The Economy of Memory

On my walk the other evening I passed by the Economy Store in my small town. It’s a place where people donate their old clothes and kid’s toys, books and pretty much whatever they don’t want anymore. The store employees go through it all, throwing out the stuff that’s dirty or torn or broken; all the things people should have had the good sense not to “donate” in the first place. What is still usable or wearable they sell for a small price. Walking past I remembered back to when I was a kid, like 10 years old, and the thrift store was on Main Street. I didn’t go in a lot but every now and then I would walk in and look around. I’m sure I spent quite a bit of my allowance there but for some reason my memory is only holding onto two purchases.

The first was a drinking glass with a vertical design of the American flag. I paid a dime for it and can remember being quite taken with the design and colors, but as I think about it now, I’m not sure why. I’ve never been overtly patriotic. I’m grateful for where I was born and the things that are possible living here, but I don’t fly a flag at my home, I don’t wear t-shirts with a flag on it. It’s an important symbol, I’ve just never been “Rah! Rah! Rah! USA! USA! USA!” For some reason this glass caught my eye. I bought it and believe I drank out of it nearly every day for the rest of the summer (hopefully I washed it occasionally, but I was a dumb kid so . . .) I think I eventually broke the glass but I got my 10 cents worth.

The second purchase I remember was a paperback book, “Ball Four” by Jim Bouton. Jim Bouton was a major league baseball pitcher so I figured it was about baseball, which it ostensibly was. It was also about the players’ off-field activities: excessive drinking, rampant drug use, and chasing women. I read a little of the book when I got it home, but as a ten year old most of it went over my head. Bored, I set it aside and forgot about it. A few days later my brother who is ten years older than me, handed me “Ball Four” and said “Cool book.” I asked when he had read it and he told me he had started it the night before and stayed up until the wee hours of the morning to finish it. With his endorsement I tried to restart it but it still flew way over my head.

I haven’t been in the thrift store since I was a kid but I’m glad it still exists. They help a lot of people and work very hard to do it, not to mention providing me with two lasting memories.

The Truth about Number 2

On my walk last evening I passed a group of teenagers (Is “group” the right term? Or is it “gaggle” or “pride” or “passel”, maybe its “annoyance”? Yeah, that’s it). I passed an annoyance of teenagers and one was breathlessly telling a story that was obviously utter bullshit.

“The car was going 100 miles an hour and suddenly he opens the door and jumps out, I shit you not.”

The line that got my attention was “I shit you not.” Where exactly did we come up with this phrase as English speakers? We use the word “shit” in many different ways as brilliantly chronicled by George Carlin on his FM/AM album in 1972. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f46HRlTIYDM

But why do we say things like “Are you shitting me?” as a way of questioning someone’s truthfulness? If you think about it logically, “shitting” someone sounds like you’re giving them an enema. Now, you can pay $9.99 a month on a plethora of websites and watch all of those videos you want and none of it explains why we use it in the context we do.

Back to “I shit you not.” This version is the most interesting because it sounds so Shakespearean:

King Henry: Dost thou shittest me?

Exeter: I shit thee not my liege.

Romeo: By the light of a Janus moon I believe you shitteth me

Juliet: No my love, I swear on the beating of my full heart I shit thee not.

So basically we have a phrase, “I shit you not”, that sounds like a denial of an old English fecal extracting colon cleanse that we as modern English speakers are using to mean “I am not lying to you or exaggerating the circumstances”.

How about some alternatives:

“I am not trying to de-turd you.”

“I’m not going anywhere near your ass with a rubber tube.”

“My veracity can be proven by your lack of anal leakage.”

Uh, yeah, I guess we’d better stick with “I shit you not” no matter where we came up with it.

Christmas in July

A friend gave me these two books recently that she found at a relative’s yard sale. To say I was happy is an understatement along the lines of saying most politicians are a little corrupt. I have collected Peanuts memorabilia since I was 6 or 7 years old. I wish I still had all the things I had as a kid but much of it was thrown out or broken or misplaced over the years and many moves. The one thing I still have is my collection of several dozen of these paperback books. They were published by Fawcett and were reprints of daily and Sunday strips that had already been collected in larger, more expensive books. This was a budget alternative to have all the Peanuts strips in your possession. They collected all the daily strips from 1952-1988 when publishing was stopped.

One of my fondest childhood memories is after church on Sunday afternoon, my mom and sister and I going to the Bookland on Edgar Street in York to look around. My first stop was the humor section to look for a new Peanuts collection. If all they had were old ones I was palpably disappointed. If there was a new one I didn’t have it was like Christmas morning. If we hadn’t been there in a while and there were 2 new books, I became Homer Simpson drooling over a box of donuts.

The rest of my Sunday afternoon would be spent on the floor reading through the cartoon strips contained in the books. They didn’t take long to go through so I would re-read them several times until my favorites were memorized.

Back to the books my friend gave me. I took them home figuring I already had them in my collection. I certainly don’t have all the volumes that were published but I have several dozen. What were the odds she had found one or two I didn’t have? So I took them over to the book shelf that holds my treasured Peanuts books. One by one I went through my titles. When I was done I had 2 brand new books to read. I didn’t have either one in my collection. It was Christmas morning on a July afternoon and my cat wanted to know why I was so excited about something that clearly had nothing to do with her.

People ask me why I like Peanuts and there are several reasons. First and foremost they make me laugh. I know not everyone thinks they’re funny but they consistently give me at least a chuckle. Being a writer myself I am in awe of Charles Schulz’s use of language and loving words I was always excited to learn a new one. I still remember learning the word perspicacity from Linus when talking about his teacher.

Everyone can relate to Snoopy and his cool demeanor. His ability to morph into anything from a World War I flying ace to a vulture sitting in a tree would make any kid jealous. It works on adults too who have boring jobs and need to pretend to make it through the day. But one of the big reasons I love the Peanuts is I can relate to Charlie Brown. I’m wishy-washy just like him, loved sports but wasn’t that good at them like Charlie and as a kid nothing ever seemed to go right for me. Now that I’m older and my hairline has receded and my bald spot grows exponentially larger every day I’m starting to resemble Charlie Brown as well.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to lie on the couch and read my books.

Bodily Functions

I’ve been eating healthier the past few months, a lot more fruit and vegetables. My body has noticed and is none too happy. When I woke up a few days ago I found this note duct taped to my forehead:

Dear Traitor,

What the hell? We, your body parts, have noticed some changes recently that we were not consulted on. The pancreas has outlined our complaints which we will discuss one at a time.

What happened to the pizza? Pizza, of all flavors and varieties from Roma’s Pizzeria to generic store $.99 cardboard-and-ketchup, has been a staple of our diet for decades. Now it can go 7 or even up to 10 days without a single slice. This is unacceptable. We demand that pizza be brought back as a 3-time-a-week food pyramid building block of our diet. The cheese alone was holding the body together like a sturdy mortar. Now there’s too much room in the veins. The blood is sloshing all over the place. It’s a complete mess.

Where are the chocolate chip cookies? Oh sure, sometimes on the weekend when you reward yourself we get to delight in the sugary goodness of the most amazing food ever invented. But what about the rest of the week? We used to feel the jittery high of cookies several times a week. Sometimes every day! We need that feeling back man! The heart is constantly sending search parties out for any milligram of sugar. When he doesn’t get it, he gets angry and abusive to the other organs. How many times do the lungs have to be slapped? How often does the liver have to be told it’s worthless and should just pack a bag to move to Montana? When does it stop?

Two words: Coke and Pepsi Look, we understand that drinking Coke and Pepsi is the equivalent of slurping battery acid through a crazy straw but you made that choice for years. Day after day we absorbed the chemical cocktail known as cola and did we complain? Ok, the kidneys sent a stone through every few years for a while which could be viewed as a complaint. Sure, the heart sometimes thought it was the drummer of a thrash metal band. But for the most part we went along. Now you cut down your consumption to just a day on the weekend? What are we supposed to do? We need the stuff man! Where’s out shit, our stash, fix, medicine, juice, liquid happiness, black gold, Atlanta buzz water, Grandpappy’s magic elixir, that which is not for mortal man, heaven in a plastic bottle, the red can of freedom, the river that makes you shiver, high fructose nirvana!

These are our top 3 concerns, but there are others. Green beans? Green beans? That’s what we’re eating for lunch now? And celery? It’s 90% water and has no flavor. Why bother? Drink a glass of water and eat a cookie. And what is with the walking? Twice a day; 4, sometimes 5 miles total? You have a perfectly good car you could drive to any destination. You had better take our complaints seriously or we’re outta here. We haven’t determined the logistics of leaving yet, but we will.

Sincerely,

Your Body

My My My My My Michelle

Michelle Bachmann has announced that she is serving her last term in congress. She will not seek re-election in 2014. I can only assume it’s because her mother race of aliens will be entering earth’s atmosphere to pick Michelle up and take her back home for debriefing: Her job here as an extraterrestrial spy will be done. It’s time to use the information Michelle has gathered.

The people of Minnesota should be relieved that the hallucinogenic drugs that have laced their drinking water the last 8 years tricking them to continue to vote for Michelle will now be weaned out of the state’s water supply. Also, I believe the Amazing Kreskin will be appearing on local television to do a mass hypnosis event to help bring the populace back to normalcy.

Fellow Republicans should also be relieved that they won’t have to answer questions any longer like “What’s wrong with Michelle Bachmann?”, “What the hell is wrong with Michelle Bachmann?” and “Holy God, what in the shitting hell is wrong with Michelle Bachmann?”

Democrats I’m sure are a little concerned. When questioned about Minnesota politics they will now need more substantive answers than making a cuckoo sound and twirling a finger at the side of their heads.

As for me, I have made fun of Michelle in this blog repeatedly because she is a lunatic. I think I once called her “bat-shit crazy” but even that doesn’t do her psychosis justice. I’ll never forget the day she mixed up the actor John Wayne with serial killer John Wayne Gacey. How I laughed that day: Such a sweet, fulfilling memory. I remember my introduction to Michelle was an interview with Chris Matthews where she tried to channel Joe McCarthy and call for an investigation into congress for representatives that hated America. When the media contacted McCarthy’s ghost he just sighed and lit up a Kent. No, Michelle was no Joe McCarthy.

Michelle is more of a paranoid schizophrenic. When she walks down the street conspiracies, hulking and sweating liberalism, jump out at her from every doorway. She tries to fight them off with her crazy eyes and rambling speeches blaming Democrats for everything from swine flu to teenagers wanting to volunteer. But no matter how fast she runs the mass, always leaning to the left, catches Michelle in its globular arms, bleating in her ear “Obamacare! Obamacare! Obamacare!”

I’m going to miss Michelle.

On the Run

Shhh. Don’t tell anyone I’m here. I’m hiding out from the IRS. About a year ago I joined a group called Big Dave’s Tea Parties for Manly Men and now the IRS has targeted us. Doesn’t make sense though, we only have $8.19 in our checking account. The last fund raiser was a disaster. I told Dave if you’re going to sell chicken on the side of the road it has to be cooked. He was just tossing roasters at passing cars hoping someone would stop.

The whole point of the group was for men who like to watch football but also like to drink Earl Grey tea. Now that the IRS is leaning on any group with “tea party” in their name, we’re being audited. We haven’t exactly kept “books” of our financial activity either. Dirty Sam is the club treasurer and he has already admitted to embezzling $22 and all the Twizzlers. On top of that he only kept track of about half of our expenditures and those he wrote down inside his shoe on his Dr. Scholl’s odor-eating footpad.

We were visited the other day by Special Agent William Allamericanboy. I’ve never seen a haircut so precise. He grilled us for 3 hours with questions about our activities. The first strike against us came when we offered him a cup of tea. We only drink Earl Grey but the agent was a chamomile man.

We’re on the run now. Agent Allamericanboy is leading a search party from inside a hermetically sealed Chevy Tahoe so he doesn’t sweat. They’ve already caught Dirty Sam. He was trying to get to his brother’s place in the Jersey swamps but couldn’t read the directions he had written down on his toenails. Bear Bob and Earl the Republican hopped a freight train. They made it as far as the Maryland line before being found in a box car filled with mannequins. Earl gave up quietly but Bear Bob insisted he was legally married to “Barb”, one of the mannequins, and they were on their honeymoon.

I’m not going to say where I’m at because there’s a bounty on my head. I want to trust you but I know the lure of generic grocery store coupons is too strong.

Lunch is On Me

There’s a market near where I work that’s open 2 days a week and I sometimes go there to get lunch. One of the stands sells a wonderful burrito but it can be a chore to buy from them because all of the employees are high. Just placing an order becomes a Cheech and Chong skit.

“I’d like the bar-b-cue chicken burrito.”

“We’re out of chicken, dude.”

“How can you be out of chicken two hours from closing?”

“Idunnow.”

“This is the second time you’ve been out of chicken in the past two weeks.”

“Yeah?”

“At the start of the day why don’t you order more chicken?”

“We’re out of chicken, man.”

“I get that, but why do you keep running out?”

“Out of what?”

“Chicken.”

“We’re out of chicken, man.”

If you stay sane long enough to order your food then you get the joy of watching a carnival sideshow freak make your food. There’s Metalhead with flathead screws through his lips and screen door handles dangling from his ears. Maybe you’ll get the Hepatitis Chef. He’s getting another tattoo as he cooks your food, this one on the only piece of unadorned skin he has, between his toes. My last trip I was lucky enough to get Grizzly Adams, a trucker hat sitting precariously atop a mound of unkempt hair that crept into a copious beard growing like kudzu vine. And he’s working without a net. That’s right, nine and half quintillion hairs that could fall into your food and no hairnet! At one point I saw him pull a spatula from behind his ear and rake his beard to get the black beans for my burrito. I didn’t see where the guacamole came from and I don’t want to know.

When the burrito was finished it was passed off to Slacker Dude #365 who shoved it into a bag and sleepily called out my name while simultaneously selling a tab of acid to a lawyer who wanted to know when his nachos would be ready.

The burrito was good as always and I survived although I did hack up a hairball during a meeting later in the afternoon.