Ink Pink, You Stink: Purges for the Chronically "It," by Stan Marcus

Honorable Discharge

2011-12-23T12:44:00.006-05:00

YOU'VE PROBABLY don't know this fact, but one of the first anatomical wars was fought by England and Spain in the early 1700s. It was called the War of Jenkins's Ear.

A Robert Jenkins, captain of a British ship, claimed the Spanish Coast Guard, who had boarded his ship, cut off his ear. A few years later, he showed his ear, which he had pickled to preserve, to members of the House of Commons.

War fever had been brewing between the 2 countries over colonial trade, and the ear helped pressure the then English P.M., Robert Walpole, to declare war on Spain. Thus the War of Jenkins's Ear.

The English fleet attacked the Spanish fleet, and in one battle managed to cut off the nose of Carlos Lopez, a Spanish admiral, causing the Spanish to refer to the conflict as The War of Lopez's Nose (in Spanish, of course).

The 9-year war led to other wars that led to other wars that eventually led to the War on Poverty in 1964 and the current War on Terror.

Jenkins's ear and the Gomez's nose were put on display at the National Gallery in London, and can still be seen there. The Spanish have repeatedly demanded the nose be returned. But, then, the Spanish have also repeatedly demanded the English-controlled Gibraltar, a part of Spain ceded to Britain in 1713, be returned.

A few years ago, the English relented and gave Spain a choice between the return of the nose or the return of Gibraltar. This offer led to a fierce national debate in Spain in which no agreement was reached.

By then, England, under U.S. pressure, had rescinded its offer because Spain had withdrawn its troops from the Iraq war.

There have been (and still are) numerous other anatomical wars, but no one has bothered to have any of the hands, arms, feet, and legs that were chopped off pickled and displayed in a national museum, which don't exist in many countries anyway. Too bad. It's an historical loss.

Talking Turkey

2011-11-09T11:32:00.003-05:00

TURKEY breeders have created a turkey with huge breasts because people like white meat better than dark. The bird can hardly breathe and doesn't live very long, but then again it wasn't bred to live.

Benjamin Franklin, I've read, wanted to make the turkey the symbol of American—the national bird—but somehow the bald eagle won out. Franklin, of course, was thinking of the wild turkey, of which there were many during his time. He couldn't have known the turkey would end up looking like a Hollywood starlet with bowling-ball knockers.

I read there has been (and is) an onslaught of wild turkeys on Staten Island and some people find these flat-chested birds nuisances. They block traffic, among other things, and won't move when honked at. They also can be very aggressive. They're protected by federal law, so you can't just blunderbuss them the way you can an Indian.

What confuses me is why the turkeys would want to settle in place built on garbage. But many things in America are built on garbage, so that's not puzzling either.

The Founding Fathers should have gone with Franklin: the wild turkey, demanding equality, integration, and freedom of movement, and at all times ready to peck for it, is a true American.

The Pretty Redhead (see Apollinaire)

2011-08-26T22:53:00.003-05:00

I'M 43, have only a few hairs, almost no teeth, and I'm writing this in a bright, pleasant hospital where they're treating this pneumonia of mine," wrote Max Jacob, a French poet, if you haven't heard of him, and you probably haven't. He lived in abject poverty, is there another? Ah, yes, genteel.

Max was a Jew, but he saw a vision of Christ on his wall and converted to Catholicism.

He was also a debauching homosexual, but he never saw a vision of a straight man on his wall, so he never converted.

He died of pneumonia (a second one) while being transported to a death camp by the Germans. Picasso, his close friend and ex-roommate, refused to sign Cocteau's petition protesting his arrest. Oh, well. What are friends for?

I'm a Jew, too, but I've never seen a vision of Bejesus, as Homer Simpson calls him, on my wall. Too bad. I could use the excitement, something new. Have never seen a vision of any kind, for that matter. Nor am I homosexual, more like asexual, like grass. Just sort of stay in one place and let the weather do me. Or maybe a cow.

"Pity our errors pity our sins," wrote Apollinaire. I've made plenty of errors, but I've never sinned. Don't believe in sin. Original or otherwise. Not my bag. So don't pity me. Don't forgive me. Only the pious commit sins anyway, usually with their wang. Forgive them their wang.

Summer, the violent season, it's over, thank whatever. Gives one a false sense of hope. Hope is over, thank whatever. Gives one a false sense of summer.

I speak no foreign languages, and I'm not much traveled. A dull person. Not worth hanging around. I write poetry, using subjects no one's concerned with. Never a word about chipmunks. Nor azaleas. Nor sausages. No stories. No descriptions. Nothing about my grandmother's rhubarb pie. Just small things. Occasionally war. Corruption. A lot about death. Nothing commending cops, firemen, or soldiers—certainly not politicos.

I like language. Hard stuff. Rhythmic. Memorable. Lines that rumble in my skull, like the New Jersey Transit trains that run a few hundred feet from my apartment. I loathe neutrality, loath despicable humans, like passion, like decency. I envy action, although I'm totally inactive.

Like Orwell, Like Sartre, Think Beckett.

I still have most of my hair and enough teeth. I was married to une jolie rousse, a pretty redhead, but she assumed no noble form, was no metaphor, no sun, just a person like me, but I miss her—"her" meaning my "vision," not of Bejesus, but of a rousse, une jolie rousse, in actuality, a potter . . . turned lawyer . . . . Gone forever.

I'm quite lonely nowadays, no metaphor for that. I struggle, but I'm not poverty-stricken, and there are no Germans around, no Picasso, just me, here.

I have so much to say, but it's safer to keep quiet. Besides, where would I say it? And to whom? On the street? In a letter? I might end up on a list, I might end up like Max. Scary.

Don't pity me, though. I'm a man of good sense, and I don't believe in mysteries, only confusion, evolution. I'm convinced nothing is solvable, not now, not yet, maybe never.

The front lines are in one's head, I believe that, too, and that the battle is never terminated, is not meant to be terminated, that indeed there are a "thousand imponderable phantasms," but that you reach a point in your life when it occurs to you you needn't try any longer, and you smile, feel relieved, walk on.

Pity me not, although I'm definitely your enemy (loosely speaking), as Apollinaire insists he is not. But I have no army. Just me, just Max. And he's dead.

Info for ordering a chapbook (watch video below)

2011-05-30T12:01:00.007-05:00

Ink Pink, You Stink: Purges for the Chronically "It": 48 pages, 28 satirical microessays, $7.50 (includes $1.50 for postage).

Thirsty—Pieces of Fate: 60 pages, 49 microessays, $9.50 (includes $1.50 for postage).

Both chapbooks have color and b&w illus. and photos, are laser printed on 24lb ivory parchment paper, with covers laser printed on 32lb laser paper.

To order: Any negotiable payment to:

Stan Marcus

Box 43111

Upper Montclair, NJ 07043

I'm very honest and very locatable, so don't be concerned about being ripped off. Give me a few days, though. I manufacture each myself.

Thanks.

2011-05-30T11:11:00.002-05:00

Me, rippled

2011-04-22T17:08:00.001-05:00

Bean Curd

2011-03-31T19:19:00.003-05:00

BEHIND every silver lining there’s a cloud. Behind every cloud there’s a thunderstorm. Behind every thunderstorm there’s an atomic blast. Behind every atomic blast there’s an everything bagel, preferably with low-fat cream cheese. Behind every everything bagel with low-fat cream cheese there’s a civilization. This civilization is composed of human beings, as well as cockroaches. It’s hard to tell the difference, except I think human beings are a little taller.

People I’ve known have accused me of being a misanthrope. I tell them that’s not true. I love people. You can’t get an everything bagel with low-fat cream cheese from a cockroach. You can’t even get a cup of coffee. Others say I’m negative. I say I’m the most positive person around. How can that be? Because most people, at worst, are dangerous and at best are barely worth bothering with, yet I still try to create both satirical prose and poetry. What could be more positive than that?

I have dire predictions for the survival of mankind. I have no dire convictions for the survival of cockroaches. But you can’t write a satirical prose piece or a poem for a cockroach, any more than you can get the everything bagel with low-fat cream cheese from a cockroach.

In my old winter coat, which I can’t afford to replace with an equivalent one, the lining is ripped and I keep sewing it up. Fortunately, it’s not silver, or I could not afford to repair it. I wear it mostly on cold, rainy days.

I tell myself that living is not that miserable, although even behind my down-filled lining there’s a silver cloud. Now I’m getting all mixed up. That’s what happens when you have insomnia from being angry all day. You get a case a word rage.

So it’s better to pull off to the side of the road and wait until it passes. A cloud passes, although it’s replaced quickly or not long after by another. But so is an everything bagel with low-fat cream cheese and maybe a cup of coffee, which Italian writer Primo Levy, having his first coffee after surviving Auschwitz, referred to joyously as an elixir. Levi then wrote a series of great books about his survival and how he lived after that. I read some of them. I don’t recall his having an everything bagel with cream cheese with his coffee, but I do recall his falling (or jumping) down a flight of stairs and dying. I try to remember his coffee.

The Unnature of Nature

2011-02-25T11:38:00.006-05:00

A MAN RECEIVED a nasty shock while shaving

with an electric shaver in the shower. A friend

told him that electricity and water don’t mix.

The man said I thought that was oil and

water.

The friend explained that oil floats on the top of water and is never absorbed by the water the way sugar and cocaine are because it’s denser than water, but electricity, unlike sugar and cocaine, is conducted by the water, more or less the way a copper wire conducts electricity, and it’s not a matter of absorption.

The man was puzzled. “Does that mean if I poured electricity into a glass of water and drank it, I wouldn’t get high?”

The friend said you can’t pour electricity into anything. It’s not a substance but a flow of charged electrons and protons.”

The man, incredulous, said, “If I snort electricity, will I get stoned?”

The friend said, “You won’t get stoned, you’ll get dead.”

The man said, “But I can drink a glass of water and olive oil without getting dead.”

“Yes, that’s true, but you can’t drink a glass of water and motor oil, or transmission fluid, or hemorrhoid ointment without having some sort of negative gastrointestinal reaction.”

“But water and cocaine are okay, right?” said the man.

“That’s okay,” said the friend, but cocaine may destroy your brain cells, of which you seem to have few.”

“So the lesson to learn from this is never mix things. Take everything straight”

“That’s not the lesson to learn from this. The lesson to learn from this is don’t use an electric razor while showering, unless the electric

razor is made for using in water.”

“So you can use an electric razor while showering.”

“Depends on the razor,” said the friend.

“So, depending on the oil, oil and water might mix”

“Could happened,” said the friend. “Could happen.”

“So there’s no lesson to be learned from this.”

“None at all said the friend. Pardon me, I have to go.”

Paranormal Debilitation

2011-02-05T13:00:00.002-05:00

TOO SULLIED with loose threads, overwhelmed by buttons that have popped off, the ironing of a shirt, pants, creases, wrinkles that will not flatten, no, not washing dishes in a river, but still the anxiety of a half life, in that one can never sufficiently complete a chore, that nothing actually goes away, stays and stays or migrates into other chores.

Never suggest a fix-it to your boss, for instance—he will praise your ingenuity and tell you to implement it.

Seeping into the sand, an eternal barbell on your shoulders, what can get done first? One would expect a philosophy here, but we know there isn’t an epistemology of creases. Although creases can be symbolic. In fact, they can destroy your life, give you OCD or SPR or QQZ or FXK or whatever pharmaceutical companies are advertising on TV. The companies come up with the letters than the drug, or the drug and then the letters? Thus a new medicine can relieve LES—leaky ear syndrome.

Dust is everywhere. As you are dusting your coffee table, more dust is settling. In fact, the dust has dust on it. There is no overcoming the fact that we are composed of particles.

Once dead and interred, it won’t matter if we’re dusty of not, or if we clip our nails, which I understand continue growing. Your hair, too. What a mess you are when you’re dead.

The question arises, why be clean? I notice as I grow older it becomes less and less important to me what I look like.

I’ll do my laundry today only because I don’t want to stink. It offends others. But if I didn’t? So what? It’s all a charade. What’s “it”? How do I know? We’re taught habits of living, and they make sense because everybody follows them (at least in our environment—I doubt if the Pakistanis shower every morning, or at all).

Damn it, as I’m typing this, I notice my laptop is getting dusty. I have a small brush I use to dust it off. So, please wait a minute while I give it a dusting. Thanks. . . . There, it’s dusted. . . . I just sneezed from the dust and got snot all over my hand. This is insufferable.

Oh, sure, there are worse things than dust and snot. But I’m talking symbols here. Of course, if you can afford it, you can hire others to take care of your symbols.

Still . . . I just bought a set of sheets and some towels. The tags say that I have to wash everything before I use them. Clean items come pre-dirty. I saw a pair of ripped jeans for 75 bucks. Hell, I can get a pair of $20 jeans and tear them up myself.

Cleanliness is close to godliness. And we all (those with brains) know where godliness has gotten us.

In the No

2011-01-05T22:55:00.002-05:00

POVERTY is recession proof. Or maybe it’s not. A person can always become poorer. Until he’s dead. Then being dead is recession proof. Or maybe not. If the person has a gravestone or monument that needs maintenance, then the person is in trouble.

Tooth decay is recession proof—no doubts there. In fact, you’re entire body can disintegrate and it won’t cost you anymore today that it did 10 years ago.

Recessions are recession proof in that a recession can’t have a recession.

Many other things are recession proof, among them corruption and stupidity. Also war, sex, miserable relationships, and nodding out.

The best way to weather a recession is to recede. That is hide. More or less like avoiding a blitzkrieg. Then a recession can be just a tornado passing to your left. It leaves a mess, but what the hell, life’s a mess anyway.

Soon, the recession gets replaced with inflation, deflation, constipation, regurgitation, titillation, perspiration—my god, there are 10 and half pages of “ā-tions” in my rhyming dictionary.

What’s interesting about an “ā-tion” (and an “ession”) is that unlike a baseball game they don't generally end in 9 innings but only after somebody important declares them over. And they don’t end then either, unless everyone else in the know agrees they’ve ended. And they’re still not over because no one knows what an end of an "a-tion" (or an “ession”) looks like, or, for that matter, when it began.

Economics is very abstract, like an abstract painting. In an abstract painting, you look for what’s real. In a realistic painting, you look for what’s abstract. In other words, you never accept what's in front of you. That's what makes humans geniuses—and idiots.

Objective

2010-12-12T01:08:00.003-05:00

YOU OPEN your bathroom cabinet door to get out

your eyebrow pencil and your dental floss leaps

out of the cabinet and dives into the open
toilet.
You reach for your razor and your nail clipper

bounces off the sink into the tub.

You then try to get your comb and your lip

balm flips 10 times in the air, ricochets off the

floor, and lands in the living room.

You wash your face and the soap shoots out

of your hand and splats on the gunky tile floor.

You wipe your face with a towel and put

the towel back on the rack and it slides off

the rack onto the wet bathroom mat.

You open your closet to get pants and

a shirt and 2 other pants, a hat, a scarf, one

glove, and 4 bank statements you have piled

on a shelf above the clothes fall on top of your

shoes on the bottom of the closet.

You dig out a pair of shoes from under

a shopping bag containing your 1996 tax forms,

which tips over, releasing a ream of papers you

should have discarded years ago.

You reach for a coat in the coat closet, but

the coat you want is jammed between other

coats, and when you pull it out, the two coats

and a sweater drop to the floor of the closet,

or rather onto the 3 stacks of books on the

closet floor.

You manage to escape your apartment

without the floor lamp by the door falling

on your head, although you leave a trail of

devastation behind you. You'll pick up everything

when you return . . . if you return.

All and All

2010-10-21T22:56:00.004-05:00

“WHERE there’s a will there’s a won’t,” wrote Ambrose Bierce in his The Devil’s Dictionary as an example of a revitalized “saw,” which he defined as “a trite saying or proverb ” . . . that’s called a saw because “it makes it’s way into a wooden head.”

Nowadays, it’s hard to recognize a “saw” (a word never used) because much talk has been reduced to cliché, bromides, jargon, inanities, rubbish, twaddle, tripe, piffle, hogwash, blather, claptrap, and hooey. But a will is important, not because there are plenty of won’ts. but because when you pass you want to lessen the burden on loved ones of disposing of you and your possessions.

Which leads one to “pass.” People and dogs are passing in droves every day. But where do they pass to? To Flatbush? And if they do pass, it would seem that a will would be less important to possess than a passport. But we know that that’s just more blarney because who wants to say a person is just going to die and never exist again?

I’m having a will drawn up right now, and it will have a few won’ts. Such as don’t bury me near people who who couldn’t speak without using saws. I told my daughter my epitaph should read No Clichés, Please. And the gravestone should have no religious symbols on it, no foreign languages, or the word “belovèd.”

I asked a pathologist friend who’s made numerous medical discoveries when he was going to come up with a cure for aging. He said a cure for aging already exists. It’s called death. I thought that was very witty and that Bierce would have liked that.

Anyway, that’s all I have to say, so have a good one.

Eternalizing

2010-10-07T13:22:00.007-05:00

GRAFFITI is the cockroach of art. It survives indefinitely, no matter how much of it’s erased. When you’re on an el, you can see miles of graffiti on the sides of rooftops. In fact, if you look up, you can see graffiti on the clouds.

Many of the ancient walls archaeologists dig up are laden with graffiti, although archaeologists always insist it’s classical art. After all, who want to spend years digging up a site and discover only graffiti?

When graffiti was prevalent in New York City and covering subway cars, there were art gallery owners who decided graffiti was an art form and devoted shows to it.

The graffiti makers learned from the gallery owners they were artists, where as they had thought of themselves only as equivalent to Bombo 236, or Roberto who lives on 236th Street. They just wanted to see their mark, more or less the way a leopard marks off his territory by pissing on a rock. Thus some considered pissing a secondary art form, but gallery owners drew the line there: no pissing in their galleries.

Now art is often made up of lamb chops, pigs sawed in half, platelets from heart-attack victims, and so on, but still no piss.

Graffiti has waned (at least on subway cars)—due in large part to more powerful paint removers, so graffiti seems ephemeral. At least to the Bombos 236es.

Image what archaeologists will think when in a thousand years they dig up a subway car covered with graffiti. Of course, in a thousand years there might not be any archaeologists (or anyone else) left on earth. But there’ll still be cockroaches . . . and, of course, graffiti.

New Chapbook:

2010-06-30T15:32:00.011-05:00

Thirsty? Pieces of Fate

Amusing and satirical microessays as posted throughout blog (see chapbook cover below). This is my second self-manufactured chapbook. For my first book, see further below.

Thirsty? Pieces of Fate consists of 60 pages with 49 microessays, illustrated with amusing color photos. As was the first chapbook, Thirsty is printed with a laser printer on 24-pound ivory parchment paper. Covers on 32-pound white laser paper.

Price: $10 plus $1.50 for postage.

Send $11.50 to:

Stan Marcus

Box 43111

Upper Montclair, NJ 07043

New Chapbook

2010-06-30T14:46:00.007-05:00

Bylaw

2010-01-19T00:19:00.036-05:00

THE PROOF is in the pudding. Walnuts and raisins could be in the pudding, too. My mother used to make chocolate pudding, and after refrigerating it, it would have a skin on the top that made me gag. I’d scrape it off, although adults were always telling me it was the best part.

Speaking of proof in the pudding, I was ticketed for going through an obscure red light. I went to court to try to eliminate the 2 points I would get on my license.

About 20 or so people were seated in the courtroom. I sat for a half hour waiting to be summoned, listening to a very crisp judge dole out justice—mostly fines: A woman brushing her teeth within 500 feet of a public urinal, $350. A man disposing of a rutabaga in a park trash can, $450. A woman tweezing her eyebrows in an ugly zone, $350. A young woman driving with an open bottle of laxative on her front seat, $400. A man sucking his thumb, $300. A retiree slouching towards Bethlehem, $350. A young man bending over backwards, $250.

The prosecutor called my name and told me my options. It would cost me $400 to get a ticket without the 2 points. It was my first traffic ticket in 30 years of driving, but despite that I was equivalent to a toddler who had received his first traffic ticket after a week on his potty.

The prosecutor suggested leaving the points since they were not enough to change anything, and that would be $85. I could then take a defensive driving course to erase them.

He made sense, so I chose that: 16 hours in a classroom for the certificate. That is 16 hours and 30 years. Proof is definitely in the pudding. Or rather in the skin on the top of my mother’s chocolate pudding that made me gag.

Bone Theory

2009-10-07T16:19:00.012-05:00

NO BONES were discovered in Schiller’s

grave. Mozart was tossed into a garbage

heap and turned into compost. Descartes’

bones were in 30 different countries.

Copernicus's bones were under a floor

board in a church in Poland. Nobody knows

where Bernie Meyers's bones are because

nobody knows who Bernie Meyers was,

including me.

The cemetery near where I live has plenty

of empty ground for more burials. With all

the people who have lived and died on earth,

how can a cemetery have available ground?

Some American Indian tribes stockpiled

their dead. They buried bodies in tiers, creating

20-foot-high mounds. These mounds were

eventually bulldozed and Walmarts were

constructed on top of them. The Walmarts

thus became holy sites. Tribe members have

tried doing ancestral dances in Walmart

parking lots but have been driven out by

the cops. Now they do their dances on

YouTube, but most feel something is

not quite right.

In some Asian countries, the dead

are cremated and their ashes used as part

of a dowry. Others, like Schiller, just refused

to be buried—thus ending up misplaced.

Schiller was still writing his play Demetrius

when his croaking time approached, but he

told his relatives and friends who came to

prepare him for death to get the hell out

of his room. Then he wrote his poem

"Ode to Joy" with a morphine needle.

It’s like that for artists. They keep going,

death or no, which is what separates them

from ordinary people, except from my

father-in-law, Milton, who liked to cook

and when dying of cancer in a hospital

was still clipping recipes out of newspapers.

Beethoven should have written a 10th

symphony using Schiller’s unknown poem

called "Ode to Milton," as well as an 11th

for my poem "Ode to Bernie Meyers."

I’ve never been to a Walmart, and I don’t

do ancestral dances, which are ridiculous.

Besides, my ancestors gave me very little

when they were alive, so why would they

give me anything now they're dead?

I can see myself, though, doing a meringue

(my favorite dance) in a Walmart parking

lot—although with someone I love and

who loves me.

Also, I don't recall any of my ancestors

(the ones I knew) showing an interest in

dancing. They just ate all the time—usually

boiled chicken.

(See April 2009 & October 2009 for first

chapbook [Ink Pink, You Stink: Purges

for the Chronically "It"] info.)

Chapbook

2009-10-07T15:41:00.001-05:00

On Chapbook

2009-04-26T20:18:00.023-05:00

48-chapbook contains 27 prose pieces (I call them microessays) similar to (or the exact ones) published here. It also includes a few silly illustrations (a self-portrait drawing, too). The photo on the front cover (which can be viewed above and below) and the back cover were shot by me. The book is printed on 24-pound ivory parchment paper with 32-pound white laser paper for covers.

I'm selling the book for $7.00 plus $1.50 for postage and envelope. Since I drove myself crazy on and off for five months to figure out how to produce this book, I estimate I'd have to charge about $13,000 a copy to pay for all my learning, confusion, computer research, hair-pulling, despair, bothering salesmen at Apple stores for info (they generally have a limited knowledge), and even getting lost a few times driving to a store to find the right paper. But I can't pass that on, can I.

Was it worth it? How do I know? It kept me busy. I made the book because when I read the pieces aloud at open mikes, people often went wild with laughter and praised me. So if you'd like a copy, mail me $7. Send to: Stan Marcus, Box 43111 Upper Montclair, NJ 07043. I'm completely honest, well, not completely. But you can trust me. You'll get your book, although give me a few days since I manufacture them as needed. Thanks.

(If you want to check out my poems—but they ain't so funny—see my other blog: http://stanmarcus2.blogspot.com.)

Conventional

2008-10-05T13:13:00.010-05:00

AT THE 3-day annual International Convention and Trade Show, the Director of Advertising of Winlsow Neuter Oil Paints trysts with her love companion, the Chargé of Information of Grumstein Brush Detergent, and they couple 2 or 3 times between PR and sales.
The Master of Product Development of Fabulistic Paper beds down at dinner time with the Commissar of Distribution of Fibber Pastel in a suite reserved by Fibber for committee seminars.
The editor-in-chief (known as "Dog Nuts") of America Splashes checks into a hotel other than the one reserved for its staff: an all-men’s residence where his consort of that city has engaged a room and both can go in and out unabated.
The Vice President of Consolidation of Jus’ Trukin’ Easel materializes on the convention floor with his unannounced guest, the Administrative Subordinate of the Manager of Material Resources at Jus’ Trunkin’, who has no reason for being at the convention.
The Senior Vice Overseer of Connective Tissue at Fuzz Buzz Frameup Company sidles over to the Justification for Crayon booth where he liaises with its Matron of Corporate Instigation, an old colleague.
The unmarried underlings, generally newcomers, person the booths, as the hall fills with patrons and empties of executives.
Three days of gossiping and gossiped about, mocking and mocked about, but business gets done as business always gets done, whether war, famine, hurricane, or lust.
At the convention close, all kiss good-bye and return to their respective spouse and home office, where they play solitaire on their computer between episodes of business-going-on until the next convention.
And so life passes and employees are promoted and fired and shuffled about and rearranged and hired and quit and have children and are divorced and remarried and get psoriasis and business goes on.

Namely

2008-08-31T22:20:00.010-05:00

I HAVE no memory of having learned how to read. In

fact, I can’t swear I ever learned how to read. True, I

can write this, but I can’t guarantee I can read it.
I once met a woman who said she could write shorthand
but couldn’t read it. I accepted that. I can’t read shorthand
either, but I’ve never needed to read it because I’ve always
owned a tape recorder.
I once met a man named Hercules. He was short and
thin, and I doubt he could have cleaned out the Augean
stables, which (like my apartment) hadn’t been cleaned
out in 30 years.
I also met a man named Odious Brown. He was not
odious at all. He was quite nice. I think his mother
meant to name him Otis, after the elevator,
because she liked the name but decided not to since
she was claustrophobic and never got on an elevator
without trepidation.
I never met anybody named Trepidation, but I expect
to one day.
I’ve always hated my name—Charlemagne—and I’ve
been angry at my parents my entire life for branding
me so horribly. My sister wanted to name my
Oldsmobile.
What’s in a name? Indeed. I probably would have
been just as uncomfortable with myself if I had been
given a more common name such as Mandrake.
An unheralded teacher must have taught me how

to read—not me alone but lots of children, and I just
happened to be among them. It was the law—no
one would have bothered teaching me anything if
it hadn’t been. I was a skinny, ugly, dumb kid—that
I can remember—not a child a teacher would take
to and want to put into a class for gifted children.
I was less than ordinary, except for my name,
Charlemagne, which I’ve already told you I've
always hated.

Cigar (for Steve Joseph)

2008-05-05T12:19:00.007-05:00

HENRY has learned 2 things from his years of writing poetry: Number 1 and number 2. He's learned other things also, but writing poetry for so long has rendered him unable to count past 2. But 2 is high enough for him, as a trillion is not high enough for an insurance agent.

An insurance agent believes in a free-market economy, but only when his company doesn't have a monopoly. A poet believes in a free-market economy, but only after he's had 72 books published and is venerable. To be venerable, you have to be toothless and express extraordinary ideas such as Jack be nimble, Jack be quick.

Poets and insurance agents are very much alike in that they both smoke stogies a cigar clubs, but an insurance agent wears an Armani suit and a poet wears his pajamas. Neither has a past nor a future, only accomplishments. What either doesn't possess at a given millisecond is not possessed. "I sold this" "I wrote that" means zero. "I'm a member of the million-dollar-a-year insurance club" "I'm a member of the Academy of American Poets" (anyone can join) means less than zero.

The coming years are bleak for both, but a cigar isn't. A cigar offers many things: pleasure, relaxation, a leather tongue, cancer.

An insurance agent can have a mausoleum built for himself so people will remember him. Whom exactly he doesn't know. Not his clients. Perhaps his family, if any of them still talk to him.

A poet can have himself interred in his ex-wife's garden next to their deceased cat.

Both know a good cigar is a tonic. It's the most effective, if not least expensive, way of dealing with nothing. And nothing is what we all deal with.

Environmental

2008-04-13T21:40:00.008-05:00

I WAS walking along 10th Avenue in Manhattan. A middle-age blond woman came up to me and asked me if I wanted to have a good time.

I told her I definitely did—I wanted to go to Coney Island and have some pink cotton candy and popcorn and Belgian waffles smothered with vanilla ice cream and raspberries, and then I wanted to ride the Cyclone and the Parachute Jump, and then I wanted to go for a swim in the ocean and lie out in the sun and get tanned.

She said, "That's not the good time. I had in mind. I mean do you want a date."

I said I would love to have a date, especially when I'm having my good time, because having a good time with a date is a lot more fun then having a good time alone.

"She then said, "That's not the kind of date I mean. You're an idiot," and walked over to a parked car in which a man was sitting behind the steering wheel studying a map.

She knocked on the car window to get the man's attention, but I don't know what happened after because I walked away feeling disappointed. I would have loved to have had a good time, and with a date. I don't have many good times, and I certainly never have a date. Maybe some day in the future, I thought. But not likely.

Don't Ask . . .

2008-03-19T22:30:00.005-05:00

A PENNY saved is a penny earned. A penny saved, though, would mean one less penny to pay a bill. A penny short on your electric bill and the electric gets turned off. Then you have to go out and spend the penny, and a lot more, for candles. So a penny saved is a penny earned should read a penny saved could lead to misery.

Also, a penny saved, meaning a penny not spent, is the worst thing that can happen during a recession or oncoming recession. People need to spend at least the penny that would have been saved, and in fact should spend much more than the penny for the sake of the economy. So a penny saved is a penny earned is an ineffective, if not a downright hazardous, policy.

A penny not saved plus 100 pennies spent is much better. That you only make 24 pennies a year means nothing. You borrow 76 pennies from the bank or run up debt on a credit card. Or simply put, you buy something you can't pay for.
Taking out a loan from a bank is sensible since interest rates have been lowered. To help you spend more, you'll get a tax rebate of 4 pennies. That should not be saved either, and certainly not used to pay off the electric company to get your lights back on.

If everyone follows these rules, the economy will fight off the recession and we all will be better off. Then a penny saved will again be a penny earned. True, you'll be 7,000 pennies in debt and still buying candles, but you'll be a patriot, having helped your country.

In a Sling

2008-02-13T20:18:00.014-05:00

HONESTY IS the best policy—except when dishonesty is a better policy. Embellishing or disembellishing is not a bad policy either. Keeping your mouth shut is a good policy, too.

Honesty will most likely get you waterboarded, dishonesty will most likely get you waterboarded. Keeping your mouth shut will most likely get you respect . . . and waterboarded.

Embellishing or disembellishing—if you supply specific information—will most likely keep you from getting waterboarded. Singing an aria from Pucini might keep you from getting waterboarded, depending on the libretto and the waterboarder's musical tastes.

You're asked a question, such as, "What is the weather outside?" Simple enough, but you've been locked up in a windowless cell for 5 years.

You can't be honest, and you can't be dishonest, and you can't shut up. You'll get waterboarded. So you embelish or disembelish—with specific information. You say, "The sun is blazing hot like a jalapeño pepper," or, "It's colder outside than Renée, who was the prettiest girl in high school and always ignored me."

Then you supply specifc information, such as the sun's diameter and what a jalapeño pepper looks like, and you describe Renée's beautiful face and physique.

You won't get waterboarded because all waterboarders have felt the hot sun, tasted a pepper, and had a Renée in their life.
The waterboarder will have you returned to your cell and might even send in a lollipop. A red one.

You'll probably be brought back to the waterboarding room an hour later and asked more questions, and you'll embellish or disembellish again, with specific information. But you'll keep in mind that waterboarding may be unpleasant, but no more so than eating liver and beets.

Talking Turkey

2008-01-07T23:37:00.006-05:00

TURKEY breeders have created a turkey with huge breasts because people like white meat more than dark. The bird can hardly breathe and doesn't live very long, but then again it wasn't bred to live.

Benjamin Franklin, I've read, wanted to make the turkey the symbol of American—the national bird—but somehow the bald eagle won out. Franklin, of course, was thinking of
the wild turkey, of which there were many during his time. He couldn't have known the turkey would end up looking like a Hollywood starlet with helium-filled mammaries.

I read there has been an onslaught of wild turkeys on Staten Island and some people find these flat-chested birds nuisances. They block traffic, among other things, and won't move when honked at. They also can be very aggressive. They're protected by law, so you can't just blunderbuss them the way you can an Indian.

Although wild turkeys populate other areas, people have been wondering how they got to Staten Island. They fly very well, so that's not puzzling. Or maybe a couple of them were in the New York City marathon a while back and they just walked the wrong way.
What's confusing is why they'd want to settle in place built on garbage. But many things in America are built on garbage, so that's not puzzling either.

The Founding Fathers should have gone with Franklin: the I-don't-give-a-damn wild turkey is a true American.

Atmospheric Pressure

2007-09-12T22:32:00.004-05:00

HEATHROW Airport is fogged in. Most flights have been canceled. Fog is a weather condition in which a cloud comes down to the earth and makes the air foggy. The fog is so bad, it has gotten into people's underwear and is irritating their skin. Thousands of passengers are stranded in the airport, some sleeping on toilet bowls.

The hour-long BBC newscast gives a thorough 55-minute report on the fog. During that time, we learn that Heathrow Airport is fogged in and most flights have been canceled and that some people are sleeping on toilet bowls.

Many detainees are interviewed. They're asked how they feel about the situation. All say they feel great, except for their underwear irritating their skin. Some Germans say it's

better at Heathrow than Disney World. The Americans have found a good hot dog stand. The English ask the reporter if they're still in England. The reporter assures them that they are.

One Englishman says to the reporter, "If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field that is forever England."

The reporter signs off: "This is Alistair Thimble reporting from Heathrow Airport."
The anchor completes the day's news, which includes a 4-minute dispatch about a meteor striking a knish vendor in Khartoum.

Arboreal

2007-09-04T20:15:00.004-05:00

A MAN robbed a bank dressed as a eucalyptus tree. He even had a koala on his shoulder.

He didn't draw a gun, but he made it clear that if he weren't given money, he would release eucalyptus fumes, which would clear up the employees' and customers' sinuses so thoroughly they would pass out from breathing.

A teller gave him money—a few thousand dollars—and he left satisfied.

Unfortunately for the robber there were not enough leaves across his face and he was recognized on the CCT monitor and arrested.
Being a man of the forest, he was not locked up in jail but placed in a greenhouse, where he sprouted so many leaves, he choked to death.

Two questions were asked: Who was responsible for his death? and Was he given cruel and unusual punishment?

The prosecutor said the man had defined himself as a tree so he was treated as a tree. The lawyer representing his family said the man was nuts and should have been kept in a cell.

The prosecutor then said that since the man had roots, he needed to be potted and required sunlight and lots of water. The lawyer, in turn, pointed out that the man was trying to steal money and a tree doesn't need money.

The prosecutor and the lawyer went back and forth, until a judge ruled the death natural. The koala was brought to a zoo.

Dickers

2007-08-31T20:18:00.003-05:00

TWO men dressed in suits were smacking each other with their attaché case on the 5th-Ave. platform of the E train. One was older, one was younger. Some might have assumed they were having an altercation.

I, observing through the train window, figured they were negotiating a contract—perhaps the monetization of the E train. I read a book long ago on how to negotiate, but unfortunately I can't remember a word. Perhaps there was a section on the use of the attaché case in a negotiation—the proper way of flattening your adversary's nose—thus winning leverage.

But most likely the book dealt with general methodology and offered no specifics, which could take on many forms: wars, sanctions, elbowing, stinky makeup, snoring, Red Rectum Hot Sauce—you name it.
I negotiated a contract once when I was a child. I was playing with friends in the front of a house and a man came running out of the house pursuing us. After peeing in my pants, I ran away as fast as I could.

It wasn't a successful negotiation. As far as the attaché-case duel, the older man suddenly signaled fingers and lowered his attaché case. The younger man did, too. The latter probably stuck to an intransigent position—such as the E-train was public property.

The train pulled out of the station, so I'll never know what the upshot of the negotiation was, but it didn't matter. On the next station, I saw 2 men smacking each other with bags of Cheez-Its.

Among Many

2007-08-24T22:49:00.002-05:00

LIFE is too short to hold a grudge. Life is too short to associate with those you hold a grudge against.
For instance, a hippopotamus wants to take a dip in the Ganges, but the Hindus block him because he isn't a bovine and is unholy. The hippopotamus explains that he is very holy and spends most of his life in scared waters. The Hindus will not relent.

One Hindu suggests they kill the hippo, but others are reluctant. A woman notes the hippo could be sort of an ox. It's large enough, and it's better not to take chances. So the Hindus merely shoo the hippo away.

The hippo wanders back to hippoland. He feels dejected. Unwashed. Unblessed. Angry. He holds a grudge.

He dips into a river with other hippos, but he says nothing. He knows they'd never understand. They're hippos, and why should they bother? Life is too short.

Dominion

2007-08-05T22:17:00.001-05:00

THE SWISS Alps are higher than New York City tenements. Wealthy people ski on the Swiss Alps, which jut up into the sky above the ionosphere. But few of those people, if any, have ever eaten kreplach.

My mother made kreplach in the Bronx tenement she lived in after she was married. My father was a traveling brassiere salesman, working mostly in Tennessee, where Wallace Stevens was to place a jar. My father said Tennessee was a hard place to sell brassieres because, unlike Steven's jar, breasts in Tennessee never took dominion.

But my father was persistent and he made enough money to buy a house in Brooklyn. And although (also unlike the jar) death shall have no dominion, my mother and father both died and I failed to become the engineer my father wanted me to become.

Instead, I traveled all over the country, like a brassiere salesman, but I avoided Tennessee, and I never sold anything, not even dope. I ended up in New Jersey, the Garden State, where there are few gardens and lots of lawns and realtors. I haven't eaten kreplach in years, but each evening I down2 glasses of schnapps in celebration of my heritage, whatever it is, and think about the Swiss Alps.

I Am, Therefore, I Am

2007-07-29T13:52:00.005-05:00

SCHWARTZY was a philosopher. A natural born philosopher, like some people are natural born singers or athletes.

Schwartzy never read philosophy. Schwartzy never read anything.

Once, though, he tried Spinoza—because a girl he liked recommended him.

He bought a used copy of Spinoza's Ethics and read 40 pages.

Ethics was obvious, he thought, and wondered why Spinoza had bothered.

The girl encouraged him to read other philosophers. He did and had the same reaction.

She said, "Read Saint Genet."

He read 40 pages and decided Sartre was a jerk and Genet was a degenerate.

Schwartzy liked to sit in the park on a bench and suck on a Tootsie Pop. The pigeons dumped on him occasionally. This was okay. Life was simple.

A nymphomaniac sat next to him one day and told him that love was everything.

"What's everything?" he asked.

"You need to join a women's writing group," she said.

He did and wrote a 40-page memoir he found unreadable.

Sporting Life

2007-07-06T14:12:00.003-05:00

THE UNIVERSE was a golf ball once. An intelligence wanted to shoot putts, but there were no greens, so in a moment of frustration, it hammered the golf ball with a putter and things began to develop.
It didn't take long. There was an explosion, but the intelligence wasn't injured because it hid behind its golf cart.

Within minutes, there were golf courses all over the world, although some were restricted and wouldn't let it in.

It didn't matter, there were still plenty of others.

Now the world is filled with greens and holes—also other intelligences, who between deals on how to possess the parts of the universe they don't already possess, sink putts.
The original intelligence is quite happy, though. It's acquired an expensive set of clubs and plays every day.

It hears others mention the squalor surrounding the golf courses and it gets annoyed.

"What the hell does that have to do with golf?" it says. "I need to perfect my swing."

I like when it dresses in yellow knickers.

You have to admire something so serious about achievement.

Low-Income Housing in Camden, New Jersey

2007-06-18T11:52:00.002-05:00

INMATES in prison sometimes disappear when they're incarcerated in special housing units.

These special housing units, known as boxes by the prisoners, are for those who misbehave—for instance are caught looking out a cell window at Philadelphia.

The special housing units are 8-foot cubes with nothing in them but an empty sardine can and two strands of hay. Prisoners are locked up alone in the special housing units for periods of 3 days to 87 years.

Eight times, when guards unlocked one of these special housing units to transfer an inmate, they found the box empty. A thorough search revealed nothing. How could this happen?

Investigative teams were brought in to solve the mystery, but they came up with nothing.
It was intimated that a guard was opening the units and letting the inmates out. But this idea, beside infuriating the guards, was rejected.

Investigators spent a week in each of the special housing units from which an inmate had disappeared, but they neither figured out what had happened to the inmates nor disappeared themselves.

The prisoners were never located despite an extensive search.

Eventually, the warden had the special housing units filled with cement. He also boarded up all cell windows.

The 8 missing prisoners were never located, although traces of 2 of them were found in Philadelphia under an el.

Old Boy

2007-06-07T13:51:00.002-05:00

THE DEVIL is like a radish. He’s red, has a tail, a subtle but unpleasant flavor, and little food value. He spends most of his time outside New York City and San Francisco because he feels out of place among their many frenetic people.

He has no particular function, is generally unemployed, and lies around in his trailer in a trailer park in Tennessee drinking beer and watching NASCAR races.

He likes blue grass music, especially songs about Jesus, and when he manages to motivate himself, he attends county fairs where he enters peoples’ bodies through their mouth when they sneeze—and retreats only if someone says “God bless you” to the sneezer.
Once securely inside a person, he turns his host into an upholder of our way of life. He’s not much of a talker.

Organic

2007-05-21T21:11:00.002-05:00

ASPARAGUS makes your urine smell like asparagus within 15 to 30 minutes after eating the vegetable. Making your urine smell like asparagus is the body's way of greening the earth. Thus human elimination becomes a form of political protest.

Not everyone has asparagus urine. Few presidents, senators, congress people, dictators, or murderers urinate asparagus urine, and hardly anyone who wears a uniform urinates asparagus urine. Their urine smells like piss. Their kidneys don't purge their body of the asparagus chemicals, which can be toxic in high doses, so I've read.

Thus many of these people, being poisoned like that, are in a perpetual bad mood, although they can laugh and watch reality shows like anyone else.

A tyrant can be a perfectly charming host at a meal and even show you photos of his family.

Tall Story

2007-05-09T13:45:00.003-05:00

I WAS once the size of Godzilla.

When I took a walk, which I did often because I needed exercise and no gym would accept me as a member, I crushed a lot of houses and cars and I probably killed some people.
I met a young woman whom after she got to know me, said I didn't have a mean bone in my body.

I thought about that for a long time, so long I shrunk to the size of a hamster and I had to avoid being stepped on myself.

The woman then stopped talking to me because small, furry things reminded her of a hand muff and she prided herself on being contemporary.

I was very lonely. After all, a hamster doesn't have any friends.

So I sat around and thought some more, and before I fully realized it, I had turned back into Godzilla. Well, not Godzilla, but one of his sort.

I feel much better now. I was a depressed hamster.

Instrumental

2007-05-05T12:16:00.002-05:00

THIRTY years ago, a man hauled a five-hundred-pound organ up a mountain. The organ was strapped to his back and he had to walk bent over.

When he had accomplished his feat, he put the organ down on the ground and left. It was too much to carry back. Besides, carrying it back wasn't part of the deal.

The organ was discovered recently by other climbers. It was covered with snow. No one remembered the event, and the immediate question was how did the organ get there.

It was first thought that the organ was an artifact from prehistory. If Paleolithic man made cave drawings, perhaps his mountain contemporaries played the organ. Then someone recalled the pack-horse man, and film footage was found showing him trudging up the mountain with the organ.

No one knows if he played the instrument before leaving it. A Bach fugue would have been nice. Most likely not. He was demonstrating his strength.

I once carried an ocarina up a flight of stairs and didn't play it.

Goat

2007-05-03T12:52:00.002-05:00

I DON'T recall if I've ever been near a goat. I eat goat cheese, which for me is expensive, and which tastes delicious on a chunk of a baguette accompanied by a glass of merlot, but I don't think I've ever socialized with a goat.
Why I'm thinking about a goat at this moment confuses me. I was reading a sketch by Pasolini—about a poor boy shortchanging his customers when selling them chestnuts on the street and a goat popped into my head. I then looked up the symbolism of a goat in a book. A goat can stand for fertility, male sexuality, or lust. Or—the book didn't mention this—a goat is a person who loses a ball game for his team by screwing up in the last few seconds.

I then began writing this piece about a goat, which I've now completed.

An Everyday Consideration

2007-04-23T12:44:00.003-05:00

YOUR temporal lobe houses your soul. It dwells there like a bar of soap, and if you use it to wash yourself, you're faced with two problems. The first is that you'll wear it down—like a bar of soap. One day you'll reach into your brain and find nothing left but a sliver, and then what are you going to do? How will you live?

Your soul, as we all know, escapes through your mouth when you croak and goes up to Heaven, but what if you use up your soul? You'll have to live in Bensonhurst for eternity, and being clean won't help.

The second problem is that you'll be removing part of your temporal lobe, leaving you, if not in a vegetative state, certainly less responsive than a sour ball.

It's best to leave your soul alone and right where it is, even if it serves an oddball function. It does keep your brain intact, and it's an excellent topic for discussion

I Want to Suck Your Blood

2007-04-16T12:25:00.001-05:00

AN ENGRAVED 24%-lead crystal glass made in Slovenia leeches lead into your orange juice, and lead, as we know, can reduce your mental processes to a dribble. So what you do to keep your brain intact is soak the glass in vinegar for 24 hours before drinking from it. But then, while washing the glass after the soaking, it might crack in your hands and cut you, as did one of mine, possibly because the vinegar not only removed the excess lead but also lead necessary to make the glass glass.

I know nothing about Slovenia, but it does sound like a place that produces a regular flow of monsters and genocidists.

Yugoslavia produced a once friend of mine who when his girl friend broke up with him swallowed a bottle of aspirins, and when on a visit to his Yugoslavian birth place beat a dog
to death because its barking was irritating him.
He went on to win an Oscar for Best Story, thus fulfilling the American dream of attempting suicide, murdering a large animal, and winning an award.

Theatrical

2007-04-12T21:31:00.002-05:00

THE professor explained the play's stage directions:

"The playwright wants the actor playing the role to walk out onto the stage with an apple, sit on a chair facing the audience, and eat the apple as if no one were there, as if he were completely alone. The actor is to do no acting—just eat the apple."

Domingo protested: "It is impossible to sit in front of an audience and eat an apple without acting."

The professor disagreed: "The actor eats the apple, that's all."

Domingo objected: "Eating an apple in front of an audience as if the audience were not there requires extensive acting."

The professor insisted no a second time.

Domingo was the professor's student, so Domingo returned to being a student. The professor continued being a professor.

The end.

Bogie

2007-04-08T00:12:00.003-05:00

SEVEN tobacco-company CEOs—balding, gray-haired men in dark suits—stood up, one by one, in front of a Congressional committee, and with right hand held high, swore they did not believe tobacco was addictive.

I, too, do not believe tobacco is addictive. I've been alive for a long time—perhaps as long as those men—and I'm not addicted to tobacco. I do get drunk often and stagger around my apartment singing children's songs. But I'm not addicted to tobacco, and I'm not a drunkard either, just an alcoholic.

In fact, I'm not even an alcoholic. I can control my drinking. For example, I can forgo the vodka I have each evening and replace it with cognac, sherry, and Slim-Fast.

I am addicted to sweets, however, and that addiction I have trouble controlling, so I avoid buying sugary items. Too much sugar, we're told, is not healthy.

My kids bought me a birthday cake on my birthday and I ate a sliver of the cake every day for the next week. I probably should have tossed it out after they sang me "Happy Birthday." But how can you throw away your birthday cake? To compensate, I drank a couple of glasses of bourbon with each slice.

In Casablanca, Humphrey Bogart drinks bourbon, but he calls it "boorbun." It always makes me laugh. I call it "burbon," as do the other Jack drinkers I know.

Rick (Bogart in the film) owns a nightclub but has a policy of never drinking with his customers. He does smoke with them, though. As did Bogart, who smoked with everybody, and all day, and possibly when he was sleeping. But that was his choice. Hell, he was Bogie.

Parts of a Hole

2006-12-27T22:42:00.005-05:00

A NEW JERSEY woman was arrested for possessing preowned body parts. The Chinese sell the preowned body parts of those they execute. My stepbrother has a 1974 Buick Riviera and a shack filled with Riviera parts. "The parts are worth more than the car," he told me. Following that logic, human preowned body parts are worth more than the pre-dead humans they came from.

You can't—as of yet—buy effective unowned body parts. A baby would be their source, but a baby is like a new car: as soon as you drive it out of the showroom, it's preowned. Mathew Brady and other Civil War photographers weren't interested in body parts—preowned or new—but they were in bodies. They rearranged the corpses of dead soldiers because soldiers have a habit of not dying aesthetically or in the right spot. The photos they took are worth considerably more than the soldiers were, dead or alive.

On TV I saw a Hasidic Jew in Israel gathering up what was left of a man who had been struck by a rocket. He was using a large, black garbage bag, and when he was through, he knotted the loose ends of the bag, the way I do when I'm throwing out my garbage. What he was left with was a bag about the size and shape of a football, which was filled mostly with air.

My old SLR camera is broken—it needs new parts. But the camera company doesn't make parts for this camera anymore. But I know of a repair shop that will fix it with preowned parts.

My uncle had a preowned pig's valve in his heart. He was a corrupt cop and lived to be older than 80.
Mechanical body parts are promising. You'll be able to buy them new, but you'll have to get them serviced by the dealer, and we all know how dealers rip you off. You go in with a loose wing nut on your aluminum liver and you come out with four gabardine kidneys (one with a vest and the other three with an extra pair of pants), a polyurethane thyroid, a cast-iron esophagus, and a teakwood-veneered spleen. And the wing nut on your aluminum liver is still loose.

(This piece appeared online at The Pedestal Magazine in a different form.)