Verbal Abuse (new & improved)

One morning, my son told me, “I play this Nintendo game good.” I said, “No. You play it well. Well is an adverb, adverbs modify verbs, and to play is a verb. Good (in this instance) is an adjective. Adjectives modify nouns.” After I realized (again) that I sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher to him, he asked, “Why aren’t they called adnouns? Shouldn’t adjectives modify jectives?” He totally missed the point.

The majority of my friends, acquaintances, reader(s), and healthcare providers are well-aware that I am a bit of a stickler when it comes to proper grammar, spelling, and punctuation. Hell, spelling ability was one of the top five reasons I married my husband or even dated him in the first place. And I’m proud to say that both of my children know the difference between “your” and “you’re” and the difference between “its” and “it’s,” which is a lot more than I can say for most adults I know. I have convinced my family that the only thing worse than misplacing my keys is misplacing a modifier. They pretend to know what a gerund is so as not to upset my fragile psyche. And they know all-too-well that dangling a participle in front of me is an open invitation for my unbridled wrath to rain down upon them. I don’t care what you say, as long as you say it, spell it, or punctuate it correctly.

If someone were to write me a note that said, “go to hell bitch.” I would return it to them with red marks showing that the word “go” should be capitalized, the word “hell” needs a comma after it, and the word “bitch” needs a capital “B” (because it refers to Me). I might also suggest that the statement end with an exclamation mark instead of a period. I once saw this painted on the side of a truck: “Quality at it’s best!” All I could think was: punctuation at its worst. I guess not everyone can care about apostrophe misuse the way I do.

Then there are the commonly mispronounced words and phrases. My peeves are the butcherings of the words mischievous and supposedly. When I hear “miss-chee-vee-ous,” I throw up in my mouth a little bit. When I hear “supposably,” I roll my eyes until they get stuck. And why does 90% of the American population say “sherbert” when it is spelled and pronounced “sherbet?” There is only one R in it. I don’t much care for sherbet anyway, but when people mispronounce it, I really have no use for that shit at all. And why do so many people pronounce “asterisk” as “asterick?” Does it have anything to do with the phenomenon that causes some people to say “aks” instead of “ask?” I am also plagued by commonly misspoken phrases like these:

“At your beckon call" is incorrect. The operative phrase is actually “beck and call” (this mistake is almost forgivable because the word beckon actually means “to summon” and in fact the word beck is simply a shortened form of beckon.) Come to think of it, “beck and call” is a bit redundant, isn’t it? However, I will often respond to a call, but I shun becks at every opportunity. One similar but unforgivable and dry-heave-inducing error is “For all intensive purposes.” It is actually, “For all intents and purposes,” which is also somewhat redundant. Even if a trite phrase is ridiculous, it should still be uttered accurately. The worst offender of all misspoken phrases has got to be the transmogrification of “all of a sudden” into “all the sudden.” That one puts me into such an internal tizzy that I usually have to run to the nearest restroom. I once heard someone say, "He takes me for granite." Seriously? Well at least he doesn't take you for Formica. And when did it become acceptable for people to use “of” instead of “have”? As in, “I should of?” It is especially offensive when paired with the wrong verb, as in, “I should of went with you.” Oh, you mean, you should have gone with me? Well, I’m glad you didn’t because you can’t talk. A phrase I hear a lot that makes no sense: "I miss not seeing you!" What? You miss not seeing me? Gee, thanks. I could say that to a lot of people who are up in my face far too often, "Hey, you who won't leave me alone, I really miss your absence." A couple of French words or phrases that Americans can never say correctly are armoire and coup de grace. I don’t mean that they should be pronounced with a French accent. That would be pompous. (No offense to my pompous friends.) They should just be pronounced the French way, but in American English. Armoire is not “arm-wah” and coup de grace is not “coo-day-grah.” The French do say the endings of some of their words. The bottom line with me is if you can’t pronounce coup de grace, use some other phrase. I even saw it spelled somewhere like this: cou de gras, which I think kind of means neck of fat. Not really the meaning they were going for. There is one mispronunciation I like and intend to employ at every opportunity. I once heard someone say anticdote when they meant anecdote. I think that pronunciation might be more apt when the anecdote involves antics of some sort. I don't care for anecdotes without antics, ergo, I prefer anticdotes and decided right then that I would henceforth pronounce anecdote that way. Any dull anecdotes I hear will not be referred to as anticdotes, but rather, antidotes. As in: "that story was a real buzzkill, the ultimate party-mood antidote."

And don’t get me started on inadequate spelling. I live in a relatively large city with its share of under-educated and irresponsible people. (This may seem off-topic, but stick with me.) It is a known fact that too many animals are having unprotected sex. The combination of spelling-challenged adults and sexually indiscriminate dogs leads to signs like this: “4-Sell: Brown Chi-Wa-Wa’s” and “Free Doxen puppy’s.” I would have taken pictures of these gems, but that’s just the sort of obscenity I can’t abide. I’ll have porn on my phone before I’ll carry around misspelled and mis-punctuated words. I once saw a grocery-store cake emblazoned with fancy blue lettering that said, "SUPRISE!" As in, "Surprise! We misspelled the sentiment on your cake because we're illiterate, but that's okay because so are you!" I doubt anyone noticed it. Had I ordered a cake and arrived to find a misspelled word on it, I would have sent it back for a correction. Not just for my own peace of mind, but also to take an opportunity to offer a helpful spelling lesson and to prevent such a tragedy from happening again.

Because I don’t trust my children’s teachers, I take advantage of every opportunity to train my kids to respect, revere, and regularly employ basic grammar rules. If any other children (or adults for that matter) are within earshot, all the better for them. One of my biggest challenges over the past few years has been drilling it into the kids’ heads that “me” cannot be the subject of a standard sentence. Here are some examples:

My son: “Me and him were making up jokes about our nuts.”

Me: “Me was doing what? . . . Him was do-ing what?”

My son: “Making up jokes about our nuts.”

Me: “You should say, ‘He and I were making up jokes about our nuts.’”

. . . .

My daughter: “Me and Lily and Maddie are so hot for Brance.”

Me: “Me is so hot for whom?”

My daughter: “I don’t know whom you’re hot for, Mom, but we’re hot for Brance.”

. . . .

Likewise, “I” cannot be the object of a sentence:

My daughter: “Take a picture of Brooke and I.”

Me: “Take a picture of I?”

My daughter: “No, she and I.”

Me: “Take a picture of she and take a picture of I?”

My daughter: “No, of me and Brooke.”

Me: “Thank you.”

Now, I don’t pretend or profess to be the World’s Greatest Expert on the English language. (Well, sometimes I do pretend to be.) I only got a bachelor’s degree in English. It’s not as if I did something crazy like get a Ph.D. in grammar:

“Oh, you have a Ph.D.? So you’re a ‘doctor.’ Doctor of what, may I ask?”

“Thanks for asking. I have a Ph.D. in English grammar. I’m a grammar doctor. Can I edit something for you?”

I believe my linguistic superiority, whether it is real or imagined, can be somewhat off-putting to anyone who wants to speak (or God forbid, write) in my presence. I wonder if they bite their tongues lest I mentally edit each word they utter. This, of course, works to my advantage because (1) I don’t have to listen to other people talk and (2) I get to talk more. And let’s face it; wouldn’t most of you rather listen to me?

As I have stated before, any so-called errors I may have made (or may make) in this book are actually intentional examples of the poetic license I am entitled to by virtue of my obvious genius in this unpopular and endangered arena.

I know what you’re thinking:

(1) How pathetic is she that this is her only talent?

(2) Why must she try to make herself feel important by mocking and looking down on those less grammatically fortunate?

(3) Why does she abuse her children this way?

The answers:

(1) I have other talents that I am not as proud of,

(2) Therefore, I need to boost my self-esteem at the expense of others, and

(3) My kids will make me look good later when I can tell people they have Ph.D.s.

Jesus H. Christ (expanded version)

Jesus Christ and his mom, the Virgin Mary, have been known to visit keen observers when they cause their likenesses to appear in the most unlikely of places. Apparently, only those who believe can see the images clearly. Sightings of these religious simulacra (as they are called) are often the result of what scientists refer to as pareidolia: The imagined perception of a pattern or meaning where it does not actually exist. This phenomenon is attributed to the human mind's over-sensitivity to the perception of patterns, especially that of a human face or figure, where it would not normally be seen. I assume that when the image of someone’s aunt or third grade teacher, for example, materializes in, let’s say, a bowl of tapioca, it just gets eaten before any pictures are taken. Only the images of Jesus or his mom get such attention. And rightly so, I guess. I’d be afraid not to alert the media for fear of cosmic repercussions.

One time, the national news showed us the face of Jesus discovered on a moth. First, no one knows what Jesus looked like. So really, the image on that moth could have been that of the bearded white hippie dude who modeled for all the pictures we are so familiar with. When I saw the face on that moth, I thought it could just as easily be the face of the devil. (He has a goatee, right?) Just before the moth story, I remember seeing something about someone finding Jesus on a cross-shaped Cheeto (known in popular culture as “Cheesus”). Do these stories really make the news simply because of the alleged Jesus sightings, or is it more about pointing out the depths of gullibility hidden in so many pockets of future Darwin victims all across this fruited plain? I think it shows that the human race is full of doubt and a deep need for reassurance. I know that when I feel like God has abandoned me, nothing would be more comforting than to see the image of a bearded, long-haired man or a woman in a veil. Especially if I saw it in a food product (such as Cheez Whiz) or at the bottom of my sixth glass of wine.

Here are some places the images of Jesus and/or his mom have allegedly appeared: on a tortilla, a quesadilla (yes, another tortilla, but this one with cheese), a grilled cheese sandwich (the American quesadilla), toast (kind of like a grilled cheese but without the cheese), a pizza (I think he likes cheese), pita bread (I bet he felt more comfortable on something Mediterranean), pancakes, a potato, a potato chip, a pretzel, a french fry, (he apparently has no fear of carbs), a fish stick (I wonder how many he fed with that one fish stick?), a banana peel, an orange slice, peanut butter, shrimp, a glass of chocolate milk, the bottom of a coffee cup, a teabag, a Kit Kat bar, and a random piece of chocolate (no word on whether it was Dove brand). I think they like to show up in food maybe because of the whole communion idea. I’m sure the people who ate these images (if they did not freeze-dry and lacquer them and put them in a shadow box) felt extremely blessed and had no ill side-effects such as indigestion or diarrhea. If they did have diarrhea, it was just the evil spirits being cleansed from their bodies.

This crazy pair of Bible big shots has also deigned to appear in: driveway oil stains, a Walmart receipt, chipped paint, a scorch mark on an iron, a dog’s butt (Not kidding. Google it.), a bruise, water damage (was it holy water?), mold stains (I guess that’s what the water damage image morphed into), a toilet seat lid, moss, a dirty car window, a dirty sliding glass door, shower wall soap scum (would scrubbing bubbles be strong enough to defeat the power of Jesus-infused soap scum?), a garage floor, and an ashtray (Jesus hates it when you smoke!). It is not surprising that they would make appearances in such unsavory ways. How better to reach their target audience? Sinners are so unclean.

And they have shown up in rather neutral unexpected places as well, like: a frying pan (probably the one that cooked the above-mentioned quesadilla or grilled cheese sandwich), wood grain (Seems like he would steer clear of lumber after that whole cross experience, but nope. He’s fricking Jesus, bro.), a sonogram, an x-ray, an MRI, (Which would make me wonder: Is he healing me, or coming to get me?), a bottle cap, a telephone pole, chewing gum, a curtain, a velvet chair, a guitar, and a garage door. Do the appearances in these everyday items mean that he and his mom are just common, everyday kind of folks? I hope so, or I am so screwed. Surprisingly, there have not been a lot of sightings in nature. They have been spotted in: sand dunes, clouds, fire, a rock, a granite slab, tree bark, a tree stump, a turtle, and a cat’s fur. I guess he figures nature alone is signature enough, so showing up there is kind of redundant.

I think I saw Jesus in my dryer’s lint screen one time. I probably could have sold it on eBay, but I was afraid it would get damaged in shipping, and how do you insure something so priceless? So I hand-delivered it to a local Catholic church in exchange for a few dispensations. Even though I’m a Presbyterian. What if it really was Jesus trying to send me a message? Like maybe I need to engage my good/bad filter, or maybe I need to shed some unnecessary “fuzz” from my life. Or maybe he was just trying to tell me that I should clean that thing out more often. (Speaking of eBay, when I would get depressed, I used to look at the feedback people had left for me there. Here’s my favorite: “This eBay Superstar may be proof that the Second Coming has already happened!!!” That right there is some high praise.)

I am reluctant to make light of these so-called simulacra if in fact they really are God’s clever way of communicating with us. (What he is saying, I’m not sure, other than probably, “Hey, here I am, don’t forget me or I will smite you when you least expect it!”) We should welcome these subtle messages lest he decide to get louder. Given the choice between a talking burning bush and a face on a quesadilla, I’ll take the quesadilla.

Carrying the Weight of the Word (Redux)

Sportswriter Red Smith is alleged to have said something to the effect of, “There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.” Good writers spill their souls carefully and deliberately. They weave words to link their minds and hearts to those of their readers. Many of those who do it best are the ones who quite possibly feel or think too much. Scientific research suggests that poets and writers are more likely to suffer from mental illness and substance abuse. In fact, one study notes, “compared to the general population, bipolar mood disorder is highly overrepresented among writers and artists.” Many with bipolar disorder produce their best work during manic periods. (I know I do.)

After some cursory internet research (no, I don’t capitalize “internet” even though most do. I don’t think it deserves proper noun status, seeing as there is only one internet, but I digress), I compiled a short list of writers who are known to have suffered from mental illness. I have taken the liberty of listing them in order of my least to most favorite (more or less) along with necessary notes about each: Graham Greene (Never read anything he wrote, so he gets to head up this list.), Eugene O'Neill (Never read any of his plays, but I have at least heard of some of them.), Charles Dickens (Had to read a fair amount of his dreary, wordy works in college. Not a fan.), Patricia Cornwell (Haven’t read anything she has written, either, but I’m sure if I did, she would garner a more favorable spot on this list.), Joseph Conrad (I had a horrible lit professor who made us read Lord Jim. Dreadful experience.), Henrik Ibsen (From what I remember, the plays of his that I was forced to read were eye-glazing at best.), Isak Dinesen (I listed her here because I get her name mixed up with Henrik Ibsen’s. I used to think she was a man. I never read Out of Africa, but the movie put me to sleep.), Sidney Sheldon (He was big in the ‘70s and ‘80s, I think. As far as I’m concerned, his best work was I Dream of Jeannie.), Emile Zola (Never read anything he wrote, either, but he was French, so he gets extra points for that.), Herman Melville (I know I should say that I read Moby Dick and liked it, but I would be lying on both counts.), William Faulkner (Of course he was depressed. I know it depressed me just trying to read some of his stuff.), Ivan Turgenev (Also never read anything of his, but it could not have been as good as Dostoevsky.), Hermann Hesse (I read his little book Siddhartha when I was in college. I seem to remember thinking that it would be cool if I liked it, but I honestly just didn’t get it.), Tennessee Williams (I remember reading The Glass Menagerie and wishing I could shatter all those stupid knick-knacks.), Henry James (Don’t think I ever read any of his writing either. I get his name mixed up with Henry Miller, who was much more interesting, and surely had demons of his own.), Ralph Waldo Emerson (I confuse him with Henry David Thoreau, who was even more boring.), Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (On my favorite refrigerator magnet: “Nothing is worth more than this day.”), Dylan Thomas (“Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”), Mary Shelley (I love it that a woman dreamed up Frankenstein’s monster. You know she had some mental issues.), Allen Ginsberg (I would have loved to party with that guy.), Jonathan Swift (Anyone who created a place like Lilliput and made up words like “Glubbdubdrib” and “Houyhnhnms” had to be a bit off.), Leo Tolstoy (I am glad to say I never read War and Peace, but I regret that I never read Anna Karenina, which has one of the best lines in literature: “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”), Hans Christian Andersen (He was Danish, so I may be related to him. I am one-quarter Danish. Not sure which fourth of me it is, but I think it’s my skeleton. He wrote some of the best fairy tales ever. My parents used to refer to me as The Princess and the Pea because apparently, I was a little high-maintenance as a kid. I think his masterpiece was The Emperor’s New Clothes.), Robert Louis Stevenson (I remember him mainly because I used to play this card game called “Authors.” He was one of them, along with Nathaniel Hawthorne, Charles Dickens, William Shakespeare, Mark Twain, and Louisa May Alcott. Why she got picked to hang out with those men is a mystery. Maybe she was a groupie, or maybe they thought she would bring her Little Women with her.), Jack Kerouac (Another one I would love to have partied with. Still haven’t read On the Road, but it’s been on my list for years.), Kurt Vonnegut (Breakfast of Champions is on my list, too.), Franz Kafka (No doubt he was crazy. The Metamorphosis is proof.), F. Scott Fitzgerald (I always wanted to be Daisy in The Great Gatsby because she got to have the 1974 version of Robert Redford fall in love with her. In the new movie, it’s Leonardo DiCaprio, so I still want to be Daisy.), Emily Dickinson (A recluse who was said to have always dressed in white. Something I would never do. White is just a spill magnet. When I wear white pants, no matter what time of the month it is, you can bet that my period will start. Anyway, in her poem that begins My life closed twice before its close, she wrote: “Parting is all we know of heaven, and all we need of hell.” Not completely sure what it means, but that’s what makes great poetry, I guess.), J.M. Barrie (Love him not just because he wrote Peter Pan, but because Johnny Depp played him in Finding Neverland.), Edgar Allan Poe (Gee, which of his writings might make one think he had some mental problems?), Honoré de Balzac (I loved Père Goriot, which was like a French version of King Lear, but the real reason he is so high on this list is because there was a hideous statue of him in Paris near where I lived back in 1988. It was a replica of the one at the Rodin museum there. I am told the replica was even more hideous than the original.), Truman Capote (In Cold Blood is one of my favorite books. I guess that makes me a little crazy, too. He was friends with Harper Lee, who wrote the Best American Novel Ever, To Kill a Mockingbird. Some say Capote actually wrote it, but I don’t believe that.), Mark Twain (He supposedly said, “Under certain circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer.” Amen to that. Plus, Huckleberry Finn was probably the Second Best American Novel Ever.), and Dorothy Parker (She was an alcoholic who survived several suicide attempts. One of my idols. I like to think I was her in a past life, but she died after I was born, so I guess that’s impossible. Her poem, Résumé, sets out my philosophy of life quite well: “Razors pain you, Rivers are damp, Acids stain you, And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful, Nooses give, Gas smells awful. You might as well live.”)

In spite of Ms. Parker’s wise advice, a good handful of writers with mental illness have been known let this life take the best of them. One of those was David Foster Wallace, whose death inspired this essay. In September of 2008, at the age of 46, he apparently found it necessary to hang himself. I admired his insight and ability to express his view of the world, even though his writing could be somewhat verbose and dense. While I would read his work and mentally edit some of his paragraph-length sentences, I still savored each word--until the weight of the words (and of the book itself) would tip out of my sleepy hands. He was one of those writers I read not necessarily for the pleasure of reading but for the pleasure of his writing. I think he was often drunk on his own swirling thoughts and swam self-indulgently in his philosophical musings. I can certainly identify with that, but it's really too deep for me. I prefer shallow. Less chance of drowning.

The news media called his death “an apparent suicide.” Usually hangings are, I guess. Unless he was strangled, then someone hoisted his limp, heavy corpse up into a noose. It could happen. I could see it in a dark comedy. Maybe I have. Funny stuff. And “apparent suicide” hangings also bring to mind the Most Embarrassing Way To Die: autoerotic asphyxiation, which, by the way, is not the way David Foster Wallace died. According to reports, he was just seriously depressed and off his meds. It has been rumored that that is the way lead singer of INXS Michael Hutchence died. Even if it isn’t true, that’s what people like to think. Sex sells. Especially when it comes to that guy. He was hot. But seriously, people would rather believe a death was accidental (albeit embarrassing) rather than intentional. And poor David Carradine, if he accidentally died while trying to achieve orgasm, he went to a hell of a lot of trouble to get off. Bless his heart. But I digress.

Creative types have been known to take themselves out of their own misery with dramatic exits. Kurt Vonnegut described suicide as “the punctuation mark at the end of many artistic careers.” Ernest Hemingway blew his brains out with his favorite shotgun. Hunter S. Thompson shot himself, too. His suicide note supposedly read, “No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your (old) age. Relax — This won't hurt.” I was glad he left a note. (I think his could have been a little more “Gonzo” but he was depressed, so I'll cut him some slack.) Writers should leave notes. In fact, anyone who has the balls to kill themselves should have the courtesy to explain why. Another “apparent” shooter was Nirvana’s Kurt Cobain. He left a rather rambling note. Not his best work. At the end, he wrote, “I'm too much of a neurotic moody person and I don't have the passion anymore, so remember, it's better to burn out, than to fade away.” That’s it, Kurt, steal a line from Neil Young. I wonder how Neil felt about that. Honored, somehow, I bet. I would if someone quoted me right before blowing themselves away. Vincent van Gogh is rumored to have shot himself as well. Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t the gunshot that did him in so much as the infection he contracted right after it. That would suck to fail at a suicide attempt—at least if you really, really wanted to die. You think he was depressed before, how depressed was he to know that he fucked up his own suicide? How embarrassing.

In This is Water, a commencement address David Foster Wallace gave in 2005, he said, “It is not the least bit coincidental that adults who commit suicide with firearms almost always shoot themselves in: the head. They shoot the terrible master. And the truth is that most of these suicides are actually dead long before they pull the trigger.”

Speaking of water, Spalding Gray (apparently) drowned himself. I remember wondering if he thought he was Swimming to Cambodia, but that was in poor taste. Virginia Woolf was a drowner, too. She filled her skirt’s pockets with rocks and strolled into a river after writing a lovely note to her unfortunate husband. It included these words, “If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.” Yep, I bet he was really pleased to get those compliments and I’m sure he felt like the happiest man in the world that day. (Maybe he did, if she was such a Debbie Downer.) I think it takes an extra measure of courage to drown yourself. I imagine it’s a lot of work, fighting your breathing instincts and all. Like trying to tickle yourself to death, or win a staring contest without blinking. Or sneeze with your eyes open. Hard work, that.

Sylvia Plath, who was only 30, went to a lot of trouble to die. She made sure her kids were asleep (which was thoughtful), then sealed off the rooms before turning on the gas and sticking her head in the oven. I’m not a very good cook, so I might not choose that option. I would probably singe my hair and burn my neck before realizing that I just needed the gas and not the heat. Poet Anne Sexton pulled a sort of copycat suicide a little over ten years later. She did the old car-running-in-the-garage trick. I guess the standard combination of alcohol and pills just isn’t dramatic enough for the more creative types. Simply going to sleep is far too subtle and smooth. It doesn’t make a statement. I think the statement must be at least as loud as the noises in their heads. They want their inner pain to scream on the outside. Or maybe they are numb and need to drop a bomb in order to feel something. How better to show how dead you are (or want to be) on the inside than to act it out? With as much drama as a miserable artist can muster.

Why do so many writers and artists kill themselves? Is it creativity overload that drives them to death? Some sort of tortured genius that the body can't sustain? I think most writers struggle with a sense of apartness. A heightened self-consciousness. Trying to answer Why am I me? Good writers are observers who can choose words well, even effortlessly, and put them in a certain order such that readers respond with emotion, thought, adrenalin, comfort, or connection. Creative people can take in too much. More than the mind can manage. A sensory burden. They carry so many sights and sounds that simmer and stew until they boil over onto scraps of paper, or a computer screen, and into a book or poem if they make the cut. Or the opposite happens and the words just won’t come anymore. And the emptiness becomes the burden. How can artists who have such skill at relating life let life kill them? They carry the weight of the world in their heavy hearts and troubled minds, but it’s the unwritten words that weigh them down. The very things that connect them to the world can also disconnect them from it. Just like a noose.

Celebrity Deaths of 2009 (New & Improved Version)

The year 2009 was a huge success when it came to the number of famous people dying. Two biggies happened on the same day in June. After Farrah Fawcett ruined my morning and Michael Jackson put a damper on my afternoon, I started wondering who would be the third, or if Ed McMahon was the first of that trio. Then I thought what if Farrah was actually the third and Michael was starting up a new one? Then I wondered how big a celebrity they need to be to have the dubious honor of being included in this little pop culture superstition game. (For the most part, I am relying on my voice-activated software. If it knows who I'm talking about, then they're in.)

According to my few minutes of exhaustive research, a lot of so-called celebrities bought the farm that year. But I'm only counting the ones I'm familiar with or interested in. I intend no offense to the memory of any B, C, or D-list "stars" nor do I mean to show disrespect toward any 100-year-old silent film actors or any sports figures from the 1940s to the 1960s. So here are my unofficial results (in threes, of course):

1. Ricardo Montalban, Clint Ritchie (Clint Buchanan on One Life to Live), and Phil Carey (Asa Buchanan on One Life to Live)—I include these last two because I was addicted to that soap opera from 1984 to 1991 and again from 1996 to 1999. The other interesting thing I found was that Phil Carey was only 13 years older than the man who played his son. These three died within 23 days of each other. Ricardo Montalban always reminds me of Fantasy Island, which then immediately reminds me of that “little person” (also known as a “dwarf” or, in some circles, a “midget”) Hervé Villechaize who played Tattoo. He killed himself in 1993. (Can you blame him?) Incidentally, my research reveals that John Updike, who certainly merits mention, died along with this trio, making it a death foursome. I could re-order the list, but then it would separate the two One Life to Live guys, thus defeating the entire purpose of listing them together. Thanks a lot, Updike.

2. James Whitmore, Paul Harvey, and Ron Silver. Now this is an odd mix. Their deaths cover a 37-day time span, so if we are going for a one-month window, I may need to relegate Whitmore and totally revamp the list for the next edition of this book, which is sure to be a blockbuster. Whitmore was in a lot of old black-and-white movies. I generally hate black-and-white movies, so I am not really familiar with his work. But I did like him in The Shawshank Redemption where he played a pivotal role as the librarian. Paul Harvey always sort of got on my nerves, what with his “now you know…the rest of the story” crap. Sure, some of the stories were interesting or charming or whatever, but I really didn’t like how he kept you in suspense just so you could find out that some crippled, consumptive, poverty-stricken kid became an Olympic gold medal winner or something. Actor Ron Silver died of cancer. Coincidentally, that was his astrological sign. That is kind of like a Pisces getting killed by a fish.

3. Natasha Richardson, porn star Marilyn Chambers, and Bea Arthur. While they are spread (so to speak) over 38 days, I think I'll carve out an exception simply because I like to see the name of a porn star next to Bea Arthur's. Sorry you have the misfortune of their company, Natasha. As if dying from a bump on the head wasn't bad enough. Marilyn was in this famous porn movie called Behind the Green Door. When I was about 14, I made the mistake of popping the VHS tape of it into a VCR while I was babysitting. Luckily the kids were asleep. Not so luckily, I got caught watching it when the unfortunate parents came home. Was I going to get in trouble for watching their porn? I think not, because they were the real porn-watchers. Speaking of porn, one way to really kill a boner is the thought of Bea Arthur. I grew up watching her as Maude. Later she was in The Golden Girls, which I guarantee they show reruns of in hell. Along with bad Kevin Costner movies.

4. Jack Kemp, Dom DeLuise, and David Carradine. Here we have 34-day coverage. I'm starting to think the 30-day goal is a little too tight. Speaking of too tight, they find Grasshopper mysteriously bound and hanged in a Bangkok hotel room. Trust me folks, there's a Thai hooker out there who knows exactly what happened and how much he paid for it. Jack Kemp, even though he was a politician (and a Republican at that) was a little bit more cool because he had played professional football. And I like football. Dom DeLuise was amazing in his role as the flamboyant director of a musical in one of the Best Movies Ever, Blazing Saddles. “Watch me, faggots!” he yells. Beautiful.

5. Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson. Yes, it was those three within three days just as I suspected. If Farrah had started a new set, she and MJ would have been in the Billy Mays group, and I'm sorry, the OxiClean guy's "celebrity" status would only add insult to injury. Or in this case, insult to death. I met Ed McMahon in an airport one time. I went up to him and said, “You look exactly like Ed McMahon.” He laughed and gave me his autograph on my boarding pass. Even though I didn’t ask for it. I think he was probably drunk. Come to think of it, I probably was, too. With regard to Farrah, I am glad the media downplayed the kind of cancer she had. No one wanted associate a sex symbol with anal cancer. Anal? What a pain in the ass that must have been. Really shitty way to go. I always identified with her because her character on Charlie’s Angels was named Jill. The similarity pretty much ends right there. At least I hope so, what with the anal cancer and all. When Michael Jackson died, my friend Kathy (who didn’t have a TV at the time) found out about it after hearing the rumor from a neighborhood kid. She Googled “Michael Jackson death” and the first thing that popped up was a spoof article in The Onion titled “Neverland Ranch Investigators Discover Corpse of Real Michael Jackson.” She really thought he had been buried there 20 years earlier and that the one we thought was Michael Jackson was a fake. She’s normally a very smart woman, but that day, she was an idiot.

6. Billy Mays, Karl Malden, and Walter Cronkite. How's that for a trio? First, I thought Karl Malden was already dead. When I found out he wasn't, I couldn't believe he was 97. Ninety fucking seven? No wonder I thought he was dead. When "The Most Trusted Man in America" died within 20 days of Karl Malden and the OxiClean Guy, this was quite an honor for OxiClean Guy. On the other hand, were Walter or Karl to hear that the third member of their death cluster was a guy named Billy Mays who was a modern day snake oil salesman, they may feel a little slighted. Sorry Walter and Karl, I can't just go back and edit my whole list now. Too much thought and effort and math went into it. As an aside, I'm not sure why I cried as I watched the news of Cronkite’s death and saw clips of his broadcasts. I think it was his announcement of President Kennedy's death that really hit me. (Then I thought of Kennedy’s own death trio compadres whose deaths were totally upstaged by that assassination: Aldous Huxley and C.S. Lewis. Not bad company, as death trios go.)

7. Frank McCourt, the Taco Bell dog, and John Hughes. Sorry Frank and John, for organizational purposes (and because you died within 18 days of each other), you have to share your space with a talking Chihuahua. Frank McCourt wrote this famous book called Angela’s Ashes. I heard it was good, but because it sounded really depressing, I never read it. Plus I don’t like to read big books. The dog, Gidget was her name, became famous for saying "¡Yo quiero Taco Bell!" I only mention this animal because I love Taco Bell and because a talking dog is pretty cool. Especially one that speaks Spanish. Unless that was her native language, which, come to think of it, probably was, seeing as how she was a damn Chihuahua (a breed I generally do not care for--not because I am racist, which I’m not, mind you--but because they are too small and wiry and somewhat big for their little doggie britches). I must discuss John Hughes and list my favorite movies he wrote and directed. Here they are along with my favorite lines from each (many thanks to IMDb.com): Uncle Buck (“I'm Buck Melanoma. Moley Russell's wart. Not her wart. Not her wart! I'm...I'm the wart. She's my tumor. My...my growth. My...uh, my pimple. I'm Uncle Wart. Just old Buck ‘Wart’ Russell. That's what they call me, or Melanoma Head. They'll call me that. ‘Melanoma Head's coming.’ I'm...Maisy Russell's uncle!”), Ferris Bueller's Day Off (“You're Abe Froman? That's right, I'm Abe Froman. The Sausage King of Chicago? Uh yeah, that's me.”), Planes, Trains & Automobiles (“Where's your other hand? Between two pillows. Those aren't pillows!”), Weird Science (“How 'bout a nice greasy pork sandwich served in a dirty ashtray?”), The Breakfast Club (“What was that ruckus? Uh, what ruckus? I was just in my office and I heard a ruckus. Could you describe the ruckus, sir?”), Sixteen Candles (“God, I hope whoever got that note doesn't know it was me who wrote it. I'd shit twice and die.”)

8. Les Paul, Ted Kennedy, and Dominick Dunne. The guitar genius, the senator with questionable morals (isn’t that redundant?), and the bespectacled writer died within only 13 days of one another. (By the way, I am both surprised and pleased that I was able to use the word “bespectacled.”) Kennedy was lucky to die the way he did, being a Kennedy and all, it was fairly anticlimactic. Dominick Dunne made the cut because he wrote for Vanity Fair which is a magazine I like to say I read because, like The New Yorker, it is for classy people. Plus, he wrote about a lot of the big criminal trials like O.J. Simpson’s and the trial of the Menendez brothers--those rich little sweater-vest-wearing fucks who decided to gun their parents down when they wanted more money. I remember thinking one of them was kind of cute. He never responded to any of my fan letters.

9. Patrick Swayze, William Safire, and Captain Lou Albano. They died within exactly 30 days. I can’t discuss Patrick Swayze without choking up, so bear with me. When I hear the word “ditto” I always think about him in Ghost, and then sigh. Then I think about him in Dirty Dancing and remember “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.” Then I sigh again because I vividly remember seeing that movie on a date and being disappointed that my life was so boring compared to that of Jennifer Grey’s character. I first fell in love with him when I saw The Outsiders. He said, “You just don't stop living because you lose somebody.” Good advice from writer S.E. Hinton (who was a female, by the way). She also wrote Rumble Fish, which was made into the movie starring Matt Dillon, but I digress. I included William Safire because he wrote a lot about proper and precise use of the English language. Something I hold dear to my heart. Like the way I love my kids, only somewhat more unconditional. I only allowed Lou Albano on the list because the image of this wrestler with the rubber bands hanging from his face next to someone like William Safire (who would never have pierced his face and hung rubber bands on it that I know of) made for an interesting and unexpected juxtaposition. (I am also glad I was able to employ the word “juxtaposition” here.) Another reason I added Lou to the list is because I remember him from Cyndi Lauper’s Girls Just Wanna Have Fun video. How she could take him seriously as her father is beyond me.

10. Soupy Sales, Oral Roberts, and Brittany Murphy. This so-called trio is an aberration because these famous people died within a 59-day span. This is because no notables (at least as far as I am concerned) died in November of 2009. Like maybe God was taking a break from all the paparazzi hubbub that was surely taking place up there. Soupy is one of those who I thought had already died. He was like 83, so that’s understandable. Apparently, he did a lot of stupid slapstick-type comedy. I hate that shit. Except for the Three Stooges. Now they were funny. Oral Roberts made the list because anyone named “Oral,” especially a televangelist, must be mentioned in my book. What kind of parents would name their kid “Oral?” Apparently, that was the kind of birth control they wished they had used. Brittany Murphy’s death was a shock. She did the voice of Luanne Platter on Mike Judge’s King of the Hill. We have these cafeterias in Texas called Luby’s. That’s where you can get what they call a Lu Ann platter. If you are on a diet. Or elderly.

I hope I didn’t exclude any famous or semi-famous dead people from this list. I welcome suggestions, but will probably not honor them. Please add them to the comment card at the end of this book.

Burning Daylight

I have a confession that may cause me to lose friends or at least miss out on some social invitations. There’s a condition called “social anxiety disorder.” There are prescription drugs for it. (I’m not a pharmacist, but I play one at home.) I clearly don’t have a full-blown case of it because I’m comfortable speaking in front of large groups, I’ve been known to be the life of the occasional party, and I would tell my deepest secrets to the old crack whore in line next to me at a convenience store. However, when it comes to certain events (not only attending them but simply contemplating attending them), I can empathize with the unfortunate victims of this disorder. Here’s why:

I would prefer never to attend the following: daytime receptions, tea parties, banquets, buffet dinners, office parties, baby showers, wedding showers, children’s birthday parties, and parties where you feel obligated to buy jewelry, candles, or kitchen paraphernalia. Each type of gathering gives me a somewhat different yet equally uncomfortable level of social anxiety. Mostly because they make me feel like I’m burning daylight. Like I could be doing something more productive with my time such as cleaning out a closet or organizing a junk drawer or alphabetizing my spices again.

When my kids were younger, I dreaded play dates for the same reason. I would take my kid to the cluttered house of some homely woman (often a neighbor or acquaintance) with whom I had nothing in common except for the fact that our kids were the same age and perhaps attended the same Mother’s Day Out program. The idea was that the kids would get a chance to play off some energy while the burned-out moms could sit and commiserate as they chat over coffee about what brand of diapers they use, their harrowing labor and delivery experiences, or how to manage to take a shower before their husband got home. So there I would be, sitting at some sticky kitchen table, drinking bad coffee with someone I didn’t click with, and trying to shift the conversation toward something funny or interesting while her kid is shitting his pants, eating boogers, and drooling all over my kid’s sippy cup. I would surreptitiously glance at my watch and think that time must have stopped. My stomach would churn and burn as I thought about all the things I needed to be doing at that very moment and throughout those few precious hours, such as laundry, or dishes, or napping, or the rest of the laundry. I would tune out the dronings of this bedraggled mother as I imagined her sharing her boring anecdotes and bratty gripes with prison inmates or psychiatric patients. Just as I would think I was going to implode with the anxious ennui closing in on me, my toddler would start crying or otherwise need tending to. I would then use the child’s alleged “nap schedule” as my excuse to run screaming to the solace of my car. I would no doubt then heave a sigh and perhaps utter some obscenities as I peeled out of her driveway.

Sure, they say we should stop and smell the roses and that it’s good for the soul to take time out of your busy day to just relax and enjoy a cup of tea or read a book or perhaps engage in some sort of useless craft activity. I’m sorry, but I’ve got shit to DO. I don’t sleep well; I work 40 hours a week (more or less) except when I’m driving kids to and from their appointments or events. I go to the grocery store, the gas station, the carwash, the cleaners, and the post office. I drop crap off at Goodwill; I pick up prescriptions at the drug store; I get the car’s oil changed; I think about going to the gym. I visit my chiropractor, my dentist, my hair salon, and my psychiatrist. When I do have free time, I like to spend it making lists of what I need to do the next day. I don’t have time to dilly-dally or lollygag at some social gathering. Does this make me anti-social? I don’t think so. There are plenty of other settings that do not make me want to have diarrhea. Such as my office, my bathtub, sushi restaurants, shoe stores, and most bars.

I’m not sure what makes me think the details of my daily life are more important than spending time with a few friends and several strangers at celebratory gatherings. I don’t know why I start shaking at the sight of a punch bowl or why seeing an order form at a “party” makes me want to shoot someone in the face. I can’t fathom what it is that compels me to avoid interaction at these events by taking leisurely strolls to the bathroom and then lingering in there until someone bangs on the door to check on me two hours later. And I know it’s rude to ignore perfect opportunities for small talk by pretending I have important business going on in my phone. I guess I just can’t fake enthusiasm as well as everyone else.

When I get an invitation to any of the aforementioned events, the first wave of anxiety is all about the RSVP. Great, I think. The person who has been kind enough to include and invite me has also been so cruel as to impose an impossible deadline upon me. I used to be great with RSVPs. It never bothered me at all to look at a calendar and call or e-mail my regrets. Now, probably because of my children, I usually lose the invitation somewhere between the mailbox and the house. And e-mailed invitations get even less attention.

If I must actually attend one of these soul-sucking time wasters, and if a gift is required, then my next wave of stress comes from the gift selection process. I have been known to spend a good hour and a half agonizing about choosing the perfect toy for a kid in my daughter’s class whose name I have forgotten and whose parents I don’t even know and who is probably a spoiled little asshole. When it comes to baby or wedding shower gifts, one might think that the registry lists are helpful. And they are; don’t get me wrong—at least they give me some guidance. But the problem then becomes finding something on the list that is within your budget. If I want to spend $50 on a wedding gift, it’s inevitable that the registry will only offer up items well above that price or a plethora of suggestions so far below it that I end up buying the happy couple a $20 knife, a $15 saucer, a $10 set of dish towels, and a $5 pot holder. If I want to spend $30 on a baby gift and run into a similar dilemma, I opt for a gift card and hope that the new mother is able to go shopping either before or after she finds herself housebound with a screaming infant, leaking breasts, and a torn up vagina.

When it comes to the contrived parties that are actually shopping-by-peer-pressure, I get a whole nother form of angst. I feel like I owe it to the hostess to buy something to compensate her for all the trouble she went to, what with the veggie tray and fancy napkins and box wine and all. I see all the other women oohhing and aahhing over this necklace or that gadget or this baking stone or that potpourri. I scan the catalog for something affordable that I also might not mind having. Of course, the things that are affordable are useless and would end up in my next garage sale. The things I wouldn’t mind having cost much more than I wanted to spend, seeing as how I didn’t really intend to go shopping that night. I usually end up spending too much on something I would never buy under any other circumstance, even with a gun to my head. As I turn in the order form, I feel instant remorse and regret. Along with an urgent need to empty my bowels. When I see the charge on my credit card bill a couple of weeks later, I suffer a flashback of that same remorse, regret, and urgency. Then, when the dreaded item arrives about six weeks later, there I go running with my angst to the bathroom again.

The bottom line is: If given the choice between attending one of these events and staying home, I would always prefer to stay home. And eat shards of broken glass. I might even rather sit through another Lord of the Rings movie or endure some opera or Broadway musical than subject myself to this slow torture. Will this diatribe decrease the number of invitations I find in my mailbox? I doubt it. I may spend two hours in their bathroom, but people still want me at their parties. Mostly because when I go, I buy something.