True chats. As verbatim as I can make 'em. Content through the years. Yes, I love cashiers of all stripes.
Basrtender: So I hear your daughter's playing music.
Uncle Acey: Correct. She's a music major at Temple.
B: Well, my son plays in the sympathy orchestra in Williamsport.
UA: What a nice gift. What kind of blender is that?
Newlywed Bride: It's an Ostracizer.
UA: So, when you turn it on, does it kick you out of the kitchen?
NB: What?
Female Friend: My sister Chelsea is kinds goin' out with this guy, but it's strictly platomic.
UA: Does he live in D. C.?
FF: What?
Fan at Wedding: Hey Ace, the band sounds good. Here's my girlfriend Lori. C'mon Lori give 'im a kiss. He's a famous drummer.
[Lori obliges. I eye the open bar.]
FaW: Say could youse play a song? Y'know that one from the movie where where Richard Gere plays that flyboy, and he's bangin' Debra Winger in that hotel alla time.
UA: Oh, An Officer and a Gentleman.
FaW: Yeah. Play "The Lift Is Up."
Guy in Line: Yeah, I work in Traffic Control.
UA: I did that one summer. Had to time certain routes and note traffic flow.
GiL: Well, I hold up the stop/slow sign.
UA: Did you ever drop it?
GiL: No way.
[At a farewell concert]
Fan: So's the band breakin' up?
UA: No, we're moving to California.
F: So then this is your final debut.
[In Tulsa. I approach a convenience-store cashier with some beer and place it on the counter]
Cashier: You gonna go 'head and git that, now?
UA: Well, I believe I have already gone ahead and gotten it. I should like to pay for it now.
C: Wanna sack?
UA: A sack would be splendid.
[Buying a small tank of helium for party balloons]
UA: I dunno, this feels a little light. Maybe it's not full.
Cashier: That does feel light. Would you like to pick out another?
UA: No, I'll take my chances with this one.
Bar Patron: I been to Connecticut. I have a sister in New Haven [accent misplaced on first syllable, BTW]. I go visit her all the time.
UA: I hear they have a couple of colleges there.
BP: I wouldn't know about that.
Fan at Bar: Hey Ace, play some Phil Columns.
UA: Does anyone around here use the verb form doesn't?
Coal Country Cashier: It don't matter.
Server: Fresh grated pepper on your salad, sir?
UA: No, I'm driving.
S: Oh.
[Guest teaching a mini course at my alma mater]
UA: There's a conflagration outside my classroom window.
Assistant Principal: A fight? Where?
In my golden years, I continue to amuse myself in small ways. I share them with you, my faithful readers.
Saturday, May 21, 2016
Friday, May 20, 2016
Uncle Joe
1:17 pm
I first met Uncle Joe in the park. I spotted him as I rounded a bend by the pond, looking for a place to eat my lunch. Washington Park, Indianapolis. As I grew nearer, I saw he was popping some treats into his mouth, plucking them from a paper bag.
He seemed content, with just a hint of a smile dancing about the corners of his mouth. I stood back, behind a tree, and counted. He threw every fifth treat to waiting pigeons. In fact, the birds seemed to count with him. They would scatter diffidently as the man ate four treats, then turn their heads and seemingly gather 'round for the fifth.
He was round. Everywhere. His head, barely covered with a thinning, comb-over coif, was a perfect sphere. A short-sleeved white shirt from another era. Bulbous arms protruded. Wrists, hands, fingers: all chubby in their separate cylinders. Impossibly high-waisted dun-brown pants from days gone by. Cuffed. Wide, small feet in sturdy shoes. Suspenders and a belt. Maybe sixties, maybe older.
The man, the birds, the treats, the orbs. I walked near him.
"Yessir," he said as I came within five feet.
"Pardon me?" I said.
"Yessir. Fine day. Birds know it."
"They count to five."
"Yessir. You picked up on that. Very observant. Yessir."
I told him my name.
He said, "Uncle Joe here. That's what everyone calls me. Yessir."
Before I could ask him, he slid slightly on the bench, pointing to the vacant space next to him.
"Good a place as any," he said. "Yessir."
I sat for a minute. I forgot about the sub in my bag from Jockamo's.
He said, "What brings you here?"
I shrugged and said, "Lunch."
I went on, "I work at ComesTron, on Keystone. Assistant brand manager."
"Is that right? And why do you tell me this? I would rather know more about you than your job."
I gave him the rundown: Born in Cincy, Moeller High, Xavier undergrad, Purdue MBA. He seemed unimpressed.
He said, "There's more to life than what you did, or even what you do. Think about that. Yessir."
With that, he rose chubbily and left, the pigeons in his wake, jousting for every fifth bit.
I sprinted through my sub. I had a one-o'clock meeting.
About a week later, a happened to take lunch in the park again. There I found "Uncle Joe" or whoever he was. He sat in the same spot, snacking again. No pigeons this time.
"Yessir," he said.
I sat down, as if pushed.
Uncle Joe said, "Okay, since you seem so interested in what you do, tell me about it."
No problem. "I am part of a really exciting project. You see, I am part of the Sound Dawg Move Forward Team. We sell dog food. Pretty soon, we're launching a whole new line: Puppy Chow Fun. It's the world's first dog food with a pan-Asian, sustainable flair. There's a pun there, because Chow Fun--"
"Yessir. I know that Chow Fun is a Chinese dish with broad noodles. As opposed to Mei Fun, which has thinner ones. Been around, you know? Yessir. But what is your task?"
"Well, I am positioning the brand, working on strategy, tag lines, audience appeal."
"Aren't dogs the audience?"
I had no comeback. Uncle Joe offered me a treat. I accepted. It wasn't candy, nor a savory bit. It seemed to have a vegetable taste, with the kick of spice. Delicious.
I asked, "What are these? What are they called?"
He said, "A snack."
We sat silently for a while. Finally, my companion said, "Gotta go."
The pressure was palpable at work. Launch dates had been set, but the PCF overall branding platform had yet to be established. My team was responsible for this.
I didn't return to the park for a while. When I did, Uncle Joe was plopped right where I expected him. Feeding the birds. We exchanged "Yessirs." It just seemed right.
He began,"I did some research. Your ComesTron really doesn't manufacture anything. They sub all that out to firms in Mexico. You work in a big building with hundreds of other people, all deciding what to do with this stuff once it's made, right?"
"I guess so."
He took a snack. He said, "So, lemme guess. You go to meetings all day. You shuffle papers around. Read reports."
I sighed, "That's about right."
Uncle Joe sighed too, "But the reason you're not happy at work is that you don't actually make anything. You sit and Think Big Thoughts. In the end, who benefits? Dogs? Do you really think they care about Asian food? Aren't there hundreds of dog foods on the market? Isn't there a whole aisle of pet food at Kroger?"
"Yeah, but we are making new inroads in ramping up the Diversity Dog category! Why 56% of the--"
"Bah. Numbers. 'Diversity Dog!' Did you ever make something yourself? Something you're proud of? Something that helped people?"
"Well, I used to play gigs on the trumpet. I played in the band at XU. But you can't make a living doing it."
"Really? Who says that? I'll bet your music reached many people. Hell, there's music everywhere. In cars, on TV, radio. Even in elevators. Someone had to make that music. So someone gets paid for it? And what do you get now? A salary, a Swedish car?"
"Actually, I have a BMW. But it's only a 3-series, and it's a 2009."
"Wonderful. Does it get you from here to there better than a cheaper Ford? Here, look at this."
He handed me a small object.
I said, "It looks like a spice of some sort. But there's no smell to it."
"Correct. It's actually a nutmeg. Or rather a nutmeg replica. I carved it out of walnut. Yessir. You see, I'm from Connecticut, which used to be called the Nutmeg State, before stuffy politicians thought the term archaic. The 'nutmeg' came from crafty Yankee peddlers who used to carve these same objects. Nutmeg was the most expensive spice in the world then and in very scarce supply.
"So these peddlers were like you. They figured out how to market something special, exotic even. Except unlike you, they actually made it. Then they figured out a need for something that didn't actually exist. Like your Fun for Pup whatever. I make these treats, too." He handed me one.
I said, "These are remarkable. Where can I get some?"
Uncle Joe said, "You can't. They are my creation. I made my fortune selling the recipe to a company like yours. All the money up front. Yessir.
"And I predicted what would happen. The company couldn't even figure out what to call this stuff, much less how to sell it. So they buried it, satisfied that no one could steal it from them. This way, I was only one who benefited. A terrible business, even though it gave me security."
This time, Uncle Joe got up abruptly. He left without a "Yessir."
That afternoon at work, my group got called on the carpet. We were told that the mothership was mothballing the Puppy Chow Fun project. All of our jobs were in jeopardy. Buyouts were available.
I left the office right after the meeting. I went back to the park. Uncle Joe was not at his bench. Instead, I found a bag of treats, a small wooden nutmeg and a compact disc on the bench. The music was Chet Baker in New York. A little-known trumpet player. On the paper bag was a note. It said:
"GO MAKE SOMETHING."
I returned to my car and drove to my condo in Beech Grove. I packed my clothes and possessions. Everything else was rented.
Then I drove to Cincinnati.
2:21pm
I first met Uncle Joe in the park. I spotted him as I rounded a bend by the pond, looking for a place to eat my lunch. Washington Park, Indianapolis. As I grew nearer, I saw he was popping some treats into his mouth, plucking them from a paper bag.
He seemed content, with just a hint of a smile dancing about the corners of his mouth. I stood back, behind a tree, and counted. He threw every fifth treat to waiting pigeons. In fact, the birds seemed to count with him. They would scatter diffidently as the man ate four treats, then turn their heads and seemingly gather 'round for the fifth.
He was round. Everywhere. His head, barely covered with a thinning, comb-over coif, was a perfect sphere. A short-sleeved white shirt from another era. Bulbous arms protruded. Wrists, hands, fingers: all chubby in their separate cylinders. Impossibly high-waisted dun-brown pants from days gone by. Cuffed. Wide, small feet in sturdy shoes. Suspenders and a belt. Maybe sixties, maybe older.
The man, the birds, the treats, the orbs. I walked near him.
"Yessir," he said as I came within five feet.
"Pardon me?" I said.
"Yessir. Fine day. Birds know it."
"They count to five."
"Yessir. You picked up on that. Very observant. Yessir."
I told him my name.
He said, "Uncle Joe here. That's what everyone calls me. Yessir."
Before I could ask him, he slid slightly on the bench, pointing to the vacant space next to him.
"Good a place as any," he said. "Yessir."
I sat for a minute. I forgot about the sub in my bag from Jockamo's.
He said, "What brings you here?"
I shrugged and said, "Lunch."
I went on, "I work at ComesTron, on Keystone. Assistant brand manager."
"Is that right? And why do you tell me this? I would rather know more about you than your job."
I gave him the rundown: Born in Cincy, Moeller High, Xavier undergrad, Purdue MBA. He seemed unimpressed.
He said, "There's more to life than what you did, or even what you do. Think about that. Yessir."
With that, he rose chubbily and left, the pigeons in his wake, jousting for every fifth bit.
I sprinted through my sub. I had a one-o'clock meeting.
About a week later, a happened to take lunch in the park again. There I found "Uncle Joe" or whoever he was. He sat in the same spot, snacking again. No pigeons this time.
"Yessir," he said.
I sat down, as if pushed.
Uncle Joe said, "Okay, since you seem so interested in what you do, tell me about it."
No problem. "I am part of a really exciting project. You see, I am part of the Sound Dawg Move Forward Team. We sell dog food. Pretty soon, we're launching a whole new line: Puppy Chow Fun. It's the world's first dog food with a pan-Asian, sustainable flair. There's a pun there, because Chow Fun--"
"Yessir. I know that Chow Fun is a Chinese dish with broad noodles. As opposed to Mei Fun, which has thinner ones. Been around, you know? Yessir. But what is your task?"
"Well, I am positioning the brand, working on strategy, tag lines, audience appeal."
"Aren't dogs the audience?"
I had no comeback. Uncle Joe offered me a treat. I accepted. It wasn't candy, nor a savory bit. It seemed to have a vegetable taste, with the kick of spice. Delicious.
I asked, "What are these? What are they called?"
He said, "A snack."
We sat silently for a while. Finally, my companion said, "Gotta go."
The pressure was palpable at work. Launch dates had been set, but the PCF overall branding platform had yet to be established. My team was responsible for this.
I didn't return to the park for a while. When I did, Uncle Joe was plopped right where I expected him. Feeding the birds. We exchanged "Yessirs." It just seemed right.
He began,"I did some research. Your ComesTron really doesn't manufacture anything. They sub all that out to firms in Mexico. You work in a big building with hundreds of other people, all deciding what to do with this stuff once it's made, right?"
"I guess so."
He took a snack. He said, "So, lemme guess. You go to meetings all day. You shuffle papers around. Read reports."
I sighed, "That's about right."
Uncle Joe sighed too, "But the reason you're not happy at work is that you don't actually make anything. You sit and Think Big Thoughts. In the end, who benefits? Dogs? Do you really think they care about Asian food? Aren't there hundreds of dog foods on the market? Isn't there a whole aisle of pet food at Kroger?"
"Yeah, but we are making new inroads in ramping up the Diversity Dog category! Why 56% of the--"
"Bah. Numbers. 'Diversity Dog!' Did you ever make something yourself? Something you're proud of? Something that helped people?"
"Well, I used to play gigs on the trumpet. I played in the band at XU. But you can't make a living doing it."
"Really? Who says that? I'll bet your music reached many people. Hell, there's music everywhere. In cars, on TV, radio. Even in elevators. Someone had to make that music. So someone gets paid for it? And what do you get now? A salary, a Swedish car?"
"Actually, I have a BMW. But it's only a 3-series, and it's a 2009."
"Wonderful. Does it get you from here to there better than a cheaper Ford? Here, look at this."
He handed me a small object.
I said, "It looks like a spice of some sort. But there's no smell to it."
"Correct. It's actually a nutmeg. Or rather a nutmeg replica. I carved it out of walnut. Yessir. You see, I'm from Connecticut, which used to be called the Nutmeg State, before stuffy politicians thought the term archaic. The 'nutmeg' came from crafty Yankee peddlers who used to carve these same objects. Nutmeg was the most expensive spice in the world then and in very scarce supply.
"So these peddlers were like you. They figured out how to market something special, exotic even. Except unlike you, they actually made it. Then they figured out a need for something that didn't actually exist. Like your Fun for Pup whatever. I make these treats, too." He handed me one.
I said, "These are remarkable. Where can I get some?"
Uncle Joe said, "You can't. They are my creation. I made my fortune selling the recipe to a company like yours. All the money up front. Yessir.
"And I predicted what would happen. The company couldn't even figure out what to call this stuff, much less how to sell it. So they buried it, satisfied that no one could steal it from them. This way, I was only one who benefited. A terrible business, even though it gave me security."
This time, Uncle Joe got up abruptly. He left without a "Yessir."
That afternoon at work, my group got called on the carpet. We were told that the mothership was mothballing the Puppy Chow Fun project. All of our jobs were in jeopardy. Buyouts were available.
I left the office right after the meeting. I went back to the park. Uncle Joe was not at his bench. Instead, I found a bag of treats, a small wooden nutmeg and a compact disc on the bench. The music was Chet Baker in New York. A little-known trumpet player. On the paper bag was a note. It said:
"GO MAKE SOMETHING."
I returned to my car and drove to my condo in Beech Grove. I packed my clothes and possessions. Everything else was rented.
Then I drove to Cincinnati.
2:21pm
Thursday, May 19, 2016
How to Write Good
As in drumming, I ain't the best scribe ever. But here are some hints and tips I've picked up over the years writing at various rags, on the Interwebs, in the employ of ego-driven agencies, and to myself. Remember, these are not rules. You know how I feel about them,
In no particular order:
You don't write for others. Then you would lose your voice. But you do write to others, unless its a diary or grocery list. Bear in mind that you want somebody to read your words. And enjoy or learn from them.
There is no substitute for a strong grounding in proper usage, grammar and syntax. If you still think "I'm gonna try and do that," or "I should have went home," is good writing, you need to buff up them skills. Once you have the basics down cold, it is easier to bend them. Honest.
Vary the length of your sentences. If they're all short or all long, they are hard to read.
In the same vein as the above hint, try not to start every sentence with its subject. Prepositional phrases and dependent clauses work wonders. NOT adverbs. Frequently, a weak sentence begins with an adverb.
Avoiding copulae (i. e., linking verbs) will strengthen your writing. This is true. It seems false. It also appears impossible. Stronger verbs bring vibrancy to writing. "The athlete didn't like the interviewer," vs. "Flapjack Culpepper deflected the beat-writer's questions."
I'm not a fan of long paragraphs. Unless you're Hemingway or Thomas Wolfe. Which you ain't.
Fancy writing is not necessarily good writing. "The slate sky loomed sadly over the landscape like a foundering blanket that kept people entombed," says plenty of nothing.
Unusual words are like habanero peppers. Used sparingly, they can spice up a piece. In liberal doses, they will ruin people's tastes. "The wind keened about the sagebrush," is fine. Then put keen to bed for the rest of the story.
Read—and sponge from—good writers. What are their habits? How do they treat plot movement, dialogue and exposition?
In like fashion, peruse lousy writers on occasion. There are plenty out there. This is why places called libraries exist. Learn to avoid their poor prose. Caveat: It's not enough to dislike a writer. The big question: How would I fix it?
Unless you're quoting, don't write in the same manner as you speak. To wit: "Many sophomores attended the annual Spring Frolic. It was like, I mean, awesome."
While I'm on my soapbox, I say isn't it time the entire English-writing world put awesome to bed?
A bad habit: telling readers what you've already shown them. "Sgt. O'Greeley moaned as he climbed another flight of stairs. Sweating mightily, he vowed to cut back on the cheeseburgers at J. G. Melon. He was out of shape."
Invite readers into your story. Do your best to put them in the setting and allow them to meet the characters. A hallmark of poor writing is to admit to readers, "You hadda be there." Bring folks there. The best compliments I have ever received are from people who said, "Wow, I felt as if I was in the story."
Too many rewrites spoil the broth.
Now, I shall try to put this shit to use when I write a story tomorrow. Watch for Uncle Joe.
In no particular order:
You don't write for others. Then you would lose your voice. But you do write to others, unless its a diary or grocery list. Bear in mind that you want somebody to read your words. And enjoy or learn from them.
There is no substitute for a strong grounding in proper usage, grammar and syntax. If you still think "I'm gonna try and do that," or "I should have went home," is good writing, you need to buff up them skills. Once you have the basics down cold, it is easier to bend them. Honest.
Vary the length of your sentences. If they're all short or all long, they are hard to read.
In the same vein as the above hint, try not to start every sentence with its subject. Prepositional phrases and dependent clauses work wonders. NOT adverbs. Frequently, a weak sentence begins with an adverb.
Avoiding copulae (i. e., linking verbs) will strengthen your writing. This is true. It seems false. It also appears impossible. Stronger verbs bring vibrancy to writing. "The athlete didn't like the interviewer," vs. "Flapjack Culpepper deflected the beat-writer's questions."
I'm not a fan of long paragraphs. Unless you're Hemingway or Thomas Wolfe. Which you ain't.
Fancy writing is not necessarily good writing. "The slate sky loomed sadly over the landscape like a foundering blanket that kept people entombed," says plenty of nothing.
Unusual words are like habanero peppers. Used sparingly, they can spice up a piece. In liberal doses, they will ruin people's tastes. "The wind keened about the sagebrush," is fine. Then put keen to bed for the rest of the story.
Read—and sponge from—good writers. What are their habits? How do they treat plot movement, dialogue and exposition?
In like fashion, peruse lousy writers on occasion. There are plenty out there. This is why places called libraries exist. Learn to avoid their poor prose. Caveat: It's not enough to dislike a writer. The big question: How would I fix it?
Unless you're quoting, don't write in the same manner as you speak. To wit: "Many sophomores attended the annual Spring Frolic. It was like, I mean, awesome."
While I'm on my soapbox, I say isn't it time the entire English-writing world put awesome to bed?
A bad habit: telling readers what you've already shown them. "Sgt. O'Greeley moaned as he climbed another flight of stairs. Sweating mightily, he vowed to cut back on the cheeseburgers at J. G. Melon. He was out of shape."
Invite readers into your story. Do your best to put them in the setting and allow them to meet the characters. A hallmark of poor writing is to admit to readers, "You hadda be there." Bring folks there. The best compliments I have ever received are from people who said, "Wow, I felt as if I was in the story."
Too many rewrites spoil the broth.
Now, I shall try to put this shit to use when I write a story tomorrow. Watch for Uncle Joe.
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
Fun is Life
I cannot say "Life is fun" because I firmly believe that "fun" should never be used as an adjective. I have felt this way for many years, ever since a hostess asked me to being some "fun cheese" to a party.
As I dodder about in my half-double here in Coal Country, I am still dedicated to Fun. I especially enjoy My Own Fun, which may come at others' expense, but does no harm whatsoever. Feel free to steal (or modify) any of these for your own use and annoyance.
WARNING: JUST ABOUT EVERY TIME YOU PLAY ONE OF THESE LITTLE JOKES, YOU WILL BE THE ONLY PERSON WHO ENJOYS IT. LEARN TO LIVE WITH THIS. STRICTLY FOR PERSONAL USE.
Crossing the street is always fun for me. I enjoy "freezing" at a DON'T WALK sign, usually in a goofy position. Then assume a silly gait as you cross. DO NOT LOOK AT ANYONE FOR A REACTION. Just enjoy the moment.
The Supermarket Stare is cool. As you push your cart down the aisle, lock your eyes on someone far away. Then, as you get closer, DO NOT turn your head or eyes to keep focus on the other person. Just keep your gaze where it was. FUN!
Restaurant Fun: When a waitron asks you, "Is everything alright?" rub a specific part of your body (I prefer the upper-outside thigh) and say, "Well, I've got this rash ..." Follow that up with, "Well, you asked!"
Air Travel Fun: I must credit my brother with this one. Once we were given seats by the emergency door, with attendant legroom. Cool. A flight attendant came over and gave us the are-you-physically-able-to-do-the-door-thing speech. Tom gave her a blank smile and nodded once or twice. Finally she said, "I'm sorry sir, but do you speak English?" With a faux-Slavic accent he said, "Diet Coke." Later we played the Back-of-the-Head Game: "Let's see, that's Princess Di sitting with Jackie Gleason and Crabby Creiner from Jetland Street."
Dr. Fun: Tell doc you just got back from a vacation in the Isles of Langerhans (they're in the pancreas). Or that you received a Bundle of Hiss (heart) for Christmas. Once I saw an ortho dude for a small injury. I could not crack the guy. He was tanned and poloed, on a Friday afternoon, obviously dying to take the Benz up to the Vineyard. Finally, as he wrote out a prescription, he asked, "Does anything bother your stomach?" I said, "Ferris wheels." Bingo.
Hospital Fun: I have some doozies, but many are too blue for this space. A good one is to stash some grapefruit juice after breakfast. When it's tinkle-cup time, pour the juice in. If someone remarks about cloudy pee-pee, chug the juice and say, "Let's run it through again."
The Great American Neck Snap. One of my all-time faves. The bare bones: How many people can you get to turn their heads? The quicker the better. Malls are a great venue. Just talk with a friend in a normal voice, but shout out one word. "Remember when the Stones sang 'HEY you, get offa my cloud'?" Or, "I love when Bowie said, "Wham, bam, thank you, MA'AM'." ADDENDUM: Do not turn and look for Snaps; just keep walking. AceBrag: I once achieved a Neck Snap of Guinness proportions. I was sitting at a Yankee game, along the first-base line, about halfway up the field level. A fight broke out—a fairly vicious one—near the right-field foul pole. Many turned right to watch the ensuing tussle, complete with cops and security drones. But the game went on. I prayed for bat-ball contact. On the next pitch, the batter complied, fouling one off to left. I screamed, "HEADS UP!" I estimate a mega-Snap of thousands occurred. Total success.
One-timers:
A salesman called me once, peddling an alumni directory from my alma mater. Once I ascertained that this was a non-school, private, for-profit enterprise, it was time for Fun. I finally said that I was Ralph Holleran and that my brother Tim had expired the year before. He had died when he ran into a burning kennel to save three Pomeranians. Two years hence, you shoulda seen the heads turn when I showed up for my reunion. To detractors, I said, "And you bought that stupid book!"
It's always a gateway to Fun when you meet someone for the first time and that person realizes you have a mutual friend. Once I said, "Geeze, you're not nearly as heavy as your sister described you."
I asked a salesperson at a hardware store, "What sizes do those yardsticks come in?"
In St. Louis, I had an excellent Italian dinner in the famous Hill neighborhood. My waiter had a thick southern drawl. I cringed at his pronunciation of proscuitto. So I asked him for a a dram of Scazzverona as a postprandial digestif.
When I see an empty cashier line at The Dollar Dreck, I ask the cashier to do a price check on a package of ersatz Brillo.
POSTSCRIPT: Many of these gags are known in my old 'hood as Treatment. Do not allow Treatment to linger. Admit you were kidding. Unless you want to have even more Fun.
As I dodder about in my half-double here in Coal Country, I am still dedicated to Fun. I especially enjoy My Own Fun, which may come at others' expense, but does no harm whatsoever. Feel free to steal (or modify) any of these for your own use and annoyance.
WARNING: JUST ABOUT EVERY TIME YOU PLAY ONE OF THESE LITTLE JOKES, YOU WILL BE THE ONLY PERSON WHO ENJOYS IT. LEARN TO LIVE WITH THIS. STRICTLY FOR PERSONAL USE.
Crossing the street is always fun for me. I enjoy "freezing" at a DON'T WALK sign, usually in a goofy position. Then assume a silly gait as you cross. DO NOT LOOK AT ANYONE FOR A REACTION. Just enjoy the moment.
The Supermarket Stare is cool. As you push your cart down the aisle, lock your eyes on someone far away. Then, as you get closer, DO NOT turn your head or eyes to keep focus on the other person. Just keep your gaze where it was. FUN!
Restaurant Fun: When a waitron asks you, "Is everything alright?" rub a specific part of your body (I prefer the upper-outside thigh) and say, "Well, I've got this rash ..." Follow that up with, "Well, you asked!"
Air Travel Fun: I must credit my brother with this one. Once we were given seats by the emergency door, with attendant legroom. Cool. A flight attendant came over and gave us the are-you-physically-able-to-do-the-door-thing speech. Tom gave her a blank smile and nodded once or twice. Finally she said, "I'm sorry sir, but do you speak English?" With a faux-Slavic accent he said, "Diet Coke." Later we played the Back-of-the-Head Game: "Let's see, that's Princess Di sitting with Jackie Gleason and Crabby Creiner from Jetland Street."
Dr. Fun: Tell doc you just got back from a vacation in the Isles of Langerhans (they're in the pancreas). Or that you received a Bundle of Hiss (heart) for Christmas. Once I saw an ortho dude for a small injury. I could not crack the guy. He was tanned and poloed, on a Friday afternoon, obviously dying to take the Benz up to the Vineyard. Finally, as he wrote out a prescription, he asked, "Does anything bother your stomach?" I said, "Ferris wheels." Bingo.
Hospital Fun: I have some doozies, but many are too blue for this space. A good one is to stash some grapefruit juice after breakfast. When it's tinkle-cup time, pour the juice in. If someone remarks about cloudy pee-pee, chug the juice and say, "Let's run it through again."
The Great American Neck Snap. One of my all-time faves. The bare bones: How many people can you get to turn their heads? The quicker the better. Malls are a great venue. Just talk with a friend in a normal voice, but shout out one word. "Remember when the Stones sang 'HEY you, get offa my cloud'?" Or, "I love when Bowie said, "Wham, bam, thank you, MA'AM'." ADDENDUM: Do not turn and look for Snaps; just keep walking. AceBrag: I once achieved a Neck Snap of Guinness proportions. I was sitting at a Yankee game, along the first-base line, about halfway up the field level. A fight broke out—a fairly vicious one—near the right-field foul pole. Many turned right to watch the ensuing tussle, complete with cops and security drones. But the game went on. I prayed for bat-ball contact. On the next pitch, the batter complied, fouling one off to left. I screamed, "HEADS UP!" I estimate a mega-Snap of thousands occurred. Total success.
One-timers:
A salesman called me once, peddling an alumni directory from my alma mater. Once I ascertained that this was a non-school, private, for-profit enterprise, it was time for Fun. I finally said that I was Ralph Holleran and that my brother Tim had expired the year before. He had died when he ran into a burning kennel to save three Pomeranians. Two years hence, you shoulda seen the heads turn when I showed up for my reunion. To detractors, I said, "And you bought that stupid book!"
It's always a gateway to Fun when you meet someone for the first time and that person realizes you have a mutual friend. Once I said, "Geeze, you're not nearly as heavy as your sister described you."
I asked a salesperson at a hardware store, "What sizes do those yardsticks come in?"
In St. Louis, I had an excellent Italian dinner in the famous Hill neighborhood. My waiter had a thick southern drawl. I cringed at his pronunciation of proscuitto. So I asked him for a a dram of Scazzverona as a postprandial digestif.
When I see an empty cashier line at The Dollar Dreck, I ask the cashier to do a price check on a package of ersatz Brillo.
POSTSCRIPT: Many of these gags are known in my old 'hood as Treatment. Do not allow Treatment to linger. Admit you were kidding. Unless you want to have even more Fun.
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
What I Don't Miss
A counterpunch to yesterday's piece. See menu at right for What I Miss. Get it?
I don't miss:
The heinous downgrading of women. Examples: Gender-segregated Help Wanted ads; unequal pay; "That's a man's work,"; commercials that said, "So easy, a woman can do it,"; "the fair sex," etc. Yes, there's a long way to go.
Pabulum TV shows, especially "variety" programs such as Perry Como, Andy Williams. Numbing music and ersatz comedy.
Grown-ups who yelled at me. My folks were great. But school, drum corps, bosses. I stopped listening when I was ten.
Being hit by teachers. Lawsuit today.
College. Four years was perfect. I was outta there. Angry Viet Vets, horrible food, stone-cold Catholic girls, warm beer, out-of-touch professors.
The whole anti-hippie thing. I saw two different teachers, armed with scissors, go after shaggy students. A replica of an actual billboard in my hometown:
I don't miss:
The heinous downgrading of women. Examples: Gender-segregated Help Wanted ads; unequal pay; "That's a man's work,"; commercials that said, "So easy, a woman can do it,"; "the fair sex," etc. Yes, there's a long way to go.
Pabulum TV shows, especially "variety" programs such as Perry Como, Andy Williams. Numbing music and ersatz comedy.
Grown-ups who yelled at me. My folks were great. But school, drum corps, bosses. I stopped listening when I was ten.
Being hit by teachers. Lawsuit today.
Bullies. I got off easy with a few "shrimpie" comments. I knew kids whose everyday life was an ongoing Hades.
Getting new clothes, which were always baggy. "He'll grow into them, ma'am." I didn't grow. Fiction.
College. Four years was perfect. I was outta there. Angry Viet Vets, horrible food, stone-cold Catholic girls, warm beer, out-of-touch professors.
The whole anti-hippie thing. I saw two different teachers, armed with scissors, go after shaggy students. A replica of an actual billboard in my hometown:
Oppressed speech. Every Vietnam protester was a Commie, hippie, pinko freak. As dictated by adults.
Doo-wop music. Although I came of record-buying age at the tail end of this, I hated it.
Impossible-to-unfasten brassieres.
Overall censorship by prudes."Hell" was a curse. "Cover those knees with that skirt, missie." Mad magazine was evil. Stay on the straight-and-narrow. Balderdash.
Every grown-up was always right. Do not challenge anyone older, even when being mistreated. I knew a lot of parents, teachers, overseers, etc. who were total asshats.
Scrambled eggs other than my grandmother's.
Food in general: fatty, fried, gray, sickeningly-sweet crap.
Dressing up for church.
The Latin Mass.
Sitting in a gray cubicle, trying to write clever copy or come up with The Big Idea. Massive egos. Working for moribund-brained MBAs. Meetings. Churn-and-burn work environments.
Cars that broke every three years.
Marching in parades.
Not enough culture or creativity in my life. Such things were taboo.
The adults who tried to get me to quit music.
Playing four (or more) sets a night for greedy nightclub owners. I know: I fought for this life.
Performing at weddings. The musician's gulag.
I'm going to stop here before I begin to depress myself. Sweetness and light, tomorrow. Promise.
Monday, May 16, 2016
What I Miss
I know; I know. You've seen the memes and read the posts.
"We drank out of a garden hose."
"We didn't come home until the street lights came on."
"We had metal dashboards and no seatbelts."
"We played outside instead of on an Xbox."
Guess what? It will never be that way again. Racists who claim they aren't, miss when the whole town was white. Nobody got a handout. Gooks and Japs were the enemy.
Yada, yada, yada.
I appreciate now. I am entwined to my DVR. I enjoy Google. And I am flippin' lucky that I can still bang on the drums. A nice piece of yellowtail sashimi? Luvvit. Beer made by two hipsters from Sheboygan. Some apizz' at Modern. Madame Secretary. Among other things.
However, I will venture into my own Wayback Machine today and relate what I miss. Then tomorrow, what I don't.
I miss civility.
I miss Saturday matinees at a theater with only one screen.
I miss athletes who carry themselves with dignity, pride and humility—win or lose.
I miss people who look askance if you dared use a double negative. We don't got none no more. (Okay, that's a triple negative.)
I miss waiting until spring to wear sneakers after a winter of well-built shoes. I miss—at roughly the same time of year—disentombing my glove from its sarcophagus in the closet, embalmed in neatsfoot oil.
I miss Dutch Leonard.
I miss true satire.
I miss (and yes, I've said this before) women who wouldn't think of wearing a dress or skirt without stockings. Until summer tans appeared.
I miss good songs. Ones you can remember. Sung by people who have an acquaintance with something called melody.
I miss making out. When that was all that happened. Because she didn't allow you to reach second.
I miss people who say "you're welcome."
I miss sturdy brogans. Shined.
I miss my dad, on the phone Sunday morning, making a few calls. That afternoon: a cookout with forty folks in our backyard. Uncle Frank, on his five-stringed guitar, bellowing "It's a Sin To Tell a Lie."
I miss the fact that you never complained about school (or a teacher) to your folks.
I miss actual milkshakes. That someone assembled.
I miss being tucked in at night.
I miss my grandmother's fried chicken. And scrambled eggs.
I miss when, in January, people stopped talking about football, enjoyed basketball and anxiously awaited baseball season. And even during the fall, when men wouldn't ignore their families to watch games.
I miss reading letters. I still write them. But I used to have pen pals. You couldn't phone; it was too expensive.
I miss the vaporizer, steaming away on the top of the chifforobe, when I had a cold.
I miss my hometown and the people there.
Enough of this nostalgia. Back to snark soon.
"We drank out of a garden hose."
"We didn't come home until the street lights came on."
"We had metal dashboards and no seatbelts."
"We played outside instead of on an Xbox."
Guess what? It will never be that way again. Racists who claim they aren't, miss when the whole town was white. Nobody got a handout. Gooks and Japs were the enemy.
Yada, yada, yada.
I appreciate now. I am entwined to my DVR. I enjoy Google. And I am flippin' lucky that I can still bang on the drums. A nice piece of yellowtail sashimi? Luvvit. Beer made by two hipsters from Sheboygan. Some apizz' at Modern. Madame Secretary. Among other things.
However, I will venture into my own Wayback Machine today and relate what I miss. Then tomorrow, what I don't.
I miss civility.
I miss athletes who carry themselves with dignity, pride and humility—win or lose.
I miss people who look askance if you dared use a double negative. We don't got none no more. (Okay, that's a triple negative.)
I miss true satire.
I miss (and yes, I've said this before) women who wouldn't think of wearing a dress or skirt without stockings. Until summer tans appeared.
I miss good songs. Ones you can remember. Sung by people who have an acquaintance with something called melody.
I miss making out. When that was all that happened. Because she didn't allow you to reach second.
I miss people who say "you're welcome."
I miss my dad, on the phone Sunday morning, making a few calls. That afternoon: a cookout with forty folks in our backyard. Uncle Frank, on his five-stringed guitar, bellowing "It's a Sin To Tell a Lie."
I miss the fact that you never complained about school (or a teacher) to your folks.
I miss being tucked in at night.
I miss my grandmother's fried chicken. And scrambled eggs.
I miss when, in January, people stopped talking about football, enjoyed basketball and anxiously awaited baseball season. And even during the fall, when men wouldn't ignore their families to watch games.
I miss reading letters. I still write them. But I used to have pen pals. You couldn't phone; it was too expensive.
I miss the vaporizer, steaming away on the top of the chifforobe, when I had a cold.
I miss my hometown and the people there.
Enough of this nostalgia. Back to snark soon.
Sunday, May 15, 2016
Kids' Books for Everyone!
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Not original, but couldn't resist. |
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