punk rock

Though I've touched on the fashion of the era (see; 'clothes horse'), there is much, much more to my 'punk' story. Popular music leading up to this time was fuzzily divided into two camps, both bloated legacies of the British Invasion (which was essentially repackaged American Blues). Half the kids in suburbia who took music seriously were having 'listening experiences' on their head-phones with groups like Jethro Tull and Yes- dreamy, poetic lyrics punctuated by slickly synthesized instrumentals and ten minute drum solos. The other half, as drawn to shiny objects as they were to outrageous personalities, were having a more direct experience with the music of Roxy Music and David Bowie, dressing and behaving like their idols. Participation in any of it generally required going to see them in sports venues, with the tallest people in the world in front of you, the scariest people in the world behind you, and flaming projectiles passing overhead. An American rebellion against this out-of-touch super-band stadium thing had already started with bands like the Velvet Underground and Iggy and the Stooges, long enough before this time that their records were starting to show up in the bargain bins at Woolworth's, has-beens before they ever were. Lou Reed and John Cale survived the Velvets to become personalities in their own right, their early solo efforts drearily esoteric yet still, enough to tide us over until something more user-friendly came along. This limping deconstruction from polished and over-produced to gutsy and raw is most brilliantly narrated by the artists themselves and their satellite of hangers-on in the book "Please Kill Me- The Uncencored Oral History Of Punk" by Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain. The scene which I am qualified to narrate, called by some the beginning of this new music and by others the end of it, reached a creative climax in 1976/1977 on the Bowery in New York at a club called CBGB's (the possessive form having no reasonable explaination). This was about a year after the wildly outrageous New York Dolls were tragically re-themed and mis-managed into oblivion by smarmy London boutique owner Malcolm McLaren and less than a year before he again pressed style way beyond substance with the calamitously imported debut (and simultaneous demise) of the Sex Pistols. If there is a Harold Hecuba in the story of Rock and Roll (see; "Here On Gilligans Island" by Russell Johnson with Steve Cox, pp220), it is he. After the Dolls, it was the Ramones who snatched new music from the jaws of mediocrity (witness- the meteoric rise of Peter Frampton) and focused it into deeply satisfying bursts of noise and frantic motion lasting barely over two minutes at a pop. History dutifully records the New York bands like Television and Blondie, and they were the catalyst for every bored scene-ster in the country to climb into an ugly car and drive to New York City to see what it was all about, but exciting music was coming from all over. A typical weekend at CB..'s would almost certainly feature the Ramones- notorious for stopping in the middle of a song to argue with each other; probably The Cramps, with an original line-up featuring Brian Gregory who cleverly butched-up his on-stage persona by spitting in several directions at once (dryer seating toward house right) and an absolute lunatic drummer named Muriel; and the Talking Heads, irreconcilable to the backdrop, with their Hush-Puppies, expensive band gear, and methodically organized set-list. I usually traveled in the company of girls with enough make-up in their purses for me to forge the hand-stamp of that evening, which enabled us free entrance. Girls like Nancy Spungen were there to bag a musician boyfriend, most of them hanging outside to maximize the likelihood of meeting guys like David Johansen and Johnny Thunders (too famous to endure the press of another band's fans inside), to avoid being tipped off their stilettos, and presumably to keep their outfits dry. And if the band was any good, you could hear them just as well from out front. Concepts of personal space dramatically disentegrated upon entrance. (My own tactic for managing the humidity was just to stay wet, periodically baptizing myself from the sink). Though the Sex Pistols tour of the southern U.S. was tracked like a storm on the nightly news, it fizzled out before they ever made it intact to N.Y.C. A couple of their singles which trumpeted the release of 'Never Mind The Bullocks' were on the jukebox and the photo spreads of mohawked English fans were enough to usher the look and the attitude from across the Atlantic. Television co-founder Richard Hell was the American arch-type for the original look which owed more to a lack of laundry skills than it did to anarchist leanings. A week of Voidiods' gigs saw the same striped shirt on the cover of 'Blank Generation' pass from one to the other of them. And I can state with no fear of exaggerating that the Voidiods smelled as loudly as they played. My own look was marginally Hellish with one foot in David Bowie's 'Thin White Duke', though the combined effect was neither, but instead something we callously referred to as 'bag-man chic'. My roommate at the time, Chuck, leaned more heavily toward the safety pinned, dog-collared aesthetic. He mixed it up a bit with fish nets and stilettos which proved a remarkable advance for him in the sport of boy-baiting. Acts like Elvis Costello (whose ass received the tip of my army boot the night he pushed me out of his way to get to the bar), The Damned, Magazine, and Ultravox were among the first Brits to actually play here. Though punk in America has come to be most strongly brand-identified with it's angrier British step-child, musically they barely caused a ripple. It actually wasn't until some time later when the Psychedelic Furs had pared away all the socio-political posturing and delivered some honest tunes that the UK became relevant to the American club scene. But I digress into the subjective. To list a few of the bands who lacked the mass-appeal of the Ramones and Blondie yet have managed to pierce through the fog of beer and quaaludes which has compromised my memory of so many others; Lance Loud of PBS's "An American Family" fame toured with an adorable band called The Mumps; Paul Zone's The Fast, a show that was perhaps too New Jersey for my taste yet preceded a memorable evening backstage hanging out with the Cramps; The Marbles; (Jim) Skafish who wowed us all with "Disgracing The Family Name" (which he demonstrated in a silk babushka with red lipstick smeared into his cheeks); and The Dead Boys, who, along with most of their fans, were almost too idiotic to suffer, though I did- (and was that Chuck I saw gnawing on the other end of a piece of raw liver with Stiv Bator?). Two albums with Bowie had sort of homogenized Iggy Pop into something finally marketable. With seemingly no evidence that the clock had ever stopped on his path of notoriety, he took back to the stage in small clubs to rightly displace Lou Reed as the true Godfather of Punk. In 1980, I think, Michael and I went to see him at the Hot Club in Philadelphia, causing a stir of our own- we wore leather jackets and jockstraps, checking our pants at the door. We both might have predicted that Iggy would wear just that outfit to perform the following night in N.Y.C. We spent the next four years taking our first stab at being grown-ups with a real job- an ironic twist landing us in the unlikely role of housekeepers for Deborah Spungen, mother of freshly-murdered Nancy. Soon enough Michael began singing for a band which ushered in the next chapter of punk-inspired mystagoguery for us. I don't recall that the mid-eighties ever found a snappy designation like 'punk'. Too many artists where on their way up, out, or back again to be assigned a cohesive motive- though ours was just to postpone for as long as possible assimilation into Ronald Reagan's strange new world. Michael earned his mark on now worthless slabs of vinyl as yet another 'Also Rocked', though the mere fact that he out-lived three of his band's managers is success enough. (I'll save musings on that sometimes remarkable post-punk era for later). I have to say that it worries me a bit listening to our son pound away on his drum kit, and at the same moment wondering what gutter Muriel is likely to have ended up in. I met the Cramps again backstage at a theater where I used to work, at over a decade later- I forgot to ask them.

cover letter

Dear [undecipherable from your e-mail address],
I am an energetic and highly-motivated individual [with all the time in the world to sift through blind leads] for challenging work [with the next company who will suck that last bit of energy from me]. From my start in this business [when you were busy pooping in diapers] I have been able to distinguish myself [hand-holding for a bunch of nervous nellies] and have proven my ability to deliver an un-compromised product [despite tragically misguided budget cuts]. My vast experience with [hopelessly misinformed] clients and [their delusional time-lines] uniquely qualifies me to [point out what you should have told them to begin with]. I have a wide range of [obsolete] skills and a great desire to mentor [my eventual replacement]. My particular strength for [being one of the few people on your staff to give a damn] and for [routinely saving all your asses] has never failed to [pit your immediate subordinate against me]. I am confident that I can provide your company with [credit to steal] and [a scape-goat for your worst blunders]. If you are looking for a [magic pixie] who will [work for less than what you pay your dry cleaner] then please consider me for this [wildly over-reaching job description]. I look forward to an opportunity to demonstrate [how far I will ingratiate myself for the vaguest job offering] and sincerely hope that you [have the slightest understanding of the position you seek to fill]. Please do not hesitate to [treat this inquiry as if it were wholly unsolicited] or to [provide a clue that you have even read my resume].
Yours [with ever-lowering expectations], [You, one day]

2008

Last night someone tried to start a sentence with "If the Democrats were smart...". I had to stop him cold. Let me make that point quickly. John Kerry. It was incomprehensible to me how anyone walked away from those primary debates thinking this man had anything but height working for him. A common remark at the exit polls was that he looked 'presidential'. I can only surmise that to have meant- tall and grotesque, like Abraham Lincoln. The hunting jacket did nothing at all to humanize him. If the Democrats have gotten any smarter in the last four years, they're keeping it a big secret. They stand to win this time around because swing voters have had time to realize their supreme blunder. What will most likely play out before our eyes this year will haunt us all with it's familiarity. Success would look a lot like the mid-term, a voting out of the ins more so than moving toward a cohesive platform. Iowa and New Hampshire will pretend to carefully weigh the issues and then line up behind the one who can best state the obvious and flip pancakes at the same time. We'll all just have to wait and see the effect, if any, of the new batch of early west state primaries. This time around Hillary is cast as the not-so-left Howard Dean, with Barrack playing 'clean and articulate' John Edwards, and John Edwards playing John Kerry, only with a wife that doesn't scare people. The Hillary balloon will burst, Barrack will implode, and Edwards' message of "Hoep" will probably seduce the yokels. If that sounded like a prediction, I'm sorry. My pessimism is based on the fact that this is the party that couldn't even make a win stick. I have less concern for who wins either nomination, or the general election for that matter than I have for the massive 'undo' the next [I will predict- one term] administration will face. The mess we presently find ourselves in is unfixable without a time machine. Even if Joe Biden or Ron Paul could, they'll never get the chance to prove it. Neither will I, but here's my plan anyway. First, join a North American Union, three heads have got to be better than one, and then we wouldn't need fences- we have a moat. There is no such thing as a national identity that isn't the most unimaginative of us trying to preserve their own comfort level. At this point we need to be seen as bland yet viable, irrepressible yet civil, something our neighbors might help us with. Texas could be it's own little hold-out, like the Vatican City. Universal health care. Call it socialism if you want, but I would call it an investment. I don't have a research assistant to guide me through this but aren't drugs that produce side-effects like abdominal cramps and fetal injury the sort of thing the FDA should not approve? I've personally seen some of the talking points used at conventions of pharmaceutical salesmen and there's little evidence there to support humanitarian goals. It might be time to redirect the 'war on drugs'. Guns and gays, isn't it clear that social issues are black holes at the federal level and the last thing anyone should use to test a presidential hopeful. Civil liberties are already provided for in the Constitution, they just haven't been deciphered to everyone's satisfaction yet. Speaking of habeas corpus, let's come up with an ambitious schedule of wreath-laying and toll plaza openings to keep our next Vice-President busy. But first let's address the election process. Start with simple things like making it impossible for a State election commissioner to work on a particular candidate's campaign. Maybe we could use some of this satellite technology and just take a show of hands. It may sound a little loosey-goosey but calling convicted felons, servicemen overseas, and people without hands a wash, I seriously doubt many electoral votes will hinge on a margin of six hundred people again. In any case, do-overs would be a simple matter. Even if a fair election were guaranteed, I have only a wisp of confidence in any of the current line-up of candidates. Conventional wisdom (certainly an oxymoron) would point to the person you'd want to have a beer with, but I think I'll start with 'don't hate their guts' and grope carefully toward 'listen to for more than ten minutes without rolling my eyes'. 'Electability' is a trash concept- if you didn't used to think so, you should now. Intelligence and the experience to assimilate reliable information into a carefully measured plan are the virtues I'll be looking for. Being able to steer through the superfluities of a campaign without further lowering the bar will count for a lot. (If Howard Dean can't come through with some tactical defense I'll come down there and make him scream again!) Meanwhile the party has to sell that plan, which should be carefully confined to the big picture politics of world diplomacy, fair trade, and social services with a proven record of effectiveness. Most of the other issues people are rightly concerned about would benefit from a renewed focus on responsible global policies and carefully targeted domestic spending. (Duh!, I'm still writing in the hypothetical here, can you tell?). To state that you are for education and against taxing the middle class is not a platform, it's a sleeping pill. As are the words 'hope', 'values', and 'accountability'. I'd like to see a little moxy. Gravels got it and deep down I'm sure one of the non-lunatic candidates has it too. It's time to can the platitudes and get creative, if only for the purpose of eliminating the phrase 'in harm's way' (Danger?, Peril?, Deep Ca-ca?, it's not that hard!). And can we just borrow a term from Benjamin Franklin and call all of the criminal mis-steps of the current administration "self-evident" and get past spinning our wheels investigating them. They're way ahead of us on ever being held accountable. Let's tax the greedy, rich and poor alike. That should fill the coffers and still leave free-enterprise intact. Let's let our volunteer military decide if they want to stay or not. It would add poignancy to Rumsfeld's statement about working with the military that you've got. And [does it need saying] let's not depose any more dictators. They will be displaced in their own time and it won't cost us a rial. One last thing, and I'll slap myself now for saying it. If the Democrats were smart, they would debate in pairs, you know, how it's really done? This game show format doesn't help anyone. I'll even pair them up. Hillary with Dodd, Obama with Kucinich, Edwards with Gravel, and Biden with Richardson. Give the losers a can of Turtle Wax and send them on their way.

kill chickens

I'm working on a more substantive piece but while you wait for that, here's an appalling little story I drag out when the conversation gets dull. When we moved from a Victorian townhouse in the city to a two acre plot in the middle of nowhere, we took a stab at the 'gentleman farmer' thing we'd seen on TV. Our Sapphic goat-farming friends down the road lent us a tiller and we set about carving out an eight-hundred square foot vegetable garden. I meticulously laid out a grid of irrigation hose according to my carefully drafted and color-coded scale drawing, which was to be gravity fed by a pair of rain barrels I had salvaged and out rigged beneath the gutters on the barn. This isn't the real story so I'll abbreviate. Our labors were repaid with enough zucchini to feed an army, a thirsty looking row of corn, and a plot of tomato plants so heavily guarded by the most gigantically menacing spiders I've ever laid eyes on that most of the fruit was left to return to the soil from whence it came. The broccoli, eggplant, beans, carrots, celery, and assorted others were no-shows (we watched as the promising young foliage was devoured by who knows what). We decided this was an awful lot of work for a side dish so we moved on to the main course. With the indoor project of petting and naming boxes of chicks and ducklings ongoing, I set about building a pretty ambitious chicken coop and customizing a doghouse for the ducks. In hindsight that energy would have been more judiciously spent on fencing the entire property. By mid-summer every duck, in seeming defiance of my effort to corral them into their house at dusk, was carried off by mister fox or run over by cars. A neighborhood dog shredded over half of the chickens in a fifteen minute lapse of vigilance. Three hens survived along with a rooster the boys had named 'Charming'. By the following year when we had bought another dozen chicks, 'Charming' had grown resentful of his name and would demonstrate this on the legs of anyone who ventured too close. It was his own misfortune to one day try this on Michael- who happened to be carrying a stick. Daybreak was quiet for a time after that until four of the twelve new chicks turned out to be roosters. Googling "kill chickens", Michael printed out detailed instructions for the most humane way of thinning out the roost. I stole into the coop in the middle of the night and re-quartered 'Red' ('Charming's heir apparent) in a dog crate. Ever the careful planner, I awoke before dawn so the children wouldn't discover my murderous intent and strung 'Red' up by the heels on the clothes line. Comforted by the idea that in using this method he would painlessly slip into the arms of Morpheus, I inserted a paring knife, blade forward, into the side of his neck close to the bone and pulled forward. It turned out not to be the expeditious event I was counting on, his continued strained clucking and the advancing daybreak threatened to expose me. I relocated him to the barn where I positioned him, hanging from the rafters over a plastic pail while I took the boys off to Meeting. Ending this birds time on earth was not an easy thing for me, it was precipitated by an anxious dread and carried out with weakness in the knees and heartfelt contrition. It was to my own horror then, that when we arrived back home four hours later, my discovery in the barn was a knocked over pail of blood and no body. It wasn't until I was able to locate the source of a labored gurgling sound behind a stack of boxes that I realized it was my new onus to replay the execution, which I accomplished this time by sawing into the wound with a bigger knife. The second time around I became a little bit more the guy at the end of "Night Of The Living Dead", the Hero with an unpleasant but comically necessary charge. The effrontery of this zombie bird not to die! It was ultimately a blessing that the remaining three roosters were able to tap directly into this primal instinct by one day tearing up a bed of carefully tended begonias. In broad daylight (the boys were in school) I stormed the coop grabbing one after the other of them, swinging them against a fence post on the way out and chopping their traitorous little heads off with an axe. After taking only about fifteen minutes to mete out my hat-trick of revenge I discovered that the previous notion of 'humane' had been misdirected. ('Swift and certain' trumps 'calculated yet contrite'). Also that a chicken [spookily] doesn't need it's head to crow. Really, given that he aims it indiscriminately at the dirt, a hen's back feathers, beloved garden specimens, or people's shins, he is from the day's first ray of sun, begging for someone to take it off. The quieter hen can be forgiven that lapse of discretion for her eggs. From then on our roosters joined store-bought vegetables in the soup pot with a proscribed alacrity. I assumed the sobriquet 'Mr. Fox' for the purpose of making truthful explanations to the children and Michael has stories of his own about denuding and un-stuffing the noisier end of the bird, stories which he displays a higher level of gentility than I in not sharing.

clothes horse

...or, memoirs of an aging fashionista. If you haven't been paying attention to fashion trends over the past three decades you may be wondering why young people are paying someone else to wrinkle their clothes and splatter them with bleach before they buy them, something most of us have been able to do for ourselves in all that time. 'Distressing' is not new but like everything else, it has gotten prohibitively expensive. This will not be a forum for railing against nonsensical clothing choices, in any age. It's the inseparable point to it all, sensible equals dowdy. I just thought it all needed to be put into a time line for others to see the rhyme if not the reason for it all. My own story begins in the early seventies when I first wrested free of the husky corduroys and button down plaids my Mom used to dress me in. Up to that point it wasn't all bad. I was usually able to bring her around to buying the shoes I wanted (She was/is a shoe nut, thank god). And at the time we were close to the same size so she just started wearing what I was jettisoning from my wardrobe. The first trend to seize me was the resurrected interest in the forties. It was not something many of the kids in my high school were hot for, but the few of us who were had an uphill climb finding clothes to suit. In the year that Mr. Blackwell described Bette Midler as having taken "pot luck at the laundry mat" we were scouring thrift stores on the Main Line hoping to strike pay dirt with some deceased GrandMa/Pa's finery. The girls I would accompany always had the best luck (they always do). They would find things cinched and gusseted six ways to sunday, scarves, turbans, beaded bags, and rhinestone clip-ons. I was lucky to find a hand-painted tie. Once I found an impossibly small German tuxedo, still in the dry cleaners bag and every bit the Joel Grey I was hoping for. Alas, his size, but not mine. I had to settle for another tie, this one red satin covered with Miro-esque thingies. Most desirous was the high-waisted pleated front trousers with the pegged legs a la Cab Calloway. When I finally realized the real deal was not to be had I ventured into a woman's clothing store and bought a pair- pleats but with a wide leg. A forties girl herself, Mom ran 'em through the Singer and I was stylin'! Emboldened, I pulled this trick a few more times and quickly made a name for myself at school with my new threads. I won't repeat it here, though. The truly magnificent platform shoes were not to be had at the mall so I would cut school to shop for shoes downtown. What drew me to the city kept me there, a tribe of like-minded slaves to high-fashion (read: setters of trends yet to be). After painstakingly making pariahs of ourselves in our respective home towns, we drew together to sew for each other and swap accessories. After a brief flirtation with the more readily thrift-shopped fifties look, where I affected a rumpled Jack Lemmon sensibility, I fell in with the Punk Rockers. Let the distressing begin. Most of what we had been trying to pass off as polished a few years before was already half way there. What I remember most about this time was the giant heap of communal clothing I and an ever-changing mix of transient roommates would dive into, customize, and wear to death. A rumpled white button down shirt would make the rounds, loosing first the cuffs, then arms, buttons etc. until down the road it would be a gray vest with a circled 'A' spray-painted on the back. Teased hair with some plastic cutlery stuck in it for good measure and we were ready for a night on the town. Practically the only thing we didn't share were our black jeans, whip-stitched on the inseam so as to render them irremovable. In a strange slant on Orwellian uniformity, by 1984 the look was mass-marketed. I worked for a time in a punk clothing emporium (formerly a Glam emporium) with lord knows how many Vietnamese men living upstairs silk-screening rude T-shirts around the clock. Embarrassed for the parade of kids eager to throw their money away on cheesy skeleton jewelry and pretty bored with making the effort to dress (down) up, I adopted a uniform which would carry me through for the next twenty years. Uninscribed cotton tees, Indigo Levis, and Converse high-tops. I had begun my painting career and these would eventually end up looking very much like what's selling at Abercrombie & Finch today. They would lose the legs and sleeves for summer and be replaced with a new ensemble in the fall. A certain black leather jacket (layered over a hoodie for winter) lasted me most of that time until I left it in the back of a cab. These days I've kind of fallen in with the pre-washed crowd, though I've jumped camp from the ass-quartering Levis to the more callipygious Lee jeans. My favorite shoes are Adidas 'Daroga' or flip-flops- no breaking-in required. And after kind of making peace with a gut that won't go away, I go with 'wife-beaters' and/or fitted button downs. I wasn't fooling anyone with untucked larger sizes. It's enough work just keeping my face slim. I tried wearing a polo but synthetic collars are just too torturous, plus Rhode Island 'boatie' just rings a false tone on me. And of course I wouldn't be caught dead in a pleated pant or a pegged anything. I've put together a few respectable outfits for dressy if not formal occasions with one clumsy but shiny pair of shoes. 'Didn't-overthink-it' casual takes all of my best effort. The work attire is unchanged- plasticized with dried latex paint they last twice as long, except for knees. Here is where I may have lucked out. Even in a progressive century men's fashion is extremely slow to evolve and most men even slower to pick up on it when it does. (I'm still seeing mid-thigh jean cut-offs, though mostly at the farmer's market). I've stubbornly resisted that six foot jump across the aisle from young men's into a world of sad raiment for color-blind golfers. Other men my age have side-stepped into athletic apparel but I'm firm on elastic waistbands being just one more way to spell defeat. If I'm lucky and the young men's doesn't go completely off the deep end with the extra large sizing and the cartoonish contrasting stitchery, as it now threatens to do, I'll get another ten years out of it. A few designers out there are looking after me. Needless to say if I were adequately funded I'd stay out of department stores altogether. But back to reality. I'll know when I've gone too far, I know what that looks like on other people. One night an older female friend of mine tried to pull off fuzzy boots, tight jeans, and a lace cammie. It's hard to look out of place in an Atlantic City casino but she managed it. If she wasn't letting me drive her convertible I would have taken a bus home. I learned then that large footwear is only forgivable on teen-agers and winter Olympians, some arms require sleeves (stay ever at the ready to concede on their length), practice any illusion at your disposal for de-emphasizing the neck even if you have to employ props, and arguably most important of all for any age- carefully scrutinize the ass for fit. You don't want to look like you're hauling around a bag of mice.

save a tree

Here's another attempt to deflect the disorder in my life onto someone else. What makes all these people with their bulk and presort mail rates think they've purchased the right to bury my house in unsolicted litter. Real checks don't have the dollar amount peeking through the window (but they generally do have real return addresses). I know exactly what my mortgage needs protection from. And I'm not fooled by personal note sized envelopes addressed in a 'hand-written' font. Now, I could be happy placing a waste paper basket directly on the other side of the mail slot. I rarely take time to read the important mail all the way through. And if a real check ended up in the trash I would smell it out. The concept of paying bills online might actually be convenient if the statements were posted there as well. Instead, both junk offers and statements with junk enclosures from the same companies arrive in the mail at a ratio of about three to one. Think what kind of overcompensation those CEOs could be talking about if they at least put all that crap in the same envelope. Hey!, Sierra Trading Post- save some trees, four catalogs since last Christmas is a bit much (or is there a timely trend in windbreakers I need to be apprised of). Formal portraits of real estate agents?? Save your clever subterfuge for the settlement table. And for everyone else who thinks they know enough about me to 'target' my 'demographic', listen up. I live in a seven room house, not a collection center. There's barely enough room for people and furniture (we keep the Great Dane because she discourages drop-ins and cleans up stray food items). Unopened mail forms the lower strata of debris. Books and newspapers I started reading in February are on top of that. Then a layer of things we bought but never bothered to take out of the bags, piled on by more unopened mail. Somewhere in March I reckon the IRS started sending me more notices of the Paperwork Reduction Act, but they too have been obscured by gym bags and elementary school artwork. Amping it up with glossy paper is not enough. Is mass-mailing really more cost effective than, say, skywriting?, sparkly billboards?, or people by the side of the road dressed in foam costumes? I'd hate for that to be true. ([Call me old-fashioned but] for me, one gigantic cartoon boy in red checkered overalls is worth a thousand words. Put him on the roof and I'll beat a path to his door! ) People seem to forget that effective solicitation demands a bit of entertainment value- and I don't mean "Place your acceptance sticker here". It might be the only thing left for a floundering U.S. Postal system but a clear reason to pray for their demise. I can already sense that people who share my demographic are getting more spiteful.

self-evaluation

Does anyone else out there live with a Depressive, Over-Reactive, Manic-Obsessive, Under-Satiated Ego? (DORMOUSE). My family lives with one. Since it is me and since my perception can at anytime be clouded, I can't be certain there isn't more than one of us in the house. One of the symptoms is an inflated sense of responsibility for communicating the disorder to others. Interested in knowing if you, or any of your loved ones might be a sufferer? Take this simple test;

1. Is the distress caused by forgetting important obligations outweighed by the distress of being reminded of them?
2. When someone comments positively on your hair-style, are you likely to cut it the next day?
3. Are you antagonized by people who smell like soap?
4. Does the term 'Easy Open' fill you with dread?
5. Do you shop for clothes that make your head look smaller?
6. Would you rather sleep than eat?
7. In the course of a week, are you likely to be compared to Imelda Marcos?
8. Are you the one in your household most likely to 'silently muse'.
9. Is the only manufacturer whose name you are not embarrassed to have emblazoned on your clothing 'Converse'?
10. Are you only able to remember someones name if it is one shared by someone whom you dislike?
11. Are you tortured by elastic (whether worn by you or someone else)?
12. Do your foibles outnumber your idiosyncrasies?

If you have answered 'Yes' to six or more of these questions, you may want to seek a more thorough evaluation. DORMOUSE sufferers are five times as likely to rage against inanimate objects, ten times as likely to be thrown into a deep sulk by polite flatterers, and a whopping fifty times as likely to be mischaracterized as 'easy-going'. Sufferers frequently display an irrational reaction to being awakened by singing [I say, arguing] birds or being 'remembered' by over-friendly sales persons. He or she displays extreme discomfort at being cast in a cooperative role such as a phone tree or clapping in time. It is not unusual for them to describe their unease as having been born in "the wrong time'. The only known relieve from this malady is shopping for shoes and frequent napping. Again, extreme caution should be used in awakening a DORMOUSE. Under no circumstances should this be attempted with harmonica music or tickles under the chin.