Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Hear Ye!

To the readers of "Lou's Mildly Amusing Musings" wherever you may be. Take note! Van Pelt will be playing at Logan's Pub in Pittsburgh this coming Saturday, June 6, 2009. The opening act, Funky Nubbins, will begin at 9 pm.



I'm not sure how many of the millions of readers of this blog are also fans of Van Pelt but if the answer is all of you, we may be able to move the gig up onto the roof of the bar and fill the streets of Oakland. This is the concert that the "mainstream media" doesn't want you to know about, but our voices will not be silenced. Van Pelt will be playing an eclectic mix of songs by various singer-songwriters over the age of 50. The Seventies shall not be forgotten.

You have now been notified of the rocking that will take place this Saturday. For yourself and for the future generations, please act accordingly.

Must Make Joke

I think that there are certain situations where there are really only one or two jokes that you can make. I think photos that accompany blog pages, or now twitter pages, is just such a situation.

I heard on my favorite podcast (Galactic Watercooler), that Brent Spiner has a crazy twitter thing going where he sometimes doles out a line from a story he is spinning one twitter at a time. Indeed, he does. But he also has the above photo of himself. I think it's the overly serious and overly profound author photograph that I have on my blog as well.

It reminds me of one of my favorite David Sedaris stories (that I think I've referred to already): He goes into a novelty store and sees a jar of eyeballs on the counter. He immediately goes to grab an eyeball when he sees a sign reading, "Do not hold the fake eyes up to your real eyes," which is exactly what he was going to do.

Then again, there's something comforting in arriving at the same joke as other people. I like to think that me and Brent Spiner might have a similar sense of humor. I will admit that Spiner pulled this one off better than I did. Holding the glasses is the perfect touch. I didn't think of that.

The only other kind of joke photograph that you would use for a blog or twitter would be a picture of you eating something. Maybe cereal.

An Expression for All Occasions

My wife has a friend who, like her, is a poultry enthusiast. She will often drive him to the local poultry swap that takes place every month. Paul is in his late seventies and is an atheist. He is very critical of organized religion and takes notice whenever a minister or evangelist gets caught up in some kind of scandal, which only reinforces his belief that religion is a sham.

The poultry swap takes place on a Sunday morning, and Krista will sometimes call Paul up and ask if he wants to "go to church." She really means the poultry swap, but sometimes Paul will be thinking of real church and he responds with one of his favorite expressions. He says, "I'll go to church...up a raccoon's ass."

I've been thinking that this expression is extremely versatile and that I could modify it to fit all kinds of situations.

Sure, I'll go to the committee meeting...up a raccoon's ass. You want me to come to your wine tasting party? A weekly staff meeting, you say? Oh, you're having a brainstorming session down the hall? Teambuilding retreat? I'll go to your teambuilding retreat...up a raccoon's ass.

As I dissect the expression, I think it's a variation on the old proverb that a camel can pass through the eye of a needle sooner than a rich man can pass through the gates of heaven. If I know my scriptures, I believe that's from Ephesians, somewhere around chapter 30 or 40.

Though I suspect that they cleaned it up for the Bible. The common saying at the time would start with one guy asking, "Can a rich man go to heaven?" His friend would reply, with much sarcasm, "Sure, a rich man can go to heaven...up a camel's ass."

He Answered the Final Summons

As I was reading a 1909 newspaper today, I noticed how they really jazzed up the obituaries back then. One I saw today for a guy we'll call Ezekiel Fuchs had the headline: Ezekiel Fuchs Answered the Final Summons.

It seemed a bit poetic but also a bit morbid. Saying that he answered the final summons conjures up an image of a guy walking out a door one last time or punching a clock or something like that. It far surpasses the literal: Ezekiel Fuchs Died of a Heart Attack or Ezekiel Fuchs Died in His Sleep Last Night. About one thousand times better than Ezekiel Fuchs Passed Away.

To me, the phrase "passed away" conjures up the image of someone vanishing, but sort of slowly vanishing. The obituaries of olden times didn't sugarcoat death that way. I have even seen obituaries make reference to the Grim Reaper, such as Reaper Calls On Ezekiel Fuchs. I'm also reminded of Hudsucker Proxy when the company announces over the loudspeakers: "At noon today, Wering Hudsucker merged with the infinite." Rather than sweep death under the rug, they made it into a bit of a dramatic event.

Not to mention those who died violently could count on having the details of their death described vividly. The paper included many accounts of cave ins and slate falls in the mines not to mention bizarre accidents in the brickyards and the tin mills. It was not unusual for the first line of a news item to include the phrase "skull crushed." One I saw today ended on a comforting note: coworkers examined the body and determined that the man was killed instantly.

It also seemed like deaths could be dramatic but not at all heroic. Ezekiel Fuchs Defeated by Illness. Then they'll give details about the person's health leading up to their death. Fuchs suffered from the grip for three months. He continually weakened until he was bedridden by February. Finally, he succumbed on March 15.

One bizarre story I read today was about an automobile terrifying a horse. An elderly couple were riding in their buggy on the way to Steubenville, I think, and when an approaching car startled their horse, they were thrown from the buggy. The woman was thrown into a barbed wire fence. The story finished with: It will be months before she is able to go out again.

Certainly some harsh shit going down back in 1909, but I liked how they looked at the brutal realities square on. Maybe I should try to write my own obituary at some point. Perhaps something like: Martin Exits World.

Great White Devours Sunday Afternoon

I cannot tell you how many times all my potential plans have vanished into thin air because of the 1975 summer blockbuster "Jaws." Well, it happened again today.

Usually if I come in early enough, I can resist it. But if I come in anytime after Richard Dreyfuss shows up, I usually succumb to its powers. Then when Robert Shaw comes on screen, all the chores, dirty clothes, dirty dishes, cat boxes, trash, half-read books, pet projects; they can all go to hell. Instead I find myself yelling, "Tie me a sheep shank!"

I think Quint is the perfect hero. He's gruff and unlikeable. And he's a bit too cocky -- he doesn't know what kind of shark he's up against. But then we begin to peel back layer after layer and find out that Quint is more than we thought.

I see a lot of Humphrey Bogart characters in Quint. At first we think that Rick in Casablanca is just a cynical, bitter son of a bitch who's out to screw over an old girlfriend, but gradually we learn about his dark but heroic past. With Quint, by the time Hooper has won Quint over, Quint has won us over.

The drinking scene, I think it goes without saying, is one of the greatest scenes in the history of film. I've seen Shaw's retelling of the USS Indianapolis so many times I know it's rhythym and inflection, and it's an absolute work of art. The way he starts off by smiling and putting his hand on Hooper's arm as Hooper is laughing about his own joke. Then, just the right number of dramatic pauses. He taps his tin cup of moonshine just right. He's got a glint in his eyes and a smile at some points, which hides the raw emotions beneath the surface. It's worth watching and rewatching no matter how long the to-do list is.

And while I'm at it, it's also Roy Scheider at his best. I sometimes forget that he's a New York City cop until they get on the boat, and he has no idea what he's doing. I love the scene when Jaws has come back to get them, and Scheider runs to his bag to get his .357 revolver. And the dangling cigarette -- what a great touch. His performance is deceptively simple, I think.

One other thing I was thinking about: the age of the characters. It seems that heroes today are much more likely to be 18-29 years old rather than the 30-50 range that you have in the great action movies of the 1970s. I shudder to think who'd be playing the three guys in a 2009 version of Jaws. I suspect Colin Farrell would be in there somewhere.

Finally, being perhaps the first summer blockbuster, it was un-self-conscious about a blockbuster. While there are big lines and big moments and special effects, everything is more understated. There's a lot of time to think and reflect and ignore dirty dishes, dirty clothes, etc.

Would I Ask Myself Questions Then Answer Them? Probably Not

I think this really started about four or five years ago. I first noticed it in professional sports, but I suspect it may have started with politicians. It also seemed to start at press conferences. And, finally, I think it started with men.

Sometime during the press conference, the subject would field a particularly tricky question that could not be answered with a simple yes or no. After thinking for a bit, the coach or athlete, usually coach, would answer the question but then begin to pose a series of yes-no questions to himself and then provide the answers to those as well. Sometimes this would begin with him repeating the intial question that the other person had asked before asking his own questions. Like so...

"Do I regret going for it on fourth down? No, I don't. I think that that was the right call at that time. Do I wish we disguised the play better before the snap? Yes. Do I think the other team did a good job defending the play. Absolutely. But, would I call that same play again? No question."

Actually, I think we can thank Hollywood producer Robert Evans for all this nonsense. In "The Kid Stays in the Picture," his memoir about the motion picture business in the 1970s, he started doing this. "Was I pissed that some pretty boy was going out with my girl? You're damn right I was." But there was a certain charm to it when he did it. Now, let's take this same concept and hand it over to the coach of an Arkansas college football team.

When coaches started doing this, I thought it was odd and slightly annoying. I couldn't quite put my finger on what bothered me about it back then, but I figured it out after quite a bit of soul searching.

First let me say that what bothers me nowadays is how frequently people are doing it, everywhere in almost any circumstances. I can only imagine what a plague this must be at corporate meetings.

But what bothered me back when it first started, I figured out, was the needlessness of it. I finally realized, why not just say whatever the hell it is that you want to say.

"No, I don't regret going for it on fourth down, but I wish we had disguised it better. And those guys did a great job of defending the play."

Even in those situations, though, there seemed to be a certain logic to asking additional questions. They were repeating the first question, getting into the habit of asking the questions, and maybe letting us in on their thought process as they worked out the answer on the fly.

But now, all the rules have gone out the window. People don't need to even be asked the initial question nor are they letting us in on their thought process. They're just in their own imaginary press conference. Some day soon, people will spout out whole soliquies with this question-answer format. At some point, they will not even need other people to be there.

Do I pray that death will come to me before it gets to that point? Yes. Oh heavenly father, would I like it if you stopped people from asking themselves question? Of course. Do I also ask that you forgive us of our sins? You bet.

Guy Talk

I once went to a bachelor party where a handful of us sat around drinking the gifts we received for being a part of the wedding. The groom's friend from the old days (who shall remain nameless) kept pouring Jim Beam into the white plastic cap off the Jim Beam bottle and throwing back cap-sized shots. He also occasionally would shame one of us to have one of his cap shots.

Quickly, he got drunker than anyone else there and began spinning some yarns. At some point, as I recall, he got onto the subject of women. The memory is faded now, but there seemed to be a lot of elbowing Allan and saying, "Remember that one chick with the big cans? Remember her! You gotta remember that one!"

Then came the story of the biker rally. Again, some details are fuzzy. Others are seared into my brain. Well, Jim Beam won himself the attentions of a certain biker lady who may have actually been there with her husband. Then she more or less attacked Jim and they started making out. From there, the story got more and more detailed. Soon they were both disrobed in a tent at one point. When she removed her bra, she revealed a tatoo of a panther on one of her breasts. The panther appeared to be clawing at her skin, which Jim found to be the height of eroticism.

Sexual acts and positions were described. One would think that this sort of braggadocio would focus solely on the proudest moments of the exploit. Not so. Soon they were in a public shower of some sort at the campgrounds, and Jim was so drunk that he had trouble getting aroused. The panther lady had to take some additional measures to complete the act of coitus.

It's kind of funny how comfortable some guys can be reliving every last, tawdry detail for a group of other guys, especially when intoxicated. It's also funny how uncomfortable some guys can get learning such intimate information about their buddies.