Who Lives In A Pineapple Under The Sea?

Absorbent and Yellow and Porous Is He

If, like me, you believed America's homophobia had reached its nadir when Reverend Falwell berated the Teletubbies for carrying purses, take a deep breath, dear reader. 

Now comes Rev. Dr. James C Dobson, founder of Focus On The Family, accusing Sponge-Bob SquarePants of proselyting for the Gays.  Seems that Mr SquarePants frequently holds hands with his animated sidekick, Patrick.  Rev Dobson asserts that Mr Pants has been enlisted in a "pro-homosexual video."  Quoth the maven, "We see the video as an insidious means . . . manipulating and potentially brainwashing kids.  It's a classic bait-and-switch."  Loved the picture in Tuesday's paper of your President Bush holding hands with Rev Dobson, deep in prayer.

And another thing:  I thought the War On Terror was more important than any other task facing the Administration?  No, no, not so important as discriminating against gays.  The Pentagon has been whining non-stop about the lack of Arabic translators.  Less than 20% of the State Department's 279 translators are fluent.  Lots of intercepted messages going untranslated 'cause they ain't gots the qualified peeps to do it.  So what is the least logical thing possible at this juncture?  Fire twenty of them because they were found to be gay. 

America, alas.

Out Of The Mouths . . . .

Molzer was talking to Gabe (now 5 1/2) about the reason he didn't have school Monday.  M inquired whether G knew about Dr MLK jr.  Of course he did. 

"And he was such a cool guy!  He fought with his words and not with his fists!"

Another feather in the caps of a tall blonde and the Montessori system.  I'm so proud I could burst.

From The "America, America, Alas" File

Flipping through channels last night I came across Miss Jessica Simpson in the back seat of a limo, waxing elequent, kinda, of her first day in seventh grade.  Midst titters and squeals at the memory, she recounted in the limo how pleased she was when her new teacher, clearly not yet cognizant of Miss Simpson's mental acuity, asked the class if anyone knew all the continents?  Thrilled at the opportunity to perform, Miss Simpson somehow got the teacher's attention, was called on and proudly announced, "A, E, I, O, and U !!" 

Certain that that would be the night's nadir, I was yet somehow not astonished to run across a "reality" show starring an excitable, diminutive young man yclept Flavor Flav, monied, unkempt,  inarticulate, and with a habit of wearing a dinner plate-sized clock around his neck.  Anyhow, for - I don't know, it seemed like a long time, Mr Flav flew 'crosst the 'Lantic to London and, clad in a Viking horned helmet, trod the sidewalks, harrassing passers-by in pursuit of his beloved, an Amazonian-sized, hard living blond and former Mrs Sylvester Stallone named Brigitte Nielsen.  Folks, I gotta tell ya . . . .

Happy Birthday Stephen Hawking

"Before, I was very bored with life. I drank a fair bit, I guess; I didn't do any work... When one's expectations are reduced to zero [being diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or Lou Gehrig's disease in the mid 1960's], one really appreciates everything that one does have."  -Stephen Hawking

Twenty years ago Gary Lynn Jepsen and I spent several years having more laughs together than a pack of hyenas.  Over tanker truck loads of beer we played endless hours of pinball, went to countless horse races, took dozens of Cornhusker road trips to exotic lands like Minnesota, Iowa and Missouri. Gary was like Sara Lee - nobody didn't like him.  He never had a bad day, was always funny and fun to be with.  A very large and brilliant man, he was uninterested in any physical exertion (at least any vertical physical exertion), and had what he called "a touch of the sugar diabetes." (When he would say that K would squirm like an Episcopalian in a Catholic pew).

Thursday, in Omaha, Gary was shoveling snow, had a heart attack and died.   

The Wages Of Sin Is, Eventually, Soap

The worst, most feared, ultimate corporeal punishment to which my grandchildren can be subjected is a fingertip's worth of liquid hand soap administered to their tongues.  This sanction covers the same pantheon of misdeeds as, when I was a lad, required my father's leather belt, a ping pong paddle, or an 18" strip of linoleum, whichever was in closest reach.

Anyhow, Young G's synapses are firing with increasing enthusiasm, sometimes forcing his tongue and demeanor to respond in ways his mother deems unsuitable.  It's difficult to stop when you've got a really inventive riff going on the word "diarrhea" or you've found a way to make a noise reminding of a Yeti being emasculated by a barbed wire fence.  And, as everyone knows, when mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.  For this poor, disabused young'un, out comes the soap (which mama now keeps in a handy, purse sized container in her, well, you get it).

Young G understands the arrangement.  He recognizes his sins, and understands the atonement process.  Maybe he wants to please too much, I don't know.

Recently, SB was forced, in her mind, to pull the car over and Administer The Soap.  G squirmed and fought and snorted, and then announced, "Nope, didn't get any on my tongue."  Process was repeated, replete with spitting, snorting, squirming, and after each application, his mother's failure was duly, thoughtfully noted.

Even though, with a lash or a club of some sort my parental units didn't have to go through this repeat process, I really think the new way is better.  Gonna take a couple weeks off of whispering in his ear "She's not the boss of you" though.

Wireless Weirdness

A couple months ago the doorbell began ringing once or twice a day when no one was at the button.  Disconcerting.  I'd jump up from the Big Bue Chair or run down from my office - no one.  Replaced the itty bitty battery, still.  Couldn't tie it to cars driving by, phases of the moon, Bush malaprops, nothing.  Two weeks ago I unplugged the plug-in annunciator and took the battery activated button off the wall outside the front door; let 'em knock.

Today, I'm in the BBC, ruminating through the Times, K is upstairs, arranging stuff or whatever, and the garage door goes up.  Spooky.  Don't ask about the beeping.

New Hampshire, February 7, 2003

 by Maxine Kumin, from Jack and Other New Poems © W. W. Norton.

It's snowing again.
All day, reruns
of the blizzard of '78
newscasters vying
for bragging rights
how it was to go hungry
after they'd thumped
the vending machines empty
the weatherman clomping
four miles on snowshoes
to get to his mike
so he could explain
how three lows
could collide to create
a lineup of isobars
footage of state troopers
peering into the caked
windows of cars
backed up for white
miles on the interstate.

No reruns today
of the bombings in Vietnam
2 million civilians blown
apart, most of them children
under 16, children
always the least
able to dive
for cover when
all that tonnage bursts
from a blind sky.
Snow here is
weighting the pine trees
while we wait for the worst:
for war to begin.
Schools closed, how
the children
love a benign blizzard
a downhill scrimmage
of tubes and sleds. But who
remembers the blizzard
that burst on those other children?
Back then we called it
collateral damage
and will again.