The Astounding Similarity Between the Condition of Anxiety About the National Debt and the Condition of Nosey Anxiety

A Slow Day in the Emergency Room

Patient, a 42-year old male in mild distress, presents to the E.R. with newspaper glued to his ass. Vital signs -- all normal. B.P. getting up there, but not too bad under the circumstances. Ditto, pulse. No apparent disorientation, although patient appears to be something of a nincompoop, and refuses to explain how he came to be in this predicament. The cockamamie story he told about a botched rescue of a parrot stuck up a tree just didn't wash, and he seems to be covering for someone or something. He claims that his chart has a DNTMW order. (Taber's gives the following definition: "Do not tell my wife.") Upon examination of the area in question, the solution to yesterday's crossword was detected, as well as the results of the junior bowling league final -- 2nd division -- (Camp B'nai Jeshrun edged The New Young Rascals in a thrilling tie-breaker). Patient was started on a saline I.V. drip -- not because this had anything whatsoever to do with his condition, but just because. He was also given a mild sedative and sent to radiology as he was starting to fall asleep. (He was gone a long time, and was covered with goose pimples upon his return, so he must have been parked in the freezing corridor for a not insignificant spell). X-rays of the posterior (five posterior views) confirmed the initial diagnosis (newspaper-stuck-to-ass). CT scan was inconclusive and an utter waste (as, for the record, were all the other tests), but patient's HMO is pretty generous and never scrutinizes the bills. Upon patient's return from radiology, a turpentine salve was appliquéd to the skin for approximately 40 minutes until the patient happened to mention that he is allergic to turpentine. This seems to have been borne out by the rapidly-developing rash originating on his right thigh and running the length of his backside. After the patient was stabilized with Calamine lotion (120 cc) he was sent for a surgical consult. Admissions telephoned approx. 1 hour after patient left the E. R. to report that patient had claimed that his watch and shoes had been left behind and misplaced during a nursing shift change. The staff conducted a thorough search, but found only one left shoe, which was promptly bagged and sent for a blood gas. Results pending.

Dictated (but not read) by Mandelbaum, P.M., M.P., M.D., D.M.

A Fresh Look at Kiddie Lit -- Not the Kind That Comes in a Box!

Writing juvenile literature is an arduous task. Only masters of the craft and movie stars are suited for this line of work. After a lifetime of toil, a writer may hit pay dirt, but then feel compelled thereafter to live off the fumes of that triumph. Downeaster Robert McCloskey had a great hit with Make Way for Ducklings, the iconic classic tale about a family of ducks living on Boston's Beacon Hill in the 1940s. But it proved too daunting for McCloskey to top the success of that work with anything remotely approaching the airy brilliance of the original. The two sequels --"Make Way for Pâté" and "Make Way for Fois Gras," weren't big sellers and were said to have frightened the children. The books soon went out of print.

Harold and the Purple Crayon, another staple of the toddler canon, suffered a similar fate. The story is charming enough -- a bored little boy in his pajamas creates adventures for himself with a purple crayon, and after thrilling to some narrow escapes from wild beasts and the like, draws himself back to bed falling safely to sleep. But who today remembers "Harold and the Invisible Ink?" (the captions didn't help) or even worse -- "Harold and Abbot & Costello in Casablanca"? It's sad just to think about it. Soon after that last-mentioned fiasco, Harold was being booed off stages at third rate county fairs where even the prized heifers were embarrassed to be seen with a one-dimensional has-been.

The big conundrum for children's book authors is that their audience soon outgrows them and starts spending their time reading nutrition labels for kicks. Some years back, in an effort to stave off irrelevance, publishers hit upon a scheme to keep their markets not only engaged, but coming back for more. The secret? Make the reader the star of the book. Banking on the supposition that most people are narcissists, authors of junior fiction now routinely prepare templates that allow the consumer to insert a proper name at key plot points. Hence, the young "adult" is not simply following along with the story, but becomes the story. The offering infra illustrates the principle:

~~~~~~~~~~____________'s Amazing Discovery

One day, ____________ came home from the transfer station and noticed an unusual scraping noise coming from the downstairs bathroom. _____________ pushed open the door, and said, "Is that you, Kitty?" As was his custom, Kitty howled like a demon in heat, jumped on __________'s head, scampered away through the pet door hard by where the garbage cans were clustered, and ran off to slaughter some rodents. "Crikey!" thought ____________. "I see that Kitty made liberal use of his box, and yet it smells like a rose garden. No wonder Kitty thinks so highly of himself!" _____________ sat down at the kitchen table to compose a note of praise to Bubbe's Ole' Fashioned Pet Lavs when, suddenly, there was a loud knock at the window. _________ tried to ignore it at first, but after 45 minutes of incessant rapping, it started to grate on ___________'s nerves. ______________ opened the curtain and there stood __________'s best friend, [NAME OF FRIEND], sporting a look of excitement. ______________ loosened the chain on the front door and opened it a crack -- just enough to be able to exchange a few terse words with [NAME OF FRIEND] without giving the impression that this was some kind of invitation to be admitted to the premises. "I have discovered something amazing that could make us both rich beyond our wildest imaginations!" squealed [NAME OF FRIEND]. It was at this moment that _____________ realized intuitively that the nature of proprietary trade secrets was very much a grey area.

(Excerpted from "The Magic Kitty Litter" © 2011 Bubbe's Ole' Fashioned Pet Lavs. All Rights reserved).

Lest one consider the above sample to be nothing more than representative of a crass marketing ploy, it should be realized that the referenced chapter is the wave of the future. The beauty part is that readers can jettison friends and relatives, convert to exotic religions, and change their names, and so forth, but the stories will always remain as fresh as they were as the day they were first downloaded, because the variable fields can be adapted to evolving social situations.

When published works fall into the public domain, we can expect to see an exciting catalogue of familiar titles spruced up and made good as new: "The Cat in the Hat and _________," "Goodnight Moon, Try Not to Snore, You Might Wake _______ Up," and "The Little Taxi That Hurried (And Almost Ran Over ____'s Foot.)" The prospects for growth in this industry are limitless -- and why shouldn't they be? The rest of the news is so horrible, we only want to read about ourselves, anyway.

Even ________ knows that!

It would be my honor to critique your 900-page manuscript; I'm not doing anything else this year.

Does this sound like you? Every time you open your mouth, something stupid comes out, such as: "It's going to be a 5-hour car ride, but I guess it's o.k. if your cat comes along." Or "Sure, I'll help you move the heavier boxes" Or "An extra ticket to tonight's one-man interpretive dance performance about Photosynthesis? Count me in!"

If you answered "kinda," you may be one of the millions of people who suffer from a chronic syndrome called: "I Hear the Words as They are Issuing Forth From My Lips, But I Cannot Believe I Am Actually Saying Them," which, of course, is Latin for "Blurting Out Disease." There is no known cure, but treatment is available.

The old method of wiring one's mouth shut to stanch the flow of excited utterances has been discredited. The technique is now considered to be unnecessarily cruel and ineffective, although, when it was in use, it did evolve a new type of language, albeit one that was utterly incomprehensible and grating on the ears. Still...

In our own age, the same companies that made a killing with voice-altering technology, enabling dissidents living under repressive, totalitarian rule to give radio interviews to foreign journalists without fear of identification and retribution, now have trained their sights on the domestic market. These days, there abounds a whole slew of "vetters," as they are affectionately known. Cleverly disguised as braces worn over the teeth (assuming that you are accustomed to the variety of braces that have flashing lights and make hissing sounds in the manner of a locomotive), the devices retail at consumer-friendly prices. The average one costs about the same as a cup of coffee -- consumed daily over a span of 37 years. They are adaptable in almost any setting and permit both breathing and eating -- making them a vast improvement over earlier models.

When the manufacturer's instructions are followed to the letter, the little machines work like a charm. (Note: failure to adhere to the instructions voids the warranty in most cases). At present, the vetters are limited by a crude lexicon, but, nonetheless, one that is effective. Ergo, when the telephone rings and the earnest young person who couldn't find any other job on the other end of the line implores you to give generously to the Composting Awareness Initiative, even as your brain is transmitting the signal to your speech apparatus to respond: "Sure, I'll make a donation," the vetter is adjusting the words such that the listener hears: "Drop dead!"

The vetters can also be programmed to express such clever phrases as "No!" "What do I look like, a sap?" and "What do I look like, a person who cares about your problems?"

Facing facts, we must acknowledge that the bionic age is upon us. If you're going to go around all the time sporting collagen in your face, you might as well broadcast a sentiment to match. As an advocate of the unambiguous, we take our cue from the incomparable Nina Simone, whose catchphrase we have appropriated for our own use: "Don't let me be misunderstood."

You got that?

Say! There's a barn and unlimited funding by an anonymous foreign donor out back! Let's put on a show!

The government's broke.  It knows it.  We know it. But when we go out to dinner with the government, we still let it go through the motions of stumbling around and reaching for its wallet as if it intended all along to pick up the check,  because we don't want to seem condescending. Then we say:  "Oh, I've got this.  You paid for the last one," when we both know that isn't so.  But the look of gratified relief on the government's face is worth the charade.

The government is --  how do you say it in your language?  Cash poor. Oh sure, the government could sell something, like an antique fob chain and watch. You know, the kind that the government's great, great granddaddy used to wear back when he worked for the railroad. But the market for these things is somewhat limited. Even a set in mint condition probably wouldn't fetch more than a few thousand dollars, and the government is shy to the tune of about $13 Trillion, so a sale of an ole' fob chain and watch combo wouldn't make much of a dent in the national debt.

Why not give tours of the moon? At one trillion bucks a pop, hosting lunar excursions could be a profitable little side gig for the government, and away go the government's money troubles down the drain lickety-split.

Problem is, the Moon has gotten consistently bad reviews. When Mark Twain visited in 1878, he quipped that it was the coldest place he'd ever been "except for San Francisco in August." Mark Twain was always saying witty things like that. This was great for bringing in the provincials to his sold-out lectures, but it gave the Moon a bad rap from which it has still yet to recover. As a result, today, to lure in the rubes, the government would have to spend as much on marketing as it would charge for Moon tours, so the whole thing would just be a wash.

That's the problem with having really great ideas. If you think about them for more than a few minutes, you start to consider all the things that could go wrong. It's better to get an idea and just go with it immediately without thinking of the consequences before all the negative imagery starts clouding the brain and ruining everything. As Mark Twain was fond of saying, "I never did anything worthwhile by thinking about it first. That was the mistake I made in going to the Moon instead of San Francisco when I had the chance. " Mark Twain was a national treasure and it's easy to see why.

No, the government needs to do something that sucks up a little less overhead and is a scad more practical than selling space shots to the cantankerous over-privileged. Chain letters come to mind. Here's some sample copy:

"Send us $3 and then send this letter on to every person in the world and ask them to do the same. If you do this, we swear you will have good luck; if you don't do it, you won't. P.S. This really works!!!" 

Simple and to the point. (The "us" in the above sample is the government). If we assume a global population of 6 billion, we find that:

6T x 3= $18 large -- carry the 1 (where 6 = 6 and T = a Trillion and x = times and $ = moolah and 18 is the value of chai and = equals equals.

Although the formula produces a sum that exceeds the figure of the total outstanding national debt by some 5 trillion dollars, allowances have been made for the slackers who will think about forwarding the letter but who will end up not doing so. An assumption has also been built into the analysis:  the assumption being that some of the letters will be mis-delivered owing to inadvertent omissions of zip codes and some people refusing to sign for the little packages because they have been addressed to "Ms _______" without the period, which is as aggravating to us at it is to them.

When the plan is set into motion, the interplay between mathematics, psychology, and bulk mailing privileges comes into view. At first blush, it would seem the perfect solution to the problem of the government's money woes. The whole thing would work just fine were it not for a pesky little volume penned by Mark Twain in 1911 (posthumously!) as an amusement for a suspected presidential mistress. It is entitled: "How I Propose to Excoriate the Government for its Use of Chain Letters -- a Hare-Brained Scheme Dreamt up by Some Confounded Fool in the Treasury Department as a Pathetic Means of Raising Revenue, and Other Stories."

No doubt, in our present situation, some disgruntled miscreant is bound to dredge up this little tome and spread it around like a wet blanket just to stick it to the government. Poor government; it just can't catch a break these days.

The government's cash-flow predicament is likely to be around for the foreseeable future. We can't do much about that, nor about Mark Twain's penchant for putting a damper on all our good-faith efforts to set things aright. Accordingly, the next time we go out to dinner with the government, we'll have to impose a few ground rules. For starters, there's going to be a 2-drink minimum.

We do not revel at the prospect of suffering indignities on anyone who has experienced a reversal of fortune. But we have faith that, no matter how icy will be the maiden blast of the new reality, the government will, as it always has, summon the requisite strength to persevere, dig deep within itself, and do what it must. As Ring Lardner once said: "I've known what it is to be hungry. But I always went straight to a restaurant."

Or was that Mark Twain?

Est is Est and Ouest is Ouest, And Never the Twain Shall Meet (and shake hands)

(HIYLH Blogging Live From the Festival International de Jazz De Montreal


The City of Montreal in southeastern Quebec, the mostly French-speaking province of Canada, is bounded on one side by the St. Lawrence River and on the other by the "Mont" mountain range, which includes Royal, Blanc, Teechristo, Teehall, and Tee Tee Tee. The French explorer, Jacques Cartier (whose girlfriend's name was Tiffany), founded the metropolis when he sailed up the river in search of a fountain of youth, or, if not a fountain, perhaps a nice, ornamental birdbath. Though he was unsuccessful in this endeavor, the trip was not a total bust, for Cartier was introduced to the native inhabitants of the land at a cocktail party, and, after an inspiring round of Fictionary, they demonstrated a method for growing diamonds in the fertile soil along the riverbank. (In his journal entry for June 30, 1534, Cartier wrote: "I was so certain that these people were cheating when they kept insisting that 'kreplach' was a real word. You could have knocked me over with a feather when they pointed to the definition in --not one, but -- two dictionaries of their own devising. They had strange customs, like wrapping leather bands around their forearms and affixing black cubes to their foreheads secured with leather straps. But none of them could seem to recall the origins of these rituals, or the reasons they still adhered to them. Nor, for that matter, why they were partial to cold beet soup."

While Cartier's men wanted to name the town "Montee, Montee, Montee," after one of the nerdier peaks in the range, Cartier put his foot down. Plus, having planned an inaugural ball, he had already sent invites to the engravers.

The City has come a long way from those humble beginnings. For the past 30 years or so, it has been host to the largest jazz festival in the world. During the months of June and July, it has more people walking around the streets on stilts with glitter on their faces than any other place in the world. It also has more young women in hot pants and stilettos per capita outside of the Jersey Shore. In this heady atmosphere, international musicians and visitors come together to drink boules de cafe and sort of speak French to the locals, who also sort of speak it.

These are lean times, and everybody wants their money to stop slacking. Montreal Jazz festival concertgoers are ahead of the curve in this respect. At the conclusion of each program, they stomp their feet, whistle, and demand encore after encore, even if they hated the music and wouldn't be caught dead listening to it under any other circumstance, all because they want to squeeze every ounce of value out of their cash. The terrified performers oblige to the point of exhaustion, lest a riot break out and ruffians start throwing cheese on stage.

This philosophy carries over into virtually every other aspect of life here. For example, hotel guests routinely scoop the little shampoos and soaps into their bags and purses rather than use them so that the housekeeping staff will have to constantly be re-stocking the room. So many travelers have blurred the lines between "complimentary" and "corporate property," that many hotels have taken to chaining the towels to the bathroom wall. As it happens, when it comes to trying to make a buck go further, two can play at that game.

Montreal has many fine restaurants and a seemingly-endless supply of cuisines to eat. But if you are poor and can't afford to eat at these establishments, you do not have to do so. The city is that tolerant! The tipping is in kilograms, which is a little bizarre for those not familiar with the metric system, but after a while and several drinks, one gets the hang of it.

Old Jacques Cartier would surely not recognize the place if he were to come back for a visit today. But one thing is certain: he would find the techno-disco blasting from stores on every street corner to be as intolerable now as it was in his day.

Montreal is easily reached by car.  Go to Vermont and turn left. It's just a little ways past the giant statue of the lumberjack holding a sign that reads "Meubles Solde." You can't miss it. 

Hey! Did Anyone Ever Tell You That You Look Exactly Like Someone Who Owes Me a Lot of Money?

When I was younger, I used to get mistaken for all sorts of people: Euclid, King Canute (both before and after the Danish conquest), Johnny Appleseed. As the years passed, these cases of mistaken identity grew slim, and the autograph requests and DNA samplings dropped off to a trickle. Just when it seemed that blending in anonymously with the great mass of humanity was in the offing, along comes the amorphous digital fingerprint.  Not only is it amorphous, it's also a fingerprint.

The thing of it is -- faking your own demise and starting afresh with a manufactured identity in, say, Australia,  is no longer the child's play it once was.  This is especially so for famous Australians.  The traces are everywhere.

Where's the sin in insurance fraud, anyway? Aren't they, of all people, insured?  Or is it like a case of the cobbler's children going about unshod and without cobs? "Well I'll be!  We're the world's largest insurer, and yet, we forgot to insure ourselves! Ho Ho! What a snafu!  Heads will surely roll over this!" 

Life was better when people were smart and machines were the morons, instead of vice versa. Now  gadgets are practically sentient beings for whom the concept of secrecy is as alien as is the thought that schmaltz herring is appealing to a six-year old ("Oh pleeeeeeeeeze, Mummy! Extra schmaltz!  I'll be good, I promise!").  For instance, attempt to commit a crime with one (a gadget -- not a six-year old) at your peril:

"PROCEED TO THE HIGHLIGHTED ROUTE." 

 "Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Do you want to get us both killed? I told you to mute, dammit!"

And not only that, you  now run the risk of being prosecuted for smashing your phone against a rock for ratting you out.  At a minimum, it's witness tampering. Easy.

All the good excuses have left the building.  As have the bad excuses. Whatever it is, I'm against it.  But I have to own up to it in any event. They don't believe me when I tell them "the payment's in the mail," for, as more than one of them has haughtily pointed out, "the mail no longer exists."

Nor do they buy it when I say  "You Jane.  I Claudius."

"No you isn't," they say.  "According to your profile, you're King Canute. Which is crazy, because you look just like his cousin, Canute Rockne."

"Yeah, I get that a lot."

 "Well, King, debit or credit?"

See? They've ruined check-kiting for the rest of us.