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.

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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?

Her Big Break in Show Business

This is just TOO good!

Welcome to the wonderful world of live performance, where things don't always go right. As they say, the show must go on, but sometimes the answer to the problem isn't easy. This has to do with the production referred to in my last post, the Singing Christmas Tree.

Now, every year, the show features two children playing Jesus: One playing the baby, and the other playing the small toddler that He was when the Magi visited (Biblically correct; remember, they left when they saw the star marking His birth). Each year, the couples with babies are corralled (yes, these people are breeding. Try to sleep tonight knowing that), and signed up on a rotating basis to bring their baby in to do the Jesus, Mary & Joseph thing (not a scene, they come out in association with a song & do their thing silently).

Sooner or later, I guess, it had to happen. Last Wednesday night.... no baby. The parents & the baby didn't show up, we couldn't reach them, and there'd never been any call to have a "backup Jesus". "OK, we'll send one Savior, and a spare in case that one gets damaged." Yeah, He got damaged, all right. But I'm getting way ahead of myself.

This was the first time it had happened in all thirty-three years of the program. Well, what to do? One of the kids hanging around had a baby doll, so the costumer frantically tried to wrap blankets & such around it to make it look plausible. "Sally, you have to find something thicker! That looks like a 'preemie'!" Well, what choice did we have?

Meanwhile, one of our children wranglers was, no kidding, tiptoeing around looking into the audience to see if she could spot anyone who'd brought a baby. Imagine that; a complete stranger comes up to you & asks if they can "borrow your baby". Even if she found one, how could she get to them and ask without causing a distracting commotion?

Here is where Divine Providence set in. She went out one section, into the lobby, and was headed towards another when she ran into:

A young woman headed to the restroom to change her four-week-old baby.

What are the odds?

In spite of the fact that she didn't know us, and this was the very first time she'd ever been in the building and was a complete stranger (and we, of course, are fairly strange in ourselves), she listened to our plight. Bless her heart, she actually agreed to let us borrow her baby. So, backstage they got whisked, and just in time, too. The audience had no hint that anything was different than usual, but backstage, we were laughing and having a good old time at the improbable string of events. The song over, she puts her baby back in her own clothes, and heads back to the audience to watch the rest of the program like, oh, normal people do. The director not being there at the time, I thanked her profusely on behalf of the cast & said we hoped she'd visit us again soon. She was a very, very nice young woman, and we were lucky to have met her.

The pastor did catch her, though, and got some pictures for posterity with her. I'm sure she never conceived (well, except that one time) that her child would be making her stage debut at a mere one month's age.

That might have been the end of it, but when the pastor came out to give his very nicely brief conclusion, he asked to borrow the baby one more time, and gave her a special introduction, for which she got a standing ovation. He told the audience the whole story. Why would he do a thing like that, when it might make us seem kind of silly?

Because.... it was just TOO good!

Gathering Round, and IN, the Christmas Tree

I'll bet my Christmas tree is bigger than yours.

It isn't mine, per se, but I feel as attached to it as anything in the world. You have a seven-foot tree? HAH! I laugh at your pitiful shrubbery! This sucker is thirty-five feet tall. No, I'm not cheating with an outside tree versus an inside tree (besides, there aren't any native Christmas-tree-like evergreens that grow anywhere near here. I don't blame them). This tree IS indoors. OK, it's not actually in my house, but still....

It has a steel superstructure, plywood platforms a mere foot in depth, two sets of stairs that only a crazy person would climb, I forget how many tiers, perhaps a hundred square yards of greenery, and more lights & electricity running through it than my old stomping grounds in Middletown, Rhode Island (I told you before, we stomp whenever we darn well feel like it. I stomp here, too, but it's not nearly as satisfying). Let's not forget about three dozen microphones, and that it holds about 110 people. Empty, it weighs 6,000 pounds. With all those people on it, I'm not sure, as it would involve asking a lot of women how much they weigh. The Eye Wit has enough wit to know better than that, but surely, we're talking around another 15,000 pounds, easily. So, this is a tree that overall weighs in at eleven tons (or more, if you have the guts to ask the women. Good luck with that).

What kind of Christmas tree is THAT?? Those of you who've seen one of these beasties have likely already caught on. If not, man, you don't pay much attention, do you?

So, have you ever heard of a "Living Christmas Tree" or a "Singing Christmas Tree"? That's what I'm describing. They look something like this:
This is a picture of our actual tree at FirstSarasota Church (not recent enough, blast it, it was switched to mini-lights years ago). That's the 26-piece orchestra at the bottom, and another tier has been added at the bottom to accommodate the singers you see standing. In between, you can make out the upper level of the stage area; that's where I make my contribution. One of the things that makes the FirstSarasota presentation different than most is that in the roughly one hour & forty-five minute program, we have what amounts to a thirty-five to forty minute one-act play running through it (usually broken up into about eight scenes). Instead of the classic Christmas pageant thing, a fine gentleman by the name of Skip Martin writes & directs an original script every year. It focuses, usually, on one person's life and their struggle to come to know what Christmas is really about, what it's not, and why it's so important that God sent His Son. This year, it's about a turn-of-the-twentieth century woman who's so wrapped up in the activities and festivities around Christmas, that she's completely lost touch with why, supposedly, she does all those things. Too busy during the holidays, no time to think & reflect. It hits home with a lot of people. I play a minister who helps her understand what she's missing; by the end, she's decided that her perspective needs altering, and that all the parties & such were fine.... but not if one is doing them for the wrong reasons. And she does something about it.

"Would that life was that simple" you may say. In a lot of ways it is; the things that are most fundamentally important are choices, choices that we have to reaffirm daily to hold onto. One example is the unfortunate number of people that have no concept of how my spouse & I have been married over twenty-four years, especially considering that there have been some terribly difficult circumstances to deal with (read: me). It's because we keep choosing to love one another on a daily basis. the same goes for getting carried away with what the commercial world has made of Christmas. Go ahead, get caught up in the rush, go into debt, and exhaust yourself if you want to.... and not enjoy a single moment of the season. Or, draw some lines, and don't feel like you owe everyone an explanation. I realize that is isn't easy, especially to keep it that way.

Therein lies one of the best gifts of participating in this large program, with beautiful music (played & sung), soloists, an Ensemble, various combinations of singers, Celtic dancers some years, and the play, and all backed up by a very professional technical staff and wonderful volunteers.... We perform this over the first two weekends in December. Naturally, the heaviest rehearsals come right after Thanksgiving, so the participants are gladly giving up a good chunk of the "Christmas season" to do this. I know I'm worn out & have to rest up for days afterwards by the time we finish (four performances in the last two days). It dominates my Christmas, and keeps me focused on the simplest, truest, and most enjoyable aspects of the season. Sure, I miss a lot of parties, I am chronically a bad shopper, and lots of other things. No regrets whatsoever. It's a time to give, and the giving can help you receive far more than you "put in". That's true of every day, of course, but we traditionally (Christians & non-Christians alike) make a big deal out of "presents" this time of year.

But what are the best presents? The ones that are "just right"? The ones that last the longest? I say no to those and similar questions. When all is said and done, it isn't the physical gifts that you give that matter when it comes time for you to leave this world & see the next. No, what matters is what you've written on other peoples hearts. And that is precisely why the Singing Christmas Tree exists. We want to write something that counts, something that lasts forever. What better way to celebrate Christmas?

The heroes of the whole program are the people in the choir who sing up on that thing. First off, they've rehearsed for months, and memorized a LOT of music. It's very uncomfortable to be up there; you have to climb narrow, steep stairs to get to each tier. What you stand on is a plywood (sturdy stuff) board that really is about a foot from front to back. If you aren't six feet tall, the "standard" height, then you're handed a block of dense Styrofoam that's about twelve by eighteen inches to stand on, on top of the skinny board. It's cramped, you can hardly move, and if you're tall and have a chest that measures more than 40 inches, the steel bar in front of you presses into your chest. Then there's the heat of the lights; miniatures or not, they cast off a lot of heat. They spend about fifty-five minutes per performance up there (indeed, part of the genesis of the play was to cut down the amount of time they're on the Tree). All while smiling and singing very beautifully. They must love other people a lot to suffer through that, eh? Yes, they do. Ask them why, they'll be glad to tell you.

Me, I'm better off on the floor. Not because I'm unable or unwilling to get up on that thing (honestly, I'd rather not....) or don't have a good singing voice; it's just that my special area of expertise is acting. However, as I try to point out to people, this is a project that's the product of a lot of peoples efforts. I'm not more important than anyone else, I'm just more conspicuous. However, I do generally have more of a chance of ruining the show than most others. Eh, that's what I do. God ain't gonna let me let the rest of the people down and let us let the audience down.

So, why do I ramble on so about this? It's not just another "gig", it's a very special part of my life, and a rare opportunity to bring some light into a lot of peoples lives. And I do mean a lot. Our average total audience in any given year is around 11,000. That's a very large audience for just nine or ten performances. That's just for starters....

I've had the enormous privilege of being a part of this wonderfully positive experience more than once. In fact, this is my thirteenth year out of the thirty-three years they've been doing it, which is beyond my ability to describe how happy it makes me. By the end of our run next Sunday, the cumulative audience who've seen me in the Singing Christmas Tree will number somewhere over 140,000. Wow!

So many stories go along with it, but the best part is this: Every year, whether I travel or not, I always get to spend Christmas with family. A very big, wonderful, loving family. It's the best Christmas present I've ever had, and being there to be a part of it? I think it's the best Christmas present I know how to give. Come see it; you really have to be there.

Lucky me; I am.

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PS - I have turned off the "comments must be approved before posting" setting, so any comments you'd like to add from now on (even going back to previous posts) should appear shortly after you enter them. I do welcome your comments & feedback, as well as your ablity to trade comments with others who post. I'll deal with any "problem children" who stir up trouble. My only hard & fast rule: I will not permit personal attacks or abuse of any sort. I value the trust & comfort of you, the people to whom I am so grateful for coming here & reading my ramblings.

So, let the conversations begin!

One other thing: I recently switched to the new version of the blog program. I can't post to it using Internet Explorer anymore; if you've tried to add a comment & it didn't work, it may be an IE conflict with Blogger, (a Google operation). If so, try logging into a G-mail account (if you have one) in another window, then adding the post. Alternatively, use Firefox (which is what I do) or Netscape to open this window. Perhaps IE7 can talk to "new Blogger", but I removed IE7 after I found that it interfered with a lot of my computer's functions.

Never Trust a Wrap Artist

They're scary. They have mystical powers. They suck you into their evil purview and trick your mind into doing things and accepting results that no sane person would be sucked over.

Who are these people? Why should you fear them?

Every year, and cunningly do they show up earlier & earlier, as do the rest of their ilk. Frequently, they'll cloud your mind so that your senses will tell you that it's a bunch of innocent little old ladies from the Ectwa Shuffleboard Club who only wield scissors on Sundays. Or, they might mesmerize you into thinking that they are Boy Scout Troop 362436, who've taken the place over because they refused to help the little old shuffleboard ladies across the street to the mall.

Don't fall for either trick. I don't know if these things are even human.

I'm speaking of (I pause to check to each side and behind me) the people in the booth who wrap presents in the mall. Not the ones in individual stores, no; those are store employees. Go on, stroll down to the mall management office (it'll be tough to locate, since they don't want people to know where to file complaints) and ask them who they are. They won't know. "They just show up and say they're from a charitable group, so we give them the booth outside the Sauerkraut On A Stick shop because no one else wants it."

And these are the people who talked you into giving them the Nintendo Wii that you waited in line for two days to get for "a couple of hours", trusting them to actually give it back to you later?

HAH! Don't say I didn't warn you.

Death to the Oven Vulture!

Thanksgiving, already??

Granted, this is the earliest date upon which it can occur, under the formula devised by FDR when under the influence of too many martinis. In his defense, were I married to a woman who looked like Eleanor, I'd drink, too. Poor guy,many's the night he started an evening of romance (in the dark, of course), only to find out that he'd been slipping Fala, their dog, some overly-deep kisses. I know, I know, that's gross, and surely he could've told the difference if the lights were on. Fala was much more attractive, had straighter teeth and better breath.

But, I digress.

Now, we begin the roughly six-week period from which therapists derive so much damn money the rest of the year. Yeah, everyone's "supposed to be happy", and "it's the holidays, cheer up!". Listen, your friends who seem to be depressed and lonely the rest of the year? Guess what? It doesn't take a holiday during the holidays. It's worse, even though they're doing their best to pretend. Pay them some extra-special attentiondurin g this time. Invite them to Thanksgiving dinner. Find them a special & individual Christmas present; something you made yourself is especially good. Lots of torrid sex can be great, uh, depending on the circumstances. Like, if you're likely to get caught.

Still, I committed digression at that point, as I did brave the kitchen for the several rounds of cookery. That's right, kids, the Eye Wit cooks! I do theturke y, stuffing & all that. Since some people insist on having the Thanksgiving meal at bloody NOON, it necessitated me getting up at 6:00 a.m. to get the 18 pound monster stuffed & going. I am emphatically not a morning person; people have died horrible deaths for crossing me before I'm really awake. At least, so I'm told, as I really don't remember much of what I'm doing until I've had that magical 14th cup of coffee (which always tastes stronger). I think I killed the bird a few extra, redundant times just to get back at it. All I know is that is was darn good eating.

Now, in short order, as opposed to SOME people dragging it out for a ludicrously long post, which NEVER happens to me....

I'm not naming any names, but her initials are Mariann Eperjesi.

Let me resolve the issue, the eternally vexing question: Is it "stuffing", or is it "dressing"?

The answer is: Yes.

Both are correct, it simply depends on what you do with it. Stuffing is anything that you cram into the bodily cavities of whatever creature has been ritually slain for your festivities. There it cooks, and then you eat it. I'm aware of all the panicky "warnings" about it. Look, just follow thepoultroon -handling guidelines, and use your meat thermometer to make sure that the center of the stuffing is 160 degrees F, and you're fine.

Dressing can & often is exactly the same preparation (as is the case in Turkey a Bucko), with the key difference being that it isn't crammed inside any part of any animal, until you stuff your personal face with it. It may be cooked one of two ways: One, in a separate baking dish. Two, some few people actually surround the turkey in the pan with it, adding it about a hour before the oven vulture, as we like to call it, is finished cooking. I don't recommend it, as it will absorb a lot of melted fat. OR, it is also "dressing" if you take the portion cooked in the pan, and artfully circling the gloriously-brownedturkle on the serving platter, thus "dressing" the entree. It's all about presentation.

The fact that people in/from New Jersey can't understand this simple concept is not my fault. Any New Englander could tell you, as, you might remember, we invented Thanksgiving. So don't argue with us.

So, it was all very nice, polite, and no nasty arguments. Good thing, because, as I pointed out before, we don't have a basement.

People write a lot about Thanksgiving, along the lines of reminding you to be thankful for all of the good things, the advantages, and especially, the special people in your life. That's certainly a worthy thing to do, and to take the occasion to thank (again, if it's the case) those people who have brought you good times, feelings, and help when you really needed it in the last year.

I'll end with a different proposal: Look back, and think about the times and occasions where did something that made another person thankful. Include those things that you did that the beneficiary might not even know about. But you do. So does God. Think about how good it made you feel to be of value, and to make a difference for the better for someone else. Then, as you do that, you're almost certain to come across times where the opportunity passed you by, or you chose to pass it by. Do it without beating yourself up unnecessarily about it, but learn from it; consider how much more thankfulness in others you'd like to look back at next Thanksgiving.

Then do it. Do those things, take more of those opportunities. The thing about giving thanks is that it's ever so much sweeter when it's a shared experience.

Gentlemen, It's Only a Matter of Time

Time is not generally considered a friend by most people; at least, not where their appearance is concerned.

Since most of my fellow Baby Boomers are older than I am, I feel perfectly well qualified to point out how incredibly vain many of them are. The amount of money and trouble being expended on maintaining the appearance of youth is mind-boggling. I'd love to have a piece of that action. Hey, I could become a day trader and flip investments between companies like Revlon, Gillette, Mary Kay, Clairol, you name it! However, that's really stressful and would probably take ten years off my life. Call me crazy, but I'd rather live those ten extra years than look ten years younger than I do and bite it sooner.

Maybe it's cockeyed optimism, or maybe it's a protective defiance in the continuing onslaught of new products that take the degree of astounding excess another league's distance further, all while you're waiting twenty minutes for a prescription. Just sit in the waiting area, it's not safe out in those aisles. You'll be rendered into a quivering mass of insecurity faster than a speeding pullet (which are over in the meat section, but they aren't very fast any more).

You know, one of the worst things about all these glorious inventions is that we CALL them "product". "Your hair's a bit unruly; are you using product in it?" On a technical, grammatical basis, you can phrase it that way.... it's just that it sounds so bloody inane. I'm not totally without some concern for my appearance (in spite of what my appearance suggests); I admit, I have a few "product interests". For instance, I have "combination skin"; it's kind of oily in places, and prone to dryness in others, and manages both in a few spots. Now, I WOULD ask when they're going to come out with a "combo skin" product for men, on the argument that our skin is completely different from women's skin. I'll go along with that to the extent that I'd rather be running my hands over a woman's skin than a man's. Are there such products? Naturally, a whole shelf has evolved (Damn Darwin!); however, the lovely hand-made glycerin soaps (with manly scents, too!) that a friend of mine makes do the job extremely well, so screw that shelf full of $12.00 an ounce snob-appeal tomfoolery. However, when picking up some razor blades recently (as if THAT didn't make me angry enough; see post below), in the "men's care" section, there were THREE new variations of a product I'd never seen before: Towelettes for bald mens heads. Now, granted, I have no grasp of the needs of a bald head, but it seemed a bit weird (other than the one that's a sunscreen). Still, are we so lazy that we HAVE to have them in the form of individually-packaged pre-moistened towelettes? I ask you...

If I really need some moisturizer, I need only ask "Mrs. Eye Wit", or more likely, "Miss Eye Witette", for some of the 641 bottles of moisturizer that are crammed into the bathroom cabinet. If you visit me, do NOT open a cabinet, as it may be the last thing you'll ever do. You will, however, look and smell great.

I DO salute the great advances in sunscreen, uh.... dammit!.... products. Here is a genuine cosmetic concern of mine. I'm white. Painfully white. I'm Irish-American, and so sensitive to light that I can burn in the glow of a 60 watt light bulb. Actually, first I'll break out into an epidemic of freckles, then move quickly to a painful burn, and right on to sun poisoning. All before I even actually leave the relative safety of my 60 watt bulb and go out into actual sunlight. Thus have I generally avoided having unprotected "relations" with the sun for most of my life. One result of this is that my skin looks much younger than most men my age (so bite me, Proctor & Gamble!). However, the problem used to be that good sunscreen only came in the form of a thick, greasy white goo that you had to try to spread evenly to avoid the embarrassing "splotch burns" where you missed. Look, I'm on the "furry" side; all you get when you try to rub that stuff in is a slimy foam that the seagulls will come and peck right off of you. So, whoever invented the quick-drying spray-on gel that is so easy to use & works so well? Faboo work, and I'm happy to pay the $12.00 an ounce for it.

Mind you, I'd initially learned of it from a magazine ad. Actually getting it was another story.

After my first aggravating search for it among the aisle that is now fully devoted to men's "products" of all kinds (and how long is it before they come out with some sort of "masculine hygeine pad" or such? Would they be "brief liners" or "boxer liners"? Will they have both? Would you please not tell me?!), I went to have a word with the grocery store manager. Oh, it's not enough to have this population explosion of "product", they have to include the senseless practice of moving everything around every other day. Things used to be easy to find, but now you have to surf the constantly-being-rearranged "men's care" section to locate my desired sunscreen and, for example, the damn generic brand of aftershave I use, which suits me just fine. So, this somewhat prissy fellow who seems more than a little concerned about his outward appearance (whatever, if you have the patience, money & desire) smilingly pointed to the trendy new name-brand aftershaves. I said, no, I didn't ASK for that, I want the store-brand equivalent of this one here that costs more than twice as much and is clearly made by the exact same manufacturer. Still, he tried to convince me that "these are better and will enchance your personal grooming experience!" I stood my ground, so finally, he stuck his hand way down to the back of the bottom shelf, pulling out what I wanted which was obviously hidden to con me into buying the pricier, more fashionable scents. As he did so, a brown recluse spider bit his hand, as they like dark places where things are stashed away. He cursed me and my pedestrian taste as he went quickly over to the pharmacist for help, but not before stopping and asking me to accessorize better the next time I came into the store.

Stuff like that is so maddening, and creates so much negative energy, that it can make you old before your time. And that is precisely why they do all of these things; sure, it's on purpose! Are you getting old before your time with rage over this mass-marketed idiocy?

Great! That means you'll be buying yet more "product"!

(Sucker!)

The Terribly Trite & Terpsichorean Tale of Toby

It was a Tuesday. The garbage cans were emptied. And the baby was thrown out with the bath. Was it an accident? Mr. Pershing didn't think so. "That's the third time this week," he muttered to himself.

Meanwhile, in the fourth star to the left in Magellan's Cloud, known by some as Fresno. But to most of the galaxy, it was called Drachma. Because from space, it looked just like a Greek coin.

A tall man with a tattered newspaper and moose dung on his shoes. This man, by the way, was no ordinary man. He wasn't your average everyday reptile. He was a man of the cloth. In this day and age, meant that he was a pimp. For on this far planet, sex was religion. His name: Gouda Ramirez Fritz O'Henry. An interesting man, yes....

What a pity he has nothing to do with this story.

Meanwhile, back in Pershing's home town (wherever that may be), a faint cry. But no one heard. They were all in church, making love. While a man named O'Henry-- no, that's another story. But back to a fetid dumpster.... Inside, the remains of a cheap dinner party. Empty buckets of the Colonel's chicken (extra crispy) abounded. Crammed into one of those buckets was a small, writhing kitten. (The narrative here pauses for the requisite "Awww!") But this was no mere mundane kitten. This was not Mr. Pershing's kitten. It wasn't O'Henry's kitten (obviously, since he isn't in this story). This was the kitten of Toby, the small and pitiful paraplegic dwarf. A quietly contented man (he was mute) who made a living as a ballet dancer. He played the toad stool in Swan Lake (and excellently, I might add). In secret, he was actually an operative for the Zambezian spy network. Zambezia? That's the third star to the left in Magellan's Cloud. Which is irrelevant, immaterial, fleeting, and has nothing to do with this story (Explanation? I'm paid by the word). His code name: "Toby." His mission: to destroy and seek out (not necessarily in that order) strange new girls; to white out the unwanted Black Plague.

Toby's kitten mewed again and died. The tiny, telltale green stamps apparent on his stomach as the Black Plague made itself known in an impolite fashion. And obfuscatory, too. Toby sobbed, but still had the presence of mind to cut out the green stamps. He knew what he had to do. He went back to his sleazy apartment and did two things: First, he pasted the green stamps in his saver book (he was saving for a new auto-erogenizer. After all, not many girls went for paraplegic dwarf ballet dancers, because they thought they were gay). Second, he cooked the remains of the kitten for dinner. But how? That's a very difficult question. It wasn't that it was morally questionable, nor grossly unsanitary; it was simply that on Drachma, culinary secrets were among those most closely guarded. He picked up the phone and immediately dialed his friend, who was annoyed by being dialed and asked him to use the phone next time. Then it wasn't not now later, but only presently back then when the mosquitos returned to Capistrano, where they bugged the hell out of a lot of sparrows. "Damn Indians," remarked the janitor.

It was time. Time for time. But- did Toby have the time? Would he take the time? Or would he have to buy it? A timely question. So answer it yourself. I don't have the time.

There was one chance, though. Myrna still had the baby. She was giving it a bath, amid his protests that he wasn't thirsty. "Just throw the damn bath out," said the baby. And with that, she did. Pershing frowned for the fourth time, and belched his disapproval. Could it have been that the baby was somehow involved in the spreading of the Black Plague which Toby and Myrna had fathered? And were also trying to escape? To Equatorial Drachma, where they would unwittingly meet O'Henry, who isn't in this story. Or was it all just the result of a mushroom-induced hallucination?

In a small-time bar in Newark, the phone rang. It was the baby. He had the wrong number. And the bartender was very annoyed at having been dialed. Pulling his pants back on, he noticed a wide red lipstick stain on his lover's cardigan sweater. "Have this cleaned immediately," he said. Toby was the bartender's lover. All those girls were right. All right. "All right," sneered Toby, "I've had enough of this fascist dictatorship! You and your crummy Nazi friends are never going to be able to paste green stamps on innocent kittens again! And take a bath, for crissakes." With that, Toby thrust two of his personal appendages through the pinned sleeves of his cardigan. "I'll bet you didn't know I was armed!" he laughed hideously.

"Put them down," said the bartender. "You offend...."
"But I use Orinade No-Plague...."
"You offend...."
"The phone's ringing...."

As the bartender turned, Toby saw his chance. He made a mad dash for the men's room, where he immediately asked one of the urinals out for a date. Pretty good for a mute guy. The urinal said yes, flushing with delight. He hoped Myrna didn't find out, otherwise she'd be pissed off. Scrawled on the wall in trashy handwriting was printed "Sitting Bull goes here" and a phone number, which turned out to be that of the church pastorized by O'Henry, which possibly explained his shoes. This little literary gem was perpetrated by the janitor, who was on vacation from Capistrano. Some of his best friends were sparrows. He was always talking about birds. And since we're on the subject, Toby put his away and gasped, for he had caught himself in his zipper. Which was pretty hard to do, considering it was on the side. All those girls were right. Toby, however, was a dwarf in only some respects.

Meanwhile, in the Knesset, Myrna was worried (Knesset is the second- oh, nevermind. It's not in the- never mind!). Golda hadn't shown up for years; the last anyone had seen of her, she was going to the corner drugstore to buy some bobby pins. What was keeping her so long? Was it international subterfuge, or merely an incompetent clerk? Nobody knew, and nobody cared. Except perhaps for Falawful, who ran the local deli. He needed the bobby pins.

In Geneva, there was a convention of Truffles, which are kind of like the Knights of Columbus or the Kiwanis or some such crap as that. With one notable difference: their noses are broader and flatter. As are their women. They were about to perform the traditional rite of printing green stamps. These, they then sold to unscrupulous Nazis. With the money they made, they amassed the largest stockpile of Lacy Underwear in the Western world. Excluding the edible kind. For as we all know, Luxembourg has that market cornered. The Russians panicked; because Lenin had once said, "In the twenty-third century, no one will ever suffer from the pain and discomfort of jock itch." Did this mean the end of Cossack sex as they knew it? The bartender didn't know, but he disposed of all the vodka he had within two days. He sold it to an unsuspecting widow who thought it was for bathing babies. Until one morning when she was found in a 1971 Toyota, dead, with all of her bodily orifices sealed tight with green stamps. And just because she was a paraplegic. Whatever happened to freedom of religion?

In the Knesset, Myrna sent out for lots of bacon. Golda hadn't returned, but she had already sent a telegram to the king. It read: "Toby armed. Beware. Is in alliance with Walt Disney Productions. Watch out for seven dwarves and some bitch with an apple." Myrna panicked. She couldn't read. "George," she whispered, "that doesn't sound like Golda. It doesn't even look like her. She's a lot fatter and smells like the great outdoors." But before George could answer, the doors to the Knesset squealed on their hinges as Toby swung in, hanging from some very thin piano wire, which promptly cut his hand off. With his remaining hand, he fired several warning shots. Which were ignored. He then fired with all he had, and shot the bird, too. The janitor was grief-stricken. He went back to Capistrano, where he bugged the hell out of a lot of mosquitos. Toby suddenly grew a beard, and started to sing "Heigh Ho." Myrna screamed.

"Golda's warning! She was right! Call out the Truffles!"
"You can't! Switzerland is neutral."
"I know! I've been out with Swiss men!"

By this time, Toby had retrieved his other hand, and, with a sewing kit, did a neat embroidery job on his boxer shorts. This being done, he glued his severed appendage back on, thereby becoming a handyman. Myrna watched in fascination and felt the pulse of the familiar dry heaves that she got whenever Toby did do that voodoo that he did do so well. The fetish didn't even have a name, but Myrna didn't care! Nay, she let her freak flags fly. At this, the peak of the crisis, Golda suddenly arrived, clad only in a girdle and earmuffs. Toby fainted at the sight. As did the rest of the Knesset. Thinking quickly, Myrna pretended to be doing aerobics. Pretty good for one who has just fainted.

George and Golda got married. They had the baby who disappeared earlier in the story. "I understand now," said Toby, "it was you who, through dishonest manipulation, got a great reputation for, you know..." Golda smiled knowingly. She knew. That was how she got her reputation. George was stunned. He left Golda and founded a home for the tragically dismantled and hard of hearing. With Toby, who vowed never to see the bartender again. The urinal was happy, at least when last seen; it had plumb disappeared. Myrna subsequently became a terpsichorean ecdysiast. And the baby inexplicably disappeared, until one dark afternoon, when he was found unconcscious, on a serving tray at a nearby McDonald's. Green stamps lined his diaper, one of the new "Superfund" brand. With nothing else to be done, the police took him down and cashed him in for an iPod Nano. As for the rest- well, who really cares, anyway?