Buffalo

When I lived in Buffalo, it had to be the bowling capital of the world.

Cleveland

When I lived in Cleveland, it had to be the LSD capital of the world.

Oh...And the Christians...

JESUS CHRIST!!!!!!!!!!! GIVE IT A FUCKING REST ALREADY, WILLYA????


There . Now I feel better.

A Plug

I've been mindlessly leafing through blogs for some days now. Infinite Singaporeans. Adolescents Ad Infinitum. College girls who still think they can figure this thing out. (Girls: You can't figure this thing out. Stop wasting your time and get on with it.) But I've found one. Go here:

http://freddiesblog.blogspot.com/

First there was Moe & Curly...

...and of course, Archie Bunker and Meathead kept the tradition going. But if this doesn't raise this old vaudeville gag to its highest form, I don't know what does. There's got to be a Pulitzer Prize in this photo.

The Worst Thing in the World

Maybe some of you dear readers (all one of you) recognize Room 101. No? Maybe this will help:

'The worst thing in the world,' said O'Brien, 'varies from individual to individual. It may be burial alive, or death by fire, or by drowning, or by impalement, or fifty other deaths. There are cases where it is some quite trivial thing, not even fatal.'

He had moved a little to one side, so that Winston had a better view of the thing on the table. It was an oblong wire cage with a handle on top for carrying it by. Fixed to the front of it was something that looked like a fencing mask, with the concave side outwards. Although it was three or four metres away from him, he could see that the cage was divided lengthways into two compartments, and that there was some kind of creature in each. They were rats.

'In your case,' said O'Brien, 'the worst thing in the world happens to be rats.'

I'm not smart enough or clever enough to have thought of using Room 101 as the name of this place. I wish I were. I will freely credit my inspiration , the person I borrowed it from. He is another of my heroes and I'll write about him one of these days. You've never heard of him.

Meanwhile, tell me. What is YOUR worst thing in the world?

Boxers

As I stare obsessively at this thing I wrote yesterday, the pattern surrounding this page sneaks insidiously into my consciousness, looking remarkably like a pattern on a pair of boxer shorts. Very masculine, isn't it? I've never, not even once, worn boxer shorts.

If I ever wear a pair of boxer shorts and especially if they have a pattern even remotely like the one on this page, please put me out of my misery.

Wherein I Meet My Hero, Kurt Vonnegut, and he Turns Out to be Just Like Kurt Vonnegut

Kurt Vonnegut is one of my heroes. One of my few heroes. Perhaps my only hero. I would have to think about that. He has been one of my heroes since I was a teenager, lo those many years ago. Having read everything he's ever written, and him writing in such a unique voice, one gets an impression of what he is actually like. In real life. He is.

It was around 1991. I used to take my little boy, Foster, to Concerts for Young People by the Little Orchestra Society at Avery Fischer Hall in Lincoln Center, New York City. Something my mother used to take me to when I was a little boy, lo those MANY, MANY years ago. I recommend it to all of you young parents in the New York area. Maybe you'll be lucky and your kids will grow up with a love for music, especially good music.

On this particular Saturday, in early spring I would guess, Mr. Vonnegut's wife, the photographer Jill Krementz was appearing with the Little Orchestra Society, in conjunction with a new photo book of hers aimed at children. I think she was set up at a table, signing books, before the concert began. And who do I see sort of hanging out, completely unnoticed in the vicinity of this table, but the great man himself. He did nothing to draw attention to himself. I think I was the only person in this crowded lobby to recognize him. I was dumbfounded. I got chills. I said to little Foster, "Do you know who that is??" "No," he said. "That's Kurt Vonnegut!" I whispered. Predictably, he said, "Who?"

We went inside for the concert. Having subscribed for probably three years by then, our seats had gotten progressively better. We were on the aisle in about the fourth row of the orchestra that season. As we settled in to our seats, Mr. Vonnegut walked by and sat down in the aisle seat, two rows in front of us.

He spent the better part of the concert air conducting.

When the show was over, we found our way out of the auditorium, back into the lobby. Ms. Krementz was back at the book table. And Kurt Vonnegut was once again hanging out, leaning against a railing. He was doing nothing to draw attention to himself, and he got no attention for his efforts.

Being shy, and the type of person who would NEVER approach a celebrity, feeling I was invading his or her privacy, I did the only thing I could. I approached Kurt Vonnegut. I was compelled.

He didn't seem particularly alarmed. I said to him, "Mr. Vonnegut, I never do this, but I feel I have to tell you how much I've admired you for so much of my life." He looked at me and said, I can only assume referring to his air conducting, "How did I do?"