News Of The World

“I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like.”---Gelett Burgess

No, we are not making this stuff up.  A banana duct-taped to a wall recently sold for 6.2 million dollars at a Sotheby’s auction in New York.  The “conceptual art piece,” whatever that is, was sold to a goober named Justin Sun, who obviously has too much cash on his hands.  Sun, wouldn’t you know it, is the founder of a cryptocurrency platform called TRON.  Of the sale, he said the art piece called Comedian “represents a cultural phenomenon that bridges the worlds of art, memes and the crypto community.”

The Comedian, alas, will not be hanging on any walls or even lasting very long because Justin Sun promptly ate it.  After the sale, he remarked. “In the coming days, I will personally eat the banana as part of this unique artistic experience, honoring its place in both art history and popular culture.”  Oh.  And what did you do with the duct tape, Justin?

The auction saw bidding start at a piffling $800,000 and increase to multi-millions within minutes, the auctioneer imploring bidders “Don’t let it slip away.”  Lucius Elliot, head of contemporary marquee sales at Sotheby’s said there had been much debate over “whether this is art, whether it is a prank, whether it is a symbol of the excess of the art market.  In truth, it is of course all of these things.”  If you say so, Lucius.

Comedian originally became a viral sensation in 2019 when Italian artist Maurizio Cattelan debuted it at Art Basel Miami Beach.  Festivalgoers tried to make out whether the single piece of fruit stuck to a white wall with silver tape was a joke or a cheeky commentary on questionable standards among art collectors.  Comedian quickly erupted into a viral global sensation that drew record crowds and social media inundation, eventually landing on the front page of The New York Post.  Then one day, somebody ate it…so Justin Sun is not even getting the original banana, just a scandalous imitation.  Don’t worry, though, because he’s also getting a certification of authenticity that gives him the authority to duct-tape another banana to a wall and call it “Comedian.”

Local fruit magnate Will Thacker, who has been toting around his own banana for 54 years now, has a better offer.  “For a mere FIVE.2 million, I will untape my banana from a wall and even chew it up FOR you!  No fuss, no muss.  And I will give you a much better certificate, with cursive calligraphy by Master Hsing Yun of the Fo Guang Shan Buddhist order.  Better act today, though, this particular banana is looking a little pekid.”

The moral of the story is, as we already knew, one man’s bucket of cash is another man’s banana.  We subscribe to the old quote by the inimitable Shihari Saravanan: “Art is a lie that makes us realize the Truth.”  You couldn’t put anything past good old Shihari.

The Return Of Barney Google

“Barney Google, with the goo-goo-goo-ga-ly eyes…
Barney Google had a wife three times his size…
She stood Barney for divorce, now he’s living with his horse…
Barney Google, with the goo-goo-goo-ga-ly eyes!”---Billy Rose & Carl Conrad

Despite all indications to the contrary, Barney Google lives.  Otherwise, how to explain the sudden spate of Googly Eye sightings in Bend, Oregon, where the comic eyeballs have been popping up on statues and murals, causing a viral sensation.

This doesn’t sit well with the grouchy administrators of Bend.  “While the Googly Eyes placed on the various pieces of art around town might give you a chuckle, it costs money to remove them with care to not damage the art,” the city alleged on social media.

Au contraire, posted fans of the Googly Eyes.  “It costs nothing if they just leave them there,” argued an eyeball supporter on Facebook.  Another added, “My daughter and I went past the Flaming Chicken (a nickname for Bend’s “Phoenix Rising” statue) today and got the biggest laugh.  We love the Googly Eyes.  This town is getting too stuffy, let’s have fun!”

So far, Bend has spent a piffling $1500 to remove the eyes from seven of the eight statues impacted.  The city’s communication director, Rene Mitchell, says it’s the adhesive on the Googly Eyes that’s causing the problem.  “We really encourage our community to engage with the art, but we have to protect it.  We need to bring awareness to the people that applying adhesives does harm to some of the art pieces which are made of different types of metal such as bronze and steel.”

You heard her, GE boosters.  Stick to Scotch Tape in the future and the Googly Eyes shall rise again.

“My Kingdom For A Dumpling!”

Despite the arrival of the twenty-first century, China continues to be a mystery.  Odd things happen there, like strangers in elevators making fun of you for being single and/or fat.  The Chinese prefer their drinking water warm and that extends to their Diet Coke and even beer.  In China, it’s the men who have long fingernails, a status symbol illustrating that they don’t have to work in the fields all day.  More recent is a trend of mothers-to-be wearing cumbersome radiation vests to protect the unborn child from supposedly harmful computers, TVs and mobile phones and the radiation they emit.  More enlightened Chinese doctors advise the vests are not only useless but potentially harmful to the baby.  None of this compares, however, to the fanaticism of some Chinese students for soup dumplings.  That’s right, soup dumplings.  Imagine how they’d feel about pizza.

Locals in Zhengzhou have estimated that up to 200,000 young people called the Night Riding Army have taken to renting bikes at night to ride 37 miles to Kaifeng for the city’s famous guantangbao, a type of soup dumpling.  Recently, police in Henan province were forced to close the highway blocked by the dumpling-lovers.  Liu Lulu, a student at Henan University, told the China Daily that “People sang together and cheered for each other while climbing the hills together.  I could feel the passion of the young people.  And it was much more than a bike ride.”  One observer posted on social media: “Last night’s Night Riding Army was spectacular.  Two lanes were opened, but that simply was not enough…the cycling army accounted for four.  It was glorious!”

Apparently, the phenomenon started in June when a mere four young women from Zhengzhou made an impromptu journey for the dumplings and described their adventure on social media.  It caught on quickly, “like ‘Where The Boys Are’ in Fort Lauderdale,” said one Henan U. cosmopolite.   Ah, unpredictable China, where elevator insults are rife and dumplings rule.  Rave on, you Asian rebels!

Have Some Guinness….

With another year in the books, it’s critical we look back at the monumental achievements of 2024 as assayed by the dependable statisticians at Guinness World Records.  It was yet another sterling annum for odd accomplishments, not the least of which were these:

1. Smallest Washing Machine.  Sebin Saji of India smashed the GWR for tiniest washer when his minute appliance was officially measured at 1.28 inches by 1.32 inches by 1.523 inches, which is even smaller than a Tamagotchi digital pet or the budget of Estonia.  In order to qualify for the record, Mr. Saji had to demonstrate that his washing machine was fully functional and could run a full cycle---wash, rinse and spin.

2. Largest Building In The Shape Of A Chicken.  The Campuestohan Highland Resort, located in Occidental, earned the trophy with its new rooster-shaped edifice which stands at 114 feet, 7 inches high.  Owner Ricardo Cano Gwapo Tan said the shape of the building, which features 15 air-conditioned hotel rooms. is a tribute to the local gamefowl industry.

3. Longest Paddling Journey By A Pumpkin Boat.  Hand that award to good old Gary Kristensen, a clever Oregonian who hollowed out a pumpkin he named Punky Loafster and tootled 45.67 miles down the Columbia River to break the old record.  Kristensen, who faced strong winds and unstable water during his journey, printed the words “IT’S REAL” on the side of his pumpkin to assure viewers they weren’t seeing things.

4. Fastest 10 Meters On A Skateboard By A Cat.  Bao Zi, an American shorthair cat belonging to Chinese dog trainer Li Jiangtao, showed off his shredding skills by skateboarding 10 meters (32.8 feet) in 12.85 seconds.  Bao Zi was originally purchased to help deal with a rodent problem at the Li residence but his new owner noticed how intently the cat would watch while he was teaching his dogs to skateboard.  “Those hounds can’t even do a 180,” hissed the champ.

5. Highest Car Bungee Jump.  You’re not going to believe this but Laurent Latsko, a professional stuntman and race car driver, sat in the driver’s seat of a Nissan Qashqai e-Power vehicle while it was dropped from a crane at a height of 213 feet, 3 inches.  The brazen car bounced up and down  many times at the end of bungee cord before coming to rest, setting a new world record.  “I believe I’ll skip dinner,” reported Latsko.

6. Fastest Motorized Wheelbarrow.  British mechanic Dylan Phillips, a confirmed wheelbarrow racer, hit the tarmac at Straightliners Speed Week 2024 at Elvington Airfield in Yorkshire with his latest custom-built vehicle, a souped-up wheelbarrow, and blazed a record-breaking 52.58 mph down the runway.  “Getting the barrow up to speed is scary,” Phillips admitted, “but the real issue is slowing down”  No wonder, since the odd contraption only has brakes on the front.

Obviously we horse farmers, locked into a utilitarian past, haven’t been getting a full measure of entertainment from our wheelbarrows. Live and learn.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com         

  

Tis The Season To Be Jolly

What did you get for Christmas?  Never mind the usual things like pearls or diamond earrings or a new Kubota tractor, tell us about the weird stuff, the big surprises, the terrible mistakes.

Almost anyone would like a musical instrument for Christmas, especially a harpist like Harpo Marx.  His friend, surrealist Salvador Dali knew this and sent him a lovely full-sized harp in the mid 1930s.  It arrived wrapped in cellophane with spoons for tuning knobs, cutlery glued all over the frame and strings made of barbed wire.  Delighted with his gift, Harpo sent back a photo of himself playing the harp with bandaged fingers.  Two months later, Dali visited America at Harpo’s behest to sketch him playing his harp with a lobster on his head.

Roy Collette of Owatonna, Minnesota and his brother-in-law Larry Kunkel merrily sent the same pair of moleskin pants back and forth for 24 years, each trying to outdo the other in the manner of presentation.  Eventually, Larry won.  It took Roy two months after Christmas in 1984 to unwrap his present, cemented as it was into a 12,000-pound, 17-foot-high red space ship.

In one final heartwarming story, our Oviedo pals Will and Marleah enjoyed a special moment in their years-long relationship when Marleah told Will she had a dream that he gifted her with a Christmas engagement ring.  “What do you think it all means?” she wondered.  “Ah, you’ll see for yourself tonight!” replied her beau.

At midnight, while visions of sugarplums danced in her head, Will approached Marleah and handed her a small package.  Delighted, she tore through the wrapping and opened it quickly only to discover a small book.  The title?  “A Guide To The Meaning Of Dreams.”  No cookies for you, Santa!

How Does Santa Do it?

Well, it’s not easy.  Consider the problems.  Scientists who have researched Santa’s annual trip agree that he has around 32 hours to deliver presents to children around the world.  There is general agreement that starting in New Zealand and Australia and finishing in Alaska, Hawaii and other spots in the western Pacific is best.  Also, “children” will be defined as humans 14 years old and below since nobody that old believes in Santa, anyway.  With those restrictions in place, Santa still has to visit the homes of 1.93 billion children on Christmas Eve.  That’s a lot of milk and Oreos.  However, this enormous number could be reduced by 30% if visits were limited only to children who celebrate Christmas and not those whose religions prohibit the observance of this holiday.  Sounds reasonable, right?  That being the case, we are now down to a more manageable 603 million kiddoes.

Okay, now we’re cooking.  Now, it’s obvious to any nitwit that no normal person can cavort through the skies at such breathtaking speed as to service over 600 million kids in one night.  Ah, but Santa is no normal person.  He has been endowed with the super-power of time dilation, which is a phenomenon where time slows down for an object the faster it moves.  In essence, Santa travels so fast that time actually slows down for him (See Einstein’s Theory of Relativity), and because it does, he has much more time to deliver his presents.  Time dilation also means that Santa Claus ages slower than the average person, which explains why he’s been around for so long.

At the same time, scientists have discerned that Santa experiences a phenomenon called time contraction, in which the size of an object is reduced the faster it moves.  This means that Santa gets smaller the faster he moves and his reduced size allows him to fit into the tightest of chimneys, in between the cracks of windows and doors and through very small spaces in the walls.

So how fast is Santa actually going?  Obviously, he has some 317 million miles to travel before his job is done so he would need to be scooting more than 10,7 million kilometers per hour or 1800 miles per second, and that doesn’t take into account any pit stops the jolly old elf might need for restrooms or reindeer feeding.  Researchers who have investigated Santa’s logistics pretty much agree that his sleigh weighs around 1.232 million tons fully loaded.  This weight also takes into account Santa’s ample girth and the weight of his reindeer, about 600 pounds apiece.  The toys alone would tip the scales at a whopping 8.4 million tons, so forget about propulsion from eight tiny reindeer.  You’d need 5.6 million 600-pound critters to pull that sleigh, so don’t ask for all their names.  Don’t worry about your roof, though.  They hover.

Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot? (written 12-31-2024)

Of course not, unless it’s our auld acquaintance with the Deadly Duo, Anderson Cooper and Andy Cohen, who bring giddiness to a new level during CNN’s New Year’s Eve extravaganzas.  There is such a thing as too cute and these two underline that point every year.  This time they have surprise guest Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson, who is famous for…well…for insisting you leave the second “f” out when pronouncing his nickname.  They’ll try to make up for Fitty by bringing on Shania Twain later on.  Maybe Patty LaBelle will show up to sing Kiss Away The Pain.

Admit it, when you were young and foolish you promised yourself you’d be in Times Square some day to watch the ball drop…probably right after you hitchhiked across the country, fell in love with a Mexican grape-picker and read the first twenty pages of your brilliant novel on poetry night at the City Lights bookstore.  It’s one of those bucket list things people talk about but seldom get up the momentum to do.  And just as well---it’s cold up there and you’re squashed together like libertines at a lube & oil.  It’s impossible to move unless everyone decides to motivate at the same time, and you don’t want that.  I was foolishly shopping at the original Macy’s one Christmas Eve and the customers were crammed in tight, spilling out the doors.  When the crowd surged, my feet left the floor in the Perfume Department and didn’t hit ground until we reached Men’s Intimate Apparel (it’s New York, remember).  Scary business.

Here’s a problem you never thought of.  How  do you go to the bathroom on New Year’s Eve in Times Square?  People begin arriving by 11 a.m. and the viewing area is full by 6 p.m, so you’re there a looong time.  The surrounding restaurants and shops will definitely not let you use their restrooms and there are no pay-toilets or port-a-potties in sight.  Sorry to tell you this, but you only have a couple of choices---adult diapers or urinary bags with catheters---otherwise it’s Man vs. Nature and you know who always wins that one.  This is one celebration where ‘NO ALCOHOL ALLOWED’ is a blessing in disguise.  “Mom, why is that lady squatting down over the sewer grate?”

Lowering The Opossum

If standing among thousands of people in urine-stained underwear isn’t your cup of Jamoka, there are always alternatives.  In the mountains of Western North Carolina (if you’re lucky), you’ll find the tiny village of Brasstown and inside there the esoteric Clay’s Corner, basically a convenience store and gas station.  For 25 years, owner Clay Logan has welcomed the new year with a family-friendly bash that includes music, fireworks and a spectacle called Lowering The Opossum, which features a regal possum encased in a tinsel-draped clear plastic box being lowered to the ground.  A New York Times reporter sent to cover the event told it this way:

“At midnight, as he lets a rope slip between his fingers lowering a possum in a plexiglass cage from the roof of his gas station, Mr. Logan will call out as he has every New Year’s Eve since 1990, ‘5-4-3-2-1!’

And then, as the crowd starts going bananas, he shouts ‘THE POSSUM HAS LANDED!’  The possum is alive, of course, and will be released at the end of the ceremony unharmed, if a little shaken.  The show is more than just the spectacle of suspending in the air a fuzzy-headed, pink-pawed animal that looks as if someone stuck it together with spare parts.  There are fireworks, the firing of muskets, country food like peach cobbler and bear stew and the Miss Possum contest, a cross-dressing affair in which bearded truck drivers wear eye shadow and strut across the stage with hands like oven mitts swinging at the sides of bursting lace dresses.”

Now, that’s more like it!  Who needs a boring ball drop when you’ve got peach cobbler, cross-dressing bearded truck drivers and possum landings?  Gas up the buggy, Leroy, we’re headed for Brasstown.  Anna Marie is up for Miss Possum this year!

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com 

 

   

Year Of The Snake

Perhaps the Chinese know something we don’t know. Their New Year begins on January 29, a mere nine days after Donald J. Trump assumes the office of President, and they have advised us it’s the Year of the Snake.  While liberal Democrats huddle in tents in the desert and rabid Republicans start honing their axes, The Flying Pie turns to Baba Vanga for a look at the future.  This reliable Bulgarian mystic, blind as a highschool umpire, foretold the heinous 9/11 attacks, the unexpected death of Princess Diana and RFK Jr.’s worm invasion, so she knew her stuff.  Even though Baba bought the farm in 1996, she saw it coming well in advance and was able to make early predictions for years far into the future.  Take a seat, pour yourself a strong comfort drink and listen up.

“I see great destruction in Europe, intense internal strife resulting in a reduction in population.  I see a year when some humans may become telepathic.  I see the prospect of coming in contact with extraterrestrial life, so everyone should quit giving Gary Borse the raised eyebrow.

I am worried about a string of catastrophes which could lead to the beginning of the apocalypse.  The human race will not be entirely eliminated but the 2026 cars might not come out on time.

Elon Musk will get an afternoon TV show on a major network.  Vladimir Putin will die after wrestling a rhinoceros to prove his manhood.  Donald Trump will contract a serious case of monkey pox and be forced to govern from a cave in the Primate House of the San Diego Zoo.  Glenn Terry will skydive in a winged pig suit and land in a downtown Gainesville awning none the worse for wear.

What about flying cars?  “Don’t make me laugh.”  What about Syria?  “Who cares?  Shitpile, like Lebanon.”  Will the USA survive Trump?  “Oh yeah.  An intestinal blockage will get him at about 18 months.  Vance will take over, be outed as a glue-sniffer and impeached.  Elon and Liz Cheney will then battle it out in a no-holds-barred cage match and Cheney will mop the floor with that doughboy.  First woman President!  Who knew?”

The Noz Knows All

Nostradamus, born Michel de Nostradame on December 14, 1503 in Saint-Remy-de-Provence, France was a renowned 16th-century astrologer, physician and seer.  The Noz is best known for his book Les Propheties published in 1555, which contains 942 cryptic quatrains, many of them still being interpreted.  Here’s what he had to say about the new year: “By 2025, we should be very close to our current planetary turning point, which I believe will end by 2030.  We will be nearing a solar maximum and the potential for planetary societal collapse should we get a major solar flare.  Such an event will destroy databanks, cut communications and destroy nearly every electrical electronic device on the planet, including those clever sex toys.  Oh, and Amelia Earhart will finally be found alive on Howland Island, acting as queen of a tribe of displaced Hawaiians. She’ll be 126 years old but nobody will dare mention it.”

You Gotta Have Heart

On the health beat, grab your multisyllabic adjectives---2025 will see an unprecedented breakthrough.  Researchers will successfully bio-print a fully functional human heart using advanced 3D bioprinting technology.  Starting with high-resolution CT scans, scientists will create an intricate digital model capturing every minute detail of the heart’s complex structure.  This model will serve as the blueprint for a state-of-the-art 3D bioprinter, which meticulously layers human stem cells and biodegradable scaffold materials to construct the organ with remarkable precision.

Once printed, the nascent heart will be placed in a specialized bioreactor that mimics the physiological conditions of the human body.  Here, the heart will mature over several weeks, allowing the cells to organize and differentiate properly, establishing vital networks of blood vessels and electrical pathways necessary for normal heart function.  In a groundbreaking surgical procedure, the matured heart will then be inserted into a pig for testing.

The implications of this achievement will be monumental.  It will alleviate the global shortage of donor organs by providing bioprinted hearts to the DNA of individual patients, thus reducing the risk of infection.  This breakthrough will pave the way for extending human longevity by replacing failing organs with custom-made, fully compatible substitutes.  Additionally, it opens avenues for innovation in bioprinting other complex organs, revolutionizing regenerative medicine and personalized health care.  Although most companies in this space are in the start-up phase, a rash of IPOs will pop up in no time.  The surge in innovation and investment could reshape the healthcare industry and lead to improved patient outcomes and significant economic growth.

Latest Reports From Your Oily Warning System

Despite what they tell you on Landman, Big Oil is in trouble.  In the span of just a few years, China has made a mockery of all prior assumptions about Electric Vehicle production and adoption.  Schroders, a nearly trillion-dollar asset manager, touted growth potential for Chinese EV production back in 2021, projecting that EV sales might reach close to five million vehicles by the end of 2024, a market share of 15%.  The ensuing reality blew the roof off these projections as Chinese EV registrations rose above eight million in 2023.  By September of 2024, EV market share of new car sales reached north of 45% in China, as overall sales growth rose above 40% year-on-year.  This happened six years earlier than expected.

China is showing the way in the transportation electrification boom.  As other countries join China in rapidly building out exponential growth in production capacity, battery prices will deflate further, making EVs cheaper than their petrol-burning brethren, with a crossover point in costs within twelve months, even on an unsubsidized basis.  With an exponential adoption rate curve ahead, it brings forward the possibility that 2025 will be the peak year for oil production worldwide, with an accelerating decline in demand in the years ahead.

In 2025, with the handwriting on the wall with regard to future demand (since 66% of oil ends up as gasoline or diesel in cars and trucks), OPEC will find its relevance dwindling and its multi-million barrel per day production limits irrelevant.  Some members are already cheating production quotas to grab what they can as export demand falls.  Most members realize the jig is up.  Sooner rather than later, OPEC will be consigned to the ash heap of history.

Meanwhile back at the airport, crude oil price drops will be a boon for airlines.  Chemical, paint and tire manufacturers will throw parties.  Many companies in North America will shut down shale oil production.  Fracking will slowly diminish.  In Asia, stubborn Japanese car manufacturers will find themselves in a desperate race to catch up with the other EV players.  Time to check out that stock portfolio, boys and girls, take another look at those ExxonMobil and BP shares before you get the Stock Market Blues, like Hank Jr.

“Well, I just sat there and wondered why
I thought I’d buy low and sell it high,
But things sure didn’t work out that way,
I think I’ve lost my ass-ets today.”

Karnak’s Predictions For 2025:

1. Judy Cain will become pregnant, move back to Gainesville and open an axe-throwing bar. 

2. Will Thacker, made wealthy by his vast publishing empire, will also return to town, buy a radio station and play music of the seventies and eighties exclusively, each number preceded by an abominable pun.  His evening show at 7:00 will have a live audience of two dozen seventyish groupies with whistles.  Fear the banana.

3. Glenn Terry will receive a large donation from anonymous sources and hire the Ferko String Band mummers to lead his Flying Pig Parade.  Bill Killeen, in costume as Al Jolsen, will prance ahead of the band, kiss babies and hand out Meyer lemons.

4. David Atherton will visit 85 musical venues within a 24-hour period, accompanied by his pilot and an illegal smile.  The Guinness Book of Records will take a look.

5. Chuck LeMasters will come out of hiding after 36 years of self-flaggelation for the annual UF Homecoming Parade, tossing out well-rolled joints from the Sheriff’s Boys Ranch float.    

6. David Hammer will uncharacteristically incur a stain on his lapel, freak out and break into a stirring rendition of Let’s Get Dirty.  His nursing home audience will throw underwear at the stage.

7. Vicky Bordeaux will stay home all day on April 1 and not hug a soul.  There will be gnashing of teeth throughout the land.

8. Gina Hawkins will be elected mayor of Gainesville, and about time.  Adhering to her promise to be an active politico, all future City Commission meetings will be held while commissioners are dancing, riding bicycles or picking up refuse.  Richard Rahall will hold her beer.

9. Ron Thomas will start up a nude rock band, playing songs like Nothing To Hide, The Streak, What Do You Say To A Naked Lady and Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off at Ladies Auxiliary meetings across Florida.  “I’ve been suppressing my natural party boy persona for far too long,” admits Thomas.  “It’s time to let it all hang out.”

As it were.

That’s all, folks…

bill.killeen094@gmail.com   

    

It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas

The images of Christmas we keep in the recesses of our minds are mostly merry---candles-in-the windows, lighted trees, snowy lanes, tucked-in children, a cornucopia of wrapped presents and full stockings hanging by the fireplace.  Santa’s milk and cookies are in there, of course, and we always remember that shocking lump of coal that served as a warning when we had our doubts about The Jolly Old Elf.  But all Christmases are not equal and virtually all of us have memories of a Noel that went off the tracks, a time when we were alone and blue or busted flat in Baton Rouge, waitin’ for a train.

For me, it was a Christmas spent in Stillwater, Oklahoma during my college days when money was tight and I was 1667 miles away from home.  Everyone I knew had left a town which was small enough to begin with and I was on my own for almost two weeks, living in a one-room apartment in the crumbling home of old Maw Kramden and her dotty husband Lester, who always wore a porkpie hat and delighted in turning on the gas for the kitchen stove without lighting it.

I decided to spend my time writing material for my self-published college humor magazine, the Charlatan, efforts which extended long into the night.  Eventually, I wrote and rewrote all night long and slept during the day.  There is a period in our development when most aspiring writers feel our prose is inadequate and must be rewritten eighty or more times to reach maturity when the truth is that it’s pretty much okay the first time, a fact that Gilbert Shelton let me in on a few years later.  Occasionally, I drifted a few blocks into downtown Stillwater to look at the lights and drown my sorrows in a Honeymoon Banana Split at an ice cream palace called the Malt Shop (really), where a kid waitress named Holly took a shine to me.  At first, I misinterpreted her interest as pity, and we enjoyed a light banter on my visits, but one night she carefully placed my dish on the mat, pulled the cherry off the top, licked some ice cream off and replanted it.  “When you gonna ask me for a date?” she wanted to know.

“What are you, fifteen?” I asked her.  “SIXteen!” she scoffed.  “And what are YOU, forty-five?”  Thinking about it for a moment, I realized I was only a couple of years older than she was.

“I know what you’re thinking---jailbait, right?  But listen---you’re not doing anything these days and I’m not either, so who says we can’t be friends.  Nobody can arrest you for going to the movies.”

Holly had a point.  I met her when she got off the next afternoon and we went to see “The Tingler,” a ridiculous thing for which some of the seats were allegedly tricked out to give you a buzz during the scary parts.  It seemed extremely unlikely to me and I never felt a thing, but Holly jumped up about one-third of the way through and squealed.  “My seat BIT me!” she laughed.  “You’re kidding,” I doubted, but it bit her again and she jumped into my lap.  “I’m not sitting there any more, I could be shocked to death,” she complained.

What can you do with a girl like Holly?  She said she was too scared to stay home alone (her only parent, her mother, worked all night) so I’d have to take her to my place.  We waited until Maw Kramden turned the lights off and snuck in the back door.  “There’s only one bed in here, you know,” I advised, naively.  “Hey Bill,” she smiled, “I’m really only two months from seventeen.  I know stuff.”

She did, too.  And suddenly, it was Christmas Eve after all.  Santa came down the chimney about an hour later, all the lights flashed on and KOMA radio ironically started playing “Oh Come, All Ye Faithful.”  Holly smiled, tweaked my nose and said, “That Tingler’s got nothing on you, mister cradle robber.”  Fortunately for me, Stillwater had a small and not too zealous police force.

So once again, it’s Christmas with all its tales of Noels past, its brilliant memories of loved ones lost to that big fir tree lot in the sky.  Take a moment to inhale its wonders, to appreciate those around you now, to savor these times of good cheer.  May your days be merry and bright, and may all your Christmases be… interesting.

A Whiter Shade Of Pale

What is it about snow that captures the imagination of small children and steels them against freezing temperatures, slippery sidewalks and the occasional plunk on the head from a well-aimed iceball?  Painters have their oils, sculptors their clay and writers their vocabularies, but children’s assets are yet to appear…and then one day there’s snow…floating through the air, covering the ground, blowing into huge dunes, crunching under their feet. 

Some great six-year-old artist will get the idea that three large orbs of packed snow, diminishing in size as they ascend, can be placed atop one another to make a “snowman,” top hats, scarves, coal eyes and carrot noses optional.  Another will depend on the kindness of strangers with plows who shove the snow to the sides of the street and form tall snowbanks.  From this clay, snow fort sculptures are hollowed out, filled with ammunition, peopled with tiny armies and defended to the death or until Mom yells out to call it a day.

Snow covers up the old world and creates a new one full of picture-postcard landscapes dotted by kids in furry caps, scarves, mittens and overshoes.  Snow has the incredible power to close schools.  Snow amuses children with its proclivity for frustrating adults; they collapse in laughter as their sophisticated elders slip and fall on their butts, watch automobiles slide into snowbanks or get a direct snowball hit in the middle of grandma’s hindquarters.  Snow will get you five dollars to shovel off old Mr. McGillicuddy’s walk to the mailbox.  If you’re thirsty, you can even eat it (watch out for that yellow stuff).

Snow creates joyful moods, inspires Christmas songs, enables sleds and sleighs to function, sells tires and chains.  Snow makes skiing possible, fosters snow angels, gives mountain roads a rest.  Sleigh bells ring, are you listening?  In the lane snow is glistening.  A beautiful sight…we'll be happy tonight…walking in a winter wonderland.  With snow, all things are possible.  Okay, okay, so it’s tough on the palm trees.

Shop Til You Flop

Unlike my practical wife who daily worships at the altar of Amazon, I am a tried and true Christmas shopper who wanders the side streets and shopping centers of the world searching for presents.  I actually like Christmas shopping, the hustle and bustle of smiling shoppers, the ubiquitous music, the Aha Moment when you find just the right gift.  Since Siobhan is my main customer, however, the hunt is challenging because she has a closet full of clothes, a new car, plenty of pets, endless garden implements and a full bottle of Shalimar.  There will be books aplenty, of course, but man cannot live by books alone and neither can woman.  Exotic foods?  Forget it.  She is a woman who favors dubious edibles like eggplant, squash and yams, though she will show up for dessert.  Jewelry?  She already has pearls, diamond earrings and a wedding ring, and the first two rarely escape from her treasure chest in a hidden drawer under the bed.  Fortunately, she gives me tips now and then so I have something to start with.  The other day she complained about a failing Cuisinart immersion blender, which she may have purchased years ago at Walmart.  Okay, so that’s a start.

I have not been to Walmart for five years.  The last time I was there, I swapped punches with a large brute who inferred I had spilled coffee on the floor, and the Walmart staff was forced to break it up by threatening a lifetime suspension from the store.  This terrified the man’s wife and she joined the fray with a vengeance, describing to him a life without Walmart and tugging him off by the ear.

I don’t know if you have been to Walmart lately but the one on EZ Street in Ocala is populated by immigrant employees from Taiwan, Mexico and Burma, who are not well-versed in the English language.  Don’t even bring up phrases like "immersion blender,” they fall down on the floor and cry.  And finding anything yourself in the bewildering forest of detritus that is Walmart is a chore for younger, more optimistic shoppers.  I was misdirected at least four times, which is typical of Hispanic cultures.  They prefer to be wrong rather than unhelpful, so they will cheerfully direct you to Patzquaro when you are looking for Uruapan and merrily wave you down the road.  I finally found the Cuisinart stash but all they offered were gigantic toasters.  If you actually put bread in them it would disappear forever down the giant slots.

After that, I went looking for a six-foot soft leather dog leash at nearby Petsmart.  All they had was crappy plastic snaps attached to rope, and they weren’t even embarrassed.  I drove over to CVS, which I despise due to its automated checkout counter devoid of humans, in quest of a magic painkiller called a Shoulder Reliever, which their ads promised CVS would carry.  Nope.  How about that fifty-pound stone frog Siobhan said I’d find at Lowe’s?  “Sorry. Bub, we only got turtles.”  Grrr!

A shopper has to realize when it’s just not his day, but I foolishly motored over to the Paddock Mall, which has not seen my face in three years.  There’s a nice new, expensive Lululemon store there but my wife is Lululemoned out.  Despite it being three weeks before Christmas, the mall was not exactly humming and the sorry food court with about four dubious peddlers was destitute.  With southern malls across the country crashing and burning daily, it’s hard to imagine this place being around five more years.  This is not necessarily bad news.  With no place to hang out, high school kids will become psychotic, forcing a revival of the once-thriving carhop industry with its booming speakers, servers on rollerskates and amorous parking lots.  It’s an ill wind that bloweth no man good.

Hey, Siobhan---how do I get in touch with the magic larders of Amazon?  Do they take orders from old reprobates?  And how do we stop Alexa from spilling the beans about what’s in the boxes?  It’s a whole new world out there but the handwriting is on the wall.  I realize that sooner or later you have to cross the Rubicon but I’m doing it as grudgingly as possible.

Happy holidays from the grinch.  Watch out for the humbugs.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com           

  

Life After Doomsday

I smell a rat.  At the same time my lovely Cadillac XTS was struck down by dubious forces, my neighbor, Hopalong Frank, had a gigantic tree fall on the hood of his pickup while he was driving a few streets over.  A mere coincidence?  I think not.  There are only three Democrat-voting houses on our street and two of them are attacked before Jabba the Butt even assumes the mantle.  Call it paranoia, but we have visions of the MAGA Metaphysical Army mounting insidious assaults on leftist holdouts in raspberry-red Marion County.  We may have to move to the hippie highlands of Burlington or Boulder or Bend, where the weather outside is frightful but the politics are just delightful.  We make fun of goober states like Oklahoma and Arkansas, though where else but Florida do you get a parlay like Ron DeSantis, Marco Rubio, Rick Scott, Matt Gaetz and Pam Bondi?  It’s the A-hole All-Star Team and they’re moving in for Four More Years of lunacy and looting.

Clarence Darrow famously told us “The world is made up for the most part of morons and natural tyrants, sure of themselves, strong in their opinions, never doubting anything,” and recent history certainly agrees.  But we also should recall Andre Malraux’s bright promise; “Though I despair…I remember that all through history, the way of truth and love has always won.  There have been murderers and tyrants, and for a time they can seem invincible.  But in the end they always fall.  Think of it always.” 

Wherefore Art Thou, CTS?

Cars used to be pretty.  Growing up in the Golden Age of Automobiles (the mid-1950s), we watched with joy as the stodgy era of all black cars came to a crashing halt and was replaced with a rainbow of colorful rides.  Powder-blue & white Chevy Bel Airs, two-tone Ford Fairlanes, solid gold Caddys with preposterous fins, the roads were a riot of color, each manufacturer with his own distinct designs.  Even a blind pig could tell a Buick from a Studebaker, an Oldsmobile from a Nash, and customer loyalty to a brand was even defended now and then with fisticuffs.  Fordland and Chevy Country were harshly divided by a ten-foot high barbed wire fence insuring that ne’er the twain shall meet.   

These days, it’s mostly a snooze.  Everything is either a pickup truck or an SUV and you have to be a serious student of the game to discern the products of one manufacturer from another.  Moreover, the colors are a snore; white, beige, cream, smoke, grey, platinum, sand, ecru, charcoal and black.  You don’t need Ambien to go to sleep, just take a look in your garage.

The other day, I went car shopping for a used sedan, under 20,000 miles on the odometer, preferably a Cadillac…something big enough to keep me from getting killed in an accident, as I have a wont to do.  Three years ago when I did the same thing, I found a variety of choices and came home in a single day with a diamond.  This time, it was like searching for hen’s teeth, a sober fratrat or a 1983 Cabbage Patch Kid doll, there were no sedans.   I scoured the internet inventories, called dealers, drove through pre-owned vehicle lots to no avail, the answer was always the same—“Everybody wants the boxes.”

At the crack of opening on a Monday morning, I called Sullivan Cadillac in Ocala.  “We got a 2019 CTS in yesterday with only 10,000 miles on it.  We’ll probably sell it in a couple of days,” said the sales manager.  I told him I’d be right down.  When we arrived, there it was, a pearl right out of the oyster, resplendent in shining chrome.  Parked close by, however, was a brilliant new CT 4 sedan in blazing red.  My wife took an immediate interest, even though gaudy baubles are not usually her cup of tea.  “You should get this one,” she said.  I beg your pardon?  “It’s brand spanking NEW,” I said.  “It costs 62,000 goddam dollars!  It must be some kind of SIN to spend that kind of money on a car.”

Siobhan really liked this car, circling around it, looking inside, checking the upholstery.  “I’ll buy it for you.”  Now I don’t know about you, but I’m mighty uncomfortable about people spending $62,000 on gifts for me.  I would never be able to argue with them about anything ever again, never able to opt out of a dismaying shopping trip or scold a favorite dog.  No, this could lead to dire consequences.  Touched as I was by the offer, I had a better idea.  “Why don’t you buy it for yourself,” I said.  “You’re almost ready to trade in your old car.”  The Sullivan salesman, a raw twentyish rookie, almost fainted.  TWO sales to one customer?  It’s like the wild tales the old pros talked about around the water cooler of legendary scores in halcyon times.  “I could make you a helluva deal,” he chirped.  “HELL of a deal!”

“Yes, but I need an SUV for the dog, carrying horsefeed and stuff,” said the prospect.  “Right over there!” beamed the excited salesman, pointing to an SUV of the exact color.  Siobhan got in, drove it around and emerged smiling.  “I’ll take it,” she said after some prodding, waving goodbye to her dependable but rather mundane BMW.  I bought my own spiffy CTS and she signed on the dotted line for the Belle of the Ball.  Needless to say, we got a HELL of a deal and everyone lived happily ever after---and I am even more appreciative of my wife, if that’s possible.  My  old pal, Michael O’Hara Garcia used to often say “Money talks and bullshit walks,” and over the years I have found this to be a reliable truth worthy of being etched in stone on the walls of university buildings.  That somebody would at a moment’s notice offer me a gift worth a small fortune is stunning, wife or not.  To me, the offer was more important than the gift---another thing to be grateful for in the surprising and never boring season of Thanksgiving and automobile acquisition.

Festivus For The Rest Of Us

Do you feel somehow disconnected from the Christmas season?  Are you frosted by Frosty, terrified of elves, belligerent about Black Friday?  Are you a grandma who got run over by a reindeer?  Maybe you’re Jewish or Buddhist or a member of the infamous Asiatic bang-jia sect which goes around disrupting manger scenes, replacing baby Jesus with Al Franken dolls.  Still, you can’t get no satisfaction.  You feel left out during the holidays, a grump among giddy celebrants, a recluse, a sourpuss.  If so, you might be forgetting about Festivus, the annual December 23rd fete brought to life by the Costanza family on the legendary Seinfeld TV show. 

Instead of the usual Christmas tree, Festivus celebrants raise an unadorned aluminum pole in the living room as a contrast to holiday materialism.  Those attending the festival may also participate in the requisite Airing of Grievances, an opportunity to tell others how much they have disappointed you in the previous year.  Then the large Festivus dinner takes place, followed by the Feats of Strength, in which the head of the household must be pinned to the floor.  Finally, the guests hopefully await the Festivus Miracle, which usually doesn’t happen.  All of these traditions actually predate Seinfeld, having first appeared in the odd household of television writer Dan O’Keefe, who resurrected the event for a pre-Christmas show.

Frank Costanza: “Many Christmases ago, I went to buy a doll for my son.  I reached for the last one they had, but so did another man.  As I rained blows upon him, I realized there had to be a better way.”

Cosmo Kramer: “What happened to the doll?”

Frank: “It was destroyed.  But out of that a new holiday was born…a Festivus for the rest of us”

Cosmo: “That must have been some kind of doll.”

Frank: “She was.” 

Kramer, excited by the prospect of a new holiday, was eager to experience the event and was invited to the celebration at George Costanza's house.  Alas, the manager at his bagel vendor job wouldn’t give him time off for a phony holiday the boss never heard of.  Naturally, Kramer went on strike and the rest is legend.

Have a great Festivus if you’re so inclined.  If you’re a Catholic, enjoy the High Mass incense.  If you’re an Austrian, watch out for Krampus, that horned, hairy beast who snatches up misbehaving children like Gina Hawkins.  If you’re a Finn, we hope you find the almond in the porridge.  In Gainesville, Florida, Jeannie Uffelman will make her 54th annual naked motorcycle ride down University Avenue and she’s always looking for company.  Christmas, above all, is just what you make it.  Make yours fantastic.  Oh, and if you’re looking for a present for me, there are a number of pawn shops that have functional used accordions.  Strike up the polka music, Leon!

If Life Brings You Lemons….

“Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet, but the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat.”---Peter, Paul & Mary

“No way!  Bring me all you got!---Richard Rahall

For some curious reason, this is the time of year our lemon trees choose to manifest, and the battle begins to harvest them all before they freeze to death.  We’re talking hundreds of lemons here which need a home, cost nothing to care for and have zillions of uses like jazzing up your mojito, bourbon sour or bay leaf hard lemonade.  Try making limoncello without them.  The purposeful measure of lemon in cocktail ingredients is desperately needed to bring balance to two or more opposing flavors in a shaken drink.  Their high acidity works chemically in the alchemy of drinkmaking, providing neutral flavor.  Ask any cultured bartender.

Not a big drinker?  Lemons add flavor to water, tea or dishes like fish or chicken.  You can also zest a lemon to capture its fragrance and flavor.  Lemons being acidic are good for cleaning around the house.  You can rub a lemon half on a cutting board sprinkled with baking soda to clean it.  You can also boil lemon juice, baking soda and distilled vinegar to clean pots and pans.  Add undiluted lemon juice to your wash to whiten your clothes and make them smell fresh.  Mix one tablespoon of lemon juice and two tablespoons of white vinegar with one cup of water in a spray bottle to remove evil sprays from fruits and vegetables.  Use lemon peels to deodorize your garbage bin.  There’s no end to the wonders of lemons; think lemon curd, lemon extract for marinades, candied lemon peel.  You can even make invisible ink with lemons.

I am the self-appointed lemon distributor for the Alachua-Marion-Levy Country area.  When you see me comin’ better step aside…a lot of men didn’t and a lot of men got lemonized.  Just pull up to my gate, give me an email and our service representatives will be there in a skosh with your order…anywhere from 6 to 12 golden beauties to a customer, and completely free.  This is not a ruse to trick you into taking a newborn kitty or a family of down-on-their-luck raccoons.  We’d like to hear from you today, it’s not getting any warmer.  Our operators are standing by.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

The Big O

Assuming the United States is still extant six months from now, nobody will be corpulent except the Fat Lady at the circus and Mr. S. Claus of the North Pole, since not a kid in creation wants a stringbean Santa.

O-O-Ozempic is swashbuckling across the nation dispatching fat by the bucketload and turning tubbies into telephone poles…and what, you ask, could be wrong with that?  Are you kidding?  It’s a potential economic nightmare.  Fat spas will close, gyms will diminish, Weight Watchers will go broke.  There won’t be any contestants left for The Biggest Loser.  Diabetes clinics?  Gone.  Sumo wrestling?  Forget it?  Diet professionals?  Thanks for the memories.

When we were kids, local wise guy Jimmy Lavery used to call my sister Alice “Crisco—fat in the can.”  Today, she could get on the stuff, buy a bikini and vamp the neighborhood.  What about the offensive linemen in football, mostly 300-pound behemoths who carry around enchiladas in their pockets?  These monsters are needed to slow down savage 6-5 linebackers so the quarterback doesn’t get pounded to jelly.  Try finding a 300-pound guy who isn’t fat, it’s like digging for gold in Daytona.

In 2005, a scientist at the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention shook up the health world by publishing material which argued that being a tiny bit fat might even be good for you.  Katherine Flegal found that people with body mass indexes in the overweight category were actually at a lower risk of death than those with a “normal” BMI.  The phenomenon that fat can offer certain protective health benefits is commonly called the obesity paradox, a term that illustrates just how much it flies in the face of everything we think we know about fatness and health.  As we age, being “moderately overweight” also seems to offer protection against developing multiple comorbid diseases, making it a “marker of a healthy aging process,” according to a 2019 study in Italy.  Bigger people tend to be stronger than thin people, making them better at strength exercises such as weightlifting.  That’s because in addition to having more fat tissue, they have more muscle, too.  We’re not arguing for obesity, The Great American disease, just adding food for thought.

Why Ozempic Works

The Big O is taken weekly as a subcutaneous injection into the stomach, thigh or upper arm.  The usual dose for weight loss is 0.25mg per week for the first four weeks, gradually increasing to a maximum of 2.4mg per week.  Ozempic is most effective when combined with lifestyle changes in diet and exercise.  Without such changes, weight will likely return once you stop taking the medication.

Ozempic works by mimicking a hormone that signals fullness and slows digestion.  It helps manage weight loss and type 2 diabetes.  Its natural ingredient is semaglutide, which apes the actions of glucagon-like peptide-1 (GLP-1), a hormone which is released after eating.  When semaglutide levels rise, it signals to the brain that you’re full, which can help curb your appetite.  Ozempic also slows the movement of food through your stomach, which helps you feel full for a longer period, similar to the effect of bariatric surgery.  In its day job, Ozempic helps the pancreas produce insulin, a hormone that converts blood sugar into energy.  This can help manage type 2 diabetes, an imp which can bring on health issues like eye, kidney and nerve disease if blood sugar levels are not managed.  As with any weight loss medication, mild adverse effects like gastrointestinal discomfort, nausea, vomiting and diarrhea can occur but are usually tolerable.

In clinical trials, subjects taking Ozempic typically lose up to 7% of their body weight in one year.  All GLP-1 weight-loss medications are only available by prescription.  Because it isn’t FDA-approved as a weight-loss treatment, you can only get Ozempic off-label for weight-loss, so your insurance will not pay for it.  A major point to consider is the cost of Ozempic, which is $1,199 monthly.  There are lower-priced alternatives such as Levity’s generic semaglutide treatment called compounded semaglutide for a comparatively meager $225 a month. 

Sales are raging, ectomorphs are falling from the sky and there is joy in Mudville.  But while Ozempic is a train that can take you to the station, it can’t do much for you after you after that.  The rest is up to you.  We learned from Charley on the MTA that nobody wants to be riding the train forever.

Weight Loss Wonders

From tapeworms to arsenic, there’s been no shortage of weight-loss shenanigans throughout history.  For centuries, con artists have been peddling shady pills, potions and “medical” devices sure to streamline your profile in notime.  In 1906, the U.S. government came up with the Food & Drug Administration (FDA) to help put the brakes on fraudulent products.  Most of the time, it worked.

Remember Trim cigarettes?  The fun-loving profiteers at Trim guaranteed that smoking three packs of their product a day would help believers lose 20 pounds in eight weeks without any dietary changes.  Trim said their smokes were “clinically tested and medically approved” by somebody, but they didn’t say who.  The FDA lassoed Trim and hogtied the company in 1958.

In the early 1980s, an Arkansas optometrist named Dr. John D. Miller invented a little jewel called Vision-Dieter Glasses.  According to Miller, people wearing his two-toned glasses just two hours a day could control their appetites and lose weight.  Doctor John placed ads in a number of local newspapers, claiming his tinted specs created “a very low-level confusion in the subconscious that is translated into a rejection in the conscious.”  The rejection allowed the individual to refuse things like food, cigarettes and coffee.  Miller said he developed his glasses after  observing how food companies use colors to attract shoppers to their products.  He reasoned that if consumers could be controlled by color, they could also be decontrolled by color.    His glasses, which sold for $19.95, were to be worn in the morning and afternoon but strangely enough, not during meals.

Promotional material for Vision-Dieter Glasses showed a picture of Miller holding up “independent laboratory tests which confirm the results of this amazing new discovery.”  The tests, conducted by something called McKenzie Psychological Services, involved only 42 subjects, divided into two groups, one of which wore the fabulous tinted glasses, another which didn’t, two hours a day for 20 days.  The FDA smelled a large rat and sent an investigator to visit Dr. Miller.  The doctor brought his lawyer along and would not answer any questions.  Okay, see you soon, said the FDA man.

Subsequently, the government boys seized 652 pair of specs from Miller’s Vision Center.  The doc’s attorney asked for them back, promising to be good and not peddle them as diet aids.  The FDA said nuh-uh, ordering all but 75 pair be melted town into mini-garden gnomes.  The leftovers were kept “for education of the public concerning quackery.”  Nice try, though, Dr. J.

Those Madcap Victorians

The Victorian Era---roughly the 1830s to 1900---is notorious for its wacky beauty standards and the even more bizarre secrets to meeting them.  The ideal of the time was modeled after those afflicted by consumption (tuberculosis)---pale skin, dilated eyes, rosy cheeks, crimson lips and a meager and fragile figure.  From swallowing ammonia to bathing in arsenic---which was known to be poisonous—to  using figure-molding corsets in quest of a perfect 16-inch waist, there was no limit to what fashionable Victorians would do.  Had Olive Oyl lived back in the day, she’d be the fattest girl in town.

Fortunately for later generations, most of the quackery of the Victorian Era diminished in the early 1900s.  But not everything.  The one gruesome dietary practice which survived was the horrendous Tapeworm Diet.  The idea is simple enough.  You take a pill containing a tapeworm egg, which once hatched grows inside of you, ingesting part of whatever you eat.  In theory, this enables the dieter to simultaneously lose weight without worrying about calorie intake.  This fits nicely into Victorian ideals as illustrated in The Ugly-Girl Papers by S.D Powers, one of the foremost beauty guides of the era, which advises “It is a woman’s business to be beautiful.  If stout, a girl should eat as little as will satisfy her appetite; never allowing herself, however, to rise from the table hungry.”

The Tapeworm Diet was the perfect solution.  A woman would never rise from the table hungry, yet she would continue to lose weight.  Health concerns were dismissed with the claim that “beauty is pain and sacrifices have to be made.”  Once the desired weight was attained, of course, there was still the little matter of Willy the Worm poking around in one’s nether regions.  To confound Willy, there were pills and diabolical devices.  One of them, created by the inimitable Dr. Meyers of Sheffield, attempted to lure the tapeworm out by inserting a cylinder with food via the digestive tract.  Alas, there was the small problem of several customers choking to death before the tapeworm was removed.  Other cures prescribed holding a glass of milk at the end of either orifice and waiting for the worm to come out for a taste.

The scariest aspect of all this is that the Tapeworm Diet is still around.  Like rap music and air pollution, it refuses to die.  Its presence is evidenced by numerous online forums dedicated to the question of the diet’s efficiency and questionable reports of modern clinics that will provide the treatment for about two grand.  There are always maniacs ready to try something different.  Khloe Kardashian once suggested she wanted to get a tapeworm on Keeping Up With The Kardashians, initiating a flurry of interest.  The wily FDA, of course, has officially banned tapeworm pills and you have to dig a little to find them, as with most worms.  If you decide to try the exotic TW diet, however, please give us a heads-up so we can monitor your yucky progress.

All things considered, we’d rather try Ozempic.  It’s worm-free and it feels so good.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com     

Thanks For The Memories

When we were kids, the main things we were grateful for on Thanksgiving were the long weekend, exceptional food, the influx of friends and family who arrived from out of the clouds once a year, and football.  Some things never change, although the family and friends list seems to get irksomely shorter each year.  No need for the table wings this time, Dad, Aunt Sally just took a trip on that old gospel ship and went sailing far over the sea.

The years pass and things change.  Best friends move away, starter romances explode, the pressure to excel in school rises and the nasty little dumptruck of Cynicism slows as it passes your door.  Through it all, however, Thanksgiving stands like a rock, a church steeple on a tall hill, impregnable, eternal, a warm beacon promising joy, calling you home.  Frazzled hordes battle through airports, drive hundreds of miles, hitchhike across deserts, spend their last dollar to follow that light.  “We’ll be home for Thanksgiving, Mom,” is more than a casual signoff, it’s a promise, a formal vow, a compact that can’t be broken under penalty of heartbreak and tears.

You remember Thanksgivings past, some of them clear as a bell.  Your grandmother making pies from scratch.  Your father pouring the good stuff.  The table, decorous and full.  The eruptions of laughter, the dotty aunts trying to kiss shying children, tossing the football in the back yard, winning the drumstick lottery.  Despite the distance, I traveled home from Oklahoma to Massachusetts for Thanksgiving during my first year of college.  My Mother and Grandmother picked me up at a bus station, making fun of the big black Stetson I latched onto in Stillwater.  A year later, our fraternity cook, Sally, took pity and invited three of us homesick Northerners to her modest abode for the big day, my first introduction to life in a Black home.   A few years later, busted flat in Austin, I was invited to Gilbert Shelton’s cozy house in College Station, where his dad ran a Firestone store and everyone but Gilbert was a buttoned-down straight arrow.  There are all kinds of Thanksgivings, almost none of them bad, and some of them far from traditional.  Enter Queenie.

Queenie

Are you alone on Thanksgiving…immersed in sadness and self-pity, wondering why you, of all people, have been seduced and abandoned by life?  Are old black men writing blues songs about you?  Is some vague charitable organization delivering a boxed turkey-day dinner to your pitiful vestibule?  Buck up, Bunkie, and take a look around you…unknown adventures may be at hand.  There is magic at work on Thanksgiving Day, you’ve but to find it. 

On one unpromising Gainesville Thanksgiving, a friend asked me to keep an eye on his house visitor named Queenie, since the friend would be going home for the day.  The town being empty and me between wives at the time, I figured why not?  I picked up Queenie at ten in the morning and we headed for St. Augustine for an alternate celebration of the day, no plans, catch-as-catch-can.  I figured we’d grab some fast food on the way but was astonished to discover that McDonald’s actually closed at least one day each year.  The antithesis of Thanksgiving dining has to be stale ham and cheese on white bread sandwiches from a grubby 7-11, but it was either that or eating dirt.  I assured Queenie I was usually a better planner.  “This is more fun,” she laughed.

We strolled down St. George Street like every St. A. visitor does, finding most of the shops open and busy, then drove across the Bridge of Lions to Anastasia Island.  Queenie was enthralled by everything she saw, a perfect companion.  The beach was quiet and uncrowded, the water was primo and without fins.  We hung around for about an hour, then drove south to Daytona, hopeful we’d find a hotel room at one of the busiest times of the year.  Always an optimist, I drove straight to the biggest and fanciest place in town….you might remember it…. the one with the tunnel that went beneath the hotel straight to the beach.  Like magic, the desk got a room cancellation just as we arrived.  Better yet, they’d have a traditional Thanksgiving meal in the restaurant later that night if we’d like to be placed on the waiting list.  Sure we would, and, of course, a space became available because nothing could go wrong this day.

After a couple of drinks before dinner, we found ourselves rambling through the lobby in a festive mood when we ran across an older couple in distress.  They’d just flown in and taxied to the wrong hotel (ours) which no longer had any rooms.  They’d lost the paperwork for the place they were supposed to be staying and had no idea what or where it was.  The woman was in tears sitting on a sofa and her confused husband was lost at sea.  Being in a gregarious state of mind, we went to the rescue, getting the concierge to phone around for a room somewhere, inviting them to our dinner table and then chauffeuring them to their new digs.  They rewarded us with appreciation and delightful conversation at dinner.  If I had been with the Stone Maiden of Burma, the rest of the night would have gone exceedingly well after that, and Queenie was not the Stone Maiden of Burma.

There are all kinds of magical Thanksgiving Days.  For richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, at home or away, alone or in tandem, it never fails to deliver the goods.  Wherever and however you are now, have a happy Thanksgiving.  And if you’d like someone to talk to, my email is at the bottom of the page and I’m open for business.  Salud!

Whomp!  There It Is.

The image in the windshield is enormous, frightening and two inches from your face, then all hell breaks loose.  Your ears are assaulted by a cacophony of a thousand banshees screaming in the night, your nose invaded by the searing smells of erupting volcanoes, your vision clouded by smoke and atomic particles of once useful automobile parts flying through the air.  A determined airbag, set loose after years of imprisonment, drives your head back, another slams your right arm into your chest.  Terrified blood from your innards blindly seeks shelter in the shadowy depths of your bladder.  And then, like nothing even happened, it is quiet as death.  The shitstorm has come and gone in a flash and left you smashed and at sea.  This is a job for a superhero named Adrenaline who arrives like a bolt from the blue, temporarily assuaging injuries and raising hopes.  You settle yourself, move your legs, grind the car door open and get out.  Somehow, despite an attack from the Hammers of Hell, you are still alive and functioning.  It’s a great day for the Irish.

A solid citizen, witness to the cataclysm, stops traffic, summons help on his cell phone, begs the driver of the pickup which crushed you to stay with him.  Firetrucks arrive, ambulances careen into view, medics roll stretchers forward.  Your wife, having been alerted by your cell phone, can be heard asking questions on the speaker from the accordionized remnants of your car.  You walk over and answer; she’s on her way.  The witness says he saw it all and tells you the errant pickup barely avoided a semi just down the road.  Firemen and medics hoist the barely conscious driver from the wreck and slide him into an ambulance.  He protests, thinks he’ll be okay if he sits awhile.  He later undergoes surgery at Shands and survives.

Ten hours later you’re released grudgingly from the hospital with instructions for a follow up visit in four days.  You sleep off and on, your right arm now remindful of Igor’s in the Frankenstein films.  Dreams flutter in an out and finally a visit from the Cosmic Arranger.  Embarrassed, he floats a weak excuse; “The Reaper we sent was a new rider, inexperienced in sealing the deal.  He was supposed to bring us two heads and got none, but a nice try on the other guy.  Don’t get cocky, we’ll be back.”

You smirk at the rhetoric from an old enemy.  “You’re losing your fastball, pal.  Too much time in saloons and retirement homes.  Maybe a little rehab would help.  In any case, next time don’t send a boy to do a man’s job.  And try to stay away from football season, if you don’t mind.”

John Prine said it best, as he always does:

“That’s the way that the world goes ‘round,
One day you’re up, and the next you’re down;
It’s half an inch of water and you think you’re gonna drown,
That’s the way that the world goes ‘round.”

Hope you all have a happy Thanksgiving.  We sure will.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com