cut it out; my cat was getting fat. Besides, all the cats already think all food & drink in the house is for them, this only encourages them to hop up on the table when we're eating to get their fair share. Then, of course, I had my doubts that lunch meat is good for cats. You'd think so, since people eat it, but you never know. For one, cats need much more fat in their diet than we do.

Nothing for it, however, the process just kept going on, and no good could come of it.

One fine evening, we're in the living watching TV. We hear this odd rustling in the dining room, but then it stopped. This happened a couple of more times before I finally got up and went in the room and turned on the light. There, on the floor, were the two cats gleefully chowing down on a nearly full package of ham, just as nice as you please. They looked up happily, saying "Yum!", and then went back to work. I was a bit stunned, and asked who'd left the lunch meat out. It turns out that nobody did. Like I said, cats are deviously clever. Arwen had observed for months the whole routine of getting the ham (or whatever) out of the refrigerator, so the rascal knew where it was. All of us were sure that we hadn't left the refrigerator door open. So, how??

There was only one explanation: Arwen, who's quite strong, had pawed the refrigerator door open; then, astonishingly, she managed to pull the meat drawer out (it's heavy) just far enough to get her paw in, where she snagged the package of ham, dragged it out to the dining room, tore through two layers of plastic and began feasting on her prey. The other cat was only too glad to join her.

Now, that is one clever cat.

By the time we discovered this, naturally, they'd eaten through the center of every slice. Each piece of ham had a hole in it lined with cat spit. All we could do was laugh & let them finish it. Goodness knows, Arwen had worked hard enough to get it.

This was the end of the morning treats.

I bring this up to give you an idea of what a delightful pet she is. She's 13 years old now, and until recently has been very healthy. It got clear that something was wrong; she stopped eating, she was obviously in discomfort, and most telling of all, she didn't grab my lap at every opportunity. She's so stealthy & light on her feet that I'll suddenly notice her there & not realize that she'd jumped up, stepped in & curled up. She was losing weight fast. I got her in to see the vet this morning, and a good thing I did. She has a kidney infection, which can be lethal to a cat, especially an older one. I know too bitterly well, for that's exactly what killed Arwen's partner in The Ham Incident. She was too far gone by the time we realized that she needed to see the veterinarian.

This time, however, we caught it before it got that far. My poor kitty had dropped down to 6.8 pounds from a healthy 11, but her system is still pretty strong & she should recover with the treatment program.

The very expensive treatment program.

I wrote the check, knowing that my spouse would be none too happy about the amount, but what could I do? We'll manage, and Arwen should live many more years.

Many people would ask "Why the fuss over just a pet?" Cats aren't just pets to a lot of people; they're genuine friends. Dogs like everybody, but cats don't. If they like you, or love you, it's because they choose to. Mine are especially important to me, because I went through a long-term illness, and they were my constant & attentive companions. They know when I'm not feeling good, and are extra solicitous then. They sat with me, cuddled, purred, made me get their toys & play with them, because it was a welcome distraction & they knew it. I'm not making it up, and I'm sure you can find many people who could tell you a similar story.

So, how can I not look after them when they don't feel well? As independent as your average Siamese can be, Arwen is not at all diffident and the most communicative of my cats. Good thing; she gave me enough signals to notice that she needed help. She might not consider it such a great idea as I shove her antibiotic pill down her mouth twice each day for a while, but she's so good, she even sits pretty still for that. She is, by all accounts, a Most Excellent Furry.

I have to take her in every day for the rest of this week so they can give her fluids (that accounted for a portion of the weight loss, she was dehydrated), and then we have more blood work done on Friday. My vet feels very confident that all will be well. She & the technician were quite impressed with the relationship between my cat & I. Even at the vet, where she's afraid to go, as long as I was holding or petting her? A loud purr.

Few sounds are more comforting and soothing than a cat's purring. I'm glad that I'll be hearing lots more of her purring in the future. In fact, at the thought of it, I feel a purr coming on myself.

Explanation Defied Again.... and Again.... and AGAIN!

There are some scams that are so widespread, and allegedly so well-known to be wildebeest droppings that it seems that it has become impossible, in this modern day, for anybody to be loopy enough to fall for them.

You'd think so. In fact, in most cases, the attempt looks so far-fetched, so beyond the pale, so superlatively superlative as to cause you to disbelieve it in less time than it takes to realize that you've once again left the house wearing no pants, that it's January, and you're in Mammoth Falls, Minnesota.

Or some other kind of circumstance. Though, oddly, that particular scenario rings true to most people, even those from equatorial Africa. And thus we come to the scam in question: The infamous "Nigerian Scam". Lately, I'm getting five times as many of these pieces of drek in my e-mail than usual. This, in spite of the fact that people should be more aware of its falsehood than ever, particularly in light of the relatively recent arrest of a person in, shall we say, a position of high financial responsibility, who lost $1.5 million in government funds falling for this idiocy. How can this possibly happen??

Let's take it straight from the horse's butt.... herein I'm copying an actual, honest-to-Pete-Best "Nigerian Scam" e-mail that I just got, exactly as it appeared:


From: "hamed alii" hamed_alii22@mail.com
Subject: REPLY ME BACK

FROM HAMED ALIDear FriendI am Hamed Ali personal Assistant to the Branch Manager of Bank Of Africa(BOA)Ouagadougou Burkina Faso I want to inquire from you if you can handle this transactionfor mutual benefits/life opportunity for you and me.The transaction is about seeking your consent to present you as the next of kin/ beneficiary of the US$15Million dollars who is a customer to the bank where i work.He died with his family during their vacation journeyIn that regard, i decided to seek your consent for this prospective opportunity.Have it at the back of your mind, that the transaction does not involve any risk and does not need much engagement from you, since i am familiar withthis kind of transaction being an insider.I have resolved to offer you 30% of the total fund, 10% for sundry expenses that maybe incurred during the process of executing this transaction and 60% percent forNecessary modalities will be worked out to enable us carry out the fund claim under a legitimate arrangement.me.I will give you more details about the transaction when I receive your responsevia my email address.Thanks and God bless.MR HAMED ALI

Please, in the name of all that's holy, if this makes sense to you and sounds like an honest person and a great idea, get professional help immediately. OK, big deal, they switched it to another country than Nigeria, but this is the classic pattern that's been going around the world since they invented clay tablets and cuneiform. Even the Rosetta Stone was not immune, a fact that's been kept a secret to this day by a cabal of embarrassed academics who fell for it shortly after the Stone was discovered. Even the Stone's age failed to deter them from believing that they, indeed, were the luckiest people ever to have been chosen for such an important task. Of course, they'll ask you for "good faith" money to the tune of thousands of dollars, or they'll "phish" for all your personal information, steal your identity, and render you into a pariah that not even Dennis Kucinich's campaign staff would take on.

Either way, if you do it, YOU'RE AN IDIOT!!! I think we can all agree on this, yes?

And yet.... every year, large numbers of people around the world DO fall for it, and unfortunately, a high percentage of them are senior citizens who lose their life's savings. I'm not in any way implying that our senior citizens are stupid, but these kind of people prey on them because, I think, they're generally a lot nicer and more inclined to trust others than we ever-more-cynical generations following. Go ahead, ask any "senior" if the following generations are more crude, less refined, and five times as rude and rarely listen to their own mother and couldn't you get off your duff and call your mother this week, would it kill you?

But, I digress.

Nonetheless, even I'M starting to say that about younger generations, and that's a bad, bad sign. Partly because I'm admitting that there are a few generations behind mine (the venerable Baby Boomers), and partly because of the fact that I'm not all that polite myself. Sometimes. How often? I refuse to say, on advice from my cat.

By the way, my cat's too smart to fall for this con game, too.

So, what's to be done? As Lazarus Long once so wisely said: "Never underestimate the power of human stupidity." Evidently, it's going to continue, along with the too-good-to-be-true UK lottery gag and the phony bank auditor game. None of it's funny, and I've pondered on it, trying to figure out why that is; why do otherwise sensible-seeming people fall for something that violates a very sensible rule: If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is! That should be an axiom applicable to almost everything in life. Salvation is a fortunate exception; it sounds too good to be true, but IS. Fortunately, God is a nicer guy than you, me, or the geniuses running these con games.

I have a theory, and I'm putting this out in front of you for general discussion, recussion and whatever other kinds of cussin' seem appropriate. I don't think that it's because any of these "stories" they sell are convincing. No, I think the people who fall for it do so because they want to believe it! Why on earth would they do that? Maybe it comes down to the last effort to preserve their battered sanity. In a world where we're dead certain of so many things going impossibly wrong (cross reference: Any newspaper), they have a desperate need to believe in something, just one thing that's impossibly "right". And for those few critical moments, they do.

I'm not sure what the solution there is, if any, to this effect, other than a couple of things I try to remember:

-We could do a lot better job of looking out for one another.

-Commit random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty.

The latter, someone being nice for no apparent reason nor for their personal gain, always catches people by surprise. And maybe, just maybe, the surprise that you choose to put out into the world will BE that one impossibly right thing that someone really needs.

And when you do (several times a day, I hope), someone, somewhere in Nigeria will curse your wretchedly nice name.

Death to the Foul Beastie!!

The deed has been done. The "patient" has been pronounced dead. All of the evidence has been disposed of.

Sorry, not referring to any person whom you've written me about, begging me to get rid of for you. I'm not in that sort of business. At least, not publicly. What, I'd come out & say I take contracts on a blog?

Contracts, yes, but only for artistic performance and such.

Yes, the Bashing of the Shed is a done deal, and if you'd like to see a progressive series of photos of mindless violence, you can click here:

Bashing of the Shed

You can click them individually, or view them as a slide show.

There ain't no denying it, destroying something every now & then is just plain fun. It's best if it's something you own. If not, my advice is to not get caught.

Fourth Right

The problem with making a beginning here is that I used up a lot of my schtick about the Fourth of July last year.

Yet, there's no denying that a lot of this is very familiar, old & tired. Three whole flags on my street; fireworks already starting to go off, mainly of the illegal variety.

On general principle, I don't overly object. There's little I can do about it anyway, and besides, I am not going outside and venting my spleen about "those darn kids". For one reason, that's an inescapable sign of getting old, and I'm still working really hard on the denial front. Mainly, however, the reason is that it's adults that are firing them off. Civil disobedience in the name of civic pride, or so they claim. What do they really know about civil disobedience? I'll bet I could hand out a Thoreau quiz and they'd fail utterly.

But, I digress, and fairly early on at that.

In fact, it had been a firm tradition of ours that a family that's friends with ours would get together each year, and my buddy & I would personally do a lot of reprehensible things with stuff that goes boom in the night. My personal specialty was the "chain reaction", in which you use a series of sparklers to set off M-80s and bottle rockets, etc. However, this whole soiree has been ruined by our children, who had the audacity and discourtesy to go and grow up on us. I don't actually see why this prevents the rest of us in engaging in juvenile behavior, but we haven't gotten together for the last few years. Disappointing.

Yet, perhaps unavoidable. I have a rare nerve condition called allodynia, which I'm sure you've never heard of. While any of the five senses can be involved, in my case, I'm hypersensitive to light and sound. What seem like fairly ordinary levels of light or sound to you cause me intense pain. There's currently no treatment for it, and all I can do is wear hearing protectors and dark glasses, or other defensive measures. Therefore, messing with things that burn very brightly and make lots of boom-boom don't seem as attractive to me these days. The one good thing about that is that I can blame the condition, and nobody can accuse me of dropping out because I'm too old to have fun. Then again, having some weird condition means that you miss out on the same amount of fun, so in the end, it isn't really better. On a day-to-day basis, I can't tell you what a nuisance it is.

I digress again.

Well, at least there was some celebration this year, of sorts. My church did a musical presentation, all patriotic and such, which saluted the concept of freedom and thanked members of the armed forces, past & present. I and my fledgling drama group provided the narration. It went pretty well, too. I was surprised at the number of people who came to see it when we did it on the Fourth. Well, it's on a Wednesday this year, and nothing else made much sense. The choir, orchestra & soloists were faboo, as well as the narrating corps (I did some of it, too), and the multimedia element was pretty good stuff, too. Yeah, it's all hip now to have projections of video, photos & animation while you're over there working hard to keep their attention on you and what you're doing. After I caught a glimpse of the Vietnam memorial on it, I quit looking. I know more of the names on that thing than I like to think about.

This whole post is random digression. I'm afraid you'll just have to bear with me; I might find a point to all this somewhere.

So, I make my way home and it's only a matter of time before I have to put my hearing protectors on while inside my house. Yep, the ears are that sensitive. So I've decided to start in on a book on CD that a friend gave me at the reunion (sure, I'll eventually get around to writing about that), since I can wear the ear buds under the head set. Studious and serious shall I be on the evening of the Fourth, and glad that I'm not out amongst the drunk drivers (that isn't age talking, it's just common sense).

As for what other people will be thinking, I couldn't say. My spouse is busily making ice cream at the moment (before you say anything, it is better than your mother's) for my daughter's get-together of Young Persons who are far better behaved at that age range than I ever was. There'll be no drugs, no drinking and no other illicit behavior, save some of the aforementioned not-legal-in-this-state-like-they-enforce-it-anyway fireworks, which will be supervised by a responsible adult, which is ludicrous since my daughter is 23.

The thing that fascinates us is that while we did our best to raise her to be a good person, she's a far better person than we can account for. We don't object, of course, we just wonder how in the zarking fardwarks that happened? Well, she does have an excellent group of friends, and is exceptionally kind, and we're not daft enough to interfere with it.

We don't need the Fourth of July to celebrate that; we do that every day. Looking at this large group of young people who are such good young persons gives one some hope that in some future, they'll have made this country into something more worth celebrating on the Fourth of July. We're making an awful lot of mistakes these days and I don't feel that we're headed in the right direction. However, it's good to have the privilege to observe a group of people who may be far wiser than our generation and cling more to the original ideals set forth in the Declaration of Independence. Hope is a good thing to have.

That's how it all started, isn't it? The Declaration.... the Constitution.... they point to an enduring hope for something better than what we have now. We'll never get to Utopia, but the journey itself is honorable and worthwhile.

It's dark outside, and time to take the flag in. I got it years ago in the name of my daughter; it's certified to have flown over the Capitol Building in Washington. When she flies the coop, it's hers to take with her.

I take some pride in knowing that whatever she does, and wherever she goes, she'll do right by it and make a contribution towards a better world. She can't help herself. Of all the things that we've ever done to make this a better country and a better world, I think that she's by far the greatest.

Long may she wave.

Obligatory Blog Post

Sometimes, I feel like I really should put up a blog post.... but I don't particularly have a topic.

Such is the case at the moment. Then again, I seldom let a lack of coherence stop me from writing about anything else. Why change now? I have no good reason to do that either.

And there you are: People feel too compelled to have a good reason to do things.

Sure, you're compelled to have a job (most of you, I suppose) since you want frivolous things like food and a roof over your head. Some of you even buy clothes. There are a few that don't that I sincerely wish would, but I haven't the heart to tell them. Actually, it's just that I haven't found THE most snide way to put it to them, and I have my standards, after all. Admittedly, not very many and most of them are low (below the belt), but I have some.... written down.... around here somewhere.

Outside of life's necessities, and even during them, there's a remarkable tendency to do things the way people expect you to; to say what one would not be surprised to hear such an one as you say. I can't think of a single good reason for this. Where's the style, where's the originality in that? How much inane boredom can a person take? When someone asks you "How are you this morning?", is it actually required for you to give them a straight answer? Instead of saying "Fine." when it isn't true, come up with a metaphor or simile that will make them think and respect you. Something like "I'm as defenestrated as a stale bagel".

Right off, they have to head to the dictionary, because chances are good that they don't know that "defenestrate" means to throw something out of an upper-story window. It's a great word. So now, you've done them the service of stimulating their mind first thing in the morning (kudos to you if they're not a "morning person". I myself am so bad in that respect that I am immune to all vocabulary before at least 10:00) and creatively telling them that you're not so great. If you're a stale bagel, you're already feeling pretty bad about yourself; being thrown out of a window is rubbing salt in the wound. At best, someone will pick you up and throw you in a refuse container next to some dog fewmets from the park in a leaky bag from Kroger's, where someone actually, for once, cleaned up after their dog. That sounds pretty awful, but it isn't as bad as being chowed down upon by a Chow Chow, and eventually becoming dog fewmets.

So, when you tell your office mate that, in effect, you feel like you're on the verge of becoming dog fewmets, you've darn well answered the question with considerable style. Does that make you better than they are, because they asked such a normal question in such an unimaginative fashion? Yes. Yes, it does.

This is more difficult at social events, where the question may be more metaphysical, more probing, more than just a drive-by check of your existential angst. In these cases, it's a lot of fun to use what I call "The Dangling Rebound". An example: A person strolls up to you at a cocktail party, having not seen you in six weeks, three days, 8 hours and an odd number of minutes. She asks "How are things going?" You, instead of replying with some banal syllable like "Fine.", fire back "Well, you know how it is...." Of course she doesn't know how it is, that's why she just asked you. The upshot of the situation is that she cannot, without looking slightly foolish, come back and say that she doesn't, and repeat the question. Personally, I pick that ball up and run with it, and jab back with something akin to "Have you stopped taking your medication, then?" Imagine yourself on the receiving end of that one. It sounds bad if you say "Yes" because you're 1) Admitting that you were on medication, and 2) saying that you were dumb enough to stop doing what your board-certified physician swutting well told you to do. If you say "No", then you're still admitting that you need medication.

What's wrong with taking medication? Nothing at all, of course. I myself rattle when I walk due to the plethora of pills that I inhale each day. The thing is, there are rules about where you can discuss medication safely, and where admitting to taking medication is an abominable breach of etiquette. Cocktail parties are one of those places. You don't need to be revealing things about what drugs you're taking, because that vodka-kiwi juice martini in your hand is a drug, and your co-conversant knows that. At a cocktail party, it's a given that you're allowed to presume, without any justifiable reason, that the medication in question should never, never be mixed with alcohol. Thus, having pinned the poor victim down with the medication question, you can now put on an air of high dudgeon and glare at them sternly for being so foolish. Either way.

Is this necessary? No. Is it fair? Depends on who ends up hanging on the end of the rope, unable to speak further, and obliged to shuffle away and find some nice "normal" person to talk to. You don't want this to be you! Weird them out forthrightly and with panache! They'll need considerable chutzpah to try to keep up with you. This, they will be unable to do, for they cannot now answer something like "Fine." to the question "How are you doing?" because they have the same crestfallen look as a defenestrated bagel. Even a "normal" person knows the rules there; they are then entitled to kick you while you're down because you patently lied. This is a bit bizarre, considering that 88% of all conversation at a cocktail party is lies, especially where matters sexual are involved. That doesn't matter in this case. If you've made the dread mistake of picking your wife to shuffle back to, then she's allowed to dredge things back up like that time ten years ago when you washed her underwear in with some red exercise sweats and turned them pink. Never mind that she's the one who left them rolled up in there where you couldn't have seen them, never mind that nobody but you, her and Wee Willie Winkie ever see that underwear, never mind that it cost $3.09 at Wal-Mart. By law in 49 of the 50 states (in Louisiana, under the Napoleonic Code, women are forbidden to wear underwear), she is allowed to scream at you like a Gloucester fishwife, causing you more embarrassment than that time you mistakenly took the sauna at your boss's house for an unusually warm powder room.

Is there anything to be learned from all of this? Indeed, there are at least two:

1) Never get so drunk at your boss's house that you can inadvertently ruin $2,000 worth of imported cedar. Nothing good will come of it.
2) Never give your wife such an easy target. She'll bring up the underwear every time, and do you really need to have all your co-workers see you get dressed down over some now-fossilized unmentionables, which have now been ironically mentioned at the top of your wife's lungs?

In fact, the best advice may be to avoid cocktail parties altogether. The rules are terribly complex, and you can probably do without the alcohol, anyway. Besides, if you happen to run into someone such as myself, who is a terminal wise guy, you're going to wind up being that poor slob with the underwear being thrown in his face.

Knowing that, is it completely necessary that I set this tragic set of circumstances in motion?

Unfortunately, yes. Those are the rules.

The Lack of Suspense Is Killing Me

It almost always starts off with some chick running through the woods at night.

This is not a problem, as most people like chicks. I know I do. Nine times out of ten, the young woman is a brunette (heaven forbid they knock off a blonde first) and lightly built, so as not to give herself a couple of black eyes before she gets killed. Naturally, we get only the briefest glimpse of the monster or cranky Avon saleslady who'll be terrorizing us (or not) for the rest of the film or TV show.

We fall for this crap over, and over, and for the life of me, I can't figure out why. I don't think the introduction, as such, scares anyone anymore. Even my cat can't be bothered to stop licking its butt long enough to get caught up in it, scary music stings and all. "Get to the monster already!" people have cried for years. Only then would we deign to be scared, and only if the monster was good. This, too, has gone the way of all rotting flesh, and for a couple of major reasons: One, the bloody (sic) sequels. The "Halloween", "Nightmare on Elm Street" and "Friday the Thirteenth" series add up to around fifty movies. How frightening can Freddie be anymore? Two, thanks to computer graphics, they can now create anything that the mind can conceive, and we've been using them up at a rapid pace. The above films introduced unbridled gore and blood; now, we have explicitly detailed monsters and mayhem. This reached its artistic peak in the original "Jurassic Park", when the T-Rex smashed a restroom and chomped a lawyer right off of the can and ate him. Oh, how we cheered! Unfortunately, after that, the shark had been jumped.

No, there's simply a limit to what the special effects can sell. I hate to be picky, but have you pimply-eyed boys (I know what I said) in that dark room with your computers considered contacting a writer (hint hint) and inserting, say, an actual story? Scary movies aren't scary anymore, so they've resorted to other things to sell tickets:

-Sex. Duh.

-Wit and humor. Snappy dialogue. Defiant humor. Suggesting that the monster use some mouthwash, for God's sake.

-Getting us to sympathize with the monster instead of the people, most of whom deserve what they get, because they're lawyers or something.

OK, this will hold up for a while, until we hit the day when a movie comes out that has a scene where the monster breaks into a bedroom at a very inopportune moment, where a couple of lawyers are getting it on, the woman looks up and says "I don't do threesomes" and they get eaten.

You people have filthy minds, I was not going there.

I wonder if, at some point when nobody is making any money off these beastly horror movies, someone recall the existence of something called "the suspense movie". Hitchcock. That sort of thing. It's what you don't know and can't see that's most terrifying. Modern horror flicks simply give us too much information for them to have any mystery about them. It isn't that it hasn't been tried in recent years. Brilliant Internet marketing aside, and whatever you may have thought of it, "The Blair Witch Project" was not a monster flick at all; it was a suspense film. We never got to see what was after them (Those of us who know about such things knew that it was a wibawa). Thus, the blood-and-gore (not Al) addicted college crowd who were in the audience when I saw it actually booed it at the end. Clearly, they were expecting some slashing and a lot of fake blood (which is cheap and easy to make). Not this time, kids; the filmmakers clearly meant to leave you with as many questions as the characters had when they got offed.

How bad have things gotten? As an example, the SciFi channel has this evening descended to the depths of showing something called "Ice Spiders". Quod erat demonstrandum.

Until things improve, the nice brunette running through the woods is going to have to get shredded, fried or disintegrated by herself. If she had any sense, she wouldn't be running through the woods in the dark in the first place. I'm going to be watching the History Channel instead, where things might not make much more sense, but at they have the novelty of having actually happened. However, even that will wear off after a while. Why?

Because history repeats itself.

All Eyes Are On....

If I hear that phrase ONE MORE TIME from a meteorologist talking about a tropical storm or a hurricane, I'm going to scream.

I'm going to be doing a lot of screaming.

Last Friday was the official start of the 2007 Atlantic hurricane season, and just to make it official, we had a tropical storm around town: Barry. Now, I won't say anything bad about Barry, as it brought us some desperately-needed rain. We've been under drought conditions for a long time, and there have been wildfires burning in southern Georgia and all over Florida, to the extent that we've had unhealthful air warnings due to smoke. During this time, these same TV weather people, who go ape trying to scare the crap out of us during the hurricane season on the slightest excuse, were saying that "we sure could use a tropical storm to make up for the rain shortfall".

That was actually a fair assessment, even if it sounds illogical to those of you not in Hurricane Alley.

Ah, but let June 1 roll around, and the same boring old cliches are brought out, the same stock footage, and the exact same recordings of emergency officials saying what people should do. However, lots of people don't do anything at all, even when a serious storm threat is hanging over our area. There are a number of possible reasons for this:

-They're just plain stupid.
-They think "it can't/won't happen here". See the above.
-They're under the impression that using masking tape forming an "X" on their windows will somehow shield them from 100 mph winds. See the first entry.
-They can't afford to, or are not physically able to. There are quite a number of people who fall into this category, and practically nobody says or does anything about it. The public officials who allow this to continue? See the first entry.
-They're sure that they can get all the supplies and do all the work at the very last minute. Once again, see the first entry.

I could go on (and keep on referring to the first entry), but what I'm driving at is this: The TV weather people have got a lot to answer for, because they're boring millions of people to tears with the same old drek every time a storm comes up. They're so bored, in fact, that they've been lulled into an inactive stupor. Who needs an entire summer of reruns when lives are at stake?

Am I being hypercritical? Probably, but hyperbole is almost always funnier than reality.

Can't they inject a little more personal style and individuality to all this 24/7 coverage? And how about some brutal honesty? That would keep people guessing. Change the usual verbal exchanges and video, and it'd be a lot more likely to make an impression on people.

For example:

Instead of saying: "People who choose not to evacuate in time may find themselves stranded."
How about: "If these people don't get off this barrier island NOW, they're frigging well going to DIE, Jim. Maybe they deserve to, if they have so little sense."

Now, THAT'S brutally honest. Mind you, islanders are strange and stubborn people; I ought to know, but at least Aquidneck Island is big, with plenty of safe spots, not like some barrier island whose apex is two feet above sea level. Still, this might save a few lives, and any number saved is good.

Now, what about the poor fools that they have stationed around various points where the storm may strike, standing outside to report conditions. I do kind of like that, as you can directly see how it would be if you were stupid enough to be standing out there unprotected. Oh, I wouldn't do it, but I'm still curious. I think that they should be allowed to be more blunt and less professional, and to complain bitterly that they have to do this in order to keep their jobs. Clearly, these people have no union. "The winds have gotten up to 65 mph, and the rain is flaying skin from my face. I am SO going to sue the station. Nobody should be out here, so screw you guys, I'm going home." Not so polite, but it does at least demonstrate that anyone with sense would not be outside with a swutting video camera, recording the carnage as it happens. They know no better because the news people are enablers, with their crews outside. Well, then, it must be safe for us, eh? Let's cut this crap out right now.

Naturally, there'll always be private individuals out there with cameras and video, and the TV people might as well point out that some of them are going to get killed. "Linda, he's standing too close to where the waves are breaking- oh, there he goes. What an idiot!" There's a term for this process: "Natural selection". You! Out of the gene pool, NOW!

Lastly, let's get a hold of the IT professionals who are constantly tweaking the computer programs used to make the forecasters' visual displays and lock them in a Chuck E. Cheese somewhere. I don't need to see sixteen different versions of the radar image, just show me where the stupid storm is! Show us the eye, rain, wind speed, and direction, and leave us alone with all the other flashing colors. People are having seizures out here.

Besides, among all their other bad thinking, the weather people are missing out on a money-making opportunity. They're always revising the forecast, especially about when & where the storm will make landfall. You know good and well that they have a betting pool going at the station on this, so why not let the public in on it? Charge five bucks a guess, lie like crazy about how many people entered, pay the winner and keep the "overhead" for yourself.

Mostly, pray that there won't be another Katrina. But for heaven's sake, prepare as if there will be, and that it's going to come your way. Oh, you can count on the TV weather people to be all over the place, but as for a major rescue response? Keep in mind who's in the White House. Then refer way back up to the first entry on the list of explanations above. It does seem to apply to a lot of people, doesn't it?

On Remembrance

Does anyone remember that today is the official observance of Memorial Day? How many have any recollection as to what it's about, other than sales, the beach, barbecue, the "first weekend of the summer" and the Indy 500?

Damned few, apparently.

Collectively, we ought to be ashamed of ourselves.

However, there'll be little shame shown; the only thing that there'll be less of is honor paid to the subjects of the holiday, which are veterans of this country's armed forces who've died in the line of duty. Secondarily, it's to honor those currently serving as well. Veterans Day was not originally called that; it was Armistice Day, marking the end of World War I. Now, it's supposed to be in honor of all veterans from all eras.

But back to the Memorial Day for members of our armed forces who died in the line of duty, and including members who served, while not dying in the line of duty, who are no longer with us. That's what they taught me in school, anyway; I still remember that. I'm also prompted by the memory that my grandfather, a World War I veteran, died on Memorial Day in 1971. Now it includes my father, who had twenty one years of active service in the Navy, including two tours in the Viet Nam area. Granted, he was a dentist & therefore a non-combatant, but that doesn't mean he wasn't in a position to get shot at & killed. He was aboard the aircraft carrier USS Kitty Hawk, and would go up in a plane as regulations required if he wanted to have "flight surgeon" status. It wasn't a matter of status, he did it because there was a pay bonus and he had a family back home. Fortunately, no MiG ever paid a visit while he was up there. He passed away several years ago, near Memorial Day.

I'll always remember the burial service for a lot of reasons, but one of them was the full military honors he received as he was interred in a lovely veterans section of the cemetery in which he lies. The playing of Taps, the rifle salute.... and then, they took the shells of the rounds fired for the salute, and wrapped them in the flag that had covered the coffin, and presented it to my mother. The attending commander of the detail (a woman, incidentally. My father would probably have found that a bit odd) then gave a short speech on behalf of the Commander in Chief, thanking her & the family for his service to our country. Simple, yet dignified and to the point. It also recognizes in this time of grieving that it isn't only veterans that sacrifice, but their families as well. For one lost in combat or otherwise in the line of duty, it's a life cut short; the ultimate price paid, which is supposed to be in defense of our country and our freedom. But even during peacetime, families are regularly uprooted, moved around, and sent along with the service member to new locations. Most of us who are children of a military family have no "home town", we've left our best friends behind multiple times only to have time and distance cause many of them to fade away, and we've changed school systems repeatedly. It's not an easy way to grow up.

Well, that's a price, too, and one that's most often ignored these days except when yet another death from Iraq is reported. In past years, it was primarily wives who found themselves having to take on the jobs of both parents when their husbands were on assignment or out at sea (this, of course, has greatly changed, but not in my parents' generation). Families of submariners might be out of direct contact with their service member for as long as eighteen months. Memorial Day is a day we should stop and pay honor to the families, too. Military spouses and children have always been a part of the service in their own way, being the most direct supporters of the individuals in the service, and going where the country has told them to go.

It's true that I've described a number of reasons why Memorial Day is more personal to me than a lot of people, but that is not the way it should be. We're all the beneficiaries of the sacrifices and the service, so how dare we take it so lightly? And yet, the newspaper today is full of sales flyers and blather about summer, and vacations, and the price of gas (which, incidentally, was $1.46 a gallon on January 20, 2001. You figure it out). I had to look on page three of the local section to find any mention of Memorial Day observances. There are no parades scheduled, no speeches, no large solemnities. No ceremonies at any of the national cemeteries in the area. No, in the two county area, there are exactly three things listed: A small memorial service held by this county's Veterans Council, another in the neighboring county held by the VFW, and one concert. And that's all. It gets more dismal: I took a drive up & down the eight-block-long street on which we live. I didn't count the actual number of houses, but it's around fifty or so. The number of houses, including mine, flying an American flag today:

THREE.

That seems pretty representative of the prevailing attitude these days.

Don't misunderstand me, I am not a flag-waving, no-questions-asked ultraconservative who gives support blindly; quite the contrary. However, I do know when respect has been earned and should be paid. I am an opponent of the war in Iraq and no supporter of the man who started it under false pretenses. Nonetheless, not for one minute will I disregard the service and the price that has, is being, and is unfortunately will continue to be paid there by members of our military and their families. I also won't forget the number of innocent Iraqis who've died. Contrary to what the administration would have us believe, there are lots of innocents dying there. "Collateral damage", indeed; the term is vulgar and distasteful.

So, before I digress too much farther, as is my usual wont, Id ask of you to please take at least a few moments to remember those who've died in the line of duty for our country, those who served and were therefore always at risk, and the families left behind. It's not so much to ask, and this is supposed to be the day that we all do it together. As a nation, we've utterly failed in this capacity. If nothing else, think of what it would mean to the families in your community that have lost someone in Iraq and Afghanistan, or who have a loved one there and wake up every morning hoping to God not to have that knock on the door by an officer from their branch of the service bearing grim news. Can we not have the decency to demonstrate that we care? Or does the problem lie in the fact that we largely don't care? That's a point that I'd rather not give myself time to think about.

Instead, I'll think about my mother, who will travel to the local cemetery today for a visit, with perhaps some fresh flowers or something to plant. I'd go with her, but there's this 1,100 mile distance in between. She'll act as proxy for myself and my other siblings who are far removed. Thanks, Mom.

And thanks, Dad, and all the others who are the titular honorees of Memorial Day. Thanks to everyone who remembers and has done at least something (as simple as flying a flag that costs less than ten dollars, pole included) to show that they do.

To the rest of you, enjoy your long weekend.... and when July 4th rolls around, and you come out to have a good time once again on the day that we observe the founding of this country and the principles upon which it is supposed to rest, take a look back over your shoulder and feel a pang of regret that on the day that you should have remembered the people who paid the price to get those freedoms and keep them, that you let them down.

Taps hasn't been sounded yet, however; there's still a bit of the day left. Take a moment and remember, and do not take for granted the fact:

They never let you down.

The Unavoidable Inevitable

Time is a royal pain; it's a pain in several prominent places, which I need not mention, and the more time that passes, the more places upon which it inflicts pain.

Now, in theory, this is perfectly alright (though I'd like to know according to exactly who) because it's happening to everyone else at the same time and at the same rate. On a practical basis, we know that this is nonsense. Clearly, time affects some people more than others, or, at the very least, it sure seems to hit some faster than others.

In a month, this will be demonstrated aptly. Though I should like to deny it, that's when my 30th high school reunion will be taking place. Mind you, I'm not actually old enough for that to be the case; simply put, time has ravaged me less than a lot of the others, to which I can attest based on my observations at the 25th reunion.

At this point, everyone might as well throw in the towel. Face it, friends, you've lost all the weight you're going to lose (if you were trying), you can't get a new toupee in time, getting a real tan (as opposed to those awful bronzing products, which turn your skin a color that screams "Carrot Top") is out of the question, and all that dental work you've been putting off is beyond your reach. The window for plastic surgery has been slammed shut, which isn't going to help those arthritic fingers. The best you're going to be able to do is to get your hair colored, and at our age, the cosmetic lie is both gratuitous and obvious.

Look, everyone is going to feel like they're under a microscope and that every little flaw and telltale sign of age will be lit up like a whored-up Christmas tree. Let me put everyone's mind at ease and settle this question right now: Suck it up, it's true. Of course they'll notice! The majority of the memories that we all carry of one another are, uh, of a fine vintage. Personally speaking, I think some of us look a lot better now. I might even say so to some of those people. But not all of them, because deep down inside, warping my perspective and sense of reason on the issue, I'll be jealous and angry.

Then again, I have my own advantages with which to coddle myself, to engage in a sense of denial and convince myself that they far outweigh the less-than-desirable changes that have occurred over the years. The fact that I still have all my hair will upset a lot of guys. No, I'm skipping the dye job. It's about 15% grey, and I can live with it. Women tell me it looks "distinguished", and for the sake of vanity, I choose to believe them. Since I avoid the sun like the plague (unless wearing SPF 2000 sunscreen), I have no wrinkles on my face. That'll hack off a lot of the women, who will regret the sun-worship of their youth. What else? Uh, reach for it.... no arthritis, though it would be a terribly low blow to mock someone for it, and even I won't stoop that low. I'll be among the approximately 27% who've never been divorced, and to my great relief at this point in my life, I don't have grandchildren yet, which I know that some of my former classmates do. You cannot avoid being grown-up and expected to act like it if you have grandchildren. Thanks, I'll be glad to wait.

Forgive me if I choose not to dwell on my "debit" qualities, but that's what denial is all about, isn't it? I just hope things don't devolve into uncharitable comparisons of what everyone has "achieved in life". This isn't fair because life is not fair, and nobody should be looked down on because they haven't had any of the lucky breaks that others have. It's also a mistake to interpret another person's life goals in terms of your own. You can't presume to know what makes another person tick; hell, I don't even know what makes me tick.

Actually, that isn't true. However, some of my proudest achievements on Maslow's pyramidic hierarchy won't make sense to most people, and I'm at a loss for an effective way to explain a lot of it. Fortunately, there's always the excuse that I'm an artist, and artists are legally exempt from having to explain themselves.

No, I intend to have a good time, and try my best not to worry about what other people think about me. Besides, some of my energy will be spent tracking down members of the reunion committee, as I've a bone or two to pick with them. It's faboo that they've taken the initiative, time, and expended the energy to arrange the reunion, and I give them their due kudos for it. However, the theme of this reunion is Jimmy Buffett's "Cheeseburger in Paradise". Would that I were making it up. At least I won't have to worry about dressing nicely (a thing I hate to do); the official garb is cargo shorts, flip-flops, and Hawaiian shirts (the latter I have yet to find). And therein lies my last advantage where inevitable comparisons are concerned:

I do have pretty nice legs.

A Bad, Bad Sign

In my all-too-distant last installment, we learned once again the irritating lesson that one must be careful when having fun.

I don't remember any of us asking to be taught the lesson again, let alone me.

The good news is, the operation went exceedingly well, and let me just say that the people at Coastal Orthopedics are the best. Here's a place that's everything you want a medical practice to be. They got me prepped, and only used a local anesthetic (thank goodness), so I was able to sit up & watch the whole thing on the same monitor the surgeon was using.

For those of you who were just sent cringing at the mere thought of it, don't be such a bunch of wimps. It's really cool! Then again, as a former pre-med major, I suppose my point of view isn't typical. Surprise.

In order to create a sterile area, they did have to screen the knee itself out of my field of vision, so I didn't get to see the doctor actually sticking the scope into my leg and moving it around and all that. Sure, I'd have watched that, too. Dammit, a lot of money was being paid for this deal, and every bit of entertainment should possible should be had out of it. However, since the insurance company was footing the knee bill, I had a real leg up on enjoying the whole thing.

I deeply apologize for that last sentence.

OK, no, I don't. Let's not digress.

So, here's what the damaged cartilage looked like:


You can see where the surgeon has conveniently labeled the tear, which is the fluffy-looking part. Everything you see that looks like that is supposed to be nice & smooth, like this:
















So, in goes the various cutting tools (that's right, cutting tools! And indeed, there are sounds akin to those of a power drill) to cut, snip and smooth the torn area out. Yes, I'm now missing some cartilage, but after this procedure, it will heal much, much faster and do so much more cleanly. In the old days before "scoping" joints, it would've taken a nasty incision and a lot of time to heal, not to mention the physical therapy. Here's the result after the repairs were made:

Much better. Reasonably speaking, I think anyone can see how much easier it will be for the joint to work until it fully regenerates.

How much easier? Lemme tell ya!

I was left with exactly two, one-loop stitches. Granted that I was on painkillers for a while, but I was able to get up & move on it that night. In a couple of days, I could walk somewhat normally, without a brace, and without other assistance much of the time. In a week, I'm walking pretty well. Phase down off the painkillers (and honestly, I don't know why people like them so much. Other than doing their job, I find the side effects very unpleasant), and continue to improve.

So, today, a mere thirteen days after surgery, I went for my follow-up visit. I walked in quite comfortably, had my stitches removed, and everything was as it should be. Out I walked again, NO physical therapy needed. I'm told that in another two weeks, I'll hardly know that it ever happened. At this point, kids, I'm a believer.

It was doing so well last Saturday night, that I freely participated in the ritual Shed Bashing. Yep, we really did invite a bunch of people over for a party, during which we took turns destroying the shed with various and sundry instruments of mess destruction. I put my knee brace on just in case (as swinging a sixteen-pound sledgehammer does involve a lateral sway), and bashed to my heart's content. The Bashing will be the subject of the next post, complete with pictures.

So, after such a glowing report, what's the bad part? Well, many of the party guests weren't aware that I'd even hurt myself (thanks for staying in touch, guys), so I was compelled by circumstance to tell the story several times. Here's the catch: I caught myself referring to it as "my latest operation".

GASP!

According to the stereotype, only old people go around telling people about their latest operation. It isn't a horrible thing that I've had enough operations to refer to my "latest" (I'm very fortunate; I got the care I needed when many cannot); it's just that actually doing so is a flaw in my mentality. Didn't I just go through an entire play and a lot of keen rationalization in recent posts to prove that I'm not "too old"?? I don't know what to say about it, except.

Ouch. Again.

Thems Are the Breaks

One of the thrills of live performance is, of course, not knowing exactly what's going to happen next. Ideally, it's the audience that gets surprised, not you.

However, that bastard Murphy has been everywhere, including the world of theatre, where he is no more welcome than Don Imus is on the Rutgers campus.

Now, Godspell is a very active show, even athletic at times. The cast is practically always on the move, and energetically so. You can't schlep your way through it. I'm happy to say that ours was a schlepless production. In very few shows have I gotten to act, sing, dance, play guitar, do a few impressions and assorted odd voices. I had a great time. But....

Why does there always have to be a "But...."?

All that moving around was just fine in rehearsal, but when you get to dress rehearsals & performances, things change. A couple of these may be, for instance, the surface you're working on and the shoes you're wearing. This is where I ran into trouble. On a number of places, I was blocked (the theatre term for "where in the zark am I supposed to be right now?") to be off the front of the stage in the space in front of the audience. All well and good, I've had my shots. Ah, but an important difference: the stage was a wooden floor, whereas the front area was carpet.

The thing about wearing athletic shoes as part of your costume is that while they're comfortable and give you a great deal of control on the wood floor, they behave a lot differently on carpet. In the heat of the battle, when once more going into the breach, it's easy to overlook little things like that.

On the Tuesday before our Thursday opening, I was stepping off of an 18 inch cube in the front area, with the intention of going over to the place I was supposed to be next ("You're zarking well supposed to be over here!"). I meant to pivot on my right foot as I swung my left down to follow. No deal; my right foot, at the moment bearing all my weight, didn't pivot. It stuck in place on the carpet. As a result, my right knee got twisted in a way it's not designed to. Knees, in fact, in the event that you hadn't noticed nor read in the manual, aren't intended to twist at all. Thus did I pick up a nasty sprain, but one cannot let such things keep the show from going on. We have a cliche to uphold.

OK, so the stupid thing hurt, but I resolved to be more careful, and I succeeded admirably. Until opening night. Since I was playing Judas, at some point you just know that I have to run out and do some betraying. You can't rewrite stuff like that. Well, my blocking called for me to jump off the stage and run the zark out the back of the auditorium via an aisle. The jump? No problem. Starting to run? Hey, I was on the carpet by then, and as had been previously proven, the traction was almost unholy. A tad ironic when doing Godspell, but let that pass. I had to go around the same cube I'd injured myself on before, and cut about a 20-degree-angled turn to the right to zip my way up the aisle.

I used to be on the track team & ran cross-country, I know darn well how to avoid an obstacle and execute a turn while running: You come down on the foot that's to the side you're turning to, pivot on it while the other foot comes down, then push off of the first foot to move in the new direction. As a matter of unhappy circumstance, this was the same foot that had caused me to injure my knee before, on the grounds that it loved the carpet so very well, it couldn't bring itself to move and allow me to.... pivot.

At a dead run, it didn't prove to be any different.

So, when I went to make the turn, my momentum carried my body weight to the left, and severely bent my poor right knee in that direction. In that moment, I knew that I had zarking well zarked the zark out of that knee, but I managed to get out the back anyway. I hope nobody noticed the limp when I came back in to do the actual betraying. Listen, if I'm portraying Judas in the very moment of betraying Jesus and you're noticing the way I walk, I'm doing something very, very wrong.

Pain. Pain became known to me in a very personal way. The next day, I bought one of those really beastly knee braces that has metal hinges on the sides, so I wouldn't do it again. Or, if I did, the forces of nature would have to get past cold, hard steel. That worked OK, and while it didn't relieve the pain, it allowed me to get through the business of the rest of the performances on the main run. Great. We had a two week break before the last, special performance (that's very unusual). In this two weeks, did the knee get any better, like a sprain should? Nope, not one little bit. However, I got through the last performance without too much difficulty. It hurt, though.

Now, by an incredible coincidence, I had an appointment with my orthopedist the next day. Why? To follow up on the problem with my shoulder. I'd been through physical therapy, trying to stave off surgery which we'll eventually have to do, due to joint impingement. This, we accomplished, and jointly decided that although it's not 100%, it's livable for now. The next time it locks up, we operate. Fine. Cool. Then I pointed to the brace on my leg, and said "Could we talk about this knee?" I related my tragic story, and while it didn't move him to tears, he showed adequate concern. We did an X-ray. "Hmmm, that doesn't look particularly good. We'd better get an MRI done." We set it up for the very next day (amazing, ain't it?), and he promised to call me himself with the results, and we'd go from there.

This is all very swank, since this practice is well known as the best in the area. My knee's in good hands.

My orthopedist did call (No, really!), and it figures that the news isn't especially good. I have a pretty significant tear of the meniscus cartilage in my right knee, so guess who's headed to surgery? So, April 17 it is (again, unbelievably quickly). The good news is, I can put weight on it quite soon afterwards, be significantly better in a week, and supposedly completely normal in a month. That's just in time for my high school reunion, although "completely normal" isn't a phrase you normally associate with me. This is arthroscopic surgery, so relatively simple & non-traumatic. In some ways, it beats the other theory, which was a severe sprain; those can take forever to normalize. Nah, gimme the quick fix. Then it'll probably be back for my third round of physical therapy inside the last 10 months. Fortunately, they're fairly jolly people, even if they do wear so much black studded leather.

Not for the first time, I wished I'd taken the extended warranty on this stupid body.

Initially, I'd worried that perhaps I was a bit too old to be doing Godspell. As it turns out, I was not too old. At least, most of me. Apparently, my right knee was too old, and now I shall have to pay the price. All I can say now is:

Ouch.

The Problem With Adding Comments

Thanks to you who've written me saying nice things about my posts. Several said they would have added it as a comment, but it didn't work.

There IS a problem there, and this is what it is:

Microsoft Internet Explorer, any version, does not get along with the updated Blogger program.

Oh, it'll bring the box up & let you think you'll be able to add a comment to the blog here, but when you hit "Publish your comment", it goes awry and never posts, no matter what you do. Even if YOU have a blogger ID and sign in with it, Internet Explorer will simply not process it right.

In fact, I can't do anything on nor to my blog with going through another browser. To be able to interact with "Blogger" blog pages (by the way, Google/Gmail operates them), I recommend Firefox. That's what I use, and I have no problems. Netscape works fine, too.

"But then I have more than one browser!" you say. "Won't that screw up my main Internet program?"

Nope. Your computer identifies, via your choice, which browser is the default. Your Internet service program will always go to it, and having any of the others won't interfere at all. I have Firefox and Netscape (If one goes down, I have options); to activate them, I click on those icons, and it opens right up. It doesn't interfere at all with my open Internet service program. Each are good back-ups for different reasons. Firefox has a pile of add-ons & ancillary services. Netscape, while having a great search engine, IS owned by AOL, and that makes me wary right there.

Anyway, there you go. I hope I'll see some comments actually popping up on the page, now that I've cleared up the problem that a lot of you may have encountered.

Thanks for reading!

Don't Call Me "Two Sheds"

A photo essay.

This is the Eye Wit's new shed.

Steel. 10 feet by twelve feet. That'll hold a LOT of bodies.

Anchored against hurricanes, and theoretically can stand up to 100 mph winds. I'd rather not test that feature.

Nice to have, yeah. The best part: I wasn't the one who assembled the darn thing. That part of the operation was a gift from my father-in-law, who is, by any account, a swell guy.

However, if there's a new one, that means there needs must be an old one. Oh, yeah.... let's take a look, shall we?


This, by any account, is a POS. If you don't know what that means, then you're a more genteel person than I.

Note the door off its rusted hinges, the quaint plywood nailed over a long-gone window, and the general presence of rotting wood and decay.

I think this picture may be art, because it well expresses how I feel in the morning before that precious fourth cup of coffee.


Here we have a bit of a better view of the side.

Note the shadows from the utility cables, which may be one of the few magical things still holding this piece of junk up.

The vertical white pieces, a stupid idea in the first place (hey, they were there when we bought the house, don't blame me), are particularly rotten.




This is a part of the back, where my neighbor's tree has provided extra dampness to help weaken the molecular structure of the wood.

The hole & warped plywood at the bottom has allowed several small animals to get in and set up housekeeping. I had to get rid of them, of course, but I admit that they were better interior decorators than I.

Did I mention the termite damage to the frame? No? It's merely a bonus that comes with the package.

Termites are, naturally, a great thing to have present when your pathetic excuse for a shed is within twenty feet of your house, which, although primarily concrete block, still has trivial things like the entire roofing structure made of wood.


This is the Eye Wit's fist, which punched this hole with disturbing ease through the side of the shed.

No, wearing the glove was not chickening out. First off, it's not "manly" to bash your fist through something bare-knuckled. Do I need the potential splinters? No, I'm a musician, I need my hands unscathed. Further, there are rusty nails involved, and I can't remember when I last had a tetanus shot.

What's the point to all this? What have we learned?

Not a hell of a lot.

Perhaps we should go with the obvious: That the Eye Wit must be a bit daft to have let his old shed get into that kind of condition before doing something about it.

I counter that I'm an artist, and I didn't have the freaking money.

Getting out of assembling a steel building when it's already 85 degrees outside? That's a sign of wisdom. At least, that's how I'm calling it, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't mess with my delusions.

Something plain and simple: Don't go around punching through things, even if you're pretty sure it's going to work. This is especially true of other people. They tend to hit back.

Well, having learned all these valuable lessons, the last thing to think about is, not surprisingly, the wager.

I bet my wife that I can make the entire thing collapse with exactly three smites with a sledgehammer. The problem with the wager is that I made it such an embarassingly long time ago, I don't remember what it is. Neither does my wife. Therein lays the advantage!

I can therefore "remind" her of the stakes, and arrange it so that I "win" no matter what happens.

Mama didn't raise no fool.

Foiled Again, Plus Musings on Age

I'm still not dead. My wife's plot to kill me has utterly failed.

This is a bit of a surprise, since I thought that it was going to work.

As previously mentioned, she drafted me into a play that she was directing. In short, the guy that was supposed to be playing the lead went completely bonkers for a while, and never showed up for rehearsals. In the cast was someone who'd played the part before, so while the situation was being sorted out, he was named as the backup, the heir apparent in case it became necessary. However, were that to happen, there'd be nobody to play the part he was playing. As it happens, I've played that part before, so she asked me to be on tap. Normally, I'd be a swell guy & go along with it. I gotta live with the woman, and it's good to keep her happy. I do try my best. However, I had to object on two bases: One, I've been sick for a while, hadn't shaken it, and I wasn't sure it was a good idea to do something demanding quite yet. One of those damn things that just hangs on for what seems like forever. The second reason that the show in question was Godspell. For the uninitiated (and shame on you), it's a very high-energy play. The energy of the piece is, in essence, youthful, and generally you wouldn't cast people past 30 in it.

I'm, um, a little older than that. OK, I'm 47 (shut up!). So I ask, am I not too old to be in this cast? Nonsense, she says.

I got proven wrong on every point. One, I managed in spite of still not feeling good. Two, I did indeed have the "right" energy, and the play turned out very well, I'm happy to say. I'm not too old to be in Godspell. Yet. It could happen any minute, and it had better not, as the last performance is tomorrow.

Meanwhile, in a somewhat parallel vein, my 30th high school reunion is coming up in June (I said shut up!). I thought about how it was five years ago, and what it was likely to be like this time. How is the collective gang holding up? Some far better than others, no doubt. So, allow me a few moments of smugness here while I lend some credence to the old saw that you're as young as you feel:

-Not looking the age certainly helps. OK, I admit that the hair is colored, but it's only about 15% grey. I've avoided the sun my whole life, unless wearing SPF3,000 sunscreen (I come from a long line of pale people). Currently, I still have no lines on my face.
-I still have a good, energetic spring in my step. I just freakin' well did Godspell, after all.
-Unlike a certain percentage of the guys who'll show up at the reunion, I'll not be counted in with those who are fat, losing their hair, have a questionable heart, high cholesterol & blood pressure.... I need to shed a few pounds, OK, but I have none of those problems. I'm a performing artist, and I am my own instrument. I do try to take care of the thing.
-Mid-life crisis? You've gotta be kidding! Not me! I'm watching my contemporaries struggle their way through it, and for the life of me, I just don't get it. It would never occur to "trade in" my spouse for a "trophy wife"; we'll celebrate our silver anniversary this year, and thank you, she IS a trophy wife. If I had the money (which I do not; I mentioned that I'm a performing artist), I wouldn't be caught dead buying a red sports car or humongous SUV. Forget it, I'm a "greenie" and I want a hybrid car.

So much energy and money expended for them to "find out who they really are" or something like that. Regain their lost youth. The big mistakes therein: First, don't lose your youth; take it with you. It stays a lot fresher that way. Second: Friend, if you don't know who you are by now, then I'm sorry, but that's pretty pathetic. Try getting a mirror & make an honest assessment. If you don't like it, then do one small thing tomorrow to change it. The same the next day, and the next, and so on. Actually, it'll turn out that you're the same person you were, but you'll feel better about yourself because you're making better choices. That's a good thing! It's far better than the young wife (statistics overwhelmingly say that she won't stay with you, anyway) and the red sports car. That's degrading yourself, not changing. Being a slightly better person tomorrow in your words and deeds? Infinitely more valuable.

It's called aging gracefully, or so they say. In spite of everything I've just said, I think I'll cling to a little denial for a while. Don't worry, every time my 23 year old daughter walks into the room, it gets shot down.

The good thing is, I can always come back here, read my own words, and resolve not to be a hypocrite about it. I've just handed you the weapon with which to give me a reminder flesh wound.

I think that the point that the crisis-prone members of my age bracket miss is that it's not about what you did yesterday or twenty years ago. It's especially not about what you did not do in all that time.

It's always about what you decide to do tomorrow. Decide well, and I'll try to do the same.

Dear Craig Ferguson

(Note: This is an ongoing thing that I originally started writing on the Humor Me Online Forum, and you can find it here: Dear Craig Ferguson
You can get the idea of this post by checking out some of the history there, in which I, in my guise of the terminally corrupt Bucko, & Mariann Simms, the infamous Cadeaux & owner of Humor Me Online, rag on Craig for teasing us on the air and rail at him for not doing the right thing and hiring us. Me first!)

So, you're at it again, eh? Thought I wouldn't notice?

Tuesday night's show.... you literally STARE into the camera and say "dung beetle". NOBODY mentions a dung beetle out of thin air. Oh, but by a stunning coincidence, it's implied in the entries & referenced in the current winner of a Humor Me Online contest, Top Stu. COINCIDENCE?? I think not! Especially not the way you said it. You are messing with us again, man!

And then, THEN.... all the talk about mating animals, especially the frogs (and look, you really have to do something about this frog fetish of yours; you can't seem to stop talking about it). That was Monday & Tuesday. And just WHAT is the subject of the new story in the Mediacrity contest? HMMM?? Peoples' fascination with odd animal MATING FACTS. When did that new story go up? LAST SATURDAY. Listen, Smedley, that's MY contest. I appreciate you wanting to swipe from the best (heh heh.... Cadeaux gonna smite me for that), but come on, couldn't you at least mention our names?

You don't have to use the real ones.... if you mention "Bucko" and "Cadeaux", it'll be plenty damn clear that you're talking to us. Slip them in somewhere. After all, you're Craig Ferguson; who knows what Craig is going to say? Better yet, why don't you have us on your show? We'd be witty, weird, and I personally promise to show no restraint whatsoever. Besides, you owe me, Smedley; your sidekick player, who does the characters & accents & such? You might recall that I suggested it on the HMO Forum BEFORE you hired him. Go back & read it, Scotty; I clearly meant for you to hire ME. You oughta have some pity on a starving artist/actor. Is that too much to ask out of life? Is it? Did I mention that I know some people in Immigration & Naturalization?

Listen, Craig, the tips of the hat & the "inside" comments are great, keep them coming. It's neat, and Mariann gets all loopy when you allude to her or stuff on the site (though it's a bit hard to tell, due to her high endogenous level of loopitude). But consider, the two of us (and I'm the taller one, so you'd notice me first) are a respectable percentage of your national audience. You wouldn't want to disappoint us, now, would you? Of course not.

Look, there's plenty of great material we can provide to you on a regular basis. And remember, I'm taller, so you have to pick me first, just like the tallest kids always got picked in gym class in school. I'm sure you know how that goes. I can cyber-commute (no, there's nothing sexual involved in doing that, unless you ask. Nicely.) & save you a lot of money. Besides, unless I get to be the sidekick character guy like I deserve to be, I'm not keen on living in California. I may live in Hurricane Alley, but at least we know when one of the damn things is coming. I don't like the idea of living someplace where you need earthquake insurance. When you come home to your son at night, don't you want your home to be in the same place where it was when you left in the morning? You ought to give that some thought.

Or, use it in your opening monologue. At the very least, though, manage to say the word "Bucko" while you do it. I need all the self-esteem help I can get.

Spanning the Glob

You heard me right.

In yet another sign that our "society" has gone completely bonkers, I just turned off the news in disgust. Normally, the news has that effect on me anyway, but I'm calling the whole industry out on this one, and let me say this with some asperity: You all ought to be kicked in the groin over this whole idiotic orgy about Anna Nicole Smith's death. Let's make this easy:

She was a bimbo. She's dead. Accidental drug overdose. Condolences to the family.

And that should bloody well be the END of it!!

The reason that I'm up in arms about it at the moment is that at about 5:20, my esteemed spouse came out here to the Aubergine Enclave (which is my refuge) and told me that the local cable news channel had just flashed a bulletin about some airliner from Korea having just landed in New Jersey, that called the CDC in Atlanta about having "some sick people aboard". Now, that's potentially VERY serious, isn't it? Remember, the last two epidemic threats both came out of southeast Asia (SARS & avian flu), so what's going on here? My mind, for one, was inquiring and wanted to know.

So, I clicked on CNN Headline News at 5:30, figuring that they'd be right on it. Fat chance (he said, skipping past irony and heading straight for satire); there was no mention of it in over ten minutes of coverage. No, the first six minutes of the channel that's supposed to summarize the top news for you every half hour was all about what? You betcha: Smith. Featuring multiple shots of her & her boobs (mostly her boobs) at a rate nearly approaching that of blipverts (Oh, Google it, will ya?). As a "disputant theorist", they had an interview with the editor of a celebrity gossip magazine who was crying out about conspiracies and cover-ups, which is stupid, because the woman very seldom covered much up and left little to the imagination. So why so much imagination over her death?

Search me. I just don't care. President Ford didn't get this much intense coverage when he died. Granted, he was 92, so it was less of a surprise, and his boobs weren't nearly as good, but that isn't the point! Elvis didn't get this kind of coverage. Did we get a toxicology report on him and start a national debate over it? No! Because he was, gifted singer that he was, essentially a fat redneck who wasn't all that bright (cross reference Anna & "The Colonel" & how both of them ripped off stupid rich men). Sorry to all the idolizers out there, but the truth is the truth.

Finally, this episode of "journalism" having ended, they went to a report about the friendly fire death of NFL star Pat Tillman in Afghanistan. THAT should have come first, dammit! A US Soldier was killed by our own, and as it turns out, there was a big cover-up about it. Among those to be disciplined are four generals. Granted, this got more press than other such deaths because he was a famous football player, but that very fact and the extra attention led to us learning about some extremely important things about our military & the government.

Only to be trumped by a bleached-blonde bimbo who had nine prescription drugs in her system, who was arguably not bright enough to follow all the directions properly, even if she wasn't probably prone to substance abuse, anyway.

Meanwhile, if people around you start dropping dead from some mystery Asian virus that nobody had any warnings about, when it's your turn, at least you can die with the satisfaction that we all knew that Anna Nicole Smith was dead and exactly how dead she was, and that all the pertinent forensic questions of experts such as Joan Rivers were put to rest.

Of course, the only reason they'll have been put to rest is that Joan, the gossip columnists, and the negligent CNN Headline News will all have already succumbed to the mystery plague. If only they'd saved a minute or two to report on it....

A Good Spell

It's been a while. The good news is: I ain't dead yet.

Well, assuming that that's the sort of thing that you consider good news. Some parties, they may not be so happy about it. However, I try not to go to those sorts of parties.

It's been an interesting month, and I've had a lot of ideas for entries here that I've no doubt forgotten, or will be incapable of remembering when I wish. Such is life when you're in the theatre. Whatever you're working on tends to consume your mind & energy, which is as it should be. Do you really want to go to a production of Anton Chekhov's The Three Sisters when the lead actresses are actually thinking about a wild lesbian threesome together? Well, actually, a good number of you might find that very interesting indeed, but when I buy a ticket to that play, I wanna see some pointless Russian angst.

But, I digress.

What was my point?

Oh yes: That I'm too tired at the moment to have a point, but that I will shortly. Meanwhile, I'm trying to think up horrible things to send to the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, and I'm having a bit of a time with it. For those of you who are B-W virgins, the idea is to write THE worst opening sentence for a story that you can possibly think up. That's not as easy as you think. Here's the contest namesake's original sentence, which will begin with familiar words:

"It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents--except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness."

That's a hell of an act to try to follow.

I sent in a pretty ghastly sentence last night, but my intention is to win this year, so I'm going to have to get more rancid than that. A friend of mine won in 2003, and I'm just not going to take it lying down. Not because she lords it over me; it's just that I aim to prove that I can be at least as wretched as she can.

Meanwhile, my wife just walked in with black raspberry-flavored almonds and a dragon. Soon, we'll have company. It's funny just how often those three things happen together.

Question of the Day

Well, the Wit is getting run ragged by the rehearsals for the play he suddenly finds himself in.... Terribly bad form for me to go so long without a post. I'll try to be brilliant tomorrow (as if one can schedule such things).

However, I leave you with this question to ponder:

If they're really any good, why do psychics have to advertise their services?

If It's Not One Thing, It's Another

Life has a way of lumping things together.

Unfortunately, it seldom does so as we'd like. If you'd prefer that every crappy thing that's going to happen to you in 2007 just hit you now & get it over with, forget it. It's going to hang over you like an unstable stalactite all year without you having the first idea as to which calamity the last one will be, right up until 12:59 on December 31. Even then, there's still another minute during which to grind your teeth, thus furthering the income of the dental industry. These people are in alliance with the psychiatrists; the more aggravating life is, the more money both parties make from chewn-down teeth and minds. We are relatively powerless to prevent this, too. Perhaps Scientologists don't believe in dentistry, either, but my bet is that that midget Tom Cruise didn't get that set of choppers from any aliens, and let's see him get along without that cosmetic dentist he's had a deep and personal relationship with all these years.

But, I digress.

Sometimes a couple of good things will hit back-to-back; indeed, this is the place in which I find myself now. The afforementioned play which was making my presence here scarce ended yesterday, and was a good bit of fun. Well, no break for the Eye Wit this time (though actors generally don't care for breaks, since it means not getting paid), but a change of hats, as it were (though I haven't decided whether to wear a hat or not). I'll be playing guitar & such in the pit band for a production of Godspell. Now my mother can avert her eyes in shame when asked about her younger son (for such, I am) and what he does twice. First for "He's an actor...." and then again for "....and a rock musician."

Nah, she doesn't do that. She's pretty well adjusted to it, thanks to some soothing medication that she got, oddly, from her dentist. Occasionally, the conspiracy mixes itself up.

So, out come at least three of the guitars & the mandolin for some action. I'm sure my neighbors will appreciate the return of the strains of my electric guitar. Actually, it won't be straining at all; plug that sucker in, and there it goes. It's the neighbors who'll feel the strain, especially when I'm practicing my lead lines, or "riffs" as they are also called. I admit to not being terribly proficient at that; I'm not a lead guitarist, so I have to practice my lead lines. I can think of them, but my fingers don't seem to have the right connections to just play whatever rapid-fire barrage of notes I conceive. Either that, or I just never practiced doing it enough. The latter seems likely, as I'm self-taught on every instrument I play, and playing lead is the hardest thing about guitartistry. Without an instructor or dentist to threaten me into it, I guess I took the easy way out. My excuse? "I'm a lead singer, so asking me to play lead guitar at the same time is unreasonable." That actually holds water with people.... if I'm actually singing. Playing in the band robs me of that excuse, ergo the practice.

Say, I wonder if my doctor, in defiance of the conspiracy, can give me a medication that'll make me a better lead guitarist? I've asked him crazier things than that....

Where's the Wit?

Working on a play, that's where I am.

Fear not, more silliness and agressive digression will soon appear; I have several posts I'm in the middle of, and I'm procrastinating quite nicely about finishing them.

Besides, my wife's the director, so I have to stay focused and do a frigging great job. Which does not involve doing things as I did this evening, such as running, hard, into the side of a flat. That's gonna be a lovely bruise.

This was compensated for somewhat by a very interesting conversation with one of the other actors about quantum physics. No, really! Man, what a couple of nerds we are....

Back at ya soon....

Van Dammit, Part the Second

"Yeah!" said Lynn, "you could scheme to distribute all sorts of things through Mickey D's..."

Speck arched an eyebrow. He was good at that. "Even food?" he asked sarcastically.

Mel, unfortunately, was intrigued. "OK, say a pretty brunette comes into the drive-in. The guy in the window is prepared to give her anything she wants."
"Amazing, since he can't see or smell her through the speaker."
"There's a video camera hidden in the sign."
"There IS?" Lynn was astonished. "I'd better put my shirt on."

Mel did not relent. "Now, she asks for the seaweed hash browns, hold the sea & browns."
"Other than being a massively stupid way to phrase it, doesn't that take us back to the original problem?"
"That it does!" Mel replied. "Suppose, then, that the brunette asks for 'Nothing, just some coke.' How does the guy reply?"
"Uh, 'That'll be $298.33; please pull forward' and see how she reacts?"
Lynn cut in with "Shouldn't he ask her if she wants that in a bag, just to be sure?"
"Maybe" Speck shrugged. "The brunette would be savvy. A blonde might not even notice the outrageous price. Besides, she'd ask for diet coke, whatever that would be."
"Hey!"
"But, either way, if you're the guy in the window, you win."

Lynn's lower lip protruded in a pout that could only make a man think of a few things, most of which he didn't care about anyway. "C'mon, now, I can't help my stupid hair color. I had black hair briefly. It looked green in the sun."
Mel was still fixated and said "You know, it'd be much simpler just to use coffee."
"And why is that?" Speck queried.
"Because you frequently hand out these convenient little packages of white powder with coffee, anyway. So, if you wanted a dime bag of coke, you could order "coffee cut with sugar."
"Yeah! And heroin could be Sweet n' Low."
"But what would Equal be?" Lynn wanted to know. "I put that everywhere."
"Hmmm.... angel dust, I guess, though it's a bit out of fashion. And everyone knows about the coffee stirrers, so you're right in there up the nose with those."
"I don't get it," Lynn said, shaking her head with a lack of understanding, "couldn't you burn your nose really badly using it that way?"

Speck & Mel turned around to eye her; partly in disbelief over what she'd just said, and partly because she still hadn't put her shirt back on.

"I mean, they have that warning on the cup & everything..." She withered under their looks. "What if you wanted just plain, real sugar?"

"Then," deadpanned Speck "you are out of luck, babe."

Van Dammit, Part the First

Time. Time passes. Sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. What that lazy geek Einstein failed to notice was that it passes most slowly when given something to juxtapose against.

Such a juxtaposition is frequently offered by what is poorly-named a "fast-food restaurant", and most especially its speedy drive-through. The time spent there is inversely proportional to the IQ of the attendant, or his/her/its age, whichever is higher, and seldom exceeding 20.6 in either case.

Once again, Einstein was too busy extrapolating the universe from a piece of prune Danish (which, had he just gone & eaten, would in itself have spend time up) to add this corollary to his precious little Theory. Some may contend that it was because he'd never actually been to a drive-through. And why is that? Because they weren't kosher? Life itself is not so kosher, yet nobody saw him avoiding life on that excuse. Now, Einstein may have actually liked drive-throughs, because anyone in the car is a captive to whatever spurious conversation you care to start. Or write. Whatever. In fact, much of his best work was done over a klatsch.

The search for profundity moves along, and settles for a moment on an aging conversion van trapped inside the ten-inch-high curbs at an eatery that we shall call McDougall's. Its human inhabitants are three: Mel, Speck and Lynn. How they got there is unimportant, although chances are excellent that they came in the van.

Speck was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. The world is full of frustrated percussionists.
"Did you read that article?" Mel asked, of no one in particular. Not being very particular himself, Mel asked back "And which article might that be?"
"The one about the guy selling marijuana in a McDonald's drive-through?"
"Really?" came a slightly muffled voice from the rear of the van.
"Yeah. He knew which customers were his when they asked for 'hash browns without the browns'."
Speck grimaced. "Pray tell, couldn't he have been a bit more creative?"
A blonde head popped out from the back, with a whole girl attached. Lynn was curious: "Why? What would you have said?"
"Have you been listening to our conversation?" Mel asked with some testiness.
"Yep."
"Voyeur."
Mel furrowed his brow and inquired "Well, what would you have said?"
"How about 'GIMME SOME [OBSCENE GERUND] MARIJUANA, YOU RANK BASTARD!!'?"
"What??"
"What's an 'obscene gerund'?" Lynn wanted to know.
"I'll explain later. The point is, no one would think you were serious."
"How true that is...." mused Mel.
"See, then the guy could say 'Do you want fries with that?' like nothing had happened."
"Ingenious."
"And you could come right out and say 'Hell, yes, 'cause I'm about to have the munchies real bad!'."
"Obviously."
"So, then he asks you if you want a medium or large bag...."
"Wait" said Mel, "what ever happened to small?"
"I want mine super-sized!" chimed in Lynn.
"I already told you- later! So, you ask for a large bag, saying 'Otherwise I'll have to come back in an hour, man. There's three of us in this frigging van. Not to mention the goat'."
"Best kind."
"Of what?"
"Van. This is very workable; your average McDonald's manager isn't keen enough to follow all this."
"Yeah, but the above-average manager demands a piece of the action. Plus a date with the goat."

Mel and Speck looked at each other thoughtfully.

"Maybe" speculated Speck "we're in the wrong business."

(That seems about as logical a stopping place as this story is going to supply....)

About the Next Story.... It's Like This:

I don't actually remember when I started writing this story. My bad.

I know how it got started; I was trolling for stories for the news-based Mediacrity contest at Humor Me Online. We take an odd, bizarre or sick yet real news item, and the players send in whatever kind of comeback hits their brains. Out of these, I pick a list of the funniest entries, select some winners, and we move onto the next story. It's fun, do drop in some time.

This particular news item was about a guy who got busted for selling pot while working in a McDonald's drive-through. Enterprising, at the very least. I didn't wind up using the story, but apparently, I started jotting this thing down, after which it completely skipped my mind. Strange, because it's thirteen hand-written pages, and isn't even finished. Sue me, I got on a sesame-seed roll....

What's really pointless is that here I am, introducing the story, and the introduction will appear below the story and a lot of people will never read it.

Well, no plan is flawless.

The Eye Wit's Prophecies for 2007

What can you say about 2006.... you know, that doesn't include a lot of profanity?

You'd expect that 2007 will just have to be better.

Well, not necessarily. We said the same about 2006, remember.

Here, then, are the most definitive prophecies that any will come out with for this year.

By the way, ANYONE can make "predictions"; no, I shall vent forth these visions of the future as prophecies, for I am that sure. I ask one favor in return: That when each of these events comes to pass, that you dip your head slightly, and in a quavering voice say "As foretold by prophecy." It's not such a big favor for you to do for me, and I guarantee that you'll confound, befusticate and annoy all the people around you. Therefore, there's something in it for you, too. Trust me, I've been annoying people for years & know whereof I speak.

Doubt me all you want. The truth is the truth, so you can't have an opinion about it.

The United Nations will hardly be heard from. The main reason is the same as always: They don't actually do that much. Now they have the additional handicap of a new Secretary-General who doesn't have a funny name.

Generals Grant & Lee will rise from the dead to finally get it into the Administration's head that there IS a civil war going on in Iraq. Thousands of re-enactors will be overcome with emotion and will enlist. Rumsfeld will be posthumously raked over the coals for never having thought of that.

Reality TV Shows will get so pervasive and out-of-hand, that even Jerry Springer's show will start mocking them. In April, all of them will be knocked off the air for two months due to strikes by their writers & actors.... or did you think any of them were REALLY real?

The Chicago Cubs will not win the World Series. A complete "gimme", you say? Well, it's not so much that they won't make it as it is how they won't make it. The key event will be a pajama party at Mark DeRosa's house, which will end in disaster. The entire pitching staff will get into a jealous snit and stop speaking to one another after arguing about who "throws more balls to guys when holding their bats"; all three catchers will catch mono from Felix "Eat Me" Pie; and two utility infielders will die from blood poisoning brought on by having their ears pierced with a rusty spork.

Historians will languish in the recent, shocking discovery that in comparison with George Bush, Gerald Ford was a brilliant president, compelling leader, and one sexy hipster.

House Republicans will try to come up with some sort of mocking moniker to pin onto the new Speaker, but fail utterly because nothing rhymes with "Pelosi" except "Lugosi", and nobody will mess with the critical "creature feature" demographic.

The Pope will be in even hotter water than he was with the Muslims when it becomes generally known what the title of his previous job ("Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith") used to be: The Grand Inquisitor.

No, I'm not making that up, though I knew, KNEW that you'd question me over it, you foul apostates!

Prince Charles will be arrested for serial bestiality. In consolation, he'll get that eye surgery he so desperately needs. Too late, Chuckles, you already married it. Still, Camilla seems like Oprah when compared to that uptight bitch, the Queen.

Speaking of which, have you noticed the stark resemblance between Camilla and Martha Stewart?

Senator Barack Obama will continue to play the "come here, come here, oh get away, get away" game about running for president, but will run. He'll make his formal announcement on the May 6th broadcast of "Iron Chef". Wok-a-wok-a-wok-a!

I am SO sorry about that last comment....

Gay marriage will become legal (via interpretation of their constitutions) in two more states. However, the movement will suffer from a plague of self-doubt when new studies will show that gay couples can't possibly keep up with the levels of divorce & failed marriages among heterosexuals. Heterosexuals will be angered to find out that gay people are actually much better at being married than they are.

Tony Blair will be getting a new desk at 10 Downing Street. He's worn the old one out from bending over it so many times.

Al Qaeda will become hopelessly confused when they try to figure out why New York City is apparently more concerned about trans fats than they are about Al Qaeda. They'll be in such a dither that they just won't get anything done.... well, except to keep up the training bases in Iraq that weren't there before we invaded.

The Episcopal Church will splinter even further, this time over a seemingly irreconcilable argument over what constitutes "beige" and what is really "ecru".

A Rolling Stones Tour will be cut short when, while playing before an audience in Cleveland, Mick Jagger takes a trip, slips, flips, busts his lips and breaks his hip. Even Mick draws the line at going out on stage with a walker.

Neo-Pharisee Pat Robertson will go one step too far, and offend huge numbers of people dedicated to the worship of a different God: Football. It'll be the spearhead (how ironic) of his latest crusade against gay people. "Every time something goes good, they start slapping each others' fannies. We cannot tolerate them indoctrinating our children with the idea that whenever something goes well, you head straight for a guy's ass."

In the world of movie sequels, Rocky Balboa will die at the box office. Literally. The movie is so bad, Stallone will be the only one buying tickets, and he'll die from choking on stale popcorn that was, ironically, popped in the same year that the original Rocky came out. Following the success of Snakes on a Plane, there will be innumerable knock-offs, including Walking Catfish on a Plane. Sure, it doesn't sound scary.... until they get their fins on the secret shipment of nuclear-powered Segways in the cargo hold! Elks on a Plane will sound more adventurous, until the public discovers that they don't care if a lodge-full of old accountants and insurance agents bite it.

Canada will continue to be a pretty quiet place (unless you live in Quebec) and its government will do nothing of note in 2007. Therefore, millions of Americans will emigrate there.

The Dixie Chicks will overcome their previous public relations problem; remember, when they said they were ashamed to be from the state that gave us George Bush. Their single "We Told You He's an Ass, Don't Come Crying to Us Now" will hit number one on all the charts.

Steve Guttenberg's career, if you can call it that, will hit a new low. The only job he'll be able to get will be as Joan Rivers' underpaid gigolo, proving that he really will do absolutely anything for a dollar. 'Cause nobody else is "going there".

Hummus will continue to be popular with many for its health benefits, but since it's Arabic in origin, the Congressional cafeteria will re-name it "Freedom Monkey-poo".

Saddam Hussein will get some good news: He's been granted a new trial. He'll have to "re-flower" all the virgins & give them back first, though.

And in the waning moments of 2007, with 2008 fast approaching, we'll all have the distinct feeling of just having had some sort of sexual encounter. Not that we'll all be "getting lucky" that evening; it's just that we'll realize that as far as 2007 went, we all got royally screwed. Again.

Yeah, Yeah, Happy New Whatever

So 2007 just began, mere minutes ago as I write. Big, fat hairy deal.

Look, it's not like it takes any effort for one year to change into the next. Stand on one foot, hold your breath until you pass out, fall over, hit your head on the corner of that possessed coffee table, wake up.... and the clock and calendar will still have ticked over.

Thing is, it's all fake. The clock and the calendar, while linked to astronomical phenomena, are artificial conventions invented by humans. It isn't as if the Earth didn't know when to cross the same spot in its orbit each year before the "year" was "invented". However, for some reason, people like to have an excuse to all get roaring drunk and set off explosives all at the same time. I don't particularly care to do either; my daughter & her friends are currently taking care of the latter. I'm sure someone out there has got me covered on drinks.

So, where's the clever "2007" piece? Well, I'm working on it, but it isn't quite right (as in "funny enough") yet, so maybe later this year. Like tomorrow. Still, I don't feel any different than I did 18 minutes ago, and I don't think there's anything wrong with me. In that respect, anyway. Quite frankly, the whole New Year's thing got old. Being glad that 2006 is over? Sure, I can see that.... however, I told myself one time too many that "This year's just got to be better than the last stinker." I wasn't lying to myself, I was genuinely optimistic. Unfortunately, the evidence has failed to support the hypothesis, and if I hear me say that one more time, I swear, I'm gonna punch my lights out.

As I mentioned, my daughter is having this big party/sleepover soiree. Thankfully, not at my house. Close enough, however; it's at my father-in-law's house diagonally across the street. There will be absolutely no alcohol or drugs. There are a bunch of minors there, after all (though my daughter herself is 22); it's also "house rules". Disbelieve me if you like, but this is such a swell bunch that it's no problem. I observe this, and think back to the sorts of parties I went to when in my teens and in college, and I can't help but wonder: What the hell happened to this generation??

And then I have to re-think a bit.... because if all those years in between ticking over really had nothing that was any better than the last, then how did they turn out so well? I'd love to take credit for it, but I know better than that. Maybe we did learn some things of value over the years & passed them down. Maybe they're the ones teaching us.

Well, if that's the case.... then 2007 has some hope in it after all.

**************************************************************************
PPD (Post-post Digression) The first part of the festivities was a movie, and they decided to all go see Dreamgirls. I couldn't help myself, and posted the following feedback about the movie on the E-vite:

Warning: Sorry, Dreamgirls has no mud wrestling, but there IS: Lots of senseless violence, mostly involving Basque separatists & undead Quakers; language foul enough to shock a longshoreman; graphic descriptions of the smell of old bowling shoes; & pavonine misuse of frozen waffles. Have a sensitive stomach? Don't eat anything with mayonnaise in it before seeing the film.

No, there's no particular reason why it came out that way.... however, it did make my spouse and I both curious about the undead Quakers. "Isn't that contradictory?" she asked. To make a long story short, just to prove that I can actually do it, I decided to find out. What better way to find out than approach it from both sides? So, I just wrote a friend of mine who's a Quaker. I asked whether a person who was a Quaker, upon becoming a vampire, could still actually be a Quaker, since on the surface they would appear to be mutually exclusive conditions? (I'd better not get an answer back saying "I don't believe in vampires"....). to be perfectly fair, I sent the same question to a friend of mine who's a vampire. No, he really IS a vampire. Why should it surprise you that I have a vampire among my circle of friends?

Anyway, when I find out, I'll let you know. Since I doubt that anyone has ever researched this question before, I can rightfully claim that this is the definitive study, right here, by the Eye Wit.

What You Can Do for Them This Christmas

Simple things. They can mean a lot.

There is so much talk about the meaning of Christmas, and I won't presume to tell you what the definitive answer is. I think it's fairly self-evident by the name; how you react to that is your choice.

There's also a lot of talk about the spirit of Christmas. Well, what does that mean? I think that what you say about the spirit of Christmas is insignificant when compared with what you do.

In other words, walk what you talk.

If you feel that it's about giving, then give. Without expecting anything back; that is the essential nature of a gift. Exchanging gifts can be lovely.... but not if it's merely barter and maintaining expectations and appearances.

If you feel that it's good will and peace towards mankind, wonderful! Do something to help foster it. Make peace with your life, create good will towards men. No, you can't change the whole world. But you can change yours. You can also change a moment of someone else's world by choosing to be kind and compassionate, instead of angry.... or indifferent.

If you feel that Christmas is about faith and hope, then don't let anything tarnish the ebullience of its light. Faith doesn't care what other people will think; hope doesn't see things the way they are. Hope sees things as they could be. Both faith and hope must be shared in order to matter.

If you feel that it's about love, then honor it. Act lovingly. Tell people, unashamedly, that you love them. Most of all, never confine love to special occasions like Christmas; living a life of love is daily work. However, once you get the hang of it, it doesn't seem like work at all.

If you think that it's about sharing, then do. But not just on December 25th or other special occasions. People have needs, material and emotional, every day of the year. It doesn't have to be grand or large; tiny little things, one at a time, can add up to have a tremendous impact.

If you are sure that it's about caring, then spread that care around, every day of the year. Especially don't forget about people who seem to have "fallen by the wayside" in your life. Ask yourself why? Reach out, take the initiative, and don't make caring conditional. Please, don't neglect people in your life who are sick, elderly, disabled, or perhaps dying. As incredible as it seems, people tend to disappear from such peoples lives just when they're needed the most.

If you're not sure what the spirit of Christmas is, or ought to be, then you're not alone. If that's the case, spend some quiet time, even just a few minutes, this December 25th to ask yourself what Christmas inspires in you. Not what it makes you think of, but what it inspires. Look beyond the surface, not only in yourself, but in others.

We live in troubled times, where there is little peace and not enough good will towards mankind. December 25th may quiet it down for a few moments, but that's all. If Christmas inspires any kind of vision of a better world, ask yourself what it would take for us to reach that world?

Mainly, ask yourself what part of what it would take are you willing to give? What you write on a Christmas card lasts perhaps a few weeks, then is thrown away. What you write on the lives and hearts of other people lasts forever.

So, on this Christmas, "write" something worth giving, and worth keeping forever. And may others do the same for you.

What Can They Do for US for Christmas?

This time of year, many people make up lists of things they'd like to give to people in the public eye. Most of them are created with spite, mockery, and a certain measure of malicious glee.

The latter tradition, I don't intend to break. However, I think it's high time that THEY consider what they can give us, or what thing they can do as a gift for us, the worthy people who are generally screwed by life on the other 364 days of the year. Because we deserve it, dammit!

I know, I'm not supposed to be so curmudgeonly at Christmas, but spending the day cleaning up our screened porch for our Christmas party when it's 81 degrees outside with equivalent humidity doesn't put me in the best mood.

George Bush - You knew I was going to start with him. George, you can give us your resignation as the worst president in United States history. Yes, we'll accept it if it's written in crayon.

Congress - Barring the above, a swift impeachment of the dolt. More generally speaking, how about you guys give us something other than your bloody childish, selfish partisanship and consider doing what's right and best for a change?

Britney Spears - I know people who surf porn sites that think you're shameless. Get some underwear, and if you were to move your talentless self (including your latest "exhibition") to some cheap trailer court in Wetumpka, Alabama, we'd promise to ignore you in return. That's fair, isn't it?

The Lawyer that Dick Cheney Shot - Shoot him back! Delayed self-defense, pure & simple.

Donald Trump - Two things: First, we want an explanation for the hair. Enough is enough. Second, about this whole thing with Miss USA & Miss Teen USA making out.... what is the matter with you? Post the photos on the Internet! You could be making some serious money, and I'll only charge 75% for the idea. That's fair, isn't it?

Stupid Celebrities Who Go Into Rehab - Get over the idea that it's some kind of an excuse and that it makes whatever you did/said any better. Go somewhere more appropriate & experience some actual consequences for your actions; then, if you do really need some rehab, go. For some examples: Mel Gibson, anti-Semitism isn't nice. Being drunk does not turn you into a bigot, it just makes you shoot off your mouth about it. So, what you can give us is some postcards from your "rehab" with the Mossad. Nicole Ritchie - Grow up. Show some maturity to those girls who unfortunately think of you as a role model. Tell the girls that it IS all your fault. Turn in your driver's license, plead guilty, and go to jail. The rest of us can't get away with that crap, why should you?

Terrell Owens - A vow of silence would do nicely, thank you. We'd love that as a present.

The Republican Party - Yes, you largely got your butt kicked. While there are a great many things you could do to make our Christmas, how about you & your rich buddies all chip in and cover that immense deficit you built up? Thanks.

The Democratic Party - We'd like to see this plan you guys have been talking about. Seriously. Write it down & mail us all a copy. That way we'll know when you're screwing it up. Make sure that the cover is nice, and patriotic, too. How about a photo of Miss USA with Miss Teen USA in flagrante delicto? Now there's a coffee table book to go with Al's.

The Bush Twins - We worry about you. Honest. You two don't even seem to have jobs. So, do something nice for all Americans: Enlist. Be all that you can be, whatever that is.

Bill Gates - Bill, a lot of people are getting new computers for Christmas. I'm sure they'd appreciate a copy of Windows Vista that's actually been tested & is secure. It's Christmas, why should they suffer with another defect-ridden cluster-copulation like XP?

Jay Leno - Know what would really be keen? If you let Conan O'Brien take over the show now. I remember when The Tonight Show was funny. We'd love to see that again, wouldn't we, gang?

Ann Coulter - I have to hand it to you, you're one of the most steadfastly ignorant & defiantly hateful people in the world today. I think we'd deeply appreciate and cherish a video of you waving good-bye from the steps of a severely cloistered nunnery. Oh, you hate Catholics, too? What a surprise.

Barry Bonds - Just two things in writing, please: One, a signed confession that you cheated. Two, a letter to Cooperstown requesting that you never be considered eligible. Then maybe we'd have some respect for you. But, probably not.

Madonna - Look, do whatever you feel strongly about doing. However, do us all a favor and don't let the press know about it. They can't be trusted to handle it, and neither can the people buying all the tabloids.

Kanye West - You know, I was going to suggest that you check with your management team and moderate your comments before coming out and saying things so tumescently, but you know? I kinda like it the way you're doing it now. Pray, continue.

Well, that's enough for now.... but it was fun enough that I might do some more sometime. Who knows, I may even do a turnaround post and be really, really nice. That'd be fair, wouldn't it?