American Fez

Bad Memories

Bad memories stink out the mind like unflushed toilets in the darkest recesses of derelict bus shelters. Bad memories stalk your skull like the mad woman locked in the attic: "Don't go into the brain cell at the end of the cerebral cortex whatever you do." Bad memories are hunchbacked and cretinous, like a character played by Lon Chaney Jnr in a movie that always seems to be on cable. Bad memories gather like dust on the cheap-looking urn that contains the ashes of your dignity. Bad memories are the ominous toads that cursed princes will be turned into. Bad memories practice their trombones at all hours of the night. Bad memories stare sightlessly out of your eyes like the ghost of a murdered child at the window of an empty room. Like the proverbial poor, bad memories are always with us, except bad memories are rather better fed than the poor. Take, for instance, the time you went paragliding at Dover Beach with Matthew Arnold Sports Tours: that bargain harness was really just a false economy wrapped up in a rip-off disguised as a free coupon, and it was quite painful, if I remember correctly.

In Deep Water

People seem surprised that no leviathan Dutch boy has magically appeared to plug his cork-like finger into the torrential oil leak currently greasing-up the Gulf of Mexico. Some commentators are even calling this viscous catastrophe a mere "spill," as if British Petroleum had accidentally knocked a cup of hot tea over Louisiana's lap, rather than incontinently urinating their horrible product into the state's helpless face, as seems to be the case. "Why don't they hurry up and do something?" is a common response to the ongoing and so far unfixable crisis. Apparently we believe there is no man-made problem that cannot be fixed by the indefatigable efforts of previously anonymous federal agencies armed with sacks of cash. No matter how much we criticize our government and their industrial allies, most of us expect it to do the right thing in the end and save the day, like one of those drunk sheriffs in old westerns who finally pull themselves together, shave, and stride purposefully out of the saloon to deal with Dodge's bandito nemesis. Of course, that only happens in the movies, but then this is America.

Elephant: Free To Good Home

Like many serious historians of antiquity, I am intrigued by the enduring mystery of what happened to Hannibal's elephants after the triumphant beasts returned home to Carthage. Were they rewarded for their Alp-crossing heroics with peaceful and well-fed retirement on the Afrique plains of plenty? Or did they succumb to an elephantine form of shell-shock, flapping their enormous ears in nervous terror as sudden recollections of Scipio's artillery barrages exploded inside their noble skulls? Of course, since we know from ancient sources such as Juvenal and Strabo that Roman matrons employed an early type of parasol (umbraculum) to defend their delicate complexions from the harsh Italian sun, it is always possible that some unscrupulous Athenian merchant purchased the animals after the Punic wars so he could cut their feet off and thereby produce the first souvenir umbrella stands. After all, that is surely what would happen today.

Greta Garbo on Facebook

I am very concerned about the latest privacy settings on Facebook. Although I've written several notes on their Facebook pages indicating that I wish to left alone, my many thousands of friends are still commenting on my daily status updates. And why do these so-called friends still continue to scroll through all the extremely personal pictures videos that I upload to the site each night?
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Greta Garbo is now friends with J.D Salinger, Julian of Norwich and forty-five other people.
About twenty-three minutes ago  

Greta Garbo became a fan of National Enquirer, The Sun, and People
About forty minutes ago

Oud To Joy (Beethoven In Africa)

I do not listen to contemporary music with lyrics, partly because the megalomaniacal, melodramatic passions expressed are so unacceptably banal and immature, but mostly because the vocal talents of most modern singers are apparently limited to embarrassing evocations of a constipated baboon. I can only suppose that the purveyors of these rock operatics confuse the imitation of jungle groans with honesty and integrity. Similarly, the misbegotten belief that simplicity equals sincerity is heard in the droning, sentimental whimperings of so-called "indie pop," usually performed by slovenly thirty-somethings impersonating mollycoddled twelve-year-olds who have grazed their knee and want it kissed better. Which brings me to the subject of Stephenesque and His Instrumental Gypsy Fire-Walkers: a multinational musical confection of African oud, Armenian duduk, twelve-string electric lyre, fretless bass, vintage Hammond organ and Walmart "beginners" drum set. Obviously, this is my own ethnic-Jazz ensemble, yet I cannot recommend our global sounds highly enough. These include Look Ma, No Talent! and our seminal live-at-the-waterhole recording, Put The Radio Back On, both available as a hissy, analog telephonic message that be left on your answering machine cassette. Order yours now before stocks corrode.

The Unfinished

I felt like Omar Sharif, the prince of ersatz luxury, shooting my diamante-encrusted cuffs before casually transferring the Brown Palm Hotel's cheapest brandy from its own unremarkable bottle into the most extravagant decanter the Bell Hop could find. I tipped him two thousand Hungarian forints, directing the bemused youth towards the Travelex foreign currency exchange counter located in the mezzanine.
"Napoleon drank this before the Battle of Dubonnet," I explained to anyone within earshot. "Perhaps one of his greatest triumphs; and yet, as Spickelnitz has observed, his least conventional offensive maneuver: the so-called Lobster's Conundrum."
I paused briefly to light a mid-price Excelsior-brand  cigar, specially imported from Slovenia. "The Lobster's Conundrum, of course, involved a rapid pincer movement of two flanks of human pyramids, each composed of acrobatic Corsican very-light dragoons dressed in bright red tunics with buttery epaulets." I continued. "And bringing up the rear, a small-gauge, primitive locomotive prototype that, like this narrative, quickly ran out of steam. Today, the Battle of Dubonnet is remembered chiefly for a subaltern's invention of a bayonet attachment for roasting marshmallows over a camp fire during Napoleon's lengthy, brandy-soaked strategic harangues. A votre sante!"

A Poisoned Chalice

If you ask me, the only good chalice is a poisoned chalice. Honestly, any egotist pompous enough to actually slurp nectar from a chalice of any kind deserves all the spiritual burdens and acid reflex they are preordained to suffer through. Just look at self-important King Arthur and his tedious quest for the so-called Holy Grail. What a fool's errand that turned out to be. Personally, I'm perfectly content to use a common ceramic mug with "Staples: That Was Easy!" printed on it for my own rituals and ceremonies. I don't see why other mystics, Keepers of the Flame and High Priests can't be equally as casual and economical with their altar-ware.

Hallmarked For Life

As the peachy-pink, floral bordered specter of Mother's Day rears its silvery head once more, the greeting card industry of America has apparently redoubled its efforts to transform us all into sentimental cretins of the most vapidly mawkish and saccharine kind. Indeed, the Mother's Day card aisle at my local store formed such a vast bouquet of pastel schmaltz that I became momentarily convinced that I was living on Mary Cassatt's wedding cake. Some of the images made Strawberry Shortcake look like Iron Man by comparison. I was forced to stagger over to a vivid display of metallic, high-performance energy drinks just to regain my equilibrium.

Le Petit Chien

The pet division of my fashion empire is now manufacturing pooch-friendly purses for on-the-go women who own purse dogs. The interior of each purse features a stylish harness where your chihuahua comfortably nestles while you travel from hair salon to shoe shop and back. In addition, the fully-secured strap system on our harness means that your stupid animal be scrabbling about inside your bag, ruining those expensive cosmetics or chewing your morning-after pills and credit cards. There is also a discreet drainage pipe for bladder leakage and other waste. Furthermore, next season, I will be introducing a new line of furry coats with reinforced shoulders so that you can simply pin your small dog to the lapel. The coats will be available in your choice of Yorkshire Terrier, Pomeranian, Italian Greyhound and traditional Chihuahua.