A True Man

In 1953, five months after leaving the White House, ex-President Harry Truman took Bess ALONE on a 19-day roadtrip from Independence, Mo., to East Coast and back in their new Chrysler New Yorker.
As they say: It was a different time.
May be a black-and-white image of 1 person

Haute Couture. It Really Hoits.

I think I wore it best.

A Nightmare that Gives No Satisfaction

Had the same nightmare again last night!
Keith Richards sidles up to me and slurs:
A covariation analysis reveals elements of selectivity in quorum sensing systems.”
I can’t take much more of this!
A no, no no. A hey, hey, hey.
That’s what I say.

Costco Opens a New Kind of Warehouse Store in the Deep South called “J Crow”

Big Box ideas for a small-minded world.

In response to ever-fragmenting consumer markets, Costco has opened a new kind of warehouse shopping experience in the Deep South that caters discreetly to a certain unnamed, but plainly obvious demographic group. The stores’ name hints at its target market – J Crow. Membership is open to everyone, but due to complicated membership rules, it’s very difficult for “certain groups of people” to gain access to the store. The fact that J Crow has a Membership Suppression Department speaks volumes.  


J Crow is marketed as “A haven for Southerners with discriminating tastes – very discriminating tastes.” And the store has proven highly popular with its target audience. In fact, States’ Rights magazine voted J Crow the most popular warehouse store in the entire Confederacy.


This neo-Costco store features products we’re all familiar with, but have been rebranded to make them more appealing to this underserved group. A list of products catering to this unique demographic appear below:


  1. KKKleenex – Comes in any color you want as long as it’s white. There are no racial issues with these facial tissues.
  2. Jimmy Crow’s Pure Pork Sausage – You know it’s bad at every level, but somehow you just can’t resist it
  3. Santa: Our Albino Christian Gift Giver – On sale now in the revisionist Christmas book section
  4. Breyer’s All-White Neapolitan Ice Cream – The 3 flavors you love in one soothing color
  5. Kellogg’s “Special KKK Cereal” – The cereal is not made from amber waves of grain, but from ample grains of bleached wheat
  6. Southern Crackers – Are you kidding me? These saltines practically fly off the shelves.
  7. Bigoted Playing Cards – Because sometimes you just want to play the race card
  8. Crayola “Whiter Shade of Pale” Crayons – Box of 36 off-white colors including: Bone, Pearl Mist, Eggshell and Honky
  9. All White M&M’s – Easily tolerated, diversity-proof snack where even the chocolate is white
  10. Set of 8 Hot Wheels Race Cars – Each Hot Wheels race car is supposedly separate and equal, but guess which race always wins?
  11. Cool Whip – No change to its pure, lily-white formula. It’s non-dairy and non-threatening
  12. KKKrispy KKKreme Donuts – Southern fried, with Southern pride. No shortage of shortening here. In fact there’s a longage of shortening. Some say these empty-calorie donuts make the Deep South seem shallow. Very confusing, but very tasty.


Kirkland Corp. (Costco’s parent company) will be keeping a very biased eye on this new marketing  venture designed for people with discriminating tastes – very discriminating tastes. Kirkland Corp. hopes this endeavor will allow for other specialty warehouse themes appropriate to its locality. A few ideas floated include sombrero-shaped Costco’s in Mexico, pyramid-shaped Costco’s in Egypt and a Great Wall of Costco’s in China. These are just a few examples of Costco’s Big Box, out-of-the-box ideas.

Paul Revere’s Other Midnight Ride

Paul Revere: A skilled silversmith and stout patriot who, if he lived today, maybe would’ve built and flown  his own spaceship. Then again, maybe not. It’s difficult to say.

Most of us are familiar with the story of the Midnight Ride of Paul Revere. The skilled silversmith and stout patriot galloped through the Massachusetts countryside to warn the citizens and alert the Minutemen of the impending British Invasion – not the Beatles 1964 invasion but the British Redcoats 1775 invasion. His Majesty’s Troops’ mission was to march to Lexington and Concord, secure the armory and powder houses, thereby disarming the revolutionaries.


It was little noted nor long remembered, but 1 week later he made another less mythologized ride. Almost lost to posterity but recently discovered in a blood-deprived area of my brain is the story of this other midnight ride of Paul Revere.


I’m pleased to present verbatim a brief discussion between Paul Revere and his wife Prudence Revere pertaining to the events of that other midnight ride on April 25th 1775. 



Paul:          Pru, I think I’m gonna gallop over to Lexington for some milk. 


Prudence: What? Are you crazy it’s almost midnight. 


Paul:          Well you know how cranky our 15 children get if they don’t have their milk in the morning. 


Prudence: Oh, I see what’s going on here. You’re not going to Lexington at all are you ? You’re going over to Bunker Hill to see that Molly Pitcher woman. 


Paul:          Wha? No baby it’s you. It’s always been you. 


Prudence: Baby? You never call me baby. Is that what you call that little hussy of yours? 


Paul:          Pru, c’mon. What do you want me to call you “my sincerely appreciated helpmate.” I won’t be long. I’m just getting milk. It’s for the children. 


Prudence: Last week you went on another midnight ride with some flimsy excuse about there being 2 lanterns in the North Church steeple. What was that? Some kind of code? And then you came back at 6 in the morning all tired and spent…and with no milk.


Paul:          That was different Pru, I had to warn the people that the British were coming. 


Prudence: The British are coming? What are you talking about? We’re all British. Me thinks the British weren’t the only ones coming that night. And with that floozie Molly Pitcher. Shame. Shame. 


Paul:          Floozie? Who uses the term floozie? Where did you learn that? – From Reverend Dimmesdale? You see him a lot.


Prudence: I seek only spiritual guidance from Reverend Dimmesdale. Alright then, let me rephrase that – the wench Molly Pitcher. Point is I’m here with 15 kids and you’re out gallivanting in the countryside. 


Paul:          Pru, for the last time I’m going to a farm in Lexington to get some milk for tomorrow. It’s the only one open at this hour.


Prudence: And you couldn’t think of that at 7 o’clock? Whose farm is it anyway? 


Paul:          It’s old Mac Donald’s


Prudence: I heard he sold the place. Old Mac Donald had a farm. He’s in O-hi-o. 


Paul:          Did I say old Macdonald? I meant Pepperidge Farm. Yeah. They’ve got a new trot-thru window. 


Prudence: I know. I’m sorry Paul. I’m just antsy. I think I’ve got a bee in my bonnet what with the Puritan Festival coming up. How could I ever suspect you? You know I revere you Paul. 


With his wife’s suspicions allayed, he galloped off to Bunker Hill to see Molly Pitcher. And later that night his cries could be heard throughout the country side, “Paul Revere is coming! Paul Revere is coming!”

Oh Kleenex! My Kleenex!

Oh Kleenex! My Kleenex!


When I place my nose deep in your tissue

I feel so depraved

Because what I issue in your tissue

‘tis mucous I’m afraid


Oh Kleenex! My Kleenex!

My fearful sneeze is thru

But I dare not look

To see that you took

All my nasal goo


Oh Kleenex! My Kleenex!

The filth I do deposit

Doth make me compelled

To open you up and see what’s beheld


Oh Kleenex! My Kleenex!

My mind is disturbed

For I can’t unsee the mayhem

It makes me perturbed

No I can’t unsee the gray phlegm

It makes me unnerved


Oh Kleenex! St. Kleenex!

Your tissues so absorb

The things I excrete

Straight out of my orb

I thank you I do

From my nasal cavity

And apologize greatly for my teenage depravity


Oh Kleenex! St. Kleenex!

Though you may think I’m being snotty

Be happy there’s toilet paper, right there by the potty 

For no matter what I’m wiping

‘tis you I adore

And no matter what I’m swiping

‘tis you I care for


Oh Kleenex! St. Kleenex!

You give so much, You ask so little

I need you now, to wipe my spittle.


Pyramids: The Perfect Gift for the Pharaoh Who Has Everything

AFTER removal of polished white limestone today. 

BEFORE removal of polished white limestone circa 2200 BC.

We all know Pyramid schemes are bound to fail. Whether you’re undertaking a sketchy financial arrangement or undertaking a mummified pharaoh to his secret sepulchral chamber, pyramid schemes are an unworkable geometry. Why a nation-state should be in thrall of such a pseudo-religious structure is beyond me. However, I intend to reassess the bewitchery of these stony Jenga structures by examining the whys and wherefores of their construction set against the prevailing zeitgeist of 26th century BC Egypt. And, imitation being the highest form of flattery, I intend to construct my analysis precisely and deliberatively – piece by piece, stacking one belief atop the other until they form a really strong triangular argument with a point. 


Ancient Egypt Wasn’t a Nanny State. It Was More of a Mummy State. 

We can’t help but marvel at the majesty of the pyramids – their sacred vaults larded with gaudy treasures, their magically proportionate numerology hinting at supernatural intervention, and their cartoonishly detailed hieroglyphs heralding the advent of Pixar animation. These curious features all conspire to create a sense of breathless awe and baffling mystery. As Egyptology hobbyist Winston Churchill once said (and I’m paraphrasing here): “The pyramids are a mummy wrapped in a mystery inside of a really big shade structure.”

The greater mystery however, is in why a nation-state would allocate a whopping 99% of its GDP to build a really, really big headstone for a guy who would’ve been just as dead had a simple $50 grave marker been placed over his embalmed eminence. The resulting savings of $3 trillion (in 2500 BC adjusted dollars) could’ve been distributed a bit more beneficially to the citizens of ancient Egypt. At that time there were shortages of everything except sand. There were shortages of practical things like tourniquets, irrigation channels and roads. But the most critical shortage was one of common sense. Why else would Egyptians build these monuments to excess?   

In the Egyptian scheme of spirituality, pyramids weren’t built so much to glorify a deceased pharaoh as they were to ensure his orderly transition of power from the earthly worlds to the nether worlds thereby avoiding the kind of afterlife chaos that could bleed into terrestrial realms. Happy King, happy subjects. In ancient Egypt this concept was known as appeasing Ma’at (Pronounced “Maw”, meaning divine order). Despite millennia of scholarly interpretation and rampant speculation, it turns out the mystery of pyramids was nothing more than a very big and very stupid insurance policy. And isn’t that essentially why many people practice religion today? Just in case there’s someone, somewhere with a ledger.

In a world where flooding, starvation and heat stroke were known as the prevailing conditions, the powers that be somehow thought it wise to divert 99% of their economic resources to stacking stones, on the pea-brain spiritual premise that by constructing such a geometric monstrosity, they’d be spared the wrath of their nature Gods. So they ponied-up literally a king’s ransom to appease these easily offended absentee Gods.

This is where the ancient Egyptians’ spiritual calculus breaks down. You see, if the flock was not paying proper respect to Ma’at and the pharaoh’s afterlife, they’d warrant a punishment for their misdeed. But in what manner would these absentee Gods punish their flock so they would feel the sting of their misbehavior? – by seeing to it that floods, starvation and heat stroke moved over the land? My point is, how would the peasants know the difference between experiencing the wrath of God’s retribution or just living under the prevailing conditions? Such irony when you can’t tell if you’re being punished or living the best life available. From this perspective, mollifying truant Gods by building resource-sapping pyramids presented an unmeasurable metric. You couldn’t tell if you were being punished or it was just Tuesday. Oh golly, such folly. 

Read the rest of this entry »

Matchbox City: A 7-Year Old’s Engineering Feat Featuring an Epic and Trashy Discovery

In these ingenuous little episodes of my early life I’ve mentioned frequently my close childhood friend Gary DeBaise. He appears so regularly and as such a perfect complement to my actions that one might suspect he is just a literary device or maybe even an imaginary friend. He is neither. But if I were to create an imaginary friend, I’d create him in Gary’s image. And I would never admit I had any imaginary friends because as I’ve often said (to myself only): Keep your friends close, and your imaginary friends closer.

If only we could make the real world like this idealized world. Well, we kids did in 1968.

No one wants to know about your imaginary friends. And thankfully I have none now that they’ve all grown up and moved away. But Gary remains a real lifelong friend; as real as the bracing deluge of an Ice Bucket Challenge. Gary grew up not 3 houses down from me. Well actually that’s not true. It wasn’t not 3 houses down. It was exactly 3 houses down. Oh how the truth will set you free. And now I feel free enough to share the spritely tale of a 7-year-old’s civil engineering project for the ages – ages 7-11. The US Army Corps of Engineers never executed a project so consummately.  

The kids on my block didn’t bother with playdates. We just played, on whatever date it was: whiffle ball, touch football, swamp fox, build and burn a model car. We also rode bikes with banana seats, caught grasshoppers in “The Lot” and habituated our neighborhood mom and pop store (Louise Bros.) for a nickel popsicle. Now at the risk of making this sound too mawkishly idyllic – like we walked out of a Norman Rockwell painting – I must interject, our block was no walk in the park (although there was a nearby park we could walk in). And not to put too gritty a point on it; our neighborhood was also rife with family upheaval, drug use and even suicide. But overall it was a dependable bastion of stay-at-home-moms (mine didn’t even drive till after the “divorce”), work-a-day fathers and healthy, juvenile tropisms. Simply put, we kids liked to do kids’ stuff.

The names of our “gang members” were straight out of an Andy Hardy movie. There was Ricky, Checker, Pat, Pat-Pat (so doubled to differentiate him from the older, more established Pat), and the aforementioned Gary. We were like dogs, padding about, waiting for the next great idea. One day, apropos of nothing, Pat-Pat announced: “Yesterday I drank everything through my toothbrush, just by dipping it in and then sucking out the fluid.” What these days would be met with a derisive smirk and a cold stare was then hailed as a breakthrough in sophisticated drink delivery systems. “Aw man,” Ricky declared, “I’m gonna do that all day tomorrow.”

Now when I say “gang members”, I refer to the motley collection of youthful personalities who banded together for constructive purposes (usually) and not a misguided and dangerous affiliation of urban warriors who think they have turf to protect – turf they don’t even own. I was the youngest member of the crew and as such I was always aspirational – wondering when I’d get to stay up and watch the late 10 o’clock shows like Mission Impossible or Star Trek; let alone some cool guy named Johnny Carson whose show was on at the ungodly hour of 11:30 PM. Years later I would actually penetrate this inky abyss and witness the Tonight Show not only on TV, but in person.

But clearly, in 1968 there were many bridges to cross and childhood metrics to cross off. And until the reality of my parents’ divorce, and it’s soul-killing angst intruded, I was on track to breeze through all of them. From the moment I first detected the incipient cracks in my parents’ marriage I was both uneasy in my predicament and yet supremely confident of my ability to navigate it. Ambivalence; it’s what’s for breakfast. Welcome to earth young David. Not that I was a deep-thinking 7-year-old, this was just the most sophisticated reasoning a 7-year-old could muster. And, truth be told, it’s not too far from the supposed higher reasoning this 60-year-old warhorse can muster either. In the interim there has been tremendous personal growth on my part. For example I’m much taller now than I was when I was seven, and I now drive a car instead of a banana-seat bicycle. Girls have evolved from an infernal nuisance to an eternal necessity. Read the rest of this entry »

Offered with the Utmost Levity and the Least Most Gravity

  1. What is Micronesia? Is that when you forget only a little bit. I can’t remember. It’s not the full-size “nesia”, it’s just a Micro-nesia.
  2. Sequel to The Day the Earth Stood Still. The even more miraculous The Day My 2-year-old Stood Still.
  3. “I like to order my fish with the head on so I know exactly what I’m getting.” “Yeah I do that too, but with veal.”
  4. Male realtors admit; there looking for a turnkey girlfriend who’s move-in ready. A real head turner, and maybe a key turner too.
  5. If a turkey is all ready to eat, does that make it a turnkey turkey?
  6. Aren’t we all just end users?
  7. I’m not growing old, I’m shrinking old
  8. A crime most foul (see how I didn’t say “fowl”). Killing 3 birds with one holiday.

    We love TurDucken (a chicken, stuffed into a duck inside a turkey), but we also want other types of 3-layered stuffed things:

    1. GiCamPo – That’s a polar bear stuffed into a camel inside a giraffe. Especially good for patients, who on the advice of their doctor, are on an all giraffe, camel and polar bear diet.
    2. A Black and White ZePandUnk – That’s a skunk stuffed into a panda inside a zebra. Comes in B&W.
    3. GriffBeaFife – That’s a Barney Fife stuffed into an Aunt Bea inside an Andy Griffith. “Mmmm Good Cracker.”
    4. PumpCoNimitz – That’s an aircraft carrier, stuffed into a coconut inside a pumpkin. They ate these on Gilligan’s Island. I think that’s how they survived in Micronesia, but I can’t quite remember.
  9. If stuffing a turkey with idiots is outlawed, only outlaw idiots will be stuffed into turkeys. Think about that before you gobble.
  10. I know.  I’m a little worried about all the turkey references too. I mean c’mon man, let it go.
  11. I don’t know about the new guy. I’ve had 3 conversations with him and in each one he’s managed to work in the word “colo-rectal” several times.
  12. Snap, Crackle and Pop get in over their heads down at the milk pond. It almost leads to the drowning of a very soggy Crackle.
  13. A coolly disarming thing to say to a room full of high-powered strangers, “I just came in to see how big everybody’s egos were, and to create some standing for myself. Mission accomplished? I thought so.”
  14. Aren’t we all just visitors?
  15. If you want to avoid food poisoning, only eat oysters in months that have x’s in them
  16. Most men are rescue boyfriends in need of a certified service girlfriend (warning: don’t pet them unless you get permission).
  17. In Ireland large Leprechauns are discriminated against. Instead of a pot of gold they get a pot of coal.
  18. He makes me nervous. Whenever we have a conversation he always refers to my “sit bones.”
  19. Metamorphic rock is a metaphor for four formations formerly forgotten. I know, forced it. Forgive me.


Did You Know?

  1. Remember when they were the supposed enemy?

    Communists suffer from Hammer & Sickle Cell Anemia

  2. Children are sick of Arm & Hammer Baking Soda
  3. All lobsters are shellfish. When was the last time one lent you a helping claw?
  4. Empowered crabs say, “The world is our oyster.”
  5. Steroidal mussels suffer from ‘roid rage
  6. Stool pigeons told to clam up
  7. Dog traces picture of cat after watching alpha dog do the same. The pack is calling it a copycat mime
  8. The band “10 Years After” is getting back together and touring under the new name “50 Years Before”
  9. Beethoven had a Bee in his thoven.
  10. Midwives who live in halfway houses rarely go all the way