"Life's Big Zoo:" Coming of Age in Laurel Canyon, 1968

 “Life’s Big Zoo” started off as a memoir and, like most memoirs, quickly turned into a fictional catcher in the rye bread, Jewish with an emphasis on “-ish” coming of age story set in L.A.’s Laurel Canyon, summer of ‘68 housed in an eclectic family with a refugee father, missing-in-action mother, wannabe rock star brother, wise and feisty Holocaust-surviving granny, and a suspected Nazi neighbor on a street named Wonderland that winds slightly to the left of the galactic center of the folk rock universe.  

The story of a precocious kid growing up between the shadow of the holocaust and the bright lights of the sixties is heavily influenced by my own experience coming of age in Los Angeles on the fringes the sixties.  

Being raised Jewish in a tumultuous era contributed to my perspective and isolation. My dad wouldn’t let me join the Boy Scouts because the uniforms reminded him of the Hitler Youth of his traumatic childhood in Nazi Germany. I don’t remember not knowing about the Holocaust that my father and his parents escaped just in time. Most of their extended family weren’t so lucky.  Growing up with this history meant being an outsider in mainstream America. 

But in the sixties, outsiders were everywhere. The sixties were a time for seeking meaning and searching outside one’s faith or tribe of origin for universal truths. I was very aware of this, even as a kid. 1968 was a year that still looms larger than life. Rigged elections, assassinations, wars, riots, rock and roll. 

I set the story in Laurel Canyon because I grew up nearby, though I was too young to fully participate. The Canyon was home to Joni Mitchell, CSNY, The Doors, and everyone in between (including The Monkees, my favorite band at the time).  Laurel Canyon was an artistic and cultural nexus like Paris between the world wars or Woodstock, NY on the other side of the country. “Colorful” would be an understatement.

But color is the flip side of darkness and I saw plenty of both. Like Max Strauss, my young protagonist, I saw the sixties unfolding from the window of the Los Angeles city bus I rode across town to my “special” elementary school. I listened to KHJ (“Boss Radio for Boss Angeles!”) and Wolfman Jack on my transistor radio, graduated to FM, dreamed of starting a garage band, and was scared by the nightly news.   

I figured that if the H-bomb didn’t get me, the war would. Few of my classmates expected to live past the age of thirty and some didn’t. In the book, Max’s musician brother, the draft-age, poor student Tommy, brings the specter of Vietnam, the spirit of rebellion and the dream of love, peace, and music. In the sixties and early seventies, lots of our big brothers went off to war or took to the streets to fight against it. 

Early readers love the feisty Nana character who survived Dachau and refuses to let history repeat. While humor permeates the entire story, there’s also increasing gravitas as Max and Nana tries to resolve and unfinished family mystery in Germany.

We’d all like to think of ourselves as heroes, but history suggests that most of us would remain silent if threatened. In “Life’s Big Zoo” I suggest that heroism wears many faces and has no age limit.I’m hoping that baby boomers will find some universal truths and that younger readers will learn something about their parents (and grandparents!) in seeing the kaleidoscopic world of 1968 through the eyes of a twelve year-old mensch.

Among the many wise things my grandmother told me one that rings true time and again is that God keeps a big zoo. In the summer of 1968 I joined the menagerie.

I hope you enjoy the ride.

Country Store Mural
 (Image courtesy of Spike Stewart)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A Sedona Vortex Almost Killed Granny

Sedona, Arizona. New Age Mecca. Home of the mysterious vortex.

After a day of hiking the red rock canyons, my wife and I went to investigate Airport Mesa, a local vortex site, to see if we could feel the legendary power emanating from deep within the earth. 

Scorpions. Rattlesnakes. Black widow spiders. Coyotes. Wild boars. White women carrying babies on their backs and revolvers on their hips. Seems like everything in Arizona can kill you. Surely the vortex would offer some balance to the relentless assault of natural hazards.

After competing for a parking place with drivers who were less than mellow, we climbed up to the mesa and competed for photo opportunities. Nobody was meditating or doing yoga. No chanting. The closest thing to interpretive dance was a kid trying to bug his grandmother by doing the Gangnam Style dance. He seemed to be having a spiritual moment. She wasn’t.

I couldn’t feel any earth vibrations but the sky was darkening and the views were beautiful. 

A storm was approaching so we stayed to watch it arrive alongside the frail old woman whose family and dancing grandson had already descended. 

Big mistake.

When the wind gusts hit, we were nearly knocked off the top of the summit. (The next day, I would learn that the gusts had hit 55 miles/hour up there. To get a sense of this, stick your head outside the car next time you’re driving down the freeway.) 

My wife smartly dropped to her knees to minimize wind resistance. 

The old woman was disoriented and her oversized jacket filled like a sail. She was about to paraglide off the edge when I grabbed her thin arm. Her jacket hood blew over her face. My face was getting pelted by the fine red dust that makes the region so beautiful when it’s not trying to kill you.

Both of us were in trouble until my wife grabbed the woman’s other arm and guided her to a cable that serves as a guide rail.

Once stabilized, I looked down the hillside and saw the old woman’s adult son or son-in-law watching the whole drama unfurl. I waved frantically, hoping he would come and help his scared and uncooperative old granny, but he just turned and left. Not exactly a moment of new age love and understanding. 

The three of us we all inched down the hillside half-blinded by stinging dust, buffeted by the crazy winds gusting out of the canyon. It was really scary. 

So, yeah, I got my vortex. 

Truth is, it almost got me.

 

View from the Vortex

Keep Saturn in Saturnalia!

Sol Invictus

After a grim and grueling year, our well-deserved December holiday is finally here. We will don pointy red hats, exchange gifts, and eat too much. Drink we must and drink we will. We will celebrate the Birth of The Lord on December 25th.

Time to party like its 123 A.D.

The festival of Saturnalia starts on December 17th and culminates with the birthday of our glorious Sol Invictus on the 25th.  We pray and sacrifice for King Sol to light our benighted world.

It’s the most beautiful time of the year, the joyful season when both the poor and the mighty decorate their shops, homes and streets with brightly colored ornaments when. We light candles and hang lanterns to counter winter’s darkness.  Our neighbors and co-workers wear outlandish outfits, and many enjoy the temporary suspension of public morality to dance, disrobe, and engage in acts that would be make a pig blush during the rest of the year. For those who need extra encouragement there will be mulled wine and spiced drink to lubricate long nights of wild irreverence. 

Don’t hold back! What happens in Saturnalia, stays in Saturnalia

Every city, town and village will designate a “Lord of Misrule” to lead the way, encourage mayhem, and speak truth to power. Remember: short of murder, nothing you say or do during Saturnalia can be held against you. Bosses become workers and workers, bosses.  The meek inherit the earth and turn it upside down, if only for a week. So stick it to The Man and enjoy it while it lasts.

Alas, no good tradition goes unpunished. There is a dark side to all the merriment. Prudish forces of political correctness are trying to co-opt our ancient ways. The holier-than-thou insist upon saying “Happy Holidays” instead of “Io Saturnalia.” These self-proclaimed saints demand that the traditional week of debauchery be replaced with just one quiet, solemn day on the December 25th. 

Don’t be fooled by these repressed pilgrims! The puritanical few should not be allowed to dictate morality over those of us who honor tradition. We true believers must hold fast to our lasciviousness and sacrifice. And when it comes to sacrifice, don't forget that the Gods prefer suckling pigs.

Io Saturnalia! 

Want more? The first chapter of "Aqueduct to Nowhere" will transport you back to the Saturnalia festivities and chaos that follows in 123 A.D..

Aqueduct to Nowhere

It took four years and many re-writes, but "Aqueduct to Nowhere," the sequel to "No Roads Lead to Rome," is finally here!  Given that "No Roads" took about nine years to get published, one could argue that I'm getting faster. Initial reviews suggest I might be getting better, too.

In blog post here, I wrote about how the "No Roads" story found me and how its colorful characters colonized my mind. Many of the bamboozlers, fools, heroes and sages who navigated the chaos and obstacles of "No Roads" have returned in "Aqueduct." 

The saga takes place during the week of Saturnalia, a solstice festival that was wilder than the wildest Mardi Gras imaginable. Slaves become masters and masters, slaves. Anything goes and often does.

The action kicks off immediately when a low level security guard named Gaius Severus, the hapless conscript from "No Roads," is kidnapped for initiation into the mysterious cult of Mithras, God of Soldiers.

Severus would have liked nothing better than to forget his Jewish origins and assimilate into a comfortable position within the imperial administration. Unfortunately, his rebel brother Marius is hades-bent on overthrowing the empire with outlandish stunts and protests. Worse, his strong and psychic girlfriend Lena joins forces with a ship full of female pirates who came to settle a grudge with the inept bon vivant Governor Festus Rufius.

Gaius Severus wanted a quiet life and he's rewarded with the opposite. He didn't ask to be thrust into a world full of thieving politicians, rogue praetorians, assassins and rioting citizens but he rises to each occasion, survives, thrives and solves a few mysteries along the way.

The indie success of "No Roads"  helped me develop a thick skin. When one critic said that he enjoyed the back of a Cornflakes box better than my novel I studied the cereal box for insights and posted a one-star review here and on Amazon.

That said, I appreciate the thoughtful reviews, good and bad, and tried to learn from them all. With the exception of a couple of excursions I couldn't resist, in "Aqueduct" I tried to avoid  tangents that amused me but dissipated story momentum. I developed  strong female characters and let them kick some ass. My people are more three dimensional, their internal and external conflicts more human.  There's even a bit of romance.

Ancient Tarragona, Spain in  A.D. 123 was an age where many Gods and cults were competing for one's devotion, a time when might made right and those with the gold made the rules.  One superpower, Rome, ruled supreme but there were cracks along the edges of the empire.

As in our world today, corruption, incompetence, and self-interest competed with hope and idealism to drive history forward. Then, as now, people were still people--their pathos, quirks and foibles fertile ground for humor. Have we changed all that much over the millennia or is really our world I'm writing about?

There's no better time than the past to laugh at the present. Historical friction.

I hope you enjoy "Aqueduct to Nowhere." If you agree it was worth the wait, please spread the word by posting a review at Amazon, Goodreads, or elsewhere.

"No Roads to Rome" and "Aqueduct to Nowhere" can be found at Amazon USA and Amazon UK as well as other sites.

Sorry, Ringo

I grew up worshiping the Beatles. I've listened to them on every format from the little radio I immortalized on YouTube to the cloud player that doesn't sound any better than that old nine-volt transistor radio. I've bought Abbey Road in vinyl, cassette, CD, and MP3. As soon as I verified that my kids ears worked, I pumped Yellow Submarine into their heads.  

In addition to some serious philosophy, The Beatles had a whimsical sense of humor. So what took me so long to spoof them in this piece called Ringo Marries Yoko and why do I feel guilty for dumping a bit of satire on those two?

I feel similar angst over the piece where I announced that the Cirque du Soleil would abandon their artsy abstract performances. After denouncing shows that only grad students can understand, the article goes on to describe a new show that only a grad student could understand.

In Disney Buys the Holy Land, I offer a viable solution to the Israel/Palestine dispute: turn the whole region into a theme park. Disney's touch will, by definition, render Jerusalem the happiest place on earth. When it comes to ideas for rides, spectacles, and action figures,  Lord knows the Holy Land has material to spare.

By now, everyone on earth has lived through at least one financial meltdown caused by someone else's greed. My pieces entitled "Downsize your Children" and "Kick Your Assets" are intended as helpful guidance for navigating the next Wall Street induced crisis.

One way to combat financial Armageddon would be to fix the US healthcare system. In "Buggy Obamacare Website Cost More than Iraq War," I postulate that the cure might kill the patient. No worries! We can always migrate to Canada for free health care.

Speaking of Canada ... because these pieces show up in The Sage, a Canadian humor site, I felt obliged to pick on my northern neighbors in "US Immigration Refused Entry to Migrating Geese."  Humor aside, those geese are lovely to see in flight but kind of disgusting up close.

Buenos Dias, Canada!

I'm celebrating the release of "Aqueduct to Nowhere," the standalone sequel to "No Roads Lead to Rome" by trying to make Canada laugh.

This attempt at cross-border humor may result in the first Nobel Peace Prize for Satire or a warrant for my arrest in Saskatoon.

The good folks at The Sage News have created a kinder, gentler, sillier alternative to The Onion. (They would have called it The Scallion, but an obstinate old farmer from Blubber Bay refuses to sell the URL.)

My recent pieces range from an expose of House Jock vs. Senate Nerd Towel Snapping in the US Capitol to a thoughtful bit called Obamacare Unleashes Armageddon about how uninsured Americans have such superior healthcare that they are willing to die for it.

I'm sure the busy folks in Meat Cove and Loon Lake share my dislike of top ten lists. That's why I wrote the Top 10 Reasons to Avoid Top 10 Lists and followed quickly with a tweet-able Top 10 list on How to Master Twitter in 10 Easy Tweets.

The Epic Shutdown of the US Government will probably be over by the time my tweets reach the Yukon Territories, but I was thoughtful enough to share the benefits in case my northern neighbors ever wonder why so many non-essential US Government workers snuck across the border to find work during the crisis.

Note that none of these bits mention my sequel because self-promotion might be considered impolite in Dingwall, Moose Jaw, and Snafu Creek. I'm sure that my seven or eight  readers in Nippers Harbour will appreciate my kindler, gentler, almost indirect approach to marketing. That's why I wrote this piece about My Big Fat Facebook Divorce.

Finally, I'm well aware that some of Canada is bilingual and I humbly apologize to the wonderful Spanish speaking people of Quebec for the somewhat English nature of my writing. Lo siento, amigos.

The decline and fall of damn near everything continues in Aqueduct to Nowhere, the sequel to No Roads Lead to Rome.

How I Lost the War

The phone rang around midnight.

“Wake up you smart ass Jew-boy!” a drunkard shouted.

It was my belligerent landlord, Mr. Hemison.  He was generally tolerable, but tonight he was on a bender.

“You might as well commit suicide right now!”

As a poor student in Westwood, one of L.A.’s richer zip codes, I was willing to put up with a certain amount of abuse in exchange for low rent.  “What’s wrong, Mr. Hemison?”

“You’re losing the war against the ants.”

It was true. The ants were winning.

For $75 a month, I had a small room in the basement and a job as the building’s caretaker. I pulled weeds, purged hairballs from clogged drains, and vacuumed the Astroturf stairways. To make ends meet, I snuck into the unguarded cafeteria of a nearby housing co-op for my meals.  

The tenants were all UCLA students like I was. In addition to fighting ants, we battled the high rents  and turned a dense and narrow neighborhood west of Fraternity Row into a student ghetto.  Most of the area’s small apartments were stuffed two students to a bedroom. Mr. Hemison had no idea how many illegal sublets and permanent “visitors” lived in his building. He was usually too drunk to care.

The only people living in worse squalor were the Frat Row bros.

When they weren’t having 6AM Tequila Sunrise parties and then taking over busy intersections to misdirect traffic on Gayley Ave, the brothers blasted music with enough sound power to keep the rest of us dazed and confused.

Early one morning, a travelling preacher dragged a large wooden cross up Fraternity Row and planted it on the front lawn of Tappa Tappa Kegga. He had a full head of hurricane-proof hair and looked self-righteous in a three-piece suit. He had a bull horn and was on a mission to save the fraternity brothers from themselves.

“Fornicators!” he shouted.  “Pagans! Pornographers! Pleasure mongers!”

I was walking to an early class but couldn’t resist waiting to see the fireworks.

Unfortunately for Right Reverend Potty Mouth, the brothers slept through his tirade. Tired of preaching to no one, he followed me onto campus screaming “Repent you masturbator!” at the back of my head.

His cross had a wheel at the bottom which enabled him to move pretty fast. He was a real holy roller but I eventually outran him.

In retrospect, I wish I had thought to invite him back to my apartment building to rain holy hellfire down upon the ants.  After riding us of pestilence, perhaps he could have exorcised Mr. Hemison’s demons, too.

 

Lost in Translation

I visited New Orleans and the Bayou country a long time ago. 

A few memories stand out like being refused entrance to a Zydeco bar in Lafayette because it wasn’t “Honkey Night.” 

Somewhere along the way, I saw two bumper stickers whose wisdom has stuck with me ever since. 

The first said “Don’t Drink and Drive. You Might Spill Your Drink.” In a region that boasted drive-through Daiquiri stands, the logic was self-evident.

The other said, “We Don’t Care How You Do It Up North.”  

 

This was back in the pre-Katrina days. Since the civil war had long since given way to civil rights, this sentiment just passed right through me.   

It wasn’t until I had changed jobs, cultures, towns and countries a couple times that I grasped what that Southerner had been trying to tell me.  

It may be vanity, but we’d all like to think that we’ve accumulated some useful experience over the years. Wisdom, maybe. Perhaps our accomplishments are worthy of respect and our contributions are appreciated.

Fine, but don’t expect any of it to translate.

 

It turns out that much of your importance is context dependent. It’s local. Unlike changing hairstyles, when you change jobs, towns, schools, or cultures you’ll probably have to re-build the part of your self-image that derives from how others perceive you.  

You may have done it better out west, but nobody wants to hear about it back east. 

The exception to this is if you are some combination of rich, famous, powerful, or beautiful, but stature in one place doesn’t always translate to the next. Appearance is the most immediate example of this. 

One warm Sunday, long ago, my family was sitting in a public square of a small village north of Barcelona. A proud, well-dressed fellow was strutting his well-dressed family across the plaza.  He looked like the sort of rotund, stuff-shirted silent film character who might have played “The Mayor” or “The Rich Industrialist” in a Charlie Chaplin movie. He was prim, proud, and polished. All he lacked was a top hat. It seemed like too hot a day for a coat and tie, but this was a fellow for whom appearance trumped comfort.  

Approaching from the other direction was an American family that we knew from our kids’ school. They hailed from one of the richest postal codes on earth and  were living in Spain while their kitchen was being remodeled back home. He was a descendent of a famous film star. She was many years his younger. Their kids probably pooped gold nuggets. I don’t know if they were good people or not—the truth is, they were kind of snooty but you couldn’t tell by looking at them. They dressed in what could mercifully be called “Shabby Chic.”  

One great thing about the West Coast of the USA is that you can’t tell anything about anyone by the way they are dressed. Millionaires look like bums. Bums drive Cadillacs.  Beautiful people turn ugly and the famous, infamous.   

But to the Spanish patriarch, the Yankee millionaires must have looked like a walking disease. In his eyes, their appearance masked any possibility that they might be charitable, upstanding, or worthy of common courtesy.  Not that it should matter, but they offered him no visual clue that they happened to have money coming out of their ears. All he could see is that their ears were dirty and on an intercept course with his sparkling offspring.

He judged their dog-eared "West Coast Casual" by its cover. They weren’t even looking at his first edition copy of "Old World Formal." These two fellows and their fine families may have had everything in common, but there was no chance the twain would meet. 

In the Chaplin version of this scene, the Spaniard’s bushy eyebrows would have knocked the top hat off his head. In my memory, his stiff body language signaled his offense at having to share the public square with such apparent riff-raff. He spun his family about and herded them back to a corner of the plaza where appearances mattered.  

The oblivious Southern Californians continued on their loud, merry way, indifferent to how anyone did it up north.

Lunchtime in the Garden of Good and Evil

I saw the true heart of darkness at age eight.

The experience, like much that is evil, started  banal.

There we were: a rabble of elementary school kids waiting in line to buy our milk at lunchtime.

I remember the smell of dry heat rising off the asphalt. I can still see the sunlight filtering through the eucalyptus trees.

Regular milk cost seven cents, chocolate cost a dime.  An older student, the milk monitor, wheeled the cart into the lunch area and solemnly collected money, dispensed milk and made change.

I bought my milk as always and found a shady place to eat my lunch. Most likely, my metal action figure lunchbox contained a cream cheese and jam sandwich on white bread. It’s a good thing I liked this concoction because it had zero trading value with the other kids.

I was eating my Granny Smith when one of the “bad kids” whizzed past me at top speed. He shouted a battle cry and dove onto the milk cart like a cartoon squirrel. The milk monitor jumped aside and the cart took off, rolling and tumbling, sending milk and money in all directions.

Without a second’s thought, every kid within shouting distance shrieked for joy. We jostled each other for the nickels and dimes, chasing them as they rolled and fell on the pavement.

United we stole. No moral quandary. No fear of consequences. In a burst of collective larceny, we stuffed  undeserved windfalls into our pockets.

The distraught milk monitor, a boy who must have been all of twelve years old, tried to restore order, but he could not contain our lawlessness. The coins disappeared as if vacuumed and then, fast as it all started, we returned to our lunches like a cloud of birds.

The poor, defeated boy picked a few remaining pennies from a puddle of spilt milk. He fought back tears and trundled away to face the certain wrath of the cafeteria matron whose dislike for children was as legendary as her soggy fish sticks.

A few good kids came forward to return their ill-gotten gains and suffer a tongue lashing from the principal.

The instigator was caught but showed no remorse. I’m sure he grew up to be a bank robber.

I remained silent and pocketed my winnings. Amazingly, nobody snitched. I don’t know what else I learned in school that day but the infectious power of a mob is something I’ll never forget.

 Maybe this explains the mob scenes in my novel "No Roads Lead to Rome"

2013 Will be the Dumbest Year Ever

With the forgivable exception of the world ending (see below), all my other predictions for 2012 came true (here).

Given that I seem to have been blessed with the gift of augury, I feel obliged to offer these prognostications for 2013. (Feel free to add your own in the comment section!)

• Nintendo will release a miniature game console called the Wiini
• Apple will spend its cash hoard to buy a small country for its competitors to live in.
• Momentum to legalize marijuana will fizzle as activists forget what they were fighting for.
• In the USA, gay marriage initiatives will pass in 10% of the states.
• The US Constitution will be modified to allow citizens the right to carry concealed nuclear weapons.
• Texas will finally outlaw forced conversion of vegetarians.
• Admitting that “fluorescent lights really suck,” California will decriminalize incandescent bulbs.
• The British Royal Family will make it official by starting a reality TV franchise.
• Popular baby names will include #Hashtag, Snapchat, and Poke.
• New apocalypse fears will arise when scientists discover an "off by one" math error in the Mayan Calendar.
• The arrival of a very bright comet will renew the global debate over very bright comets.
• Controversial scenes in the new Star Trek movie will trigger outrage from Vulcans.

 If  your New Year's Resolution includes adding brain cells to compensate for those you killed in 2012, you probably shouldn't read my novel, "No Roads Lead to Rome."

Stamp Out Intolerance!

I’ve had the honor of providing a virgin encounter to over seventy people without ever having to die or visit anyone’s odd notion of paradise.

I regret to clarify that none of these cases involved any physical intimacy with the exception of the kid on the playground who punched me in the nose for having killed Christ. Or the time a questionable friend’s older brother pushed me into a closet with a lit candle and ordered me to beg forgiveness from Jesus.

I continue to be the first Jew many people have met. I don’t wear it on my sleeve, but it does tend to come out in conversation when people are trying to convert me. This is a shame because I’m a terrible ambassador for my tribe.

My faith lapsed shortly after cashing in my Bar Mitzvah winnings. I grew increasingly frustrated with not being invited to join secret Jewish conspiracies like Wall Street, Hollywood, or the tenured staff of Brandeis University. (If any member of the International Cartel of Jewish Bankers or the Elders of Zion is reading this, please contact me before my next car payment is due.)

I later passed my skepticism on to my sons by answering life’s big questions – “where do we go when we die” and “will there be hamburgers” – by explaining that Star Trek was the documentary story of our exiled people. I then told them to go outside and watch for the mothership.

“Looks like we’re on our own,” I said when no mothership arrived.

American kids nowadays are lucky that differences are celebrated and bloodied noses are fewer. They are blessed to live in the most religiously tolerant and diverse country in the world where church parking lots are full, temples have security guards, and mosques are routinely denied building permits.

The USA even had a Mormon run for president! He gave a big speech to profess his tolerance of other Christians. His opponent, our current president, caught flack for being a member of a radical church. Once elected, he took heat for being a radical Muslim – clear testimony to our open mindedness.

There may not be a mothership, but as the holiday season descends and yuletide Muzak fills our cinnamon-scented shopping malls, we can still raise our eggnog lattes in common worship of the Gods of Commerce.

May your season be joyful and the after-Christmas sales heavenly.

Looking for an innapropriate gift? Steal this book!!

Electile Dysfunction Disorder

No sooner had the US elections ended than the backlash started.

Right after two states legalized marijuana the company that made Twinkies, Ding Dongs and Hoho’s went out of business. In spite of a swelling wave of new customers with munchies, 18,000 people who made the snack food beloved to pot smokers everywhere lost their jobs. 

Too many Twinkies might explain why tens of thousands of citizens across the country filed petitions to have their states secede from The Union immediately after Obama's reelection.

Ding Dong Mitt Romney lobbed some Hohos of his own by announcing that he lost the presidency because Obama gave financial gifts to women and minorities. Mittens was stunned that the financial gifts he had promised to the super rich somehow failed to sway the popular vote.

Vice Presidential candidate Paul Ryan blamed “urban voters” for his defeat even though a majority of voters in his rural hometown voted against him. Fact checkers got busy looking into what percentage of the nation is now urban.

Those poor fact checkers! How empty their lives must feel now that the country has recovered from Electile Dysfunction Disorder.

The son of mega-evangelist Billy Graham announced that Romney lost because Christians failed to vote.   While it’s true that Obama carried the Jewish vote, it was surprising to learn that the Electoral College is full of pagans.

Confirming that the End of Days is upon us, the Israelis and Palestinians began fighting, Europe slipped back into recession, and the CIA Director was brought down by a sex scandal that spread like a virus.

It seems the nation’s top spy didn’t realize that e-mail exchanges could be hacked by shirtless FBI agents.

After seeing his party lose decisively by insulting women and minorities, Obama’s former foe, John McCain thought it might be a good idea to loudly impugn the reputation, achievements and intelligence of a prominent black woman. He missed a confidential hearing on the Benghazi attacks to attack UN Ambassador Susan Rice for being misinformed about the Benghazi attacks.

Clearly, McCain has put the 2008 election behind him and, like the rest of the nation, is now ready to move forward.

 

The decline and fall is sure taking a long time! It all started in "No Roads Lead to Rome!"

My Audition for a Presidential Speech Writing Job

This election is a choice between two Americas.  My opponent’s America is a classic rock band who’s tired, droning songs are honey-coated with falsetto harmonies but ultimately make no sense. 

My America is the star of “Ugly Betty.”  

This is a nation of immigrants many of whom got stuck here when United Airlines went bankrupt. Others ran out gas on the way to Canada. Either way, if a child was born and raised here, and they’re willing to serve in the military, go to college and work cheap, let’s not deport them until they’ve fixed our crumbling bridges and roads.

On every issue, my rival was for it, against it, and for it again so many times that he doesn’t even remember what “it” was. He  flip-flops more often than our Olympic gymnastic team and he looks like hell in a sparkly pink leotard.

My opponent is in the upper 1% of the upper 1% of the upper 1%. If he were anymore 1% he would round to zero.

He's out of touch. His plan for the underwater housing market is to issue snorkels. He wants to let Wall Street run your daughter’s lemonade stand. He intends to trade Louisiana back to the French in exchange for Martinique.

At least we agree on that last one.

I know this is a close election. That’s why I’ve proposed to settle it by having our wives arm wrestle.  

Let me make this clear: I will not replace our seniors with a voucher system. I will not sacrifice our students to greedy bankers. I will, however, voucher our students if they don't call their greedy grandparents and ask them to send money.

After years of nation building abroad, we need to bring our troops home.  If they can’t find employment within, say, one year, I’ll start another war. This time, let's fight for a place with better vacation opportunities.

So vote with your heart. Vote with your head. Or vote with your feet.

God bless The United Swing States of America.

The Endless Election

   The only thing propping up our weak economy is the roughly $2B being spent on the presidential election. The biblical flood of anonymous, unregulated campaign spending has proven to be a terrific stimulus package for advertisers, caterers, and hair stylists.

   Prices and profits are up ever since demand for red, white, and blue balloons caused a global shortage of helium. Our bottomless appetite for imported American flags even prevented a recession in China.

   The USA may not have invented Reality TV, but we were quick to turn it into a governing principal.

   Season One is full of exciting, scandal-prone novelty candidates with sweater vests, cowboy boots, and quirky ideas about science and geography. Most of these early candidates get booted off the island during the final episode known as “The Primary Election.”

   If your favorites don't survive the primaries, there's no need for despair. Many will be back for Season Two cameo appearances in the gala extravaganza called “The Party Convention.”

  The party convention is like “Lollapalooza” for people with golf carts.

   In deference to Mr. Romney, hurricane-proof hairdos will be on display at the Republican event conveniently scheduled during the peak of tropical storm season in Tampa, FLA.

   The Democratic convention will be wrapped in mystery and tension over whether Vice President Biden will be allowed near a microphone.

   The main outcome of either convention is the “party platform.” The platform serves the same purpose in politics as in Olympic diving: the competitor must jump off the platform, twist and turn in mid-air, and land in the great bathtub of public approval without splashing anyone. Any candidate who “flip-flops” loses points.

   The conventions are largely ignored by real Americans who are either on vacation or getting their feral kids ready to go back to school.  The real purpose of the convention is to encourage the party faithful to litter neighborhoods and highways with non-recyclable plasticized yard signs.

  Once the conventions are over, the final leg of the campaign marathon begins.  Because most voters are loyal to their party, the candidates now engage in symbolic struggle to convert a small percentage of critical swing voters to their side. Appealing to the swing voter forces the tongue-twisting candidates to escape Houdini-like from a variety of contorted positions. 

   By the end of summer, most voters would rather be water boarded than hear another campaign promise. With the nation’s attention span spent, the short but exciting Season Three offers thrilling twists and a surprise ending in November when everyone texts in their vote and Ryan Seacrest announces the winner.

  

Can't decide? Vote for Pedro?

One Star Review

One of the most intriguing reviews I’ve received for “No Roads Lead to Rome” is a one star lament stating, “Read the cornflakes box, it's better.” 

This hurt, but I put on my big boy pants and bought a box of Cornflakes to see if I could improve my writing. I'm always willing to learn and I really want the sequel, “Aqueduct to Nowhere” to snap, crackle, and pop.

I fixed myself a nice bowl of cereal and settled in for a good read. The excitement started immediately when I learned that Cornflakes are over 100 years old. Cornflakes are old as Norway? I was captivated and ready to be transported by the magic of words on paper.

Let’s face it. A 100 year old character sets high expectations for the rest of the box, but I’m glad to say our friends at Kelloggs delivered on the initial promise. The segment on the food pyramid was as compelling as any I remember from elementary school. I couldn’t wait to see what would happen when my 100 old cereal encountered fresh milk.

But the conceit simply didn’t support the weight of the narrative. Why did the writer veer off into a longwinded, completely tangential recipe for “Cheddar Broccoli Double-Coated Chicken?”  At first I thought this was a metaphor for a 100 year old cereal’s struggle to make peace with the modern ethos, but it felt rushed and could have used better editing.

Speaking of modern constructions, I must cry foul on the constant references to external links. Contemporary devices like this jerk the reader out of the historical context. If the cereal box had been an e-book, I might have been willing to click over to the kelloggs.com link for more insights, but when I sit down to read a work printed on paper, I expect it to be complete.

In spite of occasional brilliance, the initial promise falls flat. Midway through breakfast, the box was beginning to feel like it was written by a committee—especially the “Nutrition Facts” section which read like a chemistry teacher’s shopping list. In a word, dire.

Finally, I know a good breakfast is the cornerstone of a productive day, but wasting an entire side of the box—even a narrow side—on this topic suggests to me that the author ran out of fresh ideas and fell back on dull clichés and haggard moralizing. Show me, Cornflakes, don’t tell me.

In short, I would give this box a one star review. The meandering narrative is saved by the excellent graphic design and that wonderful rooster that woke me up without a lot of shrill crowing. (Did you know his name is Cornelius? I didn't. Why did they wait until well past the denouement to reveal this?)

As breakfast goes, I would rate Cornflakes slightly worse than Green Eggs and Ham and nowhere close to what they serve at Tiffany’s.

1-star Rooster

An Independent Menu for Struggling Candidates

In the past few US elections, perfect hair and radiant teeth have swayed the electorate more than policy statements and campaign promises. This is because the only group who truly cares about issues is the independent voters and they don’t decide until the very last minute.

Party loyalists will always vote the ticket, but that’s not enough to win a majority. A Republican candidate can always count on the faithful, and a Democrat can never count on anything.  Since the electorate is equally split between the two major parties in most key states and regions, the independents can swing the election.

For candidates struggling with how to win these critical swing voters in November, I offer an easy approach. Assuming you’ve got a good hair and a bright set of teeth, here’s a simple policy menu that will fit all budgets and appetites.

DIY Candidate Menu

Chose one item from each section and start campaigning!

Appetizer

• Legalize Marijuana: this helps conservative candidates because stoners will forget to vote anyway
• Gay Marriage: Help our weak economy with lavish weddings and expensive divorces.

Entrée

• Abortion: Re-define life to start at graduation
• Foreign Policy: Give Louisiana back to the French
• Gun rights: all citizens issued a hand gun at birth

Side Dish

• Technology: Defend our right to carry concealed iPhones
• Housing Crisis: federally subsided spear guns to all underwater homeowners

Desert

• Immigration: Declare a one day, worldwide amnesty where people can change countries.
• Budget Deficit: Sell advertising space on national monuments and aircraft carriers

Beverage

• Energy Policy: Red Bull
• Austerity Measures:  English Breakfast Tea Party

 Still hungry? Vote for political humor by reading "No Roads Lead to Rome"

What’s good for GM is good for America

As I prepare my surprise bid for the Republican Party candidate for president, I’ve burned my platform down to just one plank: absolute support for gay marriage in all 50 states and Alaska.

That’s right. In order to jump start the economy, it’s time to nationalize GM.

Anyone who follows American election politics knows that certain unions are a hotter topic than climate change. Some will say I’m taking this position out of opportunism. Others may think me altruistic, but since when has altruism helped anyone?

I believe that if two people are in love and determined to screw things up, they should be allowed to form a union. It’s only fair. Everyone should be free to wed, start a family, and mess up the next generation the same way our parents did with us.

Like us, the kids will be all right.   There’s no evidence that children of GMs will turn out any worse than the others.  Thanks to Nintendo, most kids barely interact with their parents anyway.   

But love and fairness are not the reasons I’ll legalize GM as president. Sure, I’m for all that squishy stuff, but my GM position is based on cold-hearted economics.

If traditional marriage is good for the economy, GM will be even better.

Just imagine how much those wedding parties will cost and how much champagne the guests will drink.

Modernizing the definition of marriage is our fastest ticket out of the Great Recession. This can't be a state by state affair. Nationalizing GM will provide an instant boon to businesses. The sudden cash infusion to wedding planners and florists, hotels and caterers will be so lucrative the Democrats might propose a GM windfall tax.

GM ceremonies, bridal registries and honeymoons will create a multi-billion dollar industry overnight. The miracle of P-town will be duplicated so quickly that I’m shocked that Mitt Romney, the business-minded former Governor of the P-town State, hasn’t scooped me on this issue.

GM is a gift that keeps on giving. Assuming these new unions will be no more successful than their traditional brethren, the economy will benefit twofold: once from the celebrations, and later from the orgy of spending on divorce lawyers.

Since most divorced people eventually remarry, GM will be one of the most virtuous cycles in economics.

This is a great issue for business minded Republican Party leadership. Embracing GM is both fiscally responsible and consistent with the Republican principle of getting big government out of people’s lives.

GM is so logical, that I anticipate the other candidates will quickly adopt my wide stance on the topic and that’s fine with me. A good idea has many fathers and what’s good for GM is good for America. 

Predictions: 2012 Looking Pretty Stupid

Here are my most optimistic predictions for 2012!

Science:

The Higgs Boson will be found right where Higgs left it.

Experts will determine that Stonehenge is an ancient parking structure.

The world won’t end in 2012 but by December we’ll wish it had.

NASA will discover many earth-like planets, none with chocolate.

Politics:

In a bi-parisan breakthrough, the US Congress will agree to start 2012 on Jan 1.

In an epic flip-flop, Mitt Romney will deny he’s ever run for president.

Testing the Supreme Court ruling that corporations are people, Exxon will be elected President of the US.

Excited by the possibility of an ignorant populace, US Congress will completely defund education.

Commerce:

Facebook and Google will merge to form Face-Goo. 

Italy will propose replacing the Euro with a new currency called the Nero.

The stock market will go up, then down, then sideways.

Culture:

Diana Ross will reunite with the Supreme Court.

Queen Elizabeth’s Diamond Jubilee party will be louder than the Sex Pistol’s reunion concert.

The Rolling Stone’s 50^th anniversary tour will be sponsored by Ibuprofen.

Mumford will have a daughter.

EU Austerity Plan Forces Spain to Sell its History

(MADRID - TOROPRESS)

To meet EU demands for austerity, Spanish government officials have confirmed their intention to pay down the nation’s deficit by selling famous museums, formerly priceless artworks, and historical heritage sites.

The emerging plan invokes many breakthrough concepts in modern finance including:

·        Turning the medieval town of Toledo into a Spanish Inquisition theme park for kids.

·        Selling Picasso masterpieces on eBay.

·        Allowing advertising in cathedrals.

In addition, commerce officials in Madrid today revealed a series of binding agreements between Spain and Carrefour, the giant French retailer. The accords give Carrefour exclusive rights to build “tasteful, consumer friendly warehouse super-stores” at key heritage sites around the country.

French demolition teams immediately tunneled into the granite beneath the Alhambra where they intend to open Spain’s first underground discount mall next summer.

Construction permits have also been issued for many other sites around the country, including Barcelona’s Sagrada Familia, the Prado, and a series of convenient “Pilgrim Mini Marts” along the Camino de Santiago trail.

Though it may be too late to stop the sales, lawyers for the opposition Socialist Party are said to be looking for loopholes in the contract to block the French chain from “turning our rich cultural heritage into a cathedral to consumerism.”

“Shopping at Carrefour is an even richer cultural heritage,” company spokeswoman, Bea Fuentes, said in response to critics . “People will appreciate being able to see an old Spanish monument and buy bulk toilet paper and Nutella®.”

The government was careful to exempt all properties belonging to the Spanish Crown from the austerity measures, but scandal briefly touched the Royal Family when it was revealed that Carrefour had approached Letizia, Princess of Asturias, seeking her presence at the ribbon cutting ceremony opening Carrefour’s new Reina Sofia® Superstore in Madrid.

In response, a spokesman for the Royal Family made no comment. 

In a parallel development, Carrefour is now negotiating to obtain commercial rights to the Great Mosque of Cordoba. “At first, we didn’t understand the significance of the Cordoba site,” Fuentes admitted. “I mean, is it a church? Is it a mosque? Who's the target demographic? Going forward, we’ll have to simplify the marketing message.”

The austerity plan hit a speed bump when both the government and Carrefour claimed ownership of the art collection in the Prado. “The site’s a mess,” Fuentes insists. “We need to sell all that old artwork to pay for repairs.”

Austerity may turn out to be expensive if Carrefour sues the government for breach of contract. “We bought the Prado with everything in it,” Fuentes said. “Once we get rid of those dreary paintings, we’ll do a little redecorating and that place will have more charm than Paris Disneyland.”

No Roads Lead to Rome

The Prado is a mess