The Weekly Essay

It’s Another Story.

Not At World’s End

September 13, 2013

"[W]hat is blindingly obvious is that a generation of actors following right behind them has singularly failed to step into their shoes. Who would the contenders even be?…it’s too late for Johnny Depp, who has just turned 50; he has spent his time playing too many man-children on screen to claim the ground occupied by Nicholson and his ilk. And once you survey even younger generations of actors, you realise how much more difficult it will be for them to carve out comparable careers." -from "Jack Nicholson: He’s As Good As They Get", The Telegraph, September 5, 2013

Captured from NewStream Premium Service: September 5, 2053

While we have lost many great actors in recent years the loss of Johnny Depp seems an especially profound milestone, given his broad-ranging and often seemingly fearless career choices. Apparently never wanting to be typecast Depp parlayed his success on a now forgotten TV show into a myriad of roles. While his early films such as Edward Scissorhands and Benny & Joon seemed to set him in the very typecasting he feared, placing him in what would be sometimes called "man-child" roles, and yet later critics would note how each of these characters, while similar, was also unique, and represented different challenges for Depp as an actor. He would also continue to show surprising versatility in films ranging from Fear & Loathing In Las Vegas, Nick Of Time, Blow, and Sleepy Hollow. He often played against older actors, but was never cowed or overshadowed by them.

While his middle career seemed to be marked by what was considered at the time to be more commercial decisions, moving away from some of his more independent films, critics would eventually come to praise Depp’s portrayal of Captain Jack Sparrow. In particular critics noted that he used the opportunity to explore multiple facets of a largely static character, something most actors could only accomplish in VOD serials. The success of these films also seemed to enflame Depp’s ambition still further. While working on the ninth and final film in the Pirates of the Caribbean series Depp worked simultaneously as a producer on League Of Nations, the epic biopic about Woodrow Wilson that starred Brendan Fraser, who also co-wrote and directed the film. Depp would then try his own hand at directing, following in the footsteps of his friend and frequent collaborator Tim Burton, with a sequel to Ed Wood. Unlike the earlier film, which approached the infamous director’s life comically, Depp’s film was a dark exploration of Wood’s later, declining years. Its critical and commercial failure seemed to spur Depp in yet another new direction: performing live theater. This would lead to the lavishly praised and highly successful long-term runs of his one-man Waiting For Godot, in both London and Paris.

With Depp’s passing, though, and the losses or retirements of so many of his notable contemporaries, the question becomes which, if any, male actors of the younger generation is capable of taking his place. Laszlo Mbwende, who seemed destined for greatness with his stirring debut in Bruce Willis’s epic final film Aphasia has made a series of poor career choices. Having fallen from the limelight he seems intent on focusing solely on a music career. Anton Tremain, who was at one time regarded as the next Jim Carrey, has squandered his talent on a series of cat holograms. While his talent is obvious even when he’s dressed as a cat it remains to be seen whether he really has the older actor’s gift for both drama and comedy. Even Luis Gibran, who seemed poised to become the greatest dramatic male actor of his generation, was taken from us too soon in a tragic accident while doing preliminary filming for a gritty, dark Aquaman film. The passing of Depp and his generation marks the end of a cinematic golden era, the likes of which we are unlikely to ever see again.

Paying too much for dildennium? Click here for this surprising trick!

They have one in the lab. They call him “Buzzy”.

September 6, 2013

For most of us mosquito season is coming to an end, but, taking a cue from the car and fashion industries which live in a perpetual state six months ahead of the rest of the world, scientists are currently working on ways to deal with next spring’s mosquitoes. Taking a spoonful of vinegar remains a popular folk remedy which scientists continue to test. While traditionally it’s been taken orally they’re experimenting with other orifices. Also some repellent companies already offer a fan that can be clipped to the belt or hem of one’s shorts which continually sprays a cloud of low level repellent.

Since this has been found to only be effective as long as the wearer remains absolutely still scientists are experimenting with a hat that will spray repellent in all directions. Unfortunately problems have been encountered with these hats, and wearers are advised to avoid lit candles, grills, fire pits, and internal combustion engines. Scientists are also working on genetically modified mosquitoes. So far they haven’t had any luck with making mosquitoes less aggressive, but they have produced a strain that is the size of a small dog, making it both easier to track and manage and an ideal house pet. Owners of pet mosquitoes are advised to keep them well-fed and lock them up at night, since problems with nocturnal exsanguination have been reported.

There are also those who prefer strictly natural means of pest control, and for them scientists recommend talking constantly about football, since only female mosquitoes bite, and the majority of them seem to be either repelled or simply bored by football. The big trend scientists have predicted for next spring, though, is going retro. Yes, the old classic DDT will be making a comeback, bigger and better than ever. Previously one of the biggest problems with DDT was that mosquitoes became resistant to it, but scientists hope that, having been out of fashion for several seasons, DDT will once again prove to be effective, at least in the short term. And in an effort to improve its effectiveness new ways of using DDT are being studied. While traditionally DDT was simply sprayed scientists believe that it can be made even more effective if people bathe in it, sprinkle it on ice cream, and they’re working on a whole line of DDT cocktails. DDT also caused serious environmental problems, but until malaria becomes fashionable (which is expected to happen sometime in the fall of 2016) scientists will use any means available for fighting mosquitoes. They are aware that one of the biggest tragedies resulting from earlier DDT use was a serious decline in the bald eagle population, but there’s a hope that through prolonged use a new strain of bald eagles will emerge that will be both stronger and can act as a flying mosquito repellent. Of course at some point a choice may have to be made, and having to choose between bald eagles and mosquitoes really sucks.

They Have My Number

August 30, 2013

[Phone rings.]

Hello?

…

No, I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.

…

No, there’s no Xenia here.

No, this isn’t 873…look, you don’t even have the right area code. I’m not sure you even have the right state. Why are you even asking? You dialed the wrong number. How is knowing what you misdialed going to help you? That’s like the stupid cliché in sitcoms that people always repeat back what the person on the other end of the phone has just said so the audience can follow along. Who really does that?

…

No, I don’t even know anyone named Xenia, and even if I did it wouldn’t do you any good. What are the chances that you and I know the same Xenia?

…

Yeah, you’re right, it’s not a very common name, but, look, you called the wrong number, and the Xenia you’re trying to reach is probably in another state.

…

Look, I can see from my phone that you’ve called the past five days. Didn’t you realize you had the wrong number when you heard my voice mail message?

…

Party line? This is a cell phone. Party lines went out with candlestick phones. Where are you calling from, the Thirties? Why don’t you call Sarah and ask her to connect you to Mount Pilot?

…

Interesting. I didn’t know it was based on Andy Griffith’s home town of Mount Airy.

…

No, I don’t have any succotash.

…

I’m positive.

…

All right. Yes, I’m looking. That creaking sound was the door of my pantry. No, no succotash. I don’t even know what it is. Why are you even asking?

…

Well I’m happy you have a great recipe for it. If I had some I’d probably know what to do with it too.

…

Yes, but I’m not much of an impulse buyer. I don’t think I’ve even seen it.

…

Okay, maybe I have, but I don’t remember it.

…

No, please, I really don’t want to hear about your colon. Look, I’m not a doctor, so how would I know if it’s enflamed?

…

No, no, no, I really don’t want to see a picture of it.

…

Really? You took it yourself? That’s, um, impressive. I’m sort of curious to know how you did that.

…

Stop! That wasn’t really an invitation. I mean, I’m a curious kind of guy, but there are some things I’m happier not knowing. Although I’m pretty sure I know now that your colon is enflamed. And why.

…

Well, that’s good. Yeah, listen, I need to let you go.

…

Yeah, I’ve got some things I’ve got to get to.

…

Yeah, it was nice talking to you too.

…

Okay, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Bye.

Time Flies Like The Wind. Steampunk Flies Like Bananas

August 23, 2013

The other day I had a pimple, a zit, a carbuncle, a pustule, a clogged and inflamed pore. And to make it even worse this particular pimple was right on the edge of my lip so it was excruciatingly painful. Not that pain and pimples are necessarily a bad combination. Most of who have ever popped a pimple probably know there’s a certain perverse satisfaction in it. First there’s that blinding, searing pain, but then there’s that moment when pus or little nodules of crud pop out and a sweet endorphin rush. I know you’re not supposed to pop pimples, but the combination of pain and pleasure makes it hard to resist. Having popped pimples I understand why some people cut themselves, even though I’m too much of a coward to do that. I even understood it in high school when one of my friends would cut himself regularly. This was before cutting was a widely discussed condition that many people suffer. My friend, to me, wasn’t a “cutter”; he was Justin, who always wore long sleeves, listened to a lot of Pink Floyd, and was going prematurely bald.

I understand diagnosing a condition is often the first step to treating it, but I also worry that sometimes we’re too quick to apply a label, to reduce an individual to a behavior, but that’s another story. It’s unfair that I still get pimples. There ought to be a law against it. Well, maybe there is. We do treat pimples like dermatological criminals. Popping pimples is capital punishment even though we’re supposed to rehabilitate them with benzoyl peroxide. That’s what I did with this latest zit, and fortunately it went away after a couple of days, although I know there will be others. It doesn’t just annoy me because I’m in my forties and well past puberty. I also think I already had more than my fair share of pimples when I was a teenager. Remember how when you were a teenager there was that one guy you knew at school who you called “pepperoni face”? Yeah, that was me. Thanks for at least having the courtesy to not call me that to my face. And maybe you looked at me and wondered, Does he know what his face looks like? Yeah, I knew, and if you ever really did think that then every time you looked in the mirror you saw that you had one gigantic zit masquerading as a head. And your fly is open.*

And I didn’t just know how I looked. I looked at Manuel Noriega, and thought, there but for the grace of Retin-A go I. The closest thing I had to a hero, complexion-wise, was Bill Murray, but the best I could hope for was that my acne, like his, would eventually go away. At times it seemed more likely I’d grow another twelve inches. If you wondered why I was quiet and always had my nose stuck in a book it’s because I was convinced I was constantly being judged by my appearance. I assumed everyone found me repellent, and I felt that way about myself, and that sapped any energy I might have had for self-confidence, but at least a book provided a barrier between my blotchy face and the rest of the world. At home I did everything I could to clear up my complexion. My parents did too. One night my mother smeared my face with some kind of cream that was supposed to dry the skin and open the pores, or tighten them, whichever is better when you’re fighting the pubescent plague. And the worst part is I had to leave it on for an hour and it itched like crazy. It also was probably the sort of thing I should have been using before my face broke out in blackheads. Finally my parents took me to a dermatologist. My friends told me some crazy stories about dermatologists, like that liquid nitrogen would be applied to my face. How exactly would it be applied? They didn’t know, but I imagined having to bend down and dip my cheeks into a bowl of it, and I wasn’t looking forward to it. I’d seen Mr. Wizard dip bananas in liquid nitrogen and smash them with a hammer. A clear complexion wasn’t going to do me a lot of good if my face was in a thousand pieces. So I was nervous until we actually got to the dermatologist’s office, which was in a nice office building surrounded by trees. I doubted some kind of back alley quack wielding liquid nitrogen worked there, and I was right. The dermatologist was a nice guy in a white doctor’s coat. When he leaned in close to examine me I noticed he had a few light scars on his cheeks. My father later speculated that maybe he’d had bad acne as a teenager and that had been his reason for becoming a dermatologist. Maybe his reasons were more complicated than that, but I didn’t ask.

He gave me a prescription for a topical ointment and another for a round of antibiotics and told me he’d see me again in six weeks. Six weeks later I went back, but the guy I’d seen on my first visit was on vacation, so I saw his substitute instead. The first thing I noticed when she came in was that she was wearing thick rectangular tortoiseshell glasses, the kind you didn’t see anybody wearing in those days. Of all the dermatologists in the world I was lucky enough to get the one who was a proto-hipster. She had her white coat buttoned up, but underneath it she probably had a t-shirt with that picture of Einstein sticking his tongue out. And she looked at me and the first thing she noticed was something I hadn’t realized, since I’d developed a habit of avoiding mirrors and other reflective surfaces: my acne had almost completely cleared up. She said, “Why are you seeing a dermatologist?” And I replied, “Would you like to go to the prom?” It was a natural reaction because it was the nicest thing I’d heard from a member of the opposite sex in months. Having terrible acne had made me pretty reticent about interacting with anyone. It’s part of why in four years of high school the only person I ever asked to the prom was a dermatologist. But, hey, based on her glasses she was a cool dermatologist. She politely declined, which is probably just as well. She could have shown up looking like a cross between a Victorian daguerreotype and an extra from The Road Warrior and calling herself Demoiselle Deathmasque, because that’s the sort of thing she did on weekends. Yes, I know, I’m extrapolating wildly from nothing more than a pair of eccentric glasses, but at the very least it’s just as well I didn’t go to the prom with a date who could have spiked the punch with liquid nitrogen.


*Made you look.

Casey’s Last Stand

August 16, 2013

“There is no joy in Mudville.”-Ernest Thayer

Well, folks, this has been a pretty exciting ball game so far. Your Mudville Sliders are down by three with two outs. Crash Davis has just stepped up to the plate. You can tell Crash has had a good year just from his stats. This season Crash has a batting average of .398, an RBI of 174, he’s had eight home runs, forty-three stolen bases, seventeen assists, his OPS is .893, a 0.01 ERA pitching left-handed, a 0.02 ERA pitching right-handed, his HDL is below 30, and his blood pressure is 112 over 65. And there’s the pitch! It’s a low roller to right field, and Crash moves to first base. Rick Vaughn moves to second, and Roy Hobbs moves to third. The bases are now loaded, folks. This could determine the game. And it looks like the Rockford Roosters coach Terence Mann has just walked out onto the field to talk to the pitcher.

While that’s going on I’ll bring you folks up to speed on my stats. Fans know my wife told me she was leaving me the night the Sliders lost the second game of their double header against the Poughkeepsie Mudhens. Well really she threw me out, and cleaned out my bank account. My credit rating is worse than Moonlight Graham’s batting average. I’m currently sleeping on a couch in the manager’s office, and I’ve been eating a lot of soft pretzels lately. You could say I’m batting 0 for 5, with two strikes, and no balls. Just a second here while I pour myself another drink. Anyway, folks, it looks like the coach is retiring Roosters pitcher Laloosh and bringing in relief pitcher Malone. Who’s coming up to bat next? Wait a minute, let me move my drink here. Oh, it’s the mighty Casey. Most people know Casey for his record number of unforced errors, including catching one of his own fly balls. But Sliders fans know Casey for his charity, and he recently received a special commendation for his volunteer work in shelters in cities wherever the Sliders play. He’s also renowned for never taking anything stronger than aspirin.

He’s currently got a batting average of .198, which, funny thing, folks, is also my BAC right now. Most of you don’t know that Casey and I came up through the minors together, before I got pulled from pitching and drafted as a relief announcer after I hit eight players in a row. And here’s the first pitch! Nice hit for Casey, but it looks like a foul ball. Left fielder Chip Hilton drifts back and catches it. That’s one out and no balls. And the Roosters catcher has gone out to talk to the pitcher. While he’s doing that I’ll just mention that we had a little boy come into the booth earlier tonight to tell us he’d lost his dad. I asked, what’s he like? And the little boy replied, “Women and beer.” Well, guys, if any of you match that description and are missing a son you can pick him up at the lost and found after the game. And it looks like the Roosters coach has come back out onto the field, so, while they’re talking, let’s have a little music and I’ll have another drink. Okay, the coach is going back to the dugout and the catcher is back in position. He’s winding up. Here’s the pitch. And it’s a swing and a miss for Casey. That was the slowest fastball I think I’ve ever seen. Folks, I can barely stand up right now, and even I could have hit that one. What was Casey thinking? That’s two strikes and no balls.

This is getting pretty exciting now. Casey’s stepped out of the batter’s box and he looks like he’s taking some deep breaths. While he’s doing that I think I’ll have another drink. Okay, Casey’s at the plate again, and there’s the windup! And it’s a ball. That’s two strikes and one ball for Casey. You know, folks, Soupy Sales had kind of a funny story about the time he took his wife to a baseball game and he kissed her on the strikes and she kissed him on the balls. Well, I better not tell that story, since there are children here tonight. And it looks like the pitcher is shaking off the catcher. This is exciting, folks. Don’t despair. Remember another famous baseball player who said it ain’t over ‘til it’s…wait, there’s the swing…and it’s over. The mighty Casey has struck out. Well, good luck, Casey. This was his last game with the Sliders, folks. For those of you who haven’t heard Casey is moving up to the show, and will be playing for the Chicago Cubs.

This Week’s News From The Deli

August 9, 2013

This week the deli will be offering a sale on all turkey products, including: Sliced turkey, Smoked turkey, BBQ turkey, Smoked BBQ turkey, Turkey pastrami, Turkey hash, Turkey sausages, Smoked BBQ Turkey sausages (also available sliced), and Ankara. (Excluded: Turkey salad*).

Tuna salad will no longer be offered as a deli item following last week’s health inspection but may still be purchased prepackaged in this store’s dairy section.

Regular items in stock include:

Serrano ham product (with water)
Dry rub capicola salami
Hot genoa salami
Cold genoa salami
Smoked processed turkey substitute
Kangaroo sausage (spicy)
Olive loaf (mild)
Antony’s Premium pickled eggs
Antony’s Premium jellied eels
Liverwurst (Kosher)
Liverwurst (Halal)
Liverwurst (Gentile**)
Swiss cheese
Belgian cheese
American cheese ($6.99/lb)
Antony’s Premium American cheese*** ($5.99/lb)

*Contains no actual turkey.

**Produced in a facility that also processes nuts, peanuts, dairy, wheat, soy, egg, potato, petroleum, and tobacco products.

***Made in China.

Perchance to Dream

August 2, 2013

When I was younger I was fascinated by the careers of people who succeeded early then burned out, like Dylan Thomas and Janis Joplin. Now that more than two of my threescore and ten are gone I look more to people like Robert Frost or L. Frank Baum, whose careers really didn’t take off until much later in life, although I think they at least had some idea what they wanted to do. I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. Anyway the stories of people who flail around for years before finally hitting it big are appealing, but also misleading. There was a time when I believed persistence paid off, and while I still believe it does I also recognize that success is really one percent inspiration, twelve percent perspiration, and ninety-five percent luck. That’s just an estimate, since we really can’t be certain. There are no biographies of people who tried and failed, so there’s no accurate way to gauge how many could-have-beens line the road to prosperity, or at least the sort of career where you don’t wake up each morning dreading the commute.

There may be seven quantifiable habits of highly successful people, but there’s an unmeasurable eighth: being lucky. It’s a revelation that I know is disheartening to people of my generation, and probably others as well, because so many of us were told over and over again by our teachers and other authority figures that we could be anything we wanted to be. My generation also grew up watching Free To Be You And Me in our classrooms and church basements, so we had the message that we could be anything drilled into us even more deeply by the likes of Marlo Thomas and Alan Alda. But I think in the back of our minds we all knew it wasn’t entirely true, just like when my third grade math teacher told us that 2+2 really equals 4.1415926, and that we should adjust our calculations accordingly, and we did even though we knew once we stepped out of the classroom the real world would be very different. Heck, even Mel Brooks had to give up his dream of being a cocktail waitress and settle for making highly successful movies and musicals instead, so what chance did we have? Admittedly the truth did occasionally come out when I was being punished for something and my parents would snap, “Life isn’t fair!” And for many of us this was even before we were aware of just how brutal the real world is, and how much random accidents play a part in determining one’s path in life.

Maybe it was comforting to adults to tell kids that we could do or be anything, or maybe it was just easier than having to explain that, while there are exceptions, for most people the egalitarian world is a myth, and mitigating factors like economic status, skin color, and even geography mean that chances are only a very small number of people will live up to their true potential and, by any measurable standard, some people really are better than others. Nothing throws this into sharper relief than a child born to a royal couple. Not that I have anything against royalty. There’s a long American tradition of criticizing monarchies, but if the culture wars and political correctness served any purpose it’s that they made us aware that the guys who founded the United States by rebelling against a tyrannical king weren’t that far from being tyrannical kings themselves, which may be why a lot of Americans, myself included, think royal families are one of those traditions that’s still worth keeping around. The only thing I really object to is when people say Prince William and the Duchess of Cambridge will be normal parents. Aside from there being no standard for “normal parents”, their son, and any future children they may have, will have opportunities and advantages most of us can’t even imagine. And I don’t have a problem with that. The world may be an unequal place, but anyone who thinks that could be solved, or even reduced, by trying to make a future king’s life “normal” by taking away the advantages granted by the circumstances of his birth is hopelessly naïve. And it would be wrong, and one of the few lessons I learned as a child that hasn’t so far been proven wrong by experience is that two wrongs don’t make a right.

I realize there are a lot of arguments for ending Britain’s monarchy, the main one being that maintaining a royal family costs a lot of money, but they do try to spread the wealth around. Some people think Princess Di invented royal charity when she went to hospitals and showed that you could hug a person with AIDS and not burst into flames, but she was really improving a tradition dating back at least to the Dark Ages of the Touch for the King’s Evil. The king’s touch was supposed to heal sickness, so they were like the original televangelists, except the king would also give the sick person a little money instead of trying to fleece them. It was the least a king could do at a time when the least was all he could do for the least of his subjects, or they might start demanding crazy things like the right to own their own property. So the monarchy has improved, and if nothing else they’re a major tourist draw. Most of the arguments for ending the monarchy could also be made about Disneyworld, and I don’t see anyone calling for Mickey Mouse to be cut off. My grandparents went to England just to tour Buckingham Palace. While they were walking by the crown jewels my grandfather leaned over next to one of the guards and said, “Don’t mind me. I’m just here to see the Queen.” My grandmother told me they were watched very closely after that. She thought he’d made the guards think he was a threat. I think what really happened is that particular guard said to the others, “Check out this Yank—he’s funnier than Prince Philip.” I think the British appreciated my grandfather’s quirky sense of humor, which he was lucky enough to be born with.

Down On The Corner, Out In The Street

July 19, 2013

The other day I passed a guy on the sidewalk playing a guitar. He had his guitar case open in front of him, and a few people had tossed in loose change and a couple of dollar bills. I tossed in a dollar as I went by because I felt sorry for the guy. This is Nashville, after all. This is Music City. Anyone with an ounce of talent isn’t performing on the sidewalks; they’re performing at one of the two dozen open mic nights that are held in every bar, restaurant, and lawyer’s office on Old Hickory Road, or in one of the houses turned into recording studios that are just three blocks south of where I work. Although anyone with two ounces of sense isn’t trying to get into Nashville’s recording scene, which is so crazy they made a movie and a TV show about it, neither of which makes it look all that appealing.

Although I’m not sure why there aren’t more street performers in Nashville. It seems like a great way to be noticed. In London, for instance, street performing is a way of life for many people, and it’s how a lot of successful British musicians, singers, actors, and comedians got their start. Eddie Izzard started out as a street performer, which is why, when he’s already been paid to do a gig in a $50-per seat theater and he rattles off a line that gets a big reaction from the audience, he says, “Thank you, but I don’t do this for applause. I do it for cash.” And then he passes a hat around, because old habits die hard.

You can’t go into a single London Underground station without passing at least five guitarists, two singers, and two guys playing didgeridoos and doing an Australian tribal dance. Once, on my way to a train, I passed a flutist. He was sitting cross-legged and playing a very sad, mellow tune. I’m not sure what it was—the only flute pieces I know are by Prokofiev and Jethro Tull. He had a satchel spread out in front of him, and there were only a few small coins on it. I felt bad for him, so I tossed a pound coin onto his satchel. I got on the train and looked back to see him take the pound coin and put it in the satchel. I thought, you charlatan. I felt bad for you, and you’ve probably got £200 in there. And then I realized he’d changed his tune—literally. It was something light and happy—it might have even been “Thick As A Brick”, although if he was taking requests I would have asked for “Bungle In The Jungle”, but that’s another story. In the space of less than a minute I went through the entire spectrum of emotions from pity to outrage to happiness tinged with regret for having thought badly of him. The pound I tossed to him was probably the most money he’d make all day.

I told this story to a professional drummer named Jamie whom I worked with briefly. I wasn’t touring in a band, unfortunately, but Jamie was between gigs and doing temp work in my office. I was training him to work in the mailroom, and, being a drummer, he could open boxes with one hand and sort letters with the other. Anyway Jamie told me that street performers are also often at risk of getting robbed, so no matter how much they’re making it’s safer to keep the larger denominations hidden. That added another layer of regret for me thinking badly of the flutist. Jamie had a lot of great stories of his own about performing and touring, although my favorite story had nothing to do with his professional experience. He’d left a gig and was walking down the sidewalk, and he saw a group of people walking up the street toward him. They were being led by a guy dressed in an all-white suit, who, Jamie would later find out, was a then unknown comedian named Steve Martin. Martin even talks about this same event in his autobiography, although he doesn’t mention meeting Jamie. Martin got bored doing his act one night in a club, so he got the entire audience to get up and follow him out, turning the act into a street performance. And this happened in Nashville, about three blocks north of where I work.

Cave Canem*

July 12, 2013

*The title is Latin, which you probably will only recognize if, like me, you flunked Latin in both high school and college, or if you’ve read James Thurber’s “The Dog That Bit People”.

Almost every character in Greek mythology has a story. Some have elaborate family histories that can be traced all the way back to the Greek version of the beginning of the universe, while others seem to come out of nowhere, and mainly serve to explain the origin of narcissus flowers, echoes, or condoms. Even Odysseus’s dog, Argos, has a story: he is so faithful he waits twenty years for his master, and is the first to recognize him on his return, even though Odysseus is in disguise. There’s another dog in Greek mythology who I think served just as faithfully, and for much longer, but his only reward is that Hercules drags him around. Even his origins are never adequately explained. This is an attempt to correct that.

Hear me, mortals. The other gods meddle in your lives, pit you against each other in silly wars, abuse you, or ignore you. I am not like them. All of you will come before me, so there is no need for me to hasten your arrivals, or to toy with you during your short lives. I am lord of all things. When I took Demeter’s daughter for my wife even Zeus, who calls himself father of gods and men, did not interfere. It is only with my permission that she is allowed to leave. The other gods are powerless before me, for I know the value of all things, I hold all wealth, and yet I know that even we gods are not truly immortal. I am merely the one who stands at the final gate beyond which there is nothing. This is why they shun me, and I have no place on Olympus. I rule alone. And yet I choose sometimes to walk among you, mortals. My kingdom, though it is more vast than any other, is like a dark mirror held up to yours. Sometimes it amuses me to come into the light.

One day, in summer, with my wife absent, I rose from my throne, passed the Furies, bode Charon carry me across the river Styx as he made his way to the far shore. Only those who have been properly buried may be taken over on their first arrival. The others, those whose bodies are never recovered, must wait a hundred years. They reached out to me, begging as I passed by. I could end their suffering, but it’s not my concern. I climbed upward and emerged into forest, beyond which lay the city of Cumae. I felt something like happiness when I saw it was a festival day, with street performers, jugglers, tumblers, stalls and shops selling banners and ribbons. It amuses me how mortals mark time, and how they sometimes celebrate its passing.

Amongst the other festival events was a man standing before a shabby tent. “One drachm to see something you’ve never seen before,” he cried. For most I believe this was a high price. Either he had something truly wonderful to see or was a fool who would soon lose all his money and be run out of town. I pressed a coin into his hand and he lifted the heavy fabric aside for me to enter. The heat was oppressive inside the tent. The festival sounds were muted. I became aware of a whimpering, and found, on a pile of filthy straw, a dog, a bitch with a litter of pups still suckling. This was something I’d seen before, something most had seen before. But in the middle of the tent was a box with more straw. A whining came from it. Inside was another pup. Aphrodite holds sway over fertility, while Hera claims hold over motherhood. When they bicker over territory these mistakes happen. The lives of such creatures are usually short and unhappy. This doesn’t matter to me. But something about this creature, this pitiful, eyeless thing, its three mouths searching for its mother, still wet from birth, with an already limited world further reduced by the confines of a box of straw in which it scooted back and forth, made me turn. The negotiations with the tent’s owner were quick. I could have offered him a hundred times as much, but avarice is easily manipulated, and the small amount I handed over allowed him to imagine himself wealthy. I lifted the pup from the box, cradled it, and in an instant we were on a mossy bank of the lake Avernus. The pup moved weakly. I couldn’t carry it back to my kingdom—the distance was too great. But I didn’t want it to enter the usual way either. Not just yet. I held it close and looked at the trees overhead. I, greatest of all the gods, held this tiny fragile thing. I knew it would, like all who pass over, become something else. Now weak it would be powerful. Now starved it would be sated. Now in pain it would never be hurt again. I could end its suffering. And yet I delayed, holding it close against me. Then it was done.

My kingdom has always had many guards, and few desire to enter before their appointed time anyway. And yet this dog takes pride in patrolling the borders and confronting the uninvited few who come to pester me with petty demands. I need no protection, but when I walk he accompanies me. In the spring sometimes I sleep, and when I wake Cerberus is always there.

Admittedly drinking ages vary from country to country

June 28, 2013

An inventor has come up with a new way for women to dissuade creepy would-be suitors: hairy-legged pantyhose. I have about a dozen jokes about this, but they all have to take a back seat to the fact that two decades ago my wife and I were married by a judge who looked so much like John Cleese that, after he read the wedding vows I asked him, “What was the middle part?” I occasionally wonder why she’s stayed with me all these years, and she used to suggest that I only married her for her dogs, but then they became our dogs. I do, however, have a list of reasons I’ve been happily married to her for the past twenty years that is comprehensive, exhaustive, and woefully incomplete:

-Because she introduced me to sushi.

-Because she knitted me a hat that looks like a fish.

-Because sometimes she turns to me in the middle of a baseball game and says, “I think we both need another beer.”

-Because she has a recipe called “husband’s delight” that primarily consists of cheese, sour cream, ground meat, and noodles.

-Because when we’re watching a movie and I say, “Where have I seen that guy?” she always knows.

-Because with her, and the dogs, I’ve been to Kansas, Texas, Ohio, Oklahoma, Arizona, New Mexico, California, North Carolina, Florida, New Mexico, Georgia, Arkansas, and Mississippi. And eventually we’ll get to Oregon.

-Because her dogs loved me almost as much as she did.

-Because when we first met she was impressed that I could recite “Jabberwocky” from memory, and is still patient when I recite the entire “How do you know she’s a witch?” scene from Monty Python And The Holy Grail.

-Because after all these years she still occasionally says, “You’re so weird”, and still means it as a compliment.

-Because on one of our first dates we watched A Fish Called Wanda.

-Because we once brewed and then split an entire batch of excellent stout beer, then brewed and spit out an entire batch of ale that didn’t turn out so well.

-Because of that, you know, that thing. That one time. In that place.

-Because sometimes she’s willing to watch Doctor Who.

-Because I got a wonderful mother-in-law out of the deal, which was more than worth the cost of never being able to use half the Henny Youngman jokes I know.

-Because she was willing to wait.

-Because when I moved in the first thing she did was buy more bookshelves.

-Because we don’t cancel out each others’ votes.

-Because after some movie trailers she says, “You can see that one without me.”

-Because after some movie trailers she says, “We really need to see that one.”

-Because she builds fences and can repair small household appliances and I go to book clubs.

-Because in another year our marriage will legally be allowed to drink.