The First Big Bang-Whiz Sunset Intersection Quiz HINT!

Isabelle Adjani

Francisco X. Alarcon

Dodi Al Fayed

Dave Alvin

Melody Anderson

Adam Ant

Scott Bakula

Ellen Barkin

James Belushi

Chris Berman

Tim Berners-Lee

Sandra Bernhard

Mary Black

Bruce Bochy

Joseph Bottoms

Sam Bottoms

Lorraine Bracco

Bob Brenly

Christie Brinkley

Simon J. Bronner

Bob Brozman

Chris Cain

Jane Campion

Caleb Carr

Robert Carradine

Gary Carter

Dana Carvey

Rosanne Cash

Tommy Castro

Mark David Chapman

Sandra Cisneros

Jack Clark

Willem Dafoe

Jeff Daniels

Judy Davis

Andre Dawson

Al Di Meola

Griffin Dunne

Steve Earle

Dennis Eckersley

Tommy Emmanuel

Louise Erdrich

Chris Evert

Miguel Ferrer

Mark Fidrych

Steve Forbert

William Forsythe

Vitas Gerulaitus

Kelsey Grammer

Paul Greengrass

David Allen Grier

David Grossman

Nina Hagen

Julie Hagerty

Dennis Haysbert

Patty Hearst

Margaux Hemingway

David Hidalgo

Tish Hinojosa

Bruce Hornsby

Mike Huckabee

Billy Idol

Iman

Kazuo Ishiguro

Jermaine Jackson

Joe Jackson

Penn Jillette

Howard Jones

Rickie Lee Jones

David Keith

Robert F. Kennedy, Jr.

Barbara Kingsolver

Earl Klugh

Jeff Koons

Olga Korbut

Jon Krakauer

Stieg Larsson

Ang Lee

Johnnie LeMaster

Jeffery Leonard

Mara Liasson

Ray Liotta

Reba McEntire

Peter MacNicol

Moses Malone

Howie Mandel

Pat Metheny

Anthony Minghella

Bruce Molsky

John Mooney

Michael Moore

Edwin Moses

Kate Mulgrew

Bill Mumy

Terry Nichols

Greg Norman

Chris Noth

Bill Nye

Tim O’Brien

Ken Olin

Lena Olin

Jay Osmond

Ray Parker Jr.

Tim Parks

Will Patton

Bill Paxton

Walter Payton

Steven Pinker

Michel Platini

Freddie Prinze

Luis Pujols

Linda Purl

Dennis Quaid

Willie Randolph

Stan Ridgway

John Roberts

Tanya Roberts

Al Roker

David Lee Roth

Rene Russo

Ken Salazar

Ricky Scaggs

Richard Schiff

Peter Scolari

Connie Sellecca

Al Sharpton

Maria Shriver

Ozzie Smith

Jimmy Smits

Sonia Sotomayor

Howard Stern

Rick Steves

Kathleen Turner

Luis Alberto Urrea

Eddie Van Halen

Greta Van Susteren

Stevie Ray Vaughan

Bob Weinstein

Juan Williams

Terry Tempest Williams

Cassandra Wilson

Nancy Wilson

Debra Winger

Steven Wright

Yanni

Robin Yount

Chow Yun-fat

Djamel Zidane

Adrian Zmed

Axel Zwingenberger


Again Happy Guessing, Martin

The First Big Whiz-Bang Sunset Intersection Quiz!

Here's the question: What do the following people have in common? (Please only one guess per customer)

Rowan Atkinson

James Cameron

Jackie Chan

Hugo Chavez

Joel Coen

Elvis Costello

Kevin Costner

Bill Gates

Whoopi Goldberg

John Grisham

Matt Groening

Ron Howard

Steve Jobs

Annie Lennox

Yo-Yo Ma

Angela Merkel

Condoleezza Rice

Nicolas Sarkozy

Jerry Seinfeld

Gary Sinise

Billy Bob Thornton

John Travolta

Denzel Washington

Bruce Willis

Oprah Winfrey

Happy guessing, Martin




Mutt: We got demoted after the world's longest pun, didn't we?
Jeff: It's a good thing tar and feathers are out of fashion.
Mutt: We have ways, however, of getting our revenge. Watch this: Old sculptors never die, they just lose their marbles.
Jeff: So you're into torture now: Old investors never die, they just roll over.
Mutt: Old owls never die, they just don't give a hoot.
Jeff: Old tanners never die, they just go into hiding.
Mutt: Old chauffeurs never die, they just lose their drive.
Jeff: Old archers never die, they just bow and quiver.
Mutt: Old quarterbacks never die, they just pass away.
Jeff: Old schools never die, they just lose their principals.
Mutt: Old soldiers never die. Young ones do.

Jeff: Oowah! You referring to Afghanistan? Nine years on and no end in sight. Oowah!

World's Longest Pun

Mutt: Hey Jeff, you ever hear the one about the Fu Bird?

Jeff: Would I want to?

Mutt: Oh, it's a great story, if a little long. You might say a tad long-ish, just a tad. But worth it. Definitely. Really.

Jeff: I've got a dentist appointment this afternoon, but I'm sure this will be more painful.

Mutt: A number of years ago there lived on Long Island, a wealthy business man who had made and lost a couple of fortunes on Wall Street in his short 29 years. At the time of this story, the business man was enjoying his third fortune and had taken a year off from work. His mother had recently died, and one day while he was exploring some old chests in the attic of the huge farmhouse in the Adirondac Mountains near Lake Placid, he came across a map that was obviously very, very old. Something striking about the map immediately caught his attention. After studying the map for several days, the business man became convinced that this was indeed an authentic map to the fabled Seven Cities of Cybolla. Persistent stories handed down from generation to generation told of a fabulously wealthy circle of seven cities whose exact location had been lost somewhere in the deep, dark jungles of Africa and had never been found. These stories also told of fabulous stores of jewels, gold and priceless artifacts that still existed for anyone who could locate the seven cities.

The business man was determined to be the first to find the Seven Cities of Cybolla and to claim its treasures, so he confided in two of his closest friends and persuaded them to join him. Together, they sailed to Africa, rode overland for four days and found themselves in the small town of Aba on the border of the deepest jungles in what was once the Belgian Congo. There they organized a safari of 25 native porters carrying food, clothing, supplies and large, empty boxes with which to carry the treasures out of the jungle.

Early the next morning, a line of native porters led by the three Americans headed out into the jungles. Travel was slow in the intense heat and humidity of the tropical forest, particularly as they had to literally cut every inch of their path by swinging huge machetes to clear away the vines and undergrowth. For four days of grueling travel, following the markings on the old map, the safari made its way across swollen rivers, through mosquito infested swamps and past many alligator nests. At high noon on the fifth day, while the safari was resting from its exhausting work, the group suddenly heard a terrifying sound off in the distance in the direction in which the safari was headed. "Fu.... Fu.... Fu..." was the sound.

The members of the safari looked at each other, unsure what was making such a shrieking, ungodly sound. All of a sudden, there appeared in the air directly over the group, a huge, black bird, screaming at a deafening level, "FU!!! FU!!! FU!!!" In one swoop, the Fu bird took aim at the first of the three Americans at the head of the safari, dove headlong through the air at near supersonic speed in a dive bombing run so well executed that any military pilot would have been impressed, and completely covered the man with crap. It was a terrible, vile smelling mess! The poor man quickly ran to the edge of the nearby stream, dove in and immediately began to scrub away at the disgusting crap. After an hour of hard work, the majority of the stuff had been washed away and the man felt he was ready to move on again. That night, while everyone else was sleeping, the man died.

The rest of the expedition were truly saddened by the death of the man, but the two remaining American organizers decided that they should continue on in spite of this tragedy. They were sure their friend would have wanted it that way and besides, now the loot only had to be split two ways. Before long they were on their way, hacking their path through the jungle after they had properly buried the body of their friend. Unfortunately they had not gone too far when once again they heard the sounds of the approaching Fu bird: "Fu.... Fu.... Fu...." The safari members began to run for cover but it was too late and the huge Fu bird suddenly appeared at the head of the line of running people, took aim at the American in the lead, and dumped a tremendous load which covered the man from head to foot. As the poor man raced to the stream to wash the terrible mess off, he stopped, remembering that the first man had died after he had cleaned away the very same kind of crap. Perhaps, he reasoned, there was a connection between washing and his unfortunate death. With that, the second man returned to the group, determined not to take a bath as long as he could stand it. That determination lasted for nearly a week when finally it became so unbearable in appearance, smell and discomfort that the man finally gave in. He went to the stream and cleaned the mess from his body. Later that night, while everyone else was sleeping, he died.

The business man who had initiated the safari was very sad because he had lost two of his closest friends, but decided to continue because he knew his friends would have wanted him to. Besides, the loot would be his alone with no need to share the treasures with anyone else! The next morning he climbed to the top of a hill and to his amazement, there at his feet, lay a lush, tropical valley and the Seven Cities of Cybolla glittering in all their glory. The business man rushed down the hill, along the banks of the river and made his way to the entrance of the cities. As he ran deliriously through the streets of the cities he yelled "They are mine!! It's all mine!!!" He yelled so loudly and was so overwhelmed at his unbelievable discovery that he didn't hear the approaching Fu bird. The gigantic bird took aim at the business man and as accurately as in his first two attacks, smartly deposited the largest load of crap yet on the man running through the empty streets. The stunned man stopped and was about to rush to the stream to wash the mess off when he realized that it would be certain and immediate death in the night to do so. He sadly realized that he had discovered the world's richest treasures, but had also been given the cross of isolation at the same time.

To make a very long story somewhat shorter, the business man did claim all the wealth of the Seven Cities of Cybolla, returned to America and lived a very long life in all the luxury his unmeasured wealth could afford. However, he enjoyed his wealth as a lonely, isolated man. His wife, his children, his family and his friends disowned him because of the absolutely disgusting appearance and stench of the man because of the crap. They did not understand why he refused to wash the mess and clean himself.

After many, lonely years, he neared death. Realizing he had only a few more days to live, the business man decided he wanted more than anything else to see his wife and children again. Carefully, he went into the shower with steel wool cleaning pads and a chisel. It took him most of the day, but he was clean and ready to greet his family at the door when they arrived for dinner. He spent a wonderful evening sharing with the family, catching up on all the news and local gossip, and finally they left.

Later that night, the business man died...

Now I would not have imposed upon your time and attention without having a purpose. I am very sensitive to the value of time and am determined to make the time you have given to this story worthwhile. My goal in telling this story is to draw from the experience of this heroic and fabulously wealthy man and learn so that we might become better and more mature individuals. I believe the true message of this story is, in fact, a moral with deep meaning for us all:

"If the Fu shits, wear it."

Jeff: Disgusting.
Mutt: Yeah. Good though. You're groaning today, but you'll be telling it tomorrow.


[Pedersen's note: if you know a longer pun, please send it in and win a prize.]


Happy trials, Martin

Neal Gets Hot

After a particularly brutal exam session, in which a large percentage of students failed, Neal thought he could justify/explain his correcting/judging work at the first lesson of the new semester.

He studied the problem in his mind for many days. The lightbulb finally went on: Eureka. Heat. We examiners are like weather-persons telling the viewers what the situation is according to our information. Passing along data. We don’t intervene or influence the weather, we just report it. Storms ain't our fault.

Your level of English knowledge and skill, above or below the sufficiency for the level of exam you took? If you took a lower level exam it might be above, but now it is below the more advanced level. It works. The temperature metaphor.

All this is a reaction to the classic, “you failed me/I passed” syndrome. The students blame us for their own deficiencies. Natural enough, but if a learner must take responsibility for her/his own learning, the blame game must be overcome.

So Neal was preaching this little sermon at the opening of the new lessons, and turned his back to draw an illustration on the board. “Your marks on exams, written and oral, are like the temperature on a thermometer...”

“Look. Here’s a thermometer. I’m no artist, as you can tell. Here’s a thermometer with the mercury in the bulb at the bottom, and here are the temperature markings. Here’s freezing: 32 degrees Fahrenheit or 0 degrees Celsius.”

Neal thought it was going pretty well. There was twittering in the background. Probably the students were impressed by his knowledge of science.

“Now if the temperature (or your exam mark) is here, it’s freezing. Insufficient. If it’s here, it’s cold but acceptable. What you need to try to do is continually improve. If you’re here today, you could be here tomorrow (or next year rather). It’s only a question of hard work. Give it your all and the temperature will rise.”

Neal heard smirking noises of presumed agreement as he drew the mercury rising in the tall thermometer up the blackboard. He chalked in the ascent up to the top—boiling point. Hot hot hot! A+++

Then the room broke out in hilarity and roared with free laughter. Neal thought that what he was saying was not that funny, that the disappointed F-students should be a little more serious. Something told him that they were laughing at him, but he couldn’t fathom why.

Neal turned to the crowd, now that he had become their favorite comedian. He turned back to the board. What was it? His fly was not open (he checked). Was his thermometer metaphor really so clever?

“Oh my God, I’ve drawn a giant boner!” Neal exclaimed. And brought down the house.

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt: A white lie is aversion of the truth.

Jeff: What inspired that thought?

Mutt: What thought?

Jeff: What happened when the cow tried to jump over a barbed wire fence?

Mutt: Uhhhh ...

Jeff: Udder destruction.

Mutt: When I was in the supermarket I saw a man and a woman wrapped in a barcode. I asked, "Are you two an item?"

Jeff: What do you call a fish with no eyes?

Mutt: Uhhhh ...

Jeff: A fsh.

Mutt: I fired my masseuse today. She just rubbed me the wrong way.
Jeff: I tried working in a bakery, but was told I wasn't "bread" for it.
Mutt: What did the toy store sign say?

Jeff: Uhhhh ...

Mutt: Don't feed the animals. They are already stuffed.
Jeff: A horse walks into a bar. The bartender says, "So, why the long face?"
Mutt: What do you call a baby monkey? A chimp off the old block.
Jeff: Was there a year-end sale on second-hand jokes?

Mutt: Uhhhh ...

My Equatorial Trip Log

I rode a bike around the world. Finished today (Christmas 2010). I rode a ring at the equator, 40,075 kilometers over land and sea. A gift to myself. It took me so many years I don’t remember when I started, but I did it. Around the world in my study.

I read a lot of books sitting on my exercise bike. Jotted notes, watched some baseball on the computer, enjoyed some music. I don’t know if I had any great ideas in that position, but it’s always hard to pin ideas to time and place. I spent a long time there, long time and hard work.

The only things that really give satisfaction take a long time and hard work. So scratching a lottery ticket doesn’t count. A marriage does, raising kids, building a home, education, business, public service, art. Real accomplishments. But if you walk from Mexico to Canada or collect a ball of twine twenty feet high or ride a stationary bike around the world are those real accomplishments or are we in the world of Guinness records?

I’m not going to answer that question. I know nobody else cares about what I did, but it means something to me. That’s enough. I’m proud of myself, even as I recognize the silliness of the undertaking. You laugh too, but what have you done?

I will answer the question: now what? Now the ending of my first lap is also the beginning of my second lap. I’ll go round again, go back for seconds. Wouldn’t be a complete, good day without my hour of spinning my wheels.

So if I’m saying that this is my private pleasure, why am I even writing about it? I’m not expecting a pat on the back from anyone (oh go ahead, pat). But I’m happy right now, I achieved my goal. Now shut up. Enjoy the holidays. Back in the saddle again.

Happy trials, Martin Stronglegs*

Mutt: Good day, Sir Jeff, let me tell you a funny story.

Jeff: That’d be a first.

Mutt: This guy goes into a restaurant for a Christmas breakfast while in his home town for the holidays. After looking over the menu he says, "I'll just have the Eggs Benedict." His order comes a while later and it's served on a big, shiny hubcap. He asks the waiter, "What's with the hubcap?" The waiter sings, "There's no plate like chrome for the hollandaise!"

Jeff: I don’t get it.

Mutt: "There's no plate like chrome for the hollandaise!" Come on, it’s a Christmas joke!

Jeff: It stinks. All right, Darth Vader … You know who Darth Vader is?

Mutt: Sure, he used to be my barber.

Jeff: Darth Vader says, "Luke Skywalker - I know what you're getting for Christmas. I felt your presents."

Mutt: I don’t get it.

Jeff: Tough.

Mutt: Buy me a beer and we’ll call it a tie.

Jeff: This duck walks into a bar and orders a beer. "Four bucks," says the bartender. The duck answers, "Put it on my bill."

Mutt: A skeleton walks into a bar and says, "Gimme a beer, and a mop."

Jeff: A man walks into a bar with a slab of asphalt under his arm and says: "A beer please, and one for the road."

Mutt: And a happy and healthy new year to you, my friend.

Jeff: Same to you, my distinguished colleague.

*There's a video version of Martin's arrival at the finish line for followers only (see side bar). Become a follower and get a reward.

Godzilla Lives!

Where Godzilla is the Italian government, which is Berlusconi and the best politicians his money can buy, and underfoot is the country he’s destroying. Nature of the beast.

The weird part is that he’s been dead for years, and everyone pretends the contrary. The emperor has a stick behind his back that holds him upright, a Jokerman smile thanks to plastic surgery, hair made of steel quills that they press down with a hot iron (to cover his horns), and recorded slogans played by pulling a little cord hanging out of his pants. It works better than live politics.

The rumors that he has sexual relations with his four female ministers, any actresses that want to be on the tv shows that he controls (all of them), overage and underage prostitutes and generally any willing Barbie doll are all untrue. The girls he sleeps with (sometimes one, sometimes several, Ruby, Noemi, Patrizia, etcetera) are not prostitutes! He pays them cash, yes, but it’s a gift. He gives lots of gifts, like Saint Nick.

So, as the richest man in the country (this year he may have “slipped” into second or third place, no diff), Berlusconi can do anything he wants, right? He’s above the law and common morality and clearly better than everyone else. And, as we saw today, he bought the country and he can damn well do anything he wants with it. We’re all his sex slaves now.

Our local congressman from Messina, for example, noted for his enormous personal debts (liens on all seven of his houses), was more than willing to change his vote to please Mr. Money-bags, along with several other Judases who reversed the confidence vote against Berlusconi in Parliament. So, one might think, he lives to fight another day.

But he’s dead, remember? Morally and politically and legally dead. Morally for the above stated reasons, politically because he isn’t really the leader of the people but a phony mannequin leader who leads himself, his paper-doll copies and the flag-wavers he pays to turn up at his rallies. And legally because of the vast variety of serious crimes he’s being tried for and that he keeps passing laws to save himself from (see Wikipedia for a list).

And the worst? You won’t believe this. The Italian parliament, with a Berlusconi majority, on a Berlusconi government proposal, recently attempted to pass a law that eliminates obligatory arrest for anyone engaged in ‘minor acts’ of pedophilia. A pro-pedophile law! Could it have been inspired by the priest caught getting serviced in his car by a 12-year-old girl? (that is, figuratively, the Catholic church, which admits to only 1.5-5% guilty criminal pedophile priests: 5%!) Or by the president of the council of ministers himself? I’d bet they’re not the only interested ones. Rumors of coke parties and Lolita orgies involving Berlusconi’s cohorts and guests have circulated for years.

The press, controlled by Mr. B (you know he owns all three big private networks and controls the three public ones through his puppets, right?), has been mute on this topic. Deafening silence. No scandal at all for the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard of. Back to the days when the local noblemen were supposed to de-flower all the teenage girls of the village.

In Italian there’s an expression which roughly translated goes: There’s no limit to things getting worse. Okay, but could we not have a leader who’s articulate, calm, politically skilled and statesman-like instead of a raving, degenerate fool? As Mutt and Jeff would say, “you get what you deserve.” Yeah, but when have we been punished enough?

Keeping you informed … your informal correspondent in Italy …

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt: In Australia, the Local Area Network is called the LAN down under.

Jeff: In France, they cook their omelettes with only one egg.

Mutt: Why’s that?

Jeff: Well, you see, in France one egg is un oeuf.

Mutt: In England, they do not have a kidney bank, but they do have a Liverpool.

Jeff: In Texas, an old rancher was drawing up his will so that he might provide for his three boys when he would pass away. He decided to divide his land up evenly among them. His wife suggested that he name the place The Focus Ranch. "Why should I do that, my love?" he asked.

She answered, “because it is where the sons raise meat."

Mutt: In Boston, you know what you need to start your car?

Jeff: What?

Mutt: Khakis.

Jeff: In South Carolina, two boll weevils were born and grew up. One went to Hollywood and became a famous actor. The other stayed behind in the cotton fields and never amounted to much.

Mutt: So?

Jeff: The second one, naturally, became known as the lesser of two weevils.

Mutt: Are we funny yet?

Jeff: Merry Christmas.

Picks of the Flicks 2010

Everyone who has a blog is obligated by international law to post a list of their favorite films. Here goes: (I watch films on Sky television, so they will likely be from past years):

A Serious Man
Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans
Crossing Over
Doubt
Forbidden Lie$
Ghost World
Milk
Neverwas
Pet Therapy
Push
Reservation Road
Stop-Loss
Temple Grandin
Thank You For Smoking
The Burning Plain
The Darjeeling Limited
The Reader
Traitor
Watchmen
What Would Jesus Buy?
Winged Creatures

I kept it short. Many films I enjoyed (Inception, for instance) are not here because they didn’t give me that extra oomph, that satisfaction that lasts 24 hours. After a good film I also often feel: “Wow, I wish I’d written that.” Back to work, brother.

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: Two ropes walk into a western saloon.
Jeff: You’ve been waiting all year to tell this old saw, haven’t you?
Mutt: The first rope goes up to the bar and asks for a beer. "We don't serve ropes in this saloon," sneers the bartender, who picks up the rope, whirls him around over his head, and tosses him out into the street.
Jeff: But everyone on earth knows this joke.
Mutt: "Oh, oh. I'd better disguise myself," thinks the second rope. He ruffles up his ends to make himself look bigger and twists himself into a circle. Then he too sidles up to the bar.
Jeff: Mercy.
Mutt: "Hmmm. Are you one of them ropes?" snarls the bartender.
"No, I'm a frayed knot."
Jeff: Oh, how funny! Ha Ha Ha. I may split my seams…. NOT!!!
Mutt: Okay, your turn.
Jeff: To pull one off the scrap heap? This mushroom walks into a bar and starts hitting on this woman. She, of course, turns him down.
Mutt: I love this one.
Jeff: Not willing to give up, he pleads with her, "C'mon lady, I'm a fun guy."
Mutt: That’s it?
Jeff: All you get.

Are You Are What You Read?

These are the books I read for pleasure (I read lots more for research) this year. Do the books you like define you? Would two people with the same tastes in literature naturally get along? That sounds like a stretch, but the bookstores and libraries seem to be full of people looking for their similars. Or is that just my fantasy? I learned a poem by Ogden Nash when I was a boy:

"Boys never make passes,
At girls who wear glasses."

Yet there are folks wearing spectacles, instead of varsity jackets or Barbie outfits, and each would have her/his own list of the volumes that sucked them in temporarily. Or that they dove into willingly. Each escape an adventure. Alley-oop.

A Thru-Hiker’s Heart, Ray Echols
A Walk in the Woods, Bill Bryson
Ambrose Bierce and the Ace of Shoots, Oakley Hall
Ambrose Bierce and the Death of Kings, Oakley Hall
Ambrose Bierce and the One-Eyed Jacks, Oakley Hall
Ambrose Bierce and the Trey of Pearls, Oakley Hall
Beyond the Post-Modern Mind, Huston Smith
Blix, Frank Norris
Confessions of a Barbarian, Edward Abbey
Gutted, Justin Chin
I’m a Stranger Here Myself, Bill Bryson
Into the Wild, Jon Krakauer
Kosovo/Kosova, Mary Motes
Mama Grace, Dana Bagshaw
Mutt and Jeff are the Funniest Guys on Earth, Mutt and Jeff
National Audubon Society Field Guide to California
Negotiating with the Dead, Margaret Atwood
On Teaching and Writing Fiction, Wallace Stegner
Orchid Territory, Mary Motes
Sarah Canary, Karen Joy Fowler
Song-Writers on Song-Writing, Paul Zollo
The Alienist, Caleb Carr
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, Michael Chabon
The Blind Assassin, Margaret Atwood
The Confessions of Max Tivoli, Andrew Sean Greer
The House of Arkhangel’sk (unpublished), Jane Kindred
The Human Line, Ellen Bass
The Optimist’s Daughter, Eudora Welty
The Western Writings of Stephen Crane, Stephen Crane
The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion
The Yellow Wallpaper, Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Wit’s End, Karen Joy Fowler
Writing from the Inside, James D. Houston

So here I am, and here you are. Your list may be longer or better than mine, but it's not the same as mine. My list, my thrills.

Is one a superior person because one reads books? Nah, come on. In fact: DON'T READ ... unless you like to. Then don't let the cotton candy of life keep you away from healthy real food.

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: Shakespeare walks into a bar and asks the bartender for a beer. "I can't serve you." says the bartender. "You're Bard!"
Jeff: One day an English grammar teacher was looking ill. A student asked, "What's the matter?" "Tense," answered the teacher, describing how he felt. The student paused, then continued, "What was the matter? What has been the matter? What might have been the matter... ?"
Mutt: I used to be a teacher, but found I didn't have enough class.
Jeff: Old students never die, they just get degraded.
Mutt: Old deans never die, they just lose their faculties.
Jeff: Well, yeah, but speaking ill of the dead is a grave mistake.
Mutt: Yes, but as you know the pun is mightier than the sword.
Jeff: And as the great Jedi English teacher said, "metaphors be with you."

Killing Godzilla

Where Godzilla is the Italian public university system, and the killer is the Italian government (or vice versa). That may not make much sense, but truth is stranger than science fiction.

Berlusconi and his yes-men, in this case a yes-woman named Gelmini, are dismantling all things public to favor his/their own private interests. It’s not very complex or secret if you can see through the smog of lies and scandals. The sense of the public good that most governments follow (more or less) is nonsense to our Fearless Leader.

I can almost hear the Filthy Rich, during a break from wild partying (drugs, underage girls, mafia friends, etc.), “Let’s destroy the public school system, the universities, the courts, the public health system, and so on and replace it with our own pseudo-institutional inventions. We’ll just make it all up as we go along; hell, we already control television! Then the suckers will have to pay us directly in blood from cradle to grave.” James Bond villains were never this devious.

Well, the protests have had little effect so far, and the law passed in the House. I have mixed feelings about the whole affair, not because the reactionary cuts and power concentration could have a good side, but because the university was not okay before. There’s no better world to return to. It’s not like cutting a gangrenous leg to save the otherwise healthy patient. The patient was already moribund before the Gelmini gangrene made it critical. So what is there to defend? Godzilla? One’s own little paycheck? Looking forward to retirement like an oasis in the Sahara?

I’ve decided to defend my emotional stability. I can’t live in constant anger over the surrounding twister of injustice. That way they win. It’s hard to find the moving eye, but where else can you go to save yourself?

Here’s a bitter paper one of my students wrote:

University Study: most of the time may not help to build your future.

University study is not the best choice a student can make for his future, because it’s difficult, at this time, to find a university which gives good results after the degree. In fact many new graduates can’t often find a good job which is related to their degree, so the effect, in the society, is the increase of unemployment. Besides, most of the teachers at the university are corrupt, so they don’t give an example of good behavior in the society to their students. They just teach them how to prevail on the other colleagues and to give more importance to the wealth. So bad students easily find an important job which satisfies their aspirations, living their lives in the absolute luxury, and in the case of the doctors, killing innocent people; while the good students probably won’t have a good job, and they spend their life in misery. This is the bad side of university study, where all the rich can have a future and the others should stay at home without wasting years and years behind books which will never repay them.

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: And now they expect us to be funny?
Jeff: Don’t worry. The expectations are extremely low.
Mutt: Well then, let me tell you about a very mean witch in England who was terrorizing the local population. They finally called a wizard to see what could be done about her. The wizard gave them a potion that would turn the witch into a statue. The townspeople managed to put the potion in the witch's food. When she found out about this, she turned green with rage, but it was too late and the potion worked as expected. The jubilant population had a big celebration and parade, and placed the petrified witch in the park as a public example.
Jeff: I can’t bear to hear the rest.
Mutt: Pretty soon, people discovered that the witch had been frozen in a position that made her a perfect sundial, and started using her to tell the time of day. The custom grew and even today …
Jeff: Here it comes!
Mutt: … people often refer to Mean Green Witch Time.
Jeff: Oowah.

Neal in a Blind Rage

It was a hectic day at the office. Very hectic and trying indeed. Most of our 1,300 students were outside in the crowded hallway, and they all wanted to know something from us. They all had a question. We weren’t getting anything done.

Neal got fed up and wrote a hasty note about when the new exam date was (or something) and taped it on the outside of the door. He dusted off his hands as he came back in and said, “That ought to keep out the zombies!”

It didn’t. As Neal tried to get back into the towering piles of written exam papers we had to correct, several other students stuck their heads in the door, as they do, and timidly asked about whatever. Neal was about to blow a gasket.

It’s not like he’s never made a fool of himself before. He has a habit of accosting people on the street as long lost friends only to discover that they are total strangers. Then he makes it a thousand times worse by trying to explain. Neal also has a tendency to loudly use foul language when he thinks no one around can understand English, only to discover that a cruise ship has deposited hundreds of fellow Brits right next to him. Shocking.

Flatulence in a crowded lift … check. Standing by a huge mud puddle in the road when car races by … check. Neal looks in the upturned ketchup bottle to see why the ketchup is stuck … slap, plop, check. Glasses of wine knocked over onto people’s laps … a regular occurrence.

This time he was unusually peeved, perturbed and downright hysterical. Got up, as grandma would say, on the wrong side of the bed. It was pointless for me to suggest self-control. “The next person who interrupts me gets his arse chewed off,” Neal promised.

As if on cue, a nerdy looking boy with odd dark glasses pokes his head in the door and opens his mouth to say something. Before he could even talk Neal exploded:

“DON’T BOTHER ME! I’VE HAD ENOUGH! CAN’T YOU READ THE SIGN ON THE DOOR! WHAT ARE YOU, BLIND OR SOMETHING?!”

You know the feeling when you hear your own stupidity echo off the walls? Neal let the poor boy have it so viciously that he scared himself. I watched, frankly amused, for the next development. I could see the boy’s white cane tip through the crack in the door near his feet.

“I, uh, can’t read it.”

“WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM? I CAN’T GET ANY WORK DONE AROUND HERE WITH ALL THESE INTERRUPTIONS! WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU? …”

And Neal just had to stick his whole foot completely into his mouth with one more rhetorical question:

“ARE YOU BLINDDDDDDD????!!!!”

The boy with the white cane entered, thinking it only courteous to answer. “Yes, I am blind. Could you please tell me when the exams will be?”

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: A neutron goes into a bar and asks the bartender, "How much for a beer?" The bartender replies, "For you, no charge."
Jeff: Two atoms meet. One says, "Are you all right?"
"No, I’ve lost an electron!"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm positive!"
Mutt: Two antennas met on a roof, fell in love and got married. The ceremony wasn't much, but the reception was excellent.
Jeff: A jumper cable walks into a bar. The bartender says, "I'll serve you, but don't start anything."
Mutt: When she told me I was average, she was just being mean.
Jeff: The more things change, the more they stay insane.
Mutt: That’s deja moo.
Jeff: Right. The feeling that you've heard this bull before.

Avoiding the ‘F’ Word

Don’t call it Frisco.

Or San Fran, SF, The City, The Sco, Bagdad by the Bay, The City that Knows How, Fogtown or anything else but its name: Yerba Buena (good grass?) or the newer name: San Francisco.

Actually, Herb Caen, local gossip and hero, started the anti-Frisco movement in the early 50’s, I believe, so for over 100 years nobody had a problem with the nickname. Here’s an alternate explanation I like:

“Frisco” is, of course, a contraction of San Francisco, but there are other theories about its origin. Some have suggested it is an Americanization of el fresco, a term apparently used by Mexican immigrants coming to Fog City to escape the heat of the Sierra Nevada.

The late etymologist Peter Tamony traced the word all the way back to the Middle English frithsoken, meaning refuge or sanctuary. Shortened to "frisco," the term was apparently used by sailors to refer to any port where ships could be repaired.

So what is a San Franciscan? Immigrants and refugees, of course, like everywhere. But do those of us squeezed in a few blocks between the Pacific and the Bay really have a collective personality? Are the fruits and nuts native? Do those chilly summers cause frostbite patterns in the gray matter? I’m sure the fog, creeping in the ears, scrambles the synapses. Maybe a list would help answer all these questions (probably not but I’m, as you know, a compulsive list-maker).

Notable San Franciscans:
[born and raised]

Ansel Adams

Gracie Allen

Gertrude Atherton

Ralph Barbieri

Bill Bixby

Mel Blanc

Benjamin Bratt

Stephen Breyer

Pat & Jerry Brown

Darius Brubeck

Carol Channing

Donaldina Cameron

Paul Desmond

Bradford Dillman

Dom & Joe DiMaggio

Edward Dmytryk

Isadora Duncan

Clint Eastwood

Dian Fossey

Robert Frost

Jerry Garcia

Danny Glover

Rube Goldberg

Vince Guaraldi

Laird Hamilton

Daniel Handler (Lemony Snicket)

William Randolph Hearst
James D. Houston
Shirley Jackson

Paul Kantner

Jack LaLanne

Bruce Lee

Jack London

Anita Loos

Greil Marcus

Jon Miller

Barry Nelson

Lloyd Nolan

Kevin Pollak

Stafford Repp

Pierre Salinger

Rob Schneider

Liev Schreiber

Alicia Silverstone

Gary Snyder

Kevin Starr

Lincoln Steffens

David Strathairn

Jeffery Tambor

Bob Weir

Stuart Whitman

Kate Wolf

Naomi Wolf

B.D. Wong

Natalie Wood

Other famous residents:
[came as adults]

Maya Angelou

Ambrose Bierce

Herb Caen

Joan Chen

Ina Coolbrith

Stanton Delaplane

Barbara Eden

Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Makoto Hagiwara

Chet Helms

Lee Meriwether

Harvey Milk

Emperor Norton

Nancy Pelosi

Levi Strauss

Cecil Williams

Robin Williams

As usual, the ‘so-what’ question has no answer. There’s the list, draw your own conclusion. Because I’m too lazy to come up with it or because there is no answer? Every city has a list and character. But I think the thing is that we know what we mean, who we are, it just can’t be put into words. San Francisco, after all, is not a huge city, about the size of Jacksonville FL, but it is the oldest city in the West and a cultural center since the Gold Rush. People came here to escape from prejudice and misery at home. Australian prisoners, Peruvians and the Mormons came early on, the Chinese too, the Beats, Hippies, Gays, Mixed-race couples, Sicilians, Ship-builders, Yuppies, Dot.commers, Radicals and Free-thinkers followed. As Carlos Santana said: More artists than con artists. Yes indeed. Oh, and add him to the list.

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt: My wife's gone to the West Indies.

Jeff: Jamaica?

Mutt: No, she went of her own accord.

Jeff: My wife's gone to St Petersburg.

Mutt: Is she Russian?

Jeff: No, she's taking her time.

Mutt: My wife's had an accident on a volcano.

Jeff: Krakatoa?

Mutt: No. She broke her leg.

Jeff: My wife's gone on a singing tour of South Korea.

Mutt: Seoul?

Jeff: No, R&B.

Mutt: Y’know, that reminds me. My wife went to a very bad concert in South East Asia.

Jeff: Singapore?

Mutt: Terrible. And the rest of the band was terrible too.

Jeff: Excuse me, Mutt, are you even married?

Mutt: No, you?

Jeff: I had a girlfriend once.

Mutt: Wanna marry me? In San Francisco. They’ll change that discriminatory law pretty soon.

Jeff: I’m tempted. But if we get married, people will think we’re, y’know, flits.

Mutt: It’s San Francisco, man, same-sex heterosexual marriage is the new wave, the future, the giddy-upcoming! Perfect double transgression. So post-post-modern.

Jeff: Count me in, baby. Just don’t let down your avant garde.