Eddie Condon

Today in 1973 we lost Eddie Condon. Fortunately, we didn't lose his music and his sense of humor. Thanks Eddie.

Can anyone identify this painting? Is it Francois Schuiten? Looks like his work but can someone confirm it?? Click for larger version. Yes, I refuse to use Kleenex until THIS stops.

There is little need here to go into the harm that the wall of Religious Intolerance has done to our world. Maybe this is a subtle chip in that wall. And then maybe it is just the gentle, humorous incongruity that sets it apart. Okay, okay. Maybe too obscure for me too. It's George Carlin's birthday today. Happy Birthday George. Now, George spoke on religion once back in 1999. He wasn't subtle at all. George Carlin appeared in concert in Oklahoma City about two years ago. One highlight of the program was when mid-monologue, all the lights in the theater went off and no one left their seats. Everyone wanted to hear what crotchety Carlin had to say about the event. When the lights came back on finally, Carlin explained that someone had pulled a fire alarm as a prank and left by a back door. The fire alarm automatically shuts down the electricity. The fire marshal returned the electricity and Carlin resumed his monologue. Perhaps the prankster was a religious extremist who didn’t appreciate Carlin’s rant on religion, proclaiming his worship of the Sun and Joe Pesci. Religious intolerance at work again probably.

Yes, I refuse to use Kleenex until THIS stops.

The mystery of the left-handed coffee cup. Now, although much care is taken to buy (or otherwise appropriate) only RIGHT-handed coffee cups for the kitchen, somehow, now and again, occasionally, here and there, without notice, a left-handed one will appear in the coffee cup cabinet. The wife and Personal Director, claims that they change in the heat of the dish-washer. Well, it’s a very mysterious explanation but she could be right. Think about those socks that disappear in the clothes dryer. There is something very mysterious about that too. Left-handed cups are not very useful. Excepting of course for that strange breed of left-handed people who claim they actually prefer left-handed cups. But they are a fringe minority. A normal right-handed person just can’t drink coffee from a left-handed cup. You could suffer from carpal tunnel syndrome or at the very least a sprained wrist, not to mention the scalding from the spilled hot coffee. So many coffee cups end up sleeping on dusty charity shop shelves, in abandoned basements and rental storage sheds. One can submit left-handed coffee cups to the home for helplessly left-handed head cases. Everyone knows they could be right-handed if they wanted. Some misguided cups have been reprogrammed out of the silly left-hand notion. Some of these poor cups have been abused as youngsters. They were forced to serve things not suited for their personality such as cocoa and/or bath-tub gin. They were too young to realize it was sinkful, sick and wrong. Others, well, others have just succumbed to peer pressure. “Just try it for a while,” the others say. And sure enough they wake up some morning with unexplained stains, sitting left-handed at the back of the cabinet. They never see the light of day in the breakfast nook again. Some end up full of pencils on an office desk in a cubicle far, far away. Fortunately, some believe with faith and persistence they can be reprogrammed to be healthy and useful members of our kitchenware. It is not the way Frankhoma intended, and so it is written in the Pottery Barn Catalogue, chapter 112, verse 4. Nor is it accepted in other beliefs such as Corning or Melmac. No. That’s silly. Everyone knows it’s a right-wing conspiracy to make everyone buy more coffee cups.

Yes, I refuse to use Kleenex until THIS stops.

Toot Toot...

Yes, I refuse to use Kleenex until this mess is cleaned up.

You can’t be classified as a “clean-freak” if you have more than two toot-toot’s in your bathroom waste basket. Oh. Okay. For those of you not thoroughly indoctrinated with the subtleties in the vernacular of the two-year old, here is a bit of clarification. Toot-Toot (tut-tut) Function: noun Definition: 1. Musical instrument 2. The cardboard cylinder center of a toilet paper roll. 3. Two short blasts (as on a horn or toot-toot); also : two sounds resembling such a blast Instructions: Find the box of interesting things sitting in the corner of the bathroom. (That’s the room with the big shiny white chair.) Dump that box of interesting things onto the floor. Sort. Scavenge one of those little grey tube things. Place one open end to your lips, say: “Toot, toot,” while marching around the house as in a parade. Repeat as needed to get attention or until mommy gets the camera. Quit.

The Story Behind the Photograph - The Butterfat Gang

Yes, I refuse to use Kleenex until this mess is cleaned up.

This is the last known photograph of the notorious Butterfat Gang of Seven who terrorized the dairy industry in the mid 1930’s. Harlan Underln, standing, center, led the gang in raids on milk trucks and neighborhood Rubber Baby Buggy Ice Cream wagons throughout Iowa and County Cork The Butterfat Gang of Seven, (actually there were five or so members, but none of them could count) all descended in some way from lineage of the infamous robber, Dennis Moore of the 17th century in England. Highwayman Moore was noted for lupin(e)s and doing something completely different. The method of the Butterfat Gang was simple. They would stand in the road and stop dairy delivery trucks. Eight or nine of the gang members would circle the truck and stand lookout. Three or four other members would then insist the driver sell them what ever stock was carried on the truck. The driver would then be obligated to return to the dairy and restock for the morning deliveries. This certainly confounded dairy owners not to mention the trauma experienced by many cows. Their last caper was said to be the carefully planned robbery of the 2:40 AM milk train. It went awry when most of the gang members overslept. No one knows how many actually showed up as none of them could actually count. The engineer refused to stop the train anyway. Throughout their reign of confusion, none of the gang was ever caught. Actually no one ever looked for them either. They all lived well into their fifties and died overweight Heppel Whitsig, (seated, with cigar) invented the combination creel and picnic basket and went on to a successful retirement in poverty. He never married. His twin brother, Wimpole, (also seated but no cigar) was either the youngest or the oldest in the gang, depending on which account of his birth was accurate. His mother could not seem to recall the event. Fred (too tall) Herringbun was not on the Titanic when it tragically struck an iceberg. He married young and his wife dressed him funny. Gable Snoot, seventh from left in this picture, worked briefly as a store window model for suspenders (or braces). He was spotted there by a Hollywood movie director who went into hiding and was never seen again. The rest of the gang is pretty much unknown but perhaps someone will recognize a relative or a neighbor here. These events rarely get a notation in history books although some say the gang activities accelerated the research leading to the invention of the milking machine.

The Koala saga

Yes, I refuse to use Kleenex until this mess is cleaned up.

Now, this gets a bit ridiculous here but it’s something that has been nagging to get organized for a long time. Too long. You know how chewing gum gets after a few years under the table. Residing at a certain zoo (which shall remain nameless for reasons that will become obvious) are several koalas, a sleepy looking marsupial native to eastern Australia. They are looked after by a kind and watchful staff and by all appearances are quite happy about their captivity. The personnel assigned to koala care have given the loveable little animals all pet names. The two original koalas at the zoo were Cookie and Archie. Then there was Cheri and Dwight and Pepe. At a zoo New Year’s party, two more were named Spike and Roman. There are two new acquisitions one from Europe and one from Africa: Virgil and Afro. In recent years there was also a new birth but that one was quickly taken by another zoo. Its name was to be Owen or Open, or something like that. And that’s it.

Twist Ties

Addressing the World-Wide Shortage of Twist-Ties. (AKA Tie Wraps, twisters, tie thingys and twisty-tags.) I know. It’s an ugly subject. Make sure the kids don’t read this page. There are some traumatic thoughts here. But this has to be said. Somebody has to say it. The world is running out of Twist Ties. All bread is destined to be dry and stale right there on your grocer shelf. Those Scooby-do and Spiderman lunch boxes are now going to contain just jumbled baloney and jelly beans and corn chips. How will one make trash bags secure from the prying neighbors? Will it no longer be possible to make those temporary but quick repairs in underwear emergencies? This unimaginable threat is reaching epidemic proportions in this wholly civilized world and in the partly-civilized world and backward cultures and even in some parts of the US. Where will it end? Biloxi? Elmore City? Saskatchewan? Scientists all over the world are remaining silent on the subject. What does that tell you? Requests for interviews on twist-tie shortage are summarily rejected. No scientist wants to talk about this horror. An orthodontist approached on the street refused to address the subject and began dialing the police on his cell phone. They just aren’t talking. Why has this not been examined in the Hits and Mythses blog? This would be right down his street and up his alley. A personal investigation and informal (jeans and T-shirt) inquiry into this phenomenon is developing some speculation about origins and causes. There are no clear answers yet but strong evidence is looming. There are some indications that somebody is actually hoarding these tiny but essential items. Hoarding. That would do it. Somewhere there is a big kitchen drawer full of Twisters and probably some rubber bands and clothes pins and maybe even some metal office clamps. But where? Is there a dark cellar somewhere with a coffee can full of them? Is there a bag of them secreted behind the clothes dryer? One Twist-Tie was sought diligently here last night. Just ONE! It was sincerely needed for an important preservation project. A freezer bag needed to be sealed. But no. There were no Twist-Ties to be found. Not where they were needed. Now there is a thick, icy sheet of possum gravy all over the freezer.

March 31.

April 2000 Z and Terry and Aloysious It’s April the first again. The big event of yesterday was just a phone call from a friend. How can one place such a unique value on such a simple event? Easy. There are not many people in this life’s litany of faces that could be called old friends. Not many. Maybe one. This one. The same high school and college made familiar chums of us. Okay, drinkin’ buddies. Our twenties and thirties held many a serious soiree and frivolous venture: parties, continuous card games, art fairs and concerts, our respective mates of the era in tow. There were new cars to break in with road trips and new bars to evaluate with late tipple. There were wedding parties to be missed and divorce de-briefings at the neighborhood bar. Fast friends we were, through it all, from top-of-the-world success to upside-down in a ditch, more than once. The mutual friendship stands solid for fifty years. Surely our mates have grown weary of one’s tall tales of the other. Meetings have grown seldom over the past 20 years with various travels separating us. From weekly greetings to monthly meetings, semi-annual get-togethers to a phone call every year or so. Duties and wandering took this life to other places. He retired his life from the programming profession and exchanged his nice home on the river for a fifth-wheel camper. He and his wife have lived on the road for more than fifteen years. A post office box number in Kansas is their only anchor. The last contact was seven years ago now. It was a phone message to give their location. He had pulled his rolling home into a park camp ground on a new lake in the south part of the state. He and his wife were hard at their favorite occupation when I found them: making friends at a local bar in a near-by small town. We laughed, fished a bit, took a picture and laughed some more. Good friends are few, old friends are fewer still. The next day he and his wife were headed for another lake, further north. Summer was coming. In the following years, contact was lost completely. Notes and cards with address changes and new phone numbers, sent to that post office box drew no answer. Ominous concern (read “worry”) began to cloud any thoughts about this wandering friend. Then on Saturday, April first, a phone call. “Hello?” “Hey, Kingfish! Is that you?” It’s always nice to hear from a long-lost friend, even if he can’t remember your name.