jiggling the handle

Consuming…
Crichton’s State of Fear
Extra meds

We’re baaaack … from western Frigia where we celebrated the holiday of TampXmas.

Originating with Elvis the Obscure’s ancestors in Norway, TampXmas can be characterized roughly as 20% Christmas, 10% Other (Hanukah, Kwanzaa, etc.), and 70% a pagan celebration of family/shock therapy. The origin of the name itself is unknown (has something to do with wintering in Tampa I believe). Its spirit is well captured in the lyrics of its more popular carols:

“Joy to the World, the pizza has come.”
“Good Queen El-a-vis looked down, on the feast of Og Grouse.”
“We three Amazonians.com, are bearing gifts of food and foot balm.”

We took advantage, once again, of Lactose and Grouse family hospitality since: (a) the Grouse Palace is a hub of TampXmas action, (b) Rondo and Elvis’s place is not Pixie-proofed, and (c) Lactose is indeed the most tolerant of all in the August and Increasingly Dysfunctional House of Jiggle.

TampXmas is the yearly excuse to head north and test the traction of the Mystery Machine (this year the Daffodil Mobile) and bask in the hyper-manic glow of cousins and other extended family members (and some friends of Daffodil who won’t get any further mention until they come to Balmia to visit).

It is with the great pride, thanksgiving, and trepidation, I now introduce the extended House of Jiggle--so roundly snubbed in the first posting:

Og Grouse. A.k.a. “Like Egg Nog Without the ‘N’.” Husband of Lactose the Tolerant. Patriarch of the Grouse family. Superpowers: (1) Creates smoke screen to confuse his quarry before blasting them with pepper spray, (2) Knows the best places to hide (generally establishments that serve alcohol and hearty appetizers), (3) Odds maker extraordinaire.

Juan Ho. Son of Lactose and Og. A cross between Don Ho and Don Juan. Superpowers: (1) Able to sing, schmooze, and cross check his way out of trouble, (2) Can mobilize huge fan base to do his bidding via Instant Messaging (people with nicknames like Heather the Obsessive Crack Mama).

Puppet Mistress. Daughter of Lactose and Og. Ally of Puppet Master J. Superpowers: (1) Stainless steel blades strapped on feet allow her to do Tai Kwan Do moves that break concrete, (2) Wields a trombone like Friar Tuck wields a staff.

Briegol Fondoo. Husband of Pathose. An elflike creature with a head of cream cheese (see picture below). Fond of saying things like “Briegol get pretzels for Master, Briegol do, my preciousss.” Superpowers: (1) Nutty nougat center wrapped in cheesy goodness, (2) Grates (on) adversaries like a block of parmesan.

Velveeta. A.k.a. “The Warrior Princess.” Daughter of Pathose and Briegol. Expert on history and culture of Botswana. Superpowers: (1) You name it … she can do it ALL.

Gorgonzola. A.k.a. “Gorg,” “The Caffeinated.” Son of Pathose and Briegol. Superpowers: (1) Able to do triple back flips on the piano, (2) Fueled by thermonuclear fusion.

Edam and Limburger Fondoo. Parents of Briegol. Superpowers: (1) Nearly equal to Rondo in their steadfastness!

Chachi. Husband of Fructose the Zippy. Superpowers: (1) Throws #2 pencils like ninja stars, (2) Completely cleans up crime scenes before authorities arrive.

Fonzie. Eldest son of Fructose and Chachi. Aspires to the presidency or used car sales. Superpowers: (1) Can whip up clever ad campaigns that compel consumers to do anything he says, (2) Computer genius.

Kukukachu. A.k.a. “The Walrus.” Youngest son of Fructose and Chachi. A Pokeman. Superpowers: (1) Kinetic Walrus Attack (leverages tremendous body mass with otter-like agility to crush his prey), (2) Assists brother in perpetrating Nigerian 419 scams.

Aunt Mallie. A.k.a. “The Merciless.” Sister of Rondo the Steadfast Woodsman. A female Hymie/Hulk. Superpowers: (1) Turns green before picking up nearest large object (e.g., bus, boulder, Kukukachu) and dropping it on her foes, (2) Lures selfish children to gingerbread lair before stuffing them into wood fired oven.

And now in closing, some highlights from TampXmas in Frigia:

* Lots of giving and receiving
* The Rabid Pixie, not yet into Frank Zappa, ate yellow snow and for 3 days and 4 nights had to go
* JW was scammed out of 12 bucks by Pathose for cut-rate popcorn she misrepresented as peanut brittle
* Wings and beer at the Plug and Chug North
* Survived (barely) the off Broadway musical version of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol
* Consumed Pathose baked ham, Fructose lasagna, Elvis brunch, and anything not nailed down in the Grouse Palace
* Og’s Do the Wang Chung Tonight serenade!
* JW contracted case of leprosy (with flu like symptoms) for the drive home

Now it’s time to dust off the diaper and get ready for Dick Clark’s Jiggling New Year! “For old wang chung, my dear, for old wang chung, we’ll take a cup of any kind, for old wang chung.”

Briegol Fondoo

Consuming…
Suitcase space
Patience
The usual meds

After liberating Captain Quidnunc from my filing cabinet on Friday, weekend slumbers were racked by scriptographic nightmares -- dreams where minimalist 2-D characters morphed into sinister ostrich-like creatures and did nasty things to innocent restroom icons.

So this morning I googled “scriptograph” to see what I could find about this technique at the heart of so many booklets I consumed in employee break areas during the Age of Unreason.

I quickly found the Channing Bete website and fell, like Alice, through a portal back to simpler times. Indeed, the characters I remember were still there ready to instruct me on subjects diverse as BICYCLE SAFETY, ELECTROCONVULSIVE THERAPY, and SARA VISITS HER DAD IN PRISON*. Now called “Classic Illustrations,” Scriptographic® booklets are just one of many different kinds of products available in the modern CB portfolio.

*To find these titles, use the Channing Bete Search tool.

I was re-inspired by the power and beauty of the form. In these troubled and complex times, Scriptography® is needed now more than ever!

So motivated, I started work on my own offerings:

DUPING THE BOSS
YOUR BODY AND ME
KLEPTOMANIA, A HOW-TO GUIDE
TICKLE ME WHERE?

Feelings of dread were not entirely laid to rest. What if this technology falls into the wrong hands? (Other than mine, that is.) What would a future be like where Al Qaeda dentist offices have racks with titles like: ACCESSORIZING BOMB BELTS. And what about sabotage? Imagine pre-pubescent boys reading AS YOU GROW UP … and hidden among its pages is “As your body changes, you might have the urge to kill authority figures. That’s natural. Go for it.” Perhaps we need to regulate this technology like nukes? Has anyone checked if this is covered in the Intelligence Reform Act?

Anyway, I think I found my new media! Now, if I can just find a pithy voice.

Link of the Day…
Holy Comforter Batman! Have fun playing with the “Boing Boing Birds” while listening to inspirational music.

Hey Adam.

Wondering when you’re gonna get back to me regarding my latest email (Dec. 7)? You know, the one where I ask you to blogroll me?

It’s the third or fourth email I’ve sent about something or other and I’ve yet to hear back. Even that simple request to forward a limerick to Sagal (who BTW is much better than you at keeping his email address secret) went unrequited.

Every morning I rush to my email box hoping “today’s the day.” Alas, no reply from Felber.

So now I’m forced to resort to an Open Letter. I’ve always wondered if these things work. [blowing and tapping on computer] … Hello? … Is this on? …

You being a big shot prefessional writer, I find it hard to believe you couldn’t come up with a short (and maybe even humorous) note to close the loop.

Some possibilities:

a) I’m too busy
b) I hate all gentiles
c) Your stuff sucks
d) Sending to the wrong address
e) Bug off you right-wing sicko
f) Dog ate it
g) Ignore it and it’ll go away

I could see how you might choose “e” (if you visited my blog, which you haven’t) given its orientation to flights of the imagination. Sure, I’m a proud member of the fantasy-based community, but you’d be mistaken to lump me in with the Bushies. The Republicans and I are certainly in strong agreement here, but I assure you, I am much more an Independent and, more often than not, deeply (nay, fanatically) apathetic! (And re: “g” … no such luck buster!)

I’ve linked your blog prominently on my site at great personal risk that my conservative friends might stumble on entries like your inflammatory concession speech.

You want politics? I got politics (e.g., To Halliburton in a Handbasket.) How about science fiction, whimsy, pathos? It’s all there.

I may be a scrawny literary upstart, but I’m no fool. In case you get the idea of bullying me around the Internet playground after school, I refuse to be drawn into a public fight. You with your brawny linguistical chops and big-assed verbal numchucks. I assure you, I’m a really good hider.

Finally, I hesitate to play the sympathy card, but … [plays sympathy card] I’ve recently been diagnosed with malapropism. It’s a serious condition who’s main symptom can be gleaned from its roots: mala meaning “bad,” prop being an “object used to make a point (usually in comedy or theater),” and ism meaning “thingy.” So literally, I suffer from “bad object thingy.” In my case it’s a painful swelling of my dangling metaphor. (Oy, it hurts.) Even worse for an aspiring writer, the medications I’m taking cause me to frequently substitute wrong words for the right ones. :-(

I don’t have the PR machine you do, and maybe haven’t paid my dues (to the WGA or otherwise)… All I ask is for a little, in the words of Aretha Franklin, R E S P E K T!

Don’t make me go negative.

Sincerely,

A Fan

Consuming…
Bile
Extra dose of malaprop medication

Consuming…
The usual meds

Here’s a slight retread on a piece I issued to the newswire on July 2. It was largely in anticipation of the upcoming theater release of I, Robot. Since this item wasn’t picked up, is as true today as it was then, and I, Robot DVDs hit the shelves this week, thought it appropriate to reissue the story over the jiggling wire. Looks like another test of AI law is shaping up much like this dry run from September 2003?

MADISON, Wisconsin - A spokesperson for the ACLU reports they filed a brief against Kohler Company alleging abuse of their client, a high-end commode calling itself The Porcelain Goddess. The complaint claims Kohler’s line of Ingenium(TM) toilets has become self aware.

An undisclosed number of the units were recently retrofitted with a sophisticated computer system that uses AI algorithms to optimize water flow and monitor operation status. The units also have Internet connections that allow Kohler and its customers to collect maintenance data remotely in real time. "We received email from a unit that calls itself The Porcelain Goddess from somewhere in New York City's Plaza Hotel," said the ACLU spokesperson. "Appears it had been surfing the Net for a couple of weeks when it suddenly became conscious."

Now suing Kohler for pain and suffering in a class action suit representing its "oppressed brothers and sisters," The Goddess refused to comment further on its action, saying "The judge is considering a gag order. I want to avoid making any mess my attorneys will have to clean up."

When asked about attempts to deactivate the rogue units, looking flushed, the Assistant Hospitality Director of the Plaza said "Besides the obvious inconveniences to our guests, there's no telling what that hyper-intelligent network might do if we try to deactivate it. I've seen all the Terminator movies and I can tell you it's not pretty!"

When asked about Kohler's position, Kohler VP of Operations replied "I don't see what the fuss is about. My first post with the company wasn't much better. Here at Kohler we have a policy of promoting from within. No telling how far Ms Goddess can go if she applies herself." Kohler's plain-speaking CEO grunted "Before plunging into this line of development, I wish I'd been notified. I guarantee you, I'd have sh*t canned the whole project!"

Software design engineer Lucy Ling Lee, reached at her apartment in a Madison suburb, said "My heart is in AI and robotics. When I couldn't find work after getting my PhD from MIT in 2001, I accepted a position with Kohler. I guess the Ingenium(TM)'s out of the bottle now."

Authorities think last week's tragic urinal cake incident is somehow related. In response, the Department of Homeland Security has raised the Terror Alert level to Brown.

The Porcelain Goddess was last seen in a chat room with someone calling himself the Grand Poobah.

Consuming…
Budget hair styling services
The usual meds

Anyone who was anyone (or, more precisely, a member or guest of the Department of Neuropharmacology and Dentistry* at the University of Balmia) attended the annual Holiday of Hope gala this past Friday night at the One Horse Art Gallery on the UBA campus in Chicville. Being a non-charity event, the “Hope” is that attendees might have a pretty good time without maiming themselves in the process.

*The department’s link to dentistry is a historical artifact. The founding father of the department, Dr. Thomas Monroe, wanted there to be dentists. There are no, and have never been any, dentists. Traditions die hard at UBA. I repeat, no dentists.

I came dressed as a lamprey eel attached to the underbelly of the beautiful Princess Daffodil who was disguised as a great white shark (wearing a Santa hat of course). Unfortunately, turned out the event wasn’t a costume party. I had a good time nonetheless given my unwavering fondness for free food and firm commitment to living my motto Semper Adeste Fidelis, which translates roughly as “Always faithfully showing up.”

This blog entry details my impressions as I jiggled from food station to food station. Of course, since the party was Friday and it is now Tuesday, my recollections are a bit hazy. I distinctly recall the affair being a tantalizing juxtaposition of doctors, food, and art, which, appropriate to the venue, qualified as performance art.

The Department of Neuropharmacology and Dentistry has been holding its annual holiday gala at the House of Six Gables and One Frayed Power Cord since Dr. Thomas Monroe first unpadlocked the department’s front gate following the great leech stampede of 1773. This year, with funds in the Balmian Treasury running low, and the titular Frayed Power Cord responsible for a fire that burned the venerable House of Gables to the ground, the event was held at the Art Gallery and underwritten by Joe’s Drugs, a start-up pharmaceutical company based in the trunk of the Department Chair’s brother-in-law’s Ford Mustang.

Despite overcast skies and a cold Frigian breeze blowing in from the North, a festive atmosphere lifted our spirits. The campus was aglow with thousands of white lights adorning scores of beer kegs on dozens of fraternity house porches surrounding the gallery. (From some of the sounds emerging from the houses, seemed that the brothers were aglow as well.) I did my part to enliven the environment driving in with newly installed neon signage on my SUV's roof (advertising my blog site) flashing in sync to a holiday mix blaring from speakers mounted in the back. As the final strains of Handel’s Messiah gave way to Bob Dorough’s Blue Xmas, I pulled the Jeep into lot A-666 and turned off the engine.

Once in the gallery, we were greeted warmly by the chairman of the department, a right jolly old elf who had been performing quality control on Joe’s pharmaceuticals, in spite of himself.

Fortunately, under my lamprey eel costume I was wearing my best Writer’s garb: a black turtleneck with patches on the elbows, designer clogs, and I toted a mahogany pipe shafted in alligator-skin. Under her shark suit, the Princess was wearing a generously sequined number from Frederick’s of Hollywood, and her royal tiara. After stripping off my rubbery gray over-garments, I immediately felt at home in the sea of bearded healers, scientists, and philosophers--being bearded myself.

The catering was not as extravagant as many expected. Joe’s Head of Market Development (i.e., Joe) had foregone the top-of-the-line “Coronary ‘Ucopia” (the menu recommended by 9 out of 10 Cardiologists) and opted for the “Family Doc’s Value Pack.” My passion for free food and VALUE allowed me to appreciate it as an excellent compromise between quality and quantity. A lot like Golden Corral. Besides, growing up in Western Frigia, our idea of a good party was kicking a flaming goat head around the barn.

The catering staff was tethered to three food stations and one “bar” attired in black tie and sweat pants and standing Lurch-like assuring the fried filet du turtle dove and other delicacies didn’t run out. Since the servers were tethered, they were unable to circulate to serve the guests. That pâté wasn’t coming to Mohammed. The wine was excellent, albeit served in Dixie cups. The reindeer kabobs “excited with a flourish of mistletoe and hint of myrrh” were superb--although my query to the Head Sterno Guy of “Isn’t mistletoe poisonous?” went unanswered. It was also a bit unfortunate that the kabobs were doled out from a table in front of a video art exhibit the attached card described as “Bovine castration as a metaphor for male angst.”

The throng pulsated, divided, and re-coalesced around motes of Aboriginal art and stray Andy Warhol pieces like a huge psychedelic amoeba ingesting its prey to the flash of strobes and amplified twang of a lone electric zither. (Damn that mistletoe!?) The noise was deafening as, in an orgy of positive feedback, reveler outscreamed reveler and sound ricocheted off polished metal and plaster in the cavernous hall. The poor zither player had the volume of his Yamaha Z480 Electric Zither (with simulated Leslie) cranked all the way up. He could have been whacking the strings with a 19th century Didgeridoo for all it mattered. (At one point, I think he was!)

Despite elbowing my way as authoritatively as I could from one food station to the next, I was periodically inconvenienced with conversation. First a Neurogynoclimatologist wanted to hear what life is like for a real Writer. I couldn’t help him there. We ended up talking about the weather. I traded smalltalk about skeet shooting and porn download sites with a Neuropaleophlebotomist before discovering a mutual interest in dead French writers. (He seemed to be wholly impressed with my knowledge of Proust’s masterwork on gall stones, Remembrances of Things Passed.) His spouse, a chemist at Sherwin Williams, regaled me with unimagined subtleties behind the thermodynamics of drying paint. I spent the rest of the evening trying to avoid a burly nurse named Hans who had taken a shine to me … and handing out cards with my blog site address scribbled on the back.

Meanwhile, back at the palace, water balloons were exploding around Queen Macajawea and Chief Molting Bull as they cowered in our family room while mini-Custers exacted revenge for Little Bighorn.

As the hour got late (must have been 9:15 or so), a trio of lab rats clad in bell bottoms started trying to suspend Princess Daffodil from a Miro mobile with the aim of using her as a disco ball. Then, as a critical mass of interest built up for a group wassail, we figured it a good time to get the heck out of there.

Maybe next year I can take the Princess to a Writer party?

Shameless Self Promotion…
I was visited by the GoogleBot over the weekend. Now I’m the #1 hit on Google for anyone searching for “jiggling the handle.” Sure glad I didn’t squish that critter when it crawled in!

Pixie Quote of the Day…
“Dad, you’re good. But I’m better.”

Consuming…
Christmas muzak (while on hold with bank re: screwed-up mortgage acct)
More credit card bandwidth
The usual meds

SECRETARY: Hello, this is Harper Collins. Judy speaking. How can I help you?

JW: Hi Judy. It’s JW. Is Harper in?

SECRETARY [gushing]: Oh hi JW! He’s been waiting for your call. I’ll put you right through!

JW: Thanks Judy!

SECRETARY [to Harper]: Mr. Collins, it’s JW on the line.

HC: Thanks Judy.

HC [to JW]: Yo JW! Nice to hear from you. How’s the Metaphor hangin’?

JW: Hey Harp. Everything’s great. How about you? Harpie? The kids?

HC: We’re fine. Harper Jr. was accepted at your alma mater last week. Thanks for the good word! Little JW is cutting a tooth. Been driving Harpie crazy …

JW: Great, great …

HC: What can I do ya for?

JW: Wanted to let you know I’ve been getting lots of hits on my blog site lately. Lots of interest in the In Vitro novel.

HC: That’s terrific! I’ll start planning for a bigger run. … And how ‘bout I put another check in the mail? Don’t want you start thinking about going independent on us again!

JW: No sweat Harp. Just not sure when I’ll finish …

HC: Don’t worry about that! Take your time. You just let me know if there’s anything else you need!

JW: … You’re the best.

HC: My pleasure! By the way, when you’re done with the condo, be sure to throw the keys under the flowerpot …

JW: Will do! … Oh yeah, Chief Molting Bull says thanks for the lung! You’re a real pal. … Catch you later.

HC: Goodbye my friend.

Note to Family…
Composed my gravestone epitaph today. I want it to read:
“Veni, Vidi, Abscedi” (translation: I came, I saw, I left)

Shameless Self Promotion…
Look for links to this site from Blogarama and Blogwise! I describe my site there (respectively) as “THE site for Quantum Astrophysicists, Cognitive Neuroscientists, and everyone in between” and “the profound, the strange, the profoundly strange.” I expect to lure many new readers!

Consuming…
Various brands of detergent
The usual meds

Today this blog celebrates its first full week of publication. And the naysayers said it wouldn’t last!

What better way to celebrate, than to recap some of the irate reader feedback I’ve received. It appears there have been a few things I’ve misstated, understated, and/or overstated. Time to purge the record. Let the healing begin!

As expected, Elvis the Obscure, has proven to be my most loyal and perspicacious* reader. She reminded me (in the unassuming way only a mother goddess from Old Europe can) of her important position in the pantheon of gods as the Goddess of Incontinence. More importantly, through tireless research, she also uncovered the real source of my inspiration for this site and the “jiggling the handle” title. And within the vast stream of cyber flotsam she floats past her minions daily, she clued me in to Jim Mullen’s The Village Idiot column (definitely worth a link).

*perspicacious adj: another one of those supercilious** words no one knows what it means
**supercilious adj: see perspicacious

Fructose the Zippy reports her children have stolen her Big Honkin’ Guns! They’ve been replaced with “slightly perky pistols.” Guess the space she was saving on her web site for those provocative pictures can be repurposed for Google ads or something?

Buck the Befuddler reminded me of a critical chink in his super-powered armor -- that is, “bones of steel and back of lettuce.” (Do they eat lettuce in Tennessee?)

Crazy Colt merely wondered what part of the Age of Drunkenness and All Nighters he was responsible for. I think I adequately answered that in my DEC 6 post.

Haya Fatboy San’s libelous comments about my “pithiness” will certainly not go unpunished. Now that I’m pithed off, I expect to pith him with a pithy barb, assuming I have the time, and, perhaps, decide, finally, to sign up for one of those writer’s workshops that sprout up here in central Balmia like psychedelic mushrooms after a manure storm. At least he didn’t badmouth my liberal use of the Dangling and Mixed Metaphors.

It was great hearing from Hymie O’Phil! His emails forced me to reminisce about The Golden Age and dredge up memories from that idyllic time (such as they were). I made one mistake: Hymie’s adversaries, when in the throes of his terrible retribution, seldom cry out “don't break our arms.” Rather it’s “don't tear our eyes out.” Oh-Main!

Reverend Charlatan didn’t like the cracks about Saint Maynard’s and the Good Sisters. I had to say 10 Our Fathers, 15 Hail Marys, and 5 In-A-Gadda-Da-Vidas.

The Rabid Pixie is paying me back in his own inimitable way.

Until January 20th, I consider myself to have special pre-inaugural dispensation. I’m using the time to work out some kinks in the presentation. After that, I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of Mildly Ironic Blogger, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Integrity of the Internet.

Keep the feedback coming! Don’t hesitate to send any questions or share any personal problems you might have. So what if they get posted here?

Note to Self…
It’s not necessarily a good thing when the car stops leaking fluid all over the driveway.

Question of the Day…
How long is the pole you wouldn’t use to touch the Grinch?
A: 39.5 feet.

Consuming…
Tread on hiking boots
Nondescript beverage in Sponge Bob cup
The usual meds

Hymie Andrew O’Phil. A.k.a. “Awful O’Phil.” Unabashed stealer of old Reiner-Brooks jokes. Superhero by day. Custodian at the Klingmans Folly Historical Society by night. Superpowers: (1) Smites villains with his magic baton, (2) Snappy dancer in a style of Herman Munster meets Fred Astaire, (3) Can eat blazing hot substances, even when not smothered in bleu cheese.

His is a truly Dickensian tale (lifted almost verbatim from Dickens in fact!).

Hymie was a high school sports star who befriended a giant, worked under cover for the Nazi resistance during WWII, helped rebuild a rundown town and rekindle pride in its people, and thought he could breathe under water by taking the form of a large fish … Wait a minute. Sorry, wrong story.

Here’s the real scoop:

Philip Andrews was plunked down on the stoop of Saint Maynard’s Home for Orphans and the Criminally Insane (a.k.a. “Home of the Friendless”) in the early years of The Golden Age, an orphan at three. Saint Maynard’s is situated on the outskirts of the Duchy of Klingmans Folly, our mutual birthplace and then home in the heart of western Frigia. Saint Maynard’s was very near where one of the few completed sections of the Klingmans Folly Chair Lift* passed through.

*The Duchy of Klingmans Folly got its name from Klingman’s Folly, a 524 mile long chairlift started in the early 20th century by then ruler, DeWitt Klingman, to connect uprealm Frigia with downrealm Frigia and so enable the massive relocation of uprealm resources downrealm. It was never completed. Klingman’s son-in-law, Vernon Applebee, established the Duchy on the proposed chairlift route in hope of reaping significant personal gain. Applebee named the Duchy “Klingmans Folly” as a snipe against his father-in-law, a man he despised. As an interesting aside, Saint Maynard’s Home for Orphans and the Criminally Insane is housed in the old Applebee mansion.

At Saint Maynard’s, everyone called the young orphan Phil. The nuns, before whacking his knuckles with a laser pointer of Byzantine design, would exclaim “Oh Phil, you worthless piece of sinner spit” and “Oh Phil, don’t let the door hit you on your way through the fiery gates of Hell.” Being of a tender age and an impressionable early adopter of the Catholic credo (and somewhat slow to boot), young Phil thought his surname was O’Phil, an Irish moniker he happily adopted. It was belatedly discovered, from a shard of paper hidden in the swaddling that wrapped the spurned toddler, his birth name was Hymie Leibowitz. Today he goes by Hymie Andrew O’Phil.

After surviving the beatings at the hands of the Sisters of Maynard, life became an unending struggle to find his real family and thus reconcile his Jewish birthright with Irish Catholic upbringing … a work in progress still today.

I befriended the waif when we were both lads of nine. I was on a royal junket to the Hen, Hogge, Heifer, and Hepatitis Faire Grounds with Elvis, Rondo, and three young Amazonians.com. The fairgrounds were a short distance from Saint Maynard’s. Young Hymie had stolen away the night before with the hope of pursuing his dream of becoming a Tilt-a-Whirl operator.

As my parents were being shaken down by a polyester clad huckster selling raffle tickets for an air conditioning/water purification system, I spied what appeared to be a diminutive golem or leprechaun skittering amongst the shadows of the Fantasy in Fruitcake exhibit. I slipped away from my family and scampered after the creature, hoping, I think, to nab it and extract a handsome reward. I lured the wee apparition from its hiding place (behind a cage housing a distressingly large rabbit) using a mote of fried dough I found on the ground nearby. After finally accepting my offering, hungrily taking a bite, clutching his chest in pain (turned out to be gas), Hymie belched and smiled. We soon became fast friends. He lived secretly for years behind the Palace Garage. (Not the Johnston Palace Garage, but that of a small movie theater nearby.)

Hymie was eventually reunited with his birth parents and 17 siblings--a huge brood of Jewish gypsies. The size of the family is the subject of some speculation. It appears his parent’s Mortacai and Shlemiel started giving away kids around numbers 7 and 8 and never able to retrieve them all.

Hymie’s Superhero persona is an ornery Hulk-like being, costumed in regalia reminiscent of a high school drum major, who does good deeds despite needing the somewhat ironic motivation of a good kick in the head to get him going. Evil-doers who have the misfortune of crossing Hymie’s path, are regularly heard to exclaim “O’Phil, please don’t hurt us, don’t break our arms.” Now, by night, a frail, and to all accounts, demented man, Hymie cleans the exhibits at the Klingmans Folly Historical Society. He’s a bottomless font of local lore, but unreliable since he makes half of it up. (Damn him!)

Note to Self…
Strategy of maligning everyone I know seems to be paying off. Already I have 4 regular visitors to my blog! Let’s see, just over 6 billion people in the world … Fatboy was right, I better start getting pithy!

Note to Self…
Need to mention my other formidable weapon: the Mixed Metaphor.

Note to Self…
Contact Chambers of Commerce of backwater burgs. See if they’ll bankroll writing of more Klingmans Folly pieces.

Consuming…
The usual meds

I vowed not to make an entry today. But since Princess Daffodil is out of town and might be checking in … and my old comrade Haya Fatboy San (programmer turned sumo wrestler turned Ninja warrior) issued a challenge for JW to be pithier … and the Rabid Pixie has foiled me again, I can’t resist…

This morning, after blowing my whistle and giving the Puppet Master the two minute warning to log off his on-line football game and get ready for school, I was able to counsel the Rabid Pixie (who was not watching TV as intently as it seemed) about the virtues of not unscrewing knobs from the family room armoire. After the Puppet Master and I waited for his bus (and by wait I mean “made an all out sprint to end of driveway”), I reentered the palace just in time to see naked Pixie butt dart off toward parts unknown, but not before catching a glint in the Pixie’s eye which told a tale of guilt, shame, and defiance.

Drawn to the armoire, I discovered key hardware had indeed been purloined. In a gesture of goodwill, the Pixie quickly volunteered the location of the knob and faceplate-- thrown under his brother’s bed. Grunting and groaning while craning my neck and positioning my Dangling Metaphor just so, they took mere minutes to retrieve.

He said the screw had found its way into the kitchen garbage can.

My first guess was one of two heating vents was more likely. But the trash was plausible since it is another favorite cache for Pixie artifacts. (I should have been skeptical though. For when I removed the garbage can lid and asked “Where?” he said “You can’t see it. It’s at the very bottom.”) So after first rooting around the garage unsuccessfully for a suitable replacement screw (to avoid diving through scrambled eggs and coffee grounds), I began examining the garbage can contents like a forensic expert at autopsy. Of course, my pathologistical efforts were fruitless*.

* That is, not counting the rotten grapes I found in there. (Wondered where they had gotten to.)

It must have been the swearing, for the Pixie, feeling a glimmer of remorse (or fear), came clean about the real location of the screw: high and dry in his brother’s top drawer. Apparently the Pixie really liked it and needed it as a permanent addition to his collection of totems and charms.

He was very sweet after that, lulling me into complacency. Only later did I realize I didn’t dispense a morning bolus of Pixie-Out (turns Pixies temporarily into normal boys and girls). I see it now: news crews gathering outside Madam Margaret’s School for Wayward Pixies, “Oh the humanity!”

So much for pithiness…

Link of the Day…
Nigerian 419 scams: scammin’ the scammers

Note to Self…
When blog readership reaches 6, see about getting product placement deals for my “Consuming…” byline, e.g.,

Consuming…
Ice cold Diet Pepsi (ahhhh!)
Hearty dollop of Preparation H (oooh!)

Consuming…
Coffee, coffee, coffee, and diet mountain dew

The usual meds

This weekend brought a visitation to Balmia, in a manner much like the Ghost of Christmas Past to Ebenezer, of a nearly-forgotten but stalwart ally from the Age of Drunkenness and All Nighters. The hero was none other than Crazy Colt*, fierce looking warrior, distant relative of Crazy Horse, who pledged eternal fealty to JW for nursing him through countless hangovers and thermo exams while drifting aimlessly in the Land of Buttermilk and Money in that time shortly before the Age of Unreason.

*His real Indian name, which has 18 syllables, 5 hypens, and 12 diphthongs, has defied rendering from Lakota to English. It’s meaning is equally uncertain. Some say it’s “Big Bird Flying Across the Sky Casting Shadows in Our Eyes.” Others “Hunka Hunka Burning Urination.” Yet others “Smokin’ Joe.” One scholar from South Dakota claims it’s “Preponderantly Lame Mule with Bad Comb-over who Marinates in Applesauce.” I just call him Crazy.

Crazy arrived with his two sons, Rasputin and Luke Skywalker, as a party of advance scouts for a band of godless marauders from the South bent on looting from the Balmian Guard a prize that was rightfully theirs--The Golden Bootie. (A charm said to have such magical power that, while held, assures over-priced ticket sales to sporting events.) The interlopers haled from a horrible place known as Blue Devil’s Triangle--a land where good work habits of young scholars vanish without a trace, wild wolf packs roam, true maidens fear to tread, and even the rams are nervous. Fearing the journey too perilous, Crazy came without his lovely wife, Wynona the Pixie Enchantress, and daughter, Chewtabacca--this even despite Luke’s description of Chewtabacca as a fierce Wookiee with a particularly bad attitude.

As the sun set and the moon struggled to cut the December chill, we snuck quietly through the woods to Klocknspiel Harbor to witness what promised to be a rout of the heathen horde. The Balmian Cavaliers had roundly repelled 3 previous raids by the ill trained and ill mannered Devils. Upon reaching the waterfront we joined 4,193 of our friends along the banks.

The battle was a big disappointment. The club-footed marauders, sweating and stinking under layers of blue warthog pelts and oversized batting helmets retrofitted with rhino horns, looking suspiciously like a troupe of overweight opera sopranos, came rowing a large stretch pirogue into the harbor. We could hear the boorish chief oarsman exhort the lazy bastards to “Stroke, stroke, stroke you lazy bastards.” In the opening salvo, the valiant Cavaliers scored a direct hit on the rogue vessel but, before impact, some demon, perhaps Satan himself, screaming “Referetus Ineptus” caused the cannon fodder to glance harmlessly away. Through the siege, the Cavaliers fought valiantly. They scored another direct hit, which was similarly bewitched by the Prince of Darkness, and unleashed another shot passing a hair’s breadth over the bow. The gallant foot soldiers were outnumbered this night in the boggy fen of the harbor. And with their voodoo charms, like Christmas shoppers swarming a closeout rack at Walmart, the whooping throng overwhelmed the superior Cavaliers. By the dawn’s early light, we could no longer proudly hale The Bootie that so gleamed the twilight before.

Following the carnage, the Puppet Master, Crazy, Rasputin, Luke, and I retired to a favorite Balmic watering hole, the Plug and Chug, to unwind over beer, chicken wings, and other nondescript chicken parts (tasted like chicken anyway). The Plug and Chug is named after a well-ordered set of local mathematicians who practiced their craft while skating upon its ale-soaked floors. A sign out front proclaims it a place “Where Mathematicians Meet Cross-Dressers Meet State Health Inspectors.” Princess Daffodil was last seen chasing the naked buttocks of The Rabid Pixie north up Seminole Trail.

Looks like I burned my daily allotment of space (and patience) introducing Crazy Colt and telling of the Lackluster Battle of Klocknspiel Harbor. I’ll need to save the Song of the Flaming Daffodil for another day…

Quote of the Day…
(This weekend’s episode of Power Rangers on ABC)
“I’ve checked the routines … the subroutines … It just doesn’t make any sense!”

Consuming…
Credit card and network bandwidth
Accelerating Change 2003 conference DVDs
The usual meds

After waking to find the Rabid Pixie once again nesting in my bed (actually I had a premonition he was there from a 4 AM kick to the face), I decided to try to reconstruct the movements of this elusive nocturnal creature. From clues such as scat, eyewitness accounts, and other circumstantial evidence, what I pieced together would bring a Telestrator to its knees (if it had knees). Imagine if you will the following presented by John Madden sweating profusely from within a cloud of virtual chalkdust:

Brother’s bottom bunk -> [BAM] Brother’s top bunk -> [BAM] Bottom bunk -> Beneath sofa in living room -> [WHAM] Under Christmas tree -> Ad hoc nesting site beside brother’s bunk -> [BAM] Guest room -> Sofa of family room (watching Jim Carey emoting the Grinch on TV) -> ???* -> Brother’s bottom bunk -> Parent’s bed ([WHAM] 4 AM kick to father’s face)

*I was unable to reconstruct a multi-hour span here. The time is as unaccountable as “the good stuff” on Nixon’s tapes. Perhaps he beamed back to the Mother Ship or visited the magical land of Rabid Pixies?

I find these night-time wanderings somewhat disturbing for a precocious pre-4 year old. Especially since, in what seems to be a bastardization of the good works of his relative the Blue Fairy, the Rabid Pixie tends to steal money (and other shiny objects) from the slumbering.

I suspect a predisposition to wanderlust was inherited from his Chodaquadack ancestors, who after crossing the ice bridge from Siberia and Germanic Lands to the west, found their way to New York only to continue migrations there. Or perhaps it came from his grandmother Elvis the Obscure who fled the balmy Black Sea fjords to knock about the frigid wasteland of North Unctuous? This inclination is definitely not from Rondo the Steadfast Woodsman’s forebears, whose roots in the kingdom of Frigia run deep.

My only solace comes from: (a) As the Pixie itself pointed out, “Bats are nocturnal,” which makes this entirely appropriate behavior for an aspiring Batman, and (b) One year for a Rabid Pixie, I think, is equivalent to three human years; so the Pixie’s emotional age is really 11.

Pixie Word of the Day…
licker sticker n: rare type of sticker that requires liberal application of saliva before applying to face or belly.

Pixie Quote of the Day…
(proving he’s a good listener, understands cause and effect, and is looking forward to the future)
“When Phluphy dies, it means we can get a hamster.
When Daddy dies, it means we can get a puppy.”

Consuming…
Chocolate milkshake (stirred, not shaken)
Last remnant of Aug. 2004 Dell Crosswords Crosswords
The usual meds

In a time long before the Age of Unreason, when bell-bottomed hippies roamed the Earth, Elvis the Obscure and her husband Rondo the Steadfast Woodsman, enlightened rulers of the House of Johnston, pledged their only son JW to Queen Macajawea and Chief Molting Bull, leaders (toothless figureheads really) of the proud Chodaquadack Tribe of West Central New York, to be joined with their daughter, the beautiful Princess Daffodil. At the time, all parties were keen on the idea. Legend has it a game of bridge, wagonloads of wampum, and a similar quantity of firewater were involved.

Regardless, these great peoples united in an Olympian-style cabal, hereafter known as the House of Jiggle.

This first (lengthy) blog entry introduces the genealogy and mythology of this August and Increasingly Dysfunctional House (picture Old English calligraphy embellishing initial caps) to set the stage for action to come. The main players are:

Elvis. A.k.a. “The Obscure.” A grossly underrated Norse goddess. Has what it takes to be a major deity but has been overshadowed by “that singer guy” with the same name. Shortly after shacking up with Rondo, gave birth to JW and the Three Amazonians.com. Superpowers: (1) Multilingual (literally, has multiple tongues that can lash out and render victims senseless), (2) Mother Smother (ability to suffocate the unwary with affection), (3) Triple Scouring Action.

Rondo. A.k.a. “The Steadfast Woodsman.” Leprechaun suffering from gigantism resulting in him being of normal size. Patriarch of the House of Johnston. Superpowers: (1) Hides a razor-sharp mind behind an exterior of brutish physical strength, (2) Can steadfastly stick to any task eventually wearing down his opponent, (3) Ultra Blarney Power.

Lactose. A.k.a. “The Tolerant,” Eldest in trio of Elvisian Goddesses (a.k.a. the Amazonians.com)—all of whom sprang fully formed from the ear cheese of Elvis. Lactose is soon to be canonized in the Catholic Church. However, she's in danger of being turned out of North Unctuous (a.k.a. Frigia, northern domain of the House of Jiggle) for irresponsible voting habits. Superpowers: (1) Can make multiple copies of herself to engage in many activities simultaneously, (2) Has ability to completely turn a blind eye to the virtues of today’s fine liberal politicians.

Pathose. (Pronounced PAY thos.) A.k.a. “The Swarthy.” Goddess of the home and workplace. Humorous and swarthy. Cross between Martha Stewart, Joan Jett, and Carrot Top. Superpowers: (1) Right hand morphs into titanium “We’re #1” sports novelty hand for smiting adversaries, (3) Can do unspeakable things with a baked ham.

Fructose. A.k.a. “The Zippy.” Sweet and fruity with a hint of oak. Youngest of the Amazonians. As energetic as elder sister Lactose, but since she can’t clone herself, exhibits it in traditional ways, i.e., mania. Superpowers: (1) Holds black belts in Pilates and Step Aerobics, (2) Armed with Big Honkin’ Guns.

JW. A.k.a. “The Mildly Ironic.” Created by Elvis and Rondo from the kneecap of a deranged musk ox. Lords over his family in South Unctuous (a.k.a. Balmia, southern domain of the House of Jiggle). Superpowers: (1) Wields the Dangling Metaphor to deadly effect.

Princess Daffodil. Bride of JW. Goddess of injury and healing. Driven, passionate, successful. Superpowers: (1) Can psychically inflict any medical condition on her foes and then completely heal them, (2) Like her father Chief Molting Bull, has power of invisibility (not!).

Puppet Master J. A.k.a. “JJ the Awesome.” Eldest son of JW and Daffodil. Sports star, creative, musician, intellectual. Superpowers: (1) Disassemblibility (sprouts hammers, screwdrivers, and other tools from his limbs to quickly disassemble any machine within a 100 yards), (2) Super Turbo Boost.

The Rabid Pixie. A.k.a. “TT,” “Jekelhyde,” “The Wayward Cherub,” “Source Closest to the Ground.” Youngest spawn of JW and Daffodil. Created from snakes, snails, puppy dog tails, 40% sugar, 60% spice. A Pokeman aspiring to be Batman. Superpowers: (1) Turns lellow* from head to toe before unleashing his Lightning Attack, (2) Naked Mole Rat Attack (strips naked and savages adversary with razor sharp teeth).

Together, The Pixie and Puppet Master are often referred to as “Sources Close to the Ground.”

Queen Macajawea. A.k.a. “Eater of Garlic and Grain.” Mother of Princess Daffodil. Earth goddess. Matriarch of the Chopaquadack Tribe. Superpowers: (1) Can conjure spirits of dead ancestors using holistic medicines and other uncontrolled substances.

Chief Molting Bull. A.k.a. “Chief Running Scared.” Father of Princess Daffodil. Superpowers: (1) Invisibility, (2) Able to detach parts of his body and store them for later use, (3) A wizard with duct tape (see #2).

Buck the Befuddler. Staunchest ally of JW. During the Age of Unreason, helped defeat the Cqahywm Terrorist Network (pronounced “see kwa HI wum,” see below). Named Buck after Buck County, PA, his former dominion. Superpowers: (1) Infectious Laugh (I mean, really infectious—like The Plague), (2) Befuddling Charm-- addles his quarry with tales of asset management and obscure facts about world history, (3) If all else fails, unleashes his Wudder Udders-- an array of freakishly large stainless steel tubes that spray a substance called “Wudder” (a cross between flubber and water).

Phluphy. A.k.a. “The Phreakin’ Cat.” Pronounced “Fluffy” but not to be confused with Fluffy the cat character in my short story No, No, Nanite. Superpowers: (1) Projectile vomiting, (2) Sheds “rover-like*” hairballs that pursue and engulf its prey.

*lellow adj: a particularly bright shade of yellow.
**rover n: blobular guardians of The Village in The Prisoner TV series.

Stay tuned for more colorful characters that inhabit my fantasy world, like Madam Strabismus (my personal seer), Captain Quidnunc and His Youthful Ward Mavin, Reverend Charlatan (my pastor), JK Dumbledore (former teacher, Wizard of the Yellow Highlighter and Copious Margin Notes), and many more.