Saturday, October 21, 2006

FACE VALUE

If a picture says a thousand words then every photograph of me is an interminable insult. Honest. In my entire life, there are maybe one or two photographs in which I don't look like either a sociopath or a blithering idiot. Even my first stint in front of the camera yielded disappointing results: There I am, a newborn with one eye swollen shut, an indication that my first action in this world was impertinent enough (I don't remember -- maybe I flipped off the obstetrician) to warrant a slug from the doctor. That pretty much set the tone for subsequent photos.

It's not like I haven't taken corrective measures. But they only seem to make things worse. Attempts at smiling warmly became a pervert's leer. Trying to pull off a wry and knowing smile has made me look like a con man smirking after he's made off with the funds for widows and orphans. Subdued smiles make me look sullen, and just about everything else makes me look half-witted.

The final straw for me, the photo that almost made me decide to start wearing man-burkhas, was this head shot. It has been used for a little less than a year as an ad for this blog. I have no idea what effect I was hoping for, but I'm guessing I was trying for a wry, enigmatic smile. Looks like I failed.



But perhaps things would have worked better if I had sought inspiration from the great masters. If I wanted an enigmatic smile, I ought to have imitated the most famous one in the world. Like thisI don't know about you, but I'm already seeing an improvement. I guess it's all about presentation. That sneer by itself screams for a lead pipe to the face. But maybe it becomes more tolerable in a different setting. Why, it might even be pardonable if it were something biblical ...

On second thought, better not try this one. In the original, Adam is looking longingly toward Eve, whom the Almighty has His left arm around. In this case, my face introduces the smirk of a frat boy about to get some and then write a letter that begins "Dear Penthouse Forum, I live in a small, divinely created paradise in the South ..." No, the smirk needs a different home.

I've always been something of an Anglophile and something of a snob, and I like to flatter myself by imagining that I could slip seamlessly into the British aristocracy of the Belle Epoque. So perhaps I should call upon my inner aristocrat:




















But this is Middle Georgia, simpler place with more straightforward manners and values than a bunch of poncy toffs. Perhaps I need to show that I am a salt-of-the-earth, man-of-the-soil type:
Or maybe not. There's no backbone of America in that image! There's no homespun virtue! I have the smug look of a farmer who's getting away with cultivating 100 acres of marijuana. And just look at the blank expression of the woman. Looks like she's been into the harvest up to her elbows. If that image had a sequel, it would be me being handcuffed and thrown in a squad car.

Well, let's see. America does love celebrities and we enthralled by the wonder of Hollywood maybe a little borrowed glamour is what I need.

Ah, now that's more like it! Dashing, heroic, erotic. So what if it snaps credibility in two! So what if every woman I've ever dated is bent double with laughter upon seeing this! I tell ya, that's an image that should go up on billboards up and down Interstate 75, hawking this blog! It just needs mass gullibility to succeed!

Or I could do this: Pull a Sinatra, and deck every photographer I see trying to take my picture. Maybe that would be best for me. And you.

The graphics in this blog item are the work of Karen Ludwig

Thursday, October 19, 2006

A SUBSTITUTE

I was hoping to post something that would use several graphics to get the laughs. Unfortunately, Erin Ivanov, the high priestess of Photoshop, has fallen ill. Normally, I would storm over to her loft, drag her to The Telegraph and chain her to her work station until she's all 'Shopped out. But anybody who knows Erin knows that she is hell to tangle with, so I'm falling back on Plan B.

For those of you who can remember The Rockford Files, one of the consistently best and funniest parts of that show was the telephone message at the beginning (My favorite message was, "Is this a machine?! I don't talk to machines!"). Well, my Internet wanderings led me to a site that has several of the messages listed. And here they are:

"Jim, it's John. I'm at the airport. I'm going to Tokyo and want to repay the $500 I owe you. Catch you next year when I get back." ("Counter Gambit ").

"Billings, L.A.P.D. You know, Thursday is Chapman's twentieth year, and we're giving a little surpirse party at the Captain's. I think you should come. By the way, we need five bucks for the present." ("The Hawaiian Headache")

"Jim, it's Norma at the market. It bounced -- you want us to tear it up, send it back or put it with the others?"..

"Hey, Jimbo, Dennis. Really appreciate the help on the income tax. Wanna help on the audit now?" ("Pastoria Prime Pick")..

"Mr. Rockford, Miss Miller of the Bartlet Book Club. 'Great Detectives Of America' is not in stock, so we sent you "Cooking Made Easy." Hope you enjoy it." (In Hazard)..

"Jim, it's Eddie. You were right about Sweet Talk in the seventh. He breezed in, paid $72.50. But I didn't get your bet down." ("Foul On The First Play")..

"Jim, thanks for taking little Billy fishing, he had a great time. Turns out he wasn't even really seasick. Um, have you ever had chicken pox?" ("Drought At Indianhead River")..

"It's Shirley at the Planted Pot. There's just no easy way to tell you this, Jim. We did everything we could. Your fern died." ('Coulter City Wildcats")..

"Jim, I have finally finished twelve long years of pyschotherapy and I'm now able to tell you just what I think of you. Would you please call me?" ('The Gang At Don's Drive-In")..

"That number forty you just picked up from Angelo's Pizza? Some scouring powder fell in there. Don't eat it. Hey, I hope you try your phone machine before dinner." ("The Prisoner Of Rosemont Hall")..

"Jim, this is Andrea at Todd's Food Mart. Listen, there's a guy down here by the name of Angel Martin whose charged $110 worth of groceries to your account. Is that okay with you?" ("A Different Drummer").

"Hey, I saw your ad in the classified. Three African goats for sale. I keep calling and all I get is a machine. Is that a typo in the paper, or what?" ("Quickie Nirvana").

"Hey, am I too late for those African goats? Haven't got the whole three hundred cash, but, like I've got a whole lot of homemade cheese. Maybe we could work something out." ("Irving The Explainer")..

"Jimmy, old buddy, buddy. It's Angel! You know how they allow you one phone call? Well, this is it." ("The Trees, The Bees And T.T. Flowers, Part One")..

"Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello?" ("The Trees, The Bees And T.T. Flowers, Part Two")..

"Because of where you live says so much about you, your home has been selected by Royal Imperial Roofing and Siding as our neighborhood showcase. A bonded representative will call on you." ("Deadlock In Parma")

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

MATH LESSON

I guess my sister got the math a little wrong. She thought that adding small animal into her day care program would equal a gentle, comforting learning environment. She just didn't factor in the dog.

My sister is a former teacher whose day care is at her house. She thought it might help young children experiencing a prolonged absence from their mothers for the first time to be around a small creature that they could care for. So she built a bunny pen and got a bunny.

She also got a lesson that the blood feud between bunnies and dogs remains in full vigor. Winnie, the family dog who tolerated two cats stoically but apparently draws the line at rabbits, managed to get into the bunny pen and tear the bunny limb from limb.

(This was something of a surprise to hear about. Winnie is usually a very patient animal, almost timid. Well, there was that dead raccoon found in the back yard a couple of years ago, but I always assumed that Winnie knew that tangling with raccoon was a quick ticket to the Old Yeller bullet in the brain. I chose to believe my sister when she said that nephew Jonah had slain the varmint during his Terrible Twos.)

Naturally, this was a setback for my sister, but one that I hoped could be overcome. As the old saying goes, when life hands you a dismembered rabbit, make Brunswick stew. Or something like that. I thought she could perhaps use the mutilated bunny to give her charges an anatomy lesson ... or a cooking lesson ... or a lesson in harvesting pelts, should any of them have ambitions to be fur traders in the Canadian wilderness. But near as I can make of the situation, the only person happy with the turn of events was Jonah. He was wonderstruck by the carnage and delighted in telling me about it. He might one day grow up to direct The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Part 29.

But my sister and brother-in-law now have bigger worries, I fear. Winnie's bloodlust has definitely stirred, and she might decide it's time to start moving up the food chain. I can see now the tragic series of events: my sister arriving home from the grocery store, fumbling at the front door with the bags and the keys, the first step inside distracted by her burden, then -- WHOOSH -- she's hanging upside down, her foot caught in a snare trap. The dog emerges triumphant from the kitchen ... and the mask of canine devotion is gone forever. Or perhaps Winnie would slither cartoon-like across the floor one night, a butcher knife clinched in her teeth as she makes her way to my sister and brother-in-law's room. Or maybe Winnie will get the keys to the family van and try to run her prey down in the driveway.

Something must be done to stop her. I recently found this drawing lying about the house, and I thought it was the work of one of my nephew's fancy. I know realize it might have darker implications.

Man's best friend, indeed.

*****

The drawing is by Erin Ivanov

Monday, October 09, 2006

ANOTHER MISSED OPPORTUNITY

In today's Telegraph business section, the centerpiece profile features Troy Tarpley, owner of a business that repairs dents in automobiles. By any measure, Troy is a decent, honorable man, and I really wanted to help my friend's business by putting a little pizzazz into the profile when I edited it last week. You know, give it a little "attitude."

The first thing I thought of doing was changing the attributions from "said" to more colorful verbs, such as "smirked," "leered" or "preened." But what I really should have done was insert a quote like this: "Yeah, I do a lot of business at people's homes," Tarpley smirked. "My favorite call are when I go to a house that has a hot, young wife and an absent husband. Then I do a different sort of body work, if you know what I mean."

I don't see how business couldn't help but improve with that kind of PR.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

ANOTHER BLAST FROM THE PAST

I wrote this piece about the desk sometime ago, and of course it was only published online. So I doubt many people got a chance to read it. So here it is, "The Desk" thing, and I live to blog another day.

The Desk

My apartment is clean and orderly. I am at last worthy of my desk.

One of the shamefully exquisite joys of this life is how our material goods can define us. You may suck as a human being, but to a lot of people you suck a lot less if you have that ski chalet in Kitzbuhle or that Gulfstream private jet.

But we have to take what we can get in this world. Some of us are zillionaires, some of us are doing pretty good and some of us, like me, have only an antique ... rolltop ... desk.

The desk first came into my life about 15 years ago when my father gave it to my mother for her birthday. It was like something out of a Rockwell painting, all solid oak and sturdy craftsmanship, as straightforward as a firm handshake. I began plotting Mom's death as soon as I saw it.

Sure, that may seem like appalling behavior from a son, but Mom and I had had about 25 good years together, and I figured that was plenty of time. Besides, how often does an antique ... rolltop ... desk become low-hanging fruit?

Unfortunately, Mom was a cagey veteran of the jungle dangers that were Chez Parnell and had little trouble overcoming the snare traps in the hallway, the cobra in the bed and the psychotic, knife-wielding babboon in the kitchen. The desk remained with her, and the deranged longing for the antique ... rolltop ... desk remained with me for many years.

I don't know what eventually brought about Mom's decision. Maybe she remembered what she told me about handling disappointment: "When life hands you lemons, throw back grenades" and was afraid I would take that literally. But I would never have thrown grenades at Mom; I might have scratched the antique ... rolltop... desk. Perhaps she remembered what I told her when our wills clashed during my childhood: "Mom, we both know that you'll crack before I will" and had no more stomach for that kind of fight. But the why is not important here; what is important is that last year Mom called and told me the desk was mine.

(Before we go much further, I want to clear up any misconceptions you may have about my family. We're really quite normal. Sure, we may sometimes -- OK, usually -- use hugs to pat each other down for weapons, but who among the best families doesn't?)

Of course, having the antique ... rolltop ... desk was a bit more problematic than wanting it. As it was now mine, I wanted it to reflect the status and glory of its new master. So I thought about decking it out with purple neon trim and chrome drawer fronts; maybe some hyrdaulic lifts to make it bounce. You know -- give it a "Pimp My Desk" vibe. But the more I looked at the antique ... rolltop ... desk the more I took pity on it. It looked so mortified to be in the general clutter of my apartment, sort of like a Baptist minister who has inadvertently wound up judging a wet T-shirt contest at the local Suds 'n' Jugs. No, the desk should not have to change, but my apartment and its contents would.

And that meant throwing out years of clutter, which was a job that I was hesitant to do. Not for sentimental or slothful reasons, mind you. It's just that when we clear out clutter, we're doing archeological digs into ourselves. And instead of finding the spiritual equivalent of the Parthenon, we're more likely to find tacky pottery and fresoes of Elvis wrestling a tiger. I preferred to let John That Was lie buried under a heap of bad '80s albums, and leave John That Is to his blissful ignorance.

The antique ... rolltop ... desk, however, insisted that I press forward with my task. So I started with something easy: clothes. I threw nothing out. I have consistently dressed like a slob. That means I have not been gathering up clothes like a supermodel fearful of the Apocalypse.

Books were another matter. I have lots of books in my apartment, some bestsellers, some classics and some so dull that even a librarian would consign them to a roaring bonfire. For instance, I was a philosophy major in college, and I still have several of my old textbooks. But are they of any use to me now? Not really; let's face it -- the only way you're going to get people to discuss Kant's third critique at a cocktail party is if you drag them by their heels out of whatever table they dived under to avoid you. And what date hasn't been dashed upon the rocks of romance as soon as a comparison between Plato's spirited man and Kierkegaard's ethical man asserts itself?

But I just can't dump my philosophy books, nor can I cast aside the half-finished histories and half-witted novels that I bought when I was trying to be avant-garde. I can't part with any of my books. It's not that I am a hard-core bibliophile or anything else that honorable. It's that I am a show-off know-it-all. Besides, turning loose another copy of Hegel's "Phenomenolgy" might be a felony.

My old vinyl albums were another matter. They HAD to go. Having them in my apartment was like a permanent visit from my teenage self. And what was he like? Well, he listened to the Grateful Dead, Pink Floyd, Yes, The Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin -- music that suggests highly questionable lifestyle choices. He seldom veered from the mainstream and even embraced REO Speedwagon. Oh, how the gods of cool must have wept when that happened. All in all, I had a record collection that should have left at the front door of the Goodwill store in the middle of the night like some bastard child in Victorian London. Or maybe I should have used it for skeet shooting.

So what did I learn after cleaning up my apartment and sifting through my past? I am a smarty-pants slob with a comically dubious past. Not exactly the sort of thing to post on eHarmony, y'know.

And if Mom wants to give me another antique, I'll know that she's REALLY out to get me.