Nakedmanatee's Blog o' Mirth.

In which one man, through a series of holistic misadventures, attempts to break the barriers that hinder communication using only a computer, a handful of Wheat Thins--sun-dried tomato flavor, and the Talking Heads CD, "More Songs About Buildings and Food." Guest starring Rita Moreno as herself.

Thursday, June 29, 2006

How Well Do You Know Jesus?

Here is a quiz. How well do you know the words of Jesus? On Judgement Day, you might just get a quiz like this, so if I were you, I'd start studying, sinner. I've grouped 4 quotes in clusters. In each group, 3 of the 4 quotes are MADE UP. Only ONE quote in each group has come from Jesus. Do you know which one? Think carefully, foolish one.

1.
a. "Get behind me, Satan."
b. "Suffer the little children in Hell."
c. "Who wants fish?"
d. "Thou oils truly are refreshing on my feet."

2.
a. "Ye shall know the Pharisees by the length of their beards..."
b. "Take heed and beware of the leaven of the Pharisees..."
c. "The sins of whores interest me..."
d. "Lo, I am Jesus and I am here to rockest thou."

3.
a. "The wrath of the hungry bear shall be loosed upon the Israelites..."
b. "A drunken man has a better chance of entering Heaven than a sober man..."
c. "Hell is for children."
d. "And he shall rule them with a rod of iron..."

4.
a. "As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten..."
b. "Thou art so vain, thou probably thinkest this song is about thee..."
c. "Hold thy tongues in the presence of the Lord."
d. "He who is without arms, cast the first stone."

5.
a. "When I look upon thee, I am filled with a great loathing."
b. "The baptism of John, was it from heaven, or of men?"
c. "Spare the cross and spoil the children."
d. "Whosoever looks upon another with lust in his eye, looketh upon me."

6.
a. "I am a rock. I am an island."
b. "Verily, I crave gelato."
c. "I have meat to eat that ye know not of."
d. "The Rabbi that weareth many robes hideth many chest hairs."

7.
a. "Why do ye not understand my speech?"
b. "Imagine there is no heaven; it's easy if you try."
c. "Bring me thy whores; they shall comfort me."
d. "Peter, go forth and batheth. Thou art offensive to thine Lord."

8.
a. "Do you know what that's worth? Heaven is a place on earth."
b. "Woe unto thee, Chorazin!"
c. "The prayer of many is wearisome to God."
d. "Beware the flaming sword of Jehovah!"

9.
a. "God dislikes the unclean."
b. "Shew me the tribute money."
c. "Tough crowd."
d. "The keys to the kingdom of Heaven are hidden somewhere in my robe."

10.
a. "Thy nipples are hard with righteousness, oh saucy one."
b. "And I will kill her children with death...”
c. "How many roads must a man walk down, before you call him a man?"
d. "I have prepared a feast for thee. I hope thou likest Frito Casserole."

Monday, June 26, 2006

A Prairie Home Companion


This isn't an easy movie to review. I've been looking forward to it all year and I enjoyed it, but I can't really recommend it, unless you're already a fan of either director Robert Altman and/or radio show host/author Garrison Keillor. Which are two very specific types of audiences. If you're curious it certainly wouldn't hurt to rent one of Altman's sprawling mundane epics, such as "Nashville" or "Short Cuts." Or, at the very least, heading on over to Prairiehome.publicradio.org should lead you to an episode of their weekly radio show. Now, it's not necessary to do either one of these things to understand the movie, but as a precaution, you should know the type of entertainment that you're getting yourself into. Because neither Altman or Keillor are like anything else out there.

Perhaps a description of the radio show is in order. A Prairie Home Companion--the radio show-- is a public radio fixture; an unoffensive mix of comedy sketches, gospel/Americana music, and that most archaic form of entertainment--storytelling. And you'd be hard-pressed to find a more genuinely gifted storyteller than Garrison Keillor. He has a face that reminds you of Droopy Dog and a soothing voice reminescent of a midwestern Frasier Crane. He's a skilled writer as well, and while his books sell just fine, it's hard to divorce his stories from that deep, resonanting voice of comfort that encapsulates warmth, intelligence, and compassion. He's the perfect radio star. There's really no one else like him. Keillor is to radio like Michael Jordon is to basketball.

So it's an interesting gamble to pair the storytelling strengths of Keillor with the directing skills of Robert Altman. Altman's films, when working, have been praised for their near-rebellious sense of inventiveness and improvisation. However, one does not go to an Altman flick out of a desire to follow a compelling narrative. Story, has always been incidental to Altman. Character, cinema verite dialogue, and a directing style that verges on eavesdropping have always been Altman hallmarks. He may be using the same canvas as other filmmakers, but he's not interested in using the same pallette of colors--at least in the same ways as they have been done before. It's all about finding the moment, instead of creating it. It could be argued that he isn't even making films in the traditional sense...he's making *impressions*.

Which brings us to the merging of these two disparate styles. Strangely, the movie does work in spite of these differences. But it works more as an Altman film than a filmed radio show. Whether or not that is a good thing is a value judgement depending on your preference. Keillor's best moments are when the viewer gets to experience the most undiluted aspects of the radio show... his snappy introductions, the gorgeous, heartfelt music, the gently teasing odes to radio the way it used to be--the powdered milk jingles, the introduction song to the show, etc. Altman's style doesn't overwhelm Keillor's storytelling skills, but they definitely get transmuted at some point... Not necessarily to the detriment of the film, however. For the film, it becomes a nice, jazzy duet that could only be created by these two artists.

The cast is game for the requiste improvisations, which are inherent in an Altman film. Meryl Streep gives another honest performance, transforming herself into an unaffected Midwestern mother, both vulnerable and funny. Lily Tomlin, an Altman veteran, meanders in and out of the script with considerable skill. And any film where Lindsay Lohan and Garrison Keillor manage to share an authentic on-screen rapport has got to be doing something right.

So, in the end, this is a mixed review. For fans of Altman or Keillor, I'd give it 3 stars and say, absolutely, go see it. It works. Mostly. Everyone else... Well, a Robert Altman film can be off-putting. Let's face it... The guy demands you go into the film with a little bit of patience. Meandering is putting it nicely. However, it's important to note, that Keillor, when he's on top of his game makes meandering quite entertaining. The actual radio show is enormously entertaining and is such an apex of radio programming, that it is no wonder that the film almost seems superfluous at this point. Only radio could do this type of gentle nostalgia. The movie and the radio show offer simple pleasures. They do not offer huge belly laughs, exploding cars, or sexual situations. You have to admire the restraint of any film with Lindsay Lohan that does not show any skin besides her hands and face. What does the film offer then? It offers a dry, gentle wit that is not interested in sarcastic venom. It teases as well as venerates Americana. It is charming and pleasant at a time when those two virtues are a rarity. If this interests you, listen to the radio show. If you're still interested, watch the movie.

61 Reasons I Love Movies


These are numbered, but really I don't have them ranked, per se. It's mainly just an organizational device!


1.) In "Nights of Cabiria" the incomparable Giulietta Masina is hypnotized into thinking she is in love in a powerfully vulnerable scene that becomes a symbol for love itself in all of its beauty and humiliation.

2.)Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction tracing an outline of a square right on the screen in a playful breaking of the fourth wall that reminds us that movies still have the power to surprise.

3.) Ewan McGregor and Nicole Kidman dancing on the clouds in Moulin Rouge while Ewan sings "Your Song." And oh yeah, the moon sings along. The moon!

4.) The creepy canibalistic toys in Toy Story.

5.)Peter O'Toole going back into the desert for the one man left behind in "Lawrence of Arabia."

6.) Warren Beatty trying to convince the vultures that Dustin Hoffman isn't dead in "Ishtar."

7.)The opening credits of "Apocalypse Now."

8.)The closing credits of M*A*S*H.

9.)"Scully... RUN!" Swarms of bees mass over Mulder and Scully in a great tense and kinetic moment.

10.)Jack Nicholson explaining the Donner party to his son in "The Shining."

11.)The jazzy, irrereverent music that propels "Get Shorty."

12.)John Travolta meeting Bruce Willis in "Pulp Fiction" and calling him a "palooka," as if to serve him notice, in this meeting of on-screen movie stars, that he was a big deal way before him.

13.) Kevin Costner poetically attempting suicide in the opening of "Dances With Wolves."

14.)The last two minutes of "Back to the Future" where Doc Brown returns in the DeLorean, which can now, to Marty's surprise, fly.

15.)Robert Deniro pressuring Joe Pesci to hit him in "Raging Bull."

16.)"You shoulda looked out for me a little, Charlie." Marlon Brando confronts his brother in "On the Waterfront."

17.)That huge-ass boulder in "Raiders."

18.)The amnesiac father remembering his daughter in "A Little Princess."

19.)A really fun mudslide for Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner in "Romancing the Stone."

20.)Steve Martin conversing with a freeway sign in "L.A. Story."

21.)"You have no idea." Jeremey Irons playfully teasing his lawyer in "Reversal of Fortune."

22.)Bill Murray and the electroshock psychic test in "Ghostbusters."

23.)Jack Nicholson triumphantly reveling in the make-believe baseball game in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest."

24.)Jimmy Stewart's filibuster in "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington."

25.) Adam Sandler making a poor choice by going back to work too soon after being dumped in "The Wedding Singer."

26.) A bone thrown into the air by the primates in "2001" fades into an image of the spaceship.

27.)"There's no crying in baseball!" Tom Hanks explains the finer points of the game.

28.)Tom Cruise and Willem Defoe fight each other in wheelchairs in "Born on the Fourth of July."

29.)Kevin Spacey finds a way to get a nice severance package in "American Beauty."

30.)Carol Ann speaking through the staticy television in "Poltergeist."

31.)Holy water squirt guns in "The Lost Boys."

32.)"I'm walkin' here!" Dustin Hoffman screaming at a cab in "Midnight Cowboy," later echoed in "Forrest Gump" by Gary Sinise.

33.)Sigourney Weaver in that forklift walker thingy at the end of "Aliens."

34.)Michael Keaton talking into a tape recorder in "Night Shift." "Edible paper!"

35.)Gene Kelly dancing and singing "I Got Rhythm" with the French kids in "An American in Paris."

36.)Cate Blanchett freaking out when considering taking the ring in "Lord of the Rings."

37.)The fight to the finish in the attic at the end of "War of the Roses."

38.)Arthur's drunken dinner with a prostitute in "Arthur."

39.) The IKEA catalog come to life in "Fight Club."

40.)Charlie Sheen breaking down at being arrested in "Wall Street."

41.) Lloyd Dobler with a boombox.

42.)The Raising Arizona theme music.

43.)The final heartbreaking two minutes of "All Quiet on the Western Front."

44.) Julie Andrews teaching the Von Trapp kids how to sing in the space of one song.

45.)"Turn into the spin, Barbie!" Sound advice from Hamm to Barbie in "Toy Story 2."

46.)Kneel before Zod!" General Zod, not mincing words in "Superman 2."

47.)Alan Rickman reading Bruce Willis' note in Die Hard: "Now I have a machine gun. Ho. Ho. Ho."

48.)What Kevin Costner believes in in Bull Durham.

49.) Chris Farley pretending he had nothing to do with the car door falling off in "Tommy Boy." "What'd ya do??!!"

50.) The opening dream sequence in 8 1/2.

51.) The orientation film in "Being John Malkovich."

52.) "I'm sorry, I thought you were Richard Pryor." Bill Murray's explanation for dousing a waiter with water in "Scrooged."

53.)"I thought all writers drank to excess and beat their wives. You know one time I secretly wanted to be a writer." Cary Grant bantering with Katherine Hepburn
and Jimmy Stewart in "The Philadelphia Story."

54.)Joan Crawford and her theories on cooking in "The Women." "If you throw a lambchop into a hot oven, what's gonna keep it from gettin' done?"

55.)A copier/fax machine gets what's coming to it in "Office Space."

56.)Captain Kirk losing his cool and screaming "KHANNNN!" up into the heavens.

57.)John Malkovich's mantra, "It's beyond my control" from "Dangerous Liasons."

58.)Mark Wahlberg gets an interrogation he didn't count on in "Three Kings."

59.)"How am I not myself?" An existential refrain undoes Jude Law in "I Heart Huckabees."

60.)Dan Ackroyd putting a fish in his pants in "Trading Places."

61.)A hapless Charlie Chaplin is strapped into the robotic feeding device in "Modern Times."

Saturday, June 24, 2006

How Much Do *YOU* Know About Thomas Jefferson?


Not nearly enough, my friend, not nearly enough. Take this QUIZ and test your Jefferson Quotient, yo!

1.) Thomas Jefferson was the ________ President.

a. 2nd
b. 3rd
c. 45th
d. funky

2.) In 1772, Thomas Jefferson married __________.

a. Sally Hemings
b. Dolley Madison
c. Martha Skelton
d. Red Skelton

3.) In Thomas Jefferson's 2nd term, who was Vice-President?

a. Aaron Burr
b. George Clinton
c. Bootsy Collins
d. Chuck Norris

4.) Jeffeson resided in his Virginia plantation home, commonly known as _____________.

a. Tara
b. Monticello
c. Monte Cristo
d. The Love Shack

5.) It is rumored that Thomas Jefferson had an affair with ____________.

a. Sally Struthers
b. Sally Hemings
c. Harriet Tubman
d. Isabel Sanford
e. All of the above

6.) Thomas Jefferson was the main author of what famous document?

a. The Gettysburg Address
b. Declaration of Independence
c. The Starr Report
d. The South Beach Diet

7.) Thomas Jefferson founded _________.

a. the University of Virginia
b. the Church of Latter-Day Saints
c. Microsoft
d. the 1st Hooters

8.) Despite his progressive viewpoints, Jefferson owned ________.

a. stock in Enron
b. slaves
c. an SUV
d. Ann Coulter books

9.) Of his 6 children, only 2 __________.

a. liked him
b. could name the presidents
c. lived to adulthood
d. became singer-songwriters Hall and Oates

10.) Jefferson's negotiations with France led to ___________.

a. The building of the Statue of Liberty
b. The Louisiana Purchase
c. Long-sustained wackiness
d. President's day sales on all new vehicles

11.) It was believed that the father of Sally Hemings was really ___________.

a. Thomas Jefferson
b. Darth Vader
c. John Wayles
d. John Waite
D. George Jefferson

12.) As President, Thomas Jefferson suspended trade with France and England because of __________.

a. The British Navy's impressment of American sailors
b. The Great War of the Dirigibles
c. low self-esteem
d. An ill-advised horoscope reading in Poor Richard's Almanac

13.) Jefferson negotiated the Louisiana Purhcase offering only ____________.

a. 5 bucks
b. Nova Scotia
c. 15 million dollars
d. his undying love

14.) One of Jefferson's critics was a young ___________.

a. Walt Whitman
b. William Cullen Bryant
c. Rush Limbaugh
d. hobbit named Frodo

15.) In 1998, DNA evidence from the Jefferson and Hemings families proved ___________.

a. that Jefferson had the gene for "fun"
b. that Strom Thurmond had a relationship with Sally Hemings
c. inconclusive
d. that Sally Hemings and Thomas Jefferson both liked Pina Colodas and getting caught in the rain

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Thrift Store Go-Around

I was cleaning out the shed this week. This is both scary and fun. In the shed are boxes filled with a lifetime's accumulation of cool odds-and-ends, most of which you've forgotten about. So each box potentially holds treasure: old comic books, magazines, school papers from 5th grade, photos... Stepping into the shed is like entering a tomb. There's one window where a shaft of light is streaming in, illuminating the dust motes that you've begun to disturb. The musty smell of decay pervades the forgotten. My eyes quickly scan for any movement on the walls and ceiling. Because this is the shed. This is where the crawling things hang out. (I don't really like crawling things. Or things that creepth, as the Bible might put it.) In fact, it's kinda like an episode of Fear Factor. Will he put his hand in a box full of knotted milky gobs of web to pull out an old Batman comic? Can he do it? (The answer: yes. Very quickly.) Even more paranoid than me is my mom. Before venturing out to the shed she warned me (and I'm not joking): "Watch out for mice. They carry the Hanta virus." Thanks, mom... As if I wasn't skittish enough. (But I did have to laugh, when I thought of Kurtzweil in the X-Files movie talking about the Hanta virus. Well, at least I didn't have to worry about the alien black oil possessing my body. Hopefully.)
I did find lots of goodies that I thought had long been given away or lost. My Bloom County books, for one, were like running into old friends. I also found yet another box of Rolling Stone magazines. I used to collect them obssessively until the boxes of magazines started to take over my life. Then I started giving them away in admirable attempt at reducing clutter. I gave them to friends, I sold some on eBay, I donated them to thrift stores, you name it. In fact, I had given away so many, I just assumed that I had exhausted my supply. But nope, every few months I unearth another find, another archaelogical dig. I'm convinced that I'll never be without a box of Rolling Stone magazines, no matter how hard I try to get rid of them. (I came across one of my faves, the March 21st, 1991 issue with Jodie Foster on the cover. I love Jodie Foster. And no, I'm not getting rid of it.)
I had managed to weed out about 5 boxes of old crap that I knew I had to get rid of. Sometimes it's just time, you know? So it was off to the Idaho Youth Ranch, which is Emmett's only thrift store. The problem with doing this, however, is that whenever I go to a thrift store, even if it's to drop off donations, I must go in and look around. And in doing so, I end up buying more stuff to replace the old stuff that I just dropped off. This is bad. Very bad. But good. Oh so good. My favorite thing in the world is books and you can't find a better selection of ridiculously low-priced books than at a thrift store. Plus, you know...summer... summer reading... I have an excuse, right? (I can justify about anything. Especially buying books.)

Here's what I ended up buying:

Oliver Twist -- Charles Dickens. I'm reading "Bleak House" right now, but I'm almost done. I don't know if I want to do two Dickens in a row, but it'll come in handy when summer starts to wane, I'm sure. And at 20 cents, I can't pass it up.

Ivanhoe -- Sir Walter Scott. I've never read any of Scott's work. He's the only major 19th century author that I haven't got to yet. He's on my short list. 50 cents

The Pyramids of Egypt-- I.E.S. Edwards. An archaeologist and Egyptian scholar explains the hows and whys of the pyramids. Looks very straight-forward and easy to understand--perfect for a summer day. 30 cents.

Medieval Russia's Epics, Chronicles, and Tales-- various. Not sure whether to give this to Tasha, who is into this sort of thing or keep it for myself. Hmmmm. It looks really cool! 50 cents.

The Prince of Egypt-- adapted by Jane Yolen. A nice oversized hardback kids book retelling the movie. This one goes to my daughter Ivy. The thing I like about this is that the paintings are original--they just didn't slap in already premade art from the movie. Very nicely done and only 50 cents.

Michelangelo: The Pieta and other Masterpieces-- Josef Lombardo. A small, thin book focusing on the Pieta (with a few other works, like the Bruges Madonna, thrown in.) The text looks engaging and pictures are wonderful. Again, 50 cents.

The Story of Jazz-- Marshall W. Stearns. I've been watching Ken Burns' Jazz documentary this summer and it's only made me crave more hot jazzy goodness. The quote on the back says: "Man, this book tells the real story of jazz..."--Louis Armstrong. DAMN. That's good enough for me. 50 cents.

Don't Just Do Something, Sit There-- Sylvia Boorstein. I'm interested in meditation, but I can never get my mind to shut up. I'd like to learn to at least hit the pause button. Looks like a friendly, easy-going book. 50 cents.

Gorillas in the Mist--Dian Fossey. One of my favorite books by one of my favorite iconoclasts. Fascinating woman. I already had a copy, but this was a really nice edition with Sigourney Weaver on the cover. 50 cents.

Babycakes-- Armistead Maupin. When it comes to literary adventures, I like to jump off cliffs. I've never read Maupin and this is the 4th in his Tales of the City series. Here I go. Usually I don't like to read a series out of order, but I did it with the Thomas Harris "Hannibal" series and I was just fine. Looks good. 75 cents.

Bastard out of Carolina--Dororthy Allison. Good friend Shan has been recommending this one for years... Looking through the shelves, it nearly jumped out and bit me! I'm putting this one at the top of my summer reading list. 75 cents.

Total: $5.50 plus tax. Not too shabby. Now I just gotta make room on my book shelf. Some things are going to have to go in the shed...

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Summer

Well, I'm a bit early. Tomorrow is the 1st day of summer, officially.

I've never liked summer. I'm an autumn kinda guy. I always considered summer vacation to be an unwelcome jarring change in my school schedule (and my school schedule was my *life* schedule)...another example of the uncertainty of life. I'm serious. I used to feel uneasy as the calendar changed from May to June. As school finished, classmates dispersed, scattered off to vacations, camps, alternate parents in different states, the end result of divorce agreements. I didn't understand it fully--but I did understand how I was impacted. Friends I had played with during the other seasons were now gone. And now I was stuck there with three months... To most kids that's freeing... three months is an eternity. To me it was a prison sentence... A crushing, endless blanket of oppresive hot weather, buzzing mosquitoes with enough tenacity to plague a Pharoh, and the worst of all: an implacable lonliness that made one wish for entropy to just hurry up and get it all over with. I'd walk down the sweltering streets past the houses of vanished kids with a sickening churning in my stomach. It wasn't just ennui. It was everything. Everything was off-kilter. The routine I had trusted... it had been up-ended. Of course, this feeling only lasted about a week or so. Necessity invented activities for me... There was a library in Emmett, after all. But it was the ragtags... the kids like me that didn't have their summers scheduled to death... the ones left to fend for themselves...Well, we found each other-- the casulties of summer.

Denny was one of those kids. I knew a couple of things about Denny. He was from a big Mormon family--the house was overflowing with siblings--an astonishing 7 in all. And he was poor. Not that any of us cared. None of us were rich, or anything. I had no concept of money beyond how much I needed to buy a candy bar or comic book or a Mad Magazine. If anything, it made him a better friend to have. He knew how to get by on next to nothing...A bag of marbles in his skilled hands would always draw a group of kids, who quickly abandoned their electronic football and Atari to watch him play. (And inevitably, they'd all lose their marbles to him...he was the equivalent of a poolhall hustler.) There were a lot of angles to Denny. He was wildly inventive and street smart. He was unfailingly polite and loyal--classic Mormon upbringing--but he had a wild streak to him too. You could not wish for a better combination in a friend for a 13 year old boy. That nexus where loyalty and wildness converged... that was what made Denny a brother to me. He was not a good victim for a bully. He was thin and lanky, but he was strong from the endless amount of chores he had to do--everything from chopping wood to roto-tilling the huge garden his family had. He *worked*. The most the rest of us had to do was mow the lawn, take out the trash. And he could fight. He wore glasses, which perhaps decieved many a hapless tormentor into picking a fight. But Denny had a fierce sense of justice and he wouldn't back down when threatened. And he wouldn't back down when we were threatened. Which didn't mean that he never got his ass kicked. He did, on occassion, get in over his head. I remember seeing him get clocked in the nose. I retrieved his glasses which had sailed into the gravel. Blood was flowing down his face from his nose and Denny hung on tightly to his opponent, determined to go down getting as much blood on the kid's shirt as possible. He dug in and it's probably the only time in my life that I got the whole Homeric glory of battle. I understood it, for a second. (In case you're wondering, the rules of engagement were always one on one. I'd gotten into a couple of fights, but really, I'm a coward. When confronted, I demure. Denny... Denny was a lion.)

Denny was pretty shrewd as well. Sometimes justice turned into revenge. Again, Denny wasn't somebody you wanted mad at you, cause he could get you good with an elaborate practical joke, even if he had to wait months for the perfect time to carry it off. Bill was about three years older than us, which meant he despised us. We all had paper routes, including Bill. The bundles of papers arrived at our houses around 4:30. Around 4:45 me and Denny would meet up on our bikes and combine our routes, which made up the south section of Emmett. I actually forget just why Denny wanted revenge on Bill. Sure, Bill was always making fun of us, pelting us with rocks fired from his slingshot, but that was typical older kid stuff. Denny had it in for him for a more personal reason and I'm not sure what it was. At any rate, Denny had his revenge. He had me meet him 4:30 a.m. sharp. Outside of Bill's house. This did not sound good. If anybody other than Denny had asked me, I would have said no. But I owed him more than I could ever repay. I had to do it, despite any reluctance, brought on by pragmatism or cowardice. I mean, Bill was an ace with that slingshot. A real terror. On a Saturday night, he'd take out 8-10 light bulbs, quick as you please. Whatever Denny was planning, I knew that going directly to Bill's house couldn't possibly end well.

We waited behind the fence, swatting mosquitoes, and the delivery truck chugged in, stopping and dropping off Bill's bundle of papers. As soon as the truck was gone in a trail of exhaust, Denny ran over and grabbed the bundle. We both sped off, Denny balancing the bundle of papers precariously on his handlebars. We were laughing like goblins, feeling that insane adrenaline rush that only kids get.

I suggested tossing them in the canal. (The grown-up environmentalist hangs his head in shame.) The light off of the street lamp allowed me to see Denny grin. "Nope," he said and we turned down the alley that led back to his house, where he promptly dropped off the ill-gotten cache. Okay, it was somewhat of a funny trick to play on Bill... but not *that* inspired. So we stole that day's papers... So what?

The next day, Denny had me meet him at Bill's again. Same time, 4:30. I pull up, seeing Denny's silhouette moving in the dark. His shadow creeped over to the front doorstep, leaning over the bundle. In a flurry of movement, he jerks away and comes running toward me, carrying another bundle. "GO, go!" he whispers with great urgency and we pedal away, furiously.

"You stole it again?" I ask, watching him teeter on his bike, trying to maintain balance with the bundle on the handlebars. "Yup," he responds proudly.

"You know we can't steal his papers every day, Denny."

"This is the last time," he says grinning. "I switched today's bundle with yesterday. His route is going to get yesterday's papers." At this, I spontaneously burst out laughing and it's infectious: Denny follows suit. It's too much... picturing Bill getting call after angry call...all those subscribers...oh, Denny, you're a genius! Now I don't know if the sequence of events unfolded exactly as we fantasized they would. Perhaps Bill noticed before he delivered them. Maybe he caught on. I don't know. It didn't matter... we loved the idea of it. And that idea was so perfect, it sustained itself. On a morning like that, intent was enough.

Sometimes surviving summer means indulging in some good-intentioned hooliganism, disguised as justice. And sometimes hooliganism means doing something stupid at 4:30 in the morning just to be a friend. It could be aruged that friendship requires circumstances like these to truly understand the concept. These are the kinds of things I learned during summers... lessons that couldn't be taught anywhere else. Lessons like: All good things require you to do something you'd rather not. Sometimes bleeding all over somebody can be considered a victory. And if you're going to piss off Denny, you'd better get up before 4:30 a.m.

Monday, June 19, 2006

Emmett, Idaho


100_0208
Originally uploaded by nakedmanatee.
...off of Main Street. Yeah, it's a bit like Mayberry.

Bridge over the Boise river


100_0223
Originally uploaded by nakedmanatee.
Leaving nothing to chance...

Saturday, June 17, 2006

Little is Known About Sierra Leone

Look in your "bulk" mail box. Is it full of those scam artist letters where some dude in Nigeria wants to give you meeeelllions of dollars, if only you e-mail all of your personal information, bank routing numbers, etc.? Yeah, mine too. I've always received lots of those. But I love getting e-mail so I write 'em back! It's a great way to make "friends." Usually, they scare off pretty easy. (You'll understand when you see the kinds of letters that I write.) But about three years ago, I had a great, classic exchange where one determined, plucky scammer kept on coming back, despite my bizzaro replies. This is that exchange. (Note: the actual scam letters are real letters, not made up by me. My replies, though, are totally from my warped mind.)

FROM :PETER WILLIAMS
ABIDJAN, COTE D'IVOIRE.
WEST AFRICA.
BUSINESS RELATIONSHIP

DEAR,

MY NAME IS PETER WILLIAMS . NATIONALITY SIERRA LEONE.
I AM 25 YEARS OLD, STUDIED MARKETING IN BUSINESS
ADMINISTRATION IN THE UNIVERSITY. I LOST MY FATHER
YEARS BACK. HE DIED DRURING THE POLITICAL CRISIS IN
MY COUNTRY. MY LATE FATHER WAS ONE OF THE DIRECTORS
UNDER TIJAN KABBAH GOVERNMENT. MY MOTHER IS AGED SHE IS 62
YEARS NOW AN OLD WOMAN. I HAVE TWO YOUNGER ONES WE
ARE ALL LEAVING IN COTE D'IVOIRE SINCE PAST SIX
MONTH.

IT IS MY DESIRE TO WRITE FROM MY HEART HOPING THAT
YOU WILL NOT BETRAY US. MY FATHER DIVERTED SOME HUGE
SOME OF MONEY WHICH HE DEPOSITED WITH ONE GOOD BANK
WHEN HE WAS ALIVE HERE IN ABIDJAN. IN FACT IN A
BRIFE I INTRODUTION. ALL THE INFORMATION WILL BE GIVEN TO
YOU WHEN I HEAR FROM YOU. THIS MONEY TOTALING US$
12,000,000.00 ( TWELVE MILLION UNITED STATES DOLLAR)
NOW WE ARE SEEKING FOR A TRUSTED PERSON WHO WILL
RECEIVE THIS MONEY INTO HIS/HER ACCOUNT FOR ONWARD
INVESTMENT.

HOWEVER, WHAT WE NEEDED FROM YOU IS YOUR GOOD
ASSISTANCE IN HELPING US TRANSFERRING THE SAID SUM
TO YOUR ACCOUNT SINCE WE ARE INEXPERENCED IN THE WORLD
OF BUSINESS, THAT'S THE REASON WHY WE ARE ASKING FOR
YOUR SUPPORT. ALL DOCUMENTS CONCERNING THE DEPOSIT MAY BE
GIVEN TO YOU FOR YOUR VERIFICATION. WE REALLY NEED
TO MOVE THE FUND OUT OF AFRICA TO ABROAD.

I AND THE REST OF MY FAMILY HAVE DECIEDED TO GIVE
YOU 10% OF THE TOTAL SUM FOR YOUR KIND ASSISTANCE. THE
WORLD IS FULL OF BAD PEOPLE PLEASE CAN YOU PROVE
YOUR GUNUITY TO US FOR US TO HAVE YOU AS A PARTNER. SORRY
I AM NOT SAYING YOU ARE BAD PERSON BUT CONSIDER THAT
THIS IS MONEY AND HOW THE MONEY WAS GOTTEN. IT IS
INHERITACE AND LAST HOPE.

SHOW YOUR INTEREST AND WE PROCEED ON THE NEXT STEP
OF ACTION. AFRICA IS NO LONGER CONDUSIVE FOR US TO
STAY. YOU CAN CALL US ON TEL NUMBER ABOVE.

OUR BEST REGARDS.

PETER WILLIAMS ON BEHALF OF THE FAMILY.


Dear Mr. Williams,

First, I must ask you: How did you get my email
address? I have many connections and only a select
few of my inner circle know it. If there is a
security leak, I must discover it at once and stop
this dangerous flow of information. I work in highly
sensitive areas and cannot allow any such compromises.
Please, I must demand that you name the unscrupulous
individual who gave you this email address. The
security of several corporations depend upon it.

Now, hopefully, if you cooperate, you'll discover that
I am not unsympathetic to your plight. I realize that
Africa is unstable at the moment... Many Americans are
sensitive to that, including our pop stars, such as
Michael Jackson, who once did a song about Africa and
it's starving children. I get tears just thinking
about it now.

It sounds like you have a wonderful family. What are
the names and ages of your children? Do you perhaps
have a daughter? I do not want to suggest anything
improper, but I am looking for a bride and if she is
of age, and shares the same interests, such as race
car driving and eating nachos, I would definitely like
to see some photos.

What is the weather like in Sierra Leone? And where
is Sierra Leone? Do they have Starbucks? I'm sorry if
these questions are direct, but we are currently at
war with Iraq and if your country is anywhere near
Iraq, I could be thrown into a gulag by my government
just for sending you this email. If you know where
Saddam Hussein is, please contact our State
Department, as our authorities have a few questions
for him.

I must go now as today is Thursday and they are
showing "super-size" editions of Friends and Will and
Grace. But please let me know who your informant is
and I will consider helping you. I cannot do anything
until my files and accounts are secure once more.

Sincerely,

Yossarian Skinner

p.s. Good luck at your university! Which one is it?
And do they have a football team?


Dear Yossarian Skinner,
Thanks for your response indicating your willingness to assist me this
important and most valued transaction that is going to be to the mutual
benefit of our both families.
I got your contact in my desperate search for a responsible and very
trustworthy person to be my partner and asSist me in investing my money
for me while I continue my education which I stopped as a result of the
untimely death of my beloved father(may his beloved and gentle soul
rest in the bosom of the Lord).I didn't end up that way,I took your name
to my Pastor and after praying,he concluded that you are a sincere man
who will not betray me or disappoint me.He went as far as telling me
that you will reply me positively and our Pastor is a well known Man of
God here in Ivory Coast and anything he prophesizes comes to fulfillment.
I am 25 years old,single with no child.I come from Sierra-Leone in West
Africa but after the death of my father, I relocated to our
neighbouring country here called Abidjan Cote d'Ivoire West Africa with my entire
family(my old mother-62 and 2 younger sisters:Mary-23 years and
Vivian-20 years.The weather here in West Africa is very friendly:not too much
rain and not too much sun.We are Christians and don't have any business
with Iraqians.Mary's photo and mine will be sent to you when you reply
this mail.BE REST ASSURED THAT THIS TRANSACTION IS 100% GENUINE AND
RISK-FREE AND YOU HAVE NOTHING TO FEAR.
Kindly please promise me that on our arrival there in your country,you
will assist me invest this money wisely.Promise to keep this
transaction
very confidential and not to tell anybody about it for our security
here and the safety transfer of this money into your account.
Then send me your photograph,id card ,private telephone/fax
numbers,residential address and any other information that you
think necessary for the smooth transfer of this money into your
account.
As soon as I get these information,I will submit it to the bank and
give you the contacts of the bank director incharge of the transfer of
the
money into your account for you to contact him and instruct him to
transfer the money into your account so that you can withdraw some money
and send to me for us to pay our hotel bills and prapare our travel
documents to come over there to live and you assist us in investing the
money wisely.
I am sorry to respond lately because I have tried several times to have
access to this libero box without success,henceforth,continue to
communicate with me through my just created YAHOO
E-ADDRESS(peter_willi22@yahoo.co.uk).Please reply this mail immediately with all
your personal info so that I can submit it to the bank and give you the
contact of the bank for you to contact them for the immediate transfer
of this money into your account so that you can withdraw some money and
send to us to come over to meet you there in your country for me to
continue my university education and you take the responsibility of
investing the money for me and my family.
Expecting your immediate response.
Best regards and God bless.
Peter.


Dearest Peter,

Please excuse my late reply. I would have responded
sooner, but I had a doctor's appointment that I had to
keep. I am on twenty-two different medications for
various ailments, including explosive diarreaha,
flatulence, and dementia, which is just a fancy word
meaning that sometimes I see things that aren't there,
like weaseals, taking a dump on my bed, then rolling
in it. I also am taking a pill to counteract my
addiction to pills. It shames me to admit that, but
you seem like a good-hearted person and I know that
you won't hold my physical weaknesses against me.
Please hold me in your thoughts and pray to the Baby
Jesus for a cure.

While I am heartened that you wrote back, I have to
admit that I am still majorly freaking out about my
security leak. I mean, sure, it's just my e-mail
address. But who knows? Maybe tomorrow this
unscrupulous scoundrel will leak my credit card
information and my Swiss bank account routing numbers!
And whoops! There go my millions! Please tell me his
or her name so I can get ready to discipline them.

I am so, so sorry to hear about the untimely death of
your dad. Man, that sucks. I would drink in his
honor, if my medications didn't warn against it. Aw
screw it! If anyone deserves a toast, it's your
father. I raise my bottle of tequila in his honor. If
I may inquire, did he die in a mysterious tractor
incident? If so, I may have some top-secret
information that you might be interested in.

I am VERY interested in your sisters, Mary and Vivian!
Can I email them directly? Also, could you please
describe their physical attributes as well as likes
and dislikes? I know that I am being forward, but you
must understand it has been many years since I have
had relations with a woman, due to my unfortunate
physical ailments, and I am very eager to "hook up"
with someone who will be understanding of this. I
ain't no picnic to live with, especially when I'm
seeing things, but I have many positive traits. I am
a good cook, I can play the accordian, and I have the
largest collection of Trolls you'll ever see, my
friend. I am very romantic and like to sing. I
remember I used to sing to my first wife (who died in
a mysterious tractor incident)-- I would sing to her:
"You are so beautiful to me." She liked it, except
for the times when she was in the ladies room at the
mall, but you see, I'm just so romantic I can't stop
myself. But now she's with baby Jesus. I also have
lots of t-shirts with funny sayings on them.

I'm glad you are steering clear of Saddam Hussien. I
don't know what it is, but I just don't trust him.
You aren't anywhere near North Korea or France are
you? Because we are at war with them as well and you
must understand that I CANNOT do business with French
sympathizers. They would shoot me in the street.

I plan on being on holiday in Africa in November and
would love to meet up with you and your family.
Perhaps I could even stay with you? I could give you
all the proper documents then and I'd be happy to give
you business advice if you like, but be warned: I have
a hard time balancing my checkbook! :) But I can tell
you this: AOL stock is a good buy right now.

Well, I must leave you to think on this heavy matter.
I can't wait to see you and your sisters. Say hi to
Mary and Vivian for me. (Do they like peanut
brittle?)

May God bless you and keep you warm in His infinte,
graceful bosom and may the Force be with you. Always.

your pal,

Yossarian


Dear Yossarian,

How are you?
You have kept me in the dark for some time now.What is happening,is everything alright with you? May you kindly please write and explain to me your reason for been silent because communication is very important in this transaction.
Looking forward to receiving your immediate response so that we can proceed.
Yours brother,
Peter

Dear Pete,

WELL, I just re-sent my last email as it appears that
you did not get it!! Well, that's Microsoft for ya.
>big sigh<. Anyways, I am still waiting on pictures
of your sisters? >hint hint< ;) :D :D :D

I do have a troubling piece of news to report,
however. Yesterday I recieved an email from a Robbie
Williams in Uganda and he detailed *very similar*
circumstances to what you are going through. He said
that he needed my help and that the lives of his
family and pet yak depended on it. Are you two
related? He was very polite and generous and sent me
pictures of his sister, Candace, who I must admit, is
a real hottie. He is very rich, but because of a
corrupt government he can not access his millions!
Damn those Ugandans! Damn them all to hell! I am
torn between helping him and helping you. Please, if
you have any information on this Robbie Williams, let
me know. I will also pray on this.

Also, I was wondering if you knew any herbal remedies
for dementia. I only ask because the weasels are back
again. And I cannot stand their awful laughter.
Because it's just not right. It's just not right to
be laughing at me when I give them so much.

peace out, dawg,

Yossarian

p.s. You can call me Yo Yo, if you like. All my
friends do.


----------
(Note: I never heard from Peter Williams again.)

Friday, June 16, 2006

Venerating Madonna: a Top Ten

Love her or hate her, it's impossible to ignore Madonna and her contributions to the pop-culture zeitgeist. She may very well be the most successful music star to be as equally known for her image as well as her music. Others, like Britney Spears have tried and come up short, not only musically, but in terms of engaging that free-floating, ever-changing pop-culture consciousness. I find it interesting that one of Britney's greatest trashy pop moments was the one where she locked lips with...you guessed it... Madonna. Now Brit's in the headlines for dropping her kid on his head, and well, that'll only get you so far. (Actually, I think she relegated that duty to the nanny. When you're too busy to drop your own kid...man, that's lazy.)

To gauge the impact of Madonna, go back to Quentin Tarantino's "Reservoir Dogs." One of the movie's most inspired bits centers around a rather ribald discussion concerning that great Madonna standard, "Like a Virgin." Tarantino's Mr. Brown character has his own (very dirty) interpretation of the song's meaning and debates it to humorous effect with his buddies. Now try to imagine them riffing over a different artist or a different song... Sure, you could make it work, but Tarantino understood that not only was Madonna a subject that everybody was familiar with, but that Madonna's full pop-culture signifigance had not, until then, been dealt with. Before that, Madonna had been sort of her own reflection of pop-culture, from her music to her videos. Now, Tarantino recognized, was the time for culture to reflect her. Her influence was so omnipresent, Tarantino seemed to be saying, that even low-level thugs were comfortable enough debating the meaning of her songs.

Madonna was ever the shrewd manipulator of her image and she knew how to push buttons. But beyond the tabloid headlines, and the calculated trashy sex kitten image, were an impressive string of great pop songs. And that, more than anything, has been the foundation of her long-term success.

And now, just because I can, here are my Top Ten Favorite Madonna Songs:

10.)Don't Cry For Me Argentina-- Okay, this one is a bit of a cheat. Cause it's not exactly what you would call a Madonna song. Patti LuPone maybe, but not Madonna. Well, until the movie came out, at any rate. In 1996, the film version of "Evita" was released, with Madonna playing the title role. In what could be called a Perfect Gay Storm, Madonna sang an Andrew Lloyd Webber signature song set to a disco beat. It was pure over the top Madonna that even inspired straight guys like me to bust a move. (It wasn't pretty. Clay Aiken's got more moves than me.)

9.)"Erotica"--In 1992, Madonna shed the previous trampy sex kitten role of "Like a Virgin" and adopted the role of Dita, sexual dominatrix. Now a pop artist using sex to sell records is nothing new. Britney Spears got a lot of mileage out of that Catholic school girl uniform. But no one (and yes, I'm including Prince) has ever done it with as much verve and imagination. When Madonna whispers to a throbbing beat, "Give it up, do as I say..." it's hard to imagine anyone saying no. And while the breaking of taboo was always one of Madonna's favorite things, the true success of the song wasn't with it's shock value. It's true success is that she made her sexual journey so compulsory. With "Erotica," Madonna did what many could not. She made a great sexually explict pop song that *was actually sexy*.

8.)"Hung Up"-- Madonna has had a rough time on the charts lately. Her last two albums, "American Life" and "Confessions on a Dance Floor" have gone nowhere. But "Confessions" gave us what I consider one of the most insidiously catchy Madonna songs ever. Okay, the song is built on an old ABBA hook, which is always a step in the right direction if you want to construct a great dance song. When it was released it debuted in the Top Ten, it quickly vanished. Had Madonna become the Immaterial Girl? Nah. Never count her out, I say. I'd stack "Hung Up" right up there with "Music" and "Vogue." The lyrics are unrepentedly dopey--the main line, "Time goes by--so slowly," is repeated so often by Madge that after about 30 refrains, it begins to take on a mantra-like profundity. (I first thought she was saying "Time goes by--so silly," which seemed to make just as much sense.) But the main draw is a relentlessly propulsive beat matched with a melody so strong it could break Andrew Lloyd Webber in half. If you don't like this, you just don't like dance music.

7.) and 6.)"Vogue" and "Hanky Panky"

During the '80's Madonna's movie sucesses could be counted on one hand. With four fingers left over. "Desperately Seeking Susan" was a modest hit, but vanity projects like "Shanghai Surprise" became Gigli-like punchlines. In 1990, Madonna found herself in a bonafide hit: Warren Beatty's "Dick Tracy." It was no stretch for Madonna. She played a slinky Mae West/Jessica Rabbit bad girl. The soundtrack was certainly a departure. Most people remember it for her classic dance hit "Vogue," but the other three Madonna contributions are Stephen Sondheim songs. Still, if Sondheim's "Hanky Panky" sounded like a zippy Broadway tune, the lyrical ode to sexual gratification through spanking had to have been written with Madonna in mind. When she belts out: "Please don't call a doctor, 'cause there's nothing wrong with me, I just like things a little rough and you better not disagree," it's hard to picture anyone being able to sell it like Madonna. (Try picturing Paula Abdul or Belinda Carlisle and the whole song just falls apart.) And, shrewd as ever, Madonna knew that even with songs about spanking to capture the public's imagination, a bunch of show tunes would still be a hard sell. Her fans were bound to be frightened and confused. To make up for it, she gave them what would be one her most enduring dance tracks, "Vogue." It was refreshingly non-controversial and proved that Madonna did not need to push buttons to sell albums...she just did what she did best: make easily accessible and fun dance music.

5.)"Borderline"--No, this is not Madonna's ode to the problems of illegal immigration. This is pre-Madonna. Madonna before she became *Madonna*. (That would happen with "Like a Virgin" when she realized she had a remarkable talent for constructing her own image, on her own terms.) The earliest Madonna hits had a light, guileless air bordering on insouciance. The songs were pleasant enough. She chirped through hits like "Holiday" and "Lucky Star" with a bouncy child-like charm. The best of the early bunch, imo, is "Borderline," in which Madonna seemed both sweet, wounded, and vulnerable-- like a kid feeling the pain of love for the first time. Her later stuff was so carefully orchestrated, that "Borderline" becomes a great example of Madonna being herself--with no affectations.


4.)Til Death Do Us Part-- A catchy and energetic song, with some dark, barb wire lyrics. It comes off of the "Like a Prayer" album, which I consider her finest. I believe when she wrote the tracks she had an obssession surrounding her mother's death. The fear that she had was that she would die at the same age that her mother did. This spurred her to write an album of substance and many of the tracks address family members. The result was a more mature-themed album and a stark contrast to the lighter material of previous albums. "Til Death Do Us Part" was easily the darkest track. In the mid-late '80's, the celebrity couple du jour was Madonna and Sean Penn. Most people today think of Sean Penn as an Oscar winner and anti-war critic. Well, in the '80's he was anti-your face as he constantly attacked photographers and gave a beat-down to anyone who pissed him off. The tabloid rags mercilessly picked over their marriage and it became something of a watercooler past-time to guess the expiration date on that particular relationship. "Til Death Do Us Part," a sobering autopsy of a song, quickly shamed anyone who had picked up a tabloid to gleefully relish in somebody else's pain. Sample lyric:
"You need so much but not from me
Turn your back in my hour of need
Something's wrong but you pretend you don't see
I think I interrupt your life
When you laugh it cuts me just like a knife
I'm not your friend, I'm just your little wife"
Before this Madonna had been a playful sexual provocateur. Her career had been based on acting out carefully constructed roles. Here she was emotionally raw and the only role she was playing was herself.

3.)Like a Prayer-- In a career of Big Controversies, this was one of the biggest. Madonna had just been signed to shill for Pepsi. Madonna was all kinds of hot, but surely it was courting disaster to have your spokeswoman be the chick who slinked her way through the "Like a Virgin" video in a wedding gown that was so slutty, Paris Hilton would have thought twice about it. Still, using sexuality to sell sody pop was no problem. Ah, but how many Clios would you get if you combined sexuality with crucifixes and a black Jesus? That's what happened when Madonna released the "Like a Prayer" video, causing Pepsi executives to break out into hives. Coke probably sent Madonna cases of New Coke as thanks. While many people remember the video, it's the song that I can't forget. From the guitar crescendo that opens the song to the swell of the gospel choir that empathically backs her up, the spirituality of the song defies whatever surface controversies the video courts. Madonna was on to something and would later explore spirtual themes on her "Ray of Light" album.

Speaking of which...
2.) and 1.)
"Ray of Light" and "Frozen"

In 1998 Madonna reinvented herself into a new persona that could only have been anticpated by the most intuitive. Marrying her melodic dance grooves with the atmospheric sounds of ambient/electronica, Madonna made good on the promise of her name: she became Spiritual Earth-Mother-Goddess. As pop reinventions go, this one was a startling left turn. But she did it with ease and she did it with grace, and even more importantly, she did it *well*. The Ray of Light album is my 2nd favorite album, after "Like a Prayer," which I saw as more immediate. But make no mistake, "Ray of Light" is the work of an artist at the peak of her powers. The aural framework of William Orbit's supports instead of detracts. This isn't about novelty. The real draw, is, as always, Madonna herself. Her voice is richer and fuller (Evita really pushed her, I think) and the subject matter is a far cry from her early eighties material. In "Frozen," she sings "You're so consumed with how much you get-You waste your time with hate and regret" and it becomes an interesting counterpart to her playful ode to greed, "Material Girl." In some ways this new direction was every bit as ballsy as making records and videos exploring sexuality. "You think you know me," she seemed to be taunting. "You don't know me." But as ever, we wanted to.

Thursday, June 15, 2006

It Don't Come Easy

It was called a "mismatch." It was supposed to be a cakewalk. It wasn't. I'm referring to the World Cup match up between England and Trindad & Tobago. England was definitely the odds on favorite for the match and even a newbie like myself knew who David Beckham was. (Okay, my knowledge of him was pretty much limited to the fact that he married a spice girl. I think it was Posh Spice. But it might have been Sporty Spice. Sporty Spice would make more sense, dontcha think?) And hey, England must be good if they have to fight two countries at once. Trindad AND Tobago? Wow. Impressive. To make things a bit more fair in Saturday's match-up between Italy and the U.S., I suggest we enlist the aid, of, oh, say Canada. Italy vs. the U.S. and Canada. That'd make things interesting.

While watching the game, I wasn't sure if England was just not playing up to speed, or if Trindad and Tobago was just really good. It probably was a little of both. England kinda played like an over-the-hill porn star who couldn't get it up on command. Oh sure, England dominated, keeping possession of the ball more often than not, but everytime they got close, Trindad and Tobago shut them down. And Trindad and Tobago were fierce in their defense, but they weren't able to make much headway either, despite a few agonizingly close goals. Despite the "mismatch" label, it was obvious that they came to shut down England, despite the odds. It didn't happen, but they made England work for their win. The English fans in the stadium had to be fighting the butterflies in the stomach as they watched in horror as their beloved team became so easily stymied. Repeatedly.

In fact, it was a game like this that made me realize how compelling soccer can be even if no one scores. Cause it's not for lack of trying. If you make it 80 minutes into the game and no one has scored, every minute becomes more interesting. The stakes ratchet up. The players are frustrated, the coaches are scowling and their eyes are flinty, the crowd's on edge... and so are you. You feel it and they all feel it... something has to break... it can't end like this. A 0-0 would have been humiliating for a world-renowned team like England with its pin-up stars. Of course, sometimes it often ends like that... 0-0. But those feelings of anticipation...excitement...frustration... they are there regardless because you do not know how it's going to play out.

And that's just what happened here. I disparaged England before, but in the 83rd minute, the team broke through. And it happened like all the failed set-ups before. Team player crosses to another, who takes the shot only to have it go over the net, or get blocked, etc. This time... Beckham crosses to Crouch...smooth, smooth, like a predestined arc... and Crouch angles it into the net with his head! You have to love a sport where you can make points with your head! After 82 minutes of near misses and shut-downs, I wasn't expecting this one to make it. But it does. And all of sudden I'm cheering and laughing like a goon along with the crowd. I startled the cat. The grim, stony-faced coach risks cracking his face with a grin. His face muscles are going to be sore, I'm sure. And two things have to occur for events to unfold like this. One team has to take that one step forward. And the other has to fall one step behind. You see it especially when two players are running for the ball, kicking, and one suddenly surges ahead while the other falls behind. Maybe it's endurance of strength. But I'm betting part of it is endurance of will. Those moments happen continually throughout the game, but especially as the game wears on and teams falter, become tired, emotionally drained, etc.

But it is amazing how one point can adjust the energy levels of everyone playing and watching the game. One measly point in 83 minutes and it was so well-fought for, it seems like the most dignified and glorious of victories. Not content though, both teams press on. And in the 93 minute, I stare in disbelief as England's Gerrard kicks it into the net to score goal number 2. I gasp. I actually gasped, it just seemed so unlikely that they score again, so quickly after being kept out of that net for so long. England has come alive in the last 15 minutes in a game where Trindad and Tobago have given them the fight of their lives.

Trindad and Tobago played quite well and proved themselves on the World field. They may have lost the game, but they pricked England's pride a bit and made them work for those two goals. Final score 2-nil. England advances to the second round!

Next up Sweeden vs. Paraguay

On Saturday... "Beyond the Alps lies Italy." The United States as underdog. It's going to be fun!

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Damn you, ESPN2. Damn you all to hell.

I am not a sports guy. I admit it. I am an English major, which does not win me many manliness points. I can tell you the psuedonyms of all three Bronte sisters, but I'm not quite sure what the point of football is. (Evidentally, it's to try and play thirty minutes of the game in a 2 hour time frame.) I've tried to get into sports. But for me the highlight of the Super Bowl was the nachos. Now, during last year's summer Olympics, I did get sucked in to women's volleyball. Damn. Now there's a sport that's endlessly rewarding. But beyond that--beyond finding a sport to get into that did not involve well-toned women in revealing outfits slapping each other on the ass after scoring a crucial point--I got nothin'. Until now.

In short: World Cup. I got sucked in. And I really don't know how it happened. Let's retrace the steps of my demise, shall we? I played soccer in 5th grade. Well, I wasn't all that great. Our entire team pretty much stank up the place. I did have a specialty-- I could kick the ball the farthest. I mean, I hit it and that ball would sail away. I even earned the nickname Leadfoot, which was an endearment...half the time, except when it was shouted derisively. You see, there was a problem. I had no sense of aim. I couldn't direct the ball... it would just fly across the park and into a phalanx of ducking, cussing, parents. But what a kick! I don't know what happened. I never played next year. I guess I found books more interesting. I don't think I even really understood the game beyond: "get ball in net." Certainly strategy and teamwork were ideas I didn't quite have down. Not to mention any sense of depth perception.

Now the other day I was watching the nightly news and Brian Williams was delivering a story on the World Cup, only the emphasis wasn't on specific scores or statistics, but instead they focused on how soccer was a world-wide phenomenon, with the exception of the U.S. It was odd when confronted with the millions of fans in other countries giving their soccer athletes the same royal treatment that we have reserved for Shaq and well, that's how bad my knowledge of sports guys is... I can only name one... Shaq. Dear lordy. So I was right away interested in this sport that seemed to capture the imagination and devotion of the entire world except us. Was there some weird isolationist subtext to all of this? Was soccer just another symbol of how we were out of sync with the rest of the world? Well, shit, I don't know, but I had managed to get myself interested in a sport by overthinking it to death! Now, we're talking! This is something I can relate to! :)

So, I checked out the various ESPN channels to see what I could make of it. They seemingly have like 548 different ESPN channels. ESPN, ESPN2, ESPN Classic, ESPN:Boggle. You get the idea. So it was really easy to find a game. I caught the Spain/Ukraine match-up. For about 30 minutes I tried to figure it out. Okay, what's the appeal. I kind of felt like a cat watching a toy on a string... there goes the ball...and there goes the ball...and look, there it goes over there! It was oddly relaxing. Come to think of it, it may have been some sort of mass-hypnosis experiment. I don't know if that's true, but I just ordered $500 of official World Cup merchandise.

Now if you look at average soccer scores it's usually something like 0-0. A really exciting game is 1-0. If you have two really good teams, it's hard to score. They will keep you from that net. In that way, it's a very existential sport. Ah, but as I was watching the game, Spain made a goal and I was immediately jerked awake. My pulse quickened. *SOMETHING HAD HAPPENED.* Someone had got through. It almost seemed like a miracle. Someone played a soccer game and MADE A GOAL. I felt adrenalized, giddy. I was suddenly glued to the screen. Half the time I watched their feet, other times I watched how the other players would converge on another who didn't see them coming. That's the beauty of watching a game... you can sometimes see what's going to happen to the players before they know it.

I began to appreciate the difficulty of the game... It requires strength, endurance, skill, and the geometrical precision of a pool player. You have to be able to visualize where you need that ball to go... and you need to be able to revise that visualization in a second as the configuration of players on the field is constantly in flux. Even more important than that, it requires luck--some have it naturally, to others it's a form of practiced instinct...and even more than that, spiritually, it becomes something that is beyond the game... Providence. Things happen, the planets align, shots open up, and they are given to you. And nothing you do can make those moments happen. You can only hope you are up to the challenge when they do.

I watched the rest of the game ecstatically drawn in, captivated by the inherent drama of *not knowing*. Of experiencing something that is unfolding. In the end Spain scored 4 points, gluttonous by soccer standards, and made the Ukraine team feel quite helpless, I'm sure. (They scored nothing, or as I heard the cheeky commentators tell it: "4-nil." You gotta love a sport that uses the word "nil.") I've already picked out a few of the more outstanding players... There's Fernando Torres who, I believe scored two of the goals. I noticed him because he's unafraid to go out there with a really bad hairstyle. It kinda looks like a mohawk, but the rest of his head isn't shaved. Or it looks like he fell asleep with his head between two couch cushions and didn't bother to fix it when he got up. Regardless, he's an incredible player.

There are also different cultural bonuses that make the World Cup a lot of fun. The commentators, for example, are British and Irish (well, the ones for this particualar match-up). It's always more interesting to hear commentary in an Irish brogue. Even if I can't understand it. It just sounds cool. And the fans themselves cheer and chant and sing in their native tongues and it just is a nice reminder that it is a great big world out there with diverse peoples and cultures who can come together to kick a ball around. There's a beautiful unification at work in this, I think.

And what of the U.S. team? Well, we lost our first match to the Czech Republic, 3-nil. Ouch. But it had to be gratifying to the Czechs. Our last chance is against Italy on Saturday. Prognosticators are not being kind to the U.S. on this match-up, but I can't wait. Cause you just don't know!

Well, back to ESPN. Four words I thought I never would say.

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

The Day I Fell in Love

by me!

The day I fell in love
there was a rainbow
of frogs
drunkenly

croaking

In the corridors of heaven
there was the sound
of angels

sneezing

God was tied up
for hours
blessing them

In America
the stock market crashed
into a tree
DUI the papers said

But you don't believe
everything you read
do you?

The day I fell in love
the freshness dates for milk
retreated to yesterday
making orphans of peanut butter sandwiches

Couples became distant and cold
you could only see them at certain times of the year
with the Hubble telescope

Bored children played
Monopoly and hop-scotch and tag
on interstate highways just when it was getting dark

upper case became Lower case
sentences ran wild and
the streets, were littered, with unnecessary commas

And somewhere, locked in a room underneath the Vatican,
Jesus read The DaVinci Code
and laughed

The day I fell in love
I looked around, took two Advil,
and apologized

They could not hear me
over the sound of
laws passing
in the night

They had to make sure
I did not fall in love
ever again

Monday, June 12, 2006

Woody Allen's Star Wars

(Note: it helps to read this picturing Woody Allen as Luke and Diane Keaton as Leia)

Scene 1: Tatooine

Luke Skywalker, a short young man in glasses, is sitting around a dinner table with his Aunt and Uncle.

Luke: It’s just—It’s just—I’m sorry, I’m not cut out to be a farmer, you know. For one thing, and this is really important I think, there’s two suns. One sun is hot enough. Two is just ridiculous. I’m out in the desert… I'm thirsty all the time. Now I know how my ancestors felt, wandering around all those years. It's no picnic let me tell you…And look, look here. (he holds his hand in front of Uncle Owen’s face) Is that a spot? It looks like a spot. I’m thinking all that sun is giving me skin cancer. I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Uncle Owen: Luke, I can’t believe you! Again with the two suns! I’ve told you time and time again, you don’t have cancer! Listen, it’s just one more year…

Luke (flabbergasted): One more year! One more year! I’m out there five minutes and my palms get all sweaty. It’s repulsive, my robes start to smell. I’m getting lesions… Here, look at this. It’s rather unattractive. Not that there’s anything resembling female companionship out here. I’m thinking of joining the Sand People. They may be uncultured, but at least they get laid once in awhile.

Uncle Owen: Oy, it’s not that bad! You give me a headache with this meshuga talk!

Luke: Oh sure, right, easy for you to say. You’ve got (he points to Aunt Beru) a loving and devoted wife. I’ve got my right hand and a copy of “Prurient Jawa Monthly.”

Aunt Beru: We know you want to leave this planet and join the rebellion. To be a pilot like your father, the poor schlemazel.

Luke: Actually, y’know I’m not so sure about that. It sounds very dangerous. I mean, obviously it was hazardous to his health. I hear rumors you know, I hear they’re building a Death Star, which doesn’t sound very promising. Very negative sounding. I just want to find a planet with one sun. And thousands of horny French underwear models.


Scene 15:

Luke and Leia converse in the Millennium Falcon.

Luke: Hey, we were pretty great back there, weren’t we? You fired at the stormtroopers with your blaster and I distracted them with my debonair wit and my huge lightsaber. We were like William Powell and Myrna Loy. I was William Powell, by the way.

Leia: You distracted them all right. And don’t you think that lightsaber is compensating for something? I mean you couldn’t stop swinging it around. It was embarrassing. I thought maybe I should leave you two alone for a minute.

Luke: Oh! Oh! Listen to you…you wield sarcasm like it was the Force. I did what I could, but that Darth Vader, with the cape and the mask, it was intimidating you know, it reminded me of when I lost my virginity. Y’know, your hair looks really sexy like that, in buns… It’s very Swedish, just like you stepped out of a Bergman film. I don’t know whether to make love to you or just muse over the existential pointlessness of it all.

Leia: I think it’s the second one. The one with the musing. We could muse.

Luke: We could do both! Musing and making love. It doesn't even have to be in that order! We could do it simultanously. I’m totally—I mean I’m totally flexible here. So, are you seeing anyone? We could get something to eat… My uncle has this deli in Brooklyn—out of this world knish.

Leia: Listen, Luke… You’re cute…

Luke: I’m cute? Really? You think I’m cute? Well, I was hoping for sexually irresistible, but I’ll take cute. Cute is nice.

Leia: But there’s something about you I can’t quite put my finger on.

Luke: I get told that all the time. It's no problem. We can work around it.

Leia: No, no, there’s something about you that doesn’t seem right. I don’t know but I feel it would be wrong to be intimate with you. Like it would be against the laws of nature.

Luke: Against the laws of nature? Whew. I gotta tell you, that sound you just heard, that *whoosh*, that was the sound of my ego being vaporized. I definitely felt, a whaddya call it? A disturbance in the Force. I mean, I’ve been shot down before, but—

Leia: No, no, no, shut up already, you don’t feel it too? That’d we be doing something completely wrong—taboo?

Luke: Oh I get it. You have intimacy issues, you bring up taboo! This is so classic!

Leia: I do NOT have intimacy issues! There is something…something…incestuous about us getting together!

(They both look at each other. It dawns on Luke.)

Luke: Ohhhh! Oh my God… We’re related? You know I did feel kinda weird, but I just thought it was the hair (he points to her head)…I thought it was the hair! This is horrible. Something was making me uneasy, but then I’m always uneasy. Oh, this is just great! The closest I come to getting laid in years, and it’s with my sister!

Leia: There was really no chance—

Luke: Oh, excuse me, I’ll be right back. I’m going to gouge my eyes out.

Saturday, June 10, 2006

Great Lyrics

I was recently following blog links cause 1.) It's a great way to find cool blogs and 2.)Clicking on things is fun. I came across this one: Mad Below My Feet. In it, the blogger listed her favorite top ten lyrics. Which brings us the third reason I follow links to blogs. It gives me ideas that I can shamelessly rip off. With that in mind, I was inspired to compile my own list.

Being a music junky, it wasn't easy to narrow it down. Even harder was keeping the lyrics to a manageable length. Some songs inspired such devotion that I wanted to transcribe every single word right down to each singer's plaintive "ooo-ooos." Let's just be glad "Hey Jude" didn't make the list. I'd have miles and miles of "na-na-na-na's." And while this is a Top Ten list, I have to confess that I've numbered these things just because I like to organize and classify; bring order and make connections. But in reality, I can't argue that my #3 lyric is truly better than, say, #4. But lists are fun.

When you go through my list it should reveal that yes, I am a sentimental bastard and one's guy's deeply felt lyricism is another person's treacle. Some of my choices are probably going to seem painfully obvious, like say, U2, for example. Can't be helped. When a group becomes realllly successful, familiarity often has the power to diminsh the original work. Well, I feel that Bono's lyricism holds up despite its ubiquitous presence in iPod commericals, elevator music, bars, and yes, even churches. So there. :)

Here we go, here we go, here we go, now...

10.) "No Way Out"-- Peter Gabriel
"The colour in your shirt is darkening,
against the paleness of your skin
I remember how you held the goldfish
swimming around in a plastic bag
swimming around in a plastic bag
You held it up so high
in the bright lights of the fair
It slipped and fell
We looked everywhere

Don't leave us (your eyes are bright, your blood is warm)
Don't leave like this (your heart is strong, you're holding on)
Don't leave me here again (i feel your pulse, i hold your hand)
I'm not quitting on you
There's no one else
You're not quitting on us
there's no way out"

Some beautiful distinct images (the goldfish in the plastic bag, the lights of the fair) works in tandem with the sense of panic and urgency as the narrator tries desperately to hold on to a fallen lover. Whenever I hear this song, I'm *there* holding her hand too, wanting her to make it. I feel it.

9.)"Things Have Changed" -- Bob Dylan

"Feel like falling in love with the first woman I meet--
Putting her in a wheel barrow and wheeling her down the
street"

The whole song is full of classic Dylan wry asides, and this one has to be the wryest. (That's probably not a word, but the lyric is so good, I think I'm allowed.) This is why Dylan is a genius... he makes those poetic connections that are inventive, funny, and searingly true. And now I never go anywhere without my wheelbarrow. Metaphorically speaking, of course. ;)

8.) "The Red Shoes" -- Kate Bush

"Oh the minute I put them on
I knew I had done something wrong
All her gifts for the dance had gone
It's the red shoes, they can't stop dancing, dancing
And this curve, is your smile
And this cross, is your heart
And this line, is your path"

Kate Bush's pop-rock fairy tale concoction manages to reveal the darker side of wish fulfilment. The last three lines becomes a mystical possession of sorts-- dark, urgent, compelling. Like the dancer in the song, it becomes impossible not to be swayed by the combination of magic, art, and intent.

7.)"Army" -- Ben Folds Five

"I thought about the army...
I dropped out and joined a band instead

Grew a moustache and a mullet
Got a job at chic-fil-a
Citing artistic differences
the band broke up in May
And in June reformed without me
and they'd got a different name
I nuked another grandma's apple pie
and hung my head in shame"

If there was trophy for slice-of-life self-deprecating rock songs, well, Ben Folds would have his shelves full. Nobody mixes self-loathing and humor quite so well.

6.)"King of Pain"-- Sting

"There's a fossil that's trapped in a high cliff wall
(That's my soul up there)
There's a dead salmon frozen in a waterfall
(That's my soul up there)
There's a blue whale beached by a springtide's ebb
(That's my soul up there)
There's a butterfly trapped in a spider's web
(That's my soul up there)"

Okay, if there's anyone better at utilizing this type of strong poetic images into the service of a top 40 pop song, please let me know. Individual isolation plus beautifully cold natural imagery?? Sting makes loneliness sound down right scientific.

5.)"One" -- U2

"Have you come here for forgiveness?
Have you come to raise the dead?
Have you come here to play Jesus?
To the lepers in your head.

Did I ask too much?
More than a lot.
You gave me nothing,
Now it's all I've got.."


Okay, this is the obligatory U2 reference. But the lyrics are painfully fearless and represent an honesty not seen in most top 40 love songs. And make no mistake, it is a love song, just not the kind that they play at weddings. (And if they do, I don't think they've listened to it.) The first time I heard it, I didn't really *hear* it. The second time I caught the lyrics and it was painful. Painful. Like a slap to the face. Because Bono was talking about the way we relate to each other... the desire to understand and connect, and the inevitable conflicts that arise. I love the terrible beauty of the lyric I've excerpted, but the song is, at the end, hopeful, as well as realistic. And the more we understand this emotional dance between each other, the better the chances are that we can make good on hope's promise.

4.)"Without a Trace" --Soul Asylum

"Standing in the sun with a popsicle--
Everything is possible..."

One of my favorite rock couplets of all time. Succinct and deliriously positive, it's a feel-good line that resonates because when Dave Pirner sings it, you believe it. And what a wonderful feeling that is.

3.) "Tom's Diner"-- Suzanne Vega

"Oh, this rain
It will continue
Through the morning
As I'm listening

To the bells
Of the cathedral
I am thinking
Of your voice...

And of the midnight picnic
Once upon a time
Before the rain began..."

Distinct little details create a vivid ordinary world and each one has value. But when Suzanne drifts inward, to the vistas of her own memory, the song's lyricism shows us how objects and sounds become the placeholders for emotional connections. The bells of the cathedral lead to a voice which leads to a midnight picnic that occurred before the storm. She gives us what looks like a sketch and urges us to finish-- to fill in the details, and we do.

2.)"Short Skirt, Long Jacket"-- Cake
"I want a girl with smooth liquidation
I want a girl with good dividends
At Citi Bank we will meet accidently
We will start to talk when she borrows my pen
She wants a car with a cup holder armrest
She wants a car that will get her there
She is changing her name from Kitty to Karen
She is trading her MG for a white, Chrysler LeBaron
I want a girl with a short skirt and a
looooooooong jacket."

Think Suzanne Vega with a dead-pan sense of humor and you can start to feel Cake's vibe. (Mmmm, Cake.) Basically, the band has created the best personals ad ever, giving us very specific details on the guy's dream girl. It's goofy fun and everytime I listen to it I think, "yeah, I want a girl like that too."

1.) "Wishlist"-- Pearl Jam

"I wish I was a neutron bomb, for once I could go off.
I wish I was a sacrifice but somehow still lived on.
I wish I was a sentimental ornament you hung on
The christmas tree, I wish I was the star that went on top,
I wish I was the evidence
I wish I was the grounds for fifty million hands up raised and opened toward the sky."

Okay, the cumulative effect of hearing the entire song does give it power, but even just sampling a particular excerpt (like my favorite, up there) doesn't diminish the impact. If life is constantly about change and flux, then "wishlist" taps into the desire to want to be a beautiful and poetic thing... Pearl Jam gives us a different idea of beauty that differs from the surface, conventional definition. A word or phrase can be so perfect it attains a beautiful symmetry. The desire to be both the sentimental ornament and the star on top is a universal desire. In this way, this stretching of the boundaries points the way towards active participation in our lifelong series of changes. If we make up our own definition of beauty, we take our life into our own hands. We become who we are supposed to be.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

How to Write and Be Funny (without changing a thing) PLUS Bonus Dating Tips!

Many of my friends, and yes, I do have them; often say to me, “Hey Dave! I loved that thing you wrote! That was really funny!” To which I respond, “It wasn’t supposed to be funny.” And then they say, “Oh yeah, that bit where you’re totally humiliated, and then with the tub of Crisco—” To which I respond, “That’s…my…LIFE…you bastards!” And then, of course, they laugh some more, going, “Ha, ha, that’s great when you use your William Shatner voice!” “IT…IS…NOT…MIS-TER!”

There’s an important point to that little story concerning the nature of humor. Unfortunately, I have NO idea what it is. In fact, I’m getting a little nervous here. You’re reading this expecting some sort of guidance when it comes to writing humor and here I am stalling. Well, no more stalling. Here I’m going to tell you how to make your writing funny. I mean it. Right now. Here we go. OH MY GOD! There’s a mongoose behind you!!! Our only chance is to run! Run!!!

You’re still here. You’ve seen through my little ruse. At last. A worthy opponent. Very well. Why do people laugh? Why do we find certain things funny? Where do babies come from? I wish I knew. I swear to God I wish I knew.

Sigmund Freud wondered too. In his book, The Joke and Its Relation to the Unconcious, Freud asserts that the things we laugh at are signals that reveal unconscious feelings and desires. Ha! Ha! That’s hilarious, Sigmund Freud! It might explain my unholy love of Whoopi Goldberg movies, though. I wholeheartedly recommend this book if you like laughter. Sample excerpt: “Two Jews meet in the neighborhood of the bath-house. “So have you taken a bath already? asks the one. ‘How come?’ asks the other in reply. ‘Is there one missing?’ Ba-dum-bump-CHING! Clearly, Freud had the unconscious desire to write for NBC sitcoms.
Some tips on writing funnier:

• Wear a funny hat while you write. (Hemingway did this while writing The Old Man and the Sea.)
• Have a shot of tequila every time you use an adjective
• Don’t wear pants (this only works if you writing at Starbucks)
• Read aloud what you’ve written in a “funny” Marlon Brando voice (this will come more naturally after a few shots of tequila.)
• After you’ve written something funny, write Ba-dum-bump-CHING!

But what do I write about? What is a funny subject? Well, according to Mark Twain: “Everything human is pathetic. The secret source of humor itself is not joy but sorrow. There is no humor in heaven.”

So I usually pick a subject that is inherently pathetic, such as my sex life. If your sex life is fabulous and you can’t find anything to laugh about, you need to rethink the way you’re having sex. Find ways to make it funnier, like during a climax, shout out a celebrity’s name, such as “Bill O’Reilly!” This has worked for me on more than one occasion. Or you could have sex in a “funny” location, like Sizzler or the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese. But there are many, many ways to find the humiliation, and thus, the humor, in your life.

“The last time I was inside a woman was when I visited the Statue of Liberty.” --Woody Allen

“At my age, ‘getting lucky’ means finding a good parking space.” –Garrison Keillor

Notice, neither one of those quotes is by Johnny Depp. Still, come on, sex can be pathetically funny even if you are not a schlub like me. I mean, the whole thing is a bit ridiculous. Think about the process. You basically stick Tab A into Slot B. Or if you’re feeling bold, Slot C. You might be curious about sticking Tab A into Slot D. That would be a mistake. (Slot D being your ear canal, you sicko.) I see nothing wrong with Slot B engaging Slot D, however, given the proper context of a secure and loving relationship. I mean, it’s not my scene or anything, but feel free, go ahead. But please check your individual state and county laws before proceeding. It may be something you can only do in Massachusets.

And, for a moment, consider all the crazy, weird mammalian sounds you make while enjoying a bout of conjugal rutting with your loved one. If you think I’m wrong, make an audio tape of your rutting noises. Play it back and if caribou don’t show up in your backyard, well, perhaps it’s the wrong season. Think about it, isn’t it pretty ridiculous the sounds we make? You know, all the “Whoop! Whoop!” sounds? Okay, I might be the only one who does that. Let’s move on. I’m feeling strangely vulnerable right now.

Another way to making your writing more funny is to emphasize unexpected connections between two objects or ideas. The key word is unexpected. Often humor will result from a surprise that the audience didn’t see coming. Look! A mongoose! For the love of God, it’s a baby-eating mongoose! Didn’t see that one coming, did you?

People like recognizable references. I advise throwing in lots of pop culture references that everybody will know. For example, let’s say you want to describe how your mom is crazy. Instead of just saying that, say she’s “Zelda Fitzgerald-crazy!” Hoo boy, you’ll be the toast of the cocktail party for sure! Because nothing is funnier than a well-placed Zelda Fitzgerald reference. Except maybe for a Gary Coleman reference. That dude who created “Family Guy” is a millionaire based solely on this comedy principle.

So, let’s recap. Use “funny” pop culture references, even if it’s totally inappropriate, say, during intercourse. Humor comes from pain. If you’re unexpectedly honest and share hurtful things, people will laugh with you, and by laugh with you, I mean laugh at you. Cause, hey, who doesn’t like to laugh, right? You can also use exaggeration as a means of making something funny. Like when I said I made “Whoop! Whoop!” sounds during sex, I was CLEARLY exaggerating. Ha! Ha! I would never do that. It’s more of a “Woo! Woo!” sound. And that’s not funny. See how that works? It’s like magic!! Exaggeration!

There are many more tips on making your writing funnier. But you’re just not ready. Instead, here are some tips on dating.

Tips on Dating
A great opening line is crucial to beginning a discussion with that comely veterinarian or priest. (Note: these lines work equally well whether you are gay or straight, single or married. Caution! They may be inappropriate for job interviews. Please excuse any gender bias and/or horrible stereotyping. Also, the racial epithets. I don’t know what I was thinking there! Plus, the whole bit where I compare your mama to the Predator. Totally taken out of context. Also, I may have made some rather unkind and blatantly untrue comments towards marsupials. I retract absolutely everything that I’ve written and will ever write in the future.)

Lines for Men

“Would you like to get together and exchange bodily fluids?” This type of approach is bold, shows you are take-charge, and will quite often result with a woman “giving it” to you. And by “giving it” to you I mean, she’s probably going to “give” you some pepper spray to the face.

But what if she doesn't? Something to think about, isn’t it?

“My bowels are burning with passion for you.” Women like men who are passionate about their feelings, and by extension, their bowels. She’ll be impressed by your readiness to talk about something most people are ashamed of.

“I have something tasty for you inside my pants.” Then pull a butter croissant out of your pocket and offer it to her. Women like carbs, according to Redbook magazine.

Lines for Women

“I’m into crystals. Are you into crystals?” Then waggle your eyebrows seductively. (Note: this really only works if your name is Crystal. And the priest is really drunk.)

“Would you like to go to a really wild party? A really wild scrapbooking party?” He will admire your sense of fun and will appreciate that you are not a slut. (Bonus: your name doesn’t have to be Crystal!)

For Men Only!

Do:

Lie! Women want excitement. You’re boring. Make up something extra to give your life some zing, like, say you had a leg blown off in the Vietnam War. Remember to call it ‘Nam. If she questions you on where your Purple Heart is, run away, and yell “Incoming!” Then start to cry. Women like it when men cry.

Don’t:

Date the boss’ daughter. She’s 14, you sick son of a bitch.

Have fun! That's all I got.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Ask Solomon

Ye cometh plagued by many vexations; verily I say unto thee, absorb my wisdom, go forth, and despair no more.

Dear Solomon,

My boyfriend split up with me a year ago and I'm still searching for "Mr. Right." I'm beginning to think he doesn't exist. Is there any hope for me or should I just give up?
--Frustrated in Fresno

Dear Frustrated,
"This is an evil among all things that are done under the sun, that there is one event unto all: yea, also the heart of the sons of men is full of evil, and madness is in their heart while they live, and after that they go to the dead."

Dear Solomon,

I recently lost my job and I was thinking of dipping into my 401k. Of course, I'll pay a huge penalty for doing so. Should I do this or wait it out until I find another job?

--Unemployed in Utah

Dear Unemployed,

"There is an evil which I have seen under the sun, and it is common among men: A man to whom God hath given riches, wealth, and honour, so that he wanteth nothing for his soul of all that he desireth, yet God giveth him not power to eat thereof, but a stranger eateth it: this is vanity, and it is an evil disease."

Dear Solomon,

I'm making up my will and I was unsure if I should divide my estate equally between my children and step-children? What is a fair solution in this case?
--Stymied in Scranton

Dear Stymied,

"Yea, I hated all my labour which I had taken under the sun: because I should leave it unto the man that shall be after me. And who knoweth whether he shall be a wise man or a fool? Yet shall he have rule over all my labour wherein I have laboured, and wherein I have shewed myself wise under the sun. This is also vanity. Therefore I went about to cause my heart to despair of all the labour which I took under the sun."

Dear Solomon,

I'm writing because my parents are insisting on me going to an Ivy league school, but I want to stay closer to home. I feel like they're not taking my personal needs into consideration! How can I let them know that I'd rather not be so far away from home?
--Exasperated in El Paso

Dear Exasperated,

"And I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly: I perceived that this also is vexation of the spirit. For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow."

Dear Solomon,

Sometimes I feel like nothing matters and I wonder if I should just end it all. Are there any resources for me out there that can help me cope with this problem?-- Depressed in Des Moines

Dear Depressed,

"I praised the dead which are already dead more than the living which are alive. Yea, better is he than both they, which hath not yet been, who hath not seen the evil work that is done under the sun."

Dear Solomon,

My wife and I have a problem. She wants to use our tax refund to put a hot tub in the back yard. I say, it's high time we renovate the bathroom. Is there anyway to come to some sort of compromise? --Indecisive in Idaho

Dear Indecisive,

"And I find more bitter than death the woman, whose heart is snares and nets, and her hands as bands: whoso pleaseth God shall escape from her; but the sinner shall be taken by her."

Dear Solomon,

My boyfriend is always making rude and inappropriate jokes in front of my parents. I can tolerate it, but it's pretty embarrasing sometimes. Any advice?-- Mortified in Michigan

Dear Mortified,

"I said of laughter, It is mad: and of mirth, What doeth it?"

Saturday, June 03, 2006

Butter-Churning Porn

I was re-reading George (Marian Evans) Eliot's Adam Bede the way a Methodist might re-read passages of the Bible in order to get inspiration. In other words, I was opening the book up and reading random passages, letting Providence guide my hand. It was with this little experiment, I found what is one of my favorite passages in the book. Which I thought I'd share with you all. In it, Eliot describes the character of Hetty, churning butter. But the scene is full of Hetty's nascent sexuality. If anyone has an example of a hotter butter-churning scene in literature, let me know.

And they are the prettiest attitudes and movements into which a pretty girl is thrown in making up butter--tossing movements that give a charming curve to the arm, and a sideward inclination of the round white neck; little patting and rolling movements with the palm of the hand, and nice adaptations and finishings which cannot at all be effected without a great play of the pouting mouth and the dark eyes. And then the butter itself seems to communicate a fresh charm--it is so pure, so sweet-scented; it is turned off the mould with such a beautiful firm surface, like marble in a pale yellow light! --George Eliot

But of course, I might just have a dirty mind. ;)

Friday, June 02, 2006

Imshee!

Hey all... a year ago I was taking the trip of a lifetime in Egypt. Here's a nonfictional recap of the emotional journey that accompanied the physical one. Hope you dig... :)

I’m thirsty. The heat is something else in Cairo, let me tell you. It could all be psychological, just knowing that to the west of me is the white-out of the Arabian Desert and to the east is the bleached horizon of the Libyan Desert, no picnic either. It’s just intimidating. I mean, I’m from Idaho. The desert to me is the Bruneau Sand Dunes where there are several drinking fountains at the rest area, all of which do not contain bacteria that would use my bowels as an all-day water park.
And I know, I just know, I’m going to get taken like the rube I am for way too many pounds. How much would a local pay? One Egyptian pound? Two? I look at the small grinning man with the stained teeth, take a five pound note out of my pocket and point to the lovely bottles of water. That one, the plastic bottle--one of the smaller ones. It’s a typical size if I was buying one from a vending machine back home, but definitely puny considering the larger bottles on display. The grinning man in the elegant beige galabiyya robes and matching fez-like hat picks up the largest bottle and offers it to me. The crystal blue label has the familiar logo of Nestle written both in English and Arabic. “Best deal, cheap,” he assures me as a fly circles his head in a desultory fashion. Evidently, the sizes come in small, large, and American. Guess who got made?
I sigh. “Three pounds,” I say confidently, holding up my five pound note. In my mind I pretend I’m one of those cops in a 70’s era TV show, offering money for information on Rico’s whereabouts. He nods slightly, his eye on the thin paper crumpled up in my hand. He takes it from me. “Five,” he says, still smiling. “This one five.” He makes the five pound note disappear, even though I can’t see any pockets on his robe. Neat magic trick, that. Cairo 1, Dave 0. Mentally, I count the remaining pounds I have in my head. I have to be more careful. Never, never, never, let them know how much money you have. Small bills, man. Use lots of small bills, just like the Lonely Planet guide said. I only had twelve hours on the flight over to read the damn thing cover to cover, twice. Of course, I used the time wisely to memorize important Arabic phrases like: fee hadsa! (There’s been an accident—perfect for the errant suicide bomber attack), imshee! (go away— an excellent phrase when being chased by wolf-packs of jeering children), and, just for fun, mumkin aradda’a hina? (do you mind if I breastfeed here?—just, you know, to break the ice if anti-American sentiment gets too serious.)
I’m hemorrhaging money every time I leave the hotel. The other members of my tour group have acclimated pretty well to the vagaries of haggling. I absolutely hate it. I’m an introvert by nature anyway and anything over three sentences of small talk with anyone eventually leads to stammering and inane observations on my part. What started out as awkward shyness as a kid has blossomed into full-blown misanthropic cynicism as an adult. I think I’ve decided that a true connection with anyone is impossible. There’s too much “me” and too much “you” for “us” to work. Sometimes I see the Unabomber on TV and I think: did he start out like this? Am I just a couple of bad relationships and a leftist manifesto away from becoming that guy? Am I becoming the Unabomber?
I try to talk to members of my tour group, attempting a semblance of “normal” conversation. My conversations with my tour group have been limited to such brilliant bon mots as “Sure is hot,” “I’m from Idaho,” and “No, really.” Being the only one in my group from Idaho has consequently not reflected well on my home state. Surely the rest of my group is recalling news reports regarding the dismal educational statistics from my state whenever I open my mouth. It’s tough seeing Cairo with a group of strangers who view you with a mixture of uneasiness and pity. I wish I could explain: the others back home aren’t like me. I’m just a lousy representative. I know that. Imshee.
Jason and Mia, the good-looking, corn-fed, amiable couple from Wisconsin that remind me of “Dharma and Greg,” are, predictably, good at haggling. I ask them if they could negotiate a papyrus sale for me. “It’s like buying a used car,” Jason confides, stressing the “ar” sound in that “Fargo” lilt. “You fix a price in your head, and be perfectly willing to walk away if they don’t go for it.” I neglect to tell him how shitty I am at buying used cars.
Despite it all, though, it’s hard not to love Cairo. Even with the haggling. Even with the constant outstretched hands, aggressively and artlessly demanding baksheesh, or tips as we would call it back in the states. It takes some getting used to. Someone holds a door for you, better have a pound or two at the ready. Baksheesh. Someone points out Cleopatra on a Ptolemaic relief? Baksheesh. Walking five feet in Cairo is an instant education.
It’s a staggering behemoth, sprawling and thick, impossibly pulsing with life despite the intense poverty, the heat unfolding in rolls from the surrounding deserts. Ra, the sun god, refuses to go quietly.
Cairo is a shimmering fantasy land of ancient stone edifices resonating with the throbbing power of one of the greatest and most influential civilizations ever to mark their time on this planet. The mixture of the modern is interwoven with a pop artist’s ironic sensibility: ancient mosques thousands of years old breathe in the same air as modern apartment buildings, rows of satellite dishes dotting the sides, all facing one direction, as if they too were pointed towards Mecca. The same buildings are draped in the freshly washed sheets hung out to dry on the clotheslines. It vaguely reminds me of something out of “West Side Story.” The familiar logos of KFC and Pizza Hut are altered, now conveying their greasy messages in the ostentatious line-curve-dots of Arabic. One has to wonder who’s culture is being assimilated here.
Our tour guides, Mohammad and Haney, point out that Cairo is the second most densely populated city in the world, right after Mexico City. The Egyptian people are working on that, Haney says, laughing. “More babies,” he promises, and the bus giggles along with him. Strange contest, I think, looking down onto the streets below, witnessing a redundancy of pedestrians, who, if you believe Haney, are dreaming of shaming Mexico City with their virility.
In a city filled with 14-16 million, you’re going to have some extraordinary traffic concerns. To get around in Cairo, people find a way. The narrow streets teem with busses, taxis, cheaply made cars from Europe and Asia, all hurtling insanely down the sand-covered asphalt. New York and L.A. traffic could be considered the epitome of Victorian refinement and civility in comparison. No dividing lanes, the vehicles race, weaving this way and that in a bizarre recreation of Spain’s running with the bulls. The masses of people not in motorized vehicles navigate their way through traffic by other means. Camels and burros trudge amiably with their carts of melons and bananas, dutifully making the trip to Khan al-Khalili, one of the largest open markets in the world. Old women shuffle beside them, balancing trays of mangos and other fruits on their heads, casually, effortlessly. It’s their birthright.
From the air conditioned bus, I look out, and then have to shut my eyes as a little girl attempts to cross the street in all this madness that seems inspired in a way by Blade Runner—the future and the past cautiously mixed with the grime. Finally, I decide I need to witness this. No need to worry, she’s skilled at this game. Her instincts—and the drivers—are in sync in a way I don’t fully understand. Maybe it’s in the body language. Maybe it’s a half-second of eye contact. Maybe it’s just the work of the gods. She pauses when one car accelerates. A bus slows down and the traffic becomes a choreographed Balanchine affair as she glides through with the flourish of a ballerina. A serenade of car horns ring out and the notes pirouette through the air. I half-expect her to do a plie when she reaches the other side. Pam, the occupational therapist from New Mexico, gives me a funny look when I laugh out loud at this traffic miracle. I consider explaining, but decide just to cut my losses. Putting abstract feelings into words robs the event of its meaning. I don’t know how to communicate how I feel without it sounding lame. And deep down, I have to consider the possibility that my singular experience might not be worth communicating. This might be my real problem, I fear.
I like Pam. As the only black woman in our group, she’s gotten several marriage proposals from random Egyptian men who assume she’s Nubian. I watched as one man tried to use her dreadlocks as a conversation-starter. “Bob Marley,” the man exclaimed and then began to sing, “No woman, no cry…” “That’s the name of the song,” she drawled, shaking her head as she walked. She likes to incorporate purple into her outfits; today she’s wearing a purple and white bandana. I get a William Carlos Williams vibe from her, but the only book I see her with is a guide to chakras. As soon as the bus stops, she’ll hesitate, with a hovering finger floating over a paragraph she just can’t leave behind. And, besides me, she’s the only one in the group that’s single. Yeah, I think she’s cute. Imshee.
“How many of you would like to have a nice dinner while floating the Nile?” Mohammad asks, standing in the center of the aisle, holding onto the railing as our driver hurtles towards our hotel with Mad Max-like vigor. “It’s a very good deal through Gate 1 Travel. Fifty dollars, American, per person. Very nice place. If enough of you would like to go…” All hands go up as the couples ooh and ah over this new addition to the itinerary. Even Pam raises her hand. Fuck. Group-think…overwhelming…me. I want to raise my hand, just to fit in. I realize that by not raising my hand and joining in, I am separating myself from the group. I am becoming the weird one. Anti-social guy. Stuck-up guy. I am cursed with a hyper-awareness of how other people perceive me. It’s like the guy on Dateline that got operated on while he was still awake, but couldn’t tell the doctors because he was paralyzed by the drugs.
Fifty dollars evens out to around 200 Egyptian pounds. I had a little over 300 pounds left and I needed that to buy this add-on visit to the Citadel, an ancient Islamic fortress dating back to 810. I had actually been kind of pissed about the whole deal as it hadn’t been listed on the website itinerary, and had only been offered as an extra add-on after we arrived in Egypt. The more Haney and Mohammad talked it up, the more I had to go. They even drove by it, those bastards, teasing us with the spectacle of the medieval dome and jutting spires. My eyes glazed over in awe. Well, I told myself, counting my money, how many times out of the year do I swing by this neighborhood? And that’s how my budget went from “not so bad” to “shot to hell” in one day.
As Mohammad counts hands, he looks at me twice to make sure that his vision is correct. My hand is not raised. I am NOT going. I mentally beg Pam to lower her hand, my one hope for some solidarity—single people united or some such thing. My brain flash-forwards through a scenario of her not going—we bump into each other… hey, you’re not going too! Imagine that! Yeah, we should have dinner together! And then we found out, wow! We have so much in common and spend the rest of our days traveling and reading about chakras and William Carlos Williams. Hmmm. Nope, not gonna happen. “Okay,” he says. “Looks like most of you are going tonight. We’ll meet in the lobby at 6:00 and Haney will collect the money.” Most of you, I thought. All of you. Except me. A more accurate statement would be, all of you are going, except for the Unabomber sitting at the back of the bus. I was irritating myself. Here Mohammad was, being nice, saying “most of you,” instead of pointing out that there was just one man out, Mr. Socially Awkward, from the great state of Idaho, and I couldn’t help but be angry with him for my own feelings of isolation. Imshee! All of you!
There isn’t one square inch of Cairo not being used. Flies fight for the right to land on your forehead. The buildings are impossibly huddled next to one another and there is an easygoing intimacy as clean and brightly-lit grocery stores sit adjacent to hollowed-out shacks with dirt floors. If there is a demarcation between social classes, it’s not to be found in downtown Cairo.
Main roads lead directly, improbably, into alleyways, all of which are fully utilized by businesses and residents alike. In America, alleyways are a distant afterthought. Here, they snake this way and that, a system of tributaries as essential to Cairo as the Nile. So, finding our hotel, the Royal Sheraton Gardens, down one of these lifeblood tributaries, a skinny, disheveled, malnourished looking alleyway, isn’t too big of a shock. If anything, my personal shock is reserved for how easily a bus as large as ours can be navigated into such a small space. I keep on expecting our driver to accidentally plow over a group of children at arbitrary intervals. Every now and then I’ll check the grill for flattened youths. You’d at least think I’d find a random soccer ball. Something!
There’s snack food in my room, but it’s not complimentary. A one-serving size bag of Funnions will set you back 20 pounds. (That’s five bucks, math fans. At that price, not nearly enough fun.) I had the foresight to pack a box of chewy granola bars, but, tragically enough, I managed to eat them all between my arrival in New York and the subsequent flight over the Atlantic. What can I say? I hadn’t anticipated just how bad EgyptAir’s food would be. I killed the last granola bar somewhere over Morocco.
Still, despite my hunger, I decide to save myself from any of the embarrassment of meeting the tour group while they’re leaving for their big dinner. Thirty minutes is a safe number and I find a rerun of “Everybody Loves Raymond.” In French! Somehow, it’s funnier.
At 6:30 I pass through the metal detectors and nod towards the uniformed duo of teenage soldiers. They stare impassively poker-faced in their crisp white regalia, hands lazily resting on their machine guns. They’re here to protect me, I repeat to myself as I walk out the door and into the alley. Just like the ubiquitous guards who follow the busses and look underneath them for bombs at random stops. The last thing Egypt wants is an American tourist impaled by nails and other bits of shrapnel from a homemade bomb. Tourism is integral to the Egyptian economy and it wasn’t lost on anyone, from the tourists to the terrorists and everyone in between. It was odd. I felt protected, but mortality was never far from my mind. Anything could happen. Before I left home I jokingly told my friends and family that if they didn’t hear from me in two weeks, to check CNN for my taped pleas for government cooperation with the terrorists. Hah-ha, they would all say, uneasily.
I walk down the alleyway with one goal in mind. I am going to find a falafel stand. And not get lost in the process. Okay, I have two goals. And, also, I hope not to create some sort of international incident. That’s three. I’m not sure how this might happen, but if anyone could inadvertently do such a thing, let’s face it, it’d be me. Say mumkin aradda’a hina to the wrong person, and well, you know how jihads start.
My heart beats a little faster as the Cairenes in the shops next to the hotel try to catch my eye. These aren’t your typical Cairenes. They’re the hucksters looking for American rubes. They’re the ones with overpriced Coke and Pepsi and orange Fanta, weird Arabic Twinkies, and stupid plastic trinkets with images of King Tut and Cleopatra, all made in China. They hover around the tourist spots, the fronts of hotels, and the popular restaurants. I get an awful feeling of satisfaction knowing my tour group is probably plowing through a swarm of them to get to their cruise dinner. I’ve learned not to say much, only a firm “La shukran!” No thanks. Much nicer than imshee. Still, the more persistent ones, usually children, follow you for a bit. Your only defense is to focus on a point and walk away, like you know exactly where you’re going. Interestingly enough, this works equally well on American children.
After focusing on a point, in this case, the main road at the end of the alleyway, I walk forward and make a right. Everything from the buildings to the cars in the street to the people spilling out from the shops and cafes onto the sidewalks and the sides of the road converge to overwhelm my senses. Lucidity melts in the sun. The heat, the rapid fire of people conversing in Arabic, and the vehicles speeding by, horns blaring, all give me the feeling that I’ve been dropped into an immense Skinner box, and if I can only find my way through, I can get my pellet, in this case a pita with falafel. It’s dizzying and scary, but invigorating too. Adrenaline surges through me and I quicken my pace. I learned in New York that the best way to avoid being hassled is to act like you know where you are going. You are Dustin Hoffman in “Midnight Cowboy.” You don’t stop for traffic. Traffic stops for you. Don’t stand around gaping, slack-jawed at the lights and the billboards, hypnotized by the buzzing of various languages zig-zagging in and out of the shops as doors open and shut. You can absorb it all later when you’re at a café.
I pass two blocks in a state of euphoria, breathing in the novelty and wonder of the new. Then it hits me. The danger in acting like you know where you’re going, is that it’s that much easier to get completely, hopelessly lost. I turn around and look for my alleyway only to discover it’s been swallowed up by the massiveness of Cairo. There are no familiar visual markers. There is no frame of reference. I look for a street sign. I find one. And another. And another. All of them in scribbly lines of Arabic that resemble Morse code written out by a drunken sailor on shore leave. Meaningless to my Western eye. Two blocks. I’ve only gone two blocks. I’m going to be okay. It’s just two blocks.
Pressing forward, I begin to mentally check off meaningful landmarks. Green phone. I’ve just passed a green phone. A toy store. With bicycles. A store with a sun-wilted poster of a can of mango juice. Another green phone. Wait a minute. And that’s when I realize…there’s a green phone on every corner. I blink the sweat out of my eyes and hope that I don’t look as panicked as I feel.
At this point I recall something I had read in a guide on writing, by comics auteur Alan Moore. Encouraging timid writers to take chances, he advised them to “jump off cliffs” and to “knit yourself a helicopter” before you hit the ground. There’s a certain insane magic to those words, I always thought, and now I had the chance to test their validity. I couldn’t be that far away. What kind of complete idiot would I have to be to not be able to locate a falafel stand in the heart of Cairo? No, I have to push forward. I would jump off a cliff and worry about knitting myself a helicopter later.
A feral-looking dirty-white kitten runs down an alleyway. For some reason I follow. I pass what looks like an Egyptian version of Wal-Greens. If there is a sidewalk, it’s misplaced. Perhaps an excavation might locate it, I thought. The crumbled husk of a building is haunted by kids, darting in and around blackened pillars, contestants in the universal game of hide and seek. One little boy, a lousy hider, tries scrunching behind a rock and when he is immediately caught, lets out a howl of indignation. I smile, because my son Chazz used to do that when he was younger. A few of them stare curiously at me as I walk past. Unexpectedly, I wave. In my suitcase, back at the hotel, I had packed a plastic Albertson’s sack with an assortment of Hot Wheels and Matchbox cars to give to kids asking for baksheesh, but I had forgotten to bring them with me for this excursion. If I had them, I’d give them the whole bag. I want to give them the whole bag. The little one, the howler, stops howling, looks at me and waves back. He’s the only one that does this.
Across the alleyway, there is a hole-in-the-wall café with a couple of plastic tables and chairs. The smell of earth, like the potatoes under the sink back home, combine with the smells of frying oil and tobacco. A thin, mustached man in an apron, dotted with stains, sits in one of the chairs, watching me approach. An old woman is behind the counter, looking at me intensely. The man takes a drag from a sheesha water pipe, a contraption that resembles an elaborate bong. It has a hose connected to it, kind of like an oxygen tank. If you tilt your head, it could pass as a George Lucas droid. R5-Huuka. Behind him is a reader board that, from the way the Arabic lines are arranged reminds me of a menu. There is a line-dot-dash-curve, then white space, then, a couple of symbols sequestered clear to the right, off by themselves. Item... price? A picture of a fried, brownish-green falafel wedge cements it. Howard Carter, discovering Tut’s crib, couldn’t be any giddier.
The man gets up and crushes his cigarette out on a small metal lid. Inquisitive eyes meet mine. Something tells me tourists usually don’t find there way down here. He says something to me in Arabic. The tone of his last word ascends slightly higher than the other words. His eyebrows rise, trying to pull a response out of me. A question. He’s just asked me a question.
“Uh…” I grin stupidly. There’s something ironic about an anti-social English major unable to communicate through speech or writing. Someday, this will make one of those funny anecdotes that people send in to Reader’s Digest. “I… I’m sorry,” I say, and truly mean it. I’m dyin’ here. “I don’t know Arabic. I’m…” Stammering. That’s what I’m doing. And making a jack-ass out of myself. Finally, I figure out that I have a tremendous visual aid to help me.
Pointing towards the poster, I ask, “Falafel?” My voice and face become a parody of inquisitiveness. As I smile and raise my eyebrows, I feel like I’m doing charades. And if you think it’s easy, you try “acting out” falafel.
He chirps back smiling, “Falafel!” I think he’s figured me out. “Ta'amiyya,” he intones. “Falafel...ta’amiyaa.”
“Ta’amiyaa...” I repeat, nodding excitedly, and we erupt into laughter.
He mumbles something in Arabic and looks at me expectantly. I squint my eyes to indicate confusion, brain hurting, but I stop after self-consciously realizing that I might instead be conveying disgust. “I don’t understand,” I carefully enunciate, knowing full well that that’s not going to help matters.
His eyes light up and he holds up his right hand. “Falafel,” he starts, then extends his index finger. “One…two…three…”
“Oh! Numbers! Three! Three falafel!” This is the freakiest Sesame Street episode ever. The Count would be so proud.
He laughs and shouts something to the old woman and she reaches into a gray ceramic bowl and starts to knead the falafel paste. Thick, weathered fingers shape the fava bean paste into perfect circles with the skill and precision of an artisan. She sings to herself and drops them in the frying pan, the oil popping and snapping like firecrackers.
The man points towards his chair and motions me towards it. I hesitate. If I could communicate in English how awkward I feel taking somebody’s chair I would. “No thank you,” I would say, then run away and get my own chair. Far, far away. In a basement somewhere. As it is, I don’t have that option. “Shukran,” I say, nervously, taking the seat offered. I feel like such an imperialist. He smiles back, pleased that I’ve taken it. And it’s okay. I’m okay. It occurs to me that I’ve stumbled onto a basic and elemental truth: sometimes people really do want to do nice things for each other.
I sit there trying desperately to maintain my sense of awkwardness. I’m not used to being at ease with anyone. It’s odd. He’s standing next to me, trying to determine, what, if anything, he should say. My inner neuroses rally: Leave now… you’ve had an interesting experience… You know there’s only embarrassment ahead… You know that, don’t you? When have you ever been good at talking with anyone? Do you really think you won’t screw it up? Shit. How did I get so good at sabotaging myself? There’s a hotel room and I belong in there with the doors locked and the lights turned off. What the fuck am I doing here halfway across the world thinking I have the right to tramp down this dirt alley looking for what…someone to talk to me? In Arabic?
“Mustafa…ismee…Mustafa,” he says, pointing to himself. “Ismee?” he says, expectantly, then waits for an answer.
Name…ismee is connected to name. His name is Mustafa. “David…ismee…David,” I say tentatively, unsure of the proper usage of ismee. However it’s supposed to be used, I’m close enough. Mustafa laughs and extends his hand.
“David,” he says. “Mustafa.”
I take his hand and shake it. “Mustafa,” I repeat with a bit of wonder in my voice. Just like that. A piece of a puzzle that I didn’t know I was trying to solve. Mustafa. Ismee.
“Cairo…” Mustafa starts, then halts, trying to think of the words. “Cairo…” he says leadingly, then gives a thumbs up, and follows it with a thumbs down. I may not know Arabic, but I know my Roger Ebert.
I grin, thrusting my thumb in the air empathically. “Cairo… very fine,” I say, using a word I had heard Haney favor. “Very fine,” I repeat and Mustafa grins in return, pleased. A few seconds of silence and he asks, “America…” Eyebrows go up as he offers me the thumbs up or thumbs down choices. Unbidden images of Lindy England pop into my head. Gah! That isn’t America, is it? I think of school kids offering their lawn-mowing money to tsunami victims. Sometimes people really do want to do nice things for each other. I hold out my hand and tilt it back and forth in a tee-totter fashion, the universal sign for so-so. Mustafa’s expression is blank and muted. A few seconds lapse. Then he closes his eyes and roars with laughter. I can honestly say that here, in a city which has robbed me of speech and written language, I have connected with another human being.
We shake hands again. “Shukran, shukran,” I intone, taking the bag of falafel. It was nothing—30 piastres, about one third of a pound. Reaching into my pocket I pull out a five pound note; I have nothing smaller, but I want him to have it. Baksheesh. As I hand it to him, his hands go up and he shakes his head while smiling. “La, la,” he says and it reminds me of music. I blink about a dozen times. Stunned, all I can say is “shukran.”
The group is getting back. The bus has screeched in, no victims yet. Truthfully, I think the bus driver is merely showing off. “See what I can do with a bus? Could you do this with a bus? I don’t think so!” It’s a matter of pride. He’s good. I think I’ll tell him before the trip ends. “You are a good bus driver,” I will say. “American bus drivers could learn from you.”
From the comfort of the lobby, I sit, and watch the group go through the metal detectors, chatting up the highlights of the evening. It’s weird. I don’t feel like running away. There’s a hotel room somewhere and I don’t belong in it right now. I belong here, with people.
Ismee David. I want to talk.