Not to Diss Gruntle

 

Gruntled to the dis-

Would you like to be gruntled? On the face of it, probably not. It doesn't sound like much fun.

But we know for sure that no one likes to be disgruntled.

So what's our option?

It turns out, "gruntle" is a very old English word (1682) that means to grumble or complain. But "disgruntled," rather than the opposite, means even more gruntled, a real complainy-face, and probably comes from an Old English word meaning "grunt.".

Because the English language has no actual rules.

"Gruntled" went out of style for a few centuries, till it was revived by some nameless writer (according to Merriam-Webster) back in the Twenties to mean, humorously, very pleased indeed.

(I'm betting it was Damon Runyon or Ogden Nash, although I wouldn't dismiss the possibility of Dorothy Parker.)

Our gruntled suspects

Nothing to know...

According to Elmore Leonard and Scott Frank, by way of Bo Catlett, Delroy Londo, at least.

 

Quiet Riot

San Francisco-- Americans were stunned by another act of senseless brutality this week when a San Francisco street performer went on a terrifying spree. Randy Heppelwhite, a San Francisco mime, was arrested by police yesterday after perpetrating what one onlooker called "one of the most hideously ambiguous performances I've ever seen." 

Union Square in the aftermath of the horror

"He jumped right out in front of a group of tourists, and without saying a word, he seemed to pull out a large caliber weapon of some sort," said Lars Chiswick, a manager at Banana Republic. "Some people were saying it was a revolver, some said a bazooka, but from the way he handled it, I'd say it was an automatic weapon, an Uzi or a Glock, maybe, the way he seemed to be spraying the whole square with hot lead. I saw people sitting down everywhere, walking away in panic. Very few people were tipping him, no large bills. One woman even hyperventilated. Then he tried to make his getaway on a unicycle, or it might have been a stegosaurus."

My Musical Miseducation

 

I missed the boat on music, and it still rankles. Let me say up front that, had things gone differently, I would not have become a musical prodigy, a rock star, or even a lounge singer with a baby blue tuxedo and a coke habit. There’s not a music molecule hiding anywhere in my DNA. But I might have at least been musically literate. Or what’s audio equivalent of literacy?

Whole Lotta Love

I remember particularly the first time I heard Led Zeppelin's Whole Lotta Love.

It must have been 8th grade--1970. I was with my best friend and his older brother, and his brother's friend, the cool kid who had taught us how to tie-dye tee shirts. (We would later learn how to stress jeans by tying bricks to them and dragging them behind a car;  since none of us had a car at the time, that was more of an aspirational thing.) 

This post is available as audio here on Substack.

The older brother's twin had bowed out. He was a contrarian, into country music at a time and an age when no one was into country music. Although, come to think of it, that whole family had a weakness for country music star Faron Young. Whether that was because he hailed from our hometown or because he was the spokesman for BC headache powders remains to this day a mystery. 

Lawsuits in Munchkinland

Harburg KS-

A new class-action suit filed on behalf of the residents of a small Midwestern town devastated by a killer tornado two years ago raises new questions of influence and accountability for mass media. The suit, filed by citizens of Harburg, Kansas pits the town against MGM Studios, makers of the 1939 classic The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

(The audio version of this post is available here on Youtube.)

In Harm's Way

The plaintiffs claim that MGM "did lull residents into a false sense of security when the tornado was reported, and even encouraged them to remain in harm's way in anticipation of the thrill ride of their lives."

"We always knew the house would pitch if it got hit by a twister, and probably a few of the hinges would unhitch," said Ebenezer Gale, whose home was destroyed by the storm, "but we'd seen the 'Wizard of Oz' dozens of times over the years, so we figured we'd just fetch up on a rainbow and put down somewheres in Munchkin Land. You can't find a vacation that cheap on Priceline.com.”

"Sure we got a storm cellar," said Emily Gale, "Everybody's got a storm cellar, you old fool. But who wants to be cooped up there when you could be visiting the Emerald City gettin' one of them makeovers, and maybe meeting Glinda the Good Witch?" Mrs. Gale had both legs broken by flying debris, and is confined to a wheelchair at this time. “We also lost a cow and several chickens in the storm. Just disappeared. We figure the Munchkins have got ‘em. We want ‘em back. If that wizard wants to play hardball, the president has promised to serve ‘em with tariffs.We believe in only licking American lollipops, anyway.”

Christmas v. Easter

(This post is available in audio format  here on Youtube.) "Imagine this. It's Christmas Eve and you have to wrap all your own presents. And that's supposed to be a lot of fun. Even though your presents are all underwear and socks. You know that, because you're the person wrapping them. And on Christmas morning, your presents aren't under the tree. You have to go outside and root around in the bushes to find them before the neighbor kids snatch them up.

And when you tear off the wrapping paper, all you've got is underwear and itchy socks.

That's Easter. Am I wrong?

Also, imagine instead of Christmas parties and Advent calendars  and Christmas carols, you have to give up everything you like and eat a ton of fishsticks all through Advent. That's Easter.

Easter: the one day we celebrate man-made ecological disaster by hiding hard-boiled eggs around the neighborhood and then forgetting where, so they're like little IEDs.

Inventing astrology

 

The origins of astrology are cloudy. The sky has been a problem for man ever since the dawn of time, or possibly later that same week. What is the sky? asked primitive man. How far up does it go? What holds it up? How often should it be mowed? Is my neighbor Og’s sky bluer than mine? Does it cross the line into my sky?

Primitive man was extremely territorial.

Early civilizations avoided looking at the sky, afraid that it might get angry and fall on them. Assyrian nobles favored their much taller Hittite slaves as bodyguards, reasoning that if the sky fell, they’d take the brunt of the impact. The ancient Babylonians did attempt an ambitious project to build a tower all the way to the sky. Ultimately, the project failed, however, mainly due to the use of Mafia-connected contractors for construction work.

The Phoenicians first noticed that there were objects suspended in the firmament. This made them an extremely nervous people. They would dart back and forth under the trees, muttering the words “firmament, firmament” to each other, hoping to avoid any falling celestial objects. They invented boats so they could get out from under the sky at short notice. Eventually they sailed their boats so far that they sailed right off the edge of the planet, and were a happier people as a result.

Cloudology

It was the Greeks who gave us the science of astrology. The Greeks gave the world reason and logic. So far they’ve refused to take them back. Credit for the invention of astrology goes to Optometrus of Thebes, although the role of Estremides the Athenian cannot be discounted. Both men were philosophers, but Optometrus also had a thriving business in time-share goats. The two philosophers were walking together one day in the groves of Academe, hoping to catch a glimpse of Academe’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Minerva the Winsome. They stopped for a moment to gaze at the clouds lazing across the sky.

Calvin Trillin on writing

 

"I suppose that there are endeavors in which self-confidence is even more important than it is in writing -- tightrope walking comes immediately to mind -- but it's difficult for me to think of anybody producing much writing if
his confidence is completely shot."

 --Calvin Trillin: journalist, humorist, deadline poet.

Favorite books:

Alice, Let's Eat

Uncivil Liberties

Enough's Enough: and Other Rules of Life

Bonus quote:

“Every good idea sooner or later degenerates

 into hard work.”

As Trillin says: Enough's enough.

From Poem to Screen

Whose woods these are I think I know,

His house is in the village though; 

He will not see me stopping here 

To watch his woods fill up with snow. 

My little horse must think it queer 

To stop without a farmhouse near 

Between the woods and frozen lake 

The darkest evening of the year. 

He gives his harness bells a shake 

To ask if there is some mistake. 

The only other sound's the sweep 

Of easy wind and downy flake. 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep. 

But I have promises to keep, 

And miles to go before I sleep, 

And miles to go before I sleep. 

 

    “Cecil, who’s on line two? Bob Frost?” 

    “Bobby, how’s it hanging, baby? How’s Vermont? Sap still rising?” 

“Oh, mending walls, eh? Make sure you get a good contractor. This guy Sophie got on the guest house, he’s a goneph. I swear, I’m pouring money down a rat hole.

*

 "So what have you got for me, baby? A new poem? Pitch me! Two ears, no waiting.” “Stopping in the Woods on a Snowy Evening? Great title. Says it all. Three teen-age couples, cabin in the woods, axe-murderer, chop, chop, chop, big box office, I can smell the money, these kids can’ get enough of the crap!

*

 “No – no axe-murderer? Sex frolic? No teen-agers? Guy stops in the woods, woods fill up with snow. So his car breaks down, what, he’s pitted against nature, there’s wolves, maybe a bear, maybe Dick and Perry, or it’s Deliverance New England style?

*

    “No car. He’s got a little horse. You mean he’s – no, a real horse. Okay, yeah, I’m still with you, Bob. What’s that about the horse?” “The horse thinks he’s queer for stopping. 

*

    “Have you shopped this to A24 at all?” “No, no, I’m just not sure how we play that beat, the – oh, he gives his harness bells a shake. Yeah, a nice touch. I’m sure Tom Hanks could pull it off. He was golden with that soccer ball.”

*

    “Bob, is there a girl, maybe back in the city, I’m thinking a Selina Gomez type, she and Hanks have had a fight, hot Latin temper, Hanks bangs out the door headed for the woods in the snow, now she’s worrying like crazy, she calls the cops, they send out maybe Javier Bardem or Christoph Walz---

*

      “The woods are lovely, dark and deep … no, that’s nice. I know Chris Nolan is looking for another project before he starts Oppenheimer II. You might want someone with indy cred.

*

      “Promises to keep? Hey, nobody’s breaking any promises. You’re signed for a three-poem deal, baby. I’m just saying, I think the studios are looking more for something like Fire and Ice. That was huge for us last summer.

*

      “Miles to go? Tell me about it. I’m up to my neck every day. You should see what Walt Whitman sent us. Way over budget, two hours too long, the guy’s got final cut, there’s no talking to these prima donnas.

*

      “If you’re having any problems that way, listen, my doctor put me on this new shit, I’m sleeping like a baby now. Yeah, I wake up every three hours and cry. No, really, I got extra, don’t mention it, it’s in the mail.

*

     “Bobby, Bobby, why don’t you put something together, a treatment, have your people send it over to us, you know we want to see it. Who have we got left who knows how to bring in a poem on time, with end-stopped rhymes? Think about the Selina angle, that’s all I’m asking. Talk to you soon, Bobby.

*

      “Who’s on one, Cecil? Sylvia Plath? I am so not ready for that psycho-drama. Tell her I’m in a meeting, I’ll call her back as soon as I get out. And get me Rob Browning on the line. I need a re-write on this piece of shit dramatic monologue Michael Bay is hot for.” 

Memoirs of Mother Ginger

 

Now that Christmas is over, the tale can be told. I am the Mother Ginger. Or was in1975. The top half, at least.

For those unfamiliar with The Nutcracker, Mother Ginger is a ten-foot tall lady who, for reasons unbeknownst to me still, sidles out to reveal eight little girls under her skirts who issue forth and do a dance number. 

Back story: our high school drama club was pretty well known in Shreveport at the time, so when the Houston Ballet came to town, they got in touch. They needed three guys to move some large boxes, they said. So me and my buddies, John Sheridan and Bobby Brady, volunteered. No sweat. Besides, ballerinas! Maybe we could hit on them. (We were an all-boy school, and chances to get near girls were rare.)

But when we got there, we were asked to audition, which seemed strange. We were supposed to cross the room, smiling puckishly, waving a handkerchief. We found out then that we were playing powdered-wig footmen, who wheeled the big boxes holding Clara’s Christmas prezzies on stage—and playing the aforementioned Mother Ginger, top and bottom. Apparently the ballet pulled this razz wherever they went. None of this would require a single dance step, so we were game.

Some other Mother

Since I was the only actor among the group (John and Bobby were techies) I swept the auditions and became the face of M.G.—said face to be covered in clown makeup, bewigged with red pigtails, each arm laden with half a dozen helium balloons, powder puff in one hand, said waving hankie in the other. The makeup girl said that I was the most evil-looking Mother Ginger she had ever seen, and there was nothing she could do to make it better. 

(Maybe it had something to do with the dance belt I had to wear as one of the footmen. If you've never worn a dance belt, suffice it to say they are not designed to bring a smile to your face.)

Bobby, who was a big guy, was supposed to be the bottom half, carrying me on his shoulders. But Bobby came down with the flu at the last minute and had to bow out (that was his story). Which meant that John, twenty pounds lighter than me, stepped into the thankless role. 

His task was simple: sidle half-blind under a tent-size skirt to the center of the stage--surrounded by eight little girls(called polichinelles) who had sworn to trip him and send both of us sprawling—open his skirts to reveal them, park and wait for them to do their little dance, gather them under his skirts again and make it off stage with the little girls, now sorely tempted to carry out their threats. My job? Shake that hanky, look as charming as possible and not evil, and try not to sweat too much.

Well--the little girls were merciful, possibly fearing retribution from St. Nick. Mission accomplished. It was a one-night show. It would only take a couple of hours to get those dance belts off. But I still break into a sweat whenever I hear Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies. And no, we did not get to hit on any ballerinas. Apparently they were busy dancing or something. (Alright, I had no game, and John came out as gay a year later.)

So next time you see The Nutcracker, think kindly the Mother Ginger--or at least the bottom half.

In Boston even beans do it

I

Interview with an Angel

Although there is debate whether the credit (or blame) should be given to Oprah Winfrey or Michael Sheen, there is no question that Americans are more concerned than ever with their spiritual sides. And a large part of the phenomenon has been the increasing popularity of angels, spiritual guides who many believe either praise God and play harps, or provide venture capital for Silicon Valley start-ups. We sat down last week with the angel Gabriel, in town for a stone-rolling competition.

Angels seem to be everywhere in the media these days, on the best-seller list, in the movies, on greeting cards. How are you dealing with your new popularity?

Not well. The truth is, we're bitter. A lot of people have made a lot of money on this deal. Do you want to know how big a taste the angels are getting? Not so much as a thin dime. Zilch. But try telling that to the IRS, or the headwaiter at Le Bernardin.

Why haven't you cashed in?

Can't. The company won't allow it. They're very strict. Look, I won't lie, the wages are great, much better than the wages of sin. Health and dental are magnificent. But the non-disclosure agreement makes Diddy's look chatty by comparison. Our union, the International Brotherhood of Winged Messengers, has been fighting this, but the funds are all tied up in escrow, and I'll probably never live to see a cent of it.

So you can't tell us what it's like to be an angel?

No, no, I can't. But I can tell you what it's not like. It's not like a bunch of clouds and harps and choir practice. It's more like Vegas, but without Wayne Newton.

What's a typical day like for you?

We do a lot of praising, a lot of singing. It's not really that different from touring with "Up With People", which I did for a year, by the way. We used to depend very heavily on Bach's Mass in B Minor, but we've really gotten into Amy Grant's back catalogue now, and "Don't Worry, Be Happy" is one of the big guy's favorites. Bobby McFerrin is one of us, in case you didn't know.

But aren't you in constant battle with the forces of evil?

During working hours, yes. But after five, the forces of evil definitely know the best places to party. We don't let our rivalry get down to a personal level.

What's the number one misunderstanding about angels you'd like to clear up?

I'll tell you what bugs me. This whole question about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. You hear ten million, fifty thousand, ninety bajillion. That's not right at all.

So what's the correct figure?

Six.

Six?

Six. The truth is, most angels can't dance any better than Elaine Benes. A lot of us are Italian. We can sing like angels, but we can't take three steps without tripping on our robes. You don't develop a great sense of rhythm singing Gregorian chants. The Clancy Brothers, they got into Irish clog dancing a few centuries back, and they can do "When Irish Eyes Are Smilin'" on the head of a pin. It's not exactly pretty, but it's better than Dancing With the Stars.

So how many angels are there, exactly?

Not nearly as many as before the cutbacks during Covid. Downsizing was hard on middle management in heaven, because your average angel can't handle much more than some heavy hosannaing and writing email jokes about the cherubim. Those aren't really marketable skills in today's economy, unless you're willing to work for Elon Musk.

So tell us. What's God really like?

Jerry Springer. He's just like Jerry Springer. He loves to get a bunch of people together and push their buttons till they're hopping mad, then he sits back and acts like he had nothing to do with the chair throwing. Jesus is more like Richard Simmons, but we won't get into that.

Is it true that every human has a guardian angel?

Guardian angel? No savvy.

An angel who keeps watch over you night and day, keeping you safe from temptation.

Is that what you call them, guardian angels? We call those guys parole officers. Life got a lot easier in the Holy Office when we transferred those guys to the planet.

Well, is there anything humans can do that angels envy?

I have a real weakness for Armani suits. The line is just incredible. But with these shoulders? Forget it.

By the way, we noticed that your own wings are not really all that large.

I'm in moult, OK? Is that alright with you?

Sorry.

The worst part is, I have to take commercial flights this time of year, and I can't always get a business upgrade.

Are you planning any more personal appearances soon?

Oh, sure. This week alone, I'm appearing to six different virgins in Chicago to let them know they're pregnant. Immaculate Conception is still a very important concept for Catholic girls, especially around prom time.

Do you have any advice for people trying to get into heaven?

Do make advance reservations. And don't try name-dropping. The number of people who tell me they know Dolly Parton personally is staggering.

Fie on fie!

Fie on goodness, fie

Fie on goodness, fie

Eight years of kindness to your neighbor
Making sure that the meek are treated well
Eight years of philanthropic labor
Derry down dell
Damn, but it's hell
Oh, fie on goodness, fie

Fie, fie, fie

It's no secret that I've always loved a good fie:

"Fie on ’t, ah fie! 'Tis an unweeded garden that grows to seed." –Hamlet

"Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman: fie on him!"--Twelfth Night

"Fie, fie, on all tired jades, on all mad masters, and all foul ways!" --The Taming of the Shrew

But the truth is, and I wouldn't want this to get around, I had no idea what a fie was. It's got to be pretty awful, right? Nobody ever fies on the dog when he has an accident in the bedroom. You don't fie on the waitress because she forgot to bring ketchup. Fie is reserved for the absolute bastards of the cosmos.

So finally I looked up fie. And effing eff, it doesn't mean ANYTHING. It's not a blast of lightning, or a bright blade that cleaves a knave from the nave to the chops. It's not even the old fewmets hitting the windmill. It's just an interjection of disgust, like Tchaa! or Tsk! or even Pshaw!

Pshaw!

 This is how curiosity killed the cat. This is the curse of Faust. This is the overweening hubris of Oedipus. This is me wishing I'd never looked up fie. Let fie lie.

But where did the word come from? From French, and Latin (fi!) before that, according to etymologists. Thousands of years ago this monosyllable of disgust hovering just on rebellion bubbled up to the lips of a thoroughly tacked off plebeian and those around him in the forum nodded in agreement. Fie on the patricians, the praetorians, the Vandals and the Goths. When Hamlet uttered it something smelled rotten in the state of Denmark--fie has always been associated with olfactory offensiveness.

The interjection seems to be the red-headed stepchild of the parts of speech, barely even given a nod by pencil-neck grammarians. But when you think of it, interjections were probably the first words humans uttered. Just think of Ook in his cave on a cold dark night. He can't hold it till morning. He gets up to go to the outcave, stubs his toe on a rock in the dark and yelps:

Interjection!

And, yes, I looked it up, and it turns out this very same theory, that language arose from interjections, has been held by thinkers from Democritus to Darwin, and even has a name: interjectional theory--also known as (I kid you not) the pooh-pooh theory. 

 But let's return to fie. How did the word lose its potency, become quaint, amusing even? Do words simply wear out over time, like our other tools? Did fie give place to another f-word? Will we ever weary of that one?

F*** if I know.

And if you think I'm ever going to look up "cleave a knave from the nave to the chops", then fie on you.

Camelot--Fie on Goodness. Cut from the show

in 1961, it never made it to the movie. Restored

for the revival. Seemingly the anthem of our time.

Night Owl Writer

Nighthawks at the Diner

  Why are so many writers night owls? Is it the peace and quiet, the hush when all the world's asleep? Or the insomnia that arises from trying to resolve insoluble plot problems? Well, I can only speak for myself, and my memories are a little bit hazy, but I blame my oldest brother and sister. Let me take you back. It was probably 1966, and I would have been eight or nine.

Jim, a career Army sergeant, was just back from his first tour of Vietnam and cooling his heels waiting for orders on his next posting. So he got a job as a short-order cook at the Toddle House (chain restaurant), and for good measure got my sister Nancy and his new bride, also named Nancy (both fresh out of the convent in the mass exodus of nuns after Vatican II) jobs as waitresses there. Yes, there were two Nancys with the same last name living at one address, which confused Toddle House corporate no end. They kept trying to pay them with one paycheck.

Bedtime for me and my older brother Asa was still 9:00, and the Toddle House crew didn't get home till about 11 (although in my memory it was more like 3 in the a.m.)

Now here's where it gets interesting. Y'see, Toddle House made pies fresh every day. Which meant they could take home any left-over pie at the end of their shift. Which meant if we could just stay up till they got home (when they would have coffee and pie and gab about their shift into the wee hours) we could cadge some PIE.

"All Home-Made Pies 12¢"

But of course to wander downstairs two or more hours past our bedtime we needed a pretty solid lie, which meant a story, and, like Scheherezade, a different story every night. And a story which would past muster with Jim and Nancy, two seasoned storytellers. Which meant I was developing my story-telling powers while learning to stay up late, all for pie, glorious pie, chocolate, lemon meringue, or the king of them all: black-bottom pie.

Black-bottom pie

Nighthawks at the diner
Of Emma's 49er, there's a rendezvous
Of strangers around the coffee urn tonight

All the gypsy hacks, the insomniacs
Now the paper's been read
Now the waitress said
Eggs and sausage and a side of toast
Coffee and a roll, hash browns over easy
Chile in a bowl with burgers and fries
What kind of pie?  

                            --Tom Waits

Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking by it.