How the hell do I manage this? Why the hell do I even do this?
Here's a little irregularly scheduled gut check for Len Speaks. Sparked largely by the major increase in readership here over the past twelve months. It's time to think about the folks who venture here. The Sitemeter at the bottom of every page gives me a wonderful way to analyze the daily circulation.
Truth be told, there are about 65 regular or semi-regular readers. I know who you are because your location of access rarely changes. If you come here from a work e-mail address, that server is what comes across Sitemeter. You might work in New York, but your company server is in Connecticut. Ding, Connecticut gets credit for the readership.
If you live someplace on Long Island and you access through Optimum On-Line, the location of readership will be most likely the business address where you send your cable bill every month. The same goes for any broadband service. So, if you're thinking that I can actually tell that you're reading this while using your laptop on the toilet, well, I can't get that specific. At least not yet.
Now, the real spikes to Len Speaks have come as a result of Google searches. I can see that because Sitemeter shows me what folks have searched. I now realize that people are doing exactly what I sometimes do when there is time to kill. I will think about somebody buried in my past and wonder what happened to them. You type their name into Google and voila. Instant update, provided the person is still alive and not in jail.
So, that's what a lot of gremlins are doing. On a daily basis, I get at least four or five hits from people googling "Jonathan Goldsmith." Who? Oh, for Pete's sake, don't get me started again. It's that dopey Dos Equus guy and the mere mention in today's piece will get me another few hits a day. The world's fascination with this dude is astounding and pathetic all at once.
There is one interesting sidelight to the incessant Googling of this clown. One such search came for the always-dreaded-to-see "doj.gov." That would be the Department of Justice for those not up on their governmental alphabet. Hmmmm. Is somebody there Googling me or him? They clearly typed his name into the search box. Just what have you done, Jonathan Goldsmith?
Imagine my surprise when I noticed three different people showing up at Len Speaks because they typed in the name of my pediatrician, Dr. Fiegoli. What are the odds of that?
Think about my horror when I realize that one reader from Brooklyn, New York has come back to this site multiple times to read the same article I wrote about my teachers in high school. And their initial Google search was for "Miss Kass," my tenth-grade world history teacher. I wonder now if this is Miss Kass herself. And, if it is, I wasn't very kind. But, heck, if you're egotistical enough to do a Google search on your own name, you're going to have to live with the results no matter how insulting they might be.
Digging down deeper into the same entry on my high school teachers, I remembered that I sort of intimated the possible sexual orientation of one certain English instructor. I started to immediately worry that, if Miss Kass is Googling herself, the same could be done by this other teacher. And what if she still, decades later, is not out of the closet? Or wasn't even in amongst the winter coats to begin with? Hmmm, she didn't seem to be the litigious type when I took her in the tenth grade. But, who knows how the subsequent decades have soured her?
Uh oh.
Now I've written even snarkier stuff here and I hold my breath when the location "Washington DC" shows up on Sitemeter. Gulp. I start to obsess on whether I will be able to use my laptop in a concentration camp so I can, at the very least, keep writing even snarkier comments for this blog on a daily basis.
Yep, I look at Sitemeter all the time because I love to know how you got here. Maybe I should be worried more about how I got there.
Dinner last night: Polish sausage at the Dodger game.
If you've got some time on your hands, why not spend it here with our weekly history lesson? And celebrate Harold Lloyd's birthday.
1303: THE UNIVERSITY OF ROME LA SAPIENZA IS INSTITUTED BY POPE BONIFACE VIII.
Or, as the college is known in the sports pages, URLS. A member of Italy's Big-o Ten-o.
1526: THE LAST RULER OF THE LODI DYNASTY, IBRAHIM LODI, IS DEFEATED AND KILLED BY BABUR IN THE FIRST BATTLE OF PANIPAT.
Poor guy. He is killed in battle and his sole legacy is some town in New Jersey.
1534: JACQUES CARTIER BEGINS THE VOYAGE DURING WHICH HE DISCOVERS CANADA AND LABRADOR.
if the guy had an ego, we might be watching "Hockey Night in Cartier." Or petting our Cartier Retriever.
1653: OLIVER CROMWELL DISSOLVES THE RUMP PARLIAMENT.
Rump. The word itself is all the funny we need.
1657: ADMIRAL ROBERT BLAKE DESTROYS A SPANISH SILVER FLEET UNDER HEAVY FIRE AT SANTA CRUZ DE TENERIFE.
He, however, did not shoot his wife later in the evening.
1775: DURING THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, THE SIEGE OF BOSTON BEGINS.
This is the one Bucky Dent was not involved in.
1792: FRANCE DECLARES WAR ON AUSTRIA.
Way to pick a fight, Frenchies. Who can't kick the shit out of Austria?
1809: TWO AUSTRIAN ARMY CORPS IN BAVARIA ARE DEFEATED BY A FIRST FRENCH EMPIRE ARMY LED BY NAPOLEON.
See! And they were beaten by some asshole who had one arm in his shirt.
1828: RENE CAILLIE BECOMES THE FIRST NON-MUSLIM TO ENTER TIMBOUCTOU.
Now you know why people aren't exactly flocking to Timbouctou. Or even spelling it correctly.
1836: THE U.S. CONGRESS PASSES AN ACT CREATING THE WISCONSIN TERRITORY.
What do we need Wisconsin for? Oh, yeah, cheese.
1862: LOUIS PASTEUR AND CLAUDE BERNARD COMPLETE THE FIRST PASTEURIZATION TESTS.
How come it's not the Bernardization Test?
1865: ASTRONOMER PIETRO ANGELO SECCHI DEMONSTRATES THE SECCHI DISK, WHICH MEASURES WATER CLARITY, ABOARD POPE PIUS IX'S YACHT.
The Pope's Yacht? I love those vows of poverty.
1884: POPE LEO XIII PUBLISHES THE ENCYCLICAL HUMANUM GENUS.
Big freakin' deal. Where's your yacht, Leo?
1889: ADOLF HITLER IS BORN.
Boy, that was an evening of reproduction Mrs. Hitler lived to regret.
1893: ACTOR/COMIC HAROLD LLOYD IS BORN.
One of the most creative guys to ever work in Hollywood. Watch one of his old movies. He did all the stunts himself. Not an ounce of special effects needed. Unlike the crap we have to watch today.
1902: PIERRE AND MARIE CURIE REFINE RADIUM CHLORIDE.
You just know these two are lying in caskets and still giving off light.
1912: TIGER STADIUM IN DETROIT AND FENWAY PARK IN BOSTON OPEN FOR THE FIRST TIME.
Almost 100 years old. No wonder these parks felt apart years ago. The only trouble is they're still using one of them.
1916: THE CHICAGO CUBS PLAY THEIR FIRST GAME EVER AT WRIGLEY FIELD.
The place had to be new at some point.
1918: MANFRED VON RICHTHOFEN, AKA THE RED BARON, SHOOTS DOWN HIS 79TH AND 80TH VICTIMS MARKING HIS FINAL VICTORIES BEFORE HIS DEATH THE FOLLOWING DAY.
Snoopy, please pick up the white courtesy phone.
1923: NUN/BROADCASTER MOTHER ANGELICA IS BORN.
You don't see that career often. "Nun/Broadcaster." On second thought, even rarer would be "Nun/Navy SEAL."
1926: WESTERN ELECTRIC AND WARNER BROTHERS ANNOUNCE VITAPHONE, A PROCESS TO ADD SOUND TO FILM.
Yeah, yeah, we know. We ain't heard nothing yet.
1937: ACTOR GEORGE TAKEI IS BORN.
Oh, my.
1939: ADOLF HITLER'S 50TH BIRTHDAY IS CELEBRATED AS A NATIONAL HOLIDAY IN NAZI GERMANY.
Head on down to Bamberger's for the big "Hitler Day" sale.
1945: DURING THE LAST DAYS OF WORLD WAR II, ADOLF HITLER MAKES HIS LAST TRIP TO THE SURFACE TO AWARD IRON CROSSES TO THE HITLER YOUTH.
Happy birthday and it's almost over, you miserable piece of shit.
1959: ACTOR CLINT HOWARD IS BORN.
Even less hair than his brother, if that's even possible.
1961: BASEBALL PLAYER DON MATTINGLY IS BORN.
Donny Baseball!!!
1984: THE GOOD FRIDAY MASSACRE, AN EXTREMELY VIOLENT HOCKEY PLAYOFF GAME, IS PLAYED IN MONTREAL, CANADA.
And if it weren't for Jacques Cartier, we might never have heard about this.
1993: MEXICAN ACTOR CANTINFLAS DIES.
Unofficially, he's the last Mexican to enter the United States legally.
1999: VENTRILOQUIST SENOR WENCES DIES.
S'right? S'right.
2008: DANICA PATRICK WINS THE INDY JAPAN 300, BECOMING THE FIRST FEMALE DRIVER IN HISTORY TO WIN AN INDY CAR RACE.
I've said it before and I will say it again. Auto racing is NOT a sport.
Dinner last night: Cervelat on English muffin.
We're going to deviate from the funny and get a little ugly today, folks, so I need to start you off with a beautiful picture.
We can adore this snapshot because there is another one rolling around the internet that is vile and disgusting. I won't give it another moment's consideration by posting it here. Perhaps you heard about it.
There are two chimpanzees in the photo. They are holding a baby chimp and the face of Barack Obama is superimposed over Monkey Junior.
Ha ha. Yeah, that's really clever. You got anything, Shithead?
What makes this even more annoying is that this artwork is the product of some moronic Republican woman from Orange County, where moronic Republican women are as easy to find as Mickey House ears in Anaheim. This Dumb Dora has just set the Conservative/Republican/Tea Party movement back fifty years. Here's a lady who needs to be fired and/or shot.
Of course, there's an avalanche of histrionics from the Democrats and Liberals on this ultra poor use of Photoshop. How could they?? How disgusting??? See, we told you so. Conservatives are racists!
Well, there's plenty o'blame to go around. You over there on the Left side of the aisle? You're shitheads, too.
Go ahead and Google the name of any Republican President along with either the word "chimp" or the name "Hitler." See what comes up. You will be astounded by the hypocracy that runs rampant. One more sterling example of "it's okay for you to have an opinion as long as it's the same as mine."
Equally vile and disgusting.
We're in a really bad place, gang. Our political world is collapsing around us. Where else but in America in 2011 can a millionaire/game show host be considered to run for the most powerful political office in the world? Any one who even remotely thinks the insane Donald Trump could be President of the United States is almost as nuts themselves. This guy makes Ross Perot look like Winston Churchill.
Indeed, the Donald really has only one bullet in his gun. He is challenging the omnipresent notion that Barack Obama wasn't born in the United States. Don't get me wrong. I think there's some chicanery at play, especially since his birth certificate and Osama Bin Laden are equally as difficult to find. But, still....
You want to enjoy democracy and take issue with the President of the United States?? Have an open dialogue on his policies and his performance. Believe me, there is plenty of ammunition there. But, don't stoop to gags, jokes, and slurs.
Oh, wait. Gags, jokes, and slurs. Isn't that politics are all about?
Dinner last night: Evelyn's Favorite Pasta at the Cheesecake Factory.
The always priceless "Laugh-In" joke wall.
Dinner last night: German cold cut sandwiches.
If you have any sort of memory, you'll know that the kid in this picture ain't me.
Okay, let's review where we left off last Sunday.
I hated gym class.
Check.
I particularly hated gymnastics.
Check.
And I really, really hated one of my elementary school gym teachers, a snubnose named Seth Hicks.
Check, check, and check.
I forget what grade of school Mr. Hicks infiltrated my life, but the gym classes that year couldn't disappear quickly enough. He had the lofty expectation that every kid in our class was as athletically gifted as he might have been during his college basketball days at Seton Hall or his one or two games playing in the NBA.
My athletic gifts had apparently been returned to God unopened.
This was a collision course from Hell.
He'd stand in front of us all and give us some asinine instructions on what we were going to do next. I'd immediately assume a quizzical pose.
He wants me to do what and then what and then what?
"Yes, you will participate, son."
That rankled the shit out of me. Son? First of all, there is no way we're related. You're tall. I'm not. Yet. You're skinny. I'm...well, not. And, oh, did I mention that I'm white...and you're.....?
Yeah, I couldn't possibly be your "son."
I have never hated any one teacher more. To wit, I had completely forgotten his name until two weeks. I obviously had blocked it from the innermost recesses of my mind. But, when it was uttered again by one of my school chums on Faceback, all the fear and smarminess and attitude came back to me in tsunami-like waves.
I knew my problems with Mr. Hicks could only get worse as the school year plodded on. I thought of discussing this with Mom and Dad, but, in those days, my parents were rarely seen and virtually never heard.
"Mind the teacher."
That's what I got. But what if the teacher is a scummy piece of crap that needs to blow up in an explosion down at the local iron works plant.
"Mind the teacher."
Thanks.
I feared the almost inevitable battle with this jerk when that gymnastics time of year rolled around. It was bad enough with the most gentle of gym teachers. What would it be like with this Snidely Whiplash in shorts and a whistle?
You see, I had a particular problem when those gym mats were down and those ropes were hanging from the ceiling.
The forward roll. Also known as the somersault. We don't get along. Because I have done one of these things just once in my life when I was about eight years old. And never again. And the horror had begun not in a gym class but....well, here's the tale I have told here before.
It was during my ill-fated attempt at attending a summer day camp. The Boys Club-sponsored Camp Mohawk. I was supposed to be there all summer, but I lasted just two weeks. What was supposed to be a field trip or some great activity every day turned out to be perhaps one bus trip and nothing but a daily eight-hour-long gym class. And, on one disastrous day, there were gymnastics. Rings, the ropes, and the balance beam. To me, all crap that is better left in the backyards of China.
But, it all started with the basics. We were to learn the proper way to do a forward roll. You know. You squat into a crouch. Lock your arms around you for support, tuck your head, and over.
Except I was afraid of it. A fear of being upside down, which also means I have no future as a pineapple-adorned cake. When it was my turn to crouch, tuck, and roll, I pretty much locked into position and wouldn't move. There was no way I was going to do this. The psychopath who doubled as our loving camp counselor wanted no part of my obstinance. He grabbed my feet and flung me over.
OUCH!!!!!
I thought my neck was broken and did what any eight-year-old would do. I cried. Now, if this had happened in today's litigious society, this chowderhead would have been fired by the end of the day. But, back then, when I got home and told my parents about the inhumane treatment I had received from Attila the Hun, I got a non-reaction. And the usual command.
"Can you run to the grocery store? We're out of pickled beets."
With my back seemingly broken, there was no way I was going to run anywhere, regardless of our dire need for vacuum packed vegetables.
So, as I closed in on the forward roll that I would likely be presented with by the nastiest gym teacher in the history of the Western world, you can imagine my impending doom. I quickly put myself into "medical excuse" overdrive. How fast could I screw up a part of my body so that I would be a slam dunk for the sidelines?
I devoted several days to literally throwing myself onto the floor or into a wall. I'd purposely roll out of bed. Several times in a row. Over and over and over.
Nothing.
While watching television at night, I would use my down time productively. I'd grab hold of my ankle and try to twist it out of shape. Surely, you could self inflict a sprained ankle.
Nothing.
I finally confessed my fears to Mom and Dad.
This time, I did get something. As told previously...
My parents decided that you conquer fear by meeting it head on. One school year, they made it their personal mission to get me to roll forward. My mother demonstrated it, probably with a cigarette in her mouth. My father showed me several times, perhaps as a result of one too many Schaefers at the local gin mill. And then out came the piece de resistance. The deal closer.
Grandma.
She told me that, if she could do one, so could I. And, then she promised that seeing would be believing. Out into the hall she went with every single cushion from every sofa and chair in the house. Laid out from wall to wall, Grandma had constructed her own Gold's gym. And, in lickity split fashion, she bent down, tucked her head, and rolled over. Only once. That was probably all her 70-plus years could muster. I was impressed. I was nonplussed. I was ashamed for making such a fuss all these years.
Terrific, Grandma. Thanks for the help. Now, excuse me while I throw myself down the cellar stairs.
The day of the forward roll came all too soon. Our stalag commandant of a gym teacher lined us up. You'd reach the edge of the mat, squat, and turn over like an omelette. Naturally, I kept letting my classmates go ahead of me. Eventually, I was on the end of the line and had run out of other kids.
I stepped up to the mat and then turned to Mr. Hicks.
"I can't do this."
There was a five second pause that lasted a decade. I steeled myself for the verbal barrage. Except...
"Okay."
HUH???????
You're kidding, right??? Is that all you got, Hicks??? "Okay?!!!"
I walked away. The fact that I had indeed bitten the bullet on this year's edition of the forward roll wound up in the back seat of my mind. I was thinking about this gym teacher of mine. I was shocked. I was mystified. And I was oddly and suddenly impressed. Was there actually a heart inside this ogre? Had I completely misread this guy?
Well, the flying donkey didn't stay up in the air long. On the very next day, we had moved onto rope climbing. I got about three feet off the ground and pronounced my mission as "completed." Mr. Hicks had other ideas.
"You're kidding, right??? Is that all you got, son????!!!!"
Yeah, a zebra never does change his stripes.
Dinner last night: Turkey burger at Pig N'Whistle.
Just in time for Passover...
Dinner last night: French dip ham sandwich---back at Philippe's for the Friday pre-game meal.
Twelve years later and he's still trying to strangle his son.
You can't wait a couple of hours????
The latest remake of Gulliver's Travels.
If my mom had hair like that, I'd be scowling, too.
Home Decorating Tip #75: Always make sure your draperies match the bridesmaids.
Moe Howard, Japanese style.
Hopefully, both of these idiots have been declawed.
Let's hope Dad doesn't start to branch out.
It's Bath Night in North Carolina.
Where's the widescreen shot, please? We want to see...well, you know...
Dinner last night: Garlic beef from Century Dragon.
