Lou's Mildly Amusing Musings

Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Hear Ye!

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 20:58:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Wed, 27 May 2009 03:18:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Sun, 24 May 2009 15:21:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Sat, 16 May 2009 03:33:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Mon, 02 Mar 2009 01:06:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 02:11:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 17:44:00 +0000

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.

Pittsburgh's Goin to the Superbowl

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Tue, 27 Jan 2009 01:51:00 +0000

First off, thanks to Jami's husband Todd for turning me on to the Obamicon Me website, which enabled me to make the "COPE" poster from a pic I yanked off somebody else's website.

The fact that the Steelers have made the playoffs reminds me that between the years 1982 and 1998, I was thoroughly convinced every year that the Steelers would win the Superbowl that year. As you may recall, they did not win the Superbowl any of those years.

Admittedly, I was pretty young and naive for many of those years. But for nearly a decade of that time, I was a "grown man." I put that in quotation marks because it seems kind of strange that I could be so convinced that a Neil O'Donnell / Barry Foster led team had a lock on the Superbowl.

It also seems a little odd, as I look back, that I had such undying faith in a football team. I'm not so sure I had that much face in anything else. Furthermore, I suspect, but can't prove, that I got more emotional--highs and lows--about Steelers football that just about anything else at that time in my life. From screaming at the top of my lungs to near total emotional collapse (thank you, Neil O'Donnel).

Luckily, I have a more balanced approach to Steelers football these days. Don't get me wrong. There is an occasional shout of "You stupid. Son. Of. A. Bitch!" at the television screen. But the beer and kielbasa has taken on greater importance relative to the outcome of the game itself.

Caddy Caps

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Sun, 16 Nov 2008 00:25:00 +0000

I have been struggling to maintain the old blog in the face of work duties. But I have been laying in bed sick, watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy--coming in and out of consciousness may not be the best way to do that. Bottom line -- if I do not continue blogging, evil will defeat good.

At any rate, I've been wondering about something since I spied one of my old students on the streets of Mo-town a couple months back. His name was Bryce, and he was strolling along with a couple of friends wearing a caddy cap turned backwards. What was strange about that, to me, was that he wore such a cap in such a fashion about three years ago when I had him in class.

Now, back then I figured that young people at college experiment with a lot of fashions to see what best suits their new adult identities. I applaud this -- in my mind -- never out loud, of course. Go for it, I think. Push the boundaries of your personal fashions. Of course, many look artificial or forced or outright ridiculous.

Enter Bryce with the caddy cap turned backwards. I was certain that, though he looked quite comfortable, ultimately the cap would be a passing phase. Evidently I was wrong.

Then it hit me. Maybe the backwards caddy cap is something that you can't turn back from. Case in point -- Samuel L. Jackson. He's quite the changeling in movies, playing a wide range of ages and styles, etc. Yet, from what I can see, he never changes in his personal life. Regardless of interview or function, he seems to be wearing the backwards caddy cap. One thing that style does not say is "Bad Motherfucker."

To me it says something more like "stylish hacker" or "nerd who thinks he's popular" or "I want Jon Cryer to play the part of me in a movie." Or maybe other people see something I don't.

What's So Funny About...

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Mon, 29 Sep 2008 01:24:00 +0000

On Friday I was leaving work, and I went next door to tell the African History professor to have a nice weekend.

I knocked on his door, and he said, "Yes?" Sometimes he mistakenly says, "Oui?"

I then opened the door, and he saw it was me. He then flashed me a peace sign and said, "Peace and love, man."

I replied, "Have a nice weekend."

It suddenly seemed like I had brought a ham sandwich to a banquet. This would never have happened in the corporate world. In that setting, I was the most thoughtful and sensitive guy in the place. C'est la vie.

Where Should I Park?

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Sat, 06 Sep 2008 13:37:00 +0000

Me and Krista went to the beach in August, which was fun. When we arrived at the motel, the parking lot appeared to go on forever and was jammed. After I checked in I asked the desk clerk, or whatever her title was, "Where should I park? The lot looks full."

She replied, "Well, I think there are some spots around the side of the building."

I asked if she meant behind the building, and she said no just on the side. "Or you can park in the handicap spot. This is a private lot, and the police will not ticket or tow your car. And we do not have any handicapped people staying here tonight. But I tell you what. Just ask Buddy when you get outside. He's our security guard."

I get outside and the security guard is talking to another guest of the motel. I ask, "Where should I park?"

The guard says, "Well, there's a couple spots around the side of the building. Then there's one under the tree at the end over there. I think there might be one space up front there..."

Then the guest that he's talking to says, "Or you could park in the handicap spot. There aren't any handicap people here tonight."

At that point the guard goes inside. I literally walk twenty feet to the side of the building and there are about three parking spots right there. And it turns out that the lot was actually much, much smaller than I thought.

The guard then walks up to me and says, "Hey, I want to apologize for walking away back there. That guy that I was talking to has been coming down here for five years straight or something, and I guess he thinks he runs the place now. Here I am trying to do my job and tell you where you can park, and he interrupts to start telling you to park in the handicap spot."

At this point we're literally standing at the empty parking spot.

The guard continues, "Technically, he is correct. You could park in the handicap spot because this is private property and the police do not enforce those handicap spots."

"Well, I'm just going to park here, because I want to just leave my car here for the next three days."

"Oh, I see," the guard comes back with. "Well you better not park in the handicap spot because even though there aren't any handicapped people here tonight, there may be some come here tomorrow. Then we'd need the spot, of course."

"I see," I replied. "Well, it's only about twenty feet over to the room from here, so I think I'll just park here. Thank you for your help."

The guard continues, "That's fine. Do you need help with the luggage?"

"No," I reply.

"Again, I'm sorry about that walking away like that. I just lost my temper back there. The guy was trying to tell me that you don't need a fishing license if you're just a tourist. I told him to just go ahead and try to fish without a license and see what happens. But he just knows everything. He'll see."

It was about eleven o'clock in the p.m. when I eventually got our bags in the room, put on my union suit, and got into bed. Then the phone rang. The woman from the front desk asked, "Sir, did I give you the credit card slip back?"

"Yes. Yes, you did."

"I'm sorry. I need that. I'll come down to your room and get it."

I got up, got dressed, and met her at the door with the credit card slip.

Anticipating Empire

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Sat, 23 Aug 2008 16:08:00 +0000

I've been listening to Galactica Watercooler's podcasts about the Star Wars movies lately. They've reminisced a bit about going to see the Star Wars movies for the first time in the theater. I have numerous memories, of course, but I was thinking about waiting for Empire Strikes Back to come out.

It was released in May of 1980 a month before my 8th birthday. I remember my mother showing me an article in Time or Newsweek magazine a couple of months before it came out. The article was one page long and had one picture: Yoda standing on the jungle floor of Degoba. I remember reading the article very closely, but it told you virtually nothing about the movie.

I stared at the picture intently, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. At first, I thought that Yoda was emerging out of the ground because it looked like his cloak went all the way down and he was so short. I think I eventually figured out that he was very small, but I couldn't figure out what he had to do with anything from the first movie. Incidentally, I didn't even have a clue what the title of the movie meant, nor did I care.

Second, my mom bought me a copy of Fangoria that had an article in it. The magazine in general was filled with oddities and bizarre pictures that left me uneasy about the world. Furthermore, there were only a couple of pictures from Empire, but they were of the stormtroopers on Hoth wearing their snow gear, carrying a mounted laser gun. I was absolutely ecstatic, which only made the anticipation worse.

The only other way to catch a glimpse of the upcoming features were of course trailers. So I, like everybody else, would go to movies wanting to see particular previews more than the actual movie. This appears to be the actual trailer that was shown in theaters. Watching it, I can't imagine wanting to see a movie any more desperately than I did then. Furthermore, what other movie actually delivered the way Empire did?

Lastly and perhaps most importantly. When the movie came out -- that was it. That was your chance to see it, then it was done. So I remember trying to absolutely soak in every moment for recall later. And when it was gone, it was gone. No videotapes. No movie channels. All I had from Star Wars was a little wind it yourself movie thing that you looked into, and it played about ten seconds from the movie with no audio obviously. I can't remember what that thing was called.

Actually Empire was the turning point. My friend John's father ended up getting a bootleg copy of Empire on Betamax, no less. That was the first time I thought, hey, there might be hope of seeing things when they aren't in the theater. Now we're a bunch of spoiled nancy boys.

Just When I Thought I Was Out...

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Sat, 09 Aug 2008 01:19:00 +0000

I have caught myself trying to use the Godfather III quote, "Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!" in a variety of situations. A couple of times it wasn't really apropos. Why, I wondered, would I go out of my way to insert this bit of dialog into my everyday speech?

A few things make this strange. First, I didn't like Godfather III even slightly. Second, the line isn't particularly clever or profound. Third, Pacino goes way over the top when he delivers the line -- par for the course in a poorly acted film.

Take the line, "I made him an offer he couldn't refuse." Now that's a clever line. It speaks volumes about Vito Corleone, and it's got style and subtlety. The only problem is that it's been overused. So, generally, you avoid pulling that out in conversation.

Recently in Men's Health, they said that the upcoming movie "Tropic Thunder" was for every guy who ever woke up hung over, walked over to his window, and said, "Saigon. Shit. I'm still only in Saigon." One thing I found amusing about that is how predictable we all are. David Sedaris once mentioned seeing a jar full of glass eyes that were for sale. He said he had one in each hand and began lifting them to his face when he caught a sign that said, "Please do not hold the glass eyes in front of your real eyes." He lowered them back down, realizing how many people before him had done that joke.

One thing came to mind about the Godfather III quote. I don't think that I'm channeling Pacino when I say it, so much as I'm channeling George Costanza who was spoofing Godfather III. So I'm paying homage to a spoof, I think. Even so, I think the line has long been played out, and I shall endeavor to expunge it from my personal bag of quotable quotes.

Local Zealots

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 15:59:00 +0000

Yesterday morning, I opened the front door to take some trash outside, and two slips of paper fell to the ground. One was an invitation to summer bible school and the other was an invitation to attend worship at the same church.

I thought to myself, When will these people give up? Why do they keep coming here? I've told them that I wasn't interested and that I wasn't religious. One time a guy came to my porch here and told me about the "Golden Rule" of doing unto others as you would have others do unto you. Then he asked me, "Imagine if the 9-11 hijackers had had that philosophy?" I told him that I thought it was a bit more complicated than that. Furthermore, and I can't remember if I told him this or not, Christians don't have a monopoly on that policy.

I've also told their children, whom they sent up to my front door, that I wasn't interested and to have a nice day. What more do I have to do, I thought.

That's when I remembered that just to my left, sitting on the porch, were three--not one, but three--Nativity sets that my wife had just finished painting and spraying with a clear coat. She spent about a year off-and-on on this project, and it just so happened that they were sitting outside when the zealots showed up.

I wonder what the missionaries would've made of such a coincidence. They probably would've just said that that was a coincidence. They usually don't make a big deal out of coincidences. They would say that there was a fairly high probability of that happening since they've been visiting so frequently and Krista left them outside for a few days anyways. It seems like people like that are always saying, "Well, there's nothing strange about that. It's just a coincidence, and there's no reason to make more out of it than that."

I, however, suspect that it is a sign. A sign that I will be visited much more frequently by people who wish to save me from eternal damnation and boost church membership a bit.

Comedian Makes the List

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 16:38:00 +0000

On the most recent "Last Comic Standing," a woman named Andi Smith opened her 3-minute set with a West Virginia joke. Immediately my ears perked up, and I eagerly anticipated hearing our beloved state lampooned. Perhaps she will make fun of the racism we recently displayed in the primary election. Or maybe a delightful incest joke. I always like a new take on that them.

She said that when she played in WV, only eight people showed up, so she responded, "Where's everyone at? Trapped in a mine?"

I cringed, but, ok, not everyone is sensitive to that subject. Even the crowd boo'd her at that point, which made me happy. But I still thought that maybe she was going someplace clever with this. She said that one man in the WV crowd told her that miners face dangerous conditions because there aren't enough safety precautions. She said, "How about this for a safety precaution? Go to college!"

Well, nothing like kicking a hillbilly when he's down. Still I thought, maybe there's a meta-joke here. Maybe her schtick is being super condescending and arrogant, and after a while you see that she is being satirical -- lampooning those who have such views a la Borat. Nope. She just went on to another observational-type joke.

Andi Smith, your name is scawled in large letters at the top of my most recent shit list.

Been In Trouble With the Law...

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 20:31:00 +0000

I was wondering how many times I've been pulled over by the cops. I'm thinking it's much more than a dozen if you include the times I've been a passenger when we've been pulled over.

There's been a few memorable times. Once David and I were pulled over by a cop in an unmarked car who we flipped off as we passed him, frustrated that he was going below the speed limit and we were late for a movie. I thought I recognized him, and as Dave was sitting in the cop car, I walked up beside the passenger window. After the window came down, I said, "Butch?" It turned out to be a guy who had had dinner with us a few nights earlier. Butch said, If you had said something earlier, you could have saved your friend eighty dollars.

Another time I was going about 40 mph in a 30 mph zone in Morgantown, and when I turned into the Taco Bell parking lot, a cop followed me with his lights on. That's when I wondered whether the beers I had had would put me over the legal limit. It would've been close, but I aced the field sobriety test and avoided the Breathalyzer. Standing on one leg in the Taco Bell parking lot while two cops watched was not one of my more glorious moments.

Finally, there was the third speeding ticket in a single calendar year that really screwed me. First, the fine was over two hundred bucks. Second, I had to go to court. The judge reduced and excused fines for a long list of people before I got up--the only misdemeanor among them. Judge White of Belmont County, Ohio, asked me what I had to say for myself. I told him I'd been commuting over an hour each way and that the tickets were the result of zoning out on the highway. What he wanted to hear, it turned out, was that I swear it won't happen again.

After hearing my "argument," he sentenced me to three days in jail. This was two days before Christmas, and my heart stopped for a tick. Then he said that he would suspend the sentence unless I got another traffic violation of any kind in the next sixty days. He suspend the sentence! I went free that very day. And as I walked out of the courtroom, I smiled like a bastard at an incredulous Italian mortician.

They Call Me Mr. Pibb

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 12:13:00 +0000

I'm shamed into adding to my blog by recent comments that Lee made on the "Mamushka!" and "In Case of Rapture" entries. They were entertaining and reminded me that that was the purpose of this blog. Or more specifically, I guess its job is to amuse.

As graduation day approached recently, I took it as an opportunity to revisit some of my favorite Morgantown locales and bid them a fond adieu as I wiped a single tear from my eye, which was kind of silly because I keep going to Morgantown weekly. At any rate, one of my stops was the Metropolitan Billiards Parlor, affectionately known as the Met.

I first went there in 1989 at the age of seventeen with two guys from the dorm who may have been from New Jersey and whose names I believe are Jay and Greg. I lost touch with them after freshman year. I was actually nervous the first time I played there, feeling as if I were on stage and all eyes were upon me. When I went back recently, I tried to tell a young man of twenty two or twenty three that story, and it seemed utterly ridiculous because, even though the place was filled with spectator seats, it was nothing more than a collection of strangers going through the motions of their own games of 8-ball.

Over the next two or three years, I became a regular fixture at the Met. I had something of a routine. I would watch for a while, practice by myself for an hour, then buy something from the bar, and watch some more. Since I was well under twenty one, I would always buy a pop and a bag of chips, and the pop was always a Mr. Pibb. Eventually, the owner, Ruby, a grizzled and gruff old pool hustler, got to know me. He would ask me, "What's your name?"

"Louie."

"Where you from?"

"Near Weirton."

Then he would say how they had some really good pool halls in Wheeling. Eventually when I came down the stairs, he would yell out "Mr. Pibb!" I loved becoming one of the regulars, but I cringed a little at the nickname. Then, once known as Mr. Pibb, it became impossible to order anything else. (My residence advisor in the dorm had the same problem once he became known as "the Tequila kid" at a bar called the Dungeon.) Then one day I turned twenty one and ordered a beer. Ruby paused. "Are you twenty one?" I said that I was, and he served me.

The next time I came down the stairs, Ruby looked over at me, was quiet for a moment, and then hollered out, "Mr. Pibb!" And the name remained.

This is probably the best photograph of Ruby that exists. I'm guessing this was taken about eight years ago.

In Case of Rapture...

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Mon, 12 May 2008 12:31:00 +0000

I saw a bumper sticker yesterday that probably everyone else in the world has already seen: In Case of Rapture, This Car Will Be Unmanned.

I actually admire this bumper sticker because it's so insane that it makes Christianity almost seem cool. It's like wearing a rainbow wig, but not just to a party. All the time. The first time you come to work with a rainbow wig on, you would get a few laughs, some head shaking and disapproval. What happens when you wear the wig every day -- it becomes an act of defiance. "I'm insane, and you can say whatever you want but I'm not going anywhere."

It was actually refreshing because I felt like the bumper sticker was also saying: "I know my beliefs are outlandish, but I don't care." Whereas, I usually feel that other Christian bumper stickers say the opposite: "I'm normal, and you're not." Have you accepted Christ as your savior? Jesus Loves You. Attend the Church of Your Choice on Sunday. Got Christ? And so on.

And, yes. When I pull up behind a car with ten bumper stickers, the voices in my head overwhelm me, and I pull off the road and cry.

PS - For some reason, crying in a car has becoming a hilarious image to me since they used it on The Soup. But I don't know why.

My First Cuss Words

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 16:44:00 +0000

On my favorite podcast, Galactica Watercooler, one of the guys recalled how when he was a kid, he read a book that contained profanity and sex scenes. His parents asked him a couple times about the book he was reading, and when his father finally read it, he agreed not to mention to the mother that the book was somewhat R-rated. After that, the kid was allowed to swear in certain instances--if he hurt himself and so forth. It was like an unspoken agreement between him and his father.

It got me to thinking about my first cuss words. I remember being about five or six years old and uttering "fuck" to my sister, who told me that I had said a very bad word. I asked one of my parents, and they said indeed it was bad.

Then, I remember watching some bizarre sketch comedy with my dad when I was about nine (possibly on HBO in the early 1980s). In one skit about the life of Howard Hughes, the narrator said that he most enjoyed watching airplanes fuck. I asked my dad what fuck meant. I think that I thought I knew what it meant, but what I thought I knew made absolutely no sense in this context. I like to picture my father thinking about how to explain to me the meaning of fuck and how it fit into the context of this comedy.

Profanity became an integral part of my father's vocabulary by that time, but I studiously avoided using swear words. In fact, I remained almost pure in my speech long after my friends starting cussing up a blue streak. I remember one day in junior high, me, David, and our friend Eric were doing the usual...creating new ways to occupy ourselves for the hours on end we were warehoused in the cafeteria with nothing to do. We were inventing a game or something. Our conversation was something like this:

Me: Let's draw the building.
Eric: Better yet, let's draw the whole fucking city.
Me: Even better, let's draw the whole fucking...

I stopped, stunned that I had even let profanity slip from my mouth. My face turned red as they both laughed at me, knowing that I never sweared.

I think after that, the dam kind of broke, and I started to slowly incorporate profanity into my everyday language. I believe I started with "Jesus." My cousin Mike was very fond of exclaiming "Jesus!" if he hurt himself or something surprising happened, and I think that's why I started with that one. Plus, it was kind of in a gray area between mild oaths and outright profanity.

On top of that, I think it was around that time that Indiana Jones was shouting "Jesus!" as Marian shoved her torch into his bullwhip, thinking it was a snake. I think I probably even tried to capture his inflection: Jeee'-zuss. In fact, I probably still said it that way when I had the very painful electricity-in-the-foot-and-leg-muscles test last year, which I wrote about in this blog.

In fact, I have a theory that we both use the word Jesus exactly as often as we did when I was twelve.

Odd Celebrity Sightings

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Sun, 30 Mar 2008 12:07:00 +0000

I went to a conference this weekend. It was the usual stuff: presenting some papers, gossiping about co-workers (we call them colleagues to sound smart), drink a few beers at the hotel bar (this time we got 2 free drink tickets per night), and networking.

So, I was standing with some of my colleagues at the entrace of the Pullman Hotel in Huntington, West Virginia, and we were trying to figure out where we were going to eat. We were also making some small talk with somebody who was walking by. There was a big group of us, and the doors to the hotel slide open and in walks Pauly Shore. I looked at the colleague next to me who also saw him. We had puzzled expressions on our face. Is Pauly Shore in Hungtington? Then somebody came in and said, "That guy sitting on the bench just got beat up and robbed! He's bleeding from the head!" I looked at Pauly, and he was checking into the hotel. He did have a bandana on his head.

It turned out that they were two separate things entirely, but for a moment I was confused. I was picturing Pauly passed out on a bench outside a hotel in Huntington and then getting beat up on top of that. I thought, boy, he's really having a rough go of it these days.

We later found out that Pauly was doing a comedy show in town that night, and I thought, well, it could be worse. He could be a drunk drifting from town to town and getting beat up outside hotels. Then we started to talk about odd celebrity sightings.

One of my colleagues told a story about being at a film festival (in some big city) with her husband. She said all weekend she kept seeing somebody watching her and then popping out of sight. Eventually, the mysterious man walked up to her, and it was Michael J. Pollard. If I recall the story correctly, he walked up and said something like, "I was in Bonnie and Clyde. Do you want to go back to my hotel room?" Or something really to the point like that.

Somebody else told me this weekend that Matthew McConaughey was in Huntington, crowds were following him around. I think it is so much better to see Pauly Shore or Michael J. Pollard than somebody like McConaughey.

Mamushka!

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 02:42:00 +0000

On a recent Galactica Watercooler podcast, one guy said he was walking through a bar/restaurant when he heard Raul Julia's voice shouting "Mamuska!" He wheeled around and found himself face to face with an old friend. The "Addams Family" pinball machine.

This brought back some very fond memories for me. Sometimes I wonder how I spent hours upon hours in bars. The answer is pinball. I can almost check off the pinball machines that they had at The Mounty back home in Hancock County, West Virginia, on Rt. 30. I gave the full location for posterity sake because I assume this blog will live on and future beings will want to mark the location on their holographic maps.

I believe (1) Tomcat was the machine in the bar when I first went in there as an underage lad around 1989. It was a lame F-16 themed game. The one that seduced me, however, was (2) Bad Cats about 1991. Occasionally a chorus of white people would sing "Seafoooooood!" I really enjoyed that one.

I think next might have been (3) Dr. Who, which was addictive but I remember very little about it. That might have been 1993 when I was finally twenty-one. Next up I would guess Addams Family. This was perhaps the king of the pinball games. Something infectious about Raul Julia as Gomez yelling crazy shit like "Mamushka!," which was followed up by Russian folk music. Incidentally, I never liked the movies.

I'm thinking mid-1990s would have been Indiana Jones (4), a mish-mash of scenes from all three movies. Some catch phrases featured in the game graphics : "You chose wisely"; "No time for love Dr. Jones"; and possibly "Junior!"

Now somewhere in there was another great, possibly the late 1990s: The Twilight Zone (5). I had little idea what most of it was about, but I loved that there was a crazy magnet thing that would happen where it might stop the ball on a dime or make the ball swerve around the board.

As I talk about the pinball, I can't help but picture myself with a mindless smile and wide eyes, jumping and clapping at the pretty lights and loud noises. The truth is not so far off. Except picture me, David, and Benji with beers in our hands--in fact, picture us on mug night with our own mugs from back home--and we are watching Greg play endlessly and clowning around. For future beings, just picture three guys watching one guy thrusting his pelvis into the pinball machine in an obscene fashion.

Incidentally, "mug night" lasted for about five weeks one summer until the bar owners wife put a stop to it for illogical reasons. But mug night lives forever in my mind.

Never Living It Down

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Sat, 08 Mar 2008 02:07:00 +0000

I was making small talk with a student, a male student, the other evening as I flipped through an enormous stack of papers searching for his exam.

Me: "So, what's your major?"

Him: "Business. Eventually I'm going to study to be a mortician and take over the family business."

Me: "So, you want to go back and live in your hometown? How do you like it there?"

Him: "I like it a lot, but sometimes the politics of living in a small town can get old. And everybody knows all your business, you know?"

Me: "[Laugh] Oh yeah. There was a kid on my bus..."

Well, now I've started a story that I have to decide how I'm going to finish. The moral of the story was simply going to be about how some things haunt you when you grow up in a small town. Again, I flipped through the rolodex and came up with a story, but maybe not the right story. This one is about a kid named Jason who lived on Tope Hill.

Strangely, Tope Hill had a large concentration of pot heads. In a recent entry in Jane Espensen's blog about writing scripts (she writes for Battlestar Galactica), she said you should name your characters something that vaguely remind you what the character is like without being too obvious. Claire in the Breakfast Club would be a good example. Rich, snooty, smart. Whereas Bender sounds like he enjoys binge drinking and fucking things up. Wouldn't Tope Hill sound vaguely like a place where people like to smoke reefer? And it just happens to be a real place. I also remember hearing that when Scott, a Tope Hill denizen, didn't have pot, he enjoyed a huff or two of gasoline.

At any rate, I remember hearing on the bus that a kid named Jason was caught somehow, by somebody, in a comprimising position involving a drumstick. To be specific, a witness deduced that he had inserted it in his ass. Everybody on the bus had learned the news the next morning before our bus lurched down the back road, off of Tope Hill (picture a Guatemalan bus teetering down a mountain).

As I piece the story back together now, parts of it sound likely. But then drumsticks tend to have lots of splinters and rough patches. Maybe with a lot of sanding and several coats of polyurethane, it could provide a harmless thrill.

Nevertheless, it's been more than twenty years, and I remember the kid's name and that one story. I imagine that among his closest friends, he probably became known for other things: probably pot-related exploits. For a much larger percentage of the population, he was known for the drumstick thing. It's odd to think that a twelve year old indulged in a moment of sexual experimentation, probably in a darkened corner of his house more than twenty years ago, and that moment--if it ever actually happened--lives in infamy.

I saw a documentary on pbs about kids tormenting each other on the internet, and how once something goes up on the internet there's no taking it back. They made the point that this was a frightening new world of being exposed to the world, etc. Well back in my day, we didn't need the internet. We had what anthropoligists call a rich oral tradition...which reminds me of this girl who rode the bus. But that's a story for another time. Actually, that sort of thing didn't happen when I was a kid. That was an advance of subsequent generations.

So, how to finish the borderline inappropriate story I started telling my pupil. I said, "...well, a kid on my bus masturbated with a drumstick, and nobody ever forgot. Looks like I lost your test."

Exchanging Nipple Stories

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 03:46:00 +0000

A few months ago I was at a "First Friday" gathering of history department folks where we drink beer and talk almost incessantly about work. I've been trying to not be quite so image conscious and work minded with my fellow grad students and my professors. So I thought I'd reveal a bit more of my personalty, with interesting results.

One of the new grad students told me she was from Parkersburg, and I asked her a bit about her town. She ended up telling a story about working in a department store and being asked out to dinner by a male customer. She accepted, and at the restaurant, told the guy a funny anecdote about how the first time she undressed the manequins, she was taken aback by the size and shape of their nipples. The guy laughed at her story. After a beat, he asked, "How big are your nipples." She told him it was none of his business.

We laughed a bit at her story. I, as usual, had some follow-up questions. Then there was lull. I thought, maybe I should share something about myself. Let's see...nipple story. I flipped through the anecdotes filed under "Nipple--Humorous," and came out with this gem:

"I got an injection in my nipple once when I was five years old."

My opener was met with silence. I followed with, "It was really strange because to this day I have no idea what the injection was about."

Then there were questions. Could you have dreamed it? Maybe it was a testosterone injection? Does it not work anymore? I did say that it responds differently to cold, at which point my friend John said he didn't know whether I was full of shit or serious.

About a month after that I told another group about the experience of telling that story and how it brought conversation to a screeching halt. Ironically, it had the same effect the second time.

Well, let's just say project reveal-more-of-myself-to-coworkers had a rough start.

A Night on the Town

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 12:46:00 +0000

I decided to take my lady out for a night on the town. So, we dressed in our fineries and headed up to the big city of Pittsburgh to see Sweeney Todd at Heinz Hall. I told her to pick any restaurant for our pre-show meal.

On our way up, she mentioned that her co-worker was taking a young woman to see Todd the next day. This guy just moved to Pittsburgh, and whenever I talk to him or Krista tells a story about him, he's buying goat cheese at Whole Foods or fresh-roasted coffee from the Strip, or he's attending art showings or finding an Ecuadorian restaurant or having brunch with the Rooney family and so forth. Here I thought we'd be one up on him going to the musical at Heinz Hall.

Krista chose an Indian restaurant in Carnegie, and we followed a new GPS guiding system on her cell phone. Right on Jones, Left on Smith, Right on Main Street...A couple of times I missed the turn off and the GPS recalculated our route. Then one time it said, "Recalculating route...Make the next legal U-turn." By the time we arrived at our "destination," a dark, dead-end street with no discernable restaurants, we were starting to run out of time.

So we decided to try to find another Indian restaurant and quick. After driving around some more, we realized we would be really pressed for time. I suggested that we just do fast food and that we do the restaurant another night.

Still wanting some foreign food, we chose the Taco Bell. I ordered for both of us and drove around to the window. We sat literally for ten minutes waiting on our food. Eventually, the cashier/waitperson asked, "Did you order the Seven-Layer Burrito, the Cheesy Fiesta Potatoes..." I replied that that was indeed our order, and I asked him how much of the order was already prepared and in the bag. He said that he did not know and would have to talk to the food preparers. I clarified that I wanted to know how much he already had in the bag just to his right. He said nothing. I said that I wanted my money back.

So I gave him my debit card back, and he got the assistant manager. After another two or three minutes, she said that she might not be able to give us our money back because she couldn't get her commerce apparatus to cooperate. I said, "Just give me my card back." We drove on, near starvation, until we found a Wendy's to our liking.

After that, I took a wrong turn and ended up on a highway leaving Pittsburgh. By the end, we were driving frantically to find a parking garage, falling in mud puddles, running from angry hobos, and making a gypsy woman our lifelong enemy.

I told Krista that her co-worker would probably take his best gal to a secret restaurant under the river, mermen would take them to the water's edge where a coach and horses would be waiting, and that they would not only have backstage passes but also backstage seats.

Incidentally, Sweeney was fun. The actors remained on stage the whole time and also played all the instruments, which sounded great. I could quibble about some awkward blocking and the set, but I was really just glad to get home without further incident.

Can I Get a Dip?

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Fri, 01 Feb 2008 03:15:00 +0000

A couple more elements of snuff culture I left out. Snuff bumming etiquette seemed to be more complicated than one would expect. With cigarettes it's easy. They're already divided into twenty a pack. With snuff, there was always gray area. "Hey, goddamnit! How much do you got there?" "I just took a little bit!"

Which reminds me of the old snuff commercials. Very instructional: "Just put a pinch between your cheek and gum..." Or am I dreaming that?

I also remember the guys whose jeans were painfully tight such that their snuff can and wallet wore white patches in their back pockets after two or three wearings. The sign of a prosperous man at my junior high was he who had snuff rings worn into both back pockets.

I think I was in ninth grade when they decided to crack down. First, they outlawed the wearing of jeans jackets in class so guys couldn't hide their spit pouches. Second, they said that they would suspend students who had visible snuff specks on their teeth. I remember clearly Tom Leasure protesting to Mr. Pete Kundrat, "What if we just ate a Chocolate Dee-Lite, and we got bits of chocolate cake on our teeth?" Kundrat responded with something like, "Well, you shouldn't be eating Chocolate Delights in class anyways."

Snuff usage became more clandestine. The dips got smaller, the spitting less frequent. How many times did I try to talk to someone, only to have them look at me and gesture, unable to open their mouth because it was full of tobacco juice?

Then, for some reason I seem to recall a lot of people pulling down their lower lips to show that either they did or did not have a dip in. Either way, it was just short of revolting.

Every once in a while, the kid with an actual chaw of chewing tobacco in his cheek would show up like a guy who wondered off the set of a western onto the set of junior high movie. Or he looked lie a lumberjack who just came to town for supplies. Always the original, Jimmy Barr talked about neither dippin or chaw, but plug tobacco. I can't remember if he had uncles or grandfathers who would cut themself a plug, but if the chewing tobacco kid seemed out of date, the plug guys might have well been working on the Erie Canal. It would have been great if I had upstaged them all by whipping out a snuff box and packing my nose like an 18th century gentleman. If only I knew then what I know now, man, I would've been the coolest guy in New Cumberland.