Yeah, yeah, the walls are cracking ... but get a load of this brochure!

Out driving today, I noticed that a nearby subdivision providing a handy shortcut to my home enjoys award-winning status, according to a prominent sign on the grass island at the main entrance.

Turns out the award was for best marketing campaign for residential properties in the $200,000 price range.

Now, how's that for a source of pride and peace of mind?

# # #

On buying retired library books

Whenever I buy a used book from Amazon.com, I always choose, if possible, a copy once owned by a library. In fact, I'd much rather possess a retired library copy than a brand new copy of just about any book.

Why? Three words: fun discoveries.*

Example 1. My retired library copy of Alice Munro's Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage.

Formerly owned by the Salt Lake County Library System, my cello-wrapped hardbound copy of one of Alice Munro's uniformly marvelous short-story collections came with an equally delightful surprise inside: a computer-generated checkout receipt.

The receipt shows that on the twenty-seventh instant of December 2006, at one o’clock in the afternoon, a woman named, incredibly, "JAMES, JOYCE" checked out what is now my precious tome along with three other books: When I Loved Myself Enough; Finding Peace: Letting Go and Liking It; and Authentic Happiness: Using the New Positive Psychology to Realize Your Potential for Lasting Fulfillment.

Could the possibly unwary Ms. James have assumed that self-help would likewise be forthcoming from Alice Munro? I certainly hope not, because, while invariably brilliant, Alice Munro stories can be whopping downers.

Example 2. My retired library copy of Thomas Hardy's The Mayor of Casterbridge.

This sturdy little linen-bound gem came from the library of Cleveland High School, Portland, Ore. It was published by Harper & Row at some indeterminate point after 1950, as part of the Harper's Modern Classics series.

And here's the fun discovery: a pasted checkout label showing just two withdrawals—twelve years apart.

On September 30, 1964, my little red Hardy book was checked out by a Miss MaryAnn Hillstein. It then collected dust until September 8, 1976, when a Miss Vickie Peck, bless her heart, condescended to withdraw it too.

See what I mean?

* Intentional homage to American Idol.
And "Happy Birthday!" Kristin.

# # #

Help me Rhonda

Rhonda, I'm having a heap of trouble deciphering what a Pulitzer-Prize winning author was trying to express in these two sentences from one of her early short stories (emphases mine):

1. She has spent her life trying to escape from the parlor-like jaws of self-consciousness.

2. Her late marriage has set in upon her nerves like a retriever nosing and puffing through old dead leaves out in the woods.

Parlor-like jaws, Rhonda? As in doily-draped jaws, or jaws protruding from a yellowing linen lampshade bedecked with dingy tufted fringe? How can "jaws" be "parlor-like," Rhonda? Feel me?

While you're chewing on that one, let's move on to the retriever.

There's something amiss here. The author doesn't say how near or how far those specific woods might be vis-a-vis the nerves being set in upon by the retriever's allegedly objectionable nosing and puffing.

What if the woods lies waaaaay down the road from the cozy, parlor-like parlor in which the aforesaid nerves sip herbal tea while snugly wrapped in a fleece throw; a calico cat perhaps comfortably curled up and purring in their (the nerves') lap? Under those circumstances, a retriever, acting in the capacity of a metaphoric proxy for marriage, couldn't do much "setting in upon" anything, I wouldn't think.

And what's the big deal about a retriever snorting around in dead leaves anyway, Rhonda? That's a totally idyllic image as far as I'm concerned. Consider this not implausible scenario:

It's a brisk fall afternoon. Twilight's setting in upon my by now ginormously soothed nerves as I stroll homeward through the idyllic autumnal woods, anticipating with mounting relish the mug of piping hot cocoa—all tricked up with midget marshmallows—awaiting me at the kitchen table, thanks to the infallible thoughtfulness of my good wife. And notice how ol' Big Feller, my loyal and hale retriever, fuels my equanimity even further as he trots hither and yon, a-nosin' and a-puffin' through the lush carpet of old dead leaves. "What'cha lookin' for, Big Feller, huh? What'cha lookin' for, boy? Heh-heh."

I believe I've made my point.

So. What's the deal? Is it that the leaves crackle inordinately? Is that it, Rhonda? Or is it that the sonofabitch retriever is so goddamn single-mindedly persistent?

If that's the case, the author's meaning might more lucidly have been expressed with a few deft revisions (in bold):

Her late marriage has set in upon her nerves like some crazy-ass relentless bloodhound nosing and puffing for the waning scent of a fleeing thief's stinking B.O. through old dead leaves ... etc.

Or something.

# # #

How come non-Catholics are better Catholics than Catholics are?

This has nothing to do with the specific moral issues I'm about to cite. It has everything to do with self-deception on an Orwellian Doublethink scale. Or an Emperor's New Clothes scale, take your pick.

Imagine attending a vegetarians' convention and discovering that barbecued ribs and brisket are getting the most play at the buffet table. That's what I'm talking about here. Vegetarians lovin' their barbecue. As in ...

Sex Outside Marriage
The Catholic Church says, "No, no, no." Sixty-seven percent of Catholics versus 57 percent of non-Catholics say, "Yes, yes, yes." The better Catholics? Non.

Homosexuality
The Catholic Church says, "No, no, no." Fifty-four percent of Catholics versus 45 percent of non-Catholics say, "Yes, yes, yes." The better Catholics? Non.

Divorce
The Catholic Church says, "No, no, no." Seventy-one percent of Catholics versus 66 percent of non-Catholics say, "Yes, yes, yes." The better Catholics? Non.

Unmarried Motherhood
The Catholic Church says, "No, no, no." Sixty-one percent of Catholics versus 52 percent of non-Catholics say, "Yes, yes, yes." The better Catholics? Non.

Embryonic Stem-Cell Research
The Catholic Church says, "No, no, no." Sixty-three percent of Catholics versus 62 percent of non-Catholics say, "Yes, yes, yes." The better Catholics? Non.

These are Gallup Poll stats, by the way.

So. My question is, How can you be something and not be that thing at the same time? I'm of the opinion you can't, any more than you can shun your meat and eat it too.

In other words, Catholics whose beliefs deviate from their Church's position on any issue are de facto non-Catholics. Furthermore, I think the world would be a better place if they stopped kidding themselves and did the right thing by dropping out.

In too many ways we all, Catholics and non-Catholics alike, cut ourselves too much slack. Pay too much lip service to too many matters of major and minor import. Especially major.

We commit ourselves partially; which amounts to not committing at all.

# # #

Son of look it up

Speaking of deficient dictionaries, I wrote an unanswered—or more accurately, an unsatisfactorily answered (same diff)—letter a year or two ago to a vice president at Wiley Publishing, where the default dictionary used by the Associated Press comes from, suggesting the overwhelming need for a compact dictionary (i.e., 60,000 entries or fewer) containing big words only. And by "big" I don't necessarily mean syllables up the butt.

I asserted in my letter that there's a niche going unfilled for a compact dictionary for people who already know the definition of tree, but not necessarily of twee. A dictionary a grad student could conveniently carry around in a backpack, or a dude (e.g., me) could effortlessly snatch from the nightstand while reading by flashlight in bed.

I mean, what in the heck are all these compact-dictionary publishers thinking? Ninety percent of the words collegiate types and voracious readers of challenging content want to look up aren't going to be found in a compact dictionary. And a regular dictionary is too doggone heavy to lift through a smooth arc with a single outstretched arm while supine in the sack—short of incurring tennis elbow.

So I think they need to publish a compact dictionary chock full of such less commonly encountered words as dirigisme and quiddity, with words like dog and quiet left out. I've already written the letter; somebody else can do the petitions.

Oh-oh. The clock on the wall says it's Tangent Time. Let's go off on one. ...

My son and I were watching Wild Things the other night. The episode concerned the Thompson's gazelles inhabiting that stupendous grassland known as the African savanna. It focused almost exclusively on the growth and development—from birth through first birthday—of one adorable little male gazelle. At the end of the program the narrator noted that the yearling would now have to fend for himself. To which Daniel quipped, "So he has to find his own grass?"

# # #

I have big problems

... with Wheel of Fortune. Problems I'd like to share with you.

First off, the producers are cheapskates. They go out of their way to make sure contestants don't get to take home all that much coin. In support of this thesis I offer the following particulars:

1. Prize placards cover the dollar values on too many of the wheel's wedges. A contestant gets to pluck the placard if he or she calls a letter that's in the puzzle, but receives zero dollars for doing so. A big ouch! when there's like five T's.

2. There are way too many BANKRUPT spins. This not only holds down the cash awards by regularly erasing accumulated sums, but makes contestants leery of trying to spin their way to big bucks. They routinely jump straight to solving for fear of losing even the meager monies amassed to that point.

3. Eighty percent of the time, spinning the bonus wheel at the end of the show yields the bottom-level prize ($25,000 or $30,000 depending on how recent the episode). That's because, even though they make the bonus puzzle ridiculously difficult with off-the-wall solutions like ZINC COATED, the producers urgently want no one to win more than the minimum cash award if humanly possible. Which turns out to be very humanly possible, in most cases, for those relatively rare, uncommonly creative thinkers who can indeed sort out ...

_ _ N _

_ _ATED

... within ten seconds.

Next, the contestants themselves. My main problem with the contestants themselves, apart from the intimidating (and therefore excitement-extinguishing) effect all those BANKRUPT spaces have on them, is that even when they obviously know a puzzle's solution they'll frequently go ahead and buy another vowel and wastefully shave another $250 off their potential haul. Or worse still, they'll call a letter that appears just once in the puzzle instead of an equally obvious letter appearing two or three times, thereby earning only a thousand dollars, say, instead of two thousand or three thousand for the spin. In other words, they too often shoot selves in feet.

Finally, my biggest Wheel of Fortune beef of all: THE INCESSANT, POINTLESS CLAPPING.

Man! Every damn time a contestant spins the damn wheel they all stand there clapping like trained seals until it stops spinning. Clapping for what? FOR WHAT? I ask. Why do you clap, people? WHY? Why not pop and lock until the spinning stops? The Pavlovian clapping would be delightfully bizarre were it not so freaking annoying.

As for Vanna White, I have no problems at all with Vanna White.

# # #

When Erin and Irene were ten

Erin's stomach was in knots that morning about homework gone undone, and the drive to school had thus assumed the dreadful aspect of a trip to certain doom.

I could see fear distorting her features as we traveled up Catalpa, and offered some unsolicited (what other kind is there?) fatherly advice about attacking it head-on. Go straight to the teacher, I proposed. Tell her you forgot to bring home your math book. Ask for a day's grace on the homework assignment. That's all you can do, and you'll feel better after doing it no matter what.

Maybe she took my advice, maybe she didn't. I can’t recall. But I do recall what Irene Henderson, an amiable business acquaintance, told me later that morning.

Irene, a thickset, hyperactive woman of winning disposition and grizzled hair haphazardly piled above perpetually twinkling eyes, spoke of her childhood in Poland. ...

Of standing twice against a wall to be shot by Nazis ...

Of trudging bootless and coatless through knee-deep snow ...

Of dislocating both wrists hauling buckets on labor gangs ...

Of almost going crippled from rickets.

Then Irene pulled up a pant leg to show me the scar on her calf from a bullet that had grazed her leg when she, like Erin, was ten.

# # #