Just Askin' 3

How much does 30 pounds of air pressure weigh?

My Package Qualifications

Freedom! Mom's visiting relatives in West Virginia, where we all know there's no Internet, and Dad says he's on a "business trip", but without havin' the goods on him, I'll have to take his word for it. So, after long deliberation, checking local statutes, and making sure their homeowner's policy was up  to date, they decided to leave me home by myself. I had to agree to call Uncle Ebenezer and Aunt Florence (Eb and Flo, as I calls 'em) if I needed anything, but right now everything's as fine as frog's hair.

Freedom! Vienna Sausages for breakfast, Popsicles for lunch, Fruit Loops for dinner! But who can remember to eat when I have 24-hour Internet access, without Mom looking over my shoulder and monitoring my every online movement?

So I set up this double-secret e-mail address, and for some reason, I start getting these peculiar e-mails: Croatian pharmacies offer to make me tumescent, Ugandan princes want to go halvsies on their birthright fortunes, and girls with names like Anne Arkey and Heather Heath wanna meet me.

Then I get this e-mail asking about my "package qualifications". At first I'm intrigued, thinking it's from my recent Internet friend Angie O'Plasty, whose conversations have become rather intimate, what with her asking about my age, my mom's secret emergency bank account and my dad's social security number. Turns out this e-mail is some guy wanting me to enroll in classes, with an available grant amount of $5,743.00. All I had to do was fill out the application.

How dumb does he think I am? Why would I want to go to more classes than I already am? And why would I take his stupid grant money when Angie already promised me free money after I gave her my dad's social security number?

My dad sure isn't very good at hiding things. His card was in his dresser drawer, under his medicated foot powder.

Now I have to call Eb and Flo. I'm almost out of Popsicles.

 

 

Angie sent me her pic. She looks like a nice girl.

 

Just Askin' 2

If Stephen is pronounced Steven, why isn't Stephanie pronounced Stevenie?

I Crack Me Up 2

I like movies about mountain climbing. They peak my interest.

Just Sayin'

The promos on huluPLUS for The Awesomes say, "Seth Meyers, like you've never seen him before."

You mean, funny?

Raft Sinks Background to Danger. Ha Ha.

Sometimes Dad has no sense of humor. I ate his entire beloved box of Cap'n Crunch just so I could say when he asked why I did it, "I guess I'm just a cereal killer." He responds with, "Just for that, Mr. Wisenheimer," (uh-oh. When he calls me that, I know I'm in for it) "it's another George Raft movie for you."

Well, this one is called Background to Danger (whatever that means), a wartime (World War II, for those of you who ain't historians) spy thriller with a good cast, despite the presence of George Raft.

Turkey's a neutral country, ya see, but Germany's trying to get Turkey involved in the war, and the Germans being no-good, backstabbing, stinky Nazis, are not necessarily committed to playing this one on the square. There's some bogus war installation photos circulating, and it's George Raft's job, as a super-cool American agent, to prevent these pics from being published in the newspapers (yes, this movie was made way back when there were newspapers), and forcing the Turks entering the war as Nazi allies. Or some such foolishness.

I read somewhere on the Internets (where everything is true), that George Raft insisted his character be changed from an ordinary Joe to a secret agent. Bad move, because his being an ordinary citizen would have increased the suspense and intrigue (his background to danger, so to speak), and would have fairly explained his many bone-headed blunders. But as a secret agent, he'd make a pretty good falafel salesman. He's always getting konked from behind on the noggin by the bad guys, who are very adept at getting the drop on him, except when he's running away like a little girl. Ha! Some two-fisted he-man. Would John Payne or Dennis O'Keefe, geniune hard-guys, just to name two, run away from the Nazis like scared babies? I think not.

Like I said, despite George Raft, who delivers his lines as flat as a Kansas highway, there's plenty to like: Sydney Greenstreet makes a good heavy (ha ha. I bet I'm the first to ever say that), Peter Lorre is very funny, and the movie moves along at a very brisk pace, what with all the running, and gun pulling, and car chasing, and whatnot. But watching George Raft is torturous.

So after it's over, Dad asks me what I thought of the movie. I just shrug my shoulders, not wanting him to know that he won this round.  "Good, Mr. Wisenheimer. Because there's another movie we're gonna watch called A Dangerous Profession. With George Raft. Looks like a pretty good picture."

Alright, Dad, I promise. I'll never eat your Cap'n Crunch again.

Take that for not bein' on the level, you dirty Nazi!

Background to Danger (1943)

Do I really have to finish watching this? George Raft hurts my eyeballs.

Okay, okay, I'll be back later, but I got a feeling I'm not gonna have many nice things to say.

The Wagons Roll at Night (1941)

I don't really remember seeing any wagons rolling at night, but I'll take their word for it.

Small town grocery store clerk Eddie Albert (Green Acres) discovers he has a knack for taming lions (no, really), so he's groomed into lion-taming stardom by circus manager Humphrey Bogart (The Return of Doctor X). One snag, though: Eddie's got a hankerin' for Bogie's virginal sister, the adorable Joan Leslie (Simon & Simon), and who can blame him, considering how it's the adorable Joan Leslie. But normally nice guy Bogie goes all flaflooey whenever anyone talks about his kid sis, much less anyone who's caught canoodling with her on the front porch, amidst the moonlight and the honeysuckle. So Bogie decides to fix Eddie's wagon but good, perhaps the wagon referred to in the title.

Trailin' along in the circus sawdust is Bogie's gal pal Sylvia Sidney (Mars Attacks), who's got saucer-eyes (more like dinner plates)  for the novice, oblivious, yet innocent, yet likeable, yet gawky, yet puppydoggy lion tamer with nice wavy hair.

Very silly, but lots of fun watching Bogie go all perswonky over his obsession for his adorable kid sis, Joan Leslie, fresh out of the convent.

Did I mention how adorable Joan Leslie is?

So adorable!

Just askin'.

Ever meet someone named Chad who wasn't a dick?

Riddle Me This

When is a trumpet player like a mummy?

When he can toot uncommon.

Hmmmmm.....

Why is that piece of music that starts a long movie called an overture? Shouldn't it be called a beginningture?

Each Dawn I Die

So my dad's got this thing called Warners Archives, which streams movies on the television machine. He shells out ten dollars a month for it, so he feels like he has to watch a lot of movies to get his money's worth. And I watch a lot of movies with him, 'cause it's better than sleeping or doing homework.

So I get to see a lot of old black-and-white Hollywood Warner Bros. movies, where they say things like "You dirty rat" and "Take a powder", sometimes even in the same sentence. Like in this movie called Each Dawn I Die, with a very cool and energetic actor called James Cagney and a not-so-cool and greasy actor called George Raft, two mugs doing hard time in the Big House. The warden is portrayed by George Bancroft, because Barton MacLane was probably busy that week.

See, I told you I've seen a lot of old Warner Bros. movies.

The movie's pretty action-packed, and pretty good when it's not preaching to us about the brutality of prison life. These mugs get what they deserve, if you ask me.

However, the one thing that's missing is that scene in a smoky nightclub with a throaty chanteuse in a spangly dress, in front of a thirty-piece orchestra, followed by a lone spotlight, warbling the title song. A little something I imagine going something like this:

Each dawn I die,
Each night I cry.
Each day I pray
The day away.
Zoobie zoobie wah wah.

Of course that final line is open to interpretation, so long as it's sung with sincerity.

What's Up With That? 2

Why isn't phonetics spelled with an f ?

The Girl of My Dreams

My old psychotherapist, Dr. Skruleus, who used to twitch a lot, decided to retire to a farm in Montana and raise Sea-Monkeys. My new psychotherapist, Dr. Headcase, who keeps wanting me to call her by her first name, Yura, is real big on interpreting dreams and the like. Me, not so much, but then I'm not the one with the diploma from the University of Paducah nailed to the wall, right next to a poster of that little kitty hanging in there.

But here's a dream I need some help with. Maybe I could have discussed it with Dr. Skruleus, since he never really listened anyway. He was always too preoccupied with his knitting. But I think it's way too personal to talk about it with my current therapist, who always seems to be paying attention to what I say, and goes so far as to even take notes. Makes me nervioso. I'd much rather share it with my gazillion readers.

I'm sixteen, and I've been driving a convertible for years, as the most awesome people do. I stop to get gas, and I see this pretty girl, cuter than a salamander.  She tells me her name is Sue. We chat, and I must say in all modesty, she seems pretty overwhelmed by my charm, wit, and dashing good looks. So far, nothing unusual, right? When it's time to say goodbye, I point my finger like a pistol and say, "Sue ya later." She jumps out of her car, all excited, and says, "Oh, my God. Wow. You're so awesome. I just have to kiss you." But she says it real fast, like it's one word. Omigodwowyouresoawesomeijusthavetokissyou. Like that.

She runs to my car, and instead of the little friendly peck I'm expecting, she leans in to give me a big, sloppy open-mouth smackeroo. And drops her gum in my mouth.

I chew it twice. Grape. My favorite. As I'm about to give it back to her, thinking this is the start of something beautiful, I wake up.

What can this dream possibly mean? Readers, if you have any ideas, please leave them in the comments below. Dr. Skruleus, if they have Internet in Montana, and you're out there, a little help, please.



The girl I dreamt of.

What's Up With That?

The theme song for "Gilligan's Island" is called "The Ballad of Gilligan's Isle".

What's up with that?

Rage

I'm here to say right now, and I don't care who knows it, that I like actors who yell. Big, loud, gut-bustin', ear-bendin' yelling. I feel like I'm getting my money's worth that way.

I've seen my share of old movies, being something of a Renaissance Man and all, and I've seen my share of actors who yell. I guess it all started with Marlon Brando in that movie A Streetcar Named Desire, whatever that means. He yells real good in it. Then there's Lee J. Cobb who's quite a yeller, unless he puts on his wavy toupee, smokes a pipe, and starts acting all avuncular. And then there's Rod Steiger, who not only yells, but gets all sweaty, and twitchy, and studdery, and talks real fast. Very cool. But the best of them all, in my opinion, is George C. Scott.

Boy, can this guy yell. Sure, he does other things, like acting and such, too, but he sure is good at yelling. The best ever. He could make you pee in your pants, just a little. And yell he does in Rage, a movie he also directed in 1972. He doesn't yell much in Rage, but when he does, you sit up and take notice, and maybe pee your pants, just a little.

Without too many spoilers, Rage is a story about a gentle sheepfarmer (with awesome caterpillar-like eyebrows) and his son who are accidentally contaminated by Government nerve gas. The dose is fatal to the son, and the sheepfarmer (George C. Scott) ain't none too well. Of course, seeing how it's George C. Scott, his first reaction in finding out about it is to yell. Awesome. Then he decides to wreak some serious havoc. And wreak it he does.

Well, here's where things get a little twisty thematically, as my English teacher might say. Although, as actor and director, George C. Scott delivers on the violence, it's not emotionally satisfying, as we all know violence should be. To use a word that my psychotherapist is very fond of, it's not cathartic. We're all set up for this emotional release through violence, the best way if you ask me, and we don't get it, because he kills mostly innocent people, and although he destroys the facility where the nerve gas tests are conducted, the nerve gas survives. Bummer. And a rip-off.

Or is it? The violence seems pointless because none of the guilty parties are punished. But maybe that's the point? The pointlessness of violence, especially against an all-powerful enemy? Maybe having no point is the point? All I can say is I don't like my pizza deep-dish.

So shame on George C. Scott for promising to deliver a movie where a man gets a little justice and satisfaction from an irresponsible and unfeeling government, and instead gives us a movie that asks us to think. It's not fair.

                                                    George C. Scott fixin' to get all rage-y and such.

Nobody Lives Forever

So I sits myself down in my favorite Morris chair, takes off my two-toned stompers so as to give my dogs a rest, fixes myself a Spam sangwich and a nice cold Moxie, and I watches this Warner Brothers classic from 1946: Nobody Lives Forever, starring John Garfield, Geraldine Fitzgerald, Walter Brennan, and George Tobias. Boy, this looks to be a real killer-diller, a humdinger, what with that cast, and it also being penned by W. R. Burnett, a literary mug who can really make with the participles.

John Garfield plays this soldier who's sent stateside when his mitt is smooshed by a German Firefly. To you cats who ain't so hep, his hand was shot. He recoups, you bet, and comes out fine as frog's  hair. With the help of his pal (George Tobias), who's a Likeable Larry, but something of a gamook, he goes to retrieve fifty thou in greenbacks he left with his doll, who's a rather nifty, laquered-up dish, if you asks me. But this doll is tempted to hang on to the dough, because fifty big ones is a lot of lettuce, and this much scratch could keep her in nylons and open-toed shoes for a long time to come.

But John Garfield ain't having none of this, see? So he has to make with the fisticuffs and serve up the knuckle sangwiches to retrive his moolah, and retrieve it he does. Then it's off to California, with his pal along for the ride, to take it easy with a little relaxation in the sun and surf in Los angeles and its various confines.

But John Garfield has something of a past, see, and but natch this past has to catch up to him. 'Cause before the war, Johnny was a top-drawer con man. Not one of those two-bit chiselers with frayed cuffs and no pocket kerchiefs, but a real Swell Sam, the best in the biz. So sweet and smooth, Hoover's boys could never lay a pinky on him, much less a glove. But Johnny just wants to lay low and lie on the beach, drinking only the best hooch and soaking up the sun's healthful vitamins.

Word gets to him that there's this rich dame in town, just rolling in currency and ripe for the pickin's, if only he'll give her a tickle so's she'll let loose with the bankroll. Against  the magilla at first, John reverses field and agrees to the con, as long as there's no back-sass, see? because two million in greenbacks is a heap of verdancy.

Turns out this wealthy widow (Geraldine Fitzgerald) is something of a dreamboat, with sparkling peepers, not the kind of hairy tugboat that John Garfield envisaged.

Does John Garfield have a change of heart and actually fall for this delicious dish? Watch the movie to find out. Ya get me?

                                      "I'm just a mug, see? No good for a high-class tomato like you." Or something like that.

The Constant Nymph

So I get up late one night, not being able to sleep after eating all those sardines in mustard sauce I stole from the pantry, and I see my Dad's preparing to watch a movie called The Constant Nymph. Later he tells me he's confused it with a drive-in movie he saw in the 90s*, but this turned out to be a pretty good picture anyway.

 The Constant Nymph was made in 1943 and the main actors are Charles Boyer (pronounced "boy-YAY", 'cause he's French, don'tcha know), Joan Fontaine, and Alexis Smith. They make up what we in the literary world call a love triangle.

Without revealing any spoilers (that's something you should only do when movies suck), let's just say that Joan Fontaine, an adorable little scamp of fourteen, who adorably runs around indoors like an ungainly colt, is devotedly in love - she's the "Constant Nymph" referred to in the title, unless there was a baby insect I'm forgetting about - with struggling composer Charles Boyer. But Chuck up and marries rich girl Alexis Smith. Emotional fireworks and gloopy romantic scenes ensue.

The gloopy romantic scenes were okay, if you like that kind of thing. At least they saved them toward the end of the movie, but I wouldn't recommend watching them on a stomach full of sardines in mustard sauce.

Two questions I have: what does this delightful young girl (who should be going out with someone like me) see in this old geezer, what with his bulbous forehead, his cigarette breath, and his pudgy Gallic hands? Gosh, Boyer is like my dad, if my dad smoked a lot and wore a bad toupee. And is anyone else creeped out by the fact that someone of Boyer's age, and married, to boot, wants to gallivant across Europe with a fourteen-year old girl? It's like my dad wanting to run off with one of my sister's friends. Yuk. Maybe that kind of thing was not frowned upon in Europe in the 40s, but today I think he might just end up in the pokey, in a cell next to my uncle Elmo. And the less said about my uncle Elmo, the better.

Charles Boyer is good in the movie, in a land bereft of desirable males, appealing if you happen to find yourself susceptible to his Pepe LePew voice and his particular brand of oily charm. Alexis Smith is good too, a real trooper in a role that's not very flattering, having to be all jealous and mean to adorable Joan Fontaine. And I think Alexis is talking with the wrong accent, as are a lot of people, so I guess it's no big deal. But Joan Fontaine! Wow!

Joan Fontaine is so good as the fourteen-year old capable of loving and feeling well beyond her years, with a heart full of unconditional love and understanding. Like a puppy. She made me completely forget that she really wasn't fourteen, but an old broad of twenty-five. And I also forgot that she spoke with a British accent, although she grew up in an European mountain village somewhere. But I guess that's what great acting is all about.

Giving a great screen performance is all well and good, but more importantly, she reminds me of this girl who sits next to me in most of my classes and copies from me. And I gladly let her, because that's what true love is all about. True, eternal, hopeless love.

Perhaps we all have our own Constant Nymph.


* The Constant Nympho (1992), starring Tawny Porte and Brad Nailer.

                                                     The girl who sits next to me.

The Double Man

Still grounded. Dad is convinced, without any direct, circumstantial, or evidence of any kind, that it was me who put Super Glue in his Preparation H. Very unfair.

At least I'm not constantly cooped up in my room. I get to occasionally watch a movie with him, as long as I keep my lip buttoned and not ask any stupid questions. But how  am I supposed to learn anything if I don't ask questions? Like the time my dad said before showing me a movie, "Joel McCrea only made westerns after the war." I wanted to ask, "Which war and who's Joel McCrea?", but I didn't want to risk a smack upside the head.

So we sit down to watch a movie, which my dad describes as a Cold War spy thriller. Couldn't help it, I had to ask: Why do the call it a Cold War? Dad gives it some thought, and says, "Because it's always cold in Russia."

Turns out it's this movie called The Double Man, and boy is it a stinkeroo on a platter. It stars this old bald guy named Yul (rhymes with "uncool") Brynner. When I say bald, I don't mean like my Uncle Roscoe bald, I mean shaved head bald. And, believe it or else, women in the picture seem to go for him! I can't believe what I'm seeing, and I know better than to say anything out loud, so I just look at my dad, and he just shrugs his shoulders, and says, "Women."

So here's where we come to what we in the blogosphere call "spoilers", where I discuss things in the movie that are supposed to be surprises. If you still want to see this turdburger, go away. Otherwise, read on.

Yul Brynner plays this CIA agent who has only one look on his face: constipation. It so happens that his teenage son is killed in a skiing accident, so he travels to the Austrian Alps for his son's funeral. Curious his son's body wouldn't be sent home to the States, but then he wouldn't have any reason to go to the Alps, would he? Then he starts thinking that it was no accident, but he was killed on purpose. In other words, murder!

So he starts asking questions. Questions. And more questions. But he's not real good at it, because he has to meet up with one person about four times before he finally gets around to asking her what he wants to know. Chiefly, who killed my son? Duh. In the meantime, he skis with her, and lots of it looks really phony. My dad said it looked bad because it was "rear projection". I didn't ask, but I think it means it was projected out of some one's rear.

Okay, here comes the spoilers. We finally discover, now that the movie's nearly over, that the Russians (or are they East Germans? Who knows?) enticed Yul Brynner over to the Alps so they could replace him with another secret agent who looks exactly like him! (Also played by Yul Brynner. As if one of him weren't enough). Man, I didn't see that one coming! (Sarcasm). And instead of killing him in a secluded farmhouse where they have him captured and tied up, the evil agents let him get away while trying to transport him. Didn't see that one coming, either. (More sarcasm).

A chase ensues, mostly in the dark where it's hard to see what's happening. Also more phony skiing with more butt projection. Then the two Yul Brynners meet, and you'll never guess what happens.

On the bright side, there's this really pretty girl in the movie named Britt Eckland. She's really pretty, even though she has monkey-ears that kinda stick out. But she reminds me of this girl who sits in front of me in English class, Vera Similitude, who smells like strawberries. I like strawberries.

Dad and I both agreed that this was one big, fat, steaming turkey. I asked him (safely, once the movie was over) why he chose it, and he said because it was directed by someone named Franklin J. Schaffner, who directed some good movies, like Patton and Planet of the Apes. But Dad and I both agreed that this was one that should be kept off the resume.

Finally, I asked Dad if Yul Brynner was a really big star, and he assured me he was. I asked him why. He thoughtfully scratched his head, and said, "I have no earthly idea why."

The Double Man. It stinks in any language. 

 

I Crack Me Up

In the metropolis where I live, there's a place called "Bob Goff Heating and Air Conditioning".

I wonder if he has a brother named Jack.

Daily Journal

Loyal readers of this blog will no doubt be aware of the situation concerning me and my archenemy, otherwise known as "Mom", who unilaterally decreed that I should remain in my room until I capitulate, and see "the errors of my ways". Following is a day by day account of my exciting and true adventures battling the evil warlord who imprisoned me in my very own bedroom for merely exercising my freedom of speech.

Monday. Day the first. Starting daily record, in case I don't make it. Epic battle of wills begins. Must remain tower of strength, but with no big screen TV, odds are not good.

Will I ever see the sun again? Think I'm losing weight.

Tuesday. Day the second. Still confined in room, except for quick seven-hour break to attend school. Trading one prison for another.

Lovely bluebird remains perched outside my window, symbol of eternal hope and beauty, singing his joyous song of freedom. Wish I had my be-be gun.

DVD player removed, left with only basic cable. My evil overlord's cruelty knows no bounds.

Wednesday. Day the third. This solitude is driving me mad. What I wouldn't give to fill my lungs with fresh air, or to feel the thrill of tossing a cinder block from an overpass. The simple joys of life I miss most of all.

Only three oatmeal cookies for dessert. Feel faint.

Thursday. Day the fourth. Granted limited release to general house area and grounds. Apology demanded by evil warlord, i.e., Mom, but not forthcoming. Must remain strong. Her underestimation of me will be her downfall.

Friday. Day the fifth. Apology delivered, but had fingers crossed. All's fair in war.

Extra scoop of ice cream for dessert. Evil nemesis, aka "Mom", bested once again.

                                                              Artist's rendition of Evil Warlord.

Grounded

I keep telling my mom that I don't like beans in my chili, but what does she do? She puts beans in my chili! How many times have I mentioned it? Countless.

So we sit down to dinner the other night, and as she places the bowl in front of me, she says, "Here's your chili just the way you like it. With beans!"

But I don't like beans in my chili, I say. Since when? she says. Since forever, I say. But you've always liked beans, she says. To which I replied, "There's only one kind of bean I like: lez-beans!"

Man, I never saw my mom so mad. Not even that time I filled her shampoo bottle with honey. She ordered me to march to my room, which I did, like a stormtrooper, and that did not make her happy, either, and she told me that I would be grounded for a week, and if I thought I'd spend the entire time in my room watching Bruce Campbell movies, I'd have another thing coming. Ouch!

So here I am, stranded in my room, with no human comforts except for basic cable, which sucks. Mother , how can thee be so cruel?

However, I did see an X-Files episode the other day that was extremely awesome. And you know who was in it? Bruce Campbell!

 

The awesome Bruce Campbell

 

Freda and The Beatles

My mom made me watch this documentary called Good Ol' Freda.

Documentaries and I usually don't mix, but my mom promised me a neopolitan ice cream sandwich if I didn't get ants in my pants.

Turns out Freda was a secretary for a band called The Beatles. Never heard of them, but my mom says they were pretty good. She said she used to have all their records, whatever that means.

There were four of them: John Lemon, Bingo Starr, the cute one, and the one I forget. They started out in a club that was really a basement, singing songs and such, in Liverpool, England, Great Britain.  Freda said they were really nice, but she said John could be a grumpy arse, as they sometimes say in England.

Well, The Beatles paid their dues for several long months, and then became real famous, eventually moving out of the basement and performing in bigger venues, as we say in the music business. They received lots of fan mail, and lots of requests for samples of hair. Maybe that's why they wore their hair so long. Ha ha.

It was Freda's job to answer the mail, and to write The Beatles Fan Club Booklet, and such, and by all accounts she did a good job. Over the years she got many requests to spill the beans on "The Lads", as they were sometimes called, but she kept her lip buttoned, respecting their privacy, and never making a dime.

Until this movie came out? Who knows? But I hope she does make some money, since she seems like a nice person. She said she wanted to make the movie so's her grandson would know she used to work for The Beatles, and wasn't just a lyin' old bag making stuff up. (My words.) Good enough reason, but a little money would be nice too.

So if you've never heard of this band called The Beatles, I guess this movie is as good a place as any to start. There's a little bit of music in it that's not too bad. And Freda seems like a nice person.

Now where's my ice cream sandwich? 

Call Me Stinky.

My mom says I should start a blog to re-direct my misguided energies. So says my school guidance counselor, too. My behaviorist says I need a creative outlet that doesn't include fire or small animals. As does the judge who presided at my trial. The last trial, not the previous three. And not including the mistrials.

My mom says, when she's in a good mood, usually right after her three-martini lunches, that I'm just a bit "rambunctious". Good one, Mom. Last time I heard that word, I fell off my dinosaur, laughing.

My dad, who's known for his sense of humor -- he farts and then always blames it on the dog -- calls me lots of funny names, but none of them that I can repeat. He does say that if I had another brain, it would get lonesome. He's all the time saying funny stuff like that.

Am I really a genius? Who knows? But who am I to argue with everyone?

So here I am, preparing to write about my interests (classic movies from last year and beyond, politics, old guys with funny-looking toupees) and my disinterests (girls with cooties). My likes (potted meat sandwiches, anything with Bruce Campbell) and my dislikes (inflammable things).

"Don't be afraid to express yourself," says my court-appointed psychiatrist, wanting to light his pipe with the missing matches I just took off his desk. "Be the best person you can be."