Man Martin's Blog, page 162

How to Be a Good Person ($24.95)

Would you like to be a good person?  Of course you do!  The good news is, wanting to be a good person is one of the ingredients that makes a good person.  If you want to learn the other ingredients, you can find out by purchasing my book, How to Be a Good Person ($24.95).  In it, I've packed the knowledge from a lifetime developing wonderful personal qualities even if certain people - you know who you are - don't appreciate them.

Now, there may be some people out there who won't buy my book  How to Be a Good Person ($24.95) because frankly they don't care whether they're good people or not.  I'm afraid they'll never be good people with that attitude, maybe they figure as long as they hang out with the "cool" crowd or they have a body-builder boyfriend or something it doesn't matter.  As good people, we don't judge them; we simply hope that by setting a good example, we'll show them how wrong they've been.

HUMILITY: This is maybe the most important thing when it comes to being a good person, and I can tell you the secrets to humility in my book  How to Be a Good Person ($24.95) because I am extremely humble, and I'm not just bragging because that would not be humble.  I know I am humble because people have always told me so.  They'd say, "You sure are humble.  You're not all stuck on yourself like Jennifer and Brad.  You deserve better."

GENEROSITY: Another important trait you'll learn about in  How to Be a Good Person ($24.95).  And you don't have to have a lot of money or a fancy sports car like Brad.  Actually, having a lot of money can turn your head and make you forget what's really important and the good people in your life just because they don't have a sports car or they live with their mother or something.  Real generosity is being generous with your time, with yourself.  Some people just don't get that.

ADMITTING YOUR MISTAKES: Some people find this hard to do, but I'll show you how in  How to Be a Good Person ($24.95).  I admit mistakes all the time because, hey, I'm only human.  For example, it was a mistake bringing up Jennifer that way.  I realize now that was probably hurtful, Jennifer, and I'm truly sorry.  But, Jennifer, if you're reading this, one mistake I'll never admit to was you and me.  That wasn't a mistake.  But I'm over it now and it's okay.  Really.  I hope you and Brad are happy.

PATIENCE: Act now, buy  How to Be a Good Person ($24.95)!!!  Ha-ha, just kidding.  That was showing you how not to be patient.  Actually patience is a very misunderstood virtue.  Hoping someone will see what a mistake she's made and being willing to give her a second or even a forty-fifth chance isn't being passive aggressive or "stalking."  Just because you call someone every day for a week and hang out near her apartment doesn't make you a "creep" no matter what some people say.

UNDERSTANDING: Understanding other people and what's really important isn't about how much they can bench press or whether they have a fancy car or have moved out of their mother's house.  It's seeing what's inside that counts.  I'm talking about the heart, Jennifer.  The heart.  Understand?  Buy the book already.   How to Be a Good Person ($24.95).

For My Birthday

Welp, today's the day.  On this day was Man Martin born.  The sun has run a full cycle on the old Manster.  The calendar has done another number on me.  I'm fifty-four.  The Big Five Four.  Nine times six.  Double Five less one.  Fifty-four.  Hoo.

And might I add, Ray.

The truth is, as you get older, birthdays become less and less of a big deal.  I don't expect much, really.

Of course, I'd like my facebook friends to wish me a happy birthday.  That'd be nice.  George Saunders is one of my facebook friends, as are Amy Tan and Francine Prose.  It'd be nice if they took the trouble to type, "Happy birthday," in the little message box.  But I don't really expect them to.  They never have before and I'm sure they have busy lives, so it's okay, really.

Of course, I'd like a cake if possible.  Who doesn't like cake?  And I don't need any candles on it, and it doesn't have to say "Happy birthday" or anything.  Just a nice cake.  By the way, Red Velvet is my favorite, in case you're curious.  But I don't like Red Velvet cake from the Kroger; it just doesn't taste good.  I don't know why.  If there's a decent bakery, you could pick one up fresh, otherwise, homemade is fine.

And a card.  Just a simple card.  Nothing jokey, where the punchline is basically, "Ha-ha, you're old."  Nothing with a girl in a bikini on the outside and then an old lady on the inside.  Just a tasteful card wishing me happy birthday.  If you want to put a gift-certificate in it, that'd be nice, but please nothing to Starbucks or something like that.  Just an amazon gift certificate so I can get what I want instead going down and drinking an over-priced frapucino.  Or money.  Just a couple of crisp twenties in a nice, tasteful card wishing me happy birthday.  That would be nice.

And if you really want to buy me a gift, you could get me a pony.  Ha ha, just kidding, I don't want a pony.  Everyone always says they wanted a pony as a kid, but I never did.  Actually my tastes are very simple and I wouldn't want you to give me a pony, unless you were also going to give me a stable to keep it in, and maybe twenty acres.  I don't want you to go to that much trouble.  What I'd really like is a pet fox.  They have bred some that are wonderfully tame and make great pets.  They only cost about $425, which I'm sure is much cheaper than all but the cheapest ponies.  If you can't afford to buy a pet fox by yourself, you could chip in with several other people for one.  That's probably a good idea, because it would be very embarrassing if I got two pet foxes and had to return one.  That brings up another point, if you do get me a pet fox, be sure to include a gift receipt so I can exchange it if I have to.  For example, if you bought me a pet fox, but then George Saunders, Amy Tan, and Francine Prose all chipped in to buy one and showed up at my front door with a fox in a red bow, yelling "surprise!" naturally, I'd have to keep theirs.  But if I have your gift receipt I could redeem your pet fox for cash and buy myself something nice on Amazon or even go to Starbucks if I felt like it.  Or maybe I'd just buy myself an extra bag of Purina Fox Chow at the pet fox store.

Anyway, that's about it.  A few well-wishes from friends, a nice homemade red velvet cake, a tasteful card with some cash in it, and maybe a pet fox.

Happy birthday, me.

Your Dog's Facebook Page

Where You Can Find Me, a Book Review

In one scene of Sheri Joseph’s latest novel, Lark follows her older brother Caleb along a path in the Cloud Forest of Costa Rica.  Caleb has recently returned from what Lark thinks of as the Gone,  abducted three years ago by a pedophile ring and then, against all possible odds, having been reunited with his family.  Now, although he is only a short distance ahead of her, the mists hang so heavy between them, that sometimes he is a milky ghost and sometimes he disappears from view altogether.
This is a beautiful book.  In some ways it reminds me of certain Joyce Carol Oates stories that study the effects of violent crime on family dynamics.  In this case, Caleb’s return almost immediately sunders his family, and his mother Marlene spends most of the novel trying to bridge the emotional divide separating her from the son she no longer knows.  Caleb, indeed, barely knows himself; he still thinks of himself as “Nicky,” the alter ego given him by the man who rescued him from his first abductors and became his “father” rather than returning him to his family.
Other reviews refer to this book as a “thriller,” which seems an odd misnomer to me, although it does have some of the pleasing tropes of traditional crime fiction, including a bit of good old-fashioned code cracking – but it’s bound to discomfort readers who expect a more facile treatment of difficult subject matter.  In particular is the loyalty and even love Caleb still feels for Jolly – what a shudder that clown-like name provokes! – the man he still views as, and who in many ways was, his savior.  Joseph’s nuanced writing will not let us dismiss this as Helsinki Syndrome and thereby put it away in a convenient box and forget about it, but forces us to confront our understanding of love, for as much as we don’t want to admit it, we have to consider the disturbing idea that Jolly also loves Caleb.
This is why I think the designation thriller is mistaken.  A thriller offers a vicarious experience of an extreme situation that, thankfully, most of us will never face, whereas Joseph retrieves her characters from the Gone in order to have them face what is true for all of us anyway, but which is too disturbing to dwell on except in flashes of insight or while under the spell of a masterful author: that just because a person is familiar does not make him any less a mystery, just that the mystery itself becomes familiar; that we do not know even ourselves; and that our world is bounded by ghosts and shadows.
We all live in the Cloud Forest.

On a Roll

CARACAS, Venezuela — Venezuelans scrambled to stock up on toilet paper Thursday as fears of a bathroom emergency spread despite the socialist government's promise to import 50 million rolls. After years of economic dysfunction, the country has gotten used to shortages of medicines and basic food items like milk and sugar but the scarcity of bathroom tissue has caused unusual alarm. - Huffington PostOkay, normally my modus operandi with a true but weird news story is to post the story, as above, and then do four to five "riffs" where I write little take-offs of the story, substituting locales and coming up with even more bizarre situations than the original.  But this time I can't do it, I just can't do it.  I've thought til I'm blue in the face, but I can't think of anything sillier than the original.  So imagine I have.  This paragraph would be the first riff.  An appropriate response would be a bemused if puzzled look, with slightly pursed lips.This would be the second riff, and by this point you'd be starting to "get it."  So don't chuckle yet, but just smile and nod slightly.Third riff.  By now you definitely see the pattern, and you're amused by all the variations I seem to come up with.  A soft chuckle is called for.  You might be tempted to try thinking of a variation of your own.  Don't bother.Fourth riff.  Let's face it.  This one just isn't as good as the others.  They can't all be gems, after all.  You might have no response at all, or you may choose to shake your head in mild disappointment.  You can even groan if you want to.  It's all up to you.Last riff.  This one's really hilarious, and you can see I was saving it for last on purpose.  Even the fourth one, which was frankly a disappointment, makes this one even funnier by contrast.  Throw your head back and guffaw uproariously as you stomp your feet and shout, "I don't believe it!"  Go back and re-read and see if it's as funny as the first time.  It is.  Throw your head back, guffaw, and stomp again.  The third time won't be quite as funny, so you can make do with just stomping.Thank you.

Ryan Fogle, Master Spy

"Is nothing to be concerned about.  Just ordinary citizen in blond
wig checking map and compass."MOSCOW -- A U.S. diplomat, Ryan Fogle, was ordered Tuesday to leave the country after the Kremlin's security services said he tried to recruit a Russian agent, and they displayed tradecraft tools that seemed straight from a cheap spy thriller: wigs, packets of cash, a knife, map and compass, and a letter promising millions for "long-term cooperation." - Huffington Post

6 AM, Moscow.  The city that never sleeps.  Ryan Fogle, Master Spy, stands in front of the polished ebony desk of the man known only as "Z," although his real name is Eustice Crabapple.
"Alright, Hobart' (For security purposes, Z is calling Fogle, Hobart). "this is the equipment you'll need for this mission.  A map of the city and a compass.  Even though you've been here for the last four years, we can't afford you getting lost on a day like this.  Periodically, stop at street corners, take out your map and check your compass.  This will appear completely normal.  Now examine this knife.  It may seem to be a completely ordinary knife.  Because that's what it is.  A perfectly ordinary knife.  Put it in your pocket."

Fogle, whom we'll call Yardley to protect his identity, said, "But, why..."

"My name is Z," Z corrected.

"I wasn't saying the letter Y," Fogle, oh, wait I forgot we were calling him Yardley, said, "I was asking why, as in, why not give me a nicer knife.  Like I've seen one where one blade was a bottle opener, one was scissors, one was even a toothpick."

"Don't get fancy," Z growled.  "You start getting fancy, you start getting careless.  You start getting careless, you start getting killed.  You start getting killed..."  Z trailed off, letting Yardley, remember that's really Fogle, finish the rest.

"Can't I have a gun?"

"Don't get fancy," Z repeated.  "And here's our official offer typed on CIA stationary, so he won't suspect you're playing him for a chump.  Notice we don't specify exactly how many millions we're offering.  I'm sorry we can't be more specific, but, you know.  The sequester.  In these envelopes are wads of cash as a down-payment.  And don't go into Starbucks and get a latte or anything, that money's all receipted.  Oh, yeah, and one other thing."

"What's that?"

"In a mission as sensitive as this one, you'll need to be incognito.  Put on this blond wig."

"How's that?"

"Perfect.  You got everything?"

"Compass, check.  Map, check.  Ordinary knife, nothing fancy, check.  Letter offering millions for cooperation, check.  Envelope of cash, check.  Blond wig, check.  I'm ready, sir."

"Splendid.  I cannot imagine what could possibly go wrong."

For the Defense

TEMECULA, Calif. — A Tennessee man who stole a big-rig truck in California, caused several accidents and told investigators he was fleeing zombies when he did it has pleaded guilty to several felonies.  CHP investigators say Hartline told them he had to speed and swerve because he was fleeing from the walking dead. - San Diego Union Times

Jody Gwyn, former president of the LaCoste National Bank in LaCoste, Texas, now serving a five-year sentence for making false entries in the books, now claims he had to do so because of zombies.  "Some of those bad loans were to the walking dead, and you don't collect from the walking dead.  They collect from you."

Lee Farakas, who was found guilty of misappropriating $3 billion and attempting to defraud the Troubled Asset Relief program of another half billion, says zombies weren't the only ones responsible for his crimes.  "It was vampires, too.  Zombies are bad enough, but they're stupid and relatively slow-moving.  You can outwit a zombie.  But when vampires are on your tail, you can't even trust yourself to go to sleep.  I had to take immediate action, or I'd have been toast."

Onel de Guzman, the Filipino computer student responsible for the "Love Bug" virus that crippled email systems in the Pentagon and the British government, says he was compelled to do so because of bats.  "They were just ordinary bats," Guzman admits, "but what can I say?  Those things just creep me out."

In an upcoming tell-all book, Bernie Madoff explains it was a combination of zombies, werewolves, and "assorted booger-headed space aliens" who compelled him to operate his hedge fund as a Ponzi scheme, defrauding investors out of billions of dollars.  "I won't give away the particulars," his publisher says, "but when you read it for yourself, you'll realize Bernie had no choice but to act as he did.  Lord Xarnak from Planet Kloon alone is enough to make you do almost anything.  Yeesh."

Power Out

Two Angels with Nothing to Say to Each OtherRecently humongous oaks in our neighborhood went down on two consecutive days, and we were without power for much of the weekend.  The funny thing is, how cheerful we all were about it.  We admired the massive trunks, sectioned into pieces and piled in the neighbor's lawn.  The neighbor in question, cheerfully pointed out her demolished mailbox, and talked about how funny it was that the emergency crew carefully set the mailbox aside and then piled the tree on top of it.  We clucked our tongues, and told each other that with all the rain recently, it was only to be expected that trees would go down, the soil being so sodden.  Another neighbor, walking by with his dog, had stooped to pick up some poop, and announced that he had gotten about "eighty percent of it."  The neighbor with the ruined mailbox was perfectly content with the twenty percent of remaining dog poop, and we chatted about this and that, the fallen tree creating an unexpected holiday mood.

My next-door neighbor was out of town, and when she returned I got to regale her with the story of the tree, and she said it was to be expected with the ground so sodden and all, and I agreed.  When my wife called (she was also out of town) I told her about the tree, and she also brought up the sodden-soil theory.  So between the neighbor with the ruined mailbox, the next-door neighbor, and my wife, I got three harmless and pleasant conversations out of one tree.

If there is such a place as heaven, which seems pretty unlikely, I wonder how any of us would manage to endure it.  We're so fond of our little disasters, provided they don't do anything more serious than crushing the odd mailbox or depriving us of power a few hours.  Heaven, think of it, unending perfection, complete unbroken perfection: never would the clouds get so sodden that trees would knock down power lines and short out all the halos.

What would we talk about?

Women are Better Than Men

"This species evidently lived exclusively on Fritos."If I were a woman, I would so completely be a lesbian.  Having a wife would improve anybody's life, but who in their right mind would want a husband?  I know this is the twenty-first century, but who does all the laundry, all the dishes, all the shopping?  What do men do?  As far as I can make out, we drink milk straight from the jug and forget to put the seat down.

Nor is it just a matter of cleaning.  Women are more thoughtful than men.  They do the Christmas shopping, buy the birthday presents, know who's sick, who's pregnant, who's in jail.  If it's not on ESPN, men don't have a clue.

Think about it: you know all those polygamous marriages out in Utah, have you heard of even one where it was one woman and four husbands?  No.  It's always one weird old guy and four wives ranging for fourteen to forty.  And everyone's just as happy as clams.  That's because any marriage that decreases the ratio of husbands to wives makes life better for everyone.  Did any woman ever sit around thinking, "What I need is a few extra husbands"?

I think that's the real reason some people oppose gay marriage.  If women could marry each other, they'd pair off and there'd just be a bunch of men sitting around drinking milk from the jug and wondering why they didn't have any clean underwear.  Civilization would collapse, and the species would die out.  Aliens visiting our lifeless planet centuries later would discover two sets of domiciles.  One set would be immaculately clean with fossilized remains of fresh-cut flowers.  The other set would consist entirely of empty chip bags and piles of unwashed laundry.  "Why did these two species die out?" the aliens would wonder.  "Not war, surely, because there is no evidence they had any contact whatsoever."

And that would be the answer.

Mother's Day

In 1907, Anna May Jarvis created Mother's Day as a memorial to her own mother, who had died two years before.  The idea seemed so dandy, she began working to make it a national holiday, and a mere seven years, it was.

That was 1914, and by the 1920's Jarvis was already disillusioned by how commercial the new holiday had become.  In particular, it seems, she objected to the practice of sending pre-printed cards.  Jarvis incorporated herself as "The Mother's Day International Association," and trademarked the phrase "Mother's Day," and "second Sunday in May."  As strategies go, trademarking days of the year and incorporating holidays may not have been the wisest course to prevent commercialism, but no matter.

Whatever else, you may say about her, Jarvis had a point.  Sending pre-printed cards just doesn't cut it. My own dear mother is no longer with us, and my wife's mother is so deep in the throes of Alzheimer's, it's difficult to say Mother's Day will mean more to her than National Squid Appreciation Day.  That leaves me with Nancy, for whom I am ever grateful.
Express love to the women in your life.  Express gratitude.  Do what you can to make their lives easier and more pleasant.  Don't wait for Mother's Day and don't wait for two years after they have died.
Enough said.