HERE HE COMES, MR. PRESIDENT

I stumbled across this the today:  How come we choose from just two people for President and fifty for Miss America?

 

Having no particular affinity for and much disdain with both of our "major" political parties, I started looking into this conundrum.  Turns out at the start of Primary season (so long ago), there were actually two major divisions of candidates running: Principal Candidates and Other Candidates.  Yup, that's what they are called: "Other."  Counting the total number of registered candidates, there were eighteen considered to be Principal Candidates and 524 considered to be Other Candidates from a multitude of mainstream and not-so-mainstream political parties. 

Yes, folks, when this all started, we had a choice of 542 people in the running to be the 2012 President of the United States of America.

I started wondering, too, with such a poor showing in his four years in office, what Democratic Party in their right mind would re-nominate the guy who's in the Oval Office right now?  Turns out they didn't have to.  There were actually two Principals and fifty-five Others in that race.  Fifty-seven Democratic possibilities and they still went with the ineffective one. 

They could've nominated Raphael Herman from Miami Beach.  That would've been cool - the Presidential vacation home could have been in South Beach.  Spring Break would totally rock.  How about Jeffrey Harlan Boss of New Jersey?  Jersey's really popular with the vacuous reality TV crowd, and he could be Boss Boss.  Darren Lloyd Dunsmoor from Texas might be a lucky choice with double letters in each of his names, plus he could use the tagline, "Dunsmoor dones more."  Al Hamburg of Wyoming would have worked out well, too, because then there would be a Presidential Hamburger for every American.  Utah's Cody Judy's slogan could be "Cody Judy: Not a Doody."  How about a strong name, like Jeffrey D. Proud of Minnesota?  "Proud to vote Proud as Democrat for President."  And then there's always Vermin Supreme of Massachusetts.  Strange but true, he/she/it is on the list of registered Other Democratic Candidates. 

The Republicans are no better.  They started out with thirteen Principals, 156 Others, and then one more Other who didn't know where the frik the line was, apparently, and registered as a Republican Republican.  Out of 169 plus one dope Republican Republican candidates, we are left with Willard (Ben's other rat friend) "Mitt" Romney supposedly of Massachusetts (used to be Governor) or Utah (used to be a resident) or somewhere, and the incessant hanger-on Ron Paul of Texas. 

I think we would do better to elect this Republican, and I don't even know if it's a man or a woman, but this has to be the best name in the race: Yinka Abosede Adeshina of Florida.  How great would it be to have a President named Yinka?  Yinka the Dinka like Yertle the Turtle.  Then there's this poor guy whose name is simply too long for the ballot, even with the first two parts of it as initials - J. E. Wendell Kennedy Banks of Pennsylvania.  Of course, if the name says Kennedy, you know there's either a high-powered rifle or a bridge to Chappaquidick in his future, and neither leads to a good outcome unless your name is Ted Kennedy, in which case you're a drunken murderous criminal who will win re-election after re-election and be revered in the Senate for the rest of your useless life.  Plus, everyone knows if you're named Kennedy it's in your blood to be a Liberal Democrat, and this guy is running for the wrong party. 

There are some other great names on the Republican Others roll, too:  Rusty Bliss (OH), Randy Crow (NC), Nick Farmer Cuevas (IN), Tim Texas Slim Day (TX), Zubi Diamond (CA), Jeff Lawman (NH), and Jonathan The Impaler Sharkey (FL).  There are some tongue twisters, as well:  Kalemkarian (CA), Neuenschwander (WA), Pflughaupt (M0), Praprotnik (MO), and Wuensche (TX).  There are some rather risqué Republican Other characters in the race whose names would drum up a lot of chortling laughter when announced from the podium.  Imagine announcing President Tittle (VA), Rudick (NY), or Lydick (MD) in a room full of teenagers and degenerates.  Mayhem would ensue.

The candidates' names are not the only hilarious part about elections.  There are party affiliations no one ever heard of before, and these are legitimately registered political organizations.  In addition to the more mainstream parties (the Big Two plus Independent, Libertarian, Green, Socialist, etc.), there are the American Third Position (hopefully ballet and not something kinky), Objectivist (their theme song is "Whatever It Is, I'm Against It!"), Prohibition Party (they're not out to save Happy Hour, I'm betting), Mike's Party (I was at that party in the late seventies), and Absolute Dictator Party (Obama wannabes).  There are also my two personal favorites, the Jedi Party and the Ping Pong Party.  Each one of these, plus dozens of other bizarrely named and mainstream/extremist groups had at least one (some many more) registered candidates for the Primary last year.

With all those wonderful choices, how in the name of American decency did we get down to the choices we have left?  I honestly don't know what I am going to do come November (except for the Massachusetts Senate race in which I am voting for Scott Brown because let's face it, the man is smokin' hot), but I will assure you this:  If these idiots in Washington don't hurry up and get their shit together, I'm writing in Horace Godzilla Ashley of California.  He's running on the Third Telepathic Party ticket.  He may not be as famous as the mainstream guys, but with his ESP he'll know what's going to happen, and there has to be some solace in that.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO SOME RANDOM PEOPLE

BIRTHDAYS OF THE FAMOUS AND INFAMOUS - AUGUST 30^TH

1797 - Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (London England) - Major claims to fame:  Not properly educated; slept around; kept getting knocked up out of wedlock; eventually married an already-married poet whose wife was pregnant then later drowned herself when she got pregnant by someone else; stayed married even though husband kept producing spawn with multitudes of other women; wrote Frankenstein, which only contained one line about the whole electrifying part that was something akin to "And then he was alive."

1893 - Huey P Long (Winn Parish, LA) - Major claims to fame:  Famous American communist who advocated Sharing the Wealth; Obama in a tweed suit and more hair; assassinated …. Bummer.

1907 - Fred MacMurray (Kankakee, IL) - Major claims to fame:  Actor who starred in such educational classics as Double Indemnity, My Three Sons, and Girls Gone Wild; contrary to early Disney fans' convictions, he was not shaggy, could not bark,  and did not invent Flubber (though he may have been its son)

1909 - Joan Blondell - (New York City) - Major claims to fame:  Actress; real name was Rose but apparently liked Joan better (and here we ask, "Why?  Why why why???"); Starred in a gazillion films but best known for her role as Lottie Hatfield in the late-sixties TV show Here Come the Brides; held out a hotel window by her ankles at the hands of then-husband Mike Todd (pre his Liz Taylor obsession) … Good lord, I hope she was clothed at the time.

1918 - Ted Williams - (San Diego, CA) - Major claims to fame:  Had too many nicknames and aliases so he was probably a criminal on the lam; called "The Greatest Hitter of All Time" by his multitude of ex-wives; earned some wicked pissah looking medals in the military; had some minor success with a baseball team called the Boston Red Sox.

1943 - Jean-Claude Killy (Saint-Cloud, France) - Major claims to fame: Has hyphen in his name; dropped out of school to ski; picked for the '62 World Championship team and didn't know it so kept skiing and broke his leg; won some Olympic medals in '68; most famous for NOT being Spider Sabich, a US skier also at the '68 Olympics who was shot to death by his disgruntled French girlfriend (who just happened to be the wife of  famous and beloved American singer Andy Williams).

1953 -  Robert Parish - (Shreveport, LA) - Major claims to fame: Tall…. Very, very, very tall; rumored to have played a little bit of pro basketball for a team called the Boston Celtics; nicknamed The Chief after the silent Native American giant in the movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest; as far as my research could tell, never smothered anyone with a pillow nor threw a toilet through a window.

Happy birthday, all!

BAD MANNERS

There's a report out that the Northeast is the rudest part of the USA. 

First of all, I feel my chest swell with pride while I type that.  Second, this moniker doesn't surprise me one bit.  Third, this is based on the number of times people used the phrase "F*** you" on Twitter, and that's just not fair since Josh Beckett was still here and pitching for the Red Sox during the study.  Finally, this study was done by the Ukrainians, and everyone knows they overindulge in vodka.

Look, the people doing this study have to understand ONE thing:  People in the Northeast, particularly New England, are not ones to sit back and get smacked around.  (Revolution?  Anyone?  Anyone at all?)  We're not rude -- We don't take any shit.  There's a huge difference.

For example, when we're driving and a car cuts us off, we need to point that error out, especially if we're on Storrow Drive going about 65 mph and some idiot decides he wants off at Back Bay but he is closer to the Esplanade than the left-only exit, and especially if that driver is from south of the Mason-Dixon line or Quebec.  When he slices across the lanes, nearly takes out the taxi, then demands the space we are currently occupying, it is our duty to give him the one-finger salute and the fine how-do-ya-do of the accompanying, "F*** YOU!"  Sometimes we even add "A**HOLE" as a cursory greeting, just to be extra-friendly.

How about the people who walk around during a high-humidity heat wave and say things like, "What gorgeous weather!" or "How about this heat?"  Yeah?  Well, "F*** YOU and bite my melting ass while you're at it."  That's not being rude.  That's simply making an editorial comment for their own safety.  The next person they say something so flippant to might have a gun and some armpit swazz.  Really, we're just being friendly in our own way.

Finally, how can people possibly think we're not polite?  When it snows (and snows and snows and snows), don't we all try to drive really fast to get out of the way?  Don't we offer up our random lawn furniture and kitchen chairs and orange traffic cones we stole from the Big Dig as parking space holders?   It’s not like we stand out there waiting for Ukrainians who are desperately searching for safe-haven and scream, "F*** YOU, this is MY space.  I don't even own a CAR, you jackhole." 

Okay, yes, we do, but it's better than a nasty note that says, "Do not evah pahk heeyah unless ya have the propa tenant stickah, or we will steal yah wheels and scratch CHOWDA IS WICKED PISSAH across yah windshield." 

See?  We would never do that.  That's just f***ing rude.

MY BACK-TO-SCHOOL LIST

I went to set up my classroom a week ago, and I discovered twelve interesting developments while I was there: 

1.  Random furniture had been placed in my room for no apparent reason.

2.  The copy room was locked from the hallway access.

3.  The copy room was also locked from the teachers' lunchroom access.

4.  The hallway that used to lead to the mods is now a giant piece of wallboard spackled with a dirty cream matte finish.

5.  Getting the boxes of books down from the tall windowsill ledge was just as strenuous as getting them up there last June.

6.  I still don't have a SmartBoard, though everyone else does.

7.  My whiteboard has screws loose and almost fell on my head.

8.  The microwave I have been hiding for almost two years still works.

9.  I was smart enough to mark the box of cleaning supplies as "cleaning supplies" so I could find them in the fall.

10.  I was smart enough to mark the box of dry erase markers as "cleaning supplies" so I could hide them from sticky fingers.

11.  The construction zone outside my window is a giant mud bog.

12.  I have a perfect view of the workers' port-a-potties from my desk.

Here's how I dealt with each one of these interesting developments:

1.  I hauled the random furniture into the hall and put sticky notes with random teachers' names on every random item that I found.

2.  I swore at the locked copy room door from the hallway.  It did not swear back.

3.  I tried unsuccessfully to get into the copy room through the teachers' room and walked into the door twice when it didn't open as expected.  I did this in front of two construction workers who were having lunch.  They were highly entertained both times.

4.  I took measurements of the ugly wallboard and will either cover it or paint it when no one is looking, perhaps adding an inappropriate mural just to see if anyone notices.

5.  I dropped some of the boxes and they only landed on my foot three times.  Out of about thirty boxes, those are pretty good odds.

6.  I moved the destination for the Smartboard.  I will see if the IT people notice the new spot or put it in its original location, which is where I truly want it anyway.  They may or may not figure out that I'm just messing with them.

7.  I wrote on the whiteboard:  "This has a few screws loose … I know, I know.  There are about a million jokes in that statement.  Do NOT go there."

8.  I hid the microwave on a cart and bought an extension cord.  I will use it this year until someone catches me with it, but it must be red-handed; otherwise, deny, deny, deny.

9.  I found the cleaning supplies.

10.  I found the dry erase markers then re-hid them from our resident klepto teacher (two doors down).

11.  I wish I still had my big-ass Blazer with the monster tires.  I would have torn that bad boy right up.  There would be mud stuck to the second story when I was done.

12.  Binoculars.  And defogging spray for the lenses.

Believe me, kid, you're not the only one crying!

SOMETHING'S ROTTEN, AND THIS AIN'T DENMARK

Real conversation between me and partially-deaf sister:

ME:  Ali, I threw out all the bad food in your fridge like the milk, the eggs.

ALI:  (Blank stare)

ME:  (yelling) Your fridge! I cleaned it out!

ALI:  (Blank stare)

ME:  I THREW OUT YOUR MOLDY MILK AND EGGS AND MEAT AND CHEESE!!!!  YOU HAD CUCUMBERS ROTTING IN YOUR FRIDGE!!!!

ALI:  (indignant)  Okay, I will!

Reminded me of the joke with the three old ladies on an outing:

LADY #1:  Driver, where are we going?

DRIVER:  Wellesley.

LADY #2:  Really?  I thought it was Thursday.

LADY #3:  So am I.  Let's stop and have a drink!

IF YOU BELIEVED THEY PUT A MAN ON THE MOON

Neil Armstrong died.  Everybody (who is old enough) claims to remember exactly where they were when Armstrong stepped on the moon on July 20, 1969, at 10:56 p.m. EST.   I know for sure I was at home in New Hampshire, but I'm having some trouble with the particulars.

We had a huge family tent set up on a platform next to the house, and we kids often stayed out there for sleepovers, setting ourselves up with an extension cord so we were more citified than countrified.  It was the sixties version of being "plugged in/connected." We had a portable black & white TV out there, and we were watching the moon landing expedition on the small set.  I always believed that I watched Man Step on the Moon on that TV in the big green tent.

The more I think about it, though, I'm reasonably sure that we ran inside to watch the historic event on a bigger, color TV in the house.  Perhaps that is the detail that I misremember.  I am certain I saw Neil Armstrong take that step, and I remember what he said and how his voice sounded and the beeping on the video feed.  I remember that it was a grainy picture and void of color.  I remember how exciting it all was and still is forty-plus years later. 

I consider this good news because I don't remember where I was when Elvis keeled over dead and fell off the toilet, nor where I was when Mama Cass choked to death on a sandwich, nor where I was when Michael Jackson or Joplin or Hendrix or Ledger or Whinehouse (etc. etc. etc.) overdosed, nor where I was when Jeffrey Dahmer received his ultimate brutal broomstick beat-down.  I guess I consider stepping on the moon for the first time to be more important than pulling a Hey-Diddle-Diddle and fatally shooting it, smoking it, snorting it, swallowing it, or jumping over it.

Rest in Peace, Neil Armstrong; we'll see you on the dark side of the moon.

 

 

BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE LETTER A

I am very depressed about the state of the major professional sports here in Boston (the Cannons and Rev are fine - leave 'em out of this).  The Bruins forgot to show up last season, the Patriots remind me of the Grogan Years, and the Red Sox are as reliable and honest as a plaid-suited used car salesman. 

So I got to thinking.  What the hell would light a fire under these damn teams?

"Help us, Obi Wan!"

The solution:  SPARKY ANDERSON

Okay, okay, I know the man has passed, but his genius lives on.  This guy won world titles in both leagues (the sport doesn't even matter at this point), and that alone should raise flags of glory.  But the real, true, honest reason we need Sparky Anderson is because he was a Boston nemesis.  People in Boston loved to hate Sparky, and they hated to love him because the man knew his stuff.  For those who remember 1975, you know exactly what I mean, foul pole and space ball and all. 

The man was more than a genius and a legend.  He knew exactly what it took to get under the skin of Boston players and fans.  So, players of the Boston Trifecta of Shame, pay attention.  Here are some winning words of Sparky Anderson Wisdom I wish to share with all of you.

Players have two things to do. Play and keep their mouths shut. This should be Rule #1.  Anyone who grants an interview after a loss (and says things like "We're playing shitty, shitty baseball right now") should be drawn and quartered.  You think the fans want to hear that while you have a wad of their ticket-receipt cash in your back pocket?  When you guys are losing, and losing like you're some junior pony league team, sit down and shut up and do not talk to ANYONE, not your teammates, not your wife, not your bookie, and certainly NOT the press.

Which brings me to Rule #2:  I understand people who boo us. It's like going to a Broadway show, you pay for your tickets and expect to be entertained. When you're not, you have a right to complain.  Remember who pays your ridiculously inflated salaries (I am so tempted to add, "you douche-bags" to that statement).  If you suck, how dare you tell me I'm being ungrateful and punitive if I let you know how badly you suck.  If we can discipline spoiled children, we certainly ought to be able to discipline spoiled professional athletes.  (PS - Please see Rule #1.)

The only thing I believe is this: A player does not have to like a manager and he does not have to respect a manager. All he has to do is obey the rules.  This is the Rule of Rocket Science.  One does not need to actually be a rocket scientist to understand the correlation between obeying the rules (following directions) and being successful.  People can argue that Belichick and Francona and Julien are dicks, but no one can argue that they managed to win championships.  Of course, they're no Sparky Anderson, which is why I'm not quoting them.  And let's not even talk about the fried chicken and beer in the clubhouse because those players are just retarded. 

This one is for the fans, including me, as well as the teams and upper management.  People who live in the past generally are afraid to compete in the present. I've got my faults, but living in the past is not one of them. There's no future in it.  Now I take back what I just said about Belichick, Francona, and Julien because, quite frankly, what have they done for me lately?  Nothing.  Bullshit.  Crap.  Stop sitting on your laurels, boys, and shape up your teams.  Well, not Francona because he has gone on to greener pastures, but not as green as Sparky's.  Not yet, anyway, though the Red Sox management did their best to try and bury him.

You're probably thinking right about now, "Can we trust Sparky?  How do we know he spoke the truth?"  For one thing, he didn't claim to be some know-it-all.  As a matter of fact, he claimed just the opposite:  I only had a high school education and, believe me, I had to cheat to get that.  Look, this statement right here puts him leaps and bounds above some of the greatest major leaguers to ever play in any sport arena at any level.  Why?  Because unlike other cheaters (Clemens comes to mind) in professional sports, he actually admits to it, and I personally don't think it affected his performance one way or the other.  (Of course, I don't think cheating helped that fat-ass Clemens much, either.)

The most crucial of all reasons why I truly in my heart of hearts believe Sparky Anderson would and could (if he were alive and kicking to do it) be the best thing to happen to Boston professional sports is because Sparky knew his place.  He understood his role and embraced the fact that he was a dirt-dusting, ego-stroking, hands-filthy manager, and that it was the only thing that suited him.  He never tried to be anything but the manager with the cleats who belonged in the dug-out.  He once said:  Me carrying a briefcase is like a hotdog wearing earrings.  We need that sentiment in Boston because a lot of our players are wieners, earrings on or off, doesn't matter, and deserve a good roasting.

Last, but certainly not least, Sparky Anderson had some great advice for the sports-lovelorn amongst us, which proves he never forgot about the fan-base, either.  Sometimes his advice was not only good for himself, the team, and the sport, but it carried over generically into the Real World.  Sparky Anderson understood this simple rule of success:  If I ever find a pitcher who has heat, a good curve, and a slider, I might seriously consider marrying him, or at least proposing.   This seems like a solid foundation to me and probably works a helluva lot better than Speed Dating. 

Love him or hate him, Sparky had it right: Shut up, obey the rules, and eat Humble Pie when it's fed to ya.  Hmmm, anybody want to play ball?

ADVENTURES IN LAWRENCE ... AND OTHER DISASTERS

I am thinking about running to the grocery store for sour cream when I have a random thought.  I suddenly remember that I might have had to renew my license this year.  I check and discover that my license expired seven weeks ago, and the registry never notified me.  Apparently I have been careening around everywhere on an expired license.  So I drive (illegally) to the registry, and, shockingly enough, the woman at the counter has a twisted sense of humor (and some killer shoes).  She and I have a grand ole time filling out paperwork, looking at little numbers, and posing for hideous pictures.  Well, I do all the work, she just clicks the buttons and takes the money.  I am in and out of there in less than thirty minutes, which has to be some kind of Bureaucratic Land Speed Record.  Yay for the Lawrence Registry!  (Never thought those words would come out of my mouth.)

After that positive experience, I decide to run the gauntlet north up route 28 through the crime-riddled, politically corrupt city.  I am now officially more legal than three-quarters of the Lawrence population, so I figure it's safe to take to their roads again.  I head to the Teacher Store, which is in the dregs of Methuen ... cough cough North Lawrence cough cough... (I can say that because I lived in that neighborhood on Center Street), and the store wants three times the price for bulletin board paper than advertised on their online website.  It will cost me around $60 to cover my classroom bulletin boards.  I say as much to a lady buying some rolls of paper, and she screeches, "Really?!"  (Nah, I'm  flippin' lying to ya - I spend my days going from store to store to piss people off for shits and giggles.)  So I leave without buying anything.  (And no, I do NOT make a scene.  Imagine THAT!)

Then I drive back down route 28 (because, hey, I'm still more legal than three-quarters of the Lawrence population)  to the North Andover (really Lawrence, people, let's just call it what it is) Staples hoping they have rolls of paper.  I saw two rolls of yellow paper at Staples in Salem, NH the other day and didn't buy them (tax free) -- kick kick kick.  But, of course, this Staples doesn't have any rolls of paper nor any place to stock it.  I need highlighters, so I stand at the sale bin for about thirty seconds then lean over and grab the last two sets of colored highlighters.  Without any warning nor reverse backup signal beeping noises, a lady with two young snot-nosed kids comes out of nowhere and starts yelling at me because her five-year-old daughter (who must truly NEED highlighters being in advanced preparatory kindergarten and all) wants the pink and purple ones I have in my hand.  I pretend to be deaf (no disrespect to the truly hearing impaired) and walk away holding the highlighters where the tiny terrorista can see them ... but not have them.  I refrain from sticking my tongue out at the indignant child, because I think this might be overkill.  (I chuck her the bird in my mind, instead.)

Welcome to the Jungle (Lawrence, MA)

I drive home, back into my driveway in the most perfect of angles, and suddenly realize I have forgotten to buy sour cream, which is why I left the house in the first place.  I grab my prized highlighters, lock the car behind me, and make nachos for lunch instead.  I'm thinking I probably shouldn't push my luck any more than I already have today.