My attic was lousy with raccoons! Become a patron to find out what happened.

Hello readers!

This is the week I post my column exclusively to my Patreon patrons, who after the demise of my newspaper column have joined together to keep the funny flowing. Become a patron yourself for as little as $1 a month, so you don't miss out on this and other Wa adventures, including vintage best-of humor columns and even audio essays.

See you next week,

George

I did this play called “Gatsby”

I acted in a play this month for the first time in years, brought out of retirement by the lure of a pair of plum roles called “Waiter/Policeman.” Well, I did play a third part with an actual name, but one so obscure in the show, “The Great Gatsby,” that unless you are an English teacher you wouldn’t know the guy. A self-involved, effeminate hack photographer “artiste” named Chester McKee. This guy, holding the drink:

At the drop of a hat he will invite you back to his place to see his, um, “portfolio.”

I got hooked on theater in high school, at 15. I played dads, grandpas, gamblers, lawyers, Irishmen, twins, guys with fake facial hair:

In college it was capes. Lots of capes. 

In middle age you get the parts with smoking jackets and double-breasted suits. The roles get rarer, but the clothes get better. 

Aging creeps up on you, like a critic you never noticed was in the audience until the review comes out. One minute you’re the 30 year old leading man for whom playwrights pen tons of parts, and the next you’re the character actor getting winded dancing the Charleston. 

You look around and the 30 year old guys on stage didn’t break a sweat. In between scenes, the 30 year old guys are doing push-ups in the wings to get up for the show. You’re not jealous, though, just kind of awed. You were never one to do push-ups without a P.E. teacher’s glare as the instigation.

Doing theater involves remembering taboos and traditions, like not saying the word “Macbeth.” Supposedly, if you say it inside a theater bad luck will befall you or your cast. You are supposed to refer to it as “the Scottish play.” As if the Fates can’t figure out the ploy. As if bad luck is thwarted by verbiage. 

Avoiding saying the word was tough because late in our run, our director began directing “Macbeth.” This led to many close calls like “So how are things going with Macbet—that kilt-fest you’re taking on?” And “Patrick, what are the show dates for Macb—that damned spot show thingy?”

Side note—It would fun to work spotlight for “Macbeth,” and turn it off when the famous line comes. 

I am pretty sure I said the word backstage, and I definitely watched another guy straight-up say it without even remembering not to. Nothing bad happened. But these superstitions, passed on, put you in a kind of club whose membership runs back and back through time, to the first schmuck who said the play’s name and then, probably, fell into the orchestra pit which just happened to be outfitted for a show involving live crocodiles. I am only guessing.

I got a couple of small laughs as Chester, which is the best part of doing a tragedy like “Gatsby,” in which the stage is strewn by the end (spoiler alert) with three dead bodies. Laughs in a drama are a little gift to help the audience cope. I have always felt that coping is overrated. I know I am in the minority. But let them cope if it means me getting a laugh.

I only had one quick change. I had to exit stage left, toss an armload of clothes against the wall, rip off my fake mustache, glasses, vest and gloves and then hustle across the backstage while tying on an apron and donning a different vest, all in about a minute before entering stage right. It made my pulse pound. How many things do that these days outside of politics?

When you go years without doing theater you can forget how magical it feels backstage where the lights are low, costumes are hung for quick-changes, there are prop guns and liquor bottles, fake ice cubes and cigarette lighters. The whole place smells like lumber, paint, makeup and hair spray. It’s that club thing again. We are back here, and they are out there, and what we are about to do to them they have no idea. It feels like having the password.

It is, in essence, showing off. I know that. You dress up and show off. Normal people don’t need to. Actors and politicians and preachers; we’re all in the hey-look-at-me business. Society sanctions it, so we get away with it in the name of entertainment, diversion, governance, salvation. Call it whatever, I’ll take it. Now and then.

I admit it is kind of weird to ask your wife to borrow her makeup remover, though.

. . .

The People vs. The Lyrics Of “Escape (The Piña Colada Song)”

Column 1 since my departure from my newspaper publisher. I hope you will continue to read this column on Sundays, pass it on to your friends, and consider “leveling up” via my Patreon page, where you will find funny Patreon-subscriber-only bonus content (vintage “best of Wa” columns, audio recordings of me performing these essays and more.) 

But now to the good stuff. I’ve slipped my newspaper column-inch restraint of 400 words and just busted loose below. I feel almost as free as someone getting caught in the rain...

. . .

Let the record show that even though almost 40 years have passed since the heyday of “Escape,” the damage done to the eardrums and psyches of people who were exposed continues to this day. We, the people, hereafter referred to as Peeps, have brought suit against the lyrics in an effort to, in some small way, make amends for this egregious wrong of the past. 

Peeps: Do you deny that in the autumn of 1979 you put forth in a public venue, where even children could be exposed, the lyric “I was tired of my lady / we’d been together too long”?

Lyrics: Not at all. It’s the opening line. It expresses the dilemma, like any good song, like, I don’t know, like “You Picked A Fine Time To Leave Me, Lucille.” It makes you wonder, why did Lucille leave? You get invested in the story.

Peeps: So how long is “together too long”? I’m just curious.

Lyrics: It’s just a hook, it’s not based on a real couple.

Peeps: But for the record, just your opinion. How long is too long?

Lyrics: I don’t know. Like, a year maybe.

Peeps: A year, and then it’s whoosh, to the personal ads?! This guy in the song is a piece of work. 

Lyrics: But his own lovely lady wrote the ad! That’s the twist. She was bored too. She didn’t know he would answer the ad. She was fishing. He’s not a bad guy. They were both to blame.

Peeps: Objection!

Lyrics: Objection?

Peeps: I’ve just always wanted to say that. So...they were both to blame. Fair enough. But she is the more likable of the two, because she makes clear that she wants a man who is not into yoga, and, just by inference, does not have a pony tail. And a man who has half a brain. This is clearly a commentary on the men of the time, who had embraced disco a little too whole-heartedly (Sample lyric: “Get down, boogie-oogie-oogie.”) 

Lyrics: I believe you might be over-think—

Peeps: Then the husband responds to the ad, via your lyrics, with perhaps the worst come-on since humans ventured out from caves, “I’ve got to meet you by tomorrow noon, and cut through all this red tape.” First of all, who shoots for noon when she clearly offered midnight, and second, what red tape? It’s not like what’s keeping their love apart is the DMV. “Red tape” was obviously just used to rhyme with “escape” in the next line. 

Lyrics: Look, I was on a deadline.

Peeps: How about “I’ve got to meet you by tomorrow noon, so our love can take shape”?

Lyrics: Where were you in 1979?

Peeps: “I’ve got to meet you by tomorrow noon, show you all my manscape.” 

Lyrics: Um.

Peeps: You put forth the idea, to a vulnerable public, a public which just a few years earlier had lost in Vietnam and gone through Watergate, you put forth the idea that we should be all for getting rouged on champagne and umbrella drinks and running out into the dunes to get sand all up in our butts. How do you defend that?

Lyrics: Well, you would take a towel, I would hope.

Peeps: It’s indefensible. I rest my case. 

Lyrics: Does that mean I can go?

Peeps: If you can live with yourself.

Lyrics: It’s forty years. I think people look back on it with a certain fond appreciation of its campiness, like “The Love Boat.” It was about getting to know your partner better, getting closer, realizing that what you want is right there all along if you’re just a little attentive. 

Peeps: That’s a good message, but seriously, who likes piña coladas?

Lyrics: Nobody, but my original line, “If you like Humphrey Bogart,” had trademark issues.

Peeps: I LOVE Humphrey Bogart.

Lyrics: Right?

Peeps: That’s a shame. That would have been good.

Lyrics: Yeah. Well, it worked out. It was a hit. I bought a boat. Hey, can I ask you something?

Peeps: Sure.

Lyrics: Why DID Lucille leave? I mean four hungry children and the crops in the field? That’s cold. 

Peeps: I will never understand fictitious people. 

. . .

Goodbye to my loyal, funny readers...or is it?

If you are visiting The Wa Blog for the first time because you read in the newspaper about my column being cancelled due to budget cuts, welcome. If I have made you smile or laugh in the past weeks or years, I'm happy. 

But to paraphrase Edward G. Robinson in "Little Caesar"..."Is this the end of Rico?" Or...Waters? 

It doesn't have to be. I like writing these columns. You like reading them. Do you want them to continue? It's kind of up to you. Become my partner! If enough of you join me, together we can make the world a lighter place to live in. 

Um, so click that "Become my partner!" link up there...and thanks! 

Or at least add your email to the “Subscribe” box over on the right, and free humor will begin to flow to your Inbox weekly. I am confident my dog and I will turn you into a partner eventually. :-)

. . .

If you have not come from the newspaper link, and your awareness of me is only from this blog, here is this week's column:


This will be my last column for the newspaper due to budget cuts. As a freelancer here for over a dozen years, I can't complain. I have outlasted many longtime staffers. I began in 2005, to fill the shoes of the great humorist Dave Barry, who went off to write novels. 

Over the years I have gotten a lot of mileage out of my dog, who I could always count on to get blasted by a skunk or something similarly dramatic. “Great. More column fodder,” I would mutter while sudsing his fur. Whenever the dishwasher broke or a child went off to college or the house fell apart a little more, I have been forced, by deadline, into seeing the funny side. What a gift.

I dug back through my 700+ columns to find some tidbits to share. Enjoy:

I think our founders would be pretty proud of the country we have built

on their sacrifices, especially our amazing advances in the scented candle arena.

Do you suppose anybody ever asked Jesus, "Whoa! Were you raised in a

barn?"  

The camera does not add 10 pounds, and, frankly, the camera does not

appreciate your insinuation. 

I wonder if the French say "Pardon my English" after they curse. 

Isn't a double-half-hitch just basically a hitch? 

Is being a monologist the same as being half a biologist?

Why is a whole ball of wax considered desirable to obtain?

Can there be only one whereabout? 

If you can't quite fathom something, does that make it "derstandable"?

Which is easier, taking candy from a baby or falling off a log?

The best actual newspaper headline I saw last year—"Sewer water a prize for area agencies." I do not want to know what the contest was.

Don't judge a man until you have walked a mile in his shoes and you can see if he reacts maturely to your stealing his shoes. Then judge away.

Folks, I have appreciated your emails. Turns out people who read humor are funny themselves. You have made me laugh too, and that is no small thing these days. As I said, a gift. If you wish to follow my further exploits, subscribe free at www.TheWaBlog.com.

To paraphrase the Gettysburg Address, the world will little note nor long remember what I say here, but it can never forget that column about my dog rolling around in his own poo.

...

“You’re welcome” or “No problem”—Which is the right response?

It finally happened. One of those signs of age which let you know, definitively, that you are losing it. 

When someone thanked me recently, instead of saying “You’re welcome,” as I have for 50 years, I slipped and said “No problem.” Like I was some kind of Millennial. Soon, no doubt, I will accidentally utter that other conversational abomination of the age, “No worries,” as if I have gone straight-up marsupial. 

That’s when you can just push me off a cliff. I only ask one favor—right before I go over the edge, let me clasp to my chest one of those people who responds to “Thank you” with “Thank YOU.” We’ll go together, and deserve it. 

Which reminds me of a joke. How many curmudgeons does it take to screw in a light bulb? Two. One to screw it in, and one to complain to him that light isn't as bright as it was when he was a kid, back when light knew some respect. 

One of these days we are going to find that the word "Please" has been replaced with "Wouldja already?" These days we are sloughing off social norms faster than a lobbyist sheds moral objections. 

And while I am on the subject of norms, may I propose we find a replacement for the celebratory word "Woo"? Yes, it meets the requirements for joyful exclamations—one syllable, heavy with vowels—but it has outlived its prime. At concerts and ball games, half-hearted "woos" outnumber full-throated ones 10 to 1. And let's face it, "Woohoo" has come to sound downright ironic. 

How about "Baa!" Somebody hits a home run, "Baa!" Great guitar solo, "Baa!" It brings to mind sheep, yes, but what's more appropriate for the political-bubble times we live in? "Baa" is a comfortable cry everybody learned in childhood, and thus easy to remember. Plus, like "Woo," it has the benefit of not meaning anything, but in a fresh way. 

Imagine the annual State of the Union address by the president, interrupted repeatedly by Congresspeople standing to clap and shout "Baa!" That I would watch.

Well, I have gotten the word from my newspaper editor that the budget has been tightened yet again, and this column will be a victim of the cuts. There is space for one more, next Sunday, a “best of” from my last 13 years. It promises to be a good one, so don’t you miss it. 

. . .

Fed up with life’s cacophony? Strap on a raccoon

There are basically two types of people--those who write little reminders to themselves, and those who forget to. In junior high I would write myself cryptic cartoon ideas in a little spiral notebook. Years later when I came across it I had no idea what "refrigerator crocodile explosion" meant. I bet it would have made a funny comic, though. There were dozens of notes just like it, never drawn. 

Now I add ideas to the Notes app on my phone. Evidently I have not changed much since the 8th grade, because I recently found this pithy scribble from nine months ago: "Column idea: Noise cancelling raccoon." The visual is pretty great, especially when pictured in use on a plane. All it would take is one celebrity, maybe Beyonce, and we would have a monster fad on our hands. There would not be enough raccoons in the world to satisfy it.

Then would come the inevitable knock-offs; noise-cancelling possums, weasels, beavers. Their use would be met with disdainful side-glances by those who know the difference between Louis Vuitton-level mammals and Marc Jacobs-level ones. It's not about using the most beautiful animals, either, not about chinchillas. Raccoon is an attitude as much as a genus. A raccoon's very posture says "You want some noise cancelled, boss? Point me in a direction."

You can spend $400 on headphones, easy, and it is true that headphones will never claw your face or poop down your neck. But you have to ask yourself if you are the kind of person who takes pride in living your life in a way which demands your constant vigilance or not. 

I am not sure where this raccoon idea came from, except that maybe as my head has lost its insulation I have enjoyed, more and more, warm items on it. I can also endure noise less and less, as if at birth we are gifted with a finite tolerance and it gradually wears away, like brake pads. I remember a time when I could tolerate a baby crying in public. These days I am ready to strap on a raccoon in 10 seconds. On a plane, five. 

It would have to wear the little red vest, of course, "service animal" emblazoned across its shoulders. But what better service can one animal provide to another than a little peace? Sure, fleas would be an issue. I am guessing they would not be the main one. 

. . .

Cancelling a subscription is no easy phone call

After the election of 2016 I thought I wanted to stay on top of the news more than ever, which just proves how little I know myself. I subscribed digitally to several papers of various political bents, I downloaded apps. Recently I decided to cancel my subscription to the one I read the least, let’s call it the Wonk Gazette. They do not make it easy. While the conversation below is not an exact transcription, it does truthfully convey the overall experience.

Wonk Gazette: “Hello. How may I provide you with excellent service today?”

Me: “Today’s no good for me, but I would like to cancel my subscription.” 

WG: “All right, sir. Let me just confirm some information. I see you have been a loyal subscriber for 15 months. We are having a promotion right now, and I can let you skip a payment for an entire quarter.” 

Me: “That’s a great deal for somebody not cancelling their subscription.”

WG: “This is our most popular discount, sir, a savings of $45.”

Me: “You are witnessing my most popular feature, which is my patience. Can you cancel my subscription?”

WG: “Most people...”

Me: “Is there a number of times I need to ask you to cancel my subscription before you’ll do it? Because just give me the number. I’ll ask it five times or eight or whatever. What’s the number?”

WG: “If you find that your busy schedule does not permit reading the WG at this time, I can put you on a hold for this quarter and resume your access in the summer.”

Me: “Look, it’s nothing against your paper. It’s a quality read. I have just, over the last year, realized I am defenseless against the siren suck of Facebook. Turns out I’d rather watch a tiny hedgehog eat baby corn than read about how the world is losing its mind. You feel me?”

WG: “Would you like to upgrade to Premium Slackoff? For just $35 more a month you keep your subscription but we block access to your account. So it’s guilt-free.”

Me: “I just want you to cancel my subscription. I can say it in my high school German if you prefer.”

[Puts me on hold for two minutes; a ploy designed to make the weak hang up]

WG: “O.K., sir, I have cancelled your subscription. I just have one more question.”

Me: “Shoot.”

WG: “Would you be interested in hearing about our introductory New Subscriber rate?”

. . .

Hubbub about 2020 Census question a lot of hot air

There was a lot of hubbub this week about the 2020 Census, because when it comes to American fads, hubbub is the new kale. 

The president suggested asking a person's citizenship status on the Census form. That is certainly a better question than this actual one from the 1990 Census: "Is your dwelling connected to the public sewer?" Not to mention the obvious followup question, "Would you like to donate $1.00 to a political party?"

The citizenship question has, in fact, been part of the Census for decades; it just wasn't in 2010. So the hubbub feels manufactured. Really, adding this question back to the form is just one of about, oh, 178,000 ways the president is trying to roll back Obama's legacy. 

Here's an idea. Let's convince him that Daylight Saving Time was Obama's idea. Please get behind me on this. 

I worked for the Census in 1990, so I am an insider. I recall signing an agreement, however, in which I had to swear never to reveal what I experienced. I am still not sure why, although I suspect it had something to do with the spirit conjuring. (The sewer question above is public knowledge, though.) And let me take this moment to say that the entire Census process was smooth and the federal government was an ideal employer. 

Census questions reveal a lot about their times. In 1810, one question asked if the person was deaf, blind or "idiotic." In 1910, we had the cheery "Of the children a person has mothered, how many are still alive?" 

In 2000, if you randomly received the “long form,” you had to answer a whopping 53 questions, but in 2010 this was pared down to only 10, one of which, strangely enough, was simply “LeBron or Kobe?”

Sure, a lot of people won't return the questionnaire if it means revealing they aren’t citizens. That was true in 1970, and it’s true now. The omission of this question in 2010 did not, I understand, result in a noticeably higher return rate. 

I know from my experience, it is hard to even get citizens to respond. Maybe if they offered to mail respondents a free gun or a Ruth Bader Ginsburg pillow, their choice. 

We feel hinky about giving personal information to the government yet we feel no qualms about posting a picture of ourselves on Facebook in a bunny costume chugging carrot vodka. Maybe they should add one more Census question: Dude, what were you thinking?

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pic - What a difference one letter makes...

One of those coin-operated kiddie rides. Note the pay slot at left. (See closeup in photo below.)

I am pretty sure the ride maker meant "rental use." But hey, keeping an open mind, it could be the best dollar you every spent.

. . .

Special thanks to Susan Tripp for this beauty. :-)

Shedding dog single-pawedly keeps lint roller industry afloat

As spring arrives I begin to wonder if there is any place in my house, on my body or perhaps in space, that I can’t find dog hair. 

Skipper’s winter coat apparently sheds at the rate of 1000 follicles per second, and is dispersed throughout my universe in a method that even string theory cannot explain. At work I glance down at my shirt and there are dog hairs. In the car. On the dinner plate. In the shower. On the pillow at bedtime. 

It is as if the old boy is getting a commission based on sheer coverage. He is not a long-haired dog, so he sheds short, fine little buggers, which float up onto your nose and settle, causing you to slap your palms down your face like one of the Three Stooges. 

(If there are any young readers who do not know who the Three Stooges are, here is what you need to do: ask for new parents. Or go on YouTube. But the former choice makes a stronger statement.)

There are many benefits to having a dog, but none involves breathing. 

There is a certain doggie dander factor which creates a kind of haze in the air, especially in the spring. Combined with the pollen wafting in through the many cracks in my old house, the audible sniffling from my family is at, like, “Hamilton” Act II levels. (Not as many people die in Act II as do at the end of “Hamlet,” but you care more, because they’re Americans.)

One benefit to having a dog is decorative; one’s window sill looks so bare without one. Skipper mounts a chair and then takes his position on the sill, like a general. There he will stand sentinel for an hour, or, more accurately, lounge sentinel, chin resting on paws, vigilant but not trying to show off or anything. 

To the letter carrier, to a passing jogger, to a delivery truck, he barks the following outrage, without variation: If this window were not here, I would now be in possession of your ankles. To a dog, a delivery truck totally has ankles.

This time of year I brush and comb Skipper's fur, which you'd think would take care of the shedding, but the Fates just laugh. Every pleasure in life has its cost, and a canine's cost is a fortune in lint-removal-rollers. 

It’s O.K. I just tell my coworkers I moonlight as a furrier. Nothing surprises them any more. 

 

Ankles. I give you fair warning.