386 years ago, half way over, Winslow, with his cell phone, makes a rather bad connection to his friend Zeke back in jolly old, and –in a hoarse whisper, gives him an earful about the captain and crew.
“Don’t get me wrong, they’re a nice enough group, but they couldn’t navigate their way out of a paper bag.”
Sure enough, they stumble across the Atlantic and end up a good thousand miles off course, finally dropping anchor in a shallow, mosquito-infested harbor where they are watched by a group of very wary natives.
One, known in his native tongue as Verizon, gives his wife a call.
“Hey”, he says when she answers.
“Wassup” she responds, somewhat blandly.
“Nothing,” he says: “just thought I’d call. I’m heading back in the bark soon: got a few nice stripers. I may be a little late though.”
“So why’d you call: just to tell me that?”
“Well, no: I mean” he says, “well, there’s another one of those big boats in the harbor, you know, with the overdressed white people. I’m going to hang a bit, see what they’re up to.”
“Don’t get too close to them.”
“Maybe they’ve got some barrels of beer.”
“Oh, so now we’re getting to it,” she says, somewhat sarcastically. Then, concerned: “Well, don’t stay too long. And don’t get in the bark if you’ve had any beer.”
“I won’t,” he says, sounding offended.
“Right,” she answers.
Ten years later, on a hunting trip, Isaac Allerton calls home, and his wife answers.
“Hi. It’s me.”
“Yeah, me. So?”
“I forget: what kind of wild game did you say you wanted for the thanksgiving?”
“I told you to write it down.”
“Well I didn’t. So just tell me.”
“I said venison, if it’s available. You know how those natives eat. And if you can’t get venison, turkey, at least two big ones.”
“What about beer?”
“You’re going to shoot some beer?”
“No, you know what I mean: how are we fixed for beer?”
“Well, it sounds like you’re fixed for beer. Besides, where are you going to get more beer? You can’t just brew it up in a day.”
“Well, there’s this bunch of Dutch fishermen, a little off course. I thought maybe we could trade some venison for more beer: if we need it, that is.”
“You do what you want: you’re going to anyway, regardless of what I say. Only do me a favor: after you make the trade, let someone else steer the shallop!”
A hundred and twenty-five years later.
“Hey, guess where I am?”
“I know where you are supposed to be.”
“No, seriously, where are you now?”
“I’m where I am supposed to be. You?”
“Are you outside?”
“Yes.”
“Look across the harbor, toward Boston. Do you see the smoke, the flare of the cannons?”
“I see something”.
“Okay, okay, I’m going to wave my flag now. Do you see it? Do you see it?”
“See what?”
“Oh, damn: the British are coming. I’ll call you later.”
Two Hundred Thirty-One years later, at the ball field.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“So, did you get the beer?”
“What beer?”
“For the cookout.”
“I got that yesterday, remember?”
“Oh yeah.”
“So where are you? I thought you were taking Katie to her ballgame.”
“I was, I mean I am. I’m there now.”
“How’s she doing?”
“What do you mean? She’s fine.”
“You’re not even watching!”
“She’s fine. She’s fine. She’s… well, she’s playing in the dirt.”
“On the field?”
“Hey, it’s Tee Ball. Half of the kids are playing in the dirt.”
“And the other half are talking on their cell phones.”
“Listen, it was you who wanted to sign her up. If you are so damned eager to see her learn the fine points of the game, then you take her to the games.”
“What, and let you do the shopping?”
“I can shop.”
“Yeah, when you do the shopping you buy the beer, and then you forget what else it is you were supposed to get.”
“So what: if I forget, I call. That’s what cell phones are for!”
“Thank God: I don’t know what we would do without cell phones.”
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
NSA Junior
Knock, knock.
I knew who it was even before I opened the door.
Mary scurried upstairs into Patrick’s room, trying to divert his attention.
We have one of those steel front doors, painted to appear as if it’s a traditional wooden door.
The door bell hasn’t worked since, well, it must be over ten years now –but we’ve gotten along without it.
We don’t get many surprise visits.
If someone decides to maneuver up our long, twisted driveway –that we affectionately call ‘Lake Woebegone’, endangering their axles on the washed-out gravel surface, risking their side-view mirrors to the encroaching trees, by the time they get to the front door they’re not exactly a surprise.
Somehow though, when this knock came – a dull, almost undetectable rap against the metal surface, we didn’t hear it coming.
I had heard something – a bird playing in the driveway’s standing water I thought: definitely not a car.
The truth is, we’ve done all we can to keep visitors away, especially these kind.
We were attracted to this house, at first, by how far back from the road it was situated.
The driveway’s subtle twists are just enough so that you cannot get a clear view of the house from the road.
At the end of the driveway, three tall, spindly trees completely obscure the front door.
To those obstacles we have added ivy bushes that, as expected, grew out of control, and a lawn whose grass is the spindly, clumpy variety the appearance of which is not improved by mowing.
Then we seasoned the lot with the odd junk car or two, so that visitors can never be sure if anyone is home, or if the place has been deserted for years.
And of course, we chose a lifestyle that works against getting to know your neighbors, or making friends: we both work and are rarely home at the same time.
All told, it’s not the kind of house that strangers will approach on a whim.
It’s more of the kind of house that gets a reputation for being haunted, or having a mean dog, or simply a place that you think twice about approaching and, if you do, you are devising an escape route with each step forward.
But kids are unpredictable: for them an unkempt lawn is not an impediment to play; for them a driveway that is usually under water is a water sports park; for them a junk car is a Spanish Galleon bound for the Galapagos.
So we knew this day had to come.
We could feel it approaching.
Patrick is, after all, seven now: he can throw a ball, swing a bat, ride a bike, and he knows that at the end of our driveway – the other end, is a world of adventure.
Without anyone else nearby to play with, it was easy to say, ‘don’t go any farther than the end of the driveway’.
On special occasions we’d take his bike to a playground, so he could ride over the tar and, occasionally, into the empty parking areas.
Were we overly protective? Of course we were.
Were we stingy with our time? Perhaps.
As I got off the couch and moved toward the door I saw their bikes, kick-stands down, parked in the dirt.
There were two of them: Ben and Raymond.
They didn’t look evil. In fact, they looked almost exactly like kids.
I noticed where the muddy waters of Lake Woebegone had spattered their shorts as they sped up the driveway.
Maybe, I hoped, they were selling something: candy bars, candles, magazine subscriptions.
They soon dashed my hopes.
“Can Patrick come over to my house,” Ben asked, before the door was fully opened?
I wanted to say, oh right, just over to your house: is that all? Don’t you mean can Patrick leave the safety of his home, ride his bike on the dangerous streets, disappear from our sight, and have a life of his own?
But I didn’t want to frighten them.
Before I could formulate a plausible excuse though, I heard the muffled gasp of my wife, and the tell-tale thud of Patrick’s feet on the stairs.
I think he asked. I think I answered. I think he grabbed his helmet. But I can’t be sure.
I do know that Before Mary could get all the way down the stairs all three bikes had disappeared round the bend in the driveway, the water still roiled from their spinning wheels.
“It’s a good thing” I told Mary, seeing the panic in her eyes. “Summer is almost here, and we don’t want him moping around the house, waiting for us to give him something to do”
“Besides, he’s almost eight. There’s nothing we can do.”
But we both knew that wasn’t true.
There was a brief moment of awkward silence.
Could we? Should we?
We didn’t speak, but we knew what the other was thinking.
We waited a reasonable time – about 30 seconds, and then we took a little drive.
Our parenting philosophy is modeled after the NSA: do everything you can to guard you borders but, when all else fails, spy!
And we’re thinking of putting up a gate at the end of the driveway too.
I knew who it was even before I opened the door.
Mary scurried upstairs into Patrick’s room, trying to divert his attention.
We have one of those steel front doors, painted to appear as if it’s a traditional wooden door.
The door bell hasn’t worked since, well, it must be over ten years now –but we’ve gotten along without it.
We don’t get many surprise visits.
If someone decides to maneuver up our long, twisted driveway –that we affectionately call ‘Lake Woebegone’, endangering their axles on the washed-out gravel surface, risking their side-view mirrors to the encroaching trees, by the time they get to the front door they’re not exactly a surprise.
Somehow though, when this knock came – a dull, almost undetectable rap against the metal surface, we didn’t hear it coming.
I had heard something – a bird playing in the driveway’s standing water I thought: definitely not a car.
The truth is, we’ve done all we can to keep visitors away, especially these kind.
We were attracted to this house, at first, by how far back from the road it was situated.
The driveway’s subtle twists are just enough so that you cannot get a clear view of the house from the road.
At the end of the driveway, three tall, spindly trees completely obscure the front door.
To those obstacles we have added ivy bushes that, as expected, grew out of control, and a lawn whose grass is the spindly, clumpy variety the appearance of which is not improved by mowing.
Then we seasoned the lot with the odd junk car or two, so that visitors can never be sure if anyone is home, or if the place has been deserted for years.
And of course, we chose a lifestyle that works against getting to know your neighbors, or making friends: we both work and are rarely home at the same time.
All told, it’s not the kind of house that strangers will approach on a whim.
It’s more of the kind of house that gets a reputation for being haunted, or having a mean dog, or simply a place that you think twice about approaching and, if you do, you are devising an escape route with each step forward.
But kids are unpredictable: for them an unkempt lawn is not an impediment to play; for them a driveway that is usually under water is a water sports park; for them a junk car is a Spanish Galleon bound for the Galapagos.
So we knew this day had to come.
We could feel it approaching.
Patrick is, after all, seven now: he can throw a ball, swing a bat, ride a bike, and he knows that at the end of our driveway – the other end, is a world of adventure.
Without anyone else nearby to play with, it was easy to say, ‘don’t go any farther than the end of the driveway’.
On special occasions we’d take his bike to a playground, so he could ride over the tar and, occasionally, into the empty parking areas.
Were we overly protective? Of course we were.
Were we stingy with our time? Perhaps.
As I got off the couch and moved toward the door I saw their bikes, kick-stands down, parked in the dirt.
There were two of them: Ben and Raymond.
They didn’t look evil. In fact, they looked almost exactly like kids.
I noticed where the muddy waters of Lake Woebegone had spattered their shorts as they sped up the driveway.
Maybe, I hoped, they were selling something: candy bars, candles, magazine subscriptions.
They soon dashed my hopes.
“Can Patrick come over to my house,” Ben asked, before the door was fully opened?
I wanted to say, oh right, just over to your house: is that all? Don’t you mean can Patrick leave the safety of his home, ride his bike on the dangerous streets, disappear from our sight, and have a life of his own?
But I didn’t want to frighten them.
Before I could formulate a plausible excuse though, I heard the muffled gasp of my wife, and the tell-tale thud of Patrick’s feet on the stairs.
I think he asked. I think I answered. I think he grabbed his helmet. But I can’t be sure.
I do know that Before Mary could get all the way down the stairs all three bikes had disappeared round the bend in the driveway, the water still roiled from their spinning wheels.
“It’s a good thing” I told Mary, seeing the panic in her eyes. “Summer is almost here, and we don’t want him moping around the house, waiting for us to give him something to do”
“Besides, he’s almost eight. There’s nothing we can do.”
But we both knew that wasn’t true.
There was a brief moment of awkward silence.
Could we? Should we?
We didn’t speak, but we knew what the other was thinking.
We waited a reasonable time – about 30 seconds, and then we took a little drive.
Our parenting philosophy is modeled after the NSA: do everything you can to guard you borders but, when all else fails, spy!
And we’re thinking of putting up a gate at the end of the driveway too.
Clint Eastwood Lawn Care Company
Give it up.
Admit that for five weeks in the spring, the caterpillar is King!
Besides, you can’t in good conscience put another five gallons of Killzallothion on your lawn, can you?
As it is you’ve already absorbed enough through the soles of those ratty sneakers to qualify for official X-Man status.
Your neighbor’s dog has sprouted wings.
Mr. Welch across the street paid for one of those forest fire planes to douse his yard with bug killer - but they missed and filled up the Mr. Carter’s pool instead.
Mr. Carter tried swimming in it, but found he could only bounce on the surface: at night it gives off a freaky glow, like a giant vat of Sterno.
He’s planning on having a pig roast – as soon as he figures out how to suspend the pig over the pool.
The police stopped a van sneaking over the Carver line, and found that it was full of illegal migrant caterpillar picking laborers.
They let them go.
Have you noticed that you haven’t seen many wild turkeys lately? That seems a shame because turkeys love to eat caterpillars. But the truth is that they’ve eaten so many already that they can’t move: they’re all somewhere in the woods, lying on the ground, fast asleep.
Science fact: caterpillars are full of a chemical that makes you sleepy if you eat them.
Have you noticed that you haven’t seen many coyotes lately?
Science fact: turkeys are full of a chemical that makes you sleepy if you eat them.
This is a perfect time to rethink your landscaping strategy.
21 years ago, when I first moved in to my home, I had 1000 square feet of sod, 10 hardy shrubs, and a long gravel driveway that sloped slightly downhill from the front of the house toward the road.
I’m thinking now of a more natural, green approach.
I’m going to let the forest take the driveway.
I am going to let the wildflowers take the lawn.
I am going to let the caterpillars have what’s left.
Have you seen my son Patrick? He went out last night to collect some specimens –so cute, with his little mason jar with the holes punched in the lid, but he never came back in.
There was a note, of sorts –full of nibbled letters, but we couldn’t make it out. Something about ‘if ou wan to see yo-r sn again, leaf frshly potted delish fern on bck deck..’
Someone told me that if you listen carefully at night, you can hear millions of caterpillars munching on leaves.
We used to tell my older son Robert that he chewed like he had rocks in his mouth: if he ate ice cream he sounded as if he was chewing on rocks; if he ate cereal he sounded as if he was chewing on rocks; if he ate soup.. Well, you get the picture.
So I listened the other night, and I really don’t think what I was hearing was the sound of tiny mouths chewing. I think, instead, it was the sound of digested bits of leave falling from the trees.
My car is now mocha colored.
The lawn is mocha colored.
The streets are a patchwork of goo spots.
Of course where you are it might be very different. Our house is set back a ways, into the woods, surrounded on all sides by raggedy scrub oak. Or, what used to be raggedy scrub oak.
I am not sure but I think the trees are surrendering.
This natural phenomenon is not doing anything to help fight the obesity epidemic amongst children either.
Society once used caterpillars as an example of patience and humility: the poor, ugly caterpillar goes to bed one night - an outcast among the more attractive of God’s creatures, and wakes up the next morning a beautiful butterfly.
But these caterpillars have no humility whatsoever.
These caterpillars must know what lies ahead for them, because they’re partying to beat the band.
They’re like a fat teenager whose parents have promised them stomach stapling surgery for their sixteenth birthday.
They’re setting a very bad example.
Oh, what the hell: go ahead and spray them again.
Admit that for five weeks in the spring, the caterpillar is King!
Besides, you can’t in good conscience put another five gallons of Killzallothion on your lawn, can you?
As it is you’ve already absorbed enough through the soles of those ratty sneakers to qualify for official X-Man status.
Your neighbor’s dog has sprouted wings.
Mr. Welch across the street paid for one of those forest fire planes to douse his yard with bug killer - but they missed and filled up the Mr. Carter’s pool instead.
Mr. Carter tried swimming in it, but found he could only bounce on the surface: at night it gives off a freaky glow, like a giant vat of Sterno.
He’s planning on having a pig roast – as soon as he figures out how to suspend the pig over the pool.
The police stopped a van sneaking over the Carver line, and found that it was full of illegal migrant caterpillar picking laborers.
They let them go.
Have you noticed that you haven’t seen many wild turkeys lately? That seems a shame because turkeys love to eat caterpillars. But the truth is that they’ve eaten so many already that they can’t move: they’re all somewhere in the woods, lying on the ground, fast asleep.
Science fact: caterpillars are full of a chemical that makes you sleepy if you eat them.
Have you noticed that you haven’t seen many coyotes lately?
Science fact: turkeys are full of a chemical that makes you sleepy if you eat them.
This is a perfect time to rethink your landscaping strategy.
21 years ago, when I first moved in to my home, I had 1000 square feet of sod, 10 hardy shrubs, and a long gravel driveway that sloped slightly downhill from the front of the house toward the road.
I’m thinking now of a more natural, green approach.
I’m going to let the forest take the driveway.
I am going to let the wildflowers take the lawn.
I am going to let the caterpillars have what’s left.
Have you seen my son Patrick? He went out last night to collect some specimens –so cute, with his little mason jar with the holes punched in the lid, but he never came back in.
There was a note, of sorts –full of nibbled letters, but we couldn’t make it out. Something about ‘if ou wan to see yo-r sn again, leaf frshly potted delish fern on bck deck..’
Someone told me that if you listen carefully at night, you can hear millions of caterpillars munching on leaves.
We used to tell my older son Robert that he chewed like he had rocks in his mouth: if he ate ice cream he sounded as if he was chewing on rocks; if he ate cereal he sounded as if he was chewing on rocks; if he ate soup.. Well, you get the picture.
So I listened the other night, and I really don’t think what I was hearing was the sound of tiny mouths chewing. I think, instead, it was the sound of digested bits of leave falling from the trees.
My car is now mocha colored.
The lawn is mocha colored.
The streets are a patchwork of goo spots.
Of course where you are it might be very different. Our house is set back a ways, into the woods, surrounded on all sides by raggedy scrub oak. Or, what used to be raggedy scrub oak.
I am not sure but I think the trees are surrendering.
This natural phenomenon is not doing anything to help fight the obesity epidemic amongst children either.
Society once used caterpillars as an example of patience and humility: the poor, ugly caterpillar goes to bed one night - an outcast among the more attractive of God’s creatures, and wakes up the next morning a beautiful butterfly.
But these caterpillars have no humility whatsoever.
These caterpillars must know what lies ahead for them, because they’re partying to beat the band.
They’re like a fat teenager whose parents have promised them stomach stapling surgery for their sixteenth birthday.
They’re setting a very bad example.
Oh, what the hell: go ahead and spray them again.
The Decider
According to The Decider, freedom is on the march in Iraq, but back here in Plymouth some gay guy is threatening to sneak into your home and pencil in a new definition of marriage.
This is no laughing matter.
This guy has a sharpened No. 2 Pencil!
And history has shown, time and time again, that reality is based on Websters’s New Texas Dictionary, Volume 27.
Today that dictionary defines marriage as “a ceremony in which a Republican Senator kisses the arse of a symbolic right-wing voter, then takes a free flight to Tahiti to speak at a conference on the power of golf to preserve the traditional family unit.”
If we don’t pass a Constititutional Amendment preserving the present definition of marriage – The Decider warns, Senators from any party would be free to kiss the arses of right wing voters, or the arses of left wing voters, or maybe even the arses of wild animals.
It boggles the mind.
What we are really doing here, The Decider says, is protecting the will of the people against the will of other people who don’t agree with their definition of the will of the people.
And those other people –whoever they are, are scared: scared that what they are afraid of, will be shown to be not so scary after all: thereby eliminating a large portion of the rationale for voting for The Decider and his golfing buddies.
And if the people aren’t scared, there will be less reason for them to stay married, and fewer married people could mean that more people on the street will have their own No. 2 pencils, and the freedom to go around putting moustaches on pictures of Der Decider – further eroding the place of golf in a free society.
Actually, to be fair, The Decider is not a big golfer: he’s more a brush-burning kind of guy.
But The Decider has always respected the right of golfers to golf with whomever they wished, and to keep the coloreds and the gays and the women from joining their Country Club.
No, that’s not exactly right: let me erase that last statement and pencil in a new one.
When you golf, you carry your own scorecard, and one of those cute little pencils that they give out at the clubhouse.
If you want to cheat – who is going to stop you?
If you want to shave off a stroke here, forget a bad shot there, it’s between you and your Decider.
That is, until there is money on the line.
As soon as there is money on the line, the rules must be strictly enforced.
And that’s kind of what’s going on with the fight to preserve the definition of marriage.
Nobody wants to tell anybody else what to do with their lives, but if a politician wants to be re-elected (or keep his poll numbers up) he’s got to get out his No. 2 pencil and rewrite the rules (to fit those with whom he regularly golfs or goes pheasant hunting (or burns brush) with).
It’s kind of like that famous word-guessing game.
You take turns making up something to fear: but you never ever tell the other person exactly what it is, that they should be afraid of.
They take guesses, and every time they miss, you draw a leg or an arm, a head, then a face and - in the end, someone’s always left hanging.
Do we really need a Constitutional Amendment for that?
This is no laughing matter.
This guy has a sharpened No. 2 Pencil!
And history has shown, time and time again, that reality is based on Websters’s New Texas Dictionary, Volume 27.
Today that dictionary defines marriage as “a ceremony in which a Republican Senator kisses the arse of a symbolic right-wing voter, then takes a free flight to Tahiti to speak at a conference on the power of golf to preserve the traditional family unit.”
If we don’t pass a Constititutional Amendment preserving the present definition of marriage – The Decider warns, Senators from any party would be free to kiss the arses of right wing voters, or the arses of left wing voters, or maybe even the arses of wild animals.
It boggles the mind.
What we are really doing here, The Decider says, is protecting the will of the people against the will of other people who don’t agree with their definition of the will of the people.
And those other people –whoever they are, are scared: scared that what they are afraid of, will be shown to be not so scary after all: thereby eliminating a large portion of the rationale for voting for The Decider and his golfing buddies.
And if the people aren’t scared, there will be less reason for them to stay married, and fewer married people could mean that more people on the street will have their own No. 2 pencils, and the freedom to go around putting moustaches on pictures of Der Decider – further eroding the place of golf in a free society.
Actually, to be fair, The Decider is not a big golfer: he’s more a brush-burning kind of guy.
But The Decider has always respected the right of golfers to golf with whomever they wished, and to keep the coloreds and the gays and the women from joining their Country Club.
No, that’s not exactly right: let me erase that last statement and pencil in a new one.
When you golf, you carry your own scorecard, and one of those cute little pencils that they give out at the clubhouse.
If you want to cheat – who is going to stop you?
If you want to shave off a stroke here, forget a bad shot there, it’s between you and your Decider.
That is, until there is money on the line.
As soon as there is money on the line, the rules must be strictly enforced.
And that’s kind of what’s going on with the fight to preserve the definition of marriage.
Nobody wants to tell anybody else what to do with their lives, but if a politician wants to be re-elected (or keep his poll numbers up) he’s got to get out his No. 2 pencil and rewrite the rules (to fit those with whom he regularly golfs or goes pheasant hunting (or burns brush) with).
It’s kind of like that famous word-guessing game.
You take turns making up something to fear: but you never ever tell the other person exactly what it is, that they should be afraid of.
They take guesses, and every time they miss, you draw a leg or an arm, a head, then a face and - in the end, someone’s always left hanging.
Do we really need a Constitutional Amendment for that?
Put the Lime in the Democrats
You can relax; I took care of that nagging State Democratic Convention thingee.
You don’t have to pretend with me: I know you were nervous, a bit confused, and conflicted by your desire to give your family what it wants (the second in a series of 15 consecutive weekend barbeques) and your sense of personal responsibility to be the most active and involved citizen you can be.
So while you stayed home and barbequed in the rain, I spent my weekend in the DCU Center in Worcester, representing your political interests.
No, don’t ask: of course I got you a tee-shirt.
I made it a point to get every one of you at least one tee – in every color of the rainbow.
For those that either don’t vote, or wander into the polls and vote for the person whose name they last heard on a television advertisement, I got one of the Chris Gabrielli shirts: a nice white tee with lettering meant to evoke a Red Sox shirt, and on the back the number 15 (for the percentage of vote he needed to be on the September primary).
These are expensive tee-shirts.
Leading up to the convention Gabrielli spent about 2 million dollars for his 650 votes –which works out to about $3000 per tee shirt.
Wear it and be proud. (Dry Clean only!)
For those of you that like your politics the old fashioned way, I got you a Reilly Tee, in a choice of a lovely burnt orange or bright yellow color.
Well, maybe lovely is not exactly the right word. The Reilly Tees are the color of the lights on a tow-truck: that flashy, cuts through the rain, beware of broken glass, there’s been a horrible accident up ahead, kind of color.
Ever since Attorney Tom General Reilly formally announced his candidacy for Governor he‘s had all the momentum of an avalanche, taking trees and boulders (and much of the Democratic establishment) with him as he fell downhill - so the safety orange color is not only fitting, it’s necessary.
There was a lot of other stuff too, and I brought back a whole suitcase full of it.
One of the 17 Tim’s running for state office was giving out this expensive button that had a built-in little red light that continuously flashed.
At one point, after they first distributed them on Friday night, there was this almost demonic look to the convention center – with a thousand little red eyes blinking madly.
I’m not sure what message you were supposed to get from this souped-up button: maybe, vote for Tim, his flash bulb is always ready; or vote for Tim, you can locate him in a crowd; or vote for Tim, he’ll give you some cool stuff if you do?
Maybe it hummed a subliminal message with every flash of its demonic eye? Vote for Tim, Vote for Tim, Vote for Tim..
Traffic was slowed by the heavy rain that fell as I drove home after the convention ended last Saturday evening –so I just stuck a half-dozen of those little demon-eyed buttons on the dashboard and - like magic, I had the high-speed lane all to myself.
I know I’ve been talking about everything I got you, but you’re right: I got myself a little something too.
Nothing very special, though I know that when I wear it I will be making a statement.
I got myself a Deval Patrick tee.
They only had them in one size, Large.
I tried it on when I got home and, as I thought, it was too small.
I’m a Larger.
But I’m going to keep it.
In fact, I think it’s going to be the motivation for a diet – personal and political.
I’m going to try to lose some weight, and a little rhetoric as well.
The Deval Patrick Tee is a bright, lime green color.
At first I just tolerated that: with Reilly’s orange, and Gabrielli’s white, Galvin’s baby blue, and so on, I told myself that Patrick needed a color that stood out.
Lime Green certainly stands out.
But then, trying it on, I was reminded of the old pop song that goes, “you put the lime in the coconut.”
I always wondered what that song meant. How do you get lime in the coconut?
Trying to get a progressive, grassroots candidate – who isn’t bound to the state’s power structure, elected to a state office, is a bit like squeezing yourself into a shirt one size too small (or squeezing a lime into a coconut).
But ahh, when you do, the feeling is sublime.
You should try it.
Technically, as your representative in Worcester, you already have. In fact, you should know that the twelve elected members of the Plymouth Democratic delegation to the convention, all voted for Patrick.
And he won!
So now you’re wondering, where’s your Deval Patrick stuff?
Sorry: I don’t have any extra Deval Patrick tees.
Deval is not your typical flashing light, cash-rich, tee-shirts for everybody candidate.
Deval isn’t offering the usual one-size fits all, whatever you want to hear, politics as usual Massachusetts Democratic message.
If you want the Deval Tee, you’re going to have to lose some of your old fat, abandon some of your old rhetoric, and add a little color to your wardrobe.
You’re going to have to squeeze the lime in to the Democrats.
Otherwise, on Election Day in November, Ambulance Orange could be the color of the day for Democrats, once again.
You don’t have to pretend with me: I know you were nervous, a bit confused, and conflicted by your desire to give your family what it wants (the second in a series of 15 consecutive weekend barbeques) and your sense of personal responsibility to be the most active and involved citizen you can be.
So while you stayed home and barbequed in the rain, I spent my weekend in the DCU Center in Worcester, representing your political interests.
No, don’t ask: of course I got you a tee-shirt.
I made it a point to get every one of you at least one tee – in every color of the rainbow.
For those that either don’t vote, or wander into the polls and vote for the person whose name they last heard on a television advertisement, I got one of the Chris Gabrielli shirts: a nice white tee with lettering meant to evoke a Red Sox shirt, and on the back the number 15 (for the percentage of vote he needed to be on the September primary).
These are expensive tee-shirts.
Leading up to the convention Gabrielli spent about 2 million dollars for his 650 votes –which works out to about $3000 per tee shirt.
Wear it and be proud. (Dry Clean only!)
For those of you that like your politics the old fashioned way, I got you a Reilly Tee, in a choice of a lovely burnt orange or bright yellow color.
Well, maybe lovely is not exactly the right word. The Reilly Tees are the color of the lights on a tow-truck: that flashy, cuts through the rain, beware of broken glass, there’s been a horrible accident up ahead, kind of color.
Ever since Attorney Tom General Reilly formally announced his candidacy for Governor he‘s had all the momentum of an avalanche, taking trees and boulders (and much of the Democratic establishment) with him as he fell downhill - so the safety orange color is not only fitting, it’s necessary.
There was a lot of other stuff too, and I brought back a whole suitcase full of it.
One of the 17 Tim’s running for state office was giving out this expensive button that had a built-in little red light that continuously flashed.
At one point, after they first distributed them on Friday night, there was this almost demonic look to the convention center – with a thousand little red eyes blinking madly.
I’m not sure what message you were supposed to get from this souped-up button: maybe, vote for Tim, his flash bulb is always ready; or vote for Tim, you can locate him in a crowd; or vote for Tim, he’ll give you some cool stuff if you do?
Maybe it hummed a subliminal message with every flash of its demonic eye? Vote for Tim, Vote for Tim, Vote for Tim..
Traffic was slowed by the heavy rain that fell as I drove home after the convention ended last Saturday evening –so I just stuck a half-dozen of those little demon-eyed buttons on the dashboard and - like magic, I had the high-speed lane all to myself.
I know I’ve been talking about everything I got you, but you’re right: I got myself a little something too.
Nothing very special, though I know that when I wear it I will be making a statement.
I got myself a Deval Patrick tee.
They only had them in one size, Large.
I tried it on when I got home and, as I thought, it was too small.
I’m a Larger.
But I’m going to keep it.
In fact, I think it’s going to be the motivation for a diet – personal and political.
I’m going to try to lose some weight, and a little rhetoric as well.
The Deval Patrick Tee is a bright, lime green color.
At first I just tolerated that: with Reilly’s orange, and Gabrielli’s white, Galvin’s baby blue, and so on, I told myself that Patrick needed a color that stood out.
Lime Green certainly stands out.
But then, trying it on, I was reminded of the old pop song that goes, “you put the lime in the coconut.”
I always wondered what that song meant. How do you get lime in the coconut?
Trying to get a progressive, grassroots candidate – who isn’t bound to the state’s power structure, elected to a state office, is a bit like squeezing yourself into a shirt one size too small (or squeezing a lime into a coconut).
But ahh, when you do, the feeling is sublime.
You should try it.
Technically, as your representative in Worcester, you already have. In fact, you should know that the twelve elected members of the Plymouth Democratic delegation to the convention, all voted for Patrick.
And he won!
So now you’re wondering, where’s your Deval Patrick stuff?
Sorry: I don’t have any extra Deval Patrick tees.
Deval is not your typical flashing light, cash-rich, tee-shirts for everybody candidate.
Deval isn’t offering the usual one-size fits all, whatever you want to hear, politics as usual Massachusetts Democratic message.
If you want the Deval Tee, you’re going to have to lose some of your old fat, abandon some of your old rhetoric, and add a little color to your wardrobe.
You’re going to have to squeeze the lime in to the Democrats.
Otherwise, on Election Day in November, Ambulance Orange could be the color of the day for Democrats, once again.
I Shave, Therefore, I Am
I’m trying to come up with a convincing argument for shaving with a razor: not the electric kind, but the old fashioned kind – a stick with a sharpened piece of steel on the end.
I’ve been shaving that way for thirty years, and I don’t want to change: but it’s just not that easy anymore.
It’s still kind of macho though, isn’t it?
Every day, without fail, I take at least one slice out of my pathetic excuse for a face.
Shaving with this sharpened stick shows I can take it. Right?
I don’t have a massive, gleaming, $40,000 pick-up truck, or my own personal back-hoe, or a faded tattoo on my bicep, so the razor is my only way of proving my manhood.
Right?
Besides, it’s required by my religion.
I belong to a little known offshoot of the Mandonites: we’re allowed to use most modern machinery like cars and computers, but are strictly forbidden from using certain unnecessary luxury items – like an electric toothbrush, or an automatic dishwasher, or a cordless beard trimmer.
Shaving with a real blade makes me feel like Harrison Ford in ‘Witness’: my clothes are not fashionable, but those little flecks of dried blood on my lip and chin make me one sexy, God-fearing, knows-how-to-handle-a-hammer kind of guy.
You buying that?
Then there’s Conservation.
In my thirty years of shaving I have saved a lot of electricity.
Five minutes a day, times 365 days a year, times 30 years, times 5 kHz per use, works out to about a barrel and a half of imported oil.
If it were not for my disposable razor we might have invaded Berzerkistan too.
Then again, a disposable razor a week, times 50 weeks, times 30 years, equals a big lump of oil-based plastic that could take 100 years to decompose up there on Mt. Manomet.
Then there’s Gillette, or I guess I should say, Procter & Gamble – one humongous corporation that probably sells a billion little blue razors a day.
If it were not for my regular purchase of five disposable razors a week over the last three decades, two or three hard-working employees of Humongous Inc. would probably have been laid off back in 1983.
Without their union jobs those guys would not have been able to send their kids to college.
At least one of them would probably have buckled under the pressure, taken to the bottle, rented the house across from me, and knocked over my mailbox one night coming home from Karaoke Night at the Wannabee Bar & Grille.
Look, I am going to going to do what I have to, to save the electricity and oil, maintain my masculinity, and keep American jobs in America: but I am going to need a little help.
When I started shaving they had these little devices that popped open so you could slide one single, super-sharp metal blade on to the device.
When the blade was firmly affixed, you simply dragged the razor back and forth over your face until the pain was unbearable or you were finished shaving.
Those blades were fierce. Medicine cabinets in new homes and in hotels were equipped with little slots in the back wall, so you could dispose of the blades between the walls and not risk injury to you, a family member, or a sanitation worker.
Today, I have to admit, shaving is a far less dangerous proposition. Today, the worst that can happen is that you nick yourself a bit, here and there.
But it’s just getting too darn complex.
One blade turned into two, turned into three, turned into four –with no end in sight!
As I understand it, the first blade teases the hair into thinking its going to be cut, so it responds defensively, becoming sullen and unresponsive.
The second blade hops right over that first hair though, and takes a quick hack at the second hair, causing it to become unresponsive as well.
The third blade pretends to negotiate in good faith with the first two hairs, while a fourth blade actually sneaks up from behind and cuts a third hair.
A fifth blade then arrives and, like an old fashion scythe, cuts a broad swath of hair.
A sixth blade makes sure that first hair is cut.
Then you lather and repeat (or is that for shampoo?)
In order to do the job right, and give each of the six blades an opportunity to participate in your morning ritual, requires about 45 minutes.
According to the DVD that comes with each razor, there are ways to reduce the total shaving time - but they advise against it.
There is a button that allows you to use only the blades you want to use (not all six), but that’s a tricky proposition. Which blades are you going to use: the Negotiators, the Scythe, the Hopper?
If you don’t choose the right blades for your follicle condition you risk voiding the conditional guarantee.
I want to keep using my cheap, manly, blade razor, but it’s just getting too complex for me.
I just want a shave, not an engineering degree.
I’m thinking of growing a beard.
Can you blame me?
I’ve been shaving that way for thirty years, and I don’t want to change: but it’s just not that easy anymore.
It’s still kind of macho though, isn’t it?
Every day, without fail, I take at least one slice out of my pathetic excuse for a face.
Shaving with this sharpened stick shows I can take it. Right?
I don’t have a massive, gleaming, $40,000 pick-up truck, or my own personal back-hoe, or a faded tattoo on my bicep, so the razor is my only way of proving my manhood.
Right?
Besides, it’s required by my religion.
I belong to a little known offshoot of the Mandonites: we’re allowed to use most modern machinery like cars and computers, but are strictly forbidden from using certain unnecessary luxury items – like an electric toothbrush, or an automatic dishwasher, or a cordless beard trimmer.
Shaving with a real blade makes me feel like Harrison Ford in ‘Witness’: my clothes are not fashionable, but those little flecks of dried blood on my lip and chin make me one sexy, God-fearing, knows-how-to-handle-a-hammer kind of guy.
You buying that?
Then there’s Conservation.
In my thirty years of shaving I have saved a lot of electricity.
Five minutes a day, times 365 days a year, times 30 years, times 5 kHz per use, works out to about a barrel and a half of imported oil.
If it were not for my disposable razor we might have invaded Berzerkistan too.
Then again, a disposable razor a week, times 50 weeks, times 30 years, equals a big lump of oil-based plastic that could take 100 years to decompose up there on Mt. Manomet.
Then there’s Gillette, or I guess I should say, Procter & Gamble – one humongous corporation that probably sells a billion little blue razors a day.
If it were not for my regular purchase of five disposable razors a week over the last three decades, two or three hard-working employees of Humongous Inc. would probably have been laid off back in 1983.
Without their union jobs those guys would not have been able to send their kids to college.
At least one of them would probably have buckled under the pressure, taken to the bottle, rented the house across from me, and knocked over my mailbox one night coming home from Karaoke Night at the Wannabee Bar & Grille.
Look, I am going to going to do what I have to, to save the electricity and oil, maintain my masculinity, and keep American jobs in America: but I am going to need a little help.
When I started shaving they had these little devices that popped open so you could slide one single, super-sharp metal blade on to the device.
When the blade was firmly affixed, you simply dragged the razor back and forth over your face until the pain was unbearable or you were finished shaving.
Those blades were fierce. Medicine cabinets in new homes and in hotels were equipped with little slots in the back wall, so you could dispose of the blades between the walls and not risk injury to you, a family member, or a sanitation worker.
Today, I have to admit, shaving is a far less dangerous proposition. Today, the worst that can happen is that you nick yourself a bit, here and there.
But it’s just getting too darn complex.
One blade turned into two, turned into three, turned into four –with no end in sight!
As I understand it, the first blade teases the hair into thinking its going to be cut, so it responds defensively, becoming sullen and unresponsive.
The second blade hops right over that first hair though, and takes a quick hack at the second hair, causing it to become unresponsive as well.
The third blade pretends to negotiate in good faith with the first two hairs, while a fourth blade actually sneaks up from behind and cuts a third hair.
A fifth blade then arrives and, like an old fashion scythe, cuts a broad swath of hair.
A sixth blade makes sure that first hair is cut.
Then you lather and repeat (or is that for shampoo?)
In order to do the job right, and give each of the six blades an opportunity to participate in your morning ritual, requires about 45 minutes.
According to the DVD that comes with each razor, there are ways to reduce the total shaving time - but they advise against it.
There is a button that allows you to use only the blades you want to use (not all six), but that’s a tricky proposition. Which blades are you going to use: the Negotiators, the Scythe, the Hopper?
If you don’t choose the right blades for your follicle condition you risk voiding the conditional guarantee.
I want to keep using my cheap, manly, blade razor, but it’s just getting too complex for me.
I just want a shave, not an engineering degree.
I’m thinking of growing a beard.
Can you blame me?
Confessions of a Political Junkie
I’m going on the wagon, politically speaking.
I’m swearing off the hard-stuff.
I’m going to attend my first meeting of PJA –Political Junkies Anonymous. They have a twelve-step method that’s practically foolproof.
Good morning: my name is Frank Mand and I am a politicoholic. It has been three hours since I last yelled at the guys on Fox News.
That’s the first step: admitting publicly that you have a problem.
The second step is apologizing to everyone who you made feel stupid, just because they weren’t as obsessed with politics as you were.
Dear reader, please accept my apology.
To my wife who has had to endure me constantly switching the channel in the midst of “Lost” or “Survivor” so I could watch “Hardball”, I apologize.
To my seven year old son, Patrick, who I wouldn’t let watch Saturday morning cartoons so that I could watch reruns of “Hardball”, I apologize.
To owners of SUVs bigger than my first apartment, I apologize.
To all the employees of Wal-Mart, the folks at NSTAR, the President of Mobil Oil, and the Uuugly Twins, I apologize.
Heck, to the entire Republican Party, I apologize.
Speaking of politics, I was bemused by Karen Buechs’ recent announcement that, as a newly elected member of the town’s Charter Review Commission, she felt she had to resign her position as a Town Meeting Member to avoid a conflict of interest.
Will she now also resign her membership on PAC-TV, to avoid the appearance of a conflict of interest there?
Will she and her husband stop producing an endless variety of cable television shows which advocate a Mayoral form of government, and attack those with different opinions on that issue, at least until after the commission finishes its business?
Oops! I slipped.
Hello, my name is Frank Mand, and I am a politicoholic. It has been 90 words since my last outburst.
Step Three is admitting that not everything is related to politics.
Putting referendum articles about gay marriage or abortion or immigration on election ballots, is not necessarily a cynical political ploy to increase conservative voter turnout.
Opposing stem-cell research is not necessarily a cynical political ploy to curry favor with conservative religious voters.
Sending troops to Afghanistan, Iraq, Florida, New Orleans, and now the entire border with Mexico, is not necessarily a pathetic attempt to hide the fact that you were not prepared for terrorist attacks, hurricanes, floods, or floods of immigrants.
Will Bush send troops to battle Bird Flu?
Is that a slip?
Darn!
I apologize.
My name is Frank Mand, and I am a politicoholic.
The fourth step is giving away the stuff. You can’t separate yourself from politics if you don’t cleanse your home of all the stuff.
Like my blue wrist band that I got at the 2004 Democratic Convention in Boston.
Or my button showing Dick Cheney wearing the Bush hand-puppet.
The posters and the pamphlets, banners and signs, buttons and pins.
My Move-On Bake Sale for Democracy T-Shirt.
I just can’t throw that stuff away.
Maybe I could have a political yard sale? All the funds raised could be donated to a non-political cause, like medical research. Only it can’t be the medical value of marijuana. And it can’t be medical research into the ‘morning after’ pill. And it can’t be medical research into stem cells.
Is there a disease out there that has not been politicized?
Maybe I’ll just have a bonfire and barbeque, instead?
Step Five is finding a hobby that will give you an excuse, as to why you can’t participate in any political events.
Hello, my name is Frank Mand, and I haven’t got the time to help you out with your campaign because… I have to tend to my bees?
Which is worse, I wonder: A backyard full of bees, or a front yard covered in political signs?
I think my wife would rather have me run for mayor than have bees.
Winnie the Pooh famously said, ‘you can never tell, with bees’: and the same may hold true for politicians. They all promise a hive full of honey, but it’s almost impossible to collect without getting stung a few times.
But maybe that makes beekeeping the perfect hobby for the politicoholic: a few hives of buzzing bees would probably keep away the politicians.
And bees are not swayed by rhetoric, however flowery. Given a choice, bees will always choose real flower nectar over dry, unsweetened words.
Maybe that’s what I really need to do: shut up for a while and enjoy actual life. Smell the flowers. Taste the rain. Mow the lawn (as soon as it dries out). Get back into the everyday and let the politicians have politics all to themselves.
In other words, get a life.
I’m going to give it a shot.
Wish me luck.
But just in case, I apologize.
I’m swearing off the hard-stuff.
I’m going to attend my first meeting of PJA –Political Junkies Anonymous. They have a twelve-step method that’s practically foolproof.
Good morning: my name is Frank Mand and I am a politicoholic. It has been three hours since I last yelled at the guys on Fox News.
That’s the first step: admitting publicly that you have a problem.
The second step is apologizing to everyone who you made feel stupid, just because they weren’t as obsessed with politics as you were.
Dear reader, please accept my apology.
To my wife who has had to endure me constantly switching the channel in the midst of “Lost” or “Survivor” so I could watch “Hardball”, I apologize.
To my seven year old son, Patrick, who I wouldn’t let watch Saturday morning cartoons so that I could watch reruns of “Hardball”, I apologize.
To owners of SUVs bigger than my first apartment, I apologize.
To all the employees of Wal-Mart, the folks at NSTAR, the President of Mobil Oil, and the Uuugly Twins, I apologize.
Heck, to the entire Republican Party, I apologize.
Speaking of politics, I was bemused by Karen Buechs’ recent announcement that, as a newly elected member of the town’s Charter Review Commission, she felt she had to resign her position as a Town Meeting Member to avoid a conflict of interest.
Will she now also resign her membership on PAC-TV, to avoid the appearance of a conflict of interest there?
Will she and her husband stop producing an endless variety of cable television shows which advocate a Mayoral form of government, and attack those with different opinions on that issue, at least until after the commission finishes its business?
Oops! I slipped.
Hello, my name is Frank Mand, and I am a politicoholic. It has been 90 words since my last outburst.
Step Three is admitting that not everything is related to politics.
Putting referendum articles about gay marriage or abortion or immigration on election ballots, is not necessarily a cynical political ploy to increase conservative voter turnout.
Opposing stem-cell research is not necessarily a cynical political ploy to curry favor with conservative religious voters.
Sending troops to Afghanistan, Iraq, Florida, New Orleans, and now the entire border with Mexico, is not necessarily a pathetic attempt to hide the fact that you were not prepared for terrorist attacks, hurricanes, floods, or floods of immigrants.
Will Bush send troops to battle Bird Flu?
Is that a slip?
Darn!
I apologize.
My name is Frank Mand, and I am a politicoholic.
The fourth step is giving away the stuff. You can’t separate yourself from politics if you don’t cleanse your home of all the stuff.
Like my blue wrist band that I got at the 2004 Democratic Convention in Boston.
Or my button showing Dick Cheney wearing the Bush hand-puppet.
The posters and the pamphlets, banners and signs, buttons and pins.
My Move-On Bake Sale for Democracy T-Shirt.
I just can’t throw that stuff away.
Maybe I could have a political yard sale? All the funds raised could be donated to a non-political cause, like medical research. Only it can’t be the medical value of marijuana. And it can’t be medical research into the ‘morning after’ pill. And it can’t be medical research into stem cells.
Is there a disease out there that has not been politicized?
Maybe I’ll just have a bonfire and barbeque, instead?
Step Five is finding a hobby that will give you an excuse, as to why you can’t participate in any political events.
Hello, my name is Frank Mand, and I haven’t got the time to help you out with your campaign because… I have to tend to my bees?
Which is worse, I wonder: A backyard full of bees, or a front yard covered in political signs?
I think my wife would rather have me run for mayor than have bees.
Winnie the Pooh famously said, ‘you can never tell, with bees’: and the same may hold true for politicians. They all promise a hive full of honey, but it’s almost impossible to collect without getting stung a few times.
But maybe that makes beekeeping the perfect hobby for the politicoholic: a few hives of buzzing bees would probably keep away the politicians.
And bees are not swayed by rhetoric, however flowery. Given a choice, bees will always choose real flower nectar over dry, unsweetened words.
Maybe that’s what I really need to do: shut up for a while and enjoy actual life. Smell the flowers. Taste the rain. Mow the lawn (as soon as it dries out). Get back into the everyday and let the politicians have politics all to themselves.
In other words, get a life.
I’m going to give it a shot.
Wish me luck.
But just in case, I apologize.
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