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7-1-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

My daughter is planning to move to California to take a job. I'm worried about the danger from earthquakes, which we've never had here on the tranquil Mississippi mudflats of Missouri. Am I being overcautious?

-- Nervous in New Madrid

Dear Nervous:

You have every right to be nervous, but for all the wrong reasons. "Tranquil Mississippi mudflats," my eye! Why, in December of 1811 New Madrid, Missouri was the epicenter of a quake that changed the face of America! Luckily there were only some miscellaneous trappers and Native Americans in the area at the time or the carnage would have been dreadful.

Everything changed places. The famous Black Diamond coal seam went from 1,500 feet below the surface to over 9,000 feet in the air, leading to a unique situation where coal miners suffered from altitude sickness. Mount Topless became Lower Sunken Valley. The town of High Point was forced to change its name for fear of lawsuits, and the congregation of the Valley of the Shadow Baptist was driven to reconsider its theology and eventually became Mount Ararat Episcopal ("Nearer to Thee-- My God!").

Worse yet was the effect on the Mighty Mississippi, upon whose banks you so serenely dwell. The direction of the river changed, with incalculable effects on geography, wildlife and human societies. Until 1811 the Mississippi had flowed north to Lake Itasca in Minnesota, renowned as the world's longest salt-water river. Every spring giant pods of whales of every species could be seen making their annual migration to the calving grounds of the Itasca Salt Lake. It must have been a sight to see.

Needless to say the Mississippi in those days fed millions, from the whale-hunting Sioux to the fishing tribes who lived on bounteous supplies of squid, cod, tuna and anchovies. These tribes also acted as guides to early colonial sport fishermen, who traveled far from their settlements to test their angling skills against bonito, marlin and sailfish. And, of course, the Dakota and Chippewa tribes became rich from the salt deposits and mines that surrounded Itasca, which they traded throughout Canada.

With the reversal of the Mississippi in 1811 all this changed. Fresh water replaced salt, driving back the whales and other creatures, and the Dakota and Chippewa were ruined as runoff from the mountains washed away their wealth. The Sioux began raising buffalo, hunting them with spears from horseback as they formerly hunted whales from longboats.

So you can see what kind of powder keg you're sitting on. Tensions have been building up in the New Madrid Fault for nearly 200 years, and the next quake is going to be a doozy, let me tell you. I hope I live long enough to see the whales coursing up the Mississippi again, once the dust has settled and the river has righted itself.

If I were you I'd pack up and move with your daughter. Somewhere safe, like along the puny San Andreas Fault.

---------------
SOURCES:

"Sometimes a Great Motion" by K. Kesley
Classic account of the New Madrid Experience by an eyewitness.

"A Farewell to Ames: The Loss and Rebuilding of a Great Iowa City" by E. Herringway
How Ames went from codfish- to carbon paper- capital of the Midwest in a single generation.

"Looking for Mister Sandbar" by M. Twain-Clemens
Droll stories about life on the Mississippi as a salt-water, then a fresh-water river.

"Moline-Dick, or The Inland Whale" by H. Malville
Gripping account of a mad river-captain's pursuit of a whale across Illinois.

"The Endless Bummer" (1966)
Classic historic film about the loss of riverine surfing opportunities after 1811.

7-2-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Was antebellum Redbone a free town or a slave town?

-- History Buff in Hillcrest Bluff 

Dear Buff:

Well, now, the honest answer is Yes and No. Arkansas was indeed a proud, if late-joining, member of the Confederate States of America, and slavery was legal there, although not the kind of slavery you're used to thinking of.

You see, due to a mixup on a bill of lading, the only shipload of slaves that ever reached Redbone was from Ireland, not Africa. And the Irish being what they were in those days, slavery was never quite the same afterwards.

What were called "The Troubles" began soon after the shipload of slaves was dispersed. Suddenly Redbone farmers discovered that they were raising potatoes instead of cotton. A meeting was held at the Grange Hall about this intolerable situation, but after the slaves had appointed a leader to speak for them and a jug of poteen had made the rounds a few times, it made perfect sense. The spokesman was a real spellbinder, and after another hour of listening to him the farmers agreed that their share of 20% of the total profits on the crop was more than generous. They all retired to the local shebeen to celebrate the agreement, and in the course of the celebration the farmers agreed that a share of 10% of the profits was even more generous. A little later they agreed that 5% was just as fair as all get-out.

Well, this set everyone off in fine style, and the fiddles and harps and bodhrans and whistles were broken out and the poteen made the rounds a few more times, and a group of Irish lasses demonstrated the naughty beer hall version of Riverdance, and the poteen went round and round-- along with the shebeen from the farmers' perspective....

Lo, the next noon the farmers woke up with heads the size of prize pumpkins and discovered that their slaves had somehow come into possession of the deeds to their property and all it contained, and that they, the farmers, had somehow become indentured servants. This led to considerable rancor and distress until the poteen jug was sent round again, after which it seemed like the most logical thing in the world.

And so it went, until the day came when the slaves owned plantations with names like Tara, and the farmers sat on the levee on bales of potatoes, waiting for the steamboat, the "Sodom an' Begorrah" to arrive, and trying unsuccessfully to get the hang of the banjo and harmonica. Their version of the blues never went anywhere, either.

So you can see my dilemma in answering your question. Let me take a wee pull from the poteen jug and sleep on it.
 

7-3-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Why are men with perfectly good heads of hair shaving it all off and caroming around like so many cue balls on the pool table of life?

-- Curly in Curaçao

Dear Curly:

This is all just style and statement. Kids used to grow their hair long to show they were different. Now they shave it all off for exactly the same reason.

Think of it as a hirsute hemline: short one year, long the next.

Personally I think it's a whole lot neater than these kids with their orange spikes with baby blue tips. And it's all a passing fad. A few years from now men may be parting their hair in the middle again they way they did in the 1890s, or 1950s flattops may be all the rage, or we may see a retro renaissance of pompadours held in place with dollops of Brylcreem. <shudder!>

One of the biggest advantages of getting really old is you don't have to fuss with things like fads anymore. As Moms Mabley used to say: "When you gives up fishin', you can throw away de bait."

7-4-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Last 4th of July you told us the real story of how the Declaration of Independence came to be written. Do you have any historical observations for this year's holiday?

-- Celebratory in Celebration 

Dear Celebratory:

Hmmm... there *is* one story that I haven't seen in circulation much lately, which is the tale of what happened to the "Whigs" you hear about so much in early US history, presuming they still teach history in schools these days.

Originally the Wig or Whig Party (they weren't real strong on spelling back in those days) was, as the name implies, composed of aristocrats who could afford to wear wigs and silk hose and other affectations. They were opposed by the Tawdrys, common folk who mocked the upper classes by wearing ragged imitations of upper-crust garments and who believed more in democracy, often putting up candidates under the umbrella slogan "Whig Doubt? Vote 'em Out!".

Well, this annoyed the bewigged no end, and they began to plot how to do away with the Tawdrys so as better to promulgate their "compassionate slavery" platform. Since Neoclassicism had just been introduced in the USA, and people were busy designing banks and federal buildings along the lines of Greek and Roman temples, the Wigs decided to build a three-quarter-scale replica of the Colosseum smack in the middle of Washington, and use gladiatorial contests instead of voting to decide national policy.

Every Friday night the populace would stream to the New Colosseum to watch party stalwarts whack each other with swords and axes and other hardware to settle questions of free trade, states rights and freedom of assembly. There were popular champions, and one of the regular contenders, Henry "Cassius" Clay became so well known for his victories that he gave up slavery and became a lawyer, although his relations disowned him over what they saw as a disgrace to the family name. Another one was James "The Elevator" Otis, who gave us that ringing phrase, "Axation without representation is hooey!"

As you can imagine, this entire approach to debate was a dismal failure, leading to a string of candidates whose only credentials were that they were big and dumb, qualities that would not become important in American politics until the late 20th century.  Eventually the New Colosseum was dismantled and the stones used to build the White House and most of Madam Tessa's, Washington's most popular bordello. Oh, and the Wigs? They eventually went out of style except with British lawyers.

7-5-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Now that it's all over with, can you explain to me why people set off fireworks on the Fourth of July? And what did they set off before there were fireworks?

-- Fingerless in Finger Lakes

Dear Fingerless:

Ouch! Just had to touch off that last short-fuse M80, didn't you?

America began using fireworks as a consequence of increasing trade with China, or The Celestial Empire as they modestly called it, during the late 1770s. The rush to deal with Asia was known as Yellow Fever because it killed so many of those who attempted it. China was the only place you could get decent silk in those days, and clipper ships were the only practical way to get there, as the Chinese railway system, or Celestial Railway as they modestly called it, took almost 8 months to go from New York to Peiping, or The Celestial Real Estate, as it was called back then.

One of Georgie Dubya's first acts as President in 1776 was to send off a government clipper ship, the "Federal Express" to China with a load of whiskey, pigs, pig iron and piggy banks, which he hoped to be able to trade for silk and tea so that Martha could hold tea parties in the White Cellar (the House wasn't finished until 1803, and wasn't Martha in a snit because Abigail Adams got to live there first!)

The "Federal Express," with Captain Emmanuel Spaulding at the helm, hove to in Peiping Harbor, or The Celestial Cesspool, in March of 1777. America's trade ambassador, "Bunce" Porksnogger, accompanied by his wife Eulalie, met his Chinese counterpart, Long Dong, at the Celestial Trading Post. After days of clever negotiating he was able to trade Eulalie for several dozen bolts of silk and a few chests of tea. As a parting gift Long Dong presented Porksnogger with a lacquered box of assorted fireworks, which Bunce, in his ignorance, took for fancy cigars and cigarettes, duly passing on the misinformation to the President.

Well, we know what happened as a result. Martha had a fancy dress made and threw the first formal tea dance on July 4th, 1777 in the White Cellar. All of Washington's upper crust was there: John and Abigail Adams, James and Dolly Madison, Tom Jefferson and Sally Hemming, and a good time was had by all, until the men decided to retire to the Oval Office layout to enjoy a cigar and Brandi, an intern. George Dubya remembered the fancy Chinese smokes, which he passed out, reserving the biggest one for himself as Presidential privilege. They all lit up, and a few minutes later after the smoke had cleared, George Dubya discovered his teeth across the room embedded in the sheet rock.

To commemorate this sad event the young John Philip Sousa's grandfather was commissioned to write the classic "Prez's Dental March," which is played to this day, accompanied by the setting off of fireworks. And that's how it all started.

Oh, and before that? Well, the Aztecs actually introduced aerial pyrotechnics to the Western Hemisphere. On important holidays the Aztec priests would gather up as many spare chihuahuas as they could find, plug their hinder ends and feed them a special meal of beer, beans and chilies. Then they were fastened to sticks and hung in rows near the sacred fires on top of the temples. At an auspicious moment a cord was pulled, releasing the butt bungs, and the chihuahuas would take off, sailing into the night trailing flames behind them, shrieking in a peculiar high-pitched whistle. It was believed that the gods received these tokens of appreciation, a belief that was not shared by those living in the drop zone, who knew that the poor were the actual beneficiaries. To this day hot dogs on a stick are popular with the poorer classes in Mexico City.

7-6-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Although I live in a rural area, nasty neighbors have recently moved across the road. They have the state police come here because they say we make too much noise, and have too many visitors and too many vehicles. What do you suggest I do ?

--Fed Up in Farm Country 

Dear Fed:

It's always difficult when cultures clash, isn't it? One of the most important things to do is try to meet your new neighbors halfway, or even more than halfway. Here are some suggestions:

1. Try to keep the pigs in the house one or two days a week.

2. Put some brand new cinder blocks under the cars in the front yard. Put a new coat of white paint on the truck tire where you throw the empties.

3. Make sure Granny is wearing clothes when you let her out to bury bones and howl at the moon.

4. Some people are sensitive about their automobiles. Find something else to use for target practice.

5. Break out the good jelly jars if you invite them over for a drink. Drinking right from the jug is a lost art among city folks.

6. Send a note of condolence if your pit bulls kill a child or two. A simple apology will suffice for pets or domestic animals.

7. Most women these days do not "arm-wrassle" to settle disputes.

8. No, nor "spit fer distance" with tobacco chaws, either.

9. It's unlikely that they will be able to lend you tar paper to fix the hole in the roof where Pappy fell through.

10. It's called a "television set." Pointing at it with your jaw dropping open and yelling about evil spirits is not a sign of breeding.

11. Possum nuggets are not an appropriate housewarming gift.

12. Refrain from mentioning that the father of your children is also your brother. "Close family ties" means something different these days.

13. Explain that, although you're thinking real hard about building a privy, the big bush in the yard is sort of a tradition.

14. Keep your kids on their leashes or tied in the cellar whenever the police come around.

15. People "go to work" during the day. They haven't gone off and abandoned the furniture and other goods.

16. It's considered impolite just to move in with people, no matter how deep the manure is getting in your dooryard.

17. The police *will* find the bodies, and no one will believe they sold you the place for "fifty dollars, some stove wood and a peck of new peas."

7-7-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Now that the hot weather is here, are you and your wrinkle ranch buddies heading for the beach or the pool? 

--Tanned in Tannenberg 

Dear Tanned: 

<Sigh!> I'm sure that's on the Torment The Old People agenda for the summer. The Home insists on hiring these perky young girls who have a college degree in Recreational Therapy from Arkansas A & M to come in and develop diabolical schemes for "having fun." None of them realizes that our concept of fun maxes out at breathing regularly and moving from time to time.

We had a sweet young blonde Swimming Therapy person in here a few years ago. She tried to get the owners to revive the pool here at Living Dead "R" Us, and they went so far as to drain the thing for cleaning, at which point they found the bodies of the last 3 Swimming Therapy blondes we had dispatched, along with the chains and sash weights. You can still see traces of the yellow Crime Scene tape over by the deep end. All the pool is used for now is as a centerpiece for the shuffleboard courts, which no one uses either. Everybody here knows that attempting to play shuffleboard is one of Dr.  Kübler-Ross's five stages of approaching death. It would be like wearing a conspicuous Do Not Resuscitate sign.

Anyway, when the police investigation foiled Suzy Sunshine's plans for reviving the pool here, she stamped her little foot and put her little brain right to work trying to find an alternative. All the city pools were full of kids, of course, as was the YM/WCA and the Jewish equivalent, the YHWH. But she was a persistent little thing, and discovered that there was a pool in the local high school that wasn't being used due to safety violations or something.

So one day we were all trundled over there in our converted schoolbus, where we sat around watching Suzy Sunshine do her Flipper routine, all the while calling out "Aren't we having fun now?" Someone in the men's wing claimed he had been a "champeen show diver" back when, and offered to show us his stuff, but the diving board wasn't wheelchair accessible.

Eventually Suzy went into Full Participation Frenzy, forcing everyone to at least dampen the bathing suits none of us fit into anymore. The smart ones crouched miserably in the shallow end, now and again making hand splashes to show our unrestrained glee at this wonderful adventure. Unfortunately one of us, Bob "Tubtanic" Erstwinkle, decided to attempt a swim to the other end of the pool, taking advantage of the flotation power of his 84 years of accumulated lard.

Alas, just as he reached the middle there was a great shudder and whine and the drainage pumps came on full force. This, apparently, was the reason the pool had been declared off-limits-- the pumps started up whenever they felt like it, with a tendency to purée the smaller children if they happened to be near the drainworks.

Those of us in the shallow end jumped to safety (I'm using "jumped" metaphorically, of course-- the best any of us can muster is an agitated shuffle), where we watched with horror as the well-nicknamed "Tubtanic" was spun faster and faster toward the drain, finally impacting smack on his well-endowed beer belly right over the drain guard plate. For weeks afterward he looked like he's been liposuctioned with a colander.

Well, that was the end of our little outing, and Suzy Sunshine packed us back in the bus and drove us to The Home. She was terribly shocked by the whole thing, so much so that she never realized she had lost her top in her scramble to get out of the pool. We passed a bunch of school crossing guards on the way back, several of whom will probably need therapy at some point in their young lives....

7-8-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I am so nervous. I have the job interview of my life coming up. Have you got any sure-fire pointers to really knock their socks off?

-- Quailing in Quiver City 

Dear Quailing:

I've never been in a position where I had to interview for a job; back in the good old days a girl with legs like mine couldn't help but be hired. A bit of flash and dazzle was all it took. As soon as the drooling started I knew I was in.

However, I understand that times have changed, and a girl nowadays has to play the same silly interview games as men have been playing for years. So I contacted an acquaintance who's an expert interviewer, having been with the KGB at the Lubyanka Center for Interviews in Moscow during the Brezhnev era.

Here are his suggestions:

1. Do not confess to anything immediately. This is a red flag for the interviewer and will lead him to suspect that you've been involved in even more heinous crimes against the state.

2. Be sure your papers are in order. If you have ever applied for a passport or overseas work permit, be sure to have a convincing explanation.

3. A character reference from your local Party headquarters can sometimes be an icebreaker, unless the person signing the reference has been denounced in the meantime, at which point it is the kiss of death.

4. Bring a list all your experience in labor and re-education camps, starting with kindergarten.

5. If your parents lived through the Stalinist era you may need to explain how and why.

6. Do not ask to have the lights turned down.

7. Anyone with a clear conscience will be happy to take the lie detector test. The injection is just to help you relax.

8. Do not smoke, even if the current is turned up high.

9. You may be given a hypothetical choice between execution and exile to Siberia. Think carefully and phrase your answer well. Remember that it hits 90 below zero in the wintertime there and apartments are unheated.

10. Be sure to thank the interviewer as you are led away, unless missing teeth would make your expression of gratitude incomprehensible.

7-9-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Where does cheesecloth come from? I'm an experienced weaver, yet no matter what variety of cheese I try, I've had no luck even spinning the darn stuff into thread, let alone weaving it into a wearable (and potentially edible) garment.

-- Warp in Woof 

Dear Warp:

Cheese-weaving is indeed a lost art, since so few people produce the classic cloth cheeses anymore. Years ago a general store would have imported Gruyarn, Ricotton or Roquefelt in a variety of textures and colors, but no more. I remember the excitement in Redbone when a special order of Swissilk came in for Gladys Dwindlebimmers' debutante party. All us girls were so jealous!

My sources tell me that CheeseCraft's Velveeteen is the only cloth-quality cheese still being manufactured, and only in yellow, although the finished cloth takes a variety of dyes. Keep it out of direct sunlight. Avoid mice.

---------------------------- 
REFERENCES: 

"Fromage en Haute Couture: The Golden Age of Cheese Cloth, 1747 - 1866" by Wensleydale & Ermenthaler (London & Bombay, 1956) w. color plates 

"The Manufacture of Cheese Cloth as a Cottage Industry in 18th Century England" pub. of the English Cheese Cloth Board, 1972 

7-10-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

My country, Bolivia, is the world's greatest supplier of tin. Why is it in English "tin" means something bad? You have tin lizzies and tinhorn gamblers and movies like "Tin Men" and "Pushing Tin" and people with tin ears listening to tinny music. Tin is a fine metal and deserves a better reputation, don't you think?

-- Livid in La Paz 

Dear Livid:

Hmmm... I see your point. Clark Kent as the "Man of Tin" just wouldn't convey the same image, would it?

At least the French are big supporters of your national metal. "Tintin" has been popular for years, which is a sort of double plug for you. And French cars are made entirely of tin, aren't they, which is why they can't be imported into many countries with half-way decent manufacturing standards.

What you really need to do is hire a pricey New York advertising agency to create an ad campaign to change tin's public image. "Got Tin?" springs to mind as a likely tag line. Then you need product placements in TV shows and movies, like that Jennifer person on "Friends" showing off her trendy new tin brassiere, or the people on "Survivor IX"  could have to live in a Bolivian tin mine for a few weeks. Consider reviving "Rin Tin Tin" as a children's show, using that trick Japanese robot dog instead of the real thing.

People are nuts about nutritional supplements these days. What about "Tin! Nature's Own Heavy Metal Viagra."

Oh, and you mentioned movies. There's a gold mine-- sorry, there's a *tin* mine of opportunity out there, since movies these days are little better than exaggerated commercials anyway. How about "Terminator III: The Triumph of Tin," or "Indianapolis Jones and the Tin Pile of Doom"? You could even do a remake of "The Wizard of Oz" with the Tin Man as the star this time, sort of the "A.I." of base metals.

And never miss an opportunity for a tin plug in dialogue:

"Shall I cover the windows with aluminum foil, Batman?"

"No, Boy Wonder, only *tin* foil will keep us safe from those devastating mutation rays."

I hope these suggestions will help you turn around tin's image, although I think you've got a long row to hoe before tin replaces gold and platinum in fine jewelry. "Tinffany" just doesn't sound right....

7-11-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I'm thinking about getting married on the Staten Island ferry. Do you think this is possible?

-- Engaged in Englewood

Dear Prenup:

It's not only possible, it's positively old hat. So many people get married on the Staten Island ferry that the Saturday afternoon excursion comes with plastic flowers, reusable rice, a frozen cake, Polaroid pictures and your choice of a priest, minister or rabbi. Buy the whole package and they send a limo for you, upgrade the champagne, and throw in a discount honeymoon to someplace in the Catskills with heart-shaped bathtubs and street signs reading "Dears Crossing." <shudder!> If you're going to do it this tacky, I recommend buying the Simulated Guest Ensemble as well, which will save you the trouble of wasting stamps sending invitations to people you can't stand who aren't going to come anyway and will send a Lava Lamp as a wedding gift.

The ferry people also want to point out their Wednesday evening divorce excursions, which come with matching lawyers and witnesses and a Simulated Family Ensemble to wail in the background and hurl recriminations at each other.

7-12-2001

Chere Tante Nettie:

Sacre bleu, once more you have made insult the glorious people French in one of your columns miserables! For the information of you, no voitures French are made of tin, as you so fragrantly allege. If you were a person younger, and a man of the male species, and if we still lived in the reign glorious of the Emperor Louis Napoleon, you I to a duel would challenge!

-- Livide en Lille 

Dear Livide:

I was basing my comments on personal experience, as I try so often to do. You see, I happened to be in France after one of your wars, and had the opportunity to ride in what was laughingly referred to as a taxi. It was called a "Deux Cheveaux" and was made by the Citron company. They told me that the name of the car meant "two horses" which I refused to believe, unless French horses are pathetically small and weak, and so sickly that they cough constantly and fall down a lot. I discovered in my dictionary that Citron stood for "lemon," which I sincerely believe.

Not only was the car made entirely of tin, it was powered by a motor the size of a cigarette pack (Gauloises, I believe). It was said that the Lemon people callously confiscated packages containing toys that had been sent by American children to French "enfants" to replace their toys which had been sent against German tanks along the Maginot Line. The Lemon engineers then stripped the springs out of these wind-up toys and used them to power their Two Crippled Horses model. The suspension system was based on the Slinky, which in America is a toy used for walking down stairs and frightening cats. This accounted for the ride, which would have been the envy of most amusement parks.

I was even more surprised when we reached the remains of the hotel, where the seats were taken out of the Two Expiring Horses and became the furniture in our suite, which had a southern exposure where the management eventually planned to erect a wall.

Later the haunch of one of the horses showed up roasted on the hood as the entrée, and the toilet was a crater in the back yard surrounded by the doors and trunk (there was no roof to the DC, only a piece of canvas that may or may not have once hung in the Louvre). A breeze sprang up later in the evening and wafted the remaining parts of the car into the Seine.

------------
REFERENCE: "Il y a un Sucker né chaque Minute." A brief history of the Citron car company. Tinfoil Press (London & Bombay, 1952)

7-13-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

They say that most people use one side of their brain more than the other. Left-hemisphere people focus on logical thinking, analysis and accuracy. Right-hemisphere people focus on aesthetics, feeling, and creativity. Which side do you use the most?

-- Cerebral in Cernevoda 

Dear Cerebral:

I'm sure this is a perfectly fine theory as far as it goes, but it doesn't go far enough. You see, as you get older and older, gravity drags your brain down just like it does all your other saggy parts. By the time you're my age, you no longer have a right and left hemisphere, but an upper and lower one. These are easily told apart in CAT scans since the upper hemisphere is completely vacant and the lower hemisphere has deteriorated to a state resembling week-old clam chowder.

The lower hemisphere is also the location of the more primitive parts of the brain which, in normal adults, only function when people are watching daytime TV or sorting junk mail. As the ageing brain collapses in on itself it also triggers the repetition center, which is why your Great Aunt Maggie can tell you the flounder-in-the-bloomers story from 1928 in abundant detail, and will insist on telling it every single time she sees you, even if you only step out of the room for 5 minutes.

Some other characteristics of the lower hemisphere are a preoccupation with the body. Older people think nothing of discussing bowel movements and medical conditions in mind-fogging detail, usually in public places and in a tone of voice that younger people reserve for hailing taxicabs. They can't imagine that anyone would fail to be impressed with these fascinating events, and will take the opportunity to insert them into pauses in conversation whenever they can, regardless of topic.

There are many other functions of the lower hemisphere which I'd be happy to reveal to you, only I'm late for my urine test.

7-14-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

While surfing lately, I've been seeing a lot of references to "Pay Pal". It makes me feel sad to know that so many folks are out there lonely and willing to pay for an on-line friend. And what rates should I charge?

-- Heidi in Hollywood

Dear Heidi:

I would use the Anna Nicole Smith approach and go for whatever the traffic will bear.

7-15-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I rote a paper about the econamy but I got a F on it because the teachr said I stole it from the internet which I did only I want to know how he found out. Can you look at it and tell me what I did wrong?

-- Lazy in Lazaretto

Dear Lazy:

Well it certainly doesn't take a racket scientist to figure this scam out. Look at your first paragraph:

"My paper is on the Econamy and how Energy effects it. Energy is important to the Econamy because many people depend on it to get things done. Also some people work for Energy places, like where they make Energy. So it is important to the Econamy that way."

Now cast your eye over your second paragraph:

"But even the most sophisticated energy firms may not be prepared for the biggest risk they face from the rise of market forces: the emergence of a truly disruptive innovation that changes all the rules of the game. As the experience of the past two decades has shown, the most powerful effect of deregulating an industry can be to open the door to venture capital, nimble entrepreneurship and technological innovation that allow the previously unimaginable to happen. Even well-run firms that dominate their industry may be knocked sideways by disruptive technologies."

Now, laziness is good: lazy people have become great inventors. Plagiarism can work: Shakespeare never wrote a wholly original play. But when laziness and plagiarism meet dyed-in-the-wool, brass-bound, copper-lined STUPIDITY, the result will always be an "F." And I'd tell you what the "F" stands for if this weren't a family publication.

I just noticed the return address on your e-mail. I guess it's true what they've been saying about social promotion at Harvard....

7-16-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I travel out-of-body a great deal and have noticed that my connections have been slowing down as more and more people take up astral travel. Traffic is particularly heavy near resorts at this time of year. Do you have any suggestions for speeding things up?

-- OOB in Old Orchard Beach

Dear OOB:

You know, there are days when I feel I should pack up this advice business and open a nice quiet nuthouse somewhere. Lord knows I wouldn't lack for customers.

One of the women here in the Home practices this kind of foolishness. She's always jaunting off to places like Fiji and Akron and Atlantis to commune with her  fellow-wizards. It's fascinating to listen to her stories as high entertainment, especially when she describes the snow-capped mountains of Kansas or a seaside resort in Montana. Personally, I don't think she's been 50 miles outside of Redbone in her whole life.

If you seriously want to speed things up, get yourself a regular job, take the blue tint out of your hair and the rings out of all your piercings. Invest in some non-tie-dyed clothes, scrap the ouija board, get your own place to live, and start meeting live human beings in your home town.

Oh, wait-- I can feel your question coming over the ether.... How did I know you had blue hair, pierced parts, tie-dyed clothes, a ouija board and still lived with your parents?

Trust me, some things don't require ESP at all....

7-17-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

You being mountain folks there in Redbone, did you ever have any feuds, like the famous Hatfield-McCoy shoot-em-up?

-- Hostile in Hotspur 

Dear Hostile:

I'm afraid most of those stories were made up by the media, or by town councils trying to attract the tourist trade. Mountain folks tend to be a cooperative lot as a rule. However there was one classic feud I recall that had two of the most powerful families in the outskirts of Redbone at each other's throats.

It started one Sunday at the Foursquare Resurrection Temple of the Second Coming, Inc., Pastor Elmer Entwhistle presiding. The families from Hog's Nozzle had just begun arriving when a wagon full of folks from Retread showed up at the same time. Bessie Mae Inchpuddle, of the Retread Inchpuddles, took one look at Biddy Sooks' new Sunday-go-to-meeting dress and let out a scream like a scalded polecat.

It seems that Bessie May and Biddy had shared the last issue of Ladies' Farm Journal, and both of them had sent for exactly the same dress pattern from the 10¢ selections in the back of the magazine. Worse yet, they had both used the same brand of flour sack as material, so they looked like carbon copies of the Bindle Twins, who always dressed alike, even as old maids, bless their hearts.

Well, the two of them-- Bessie Mae and Biddy, that is-- shifted into Scandalized mode, and each began accusing the other of being a sneaking low-down common copycat. The words flew and the vocabulary got richer and richer until Parson Entwhistle was forced to withdraw to the rectory for a soothing cup of coca-leaf infusion from the plants he brought back from his missionary days in Colombia.

Of course all the other ladies tended to take sides, and there were fearsome accusations of faulty needlework and cheat stitches, and LouElla Dimple declared that she had seen Bessie May in the post office the day Biddy mailed off her envelope with the number checked off and the ten cents in postage enclosed, and that Bessie May had at one point been in a suspicious position by the window so that the daylight would have shown full through that envelope and revealed Biddy's intentions as plain as the Wanted posters on the tackboard.

At this juncture there was no turning back, and the entire Retread crew clambered back into their wagons and fired up their mules and declared their intention of taking services from then on over at the Revelation Salvation Sin-Stompin' Church, Ltd., over in Applejack Notch, the Reverend Lucius Arbonathy presiding. Biddy Sooks couldn't resist seeing them off with a comment about how she hoped all that stompin' would help Bessie May shed some of her extra poundage.

Well, after that it was pure hell in and around Redbone. You never could tell when a skillet would come flying out at you from under the cover of darkness, or a rolling pin swoop down from a concealed location. The menfolk got so nervous they began to travel in groups, and gave up their Saturday evening quilting bees in the church basement.

The feud continued until 1942, when most of the womenfolk were drafted as part of the war effort and sent off to the city to assemble airplanes. After the war they tried to pick things up again where they had left off, but their hearts just weren't in it. And besides, with all the new money in town and three new store-boughten dress places, neither side wanted to admit there was a time when they made their own clothes, and out of flour sacks, no less....

7-18-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I saw a TV special about Ayers Rock in Australia. Don't you think it's peculiar that something like that should be smack in the exact center of a continent? I for one suspect alien intervention.

-- Abducted in Aberystwyth 

Dear Abducted:

I don't think you have much to worry about on that score. None of the space aliens I know personally are much interested in relocating rockery.

Ayers Rock is also called Uluru in the local aboriginal dialect, Ramalamadingdong (it means "that big thing over there"). The native Australians had always known where it was and had wisely decided to leave it right where they had found it. However, like so many things back in the Golden Age of Exploration, a thing wasn't considered properly discovered until some European had actually gone to see it and named it something else.

In this case the "discoverer" was Sir Flinders Bashdingoes, an Englishman who longed to find something somewhere that he could name and draw maps about and discuss in his club. He had heard old Malay sailors speak of the fabled "great red stone in the desert." (Sir Flinders collected old Malay sailors, and at one point was considered to have the finest collection in England.) He was convinced that this red stone was actually a gigantic ruby, and that finding it would put him one up on his neighbor, Sir Basingstoke Trench-Sodomite, who only the previous year had discovered the fabled "Eye of the Kumquat" sapphire at a garage sale in Peshawar.

Having sold his Malays, except for a couple of household favorites, to finance the trip Sir Flinders struck off for the Australian interior, only to discover that this would first require a rather longish sea voyage to the other side of the planet, which almost put him off completely, as he was no fan of boats of any kind, having once fallen face down into the Hyde Park sailing pond while trying to retrieve his model of Lord Nelson's flagship "Victory."

However, the remaining Malays lured him on with tales of the size of the great stone, and how it was guarded by a harem of naked slave-girls of peerless beauty and a dragon of incomparable ferocity (these were quite old, somewhat addled Malay sailors, several of whom were overly fond of the opium pipe).

His resolve strengthened, he sailed immediately for Brisbane, where he caught the 9:27 express to Alice Springs the following morning and, after an old-fashioned roll in the hay with Alice, set off to discover what was soon revealed as... a very large red rock in the desert. The Malays fell all over themselves at their little prank and sent the story back to the London tabloids, complete with photos of the expression on Sir Flinders' face.

He named it Ayers Rock after some graffiti found on the west-facing side.  Who the Ayers were and why they rocked has never been determined.

7-19-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

The FBI now admits that it's lost lots of important laptop computers and weapons, on top of not noticing that some of its top agents were spies for 20 years. How should the government respond to these criticisms?

-- Insecure in Inisfree 

Dear Insecure:

Not to worry. The Government has turned the problem over to its finest spin doctors, according to this report in the Dissociated Press.

------------
FBI Admits Horse Gone, Congress to Conduct Historic Barn Locking Ceremony

WASHINGTON (DP) -- Congressional committees are lining up in support of measures to commemorate the locking of the National Security Barn in response to increased criticism of recent FBI blunders, including the loss of the national security horse about 20 years ago.

Vice Presidential Cyborg Dick Cheney and House Speaker Dennis Hastert will preside over the ceremony next Sunday. Cheney will firmly close the barn door and Hastert will snap a shiny Corbin lock across the newly-installed hasp on the empty structure.

The announcement came one day after the release of a scathing congressional report on FBI failures to prevent what the study says is a classic example of an escaped-- some say rustled-- national security horse, which was last seen in 1981. A passerby pointed out to the FBI that the barn door had been swinging freely in the breeze since then. In response the FBI threw up its hands last week, saying that it had looked "simply everywhere." Incoming FBI Director Robert Mueller himself led one search, walking through Washington neighborhoods with a shiny apple and calling "Here, horsie!" in dulcet tones.

Rep. Christopher Cox, R-California, chairman of the House security committee that wrote the three-volume, 700-page report, and Rep. Norman Dicks of Washington, the panel's ranking Democrat, were to testify before the House Equine Relations Subcommittee on Barns, Stables and Mangers.

The absence of the horse is believed to be responsible for the sudden surge in the horse population of China, which until 1983 was not even considered a horse-owning nation. The most recent census of livestock in China shows that there are approximately 124 million horses now, making China an equine superpower. The Central Intelligence Agency has reported that very few of the Chinese horses are saddled, but with American technology pilfered from old Roy Rogers movies and back issues of the AQHA Journal, China is expected to reach saddle readiness parity with the United States before the year 
2005.

Proposals have been entered in both the House and Senate to rename the newly-locked structure 'The Ronald Reagan Memorial Security Barn."

------------------------ 
©2001 The Dissociated Press

7-20-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I'm curious as to your opinion on Genetically Modified foods. Are you for or against? What about robotics? Do you think robots will ever replace humans?

-- Augmented in Augsburg

Dear Augmented:

I'm against genetically engineered *anything* because of some experiments that went horribly wrong in Redbone many years ago. I haven't made up my mind about robots just yet, because on the same occasion Redbone was saved from complete destruction through the efforts of an experimental robot.

It all happened like this.

After the Wheatwhistle tinsel mines were exhausted, Dr. Bonelicker of Redbone University got a government grant to study the practicality of raising mushrooms in the old shafts and galleries of the mines. Not satisfied with the normal growth rate and size of the ordinary domestic mushroom, he began splicing in genes from other species. He had particularly good luck with giant squid genes, which produced a strain of mushrooms which were not only huge, but could also see in the dark and could pick themselves when they were ripe, since they had a developed brain and exactly half the number of tentacles (called "fivetacles") of a run-of-the-mill squid.

Alas, the well-meaning Dr. Bonelicker had underestimated the intelligence of his progeny, who one day strangled him, flung off their manacles and fled to the Forbidden Forest of Upper Redbone, where they flourished mightily.

At the same time, quite near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the humble woodsman and biorobotics specialist Fudd Bagwinkle and his family lived in dire poverty. Fudd had spent the family assets developing his robotic cow and other domestic mechanimals. The cow, his first effort, the family had affectionately named "Frumpilla" because of its general air of homespun inelegance.

One day when the family was moping disconsolately, something they did frequently to perpetuate the old pioneer values that made this country great, they were set upon by the Mushroom People! Lashing out with fungal fivetacles wrapped around their primitive weapons, they soon overwhelmed the small family unit, except for Mother, who escaped by reprising the dance of the Chinese mushrooms from Disney's "Fantasia," and, thus camouflaged, moved undetected through the massed ranks of the enemy until she reached Frumpilla's shiny sides.

"Quickly, Frumpilla," she whispered into the metal mooer's auditory receptors, "flee to the Redbone Armory and alert the Praetorian Guards that the Mushroom People have fallen upon us and we are in dire peril!"

With a mighty bound the beryllium bovine was off, striding through the fields, launching itself over intervening chasms with jets of blazing methane from its ferrous flanks. It soon arrived at Redbone Armory, but alas! it was too late. A squad of Portobello Panzers had overwhelmed the guards' station and the noble warriors had been forced into a windowless back room, their only defense a trio of pickle forks they had caught up in the confusion.

Now, Frumpilla had only a Farm Class gyronic brain and was used to following orders, rather than thinking creatively. Yet, as it nudged its chip into overclock mode, an idea struck it. Rushing to the Redbone dairy supply processing center and warehouse, it loaded its tanks with processed milkfat.  Then it was off to the refried bean plant for a maximum charge of the methane that kept its four cast iron stomachs busily fermenting various forms of planetary cellulose into healthgiving, nourishing milk for the Bagwinkle family. Laden and lumbering under the enormous load, the brassbound beast made its way back to the house with the yellow roof where the Bagwinkles had been taken captive by the fanatical fungi. Setting its methane burners on full heat, its underbelly soon glowed a dull red and the plan was complete.

With a highly amplified <MOO! clank-snik!> Frumpilla attacked the main body of the enemy, rearing back on its trunions and letting fly with four scalding streams of melted butter! It made sautée after sautée into the ranks and files of the rank and foul enemy. Diced and decimated, the Mushroom People writhed and sizzled as a mouth-watering aroma filled the air. But wait! Instead of fleeing the battlefield as expected, the remaining 'shroomtroopers gathered behind their Grand Champignon, a terrible toadstool whose cap waved a full 3 meters above the earthy sod.

Frumpilla realized that its methane was almost gone and its butter tanks nearly empty. Could it fricassee this formidable fungus fast enough?

Just at that moment help came from an unexpected source. Drawn by the aroma of the broiled-in-butter bodies, a herd of Fudd Bagwinkle's robotic swine charged from the forest, distracted from their normally placid rounds of truffle-hunting among the oak trees and driven to a very frenzy by the overwhelming fungal scent they had been programmed to locate and root up. Titanium tusks flashed in the light of the rising moon as the huge pink machines slammed into the now helpless Mushroom People, and soon every one of them, even the Grand Champignon lay everywhere in stems and pieces, their button eyes rolled back in their heads. None were spored.

Then it was back to the guards' house to relieve the siege there. Newly armed and supplied, Frumpilla's boiling butterbath made short work of the remaining 'shroomtroopers and struck morel terror into the garden variety soldiers, who fled the field, never to return.

Great was the celebration that night, and elaborate the praise of crafty Frumpilla. The leading poets collaborated on Frumpilla's Saga, which was sung in the mead-halls of Redbone, then all the world 'round as the cupric cow's legend spread.

And Frumpilla itself? The overclocking of its Farm Class gyronic brain and the overheating of its undercarriage had taken a terrible toll. No more would Frumpilla provide delicious dairy products to the pioneer family. For weeks afterward the phrase "Got Milk?" would bring a tear to every eye.

But technology triumphed in the end. Newly outfitted with Fudd Bagwinkle's Supervisory Class Mark V cerebral gyronic unit and extensive hardware and software upgrades, Frumpilla today IS the Redbone dairy processing center, humming efficiently as it provides the butter, milk, cream and cheese for the townspeople. A brass plaque near the centrifuge recounts the story of Frumpilla's battle, and every October 23rd is a national holiday in Redbone....

So you can see why I'm of two minds about the subject.

7-21-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

A while back you made a reference to the Redbone Retirees' Repertory company, those people who put on performances of classic musical theater pieces adapted to the needs and interests of the elderly. In your response you mentioned an earlier performance of "My Frail Lady." I used your nifty new Search tool to find that, but no luck. Did you ever post it?

-- Actor in Acton 

Dear Actor:

I could have sworn I did, but almost everything slips through my mind lately. At some point one's brain becomes porous, and remembering things is like trying to haul water home in a gunny sack.

Fortunately I kept the playbill for that night's performance, and here are the highlights:

MY FRAIL LADY 

"My Frail Lady" is a retelling of the Pygmalion story and the Eliza Doolittle story, but restaged to encompass the interests of those of advanced age. In our story Eliza is an urban terrorist who seeks to hide from the authorities in a nursing home. In spite of her clever disguise she is immediately spotted by Doctor Higgins, who, impressed with her nerve and daring, attempts to teach her to mimic a octogenarian so she will be safe from persecution, in the course of which he falls hopelessly in love with her. The songs represent different stages she has to master in order to go undetected. In the end they leave the nursing home in each other's arms, intent on a new career of dynamiting trains in the hope of finding an appropriate social cause to support it.

Songs:

"Why Can't the Eldish Learn to not to Shriek" (communication problems between the hearing and the deaf)

"Wouldn't It Be Bubbly" (whirlpool baths for the temporary relief of arthritic symptoms)

"With Viagra and a Little Bit of Luck" (nursing home seductions)

"Just You Wait, Doctor Higgins" (constipation)

"The Pain in Rain Feels Mainly Like a Sprain" (rheumatism and the weather)

"I Couldn't Sleep All Night" (insomnia)

"YOU Did It!" (flatulence/incontinence)

"On the Street Where I Lived" (pointless reminiscences)

"Get Me to the Crutch On Time" (limited mobility)

"I've Grown Accustomed to this Pacemaker" (heart problems)

7-22-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

A few days ago you mentioned some experiments in genetic engineering that were done many years in the past. As a historian in the field of medical research I find this hard to believe. If such experiments were actually conducted, how come there are no contemporary accounts of them?

-- Researcher in Resina 

Dear Researcher:

You have to remember that these experiments were not well received by the general public, especially just below the Bible Belt, or what we used to call the Zipper of Zealotry. There was also the terrible incident in 1934 when the town of Stoophanger, Kansas was terrorized by a pack of wild spaniel-kohlrabi, forcing the governor to send in the National Guard to restore order. Or when ambulatory celery was very nearly granted the right to vote in Wisconsin. Occurrences like these and many others caused a backlash against genetic engineering, and cautious scientists destroyed every scrap of proof that they were ever involved in such dastardly doings.

About the only place you can find hints of the glory of those days is in popular music, in tunes like:

"Come With Me, Joe, And See My Gene-Splicing Machine"

"Brother, Can You Spare a Limb?"

"I've Got Ewe Under My Skin"

"Happy DNAs Are Here Again"

"Jeepers, Creepers, Where'd You Get Six Peepers?"

"I'm Looking Over My Four-Leaf Rover"

...and, of course, the most popular genetic engineering song of all time:

"Come To Me, My Melon-Collie Baby"

7-23-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I'm going to be vacationing in your part of the country next month. Are there any unusual or exclusive areas you could point me toward? I especially like hometown festivals and that sort of thing.

-- Nomadic in Nome

Dear Nomadic:

All of northwestern Arkansas is an estival festival. Practically every town and village has something they like to celebrate, from the Snail Races in Rhomboid Junction to Pork Julep Days in Greater Fender. Unfortunately you've missed the Redneck Games this year, with events like the mud pit belly flop, the hubcap hurl, the cow-chip spitting contest and the armpit serenade.

On second thought maybe "unfortunately" is the wrong word....

In other events, contestants come from miles around to compete in New Lost Hope's annual Pig Fling, which, as you may know from visiting Redbone's online Gallery of the Unidentifiable, has its roots in the ancient Greek Original Olympic Games.  How it got from Greece to Arkansas is anyone's guess, although there are some who think it's a clear case of parallel evolution. This year's event may diverge slightly from tradition, however, since a protest is planned by a gaggle of animal rights activists. If push comes to shove the pigs will be spared for the barbecue and the name of the contest will be changed to the PETA Fling.

My personal favorite is in the tiny town of Misery, high up in the Ozarks. Every year they have a Jug Band Festival which attracts lots of musicians and spectators, all of whom participate freely in the Draining of the Jugs the night before. It's easy to find. Just follow the big signs along Rural Route #8½ that say MISERY LOVES ACCOMPANIMENT!

7-24-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

As a lifelong resident of Redbone, Arkansas, can you tell me why the University of Arkansas chose the "Razorback" hog as its athletic mascot?

Sue E. in Sioux City 

Dear Sue:

They were looking for a creature that the student body could identify with.

7-25-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Does your houseplants have these pesky little fly's that you can't see; but you know there they're? Try putting a slice of garlic in the plant pot. I tried this slice of garlic...it worked.

-- Horticultural in Horton 

Dear Horticultural:

Ah, yes... the dreaded Invisible Vampire Flies. That's why the garlic works. Watering the plants with holy water or waving a silver crucifix over them will also do the trick. You can also hold them down and drive a tiny stake of holly through their hearts.

Bothered by the Invisible Mutant Zombie Flies? A dusting with salt will cause them to remember that they're dead and send them fleeing back to their graves.

Just out of curiosity, does your ward attendant know you have access to e-mail?

7-26-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Did you see the announcement that Intel and AMD will soon be releasing 2 GHz processor? I can hardly wait! Do you subscribe to the philosophy of "the faster the better?" I sure do!

-- Petaflop in Petersburg 

Dear Petaflop:

I honestly feel that 2GHz processors are simply too big and fast for the information superhighway. They soak up electrical power that could be better used elsewhere, they throw off way too much heat and consequently affect global warming, and if you're ever in a collision with one of them while using a laptop or handheld, the results could be fatal.

7-27-2001

Deer Ant Neddie:

My frend JD says your a big help in giving homework to kids who dont like to do it. I got a summerscool assinement about Pavloff, what he did an all. It's something about dogs. I need 2 paragrafs real bad by tomorrow. I dont know what kinds of dogs.

-- Street Smart in Streatham  

Dear Street:

Why, bless your heart, yes, dear old Aunt Nettie just loves to prop up members of the Junior Underachievers society.

Ivan Pavlov (note the spelling) was a Russian who studied the effects of clocks on dogs. Pavlov had several dogs and a great big, very loud cuckoo clock. He used to feed his dogs precisely at 4:55 pm each day, right under the big cuckoo clock in the hall. Just as the dogs started eating the cuckoo clock would sound 5 times very loudly, throwing them into spasms of terror. Eventually Anschluss and Brenschluss, the schnauzers gave up eating altogether, Schnitzel and Bitzel, the shorthaired pointers developed projectile bulimia, and Potzy the dachshund simply ran around in circles until he fell over dead.

Pavlov thought long and hard about this phenomenon. He went to the puppy store (Welpelagerhaus) in Vienna and got 10 more dogs and another great big, very loud cuckoo clock. Surprisingly the same thing happened, except this time the dachshunds Weltschmerz and Zeitgeist broke through a window and threw themselves under the wheels of a trolley. Fascinated, Pavlov repeated this experiment over and over until he had 100 dogs and 20 great big, very loud cuckoo clocks in the house, all striking the hour at precisely 5 pm and driving the dogs insane with fright, at which point the police intervened and he was taken to the big asylum on top of the hill where he spent the rest of his days talking to geraniums. But he left his mark on science. To this very day we refer to crazy people as "cuckoo" in memory of Mr. Pavlov.

Now you just copy that very carefully and I'm sure your teacher will give you a great big "A" for effort.

7-28-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I've been invited to a formal dinner at the British Embassy (my husband has business contacts in the UK). I've never been to a formal dinner before and I'm terrified I'll use the wrong spoon or something. Worse yet, we're at the "head table" whatever that means. Any suggestions?

-- Panicked in Peoria 

Dear Panicked:

Sorry, all that stuff is 'way over the head of this county gal. You have my sympathies. I believe it's a tradition among Britishers to have an American at the head table so they can laugh at his or her table manners. Watching an American try to figure out which fork to use at a formal dinner sometimes has them rolling in the aisles. I was at a formal dinner once where there were 17 pieces of silverware. I wound up lapping the soup directly out of the bowl, then grabbing a double handful of mashed potatoes which I ate under the table while making growling noises.

If you're even unluckier maybe you can get invited to a formal dinner in England itself sometime. And if you're really, truly accursed it will be at Buckingshire Palace or someplace like that where all the leftover British royalty hangs out, and it's nothing to have 117 implements on the table, including things like Fish Pokes, Runcible Spoons and Blancmange Whisks. They also throw on gobs of ritual at those things. While you're trying to figure out the difference between Malmsey Flanges and Kipper Snorters you have to watch as the Lord High Bent Swizzle Stick takes the ceremonial brass donkey whistle to Admiral Pookie of the Recumbent Potty Chair, who then opens the Sacred Cardboard Box of the Silver Ice Tongs and throws parsley at the Archbishop to commemorate the Great Northhanger Abbey Food Fight of 1756. It's just as impressive as all get-out.

So bring your camera. And a purse full of mashed potatoes just in case....

7-29-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

This has nothing to do with the Internet, but a little to do with technology, specifically razors. Do you have any idea when the practice of leg and armpit shaving became compulsory? I wonder about this when watching old movies containing women in ball gowns -- when should we have started seeing hairy armpits peeping out under those cap sleeves? If you can help I would forever be in your debt.

-- Depilated in Decatur 

Dear Depilated:

You'll have to go back a lot farther than old movies. As near as anyone can tell it was upper-class Egyptians who first became obsessed with the removal of body hair, and they went the whole hog, removing anything that sprouted anywhere, even replacing head hair with elaborate wigs. And since the female musicians and dancing girls at entertainments performed wearing only a thin coating of olive oil, they were a slick as a billiard ball.

If you had tried to persuade an Egyptian host to hire a stripper for a party, he would have looked at you funny.

7-30-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

This is the height of the summer stock season. Do you ever have the opportunity to get out of the old nursing home and take in some fine amateur theater there in Redbone?

-- Thespian in Thebes 

Dear Thespian:

Unfortunately we do, and last Sunday night was the Big Theater Night when anyone who wasn't actually comatose was hauled down to the Grand Ole Mopery for a thrilling evening of entertainment at the hands of the Redbone Wandering Players, who in my opinion haven't wandered nearly far enough.

Worse yet, the artistic director had decided to inflict something "significant" on her unsuspecting audiences this year. "Significant" in drama lingo means that the stage is painted black, the cast looks like a homeless convention and the words don't make sense. Even worse than that, they picked me to review the thing for The Home's newsletter, The ADLP Weekly. So here it is, and as Art Baker used to say, remember that you asked for it.

---------------------- 
Special to The Attention Deficit Large Print Weekly 
© 2001 Living Dead "R" Us Franchised Retirement Communities and Funeral Homes

"Sepk Akorja" (Seven Accordions)
Presented by the Redbone Wandering Players, Sunday, July 22, 2001 

"The accordion is the best instrument we have. When it comes down to it, it's all we have! That and potatoes! And vodka! Which is also potatoes! But which are not musical!"

That line pretty much sums up Stosh Kowalski's "Seven Accordions," which opened at the Grand Old Mopery last Friday, although that specific line is not spoken in the play that I can recall. It comes from a 1991 interview with the Pulaski Prize-winning playwright, who continued, "The polka and accordion music have always been at the forefront in the development of the character and consciousness of Polish-Americans, yet, because so many Polackamerikanski are rootless unemployed alcoholics, they have been dismissed as vagrants and drunkards." (from the playbill)

And that's the premise of "Seven Accordions," described as an existential fugue on Polish-American themes, God help us all. It tells the story of a polka musician and of the people who surround him in the Slivovitz district of Pittsburgh in 1928. The play begins with the musician's funeral, as the people who surrounded him wonder who he really was, and if there will be sufficient vodka at the wake.

His story unfolds in flashback. Pad Wysocki returns to Pittsburgh after 90 days of incarceration for public lewdness in Chicago's Little Bialystok. While he was in jail one of his polka tunes has become a hit record, though he is not profiting from it financially, since he gave the rights to his Azerbaijan manager back in the old country in exchange for passage to America and one good boot. His dream is strong, though, and he's come back to get his accordion out of hock, to bail out his harmonica player, Chodosh, and his drummer, Vik Lipschitz-- as well as to meet Katrinka, the woman he loves, and go back to Chicago to pursue success, no matter if it kills him or those around him, or even innocent bystanders. Alas, everything goes wrong.

Katrinka, powerfully portrayed by Rut Kzamarack, is cautious, uneasy. She is a woman who once let her man leave her in exchange for a blini recipe, and believes she got the better end of the deal.

Then there is Ignatz, a man who makes his living killing pigs and selling them as piroshkis, a man not quite "right in his mind" who once killed a Armenian for adding wheat germ to a bowl of borscht. Ignatz believes that there is a polka-playing Polish messiah, a dead accordionist who will literally come back to give Ignatz his inheritance so that he can buy healthy pigs instead of the tubercular ones he is forced to use. He drifts in and out of reality. He wants progeny, and hopes to get them from Marishkya, who's come from Lodz already pregnant, such a thoughtful little minx she is.

Vik, the drummer, is ready to jump on Pad's droshky as soon as he hitches it up, but Chodosh is more cautious-- possibly because he's a displaced Hungarian, never fully trustful of the Poles. He keeps his soup in his pockets, as the old saying goes. Vik expresses his frustration by fermenting potatoes in his cheeks, which he believes will make him seem sophisticated to women, whereas it only makes him look like a chipmunk with glanders.

Thus the characters begin an intricate polka exchange, with lots of notes gone wrong. Pad is four days too late to get his accordion out of hock. He can't convince Katrinka of his sincerity, and he is forced to watch helplessly as Ignatz forgets to slaughter the pigs before wrapping them as piroshkis. At this point the tension is so strong that the simple consumption of a quart of vodka is riveting, although by the consumption of the third quart the tension has been replaced with snoring, weeping and someone attempting to do a clog dance in 5/7 time.

Finally the apparently gentle and harmless butcher Ignatz inadvertently kills a piglet in a moment of unbridled passion, forcing the other characters to seek solace in a hogshead of vodka, at the bottom of which Pad Wysocki finds his long-lost accordion in the hands of his quite thoroughly pickled brother Zbignew.

The play ends happily at Zbignew's funeral, where Pad Wysocki plays his newly-restored accordion with such zest and fervor that the remaining characters and even the stagehands are inspired to fling caution and clothing to the wind in an impassioned version of "She Was Only My Sister Til Sundown, In The Morning She Was My Wife" polka, the sheer exuberance of which brings the ancient Polish Eagles Eyrie #27 beer hall down around their ears, killing everyone.

It's productions like this that prove that Redbone has every right to proudly call itself a summer theater mecca, bringing us plays that reveal the importance of understanding who we are, and who other people are as well. Even tourists.

7-31-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I am looking to buy a puppy. Do you like one dog breed over another?

--Dogged in Dodge

Dear Dogged:

Well, I've always been partial to the Jack Daniels Terrier. I can identify with its need to take a nip every now and then.

As for dogs to avoid, the Afghan leads the list because of its low level of intelligence, its bad attitude toward women, and its tendency to declare things like collars, leashes and dry food contrary to Islam. These dogs have also been known to explode with the slightest provocation, generally in crowded marketplaces.

Another bad bet is the Sharpei, a dog that will cheat you every chance it can get. Oh, and never try to keep a Springer Spaniel in a small apartment as it will cost you a fortune in paint and wallpaper, plus the risk of lawsuits if it launches itself out an open window and lands on unsuspecting passersby.

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