Sunday
1/22
Faux... Ooops...
Oh the hijinks. In any case, there are of course many more subtle gaffes to be avoided in real life as well. Just this morning, for instance, I was perusing the latest issue of Planet Entertainments Party Supply and Equipment Rental monthly that had arrived in my inbox when I ran across an advertisement for, I kid you not, "The Tsunami Wave Slide" which was billed as "possibly the best themed slide in Australia."
"Hmmm," I mused to myself, "tsunami... tsunami, gosh that sounds awfully familiar." As I read on my suspicions were confirmed: "Participants climb up the face of the wave and then slide down the awesome undulating wave lane." Awesome indeed.
So, in the wake of last month's remarkable disaster, what was I to make of this now uncomfortably themed party oddity? Had some enterprising young themed-slide-designer made the best of the catastrophic event for the amusement and merriment of inland dwellers the world over? Or was it more likely that party retailers the world over had fallen afoul the reasonably harmless faux pas of blithe complacency and not considered that renting such amusements might be inappropriate? Yeah, thats my guess too.
In any case, not all purveyors of the "awesome" tsunami slide are asleep at the retail-marketing switch; there is one company in Washington that still rents the same slide but has taken care to rename it the "Hang Ten Slide."
"But Holmes," you sputter in amazement at my deductive skills, "how ever could you tell that they changed the name of the slide after the tsunami disaster struck in Asia?!?!"
"Very simple, my simpleton sidekick," I reply, "they havent completely covered their tracks as the jpeg picture file that accompanies the listing on their site is still named 'Tsunami'."
Well, enough said about faux pas for one day. After all, my past is far too checkered with mishaps worthy of Leon Schlesinger's Looney Tunes to be casting any stones... an afternoon in 1984 comes to mind when I inadvertently launched a fork in a promethean arc over a crowded lunchroom towards an ex-paramour included. Boy is that a good story...
1/08/04
Mmm, Now That's Archive Fresh!
I often find that one of the greatest conveniences that computers afford us is that nothing ever really goes away. Say, for instance, you once labored over a brief pastiche that decried the inexplicable tendency that movie stars have of marrying each other. Once done and having served its purpose, the bit of satire may be retired to an archive somewhere in cyberspace; and yet it remains, like a seasoned fire-brigade, ever at the ready to be republished as circumstances warrant.
Practically speaking, what this means is that just yesterday I glanced at TV for a moment and it told me that Brad Pitt and Jennifer Anniston are getting --gasp-- divorced! Holy pre-nup Batman! Quick! Must type out wry-yet-telling bit of social commentary on the matter... oh wait. Don't have to. Just reach back into the cyber-archive and, poof! An already prepared piece on big doofus entertainers who insist on putting themselves through the universally futile exercise of imitating the well-adjusted by engaging in holy matrimony. Knuckleheads.
Anyway, the following piece is baby powder fresh from the archive; and although it's about J. Lo, Afleck, and Marc Anthony, I think the point it makes about movie stars and commitment is still salient. Enjoy:
A Modest Proposal.
It's always seemed to me that a good way to consider legislating social policy is to treat it as you would a lifestyle choice and assume that moderation is the key. It would, for instance, be a shame to never have a brandy after dinner, but on the other hand having ten or twelve is probably unwise. Likewise, when considering whether or not to legislate social policy we want to make sure that we don't end up in a restrictive Marxist kleptocracy, but neither do we want to create a freewheeling corporate/libertarian kleptocracy. (Oops, too late.) Moderation, please.
That said, I have what I believe is a modest and well-considered proposal for legislating a bit of social change. I believe, in short, that it should be illegal for famous people to marry each other. Or anyone else, for that matter, like J. Lo and Marc Anthony joining in wedded bliss this weekend. A week after he divorced his Miss Universe wife? And after we had to look at Ben Afleck's big goofy face for a year? I say it's time to end the horror for once and all and simply outlaw entertainment industry driven nuptials.
Ah, but I can hear the cries of protest already:
"Thats a terrible idea, Evan! If big, stupid stars couldn't marry each other then how could they divorce each other? What would the E! Network show all day? What would happen to the supermarket tabloids? An entire industry would collapse overnight! Thousands out of work! Children will go hungry, chaos in the streets, our way of life will be destroyed!"
I can only hope. No, not really, but jeez. Honestly, what the hell is J. Lo thinking? Does she really believe that love is more magical and special the third or fourth time around? Does she not see that becoming Liz Taylor is a very sad thing indeed? Did she learn nothing from the short-lived union of Lee Majors and Farrah Fawcett? For heavens sake.
If nothing else, Anti-Famous-People-Getting-Married legislation can be seen as a humane way of stopping them from embarrassing themselves and others. Sort of like making it illegal for drunks to piss on the sidewalk. Although drunks tend to be less annoying.
Yes, thats it! Consider such legislation a quality of life law! Just as there is no more smoking indoors, never again would we have to endure the image of Britney Spears wobbling out of a garish Las Vegas chapel with one of her old boyfriends in marital tow! Write your congressman today! You'll all thank me later. Really.
12/15
Happy Holidays... Really. I Mean It.
It’s not often that I find myself being chastised by inanimate objects, but, not unlike lunar eclipses and being mistaken for Tyrone Power on the street, it does happen occasionally. Well, actually several lunar eclipses have come and gone since I was last mistaken for Tyrone Power, but you get the point.
Anyway, in this particular case the inanimate object happened to be my kitchen radio, which this very morning took me to task for engaging in curmudgeonly holiday behavior. More specifically, it was Brian Lehrer’s guests on our local NPR station that made it abundantly clear that I’m guilty of distributing cold and impersonal Christmas cards.
Indeed, these two busybody radio guests went on to opine that not only do they look forward to a personalized, handwritten note inside each holiday greeting that arrives in their mailbox, but they enjoy nothing more than the occasional family newsletter that may be included.
Now it must be said that although the notion that I might be anything less than warm and fuzzy towards my fellow man seems at first to be laughable, the more I considered the holiday cards I had sent off to acquaintances and loved ones alike this year the more convinced I became that I had, in the vernacular, weenied out. Pre-printed address labels? Check. Pre-printed return address labels? Yup. Pre-printed picture cards that feature not only our two strapping lads in their holiday finest but also an impersonal pre-printed holiday greeting? Oh my Lord, yes… guilty as charged.
So, as an act of holiday contrition, (which, I must admit, is rather more agreeable than donning a hair shirt) I offer this highly personalized greeting to all those of you who are suffering a gnawing, empty despair in the pit of your stomachs as a result of having been deprived of the benevolent intimacy of a special greeting from me. Here goes:
Dearest ______, ______, _______, and little _______.
Although it’s hard to believe, the holidays are here again! How the time seems to fly, especially since I’ve taken up mending the shoes of homeless orphans in my spare time. Honestly, between that and all the time I spend donating kittens to the elderly, I hardly ever get a chance to tell you all how much you’ve been in all of our thoughts during the year.
I do hope all is well with everyone there, especially ________. I know that his/her arthritis has been acting up; please know that he/she is in our prayers. And heavens, how little ________ must be growing. I would imagine that he/she is walking/in college by now! How precious. Well, must sign off for now, I don’t want to be late for my part time job training Seeing Eye dogs.Best wishes, ______, _____, _____, and ______.
Saturday
12/10
Mr. And Mrs. Bernard, I Presume?
As my small outrigger swirled ever faster past the rocks of the Umfolozi River and the roar of the Mangeni falls grew to a deafening crescendo, I began to suspect that all might be lost. The situation did indeed look grim; even my trusted manservant and Bantu guide Mpande had jumped ship and swam for the safety of shore, leaving me with only my dented pride and the few trinkets with which I had hoped to dazzle any unfriendly chieftains we might encounter.
The roar of the falls continued to grow as I looked back upstream and considered whether or not my refusal to bring either a paddle or a map on our expedition was a mistake. Granted, though my preparations for this expedition had been, shall we say, unorthodox, I had still been surprised by the bemused disbelief exhibited by the chaps at the officer’s club back at Port Durban.
Colonial adventurer and notorious roué Henry Flynn was the first to speak up: "Really, old boy, are you certain it’s wise to head down-river without a map or any paddles? You may just find yourself in a spot."
"Heavens Flynn," I said with a smug chuckle that may have been emboldened by my third snifter of the particularly fine ’42 we were enjoying, "why all the gloom and doom? All that planning and equipping for such a journey is such a ducéd nuisance. Really now lads, how could my complete abdication of responsibility for the trip or my porter’s safety go wrong?"
Back on the swirling Umfolozi River, my boat began to slip past the point of no return and over the edge of the falls into watery oblivion. As darkness surrounded me I considered that maybe, just maybe, it was my own foolishness that had lead to this unfortunate turn of events… And then, as is no great surprise, I started awake from the little catnap in which I had been indulging in front of my computer.
As I rubbed my eyes and focused on the screen it became clear what had inspired my little unconscious reverie: this little nugget from the BBC news about a Florida couple whose own journey through parenthood can only be described as similarly unsuccessful and, apparently unbeknownst to them, rather embarrassing. The piece goes on to explain that Cat and Harlan Bernard have managed to raise a pair of children so selfish, so self absorbed, and so useless that the Bernards have decided to go "on strike" in their front yard and leave the little dears inside the house to fend for themselves.
As the BBC piece continues, the Bernards certainly seem to be full of righteous indignation at not being treated respectfully by their brood, and yet they seem completely oblivious to the notion that they have no one to blame but themselves. I have no doubt that they feel pushed into a corner, but for heaven’s sake, ending up involved in such an embarrassing public display of parental failure can only be the result of having come home from the hospital years earlier with each newborn child and saying, "Paddle and a map? Nah, who needs ‘em?"
12/02/04
Rip Van... Whaaa?
One of the many things in which I’ve meant to indulge myself more lately is reading. More specifically, to reacquaint myself with the details of a yarn about an certain oldster who takes a little snooze underneath tree which, if I remember correctly, overlooks the Hudson in only the most picturesque of ways. I suppose you could say that Rip’s snooze went well; perhaps a little too well as he didn’t manage to make it back from the land of nod for as many as twenty presumably restful years. Of course his family was probably relieved to be rid of the lazy old sot, but that’s probably a discussion best left for another day.
Anyway, as I’ve never been one to shrink from the chance to experience a new personal failing, I’ve just experienced my own inexplicable loss of time just this very afternoon. To wit: when I went to check the Master Family Calendar on the refrigerator I was horrified to find that it’s now December.
Just like that. Poof. December the First had stalked me silently and then, not unlike that fifth Mai Tai at a July Forth B-B-Q, struck swiftly and mercilessly.
"Whaaa…?" came my predictably articulate reaction. Where had I been? What had I been doing all this time? Certainly not blogging.
I suppose it’s just one of life’s little mysteries that since graduating and getting my degree in early September I seem to have far less time than when I was busy procrastinating and not getting any school work done. Inexplicably, now it seems there’s less time than ever to chauffeur my lads hither and yon, cook meals, check homework, mow the lawn, rake leaves, unplug plugged toilets and shop for groceries… along with all the other vastly rewarding little chores that make up the day of an average at-home-dad.
So, got my résumé done? Nope. Getting any of the writing done that’s been waiting patiently in the back of my head? Noo. Making any headway though my pile of books that’s grown over the last couple of years? Nah.
Maybe this whole "Done With School And Yet There’s Less Time Than Ever" thing is the product of some sort of counter-intuitive quantum mechanics mix-up. Chaos theory gone awry. String theory getting tangled; that sort of thing. Could be I’m trapped in one of those pesky temporal distortions that Spock and Data are always going on about.
Or… perhaps it’s more likely that I’m just a disorganized knucklehead. Yes, that would seem the most likely explanation. The solution? As painful as it seems I suppose I really have no other choice than growing up and getting a daily planner to break down my days into a feasible schedule. A sexy solution it’s not, but then again I’m willing to bet old Van Winkle would love nothing better than the chance to trade those twenty years for a Day Timer.
Halloween in Peoria.
(A disclaimer: this piece feels dated for just that reason, it’s old... hence the reference to Drew Barrymore. I believe the point the rest of the piece makes, however, is still salient. –E)
It was an afternoon much like any other as I lay quietly on the couch, minding my own business I might add, when I was paid a visit by the sandman and abruptly found myself back in my favorite little corner of dreamland. So there I was, snuggled into what was suddenly a plush leather chaise with a few fingers of Johnny Black, and, as luck would have it, Drew Barrymore was there as well, obviously eager for a spirited discussion of current events. Just then of course I felt a strangely familiar tap on my forehead. Fighting it proved to be fruitless, and seconds later I found myself back on my own living room couch that in no way resembled a luxurious leather chaise, staring at a four-foot goblin that in no way resembled Drew Barrymore.
In a rather frantic tone the goblin berated me for my ability to sleep at any given moment, and implied that we would miss all the fun. My obvious inattention to Halloween’s magic wasn’t lost on anyone else in the house either, and moments later, having finally been drawn into the whirlwind of excitement that filled the air, I unleashed a little Halloween surprise I had been working on, and shortly was trick-or-treating with a flock of little neighborhood demons.
This little surprise, half the reward for which would simply be the looks of puzzlement it would bring, sprung from the fact that as a youngster I had thoroughly enjoyed Halloween. The thought of walking darkened streets in a freshly homemade costume, with a chill in the air and a UNICEF box in hand, always invokes a host of pleasant childhood memories for me… a brief misunderstanding involving the police and several squad cars in 1978 notwithstanding. As most of our costumes were homemade, it seemed that there was an infinite variety of outfits, each expressing the individual nature of its wearer. Even though there may have been a half dozen Supermen on one block, they were a half dozen entirely different Supermen. My Superman costume, for instance, was notable not for it’s standard Superman blue body or mom-embroidered ‘S’, but rather the bright red mom-surrendered go-go boots circa 1967 that lent a snappy chic to the whole affair. If not in formal costume, then my cohorts and I were painting each other with flour paste and food coloring designed to achieve the most gruesome effects possible. Either way there was a sense of adventure and anticipation that was due in large part to the effort we spent being different. I suppose the scads of candy may have had something to do with the fun, but you get the point.
Last year, however, our holiday gathering of trick or treaters was a rather drearily unimaginative group comprised of a Digimon, two fairy princesses, a shapeless and therefore unrecognizable variety of Pokemon, a Spiderman, and a pair of entirely unconvincing witches. So, as I obviously find the modern era of flame-retardant, choke-cord-free, high-visibility, homogenous costumes to be, in a word, dull, I set out this year to break the bonds of conformity, and have a little fun with our three year old while I was at it.
To this end, an acquaintance of mine with a similar taste for all things kitsch had recently returned from a simply smashing yard sale with a tiny pair of authentic Bavarian (at least the label promised as much) lederhosen, complete with a little green feathered Alpine hiker’s hat of the sort that was fashionable with cigar-smoking, pinkie ring-wearing bookies in the seventies. Once I had added little brown boots, a white pinpoint oxford shirt and green knee socks to the ensemble, I had, if I do say so myself, a unique and particularly precious Alpine/Yodeling/Sound-of-Music-Boy costume for our golden haired youngest. The next challenge was simply a matter of keeping the whole thing hush-hush until the last moment, as non-conformity doesn’t play any better in our house than, as they say, in Peoria.
The big day finally arrived, the candy was readied, Drew and I were interrupted, and in a moment I whisked the boy away to the basement where he was transformed into the cutest darn extra to ever escape the Nazis while singing Edelweiss. His grand entrance, I’m proud to say, caused just the stir for which I had hoped. Although no ladies fainted with the vapors, nor were the hounds set to howling, my Lovely Bride was moved to that squinty sort of expression of disbelief that I so enjoy. "What’s that?" came the first question, exquisite in its simplicity.
"Why it’s Helmut, All Rockland County Yodeling Champion of 2000, of course!" "Go on boy, give her a yelp." I said as I gave the tot a nudge.
There was only a giggle accompanied by a wipe of the nose forthcoming, but it was enough ensure our escape to the front yard where a brace of Pokemon awaited us, goodie bags in hand.
Sure enough, he was the hit of the afternoon, causing not panic in the streets as my Lovely Bride had glumly predicted, but oohs and ahs almost embarrassing in their sincerity. Each of the accompanying parents was moved to stop and catch the lad on film, as was each of the trick-or-treated. As the afternoon wore on the entire affair actually ended up taking on a life of it’s own; at one stop he managed to come away with a miniature accordion which matched his getup perfectly, and before I knew it someone had been kind enough to apply a greasepaint mustache.
In retrospect, I realize he was just a monkey away from being an organ grinder, but the dangerously mixed genres didn’t concern me in the least, as I had proven myself the guardian of purist Halloween values that I always knew I could be. Now, with my head swimming with holiday plans and confidence soaring, I’m sure I can keep all those feathers for the Thanksgiving hot air balloon hidden for a few more weeks.
