Worst holiday ever?

June 30 is supposedly World Social Media Day, one of those stupid fake holidays, this one created by stupid fake news media site Mashable in 2010, according to National Today. Mashable does all it can to make the Internet hostile to those upon whom its favor does not rest, so I can't imagine what they would know about anything social. World Hostile Media Day would have been more appropriate.

Ten suggested activities on World Social Media Day are:

1) Post crap.

2) Try new platforms, but not Parler because that must be white supremicist because it's dedicated to free speech.

3) Go meet your online friends in person and post pictures of that.

4) Post a picture of your granny and try to remember if or how long she's been dead, complete with teary emoji,

5) Kitties!

6) Share some stupid meme.

7) Arrange to start a riot and burn down businesses owned by African-Americans to show your support for African-Americans. Also tear down statues of famous abolitionists to show you are down with the cause and not some spoiled clueless white brat like everyone thinks you are.

8) Start a knitting club!

9) Show more pictures of whatever stupid thing you want people to think you ate for lunch. Leave the Ding Dongs off to the side.

10) Demand the defunding of the police while you interview private security firms.

Now, of course I am using the editorial "you" here, as I am fortunate enough to think that readers of this blog prefer the merits of peaceful protest, intelligent discourse, free speech, and respect for history. My readership may be small, unlike Mashable's, but it is not moronic.

I understand that social media, as a collective thing, is a tool, and like any tool it may be used for good or not. You can drive nails with a hammer, or drive in skulls of the innocent. I have used social media to stay in contact with local friends and those from my past who would otherwise have been lost to me. Others use social media to protest the tyrannical societies under which they live, as in Hong Kong and Iran.

Here in America, some use it to target people, destroy careers, drive people to despair, and as seen most recently, play-act as freedom fighters while they behave like Nazis. Sometimes I think there are few things in America as anti-social as social media.

That's gonna leave a mark.

Every once in a while my wife gets hooked on a show that sucks me in as well. Last fall it was Mysteries at the Museum. More recently it is Untold Stories of the ER.

This show's been running a long time -- it debuted on TLC in 2004 -- and reruns have been on a couple of nights a week on Discovery Life. Untold Stories features reenactments of bizarre cases or situations in emergency medicine, with comments by the actual doctors, nurses, and often patients and others involved in the story. Sometimes the real people play themselves in the reenactments. So, the acting is not always top-notch. But the stories are always compelling. Often astounding.

For example, in just a few weeks of watching I've seen people with heads and necks impaled by giant metal hooks, fence posts, and poles, and one poor guy who fell off his roof and was impaled groin-first on a shovel. There was a fellow with a stiletto heel jammed in his chest. Someone with no fellow feeling might find these things hilarious, like Hell's own America's Funniest Home Videos, but I'm too busy squirming in my chair. The money saved on professional actors and complicated sets is used for realistic bloody reenactments. (The word "dramatization" is often posted on the screen so you know it's fake gore, but it looks real enough to me.)

There's usually a mystery element to the show, like "What's making this dude so sick?" or "Where can we find enough rattlesnake antivenin?" or "How are we gonna get this fence post out of this guy?" And I don't believe I've seen a complete fail yet, where the patient died, although they often don't come through unscathed. It's an impressive element to the show that they often get the real patients, sometimes with limbs or senses lost, come on to tell a bit from their end. The medical professionals relating their stories sometimes paint themselves the noble heroes, the lone voice of reason, but not often. You learn a good deal about what goes on from the other side of the curtain in the emergency room.

Maybe it's of extra interest to me since I had to spend time in the ER last February. Although the show demonstrates how emergencies can pile up and cause longer distress for patients who aren't in immediate danger, it doesn't really tell me why I had to wait so long for pain meds that my wife was about to try to score some heroin for me. However, I am a little more sensitive to the situation of healthcare providers in ERs (or EDs -- emergency departments, as they are more typically known). There's a fine line between crisis and chaos.

I certainly think all medical interns and students who haven't seen this show should check it out. It's a good example of how life is always trying to throw curve balls and change-ups at you, no matter how well prepared you think you are from school.

Man-eating garage.

Ugh.

I'm sorry that I have little to report today, because yesterday's task filled me with shame and disgust and took a lot out of me.

I cleaned out my garage.

For some men -- car guys whose garage is a professional-level workshop; Felix Ungers whose garage is pin-neat and organized; people in old houses whose garage is single, detached, wide enough for a 1930 Studebaker and never used and possibly haunted -- the task never comes up. For others -- folks with eight kids who store old toys in there but never the car; Oscar Madisons who turn any space into a junkyard; refugees from Hoarding: Buried Alive -- cleaning the garage is an impossible task and thus never done. I fall somewhere in the middle, but alas, closer to the Oscar Madisons. The one saving grace I have is that we do use the garage for cars, so there's a limiting factor to the disaster.

That said, the job filled me with shame. I couldn't believe I had let it go that bad. I couldn't believe how many things I found dupes of -- bottles of deer repellent, for example -- because I lost the first one in the mess and assumed I was out. And now I can't believe how much the garbage men are going to hate me for this. Three heavy lawn bags of toxic waste. I hope the truck doesn't blow up.

I used to keep the garage pretty neat, or relatively so, when we first moved in and I had some house pride. At least once a year I would clean it out and sweep it out and even hose it out. Those days ended about ten years ago, and I can't even say for sure why. I wasn't working more hours. We hadn't gotten the dogs yet. I'd ask Younger Me but he has nothing but excuses.

Anyway, I was impelled to do the job because this week the guys are coming to install the fenceless fence for the dogs, which requires an electrical hookup. I asked the lady who called to confirm where it will connect, and she said it depended on the property; could be the garage or the cellar, for example.

Uh-oh.

So I figured I'd better clear out the garage and straighten it up before someone dies in there. It was a warm, rainy day yesterday, which made the job even less pleasant. But I'm alive.

I'm glad the job is done. Today, of course, I have to tackle the other part: The cellar.

Ugh.

Moon the moon.

Mooooon TOOOOIIILET!
For one-sixth gravity
I'm using you to pee
Today
Oh, flush potty
Don't be naughty
However I'm goin'
I'm goin' your way

According to the site Tech Crunch, NASA is looking for your help -- yes, you! sitting on the toilet looking at your phone! -- to design a better Moon Toilet: "Specifically, the competition seeks 'innovative designs for fully capable, low-mass toilets that can be used both in space and on the Moon.'" It seems "the agency wants to open this up to outside academics, researchers, designers and engineers because they’re hoping that fresh perspective from outside the aerospace industry can help them see potential solutions that otherwise wouldn’t have occurred to people used to working in the field." They're offering a prize of $35,000 for winning designs.

Well, I think that's just great. A lot of people do their best thinking on the can, and what better place to think about toilet designs? You have to admit that there's been a lot of innovation in the form over the last hundred years, probably due to people thinking hard on one end while giving it their all on the other. The low-flow toilet, for example, is a lot better now than when they were first mandated in 1992. Why? Because the smart minds connected to the smart hinds made a better product. (Still not as good as the old seven-gallon flushers, but there's no substitute for kinetic warfare on some things.)

So here's your chance to make 35 big ones to help our future astronauts drop some big ones of their own on our nearest celestial neighbor.

Meanwhile, if you'd like some inspiration, let Italian astronaut Samantha Cristoforetti give you the grand tour of the ISS can. It's actually pretty interesting and a little gross.

Whatever you want, mac.

Shiny.

Imagine if the famously strange Stanley Kubrick had decided he wanted to do a different movie and in 1980 suddenly gave up the rights to The Shining. Perhaps the film rights to the Stephen King novel would have fallen to the studio. Imagine further that, after a few years of kicking it around, a couple of producers in an office with a mountain of cocaine finally decide to make this project happen.

Gerry: All right, so who's available to direct this turkey? There was a rumor Kubrick would want it back but he's still sulking that his Napoleon musical was a flop. And after Maximum Overdrive, King stuff is dead. No one wants to touch it.

Sam: Good news, Ger! You'll dig this. I got Ken Finkleman. He's very excited!

Gerry: Finkelman? I loved Airplane II: The Sequel!

Sam: Who didn't? But dude, he's, you know, more of a comedy guy.

Gerry: Great, great. Look, you read this book? Creepy hotel stuff? Grody to the max. Who wants that? Couldn't get past page fifty. It needs some lightening up. You know, a little funny juice.

Sam: That's perfect! And hey, that reminds me. Guess what super-hot actor wants to play Jack Torrance?

Gerry: You don't mean...

Sam: Yes, baby! Only Mr. Steve Guttenberg himself! Can you see it?

Gerry: Oh, sweetheart, you're the best! Get his agent to sign before he gets away! He's the busiest guy in the industry. How'd you do it?

Sam: I met his stylist at an E.S.T. session and passed along the word.

Gerry: Always thinking, Sammy, always thinking. What about the wife character?

Sam: Covered. We got Shelley!

Gerry: Duvall? Are you crazy?

Sam: No, of course not! Shelley Long!

Gerry: Phew! You scared me there for a second, buddy. I need a drink.

Sam: Get me one too, will ya? Double rye with a splash. Any thoughts on the kid?

Gerry: Nah, anyone will do. No one else is in the movie, right?

Sam: Mostly bit parts. There's a black guy, talks to the kid, shows up again later. Got some weird power.

Gerry: Black guy? Wait a second.... yeah, yeah! That's it!

Sam: You got an inspiration?

Gerry: And how! This will be the best reunion since Road to Hong Kong. I mean the guy Guttenberg worked with from Police Academy.

Sam: Bubba Smith?

Gerry: No, no, the one with the funny noises.

Sam: Mike Winslow! Sensational! His agent and I use the same chiropractor. It's a done deal.

Gerry: Here's your drink. This is gonna be great. The one thing, though, is the title. Too... I don't know, doesn't say anything about the movie. Should be something more... attractive.

Sam: Way ahead of you, Gerry!

🎥🎥🎥🎥🎥🎥🎥

Trailer Narrator: Jack Torrance has a little problem.

Interviewer: So why are you willing to look after the hotel all alone for months?

Jack: Um... I lost my last job. Delivering home heating oil.

Interviewer: Oh?

Jack: I delivered it into a clothes dryer.

<image of house in flames>

Narrator: But things are going to change now.

Dick: Hey, kid. That thing you do? We call it Shining.

Danny: You do it too?

Dick: Yeah, check this out.

<imitates garbage truck backing into a fire hydrant>

Danny: Whoa!

Narrator: The Torrance family is going to a nice hotel... or is it?

<family in rusty station wagon>

Jack: It's gonna be awesome, you'll see, totally rad.

Wendy: I don't know...

Narrator: Some things at the hotel are... different.

Jack: What's this writing? R-E-B-M...

Wendy: What?!

Jack: U...C...U...C.... Cucumber backward?

Wendy: That's funny.

Jack: And look! E...M...I...T? "Time"? I don't get it.

Danny: NO YOU DON'T, DAD!

<parents stare>

Danny: You get Newsweek!

Narrator: Can a crazy family in a crazy hotel alone for the winter find true happiness?

Wendy: We have to get out, Jack! There's something weird about this place!

Jack: So, a little blood on the floor and Danny seeing some twins that aren't there. So what? I used to see things all the time when I was in school.

Wendy: You were in college and high as Skylab on mescaline!

Narrator: Sometimes life brings you to a pretty dark place. And then you have to reach for... The Shiny Thing.

Blogger's Note: This entry would not have been possible without the assistance of the lovely and talented Mrs. Key, who provided the title and some of the best gags.

Fred's Book Club: Elementary Psychology?

Greetings, friends, and welcome to another Wednesday and another Hump Day episode of the Humpback Writers, where no writers have humps but all their books have backs.

This week's book answers a question from correspondent Mr. Philbin: "Are you EVER going to feature a book that anyone has heard of?" To which I answer: Okay, sure. Seriously, most of the time those books have enough exposure and don't need me to shed light on them. But why not? Here we go.

The Seven-Per-Cent Solution, a Sherlock Holmes novel by Nicholas Meyer, ought to make Mr. Philbin happy, as it has sold two million copies since publication in 1974. The author also wrote the screenplay for the movie version, which led Meyer to an Oscar nomination and a brilliant career in film -- not to mention three more Sherlock Holmes novels.

I saw the 1976 film on TV before I read the book, and enjoyed it quite a bit. I picked up the novel years later and found I liked it even better. I was surprised to have enjoyed them so much, since by the time I came to them Sherlock Holmes adventures, adaptations, parodies, and pastiches had been just about run into the ground by every writer since Conan Doyle first put pen to paper, as chronicled brilliantly by author and fellow Bleatnik Bill Peschel (himself a writer of Holmes stories). Whether done straight or for laughs, I feared that Holmes had been done to death even before Meyer got hold of him.

And yet, this book, well written in Dr. Watson's style, hangs on an irresistible peg: What if Sherlock Holmes's well-known cocaine habit -- Holmes was quoted in a Conan Doyle story as injecting himself with a seven-percent solution of cocaine, thus the title -- was a symptom and expression of his descent into madness? What if he was losing his grip on reality? What if his arch nemesis Moriarty, the Napoleon of crime, was... just a guy?

Moriarty twisted round in his chair and screwed up his blue eyes in my direction. "Dr. Watson, your friend is persuaded that I am some sort of--" he groped for the words-- "criminal mastermind. Of the most depraved order," he added with a helpless shrug, throwing up his hands. "Now I ask you, sir; in all honesty -- can you see in me the remotest trappings of such an individual?"
     There seemed almost no point in saying I could not.
     "But what is to be done?" the little man pursued with a whine. "I know that your friend is a good man -- all England resounds with his praise. But, in my case, he has made some ghastly mistake and I have become his unfortunate victim."

And what if this prompted Dr. Watson to engage in a clever ruse to get his friend into the care of the one doctor on the continent dedicated to healing the broken mind -- the controversial Dr. Sigmund Freud?

Watson induces Holmes into following Moriarty to Vienna. Holmes does not know where the "villain" is going, but tracks him using noted bloodhound Toby and a bottle of vanilla extract. I have wondered many times in the years since I read this book whether this method would actually work. Nevertheless, Holmes follows the trail and winds up in the office of the physician Freud, where he goes right into his act:

Holmes eyed him coldly.
     "Beyond the fact that you are a brilliant Jewish physician who was born in Hungary and studied for a time in Paris, and that some radical theories of yours have alienated the respectable medical community so that you have severed your connections with various hospitals and branches of the medical fraternity -- beyond the fact that you have ceased to practice medicine as a result, I can deduce little. You are married, possess a sense of honour, and enjoy playing cards and reading Shakespeare and a Russian author whose name I am unable to pronounce. I can say little besides that will be of interest to you."
     Freud stared at Holmes for a moment in utter shock. Then, suddenly, he broke into a smile -- and this came as another surprise to me, for it was a child-like expression of awe and pleasure.
     "But this is wonderful!" he exclaimed.
     "Commonplace," was the reply. 

Holmes explains the little clues that led his keen observation to these deductions. In time he is persuaded to be put under the care of Freud.

As for the rest? Well, there's a kidnapping case and some jolly good Mitteleuropean intrigue, and a lovely lady and a terrific chase and such, and that doesn't matter. Really, the book is a blast, and the fun of seeing the real Freud rendered vividly and Holmes in his element (although a little nuts) is well worth the price of admission. Since the book was published, Freud's reputation as a scientist has taken a beating, but put that on the back burner for the sake of the yarn.

So there, Mr. Philbin!

P.S.: Allow me to recommend Bill Peschel's own mixture of Sherlock Holmes and reality, Sherlock Holmes & Mark Twain: The Adventure of the Whyos. Bill proves that there's still a rich vein of story in Holmes yet, for a writer with the talent to mine it.

The mask in science fiction.

Fritz Leiber wrote a science fiction story called "Coming Attraction" that was published in the November 1950 issue of Galaxy. It is considered a classic. It's a lousy story. But it was an important one at the time.

Science fiction had been easing into the public consciousness for decades, and was generally associated with wonder, with the E. E. "Doc" Smith-type galactic visions of discovery and survival and ray guns and aliens and triumph. You even get a feel for that from the cover of the issue.

The reason I call "Coming Attraction" a lousy story is that it is all exposition, functioning like propaganda. "You think your future is going to be great? Ha! The atomic war with the Soviet Union continues, half of New York is uninhabitable, and everyone behaves like a total bastard! There's your future!" There's barely any plot; just a look at this mess, and this mess, and this horror here, which the ironic title of the story indicates we will get. You can read the story here, or a summary at its Wikipedia page.

The atomic bomb, one of the most shocking things man had ever devised, developed in secret, unleashed at once, was a traumatic event in culture, as we are reminded looking back at this story. It turned science fiction into the most depressing genre of them all, and it has never really cheered up. Maybe books about serial killers and other horrors are more depressing, but I never read that stuff in my youth. I read stories like this, and was convinced the world would be blown to smithereens before I was thirty. No wonder I drank.

Leiber was born in Chicago, but by making Turner, his hero in this story, a foreigner, and one from a country that in 1950 was still rebuilding from the horrors of World War II, he can spit on American culture and corruption while poking the reader in the ribs to say You think your cities will be safe in the next war?

Thank God Leiber's predictions did not come true. But one sort of seems true now. In the New York of his story, mask wearing is not only common, it is required, but not because of disease. Here's the section concerning masks, told by Turner:

"I suppose the masks give you some trouble," I observed. "Over in England we've been reading about your new crop of masked female bandits."
     "Those things get exaggerated," the first policeman assured me. "It's the men masking as women that really mix us up. But, brother, when we nab them, we jump on them with both feet."
     "And you get so you can spot women almost as well as if they had naked faces," the second policeman volunteered. "You know, hands and all that."
     "Especially all that," the first agreed with a chuckle. "Say, is it true that some girls don't mask over in England?"
     "A number of them have picked up the fashion," I told him. "Only a few, though—the ones who always adopt the latest style, however extreme."
     "They're usually masked in the British newscasts."
     "I imagine it's arranged that way out of deference to American taste," I confessed. "Actually, not very many do mask."
     The second policeman considered that. "Girls going down the street bare from the neck up." It was not clear whether he viewed the prospect with relish or moral distaste. Likely both.
     "A few members keep trying to persuade Parliament to enact a law forbidding all masking," I continued, talking perhaps a bit too much.
     The second policeman shook his head. "What an idea. You know, masks are a pretty good thing, brother. Couple of years more and I'm going to make my wife wear hers around the house."
     The first policeman shrugged. "If women were to stop wearing masks, in six weeks you wouldn't know the difference. You get used to anything, if enough people do or don't do it."
     I agreed, rather regretfully, and left them. I turned north on Broadway (old Tenth Avenue, I believe) and walked rapidly until I was beyond Inferno. Passing such an area of undecontaminated radioactivity always makes a person queasy. I thanked God there weren't any such in England, as yet.
     The street was almost empty, though I was accosted by a couple of beggars with faces tunneled by H-bomb scars, whether real or of makeup putty, I couldn't tell. A fat woman held out a baby with webbed fingers and toes. I told myself it would have been deformed anyway and that she was only capitalizing on our fear of bomb-induced mutations. Still, I gave her a seven-and-a-half-cent piece. Her mask made me feel I was paying tribute to an African fetish.
     "May all your children be blessed with one head and two eyes, sir."
     "Thanks," I said, shuddering, and hurried past her.
     "... There's only trash behind the mask, so turn your head, stick to your task: Stay away, stay away—from—the—girls!"
     This last was the end of an anti-sex song being sung by some religionists half a block from the circle-and-cross insignia of a femalist temple. They reminded me only faintly of our small tribe of British monastics. Above their heads was a jumble of billboards advertising predigested foods, wrestling instruction, radio handies and the like.
     I stared at the hysterical slogans with disagreeable fascination. Since the female face and form have been banned on American signs, the very letters of the advertiser's alphabet have begun to crawl with sex—the fat-bellied, big-breasted capital B, the lascivious double O. However, I reminded myself, it is chiefly the mask that so strangely accents sex in America.
     A British anthropologist has pointed out, that, while it took more than 5,000 years to shift the chief point of sexual interest from the hips to the breasts, the next transition to the face has taken less than 50 years. Comparing the American style with Moslem tradition is not valid; Moslem women are compelled to wear veils, the purpose of which is concealment, while American women have only the compulsion of fashion and use masks to create mystery.
     Theory aside, the actual origins of the trend are to be found in the anti-radiation clothing of World War III, which led to masked wrestling, now a fantastically popular sport, and that in turn led to the current female fashion. Only a wild style at first, masks quickly became as necessary as brassieres and lipsticks had been earlier in the century.

So this was the SF of 1950, the carefree postwar era of the American decade.

When I was a kid, Leiber was best known for his fantasy works, particularly the stories of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. I read a couple of them, and I didn't like them, either. I hate to pick on a guy who's been dead for almost thirty years, but I sure am glad not to be a character in any of his stories.

At least we can say that, however crappy things may be today, they aren't at all like he predicted in "Coming Attraction."

Tether report.

I'm not sure if this is ironic, appropriate, timely, or just stupid.

Just last Friday morning I posted about our plan to get one of those fenceless fences to keep the dogs inside our property so they can go free without us worrying about them getting in trouble. Our commenting comrade P.L. Woodstock noted that a neighbor's dog happily got by on a tether, until some idiot busybody sneaked onto the yard at night and cut it up. 

Well, we had a tether in the backyard, which was very useful when our dogs were puppies and didn't know or listen to anything. I was still obliged to use it occasionally when certain dogs were in a particular mood to misbehave, but I hadn't actually used it since last fall. So I was thinking once we had the fence installed I could pull the tether post up -- although when other friends' dogs are visiting it has proved to be useful. So maybe I should leave it...?

Then, Friday afternoon, this happened. 

What you see here, on the floor of my garage, is what is left of a tether post and the tether when it has been run over by a three-blade 800-pound lawn mower. Well, after I dug what was left out of the ground. 

Longtime readers will know that I took great pride in cutting my own damn grass, but when I started to have back issues I had to stop. Time also became an issue; what is a two-hour job for me is a fifteen-minute job for the boys on their huge riding machines. Who ran over the tether post on Friday. I've been using the same outfit for more than a year now, so it's not like the metal post in the middle of the yard leaped up and surprised them. 

No one said anything, although I have to think this played hell with the machine blade. This is about a two-foot length of steel, totally bent, the top handle sheared right off (I still haven't found it). The nylon cord wrapped around the thing was cut into a hundred fuzzy little pieces; the driver had to have seen this. 

Despite the damage to the post, it was still firmly wedged in the ground. The thing had been a real bear to install, and I did it by putting a hard length of wood through the top handle and twisting it in like a screw. It was not easy. Saturday afternoon I dug it up, because with the handle gone and the shaft bent there was no way to screw it back out. 

So, like I say, the timing of this incident sure was weird. Is it karma? A sign that the electric fence was the right move? Or just a heedless worker rushing through a job and not paying attention? Or it is plain irony, that the service I engaged to save my achin' back led to me digging with a spade in hard, sun-baked dirt?  

Second-half comeback.

We're almost at the halfway point of this miserable year. I am going to be unusually optimistic and say that the second half of the year is going to be great. It can't make up for the people who have lost loved ones due to the Chinese Death Virus, or businesses lost to the lockdown or the Grand Antifa Barbecue, and I pray they will find solace. But what form will this second-half greatness take? Let me gaze into my crystal ball and peer ahead into the mists of time. I don't like to prognosticate -- at least not where people can see me -- but I will do it for the good of our nation.

Eenie meanie jelly beanie... the spirits are about to speak...

The latter half of 2020 will bring these amaaaaaaaazing changes:

🔮 The McRib is coming back.

🔮 Firefly will be rebooted but just as awesome.

🔮 All Fortune 500 companies will change policies from "Yes, Karen" to "Bye, Felicia," refusing to obey whiny leftist insurrectionists; this will enable smaller companies to follow.

🔮 AutoTune will be outlawed by Geneva Convention.

🔮 Stores will be so full of toilet paper, paper towels, hand soap, hand sanitizer, and disinfectants that circulars will advertise them being given away free with every $50 purchase.

🔮 The economy will bounce back like flubber, wiping out half the national debt by Halloween.

🔮 That gum you like will come back in style.

🔮 Starbucks will apologize for being pretentious slobs, and begin to repent by renaming coffee sizes big, medium, and small.

🔮 Twitter will suffer a major fail when millions desert the social media platform. When asked what else they will be doing instead of following tweets, responders will say "Anything."

🔮 In addition to jail time and fines, destructive activists will be forced to spend community service putting up new statues of the nation's Founding Fathers.

🔮 Fred Key's amazing new mystery novel, Dwindle, Peak and Pine, will be an Amazon #1 best-seller! Woo!

🔮 A huge JAMA study in November proves conclusively that the benefits of ice cream outweigh any bad effects.

🔮 The "Don't Trust China" movement sends shoppers shunning Chinese goods as much as humanly possible, leading the leaders of that large and contentious country to wonder, "You think we pushed it a little too far with the bat virus thing?"

🔮 Americans sick of sickness, violence, and destruction will begin to do something weird to one another -- treat them with respect.

The spiiiiiriiits have spoooooken! The rest of the year will be awesome!

Now, if we can only get through the rest of the month.

Oh, fudge.

(Q; Why did the dumb guy get fired from the M&M's factory? Tell ya later.)

Every now and then it pays to peek into the candy aisle and see what the chocolate boffins have been up to. Here's the latest from the gang at Mars: 

Fudge Brownie flavored M&M's have landed: "These innovative treats have delightful notes of freshly baked brownies in a fudgy, chewy center, no baking necessary," says the company.

Now, to some people, this may be a curious development. Many people prefer the more cakey type of brownie. Martha Stewart was even called in to consult on this great controversy. Will this be the next big issue to divide our nation? Will Fudge Brownies Matters hold rallies? Will Cakey for America march through cities? Will Antifu (the Anti-Fudge terrorists) burn down buildings? Will the Brownshorts of the CLO (Cake Liberation Organization) shatter candy store windows on Chocolatnacht? In other words, do we have to fight over every damned thing that shoots down the pike?

Nah, probably not.

Here's the Fudge Brownie M&M's, au naturel:

Kind of lumpy, aren't they? And larger than most M&M's. So they're here, they're fudgey, they're not going shopping. Are they any good?

Yeah, sort of. They do taste like a fudge-type brownie. If you eat several at once, you can see that they even have a fudge-brownie consistency. So okay, I'll give it to Mars Wrigley on this; if a fudge brownie is what you crave, but you can't wait to break out the Betty Crocker mix, this is a good way to satisfy your hunger.

Now, before I leave this blog today, I want to use some chocolate to tell the Baked Goods Social Warriors to just cool it:

I was surprised to see some of these near the register at our local CVS. These of course are the famous Moritz Ice Cubes, delicious milk chocolate cubes from the Nappo & Moritz company in Germany. When I was a kid in the city, every candy store and indoor newsstand seemed to have a bucket of these on the counter, right near the bucket of Bazooka gum. The store had to have A/C, or these would melt all over the place in the summer. Despite the low melting point, the Ice Cube seemed to have something chill about it, as if it chemically cooled your mouth. Maybe it was the touch of hazelnut flavor; maybe it was the power of suggestion. Either way, approaching the counter with a quarter to buy gum could turn into an internal struggle, as the kid did math to figure how many of these he could get and still buy some Bazooka.

See? Not every idea out of Germany is bad!

(A: He kept throwing out all the W's.)

But Mexico won't pay for it.

My wife has had enough of the dogs being a menace.

Not that they are a menace. They're dogs. They like people. They want to see other dogs. The big one, Tralfaz, wants to inspect anyone crossing in front of the property to make sure they are friendly. They are just doing dog things. They are exceptionally nice, except to animals they perceive as a threat (deer, skunks, and that one particular bird-torturing cat). But they cannot be trusted to roam around free. The little one, Nipper, wants to expand his horizons by going into the neighbor's yard. Not the neighbor that will be brought out of the house with a raincoat on his head one day; the other one. The big one, Tralfaz, friendliest pup ever, still scares people when he barks and because he is a big dog.

Long story short, after all these years Mrs. K has demanded we use our Chinese Death Virus Payout to have an electronic fence installed. And so I have relented.

Invisible Fence is probably the best-known purveyor of these, but this is a different outfit, an older one called DogWatch. The principle is the same, to install a warning system and train the dog(s) not to cross outside the property when the system is on. I've seen it work for other families around here. If it helps me and my wife to stop yelling at the dogs so much, then I guess it's a plus.

I can't help but feel this will seem like a dirty trick, though. Heck, Fazzy has had free run of the place off-leash for more than six years. He's an independent farm-type dog, always wants to look and sniff around and keep an eye (and nose) on things. Now suddenly he's going to get an unpleasant warning based on something he can neither see nor smell that will stop him in his tracks. I know dogs aren't human... but what would you think?

We've also been told that really hairy dogs like ours sometimes don't respond to these warning systems because the shock or sound or however the device works can't get through all the hair. If so, this whole thing could be a bust. But we'll see.

The people we've spoken with at the local company have been nothing but nice, and I'm sure they've done this a thousand times. We're taking the install day off work to be trained ourselves, because as always with dog training, it's the training of the humans that's most important. This all goes down at the end of June.

So I'll let you know what happens. It will be a great relief if the whole thing works as advertised. But I feel guilty already. You can't explain things to dogs. They always act like they're being punished.

Mob Mechanics.

I sent a letter to the editor of Popular Mechanics. I would have liked to send a punch in the nose, but you can't mail that, and besides I'm to busy to face charges. God knows there are a lot of people who would benefit from a punch in the nose, but God also did not appoint me to the job of distributing them.

This is in response to a ghastly story posted to the magazine's site, giving instructions to the mindless know-nothings terrorizing our cities about how best to tear down statues "using science." Because mob rule is allowed to trump civilization if the mob is really, really having a tantrum and can't even, apparently. There is some thought that the piece is satire, but it doesn’t strike me that way — and it’s hard to believe a magazine from Hearst, home of condescending wokeness, would dare satirize the mobs.

Here is what I wrote:

Dear Editor:

Have you absolutely lost your minds?

Popular Mechanics is a magazine about building, about human achievement, and you run a story catering to the mindless mob?

Next up: E-Z Molotov Cocktails! Zip Guns for Children! How to Lay Siege to Government Buildings! Make Your Statement with the McVeigh Method!

You ought to be ashamed, but since you work for Hearst, I suppose that’s impossible.

-Fred Key

If you are inclined to weigh in on the subject, pro or con, I suggest you let the editor know your feelings care of editor@popularmechanics.com. Or you can write to the glass house that Hearst spends its days in near Columbus Circle (soon to be Indigenous Persons Circle, I suppose) in Manhattan:

Gee, nice building. I sure hope
the woke mobs don't decide it's
"problematic." 

Popular Mechanics
300 West 57th Street
New York, NY 10019

I've never worked for that particular magazine, but I've always admired its dedication to the art and science of engineering and tinkering. Now it wants to be on the side of brutal, stupid destruction. The editors have chosen poorly.

Fred's Book Club: I'd Rather Walk.

It's Wednesday, the Humpback Writers feature is here, and all is well! Normally I mention that there are no humps involved aside from it being Hump Day, but since today's book is about cars, you could mention the floor hump that every kid squashed in the middle of the backseat had to endure. But that's too much of a stretch.

Actually, I had four different books I considered profiling today, a couple of them quite serious, but the last two days one of my clients has been flinging work at me, eating into my blog time. So no deep dive into great literature. But no fear, either! It is for just such a situation that I reserved a true classic of automobile writing: Crap Cars.

Richard Porter, writer and script editor of the BBC's Top Gear, put together this lovely little tome with the Yugo on the cover to celebrate (if that's the word I want) the fifty worst automobiles, ranked from least horrible to most horrible.

"When it comes to picking the fifty unsavory subjects for this book," he writes in the introduction, "frankly, we were spoiled for choice. It was like gorging on the biggest buffet you've ever seen, and just as likely to make you puke." He goes on to note that the book specifies model years and types where applicable, to separate the truly awful from the barely presentable.

But note too that all these cars were in production between the years 1970 and 2002 (the publishing date is 2004); they would all have been driven by Porter and his gearhead pals. So if you're looking to see a take-down of the Ford Edsel, the three-wheeled Peel P50, the amphibious Amphicar, or your great-grandpa's Nash Metropolitan, no dice. But rest assured that the three decades covered provided us with ample crap. Such as these two:

Maybe your family owned some of the cars in this book. Between my family and the first cars of my teen buddies, I know for sure I have driven or ridden in seven of them, and maybe five others as well.

One advantage of the book having a British perspective is that the blame doesn't all fall on American manufacturers. Sure, the Pinto is here, and the Chevy Vega, and some selections from AMC, but the tipsy Suzuki Samurai ranks high, the Volvo 262C takes it on the chin, the Renault Le Car gets its lumps, and even luxury Brit boats like Rolls-Royce (the Camargue) and Aston Martin (the Lagonda) are fed their medicine. It's an expansive beating. And it is not without its controversial picks. The beloved Volkswagen Beetle

... it's slow, it's noisy, it's uncomfortable, and it has such a completely pathetic heater that on cold days you'd be better off setting fire to your hair.

and the famous MGB

... there are only two things worse than actually driving an MGB: having to spend time with MGB owners as they brag about spending fifteen years stripping down the entire gearbox using only their teeth. Or having your face pushed in a lawnmower.

are on the list as well.

In a way, I think 2002 was a good stopping point for the book. NHTSA rules and EPA fuel standards have forced all cars in America into similarly shaped lumps, so much so that it's hard to tell one from another. Since everyone buys them in gray, black, or white, you can't find your car in the parking lot. If it weren't for the dog hair in mine, I might drive someone else's car home by mistake.

I'd love to tell you what Porter's #1 crap car is, but I feel obliged to keep it quiet. The book is still available, and it would be like giving away the killer in a mystery. Send me a note at frederick_key c/o yahoo.com if you can't stand not knowing. I think it's an unexpected yet fair selection.

P.S.: It's not the DeLorean DMC-12, which only came in at #37, in case you were wondering.

Boredom and dumbdom.

Many commenters, including our commenting pal P.L. Woodstock, have surmised that one reason the recent peaceful protests turned into an orgy of violence and destruction so quickly is that being holed up for months due to Chinese Death Virus caused a crush of animal spirits to be sprung on the cities of America. People have been so frustrated and angry at things beyond their control that something, somewhere had to give. I believe it. I also believe there are bad actors who wanted to use the genuine outpouring of outrage to vicious ends, but let's give frustration its due as a major contributing factor. That and boredom.

I am convinced that boredom is very much underestimated as a motivating force for humans, both human achievement as well as human destruction. It sure doesn't look pretty.

Get a job, kid.

Just on a small, personal scale, boredom can cause all kinds of trouble. Bored with eating healthy (as who wouldn't be)? Obesity and diabetes and such. Bored with your spouse? Infidelity and lawyers and court orders. Bored with the ol' nine-to-five? Embezzlement and arrests and lawyers and ugly orange jumpsuits.

Boredom can be a positive thing, too. Maybe some theoretical scientists would enjoy thinking deep thoughts for laughs, but I suspect that if engineers weren't bored by regular tasks they wouldn't tinker and try to make new and useful inventions. Really, if you have food, clothing, shelter, and a reasonable expectation you won't be killed, why bother with anything? You could lay around in your spare time. But boredom impels us to find something interesting.

An article in a former newspaper called the New York Times made me think a little more about this; it examines the benefits of repeating familiar experience vs. encountering novel experience. And there are benefits to the former, because we do not process everything the first time around. I dislike seeing movies over and over, but if I watch one I haven't seen in a while I always see something I'd missed. That's even more true for day-to-day experience, as no day is exactly like another, as much as it may feel that way when you pull into the company parking lot on Monday morning. Heraclitus's famous quote, that you never step into the same river twice, still applies. Everything in life is in flux. But it doesn't feel that way, especially when you've stepped into that not-same-but-kind-of-same river a hundred times.

Boredom seems like it should be just a non-motivator, a big nothing. And indeed bored people can find it hard to get motivated by almost anything, a situation that smacks of depression. But boredom is not a mere nothing. It feels like a heavy weight, and that's something. It also has a powerful partner in frustration. Where one is the other generally follows.

It may be that boredom is the main impulse for so many of our advances. Maslow's hierarchy of needs tells us Safety First, but something impels us past the point of safety. Those upper tiers of the pyramid must allow for the fact that boredom and other impulses may drive us to sacrifice the lower basic needs.

Why did the human race ever keep moving till it covered the globe? Was it all just because food ran out here or the weather got bad there? Was it turf wars with other tribes, or resentments within our own? Or were we sometimes just sick of looking at one another and wondered what else might be over yonder?

The problem is, the really creative ways of relieving boredom, the ones that lead to advancement, are difficult, and may require talents and skills we don't have, like musical gifts, analytical thinking, navigation, a knack for math or looking at problems different ways. But setting crap on fire, beating someone to a pulp, or breaking windows? That stuff is easy.

Like so many things, it's hard to build straight with the crooked timber of humanity. Our flaws are inextricably tied to our virtues. Sometimes I wish things were better than they were, but a lot of the time I'm surprised things things aren't a lot worse.

Little triumphs.

It was an absolutely spectacular weekend here in the lower Hudson Valley, wonderful for the graduation ceremonies at West Point. And on my little patch of paradise as well. Some may have complained that it was too cold -- 47 degrees Sunday morning -- but that was because the humidity was so low. I loved it, my wife was a fan, and our hairy dogs thought it was an early Christmas gift. Remember, we had snow suitable for making snowballs five weeks ago, so this was plenty warm enough.

Did I get a lot done? Kill the weeds, clean the fridge, repair the front walk, and all the rest on my to-do list? No, I did not. But I had my little triumphs, and in the current conditions of the year I am happily blessed for those. Here are some:

1) Watermelon! As you may recall, the last time I brought a watermelon into this house, carrying it up the cellar stairs from the garage, it turned into the worst fumble since Jeremiah Castille ruined Earnest Byner's day in 1987.  So this time I put the big ol' fruit in a paper shopping bag with handles and carefully carried it up, bracing the bottom to prevent sudden tears. It is sitting on my counter, waiting for the knife. Triumph!

2) Tomatoes! Last week I planted tomatoes in a large pot on the porch. I've done this several times since we lived here. The deer and other pests won't come on the porch, and there's a good mix of sun and shade. I've had lots of luck with red peppers, too. But since we got dogs, who famously like to dig, I have avoided putting temptation in their way. Well, my wife misses those home-grown cherry tomatoes, so I said I would try -- but I got a late start. I set up the pot on Saturday. And less than a week later....

They're growing a lot faster than my hair is from my home haircut. Triumph! (I did have to put a barrier around the pot because junior varsity dog Nipper could not tear himself away from it -- sniff sniff sniff. And we all know the sniff is the father of the dig.)

3) Mass! Saw a great Mass online. That was not what we'd hoped to do; the churches have reopened, but the restrictions for Mass are exceptionally tough to prevent a resurgence of the Chinese Death Virus. So the Archdiocese says there's still no obligation to attend Mass in person. Indeed, most of us can't; with the crowd restrictions, the church is only allowed to have about a quarter of the usual attendees. I count it as a little victory that we exercised caution and were rewarded with a wonderful homily for the Solemnity of the Body and Blood of Christ by Fr. Mike Schmitz of Ascension Presents.

4) Speech! I mentioned above the commencement at West Point. A friend a mine, lifelong Democrat, called yesterday and said he was very impressed by what he saw of the president's commencement speech on the news. I was obliged to check out the speech, and I have to agree. Very moving, very powerful. A few classic Trump flourishes, but that's our president for ya. I loved his mention of the Great Chain at West Point that saved the nation from British invasion from Canada in the Revolution -- a chain whose links we touched on our visit in 2018 -- and used it as a metaphor for the army itself, "a great chain reaching out from this place — one made not of iron, but of flesh and blood, of memory and spirit, of sheer faith and unyielding courage." That's a great chain, indeed.

Not all these li'l triumphs had anything to do with me, beyond my willingness to participate, but it's not all about me. How was your weekend?

Rating Jacob's kids.

We're getting biblical here, folks! By that I mean we are looking some personages of the Bible and rating them by what could possibly be the dumbest criteria available -- their names.

Specifically I'm focused on the twelve sons of patriarch Jacob, who has name issues too, as he was also called Israel. What's up with that? Run out on the landlord and change your name? Har har. Okay, that's even too dumb for this blog entry.

Here are the boys, in their birth order. Now, remember, we're not ranking them based on who they were or what they did, although that may get a mention; this is all about how cool or dumb their names are to our modern ears.

1. Reuben
2. Simeon
3. Levi
4. Judah
5. Dan
6. Naphtali
7. Gad
8. Asher
9. Issachar
10. Zebulun
11. Joseph
12. Benjamin

Now, the examination:

Reuben: Eldest son of Jacob and Leah. Made one crucial error: forced himself on his dad's concubine. That cost him Dad's blessing, as it will. But then again, when the brothers planned to kill Dad's fave, Joseph, Reuben tried to save him. As for the name, many Americans may associate Reuben with the manager of the Partridge Family. Not as old-fashioned as other Genesis names, but not popular either. Great sandwich, though, even if the origin of it is disputed. Ranking: So-so.

Simeon: Also called Shimon, but we're only looking at the Simeon version. And I think we can all agree that through no fault of Simeon's or any one else named Simeon, it sounds like the adjective for apes and monkeys (simian), which is inviting playground horror, especially on the monkey bars. Also, Simeon was a vengeful boy, along with brother Levi, but we'll get to that. Ranking: Poor.

Levi: Best known now as the name of Mr. Blue Jeans himself, Levi Strauss. Interestingly, Levi Strauss's name at birth in Germany was Loeb; he thought it didn't sound American enough when he emigrated to the states, so he changed it to Levi. And yet Levi sounds olde-tyme and foreign now. I think there used to be a lot more Levis in America. The original Levi and his brother Simeon pulled a fast one that got them in Dutch with Dad: When their sister was raped, and the villain's father wanted to make things "right" in the Old Testament way by arranging their marriage, Levi and Simeon insisted that it could be so if their whole town agreed to be circumcised. Owie! "While the men of the city are incapacitated by the pain of the surgical procedure they have just endured," says My Jewish Learning, "Shimon and Levi swoop down and massacre one and all. Jacob has been deceived into complicity with the diabolical and immoral behavior of his hotheaded sons. He has been duped into inclusion in a council of lawlessness bent on the angry slaying of men." Doesn't have much to do with the ranking of the name, but maybe it's why Levi isn't more popular. And I'm glad I don't live in Old Testament times. Ranking: Below average.

Judah: Nothing wrong with Judah, but since a portion of the nation of Israel became known as Judah in 930 BC and was referred to that way in the New Testament, it tends to be thought of as a name properly used by Jewish people rather than goyim, which limits its popularity. Place names can be that way. The names Jude and Judd likely come from Judah, but we're not concerned with derivations today. Ranking: Just okay.

Dan: Hey, that's a fine name. Usually a nickname for Daniel, but if you named your boy just Dan, most people would never know he wasn't Daniel. But you would know. Ranking: Goodish.

Naphtali: I think you'd have to be pretty hard-core to name your son Naphtali, either hard-core biblical or hard-core pretentious. The name means "My Struggle," which might appeal if his mother was in labor for three days with him, but so does Mein Kampf. Plus, it sounds way too much like Natalie. Ranking: Rock bottom.

Gad: Gad, on the other hand, means "Fortune" or "Luck," which is good. But it sounds like W.C. Fields taking the Lord's name in vain. Also, the name may have come from a pagan goddess, which makes it stranger. And it is a verb meaning to move around restlessly and pointlessly, which makes it a poor name for a man with a serious career, like mortician or septic tank engineer. Just seems a little silly. Ranking: Meh.

Asher: I'm not crazy about Asher, but I feel like it has more modern acceptance than most of the others. I've heard of boys named Archer and Fisher, and those seem like career-defining names, or hobby-defining games anyway. How does one ash? Well, that's not what the name is about. It means "Happy," which is nice. Ranking: Above average.

Issachar: Got to tell you, I like Issachar. As names go, it may be my favorite of the twelve. Dramatic. Manly. It lends itself to Izzy, which is a better nickname than most. But while it can sound cool and interesting, it can also sound fusty and weird. Maybe it depends on the kid. Still, I'm in Issachar's corner, although I am sure I would never be allowed to name a son of mine Issachar Key. Ranking: Good.

Zebulun: And this is my second-favorite name. Jacob clumped the best near the end. To anyone not versed in the Bible, this could seem like the name of a planet from Star Trek. "Stardate: 8137. Tuesday. We arrived at the planet Zebulun V to retrieve the Federation ambassador. Then it all went to hell." Zebulun means "Dwelling," which sounds kind of homebodyish, and its obvious nickname, Zeb, calls to mind a wacky old toothless farmhand. Then again, so did names like Zack and Zeke not long ago, and they've had a renaissance. Ranking: Needs improvement.

Joseph: Now we come to Mighty Joe Young, the hero of the closing chapters of Genesis, the interpreter of dreams and Pharaoh's BFF. Of all the sons' names, Joseph is the most normal and even boring to modern ears. Joe Six-pack, Good ol' Joe, Joe Bloe, Average Joe. But was this the case before the twentieth century? There's never been a Joseph I, King of England; the Roman church has never had a Pope Joseph; we've never had a president named Joseph (not yet, anyway!). It's still a grand name, the name of my Confirmation saint, but maybe a little too common even now. Ranking: Way up there.

Benjamin: Benny's original name was Benoni, "Son of My Pain," from his mother's agony at giving birth to him, the act that killed her. Naturally, Jacob preferred something less horrible, especially since he was fond of Benjamin's mother, so he changed it. Ben was the only full-blood brother of Joseph, for what that's worth. Anyway, yes, great name. Ben Franklin made it an American classic. It works in multiple ways, too: Ben is great for a serious leader, Benny for a wily jokester, Benjy for a cute kid brother, Benjamin for a stuffed shirt, Jamin for ... Ska improv? French ham? Ranking: Top drawer.

All right! Let's put the names in the processor and see what we got:

1. Zebulun
2. Issachar
3. Joseph
4. Benjamin
5. Asher
6. Reuben
7. Dan
8. Levi
9. Gad
10. Judah
11. Simeon
12. Naphtali

There you go! Now if anyone asks you which name was the fifth-best among Jacob's sons, you will know. Be here next time when we sort out everybody in Judges 2! 

Cross words.

Who am I, anyway?

Readers with long and better than my own memories may recall that last year I was in a huff over Hufflepuff. That is, I took one of those online quizzes like "Which Gilligan's Isle Character Are YOU?" only it was which Hogwarts house would I belong to. And I got Hufflepuff, home of the nice and ineffectual dodos who are mostly in the books to be killed in nasty ways.

Well, recently my wife recommended that I take a serious personality test, one that was much more detailed and nuanced, one that the people in her department had been requested to take to help management make assignments suited to the employees. This test, free online, doesn't just chuck you into one of four houses, but into one of sixteen personality types, based on the good ol' Myers-Briggs Personality Type Indicator. You can try it yourself!

Turns out my wife is a bold Protagonist type, a natural leader who brings out the best in others. Well, I might have guessed that. She's a smart cookie and a tough egg, or maybe a tough cookie and a smart egg. Either way, she's got a lot on the ball and is a real people person.

Me? I am an INFP-T, a Mediator. Not just a Mediator, but a Turbulent Mediator. The worst kind.

Basically, it means I'm a Hufflepuff. That Harry Potter quiz was pretty solid after all.

Why should this bother me? Well, it says that I'm "introverted, idealistic, creative and driven by high values," which sounds pretty good, although introverts often have a rough ride in the work world. As the name sounds, a Mediator can be useful for resolving disputes -- except that they lack leadership capabilities, so no one listens to them. We couldn't lead a pack of first-graders to an ice cream social.

The Turbulent kind is even worse than the other kind, the Assertive type: "85% of Assertive Mediators say they feel comfortable with themselves, compared to 40% of Turbulent Mediators," according to NERIS Analytics. Maybe the thing that irks me the most is that all the things that INFP-Ts are supposed to be best at (creativity, independent thinking, language and expression, and other dorky pastimes) have led me to a career of layoffs, frustration, and wasting time.

Actually, the thing that irks me the most is that the test results sound exactly like me.

But should I even take anything based on Myers-Briggs seriously? According to the happy-go-lucky STEM types at Scientific American, "psychologists say the questionnaire is one of the worst personality tests in existence for a wide range of reasons. It is unreliable because a person’s type may change from day to day. It gives false information ('bogus stuff,' one researcher puts it). The questions are confusing and poorly worded."

What the boffins recommend instead is the Big 5 Personality Test, which is simpler and uses a continuum to score personality types rather than shuffling people into personality categories.

Okay, brainiacs! That test is available here, so I will take it now!

TEN MINUTES LATER

OKAY, TWENTY BECAUSE NIPPER HAD TO GO PEE

And here are the results:

Going by the results as percentiles, I'm one of the most imaginative people around, and exceptionally agreeable; I am, however, not very outgoing, and I'm basically an unstable lunatic who can't be trusted to do things the right way.

Sadly, this also sounds like me.

Suits me.

One rainy night in June, my parents loaded the family into the car and drove off to buy me two suits. I had recently graduated from college. This was another gift, after so very many they had already given me.

Along the way a tire blew out. Dad got the car to the side of the road. I was going to help put on the spare, but Mom wouldn't let me. I had dress shoes on; I was going to be measured, going to try on jackets and pants; I had to stay neat and dry. My poor dad got soaked jacking up the car with us in it, changing the tire, somehow always keeping his cigarette lit no matter how hard it poured.

At the venerable clothing store, I was given the workup by the tailor. No off-the-rack here. Not when it came to formal and business wear. Colors were chosen -- one black, one blue with pinstripes. Chalk marks flew up and down the legs and arms like drawings of little birds. Maybe a tie or two selected as well. Ready in a week. And so was my kit prepared for the launching of my brilliant career.

It was an era where no man on earth would have gone to an office-job interview in anything less than a suit and tie and shined-up shoes. But even then, my parents' gift seemed very old-fashioned. I wasn't the first in my family to graduate college; although my parents had never gone to college, I wasn't even in the first in the car that night to have graduated. It was not that they were stuffing me into a uniform and insisting I bring home the bacon. It was that they were proud of me, something they didn't say in words, but that gift, that rainy night, showed me their pride more than anything words could have said. I wore both suits at least once a week for years as I commuted into Manhattan and went to work.

I bring this up because I gave away the blue suit yesterday.

The black suit was a lighter, almost summer-weight fabric, and eventually I wore it out. The blue pinstripe was stronger, and it survived everything but my appetite; I got too fat for it. I always swore I was going to drop the weight and wear it again, but I never did, even when I was jogging, even when I gave up beer. Nowadays, following my back injury, I can only do gentle exercise, if walking two big burly dogs can be gentle, and without exercise I have never been able to drop anything more than a few pounds. It was time to let this suit go.

Here's the thing -- I have plenty of old clothes that need to go. Others can use them; some of them are in very good shape. Some I've never liked even if they fit. Why should I keep them? And a suit, cleaned and still in good condition, ought to be in every man's closet. I have suits that fit. Someone could use that blue pinstripe; in fact, I just this morning saw an article on a charity that needs suits. But for years I wouldn't part with it, mostly for sentimental reasons. Yesterday I decided it had been long enough. My parents have been gone for quite a while now. My suit may be a little out of date, but there's nothing wrong with it. So I put it in the clothes collection box down at the church.

I hope it brings someone else good fortune. It certainly was always good for me. When I wore either of those suits, I always felt like a million bucks, or at least a few hundred grand.

Now I'm looking at other things with which I can part. Funny, but when I let that suit go at last, my first thought was, I think I can let anything else go now, too.

Fred's Book Club: In the Days B.C.

Welcome back to the Humpback Writers (and sometimes Artists), the Wednesday book feature with the stupid name. Every week we look at books, and every week we do it on Hump Day. That's all the excuse I got.

This week we're looking at a pile of books, the kind of book not published much anymore but once the mark of a comic strip's strong popularity -- the cheap paperback collection:

The comic strip B.C. debuted in 1958, and its creator, Johnny Hart, wrote and drew it for almost fifty years. When he passed on in 2007, he died in the saddle -- literally at the drawing board. For better or worse, B.C. continues to the present, produced by Hart's grandson Mason Mastroianni.

I enjoyed the strip when I was a kid, and my wife too was a fan. It had a terrific cast of characters, human and non-human, who worked as well together for comic and satiric purposes as the gang from Peanuts in that strip's golden age. From the title hero, B.C., an average Joe, to sarcastic Curls, to inventive Thor, to nerdy Carp, to the grouchy Wiley, to ambitious Peter, to the Fat Naggy One and the Cute Skinny One, to John the turtle, to Grog the ice man, to the Apteryx ("a wingless bird with hairy feathers"), to the ants (for domestic humor), and on and on, Hart made a great stage for his jokes and gibes. The books above are collected strips from the late sixties/early seventies, but a lot of the gags, timely then, would still work now. (As always, forgive the poor scans of old books.)

The Key Law of Comic Strips says at most a strip can remain fresh and funny for twenty years. Then it begins to fade, and attempts to revive it are poor. It can run out the string for a long time, but it can only show glimpses of its old genius. I fear that's what happened with B.C., although the strip famously underwent a large change when its creator himself underwent a large change.

When I was a young, sprightly lad, looking for work in the big city, I had a nice chat with an fellow at an employment agency who, like me, loved comic strips and once dreamed of creating one himself. He had even been to some of the conventions of comic art and seen some of his heroes, including Johnny Hart. "He was hilarious," he told me; "hammered the whole time."

B.C. strips of this era in my books dealt a lot with adult themes of the time; social satire, boozing, chasing women, etc., such as:

But in the eighties Johnny Hart had a religious awakening, and if he truly did have a drinking problem was able to put it behind him. He also put a Christian bent on the strip. Here's one of his later works:

A friend of mine, also a fan of comic art, would go bananas over these strips. "It's supposed to be B.C.! 'Before Christ'! How can characters be talking about Christ in caveman days?"

And yet, although the strips could still be funny and quite moving (and though Hart denied it, could be prickly, like the famous post-9/11 example), it still ran into the Key Law. He was a dedicated worker, did all the gags himself, productive enough to do The Wizard of Id concurrently, but coming up with a new strip every single day is brutal. I like doing cartoons occasionally on this blog, but I don't get ideas I like every day, or even ideas I sorta like. A daily strip is tough. You can do the funniest joke of your life, and the next day it's gone forever, unless someone collects it in a book like the ones above. Next gag, please! Deadlines don't wait!

But no one can ever deny that Hart was a genius of the form, as in the famous "clams got legs" series:

It became a running joke in the strip, probably to this day:

I'm glad that clams don't actually got legs; if 2020 has taught us anything, it's that yesterday's joke is today's horrific menace. I would hate to face an invasion of angry, running clams. But it's just a joke, right?

Uuuhhhhh.....