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Monday, June 24, 2019
Your Comment on I Shouldn’t Have to Publish This in The New York Times
Grocery Stores are now Adults Only.
The author, reading a dirty limerick to a group of nuns.
Having been out all day fighting crime as my alter ego, Super Fluous, I came home today to read a disturbing paragraph in the Wall Street Journal. To wit:
WASHINGTON—The Supreme Court ruled 6-3 Monday that the government may not deny registration to trademarks it deems “immoral or scandalous,” finding that the Patent and Trademark Office violated the First Amendment when it applied such criteria to brand names.
This might have flummoxed me, but I have trained myself in the ancient oriental art of Shver Nax to withstand the most lethal blows to my body and intellect. So I retired to my tablinum to mull things over, emerging several hours later resolved to ignore this latest sign of moral atrophy and persevere in living my life by the tenets I grew up with while working in my parents' bodega on Yancy Street during the Irish Potato Famine -- namely Winken, Blinken, and Nod.
Suddenly assailed by a host of borborygmi that could be heard all the way to Temple Square in Salt Lake City, I ransacked the fridge for something to soothe my famished frame. But a shoal of arctic piranha had apparently beaten me to the punch; they had stripped me of every meat product and byproduct, leaving behind very little but a bag of shredded lettuce turned autumnal brown. Also an elderly jar of Cheez Whiz bubbling with either probiotics or deadly toxins -- not having a spectrometer handy, I decided to take no chances and threw both items away. Time for a jaunt to Fresh Market, catty-corner to my apartment building -- where the whole produce department loves to see my pinched and scowling face as I slowly pick over the roma tomatoes in between frequent and drizzling sneezes
As the pneumatic glass doors slid open for me I noticed a strange and unfamiliar cachet to the place. First of all, they'd changed the big sign out front that read "WELCOME TO FRESH MARKET" to "X-RATED BAZAAR -- OUR KINKY IS ALWAYS RIPE."
Okay . . . that's not weird . . .
Then one of the cashiers sidled up to me. I had often chewed the fat with her before; talking casually about the weather or her son's Cub Scout projects. Now her baggy green pants and dark blouse were miraculously changed to a black negligee with a plunging neckline. And she had on stiletto high heels.
"Hiya, big boy" she purred at me. "What kin I do fer ya?"
Her tone was so suggestive that my Adam's apple began bobbing like a navigation buoy in a stormy sea.
"I need a few quickies -- uh, I mean I want to snack on you -- that is, I'm here for the specials" I gabbled witlessly, discombobulated by the fiery rouge on her cheeks and the smoldering desire in her bedroom eyes. "I gotta get some groceries, is all!"
I fled from her, much like Joseph fled from Potiphar's importunate spouse, heading into the bakery. I staggered away from the glass display case after spotting some anatomically correct bismarcks and napoleons.
Tottering down the aisles, as in a nightmare, I saw that Gerbers was now Grabbers -- with salacious artwork showing leering infants groping their own mothers. Horlicks Malted Milk Powder is pronounced the same, but spelled differently. Chef Boyardee becomes Chef Boy-o-Boy, and the dirty old hash slinger is portrayed on the can in pursuit of a Gina Lollobrigida look-alike, his mustachios quivering with lust. I cannot bring myself to tell you what was on the Manwich can. Or on the CornNuts bag, either. Frito-Lay is now labeled in the past tense -- Frito-Laid. Borden has become Bordello. Reddi Wip is rebranded Reddi Willing and Able to Wip. Kraft has become Krafft-Ebing. And what they've done to Mrs. Butterworth . . .
I can't go on. Suffice it to say that the whole store is one lurid saturnalia of uncensored erotica. I managed to throw a few comestibles into a shopping cart and claw my way out of there, slutty store clerks clinging to my Hush Puppies while impudently asking if I am a Jiffy Pop or go Screaming Yellow Zonkers.
I wonder where the nearest Farmer's Market is?
"Makes about as much sense as dew on an iceberg"
Joy cometh in the morning
For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favour is life: weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.
Psalms 30:5
It is morning and my weeping ends.
The anger is over and we are friends.
The world and I have parted ways.
God's favor now informs my days.
Come into the light; in umbrage no more
my soul is preparing to Thee up to soar!
Sunday, June 23, 2019
Kort historie om en selvmordsforsøk
Jeg er en ekspert på å løpe bort. Klokken 17 løp jeg bort fra min dysfunksjonelle familie i Minneapolis for å bli med i sirkuset. Jeg løp vekk fra sirkuset, hvor jeg hadde funnet fremvoksende suksess som en klovn, for å bli misjonær i Thailand. To år senere var jeg tilbake med Ringling Brothers, men løp bort igjen - denne gangen for å bli med i et hjem; min egen. Jeg giftet meg og prøvde å sette meg gjennom college. Men jeg løp bort fra det, og dro familien min med meg da jeg forfulgte større og større drømmer med mindre og mindre gjørmeutstillinger. Til slutt vokste min kone opp med mine Peer Gynt-lignende aktiviteter. Etter skilsmissen løp jeg bort igjen - denne gangen til alkohol. Til tross for stridene mot drikking i min kirke fant jeg en perversom solace i selvmedisinering med endeløse cocktailer. Men jeg klarte alltid å nøktere opp i tid for å delta på kirketjenester på søndag.
En kald mars søndag, da jeg bodde hos min enke mor tilbake i Minneapolis, dro jeg til Rask og vitnesbyrd Møte ut i Roseville. Dette er et møte hvor noen i menigheten er fri til å komme opp og vitne kort om deres tro og følelser om deres forhold til Frelseren, blant annet. Svært hungover, jeg satt sullenly i min pew og skrev ned en akkurat av hver høyttaler på flybladet av Skriftene mine. Det var åtte av dem, menn, kvinner og barn - og av en eller annen pervers grunn ønsket hver en av dem å si hvor takknemlig de var for deres koner, ektemenn og foreldre. Først ble jeg lei av deres ord; så ærgerlig; så rasende og så dypt deprimert. Da møtet var over, følte jeg meg så alene og elendig at jeg måtte gå og drikke. Flere kvartaler unna var et hotell som serverer en champagnebrunsj. Jeg hadde akkurat tre reker og tre flasker veldig billig champagne.
Jeg klarte å kjøre hjem til min mors hus, lede bilen forsiktig inn i garasjen, lukke garasjeporten og så la motoren gå, da den strålende drunken ideen kom til meg at jeg nå kunne avslutte denne store lidelsen. En berømt mann i min kirke sa en gang: "Ingen suksess kan kompensere for svikt i hjemmet." Denne setningen spiste bort på meg som en lamprey ål, suger ut min åndelige tarm. Jeg personifisert nå den typen feil; en alkoholholdig døddød pappa, langt bak i barnas støtte og ute av kontakt med barna mine. Tiden for å avslutte alt å blande av denne dødelige spolen; å shuffle av til Buffalo.
Så satt jeg der, med motoren løpende, vekk på vakt på slutten.
Men garasjen var gammel og tre og porøs. Det tok lang tid; Jeg måtte tisse. Og en ny episode av X-filene ville være på snart. Jeg lurched for hanskerommet, hvor jeg vanligvis holdt en X-Acto kniv. Jeg kunne kutte håndleddene mine for å få fart på det. Men dammit det var ikke der lenger.
Så jeg sto stoisk venter og til slutt fuktet meg selv. Jeg beklager ikke å drikke mer på champagnebrunchen, så jeg kunne passere ut i garasjen - karbonmonoksidet HAD kom til meg før eller senere.
Men da sa jeg "til helvete med det," slått av motoren, og gikk inn for å dusje og se på X-filene i soverommet mitt, hvor jeg endelig kastet og passerte.
Ikke akkurat en epiphany. Men det var plagsomt og pinlig nok til å sende meg til AA, hvor jeg fant en god sponsor og et uttrykk for vilje til å leve. Og endelig sluttet å løpe bort.
Siden da har jeg gjort mange slips - i å drikke, i å prøve å utvikle ærlige og nærende forhold til andre kvinner, i å starte flere nye karrierer, og i å koble sammen og gjøre fred med barna mine og deres mor. Jeg anser ikke meg selv en suksess så mye av noe - men jeg er en overlevende; og det er nok for meg akkurat nå. Jeg vil ikke lenger drepe meg selv, og jeg vil ikke lenger drikke hele tiden. Hver dag er en gave fra Gud - og som kornball som det kan høres, har det vært min lodste; bringer meg til en glad stemning der jeg kan lese artikler om utrolige damer som Charo og chuckle tolerantly på hva Mark Twain valgte å ringe "The Damned Human Race." Det er alt bra, ikke sant?
I seek not for power, but to pull it down.
Alma 60:36
Seeking power is what rules
all misguided mortal fools.
Those who fight to take command
are but tools in Satan's hand.
Love alone will win the day,
when we choose who to obey.
Give your heart to Christ the Lord
to break each dominating sword.
Saturday, June 22, 2019
Trump's Middle East Peace Plan Will Cost $50 Billion in Investment
TEL AVIV—The Trump administration’s Middle East peace plan would marshal $50 billion in investments over 10 years for the Palestinian territories and neighbors Jordan, Egypt and Lebanon, administration officials said Saturday.
WSJ
Peace at any price, it seems,
requires gold in constant streams.
To soothe that military glint
we better start a brand new mint.
The economic blueprint for
this extortion makes us poor.
If the Middle East needs cash
let 'em find another stash.
Dr. Moriarty is Alive and Well and Trying to Drive Me Crazy
The author, on his pinewood soapbox.
I read with Grim Satisfaction (my usual breakfast companion) the following paragraph from the online Wall Street Journal this morning:
To protect them [moon rocks] the National Aeronautics and Space Administration has strict security protocols befitting a heist film. It isn’t just paranoia. Over the years, some pieces of the moon have escaped NASA’s gravitational pull. One night in 2002, three interns absconded with a 600-pound safe full of moon rocks from Apollo missions. The rocks were retrieved, but couldn’t be used for scientific research. The interns pleaded guilty and the ringleader was sentenced to more than eight years in prison.
"Ha!" I said to No One In Particular (another one of the merry band of breakfast companions I keep around) "It says here that NASA can't keep track of their moon rocks -- they're disappearing like jelly off a dog's nose."
I wiped the crumbs from my mouth and went out to the patio to watch the finches natter over the nylon sack of black thistle seeds I put out for them -- and some very intriguing thoughts came to me, which I am happy to share with the general public on the understanding that it's pure peculation . . . uh, I mean percolation -- no, that's not it either . . . ah, it's pure speculation. I knew it started with a plosive.
That jamook that got eight years in the slammer for boosting moon rocks back in 2002 -- he's out of stir by now, and it doesn't take a Stephen Hawking to figure out that he must be the one responsible for the aggravating and mysterious thefts that occur with tedious regularity around my household. Some of my more impudent children claim I am merely becoming absentminded, with a growing tendency to misplace things. Cutting them to the quick with my osprey-like gaze, I haughtily remind them that after a lifetime of pickled herring and canned sardines my little grey cells are stronger and more astute than ever. No, miene leiben Kinder, the only logical surmise is that someone is systematically stealing small inconsequential items from me in order to drive me mad. And, whether it's the moon rock guy or some other diabolical creature, they are coming close to succeeding.
Consider, for instance, the Case of the Missing Postage Stamps. Once a month I buy a book of 20 Forever stamps; I have a wide and varied correspondence with persons of consequence; most of them enjoy stamping OVERDUE in red ink on their missives to me -- quite the wags, no?
Once I have the stamps in hand I slip them into my thin greasy wallet and then transfer them to the top drawer of my bedroom desk. This routine never varies. Yet on several occasions during the past year when I have opened the drawer for stamps they are nowhere to be found. Did I use them all up? No. Did I move them while searching for my adult coloring book? Nope. Eaten by silverfish? Hardly likely, since I treat all my furniture with formaldehyde on a regular basis.
As my quest widens I begin whimpering mild obscenities in Sindarin and pulling out thatches of comely brunette hair from my throbbing scalp. I finally collapse, utterly spent, on the chaise longue, giving myself up to despair while gibbering like a kelpie. It is not a pleasant sight, and if it occurs when one of my children are visiting they rub cayenne pepper in the wound by nonchalantly opening a few drawers in the kitchen until they pull out the book of stamps -- somehow moved to the new location by a person or persons unknown, bent on my mental demolition.
Or how about the strawberry yogurt in the fridge? I put a new container in and within 24 hours, or less, it is no longer there, and so I forget all about it -- distracted as I often am by finding the solution to Hilbert's Sixteenth Problem (the solution, by the way, is that the butler did it.) Then, three months later, that same container of strawberry yogurt, now crawling with corruption, reappears in my fridge on the top shelf, right behind the prune juice. Don't tell ME that's not an inside job!
I'm going to get to the bottom of this if it's the last thing I do. I give fair warning to the fiend, whoever you are, that is trying to break me -- you've met your match, Dr. Moriarty. I've set out a series of subtle alarms and traps throughout my apartment to nab you -- a hair entwined around a doorknob, a Victor mousetrap laid cunningly in a kitchen drawer -- so you'll not escape my clutches for long! And when I have you I'm phoning for the FBI, cuz you'll undoubtedly be on their Most Wanted list -- just as soon as I can find my blasted cell phone. By ginger, it was here just a minute
ago . . .
Now where did I put that One Ring? Sauron's gonna be mad.
******************************************************************************
******************************************************************************
Well, I’m done writing for the day. Been up since 6, shaved, showered, and covered my body with CeraVe ointment per my dermatologist’s orders, went shopping for potato bread and shrimp-flavored ramen noodles, wrote my postcard to the president, wrote my scripture poem, and then picked an article out of the WSJ to base a feuilleton on. I have decided to change my moniker from poet to feuilletonist -- a fancy French word for ‘writer of small pages.’ That is what S.J. Perelman called himself, and if it was good enough for him it is good enough for me.
That took me until noon, when I broke for some ramen noodles with Brussels sprouts and a sliced tomato, with a stale fudge brownie for dessert -- washed down with a glass of mixed lemonade and Shasta’s Mountain Rush (a Mountain Dew knockoff.) Then I reviewed and edited my feuilleton and sent it out to the WSJ reporter whose story I used for inspiration and to a few of my intimate pals like yourself.
So now I have the entirety of a Saturday afternoon and evening yawning before me like an abyss. What shall I do with myself now? Obviously, one thing is to write this afterpiece -- I still have some energy and focus left, so I’ll use it detailing so much minutiae that it will make your eyeballs fall out with tedium.
I’m trying to discourage the sparrows from feeding on my patio, so I’ve switched from putting out cracked corn to black oil sunflower seeds -- it is two dollars cheaper per bag than cracked corn, and I thought the sparrows wouldn’t like it and so make room for some of the other songbirds around here. But those little brown guttersnipes decided, after a few hours of hopping around the tin pan I filled with sunflower seeds, that they would give it a whirl -- and now they’ve eaten all the sunflower seeds. Oh well, I still get parti-colored finches, ringneck doves, and quail, to feast my eyes on. The sparrows are like those inevitable in-laws you can never get rid of for long and so you just learn to live with them until you can figure out how to murder them without getting caught.
I finally got my cable box set up, since basic cable is part of my rent whether I want it or not, but it has proven to be a rotten way to waste time. Here’s what’s on basic cable right now:
PGA TOUR GOLF
THE JAMES BROWN SHOW
30 F0R 30 (MADE FOR TV MOVIE -- MADE FOR HELL MOVIE IS MORE LIKE IT)
2019 WOMEN’S PGA CHAMPIONSHIP
SPORTS OVERFLOW UTAH
COOK’S COUNTRY
LO MEJOR DE VENGA LA ALEGRIA
A BIOGRAPHY OF AMERICA
ANCIENT ALIENS
THE INSPECTORS (A BYU FLAVORED SITCOM)
FUTBOL CENTRAL
2019 FIFA
STREET OUTLAWS
BONES
LAW & ORDER: SVU
LOCAL PROGRAMMING
RAWHIDE
HOY EN LA COPA AMERICA
BUGSY MALONE
QVC -- OIL COSMETICS
So there’s no chance I can veg out on cable in my recliner.
I can read my Kindle, of course -- but after an hour or two I always start to nod off, even when I stick my feet in cold water while trying to read.
I could take a walk, except my bowels are not reliable today -- like many days for the past couple of months, dammit.
I almost wish I was in some kind of messy relationship again, like with crazy Marilyn my ex Amy or my son Stephen -- at least they ate up my time and made me appreciate moments of quiet and calm. Right now I am looking at about six more stale hours of peace and quiet before going to bed with an Advil PM.
Geez, maybe I better just write some more.
Lift up your head and be of good cheer;
3 Nephi 1:13
Pull up your head and be of good cheer;
the Father and Son will ever be near.
To some it seems foolish to make such a boast,
but they have not striven for the Holy Ghost.
All that I know, and all I should speak,
is Christ gives me joy and makes sorrow weak.
As mountains can pierce the darkest of clouds,
so solace from God can cleave mortal shrouds.
Friday, June 21, 2019
and they did speak unto their fathers
3 Nephi 26:14
My children tell me so much
with just a look or just a touch.
I pray unceasing for their care;
they offer me a wisdom rare.
Could I but listen with more heart
my spirit's ascent would sooner start.
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