This week in history: Man spots Uranus

This week in history...

In the year 461, St. Patrick dies. A full 1301 years later, in 1762, the first St. Patrick's Day parade is put on. This becomes the new standard in what is known as "the long game."

In 1751, future president James Madison is born. He quickly becomes most famous for marrying the woman who invented cupcakes. 

In 1820, Maine joins the union, bringing the state motto, "It's too cold to think of anything" to a national audience. In summer, the motto is changed to something Latin.

In 1837, future president Grover Cleveland is born. I would say more about his life, but that was the high point.

In 1850, "The Scarlet Letter" is published, causing the stock price of CliffsNotes to skyrocket astronomically. 

In 1871, German astronomer William Herschel discovers Uranus, for which schoolboys, even now, owe him a silent debt.

In 1879, Albert Einstein is born, an event which would finally, after thousands of years of human history, make the world safe for goofy hair in the workplace. 

In 1911, Irving Berlin copyrights the song, "Alexander's Ragtime Band," which becomes the first song in history to sell more than a million copies of sheet music despite the presence of "honey lamb" in the lyrics.

In 1916, the U.S. engages in its first-ever air combat mission...no, not in World War I; in Mexico, searching for Pancho Villa. This is not only history; it's a future winning bar bet. 

In 1931, the state of Nevada legalizes gambling, leading sadly, but inevitably, to buffets. 

In 1933, car maker Studebaker goes bankrupt, realizing too late that the buying public thinks it is a company which bakes studes, which nobody has ever heard of. 

In 1950, the FBI debuts its now-iconic "10 Most Wanted" campaign, replacing its previous, unsuccessful mug shot-based operation, "Who Dis?"

In 1958, "Tequila" by the Champs tops the pop charts, thanks to ground-breaking lyrics like this: "Tequila." It quickly becomes Maine's new state motto. 

In 1969, "The Love Bug" opens in movie theaters, redeeming the "sentient car" as legitimate cinematic device; a conceit begun disastrously three years earlier with the TV series, "My Mother The Car," which is about a dude whose dead mother is reincarnated as a car. I do not have a better punchline.

Say what you want about history. I will.

Wednesday Wa Pic - Public Works fail

 "But, your honor, I rear-ended him because I had no idea the cent ne was cl a."

Wednesday Wa Pic - tat zenith

 When the deer starting getting tattoos, you know the trend has reached its pinnacle.

Wednesday Wa Pic - Now THERE'S a visual

 I think I saw this movie at a drive-in.

Wednesday Wa Pic - Sign of the times

Well, I know what roulette is. I hope this is not some sort of bizarre fusion.

Wednesday Wa Pic - You can fool some of the kids some of the time...

 The swings and the slide are standard, but using the teeter-totter for doing fillings is not a great call.

It's Super Bowl's golden anniversary: but what the L?

Today every true American will take part in the guacamole slaughter that we should be calling Super Bowl L but are not. It is the 50th Super Bowl, and the NFL for the first time in its history has decided not to name the game with a Roman numeral, because 50 in Roman is "L."

Apparently, L is not a manly numeral. What are they going to do in nine years when it's LIX? What big sponsors are going to jump on board Super Bowl LIX? Tootsie-Pop?

People will find a way to mess with whatever you call it, NFL. In the Bay area, the NFL put up large gold sculptures with a "50" symbol, and vandals have been entertaining themselves by rearranging the letters of "Super Bowl" to say things like "Super Bro" and "Superb Owl."

There was even one riff using the word "bowel" which I will not share here. Some joker knocked one of the sculptures over entirely, and arranged on the now-horizontal display the word "OOPS."

This week along the Embarcadero they created a pre-game festival called "Super Bowl City." It evidently had an array of booths and activities showcasing the Bay Area's cuisine, technology and cultural diversity; you know, all the things football fans are renowned for loving.

I do not have attendance figures for you, but they expected a million people. I think they must have learned how to estimate numbers from the Chris Christie campaign.

I always enjoy the list of prohibited items at stadiums. You can tell they are based on problems they've had in the past. Each of the following is listed individually as prohibited at Levi Stadium for Super Bowl not-L:

• any fan perceived to be intoxicated
• alcoholic beverages
• coolers
• intoxication
• irresponsible drinking 

Also glow sticks. And "weapons of any kind (including silverware.)"

I don't keep up with sports, as I'm too busy tending to my rain barrels, but I do like a cap-your-career story like Peyton Manning's. The guy is almost 40, has a hairline as high as Willie Nelson's life coach, and yet he still shows up to his job which is to get knocked down. I hope he wins so he can quit while his body still has a skull attached.

But today I am most looking forward to the commercial with dozens of Dachshunds dressed in hot dog buns running toward people dressed as giant ketchup bottles. God bless America.

. . .

 Click to view commercial

Wednesday Wa Pic - Marketing 101

 When your mistakes start to seem like ideas, that's when to get out of the game.

An interview with the elusive Planet Nine

Astronomers announced last week that they may have found a giant planet beyond Neptune, which may (IF it exists, mind you), MAY vote for Donald Trump in November. All right, only the first half of that sentence is true, because it's an election year, and half-true is about the most you can expect from anybody. I did manage to snag an interview with the elusive planet, however. Don't ask me how. (See: election year, above.)

GW: Welcome, Planet Nine.

P9: Kadjfoieutwqioejgva!

GW: Hold on. Let me fire up my interplanetary translator. O.K., go ahead.

P9: Kadjfoieutwqioejgva! Ha ha, I'm just playin'. How are you?

GW: Fine. You understand that our scientists named you Planet Nine because we already have eight orbiting our sun?

P9: Yeah, but my friends call me Reggie.
GW: You have friends?

P9: Hey, you got an elliptical orbit, you meet people.
GW: Scientists have nicknamed you "Phattie" because of your size.

P9: And they spell it all 1990s to sound cool? That's adorable.
GW: They also tell us you are icy with a gassy outer layer.

P9: People in glass houses, George.
GW: Fair enough. What other attributes do you have that we might find interesting?

P9: I've got volcanoes up the ying-yang.
GW: Volcanoes?!

P9: Extinct ones, yeah. And diamonds the size of your face.

GW: Will you cough one up for me?

P9: It doesn't work like that. Where they come from, well, let's just say it's where the sun don't shine. You might want to pass.

GW: Any life forms on ya?

P9: I used to have a fern. It died.

GW: You're kidding, right?

P9: The Earth man is catching on. Look, even at my closest to the sun, I'm still frostier than Hillary Clinton at a gun show.

GW: Astronomers estimate that it takes you about 15,000 years to orbit our sun. Is that right?

P9: No, it takes a year. How long does it take Earth?

GW: A year.

P9: See what I mean? My year's just got a loooooot more holidays.

GW: Do you think those Cal Tech guys will ever be able to spot you?

P9: Not unless they walk in right now and order a venti macchiato. How do you drink this swill?

GW: Caramel is considered a delicacy here.

P9: Well, I'm out. Tell your guys to put down the telescopes, man. Look in, not out.

GW: That's deep.

P9: Well, let's just say from my neighborhood, I have a little perspective.

. . .

 

Wednesday Wa Pic - When "drought resistant" gardening goes south

 You knew disco was dead, just not where it was buried.

Battling with nature brings out the best in every man

I sometimes think if God had wanted us to do yard work, he would have made our yards smaller. 

I am only now discovering that I apparently skipped a year in trimming my back yard wall hedge. How did I miss that it was exploding in all directions like some giant, green, sticky accusation? 

I don't look out my window much.

A back yard was great when the kids were little, when they needed a safe place to play and climb and splash. Now only the dog is a regular visitor, rooting in the underbrush for lizards, unconcerned that the overgrown ficus vines have probably become sentient, and possibly carnivorous.

Ficus, in Latin, literally means "hassle to maintain." I could be wrong. My Latin is rusty because I took German. But it totally should mean that in Latin, and any other God-fearing language. 

I usually mark the calendar to shear the hedge back into orderly shape, like they do at Versailles or McDonalds. Last year I must have "forgotten." I am putting that in quotes because it's how we use that word in my marriage.

Somehow I never forget to buy chocolate, but I often "forget" to mow the lawn, empty the dishwasher and chop the vegetables. I blame the ficus, which, even now, is probably beaming out forgetful rays at me in an effort at self-preservation, and the rays are affecting other tasks on my list. That probably sounds far-fetched to you, but how else do you explain that once I went three weeks without cleaning the bathroom?

Ficus is in the fig family, but my hedge does not bear fruit, only ill will. It sits atop my block wall providing us privacy and the vague scent of an oil spill which has somehow gotten dusty. It is evidently not content to just be a modesty screen, and so it travels, reaches, spreads down across my pristine block wall like the opening credits of some darkly comic TV series nobody quite "gets."

Ficus sap itches. If you get the white, gooey stuff on your skin it's like that "Alien" slobber. Sure, I could hire a gardener, but then I wouldn't be able to personally give nature "what for." A real man lives to battle nature, and nature in return gives him cocoa beans. 

I'd nail the whole "dominion over animals" thing too, but Facebook beckons. 

Wednesday Wa Pic - Not necessarily a good sign

 If you need to put up a sign about it, I think you may be only scratching the surface of your condition.

On this day in history, January 17

Today, January 17, is the birth anniversary of Benjamin Franklin, inventor of the $100 bill. Before his innovation, people had to go around with wheelbarrows full of rutabagas, just hoping somebody could make change. Other fun facts about old Ben:

• He invented the rocking chair. Before Ben, long-tailed cats were renowned the world over for their unnerving calm.
• He opened the first insurance company in the colonies. His spokesman was not an obnoxious talking duck, but it WAS a pretty irritating eagle.
• He became wealthy printing his famous Poor Richard's Almanack, despite the flagrant typo right there in the title.

January 17 marks the 100th anniversary of the founding of the PGA, created to promote the sport of golf and add to the English language yet another venue for the word "widow." Other fun facts about golf:

• Removed the stigma of walking in the park all day, then drinking.
• First brought into usage the now-common phrases, "Do you see it?" and "Where'd it go?"
• Finally gave people a way of measuring each other's relative worth as a human.

On this day in 1929, Popeye was born in his first comic strip, Thimble Theatre. Other fun facts about the sailor man:

• Before it became canon that Popeye's source of strength was spinach, Popeye originally obtained health by rubbing the head of "Bernice, the Whiffle Hen," a fowl possessed of magic good luck powers. Seriously.
• Popeye is thought to have brought into the lexicon the words "wimpy," "goon" and "doofus." This kind of thing is hard to prove, however, except perhaps by a nerd.
• Popeye's arch-enemy Brutus started out being called Bluto, but was renamed due to copyright fears which were ultimately unfounded, rendering this sentence about 25 words too long.
• Olive Oyl had relatives named Sutra Oyl and Lubry Kent. Popeye had a nephew named Poop-Eye. And yet Lenny Bruce was the one they threw in jail for obscenity.

Today is St. Anthony's Day in the Coptic Christian church, a feast day celebrating the life of a monk who lived as a hermit in the wilderness and famously spent decades resisting temptation and curing skin diseases, yet could always, inexplicably, be counted on for a racy quip at a party. He is not to be confused with St. Anthony of Padua, who was a real bore.

Today is the birthday of James Earl Jones, without whom Darth Vader would just be a dude in a cape. Maybe celebrate by calling someone a "whiffle hen" in a very low, ominous voice.

Wednesday Wa Pic - Dream Water

 As if I don't already have to get up enough times in the night.

2016 in review: the year that was, and is about to be

Every Leap Year like this one, a confluence of time and space occurs to reveal to certain seers like me the year ahead in all its detail. Thus…

2016: in review.

In January, El Niño lived up to its hype, flooding dozens of George Clooney's ex-girlfriends' houses and rehydrating two of the Three Stooges, who immediately began running for the Republican presidential nomination. 

February's torrential rains could not dampen the spirits of L.A. Mayor Eric Garcetti, who declared the city a tourist destination "lake" and began moonlighting as a gondolier through Uber.

In March, actress Anne Hathaway gave birth to a daughter she named "Cherub Malamute" after her favorite type of sculpture and dog. Hathaway rebuffed criticism of the name until El Niño rains swept her into a section of Melrose from which nobody ever returns.

April brought relief from the rain in the form of relentless sandstorms off the Mojave. Or, perhaps, the almost unendurable stinging in Angelenos' eyes may just have been caused by a "Huntsman" sequel. 

In May, war broke out between the cities of Alhambra and San Gabriel, both of which insisted on calling themselves "The gateway to the San Gabriel Valley." A compromise was eventually reached, and hereafter San Gabriel will use the slogan, "aperture to the San Gabriel Valley," and Alhambra will use the word "orifice." 

El Niño returned in June with a vengeance, confounding climatologists who resorted to using randomly passing polar bears as flotation.

At the Republican convention in July, Donald Trump won his party's nomination and chose his daughter Ivanka to be his running mate. "Hottest VP ever," he proclaimed, and for once even Democrats could not argue.

In August, Kobe Bryant, recently retired from basketball, became the new commercial spokesman for Jello pudding.

California governor Jerry Brown, after a record-setting 56 inches of rain this year, declared in September that the four-year drought was "at least one-tenth over."

October brought peace in the Middle East.

Having lost the presidential election in November, Hillary Clinton announced she would star in a new TV reboot of "The Golden Girls" with Carly Fiorina, Yoko Ono and, yes, Betty White. 

In December, President-Elect Trump proclaimed that his first act in office would be to repeal Obamacare and replace it with, yes, Betty White.

Now save this. Read it again on December 31st, and it will totally freak you out. 

My top six or so movies, give or take, of 2015

A lot of critics give you their top 10 lists this time of year, and I have just spent a week in a Rose Parade float-decorating barn sniffing secondhand glue, so I figure I'm just as qualified. I did not see or listen to 10 of anything this year, but here are a few movies I can recommend.

This list is in no particular order, rendering it useless:

• "Star Wars Episode VII: Hey, That Guy Looks Like Young Snape." I realize many of you have still not seen it, so I won't spoil anything here except to say it appears that Snape from "Harry Potter" has time-traveled into a galactic thrift store and bought himself a very cool helmet. The costume design in general is great, although I did wonder why Leia looked like she could have been a backup singer for Gordon Lightfoot circa 1975.
  
  We don't go to "Star Wars" for the costumes, though, do we? We go for the daring escapes, the banter, and the new freaky creatures. There is a giant piglike thing with a kind of platypus head-plate, and a huge metal beast which looks like a Kia Soul mated with a Winnebago. A true nerd could name you 30 more, easy. Like golf, "Star Wars" makes it effortless to fill your head with truly useless information.


• "The Martian." This also took place in space, but was less plausible. 


• "Ant-man." At this point you are wanting to ask, "Hey, George, are you a 14 year old boy?" Every man is basically a 14 year old boy who just got balder and better at cooking chicken. "Ant-man" was as funny as it was action-packed. Any superhero movie which boasts a Thomas the Tank Engine sight gag is one I will throw money at.


• "Inside Out." Few films make my eyes leak, but Pixar has mastered the "end of childhood" genre. I never had an imaginary friend to lose, but cried like I did.


• "Jurassic World." The best way to see dinosaurs and people together without driving to Kentucky.


• "Trainwreck." The word "raunchy" is often used when describing this because a woman wrote it. If it starred Will Farrell, they would use another word: "hilarious."

I remember when I used to go see serious dramas. Perhaps I have less patience than I used to. Or perhaps I've just grown fond, when someone asks me how the movie was, of replying, "explodey."

Wednesday Wa Pic - When farming becomes a wee bit too specialized

Sure, it's lucrative. But getting it to climb those bean poles is a real mother.

I can't remember the title for this column

Like many men my age, or my sex, frankly, I have memory problems. I don't remember this happening as often when I was young, except on days when I was supposed to help friends move. Now, though, I will think of an actor, and I can see his face, and I am sure I know his name, but the neural pathway to it has been blocked by, I don't know, "Brady Bunch" lyrics or something.

The next day it will come to me, maybe as I'm walking across the street to work. "Kevin Spacey!" I will shout out, then look left and right to see if I am now a kook to somebody. One bonus is that now that particular brain circuit to Kevin is fresh, to the point where I will see Kevin Bacon on TV and shout "Kevin Spacey!"

In middle age, close enough should count for something.

Last month we went out for my wife's birthday and had an amazing mushroom appetizer. The next day, I could not remember what the cornmeal the mushrooms were served with was called. I had to Google it.

Polenta. How could I forget polenta?! Now polenta and Kevin Spacey stand shoulder to shoulder with Marsha, Jan and Cindy in my head. Let's just call that a win, shall we?

Experts suggest saying things aloud while you are doing them in order to cement the memory, like "I am taking my vitamin," "I am coveting my neighbor's wife," "I am making polenta for Kevin Spacey."

Anxiety over your failure to remember things can actually make it worse. Chronic elevated cortisol levels can reduce the size of your hippocampus, eventually rendering it just a small, out-of-state hippo party school.

Certain foods are supposed to help restore neural pathways lost in aging, and I wish I could remember what they are.

I am joking. You can find them online, of course, if you do a search for "foods I don't like." Fish. Broccoli. Flax seed. Winter squash.

I am not sure that being able to recall the cutie in the bathtub from "Moscow On The Hudson" is worth it. (Maria Conchita Alonso.) HOW CAN MARIA STILL BE IN MY GOURD FROM 1984?!

Well, it could be worse. It could have been Phyllis Diller in that bathtub. Plus, I've never had polenta come up in conversation. I'll be fine. Some day Kevin Bacon will play me in the movie.

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pic - Existential directions

Finally, someone points me the way! Thank you.

Christmas carols form a bridge to the past, and dad

I went to a caroling party last week and learned it is much easier to fake harmony than it is to sing on key.

I was also humbled to realize that I only know the first line of any carol you can name. For example, I know perfectly well it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas, but I couldn't tell you where.

It was a festive evening, with food and drink and the predictable seasonal conversations about kids' exorbitant tuition costs. Somewhere between "Silent Night" and "The Little Drummer Boy," though, I began to feel the melancholies. It might have been the Old Fashioned I was drinking, which had four fingers of whiskey in it. That is, for me, three and three-quarters too many fingers. I am a basically antisocial person, but a social drinker. Meaning I don't get much practice.

So it might have been that, or maybe just the memory of Christmases past, which brought my dad to mind. He was a singer, a some-time professional, but best loved being part of a chorus. He once visited a prison with a choir to bring a little holiday cheer. They filled the place with song, and then as they departed, called out "Merry Christmas! See you next year!" From a far corner of the cell block came a doleful reply: "I'll be here."

There are a lot of carols I have never heard of. They, like all things unnecessary but good, can be found online. "Bethlehem Down" sounds like a Michael Bay action movie starring Liam Neeson. (Slogan: "They told Mary and Joseph there was no room at the inn. They were wrong. Dead wrong.")

I can't imagine "Jesus Christ the Apple Tree" ever moved a lot of sheet music. "Rocking Carol" sounds hopeful, especially if you picture it sung by shepherds with ZZ Top beards and Stratocasters, until you find out it's a Czech lullaby to put babies to sleep.

Dad probably knew all of these. He would sing anything, any time. He felt like it made the world better.

The fire crackled at my back, and I set down my cocktail for good as we launched into "Jingle Bells." In this version, Batman didn't smell, and Robin didn't lay an egg. It wasn't that kind of crowd. It was cheery, though.

Songs are like a ribbon strung across time. Dad's got one end and I've got the other. Joy to the world? Yeah. I'm in.

Wednesday Wa Pic - From the annals of obscure rappers

No, his rap career was not long, but it was delicious.

Dog's shopping skills need to be more fully developed

There are only 12 days until Christmas and yet, as usual, the dog hasn't even done any shopping. It's all "me, me, me" with Skipper.

Terriers. Sheesh. You say "Target" or "mall" to them, they just look at you. You say "cookie," they are all ears.

I long for the day when I can rent one of those driverless cars, stick my dog in it, having pre-trained him to fight the Christmas shopping crowds, snag everything on my list, and bring me home a boba.

I live many male stereotypes, but the one I live most fully is a dislike of shopping. Oh, I can buy milk, but ask me to use my taste and discernment to pick out a birthday present and I get the eye twitch.

Do you know how many options there are out there for birthday presents? Dozens! Dozens of options. I want two. Give me two choices, I can flip a coin. Like a man.

Options are every man's downfall. I shopped for my wife's birthday recently. Here's how it went:

(Inner dialogue is not to scale)

Me: That necklace is pretty.

Me: Wait. She already has one just like that. Doesn't she?

Me: I don't know. I don't pay attention.

Me: What about this scarf? She likes purple and green.

Me: We live in L.A. She could wear it, like, three days a year.

Me: I don't care if she wears it. Just that she likes it.

Me: Good point. Get this painted pebble too.

Me: What's it for?

Me: I don't know! To show that you remember she likes little painted things. Isn't that enough?

Me: Yes. No. Yes. Probably. Yes. I'm pretty sure.

Skipper needs to start pulling his weight, I am telling you. There was a time when being adorable was enough, but that was the '90's. Yes, I'm writing about you, dog. (He's lying in a patch of sun checking my hands for treats.) You need to learn how to shop, boyo. Google's almost got the driverless car thing down. We need to get you fitted for little shopping basket saddlebags.

Dude, my hands are empty, look in my eyes, buddy. Up here. Look up here. Read my lips: Mommy likes purple and green. She likes little painted things.

Crap, you're color blind, aren't you?

You know what? Lie there. Fine! Pretend it's the 20th Century!

Ohhh, come here. I can't stay mad at you.

Wednesday Wa Pic - Technology and fashion seamlessly merged

 Finally! An automated way to make sure I haven't hiked my pants up too far.

Smart phone not yet advanced enough to conquer

Some people fear that machines will one day rise and outstrip human intelligence, but those people have never used a smart phone.

I shot a four minute video which then apparently went to the "cloud" for ease of accessibility. It was about as easy to snag as brunch with Kim Jong Un. I desperately needed to transfer it to my computer for editing, and luckily it said a copy was still on the phone.

I connected the phone to the computer.

Nothing.

These two future humanity-crushers could not even see each other. I tried to share it wirelessly.

"Error," the phone's screen said. "Unable to upload. Try again later." Evidently the phone, like me, has a hard time uploading under pressure.

Then a new message popped up. "Storage almost full." I thought for a moment the phone was so advanced it was capable of measuring the post-Thanksgiving pressure of my jeans.

Almost full?! The settings said I still had six gigs free. (For the non-tech-savvy, a gig is like an invisible Tupperware container in which you keep videos of total strangers' dogs playing in snow.)

Judging by my Internet search results, a lot of people have the same problem. One guy said he fixed his storage anomaly by setting his phone's clock back two years, then forward again. Rather than figure out where the clock was, I just threw a pinch of salt over my left shoulder.

I tried again later. "Unable to upload." "Storage almost full."

My eyes saw those words on the screen, but by the time they reached my brain they had been translated into "I wonder how far you can throw me through that window if you really do a full wind-up."

The video was of my son delivering food to a charity. He did this because is an upright guy, and also because his English teacher said those three little words which no teenage boy in history has ever been able to resist—"extra credit points."

My son was quickly consumed by charity towards the needy. But now the evidence of his altruism was stuck in the unreachable cloud and the deranged phone.

After about eight hours of this, the phone finally decided, for no discernible reason, to upload. One problem down. It still thinks it has absolutely no room left for new input, but I don't blame it. I know the feeling well.

Wednesday Wa Pic - When Teletubbies go bad

Typical. Tinky-Winky, Dipsy and Laa-Laa are too savvy to ever use their real names.

A rare and candid interview with El Niño

GW:  So Mr. Niño…

El Niño: Please. Call me "L."

GW: All right, L. We haven't met formally, but in 1998 you did ruin my best dress shoes.

L: Sorry, man. Nature of the beast.

GW: Weather forecasters insist you will be paying L.A. another visit this winter big-time. But they said that last year too.

L: Last year I got a last-minute freebie to Orlando. You got lucky. But I'm already ramping up for this year's gig.

GW: Do you intend to cause widespread flooding and mudslides?

L: "Widespread" is a such a loaded term.

GW: But you expect to live up to the hype?

L: Hey, does Noah sleep in hip-waders?

GW: Um, yes?

L: It's not like I can control it. I'm like the Hulk.

GW: Anger is a factor?

L: How would you feel if you had a giant plastic-particle trash island for a belly button?

GW: I see your point.

L: Look, you've had a four-year drought. I'm about to do you a favor.

GW: Scientists say it won't be enough to end our shortage.

L: Scientists can kiss my sweet Kiribati.

GW: They have dubbed you "El Niño," which implies a selfish, spoiled and impulsive nature. How do you feel about that?

L: I'm good.

GW: You'd say that's accurate?

L: Well, I'd prefer "random periodic warming of the equatorial Pacific," but you pick your battles.

GW: What would you like people to know about you that maybe they don't already?

L: I'm single and looking. I like smooth jazz, although whalesong makes me nuts. Doesn't it make you crazed?

GW: It does.

L: Right?

GW: It sounds like cats bungie-jumping.

L: What are cats?

GW: Um...like fish, only more aloof.

L: Like clams?

GW: Yes, like furry clams. Listen, I know you can't help yourself. I know you're just a weather effect, and you do what you do. But people are worried you're going to rip out piers and docks and wreak havoc this winter.

L: You want your lakes refilled, don't you? Your trout streams?

GW: Yes, but...

L: Your farmers want to grow those thirsty almonds?

GW: Yes.

L: You got to take the bad with the good. Buy a new umbrella. Get your roof replaced.

GW: Every roofer is booked until next summer.

L: I am good for business. You know what they say—every random periodic warming has a silver lining.

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pic - Niche market edition

 I've seen restaurant supply stores before, but this is a new one on me.

Thanksgiving advice

I originally published this column in November, 2008. But botulism humor never goes out of style. Enjoy and share—GW

My Thanksgiving advice column was so popular last year (judging by only one cancelled subscription, and you know who you are…mom), I felt no harm could be done by another one this year, unless you count the botulism. Below are a few of the most common questions people ask about Thanksgiving preparation, as far as I know, not having asked anybody.

Q: Which is more traditional—cornbread stuffing or giblet stuffing?

A: Traditionally, giblet, but seeing as how the dictionary defines giblets as "the edible offal of a fowl," I say we break with tradition this year before I hurl a few edibles of my own.

Q: What is offal?

A: I'll tell you what's offal. The Titans playing the Lions while people are trying to eat.

Q: Why do some people say "stuffing" while some people say "dressing"?

A: Some people are "idiots." No, really, stuffing gets its name because it is stuffed into the cavity of the bird for cooking, while dressing is something you put on a wound at a field hospital. So the latter is not as appetizing.

Q: You call this "advice"?

A: Oh no. Gosh, no.

Q: How can I accommodate my vegetarian relatives?

A: I don't believe in doing so. Look where that got us with Hitler.

Q: Are there any new trends this year, like that "tur-duck-en," where they stick the chicken inside the duck inside the turkey?

A: Yes, in order to be "cutting edge" in the arena of nested meats, this year some of the more fashionable tables will play host to the "squir-munk-oon," a squirrel stuck in a chipmunk stuck in a raccoon.

Q: Are you making that up?

A: If you have to ask, I can tell there is a career waiting for you in the manly and lucrative world of snipe hunting.

Q: Is the watching of football on Thanksgiving, with its emphasis on the symbolic conquest of terrain, kind of ironic, considering what early European settlers eventually did to the Native Americans?

A: No. The Redskins actually have a good shot this year.

Q: Where did the tradition of serving cranberry sauce come from? That stuff is foul.

A: Foul things becoming traditions are actually very common in U.S. history. Just look at war.

Q: Should I be worried about food-borne disease?

A: Yes.

Q: How worried?

A: Let me put it this way. Don't eat the dressing. It used to be on a wound.

Q: What is the secret to hosting a successful Thanksgiving party?

A: Remembering the best part of what the day truly represents, and honoring it with at least two television sets in each room.

Q: Even the bathroom?

A: Ha ha, don't get nuts on me here! One is fine.

Q: What is the best beverage to serve on this festive occasion?

A: A lot of people like that non-alcoholic sparkling cider, and I call these people "Seahawks fans." Wine is better, or, if the Cowboys are losing, beer in your lucky stein. The one with the spurs.

Q: How do they get the squirrel into the chipmunk? Isn't a chipmunk smaller?

A: You don't want to know.

In just a few days, one of our nation's oldest celebrations will be upon us. Our forefathers, who overcame great hardship, could not possibly have imagined our own travails in the 21st Century, like covering the point spread, but if they were here now, and able to speak, I know they would agree with us on one thing: those Dallas cheerleaders just never get old.

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pic - Billy Joel was right

 Some are satin, some are steel, some are silk and some are leather,

 They're the faces of the stranger, and the lamest one is Sport

Ancient furnace finally gives up the (smoky) ghost

There is a lot of charm in an old house, unless you own it.

We bought ours years ago "as is." "As is" is a real estate term meaning you are aware it is an old house, with the eventual costs that will come with that, and you hold harmless anyone involved in selling you the beast.

You get a cheaper house up front that way, but you pay on the "back end," which is a nicer way of saying "out the wazoo."

We have a vintage 1960s gas furnace in our basement, a relic which began its service back when I was still planting seeds in paper cups in kindergarten. It has heated our house reliably, if noisily, for 20 years.

Until last week.

I turned it on for the usual first-of-the-season dust-burning session where I open up all the doors and windows and hasten climate change.

The old girl heated for awhile, but when the blower should have kicked in, there was a "pop." A pop is not good. Outside a Dr. Seuss book, a pop is bad.

Even the dog turned toward the sound, as if to say, "My ancient wolf survival instincts tell me that pop right there is going to run you fifteen grand."

I called a furnace guy, who looked at the random wires running here and there from the unit and practically ran up the stairs, unwilling to touch the thing for fear of liability.

A friend recommended another guy, who was unfazed, even reattaching a loose wire and installing a new fan belt.

"The blower switch is shot," he said, "but you can hand-start it by turning the wheel, see?"

And the furnace began to blow.

"I wouldn't recommend it, though," he said. "You could lose a finger."

The next morning the house was cold. I turned on the heat. I figured I would go get a hammer and turn the wheel using its claw. I need my fingers. I like to give people the thumbs up in traffic, to congratulate their excellent driving.

Then I saw the smoke. The kitchen, which is right above the furnace, was rapidly filling with it.

I ran down to the basement and shut off the pilot light. Ran back up and opened windows and doors. Started fans.

Saving your house from a conflagration is even better than saving your fingers. And it looks like I'll be needing them to write a big check.

Wednesday Wa Pic - I'd a named it something nicer myself

Reverse psychology? Or is there a stinky subculture I know nothing about?