Quirk In Progress Read online

  The choice is yours. Will you toss a wet blanket of snow upon their monochrome existence, or will you join with some of the world’s whitest celebrities in a generous response?

 

  A $5.00 donation will buy a Beach Boys CD for an orphanage.

  A $25.00 donation will buy Vitamin D for an entire family.

  A $100 donation will buy a light visor for a depressed girl scout.

  A $500.00 donation will fund a tanning bed for a middle school classroom.

  This predictable humanitarian crisis can be averted unless we ignore the plight of Norway’s frozen children. History shows that the cost of not responding could be a full-scale Viking invasion when the fjords thaw and boatloads of crazed, pasty-faced Sons of Thor descend in search of sun and fresh vegetables.

  Children, of course, are the future which is why things keep getting worse. Please give generously to the NTF to ensure a brighter tomorrow.

  Originally Published in Sage News. December 22, 2013

  UK Abolishes English Language to Save Jobs

  Concerned over increasing job losses from English language call-centers in India and other low-wage countries, the Labor Party will soon introduce legislation to change the official language of Great Britain.

  “We are a fiercely independent island. If speaking English is costing us jobs, we will learn another language,” said one MP who promised a lively debate, but not in English. “We learned French during the Norman Invasion so we can surely adapt to this new challenge.”

  Regional representatives have already begun lobbying parliament in favor of Welsh and Cockney, but the Queen is said to prefer a neutral tongue that would satisfy everyone’s tastes. Catalan and Hungarian are rumored favorites, representing such a high barrier to competition that no foreigner has ever mastered either.

  “We’ve already lost our manufacturing base to China,” said the MP. “I’ll be banger-mashed if we lose our talking base to Sri Lanka.”

  To help that Britons develop the skills necessary to compete in the global market for help desk services, the Labor Party has promised a large budget for nationwide training in telephones, politeness, and clear enunciation.

  Originally published in Sage News. November 19, 2013

  EU Austerity Plan Forces Spain to Sell its History

 

  To meet EU demands for austerity, Spanish government officials have confirmed their intention to pay down the nation’s deficit by selling famous museums, formerly priceless artworks, and historical heritage sites.

  The emerging plan invokes many breakthrough concepts in modern finance including:

  Turning the medieval town of Toledo into a Spanish Inquisition theme park for kids.

  Selling Picasso masterpieces on eBay.

  Allowing advertising in cathedrals.

  In addition, commerce officials in Madrid today revealed a series of binding agreements between Spain and Carrefour, the giant French retailer. The accords give Carrefour exclusive rights to build “tasteful, consumer friendly warehouse super-stores” at key heritage sites around the country.

  French demolition teams immediately tunneled into the granite beneath the Alhambra where they intend to open Spain’s first underground discount mall next summer.

  Construction permits have also been issued for many other sites around the country, including Barcelona’s Sagrada Familia, Madrid’s Prado Museum, and a series of convenient “Pilgrim Mini Marts” along the Camino de Santiago trail.

  Though it may be too late to stop the sales, lawyers for the opposition Socialist Party are said to be looking for loopholes in the contract to block the French chain from “turning our rich cultural heritage into a cathedral to consumerism.”

  “Shopping at Carrefour is an even richer cultural heritage,” company spokeswoman, Bea Fuentes, said in response to critics. “People will appreciate being able to see an old Spanish monument and stock up on toilet paper and Nutella®.”

  The government was careful to exempt all properties belonging to the Spanish Crown from the austerity measures, but scandal briefly touched the Royal Family when it was revealed that Carrefour had approached Letizia, Princess of Asturias, seeking her presence at the ribbon cutting ceremony opening Carrefour’s new “Ferdinand and Isabella” Superstore in Pamplona.

  In response, a spokesman for the Royal Family made no comment. 

  In a parallel development, Carrefour is now negotiating to obtain commercial rights to the Great Mosque of Cordoba. “At first, we didn’t understand the significance of the Cordoba site,” Fuentes admitted. “A church inside a mosque? What’s up with that? Who's the target demographic? We’ll need to simplify the marketing message.”

  The austerity plan hit a speed bump when both the government and Carrefour claimed ownership of the art collection in the Prado. “The site’s a mess,” Fuentes insists. “We need to sell all that old artwork to pay for repairs.”

  Austerity may turn out to be expensive if Carrefour sues the government for breach of contract. “We bought the Prado with everything in it,” Fuentes said. “Once we get rid of those dreary paintings, we’ll do a little redecorating and that place will have more charm than Paris Disneyland.”

  Blog post. November 27, 2011

  One Star Review

  One of the most intriguing reviews I’ve received for “No Roads Lead to Rome” is a one star lament stating, “Read the cornflakes box, it's better.”

  This hurt, but I put on my big boy pants and bought a box of Cornflakes to see if I could improve my writing. I'm always willing to learn and I really want the sequel, “Aqueduct to Nowhere” to snap, crackle, and pop.

  I fixed myself a nice bowl of cereal and settled in for a good read. The excitement started immediately when I learned that Cornflakes are over 100 years old. I was captivated and ready to be transported by the magic of words on paper.

  Let’s face it. A 100 year old character sets high expectations for the rest of the box, but I’m glad to say our friend at Kellogg’s delivered on the initial promise. The segment on the food pyramid was as compelling as any I remember from elementary school. I couldn’t wait to see what would happen when my 100 old cereal encountered fresh milk.

  But the conceit simply didn’t support the weight of the narrative. Why did the writer veer off into a longwinded, completely tangential recipe for “Cheddar Broccoli Double-Coated Chicken?” At first I thought this was a metaphor for a 100 year old cereal’s struggle to make peace with the modern world, but it felt rushed and could have used better editing.

  Speaking of modern constructions, I must cry foul on the constant references to external websites. Contemporary devices like this jerk the reader out of the historical context. If the cereal box had been an e-book, I might have been willing to click over to the kelloggs.com link for more insights, but when I sit down to read a work printed on paper, I expect it to be complete.

  In spite of occasional brilliance, the initial promise falls flat. Midway through breakfast, the box was beginning to feel like it was written by a committee—especially the “Nutrition Facts” section which read like a chemistry professor’s shopping list. In a word, dire.

  Finally, I know a good breakfast is the cornerstone of a productive day, but wasting an entire side of the box—even a narrow side—on this topic suggests to me that the author ran out of fresh ideas and fell back on dull clichés and haggard moralizing. Show me, Cornflakes, don’t tell me.

  In short, I give this box a one star review. The meandering narrative is saved by the excellent graphic design and that wonderful rooster that woke me up without a lot of shrill crowing. (Did you know his name is Cornelius? I didn't. Why did they wait until well past the denouement to reveal this?)

  As breakfast goes, I would rate Cornflakes slightly worse than Green Eggs and Ham and nowhere close to what they serve at Tiffany’s.

  Blog Post. May 18, 2012

  Lunchtime in the Garden of Good and Evil

  I saw
the true heart of darkness at age eight.

  The experience, like much that is evil, started as something banal.

  There we were: a rabble of elementary school kids waiting in line to buy our milk at lunchtime.

  I remember the smell of dry heat rising off the asphalt. I can still see the sunlight filtering through the eucalyptus trees.

  Regular milk cost seven cents, chocolate cost a dime. An older student, the milk monitor, wheeled the cart into the lunch area and solemnly collected money, dispensed milk and made change.

  I bought my milk as always and found a shady place to eat my lunch. Most likely, my metal action figure lunchbox contained a cream cheese and jam sandwich on white bread. It’s a good thing I liked this concoction because it had zero trading value with the other kids.

  I was eating my Granny Smith when a 3rd grade Mafioso whizzed past me at top speed. He shouted a battle cry and dove onto the milk cart like a cartoon squirrel. The milk monitor jumped aside and the cart took off, rolling and tumbling, sending milk and money in all directions.

  Without a second’s thought, every kid within shouting distance shrieked for joy. We jostled each other for the nickels and dimes, chasing them as they rolled and fell on the pavement.

  United we stole. No moral quandary. No fear of consequences. In a burst of collective larceny, we stuffed undeserved windfalls into our pockets.

  The distraught milk monitor, a boy who must have been all of twelve years old, tried to restore order, but he could not contain our lawlessness. The coins disappeared as if vacuumed and then, fast as it all started, we returned to our lunches like a cloud of birds.

  The poor, defeated boy picked a few remaining pennies from a puddle of spilt milk. He fought back tears and trundled away to face the certain wrath of the cafeteria matron whose dislike for children was as legendary as her soggy fish sticks.

  Later that day, a few good kids came forward to return their ill-gotten gains and suffer a tongue lashing from the principal. The instigator was caught but showed no remorse. I’m sure he grew up to be a car thief or an investment banker.

  I remained silent and pocketed my winnings. Amazingly, nobody snitched. I don’t know what else I learned in school that year but the infectious power of a mob is something I’ll never forget.

  Blog post. July 25, 2013

  My Facebook Divorce

  She stole my heart and then she stole my identity.

  I woke up at noon and stumbled out of my bed room in my Star Wars pajamas. I snuck down to the kitchen for a bowl of Cornflakes and found a note from my girlfriend Blinka saying she’d left me.

  My supposed soul-mate didn’t have the decency to empty the garbage on the way out.

  She took everything except the Cornflakes.

  Luckily, I sleep with my smartphone so I could immediately update my 43 Facebook friends.

  “Disaster! I can’t find my Xbox controller.”

  My alarm was met with radio silence! No snark, but no sympathy either from my so-called support network. Not even one “like” from my supposed friends.

  Truth is, I don’t actually know any of my Facebook friends. I’m uncomfortable opening up to people I know so I only accept friend requests from strangers. This way I feel connected but it never gets weird.

  By weird, I mean how it might feel if people I really know were having more fun than me.

  What if, say, one “friend” was having a birthday party and didn’t invite someone else they knew and posted pictures of everyone having fun except for that mutual acquaintance who was, like, totally free that night and didn’t live too far away and would even be willing to bring over his complete Blu-Ray Star Wars collection with action figures?

  It’s not that I don’t have real friends. My Guild Wars team is really tight. I just don’t feel right about burdening my real friends with personal stuff.

  If I wanted to talk to real people about my problems, I would ride the bus.

  Still, the collapse—no, total freaking implosion—of my social network surprised me more than the collapse of my common law marriage.

  Blinka once accused me of being more loyal to my online friends than they are to me. True, they mostly ignore me no matter how often I “like” their cat videos, ballet performances and birthday party pictures. Whenever they check in to Chucky Cheese I offer supportive comments like, “Love that place!” or “Power down the pizza, little dude!”

  Whatever. Thought they’d be there for me. A bunch of selfish kids. That’s what they turned out to be.

  And all those beautiful women who tweet me? Were they supportive when my girlfriend left? Fat chance! Even after all the time and emotional energy I Invest to alert them that posting pole dancing videos could exceed their data plan limits and jeopardize future employment opportunities?

  There was no reason for my Blinka to be jealous of those naïve young girls I was trying to help.

  I gave Blinka the best room in the apartment. I let her interrupt my marathon Grand Theft Auto sessions to watch MTV. The pantry was always full of Pop Tarts and I never let the milk get sour. I even let Blinka use my iPhone to post her audition videos on line.

  Abandoned! That’s the thanks I get for caring. Still, I can’t bring myself to hate her. Blinka had such a big heart. She was so hospitable to all those lonely men needing a shower and a place to spend the night.

  I’m ashamed for even thinking like this, but I’m starting to wonder if she was just taking advantage of me just because I was her Parole Officer.

  Oh well. Given the restraining order, I guess I’ll have to un-follow her.

 

  Originally published in Sage News. October 6, 2013

  How I Lost the War

  The phone rang around midnight.

  “Wake up you smart ass Jew-boy!” a drunkard shouted.

  It was my belligerent landlord, Mr. Hemison. He was generally tolerable, but tonight he was on a bender.

  “You might as well commit suicide right now!”

  As a poor student in Westwood, one of L.A.’s richer zip codes, I was willing to put up with a certain amount of abuse in exchange for low rent. “What’s wrong, Mr. Hemison?”

  “You’re losing the war against the ants.”

  It was true. The ants were winning.

  For $75 a month, I had a small room in the basement and a job as the building’s caretaker. I pulled weeds, purged hairballs from clogged drains, and vacuumed the Astroturf stairways. To make ends meet, I snuck into the unguarded cafeteria of a nearby housing co-op for my meals. 

  The tenants were all UCLA students like I was. In addition to fighting ants, we battled the high rents  and turned a dense and narrow neighborhood west of Fraternity Row into a student ghetto. Most of the area’s small apartments were stuffed three students to a bedroom. Mr. Hemison had no idea how many illegal sublets and permanent “visitors” lived in his building. He was usually too drunk to care.

  The only people living in worse squalor were the Frat Row bros.

  When they weren’t having 6AM Tequila Sunrise parties or getting drunk and then taking over busy intersections to misdirect traffic, the brothers blasted music with enough sound power to keep the rest of us dazed and confused.

  Early one morning, a travelling preacher dragged a large wooden cross up Fraternity Row and planted it on the front lawn of Tappa Tappa Kegga. He had a full head of self-righteous hurricane-proof hair and wore a tailored three-piece suit. He brandished a bull horn and was on a mission to save the fraternity brothers from themselves.

  “Fornicators!” he shouted at the stately frat houses. “Pagans! Pornographers! Pleasure mongers!”

  I was walking to an early class but couldn’t resist waiting to see the fireworks.

  Unfortunately, the brothers slept through his tirade. Tired of preaching to no one, he turned and followed me onto campus screaming “Repent you masturbator!” into the back of my head.

  His cross had a wheel at the bott
om which enabled him to move pretty fast. He was a real holy roller but I eventually outran him.

  In retrospect, I wish I had thought to invite him back to my apartment building to rain holy hellfire down upon the ants. After riding us of pestilence, perhaps he could have exorcised Mr. Hemison’s demons, too

  Blog post. August 18, 2013

  Disney buys the Holy Land

  Promising to bring peace, harmony, and full employment to one of the world’s most troubled regions, the Disney Company announced their intention to turn Jerusalem into a giant theme park.

  Disney’s new “Holy Land” theme park will transform the embattled city into the happiest place on earth.

  “Everyone will benefit when we level the town’s ancient hills and make those narrow market streets fully accessible by monorail,” said a Disney spokesman. He went on to promise a dizzying array of rides, quasi-historical re-enactments and breathtaking miracle shows. “Disney’s expertise in storytelling, spectacle and special effects will add new twists to the world’s most cherished traditions. We’re delighted to announce that twice daily, Moses will part the waters at the same time as Jesus walks on them.”

  Religious leaders voiced immediate disapproval at the notion of turning a profit from their ancient arguments and pilgrimage sites. “Epcot, Schlepcot!” said the Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem. “I don’t care if they’ve got live frogs in their so-called Ten Plagues Pavilion, the whole thing is meshuga.”

  Muslim and Christian leaders joined him in kvetching and condemnation.

  “These protests are great news,” offered the Disney official. “For the first time in recent history, the world’s three major religions agree on something.”

  Construction has started on rides such as the Jewish Diaspora Roller Coaster, the Haunted House of Lazarus, and the Good Samaritan’s Wild Ride. A recently discovered network of ancient catacombs will be converted into “King Solomon’s Mine Train.” There are even rumors of a Pink Floyd reunion to wail The Wall during opening ceremonies.