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In this tempestuous century we have seen the pendulum of taste swing from the Louis Sullivan catechism of form following function, to a total reversal in the shape of kitsch cat clocks, liquor bottles in the shape of Elvis, and mailboxes that have voluptous shapes and greet us with coos. Do we really need a telephone in the form of Mickey Mouse or a computer in the form of a toaster (the opposite, a toaster that looks like a computer may be even more frightening)? By accident we may create paper weights that look like food (see Cookie Folly); but, barring such an unlucky transformation, everyone would feel more secure with the natural order of things (no more honey jars that looked like embalmed bears). Sometimes the masquerade conceals a greater truth: remember the cigarette lighters that looked like snub-nosed pistols? They certainly sent the correct message on the dangers of smoking. Even that innocent looking letter opener/rapier warns of the incipient poison-pen letter. My favorite kitsch is the clown-balloon inflator. The thing is merely a tank of helium with a clown's head on it:
a crudely positioned tube "blows up" the balloon. Of course, if more holes were utilized, the clown could
simultaneously inflate as many as seven balloons. Such a public display would probably be in violation of a dozen
lewdness laws. At least a lava lamp is a lamp (it could probably be characterized as neo-techno-Kitsch, perfect in
the living room of a hip postmodern proto-neo-bourgeois junk collector).
I have a theory about the pens, pencils, rubber band, and erasers that disappear from my desk: they all go to pen heaven. When a pencil becomes too short for reasonable use, an antigravity force takes over; and, the device flies off into space. Of course, I have never actually seen this phenomenon in action, but too many desk utensils have entered the Office Bermuda Triangle (hereafter referred to as OBT), never to return. I imagine a place in outer space where groups of pens and their friends float about in a cosmic cloud. Someday astronauts will encounter the strange nebulae, thus proving my theory. There is probably a key heaven as well: some specific location at which keys will leave the earth of their own volition if they are deposited. It is also possible that these locations are merely a subset of a larger place which I could call Tool Heaven. When the OBT kicks in, screwdrivers, knives, letter openers, nail clippers, all leave the earth to assume new identities in space. Unfortunately those old potato chips, empty Tic Tac© packs, etc. are impervious to the OBT force and remain stubbornly on the desktop. The last and perhaps most annoying example of the OBT would be in the disappearance of phone messages. There is a
certain type and size of little yellow paper that is whisked almost immediately into space, that critical phone
number irretrievably lost. I have been thinking about marketing a new product: Office Glue. Its
purpose is to attach those post-its permanently, since that gooey stuff on the back always fails, and the OBT
force kicks in. This glue would have no known solvent, but it would react only with the little yellow squares of
note paper. While I am working on a gravity restorer to counter the effects of the OBT, temporary product
development might suffice. I will call the glue Permpost, after the famous mailman whose pants became
stuck to a recently painted park bench after a short nap.
2/26/97: Worthless Collections
In Saturday Garage Sale, I mention some eccentric collectors: you know, those misfits who collect string, newspapers, etc. For years I had a crank old neighbor who could have played the Wicked Witch of the West. Her house was filled to the ceiling (every room) with newspapers. The mother of a former student had an entire Hollywood mansion filled with spare parts to vacuum cleaners (even the various stairways had stacks of boxes with the innards from old Hoovers, etc.). The place was so filled up that she had to rent a nearby apartment. What is hard to understand is that these eccentric collectors really organize their stuff. I helped one of my colleagues move a few years ago, and found the most fantastic collection of paper bags in all the closets. I tried to throw them out over the violent protestations of their owner. The amazing part is that he had organized the bags by size, material, color, handles, and logos. What was the purpose of this efficiency, I asked? "You have to have just the right bag for the job," he retorted angrily. Obviously I was not knowledgeable concerning A&P vs. Vons bags. This colleague had the opinion that truly creative people carried EVERYTHING in paper bags, eschewing the more traditional briefcase. I know at least three people who have pencil stub collections: those little Popeye, Mickey Mouse, or other advertising pencils that have become too short to hold, except by a two-year-old graffiti artist. My favorite from one collection was an eight-sided thing that was about a inch fat and wrote in ten simultaneous colors. The ranks of sports ball collectors are legion. Tennis, ping pong, grotty pet balls with bells inside, balls with mysterious substances attached that control an eccentric bounce, all are irresistable items to the obsessed globe hoarder. Some collections have the patina of reasonableness (but are still nonsense): I had a friend who had 50,000 matchbooks, organized by logo. The colorful array of shapes and sizes had a beguiling attraction (I later had the horrifying observation that this assemblage was like a series of phosphorus bombs, just waiting to go off). So, why do people collect this stuff? I am sure that many PhD's in psychology have been earned by those
brave enough to venture into this area of research. Some time in the future I will put forth my humble and
uninformed theory of the packrat procurer.
It has long been my fondest wish to create a low calorie chocolate chip cookie. I have spent decades trying to capture that forbidden texture and tempting rustic shape that the real thing possesses. My first attempt, which was to use carob and remove sugar from the mix, replacing it with that stuff that comes in the pink box and resembles boraxo, resulted in blobs that looked like patties excreted by miniature cows and had the texture and color of concrete. They were really only good for putting under uneven chair and table legs. My second attempt substituted whole wheat flour and I can't believe it's butter© for the real stuff. These assembled themselves in the baking pan into one dark brown pimply mass that acted like epoxy and could not be removed, even when I used a blowtorch, and later battery acid. THe third attempt involved using raisins with a few real chocolate chips (sugarless), Crisco©, and bisquick. These cookies blew up and looked more like small knishes, perfect for throwing at stray cats and dogs trying to relieve themselves in my backyard garden. I decided to keep a supply just for that purpose, when I accidentally discovered that they killed slugs and snails, I found dozens of the slimy creatures dead in a heap around one of the "cookies." True scientists are relentless in their quest for the ultimate truth and success in their
experiments; meanwhile, while still on the quest, I think I'll go over to Famous Amos's and pick up a bag of the forbidden
treats.
Returning from a bike ride, having noticed the panoply of hamburgerheads, shrunken-head types, mopheads, and other fashionable citizens, I am not sure that I can cover the topic of haircuts in one column. In this area the gauge of human folly is in the red zone. I recall the lunatic who kept changing barbers, always dissatisfied with his haircut. Afterwards he would always bomb the barbershop and leave a bagel on the sidewalk. From the blue-haired old ladies to children with trendy rug-hair, we all try like mad to project our individuality with a good hairstyle. That is why my brother went ballistic the first time he had his hair cut by a barber. I was old enough to take him and instructed the unsuspecting barber-dupe (who was named Rocky because he had a minor boxing career) to "give him a baldy!", insisting that my mother gave strict instructions to this effect. As the curls fell, my brother shrieked and carried on like Donald Duck. Of course, his self esteem was reduced to mere cuttings, at my vicious prank. Curiously enough, my mother actually liked the kid's new look (he reminded me of
a hedgehog). Those of you out there who are older siblings probably have even more nasty
stories to relate. I invite you to top me on this one. Later this month I will
tell you about "Big Neil", the Hamburgerhead.
2/23/97: Is Your Car a Parade Float?
There is a guy in the San Fernando who has glued every kind of brass sculpture, candlestick, doorstop, bottle opener, etc. you name it) onto his car. The result gives the impression of a floating junkpile that could easily pass for a parade float. Another exhibitionist has covered his auto with ceramic tile in various colors so that the vehicle looks like a bathroom turned inside out. When you start to decorate your car, you might aspire to this level of complexity; and, by definition, create an autonomous parade float. Of course, if you are driving a fire engine, hearse, antique, or hot dog bus, you are ready for the big parade without additional trappings. If there are any holdouts from the 60's- garishly painted VW buses with peace symbols or cartoons of the Dalai Lama-, these would constitute hippie entries for my impromptu parade. So many of us try to define ourselves by what we drive, which explains the compulsion to spend 50+ thousands on road iron. DO I really want to be known as: "that guy who drives a Bentley?" For more on this topic, referring to the names of cars and their probably owners, try Killer Autos. Somehow, it seems like it would be more fun to drive an antique ambulance, festooned with a picture of Jimi Hendrix, painted lime green, and sporting bumper stickers for the marijuana initiative. I seem to remember a movie in which Peter Sellers had to drive a hipmobile while waiting for his stodgy wagon to be repaired; soon he was transformed into a Make love not war dropout. Of course, you can always ride a horse in the big parade or walk along in a clown suit (take the
Clown Test).
In the title I'm not referring to that Pakistani pediatrician you send your kids to, but to space aliens. A sleazoid newspaper (one of those rags that receive regular correspondence from Jesus, Elvis, or JFK) recently reported that these alien doctors are positioned around the world to "examine" us and steal our inner organs to be sent back to other planets. I imagined that these grisly souvenirs might be sold on the street corners or in alien markets as gourmet delicacies. The image of sci-fi cannibal-collectors raiding the universe certainly has a fetchingly perverse ring to it. People from the planet Arous (whence commeth the famous brain) could, in their restaurants order a special kind of liver and bacon or steak and kidney pie. Another possibility is that these aliens are Dr. Frankenstein types who creatively reassemble
the parts of many different species as "experiments" who wind up in alien carnivals.
Getting back to the "alien" doctors themselves, do they belong to an alien AMA
and get together to meet once a year, comparing notes on the recent crop? Receving their orders from home,
they hear such commands as more toes! or too many kidneys!. Having yucked myself and
everyone else out on this topic, I start to think about my last visit to the HMO and why I can't
ever seem the same doctor twice: Ah! The aliens are changing shifts.
There was a story on the radio yesterday that reported a kid who, for the first eight years of his life ate nothing but jelly sandwiches on white bread. One ponders how he settled on this particular gourmet treat, but his mother reported that he would take no other food, and somehow he was in perfect health. I started to wonder how many people were food freaks or did strange things to their meals. In the mildest cases I see people who, when eating fruit cut it all up into tiny pieces, as opposed to those who attack and stuff themselves. My question is: would the monster fruit eaters have a natural antipathy toward the fruit choppers and would the monster fruit eaters transfer their aggression and become whopper hamburger chompers, piling on pickles, cheese, bacon, avocado, letturce, tomato, and anything else to get the biggest chomping challenge? Some foods demand intense creativity just to eat normally. Long spaghetti seems to defeat us all, except children who see it as finger food (as a kid, my brother ate his with strawberry ice cream). I noticed all the kinky condiments that I had collected when I went wild over that hot sauce club and imagined diners inundating their french fries with the likes of Nuclear Hell©, Dave's Insanity Sauce©, or a brown gluey sauce, better suited to repair book bindings, called Religious Experience©. I fantasized that if you ate this stuff every day you would wind up in a monastery singing Plainchant ot reciting Buddhist hymns, venturing out of the retreat occasionally to distribute hot sauce to the poor. The latest news on the little jelly-sandwich kid was that he had expanded his repertoire and was adding
peanut butter: it was probably a critical life-decision.
2/20/97: Presidential Commission
Around the time of the beginning of the first Clinton Administration I started to develop some new ideas to enrich elementary and high school education. Assembling my notes I submitted them to various federal agencies; and, much to my surprise, received encouragement to submit budgets, target estimates for the program, etc. About three months later I was in my office and received a phone call from Washington: I was to go to the airport, take a specific flight to D.C., and a limousine would be waiting to whisk me to the appropriate meeting. I was overjoyed at the prospect of formally presenting the plan, until the voice on the phone said something about the Bureau of Waste Management. I made a crack to the effect that the only thing I knew about garbage was that I put it on the curb once a week and someone took it away. The voice on the phone became irritated, as though I had made a grievous error: by mistake, I had been assigned to the section of the government dealing with toxic waste. Although I had fallen in some once (see Chance and circumstance), I usually stayed away from the topic. In my mind the grand educational plan had turned to garbage. If this was the way they ran things, what other horrible misappropriation of talent
occurred elsewhere? Were garbage men sitting on education and arts councils? At least I
finally had an explanation for Clarence Thomas.
2/19/97: Magazine Racks
Even with a cursory browsing of the local magazine racks, anyone would be flummoxed by the
bewildering collage of publications catering to our follies and weaknesses. With the failure of
such politically incendiary rags as Ms. and Male Chauvanist, I would propose an
even more outrageous NPC (not politically correct) assemblage. How about the Graffiti Art News
for taggers to keep track of the state of the art in aerosol paint, with a monthly wall-art contest; or perhaps
other crime-specific journals like the Shortchanger's Weekly or Pimp's Pocketbooks.
Fashion slicks could certainly benefit from the addition of Drag Queen's Quarterly or
Comsmopolitan Nun, worthy additions to the industry dominated fru fru. I think that my
favorite type of "new" mag would be something like Loafer Gazette which is
dedicated to helping you waste time in the workplace. It could have lists of entertaining phone
numbers and websites that would make it look like you were occupied. Junk fax services could keep your
phone line busy for hours. Finally there could be a column with real testimony of complete slackers
who did no work for X months and still kept their phony baloney jobs.
Journalism is certainly a wide open profession, full of undiscovered opportunities. Now, did I
really see an issue of Animal Genital Modeller at the Seven-Eleven?
Funerals, by definition are formal, serious affairs (Finnegan's Wake
notwithstanding) with somberly dressed family members, stiffly attired funeral
directors (I remember the one at my father's funeral weighed 400 lbs. and wore white
spats), and a general atmosphere of reserve and quiet. In the movies, it is usually raining,
so the black umbrellas add a touch of bumbergloom.
However, I have always had a tendency to impropriety and distinctly remember the funeral
of a distant relative (whom I had never met) some forty years ago. The weather was
a sweltering New Jersey August, and my brother and I had new, tight black suits. As we
uncomfortably twitched in our pews a balding red man got up to eulogize: "She looks
so peaceful [open coffin], and to think, she was only 106." With that verbal missile,
both of us began to laugh hysterically. Louder and louder and more convulsed became our
hoots; we were out of control and unstoppable. ONLY 106!! Jesus, what did she expect? We
had never met anyone alive who was that old, and this corpse had roamed the earth for over
a century. Two ushers dragged us, still cackling, to the outside where we continued until we were
out of breath. We bought ourselves popsicles from a passing vendor and recounted the incident,
doubling over when either of us spoke the forbidden line (she was only 106).
What do you do in all that time? When I reached the age of 50, I looked back on my past
to tally up achievements and blunders, triumphs and failures, good judgment and bad. Children
think that they will live forever, which is why my brother and I as youngsters had our minds blown
by the funeral.
2/17/97: Fairy Queen of Stove Parts
A couple of days ago I had to go to East Los Angeles, the kind of Nightmare of the Industrial Revolution
that could have been the set of Fritz Lang's Metropolis. I was looking for one of those
XYZ Corporations that specialize in stove parts (there were a few gizmos that I needed to
replace on my 14-year-old behemoth restaurant stove). In these sections of town there always seems to be
a cement mixer or dump truck around every corner. Freight trains seemingly wait until I approach
to back up with 800 cars at 3 miles a hour. All the streets are one way (the wrong way), and
NOBODY knows where anything is (too busy practicing ebonics).
After unbelievable screwing around with the Thomas map, compass, and 8 pages of handwritten directions,
I finally arrive at an ancient brick building that could be the set of Shostakovich's
Lady Macbeth of Mitsensk, prison camp scene. I move the squeeky security door aside
and step inside. The air hangs heavy with a dank yellow glow. Then I saw her: at a lone desk was
the most astounding image of perfection: an African queen impeccably attired in kelly green, her
large eyes luminous, her voice like rich port wine. "May I help you?" she cooed.
I must not be awake: all my possible answers seemed like pornography.
Then, I snapped into reality as the back door opened and a seven-foot slave brought in
the stove parts. Like the head of John the Baptist in Strauss's Salome a shiny new
door, bolts screws, knobs, and other assorted tubes were placed on the counter.
"That'll be $347.50"; the Queen quacked. The fantasy balloon burst, I paid and
meekly left for the 101 freeway and the long drive back to suburbia. Sometimes the space-time
continuum can be torn by the most unlikely errands.
Disclaimer: If you are going to a meeting to pay off kidnappers, ex-wives, or the IRS,
these hints will not help you.
Reflecting on things that did not exist in my childhood but which inundate
the scene today, I immediately thought of spraycans. Everything, from hair color to snack cheese
comes out of the little holes. Toothpaste and anchovies wriggle out like earthworms
and WD40 perfumes the air.
You could almost make a chain of interlockling spraycans: shampoo to keep dirt from the
carpet, insecticide to keep the carpet from the fleas, pooch spray to keep the
fleas from the dog, pet spray to keep the dog from the plants, plant sprays to keep plants from
each other and from bugs, and bug spray to keep the bugs from us. Then, we have
personal sprays to keep us from each other and nonstick sprays
to keep us from our food. A whole hierarchy of spraycans
dominates our lives: I invite replies from readers as to the most outrageous
spraycan: for me either the new car smell or instant hair (to
cover a bald spot) are the craziest.
Try your hand at a candidate.
The callow and unsupecting never know when a complete meltdown disaster is
imminent, even in the most genteel and sophisticated environments. I was
accompanying an over-the-hill soprano in a song cycle when one of these incendiary
events occurred on stage. This diva, who was wearing one of those gowns that looked
like the projection of the local planetarium, covered in little gold stars, had
the shape of a bag of watermelons and moved like Robbie the Robot.
She was premiering a work by a local no-talent, and there was a song
that began with an unaccompanied soprano note. Beforehand she asked me to give her the
pitch quietly before the piece began, and I softly played the Bb she required. The only
lamentable thing was that when she began the song, she sang a C, a pitch somewhat
higher. Naturally, since the whole song would be higher, I played the
accompaniment up a step. Trouble is, I could see a high Bb near the end set to the
words I give you rocket's thunderthrust and fantasy (the idea of this
dumpling belting out THAT was bad enough), but a quick calculation on my part
revealed that the diva would have to attempt a high C. Since there was no way
she could make this note, I trembled in anticipation
of the dreaded outcome. I give you.... (the big one was coming)..
rocket's.......(oh, no!)THUHH and out came the yowling cry of a
mortally wounded rhinoceros. The rest was a jiggling and staggering affair as I
pounded out the last chords.
Afterwards, the composer would not speak to me and blamed the whole thing on
my poor judgment. Obviously, I should have played the accompaniment in the
wrong key and generated a continuous series of animal noises from this diva. This
was wisdom acquired at a stiff price of one's sanity and hearing. Maybe next, I'll
relate the one about the tuba player who fell off the stage playing a difficult cadenza.
I once fell victim to instant fame while riding my bicycle in the old section of
Topanga Canyon. On a particularly deserted stretch of road I suddenly encountered
motorcycle police, trailers, scrambling workmen, and absurdly dressed young
women. Rather than stop, I proceeded forward. As I passed the police, I was
greeted with enthusiastic waves and encouragement: it was as though I had finished the Tour de France.
The young women blew kisses to me and the grotty workmen scurried out of my way.
As I advanced, an old lady stumbled in to the road, risking injury to say
"Why, you're....." and asked for my autograph (which I magnanimously refused).
What was happening here? It seems that I was mistaken for a famous television
producer, and everyone though that I [he] was making a surprise visit to the
set of a new show. I milked this one for all it was worth, waving to all and
looking as well heeled as possible.
Thinking about the incident later I realized that those people WANTED to see
me [the vaunted boss], and they invented me to fulfill their expectations. Large
scale benign deceptions, whether through serendipity (like this) or on purpose
(like the Orson Welles saucer scare on the radio) are good tonic for the
dullness of the human condition. Like that limousine that pulled up in front of
my house last summer. "Your car is ready, sir," the chauffeur
intoned stiffly. Dressed in a cut off Chicago Symphony tee shirt and faded
shorts from Land's End, I seemed an inappropriate livery charge (I was also
sucking on a grape popsicle). Do I dare get in?
What in the name of poetry or lyrics does this mean? Those camptown ladies sound suspiciously like
professionals; which means that doodah may have a meaning that eclipses morality, public good
taste, and history. The ladies could be camp followers, which would make them 19th century groupies.
Images of simpering teenagers or clucking old housefraus come to mind. They could be Camptown campers,
parking their RV's along the five-mile course, barbecuing hot dogs and hamburgers for hyperactive
tribes of children. Why do they sing doodah?
Doodah does not an entry in any known dictionary: therefore it is a kind of all purpose
word (like Humbug (from a previous Misfit). In Los Angeles there
is a yearly Doodah parade which trades on inherent absurdity (like a precision team of executives
with briefcases). If doodah means nonsense, then the ladies could be a local women's club
which is condemning the races as doodah; or they could be a local Christian group that sees
betting as immoral or destructive. One last thught: the camptown ladies could be mentally
challenged (morons) and on an outing from a local institution. I remember going to the San Diego
Zoo and seeing an entire Boy Scout troop of mongoloids marching with limited precision past the
elephants. They were all eating those hot dogs dipped in batter, fried, and put on sticks: I think that
they were the happiest group of people I have ever seen.
This "Colorful Chef" is seasoning a very special drink
(why does he have on the welder's gloves?).
Claire is at it again with the first of two intimate views of the New Orleans Mardi Gras
parade. These
"Nurses" are ready to cure whatever is wrong with
you (I wonder what's in the syringe, and is that container a urine sample?).
2/9/97: Evil Vending Machines III
You may remember the original Evil Vending Machines and
Son of the Evil Vending Machines. I would like to address
those particularly fitted to change one and five-dollar bills. If you can figure out which way
the picture of Washington will be recognized, you still have about a 50 percent chance of either
having the bill disgorged back at you or mutiliated, allowing to you mail the pieces to some post
office box in Baraboo Wisconsin (I am convinced that these bill changers were an early prototype
of document shredder, that also allowed you to buy a snack while destroying government secrets).
The other multilator is in the form of those machines that usually contain fruit, sandwiches, or
forbidden pastry, arrayed in a circle on a tower carousel. You push a button to bring the selection
around to the little glass door. Half the time the thing is jammed and the sandwich or doughnut
(not DONUT, which must be purchased in one of those greaseball kiosks with names like Woodys or
Winchells) gets deformed by the sweeping action or falls down to another layer. Possibly, you
get the three-day old bagel instead because the thing rotates the wrong way.
Maybe the vending machine company should encourage creativity by offering a surprise behind
each door (which would not be transparent). With lowered expectations, each treat would looker far
better if not previewed (I always thought that those wax models of food, like spaghetti and sushi
were the best appetite surpressants). Let the buyer's imagination conjure up the buffet at the
Plaza: if you're hungry enough, that corrupt pear or burrito will pass muster.
2/8/97: A Sultan at 13
With the sudden improvement in weather in Southern California, I harked back
to a spring concert tour that I took when I was 13 with my piano teacher (a woman) and four female students,
each at least 2 or 3 years older than I. We were travelling in a small van through North Carolina
when the conversation turned to the destruction of the earth and the possibility that
we six would be the only people alive. The women (my teacher included) quickly
concluded that I was essential to the continuation of the race. I immediately
jumped six steps ahead and imagined myself as a grand sultan in silken robes with
this instant harem at my complete disposal. Although my sexual experience was non existent,
my theoretical knowledge was encyclopedic.
I started to see these women in belly dancer constumes (even though one of them
resembled two bunches of garlic on top of each other). Because of some incredible
natural (or bellicose) disaster, I was suddenly an all-powerful stud, preserving
the best of the race (and having an extremely good time in the process). I even
began to compile a calendar of trysts, carefully weighing my capacities against the
numbers (Dr. Strangelove's remarks immediately come to mind).
Then, in the midst of this ecstasy, the van had a blowout. A flat tire is definitely the
paradigm of deflated desires. I volunteered to change the tire, got grease all
over my new pants, and resumed my original "kid brother" role to these
older ladies. Did I ever romance any of them? Well, yes, but that is another story.
There is a famous Laurel and Hardy skit which features Stan desperately trying to
clean a spot from Ollie's suit with an experimental substance; ultimately, the
bogus cleaning fluid dissolves Ollie's clothes. I started to think about all the
cleaning powders, pumices, liquids, and sprays that I have bought over the years
and how most of them did more damage than good. That cleaning fluid to be used
on a white shirt which leaves a big yellow stain in place of the small blue one, or that
asphyxiating spray that removes paint when it is supposed to remove grease: these
substances probably have no place near anything alive, and I always imagine that
a precise mixture of them could produce an explosion or perhaps a huge blob of creeping
lava that absorbs all in its path. (Loyal readers may remember
Product Labels which addresses the possibility that
adulterants in food could create dangerous and foul mixtures.) Certainly, cleaning
products are more likely to generate a sulphurous atmosphere that is more likely to
attract witches than repel dirt. I can still remember Mrs. Lynx, a cleaning woman from my
childhood who looked like the wicked witch from The Wizard of Oz. The way she dispensed
Dranotm while simultaneously chain smoking,
I always imagined her familiars, in the form of monkeys, appearing to
torture us by playing old Lawrence Welk records.
Perhaps that is the real purpose of drain openers, scouring powders, and mildew sprays:
they prepare the way for spirits of the underworld to emerge in comfortable surroundings. They
hide by day in the innocent garb of domestic servants, duping their spic and span obsessed masters
and lulling them into a cosmetically spotless complacency.
Do you have an uncle who dresses like Bozo? (see the Clown Test)
Your family may be populated by natural circus performers. Maybe your mother dresses like one of the
fortune tellers in Carmen, or your brothers and sisters are acrobats and trick
cyclists. You may have school chums who lumber like trained bears who unhappily perform their daily
act. I can remember my Uncle Ludzu, who always bellowed like a carnival barker and whose hobby was
performing magic tricks (badly).
Look around: the three-ring Big Top may be around you. Of course, there are always a few
elephants and tigers (dispositions). All teenagers assume the role of tightrope walkers
and aerialists as they discover how great it is to become middle aged. I know plenty of
people who cook and eat as though they were at a circus sideshow, with hot dogs, french
fries, pop, cotton candy, and peanuts. The big question is: do the families that have many
inveterate
clowns, acrobats, and jugglers also EAT all that junk food? If I can establish a causal
relation between junk food and dysfunctional behavior.......the Nobel Prize beckons.
So often today TV commentators and newspaper writers use a homogenized speech that
has the tedious consistency and opacity of Jiffy© peanut butter. I though it would be
fun to return to a more colorful era by rendering a few examples from The Scoundrel's
Dictionary, a broadside collection of the vulgar tongue published in London in 1811:
With these colorful expressions on your tongues, go forth and offend. Flumox the puff
guts and jarkmen: don't be a common, country put.
Loyal readers remember Tight and Loose Pants and Hat.
I have been contemplating the perfect fit. That special shirt or pants that feel like a
second skin. You wear them to death, because they are so familiar. Beethoven and
Brahms never changed their clothes, probably because they fit perfectly and were
so comfortable. Whenever someone tries to get me to buy new duds, invariably I
wind up choking on something so tight that it makes me feel shrink wrapped (like
Farmer John's Breakfast Sausage). I
have one tuxedo that fits like a glove: usually these monkey suits are pure torture,
but I was lucky enough to have one made that has the relaxation of a sweat suit.
It probably takes months to break in any clothes, especially pants and shoes. I
have one pair of shoes that I have had since 1970 that I wear on stage, because I
forget that I am wearing them. Primal fantasies from the jungle take over when I am
playing the piano, and the perfect synthesis of culture and nature is created.
The real problem is that these comfortable suits, et al. always have a tired,
faded, moldy fig look; and, some mate is always trying to throw them out (every week
I have to check the garbage, religiously to make sure that some favorite
accoutrement has not wound up on top of yesterday's pasta). Clothes
are such a sign of social status: it is too bad that recriminations (in terms of
ill fitting foppery) emerge and spoil the dream.
We have all heard of swimmer's ear, housemaid's knee, and tennis
elbow. In the modern age of politics these ailments may be produced by new,
more insidious agents:
If you know anyone with these problems refer them to some of the doctors listed
in Fu Manchu (where did he get his doctorate?)
We all know that modern paintings and contemporary classical music generally
produce distressing medical symptoms ranging from nervousness to complete panic.
Why is it that we must be tortured in modern furniture? From the amorphous beanbag
chair which holds its victim hostage on a bed of cumulatively deposited snack food, to the straight backed
sculptures that look like they were made for Giacometti rejects, furniture designers
seem bent on returning human beings to an upright position.
At least many of these creations are attractive with no one in them: ponder the
overstuffed lounger with controls on the side for foot rests, rockers, massage, and
ultimately a rear end booter that catapults you out. These things look like padded
electric chairs and are always covered in a cheesy plastic or fuzzy cloth sewed
together from old, worn out Cookie Monster puppets.
The classic rocker had a quaint charm and could provide relative comfort; its
modern equivalent, which usually involves some sort of steel frame suspended on
a complex of wires and springs, comes right out of Kafka's Penal Colony. These
things always wind up at garage sales. All stools are treacherous, and the ones that rotate
remind me of trained dog acts in the circus, with a half dozen or so of the hapless
beasts spinning on them while balancing party favors on their noses.
The great rule of modern chair design: Modern chairs are designed to maintain
social order by compromising the dignity of people, while diffusing their
complacency. Maybe we should go back to squatting on the ground.
2/1/97: Is your Boss a Cartoon Quack?
You may remember the teachers who were stuffed talking toys
article from last month: this observation enriches
that concept. I had a supervisor in the civil service who seemed to quack like Daffy Duck
whenever he wanted me to do something. If the task were critical, his quack would be more strident and
high pitched; so I knew that if he sounded like Daffy, I could take my time.
However, if he sounded like Donald Duck, I was in deep dodo dung.
I am sure that many of you have encountered trumpeting rhinos and elephants
who could fly like Dumbo, running offices, stores, and restaurants. I worked
in a coffee shop once that was run by a woman who looked and moved like Olive Oyl,
Popeye's girlfriend, and she had a dishwasher who could have passed for Wimpy,
except that he ate omelettes all the time instead of burgers. I've seen
all kinds of bureaucrats who take their cue from either Dagwood or Dick Tracy,
and the local hardware store is full of Crankshaft clones. Among the underlings, there
are plenty of Betty Boops and Miss Buxleys. By the way, I have plenty of students who
are just like Garfield; a decade ago they were more like Charlie Brown.
With so many characters from comics and cartoons hanging about, it hardly seems
worth the effort to read the funnies. On the other hand, if you have a boss like
Mandrake the Magician or Spiderman, then your day is full of strange redefinitions.
What does this really mean?
Now, what ever happened to that ex-Dean who
looked like Snoopy as a WW I ace?
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