THE THREE IFs

"If you can't swim, beware of Providence." - Shelly
"If we all agreed on everything, we'd all want the same wife." - LBJ
"If it wasn't for time, everything would happen at once." - Einstein

The Luck of the Irish Alkie

WEST BOSTON

IRISH DRUNKARDS SOCIETY

UPHOLDING THE STEREOTYPE SINCE 2006

One unlucky night about two years ago, I was sitting at the bar in a Pizzeria Uno, chewing-up a Veggie Lover's Personal Pan Pizza, nursing a Diet Coke and staring at a Red Sox game. I was not harming anyone and no one had any right to harm me, but life is unfair, especially when it is under the influence of beer.

Right around the seventh-inning stretch, four large, noisy, pink-faced yayhoos came stumbling in and made straight for the bar. Alas, there was only one empty stool, and it was next to me. All four of them lunged for it, upsetting my Diet Coke, which landed in my Veggie Lover's Personal Pan Pizza, drowning all of the Lovable Veggies. The four thugs immediately convened a surprisingly formal meeting and voted to make restitution for the pizza on one condition: I would have to abandon the Diet Coke - not just that night, but forever - and switch to Sam Adams. I didn't want to do it, but I was still hungry, so I acquiesced.

I don't remember much about what happened next, except that sometime during the evening, an even more surprisingly formal meeting was called to consider whether or not I should be allowed to join their fraternal organization, The West Boston Irish Drunkards Society. Horrified, I howled that it was past my bedtime and I wanted to go home, but a scary voice barked at me to put a fackin' sock in it.

Through a thick, beery haze, I heard them discussing the deplorable fact that I was not Irish, which might, arguably, disqualify me from membership. Alas for me, this impediment was set aside on the dubious grounds that "a Jew is basically an Irishman, with the tip of his shelaleigh sawed-off." If you do not understand this joke, please don't think about it very hard, as it is not exactly true and not exactly funny.

The second problem - that I was not yet a drunkard and did not, at that time, see any advantage in becoming one - was likewise set aside, because, to their way of thinking, it was sure to change.

Let me be blunt: That was the most catastrophic night of my life, the night that sent me floating off to hell on a river of beer, which, now that I think about it, is not the worst way to go, especially if you're going to go to hell anyway, which I certainly was, even before I fell in with the Drunkards. Moreover, it is a great consolation to me that when I'm down there, boiling in a vat of ale, four Irish Drunkards will be boiling alongside of me.

Anyway, the point is: The sole redeeming characteristic of the WBIDS was that we harmed no one but ourselves - until now.

One of our Deputy Toastmasters (we are all Deputy Toastmasters) is a buffoon whom we like to call NickFitz, because he smokes like an alcoholic when you set him on fire ["nic fits"] and because that is nearly his actual name. Incredibly - horrifyingly - NickFitz has. . . I cannot bring myself to type it . . .

Fitz has hypnotized a bright and beautiful Irish lassie into MARRYING his fat ass!

We have done all we can do to bring lovely Jennie to her senses - I even proposed to her myself - but she is determined to throw her life away. So we called an emergency meeting, without Fitz, to decide what to do.

A motion was made and seconded to wait for Fitz to fall into one of his inevetible alcoholic stupors during the next Red Sox game, and then smother him with a pillow. This motion was tabled because, where would we get a pillow?

A second motion was made, and seconded by all, to give the match our unqualified blessing, and, moreover, to give our love to Fitz, who, despite his many, many, many shortcomings, is as fine and loyal a friend as any of us ever hope to call our own. Also, to give an equal measure of love to Little Jen, his sweet and beautiful dove, and to express our fervent hope that she will beat him mercilessly over the head with a shelaleigh, or a broomstick, or a fire extinguisher, or whatever comes to hand, if he ever forgets who's boss.

This motion was carried unanimously and, of course, we sealed it by singing a chorus of the appropriate olde Irish ballad, which we here present to Big Nick and his Heart's Delight.

OH, LET EVERY LAD LINK WITH HIS LASS

BLUE JACKET AND WHITE TROUSERS

AND LET EVERY LASS LINK WITH HER LAD

BLUE PETTICOAT AND WHITE FLOWERS

CASKS AND FLAGONS OF LOVE from Mike, TeaKay, Brian and

-cc-

I'VE CHANGED MY CHEST BY A PIGEON: A Weakly Blow Linguistic Adventure

A few years back, a magazine editor - let's call her "Mrs. Rhubarb" - offered me three-thousand American dollars to write a one-thousand-word article on a fella whom I'll call "Dr. Hofbrau." Perhaps I should have been grateful, or at least flattered; instead, I felt a mixture of surprise and suspicion.

First of all, the magazine, which I'll call Mump's, was one that I would not have opened with rubber gloves, even if there'd been a fifty-dollar bill hidden somewhere inside of it. And second, I knew that I could not possibly have been Mrs. Rhubarb's first choice to write the story - or any story, for that matter - so there was probably something wrong with it.

What was wrong with it, she explained, was that Dr. Hofbrau's work was "kinda arcane."

That got my attention, for I've got a gluttonous appetite for arcanity, especially when it has the potential to generate $3.oo-per-word, plus expenses. What, I wondered, was Dr. Hofbrau's arcane pastime? Hypnotizing mollusks? Collecting suet? Varnishing his nipples?

No, no, no, replied Mrs. Rhubarb. Nothing as arcane as that! And then she proceeded to explain Dr. Hofbrau's work as best she could, which wasn't very well, because she obviously didn't understand it. But I listened gamely and, in a few minutes, figured out that Dr. Hofbrau's oddball obsession was something I like to call . . . science.

Now, I have an appetite for science, too, so I was inclined to say 'yes.' But then Mrs. Rhubarb felt obliged to mention one more detail. It seemed that Dr. Hofbrau lived in a place called "Germany" and, like far too many inconsiderate people over there, refused to speak English.

"Well, Mrs. Rhubarb," I replied, "I don't speak German. So, you see, I'll not be able to report the story unless Mump's is willing to pay for a translator."

And that is when Mrs. Rhubarb came-up with with a cost-saving idea. Before I tell you what it was, I should first mention that Mrs. Rhubarb was herself a cost-saving idea, typical of the dying magazine industry. She worked cheap, as well she might, having once admitted to a friend of mine that she had never reported a story in her life. Here, then, was her suggestion:

Perhaps I could report the story entirely by email, using an online translation program to render my questions into German, and Dr. Hofbrau's answers into English.

I was tempted to give it a try, just to see what would happen. Instead, I said "no" in a manner that ended my relationship with Mrs. Rhubarb, and Mump's, hopefully forever. And then I forgot all about this silly little occurrence until . . .

.. . a couple of weeks ago, when I happened to hear the magnificent love song Paloma Querida crooned by the magnificent Tex-Mex virtuoso, Freddy Fender. (Freddy is, alas, no longer with us, but here's a charming old cinematic version by Pedro Infante, with dancing horses; Placido Domingo sings it pretty well, too.) Enchanted, I decided to learn the song myself, so I Googled the lyrics and tried out the elegant Spanish on my thick, English-only tongue. My enchantment grew. What did the words mean? To find out, I excitedly fed them into an online translator, with these results, guaranteed genuine:

I have found in a black path
as a pilgrim with out faith nor runbo
My luck changed by that pleasure
and since then I feel querete
with all the forces that give me the soul
Paloma loved since I've changed my chest by a pigeon

I cannot comment on the accuracy of this translation. I can only say that it interfered with my enjoyment of a beautiful song, so I strongly hoped it was inaccurate.

In order to reassure myself on this score, I devised a disingenuous way of testing online translators in general. I would feed the lyrics of THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER into the Babelfish online translator, rendering them into five foreign languages; then, I would make Babelfish render them back into English. If these re-translations were close to the original, I would have to face facts: I should have taken that assignment from Mump's. But if the results were a trifle halting or garbled, as I suspected they might be, I could rest assured that Paloma Querida had lyrics worthy of its delicious melody and achingly romantic vibe.

I present the results below - guaranteed genuine - without comment or gloating.

DUTCH: THE ASTRE SPANGLED GOLF

Oh, say can you see
door it early of the paddle
what this way proud
we at twilight's the last gleaming slightly greeted?
Whose broad lines and clear astre
through the dangerous fight,
Calamity doctor flowed the matrix
O'er we this way gallantly have paid attention?

English, booms the matrix
in air rode brilliance of the rocket bursts,
gave proof by the night
which our flag was houten there the pen.

Do do oh, do say do the astre spangled golf
O'er die of bravely of banner
but nevertheless the country of free English the house?

ITALIAN: OUR SMALL FLAG WAS STILL HERE

Oh, as an example can you see
from the light in advance payment of the dawn
that what we have hailed therefore
fierce to last shining of the penumbra?
Of who immense bands and luminous stars
with the fight perilous,
O'er the ramparts that we have watched
therefore gallantly was effluendo?

And the red light vivida of the rocket,
the bombs that burst in air,
was given the test with the night
that our small flag was still here.

Or, as an example ago
that flag star-star spangled however
O' wave er the center and earth free of the good ones?

[Note: In order to be "fair," I have included the Spanish translation, which proved by far the most faithful of the five.]

SPANISH: THE PUMPS THAT EXPLODED IN AIR

Oh, opinion can you see
by the early light of the dawn
what we hailed so proud
in flashing last of the twilight?
Of whom ample rays and shining stars
by the dangerous fight.
O'er the embankments that we watched
so galantemente flowed?

And the red fulgor of the rocket,
the pumps that exploded in air,
gave the test of the night
that our flag was still there.

The Oh, opinion does that flag star-star-spangled wave
O'er the Earth of the free one yet
and the home of the brave one.

I have omitted the German and French results, as they were similar to one or more of the above. But the German translation included a remarkable twist that deserves recognition, if not applause:

O'er the RAM parts, which we watched out . . .

I have only one regret about my experiment: It has compromised my patriotism, if I ever had any, for I must admit that I prefer every one of these translated translations to Francis Scott Key's original English. I beg my patriotic readers not be offended, as I can assure them that, whatever my feelings about America in general, I would never, ever do anything to disgrace its flag.

I leave that to others.

- cc -

THE GARDEN OF GOTHAM

One day in 1989, when I was a restless boy journalist in Washington, DC, I opened a book by H. L. Mencken and read the following dispatch from across time and space:

New York has the best of everything, including the best of the worst.

In those days, I lived according to a simple precept: You might as well believe everything you read, because if you don’t, it might turn out to be true, and then where would you be? And so, to make a long story blessedly short, I dove into the cauldron of experience that is New York City, with all the enthusiasm of a dog leaping into a vat of Alpo.

And there I wallowed, tail a-waggin’, for some fifteen years before I finally began to grow nauseated from it. You can only devour New York for so long before it turns around and starts devouring you. Have you ever stopped to imagine what it would feel like to be devoured by a vat of Alpo? Have you?

I escaped to Boston about two years ago, but the vicissitudes of fortune (and misfortune) have frequently driven me back to Manhattan for days or even weeks at a time. And I've never left it without wondering: How in hell could I have been happy in such a place for fifteen minutes, let alone fifteen years?

None of New York’s attractions seemed remotely worth its stress, filth, expense and stench of Alpo - until a few weeks ago, when a close friend, whom I’ll call ‘Wasp’, invited me down for a weekend of horticulture.

You will not need to be reminded that horticulture isn't a typical New York activity. But Wasp is not a typical wasp. To be sure, she lives in a typical one-bedroom apartment on the 20th floor of a typical New York building. But in spring and summer, two unique elements combine to make Wasp's apartment an enchanted place: Wasp herself; and a very long (though not very wide) terrace, suitable for container gardening.

It has always seemed to me that flowers don't bloom on Wasp's terrace, but, rather, rise up out of the earth when she summons them. And now that I've stood nigh and seen the process - nay, now that I've lent a humble hand in it - I realize that I have been spectacularly wrong, as usual. I will not attempt to describe the two-day tsunami of labor and artistry that took-place up there; but I will say that it reminded me of one reason why I once loved living in New York. It's a place where beauty of all sorts sits cheek-by-jowl with every manner of outrage and horror. And I think that is the most realistic context in which to behold both beauty and horror. But not everyone has the courage and stamina for it.

Wasp has got it, in spades. Twenty floors above an avenue choking with carbon monoxide and vile New York expletives, it pleases her to create a beautiful muthafuckin' flower garden, so each year she creates it. This garden would be glorious anywhere; but its concrete-and-steel setting produces a miraculous atmosphere that no country gardener, however gifted, could achieve.

In the Sunday twilight, after two days of horticulture, I flopped down on one of Wasp's comfy deck chairs. My clothes reeked of ParaLite and fertilizer; my fingernails were clotted with potting soil; and my baseball cap was glued to my scalp with sweat. I regarded Wasp, fussing over her morning glories; I regarded the moon, taking its place over the shoulder of a coal-black skyscraper; I regarded my senses and realized that they had not been so aroused, in so many different ways, in quite some time. And I heard myself say:

"Wasp! This is how I want to live!"

I meant it, too.

The next day, I went back to Boston with all sorts of astounding revelations Jiffy-Popping around in my head. And in my heart - and in my camera - I carried home a bouquet.

-cc-

Photographs by Charles "Chuck" Hirshberg, esq. All rights protected by a shadowy agency of the Bush administraion.

THE BLOW IS BACK

'Tis springtime, and my fancy has turned to mush.

I don't mean actual mush, like oatmeal or baby food. I mean sentimental mush.

Yesterday, as I was pointing my camera at a spring bloom, a bee floated gently down upon the petals and as I watched him trot gaily towards the ovule . . .

. . . I heard a loud, unexpected snap!

'Twas the sound of my mind, snapping out of a three-month torper. And I bethunk myself of whole cauldrons of mushy stuff, including:

It is worthwhile to fall in love, even though the crush of heartbreak is a natural (maybe even probable) outcome of loving. And it is worthwhile to live, because life is a lot like love in this mushy respect. More often than not, life runs afoul of Death, and Death enjoys smashing-up hearts almost as much as He enjoys taking lives. Still, I am grateful for my life. I am grateful that I have a heart that's worth breaking.

So you see, now that springtime has set me a-gushing with mush, the mush, in turn, has reinvigorated my urge to blog.

It seems that I enjoy smearing my mush all over the Internet, just as, once upon a time, I enjoyed smearing oatmeal and baby food through my hair.

It seems that Hirsh Horn's Weakly Blow is like a fragrant, colorful spring bloom, only brown, and not at all fragrant.

And it seems that you, my loyal, befuddled readers, are a lot like the neighborhood bees who cluster 'round my head nearly every spring morning, trying to decide whether I deserve to be pollinated or stung.

Thanks for clustering. It's been a long time.

-cc-

The Weakly Blow will recommence gusting on-or-about May 20. Seriously, thanks to those who wrote asking for more. To use a typically sly Weakly Blow metaphor, you've blown new life into this blog.

Photograph by Charles 'Chuck' Hirshberg. All rights reserved - and brought to you by HAZMAToasties, the only breakfast-flavored cereal that gives you nine essential industrial effluents.

WE WILL NEVER FORGET . . .

FRAN LEWINE

JOURNALIST

Y

MENTOR

Y
LEADER AND TRAIL BLAZER

in the fight for

EQUAL OPPORTUNITY FOR ALL

Y

THIS BLOG WILL BE SUSPENDED AS WE MOURN THE LOSS OF THIS IRREPLACEABLE WOMAN

-cc-

A GALLERY OF PAINTED LADIES . . .

. . . FROM HITHER AND YON

Wicked classy
The Waterworks Condominiums,
Chestnut Hill, MA

Frida Kahlo in the shadow of captialism
Washington, DC

The immolation of hope
Boston, MA

Photographs by Charles "Chuck" Hirshberg
All rights protected by Satan

-cc-

HAPPY HOLIDAYS . . .

. . . FROM ALL OF US AT
HIRSH HORN'S WEAKLY BLOW!

A HOLIDAY GREETING FROM THE EDITOR

As Editor of Hirsh Horn's Weakly Blow, it is my obligation to wish each and every one of you a lucrative and terror-free Holiday Season! It has been two or, possibly, three months since we launched this blog and dozens of readers have hit us, on purpose or by accident, several times. We have achieved many achievements, including a donation from my aunt and a death threat from a gun nut, or "firearms enthusiast" as he prefers to call himself. Hirsh Horn's Weakly Blow is not afraid of controversy and we will not back down from a position of principle, merely because a firearms enthusiast has threatened to "separate [our] souls from [our] liberal [bottoms]."

On a personal note, my aunt and self have MOVED OUT of the basement of the DuStentch Ammonia and Households Solvents Packaging Facility in Brass Castle, NJ and now live somewhere far away from there. Also, I remain single and would like to meet a nice, plump lady. Please try to remember that information, because love is the true meaning of Christmas and many other holidays.

Once again, on behalf of myself, my aunt and our 16 cats,

HAVE A YULETIDE CHRISTMAS

AND A RESOLUTE NEW YEAR!

Conrad Coleridge, Editor

And now . . .

A HOLIDAY MESSAGE FROM

HIRSH HORN

PUBLISHER of HIRSH HORN'S WEAKLY BLOW

Thanks Kenrod! You folks don't know me yet, but you will. And you will like me . . . or you'll regret it.

HA! I'm kidding. The truth is, you will like me because everybody does. What the hell is not to like?

Like Kenrod said, Happy blahblahblah. My name is Hirsh Horn and I pay the bills around here, which is why the sign upstairs has got my name on it. Don't worry, I can afford it - I'm President and CEO of DuStentch Ammonia and Households Solvents, Inc. I've got seven plants all over South Jersey and about 300 employees. Most of 'em are Guatemalan or something and over the weekend I gave out Christmas turkeys to every last one of 'em. You may not believe it, but some of those people never saw a turkey in their lives. It feels good to give 'em one and watch 'em look surprised, 'cause that's what the holidays are all about and blahblahblah. People like to get free food and turkey only costs ten bucks a bird if you buy 300 of 'em.

Anyway, I hear this blog thing is working out okay and according to my wife, who's always got something to say about every damn thing, I should tell you the story behind how it got started and also make a Statement of Principles. So, here comes all of that:

The story behind this thing is that Uncle Sam's Internal Revenuers will reach into your pocket and take whatever they can get as long as there's a coin or two jingling around down there, next to your balls. So instead of lettin' them have it, you might as well spend it in the interest of the public interest, by buying girl scout cookies or paying for a soccer team or whatever the hell. So, if you're like me, you make the same damn mistake you always make and you ask your wife what to do and she says you should publish a bleg or a blog or something. And you say, What the hell is that? and she says, Well, you get a writer to make up articles once a week, like in the Burlington County Advertiser. So, okay.

Now, mind you, I didn't get to be CEO of DuStench by doing things half-way. If I'm gonna do something at all, I'm gonna do it right. So I set out to find the best damn writers in the world!

But I couldn't. I don't know any damn writers and I'm glad I don't. So I forgot about the whole thing for a while, but then my wife started yapping about it again. She met somebody whose son is a college boy, and she's a nag, my wife, so I listened to her again and met with this snot-nosed kid who's too lazy even to put on a tie. I ask this mutt, as politely as I can, if he wouldn't mind doing a little writing for Hirsh Horn's Weakly Blow, in the interest of the public interest. And what does he say? He says he wants ten bucks an hour and he wants health insurance and he wants, get this, an "editorial budget."

And I'm thinkin' to myself: What in hell . . . ?!

Because there is no effin' way I'm gonna pay some crumbum writer more than the minimum wage. I've got Guatemalans all over South Jersey and every last one of 'em gets the minimum wage and, believe you me, they are happy to get it. And here I am, trying to publish a blog, even though I'm still not sure what the hell it is, in the interest of the public interest, and along comes this university brat who's worse than Uncle Sam's Internal Revenuers. Put yourself in my shoes - what would you do?

I'll tell you what you would do. You'd say, Why, you little thumb-sucking three-card-monte hustlin' college boy son-of-a-bitch! How fackin' old do you think I am? And then you'd sock him in the throat.

I know, I know - I gotta watch my temper. You can get in a lotta trouble, sockin' a kid in the throat. But, listen, I've got the best effin' lawyer in Jersey on a $3 million retainer and that kinda money buys a lot of justice. Try reporting one of my plants to OSHA and you'll find out what I mean.

So, after I punched-in that fella's windpipe, I thought to myself: Well, Hirsh, satisfying as that was, you've still got to find some fruity intellectual namby-pamby to write this blog of yours. And then my secretary, Tamika - nice gal, she's from Newark - Tamika reminds me that there's a guy named Kenrod that lives in the basement of one of my plants. And this guy's a writer - a good one, too, for all I know. So I rang him up and, oh boy, was he game! No health insurance, no "budgets" and, you can be damn sure, no ten bucks an hour.

I just let him write whatever he wants, which is why he writes mostly about himself - or so I hear, anyway, I never read this crap.

Alright, what else? Oh, yeah, my pain-in-the-ass wife - I call her The War Department - says I have to state my principles. So, okay, wait a minute. I think I gave my principles to Tamika and she put 'em somewhere.

Okay, here come the principles:

As publisher of Hirsh Horn's Weakly Blow, it is my duty - and I'll let you in on a little secret, it is also my pleasure - to see to it that the decent, hard-working people of this community, if there are any, aren't robbed blind by a pack of money-mad pirates or any other kind of pack of something. And I'll let you in on another little secret: I think I'm the man to do it. You see, I have money and property up the wazoo - I mean it. Let's say I lose a million dollars this year, publishing this effin' thing; and then let's say I lose another million next year and the year after that. At the rate of a million dollars a year, I'll probably have to close this blog in . . . sixty years!

HA! Ha, ha, ha! Sixty years! Good one, right?

So, for the next sixty years, I guess, I'll be . . .

. . . feistily yours,

Hirsh Horn, Publisher

Charles "Chuck" Hirshberg wuz here & thanks everyone else who wuz, too!

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

-cc-

MY KINDA TOWN: A WEAKLY BLOW MIDWESTERN MISADVENTURE

Destination . . .

. . . CHICAGO!

A few months ago, I received an email from one Robbie Fulks, esq, a talented singer, songwriter and guitarist whom I have long admired.

From time to time, Robbie invites various musicians to the Old Town School of Folk Music in Chicago where he puts on concerts that he later broadcasts on his XM Radio* show, "Robbie's Secret Country." His email informed me that on December 9, he intended to devote one of these concerts to the music of The Carter Family, a subject upon which I am an expert, or at least a blowhard. Would I be willing to come to Chicago to be interviewed on stage? If so, he was prepared to pay me the astounding sum of $300; and if I would condescend to appear at a second concert on the same day, the gratuity would be correspondingly doubled.

Now, talking is one of my favorite diversions and rarely do I receive this sort of encouragement, so I said 'yes' without hesitation. On December 8, I jetted to the City of the Big Shoulders, landing at O'Hare Airport at precisely noon. Despite the cash windfall Robbie was about to lavish upon me, I was in an economical mood and made one of the greatest errors of my error-filled life: I decided to take public transportation from the airport to my hotel.

Nearly a week has passed and I am still recuperating from this ordeal, but the healing process has been hastened considerably by an exchange of emails with Alison Perona, Inspector General of the Chicago Transit Authority, which I reproduce below in its genuine entirety:

Dear Inspector General:

How are you? I am fine. I live in Boston and recently visited Chicago for the first time in many years. I decided to try your service from the airport and it was, I think, an unnecessarily distressing experience, which I know you did not intend and would not wish to see repeated.

Here is what happened: After retrieving my suitcase from baggage claim, I followed the signs to the subway and stepped up to a pass-dispensing machine to purchase a pass. I had five twenty-dollar-bills and $1.75 in change. As you probably know, the subway costs $2, so I put one of the twenties in the machine and asked it for a $2 ticket. However, the machine did not give me a ticket. It simply looked back at me as though I was stupid and reminded me that I had just given it $20, which I already knew. Fortunately, a nice man came up behind me and said: "That thing don't give change." Not being from Chicago, I reached for my wallet and pulled out a credit card, only to hear the same nice man (and he was a nice man, as you shall soon see) say: "It don't take credit cards neither." Looking about me, I saw a gaggle of out-of-towners like myself, staggering around like zombies, holding out large bills and begging Chicagoans for change. Fortunately for me, the nice man was nice enough to give me a quarter.

So here's my first question: Is it really true that your subway machines don't give change or take credit cards? Because I have lived in Boston, New York and Washington, three cities that, in many ways, have nothing on you, I'm sure, but all of which allow commuters to both use their credit cards and receive change for large bills.

Now, here's another pickle I'd like you to think about: The train ride from the airport to my hotel in Rogers Park took an excruciating two-hours-and-twenty-minutes (this is not a typo.) I spent most of the trip recalling cliches about slowness - "slow as molasses in January," "I'm coming, and so is Christmas," etc - and there were several annoying incidents along the way that dragged out the journey even further.

For instance, just three stops into the trip, we were all hustled out of the train and loaded onto a tightly-packed slow-moving shuttle bus where I was forced to listen to a very nasty man fulminate against illegal immigrants. He said that unless Mexico stopped "sending us" illegal immigrants, we should invade it and remove its leaders. Evidently, he believes this strategy is working so well in Iraq that we should try it out on other countries that threaten our security by being poor. Please find this man and waterboard him.

Anyhoo, eventually the bus rolled up to the next stop and unloaded us and we waited another ten minutes for another train that moved along at an average speed of, I'd say, 6-1/2 miles-per-hour. That train, however, was like the Georgia Mail compared to the train I transferred to, I believe on the cheerlessly-named "Brown Line." What was truly impressive was that this Brown Line train achieved extraordinary depths of slowness while skipping as many stops as it stopped at, much to the fury of my fellow passengers, most of whom were Chicagoans and probably deserve better.

So here is my second question: Is there some way that you could let me know when these various annoyances are corrected, so that I can return to Chicago under more pleasant circumstances?

Many thanks for your kind attention to these questions. I am sure you will appreciate that they are offered in a spirit of friendly encouragement.

Very truly yours, etc.

I am delighted to report that, in less than 24 hours, I received the following reply:

Dear Mr. Hirshberg,

On behalf of the CTA, I apologize for the inconveniences you experienced on your trip to Chicago.

The CTA is currently engaging in massive reconstruction and improvement projects, most notably on the Blue and Brown Lines. If you check the CTA's website http://www.transitchicago.com/, you can follow the progress of these projects.

I have forwarded your e-mail to the relevant departments so that all of the issues presented can be reviewed.

N.B. The President's authorization to use "extreme tactics" on enemies of the United States does not permit the CTA to waterboard obnoxious customers, no matter how annoying they are.

Alison Perona
Inspector General

Needless to say, I was more than satisfied with every aspect of this reply - except one, which I called to Ms. Perona's attention in a subsequent email, to wit:

Dear Inspector General:

I could scarcely have hoped for a more prompt, professional and gratifying response to my email of 12/13. However, I do wish to call your attention to one unfortunate bobble on your part. You wrote: "The President's authorization to use 'extreme tactics' on enemies of the United States does not permit the CTA to waterboard obnoxious customers." I am sure that is true, for the time being. But please note that the President's policy authorizes ENHANCED tactics of interrogation, not EXTREME ones. Waterboarding is an enhancement, not an extremity.

Nonetheless, your email has greatly enhanced my impression of Chicago in general, and the CTA in particular.

Gratefully yours, etc.

It only remains for me to recount to you, the interested reader, the remaining highlights of my visit to Chicago. On Sunday morning, I dressed in conservative blue, found the Old Town School of Folk Music and asked to be taken to Mr. Robbie Fulks, which was accordingly done. Robbie was leading a small ensemble in a song called "I've Got a Home in that Rock" and enjoying himself hugely; but the moment he turned his head in my direction, his enjoyment evaporated. It was obvious that he did not recognize me and would have been happy to continue not recognizing me for the rest of his life.

This was understandable and, indeed, typical. My appearance is such that it produces unsettling sensations in strangers, especially women. Indeed, it happens so frequently that I rarely become rattled in these situations. I was quite sympathetic to Robbie, as my face-and-figure pose particular problems to a professional entertainer who has committed himself to appearing with me on the stage. On the other hand, I had exchanged enough emails with Robbie to optimistically consider him my friend. But on another hand, I realized that I had only actually met him once, at my ex-brother-in-law's wedding seven-or-eight years ago.

"'It's me," I explained, extending my hand aggressively, "Charles 'Chuck' Hirshberg."

Had I announced myself as his blind date, Robbie Fulks could not have been more disappointed. He stared at the neck of his guitar in an agony of embarrassment as he shook my hand.

"It's been a long time," I pointed out, helpfully.

"Ya," he mumbled, "since our, um, . . . wedding."

I tried changing the subject. "Am I dressed okay?" I asked.

He looked at my clothes and snorted: "You're over-thinkin' this."

For the next few hours, Robbie energetically avoided me until it was time to invite me onstage for the interview, which went rather well, I thought. Robbie is unnecessarily tall and I am imprudently short and the audience seemed to enjoy the Mutt-and-Jeff aspect of our conversation. So at the end of the second show, when Robbie invited me on stage to sing a verse of "Worried Man Blues," I thought he had begun to accept me. I had a slight cold and sang my verse in a gruff, down-home growl that the audience applauded with great sympathy. A few days later, I wrote Robbie, asking for a recording of my performance. He replied thus:

"The channel on the mike you sang through was not turned on. You can hear your vocal a little bit as bleed through the other mikes. But mostly, you can hear me laughing sinisterly, like Eddie Murphy, through a mike that is on."

Ah, well. At least that explains the audience's enthusiastic applause: They couldn't hear me.

----------
*XM is a satellite radio service that works like this: First, you purchase a special XM radio receiver for about $600; then you pay a fee of approximately $600 a month, which may seem like a lot, but you get to listen to your choice of 46,000 channels, each of them broadcast by satellite to ensure perfect stereophonic clarity. A rival service, Sirius Radio, charges twice as much and offers only 23,000 channels, but one of them features Howard Stern. Decisions, decisions . . .

-cc-

ANNOUNCING THE WEAKLY BLOW'S . . .

2007

MASCOT of the YEAR!
OSCAR

"New Mexico Guns' gun-toting,

left-handed, NRA-Supporting mouse"

That is Oscar's actual Official Designation - verbatim!

His motto:

"The principals of New Mexico Guns are

Christ-centered and Scripturally-focused."

English is not just the only language I know; it is the most accommodating language I know. No thought is too preposterous to be expressed in it, in a hundred different preposterous ways. So whenever I am unable to extract a sensible meaning from a sentence of English, I try to stay cool. It may take several hours of reading and re-reading but there's usually a needle of coherence to be found 'neath the haystack of jumbled words. Of course, sometimes the meaning that emerges is even more preposterous than the dross that covered it - and Oscar's motto is one of the most delightful specimens of such a sentence that I have ever discovered.

To be sure, Oscar stumbled briefly at the outset - I'm fairly certain that the word principles was called for, rather than principals. But the heart of his motto, the fervent declaration of a Christ-centered, spiritually-focused love of firearms, is spot-on and beautifully expressed. Is it not?

I am quite serious about this, a little bit. Just now, I stopped typing and saw in my imagination a great, unfathomable chasm - The Grand Chasm, I call it - that represents the philosophical distance between Oscar's human creators and me. In fact, I truly believe that I have more in common with an Irish Wolfhound of my acquaintance . . . .

SAGE

Food-focused, self-centered mascot

of

Vicki Constantine Croke,

Author, Journalist, Hardly-Bitten Newswoman

New Mexico Guns, the organization that Oscar guards with such Christ-centered, left-handed vigilance, is devoted to protecting the Second Amendment to our Constitution (you know, the one that calls for "a well-regulated militia.") It does so by providing a variety of courses in the use of firearms, including "youth classes" for pre-kindergartners at a fee of $50.00 per child.

After all, did not Jesus say, whilst He walked among us: "Suffer the children to come unto Me"?

Mindful of Christ's many exhortations to charity, New Mexico Guns also offers "significant discounts to non-profit groups, such as the Boy/Girl Scouts, organized ministries, volunteer chaplain programs, or private and home schools that receive no tax support, etc."

I am certain that New Mexico Guns is a sincere enterprise. I mean, just look at Oscar - that mouse was summoned from yarn with meticulous care by someone who loved him. What amazes me is not that I disagree with its values, but that those values are completely incomprehensible to me. And evidently, that's just to be expected, for on the New Mexico Guns homepage, just a few inches beneath Oscar's portrait, reads the following:

"Oscar and our training pictures say much more (i.e., 'a thousand words') than most may initially comprehend."

Amen to that!

-cc-

A JOURNEY THROUGH PURGATORY . . . WITH SHAKE-SHAKE-SHAKIN' BOOTIES

In the summer of Nineteen-hundred-and-seventy-two, when I was a lad of eleven, we packed up the family Dodge and set out upon an exodus that would change my life, mostly for the worse. From Menlo Park, California, we drove 1,228.24 miles (thank you, Mapquest, for the precision) to Boulder, Colorado, there to settle ourselves in the lap of the Rockies for the next five-or-so years.

Boulder would prove to be a purgatory so horrid that, even today, the mere mention of it brings dyspepsia and, occasionally, anxiety attacks. Excuse me, here comes one now.

Okay, I'm back. Where was I?

Therapy and reprogramming have brought me to realize that Boulder actually had relatively little to do with the darkness of those years, even though the town was, at that time, basically South Park with a University plopped in the middle of it. The resemblance is so acute that once, while watching a South Park episode in which the town was destroyed by, I believe, Scientologist martians . . .



. . . I rose from my couch with ecstasy and, while dancing an evil dance and laughing an evil laugh, cried: "Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!! Burn, you rat-bastard southwestern Gomorrah! Burn and die!"

Like I said, though: The real problem was not Boulder. It was, first of all, my home life, which was like an episode of Supernanny, only Supernanny never showed-up; and, second, the 1970s.


I thought of the '70s recently while having a conversation with a teenage friend of mine - I'll call her Ceecee - who was having boyfriend issues and didn't know any better than to ask me for advice. After hearing her out, I told her that I had no opinion on what she should do and, if I had, I would have urged her to do the opposite, as my advice on matters of love is always bad. She seemed surprised and delighted to meet an adult who had so low an opinion of himself and began asking me questions about my youth. I told her a few of the sad stories; then I moved on to the frightening stories; and I was just getting started on the harrowing stories when she begged me to stop.

"Was it really that bad?" she asked, looking anxious and dyspeptic.

Actually, I think it was probably worse. And I decided that, whether she wanted to hear it not, I was determined to convey to my young friend just how soul-crushing American culture could be in the mid-1970s. But how to do it?

And then, a penny fell from heaven. Sarah Tisch, a very dear old friend (I mean, of course, that our friendship is old, not Sarah herself) sent me this:



Sarah got it from her husband, Carl Bobrow, who got it from a string of forwarded messages so long that the original sender had faded into the ether. Whoever he was, here's what happened to him: One day, while installing a ceiling fan for his grandfather-in-law, he discovered the above, stashed in the eaves - J. C. Penney's catalogue of the Seven Storey Mountain between heaven and hell, where the souls of the wicked are cleansed by suffering.

My own personal cleansing began in earnest when I was a juvenile delinquent who occasionally attended Boulder High School. I looked like this . . .




. . . at a time when it would have been more expedient to look like this:



Now, please don't misunderstand me: I'm not suggesting that the '70s was a wicked era because everybody dressed-up like nimrods. (Look at my thrift-store shirt, for Crissake.) It was a wicked era because of its relentless obsession with conformity.



It was especially hard on young people who defied the expectations of their parents and communities. Nowadays, the Internet functions like a periscope with which a kid can catch glimpses of the entire planet and fact-check the threatening remonstrations of a parent or teacher. We had none of that, so it was much easier for authority figures to terrorize us, if they chose. All an adult had to do was discover an adolescent’s deepest wish and then assure the poor kid that he’d never get it unless he behaved in whatever way the adult wanted him to behave. Even the most spirited kid could be beaten down with threats about what awaited him in the outside world – I saw it many times.



Thank God, it is now virtually impossible to alienate a young person the way we could be alienated. As long as a kid can find her way to a computer, she can roust-up an online community that shares all of her own peculiarities – however peculiar those peculiarities may be. But in the ‘70s, each individual misfit or weirdo was assured that he or she was the only person on earth who didn’t want to be “normal.” And the spectacular advantages of being normal were hammered into us all day long – by our cereal boxes, by our teachers, by our parents and, of course, by all five channels on our television sets.

In the ‘70s, you displayed your oddities at your own risk – sometimes, at risk of life-and-limb. I will never forget when one of my best friends got drunk, confided to me that he was gay and sobbed with relief when I told him I didn’t give a shit. A month-or-so later, he took me to a gay bar in Denver. We drove through the sleaziest part of town – West Colfax, I believe – and parked in an unlit lot behind a completely dark abandoned factory building. Then we walked down a short flight of stairs to a landing where half-a-dozen musclebound biker types guarded the door. They waved us inside and suddenly, I found myself on the set of Saturday Night Fever, except everyone was male. It was exactly like visiting a speakeasy.


I showed these pictures to Ceecee and we had a long, bonding conversation (though I almost punched her in the neck for calling my high school girlfriend a "ho.") But one historical detail puzzled her: Hadn't the '70s been preceded by the '60s, a time of youthful rebellion, politicking, drug-taking and non-stop rutting?

Well, yes. And for many of us, its pathetic remnants were a particularly dispiriting sign of futility. I remember two kinds of ex-hippies, principally: Those who had completely thrown-in the towel and gotten their real estate licenses; and those who sat around their cheerless apartments treating their hangovers with bong-hits. Both species would reminisce insufferably about their anti-establishment pranks, their immense moral courage and all that they’d done to “change the world.” It could be very embarrassing to listen to them. They were like those guys you so often meet in sports bars, bragging boisterously about all the women they’ve bedded – too thick and too drunk to realize that everybody in earshot knows they are, you might say, exaggerating.

Of course, this whole post is an exaggeration. Nothing in the past is entirely as we remember it and I have deliberately forgotten far, far more about my adolescence than I remember. But I can tell you this: I thank God, if She's out there to be thanked, that bright, spirited, beautiful Ceecee waited until 1990 to enter the world.

-cc-

BELTWAY BEAUTIFICATION (Or: Is it true what they say about our nation's capital?)

Recently, I was forced to leave the haven of home for a fortnight's journey to the City that Loves to Serve - Washington, DC. I used to live and work in the District, way back in the Reagan era, which, despite my memories of it, was apparently a Golden Age of prosperity and freedom. So much so that Washington has re-named its only endurable airport after the star of Girls On Probation.

While in Washington, I had several hair-raising adventures that reminded me of younger and happier days, when I was a bright-eyed bushy-headed gofer at the Washington Post Magazine. For instance, during a visit to the National Archives, a security officer gave me the business for endangering the security of the reading room by trying to enter it while wearing a baseball cap. I never found out if my hat was feared as a potential terrorist, or whether the Chief of Archives suspected that it might attempt to steal documents by concealing them under its brim. If the former, perhaps, in future, security officers could simply search hats for guns, knives and explosives - a procedure that would take no more than a quarter-of-an-hour, even in Washington. If the latter, I would think that my hat would be no more likely to conceal documents than my shirt or my underpants, both of which were allowed to enter the reading room without intereference.

That afternoon, as I walked back from the Archives to my cousin's house in Georgetown, I came across the following sign on M Street:




Ha, ha, ha, I thought to myself. There's Washington in a nutshell: The Municipal Beautification Department oblivious to the Department of Public Thoroughfares; an admonition for caution, incautiously obstructed. Ha, ha, ha.

Unfortunately, the ha-ha-ha's quickly gave away to consternation. All up-and-down M Street, and a quarter mile up Wisconsin Avenue, nearly all cautionary signs were obstructed in the same way.

Like the Bush Administration in Iraq, the municipal government of the District of Columbia has thrown caution to the wind.

-cc-

MASCOTS of the MONTH

Remember when you were a kid and you fell off your bike, face-first, smacking your mouth on the pavement? Remember what that tasted like? Well, that's the flavor of GRIDIRON GLORY!

Hirsh Horn's Weakly Blow is sending out a big, appreciative tom-turkey SQUAWK!!! to a pair of football mascots who never tire of smashing their mouths for their schools. That's the kind of pathological obsession it takes to spell V-I-C-T-O-R-Y. These cross-dressing exhibitionists put the "it" in "spirit" and the "oot" in "root." And you'd better believe they know . . . there's no "I" in "MASCOT."

First, let's bow our heads and say pre-victory grace over . . .

'SENATOR SNAFU'
THE EDIBLE BABY

Smuckhill Junior College Screamin' Eagles

Now let's have a fearsome Weakly Blow hellfire holler for . . .

'WILD OSCAR'
THE OPENLY-GAY

NEAPOLITAN MASTIF

GRIZZLY BIBLE INSTITUTE DANCIN' DOGS

Congratulations to November's sacrificial mammals! No turkey can touch you!

-cc-

'GOOD QUESTION, AMBER!' A Weakly Blow White House Adventure

[NOTE: The members of the West Boston Irish Drunkards Society - a fraternal organization which, despite its name, exists only to torment me - made clear their opinion of the Weakly Blow on the second day of its life: "Your blog is an abomination," they wrote to the editor, "and you are ugly and short." These anonymous cowards (they maintain their anonymity by never removing their faces from behind their humongous beer mugs, even when visiting the men's room) have once again risen from their alcoholic stupors to render the following judgement: "Dear Editor: 'Good Question Amber!' is the most a bominable [sic] post ever posted on yr a bominable [sic again] blog. But that is only because it is the longest. Very truly yours, etc." Unfortunately, the Drunkards are not altogether wrong in this instance. It is a touch long but I am not talented enough to trim it, nor humble enough to kill it. Proceed at your own risk and cease reading if your skin busts out in hives. Hirsh Horn's Weakly Blow cannot be resbonsible for rashes induced by poor writing, or by anything else. - cc]

David Almacy

Former White House Internet Director

Photo: Courtesy of the White House

A few weeks ago, I read in the always-informative-and-amusing Boston Globe that the President had initiated a Bold New Initiative aimed at solving the problem of "climate change," which is what Republicans call "global warming." To me, climate change is an important topic, because I got a kick out of March of the Penguins and I'm a sucker for baby harp seals and I enjoy having non-cancerous skin. But as noted in a previous post, the Boston Globe isn't always spot-on when it comes to seeing something, writing down what was seen, and then publishing a comprehensible account of the whole affair. So instead of relying on the Globe, I went to a website I knew I could trust - www.whitehouse.gov - to find out exactly what The Decider had decided to do. The answer was, I confess, disappointing, for the Bold New Initiative turned out to be . . .

. . . a speech.

Now, as everyone knows, a speech is better than nothing, except, I guess, this time, when it wasn't. It was fairly long - more than twenty minutes - and seemed even longer because of some unnecessary padding. Here are a few actual excerpts, guaranteed utterly genuine:

"Every day energy brings countless benefits to our people. Energy powers new hospitals and schools so we can live longer and more productive lives. Energy transforms the way we produce food . . . Right now much of the world's energy comes from oil. . . . Almost all our vehicles run on gasoline or diesel fuel."

Evidently, times have grown so tough at the White House that either President Bush's speeches are being written by a fifth grader, or he is writing them himself. I half-expected him to say: "My daddy has a big red car that can go real fast - brrrr-OOOM! And daddy's red car drinks gas that gots no lead in it."

But he did not. Instead, he said this:

"There is a way forward that will enable us to grow our economies and protect the environment and that's called technology."

I read that sentence over a few times; then I read the whole speech over again. All of that reading took about three-and-a-half minutes, because I read very slowly. Then I took another three-and-a-half minutes to think a little bit, but I had to stop because thinking makes me queasy - almost as queasy as that sentence: "There is a way forward . . . and that's called technology."

In the first place, "technology" is a noun that pines for some sort of a verb. I've got nothing against nouns - "penguin," "seal" and "skin," for instance, are all nouns. But when someone, especially the President, initiates an initiative, a noun can't do the job alone.

Consider this: if President McKinley had relied on nouns alone, we might never have been able to have the Spanish-American War. The initiative behind that war was: REMEMBER THE MAINE! People started yelling that initiative at other people, so loudly, and so frequently, a lot of guys probably went off to war thinking that Spain had blown up Maine itself. That's how you know a Bold New Initiative is working: People start acting even stupider than they really are. But supposing McKinley had stood before Congress and said: "There is a way forward that will enable us to take Cuba and the Philippines and, incidentally, Guam, away from Spain - and that is called Maine."

Doesn't work, does it?

There could be a deeper problem here, too. I like technology as much as the next guy. Without technology, you couldn't very well take cameras up to the North Pole and follow penguins around, could you? But there was a particular way in which we humans kick-started this whole "climate change" thing . . . and that was called technology.

So I decided that it was my editorial duty to put these concerns to the proper authorities, which, in this case, meant President Bush and his wife, Laura. I realized that it might be necessary to climb a few rungs up the bureaucratic ladder before a face-to-face meeting could be arranged, but where better to start than www.whitehouse.gov? Sure enough, a few clicks of the "search" function and I was directed to . . .

WHITE HOUSE INTERACTIVE

Here was a page where citizen journalists like me could engage in constructive dialogue with America's most powerful, non-partisan public servants. Before engaging, however, I decided to "lurk," as we bloggers say, reading a few of the questions that other citizen journalists had previously put before the White House. Question # 1:

Question, Amber from Eaton: George W. Bush is what number as President of the U.S.?

Answer, David Almacy, Former White House Internet Director: Good question, Amber. President George W. Bush is the 43rd President of the United States. His father, George H.W. Bush, is the 41st. In fact, the order of U.S. Presidents is the source of one of my favorite trivia questions. As previously stated, President Bush is 43rd, but there have only been 42 men to serve as President. Why the difference? The answer is because Grover Cleveland is the only man to serve two terms, non-consecutively. . . .

It goes on from there, for a long time, which is understandable, I guess, since it's the source of one of David's favorite trivia questions. But, to my mind, it raised a couple of additional trivia questions. First, what does Amber have against the encyclopedia? Second, if her question was a good one, what constitutes a bad one?

I tried scrolling down to examine the rest of the questions, but I hadn't scrolled long before I found there was nowhere left to scroll. Evidently, Amber's question was so good, all other questions have been removed from White House Interactive and David Almacy has been relieved of his cumbersome responsibilities. Not a single question has been asked since Amber asked hers on March 26, 2007 10:57 a.m.(EDT)

Sheesh, I thought to myself, nearly everyone in America must have read Amber's question by now, and David's answer, too. Had White House Interactive really ceased interacting? This seemed unfair - a thought which surprised me because I didn't realize the White House was capable of being unfair. But then - aha! - I noticed that at the top of the page, there was a hot link, urging me to SUBMIT A QUESTION. So I did, to wit:

Dear David Almacy, Former White House Internet Director,

How are you? I am fine. Here is my question: It seems that no questions have been asked or answered on "White House Interactive" since Amber's good question got the star treatment back in March. Wassup with that? Has this service been discontinued? If so, why? And to whom should I complain about it? I am a very skilled complainer and maybe I can get you your job back. Yours, patriotically, Conrad Coleridge, Brass Castle, NJ

To my immense surprise, I received an answer from David almost immediately:

Thank you for your input.

I wasn't aware that I'd put anything in and wondered where I'd put it. But at least the White House, through David Almacy, expressed its position with uncharacteristic swiftness and precision, even if that position seemed a little more guarded than I felt was necessary.

So, to David Almacy, wherever you are, I am happy to say . . .

You're welcome!