American Fez

Smorgasbord Schadenfreude

An acquaintance of mine who shall remain nameless, a self-confessed Christian who nevertheless often chooses Sunday brunch-going over church-going, has recently returned from vacationing in the Nevada desert with a shameful rash that shall also remain nameless: proof, if any were needed, that what happens in Vegas does not necessarily stay in Vegas, no matter how much expensive ointment you slather over it. He claims that this amusing skin condition is merely the result of an allergic reaction to his hotel's all-you-can-eat buffet: further proving, as I gleefully pointed out, that God does not always help those who help themselves. No doubt, I suggested, such sufferings were sent by the Lord to try him, much as he was sent by the hostess to try the spicy pork dumplings, and both the Lord and the spicy pork dumplings obviously move in mysterious ways.

Pocket Hankerchief Blues

Requiring a suit for a funeral, size 38-regular and hopefully modern, I wrestled my way through the revolving doors of my local fashionable boutique and toured the designer racks in search of something appropriate.
One well-cut example caught my eye immediately, but unfortunately the acronym "DKNY" was printed down both the right jacket sleeve and left trouser leg in large, bold, white letters. Another was embossed with grinning skulls and another featured scarlet leatherette lapels. There were suits suitable for gypsies and pirates, suits that Liberace would have thought too vulgar, space suits sans helmets, suits with short pants, and suits for stage productions of Guys and Dolls, but nothing sober.
I don't want to pay my last respects looking like the banjo player in an old-time jug band, so I guess I must give up on any suit stitched together in the twenty-first century, and a beat a retreat to time-worn Mr Henri's Gentleman's Outfitters, the bay-rum scented inside-leg emporium of yore.

The Gift of Laughter

Batteries are never included with the Gift of Laughter. Furthermore, there are many small parts in the Gift of Laughter that maybe hazardous for children and present a risk of choking. It is rare and expensive, too, as any gift worth giving always is. In fact, these days you often have to special order the Gift of Laughter from obscure corners of the globe. Thank God for the internet!
Your toothless aunt in Tallahassee may have given you a Gift of Laughter for Christmas last year, but, although she means well, it was the wrong kind. Obviously your mother needs to be more specific when describing the Gift of Laughter over the phone to senile relatives. Surely even she knows that any cartoon book featuring an overweight tortoise called Herb who wears a baseball cap and greasy dungerees is certainly not what you asked for. This Gift of Laughter is a gift you will definitely want to re-gift, possibly as a tax-deductible donation to your local lunatic asylum's library. Here it can be enjoyed by chronic depressives as they wander along the endless, sterile corridors in their dressing gowns and slippers, smirking mysteriously to themselves.
Indeed, any paperback book marked "humor" is more a gift of desperation than a Gift of Laughter. This is because the Gift of Laughter in printed form is now regarded as "literature," much like music is now called "classical music."

The Laughing Policeman on the Internet

"LOL LOL LOL, what's going on 'ere, then?"

(this post obviously belongs on Twitter)

Poor Reception

Predictably, my bravura performance as Hamlet at the Slugford Drama Festival has been heavily criticized by the philistine local media. These provincial idiots accused me of "merely phoning it in," when it should have been quite obvious to anyone with brains that I was playing The Dane as a modern commuter forced to deliver his profound soliloquies via AT&T's cellular network, and consequently experiencing all the communication problems that arise in such a situation.
Any audience familiar with theatrical genius would surely have understood that my slurred speech, nervous pauses, repeated lines and incoherent mumbling were all integral elements of this seminal interpretation of Hamlet's human condition, brilliantly conveying the poor quality of AT&T's service and the frequency of its dropped calls, and in no way offered incontrovertible evidence that in realty I am simply a extremely feeble actor who spends far too long in the bar before the curtain opens.

Honestly, do I really have to swagger on stage with an iPhone stuffed down my codpiece to ram the point home? This is the thanks I get for bringing my considerable talent for challenging, avant-garde theater to the stupid suburbs!

Space Bar

I found my old typewriter at the bottom of a basement closet, ribbonless, buried beneath a box full of other obsolete electronics: a desktop adding machine; an elephantine rotary phone; some sort of portable tape recorder thing stuffed with a plastic cassette labeled "party mix." The archeology of home-office life at the termination of the twentieth century, except that any self-respecting museum would have tossed these worthless relics long ago.
So cumbersome and heavy it all seemed, and what complicated and convoluted mechanisms were involved, almost as if were a collection of the most eccentric and byzantine of Rube Goldberg contraptions, especially when compared to the slimline design, multitasking digital technology nestling in my trouser pocket.
Did I really do my taxes using that ridiculous calculator? How on Earth did I conduct coherent conversations while tethered to the wall by that telephone cord? And more mysteriously, what the Hell party did I ever throw that apparently required such a variety of music to be played? But ultimately it was the typewriter I was interested in.
Many years ago I'd painstakingly tapped out the first draft of Feelin' Positively Existential on this beast. Where was that now? I'd also slaved over a spirited college essay defending the cinema of Ken Russell, much to the neo-realist disgust of my puritan professor: B-minus, I recall, with some degree of bitterness. 
I never did learn to type with more than a single finger, so I suppose there is a little continuity from my Smith-Corona to my iPhone: they both only require one-touch operation. At least this was the joke I made with the man who came from Craigslist, and he smiled politely while handing over the five dollars it was selling for.

The Citizen

Since I have donated so much time and energy to local charities, the city council are building a small municipal park in my honor. It's going to be near that dangerous intersection opposite Dollar Spenda at the back of the toilet rental place. Seems a strange place for a park, if you ask me, but I'm told it's promoting urban greenery awareness initiatives within the community.
The park has room for only one bench and one lamppost, apparently, but they are installing a complimentary plastic bag dispenser for picking up after incontinent dogs; one of the awareness initiatives, I assume. Mind you, I can't imagine who would want to walk a dog there, unless it happened to be a rabid pit-bull that enjoys sniffing plastic coke bottles and old syringes. "All that will be gone," the man from the council promised. And replaced with what, I asked him. "Kids," he said, which somehow wasn't very reassuring.
There is a simple metal plaque screwed into the bench that reads The Salvatore X. Koropt Memorial Park, which I think is a bit odd because my name is Joe Avridge. "Oh that's just what we're calling the park," the man from the council explained, slapping me on the back. "But everybody knows it's in your honor."

The Old Colonial

He'd made a mint selling rhubarb to the Maltese; three guineas per stalk; told them it was "blood celery." But that was before that bad business with the aqueduct business went down. Boiled at source was a terrible idea, the water was always going to evaporate before it found its level, but he still kept the furnace lit and the valve open. You couldn't even dampen a pygmies armpits with what came trickling out of the copper piping. Consequently there was a run on mini-deodorants at the local supermarket, which is where I cashed in. Krugerrands, naturally.

Commedia Dell'Political-Party

The Commedia Dell'Political-Party is a form of theatrical farce featuring mask-wearing actors portraying a trio of foolish and bizarre characters:
1. Croakly, a wizened shrew.
2. Brawn, a human phallus.
3. Independento, a worthless fellow.
The action takes place in the topsy-turvy land of Taxachusetts where the cyclops Kennedy once roamed free and Paul Revere clapped two empty-halves of coconuts together.
The curtain opens and Croakly immediately seeks refuge in negative space while Brawn rolls around the stage on a giant pair of old and beat-up yet trusty testicles. Independento disappears through a trap-door and is never seen again.
There is no meaningful dialogue and the actors mostly speak in grunts and yelps, but at the end of the play Brawn leads the audience in a chorus of The Star Spangled Banner Ad.

The Apes of Washington

"In American they have the Republicans who are the equivalent of our Conservative Party; and then they have the Democrats ... who are the equivalent of our Conservative Party."
So joked Beyond the Fringe over forty years ago, but the same logic still applies to the political egg-and-spoon race currently being run in Massachusetts between Martha Coakley and Scott Brown, both of whom are modern-day equivalents of Jonathan Swift's Tub-thumpers: platitude-spouting representatives of shibboleth-specific issues and causes, shaking their fists at the country's problems without ever achieving anything, except mangling the hopes and ideals they inherited from the framers of our Constitution. My many dogmatic friends tell me that I "absolutely must" vote for one to prevent the other getting elected; but what kind of democracy is that? I might as well vote for a baboon or a parrot for all the difference it will make.
Of course, there is a third candidate, the unfortunately named Joe Kennedy (no relation), but you have to Google the man and then skip to page seven of the results and scroll down to find out any information about him. I have not seen one single television advertisement for Kennedy, yet this morning's broadcasts were stuffed with promotional spots for the terrible twins, Coakley and Brown. Even the furniture discounters with their giveaway 42-inch HDTV's couldn't get a look in on WHDH.
So I don't know about you, but for me change I can believe in will only happen when there is a candidate I can believe in. And I don't believe that is going to happen anytime soon.

The Declaration of Gingivitus

President Mouthwash stood there in his purple socks, staring idly through the White House windows while wiping his nose on a velvet drape. I held out a handful of wooden teeth for his inspection. These belonged to George Washington, I told him. We've matched the wood grain with the former president's dental records and the lab says it's definitely cherry tree coated with Auld Crown varnish.
How the hell did you get in here? Mouthwash demanded. I gave strict instructions that I was only to be disturbed when the big hand was pointing at the twelve and the little hand was whizzing around really fast.
I came disguised as a SpongeBob SquarePants kiss-o-gram, I replied, but apparently your personal security seemed to think I was the restless ghost of Ted Kennedy and they all ran off screaming.
This brought a grim laugh from Mouthwash. I know what you mean, he said, finally letting the velvet drape drop and turned around to face me. Bunch of pussies. I've seen better men than that at a Barbara Bush look-a-like contest. So. How much do you want for the teeth?
This isn't about money, I explained. It's a matter of principle. It's about affordable dental coverage for everyone, establishing free floss distribution centers for the homeless and raising awareness about the high rate of gum disease amongst illegal aliens.
I was about to list the worst plaque-forming foods in an average American's diet, too, but Mouthwash interrupted me with a signal from the palm of his hand. "For a minute there I was worried," he gargled. "I thought you were a messenger from the powerful Whitening Lobby. But it turns out you're just another bleeding-heart tooth fairy. "

A Crime Against Common Regency

There is only one thing the world needs less than Iranian nuclear capability and that is yet another Jane Austen mini-series from the BBC, especially when the adaptation in question is Emma, the Somerset spinster's dreariest novel featuring her least attractive heroine. It seems to me that someone should play matchmaker between star-crossed TV producers and deserving writers whose works remain sadly under-filmed, such as Julian Maclaren Ross, Norman Collins, Delmore Schwartz and perhaps Lloyd Mintern, even if their characters aren't quite genteel.

Real Estate Bores of the Future

We closed on our vacation place on the moon last year; a charming glass-domed pod on stilts in one of the shallow craters. It may be on the unfashionable "dark side," but at least we're miles away from the all the golf tournaments, rock concerts and shuttle landings. Plus it's very convenient for nipping over to the Milky Way Mall when Cyrus needs new gravity boots.
Now I know they acted all smug at first, but I do feel sorry for people like the Robinson's who bought on the supposed "beach star" Alpha Sol. It must have been terrible for them to plan their dream home only to find out that the plot they purchased is actually ninety-eight percent gas and on the edge of a load of anti-matter. They can't even build a mini oxygen-chamber never mind a full laser patio. What a shame it would have been for them to travel all that way at light-speed only to get sucked into a black hole. Thank God for deep space probes, that's what I say.

The Nostril Quivers

The ancient art of perfumery has fascinated me for many years, even though I maintain no great or inextinguishable enthusiasm for manufactured fragrances. Neither, I hasten to add, do I harbor any shameful and secret fetish for genie-shaped bottle architecture. Indeed, to tell the absolute truth, I care not one olfactory nerve about expensive scent, whether it be pour homme, femme or even a particularly specific it. Baking soda deodorant and an occasional sprinkling of sport talc are my eaux de cologne of choice. It's just that I think concocting vast vats of lucrative smells called "Ganymede," "Tonto" or "Tiger Bay" would be a relatively easy business: a bit of elderberry mixed with passion flower, a pinch of spicey stuff from faraway, perhaps a little rose hip, a hodgepodge of Oriental herbs, alcohol base and I'm done. Alas, however, since I'm not already hyper-famous for a glittering catwalk of other fashionable and fabulous activities, my fragrances have got absolutely no chance of being stocked on department store shelves or airport duty-free shops. Still, there's always the automobile air freshener market, I suppose. Drivers only demand quality, not celebrity.

The Undergrind

I once believed that our continual operation of worldwide subway systems disproved the existence of any secret subterranean civilizations of wild men, giant sewer squids, or roaming packs of mutant rat-pigs that might thrive underground. Surely serious confrontations would have been forced by now between rattling commuter trains and whatever underground urban alligator colonies that might thrive beneath the city streets.

Lately, however, I have come to realize that since our subway systems are so timetable-disruptingly inefficient, such tunnel-dwelling monsters could quite conceivably never cross paths with a malfunctioning A-Train, cancelled Green-Line, or whatever other metro transport schedule has been abandoned or re-routed. Consequently, I have decided that when the next subway car I have the misfortune to be traveling on grinds to a juddering and terminal standstill, I will strike out into the darkness on my own in search of a friendly giant sewer squid and ask it for a piggy-back. That way I might actually reach my final destination without a mind-bending amount of delay and inconvenience.

First Flakes

Snow, the white mud. Jack Frost is laying wall-to-wall carpet in his living room. Or is this snow really God's dandruff, drifting to Earth as he combs his intergalactic hair? 
Walking along, a slow trudge is followed by a sudden slip and slide into frozen curbside fjords where subterranean ice-floes flood your supposedly waterproof boots. 
Itinerant snowmen appear, the smug gnomes of winter, and we stagger by, hoping for the sun to wipe the smiles off their faces. Happy new year.

New York Cold Snaps

Why do I only ever visit Manhattan in December? New York is an eternal city of ice and snow for me, somewhat like Stalingrad in that respect, but with NoHo-ites instead of Nazis and A-trains instead of T34 tanks; yet the perpetual threat of complete encirclement does still persist, if only by heaps of unruly garbage and frozen dog turds rather than Soviet battle groups.
Anyway, for what it's worth, here are a few "cold" snaps of New York hot spots captured during my most recent trip, beginning with SoHo streets deluged with yellow cabs and freezing rain

A moment with Claude Monet's water lilies at the Museum of Modern Art

An accidental image taken while lugging luggage along the lighted staircase at the SoHo Grand Hotel

And finally, abstract winter weather through the car window on our way up the Hudson Valley to Rhinebeck

Please pardon my alliteration, and thank you for indulging my digital camerawork.

The Third Wise Man

Santa in Greeneland

Cue Zither ...."I never knew the old Main Street Mall before the Holiday Season, with its normal music, ample parking and single-level Pottery Barn (CostCo suited me better). I really got to know it in that classic period of the last shopping days before Christmas. We could sell anything anything, if people were desperate enough and had a credit card to pay with. Now, the Mall was divided into four zones: the familiar-sounding-designer-name-perfume-in-a-damaged-box zone; the gift-card-amount-entered-incorrectly zone; the won't-operate-properly-until-you-bring-it-back-to-the-store zone; and the anything-to-do-with-pirates-or-Harry-Potter zone. Each of these zones was responsible for ruining somebody's Christmas. Anyway, there was this fellow by the name of Claus, Santa Claus, just about the worst racketeer this Mall has ever seen. There wasn't one lousy scam or phony layaway scheme that he wasn't mixed up in ..."

Behind the Music: Special Christmas Edition

The Reverend Aloysius Brown, model for the inquisitive parson name-checked Walking In A Winter Wonderland, would surely have disapproved of snowman building, especially in such a willfully disrespectful manner as that detailed in the famous and festive song. He was a gaunt and severe man, prone to nervous spasms of screaming obscure passages of blood-curdling scripture at his only friend and companion, a cowering and mangy mastiff called Agrippa, and it is safe to assume that the Reverend would have cut a darkly ominous figure in that wintry landscape; a character more at home with funeral rites than with nuptial celebrations. Indeed, it is absolutely unthinkable that Reverend Brown would have agreed to perform in any marriage ceremony involving those two (obviously inebriated) snowman-building reprobates who narrate Walking In A Winter Wonderland, even if he were unfortunate enough to find himself "in town" on the designated date.

The Nativity on Twitter

You are now following A_Star

BethlehemInn All rooms completely booked tonight - w00t! from Web

KingOfOrient1 Word to the wise guys: Flash Mob this evening at lowly cattle shed from Tweetdeck

KingOfOrient2 RT @KingOfOrient1 Me and @KingOfOrient3 will be there. The myrrh the merrier! from Tweetdeck

KingOfOrient1 RT @KingOfOrient2 LOL! from Tweetdeck

LittleDrummerBoy Invited to live-blog the Virgin Birth tonight at http://blogspot.com/parumpumpumpum Will be first with pix of newborn king from Tweetie

StephenFry Oh Lordy Lord! Roll me up in excelsis and call me a Christmas tree! from BigTwit

Herald_Angel How did he get in here? from Trumpet

Walk Out To Winter

As a Christmas-loving post-modern Marxist, the concept of Jesus as either "Lord" or "King of Israel" is completely anathema to all my ideas and principles. I much prefer to think of him as Brother Jesus of the Carpentry and General Woodworker's Union, an ordinary blue-collar messiah whose birthday just happens to be celebrated by strike action at Heathrow Airport and other important British Airways hubs.
So let us hope that more wise men will also let themselves be led by a Red Star and instruct their members to further disrupt the holiday schedule with lengthy industrial protests over unmet Herald Angel wage demands and long shepherding hours.
You think there's going to be a silent night soon? Not while this Voice of the People has a megaphone, I can assure you of that.

Company Revelry

Dancing frenziedly around some vertical totem to repetitive rhythms is a primal human instinct, whether it is the cannibalistic Ogzobi tribe and their fertility god symbol or middle management and their office Christmas tree. Personally I prefer the music at the Ogzobi festivities, but that's just my opinion. Their fire-water is also vastly superior to our case of Stella Artois and bargain bin Pinot Noir, although when it comes to party finger-food I draw the line at Ogzobian petit-fours (apparently they discard the thumbs along with most of the elbow meat).
Still, however awful the prospect may be, you must wear the mask of jollity and join the merry throng in decorated conference room or torch-lit jungle clearing; become trapped into a tedious discussion about fax paper protocol with that idiot from sales, or a dreary symposium on spear-sharpening with the headhunter from the hut next door; pretend that you really like the seasonally scented candle from your Secret Santa, even if it actually smells like a reindeer stable after feeding time, which it undoubtedly will, or grudgingly agree that the Chief can have the extra eyeball, which you know damn well that he'll snatch up anyway.
Such is human nature and its proclivities at group gatherings. The uncivilized gatecrash the uncivilized, whether it is the Ogzobi tribe and their ancestor-disrespecting outcasts or middle management and its greasy lounge lizards. Ah yes, company revelry: the flesh is always willing but the spirit is forever weak.

Community Center Holiday Bulletin

Greetings folk,
In order to promote diversity and awareness at this year's nativity play we will be making one of the three wise men a woman. Her name will be Afghanastasia and she will be bringing the gift of myrhh for our symbolic Peace Child, as well as two free condoms and a pamphlet outlining current gay, lesbian and transgender issues in the Bethlehem community.
After the presentation of the gifts we will join hands in a chorus of Red Flag, Jingle Bells and a medley of Michael Jackson hits. Fu Chung will once again be singing the role of Nelson Mandela, Sal Goldberg will sing Confucius, Brother Hussein will sing Joan of Arc, and Phyllis MacCatholick will mime the Ghost of Christmas Recyclable.
A selection of herbal teas and rice cakes will be served at intermission and the Merry Mops team will be cleaning up all the sick as usual.

Nativity Cover Up

Today, of course, most experts accept that the "yonder star" followed by the Three Wise Men was in reality a UFO, probably a mothership from planet Saeltag in the Merchandize Nebula, and that our modern concept of Christmas actually celebrates "first contact," not with any so-called Christ child, but with a Saeltaggian representative bringing their message of peace, goodwill and sensational bargains from Star Malls beyond our solar system. The Virgin Mary was obviously the name of some sort of interstellar landing craft that he arrived in, and Joseph the booster rocket.
"Buy one get one," he would have announced in his strange, unearthly Saeltaggian tongue, and it is interesting to note that at least one of the wise men was able to purchase a Wii 'Slaughter the Innocents' game and still get change from half a bag of frankincense.
But apparently the general public is not yet ready for the sight of a little green alien in a manger surrounded by discount astral shopping seekers, and so the International Carol Singing Conspiracy continues. The truth is out there, it is just hidden by a US Government backed winter wonderland window display.

Santa Claus vs The Amazons

I was probably approaching five years of age when I dispatched my last Christmas list to Santa Claus. There was only item on it. I merely asked the great man for a postcard from the North Pole proving that he existed. Unfortunately I received no such communication, and consequently I endured that holiday season with a sort of steely, childish detachment bordering on the pathologically misanthropic. Not even a new bicycle, deluxe Ludo game, some sort of rubber thing, three cotton sweaters, several mandarin oranges and assorted nuts could console me for the absence of signed and stamped proof that my former friend Roger Eccles was a miserable liar of the most base and ignoble kind.
Of course, careless elves, the inadequacies of the Greenlander postal service, or possibly Santa's own failings - illiteracy issues? - might have been responsible for my missing missive, but even a idealist like myself was forced to admit that such excuses seemed flimsy and fanciful in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. If Santa Claus could cart sackfuls of wooden trains, candy canes and Kewpie dolls through the freezing winter night, then mailing a small picture postcard, even a zany reindeer-shaped one, shouldn't have caused him or his pointy-eared minions too many logistical problems. Only one conclusion could be drawn from the fact that my letterbox remained devoid of a jolly Yuletide message from the North Pole: Roger Eccles, rat-faced runt though he may be, was telling the truth: Santa Claus actually lived in Miami.
Fast forward many, many years to today. Now, obviously, I know that Santa Claus is really just a Northern folk memory of the Norse God Odin riding through the December night on his eight-legged horse Sleipnir, distributing loaves of bread to the worthy Viking peasantry below. However, this morning, Melanie Garfield, a triple-chinned religious zealot with whom I work, said that Santa is without doubt a commercialized version of some do-gooding early Christian bishop called Saint Nicholas. I just yawned in her fat face and told her to please keep her stupid, pious opinions to herself. Frankly, I'm all through with the shifting snowdrift of fact and fiction that is the Santa Claus story. These days I'm all about the Amazon Wishlist and one-click online ordering.

Clone Christmas Is Coming

Christmas is coming and the goose is getting fat. Too fat according to many health experts who claim that problem levels of obesity among geese are on the rise. "Foie gras on legs" is how one eminent gastro-ganderologist, Dr Felix Navidad, described the current climate. "We all know geese waddle," he added while putting a penny in an old man's hat, "But this is ridiculous."
Navidad notes that some goslings as young as two weeks old already weigh as much as mature geese: "They just squat in their so-called nests all day stuffing themselves with high-calorie bird seed. Many of them can't even migrate because they're too fat to fly in formation. You can blame the parents if you like, or even modern farming methods, but frankly I think that Christmas is the culprit here. It's a Yuletidal wave of heart-disease waiting to happen." When pressed, Dr Navidad refused to be drawn on the subject of future Christmas dinners artificially grown from cloned goose DNA.

At The Bottom Of The Garden

Snail, thou Victorian slug.
Ant, ye busybody bug.
Crow ...oh just shut the eff up.
.... The late autumn fungus
Is growing among us
And near a mushroomy clump
A gnome takes a dump.
Toadstool?

Black Friday

I have just returned from attending an auction at Slotherby's, the lazy, good-for-nothing department of Sotherby's. Signals that buyers wish to increase a current bid include scratching your ass and picking your nose, but audible farts are also accepted. Most auctions are secret since nobody can be bothered to publicize them, and consequently I managed to win a lot of old master canvases containing two remarkable Biblical scenes by Jakob Grimbowel the Elder: Saint Peter Examining His Toenails At Ephesus and It's A Dirty Job But Somebody's Got To Sit On The Ash Heap. I asked the auctioneer if he could provide any provenance for the pictures but he just yawned and said he'd have to get back to me. Still, a crumpled IOU for a thousand dollars for the pair seems like a steal, especially since they are both set in glow-in-the-dark frames.

Classic Thanksgiving Traditions

How do you cook a turkey? Every family swears by their own traditional method, whether that means deep-frying the bird in a metal bucket or slow-roasting it in an Italianate oven. And so, in the interests of filling up space in this magazine, we asked several classic characters from both fact and fable how they prepare their Thanksgiving Day meal.

Three Witches from Macbeth: We boil our turkey in hell-broth and baboon's blood in a cauldron for two hours on high, or until the wing of bat stuffing starts to ooze out of its head.

Dr Doolittle: The day before the feast I'll sidle up the bird in question and whisper in its ear, "You're going to die, bird, you're going to die." I'm not normally a mean person, but I've never got along with turkeys.

The Duke of Edinburgh: I really don't have the faintest idea. I have servants to do that sort of thing for me.

Dracula: usually I just rip the neck out with my fangs and devour the meat raw. Then I throw the carcass against the wall with insane rage when I realize that I've forgotten to add cranberry sauce yet again.

Last of the Mohicans: I don't celebrate Thanksgiving anymore because I think the holiday has kind of backfired on my people. But I do like the occasional glass of mulled cider from time to time.

Birdman of Alcatraz: I always volunteer to pluck because I'm saving feathers to make a pair of wings.

Robinson Crusoe: There aren't any turkeys on this island so I have to make do with a seagull or small albatross. Generally I just jam a stick up its ass and force Man Friday to hold it over the fire.

Sarah Palin: In Alaska we've always spent Thanksgiving together as a family and we always will except when we don't. I shoot the turkey myself with an old gatling gun I inherited from my great-grandmother, then I buy one from the store that we can actually eat .... (continued on page 576)

Christmas Shopping 2009

Just in time for the Christmas shopping season I shall be publishing my new book, The A-Z of Water, my long-awaited follow-up to last week's Dirt: An Illustrated History.
This new encyclopedia includes everything you and your family ever wanted to know about water and more - mostly more - from bottled Evian to urine via stagnant canals and Tivoli fountains; from the Waters of Lethe to the River Styx via Kubla Khan's caves of ice and the blue stuff in your grandmother's toilet.
For example, the first entry in the A-Z is "Aaaaaaagh," an ancient Egyptian term employed by a Pharaoh or High Priestess who had just stepped in bath water that was far too hot, and, amazingly, the expression is still in common usage today, many of thousands of years later. That is the power of water, and it doesn't even have to be hydro-electric.
The meaning of "Aaaaaaagh" is just the first of many thousands of fun and informative water facts 'on tap' in this hugely entertaining book available for a special, secret discount price when you order today.
Simply leave a comment on this blog with your name, credit card details and billing address, and operators will immediately dispatch your copy of The A-Z of Water within the next three years. Just in time for the holidays at some point in the future someday.
What could be easier? Order now and receive a free copy of this blog suitable for framing. (No CODs, checks, IOUs or Government Bail-Outs. Not responsible for undelivered or unwritten goods oor the fact that you're obviously an idiot if you buy this sort of thing)

Conservative Journalism

A recent study by the respected Pecksniff Institute has revealed that over one-hundred percent of teenagers in the United States have never heard of Josiah Blimpberg. That the inventor of the Reverberating Gas Belch has fallen into obscurity is a sure sign that America's children are being transformed into an underclass of illiterate slum-dwellers content to waste their lives listening to "jazz" music and playing soccer in negro clothes. Nothing good can come of a society peopled by such Obamacized feral street urchins except many more sanctimonious articles similar to this written by me and published in this magazine and other right-thinking periodicals. After all, how is an overweight, closeted bigmouth like me supposed to support my wife's Lithium dependency if I cannot keep re-writing the same piece over and over again ad infinitum.
This is what Sarah Palin means when she talks about family values. It is what Ronald Reagan meant when he told me privately that he would return from the dead to lead his people against the forces of Marx and the heathenism. And yet, incredibly, the liberal elite in control of the New York Times still refuse to hire me to pen a daily editorial denouncing the New York Times for being an organ of the liberal elite. It is time that we stopped appeasing these unpatriotic appeasers who seek to appease us with their policy of appeasement and free Hugo Ahmajinedad temporary tattooes. In fact, I personally challenged Mahmoud Chavez and his international terrorist friends to a belching contest at the burger chain of his choice. So far the pinko coward has declined to face me. Is that because he is a salad-eating wimp like his idol Adolf Hitler or, more likely, because the President of Iranq has a personal vendetta against me and does not want me to earn the Medal of Honor for meat-eating services to my country? These are the kind of tough questions our present socialist government cannot - will not - answer. It is true, I do not give a damn about the so-called environment. But unlike many of my colleagues in the conservative movement, I am very concerned about climate change. Indeed, quite often my daughter turns the heat on when it's still only just below freezing in the house. When will she learn that being locked in her bedroom and forced to read the complete works of Josiah Blimpberg by candlelight in sub-zero temperatures is the best preparation for life? I only wish that my own father had given me the same advantages instead of paying my way through prep school and college and pulling strings to get me this full-time job on the Weekly Low Standard

The New Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er huge land-fills
And feeling ill I cried aloud
For my extra-strength antidepressant pills.

Need I go on? Of course, any cloud foolish enough to go wandering by itself today would get mugged by a gang of smog before too long, or might even stumble over a divot in the ozone layer and break its condensation. This is why most clouds stick together, hence the name "cumulus." Any unaccompanied cloud scudding across the sky is probably a problem cloud; a bum cloud that has taken too much vapor on board and should spend a little more time on the meteorologist's couch; the kind of dirty trickster cloud that might rain frogs on unsuspecting Forteans.

All The Comforts Of Home

Most of Boston's furniture retailers are currently presenting free 26" HDTVs to any customers who purchase a mattress or sofa. I was sorely tempted but I already have seventeen 26" HDTVs from when I refitted my living room, installed new kitchen cabinets, poured fresh concrete in the garage, bought more life insurance, creosoted the garden fence again, and so on. 
I asked the store manager if he would be willing to offer me a free 3" FM radio instead of the free 26" HDTV, but he told me 3" FM radios were far too valuable to simply give away for nothing. I quite liked the look of the inflatable seat cushion in his office, but apparently I had to acquire an entire bedroom suite-set to quality for that special gift. What about a free rubber duck for my bath, then? Still no deal.
In the end I walked away empty-handed. I really do need some more sticks of furniture for my den and study extensions, but I desperately don't want yet another 26" HDTV on my hands and so not buying anything was my only option. Of course, I could tell the salesman not to include the free 26" HDTV in my order, but you just know the damn thing would be shrink-wrapped to my stuff when the delivery van pulled up.
Ownership of so many televisions could easily lure an unwary person into leading a lethargic Thomas Jerome Newton lifestyle, which is a miserably modern fate that I dearly wish to avoid. Consequently, I am re-purposing all my unwanted 26" HDTVs as protective floor coverings for when I'm re-decorating; sort of LCD tarpaulins that can replace those fast disappearing newspapers that I wrote about last week

Mid-Westworld

Having spent the past four days in the rather stale city of St Louis, I can wholly empathize with Lewis and Clark's urgent need to get away from the area for a year or two. It has the aura of a one-horse town whose most imposing building is a glue factory. In fact, so empty, soulless, flat and square seemed St Louis that I constantly felt like the last little plastic figurine in an abandoned architects model of a generic metropolis. Also, having sampled several varieties of St Louis' meaty, vegetableless cuisine, it came as no surprise to me to learn that the heartburn relief tablet branded Tums was developed nearby.
My hotel room was pleasant enough, I must admit, but an otherwise excellent view of the Mississippi river from the window was unfortunately ruined by some ludicrous arch-shaped monument.

Supposedly this scrawny structure represents "The Gateway to the West," but it reminded me more of a Mouse-hole to Nowhere.
Another case of the St Louis blues, perhaps? Well, I for one would certainly agree to meet the Devil at any crossroads if he could give me a ride out of there.

Put Something Down, Literally

I have never been a consumer of newspapers; and I fail to understand why anyone else in their right mind would voluntarily read such confabulations of fatuous and poorly-written reportage either. Nevertheless, the possible terminal elimination of these broadsheets and tabloids from kerbside kiosks, convenience store-shelves, bus seats and the morning's doorstep in favor of more modern media does concern me. Not, I hasten to add, because I believe that such a loss would impact quality news gathering, the proliferation of wisdom, the process of democracy or anything like that. I am just worried that there will be nothing to cover the floor when I'm refinishing that table, washing the dog, or entering the house wearing muddy boots. And, more importantly, what about raw materials for my proposed life-size papier-mache sculpture of William Randolph Hearst Rebuking the Producers of Citizen Kane? No doubt I shall be forced to turn to the world of glossy magazines to protect my rugs and carpets, such as The Fortean Times, Minerva, and Soccer Italia, which are the only periodicals I bother to peruse these days.

Beads of Inspiration

"Raindrops keep falling on my head." How surprisingly true those words really are, I reflected, standing groggily before the bathroom sink this morning, amazed by the perspicacity of lyricist B J Thomas, until I realized that there was actually a leak in the ceiling above me, from which rusty-colored water bubbles were dribbling forth like beads of sweat upon the brow of a cheapskate who suddenly and very grudgingly recognizes that he must call an expensive plumber.
Of course, I rationalized, I could always adapt this structural defect into one of those soothing, indoor Japanese waterfalls. After all, I've always wanted such a piece of aquatic art, and, who knows, perhaps the charges for the leak might even appear on my upstairs neighbor's utility bill, not mine. And to think that fashionable Manhattan designers earn top dollar for experiencing these kinds of interior decorating whims and fancies.

Vampire State Building

As usual, should you require a colorful and comprehensive summary of the year's top news stories, then any local Hallowe'en party will undoubtedly supply your best source for such a retrospective, since every recent world cataclysm, international tyrant, celebrity death and social scandal is sure to be represented. It will be a sort of animated omnibus of global reportage from 2009. For instance, you might encounter a fellow reveler wearing deathly make-up and a droopy mustache beneath a glittering turban, consequently learning that the stage magician Ali Bongo is now the late stage magician Ali Bongo. Or perhaps you might witness someone else conceptually costumed as a devalued dollar, and immediately recall the economic downturn everyone just endured. And even those uncreative, old-fashioned party-poopers who turn-up dressed in Walmart Dracula capes and plastic fangs will either remind you that Christopher Lee became a knight of the realm in June, or that vampires are this year's media sensation. Nosferatu would be rolling in grave if he hadn't shipped the casket to Whitby.

Foreign Food

"Eat where the locals eat," travelers are usually advised when seeking restaurant suggestions in foreign cities. But in my experience the locals generally tend to eat at home, and so, unless you invade their dining rooms without invitation, accidentally dropping your passport in the zuppe bowl and knocking over Papa's grappa with your camera bag, it's highly unlikely that you will experience any such native gastronomic pleasures.

"Never order from the Tourist Menu," you are also lectured. "Avoid eateries that line the main drags and famous squares. And don't sit down at an establishment with mug-shots of pizza and spaghetti Bolognese taped to its facade." But of course, being on vacation, the main drags and famous squares are exactly where you want to be. You can call me the Philistine of Food, but I would much prefer to chew on leathery, shriveled scallops beside the Grand Canal than salivate over exquisitely-cooked squid in some "quaint" poky backstreet ristorante. Let's face it, you can waste half your holiday lost in unlit alleyways searching for that "authentic" taverna that the guidebook recommended.

One saltimbocca in Rome is as good as another to me, ditto goulash in Budapest, herring in Amsterdam, London's steak 'n' kidney pies, and whatever that oily Athenian fish is called. I am more than happy to pay six-Euros just to sit down at Caffe Florian to enjoy an equally extortionately-priced cheese panini in Saint Mark's Square. Otherwise I just bring a packed lunch: some salad, boiled egg, bit of chocolate, and arrange a picnic in the park. That’s the best kind of local eating.

Lexiconical Laconicisms

Perhaps the most important task you can perform in your own life is amassing a vocabulary that best describes your own life to yourself. How can you understand what is happening to you and what you thnik about it if you lack the words to explain the situation properly? My vocabualary is stuffed with confabulatory nouns, verbicides like "perhaps," and shadowy adjectives of-no-fixed-abode. Yours, no doubt, contains many candied euphemoes and lisping multi-syllables. And possibly we both enjoy adopting pretentious Gallicisms, such as Non-Lieux, or "Non-Places."
Non-Places are apparently those super-functional, transitional environments that delude us into believing that we are active participants in some dynamic global network connected by the airport lounge, the twenty-four-hour motorway service station, the midnight ATM, the lobby of any international commercial franchise. Non-Places are fabricated from a sort of modern architectural muzak: slabs of polished glass and marble forming endless sky-ways and mezzanines that are filled with digital information and plasma screen advertising, providing instant access, instant consumption and instant gratification in an impersonal world of PIN numbers, passwords and barcodes. They are everywhere and nowhere; the terminus of human identity in an abstract space and time.
Personally, I have a lot of time for the theory of Non-Places since I spend an inordinate amount of my life within their borders, and consequently the term has been added to the "regular usage" section of my self-defining lexicon. Mind you, if I were mugged at an ATM I don't think I'd consider it a Non-Place anymore. The little cash-dispensing cubicle would then become the scene-of-the-crime: a post-theoretical interzone of violence and fear where knife blades flash and threats are growled in a self-fulfilling, fluorescent urban prophecy. However, most of the time I just withdraw a hundred bucks and move on to the shopping mall. This, of course, is how the Non-Place becomes a Non-Savings Account, and I don't need a French intellectual to explain that to me.

Barnicide

In ancient high-school days, when I was still jejune and passive enough to be coerced into obeying the orders of educational authority, I was cast by some sado-masochistic teacher in a wretchedly melodramatic theatrical entertainment called The Murder in the Red Barn.
I played the role of William Corder in a costume of fake black mustache and itchy, ill-fitting frock coat, and despite being the main antagonist, the character with blood on his hands, I don't recall having many lines. These consisted of making staccato, poorly enunciated plans to rendezvous with my victim, Maria, in the red barn of the title, and then about twenty minutes later reappearing on stage mumbling "And now I shall kill you," while pretending to fire a plastic flintlock pistol at the poor actress opposite, who was no doubt posing awkwardly amid the prop pitchforks and other bucolic bric-a-brac.
The entire experience left me with a deep and abiding aversion to agricultural buildings of any color, and a brief but absorbing desire to either shoot or stab the blackboard-creeping buffoon who had forced me to endure it in the first place. His name was Mr Snead and long may the demons of Hell wipe their backsides with his face. The only good drama teacher is a frustrated English teacher with the sense to realize that he must abandon the annual school play due to lack of interest.
Barns, on the other hand, I admit, do have their place in the world, albeit in the middle of nowhere, windswept and dilapidated, perhaps even picturesque. But a new barn is no good to no-one, except the manure-splattered yokel who needs a place to park his combine harvester and store his sacks of dirt. In fact, the only barns worth bothering about are those that look as if they might collapse about your head at any moment. Here can be found the ghosts of autumnal gourds, rusting scythes, hobos sleeping it off on the journey southward, barrels of inky rainwater providing stagnant oceans for the sailing of russet leaves.

And they needn't be red, either. 

I photographed these barns in the Hudson River Valley, which often seems to be a sort of barn graveyard where old store houses go to die or are reborn as antique shops. Some of the barns here are of such an indeterminate age and usefulness that they could be called wooden Rip Van Winkels. Now these are barns worthy of committing murder in, or at least burying a drama teacher up to his neck in hog offal in.

Phonographogram

As collector, connoisseur, and slightly puzzled owner of one of those microfiber LP cleaning brushes complete with tiny bottle of unidentifiable fluid, I have always been extremely proud of my rare vinyl copy of 'The Essential Chad Bragadin.' Not only are there a scant two copies of Chad's recording in existence, but you don't have to balance coins on the head of your hi-fi stylus when you play it either. Furthermore, my "advanced white-label" copy was presented to me by the Sultan of Woorp'd-al-Scratzz during that long, hot summer of 1987 when I was busily employed booking circus acts at the local oasis. Indeed, much of the rarity of The Essential Chad Bragadin is due to the fact that the Sultan had the unfortunate singer beheaded in the autumn of that year, subsequently decreeing that the LP be renamed 'The Inessential Chad Bragadin (Peace Be Upon His Singing)' into perpetuity. So the upshot of Chad's execution and the Sultan's whim is that all later pressings are known by the longer, negative name and only mine and the harem's copies still retain the original positive, shorter title.
You may be wondering what all this musical history has to do with my recent trip to Venice. Well, just examine the track-listing of Chad's album:

Side One: Battle of Lepanto; I Ain't No Infidel; Doge's Dirge; Remember Malta; Out Of My Skin.

Side Two: The Bragadin Blues; Hey Turk; Queen of the Adriatic; (I Won't Be) Your Galley Slave; Lepanto Reprise

I suppose the Sultan had always admired Chad's voice - "shades of early Ted Muezzin" - but was never entirely convinced by his choice of material, influenced as it was by sixteenth-century Venetian conflicts with the Ottoman empire, an artistic peccadillo that surely accounts for Chad's lack of commercial success in mainstream markets also.
Finally, I have conservatively valued my copy of The Essential Chad Bragadin at nine-thousand-dollars, but am willing listen to all reasonable offers.

Going, Going, Gondola

Venice: the preternatural city. Having just returned from there I find myself unable to understand why I've never visited before, since Venice contains within its watery contours all the elements of life I like most: scandalous history, narrow streets, ornate cafes and elegant domes, campari and aperol, umpteen bridges and canals, laconic water craft, expensive chocolate, mysterious artworks and mosaics, salted cod, gray mist and yellow sunlight, unusual doorknobs, and empty palaces ad infinitum.

I will write a longer post next week, when my mind returns to normal mode. Until then, one wonders what desperately moronic advertising strategy convinced Geox brand shoes that erecting huge, disfiguring billboards around the Bridge of Sighs will sell their wretched, and presumably extremely uncomfortable products.

Doge's Dirge

It was, I believe, Marinetti and the Italian Futurists who declared that the canal of Venice should be filled-in with rubble from the destruction of its waterside palaces. Nowadays, of course, we all agree that these gondola choked highways should be filled-in with all the zillions of unsold copies of Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman CDs that PBS fund-raisers can't get rid of.
Nevertheless, I myself will be cruising the narrow streets of Venice until the middle of next week, where I will be reluctantly filling-in the coffers of local boatmen and restaurants with my hard-earned Euros. Although, as regular readers might suspect, I prefer to say I shall be visiting the Veneto rather than vacationing in Venice since it sounds far less touristy. I depart tomorrow and doubt very much that any screeds of interest will appear in this space before next Thursday.

Anti-Semanticism

Three valuable members of staff are missing from work today for Yom Kippur. Frankly I blame the Jews ....

Darwin's Origin of the One-upmanship

I am a son of Adam
You have evolved from the apes
He is some sort of god-awful goblin changeling thing.

I survive because I am the fittest
You survive because you pay me to look after you
He is as dead as a Dodo

The Ancient Mariner at Lunch

I have recently returned from circumnavigating the salad bar at my local Shaw's Supermarket. Magellan may have sailed further into uncharted realms, but I doubt that he experienced as much uncertainty and ill-omen as I did amid the lettuce and tomatoes. Darwin's voyage of discovery may have penetrated more exotic ecosystems, but his microscope cannot have encountered any specimens more fearsome, alien and repulsive than those that wriggled between the teeth of my tongs.
Aside from the usual, unappetizing array of salad bar items such as scrimshaw cauliflower and dead-man's cucumber, there were macaroni-shaped pasta worms drowning in some sort of mayonnaise scum; rubberized eggs, too; broccoli rendered as verdigris carbuncles; mushrooms that might have been grown in the dimmest recesses of a slave ship's hold; and various other undesirable, indescribable types of organic matter that had been lately dredged from their watery grave. These were the monsters of the deep; vegetable krakens, giant squids and sliced albatrosses that lurked beneath a bed of brined lettuce and scurvy onion. Talk about a "nightmare life-in-death" that "thicks men's blood with cold,"  I think tomorrow I'll hike overland to Dante Ristorante instead. I hear tell that they do a good Italian cold-cut special, even if waiting in the long lunchtime line is purgatory.

Crap Men

1. Scene: The Draper household. Morning

Betty: What's the matter, Don?

Don: Nothing. I'm fine. I guess it's just that I think that the new black maid has smoked all of little Sally's cigarettes.

Betty: It wasn't her Don. It was me. I'm pregnant and I really need the high tar to calm me down.

Don: Okay .... but hey, have you seen my new nylon, sta-prest contraceptives anywhere?

Betty: (bursts into tears): Don, Don, are you having an affair?

Don: No, of course not. But I will be working very late at the office tonight. It's this new TV show account we're working on. We've run out of ideas.

2. Scene: The offices of Boring Blooper advertising. Later that day.

Pete: Hey, Peggy. What do you think of my lame Steve Buscemi impersonation?

Peggy: It's great Pete. I'd definitely sleep with it.

Joan: Poor suburban Peggy. Frankly, it'd take at least a reasonably decent Richard Gere impersonation to get me out of this girdle. I mean this is a major prime time drama, not a daytime soap, although I'll admit that you can only tell the difference because of the amount of money they've spent on the sets and wardrobe.

Peggy: Thanks for the advice Joan. I'll bear it mind next time I'm desperately trying to develop another ludicrous plot line for my character.

3. Scene: the boardroom at Boring Blooper. Lunchtime

Harry: Well, I don't know about everybody else, but my character is so sick of only having scenes in this damn boardroom.

Paul: Mine too. Let's all go out and have martinis for lunch.

Ken: Good idea. Nothing much is happening so the audience certainly won't miss us.

Director: Actually guys, if you can just hang around for another series or so. We need all the static electricity from your clothes to keep the studio lights working

(Don Draper enters)

Don: I don't care if I missed anything because I know it was all just comic relief dialogue and goofing off anyway. So. Anyone got any ideas about this TV show thing.

Ken: What about a Martin Scorsese directs an episode of "The Guiding Light" kinda thing.

Don: Yeah, let's go with that. I really can't be bothered to think of anything else.

Paul: Great. That's another episode in the can. So those martinis - who's buying?

Sal: Mine's a cosmopolitan.

The End

Seen But Not Heard

The current squabble surrounding Obama's speech to school children is simply an example of - unfortunately ironic - infantile political grandstanding on both sides of the political perambulator. Nobody ever thinks to ask the kids themselves what they want to do. All those little Cassandras and Jeremiahs would definitely supply a far more cogent and sensible response than all the hysterical politicians and pundits combined. Yes, let the disenfranchised classroom horde decide whether or not they desire to be harangued by Barack "Simon Says" Obama for hours on end. Frankly, having read the speech online, if I were still a runny-nosed, ink-splattered student I know I'd much rather hear the Hunchback of Notre Dame read The Swiss Family Robinson backwards in Hindustani than listen to my President's sanctimonious and predictable waffle. But then I'd also like to shower Minnesota Governor Tim Pawlenty with rotten eggs during recess for good measure. Power to the people, however small they may be.

Great Buildings of the World

The great cathedral of Saint Extortionata de Aisore in the city of Schitz was built during the pontificate of Inbred VII in the twelfteenth century. Famed for its stained-glass windows depicting Saint Extortionata readmitting the money-lenders back into the temple, the cathedral can also boast possession of a holy shekel believed to have been left by our Lord as a tip at the Last Supper. This priceless relic from the messiah's own purse is displayed in a majestic collection box fashioned from human teeth and is viewable for a fixed fee.
Visitors can also admire the many classical paintings adorning the cathedral's unique buttock-shaped altar. These include Scribbelino's Jeremiah Eating the Last Fig in the Box, Bubonik the Younger's Figures Consumed by the Fires of Hell, and an inflatable crucifix attributed to Andy Warhol.
Musically, Saint Extortionata's has been blessed with many fine organists over the years: Elton Johannes (1582-1603); Richard the Little (1721-1725); and Amon Duul (third album). Additionally, there are four sets of choristers in residence: The Schitz Boys Choir; The Schitz Small Boys Choir; The Schitz Very Small Boys Choir; and the Schitz Ultrasound Choir. All of these can be heard singing Te-Diums during the cathedral's annual Kreschendo Jamboreum de Musique on Unmentionable Day.

The World's Most Bizarre Punishments

It is an oft-repeated fact that roughly seventy-percent of the Earth's surface is water, but did you also know that a further twelve percent of our world is covered with golf courses? That's even more acreage than colossal land masses such as airport shopping and unsold copies of the Boston Globe take up.
Golf, usually pronounced "goaf," is a form of self-flagellating penance performed by misogynist weaklings armed with over-sized dental tools. Some woman also undergo golf but they are deemed to be honorary men for the day. The most extreme example of golfing guilt and self-loathing occurred in 1969 when Neil Armstrong had himself fired as far away from human contact as possible so that he could endure pitch-n-putt on a barren rock floating in space.
The aforementioned golf courses, those grassy arenas where golfers submit to their tedious rounds, are generally referred to as "greens." But this is a misleading term because these so-called greens also contain brown sand, blue ponds, and a truly repulsive spectrum of synthetic trouser and sweater color-combinations.
The purpose of the golfing punishment remains unknown, mostly because it is so boring that nobody has bothered to investigate its origins.