"Munsters without their Makeup"

Munsters without Their Makeup

      As today is Halloween and I am one of the myriad keepers of the keys to useless trivia, I want to remind everyone that you can see the actors who starred in the classic TV series The Munsters on rerun TV or in feature films of that era. For example, Butch Patrick appears without Eddie makeup as -- can you believe it? -- a little boy, on an episode of My Favorite Martian(Season 1, Episode 13, “How to be a Hero without Really Trying”) from about 1963. The episode number may be Hulu’s idea of a joke. I’m not too confident of the season and episode numbers on Hulu.

      Fred Gwynne(Herman) and Al Lewis(Grampa) were already well-known from a Sixties’ sitcom Car 54, Where are You?. By the way, I vaguely remember Fred Gwynne as an unaccredited number three stooge(“Slim” -- what casting acumen here!) working for gangster Johnny Friendly(Lee J. Cobb) in Best Picture On the Waterfront from 1954(also starring lesser known actors Marlon Brando(Academy Award for Best Actor) and Karl Malden.)

      Yvonne de Carlo(Lily) you can see in one of those $5 collections of John Wayne Westerns if it includes a good one, McClintock. In McClintock, Miss de Carlo plays a widow with a child who briefly makes Maureen O’Hara jealous for the attention of the Duke.

      I know nothing about Marilyn(Pat Priest), but she had a spiritual name.

      As for Eddie’s dog Spot, I think I saw him do a walk on in Godzilla with Raymond Burr looking out the window. I think it competed with Waterfront, but did not win anything that year. However, Spot reprised the roll ten years later on Munsters. He had had a little work done on the face and a tummy tuck, but looked really marvelous coming out from under the stairs. You couldn’t tell.

mm

"Zane Grey and 'The Thundering Herd'"

 

Zane Grey and The Thundering Herd

      Did You know:  According to the main character, John Doe, from the TV Show by the same name(about the year 2000, I think) these are facts: (a) the nation’s only active diamond mine is in Arkansas; (b) it is illegal to walk down Main Street alone after 1:00 p.m. on Sunday in Little Rock, Arkansas; (c) fish sleep with their eyes open.

      Here's another fun fact:  Did you know the most popular western novel of all time is Riders of the Purple Sage by Zane Grey?  I'm still reading Zane Grey, the famous American western author from a hundred years ago. Still think he’s definitely about love stories and western action. I liked Riders of the Purple Sage, about Mormons and rustlers and gunmen and a couple of love stories; I liked a little less To the Last Man, a love story about cattle men versus sheep men based on the infamous Pleasant Valley War in Arizona, a little known “terrible and bloody feud“.

      I also finished Grey's The Thundering Herd and liked it more than either one. It’s a love story set against the background of the great Buffalo slaughter of the western plains. Wonderful descriptions of American Buffalo, of their herds and fights and killing, of the way people felt about it(mixed feelings), of the history of it, mentioning Sherman and Sheridan -- Civil War Generals who were tasked with fighting Indians and who used the killing of Bison to destroy the food source of the Indians -- practicing total war as they did versus the South in the Civil War, and of the politics of it: some states outlawing the killing(Oklahoma and Colorado) and other states debating it(Texas).

      One scene has a wolf teasing a huge herd of buffalo into a stampede and the view of the chase between hills and through valleys and across rivers as hundreds of thousands of Bison chase a lone wolf.  The heart of the story is a lone young woman, seventeen or eighteen, and her singlehanded fight to survive evil parents, Indians, the herds of Bison, and the western judgment of women as weak, to get back to the man she loved and had promised herself to in marriage.   

      Tonight I watched an episode of the TV show “Longmire”(A&E) in which a lone Bison faced off with Sheriff Longmire’s truck on a Montana highway, until a baby white Buffalo could cross in front. Synchronicity. mm

Sniggerlings: "Vibius Restitutus slept alone."

Sniggerlings:  An Eternal Love?  1934 Years Old and Counting

      For my wife, Sandy(I love you):

      I’m reading Readers’ Digest “Jesus and His Times”. On page 194, it discusses first century graffiti in Roman lands. Yes, there was graffiti in Jesus‘ time. One fellow left this on a wall in Pompeii, a city near Rome that was covered by ash and dust from a volcano out of Mount Vesuvius in 79 A.D. This romantic inscription from that time still exists on the wall of an inn in that historic site: ‘Vibius Restitutus slept alone here and yearned for his Urbana’. Pompeii was preserved for seventeen hundred years until rediscovered in 1748. Maybe love won’t last forever, but in this case it’s nearing the end of its second millennium. I miss you, Sandy. Mm

      p.s., Jesus had been crucified and resurrected fifty years before the volcano covered Pompeii; apostles James(44 B.C.) and Peter and Paul(both 68 A.D.) had had been martyred; and Titus -- the conqueror of Jerusalem, destroyer of Herod’s great temple, and scatterer of the Jewish people -- was Caesar in Rome. Also, the Apostle Paul might have even stayed in the inn mentioned above on his way to Rome to stand trial twenty years before the eruption. Could this volcano have been a warning for Titus in 79 A.D. of who is really in charge? (Zondervan Study Bible, inset timeline).

"Rookie Report on Big Bear Retreat(August 9, 2013)"

Rookie Report on Big Bear Retreat(August 9, 2013)
 

      My first time at a retreat in Big Bear. I thought I’d report about it on the Church Website, especially because nobody asked me to. Surprise! To protect the innocent, no names will be revealed except where absolutely necessary. Al drove Dave and me up and back. The first night the table was loaded with snacks. I think I took my heart medication with Snapple, chocolate chip cookies, wavy potato chips, guacamole, ranch dip(more later on the ranch dip) and watermelon(all four food groups.) I survived.

      I’d like to report to the ladies that the men are well trained and that the toilet seat was in the proper position at all times, but I forgot if it’s supposed to be up or down, so I don’t know myself and need to be better trained. The first night I had a roommate, a giant moth. I saw it out of the corner of my eye, and then it disappeared. It didn’t bother me at all, but it did leave its backpack on the top bunk.

      Later, I played cards with Joshua and Alfonso and learned that I could be President or scum depending on how the cards fell. Late that night the moth reappeared and promptly dived into the ranch dip among the snacks. Only two of us noticed it, and the moth was quickly fished out of the dip. He probably survived his cool dip at the Ranch. On Sunday, Al and Dave took the scenic route back and we retraced the path of the cop killer Christopher Dorner, who retreated from attempts to capture him down local mountain roads as he tried unsuccessfully to evade police near where we also retreated.

      There was much evidence of spiritual maturity at the retreat as one attendee had his car backed into by a local resident, but no bad language was reported to have echoed in the San Bernardino Mountains.

Marcus Mauldin, reporting

"What is Spanish for 'Yippee-eye-yo-kayay'?"

"What is Spanish for 'Yippee-eye-yo-kayay'?"

       My dear wife and I were driving to a Carl’s Hamburger joint today when we passed an open field on Van Buren in Riverside, California.  Thereon stood a couple of large vans.  One was inscribed with the label “Circo Caballero”.  My wife said, “That’s strange.  I think there is going to be a carnival here.  It looks like fun.”

      I said, “No carnival, but a circus.”  I know a little Spanish, at least enough to be chastised by a native speaker recently when I wished him “Buenos Dias” at 4:30 en la tarde.  We were listening to George Strait in her SUV, at the time.  George is a famous American country singer(with tight pants, which I missed the first time I saw him, but my wife confidently assured me of.) 

    I added, “A cowboy circus.  Caballero means ‘cowboy’, so it’s probably like a rodeo.  It‘s out of “Guadalajara Jalisco“ in Mexico, which either means the city of Guadalajara in the state of Jalisco, or vice versa.”  I wondered how many unofficial tourists might travel in those vans.

    ‘Oh, boy!” she exclaimed.  “It might have horses and cows and bull riders and bull poker.”  My wife once won twenty dollars in bull poker by ignoring a bull slobbering on her shoulders while she played cards with three other snot-drenched opponents at the Perris Fairgrounds Rodeo not far from here.  My wife is Queen of the World in ignoring large animals, especially husbands. 

      I didn’t get to see that contest, though; She did not tell me she was on the card that night.  It was a spontaneous urge.  Where was I?  I was losing forty dollars at Perris Offtrack Betting Center, wagering on Quarter Horses at Los Alamitos Race Track by video, safely fifty miles from the ponies but only a furlong from the Gemini meets Taurus affair.   I’m kind of glad I missed her there.  I would have been a nervous wreck.  Also, I might have felt sorry for the bull.  Undefeated at the two-ton bull level, she is now ready for some more "easy money".

    “That might be fun“, she said.  “Let’s keep an eye out for when it opens.”

    “Okay.”  My wife is amazing. Mm

"Sniggerlings: My Perverted Values"

 

My Perverted Values

      My wife bought me a wedding band for my birthday next November. I lost my other one thirty years ago and never had the money or inclination to replace it. She bought herself a matching set of two rings:  diamonds in swirly, girly patterns. When she asked me why I liked the one I chose, I said that it was big enough to give some wise guy a rap in the mouth. Since it's on my left hand, it would have to be delivered with a left hook. My arms are too short to jab with it.  I would wear it like one-fifth of a set of brass(or silver) knuckles. I grew up in the Projects in North Houston, a tough neighborhood.

      By her reaction, I got the sense that women don't have the same reasons to appreciate rings as men. My wife's set has a big diamond in the middle. Her left hook would leave more than a bruise.  Her repertoir also includes a short, violent groin kick.  We've been married thirty-six years.  She grew up near Compton and Watts, in North Long Beach, a tough neighborhood.  She's my best friend.

 

      The other night I told my wife I had bought a carton of salsa and asked her what classic TV show she would like to watch while we made it disappear.  She said CHiPs.   

      Hello, 1976:  Erik Estrada and Disco.  I doubt that the Pearly Gates of Heaven will shine any brighter than Ponch's toothy smile on a CHiP(California Highway Patrol) motorcycle. 

      My grandfather Clyde, who ran with Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker in South Dallas in the Roaring Twenties, used to have a country way of describing things.  When I looked at Estrada's smile, I thought of Granddaddy's contemptuous simile.  He would have said the actor looked like he had a "'shit-eating' grin".  I had to go to college to learn that the polite way of saying 'shit-eating' was in Greek -- coprophagous.  For example flies are coprophagous.  My granddaddy would have compared them to Estrada's smile.  I don't think that's fair, but the actor did look a little too ... something.  mm

 

 

"Big Brother's Roast Beef Sandwich"

"Big Brother’s Roast Beef Sandwich"

      I recently texted my friend in Calcutta(Kolkata), India, -- Muhammad Lowenstein -- about a trip I took here in Southern California, and was interested to know if the NSA(National Security Agency) had recalled any of my texts from storage to investigate me. Of course, we know the NSA collects communication records from hundreds of millions of Americans and stores them in Washington until that huge warehouse in Utah is ready. When they decide to look at a text, for example, they simply request a surveillance order from an FISA(Federal Intelligence Surveillance Act) court judge(telling him or her whatever story is convenient), get her or his Joanna Henry, call it up, grab a roast beef sandwich, and read.

This is what we texted:

MM: Hey, ML, how’s it hanging?

ML: Sure, and just fine. Been busy helping people in the USA fix internet snafus. Snafus, that is a funny word, what does it mean?

MM: It’s an old Marine term that ends with 'FU'. "Situation Normal:  All F---ed Up".

ML: Yes, very good. I am not an old Marine, but I will add that to my vocabulary. What are you been doing?

MM: Hey, I just got back from Morongo Indian tribe casino, where I was bubble boy in a Texas Hold’em poker tournament.

ML: Bubble boy?

MM: Yeah, I was the last person not to make the final table. The final table sat nine players. With ten guys left, I was the Big Blind for 2000 chips, and the guy to my right was the Small blind. He limped in to the bidding by calling me, and I tapped on the option. The board came down with a King and a six and a rag. He went all in and I just couldn’t believe he was serious. Besides, I had a pair of sixes. So I went all in, too. He had another King. That was it for me.

ML: You always have trouble making the final table.

MM: You know it. Woops, got to go. There’s a show on TV about Bradley Manning, Ciao.

      Since my text to ML was international, I decided to contact another friend in Moscow, in the Kremlin(Cha Cha Hidalgova), who knows Edward Snowden personally(isn’t it the quintessence of irony that a guy named ‘Snowed-in’ would wind up in Moscow?  Wait 'til November -- Russian winters 'snowed in' both Napoleon and Hitler) and is responsible for collecting and storing classified communication records in the Kremlin belonging to the NSA. He moonlights as a Stolichnaya Vodka vendor in Red Square. He assured me that, yes, the NSA had read my personal texts and were quite concerned. He sent me a copy of the NSA top secret investigation findings and the requested paperwork that was submitted to the FISA judge.   With Cha Cha, I didn't need a Freedom of Information Act request.

This is what I read:

      Your honor, the National Security Agency hereby requests a surveillance order due to the following suspicious activity:

      1. Overseas individual with a known terrorist name was contacted by a suspicious individual in area code 951 in California. We happened onto this when we were surveiling suspicious calls by authority of a warrant that limited searches to Area Code 815, just outside of Chicago. The agent in charge has fat fingers and it was an honest mistake. He has been directed to take dexterity management classes and attend a two week Rehab to get control of his PBJ compulsion.

      2. Individuals used numerous aliases and code words to describe the likelihood of a major terrorist event, to wit (a) a hanging in Calcutta, India(area code +91-33), at which time the internet would be shut down and (b) the poisoning of the Ganges River.

      3. Probable participants include a group of retired Kashmiri Indian Marines from a place called Morongo, probably not its real name. Maybe Meghalaya state or Maharashtra state in India. CIA thinks they might be Indians from Mongolia.

      4. An agent will be disguised as a bubble on the Ganges River, where certain Texans are being held for ransom. The Texans are both large and small and have been blinded and maimed through torture. The complete plot may include a force of as many as 2000 California Highway Patrol officers, too(CHiPs).

      5. The ultimate financing for this attack may come from two kings, location unknown, possibly in the Mideast, who have invested their entire fortunes in this plot.

      Respectfully request your signature below. Your friendly neighborhood NSA.


      It’s pretty clear that the only ones being kept from classified information is the American people. The good news is, if you want to know what the NSA is doing, I’d give you my Russian Buddy’s number, but you might be better off calling Kremlin, Oklahoma,(Area code 580) or Kremlin, Montana,(Area code 406.) Kremlin, Russia is Area code +7 495. Either way, say hello to the NSA. mm

"Kerry's Last Stand is 'Unbelievably Small'"

 

Kerry’s Last Stand is "Unbelievably Small"

      Recently I was astonished when, in London during a news conference, Secretary of State Kerry characterized the force that the Obama Administration was contemplating sending to Syria as “unbelievably small”. It sounded like America’s options amounted to seeding the clouds over Damascus in hopes of a surprise rain, letting a herd of camels loose in the President’s bedroom(a small herd … two or three … little … baby camels … in diapers), or sending the CIA in to the Syrian capitol in a cloak and dagger effort to stick used chewing gum wads under each of the benches in Saladin Park(Special Forces third graders from Mr. Rogers‘ Neighborhood would be assigned the task of masticating the “unbelievably small” plastic weapons, which would then be couriered to Istanbul and mule-packed through Kurdish Syria to the Park, thus avoiding sneakers on the ground.)
(Washington Post Postv, Sep. 9, 2013)

      He said the strike would be not only small, but “unbelievably” so. As it turns out, letting the Russians control the Syrian chemical weapons is indeed an “unbelievably small” use of the American military. So he did not misspeak. This is not to rag on Secretary Kerry, who probably would have made a better President than Secretary of State(especially under the current conditions), but it is to poke a little fun at the mistakes public figures sometimes make. In that spirit, I thought back over my American history and imagined what would have happened if some of its leaders had chosen to respond to challenges in “unbelievably small” ways.

       Secretary Kerry was in London when he made his verbal stumble, so I’ll start my survey with the redoubtable Admiral Nelson, who played an “unbelievably small” part in American history. At Trafalgar in 1805, the English commander attacked head-on the superior force of Napoleon’s navy, won, and lost no ships to a combined loss of twenty-two for the enemy. As a result, Napoleon’s invasion of Great Britain never took place. Had the Admiral chosen an “unbelievably small” effort -- such as blowing bubbles from surf boards -- Kerry might have begun his news conference with, “Mesdames and Messieurs”.(Wikipedia, “Trafalgar“)

       What would have happened at Lexington and Concord, in Kerry’s home state of Massachusetts, if the orders had been, “Let us bring to bear our ‘unbelievably small” arms on the Redcoats”. All the Minutemen had were small arms. What would constitute “unbelievably small arms”? Sling shots? Thumb-propelled cats’ eyes and aggies? The Massachusetts governor halting the British invasion by taxing the soldiers to death, as is reportedly happening to the indigenous population today?  “No taxation without an invasion” might have been the British soldiers’ response.

      Or what if this had been Pearl Harbor? Remember Jimmy Doolittle’s Raid on Tokyo in April of 1942? I doubt FDR had planned an “unbelievably small” bombing, as the Obama administration intended for Syria. In response to the sneak attack on December 7, 1941, Doolittle led a bombing raid on Japan’s capitol consisting of sixteen U.S. Army Air Forces B-25B Mitchell medium bombers launched from the deck of the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Hornet.(Wikipedia “Jimmy Doolittle“)

      But was that overkill(pardon the pun)?  What would an “unbelievably small” response have been today? Perhaps a comedian insulting the Emperor of Japan over Armed Forces radio:

      “Who is stronger, Chuck Norris or the Shinto Incarnate Deity, Emperor Hirohito of Japan? Chuck Norris, of course. He can chew a chimichanga and fart a frog.”[Chuck Norris was two years old in April 1942]

      So America now enters an age of “unbelievably small” “shots across the bow” when someone crosses a red line. I don’t know about you, but I remember drawing a line or two in the sandlots I shared with bullies when I was a kid. I don’t remember anything crossing those lines back at me that could reasonably be called “unbelievably small“. I think someone with an “unbelievably small” brain thought up this ploy. mm

"Sniggerlings"(Sects and Sex)

“Sniggerlings”(Sects and Sex) 

      1.  I was watching Power Play on Fox.com live(it was recorded.) I learned the following astounding fact: The President of Syria, Bashar al-Assad, of the Shia Alowite sect, is married to a British-educated Syrian named Asma al-Assad, a Suni. Guess they didn’t believe in same-sects marriages in those days. Actually, I think they would generally have preferred homo-sect-ual unions(homo- as a prefix is Latin for "same or similar", The American Heritage Dictionary 1991)


      2.  I saw Miley Cyrus’ “historical” dance on the VMA awards show. Pitiful. She should wait until she grows up. I have two other problems with it. It wasn’t sexy; it was more like a Mouse Club cheerleader wannabe rooting for a zipper, with a foam finger too large and limp to deal with it. If you want to see a sexy dance, see either of two Red Skelton family movies of the Forties: Ship Ahoy or I Dood It!(1942.) They feature the sexiest dancer doing the sexiest dances I ever saw: Eleanor Powell(however, I'm not an expert in this area.)  They also feature some wonderful G rated comedy from the master, Red Skelton(I know quite a bit more about comedy.)  See, especially, the dream dance sequence set on a Polynesian beach. Eleanor Powell!  Now there was a grown woman with much to reveal of what God gave her. And beautiful and a great, powerful dancer.  In one famous scene in I Dood It!, Skelton does a ten minute physical comedy bit where he has his hands all over her (without compromising her dignity), trying to get her into bed(she was asleep.)  By the way, that movie also features another sexy woman of the Forties -- Lena Horne.

      As far as Cyrus’ claim she’s making history, I would invite her attention to the reputation of Messalina, the third wife of Roman Caesar Claudius, who -- according to Book X of Pliny the Elder’s Natural History -- engaged in “an all night sex competition with a prostitute”. Her score was twenty-five partners. She won. That’s history.(wikipedia)

      P. S., Pliny the Elder, A Roman science writer in First Century Rome, might have been an early editor for The Guinness Book of World Records.  (Note to Miley:  Larry Flynt knows who has Messalina's record today.)

      3.  If you want a sexy singer with an incredible, soulful voice later than the forties, try Tom Jones singing the title song from the Bond film Thunderball(1965.)  Wowee!  "Thunderball" has grade school lyrics, but what a voice!  "Wrecking Ball" or "Thunderball"?   I vote for that Jones boy.  I note that the the thunderball to which the movie title refers is a threatened nuclear explosion over Miami, with which evil organization Spectre, spoofed by Mike Myers in several Austin Powers movies, is blackmailing the world.  Sounds prophetic 49 years ago.  Can you say Al Qaeda?mm

Sniggerlings: "'Battling Zimmermans' and 'Sparrow for Lunch'"

Sniggerlings(iii)

      1. The other day my wife told me she had watched a movie on Netflix that she’d been wanting to watch for weeks. It starred Sylvester Stallone, Dolph Lundgren, Chuck Norris, Bruce Willis, and Arnold Schwarzenegger. It was about mercenaries who have to be violent, seek revenge, get payback, use force, swear, and look good in their fatigues despite being old. She said the name of the movie was The Expandables 2. I said, "That’s The Expendables 2; the way you said it, it sounded like their biggest enemy was their waistlines.” Then she looked at my waistline as if to say, “Well, in their case, the good guys won.”Heehee

      2. A lot of publicity recently about the Trayvon Martin case in Florida. In that case, George Zimmerman was found not guilty of murder on all charges. This makes George Zimmerman the third most famous Zimmerman in history. Can you name the other two?

       Answer: (A)Arthur Zimmerman, foreign minister of Germany whose famous telegram in 1917 was one reason the U.S. got into World War 1. Zimmerman promised Mexico would receive Texas and the rest of the Southwest if it supported Germany(rumor is, Barak Obama has made the same offer recently.) (B) Robert Allen Zimmerman, better known as legendary singer/songwriter Bob Dylan*.

       *I was reminded of Bob Dylan’s real name in an episode of Simon and Simon from about 1983 in which the clue that unearthed the killer was “Highway 61” The murder victim was a rock ‘n’ roll DJ and the murderer was named “Zimmerman“. Pretty cool. Heehee

      3.  We were apartment hunting recently when a manager took us through the laundry room to see the pool.  A sparrow had become trapped in the room and was banging its beak and wings into the windows, trying to get out.  We were concerned and went to rescue the thing, but a maintenance man appeared and walked over to the bird to carefully scoop it up.  He carried it outside, then turned to the manager and told her he was going to have lunch.  I thought he said it ominously, and I feared he would have to pluck some feathers for lunch, but my wife said I was being silly.  I said, "Did you ever see him let the little bird go?"  She said no but still maintained I was silly.  I don't know; I remember "The Shining", and Ozzie Osbourne once ate the head off a bat!

"Gender Surrender: Bradley Manning Unmanned"

 Gender Surrender:  Bradley Manning Unmanned

      It was long thought back in the Middle Ages(the 20^th Century and before) that among the inherent weaknesses of women was the inability to keep a secret. It was a proud day for feminists everywhere, then, when Private First Class Bradley Manning turned out to be the source for “the biggest breach of classified documents in the nation’s history.” It was a male spilling the grand frijoles to Julian Assange and WikiLeaks, not a woman. Take that, Male swine of the Chauvin breed: Sus Scrofa Chauvinistica.(Wikipedia Aug. 22, 2013)

      But not so fast. We should not count our fowl before they are unfeathered. For espionage, Manning got thirty-five years in Leavenworth and lost his rank of Private First Class(he is no longer First Class.) By now you’ve read how Bradley Manning handled this conviction: He had blown his first twenty-five years as a 'he', so -- upon entering his new career as jailbird -- he has decided to spend the rest of his life as a ‘she’    Reuters reports today that, immediately after the judge pronounced sentence on him, No-longer-First-Class-Private Manning began to assert that he is a woman named Chelsea. It turns out that Bradley Manning, convicted masculine spy, is in the process of un-Manning himself in pursuit of wo-Manning up -- as alter ego Chelsea Manning. (Reuters Aug 22, 2013: “Wikileaker Manning wants to live as ’Chelsea’”)

      How did this come about? Initially, “A psychiatrist, Navy Reserve Captain David Moulton, testified during Manning’s trial that the soldier suffered from gender dysphoria, or wanting to be the opposite sex, as well as narcissism and obsessive-compulsive disorder”(nothing abnormal in the military about narcissism or that obsessive-compulsive thing.)   And Manning‘s lawyer, David Coombs, argued at trial that the Army was partly to blame for the release of the classified documents by virtue of ignoring the signals that Manning was troubled. Later, during the deliberation concerning his sentencing, it was revealed that the “soldier suffered from gender identity disorder”.(Reuters Aug 22, 2013: “Wikileaker Manning wants to live as ’Chelsea’”)

      It seems that Manning, allergic to the discipline, routine, and masculine environment of a six year hitch in the Army, solved his problem by signing up for thirty-five years of discipline, routine, and masculine environment in Leavenworth, an all male prison. In fact, Manning has asserted he does not want to attend a woman’s prison, but does want to begin receiving female hormone therapy so that, presumably, he/she can be the only hairless 5’2” inmate with breasts in the exercise yard(Did he/she not see The Shawshank Redemption?!) Since he/she also doesn’t want any surgery with his/her hormones, it looks like he/she will be lacking the proper Government Issue equipment should a fellow male inmate prove amorous himself or attractive to Manning(That’s courage under fire.)

      How will he/she survive? We’ll see, but Manning will be the envy of the cellblock, the only inmate with two new hormone-inspired balloons to play with alone in his/her cell. Also, Manning’s lawyer is hoping for a pardon from President Obama.(Reuters Aug 22, 2013: “Wikileaker Manning wants to live as ’Chelsea’”)

      What’s going on here?

      Manning’s obviously very troubled. I agree with his/her lawyer: How did the Army miss the signs? What politically correct manual leaves blank the page on hurting, confused, disconnected Privates(pardon the pun.)  Is the Army unwilling or unable to identify the Mannings before they hurt themselves and others? In order to get the attention he/she desired and should have received, he/she betrayed her/his country. Now the convicted spy has gotten lots of attention.

      In essence, the former soldier bought into the logical extension of our current gender politics: if you’re unhappy as a boy, become a girl. And vice versa. It’s salvation by gender surrender. The Bradley or Chelsea Mannings of the world truly need help. Often they are crying out for it. It is a tragedy that the chain of command is so 'whipped' that it betrays the nation by its errors of omission, its refusal to perform according to its responsibilities, hoping that they will be covered up by ignorance or time. The fruit of that abrogation of duty is the Bradley/Chelsea Mannings of the world, who will be heard, one way or the other.  I hope Manning finally gets the help he needs.

      As an absurd post script, I can’t seem to get out of my mind the image of the Chinese general who has to explain to his superiors in the People’s Liberation Army about all the money he spent hiring, training, and supporting hackers until they broke into the classified computers in the Pentagon.  All the charismatic Assange had to do was convince some low-level schnook, connected to those same classified files, that the guy was an unappreciated and neglected ugly duckman destined to be transformed into a lovely swanette, like Luis in Kiss of the Spider Woman.  Under Assange's influence, Manning came to believe that he, a male schlemiel, was in reality a woman schlimazel who deserved so much more than the worthless poker hand Fate had dealt him/her.

      It reminds me of the story of the antigravity pen during the cold war race for space. NASA, so the story goes, spent millions designing a ballpoint that would write on specially prepared whiteboards at zero G. What they came up with was effective. The Russians also considered the problem. They decided to use pencil and paper. It worked just as well.
mm

"Key to Success: Find the Right Game"

Key to Success: Find the Right Game

      I taught Remedial Freshman Composition at Community Colleges in Southern California for twenty-two years before I retired in 2011. Now I spend my time not teaching Remedial Freshman Composition at Community Colleges in Southern California, and -- let me tell you -- it’s a full time job not grading papers for bi-weekly deadlines, not rushing to get my grades in, and not looking for a parking space in oversold parking lots. I can’t say I miss it.
 

      In many of those composition classes, I had my students read a short biography of Levi Strauss, the San Francisco Levi’s pants king of the turn of the century, who discovered a better way to cover the butts of miners and cowboys and today’s preteen narcissists-in-training. I found in his life several lessons to offer my students on how to be successful, as they wrote their essays: the benefits of hard work, Luck, taking advantage of opportunities, relying on family, moving to a place where you can be successful, stick-to-it-iveness, etc. The one I’m focusing on today is, Finding the Right Game.
 

      I’m convinced there is at least one vocation or avocation at which each person excels. Everybody has his own game, wherein he can shoot like Michael Jordan or pitch like Babe Ruth. For example, Napoleon became famous because he was short, and brilliant and ruthless. And he hung in there when the battle was close and intense. He would have made a lousy cavalry officer as he sat ponies(not chargers) best and was not known for his horsemanship. But he made a small target and found his niche as an officer of artillery. As a result of his stature, he became known as The Little Corporal because he was often found at the front lines of a battle, directing the artillery placement and aim, like a corporal would have, when other generals customarily stayed away from the front to be safe. This boosted the morale of his men and gave him the best vantage from which to view the battle. Artillery was his game, and with artillery he first came to prominence by putting a bloody end to the mobs of Paris.
 

      George Washington, on the other hand, at almost 6’3” would have been a much bigger target, although some Indians and Frenchmen have testified that he was nevertheless hard to hit. Artillery was not his game. His game was Infantry and perseverance and strength of body and character, all of which made him fit as a commander who was chased from pillar to post by his enemy, until Washington put an end to them. One might venture the opinion that strength of character was a major difference between the two, where Washington was the Father of his country while Napoleon, for all his success, became a hated autocrat betrayed by his own people tired of war. A short autocrat, but an autocrat nonetheless.
 

      I resurrect these facts because I saw another example of Finding the Right Game a couple of weeks ago in a limbo contest at a luau put on by Hawaiians in our church. The limbo is a game where one tries to pass under a stick that is successively lowered until all contestants are eliminated but one, the winner. In this case, the winner was not the tallest of the competitors or the strongest or the loudest or even, presumably, the smartest. She was not even the shortest, but she was less than five feet tall(which helped) and very limber(in the limbo.) Also she had great balance and perseverance, and I could see she was going to be a favorite to win the contest from the beginning. She had found the right game.
 

      This brings us at some length to my favorite subject -- me. One day years ago, for a brief half hour I also found my game. It happened like this. I am heavy, about 22 stone( a stone is a British measurement weighing 14 pounds -- do the math.) This is usually a disadvantage. I can’t outrun anybody, so I had to learn to talk my way out of fights as a kid. I have no wind, so I suck at basketball, soccer, cross-country, blowing up balloons, etc. I can do some things. For example, I can float(I would have had a better-than-average chance of surviving the sinking of the Titanic, being round and boyant.) But one day I discovered I had a unique gift that set me up for my right game, and I was as surprised as anybody.
 

      My family and I went to Fiesta Village in Colton, California, for a while one Saturday afternoon to hit in the batting cages, eat cotton candy, and ride the cart races. I climbed into one, a gas-driven car that putted around a small course a short time for $5. I was heavy at the time, too, and my car was slower than the other cars that were driven by a couple of smart-aleck college kids, who kept whizzing past me. It wasn’t much fun.
 

      But then it began to rain. And now my disadvantage became my advantage! The smart-alecks began slipping and sliding on the rain-soaked course and kept spinning out around the turns. They were lightweights. I had found suddenly a secret weapon: my weight was now ballast! My cart hugged the surface and handled like a Porsche. Time after time, I raced near the inner rail, making tight turns inside the spinning youngsters and whizzing right past them. Hoo Boy! This was my game: cart racing in the rain. I enjoyed it until they got tired and left.
 

      Now, the same is true for you. Be on the lookout for your right game, and then show them how it’s done. I’m still waiting for another go at those wise guys(on a stormy day, of course), but I can wait. Perseverance is one of my talents, too. Move over, Levi, George, and Leon -- I‘m coming through.

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"Sniggerlings"(ii)

Sniggerlings(ii)

      I love a good, funny line. I find them all over the place. Because I believe in God, I’m convinced that the Good Lord scatters them around for me to find like Easter eggs. From my basket I make some of my “Sniggerlings.” “Sniggerlings” is about fun and can be made up of good lines as well as short essays. For example, many things that make me laugh are puns. I’ve heard it said that a pun is the lowest form of humor, but I think people who say that have the lowest form of sense of humor. A good pun challenges us to see the world differently. Instead of the idea being the father of the word, a good pun becomes the illegitimate rogue of an Irish stepfather to the idea(a stepfather who‘s had just enough whiskey to make him fun.) Good puns often throw one thing up against another to see if they mate and to imagine what comes from their intercourse. The result can be a laugh out loud. A bad pun -- well, let’s leave bad puns to those who bottom feed in the realm in which is found the “lowest form[s] of humor”.

      The following is an example of how imagination explodes when we mix a business proposal with an over-the-counter cold medicine:

      Chuckleworthy?
      This is from a kids’ TV series in the Sixties that I grew up on. From Rocky and Bullwinkle. Boris Badenov is an evil villain from Pottsylvania, an otherwise unidentified Eastern European nation, at that time (during the Cold War) behind the Iron Curtain. Boris has offered to buy all of Bullwinkle the Moose’s paintings, which are white on white(for example, a white cow in a blinding snowstorm, or a nude figure of an albino Napoleon made of white chocolate, in a glass of milk.) Badenov knows -- and Bullwinkle does not -- that Bullwinkle has painted over priceless masterpieces that Boris previously stole.

      Boris offers him the huge sum of $50 apiece, and Bullwinkle is impressed. Bullwinkle says, “Now, that’s an antihistamine offer: not to be sneezed at.”

      Heehee

      Stay tuned for more on this page.

      Chuckleworthy?

      Question: Can you imagine the scene in a Video Game called Mr. Whiz: Archaic Superhero? Three people encircled by a flash brush fire: two young people -- Eleanor and Gunther -- and an old geezer nicknamed ‘Mr. Whiz‘, who has high blood pressure. They have to break through a weak spot in the waist-high flames to get to safety in a small stream. They have only two cell phones and a single bottle of beer among them. What is their plan?

      Answer: Eleanor and Gunther can skype one another to discuss their situation, but that would take too long.  How about Mr. Whiz?  Yes.  While one bottle of beer is not enough to put out the flames, even if Rodney King size, Mr. Whiz has a secret superpower. That’s right: Give the old man the beer to chug-a-lug. He takes two kinds of diuretics daily. He’ll save the day. He isn’t called “Mr. Whiz’ for nothing.

Heehee

The End

"What's in a Name?"

What’s in a Name?

      I had an urge recently to riff on Anthony Weiner, the former congressman who resigned after a sexting scandal and is now running for mayor of New York. Then I saw on Yahoo!news that he was taking his eighteen-month-old son out for a walk, and I changed my mind. I’ll leave that to plenty of others even though I know I’m being manipulated by the Democratic party Big Apple spin doctors.

      Instead, I thought I’d reverse course and maybe show a little sympathy for an innocent toddler who’s going to have to live with this scandal, too. I’m going to suggest that part of congressman Weiner’s problem is his unfortunate name. I thought I’d counterattack from the far, far left(out) by investigating the subject of unfortunate names.

      For example, my name is Marcus Mauldin. In college at the University of Denver, my freshman dorm, fellow wise guys nicknamed me “Mucous Membrane“(Snot.) While I hated that moniker, I had to admit(to myself) it was sort of clever. Because congressman Weiner and I have had a similar problem with our names, I looked up the meaning of his names. I found out that “Anthony” means “praiseworthy”(www.she knows.com) and that “Weiner” comes from the Latin “Vinea“, an intimate term of endearment heard before the 5^th century A.D.. It actually means ‘sweet wine‘”(surnamed.com). As in, “Hey there, sweet wine!” His wife, Huma Abedin, might say such a thing to him in a private moment, although probably not lately(I couldn’t resist.)

      But Tony and I are not the only ones with unfortunate names. For example, I looked up the name of the current Pope. He has a real problem with his name: Nobody knows it. Now, even I knew that the new Pope is from Argentina, but I googled “current Pope” and the first twenty sites(including Wikipedia -- Hey, Vatican, appoint some Cardinal to update Wikipedia, please -- and CNN) insisted the current Pope’s name is Joseph Ratzinger, Pope Benedict XVI. I found out that Benedict XVI resigned as Pope and is now Pope Emeritus. This is Latin for an infection of the emer. Maybe that’s why he quit.

      And what a surname Cardinal Ratzinger has as Pope, all capital letters, “XVI”. Anyone who adopted “XVI” as his Papal surname certainly has a problem, too. If he were a Black Muslim, I could understand ‘Benedict X’, but with a name like Benedict XVI, his last name is nearly unpronounceable, like Rumpelstilts-whatever. They use x’s in Chinese, so maybe "XVI" is pronounced something like “Zhvee“, Benedict Zhvee. Or maybe not. On the other hand, he replaced “Ratzinger” with “Zhvee“, a move up. I’m reminded of the words of Prince John in Robin Hood: Men in Tights, who, upon finding out that the witch named Latrine had originally come from a family named Sheethaus, said “Good change, Good change!”

      But I digress. Finally, I located a source that knew that the current Pope is actually Francis( formerly known as Cardinal Jorge Mario Bergoglio, named after one of the Mario Brothers.) His new name was taken from a Francis who lived a long time ago and was a sissy. So our predicament -- Tony’s and mine -- is not so unusual, having names that are a problem for us. We can take heart. Here are some other examples: No one knows if “Al” in Al Qaeda is short for Albert or Alan or Allehu Akbar, but Al always seems like the name of a regular guy. Years ago Texas Governor Jim Hogg had a daughter Ima but not one named Ura(an urban legend.)(Wikipedia)

      New Jersey Governor Chris Christie is often called “Cris Crispy” by news anchors. Being confused with a donut hasn't stopped him.  Imminent Supreme Court Justice Felix Frankfurter, if you translate his name, comes out Happy Hotdog. Is there any name more lacking in charisma, charm, or pizzazz than “Donald Duck”, a featureless name for a forgettable fowl(Mr. Duck, fortunately, brings to the big screen a great deal of personality.)

      What about Hillary Clinton? If she lived in ancient Rome, she would have been known as Hilarius if she were a boy and Hilaria if a girl. I don’t know which is funnier. What about the President of China, Hu Jintao. If he’s not careful, someone might think he’s a big man in a Buddhist sect(Huge in Tao) or a high roller in a Nevado Lake casino(Huge in Tahoe), or both(I wonder if someone is teaching Zen secrets for Texas Hold 'em in a monastery in Tibet.).  And he certainly suffers from the compulsion many people feel when they hear his name and want to know, “Who’s on first -- at the Chinese Communist Party Talent Show?”

      “Hu’s on first.“

      “What are you asking me for?“

      “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you: Hu is on first!”

      “Look, all I want to know is, what’s the name of the guy on first, at the Chinese Communist Party 'Shanghai Has Talent' Competition?"

      “No, Wat was not invited. He’s a lower ranking official. We’re not talking about him.”

      “So who is on first?“

      “Right.“

      “Who is?“

      “Well, that’s the man’s name.”

      “Who’s name?”

      “Yes.”

      “Look, all I’m asking you is, what’s the name of the guy on first?”

      “No, Wat’s not here.”

      “I’m not asking you, who’s here.”

      “Well, yes, Hu’s here, and he’s on first.”

      “Who is?”

      “Correct.”

       I also read that Mr. Hu was replaced in the Chinese Communist party by a fellow named Xi Whiz, “Whiz” being a nickname. Finally, no youngster on the Texas Gulf Coast where I grew up, would ever want to be caught in a conversation like this:

      “Who is that Russian President fellow your mama’s talking to over there?”

      “He’s Vladimir Putin.“

      “Just pretend you don't notice. Vladimir probably didn’t know the chili would be so spicy.”

      So Mr. Weiner and I are not alone in having been challenged to rise above difficult names. But, as you see, many people equally handicapped as he and I have done great things. I wish him all the luck in the world.
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"Jesus in the Out-of this-World Series"

 

"Jesus in the Out-of-this-World Series"

      From The Bible, The Book of Luke, Chapter 10

      Verse 18 of Chapter 10 gave me a chuckle not long ago. When I read about Jesus talking with "The Seventy" concerning their casting out demons, I imagined a baseball great like Albert Pujols standing around talking with some prospects from the minor league Memphis Redbirds as they bragged about their hitting:

      Prospect #1(Excited): “Mr. Pujols, I jacked one out in Nashville last week!“

      Prospect #2(overjoyed): “Sir, I flew around the bags in a triple against the Omaha Storm Chasers!"

      Future Hall of Famer Pujols: “Yeah, good job.  It's a wonderful game we all play.  You know, I was once blessed to hit a two-run game winning homer off Justin Verlander of the Tigers in the 2006 World Series, which we won in five games .”

      Background: It seems Jesus had sent out seventy-two disciples to Judea, the area surrounding Jerusalem. He told them they were going out in power but like “lambs among wolves”. They were not to take a wallet or extra shoes and not to say Hi to anyone on the road. They were to pray peace on people and towns, to heal the sick, to overcome the enemy’s power, and to deliver the message that the Kingdom of God is near. These seventy-two minor leaguers came back bragging about how the demons took orders from them in the name of Jesus. In response, the all-time Heavenly Big league MVP -- Jesus -- said, “I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven.”(Luke 10:18, NIV)

      In my own mix of baseball vernacular and Looneytunes wisecrack, I would paraphrase Him thus, “You all been doing a mighty good job of unstoppering and snuffing out little demons here and there, and I'm proud of you; but I saw The Mighty Serpent himself crash in flames, with afterburners smoking and sputtering ... all the way down: 'Pffft - choke - Pffft - Pffft - Gasp - Pffft - Pffft- wheeze - Pffft - Kthud!'”(like Wile E. Coyote on rocket shoes off a cliff.)

      Jesus went on to say, though, that the most important thing was not that demons obeyed their commands but that they had a home in eternity.  Or in my baseball paraphrase, "Calm down about your hits in the minors; get excited about your future in the majors."
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"Sniggerlings"(Petard or not Petard)

Sniggerlings(Petard or not Petard)

      Last Sniggerlings post I explained my dilemma. I am like Jack Cole, the Thomas Haden Church character in Sideways, whose dilemma was that he couldn’t stop chasing sexual adventures even though he knew they were going to get him into trouble. They used to call this satyriasis. I call my affliction satire-iasis: I can’t stop seeing the silliness of creation. I don’t resist writing down funny lines when I hear them or avoid shoving dissimilar things at each other to see the fun pop out. I am an addicted iconoclast: I have an irresistible urge to let the air out of windbags and martyrs, and me.

      I think I inherited this from Woody Allen or at least Woody Allen movies. It’s hard to see how a New York Jew could pass down this terrible gene to a California hillbilly. But you never know…. My mother was in show business.

      As it happens, sometimes the fruit of my affliction is a long essay, sometimes a short paragraph. The short ones I’m going to call “Sniggerlings”, and I’m going to run a blog page with several of these until I am satisfied(about 800 words in all.) And then move on. Not every funny idea becomes Babbitt or Please Don’t eat the Daisies or Lysistrata. I’ll append a new one on the old page until it’s time to go. Here’s an example of a Sniggerling I can’t let go of:


      On my Tollteller blog page(tollteller.blogspot.com), I recently wrote a post titled “The Strange Case of Thomas Beatie”, about a transgender wo/man who had some of the operations to achieve her/his gender change goal but not all, then married a woman in Hawaii (where same sex marriage is legal) who couldn’t have children, even with artificial insemination.

      Thomas Beatie(now known as The First Man to Give Birth) then gave birth her/himself to three kids, moved his family to dusty Arizona(where same sex marriage is illegal and divorce cannot be granted to two people who aren‘t legally married), obtained a new girlfriend, and applied for a divorce. S/he was refused, and now her/his biggest worry is that her/his children in Arizona with her/his estranged wife will think that perhaps s/he is not really their “father”. Yes, yes, it’s sad. But at some point I also want to giggle. Does “hoist on Her/his own petard” seem relevant somehow?(I wonder if s/he had a petard-ectomy)  And Beatie seems to think it’s all Arizona’s fault.

      My degradation over chuckling at this incredible situation recently increased when I opened my copy of The Beginnings of Western Science(which I am reading) by Professor David C. Lindbergh, Hilldale Professor of the History of Science at the University of Wisconsin(University of Chicago Press 1992). There I saw on page 142 an illustration from Pliny’s Natural History (circa 60 A.D.) entitled “Pliny’s Monstrous Races”. Therein are creatures that Pliny the Elder(a Roman science writer) supposed to have existed at that time, with headless torsos bearing faces, one-legged figures, and people with heads of animals and hooves for feet.   One or two looked like my addled imagination conceives poor Mr/s. Beatie must look. Miserable wretch that I am.

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"Sniggerlings"

"Sniggerlings"

      I have a million wise-ass comments that come to me during the day like profanity to a victim of Tourette’s Syndrome. My affliction includes a rare form of coprolalia in which I’ll suddenly shout a two-bit punchline that makes me laugh. Then I have a very minor seizure and I’m fine until the next time. My wife takes these in good humor and actually laughs occasionally, although never when the subject of my eruption is her family.

      I call these “sniggerlings”. For those whose primary language is not English, I apologize and humbly suggest that working through some of these annoying comments to arrive at some meaning(even if not what I thought I meant) may expand your English somewhat beyond what you can find in English language textbooks, or even a good dictionary. “Snigger” is a word you don’t hear much in America any more. It’s caught, however, in some fetid cavity of my brain, and I, at least, still have a relationship with the word. My The American Heritage Dictionary says it comes from the word “snicker”, which is not the Mars candy bar because the word snicker doesn’t start with a capital “S“. The original formula for the Mars Snickers candy bar required a capital “S” before nicker and was so copyrighted. A “nicker”, says my dictionary, is a soft neigh. A neigh is a horse’s comment or the expletive of a disagreeing politician. Why the Mars people put a capital “S” in front of a horse’s neigh is anybody’s guess.

      But I digress.

      “-lings” is an Old English/Middle English suffix, meaning “one that is connected with” or “one that is young, small, or inferior”(I can just hear some of you asking yourselves, “Old” English? How "old" is this guy?”). Some words ending in “-ling” include “halfling”(from Lord of the Rings -- Tolkien's field was Old English), underling, Ling-ling(a dead Panda), duckling, and Ringling(as in Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus.). The little “s" is plural. Q.E.D., we arrive at “Sniggerlings”

      Here’s an example:

       Recently, I wrote an essay entitled “Mikey Likes My Salami”. I said I was happy because Mikey the cat likes my cheap coldcut too, so my wife would let me keep it for sandwiches. Unfortunately, now my salami has holes in it, and all that’s sometimes left, with which to launch my lunch, is a (salami) ring and a prayer.

      I hope that was all worth it. Smile: A grinling is better than a somberling or, God forbid, a tearlet. Consider what it cost you.

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"Riders of the Purple Sage"

 

Riders of the Purple Sage

      Last week, I went looking for something light and fun to read and didn’t have too much in my library of that ilk, that I had not already read. So, I grabbed a Crown Publications collection of novels by the famous western author, Zane Grey. I started reading Riders of the Purple Sage, a book written in 1912 -- the same year as the Titanic and the birth of Kim Il Sung of North Korea(synchronicity! For some reason that year, 1912 -- 101 years ago -- keeps coming up lately.) The novel started a little slow, but within a few pages I was into it. Later I really liked it.

      What is a Zane Grey? Sounds like the wallpaint at a mental hospital, doesn’t it? Actually, Zane Grey is the author of what some consider the greatest western novel ever written, the afore-mentioned Riders of the Purple Sage. Before there was Louis L’Amour and “The Sacketts“(you‘re welcome, Tom Selleck); or Charles Portis and True Grit(Shout out to John Wayne and Jeff Bridges); or Larry McMurtry and Lonesome Dove(Hey, Robert Duvall); there was Zane Grey and the purple sage(Howdy, Tom Mix and Ed Harris.) It’s been made into a movie five times since it was published.

      The novel is a western, but to me it’s more of a Chick book(“Hotty Hardback” doesn‘t sound quite right somehow.) For example, the Riders of the Purple Sage are not specifically cowboys; the only place in the book where people are called “Riders of the Purple Sage” is when the gunman Venters and his girlfriend Beth leave Surprise Valley to outrun the rustlers and the evil Mormon Tull to get to freedom and be married. Another example of Grey's softpedaling adventure for romance would be where the gunfight action occurs. Almost always, the gunfighting -- and there’s plenty of shooting and killing -- happens outside the story line and is told by a witness. My guess is these were more pacifist times before World War I and people would have been shocked by the violence, even in a book. There’s lots of long, romantic, mushy sentences(Grey doesn’t apologize for being a romantic and wrote, “People live for the dream in their hearts.”)

      The women are wonderful, sometimes saints, sometimes misled, sometimes innocent, almost always having sacrificed their romantic dreams for their religion, Mormonism. As you can see, Mormonism comes off very bad. The most Grey can say positively is that one of his characters has met a Mormon or two who are okay. Also, one Mormon rider returns to work for Jane Withersteen -- of many Mormon hired hands and eavesdropping household servants who have abandoned her in obedience to the Church. You see, Jane has refused to marry the Mormon Tull and has helped poor Gentiles(non-Mormons) in the area with food and jobs. Therefore, the local Mormon Church has hatched a plan to take the young heiress’ ranch by stampeding her cattle and stealing her beloved black Arabians, Night and Black Star. The faithful Mormon rider who returns is murdered by assassins hired by the church.

      Jane’s refusal to marry a man she did not love occurs in the context of Polygamy, which is a way of life in the novel. This practice is led by the local Mormon bishop, Dyer, who has run off and then abandoned the sister of the black-clad, Mormon-killer Lassiter, and given away her baby daughter. Grey has a scene where the four Mormon wives of Bishop Dyer try to get Jane Withersteen to marry Tull, conceding that the choice is between marrying for love and thus going to Hell, or living a sad life of obedience to the Church as slaves to their Mormon husbands. It is clear Zane Grey considers Mormon women saints for what they put up with from their Mormon men, and he does not believe that the choice the Church gives Mormon women is from God. In a time of “Marriage Equality”, when same-sex marriage as well as polygamous marriage, incestuous marriage, and man-child marriage are being or will be tested in court, the concerns Grey discusses are sobering.

      This novel is best -- and wonderful -- when Grey is describing the land of Southern Utah, the mountains, valleys, storms, sage, trees, flowers. He says he prefers to write descriptions and then fill them with peoples‘ stories. As a result, the land he pictures is amazing. Also, he is magnificent in his telling of horses and riders racing over the hills and trails. Thrilling is Venters on the big sorrel Wrangle chasing down the Mormon gang leader Jerry Card who switches from one black Arabian(Night) to the other(Black Star) to try and outrun his pursuer:

      “Now, Wrangle!‘ cried Venters. “Run, you big devil! Run!

      …Cruelly he struck his spurs into Wrangle’s flanks. A light touch of spur was sufficient to make Wrangle plunge. And now, with a ringing, wild snort, he seemed to double up in muscular convulsions and to shoot forward with an impetus that almost unseated Venters. The sage blurred by, the trail flashed by, and the wind robbed him of breath and hearing. Jerry Card turned once more. And the way he shifted to Black Star showed he had to make his last desperate running. Venters aimed to the side of the trail and sent a bullet puffing the dust beyond Jerry.… For a mile, with Black Star leaving Night behind and doing his utmost, Wrangle did not gain; for another mile he gained little, if at all. In the third he caught up with the now galloping Night and began to gain rapidly on the other black[Black Star].”

      There’s a famous horse race scene in Anna Kerenina by Russian author Leo Tolstoy in which Count Vronsky, Anna’s lover, is thrown from his horse when his mount breaks its back and Anna runs to his side, leaving her husband in the stands, embarrassed. Tolstoy’s scene is a classic; I like Zane Grey’s racing horses better.

      Give this novel a try. I had fun and want to read the sequel.

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"A Needle Filled with Nothin'"

 

A Needle Filled with Nothin'    

     The usual “Fella-goes-into-a …” joke might start like this:

     “Fella walks into a bar and ankles up to the counter. ‘Bartender,’ says he (with a stutter), ‘I’ll h-have a t-tall, cold glass of S-Septic S-Sweat light, and m-make it s-snappy!”

     ‘S-sure,’ says the bartender, also with a stutter, ’C-coming right up.” The barkeep goes to get the beer. As he’s pouring the beer in a glass from the tap, the thirsty fella is thinking it over.

     Then he says, ‘S-Say, are you making f-fun of the way I t-talk?’

     “N-no way. No s-sir!” says the guy behind the bar.

     ‘Well, o-k-kay.” Reluctantly the customer decides to let it go. A pretty blonde comes into the bar.

     “Bartender,”

     ‘Yes ma’am.’

     ‘I’d like a tall cool glass of mellow Septic Sweat Light.” She has a deep, sexy, female voice.
In a deep, sexy, male voice the barkeep says, ‘It’ll just take a second, ma’am.”

     Immediately, the first customer calls the guy behind the counter over to him and gets in his face, ‘You w-were, too, you were, t-too making f-fun of m-me!’

     The bartender whispers in the first man’s ear, ‘I w-was not! I was n-not making f-fun of you! I w-was making fun of h-her!“

     That’s how it should go, but …

     This is how it went. A fella(me) goes into Emergency at Riverside County Regional Medical Center. The lady behind the window says, “What’s up?”

     I say, “Chest pains and very fat.” My wife is with me.

     So, okay, I’m in for a listen to my chest and an ekg. They musta figured I wasn ‘t too bad off, so they sits me in the waiting room for six hours. Later that night, they find I’m still alive, so they puts me in a room with a woman in pain but allergic to morphine. I am tempted to offer to take the morphine for her -- I‘m that kinda guy, you know. And it’s not bad stuff, but my wife is with me, so I stifles my instinct to be a wise guy.  Not for long, though

     A little later, a pretty nurse comes in and sticks an IV in my arm. I asks her, ’What’s it for? What you gonna put in me?”

     She says, “Nothing. It’s just in case.”

     So I says, “Okay, I’ll probably be better off with a few cc's of nothing’ in me. My doctor says it’s the too much something in me that’s my biggest problem.” Actually, my doctor doesn’t say much about it any more; probably thinks it’s a waste of time. Besides, he’s Moslem, and I think he’s already earned Paradise by helping me. It’s one of the five pillars of Islam, helping the hopeless wise guy.

     The nurse might have thought I was flirting with her, but I wasn’t. My wife is small, but the way I sees it, she could have taken the nurse in the top of the second round even with one rubber glove tied behind her. You know, after all the needles I see that day, now that I think of it, I’d much rather be the victim of a hyperdermic needle than the kind they always come at me with. The other style -- hypo -- kinda gets under my skin, if you know what I mean.

      As I’m lyin’ on the gurney with nothing else to do but listen to the beep beep beep, I starts to think: I wonder if hippos get hippodermics or the silent Marx brother got a Harpodermic?

     Anyway, they walks me over for an xray. Then they loses me in the Nurse’s station, but -- hey, nobody tells me I’m lost.

     While I’m sitting there, feeling kinda out of it, a cute blonde with a wrapped up foot sits down next to me and starts telling me her life story. Seems she works for some old geezer as a home health aide, but the help he wants(and gets) occurs when both of them are under the sheets. What can a girl do? You gotta have a job, right? I figure, another casualty of Obamacare. By the way, she says, she’s single and looking for the right guy.

     Suddenly, I get the idea I might be lost. So I asks, and I am lost! I finds my wife with some help and listens to the old lady in the bed on the other side of the curtain, snoring from whatever they gave her that was better than morphine. Later the doctor wakes her up to ask her about the infection in the wound she has for her colostomy bag. She says her doctor took three years to tell her she had cancer, and by then she had to have all her insides out. But it’s okay; it doesn’t hurt right now.

     Then a pretty doctor tells me they can’t find nothing’ wrong with me(my wife did not make a face at this.) The doctor asks do I want to go home. I says sure.

     So here I am at home. And I’m happy, because it doesn’t hurt right now. But I’m wondering was somebody making fun of me?
mm

"Life and Death, but No Taxes"

Life and Death, but No Taxes

       Went to the Senior Center to have our taxes looked at by AARP. I am a Senior Citizen, but Sandy is not(no way, no how -- still young!) No taxes due. Good. No refundable credits, exemptions, or deductions -- so getting nothing back(so much for that Republican claim that low income people get tons of money back -- on the other hand, where is the money going?) Not altogether bad. I might have got some money back if I were blind or older, but -- thank God -- I’m not. With Food Stamps we have enough to eat(probably too much when my doctor weighs me next month.) With Riverside County Health Care we have medical coverage. Sandy and I are taking a free computer class at the downtown library. Thanks for all three to the generous people of California. We have a nice park down the street and a car that runs. We are truly blessed. I can hear Steve Martin in the movie “Leap of Faith” saying with me, “Thankya, Jesus!”

       P.S., we asked our AARP tax preparer at the Senior Center whether we should submit our 1040A to the IRS or not. He said certainly not, since we make so little it would only annoy them.  Now there‘s an Anarchist slogan: “Screw the IRS -- Be poor, but report it!"



        We went to Flo's, a local restaurant in Riverside, which specializes in traditional American home cooking.  However, the waiter -- who is a fine, hardworking fellow -- has a bit of a Mexican accent, not unusual, even normal in our part of Riverside.  Plus, his idea of spicy salsa and mine don't seem to be compatible.  I was, however, taken aback when, after I had ordered a dinner salad, he looked at me and asked, "Do you need carcass with your salad?"

        Like I say, I often talk to people with Mexican accents(and they talk to people with Texas accents like me, as well), but it took me a couple of seconds of thinking this one through to realize he had asked if I wanted 'crackers'.  I suppose I could have said, "I are one", but I just said no. 

         This was not the first time I ran into trouble with crackers. I remember being in a restaurant in downtown Houston when I was eighteen with my little brother and a Mexican-American friend, Ricky. The restaurant was what was called in those days a “greasy spoon“, specializing in chili. Our friend offered to pay for our lunch, so we ordered chili(what else?) He assured us his mother made better chili at home.

         We were having a good time when, being gringos, we totally embarrassed our friend by crumbling up crackers in the chili. Ricardo practically jumped out of his chair and lectured us for ten minutes on the social ineptitude of a person adding crackers to chili that way. He was probably right and we remain friends to this day, but we were warned how to fake not being gringos right off the turnip truck, when we next visited his mother’s table.
mm

"Mikey Likes my Salami"

"Mikey Likes my Salami"

     At Dollar Tree, a small chain of stores that feature no price other than $1, I often buy $1 worth of Bar S Salami. This is the partial culmination of a years long search for a lunchmeat I could stand to eat. Unfortunately, I remember the old days(before Richard Nixon) when bologna tasted good and looked yummy, especially fried bologna. They used to put spices in it, like it actually came from the city in Italy that it was named for -- Bologna, Italy(like frankfurters from Frankfurt, Germany; hamburgers from Hamburg, Germany; Parmesian cheese from Parma, Italy; and nice girls from Nice, France.)  With Miracle Whip on Wonder Bread: mm-mm-mm-mm-mm! Add Twinkies and an ice cold glass bottle of Grape Nehi or Dr. Pepper, a feast!

     But the baloney they have now is made of chicken lips and meat byproducts with the FDA approved maximum of insect parts and rodent feces -- and tastes like silly putty used to. Yes, I was a connoisseur of flavorless toys(Here’s a hint -- avoid Playdough and white paste also; they smell great but taste bad. Also, don‘t chew on Barbi‘s toes -- people won't let you play with their children after that.)

     As I was saying, these baloneys today have no spices or savory appearance, as if they were flavored with, and colored by, paint the same hue and taste as sand dunes near Marrakesh. So, I’ve been searching, and I found the above-mentioned coldcut, which is not bad, and inexpensive, although it seems to spoil easily. Still made of chicken beaks and turkey ears, but it has some taste.  I didn’t know whether my wife, Sandy, would let me buy it without a discouraging word, until the day I opened the leftovers package and found holes in a slice. It seems she’d been feeding it to her cat, Mikey, and Mikey likes it, too(anybody remember the old commercial, “He won’t eat it. He hates everything”? Note: Mikey the cat is a ‘she‘.)

     So, thanks to Mikey, I knew there would never be a word said. I could keep my salami. Now I’m searching for Ice Cream that is just … Ice Cream.  mm

p.s., I recently found out Mikey likes classic Spam, too.  We may have more in common than I thought..m

"Take Me to your Liter"

"Take Me to Your Liter"

Chuckleworthy?

       A few weeks ago, my wife and I went to Happy Buffet, a Chinese stuff-atorium that pits the diner against the management in a contest to see if the consumer can eat as much as he can spend. They always win, but the Happy Buffet often makes us happy, anyway. That was a good day. On our way out, we passed by the fish tank wherein fifteen to twenty hungry koi cohabitate. It’s like a pond on the floor opposite the cash register, ten feet by six feet. The friendly koi will follow you along the side of the pool, hoping for food. Management used to sell a pinch of koi food in a nearby vending machine for twenty-five cents. The machine is gone now, but I imagine that if the buffet food is too spicy or undercooked, you might toss it in the tank and the fish would appreciate it as well. As I said, friendly fish.

       But apparently there are villains who eat at Happy Buffet, just like us. I guess villains want to be happy every once in a while, too. They probably need it more than the guys in the white hats; after all, it’s only a happy ending for the good guys. It’s not very happy for the guys who got boo-ed. After a long day of being chased, and losing the girl to some halfwit in tight jeans and a white ten gallon hat; evil geniuses, misunderstood adolescents, and the framed innocent could use a little Happy Buffet. Mr. Lee Kim and the rest of the staff are evil-neutral.

       You might ask, how did I know there were such evildoers frequenting the restaurant? Because the fish pond had a warning sign above it. No, the sign didn’t say “No Fishing” or “No Tickee No washee” or “Watch for bones“. It said “Do not touch. Do not liter.”

       I took them at their word. As a retired English instructor, I had corrected one of their signs before, but they ignored me with an inscrutable Oriental smile and nod, as if to say, “Stupid Occidental(westerner), we pay extra yen for good sign with wrong words.” It’s true I did have the urge to liter, but, after all, I am a civilized person(here-here.) Also, I don’t think my bladder contained a full liter at that time. So we passed by the voracious creatures without stopping(you‘d think there‘s probably an underwater sign in Fin-nish, warning other pond creatures to stay away from warm streams of yellow fountain water.)

       When I got home, being curious, I turned to Google and asked how much fluid the average bladder contained “when at full capacity“. I was interested to see that the answer I got back was last updated September 7, 2007. The guy must surely be an expert on full bladders by now. The Google response also warned me to “Report Abuse”. I think that was a plea for help from the responder after having sat with his legs crossed and knees shaking for six years.

       What was the answer, you ask, no doubt having a bladder of your own? 500 ml or half a liter is capacity. 300 ml, however, is enough to trigger the need to go winky-tink. I remember picking up Wired by Bob Woodward, about the death of John Belushi, and reading that when the comedian was autopsied, his bladder held(according to my recollection) five times the normal amount of fluid, I’d guess 1500 ml. If he had not been high, he would have been in excruciating pain. Funny how drugs warp your judgment. “Man, I got to go! Wait, let me shoot up first. That’ll take care of it.”

       Full capacity -- 500 ml or about a pint. When I got this answer, I was also referred to a website where I was told I could “find full capacity at Target.” I think they were referring me to washers and dryers.

       Later that night, I revealed all this to my dear wife, Sandy. She hears about a lot of my misadventures. She listened patiently to me, then she seemed to feel the need for some time alone.Heehee

"The Friday Night Fights are on the Air!"

"A merrie heart doth good like a medicine: but a broken spirit drieth the bones."

 
       When I was a kid in the Sixties, I learned to love boxing. Boxing was called the sweet science, in those days. I learned to feel that way because every Friday night in prime time, for free, a TV show called “The Friday Night Fights” would air. Usually, I wouldn’t know the fellas who populated the televised ring -- a cast of young, up-and-coming athletes; fighters in their prime; and tired has-beens to fill a card. But the fights were free! And I learned to look forward to hearing, “The Friday Night Fights are on the Air!” I was not alone; you can find many references to watching the fights on home TV if you watch I Love Lucy(Ricky and Fred did it), or The Flintstones(Fred and Barney did it), or The Honeymooners(Ralph and Norton did it -- without a Fred.)

       And the best thing about it was I met great fighters and great men in the ring. Guys like Floyd Patterson with the “peekaboo” style(a black American boxer who defeated Ingemar Johansson of Sweden for the world title, right in my living room!) and Smokin’ Joe Frazier and huge George Foreman and “I am the Greates’” Cassius Marcellus Clay(so named when he beat Sonny Liston in 1964, a fight referred to on The Dick Van Dyke Show), who later changed his name to Muhammad Ali. Again, these fights were televised in prime time on national TV and were big events, like the Super Bowl or the World Series. I think that’s one reason Ali became as well known as he became. His greatness was there for everyone to see.

       Then, boxing began selling tickets in pay-per-view, closed circuit theatres, and the fights became the property of those who could afford them. I lost track. Until, many years later some generous friends paid for my wife and me to see a fight in which one fighter, Mike Tyson, bit off the ear of another, Evander Holyfield. The fights weren’t what they used to be.

       That’s the last fight I saw on TV. So you can imagine how I was reminded of those exciting days of my youth, when I ran across a headline from a Yahoo news report: “Neighbor tells what happened in the Martin-Zimmerman fight.” Immediately, I was transported to my youth, and I tried to rack my brain to remember two recent fighters named Martin and Zimmerman before I turned to the article to read about the action in the ring. Sadly, I soon realized that Yahoo had been talking about that unfortunate killing in Florida. I wish that fight had never happened.mm