Sunday, September 13, 2009

Odds and Ends

--You know what you never hear? A construction worker on NPR. For that matter, a construction worker who sounds like he belongs on NPR.

--Do you know what the difference is between an old soul and an old fart? An old fart doesn't have time to grow old. A fart is gone in about thirty seconds. An old soul, however, is forever. Surround youself with old souls if you possibly can.

--The other night, I was dialing though cable channels and stumbled upon what used to be called Headline News. Now it's just called HLN, probably because CNN doesn't trust you to remember something called Headline News. Anyway, on Jane Velez-Mitchell's show, there were five guests, in five separate studios, possibly in five seperate cities. At first, I couldn't figure out why. Then I realized: There would be a riot if all these cats were in the same studio. CNN most assuredly takes a dim view of their hosts gouging their guests' eyes out.

--People have told me that I must not be a real American because I don't like pro football. These are probably the same people who think that Las Vegas is the capital of Nevada, two plus two is five, and Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone.

--I see that Dr. Mehmet Oz, one of Oprah's cronies, now has his own show that I'll never watch. But it is quite refreshing to see that Dr. Oz is probably going to wear something other than hospital scrubs. Hey, Doc: Change out of your damn scrubs if you know you're going on the air; otherwise, Aunt Mema is would like her new kidney fairly soon, as in today.

--The more Dr. Phil McGraw tells me I should "Get Real!", the more phony he sounds.

--Fedoras appear to be coming back in style. Pity I don't have a head that is conducive to wearing a baseball cap, never mind a fedora. Shame, too, because I used to love to model my grandfather's fedoras.

Monday, September 7, 2009

Birds and Their Songs

I find myself paying more mind
To the birds
And their songs
Than I ever have before.

When I wake up in the morning
And I hear them sing
Now more than ever
Their songs find succor in my heart.

No two songs are the same
But they are ever so sweet
And the birds greet
Me as I awake.

O to be as happy
And as free
As a singing, chirping

I feel their sadness as
The sirens and engines
And the noise we make
Interrupts their joyful song.

But as they swoop and whirl
And sing their song
Their happiness enters my heart
And stays the whole day long

Sunday, September 6, 2009

Things I Wonder about the Muscular Dystrophy Telethon

--Given the fact that Jerry Lewis is still very popular in France, how many Euros and francs get factored into the tally? Shouldn’t Jerry start counting those?

--I saw Jerry this past May at the Cannes Film Festival, stumbling up the stairs of the Palais de Festival. Are you entirely sure you should be trusting so frail a man with your money?

--With Ed McMahon now in that Big Teevee Studio in the Sky, do you think Jerry will this year stage a twenty-one gun salute in Ed’s memory? Don’t put it past him.

--Keep in mind that Jerry hasn’t made a movie worth a damn since The King of Comedy with Scorsese and De Niro twenty-six years ago. Do any of the cast members from that film make regular contributions to the MDA? (Maybe not Sandra Bernhard so much—methinks she’s still getting over getting punched by Jerry.)

--Most importantly, when the hell is there ever going to be a cure for Muscular Dystrophy? I should think that with all of the medical and scientific advancements over the decades, there should long since have been a vaccine for Muscular Dystrophy. If the aim of these Labor Day telethons is to make sure there is never the need for another, then the question hangs there like the London Fog: Where have all the billions of dollars gone? More money has been raised for victims of Hurricane Katrina and the September 11th Atrocities in less time and used more efficiently than it’s taken “scientists” to find the mythical cure for MD.

I’m just asking, you know.

Saturday, September 5, 2009

COLLEGE FOOTBALL (It’s all the same to me)

The helmets, the balls

The plays and the calls

It’s all the same to me.

The fields, the marching bands,

The students in the stands.

Indistinguishable across the land.

The big men in their pads and helmets

And the little men in zebra stripes

Running up and down and all around.

Raging middle-aged men with headsets

Screaming themselves hoarse.

Nothing better to do on a Saturday, of course.

Commentators in the booths and on the fields

With little imagination to wield.

Shouldn’t these kids be in class

Studying and trying to pass?

I assume that’s why they’re there.

And here’s one extra point—

For some of these grizzled young men,

It’s either the gridiron

Or the joint.

College football is such

A screwball game.

Better to throw fastballs

And make that Hall of Fame.

Shouldn’t they be passing knowledge and wisdom

And not pigskins

In College?