By the way, did you know that 73% of all statistics are made up?
I take collecting comedy albums seriously.
There's nothing funny about comedy.
You see, I like to laugh so much that Phil can make me laugh just by saying the punchlines to a few of my favorite jokes. That's right, just the punchlines, not the whole jokes. And they make me laugh. A lot.
In fact, I don't just laugh, I crack up. I've been known to laugh uncontrollably for several minutes. My face and lungs hurt from laughing so much. Really. Once I fell off my chair because I was laughing so hard. Because they're great jokes. Really. Very funny jokes.
But Phil doesn't think that the punchlines are funny, either with our without the jokes attached, poor deluded boy. Sigh. Well, that's not entirely true. Phil does think that some of them were funny once, the first time he heard them or told them. But he doesn't think they're funny again and again and again, even though they clearly are. A good joke is funny no matter how many times you've heard it as long as it's told by someone who knows how to tell it. Poor, poor Phil. He just doesn't get that. Sigh.
Although Phil doesn't think that my jokes are funny, he does think that it's very funny that he can make me laugh by saying things over and over and over again that he doesn't think are funny. Sometimes he enjoys making me laugh so much that he starts laughing, too. So, you see, I ultimately can make Phil laugh. So I win. Because I'm funny. Really. Very, very funny.
And for goodness' sake, don't ever say, "Timing!", "Alpaca!", "Twenty dollars, same as in town!", "But the waitress said vanilla!", or either of the two funniest punchlines in all of comedy, "And if we're lucky, maybe we can find a banana for your monkey!" or "The Aristocrats!", because I'll crack up and be totally useless for the next several minutes.
This fact is of little importance because many millions of Americans no doubt have Irish, Scottish, Welsh, English or other royalty or nobility in their ancestry. James in particular provides a wonderful example of how such fellows generously shared their genetic material with ladies not necessarily bound to them by wedlock, thus ensuring at 400 years' distance that he has even more descendents than an ordinary faithful man of the same era (and James also generously shared his genetic material with other men, too, a rather randy and ambivalent fellow, apparently). Ahem.
Moreover, the Stuart kings of the United Crown were a remarkably bad lot, what with two of the four doing so badly that they were deposed, and the first of those two, Charles I, after whom I am not named, was executed by his own people. Must have been a mighty rotten sod.
As I always say, I take no credit and accept no blame for who my ancestors were, for what they did or failed to do, or for whom they diddled. However, if you call me a bastard, at some distant level I suppose that epithet has some small merit, and I shall not be offended.
I had great difficulty with the dialect and with the irony and satire that made up so much of Twain's wit. But I read it. What a great place to start! Reading great literature became one of my passions, and it has rewarded me greatly.
Seeing that film and then a few others such as Death in Venice over the next few years changed my life—I became deeply involved in the study of film history, theory, practice, and criticism. I spent a lot of time watching movies, perhaps too much time some folks would say, but for me it was fascinating. I was hooked on something that would be one of the primary concerns of my academic career. I estimate that I have seen between 6000 and 8000 films, many of them more than once. (I've seen Citizen Kane and Duck Soup at least 40 times each, for example.) But that doesn't bother me because I don't consider watching films to be a waste of time. Film is my life's passion. Even a physician such as I hope to become can immerse himself in film's seductive embrace for pleasure and perhaps to engender a profound thought or two.
Also, seeing Doctor Zhivago caused me, at not quite twelve, to be intensely aware of the seductive embrace implied by the screen presence of the lovely Julie Christie, who at 13 years older than I, was not quite 25 when she made that film. She is now in her 60s, but I don't care. She's still beautiful to me.
About a year later, I saw the film The Sand Pebbles, an ambitious and admirable film that I thoroughly enjoyed, even though it wasn't art or literature as Doctor Zhivago was. One of the things that concentrated my attentions greatly was the seductive embrace implied by the screen presence of the lovely Candice Bergen, who at 8 years older than I, was not quite 20 when she made that film. She, too, is now in her 60s, but again I don't care. Again, she's still beautiful to me.
If you want to learn more about Death in Venice, you can read the chapter of my dissertation that deals with that novella and film, but you can get an idea by looking at this photo of one of the more recent covers for that novella, a photo of boys cavorting on a beach taken from what would be von Aschenbach's point of view.
Or perhaps this production still from Death in Venice that illustrates the cover of Germaine Greer's recent book, The Beautiful Boy, which discusses the notion that women are not the only idealized and abstracted objects of male sexual desire in film. (Although the title may suggest that the book is no more than neo-feminist prattling or perhaps pedophilic pandering, she actually has an interesting idea here. Nonetheless, I'll bet you a nickel that hardly anyone reads the book outside of feminist and film studies scholars.)
This young man is the object of von Aschenbach's attention ... or affection.
Yup. It's what you think it is, but it's much more than just ... well, you know ... not that there's anything wrong with that.
Now, doesn't that look like a profile of Spencer Tracy when he was about 50, like he looked in, oh, say, Father Of The Bride?
See? I told you.
I also used to get David Janssen and Richard Egan mixed up. You don't believe me? Well, just look at them. This is David Janssen.
And this is Richard Egan.
See? Don't they look a little alike? And I was like 6 or 7 when I first got them confused. I was able to distinguish them by the time I was, oh, say about 30. Quick! Which one was in Pollyanna? Which one was in The Green Berets? Which one was in The 300 Spartans? Did you get them right? See? I told you it was easy to get David Janssen and Richard Egan confused.
And don't even get me started on how hard it is to keep Anne Francis, Connie Francis, and Connie Stevens straight.
I was originally cast by the third assistant director as an academic dean. I was given an appropriate academic robe to wear, and told to sit with the other folks similarly cast. About an hour later, the second assistant director walked by, looked at me, and said, "You look too radical to be a dean. You're going to be a parent instead." Must have been my beard. Sigh.
By the time I was about 45, I had lost so much hair that it took only a matter of a minute or two (at most) to cut what remained of my beautiful, long, wavy, walnut brown hair, but Gene and later Phil continued to stretch it out for 40 minutes just to keep up the pretense. Such sweet guys, such good friends!
Now, I buzz-cut it high and tight myself. I have no need to waste money on hair cuts because, well, there's not that much hair to cut. I look like a Marine or Curly Howard, depending on the generosity of your point of view.
Now I worry about not being smart enough.
For Christmas 2006, my brother Dave gave me a DVD of the concert film from Yes's 35th Anniversary Tour in 2004. When I watched it for the first time, I was kind of shocked. I thought to myself, "Gee, those guys look terrible! Their hair is grey and kind of thin on top, they're wearing thick glasses, and they've put on weight! They must be in their fifties!!!!"
And about two-thousandths of a second later, this little voice that lives in the back of my head, that's a little bit smarter than I am, and that sounds just like Wally trying to explain something to Beaver on Leave It To Beaver said, "You big goof! Of course they look like that! They are in their fifties ... and so are you!!!"
I must be middle-aged. Sigh.
... walked up to me and said, "Have you seen the other students? Have you noticed how young they are? I'm glad you're here. Now I can have an intelligent conversation with a mature man!"
I didn't have the heart to tell her that I was neither intelligent nor mature.
But the upside is that after meeting Sandy I didn't feel middle-aged at all any more. In fact, I felt about 16. We became good friends. Sandy has a daughter, Hannah, whom I absolutely adore. Hannah was about 11 when we first met in May 2005. The three of us watched movies together, did our homework together, and often just spent time together. Sometimes I helped Hannah with her homework, too. I wrote Hannah a poem:
I always have time for Hannah,
Even when I'm eating a banana,
Or ironing my bright red bandana,
Or telephoning Montana,
To talk with Lola Falana!
The first time we went to the beach together (it is, after all, rather convenient to have the Caribbean Sea right at the bottom of the hill on which you live) and I took off my t-shirt, Sandy said, "Hey! You're in pretty good shape ... for a man your age!" And I just laughed, and she quickly added, "Not that you're old or anything!" And I just laughed more, and she just got more embarrassed. It's a good thing that we both have good senses of humor.
I got back at her, in a gentle way, completely lacking in political correctness, but very much in tune with my sense of humor. Sandy is slightly deaf. Most folks can't tell that because her deafness is very minor and she wears hearing aids (that you can't see), so she can most often hear everyone just fine. But every now and then, just to be funny—and remember, I'm a very, very funny comedian, and I have a hyperactive sense of humor that can twist itself in a dozen different ways all at once—I would look at her with a puzzled look on my face and shout "What??? at her as if I hadn't heard what she'd been saying to me. (I was really good at knowing when to do that just often enough so that it was funny and not so often as to be annoying. One of the Three Pillars of Comedy is ... wait for it ... yes, that's right ... timing!) Then she'd laugh and give me a playful punch or throw a sofa pillow at me. As I said, it's a good thing that we both have good senses of humor.
I miss Sandy and Hannah.
For a dollar, I'll tell you what they were.
For two dollars, I won't.
One or the other. It's up to you.
When I was learning to scuba dive, I was refamiliarized with the physiological phenomenon associated with this practical joke when I took my first extended dive in warm water. The bottom line is that you might want to swim upstream of me if we ever go scuba diving together in warm water.
A friend took pictures.
You're never going to see them.
One day when I was visiting Tom at ISU, the three of us were just shooting baskets in State Gym when three random guys asked us if we wanted to play a pickup game of three-on-three. These guys were college kids in their late teens or early twenties and they were pretty good basketball players. Tom and Jeff were not only in their early twenties, they started on Iowa State's basketball team, that is, they were (and are) remarkable athletes and excellent basketball players.
I was in my early 30s at the time, and I have never been a great basketball player, much as I love the game. On a good day, when I've been practicing a lot; when I'm not too far over my ideal weight of 170; when I've been running regularly and have good wind and endurance; when I've been lifting weights regularly, and I am fit; when I'm strong, well-rested, not sick, and not injured; on a good day like that, I can manage not to suck. But there was a big difference in ages and abilities here, so I said, "No!", but Tom and Jeff said, "Yes!" because they always liked to play basketball, especially if they got to show off a bit and trounce some random guys, and because this was during the off-season so they missed the interplay and they probably wouldn't get into trouble if they got caught playing pickup ball, which they were not supposed to do.
So it was Tom (forward), Jeff (guard), and me (designated geek) against these three other guys. I didn't actually do much of anything except take the in-bounds pass from Jeff and then pass it off to Tom or back to Jeff and take maybe two or three dismal shots at the basket. But I was on the same team as Jeff Hornacek. And Tom Schafer. And we won. So now you know why the Utah Jazz didn't beat the Chicago Bulls in 1997 and 1998, and go on to win the NBA championship—they didn't have Tom and me to help out Jeff. Ahem.
But I have played basketball at Hilton Coliseum, which is pretty darned cool. I have friends who attended Iowa State, friends with whom I keep up friendly competitions, friends who probably haven't played basketball in Hilton Coliseum, so I bet they're jealous! (Yes, Jennifer, Bonnie, Ann, Karen, and Val, this means you! :-)
Ironically, I have never played basketball at the University of Illinois's Assembly Hall, home of U of I Basketball, even though I worked for the Division of Intercollegiate Athletics at UIUC part-time for many years as a tutor and had access to just about anything and everything, saw just about anything and everything. (Someday I'm gonna write a book.) But I have been on the catwalk at the top of the dome in the center on the inside of the Assembly Hall, which is also pretty darned cool. It must be at least 100 feet above the floor. I have many friends who attended UIUC, friends with whom I keep up friendly competitions, friends who probably haven't been on the catwalk in the Assembly Hall, so I bet they're jealous! (Yes, Alan, Neal, Duane, Ben, Mike, Howie, Gary, Mark S., Frank, Jack, Eric, Mark R., Paul, Brian, Kirk, Jane, Hilary, Carol, Mar, Loree, and Liz, this means you! :-)
To test your geekiness, you can try this quick online test. I scored a 20. Or you can try this one. I scored a 99. Sigh.
The thought was inspired by Dante Alighieri's epic poem Commedia Divina (or Divine Comedy in English). The narrator, Dante, tells us that at 35, which is half the Biblical three score and ten, he has lost his way in the middle of his journey through life. He is depressed, perhaps suicidal, he doesn't know what to do, and he is unable to use his faith to save himself. Through the efforts of several guides, he manages to find his way out of his metaphorical dark woods and ultimately unites with "the Love that moves the stars," that is, with God.
One of his guides is Beatrice, his vision of the ideal woman, someone on whom he had had a courtly crush when they were both younger.
So I made a list of all my crushes. One of my "Beatrices" had died, my first crush, Kara Bealmer, had died, and that was terribly sad. But I wrote to the rest, those girls on whom I had had courtly crushes, and they all wrote back. What a pleasure! One of them seems to have misinterpreted, perhaps mistaking my belated confession of a courtly crush with the ravings of some kind of stalker that might show up on Law and Order SVU. I hope I have a chance to explain away her concern someday. None of these women have anything to worry about. Neither do their partners or spouses. I am not carrying a torch. Maybe a match ... but not a torch! ;-)
(Note the beautiful, long, wavy, black hair. That's Stephanie's. Now note the beautiful, long but not quite as long, wavy, walnut brown hair. That's mine. Or it used to be. Sigh.)
