Life can be a real adventure for us post-post-post adolescents. Having passed our prime, we speed along the highway of "reduced potential" at a break-neck speed. "Look! There's a sign post ahead. You have just crossed over into the (anatomical) Twilight Zone". What I'm referring to is the reality that, at this stage of our development, some of our more fundamental body parts tend to fall down on the job, (and by "fall down", I'm not referring to the consequences of the Earth's gravitational pull on our dangly outer parts).
No, I'm talking about our mysterious internal gears, valves, levers and pumps -- especially the ones that are truly essential, but which routinely become less efficient following an ill-advised all-nighter at Taco Bell.
Not too long ago, I was sipping a Bailey's, (shaken, not stirred), and watching the CBS comedy "The Big Bang Theory", (TBBT, if you will). Suddenly my ears alerted to something very interesting, and I learned an important anatomy lesson which, during any normal week, I surely would have missed. This is because we bowl in the Thursday Night Fellowship League, but this was Thanksgiving night, so we took the week off. (Note: Bowling is yet another post-adolescent activity involving gravitational forces impacting non-dangly objects).
Well, the televised football game was rather boring so I channel-surfed for a while -- way up past ESPN and back down again to channel 10. Not to brag, but we have digital cable at our house, and we get scads of channels -- dozens even -- which means we can watch, "Everybody Loves Raymond" and "The New Adventures of Old Christine" ten or more times every day.
Back to the anatomy lesson. The geeky guy on TBBT, (in the interest of clarity, I should specify "the incredibly obnoxious geeky guy" on the show), stated something that caused me to feel much better about the precarious state of my innards. He said that the human body has fifty sphincters. That's FIFTY -- five-oh, half a hundred! (Side Note: To completely avoid any confusion, I probably should have referred to the TBBT character as the tallest and thinnest of the incredibly obnoxious geeky guys on "... Bang ...").
Before I heard that most welcome news, I believed that my body was batting one-for-three in terms of fully-operational sphincters -- clearly an unfavorable state of affairs. In actuality, however; I am relieved to know that I'm forty-eight for fifty -- operating at ninety-six percent of capacity. Heck, they don't function that efficiently at Three-Mile Island (and never have). Furthermore, 96% is a borderline A+ at college -- except at the Harvard School of Business, of course, where raw scores and percentages don't matter. At the Ding Dong School on the Charles, Sissy, Buffy and Reggie can get an "A Plus Plus" just for attending class.
So, sphincter-wise, I'm now able to clench with the best of 'em. And, except for male-pattern-baldness, the trick knee, the lame arm, the paunch, the lazy ear, (and that nuisance rash we don't ever mention), I'm feeling great about the state of my health. And I owe it all to The Pilgrims, Les Moonves and Jim Parsons -- the tallest, thinnest, (and most talented), of the obnoxious geeky guys on "...Big Bang...". Thanks, JP.
___________________________________________________________________________
There, you have it -- a thirteen hundred word sermon on the subject of "Sphincterdom", and, despite having tiptoed ever so near the line of impropriety, I didn't cross it. Lots of hints and pseudo-visuals but nothing too graphic. Aunt Penelope could peruse this narrative before, during or after dinner at the cotillion, and it wouldn't be a problem.
(Note: Yes, I counted them also. It's only six hundred and twenty-four -- not 1300).
(Yet one more clarification: Like your's, my gut instinct says to spell it "innerds" (not innards) because inner is a word meaning "not outer". But once again, my squiggly red spell-check line rules the day. I dare not go against Bill Gates and his cohorts).
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
What To Do ... What To Do ... Merry Christmas, Will Ya?
You'd think that the Christmas season would be a wonderfully uncomplicated time of year, but that's not usually the case. The holidays are fraught with recurring dilemmas for which there are no easy solutions. Here are some:
(1) Knowing how not to burn the house down, (I think a number of you lucked out last year). Use your head; water the tree often, and don't overload the electrical outlets!
(2) Deciding on which gift card to give to sweet young Isadore, your camel-smoking, coffee-drinking, Goth-wearing nephew -- the one you wish would join the army, (or at the very least read a book or wash his hair once in a while).
(3) Coming up with a convincing, left-handed compliment to give to Uncle Sid regarding that increasingly-grotesque outdoor lighting display, (of which he is so proud).
(4) Figuring out how many things you can buy for yourself -- but then pass off as thoughtful presents for your unsuspecting spouse. (Examples: Giving a diamond-studded corkscrew to your "tee-totaller" husband, or a $10 Denny's gift certificate to your anorexic/vegan wife.)
But the most perplexing issue is what to do about those, "Our Family: This Year in Review" summaries which all-too-many people enclose in their cards.
"On his way back from Stockholm, where he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics, Herman, our oldest, stopped off in Paris to redesign the lighting system for the Eiffel Tower, (pro-bono, of course). And, Diana, who used to be "the runt" of the family litter, is now a statuesque 5'10". And since she is no longer working for "The Clintons", she's decided to accept that job offer from Donna Karan. And Christmas came early in August when "Tabatha", our registered Abyssinian, delivered a litter of ten which we sold for $600 each".
Meanwhile, we recipients of this chronology are left stymied. Should we acknowledge these glorious achievements, or should we line the birdcage floor with the parchment and forget we ever read it? Us "Ordinary Joes", -- we who measure whether or not our year was a success in terms of the number of "comfortable" bowel movements we managed to achieve, (100 is a good benchmark), are left in a quandry. What to do ... What to do?
So anyway, Happy Holidays to all -- except to you, Izzy. You should get a haircut and a job, you miserable little snip!
_________________________________________________________________________
Note: "Merry Christmas, Will Ya", is what Harris said to Wojo on "Barney...".
(1) Knowing how not to burn the house down, (I think a number of you lucked out last year). Use your head; water the tree often, and don't overload the electrical outlets!
(2) Deciding on which gift card to give to sweet young Isadore, your camel-smoking, coffee-drinking, Goth-wearing nephew -- the one you wish would join the army, (or at the very least read a book or wash his hair once in a while).
(3) Coming up with a convincing, left-handed compliment to give to Uncle Sid regarding that increasingly-grotesque outdoor lighting display, (of which he is so proud).
(4) Figuring out how many things you can buy for yourself -- but then pass off as thoughtful presents for your unsuspecting spouse. (Examples: Giving a diamond-studded corkscrew to your "tee-totaller" husband, or a $10 Denny's gift certificate to your anorexic/vegan wife.)
But the most perplexing issue is what to do about those, "Our Family: This Year in Review" summaries which all-too-many people enclose in their cards.
"On his way back from Stockholm, where he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics, Herman, our oldest, stopped off in Paris to redesign the lighting system for the Eiffel Tower, (pro-bono, of course). And, Diana, who used to be "the runt" of the family litter, is now a statuesque 5'10". And since she is no longer working for "The Clintons", she's decided to accept that job offer from Donna Karan. And Christmas came early in August when "Tabatha", our registered Abyssinian, delivered a litter of ten which we sold for $600 each".
Meanwhile, we recipients of this chronology are left stymied. Should we acknowledge these glorious achievements, or should we line the birdcage floor with the parchment and forget we ever read it? Us "Ordinary Joes", -- we who measure whether or not our year was a success in terms of the number of "comfortable" bowel movements we managed to achieve, (100 is a good benchmark), are left in a quandry. What to do ... What to do?
So anyway, Happy Holidays to all -- except to you, Izzy. You should get a haircut and a job, you miserable little snip!
_________________________________________________________________________
Note: "Merry Christmas, Will Ya", is what Harris said to Wojo on "Barney...".
Heed My Words, Bretheren. Beware the Delinquent Greeting!
Verily, I say unto you, my Children. The terrible day of reckoning is approaching. Of course, the terrible day to which I refer is December 24th -- the day you will undoubtedly receive the dreaded "Demon Greeting Card". What could be demoniacal about a holiday greeting? I'll explain.
The culprit of which I speak is the Christmas card you receive, (on the24th), from the person to whom you didn't send one. Heavy is the heart when that happens, but I have a solution for you -- and, most times, it won't cost you a penny.
Mail a greeting card to that person just after Christmas, but forget to put a postage stamp on the envelope. One of two things will happen; (1) the post office will deliver it "postage due" to your friend. He'll assume that you mailed it on time, but it sat around in a post office holding bin for a while. Surely, the failure to affix a stamp was an honest mistake on your part. He may think you're cheap, but he won't know that you don't like him anymore.
Or, (2) the post office will return the card to you, (containing a printed notice that you omitted the proper postage). In this case, simply put the whole thing in a larger envelope, affix a stamp and mail it off. He should still receive it before "Little Christmas" (1/6) which will make it okay. Once again, the reason for the delay will be understood, and you'll be forgiven! Actually, this whole exercise will make your greeting even more meaningful.
I know what you're thinking ... "The Parson is a genius! Why didn't I think of that"? You're welcome.
Of course, it goes without saying ... if any of this is illegal, you shouldn't do it! (The lawyers made me say that).
Other Holiday Dilemmas, (ones I cannot help you with, but which we all face annually), will be discussed in my next blog entry, "What to Do ... What to Do ... Merry Christmas, Will Ya?"
The culprit of which I speak is the Christmas card you receive, (on the24th), from the person to whom you didn't send one. Heavy is the heart when that happens, but I have a solution for you -- and, most times, it won't cost you a penny.
Mail a greeting card to that person just after Christmas, but forget to put a postage stamp on the envelope. One of two things will happen; (1) the post office will deliver it "postage due" to your friend. He'll assume that you mailed it on time, but it sat around in a post office holding bin for a while. Surely, the failure to affix a stamp was an honest mistake on your part. He may think you're cheap, but he won't know that you don't like him anymore.
Or, (2) the post office will return the card to you, (containing a printed notice that you omitted the proper postage). In this case, simply put the whole thing in a larger envelope, affix a stamp and mail it off. He should still receive it before "Little Christmas" (1/6) which will make it okay. Once again, the reason for the delay will be understood, and you'll be forgiven! Actually, this whole exercise will make your greeting even more meaningful.
I know what you're thinking ... "The Parson is a genius! Why didn't I think of that"? You're welcome.
Of course, it goes without saying ... if any of this is illegal, you shouldn't do it! (The lawyers made me say that).
Other Holiday Dilemmas, (ones I cannot help you with, but which we all face annually), will be discussed in my next blog entry, "What to Do ... What to Do ... Merry Christmas, Will Ya?"
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Blessed are the Mellow at Heart ... For They Shall Remember Mitch
I really miss Friday nights. Oh sure, I know they still come around every week, but these Friday nights are bogus -- a mere shell of what Fridays used to be, (in the good old days)!
Remember the Friday nights of 1968? Uh, oh ... bad time frame to choose. I was in Viet Nam that year, and every day was Monday at the Asian Club Med. We had no Fridays there.
What about '58? Yeah, good old 1958. There was "The Schlitz Family Playhouse" for the beer-sipping hi-brow crowd; "The Gillette Friday Night Fights" for beer-guzzling real men to watch; and, thankfully, there was Mitch Miller for the rest of us.
Do you remember "The Mitch Miller Show"? A bearded guy with busy arms and a squirrelly smile, twenty-six swaying baritones and one tenor, (young Bob McGrath -- later of Sesame Street fame). We heard such classic songs as "Bye Bye Blackbird", "My Buddy" and "Heart of My Heart" -- all without commercial interruption (or so it seemed).
Yes, yes, I know they had commercials, but they'd bunch many of them between shows or on the half-hour, so we could focus on the great singing. And those were such great melodies -- "Your Lips Tell Me, 'No-No', but There's "Yes-Yes in Your Eyes", "Pardon Me, Boy, is that the Chatanooga Choo Choo?" and who could ever forget "Don't Bring Lulu" or "Three Little Fishies"? Don't get me started!
I'll bet that if one of today's extended basic stations would put on replays of Mitch and the guys, well, America would watch. And if they'd broadcast the shows on Friday night? Well, "I know a tear would glisten ..." !
You may think that this is the end .........Well, it is!
Remember the Friday nights of 1968? Uh, oh ... bad time frame to choose. I was in Viet Nam that year, and every day was Monday at the Asian Club Med. We had no Fridays there.
What about '58? Yeah, good old 1958. There was "The Schlitz Family Playhouse" for the beer-sipping hi-brow crowd; "The Gillette Friday Night Fights" for beer-guzzling real men to watch; and, thankfully, there was Mitch Miller for the rest of us.
Do you remember "The Mitch Miller Show"? A bearded guy with busy arms and a squirrelly smile, twenty-six swaying baritones and one tenor, (young Bob McGrath -- later of Sesame Street fame). We heard such classic songs as "Bye Bye Blackbird", "My Buddy" and "Heart of My Heart" -- all without commercial interruption (or so it seemed).
Yes, yes, I know they had commercials, but they'd bunch many of them between shows or on the half-hour, so we could focus on the great singing. And those were such great melodies -- "Your Lips Tell Me, 'No-No', but There's "Yes-Yes in Your Eyes", "Pardon Me, Boy, is that the Chatanooga Choo Choo?" and who could ever forget "Don't Bring Lulu" or "Three Little Fishies"? Don't get me started!
I'll bet that if one of today's extended basic stations would put on replays of Mitch and the guys, well, America would watch. And if they'd broadcast the shows on Friday night? Well, "I know a tear would glisten ..." !
You may think that this is the end .........Well, it is!
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Happy Valley Euphemisms
I really enjoyed the movie "Raising Arizona". The subject matter wasn't all that comical, (child stealing), but the movie was nevertheless amusing. In the "Welcome Home, Son" scene, H.I. McDonough, (the child- stealing protagonist), is holding young Nathan, Jr. forward, (his arms extended), giving the Arizona Quint a panoramic (but stationary) tour of their trailer home.
As best as I can recall, he says to the kid, "Now, that there is the kitchen where your Momma fixes our dinner ... (pivot) ... and this here is the dee-van for sittin' on to watch TV, (only one hour a day, so you don't miss out on the finer things) ... (pivot) ... etc. etc." It's something like that, anyway. Well, he's handling the kid a little too roughly to suit Edwina (Ed), his "barren" wife. So she says to H.I., "Be sure to mind his little fountainelle, Honey" -- (Not wanting the child to be injured, I guess).
At the time, I remember thinking, "What a cute pet name for the kids jigger"! I imagine that most parents have euphemisms that they use to designate the more delicate parts of their children's anatomy. And I suppose "fountainelle" is as good as any, (and better than most).
Gayle and Neville, the clumsy-yet-loveable Arizona State Prison escapees and wannabee Dads who attempt to re-steal the child from the original child-stealers, claimed to be using code names, (similar to euphemisms), when they robbed the Farmers' Bank. After absentmindedly calling Gayle, "Gayle" in front of the tellers, Neville announces, "We're using code names, ya hear that? Code names."
On Seinfeld, Mr. Bookman, the Library Cop, calls human nether parts "Pee-pees and Wee-wees". How devoid of imagination is that? Larry David, I'm disappointed in you!
I recall, half a century ago, that the Herman Family, (our next door neighbors in the projects), didn't have euphemisms. They called a spade a "spade", (using real-life dictionary words -- accurate ones). And poor little Chucky suffered dearly for it. The neighborhood kids would taunt him, shouting things like, "Don't fall out of that tree, Chucky. You might hurt your PEA-NUTS". Kids can be sooo cruel!
It gets worse! Way back when, if you asked my Aunt Harriet if she wanted milk in her tea, she'd say, "Just a jigger". "Oh my gosh, did you hear that?", we kids would giggle. "Aunt Harriet wants a jigger of milk in her tea. Yuck! Gross!" Mom would give us a disapproving glance, but I'll bet that even she thought it was funny.
Some day, when I know you better, I'll explain to you about "bugs" and "tension".
Note: I recently learned that a "fontanel" is that vulnerable soft spot on the top of a newborn's head. Boy, was I way off base!
As best as I can recall, he says to the kid, "Now, that there is the kitchen where your Momma fixes our dinner ... (pivot) ... and this here is the dee-van for sittin' on to watch TV, (only one hour a day, so you don't miss out on the finer things) ... (pivot) ... etc. etc." It's something like that, anyway. Well, he's handling the kid a little too roughly to suit Edwina (Ed), his "barren" wife. So she says to H.I., "Be sure to mind his little fountainelle, Honey" -- (Not wanting the child to be injured, I guess).
At the time, I remember thinking, "What a cute pet name for the kids jigger"! I imagine that most parents have euphemisms that they use to designate the more delicate parts of their children's anatomy. And I suppose "fountainelle" is as good as any, (and better than most).
Gayle and Neville, the clumsy-yet-loveable Arizona State Prison escapees and wannabee Dads who attempt to re-steal the child from the original child-stealers, claimed to be using code names, (similar to euphemisms), when they robbed the Farmers' Bank. After absentmindedly calling Gayle, "Gayle" in front of the tellers, Neville announces, "We're using code names, ya hear that? Code names."
On Seinfeld, Mr. Bookman, the Library Cop, calls human nether parts "Pee-pees and Wee-wees". How devoid of imagination is that? Larry David, I'm disappointed in you!
I recall, half a century ago, that the Herman Family, (our next door neighbors in the projects), didn't have euphemisms. They called a spade a "spade", (using real-life dictionary words -- accurate ones). And poor little Chucky suffered dearly for it. The neighborhood kids would taunt him, shouting things like, "Don't fall out of that tree, Chucky. You might hurt your PEA-NUTS". Kids can be sooo cruel!
It gets worse! Way back when, if you asked my Aunt Harriet if she wanted milk in her tea, she'd say, "Just a jigger". "Oh my gosh, did you hear that?", we kids would giggle. "Aunt Harriet wants a jigger of milk in her tea. Yuck! Gross!" Mom would give us a disapproving glance, but I'll bet that even she thought it was funny.
Some day, when I know you better, I'll explain to you about "bugs" and "tension".
Note: I recently learned that a "fontanel" is that vulnerable soft spot on the top of a newborn's head. Boy, was I way off base!
Polichinka Memories
When I was young, we Moran kids were far from affluent. Accordingly, most of our clothes were hand-me-downs. Well, not really. You see, "hand-me-downs" generally come from older members of the same family. We wore "hand-it-overs" -- clothes given to us by distant relatives or complete strangers. It really wasn't so bad, though. It was like heading over to the armory for blocks of government cheese. Quite simply, it's what you did to get by in life. And, fortunately, I never ran into a strange kid who pointed at me and said, "Hey, that's my old shirt". (If I did, I've totally blocked it out.)
I remember wondering if I hadn't been born with special skills because it said "Lover" on the waistband of my jockey shorts. I don't recall exactly who the Lover family were, but I'm pretty sure our connection to them was through my Aunt Harriet. At any rate, we wore a lot of their stuff, and the Lover boys (Billy, Stephen and Alec) took real good care of their wardrobe. But, to this day, I curse Billy Lover because he had such narrow feet. Fifty-something years later, I still suffer with a chronic ingrown toenail stemming from having to squeeze into Billy's oppressively tight shoes lo those many years ago.
But this blog entry is not about "Lover Memories", (for those, you'll have to buy my book). No, this is about "Polichinka" memories, and it involves Mr. Baxter who used to donate his daughter's cast-offs to the needy (guess who). But Mr. Baxter took benevolence to the extreme -- he delivered the goods personally, so he could see the joy on my sisters' faces and the sparkle in their eyes over the prospect of donning Elizabeth's yellowing duds.
One fine day, he showed up at our door in the projects with a paper shopping bag under his arm (no doubt containing one or more of Elizabeth's half slips and perhaps a frayed cardigan sweater). His intentions were noble, but he had a truly superior attitude about the transaction, and he spoke in such patronizing tones. He had been at our place before, but he must've been unsure of our last name. (He sounded like a constipated
Arthur Treacher).
My Mom answered the door. Taking a deep breath, and sounding as benevolent as he possibly could,
Mr. Baxter asked, "Is this the residue of Mrs. Polichinka?" No response. He asked the question again -- this time with his eyes and a tilt of his head. "No", my Mother finally said, "It's the RESIDENCE OF MRS. MORAN!" -- whereupon she slammed the door. Poor woman; I believe she was having a really bad week, and his high-fallutin' benevolence was too great a strain to bear.
Also, my guess is that the Polichinka girls, (undoubtedly his next stop), received some bonus "Moran" threads that fine day.
And here comes the fun part of that memory. For decades after that, Mom and I would re-live that scene whenever I came home on leave from the service. Over time, we changed it a little, but we both got a kick out of doing it.
I'd show up at her door and, in my most condescending Thursten Howell voice, I'd inquire, "Is this the residue of Mrs. Polichinka?" "Yes, it is", she'd reply in her best Hermione Gingold, "What treasures do you have for me?" Then we'd laugh and laugh for the longest time. Over the decades, we relived the encounter
dozens of times.
God bless that wonderful man -- Mr. Baxter! There is no possible way he could appreciate the years of joy he brought our faces or the untold number of eyes he made twinkle with his innocent little mistake.
Well into her 80's, we played the game. Even after she moved to Northview, (when she wasn't always sure of a lot of things), Mom recalled and enjoyed our Polichinka memory.
I remember wondering if I hadn't been born with special skills because it said "Lover" on the waistband of my jockey shorts. I don't recall exactly who the Lover family were, but I'm pretty sure our connection to them was through my Aunt Harriet. At any rate, we wore a lot of their stuff, and the Lover boys (Billy, Stephen and Alec) took real good care of their wardrobe. But, to this day, I curse Billy Lover because he had such narrow feet. Fifty-something years later, I still suffer with a chronic ingrown toenail stemming from having to squeeze into Billy's oppressively tight shoes lo those many years ago.
But this blog entry is not about "Lover Memories", (for those, you'll have to buy my book). No, this is about "Polichinka" memories, and it involves Mr. Baxter who used to donate his daughter's cast-offs to the needy (guess who). But Mr. Baxter took benevolence to the extreme -- he delivered the goods personally, so he could see the joy on my sisters' faces and the sparkle in their eyes over the prospect of donning Elizabeth's yellowing duds.
One fine day, he showed up at our door in the projects with a paper shopping bag under his arm (no doubt containing one or more of Elizabeth's half slips and perhaps a frayed cardigan sweater). His intentions were noble, but he had a truly superior attitude about the transaction, and he spoke in such patronizing tones. He had been at our place before, but he must've been unsure of our last name. (He sounded like a constipated
Arthur Treacher).
My Mom answered the door. Taking a deep breath, and sounding as benevolent as he possibly could,
Mr. Baxter asked, "Is this the residue of Mrs. Polichinka?" No response. He asked the question again -- this time with his eyes and a tilt of his head. "No", my Mother finally said, "It's the RESIDENCE OF MRS. MORAN!" -- whereupon she slammed the door. Poor woman; I believe she was having a really bad week, and his high-fallutin' benevolence was too great a strain to bear.
Also, my guess is that the Polichinka girls, (undoubtedly his next stop), received some bonus "Moran" threads that fine day.
And here comes the fun part of that memory. For decades after that, Mom and I would re-live that scene whenever I came home on leave from the service. Over time, we changed it a little, but we both got a kick out of doing it.
I'd show up at her door and, in my most condescending Thursten Howell voice, I'd inquire, "Is this the residue of Mrs. Polichinka?" "Yes, it is", she'd reply in her best Hermione Gingold, "What treasures do you have for me?" Then we'd laugh and laugh for the longest time. Over the decades, we relived the encounter
dozens of times.
God bless that wonderful man -- Mr. Baxter! There is no possible way he could appreciate the years of joy he brought our faces or the untold number of eyes he made twinkle with his innocent little mistake.
Well into her 80's, we played the game. Even after she moved to Northview, (when she wasn't always sure of a lot of things), Mom recalled and enjoyed our Polichinka memory.
The "Parson" Factor
My blog is only one full-day old, and this is already my fourth entry. Surely, things will taper off soon, but, for now, I'm enjoying the novelty, and my head is overflowing with thoughts I want to share.
So far, only one person outside our household even knows the blog exists. By the time I start telling folks about it, there should be something in the neighborhood of a half-dozen entries. But they won't all be brand new. There are some stories/opinions that have been included in personal E-mails sent over the past six months, (which I'll revise, in part or in their entirety). If you've been one of my e-mail addressees, you'll probably recognize some oldies. Feel free to ignore the stale stuff.
I'm getting to feel quite comfortable with the "Parson ..." angle. At first, I simply enjoyed the play on words for the title of my blog, but the preacher connection makes it possible for me to use biblical exclamations like, "Lo" and adverbs like "verily". And I can call you "children" as in, "Verily, I say unto you, my Children ...".
I've been to Tarsus, you know. (It took months to get the sand out from between my toes!) I'll tell you about it sometime.
So far, only one person outside our household even knows the blog exists. By the time I start telling folks about it, there should be something in the neighborhood of a half-dozen entries. But they won't all be brand new. There are some stories/opinions that have been included in personal E-mails sent over the past six months, (which I'll revise, in part or in their entirety). If you've been one of my e-mail addressees, you'll probably recognize some oldies. Feel free to ignore the stale stuff.
I'm getting to feel quite comfortable with the "Parson ..." angle. At first, I simply enjoyed the play on words for the title of my blog, but the preacher connection makes it possible for me to use biblical exclamations like, "Lo" and adverbs like "verily". And I can call you "children" as in, "Verily, I say unto you, my Children ...".
I've been to Tarsus, you know. (It took months to get the sand out from between my toes!) I'll tell you about it sometime.
CLARIFICATION FROM THE PULPIT
I feel the need to clarify something I wrote in yesterday's "Disclaimer" entry. When I said I might publish a LIE, I meant that I am capable of tongue-in-cheek exaggerations that a naive person might take as gospel, but which a reasonable person would recognize for what it is ... a disproportionate overstatement intended to amuse the reader.
If I were to publish an outright fabrication, it would be along the lines of, "I haven't felt that sick since the time I ate fifty hardboiled eggs in one hour at that prison camp." --- a totally implausible lie pilfered from the plot of "Cool Hand Luke", (or was it in "Ernest Meets the Golden Goose"?). Totally Implausible!
But when I talk about my brief liaison with Racquel Welch in the 60's or how, (in the 70's), I was unjustly incarcerated in a Turkish prison, I am being truthful. Trust me, there is more to me than meets the eye. I'm no Gavin MacLeod, but I've been around the block more than once.
One more thing -- this time regarding my occupation. I say I'm a "Hipster Dufus (Ret)". Technically, it's not really an "occupation" because I never got paid for my hipster activities, and the dufussery was just a part-time thing. But I do have official papers, (from the late 80's), certifying "Hipster Dufus" as my occupation.
If I were to publish an outright fabrication, it would be along the lines of, "I haven't felt that sick since the time I ate fifty hardboiled eggs in one hour at that prison camp." --- a totally implausible lie pilfered from the plot of "Cool Hand Luke", (or was it in "Ernest Meets the Golden Goose"?). Totally Implausible!
But when I talk about my brief liaison with Racquel Welch in the 60's or how, (in the 70's), I was unjustly incarcerated in a Turkish prison, I am being truthful. Trust me, there is more to me than meets the eye. I'm no Gavin MacLeod, but I've been around the block more than once.
One more thing -- this time regarding my occupation. I say I'm a "Hipster Dufus (Ret)". Technically, it's not really an "occupation" because I never got paid for my hipster activities, and the dufussery was just a part-time thing. But I do have official papers, (from the late 80's), certifying "Hipster Dufus" as my occupation.
Monday, December 13, 2010
A DISCLAIMER: Heed These Words From "The Parson"
I can't vouch for the absolute accuracy of anything stated (or implied) anywhere in the "A Parson of Interest" blog entries. Not in this one ... or the last one ... or the next one. Not today ... not tomorrow ... not EVER.
Believe me. I'm a relatively honest person, and I have good intentions -- so my assertions are essentially reliable. But, the bottom line is -- I'm a simple-minded, multi-flawed human being -- and a lazy one at that. Innocent omissions/errors can accidentally get through. And, sometimes, I may be lying.
For instance, I might note (in passing) that Henry VIII had five wives. While this may be true, it isn't the whole truth. A brain-hiccup may have caused me to forget about the Medicine Woman, (who was either #3 or #6). Furthermore, in the Jack Webb tradition, I frequently change people's names -- partly out of a respect for their privacy -- but mostly to avoid being beaten up or sued. For example, "Aunt Tiny" is definitely my Aunt Tiny, but "Peter Eyewash", (the hemophiliac Eagle Scout), goes by an entirely different name in real life.
Yes, there may be a blatant lie here or there, (such as the claim that I was Cleopatra's camel wrangler in a previous incarnation**). But, if you believe such nonsense as that, you deserve to be deceived. And my recanting, or even explaining, obviously off-the-wall falsehoods would be an insult to you. After all, if you weren't an intelligent, savvy, with-it person, you wouldn't be reading this blog anyway. Right???
Moreover, my goal isn't entirely to inform. There will be times when I'm just blowing smoke, and, occasionally, my aim will be to have you come away shaking your head and asking, "Can he possibly be serious?".
There, my children, you have been duly warned.
**Regarding my previous life, if you ever tried to get camel spit out of new denim, you'll know what a terrible job "camel wrangler" can be. I really hated it, (but, then again, Cleo was a living doll, and she wore the sheerest little outfits. Furthermore, once you got your Union Card, the pay and benefits were pretty decent). I take it back. Those were great times. "Head 'em up ... Move 'em out. Rollin', rollin, rollin' ..........."
Believe me. I'm a relatively honest person, and I have good intentions -- so my assertions are essentially reliable. But, the bottom line is -- I'm a simple-minded, multi-flawed human being -- and a lazy one at that. Innocent omissions/errors can accidentally get through. And, sometimes, I may be lying.
For instance, I might note (in passing) that Henry VIII had five wives. While this may be true, it isn't the whole truth. A brain-hiccup may have caused me to forget about the Medicine Woman, (who was either #3 or #6). Furthermore, in the Jack Webb tradition, I frequently change people's names -- partly out of a respect for their privacy -- but mostly to avoid being beaten up or sued. For example, "Aunt Tiny" is definitely my Aunt Tiny, but "Peter Eyewash", (the hemophiliac Eagle Scout), goes by an entirely different name in real life.
Yes, there may be a blatant lie here or there, (such as the claim that I was Cleopatra's camel wrangler in a previous incarnation**). But, if you believe such nonsense as that, you deserve to be deceived. And my recanting, or even explaining, obviously off-the-wall falsehoods would be an insult to you. After all, if you weren't an intelligent, savvy, with-it person, you wouldn't be reading this blog anyway. Right???
Moreover, my goal isn't entirely to inform. There will be times when I'm just blowing smoke, and, occasionally, my aim will be to have you come away shaking your head and asking, "Can he possibly be serious?".
There, my children, you have been duly warned.
**Regarding my previous life, if you ever tried to get camel spit out of new denim, you'll know what a terrible job "camel wrangler" can be. I really hated it, (but, then again, Cleo was a living doll, and she wore the sheerest little outfits. Furthermore, once you got your Union Card, the pay and benefits were pretty decent). I take it back. Those were great times. "Head 'em up ... Move 'em out. Rollin', rollin, rollin' ..........."
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
As to whether or not his utterances are "of interest", well, that issue is open for debate.
The "parsonage" is located near the foothills of scenic Mount Nittany in Central Pennsylvania, ("Happy Valley", if you will), but "The Reverend Mr. Moran" does not hunt, fish or eat scrapple.
Frank is a Sexagenarian. If you're unsure of what that means ... all the better!
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