Alphabeter

402-464-7509 likes to be a nuisance. Call and play with them.

alphabeter@gmail.com — Mon, 17 Nov 08 15:32:00 UT

I have received seven calls in the last forty minutes from this number: 402-464-7509.

After the first no-breather, I didn't pick up the others. They rang long enough to get the machine and then hung up. I googled the number and got pages of complaints. Whoever it is has protection from not getting the number disabled yet still has plenty of time to randomly dial people--even those on the Do Not Call list.

402-464-7509 Be sure to spread the number around, they clearly need the attention. 402-464-7509

Why I will be watching ABC and not a network airing the Propaganda Special

alphabeter@gmail.com — Tue, 28 Oct 08 05:20:00 UT

It makes no difference who I am voting to be the next President of the United States of America. I advise all viewers of this post to actually read it.

Fox, CBS and NBC have decided that money makes it okay to flex FCC rules about equal time and air a half-hour "special" of whatever Barack Obama decides is suitable propaganda to influence viewers and/or voters on Wednesday, October 29th. The "Barack Obama Message" will air at 8:00 p.m. EST.

I will be watching ABC's "Pushing Daisies" instead because:
1) I regularly view the show and while this season has started a little rocky, the preview for this week's show looks better;
2) I watch several different news programs and I am sure they will all have clips; and
3) I already saw the good version on SNL last Saturday (too bad it was non-black mixed minority person in blackface playing Obama but then Lorne Michaels has a one-black-main cast-member-per-season rule and Keenan is too heavy).

The part that pisses me off the most is "to accommodate a half-hour Obama time buy on Fox, Major League Baseball has agreed to move the start time of World Series Game 6 by about 15 minutes. That would move the start of the game from 8:20 p.m. EST or so to 8:35 p.m."

"Fox will accommodate Senator Obama's desire to communicate with voters in this longform format," Fox Sports said in a statement. "We are pleased that Major League Baseball has agreed to delay the first pitch of World Series Game 6 for a few minutes in order for Fox to carry his program on Oct. 29. If requested, the network would be willing to make similar time available to Senator McCain's campaign."

Given that Obama lied about limiting his campaign to matching Federal Election funds and instead is funneling millions of dollars from Soros and his cronies through his DNC campaign by listing contributions from hundreds of names gleened (falsely) through ACORN's voter registration drive, I think McCain deserves his own half-hour.

Remember those pesky FCC equal time rules? I know that a McCain-based program would not have received the bump and blessing because Rupert Murdoch (the owner of the corporation that owns the Fox and Fox News networks) doesn't want to be seen as "in the bag" for the RNC.

Just what makes Obama so special that the great Major League of Baseball would move its first pitch time? M-O-N-E-Y. The blessing from MLB clears the way for Fox to air the promo and collect upward of $1 million in ad revenue for the half hour, more than what either CBS or NBC was charging.

If McCain's advisor team has a brain cell left, they will buy an ad in every break on every network airing this "special aka program aka promo aka longform format propaganda". Include all the rules the 'special' is being allowed to break while reminding people Obama has already had three known assassination attempts (the latest revealed yesterday) since his nomination was secured in June.

Should Obama be killed, there will be Joe Biden left to 'run' the country. A man whom most of Washington hates...to work with on anything. I might not be fond of "caribou barbie" but I suspect she'll be dialing Gore for advice on relieving boredom while McCain actually gets his agenda through a peeved Congress.

It really saddens me that people are so desperate for "change" that they will take the same old shit because it comes in a shiny wide-eared package. Yet the shiny new VP package is shredded in ways that must make Hilary Clinton squeal with delight because she won't fit in the
1) 'expected' (huh? Ferraro is the mold? What meeting did I miss?);
2) RNC preferred (they don't forget anything in spinsville); and
3) controllable (aha)
image that seems to be preferred by anyone who doesn't like her anti-abortion stance. I don't like it either (no one with a dick should have any say about anyone with a vagina is my stance) but I admire her taking on the RNC PR boot camper pressers to try and get her actual self through to voters.

No matter who I do vote for in seven days, I can only hope that the person chosen by the 'legal' voters is able to make it through the next four years alive, having creating a better USA.

Don't Quit

alphabeter@gmail.com — Fri, 11 Jul 08 19:19:00 UT

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all up hill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest! if you must; but don't you quit.

Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As everyone of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out;
Don't give up, though the pace seems slow;
You might succeed with another blow.

Often the goal is nearer than
It seems to a faint and faltering man,
Often the struggler has given up
When he might have captured the victor's cup.
And he learned too late, when the night slipped down,
How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out;
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt;
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems afar;
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit;
It's when things seem worst that you mustn't quit.

Reclamation

alphabeter@gmail.com — Tue, 8 Jul 08 06:58:00 UT

Reclamation is the process of reclaiming something from loss or from a less useful condition.

Alphabeter reclaimed this blog on 8 July, 2008.

Ye Olde Historye

alphabeter@gmail.com — Wed, 14 Feb 07 00:36:00 UT

What do you get when you mix a third century Roman priest with a Roman goddess? Valentineâs day. Or at least this is one popular take on how it all came about.

Way, way back in history, Feb 14 was an ancient Roman holiday to honor Juno, Queen of Roman gods and goddesses. The day after was a holiday called the Feast of Lupercaliaâa pagan fertility celebration.

Tradition has it that on the eve of Lupercalia, young men and women wrote their names on paper and placed them in separate containers. The men would draw a name, and that girl would be his âdateâ for the festival. It was the implied wish that the couple would fall in love and marry.

So how did a priest end up getting named for this holiday?

Well, Roman Emporer Claudius II was a real bad-ass warmonger and cancelled all marriages and engagements, thinking heâd gain a better army with single men. Weâll never know if thatâs true because behind olâ Claudiusâ back, priests Valentine and Marius were secretly marrying Roman couples. :lick:

Claudius found out and went off the deep end. He condemned Valentine, had him beat to death, then loped his head off onâ¦ Yup, you guessed it. Valentine died on February 14th.

Later, when early Christian pastors in Rome set out to put a lid on pagen religion, they gradually weaned people away from honoring a pagan god to a martyred priest. But since Valentine was killed for hooking couples up, the old tradition of men choosing women morphed eventually into a billion dollar card and gift industry.

Happy Valentineâs day! :snuggle:

Why Did We Watch?

alphabeter@gmail.com — Fri, 9 Feb 07 00:52:00 UT

The Answer Isnât Pretty

Becoming famous is relatively easy: Anna Nicole Smith was born with a beautiful face, a big smile and a voluptuous body she was happy to bare for Playboy. Staying famous for nothing much is hard work, and that is the real story of Ms. Smithâs life and death. Her desperation for fame was so raw that she didnât mind being the butt of the joke if it helped maintain her place in the spotlight. Her career started out tacky, went downhill from there and ultimately says more about the cultureâs fascination with celebrity than it does about Anna Nicole Smith.

While most stars play a clever cat-and-mouse game with the media, Ms. Smithâs sport was Extreme Fame. Her sense of how to court attention was simply to show up, pose and practically say, âCome get me, use me.â In that blatant desire for publicity she embodied the ultimate symbiosis of celebrity: between an individual who acted as if life out of the spotlight were worthless, and a press and public eager to indulge her craving for attention.

But without any actual career to back up her claim on the public, the question becomes: why did we watch? The unsettlingly vapid reason: because we could. She was a glittery spectacle who offered guilt-free voyeurism, as we watched her dramas with drugs and weight and inheritance laws. And the lesson of her fame is that there is no lesson.

All the attempts to justify her fame that have flowed in since her death on Thursday are hollow. She was not Marilyn Monroe; the closest Ms. Smith came to a real movie career was a small role in the spoof âNaked Gun 331/3 : The Final Insult.â She was not a rags-to-riches inspiration; most little girls donât dream of growing up to be Playmate of the Year, marrying an 89-year-old billionaire and fighting for his money all the way to the Supreme Court. And she was not a cautionary tale; she courted attention too relentlessly to seem innocent or deluded.

There was the ring of truth in what her mother told âGood Morning Americaâ yesterday: that her daughter said, âIf my name is out there in the news, good or bad doesnât matter, good or bad I make money, so Iâm going to do whatever it takes.â It says a lot about the bubble Ms. Smith lived in that even her mother, Virgie Arthur, communicated with her daughter through the media. On âGood Morning America,â Ms. Arthur said she had tried to warn her estranged daughter about her drug use, and had done so by appearing on the Nancy Grace show.

Ms. Smithâs lust for fame coincided with a media explosion she could exploit. After her weight ballooned, and her modeling career declined, she latched onto the reality television craze. But her two seasons of âThe Anna Nicole Showâ on E! revealed how inept she was at shaping an image. Her speech was slurred, her voice was whiny, her manner was demanding, and the curiosity that fed the ratings quickly dissipated. She seemed beyond pathetic by 2004, after she became a diet-product spokeswoman and showed off her newly slim body in another slurry appearance at the American Music Awards.

Her story took an indisputably tragic turn in September, when her 20-year-old son, Daniel, died days after Ms. Smith gave birth to a daughter. Yet even then she couldnât rise above the lurid nature of her fame. She sold photographs of her son and newborn in the hospital room where he died to In Touch magazine; even now, video of her Caesarean section is available on YouTube.

And soon an ugly paternity battle over the infant broke out in a flurry of media interviews, with two men claiming to be the father: Larry Birkhead, a former boyfriend, and Howard K. Stern, Ms. Smithâs longtime lawyer and confidant. (He seemed glued to her on the reality show.) Itâs no surprise that Mr. Stern announced his fatherhood on âLarry King Live,â with Ms. Smith by his side.

The messiness of her death â its unknown cause, the continuing legal battles about the inheritance and the little girlâs paternity â have made its aftermath just as media-centric as her life, with cable news channels trotting out a parade of casual former boyfriends, sometime-friends and estranged relatives.

Donna Hogan, Ms. Smithâs half-sister, talked to Larry King on the phone about her forthcoming book (announced long before Ms. Smithâs death), predictably called âTrain Wreck: Anna Nicole Unauthorized.â Ms. Hogan said she hadnât seen her sister in about a decade.

And while commentators are struggling to find meaning in her life, the responses to her death in the hours just after it was announced may more accurately reflect the public attitude toward her as a joke who drew gawkers rather than fans.

Many reactions seemed to defy the usual courtesy of not speaking ill of the dead. A post by the Web site Wonkette.com said, âthe dope-addicted floozy Anna Nicole Smith keeled over dead in a Florida hotel about an hour ago,â a fast turnaround of irreverence even for the Internet. Geraldo Rivera on the Fox News Channel put the blame for Ms. Smithâs sorry life on Mr. Stern, saying, âHeâs a pimp,â who sold her to the media. (What does that make her?) And even Larry King, the friendliest of anchors, told Wolf Blitzer that Ms. Smith was ânot the smartest person in the worldâ before praising her good humor and good heart.

The news of her death brought the inevitable jolt that comes when anyone dies suddenly at 39. And there is the inescapable tragedy of a 5-month-old left without her mother. But Anna Nicole Smithâs fame is as sad and shallow in death as it was in life, just as much of a tawdry compact between her and us.

Revealed Power

alphabeter@gmail.com — Mon, 15 Jan 07 03:07:00 UT

I received a "save the date" for my reunion next year. I am waaaay too young for maudlin memory mining (say THAT five times fast). But as a writer is want to do, I went rambling anyway to find something sweet that would work as a "remember when" story for the questionnaire.

I discovered something a little more powerful.

One day, when I was a freshman in high school, I saw a kid from my class was walking home from school. His name was Kyle. It looked like he was carrying all of his books. I thought to myself, "Why would anyone bring home all his books on a Friday? He must really be a nerd."

I had quite a weekend planned (the football game, parties and a regular get-together with my friends tomorrow afternoon), so I shrugged my shoulders and went on.

As I was walking, I saw a bunch of kids running toward him. They ran at him, knocking all his books out of his arms and tripping him so he landed in the dirt. His glasses went flying, and I saw them land in the grass about ten feet from him. He looked up and I saw this terrible sadness in his eyes.

My heart went out to him. So, I jogged over to him and as he crawled around looking for his glasses, and I saw a tear in his eye. As I handed him his glasses, I said, "Those guys are jerks. They really should get lives.." He looked at me and said, "Hey thanks!" There was a big smile on his face. It was one of those smiles that showed real gratitude.

I helped him pick up his books, and asked him where he lived. As it turned out, he lived near me, so I asked him why I had never seen him before. He said he had been home-schooled before now.

I would have never hung out with a home-schooled kid before.... We talked all the way home, and I carried some of his books. He turned out to be a pretty cool kid. I asked him if he wanted to play a little ball with my friends. He said yes. We hung out all weekend and the more I got to know Kyle, the more I liked him, and my friends thought the same of him.

Monday morning came, and there was Kyle with the huge stack of books again. I stopped him and said, "Boy, you are gonna really build some serious muscles with this pile of books everyday!" He just laughed and handed me half the books.

Over the next four years, Kyle and I became close friends. When we were seniors, we began to think about college. Kyle decided on Creighton, and I was going to Wayne. I knew that we would always be friends, that the miles would never be a problem. He was going to be a doctor, and I was going for communications on a scholarship.

Kyle was valedictorian of our class. I teased him all the time about being a nerd. He had to prepare a speech for graduation.

I was so glad it wasn't me having to get up there and speak. Graduation day, I saw Kyle. He looked great. He was one of those guys that really found himself during high school. He filled out and actually looked good in glasses. He had more dates than I had and all the girls loved him. Boy, sometimes I was jealous.

Today was one of those days. I could see that he was nervous about his speech. So, I smacked him on the back and said, "Hey, big guy, you'll be great!" He looked at me with one of those looks (the really grateful one) and smiled.
"Thanks," he said.

As he started his speech, he cleared his throat, and began. "Graduation is a time to thank those who helped you make it through those tough years. Your parents, your teachers, your siblings, maybe a coach......but mostly your friends. I am here to tell all of you that being a friend to someone is the best gift you can give them. I am going to tell you a story."

I just looked at my friend with disbelief as he told the story of the first day we met. He had planned to kill himself over the weekend. He talked of how he had cleaned out his locker so his Mom wouldn't have to do it later and was carrying his stuff home. He looked hard at me and gave me a little smile.

"Thankfully, I was saved. My friend saved me from doing the unspeakable."

I heard the gasp go through the crowd as this handsome, popular boy told us all about his weakest moment. I saw his mom and dad looking at me and smiling that same grateful smile.. Not until that moment did I realize it's depth.

Never underestimate the power of your actions. With one small gesture you can change a person's life. For better or for worse.

Vanity is like nothing else

alphabeter@gmail.com — Wed, 10 Jan 07 02:33:00 UT

SLEEPING with Vincent Gallo is getting to be a pricey proposition.

Last February, the outrageous actor-director offered to "fulfill the wish, dream, or fantasy of any naturally born female" for a "modest fee of $50,000 plus expenses." But "bargains" don't last forever, and Gallo just upped his price to $100,000 - even though no one has apparently yet taken him up on the lower price.

But,"Female couples of the lesbian persuasion" can still "enjoy a Vincent Gallo evening together" for the old price of $100,000 for two - or just $200,000 for an entire weekend, Gallo says on his Web site. He adds, sensitively: "Heavy-set, older red-heads and even black chicks can have me if they can pay the bill. No real female will be refused. However, I highly frown upon any male having even the slightest momentary thought or wish that they could ever become my client. No way, JosÃ©."

Gallo advises women considering his offer to check out his sex scene with Chloe Sevigny in "Brown Bunny," "to be sure for themselves that they can fully accommodate all of me."

Some of Gallo's past conquests are wondering why anybody would pay him for his sexual services. "Why buy the bull when you can get the meat for free?" said one insider, who noted that he's cut quite a swath through the world's female population.

As was reported in 2006, Gallo has offered to sell his sperm for $1 million - although in a racially insensitive diatribe, he reserved the right to pick and choose who gets it.

"Mr. Gallo maintains the right to refuse sale of his sperm to those of extremely dark complexions," he wrote on his Web site. "Though a fan of Franco Harris, Derek Jeter, Lenny Kravitz and Lena Horne, Mr. Gallo does not want to be part of that type of integration."

Gallo wrote that a Jewish mother would be an asset because, if their child got into movies or music, "this connection to the Jewish faith would guarantee his offspring a better chance at good reviews and maybe even a prize at the Sundance Festival or an Oscar."

A Motivational

alphabeter@gmail.com — Tue, 2 Jan 07 19:39:00 UT

Write.

Even if you have other things to do.

Even if it sucks.

Even though it's hard.

Even though there are no guarantees.

Even if no one else cares.

Revise.

Even though it's difficult to be objective.

Even if you think you got it right the first time.

Even though you hate it.

Even if you're sure it's a waste of time.

Submit.

Even if it's to a small, non-paying publication.

Even if you feel you're not ready.

Even if you hate rejection.

Even if you know you'll never be accepted.

Repeat.

You're a writer. Act like one.

Cross with Words

alphabeter@gmail.com — Fri, 14 Jul 06 01:00:00 UT

I HAVE a problem with the English lan guage.

Like: through, threw, thruway.

Like: buy, bye, bi or . . . by and by.

Like: four, fore, for, even maybe a Russian's pronunciation of the word "fur."

Or huff and puff and muff and stuff and buff and cuff and guff and fluff. Plus tough and rough.

Enough?

Wait, with that same spelling we have bough and dough and cough. And cough rhymes with off. But off doesn't rhyme with doff. But, then, doff rhymes with quaff. And quaff goes with slough.

How about both and moth? Hoof and roof? Toed and coed? Or good food?!

Is it main or mane? Nix or nicks? Rain or reign? Would or wood? Gays or gaze? Hay or hey? Seed or cede? Nay or neigh? Wait or weight? Lion or lyin'. Herd, heard. Spayed, spade. Lei, lay, ley. Dye or die. Flew or flue. Vain or vane or vein? Moan or mown? Lane or lain? Bale or bail? How's try and tri again.

Towed and toad. Load and lode. Red and read. Right and rite and write. Wade and weighed. Sic and sick. Facts and fax. Tacks and tax. Locks and lox.

Are we talking "to 'halve' and 'halve' not?"

Rake and ache? Booth and couth? Purse, terse, worse and hearse? Whom and tomb and room? Attic and paddock? Vote and coat? Crepe and nape? Cause and draws? Rich and kitsch and bitch, which, no matter what, somehow go together.

Much and hutch? Lurch and perch? Sum and some? Doe or go or stow or sew? Take a shot at why, rye, sigh, my, tie, guy and hi. Bow as in a curtsy or bow as in a dress.

Row as in an argument or row as in a line. And, listen, there's always roe as in caviar.

What about cow and now or mow and low. Crate, freight, trait, great. Loss, boss, moss, toss and sauce. Height and might and kite.

To. Too. Tutu. Crowed and toed and bode and goad. Door and more and boar. Also whore, which in New York is pronounced the same as haw or saw. High and heigh-ho-heigh-ho-it's off to Websters we go. Flee, flea. See, sea. Bee, be, and the B-B gun. Tee, tea and do-re-mi-fa-so-la-TI.

Coarse. Course. Thyme. Time. Moat. Mote.

Hung and tongue. Dirge and purge. Plaid and glad. Dread and bed. Haste and raced. Languor and hangar. Say and fey and quai. Craze and days.

English began in the northern Europe forests in 600 AD. Its ancestors were the Germanic branch of the Indo-European family.

This babble spread during the Roman empire among tribes called Angles and Saxons, hence Anglo-Saxon, get it?

Merchants servicing the tribes mixed in Latin and, then, in the year 449 (give or take a few days), Vortigern, King of the British Isles, began forming a real language.

And, listen, if you can make anything out of this, lotsa luck. I'm having enough trouble speaking and writing the thing without mucking up its history.

Like, here's one of my problems. I understand "disagree" is the opposite of agree. I recognize "disallow" as the other side of allow. And that "disapprove" is the back end of approve. And that "disconnected" means not connected.

But what about discombobulated. Has anything ever been combobulated? Disturbed. When's anything been turbed? Discord. In your office there's cord? I would look with disdain at Wagnalls and his pal Funk had I ever previously looked at them with dain.

Whom do you know that's gruntled? So who's to know if they're disgruntled? Anyone discommoded who's ever been commoded? Disheveled? Sheveled?

Intuitive. As opposed to tuitive? Infatuted. Fatuated? Incidental. Yeah, right. So, cidental? Incremental. Where is anything cremental.

The bi's. Bicentennial. OK, fine, we have centennial. Bipolar. All well and good because we have polar. But now comes bifurcated. So what's furcated?

And the prefix re. Retaliation. There's taliation? Resume. There's sume? Repudiate. I now await any accredited grammarian to pudiate.

And the prefix de. Deleterious? There's no leterious. Defector. What's a fector. Desist. Anybody know anybody who sists.

The first English dictionary came out in 1603. I'd like to smack that publisher.

The Eternal Wish for Tasty Dish

alphabeter@gmail.com — Sat, 6 May 06 11:07:00 UT

GOSSIP. Everybody's bitching and moan ing about gossip. There's even gossip about gossip editors like Bonnie Ful ler. There's gossip about is Tom Cruise a he-she-or-it, will Angelina Jolie try to heal every leper colony in Africa, can it be someone's already stuffed Dick Cheney, anyone noticed that George Clooney has stopped gossiping about the gossip about him.

Gossip has always been around. In the early days of our God-Bless-Us nation Benjamin Franklin, when not organizing our country, looking for his eyeglasses or telling someone to go fly a kite, actually wrote this republic's first gossip column. Think of it this way, what good is something if nobody knows you know it? Everybody tells. It's television, telephone, telecommunications, teletype, telex, tell a friend.

Gossip is actually a noble profession. Its root is the word "gospel." And the first four gossips? Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Pay attention, kiddies. Mother is talking The Bible here. Six days a week I'm actually doing holy work.

Gossip began before the earth cooled. It probably even pre-dated "60 Minutes." Back in antediluvian times, down at the riverbed, as they beat their men folks' shorts with a club, Neanderthal Nancy would grunt how Cro-Magnon Charlie tried to pull off her loincloth.

Stars need it to hustle their movie or flag their career. Maybe it irritates them but they themselves can be irritating. Hollywood is Fear USA. The big names are always looking behind them. Someone else is creeping up who's younger, thinner, prettier, taller, cheaper, willinger, easier, looser. They're all scared. We're talking survival. Insecurity. They're afraid it won't last. Afraid outsiders may divine that this emperor or empress without clothes is really not all that talented or brilliant or good looking. Afraid they'll get a pimple or fat or old, afraid they'll flop, afraid someone will actually get to see who they really are.

Whatever the engine, they're different. Larger than life. If a top-of-the-line big shot gets a cold, his assistant sneezes and his go-fer carries the Kleenex. The certified super-famous are just not like you and me. A leading lady's on vacation? She imports her therapist to be with her. A leading man's in Istanbul and his favorite barber isn't? He jets home, gets a trim, jets back, or flies the hair-stylist in.

Three noses ago a Michael Jackson would travel with five aides, two bodyguards, two small bodies he might personally want to guard, an umbrella for inside the plane, his own chef, own food, own cooler, own ice cubes and a surgical mask that was removed only to change noses. A Brad Pitt-type takes his wife for richer or poorer then sniffs around and says, "But on second thought I think I'll take that one." A Jessica Simpson? Who repeatedly says how she loves her husband whatever his name is and how she wishes icky sticky picky reporters would stop saying her marriage is going up the poop and then, as she's shopping, says all she really wants is to help Angelina heal those pesky lepers in Africa.

And mankind thinks nobody should write about this stuff? We shouldn't report it? We should consider it normal behavior? We should never, ever mention it?

Attention Mr. & Ms. America and all the ships at sea: You don't think stuff like this is sort of interesting to report?

Take New York's social scene. Its currency is gossip. The New York Post is as needful to existence as a Rolodex. In New York the greatest centerpiece for any hostess is whoever's fresh out of jail. In this town if a guy's a recently released felon all he needs for a major party is a blue suit and he'll have to fight off the dinner invitations. Why? He's a one of a kind. Every guest around the table will ring a friend next day to gossip about whom they sat alongside at dinner.

Everybody gossips. Inside the White House, Teddy Roosevelt's daughter Alice would tell guests, "If you have nothing nice to say about anyone, come sit right here beside me." Jackie O loved dish. A reigning queen once asked me, "Can you gossip a little about your first lady?"

Ready for this one? Frau Gertraude Junge, who had been private secretary to Hitler, relayed this to a journalist. Now gone, she was then in her 70s and had a neat, one-room flat on a quiet side street in Munich. Her only standout possessions were the framed photos everywhere. Snapshots of herself with Adolf. She said, "Part of my job was to give gossip to the Fuehrer. When we had dinner parties at the Berchtesgaden, my duty was to arrange the evenings with people like Himmler, who was a very nice, quiet man. And to relax the Fuehrer. What he liked most was gossip. I always had to prepare for him gossip."

From the dawn of time to the Holy Gospels to the Fuehrer to Us magazine . . .

Verbal Tics

alphabeter@gmail.com — Thu, 4 May 06 03:01:00 UT

If you've read any of the periodic communiques issued by Osama Bin Laden or Ayman al-Zawahiri, you'll see that al Qaeda likes to call the White House the Black House. I found this monumentally immature... and then I read Ann Coulter, calling the New York Times the Treason Times. Hmmm...

Why are people always described as "visibly moved," or "visibly agitated," or "visibly shaken?" To distinguish from those frequent occasions when we come to these conclusions by means other than visible?

When people say, "in a very real sense," they mean the opposite.

Why do reviewers like to describe movies as "visually kinetic?" I mean, these are motion pictures we're talking about, right? If it weren't visually kinetic, it would be a portrait. Or a still life.

Why do people have to say "past master?" What ever happened to just being a master? And wouldn't you rather be a present master than a past one?

Why is it a "sea change?" Couldn't it just be a big change, or maybe a profound change?"

Why do people think they sound educated when they use the wrong preposition? As in: "Jane will speak to that." No, Jane will speak to her audience about that subject. You can't speak to a subject. Or maybe you could, but it would be the same as talking to yourself.

If you don't think words have power, check out these euphemisms. Are the places we're keeping people we capture in the war on terror undisclosed detention facilities, or secret prisons? Are the people we're keeping there detainees, or prisoners? If we interrogate them hard, are we abusing them or torturing them? Sample these two headlines: "America abuses detainees at undisclosed detention facilities." "America tortures prisoners at secret prisons."

Speaking of which, there seems to be a subclass of euphemism that uses the definition of a word instead of the word itself (what's a prison if not a detention facility?). I think this is because the word itself has picked up too much emotional baggage (as good words should), and people come to prefer the drier, underlying definition -- sometimes because of discomfort, sometimes because they want to bullshit you. So bombs become Improvised Explosive Devices; stewardesses become flight attendants; maids become housekeepers or cleaning staff; now becomes "at this time."

Israel is a master (not a past master) at choosing the right word. The barrier Israel is building between Israel and the West Bank is typically called a fence, not a wall. "Fence" has such friendly connotations... good fences make good neighbors, picket fences. "Wall" sounds like the Berlin Wall, or the thing Montresor built in The Cask of Amontillado to bury Fortunato alive. And when Israeli forces kill their enemies, it's known as sikul memukad, or âfocused prevention,â more commonly rendered in the western press as "targeted killing," which is of course precisely the definition of the word "assassination."

Can we all solemnly vow to stop using the hackneyed phrase "a cool million," or billion, or whatever? Yes, the idea is that the buyer didn't bat an eyelash as she made out the check, but surely there's a better way to convey this notion? And no, "he was visibly cool" isn't it...

And what about these two: first, people who use nouns as verbs -- such as an engineer saying "I architected that program" (as opposed to more humbly merely designing it). That's why they say verbing nouns weirds the language...

Second, people who make every sentence into a question by using rising inflection at the end...?

"Very" is severely overused, usually because the speaker lacks confidence. But when it's used twice in a row, there's a good chance someone is trying to bullshit you. Repetition and other unnecessary words are also evidence of attempted bullshit (sounds like a crime, and ought to be one).

It's notable, therefore, that the chief drafter of the new House ethics bill, House Rules Committee Chairman David Dreier of California, called the bill a "very, very strong package," and went on to explain that "our aim, our goal, is a Congress that is effective, a Congress that is ethical and a Congress that is worthy of the public trust."

I feel better already.

Stretch Marks on "The Truth"

alphabeter@gmail.com — Sat, 29 Apr 06 01:00:00 UT

WAGNALLS and his pal Funk de scribe Truth as fact or reality. Me, I parse it in three words: For-Get-It! Anyone who agrees with you will lie about other things, too.

I have determined certain types of truth have flexibility. For instance, a maitre d' says his restaurant's all booked up? Let's call this maitre TipTop - as in, you don't tip him, he blows his top. TipTop may be 5-foot-3 but his palms are 6-foot-2. Grease him with a sawbuck and the joint is suddenly not all that booked. So, dirty filthy baldfaced lie? Naaah. This is what's best referred to as the American way.

Another form of such free enterprise can best be described by the souk in Istanbul. This greatest mall in captivity has everything including brand new antiques. Also goodies that might've been on the person of someone else five minutes earlier. And the sellers know every trick and shtick. One dealer gave me Turkish coffee followed by a song and dance. "Madam," he said, showing me a necklace, "Cast your eyes upon this most exquisite bejeweled handwork. I swear by Allah and may I never see my family again if I am lying. The piece I hold in my unworthy hands is a true one of a kind. I absolutely 100 percent guarantee that this totally and actually laid upon the neck of Mehmet the Conqueror."

Two stores down - the same identical necklace. Either Mehmet was a real spender or that "one of a kind" is two of a kind.

One of truth's greatest adjustments took place when aging film star Marlene Dietrich hated how she looked on screen. The face, puffed, eyes a bit watery. She turned on the cameraman with: "What's wrong with you? When last we worked together you knew what you were doing." He said gently, "Miss Dietrich. That was 10 years ago. Today I am 10 years older."

Humans who insist they always tell the truth? Please. They're lying.

Certain liberties are inbred. Like, females automatically make adjustments to age or weight. These they diminish. Men automatically make adjustments in terms of sexual scores. These they up. Golf scores? Down. Income? Up. Times anything else stayed down? Down.

And when it comes to cheating and facelifts, all bets are off multisexually. Boys, girls, gays, lesbians, trannies, makes no never. In that case it's: Mr. Wagnalls, funk you!

Degrees of fact sometimes depend on the person to whom you are speaking. A nosy IRS agent asks, "What's your house worth?" You answer, "$400,000." A jealous co-worker asks? You answer, "Over a million."

Truth offends. You really want to tell a friend her lousy dress with the ruffles makes her look like an elephant in heat? Or that kissing her dainty mouth is like diving into a two-car garage?

And then maybe you have a deep-seated neurotic insecurity. Say a person admires your outfit. You reply, "It's a Carolina Herrera." So what that it never even laid next to an Irving Herrera remnant in a Gap outlet. So whom are you hurting except, maybe, Carolina Herrera. This is not so venal that it requires 12 Hail Marys.

I'm actually up to here with Truth. I get them in those letters that call me by my first name and start, "Dear Stupid."

Diplomacy. Diplomacy is simply an honest way of lying. Like the periodontist's receptionist who says, "I'm so sorry I kept you waiting." You know she doesn't give a rat's ass. And then in a cross between diplomacy and dentistry she says, "It'll just be another five minutes." You know that's a good half-hour.

Contractors, however, are exempt from all forms of genuineness. Their brand of honesty comes with the job application. With most people a lie is a last resort. With a contractor it's first aid. As for a politician, an honest one is one who's never been caught.

And, of course, workers with expense accounts are excluded. One lady received four offers from publishers for the fiction rights to hers. Also, we omit lovers. The only time a lover tells the truth is when he admits he's lying.

I know a wife who wants to do a book titled, "How to Housebreak a Husband." Why? Because she tells hers what he needs to hear. He absolutely cannot fathom why something so small is so expensive? No problem. She just tells him it's less. He has no respect for something else that's so cheap? No problem. She tells him it's more. We're talking creative honesty. I was just on TV burbling about Yorkies. Trying to hustle a book, I said, "One reason to love dogs is they don't say you're fat and they'll sleep with you even if you've got a zit on your face. Dogs are better than sex." My manicurist asked, "You really believe that?"

What could I say? That I out-and-out lied? Certainly not. I used diplomacy. I told her, "Listen, hon. I can only talk about what I know."

Same ol' Birthday; Different Date

alphabeter@gmail.com — Mon, 24 Apr 06 04:03:00 UT

Happy Birthday. Tomorrow, April 25th, The Empire State Building is 75. Today, my sister is 19.

Little has changed since 1931. Then and now it was dramas about bad guys and prisons and the play "The Last Mile" starred a stud named Spencer Tracy. Then David Belasco was producing his final production. Today he's a West 44th theater. This weekend was HBO's Helen Mirren/Jeremy Irons miniseries, "Elizabeth I." Three-quarters of a century ago Lunt and Fontanne - who also now have a theater named for them - were in Maxwell Anderson's "Elizabeth the Queen." And there was a "The Color Purple"-type show.

It was Congressman Fiorello La Guardia complaining Edward G. Robinson's "Little Caesar" film character makes it look bad for Italians. Helloooooo? Make the name "The Sopranos" and what's the difference?

Ads trumpeted Maybelline, whose mascara everyone including professional makeup artists still uses; Listerine, which is still on supermarket shelves; Dr. Scholl's corn plasters, which thanks to today's shoes, the entire world still needs; Dentyne, which we're still chewing. Kleenex. Anybody know anybody who doesn't use Kleenex? And Claudette Colbert was hustling Max Factor's makeup, which is still around even if Claudette isn't.

But forget the Rockland County pet specialist guaranteeing you can raise rabbits and chinchillas in your apartment. I don't see that passing my co-op board.

Screenplay magazine had "inside scoop" by Joan Crawford's personal maid and "The true story of Greta Garbo's private life." The names are changed, but same crapola we have today, right?

The year ground broke for the Empire State Building, talking pictures broke ground. Howard Hughes, who just had his own life story filmed thanks to Leonardo DiCaprio, began filming "The Jazz Singer." Showbiz big names were Miriam Hopkins, Katharine Cornell, Melvyn Douglas, the Gish sisters, Maurice Chevalier, Tony Perkins' father Osgood Perkins, Eleanor Powell, Duke Ellington, Sir Harry Lauder, Katina Paxinou, who was that generation's Melina Mercouri, Ernest Truex, Frank Morgan, Mary Boland, Henry Hull, Sam Jaffe, Sydney Greenstreet, Helen Menken, Jane Cowl, supported by some kid named Katharine Hepburn, whose memorial is next month.

Academy Awards were in the ballroom of L.A.'s Coconut Grove Hotel. Best Actress, Mary Pickford. And everyone bitched. Stabs like: "How could it go to her in a movie nobody liked." The more things change the more things don't change.

Broadway was a mosh pit of what insomniacs watch on oldie flicks. A young gorgeous Cary Grant taking his first stage steps. Glenda Farrell in "Love, Honor and Betray," which also featured newcomers Clark Gable and George Brent. Guy Kibbee in "Torch Song." Brian Donlevy in "Up Pops the Devil." Clifton Webb, Libby Holman, Fred Allen in "Three's a Crowd." "Penny Arcade" dredged up newies James Cagney and Joan Blondell. Franchot Tone, who was married for an hour to Joan Crawford, was in "On the Spot." Ethel Barrymore, who also has a theater in her name, decorated "Scarlet Sister Mary."

Broadway musicals headlined Ethel Merman, Ginger Rogers, Willie Howard in "Girl Crazy" and "The New Yorkers" with Jimmy Durante and Ann Pennington. How's "Flying High" with Bert Lahr and, long before her "God Bless America," Kate Smith. The Oriental beauty Anna Mae Wong was in something, and Helen Hayes, also with her own theater now, in "Mister Gilhooley."

The main difference is the price. Then Listerine was a quarter. True Story Magazine with Barbara Stanwyck on the cover pushed True Confessions magazine at 10 cents a copy. A "Learn to Dance" ad said it'll only cost 50 cents. Underwood typewriters for $39 or $1 a week. Photo enlargements for as many photos as you like - the whole lot 49 cents. An introductory offer to try "a big powerful radio - 30 days free." Oh Henry! candy bar, a nickel. Colgate, 2-ounce tube, 27 cents. And a big ad saying "Be a radio expert: Many men I trained to do this in their spare time now make $30 a week."

And just three years later the world's biggest cinema, Radio City Music Hall, opened for business trumpeting "The Bitter Tea of General Yen" with Barbara Stanwyck.

AND maybe 75 years from now someone will reincarnate "The History Boys," which opened Sunday at the Broadhurst.

Collision

alphabeter@gmail.com — Fri, 21 Apr 06 01:00:00 UT

I'm working on a piece about unhappy modern children. I've also been doing re-tellings of fairy tales. This is the creation of their crossing.

-
Our children are fatter. Unhappier. More aggressive. Exploring sexuality earlier. Attacking teachers and parents. Needing therapy.

Anybody ever look at our lullabies? Nursery rhymes? Ain't nothing about them sweet and tender. They all talk of evil, pain, misfortune and misery.

Take "Humpty Dumpty." This clunk sat on a wall and had a great fall and all the king's horses and all the king's men (forget the surgeons at Kings County) couldn't put Humpty Dumpty together again.

Those two beauties "Jack and Jill" schlepped up a hill to fetch a pail of water, right? Jack fell down and broke his crown and what happened to Jill? Even before God made Jimmy Choos and spike heels, she came tumbling after.

"London Bridge." In pre-K we all sing-songed London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down, London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady. So why couldn't this fair lady have waltzed across a picturesque span? Why's that thing falling down?

Humpty had a great fall. Jack fell down. Jill came tumbling after. The fair lady's bridge went flop and kerplop. Lullabies? Nursery rhymes? Panaceas for wee innocent babes?

"Ring-a-Round a Rosie." Its next lines were: A pocket full of posies, Ashes! Ashes all fall down. Again with the falling down.

Take the famous "Three Blind Mice." It says: They all ran after the farmer's wife. Who cut off their tails with a carving knife. Did you ever see such a thing in your life? OK? Then there's "Hickory Dickory Dock," which deals with mice running up and down. MICE?

"Rock-a-Bye Baby" goes, When the wind blows the cradle will rock. When the bow breaks, the cradle will fall, And down will come baby, cradle and all. Again a fall. Why?

How about "Itsy Bitsy Spider?" I don't even want to go there.

Around 1553 little Patience Muffet's entomologist stepfather frightened her with one of his insects and she ran away. Thus comes: Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet eating her curds and whey. Along came a spider who sat down beside her and frightened Miss Muffet away. Why must she be scared? Why is this a cuddle for little children?

And Fie on "Old Mother Hubbard" who went to the cupboard to get her poor doggie a bone, and when she got there the cupboard was bare, so the poor little doggie had none. Why do they have to go hungry? Why starve the little pooch? What's with the mortal danger?

"Little Bo Beep" with that stupid name? No wonder she had a hard time and lost her sheep. "Tom, Tom the Piper's Son" who stole a pig? This is what we teach kids?

And "Ladybug, Ladybug" fly away home, your house is on fire and your children are gone. The house is on fire? The children are gone? And "The Crooked Man" who walked a crooked mile and found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile and bought a crooked cat which caught a crooked mouse and they all lived together in a little crooked house. Why couldn't this dumb guy have had a nice big straight house? And why another mouse?

Picture a little mind learning over and over about harm and accidents befalling everyone and thievery and poverty and want and fear.

I remember a poem that asks "Who killed Cock Robin?" "I," said the sparrow. "With my bow and arrow." Helloooooo!

"There Was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe," and goes the second verse: She gave them some broth without any bread; She whipped them all soundly and put them to bed. Nice old broad, no?

Those "Three Little Kittens" who lost their mittens? Their mother was so steamed that she meowed: Then you shall have no pie. First off, what are kittens doing with gloves and, secondly, who's sure it was their fault they lost them. What a rotten lady. No wonder nasty females are called cats.

Anybody notice those "Grimm's Fairy Tales" are really grimm? "Little Red Riding Hood" got eaten by a wolf.

No wonder our kids are violent. We're singing this to them when they're little babies. We're reciting fears into them at birth. The songs are not very nice. The rhymes are not very nice. The characters are not very nice. Why should the children then be very nice?

And for a change of pace we tell them about the boogeyman who will scare them or we tell them ghost stories to terrify them.

And just to help them along the road, celebrities name them Dweezil, Moon Unit, Moses, Apple, Suri, Phinnaeus, Eulala, Satchel, Aquinnah, Phoenix, Prince Michael, Heavenly Hiraani, Pilot, Kafka, Lark-Song.

No wonder they're neurotic. Mind, I have no children so I have no frame of reference so I should keep my mouth shut because I don't know what I'm talking about. Still . . .