Man Martin's Blog, page 180

Tradition, Damnit

My friend Andy Irwin claims that when he was growing up, his mother's idea of a traditional Thanksgiving meal was the McDonald's drive-thru for the McTurkey and Dressing Burger and a cranberry milkshake.

I recalled this story when Nancy and I were shopping in Costco and came across this: a complete turkey dinner in a box, mashed potatoes, gravy, the works.  Just thaw it out then heat and serve.  Sounds almost good enough to eat.


The problem with this concept - although I predict it will sell like hotcakes - is it misses the whole point of Thanksgiving.  What, I ask you, has happened to tradition?  The tradition of Thanksgiving isn't about eating turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, etcetera; it's about cooking turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, etcetera.

And within this larger sacred tradition, there are other smaller, but equally sacred traditions.  The turkey and dressing will be somewhat overdone or else underdone.  (The real purists insist it be both: bloody raw in some spots and scorched black elsewhere.)  Something will catch fire and fill the house with smoke.  One of the cooks will cut herself chopping onions and require a bandage.  In fact, you can get the essential ambiance of Thanksgiving without turkey and dressing at all: just fill the house with smoke and bandage your hand.

Everyone will eat their fill and then some, no one will even notice there's a little blood in the beans and onions, no one will complain that their slice of turkey is a little bloody or else carbonized, and the only person who will be dissatisfied is the cook.  Afterwards, half the family will veg out in front of the TV and the other half will play a board game, the rules and essential pieces to which have long gone missing, occasioning a jolly argument and some hurt feelings.

These things are tradition, damnit, and you don't go messing with tradition.  "Complete Turkey Dinner in a Box," forsooth!  Why, you might as well have a board game with the rules and all the pieces.

My Friend Andy

There's something disconcerting about realizing an old friend is really talented, maybe even in a way, a sort of genius.  I had just such a realization the other evening watching my college chum Andy Offutt Irwin perform at  a story-telling event, and then listening to his latest CD, Risk Assessment.

Of course I knew Andy was gifted even back at Georgia College where we met, but I was young and stupid in those days instead of old and stupid like I am now.  I met him and his friend, Charles "Drip" Waldrip, when we were cast together in Feiffer's People for the Georgia College theater.  After rehearsal one night Andy and Drip were talking about playing a simple but elegant practical joke on the music department.  There were two identical sets of lockers, separated by a sort of alcove; Andy and Drip proposed switching the lockers and observing the ensuing chaos come the morn.  I am not ashamed to say I boldly asked to come along; I think I may have actually employed the phrase, "Can I be your friend?"  I knew these were people I wanted to know.  After moving the lockers, we went to Drip's house, where we watched Johnny Carson and ate Cheez-Wiz on Ritz Crackers.  I had never felt so hip and sophisticated in my life.

But back to Andy.

Even in college, all the pieces were there, and I'm surprised at myself I didn't put them together.  You knew he would be something - he was an actor, a musician, a raconteur - but exactly what?  He was always special, one of those people whose personality or something - spirit, or soul if you will - seems about a size and a half too large for his body.  There was an incandescence about Andy, and when you were standing next to him, you felt quite literally that you'd entered his presence.  I don't want to get all metaphysical here, but you felt like something of Andy was overlapping you.  In addition, he had the strangest skill-set of useless but remarkable talents.  He was the best whistler I'd ever met (I reviewed his CD Lip Service in an earlier blog) and he could make the most astonishing series of sound-effects: for example, he could exactly imitate the electronic whistle that used to tell McDonald's employees the french-fries were done.  He would do this standing in line for his Big Mac and watch the pimply fry-cooks scurry to lift the basket from the grease and stare in perplexity at fries that were clearly still half-frozen.  Maybe I can be excused for my lack of imagination at how these gifts would come together because none of us had ever heard of such a thing as a professional story-teller.  It was the late '70's and Garrison Keillor had yet to enter the public eye.

Every art form requires its own set of abilities, and story-telling is no exception.  In one area, story-telling overlaps with story-writing, which is what I do.  This has to do with the strategic parceling out of information, giving the audience a stream of carefully chosen and arranged data points that gradually accumulate and resonate against each other so at the end, we appreciate that there is this whole unified thing.  I've deliberately described this as passionlessly and analytically as possible to show it is really a very simple principle.  I'm not saying it's easy to do, but the principle is simple.  Here Andy is a master and I find myself listening to him with such attention because I'm trying to figure out how he does it.  The told story, as opposed to the written one, must ramble.  It must seem utterly artless and yet - at the end - the audience must appreciate that those seemingly digressive details, those riffs and tangents, were all part of a carefully-considered and thought-out piece.  The story must emerge as something that didn't just happen, but was made.  The word poem means a "made thing," and in this, poetry, story-writing, and story-telling are alike.

Additionally, the story-teller must call on abilities the writer never needs.  Here's where Andy's vocal talents come into play.  His chirps, whistles, and beeps and honks - the way his voice goes high and sinks at command into bullfrog-basement low - are as much a part of his craft as the words he chooses.  It would be easy to dismiss this aspect as a gimmickry, but you'd have to hear Andy in action to realize what a wonder it can be.  Andy's character Aunt Marguerite he performs with such precision - lord knows, I have known this woman - a certain specific type of southern woman who, alas, is even now headed for extinction if not extinct already.  When a Yankee tells Marguerite all southerners are bigots, and Marguerite responds with, "Do you mean all Southerners, or just the white ones?" or someone says the Ten Commandments should be put in front of the courthouse and Marguerite says instead it ought to be the Beatitudes, you can't appreciate how funny and profound it is without hearing it in her voice.

Lastly - and of course, I save the most astonishing thing for last - a story-teller has got to be more or less out of control.  When it comes to writing a story, that's something I can somewhat do - and as far as Andy's vocal gifts, it's something I cannot do, but the out of control part is the thing I'd be terrified to do.

Sometimes artists compare their work to walking a tightrope, which I guess is pretty apt.  The truth is, walking a tightrope isn't that hard.  It takes practice and precision, but you can do it.  The trick is just staying on the rope.  It's about control.  When I write or perform in public, I walk a tightrope.  I practice every little detail until I know it will come out exactly the way I want and then I do it.  Above all else, I don't want anything unrehearsed; it's too damn risky.  That's why I prefer writing to speaking, I actually don't want to hear the response from the audience, it's too distracting.  But Andy's the other way - he doesn't walk a tightrope, he jumps up and down on it.  He leaves the tightrope and wanders - mid-air as far as I can tell - over to the trapeze or to the back of an elephant or camel if one happens to pass by.   If an audience member has an unanticipated reaction to something, Andy doesn't ignore it, he welcomes it.  He acknowledges it.  It becomes part of his performance.  In this way, story-telling is more like jazz than tight-rope walking.  It doesn't pay to improvise on a tightrope, but you can't play Basin Street Blues without it.

Someone said finding your vocation means discovering where your particular set of abilities precisely matches what the world requires from you.  Thus it is with Andy.  I forgive myself for not imagining how his gifts would come together as a story-teller; how could I have imagined it?  But I am grateful they did.  The world would not be so bright and lovely a place had Andy not found his vocation.  The world would be a sadder place without Aunt Marguerite.

Petition to Secede from the Human Race

On behalf of myself and any fellow-signers of this petition, I hereby request the Lord Almighty to permit me to peacefully secede from the human race and join some other species, perhaps the bonobo monkeys or bottle-nosed dolphins.  I also would not mind being a Golden Retriever.

ARTICLE ONE: HUMANS PERSISTENTLY BEHAVE IN A MANNER THAT EMBARRASSES THEIR FELLOW CREATURES.  To wit, an extremely high-ranking general had an affair with his biographer, supposedly an intelligent woman, a PhD candidate, wife and mother, who sent offensive and threatening messages to yet another woman, a prominent socialite.  This socialite, also married, seems to have been on the receiving end of still other messages of a sexual nature from yet another high-ranking general.  The FBI agent who initially brought forth this information had also sent shirtless photos to the socialite.  Again, it must be stated, these are not adolescents or hill-billies, nor are they guests on Jerry Springer, but elite, high-ranking individuals.

ARTICLE TWO: HUMANS TAKE WHATEVER IS BEAUTIFUL AND PROFOUND AND TWIST IT INTO UGLY SILLINESS.  To wit, proponents of a religion whose name means "peace," engage in acts of random violence around the world.  Followers of a prophet who said to judge not one another and that God loves all people, attend funerals with placards reading, "GOD HATES FAGS."  Members of a religious group that has been persecuted and dispossessed throughout history, have claimed an historic homeland, persecuting and dispossessing the population they found there.

ARTICLE THREE: HUMANS SEEM INCAPABLE OF REMAINING CONSISTENT EVEN WITH THEIR OWN STATED PRINCIPLES.  To wit, following a recent election, disappointed voters, in the name of upholding American values such as the Constitution, representative democracy, and the rule of law, have threatened to secede from the nation in violation of the principles of the Constitution, democracy, and the rule of law.

For these reasons and others too many to enumerate here, I respectfully request I be permitted to secede from the human species.  Again, I would prefer to be a monkey or a bottle-nosed dolphin, but I would be content as a Golden Retriever.

Signed,
Man Martin

Cats I Have Known Part Two: Mittens

Cats like Mittens possess dignity so
self-assuredly, they are probably
unaware of having itOf all the cats we have had, and we have had more than our share, you may be sure, my favorite was Mittens.

Mittens was polydactyl, which meant he had extra toes on his front paws, which stuck out like thumbs.  Since he was a tabby with white feet, the name Mittens was a natural.  Mittens was a very satisfactory cat for reasons I find hard to explain.  Perhaps it was because of all our cats, he was the most cat-like.  He had the sort of languid grace that our other cats - who tended to be on the rotund side - lacked.  Humans, with their posturing, blustering, and posing give the concept of dignity a bad name, but cats have the enviable sort of dignity, dignity without fear of losing dignity.  Cats of Mittens' sort do not worry about their self dignity; they possess it so self-assuredly they are probably unaware of having it.

I have only one story about Mittens, and it's not much of a story, but Mittens was a cat too dignified to lend himself to anecdotes.  We were dog-sitting for a friend of ours.  Our neighbor saw Mittens walking the fence between our yards and asked him, "Has that dog left your house yet?"  And Mittens replied in a plaintive yowl, "Nnaww."

Ernest Hemingway, I understand, also had a polydactyl cat, and Key West is littered - if you'll pardon the pun - with descendants of the original.  I've never been an enormous fan of Hemingway's, but knowing he had a six-toed cat makes me like him better.  Then I read his cat's name was Mr. Pleasure Puss, and I began to like him somewhat less.  But then I read the cat's name was actually Snowball, and I began to like him a little better again.  That's me and Hemingway: his estimation in my eyes goes up and down like a yo-yo.

But my feelings towards Mittens have never changed.  He was a good cat.  He died, evidently attacked by some larger critter.  It was not a nice way to die, but somehow I think Mittens would have preferred it to living into his dotage and finally being put to sleep.  So great was Mittens' dignity, he was no more aware of it, than of his extra toes.

Planning for My Retirement

First of all, I have to figure how much money I'll need for retirement.  To start with, I'll need to replace my annual salary plus add a modest amount for playing baccarat.  I've never played baccarat and don't have the least idea how it's played, but it's something I've seen James Bond doing, and it looks like the kind of thing that'd be fun to do in retirement.  Of course, I'd have to get a tuxedo and that'll also run into money.

Then I've got to total up all the income I can expect to draw from my investments.  This is tricky because some of my investments are hard to calculate.  For example that plastic sack I have full of "Beanie Babies."  Currently the market price for Beanie Babies is down, I prefer to think of it as "a correction," but pretty soon I expect the craze will return full-force, and then, boy, will I be sitting pretty.  Ditto for the commemorative six-pack of Cokes I bought during the Atlanta Olympics.

So even optimistically, counting on baccarat winnings and a healthy return from my Beanie Baby investment, it looks like I'll come up a little short if I want to retire at 65.  Maybe I can take on a part-time job to sort of fill in the chinks.  One possibility is becoming a bank robber.  High pay, short work days, no special skills required, and you get to meet people.

Nancy would need a part-time job, too.  Maybe she could be a WalMart greeter or better still, one of those ladies that spreads lobster-mousse on crackers at the Costco.  That'd be a great job, just stand there giving people crackers, and at the end of the day, I bet you get to take home all the lobster-mousse nobody's eaten.

While we're at it, Zoe could get a part-time job as well.  As far as I can tell, Zoe doesn't do a darn thing to pull her weight around here except sleep, lick herself, and bark at imaginary noises.  There aren't many jobs out there for someone with Zoe's skill set, for which she has only herself to blame.  With all her free time, it's inexcusable she wasn't training up to be a seeing-eye dog or sniff drugs or something.  What's she's good at is rolling on the ground.  I've never seen anyone that could beat her at that.  Maybe she could help out gardeners who have scattered seeds.  She could roll on them and push them in the ground.  If there's anything rotten and really bad-smelling she's great at finding that, too.  Surely some CSI folks somewhere could use a dog like that.  I'll check Craig's List.

So let's see.  Beanie Baby investment, part time jobs for me, Nancy, and Zoe.

I better turn out to be darn good at baccarat.

Another Reason I Never Made It as a Cartoonist

"Gesundheit"

Chicken v Corn

In the court of chickens, the corn is always guilty. - Proverb

Transcript of Chicken v Corn
PROSECUTING ATTORNEY: Can you give your whereabouts on the evening of January 22?

CORN.

PROSECUTING ATTORNEY: Your Honor, can you please instruct the witness to answer the question.

JUDGE: Witness, you will answer the question.

CORN.

PROSECUTING ATTORNEY: I put it to you, that you were knowingly consorting with other corn in an entire bag of corn.

EXCITING CLUCKING AND MURMURING FROM THE JURY

JUDGE: Order, order.  I'll have order or I'll clear the court!

Falling Leaves, Etc, Etc

Ah, Autumn and the leaves are falling.  I can sit and watch them fall for hours, drifting from the trees in swirling spirals.  It fills me with peace and contentment.

We have a yard man.

Of course, don't be fooled, little children; it may look like Mother Nature's goofing off, but really she's hard at work.  That's the way it is with Mother Nature, never off the clock even for a second.  It turns out that Fall, with all its beautiful panoply of colors blah blah blah is really just Nature's way of looking our for the trees.  When winter comes, they don't want to be wasting all that yummy nitrogen on a bunch of useless foliage, so they suck it back out of the leaves - slurrp! - which turn red, gold, and orange, and down they come.  Fascinating, isn't it?

Well, it is fascinating, if you'd sit up and pay attention for a change.

Anyway, this process goes on all the time, even with humans, did you know that?  For example, when a human child no longer needs its baby teeth, out they fall.  This is a sign they're ready to start paying grown-up dental insurance.  Sometime in your thirties, your hair will start to fall out.  Ha-ha, it's nothing to worry about!  It's just Nature's way of ensuring females find you physically repulsive so they don't make the mistake of mating with a dried-up old husk like you.  Think of it as Nature's expiration date; you may still be on the shelf, but nobody's taking you home anymore!

When your first child is born, your wallet will fall out of your pants.  Won't need that pesky old disposable income anymore.  Somewhere in this same time period, your socks will fall down and your taste-buds will start to fall out.  No one knows why this is part of Nature's plan, but you'll know it's happened when you start putting hot sauce in oatmeal.

Your hopes and dreams start to fall out, and then your memories.  Or maybe it's the other way around.  I forget.

Last of all, your whole self falls out.  That's right.  Grown-ups call it death, and it might sound pretty creepy, but it happens to everybody so you better get used to the idea.

And while you're at it, tuck in your shirt.  Your pants are falling down again.

My Career So Far

Stating he had "exercised extremely poor judgement," General Petraeus resigned as the Director of the CIA after an investigation revealed an extramarital affair.
- News Reports

Man MartinResume
1972 - Head Acolyte at St Josephs Episcopal Church.  Showed extremely poor judgement anchovies for the first time at a pizza restaurant Saturday night.  Sunday morning threw up on priest.  I resigned.

Circa 1975
Honestly, I don't know
what I was thinking1975 - Alderman of Baldwin High Student Government.  Resigned after it came to light I had bought and worn multicolored bell-bottom corduroys, extremely poor judgement on my part.

1980 - Undersecretary for Tropes and Metaphors in the Georgia College Literary Society.  Resigned because of poor judgement.  I'd gotten my hair permed into an afro.  Honestly, I don't know what I was thinking.

1984 - Co-Chair of the Fledgling Right-Wing Liberal Party.  Farted loudly during "moment of silent prayer" at first fund-raiser.  Poor judgement.  Resigned.

1992 - Delegate for Cynthia Drive at Ashford Park Neighborhood Association.  After publicly apologizing to my wife and family for the pain my poor judgement had caused them, I resigned when it came to light that I had left a "doggy bag" of left-overs from an Ethiopian Restaurant in my car overnight.

2001 - Asked by the Illuminati to resign my position as Special Liason to the Tri-Lateral Commision for showing extremely poor judgement.  Poured "just a little" gasoline on a leaf fire to "get it going."

2012 - Arabia Mountain High School 10th Grade Leadership Committee Chair.  Poor judgement.  Resigned.  "Skinny jeans."  Don't ask.

My Way with Women

In case anyone is interested, I am herewith sharing my courtship secrets.  Here it is: Absolute Fawning Puppy-ish Adoration.  I mean, I cling to my woman like the Titanic was going down and she was the last black inner tube.  Absolute Fawning Puppy-ish Adoration cannot be practiced by just anyone, however.  It takes extreme patience and dedication.  The typical reaction of the woman comes in FIVE STAGES.

STAGE ONE: The woman somewhat enjoys it, but thinks, "He can't keep this up much longer."

STAGE TWO: The woman begins to feel annoyance tempered with astonishment just how persistent your Absolute Fawning Puppy-ish Adoration is.

STAGE THREE: The woman no longer feels astonished, but merely annoyed.

STAGE FOUR: The woman learns to ignore it, in much the same way as she learns to ignore the incessant yipping of the neighbor's Jack Russell.

STAGE FIVE: The woman relents and returns your Absolute Fawning Puppy-ish Adoration with Absolute Fawning Puppy-ish Adoration of her own.

Lacking any imagination or smooth romantic technique, I have never used any courtship method but Absolute Fawning Puppy-ish Adoration.  It has won me the hand of the woman who has been married to me thirty-one years.  I figure she should be entering into STAGE FIVE any day now.