BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Yep, I know… Y’all weren’t expecting another blog entry until Wednesday morning when the next installment of Mahwage deploys from the queue.  However, I did warn you back when I extolled the virtues of the “post this in the future” function of WordPress, that I might occasionally drop a little something on you completely unannounced if the mood or circumstances struck.

Well, this is one of those times… I will admit, however,  that I considered just adding this missive to the queue for future posting as well, but since it somewhat involves that annual February event known as the “Salad Bowl”… Wait… “Cereal Bowl”… No… That ain’t it either… Well, all I know is that it has bowl in the title and people have parties while looking at Football on TV, so there…

Now, those of you who know me fairly well are certainly aware that “Football” isn’t my thing. Neither is Baseball, Basketball, or Soccer. Hockey, well that’s a different story, but since the “Rice Bowl” or whatever they call it has something or another to do with Football and not Hockey… Well, I guess we need to talk about Football.

Obviously, my personal perception of this activity isn’t quite the same as that of the overwhelming majority of the masses. In fact, when I set out to describe my view of this particular sport I have found it to be a waste of time to bother reinventing the wheel. What I mean by that is this: Andy Griffith explained it best in his old monologue, “What it was, was football…“

Yeah… The sheriff of Mayberry. Harry Broderick from Salvage One… Matlock… Uh-huh, that guy. For those of you who may be way too young to remember, before Mister Griffith became Barney Fife’s keeper, or appeared in movies, he was quite an accomplished stand up comedian of sorts. Yeah… No kidding. He didn’t have any cool puppets, nor did he insult the crowd for effect. He was a bardic sort of comedian. He simply told funny stories, and one of them happened to be all about an experience with seeing a “football” game, ostensibly for the first time. It became one of his most popular and beloved monologues, and is a classic.

Now, I’m certainly not about to plagiarize Mister Griffith’s routine, (I do, however, highly recommend it if you have a chance to hear it – much of his material is available on CD by the way), suffice it to say, my perception of football is much the same as his: A bunch of guys running around in a cow pasture fighting over a petrified pumpkin for no apparent reason.

But, of course, I didn’t come here to talk to you about “Football,” but you already knew that… I came here to talk to you about the “Soup Bowl” party… (You know, that actually sounds kinda close to what I remember hearing it called… Hmm…)

You see, every year some friends of ours host one of these massive shindigs. A bunch of folks show up, each toting a dish of food and a cooler. So, as always is the case with our gatherings, there is food for days and much malted beverage to be imbibed. I suppose, in most respects, that is what brings everyone together… But then, there is that whole pumpkin in the cow pasture thing on TV…

Of course, not everyone attending the party is that much of a “Football” fan… Granted, we do get caught up in the excitement near the end and we will all be plastered to the TV hooting and hollering, but that usually happens sometime around the last 5 minutes or so. Maybe even the entire last quarter if things are close and much violence is ensuing, if you know what I mean. But, I think that’s all just a matter of contagious excitement or something.

Still, for the most part, there are the “Football” fans and there are the Commercial fans. Generally the commercial fans consist of the wives. That isn’t intended as a sexist remark by any stretch of the imagination, it just happens to be how things are with our particular group. Still, some of the wives are Football fans too. Well, to some extent. In fact, I can actually remember coming down the stairs one Sunday to find E K lounged out on the sofa with a beer in her hand, watching a football game and explaining it to our daughter who was all of about 3 at the time. But, even taking that little event into account, E K isn’t what you’d call a rabid fan by any means…

Yes, just in case you are wondering, there really is a point to all this rambling…

So here’s the thing. Generally, what happens is that the wives will gather in one room and play cards or some manner of dice games or some such. I tend to mosey back and forth between the camps being a bit of a social butterfly, so to speak. But, that’s not really my point either…

Back to the “thing”…

Last night, the game being played by the ladies was some kind of semi – yahtzeeish – bone – throwing – what have you that involved rolling dice and passing tokens left, right, center, or even not passing them at all depending on your roll, until the last person with a token rolled a “dot” or some such, and won all the tokens in the center. Whereupon the game started all over again. Fairly simple, and it even looked like a bit of fun when things got rolling, (pun not intended, but I’ll definitely take it…)

Now, the folks hosting the party have a 21 year old son who was there along with a friend of his. Both of them are good kids.  I just thought I’d throw that out there… Well, actually, it does also play an integral part to my monologue here…

You see, the friend, we’ll call him what’s is name to protect the innocent, while interested in the “Football” game, was also familiar with, and interested in, playing the game with the dice. So, since the first half of the football game was kind of boring, he joined the ladies in the dining room.

In case you haven’t done the math just yet, that made him the sole male at a table full of mature, but nonetheless incredibly gorgeous women. And, you know, that whole mature thing has its perks as well, but we won’t go there…

Well, actually we will, but not just yet…

Anyway, damn smart kid, IMHO…

At any rate, long about halftime we husband types were standing around in the kitchen gnawing on some hot wings and popping open fresh beers. One of the husbands poked his head through the doorway to see what was up with the dice game, then started laughing and jokingly announced so that everyone could hear, “Hey, what’s is name is in there being a girl with all the rest of the women.”

It was a good-natured jibe and definitely drew a round of chuckles.  Still,  you know me… I simply couldn’t pass up the opportunity to explore the half-full, half-empty principle where it applied to this situation.

When the chuckling died down I replied, “Yeah, but look at it this way. He’s the only guy in a room full of good looking women. Seems like a smart move to me.”

One of the other husbands snorted and said, “Yeah, but they’re all old and married.”

I had pretty much expected a response in that vein, after all, I’ve known these guys for a long time. I’m not saying they are completely predictable, but I do know how they think, so I definitely wasn’t surprised by what he said. Of course, as we all know, when you expect something it is much easier to be prepared… And, I was.

I nodded in response to his rebuttal and said, “Well,  I guess it’s all in how you look at it, you know… I mean, if they’re old then so are we, right?”

“Well, yeah,” came a chorus of responses from the men, punctuated here and there by a “no sh*t” or two.

“Well then,” I continued. “So you have a whole room of mature, hot women who are married to the likes of us old bastards, which pretty much means they are probably all getting pretty desperate, know what I’m saying? And right now they’re sitting in there with a guy who is still young enough to get it up repeatedly without  the aid of pharmaceuticals.”

A chuckle ran through the room, but I wasn’t finished yet. I let things settle for a moment before pulling the pin on the punchline.

I looked around at the guys and shrugged, then gave them a nod. “But, you’re probably right,” I finally offered. “I mean, it’s not like guys ever have that whole older woman fantasy when they’re his age…”

Yeah, I know… Pretty evil, eh?  But I just couldn’t help myself.

More to come…

Murv

…Or, Erma Bombeck revisited. Take your pick…

“At Wit’s End” was the title of Ms. Bombeck’s column. Or, at least, one incarnation of it. When I first started reading it in syndication it was simply titled “Erma Bombeck”.

If you are unfamiliar with this woman and her legacy, she was a humorist and writer who, to my great sadness, left us back in 1996. However, I will spare you a recounting of all the details of her career, because you can get them simply by clicking on her name since I linked it to the ErmaMuseum, which is a site celebrating her life and prose.

So, why do I bring up a long dead humorist? Well, primarily because of all those dominos I’ve been going on about as of late. You see, their sharp edges keep generating more and more leaks in my brainpan. In a recent blog, “BBC – Bureau of Blog Content” (Sunday, Jan 18, 2009) Ms. Bombeck’s name came up in relation to my rambling.

Well, as it happens, I was an avid fan of her writing. (I still am, because I haven’t yet read it all). I could easily relate to her dry humor, her take on life, and her general perspective on all that was. In short, her columns, books, and prose spoke to me.

I never had the opportunity to meet the woman, nor did anyone in my family. At least not that I am aware. And, when they were each asked about it, the reply from all was that not a one had ever so much as contacted her, much less met her.

So, why would I ask such an odd question as that? Trust me, there’s a reason I interrogated my family about Ms. Bombeck.

It all started because of another little something in her column that made me a fan. Actually, it was something contained in a particular column, and I first saw it in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch back in 1976.

Yes, 1976. The bicentennial. Fancy quarters. Red, white, and blue. Biggest 4th of July celebration to date. Yes, that 1976…

The thing that stuck out about this column were the names – not ALL of them – but those of the two major players in the story. I will let you see for yourself. There are two jpg’s of the column below. One is in its original state, as I found it when going through my father’s personal effects after his death. The other is brightened, contrasted, and enhanced via my old pal Photoshop, in hopes that it will make it easier to read after all the years it spent tucked away in a wallet.

Original

Enhanced

Notes:

1. In the left hand column, the sentence below the one that ends “…four weeks to” reads: get it fixed. You just can’t get people to…
2. In the right hand column, the sentence below the one that ends “Is the ceiling a…” reads: composition? I’ve always suspected the

(I did the above as notes because I didn’t want to risk trying to flatten out the folds in this extremely brittle piece of paper)

Now, I certainly realize the humor is dry, acerbic, and even a bit morose in some respects. But, it is still funny. On top of that, I am also well aware that the humor is somewhat dated. When I showed it to EK, though she found it amusing, her initial comment was something to the effect of, “You can certainly tell it was from a different era. She’s having a drink before she takes him to the hospital.“

While that little tidbit is certainly part of the humor, it also speaks to an era where DUI’s weren’t feared as they are today (and rightly so)…

I suspect that by now you have all picked up on at least part of what struck me with this particular column. Of course, it is the surname of the two primary characters in this story, that being Sellars. Sellars with an A, not with an E. The lesser common spelling. Sellars just like M. R. Sellars.

Now, some of you may be well aware of my full name – Murvel Russell Sellars, Jr.  When I was a kid everyone called me Rusty. I’ve mentioned that in other blogs. And, my father was known as Russell. Just like, Russell in the column.

But, if that isn’t enough by itself, the real kicker is the “primary” primary character, his wife. Yes, Virginia, believe it or not, my mother’s name was Sonja.

Sonja with a J. Not with a Y, not with an I.

It was spelled with a J, just like the Sonja in the column.

I’m dead serious. I can prove it too, though I’m not going to post copies of birth and death certificates to this blog…

In any event, Sonja and Russell Sellars, my parents, were unwittingly the stars of an Erma Bombeck column.

For the record, my father never fell through the ceiling. I do seem to recall, however, that he put his foot through a rotten spot on the roof when it was being re-shingled.

I guess that was close enough for Erma, even if it was fiction that mirrored a tidbit of truth…

Oh, and BTW, today would have been my mother’s 67th birthday. Sadly, she left us in 1987, well before Erma. Still, I like to think they managed to hook up for a drink over there on the other side, and have a laugh about it all…

More to come…

Murv