NaNoWriMo in Retrospect

      Well, depending on your metrics, my first ever participation in National Novel Writing Month was either a colossal failure or a moderate success. If you go by word count (which is a lot of the point), then I failed miserably to reach the 50,000 word goal for the month. I was pretty sure I'd never be able to keep up the pace required to crank out that much material, and sure enough, by the end of week one, I was already hopelessly behind. Before Thanksgiving I got sick, then we traveled for the holiday, and blah, blah, blah, excuses, excuses, excuses. To make a long story short (pun intended), I ended up with less than 15,000 words produced.
      But. That's far more than I would usually produce in that time frame (I'm counting the time as about 2 1/2 weeks; after that, I worked on it almost not at all), because I've always been a terrible fiddler--I hate to commit stuff to the page that I know is going to get edited out later, and I spend way too much time finessing sentences as I go. Which takes forever, and leads to the discouragement of low output. With the artificial deadline of NaNoWriMo, I was compelled to go ahead and set some crap down, even knowing that it would never see the light of day, and that really helped push my story idea forward in a way I've never been able to accomplish before.
      So I didn't end up with anything approaching a completed book, but I did get the benefit of the mental exercise. Hopefully it will serve as a reminder as I go forward to "just write it down, stupid." Maybe I should get that printed up on a coffee mug, or better yet, a beer glass.

National Novel Writing Month: Day 1

&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp So today was the first day of my first time to participate in the annual National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. It's a cool international initiative to get writers writing by creating the voluntary and intimidating deadline of committing 50,000 words of fiction to paper (or more likely, to the hard drive) in just 30 days. While such a grueling pace is unlikely to produce the most polished of prose, it's a wonderful exercise for excessive putzers like me to simply WRITE IT DOWN, STUPID. You can always go back and fix it later.
&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp The NaNoWriMo website offers scads of resources and support for participants, even opportunities to get together with--or merely interact online with--other enthusiastic writers in your area or around the world. You can share your work, or your growing word count, or nothing at all with other participants, but even after one day I've found that a high bar, even a totally arbitrary one, will likely be a good thing for my writing. I've dusted off a story idea I've had lying around for ages, and I made more progress on it today than I have in years of staring at it in my "must get to someday" file. Today's count: 1,535 words--a little short of what I'll need to crank out each day if I want to end up w/ 50,000 on November 30th. I won't be posting the whole blessed thing daily, but I've added today's work after the "Read more" jump below--what will be the Prologue--for anyone foolish enough to be interested. It's tentatively titled "Working for the Man," and although it's still in the early throes of its infancy, please remember that this is still copyrighted work.

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It Might Get Loud (2008)

&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp There's a pitch-perfect moment in It Might Get Loud, director Davis Guggenheim's loving homage to rock guitar and three of its more talented practitioners. It comes when the filmmaker follows Jimmy Page, the legendary lead guitarist of Led Zeppelin, into Page's music library, where he puts on one of his favorite 45's--"Rumble" by Link Wray. Up until this point Page has seemed quiet and cautious, secure in his status as one of rock's gods, but unwilling to give too much away. But from the moment Wray's vibrato surf-guitar growls from the speakers, Page's face lights up with glee, and he begins explaining to the cameraman what it is about Wray's performance that spoke to him as a young guitarist. He starts strumming an imaginary guitar, and when Wray rips off a particularly slow, nasty riff, Page laughs out loud over the audacity of it, his face the very picture of unadulterated joy. In that moment he ceases to be Jimmy Page, rock legend, and becomes one of us, just another guy playing air guitar in his bedroom, trying to explain to his buddy why this is the best goddamn guitar solo ever.

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Uriah Q. Muttonchop on Advancements & Breakthroughs in the Great Scientific Endeavor

      Dear Reader, those of you who rely upon this fine publication for news of Great Strides in the Scientific Endeavor have become accustomed in this space to find the byline of Dr. Phineas Fobswallow, Naturalist & Philosopher of Science. Due however to fiduciary constraints recently imposed upon The Picayune-Tattler, as well as certain unfortunate rumors concerning Dr. Fobswallow being bandied about by the so-called Fancy Gentlemen of this town's less reputable haunts, I will be adding the Technology Beat to my already groaning burden of journalistic duties for the foreseeable future.
      But what a month during which to be thrust into the hurly-burly of the scientific world! First, the Wonder Baked Goods Corporation astounded and delighted us all with the introduction of their ingenious Previously Sliced Bread Loaves, forever freeing the nation's womenfolk from the arduous and so often bloody task of slicing their family's Daily Bread. I predict that this development will be the benchmark against which all future great inventions are measured. Let me here add my personal and heartfelt "Huzzah!" to the laurels already heaped upon the brow of that truly Wonder-ful company.
      No sooner had the hubbub attending that remarkable breakthrough begun to wane when the boffins at the Apple Company announced, with their trademark blend of Hoopla and Foofaraw™, the introduction of their amazing new machine--The Fountain Pen, which for reasons still murky to this reporter, they have dubbed the iPen. Whatever its name, this ingenious device has forever eliminated the drudgery of repeatedly dipping one's quill in the inkpot by storing a continuous supply of ink in a reservoir intrinsic to the pen itself!
      How can I relate to you with mere words, dear Reader, the Technological Ecstacies to which I am transported by this device? Not only is the iPen a marvel of Utility and Engineering, but, as we have now come to expect from the folks at Apple, the iPen's form is so beauteous, so sensuous, so rife with Barely Suppressed Sensuality that even now as I use my new iPen to write these very words, I fair blush to think on it.
      It seems almost base to quibble about the pen's few shortcomings, but quibble I must, for the People's Edification is my Sacred Trust. I have already heard a rumor through Reliable Sources in the town, that Apple plans soon to introduce a new and improved version of the iPen with an even larger storage reservoir of ink, the iPen Two Ought. Thereby Apple rewards my loyalty by callously presenting me with Mr. Hobson's Choice: either I must lay out more of my precious spondoolicks to upgrade a pen from which the heady sheen of newness has barely faded, or I must suffer the indignity of having Davey the Copy Boy incessantly waggling his iPen Two Ought in a provocative and taunting manner every time he can contrive to catch my gaze.
      A second and even more vexing drawback is that the purchase of a new iPen further binds one into an exclusive contract with the American Telephone and Telegraph Company for the replenishment of one's ink supply. Even were it not obvious that such a monopoly will inevitably lead to an artificial inflation in the price of ink, I would still be trepidatious, for it has been this reporter's experience that that particular company would be hard pressed successfully to deliver a telegram free from errors of transcription, even so far as to its own corporate backside. And now that they have moved their Center for the Redress of Customer Grievances to their slaveholdings in the South Pacific, the simplest enquiry or complaint requires at least an eighteen-month overseas correspondence, usually in Pidgin. I do not relish the notion of trying to track down a missing shipment of ink with them: "Inky no come here, long time. Where inky now time, you tell?"
      But all these quibbles fade in the soft sensual glow that emanates from my beautiful new iPen. Once again Apple has pipped their competition at the post and come first to the market with a wondrous and elegant new product for the Betterment of Mankind. And a Little Birdy of Scientific Endeavour has already told this correspondent that Apple's next project is a new and improved sort of gramophone disc that will allow so much music to be recorded on a single platter, all of Herr Beethoven's Ninth Symphony could be transcribed on but five two-sided records. What a Brave New World that has such advancements in't!

More Things That Keep Me Up At Night

      If a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, shouldn't I be investing heavily in hand-birds?

      I am God's gift to women. If they don't like me in this color or the size is wrong, they're still gonna need a receipt to return me. Right?

      Did Marco Polo really invent echo-location at sea, or is that game just apocryphal?

      Is it possible to overdose on cottage cheese? Cause man, I ate about half a tub of that stuff right before I lay down, and now my toes are numb.

Before there were more things that keep me up at night, there were of course simply things that keep me up at night.

Uriah Q. Muttonchop, Humble Chronicler of the Affairs of the Celebrated

      Dear Reader, as the Entertainment Correspondent for this fine periodical, The Picayune-Tattler, it is my great pleasure and privilege to wind my meandering course throughout this fair land’s many theatres, writing salons, and town square gazebos, rubbing elbows with the most talented Thespians, Singers, Orators and Writers our vibrant young country has to offer. Some of the more generous of them will graciously stand a drink or two for an Impecunious Scribbler, while a few even of the richest insist on The Dutchman's Treat. You know who you are, Mr. Van D--.
      But with great opportunity comes the equally great burden—nay, sacred duty—of the would-be chronicler of this land’s rich tapestry of entertainment: penning the Obituaries of the Celebrated—those dolorous dispatches that remind us yes, even for kings He comes, though one may be the very King of Popular Music.
      It was but a month ago that I first informed you, dear reader, of the passing of the beloved and internationally renowned Negro entertainer, Mr. Michael Jackson. I will never forget the sense of awe and child-like wonder invoked in me the first time I saw Mr. Jackson’s minstrel show on stage—the elaborate sets, the dozens of ballet-artists, and of course, his signature flourish, the Moon Walk. How my mind boggled at the feat! “Great Caesar’s Ghost!” I heard myself ejaculate. “To all outward appearances, he seems to be walking in a perfectly straightforward manner. And yet, see how he nevertheless is progressing not forward as one would naturally expect, but widdershins! What a Strange and Wondrous place the Moon must be if indeed its denizens perambulate in such a manner!”
      Perhaps some of us tutted at the troubled man-child’s Foibles and Eccentricities—the single gauntlet, the tinted spectacles he wore even at night, the pederasty. And even Mr. Jackson’s staunchest supporters in the Negro community bemoan the ill-advised Whiteface Routine he had incorporated into his performances in recent years. Mr. Jackson himself was so taken with the look that on more than one occasion this humble correspondent espied him about town in full costume and whiteface, as if he were perpetually performing on stage, no matter whither he went. Yet who among us cannot whistle at least one of his Famous Ditties, and who of us who witnessed his Opulent Funeral was not moved when that great golden sarcophagus was lowered into the mouldy earth, followed by his beloved pet elephant Jumbo, still mournfully trumpeting a lament for its Fallen Master as the tomb's lid sealed them together 'til that other, Final Trumpet does blast?
      Now yet again I put pen to paper with Heavy Heart, for I have the onerous task of informing you that during the very same month two more of our beloved idols have shuffled off this Mortal Coil, never again in this world to thrill us with their prodigious gifts or their derring-do.
      I dab now at the tears in my eyes as I write of the death of beloved charlatan William Mays. What housewife’s heart did not thrill to the noise of his shrill tenor as he arrived on her street in his horse and buggy, hollering his wares? How he eased the daily drudgery of her Domestic Rounds with his improbably Miraculous Nostrums! And if his snake oil could not always remove the blood and vomit from Father’s going-out shirts as efficaciously as promised, what lonely homemaker would begrudge the odd fib or two, if only it were shouted to her by one so Manly in Form and so Lush of Beard? Farewell, sweet Billy, and may flights of angels bellow thee to thy rest.
      My final charge in this litany of woe, dear reader, is to report that Mr. Stephen McNair, who once bestrode the football gridiron like Colossus, was brutally gunned down by his mistress in a Love Nest in the city. The Wicked Vixen—who it should be noted was of Foreign Extraction—gave vent to all the fury of her sex when scorned, before turning the Hellish Engine of Destruction upon her own tender breast. Though tragic, perhaps Mr. McNair’s fate might serve as a Lesson for Gentlemen to steer clear of the doxies, or at the very least to make certain said ladies remain ignorant of the Art of Shooting, a discipline which this Sad Affair makes clear should remain the exclusive Province of Men.

Top Ten Imaginary Reasons for Hypothetical Palin Divorce*

      Over the weekend, a rumor spread quickly across the internet that Sarah and Todd Palin were on the verge of getting divorced. The rumor was started by the Alaska-based blog "The Immoral Minority," but has since been vehemently denied by both Sarah Palin's lawyer and her spokesperson, and few major news outlets have touched the story with anything less than a ten-foot pole. But the boring truth has never hindered The Broken Stove from makin' stuff up before, and we couldn't help wondering: if Sarah and Todd Palin were to get a divorce, what might be the top ten reasons for them going their separate ways?

10) Stress caused by the media's insistence on quoting Sarah's actual words, as opposed to that much better thing she thought of as soon as she got home.
9) Staying together would simply be "marriage as usual," something Sarah swore she'd never do.
8) Sarah doesn't want kids to be saddled with lame duck mother.
7) "Once you 'go McCain,' there's no goin' back to plain."
6) Gay marriages in the sinful states have eroded fabric of once-sacred institution to the point where straight Palin marriage never had a chance.
5) Todd & Sarah just can't keep it in or out of their pants, respectively.
4) Let's face it; Todd just not First Man material.
3) Sarah sick of Todd constantly bugging her for sex act he calls "Shoot Me from the Helicopter."
2) Sarah is not quitting the marriage, she's simply repositioning herself to serve the marriage in other arenas.
...and the number one hypothetical reason why the Palins would hypothetically get a divorce:
1) It would be the Mavericky thing to do!

*Not actionable. Really. Don't even try it.

Henry Louis Gates, Jr. Plays the Dozens

      Last week Harvard prof Henry Louis Gates, Jr. was arrested after breaking into his own home. The arresting officer's report indicates that when he told Gates he would speak to him outside, the famous scholar allegedly replied, "ya, I’ll speak with your mama outside." What happened when they both hit the street was the most vicious dozens beatdown that a Harvard professor of literary criticism has ever laid on a Cambridge police officer.

• "Yo mama's girth is so prodigious, I was compelled to compensate my limo driver with overtime remuneration because of the time required to navigate to her good side."
• "Yo mama's intelligence is so feeble, she mistook football's "quarterback" position w/ a refund of 25¢, when in fact it has nothing to do with currency at all."
• "Yo mama's so advanced in years, a screening of the motion picture 'Jurassic Park' evoked in her a keen nostalgia for the days of her youth."
• "Yo mama's girth is so prodigious that, presuming you reside in a building with multiple floors, the safety notification posted by the responsible authority in your building's elevator reads MAXIMUM OCCUPANCY: 12 Passengers or Yo Mama."
• "Yo mama's physical appearance is so repulsive, that John Merrick, better known by his sobriquet 'The Elephant Man', because the combination of terrible deformities inflicted upon his body by a congenital disorder gave him what some witnesses perceived to be an elephantine appearance...of course his name was not really John at all, but Joseph; due to an unfortunate error of recall made in the memoirs of his one-time physician and guardian Frederick Treves, the mistaken name 'John' was perpetuated, and then reinforced in the contemporary public's mind by the Oscar-winning film 'The Elephant Man,' a fictionalized account of Merrick's life directed by avant-garde filmmaker David Lynch, who used Treves's memoir as source material. But none of this is really pertinent to my central thesis, to wit: yo mama's so ugly, the Elephant Man paid to see her."
• "Yo mama's intelligence is so feeble, she raised you, a high-handed authoritarian who believes that his position as an officer of the law empowers him to punish disrespect with imprisonment, even when the disrespect has been earned, and comes at the hands of an innocent man who has been humiliated in his own very expensive home, and who has committed no crime other than being in the wrong skin at the wrong time."

"H" Is for the Hurt Behind the Humor

      As I continue strolling through the songs on my iPod, I've made it up to the letter "H". I'm surprised to find that 230 or so songs on my iPod right now begin with "H", but not so many of them are among my most favorite. Oh, there's plenty of good stuff, but it feels like A-G had more songs that I return to again and again. So picking an "H" theme proved more difficult than some of the previous letters...until I noticed how many of my "H" songs were either silly, or sad, or a little bit of both. Which got me thinking about the idea that a lot of humor has its basis in sorrow or pain. Slapstick is the most obvious example, of course, where the humor lies almost entirely in observing another's painful discomfiture and being glad it's not you. A lot of what makes us laugh is the same thing that would make us curl up in a corner and sob like a baby if we couldn't figure out how to hang a comic face on it. In that spirit I offer up my "H" songs, most of which have humor with at least a little hurt behind it.
      The Rainmakers were a great Missouri band who played an odd mix of hilarious rave-ups and more serious social satire, but everything they did came wrapped in a tight, catchy rock and roll bow. Lead singer and songwriter Bob Walkenhorst has not only a unique voice but also a biting wit and a great sense of musical humor ("Big Fat Blonde" still ranks for me as one of the great silly party songs of all time). "Hoo Dee Hoo" mixes their trademark upbeat guitar rock with a nonsense chorus and a surprisingly touching lyric of nostalgia and regret.

      "Hank" is a bluesy story-song by the Boston bar band Treat Her Right (some of its members, including the late Mark Sandman, later spun off to form Morphine). The song's narrator imagines a cry-in-your-beer story to explain the message found written on a dollar bill: "She lost. You won. I love her. Hank."

      I've been laser-burning new pits in my copy of Wilco's "Sky Blue Sky" with repeated listenings ever since it came out. Maybe I'm just getting old, but it seems harder and harder to find bands that are rock-solid musically and also produce songs with thoughtful lyrics about experiences from after college. Right now Wilco is my favorite band for grown-ups. "Hate it Here" is easily summarized by adding the line that immediately follows the title in the chorus, "since you're gone."

      And then there are the songs that just skip the humor altogether and go straight to the hurt. Sometimes the marriage of singer and song is so perfect that you just can't imagine the music and words in anyone else's voice. These final two "H" songs, "Has He Got a Friend for Me" performed by Maria McKee, and "Hurt" performed by Johnny Cash, are like that, though neither of these talented songwriters wrote the songs themselves (they were written by Richard Thompson and Trent Reznor, respectively). If someone had told me that Johnny Cash was going to cover Nine Inch Nails, and proceed to make the song his own, I probably would have thought it was some kind of joke. But watch the video. That one's Johnny's now.

CNN Helps Madonna Laugh in the Face of Death

      I know that online news--especially at the big organizations like CNN--can happen pretty quickly, and there's great pressure to get a breaking story online before the other guy does. But when you're one of the biggest news outlets in the world, you should probably have systems in place that would prevent the kind of thing that happened on Thursday.
      As I was casually browsing CNN's home page, I clicked a link for a story on an accidental death during the construction of a Madonna concert in France. It was a straightforward account of a sad accident, obviously based on early, sketchy reports. Fine. But the story was accompanied with a file picture of Madonna in concert. Here's the story as it originally appeared (this is an unaltered screen capture from my browser; click the photo for closer look):

      Yes, a story about a horrible accident that led to several injuries and one death is accompanied by a picture of Madonna giving the two-fisted finger to the world. "Yeah someone died," says Madonna in this version of the story, "but he was French, so who cares? That's just rock 'n' roll mother-f***ers!"
      Obviously, someone said, "Get me a picture of Madonna in concert to go with this story of an accident involving her stage set." But did no one actually look at this picture before uploading it to one of the biggest news sites in the world? Was someone playing a joke--someone who was hopefully shown the door that very hour? Yes, they replaced the photo within about fifteen minutes or so, but how did it ever get attached to that story? They should thank their lucky stars that printed news is dead; otherwise this one would be haunting them for years to come.

The Ancient Cat Toy Burial Ground

      I was putzing around in the kitchen earlier today when my foot struck one of the little flat bowls we use to feed the BHOC, and ZIPPO it slid under the oven like an air hockey puck. Sure, I was now up 1-0, but I knew for a fact that Donna had done exactly the same thing less than a week ago. And LEFT IT THERE. But I digress.
      Since I knew the cats had occasionally lost toys under there, and the stove hadn't been pulled out for cleaning in months, I girded up my loins and dragged it from its cubby. Let's just take a little...WHOA NELLIE BOZO! I'm thinking of calling the National Geographic, because I have discovered the fabled Ancient Cat Toy Burial Ground.
      That's Porter investigating the grisly remains, perhaps reconnecting with long-lost friends he thought were gone forever. You might have thought the other picture was of some child's box of cherished collectibles, a hoard of doodads whose pedigree and significance are known only to the little kid who lovingly squirreled them away and invested them with the mysterious power of keepsakes. But no, that's just all the crap I hauled out from under my stove, every single item an accidental goal in our cats' neverending game of kitchen air hockey. The cats have already dug around in the box and pulled out a couple of blasts from the past to play with, but here's a partial inventory of the rest:

• 10 actual cat toys--some whiffle golf balls, plastic jacks, tiny stuffed mice, and a couple of spiky plastic rolly thingies that look like undersea mines.
• Numerous homemade cat toys, like an empty thread spool, some wadded up bits of paper, bottlecaps (twist and flip), and a plastic milk cap ring.
• And many completely cat-improvised toys, including a grievously maimed origami kangaroo, two tiny Christmas ornaments, a walnut and an acorn, a pen, a clothespin, and an empty tube of Airborne® cold medicine.

      Now I've got to find some place to keep all this junk, so it once again can be doled out piece by piece to thrill and exercise the kitties. At least for the ten minutes it takes them to maneuver back into the kitchen and light the red light. GOOAAALLLLLLLLLL!

Captain Ahab's Lost Twitter Log Sees Light of Day

      At long last, the lost Twitter log of famed whaler and monomaniac Captain Ahab is available for viewing, thanks to the fine folks at Yankee Pot Roast. From Hell's heart, he'll stab at thy funny bone.

Family Court Circus

Family Court artist Bill Keane is off this week, so Little Billy is filling in with his observations.

Trending Twitter Topics--Catnip for Comics

      If you've ever Twittered away your time online, you're probably familiar with the "Trending Topics" list on the right-hand side of your Twitter home page that identifies the words and phrases that are appearing most often on the social networking site. The trending topics list usually reflects the news of the hour, but it also serves as a sort of meme mine, and often facilitates--for better or worse--a certain brand of flashmob comedy writing. Tonight someone started the topic #coolbandsmadeuncool, which essentially involved changing famous band names to their near--but very disappointing--analogues. The Broken Stove is feeling pleased enough with its own contributions to reprint them here for your delectation.

#coolbandsmadeuncool

• The Snuggle Pistols
• Telegraphhead
• The Butthole Smurfers
• They Might Be Padres
• Dead Coolidges
• and my personal favorite, Public Enema

addenda

• Burkha-Clad Ladies
• RUN DMV
• Dr. Drédel [Yiddish mother voice] "Such a nice young man...AND a doctor!"[/Yiddish mother voice]

P.S. The musically-challenged among you should feel free to request a key to the original cool band names. But then I'll know either a) you're not cool, or b) I'm not as clever as I thought I was. Probably it's a).

Father's Day After Dad (Not to Get Too Maudlin or Anything)

      Every year on Mother's and Father's Days I feel a vague sense of aimlessness and resentment, based on the fact that I no longer have either a mother or a father to whom to make the obligatory phone call, or to send the expected card. The resentment isn't with my parents for having checked out at relatively young ages (cancer both times), but rather with the world at large for so cheerfully reminding me at least twice a year, via the power of advertising, that Mom & Dad are no longer accepting their obeisances, and in fact aren't even available for a nice chat. Of course that isn't the world's fault any more than it is my parents', but feelings certainly don't need to be rational to be real.
      On Father's Day at least I have my father-in-law, a semi-retired American Baptist minister, a counsellor, a lover of books and history, and by any objective standard a swell guy. In most particulars, he and my own father couldn't have been more different--my father was bald from his thirties; my father-in-law still sports a shocking and impenetrably thick pelt which, even in its current complete whiteness, could be the envy of any 25 year-old. My father once let me assist him in the construction of a dot matrix printer for his computer--from a kit that actually required the soldering of components onto the circuit board from a schematic diagram; my father-in-law can still become lost in the wilds of his email program. In any group of strangers my father became shy and retiring and said little; my father-in-law comes to life with strangers, asks them about their lives, regales them with his formidable collection of personal anecdotes, and generally makes them feel special, appreciated, and better off for having met him, however briefly. My father-in-law is now the one with whom I can commiserate about the shameful play of the Mets and Pirates, and to whom I will happily listen as he decries the breaking of sports rules which haven't been in effect since the early 70's (Do not get him started on breaking the plane of the goal line. Just don't go there.). Happy Father's Day Don, you white-haired smoothie, you.
      But since Father's Day has me wishing I could have Dad over for a nice steak off the grill he bought for my first house-warming, and since he's not around to become embarrassed, I feel free to tell one of my favorite tales of one of his less brilliant moments as head of the Waldron gang. In his defense, I will begin the tale by informing dear reader that I do have four brothers, and the oldest is only seven years older than I, the youngest. So the pace of life for my parents in the days of my youth probably hovered somewhere between "dull roar" and "riot control," depending upon our sugar levels. And generally speaking, my mother was the one to take us to the doctor when germs, or hurled rocks, or the simple fact that gravity works made such a visit necessary. So my father was already out of his element when he had to take my six year-old self to the doctor's office to deal with one of the dozens and dozens of ear infections our germy little clan no doubt contracted in those days.
      There we sat at the nurse's reception desk, Dad in front and I kicking my heels on a too-tall chair behind. The nurse needed my particulars of course, so she bent over her form and tossed my dad what she probably thought would be an easy one, just to get warmed up. "Patient's name?" There was a pause. The nurse looked up at my father and tried again. "The patient's name?" Another pause. OK, I thought, this is totally understandable. He's got the five of us and, ha, ha, he's forgotten which one he's got in tow this time. That's pretty funny. Now he'll have to turn around to check. And he did turn around. And stared at me. Blankly. It was the look of a man who had begun some sort of errand or other, but then had wandered into a completely unrelated train of thought, or maybe gotten a song stuck in his head, and now no longer had any idea of why he had left the house. I had innocently expected that seeing my face would have snapped him back to his errand--or at least provided him with the required name--but no dice. The stare became uncomfortable, in both its length and total blankness. "Peter," I offered helpfully. He turned to the nurse. "His name's Peter," he said redundantly, and on we went.
      I suppose some folks end up in therapy over such things--"he couldn't even remember my name boo hoo"--but even at age six I had enough sympathy to be nothing but amused. I still don't know how my parents survived the five of us; just the thought of it makes me want to go lie down. How does anyone shoulder a responsibility that can weary and distract you to the point where you can stare at your own child and not know who the hell he is? But somehow Dad and Mom did it, and we all have college degrees, and we're all happily married, and none of us has spent the night in jail, and the other four even have kids of their own, bless their hearts. So Happy Father's Day, guys! And Happy Father's Day, Dad; the next steak will be for you.

Pittsburgh Hoists Stanley Cup, Prepares Parade They Can't Afford

      With a couple of excellent last-second saves by Marc-Andre Fleury, the Pittsburgh Penguins wrested the Stanley Cup from the multi-championship-beringed fingers of the Red Wings on Detroit's home ice in Game 7 of the playoffs tonight, and set the stage for a victory parade they'll be paying for with bond issues for years to come. According to the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, that parade "will begin at noon Monday at the intersection of Grant Street and Seventh Avenue, Downtown."
      Just before the game began, I heard several sports analysts say things pretty much like, "I don't think the Penguins can win in Joe Louis Arena." WRONG. "Pittsburgh will need to get big games from their stars Malkin and Crosby to have any hope of winning this game." WRONG--Max Talbot (pictured at left) was tonight's hero. "Pittsburgh needs Fleury to have a near-perfect game and outplay Osgood for them to have a chance." WRON...no wait. That one was right, and was exactly what happened. Up by just one goal with seconds left, the Penguins lost a crucial faceoff in their own end, which led to a Red Wings shot, a dangerous rebound, another Red Wings shot, another dangerous rebound, and a brilliant, diving recovery by Fleury to block the third, last-second shot, which would have meant overtime and a big advantage for Detroit at home.
      So it's been a great year to be a fan of Pittsburgh sports. The Steelers won the Super Bowl, the Pens have taken the Stanley Cup, so now all the Pirates have to do is...BWAH HA HA HA HA! Oh, dear (*wiping tears from eyes*)! I thought I could pull that off with a straight face, but no. It'll still be a great year.

RiffTrax Contest

      There's still time (if it's not yet 11:59PM Friday the 12th) to get in on this contest from the very funny folks at RiffTrax (they're some of the same people who brought you Mystery Science Theater 3000). The premise is simple:

THE CHALLENGE: Make an existing comedy into a drama, or vice-versa.
DETAILS: Pick an actual movie, from any era. Re-pitch it as a comedy if it’s considered a drama, OR if you’ve chosen a drama, re-pitch it as a comedy. Stick as closely as possible to the actual characters and plot of the real movie, but completely change the tone…. and do it in 150 words maximum.

It's just that easy.
      For the record, here are my entries--one is drama to comedy, and the other is the other.

Rick was fed up with the rat race, so he dropped out, bought the bar of his dreams, and started spending time with his feet in the sand and a drink in his hand. Life was great… (*sound of needle scratching across record*) until his ex walked in! With a hunky new boyfriend! Who’s on the lam from a bumbling band of Hitler’s hitmen! Two’s company, but three will make you laugh out loud in CASABLANCA!
Ingrid Bergman wants what only Humphrey Bogart can give her…a one-way ticket out of town. But Sydney Greenstreet--the funny fat man who split your sides in THE MALTESE FALCON--and Claude Rains–the kookiest collaborator since Benedict Arnold--have plans of their own.
Of all the gin joints in all the world, this one is the most full of laughs! Get the Dooley Wilson single, “As Time Goes By” on Warner Bros. Records.

Edwina’s a no-nonsense cop with a promising future; H.I. is the three-time loser and petty crook who has stolen her heart. But their newfound happiness together is shattered when they discover that her womb is a rocky place, where his seed can find no purchase. Yearning to build the family that nature has denied them, they make a desperate decision that will CHANGE THEIR LIVES FOREVER (cue pounding drums). Now they’re on the run--from the law, from a ruthless pair of escaped convicts, and from a dark and unrelenting agent of vengeance, a warthog from hell that may be of H.I.’s own creating. With the greatest chase sequence since THE FRENCH CONNECTION, Ed and H.I. are raising hell, raising the stakes, and RAISING ARIZONA. All they have is an empty gun, a box of Huggies, and each other.
(cut to Nic Cage) “Well, it ain’t Ozzie and Harriet.”

BTW, the prize is your pick of one of the movies from their catalogue of RiffTrax.

Fate, Coincidence, and the Twitterpated--Curmudgeon's Corner (10)

      Smokey Burner, the Broken Stove's resident curmudgeon, has been Twittering for a while now, and mostly he likes it. Twitter lets him keep up with the daily doings of his friends, and also allows him to brush up against the goings-on of various other people he finds interesting. In moderation, it's a good thing.
      But Twitter also has the unfortunate side effect of reminding Smokey that, as a friend once explained to him, the masses are asses (Smokey already knew this instinctively, but he had never before heard his belief so artfully encapsulated in words). Today, Twitter is all aflutter with the sad story of Johanna Gunthaler, an Italian woman who escaped death on Air France Flight 447 by arriving late at the counter, only to be killed today in a car crash in Austria.
      "Fate," intone a distressingly large number of the tweets on the subject, "she couldn't escape Fate," "it was her time to die," "it's just like the Final Destination movies," and on and on and on. Of course what these purblind doomsters fail to mention, or even notice, is that her husband didn't die in the car crash. Shouldn't he be doomed as well? And I seem to recall reading that there were a handful of other would-be passengers of Flight 447 who only avoided being on the plane by the coincidence of being bumped, or waiting for a later flight, or whatever. Why aren't these people hurtling off various roads in their ill-fated cars? What's the statute of limitations on Inescapable Fated Death? If they die of heart attacks in three years, will people still tsk and say, "they were meant to die on that plane"?
      Don't be so twitterpated. "A" happens. Then "B" happens. It does not automatically follow that "B" was directly caused by "A", no matter how oddly reminiscent of "A" that "B" turns out to be. Johanna Gunthaler's story is strange and sad, but it's not Fate Writ Large.

Bilbo Baggins at Group

      Hey, everyone. My name is Bilbo Baggins, and I’m a ring of power addict.
      Hi Bilbo!
      Yeah, hi. It’s been 5 months and ummm 12 days since I last wore a ring of power. My nephew and some friends staged an intervention and they took away my stash, so I had to go cold turkey. Frodo--that’s my nephew--he got religion or something and joined up with that Gandalf cult. They cornered me in my hole and went on and on for like, hours, about how if I kept wearing the ring that Satan, or Sauron--or whoever their major evil dude is--was gonna sweep all through the land with his armies of darkness and the whole world would fall into some kind of age of shadow or something.
      Whatever.
      I just knew that if I kept on wraithing it was gonna end bad. It got to where I was getting invisible like two, three times a day—as soon as I woke up I was reaching for the ring. The first few days without it were pretty rough. I tried wearing like ten mood rings at once, but they didn’t do jack, not even a buzz. By day three I was hiding behind bushes and just pretending I was invisible, which, hearing it out loud right now, sounds really pathetic. Every day’s a struggle, but I’m getting better.
      Bruce here says that I won’t really be well till I apologize to everyone for all the bad stuff I did to them when I was wraithing. So here goes. Umm, Lobelia…wow, this is hard…Lobelia, remember how you thought those immigrant elves down the hollow were using one of their weird enchantments so you never caught them stripping your fruit trees? Yeah, actually that was me who stole your fruit when I was invisible. Sorry. No, I never knew you went down to confront them about it. That must have been pretty awkward. Is that why they put that spell on your donkey? Man, I have never seen so much manure in my life…no, you’re right; it wasn’t funny. Did you ever find out how they got him in your kitchen? Sorry about that.
      What else? Oh right, Toby. Toby, pretty much every weekend I’d get hammered on Barleywine, then put on my ring, sneak into your place, and watch you and Violet rock the ol’ hobbit hole. That time that you thought the dog had gotten onto the bed but then you couldn’t find him? That was me. But man! Your family’s not called Proudhammer for nothing! Wow! Yeah, no, that was totally…I’m sorry, Tobe, I’m sorry. Bruce, let him go now; it’s OK. Sorry, man. It was the ring. I was powerless, you know?
      There’s a lot of other stuff…no, right Bruce. I’ll save some for next week. Anyway, thanks for listening, everybody. Hey man, that’s a sweet cloak brooch—does it have any kind of magi…no, no, of course not.
      Sorry. Sorry.

Things That Keep Me Up At Night

      I wonder if Murphy really wanted that Law named after him, or was that just one more damn thing that went wrong?

      If a tree falls in a forest, and no one is around to hear it, who the hell cares? It's a TREE. In a FOREST. Which means there are lots more of them. Get over it.

      Sometimes, my dog smells like Fritos. Which makes me wonder what the Fritos people might be hiding from us.