Didn't Mean to Be So Hilarious All the Time

Hey, remember when I said I was going to "go out on a limb" and call something a "viola da gamba"? You were probably chuckling wisely that I had spouted a real mouthful, like something right out of a Frasier script! Because, of course, as the OED tells us, "viola da gamba" means "literally, 'leg viol.'" Yes, I left the final "a" off on purpose, just like the makers of the OED. Hey, man, if you don't know what a viol is, I just feel sorry for you. Anyway, as I am sure you put together long before I did (just minutes ago), a leg is a "limb" of the body. Ha ha ha, wonderful. Mine is such a waggish wit. It hurts! This reminds me, in a roundabout fashion, of the time Kent asked if I wanted to see the stoop from SEX AND THE CITY and I replied with an astonishing swiftness worthy of Churchill, "That's no way to talk about Sarah Jessica Parker!" My witticism in that case, while demonstrably unfair to Ms. Parker, was based on the word "stupe," as I am sure you will recall will fondness, which I felt called for explanation at the time, thus ruining the joke, such as it was. The OED tells us that "stupe" goes back as far as 1722, and provides this example: "Leaving this Old Stupe, the Keeper conducted me to a Gentleman, who was not so far advanc'd in Years," proving that ageism, among other things, was alive and well in 1722! I think my wonderful twinkling humor has taught us a thing or two today. POSTSCRIPT: My records reveal that it was Tom Herpich, not Kent Osborne, who offered to show us the stoop from SEX AND THE CITY. And here I was just yesterday, getting on McNeil's case for misplacing a bellhop. We're still learning and growing as people! And it's all thanks to the miracle of jesting and humorousness which is such a balm in our trying times of nowadays we've been enjoying lately.

The Thing McNeil Hates

Welcome once again to "McNeil's Li'l Bogie Bits," your online "hot spot" for all the action! If that action involves McNeil reading a 700-page biography of Humphrey Bogart. Here, I'm just going to cut-and-paste McNeil's recent email, as I am extremely lazy: "I'm finally getting back to this Bogart book, and it does the thing I hate - which is mention someone who was a 'longtime friend,' but who has not been mentioned before. This is page 427! If you can devote page after page to the bellhop of some NY hotel, I think a longtime friend would have come up by now. What else has been left out? Who knows. I give up on the world and its false promises." (I believe the bellhop in question was employed by a Los Angeles hotel, I emerge from my coma to editorialize.)

McNeil's Li'l Bogie Bits

It's Dr. Theresa's birthday! And you know what that means, of course: it's time for "McNeil's Li'l Bogie Bits," the regular "blog" feature where McNeil reads a 700-page biography of Humphrey Bogart and gives us the scoop straight from his brain into our eager eye holes. Those who enjoyed the story of how Bogart gave a bellhop a nickel tip will be excited to learn that he tips a masseur in this one. But I've already said too much! Here, I'm just going to cut and paste the email I got from McNeil and my job is done. "THE BIG SLEEP was completed in January 1945. In late January 1945, Bacall was scheduled to be in NY for a publicity tour for the opening of TO HAVE AND HAVE NOT. Because the divorce between Bogie and Mayo had not quite been finalized, the studio didn’t want Bogie anywhere near Bacall. That didn’t happen. Bogie took the Super Chief to NY before her and waited on Bacall to get there (as soon as I typed Super Chief a train flew by the window of the doctor’s office I happen to be sitting in). He checked into the Gotham Hotel. The studio found out and sent a man named Stevens from their NY office to be with him 24/7 – to watch him and 'give him whatever he wants.' One night Bogie was particularly stressed and he and Stevens went to '21', where Bogie had a sandwich and a couple of drinks. Back at the hotel Bogie had a few more drinks. He still felt tense and told Stevens he wanted a massage. Warners had a masseur on the payroll so Stevens rang him up. Twenty minutes later Bogart was getting his massage – along with a couple more drinks he had ordered from room service. When the massage was over, Bogie took, as Stevens recounts, 'The fastest shower I have ever seen a man take. Less than forty-five seconds. No soap, nothing.' Bogie grabbed a towel and finished another drink and wondered where the hell that guy was with his massage. When Stevens told him he had just had the massage, Bogie became irate and demanded he come back and give him a real massage. The masseur lived in Brooklyn, but got on the subway with his table and came back and gave Bogie an hour-long massage. In the meantime, he and Stevens had ordered a steak dinner, which Bogie did not touch, choosing instead to drink more. After the massage Bogie demanded Stevens make a reservation at El Morocco, then Bogie demanded he change the reservation to the Stork Club, then he changed his mind and had Stevens make a reservation at Toots Shor’s. Five minutes later, Bogie took a nap. Sometime around ten pm (it’s only 10!!!) Bogie wakes up and needs another massage…Stevens called the masseur again, in Brooklyn, and told him to take a cab this time and Warners would pay for it. The guy came from Brooklyn for a third time and gave Bogie a brutal massage, which Bogie cursed and drank through. When it was done, Bogie was finally happy, and gave the masseur a $60 tip." You know what? That's the end of McNeil's email, but I decided to come back after all. I wanted to say that I thought I would certainly have a "blog" "hyperlink" to provide about the Super Chief, as I recalled with 88% guaranteed mental accuracy that Vic, the hero of the Doomed Book Club classic THE HUCKSTERS, had a romantic encounter or two on the very same Super Chief. But after combing the "blog" to the fullest extent of my superhuman abilities, I uncovered no evidence that I am not just living in a beautiful dream.

McNeil Bits

To be clear, these are not "McNeil's Li'l Bogie Bits." These are little bits of McNeil himself, though one of them is connected to his bogie bits, if you will. He mentioned Bogart giving a bellhop a nickel tip, and I wondered what year that was, so that maybe I could calculate how much the nickel tip would be worth today. I have a lot of time on my hands. McNeil was at work, so he did not have his 700-page Bogart biography with him, but, to satisfy my curiosity, he paraphrased, from memory, an interview with the bellhop, who, according to McNeil, "laughed and made an excuse for Bogie, saying something like, 'I'm sure he mistook it for a quarter, haha.'" Thus we may conclude that the nickel wasn't worth a whole hell of a lot. Next McNeil bit! McNeil is always keeping me informed about all the greatest scientific wonders of the age! Sometimes, these developments disturb and frighten him - for example, the massive catapult that shoots satellites into space or the discovery of a giant secret planet. (And here I should remind you that you really need to access the "blog" on your desktop or laptop computer, so that you can enjoy the use of handy labels such as "McNeil's Greatest Fears." If you "click" on that one, it will take you to the numerous examples of all of McNeil's very greatest fears. We're just scratching the surface here! If you are looking at your "blog" on your phone, the labels do not appear, and therefore, much to your sorrow, you will never know the full and staggering extent of McNeil's greatest fears.) Other times, man's quest for knowledge fills McNeil with glee, such as when he was inspired by the idea of making diamonds out of skeletons, and suggested we take up graverobbing. Or when he read, and here I quote myself quoting McNeil, "an article suggesting that all the gold on Earth came from the collision of dead stars and [said], 'Let's go get us some of this!' seemingly suggesting a trip to outer space." This time, McNeil seems pretty hyped up about a company that, as he puts it, "sells sunlight from space. You open their app, and wherever you are (at night and on a clear evening, I presume) they project sunlight down from a satellite. Fine. Of course you could see how you might drive a neighbor insane. Or what a nifty burglar alarm it would be. Or now you would never have to drive at night, I guess." I take McNeil's word for these things. It's good enough for me! Finally, after watching HARRY AND WALTER GO TO NEW YORK due to a 45-year-old recommendation of mine he found while cleaning out his attic, McNeil chose, seemingly at random, a movie from the "blog's" Big List of Movies. Now, I couldn't vouch for it, as I haven't seen it, except for the opening scene. It was one that came to us through a memorable description ("click" here) by noted musician Kelly Hogan, and the name of that movie was SOMEONE I TOUCHED. Summarized McNeil: "Everyone got syphilis but found out about how love works I think."

McNeil's Shimmering Li'l Bogie Bits

The new month I promised you is already upon us, and that means it's time for an exciting new installment of "McNeil's Li'l Bogie Bits," this one cut-and-pasted directly from an email that McNeil sent me! "Bogie moves out of the house he shares with Mayo and checks into room 207 of the Beverly Hills Hotel - a small room just off the lobby. He orders ice, a glass, a bottle of beer, and hands the bellhop (Ken Leffers) a nickel tip." End of bogie bit. But! I do have a couple of questions, and when McNeil answers them, I'll let you know. 1. What year was this? And how much, then, would a nickel be in today's money? I guess that counts as a two-part question. And here is my second question. 2. How long was Humphrey Bogart married to Mayo Methot? Because we can't be very far into the bogie bits, can we? To put it another way, how far along is McNeil in the 700-page biography of Humphrey Bogart from which he gleans his precious, shimmering bits?

Of Mice and Dogs

Yesterday, when I was telling you the shameful story of how McNeil's grandfather stole a copy of PAL JOEY, I was looking for something to "link" via "hyperlink" to the words "PAL JOEY." You know how I love to "link" to things! Indeed, if you examine the "blog" with the eye of a scholar, you will soon realize that it is designed in a secret way to be nothing more than a never-ending loop of "hyperlinks" that an immortal person could enjoy forever. (And, as I have emphasized repeatedly, it works much better on your laptop than on your phone, due to the extra bells and whistles. But I'm not the boss of you! Also, you may not exist.) Anyhow, I could have sworn that I had mentioned PAL JOEY on the "blog" before. But as far as I could tell, I had not. So I went ahead and "posted" the damn thing. Pardon my salty language! Later on, I thought, wait a minute, I could swear I "posted" at least a photo of the time when Laraine Newman and I went to William Faulkner's house and one of us (I couldn't remember which) held up, whilst being photographed, Faulkner's own personal copy of PAL JOEY... presumably purchased legally. Turned out I had not "posted" that either... until now! (See above.) Meanwhile, McNeil has been emailing me his thoughts as he begins to read his grandfather's stolen copy of PAL JOEY: "On page 35 of Pal Joey and so far only a dog has shown up. Joey mentions 'mouse' a lot, but that's just when referring to a female human." To be clear, McNeil brings up the dog because he was hoping for an owl. He also learned, from the eponymous Joey, the term "one-arm joint," which he passed along, and I looked it up in my GREEN'S DICTIONARY OF SLANG, which cites, in clarifying the definition, PAL JOEY itself, as I was thrilled beyond measure to report back to McNeil. Just another endless loop.

Sparkle

Madcap, dizzying whirlwind of a day, by which I mean I received an email from McNeil, who inquired therein, "Did you once have an idea that put Shakespeare and Bob Hope on an island? Does that ring a bell?" It did not ring a bell! In fact, I had no idea what McNeil was talking about, and replied as much. McNeil responded: "I think they were on an island talking about each other's plays/films. I remember you sent it to me - this is when we were unemployed - and I can't remember what I suggested...putting them on separate islands? But that doesn't make any sense." Nor did it make sense to me, the recipient of the email and supposed author of this demented notion. I asked, searching my mind and finding nothing, was it a play? Were Bob Hope and Shakespeare in heaven? McNeil replied, "I'm pretty sure it was a short story and they were trying to make each other's stuff 'better'. Hahaha. That sounds funny now that I'm all jacked up on caffeine." When I again insisted I had never written such a thing, McNeil agreed that perhaps I had not. I began to think he was gaslighting me! "I could have dreamed it," he wrote. But he couldn't leave it there. He tracked down emails from a long-defunct account of mine, and produced documentary evidence that in 2005, I declared that he and I should watch every Bob Hope movie and read every Shakespeare play and have phone conversations about the process, which we would transcribe and publish. I think I was trying to invent the podcast, though I believe the podcast had, without my knowledge, already been invented at the time. Anyway, it depressed me to hear how little my ideas have changed... I have a column running right NOW for which I just talk into a digital recorder and transcribe my own words. When I noted as much with some chagrin, McNeil wrote back, "A diamond will always sparkle!!!!" with the four encouraging exclamation points you see before you. In actual fact, as it turned out, it was MCNEIL who wrote, "I've got it!" He then described, in that 2005 exchange, an elaborate framing device for an epistolary novel in which we both crash-landed in the South Pacific on adjacent islands, too treacherous to travel between, but with currents that made it possible for us to write each other messages in bottles about Shakespeare and Bob Hope. Thus was one mystery solved, while other mysteries, perhaps, presented themselves.

Al's Favorite

I don't know why I ever made Al Pacino one of my handy "blog" "labels": I haven't "blogged" about him since 2011. But! I suppose it was all leading to this. So! You remember when Jerry Lewis died. It wasn't too long ago. And I cobbled together a hasty "post" containing 101 ways to appreciate Jerry. Today I saw an interview with Al Pacino in which he describes a scene from THE BELLBOY as "one of his favorites of all time" and draws an implicit comparison between his style of acting and Jerry's. It's just the kind of thing I would have put on my list, and so, though I don't "blog" anymore, I'm adding it here as an appendix. Oh! And you know what? I feel I've been vindicated for the time in 2010 I claimed to have caught Pacino imitating Jerry in a movie. "Click" here to find out which movie! I know you won't. That's why I don't "blog" anymore.

You Eschew Froufrou Poo Poo

I was thinking about Richard Strauss's tone poem "Till Eulenspiegels lustige Streiche" and realized I don't really know much about Till Eulenspiegel himself. So I started poking around and was delighted to learn that Eulenspiegel means "owl mirror." So any collection of the Till Eulenspiegel tales might be said to have an owl in it, mightn't it? Sure it might. Why, look. Here's Till Eulenspiegel's supposed gravestone and he's holding an owl and a mirror over his head in case you don't get the point. During my idle research I stumbled on the website for that certain corporate behemoth, the name of which I never utter here. And someone had reviewed a collection of Till Eulenspiegel stories like so: "It seems like the punchline of every single story has to do with Euelenspiegel defecating on or in something or someone. That's it. That's the book's running joke. I suppose if you were an illiterate German peasant sitting around a hearth fire in the 1500s, you'd find these tales of feces and bad puns hilarious, but I didn't." I was fascinated to discover this living person who is so worked up about Till Eulenspiegel. And as you can imagine, he had inadvertently composed one of those "bad reviews" that made me want to read the book more than ever. For good measure, the reviewer rubs this salt in the wounds, though I hate to repeat it so close to our nation's birthday: "Of course, since a good majority of modern Americans are probably less sophisticated than an illiterate German peasant from 400 years ago, perhaps Till Eulenspiegel is due for a comeback. Hollywood could cast Johnny Knoxville... and he could crap all over American audiences, who will double over with laughter at every fart noise." Sold! I was naturally drawn to this reviewer's other reviews, which form a kind of epistolary novel or Robert Browning poem, in which you get to know the narrator by filling in the gaps. It's like that famous intellectual essayist said in his manifesto that time, we don't need novels anymore. Did he say that? It sounds like something somebody with a manifesto would say! Before getting into his one-star judgment of Folgers Classic Medium Roast Coffee Singles Serve Bags, our reviewer indulges in this bit of throat clearing: "I am no coffee elitist. I eschew status-conscious coffee drinkers and the frou frou coffee houses they frequent in order to be seen carrying green fringed cups emblazoned with quotes from left-wing icons." I've spent some part of my life trying to make up narrators who talk just this way, but I see once again that I am unnecessary. Also recommended: the same reviewer on the moral depravity of the Frankie Avalon movie BEACH PARTY.

The Point We Have Reached

It's no secret that every book I read ends up having an owl in it, for which cause I am then obliged to add it to my big long list of books with owls in them. Now I would like to relate how I came upon the book I am reading now, and whether or not it has an owl in it (it does). So! A few days ago a book popped into my head for reasons I cannot fully explain. I couldn't remember the title. All I knew was that it was a ghost novel by Anne Rivers Siddons, and that Stephen King had said really nice things about it in an essay or article, maybe some years ago. I was at Square Books and poked around among the shelves but I didn't see anything that rang a bell. So! A day or two ago Pen and I walked up to that used book stall I like and there it was! No one had penciled in a price, so the man at the cash register insisted upon giving it to me for free. The whole transaction struck me as magical and mysterious! I know what you're thinking: this book is obviously cursed. I haven't read much of it. In fact, I can't even tell yet whether it's a ghost story (as I recalled) or an evil house story. I guess most evil houses have ghosts in them. That's not a scientific fact! But! Our narrator is lying in bed when she hears the "dreadful sound" of an owl. She starts tying "a knot in the corner of the top sheet." Her husband asks what's up and she says, "It's just something my grandmother always did. You tie a knot in the bedsheet when you hear an owl. If you don't, it means somebody is going to die." Now! As you may or may not know, I am a veritable dumping ground for superstitions. I collect and practice them all, compulsively! But here I have found the one superstitious ritual that I am far too lazy and uncoordinated to assay. There is just no way I am going to tie a knot in a sheet at any time for any reason. Is this a triumph at last of the rational mind? No, we have just reached the point at which my sloth exceeds my crippling credulity.

The Moon Is Down

You remember back when I used to "blog," how I would take my little jotting book and jot down all my precious jottings whenever I went on a trip and I'd come back and transcribe the jottings for you and I'd usually tell you what I read on the airplane? That's the level of jottings we are talking about! Well, this time I read THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN (mostly just the long, dry, scholarly introduction), which I wouldn't even mention, except there is an owl in it. The Jailer's Daughter says: "The moon is down, the crickets chirp, the screech owl calls in the dawn." [Postscript! There is a more significant - or at least a more striking - owl of which the Jailer's Daughter speaks. "There was three fools fell out about an owlet," she says, and then she recites a little rhyme: "The one he said it was an owl,/ The other he said nay,/ The third he said it was a hawk,/ And her bells were cut away."]

Coo Coo

THE ODD COUPLE was just on TCM. I have pretty much stopped seeing anything I truly wish I would have included in my cigarette lighter book (it's much too late; the book comes out in a week or two), but I can't believe I forgot that in the scene when the "coo coo Pigeon sisters" come over, Felix tries to light a cigarette for one of them and mangles it in the snapping jaws of the lighter instead. I do discuss a similar gag from THE BELLBOY, and having another example to fortify my deep analysis surely would have secured my place in the history of cigarette lighter studies.

Christmas

Christmas. Listening to a Johnny Rivers LP. Dr. Theresa making figgy pudding. A gigantic spider descends swiftly on a thread from the ceiling, straight down for the uncovered sugar bowl, providing Christmas drama. Report from Los Angeles, where my parents are visiting my brother and the grandkids: Mom says that Dad saw Larry King in a bagel shop and hugged him on Christmas morning. "I was overcome," Dad explained. I switched the record to an old compilation called "Jingle Bell Jazz" that always got on my nerves. Who can explain my complex behavior? It has rained all day. The yard is flooded. Sixty-three degrees fahrenheit. Yesterday afternoon the thawing goose was still frozen in the middle and I was unable to extract the giblets. Now some jazz flute dude is going to town on "We Three Kings." Reading Norman Mailer for Christmas. Just got out of a flashback that lasted almost 800 pages, and I can remember little of what is going on in the novel's "present." (By ominous coincidence I come to a passage about Allen Dulles falling fatally ill on Christmas Eve.) While in the shower, I recall that I dreamed about M. Emmett Walsh. He threatened someone with a pistol, then ate it and said, "It's no secret this gun was made of chocolate." Figgy pudding has come out of the oven and looks and smells spectacular. I fear that my goose could never measure up! Christmas tweeting with Hogan. She says Christmas spiders are good luck. I play an LP she gave me a long time ago, Paul Williams's "Here Comes Inspiration." His version of "Rainy Days and Mondays" (a song he wrote) sounds especially appropriate today. I see a cocktail fork that I bought from Bob Hope's estate among the drying dishes. Dr. Theresa says she used it to test the consistency of the figgy pudding. Am I upset? Far from it! Wassail is simmering. Megan Abbott suggested wassail. She was somewhat upset that I found a wassail recipe with bourbon in it. "Surely Bob Cratchit didn't have bourbon?" she objected. We switched from LPs to Bing Crosby on iPod, because it's hard to flip over records while you're cooking a goose. Chris Offutt and Melissa Ginsburg came over. Chris soon tired of Bing. He asked me to play some Frank Sinatra. Chris stood with his head respectfully bowed for several minutes, listening to Frank do a live version of "I Could Have Danced All Night." Then he compared the rhyme scheme of "Come Fly With Me" to Bob Dylan, which got us listening to Bob Dylan. Chris dramatically acted out Dylan's entire song "Isis," thrillingly grabbing me by the shoulders during some verses. He also carved the goose (as seen above).

Like Animals

Don't be like me! I missed Marcella and Her Lovers at the Lamar Lounge last night and heard nothing but great things about the performance, which apparently ended with Jon Langford and Barry Mills on washboards and a mesmerized Chris Lopez - an instant Marcella and Her Lovers convert - on cowbell and Dr. Theresa on tambourine! Meanwhile, I came home early from City Grocery Bar (that's Langford and Megan Abbott - those two overheard discussing the work of Arthur Machen - and me and Hogan and Bill Boyle, oh, and Julie Mills peeking from the corner!) and fell asleep on the couch and when Dr. Theresa came home she fell asleep in the living room too (the very living room where, surreally and wonderfully, Langford and Hogan had been having band practice earlier in the day) and we slept in the living room. Like animals! So don't miss the rest of these wonderful events that Dr. Theresa and her department are throwing this week. Beginning today! I mean, yesterday. That's why I got up so early to tell you.

The Pleasantest Dotage

Hey! Just because I seem to be wearying of King James and his cronies doesn't mean I've given up on his contemporary Robert Burton or THE ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY! Here's something I just read, for example. There's a bad word in it! But hey, it was 1621. Also, the same word is in the Bible. The KING JAMES Bible, come to think of it! Look up I Kings 16:11 if you don't believe me. Who am I kidding? You don't have a Bible. So don't come crying to me. But here's Burton: "Philodotus the Physician cured a melancholy King, that thought his head was off, by putting a leaden cap thereon: the weight made him perceive it, and freed him of his fond imagination... The pleasantest dotage that ever I read, saith Laurentius, was of a Gentleman at Senes in Italy, who was afraid to piss, lest all the Town should be drowned; the Physicians caused the bells to be rung backward, and told him the Town was on fire, whereupon he made water, and was immediately cured."

Cucubuth

Yesterday I was reading in THE ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY about "Lyncanthropia, which Avicenna calls Cucubuth, others Wolf-madness, when men run howling about graves and fields in the night," and it really rang a bell! I mean, I was like, "Wasn't I reading about werewolves on another Fourth of July some years ago?" And indeed I was. But yesterday was the third of July, but this "blog" needs to be filled up with something, and this is what you get. "This malady, saith Avicenna, troubleth men most in February." Not around here, pal!

Hee Hee Hee Hee

After all my whining about books about kings, I finished that one Peter Ackroyd book about kings (and queens) and started the NEXT Peter Ackroyd book about kings (and...?). I broke down and bought it at Square Books the other day. Dr. Theresa planned to meet me there and we were to continue on our way to wherever it is we go, so I sat down with my newly purchased book in a chair that was cunningly placed next to the employees' recommendation shelf. And that's how I ended up with some poems by Stevie Smith, recommended by Katelyn (and seemingly disapproved of by the similarly named Kaitlyn, who rang it up). I don't know, the poems were making me laugh and Smith's drawings (like this one) made me think of Thurber's or, really, the doodles of my old friend Eugene. Finally Dr. Theresa showed up so I could stop buying books in short bursts. But none of this is my point. Yesterday, I opened up the Stevie Smith book and happened to read "Outside an owl hunts/ Hee hee hee hee/ Hunting in the Old Park/ From his snowy tree" and I maintain a list of books I read that happen to have owls in them and I don't know why.

A World of Feathers

So as you know I've been thinking about MACBETH. So I was in Square Books to meet someone, and while I waited I leafed through a history book by Peter Ackroyd, which begins with the reign of King James, who inspired MACBETH in so many ways. And on page 2 somebody writes King James a letter suggesting he should have "a heart of adamant in a world of feathers." I thought that was okay! But I skipped ahead to Shakespeare. And that's when I was reminded (by this quotation: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I:/ In a cowslip's bell I lie;/ There I couch when owls do cry") that THE TEMPEST has owls in it.

The Lineup

Bill Boyle has put together another big NOIR AT THE BAR event. It's tomorrow night at Proud Larry's. The lineup is star-studded and action-packed. Ace Atkins! Jimmy! Derrick Harriell! Mary Miller! Melissa Ginsburg! Tom Franklin! Tyler Keith! Lisa Howorth! And that's not even everybody. Chris Offutt is on the fence, for example. Maybe if we all clap our hands and really believe, he'll appear, like Tinkerbell coming back to life. Everybody is going to read shocking sex things, I guess. Either that or bloody things with blood and stuff. I got nothing. Last time I read about kitty cats. I might read the end of an old story and if I do you will be able to tell it is old because it has MySpace and Laura Bush in it.

The Incident of the Family with the Ball

Hey look what Lee Durkee found. "Click" here to read the whole story. Here are some of my fave excerpts if you are too lazy: "Back in their home, when Terry was playing his guitar, the first incident of the family with the ball took place." I also like the numerous typos and syntactical errors that lend this paragraph such pleasant heft: "Doors started slamming without any reason in the house and filled with organ music, even though no such music instrument around the resident. When Terry hit the ball with a metal object, the family members heard a ringing sound." Another nice fragment is "When the family had enough, they contacted the media." Lee thinks the guy who is presenting the ball to the public in this photograph (in front of a banner saying what appears to be something like "National Enquirer Blue Ribbon Panel of UFO Investigators") looks like Mandy Patinkin from THE PRINCESS BRIDE. In fact, Lee's email said, "Hey look Inigo Montoya found a magic outer space ball!" Myself, I see a touch of Father Guido Sarducci.