Space Invader ~~ A Theme Thursday "Space" Post

Today's Theme Thursday theme is "Space." Be sure to check out other Theme Thursday entries!

Meet my cat Orson, if you haven't already.

The other day, he and I were on my back porch. Suddenly, another black cat came out of nowhere and entered the back parking lot. Orson (on the right in the following three photos), his precious space invaded, bolted off the porch and approached the intruder.

He got even closer. I waited for the inevitable fireworks! Orson looked like a true predator, while the unwanted visitor just sat there patiently.

And just as suddenly as the other cat arrived, Orson evidently lost interest and plunked himself down! The other cat, apparently bored, turned around and calmly walked away.

I guess I should be proud of my little feline for choosing the route of pacifism. Or would that be "Cat-cifism?"

Thanks for your time.

How Sweet It Is! -- A Theme Thursday "Sweet" Post

I saw this week's Theme Thursday theme, Sweet, and said "Now there's a challenge!" What the hell could I write about that?

How about... The two or three women who've called me that, mainly because -- when I care to, usually -- I can say the right thing at the right time?

Nah.

I could write about how I have to watch my blood sugar levels now that I'm diabetic. I was never much for candy or pastry, but now I have to use Splenda when I go on coffee dates!

Yeah...

I'm supposed to watch my levels. (Okay, okay, I do... but not as carefully as I should.)

Isn't it great how "they" want you to give up the things you enjoy, whatever they happen to be, so you'll live to a ripe old age? "Give up everything you like, and may you have a long, long, miserable effin' life?"

. . .

Whoa. How'd I get here?

Better close this now. Uncharacteristically brief for me, innit? You might even say it was short and...

Oh. Knew where I was going with that one, did you?

Thanks for your time.

Advice to the Lovelorn -- A "Theme Thursday" Tomorrow Post!

Something a little different today, fellow babies, in keeping with Theme Thursday's "Tomorrow" theme!

Advice to the Lovelorn

The Best Gosh-Darned Advice You Will Ever Get About Getting Over "The One!"

Romantic relationships can be all lah-dee-dah and wonderful when both parties are in love. If one person doesn't love the other, things may very quickly turn to guano.

There are all sorts of break-up situations, and all sorts of break-up aftermath situations. Sometimes the breaker-uppers become or remain friends. I can smugly say that I'm on very good terms with both of my ex-fiancées.

But I'm not talking about that today. Hell, I'm not even talking about break-ups, necessarily.

"Okay, then, Silver Schmuck, what the... fox... are you talking about?"

Today, I'm talking about how to "get over" The One. The One woman or man that you'll either never have (due to unrequited love) or will never have again (due to a break-up).

And in order to avoid muddying the waters, here, I'm going to eschew all awkward "he/she" and "him/her" phrases and just deal with this from the point of view of a man trying to get over a woman.

Now. The good news is that you have found The One. This is the woman you have waited for your entire life, whether that life is made up of 20 years, 40 years, or more.

The bad news? Either she doesn't want you, or she does for a while, then changes her mind.

Maybe she was your girlfriend, or wife, until the split.

Maybe she likes or even loves you, but "only as a friend." (And in the wrong context, "only as a friend" can be the most painful four-word phrase in the English language!)

Maybe she's a co-worker or acquaintance who, in romantic terms, "doesn't know you exist."

Whatever the reason, you've either lost her, or you'll never have her. You're in agony, emotionally! You just barely make it through today, and you wonder "How will I ever make it through tomorrow?"

So. You want -- and, more probably, need -- to get over her merely to function in life. But you can't.

And why can't you get over her, fellow babies? Say it with me: Because she's The One!

The One. The One you waited for. The One you dreamed of. The One who's everything you ever wanted. The one you'd kill for, die for, and walk through fire for.

Getting over The One -- once you've determined that you want to, that is -- is one of the most difficult things you'll ever be faced with in your life. No exaggeration. 

How can you possibly get over her? You can't, right?

Wrong. And I'm here to help.

There is a foolproof method, but it's in two parts... and you have to be willing to do both parts or you'll fail. Dismally.

(And just for the record... I'm not trying to get over anyone at the moment... so don't personalize this to connect it to The Silver Fox! This post would be pointless to the point of being onanistic if it were directed toward myself! Heh.)

So without further ado, here it is:

  

1. Do everything in your power to insure that you'll never see her again.

2. Whenever you think about her -- and you will -- think of the negatives.

Okay, now, you know I can't be brief without imposing serious restrictions on myself, so here's where I elaborate.

1. "Do everything in your power to insure that you'll never see her again." Okay, you've long since determined that being just friends (or less) isn't gonna cut it. But everything -- everything -- about her drives you nuts! She's perfect, at least, in your eyes, and every time you see her you fall in love with her again.

So stop looking at her. No, really. You want to get her out of your life? It's time for drastic measures. She Is The One. She's so effin' wonderful, every time you see her... BAM! The Thunderbolt hits.

So stop looking at her.

"But... she lives in my apartment building." Then move. Change your flippin' address! I'm not joking.

"She works with me." Change your job. "But in this economy..." Shut up. Find a new job ASAP, and quit your current one. "Easier said than done..." Yeah, yeah, yeah. Do it. I'm not joking.

"But she works at the supermarket I always go to," or "I see her all over town," or... Oh, stop. Nobody's forcing you to go anywhere or to do anything where you "have" to see her. If you really want to avoid seeing her, move to another town. You'd better believe I'm not joking.

And I never said that it was going to be easy.

Now #2. "Whenever you think about her -- and you will -- think of the negatives."

"What negatives? She's The One! She's perfect! She's effin' perfect!"

Oh, of course. Silly me. 

Sometimes you don't have to literally see The One to fall under her spell. Memories of The One and all her endearing little ways can zap you! So whenever that lovely little face intrudes upon your mind, do everything possible to put that image in a bad light.

Focus on the bad times. And if there reallllly weren't any, spin the good times into bad times.

She was so cute and giggly when she'd get a bit tipsy? No. She was a f***ing lush who drank too much!

She always had a joke to lighten every sad occasion? No. She never took anything seriously!

She was popular with all your friends? No. She encouraged all your friends to want to sleep with her!

You get the idea, I'm sure.

At least, I hope so, because I've just given you The Official Silver Fox Double Whammy Secret of How to Get Over The One, and now... You're on your own!

Thanks for your time.

Well, Bully for You! -- A "Theme Thursday" David'Z RantZ Post

A little Anger Music, maestro, please!

This is only a tenuous link to this week's Theme Thursday theme, Gadget, but here 'tis, fellow babies:

OptimizedApps.com has a new app called a Bully Button for your iPhone. With it, you can record and report instances of school bullying. (I'm simplifying, of course. Here's the link to the full article if you want to read it.)

OptimizedApps CEO Thomas Murphy says: "Everything's on camera now. That's just how it is. If you're doing something that's good to be doing, it doesn't matter whether or not we see you doing it. If you're doing something bad that you're ashamed of doing, then you shouldn't be doing it."

Fair enough.

Bullying -- physical or emotional -- sucks. In fact, in the real world, we have another name for bullying.

Abuse.

"He abuses his wife." What, like, he beats her up? Or "just" belittles her and makes her feel like total crap in front of her friends, family, children, etc.?

Like either one is okay?

"He abused a child." You mean, he sexually molested some poor kid, or did he smack the kid around anytime no one was looking? Or "only" insult the child and make him or her doubt his/her self-worth?

Like any of those are okay?

Hell, you wanna know something? If you were a bully when you were in school, or at any time during your life... You suck.

And that's "suck" in the present tense, even if the last arm you twisted or the last crying kid you taunted was in the schoolyard thirty years ago... unless you've apologized to the kid(s) in question (if that's at all possible) and whatever God or gods you believe in (if you've got one or more).

What, angry? Me? Ya think?

I was bullied a few times in school. It wasn't so much that I was small ('though I was, kinda), or weak (not really, I wasn't) or cowardly (not at all). In my case, I was less likely to fight back because I was always afraid of "getting in trouble" for fighting. And those who knew that fact figured I was "safe" to pick on.

The worst that it ever got for me in grammar school was when I was in second grade, I think. Making a long story short, a guy named Mark would come looking for myself and a few friends every day at recess as part of a stupid game called "Yum, Yum, Eat 'Em Up!" Mark never did anything really violent to any of us, but he roughed us up a lot. And every day. That was too much.

I seemed to be his favorite target. I dreaded hearing that moronic yell of "Yum-Yums!" which signified that Mark had spotted me and was on the attack. And in Mark's case, I never even thought about fighting back. I mean... Come on. I was a second-grader. He was a third-grader. There's some kind of law of Nature or Physics or Some-Damned-Thing that says that a third-grader can automatically outfight a second-grader.

So I told my mom, and asked for her advice. Actually, it's not fair to suggest that I was mature enough to actively seek her counsel. Uhhhh, no. She had demanded to know why I kept "faking sick" and coming up with other ploys to keep me from attending school.

I'm not sure what my dad -- whom I rarely saw because his work schedule demanded that he sleep during the day -- would have advised. My mom talked to the school principal.

My own second-grade teacher walked up to Mark one day as he held me pinned against the school wall, and she trotted us both to the principal's office. As the other kids in the playground stared at us, she told me "Don't worry, David, you're not in trouble."

So, I walked into Mrs. Boyle's office with kind of a grin.

In a matter of minutes, Mark had explained that this was all a silly game called "Yum, Yum, Eat 'Em Up!" There was no actual bullying, just a little innocent, playful rough-housing.

"So, this was all a misunderstanding," offered Mrs. Boyle.

WTF?

I was still the seven-year-old who was "afraid of getting in trouble," remember? So I didn't dare say what I was thinking.

And what I was thinking, of course, was my seven-year-old self's equivalent of "Are you kidding me? A misunderstanding? Is it a 'misunderstanding' when someone pushes you down, or punches you, or twists your arm behind your back? Are you f***ing kidding me?!?"

But no. Of course, I didn't say any of that.

Mark never bothered me again. That would have blown holes in his earlier "game" excuse. But that wasn't even the freakin' point any more.

At least... At least seven-year-old David learned some very important things that day.

1. Public school teachers, paid by the taxpayers' dollars, often want to please everyone. And as most people who try to please everyone eventually learn, when you try to please everyone, you end up pleasing no one.

2. Don't expect anyone to fight your battles for you. Maybe they can help you, but they can't do it all for you.... especially if you want the result to please you.

He hadn't written "A Boy Named Sue" yet when I was in second grade, but Shel Silverstein later wrote -- and Johnny Cash sang -- "get tough or die," and he had one helluva point.

3. To hell with "getting in trouble." Do what your heart -- your "gut" -- tells you to do. Just remain true to your own sense of fair play. As Jiminy-effin'-Cricket said, "always let your conscience be your guide." If you hit me, I'll probably fight back. If you hurt someone whom I care about, though... You just made a very bad enemy.

It's almost scary to think of how some of the later incidents where people thought I was cowed were just examples of my enormous self restraint. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to make myself sound like some sort of bad-ass -- I'm emphatically not a bad-ass! -- but there were a few instances where some guy who thought he was being tough didn't realize that while I was sitting or standing there, quietly & maddeningly smiling at him, I was actually thinking about how surprised he'd be if I lashed out, screaming like a madman, and smashed my stack of schoolbooks against the side of his head, and... and...

Oops. Where was I? Heh.

No, I never did anything crazy like that in school. Worst thing I ever did was when some prankster pulled my pen out of my shirt pocket. He caught me on a bad day. I grabbed his throat with one hand and slammed him up against my locker.

I got the pen back.

Okay, enough of my school days. Let's jump ahead, twenty years after Mark and the "Yum Yums," for not one, but two applications of the lessons I learned when seven.

When I was engaged for the second time, my fiancée Faye -- Number Two in a series, collect 'em all! -- loved to make me the disciplinarian -- a/k/a "villain" -- where her two kids were concerned. One day I came home from work to find that her son Jason was "grounded in his room," waiting for me.

Jason was ten or eleven at the time. I was to decide his "official" punishment.

"What did he do?" I asked.

"I'll let him tell you," she replied, rather smugly.

So she and I went to his room. "What did you do, Jay?"

"I got in a fight at school."

Terrific, I thought. I'm sure this could have been avoided...

So I asked for details. (And I'm going to make up some names here to make for easier reading.)

Jason's friend Steven was involved in a fight with another kid named Danny. Steven was losing. Jason stepped in to help Steven. I wasn't pleased at all that Jason had interfered, even if Steven had been losing what was, after all, a fair fight.

Ah. But that's when Jason explained that he had indeed stayed out of the fight until Danny's friend Eric had jumped in, to help Danny beat up Steven... who was already losing!

Faye was rather shocked when I looked at Jason and said "Oh. That's different. Go out and play."

As Jason ran outside, I matter-of-factly informed Faye "I would have done the exact same thing. I'm proud of him!"

Sure, he'd broken school rules by fighting. But I admired his motivation. Zorro, The Lone Ranger, Batman, Captain America... They would have all protected the underdog. To hell with "getting in trouble."

And there was another time... Faye's daughter Jen was being bullied by another girl at school. Jen was about twelve, I believe. Faye looked at her and gave her one of the dumbest pieces of advice I've ever heard, one which parents often use in cases of bullying, sad to say:

"Just stay away from her."

I stared at Faye as if to say what I should have said to Mrs. Boyle twenty years earlier: "Are you f***ing kidding me?!?"

Faye looked at the deranged expression which (I assume) was on my face, turned back to Jen, and said once more "Just stay away from her."

And it alllllllll came back. Mark. "Yum, Yum, Eat 'Em Up!" The stupidity of school officials. You name it. I'd heard the same lame-ass "Just stay away from him/her" before, and it always infuriated me.

"Don't tell her that!" I exclaimed. "Don't ever tell her that!" I then went on a verbal tirade, pointing out that these bullies seek out their victims. I literally challenged Faye to try to "stay away from" me. "Go ahead!" I dared her. "Just for the sake of argument, you walk into any room in this apartment, and we'll see if I can or can't follow you in there! What the hell is wrong with you? Don't ever tell a kid that!"

Yeah, I was furious...

But not as much as when I finally stopped ranting... because that's when Faye gave me that look that said "Are you done?" and she looked at Jen once more and said "Just stay away from her." As if I hadn't said a word.

Thank God I'm not the type of jackass who hits women. Cuz even though it didn't even occur to me then, that might have been the moment I'd have done it out of anger, frustration, outrage, you name it.

But even if I had, I'd never try to justify it.

Cuz you can't.

Cuz bullies suck.

Thanks for your time.

Roll with the Changes -- NOT a "Theme Thursday" Post, About "Theme Thursday!"

THEME THURSDAY

PREVENTING BLOGGER BURNOUT SINCE 2008

So. The format of Theme Thursday is changing!

In the old days, it was pretty simple. Every Sunday -- or, on rare occasions, Monday -- the Powers-That-Be at "TT" would post the theme for the following Thursday. Bloggers would sign up, and post their theme-related entries on Thursday. Or sometimes Wednesday. Or sometimes Tuesday. Or sometimes, even Friday. Whatever. Then, anybody who wanted to would visit -- and hopefully, comment on -- as many of the participating sites' posts as he or she wished to, on Thursday. Or sometimes Friday. Or sometimes, even Saturday.

But now, that scenario is changing, as explained here.

Henceforth, the theme for the week will be listed on Thursday. Those who wish to play along will have up to a week to write their posts. They can post it that very day. Or on Friday... or on Saturday... et cetera, et cetera, et cetera... up to and including Wednesday. Theoretically, this means that instead of calling in sick to work and spending an entire Thursday reading and commenting on other people's blogs, you'll have a whole week to visit everyone's Theme Thursday entries.

Then, on the following Thursday, a new theme will post.

It could work wonderfully.

On the other hand, it could go something like this:

Thursday: "Okay, the topic is PHLEGM. What the hell am I going to write about phlegm? Let's see, twelve people have already posted! *sigh* I'll go read theirs."

Friday: "Where did I leave off yesterday? Nineteen total as of today... Did I read #11? Name's not familiar. But... #12's is?"

Saturday: "Up to thirty-eight today. Did I read the first twenty already, or just the first nineteen? Maybe I should make a checklist somewhere..."

Sunday: "Finally posted mine! They're only at forty, including mine. That's only two more since yesterday! Where the hell does everybody go on weekends?!?"

Monday: "Thirty-eight?!? How the hell did that happen? And did I read the first thirty-two, or the first thirty-four? Where the hell's my checklist?!?"

Tuesday: "I have to work all day, and then I have a date. To hell with the internet."

Wednesday: "One hundred and forty-seven?!? For cryin' out loud, I have to work tonight!"

Thursday: "New theme, PROCTOLOGY? Oh, great. I'll still be spending the next two or three days catching up on last week's theme entries! Who the hell has time to write one?"

On the other hand, it could go swimmingly...

Seriously, despite my own piddling little reservations about this new format, I wish everyone involved the best of luck. I first encountered a lot of my current Blogger-blogger buddies, male and female, through the odd kinship brought about by Theme Thursday. And if one can be grateful to a blog, rather than the person(s) responsible for it, I truly am.

But enough sappy, sentimental crap. Nobody ever laughs at that.

Thanks for your time.

EQUALS, Or Just Apples and Oranges? -- A "Theme Thursday" Post

A funny thing happened on my way to Theme Thursday. I didn't even know about this week's theme until Wednesday evening!

I'd planned to write an article all on my own about both Sherlock Holmes, and Marvel Comics' Iron Man -- and I'm sure you can think of at least one thing the two characters have in common, eh? -- and got another idea Wednesday morning, for the post after that. My new idea was a goofy post presenting a faux comparison asking the question, "Which are better? Films & TV shows, or comic books?" Truly a case of apples and oranges, and certainly not an argument which I planned to take seriously, but when I read that today's Theme Thursday topic was "Equals," I thought, "Hey! I can make this work!"

As a long-time comic book fan, albeit a serious movie buff as well, I had originally planned to "prove" that comic books had the edge on movies and television programs, and was going to list just one admittedly-ludicrous example as that "proof":

In the original, so-called "Classic Trek" Star Trek show and its filmed sequels, Dr. Leonard "Bones" McCoy was quite well-known for examining some unfortunate crew member who'd contracted an unknown ailment, or been attacked by a rubber-suited actor playing an alien beastie, or whatever... and gruffly pronouncing, "He's dead, Jim." Just like that. Some "doctor."

On the other hand, we have Professor Charles Xavier -- better known as Professor X -- of Marvel Comics' X-Men title and its literally dozens of spin-offs. (And let's ignore the successful franchise of X-Men movies at the moment. I'm just talking about the comics. The movies were based on them.)

Several years ago, in a somewhat forced and silly -- but best-selling! -- mini-series called Marvel Super-Heroes Secret Wars, Professor X was quoted as saying (although I'm quoting from memory) "It appears that, at some point, true death becomes irrevocable." Well! Look at all the indecisive words in that sentence (with my smart-ass comments added, below)!

"It appears [but may not be true] that at some point [possibly, beyond an apparent death?], true death [not some faked death, or misleading deathlike state] becomes [like, it isn't right away?] irrevocable."

That's a great way of saying that any character killed in a comic book isn't really dead and gone, unless no one ever wants to bring him/her/it back!

Now. If you were going to be medically treated by someone, which character's attitude would you want your doctor to have? A guy who barely looks at you and says, "Ah, screw it... Next?" or someone who'd work to bring you back even after you were buried?!?

So. Comic books are "better" than movies. A shoddy resolution based on one kooky example, I know.

And in that vein, I present the following stream-of-consciousness series of photos:

One weird trait in comic books (as opposed to movies... usually) is that certain things "work" only because the writers say that they work. Listing just one example: In real life, severe radiation poisoning kills you, generally. In comic books, it gives us -- to name only three heroes -- super-powered entities such as Spider-Man, the Incredible Hulk, and Daredevil.

Another thing in comics that's worked for 72 years is that when mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent takes off his eyeglasses and changes his hairstyle, no one recognizes him! (Funny, I take off my own reading glasses, and no one ever says, "Hey! Where did David disappear to?")

But in films? To my mind, it took the underrated acting ability of Christopher Reeve to make us "believe" that "The Big Blue Boy Scout" and Clark Kent were two different people.

By the way, that's Christopher Reeve, not Reeves. I suppose people were confused because the actor who portrayed both Clark and Supie in the 1950s TV offering The Adventures of Superman was George Reeves. (And by the way, as much as I enjoyed that TV classic, I never bought the idea that his identity switches would fool anyone.)

Of course, the fact that another Reeves, actor & bodybuilder Steve Reeves (no relation to George), played Hercules and similar "strongman" characters in movies made during the 1950s and 1960s no doubt added to the confusion.

So. Back to "Bones" McCoy.

In terms of this entry, it is kinda cool that Patrick Stewart, Captain Jean-Luc Picard of Star Trek: The Next Generation (shown above with DeForest "Dr. McCoy" Kelley himself) was later chosen to play the part of Professor X in the X-Men motion pictures!

And hey, as long as I'm messing with Star Trek, has anyone ever noticed that three of the four guys who comprise The Wiggles...

Hey! I said "The Wiggles!" Those guys look more like The Beatles!

See?

Anyway, here are three of The Wiggles.

And in my eyes, they look like they would have fit right in with the cast of the original Star Trek program!

So, "Which are better? Films & TV shows, or comic books?" I guess they're equal.

(And if I had to hang around with pointy-eared aliens, I'd prefer a Vulcan like this one!)

Okay, fellow babies, we're done. Maybe you want to cuddle, but I'm just going to have a cigarette, and then go to sleep!

Good night, and thanks for your time.

ELVID [sic] Has Left the Building! ~~ Another BRUSH with Fame, for "Theme Thursday"

Image by Free-StockPhotos.com

It's sometime during 2002, or maybe 2003. You sit there in the audience of a low-budget talk show. The cheap set design approximates that of The Tonight Show starring Johnny Carson as it existed roughly thirty years earlier. (The only difference would have been if the set designer's original idea had been incorporated; his idea was to fill the space behind the host with 8"x10" black & white photos of television and motion picture personalities whom the host greatly admired, including Ernie Kovacs, Orson Welles, Jack Benny, and Johnny Carson himself. But then he discovered that Conan O'Brien had done the same thing ten years or so earlier when he first took over Late Night from David Letterman.)

The studio lights come up, revealing the talk show's Host, who looks much like -- make that exactly like -- the writer of this blog looked seven or eight years ago. The Host looks into the camera, smiles, clears his throat and says:

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great pride that I introduce our next guest. Listing all of his accomplishments would fill the rest of our time remaining tonight, and you'd never even get to see him perform! So suffice it to say that here, doing his new hit medley entitled "Another American Trilogy," is... ELVID!"

The studio goes black. Then the on-stage lights come up just enough to show a microphone in its stand. From out of the darkness comes a man's left hand. He grabs the microphone and brings it to his lips as an unseen band begins to play. The stage lights continue to brighten, but only slightly. You wait for a spotlight to illuminate this "Elvid's" face, but that doesn't happen.

In a voice you've heard countless times before... somewhere... Elvid begins singing a song you've never heard covered quite this way: the Paul Simon composition, "Homeward Bound." Lines like "on a tour of one-night stands, my suitcase and guitar in hand" and "each town looks the same to me" strike you with unusual poignancy, like the singer indeed knows whereof he speaks.

The musical arrangement drifts away from the Paul Simon tune and Elvid, his face still maddeningly obscured by the dim and selective lighting, begins singing a song which was also in the original "An American Trilogy" piece: "Dixie." As in that other, earlier version, the song is sung slowly, almost mournfully. You feel that this is indeed a man removed from his home in the South, whether "the South" refers to Tupelo, Mississippi... or Memphis, Tennessee... or southern Massachusetts. A pleasant-sounding choir of background singers, presumably off-stage, adds to the power of this segment.

After Elvid's brief rendition of the "Dixie" portion of his performance, the unseen band kicks into an up-tempo arrangement of Neil Diamond's "America," introduced in the third filmed version of The Jazz Singer (in which Diamond starred in 1980). By now, you notice, the lights are finally bright enough to make out Elvid's on-stage movements, but his face, as always, remains largely unseen. Elvid's characterization of himself as a wandering musician seems to have finally realized that he's been where he belongs all along.

At the conclusion of the song, Elvid raises his right arm toward the sky -- or to the heavens? -- even as Neil Diamond's character did at the conclusion of his version of the song. You still can't clearly see his face, but somehow... it no longer matters.

Photo "borrowed" from 1980's

The Jazz Singer, and subsequently

"muddied" via Ubuntu's F-Stop feature!

The already-dim stage lights go out completely as the woefully-small studio audience bursts into applause. The lights come up once again and the camera focuses on the Host once more, seated behind his desk. He makes a lame joke about how they had "tried to cut down the electric bill to afford Elvid's performance fee" before dramatically (but facetiously) intoning, "And as for Elvid himself? Elvid... has left the building!"

* * * * *

Well, fellow babies, it almost happened. No, really.

One of the few good things about my former Crappy Day Job as it stood seven or eight years ago was that it gave me every weekend off, something which no other job of mine since I entered the work force in 1973 had done. It also gave me enough money so that I could easily afford to quit the Sunday flea markets I'd been doing steadily since 1988.

Foolishly -- that is, incorrectly -- assuming that I'd have a lot more time on my hands, I planned something rather ambitious. "I want my own TV show!" I announced to anyone who'd listen. My plan was to have a weekly "talk show" spoof, closely modeled after that of my idol, Johnny Carson, using the facilities of my home town's cable access station. (This would be easy enough, seeing as how I actually worked for the cable company at the time.) I'd heard of two or three programs during the 1990s that had started out as cable access shows, but had been "discovered" and bought by "real" TV channels. Ah, the lure of money! This was to be the "brush with fame" I mentioned in my title, in order to justify this post's tenuous inclusion among this week's Theme Thursday entries.

Several names for the show itself occurred to me, but I'll be damned if I can remember even one of them right now!

I planned to have real guests from the local area. Politicians, rock bands, blues bands, jazz bands, country & western bands, strippers... you name it. I'd do real interviews, as well as put-on interviews with characters invented for the show itself. And once in a while, I'd have really special features... like this "Elvid" guy I came up with one day.

Of course, through the magic of videotape, I would be both the host and this "Elvid guy." I can talk somewhat like Elvis, and as a singer, I can actually imitate him pretty well, too. I was doing that as early as 1976, when I used to sing Boston's "Peace of Mind" as if it had been arranged by whoever it was who wrote the arrangement for Elvis Presley's "Burnin' Love." (If you know both songs, give it some thought. Kinda cool, innit?)

The only "problem," such as it was, was that there was no way I was gonna shave off my mustache and beard for a seven-minute spot! So I couldn't show Elvid's (my) face when I performed as him. I can sound like Elvis, sure, but I certainly don't look like him. (I can approximate the famous "Elvis sneer," but I think Megan does it even better!)

So, you ask, what happened to this wonderful TV show? Well, even before I realized how much time this would really entail, I realized that such an endeavor would quickly eat up a lot of written material, whether this was a half hour show, or even a fifteen-minute thing! More than I could handle, considering the mental burn-out I often suffered because of my Crappy Day Job. And on a budget of $47 or so I could hardly afford to hire a writing staff! And I refused to seek out qualified, talented people just to say, "I can't pay you anything now for all of your hard work, of course, but if this thing ever takes off... "

No. No way. I've been approached by far too many people who don't understand that a professional writer can't pay the bills with "maybes" and "somedays." It's always been very, very easy for me to politely refuse such offers. "Writing on spec," as it's called, is an industry no-no.

Thus, my "dream TV show" was -- and will remain -- just that: A dream. Not even a dream, really, just another idea for my mental files. But since David M. Lynch's First Rule of Writing is "Never Throw Anything Away," I know I'll do something with the story of The Show That Never Was someday... like, say, today?

So as far as your chances go of ever hearing -- never mind seeing -- an actual performance by Elvid, whom I hereby dub "The King of Blog'n'Roll"... it ain't gonna happen, sorry. And as for my story about him? Ummm... Haven't you been paying attention? Heh.

Thanks for your time.

"Tippy's Lessons" ~~ A "Theme Thursday" PET Post

Wow. I haven't done a "Theme Thursday" post in quite a while, have I?

This one ought to make you all wonder...

I originally wrote this one-pager about ten years ago, in response to a situation involving a close friend named Jennifer. (She was one of approximately 47 Jennifers I've met in the last thirty years or so, several of whom have become quite close to me, at least for a time. I've always enjoyed "one-on-one" time with my closest friends, but Jennifer was so popular that there were always visitors -- mostly guys -- because Jen was fun to be around, and frankly, somewhat easily seduced.

Anyway, the little story I wrote for her wasn't about her, exactly. It was about one of my pets! My first pet, a cat named Tippy. (And no, I didn't name him!)

I didn't have time to transcribe the story, so you're stuck with a scan of the original. Sorry! In order to read it, right-click on it and open it in a new tab or window, please! Hopefully, you'll be able to read it then!

Thanks for your time.

Four Bells! -- A "Theme Thursday" Post

This week's Theme Thursday topic is "bell," and although there will be the usual creative approaches to the subject from the many Blogger-bloggers who've signed up, there's one thing which probably all of us will have in common besides (obviously) the "bell" theme itself.

More on that shortly.

My own slant on the subject is to give you some background info on one of the television kiddie show hosts I grew up watching in the early 1960s. And for once, I'll be relatively and mercifully brief.

I grew up in southern Massachusetts, and the majority of TV stations we of that era tuned to were based in Boston. One of the local personalities was a gentleman known as Captain Bob Cottle. When I watched him, Captain Bob worked for channel five, WHDH-TV, which was then a CBS affiliate... although in the early 1960s he also played host to Hanna-Barbera's Ruff & Reddy Show on NBC, somehow...

I collect whatever late 1950s & early 1960s New England kiddie show memorabilia I can get my hands on, and I have a few mementos from Captain Bob, including the two magazines shown above and a "Jasper" squeaky toy based on Captain Bob's puppet sidekick.

Oh, and I did manage to pick up one other item, a store display for a Captain Bob product...

Which brings us back to "bell." Like the bell in the upper left-hand corner of my sidebar. (Feel free to click on that, by the way.)

One of the Blogger-bloggers whom I'm acquainted with is a Canadian gent named Barry, who writes a blog called An Explorer's View of Life. Today, at two p.m., EST, Barry will be ringing a bell in accordance with... Well, let me quote from an earlier post on Barry's own blog:

High on the wall next to the exit from the Chemo Day Care Centre at Princess Margaret Hospital a bell is waiting for me. As I mentioned in my post a week ago Friday, there is a ritual at PMH that those patients completing their last treatment of chemotherapy, ring the bell as they leave.

Today is Barry's last treatment. But he won't be ringing that bell alone. Not exactly. Bloggers from literally all over the world have latched onto this idea, and in honor of Barry (and every other person who's ever battled some form of cancer), there will be hundreds of people ringing some sort of bell -- dinner bells, bicycle bells, bells supplied via YouTube videos, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera! -- or making some sort of noise, to show their solidarity.

Kind of inspiring.

And as for me? Well, if you know me at all, you know I wasn't satisfied with just the display for that "Ship's Bell" of Captain Bob's.

Yep, I tracked down one of those Captain Bob brass bells, in its original box, no less. And that's the bell that I'll be ringing at 2 p.m. EST.

That's right, this land-lubber will be ringing a ship's bell! Just for Barry. And if you read this post before 2 p.m., feel free to join us.

(And in case you're wondering, the "four bells" mentioned in my title -- if I understand the way these things work -- is how they used to mark the hour of 2 p.m. at sea.)

Now let's make those bells ring... and the ground shake!

Thanks for your time.

They Called Him Bat... Bat Masterson -- A Theme Thursday "History" Post

When I was a little spud -- very late 1950s and early to mid-1960s -- TV Westerns were all the rage. I grew up idolizing characters like the Lone Ranger and Disney's version of Zorro. I also remember liking shows such as The Rebel (featuring Nick Adams as "Johnny Yuma," a character that inspired me to plead with my mom to get me a Confederate cap until she finally gave in) and Have Gun, Will Travel (and its hero, "Paladin," who, it only now occurs to me, might have provided the initial spark igniting my later interest in dressing in black... an interest that pre-dated all the little Goths running around today).

But I was really too young to fully appreciate the so-called "adult" Westerns of that period.

Roughly three years ago, the Encore Western channel showed the entire five-season run of The Rifleman, and all three seasons of Bat Masterson. I loved having the chance to watch both series in their entirety, but I developed a special affinity for Bat Masterson's character, as portrayed by Gene Barry.

As you probably know, Bat Masterson (pictured above) was a real-life figure in the history of the American "Old West." He was a contemporary of Wyatt Earp's.

When it comes to Wyatt Earp, I prefer the depictions of him which look more authentic -- think Kurt Russell in Tombstone -- but I don't mean in any way to slight actor Hugh O'Brian, who portrayed Wyatt on TV in The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp!

It should come as a surprise to no one that I own a cane

like the one in the above photo, obtained courtesy of eBay!

When it comes to Bat Masterson, however, I prefer to think of him as he was brought to TV "life" by Gene Barry. What a class act!

In 1991, Gene Barry played the role of Bat once again in the fun-filled, light-hearted memory fest called -- deep breath here, fellow babies! -- The Gambler Returns: The Luck of the Draw, starring Kenny Rogers and Reba McEntire. This TV-movie gave cameos and longer parts to many actors -- Chuck Connors, David Carradine, Clint Walker, Brian Keith, Hugh O'Brian, Jack Kelly, and more --who were familiar faces during the 1950s and 1960s on American television. And they all played their original characters! (Well, not exactly in the case of James Drury and Doug McClure... I assume it had something to do with unobtainable rights to their characters from The Virginian, but let's not get into that right now.)

Unfortunately, the vast majority of the actors who reprised their earlier, iconic roles in The Gambler Returns: The Luck of the Draw are no longer with us. And sadder still, a few days ago, the illustrious name of Gene Barry was added to that list of departed Western stars.

In addition to three seasons as Bat Masterson, Gene Barry appeared in TV series and movies like Burke's Law, The Name of the Game, China Gate (which featured Nat King Cole, Lee Van Cleef, and Angie Dickinson as a Eurasian!), and the incredible, classic The War of the Worlds.

"Which The War of the Worlds?" Why, is there more than one? Heh, heh. (Actually, Gene Barry had a part in the Tom Cruise film, too!)

But to me, Gene Barry will always be Bat Masterson.

Rest in peace, Mr. Barry.

Thanks for your time.

Helpful Jesse -- A Theme Thursday "Telephone" Post

Sorry I'm dragging my silvery, foxy butt as regards Part Four of "Old Home Week," fellow babies, but those gosh-durned real-world concerns I've often complained about lately have been taking me away from much of my blogging time.

However, I did manage to toss off a relatively short Theme Thursday post, for today's theme, "Telephone."

And here it is.

Thanks for your time.

* * * * *

Jesse Adams, Jr. had just finished an extremely busy day. He'd coordinated all his class schedules, bought the few remaining books he'd needed, and even made time for a little clothes shopping at a nearby thrift store.

Freshman year at Newbury College in Massachusetts promised to be overwhelming.

His errands done for the day, Jesse headed for his new home, the two-room off-campus apartment in Brookline which his father, a young but moderately-successful lawyer, had arranged for him. As he reached in his pocket for the key, he remembered that his neighbor across the hall, Sharon, had it. Today was the day his new telephone service was supposed to have been connected, and Sharon had graciously agreed to let the phone installer in to do his work.

Jesse's knock brought Sharon, an older but still-attractive blonde woman, to the door. "Oh, hi, Jesse!" she exclaimed, happy to see him. "Hey, Sharon, everything go according to plan with the phone today?"

"Oh, sure. Let me go find your key," she said, leaving him at the door while suiting her actions to her words.

Once inside his apartment, Jesse dropped a few packages unceremoniously onto a recliner and headed for the kitchen counter.

There sat his prized possession, an early touch-tone telephone from the mid-1960s. Jesse owned a cell phone, of course, but this antique was a special thing! He had bought it at a flea market roughly a year ago and -- with help from his brother -- had painstakingly altered it to work with modern telephone outlets. Other than that adjustment, it still looked as it had more than forty years ago. It was even missing the * and # keys, which hadn't yet been included as features at the time of this phone's creation!

Even as Jesse reached into his wallet for his new telephone number, as provided by the phone company, the antique telephone rang!

That's odd, thought Jesse. Who the hell has this number already?

"Hello," said Jesse. There was no reply. "Hello?" he repeated.

"Who's this, man?" said a lazy-sounding voice.

"You called me, so tell me who you are."

"Don't hassle me, man. Just get Sunshine to the phone."

"Sunshine? Nobody by that name here." Not that I'd admit it if there were, thought Jesse. Sunshine! Geez!

More to himself than to Jesse, the man exclaimed, "Wow, man, I can't believe she's shackin' up with someone else already!"

"She's not 'shacking up' with me! She doesn't live here. I don't even know her."

"Stop messin' with my head, man!"

"I'm not! Look, you've obviously dialed the wrong number..." It suddenly, absurdly occurred to Jesse that after nearly fifty years of touch-tone technology, nobody had yet come up with a word to replace the erroneous "dial."

"No way, man. You think I'm high or somethin'?"

"I hadn't even considered that. Until now."

"Well, unconsider it, man! Right now, I'm as straight as Dick Nixon."

Unconsider? Is that even a word? Jesse wondered, as the man began slowly and sarcastically reciting the number he'd called.

"6-1-7..." he began, stating the area code, "7-5-4..." Jesse waited patiently until finally, the man had given him the remaining four numbers.

"Okay, that is my number, but I just had it installed today. When was the last time you called this chick?"

"Less than a week ago, man, right after me'n'my old lady split."

"Split? You broke up?"

"Well, yeah, man. And she's still got my albums. And my bong."

"Your albums? You mean, like LPs?"

"What else could I mean, man?"

"Sorry, I just have a thing for old stuff... Anyway, it's none of my business, but... why don't you just cut your losses and get on with your life? That's usually best, after someone dumps you."

There was a long pause. "She didn't 'dump' me, man, I dumped her."

"Oh. Then this really is all about the LPs... and your bong?"

"No, man, I..." For some strange reason, the man was evidently mellowing toward Jesse. And Jesse was feeling somewhat concerned about this archaic-sounding guy as well. "I only dumped her because I got vibes she was gonna dump me."

"What 'vibes?' What did she do, or say?"

"She didn't say nothin', but she was, like, always pushin' me away whenever I tried to make it with her. She'd tell me not to touch her boobs, 'cause they were sore..."

"TMI, dude."

"Huh?"

"Too much information. Anyway, go on."

"Or she'd have a headache... And the mornings were, like, the worst bummer, man. I'd try to get cuddly and she'd jump off the mattress and run to the bathroom to puke! I was literally makin' her sick, man, you dig?"

"And those are the reasons why you assumed she wanted to break up with you? Headaches, sore breasts, and morning sickness? You dork, it sounds like she's pregnant!"

There was a long pause before the other man spoke again. And, as he had earlier, he spoke more to himself than to Jesse. "Pregnant. Pregnant. Far out."

"Look... What's your name, anyway?"

"Huh? Oh, nobody calls me by my real name, man. Everybody just calls me M.C." He laughed softly. "You know, like the MC5?"

Whoever or whatever that means, thought Jesse. "Look, M.C., if you still care about this Sunshine, and it certainly appears that you do, hang up this damned phone and go to her." Jesse thought for a second. "Umm... You do have a car, don't you?"

"I got a VW van, man." Of course, thought Jesse. And I'll bet there's a bumper sticker from the 1969 Woodstock Festival on it, too. "She's about an hour away from me, but I'll make it. And hey, man..."

"What?"

"What's your name?"

"Jesse."

"Like Jesse James? Far out. Look, man, if she is pregnant, and it's a boy... I'm gonna name it after you, man!"

The two men said their goodbyes. Jesse hung up, feeling rather pleased with himself.

He called his parents' number.

"Hello," said his father, answering after only two rings.

"Hey there, Jesse, Senior! It's me, Jesse, Junior!" he said brightly. "I just got my new phone connected."

"Your old phone, you mean," teased his father.

"Well, yeah," the younger Jesse agreed, "but you know what I meant. I was just calling to give you my new number."

"I've got it now, on my caller ID screen. I'm writing it... Oh, wow."

"Oh, wow what?"

"The number they've given you is the same number I had when I was a little boy! Right down to the area code, in fact."

"The area code? How is that possible? I'm in 617, but you were raised in 508, where you and mom live now!"

Referring to his home town of Worcester, the elder Jesse said, "Actually, it wasn't 508 then. When I was a child, the population of Massachusetts was quite smaller than it is now. There were only two area codes for the state then. Worcester was in 617. The western part of the state -- like Holyoke, where your Grandpa Morton came from -- was 413. 508 didn't even exist until... Well, I don't remember the exact year, but it was shortly before you were born."

Jesse laughed. "You crack me up when you do that."

"When I do what?"

"Start explaining things in detail like you're filming a documentary! How has Mom put up with you all these years?" he joked.

"She likes it. In fact, she finds it sexy!"

"Ew. The thought of you, Mom, and the word 'sexy' is just TMI."

"Oh, stop. So tell me, what's new? How are you adjusting, so far?" Jesse (the son) started regaling Jesse (the father) with his day-to-day activities, leading up to the strange phone call of a few minutes earlier.

"And this character said his girlfriend's name was 'Sunshine,' did he?"

"Yup. I thought all the hippies were Grandpa's age. How'd I wind up with one who sounded like a relative kid?"

"Not sure. But I swear, half the women back then must have had 'Sunshine' or 'Sunflower' for a nickname! In fact, even your own Grandma Irene was nicknamed Sunshine! I remember hearing her called that when I was a toddler."

All of a sudden, half a dozen details came together in young Jesse's mind. The hippie on the telephone who called himself "M.C." and his odd references. The whole area code thing. Grandma Irene's "Sunshine" nickname years earlier. "Holy...! Dad, can I call you back?"

"Sure. Why?"

"I have to call Grandpa Morton."

"Fine, but... Again, why?"

"Well, for one thing..." Jesse began enigmatically, staring with an almost awed expression at his amazing little antique telephone, "I just remembered that Grandpa Morton's middle name is Charles... which starts with a C."