A moment in which to refill pens

P.S. I don't know why there are no paragraph breaks after the pix.

I, like most sensible modern peeps, lurv the internet. A little over a decade into its dominance, I already can't imagine a world without it. Yet I made it through the first couple of decades of my life not even wanting. Giving you, dear reader, some credit I will presume you are aware of just how vast, deep and wide the nebula of worthless/not-so-worthless information is within our beloved interwebs.

Therein, I can find more information than anyone in his/her right mind would ever want/need on what the members of Faust were up to in between 1975 and 1990. I can find legitimate discussions on the oeuvre of Jerry Lewis. Hell, I can even find stills from his abandoned, king of what-were-they-thinking movies, The Day the Clown Cried* with little trouble.

Alas, I cannot find what I really want at this precise moment: a certain picture of Scott Christian. Or at least I think that's his name, the microphone-haired reporter from The Simpsons early seasons. Perhaps it says too much about me that yesterday when I kept seeing the bozo soon to be ex-governor of Illinois all over, the Simpsons character was all I could think of. So apologies, this is not the picture I'm looking for and I realize the hair color is different, but you get the drift. Perhaps it's just me.

Forget all that hand wringing jibber-jabber about morals, ethics, politics. This scandal is about one thing: hair. Clearly, a man who's got the courage to walk into the barber, (or more accurately, out of) and order the Sam Malone is a man devoid of fear. See also, Hal Mumme. Yes, I know Tim Matheson will probably play him in the probably no-doubt-already-in-the- works-made-for-tv flick. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if the former Eric 'Otter' Stratton isn't somehow related to all this hullabaloo becoming public. Fletch was a long time ago you know.

Apologies for making this entry one endless pop culture reference. Turn it into a game and see if you can figure them all out.

But first...

*The Day the Clown Cried is the holy grail of bad moviedom. Few, if any, outside of Jerry Lewis' inner circle have ever seen any of it and the man himself has all but disavowed any knowledge of it. Ask any obscuro, trash, exploito movie fan what movie they want to see more than any other and I guarantee you, this flick will be their immediate answer.

In it, our favorite Dean Martin sidekick, plays a Jewish clown in a concentration camp (you may already see where this one is going and why it shouldn't). Apparently, although that whole Final Solution plan was seemingly airtight, those absent-minded Nazis forgot about the bitch that is self-preservation, i.e. folks might not be too keen to just march into those waiting gas chambers on their own.

And you try shooting 6,000,000 people. One would presume any such attempt to be quite tedious. What's the point of world domination if you're too busy killing everybody one by one to enjoy it?

Enter the former Julius Kelp, Jerry Lewis. Self-preservation being no less important to him, the Nazis convince ol' Jer to befriend the kids of the camp and gain their trust or face his own extermination. Once the kids trust him, so goes the logic of the SS, they'll follow him anywhere. Even into those zany gas chambers, like some Auschwitz pied piper.

Presumably, there's some hi jinks mixed in with the inevitable soul searching. Perhaps Jerry does a cracking Hitler impression to the delight of camp kids and stormtroopers alike. Regardless, the movie ends with this new found pied piper burying what's left of his humanity and leading the kids into the gas chamber. Wah, wah, waaaaaaaaaa.

Somehow in the early '70s, (and I don't mean this as flip/sarcastic/anti-Semitic as it sounds) in a industry largely run by Jews, some having direct connections to the holocaust(!), this movie was proposed, scripted, green-lit, budgeted, cast and filmed. Apparently, Lewis thought this to be his meisterwerk, the film that would catapult him into the auteur stratosphere with the European greats like Truffaut, Fellini, Bergman, etc.

Honest.

Only after it was completed did he decide that this was, perhaps, THE WORST IDEA FOR A MOVIE EVER MADE. And yes, Chris, I'm including Robot Jox.

Various rumors have persisted since then regarding the film's survival, ranging from all prints being destroyed to a sole print being locked away in a vault in Jerry Lewis house, the combination to which he vows will die with him.

One more worthless pop culture factoid re: the above, Harry Shearer (genius humorist/satirist)is one of the few who has seen the finished movie. His comment: the movie was even worse than you would think it could possibly be.

He knew better

Though it was a day that will live in infamy, I heard nary a word about Pearl Harbor yesterday; I guess like most of our history, Pearl Harbor is far enough removed from the present that only every 5th anniversary is considered noteworthy. This is understandable. There is little need to remember, say, the 78th anniversary of the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act. Watch out for that 80th, though; bathtub gin for everyone. With any luck will be in a depression by then as well. Whee.

Some events however should transcend these unwritten observance rules. Like, say, Pearl Harbor. Perhaps that's just me. Certainly, it's worth more than a mention every five years and some Michael Bay explod-o-rama craptacular with Ben Affleck. Affleck?!?! It's pretty bad when a flick with a sci-fi-ish bend (The Final Countdown) is a better history lesson about the event than the titular movie. Hollywood can't even make quality jingoistic flicks anymore.

Speaking of movies, that's exactly where my grandfather was on December 7, 1941. He was already in the army at that time and his company had taken in the matinee in Columbus, Georgia (I forget the movie) when the military police rushed in, announced what had happened, that all R & R had been cancelled and that all were to report by to base immediately. Buses were parked outside ready to take them back to Ft. Benning. No refunds or rain checks were offered.

I can't be sure, but I suspect the Germans and certainly not the Japanese were much on my grandfather's mind that Sunday when the lights in the theater dimmed. By the time he left his seat, though, he was an active-duty soldier during wartime, unsure if he would ever see his home again.

Life can change quite drastically rather quickly.

Usually when one least expects it.

About this burning of our yearning

Being as the town had its big Christmas deal last night, I suppose it is officially the Christmas season in my little corner of the world. Although if one had asked about Christmas' official status last night about 6:30, townsfolk would have suggested that everyone's favorite holiday (except the Jews, I suppose) was cancelled. At that precise moment, statewide, perhaps even countrywide, there was one blob of green on the entire radar. Guess where it was? Fortunately, it didn't dampen things too much nor was it the biggest hurdle of the night to leap.

That honor went to Father Christmas himself, whose sleigh was slightly tardy in its arrival from the North Pole. By sleigh, I mean truck. And by North Pole, I mean the other side of town. Not exactly sure what part of "Santa will arrive at 6 p.m. by carriage" our particular Claus misunderstood. That a gaggle of excited kiddies with a median age of 6 had no trouble understanding said message is somewhat unfortunate on a couple of different levels. Nevertheless, after a brief tale to the kids that Santa's reindeer had run afoul of some poachers and a non-committal on Santa's eventual arrival, all was all right. Since all that Christmas-myth destroying had made me slightly hungry, Marisol and I headed for dinner.

As one does.

Upon our return to the festivities we found a queue heading out the door of Santa's crib. The furnishings of which, I regret to add, were a bit paltry this year with only a chair in front of a non-working fireplace upon which was placed a tattered copy of How the Grinch Stole Christmas and some other holiday-themed volume. The bright side being there was little point for impatient, disgruntled kids and their enraged parents to trash the joint; the decorators had beat them to it.

Somewhere in the midst of all the commotion, Mr. Claus apparently arrived. The cries of disappointed kids were replaced by the tears of Marisol. Tears of rage, that is; she takes her reporterette duties very seriously. Again, with no real property to damage, her rage was largely impotent. So much for documenting the grand arrival, but she did manage to snap a few photos for the local paper of kids begging at the St. Nicholas teat.

So to speak.

Bored with all the hoopla, I assumed my position behind the counter at the bake shop for the rest of the evening. My main duty therein being sure no one absconded with any rice krispies or brownies without doling out the cash. I thought of myself as a glorified bouncer, or cooler as we Roadhouse fans call them. In reality, I was just an assistant cashier who's primary duty was to 'reassure' the good folks that everything was indeed homemade. Clearly, all those years of schooling have paid off.

Aside from Santa and the rain, the big event of the night was the cash giveaway. Our original plan was to give away $1000, but when ticket sales didn't turn out quite as good as we'd hope (I sold two, thank you very much), the grand prize was reduced to $330 for some unknown reason. I considered adding $7.43 just so we'd have an even odder amount to give away, but decided against it.

Never did exactly understand all the rules of this particular game; apparently, they involved drawing numbers and removing them from a board. The difficulty of which I can only presume is immense. Sort of like a lottery for people who never play the lottery, I suppose. A v. big event, basically, with the lucky few getting more and more excited as fewer and fewer number remained. Unfortunately, since the 40 or tickets were scattered amongst 10 or so people there was little drama. In fact, I didn't even realize it all took place until, uh, it all took place. Oops.

Luckily the ensuing riot tipped me off to everything. If it's one thing we townsfolk hate more than Christmas giveaways, it's rigged Christmas giveaways. Out of all those tickets and all those people, the lucky winner was none other than the EPJ herself.* She purchased 4 tickets, 3 of which were winners.

Chairs were thrown. Molotov cocktails were mixed. Chaos ruled. Santa wondered why couldn't we all just get along and was promptly decked by the head of the Masonic Lodge. Blood mixed in with the rain flowing down the street, decorating the streets with a different, yet still festive, shade of red. It was utterly macabre.

Oh yeah, the other 'winner' got $20 which, considering the other results, probably seemed like awfully cheap hush money. But you know, $20 is $20.

In short, it was the best Christmas festival, pageant, celebration, bazaar, hootenanny, what have you ever. We're thinking of doing it again.

*We really did give away $330 and 3 of the EPJ's 4 tickets were winners. The EPJ took this to mean she's now got luck on her side and began planning a trip to Vegas. Downer that I am, I suggested that rather than having good fortune on her side, her luck, to put it bluntly, sucks. 3 out of 4 winning tickets? $330? Pencils out, matheletes; what are the odds? Though it indeed may have come in, her ship resembles the QEII not so much as a trash barge off the coast of Long Island drifting aimlessly. Selah.

Nary a word about Burl Ives

With election day and Thanksgiving finally behind me, hopefully things will slow down a bit. Thankfully, there's only the minor events of Christmas, the marathon and all the attendant build up to both left. I can feel the boredom already. The main thing, however, is that elections are over and done with for at least a year. This should give just enough time for everyone to forget how much they actually hate an election year. If not, just ask me and I'll gladly remind. And I'm on the election payroll.

Whether because of the above or other factors, I've yet to start anything resembling Christmas shopping. This fact is probably not as big a deal to me as it is to any potential receivers. I did manage to get Christmas decorations up this weekend because otherwise the Grinch would win. Plus, as grand poobah of the local organization putting on the town Christmas hootenanny tomorrow night, I guess I need to show some solidarity with the season. Here goes: Yay, Christmas.

There.

In Baby Hansel news, I attempted to get a feel for potential names with Millicent at Thanksgiving dinner. She made it clear there would be no discussion with me on said matters. Being as I only want to help, I can't imagine what she's afraid of or why. The world has enough Bob and John, right? Apparently, she feels I'm inclined to names which would single out said child as different. Perhaps, but if only more people knew of Zeigler or Renaldo or Absalom then they would not be quite as rare. Who could possibly resist the joys of parenting such a name? "Unhand that toy, Absalom. Insolence will not be tolerated."

I'm looking forward to Hansel's college graduation since that will probably be the first time I'm allowed to see him. Oh, Millicent. How I love to keed thee.

What's the good word?

To Hell With Georgia!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

45-42!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The randomness of the maze

It's always a bright moment when someone offers the never particularly requested comment of "We've all got to die someday." Not sure why when people don't know what to say in response to illness or sadness or general unhappiness this is their go to cliche. Somehow the misfortune of a terminal illness or the embarrassment of a water closet death is lessened. Or so the one offering the comment apparently believes. This is all apropos of nothing. Nor is it related to what today may or may not be.

I got my 18 miles done on Saturday with no too much strife. I was very glad to be finished, mind, but didn't really feel at any point that I was past going. This is good since I've still got 19 and 20 miles to go in training. There's also the matter of the marathon itself. No biggie. Because of Thanksgiving I've moved my running schedule up a day this week. I trust all will make the necessary calendar changes.

The big event of the weekend was the promised screening of Madagascar 2 for Buster. While he enjoyed it quite a bit , he said that he thought Bolt was slightly better. I'm not sure what the basis for his criticisms were as I didn't delve too deeply. Perhaps the existential crisis of a dog is more relevant to a 7-year old than those of various truant zoo animals misplaced in Africa. That, or John Travolta makes a better talking animal than Ben Stiller. Ooh, look bright colors, etc.

Before the cinema, the annual meeting with Santa Claus took place. Actually, this was Buster's second of this still-young Christmas season; I suspect a good two or three more opportunities at various places will arise in the next few weeks. Santa gets around for someone who's supposed to be so busy this time of year. I suppose the internet has helped his Christmas rush as well.

Buster's request for this particular Father Christmas? 1) a shotgun and 2) a baby chicken. While his outside-the-box thinking is encouraging on one level, I'm predicting a disappointing Christmas for the little dude. Saturday's Santa found his requests "interesting."

Indeed.

Andy confirmed that the upcoming Baby X will in fact be a Hansel and not a Gretel. This wasn't much of a surprise since we had been told there was a 75% chance of a Hansel. Not being a med school grad, I was unaware there were percentages on such things. I mistakenly thought the telltale sign either was or wasn't there. Silly me. Though I've not been privy to any discussions of possible names, my suggestion of Zeigler Franklin is probably not under consideration. Which is a shame.

Indeed.

Laziness pt. 6

Holy smokes. A random photo from the recent trip. Taken in the courtyard/sandbox area in front of Notre Dame Cathedral. That is in Paris. Which is in France. Smoke 'em if you got 'em.