Indiana Jones and the Lost Café at Borders

Lost Cafe at Borders!

___________________________________________________

Quickbreath High Concept Cinema Consulting

High Concept E-Mail

From: Sidney Quickbreath

To: Mel Greenglass, President Sparkle Entertainments

Re:  Smokin' Hot Concept for the Indy Jones Franchise!  

Date: April 25, 2087
____________________________________________

MG, I have truly outdone myself this time!

Which isn’t easy, because outdoing myself anymore is causing myself to be really pissed off at the rest of me!

I have come up, MG, with a fresh and original concept for the Indiana Jones franchise as we prepare to make our 37th entry in the series.

It will well complement the last three smash hit installments: 

Indiana Jones and the Lost City of New Brunswick NJ,

Indiana Jones and the Lost Car Keys of Murray Blitzstein, and

Indiana Jones and the Lost Building Fund of Temple Boray Perry Hagulfin

The film will be entitled:

Indiana Jones and the Lost Cafe at Borders! 

Here’s the high concept, MG:

My meticulous and painstaking research on Wikipedia has indicated that many years ago there existed places called brook stores where contraptions called brooks were sold.  Brooks  had words printed on paper stuck inside them, and people actually read these brooks just as if they were Kindle Plus 473s, Kardashians, or SituationSnooki11’s!

The most fabled among the brook stores was  a place called Borders, probably because it was usually bordered on both sides by a Starbucks Coffee. Sometime in 2011 all the Borders mysteriously vanished! The fossil record is unclear, but we believe they were destroyed either by a natural catastrophe, climate stasis, or some man named Jonathan Franzen.

We just don’t know!

Inside each Borders was a hidden sanctuary where people drank coffee and lattes, ate muffins and scones, and thought and talked about smart stuff --- really smart stuff like the capitals of the fifty-some states of the Union! Legend has it that the awesome power that gave rise to the smart stuff was in the lattes!

Or maybe the scones.

You see, MG, in this way we keep the audience in a state of heightened suspense throughout the entire picture!

And now Indy must outwit an army of neo-Nazis intent on being the first to discover the Lost Café at Borders, learn the secrets of the lattes/scones, and use them to clone Hitler, but this time with a much better mustache!

In this desperate race against time, Indy will be aided by:

• a sexy but high-spirited female archeologist who at first dismissively and condescendingy trades jab for jab with Indy but later chooses to leave all the jabbing (wink, wink, MG!) exclusively to Indy. BTW, MG, our female archaeologist will have breasts so large she wouldn’t be able to excavate Stonehenge without knocking a good third of  it down!

• an  adorable,  wise-cracking, backwards-baseball-cap wearing 11 year old street urchin  whose precocious witticisms and plucky determination will steal your heart!  So I suggest you and I leave ours home in the safe, MG, before we attend the premiere!

• a mischievous,  curly tailed,  tree-climbin',  banana chompin' wooly monkey who’s equally adept at bedeviling Indy with his wacky laugh-a-minute antics as he is at annihilating neo-Nazis with a flying electric chain saw as he merrily hurls guts and gore directly at the audience in a SuperDynamo 8D Effect so superbly revolting that they'll  never get the blood stains out of their collective cheap ass clothing!

I know what you’re thinking, MG.  Is Harrison Ford up for going through the motions once again of yet another of these formulaic romps whose freshness seal was well past its expiration date when Steven Spielberg was still married to Amy Irving?

Dude, any 147 year old guy who thinks a dippy little earring is going to make him attractive to the opposite sex will be less than primordial putty in our skillful little overreaching hands!

As usual, the film will be shot by Sparkle Entertaiments in association with Fu Yen Pictures, a Division of Fu Yen Behemoth Financial, Inc., Trustee-in-Bankruptcy for the United States of America, a Country,  in coordination with the Rancid Organization and Quickbreath High Concept Cinema Consulting.

I can see it up in lights now:

Indiana Jones and the Lost Café at Borders!  

That is,  in somebody's den lights shining on their just purchased obscenely overpriced Blue Ray,  Holographic Sheen-Lohan, or HypnocentricPresidentRickPerry Mindplop!

Who knows? It might even spark a whole new interest in excavating these Borders places.

And I think that would be cool.

After all, I’ve never even seen a brook!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Do I Deserve the Phillies?

During most of the years of my youth, the city of Philadelphia was well known and widely regarded as the Armpit of Baseball.

And burrowed deep within that armpit were the Philadelphia Phillies of the National Baseball League and me.

In the 1950’s and early 60,’s the Phillies were indisputably the worst team in sports. Consistent cellar dwellers, they cemented their execrable reputation in 1961 by losing 23 games in a row, an abominable achievement never since equaled. The next year manager Eddie Sawyer fled the job  early in the season declaring “I'm 49 years old and I want to live to be 50!"

In 1964, the improbably first place Phillies squandered a six-and-a-half-game lead during the final weeks of the season to blow the NL pennant in one of the greatest collapses since Chevy Chase’s career.

And during those years, awkward, uncoordinated Perry Block was routinely picked last for sides in every gym class from grades 1 through 6, ran at a speed well eclipsed by the hour hand on a very slow to broken wrist watch, and no matter how hard he tried, always pretty much threw like a girl.

Yep!  The Philadelphia Phillies and me --- perfect together!

Well, that’s all changed. For the Phillies, that is.  

Today our Phillies are the toast, blueberry muffins, and Belgian Waffles with ice cream of baseball.  Supported by Phillies Nation which packs Citizen’s Bank Park to SRO for every game and often overruns opponents’ ball parks like rapacious Mongol hordes, the Phils are riding high over the NL east with the best record in baseball and more wins than Tiger Woods’ golf scorecard and dating history combined.

The Fightin’ Phils possess an array of  big name stars like Ryan Howard and Chase Utley and one of the best pitching rotations in baseball history in Roy Halladay, Cliff Lee, Cole Hamels, and Roy Oswalt. So potent  is the lure of baseball’s newest Mecca that Cliff Lee passed up millions of dollars to come to Philadelphia to make only millions and millions and millions of dollars!

So, what the hell do I have in common with these guys?

Do I even deserve them?

The Phillies play with confidence and a can-do attitude.  Whether it's standing over a putt or tossing around a wiffle ball,  the only thing I'm confident about in sports is my lack of confidence.   In the realm of physical endeavor, my prevailing mindset is rarely can-do and way more often  just didn't!

Phillies players have really cool names like Hunter Pence and Chase Utley and even cooler nicknames like The Flyin' Hawaiian, Doc Halladay, J-Roll, and Chooch.

My sports nicknames?  Mostly unprintable.  If I had a nickel for every time a disgruntled teammate  said  "blew it again, Blockhead!,"  I'd have enough money to sign Cliff Lee.

Today's Phillies are generally regarded as the best Phillies team this city has ever seen.

My team is the best ever?  When it comes to athleticism, frankly I'd be happy to be just not the worst sometimes!

I wonder if it's even permissible for someone like me be a fan of the Phillies.  If I’m found out, will I be forced to choose another team to root for? 

Or will I just be assigned the Mets?
 
Wait a minute!

I’ve been following this team all my life. I suffered through the lean years, the leaner years, and all the other mostly fat-free and/or at least highly reduced fat years.  

And I love the City of Philadelphia!  I love baseball!  Well, I mean in a platonic way; I don’t sleep with my glove on.

So maybe I do deserve the Phillies.

Quite frankly --- star athlete and bench warmer alike --- we all do.

So, Let's Go Phils!!! 

We've earned it.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Sayonara, "Senior!"

It’s time for we Baby Boomers to say Sayonara to the word "senior!" 

Unless you happen to be talking about your kid in the last year of high school.

Senior is a name we Boomers don’t like, don’t want, and don’t need. We require no special word to describe us as we not so quietly slip beyond the age we’re currently not so quietly slipping beyond the age of.

Our generation has its own name, bestowed since birth, which defines us at any age and at any stage along the continuous path of life. 

We knew what it meant at 16.  We know what it means at 66.

We’re Boomers!  All other words need not apply.

To be fair, Senior wasn’t always a four letter 6 letter word. It was devised as the politically correct replacement for old, elderly, retired, doddering, decrepit …. please stop me before I begin writing a pilot for Abe Vigota!

And as the late 20th Century stand-in for those words, it has performed admirably. Especially for members of the Greatest Generation, who receive more of their greatly deserved due when regarded as respected seniors, not out-to-pasture elderly.

But if Senior was the new Elderly, <insert your generation here> is the new Senior.

So how do we say Sayonara, "Senior?"

1) Stop Referring to Boomers in a Supposedly Positive Manner as "Active, Energetic, Vigorous, Feisty, or SASSY!"  

Because that means you’re thinking the typical Boomer is not active, energetic, vigorous, feisty or SASSY!  That implies you think the typical Boomer is sedentary, lethargic, comatose, and about as exciting as Martha Stewart on ativan.

Just like anybody else at any age, a Boomer should be presumed active, energetic, vigorous, feisty, or SASSY! until proven sedentary, lethargic, comatose, and about as exciting as Martha Stewart on ativan.

Got that, non-Boomers?  And you, Boomers, among the worst offenders, as well?

You too, Martha?

2)  Don't Ever Order a Senior Special! 

By that, I don't mean you shouldn’t order the special meal at IHOP which for a slightly slimmed down price provides lesser than regular portions of braised beef,  sewer-raised tilapia, or burnt-to-the-ground chicken fingers capped by an uber-chocolatey desert concocted by a Hogwarts Wizard to strikingly resemble something that actually tastes good.

Go ahead, mange, and save yourself the buck fifty.

But on your way out, conspicuously and effusively inform the management that you loved the delectable Boomer Special, you’ll return for it often, and you think it’s wonderful of the place to offer it to members of the Greatest Generation and the generation that came after them and before the Boomers, whatever the hell it is they're called, as well.

And leave a good tip.   Maybe one day they'll get the message.

3) Never Purchase a Magazine with a Name like Seniors Today, SeniorWorld, or SASSY SENIOR!  

Be forewarned: these are not publications to leave lying around the house open to strategic pages if you want to impress the babes.

They don’t sound so bad to you?  Well then, perhaps you'd also consider a lifetime (and therefore brief) subscription to Shlepping Along, Liver Spots Monthly, or the somewhat more trendy We’re Keith Richards' Grandfather! 

Just don't leave any of them lying around my house even if you've got them strategically open to the page that's been Certified by AARP to impress the babes!

So now it’s time to say goodbye to some unwanted company.

Sayonara, "Senior!"  

Have yourself a richly earned, well-deserved, and as-far-away-from-me-as-possible retirement.

And don’t let anyone call ya Senior!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To learn more about the Sayonara, "Senior" project, please also see What's in a Word?  by Non-Senior Baby Boomer Perry Block, also in this blog. 

Let's see where that link is ... hmmm .... huh!  It was here a minute ago.   Here it is!   

Had myself a Boomer moment there.

An Odd One-Act Play about Michael Vick

                    

Written, Directed, Produced, and Cast and Crew Terrorized
 by
Perry Block

As presented on the New York Stage
at the Helen Hayes Theatre
(No truth to the rumor that Helen Hayes actually got up and walked out)


Cast of Characters

Fred Burton, Bill Grates, Alex de Rigor --- good old regular guys

Sam Mishkin --- good old regular guy who owns Comet, a dog

Comet --- a dog

Voice of Al Michaels


Mise-En-Scene: It’s a Sunday afternoon in late November 2011, and the scene is a lovely and tasteful home in the Philadelphia suburbs.  It is something like your home assuming you are a wildly out-of-control impulse buyer whenever confronted by saturation advertising from Raymour & Flanigan. 

It is, however, in fact the home of Fred Burton, who is having a few of his close friends  --- Bill Grates, Alex de Rigor, and Sam Mishkin  --- over to watch the Philadelphia Eagles take on their arch rival Dallas Cowboys.   Bill and Alex are already at Fred’s house, but Sam  has yet to arrive ….


Fred: Here it is, guys: Eagles-Cowboys!  We wait all year long for this.

Alex: Dallas, we hold you in malice!

Bill: Yeah, but I still can’t get used to Michael Vick as the Eagles quarterback. The man's a monster, let’s face it!

Fred: I know. We have to root for him, but it’s not easy.

Alex:  And you know why?  Cause we’re all dog lovers here!

Sam: (entering the house with Comet, a dog): Hey, fellas! Game just starting? Hope you don’t mind, I brought Comet!

Fred: Oh, you brought your new doggie. He’s one handsome animal! 

 Bill: I’ll say! C’mon bring him in! That’s a nice fellow.

 Alex: OK to pet him? Here, boy! Here, boy!

Comet jumps into Alex’s lap, who begins patting him vigorously. The game begins.

Al Michaels:  .... and ball is back to Michael Vick … play action …  just like Andy Reid to go for a big passing play early in the game ….

Alex: (to Comet) That’s a good boy!  Ahh, he’s licking my face!  Sweet!

Al Michaels: Michael Vick uncorks it. Perfect pass to an open DeSean Jackson, a 60-plus yard play! What a pass by Michael Vick!

Fred:  Michael Vick rules!!!

Bill:  Numero Uno!!! 

Alex:  I'll say!  What an arm!  (to Sam) .... Umm,  Sam?  Your dog’s licking me to death here.  He doesn’t have any diseases or anything, does he?

Sam: (surprised) No, no .... he’s fine.

Alex: Well, it is kind of disgusting.  (to Comet) Hey, stop that, you’re slobbering all over me! 

Sam: (really surprised) I’m sorry, Alex. Comet, don’t do that; come over by me ....

Fred:   Yo, Sam! That’s a new carpet where you’re sitting! I don’t want smelly dog hair all over my Raymour & Flanigan Persian Influence Area Rug!

Sam: I'll take him over by the table ....

Bill: Whoa!!!  Fred, your Raymour & Flanigan accent table lamp and silk floral arrangement!  The canine'll knock 'em  over and smash 'em!

 Sam: No, he won’t …

Fred: He’s not going to drool, is he?

 Al Michaels: What’s this?!! Vick fumbles on the two yard line! And the ball is recovered by …. Dallas!

Fred:  Damn that Vick!!!  

Bill:  Overrated loser!!! 

 Alex: (to Comet) Isn’t he a pretty?  Isn’t he a pretty?   Yes, he is! Yes, he is!

Bill: Looks like a good strong dog too. Maybe during halftime we can take Comet outside for a catch. Got any treats to reward him?

Sam: (now really, really surprised) Well, yes, I normally bring a few. But I thought…

Alex:   .... Yes, he is!  Yes, he is!

Fred:  Going away sometime, Sam?  My family'll watch Comet --- we’ll love him to pieces!  Comet, come nuzzle with Uncle Fred! (whistles).    

Comet runs over to Fred and jumps up on the sofa where Fred is sitting.

Al Michaels: And the Cowboys are marching down the field and …. Interception!  Eagles’ ball!  Mike Vick and the offense coming back on the field.

Fred:  (to Comet)  That’s it, boy!  Woof, woof, woof!!!

Al Michaels:  And Vick breaks right through!  A super spectacular running play!

Bill and Alex:   Michael Vick, you rock!!!

Fred:  He sure does and  …. Oh my God, Sam, get your dog offa me!!  I can’t have a mutt shedding on my new Raymour & Flanigan Kathy Ireland Collection Pastel Pattern Sleep Sofa! 

Bill: And what if he shits! I hate when that happens!

Alex: I’ll bet he has fleas too!

Sam: This is ridiculous! C’mon Comet, we’re outta here!

Sam, with Comet in tow, hastily departs. 

Fred: Sam? Sam? What’s with Sam, guys? He’s acting weird!

Alex: Go figure!

Bill: Maybe he doesn't like Raymour & Flanigan.

Al Michaels: …. and Vick is thrown for a loss! Terrible play!

Fred, Bill, and Alex:  Michael Vick, you suck!!!

Fred: Y’know, I don’t mind Sam leaving, but I’m sure gonna miss that cutie Comet!

Bill: Me too!

Alex: And you know why? Cause we’re all dog lovers here!

The End

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lonely at the Top

Alopecial Angst!

In the early days of male pattern hair loss, it’s more a matter of paranoia than blank patedness. 

Back when I was 22 and had lost fewer hairs than there are today liberal Republicans in the House of Representatives,  I walked around saying things like: 

        I'm bald!  I'm bald! Help me, I'm bald!!! 

        Who’s ever gonna want to date me now?

        (Well,  I'll finally find out if bald guys really do wax their heads!)

As I raged against my follicle-free fate, I had hair several inches below the bottoms of my ears, McCartneyesque bangs, and a hair dryer that fairly well gasped every time I post-shower pulled it out from inside the bathroom cabinet.

But when I regarded myself in the mirror, I saw actor Yul Brynner. Minus the cool.

I tried the remedies of the day. But brushing 100 strokes so clogged my comb, by stroke 70 or 80 it resembled the upper lip of former TV film reviewer Gene Shalit. Immersing my head in Jojoba Oil rendered me an enormous Caesar Salad, irresistible to any wandering intergalactic giant bent on lunch and a chrome-dome Perry.

No war refugee, no homeless person, no liberal Republican in the House of Representatives could ever be as woebegone as I.  And no reassurance from friends and family could convince me that my inner Brynner was in truth closer to an outer Jagger!

Off I went to the dermatologist who calmly advised me that,  yes, I had the beginnings of male pattern baldness. 

That is, a death sentence.   
 
“What on earth can I do?!!!”  I cried.

“The best you can do,” he counseled “is develop philosophic acceptance of the situation.”

Philosophical acceptance of the situation?  

Maybe Plato could develop philosophic acceptance of the situation.  At least until Socrates stopped taking his calls and began showing up with Aristotle at the dance!

Now I burned even greater time and intensity agonizing o'er my fate.   There may yet be hope I reasoned; when it came to being bald, certain distinct looks can win the day. 

As with, say, Yul Brynner.

But  ruggedly masculine, I was not.  My best claim to fame was “cute.”  And in the world of the bald, "cute" is what closes in New Haven!

A few more long-suffering years of alopecial angst and then one day a miracle did appear!  A possible reprieve became available, not from the governor but from Rogaine, then a prescription medicine named minoxdyl.  

I feverishly garnered a blessed script from a more sympathetic (and balder) dermatologist, cradled it, coddled it, and filled it.

And minoxdyl did indeed prove highly effective …. in thinning out my wallet,  along with  my hair.

In my 40's,  the reassurances slowed, became ever more interlaced with homilies about my alleged nice personality, and then stopped.  My hairline beat a steady retreat, my bangs went bust,  my replacement flips flopped, and desperate times in time called for a desperate measure: 

 A Full Nicholson! 

Minus the cool. Way minus the cool.

Now life's devolved into an endless cycle of increasingly shorter haircuts at increasingly taller prices,  progressively greater grooming for progressively lesser grooming results, and at last the elusive philosophical acceptance, at least of a sort.

So what have you learned about baldness, Dorothy?

• First noticing some of your hair’s not there?  Relax.  Most of us have more time than we think. But sow those wild oats now before someone thinks to plant them atop you.

• Bald guys don’t wax their heads, young’uns!  The baldest among us dream we're Bon Jovi, not Mr. Clean. Plus the cool of either one!

• When you ain't got it, my friend, you ain't got it, my friend!   Toupees, hair weaves, Donald Trump comb overs?   Forget 'em!   But conditioners, thickeners, root lifters?   I'm keeping them in business.

Thinning out my wallet, along with my hair.

Oh, for the days of Male Pattern Paranoia!

~~~~~~~~~~

                           

I’m  bald, I'm bald, help me, I'm bald!

The Tribe Hits the Tube

                                      

Beam us to Boca, Scotty!

Back in the 1950’s and early 60's, there were very few Jewish characters on commercial TV.

In fact, there was one --- Buddy Sorrell, the fast-talking, joke-a-minute, actually kind of annoying comedy writer working with Rob Petrie and Sally Rogers on The Dick Van Dyke Show, as played by Morey Amsterdam.

And we were kind of proud of him.

Then came Seinfeld, Will and Grace, Curb Your Enthusiasm, and many more,  and now Jewish folks are as plentiful on TV they are on a Sunday morning in Murray’s grabbing a shmear!

Next season’s no exception.  Here’s a few of the new Jews on the Tube you'll be tuning in to  this fall: 

Jersey Shnorrer. From Hackensack to Haddonfield,  Mike “The Insinuation” Tsooristino charms his way into nice Jewish homes  throughout the Garden State without so much as opening his wallet or bringing a bottle of Manischewitz!

First up, the Insinuation ensconces himself for two weeks at a Ventnor oceanfront villa frolicking on the beach with the family’s 18 year old daughter all the while the dad under the impression he’s from Comcast there to restore the family’s Lifetime. 

 Watch out, Snooki!  A new reality star is born! 

Meet the Putz. Each week a panel of Jewish journalists questions a prominent, influential, and totally full-of-crap newsmaker who attempts to evade the panel's  every question by commenting excessively on how much he or she loves Seinfeld, Marc Chagall, and the Jewish vote. 

The distinguished panel of questioners includes Barbara Walters, Andrea Mitchell, and Gilbert Gottfried (he needs the work) who will weekly demonstrate the wide variety of styles, cadences, and tonalities in which to pose the question "But is it good for the Jews?"

Moderator Geraldo Rivera will close each program with commentary as to why anyone who’s not meshugah would hire him as the moderator for a news and affairs program in 2011 and why his mustache is indeed good for the Jews. 

This Old House for Jews. The popular PBS program returns in a new format chosen especially for the Chosen People. Host Bob Vilaberg explains how to select carpenters, electricians, and painters to accomplish those home repair and remodeling jobs that you and I could perform about as readily as cloning, nuclear fission, or explaining what the hell's  going on in a movie by the Coen Brothers.

Using the phone book to find non-Jewish contractors, asking sage questions about complex equipment such as a hammer (learn how to pronounce it, click here: http://www.dictionary.reference.com/browse/hammer), and passing the time while waiting for the contractor to show up, if ever, are presented in clear monosyllabic English even we woefully unhandy Hebrews can understand. 

How I Met Your Mohel.  For hard-working but shy mohel Sidney Snipberg,  the single life is about as exciting as the eighth night of Hannukah until he meets dynamic Rabbi Saul Mellow, a spiritual leader so good with the ladies male congregants touch their prayer books to him!

Together the two head for the Promised Land --- Las Vegas --- for 40 days and 40 nights of fun-fun-fun, as Sidney and Saul  set out to disprove the old adage that all Jews "have a little dreidel."    It's the Hebrews meet "The Hangover," and when it comes to laughs, it ain't chopped liver! 

Star Shlep. It’s “steady as she goes” once more as out of retirement shlep William (Oy,  I’m too old for Warp Speed!) Shatner as Admiral James T. Kirk and Leonard Nimoy as the half Vulcan/half Jewish Mr. Spock, whose new credo is “Live Long and Prosper and Never Shop Retail.” The ship’s crew will boldly go where no Jew has ever gone before --- K-mart!

The multi-ethnic but mono-religious cast features George Takei as newly converted (to Judaism, that is!) Lieutenant Sulu and new Jewish cast members in the roles of Dr. Bones McCoy, Lieutenant Uhuru, and Engineer Montgomery “Scotty” Scott, the world’s first Jew to speak with a Scottish brogue.

The intrepid crew aboard the Enterprise will battle Klingons, Romulans, and the Deadly Race of Jewish Mothers, which has Scotty crying out in the premiere episode “We need more power! She's going into a MACH 7 Why Can't You be More Like Your Cousin Joel The Harvard Man Who's President Of The Campus Hillel!”

The Dick Van Dykeberg Show is a program which hearkens back to a classic situation comedy of the late fifties and early sixties. Working for the Alan Bernstein Variety Show are writers Rob Petrowitz, Sally Ruggulah, and Buddy Sorrell, the one gentile member of the writing team.

Buddy’s a fast-talking, joke-a-minute, actually kind of annoying guy, but isn’t it refreshing to have a non-Jewish character on national television these days?

Bet it will be a real source of pride for gentiles from coast to coast!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not a Member of the Tribe?

     Shnorrer - a user, a moocher.

     Mohel - person who performs ritual Jewish circumcision on male infants.  Ouch!

     Touch prayer books to him - actually they are touched to the Torah, not the rabbi.

     Shlep - to drag along.

     Shul - synagogue.

     Putz - Come on!  You know that one.

Unfollowing the Leader

It’s not just President Obama’s standing in opinion polls that’s taken a Mike Tyson-style pounding of late.

It’s something way more important!

The number of followers of the official verified Twitter Account of the President of the United States, @BarackObama, has plummeted from 9,437,823 in late July to 473.

Ooops! Make that 471!

The average Republican Congressional Representative now has more than enough followers to beat up all of Obama’s followers with one hand tied behind their backs while chewing gum and hopping on one foot.  That’s even if you first arm Obama’s followers with deadly and powerful ray guns!

And, as pointed out by both The Washington Post and The New York Times, most of Obama’s remaining followers have exceeding goofy avatars. Here’s a random three:

 In an effort to stem the tide, Mr. Obama has directly taken over day to day responsibility for his Twitter, Facebook, and Tumblr accounts as well as for his special interest blog on interior decorating, “Soft Furnishings Today!”

“WTF?!!” the President tweeted yesterday. “I make sure to LOL & ROTFLMAO my own jokes, tweet about bacon, & never miss the opportunity to say WOOT!”

Apparently Mr. Obama is just as clueless about Twitter as he is about what we want him to be doing all the rest of his time! 

Oh, no! @peeweeherman just unfollowed!

Rumors are that the President is moving over to Google + where lots of down and out Democrats are hiding out.  Whether any will be willing to include Mr. Obama in their circles is open to question.

"Geez, sorry!" said one Nancy Pelosi yesterday, "but my Acquaintance Circle's ... umm ... all filled up!" *whistling* 

No, don't do it, @DavidHasselhoff! 

Please don't unfollow the Prez! 

~~~~~~~~~~~

The Semi-Importance of Being Perry

            

      




Mr. Mason                                        Mr. Farrell                       

    

All my life I’ve had a love-hate relationship with, of all things, my own name.

To be more precise, my relationship with my name is about ¼ love and ¾ hate, and the “love” is more on the order of “like” similar to the manner in which you “like” a comment on Facebook primarily because it has no misspellings.

Now you might think I have an archaic moniker like Bartholomew, an androgynous one such as Skyler, a back-to-the-garden 60’s name like Moon Glow, or an aberrant flight of parental reason like Melrose.

But you’d be wrong.

My name is Perry.

Chances are you don’t even know a Perry.  If you’re of a certain age, your perception of Perry comes from either:

• Perry Como, crooner of the 1950’s whose mellow song stylings brought new dimensions to the word “comatose;”

• Perry Mason, the fictional attorney who never lost a case as personified by the grim, porky, and generally unappealing actor Raymond Burr, whose best role was opposite Godzilla; or

• Perry White, Clark Kent’s 'Great Caesar’s Ghost' spouting editor, the man who holds the distinction of being the only nonessential character ever woven into the entire Superman legend and the only one never to get his own comic book.

If you’re a bit younger, you may know rocker Perry Farrell, actor Perry King, or designer Perry Ellis.  But frankly if you held a convention of Perrys you could fit them all in a Hampton Inn and still have room for a Starving Artists' Sale. If you took all the Perrys in the world and laid them end to end, they’d be thankful for the attention.

I myself have only known one other Perry.  And in that experience I learned that I am wholly unable to handle something that people named Jim and Bill and Bob and probably even Bartholomew each and every day negotiate with ease.

I cannot address another human being by the very name I’ve felt saddled with my entire life, but which I’ve also come to feel I own!

“Hello, umm,  Pouie ...”

I sputtered over the phone the first time I called Other Perry, slurring our communal name so badly it sounded like I was summoning a Pekingese for his nightly brushing and toenail clipping.

“I mean .... Hello, Perry!” I tried again, this time a bit more sprightly. “This is your namesake.”

Namesake?

To avoid saying “Hello, Perry, this is Perry,” I --- a person alive and breathing in 21st Century America --- actually uttered the word “namesake.” What would be next? Babbling to him to “leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for our namesake” as well?

Truth is, how we relate to our names oft does define our identities. Call your daughter Bertha and chances are by the time she’s 23 anyone lacking a full-blown death wish will opt for the stairs whenever she heads for the elevator.  Christen your daughter Tiffany or Angelique and odds are she’ll grow up to never even consider dating a Perry, let alone me. 

But when it comes to the Semi-importance of Being Perry, there's just no road map.  I don't know what a Perry is, what a Perry does, or what a Perry ought to be. I need some Perry pointers and fast!  

Other Perrys out there ---  if any there be --- can you help?  Please place a call to Philadelphia Perry.  Let's talk our Perryness.  Let's psych out our Perry personas.  If we exchange our Perry perceptions, we may yet achieve Perry Perfection

Or at least, Perry Passability. 

I promise not to call you Namesake.  As long as you promise not to call me Pouie!

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