Speak Without Interruption » Humor

The Poetry of Government

George Fripley — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 02:30:34 +0000

The modern politician seems far too caught up in the hurly-burly of the 24-hour news cycle to devote any attention to more productive pursuits. This was not always so and there is an argument that politicians may be more productive and useful if they re-engaged with their inner selves. One such example of this is the art of government poetry which, over the years, has largely been forgotten or overlooked. However, the indisputable fact is that the work of the long-lost government poets is still relevant today. I intend to educate you all.

The question therefore arises, ‘Where did it all start?’ Luckily , I have carried out exhaustive research and can now enlighten them on this fascinating subject. The first poem that can definitely be called government poetry was written in the time of Cleopatra. A local politician, pTeppid, is said to have had enough time on his hands to write a mediocre and short four-line verse that translates as follows:

Cleopatra speaks, bureaucrats act

Translating and amending

Until they see what should have been said

Which is then proclaimed in a manner never-ending

Cleopatra is said to have been hugely amused, so much so that she called pTeppid before her for an in-person reading of the poem in question. She is rumoured to have commented that it was so funny that even the gods would laugh, and that pTeppid should tell it to the gods himself, in person, the next day. That was the end of the unfortunate and misguided pTeppid, but the beginning of the genre of government poetry.

The next significant contributor to the pages of government poetry arose in the 15th Century when Henry VII engaged a mild-mannered abbot, Thorsten Quietly, to observe the goings on of the parliament. By then the Monarch had been excluded from both chambers and was suspicious of the whole institution. He wanted to get more detail about the goings on. The Abbot spent a year with permission to wander freely through the corridors of power. He diligently noted exactly what went on. Being a monk, he was very discrete, and it was not unknown for him to remain unnoticed for some hours after he had entered a room.

Consequently he heard the real conversations, not the ones that occurred when people realised he was present. His greatest contribution to the world of government verse was his poem Crisis Management which follows:

When the shit hits the fan there’ll be trouble

And there’s only one thing left to do,

We’ll all get our stories sounding consistent

And the blame will be squarely on you.

It’s not that we actually dislike you

And you’ve not caused us any real trouble,

But someone must take all the blame for this cock-up

And they’ll find your name lying in the rubble.

You’re in the unfortunate position

Where it’s conceivable it might be your fault,

And you’re senior enough in a management role

That you could have called it all to a halt.

But the proper trend in these situations

Is to frantically manoeuvre away

And distance yourself from disasters you caused

And let some other unfortunate pay.

Following Abbot Quietly, there was another long period of mediocrity until the next major government poet burst onto the scene, this time from the Orient. In the 19th Century a traveling Japanese samurai, Sudo Kamikaze, spent some time touring Europe and investigating the way of life in western countries. By this time most samurai had become bureaucrats rather than warriors, due to a relatively long-lasting peace. Some had looked into international trade. Kamikaze was one of these. He decided to see what the western world had to offer Japan. His trip received the blessing of the Emperor, who agreed to fund the whole expedition. Kamikaze travelled throughout Europe from the Mediterranean north through Germany, and then onto France and England. He spent a great deal of time in England, unable to drag himself away from the alehouses and other dubious attractions. As a result he spoke at length to ordinary people and learnt how the populace viewed the government of the time. He then went and talked to the public servants and senior bureaucrats to discover their perspective on such matters. Kamikaze wrote his poems in traditional haiku forms, his two most well know being translated as follows:

The Minister rules

Knows what’s best for everyone

Calamity calls

The system grinds on

Malodorous, relentless

Producing manure

Unfortunately, at least for Kamikaze, he was put to death for the serious serial abuse and mis-use of traditional Japanese poetry, and the world lost another potentially mediocre poet.

By this time democracy was becoming a bit more settled, and it wasn’t until 1909 that what is thought to be one of the masterpieces of this poetry genre was written. It came from an unlikely source – Cardinal Slumberus Drone. Cardinal Drone spent most his time soundly asleep in the House of Lords in London. He was usually unaware what was going on around him, but felt that he could at least sleep safe in the knowledge that nothing of any significance was happening. He did once wake up long enough to take in the events occurring around him. This propelled him to take the time to write the Official Government Prayer. He released this gem of wisdom on his 50th birthday and then insisted all in his church repeat this prayer on a daily basis. It is rumoured that the Cabinet in many democracies chant this prayer before each meeting.

The Official Government Prayer

Our government, somehow elected

Delusion be our game.

My god we’re dumb

But there’s work to be done

And blame to be deflected.

Delay us today our daily decisions.

And forgive us our empty promises,

As we forgive those who make empty promises in response.

And lead us not into innovation,

But deliver us from progress.

For we have the ministers,

With the power, and the will

To speak drivel For ever and ever.

Amen.

Perhaps the final word on this matter should go to the most recent entry into the genre of government poetry, from Sir Roger d’Enwharey, of the Public Relations form, d’Enwharey, Koppett & Suphor (no morals, no ethics, no worries). He recently penned what he considered a relevant modern day Kamikaze-style haiku that eloquently sums up the current state of politics in the western world.

The people have to choose

Between a rock and hard place

Suffer in your jocks!

Subway Story: Singing on the Train

Minnette Coleman — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 16:09:22 +0000

He got on behind me and pushed his way past all the people trying to get to their destination to stand in the middle of the car and sing. He gave us no warning, no introduction, just started singing.

And rather badly. It wasn’t the worse thing I had ever heard but it was off pitch and off key. Plus the lyrics were wrong. When he finished this torture (at least it was for me) he asked for a donation. No one lifted a hand with a coin or opened a purse to offer him anything. Instead of taking it in stride that either the passengers were broke or dissatisfied with his display he said: “Well, that just proves you don’t know real talent when you hear it. I gave you my wonderful voice and this is how you pay me. Thanks for nothing.”

When he left no one even bothered to laugh. Just another somebody trying to make it on the train.

People sing out loud all the time on the subway. Most of them forget they are not at home or in the shower and have their headsets turned up so high they have to scream to hear their voices. Most of these people don’t sing a whole song, just a few verses that they like to hear in their own voice. And it is that voice that annoys the rest of the people on the train. Yet no one tells them to shut-up. They may give them that “Are you kidding?” look or they may get up and move. But they don’t bother to say what should be said: Quiet, you are really disturbing everyone else.

Sometimes groups get on and treat you with a song. It is a treat because they can actually sing. There are the Mexicans with their guitars and sombreros, the acapella group that sings in four part harmony, the two brothers that rap and sing with excellent clarity and coordination and the duet that should be in a Broadway musical. New Yorkers are a tough crowd and these people are prepared for them. Their singing gets bills not coins and smiles from most of those in the car.

But there is always that one person who thinks they have a great voice and gets on to perform and grates your nerves at the end of a long day.

I was privy to another one of the talentless ones appearances last Saturday. Where he had been a tenor before he was now doing a falsetto impersonation of Michael Jackson’s “She’s Out of My Life”. From the moment he opened his mouth I wished he was out of mine and that I didn’t have so many, many stops to go. This clueless young man sang the entire song, and tried to do it with feeling. The car wasn’t crowded but those locked in the speeding train could not help but stare at him as he made a total wreck of the song. He did everything but fall on his knees and beg. A little girl giggled and her mother promptly grabbed her hand and shook her head. A man reading a book lifted it to his face so as to cover whatever look of displeasure he had. Conversations got louder and people pretending to nap opened their eyes once then quickly closed them. It was an embarrassment not worth seeing.

When he fnished this time he still had the nerve to ask for donations for his performance. And when not one person gave him a thing he decided to lecture the entire car. He ranted about his hard work and putting his talent out there for all to see. Why was it so hard for people to appreciate what he was singing and what he was doing? He told us how gifted he was and how other people appreciated him and then he put his hand on his hip and waited.

No one moved, no one offered a dime or a word of praise. If fact, not one person save the little girl who was now in shock was staring at him. He gave us the finger and got off the train. Instead of getting into another car he sat down on a bench and lowered his head. I got the feeling that no one had ‘aprreciated’ his talents all day.

The toughest crowd in New York is not the one that pays to get into clubs and shows but the one that gets entertainment for free on the subways. That crowd is only second to Showtime at the Apollo. At least they boo you off the stage. On the New York subway if you decide to make a fool of yourself no one will come to your rescue. In fact no one will acknowledge you. Talentless people become invisible and that must hurt more than the hook they use to remove unwanted contestants from the Apollo stage.

ETHNIC JOKES

timbryce — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 10:52:44 +0000

The American sense of humor has changed radically over the years. We don’t tell many jokes anymore in social or business settings. Instead, jokes have been replaced by Internet videos and cartoons, and somehow I miss the art of storytelling. Once while waiting to change planes at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, I happened to stop for a drink at a small bar near my gate. Standing at the bar was comedian Jackie Coogan (Uncle Fester from the old Addams Family TV show) who was also in transit and stopped for a drink. He started telling jokes and in no time at all had everyone in gales of laughter as he told one ribald joke after another.

Over the years, I think I’ve heard just about everything. So much so, when a person tries to tell a joke, I can more often than not guess the punch line. I have heard jokes about sex, politicians, the military, traveling salesmen, prisons, hair lips, animals, blondes, midgets, gays, religion, but the most prevalent jokes have been ethnic in nature.

As I’ve traveled around the world, I’ve noticed everyone has an ethnic group they like to pick on, for example: the Brazilians tell Portuguese jokes (as do the Spanish), the Japanese tell Korean jokes, the Greeks tell Albanian jokes, Canadians tell “Newfie” jokes (people from Newfoundland), South Africans tell “Von der Merven” jokes (Dutch related), Texans tell “Aggie” jokes (Texas A&M University), and it seems Irish and French jokes are universal. When I lived in Chicago, I heard the best “Pollock” jokes, mostly from the Polish themselves. Come to think of it, most of the ethnic groups I’ve met love to tell jokes about their own kind which seems a bit odd.

You don’t hear too many ethnic jokes anymore, probably because it is not considered politically correct. This is sad, as I think we have lost our sense of humor and take ourselves much too seriously. In reality, such jokes haven’t disappeared entirely, they’ve just gone underground and are only told privately to highly select friends and acquaintances.

Ethnic jokes tend to frighten people as they think it represents an unfair stereotype. Maybe, but I can’t remember anyone ever taking an ethnic joke to heart and allowing it to distort their perception of people. It was just situation comedy used for a good laugh. Something we need more of these days.

Now, before you start sending me e-mails saying that I have taken leave of my senses as ethnic jokes are defamatory swipes at people, all I’ve got to say is, “Loosen Up.”

Now that I think about it, I don’t think I have ever heard a Swiss joke. Maybe it’s because the country is neutral, or maybe they are just not funny.

Keep the Faith!

Note: All trademarks both marked and unmarked belong to their respective companies.

Tim Bryce is the Managing Director of M. Bryce & Associates (MBA) of Palm Harbor, Florida and has over 30 years of experience in the management consulting field. He can be reached at timb001@phmainstreet.com

For Tim’s columns, see:
http://www.phmainstreet.com/timbryce.htm

COMING IN JULY: “Tin Heads” – where transportation merges with communications. What is Bryce up to now?

The Tao of Amigo

Jose Antonio Ponce — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 19:21:29 +0000

Advice for living from my best friend.

The world is your couch. Relax.

Make friends and surround yourself with them.

Scratch when you itch.

There is no substitute for being cute.

Be loyal and your friends and they will never desert you.

There is no ailment that a good poop won’t help relieve.

Don’t piddle on the path.

Remember, the doggie door swings both ways.

Sleep with abandon. Sprawl.

Roughhouse occasionally.

Share your joy. Kiss somebody!

Smile. It is the best way to make people happy.

Learn to fetch. It serves others.

Snuggle.

Play like someone left the gate open.

Don’t beg.

Take the time to be lazy.

When you travel, meander.

Have your tummy rubbed at least once a day.

Be diligent.

Get to know the leg before you hump it.

Be careful whom you bark at.

Guard you home from the right side of the gate.

Show your teeth only when it is necessary to get your point across.

Dig in the garden every once and a while. It keeps you grounded.

Do you Need?

Bob Grant - Editor — Sat, 29 May 2010 21:45:30 +0000

Do you Need?

by Bob Grant

Do you need your own show to always be heard?

Do you need that big column for sharing your word?

Do you need that great blog to state all your views?

Do you need a big name to be part of the news?

Do you need that mag cover to strut all your stuff?

Do you need the banks dollars to call or to bluff?

Do you need a book printed to be a true writer?

Do you have to bleed freely to become a strong fighter?

Do you need those awards to make you a star?

Do you need those connections to really go far?

If I knew all those answers I certainly would be,

On my yacht – with some babe – sipping whiskey and tea.

Empathy

steve sangirardi — Wed, 19 May 2010 01:36:37 +0000

Stephen Sangirardi     Empathy    Bard715@aol.com

    By the way, what is empathy? I’ll tell you what is, and keep it locked in your cranium! You walk into a small men’s room at some public place, and noticing that the one stall door is closed, you rightly conclude that someone is squatting on the bowl, doing number 2. You can even see his pants rolled down to his Wing-tip shoes. Tee-hee. Now haven’t you been in that position before, bub, when you’ve fervently hoped that no one would enter the bathroom as you discharged excrement, sometimes lingeringly, or if someone did walk in and absolutely had to pee, that he would pee quickly out of consideration for your predicament? That he would rinse his hands quickly and not linger in front of the mirror, pondering the wave in his hair? That he would be considerate of your self-conscious pose and your wish that what you’re doing here…you could be doing at home?
   Go, therefore, and do likewise.

Shaped, Shifted, and Well-Picked

Tyree Harris — Wed, 19 May 2010 01:34:01 +0000

Shaped, Shifted, and Well-Picked

by Tyree Harris

Growing up, my mother never let my hair grow out. I’d run around, bald scalp glistening from all the hair grease, never really understanding why I just couldn’t let my hair streak down in glorified rows like Allen Iverson’s. For whatever reason, my mom fancied sitting me down in a chair, setting the clippers on the lowest blade and hacking away at my poor little baby curls until I looked like the shiniest Milk Dud in the box.

Nothing was worse than hearing that loud “TYREEEEEEEE, COME HERE!!!” with the faint buzzing of hair clippers in the background.

Thus, I resented baldness. Spending nearly all of my early life with a naked scalp grew tiresome. I wanted to let my hair grow free! I wanted to spend endless time shaping, shifting and altering my hair! Hell, I even wanted to have bad hair days where people would look at me like I was crazy. But all of that was stripped from me, at the hands of a clipper-wielding mother with a fixation on shiny craniums.

My sophomore year in high school, however, my streak of baldness ended when I grew my hair out for the first time.

“Take that, Mom,” I thought to myself.

My hair grew for about five months, which meant it was long enough to be braided for the first time.

I jumped on the first opportunity I saw — a lady who said she would twist my hair into Iverson-esque designs for the low price of $10. I met her on a Sunday night at her place and hopped into her kitchen chair in front of a 16-inch TV.

The act of human torture that followed was one of the worst pains I have ever felt.

Her fingers were small machetes — carving and knotting inexplicable designs into my head; I felt the tightness of the braids literally pull my forehead and eyelids up.

It didn’t help that her kids kept interrupting her, making the slow deterioration of my skull an even slower process.

Two hours and 15 restrained tear drops later, the masterpiece was complete — and let me tell you, beauty always seems to be worth the pain. Lush little braided circles lathered in Blue Magic danced upon my head in all directions, and I was convinced of their perfection until I went to bed that night and couldn’t sleep. The pain was completely unmanageable. I only had those braids in for about 24 hours, and I was so scared to get them done again that I immediately scheduled an appointment to return back to the baldness.

The low-fade was back, but I still resented it just the same.

It wasn’t until the beginning of my senior year that I decided to let my hair grow again. But this time it was different. I had motivations beyond a loathing of baldness.

I began to think about the images of professional black men in the media. They are always short-haired. Hairstyles such as braids, dreads and even afros, are associated with being gangsta, ignorant, thug or “hood.” I grew tired of these norms. I shouldn’t have to keep my hair low just to not look “hood.” I should have the right to do what I want with my hair and still be able to maintain a high level of professionalism without sacrificing my soul to the gods of baldness.

If an employer doesn’t hire me because of the unprofessionalism of my hair, then I wouldn’t want to work for them anyway.

So, with this newfound rebellion on two fronts (against my mom’s tyrannical rule of my scalp and antiquated social norms) I decided I will never cut my hair again. I love this huge black cotton wad on my head; though it can be virtually unmanageable at times, the fact that I have tied so much symbolic value to it makes it almost priceless to me.

But beyond symbolism, the afro, I’ve learned, is quite practical: I no longer have to suffer from a cold noggin in the winter — my ‘fro serves as a windbreaker.

Rain is no longer an issue. Umbrellas? Hoods? Please! All I need is a well-picked afro to catch the drops of rain and encase them in its shell.

I no longer need a pillow — my thick afro offers plenty of comfort and support.

I love my hair, and it takes me a long time to get it looking decent. For some reason though, people think they can just run around and touch it at will.

You don’t run up to a woman with well-straightened hair and bash away at it, and you don’t go to a man with nicely gelled spikes and rub your hands all in it — so why would you decide to streak your gritty little palms all into my style?

If another drunk college kid throws a hand into my afro, I might spend the rest of my life behind bars.

It may be just an afro, but to me, it is a way of life.

When your friends can’t explain why they voted for Democrats, give them this

seamus — Fri, 14 May 2010 15:46:28 +0000

Pick Your Reason

10. I voted Democrat because I believe oil companies’ profits of 4% on a
gallon of gas are obscene but the government taxing the same gallon of gas
at 15% isn’t.

9. I voted Democrat because I believe the government will do a better job of
spending the money I earn than I would.

8. I voted Democrat because Freedom of speech is fine as long as nobody is
offended by it.

7. I voted Democrat because I’m way too irresponsible to own a gun, and I
know that my local police are all I need to protect me from murderers and
thieves.

6. I voted Democrat because I believe that people who can’t tell us if it
will rain on Friday can tell us that the polar ice caps will melt away in
ten years if I don’t start driving a Prius.

5. I voted Democrat because I’m not concerned about the slaughter of
of babies through abortion so long as we keep all death row inmates alive.

4. I voted Democrat because I think illegal aliens have a right to free
health care, education, and Social Security benefits.

3. I voted Democrat because I believe that business should not be allowed to
make profits for themselves. They need to break even and give the rest away
to the government for redistribution as the democrats see fit.

2. I voted Democrat because I believe liberal judges need to rewrite the
Constitution every few days to suit some fringe kooks who would never get
their agendas past the voters.

1. I voted Democrat because my head is so firmly planted up my ass that it
is unlikely that I’ll ever have another point of view.

So, now you’re a writer………

Prentiss Gray — Wed, 28 Apr 2010 18:27:17 +0000

A very fancy WRITER, writ large in the imaginations of all who surround you. Actually, you now have a job that everyone understands, or think they do. It’s one of those easy-to-comprehend vocations that doesn’t bring blank stares at cocktail parties. Like plumber or carpenter, it’s a job that is familiar to just about everyone.

Of course, in the same way that plumbing or carpentry baffle most people when they try it themselves, writing is easy to talk about but much harder to do. Even worse, whereas you might make it to Master Plumber or Master Carpenter in 20 or so years of practice, none of us will probably ever make it to Master Writer. In fact there is no “Master Writer,” even if you join a union. No matter how many books or stories you write, or courses and degrees you gather, Master Writer will always elude you.

I think that’s mostly because there will always, always be another level to attain. Let me tell you a story about that.

When I was growing up, my parents belonged to a yacht club. We didn’t actually own a boat, but my parents are from the “club” generation and joined clubs and groups with wild abandon. I spent many summer days whiling away my time by the club pool with the rest of the delightfully spoiled children, trying to get the girls to notice me while demonstrating the power of my mighty thews. Although a lot more like wet spaghetti than those of Hercules, I worked them impressively and sauntered about the sky-blue concrete pool apron looking colossal. Or, at least as colossal as my 102 pounds allowed.

However, every once in a while my eyes would be drawn to look up at the lofty club Balcony. High atop the crags of Olympus, the Balcony stood as the dining epitome of all club society. Those who frequented the Balcony were more than human. Resplendent in their magnificent raiments, they supped delicacies beyond our experience and wove marvelous magics the lowly denizens of snack bar could hardly imagine.

Unfortunately, residents of the Balcony were distinctly and unabashedly “17 or above,” which at 13 pretty much left me and my motley cohorts out of the party. As much as we strove to grow older, once using cold hamburgers as false beards and using the word “falderal” expertly, we were still unable to age ourselves to the proper level. Apparently, there is more than meaty disguise and deft linguistics to maturity.

In the guise of bold mountain climber, one day one of my more adventurous comrades attempted to scale the bluestone escarpment of the Balcony directly. Upon reaching the white wrought iron fence guarding the perimeter, he was driven off by the club secretary, who wielded a silver salad fork with deadly precision. The subsequent impact on to a prize rose bush and his mother’s severe, and very public, reprimand from those heights saddled him with the appellation Goddammit Douglas for the rest of time. Such was the power of those on the Balcony. It was a sad fate for us all. But hopes still festered among the snack bar’s plastic ketchup packets and toilet paper napkins.

The day finally came when my age reached “17 or above” and I, in neatly pleated khakis and appropriately smart yellow golf shirt, assaulted those noble heights. A very polite waiter, who was dressed arguably more appropriately than I, calmly and politely informed me that, due to the actions of the board, the age was now “18 or above,” and would I mind leaving through the kitchen so as not to cause a “stir.”

“Damn it.”

“Yes sir. If you’ll follow me….”

Where I should have been lustily enjoying a sparkling bar lemonade and a heroic steak o’poirve in the company of Gods, instead I was cast down to consume the bitterest of cheeseburgers, and the most cold-hearted of fries in the seamy dungeons of the snack bar.

The next year, even my powerful blue blazer and spiffy tie was no match for the delicately whispered announcement that the requirement was now “at least 21.”

“Damn it!”

“Yes sir. If you’ll follow me….”

Many eons passed from memory. However, the burn of tragic rejection had quite faded when I once again mounted those stairs, stepped boldly through the gleaming french doors and seated my wife to be, in the sunny heights of the Balcony. I was finally here, and the world lay before me. Blue waves lapped genially far below in the happy bay. Seagulls swam lazily, but respectfully distant, through the warm winds of summer. The sun shone down smiling, drawing a few wispy clouds about his face so as not to trouble the crab salad with thyme.

The waiter approached, smiling almost as warmly as the sun, and we prepared for the feast of requited adoration.

“Good afternoon, Sir and Madam”

“Good afternoon!”

“Are you aware that diners on the Balcony must either be children of members, and under the age of 22, or full members themselves?”

“Damn it. I’m thinking seriously about becoming a democrat!”

“Yes sir, I’m sure you won’t be disappointed. If you’ll follow me…”

Writing is a lot like that. No matter how well you get to know the staff on the long sad trail through the kitchens, there is always another goal that will dance gaily out of your reach.

It may be that once you get a good story or two out, you’ll notice pacing. Once you have a handle on pacing, viewpoint will dog your trail. When you achieve masterful manipulation of multiple viewpoints, personality construction will clog your thoughts. After that comes the high magics of rhythm, subtlety, transference and the ten thousand other masteries that I can barely even perceive, let alone communicate.

Finally, when you stand self-satisfied, resplendent in your awesome power, some Zen-infused jerk will come along and send the same message in 2500 words that took you 25,000. Damn Balcony.

Copyright Prentiss Gray 2010

Prentiss Gray is a writer and columnist and currently writes the Domesti-Tech Blog for Gannett. He can be reached through his website at www.prentissgray.com

The Sights of New York

Minnette Coleman — Mon, 12 Apr 2010 15:00:09 +0000

The weather is warm so let the viewing begin. I am not speaking of fashion models strolling down runways in the latest spring get-ups. I am speaking of what happens in the Big Apple when the cold is behind us and the sun is out in full force. As soon as the weather changes New York is full of surprising and interesting sights. And those sights are people.

Last Wednesday it hit 86 degrees here and, as Robin Williams once pointed out when doing a comedy show about New York in the summer, “the twins are out.” Anybody with what could be considered a cleavage exposed it to the rest of us if not the sun. I took a vacation day to do some writing but that only lasted three hours because I, too, wanted a chance to get out in the sun. I must confess we New Yorkers act like we have never seen a bright sunny day when it first gets hot. My youngest daughter and I did a little shopping and had to contend with women who seemed desperate to get as many pair of sandals as possible in Loehmans. We went to lunch in an Irish pub where sweaty tourists downed beer after beer wondering why they had been told that New York was cold this time of year and they were dressed in their winter’s best. We went to see the new “Clash of the Titans” (thank God I had a gift card because the movie was so awful I would have found Liam Neeson and demanded my money back). There were no ushers on duty for the 5pm show so the door in the back stayed open until my daughter, angry that the two men sitting next to it decided it was not their job to close it, got up and stormed to the back to help darken the theatre 25 minutes into one of the worst remakes of anything I have ever seen. (Yeah, the first one was no prize either but it was fun. This one is a joke and the worse 3D ever.) Then we went to happy hour on Amsterdam Avenue where every watering hole had big bouncers (all of them African American) and young women preening for the crowds. My favorite were the two girls in the ‘booty’ shorts and 4 inch heels that were sitting outside and made it a habit to get up and walk around at least every ten minutes. The bouncers carded everyone, including me and turned one guy away who acted like he had been drinking since dawn. The single waitress was as busy as you can get, the lone bartender was struggling to keep up with orders anf the place filled up so fast you would have thought it was the last day of summer instead of the prelude Mother Nature gave us.

By Friday the temperature had dropped 20 some degrees and most people were trying not to wear their winter coats again. That’s how spring is in New York- summer one day, winter the next. But by Friday evening the sun was still out and so were those vying for attention. I got off the train to buy something to cook for dinner (not every New Yorker eats out every day, although I have to admit I never ate out much until I moved here) and saw a man dressed in leather from head to toe. His friend was wearing tight pants and I swore they were trying to be two of the Village People. As I walked to the grocery store I passed a young woman wearing rainbow colored stretch pants that she covered with lemon yellow tight shorts. Her belly was exposed, I assume to show off the turquoise tattoo around her navel. She wore a rainbow matching short top which barely covered her breasts and a winter waist length jacket of a yellow and black print. The hood she were over her strawberry blonder hair with the dark brown roots. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw her in a local clothing store buying outfits for her daughter. I kept thinking this is somebody’s mother.

When I headed home I looked down the street and saw a young black man with a huge Native American feather headdress. I laughed thinking there has got to be a Village People convention nearby.

But it is just the sights of New York as the weather changes. Some people aren’t ready for it but try anyway. Dresses that are too short and too tight are part of the scene. There are also guys who wear muscle shirts when all they have is belly fat. They want attention too. Nobody is perfect but watching the seasons change in New York is a lot more than just leaves falling or trees blossoming. It is the people exposing themselves to the elements. It is part of the New York state of mind to be free when the temperature gets over 55. And it is fun to watch.

DRIVING CIRCLES AROUND DISNEY

timbryce — Mon, 12 Apr 2010 11:20:59 +0000

I recently attended a meeting at the Disney World complex near Orlando. Actually, it was held at a Hilton Hotel, a non-Disney property operating in the complex. Although I’ve been to Orlando many times, I haven’t been to Disney since the kids were little. I don’t have a GPS in my car, so, to make sure I knew where I was going, I printed a map from the Internet which I assumed was accurate and the directions looked familiar to me. Normally, it takes me about an hour and a half to drive from Tampa to Disney, but on this particular evening it took over three hours. No, there weren’t any accidents, no heavy traffic, no construction, no obnoxious drivers to follow; just Disney.

According to the map, I was to turn off I-4 west at the main Disney interchange (World Center Drive which becomes Epcot Center Drive) which leads you to Epcot and the Hilton which I was led to believe was close to Epcot. Okay, fine, got it, no problem, let’s go. As I made the proper turnoff from I-4, I began my trek down Epcot Center Drive, which is a well sculpted boulevard featuring all kinds of Disney eye-candy. Traffic control appears to be a big concern with the Disney people and they had numerous signs guiding motorists to the various Disney properties. I was hoping I might see a billboard or some sign to direct me to the Hilton, but alas, nothing but Disney signs which started to become irritating.

Before I knew it, I found myself approaching the Epcot resort which allegedly was near my hotel, so I felt a glimmer of hope. I thought I would stop and ask someone at the parking gates for directions. Unfortunately, I discovered that after 7:00pm, the gates are wide open and there wasn’t an attendant to be found. Okay, I’m near Epcot, the map says I’m not far away, but for some reason I couldn’t find any of the roads on the map. My male stubbornness began to surface as I told myself to keep pushing on, there has got to be someone around here who can help me. As I was to discover, there wasn’t. By now, I was starting to get a great behind-the-scenes tour of Disney as I found myself traversing the many access roads around the park (Epcot Center Road was well behind me by this time). In addition to the big parks and main resorts, I drove by the Tower of Terror, the monorail maintenance depot, several emergency areas, a secluded golf course, a dog kennel, and tons of parking. Actually, I saw more of Disney that evening than I did with my kids years ago. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a single human being to talk to. There was nothing but bus and tram operators dropping off guests to pick up their cars in the parking lots, everything else was automated. The whole place was on autopilot and I got the unsettling feeling that the only human being controlling all of this was in Teaneck, New Jersey. Heck, I would have even settled for Goofy to give me directions, but I think he had already turned in for the night (probably at the Hilton).

Around and around I went with nothing but Disney signs directing me to their next resort. Somehow I broke out of the vicious circle and found myself in a daze heading towards Tampa on I-4. Okay, I told myself not to panic but to turn around at the next exit which, unfortunately, was something called the Osceola Parkway, a toll road which did nothing to improve my personality. Nonetheless, I persevered and pressed on. Now desperate, I pulled the car off to the side of the road and called the hotel who was finally able to talk me down like an airplane landing at a fog covered runway. Interestingly, my Internet map had gotten it completely wrong. More disturbing to me though, was the absence of any sign to a non-Disney property, and the lack of human-beings to help point me in the right direction. I would have even welcomed a private radio network like you see at airports which offer driving instructions. No, the Disney folks were content to have me circle the complex over and over again like I was in the Daytona 500.

I found this experience nightmarish and it certainly didn’t endear me to Disney. Not surprising, I discovered several other motorists caught in the same trap I was in and are probably still circling around the complex.

If you talk to a Disney employee, he or she will proudly proclaim they work for “The Mouse.” This may be so, but someone needs to tell the Disney people that there is a rat in the traffic department.

Keep the Faith!

Note: All trademarks both marked and unmarked belong to their respective companies.

For Tim’s columns, see:
http://www.phmainstreet.com/timbryce.htm

The Town the Census Forgot

Congressman Billybob — Sat, 10 Apr 2010 22:36:57 +0000

The Town the Census Forgot

by John Armor

This is more or less an open letter to Robert Groves, Director of the Census Bureau. Dear Bob.

Can I call you Bob? I feel I know you since you’ve been all over the TV explaining that the screw-ups that have occurred in your Bureau about operations and cost will all be resolved. Well. here’s another screw-up for you to put on your plate.

The Census has a rule that it will not mail Census forms to Post Office Box addresses. As a general rule, I understand and support that. There are probably more than a million people in the US who use P.O. Boxes to cheat on their spouses, run investment scams, sell useless or non-existent products on the Internet, etc. However, every rule has its exceptions.

We live in Highlands, North Carolina. The summertime population grows to about 25,000 every year. But the permanent residents are only about 3,000 Americans, plus about 500 Mexicans. Because we are a small town, the Post Office by its own rules does not deliver to anyone’s home, except a handful of folks who live so far out of town they qualify for RFD. We say they live 20 miles south of nowhere. RFD, in case you don’t know, stands for Rural Free Delivery.

After four weeks of seeing your cute but annoying ads for the Census, and not having a form sent to us, we found out by accident that we weren’t going to get any forms mailed to us because of your anti-Box rule. Now, missing 3,500 people doesn’t amount to a hill of beans.
However, there are other towns just like us. Maybe you should pull out your company phone book, and look up the number for the Postmaster General. Give him a call. Ask him how many small towns there are in the nation where almost no one gets their mail delivered except to the Post Office.

If there are 1,000 such towns, then you are missing 3.5 million people. That’s a significant number. Plus, our demographics are not the same as everyone else. Half of us are retired. The other half are young people with kids, trying to make do and survive. Our town has the demographics of Brazil.

Now, I know you have hired a whole bunch of people in localities across the nation. I know you’ve hired some locals in Highlands. They are supposed to have “special knowledge” of their areas. Haven’t any of them told their supervisors about the P.O. Box problem here, and elsewhere?

The alternative to mailing forms and getting them back by mail, is sending people out to every house. Again, local knowledge is your friend. Most of us live at the end of long, gravel roads. Ours, for instance, goes a half mile from the nearest paved road to our house. That’s a fur piece as we say. Only people who are lost, Jehovah’s Witnesses, workmen, UPS drivers, and personal friends make that trip.

Do you have a clue how much time and money will be wasted by your Bureau to visit every house in Highlands? And you’ll have to budget for multiple visits, because all of us drive into town every day to run errands and get our mail. (Remember, it comes to the Post Office.)

Do we have addresses? Why yes, we do. So, fire, police and ambulances can reach us in emergencies, all of us have actual street addresses. I’ll bet your local people could get those from the Emergency Network. Then, you could mail our forms to the Post Office, and cross reference the reported addresses with the Emergency list.

Just trying to help you run an efficient, effective Census. And, you could have added a question on the form whether the respondents were American citizens. I have my copy of the Constitution handy, and it says the legitimate purpose of the Census “enumeration” is for reallocating the seats in Congress, every ten years. I sort of had the impression that Members of Congress were only supposed to represent legal residents. (Except in California, and parts of a few other states.)

Cordially,

Your so-far uncounted fellow citizen at the end of a gravel road,

J. Armor, Esq.

About the Author: John Armor practiced in the US Supreme Court for 33 years. John_Armor@aya.yale.edu His latest book, on Thomas Paine, will be published in September. www.TheseAreTheTimes.us

Subway Story- Midnight Kiss

Minnette Coleman — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 15:27:48 +0000

Though many people feel safe falling asleep on the subway I don’t. An actress friend of mine fell asleep and woke up to find the shopping bag she thought was securely snug between her knees with all her make-up gone. And then there was the time another friend woke to a fin a stranger staring at her affectionately as he rubbed her hand. People nearby said nothing and acted like they saw nothing. That’s what usually happens on the subway. But nothing beats what I saw one night on my way home from performing. It is a lesson for visitors and citizens as well to keep their mouths closed. Literally.

The show at the Ridiculous Theatrical Company in New York’s eclectic Greenwich Village ended at 11pm and I was usually in the subway station no later than 11:15pm. Even though trains in New York run 24 hours a day, the later the time the fewer the trains. If I missed the one that came somewhere around 11:20 there wouldn’t be another one for at least 20 minutes. And that was on a good night. Sometimes I had to wait for up to an hour while revelers, drunks and people getting off that 3pm top 11pm shift mumbled curses at their fate and yawned loudly trying to stay awake until the got on the train and sat down. This particular I ran down the steps and the train arrive a few minute early. I ran into the car, got a seat and leaned back so that the 17 stops before I got home didn’t seem endless. My large purse was secure in my lap under my arms and my heavy winter coat. I was so tired. During the day I was the mother of a 2 year old and rehearsing another play at another theatre. Any time I got a chance to close my eyes I would. But first I did something I always did on late night trains. I checked out those around me to see if I felt safe.

There was a couple at the end of the car leaning on each other in sleep. There was a man across from me slipping sips from a bottle stashed in his duffel bag and reading a book. And there was a woman sound asleep and snoring, her head tilted back and her mouth slightly open. It was a quiet Tuesday night.

Fortunately I had a tendency to open my eyes at each stop. Not just to see who was getting on but to see where I was in proximity to home. The next stop a man got on, took one of the corner seats and put his feet up as if about to spend the night on the bouncing train.

For the next two stops no one got on until a man came from the following car with a paper cup asking for spare change. He was dressed in a coat that was not only filthy but close to being a rag. His skin bore the dark dirt of living on the street but surprisingly he didn’t bare the unpleasant odor of the unwashed. He smiled when he spoke begging for his coins and reveled dirty and missing teeth. He scratched a bit and dragged his feet in shoes that were too big. The couple was sleep so he got nothing from them. The man enjoying his concealed beverage handed him something. I had nothing in my purse but money for emergency carefare so I was unable to help him. But I did smile at him when I told him I had no funds for him.

The man moved on to the sleeping woman and stood there staring at her with a smile. Her mouth was open just wide to exude some tender feminine snores. Her lips were painted a bright red and matched a scarf tied tightly around her neck over her black coat. The man begging bent down and I wondered if he was going to rob her or say something to her. Instead he put his lips on hers and kissed her. It was not a long kiss but it was a shocking one. The man drinking from his bag coughed then choked a bit. The man at the end of the car with his feet propped up was not sleep as I had assumed and said a loud “What the hell?” I gasped as the train came to a stop and the begging man went to the next car dragging his over-sized shoes and smiling. The woman who had just received the kiss bolted awake asked ”What stop is this?” then bolted out the door.

As the train left the station I looked for her out the window to see if she had any idea what had been planted on her as she slept. As an actress who had seen a lot of weird things done for performance art I was hoping she was working the begging/homeless guy. But I could see him in the forward car his cup out and she was moving quickly not even the least bit aware of what had taken place while she slept. Had she remained on the train would I, would any of us have told her about the kiss she had received. What would have been her reaction? Would she have attempted to find the man who declared himself her dirty Prince Charming and have him arrested? For what- assault with attempt to romance?

Nothing to be done I leaned back and stayed wide awake for the rest of the ride home. At Times Square more people got on and I felt a safety in numbers I had never felt before. I doubted seriously if the kissing beggar would have assaulted someone in a car full of people. But you never know.

Still it was far warning to me. I never slept on a subway train after that. Would you?

STROKES SUCK

seamus — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 13:52:01 +0000

Several months ago I woke up feeling odd (not strange for me). Got out of bed, took the old good morning pee, moved down the hall following the smell of coffee and then had to grab a gaudy table halfway down the hall to keep from falling. Not normal but what the hell. I caught my balance then proceeded toward the living room.

Upon hearing me make my way, my wife got me a cup of coffee, generally a prize for the last one getting up. I gave her a kiss and sat down, feeling odder by the second. She sensed something was wrong and asked and I told her I didn’t feel good. I was slurring my words and having trouble concentrating. After not meeting her request of sticking my tongue out straight, she brought me a pair of shorts, called out doorman and BAM, I”m in the ER. By this time I don’tt know my name, social security number, what day it is, nothing. Well not quite nothing. Oddly, all I remembered was that I had a hair appointment that day and kept telling the docs and nurses that I couldn’t stay, I was supposed to get a haircut.

Three days later most of my long term memory had returned bit I had lost all short term memory. Major league scary. I’d also developed an eye tic and my left leg dragged. Thankfully, after a couple of months of rehab, the tic is gone and most of the left leg dragging has disappeared but I lost half of my vocabulary. It’s frustrating having to ask the name of things but it’s starting to come back. Beats the alternative by a long shot.

Will I ever write again? Remains to be seen. Thankfully I have a five book backlog. I lose concentration when going over an edit but my editor is working with me extra hard. This is the longest piece I’ve written to date but I’m going to use Brother Bobs site as practice so I’ll be posting regularly.

One thing I’m absolutely sure of—STROKES SUCK.

Easter Bunny – The Untold Rhyme

Bob Grant - Editor — Sat, 03 Apr 2010 16:35:47 +0000

Easter Bunny – The Untold Rhyme

by Bob Grant

Met the Easter Bunny at the mall.

End of story? Not at all.

The interview went well – I got the scoop,

Assuredly not one for all of the group.

He contracts the eggs, baskets, and such,

Not a single one does he actually touch.

Never tied down like Santa all year,

No Misses, elves, or tiny reindeer.

Has time for surfing, sunning, drinks with a fan,

Can dance and sing – all part of the plan.

Has tail’s up with all of the bunnies,

His name alone – more valuable than monies.

Has the best job in the world – that’s perfectly clear,

Work just one day then party all year.

THE FLYING STIFF

timbryce — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 10:55:16 +0000

A good friend of mine passed away last year, I’ll just call him “Warren” for the purpose of this essay. He was a good friend and had a great sense of humor. He also had an interesting career which, among other things, he served a stint as a New York State trooper several years ago. One day we took a road trip heading north on I-75, I was driving. We talked about a lot of things, as is common on such trips, but he began to describe some of his escapades as a trooper, such as some of the whacko speeders he had ticketed or arrested over the years. It was all interesting, but he had one story which really caught me off guard…

Wintertime in upstate New York can be frigid as anyone can tell you from that area (why they call it “upstate” as opposed to “northern” New York is beyond me). It was on a bright Sunday afternoon when Warren and his partner were called to investigate a homeless person frozen on the side of a road up in the woods. They drove their squad car up into the hills where lo-and-behold there was indeed a gentleman who had frozen to death next to the road. As the passenger in the vehicle, Warren radioed back to his headquarters to report they had found the deceased and requested the Coroner’s Office to send up an ambulance to take it away. They were told that due to the frigid conditions, the ambulance wasn’t working and they would have to bring the body back down the hill themselves.

Their first inclination was to put the body into the trunk of the squad car, but because it was frozen solid, they couldn’t bend it to fit in the trunk. They next tried putting it in the back seat, but again, because of its frigidity, it would have required them to drive with both car doors open. It was now starting to get late in the day and they realized they didn’t have much sunlight left. Becoming a bit desperate, they noticed a nearby toboggan run where they commandeered a toboggan and strapped the stiff to it. Their idea was to tie it to the back of the patrol car and slowly pull it down the hill. They then proceeded cautiously down the hill which was still rather icy. So far, so good.

About halfway down the hill, Warren happened to look out his side window and saw the toboggan with its passenger running alongside of their vehicle. Evidently, the rope they used to tie it to the car had snapped due to the temperature. All Warren could say was, “Oh, oh, that’s not good.”

Without any brakes, the toboggan began to pick up speed and was quickly in front of the troopers before they could stop it. They then began to give chase down the hill, complete with their lights flashing.

At the bottom of the hill was a beautiful little home where the family was just sitting down for their Sunday dinner. Looking out of their picturesque dining room window, the family began to observe the commotion of the troopers coming down the hill towards them.

By this time, the toboggan had picked up considerable speed and was now racing down the hill at full tilt. As it approached the house, it happened to hit a snow bank thereby causing the toboggan to become airborne much to the horror of the family in the house who watched helplessly as it crashed through their window and into their dining room. Fortunately, no one was hurt.

When the troopers finally arrived outside the broken window, they found the flying stiff had safely landed on what was left of the dining room table (and dinner). Embarrassed by the incident, they apologized profusely to the family and assured them they would make retribution (which they did).

Somehow they managed to remove the toboggan and were finally able to transport it to the Coroner’s office without any further incident. Although the snafu was embarrassing, Warren told me it took them five hours to complete the paperwork as they were howling over the incident.

As for me, I had trouble driving the car as the imagery of Warren’s story had me in hysterics. I have since told this anecdote on more than one occasion to some police friends I know and they assure me such stories are common but are only known by law enforcement personnel as the public probably wouldn’t understand such dark humor.

Now some people might be offended by this story but I can assure you the troopers meant no disrespect. I guess the moral of the story is simply not to visit upstate New York in the dead of winter.

Keep the Faith!

Note: All trademarks both marked and unmarked belong to their respective companies.

For Tim’s columns, see:
http://www.phmainstreet.com/timbryce.htm

What’s the Deal?

Jose Antonio Ponce — Mon, 29 Mar 2010 05:28:39 +0000

“What’s the deal with boobs?” she asked me quite frankly.

“What is it about them that men like so much?

“Well…” I replied, “They’re really quite nice.

They’re smooth and soft and lovely to touch.

They’re God’s perfect circles, or haven’t you noticed?

Their design is un-matched. They’re meant to appeal.

No two are the same and all quite exquisite.

They attract our attention whether clothed or revealed.

They’re smooth, seamless curves in all shapes and sizes.

And all men are slaves to these beautiful orbs.

A man leaves his family. A king abdicates.

Just a glimpse and were lost. Completely absorbed.

I believe this is where the term nuzzle came from.

Such a comfortable word. How can it not be?

Men wish just to possess a set all their own.

And they just look so right in a form fitting tee.”

“You’re not helping.” She said, in a judgmental tone.

“I mean, really, all this fuss about two globes of skin.

They’re quite inconvenient. At least that’s my take.

It’s like raising a pair of troublesome twins.

Must I always have to call your attention

up toward my face and away from my chest?

It’s like walking around with a target on me.

They always cause trouble. A distraction at best.”

“You have to admit that they have value to you.

For certain a price above rubies or pearls.

And we’re just fine with this. Really, we are.

The world is yours for a glimpse of the girls.

Psychological jargon clutters every discussion.

Freud had his theories about why all the bother.

“It goes back to childhood, zis bosom fixzation.”

Disturbing ideas about loving one’s mother.

The Oedipus complex. Breast-fed or not.

Most men believe that to be so much nonsense.

We just want to see them. Is that really that hard?

But achieving them does not come without recompense.

Marriage, of course, is the ultimate price.

A soft comfy prison where we’ll never be free.

All because of this fear that the last pair of breasts

will indeed be the last pair that we’ll ever see.

It’s a cruel, wicked joke that we react as we do

We take leave of our senses. Flat out lose our minds.

And all women learn this at one time or another.

How completely they have conquered all of mankind

I really can’t say why men love boobs so much.

As far as deals go, it’s not all that big.

We like women, that’s all. They’re soft and their pretty.

It’s not true that we’re all just a bunch of foul pigs.

If I had to imagine a world without breasts

it would be a sad place without tenderness, sure.

Women would go without any attention

and men would be sullen and without any cure.

It’s a wonderful tradeoff when you think about it.

You have all this power to make men do your will.

Superficial it seems, we’re content just to please you

for a chance at that one thing that gives us a thrill.

I can’t stop myself. Human nature I guess.

For you are a beautiful woman and blessed.

I will always see you in the light of this beauty.

And always find myself insanely obsessed.”

I Suffer from Jokeaphobia

Bob Grant - Editor — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 22:57:07 +0000

I Suffer from Jokeaphobia

by Bob Grant

I love a good joke – I enjoy laughing when people are funny. However, when I try to tell a joke – that I have heard – I get nothing. I either forget the punch line, am so excited to get to the punch line that I forget the story, or I get everything mixed up and can’t finish what I started. I wish I could tell a good joke – now I am afraid to start one and fear that I suffer from Jokeaphobia.

I envy people who are naturally funny – I am sure you know people like this or might actually be that kind of person – someone who has both a quick whit, and timing, to pull off a good joke or say something off the cuff that makes people laugh. I am just not that person, and now, with Jokeaphobia I don’t think I ever will be. I guess what is funny to some people is not funny to others. Personally, I like slap stick to a point – can take a dirty joke now and then – love good (clean) humor with a great punch line – and really enjoy people who can both make people laugh and also laugh at themselves. Maybe I just have not found the right audience?

I had a thought the other day. I have an eight month old granddaughter. To help me tackle my Jokeaphobia head on – I thought I would try the “pull this finger” gag on her as I bet she has not heard it before. She laughs at anything now – I could just tickle her as a confidence builder.

The Man on the Horse- Do We Care How He Smells?

Minnette Coleman — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 20:57:41 +0000

To be honest I like the latest, hottest commercial on television because it is funny, not because the man selling the product is good looking from head to toe and has a voice that could whisper in my ear anytime. The sensuality is a plus. But it is a good commercial, it’s a funny commercial and the actor went so over the top that he created a character that has 2 millions views on YouTube.

And he’s on a horse.

When I first saw it I couldn’t believe the creativity Old Spice allowed the guys that wrote this to have. It is a marketing dream, appealing to both men and women. He is the man you want your man to smell like. Because, let’s face it, most men are not going to ever look like Isaiah Mustafa (the actor in the commercial). It is the point of the commercial. This very stuck -up character is actually trying to help couples out by telling them: “Pay close attention to this African King-like torso, regal manner, sexy voice and perfect diction. You cannot have me or anyone like me. You man cannot be me or anyone like me. But if he washes with the same thing I wash with, he can smell like me and doesn’t that wet your fantasies just enough to go out and purchase what could make him close to me?”

He’s in a shower, then on a boat, then riding backwards on a horse. A real horse! Does he look good? Damn right! Does he smell good? How the hell do I know. But he made his point and he made it well. You can’t have this chocolate wonder but maybe you can have someone who smells like it.

Did some women rush out and buy Old Spice Body Wash for men after they saw that commercia? Of course they did. Men are always looking at lingerie ads with gorgeous women and then on birthdays, Valentine’s Day, Christmas, even Mother’s Day, guys will show up with the pink bag from you-know-who and give it as a gift. It is usually filled with tiny lingerie that is impossible for women of any size to get in or out off, but they are not looking at the woman they are with when they buy it or even when she puts it on. They are looking at the girl in the ad. They are buying a part of a fantasy. Doesn’t matter to them if you like it or not, they didn’t really buy it for you. They bought it for a pleasure of the mind. It’s the only time they are going to actual get the woman they want and can’t have, and, for the most part probably can’t afford.

So in comes the guy on a horse to rescue men from usuing their ladies sweet scented soaps and body washes and women from the tedious commercials that hint that men smell more like socks worn for a month than the once enticing pheromones that captured your interest. The last line in the commercial is “I’m on a horse” and that is so important. Sexually it eludes to all kind of fantasies for women. Comparisons in proportions, f or those of you not paying attention. In the romance department it works as well. How many romance novels have a damsel being rescued by a handsome man on a horse? Sure a horse is a means of transportation. So is the boat. But the boat symbolizes the money your man probably doesn’t have to buy you the tickets to things you want but they can’t remember or the jewels you were hoping to get from him before old age set in and you couldn’t test them with your real teeth or wear them without riding around in your wheel chair. The commercial gives a woman every fantasy she could hope for in a man: clean, well built, rich and well hung. At least that’s my less the prurient view of it.

Cause he is on a horse.

Hey, I congratulate Old Spice for a real winner. And Mr. Mustafa (wasn’t that the name of the father in “The Lion King?” I rest my case!) is a great find for the screen. It’s a funny commercial but it makes a lot of points. In the end the truth is, ladies, do we really care how that guy smells when he rides into our lives on a horse?

An Open Letter to President Obama

Brandon Marcus — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 21:58:58 +0000

Dear President Obama,

Hey, it’s Brandon again.

I recently read that you are inviting Tom Hanks and Steven Spielberg to The White House to view the new HBO series The Pacific. I think that’s great. It’s very honorable that you are respecting these men who are chronicling the efforts of our uniformed men and women. I just have one favor to ask you sir: invite me.

That’s right. Me, Brandon Marcus. Let me join in on this screening. Now, I know that you and I have never met but we run in similar circles. For example, you run the largest modern civilization on Earth. And I am currently downloading Sid Meier’s Civilization IV. You are the winner of the Nobel Peace Prize and I am the three-time recipient of the Attendance Award at Alice Birney Elementary.

Also, we’re Facebook friends.

So we’d probably get along just fine. And I like that Joe Biden guy. I like the cut of his jib and the way he wears his hat. I’m sure we’d have some killer conversations before the movie.

Oh, added bonus! I’ve been a lifelong fan of Steven Spielberg. One of my earliest memories is of being terrified by E.T. I think I’ve seen every major film he’s released. The same goes for Tom Hanks, that’s guys just A+ in my book. Straight shooters, the both of ‘em.

Needless to say, we’d have just a great, great time together. As well, I’m a very polite audience member. I silence my phone, I don’t rest my feet on the seat in front of me and I never ask questions during. I’m also plenty generous with my snacks. You want some Mike & Ike’s, Mr. President? Yeah, we can share a straw, it’s okay! What’s that, too much salt on the popcorn? I thought so too. You know how those kids at the concession stand are, am I right Mr. President?

Anyone will tell you, Mr. President, that I have an encyclopedic knowledge when it comes to cinema. If you had a query about an actor on screen, just wave me over. I’d be able to list off four or five movies you’ve seen him in before.

Better yet, Barack (you don’t mind that I call you Barack, do you Mr. President?), I can bring my own DVD collection! You know, for once The Pacific is over. Tom and Steven can stay if they want. That obviously limits my selection (I doubt Steven and Tom would want to watch Catch Me If You Can). Let’s see…what to watch, watch to watch…

Have you seen season one of Wings, Mr. President?

Or maybe we’ll just watch The Pacific. We’ll watch The Pacific and then talk about how brave the men and women of the greatest generation were and how proud we are of all of them and their accomplishment. AND THEN! Then we can listen to Wilco and talk about current events together. C’mon, you can spare a few hours for a concerned voter, can’t you? We don’t even have to talk about current events. We can talk about basketball — we both like basketball! Who’s got better D, Mr. President, Cleveland or L.A.? Quick, gimme your picks for the Eastern Conference!

Ha ha ha ha, oh Mr. President, we’d have so much fun!

So just consider my offer. I’d fly myself out, of course. I’d bring my own sleeping bag (this was going to be a sleep-over thing, right?). I’d be a pleasant, polite guest. In fact, after the first few days, you wouldn’t even notice I’m there.

What do you say, Mr. President? Why not let me hang out with you guys?

Sincerely,

Brandon Marcus

P.S. This will be my last letter — I swear! And I’ll stop calling, too. Promise!

Vacation Lists

Genevieve — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 15:00:01 +0000

My family and I just returned from a fantastic holiday. As soon as I got home I started looking for my countless lists of Things To Do. Fortunately, they were few, because I was extra efficient before we left. I only forgot a couple of doctors’/orthodontist appointments …

So instead of lists of Things To Do which inevitably lead to Things to Avoid, I have decided to compile lists of Things on Vacation. WAY more fun.

Top 5 BEST THINGS about the Vacation *:

1) Dreams Punta Cana was a FANTASTIC resort. Great staff who seemed genuinely happy to be there.

2) My husband and I each read 4 books (see list of Good Books)

3) I didn’t have ANY medical issues – no headaches, no tummy troubles

4) Met some fantastic new folks – mostly Brits – including one gent who (I think) is the spitting image of Geoffrey Rush. Seriously. And he didn’t even know who the actor was!

5) I think I only heard “I’m bored” or “I’m hungry” four times (total) over 2 weeks. That’s a huge record.

5a) Discovered Expedia.com. Our only travel agency from now on.

* Without meaning to sound flip about it, the #1A thing has to be that even though we were on the same land mass as Haiti, we didn’t feel even one tremor when the quake & aftershocks hit.

5 Good Books To Read on Vacation:

1) New Author Alert! Well, he’s new to us: Harlan Coben. Dwayne calls it “kind of guy-lit”, but even being a chick, I have to say that I found “Long Lost” not only hilarious, but compelling and fun. And I’m in love with Myron Bolitar now. I seem to have a problem with fictional heroes.

2) Another “New” Author (to us): Jennifer Roberson. I read “Lady of the Forest”, even though it (obviously a re-print) had a horribly cheesy cover (omg. I almost ripped the cover off just so no one would see it). I was hesitant – first, because of the cover, second because it was “another” Robin Hood remake. But it was fantastic!! Loved it.

3) “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy. Dwayne read this and is still in a trance from it. I have to admit to being somewhat afraid of it, but he says it will change everything about how I write. Not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing, but it sure makes me happy when he enjoys fiction.

4) “Blink” by Malcolm Gladwell – As soft a non-fiction as I could find for Dwayne for our trip. I was hoping to edge him into fiction via this, and it worked (or he just ran out of non-fiction books). I know he enjoyed it because he kept pushing pertinent chapters under my nose, which he rarely does.

5) “Timeline” by Michael Crichton. I hadn’t gotten around to reading this before because Crichton has an extremely annoying habit of being way more intelligent than I am – and demonstrating it ad nauseum. But, well, Gerard Butler (hmm … have I mentioned him on here before? hmm) was in the movie, and I loved the movie. The best thing about this book is that it was entirely different from the movie, but still ended up being a fantastic story. Books are almost always better than movies, we know, but it was fun to have faces to match up to these characters. Like … well, like Gerry’s face.

5 Drinks on Vacation:

1) Dirty Monkey: Baileys, dark rum, something creamy, chocolate syrup … need I say more?

2) Pina Colada: Rum, Coconut syrup/milk or something + obligatory decorative pineapple & maraschino

3) Banana Mama: Dark Rum, Light Rum, Banana Liquer, something red

4) Tanqueray and Tonic: Dwayne’s favourite

5) Baileys: On ice … on coffee … on pretty much on anything.

5 Things that Shouldn’t be Allowed on Vacation:

1) Speedos or Thongs on anyone in need of a Weight Management Programme and/or anyone eligible for Senior Pricing

2) Topless Women: same rule as above, but really … at a Family resort, topless women of any age/size? Entirely too tacky (and gross, in my kids’ opinion).

3) Parties past 2am – especially outside people’s windows. Okay. I sound old. But seriously. All those folks are going to do is waste the following day in hangover hell. If you need to do that, go check out the Adults Only, wild and supposedly crazy Disco.

4) Blackberries.Come on. You’re tanning. You’re drinking. You’re away from work. The rest of us are laughing at you. Really. Put it down, unplug it and … if you can’t leave it at home, only bring it out in the privacy of your own hotel room.

5) Highly Skilled, International Pastry Chefs. This may be debatable, but I feel strongly that the only weight I gain (which was, I admit, substantial) should be from drinking. Desserts like we had? Definitely should be disallowed.

5 Things I Understand, But Don’t Enjoy:

1) Selling Photos: Those gorgeous photos of my darling children wrapping boa constrictors around their necks. Of an adorable monkey (who might actually pee on you – saw it happen – beware) on your head. Of squawking parakeets who have trouble balancing on your shoulders. I wish my photos turned out that nicely. I kind of think that an All-Inclusive should include a certain number of those pictures. Just because I suck at taking pictures.

2) “Almost Free Today!” “I make you a deal!” Market vendors. Say no more.

3) “Come on! You gotta play this ring toss! No? You no gonna play? YOU ARE LAZY!”: Poolside/Beach Games. Dwayne loves ‘em. The girls live for the prize coupons. Me? I’m here to read, fellas. Walk away.

4) Bugs. Just stuck that in there. Actually, our resort had incredible (and very stinky) pesticide routines, and every morning we saw the carcasses of unfortunate beasties littering the stairwells. I think I saw one spider in 2 weeks. Ecologically, I know that’s bad. But selfishly? Really enjoyed that.

5) Butt out. Smoking is BAD BAD BAD and while I’m sipping on pure alcohol and eating artery clogging desserts, I shouldn’t have to inhale second hand smoke. Especially cigars. ewwwww

I wanted to write a list of Peeves, but that latter list is as close as I can get. But I have ONE VENTING that must be included on this page.

We’re not multi-millionaires. As a result, we save for awhile in order to go on vacation, meaning we don’t necessarily go every year. When we do, we search for the best Family resort possible. If Dwayne and I someday manage to travel without kids, we will search out the best Adults Only resort. People who do not realize the difference should INFORM themselves about it. Here are a few pointers: Do NOT sit poolside in your much-too-small pink bikini and shoot my husband the Hairy Eyeball every time my kid laughs out loud. Do NOT attempt to scald us with a glare when we burst out into a spontaneous water balloon battle with every other kid on the resort. Do NOT whisper between the two of you about “bad parenting” when we are at a Family Resort and you have no kids with you. I offer no apologies for my daughters. They are NOT subtle, shy or inhibited, but they are friendly, well-mannered and happy. They love to laugh, to play, to meet new people. They are exuberant, energetic kids, with pretty terrific personalities. They didn’t even splash you once, and you know it. In case you’re reading this, Pink Bikini and Bland-Faced Husband: You might try smiling. You might like it. Fewer wrinkles that way, they say.

And Thus endeth the Vent.

Special Mention: Congratulations to Dwayne (a.k.a. Vanilla Thunder) for winning the Canteloupe Carving Contest.

I finish on a positive note. Apparently I should go away more often. Because while I was gone, three agents expressed interest in “Under the Same Sky”. So now, off I go to double check everything before emailing it out to each of them.

Good to be home … Better to be poolside, but … all good things, and all that …

Heckling and Hate Speech

Brandon Marcus — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 22:13:24 +0000

At what point does comedy become hate speech? How free is free speech? Do we still have lines that comedians and other entertainers can’t cross?

Comedian Guy Earle

Canadian comedian Guy Earle is dealing with all these questions lately. Earle is being taken to the British Columbia Human Rights Tribunal to face charges of hateful speech. The claim stems from an altercation Earle had with a couple of hecklers back in 2007. The women (one of whom is Lorna Pardy, the filer of the compaint) were in the front row of the club and allegedly insulted and heckled Earle as he tried to host an open mic night. After several back-and-forths between the comedian and the women, Earle unleashed what he admits was a pretty hurtful and offensive tirade.

Choice remarks from said tirade: “Come on, you’re fat and ugly — you’re not even lesbian”. Zing! He followed that up with some tasteful bits about oral sex and sex toys. Hold your applause until the end, ladies and gentlemen.

The night escalated after that, ending with Pardy tossing a drink in Earle’s face and the comedian breaking her sunglasses. So, all in all, not a good night for either party.

And now Earle is on trial for his homophobic remarks. Not only is Pardy asking for money but, since the incident, Earle claims it’s been difficult getting shows in Canada. Many gay rights groups have threatened to picket any club he appears at. He says his career has been tarnished and he is in a state of legal and professional limbo until this is all cleared up.

I’m not going to openly defend Earle’s comments or actions (or those by Pardy, which are just as despicable) but I am going to ask an honest, important question: Isn’t this an extremely dangerous precedent? By asking the high court of a nation to define what is hateful and offensive speech, are we not leading ourselves down a path to censorship? And I’m aware that this is a Canadian issue but if it can happen there, it can definitely happen here. Canada and America aren’t that different. Aside from the cute accents.

To tell a comedian that he can’t be offensive is one of the most backwards and ridiculous things a country can do. To fine someone for what they say, regardless of how much you disagree with it, goes against free speech. As infuriating as it may be, it’s not illegal to be an asshole. If that were the case, Rush Limbaugh would be locked away in a tiny cell (well, not TOO tiny — he’s a very large man).

You know I couldn’t get far without mentioning Michael Richards. As any American knows, he lost his head at a comedy club in Los Angeles back in 2006. He went off on a group of hecklers and said truly awful things, all of which was caught on camera. And what did he get for it? His name was forever smeared, his legacy tarnished. He still hasn’t come back from that (some could argue that he didn’t have much of a career before the incident but still…) However, he wasn’t dragged to court, he wasn’t fined by the state. The court of public opinion judged him and ruled out a reasonable sentence: obscurity. I’d say that punishment was just.

Doofus

Mr. Earle may have been offensive but that’s not against the law. Furthermore, it’s a comedy club, where comedians spar with drunken hecklers constantly. To regulate what they can and can’t say is just as severe as taping their mouths shut. Would fining offensive speech make a more enjoyable night for all patrons? Sure. But it would also soften and hollow out the freedoms of comedians. Let us be clear: comedians exercise free speech in the truest sense of the term. They are the canaries in the coalmine when it comes to this issue.

Hell, even I wish we could limit some speech. How much joy would I get if Heidi Montag was fined every time she opened her mouth? How delighted would I be if my dear friend Glenn Beck was prosecuted for some of the inane, absurd hate he’s spewed? I’d be happier than a fat tick on a skinny dog. But, as a proud citizen of this country and a true believer in civil rights, I know that world can never be. Can we boycott what we dislike? Can we do all in our power to minimize the effect of hateful speech? Abso-freaking-lutely. But we can’t be taking our grievances over insults to the courts. We as patrons and customers hold enormous sway.

Perhaps Guy Earle summed it up best: this whole situation is just plain “retarded”.

Wait, I take that back. Maybe that wasn’t the best way to sum it up.

PALMETTO BUGS

timbryce — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 11:29:33 +0000

I don’t think I would make a very good entomologist (someone who studies insects). We have more than our share of critters down here in Florida that I could do without, including a wide variety of spiders, beetles, man-eating mosquitoes, gnats, grubs, ravenous termites, no-see-ums (which are tiny yet very annoying flies that are hard to see until they swarm around your head), and palmetto bugs, which is an endearing name we have invented in the south for “cockroaches.”

I believe our palmetto bugs are a bit different than the common cockroaches found up north. For starters, they’re a lot bigger; most adults are bigger than your thumb. This, of course, means they have copped an attitude and are not easily intimidated by humans. The young ones may scamper away when you turn the lights on, but the big ones finish their cigarettes before they arm wrestle you.

They also have a voracious appetite for just about anything, be it food, grease, spilled drinks, wax, rubber, feces, spit, you name it. I have even seen them devour the binding glue to an entire set of encyclopedias at one sitting, as well as a lot of the paper for dessert. When you live in the south, you learn to put things away properly, and quickly, otherwise the dinner bell rings and the palmetto bugs gorge themselves like they were eating watermelons.

The palmetto bug can be rather evasive to capture. First, it has a Houdini-like ability to squeeze through the smallest crack or hole to escape. Second, it can move with the speed and agility of Seabiscut to avoid being whacked by a rolled-up magazine. It will also fly if challenged, much to the bewilderment of a lot of people not familiar with their battle tactics.

Aside from birds, reptiles and fish, there are only two things the palmetto bug dislikes, sunlight and cold, which means they are on the move at nighttime and are looking for a cozy place in your house when the temperature drops. Anyone who doesn’t take effective measures to prevent their entry into a building during this time is just asking for trouble. There aren’t too many things uglier than a roach infestation.

It’s no small wonder why insect control businesses flourish down here, and why you can find so many people spraying bug juice. It is hard not to pass a pest control truck on the road during the day. They’re so busy down here that Boeing Stratotankers circle the state refueling the trucks. The people who spray “the juice” all seem to have a strange catatonic glaze on their face. They don’t say too much as they spray your house or business but there seems to be quite a bit of mumbling involved with the job.

Whether you call them palmetto bugs or cockroaches is immaterial. They’re dirty little critters who serve a questionable purpose in life. Think about it, other than being a food source for other creatures, what purpose do they serve? Maybe they’re nothing more than the bottom of the food-chain.

Keep the Faith!

Note: All trademarks both marked and unmarked belong to their respective companies.

For Tim’s columns, see:
http://www.phmainstreet.com/timbryce.htm

The World Turned Upside Down

Lena — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 06:25:31 +0000

I don’t want to say that I live in a bizarre world but you see I reside in a town called Topsy Turvy in the country of Before. My name is Todd and I live on a small farm with my parents and my grandfather. I go to school and am proud to be at the bottom of my class. I reside in a small town with just a few neighbors way back in the country of Before. In my small town we do things a bit different than most. You see, when we plant corn, it grows underground. We have to pull it up with corn pickers when it is time to harvest. The carrots grow above ground and the watermelons are red on the outside and green on the inside. All of the people in our little town walk on their hands and when they meet on the street, they shake feet. Even our babies scoot on their backs rather than crawl on their knees. Our faucets point up and our drinking fountains down. Our school desks are on the ceilings, which of course makes seeing that much better since the lights are there.

On this wonderfully rainy morning, I stopped by the butchers on my way to school to give my mother’s shopping list to Mr. Fritz.

“Hello Todd. On your way to school I see,” greeted Mr. Fritz as he stood at the counter loading it with fresh bacon. “Is that your mother’s list for me?”

“Yes sir. Mom will be by later after she finishes making the pineapple right-side-up cake for the county bake sale.”

As I was about to leave, gabby Mrs. Gray walked in snooping for gossip.

“Bottom of the morning to you, Mrs. Gray. I do hope you’re husband is doing well.” The butcher greeted Mrs. Gray as she entered his shop.

“Oh my yes, Mr. Fritz. He is under the weather, isn’t it grand! I do hope that you have a fine top roast this morning. Mr. Gray does enjoy top roast with his potatoes.”

“Indeed we do. A fine bottom round steak too I might add.” With that, the butcher proceeded to package her meat for her.

“I hear tell that the new schoolmarm will arrive today. I can’t wait to see her. They tell me she comes from a school out East. I’ve heard that they are a bit odd out there.”

With a wave of my foot to both, I headed out the door. I was all a flitter this morning. A new schoolteacher was coming, how grand! When I arrived at school, I stopped to talk to Burt the town painter. He was busy applying a coat of green to the schoolhouse door. Carefully starting at the bottom, he smoothly stroked the brush straight up holding the paintbrush between his toes of his left foot, reaching the top and then starting over at the bottom. He put his brush in the paint can and waved his right foot in greeting.

“How are you today on this fine rainy day, Master Todd?” Burt was a friendly man, especially when his painting went well. “I had to wait two weeks for the sun to go away so that I could paint this door. Can’t have the paint drying on me as I put it on you know. Are you looking forward to seeing the new teacher today?”

“Oh definitely sir. This will be the first outsider that we have had in our town in many years. I hope she isn’t too different.” I wasn’t sure about having someone outside of Topsy Turvy teach us. I was happy the way things had been for many a day.

Mr. Martin came by on his way to the station. The town council delegated him to pick up the teacher and bring her to the school. He was wearing his favorite polka dot bow tie and his red leather gloves. He had an umbrella in his pant leg so that the new teacher would not get wet on her way to the schoolhouse. “Please ring the gong at half past eight so that the children will all be in their seats to greet the new teacher when she gets here.” He waved his foot as he proceeded in a hurry to the depot.

So, I rang the gong with my left foot at half past eight and went into the room to take a seat. I had my book opened upside down and my legs crossed. The minute hands seemed to creep as we sat waiting for the new teacher to show. Oh, what was taking so long?
Suddenly the door flew open and what to our surprise a lady dressed in a yellow floral dress walked into the room on her feet rather that on her hands. She looked about the room with a puzzled look on her face.

“Why are you children sitting on the ceiling and why are your books upside down? You can’t read or write with your books that way,” she stated as she opened her large black bag and pulled out a book entitled The World and its Cultures.

We all sat and stared at this strange woman and wondered how smart she could be if she didn’t sit on the ceiling where the light was the best and she wasted her toes by walking on them and shoving them in stiff looking gloves of some sort. Why this truly must be a joke!

“Oh this will not do. Please bring your desks to the floor and turn your books around this instant. What a strange town I have landed in for sure,” she stated as she walked over to the chalkboard.

“My name is Miss Penelope Proper and I like history. Today we will discuss my town of Nowville. In Nowville we never walk on our hands unless we are being silly. Our corn grows tall and straight where we can reach out a pick it when it is ripe. Our carrots grow in the dirt where they grow sweet and crisp. Our watermelon is red fruited with green skins. Most of all we have green grass not blue and our sky is blue and not green! We love the sun and tolerate the rain. I have been all over the world and I have never seen a country like Before.”

The smaller children began to cry and the boys just shook their heads. Wait until the parents heard about all this. Why they never heard such nonsense!

At lunch, the children ran home as fast as their hands would let them. I told my mother about the strange teacher and grandpa was reading his paper upside down, grumbling about what the world was coming too. Dad came in after he heard the news saying that the whole town was abuzz about the lady who walked on her feet.

“Well I won’t have it mother. Teaching our children that the sky is blue. Who ever heard such a thing! Why my dad and his before him have been growing corn in the ground and Mayor Shouldhave’s father invented the corn picker. I say we keep the children home from school.”

That evening the folks of Topsy Truvey gathered in the town hall to discuss the new teacher. Mr. Hasbeen stood up first on his creaky old arms that wobbled as he paced in front of the hall. “Why I saw a book that she was reading at the train depot. It was about Customs in other parts of the world. What makes her think that the other towns are right and we are wrong? How dare her criticize five generations of Before’s. Just because she has the right to her opinions doesn’t make her opinions right!”

“I agree with Mr. Hasbeen and I second his statements,” stated Burt. “She told me that I should wait until the sun was out to paint and that I should start at the top and work my way down. How dare her! I have been painting all of my life and she comes into town and tells me how to do my job.” Burt stomped down and up the handway in the center of the hall. “I’m so mad I could put my foot through a door!”

“Well I say we pay her and send her on her way before she puts crazy notions into our kids heads,” stated Mrs. Martin. “Why I saw my granddaughter trying to walk on her feet today and nearly fell on her head. What will she teach them next? She is a bad influence she is!”

So it was voted on that night that Miss Penelope would have to take her new fangled ways and leave. After all, the last thing they needed was her to disturb and disrupt their quiet little town Turvey Topsy. The next thing you know, she would try to turn their world downside up!

Coyotes Making a Home in New York City

Minnette Coleman — Tue, 23 Feb 2010 17:30:58 +0000

I am waiting for the morning when I look out my bedroom window and see a pack of coyotes traipsing down the street like they own the place. Their paws making prints in the snow, their presence making those hanging out after a night on the town take a second look at the number of cocktails they had before they made it home. Since the coyote appeared in Harlem in January and was tranquilized and released in Pelham Park in the Bronx two more sightings have occurred. That makes five times in 10 years that the Big Apple has gotten visits from coyotes. Are they moving in? Seeing how it’s a great place to hide according to biologists and movie makers we might as well expect a few coyotes to take up residence here.

Central Park is huge and a good place for wild animals. I speak of the non-human kind, of course. Three coyotes were spotted on Columbia University’s campus a week after the one appeared in Central Park and got his picture all over the internet. They come to the city like tourists following the train tracks, the parks and the riverbanks. Often when I am in a taxi on the Westside Highway I look at the woods between the river and the high rise apartment buildings and wonder who or what lives there. You can walk down the streets of New York and get attacked by crazed humans but if you walk through the heavily forested areas of the parks and around the highways you may come face to face with a Coyote.

Why are they traveling here? Could be lack of food where they were living. But the best bet from what I have read is they are looking for a place to settle down. January and February are breeding months for these animals, so they might find some places to hold up under and around the Big Apple until spring. Then we might look out and see what looks like German Shepherd pups playing in the park or scampering around the riverbank.

Though New York has been called an Urban Jungle it is really the edge of the forest. Things happen in the woods of Central Park, on the river banks of the Hudson and East Rivers and in the tunnels that are no longer used for trains. Writers have let their imaginations run wild and created stories that place Vampires and Werewolves and strange beasts in the city. My favorite was the television show “Beauty and the Beast” where Vincent, a man with the face and paws of a lion, (played by Ron Perlman of ‘Hellboy’ fame) lived with several others beneath the city. Movie makers have always created hell on earth beneath New York. The isle of Manhattan has been virtual host to all sorts of catastrophic events and the devil gone wild. Everything from children’s fantasy to exorcisms fill the minds of those who create stories about New York.

But now we have coyotes for real and that may cause more wild ideas to take seed. Suppose one of the critters just walked down the steps and got on a subway train? Rats have done it, I kid you not. What if they started sitting out back of restaurants late and night and waiting for the scraps? What if someone half blind but too vain to get glasses takes one home as a pet?

That is my imagination going wild with coyotes. I am sure there are other ideas out there. But for a while I will be very careful coming home late in the evening. I don’t want to avoid the garbage where the possum-size rats are feeding only to run into a large east coast coyote looking for a mate. Maybe that’s how Vincent was born a lion-man. A female lion escaped from the circus and. . . . Oh that is too sick!

Bus Story: A Stinky Situation

Minnette Coleman — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 21:14:39 +0000

The man sitting next to me farted. It was loud. It was also the worse expulsion of body gases I had ever endured. He didn’t say sorry or excuse me. He just looked straight ahead as if the overwhelming odor had not invaded his olfactory senses.

I held my breath because I thought I was going to pass out if not die.

I know it sounds childish to go on since things like this happen every day but there is more to this story. You see the stench lingered for at least 20 blocks. It filled the cavity of the bus like swamp gas and the woman in front of me said a loud: “Oh, my God,” and started to cough. I wanted to escape but I was sitting on the inside near the window and the farting prince next to me made no attempt to move to the empty back of the bus. Perhaps back there he would have gone so far as to make his ass whistle but what he did next was worse. As people turned wondering where the smell came from, he looked at me trying to remove blame from himself.

You would have thought I had run over the Pope with a tractor the way people were staring at me. I was ready to smack this guy. Even the driver raised his head and caught my eyes in the rear view mirror. I don’t know what this man ate but now I was being blamed for exposing all the souls on the bus to it. All I could think of was the old saying “some people think there stuff doesn’t stink but their farts give them away.” I was holding my head like that person wanting to scream ‘I didn’t do it!’

For the most part people are not crazy. Sometimes one of those leaving the cuckoo’s nest makes its way into your life. Such was the case with the man sitting next to me. He had already defamed me in front of my fellow passengers so I had no idea what would this crazy would do next. I was about to take myself out of the situation and move to another sit when he got up and walked to the front taking his place next to an elderly lady on the long front seat. She smiled at him probably thinking he was wise to move from the woman (me) who made that loud, uncultured fart. I was quite peeved that he let me take the blame for his problem but there was nothing I could do. I looked out the window and acted as if nothing happened. Unfortunately, I was thinking about the days to come when I would get on the bus with many of the same people and they would stare at me, expecting loud bursts from my bottom because I would be dubbed the “Fart Queen.”

Moments later, the man now sitting in the front of the bus let another loud one rip. The stench filled the bus again but I felt vindicated. Everyone was looking at him so he let another one go. This one almost lifted him out of his seat.

The poor old lady next to him started cursing in Spanish and fanning the putrid air. The bus driver just shook his head and the farting man, with the stupidest grin on his face, got off at the next stop.

Though dead of winter several people opened windows and chilled air replaced the awful smell. Being members of polite society no one said a word, though a few people could not help but laugh. I didn’t find it funny since he had been sitting next to me and I had suffered through his first ‘burst’ of foul air. No one was going to apologize for the rude looks they had given me when it appeared I had been the farting culprit. I was just going to have to be satisfied with everyone knowing it was not me.

As I made my way to the front to get off the lady in front of me attempted a kindness in her conversation. “My goodness, that was awful. What do you think he ate?”

I shrugged having no idea of the man’s digestive system which seemed to need some type of cleansing. The driver smiled at me and said: “It’s New York, sister. We get all kinds.”

Yeah, sure, I thought. But why do they have to sit next to me?

Glenn Beck is Still A Fat, Angry, Crazy Person!

Brandon Marcus — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 03:47:39 +0000

Things change a lot. Like the four seasons of the year, things come and go, rise and fall, sparkle and fade. We live in an uncertain world, where we lose things we hold dear without any warning. Luckily, there are some things that stay the same and will never, ever change.

Glenn Beck is one of those things. Weekday or weekend, winter or spring, night or day, Glenn Beck brings the crazy. Smoking hot and ready to serve. Beck has made paranoid, blabbering psycho talk an art. Pack it in, conservative pundits, Beck has got this. He’s putting others to shame with his take on the current administration and the world surrounding him. He never has a shortage of outrageous talking points and, luckily for us all, he never has a shortage of TV appearances to attend, guaranteeing moment after moment of non-stop hilarity.

Dateline: this morning. Beck appears on Fox & Friends. The issue? The successful capture of Mullah Abdul Ghani Baradar, Taliban commander and all around icky dude.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Yeah! Hell yeah! Shoot him in the head! Get ‘er done! Surely, you can follow Beck’s reasonable rationale. We must shoot Mullah Abdul Ghani Baradar in the head – AND NOW PLEASE — or else our liberal commie leaders will…accidentally hire him as a teacher at an elementary school? I’ll admit that I don’t really understand Beck’s blubbering diatribe but I won’t let that stop me from enjoying it. Just watch it again, in slow motion if you can. Note the emotion in his eyes, the stern wagging of his finger gun as he repeats “Shoot him in the head!” There’s such fury and fire in those puffy eyes. When his several chins jiggle like jello, you can feel the resolution in his soul. This isn’t just an overpaid, unbalanced TV commentator, this is a freedom fighter, a soldier on the front lines for America.

That gives me an idea. Glenn Beck should enlist in the Army. Sure, he’s overage, overweight and probably just a little more sane than Private Pyle, but think of the morale booster Glenn Beck could be for our troops. Whenever they were feeling down in the dumps about the latest offensive, Beck would rally them together with a furious rant against Van Jones! He could remind them what they’re fighting for: freedom! Freedom of life, liberty and the ability to spew complete nonsense on national television. He could tell them to fight for the boys and girls back home, the people that count on them most. Their country is relying on them, Glenn Beck would remind our brave soldiers. Not only their country but their families, their friends, their dirty, Kenyan-born President WHO SHOULD BE OVERTHROWN AT ALL COSTS.

“Come on boys!” he’d shout. “Let’s show those dirty terrorists who they’re fighting against! Shoot ‘em in the head! Shoot ‘em ALL in the head!”

Brings a tear to my eye just to think of it.

We know Glenn Beck’s got it in him. The man is a patriot, a true devotee of freedom and American values. Sure he calls for the overthrow of government and suggests violence in almost every speech he gives, but he truly loves this country. He bleeds red, white and blue.

Some say Glenn Beck is an unhinged sociopath with illusions of grandeur. But I find comfort in his constant gibberish. Like I said, our world is in a state of fluid change. It’s hard to find things you can rely on. But me, I rely on Glenn Beck. I rely on his determination to speak his mind, his desire to be the loudest man on TV, his conspiracy theories and revelations.

Mostly though, I rely on his inanity.

My Big Day Off – In China

Bob Grant - Editor — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 06:12:50 +0000

Below is something that I sent to my family and they all said they liked it. However, they are family and what else could they say? I have a manager/partner in China whose name is David – we have associates named Eric and Uncle Wong. I live in Missouri and my relatives live in Wyoming. This sets the stage for the following recap of My Big Day Off – In China:

We found ourselves on a Saturday in a city I have visited before named Hangzhou (Han-Joe) with no appointments and time on our hands before our plane departed for Shenzhen (Sin-Gin). There is a lake in Hangzhou named West Lake. Not a very original name for the Chinese, but using Chinese logic, I am certain – somewhere – there is a North Lake, South Lake, Southeast Lake, Southwest Lake, South South Lake – you get the picture. The possibilities are endless.

David said, “Let’s take a boat ride”. Great – sounded like a good idea. Sitting quietly in a boat watching the countryside and relaxing – NOT. Think Progressive Dinner.

We did take a boat. Not something you would normally see in Missouri – or Wyoming for that matter. Regardless, I followed David and Eric on the boat and settled in for a comfortable ride.

This ended at our first stop. This is a small island in the middle of the lake where a lot (puts new meaning to the term a lot) of people were on this tiny piece of property in the middle of a very large lake (think the entire population of Wyoming visiting a 20×20 foot cabin – and having to stand within its walls). I saw no reason to get off a perfectly good boat and stand on a very small island for no other purpose – apparent to me – other than to see how many people the island could actually hold (think stuffing a phone booth or a Volkswagen for fun). However, I figured I would go with the flow and started to get up. David grabbed me by the arm (at this moment I knew I had selected the proper person to be my partner in China) and he said, “Too many people – we stay on boat”. A relief of Chinese proportion for certain!

We did stay on the boat and many more people got on and we took off. Out in the open waters we encountered some interesting vessels.

The first is an idea I think the water patrol on our nations lakes and rivers should use. I think it would definitely curtail the urge for boaters to drink alcohol. One look at a water patrol “dragon boat” coming at you and you might conclude that you already had enough to drink for the day.

The second vessel we encountered made me wonder what the load limit sign says on it – probably “load until sink”.

The third vessel we saw made me wonder what you called this guy – his job title? Single Paddle Rower? I would think there would be some type of apprentice program – you would not immediately become a SPR person? There has to be a trick to using a single paddle – on one side of the boat – and make the craft go straight? I think apprentice spend a lot of time going in circles before they become a fully qualified SPR person.

Our next stop was another island in the lake with not quite the crowded space as the first island and it was bigger – think the entire states of New York and New Jersey visiting Rhode Island – on the same day and time. I wondered what the significance of this island was and David said it has a lake within a lake. Think a donut in the middle of the very large body of water. At that time I was certain I felt the land underneath me starting to move. I was looking forward to crowding onto our next boat – soon! By the way – David also strengthened my feeling for him over what I felt on Island #1 – when he decided we would not walk on the bridge shown in photo above.

We then took an uneventful ride to a dock on the other side of the lake from where we started – again, to be met by millions of our closest friends. We saw a restaurant across the street and David said we should eat there as it was “World Famous”. Great – looking forward to it. However, when we got there the wait was about 10 minutes – not bad given this was a world famous restaurant and we were surrounded by millions of hungry Chinese; however, David said we would not wait. In fact, I can’t remember ever waiting for a table at any place we have ever eaten. How is this possible? Regardless, we skipped the world famous experience for the restaurant next door (maybe the world’s second most famous restaurant) but it did not matter and I did not ask as we got right in with no wait. The pressure is on whenever David finally comes to America for a visit – I guess we will have to eat nuked burritos at Quick Trip so we don’t ever have to wait to eat.

The Hangzhou area is famous for their green tea – named Dragon Tea which seems a little more Chinese, and original, than West Lake. David said this is the best time of the year for Dragon Tea as they are harvesting it and it is fresh – if you come at other times of the year the green tea is old and the experience not quite the same, I guess? He said we needed to go drink some of the tea for good luck. Great – I am all for a little luck. He wanted to rent some bicycles – I already felt lucky when they were all rented out (think a training bicycle (size) without the training wheels). Therefore, we stood there looking for a way to get from the second most famous restaurant in the world to the lucky tea place – but so were a million other people. It never ceases to amaze me that we can find that one lone taxi among millions of people – and Eric seems to get it for us. I think it has to do with bargaining skills – since we are starting to import products into China then I think this skill will come in handy. So we jumped in this cab and were on our way to the lucky tea place.

When we got to the lucky tea place we first had to wash our hands in water from the lucky well . I felt I would play along; however, it was tough getting to the well with all the people around let alone getting some of the lucky water – but I managed. Eric also washed his face in the lucky water but for all I know the lucky water came from the lucky toilets up the hill? I had to draw the line with washing my hands – no one seemed to take offense.

The cab driver then introduced us to this young girl who led us down a long flight of stairs into a small building and then into a small private room – I was wondering, at the time, just how lucky was I expected to get?

Relief came over me when I discovered it was a private tasting room for the Dragon Tea or lucky tea. We drank our tea and boy was I feeling lucky – I was thinking where was a lottery machine when you really needed one. David said we also needed to go to the temple and burn incense for more business luck – wow, was this my lucky day or what!

The same cab driver was waiting – amazing! He took us to the temple, where I discovered, we were not the only ones seeking a little more luck.

Bottom line – we came to see Mr. Big. There were many smaller Mr. Big’s around and in the temple – but the guy in the photo was the one who could really make our day.

However, we first had to go the Lucky Wall to pick out the specific area of luck we wanted. I asked David if it was discouraging if you wanted a symbol that was at the top of the lucky board? He said the top board symbols were duplicated on the bottom – very Chinese.

I asked him which one was I to touch and he suggested the one that translated to “more and more” – which I assumed meant for us more and more business (David agreed). So I touched the wall and we proceeded to the next stage.

To become lucky one pays an admission fee to see Mr. Big and then pays for the incense to burn for Mr. Big. I felt the only ones probably getting lucky were the ones selling the tickets and the incense. However, you get your incense – light it and go through the ritual. I thought it was a one time deal – touch the wall, burn the incense, and be done. Lucky – Lucky – Lucky so to speak. However, after the first lighting (you take your incense in your hands and bow three times to the building where Mr. Big is located) there are two more occasions (stages) were you have to burn incense. At the second burning I asked what the first was for – he said a “good girl friend” – after 43 years of a good one I figured I could have skipped that stage. The second stage was for good health; however, at this point I was sneezing so much from all the incense I was wondering if this stage was actually working for me? Maybe because I was not a true believer? Also, by this time we had taken a long boat ride, had a few glasses of the lucky tea, and I was more interested in finding the lucky bathroom than anything else.

The last stage was the biggest stage – most luckiest if you will. It was for good business – or whatever you touched on the wall. For the other stages you burned a group of smaller incense. For this stage you burned one big incense. For this stage we bowed first to the east, then to the south, then to the west, and then to the north – I guy could get dizzy before he could get lucky. I went along for the ride. To prove I was actually there.

About this time we had about two hours to get to our flight and I knew we were among millions who probably wanted to go somewhere as well. I knew David had an entrance strategy, but when we walked outside the temple, I knew he had no exit strategy. There were literally lines and lines of people waiting for taxis of which there were few – very few (taxis not people)! However, Eric came through again and we got a taxi but we had just a little over an hour before our flight departed. I knew the airport was a long way from the temple plus our bags were still at the hotel. I have learned not to get excited or ask a lot of questions – I just got in the taxi and hoped for the best. We took off for the airport – along the way David said he called the hotel and they were bringing our bags to the airport. Boy was I thanking Mr. Big!

On Friday a factory we were visiting in Hangzhou (we were in Shanghai at the time) sent a car to pick us up – it is about a three hour drive one way. However, David did not tell the factory how many people were with us and they just assumed it was David an me so two people from the factory came to pick us up. However, we had four of us (the good guys) so we needed to leave Uncle Wong in Shanghai – which was OK because his dad lives there. He was to meet us at the Hangzhou Airport – but when we got there no Uncle Wong? David said, “We lost Uncle Wong”. Although I have grown to like Uncle Wong very much I figured he really was not lost – he is in his mid-50′s and probably could take care of himself. But we certainly had misplaced Uncle Wong – he was no where in site. We barely made the plane before the doors closed – and what did we see but Uncle Wong sitting on the plane. Again – I think Mr. Big had something to do with it.

The flight back to Shenzhen was uneventful. We arrived and it is now Sunday and I have a little time on my hands – can you tell.

How to get your child through school successfully – a parents guide

Prentiss Gray — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 16:49:15 +0000

Chapter 7 – Dealing with Schools

For most of us dealing with the teachers and administration at our child’s school can be a difficult process. Many of us approach this important task with needless trepidation or false conceptions.

We were once students ourselves and may have built up a habit of obeying or even expecting punishment or derision from teachers and administrators.

This is a non productive attitude for parents. Teachers are not gods, many of them are hardly even human. Before engaging in any discourse with your child’s teacher, ask yourself these questions:

Did this person find teaching as a calling in kindergarten, dedicating the rest of their lives to the education of children? Or was this the only job they could find after graduating with a useless degree in Grecian philosophy?
Is this person a master educator or a product of “if you can’t do, teach.”
Does this slimy wanker think they’re in charge? Or do they recognize that theirs is to serve in a difficult task as best they can. Parents, always ask yourself, are they “the boss of me?”

Perspective is everything in dealing with a school and their staff. Parents must keep first and foremost in their minds that they are their child’s agent, the only protection a child has from pseudo-authorities who believe that there is such a thing as a “permanent record.” The only permanent record is a police file, if you have one, bring it along. They can be very useful in those tricky “who’s in charge here?” moments.

Parents must also remember that they are acting as an agent for thousands of single taxpayers and childless couples, who are expecting that their hard earned monies are going into a system that prepares young citizens for jobs that do not require use of the phrase “Do you want fries with that?”

Parents must adopt the clear attitude that nothing is true until proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. The statements and opinions of teachers and administrators (who are often failed teachers) do not constitute competent authority. Any diagnoses, medical or otherwise, offered by school staff are suspect at best. Would you support brain surgery on the basis of the biology teacher’s recommendation, or a career in air conditioning and refrigeration maintenance on the word of the teacher of English lit?

Parents must also avoid the trap of sympathy. Just because a teacher has 9 classes of 30 students per day does not mean they can’t give your child special attention. If they try that approach on you, suggest they look into a career in air conditioning and refrigeration maintenance. Don’t be understanding. Don’t try to be liked, or worse, appear intelligent. Be the parent the school most fears distressing. Your child is that special. Be sure they know you would have no compunction in killing for your child.

Lastly, teachers and administrators are mostly humans and appreciate praise. If they are truly praiseworthy, reward them. Gifts or enticements of money, and or large quantities of liquor are a parent’s best friend. While not everyone can afford a yearly cruise to the Caribbean for their favorite teacher, how about a nice hand-job, or good quality diamond? Just remember: be effective. Will hanging their annoying neighbor’s disemboweled dog up on the apple tree, or a the rental of a good quality sheep costume and an offer to play a game of “the lonely shepherd” be more apropos to the situation?

Parents don’t be afraid to experiment in the cause of your child. Children must navigate the difficult waters of a staid and beleaguered system in order to get the right start in our world. Don’t be afraid to slide the bullets in and out of a large pistol during teacher conferences, or begin a school meeting by spray painting the little window in the classroom door with black paint. Getting a good education for your child is not easy, or guaranteed. As parents we must be prepared to go the distance.

In the next chapter “Nailing the parent teacher conference,” we will discuss the use of bustiers, prominent tube socks and switchblade knives as effective conversation drivers.

Prentiss Gray is a writer and columnist and currently writes the Domesti-Tech Blog for Gannett. He can be reached through his website at www.prentissgray.com

Lohan: “I’m A Hoarder.” Me: “Um, What?”

Brandon Marcus — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 00:09:57 +0000

EXCLUSIVE! EXCLUSIVE! Lindsay Lohan is a hoarder!

Click here to view the embedded video.

Lohan, interviewed by that woman from Reno 911, reveals to The Insider that she’s got a problem with hoarding — JUST LIKE THAT ONE SHOW ON THE TV!

“It’s kind of a sore subject,” the Mean Girls star says about her massive amount of shoes and clothing. “I just need to get rid of this stuff.” The music is really dramatic so you know that Lindsay’s serious.

I could care less about Lindsay Lohan. She hasn’t really been on my radar since A Prairie Home Companion. Since then, she’s devoted her time to crashing cars and drunken ramblings on Twitter. Obviously, you need more than that to draw me in. That being said, this new revelation about hoarder intrigues me, mostly because it’s complete BS.

Lohan in her element

Lindsay Lohan is NOT a hoarder. Lindsay Lohan is a rich starlet who gets ridiculous amounts of free stuff from designers. Lindsay Lohan is also a rich starlet who spends her time roaming the Hollywood Hills, searching for the loudest party instead of cleaning out her house. In other words, Lindsay Lohan is a lazy drunk. The people on Hoarders are folks who have serious emotional scars and require psychological help. While I think that Lohan probably needs some sort of psychiatric evaluation, I doubt she’s actually a hoarder.

So why say she is? Maybe because The Insider will publicize it and it’ll spread like wildfire via the web. Maybe because Lohan’s career and image are so tarnished that she needs something — anything — to revive them. If there’s one thing we know about America, it’s that it love when troubled stars make comebacks. Robert Downey Jr. anybody?

But I think Lohan went about this the wrong way. She should have confessed to a different disorder. I think maybe some good old fashioned OCD would have appealed to the people more. Film some clips of her repeatedly locking and unlocking her door — priceless! Also, she should have a sit-down interview with someone who isn’t as annoying as the Free Credit Report.com commercials. No offense, Niecy Nash. Call up Diane Sawyer or, fingers crossed, Oprah. That would bring in the viewers. That could get Lindsay’s career going again.

But, alas, she’s stuck with hoarding and The Insider. Who knows, maybe that’s all it takes. Maybe this will work in Lohan’s favor and she’ll garner some sympathy and perhaps get her life back on track.

Or maybe, just maybe, Linday really is a hoarder. Maybe she really is sick and needs medical attention. Maybe this really is a cry for help, even if she’s broadcasting it on national television.

But probably not. I mean, this is Lindsay Lohan we’re talking about.

Stuart Aken Reviews The Shadow of a Smile by Kachi A Ozumba

stuartaken — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 19:55:02 +0000

Kachi A. Ozumba’s story of corruption, judicial incompetence and prevailing injustice in Nigeria is lightened by the humour he mixes with the pathos. Zuba, the naive and honest victim, moves from initial complacent trust in the legal system through amazement, disbelief and despair to a realisation that he cannot expect the judicial authorities to treat his situation seriously or with fairness. The police and prison authorities are shown as corrupt but perhaps no more so than the rest of this society.

Against the background of incarceration and hierarchical prison ethics, he paints a picture of a country still at war with a major portion of its citizens. The conflict with Biafra is a constant strand running through the novel and displays the underlying tribal nature of the Dark Continent, showing, with subtle insights, why prejudice is both harmful and pointless, wherever it may manifest itself.

Kachi paints his characters as real people undergoing real events. The details of daily life, education and the prison system in Nigeria suggest he has experienced all three; if not, his research methods are extraordinary. He also raises questions about the nature and value of religious faith, perhaps hinting that it is of greater value to the desperate and ignorant than to the hopeful and educated.

The love story that develops along the way will satisfy romantics without antagonising pragmatists who read this very well written novel. And the themes of the true value of friendship and loyalty are carried well by the developing relationship between Zuba and Ike as they battle their way through the maze of contradictory evidence responsible for their incarceration.

The dreadful Mr and Mrs Egbetuyi wreak vengeance for a situation entirely of their own making, blaming Zuba and refusing to accept any responsibility for the circumstances in which they have placed themselves. Their utter selfishness and lack of concern for the ruination they visit on an honest man is a potent statement on the modern trend in which winning at all costs is becoming an acceptable aim. This is a novel I happily recommend.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Shadow-Smile-Kachi-Ozumba/dp/1846880890/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1265053932&sr=1-1

From Bottom or Top

Bob Grant - Editor — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 18:34:47 +0000

From Bottom or Top

by Bob Grant

We are tall or short or skinny or fat,

We can drill that well or swing that bat.

We are bald or gray or brown or blond,

We can pitch that tent or fish that pond.

We are fair or dark or pale or tan,

We can paint that fence or wash that van.

We are young or old or girl or boy,

We can make that bed or jump for joy.

What sets us apart like soda and pop,

Unrolling your TP from bottom or top.

Wit, satire and forgery

Tim Roux — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 11:21:37 +0000

As you know, we have a hacker who turns up on this site from time-to-time.

As you may not know, we also have a wit-cum-satirist-cum-forger who is now regularly in the habit of changing other people’s postings to satirise them.

Whilst I am delighted that the guy has a sense of humour somewhat absent from his substantive work, and while I delight in satire labelled as satire, I do have some doubts about people changing other people’s posts here.

Example #1

Hi I am Prentiss Gray, jerk number #2. Just check out my comments and postings thoughout the site. I work hard on being the number #2 jerk of the site.

Example #2

Jerk #1 here.

Hi, my name is Tim Roux. I am the number one jerk who lives in a foreign country. I spend most of my time trashing other folks postings. I am basically anti-Chrisitian, and make as much fun of other posters that are in that vain as much as I can. Since I never served in the military for any country, I also enjoy making fun of any American who has served honorably in the U.S. Military. Check out my postings on this site, and decide you really want to deal with my lousy attitude toward life and people on a daily basis, whenever you post a commentary or poem on this site.

Funnily enough, I’ll go along with most of what this forger wrote.

Yes, I am a foreigner, which may of course be a shameful thing even if it might appear to be marginally excusable on an international writers’ site.

Sure I am a jerk. You may have heard the actor Alastair Sim’s story of someone saying to him “Alastair, you are a fool.” He thought about this statement for a while and then he decided “Yes, I am”, and was happy ever after.

Do I trash other people’s postings? Yes, from time-to-time. I support many too in a ratio of 1:4, I would guess (one trash to 4 supports).

Am I anti-Christian? Often. I believe that Christians with their blood lust and devotion to hell fire have created much misery on this earth. Am I negatively critical of Christ? Absolutely not. He was a great man, philosopher and quite possibly the incarnation of the loving God. Freddy Nietzsche took the same position as I am here (or vice-versa, more likely).

Do I make fun of the military? I think killing and torturing people is not a very Christian act and that most wars are utterly unjustified. I also find it hard to believe that any Christian would delegate his or her moral responsibility to a superior officer. I personally would never join the armed forces of any country and the US has certainly fought some very dubious wars in the last 50 years – Korea, Vietnam, Latin America (covertly), Iraq #2 and Afghanistan in particular.

So, all-in-all, what my forger wrote satirising me was unobjectionable, but it does concern me that he chose to do it in my name rather than his.

And Prentiss Gray is not the Son of God. He is just a naughty boy.

Return to Myanmar (Burma)

Tony Bayliss — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 03:12:00 +0000

Two years ago, I visited Yangon and Mandalay, in Myanmar, to see for myself a country which our own Government was urging us not to visit. I found a marked contrast between the beautifully-tended boulevards and parks on the approach to each city – clearly showcases for visiting dignitaries – and the completely neglected downtown areas. Here were the open, rat-infested sewers around which children played, while old men in wrap-around skirts sat on their haunches, their brown wrinkled faces puckering like gnarled conkers in the strong sunshine. I saw people packed into and onto decrepit buses and smoky lorries, and street vendors with stalls illuminated by candle light, in the absence of street lighting. Despite this extreme poverty, I was taken aback by the apparent happiness of the people, who smiled constantly, and always returned my wave. Perhaps it was a ‘Dunkirk’ spirit, adversity and oppression bonding them together, or perhaps their idea of happiness was pinned on less expectation than ours.

So I decided to return to Yangon, and to see whether things have changed after two years, and whether the people are still smiling.

Just as we Brits insisted on giving the Indian cities the mispronounced and misspelt names Calcutta (now Kolkata) and Bombay (now Mumbai) so, we still insist on calling Myanmar (pronounced me-an-mar), and its capital, Yangon, by the colonial names we gave them: Burma and Rangoon. Such a pity, when the rest of the World show a little more respect and use the proper names. Even America manages to get it right which is surprising, given that their former president was wont to call the entire European mainland ‘Yurp’, populated by ‘Yurp’ people (if cartoonist Steve Bell is to be believed!).

I’ve just flown in from the northern Thai city of Chiang Mai, where the pace of change is so fast that the sprouting of new sky-scrapers everywhere has made it almost unrecognisable. Not so in Yangon, where very little has changed. Sanctions imposed by other countries means that there is almost no new building work, the little there is being funded by Chinese investment. We underestimate the Chinese global influence at our peril.

Last time I came, the people were still recovering from the suppression of the street uprising against the Government, when hundreds were killed and thousands imprisoned. No one I spoke to then wanted to be drawn into making any political comments, the wounds still being too fresh. Or perhaps they were afraid to speak out. After that came the hurricane Nargis, when thousands more died, and the Government was unwilling to allow foreign aid workers into the country. But how the passing of time changes attitudes. Now young girls openly sport pendants bearing a picture of the imprisoned opposition leader Aung San Suu Kyi, and taxi drivers, philosophers the world over, rage against the much-hated government, particularly its handling of the economy and its suppression of dissidents. Myanmar people love their Buddhism, and are particularly angry with the Government for killing and imprisoning Buddhist monks, whom they deeply revere. They are also resentful of the rich businessmen, friends and supporters of the military regime, who drive around in huge Japanese cars, and for whom all doors are open.

This year there are to be new elections, but Aung San Suu Kyi will remain under house arrest, unable to participate. Last time, she won a landslide victory, which the military regime ignored. The fear now is that the elections will be rigged, and bloodshed will follow. ‘Political Correctness’ in Myanmar means voting for the correct candidate, or suffering the consequences.

Despite the lack of new buildings, the appalling condition of the down-town areas, and the lack of investment in the infra-structure in general, some changes are evident. Mobile phones have arrived, but for internal use only. Only Government friends can access lines to make or receive international calls.

Yangon now boasts three internet cafes, but the Government has blocked access to all the usual email websites, including Hotmail and Yahoo. Facebook and YouTube are two of the numerous blocked websites, but I was able to listen to BBC radio programmes, read the Guardian on line, and even check my bank account. The top hotels circumvent the block by using German or Swiss software which then routes via those countries to a server called My Freedom, and thus gives guests in the hotels access to all the banned sites, but at a price.

Power cuts are a feature of daily life, and sometimes last all day, but again, the top hotels and government-favoured businesses have generators.

Petroleum is non–existent, so cars run on gas, and have huge pressurised containers in the boot which are topped-up at an out-of town service station, usually after queuing for several hours. I was warned not to take photos of cars being re-gassed. It isn’t clear what photographs are allowed or not allowed, but my driver was very worried when I pulled out my camera. The security guards nearby certainly looked menacing and, like security guards on all commercial buildings and hotels, they were well-armed, and free to use their weapons whenever they saw fit. Guns are everywhere.

There are several cinemas in the downtown area, the entrance price for which ranged from 70p to £2.00, and three were showing ‘Avatar’, although not the 3D version currently showing in UK cinemas. But these were miserable, dark, hot, and dirty places, with uncomfortable seats, and long queues.

Two years ago I noticed that there were no motorbikes in Yangon, but thousands in Mandalay, as is the case in all other Asian cities. I found out this time that the reason for their absence is a government ban, so as to deter drive-by assassinations.

Yet this is a country of freedoms we have forgotten. Who can remember the 1950’s? There were no parking restrictions, no parking meters, no traffic wardens, and no planning laws which could not be circumvented by bribing the appropriate official. These were the halcyon days before the term ‘health and safety’ was coined. You could smoke where you liked, even in the cinema and on the train. Only softies wore crash helmets, and you could hop on and off moving buses and trains. Well, if you want a trip down memory lane, come to sunny Myanmar! You can have all that freedom right here. What is more, the man with a big car (preferably with bull bars), a bigger paunch, and a mobile phone, is the one who gets the girl. Umm, lucky girl! The good old days!

The national sport in Myanmar is killing pedestrians. It works like this: you need to be rich to play, because car ownership is beyond the reach of all but a few. Having got your car, you persuade other car drivers to park all along the pavements so that, what with all the food vendors and hawkers, there is no room left on the pavements for pedestrians. ‘But pedestrians have rights!’ I hear you proclaim, to which the driver here will look at you quizzically, a la Borat, and ask ‘Why?’. Pedestrians here understand that the car is king, and that if they are hit it is their fault, so even the very young, the old, and the infirm, are very good at staying alive, and make illusive targets. In order to score a hit, you move your car slowly towards a zebra crossing. These are the high-scoring areas where pedestrians are lulled into a false sense of security. Here, they congregate in large numbers, waiting for a break in the traffic before moving swiftly across the road. As you coast towards the crossing, the waiting crowd is tempted to step out, thinking you might be stopping. Two or three will start to move, and then the rest will follow. It is at that moment you hit the accelerator hard, and plough into crowd. Judging by the grinning, maniacal faces of the drivers I’ve seen doing this, it’s great fun. If it was an Olympic sport, Myanmar would undoubtedly pick up its first gold medal.

Without exception I was greeted with immense cheerfulness, courtesy and gratitude, everywhere I went. I suppose tourists are still very rare, especially tourists from the West. Men of a certain age stood to attention and saluted me, and young girls giggled and pointed, the braver ones keen to be photographed with me. Maybe they’d never seen anything quite so funny as a red-faced bald man, and they wanted to record the moment for posterity.

The hotel staff were probably the most accommodating I’ve ever met. Nothing was too much trouble, and every single one knew my name within a day of me being in the hotel. Flowers and fruit were placed in my room at regular intervals, and the housekeeper left me daily letters, written in beautiful English handwriting. If I walked along corridors, staff would stop, turn, smile widely, and bow. One young female brought towels to my room, and walked out backwards, bowing and smiling. Frankly, it was all a bit too much, but give me that level of service any day compared with the indifference and rudeness in the UK service industry.

Let me tell you about Di-Di Aung. On three consecutive evenings I found her in the corridor outside my room, on her hands and knees, scrubbing tiny marks off the wall paper with a toothbrush. Each time she saw me, she scrambled to her feet, and bowed. After the third occasion, I stopped and sat down beside her, and we talked. Like all the hotel staff, she speaks passable English. She seemed a little uncomfortable about me sitting there, but she remained very polite, and told me about herself. She is twenty-nine, un-married, and is proud to work in such a prestigious hotel. She works from 10.00 a.m. until 11.00 p.m. six days a week, and receives 100,000 kyat (£70) a month. So in three hours she earns enough to buy the cheapest cinema ticket. She said she is very happy, and enjoys her work. I had no reason not to believe her, given the abundance of her smiles. We moan so much in Britain, but here was a person genuinely happy with a life most of us would dread. Happiness is relative, n’cest pas?

Last time I was here I wondered why the Buddhist Church could not be persuaded to scrape a little gold from its ubiquitous, and very lavish temples, and use it to help the poor, or to re-build the infra-structure in the city. I commented then that Yangon resembled the crumbling Havana, and things are still crumbling. I ventured my opinion to my taxi-driver friend, and received a very cold response. That was the Government’s job, he rightly said. It seems that the temples are a major source of pride to the people, and perhaps their only source of hope. Indeed, the rich church still takes from the poor people. In the famous Bogyoke Market, I watched as small groups of trainee monks, aged about eight or nine, went from stall to stall, doing a little chant. It was a bit like Trick-or-Treat, except the Trick was the wrath of Buddha, which the stall-holders were obviously keen to avoid. At each stall, the owner would put money into the boys’ pot. I saw one stall being visited six times in thirty minutes, and each time money was handed over. Clearly people believe that they can buy their way into a better life, and religions the world over capitalise on the mantra: suffer in this life to have riches in the next. What a con! And it seems to me that the poorer the people, the stronger the religion; but I still can’t help wondering why a ‘loving church’ prefers to gild its Buddhas, rather than feed the poor. That’s religion for you.

Perhaps, after all, this country does have its attractions. For fifteen thousand pounds, you can visit Mr Wong, the nice Chinese property entrepreneur. He will sell you a brand new house in a guarded compound, built to European standards, with three bedrooms and a carport. The UK pension would certainly go a long way here. Oh, and it never snows!

Now I’m off to Bangkok, surely one of the most futuristic cities in the world, with its sky train, hi-tech, hi-fashion, and hi-price shopping malls, some half the size of Wales, and probably more sky-scrapers per square mile than New York. Eat your heart out, Dubai! Bangkok is only an hour’s flight, but a hundred years from Yangon.

In three weeks’ time I will be visiting another country. It has the largest network of spy-cameras in the world, embarks on illegal and immoral wars, has corruption in its honours system, imprisons a higher percentage of its population than anywhere bar America, and allows an un-regulated media to invade people’s privacy. Soon, it will require every citizen to be photographed naked if they wish to leave the country. As well as receiving a high salary, its politicians also get a second, much larger salary to buy food, to hire porn videos, and to house their pet ducks. Yes, you’ve guessed it, I’m going home to the UK (pronounced shan-gri-la).

Tony Bayliss

January 2010

Stuart Aken’s Review of Seer’s Moon by Karen Wolfe

stuartaken — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 10:05:44 +0000

Seer’s Moon is Karen Wolfe’s second fantasy novel centring on the unusual activities of Granny Beamish and her cronies. With its mixture of comic style and supernatural content, the book had me smiling, chuckling and laughing out loud; much to the consternation of my fellow travellers. The story, or at least the main thread, follows the fate of poor Kenneth who has inadvertently become a werewolf and is being chased by a sinister bounty hunter. Granny Beamish and her friends, family and associates, who have some sympathy with the vegetarian Kenneth and his harmless, if somewhat destructive, werewolf alter ego, do their best to prevent his capture and execution. The incompetent local police, an interfering busybody and a creepy, ambitious member of Granny’s Seer community all provide the necessary conflict. Meanwhile, Granny has to contend with the advances of her ex boyfriend, who jilted her, as he tries to win her back.

Seers, for those who are unsure, are members of a parallel community who use telepathy and certain types of magic; it isn’t wise for a normal human to mess with an accomplished Seer, especially one with the gifts possessed by Granny Beamish.

Karen Wolfe writes in a style of her own; colloquially and with a type of humour that touches my laughter muscles. This is a very English novel in many ways and some of the language and references may be lost on readers from outside. But there is so much that is universal in appeal that this association with Englishness acts as an enhancement, giving the book a quirky character that should appeal to readers of all nationalities. And, talking of ‘quirky’ this is the way her characters come across. All are individual, even the dogs, wolf, griffons and other animals, and especially the rampaging sheep. Her people have flaws as well as positive attributes and all of them are very human, sometimes touching and always hilarious, often in ways that completely escape the characters themselves.

If you are seeking enjoyment with the option of laughing and smiling whilst examining human frailty and strength, this is definitely for you. I thoroughly enjoyed it and happily recommend it.

You can view more about Karen Wolfe and find out how to buy her books at http://www.hornseadogclub.fsnet.co.uk/kwolfe/index.html

A Fly on the Wall

Bob Grant - Editor — Sat, 09 Jan 2010 14:20:04 +0000

A Fly on the Wall

by Bob Grant

Be a Fly on the Wall the old saying goes,

Is it something you want or a set up for woes?

Food on the plates and beer on the table,

Distracted before hearing what I am able?

There’s strips, and sprays, and things that kill,

Sure tests a fly’s reason and will.

If another fly sits in your space,

Scooping your story could be the case.

Sitting it out might be my call –

And not be a Fly on the Wall – At All!

Are You a Minnow or Are You a Whale?

Bob Grant - Editor — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 13:48:28 +0000

Are You a Minnow or Are You a Whale?

by Bob Grant

Are you a Minnow or are you a Whale?

Is it for real or maybe a tale?

Like open waters or only small spaces?

There all the time or just certain cases?

Like breathing room and wide open air?

Are you that cave with a small snoring bear?

Are you a showoff or are you quite shy?

Are you content or have fish to fry?

Decision that’s waiting all of you Chiefs,

Is this a day for Boxers or Briefs?

Holy exploding underpants Batman!

Bruce Essar — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 16:08:30 +0000

A Nigerian friend of mine was in Washington and decided he wanted to party and visited a top club one night. Snake hips was shaking his stuff and hooked up with a real beauty in the club. “Hey babe I have something explosive hidden in my underpants.” He used a chat up line.

Did he:

a) Blow his chances.

b) End up hooded and water boarded for the following three days.

c) Wake up in Guantamano?

Answers please.

Bragging A Little Bit

Bob Grant - Editor — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 14:15:32 +0000

Bragging A Little Bit

by Bob Grant

Snow can be cold as it falls on the ground,

So soft and so quiet not making a sound.

Snow can be slick to people and cars,

Or made into things like snowmen and stars.

Snow can be wet when left on your shoes,

Or slowing the boy who brings you the news.

Snow can be slush from ice melt and such,

Or heavy in weight on that shovel you clutch.

Like it or hate it – don’t throw a fit,

Snow is just Rain bragging a bit.

THINGEES

timbryce — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 15:33:47 +0000

Have you ever noticed how we tend to use certain words when we either don’t know the proper name for something or we simply forget what to call it? I don’t know about other languages, but the English language is full of such words, for example:

* Thingee – this is an expression typically used either by young children or older people too reserved to curse. People using this word typically point at the object of their attention when saying “thingee,” both young and old.

* Thingamajig – is an old expression you still hear every now and then. It’s normally used to ask for something; e.g., “Can you hand me that thingamajig?”

* Thingamabob – an even older variation.

* Whatchamacallit – I find this is used more in regards to a person’s title or profession; e.g., “Joe is a professional whatchamacallit.” (I always wondered what P.W. stood for).

* Whatsajig – I think this is a southern variance of whatchamacallit.

* Schravits – this is an unusual one. I first heard this from a friend of mine from the Midwest who primarily uses it to describe a tool or instrument; e.g., “Hand me the schravits will you?”

* Doohickie – although this can be applied to just about anything, it is more commonly used in connection with a blemish or insect bite; e.g., “Boy, that’s an ugly doohickie you have on your arm there.”

These are words that have existed for many years and I think we’re all guilty of using them now and then. This usually comes about when we are tired or lazy and don’t want to engage the brain. You also see it when we’re too preoccupied with something else and don’t want to waste time searching for the correct expression.

My father would use such words for years, particularly at the dinner table, where he would ask for this or that. As he got older though, I noticed he stopped trying to ask for anything verbally and, instead, would just point at it with his finger, which we would instinctively know what he wanted, almost telepathically. It was quite amusing to watch, a bit rude, but amusing nonetheless. There’s a word that describes this phenomenon, I believe it’s called a …..

Such is my Pet Peeve of the Week.

Keep the Faith!

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For Tim’s columns, see:
http://www.phmainstreet.com/timbryce.htm