Quietus

Today marks the 10-year anniversary of my first longitudes post.  It also precedes my wife and me migrating to a warmer clime for six months, where I won’t have access to a (real) computer.  Therefore, I’ve decided to go on indefinite hiatus. 

I’ve truly enjoyed writing these 240 or so essays and am grateful to all who take time to read.  I’ve tried to keep a mix of lighthearted and serious—life, after all, is both.  With the lighthearted, I hope I’ve provoked a smile or laugh.  With the serious, maybe I’ve encouraged (in my amateurish way) some considerations.

In that light, here are some of my favorite lighthearted and serious quotes.  And to get one last lick in, I encourage all to watch a new documentary on the late George Carlin, entitled George Carlin’s American Dream. 

While most of my heroes are musicians, comedian Carlin is one of the exceptions.  He was not only damn funny, he had guts and integrity and was unafraid to butcher sacred cows.  He remade himself several times, getting better with each remake.  And it goes without saying we agree on a lot of things. I could easily list a hundred Carlin quotes, but in the interest of variety, I’m limiting myself to four.

We need you now more than ever, George.

Peace.

Never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups—George Carlin

Political correctness is America’s newest form of intolerance, and it is especially pernicious because it comes disguised as tolerance—George Carlin

Rights are an idea. They’re just imaginary. They’re a cute idea. Cute…Rights aren’t rights if someone can take ’em away. They’re privileges. That’s all we’ve ever had in this country, is a bill of TEMPORARY privileges; and if you read the news, even badly, you know the list gets shorter, and shorter, and shorter—George Carlin

When fascism comes to America, it will not be in brown and black shirts. It will not be with jack-boots. It will be Nike sneakers and Smiley shirts—George Carlin

George Carlin being arrested in Milwaukee in 1972 after exercising his temporary privileges

If Jesus had been killed twenty years ago, Catholic school children would be wearing little electric chairs around their necks instead of crosses—Lenny Bruce

The Jefferson and Lincoln memorials are stunning but you look at the dome of the Capitol and remember the mob that stormed it in the name of a miserable lie that is being repeated this election year and how do you explain this?  The mob went to the same schools we did, learned about Jefferson and Lincoln, and yet they are fascinated by fascism and long for a dictator—Garrison Keillor

I went to church Sunday morning, which I need to do if I want to know whether I’m a believer still or if it’s just nostalgia—Garrison Keillor

He has all the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire—Winston Churchill

Suppose you were an idiot, and suppose you were a member of Congress; but I repeat myself—Mark Twain

Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is time to pause and reflect—Mark Twain

Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind—Ralph Waldo Emerson

If you want to get laid, go to college.  If you want an education, go to the library—Frank Zappa

The United States is a nation of laws, badly written and randomly enforced—Frank Zappa

Republicans stand for raw unbridled evil, and greed, and ignorance, smothered in balloons and ribbons—Frank Zappa

Liberals can understand everything but people who don’t understand them—Lenny Bruce

I am really enjoying the new Martin Luther King Jr. stamp – just think about all those white bigots licking the backside of a black man—Dick Gregory

Lots of people who complained about us receiving the MBE received theirs for heroism in the war, for killing people. We received ours for entertaining other people. I’d say we deserve ours more—John Lennon

Agitators are so absolutely necessary. Without them, in our incomplete state, there would be no advance towards civilisation—Oscar Wilde

All authority is quite degrading. It degrades those who exercise it, and degrades those over whom it is exercised—Oscar Wilde

Patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel—Samuel Johnson

The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing—Socrates

Modern Christianity is an encyclopedia of traditional superstition—Gore Vidal

Are we a dream in the mind of a deity, or is each of us a separate dreamer, evoking his own reality?—Gore Vidal

The United States was founded by the brightest people in the country…and we haven’t seen them since—Gore Vidal

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A Conversation with God about Identity, Environment, and Sports

On CBS News Sunday Morning yesterday I saw a startling statistic: three out of ten Americans believe God determines the outcome of sporting events.

This is appalling.  What is going on here?  Why is it only three?  I would have expected at least nine, if not ten.  Just shows you that religion is on the decline here in Lilliput, I mean America. 

I’ve done several interviews with religious figures here on longitudes, including the Pope and Donald Trump.  Both were very enlightening.  The Pope informed me that sexual harassment is no big deal, and Trump told me that Hawaii is not a United State (among other curious things).

I met with God later that day—his day off—and we had a wonderful discussion about sports while pounding Miller Lite and watching the Jets-Steelers game.  In the course of our meeting I discovered God isn’t really an old man with a white robe and long, flowing white hair and beard.  God is actually sexless, dons a New York Yankees jersey, and looks more like Truman Capote.

I was anxious to get his/her take on the above startling statistic.  I also wanted to know why God hates the city of Cleveland. 

Here, then, is my conversation with The Almighty:

longitudes:  Thanks for meeting with me, God.

God:  You’re welcome, my tiny speck of white sand.

longitudes:  Pardon me for saying this, sir…I mean ma’am…I mean ma’am-sir…but most of us down there think you’re a man.  Especially Mormons.

God:  Yes, well, you folks down there have baffled me since I sent my son to straighten things out.  Endless wars, murders, torture, greed, hypocrisy, stupidity, and GEICO commercials.  And you keep adding letters.

longitudes:  What do you mean that we keep “adding letters?”

God:  You’re already up to six: LGBTQ and I.  Actually, now it’s seven, I forgot the ‘A.’ Okay, I make gender mistakes once in a while, but you don’t need to rub it in.

longitudes:  What should we do?

God:  Try consolidating into one letter.  Maybe, like, an ‘O’ for “Other.”  I realize you’re having fun, but you’re stressing me out with the alphabet soup.

longitudes:  God, I just learned that only three out of ten Americans think you determine the outcome of sporting events.  Why is that statistic so low?

God:  Yeah, that shocks me as well.  I think it’s because organized religion is on the decline in your neck of the woods.  I blame those damn atheists Christopher Hitchens, George Carlin, and Frank Zappa.  It’s why I pulled them up here sooner than their time.

longitudes:  Oh.  Do you think if more people attended church, that statistic would rise a little?

God:  Absolutely.  Back in the days of Puritanism, and before that the Spanish Inquisition, you had to go to church to worship me.  If not, you were burned at the stake or had your limbs torn off on what I affectionately called the “Wheel of Death.”

longitudes:  But those things occurred long before soccer, Major League Baseball, and Jim Nantz.  How were you able to determine sports outcomes back then?

God:  Jousting duels.  Gladiatorial contests.  Chariot races.  You know, garden-variety sports like that.

longitudes:  I see.  I remember watching Charlton Heston and Stephen Boyd duke it out in Ben-Hur.  That was real exciting.

God:  Sure was.  I hope you put your money on Heston.  I pre-ordained him.

(Suddenly, the Jets quarterback is sacked.  God lets out an audible “Oooh.”  It is now obvious to me he likes New York.)

longitudes:  Yeah, I figured Heston might win.

God:  Right, but it’s a shame he became obsessed with guns later on.  Maybe I should’ve given that movie role to Paul Newman instead.

longitudes:  God, is there anything I can do to push that statistic up a little?  Maybe get it up to forty instead of thirty percent?

God:  That’s very kind of you, my shiny pool of phlegm.  Well, let’s see.  My records show you vote Democrat.  Might wanna shift to Republican and encourage others.  Also, I see you have three grandchildren.  Try to convince their parents to forego the university education.  Ignorance breeds superstition, after all.  Lastly…why the hell are you a Cleveland fan?  (Oops, pardon my language.)

longitudes:  Actually, God, I wanted to ask you about that.  You’ve been pretty harsh on the Browns, Indians/Guardians, and Cavaliers winning championships.  Except for that one year when LeBron James helped the Cavs.

God:  Yes, I have a special place in my heart for King James.  Well, truth be told, the reason I’ve been harsh on Cleveland is because of that fire incident.

longitudes:  “Fire incident?”

(At this point God offers me another Miller Lite, but I politely decline.) 

God:  Yeah.  I’m talkin’ ‘bout the burning of the petroleum-soaked Cuyahoga River.  That infamous incident came soon after the Browns won their last championship.  That was no coincidence.

longitudes:  So all these years you’ve been blaming the citizens of northern Ohio for an industrial-related environmental debacle they may have had nothing to do with?

God:  Yes.  Do you think I’ve been too rough on them?

longitudes:  Well, yes I do, sir.  I mean ma’am-sir.  Heck, I lived near Cleveland and was only ten years old when it happened.  Why should I have to suffer?  I mean, I hope I’m not being disrespectful.

God:  No, not at all.  You have a good point, Peter.  (By the way, I like your name.)  Maybe I should loosen up on Cleveland.  Not a bad city, despite producing Drew Carey.

longitudes:  We Cleveland sports fans would appreciate any assistance, ma’am-sir.

God:  It’s done.  You can expect a Guardians World Series victory or Browns AFC Championship win any day now.  (I can’t very well grant you a Browns Super Bowl win.  That’s asking too much of me.)

longitudes:  Thank you, thank you!  And I’ll do my best to keep my grandkids away from higher education.  But—and I hope you understand—voting Republican is a bridge too far.  One last question, God.

God:  Ask away, my insignificant fleck of wet clay.

longitudes:  We screwed up with, er, your son.  But why all the grief since then?  I mean, it’s been a total horror show for two-thousand years.

God:  That’s your doing, not mine.  But it might help if you stopped worshipping the messenger and concentrated more on his message.  And stopped living in the past.

longitudes:  Good points.  Thanks for meeting with me, God.

God:  No problemo.  And thanks for bringing the pizza, but I prefer coal-fired New York over Chicago deep-dish. 

NOTE: This is not a real interview. God—if there is one (or more)—has never spoken to me verbally, and I’m okay with that.

English Language Minor Crimes

The English language may be on life support. I’m sure this isn’t news. Whether it’s tied to an overall decline in formal education, I don’t know. I’ve already written about America’s abysmal standardized test scores and low international rankings, so I won’t cover the same ground.

I’m rankled by mangled English more than most probably because in college I majored in journalism and minored in English, therefore these minor crimes really stick in my craw. While hiking and sheltering with other hikers this past year, my craw was filled to the brim. (What’s a “craw”? A jaw?) As a way to let off steam, I’m listing some of the most egregious linguistic violations I’ve encountered.

This pedagogue ain’t perfect and has his own stumbling blocks. (The word “ain’t” here was deliberate.) One of my biggest blasphemes is intermixing subject and object pronouns.  Example: one doesn’t say “The teacher accused she and I of bad English.”  “She” and “I” are subject pronouns but are mistakenly being used here as object pronouns.  The correct sentence is “The teacher accused her and me of bad English.”

However, you should say “She and I use bad English,” because in this sentence the she and I are used as subject pronouns.

A good trick is to chop off part of the sentence.  Would you say “The teacher accused she” or “The teacher accused I”?  I would prefer not to.

Here then are longitudes’ top English language pet peeves:

• Happy Belated Birthday.  I see this all the time on Facebook.  Everyone seems guilty except I me. Not many take time to ponder this convoluted phrase, because thinking has taken a back seat to blindly following lemmings, and not just in political circles. Here, the adjective “belated” is modifying the noun “birthday.”  Taken literally, this implies that the person’s day of birth has changed; a phenomenon that generally only happens with Hollywood celebrities. Listen up, Facebook: the sentiment is belated, not the person’s day of birth.  It should be Belated Happy Birthday. (You’re welcome.)

• The word “literally.”  Literally is an adverb and should be used when something occurs that has both a figurative and literal meaning.  Example: “I literally bumped into John yesterday.”  This means that you not only saw John, but that you physically walked or ran into him. 

However, numerous millennials (and some older fucks) say “literally” when the literal doesn’t apply (“I literally died when I saw her”) or when there is only one meaning (“I literally fell asleep during lunch”).  Since correctly choosing the word “literally” involves thinking, it’s probably best to avoid this word completely. But if you feel compelled to provoke astonishment in your listener—try substituting “actually” or “believe-it-or-not.”  I realize they don’t sound as impressive, but saying “literally” ad nauseam impresses no one and makes you sound like a dumbass.

• The word “like.”  This word, when spoken in the middle of a sentence multiple times and out of context, indicates substandard vocabulary or verbal laziness.  Most people use it to stall, as a substitute for “uh” or “um.”  Others are fast talkers and invoke “like” as one would shove coal into a furnace. Either way, it’s like, a bad habit.

When I was a disc jockey in a previous lifetime, long pauses while in front of the microphone were referred to as “bad air,” and the program manager frowned on them.  However, outside of the radio booth long pauses are an indicator of a thoughtful person who takes his or her time to choose the right words.  Former President Obama, although not perfect, was very good at this.  I encourage it.

• The word “so” used at the beginning of a sentence.  I’ve written about this before. Some think this trend began in Silicon Valley, or with Facebook nerd Mark Zuckerburger.  “So” is used either as a coordinating conjunctive to refer backwards or forwards to something, or as an adverb.  But “so” is now regularly used at the beginning of a sentence when responding to a question.  Example: “What is Facebook’s privacy policy, Mr. Zuckerman?”  Response: “So our latest and greatest privacy policy is (blah blah blah).”

Are you really keen to emulate Mark Zuckinstein’s poor command of English? I would prefer not to.

• Waiters and waitresses who use the pronoun “we.”  Example: “Would we like some dessert this evening?”  How the fuck did this shit get started!  “Who invited you to eat with us, Ashley?  Yes, pull up a seat, we’ll all have some dessert together.”

I don’t know why it is so difficult to use the word “you,” or the Southern colloquialism “y’all” or Yankee colloquialism “you guys.”  “We” is not only the wrong pronoun, it also sounds condescending as hell, as if the patron is a child. Do waiters and waitresses think the pronoun “you” is impolite?  DON’T FOLLOW LEMMINGS!

Other minor English crimes include pronunciation violations (here in the Ohio Valley they say “warsh” instead of “wash”) and America’s peculiar penchant for raping geographic names derived from Europe.  (“Versailles” should not be pronounced “Ver-SAILS,” you good people of southeastern Indiana.) 

I think the most comical mispronunciation example I’ve heard is in and around the small, Amish-Mennonite community of Berlin, Ohio.  People here literally actually pronounce their town’s name “BER-lin,” with the emphasis on the first syllable.  I’m guessing the awkward pronunciation is an attempt to distance the town from 1940s Germany, similar to 19th-century Irish immigrants who dropped “Mc” and “Mac” from their surnames to escape discrimination by hiding the fact they once scoured bogs for potatoes. But I say: folks, stand your ground, and fuck the lemmings.

I feel better now.  As I said, like President Obama, I’m not perfect, so if I’ve violated anything here, I’ll accept the traffic citation.

Thoughts on the 2022 Beijing Winter Olympics

The Winter Olympics just concluded.  So many things happened, some of them even having to do with sport, that I thought a few longitudinal observations might be in order.

(Full disclosure: the only sports I watched were Alpine and Nordic skiing, speed skating, and curling.  Therefore, I received much of my information second-hand.  I’m sure a lot of folks enjoy the bobsled event, but four people crammed into an ugly oblong box and sliding down the ice to cross an invisible line within hundredths of a second of their competitors just doesn’t appeal to me. Unless the bobsled is Jamaican.)

Here are some suggestions for improving the Winter Olympics.  You may wish to take some of these with a grain of salt:

• Russia and China should be kicked out of the games for 20 years.  If after 20 years they’ve gotten their act together, they can then rejoin the party.  And I don’t mean the Communist Party.

• The figure skating age limit should be raised to 18.  Why are little girls skating out there, anyway?  At first I thought the Russian silver medal winner, 17-year-old Alexandra Trusova, was bawling because her teammate, 15-year-old Kamila Valieva, was scolded by her Politburo coach after a disastrous performance. Then I discovered she was upset because “Everyone else has a gold medal, everyone, but not me!”

Silver medalist Alexandra Trusova with dripping mascara (Getty Images)

• If you have to have little girls skating in the Olympics, at least make sure they receive adequate food and water.  Anorexia shouldn’t be a prerequisite for competition.

• Flags are really important in the Olympics. Since the U.S. right wing loves flags so much, our conservative athletes should be permitted to add their own flag to the stars and stripes during ceremonies. There’s the Don’t Tread On Me flag, the thin blue line flag (I think that’s what it’s called), and a couple other unmentionables. Let the rest of the world see how regressive America really is!

• Bring back some old-timers for us old-timers.  You know, a senior category.  Peggy Fleming, Dorothy Hamill, Janet Lynn, Katarina Witt, Tonya Harding, and Nancy Kerrigan are all still alive.  It would be fun to see them back in action. Roll them onto the ice, give Harding a hammer, and let ’em mix it up. And to spice things up, throw in that corrupt French judge from 2002.

“Insert Race Card Here. KA-CHING! Here’s Your Entitlement Receipt” (Photo by Jonathan Ferrey/Getty Images)

• Keep race and the race card out of the games.  After speculation that Russian medal favorite Valieva might be denied a medal due to ingesting trimetazidine (she was actually denied due to stress), U.S. sprinter Sha’Carri Richardson tweeted that the only reason she herself was barred for smoking pot in the summer Olympics was her “skin color.”  Longitudes, however, feels it has more to do with Sha’Carri’s stupidity than her skin tone.  Getting stoned is okay, Sha’Carri, but when you compete for your country, give the bong a break.

• United States, lighten up on coverage of our sports stars. Media saturation of Mikaela Shiffrin, top U.S. athlete in the winter games, caused her to DNF in three events and finish 9th and 18th in two others. Even the White House press secretary pressured her. You U.S. talking heads did the same thing with male skier Bode Miller. There are other attractive female skiers out there besides Mikaela Shiffrin. I’d like to suggest Lara Gut-Behrami and Dorothea Wierer.

• Since the U.S. usually does poorly in the biathlon (cross-country skiing combined with target shooting), give us Yanks a break and revise the target.  A human shape with a bullseye over the heart would be more appropriate to our unique culture of gun violence.

• Add a triathlon event.  The athletes have to downhill ski, then speed skate, then perform in an ice dancing competition.  The last event would be especially fun to watch.

• Judges, keep a sharper ear on the music selected for figure skating.  Although 99 percent of people are probably unaware, part of Alexandra Trusova’s program (see mascara above) included “I Wanna Be Your Dog” by the Stooges, Iggy Pop’s old band.  It’s a fantastic rock song, but more appropriate for an opium den than a women’s girls’ skating program.  What’s next, Spinal Tap’s “Sex Farm”?

I hope my above suggestions prove useful. I’m sure I’ve offended at least one person with them: bobsled fan, Communist, prepubescent girl, senior citizen, social conservative, social justice warrior (SJW), gun nut, flag waver, feminist, French skating judge, or oblong box. But as I see it, if I haven’t offended at least someone, then I’m not doing my job.

Iggy Pop (photo: Richard E. Aaron/Redferns)

Where Are All the Tropical Fish Stores?

I recently joined my wife in retirement (accompanied by a giant pent-up sigh of relief). Yesterday, as we felt our aging bones calcify by the minute, we discussed possible light employment options for household pin money.  She suggested part-time work for herself at a local arts and crafts shop.

“Great idea!” I said.  “I’ve thought about a used bookstore.  Or maybe a tropical fish store.”

Then I thought, “Wait a second…do those even exist anymore?”

I can’t recall seeing a store that specializes in tropical fish since, oh, “Afternoon Delight” was a hit song.  What in tarnation happened to them?

When I was a teenager I had a 10-gallon tropical fish tank in my bedroom.  It had an overhead hood light, a thick layer of pink and blue pebbles, artificial coral, assorted plastic plants, and a couple small ceramic structures, such as a sunken galleon or treasure chest.  I had the usual assortment of small, freshwater tropical fish, like black mollies, neon tetras, zebra danios, redtail sharks, guppies, angel fish, a coolie loach to scavenge for debris, and my pride and joy: a beautiful ruby-red male Siamese fighting fish (also known as a “betta”).

At one time I tried mating my fighter with a creamy pinkish female betta that I’d named “Rosy.”  My man got about halfway through blowing bubbles for the bubble nest—to hold the eggs that he would eventually squeeze out of her—then abruptly stopped.  I never figured out why.  I’m guessing he either found Rosy less sexy than I did, or maybe he was a latent homosexual.

I used to relish lying in bed at night near the glow of the tank, sleepily gazing at my fish as they swished through the water, the soft burbling sound of the water filter lulling me to sleep.

As much as I loved doling out affection to my fishies, I also enjoyed purchasing them.  Once, I found a store that had rare glass catfish, a translucent fish whose bones are visible.  One of the great mysteries of my youth was returning from vacation and finding that all of my glass cats had disappeared.  I’m assuming the other fish consumed them, slender bones and all, out of hunger, but spontaneous combustion is also a possibility.

My first job, not counting newspaper delivery (click here), was a summer job as afternoon clerk in a local tropical fish store.  I & J Tropical Fish was in a rundown building just north of Mansfield, Ohio on Ashland Road.  It was the perfect job for a lazy 17-year-old, because only a few customers ever visited.  And it was always the same people.

My main duties consisted of shaking flaky fish food into the tanks, occasionally cleaning them (a real chore), and guarding the cash register.  To alleviate the boredom, I smoked cigarettes that I stole from the pack that the morning clerk—a pregnant, married woman—stored under the register.  Since I was at the experimental age and it was only a few cigarettes here and there, I thankfully never developed a habit.

Being your typical confused and horny teenage boy, I also got my jollies in other ways.  Once when things were especially slow, I slipped into the dirty storage room in back and sat on the yellowed toilet with a Penthouse Magazine for reading material.  (I’m pretty sure it was the August 1976 issue.)  Right when I was approaching the climax of the story I was reading, I heard the entry door jingle.

“Hello?  Is anyone here?” I heard a woman inquire.

It took me several minutes to wrap up my business, make myself presentable, and scurry out front.  I’ll never know if she detected my cotton mouth or the beads of sweat on my forehead.  She probably did.

The owner of the store was a guy named Bob.  He was a family man, a bony guy with black hair, about 35 years old.  I think the “I” and the “J” were his kids’ initials.  I remember that he always had a concerned look.  Just before he hired me he gave me a pop quiz.

“What is another name for a Siamese fighting fish?” (Betta.)

“What happens if you put two male Siamese fighters together?” (They fight…duh.) 

Although I was usually alone, once in a while Bob drove into the gravel lot in his plush, customized, stereo-equipped van to check on me.  The first time he did this, about a week after I was hired, I actually had a customer.  Bob stood behind me while I handed the man his change.  With Bob over my right shoulder, silently observing the transaction, I was as nervous as he looked concerned. 

“Here you go,” the man said, as he surprised me by returning a five dollar bill. “You gave me too much change.”

After the man left, Bob waited about 30 seconds, allowing my head to fill with warm blood.  Then he spoke in a low, deliberate voice.  “You need to be very careful when you give customers their change.”  Uh, thanks, Bob. 

One time about a month after I started, my dad dropped in after work.  He was happy that I actually had employment, since it helped cover the repair expenses for the station wagon I’d recently wrecked.  Bob just happened to be there. 

“How’s the boy doing?” Dad asked Bob with unconcealed pride.

Bob stammered.  “Well, uh…he’s uh…he’s getting better and better!”

I’ve thought about why there are no tropical fish stores anymore.  Of course, it’s the same reason why there are no hamburger joints like Burger Chef, and why small farms are disappearing.  We live in a world of giant, generic conglomerates, and the “little guy” just can’t compete.  Maybe it started with McDonalds.  Later it was Wal-Mart.  Tyson.  Barnes and Noble.  Target.  Jiffy Lube.  PetSmart.  Petco.  Pet Supplies Plus.

They paved paradise, and put up a parking lot—Joni Mitchell

I’ve often wondered, too, when exactly did I & J Tropical Fish go out of business?  I think the lot is occupied by a dive bar now.  The dilapidated building looked like it might have fronted a methamphetamine lab, and I do know that abuse of crystal meth later exploded in the 1980s and ‘90s.  Maybe the building caved in, or the health inspectors discovered the yellow toilet in back.  Or maybe Bob cashed in his meager chips and hauled his wife and kids and their purple super-van to Florida.

I didn’t care for Bob all that much.  Let’s just say, I can’t imagine him and me laughing over beers at Rocky’s Pub.  But he did after all give me my first real job.  So for that I say, “Thanks, Bob.” 

Talkin’ Middle-America Unemployment Pandemic Blues

Some of you might know I’ve been unemployed since June 2020. I like earning income, having benefits, and keeping my brain occupied while producing something. But this layoff has had unintended benefits. It effectively obliterated certain duties and certain office and cubicle dwellers that were beginning to feel like a millstone around my neck. Plus, the time off has allowed me to stretch out.

Anyway, while I hope to be shackled to the 9 to 5 a few more years before limping into the sunset, I want to share what I think might be a typical unemployed weekday in the life of a 60-something, college-educated, middle-class American male in the era of the pandemic.  Perhaps my mundane ritual can provide some humor or consolation for others in a similar state.  In this global village, we need to stick together. So here’s my routine…with a shout-out to my retired blogging chum Neil at Yeah, Another Blogger for his Seinfeld-styled inspiration.

Greenpete’s Day:

8:00 – 8:30: roll out of bed, shower, brush hair, remove hair clumps from brush, shave, floss

8:30 – 9:00: fix Seattle’s Best coffee (YES!), eat Cheerios, watch a Leave it to Beaver rerun

9:00 – 12:00: read/delete emails, visit social media sites and Amazon (sometimes).  Search for work, though this activity is dwindling. Maybe write, like what I’m doing now

12:00 – 1:00: eat lunch, usually peanut butter sandwich with potato chips, or leftovers

1:00 – 4:30: VARIES WIDELY. Maybe read book. Maybe play with visiting granddaughters. Maybe revisit social media or job hunt. Maybe write. Maybe practice guitar. In warmer weather, yardwork. Eat a banana or Gala or Fuji apple

4:30 – 5:00: change into running clothes and do two-mile run in neighborhood (YES!)

5:00 – 5:30: take dogs on walk around neighborhood while scooping poop and chatting socially distantly with neighbors

5:30 – 6:00: shower and stretch, concentrating heavily on back stretches

6:00 – 7:00: eat appetizers (almonds or cheese/crackers), drink Yuengling beer (sometimes), watch reruns of The Rifleman starring Chuck Conners

7:00 – 8:00: swallow senior multi-vitamin and eye meds, eat large bowl of leaf spinach, eat dinner (often black bean soup, usually whatever my wife has fixed). Watch PBS Newshour featuring my girlfriend Judy Woodruff, and often yell at the interviewee

 8:00 – 10:30: read book or watch either PBS or old movie (“old” being 1940s-70s). In winter, watch/ogle alpine skier Lara Gut-Behrami or biathlete Dorothea Wierer. Eat small piece of dark chocolate

10:30 – 11:00: drink MiraLAX, head upstairs, swallow Echinacea pill (great for warding off colds, possible COVID-19 preventative), brush teeth, crawl under covers

11:00 – 8:00 or 8:30: sleep, wake up, pee and rehydrate with diluted orange juice, sleep, wake up, pee and drink again, sleep, perchance to dream. (Had one of my best a few nights ago. She was a redhead.)

8:00 – 8:30: begin ritual anew.  NOTE: this ritual changes significantly on weekends. For one thing, more beer is consumed

In addition to Neil, I thank my wife for accompanying me in some of the above endeavors, and for her understanding regarding women news anchors, skiers, and overnight redheads.  Without her, I don’t know where I’d be. 

And, please, if anyone has suggestions for improving my above ritual, or would like to share their own routine, add a comment! As humorist Red Green used to say, “Remember, I’m pullin’ for ya—we’re all in this together.”

“The Party” (1968)

The year 2020 has ended and it’s time to turn over a new leaf (and president…assuming our democracy remains intact).  Time to party!

Most of us will still be barricaded in our domiciles, either alone or surrounded by a few virus-free loved ones.  But that’s no reason not to celebrate, even if only vicariously.  And if you want a fun New Year’s movie, you can’t do better than The Party, directed by Blake Edwards and starring Peter Sellers.

Blake Edwards had flirted with the comedic possibilities of upscale dinner and cocktail parties in previous films, notably Breakfast at Tiffany’s. In The Party he pulls out all the stops. This is one of my favorite flicks and one of a very few that our whole family enjoys.  The story is refreshingly simple:

A clumsy but well-meaning Asian-Indian actor named Hrundi V. Bakshi (Sellers) is fired from a production of Gunga Din after he accidentally blows up the movie set.  Cigar-chomping studio mogul General Clutterbuck (J. Edward McKinley) receives the awful news while in his office.  To guarantee Bakshi “never works again in this town,” he brusquely scribbles his name on a sheet of paper before storming out the door.  But the paper is a list of people that the General’s wife had invited to a swanky party she’s planned.  Clutterbuck’s secretary arrives, sees Bakshi’s name on the paper, calls directory assistance for Bakshi’s address, and mistakenly sends him a party invitation.

Bakshi arrives early.  Nobody knows who he is, although the Gunga Din producer (Gavin McLeod) swears he “know(s) him from someplace.”  The rest of the movie follows Bakshi around the party.  He becomes a one-man wrecking ball while trying to fit in with self-important Hollywood bigshots, oily agents, bimbo starlets, egotistical actors, and one drunken waiter, played to perfection by Steve Franken.  The party (and movie) climax with a wild bubble bath in the home’s indoor swimming pool.  The producer finally remembers Bakshi, but Bakshi escapes just in time in his three-wheeler Morgan with the producer’s date, an aspiring chanteuse played by Claudine Longet.

That’s the story. The behind-the-scenes story is that Sellers and Edwards, who teamed so successfully in the Pink Panther movies, weren’t speaking to each other, and all communication between the two was delivered by proxy.  Also, many of Sellers’ lines and some scenes weren’t even scripted: he improvised outrageously.  The movie, with its free-form structure and numerous sight gags, has the feel of a silent film.  One of the onlookers during filming was young writer/director Paul Mazursky, who used Sellers later in the year in his acclaimed social satire I Love You, Alice B. Toklas.

This movie is Peter Sellers at his very best, with a typically spot-on soundtrack by Edwards mainstay Henry Mancini. I’ve seen it over a dozen times, and every viewing reveals some new detail I missed.  Here’s just one of many choice moments:

Bakshi approaches Clutterbuck, Clutterbuck’s stuffy congressman friend, and a couple Hollywood sycophants and overhears the words “took everything, even the gold watch my daddy left me.”  Trying to fit in, he starts laughing and says “It’s wonderful, wonderful!  Tonight is one big round of laughter!”  To which Clutterbuck gruffly responds “The congressman was telling us about the time he was robbed.”  Bakshi stops laughing and crawls away in embarrassment.  The congressman then sternly asks “Who’s the foreigner?” and Clutterbuck replies “I don’t know, someone my mixed-up wife invited.”

As with the Pink Panther movies, one of the highlights of The Party is Sellers’ ability to completely become the character he’s portraying.  There’s also the irony that while Bakshi is utterly polite, dignified, and ingratiating, he nonetheless inadvertently turns this snobbish party on its head.  He’s an innocent who is surrounded by pomposity and fakery, so it’s completely apropos that, after blowing up a movie set and turning a Hollywood mansion into a disaster area, he drives into the sunset (actually, sunrise) with a beautiful woman next to him.

POSTSCRIPT: while poking around the internet, I was surprised to see The Party being criticized by some for its use of “brownface” and for negatively portraying Asian Indians.  While I try to put myself in the shoes of the victimized group whenever these identity battles surface, I find this charge fairly ludicrous, for several reasons. But if any Asian Indians are reading this and wish to chime in, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Till then, let us ponder the words of Hrundi V. Bakshi: 

Wisdom is the province of the aged;

But the heart of a child is pure.

“Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays”?

That is the question.  Whether ‘tis nobler…

Prince Hamlet’s thinking leaned more existential than a choice between appropriate verbiage for a non-secular holiday salutation in the 21^st century. Still, it’s a question we modern-day philistines are faced with. And there’s an element of nobility and gallantry behind deciding how to answer the question posed in my essay header.

I’ll get to the quick: while I’m not anal about it, I prefer “Happy Holidays.” You conservatives might say it’s because I’m a leftist liberal.  There’s a grain of truth to that (although I’m not as leftist as some of you might think).  I would say a more appropriate reason is that I often employ the same brain machinations in non-political as political ways. Hey, I am what I am.

When I was a kid I threw around “Merry Christmas” all the time (or in print, the lazier “Merry Xmas”).  I didn’t know anything about religion.  Hell, I barely knew how babies were made.

I’m older and somewhat wiser now.  I now realize that Christmas is a commercial religious celebration (or at least it started out religious), but that a lot of my fellow Earthlings actually are not Christians.  Eureka!  We’ve got Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Taoists, paganists, agnostics, and atheists galore here in Uncle Sam land.  (Maybe not in North Dakota…but you know what I mean.)  Lots of smaller cults, too.

I’ll still say “Merry Christmas” in return if I’m greeted that way, because I know the person greeting me is okay with it.  But if I’m doing the initial greeting, and I’m ignorant of the religious or non-religious affiliation of the person, I always say “Happy Holidays.”  Like Mutual of Omaha, it’s an all-encompassing insurance policy.  It covers New Year’s Day, Hanukkah, and I think it usually satisfies atheists and garden-variety, Christian-tinged agnostics like me.

(I shouldn’t forget Kwanzaa, a black cultural celebration occurring just after Christmas.  Kwanzaa’s popularity has evidently declined since its peak in the 1990s, to the undoubted dismay of Hallmark.)

***

So to those fist-pounding militants who want to “Put Christ back in Christmas,” like the guy around the corner with all the crazy yard signs, I say “knock yourselves out.”  Just don’t foist it on me.  Nothing against Christ—who, by the way, preached humility and tolerance—but I’ll celebrate Christmas in my own way, thank you.

It’s all about politeness.  Or gallantry and nobility. You know, “’Tis nobler.”  Unfortunately, and as we’ve seen with people who are adamant about their “individual rights” and defying “government intrusion” by refusing to wear facemasks in public—masks intended to protect themselves and others—politeness is in absentia in certain dark corners of the country right now.

But in the Christmas spirit, I’ll offer a “Happy Holidays” to even these people.  And throw in a “Be Safe” for good measure.

Them’s Fightin’ Words, Buckeye Nut

Fall is my favorite time of year for many reasons. I won’t roll out clichés about apple cider and the “chill in the air.” I’ll just say it’s almost the perfect season. Now you’re asking, “Why almost?”

Here’s my answer: football. “Why football?”  Because it’s poison ivy in my big pile of beautiful autumn leaves. I don’t dislike the actual competition, which is often exciting. And I actually prefer watching American football to real football (soccer).

My issue is with the unavoidable accessories that accompany the actual competition.  I could write a dozen blog posts on these accessories, none of which I ordered with the base model. They extend from puerile television commercials, to the misguided and crooked college scholarship system, to certain leagues that blackball socially conscious players and try to squirm out of concussion lawsuits.

This doesn’t bother most people.  They munch, guzzle, high-five each other, and conduct loud one-way conversations with the TV screen oblivious to the accessories.  But I’m a sensitive sort, who ponders stuff way more than is healthy, so they bother me.

But I’ll just concentrate on one sports accessory in particular: haughtiness. And this haughtiness hits close to home (literally, to use my daughter’s favorite word). Specifically, the haughtiness of one particular college football organization: the Ohio State Buckeyes.

I know of whence I speak. I’ve lived in Ohio for 54 of my 61 years. Just wrote a blog series brandishing my Ohio connection. Grew up in a town that had an Ohio State (OSU) branch campus. My mom and in-laws were successfully treated at the OSU medical center in Columbus. Got a brother and sister-in-law who went to the main campus. Heck, got a wife who went there.

One would think these circumstances would render me an OSU fan. However…my DNA double helix was long ago constructed such that when anything is shoved down my throat, and whereas most people swallow with gratitude, I always gag.

Okay, I get that chest-thumping is part and parcel of college athletics, and a fun and usually harmless activity. Maybe it’s even healthy (a refreshing diversion from Powerpoint presentations, anyway). My father and daughter graduated from Pennsylvania State University (literally). That school chest-thumps with We Are Penn State! Note the crucial exclamation point.

Ohio State, on the other hand, has several thumping gestures, one of which is THE Ohio State University. Note the emphasis on THE, always Biblically pronounced thee. The school was founded in 1870 with this word article intentionally in front. But when certain partisans emphasize that first word, sometimes like a weapon, the implication is that Ohio has only one legitimate public university (which, of course, is patently false). Otherwise, why would this insignificant article even matter?

In my opinion, the emphasis on this word goes beyond mere chest thumping and spills into unmitigated haughtiness.

I may as well now reveal the chief source of my grievance: I attended Ohio University (OU). OU is located about an hour’s drive southeast of that other school with the ‘S’ in the middle, in a small town called Athens. It is a much smaller school: 17,000 main campus undergraduates compared to OSU’s 47,000. It has a much smaller endowment: 569 million compared to 5.2 billion. And a much smaller football program. We play in the Mid-American Conference (MAC), not the Big Ten (which should actually be Big Twelve, or maybe it’s up to 13…I can’t keep track).

Ohio University is located in one of the most scenic parts of Ohio, and for years our main claim to fame was that we were one of the top party schools in the nation (ranked #1 by Princeton Review eight years ago…not bragging, just saying). Although we have a great athletic program, OU is not what might be termed a sports powerhouse. Beer drinking powerhouse, yes.  But sports is not the biggest thing on OU’s radar. So this “THE Ohio State University” crap—at least in a sports context and delivered in the presence of a graduate of a different public university in Ohio—is personal.

How did this ridiculous trend of OSU emphasizing “THE” begin, anyway? Can I get some love here, people? As you’ll soon see, my figurative Napoleon complex is entirely justified.

Founded in 1804, my school of Ohio University has used the abbreviation “OHIO” since 1896. In 1993, we trademarked that nickname for merchandising purposes. OHIO is on our apparel, flags, bumper stickers, and other licensed merchandise. But in 1997, Ohio State challenged our trademarked nickname/logo. Evidently, “Ohio State” and “OSU” weren’t good enough. The Buckeye nuts wanted the whole enchilada, including “OHIO.” Why? Haughtiness, of course.

During the acrimonious legal dispute, the two school presidents got together, probably over some 3.2 beer on High Street in Columbus. Surprisingly, OSU’s titular head eventually saw the light and admitted his corporation—I mean school—was being silly. So, my school, which was founded 66 years before Ohio State popped out via C-section (it was too large for natural childbirth), was able to retain its nickname OHIO. It’s still on my forest-green sweatshirt. I continue to wear it in public, and I haven’t been arrested.

Just as in the real world…just as in Washington and elsewhere…here was a classic tale of Goliath wanting to beat up David. And this time—which seldom happens—David prevailed.

“Go, Go, Go-liath!” Seriously? (vecteezy.com)

(David and Goliath stories always spike my blood pressure. It’s probably why I’m a liberal Democrat…the old-fashioned kind, anyway.)

You know where this is leading, right? Chewing on their sour grapes, the sword-wielding children up there at Ohio State had to save face somehow. And that’s why that corporation—I mean school—in Columbus and its football scholarship jocks feel the need to emphasize the article “The.” Sour grapes. End of story. I think.

NEWSFLASH: I just learned that THE Ohio State University recently tried to trademark the article “THE.” This is not a joke. Evidently they have lots of time on their hands. However, they failed in this ludicrous attempt as well. Laughed out of the courtroom. Thou failest, Thee Ohio State University.

Maybe that school should next try to trademark the colors red (they haughtily call it “scarlet”) and grey.

***

So this is why my Buckeye-nut wife threatens to divorce me every fall when the traditional Ohio State-Michigan rivalry game comes around. Even though I don’t utter a word, much less watch the game, she knows I’m secretly pulling for, as Ohio State fans refer to them, “that team up north.” Not because I particularly like Michigan, but because, for me, rooting for Ohio State is like drinking skunky beer.

All kidding aside, OSU, Michigan, and Penn State are top-ranked public research institutions which annually churn out high-achieving graduates (as does OU). Athletically, Michigan football ranks first in NCAA history. Ohio State is one of only two schools to win men’s football and basketball championships the same year. Penn State has more overall NCAA Division I championships than any Big Ten school.

And my school? The humble, green-and-white Ohio University Bobcats down in lil ole Athens County? Win, lose, draw, or game cancellation…doesn’t matter. We’ll find a reason to be on Court Street and party at the Cat’s Den.

I Would Prefer Not To

“Can you stop by?”

This was the Skype message I recently received from my supervisor. Those of us Bartlebys who have worked in an office environment and have been unlucky recipients of such a message from the boss (aka “The Big Cheese”) know that, no matter how cool and self-assured one might be in other situations, there’s always a quickening of the pulse when such a message is received.

It used to be a phone call, or a head appearing in one’s office doorway. Then it was email. Now it’s Skype.

I was half-tempted to type back “I would prefer not to.”  But I sold out and typed “OK.”

As I walked toward his office, I wondered if this would be one of those “Shut the door” type conversations. Sure enough, it was.

“Shut the door,” he said abruptly. “Have a seat.” How polite of him. My heartrate had by now increased dramatically.

“Don’t get excited,” the big cheese assured me, unsuccessfully.

In addition to words and voice tone, body language is also very revealing in these encounters. And at this moment, his body language indicated that, yes, this would be yet another session of existential revelation, explanation, justification, and eventual atonement.

My body language indicated that my heart was now pumping enough blood to cause the front of my shirt to vibrate like the skins on a drumhead at a Hottentot wedding celebration. So it was kind of difficult to instruct my involuntary cardiac muscle not to “get excited.”

He leaned over his desk, folded his arms, and looked at me with solemnity over the top of his wire glasses.

“Just answer me…”

He paused for dramatic effect. I waited with bated breath to see if I would be granted or denied admittance through the Gates of Heaven.

“…did you or did you not forget to flush the urinal yesterday?”

I was busted. Oh, God. I’ve always had a feeling that one day I might slip up.

Indeed, I had made a visit to the bathroom yesterday. And after doing my “business,” I followed the same ritual I always did. I walked to the sink, washed my hands in lukewarm water (for some odd reason, this one bathroom doesn’t provide hot water), dried my hands with a small paper towel…then walked across the tile, grasped the door handle with said paper and opened the door, then flipped the used paper in the nearby waste can.

However…on this one occasion…I forgot to use said paper to push handle on said urinal before exiting said bathroom. And I remembered that an anonymous gentleman was, at that moment, conducting his own business in a parallel urinal. He must have narc’ed (squealed) on me.

(You ladies might be interested to know that men’s public bathrooms are perhaps the most unsociable places on earth. Sinks are acceptable locations for idle conversation, although men being men, conversation is infrequent. Urinals are definitely off-limits. Conversation occasionally occurs, but eye contact is forbidden, unless there’s loud rock ‘n’ roll or football going on, and the men are drunk.)

“Uh…yes,” I stammered. “I mean…I did forget. Is that a big deal?”

The cheesy one sat back in his swivel chair and, with a doleful expression not unlike an elderly basset hound, stared at his hands, now folded in his lap.

“Always…” he began, “always flush the urinal. This incident has reached Rosemary.”

Rosemary is the Human Resources Director. She’s a petite, attractive woman about 30 years old. Half my age. Her nickname is “Rottweiler.” I’m assuming she earned this nickname because, not only does she have a pet Rottweiler (a dog with a reputation for “territorial aggressiveness”), but every time an employee leaves the company, she sends out a company-wide email with the employee’s photo stating “John Doe is no longer employed at (the company). Should he visit our facility, he must be treated as a visitor.” This cold declaration is followed by various security requirements that employees must follow—and John Doe must adhere to—if John Doe visits former facility.

I can understand taking away an employee’s electronic badge before he leaves. But I’ve never understood either the necessity or the effectiveness of these company-wide emails.

Rosemary not only hires people, handles their benefits (paid time off, 401K, health, and life itself), processes their resignations, delivers news of their layoffs and firings, but after employee has vanished, she alerts the workforce that former employee is, essentially, persona non grata. The only analogy to this last action that I can think of is someone who might desecrate a gravesite.

Rosemary may be petite and attractive, but she has more power and influence than the company president. Think a smaller version of Nurse Ratched from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

But getting back to our little drama…I expressed atonement to Herr Limburger for my thoughtless action the previous day. Then, with trepidation, I asked him if I needed to visit Rosemary.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” he said, just as solemn as when I first sat down. “Just make sure it doesn’t happen again. There will, of course, be mention of this incident in your next performance appraisal. But your employment situation is still secure.”

Whew. I staved off a company-wide email from Rosemary.

Cheesy one apologized for, as he termed it, the “brouhaha.” I told him “That’s okay, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”

“Hey, don’t apologize,” he said. “This is my job.” Indeed, it is.

I left his office. I felt a strong urge to visit the scene of the crime and flush all the urinals, as a sort of psychological purging.

I also felt a strong urge to determine who the asshole was who narc’ed on me.  Then decided “screw it…I would prefer not to.”  And, then, a revelatory moment:

I pinpointed the reason for Rosemary’s high-security emails.

 

(Bill Bragg, 2012/foliosociety.com)