December 9th, 2013
Tim and I at Peet’s, early afternoon. Two very attractive women in their mid-sixties joined the dark-haired fiftyish woman sitting next to us. I looked at them for awhile, then said to Tim, sotto voce, “Do you often see sixty year old women that good-looking.” Tim said quietly, “No. They really are. “I wonder if they’re twins,” I said. “Why don’t you ask them.” Tim said. I breathed in, “Excuse me.” They didn’t hear. Then louder. “Excuse me.” They both looked at me. “Are you guys twins?” Very matter of factly, one of them said, “No.” “Uh, sisters?” I asked. “Yes, “the same woman answered. That was it. This comes across as rude, of course, but nothing in the woman’s voice was rude. But it did say, end of conversation.
It brought me back to a Starbucks give and take four years before. Two attractive dark-haired women I took to be sisters. They were dressed not as sisters, nor was their haircut similar. The only thing that said sisters was their facial characteristics. The one I took to be oldest had been doing all the talking. “Are you sisters?” I asked, my voice 95% charm. I didn’t have to repeat the question that time. “Yes we are,” said the sister, who later identified herself as Rebecca. After a few minutes of small talk, her sister, who seemed rather meek, joined the conversation. I could see she was trying to get a word in and finally, no thanks to Rebecca, she managed. “My name is Sarah.” She reached across for a handshook and I shook it. She may have had other things to say, but her sister chimed in again. All her attention directed at me. “We’re up here from L.A. I’m thinking about grad school at Dominican College. In philosophy. I don’t know why philosophy. I guess my Dad was a philosopher. I got his genes. I’ve read a book…or twelve…ha ha ha. But really, these are the books that count. Have you read Kant? No, no, now don’t tell me you couldn’t…ha ha. Seriously, though, a lot of people think Kant’s so heavy going, but you have to be in a receptive mode. Damn thing is, I don’t know how to tell you to get in a receptive mode. If you looked at it from — (Sarah takes the floor, eyes alight with fury, voice steeped in bitterness).
“Shut up, Rebecca.”
Rebecca looks around for support, but everybody is looking the other way. She begins talking again but I say, as I rise, “I have got to go.”
Bitterness ensues followed by “REALLY, SHUT UP, REBECCA.”
It took me a moment to get my bag off the floor, and put it over my shoulder. As I get up, Rebecca notices I have a prosthetic right leg. “Oh, I see you’ve had your leg replaced. What a feeling of freedom…ha ha ha.”
Finally, I speak to her. “Rebecca, I think she wants you to shut up.”
As I step free of the table I can hear Sarah’s sarcastic comment, directed at her sister: “Oh, I see you’ve had your brain replaced. What a feeling of freedom…”
December 6th, 2013
I’ve been writing nothing but drivel lately. For that reason I’m taking a blogging break. I’ll be back, although I have a feeling my brain will be taking me in different directions. At least I hope it will. Sayonara for now.
December 4th, 2013
Reading the blog entry below it just occurred to me that it was pretty damn snippy. I love my sister Ruthie. She saved my ass in fights when we both were little. She kept me on track thru grade school. And I write crap like that? Why? Just because it’s fun. What kind of excuse is that? Ruthie, I hope you do make it to 104 and I’m there at 102 to cheer you on. Again, Love, Fred.
December 2nd, 2013
How Jewish can you be? You got a first name, Ruth, biblical as all hell. And Rosenberg is your last. Rosenbergs were sought in pogrom after pogrom. Your daughter Sarah and son Benjamin are typical Jewish intellectuals. You know, save the planet liberals. Sarah gave up her partner track at the law firm she was working in and went back to school to get a math degree. Ben teaches at an inner city school in Detroit.
So what is this shit? Ruthie Rosenberg, who also happens to be the head of the Jewish Genealogical Society of Detroit, Michigan, is not even Jewish.
One thing about being the head of a genealogical society is it gives you goals. Aunt Harriet holds the the family age record at 104. But damn if she didn’t get screwed when Ruthie married outside the religion, because if Ruthie reaches her goal, in just 30 years, she will become the oldest. And Ruthie did it simply by marrying into the Wickham family.
Okay Ruthie. Thirty years from today you win your dastardly title. Hold your breath, Harriet, here she comes. By the way, Ruthie, congratulations from your totally goy brother for making it to 75.
November 30th, 2013
Geico Gecko, Aflac duck, and Robin Williams walk into a Walmart. Somebody snaps up the last box of Sea Salt caramels. On the bright side it’s Black Friday and Walmart’s chopped beef, which is past its expiration date, suddenly drops to 8 cents a pound. Robin says to the Geico Gecko, “This is good stuff. The same thing happened last month when Smokey the Bear…”
Wiley Coyote, Bear Bryant, and Robin Williams drive into a smoke-free parking lot. A man in a yellow Humvee dumps his ashtray onto the asphalt. On the bright side they’re all low-nicotine butts. Robin Willliam says to Bear Bryant, “Don’t sweat it. Somebody did this same thing at Walmart in 1996. Fortunately, Smokey the Bear…”
Bing Crosby, Garry Moore, and Robin Williams walk into a cemetery. A woman kneels, chipping the likeness of her recently deceased husband into a gravestone. She has made his nose big, yet the photograph she is working from is of a small-nosed man. Robin Williams asks her, “Is this a Jewish cemetery or are you just…”
Betty Furness, Jackie Robinson, and Robin Williams ride into a bike park. There is a chalk drawing of Lance Armstrong on a large, smooth patch of concrete. Robin Williams, who has been described in the press recently as “a cutter,” empties an artery onto the drawing. When a worried child runs up and asks him, “why are you doing that?” Robin merely shrugs as if to say…”Have you been reading Maureen Dow…?”
Colin Powell, Pablo Picasso, and Robin Williams, snowboard into The Shreadows in Alpine Meadows, North Lake Tahoe. Picasso’s snowboard is, of course, a startling shape which pleases the eye, but disrupts his course through the deep snow. He disappears into a huge drift and Robin calls out, “Hallooo, hallooo, halllooooo Pabloooo. You are missing all the…”
November 23rd, 2013
A couple days ago somebody asked me “What are you reading, Fred?” I was reading something I wanted to call great, but since I didn’t even know the name of it I decided to turn down my enthusiasm a bit. ‘It’s a pretty good novel that discusses race and family relations.” “That’s it, Fred?” I turned away to another in our big conversation, but I spent the rest of the day pissed off. I had something to talk about. The novel was a great exploration of race and family tensions. Rich, funny, even magic. Christ, here I am thinking the novel had magic, and I can’t even remember the name of it. Then it occurred to me that I might never have known what the name of it was. Even when I bought it. How can this be. How? Talk to any Kindle owner.
That’s right. I read a really big, wonderful book and I don’t know its name. The thing is, unless you make it a point to know the name, the Kindle isn’t going to help you out much. Mine is a small black tablet with no way of letting you know what you’re reading unless you go to the trouble to click through whatever technological stumbling blocks that might bring you to the title of the book you’re reading. In my case I must click the upper left corner of the page and click on the A (whatever that stands for). Then a number of books I’ve read (in my case about 70) are shown. Not the title, the cover art. For me this is pretty tough. Even with my glasses, if the type face is least bit fancy or tricky, I need a magnifying glass. Okay, got the magnifier. I am reading “The Fortress of Solitude,” by, just a minute, got to get a stronger magnifier, ah, Jonathan Lethen.
Books might do well to get Kindle to design an electronic cover that displays whatever book is currently being read by its owner. If I were a designer I’d do it and become a multimillionaire (a theme I’ve explored in other BR posts). Sure, there are other people who pay more attention to the book they’ve just spent good money on. But there are those of us who have to look at the grille of the car they’re driving to tell you what kind it is.
Anyhow, Lethem’s a terrific writer. And the Kindle is a marvelous way to read terrific writing. Ironing out these glitches might mean more money in the writing and publishing industry and less for the moviemakers.
November 21st, 2013
I’m watching Steven Colbert. Not Colbear. Colbert. I didn’t like the Frenchy pronounciation six years ago when he came up with it, but I didn’t say anything. Look at it this way, if he didn’t like Colbert, why not pick another name altogether? If he’s going for a play on words, do Colbear, but with an actual bear in the logo. It wouldn’t be terribly funny, but it doesn’t have to be. Think of the environmental message it would send. The bear could be in attack mode, or just a sweet old-timey ursinary pose. I don’t think it matters as long as you aren’t obviously going for the joke — as I believe your Frenchified pronounciation is. Another take on it would be the corny Colbare. Not all that funny, but this is the guy who made Colbert (French pronunciation) work. Maybe he could pull it off. Actually do the show naked a couple times a year.
What I’m watching is a pretty, south-of-the-border type. Maybe Indian or Philippina. Nice body. Super face. She’s got no talent, though. Not a drop, not dram, not a dribble. The song is so weak they decided to present the video portion all in an attention getting red hue. There’s some study somewhere that shows red takes the place of a nice tune. It’s like you’re in a dog show, your dog isn’t very attractive, so you increase the volume of the dog’s bark. You’ve got a tiny French dog with a heavy, unfriendly bark — people will take note. They will fixate on the inappropriateness of the dog’s sound, not its pathetic look. Good. Her song is over. What I really enjoy now is the Colbert (?) show’s quick finish. He does this on his bad shows. I think it’s the key to his success.
November 19th, 2013
I’ve been promising myself to see a couple shows that get three stars in the comedy show reviews on the internet. Promise Kept! “2 Broke Girls” and “Mike & Molly”. I didn’t expect to like either one of them, but I did want to watch and I didn’t want to see them without having something to show for the trouble, so here are my comments. 2 Broke Girls. This is the episode where the dark haired, slutty talking one wants to take a $24,000 course in French pastry making. Your heart goes out to her and you’ve got to admit that the Frenchman who runs the school would be a real catch. You want her to succeed just so… dammit, just woke up and I’m in the midst of Mike & Molly. I can’t get into it. Isn’t this the weirdest thing about TV? Time can go by, you’re not even smoking dope and nothing sticks. Mike & Molly really appear to love each other. There’s a laugh track, so there are jokes. A lot of the jokes are about being fat. Let’s pretend there wasn’t a sitcom about people who are fat, so we (you and me) write one. Now because there isn’t one, the one we write doesn’t have to be funny, so, like them, we succeed. And now were rich. That was the situation the creators of Mike & Molly were in a couple years ago. They went ahead and did it. Now they’re rich. Kind of makes you think, doesn’t it.
Okay, I’ve been a-lookin’ all over the internet (no, I haven’t been a-lookin’, that’s just a trope for music from the musical comedy era) and a lot of the songs that have made it here — 70, 80, 90 years later — use that trope. Those guys got rich off of it. It’s too late to jump in on that one, but if it wasn’t, that would be as easy as shooting fish in a barrel. Money would follow. Wouldn’t be able to use the “fish in a barrel” line because, in reality, water slows bullets down so quickly that you’d kill a few, but not enough to make a living at it. And I hear that water skews your line of site by fifteen degrees, so you’d really hit very few fish. (Wouldn’t it be nice if there was a “degree” symbol you could have on your typewriter so you don’t have to type the whole word. Somebody could make a fortune off of that. I probably shouldn’t have said anything.)
There’s not enough money in the universe to make up for the movies you’ve dreamed and then have been unable to record, all because your memory in a dream state isn’t all that good. Mine wasn’t either, but that was before I built my DreamCorder. These household items you were going to throw out — thread spud, tape lolly, foam trecker, paper stimmel — don’t toss them out. Any one of them might be the secret ingredient to making your DreamCorder actually work. Just think of the difference you could make in this tired old world. Do it now. Don’t send comments, just send money. How many times have you been told that? Never? You’re kidding. Put that sense of humor in your dreams and start making a difference. Not for others, but for yourself.
November 15th, 2013
“The Affordable Care Act, otherwise known as ObamaCare, cannot be implemented without a working knowledge of the Kenyan constitution, a fact that took all of the Republicans in congress by surprise. Democrats in congress knew about the Kenya Economic Congress before word got out that it was such an insightful and powerful economic system, presently at work in darkest Africa. Had the democrats simply been honest with us from the get-go, we would now have a working and transparent bilateral government here in America. The fact that they did not choose this path offers us little choice — we must go it alone using all those tools we can muster to set our nation on the road to prosperity, fairness, and utajiri zaidi ya adabu kila — or riches beyond all human understanding.”
– House Speaker John Boehner, addressing Republicans at the kickoff to BoenherCare, November 15, Fourmoeba, Alabama. –
We do not know a lot about Speaker Boehner’s decision to announce his health plan in Fourmoeba, Alabama. “Fourmoeba,” which is southern-style wordplay for “four amoeba” is a nod to the fast growing high-tech industry in Bullock County, Alabama (per capita income, $10,164, up from $8,303 just a year ago). What we do know is that if you wish to keep secrets from the Democrats, or other thinking people in Alabama, Fourmoeba is a good place to do it.
It was less than a minute after John Boehner’s address to the crowd of Republican office-holders and (presumably) Republican attendees in the audience that the word “BonerCare” was heard. Everybody took up the chant and the term took root “faster’n a douche in a squirt bottle at the Purity Ball.”
But what are the specifics of BonerCare? Let’s take a look at the website. The very first thing you see are three empty boxes. You must check one. That’s it. The insurance you now have will continue. If you do not have insurance, you will be awarded Medicare when you turn seventy. Medicare is a Republican backed plan that works. Why? Because we’ve taken everything in the Kenyan Economic Congress plan that works and put it in. Like the three empty boxes. We don’t like having to visit African governments for our health care plans, but when they are superior to the Democrat plan, that’s when we throw up our hands and sing Ndiyo, nataka mpango ni bora kuliko Sheria ya Huduma ya bei nafuu.
God Bless America.
November 13th, 2013
Watching “The American Experience” special on Kennedy’s presidency reminded me it’s time to cobble together my thoughts on the President’s last day in office. I was at “The Hut,” a coffee shop on the Hillsdale College campus in southern Michigan. It was early afternoon, Nov 22, 1963, and there was a lot of noise and miscommunication alternating with silence. This pattern went on for some time. For me, the silence only served to highlight the sheer misery of the moment. And the worst moment was when an avid bridge player, Allura Hitchcock commanded, “Get back to the table girls. Are we playing bridge or not?” Yes, bridge trumped an awful lot, but it was satisfying to see that it did not trump the moment. There were more important things than bridge.
November 9th, 2013
Garret fumbles through his possessions. “I’ve got something here that’s going to blow your mind, Fred.”
“Great, let me see it.”
He can’t find it. “It’s a book.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard to find.”
“This is crazy. I couldn’t believe it.” He stacks books, papers, pens. “Oh, here it is.” He turns the book over. He looks very happy, having found it. “I mean, this guy is such a bastard.”
I looked at the backside of the book, but there were no clues. Small white type on a reflective gold background. There was a headline, perhaps his name, written large, possibly in the nation’s recently forbidden cursive script, but the reflections in the coffee shop were bad and Garrett was still maneuvering, keeping me from reaching out and turning the damn book over.
“You’re going to love this. Or perhaps hate it. Are you ready, Fred?”
“Yes, just please show me the God Damned Book.”
“Okay, now don’t say I hit you over the head with a brick. Because that’s what it’s going to feel like.”
I decided the best way to find out what he was so excited about was to shut up entirely.
“I mean this guy has turned out to be the number one bastard in the universe.”
I kept my mouth shut.
He leaned closer and looked me straight in the eye. “Number one.”
I breathed out heavily. My is this over? look didn’t register.
“Seriously, a real no-goodnik.”
I played it like the light just went on in my head. “Is it Johnny Carson?”
It was such a nasty impulse. I tried to apologize, but he tuned me out. Yes, as this silly game had gone on I saw on the gold page the words “JOHNNY CARSON” in larger type than the rest. I would have shone myself so much class had I resisted the temptation and played ignorant. The game wouldn’t have, couldn’t have. gone on much longer. Garret would’ve had the satisfaction of surprising his friend, Fred, and I would’ve been able, later that evening, to say to myself “Good job. Fred, you made the man happy.”
As his disappointment cooled, he said, “Are you going to read it?”
“Yes, I guarantee you I’m going to read it.” I paused and put on my soon-I’m-going-to-be-totally-engrossed face. “Oh, Henry Bushkin, huh?”
“Yeah, Henry Bushkin. You said it like the name means something to you. Does it?”
“Well no. Not exactly. But it’s a good name. I’m guessing Jewish.” Silence.. “Or maybe not.”
“Maybe he’s a Philippino. Did that go through your mind, Fred?”
“You’re going to keep busting my ass over this, huh, Garret? Thank you — seriously, from the bottom of my heart. I admit I don’t know Henry Bushkin. I don’t care what cultural background he’s from. You and I agree on lots of things, and books is one of them. Yes, I’m going to be pleasantly surprised when I find out what an asshole Johnny Carson is –”
“Was. He was his lawyer.”
“Henry Bushkin was Johnny Carson’s lawyer.”
“Thank you, Garret.”
“You mean it?”
November 8th, 2013
I just returned from reading a few pages of comments by people explaining the reasons more women join book clubs than men. It boils down to more women read. I didn’t go looking for the reasons more women read, but I suspect it has to do with a hormonal deficiency in women that impairs left eye focus on days their boyfriends/husbands are cheating on them.
There are three of us in our book club, and we have no name. Nameless though it is, it is not ageless. The average age of the females is 68 and the men’s average is 72. I have never cheated on any of the females, either.
Actually, we started this club about a year ago and we meet in one of the city’s Peets coffee shops each Wednesday afternoon at one. One of the things we tried was not assigning books to read. We all like that better than having an assignment. It is quite all right, as well, if none of us read anything in a given week. Somebody will have read more than one thing, be it book, pamphlet, or ibuprofen label.
Cindy and I are big readers about the doings of the Third Reich. Ann reads just about anything. One of her cousins is, in fact, a novelist. I am not interested in steamy, or even non-steamy, romance novels, so I haven’t read her cousin’s books. How do I know I’m not interested in romance novels? The same way you know you’re not interested in reading the kinds of books you don’t read. You’re just not interested in that kind of thing.
Some of the days we don’t even discuss books. We talk about the 80 year old Republican guy who tries to talk like a black man when he’s making fun of black people. Or the 60 year-old OCD sufferer who marches repeatedly up and down the length of the coffee shop before choosing a seat. Or the 40 year old woman who looks incredibly sexy for a forty year old woman, or the 20 year old straight guy who wears a daisy in his hair and makes coffee for the rest of us, or the 72 year old blogger who divides his subjects into 20 year segments. In other words, we gossip.
Isn’t that what every book club does?
What does it matter if the grist of gossip is a king, a golfer, a dirty dancer, a Nobel winning believer in climate science, or a woman who just pops in from the next-door bookshop? There is no club that prizes its so-called raison d’etre more than its stories about the weird yokels in the club.
I love my fellow book club members for two reasons: 1) They deserve love and 2) if I didn’t, who would ever write the book about our love life?
October 22nd, 2013
I’ve never been a fan of art writing. But I may have to rethink that. Peter Schjeldahl’s review of the “Degas and the Nude” show in the latest New Yorker gave me lots to think about — Degas’ misogyny in particular. The writer connects Degas’ sex drive, which was known to be “mechanical and sporadic” to the apparent coldness of his paintings. I suppose I can only look at the paintings in the show — if it ever comes to San Francisco — and judge for myself. The interesting thing about his writing to me is the metaphoric reaches an art writer must be willing to go in order to fill the pages. It seems like it’s not really germane to the pictures, but it can be highly entertaining in itself: “Viewing his (Degas’) work, we breathe the dizzyingly thin air on the snowy peak of the capital ‘A’ in Art.” It’s a terrific play on words, but that’s all it is. And it’s enough for me. Art writing can’t kick you in the ass the way a great picture does any more than saying how Beethoven shifts rhythmic gears in the Eroica can snap your head back.
But the snowy peak/capital ‘A’ image makes me smile. And it drives me to make substitutions. “Reading Maya Angelou suffuses the room with an unpleasant odor coming off the buns of the “B” in Bathos.”
“Courtney Love’s struggle for guardianship of her daughter collapsed on the bar of the “H” in Hammered.
While entering the name Schjeldahl above, my software underlined the word, telling me I misspelled it. It underlined “dizzyingly” too. But that’s right, so it’s wrong. But I actually had misspelled his name. I had left out the J. How many names are there that begin with four consonants. Plenty, I would imagine. Schl, Schm, Schn, Schr, Schw, then adding a consonant there is Schpr. Other combinations? Help me out.
(6 hours later) Just returned from a terrific solo show, “Zero Hour,” about Zero Mostel. He was married at one time to a woman named Clara Schver. So the S – C – H continuation goes J – L – M – N – R – V – W. More than a quarter of the alphabet.
Previously published October 2011
October 19th, 2013
A uniformed driver stands at attention near his pink taxi-cab. Very prominent is the black Hitler mustache placed over the grille. He is in downtown San Francisco. He looks sharp and as Nordic as Hitler could ever look. Beside him stands his Doberman-Pinscher.
Voice-Over: Looft is the company that satisfies all your transportation needs.
Cab rider steps into frame, checks watch, nods a greeting to the driver, pats the doberman’s head. Driver holds door for passenger. Soon they arrive at a Bed & Breakfast high above Sunset district.
Voice-Over: From your nooner.
A lovely, sexy woman kisses the passenger in greeting. (Time passage) Passenger leaves B&B.
Voice-Over: To your late business lunch.
Passenger arrives at Cliff House, joins his buddies at large table by a window overlooking the ocean. Food is brought to him. A lackey spreads a blueprint over our hero’s knees.
It features the ‘Porsche-Magneto’, a magnet powered sports car.
Voice-Over: Then you’ve got errands to do. Maybe a short run up north of the City.”
The Sausalito hills overlooking the bay. A drug transaction takes place.
Voice-Over: “And finally, a ride home without the complications of parking.
The cab pulls in front of a beautiful condominium. The passenger hops out, waves goodbye. Another, a prospective passenger, approaches. The driver exits the cab to greet him. The driver looks doubtfully at the prospective rider. Sics his dog on the guy. The dog tears at the man’s coat.
Voice-Over: Yes, it’s all here for you at Looft. Just show us what you’re made of.”
There is a Jewish Star sewn into the lining.
*Luft is the German word for Lyft.
October 17th, 2013
At the #1 bus stop this afternoon a mother and her three children spent the long wait for the Geary light at the fireplug, just dicking around with the chain that hung from it. Finally, mom said to ten year old boy, “quit fooling with that now.”
“Why? It’s okay?”
“Quit…fooling…with…that.” She had clearly seen the clues that the fireplug was our one remaining defense against a vast citywide conflagration.
Earlier in the week, on the same bus route, a mother had straightened up her three year old so that she sat exactly on the vertical in the precise middle of her seat. The straightenings came without the annoyance of warnings, only the fussiness of a woman fixing flowers in her vase. The flower finally understood and sat still for the remainder of the ride, showing anxiety only during the angular forces that took her off vertical from time to time.
These are the mothers who are not invited to their childrens’ weddings. Who are surprised when little Anna gives them the finger at the family gathering. Who, in their seventies, have fifty year-old sons who have no interest in the frightening meeting with the cop who forced her to sit silently while the indonesian neighbor accused her of deliberately destroying the mechanism of the fish on the plaque, neither acknowledging that weather can still a mechanical fish, or that the boy who lives across the alley might have fed it “too much oil, or something. I don’t know?”
Worse, these are mothers who fear they are being poisoned slowly by their own children because they misunderstood “Please stop lying to me, Royal.” “What is there to misunderstand, Mom? You told me my discovery of Margaret Chan’s dead beagle could not have been before four o’clock yesterday because I didn’t return from my interview with the Clark boy until six. Those were your very words.”
These mothers have arthritis that is so painful they simply cannot loosen the damn too-small twist-off orange juice cap and may have to switch brands, not because it tastes better, but because “my thumbs are simply going to break off right into the tumbler.” And they do just that. But because it’s simply a dream, Terry will give it no credence, and if you are lucky, “you will get the juice cap removed before the week is out. For sure, mom.”
Can it possibly be that children will remember those slights? The misplaced urgency of a warning at the fireplug. Hell, all you wanted to do was to get across Geary before another interminable light cycle began. So you spoke a bit harshly, perhaps unreasonably so. And making sure your daughter sat up straight? Is that interference? Really. Besides, doesn’t Anna remember how badly her father treated her after she got caught cheating on “Conjunctions are not our enemies.” And why would she have cheated in the first place? Hell, she knows those kinds of things cold. Does she deserve to be put in the Mini, ordered to stay right there for two hours? And why would she do exactly as that simpleton says?
I don’t know ladies. All I know is that these are the things your children chose to remember.
October 16th, 2013
My big sister, Ruthie, sent me a list of famous Christian Scientists to mull over as I wished. I would much rather mull over wine, but since it isn’t allowed in the halls of CS, I made do with the combined joys of selective memory and my dislike of most, but not all*, organized religions.
Ellen DeGeneres was a Christian Scientist as a schoolkid, just as I was. She had the same problem I did — come vaccination time she felt left out. That smarted more than any needle stick because there was nothing you could pretend to have withstood. You’re huddled at your desk with the pink “exemption slip” somewhere on your being, as the other kids file back into the room with that “I’ve been through it all” grimace combined with the inclusive “haven’t we? — uh, everybody but Fred and Ellen.”
That wasn’t all that sucked about Christian Science. Scientific minded children hated it given that they were not able to see the science hidden in its beliefs. Christian minded children freaked out because Christ was seldom mentioned except in comparison to Mary Baker Eddy. She was always allowed to shine a little more brightly because she had to do her thing without the help of 12 or 13 enablers.
Other luminaries were the Nixon twins, Erlichman and Haldeman (who were listed as Christian Scientists who neither smoke nor drink). Christian Scientists who both smoke and drink are offended by such elitism.
*Catholicism in its present incarnation is looking better and better. Let’s stay with Pope Francis for the years necessary for his beliefs to infiltrate and influence the slowpokes among his followers. Judaism, down to 13 million faithful needs somehow to remain in the world. It looks like there is some light at the end of a variety of tunnels. Just remember that 13 million is 1/100th of the 1.3 billion Muslims that surround them in the middle east. Let’s keep working, guys. Scary as this sounds, there are some of all faiths working for peace.
October 1st, 2013
- 1928 — Elevator music was live.
- 1936 — Mormons approved missionary position.
- 1904 — Coca-Cola became cocaine free.
- 1992 — Shuffleboard purged from Princess Cruise Lines.
- 1964 — Wireless trapeze demonstrated at New York World’s Fair.
- 2009 — Loew’s Theaters introduced “quiet” potato chip bags.
One of the above memories is actual.
September 27th, 2013
- Journal of the European Court of Human Rights: Commenter — In your article, “Human Suffering and Justice in Baluchistan, you assert that,”Willy Brandt, a Nobel Prize winner, argued that Le Duc Tho won a four hundred dollar bet with Henry Kissinger on the Dallas Cowboys. The Cowboys did not play in Baluchistan in 1972. Eat that, Mr. dogshit.”
- Comic Illustators in Post War Iowa. Vol 22, 1947. Commenter — Archie Comics was the creation of John L. Goldwater. You seem to be completely in the dark where it comes to the Goldwater family, but John Goldwater is not related in any way to Barry Goldwater, although both are right wing dicks, like it appears that you are as well. Up your ass with broken glass, idiot.
- Comic Illustrators in Post War Iowa. Vol 23, 1947. Commenter — What glorious ignorance: “…like it appears that you are as well.” Yes, Archie might well make that foolish grammar mistake, but you, I have been led to understand, went to Northwestern University, the Harvard of the Midwest. Oh yes, you’re still sitting there scratching your head, aren’t you. It’s “…as it appears that you are, as well.” Yes, you forgot a comma, too. Stupidhead! Jughead’s smarter than you are.