Man Martin's Blog, page 173

Why I Now Get to Wear a Hat Like Uncle Pennybags

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a millionaire.  The word "millionaire" was always spoken with a certain respect, as in "He's a millionaire," or "He might grow up to be a millionaire."  The only millionaires I knew personally were Thurston Howell III, Jed Clampett, and Uncle Pennybags, the top-hatted, mustachioed man from Monopoly.  Oh, and how could I forget, Gomez Addams.

Thurston Howell, living as he did on a deserted island, did not have many of the accouterments of millionaire-hood, but that's exactly what made him so fascinating.  In spite of having no greater material wealth than the other castaways, he comported himself with an enviable sang-froid, a natural air of privilege that even the Skipper respected.  The lesson was, being a millionaire wasn't something you had, it was something you carried with you.

Jed Clampett was a millionaire of a different sort; if money liberates you from common worry, he was liberated from worry about money.  Living in a mansion did not mean he ever had to change his values or, evidently, even his clothes.  He listened to Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs instead of the symphony or whatever was hip or trendy at the time.  In their posh mansion, with its "concrete pond" (swimming pool) he permitted Ellie to keep a menagerie of "critters," including various barn animals.

Uncle Pennybags - I betcha didn't know that was his name, didja? - always seemed to dress like the little man on the wedding cake.  Usually on the yellow Community Chest cards or orange "Chance" cards, the hat was flying off his head as he was being kicked out of, or sent into jail, or else receiving a bonus of two hundred dollars through a bank-teller's window, but the top hat was almost always present.  In our family, the Top Hat was the most coveted among the playing pieces; no one willingly played with the Cannon or the Mounted Cowboy - but nor would any of us have dreamt of wearing a top hat.  You didn't wear a top hat any more than you wore a crown, and nor could you earn it, the way you might earn a mortarboard or a hardhat; a top hat was bestowed by the gracious hand of fate.

My last and most favorite was Gomez.  A millionaire and a mad man, the perfect combination.  Jed was never entirely comfortable in his fortune and Thurston was snooty, but Gomez was absolutely at ease and himself.  You just knew money had been in that family for generations.  No family gets that peculiar without plenty of time to percolate.  Best of all though, in addition to the fact that whenever he needed money he just reached into a drawer and found it stuffed with greenbacks, was his wife.  Beautiful Morticia, as mad and exotic as he was, his perfect match, who could make him froth passion with a casual remark in High School French.

When I daydreamed about millionaire-hood, it was drawn from these images.  I would have a swimming pool, but also "critters."  I imagined having my own private film libary so I could watch Duck Soup or The Pink Panther any time I wished.  I wanted a two-way wrist radio like Dick Tracy - this I knew would never really happen - and a Visio-Phone like on the Jetsons, so I could see as well as hear who I was talking to, another thing I knew would remain in the realm of fantasy, and a rotating treadmill like George Jetson walked his dog on.

And dear Lord, dear sweet Lord, I made it.  In the afternoons, I walk past my pool - "a vinyl pond" instead or concrete, to feed my chickens and collect their eggs.  I usually wear a panama hat, not unlike Thurston's.  My television has on offer a plethora of viewing choices, more than I could ever want, and I have a mobile phone that makes Dick Tracy's gizmo look like a Cracker Jack toy.  And my iPod, I can't even begin to say how marvelous that is.  In the evenings I go into the YMCA to run on a treadmill.

And best of all, oh, best, best of all - My wife, beautiful and completely mad in her way as I am mad in mine, who still makes me wild.

I'm ready for my top hat.

My New Phone

The other day in Costco, my wife rolled her eyes as I selected my new cell phone.  My purchase represented a giant step backward technology-wise.  I went from a SmartPhone to the most basic model, a flip phone with actual buttons you press instead of a touch screen.  My new phone has no internet connectivity, no GPS, no menu of apps laid out on the screen in colorful icons.  And that suits me fine.  It turns out a SmartPhone is only as smart as its user, which in my case is not all that smart.  My new phone has a camera, which frankly, I don't need, but can get along with.

I will admit to being a technological troglodyte.  When I walk into my carport, our cars begin greeting me with chirps, cheeps, honks, and blinking lights because somehow my butt is pressing various buttons on the car keys in my pocket.  My butt is evidently more dexterous than my fingers because I can never find the right button to unlock my own car in less than three tries.  Remember when you unlocked a car by inserting the silver tip of the key into a hole in the door and turning?

Although my new phone suits me better than my old one, it's still far from perfect.  The buttons are bigger, thank goodness, so I won't dial Nome, Alaska when trying to reach the Pizza Hut, and without all those apps, the battery should last a little longer between chargings, but I worry that I'll still be prone to losing it, and which of the approximately two million chargers we have lying around the house will I insert into this one.

What I'd really like is a phone I couldn't possibly get the wrong number on: it would have a dial where I'd insert my finger into a little hole above the number and have to turn in a complete rotation, allowing me plenty of time to reconsider: is 4 really the number I have written down here, or could it possibly be 9 or even 7?  Maybe it could be attached by a flexible power cord to the wall, so I'd never lose it and it would never need recharging.

Do you think anyone will ever come up with something like that?

Richard Graham's Safety Tips

A British lawmaker's suggestion that young women who wear high heels and short skirts put themselves at greater risk of rape has drawn widespread condemnation. "If you are blind drunk and wearing those clothes how able are you to get away?" Conservative Party lawmaker Richard Graham, of Gloucester, was quoted as saying by his local newspaper. - Huffington Post

1. Don't let your children wear pull-ups, those sort of training pants slash diapers.  If a four-year-old has been drinking gin and tonic all afternoon, he'll never get away from a molester in that get-up.

2. Three words about bicycle helmets.  Dumb, dumb, dumb.  Think about it, a thirteen year-old's on his bike.  He's had a few too many rum punches.  How's he supposed to see the alien spacecraft when it comes for him.

3. Always wear boxers, never briefs.  Put yourself in this situation: you're coming home from Parliament, and you're knee-walking drunk.  Now a gang of muggers come after you.  How are you supposed to crawl to safety when you're worried about those whitey-tighties crawling up your butt?

4. Don't wear bright colors in the woods.  You don't have to worry about being shot by a hunter who mistakes you for Bambi, most of those guys are so smashed they would be able to hit the side of a barn firing from the inside.  No, what you got to worry about is bears.  If you've been drinking heavily and taunting bears all afternoon, how are you supposed to get away when a bear finally turns on you, and you're wearing a shirt that basically says, "I'm over here, come and eat me."

5. Always put on plenty of sunscreen when you go to the beach and reapply frequently.  This is very critical, especially if you plan to drink really heavily and then go swimming.  If you get sucked out in a rip-tide and a Great White Shark grabs you, with all that lotion on, you'll slip right out.  I can't tell you how many lives have been saved this way.

Welcomez-vous au Chez Dirt

While there are many examples of humans eating dirt throughout history -- perhaps due to certain disorders or out of necessity -- dirt is not typically something that one finds at high-end restaurants. That is, until Ne Quittez Pas restaurant in Tokyo revealed its $110 menu with dirt as a featured ingredient... Various dirt courses... include potato starch and dirt soup, salad with dirt dressing, aspic with a layer of sediment, dirt risotto, and dirt ice cream and dirt gratin for dessert. - Huffington Post

"Bonjour, bonjour, madame et monsieur and welcome-ez vous to Chez Dirt.  Ees zees your first time dining weez us?  Oui?  In zat case, you weel want to know about our specials.  We have Shrimp and Grit, our take on ze classic southern entree: fresh Gulf shrimp, served with remoulade and finely-ground asphalt, flown in fresh each day from exotic DeTroit.  Also, in a Cajun theme, we have ze blackened trout.  Fresh trout, delicately pan-seared and covered with coal dust.  Zen, if seafood is not to your taste, you might enjoy ze crispy duck.  Ze chef takes a wild duck -never farm raised - outside to ze parking lot, and rolls it around until its coated with soil and cigarette butts, zen into ze oven she goes and served with chipotle vinaigrette.  With zis, I recommend our Pinot Noir Chateau Soil, a full-bodied red wine with a nice muddy finish.  Also, on ze lighter side, we have ze petite fours, delicate little sandwiches made with real sand.  For dessert, of course, you will want to save room for our famous mud pie, served with our special coffee, that was ground just zis morning.  But first, to start, can I start you with garlic humus?  Rich black compost straight from ze landfill, mixed with lemon and fresh garlic and served on triangles of toasted pita."

Ask Taro Aso

Japan's deputy prime minister has been forced to apologise for saying old people should "hurry up and die" to unburden the nation's economy.  Taro Aso, who is 72, also called people with serious illnesses "tube persons", reports Japan's Kyodo News. At a meeting of the National Council on Social Security Reforms on Monday, Aso said: "Heaven forbid if you are forced to live on when you want to die." - Huffington Post

DEAR TARO ASO: I am the single mother of identical twin boys. They insist on dressing alike and use their own secret language. I have always had trouble telling them apart. When they were young, it was cute, but as they are growing older I'm starting to worry. They're 12. When they oversleep, they shower together to save time. Their teacher took me aside during a conference and said they seem to be overly affectionate with each other and might benefit from some time with a masculine role model. When I questioned her, she said there is gossip that they were seen touching and possibly even kissing. My research has brought up the idea of "twincest," and I am worried my boys may be falling into these habits. How would you suggest making them stop? Everyone keeps suggesting separation, but they share a room and I don't have another one or the money to build one. Help! -- MOM WITH TWO MUCH TROUBLE

DEAR MOM: Your course is clear. These boys need to get with the program and die and quit being such a burden to you.  The fact they're twins makes it twice as bad.  Quit extending their misery. - TARO ASO

DEAR TARO ASO: I wear dentures. I have never gone out in public without them. However, I have seen people I know take them out in restaurants, etc. It is not only awful to look at, but don't they realize how they look? Am I shallow for not wanting anyone to see me without my "smile"? Is there some social etiquette that's being broken? -  TOOTHLESS IN COLORADO

DEAR TOOTHLESS: It isn't shallow to be concerned about your appearance.  What's shallow is going on living and being a burden to the entire restaurant.  When your teeth fall out, it's God's way of saying "Time's up!"  Elephants know this and go off to die where they won't be a bother to the others.  Please do likewise.  - TARO ASO

DEAR TARO ASO: I'm a college student and still live with my parents. My two older sisters moved out years ago. I never asked them why, but I'm sure it's because our father is emotionally abusive. He talks down to us and makes us feel inadequate. He has belittled my mother for years, to the point that she doesn't bother arguing with him anymore. She used to play music all the time, but she's now afraid to "bother anybody." I can honestly say I never loved my father, and I wish Mom had divorced him years ago. The few times I have tried to talk to him, he overreacted and accused me of being a drama queen who blows things out of proportion. He's almost 60 but has the emotional depth of a spoiled, angry 12-year-old. How can I convince Mom that leaving him will do her more good than harm? -- NO LOVE FOR DAD IN CALIFORNIA

DEAR NO LOVE FOR DAD: Clearly there are a few people around your house who need to hurry up and die and stop being such a burden.  For starters, you mother.  If she doesn't play music anymore, what good is she?  Time for the a dirt-nap, Mom.  And you.  A college student living at home?  Why prolong your misery.  As for your Dad, it sounds to me like he's still got a few good years left in him.  Quit being such a drama queen and drop dead. - TARO ASO

Concerned Fans Reach Out to Denise Richards

Following Denise Richard's tweet about the death of her beloved thirteen year-old bulldog, Hank, fans across the nation have reached out to the actress with offers of support and comfort.

"I'd be happy to come over there and spend the night with you," Ronald Sparks of Omaha, Nebraska writes.  "I have been a big fan of yours ever since that scene with Neve Campbell in Wild Things where the two of you... you know.  Anyway, I just think at a time like this, you just shouldn't be alone.  Maybe you could invite Neve over, too."

Nor is Sparks the only one offering his support.  Doug Roberts of Tampa, Florida is also willing to stay with Ms Richards as she recovers from the loss of her beloved pet.  "I never owned a bulldog, let alone a French one," Roberts writes, "but I love French toast and I drive a bulldozer."

These supporters, while generously offering their company to Ms Richards, often take pains to make her feel as comfortable as possible.  "You don't need to dress up or anything when I come over," Eddie Morans of Tuscaloosa, Alabama writes.  "Just treat me like family.  You can wear any old thing you want.  Like those short-shorts you had in Dukes of Hazzard."

Children's Letters to Stalin

Dear Comrade Stalin,
My name is Vasha and I am six years old.  I am very good boy.  When I get big, I want to be General Secretary just like you and have a black mustache.  My mother says eat your porridge.  I am pretty sure she is a Trotskyite.
Your Friend,
Vasha

Dear Comrade Stalin,
I am glad you are General Secretary.  Dress nice and save our country from Counter-Revolutionaries like my little sister who told on me for throwing the cat down the well.  The cat had information regarding the activities of Tsarist sympathizers, and I was trying to extract needed information.  Please purge her.
From Vladimir
Minsk

Dear Comrade Stalin
Alexie Chekhov - pushed me off see-saw - Trotskyite
Valery Pushkin - stole potato I brought for lunch - Trotskyite
Georgy Dementyev - spread false propaganda I wet my bed - Counter-revolutionary pro-Tsarist Trotskyite
Dimitri Yelizarov - looks at me funny, eyes crossed - Trotskyite
Your Comrade,
Yefim

A Message from the National Apple Pie Association

Pilgrims offering the Indians a Smallpox Apple Pie
at the first ThanksgivingAmerica was founded on three ideals, "Motherhood, America, and Apple Pie."  Some wisenheimers  sneer at this, "How can something be founded on itself?"  Well, America was, you sneering wisenheimer, so there!

But the point is, the last thing in that list is apple pie, and if you know anything about lists, the last one is always most important.  "Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."  The pursuit of happiness is the point of the whole thing.  "This one's too hot, this one's too cold, this one's just right."  If Goldilocks tried the one that was just right second, she'd never go on to try the one that was too cold, would she?  "Manny, Moe, and Jack, the Pep Boys."  You know Jack is the boss of the whole operation, just look at the other two sometime.  They're wienies and pretty-boys compared to him.  Jack is a regular guy.
Now I'm not saying anything bad about Motherhood, just because she comes first on the list; my own mother is a fine woman and I respect and love her.  But part of the reason I love her, is because she makes apple pie!  And because she's an American.
George Washington, Father of Our Country,
Holding a TNT Apple PieAs American as Apple Pie.  We can't say why God made it that way, but he did.  He could have made it cherry pie, maybe, but He didn't.  Why, when George Washington saw a cherry tree, what  did he do to it?  He chopped it down, he didn't even lie about it!  If it'd been an apple tree, he wouldn't have chopped it down in the first place, and if he did, he sure wouldn't have admitted it.  Not if he wanted to grow up to be president.  And as far as blackberry pie, what are you, a hillbilly?  And blueberry pie, are you a hippie?  No, it's apple pie, because that's the way God ordained it, and because that's the way it's always been.
Now, in this great land of ours, there are those who want to take away our precious apple pie, and why?  All because fine American cooks have come up with newer and more versatile apple pies than our forefathers ever dreamed of.  
For example, there's Exploding Plutonium Apple Pie.  A delicious apple pie with a flaky crust that pulls apart with a fork-tip, and inside a block of weapons-grade plutonium, so if you drop it from a height of three feet or more, blooey!  You take out a whole city block.  Then, there's Apple Pie a la Mode, which sounds Frenchie and sissy, I admit, but is just good old apple pie with ice-cream on top.  And it's vanilla ice-cream, not some tamale or sushi ice cream trying to take jobs away from good Americans.  And then there's apple pie with cheese on top.  American Cheese, none of your foreign Swiss or Limburger Cheese here, no sir!  Well, some people don't like that.  I say, fine, it's still a free country for the time being, so you can just say, "I don't want any cheese," or "Leave the ice cream off," or "No plutonium for me."  But that's not good enough for some people, oh no!  They want to deny our precious American freedom and say we can't enjoy a nice slice of Molotov Apple Pie: a flaky crust filled with fresh apples, butter, sugar, and gasoline, and there's a gasoline-soaked rag sticking through the crust; light it, and throw it through a store window, and boom!  You can take out a whole city block.  But if you don't choose to do that, and I say that's your right, then it tastes just as delicious as any other apple pie, except for the gasoline.
A Bald Eagle, Our Nation's Symbol,
Dropping an Incendiary Apple Pie
on an Enemy PenguinThe time has come to stand up and say, "We aren't going to take it any more!"  If they impose a three-day waiting period before you can get a TNT-apple pie, or anthrax-apple pie, or apple pie a la mode, next thing you know, they'll make you wait four days.  And then where will you be?  The crust will be all stale.  They say, exploding apple pies kill people.  Well, I'm sorry, it's just not that simple.  Exploding apple pies don't kill people, people kill people.  And if you take away exploding apple pies, criminals will just start using exploding hot dogs.  If apple pies are outlawed, only outlaws will have apple pies.  Let them take away apple pies, and next they'll come for your guns.  And then they'll take away your mother.  That's exactly the way Hitler did it.
If we're concerned about apple-pie violence, the solution isn't taking away apple pies, it's making sure we have more of them!  Next time someone walks into a mall or a church or whatever with a TNT-apple pie, there needs to be a policeman there, or just a good patriotic citizen with his own exploding apple pie.  So that criminal knows if he tries throwing his pie and - boomo! - taking out a whole city block, there's someone ready to throw his own apple pie and take out another city block right back at him!  An America where everyone has an exploding apple pie will be a polite America.  
America was founded on Motherhood and Apple Pie.  And America.  America was founded on America.
Think about it.

Coming up on Downton Abbey

Mary (Michelle Dockery) gets knocked on the head during a fox hunt and develops amnesia, eventually getting a job as "The Thin Woman," in a traveling sideshow.  Matthew (Dan Stevens) searches valiantly for his wife, but is hampered by Mary's mother (Shirley MacClain) who suffers from chronic overacting.  Mathew and Mary are reunited, but moments later, Matthew dies, succumbing to fatally toxic levels of smug self-righteousness in his bloodstream.  Meanwhile, the Dowager Countess (Maggie Smith) says something dry and sardonic, sniffs haughtily, and makes a comically sour face.

John Bates (Brendan Coyle) manages to escape from prison by bluffing dim-witted guards with a gun carved out of a potato (the bullets were carved out of green peas) unaware that his beloved Anna (Joanne Froggatt) has found conclusive proof that not only did Bate's deceased wife deliberately poison herself, she isn't even really deceased, and that moreover, she's not a woman.  The Dowager Countess (Maggie Smith) says something comic and haughty, sniffs dryly, and makes a sardonically sour face.

As this is going on, below stairs the evil O'Brian (Siobhan Finneran) and the erstwhile partner of her schemes Thomas (Rob James-Collier) continue their personal vendettas against each other.  Thomas manages to sneak a deadly black mamba snake into O'Brian's bathtub, which bites the lady's maid as she is shaving her bunions.  The snake dies.  The Dowager Countess (Maggie Smith) says something sour and comic, sniffs sardonically, and makes a dry, haughty face.

Meanwhile the middle daughter Lady Sybil (Jessica Brown Findlay) is killed by an exploding scone planted by Irish radicals.  Seeking to bring his wife's murderers to justice, Tom Branson (Allen Leech) seeks out the Irish guerrilla fighters, but owing to a misunderstanding, winds up among a band of Irish gorillas, whose very existence was unsuspected by all but the most imaginative naturalists.  He is held captive by the head gorilla who wishes to be taught to use silver and wear a morning coat so that he can fit into polite society.  At the news of this the Dowager Countess (Maggie Smith) says something sniffly, sours with sardonic commentary, and faces haughtily.

Middle daugher Edith (Laura Carmichael) still unable to find a potential husband, mopes.

The widowed Mary returns to Downton to discover that Pemal Pamuk, whose sudden death in Mary's bed during the first season threatened the family with scandal, is back, that he had faked not only his death but his orgasm.  Also, Matthew's mother Isobel (Penelope Wilton) believing Mary to be dead, had cloned her, and now the clone, hiding somewhere on the estate, is attempting to assassinate the original Mary and take her place, but since she's using Bates' gun, she doesn't have any ammunition more effective than green peas.

At the end of the season Barney (Ruffles) the dog whose hindquarters the camera follows at the opening credits, wakes up, and we learn this has all been a canine nightmare, brought on by eating salted herring.  Learning of this, the haughty Dowager Countess (Maggie Smith), sardonically dries out and says "F'shizzel."

The Imaginary BFF of Te'o's Imaginary Girlfriend Speaks Out

Not just Lennay's imaginary family, but all of her imaginary friends, including me, and their imaginary families were just shocked when it came out that Lennay's boyfriend wasn't imaginary, and never was, but a real-live person.  Naturally, when you hear a name like Manti Te'o, you just think that's not a real person, and you can imagine our shock and disappointment that Lennay had been involved with someone she hadn't made up at all but a real person who, like, existed and everything.

I still can't get over it.
That this news came on top of Lennay's make-belief death just makes it that much harder.  If you're a real person, I guess it must be pretty hard going to an actual funeral when somebody dies, but for imaginary people, going to a make-believe funeral when nobody fakes her death can be just as hard.  Or if it isn't just as hard, we have to pretend it is, and that's the hard part.
When I think back on all the make-believe memories I shared with Lennay, the fun times I imagine we had together, the intimate personal secrets we would have made up to tell each other if either of us had really existed, it makes me pretend to cry.
In all of the imaginary conversations I made up where Lennay pretended to tell me all about Te'o, he just seemed so fake, and her stories about him seemed so unconvincing and inconsistent, I was convinced that when we pretended she had cancer and then died in a car wreck while running from drug dealers, that Te'o would cease existing and then we'd go on to imagine someone else.

But he didn't.

It all seems like a terrible, terrible fantasy.  But it's real.

That's the weird part.