Getting Cozy?

Getting Cozy?

In what is almost certainly a vain attempt to kick myself into gear, I set myself the challenge of writing in the mode of the most published genres, figuring that if I could catch the right tenor, the right vibe, I might be able to settle into my remaining years as a celebrated author of Romance, or Mystery, or Science Fiction, or even Young Adult Romance Science Fiction. Turns out that the strata are even more differentiated genre-by-genre than I had assumed. A few seconds into researching Romance, for example, and I knew I would have to start with something less daunting, something more familiar, and by familiar, I mean almost overwhelmingly complex.

Crime. Seems simple enough. Bad person does bad thing and is discovered or not and punished or not.

Uh huh.

Here’s a short list of types of crime fiction: The whodunnit, the historical whodunnit, detective fiction, the cozy, the locked room mystery, the psychological thriller, the legal thriller, the police procedural, the caper story, the spy thriller, the forensic crime, the hardboiled (Noir) crime, roman a clef crime,and parodies of each of those subsets.

Tossing aside the more subtly gradated types of crime fiction, I took comfort in knowing that there is considerable distance between the grimly evidential detail of the police procedural, dragging readers as they do into the morgue and across the autopsy table, and the benignly murderous, humorously affectionate world of mysteries known as cozies.

I prefer reading procedurals but am probably most at home writing a cozy. The rules of writing cozily, such as there are, are broadly these: Eccentric or amusing characters are more important than mystery. Crimes are solved by clever and intuitive amateurs, many of whom have an uncommon ability to see the true nature of the characters she (usually) meets. Gentle humor abounds, often at the expense of the amateur sleuth. Rough language is generally avoided. “Hellish” and “Damnation” are about as gritty as dialogue gets; an unbidden “Oh, Dear!” or “Mercy!” is more common. Finally, murders are rarely thrust in the reader’s face or presented in gruesome detail. Body parts, heads in jars, severed limbs rarely have a place in a cozy mystery.

The hardest part for me then is in finding a sleuthing name appropriate to the almost accidental untangling of crime in a cozy setting. The setting is easy – the country inn, the village bakery, the college campus. But the name! I read almost all of the John Dickson Carr “Locked Room” mysteries because the cerebral, almost entirely incapacitated by bulk, Dr. Gideon Fell had such an impressive name. Rex Stout’s detective, Nero Wolfe, a man of mystery, born in Montenegro and even less capable of movement than Gideon Fell, was literally an armchair detective. These novels were not cozies; humor was secondary to clever detection. But the names!

Here are my first attempts at naming a cozy female sleuth:

Helga Von Swiggart (psychic and healer, cat named Hecate), Trixie Sunshine (perky private investigator on retainer with MGM, puggles named Debby and Reynolds), Miss Amanda Tennyson (British dowager permanently on cruise around the world, collects exotic weapons), Tammy Nelson (recently divorced pastry chef newly settled in Bozeman, Montana, goofy mutt named Bourdain), Carla Montez (veterinarian, practice birds and fish, cocatille named Laura Esquivel), Calliope Turner (yoga instructor, cats named Huey, Dewey, and Louie), Madame Olga Rostapovich (Parisian, claims to be last of the Romanovs, speaks twelve languages).

Now, to plot, remembering that narrative drive is the least of my capacities:

Let’s set this in Bozeman, a small city of about 45,000, home to Montana State University, the Siebel Dinosaur complex with the largest collection of Tyrannosaurus Rex skeletons, and to superb hiking and fly fishing. Once something of a cowboy town, Bozeman is thoroughly boutiqued with an emphasis on expensive outdoor recreation. A pastry shop would do well there, especially one that features healthy, outdoorsy pastries, such as Tammy’s Sesame Trout Bagel.

A successful fly fishing enterprise, Rainbow Wranglers, has been plagued by a series of unfortunate mishaps on the MacKenzie River. Two guests and a guide have gone missing. The Wrangler’s owner is in Bozeman on business, stops at Tammy’s cafe, and shares the story with her. Having fished that stretch when married to her husband, a former river guide for Rainbow Wranglers, Tammy turns the pastry shop over to her former mother-in-law, her best friend, Kitty Hyde. Shoving Bordian into the back of her Subaru, Tammy sets out for Whitefish to begin nosing around.

My thought is that Tammy has to meet some eccentrics, maybe a Native guide who senses dark forces on the river, a crusty female homesteader, the feckless son of the tech billionaire angling to open up public lands for vacation estates, rough and ready environmentalist/eco terrorist ready to serve the techie as a main course, the slick agent of the huge corporation looking for rights to bottle spring water, and, of course, the ex-husband, still smarting from Tammy’s depiction of him as a caveman with fish on the brain.

All of that now neatly in place, a little research on the area, fly fishing, water rights, Native lore, geopolitical commercial investment, and pastry, and I’m ready to tear off the first in a series on Montana based thrilling (but cozy) adventures which allow Tammy (and Bourdain) the opportunity to solve crime, punish the guilty, and find love in all the right places.

The Title? Something Fishy in Bozeman? A Fly in the Bagel? A River Runs Through Him? Face Down In the MacKenzie? Pick one.

But … then, I can’t imagine spending ten minutes more in this scenario. I just have to walk away, readying myself for immersion in the next genre.

Next in the lineup of challenges is a Children’s book, the most frequently published genre. About 30% of all books published are kids books, but apparently as a group, they generate the lowest financial return, so are of no interest to agents, who are looking for Young Adult Romance Science Fiction. I can’t do Young Adult yet; I’ll need a personality transplant. But let’s see what I have in the tank after I finish Bobby Wants A Girlfriend and a Flamebot.

Coulda Been An Ad Man?

Coulda Been An Ad Man?

My ambitions have always been relatively modest.  Would I like to be lionized and taken seriously by writers who know something about writing?  Sure, but I’m ok diverting myself with the odd flight of fancy and the occasional undirected foray into whimsy.  As a younger biped, I had some thoughts about writing professionally, but, as I seem unable to create or sustain a narrative over three or four pages, I figured my chances of hitting pay dirt were slim.

I did think about going into advertising, not writing copy, but turning out the sorts of catchy jingles that had adhered in the midbrain over several decades.  I knew it wouldn’t be easy to capture the sort of cortex scathing impact of the truly great jingles, but I thought I could probably come up with a few worth humming.  After all, “Winston tastes good like a (bum bum) cigarette should” was not beyond the reach of the moderately creative.

Not so the Hall of Fame jingles:  

It’s Ajax, the foaming cleanser, foams the dirt right down the drain (bass run of bubbling down the drain)

Call Roto Rooter, that’s the name, and (another bass run) away go troubles down the drain.  Roto Rooter.

Brusha, brusha, brusha, with the new Ipana, with the brand new flavor, it’s dandy for your teeth.

Plop, plop, fizz, fizz.  Oh, what a relief it is.

These four share a common and inescapable narrative thread; these are basically declarative sentences.  Ajax foams the dirt, troubles go down the drain. Pretty easy to sort out the message.

Some were more daring, wandered into the fabulous, danced in the realm of imagination:

I wish I was an Oscar Meyer Weiner

That is what I truly wish to be

‘Cause if I were an Oscar Meyer weiner,

Everyone would be in love with me.

Everyone?  Really? No matter.  I bought it hook, line, and sinker.  The way to love? Become cylindrical bologna.  .

Some were more than simply instructive; they were demanding.

Gimme a break

Gimme a break

Break me off a piece of that Kit Kat bar.

Not much room for misunderstanding there.  You want trouble? Go ahead. Don’t break off a piece of that Kit Kat bar.  See what happens.

I’ll give a nod to Folgers as well, who also skipped the highfalutin description of slowly roasted beans hand picked on the greenest mountainsides in Colombia and simply told it as it was.

The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup.

Simple.  Declarative.  No nonsense. No room for argument.  Clarity counts as in this declaration attributed to Winston Churchill – “I like pigs.  Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.” Not all that melodic, but the reasoning is hard to escape.

There was a more lyrical and culturally specific coffee jingle when I was but a lad.

Chock full o’ Nuts is that heavenly coffee

Heavenly Coffee, heavenly coffee

Chock full o’ Nuts is that heavenly coffee

Better coffee Rockefeller’s money can’t buy.

Nelson Rockefeller sued to have the family’s name removed from the ad, a gesture I thought simply twerpy until I found that the issue had to do with Rockefeller investments in other coffee enterprises rather than with the protection of the family’s name.  Great fun, though, to have great fortune pitted against a homely cup of coffee.

Today, however, the jingle has gone the way of Howard Johnson restaurants, transistor radios, rabbit ear antennas, and Kodak cameras.  Some would say that the jingle persists, and as a fan of very local radio, I can attest to the number of Mom and Pop roofing companies that still trot out jingles with real staying power.  But national ad campaigns? Pathetic.

The two most egregiously vapid both belong to the insurance industry.

Farmers’ has added a catch phrase – “Seen it.  Covered it” – but their jingle, while declarative, is so primitive that even in the rendering of it, I am disheartened. The Farmers site presents this official rendering of the “lyrics”:  We Are Farmers!  Bum da-dum bum bum bum.

Seriously?  Why even bother?  I assume the massed choir is meant to be a band of earnest farmers, the grange glee club, farmers so moved by their profession of profession that they burst into song.  How this translates to trust in the agency covering your car, boat, or home, I cannot tell, but this I know and know full well, this threadbare jingle does not move me to shift my account their way.

Liberty Mutual, perhaps?  This is the company that cunningly poses actors in front of the Statue of Liberty, a ploy so far from subliminal that the clip serves only to suggest that Liberty Mutual seeks the dimmest of customers.  In an attempt to further dumb down the campaign, they’ve hired a trained Emu “named” LiMu (LiMu the Emu, get it?) to team up with a mustached crime fighter (Doug) in a buddy cop pastiche in which the duo fight against the “crime” of paying too much for insurance.

Is Liberty Mutual saved by the edgy brilliance of their jingle?  You be the judge.

Liberty!  Liberty! Liberty!  The last “Liberty” is divided, the emphasis on LIB … then ER…TY.

That’s it; not even a bum bum bum.

It may appear that the devolution of the jingle has reached its rock bottom with these two, but another insurance company reminds us that a good jingle can pack an entire narrative into a single statement.

Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there.

Both obscure and particular, evoking the entirely mythical but eminently comforting presence of a neighborly friend or friendly neighbor while maintaining an open-ended horizon.  Where there? There at the point of impact? There in offices answering telephones? There in a consoling, hand-holding visit as the last leaping flames turn to embers?

Good neighbors, of course,  would be “there” with casseroles, I guess, and all those sundries that live in the back of the cupboard – tinned sardines, canned artichoke hearts, packets of onion soup.  Comforting, I suppose, but ah, the check? Neighborly kindness goes a long way at point of impact, but speedy settlement of claims depends on an entirely different sort of relationship.

Like Rockefeller, State Farm is there?  Ooops, forgot.

Could I do better?  We’ll see.

Recognizing that the printed word cannot carry a tune, I am forced to grab a recognizable tune in order to show the full range of my jingling.  I’ve my client from the list below and a tune generally regarded as among the most familiar.

Ads appearing most frequently on television in 2018:  Liberty Mutual (#1! Baby!), Lifelock Identity Theft Service, Gold Bond Skin Protection, Zantac 150, Maximum strength heartburn medication, Allegra D Allergy and Congestion, Coffee Mate Season Flavor – Pumpkin

Most recognizable tunes (other than Happy Birthday/Yankee Doodle):  Spice Girls Wannabe, Elvis Presley Devil in Disguise, Survivor Eye of the Tiger, Roy Orbison Pretty Woman, Britney Spears Baby One More Time.

I’ll tell you what I want, what I really really want

So tell me what you want, what you really really want …

Pumpkin flavored Coffee Mate?  Too easy.

Let’s get messy with a truly challenging product and tune.

TheGold Bond family of skin products is extensive, actually divided into two branches of products.  The basic Gold Bond items, from the Cracked Skin and Fill and Protect to the Medicated Original Strength Body Powder are in one constellation while the Ultimate Collection containing specialized and more refined cosmetics, including Pedismooth, Radiance Renewal, and Neck and Chest Firming Complex, are in another.    

So, mix and match, here goes:

Risin up, cracks on my feet

Need some fill, need medication

Smell the difference, now my world is complete

Pedi Smooth made me sure to survive

I got the thigh of a tiger, got the cream for this fight

Risin’ up to the spots that are darkening

And the neck and the chest grow more firm every night

With Gold Bond, there’s no scabs on this tiger.

Maybe some dreams are never meant to come true, some avenues better not walked.  There are days when I just wish … I was an Oscar Meyer weiner.

Gravity 2, Ego 0

Gravity 2, Ego 0

Facing disturbing reality has never been nearly as pleasant as wallowing in oblivion, but, in an era in which partisan and magical thinking appears to have gathered hurricane force, and, as I am far enough down the broad highway of life to take responsibility for my part in allowing nonsense to take the place of reason, the time to face reality’s cold glare has apparently arrived.  Truth planted both proverbial feet in my midsection yesterday, in what was a safe visit to the doctor’s office. I had barely scanned the latest edition of Communicative Disease Quarterly in the waiting room when a person attached to the office called me to account.

“Let’s get you weighed and measured,” she suggested, an invitation I seem powerless to resist.  Ordinarily, no problem. I have a set of scales at home and have a reasonably well informed estimation of my weight. No surprise there. I do not measure my height, however,  haven’t had any occasion to, haven’t had any interest in my stature.

I’ve been five feet and eight-and-a-half inches since my last years in school.  A lifetime, as it were. One of the few fixed elements in a universe of constant change.  My weight has elevatored up and down. My hair has thinned, gone grey, thinned more resolutely.  My feet are flatter and wider. My nose and ears require some barbering.

I’ve made adjustments, accommodations.  I’ve faced aging without complaint. Pretty resilient, yes , no?

And then …

“How tall do you think you are?”  

Let’s begin by wondering why this question as I am about to stand on the device which answers that question.  Am I the control group in this exercise? Does my answer in any way change the recording of whatever appears as the flange is pulled down?  Just checking? Checking what? My awareness of the world about me? My veracity? My general state of mental acuity?

No, it’s clear as I call out my answer – five eight – recognizing that gravity has probably had its way with me over the decades, finally willing to let that significant half inch go, but before I’ve even stepped into the frame, this angel of mercy responds, “You think so?”

“You think so?”

That is not a question; this is taunting.   “What a sap! Living in a world of make believe.  How sad, really. How pathetic. ‘Five eight’? It is to laugh.  Why do they persist in such painfully obvious attempts at deception?  Who’s being fooled? Certainly not I, the health professional. Not I, the mistress of the actual, I, handmaiden to science.  No,once again, I do the job that only I can do. For only I can instruct this grotesquely self-delusive sod before he attempts to mislead another person of worth in his meaningless round of pointless errands at the tail end of his pointless life.”

Or something along those lines.  

It turns out that I am  now five foot six inches tall, if tall is a term that can be applied to five feet and six inches of male human in the 21st Century.  It was Robert Burns who in his “To A Louse” put the issue of self awareness before us in words that ring through the ages, at least to those who like a nice Scottish rhapsody.

O wad some Power the giftie gie us

To see oursels as ithers see us!

It wad frae mony a blunder free us,

An foolish notion;

Wat airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,

An ev’n devotion.

The crux of the address (to a louse, I’m just saying) is that it might be devastating to see ourselves as others see us.  Probably. We are mysteries to ourselves, so what else have we really got to do but wonder about the billions of individual life stories playing out in heads other than ours.  Not to get all Matrix, but since we can’t actually know the essence of what is outside of ourselves (wax is wax, Descartes argued, until it is touched by flame – a not-very-helpful analog to the figure/ground, observer/event paradox), so what the heck?  Let’s keep as far as possible from a probably mistaken view of ourselves.

That digression aside, this moment of clarity reduces itself (as it were) to one final truth.

I’m shrinking.

I can’t remember if those actual words are spoken by the central character in the 1957 film, The Incredible Shrinking Man, a somewhat hokey Sci Fi thriller written by Richard Matheson, a pretty fair twister of tales and a regular contributor to The Twilight Zone.  He’s the author of “Nightmare at 20,000 feet”, generally considered one of the top five episodes and plenty creepy. The basic plot of The Incredible Shrinking Man is that there’s this man, see, and he shrinks, an inch a week, which causes all sorts of problems.  I was too young to understand the terrible burden intense shrinking would bring to a marriage; let’s just say that the central character’s wife does not handle his predicament very well. She finally moves out, although by this time her hubby has become so small that they could cohabitate without much scuffling for space.  There are all sorts of thrilling challenges in the Stuart Little, man vs. cat mode, but the lines that pack some punch come at the end of the film.

Don’t mistake me.  This is a hokey movie without much in the way of true terror until …

There are really only two ways this film could have ended; either the effects of the mysterious shrinking cloud wear off or are reversed, or the guy shrinks until …

Yeah, and that was the part that drove me batty.  The actor prattles on about the comfort he finds in being reduced to subatomic oneness with the universe, but I was in no way comforted by his acceptance of his fate.

“I was continuing to shrink, to become… what? The infinitesimal? What was I? Still a human being? Or was I the man of the future? If there were other bursts of radiation, other clouds drifting across seas and continents, would other beings follow me into this vast new world? So close — the infinitesimal and the infinite. But suddenly, I knew they were really the two ends of the same concept. The unbelievably small and the unbelievably vast eventually meet — like the closing of a gigantic circle. I looked up, as if somehow I would grasp the heavens. The universe, worlds beyond number, God’s silver tapestry spread across the night. And in that moment, I knew the answer to the riddle of the infinite. I had thought in terms of man’s own limited dimension. I had presumed upon nature. That existence begins and ends in man’s conception, not nature’s. And I felt my body dwindling, melting, becoming nothing. My fears melted away. And in their place came acceptance. All this vast majesty of creation, it had to mean something. And then I meant something, too. Yes, smaller than the smallest, I meant something, too. To God, there is no zero. I still exist!”

The answer to the riddle of the infinite.  I was eleven years old. I had no place to put the riddle of the infinite, and from that point onwards, childhood ended, intimations of mortality overwhelmed me, and every day became existential boot camp.

All of which is to say, physicians beware!  You can weigh me, take my blood pressure, staple the little gizmo to my finger, but this shrinking man is hanging on to his sixty six inches with every fiber of his shrinking being.  

Ninja Warrior Production Meeting

Ninja Warrior Production Meeting

Scene:  Production offices NBC

Present:  Production team of American Ninja Warriors

Season Eleven!  We’re on now, what? Six? Eight? Channels. Plus On Demand? We need content, people I’m thinking three new productions a week. Same format . Expand the number of cities.

Huh? Iowa’s not a city. Let’s sharpen up here.

Yeah, Omaha is not in Iowa. Don’t worry about venues. We’ll figure that out. Content. Think Content.

No, what we don’t need are ninjas. Every gym has a nut jobs climbing walls and hanging from rafters. We got more ninjas than we can use. And they keep coming back for more. We need new. New content.

No, we’re not going to do Junior Ninjas. Sorry. I know there are no bad ideas in a creative meeting, but… that’s …. Thanks for your contribution, Bill.

Why? Because torturing kids is bad tv. Torturing adults? Gold.

Think. Not the same old courses. Something more … intense.

Animals? Bill, what does that even mean? Animals running the course?

Oh, part of the course. That’s not bad. What do you have in mind?

Badgers? Like the honey badger?

Yeah, I’d call them intense. Let’s pull the whole eviscerating fast moving cranky family of fanged predators from consideration for now. Wolverines, weasels …

What? Snakes? That’s insane … well …I guess constrictors could work. Focus!  The course, team. We need to pump up the challenge on the courses. The usual courses are fine for the prelims, but once these ninjas get good, most of them get through.

No, we don’t want them to get through. Or many of them. One or two.

Right. Because painful, shameful failure is great tv, and fat guys in Barcaloungers want to see these crazed chiselled ninjas hit the water.

OK, the snake filled water.

So what elements have we not considered? We did the enormous rolling log. That was good. No place to grip and the certainty of being crushed. Crushed then pitched into the water. More like that would be great.

Flaming darts?  Really? Great visual, but we can’t kill people.  We need obstacles, people.

Steve?  Some kind of grasping thing with tentacles?  

OK, and  suction cups.  Still not clear on the …

Not alive. Good.  A machine. Programmed to do what?

Hold them under water?  Isn’t that another way to kill people?  This is Ninja Warrior not Guantanamo.

Oh, just until they start to black out, then what?

Shoot them out of a water cannon?  Where?

The pinball level.  What’s the pinball level?

And the giant flippers do what?

We’re back to the flaming darts, people.  Test of stamina is one thing; death by giant flipper?  Not a good visual.

I’m sorry.  Did you say “reading challenge”?  Moving right along.

“Wall of pain”.  Sounds good, Liz.  How’s it work?

Who operates the nail gun while they try to climb the wall?  

The computer just shoots randomly?  Maybe hits; maybe misses? That could work.

Look.  The rolling log has been fabulous.  What else could we use as a rolling obstacle?

Bill, we’re not going to use a rolling animal.  Not going to cross that line. What is it with you and animals?  No, actually I don’t want to know.

“Balls of Doom”?  Don’t even …

An ice wall?  A wall made of ice?  Not bad. Not cheap, but not bad.  

Think hanging.  We knock off about three quarters of the ninjas when they have to hang.

Hooks?  I don’t think so.  Ninja Meat Locker. Not good.

We already have poles.  Nobody has any problem with poles.

What kind of adhesive?

We’re not going to wrap the ninjas in teflon.  Viewers like seeing nearly naked ninjas. That’s how Survivor gets thirty eight seasons, Folks.

Whirling blades?  Won’t that eliminate competitors a bit more forcefully than a splashdown?

Oh, like a jet engine fan, blowing them sideways.  Sure, sure. That could work.

Yes, Bill?

Pretty sure we’re not going with mascots, but if we do, you are first in line.

Sense of Humor

Sense of Humor

The challenge was to come up with a production that Broadway could not adapt and turn all jolly and holiday-appropriate.  Virtually everything seems fair game – Legally Blonde, Mean Girls, The Waitress, Moulin Rouge, 17 Again, Beaches, Spider Man, Archie, Beetlejuice.  

Thus, my conviction that with time, even Silence of the Lambs will, like the death head moth, move from its larval resting place in filmland and emerge on billboards beckoning theatergoers to a musical encounter with Buffalo Bill and Hannibal Lecter.

I’m now in month three of trying to write a parody that is not relentlessly tasteless.  Not much to show for the effort:-

“I hear them in my sleep, the lambs I cannot rescue. 

The rabbits don’t scream; they’re bleeding in the fescue.”

OK, maybe still more edgy than I intended.

I spent some time imagining what Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade host Al Roker would have to say as the Buffalo Bill Skin Suit Balloon followed Pikachu and Buzz Lightyear, but it all seemed a pointless exercise until I began thinking about the nature of humor.

It’s clear than funny for one person does not amuse another.  I’m not talking about humor that could offend the sensibilities, or humor based upon the listener’s most carefully guarded inadequacies; there are elements in every life that are out-of-bounds.  No, I’m talking about relatively vanilla humor, lighthearted, jolly humor, puns, for example.  I happen not be a fan of the tortuously contrived pun, but I do admire spur-of-the moment witticisms.

Here are examples of puns that feel a bit contrived:

“The Past, the Present, and the Future walked into a bar.  Things got a little tense.”

No?  Nothing?

Of course, even relatively mild puns can be offensive.  World War I vets would probably not enjoy this one:

“A soldier who survived mustard gas was a seasoned veteran.”

Does everyone have a sense of humor?  Do animals? 

These are questions beyond the scope of this piece.  As are these:  Where does the capacity for humor come from, and is that capacity innate, developed, inherited, or acquired?  Do some people have a greater capacity than others?  Again, is that genetic or learned?  Rich stuff here for doctoral candidates in search of material to dessicate, but much more than I can contend with in the few minutes a casual reader gives to posts such as mine.

I don’t tell jokes, and I don’t think I’d do well as a stand-up comedian.  My idea of humor is as impenetrably idiosyncratic as the next guy’s, developed over years of exposure to a range of experiences, some of which were presented as humorous, and others which amused me more broadly than they should.  Slip on a banana peel?  Not funny.  Three Stooges correcting each other with hammers?  Well, yes.  Of course.

Once upon a time, in a land that exists only in clouded memory, there was a class of writers generally known as humorists.  Mark Twain was the first I encountered, although his brand of humor was less immediately impactful, depending as it does on the sensibility of a rational adult.  I was neither, but I knew he was presenting wry observations with considerable wit.  James Thurber, Robert Benchley, Dorothy Parker, Max Shulman, Ring Lardner, P.G. Wodehouse, Bennett Cerf, S.J. Perelman – all humorists, as are Dave Barry and David Sedaris. 

It’s a noble calling and one that saved my tortured pre-adolescent, adolescent, and post-adolescent soul.  Writers of my ilk (that’s a funny word, no?  Ilk? … ok … maybe not … see what I mean?) cherish words and word play.  Playful, that’s us.  Whimsical at our most fey, satirical, ruminative, verklempt.   The bottom line is that I write the sort of frothy one-sided conversation that I’d enjoy reading, and since Wodehouse is no longer putting Bertie Wooster into uncomfortable tangling with titled relatives, and Benchley and Parker are no longer tossing off zingers at the Algonquin, I’ll continue to cough up keen observations as they arrive and hope I do little harm.

Here’s an example of the Bennet Cerf limerick and my own version – humorists of differing generations battling head to head:

Bennett Cerf

There was a young princess of Niger

Who smiled as she rode on her tiger

They returned from their ride

With the princess inside

And the smile on the face of the tiger.

OK.  Whimsey?  Check.  Scans?  Check.  Tiger rhymes with tiger?  Check minus.  

And mine

A charming young man from Quebec

Routinely typed hunt and peck

Missing one key

He sent this to me

O’m a cjarm<inbg tuomh bam drom Wuebev”

OK.  Whimsy?  Nothing but!  Scans?  Come on!  Rhymes Quebec with Wuebev?  Check Plus.

I am amused.

It Seemed Like Such A Good Idea …

It Seemed Like Such A Good Idea …

A good friend is heading back to our college for his fiftieth reunion, and, in a misguided attempt to gather stories which might animate  conversation around the beer tent, asked me to recall one of the more unlikely decisions I reached somewhere in the middle of my sophomore or junior year.  As might be inferred by the uncertainty with which I date this classic tale, many of my decisions were far more regrettable than unlikely, and in the spirit of bonhomie, I figured this one was probably not going to cause my children to divorce me.  After all, they have a pretty good grasp of my decision-making skills.

So, whenever this took place, I had established a thriving enterprise, selling my typing “skills” for cash back in the days in which my stereo, camera, and guitar had all been pawned; I had probably been over generous in supporting charities or may have sent funds to a child in Uzbekistan. In any case, I could type reasonably well and was willing to work at any hour with short notice.  Clients lined up, usually around ten thirty in the evening. Did I make mistakes? Sure, but I had a jug of White Out and perfection was rarely demanded. Just get the thing done, they’d say, shoving a yellow legal pad or wad of lined paper under my door.

In the year in question, I had  contracted with a the captain of the football team, a behemoth who may have had but one eye,  to transcribe his handwritten essay on “The Mating Habits of the Bering Seal”. The singularity of eye is not central to the story, but the more I think about who I was dealing with, the more unlikely my decision seems in hindsight.   To be fair,there were so many errors of judgment made before I even got my paws on the paper; Bering Seals? Delivering the paper into my hands?

I started the job sometime after the general hubbub died down, and the fraternity lounge had emptied.  The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson had ended, and I had the peace and quiet I needed to give the task my complete attention.  The first two pages were a snap, done quickly. Somewhere in the middle of the third, right after the description of the flora and fauna of the Pribilof Islands and its unique position as seal rookery (“The Galapagos of the North”), somewhere after the endless factoids about Callorhinus ursinus ( their fur contains approximately 46,500 hairs per centimeter.  The male weighs in at about 600 pounds, the svelte female a trim 160 pounds), that fancy kicked in.

How, I wondered did that sleek female entice the bull from the sea?  What configurations of fur and fin could allow, much less enhance, their romance?  To be clear, these were speculations outside the range of the author’s intent, but the hour was late, brain cells were dying, the avalanche of facts allowed no clear narrative, and besides, Prof Burns was unlikely to read beyond the first two pages and the last.  I had a slew of Pribilof Island facts to dish out at the end, and I just could not go on without allowing myself a slight diversion from the text.

And so, rhapsody began.

“The aroused female bathes in the pounding surf, tendrils of foam cover her tingling whiskers.  She slides to a flat rock near the water’s edge, knowing that the bull of her choice will surface momentarily.  She curls one flipper behind what would have been her ear had she been a Sea Lion, waving slowly in time with ocean’s tidal roar.  Her tail, ordinarily flat against the stone is raised and tilted. It too moves with measured allure. She allows a husky bark to welcome the bull as his massive head breaks the surface.  The bark of the Bering Seal can alert to danger or signal distress, but deep in the heaving bosom of this female, the cry was clearly, “Come to me, take me, make me your slave!”

Or something pretty close to that.

Paper delivered, payment rendered, happy days.

Prof. Burns, however, was apparently unaware of the skim-the-paper convention, finding my superbly crafted prose a detriment to the student’s work.  My memory of those days is hazy at best, so I can’t tell you why I am alive. I probably retyped the dreadful thing and sent an apology to Burns. I hope that was the resolution of the ugly affair.

The open market, is a cruel mistress; it was this essay that ended my career as a round-the-clock typist.  Word traveled quickly when the professor read the offending paragraph to the Animal Biology class, failing to credit the author, but suggesting that some typists were not to be trusted with Bering Seals.

What has taunted me over the decades is the knowledge that I could knock out seal porn by  the carload, but could never find a voice as an author of Romance novels, the market that never shrinks, the only sort of publishing with the exception of the Young Adult novel, still in demand.  I’ve tried, simply substituting the name Ramona for the seal, but it gets tangled somewhere between the foam and the tilted tail. The mind boggles. Or, more unfortunately, my mind boggles.

Should a market for Romance humor emerge,I might have a shot, but until I am contracted to write Fifty Shades of Seal Fur, my best work is behind me.

If We Have To Have A Strongman …

If We Have To Have A Strongman …

Loyal readers will recall that I once spent an evening with Arnold Schwarzenegger during which I measured the span of his neck, chest, and biceps.  I took his word with regard to thighs, calves, and glutes.  The which is to say, I know my behemoths.  Arnold (I touched his chest; I get to call him by his first name) is an impressive specimen, and,  as this piece has to do with things political, that reasonably respected former governor of the fifth largest economy in the world currently stands alone as a verified hunka hunka man muscle with political acumen.  That, by the way, is not a sentence I expected to find its way into my collected works.

Even at his most robotic, Schwarzenegger was an engaging actor, far more personable than the earlier icons of beefcakery, capable of charming and apparently effortless self-deprecatory humor.  That’s an important quality in a person of impressive size who could crush me like a grape; a sense of humor allows those of us who live in mortal bodies the chance to meet a man-mountain with respect rather than terror.

Now that the various enterprises of life have become permeable, as celebrities have become politicians and politicians have become criminals, in the post Reagan, and assuming a post Trump era, the demand for candidates with star power is certain to remain constant.  Does Tom Hanks have presidential gravitas?  Sure, and what a decent president he would be, bringing calming intelligence to the job, and he’s so darned nice.  On the other hand, while I don’t have the slightest urge to come at Tom Hanks , there are certainly those who would, as he is both reasonable and kind.  Celebrity is one thing; general physical enormity something entirely better it seems in an age of tribal animosity.

We are a nation divided, a world in tatters.  We once believed that what the world needs now is love, sweet love …  sadly, not in times such as these.  What the world needs, apparently, are testosterone addled, chest thumping troglodytes, from Rodrigo Duterte in the Philippines to Recep Tayyip Erdogan in Turkey.  Enthusiasm for a Michelle Obama presidency or an Oprah Winfrey presidency may still roil among wishful thinkers, but in order to bind up the ravages of partisan sniping, the only real solution, survey says, is the election of a gigantic, powerful, charismatic celebrity.  Yes, certainly, I am hoping for a person of color, but one so formidable that even those with the lynching itch roll over and beg for mercy.

Thus, consider Dwayne Douglas Johnson, born in Hayward, California in 1972, former professional football player, the two-time Intercontinental Wrestling Champion, Royal Rumble match winner, six feet five inches and two hundred and sixty pounds of artfully contained dynamite, among the most successful actors in Hollywood, benefactor of a foundation working with terminally ill children.  His films bring in billions of dollars annually, he’s been a Polynesian god in a Disney feature (Moana), reanimated G.I. Joe and Baywatch, and has worked with Kevin Hart in more than one movie, demonstrating his ability to put up with sustained and often incongruous chatter.

We’ve seen large men play cute, if the Hulk Hogan persona in Santa Muscles or Mr. Nanny can be described as cute, but Johnson has actually displayed palpable vulnerability in two roles, the second as Dr. Smolder Bravestone, archeologist/explorer in Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle, arguably the best adaptation of  a board game in years.  Without getting into the fine points of the Jumanji universe, Bravestone is the avatar of a nerdy, panphobic, anxiety ridden, teen dweeb, whose character remains operative even as he is transformed into a spectacularly athletic man mountain.  I don’t know Dwayne Johnson; he may simply be a pretty good actor, but unlike many action actors, he is capable of expressing believable  hesitancy, modesty, and decency.  And, of course, he kicks butt as well.

The opus I want to highlight, however, may be Johnson’s least appreciated role, that of Derek Thompson, hockey goon, reckless enforcer, thrust into an unexpected persona as a result of his craven act of betrayal; needing cash he not only steals a dollar from his girlfriend’s six-year old daughter, but crushes her belief in the Tooth Fairy.  Talk about vulnerability!  Johnson begins the film Tooth Fairy as an uncomplicated jerk, contemptible and crass, only capable of transformation by transformation, as he is yanked to the tooth fairies’ headquarters, given wings, and turned loose on children who deserve better service.  Johnson is a lousy tooth fairy, commendably bad, but he sticks with the job even when forced to go to the black market for tooth compensation supplies.  Ok, a bit saccharine to that point, but the inner jerk reappears; he is angry and unkind all over again.  The mechanisms by which he is restored to warm humanity are clumsy.  I’m not suggesting this is must-see filmfare; I’ll just tempt the prospective viewer by noting that Julie Andrews plays the CEO of tooth fairies and leave it at that.

The point is that Johnson is willing to be unlikable in order to serve a higher purpose.  He could play the familiar doofy dad, clueless but well-intentioned, as Schwarzenegger did to great effect in Jingle All The Way, but instead allows us to see a darker challenge.  To be clear, Tooth Fairy is a less satisfying film than Jingle All The Way, if only because it lacks the presence of genius comedian Phil Hartman as the smarmy neighbor lusting after Schwarzenegger’s wife, an enterprise no sane person would contemplate.

Comparison of filmic characters aside, Johnson is a multi-ethnic (Black Nova Scotian Samoan), highly intelligent, eminently successful, engaging man of principle who has remained consistently humane while avoiding partisan posturing.  He is, essentially, a man for all seasons, and, if the times seem to call for assertive hyper-masculinity, President Dwayne (The Rock) Johnson is a far better choice than we might deserve.