Learn To Be Funny With These 742 Easy Tips!

Public speaking is a racket. I am nearly certain that the very instant a certain particular breed of human being overcame their innate and rightful fear of standing up and talking in front of large groups of strangers, the vocations of politician and comedian were born, forever changing the manner in which the vast majority of our species would be led and/or entertained. And for those who had neither the ability to lead nor make people laugh, but still had a knack for orating without fear, the more mundane avenue of informative public speaking began to claw its way into being.

Be it religious caterwauling or the latest symposium on the current influx of the dung beetle into the ecosystem of the Great Plains, public speaking has found a comfortable niche in society, filling a certain void left by a shortage of decent comedians, silver-tongued politicians and quality summer re-runs on the television.

Before profitable public speaking made its way into the mainstream, it cut its profitable teeth on the college circuit, with universities in the glory days of College Public Speaking paying big dollars to aging film icons, such as Groucho Marx, who had gained a late-life resurgence in popularity, to take the stage, share witty anecdotes and field questions from stoned college-aged fans.

Mark Twain famously used a series of public speaking engagements at the turn of the century to not only bail himself out of extreme financial hardship caused by horrible business investments, but to also facilitate a few weeks of relaxing travel on a luxury intercontinental steamship. Savvy. So it began.

But I digress. Now, it has blossomed into a cottage-industry which seemingly has no bounds in terms of subject or audience.

Recently (well, last year - perhaps the year before... Time passes so quickly these days), I had the opportunity to attend an hour and a half presentation on storytelling. It was aimed for salespeople and business folk that would perhaps appreciate a little insight on the art of conversing with a client or colleague in a delightful, colorful manner. It was all fine and dandy until the jacket and tie-wearing huckster threw out the nugget that being funny could be taught. I was roused from the semi-doze to which I had succumbed, mentally fatigued from the internal battle that was being waged in my brain on whether I would have a salad for lunch, or drive over to Wendy's for a Single With Cheese, Fries and a small Frosty (after all, I'm not an animal - a large Frosty would be nothing more than a deep-knee-bend curtsy to my lizard brain). Wait, I thought. What's that you say? Funny can be taught? Well, this was a preposterous notion as far as I was concerned and I had to restrain myself from bursting out with a hearty "the fuck you say!" After all, he was being paid a courtly sum to lecture us on public speaking and I was but a non-paying, presumably appreciative attendee.

But this curveball wound me up inside in a manner that made me feel most uncomfortable. Not only could funny be taught, you could purchase his thin, overpriced, self-published paperback (and I know thin, self-published paperbacks), which would show you in a few easy, repeatable steps how to be a fully-functional, witty, public-speaking smoothy, entrancing audiences around the country - nay, the world - and be highly paid to do so.

I looked around me and observed that no one else in the room was engulfed in a similar outrage to my own - in fact, most seemed relatively engaged and some even nodded their heads in agreement with this outlandish notion. I folded my arms in front of me and smoldered for the rest of the session and left as quickly as I could, turning my nose up at the table of thin, overpriced, self-published paperbacks. I returned to my place in front of my computer monitor with its colorful spreadsheets and documents, but I felt distracted. I turned to my co-worker across the aisle, who was not distracted and had resumed whatever tasks that consumed her day with apparently no lingering disgust at the idea that funny could be learned.

I was not to be distracted alone, so I intruded into her business with the question, "Do you think that being funny can be taught?" She shrugged. "Why not?" "Why not???" I asked. "Well," she said. "I think most things can be taught, right?" She outlined her opinion that one could be taught how to tell a joke. "You could write the joke, teach them where to pause and they could learn how to tell the joke in a funny way..." I highly disagreed.

There are formulas in humor. Gags can be written around the classic triad - something repeated twice, to establish pattern, with a twist thrown in on the third repetition. Hilarity ensues - everyone feels smart at the expense of our comedic foil. There are setups, situations and payoffs. Comedy can indeed be written, in fact some of the best comedy performances are written by someone other than the performer.

But there is a reason those writers aren't performing the acts in most cases-  because the funny people are.  Funny is in the bones. Funny is in the manner with which the performer elevates the written material, transforms it into something relatable and ironic. A facial expression, a tone of voice, a quick trigger that allows the audience into the mind of the performer and transforms a written sentence or an improvised thought into comedic gold. For that one moment, often built on a flimsy idea or flight of whimsy, the thought turns funny.

Personally, I have had the tremendous good fortune to know a handful of people with funny bones. These people have left my stomach sore and my jaws aching from hours of unbridled joy and laughter. Their turn of phrase and ability to take the most inane of conversations and turn them into a colorful, often ribald tale of misfortune, blasphemy or outrageous consequence have given me hours and hours of wonderful memories.

Funny is in the bones and if I had thought of it, I would have followed our intrepid speaker to the parking lot and given him a humorous thrashing for insinuating otherwise. So, my conclusion is this - funny cannot be taught. A person is funny or they are not. There are those that fall somewhere in the middle and they mostly host parties in their homes. But if funny cannot be taught, I'll bet there is a handsome living to be made traveling around the country - nay, the world - talking about it. Hopefully by someone with funny bones.

When I Am King (for sure...)

Well, it is that time again. Time to write in yours truly, Jerald Ford for King of America. With the filthiest, most polarizing Presidential campaign in recent memory currently underway (although, as yet neither of our candidates have accused the other of cannibalism, as John Quincy Adams fervently declared of Andrew Jackson in 1828 - then again, the campaign is still young), I feel it only fair that I throw my hat into the ring. Not as President, however. As King.

As a kind and benevolent King ("Monarchy results from the wish of a society—be it a city population, tribe, or multi-tribal people—to groom an indigenous leader who will properly represent its historical goals and advance its interests." - that's me), I would like to continue the use of the Presidential office to run the day-to-day matters of our country, with all major decisions, of course coming across my elegant, palatial desk for the Royal Thumbs-Up.

While my President keeps the trains running on time, the budget in order and the foreign policy fair and equitable, I will turn my Kingly attention to the really important things, like restoring music and art programs to our public schools, making a secondary education affordable for all the Kingdom, keeping the youth of our great nation aware of the importance of welders, mechanics and carpenters to the economy and paying them in kind. We (being the Royal "We") will immediately enact a Kingdom-wide law swapping the salaries of lawyers and teachers and another for the mandatory installation of cell-phone blockers into all automobiles.

Motorcyclists will no longer be able to pass between lanes of traffic and all automatic weaponry will be turned in to police and government agencies (because, seriously?), once again giving law-enforcement (all branches of which will be subjected to a rigorous, consistent nationwide training program) the upper hand in the pursuit of justice. Black market sales of these weapons will be harshly punished to the point that the weapons will be unaffordable for insane people with limited budgets. It's a start. Don't worry about cost - it will come from the cutting of legislative salaries. Senators and Congressmen will be paid the same as lawyers. And term limits, because fuck that. Marijuana will also be legalized, because seriously?

As the King, I will strictly oversee the election of our President. Campaigns will concentrate solely on the platforms of the candidates. We will hear what their intentions are, how they will be carried out and the expected results of these policies. The polices and platforms will then be explained so that every citizen can understand them. That should take up most of the campaign time. Any mention of any other candidates will be forbidden. Candidate A is not Candidate B's business. Ever. If Candidate A calls Candidate B "a tit", Candidate A is immediately removed from the race and his salary immediately gets cut to that of a lawyer. There can be up to five candidates, because 5 is my favorite number. If Candidate D suggests that Candidate A is a cannibal, Candidate D will be slaughtered, butchered and prepared by his staff (whose salary will immediately be cut to that of a lawyer) and served up at a lawyers meeting. That should put things in order pretty quickly.

I may have to run things on my own for awhile, until I can put my new Royal Policies into place, but expect quick results once I get rolling. It's a write-in vote, so print legibly and remember - have your pet spayed or neutered, just for the fun of it.

The Birth of Arbitrarianism

This is the logo for my new religion. I call it Arbitrarianism and it operates under the assumption that life is arbitrary and death is even arbitrarier. I will design some fancy robes, arbitrarily and find an arbitrary fancy hat. People can donate money to support the cause, arbitrarily, of course and I will receive many arbitrary tax breaks. 2016 will be The Year of the Arbitrary. Mugs and tee-shirts adorned with the logo will be forthcoming.

You see, I truly believe that life is indeed a series (some series longer than others, of course) of arbitrary events strung together. It is these events that give us our memories and our hopes and help us make the seemingly logical choices we make. At the end, or sometimes in the middle (it's up to you - it's arbitrary), we can try to make sense of it all and provide logic and lineal thinking and sum the events up in a handy fashion in a document, or a film, or just in our minds - the options are endless - and remove the arbitrariosity from them to create a timeline that makes utter and irrefutable sense. This makes us feel sane and secure and safe from the Winds of Arbitrarity.

As far as a physical church, I have not made a decision on the means of worship. Worship is a little strong - I prefer "discussion". We can talk about whatever. Whether to do it online, via blog or in a physical building, like a coffee shop, saloon or maybe a comedy club, I have not decided. Maybe I'll flip a coin. If it does turn out that we will be meeting in person in our colorful robes and hats, I guarantee we will not drink cheap wine and eat stale crackers during the process. We will eat Keebler's Fudge Stripe cookies and drink Blue Moon beer, with an orange garnish. And they will not symbolize the body and blood of the savior, they will represent instead, cookies and beer.

We will still celebrate Christmas - we're not animals, after all - but some years we will call it "Gift Day". And Easter will be renamed "Zombie Jesus Day" regardless. Passover seems too complicated - we may just call it "Meh". I have come up with a list of 11 (the number was pulled out of a hat) Arbitrary Commandments, listed below in no particular order, of course:

6: Try not to kill each other.
9: Eat Cake.
4: Don't dismiss the ideas of others.
1: No hitting.
10: Drive fast, but safely.
7: Be kind to animals.
2: Don't rape. Ever. That's what makes Bill Cosby suck.
8: Be nice to kids when possible,
5: Laugh.
3: Make decisions.
11: Some things go to 11. Not all, don't judge.

I am sure I need some sort of organization, but really, what's point? I welcome you all to embrace The Arbitrary and climb aboard. Remember to write-in vote Jerald Ford for King in the upcoming elections. It would be the arbitrary choice to make.

John Lennon - the Skinny

Happy birthday, John Lennon. You would have been 74 years old today and that would have been a delight. At least I hope so. Little Paulie has had a couple of good moments since 1980,the year you died, though admittedly most of his greatest solo moments had come long before 1980, most notably "Band On the Run".  Ringo's last good album was 1973's "Ringo" (most imaginative album title ever), which contained some of the most impressive sales numbers of any of the post-Beatle Fabs and George only hit paydirt with The Traveling Wilburys in the mid-80's many years after his "All Things Must Pass" accolades the year after the Beatles called it quits.


This brings me to John Lennon's solo career. I was quite sad when Lennon died in December, 1980, along with a few billion other fans. We were indignant that our acerbic little Beatle had been taken from us in his prime, post-Beatles, eager to explore the musical harvest that was his to take.


That said, John Lennon's post-Beatle work had thus far proven inconsequential and of little excitement. "Imagine" had been a pretty song, relaying political catchphrases in a melodic manner that lulled us all into a giddy musical effervescence, thinking that perhaps the thoughts of peace might bring about a world of peace. A great 1971 hippie anthem. Nothing ever came of it, however, but John persevered with "Mind Games", shouting the "Mind Guerilla" from the mountaintops. Not a chart topper, but well-meaning, if lazy songwriting. Three chords, til death do us part... I personally enjoyed "#9 Dream" with its "ABOWAKOWA-POSE POSE" refrain but again, I could write a hit song if all that mattered was a melody and some mumbled Apache paraphrasing.


After a brief hiatus, John reemerged with "Walls and Bridges", which was also an exercise in medicocrity, save for "Whatever Gets You Through The Night", the sole chart breaking number, featuring the red-hot Elton John kicking the keys and providing the energy needed to propel this lively dirge to the top of the charts. At this point, we were so hungry for any new Lennon material, we would have sent "Oh, Yoko" to the top ten. (Just kidding!)


Lennon took a much-needed break after Walls and Bridges and spent the next five years raising his son Sean, baking bread and smoking French cigarettes. When he finally emerged from his seclusion in 1979 to record "Walls and Bridges", the world was once again eager and hungry for new Lennon material. He delivered a 50's retread in "(It's Just Like) Starting Over" and the ballad "Woman", a bit of treacle written for the shrew who had stolen been his muse since 1969.  We lapped it up greedily and all too soon thereafter, he was taken from us forever by a crazed douchebag who many wish would be set free on the streets for our own cathartic target practice.


I would like to think that Lennon's work would have matured and been an inspiration to us all and live up to the high praise that the artist, gunned down in prime has garnered. However, using a complicated math theorem and some calculus, paired with some kickass analog stereo gear and a set of vintage BOSS headphones, I have come to the conclusion that John, of all the Beatles, would have had the most disappointing solo career of all.


McCartney went on to produce "Band on the Run" and George became a spiritual icon, a humble rock and roll statesman admired by all, producing some great work as well as Monty Python's "Life of Brian", which gave him everlasting sainthood amongst those who cared. Ringo had his hits early and cashed out and at one point would be noted to being willing to "attend the opening of an envelope" for a free drink and a press clipping. Lennon, however burdened and martyred by the presence of Yoko Ono and four inopportune bullets, had never lived up to the potential of "I Am The Walrus", "Strawberry Fields Forever" or even "In My Life" and I see nothing in his solo work to indicate that he might have done so.


I am not saying that he was shot because of his lack of musical inspiration in his later days, but if I was the attorney for the dildo who shot him... Just sayin'. We'll never know. Happy birthday, John - I wish you'd been around for the ride.

Sleeping Like A Baby - The Skinny

I used to envy folks who said they "sleep like a baby", until I realized that I, too sleep like a baby - nearly every night. Which means that I sleep like an actual baby, Tossing and turning and waking up every two hours crying, possibly wetting myself and in a real bad fit maybe even soiling up the place. I am normally awake at least two hours in the middle of the night, usually sometime between 2 and 3 until 4 or 5. It's a gift. A fucked up, useless gift, but a gift nonetheless. Like my overdeveloped sense of smell, it is another one of those things where I believe I got short shrift. These are probably two of the lousiest super-powers ever: I am able to smell the odd, sweet and disgusting from distances normally reserved for bloodhounds and delicately-calibrated, sensitive science equipment. That and the ability to wake up in a completely rested state in the middle of the night and solve many of the world's problems, write songs and stories and wrestle with the most complicated issues of our times. Useless.

When I eventually do fall asleep for the remainder of the cursed night, I awake in the morning feeling as if I have been beaten in the head with a burlap sack full of quarters and force-fed six quarts of Prohibition-Grade Bathtub Gin. I am growling, bestubbled zombie with bloodshot eyes and a disposition to match and do not usually fully gain consciousness until nearly noon most days. Except for weekends - I feel a little better about those and approach the tired mornings with a bit more zeal... Ironic, huh?


I should be severely disciplined for the way I treat my frazzled bedclothes. The sheets are usually wound and twisted as if I were taking part in a third-story prison escape and my pillows look like they have been put through a wood-chipper. I may even be trying to eat the Goddamned things - I have no idea. This type of behavior should not be tolerated and it might be a good idea if someone came over every night and darted me with a tranquilizer gun.


I sleep in five basic positions: 1) On my back. I don't know if this is good for me or bad, but it breaks up the monotony of the other positions. 2) On my left side, fetal position, right arm tucked under the pillow, left hand gather up some twisted sheets and shooting between my knees. 3) On my right side, same exact configuration, only reversed. 4) Face down, head left, left leg brought up at an angle so that my legs resemble the number 4. Right arm under pillow, left hand somehow supporting my head so it doesn't suffocate its stupid self. 5) Face down, head right, otherwise reversed. The legs now resemble the number 4 reversed. I don't know what any of this means, but I'm nearly certain it means something and even more certain that this something can't be good.

I have tried over-the-counter sleep aids - in fact, one package I bought was labeled simply "Nighttime Sleep Aid". Fair enough, I thought. Even though this particular brand boasted that it "DOES NOT CONTAIN PAIN RELIEVER", I figured I'd give it a shot. Pain reliever would have been a bonus - I usually have some sort of pain somewhere too, but beggars can't be choosers.

I took a few of the Nighttime Sleep Aid tablets - the instructions said to take two, but since there was no pain reliever and I had no Scotch, I upped the dosage to a more sensible level- it was just good science. After all, I was trying to combat a low-tier Super-Power. I fell asleep easily enough, which was misleading because I fall asleep easily enough every night. The real test was going to be when the bells chimed two.


I woke up sometime around the usual time - I couldn't be sure, since the Sleep Aids were trying to fight my late-night wakefulness. So I was awake and very drowsy. I could not solve the world's problems, nor was the late-night concerto I was working on given any real consideration. I just lay there awake and very drowsy. I mumbled some in a language that might have been picked up on a radio broadcast and somehow stored in the back of my mind for just such an occasion and might have laughed aloud at a joke I told in this foreign tongue that would have made no sense at all in our language. It is probably the same language that considered the reversed number 4 of my face down, head-right sleeping position an actual official number.

I am anxious to see how this all shakes out. I have heard that exercise might help me sleep, but the few times I have tried this, I have usually pulled something and wished for Sleep Aids with a generous dose of pain reliever included. I may try this again, but only as a last resort. I have heard of some exotic vegetables and the magical power of turkey's tryptophan. I may try the veggies, if they don't look too weird or taste bad and who doesn't love turkey?

My point is, if someone says they sleep like a baby, offer to dart them with a tranquilizer gun.

Discovering The Bear Ghost

I looked at the clock. It was 10:30pm. It was also Thursday – a school night. I shook my head, gathered up my car keys and headed to the car. It’s awfully late, I thought, but it was time to leave to go see the Bear Ghost and late was no longer relevant. I knew what I was in for – I would be the oldest guy in the place, sitting at a bar surrounded by hipster kids with tattoos and gauged earlobes who drank PBR from an oversized can. And since I was driving, I would myself be drinking soda instead of a Scotch/Rocks to take the edge off, which was a tragedy, plain and simple. You see, Bear Ghost is a terrific young band made up of twenty-somethings with a keen sound and an energetic act that makes you smile and tap your foot at the same time. I may be fifty-plus years-old, but I like to smile and my toes tap like a sonofabitch. So, off I went, just a tiny bit ashamed of myself.

Let me explain how it came to this.

I cannot possibly express the level of disappointment I felt when I learned that my beautiful, intelligent, witty, tattooed, gauged-earlobed daughter was dating a guitar-player. Karma, I sighed to myself, is one motherfucker. I didn’t meet the lad for a month or two, until I was bushwhacked at a gig I was playing myself, at a small local music venue called The Rogue, strumming my acoustic guitar and warbling tender, antiquated love songs to at least a half-dozen semi-interested patrons, who fiddled with their change and consumed well-drinks as quickly as their livers would allow.

“Hi Dad,” my daughter Logan said, coming out of nowhere as I headed toward the bar for a much-deserved well-drink that I wanted to consume as quickly as my liver would allow. “This is Ryan…” A thin, hyperkinetic young man with a smile that took up at least half of his face and a head of unruly hair thrust out his paw and I shook it. I was sweaty and still a little weepy from singing an Everly Brothers tune and was caught off-guard. “Hi,” I muttered, signaling the barkeep.

Ryan proceeded to gush enthusiastically about how much he enjoyed my warbling, then darted off, presumably moving on to spread a shitload of positive energy elsewhere. I watched him leave with a suspicious eye, then turned to my daughter. “Is that him?” I asked. “The guitar player?”

She nodded and smiled. “Isn’t he a dork?”

I nodded. “Devilishly handsome fellow.” I collected my drink, drank half and raised an eyebrow. “Was he pulling my chain?”

She shook her head. “No, he’s always like that… Disgusting, right?”

I nodded again. “Because I’ll kick the hell out of him if he was pulling my chain,” I added. Logan laughed.

A few months later, Logan gave me a CD put together by her boyfriend’s band, Bear Ghost. I smiled indulgently and promised I’d listen when I could, at the same time throwing out some witty retorts about the perceived value of a band called “Bear Ghost”.

Then I listened. And I enjoyed. And another few months later, I was cajoled and shamed into showing up at an all-ages show at a local music hall to hear the band live. An hour later, I had pushed my way to the front of the audience through the sea of 16 year-olds and was dancing with my hands over my head like a chubby, bald dancing bear. I was now officially a fan. What the hell - how did this happen? I asked myself. I shrugged to myself in answer and continued dancing like a foolish, retarded jester.

I saw them at a mall. And I dragged a friend – a musician, who was even older than me. I saw him smiling and tapping his foot. I nodded to myself – hooked, I thought. Well done, Bear Ghost.

I saw them at the same music venue again for the release of their CD “Your Parents are only marginally disappointed in your musical taste”. I dragged a couple of more oldster-friends long familiar with the local music scene, from back in the halcyon days of the 90’s. More smiling and toe-tapping. I grinned and sighed to myself. I was fighting the good fight.

Each show was equally-energetic and equally entertaining. Bear Ghost actually looked like they loved every minute they got to spend on stage. And the music was incredibly tight, with them pulling off the intricate songs from their CD as well as covers by Queen and The Tubes and a song from “The Jungle Book”. I knew how much hard work it was to sound that tight and to look like they were having so much fun. “Ryan’s band is really good!” I gushed to Logan. “I know,” she said.

Equally Energetic, Equally Entertaining

 

Now, here I was, a fifty-something year-old man, climbing into my car at 10:30 at night on a Thursday to drive to Scottsdale to see Bear Ghost at the Rogue, where I had first suspiciously eyed my daughter’s boyfriend. I stretched my tapping-toe in the car – it would be simply awful to pull a muscle tapping my toe at my advanced age – and I braced myself for the throng of smiling, toe-tapping hipsters.  It’s okay, I thought to myself. One day I’ll be able to say “I saw them at a mall…”

Find Bear Ghost on Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=224162450930758

"DoTab" on SoundCloud:
https://soundcloud.com/bearghost/dotab

A Return to Cottage Grove

Buster Keaton’s silent masterpiece The General was always one of my favorites and the bridge collapse and locomotive crash in the climactic scene at the end of the film (and the single-most expensive shot in the history of silent film) had always intrigued me.

The film had mostly been shot in the small Oregon town of Cottage Grove, and though I had never visited, when I was researching the story, the local library was kind enough to send me photocopies of some of the town’s newspaper coverage of the filming.

A Return To Cottage Grove was read aloud and displayed at the 2007 convention of The Buster Keaton Society, which took place at Cottage Grove. I was told they enjoyed it.

For years afterward, the train lay at the bottom of the river where it had come to rest after the bridge collapsed. Their curiosity aroused by the stories, people often hiked to the isolated spot, where they would stand silently and point at the wreckage, imagining the sound of the steam whistle hissing angrily as it struck the water. After all, they had seen the wreck dozens of times before in the movie.

I sat on the narrow bank of the Row River, some seventy years after the locomotive The Texas sank violently to the bottom of its waters and tried to recreate the scene in my mind. I could hear the sounds of the whistle screaming, of the timbers bending and snapping as the bridge collapsed, of the metal grinding and twisting, the train falling to its death.

The shallow waters of the Row ran smoothly, silently, flowing downstream around a gentle curve where the Oregon National Guard, dressed as Civil War soldiers had staged the greatest battle Cottage Grove had ever seen. Of course, the wreckage of the train was long gone; the scrap iron drive of the Second World War had claimed most of the usable metal and a junk dealer had taken the rest years later. The tourists had also faded with the passage of time and most of those who had actually been present had gone the way of The Texas, leaving only those of us who had heard the story to carry on the memory.

My grandfather had been eight years-old when Buster Keaton checked into the Cottage Grove Hotel, in town to film his silent epic “The General”. Like most of the citizens of Cottage Grove, young Vilas Samuals had gotten caught up in the excitement of having a real-life movie star come to his town to film a motion picture. He found himself hanging around the hotel, hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous film comedian and at one point even had the good fortune of obtaining Keaton’s autograph on a scrap of paper. The first thing that a person notices upon arrival to Cottage Grove, Oregon is the weather. Located in the heart of Northwestern lumber country, the air is crisp and clear and even on summer mornings there is often a light dew covering the grass. It was the weather and the beauty of the countryside that lured the Keaton Studio to Cottage Grove and I imagine that it was some of these same qualities that kept my grandfather in the town for all of his seventy nine years.

I drove to Cottage Grove after my grandfather’s death. It was late evening when I pulled up to the clapboard house where he had lived his entire life and the place I had spent most of my childhood summers. The old house was quiet and stuffy, so I turned on the lights in every room and opened the windows. It was warm and familiar, like the comfort of an old sweater, but at the same time, each room seemed empty without Grandpa Vi.

I saw bits and pieces of his life in every corner. There were the orange work caps with the soiled brims that he had worn to the mills. The pipes on the mantle still smelled of Prince Albert smoking tobacco and hung in the hallway was a yellowed piece of paper with Buster Keaton’s autograph, framed with a grainy 8x10 photograph of the dour-faced clown. Grandpa had often told me how they let school out the day Keaton filmed the great train crash at the Row River—the single most expensive shot in silent film history, they said. He said many people walked the entire twenty miles to the river’s banks to watch the filming. There had been an exciting, carnival-like atmosphere surrounding the event, with everyone watching in awe as Keaton put his guardsmen through their paces. Grandpa Vi and his brother Virgil had watched from the bank as the bridge was set on fire. The nervous hum of the crowd grew tense as people strained to see every movement on the bridge below.

Grandpa loved to describe the locomotive as it began to slowly crawl along the tracks. The bridge began to creak and moan. “Someone’s on the train!” a man screamed, pointing toward the bridge. The onlookers grew uneasy and Grandpa Vi watched—there was someone at the throttle! The Texas moved through the flames that licked at its sleek, shiny engine. Suddenly, the bridge collapsed with a thunderous roar and the crowd screamed as one, terrified for the unfortunate engineer manning the helm. The whistle’s tortured cry echoed through the surrounding forest as the bridge tumbled down around the fallen locomotive, steam spewing out of the churning water.

My grandfather used to take me to the place where the locomotive had fallen, to fish or picnic. Each time, I would beg to hear the story and each time he would oblige. When I was sixteen, Grandpa checked out a 16 millimeter copy of “The General” and a projector from the library and we watched quietly as the black and white images danced silently across the screen. As the flickering Texas fell into the water, my stomach flip-flopped and my mind imagined the death screams of the train’s whistle and the terror of the spectators just beyond the camera’s range. Of course, my grandfather explained, there had been no one aboard the locomotive—it had been a dummy that went down with the train. Nevertheless, I was thrilled to see the picture that had played such a memorable role in my grandfather’s childhood. I stole glances at him as he watched the screen intently, smiling as if he were viewing the film for the first time.

The night I arrived in Cottage Grove after his death, I slept in Grandad’s bed and thought of his life as the streetlights played shadows on the wall. He had worked in the sawmills until he was in his mid-sixties and based most of his attitudes, beliefs and needs on the cycles, history and activities of his community. He was a simple man from a small town who was never too busy to help a neighbor shingle his roof, or listen to a joke, poorly told, by a passing friend.

I could smell my grandfather in the room and could almost hear him whistling in the hall—but softly, as not to wake Grandmother. As I began to drift off to sleep in the security of his home, I suddenly missed Grandpa Vi deeply, not certain how to cope with the unsettling feeling of irreplaceable loss. Now, sitting on the bank of the river Row, I watched the water ripple over a rock, creating a whirlpool. For a moment, I thought I glimpsed a piece of rusted metal beneath the swirling current. I looked closer and it was gone, an illusion. Gazing at the river it was difficult to picture the bridge, the locomotive or the two thousand men marching its banks. But in the next moment, when I closed my eyes, I conjured up the picture my grandfather had drawn a thousand times.

It was a scratchy image, a black and white world with subtle shades of gray adding texture to the silent rumblings of the great locomotive. Buster Keaton, sad-faced and mournful, staring over the throttle of a steaming engine. My grandfather gazing longingly at the water, picturing the ghost of a memory passed, a memory forever alive in his heart.

The whirlpool twirled in an endless cycle, flowing gently over the rock and I found that if I squinted, I could see a rusted piece of The Texas. And if I cleared my mind, I could see the bridge, the men and the glorious battle of Cottage Grove. But the memory I could draw most vividly was the image of Grandpa Vi, smiling warmly, sitting on the bank of the Row, telling a young boy once again about the summer Buster Keaton came to Cottage Grove.

As the sun set over the Row Rover, I gathered myself up and prepared for the hike back to my car. I breathed a heavy sigh and looked out over the peaceful water. Just as the memory of a summer’s day seventy years ago had been etched into my Grandfather’s mind like a cherished photograph, I could never be without Grandpa Vi, the memories he had passed on to me, or our shared moments at the final resting place of The Texas.

From the book of short stories "Grainy Memories", available at lulu.com

Gilligan's Island

In the 70-odd years since the manufacture of the first cathode ray tube television sets, there have been but two Gilligans to have impacted our society via the television waves. The first was the bumbling first mate of the SS Minnow, Willy Gilligan; the other is the creator of the TV series "Breaking Bad", Vince Gilligan. While one Gilligan led five passengers and his skipper on an infamous "3-hour tour", ultimately ending in light-hearted disaster, the other led us all on a 5-season tour-de-force that has left a nation feeling empty and clamoring for more, yet ultimately satisfied with its inevitable conclusion.

I have observed that there are many similarities in these Gilligan shows, and fittingly, just as many differences between the two. For instance, the crew and passengers of the Minnow were stranded on a deserted island, with no connection to the outside world, no possibility of rescue and had to count on their wits to survive. They built a rudimentary generator invented by the ingenious professor, powered by a stationary bicycle fashioned out of bamboo, coconuts and palm fronds. Walter and Jesse, the methamphetamine manufacturing "protagonists" from Breaking Bad, also found themselves high and dry, only this time in the desert wasteland outside Albuquerque. Walter, also a dyed in the wool professor genius-type, made a battery out of nuts, bolts, sponges and carbon shavings.

While First-Mate Gilligan could often be heard shouting "I'll go tell the others!" while racing off into the teeth of adventure, Walter's "first mate", Jesse Pinkman could often be heard shouting "Yo, BITCHES!" while bumbling into his own share of mishaps, usually with wildly different results than the sitcom hero.

Gilligan had a fondness for coconut cream pie; Jesse for crystal meth. Gilligan constantly overlooked his chances to sleep with Ginger and Maryanne; Jesse triggered a relapse and subsequent overdose that allowed Jane to choke to death on her own vomit and gets Andrea shot in the back of the head by evil Todd (referred to by Vince Gilligan as "Opie Hitler"). First mates: not too smooth with the ladies.

On the other hand, on Gilligan's Island if you suffered massive head trauma (a coconut falling from above, or perhaps being smacked with a club or running into a tree), a character would usually lose his or her memory, but would fully regain the memory with a subsequent and equally traumatic head trauma. However, in Breaking Bad, if say, an ATM machine fell on a character's head, they were killed instantly, with lots of oozing blood and maybe a little twitching.

Both shows had colorful supporting characters with their own endearing hallmark phrases: Gilligan's Island with Thurston Howell III ("Lovey!!!") and Breaking Bad with Walt Junior ("Mom, that's BULLSHIT!") Both had annoying shrews in the cast: Gilligan's Island had the ever-irritating "Lovey" Howell and Breaking Bad had that shrill harpy Marie. I wished on many occasions that Lovey would stumble, fall or be flung into an active volcano or get herself chewed to death by a cartload of angry rabid chimps while taking some sun. Similarly, I often hoped Marie would have a gruesome, bloody accident while cleaning Hank's .45, or get in a gruesome, bloody accident involving a bus or an oil truck and lots of fire.

Coincidence? I think not.

Whatever the case, my childhood would not have been the same without the antics of the zany castaways in one of the worst shows ever produced, and I cannot deny being affected by the dizzyingly wild ride of Breaking Bad, questionably one of the best. They are, in my opinion, the all-time Gilligan Yin and Gilligan Yang of television and for that, we thank you Gilligans. And Yo, bitches, I'll go tell the others.

The Best Defense is a Strong Offense

FADE IN:

INT. JERRY'S CAR (Nighttime). Colored lights swirl in the rearview mirror. Jerry has been pulled over by the local constabulary.
                                                                JERRY
               (Looking in his rearview mirror at the pretty lights. Slurs) Goddamn it...

A POLICE OFFICER shines his flashlight into the driver's side window. Jerry squints and smiles.

                                                                  JERRY
                 Good evening...

                                                                   OFFICER
                  Do you know why I pulled you over, Sir?

Jerry blinks and squints and thinks for a moment.

                                                                    JERRY
                   To tell me the winning lottery numbers, lest I neglect to check on my own?

                                                                    OFFICER
                    May I see your license and registration, please?

                                                                     JERRY
                    Of course. (Rummages through his glove box for the materials)

                                                                      OFFICER
                    Your car smells like a brewery, sir. (He takes the paperwork in hand)

                                                                       JERRY
                     (Nods) Yes, sir. We were brewing beer in here earlier. Tomorrow, we are stomping wine grapes. It's part of a reality series on mobile distilleries.

                                                                       OFFICER
                      Your eyes are red and your pupils are dilated.

                                                                       JERRY
                      (Nods) I am part albino. It's a curse, truly.

                                                                       OFFICER
                      (Nods) I see. (Shines his light into the back seat - a blow-up sex dummy waits invitingly, mouth wide open, either in surprise or welcome) Is this part of  your reality series?

                                                                        JERRY
                       (Nods) Yes sir. That's Rita.

                                                                         OFFICER
                       (Shines his light onto the floorboard, revealing a WWII-era flamethrower)
                        And that?

                                                                        JERRY
                        Yes sir. It helps with the distilling process. It's pretty technical.

There is a banging noise from the trunk.
                                                                     
                                                                        OFFICER
                         What's that?

                                                                        JERRY
                          Search me... I think I need to speak to my lawyer...

Jerry hands the officer a well-worn business card.

                                                                        OFFICER
(Shines his flashlight on the card) Gerald Gavin, is it?

                                                                        JERRY
                            (Nods and smiles) Esquire.

                                                                        OFFICER
                            I'll be right back... (The officer goes back to his car to call the attorney)

The thumping continues.

                                                                         JERRY
                             (Shouts) SHUT UP, TAGGART, OR WE'RE ALL GOING TO PRISON!

The thumping stops.

The officer walks back to the car.

                                                                          OFFICER
                               (Hands Jerry the card) I'm afraid your attorney is in jail, sir...

                                                                           JERRY
                                Jail?

                                                                           OFFICER
                                Custody, yes...

                                                                           JERRY
                                (Sighs and shakes his head) Fuck.... Again?

Next Stop - Assisted Living!

I turned 53 years old yesterday and obviously, most of my better days are behind me. Now I can look forward to easing gracefully into my golden years with a colorful vocabulary and a keen eye for the absurdities in life, both finely-honed after decades of diligent observation and commentary. This may or may not serve me well.

Assuming that I will most likely serve out my final years alone, given that I have yet to find a female on earth who has proven hearty enough to endure me for more than a cursory cup of coffee (the latest next-ex-Mrs. Ford has proven durable, but this can most-likely be attributed to the fact that we have spent most of our marriage in separate countries), I am gnawing at the bit for the day when I can finagle my way into assisted living.

I know that most old-folks put up a fuss, fighting this move with every fiber in their elderly being, declaring loudly, if not lucidly, that they "WILL NOT GIVE UP" their independence. Pffffffft, I say. Have at it - I have long since come to terms with the realization that I am at best a horrible manager of my independence and would prefer to have someone else do it for me, as well as make my bed, do my laundry, change my diaper and fill my sippy-cup with cheap Scotch. This will give me more time to concentrate on crossword puzzles, internet porn, Matlock reruns and the perfect, delicate balance of tasty cheese, meat stick and cracker.

I would delight in never having to mow another lawn, skim another pool, fold another load of laundry, replace another fuse, gasket, fixture, bulb or nozzle of any kind for the rest of my life, unless it fine-tunes my sippy-cup to optimum sipping-power. My schedule would work as follows:

5:30 AM: Rise early, log into the internet, write some if feeling up to it. If not, read news and figure out which nuggets might be skimmed and blogged about in appropriately crusty fashion. Really just killing time until 5:50.

5:50 AM: Take care of business. My digestive system has been reliable for over 5 decades and at this point, I do not anticipate any change in the "Twenty Minute Rule" in the near future, unless I suddenly inexplicably become addicted to pain killers or some other substance that might cause unanticipated and unprecedented unruly constipation.

6:00 AM: Stroll to the common area to see if any of the ladies are up and about, stop by the kitchen to see what's cooking and when it will be ready to eat. Browbeat the staff as needed.

6:30 AM: Claim place on the common area couch and commandeer the television remote. Search through the 500-plus channels that I am no longer forced to pay for and see if Matlock is on anywhere. If not, find suitable news or sports channel. Nap until breakfast. Sit on remote (literally) while napping to make certain none of those other sneaky sons of bitches try to get at it.

7:30 AM: Eat quickly and efficiently. Take any meds that require food and drink plenty of juice. Remember that I am not responsible for buying the groceries, so eat seconds whenever possible, as long as it doesn't interfere with getting back to the common area couch before the others. If it looks as if there might be a challenger to the lead seat on the common area couch, create a diversion by sweeping plates onto the floor. Feign a seizure or dementia as needed.

8:00 AM: Challenge all comers to an invigorating game of Risk, working down the board-game food-chain in the following order: Monopoly, Life, ScatterGories, Chutes and Ladders and finally Tic-Tac-Toe. Make sure games are on hand and plenty of soft-leaded pencils. Crush competitors. If challenged for a victory, sweep games onto the floor. Feign a seizure or dementia as needed.

9:00 AM: Tune in to "Matlock", advise all others in the common room that there will be a quiz after the episode. Chuckle, guffaw or smile knowingly as appropriate and use these key moments to make eye contact with the most attractive ladies in attendance. Keep an eye out for any chippy would-be rivals. Note their room locations. Bribe orderlies as needed.

!0:30 AM: Take a walk around the well-manicured grounds with the most feisty of the ladies on hand at the Matlock viewing. If there is a walker involved, make certain the little lady has fresh tennis balls on the feet of the contraption. Safety first. Ask her to meet after dinner in the Rumpus Room.

10:32 AM: Turn back for the safety of the common area, take oxygen as needed and visually identify the location of the remote. After re-invigoration, sit next to the person with the remote. During a commercial break, snatch the remote away from the usurper. Wrestle the device away if necessary. Use teeth, feet and elbows to obtain the remote. Feign seizure or dementia as needed.

11:00 AM: Nap on couch, again sitting on the remote. Those wily sons of bitches are ruthless. Like zombies with dentures.

12:00 PM: Eat lunch, again with efficiency. Hide remote in underpants throughout, No need to rush - enjoy lunch. It's the most important meal of the day. Have seconds whenever possible - remember, the grub does not cost extra.

1:00 PM: Take note of the ladies who do not immediately fall asleep after lunch. They will be the feistiest later. Use the soft-lead pencils.

1:15 PM: Nap in the common room. Put on an old-timey movie if possible and cozy up to a feisty Betty if possible. This will pay off in spades later.

2:15 PM: Take meds, drink some juice and begin asking for the Scotch Sippy-Cup. Bribe orderlies as necessary.

3:00 PM: Volunteer to lead afternoon activities. Suggest "Spin The Bottle", "Seven Minutes in Heaven" and "Strip Poker". Settle for a lively round of "Twister" and break out the baby oil. Bribe orderlies as needed.

3:15 PM: Go to room for refractory period and take a nap. Take a lively Betty, if possible. Use as capable.

4:30 PM: Dismiss the lively Betty and shower up for dinner. Don't forget to use soap and be vigorous.

5:00 PM: Dine with the group. Have extra helpings of dumplings, gravy, cornbread and/or cobbler as available. These increase vigor - it's been studied and documented.

6:00 PM: Break out the ukulele and lead a singalong of old-timey favorites and bawdy sea-shanties and encourage synchronized dancing. Try to include those with walkers - they tire quickly and will sleep well afterward. Consider it a gift.

7:00 PM: Sneak a re-fill of the sippy-cup. Meet Betty in rumpus room. Bribe orderlies as needed. Use time wisely, then take a short nap.

8:00 PM: Take television remote out of underpants and find a suitable movie for evening viewing. Something recent and topical, like "Tootsie", "Escape From New York" or "Rocky". Once the movie is chosen, give up the remote and shout for popcorn and more Scotch. Fall asleep as needed.

9:30 PM: Allow transportation to room by orderlies - make eye contact with feisty Betties along the way - you never know, Sleep well and dream of jangly, three-chord pop music with tight harmonies.

Repeat until called to live with Jesus.

Bring it on!

Stuff It Up Your *ss.

Anyone who has ever watched "Inside the Actor's Studio", with its creepy host, James Lipton, is familiar with the questions based on the "Proust Questionnaire" that Lipton lobs to his guests at the end of the show. "What turns you on?" "What turns you off?" "What sound or noise do you love?", etc. Blah, blah, blah... I don't care if Dustin Hoffman loves the sound of his own self-important voice rattling around in that huge, self-important head of his.

 

The question that always grabs my attention is "What is your favorite curse word?" Of course, since the show is on Bravo, the curse word is generally bleeped out anyhow, leaving the answer limp and ineffective. I am not a good lip-reader, so unless the person in charge of the bleeping is talented, I usually have no clue. The talented bleeper on the other hand, can make the bleeped out curseword as apparent as if it had not been bleeped at all. Instead of hearing **** off!, one hears *uck off! - much more exciting.

But I am not writing today to discuss bleeping out cursewords, or even to dive into the Actor's Studio. I am writing to discuss my own newest, favoritest curse word. Actually, it's a phrase. My old favorite was "horsesh*t", followed closely by "sh*t*ss". That's how they would be bleeped by a talented bleeper. It seems I have a thing for fecal-based cursing. Along those lines, my new favorite curse-phrase is "Stuff it up your *ss". I have made it a point to bring this up to several colleagues, friends and co-workers, resulting in varying degrees of uncomfortable conversation, depending on the person with whom I conversed. What the *ell, I thought they needed to know...

My reasoning for "Stuff it up your *ss" is simple. It is an elegant, powerful statement. If you tell someone to "stick" something up their *ss, it almost seems like asking them to shelve a book for you, or hand you the salt. To "shove" something up one's *ss is a bit more powerful, but in the manner of being a sudden shock, like dipping one's toes in icy water. On the other hand, if you "stuff" something up your *ss, you've undertaken a project that is going to be long, painful, strenuous and perhaps impossible.

And I like that thought, because if I am angry or annoyed enough to tell someone to "stuff your attitude up your *ss!", I want them to take awhile to work on it and know it's there when they've finished. When telling someone off and tossing out the suggestion thatthe argument should ultimately end up in your listener's *ss, there is a delicate balance between being dismissive ("stick it up your *ss.") and overly forceful ("ram it up your *ss."). Which is why "stuff it up your *ss" is such a beautiful send off. It is the perfect blend of contempt and power.

 

I have been bandying the phrase about with abandon, enjoying the way it rolls off the tongue. While watching "Tombstone" lastnight on television, I noted that one of the lesser Clantons told Wyatt Earp to "stuff it up your *ss!" I was amazed at the young man's moxie, but also knew without a doubt that his time on earth was now limited. One must be wary to whom you levy the "stuff it up your *ss". It is a fine rejoinder, but should be used with caution.

James Lipton: "What is your favorite curseword?" Jerry: "Stuff it up your *ss."

James Lipton: "What sound makes you happy?" Jerry: "The sound of you stuffing your questions up your *ss."

(From February, 2011)

"Hand me a Tums - I think I'm going to barf."

I was asked to settle a distpute this morning. A co-worker asked me what a single antacid tablet from the "Tums" bottle is called - a "Tum", or a "Tums"?

I thought for a moment and said, "A Tum." She frowned. "But it's a brand name," she said. I frowned, too. She is pregnant and I didn't want to make a wrong turn here and send her into a crying jag or an angry pregnant frenzy. "Good point," I said.

My mind went to work. "Did you Google it?" She hadn't, so I did. I turned to the World Wide Web, which told me that one should not singularize a brand name. I continued to frown. Though it proved her right - and I agreed in principal - it did not feel right to me. "Would you say 'hand me a Tums'?" I asked. "Yes," she said. "That's what I say."

I nodded.

Some things lend themselves to leaving the "S" intact without question. Like Schnapps. One would not ask for a shot of Schnapp. One would be summarily slapped by any bartender worth his salt - especially if the bartender was German. Aside from Schnapps, I cannot think of many trademarked brand names ending in the letter "S" that sound anything less than silly when spoken aloud when asking for a single item from its package. To whit:

• "Yeah, buddy, a Fig Newtons sounds fantastic right about now..."
• "My ear is clogged - hand me a Q-Tips, stat..."
• "My Twinkies is a little light on the delightful cream filling..."
• "The baby has shit himself - hand me a Wet Wipes! And get me a fresh Pampers!"
• "I would like a Skittles, please - just one..."
• I dropped an M&Ms - the rest are in my belly..."

I would like to think that my initial call was spot-on - World Wide Web and its grammar police be damned. As I have said many times, this is a time of change. Revolt is in the air - rebellion imminent. When I am duly elected King (again, apparently not eligible for Pope), we will have grammatical rules based in common sense, which is apparently not so common. While I do not wish to be slapped silly by a surly German bartender, I am equally adverse to sounding like an ignorant hillbilly when I ask for someone to hand me "a Wet Wipes".

Singularize when applicable, I say. And stay strong on the Schnapps.

The Big, Colorful Typewriter

I once considered the computer to be nothing more than a big, colorful typewriter. Then, at some point it became the powerful magic box that through a series of mystifying keystrokes, aided by swift, assured mouse-clicks and atonal humming on my part, had the ability to find any piece of information in the known universe. With photographs, if desired. The computer, and its associated universe – the internet, is the modern-day equivalent to the old, stately home of knowledge, the Encyclopedia Britannica. The internet is an endless storehouse of information, which if printed, bound and stacked as actual books, would stretch from here to the third moon of Jupiter. Twice. This is a fact; I checked on Google.


On my big, colorful typewriter, I can also watch television, listen to music, pay my bills and type instant messages to friends and family across the land. It was one of the watershed moments of my life when I realized that I might never need lick an envelope again, rating right up there with the invention of the self-adhesive stamp, which eliminated the need to ever lick a stamp again. Licking paper was one of the banes of my childhood.

But I digress.

The big, colorful typewriter has evolved into a small colorful typewriter and then a handheld colorful typewriter with tiny little perfect keys. Then my telephone disappeared and was replaced by an even smaller colorful typewriter on which I could now telephone my friends and family across the land, as well as send them succinct text messages with complete sentences and flawless spelling and grammar. I have read that my telephone has more power than the computer that NASA used to send the Apollo astronauts to the moon. That makes me giddy. Soon, I imagine I will be fitted with a miniscule chip that will enable me to accomplish a multitude of tasks using little more than thought.

I have watched my children grow up as the computer has developed and adapt to the move into technological savvy and now see a new generation of users that know no different. There is a video on YouTube (I watched it on my computer – the small one) of a baby swiping at a magazine as if he could make the picture on the cover larger by placing his fingers on the page and moving his thumb and forefinger apart, as he would on an IPad. The baby didn’t know to turn the page, which I considered not only a senseless tragedy, but a true sign of the times.

I come from a simpler age and must admit that I miss the sound of the typewriter clacking away and trying to get to the television to change the channel with the telephone cradled between my shoulder and cheek while stretching to the very end of the phone’s cord to reach the knob. My kids will never have to do this. Nor will the babies with their IPads. I could rant a little bit about things “the way they used to be”, but I realize that I never had to chop wood to cook my meals, shoot, grow or pick my food or ride a horse to work. It’s called progress and at my age, it’s “put up or shut up” and we must roll with the changes or be left behind in a cloud of… Well, a cloud of information, because according to Google, that’s where the information lives

My Baby Name List Is Cooler Than Yours.

A friend and colleague at work is having a baby. It's going to be a boy when it emerges and I have, for several months now, made various suggestions as to the moniker of the little tyke, most of which have been met with disdain.

Since the choices I have offered up to this point have been mostly whimsical, I have decided to pen the ultimate Baby Name List, using logic, history and phonetics to come up with the coolest male baby names from which to choose. Girl names are easy - simply avoid names like Edith, Gertrude and  Eloise. And stripper-names - avoid those, too.

The surname of the family with which I have to work is of an excellent naming base. Two syllables, both hard stops - as if it has been clipped neatly from the name-tree. "Richards". This is a fine name for pairing one, two or three syllable first-names, which gives us a broad canvas on which to paint. But let's talk first about the basics of baby-naming.

It seems to me that baby names fall into two logical categories:

"Names Which Ring True" Names Which Ring True are names that elicit reaction as they are spoken, and these fall into several sub-categories, such as "Phonetically Pleasing", which are names that just seem to roll off the tongue in a pleasant fashion. Dana Carvey, Helen Hunt and Mickey Mantle are examples of these. Easy to say with a smile on your face. These names ring true at a visceral level.
"Historically Noble" is another sub-category. Names that are culled from history, such as Alexander, Jesus, Noah and Christopher are practically torn from the pages of history and each name brings a historical figure immediately to mind. This can backfire, however, with names like Adolf, Saddam, Lee Harvey and Milhouse. Make your historically-based choices carefully.
"Sports Figures and Other Celebrities" is the last of the major "Ring True" sub-categories and is probably one of the most popular. Movie stars, characters from movies, books and TV as well as cultural icons all fall under this umbrella. How many babies have been named "Britney", "Justin" or "Lindsay" in the last 15 years, anyhow? You get the point.

"Names of Predisposition" Names of this type are the most dangerous of all. Stripper names fall into this category. "Destiny", "Angel", "Candy", "Raven", "Houston" and "Anastasia" should be avoided at all costs. Since this is a male-based name search, we will leave it at that. Predisposition is almost like a science experiment. Names chosen in this fashion nearly guarantee the profession and life-course of the child. The names "Peabody" and "Poindexter" will most likely make you the proud parent of a librarian or civil engineer. "Jerry Lee" anything will provide your offspring with the likeliest chance of living in a trailer, owning a cache of firearms and taking a potshot at a political, religious or equal rights public figure with the firearms.

Now, down to work on Baby Richards.Here is a logical list, based on our criteria, broken down by group:

Names Which Ring True

Phonetically Pleasing:

• Kent Richards
• Blair Richards
• Brock Richards
• Phillip Richards
• Bradley Richards

These names just sound nice - people would enjoy saying them and might always choose to use both first and last names when addressing your son, which is the ultimate show of respect in some countries.

Historically Noble:

• Grant Richards
• Beauregard Richards
• Sherman Richards
• Lincoln Richards
• Kennedy Richards
• Sampson Richards
• Aristotle Richards
• Einstein Richards
• Washington Richards
• Crispus Richards

These names are regal. Any man would be proud to sign "Beauregard Richards" to any legal document. In fact, I may start doing so immediately.

Sports Figures and other Celebrities:

• Cassius Richards
• Babe Richards
• Frazier Richards
• Rocky Richards
• Clooney Richards
• Pitt Richards
• Bourne Richards
• Marlowe Richards
• Bogart Richards
• Cary Richards
• Orson Richards
• Dino Richards
• Huck Richards

You get the idea. This is probably the most fun category and I really like "Pitt Richards" - that boy will be an adventurer for certain. Good looking kid, too, most likely.

As a footnote, any Earp is a keen baby name: Wyatt, Morgan, Virgil... All will kick ass and grow a fantastic mustache.

I don't want to get too in-depth on the predisposal - I think this category is a powder keg. That said, if you would like your child to grow up to be a flamboyant piano player, go with the name "Elton", or "Liberace" - "Lee", for short. Or, you could utilize the baby-name double-tap and name the child "Elton Liberace Richards" - this would guarantee for certain that your son will grow up with a penchant for feathers, plumes, capes and gaudy jewelry. And a wicked talent for "tickling the ivories", so to speak.

I hope this helps, or at least gets you started. Jerry Ford, here to help.

Thoughts At Three (Episode 1)

3am is my own personal, hellish witching hour. All the ghosts, goblins and things that go bump in the night must be already turned in for peaceful slumber after the standard 12am witching hour, because things always seem to be pretty quiet at 3am. Although this morning I had the pleasure of hearing two cats going at each other viciously somewhere close by. With my luck, they probably found a way into my car and that's where are the cat-piss and fur from the bout will be found come sunrise. I have personally never used my car as a boxing ring, but then again, I am not a cat. I'm sure it would make a dandy one - especially if they figured out how to turn the radio on. I usually have the radio set to a station that would play perfect music for catfight accompaniment. I seem to hear "Eye of the Tiger" monthly, which usually gets my blood running and leads to me being pulled over and either warned or ticketed for speeding.

But I am not sitting at my desk at 3:41am to talk about catfights - unless there is a filmed version of a Sophia Loren/Raquel Welch offering from the mid 60's, then by all means, I shall review.

 "The Battle of the Super-Vixens" - Fight of the Century - Meow!

I am hear to talk about The Beaver. No, not Jerry Mathers and certainly not the much sought-after area of the female body that has lovingly been dubbed with that moniker. I am talking about the beaver that lives in the wild, building dams, swimming playfully in the world's rivers and slapping beaver-messages to their friends and family on the surface of the water with their tails. That Beaver.

In Belarus, a man died after being attacked by a beaver, which made me kind of sad. I thought, "So, in Belarus, it's come to this..." Then I read further and it was revealed that the beaver had attacked the 60 year-old man after he had grabbed the animal in order to have his photograph taken with it. I had always thought of the people of Belarus as kind and gentle, wise in the ways of the world, with impeccable taste. After all, according to my statistics, folks from Belarus have read my blog, presumably using the translating function that I made available for my foreign readers. However, I must amend my position on the Belarusiusians after reading of the beaver attack and subsequent death. I now know that they simply have impeccable taste - if only in their chosen reading materials.

Here's my thought: Why in God's name would you want to have your photograph taken with a beaver so badly that you would grab it? Though the beaver spends most of its time in the water, I still can't imagine that it smells very nice. And who knows what unpredictable mood the beaver might be in when you paw at it? Perhaps (and obviously, in retrospect), beavers do not enjoy the human touch and perhaps (and obviously, in retrospect), it might even agitate them to the point of attack - so why bother. Take your photo from a distance, perhaps poking your head, or a pointing finger into the frame, and get back in your little Belarusian car and keep moving.

Even this city boy would balk at grabbing a beaver. Any wildlife, really, but beaver in particular. They chew down trees. This would be akin to accosting a three-foot long, 60 lb., deliciously furry chainsaw, equipped with a speedy tail that could slap you to the other side of Tuesday. My message here is simple - stay away from the beaver. All wildlife if possible, the beaver in particular. Also, go back to bed and get some sleep - what in the fuck are you doing up at 4:15 in the morning, anyhow? Sweet dreams...

Winning the Lottery, or "Money Runs From Me."

I was rifling through Yahoo News at a blistering pace, given my Speed-Reading ability and God-given talent for sifting through treacle for the juicy nuggets, when I came across an article titled "5 Better Investments Than the Lottery". This sounds boring, I thought. The lottery itself is naturally disposed to being a fantastic topic for a variety of reasons, none of which is "what are 5 better investments?"

Among the most awesome lottery topics, in my opinion would be "Lottery Gone Bad", "The 5 Greatest Lottery Hoaxes of All Time", "How to Squander 60 Million Dollars of Lottery Bounty in 30 Days", "Sex, Drugs and Really Fast Cars - My Lottery Adventure", or "How The Lottery Bought Me an Island, My Own Cable Network, Three Midget Manservants and Raquel Welch In A Bikini".

Certainly not "5 Better Investments Than the Lottery".

But I'll bet you're wondering what the investments are... Here's what they aren't:

• Jerry's Alligator and Reptile Emporium
• Bed, Bath and XXX Beyond
• Iron Man Suits, LTD.
• The Benjamin Button Traveling Roadshow and Circus
• The Feces - The World's First Human-Waste-Powered Automobile

No, believe it or not - not a single one of these world-class investment opportunities even cracked the top 100 Better Investments Than the Lottery. The Reason: They are my brilliant ideas and would most likely prove financially devastating for any investor. Why? Because money runs from me. I was having a lively conversation with Michael Lyon the other day and I was detailing the latest of my financial implosions, prattling on about some legal fee, or overpriced auto repair or ruthless collection agency, underhanded hooker or convincing panhandler, and he shook his head and said to me, "Money runs from you, doesn't it..." I nodded vigorously. "Like I was chasing it with a poleaxe," I said, solemnly.

Later, we were IMing (on my lunch hour, of course - I would never think of wasting company time discussing my financial ineptitude on company time) and the phrase came up again - money runs from you doesn't it... I understand that he was trying to undercut my generally indefatigable self-esteem, which is a laughable and largely fruitless waste of his time, but still - it cut to the chase. "Yes, it does," I replied. "Like I was carrying a torch and a pitchfork... Like I was the Last Train to Dachau... Like I was carrying a see-through bag of kitten-heads... Like I had my dick out... Like I was spraying it with a fire-hose of sewage, with a dusting of the HIV virus and some crushed and finely-ground kitten-heads..." He had made his point and I had made mine. His point was that I was financially challenged. Mine was that I don't like kittens.

That said, even my extreme, unequalled inability to manage a freshly-minted dime does not prevent me from dreaming of what dazzling changes of life might be in store if I were to actually win, inherit, or earn from forward-thinking circusery some staggering windfall that even my lusty mismanagement could not deplete. The automobile run on human excrement notwithstanding, I think I could come up with a few genuine services to humanity to bankroll that could possibly win me a Pulitzer Prize, or Nobel Prize, or some lesser prize that could be purchased through generous donation. The FartVac comes to mind - a hip-pocket device that detects flatulence and sucks up the odor and repurposes it in the scent of Halston Z-14 Cologne. The list of ideas is endless and in fact, I cannot wait to win the Lottery so that I can begin work on this and other worthy prototypes. Start dusting a shelf above the opulent fireplace of my yet-to-be-purchased mansion in Malibu for Mr. Pulitzer.

Oh, here are the "5 Better Investments Than the Lottery":

• Pay down credit card debt
• Boost your 401(K) contributions
• Open a Roth IRA
• Increase mortgage payments
• Invest in a taxable account

I don't know what most of things even mean and even the simple act of typing them out has given me a robust and angry headache, but I feel as if I have now done my civic duty in providing you with the information.

That said, I am off to the store to buy several hundred dollars worth of tickets for the monumental lottery drawing this evening, which I am nearly certain to win. Take that, poor money management - that will show you... Until then, if you want to invest in my FartVac prototype and get in on the ground floor, I am willing to take you along for the ride.