Catch Me If You Can

Did you know there’s a city in New Zealand named Christchurch? How non-denominational! What d’ya suppose its major industry is? . . . One of the challenges of trying to tell jokes when you’re sixty is : Am I still current? So from my good bud Blake Mackey, age 28, this Q & A: “Q. What do you call a black guy who flies a plane? A. A pilot, ya freakin’ racist!” . . . Ah, these kids today, with their weird clothes and that crazy music . . . So Donald Trump is throwing his wig into the presidential ring. Sorry, not with my vote. Trump slaps up risky hotels faster than an autistic kid at a monopoly board. If I want to vote for an offensive, ugly political whore, there’s always Palin . . . Fellow is sitting at a bar quietly enjoying his adult beverage when a young lady sits down next to him. “Sir, this is your lucky day,” she asserts. “For two hundred dollars I’ll do anything you want.” “Anything?” the guy asks incredulously. “Whatever your little heart desires.” He thinks it over for a minute, reaches into his wallet and hands over ten Jackson, which she accepts. “Okay, sweetheart”, she purrs, “what’ll it be?” Comes the reply : “I’d like you to paint my house.” . . . Have I adequately offended damn near all of you? If not, please read on.

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OUT OF MY MIND: Attn: Rush Limbaugh: Now-Sen. Al Franken was wrong. Unlike the title of his book, you are NOT a big, fat, idiot. Well, it does appear you have a fairly serious glandular disorder. But in no way do you suffer from any shortage in the IQ dept. You are exceptionally well informed on political and social issues in real time. You are enormously entertaining. Your sense of humor is second to none. And let’s face it—you’re right. Far right, but never the less right. Here’s my quandary with you and others of your ilk: Why all the hate talk? Why did you feel compelled to say, almost immediately after Mr. Obama’s inauguration, “I want this president to fail.”? What kind of an American would say that? And what’s with Newt Gingster, Huckleberry Fibb and the other birthers who assert that the president isn’t really one of us, having been born and raised in Kenya. We have this little requirement in our constitution, maybe you’ve heard about it. It was written by our founding fathers and says that only natural born citizens can be president. Seems to me the INS and/or FBI would have noticed if Mr. Obama’s papers weren’t in order. And he’s a Muslim? This would come as quite a shock to the members of his Christian church. Then we have congressperson Michelle Bachman. What a piece of work she is! According to her, the founding fathers settled the slavery issue. Move over, Abe Lincoln! Lexington and Concord, by the way, are in NEW HAMPSHIRE, not Massachussets,  like we all learned in grade school. I guess the state borders got re-drawn somewhere along the line and they forgot to tell the rest of us. If you’re going to serve in Congress, shouldn’t you know the basics of U.S. History? I console myself with the knowledge that these folks are nothing new. Most of us know about Sen. Joe McCarthy, the red-baiting demagogue of the 1950’s. The crows came home to roost for him, didn’t they? And let’s not forget newspaper baron William Randolph Hearst, who was not averse to writing front page editorials full of bile and venom against FDR, arguably the greatest president of the 20^th century. As Harry Truman once said (he was talking about a fellow named Richard Nixon) : “The American people can always spot a phony. It may take a while but they can always do it.” Since I’ve already dated myself, I’ll finish with a quote from songwriter and satirist Tom Lehrer, talking in 1965 about an event we used to observe called National Brotherhood Week: “There are people in this country who do not love their fellow human beings, and I HATE people like that!”

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HOLY MOTHER OF PEARL, Who plugged this guy in today? He ought to call it “Snipe Remarks”. Maybe I should switch to decaf . . . So let’s lighten up. I don’t merely love my daily newspaper, I buy two copies every day --- In case there’s an article I want to read twice . . . If Queen Elizabeth married Steve McQueen, (granted this would be difficult since he is currently dead, but bear with me) would her name then be Queen McQueen? . . . I call my gal pal my Credit Card Lover. Why? Because when it comes to romance, she has no interest until January of next year . . . San Francisco Chronicle gossip columnist Leah Garchick (best one of her breed in the country, I think) reports that NASA contractor Thom Stone said to a friend: “Of course there’s intelligent life in the rest of the universe.” His rationalle? “They haven’t tried to contact us, have they? . . . Media Update: The magazines Commentary and Dissent have merged. The new publication will be called Dissentary.

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AND FINALLY, from the late, great and much-missed George Carlin: “If it’s true that our species is alone in the universe, then I’d have to say the universe aimed rather low and settled for very little.”

A Few Words to You

About the Words From Me

WELCOME. AS STATED, what lies ahead for those of you interested/irritated/or of such dull existences that you continue to expose yourself to my ramblings are the (thankfully) exclusive brain droppings I plan to expel once, weakly. I’m a third generation San Franciscan (hence forth known as Ess Eff); that should give you an idea of what you’re in for. This, however, is tempered with a healthy dose of Oklahoma farm stock, a hardy, common-sense breed of species whose only questionable attribute is their choice of spouses and offspring. Don’t get me wrong; I have enormous respect and affection for both sides of the family tree but for the love of mike I’ll never understand how they produced a character like me. Well, that’s not entirely true. I understand HOW they did it. If they had explained it to me when I was, say, twelve, I swear I would have spent my entire adolescence vomiting. Thanks for sparing me, folks.

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A FEW OF YOU may be familiar with me, if you live in Ess Eff (I warned you didn’t I?). My prattlings used to appear in a now defunct but much missed paper call The City Star. To you who remember that all your going to get is a less polished and very poorly edited version of what you’ve already read. As to the rest of you, what exactly is in store? Fair question. Do any of you know the answer? Why is everybody looking at ME? If I knew, why would I ask? You folks are going to have to pay closer attention if you expect to keep up. Time waits for no one. There is no “off” position on the genius switch. So listen up because I’m not saying this stuff twice. I may not even say it once, but you’ll still be expected to understand what I’m on about. Well, okay. I guess a few hints would be simple fair play. Might as well cover politics first, since we love to get all hot and bothered about that particular spectator sport. I’m neither right wing nor left wing; the entire bird fascinates me. So expect me to comment as I expect you to vote: Early and often. To people such as Dick Cheney or Ralph Nader I probably won’t be your cup if tea. If President Carter or Reagan were to weigh in with their views, however, I would be most honored. The diff? The afore mentioned presidents always struck me as straight talking, inclusive people that felt positive about themselves and others, whereas the other two have a tendency to come across as --- how best to put this? --- Less than tolerant. I HATE people like that.

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THE COLUMN? Basically I tell jokes, ranging from the banal to the really stupid, but you won’t notice because I write very fast. I am a shameless thief. “Brain Droppings”, the title of a book written by George Carlin one of my mentors. “Ess Eff” is a direct rip from Herb Caen, my inspiration for becoming a writer. HE began by stealing from Walter Winchell so I guess I’m in fair-to-middlin’ company. I am sexty --- whoops! Freudian slip --- Hey, give me a break one can always hope. * * Can’t One?

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AND WAY TOO MUCH more about me: I was born in San Rafael, Moron County, November, 23 1950. My mother was in the middle of preparing Thanksgiving dinner at the time, a bit of family lore I have often been reminded of. “I must have been hungry” I tried to lamely explain. Don’t think she ever bought it. My father said that my entire birth from conception though post natal care cost seventy five bucks. During my challenging teenage years, he probably wondered more than once if it was money wisely spent. I came to reside in the city on April 12^th 1970, at the tender age of 19 (never have understood that phrase. Are you supposed to get to a tough age? Does it have to do with how well cooked you ought to be? Is well done the objective, because I’m not anywhere near that, and I’m certainly not ready to be burned to a crisp if that’s what’s next). My early years were undistinguished. First I was going to be the next William Randolph Hearst. Then I learned to play the piano. When the Beatles came along, I decided I could settle for that as a more modest goal. After all Hearst died when I was a year old but the Beatles were CURRENT. It all seemed very well thought out to me. Then came that April 12^th, 1970 I mentioned earlier. Landlords actually expected me to give them money to live in their building! Other Nazi pig outfits like the phone and electric companies expected the same! Didn’t they realize what a budding genius was walking among them? I wound up getting a job in a sandwich shop, working my way up to manager. Those unfortunate enough to come into my orbit referred to me as more of a mismanager, but I hold no grudges. Arson works better, and is a far more effective way of expressing my hurt little feelings. So that’s my story, or at least all I’m willing to admit to at this point.

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MOST OF MY COLUMNS will end with what I call “The Tag”, often a quote. This week it’s from

Oliver Stone: “I might as well be myself; everyone else is taken.” Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve gone through my share of suffering to get to this point in life. Now it’s your turn.