Dazed and confused? Not me. I’m just Lost in the Cheese Aisle.

Friday, August 3, 2018


The friends stood trembling before the great door of the Wizard’s audience chamber. Oz, the Great and Powerful, had promised to grant them their wishes once they had returned... but only if they brought with them the Wicked Witch’s broom.

Dorothy had slain the Witch, albeit inadvertently. She gripped the broom.

Alas, Oz turned out to be a fraud, a Nebraskan huckster borne to Oz in a rogue balloon.

Dorothy wailed. She’d never get home. Nor would the Scarecrow get brains, the Tin Man a heart, and the Lion courage. And the Bronze Man could forget about his fucking kidney.

Thursday, July 19, 2018


Obi-Wan Kenobi:

“The way your Daddy looked at it, that lightsaber was your birthright. And he’d be damned if any stormtroopers were gonna put their greasy white gloves on his boy’s birthright. So he hid it in the one place he knew he could hide somethin’. His ass. Five long years, he wore this lightsaber up his ass. Then when he died of dysentery, he gave me the lightsaber. I hid this uncomfortable hunk of metal up my ass for two years. Then, after seven years, I was sent home to my family. And now, little man, I give the lightsaber to you.”

- Luke Skywalken, The Early Years

Wednesday, July 11, 2018


Atlanta lay in ruins. Visitors to the city who had been unaware of the War would have been shocked to see the sepulchral remains of what had been one of the great metropolises of the South.

The General had wiped out all opposition. Now, ahead of him lay the corridor to Savannah. His march to the sea would be merciless.

Somehow, the Savannah city fathers prevailed upon him to spare their beautiful town. Nevertheless, between the coast and Atlanta lay a white wilderness. Every house, every building was completely wrapped in toilet paper...

...the legacy of General William Tecumseh Charmin.

Monday, July 9, 2018


Damn, thought Charlie.

Three dives, each with the same disastrous results. If this kept up, he would start attracting sharks.

Getting his certification was turning out to be a horror show instead of the walk... err, swim in the park he’d expected it to be. His instructor was patient, but Charlie suspected that that patience would be wearing thin in a big hurry. Understandable, too: The pool cleanup bills were mounting.

A visit to the gastrointerogist confirmed his worst fears. The painful explosive diarrhea he suffered every time he strapped on his tank and mask was due to scuba diverticulitis.

Friday, June 22, 2018


Everybody knows about Atlanta roads. All of their names include some variant of Peachtree.

Peachtree Street.
West Peachtree Street.
Peachtree Corners.
Peachtree Parkway.
Peachtree Battle...

... plus at least fifty others. (There are, in fact, seventy-one roads here with some mention of Peachtree in their names, according to Wikipedia.)

The number of roads bearing mention of some sort of bridge, ferry, or mill are also legion. This makes perfect sense given the both the geography and history of the area. You have numerous rivers, which historically were used to power mills for producing flour or cloth. And to get across those rivers, you needed bridges and ferries. (Tunnels, not so much.)

Another thing you learn about roads in these parts is that they’re often named for where they take you. For example, there are two different Roswell Roads: one in Sandy Springs that goes north-south, and one in Marietta that is mostly east-west. They’ll both take you to Roswell. And the same road that’s called Roswell Road in Marietta becomes - wait for it! - Marietta Highway when you get to Roswell. If you don’t know about this, you can get completely farblondjet (lost) when driving here.

But my favorites are the ones with the oddball names... names like Trickum Road, Hardscrabble Road, and (one of my personal favorites) Scufflegrit Road. All three are just a short drive from our new digs in Woodstock.

Trickum. That’s a great name for a road. It’s also a great name for a law firm: “Dewey, Trickum, and Howe.” I would love to know more about the history of that road and how it got that name.

Hardscrabble. Another great name. The word refers to a place that is barren, barely arable, and where one can barely eke out a meager living. Impoverished, piss-poor, miserable. You’d think a road by that name would be paved with gravel and turds. (This one is not, but may have been when it was first constructed.)

Scufflegrit. This word evokes images of the cloud of dirt surrounding Popeye and Bluto as they are engaged in beating the shit out of each other... or perhaps the crusty material on Tyler Durden’s face. It’s practically romantic.

Come to Atlanta! We have all kinds of fascinating roads for you to go get lost on.


Doctor where’s your remedy?
I’ve got enough to pay the fee
Can’t you see I’m awful sick?
I’ll pay you well to do the trick

Doctor, doctor
Doctor, doctor
Doctor, doctor
Doctor, doctor
Doctor, doctor
Doctor, doctor

Doctor where’s your magic box
There’s no one here to count the cost
Name your price and make the sale
There’s no-one here to tell the tale

Doctor, doctor...

Doctor please don’t lock your door
I’ve never troubled you before
Just a pinch to ease the pain
I’ll never trouble you again

Doctor, doctor...

Just a pinch to ease the pain
I’ll never trouble you again
Just a pinch to ease the pain
I’ll never trouble you again

- Procol Harum, “Robert’s Box”

Friday, June 15, 2018


Every once in a while, in these days of ever more appalling events, there comes along a little News-Tidbit that is so far beyond the pale that it causes even my jaw to drop. And my long-term Esteemed Readers - assuming any of you are still around - know that I am not easily astonished.

Let’s set the stage.

Many of us - probably all of us - have, at one time or another, been angered by the actions of other drivers on our public highways. (Let’s face it, pretty much everyone on the road is a douchebag except for you and me.) Many of us will react with a few Vile Oaths, shouted within the sealed cabin of our automobiles... or even an outstretched middle finger in especially provocative circumstances.

But there is always a certain amount of risk attached to an outward display of anger. When especially hot-tempered individuals are involved, anger can escalate into an actual Road Rage Incident. Such incidents can range from simple stoplight shouting matches through open windows, to fist fights on the side of the road, to people getting brained with tire irons or golf clubs, to drivers opening fire on one other.

None of this should be surprising in a well armed and increasingly contentious country. And yet a recent incident in Lehigh County, Pennsylvania brings Road Rage to an entirely new level. Kicks it up a notch, in the words of Emeril Lagasse. BAM!

Yes, Lehigh County, where two guys got out of their cars after one cut the other off in traffic. A roadside argument ensued, during which, according to the news reports, one of the drivers defecated on the other... presumably ending the argument. Mic drop? Hells, naw - Deuce drop!

So many questions beg to be answered.

Just how angry do you have to be for you to take a shit on someone else?

How does one manage the logistics? It’s unimaginable that one could convince a hot-headed driver to stay still long enough so that one could drop trou and let fly on him.

Did the incident take place on a busy interstate or a quiet country lane?

A couple of these questions are answered by follow-up news reports, which have the offending driver laying (heh) blame on his IBS (irritable bowel syndrome). (You’d think that he’d give the other guy a warning, but I suspect he took advantage of an opportunity.)

So: Now that the precedent has been established, be careful about calling another driver to whom you are party in a dispute an asshole. He just might choose to show you that he has one, and he knows how to use it.

Sunday, June 10, 2018


They call me Mister Coffee
‘Cause coffee helps me go
Whenever there’s a job to do
Mister Coffee makes it so

The first thing every morning
I have my cup of joe
Its effect upon my system
Is anything but slow

I take my coffee with me
In savanna or in bush
And when the morning sun comes up
It provides that needed push

My Go-Juice keeps my innards
A-ticking like a clock
I’m never, ever suffering
From any kind of block

Those times a Big Job must be done
Mister Coffee is your man
I’ll run (not limp) to drop or crimp
And keep you on your plan

They call me Mister Coffee
‘Cause coffee helps me go
Whenever there’s a job to do
Mister Coffee makes it so

Saturday, May 26, 2018


Despite my being old enough for Medicare, I am like most grown men in that there lurks inside me a prepubescent male with a prepubescent way of finding humor in Gross Things.

I have done my share of shitblogging. I have written sonnets - yes, sonnets - about bodily functions and fluids. I have gone so far as to write a post about my own earwax when said wax fell out of my ear in the form of a chunk the size of an English pea.

All of this is revolting, sure, but even I have my limits.

Dee - my beloved missus - had had occasion to use a public facility the other day. It was a one-holer, and a small queue had formed. Eventually, the lady in front of her went in, and as Dee waited outside, she could hear a veritable Hiroshima of hawking, hacking, and nose-blowing. Then it was Dee’s turn to use the rest room.

After the obligatory Positioning of the Paper Seat Protector, she sat down, whereupon her horrified attention was drawn to a pile of Rope-Snot on the floor, just out of range of her feet.

I dunno ’bout you, but to me, leaving a giant snot-wad on the floor is almost as revolting as dropping a deuce in the shower. As Mister Debonair would say, “It is the sort of thing that one simply does not do.” And Dee was unsure about the appropriate course of action. Should she pick it up in a paper towel and discard it? Photograph it?

As it turns out, she did neither. And that is fine with me. Going anywhere near it would have been nasty, and to photograph it would’ve been equivalent to photographing a turd on a dinner plate.

I have been guilty of many horrible things, but even I have my limits – and apparently Dee does too.

Tuesday, April 24, 2018


Getting an MRI is unlike most people’s daily experiences... unless one’s day consists of lying uncomfortably supine while being shoved into a narrow tube and being subjected to an array of buzzing, clanging, and whanging sounds that would do Edgard Varèse proud.

It’s not much fun, but at least it doesn’t involve having objects inserted into various Bodily Orifices. So there’s that.

And it’s an opportunity to demonstrate one’s ability to take a nap under adverse conditions. If people can snooze on the New York subways, how hard can it be to sleep in what may be likened  to the bastard offspring of a casket and a giant metallic doughnut?

As for results, we’ll just have to wait, won’t we?

Postscriptum: As my friend Mr. Bogner points out in the comments, I may not have had an object inserted in me, but I was, rather, inserted into an object. I suppose one could think of it as the metaphysical inverse of a colonoscopy.

Saturday, April 14, 2018


Everyone has, buried deep in the crevices of his or her brain, a well of childhood Food-Memories... and for many of us, those memories involve some kind of hot cereal.

Whether you called it hot cereal, porridge, or mush - the latter having a decidedly negative connotation - it was (and is) a completely different experience than the typical cold cereal-with-milk breakfast. Cold cereal is quick and easy. Hot cereal is work-intensive - a morning meal more suited to lazy weekend mornings or snow days.

Oh, sure - there are plenty of “instant” hot cereals. Instant oatmeal. Instant grits. Tear open the packet and add hot water: Bingo! But those are beneath contempt. A proper bowl of porridge takes time.

So let’s take a look at some of these cerealic delights, shall we?

Grits. Grits are made from hominy, alkali-treated ground maize. I consider grits to be in their own category, more of a savory dish that can be served with breakfast than a breakfast by themselves. Grits can be doctored up with cheese and other tasty components, but sweetening a bowl of grits is an act that is committed only by Northerners who are inexperienced and ignorant of the Way of the Grit.

Farina. Farina is a form of milled wheat, popularly sold under the brand name Cream of Wheat. It has a mild, innocuous taste. In my Snot-Nose Days, I thought Cream of Wheat was pretty nondescript, but I actually learned to appreciate its mild, wheaty flavor as I grew older. Best augmented with a bit of butter and/or cream and your sweetener of choice.

Cream of Rice. This is a proprietary brand of coarsely ground rice. That’s it - just rice. It’s probably the only cereal I can think of that’s even more bland than Cream of Wheat... perfect for invalids. Add a little butter and milk and you have a hot breakfast even a toddler can appreciate. Throw in some scallions, a piece of fish, and maybe some chili oil, and you have a passable version of congee, AKA chuk, the ubiquitous Asian rice dish.

Oatmeal. Many of us in America grew up on rolled oats, which take all of fifteen minutes to cook. Quicker cooking versions are available, but the tradeoff is the loss of oatmeal’s characteristic texture. And - speaking of texture - steel-cut oats have a delightful nubbly mouthfeel, which comes at the expense of a longer cooking time. The Mistress of Sarcasm introduced me to the pleasure of steel-cut oats with a spoonful of peanut butter stirred in, and they’re also great when cooked with some Earl Grey tea.

Maltex. Now we head into the realm of the obscure, with this semi-superannuated cereal made of a blend of wheat and malted barley syrup. It’s still around, but not a common supermarket item. All I can say is that I liked it when I was a kid.

Maypo. Those of us of a certain age will remember the ads for this maple-flavored oat cereal, in which one Marky Maypo (voiced by an actual four-year-old) would insist, “I want my Maypo!” to the eternal consternation of his Dad. I was never a fan: The stuff was too sweet and mushy for my taste.

Wheatena. This one is also pretty obscure, but your local Superdupermarket might actually carry it. It’s a wheat-based cereal (as is obvious from the name) with an assertive flavor that is a million miles away from the bland Cream of Wheat style. A hot bowl of Wheatena transports me back sixty years in time like few other breakfasts can do.

So: What’s your favorite hot cereal?

Postscriptum: This morning I made myself a pot of Earl Grey steel-cut oats. First I steeped the tea in hot milk, then cooked the oats in the scented milk. A little Irish butter, some Demerara sugar, and Bob’s your uncle! Magnificent. Try it!

Monday, April 9, 2018


I have written numerous times about my perverse ability to make up dopey songs - or dopey lyrics to actual songs - a talent that has, on occasion, caught my daughters flatfooted.

F’r example, there was the time Elder Daughter was attending a performance of “Jesus Christ Superstar” in Boston with a group of her college friends. It’s an outdoor performance on the Common, and ED and her buddies are all singing along:

Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ -
Who are you, what have you sacrificed?
Jesus Christ, superstar -
Who in the hell do you think you are?

At this point all eyes swivel toward Elder Daughter. “Hey, those aren’t the right lyrics!” And she responds, “Yes, they are! I learned them from... (growing realization that she has been duped)... my Dad! Aaarrrrgggh!

And then there was the time Allison E., the daughter of family friends - roughly the same age as Elder Daughter - was playing French horn in a concert. The program included a selection from George Frederick Handel’s oratorio Judas Maccabeus - “See, The Conqu’ring Hero Comes!” and as she began playing, she completely lost her shit. Wait, what?

Elder Daughter, back in her Snot-Nose Days, was learning Suzuki method violin, and when she began learning that particular little chunk of Judas Maccabeus, I made up some of my trademark Nutty Lyrics to go with the tune:

Zippy the Pinhead
Has a polka-dotted suit
And he thinks that he is cute
In his dotted suit.

Zippy has a friend named Shelf-Life
He’s got great big lips
Shelf-Life has a girlfriend, Vizeen
She’s got enormous hips...

I like to believe that my little tune kept ED interested in violin at least long enough to learn “See, The Conqu’ring Hero Comes!” - but who knows? She and her friends (including Allison E.) found it amusing enough. What I do know is that when Allison remembered it some twenty-odd years later, French horn in hand, mouthpiece to her lips, she lost both her composure and her embouchure.

Which brings me to today’s story.

Apparently, both Elder Daughter and the Mistress of Sarcasm have been watching a series on Netflix: Wild Wild Country, a documentary about one Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, an Indian guru, and the eponymous community he established in Oregon: Rajneeshpuram.

Both girls had the same reaction when the Bhagwan appeared on the small screen. Why is this dude’s name so strangely familiar?

And that, of course, is when they remembered... from early childhood, another of Daddy’s stupid songs:

Excuse me - I have to pish
Don’t you know I am a follower of

Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh

He’ll satisfy your ev’ry wish
Just as long as you’re a follower of
Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh...

(sung to the tune of “Forty-Second Street”)

Until they started watching Wild Wild Country, they had never known that the Bhagwan was an actual person - but they had known his name for three decades. How ’bout dat?

[Why do I do this? I blame Mad Magazine.]


As I was driving around the back roads of North Cobb County a few days ago, I decided to listen to some music. Old music. Music from my Semi-Degenerate College Years. And I didn’t have to lift a finger: I simply said, “Hey, Siri - play Chick Corea.” And Siri complied, pulling up one of my favorite Chick Corea compositions: “Guijira,” from the Inner Space album.

Inner Space was my first introduction to Corea’s work. I first discovered it in the spring of my sophomore year of college, back in 1972, when it was a newly released vinyl double album. Most of the tracks had actually been recorded six years earlier.

It was fascinating. Real jazz - modern jazz, but nothing like the jazz-rock fusion that was becoming popular among my age cohort. And the personnel! Hubert Laws, Woody Shaw, Joe Farrell - each one hugely talented individually, but together in the ensemble directed by Corea, greater than the sum of their parts.

“Guijira” was a particular favorite of mine, a track that featured Hubert Laws’s flute, Chick Corea’s masterful piano, and a soaring trumpet solo by Woody Shaw, all with a subtle Latin foundation. Forty-six years later, and it still gives me the shivers.

All those years ago, I would gently pull the LP from its sleeve, place it on my turntable, and carefully drop the tonearm onto the spinning vinyl - and music would soar forth from my speakers. But no more. My copy of Inner Space is gone, having been deep-sixed along with all my other vinyl LP’s earlier this year... a casualty of the Great Purge.

And yet I still have my Inner Space. Now it resides on my computer’s hard drive and in my mobile devices in the form of a string of ones and zeroes. And I can call it forth with the touch of a button... or with the simple command, “Hey, Siri.”

Thursday, March 29, 2018


Today I took special care to get up early (never an easy task given the best of conditions) so I could be on time for the morning minyan. Now that we’re farther north, I have to allow about twelve more minutes for travel... and of course I had to be there, on account of it being Mom’s Yahrzeit.

After services, following our local custom, those of us observing Yahrzeit bought breakfast for the other attendees: our way of thanking them for showing up. And, also following our local custom, we had our usual Post-Minyan Bullshit Session while enjoying said breakfast.

Sometimes we talk of religious matters, sometimes of the mundane, and even (more often than one might think) of the vulgar and even profane. But today I managed something that surprised even me. I managed to conflate two very different topics: golf and quantum mechanics.

It all started with my talking about my Mom, who was a three-day-a-week golfer.

Mom was not your typical hausfrau. She didn’t stay home and bake pies. (I had a friend whose mother baked a pie a day, and often two. To me, that seemed surreal. Hell, it still seems surreal.)

No, she got out and about. She frequented the library and the golf course. She had, as described by my next-door neighbor fifty years later, outside interests. That made her different from all the other moms on the block.

I inherited my mother’s love of golf, but alas, little of her skill or perserverance. That is a story for another time, but the point is, I still love golf despite my ineptitude.

Not everyone is a golfer, though, and many people despise the game... including several of my friends at the breakfast table. What was it, they asked, that I liked about golf, aside from it being the game my mother tried to teach me?

My answer, strangely enough, involves quantum mechanics and the structure of the atom.

Most of us, when asked to describe an atom, think of those drawings of a nucleus (protons and neutrons) with electrons spinning around it like planets orbiting the Sun. But that’s not how things work in the domain of the teeny-tiny where the rules of quantum physics take over. We can’t know where a given electron is at any moment: all we can do is figure out the probability that it will be in a particular place. If we make a diagram of that probability, it looks like a fuzzy cloud... and different electrons inhabit differently shaped clouds. These clouds are (confusingly) called orbitals.

This is not the place, Esteemed Reader, for a chemistry lesson (if you want that, go to the link above), but suffice it to say that the p orbital, with its Indian club-shaped probability distribution, is a good way to model a golf game.

When I stand at the tee, I see a world of possibilities. There is the extremely unlikely prospect of the ball somehow ending up behind me. There is a much greater probability that it will end up somewhere in front of me, but the chance of it going 300 yards in a straight line is almost nil. And these probabilities can be represented by a map that looks a lot like a lopsided p orbital.

Someone like Phil Mickelson will have a “golfy orbital” that looks more like a pencil than a big fluffy cloud, because he hits the ball pretty close to where he intends for it to go. Mine, of course, is all over the damn place... yet there’s always that small chance that I will hit a shot worthy of the Teevee. Kinda like hitting a flush in Texas Hold ’em: improbable but possible. It’s what keeps gamblers in their seats at the tables in Vegas. Hey, it could happen!

That’s my story, anyway. Golf and quantum mechanics... who knew?

Wednesday, March 28, 2018


Bernice 1943
The Momma d’Elisson, in her Brooklyn College yearbook photo.

Today is Mom’s Yahrzeit - the anniversary of her death as reckoned by the Hebrew calendar.

It has been thirty years since she slipped beyond the veil that hides the World to Come from we who live. Thirty years! And still my heart aches for her.

I mourn for all the days she missed with us... and especially with her granddaughters. I mourn for the family occasions at which she was no longer here in physical form.

And like many adults, there is that part of me that mourns for my lost childhood, the days when my cares were the simple cares of children and when my mother and father were there to love, care for, and nurture me. We grow out of those childhood days in the natural course of things. If we are fortunate enough, we survive middle age, we grow old, we eventually become elderly. Yet no matter how long our years, no matter how raddled with forgetfulness our minds, we never lose that little bit of longing to recapture those sweet times when we were loved, cared for, and nurtured.

I cannot bring her back. But I can light a candle for her and remember how wonderful life was when she was with us in the World That Is.

Mom at age fifty-eight. Looka dat smile!