Taking a toll.

The state of New York continually finds new ways to annoy people.

Here's a bill we got last month.

The state has the new no-tollbooth plan called Tolls By Mail, where instead of tollbooths with human beings we get our license plate photographed and a bill for the toll sent by mail. This makes it easier to go over bridges like the Verrazano-Narrows without worrying if you have enough money on you, but also easy to rack up a huge monthly bill for all those $19 tolls. Even E-ZPass will keep you honest by alerting you when your account runs low. With about 20 workdays in a month, if the V-Z was part of your commute, the MTA could skin you for $380 before you knew it.

Well, we only went one Thruway exit to see the doctor, thus the whopping $1.25 toll. We seldom go far these days. Not too many people do. I don't know how the bridges will keep afloat. But that's their problem.

I paid the bill online -- the stamp and the physical check would have cost about half the total of the bill, but I almost wrote a check just to annoy everybody. It would have been the smallest check I ever wrote.

I shouldn't complain. The Tolls By Mail system is faster while driving -- although the inconvenience comes on our side, not the government's, which is how they like it. It must have meant the dismissal or early retirement for many tollbooth operators. Then again, not handing around cash may mean we've avoided spreading COVID-19 even farther than we have. So I guess I ought to look on the bright side.

One thing, though, about the New York government using technology: They always say it will save money, and yet somehow the taxes and tolls never go down.

I should note that this invoice informed us that we could have saved six cents on this toll with E-ZPass. The irony is, I have E-ZPass on my car, but we took my wife's. Oh well, there goes that trip to Fiji we were planning.

Fred's Book Club: Better Dead than Fred?

Welcome to another Wednesday "Hump Day" edition of Fred's Book Club, also called the Humpback Writers, for stupid reasons you can probably figure out on your own.

This week we're tackling the worldwide sense of morbidity with our own lighthearted morbidity. I know it's April Fool's Day, but this book is for real:

Jane O'Boyle's Cool Dead People: Obituaries of Real Folks We Wish We'd Met a Little Sooner is a charming little book of brief obits for people who were in some fashion cool, and are in typical fashion dead.

I don't want to sound like I'm taking COVID-19's death toll lightly; a friend of mine turns out to be fighting it off right now, and the death toll here in New York State at this writing is 1,550. I do, however, think in these worrisome times that it is something of a comfort to know that you don't have to be a famous politician or celebrity to have led a pretty darn cool life, and that is the theme of O'Boyle's 2001 book.

This is a collection of obituaries of some people you've probably never heard of. But now you will meet them and perhaps get a truer sense of the stuff from which our lives are made. These people may be dead, but they remind us that the world is filled with others just like them who are more interesting than we probably realize. The next time you meet an elderly lady or gentleman -- or anyone, for that matter -- look into their eyes for the cool person who is still very much alive.

Here, in brief, are some of the people O'Boyle profiles, in two-page obits:

Edward Davis, of Detroit, the first black American to own a new car showroom (he started out as a salesman at a Chrysler-Plymouth dealership, but "He wasn't allowed to sell on the showroom floor with the white sales staff, so he converted a second-floor supply room into his office." Selling to the black community, he sold more than any of the white salesmen. In 1963 he opened his own Chrysler dealership.

Judy-Lynn Benjamin del Rey, of New York City, a four-foot woman who created "a market for science fiction and fantasy where there was none before." The Del Rey imprint she founded was one that graced the spines of perhaps half the paperbacks I owned in high school. It became the first home for a number of the biggest names in SF and fantasy, like Terry Brooks, Piers Anthony, Stephen Donaldson -- and she published some unknown guy Lucas's novel Star Wars three months before the movie came out. She had flair and a great sense of humor too, by all accounts.

FM-2030, of New York City, born F. M. Esfandiary. "A sunny optimist," writes O'Boyle, "with the futuristic vision that all people will be made completely of synthetic parts, he was a handsome and dashing man who spoke fluent Arabic, French, Hebrew, and English." He claimed to be "a twenty-first-century person who was accidentally born into the twentieth"; no surprise perhaps that he died in 2000.

Edward Craven Walker, of London, inventor of the lava lamp, which was originally sold as the "Astro lamp." "If you buy my lamp, you won't need drugs," said Walker, who also opened a nudist resort in Bournemouth, England.

Louis "Moondog" Hardin, formerly of New York, but died in Munster, Germany. Called the "Viking of Sixth Avenue," the blind Hardin spent more than thirty years hanging out at the corner of the Avenue of the Americas and West 54th Street, wearing a Viking helmet and cape. He wrote music such as the "Moondog Symphony," a song called "All Is Loneliness" (recorded by Janis Joplin), produced weird broadsheets against religion and government, and also a number of albums.

It really is a fun little book, brief at 143 pages, and more celebratory than sad. It's a reminder that not all heroes and oddballs and saints are remembered in this world, that anyone can be pretty darn cool, or at least pretty darn interesting, and that while all of us must die one day, all of us ought to live before that day arrives.

Larry as Max.

What you think you'll look like when the apocalypse comes:

What you look like when it does:

But replace the shirt and sweater on the great Larry Fine with a T-shirt and sweatshirt.

As you may recall, I have been reveling in the fact that I bought a skid of toilet paper for the house before all the bad juju went down. Just happened to be in BJ's Wholesale Club with a Cottonelle coupon burning a hole in my pocket and I said, Why not? And now I leap about in my TP pool like Scrooge McDuck in one of his money vaults, only TP is a lot softer than money.

But one thing I did not think to do was get a haircut. And the barbershops have been closed for a couple of weeks, with no end in sight.

This is tough on the barbers, and it's doing me no good whatever either. I am a bit thin on top, a genetic gift from my old man, and that means I can't grow out my hair in any stylish way. I just look like Larry, or Bozo, or any number of silent-film comedians with hilarious scalps. As I have complained in this space before, the only way to deal with this is to keep it short. How can I do that?

Even Forrest Gump advised "Do not try to cut your own hair." So where can I turn? My wife is a woman of many talents, but is no hairstylist. We have some tools for emergency dog trimming, as our dogs are ridiculously hairy beasts, but that stuff isn't meant for me, and she'd probably buzz off half of my hair by accident.

On that note, I am taking Tralfaz to get a dog bath and trim this week; maybe I should just stick out my head and ask the groomer to zap me while she's at it. "There's an extra ten spot in it for ya!"

No, I guess I just have to make peace with the fact that the duration of Coronageddon will see me with bad hair sticking out at the sides. Fortunately I have a lot of caps.

But mark my words: When all this is over, and the morning comes that sees those striped poles turning again, the doors will be jammed not with long-hairs needing a trim but with balding guys running for the chairs. Someone's gonna get hurt. Certainly if they get in my way.

Surviving Walmart.

For the second week in a row I went shopping early on Sunday morning. I have never planned so hard for a mere restocking of supplies, not even when planning a major get-together or holiday event.

Why Walmart? A couple of reasons: 1) You can usually count on them to have the basics, whatever the crisis, and 2) I needed a doorknob. The supermarkets don't carry doorknobs.

Even though I had been successful the week before, the constant drone of the viral news was making me a bit nervous. I mean, anyone who's ever seen the People of Walmart site could be unnerved by making an off-hours jaunt to that fabled retailer anyway. However, I think that those People are usually spotted in the late-night hours, and currently Walmart has no late-night hours. Even they are closing to sanitize the shop.

As for the doorknob, the doorknob on the downstairs can, after years of faithful service, was starting to make a click and thud sound when turned. I did not get to be this age without knowing that something was broken inside, and eventually someone was going to wind up locked in the bathroom. So a new knob was in order. And I did find it, as I found everything I was looking for there, with minor omissions.

TP Report: There was a posted notice of One TP Per Customer, and yet the only package I saw was a Scottissue multipack that had a tear in the plastic. Fortunately we are still living large off the Cottonelle I got at BJ's before all this went down. And I would have been reluctant to go with Scott brand anyway. I grew up with that in the house, and that's why I have a flat behind -- it was sanded down throughout my childhood.

But (ha!) that's TMI. The trip was a success, and was followed by a successful stop at the supermarket for produce and other things that Walmart does not do well. I was very fortunate, or blessed, as I am still in a good deal of back and leg pain since my awful hospital visit in February. I can barely walk a quarter of a mile without burning pain that may or may not go away if I crouch down for a short rest. Well, I was able to do the whole run without much discomfort, and that's a major win.

There were many reminders present of the Coronapocalypse, however.

Mask and glove report: Only about a quarter of the supermarket patrons wore masks; for Walmart, it was closer to half. Maybe half the supermarket shoppers had some kind of gloves on, but Walmart, close to 75%, including me. I had no masks, but I had one pair of latex gloves. I decided to choose which store to use it in, since I didn't want to transfer any germs into my car by wearing them throughout my expedition, and I didn't want to buy any since we had more at home, and you could probably guess why I chose to wear them in Walmart.

Shopping is still a very strange event. Fortunately we seem to be past the bulk of the hoarding craze, even though we don't know when all this will be over.

As I say, to make a trip like this efficiently required much planning. We still live in times of plenty; we just seem to have to overthink everything. And when I say We I mean I.

P.G. Doghouse.

Readers of this blog, being literate and above average in oh so many ways, may be able to guess why I spent the money on a bag of refrigerated dog treats for our two little (read: huge) chaps. Yes, they're mostly good boys and deserve treats. And yes, they like chicken, very much. But why this brand?

P.G. Wodehouse was perhaps the funniest artist of prose the English language has ever known. Certainly there are many other talented humor writers, but not one has had the consistency and staying power of that late hero of humor. Readers of his will remember Freddie Threepwood, the rather soft-headed second son of the somewhat addlepated Lord Emsworth, who first appeared in Wodehouse's incomparable Something Fresh. Freddie is a bit of a wastrel, but sort of an innocent, never carousing in a serious way, but pulling pranks, drinking too much in school, running up debts, and consistently falling in love with the wrong women.

The Earl of Emsworth was so constituted that no man or thing really had the power to trouble him deeply, but Freddie had come nearer to doing it than anybody else in the world. There had been a consistency, a perseverance about his irritating performances which had acted on the placid peer as dripping water on a stone. Isolated acts of annoyance would have been powerless to ruffle his calm; but Freddie had been exploding bombs under his nose since he went to Eton.
       He had been expelled from Eton for breaking out at night and roaming the streets of Windsor in a false moustache. He had been sent down from Oxford for pouring ink from a second storey window on to the Junior Dean of his college. He had spent two years at an expensive London crammer's and failed to pass into the Army. He had also accumulated an almost record series of racing debts, besides as shady a gang of friends, for the most part vaguely connected with the turf, as any young man of his age ever contrived to collect.  

The thing about Freddie is that, after many disappointments in romance, he finally meets the true love of his life, the American Aggie Donaldson, whose father is the owner of Donaldson's Dog-Biscuits. They wed, move to America, and Freddie's new father-in-law puts him to work in the firm, selling Donaldson's Dog-Joy. Freddie becomes reborn -- confident and driven to succeed. It makes a new man of him. Kind of a bore on the subject. Lord Emsworth barely recognizes Freddie when the latter makes a trip to scout the prospect of selling Donaldson's in England. Here, from "The Go-Getter" in Blandings Castle:

"Rupert Bingham, did you say?" said Freddie with a sudden animation. "I'll tell you something about Rupert Bingham. He has a dog named Bottles who has been fed from early youth on Donaldson's Dog-Joy, and I wish you could see him. Thanks to the bone-forming properties of Donaldson's Dog-Joy, he glows with health. A fine, upstanding dog, with eyes sparkling with the joy of living and both feet on the ground. A credit to his master."
       "Never mind about Rupert's dog!"
       "You've got to mind about Rupert's dog. You can't afford to ignore him. He's a dog to be reckoned with. A dog that counts. And all through Donaldson's Dog-Joy."

I have no idea if Freshpet had Wodehouse in mind when they created their own Dog Joy. The website doesn't mention it, and I have my doubts. For one thing, Donaldson's product is clearly a dog food, a mainstay of a pet's diet, while Freshpet's Dog Joy is a snack. Still, in honor of Wodehouse, and in solidarity with another Freddie, I went ahead and bought the bag.

My dogs give it two paws up. Two out of two approve. They like the rubbery, stinky little chicken-flavored treats. However, I was surprised that they weren't wild over them. I can tell when they like a treat, when they really like a treat, and when they'll run through fire for a treat (we call that Cheese Level). Dog Joy did not achieve the top ranking. But they liked it a lot, so yes, they approve.

It did not turn them into dogs to be reckoned with. Actually, at their large size, I think that was already the case.

And I think writing about Freshpet's Dog Joy has not done the slightest bit as much for me as selling Donaldson's Dog-Joy did for Freddie Threepwood. Pity.

It could happen.

Q & Author.

Host: Good morning, and welcome to our show. I'm Clarence Sassafras. This is Q & Author, the program where you the public gets to ask them the authors one question. Today's guest is Frederick Key, whose new novel Dwindle, Peak and Pine, has just been released. Good morning, Fred.

Fred: Yo.

Host: All right, let's get to it. Remember, just one question. Who's up first?

Caller 1: Hello, am I on?

Host: Yes. Who's our next caller?

Caller 2: Hi, I'd like to ask, is it really true that you can go to jail for ripping off the mattress tag?

Host: Good question, caller. Fred, over to you.

Fred: Um... That isn't really an issue in any of my writing, but I am pretty sure the penalties only apply to the mattress retailer.

Host: "Pretty sure"? Kind of wobbly there, Fred.

Fred: Yeah, it's not my area of the law. None of them are.

Host: Who's our next caller?

Caller 3: Can I say hi to my dad?

Host: No. Who's our next caller?

Caller 4: Hello, this is Rita from Sweezy Point. I'd like know what Ferd thinks about the situation in the Aleutians.

Host: Good question, there, Rita. Well, Ferd?

Fred: Fred.

Host: If you say so.

Fred: I was unaware of the situation in the Aleutians, Clarence.

Host: You seem rather uninformed, Ferd.

Fred: I don't get out much.

Host: Who's our next caller?

Caller 5: Hello. First time, long time. Wait, did that count as a question?

Host: No, but that one did. Who's our next caller?

Caller 6: OOOH! It's me! Hi, Clarence! It's so great to talk to you! You're just so wonderful! I love your show!

Host: Thank you, Mom, but I'm working right now.

Caller 6: Well, if you'd call me once in a while I wouldn't have to bother you at the office.

Host: Do you have a question for our author?

Caller 6: Sure, why not. Ummmm..... Mr. Author, why are books so bad these days? They're either bloody and gross or stuffy and boring.

Fred: Not all books. In fact, I can recommend --

Host: Mom, you're embarrassing me. Who's our next caller?

Caller 7: Hello, Clarence. Hello, Ferd. I just want --

Caller 6: Clarence, honey, what do you want for dinner on Sunday?

Host: Mom, get off the line! Go ahead, new caller.

Caller 7: I just wanted to know if Ferd has any thoughts on a possible solution to the Riemann hypothesis.

Host: How about it, Ferd?

Fred: Fred.

Host: Him too.

Fred: Can I go yet?

Host: No. Who's our next caller?

Caller 8: This is Rodney. Ferd, I just want to ask you, where do you get your ideas?

Ferd: I swear I have no clue about anything anymore. I'm not even sure what my name is.

Host: And there you have it, another episode of Q & Author. I'd like to thank my guest, Ferd What's-His-Name, and our callers. This is Clarence Sassafras saying: The only dumb question is the one you ask. Good day!