Punny Names

It’s been in only the last several decades that “OCD” became in vogue. We’ve always known about those who seemed a bit strange in their behavior, but we just called them odd. I mention this because in a number of ways I’m compulsive but not necessarily obsessive. How do these two words differ? I went to the Net for the answer. “Obsessive” relates to the mind or thought, and “compulsive” relates to action. An obsession is an unrealistic fixation with someone or something (often resulting in stalking), or a fear of something to an unnatural degree—fear of germs, the dark, unlocked doors, etc. These fears become obsessive when we compulsively act to allay them. Cinematically, maybe the best example of this was Jack Nicholson in the 1997 As Good As It Gets. In real life, Nicholson has always struck me as strange, but in this film he was really strange until Helen Hunt came along and pulled him up and away from his obsessions. Compulsive behavior can result in constant washing of the hands, or using shirt sleeves to open doors for fear of what may be on the doorknob, or avoiding handshakes or hugs or (oh, yuck!) French kisses.

          All right, now I have the ground rules established: I’m compulsive but not obsessive. And here’s my latest compulsion, something I’ve already mentioned in a previous post, but here it is again in all its compulsive glory—an alphabetized list of all the punny names I’ve come up with over the years. I think my collecting them and now alphabetizing them is the compulsion. Some of these names are better than others, more clever and surprising. Some are pretty obvious and less clever or surprising. Of all of them, though, my favorite is the romantic couple William Aramy and, in this age of same-sex marriage, his long-time partner Hugh Bettcha.

          If anyone knows of a punny name not on my list, please let me know and I’ll compulsively add it to my list.

Funny Punny Names

A –

Adam Uppen (or, on his IRS form, Uppen, Adam

Al Abord

Al Bearound

Al Besinya

Al Fabeticle

Allen Gudthyme

Allison Vanderlind

Al O’Peeshia

Al Packa

Althea Thune

Al Titude

Al Truism

Al Wayz

Amber Griss

Amber Wayvagrane

Anita Favour

Anita Hand

Anita Schauer

Annette Prophet

Annette Score

Annie Rexia

Artie Choke

Artie Facks

Art O’Fischel

Art Sore

Auntie Dote

Auntie Klymax

Auntie McKasser

Auntie Pasto

B –

Barbara Savill

Barry D’Attchette (a peacemaker)

Bea Keller (or, on her IRS form, Keller, Bea)

Bea Kownted (friends with Stan Dupp)

Ben Dare (long time companion of Don Datt)

 Ben Dover

Bess Amay (who married someone named Mucho)

Bette Nowarr

Betty Euthanme

Betty Kahn

Betty Kahnt (answers to Kenny Duit)

Betty O’ass

Betty O’Bippy

Bill Eamick

Billy Button

Billy Aards (or Billy Yards)

Billy Danser

Billy Dew

Bob Enweeve

Brandon Kattle

C –

Candy Labra

Carlotta Bawls

Carmen Geddit

Carol Ittle

Carol Ott

Carol Singers

Cary Mebach

Celia Laiter

Celia Lipps

Char Donay

Char LaMain

Cherry Pitts

Chuck Stake

Chuck Upp (or on his IRS form, Upp, Chuck)

Clara Zahbel

Claire Voyant

Claude Bawls (the animal trainer, specializing in big cats, brother of

     Harry Bawls)

Claude Tuhbitts

Cliff Dweller

Cliff Hanger

Clyde Eskope

Clyde Sedale

Coco Vann

Curtis E. Kerr

D –

Dan Druff

Daisy Chain

Derry Goze (pal of Harry Kumz)

A whole bunch of Duits

    Kenny Duit

    Willie Duit

    Deedee Duit  (all three related to I. Darren Duit)

    Dewey Duit

    Shelley Duit

    Cheryl Duit

    Woody Duit

    Howdy Duit

    Wendy Duit

    May I. Duit

    I. Darren Duit (a man who could never get married)

Dick Hedd

Dick Tater

Don Chuduit

Don Datt (long-time pal of Ben Dare)

Donny Lukalyve (see Izzie Dedd)

Donny Luknyss

Don Wenaur (friends with Gay Apparell)

Doug Ahdich

Doug Graves (married to Flora Liven)

Duane N. Spayn

Duane Fawdaun

Duncan Donutz

E –

Eben Flo

Ed Strong

Eileen Dover

Emma Hand (Can you guess her maiden name? That’s right, Nolkau)

Emma Bea Leaver

Emma Fein

Emma Fielbadd

Esther Leif-Atterdett

Etta Tumutch

F –

Faye Ling (An Oriental hooker with a penchant  for doing everything

    “wong.”  She screws up when she should be screwing sideways.)

Fess Upp

Frank Lee Muhdeer (starred in Gone with the Wind)

Frank Ensense

Frank O’File

Freddie Katt

Fred O’Nuttin

Frieda Slaves

G –

Gideon Payle

Ginger Snapps

Ginger Vaitis

Gladys Seyew

Grace Noates

H –

Hal Atosis

Hal Palp

Hal Zapoppin

Hank Avair

Hank R. Chief

Hank E. Panky

Hank O’Hare

Harvey Dariet

Hannah Dover

Hans Auff

Hans Down

Hans Upp

Harry Bawls

Harry Kumz (pal of Derry Goze)

Hazel Ayes

Hazel Nutt

Helen Highwater

Helena Hanbasket

Horace N. Bucky

Holly Hocks

Horace Poop

Howard Yew

Howie Duin

Howie Yew

Hubie Karefall

Hugh Bettcha

Hugo Tommy Hedd

Hugo Towell

Hume Adore

Hume Mormey

I –

Ida Noh

I. Darren Duit (a man who could never get married)

Isadora Jarr

Izzie Dedd

Izzie Dunne

Izzie Yewman

J –

Jack Auff

Jack Carr (or on his IRS, Carr, Jack)

Jack Swatt

Jack Pott

Jay Walker

Jerry Attricks

Jerry Boham

Jesse Kenn

Jimmy D’Loch

Jim Saachs

Jose Canusee

Judy Obscure

June Ezbustin

K –

Kenny Duit

Kerry Meebak

Kitten Caboodle

Kitty Litter

Kitty Wampus

Kurt C. Enbaugh

L –

Lance O’Boyle

Lee Mialone

Lily Livered

Lisa House 

Lisa Kerr

Les Tawk (Mo Ackshun)

Les Phalinluv

Les Sizzmor

Les Dans

Les Pardy

Lem Megoe

Lola Palooza

Lou Scannin

Lucy Bowells

Lucy Goosie

Luigi Bored

Luke Warm

M –

Mac O’Damia

Mac O’Ronee

Mal Adroit

Malcom Tent (or Mal Content)

Mal Feezents

Mal O’dure

Mandy Laiphbotz

Manny O’Tier (married Esther Fawl)

Matt Reside

Mark Ettvalyew

Mark Myward

Marty Nee

Marty Pantz

Matt Attchou

Marv Illus

Maude Lynn

Maxie Mumm

Maxie Padd

Max Stout

Meryl Lee Werolalong

Mike Rochip

Mike Rowkasm

Minnie Mumm

Miss Bea Hayving

Molly Coddle

N –

Natalie Attired

Nick O’Thyme

Nick O’Teen

Nina Forty (or on her IRS Form, Forty, Nina)

Noah Kant

Noah Notting

O –

O. Howie Danst

Olav Mihtender

Olive Apperaid

Olive Branche

Olive Oyl

Oliver Klozov

Oliver Sudden

Opal Eeze

Ophelia Draft

Otto Graff

Otto Kratik

Otto Matik

Otto Mayshun

P –

Pat M. Down

Pat M. Upp

Pat Reside

Patsy Fazool

Patty Dew

Patty Trayned

Paul Bearer

Pete O’File

Phil Armonick

Phil Issity

Phyllis Stations

Phyllis Steen

Phil O’Dendrun

Polly Esther

Q – 

Quentin Sam (or on his IRS form, Sam, Quentin)

R –

Ray Zerbach

Ray Zerscharp

Rick Oop (an insurance adjuster)

Rick O’Shay

Rick Rac

Rick Tangle

Ricky Tony

Rob D’Kraydel

Rhoda Dendrun

Roger Oubernoudt

Roy Altee

Russell Mania

Russell O’Leevs

Ruth Less

 S –

Sally Forth

Sally Mander

Sal Monella

Sal Utashins

Sam Perfidaylis

Sandra Packy (or on her IRS form, Packy, Sandra)

Sandy Beeches

Sarah Bonna (or on her IRS form, Bonna, Sarah)

Saul R. Eaklips

Señor Moment

Sharon Cheralyke

Shirley Yugest

Stan Dout

Stan Bimee

Stan Dupp

Stan Doffish

Stella D’Knight

Sunny Beech

Sunny Skyze

Swen Golly

T –

Tess Tickles

Tess Tosterone

Toby R. Notaby

Tom Boreen

Trudy Grapevine

Trudy Lukenclass

 U –

Upton O’Gude

V –

Vaughn Meetball

Vic Tumm (with a brother named Rick Tumm, who’s an asshole)

W –

Wade Inn

Wanda Ball (the nympho)

Warren Peese

Wendy Getthehr

Will Hubie Mein

William Aramy

Willie Duit

Willie Maykett

Will Paur

Wun Hung Lo

X –

Y –

Z –

Happy Fourth

          Happy Fourth of July. Let’s do drones instead of fireworks this year. Who needs another forest fire?

A few days ago, I spent an hour watching a crew from our electric company take down a large tree from the yard across the street. It had grown so much it was interfering with the power lines from the street. Or maybe the home owners simply wanted it down for their own reason. Anyway, it was a fascinating project. But it also looked to me like there was a tremendous potential for tragedy in such a job. One guy is in the power seat lopping off all the branches while another is on the ground below him, sharpening teeth on a second power saw. Branches are flying all over the place, hitting the power lines, barely missing the second worker on the ground. The upper guy is taking off the smaller branches with a little saw on a long arm, and a big saw for the larger branches and the trunk. After he’s finished with the branches, he powers up to the top, ties a rope around it, has the ground guy pull on the rope as the top guy cuts through the top. Then he moves down the trunk, cutting off five-foot chunks and shoving them in safe directions on the ground. Lots of room for tragedy. I wonder how long these guys can do this work before they kill themselves.

Years and years ago I got an idea for a painting technique (portraits, not houses). I had been working with the graphics on my computer. When I enlarge a picture to work with the fatbits, the pixels, all semblance of the original subject disappears into a random pattern of different colored dots. Nothing is recognizable until I pull it back into a normal perspective. I thought about doing a painting on a very large canvas, with the spots of color in an unrecognizable pattern from a normal distance of about ten feet. From there it would look like an abstract painting. In a gallery, this large canvas could be hung on one wall of a long, narrow room, and on the opposite wall, maybe a hundred feet away, there would be a large curtained mirror. The viewer would then be instructed to stand adjacent to the painting, face the other wall, then press a button that would open the curtain, showing him the painting at the proper distance as seen in the mirror. And there, suddenly, would be the real painting. The more I think about it, the more I realize it probably wouldn’t work. But if it did, wouldn’t that be exciting?

Winning & Losing

          Success and failure, winning and losing, such a fine line between each. Often, luck is involved in outcomes, often determination or lack thereof is the determiner. And sometimes we have only ourselves to blame if we lose or only ourselves to congratulate if we win. Sometimes we lose because winning would be too painful or too public and we don’t want to be at the front of the stage. Sometimes, on a subconscious level, we cause ourselves to lose. I think back to the Winter Olympics in 1994 with Dan Jansen, the speed skater who was favored to win by a bunch in the 500 and 1000 meters. But then, he’d also been a heavy favorite in 1988 and 1992 . . . and lost. In 1988 in both events he slipped and lost. In 1992 in Albertville the ice was too soft and he failed miserably. And in 1994 (that was the year the Winter Games got back on schedule with the Summer Games), he partially slipped in the last corner heading home, fell to the ice again, and lost again. He was devastated, his wife was devastated, his coach was devastated. I was reminded of Jim Ryun years and years ago in the mile and Olympic 1500 meters. He was the best miler in the world at the time; at eighteen he became the youngest ever to break the four-minute barrier (3:55.3). He ran in the 1964 Games but failed to get through the preliminaries and then won the silver, his only medal, in the 1968 Games held in Mexico City at elevations that Ryun wasn’t used to and he could do no better than second place. It was what happened to him in the 1972 Games that was so tragically sad. In his preliminary heat, in which he was incorrectly entered because of some official’s error over his time in the 1500, he had 500 meters to go when a runner in front of him slowed down and Ryun ran into him, after which a runner behind him stepped on his foot and all three fell off the track. He got up and limped in, with a look of agony for me and the world to see. And that ended his attempts to win gold in the 1500 meter Summer Games. It was one of the saddest moments in sports I ever witnessed. Was it fate that caused that fall? Was it fate that put him in a preliminary with inexperienced runners? Or was it some part of him that didn’t want to win the gold? I think some people cause themselves to lose in biggies like the Olympics. Maybe their fear of failing is so great that they, like people who are accident prone, make things happen that will allow them to lose for reasons that aren’t their fault, or at least for reasons over which they had no control. Jansen and Ryun may fall into that category.

          There must be all kinds of other unfortunate losers not just in sports but in life itself, with unrequited lovers probably the best example. According to Tennyson, ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Hmm, I’m not sure I agree with Lord T.

Countdown

Since I have so few newsworthy topics to write about, today’s blog will be devoted entirely to the latest details of my Countdown.

I seem to be sleeping longer than I did not so long ago, like for ten or eleven hours. And I seem to be looking forward to sleeping. Ten o’clock arrives and I can hardly wait to climb into bed. It’s almost as though I want each day to end and the next day to begin so that I can get to the end of that day. In other words, I seem to be marking time until something happens. Death? Maybe. A regaining of some health and stamina? Probably not. Each of our days is becoming too much the same lockstep routine—arise at 8:30 or 9:00 (more often 9:00 or later than 8:30), make coffee, bring in the Arizona Republic, take morning pills with orange juice, check the sports section, check the obituaries to see how many my age or younger have died, have a muffin or a piece of toast. Paper, done. Muffin, done. Coffee done. Then I hope that the PGA or LPGA is on or possibly an early afternoon Diamondbacks game. If no sports are available, I write a blog or catch up on letters or read one of the many e-books  on my IPad. Then, finally . . . blessedly, it’s cocktail hour, after which we have a simple dinner as we watch Lester Holt and the NBC Evening News to learn what new stupid things Trump has said or done. Then we watch whatever is on the tube or whatever we’ve saved until the magical 10:00 p.m. arrives and we can go to bed . . . to hurry to another day too terribly similar to the one just ended.

          Weight loss. As my appetite diminishes, my weight keeps dropping to levels I never thought possible. This morning, I tipped the scale at 159. Looking back to my youth, I think I probably weighed more than that when I was fourteen or fifteen. What will happen if this weight loss continues? Will I one day just disappear in a little puff of smoke? Or will I, like Benjamin Button, keep getting younger and younger and smaller and smaller until I disappear into my mother’s womb? Gadzooks! Such metaphysical questions.

          Although I have no way to give it a numerical value, less and less activity for me requires more and more rest time. Now, whenever I get up from my bed or chair to do anything . . . ANYTHING . . . after only a few minutes I have to collapse into a chair panting and wheezing like I’d just crossed the finish line in the Boston Marathon. Each day that passes sees me incrementally more exhausted than the day before. I now ride in an electric cart at the grocery store. I’m thinking about buying a wheel chair for conveyance on my rare times out of the house, but should it be a self-wheeling chair or an electric? If I had to turn the wheels myself, would I have enough energy to do it?

          And each day the Countdown gets closer and closer to midnight.

Kahlil Gibran & Infrastructure

            My wife went to see her cardiologist a few days ago. His name was Kahlil Salahudeen, and I wondered if his parents had been fans of the only other Kahlil I had ever heard of, Kahlil Gibran, author of a best-selling book called The Prophet. Did they name their son after the author? So I asked him and he said no, although he was familiar with The Prophet. Ah, well, so much for coincidences. But it did get me to look up what Gibran had said in his book. Here are a few of what I found:

“You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts.”

“The timeless in you is aware of life’s timelessness. And knows that yesterday is but today’s memory and tomorrow is today’s dream.”

“You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.”

“To belittle you have to be little.”

“Love one another, but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.”

            Every day I have a tougher and tougher time finding something to write about. What more can I say about Donald Trump? Or suicide? Or gun control or terrorist threats or opioids? In my mental voyaging, I stepped in one of our national potholes and stumbled onto the nation’s infrastructure. Everybody agrees that we need to do something about our infrastructure but how do we finance it? Conservative estimates say it would cost about $3.6 trillion. Whoa, that’s a lot of money. We’re already in debt up to our eyeballs so the government wouldn’t be able to spring for all $3.6 trillion. But the need for repair is essential. That thought led me to the many wealthy people in the U.S. Why couldn’t they pay for it? And if they did, would it be a voluntary gesture or a legal requirement? The truly wealthy have more money than they could ever need. Voluntary or required, what would it take? As of 2016, U.S. billionaires had $6.48 trillion; 156,000 millionaires had more than $25 million; 1,300,000 millionaires had between $5 and $25 million; and 9,400,000 millionaires had between $1 and $5 million. Sounds confusing, doesn’t it? If we got 10% from the billionaires, we’d have $684 billion; 5% from the millionaires would generate $3,037,000,000,000. Add in the billionaires’ share of $684 billion for a total of $3,685,000,000,000, or $3.685 trillion, which would cover the entire cost of an entirely new infrastructure. And how, you ask, did I come up with the $3.037 trillion from the millionaires? I took 5% of those who had more than $25 million, using $40 million as an average and got $312 billion; 5% of those who had between $5 and $25 million, using an average of $15 million and got $975 billion; 5% of those who had $1 to $5 million using an average of $2.5 million and got $1.75 trillion. See? Simple. Now all we have to do is convince these wealthy people that it would be good for them as well as our country.

U.S. Open

The gods of golf at Shinnecock Hills—that is, the USGA members who set up the course—are so jealous of their hallowed par score that they’ll do anything to ensure the sanctity of par 280, even if it means embarrassing some of the world’s best golfers. For example, look at some who failed to make the cut—Rory McIlroy, Jason Day, Jordan Spieth, Jon Rahm, and, although not ranked in the top ten, Tiger Woods, one of the crowd favorites. It also included other top players—Brandt Snedeker, Matt Kuchar, Adam Scott, Bubba Watson, and Sergio Garcia. Even the tv commentaries, Paul Azinger and Curtis Strange, seemed to be afraid to say anything that might anger the USGA gods. Johnny Miller, if he were there, would probably have called it like it is, a course that was set up to be too punitive for minor mistakes. I think it was a tournament that put too great a premium on putting and not on the other, more important elements of the game. Too often we saw a golfer miss a putt and go past the cup two or three feet . . . and then watch it trickle, trickle and then roll off the green and down the back slope. Late afternoon on Saturday, they then decided to syringe the greens (spray water on the greens between groups). Whenever you see them do such a thing, you know they fear they’ve lost the course. On eighteen, anyone who hit a second shot that went any distance above the cup, wound up with a putt that was like putting on linoleum. No matter how gently the putt was struck, if the cup didn’t get in the way, the next putt was ten to twenty feet. That’s just not fair and makes it too much like putting through the clown’s mouth at the local putt-putt course. Putting shouldn’t be that important. On Sunday, the course was set up much easier to avoid any embarrassing moments like the one of number thirteen on Saturday. Phil Mickelson had just hit his fourth putt from about three feet above the cup. When he realized it was probably going to roll down the slope and off the green, he rushed to the ball and hit it while it was still moving, a two-stroke  penalty that resulted in a sextuple bogey ten. Silly. The clown won.

          And speaking of clowns, again we hear from that pack of shrieking idiots who attend golf tournaments for the sole purpose of finding digital fame by screaming words and phrases which identify them when they play back their saved tv coverage—“Babalooie!” “Chicago!” “Saur Kraut!” “In the Hole!” “Come on, Dustin!” “Let’s go Big Guy!” and “Rollex!” I assume these guys are not golfers, have consumed gallons of beer,  and are obnoxious off the course as well as on. I’m surprised that no one has ever told them to put a sock in it. Maybe there isn’t a sock big enough to shut them up.

          On Sunday, we got to see Brooks Koepka hold off contenders to win his second Open in a row with a one-over par total of 281. The sanctity of par was once again maintained. But we also saw Tommy Fleetwood shoot a seven-under 63 to take home second place with the lowest score in U. S. Open history. It was an interesting tournament, but I’d still like to have seen the big names make it to the weekend.

Mary Poppins

        Last Tuesday we went to the Arizona Broadway Theatre to see Mary Poppins. I wasn’t sure if I’d like it, and after the first fifteen minutes I still wasn’t sure. Gut then—BANG!—it took off and became one of my all-time favorite musicals. I’ve always been more interested in the set design, staging, and choreography than, except for the really great musicals, the songs or story. Mary Poppins nearly popped my eyes out with set designs and special effects. The music and vocals not so much. The songs were long and in a sort of Cockney accent that made what they were singing almost impossible to understand. And some, especially Mary Poppins (Renee Kathleen Koher), were so shrill I wanted to clap hands over my ears. But the sets, special effects, and choreography were—well, if I were given only one word to describe them it would be— "scrumdidlyiciouslygloriosamarveloponousfantasmicalicious." (Hey, if Mary can make up a word, so can I.)

          First, the sets. The show opened with a full-stage scrim painted as a prosperous London street with attractive row homes. Then the back lights come up to show us a living room with four people, two adults and two children. Up with the scrim and the story begins. An argument ensues about the bad behavior of the children and the departure of the latest nanny. Later, after the children are sent to bed, the living room divides and moves off stage left and right to reveal the upstairs bedroom. Other sets included a kitchen, a park, the house rooftop with assorted chimneys, a curio shop, and a bank made up of nine moveable teller cages. Let’s see. With the opening scrim, there were a total of eight different sets.

          Second, the special effects. After Mary arrives at the Bank household, she takes her valise up to the bedroom and places it on a toy box and then proceeds to take out a five-foot hat rack, then moves the valise to a small hutch and removes a large green potted plant. Both items are far too large to fit into the small valise. How did they do that? I guess there was a false bottom in the valise and a false top to the toy box and hutch that gave access behind the set. Later, in a kitchen scene, the young steward shows us his clumsiness when he stumbles into a rack of hanging pots and pans, knocking them sideways, banging into a shelf of dishes that tip dangerously, then crashes into the kitchen table and breaks it in half. He weeps inconsolably when he sees what he’d done. But Mary, with a finger snap fixes everything, pots and pans back up on the rack, dishes untipped, and even the table somehow magically repaired. How did they do that? Other effects involve Mary and Bert flying overhead and a kite that soars above the stage. Okay, I know how they did that but it was still remarkable for a limited-budget theater to pull it all off.

          Third, the choreography. Two numbers were spectacular—the spelling out of “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” using hand and arm gestures as the company dances, and the chimney sweeps on the rooftop doing a frenetic tap sequence to “Step in Time.” Both numbers had the audience on its feet applauding. I can remember in the first few seasons at ABT when the choreography was pretty amateurish. Not any longer. These performers were nearly up to Broadway standards.

          If you’re a West Valley Arizonan, you should try to see this show. It would Mary Pop your eyes out, just as it did to me.

Suicide

Two more celebrity suicides, Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade, leading to another national discussion of causes and prevention, another national fear that it might lead to a contagion of suicides. According to CBS news, suicides are up by nearly 30% over the last two decades. Why? And what can be done to bring that number down? I must confess that the national concern over suicides has always confused me. All right, I can understand but disagree with a religious view of suicide as immoral. But should all suicides be considered immoral? Aren’t there several valid reasons for wanting to end one’s life, like intolerable pain or terminal cancer or one of the incurable, progressive ailments such as ALS, AIDS, Alzheimer’s, MS, or Parkinson’s?

The age of those who attempt suicide should also be considered as well as the reasons for such an attempt. If the reason is mental illness or depression, suicide by those of any age is unacceptable. Mental illness and depression can be alleviated by therapy and drugs. The line between acceptable and unacceptable can depend on age, with acceptance rising with rising age. I’ve always thought that an unacceptable quality of life is a legitimate reason to consider suicide. The line between acceptable and unacceptable quality of life would vary considerably from one person to another. I’m eight-four years old and I often think about what is or isn’t acceptable. Am I planning to kill myself? No. Is it all right for me to think about death and suicide? Yes. Thinking doesn’t lead to acting.

Back to my original statement. I’m confused by the many different attitudes toward suicide. Certainly there is shock and despair over a suicide, just as there is for almost any sudden, unexpected death. But why should suicide be considered sinful or selfish?

Lately, I’ve thought about the methods for killing oneself. Many are bloody and gruesome and painfully shocking for those who discover the body, as for example, a gun to the head, as when Ernest Hemingway put a shotgun in his mouth. A leap from a tall building or bridge prompts frightening images, but a jump from a cruise ship, as Hart Crane did, is less traumatic, as is carbon monoxide in a closed car or head in a gas oven, as Sylvia Plath chose. A speeding car over a cliff or into a concrete abutment is violent and awful to consider. Strangulation by hanging or death by slit wrists is less violent but equally awful. Then there are the quiet methods: a heated car in an Arizona summer, a stroll into a raging South Dakota winter blizzard, a one-way swim out into the Pacific Ocean, a hunger strike, a lethal injection, or finally, the easiest and most accessible method—the drug overdose.

What exactly would prompt me to look for some way out of a life that I no longer consider acceptable? Ever poorer health (though not terminal), less and less to look forward to, a steadily narrowing of my physical world, the passing of more and more friends and relatives, and fewer and fewer activities that interest me. I’m not yet at the end of that string of reasons, but I get closer with every passing day.

1300 Posts

          Nearly there. To 1300 posts, that is. And I can’t seem to think of anything wort writing about. I guess I’ll just continue writing about how many posts I have under my belt, sort of a dumb topic for such a milestone. But, 1300 posts over a span of nearly ten years is sort of worth writing about. Let’s see, that averages out to about 135 a year, and if each post averages about 400 words, that would bring my total wordage to a hefty 520,000. That seems like a lotta words. But then I consider some of the most prolific writers, like Stephen King, Louis L’Amour, and John Patterson, and my total doesn’t seem like much anymore. They would each view writing as a full-time job, forty or more hours a week, which would be 2080 hours a year. If each wrote 250 words an hour (and that’s a conservative estimate), each would have written the same as what I wrote in almost ten years—520,000 . . . every year . . . for an average career of thirty years (and that’s a conservative estimate), which comes to 15,600,000. Whoa! That’s a lotta words. Mind-boggling.

          What else has been happening that’s worth examining? Trump. What has the Donald done lately that is also mind-boggling? First, he’s insulted the NFL with his comments about kneeling and patriotism, and if you insult the NFL you insult all the other sports. The result? The Philadelphia Eagles have decided not to go to the White House, nor would most of those other sportsmen and women who might win a championship. He just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand that when he shoves someone, that someone will probably shove back. For his on-again off-again on-again meeting with Kim Jung Un next week, he says he doesn’t need to prepare for it, he’ll just wing it, sort of the same way he prepared for his debates with Hillary—just don’t prepare. He doesn’t believe his advisers who tell him such behavior could be dangerous for the U.S. He either doesn’t understand the need to prepare or he’s simply too lazy to prepare. I would suspect the latter. This is a man who thinks he can govern by Twitter. We’ll see how this meeting goes on June 12. Or maybe he or Kim Jung Un will cancel.

          NASA’s Curiosity rover has unearthed on Mars what might be 3-billion-year-old organic matter, suggesting that long long ago there may have been life on Mars, maybe even  intelligent life, maybe even life that moved to earth when Mars became uninhabitable. Makes for interesting thoughts to consider in that half-awake time at 3:00 a.m. And the time frame of three billion years sort of puts our tiny little lifespans into perspective.

           There--1300th post. I'm not sure if I'll try for another 1300 or just call it quits.But if I call it quits, then I'll have to give up my Countdown chronicle. And I'm not ready to do that.

The Americans & Morgan Freeman

Well, I certainly didn’t see this one coming, the final episode of The Americans, that is. I didn’t see any way they were going to avoid a confrontation with their neighbor and FBI agent Stan Beeman. I was Mr. Completely. The Jennings had a final confrontation with Stan but it didn’t result in a shootout. Instead, Phillip somehow talked him into letting them go. They then made their careful way to the Soviet border, where they were met by a supporter of Gorbachev and taken to Moscow. The final scene has them looking at the city’s lights as they contemplate what their future might be. How ironic that this, their new home, isn’t nearly as much a home as their home in America was. But they’ll “get used to it,” Elizabeth says. “The kids will be all right,” she says. Henry, who will be taken in and cared for by Stan, will be all right, but what about Paige? Paige chose to abandon her parents when she gets off the train just as it was leaving the station. Will she be all right? Yes. Yes, that is, if she doesn’t take vodka as her next best friend.  We see her when she gets back to the safe apartment and knocks back a hefty shot of Vodka, leaving the viewer to wonder what will become of her. This episode showed me what the writers of a series can do and should do about allowing the actors to slow down and show us their faces, their real acting chops. Too many series consist of slam-bang dialogue with no time for nuance. The Americans was always able to slow down, especially in this last episode. I certainly hope the producers don’t decide to do a spinoff, showing us the Jennings, parents and children, in their next lives. We don’t need that spinoff.

Morgan Freeman is the latest to be allegedly guilty of sexual harassment and inappropriate behavior. Inappropriate behavior, maybe, but not sexual harassment. He said, “All victims of assault and harassment deserve to be heard. And we need to listen to them. But it is not right to equate horrific incidents of sexual assault with misplaced compliments or humor.” I think the MeToo Movement may be going too far in charges like this. When does a compliment on a woman’s beauty become inappropriate? Are all the “blond” jokes inappropriate and demeaning enough to accuse the teller of inappropriate behavior? Is this joke too risqué to tell in mixed company?  A small boy was lost at a large shopping mall. He approached a uniformed policeman and said, “I’ve lost my grandpa!” The cop asked, “What’s he like?” The little boy hesitated for a moment and then replied, “Jack Daniels whiskey and women with big tits.” Come on, ladies. Lighten up just a little and remove this allegation against Morgan Freeman. After all, he drove Miss Daisy and he spoke up for all those marching South Polar penguins.

Countdown: Tonight we’re going to Outback for dinner. Or at least I’m going to try. Who knows if I’ll be able to make it without falling on my face? Yesterday, I went to see my dentist about putting in two implants to support my lower partial denture. Just as I was about to sit down, I went into a tailspin, one hand holding onto my portable concentrater and the other hand trying to find something to grab before I fell down. I somehow managed to get to another chair but it was a close call. The receptionist was aghast and kept asking me if I was all right and I kept telling her I just needed a few minutes to recuperate. But it was a close call. My balance has become so bad that falls are inevitable. My next step will be to get a cane, or move only with the help of a walker. Just another step in my descent, or if I’m looking for some heavenly reward, maybe it should be another step in my ascent.

Bit Coins & James Comey

Bit coins and their ilk. Boy, I must be a Mortimer Snerd dummy when it comes to money. What in hell are bit coins? And I see now that the bit coin frenzy has opened the door to a flood of new scams. Half the calls I get every day are scams of one kind or another, but I haven’t yet gotten any calls about buying this new currency. Probably tomorrow.

          On last Friday’s Late Night with Stephen Colbert we listened to what James Comey had to say about Trump and Comey’s being fired by Trump. The man speaks very well and fielded all of Colbert’s questions with lucid answers. I think I could vote for a ticket with him and Tea Leoni, either one for president and the other as vice president. He compared Trump to a Mob boss, both having this driving need to pull everything and everyone into the sink hole of their egos. “What’s in it for me?” Trump and Corleone ask. “I need your absolute loyalty and admiration. I don’t care what it takes to inflate my image. I don’t care if it hurts other people as long as it gets me what I want.” It’s not about making America Great Again; it’s about making these two great in their own eyes.

Countdown:  Not only are the spatial dimensions of my world shrinking, but the temporal frame is also narrower. Each day is shorter. I sleep ten or eleven hours each night and often nap during the day for an hour or more. Each day involves our morning ritual of juice and pills, coffee, some kind of pastry, and the Arizona Republic from front to back. Or in my case, from Sports section to comics and the daily jumble and the bridge hand to the USA Today section to the Opinions, political cartoon, and letters to the editor. The rest of the morning is spent either reading or writing a blog or writing letters to friends and relatives. Noon happens. We sit and read. Or often Rosalie will spend an hour or two working on several hard sudokus. Three-thirty happens and Rosalie will treat Charlie and Tiger each to half a can of Fancy Feast while I put together two Scotch and waters with, in a tribute to our old cocktail in years past, one large pimento olive, one large blue-cheese filled olive, one garlic chunk, and one cocktail onion. The ritual never varies. Five-thirty happens and we dine on simple fare—soup and sandwich, Marie Callender tv dinners, or leftovers from a night at Outback or Carrabba’s. As we eat, we watch Lester Holt tell us about horrific lava explosions, school shootings, plane crashes, Trump tweets (yes, still horrific), ending with a feel-good story of somebody’s noble act of heroism or generosity. Our evenings are devoted to the television series we’ve taken as our own—NCIS, Bull, Madam Secretary, The Resident, The Voice, Big Bang Theory, Mom, The Good Doctor. We fill in empty spaces with Who Wants to Be a Millionaire or the saved nightly diatribes of Stephen Colbert and Jimmy Fallon. Ten-thirty happens and we escape to bed, where we wait for another day to break when we will ritualistically wade through another day in waiting for life or death to happen. And each day’s awake time shrinks by seconds or minutes. As the day shortens, all of what I once considered important becomes less and less so. Connections to friends and relatives no longer concerns me. I worry less and less about my children’s and grandchildren’s lives. I can’t even worry about the sorry state of affairs in the nation and the world. The world will survive this president or it won’t. I simply don’t care. And that statement leads me right into the third and most frightening area of shrinkage—attitudinal. The gray clouds of depression fill my sky. I no longer have much of anything to look forward to—no swimming, no movies, no trips to Disneyland or Vegas, no Wild Life Zoo, no CostCo or the mall. I still enjoy our evenings out for dinner, but I fear even those may not be possible much longer. I now look forward to the outcomes of sports on television. Will Tiger get another win? Will the Diamondbacks make it to the post season? How will the Cardinals fare with their two new quarterbacks? Without these or without my blogging and letter writing, I’d be locked inside my house, locked inside my head. I already spend too many of my hours in mental surfing, revisiting past places and people, listening to old songs, playing golf on one of my old courses, playing racquetball against my old opponents. I don’t know how to drive away these gray clouds and I hate it that they keep getting closer and closer.

The Voice & The Donald

          Finally, The Voice finale. All along I’ve thought Britton Buchanan would win, and up to the last ten minutes of the performances on Monday, I still thought he’d win. His original song was excellent, both the song and his rendition. His duet with coach Alicia Keyes was excellent. Of the four finalists he was the only one to perform without hiding behind backup singers. And then he chose for his third song “Good Lovin’ ” by The Rascals. He cavorted around the stage like a little kid, high-fiving those ubiquitous raised hands in the front row, smiling and laughing and almost clicking his heels as he made his way around the stage. How could Alicia have let him choose that song? It was just plain awful. And it took him right out of contention. I had thought he would win, followed by Kyla Jade, then Spensha Baker, and Brynn Cartelli last. Now I think the order will by Kyla, Spensha, Britton, and Brynn still last. I keep hearing in my mind’s ear this young man singing “The Impossible Dream” from Man of La Mancha. That would have done it. Instead he chose that silly “Good Lovin’ ”

          It’s been over a year since the FBI’s Robert Mueller began the investigation into Trump and Russia and the 2016 election. That’s too long. It shouldn’t take twelve months of foot-dragging to find out if Trump is or isn’t guilty of collusion or perjury. The man’s a liar. Just get on with it. He’s also a misogynist, a racist, a bully, an egoist and egotist, and he’s in over his head by about a hundred feet of water. The Second Amendment was put in place to prevent a tyrant from taking permanent political power. Should we fear that a man like Trump might possibly do such a thing? No but we should still fear him. This ignorant man has his hand on the red button that could bring about the destruction of our planet. Please, Robert Mueller, get on with it and help us get him out of office.

          More on the Nobel Peace Prize. Wiley’s Non Sequitur today suggests that the Devil may be a more fitting Peace Prize winner. Or did he mean someone else?

Great Novels

          I know I’ve written quite a bit about the books and series I’ve loved over the years, so forgive me if I repeat myself. My goal here is to point out what I consider are the best novels in American literature. I’m ignoring European novels because I, like many others, haven’t read some of the great ones, like War and Peace, Crime and Punishment, The Brothers Karamazov, or those two confounding novels by James Joyce, Ulysses and Finnegans Wake.

But before I get there, I must once again explain my reading habits. From the very beginning, I’ve always found writers I like (love?) and then read all their works just as fast as I can, like a dog with rawhide knots, chewing and chomping until they’re all gone. When I was very young and first felt the bite of the reading bug, there was L. Frank Baum and his Oz series and Edgar Rice Burroughs and his Tarzan, Mars, Venus, and Pellucidar series. Later, in high school, I went from genre to genre, immersing myself in one type for a while, then moving on to another. In science fiction I read all of Robert Heinlein, Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, and others; in Westerns, mainly Luke Short and Max Brand (but never Zane Gray); in detectives, Mickey Spillane and Bret Halliday (but for some reason, not Dashiell Hammett); in historical fiction, Samuel Shellabarger and Thomas B. Costain. These were the four genres I read, but I also read an assortment of novels outside these boundaries, like the early James Michener and Arthur Hailey.

Much later I decided to catch up on the best and best-known writers of the first half of the twentieth century, all of Hemingway and John Steinbeck (but not William Faulkner because I wasn’t yet ready for him). Much later, I returned to the easy stuff, again like that hungry dog—Ian Fleming’s James Bond series, Dick Francis and his English horse racing novels, all of Stephen King’s massive production, John D. MacDonald’s Travis McGee series (three times), Lawrence Block’s Matt Scudder series (two times), Robert B. Parker’s Spenser series (two times), James Lee Burke’s Dave Robicheau series, and Ed McBain’s 87^th Precinct series (two times). Later still, John Sandford’s Lucas Davenport and Virgil Flowers series, Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch series, Jeffry Deaver’s Lincoln Rhyme series, Robert Crais’s Elvis Cole series, Jonathan Kellerman’s Alex Delaware series, and Lee Child’s Jack Reacher series.

Now I can return to my original reason for this journey through popular American writing (with the exception of Dick Francis, the Englishman). Which do I consider the greatest American novels? My reading of literary fiction pretty much ended in 1970 or 1980. Too much work involved, too little time. I consider the 19^th century classics and find Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, which is considered great by many critics, but not me. Same for Melville’s Moby Dick. As Twain said, “Classic. A book which people praise and don’t read.” In the 20^th century there are Hemingway’s novels, but I think he’ll be considered a writer of great short stories, not great novels. In 1962 John Steinbeck, like Hemingway and Faulkner before him, won a Nobel Prize for Literature, but I’m convinced the Nobel Committee was looking for an American that year and Steinbeck was the best they could find. The Grapes of Wrath might be a great novel, but all the rest are pot boilers (with the possible exception of East of Eden). And back to Faulkner. I and others might praise him for his complex style and his complex creation of the generations who inhabited his Yoknapatawpha County, but other than The Sound and the Fury, most of his novels get lost in a Mississippi fog.

All right, here we go. Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Stephen Crane’s The Red Badge of Courage are the best of the 19^th century. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, and Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 are the best of the 20^th century. And their reverse order? 5. The Red Badge of Courage 4. The Catcher in the Rye 3. Catch-22 2. The Great Gatsby 1. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (with the probable European parallel, Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield).

That should do it for my reading habits. I promise I won’t ever again subject you to it.

Tiger, Obesity, Tv Trends

          What a nice Tiger weekend. He proved at The Players’ Championship that he can compete in, probably even win, a PGA tournament. His last two rounds—a 65 and a 69—were signs of the old Tiger, and indicators of a new Tiger, one who could win not just any old event but one of the majors, like this year’s Open where he could hit those vaunted stingers he made famous in his last Open victory. I and a bunch of other lovers of golf hope so. He is undeniably a shot of adrenaline in the arm of golf. He will next play in Jack’s Memorial Tournament in three weeks, an event he’s won five times. Maybe he’ll make it his sixth.

          Food and Fatties Revisited. I’ve written several times about the obesity epidemic in our country—too many grossly overweight people dining too often on high-caloric foods, junk foods, our worship of consumption that we see in all the eating contests—hamburgers, hotdogs, pancakes, pies, steaks, chicken wings, pizza, etc. That leads me to a question about fat-food hamburgers. Why have so many fast-fooders gone to bigger and bigger burgers stacked higher and higher in a bun? How can anyone even this his mouth open enough to consume it? Here’s a picture of several prize-winning burgers shown in the Arizona Republic.

Doesn’t that look awful? Just the sight of it makes me want to vomit. The usual stacker these days is made up of two beef quarter-pounds, several slices of cheese, two or three onion rings, two or three slices of bacon, lettuce, tomato, and a slice or two of jalapeno pepper. How can anyone eat that much? Why would anyone even want to eat that much? So, we publicly acclaim huge burgers and eating contests while too many in the world are starving.

          Television Trends—shorter and shorter series seasons, longer and longer waits between seasons. I just read that The Orville won’t start Season 2 until December 30. That’s nearly a year since Season 1 ended. I may have forgotten what I was watching after that long. The Americans is another one that took so much time off between seasons that I wasn’t able to keep the various plot lines straight. I’m glad they’re ending it after this season. I can’t see any way to end it except with Elizabeth and Phillip getting killed in a shootout with the FBI, probably headed by their across-the-street neighbor Stan Beeman, with daughter Paige’s move to Russia with their Russian handler Claudia, and with son Henry’s being comforted by Stan. How else can Elizabeth, in light of her killing so many people, end up anything but dead? Another sad bit, the sudden end of The Last Man on Earth, Will Forte’s really strange series with which I fell in love. The very last episode . . . ever . . . has the group surrounded by hundreds of gas-masked people. What should have been a cliff-hanger leading into the next season becomes a cliff without any hanging on.

Countdown: Although my stamina remains pretty much the same, way down there, I now have to realize that most of the things I used to do are no longer available to me: like going on any vacations, no Vegas to see Penn and Teller, no Disney Land to see Snow White, no trip to the zoo, no trips to CostCo or the Arrowhead Mall, no movies at Harkins, no swimming. In other words, I’m now resigned to a life within the confines of our house. The days now become a set routine of coffee, toast, the Arizona Republic, a blog every three or four days, televised sports, letters to friends and relatives every two or three weeks, saved tv shows, watching the antics of Charlie and Tiger, and then to bed. Pretty much the same every day. That’s a description of how restrictive my world has become.

The Voice & Tiger

I’ve written about The Voice several times, but it’s now time for another comment or two. I earlier praised this talent show because it put its emphasis on vocal quality, downplaying looks and performance skills. Even the blind auditions were strictly about the vocals and not the looks or performance. But that was in the past. This season seems to be more about performance than voice. And all the peripheral noise too often drowns out the vocals—too many backup singers, the band too loud, the audience screaming their approval during a performance. I want to hear what each one is singing. I’ve said in the past that they should have at least one episode in which all the singers have to sing a cappella. That would certainly separate the wheat from the chaff. The final ten contestants this year aren’t nearly as good as those from past seasons. I see only two who deserve to win—Britton Buchanan and Jackie Foster. Here's the one who should win but probably won't.  And I wish they’d spend less time listening to the judges and more time listening to the singers. And please, Carson Daly, get off those too long dramatic pauses before announcing who’s been saved. Just announce it.

           This week we get to see Tiger in action at the Players Championship on Pete Dye’s dreaded TPC course. I hope he can get his putting woes behind him. He was just awful last week at the Wells Fargo with more than thirty putts for each of his rounds. That’s most uncharacteristic. He and Phil are paired together for the first two rounds of the Players. Should be interesting to see how they react to each other. All the big boys are in the field—Spieth, Johnson, Day, McIlroy, Thomas, Fowler, Rahm. How will they all play the 17^th? Will Tiger make the cut? Will he actually contend in this tournament that he’s won twice? We won’t know until late Sunday, and I and a lot of other golfers and non-golfers will be watching the drama unfold. Let’s go, Tiger.

Nobel Peace Prize

  

Some GOP senators have nominated Donald Trump for the 2018 Nobel Peace Prize. I would think that giving him this award would be as inaccurate and indefensible as their awarding Bob Dylan the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2016. Dylan may be an influential writer of folk songs, but should he have been considered the best in the world for literature, putting him in with all the writers who are truly deserving of being called the best, putting him shoulder to shoulder with Hemingway, Faulkner, and T. S. Eliot? I don’t think so. Back to the Peace Prize. How could Donald Trump, this Trumpety Bumpkin, be considered a peace maker when he has done more than any other president to divide Americans as well as most of the nations of the world? How could he be compared to the true peace makers like Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela, and Mother Teresa? He can’t. That would be like putting a wolf in with the lambs. This consideration seems to be based on what these GOP senators see as a successful move on Trump’s part to secure a deal with Kim Jong Un to give up his nuclear program and all his nuclear arsenal, and to bring about a peace between North and South Korea. Trump isn’t a diplomat, and he may be walking into the lion’s den when he meets with Kim Jong Un. Rather than securing a peaceful resolution, he might be sent home with his tail between his legs. And Alfred Nobel must be spinning in his grave at the thought of a Trump award for peace making. He might even put a ghostly stick of dynamite under the whole awards business and put it to an end.

The Bridges of Madison County

        Another outing to the Arizona Broadway Theatre, this time for an unusual adaptation of Robert James Waller’s The Bridges of Madison County. I say unusual because it just seems like such an unlikely plot for a musical: 1960’s, a man comes to Iowa to take pictures of some of the iconic covered bridges there. He meets Francesca, who is somewhat unhappy with her life as a farmer’s wife. Simple plot, right? Obviously they fall in love but don’t know what to do about it. She has a son and daughter, a husband whom she met in Italy after WWII. She loves her husband but not in the same romantic way she loves Robert. The theme is also simple—what our lives are and what we wish they might have been. She decides to stay with Bud and her family and never again sees Robert. The score by Jason Robert Brown was good, although not very memorable or hummable, the vocals excellent, especially that of the two principals, Cassandra Klaphake as Francesca and Bryant Martin as Robert. The staging and set design was also unusual, minimalist, very theatrical. Modern theatricalism is the opposite of realism. In realistic theater, there is a distinct separation of the stage and the audience, with the actors pretending the audience isn't there and the audience pretending they’re looking through a window at the action on stage. All set changes are made behind closed curtains. Most of us got our first taste of theatricalism in Thornton Wilder’s Our Town, a play that openly acknowledges the audience, with set changes made in full view of the audience, with the character called the Stage Manager speaking directly to them and explaining what they are about to see. He carries a few props onto the stage as he speaks to them, telling them where the two households in the town are located. Then a boy comes on stage delivering imaginary newspapers. The stage manager is useful for shifting locations and changes in the times of actions. In The Bridges of Madison County, the sets are minimal, a screen door and a porch with a swing, a kitchen with table and chairs and a chandelier. There is also a technique similar to the chorus in Greek plays. Four or five people were seated to the rear, not a part of the action, but simply there as observers. Whenever the kitchen table and chairs are taken off, four people synchronize their removal; all set changes and the placing and removal of props are done as though to music. I’m not sure what purpose this theatricality served, maybe nothing, maybe a comment on the unreality of romantic love. This was definitely not my favorite musical and I’m reasonably sure I won’t remember it for very long.

            We don’t see many commercials on television anymore because we save nearly all shows and then fast-forward through the junk. But we keep catching the Century Link commercial in which a man tending a barbecue is explaining to another man what a good deal he got on Century Link, internet access and a fee that will never change. The other guy keeps interrupting him, saying, “Oh, yes, it will.” The barbecuer saying “No, it won’t.” This exchange goes on some three times. After the third time, I’m afraid I’d have had to pop the yea-sayer on the nose. Another one we see too often, the Toyota commercial with Pat Finn, the idiot sales guy. Although I don’t think I’d punch him, I would have to put a bag over his head. Amazing that Pat Finn could make an entire career out of playing this yahoo. Just give me the Geico Gecko and I’d watch him all day.