6-1-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Where do you stand on the issue of legalizing medical marijuana?

-- Toker in Tokyo 

Dear Toker:

Not only am I all for it, I think that the National Institutes of Health should declare "bad vibes" to be one of the medical conditions it applies to.

6-2-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

On a long trip with the kids last weekend, we must have sung "The Alphabet Song" at least 1000 times. It caused me to wonder... since you were probably old enough to be around when the alphabet was invented, who put the alphabet in the particular order it is in and why?

--Wonderin' in Washington 

Dear Wonderin':

It does take an oldster to remember the days before alphabetical order, and confusing times they were, too. Children would come home from school with an H or a T on their report cards and no one knew whether that meant good, bad or indifferent. One school would be teaching children their NKLs and another in the same county would be teaching the BWQs. Folks would buy Grade M eggs at the store, never knowing what they would find when they opened the carton.

It wasn't so bad when people simply wrote everything down, but as soon as typesetting came along a crisis developed. Type companies sent their products out in barrels lined with straw, and it could take a typesetter all day to set a single sentence, hunting through the barrel until he ran across the appropriate letters. Worse yet, the type was reversed, so if a typesetter didn't mind his "p"s and "q"s a book might go out telling people that frequent brushing would prevent the buildup of dental qlapue.

It was obvious that if everyone could agree on a proper sequence of letters then letters could be separated into piles and typesetters could be employed by any printer and know exactly what pile contained what letter, leading to vastly improved productivity. History repeated itself only a few years ago during the great binary debate: it was impossible to write software until the industry settled on the zero and the one as the digits to be used exclusively.

The first meeting of the Organization of Print-Exporting Countries (OPEC) was held in Vrsk in what is now Decimated Yugoslavia. Needless to say it was a hopeless debate, since the French insisted that the alphabet begin with "F," the Germans with "G" and so on. The host country demanded that "Y" be the first letter, and furthermore that vowels be left out altogether as they had never found a use for them. The second meeting, in Nalu'laho'ole'wai'i'pu'wapu'wapu in what were later to become the Hawaiian Islands was likewise a failure, as the host country insisted on beginning the alphabet with an apostrophe and leaving out most of the consonants, as they had never found a use for them.

The final meeting, in                , sometimes called the Island of the Illiterate, was a grand success and led to the immediate adoption of the letter sequence we use to this day. As so often happens in enterprises of great pitch and moment, it was settled by sheerest accident. A toddler who had accompanied her mother to a meeting because of the shortage of day care on                knocked over a sample box of letters. As she carefully began to pick them up and return them to the box the audience was struck by a single thought: why not let this guileless and unprejudiced child determine the letter sequence? The assembly watched in awe as the letters were picked up and returned, with the child's mother calling out what was to become the well-known sequence "A B C D...." and so on down to Z, much to the chagrin of Zimbabwe, Zambia, Zanzibar and Zaire. That day will also be remembered for the simultaneous invention of the games of Bingo and Scrabble.

One would have thought that the question of letter sequences would have been settled forever, but there were still rebel holdouts, the most famous being Corona "Qwerty" Smith, inventor of the typewriter, who used an arrangement of letters based on his favorites. Sadly his innovation caught on, and to this day we are forced to use keyboard layouts based on one man's quirky choices.

6-3-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Our teacher was talking about Saint Vitus Dance today. Did people really carry on like that in the Middle Ages? Cool! Were there prizes?

-- Discophile in Discordia

Dear Discophile:

One way of raising money for the endless series of Crusades that were so popular back then was by holding marathon dance contests. These contests were named after Vitus, the patron saint of ballroom dancing, and generally involved one town challenging another to a public dance-off in the village square. There were relays of fiddlers and pipers who provided the music, and the teams jigged their best until they dropped from sheer exhaustion. The last couple standing won a gelded bullock or a yoke of swine or some such thing that was highly prized by squalid, illiterate, toil-broken serfs.

There were no limits to the kinds of dances that could be performed. In some old village records we find dance cards that include the Piping Shindy, the Trout and Minnow, the Two-Backed Beast and the Dungcart Fling along with the more traditional Wallop-Thy-Partner, Goose-My-Mistress and the Flying Codpiece.

As great quantities of beer were consumed during these revels things tended to get out of hand rather quickly. The dance contest between Ulm and Glrg in 1242 resulted in 14 deaths, 37 amputated limbs and 2 crucified squires who had apparently been sent from the castle to tell the townspeople to keep the noise down. Also an impaled plow horse, although this may have been simply an early attempt at barbeque.

-------------- 
References:
"Saturday Night Hemorrhagic Fever: How the Medieval Marathon Dance Spread the Plague" by Arthur and Kathryn Murray (London & Bombay, 1953)
"Dancing in the Dark Ages" by B. Springsteen (London & Bombay, 1974)
"Top Hat, White Tie and Flails: Dance Riots in 14th Century Rural England" by F. Astaire and G. Rogers (undated)

6-4-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Apparently, there is a tribe in Africa that engages in an annual fattening contest; that is, to see who can get the fattest in a given period of time. Do you, by any chance, have any idea how do they go about this business?

--WeightWatcher in Wilmington 

Dear WeightWatcher:

Contestants are put on a plane and taken to Dallas, Texas, the Overweight Capital of the USA.

While in Dallas they're introduced to bacon double cheeseburgers, triple chocolate shakes, all-you-can-eat barbeque, loaded pizzas, potato chips, doughnuts and Budweiser suitcases. The sole exercise permitted is ordering in and using the TV remote.

After 6 months the one who looks most like a native Texan is declared the winner, brought home and eaten by the rest of the tribe.

Losers generally claim political asylum on the grounds that if they were sent back to their native land they would be cut off forever from their minimum daily requirement of cholesterol.

6-5-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I read in a magazine that Sophia Loren once said, "There is a fountain of youth: it is your mind, your talents, the creativity you bring to your life and the lives of people you love. When you learn to tap this source, you will have truly defeated age."

Now, you obviously possess a quick mind, a fine "turn of the phrase" and an outrageous imagination. So here's my question: Why don't you look like Sophia Loren?

--Awestruck in Innsbruck 

Dear Awestruck:

Next to me Sophia Loren is a teenager. Give her another three-quarters of a century and then we'll compare notes.

And anyway, Sophia wasn't talking about outside beauty but mind, talent and creativity-- the things that keep you ageless until senility kicks in and reduces your functionality down to the level of a warm doorstop.

6-6-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I just read this headline, "California assembly stops everything to mourn 'West Wing' TV character." According to the article, Assemblyman Kevin Shelley adjourned the California Assembly session in memory of Mrs. Landingham, the fictional president's secretary on the Emmy-winning political drama.

I'm curious to know if you remember any other fictional characters being honored in such fashion in your fine town of Redbone, Arkansas.

--Daisy Mae in Dogpatch 

Dear Daisy Mae:

As a matter of fact the oddest election in Redbone's history was between *two* fictional characters.

It didn't start off that way. Officially the race for Sheriff was between Lester "Lump" Gassender and Stewie Swackhammer, of the Gumption, Arkansas Swackhammers. The closer it got to voting day the more dirt the two tried to dig up on each other, and they finally succeeded almost simultaneously. As a consequence "Lump" was hauled off to the county jail on a charge of having escaped from a chain gang several years previously, and Stewie was remanded into Federal custody when person or persons unknown tipped them off to the location of his still just as he was corking up his weekly output.

As all this happened just two days before the election, it led to a considerable dilemma. There was no time to print up new ballots, so at the voting place there was a big sign instructing people to write in either "Null and Void" if they thought the elections should be cancelled outright, or "New Tally" if they thought campaigning should begin again with different candidates.

Imagine everyone's surprise the following morning when it was announced in the paper that Nullen Void had beaten Newt Alley by a considerable margin, and that the results had been certified by the state election commission.

It was even more bizarre when Newt Alley demanded a recount....

6-7-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Are there any Goths in Redbone?

--Listless in Livingston 

Dear Listless:

When I first read your inquiry I thought you were having flashbacks to the twilight of the Roman Empire, but my great-great-etc-nephew Gizmo tells me that it refers to a lifestyle that involves dressing up in black outfits, listening to maudlin music in badly lit night clubs while pretending to be vampires and discussing suicide a lot. Some of them even have coffins to sleep in.

Now I'll have to honestly admit that I have no idea if any of these Goth people frequent our town, but I rather doubt it. The typical Redboner lifestyle involves dressing up in cowboy outfits, listening to twangy songs about heartbreak in overlit clubs while pretending to be single and discussing sports a lot. All of them have pickup trucks to sleep off a drunk in, along with considerable firepower to discourage dissenting opinions.

I could be wrong, but it appears to me that the only people around here who dress like morticians are actually morticians.

6-8-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I am an accountant by profession and necessity, yet I have the soul of an abstract expressionist painter. Every day I have to deal with the same visually dull and boring spreadsheets. Is there any way I could add a bit of color and flair to my otherwise gray, mundane existence on the job?

-- Frustrated in Frisco 

Dear Frustrated:

You'll be pleased to hear that both Bed, Bath & Beyond and Martha Stewart have exciting new lines of designer spreadsheets which will spice up your monitor without subtracting from your bottom line.

Styles range from the conservative Forbes Collection in executive blacks and greys with earthtone accents to the wild and zany Matisse spreadsheets in scarlet, brilliant yellows and plum, many of which come with matching fonts. Imagine the impact at your next meeting when you pop up a P&L statement done in a Matisse floral background with brilliant cyan-shadowed canary numbers in a devil-may-care typeface like Buckshot or Seltzer.

Really want to make an impression? Try the Warhol Series from BedMasters: cerise numbers on chartreuse seem to pop right off the page, and your charts will be the hit of the day with Soupcans, Marilyns or Brillo Boxes replacing those dull old bars.

6-9-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I am all atwitter over the recent research in which scientists claim to have broken the ultimate speed barrier: the speed of light. The implications, like the speed, are mind-boggling. On one interpretation it means that light will arrive at its destination almost before it has started its journey. In effect, it is leaping forward in time.

My question is this: Where would you leap if you could time travel?

-- Science-Struck in Stuttgart 

Dear Science-Struck:

Hmmm... is this all becoming popular again? I can remember when that nice Einstein boy had us all running around in circles with his talk of relativity and whatnot.

Personally, I have no desire to go backwards. When you realize that the average life span 200 years ago was only about 40, I'd be dead before your time machine came to a stop. Keep in mind also that almost nobody lived the good life back in ancient Greece and Rome. I'd hate to find myself spending the remainder of my days herding swine under the direction of a large person with a whip.

And going forward is 'way too much of a risk. Sure, they might have stopped aging and conferred immortality on everybody, but then you might just as easily pop out in a world where the last survivors are picking through the rubble looking for radioactive rats to eat. And if you pushed too far forward you might wind up as the last witness to the sun going nova or burning out altogether. Or perhaps Earth will have been invaded by huge slimy carnivorous slugs just waiting for a time traveler to snack on.

If it's all the same with you I think I'll stay right where I am. Life may not be so hot here at the Home, but at least the meals are regular and there's TV.

6-10-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Someone gave me a book titled, "Chicken Soup for the Soul." I don't know whether I should read it or not. Do you have any advice for a perplexed vegetarian?

--Vegged Out in Vermont

Dear Vegged:

Americans seem to have an unlimited capacity for superficial self-help books, which they gobble down like bacon double cheeseburgers and exercise videos. This whole Chicken Soup thing seems to have mushroomed (sorry) into an industry. One of the bleeding-heart do-gooders who comes here now and then to "read to the old people" had a copy and read some supposedly inspirational stories that were so sweet and sticky that they almost put me off dinner. By the time little Timmy's puppy was saved by the angel I was about ready for an insulin shot.

There must be a huge audience for that sort of thing, however, because there are now Poultry Potages for the souls of Teenagers, PreTeens, Kids (other than Teens and PreTeens, I suppose), Christians, Christian Families, Dog and Cat Lovers, Pet Lovers (other than canine and feline), Mothers, Fathers, Golfers, Prisoners, and on and on and on. All that's missing so far are Spelunkers, Disk Jockeys and Whorehouse Bouncers.

Their crackerjack marketing team is also pushing spinoffs like board games, calendars, greeting cards, dolls, hotel chains, automobiles, airlines, satellite systems, and who knows what all.

Oh, and they have the mandatory fleet of predatory lawyers, too. Anyone who does a parody of one of their books is threatened with legal action. Next week I'm sure they'll announce a major lawsuit against the Campbell's company for trademark violation.

But to answer your question, it's perfectly safe for a vegetarian to read. There's no meat to it at all....

6-11-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

In researching regional poets for my forthcoming book, "A Rural Pen," I find a reference to T. Pellagra Lapstrake, who flourished in Redbone just after the turn of the 20th century. Any information you can pass on about this local poetess would be deeply appreciated.

-- Poetaster in Podunk

Dear Poetaster:

Oh, yes, the so-called "Poet Laureate of Redbone." I'm not sure "flourished" is the word I'd use to describe her career, unless you would describe a dead hog as flourishing on a hot July day.

Pellagra added the "T" herself. It stood for Terpsichore, the old Greek muse of choral singing and dance. Except she pronounced it 'Turps-a-chore" so it always reminded me of a difficult operation performed with paint thinner. She was what we called a "Bohemian" back in those days, which was one step below "certifiable at the lunatic asylum." She weighed in at considerably above 400 pounds, affected gunny sacks and picture hats, and was unacquainted with personal hygiene.

She fancied herself a poetess, a view shared by no one in Redbone. Her only published work was the mind-numbing "Hymn to Redbone," which she entered in the local paper in response to a call for patriotic poesy to mark the 100th anniversary of Redbone's official founding in 1809. When the rest of the citizenry heard she had entered they immediately withdrew their own submissions, since Pellagra was bad enough under ordinary circumstances, but an irritated, outraged or wronged Pellagra was like having to deal with a cross between a rabid sow, a malfunctioning outhouse and a swearing machine.

I still have a copy of the "winning" poem, which was published in the Redbone Codependent-Plagiarizer & Daily Whistler on July 4, 1909. It may be the only copy in existence, since most subscribers burnt their copies on the lawn as soon as it was delivered by a very scared delivery boy, who had been pelted with rocks several times that day and feared for his life. It was said that the editor of the paper had to keep his typesetters at gunpoint to get them to finish it.

Here are the opening stanzas:


Hymn to Redbone
by Terpsichore Pellagra Lapstrake (Miss)


Oh, hail, blithe Town of Redbone
A diamond atop the stone!
You stand out like a curry-comb
Upon a temple's dome!

Brave wert thy forefathers
Who, had they had their druthers,
Wouldst have stayed a-home with brothers,
Than risk the frontier's bothers.

Lucky was the day they found thee,
Perched ever so gracefully,
Between the peaks of Oswinnie
And the gap at Hobo's Knee!

It goes on like that for another 139 stanzas, deteriorating all the way. I'll be happy to send you a copy of the whole thing postpaid under separate cover.

Pellagra tried to deliver the whole shebang during the festivities on July 4 that year celebrating the centennial. Since she was only four feet eight she needed some kind of platform to address the swelling crowds. Now, the circus was in town that week, hoping to take advantage of the public ceremonies. Spying a nearby circus wagon she laboriously climbed to the top of it to begin her declamation. Alas, the roof of the circus wagon was not up to the task. She got as far as the curry-comb simile when, with a great splintering of wood and tin she was dropped into the hyena exhibit. About an hour short of feeding time.

Well, there were many brave men in Redbone who would have gladly given their lives to save a lady in distress, as was the custom in those days. But each man looked at his fellow-man and thought the self-same thought: Another hundred and forty-one verses of THAT?!! and bravely controlled his native instincts.

In the end the only real loser was the circus owner. Pellagra flattened three of his hyenas in the initial accident and poisoned seven more before evening drew its curtain across the tragic scene.

The fireworks that night were excellent, as I recall, and more than made up for the earlier unpleasantness.

6-12-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I was fascinated by my tour of the Museum of Depressionist Art and the Gallery of the Unidentifiable. Does Redbone have any other cultural treasures like them?

-- Artsy in Artesemia

Dear Artsy:

Oh, my, yes! Redbone has more culture than fresh yogurt on a warm afternoon. My favorite spot was always the Home for Abandoned Punch Lines, which was set up by that wonderful old vaudeville comedian "Spoots" Rufflerump.

Spoots had noticed that, as vaudeville and burlesque faded away, America was losing a vast store of jokes, many of which had never been recorded. So he made a point of noting down those he thought were particularly good to save them for posterity. Since he was constantly on the road he couldn't spare the room for elaborate files and simply wrote down the punch line of each, counting on his performer's memory to fill in the rest at the appropriate time.

Alas, by the time he retired at the age of 67 his memory was pretty much shot, a condition he blamed on the poor quality of gin available during Prohibition years. Not wanting to give up his lifelong dream, he dedicated one wing of his home to commemorating his archives, which after he passed away became the Home for Abandoned Punch Lines, according to the dictates of his will.

Today you can visit his memorial, wandering through rooms filled with placards from his collection, like:

"If she had three, we could play cribbage!"

"But the bowling ball was in the OTHER bag!"

"Yeah, but he was smiling all the way down!"

"So he opened the door, and there was the guy with the cheese sandwich again!"

"Sure, but it's free if you bring your own sheep!"

"How could I? His foot was in my shorts!"

"Let him sleep-- he flew the plane yesterday!"

"Blind?! I thought you said 'blonde'!

"We're three mackerels short and it's only Tuesday!"

"Outhouse? But we don't HAVE an outhouse!"

That's just a sampling. My favorite is the one with the two nuns in the rowboat with the rabbi, the mule and the inner tube, but I don't want to spoil your fun if you go there yourself. Summer hours are 10 - 7 weekdays, 10 - 10 Saturdays. Closed Sunday and holidays. Senior discount available if you ask for it.

6-13-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I wonder if you can find the answer a question for me, since you're so close to the experts at the Museum of Depressionist Art. I've always wondered why a certain class of paintings and painters were called "surrealist." The dictionary definition just doesn't do it for me.

-- Student in Stuttgart 

Dear Student:

Well, according to my buddy, Harvey Skopskie Bassoon, curator emeritus of the Museum and fellow sufferer here at the Home, there's a long and curious tale behind that simple word.

Many people assume that it comes from "sour realism," meaning an artistic movement that had become disenchanted with-- soured on, if you will-- the ultra-realism techniques of the end of the 19th century. A variation on this theory holds that the painters maintained the same level of realism, but moved away from the optimistic fin de siècle (end of the siècle) themes and toward more commonplace subject matter, showing a more acerbic-- sourer-- view of the world and its people.

The truth is quite a bit different and much more fascinating. It all started with the discovery of vast gold deposits in the Klondike region of Alaska in 1896. A few years earlier Levi Strauss had patented the denim work pants that bear his name, which were treasured by gold miners for their endurance. With gold fever striking folks all over the world, the demand for work pants and denim cloth itself knew no bounds.

It wasn't long before the denim or canvas that was used for paintings was unavailable at any price. Nîmes, the town in France where most denim (serge de Nîmes) was produced, even had a big sign on its city gate saying "Artists need not apply" in several languages.

Driven to despair and bursting with frustrated creativity, many artists began stealing Realist School paintings from museums and galleries and painting their own works on top of them. Hence the term "sur realism" (on top of realism).

It's so obvious once you know the answer, isn't it?

6-14-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

As American society ages, we can expect growing numbers of people entering the geriatric age level. Do we need new laws to protect the elderly?

-- Protective in Promethia 

Dear Protective:

Actually what we need are new laws protecting the younger generations FROM the elderly! We need aggressive new highway legislation, for instance, including special lanes where shrunken people in big cars can drive just as erratically as they like without endangering others.

As ancient drivers seem to have a fondness for equally ancient vehicles, such vehicles should be clearly marked to indicate a particular driver's degree of incapacity, either with an antenna flag or a snap-on roof sign. (I can't resist suggesting a yellow flag for the cognitively impaired driver:  Booby On Board.)  Prescription-ground windshields might also be retrofitted, as well as outside air bags to protect pedestrians. Global Positioning System units would be mandatory for male drivers who refuse to ask directions and are always trying to find that great shortcut they took once in 1954.

We'll also need special "elderly hours" in stores to accommodate the feeble, indecisive and disoriented. This is especially necessary in supermarkets, where a single senile shopper can bring an entire aisle to a grinding halt. Worse yet are the tag teams consisting of a little old woman being followed by a little old man pushing the shopping cart and questioning every purchase.

Also necessary are elderly checkout lanes where time is meaningless and the checkout person is always happy to learn exactly what [insert product] used to cost before the War, and how [insert fruit or vegetable] used to taste so good years ago but is like cardboard now, and how scanners and cash registers have caused youngsters to lose all their math skills, so they can't even make change.

Restaurants are another area in need of improvement. I think there's a fortune to be made by some clever person who opens a chain of eateries catering to the elderly, like "Over the Hilltop Inn" or "Sunset Brunch."  These will be staffed by members of a religious order sworn to suffering indignities. Menus will be in large print, and all meals will have complete lists of ingredients so that customers can find things that they can't eat to complain about. The hostess will have additional training in dealing with garrulous old farts and eternally-dissatisfied gangs of widows. Cooks will be made to understand that every meal will be sent back a minimum of three times before it's reluctantly consumed, all the while being unfavorably compared with some legendary dish the diner had in some mythical restaurant back when dinosaurs roamed the earth.

This is just a start. We'll also have to radically change City Hall to deal with superannuated ranters about taxes, the police, loud music, kids these days, and how we didn't have these problems 40 years ago. It will be a great employment opportunity for the deaf.

6-15-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

My grandchild will be performing in her annual dance recital. Poor thing, she has been taking ballet lessons for 6 years and moves with all the elegance of a sumo wrestler. How can I bow out of this annual torture without making her parents (my son and daughter-in-law) angry?

-- Granny in Grundy

Dear Granny:

This is always a delicate problem and has to be handled with the utmost sensitivity. I'm sure you've tried all the standard tricks, saying that you had to get permission from your parole officer, that you were waiting for the results of your AIDS test before venturing out in public again, or claiming that you had to take your parrot to the orthodontist. (It helps if you have a parrot.)

Having exhausted these, it's time for some high-powered evasive action. Borrow a video camera. Send for the application and instructions for "America's Funniest Home Videos," and make sure your son and his wife see them. Be overheard on the phone telling a friend that you think you've got a grand prize winner. Be very interested as to the seating locations in the performance hall. Ask your son to sign a blank model or performer release.

After a few days your son and daughter-in-law will discover some compelling reason for you not to attend. Do your best to look disappointed.

6-16-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

So what have you old folks done for fun lately at old Living Dead "R" Us?

-- Amused in Amundsen

Dear Amused:

Well, we appreciate your interest, and your timing is excellent, since just last evening we had a special performance of the Redbone Retirees' Repertory company. I may have mentioned them before. They put on performances of classic musical theater pieces that are adapted to the needs and interests of the elderly.

Last night it was "Wet-Eyed Story," a touching tale of two star-crossed lovers living in nursing homes ruled over by competing health care providers who keep them apart.

The songs were especially good, much better than the RRR's performance of "My Frail Lady" last summer, at least in this critic's opinion.

You can see from the titles alone how much time and effort goes into making the play relevant to the geriatric:

* "I Feel Dizzy" 
(blood pressure problems)

* "Nothin's Comin, Nothin's Big" 
(impotence)

* "Urea! I Just Failed the Test for Urea!" 
(medical checkups)

* "Two at night" 
(medications)

* "Dead Hand, Bad Heart" 
(circulatory failure)

* "Everything's Fee'd in America" 
(medical costs)

* "Some Hair" 
(baldness & allopecia duet)

-- and the big show-stopper: "Gee, Officer, What Tree?" 
(driving visually impaired)

A good time was had by all, although many a joyous tear was shed when the lovers' medications are mixed up at the end, leading to their timely demise.  We should all be so lucky.

6-17-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Whenever I'm depressed I seem to be unable to stop replaying some of the worst moments in my life, over and over again. Do you have any suggestions for breaking this vicious, self-destructive tendency?

-- Down in Downe

Dear Down:

You'll be happy to know that help is on the way. Later this year Pfizzer Pfarmeceuticals will begin selling Ephemerol®, the newest drug designed to combat precisely this condition.

Unlike antidepressants, which merely induce a state of synthetic optimism, or tranquilizers, which simply deaden the higher centers of perception, Ephemerol® works directly on the limbic system, allowing only fleeting happy memories through. This means your whole world takes on the depth and substance of a Teletubbies episode. You'll notice that the grass is greener, the sky is bluer and the laughing baby sun is just as yellow as yellow can be! You'll find yourself repeating everything twice and falling down a lot while you giggle hysterically.

The warning label suggests not driving a car or operating machinery if you take Ephemerol®, and warns against engaging in group hugs with strangers wearing gang colors.

6-18-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Have you ever had a "near death" experience?

--Kevorkianado in Kentucky 

Dear Kevorkianado:

Every meal here at the Home is a near death experience. The kitchen was awarded 5 stars by the American Euthanasia Society.

6-19-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

What did families do for amusement before there were multi-acre theme parks?

--Distracted in Dystopia

Dear Distracted:

And what makes you think there were no theme parks a hundred years ago? There were World's Fairs and State Fairs and all kinds of diversions.

On the local level, my favorite was always Fantasy Station, a spur of the Redbone-Gumption narrow-gauge railway. They had this little guy who would always stand of the platform yelling "da train, da train!" to welcome visitors. He was a hoot.

The park was run by an eccentric millionaire who had devoted his life to making people's worst nightmares come true. There were attractions like "Abandonment," "Public Humiliation" and "Misery Loves Company" that involved the whole family, and special games for kids like "Who Wants to be an Orphan?" "Holidays for Runaways" and "The Thing Under the Bed."

After lunch at the Hobo Jungle, which featured slumgullion, rat du jour, mulligan stew and similar delicacies along with its famous refried coffee, it was time to visit the main tent, where the only giant squid in captivity was on exhibit in a huge tank. The attendants there were careful to spread the rumor that the squid was fed exclusively on misbehaving children, and all of us youngsters got the shivers to see how one of those gigantic eyes would always seem to pick out an individual or two from the group.

From there we would go to rides like the "Whirl-N-Barf." Then it was free candy and ice cream treats along with the special games at The Funny Uncle, after which the train took us back again. Most of us, anyway. A surprising number of children never made it out of the giant squid tent with the rest of the kids. I'll never forget how peaceful Mr. and Mrs. O'Leary looked when they got on the train alone one evening. And we all had to admit that no one was really going to miss Quincy, Jasper, Glendora, Suzi, Oskar or Zeke O'Leary, hellions every one.

6-20-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

How long have you been answering questions online? Inquiring minds want to know.

-- Archived in Arcadia 

Dear Archived:

Well, now, what a coincidence! I happen to see by the large-print calendar on the wall that today is the First Anniversary of my Web site. (The Home is so stingy that they give out calendars one page at a time in the hope that we'll die and won't need the following month.)

In celebration I'd like to announce several improvements that will help you all keep track of my wit and wisdom. You'll notice that there's now a search engine on this page. If you remember a daily installment you were particularly fond of, you can enter a keyword and find it again. You can also find the past year's articles sorted more or less by topic by clicking on "archives".

I would also like at this time to thank the two people who have done more than anyone else to make it possible for me to be here today: Tim Berners-Lee, inventor of the World Wide Web, and Marc Andreessen, inventor of the Web browser.

What?

Oh, yes....

I have just been advised that my life support may be unplugged if I fail to mention two other people: Ernie Jurick, who turns an old lady's mental ramblings into coherent words each day, and Andrea (aka Ditty) Nicolaides, Registered Muse, who keeps him inspired and motivated and is the artist behind the Museum of Depressionist Art and the Gallery of the Unidentifiable.

Believe it or not, these two have never met or spoken to each other, as they live 2,669.91 miles apart and consider telephones to be the Devil's instrument. They communicate only with their cats, and that telepathically. Please keep them in your thoughts, and pray for a cure.

PS:  Happy Birthday Kurt!!!

6-21-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

WOW! I saw yesterday that your Web site has been up and running for an entire year. It must be a terrible strain to have to answer people's questions day in and day out without ever taking a break. How do you do it, given your advanced age and general state of disrepair?

-- Impressed in Imperia 

Dear Impressed:

I supposed I should say traditional things like "It's what gives me a sense of purpose and keeps me going from day to day," or "Keeping one's mind stimulated is the secret to longevity," or even, "I feel I am doing the Lord's work and will continue for as long as he permits me," although that last would be a bit of a stretch, all things considered.

The truth is that it's the methamphetamines that do it. I've arranged with one of the Teen Volunteers who comes here to keep me supplied in exchange for the OxyContin I swipe from the terminal ward. I feel that I am doing the Lord's work in keeping these powerful drugs out of the hands of the elderly and helpless, and I will continue for as long as the nearsightedness of the ward nurse permits me.

6-22-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I've been collecting American primitive folk art for a couple of years. You can imagine my astonishment when I discovered that there are people manufacturing primitive folk art and selling it for hefty sums. Is this a ripoff or what?

-- Grandma Moses in Granite Mesa 

Dear Grandma:

Not a ripoff, really-- simply supply and demand. "Genuine" American primitive folk art is in limited supply since there were only a few people doing the stuff a hundred or so years ago, and most of it has already been bought up. So to fill the needs of a new generation of collectors, many people who had flunked out of art school tumbled to the idea of using their limited talents to duplicate or recreate the old-fashioned goods.

This necessitated moving from Manhattan or Chicago to places like Blind Stumbles, Georgia or Buggery Grange, Tennessee, where they set up shop and put up Web sites of themselves in tattered bib overalls, sitting on a stump a-chawin' and a-carvin' or a-paintin' and charging a couple of hundred bucks for what they produce. They even work up autobiographies about themselves being descended from a long line of mountain people, which is true only if you include Aspen and the Catskills.

There's one of these fine folks over in Upper Lobscouse right near Redbone. He has his post office box there for authenticity, and his Web site shows him all grizzled and worn-down and just as hillbillified as all get-out as he makes fiddles out of cigar boxes for the collecting trade. The Web site has the story about how he learned the craft at his grandfather's knee and still uses "Ol' Gaffer's" very own tools today. This cleverly skirts the fact that his grandfather was a stockbroker who owned significant property in the Hamptons, and that he himself has a marketing degree from Yale.

I hear his biggest problem is getting cigar boxes of the proper 19th century kind. He wound up having them custom-made for him in Malaysia. The "authentic mountain gut strings" come from Argentina and the "Ozark horsehair" for the bow comes from Ireland. Assembly is done at a maquiladora in Cuidad Juárez, although he's thinking about shifting operations to Bangladesh to get around NAFTA regulations and raise his profit margin to a nice even 6,600%.

----------------------------

REF: "The Ozark Guide to Collectible Fraudulent Folk Art" by C. Webern Chumley (London & Bombay, 2000)

6-23-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Who was your favorite entertainer when you were a teenager? Were you a big fan of the swing bands?

-- BeBopper in Bebbleburg 

Dear BeBopper:

Land sakes, swing bands were the distant future when I was a teenager! No, long before radio created star power and national audiences we had to be content with locally-produced entertainment, which is not to say that it was second-rate, not by a long shot. One of Redbone's favorites was a piano player from India named Fat Wallah, who invented what he called the Bombay Barrelhouse style of playing, as well as writing a raft of what were thought of as very naughty songs at the time.

Every preacher in every pulpit in Redbone fulminated against Fat Wallah every Sunday morning after hearing accounts of the scandalous goings-on in the dance clubs the night before. Parson Wicket even read the lyrics to "Baby's a Hot Tandoori Chicken Tonight" to the stunned congregation one morning, although he almost had apoplexy when he came to the part about "Ginger being the spice what's nice."

I'm not saying we were wild kids back then, but we had some fun times. I remember the night when Fat Wallah and his Masala Madmen played the long version of "Calcutta Stompin' Boogie," and Dewey McCoy and I were the only ones who were still moving when it was over. I never realized before that night that it was possible to wear out a dress from the inside.

6-24-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Do you have any suggestions for dealing with army ants? It's their migration season now here in Amazonia, and a bigger nuisance you couldn't imagine.

-- Formicating in Formestrada 

Dear Formicating:

I'm sorry to be of no use to you, but army ants are strictly a tropical phenomenon. The only thing comparable up here are the dreaded navy ants which used to plague us during the summers back in Redbone. You'd plan a nice Sunday picnic down by the lake and halfway through it a solid ribbon of navy ants would come pouring out of the water, streaming up the beach and attacking everything in sight. Picnickers always packed a flamethrower as a precaution, and it was customary to toss a small unpopular dog into the water before chancing a swim. One time the Bindle twins, Portfirio and Valvoline, forgot this step when they went skinny-dipping, which explains the brass memorial plaque down by the old swimming hole.

We eventually did find a solution to our version of the problem. One day "Uncle" Tom Cabin was tending his still alongside Lake Snark when he was set upon by a herd of ferocious navy ants. In his haste to escape he upset a jug of Old Steel Etcher, his special blend, directly in their path. Well, it wasn't long before those ants were insensible, and easy prey for the local chickens, who had a feast day until they too became blotto from secondhand 'shine, as it were. That made them easy prey for the local hobos, who ate roast chicken until they likewise keeled over, which gives you some idea of the righteous quality of Tom Cabin's product, accomplishing a dead drunk at 3 removes.

Alas, in their weakened condition the hobos were easy prey for the local wolves, who fortunately only suffered a bad hangover as an aftereffect, although they certainly looked foolish the following day. Sheepish in wolf's clothing, you might say.

So we were rid of the summer plague of both navy ants and hobos, and since the wolves would probably have gotten the chickens anyway, it all sort of balanced out. Nature is truly amazing sometimes.

6-25-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I just read a news story about a proposed Lightning Awareness Month. I've never heard of anything so silly! Who can ignore lightning?

-- Galvanized in Galveston 

Dear Galvanized:

I had to look this one up for myself. It seems from the article that they're not suggesting awareness of *regular* lightning, which would indeed be silly. Show me a person who can ignore a 1.5 megavolt strike at a distance of 10 feet and I'll show you a cigar store wooden Indian.

No, the concern is to raise awareness of "dark" or "silent" lightning, one of the world's most misunderstood killers. Scientists have shown that over half of the cases where people have been found dead of "unknown causes," dark lightning was involved.

Unlike the unignorable flash, bang and dazzle of a good old-fashioned normal lightning strike, dark lightning slowly builds up indoors over the course of several hours, often in perfectly fine weather. What few survivors there are have reported an "antsy" feeling, and many have said that television reception was particularly poor just before a dark lightning strike. Some have taken the precaution of wrapping themselves in aluminum foil, but this is unproven as a preventive device.

Most victims seem to be unaware of what's happening to them. It's only when they notice that their hearts have stopped and their vision is going that they become concerned, and by that time it's too late. In a classic case of death by dark lightning, one older woman was making out a shopping list at the time of the strike. It read:

peas
rye bread
tomato soup
celery
lo-fat milk
pickles
going to meet Jesus
aluminum foil?
call 911

There are three distinctive warning signs that you may be in danger of a dark lightning strike:

-- A noticeable smell of ozone on the breath
-- An overpowering desire to be solidly grounded in damp earth
-- A feeling of impending doom

If you experience these symptoms, undress immediately and go outdoors. Do the anti-dark lightning dance in the middle of the street and warn everyone by shouting, "The evil spirits of the Dark Power are upon me!" as loud as you can. Your neighbors will see that you receive treatment.

6-26-2001

Liebe Tante Nettie:

Was ist das Problem mit Ihrem neuen amerikanischen Präsidenten? Ist er wirklich so dumm, wie er schaut?

-- Neugierig von Nuernberg

Dear Neugierig:

Ah, another missive from one of Aunt Nettie's overseas fans. I especially enjoy getting mail from foreigners as it allows me to make use of some of these newfangled online translators. Let's see what he or she has to say....
---------

Nettie, Aunt of the Lover:

Which it is the problem with your new president American? She is really therefore stupid, like him the clocks??

-- Curious near Nuernberg

----------

Now, see-- I would have been struggling with a paperback dictionary for half the night and wouldn't have come halfway as close as that. Thank heavens for technology. I can hardly wait till I run my response back through the other way. Mr or Ms Neugierig will be so amazed to see an answer come back to them in flawless Dutch, or Hollandaise, as they call it over there:

Dear Neugierig:

Well, I have no idea how you found out I was related to "The Casanova of Redbone," and I'd rather be discreet and not mention my disgraced relation at this time and place, if you don't mind.

As for President Bush, it's important to note first of all that he is not of the female persuasion, he just walks funny. As for being stupid or crazy like the cuckoo clocks you manufacture in the Black Forests of the Netherlands as your sole contribution to the world economy, I feel it's too soon to comment on his possible failings. It's entirely possible that what he says and what he thinks are worlds apart.

Remember, as a great American once said, "I have a dream that we will one day live in a nation where men will not be judged by the words they use, but by the content of their portfolios." -- J. Danforth Quayle

6-27-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I have been corresponding with someone by e-mail for over a year. I'm planning a vacation trip to the city where he lives, but he's gotten very evasive about meeting me while I'm there. What do you suppose is going on?

-- Suspicious in Susquehanna 

Dear Suspicious:

There may be several perfectly innocent explanations for his behavior. Perhaps he's described himself as a wealthy hunk and is ashamed to admit that he's a 550-pound paraplegic dwarf with bad teeth and no hair who lives in an appliance carton down by the waterfront.

Or perhaps he described himself as a lonely bachelor when in truth he has several wives in different places and a total of 28 children.

Then again, he may be an fun-loving Muslim fundamentalist who's aware that meeting an unrelated female in a public place is contrary to Islam.

One word: Incarceration. Many prisons these days allow lifers to use e-mail as a reward for good behavior and keep them in contact with the world they will never see again.

Perhaps he fears that his surroundings and lifestyle might embarrass you, especially the Registered Sex Offender signs that surround his home.

Also consider that he may simply be a clever computer program and all this time you've been participating unawares in an extended Turing test.

I certainly wouldn't force the issue if I were you. However if he *does* agree to meet you I'd go prepared for unpleasant surprises. I understand that a .357 magnum with 180-grain soft-points is an excellent deterrent.

6-28-2001

Dere Ant Neddie:

I have to rite a essay on some aspik of middy evil life. Id rather be watching TV, which is what I do best. So the aspik of middy evil life I want to rite about is TV. What kind of TV programs did people watch in the middy evil days?

-- Viddy in Vidalia 

Dear Viddy:

Well, now, according to my reference books (those are the lumpy things on the shelves in the library) there were quite a variety of TV programs available to both the aristocrats (the ones who lived in castles) and the peasantry (who lived with their livestock in badly-thatched hovels made of sod and dung).

The aristocrats usually watched high-toned shows on PBS, the Peerage Broadcasting System, with titles like "How to Survive the Coming Renaissance." They also had favorites on the commoner's channels like "Ally Macbeth" and "Sacks on the City," from which they could pick up occasional pointers about political intrigue and warfare, respectively. "The Hex Files," about witchcraft persecution was another guilty pleasure.

The peasants, illiterate and provincial as they were, had entirely different tastes. Peasant women were fond of dirt operas, which is what they were called in the ages when washing was considered unhealthy. They would be fascinated by "As the Plow Turns," "Days of Our Lice," "The Dung and the Rickettsial" and other shows that glorified peasant life. Also popular were confrontational programs where topics like dwarf-bashing, fratricide and well-poisoning were discussed by people who yelled a lot.

In the evenings the men would come home tired, cross and besmirched after walking behind an ox from sunrise to sunset, and in the mood for livelier fare. They would pop open an ale and watch "Monday Night Free-for-All," where competing villages would belabor each other with flails, cudgels and snaths in the hope of making the playoffs. They also liked "IR," where Interrogation Room specialists would break people on the wheel or the rack. "Who Wants to be Impaled?" also had a good following.

So you can see that life back then was much like it is today. The biggest difference was that, since the light bulb wouldn't be invented for quite a long time, families had to watch TV by candlelight. I'll bet it was real cozy.

6-29-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

My grandson thinks I stink because I smoke cigars. I hate being mad at him. Is there anyway I can convince him that cigars have been with mankind for centuries and have always served a useful purpose.

-- Granny in Grenada 

Dear Granny:

Well now, I'll have to confess that I'm not a fan of combustible gratification of any kind, and cigars least of all, the only exception being those delightful Phillies Blunts where the core tobacco has been removed and replaced with a soothing medicinal herb. I'm sure if you switched to this brand and shared with your grandson you would come to a mutual understanding, right about the time when the walls start throbbing to time to the music.

Your other argument just doesn't hold water. There are many undesirable things that have been with mankind for centuries and always served a useful purpose, among them warfare, slavery and prostitution.

6-30-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Nettie, why didn't our folks warn us what it was like to get older? Why didn't they warn us about our legs aching... or indigestion... or lining up at Bob Evans to be waited on by a cutie that reminds you of Dale Evans. Just about the time you lose the last spindle for your record player, you get your first AARP catalog and its vitamin deals and you check off the years until you're "senior drink" eligible at Arbys. Now they show Depends ads after my favorite Mod Squad reruns. Why didn't they warn us?

-- Varicose in Venice

Dear Varicose:

Oh, the warnings are always there for the young folks to see, they just don't register in the youthful mind. There's old folks everywhere, except in certain controlled environments like those Disney towns where residents are assigned expiration dates and a black van comes around in the wee hours to collect the ones who are past their live-by dates so they don't clutter up the scenery with walkers and such.

No, the problem is that youngsters think that the elderly are a separate species who have always been decrepit and awful. No kid ever believes that he or she is going to reach such a pitiful state someday. To be young is to be immortal, as some famous poet should have said.

There's a wonderful tale of the Buddha, who as a young man left his sheltered existence in the castle one fine day and walked among the common people for the first time in his life. He was astounded to meet a sick person, an elderly person and a corpse being taken for burning alongside the Ganges. These sights changed his whole life, and he returned to the castle determined to never leave it again, because there were scary things out there.

After much prayer and fasting he developed the Home Shopping Network so that none of his followers would ever have to leave their homes again and see such scandalous things in the streets. He lived to a venerable old age, but he never knew it since he had banned mirrors from the castle as well.
-------------------

REF: "Teachings of the Comparative Shopper" by Gautama Siddhartha (London & Bombay, 1931)

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