Choosing Sides

In light of the recent Redskins' controversy, I am proposing some new, more appropriate team names. By the way, I am in favor of the name change for Washington. But I also have no favor for the easily offended.

A Quasi-Exciting, New Project, Part Eins

Dear Faithful,
This is an idea that's been rattling around my noggin for some time. To be recklessly frank: It might be a novel/novella here in installments, or something to shop to an agent (as If I had one). So, no promises at all, but read on for the first chapter of ...

WILTON MARTO,

BOY DETECTIVE

The corpse lay, as one would imagine, still. Limbs awry on the freshly mown grass; a serene visage; left arm pointing up with open hand, almost as in a greeting; a body that seemingly had found peace as life fled from it.

Except for the right side of its head, which was almost perfectly flat. As if the person had lain on his side for years.

Quentin Kelso just watched. A veteran detective in the New Haven P.D., Kelso had never quite seen one like this. Especially on Orange Street, up this far, almost to East Rock Park. Trees bending in cadence to a slight breeze. Stern homes of Yale professors, replete with well-tended gardens and wives. The wives marched in the breeze as well, contorting Scandinavian strollers around the knot of civil servants: cops, firefighters, EMTs and their attendant vehicles.

Local residents, not wanting to appear alarmed, skirted the hubbub. If this had been in Westville, thought Kelso, we'd need a riot squad to repel onlookers.

Still a half-score of rubberneckers—mindfully keeping their distance—buzzed among themselves. It was as if no one wanted to be so rude as to stare; that would be bad form for this part of town. Kelso overheard enough to know that the decedent had passed right on his front lawn. Uniforms began to circulate among the neighbors seeking nubs of data; the cops' initial reports had not been promising. Generalities were already patent: Peter Treadwell, 42, and never to age another day, an adjunct professor of linguistics at Southern. Lived with a male partner who was currently on holidays on Long Island. The house seemed to look down on its deceased owner with shadowy disapproval. The late-spring air turned choppy; Kelso secured his floppy belt around his gabardine.

How many people are murdered—violently—on their front lawn?

Then Kelso (who was known to all of his co-workers, and even friends, by surname only) noticed the young man. Rather than edge up to the actual scene with the other discreet gawkers, the young man stood at the far corner of the Treadwell lawn. He was making notes in a small book. Tiny notes, at that, Kelso surmised. No harm here; the kid's nowhere near the scene.

Or was he?

Kelso strolled over to the youngster. He said, “Whaddya doin' here, young man?”

The young man looked up from his notes. He capped his fountain pen and blew on his words before closing his book. He said, “I am making notes and ascertaining data, sir. Very pertinent data concerning this savage crime.”

Kelso's experienced eye was failing him. Is this a kid or a young man? He could be thirteen or nineteen. Grown enough but slight, almost thin. Kelso also noticed the hands: abnormally large but delicate; the way he handled the pen and paper; the old-school notebook, bound, not the spirally kind; ash-blond hair. But his eyes stopped Kelso's mind. Those are the eyes of someone who's been around, fallen off more than a few turnip trucks. Eyes that have been there.

Kelso broke and spoke, “And what wouldja need this data fer?” His voice wrung the word out.

The young man stood—almost at attention­—and grinned after a demure fashion. “You see, Detective-”

“Kelso. En-haitch-pee-dee.”

“You see, I am a detective also. Of a far different ilk than you, with only a smidgen of experience. Yet a detective just the same.”

Kelso bristled; his brow reddened and rimpled.

The young man continued, “There is no need to voice your objections. I don't brook scolding. I will do you a favor and vouchsafe you a clue. A footprint; a very interesting and evidence-laden footprint, Detective Kelso.”

Kelso said, “Lissen, buddy. We find the evidence. And determine iffen it's 'evidence-laden' or whatever. Now, I'll thank you to back off and go detect someplace else.”

“That's a Croc.”

“A WHAT! You wanna take a ride downtown with that fresh mouth?”

“No need. And you have my humble apology. I meant Croc: see-are-oh-see-kay. It's a brand of rubberized sandal. Popular with chefs and gardeners—now de rigueur for students, artists and people with piercings, as well as sensible housewives. There's an imprint right here. And deep it is

“Plus, I think I have espied a few more, in a direct line from here to the decedent. The penultimate and final prints are the deepest. As if the wearer put all his weight into his step.”

Another detective, Smoke Slattery, beckoned to Kelso. He walked back toward Smoke, but froze when the strange young man said, “And I firmly believe that the doer is in our midst. Why don't we close the book on this one, posthaste?”

Months later, Quentin Kelso would remember his next decision as being momentous. Not that he ever used that word. “Okay, kid. Lessee whatcha got.”

The detective waved off his partner and followed the young man to the edge of the crowd. They stood directly behind a smallish, blond man with a poorly wrought combover. He wore stained khaki pants and a battered London Fog Barracuda.

The young man stared at Kelso, winking with confidence and spoke loudly, “YESSIR, DETECTIVE. I BELIEVE IT WAS WITH A HOE. MY FATHER'S AN AVID GARDNER AND THEDEAD GUY'S HEAD LOOKS JUST LIKE THE GROUND WHEN DAD SLAMS THE HOE DOWN WHEN THE RED SOX LOSE. 'CAUSE HE LISTENS TO 'EM ON HIS TRANSISTOR IN THE BACKYARD.”

With this, the blond man, turned around with vigor and eyed the young man. “A hoe you say? How could that be? Hoes have a small edge, cuz they're at right angles to the handle. They would make a sharp, narrow gash.”

Kelso immediately noticed the speaker's furtive, darting eyes.

The young man winked at Kelso again and said, “But not a Dutch hoe. It has a blade that connects to the hilt with a moderate 's' and is almost parallel to handle. Not good for digging, but it can be pulled to chop weeds.”

At this, the blond man snorted and returned to watching dieners load the former Peter Treadwell into the ME's bus.

The young man gently pulled Kelso away, out of earshot of the gaggle.

“Big deal,” Kelso said.

“Now, cast your view on the man who responded to me. Note the shoes.”

“Is that that croaks or whatever?”

“Correct. Now, where was the decedent's wound? I'm guessing the right side of his head.”

“Howdja know that?”

“Look at the Croc man. He wears his watch on his right wrist, the non-dominant one. He also parts his unfortunate coiffure on the right, whereas most men—even you, detective—part theirs on the left, since they utilize the comb with the right. The little man is definitely left-handed, hence the mortal wound on the corpse's right. There's your perp.”

Kelso, barely thinking squarely, walked away from the young man and summoned Slattery. The young man watched as Kelso pointed out the blonde man to his partner. Soon Slattery, with his arm on the stranger's biceps, walked down the street a few feet and into the driveway of a house three doors down.

The young man said, “Watch.”

In about five minutes' time two things happened: A brace of NHPD squad cars sirened up the street and stopped in front of the driveway where Slattery had taken the blond man. The second thing was a beaming Slattery strolling jauntily back down the driveway with his charge.

In handcuffs.

Kelso hurried over; the young man trailed at a safe distance.

Slattery said, “Name's Vandewoort, Kelso. He's our perp. Spilled it all. Seems he was queer for Treadwell. I dunno how you did it, Kels, but this might be a speed record for solving a homicide.”

As the uniforms loaded the suspect into a cruiser for the ride downtown, Kelso turned to the young man and motioned him to follow. They walked up the same driveway. At its end was a small shed, its door open, abutting a garage. Just inside the door, an implement leaned against the wall. It had a long handle, like a rake, but its business end was not toothed.

Kelso donned a pair of disposable plastic gloves and picked up the tool. He held up the blade for both to see.

The blade was covered in blood. Small tufts of hair clung to the drying fluid.

Kelso said, “A Dutch hoe, eh?”

The young man said, “A Dutch hoe.”

The detective ruffled his hair and ran a knotted, burly hand over his face. He said, “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

The young man canted his head, almost in a bowing motion. Then he snapped to full height and proffered a business card to the detective. Before Kelso could speak, the young man pulled a nigh-perfect about-face and strode away.

Kelso examined the card. Quickly, since it bore only two lines of printing.

Back in the Day--Debunked

Happy Ending [May 31]

Sawry, no big column, no Grand Finally.

Just my heartfelt thanks to my loyal readers (all six of you) and the passersby, as well.

This project was a TON harder than I thought it would be—not so much the writing, but ginning up the ideas. Heck, I even got a short story out of it (May 19). Some of my rejects:

• How I drum (too technical)
• The hardest I ever laughed--when I wasn't allowed to  (you hadda be there)
• Why they should pull back the National Spelling Bee
• My favorite—and least admired girlfriends
• The most dumbassed things I've ever done (too long)
• Women from my past whom I'd love to find
• Why I love Facebook

I am moving to a new blogsite on Medium. I am going to try to write new drivel every Tuesday (but NOT this one; I need rest!). This space will be kept active for the hordes of you who wish to return to the fold. I appreciate anyone passing on the new info, which I'll list here.

I will also keep the Facebook page up. Here's the link.

I'd love you to try some of my daughter Grace's prose. She is a far better writer than I. Read her in the Temple News. And here is her blog.

And, ultimate thanks to my FPL. Without her, I'd still be myself, just not as whole.

The Nigh-Ultimate, Semi-Official, Bi-gender Lexicon [May 30]

This is a project I've kept under wraps—and probably for good reason. So, in the penultimate MDE, the ensuing is submitted for your howls and scowls. Cross-references in green.

WHAT WE REALLY MEAN ...

English	Women	Men
friend	Men whom we never want to see again, much less date.	A guy we go to a bar with, watch the game and drink Jaeger bombs.
shoes	Something to be purchased for any special occasion, even a scrapbooking party.	Something that has to worn to get served at a bar. Three types: work, sneakers and flip-flops. Also Frye boots for weddings.
wedding	A reason to buy shoes.	Reason to find your tie, unsnip the closed vent on sport coat and hope for open bar. See also: shoes.
girlfriend	Any female to whom we speak.	What we call her after one date to a slasher film and Wendy's.
boyfriend	A term not used until he has spent some serious jingle on us, stated his exact intentions AND met our parents.	[deleted]. See also gay.
mother	The woman you call daily to tell her about the quinoa salad you had for lunch, the latest episode of "Revenge" and why you're not speaking to that Audrey Pfister.	The nice woman who raised you.
drinking	The ingestion of a liquid.	The ingestion of lager beverages, cheap wine and, of course, Jaeger Bombs. This activity may happen at any time, for any reason.
fun	An adjective used to describe $239 party settings at Pottery Barn.	Anything involving drinking.
shopping	An all-day activity covering 78 miles, $579 and three purchases.	Heading to the packy to buy beer and Jaeger. See drinking.
space	When used after "I need some ...," denoting to boyfriend that he is toast.	"Move over open the sofa; we're going into overtime."
five minutes	A half-hour, particularly in preparation for going out.	How much time the clock reads when there is actually a half-hour left in the game.
that	A word preceding something despised. e. g., "Oh, is Cliff going out with that Audrey Pfister now?"	A pronoun used to denote an object or idea. Usually replaced by pointing.
gay	Describing a very dear male who is treated with love, kindness and respect. I can share anything with him.	a) Cycling shorts; b) Broadway show tunes; c) Richard Simmons.
sports	Outdoor activities.	Life.
down there	The place where our, er, you know, thing is.	Florida or, for the truly urbane, Australia.
underwear	Expensive, sexy apparel items that men should never see.	Necessary shorts that we buy in six packs and then throw away. Includes useless fly.
penis	A necessary evil.	The #1 reason we date. Has 3,034 synonyms.
dog	A pet we treat with tenderness and affection. We address and caress them, often using a cuddly voice that we would never use with men.	Something you take hunting.
marriage	What we demand after your salary tops $250,000 per annum.	A deterrent to coitus.
coitus	A deterrent to sleep.	In chronological order: Sealy Calisthenics, my completion, roll over, slumber.
nothing (as an answer to "What's wrong?")	Something.	Nothing.
breasts	"The girls." We reserve the right to show them off, but don't look.	Reason #2 for dating.
cuddling	What he won't do as you watch a DVD of "Sleepless in Seattle."	A mandatory prelude to coitus.
napping	An activity when men effect to get out of doing something.	Life.
her father	The man who can pack a car, fix a faucet, and in general, do everything better than you.	A man whose grill you never approach.
cooking	Taking the time to buy wholesome, tasty foods and preparing them with diligence and artistry.	Throwing a slab of meat on a grill and incinerating it. Usually accompanied by drinking.
well	An adverb used to begin a sentence when we are about to ream you a new aperture or drop a bomb.	Where you get water while camping.

The Grownup Douche Syndrome [May 29]

I won't tell you the teenager I was conversing with. We were talking about a grownup we both knew, one who was very active in the community. The youngster simply said, "Why does she have to be such a douche?"

I realize that the douche appellation isn't a pretty one, but I can think of many worse. Or at least overly elongated and bluer.

However, the young man's words rang true. Said woman was one of the most pompous, chest-puffing, uniformed, credit-absorbing, long-winded, mike-grabbing, abusive, brain-addled, self-important people I have ever met. In a more economical format: a douche. A grownup douche, or GD.

So I started doing some math, recalling the 8,927 douches I have met in my life. I realized virtually all of them are grownups. Kids can be ill-behaved, cantankerous and intractable. But it takes years—sometimes decades—to become a dyed-in-the-wool, authentic douche.

It's easy to identify celebrity douchebags: Kanye West, That Plumber Guy, Alabama Chief Justice Roy Moore, plus various Jersey Shore people and Kardashians.

Toronto Mayor Rob Ford. QED.

But the small-time douches, they're the ones who give me the grist for my mill today.

By far, the epitomes of douchiness are volunteers. They demand salaams, kowtowing, trophies, logoed wear ... you name it.

One such person was livid after an event because the poobahs had spelled her name wrong in the program book.

Giving a person a reflective vest or a shirt that says "SECURITY." All bets are off. Such accessories can magically bring out the douche in grownups—sometimes within minutes. Mild-mannered Mr. Meeks, the local florist, can become a fire-breathing, Camp Lejeune maniac once you put him charge of parking for the Mildwood Crocus Festival.

I was trying to navigate my way around an elaborately labyrinthine high-school lot at a band show, when Mr. Grimace pointed at me to pull over. The big cheeses had given this guy a vest AND a hat. Whoa. He looked as if he had been ridden hard and put to bed wet. Of course, as in most things in life, I saw this as an opportunity for humor.

Grimace: "YOU CAN'T PARK THERE!" I had not an inkling where there was.

I said, "I bet I can. I am an expert at car-parking. Do you mean I shouldn't park there? I'm confused?" I awaited bomb-sniffing canines and a parental SWAT team.

"READ THE SIGN!" I had missed a hand-drawn sign. Looking back at it, I noticed the placard was fraught with poor penmanship and myriad arrows. One pointed skyward for "VENDERS."

I said, "I am not fluent in Farsi. But it seems as if you are angry with me. Why is that?"

"WE HAVE RULES HERE! Y'KNOW THAT BUDDY?"

"I have a deep-seated doubt that we are buddies, officer. Howsabout I park in the principal's spot, since he won't be here today?" With that I departed and found a remote lot. As I drove away, I could see his visage almost match his day-glo raiment.

Having been a Little League umpire for three decades gave me a front-row seat for parental GDs. To wit:

• A grownup yelling "SEE YA!" every time his kid struck someone out.
• A large contingent of GDs booing an intentional walk.
• An administrator screaming at kids before a big game for a faulty catcher's mask.
• My crew once needed a police escort from a game. Parents and coaches alike lined our egress in the parking lot, saying unkind words and making derisive gestures. All over a balk call I had made.

Sad to say, some teachers (a minority of them) can be douches of the highest water. One middle-school teacher spoke to us on parent night. All she did was present a course syllabus. She didn't utter a word about how she would conduct her job. I corrected all the grammatical and spelling mistakes on the paper and handed it back to her at the end of the session.

I know a school principal who, at the annual Memorial Day Parade, sits in a shady spot right before the end of the parade and then jumps into the line of march, in front of her band.

I knew a kid who became a career rent-a-cop. I saw him. dressed for work, with a tool belt full of scores of gadgets and gewgaws. I noticed a taser and some chipotle spray (he worked in a suburban town that had obviously needed a more upscale method of incapacitating malefactors) among his impedimenta. He muttered, "Friggin' cops wouldn't take me, 'cuz they said I flunked the psychological test." His glazed gaze was foggy and feral. I fled.

Once a municipally employed, armed cop pulled me over on a quaint country byway. He was fully armed and Kevlared. He had his hand on his sidearm as he asked for my stuff. I had no idea what I evil I had wrought.

"Your emission sticker has expired."

I kept my hands on the wheel and looked straight ahead as he wrote the ticket. I may have scowled.

"You got somethin' to say to me, buddy?"

I thought, here we go with the buddy shit again. I gave a negative motion with my head.

"Cuz if you've got something to say, say it now."

A slew of wisecracks careened in my bean. I think my best one was, "Say, do those wooden bullets actually hurt?" But, for one of the few times of my life, I shut my Krimpet-hole.

A few days later, I told the story to a Bridgeport cop. A real cop—the kind who get shot at and apprehend tattooed, sketchy perps. The cop said, "Wow. What a douche."

I do have a superlative in the GD category. This woman reigns as the pope of all douches. I'm hard-pressed to think of anyone who comes in second. I think she looked into the mirror every day and snarled at herself.

And she was a band chaperone for both of my daughters. First off, she bedecked herself in all sorts of related paraphernalia. Her band jacket was festooned with her name (I'll just call her Lucifress), her title and six dozen patches, all relating to what the kids had accomplished.

To boot, she looked like a character Kafka had created after a tiff with his Frau. Or a bridge troll. Or a Star Wars cantina habitue. One of those. Or all.

It didn't take me long to tangle with Lucifress. At Grace's first gig, an exhibition at a corps show, I was the emcee. I made sure to arrive early to wish her luck. The kids were huddled in a circle with their director (who could also, I learned, stick his chest out fairly well) so I avoided the group. Finally, my daughter and some mates headed toward the lavatories.

I pulled alongside the waiting line and briefly said my piece. I recall how proud I was to see her on the field for the first time.

Then Lucrifress swooped in, like a cormorant on a bunker. No greeting, just scolding.

"YOU CAN'T TALK TO HER!" Here we go.

I walked away, but she followed. "YOU KNOW WE HAVE RULES HERE! SHE'S WITH THE BAND AND CAN'T TALK TO ANYONE." For a moment, think of the most annoying and insulting tone in which you've ever been addressed.

I said, calmly, "Well, she happens to be my daughter, and as long as she's not in formation, I'll talk to her whenever I please."

"I'LL GET THE HEAD CHAPERONE, AND WE'LL SEE ABOUT THIS!" She was snarling by now. Flecks of ichor seemed to spew from amber teeth.

I said, "Look, whoever you are. Here's a newsflash: You are not my boss. I have to go to work now. Better yet, let's consult with this cop over here and see if he'll let me talk to my daughter."

Lucrifress waddled away. I think I could see steam emanating from the brim of her official "I'm Somebody" cap.

We tangled numerous times after that. Natch, she became the head chaperone the next season. I wanted to steal her jacket and re-embroider it with "Head Douche." Never got to it. She rode my daughters hard, finding fault with them constantly.

At the beginning of one season, a band parent called and asked me to volunteer my services. I immediately asked if Lucifress was still on staff.

He said, "No, thank God. She was a douche."

I said, "I'm in."

I often wonder what this woman must think—as if her Lilliputian brain allowed such effort—since she lorded over hundreds of kids, all of whom despised her.

Grownups of the world: I realize it's tough bring a grownup. There are multiple responsibilities and sacrifices. We can't find the time, the money or the help for what we need to accomplish.

But sooner or later, we learn to cope. I wish you all luck in such coping.

Just don't be a douche.

• Don't expect praise from on high; be happy in any success to which your hard work may have contributed.
• If you are in charge of kids, don't speak to their parents the way you you hector your charges; if fact, don't treat the youngsters that way, either.
• You may find this fantastic, but not everyone in the world is interested in your opinion.
• A uniform makes you a person in uniform, not a demigod.
• Leave the trophies, jackets, awards and wonderfulness to the kids who actually earned these accolades.
• If you shut up for a minute, you will actually learn from people younger than you; they are oftentimes wiser—and rarely are they douches like you.

Girls (and Boys) Just Want to Be Fun [May 28]

Submitted for your (dis)approval:

FUN SHOULD NOT BE AN ADJECTIVE!

fun

  [fuhn]  Show IPA

noun

1.

something that provides mirth or amusement: A picnic would be fun.

2.

enjoyment or playfulness: She's full of fun.

verb (used without object), verb (used with object), funned, fun·ning.

3.

Informal. joke; kid.

adjective, fun·ner, fun·nest.

4.

Informal. of or pertaining to fun, especially to social fun: a fun thing to do; really a fun person; 

the funnest game.

5.

Informal. whimsical; flamboyant: The fashions this year are definitely on the fun side.

And I do not give a rodent's ass what the idiots at Dictionary.com say. There are fewer common words, aside from certain blue terms, that I would vote out of the vernacular.

Trying to avoid sexism, I must cite that most of the violators of my little dictum are of the feminine gender. Yes, I think that fun as an adjective (FAAA), as painful as it is to my ears, is a dainty word.

I believe the first time I heard FAAA was from a hostess. Invited to a brunch for college big cheeses, I asked what I could bring. She said, "How about some fun cheese?"

Fun cheese, exhibit 1

I involuntarily recoiled. Was there a black mamba in the room? Revulsion oozed through me. How could cheese be fun? I love cheese. All shapes and sizes, especially nasty, stinky cheese. I want to go to France just to fondle, sniff—and eventually consume—cheese. They seem to have none of our stupid sanitary laws concerning dairy. And they've been doing this for centuries. Cheese with a beard on it. Cheese that has mold thicker than Jacques Pepin's accent. Cheese that smells like North Jersey.

But I digress.

In order to abide by my inviter's request, I purchased a can of spray cheese. She looked at me oddly when I presented the fun cheese. I explained, "This was the only cheese I could find that was remotely fun."

Fun cheese, exhibit 2

"What?"

"You said that the cheese should be 'fun.' I think cheese is tasty, wonderful, nutritious, full of dairy fat. But this was the only stuff that you can have fun with, since I eschew fun as an adjective."

"What?"

"Well, let's go squirt some at Dean Wormer."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" She appropriated my offering, and, in a clatter of Weejuns, headed for the dustbin.

Another woman, the mother of a galpal, was a true FAAA person, country-club born and bred. Definitely one of those people who paste napkins to cocktail glasses (about which I opined on the 26th). Once when I arrived at the house to pick up Mary Pat (who was truly a good egg), Mumsy asked, "So, what do you kids have planned?"

I said, "Well, perhaps a trip to see a band I know ... and then, maybe, The Green Comet Diner."

"Oooh, a diner. That must be a fun place!"

I so wanted to say, "No, Mrs. McFussbudget, a diner is not fun. It serves utilitarian, usually grease-besodden food to people who have been out getting hammered." I would have left out the part about my plans to grope the daylights out of Mary Pat in the scullery later, in hopes of separating her from her Defcon 1 brassiere.

Fun? No.

Oh, FAAA is everywhere. One FoodStar addled chef proclaimed that she would make a pudding-ish dish in her ramekins. "These are so fun," she said. No, they are flippin' dishes lady.

Another such chef decided to host a garden party, with the added feature of a model train on the table, complete with hopper cars filled with various confections.

"How fun is that?" said the host.

None. Now, it would be funny if I manned the transformer and sped up the train so it derailed, spilling vichyssoise into Mrs. Vandersnatch's Madras-swathed lap.

Yes, men have adopted FAAA, too. A salesman at a tony men's store once told me that Italian suits "are fun." Fun like a clown suit? Fun like it's here for your amusement. Fun how? Sorry, allow me to un-Pesci myself.

Which brings me to:

THE OPERATIVE ADJECTIVE SHOULD BE FUNNY.

Yes. People can be funny. Events can be funny. Jokes can be funny.

But cheese is never funny. Nor diners. Nor model trains, unless you make them crash.

One of the advantages of having been a musician for so many years was the propensity for musicians to be funny.

In my old band, Repairs, everyone was funny. Mike (bass) once wore the bottom half of Larry's (guitar) popcorn popper on his head, affecting the look of an alien warload from cheap, Asian sci-fi flick. We dressed up Robbie (roadie) as a rock star and told the audience that he was Eric Clapton's rhythm-guitar player. Although he couldn't play a note, we outfitted him with a Telecaster, a slide bar and a wah-wah pedal. He got a standing ovation from a club full of 600 people. Pete (keyboards) would roll himself in a yellow blanket and call himself "The Montana Banana." Yes you had to be there.

And yes, it is possible to have fun—yes, this is a noun.

Toilet roll. Add water and watch the fun begin!

One splendid option for this is at other people's homes—especially at parties. Bring squares of Saran for under-cap mounting on soaps and lotions in the loo. The cardboard roll from some Charmin, when dampened, makes for some realistic, easy-to-use faux-doody. My buddy Cooney would take knickknacks (or "dustables," as my father would call them)—usually breaking up a set—and hide them elsewhere in the house.

Speaking of my father, did your dad have a human, full-face mask that he would put on the back of his head so he could stick his noggin out the window while driving on 95? Mine did.

Back to Cooney. He is, in many ways, a hero of mine. In and of himself, he's a funny (not fun) guy. When it comes to practical jokes, though, he has no equal. He has attached roadkill to people's mufflers. With aplomb. One of his best pranks involved his son's prom and a late-night phone call to his date's father from the "police." "Okay sir, the car is out of the ditch ... Charlie, get a blanket for that girl!" You can take it from there.

I think his best ever was when Mr. Cooney was meticulously grilling a turkey over charcoal on the Weber. When dad took a break, Cooney replaced the bird with a bale of accelerant-soaked newspaper. Dad, buckling up his chinos, ran screaming back into the yard.

Yes, I will apologize to certain women I know and love who will say, "How fun!" when I propose yet another excellent adventure.

I hope you have enjoyed my essays so far. Just three left.

This is, for me, fun.