Words of Danny O'Bigbelly My idea of a good time

OK, I might be getting a little soft in the head.

A local group is putting on a production of ‘Godspell’, that hip musical from 1970 about the last days of Jesus Christ, based on the gospel of Saint Matthew. I agreed to buy a couple of tickets, figuring it would be an evening of light entertainment, and the money would go to a good cause.

But today I suddenly had doubts. Fragments of troubling memories appeared like ghosts, momentarily rising to the surface of the bubbling corn chowder formerly known as my consciousness.

And then it hit me. When I bought tickets for Godspell, I didn’t think I was buying tickets for Godspell. I thought I was buying tickets for something else! I thought I was buying tickets for ‘Jesus Christ, Superstar’, that hip musical from 1970 about the last days of Jesus Christ, based on the gospel of Saint John. The hip musical that I like. The one that rocks. The one where Judas is a major, interesting character, and who has some cogent questions for Jesus.

I need to stop making mistakes like this. I could end up seated in a production of ‘Sweeney Todd’ someday before I realized it wasn’t ‘Little Shop of Horrors’. Or I might go see ‘Rocky IV’ instead of ‘Rocky Horror’.

Anyway, I really like ‘Jesus Christ Superstar’, but I know there are differences of opinion. After all, Godspell is still performed regularly, and that wouldn’t be the case if everyone felt the same way about it that I do. No sirree.

Which do you like better? Godspell, or JCS? Or do you despise them both equally?

Or do you have no idea what I’m talking about?

Is there anyone I haven’t offended?

Some time ago, a friend challenged me to enter one of those contests where the entry with the worst first sentence wins the prize. I declined. Below is my letter of declination.

I’m sure I could win this contest, whilst reclining on a recliner, sipping sips of a beer from a glass of beer held in one hand, and fondling the Wii controller with the other, as easily as shooting a tame and sedated flounder that was, purely for the sake beating the dead horse that was this metaphor before it succumbed to the blunt force trauma inflicted by my stubby yet mighty fingers dancing nimbly above the dim nimbus of my keyboard, wedged to the point of immobility into a small barrel welded to the business end of a fully armed and operational blunderbuss, because, when I’m not careful, my sentences tend to run on a bit–sometimes farther (or is it further? I can never remember the distinction) than a dash or even an elliptical clause (or two) can justify.

After the harvest of Halloween candy has been gathered by my little workers, my wife and I go through a process of inspecting all of the candy they have gathered. This happens before they are permitted to eat any of it, of course. We’ve all heard the stories about the strange sociopaths that like to poison unsuspecting children or put razor blades in their apples or needles in bubblegum and other horrible things. And they’re not all just stories: a girl a few doors down from my childhood home had her stomach pumped on Halloween after biting into an apple that had a surprisingly bitter, powdery core. It’s the stuff of nightmares for parents.

So, even though we live in a quiet suburban neighborhood and visit people we generally know who live within a block of two of our house, we check. Things that look funny are discarded without a second thought.

Sometimes there are other things that we discard–for example, apparently someone with questionable judgment was giving out some sort of No-Doze-ish candy-like pill. “A cup of coffee in every tablet!” the label proclaims. Sure, that’s just what my kids need. Into the trash it goes.

Marshmallows? Please.

Apples? I know you’re just trying to be healthy, but there must be another way. The main delight my children have is planning how to ration out the candy over the course of the next year, and perishable apples can’t be part of that, nor can popcorn, which is little more than packing material after it cools, IMNSHO. (I just have to take a moment here to boast about the vast pride I have for my children, who can actually muster the self-control to do this–when I was a kid, it took a major feat of willpower for me to save a candy bar from Halloween until my birthday, which as you may recall, is in mid-November…)

Pretzels? Popcorn? They should have their own holiday. A holiday that can be safely ignored.

And the after dinner mints? Look, I know times are tough, but this does not save face. Just leave your porch light off and we won’t bother you.

For some of the items, we skim a few off the top. For example, I have been blessed with two wonderful children who do not particularly like Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and blessed with neighbors who regularly dispense them to trick-or-treaters. I know they won’t be missed. I set a few aside for my personal use.

The night after Halloween, I decided to dip into the cache of PBCs. I selected the top one, absentmindedly unwrapped it, and discarded the wrapper. Out of habit, I made a quick visual inspection of the surface. It didn’t look like any razor blades had been inserted. There was a little nick in one corner–probably an injury sustained during its plummet into the bottom of the hard plastic buckets my children used. Something seemed a little different, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. It was a nameless fear. It passed as the odor of cheap chocolate reached my nostrils.

I took a bite, and then another, and that was it. Reese’s don’t last long, once they get close enough to bite. It takes rare self-control for me to manage to not gobble them down in two or three bites. This one was gone in two. I remember it distinctly. It was the second bite that really got my attention.

Something really didn’t seem right. Something was different. It felt wrong, but it didn’t scream wrong. I knew something wasn’t right, but I still hadn’t quite connected it with the object in my mouth.

I didn’t spit it out. I swallowed it.

And as I swallowed it, I knew. My throat could feel the difference more precisely than my teeth, my tongue, or my taste buds.

I didn’t panic.

I reached into the garbage and retrieved the wrapper. I looked at it, looking for some evidence of tampering. I found none.

I examined the label more closely. Nothing stood out. Everything appeared normal.

I know that memory can be deceiving. I couldn’t rely on appearances. I pulled out another Reese’s from the cache and compared the wrappers. I compared how they were folded, glued, dated, and how the little cardboard tray was oriented.

Everything was the same, but something fundamental was different. It was so hard to see, because it was so obvious.

I saw it. I knew.

Some sick, twisted, nutcase had played a trick on me. Said sick, twisted, nutcase had decided that this year, Reese’s will be available in two sizes: 0.75oz and 0.55oz. I had just eaten a 0.55oz RPBC for the first time in my life, while somewhere, someone is laughing a maniacal, evil, giggling laugh.

I will recover, but I will never be the same. Because I know there’s someone out there like that. Someone who thinks that RPBCs are larger than they need to be.

More than fifteen years ago, before we made each others acquaintance, Livingston Taylor put out an album named “3-Way Mirror”. It wasn’t an enormous commercial success (I just checked on Amazon.com, and it seems to be a bit of a collectors item at this point, rather than flying off the shelves), but I figure with the demographic of my readership, maybe someone knows it and it’s likely that at least a few of you listen to Livingston.

The obligations of friendship being what they are, I probably own more of Liv’s work than I would under ordinary circumstances. I don’t usually listen to pop, and when I do it’s usually pop targeted at a much younger crowd. I like my sonic fluff to be about boys with fast cars and girls with long legs, short skirts, and questionable taste in men. Pop about my own demographic cuts too close to the bone.

But I digress.

Anyway, I’ve got a copy of “3-Way Mirror”. For the longest time, I couldn’t figure out what the title meant. I know what an ordinary mirror is, and I know what a two-way mirror is. But a three-way mirror? What does that do? Is it some sort of metaphor? Is it like you’re looking through a two-way mirror watching Liv perform, while through the mirror someone else is watching you? Or that when you’re watching Liv perform, you’re also watching other people watch Liv perform, and watching each other? Or something totally different?

I didn’t have a clue.

And I was somewhat worried because I kept thinking that someday it would come up in conversation and Liv would find out that I hadn’t figured out his joke, or metaphor, or whatever it was. Maybe he’d think I hadn’t given it a thought, or maybe that I didn’t even care.

I get worried about things like this.

This old fear swam to the surface again a few days ago, so I gave it another thought. I got out the CD and looked at it. Not much to work with; just the same old bland photo of Liv fixing the collar of his trademark tweed jacket, standing in front of a full-length mirror. It’s one of those mirrors you see in a clothes store, or a fancy wardrobe–the kind that have three panels, so you can see yourself from several different angles.

So, what was right under your nose for days, months, or years before you finally figured it out?

As faithful, long-time readers will doubtless remember, I have a daydream that plays in my head sometimes during my ironing sessions, those endless minutes, usually on Sunday evenings or Monday mornings, when I perpetuate the illusion that I give a damn how I look by steaming a few of deeper arroyos out of the shirts I anticipate I might wear in the upcoming week.

In my daydream, I am a champion ironer. I compete at the international level. My likeness adorns Wheaties boxes. My Olympic records for endurance ironing have remained unchallenged for a generation, although there are some skeptics who feel that they should be marked in the record books with an asterisk, because the altitude of Mexico City gave me an unfair advantage. I am looking forward to London and have secretly been honing my high-humidity left-handed collar technique. In order to find my peers, you must look to other sports: Michael Jordan has been called the “Danny O’Bigbelly of basketball.”

In real life, there is not much basis for these fantasies. In truth, my efforts are so ineffectual that I sometimes mistake the “done” pile with the “to-do” pile of shirts. I thank my lucky stars for bulky sweaters.

So, are there any sports that you have invented in your head? Are you the world-champion, or a contender waiting for your big break?

Have you ever met a time traveler, or a person from another planet, or possibly even another dimension?

I’m guessing nobody will want to be the first to say yes, but I’m just throwing it out there.

What I’m really asking is whether you’ve ever met someone who is so far out there in some manner that you can’t help but think to yourself whether you maybe, just maybe, the fact that they are a being from another reality, however unlikely you may believe that to be, is a plausible explanation for their quirks?

I used to work with someone who used to work with someone else. Let’s call them Alice and Bob. Bob is a real genius–I don’t mean that I think he’s pretty smart, I mean that everybody thinks he’s really smart, and if I told you his name, you might even recognize it because he’s won things at the Nobel prize level (there is no Nobel in his field, but at the same level)–but has trouble communicating with most people, primarily because he’s an asshole.

So one day, as I’m sitting at my desk, Alice pops her head into my office and says “You know, I really think that Bob is an space alien sent to earth to explain their technology to us.”

This was a bit off-topic, so it took me a moment to respond.

“Why would aliens want to send Bob here to explain their tech to us?” I asked.

“Probably because he’s an asshole and they wanted to get him out of their lives,” Alice answered, without hesitation. It was clear that she’d thought this through.

My mother gushed over this book. So, when I was stuck in an airport bookstore, stocking up on books to use as mind fodder to distract me during the hop between the coasts, and I chanced across a copy, I took the plunge. I wasn’t excited about the purchase, but felt guarded optimism that it would equate to several hours of relieved tedium. I could tell from a cursory examination that it passed two of my mandatory criteria, and put my faith in my mothers judgment for the third.

Just for the record, my criteria are:

1) The font is big and easy to read. My eyesight is not good.
2) It’s small–will fit in my pocket, will not strain my wrist holding.
3) The writing doesn’t make my flesh crawl.

Rarely has a book succeeded so well on criteria 1 and 2 and then fall flatter on its face on 3.

I should have known better than to trust the recommendation of my mother–after all, her track record of recommendations for things like Girls I Should Date is mixed. I should have also noticed the “Soon to be a major motion picture” on the cover–unless you’re Nick Hornby, this is usually an indication that something horrible is about to occur.

As far as I can tell, the author never actually follows any of the recipes; the book is a listing of all the corners she cuts because she doesn’t have the right tools, right ingredients, right husband, right friends, right parents, right apartment, right commute, right kitchen, right job, her cat is psychotic, and her truck is unreliable. So, Julie, why don’t you step away from the computer, clean up your life, and then come back and write about that? I mean, if I want to read about self-loathing people who create their own problems, refuse to face them, and dig themselves deeper and deeper into lameness and mediocrity via a failed and half-hearted obsession to achieve a completely arbitrary and meaningless goal, I don’t need to pay money for it. I can read about that sort of thing for free. I have web access.

To be fair, I gave up on page 150 and didn’t finish the book. It might have gotten better after that, but I didn’t stick around to find out. When the pilot said it was OK to use electronic devices, I put the book down and didn’t pick it up again. It lost out to “Firefly” reruns on my iPod. I can’t say much more than that. Maybe it got better at the end, unlike Firefly.

But lots and lots of people thought this book was pretty peachy. If you can explain this to me, I am your apt pupil.