Space Force!

Did you get yours? I got mine.

Amazon has about a million "Space Force" inspired T-shirts since the president announced the plan to create a new outer-space-centered military service, but I got the one recommended by Instapundit. So you know it's for reals! And it happens to be a well-made, comfortable shirt, at least so far, which is more than you can say about a lot of shirts purchased online.

Why did I get it? Well, my favorite T-shirts have a lot of stains and holes. But also, because I thought that the Space Force was a good call by Trump. I noted last month that NASA has become kind of embarrassing in that the guys who put the first American in space, in orbit, and on the moon now can barely get a human off the ground. So it's important for the United States to keep working in human/space technology, and if NASA has other plans, the military can take action.

But that's only part of it -- NASA is a civilian organization, was formed purposely to be one and must remain that way. (Ike was a fan of rockets for military use but didn't think the military branches would be effective for space exploration.) But we are naive if we think that our international competitors are not weaponizing space, or planning to. So, we can yield the orbit of the planet to China and Russia and anyone else who can get past the exosphere, or we can fart around and pretend we're not doing the same thing they are while doing it, or we can say, hey, we're going to have a military space group and you'd better keep up, pilgrim.

I think it's a winner of an idea. Then again, I liked Reagan's "Star Wars" back when all the smart people were sneering that you couldn't "hit a bullet with a bullet," and the Russians were sweating bullets over it. So I expect others to think my T-shirt is either evidence of Trumpmania or is being worn sarcastically.

But no, I think the time for Space Force has come. The name comes across as silly, and will probably be changed to something dull like the U.S. Trans-Orbital Military (Major TOM!). But everyone will call it "Space Force."

"Space Force" seems a little Hanna-Barbera-ish, but the idea is as serious as nuking from orbit. If we want to be safe, we must be vigilant.

I'm sure these guys would agree.

Just a flesh wound.

Oreo for the road.

As you all know, I often have to take Nasbico to task for their weird and unusual ideas of what to do with their classic Oreo cookie, America's best-selling cookie. Really, many of these Oreo variations were so disappointing that they may have led to the return of Hydrox.

This summer, however, I thought Nabisco got it right with the limited edition Rocky Road Trip Oreo.

My wife disagreed, but let me tell you, I think this cookie's pretty good. Doesn't have much to do with Rocky Road ice cream, except for the marshmallow, but who cares? It's an Oreo cookie with chocolate filling that has crunchy marshmallow bits in the filling -- and in the cookie itself. I know, right? The marshmallows are of course not of the Campfire or Jet-Puffed variety, but rather more like the marshmallows from Lucky Charms. And we're always after those Lucky Charms.

It got me thinking about Rocky Road, meaning the ice cream. I've never been a big fan; I like flavors of ice cream more than ice cream with lots of chunky stuff in it. Rocky Road has chocolate and marshmallow and nuts, usually almonds (unlike the Oreo version, which has no nuts). The history of Rocky Road is itself interesting, and as usual our friends at Mental Floss are on it. Apparently still-extant two ice cream manufacturers, Edy's/Dreyer's and Fentons Creamery, claim credit for inventing the popular variety. Or maybe it was some guys in Kansas. It's a mystery. Good thing that all of Ben & Jerry's stupid flavors are documented.

As are Oreos. Rocky Road Trip is obviously a vacation-season variety, and I gather it will gone soon. Summer's semi-officially on the wane; although we have almost another month to go, kids in New York know they're finished. They'll be waiting for the school bus next week. I know other kids in other parts of the country have already started classes, but in New York, or at least the southern part of the state, we stick to the no-school-in-August (except for dumdums and college students) rule that was in place when I was a child. No kid today knows why Jerry Lewis = Doomsday, but if you're in my age group you do. Labor Day weekend was the last gasp of summer, and even if summer sucked, even if you wanted to see your school friends again and break out all your new school supplies, even if you were bored stupid, summer was still better than school.

If you fall into the no-school-yet category, get a pack of Rocky Road Trip Oreos and cram a few in your mouth. It's a vacation cookie. It'll make you feel like you're in the back of a Winnebago, cruising along without a care in the world.

Or maybe not. But it's a nice thought, isn't it?

Bananas.

So far this has been my week to blog about stuff seen while walking the dog -- hardly the first time. Today we have:

Ah, the humble banana peel, natural wrapper of delicious fruit, staple of silent and cartoon comedies. Just by the side of the road near my suburban home. The latest in a series.

I started to notice these gifts from the litterbugs popping up along the road a year or so ago and I couldn't understand why. Surely the kids today must be aware that the whole smoking-banana-peel thing was a joke, right? What other nefarious purposes would these children (for usually littering is done by young drivers) be putting bananas to? The mind reels.

Naturally it is a bad thing to throw banana peels around. Yes, they are biodegradable, but like all garbage they attract vermin. Plus, someone could slip!

A couple of years ago Mental Floss had a story on how banana peels became a comedy prop. It seems like a natural, as it is slippery and funny (even the word "banana" is funny). But other things are slippery; why the banana peel?

In a nutshell, bananas became an import fruit in the middle of the 19th century and, New York sanitation being what it was, the streets were soon littered with peels. Horrible injuries and -- oh, humanity -- comedy gold ensued: "Since the beginning of the 20th century, slipping on a banana peel has been a fixture in physical comedy. The slipping-and-falling gag is widely accepted to have originated on the Vaudeville stage." I'm glad the article mentioned Woody Allen's banana peel gag in the futuristic comedy Sleeper.

Speaking of futuristic stuff: The kids today claim to be all about the environment, and they ought to know that a company is planning to turn banana peels into clothing. So perhaps they should look into recycling their peels instead of heaving them out the car window.

I'm still not sure that the kids aren't doing some illicit banana-related activities in their vehicles, but I think they may just be eating the bananas. It's still an odd thing, though. I couldn't figure out why they would even have bananas on their evening jaunts.

"Hey, let's go to the bar and try to get in with fake ID." 

"Okay, let me get my bananas and we'll go." 

Didn't make sense.

It turns out that they may just be impulse purchases. The gas station down the street now sells bananas along with the usual snack crap at the register. Worse, the gas station that just opened less than a mile away is also selling bananas. I'd have thought it was a fig leaf, like the "health halo" of McDonald's selling salads, but it turns out to be popular. And the peels wind up on my block.

Thanks, gas stations, for reintroducing the injurious effects of the lowly banana peel. You'll be hearing from my lawyers as soon as I step on one.

LMNO.

I was walking one of the dogs when I came across a property that apparently sees a lot of dog traffic. They'd done some heavy replanting, it appears, because there must have been half a dozen hand-painted stones like this one around the perimeter. 

So... They think dogs can read? Or maybe that people are doing the peeing?

Naw, I know, they want us to keep our dogs off these areas. Silly. It's a nice area to walk the dog, especially in summer, as it's a shady block with lots of trees. But some people say all it takes is one Spot using a spot for, uh, leaving a spot, and that sets off a micturation cascade among all other dogs that pass by.

It's different for different dogs, though. There are different reasons that may compel a particular dog to go in one spot and not another. Some are taggers, like Tralfaz's friend Magic Dog, who uses little shots of urine to leave his scent on everything. My guys seem to prefer more detailed messages. Some dogs like to use the same area over and over, while others never want to repeat themselves. Boy dogs who like to pee on poles often seem to want to get the high-water mark, even tiny dogs who go to extraordinary lengths. Others want to just get the last squirt in (hilarious Twitter feed with bad words here). But I guess some just want to go the same place others have been, and if you're trying to establish some plants in that place, you have to take steps.

When I was a kid my dad started a small garden and the dog next door thought that was the best bathroom ever. We never got any berries.

So I make sure to do my bit, keeping my dogs away from the marked areas. I did see a couple of feral cats by there on Sunday morning, though, and I know they can't read. Good luck, gardeners.

Standing on rocks.

Just a brief observation today, apropos of nothing: Guys like to stand on rocks. Gals too.

I was in the dog park, with the dogs, because it's silly to go without them, and there are a bunch of trees and agility toys and water bowls and such around, and also large rocks here and there. I found myself standing on one such boulder while watching the boys. Why? Well, in the dog park it's nice to stand somewhere that you can suppose the dogs haven't pooped on, but as I reflected on this I realized I always stand on rocks. I think you do too. Standing on rocks in water is actually #15 on the list of All Instragram Photos Looking the Same.

The urge to climb on a rock, small or large, is even stronger than the urge to climb a tree. Put any male of any age, and any tomboy of any age, next to a tree, and that person is eyeing the lower branches thinking, "Maybe..." But that person is probably already standing on a rock.

Try it yourself. Throw a party this Labor Day. Move a big old boulder into the yard. Soon as things get going some boy will be standing on it. Later, some beer-powered manboy will stand on it. Further on, someone's Aunt Tillie will stand on it. This actually works even without beer, although that moves things along.

I think this urge may go back with us quite a ways.

Just gotta get on that thing.

There is something vaguely satisfying about standing on a rock, even if it doesn't improve your view at all. A king-of-the-hill feeling.

I even remember walking late at night on a jetty on the Jersey shore, happily going from slick black rock to slick black rock, until my foot went in between a couple of them and I broke my fall by slapping my hand down on a rock, hard. I'm sure it would have been more painful if I'd been sober, but in that case it wouldn't have happened. My hand swelled up some and hurt for months. It could have been worse.

I'm not one to go climbing big rocks like those knuckleheads in advertisements who are shown clinging to a cliff by one hand. I never remember what they're selling -- cars? Travel? Life insurance? I always admire how much faith they put in their helmets while dangling three hundred feet above the ground. Yeah, that'll save you.

No, I just want a nice big rock to stand on for a moment or two, and that will settle me down. Maybe a tree with really strong limbs nearby. Not too tall. Just tall enough for me to climb a ways up and yell "I'm king of the world!" Then the fire department can get me down.

Week from heck.

Longtime readers may know that yesterday's hilarious tomato gag was in fact a holdover from the old defunct blog. They may not know that I grew all those tomatoes in pots on my porch. That goes back to the days B.D. (before dogs), when pots full of dirt on the porch could be safely unmolested.

Anyway, that was yesterday, and it was not the entry I would have wanted to run on Fiction Friday!, but this was the week from heck. My life isn't so bad that I have really had weeks from hell, although some have come close. My idea of a real Week from Hell might be June 28-July 4, 1863, for the people of the United States in the vicinity of Gettysburg.

Some of my issues are luxury problems. I have a lawn. It was long and wet because it's been raining like God is mildly sore at us but not quite furious. I asked a service to cut the lawn and they could only come Friday. (My electric mower could in no way handle this mess.) Sure, I said. Then, the driveway guys I originally contacted last fall finally said it was dry enough to come... Friday. I got the lawn guys to come Thursday with a tip and some mild begging. And the very big dog got sick and had to go to the vet Thursday, where he becomes a very loud, very whiny pain in the butt. A very big dog pain in the butt is a YUGE pain in the butt. And at that exact moment my wife had to go to the doctor for an unexplained injury. We're awaiting the result of X-rays. (I blame Paul Manafort, because everyone else is for everything.)

Meanwhile, back in heck....

I have been working all week on jobs I wanted to get out of but couldn't. I think my clients thought I was playing hard-to-get, but I really needed time for all the things that were going on. I did avoid some work, despite being desperate for money to pay all these doctors and service professionals, but had to work on a total bloody Mary Sue novel. It was the kind of book where people are made to seem much more cruel and murderous than anyone the writer has ever known, so she can hold up a mirror to her twisted characters and say "See how evil people are?" (Yes, they are, in your books. And hey, nice anti-Trump wish fulfillment.) Plus the characters in the book were all so clueless that I hoped the villains would kill everybody in the last scene, but alas, the villains were stupid too.

People may say that Harry Potter turned kids on to witchcraft, and Twilight made girls want to bompf the undead, but the Hunger Games has made idiot children even dumber than they were before.

Workwise it was a long week.

And that doesn't even get to my own health issues.

They claved me, man.

But that's a story for another time.

While driving home I was listening to the Larry Miller podcast, and he was talking about how hot it had been that week in Los Angeles, and how when his father was a poor kid in Brooklyn they had no air conditioning, no one did; they had to sleep on the fire escape to get a break from the city heat. And it reminded me that, if nothing else, my family went in one generation from sleeping in the park to escape the heat of the city at night to full-time central air conditioning.

So whatever else is going on in my life, it's not that bad. If this is heck, I can live with it.

Mom's quite a tomato.

Shoot pool, fast Freddie.

I was looking for a phone app to kill time in a stupid way while waiting for a bus, or in a doctor's office, or wherever else I may need to be at a time I didn't want to think. Really, the perfect game app is one that engages me enough so that my brain is too busy to worry about other things. I see the FDA just approved an electronic device for OCD, but I suspect the smartphone has been doing that already for some of us with these kind of games.

I tried a few different games, until I finally found my new favorite waste of time:

Infinite Pool by Kiseki is a typically insane setup. You are basically shooting pool along a varying landscape to get hats to sell in your hat store. Yes, you read that right. How do you get hats by shooting pool? Well, DUH. You knock balls wearing hats into holes! And you can upgrade hats with money you earn. The more and better hats you sell, the more money you make; the more money you make, the more you expand the store; the more you expand the store, the more merchandise you have to get. And that means? Back to shootin' pool!

No, it doesn't have to make sense. 

Like regular pool, the plan is to knock balls into holes without your cue ball going into one. A scratch ends the round. So does running out of shots. But every time you knock a ball into a hole you get another shot (you start with five, also the max you can earn), so if you're a good shot you can theoretically keep going forever. Of course, the round gets harder the longer you play. 

With all those neat hats hanging around, your cue ball wants to wear one, amiright? Of course! Different hats give your cue ball different abilities, like greater shot power, more shots to start a round, or bigger explosive power. (Did I mention there are bombs you can set off? There are bombs you can set off.) You can also earn different cue balls as well; you start off with basic Cupi, but at this point there are 27 you can get for your cue-ball stable. Here's Woofi, whom I equipped with a police hat, thereby making him a police dog:

In addition to the basic mission -- Hats -- there are also sub missions that lead to financial rewards, ranging from stupidly easy to slightly difficult. And of course there are the inevitable in-game purchases and ads to watch for side benefits.

Officer Woofi minding the hat store.
Note that the term "hats" includes glasses,
sunglasses, and Afro wigs.

As you expand your store you get more expensive hats to sell, but these sell more slowly than the cheaper ones. As in real life.

There are also special events. There was a soccer theme in place during the World Cup, and now a tennis theme has started -- maybe just for US users -- with the US Open under way. These events feature various achievements and rewards you can reach.

It's a fun game that takes some but not a lot of skill, and rewards regular play. I hate to think how much time I've wasted on it, but those have all been tiny amounts of time. I guess I could have been flossing in that time, or reading Plato, or learning new French words, but would I? Would I really?

No, if I wasn't shooting pool and collecting hats, I'd just be worrying. It is the way of my people.

Stand and deliver?

What could be more all-American than a bunch of kids doing a lemonade stand?

The one down the street could have been straight out of the kind of Walmart commercial that would run in early May. Mixed ethnicity, mixed genders, wearing the kind of kid clothes one might find at Walmart, with a folding table and chairs and a jug of lemonade -- or in this case, fruit punch. One dollar, served in a stylish plastic cup.

What $1 buys you.

Of course we love to see kids doing things together, doing things outdoors, doing things that don't involve electronics, and not punching one another. We also love the entrepreneurial spirit in our youth, and they had that, flagging down passing cars like their house was on fire. So we love the lemonade (or other beverage) stand, and we hate when overzealous officers (and grumpy neighbors) shut them down for stupid reasons, like demanding a nine-year-old file for a permit.

Now, this punch was really watered down, as if they were trying to stretch the one Kool-Aid envelope they managed to wangle out of Dad, or if they just couldn't figure the directions on the 4C can, but that's okay. I'd rather have it weak than feel like my teeth were rotting just looking at the crystallized sugar.

All in all, though, I keep hoping to find a Lucy Van Pelt style psychology booth.

I could use some help. I think I may have pantophobia. And look! Five cents! What a bargain! I don't even care if my insurance won't cover it.

Toddler stand-up.

Tonight, Giggles Comedy Shack in Nyack 
is proud to present Shecky Weeble, the world's first toddler comedian!

Hi, folks! Good to see you all here tonight. Of course, I'm not supposed to be here. It's way past my bedtime, which is probably about the time you all got up today. The manager says to me, "You can't work here! You're too young." I said, "Hey, I'll be 21 soon!" He didn't know I meant 21 months. He asks me, "You been doing stand-up long?" and I'm thinking, "I ain't even been standing up long!"

Boy, the traffic getting here was brutal, huh? No? Maybe you didn't notice it because you didn't have to drive your older sister's Barbie Glam Convertible. Man, fully charged that thing can race along at almost a mile an hour. Really tests your skills. You're like, "Oh no, a fire hydrant dead ahead! I'm gonna crash!" Half an hour later you're still screaming. Then, bonk. The whole process is exhausting.

It's all exhausting, you know, being a toddler. Morning naps, afternoon naps, noon naps... Sometimes I need a nap after all that napping. Thank God for zwieback, man; great little pick-me-up, zwieback. I could mainline that stuff. I'm a zwiebackhead. Hey, can I get a juice box up here? Love this place, two juice box minimum.

I know, my mom tells me I'm hitting the juice kinda hard lately. It was worse when I was learning to walk. Sheesh, what a pain. Stumbling all over, crashing into furniture, falling on my butt all day, clutching the juice -- if a cop had come along I'd have been in big trouble. That field sobriety test is designed to make you fail, y'know. "All right, sir, please recite the alphabet and omit every fifth letter." "Officer, I only know up to G as it is!" Man, doin' time because ya don't know past G.

Well, when you're a baby you're always under the thumb of the Man. Heck, in a way I still am behind bars. Damn crib. But they haven't thrown me in jail yet.

I hear the food's bad in jail, too. Hey, you try any of the food here tonight? Yeah, I recommend the pureed peas. Hits the spot. Pureed carrots on the side, pureed apple for dessert... I wanted a filet mignon but it broke the food processor.

I was saving up for some good adult teeth, you know? Then my dad tells me that you don't buy teeth, they just come along for free, and I'm like, damn that @#*&^ lying Tooth Fairy!

But I'm used to lies. Yep, that's right, got my first girlfriend. Oh, she's the hottest thing in preschool, no kidding. A nursery-school knockout. All the crayons melt when she comes in the room. When she kneads Play-Doh, it's like Serious-Doh. But I don't think it's going to work out. We're from different worlds. She's Waldorf method, I'm Reggio Emilia. She says I'm all hands. It's hard to bridge the gap.

I'm too busy to date anyway. My days are completely full. Get up in the morning, throw Cheerios on the floor. Check. Pull dog's tail. Check. Strip off clothes and run naked out the front door. Check. Flush something inappropriate down the toilet. Checkeroonie. I'm telling you, getting through the To Do list is impossible. And I didn't even get to working on my dinosaur impressions. You think it's easy watching the same episode of Caillou 82 times? Someone's gotta do it.

People think I have it easy, being a preschooler, but it's tougher than it looks. Hey, mister, you ever wear diapers? Oh, you will soon enough, I'm guessing. Let me give you one word to think about: Chafing. The struggle is real, y'all. These pull-ups be killing me.

At least I don't have to go to real school yet. That lasts what, about three years, right? Yeah, you lie as bad as the Tooth Fairy. Lying to a baby... shakin' my head. Well, I have a head start on school, thanks to the educational toys my folks bought me. You know what educational toys are, right? They're the toys you hit with the fun toys. And seriously, what's with the Playskool brand? You know that's Play-S-K-O-O-L, right? What kind of school can't spell school? Is this company from Jersey or something?

Hey, just kidding, I love Jersey. Lots of amusement parks. Maybe one day I'll be above THIS HIGH and can ride something on them except for the kiddie rides. They're almost as exciting as sitting in the shopping cart while Grandma chooses between Metamucil and Benefiber.

Are you all from around here? Where? Queens? Not from normal parents? No, seriously, I'm new here. I'm new everywhere. I'm not from New York originally. No, I came from wherever the stork picked me up. That's what my mom says. My dad says if he sees that stork again he'll blow it out of the sky. I blame my big sister for his attitude. Hey, blaming is what younger siblings do; might as well get started!

Well, I'd like to stay longer, but it's a school night, and we have a big Candy Land final, so I need to cram. I mean, I need to cram some candy into my face. These tests can be rough in preschool. At our Chutes and Ladders midterm, one guy wound up sitting under a desk, sucking his thumb. Yeah, our principal has a lot of issues. But he's got tenure, so no one cares.

Thanks, folks, you've been great! Have some pacifiers, and don't forget to tip the bartender! She gets me milk anytime I ask. Don't you guys try it, though! Good night!

Next Generation crisis.

Looming scandal.

A priest says to a rabbi: "I hear you're not allowed to eat bacon." 

And the rabbi says: "Yes, that's right." 

"Just between ourselves though," says the priest, "have you ever tried it?" 

"Well, I must admit," says the rabbi, "many years ago, I did taste bacon." 

"It's pretty good, isn't it?" says the priest. 

"Yes," says the rabbi, "I have to agree, it's pretty good. But tell me, priests are not allowed to have sex." 

"Yes, that's right," agrees the priest. "We're not allowed to have sex." 

"Between ourselves though," says the rabbi, "have you ever tried it?" 

"No," says the priest, "I never have." 

"That's a shame," says the rabbi, "because it's a lot better than bacon!"

Seems like a lot of our priests and bishops are doing more than eating bacon.

The other day I got sore at a friend (although she didn't know it) who seemed to be poking fun at the Catholic scandal involving active gay priests and bishops, which also includes pressuring others (including minors) into sex. On reflection I don't think she meant it as a joke on this scandal, and I was glad I kept my mouth shut. But I knew it had hit a nerve, good and hard.

I love my church and I hate to see her suffer at the hands of men whose behavior they had to know was awful. The nation has heard about Pennsylvania and now maybe New York getting legally ready to investigate and prosecute the perpetrators, justly, and one assumes that if they can take our whole church structure down with it they will consider it a job well done. I can hardly blame them for feeling that way. The Church in America has not covered itself in glory in the last 20 years.

Of course, no one ever hears about the wonderful things the Church does for others. Partly because that's expected, so it's not news; partly because of anti-Catholic, anti-Christian, or just anti-God bias among our betters in the media departments. But how can I or any of us be mad when they had a juicy scandal with real live victims who deserve justice? Whatever happens to us over this, we will have to take it.

Staunch friends tell us we will get through; that God knew all the wickedness that would follow in the Church founded on Peter, and everything is part of the plan. The Church, some say, will have to get smaller but will get better. Some would make it seem that, because God can bring good out of bad, that bad is therefore good.

I don't know if my staunch friends know what this kind of scandal does to Catholics whose faith is already shaky, to those who find the Catholic obligations onerous and would love a good reason to walk away. Smaller and better is good, but smaller to the vanishing point is gone.

Jesus promised that the gates of the Netherworld would not prevail against the Church, and surely everything from the Manicheans to the Gnostics to Islam to the Reformation to the Enlightenment to Communism to the worship of Science has tried to bring her down over the centuries. But can she survive such repeated, pervasive attacks from within? Catholic corruption is how we got Protestants in the first place.

It's so bad right now that there are conspiracy theories to explain how it happened, a popular one being how Communist Bella Dodd encouraged sexually active homosexuals (not just radicals, as she told Congress) to be planted in the U.S. Catholic church in the 1930s to purposely destroy it from within. Supposedly this was so successful that it accounts for what we're seeing now. I never buy conspiracy theories, but they always tell us something about the people who promote them.

So I have nothing good to say today, I'm afraid. I will go to church, I will support her, I will hope and pray for real faith to come forth from all this darkness and reinvigorate the Church all over the world. But I won't be happy.

As for those who caused all this, those who defied their vows of chastity -- Jesus said in Matthew 18, "Whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a great millstone hung around his neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea." This is also seen in Luke 17: "Things that cause sin will inevitably occur, but woe to the person through whom they occur. It would be better for him if a millstone were put around his neck and he be thrown into the sea than for him to cause one of these little ones to sin."

Looks like we may need to get millstones in bulk.

Failed rap artists.

Li'l Wayne Gacy

Velvet Teen Rabbitt

Onk-O Logie

Vesperz

Suburban Wannabe

Mia Li'l Ponee

Aced Geo Metry

Mr. Woofypants

x

Z Weelz on Z Bus

Donny Osmond

Pimp Chalice from Da Palace Has Da Brew Dat Is True

Diggy Diggy Hole

D.J. Brady Bunche

Sriracha Khan

Sixty-Three Dollah an Siddy Cent

Rutherford B. Hayes

Up wit Peeplez

The Choo-Z Muthuhs

Stranger than fiction.

Well, following the conclusion of the novella Bob the Mage last week, I'd hoped to keep Fiction Friday! going by offering you a new short story today. Sadly, paying work has interfered with all the fun again. Damn you, mortgage, you slave driver!

In any event, listening to the news yesterday reminded me that truth is stranger than fiction, for the obvious reason that we expect our fiction to be realistic, and sometimes reality is not. Reality doesn't play by your rules! It's unreal!

Just yesterday there were several things in the news that seemed to defy reasonable expectations, such as:

Madonna turned 60.

Now, you can take this as proof that Billy Joel was right, but let's face it, thirty-odd years ago people would have expected some awful disease or overdose to take out Madonna, if not the director of one of her movies, but here she is. Heck, people who thought she might still be having birthdays at this point would have just assumed that it wouldn't make the news at this point. (I don't want to sound mean, but Toni Basil turned 70 on September 22, 2013, and it didn't make headlines.)

Speaking of headlines, we have: Newspapers versus Trump.

As libertarian mag Reason put it,  "Newspapers team up to tell Trump they aren't colluding against him." Apparently the president not likely newspapers is akin to him sending storm troopers to burn them down. Wait until they find out that Trump HATES "Garfield"!

Roundup in Cheerios.

Traces of glyphosate, the weed killing chemical found in popular weed killer Roundup, were found in some popular General Mills cereals, including Cheerios. Which is not a popular additive in cereal. However, isn't it fitting somehow that a product like Roundup could turn up in a famously round cereal?

You know, for kids!

In other food news, thieves in Georgia made off with $100,000 worth of ramen noodles, which by my back-of-the-envelope calculation is enough for 6,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 meals, give or take a few.

Of course the sad news of the day was the passing of Aretha Franklin. I had a lot of admiration for her voice and her style, although I can't say I'm a fan of soul music the way many white people were pretending to be yesterday. I don't mean that no white person can be a fan of soul, not at all, but I'm just way too square. I'm so white that the most interesting part of the phrase "sriracha mayonnaise" to me is "mayonnaise." I'm just hopeless.

Anyway, I loved her in The Blues Brothers but not in Blues Brothers 2000, because you couldn't love anyone in Blues Brothers 2000. Her hardscrabble character from the first movie is inexplicably selling luxury cars in the second because -- why? Because it's obvious that Dan Ackroyd and John Landis were the only guys in America who didn't get the first movie, even less so than ol' snowmen like me. Anyway, it's certainly not Franklin's fault, and I'm sorry to see her go.

Finally, and this is not news from yesterday but I only heard it so it was news to me: A woman in Inverness, Scotland, rescued an injured bumble bee and nursed it back to health, and now they are inseparable. And if that does not have you singing "Eric the Half a Bee," I'm not sure if we can be friends anymore.

So, with facts like these, who needs fiction?

Honesty vs. manners.

When I returned to work after my mother's death, a kindly coworker -- the first I saw that morning -- asked how I was doing.

"Lousy," I snapped. 

That was a long time ago, and I've regretted my honesty at that moment ever since.

We have an authenticity issue in our culture, but this is nothing new. As long as people have realized they could make stuff up and mask their thoughts we have known that people can lie. Even the animal kingdom is full of lies, camouflage, and duplicity. Toddlers come up with whoppers. All part of the human condition. 

But in the postwar years we got sick of politeness and manners that masked bad intent. That's fine with me; we would like our villains to be obvious and clear even though we don't wish to be ourselves. In the rush, though, to clear off phoniness, generations of Holden Caulfields wanted to throw out politeness entirely, to erase manners, to get through to the truth.   

To rip off the mask.

This has not worked well.

First of all, it is never a good idea to lose manners. Second, we don't really want as much honesty as we think we do. Finally, getting rid of good manners, we discover, does not even really lead to authenticity after all.

For a long time manners have been seen as foolish and artificial. Ron Barrett's comic strip Politenessman spent years showing manners as the enemy of intelligence -- although my experience and probably yours do not tell us that the stupider people are the more polite they are. Comedies of manners have a long history in our culture, making a lot of hay out of the artifice of manners. But if manners are unnatural, it is in the same way that steel and farms and music and performing arts are unnatural -- they don't exist in nature but we need them for civilization.

I think most of us with a little perspective see the value of manners. As Dave Foley's character Troy said in Blast from the Past, "[G]ood manners are just a way of showing other people we have respect for them. See, I didn't know that. I thought it was just a way of acting all superior." Manners have been taken for snobbery, for hiding ill will, for a means of lying, and indeed can be used for these things. But what they are mostly is the sign of respect we owe one another, which functions as the oil in the social machine. Maybe you'll get more honesty with no manners, but the respect wears away quickly and the machine breaks down anyhow.

As for the next issue -- how much honesty do we want? When someone asks you how you are doing, do you or this other person really want to talk about your bunions, your hemorrhoids, your large electric bill, your kid's shoplifting, your other kid's drinking, your shoddy brake pads, your sinus infection, your anxiety over the side effects of Cialis? I'm thinking probably not. Manners give us pleasant, general answers that can be used to indicate that things are not 100% swell but are okay. Which is also important, because the embarrassing examples I give are pretty common, but if they happened to me, I could not consider them proof that I had the worst life of anyone in the world. Manners can give us perspective and allow for gratitude.

Finally, I argue that trying to express your real, possibly miserable self also may lead to just more phoniness. Why? I know people who enjoy -- and I do mean enjoy -- a reputation for being grumpy or mean. (I was like that in college, for a while.) What do guys like that do when they're having a good day? Ruin the reputation? No, they hide their happiness under grouchiness, they act mean even when their hearts aren't in it. The "truth" has just become another mask.

So, by throwing away good manners we gain very little and we lose social cohesion. We can probably all agree that there's very little social cohesion about these days, and little to find good about that. Letting our terrible selfish insides out has not turned out to be the truth that sets us free, but rather just makes us enemies of one another some more.

I am at least trying to ask for the salt rather than grabbing for it. You have to start somewhere.

Summer sag.

I think it's safe to say that we've reached the point in August when summer has overstayed its welcome. The Great Lileks once blogged that all seasons do. You hit a point when the thing that the season is best known for becomes a drag. The hairy canines are certainly tired of it.

But to be fair, this has been nowhere near a really hot summer, just a really soggy one. Local reports in the northeast about the rainfall have been leading with the unlucky car dealer in Little Falls, New Jersey, whose inventory went for a short and unhappy sail. And we can't blame this one on Hurricane Shlomo or whatever; this is just been flat-out rain.

Everyone is out of sorts. If you had a vacation, it is over; if you didn't, like me, you want to kill everyone who did. I know retired guys -- pretty much all of them on government pensions, or phone company pensions, which is the same thing -- who went on vacation to "get away from it all." Get away from WHAT? You're RETIRED. But I just smile, nod, and plot revenge.

Nah, that would take effort, and it's too humid for effort.

I do appreciate that being away can be relaxing, even if you're going to someplace very similar to home. I know moms who have gone to "get away from it all" to a rental house where they still have to cook for their ungrateful families. And it's not like a parent is every really on vacation, not unless you've managed to dump the kids on Grandma. But when you're someplace for which you are not responsible, you can breathe a little easier. The roof needs shingles. Lick o' paint would help the bathroom. These windows are looking old. Well, that's the owner's problem, not mine. So you can relax.

Unless, like me, when you do travel, you expect to come back to find that the house that you do own has burned to the foundation.

I think the ideal vacation for me would be to be sedated for a week. Knock me out Sunday, wake me up the following Saturday. Just five solid days of sleep. Right now that sounds like the greatest resort in the world.

They're only in it for the dough.

A couple of thoughts were bouncing around in my head like ball bearings in an empty coffee can, the way they do--the Rockin' Cupcakes shop of Rochester Hills, Michigan, whose proprietors I saw an episode of that great cultural institution Cupcake Wars on Food Network, and the fact that the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland has sucked up taxpayer money throughout its existence, as much as $2.8 million in a year.

They they they they they say the heart of rock 'n roll is still Cleveland

I got to thinking that since the stupidly wealthy musicians and executives who made their fortunes off rock 'n/or roll somehow can't keep their damned hall of fame afloat without sticking it to the taxpayer, perhaps they could defray some expenses by having a bake sale! Of course, several possibilities based on Classic Rawk songs leaped to mind.

Bun Through the Jungle -- coffee roll with green icing

Bake It Easy -- Freyed dough with Browne icing and a "secret ingredient"; probably illegal in Cleveland

Aqualump -- gray cupcake with a smear of icing and a fondant cigarette butt on top

Babka O'Riley -- a yeast cake that substitutes salt for sugar. Fooled again!

Roll Over Beet -- beet-flavored roll

I Wanna Rock Cake -- traditional English teatime rock cake, decorated with Dee Snider makeup-inspired icing

And You and Pie -- gooseberry pie, so astringent it makes you squeak like Jon Anderson

Stairway to Unleavened -- controversial matzo cupcake, with unleavened cake pieces iced together into the shape of a spiral staircase

The Court of the Crimson King Cake -- red velvet cake iced with purple, green, and gold; each contains a little figurine of an evil imp

John Lemon's Imagine -- a lemon cupcake that looks nice on the shelf; proves to be an empty wrapper

These ten ideas should help the rock 'n roll hall o' fame get its act 2'gether. If not, I'll post some more ideas down the road, if nothing more interesting or funnier occurs to me.

To the scammer.

Dear Douchebag:

Thank you for sending me the obviously fake phishing attempt. I really appreciate your desire to get into my bank accounts and take all my money. Obviously you are not aware that I am an editor and writer, a toner-stained wretch as it were, or you would have sought more fertile ground. I am feeling generous, however, and will interpret your attempted larceny as a means of showing me how highly regarded you believe I am, and thus well remunerated. It is complete hogwash, but I'm willing to accept compliments where I can get them.

Now, let's have a look at your childish attempt, shall we? I would like to be constructive in my critique rather than just abusive.

So, what have we here? An e-mail designed to look like it came from "my" bank, Bank of America. There was a logo up top, which I have omitted in my excerpt. It is written to look like a terrifying threat: Information is missing! My account will be locked! The checks I wrote will probably bounce! And here's a handy link to click through to expose my computer to your hacking software!

I need barely mention that I do not bank with Bank of America; many people do, and I suppose it's worth firing a shotgun in hope you might hit a few quail. But can you see the missing period, oh phisher of men? Are you quite sure about the grammar, especially regarding "receive"? Does the extra space after "take" look polished to you? How about the odd choices in line spacing? And how strange that you fail to address me by name. I have no doubt that the Bank of America hires actual professionals for its customer communications. Useless scum like yourself need to consider these things.

The copyright line is a nice touch, although there is no reason on earth why a company would copyright the contents of an ordinary letter to a customer, nor insist that the rights are all reserved.

No, no, no, this will never do. The whole premise is off. If all you want is for me to update my information, why would you threaten to lock my account? (Or is it accounts? You seem uncertain as to how many I supposedly have.) Your overreaction comes across as phony. No, sir, I fear your project has failed to convince me that you are genuinely concerned with my welfare.

Furthermore, any schoolchild should know better than to click through links in an unsolicited e-mail. As the Federal Trade Commission writes, "If a company or organization you know sends you a link or phone number, don’t click. Use your favorite search engine to look up the website or phone number yourself. Even though a link or phone number in an email may look like the real deal, scammers can hide the true destination." But I imagine you still catch a few demented seniors or drunken college students with this kind of thing. Very sad.

No, I'm sorry, Mr. Douchebag, but you will have to try something more substantial to access my limited funds. Your wickedness and greed are bad enough to damn you, and yet you still have nothing to show for it from me. I think you had better luck when you were masquerading online as a Nigerian prince.

Please die in agony,

-Fred

What is a passion fruit, or is it?

Kids, you may not know it, but the fruit known as the Passion Fruit was invented in 1980. Okay, history lesson for the day is done!

Actually, this is not the case, although I don't know if people at large knew about the passion fruit until it started to be put in things. Like wine coolers. And maybe... pizza?

Merriam-Webster dates the term passion fruit for the "the small roundish purple or yellow fruit of a Brazilian passionflower (Passiflora edulis)" from 1752, which seems strange. After all, wasn't Western culture all buttoned-down and constipated and passionless from the Enlightenment (c. 1685, Thursday) until the hippies descended on Woodstock, or something? I actually live not too far from Woodstock and that's what the old hippies seem to be telling me, when they remember to put in their teeth.

On a kinder note, I do suppose that there is such a thing as the passion fruit, as I have seen them depicted on TV (one recently appeared on The Great British Baking Show, naked as a jaybird), but I have never met a passion fruit in real life. Seriously, our well-stocked supermarket has fruit from all over the world, weird things like dragonfruit and those kid-brother yellow mangoes, but I've never seen a passion fruit there. I only see it used as a flavoring, as in sparkling water. 

Is it real?

When I went to the supermarket last week, I checked online first through their shop-at-home feature to see what passionate products they might have. Sure enough, they listed yogurt, sorbet, baby food, canned juice, and even tea bags with passion fruit flavors, but no actual fruit. And yet Food Network says the fruit from California is in season from January through November, so since Santa isn't visible anywhere I should be able to find some. But no, nothing.

I'm starting to think they made this up. Like the supposed "wildberry" that's used to flavor semi-foods like Pop-Tarts, this whole thing could be fake.

Only one thing to do: Find Dewey Stevens, the former wine cooler king, in whatever low boozy hangout he haunts, and get the truth out of him. I suspect the passion fruit thing may have done him in. After all, many a man has been ruined by a secret passion.

Better look both ways.

Those Sunday Mass 500 drivers are pretty impressive.

Bob the Mage, conclusion.

[Author's note: Fiction Friday! is here, and we are on the final chapter of our thrilling fantasy adventure, Bob the Mage. Please, no weeping. Yes, we have come to the end of this novella that I wrote years ago, and if you've stuck with it, I sincerely hope you've enjoyed it. It needed more work than I might have hoped, but there were a lot of things I thought showed some promise. Made me want to reach back through time and pat Baby Fred on the head.
At the end of chapter 15, incompetent wizard Bob actually caused the destruction of the evil wizard Mormor, saving himself, Princess Suzy, his friend Astercam, and the crew of the evil-wizard-killing ship Badass. Can they get home without something else horrible happening?

If you'd like to actually read the rest of it, the previous chapters are here: 
chapter 15, chapter 14, chapter 13, chapter 12, chapter 11,

chapter 10, chapter 9, chapter 8, chapter 7, chapter 6,
chapter 5, chapter 4, chapter 3, chapter 2, chapter 1

And remember, if enjoyed the book -- well, thanks!]

Bob the Mage

by Frederick Key

Chapter 16

Not a single sailor looked for any gold.

After Mormor’s departure for parts unseen, a departure that seemed to suck all imps and devils in his employ along with him, the two-thumbed arms that held our crew prisoner began to lose their grip. The sailors managed to free themselves and crawl hand-over-hand, so to speak, along the walls to safety. They’d had enough magic for one day and wanted off the island immediately.

As for Suzy, Astercam, and me, we fell to the ground, but not hard. We began to lose altitude slowly, but we increased speed, and only the last foot or so was gravity-normal. It did not occur to me at the time—not until we were far away from Big Evil Island—but somewhere on the premises was the Gallstone of the Gods, a counterforce to whatever remained of Mormor’s magic, and the longer he was gone the more magic was dispelled. Had it all gone poof at once, we probably would have fallen to our deaths. Thanks, Gallstone!

We hardly said a word, but got back to the boats, back to the Badass, and hauled anchor out of there. We knew Mormor was gone and not likely to ever return, but the island was still terrifying in light of the horrors we had seen. I took one last look as we sailed away, and the skull fortress looked like it was beginning to sag in the moonlight pouring from a now-clear sky. I wondered if the Gallstone would cause the whole castle to collapse, and maybe the whole island with it. I wondered if it would vanish from all nautical reckoning. I hoped so.

The silence on the ship was thick. Suzy was offered a cabin and locked herself in without a word to me or anyone. Astercam crawled up to the crow’s nest and refused to come down. I swabbed the deck just to keep busy.

Eight days crept along and eventually the horrors seemed to fade. Some still saw demons in dark corners, some still woke screaming, some still swigged more than his ration of rum. But enough about me. Most of the guys started to pick up. These sturdy sons of the salt knew that the sea had horrible secrets, and were buoyed by the knowledge that they’d be dining out on this one for a long time. No doubt thirty or forty of them would claim to be the man that slew Mormor.

Suzy called for me that eighth day, and I entered the cabin and she cried for a few hours. My worst fears for her were not confirmed—it seemed that Mormor had retained hope he could twist her to his side right up until the Badass came into view on his magic mirror and he saw who was on it. So physically she’d remained unharmed, at least. Hearing her tale I cried, too. Then we sobbed, did a little weeping, some random tearing-up, and finished with a big WAAAH. That helped wash away the fears, and she was seen on deck from time to time for the rest of our journey to Tegora.

Tegora! How wonderful to smell her cesspools again! After what we’d been through, it felt like home. We landed, and Bugsby filed his official report with the admiral. Complete success, he said, and although the Gallstone was gone, so was the need for it, and we key figures were debriefed by the admiral over the next couple of days.

All charges were dropped against your humble hero here, because of my extreme heroism in the face of eternal torment, which is not a legal excuse but impressed the hell out of the magistrates. Also, I think by this point everyone was agreed that I was not much of a threat.

Not every sailor opted to continue a career on the sea following the trip. Kevin decided to go into carpentry, for one. I requested a formal discharge from the Tegoran army and got it. I also asked for Lefro’s sentence to be commuted or for him to be pardoned; he had been rotting in jail for many weeks now. What the heck; I was feeling merciful.

Of course, I was there to meet him when he was released, and I punched him in the nose.

A couple of days later a ship was arranged to bring Suzy back home to her father. “And you’re coming, too,” she said.

“I am? Wow!”

“If I leave you alone in Tegora you will get arrested again, and thrown into the army again, and sent on another horrible quest, and who knows what will happen? You need someone to keep you out of trouble.”

“And you’re volunteering?”

She smiled. Then she winked.

I’d never been so happy as I was in that moment.

Some of the boys wanted to take me out on my last night in Tegora, though. I said sure. So I was not cured of my poor judgment.

I’m blurry on some of the details. I seem to recall Bugsby getting sore at Chokolost around midnight, and they started dueling with silverware. Bourbon and Sanford pulled them apart, but when Karkill started vomiting we all got thrown out of the tavern. I staggered along, but I’m not sure where we were as I had a lantern shade on my head. A barmaid gave Wrax a hickey the size of a doubloon, and that was all I saw of him. Wiggen and a couple of the ex-pirates started a brawl somewhere along the line, but we left him to his fun. Sailors.

At dawn I was dragged to the dock where I saw a blurry ship waiting for a blurry Suzy who stood on by a blurry gangplank. I shook my head for focus, and realized I was still soaking wet from the impromptu bath the boys had given me. Then the boys took me to the gangplank and dropped me with a “Ta-da!”

“Hi, honey,” I said.

“You’ve been drinking,” she said.

“Who, me? Nevvvvver, well, maybe. How was the palace?” She had been the guest of Maximo the Seventh (may he blah blah blah) while in town.

“Nice. Boring. No one tried to kidnap me, so it had that going for it.”

“What’s Maxie like?”

“I never got to see him. Just a bunch of eunuchs and maids, and a couple of diplomats. Now we’ll probably have to put his relatives up if they drop into town.” She sighed.

“Well, as you can see, I am ready to go. Should we have the captain marry us now, or wait until we get out to sea?”

“Um… can we talk about that, Bob?” She drew me aside and the guys followed. “Alone?”

“Skedaddle, boys,” I said. They skedaddled, grumbling. “What’s up?”

She clutched my shoulders, either to firm her resolve or stop my wobbling. “I don’t want to marry you.”

I blinked. “Wow. Way to drop a brick on a guy.”

“I mean, not right away, at least.”

“But I rescued you. Well, after you rescued me. Maybe you did it twice if you count the serpent. But I was going to save you from the pirates, and I did rescue you in the end. So with all this rescuing I think we’re stuck together.”

She sighed again. “Bob, Bob, Bob… You read a lot of storybooks growing up?”

“So is this over? You don’t love me?”

She grabbed me around the waist. “Oh, Bob! It’s not that! Well, maybe it is that. I don’t know. We haven’t really had much time together, have we? I was smitten the moment I saw you and remain smited, but can we really have a relationship? Everything happened so fast. And some of our strongest memories together are literal hell.”

“Yeah, literally literal.”

“Kind of hard to get past that, even though it wasn’t our fault. I might have post-thaumaturgical stress disorder. Couldn’t we just… hang out together for a while before we make a commitment?”

“Oh, of course.” My turn to sigh. “I fought the world’s mightiest and evilest mage for you, the least I can do is go on a date.”

“We can’t just base our relationship on saving each other all the time.”

“I guess it could get to be a little—”

“Repetitive?”

“All right.” I looked in her eyes, and saw them shining. They were the opposite of every horrible thing I’d been through since I’d first set foot in this town. “As long as I can be with you, I’ll do whatever you ask, Suzy. When do we sail?”

“That’s… another problem.”

“NOW what?”

“The ship’s only supposed to take one passenger: me. They won’t take you.”

“You know, this is starting to sound like a brushoff.”

“I don’t know what to do! I have no real authority. I can’t even bribe anyone. I have no money. You have no money.”

“We should have gotten some of that Big Evil gold after all.”

“But I do want you to come with me.”

“All right. I will find a way. Leave it to me.”

I saw her to the gangplank, where all my pals waved good-bye. When she was aboard I said, “Okay, guys, I need your help one more time.”

An hour later I was sitting in a crate in the cargo hold, hungover, cramped, and stowed away. We were hardly off from shore when my stomach lurched with the seas. I was sick, exhausted, and had barely room to move. What I don’t do for a date.

If any of you had wagered I would wind up in a box at the end of this story, I hope you hadn’t paid off yet. 

Anyway, that’s about all there is to tell for now. I know you probably wanted an epic adventure, with at least more than one elf and two dwarves and just a mention of trolls, but I’m sure you could find some other book you’d like better, then, books that are up to their eyeballs in elves and dwarves and trolls. If it makes you feel better, though, I would like to impart one bit of important wisdom I have learned the hard way, something I tell all the kids who come to me for advice, something for them to remember as they go through this crazy world seeking fame and riches and excitement.

Remember always, kids, I say: Adventure sucks.

END

[So, will Fiction Friday! return next week? Not sure now, but maybe. I have a couple of other books in the trunk, but I think they may be irredeemable. Maybe a new story? We'll find out next week!]