AM Radio

AM Radio

I abandoned AM radio years ago, when the country oldies station switched to non-stop coverage of the baseball game. (Historical note: There is only one baseball game. It started in 1908 and is expected to wrap up in the 2050’s, or the 2070’s if it goes into overtime. This explains why it is referred to as the ‘old’ ball game.) Baseball fans are a patient lot, surviving on peanuts and crackerjacks, not caring if they ever get back, content to watch nothing much happen as the decades crawl by and pine tar fossilizes to amber. Like the guildsmen who built the great cathedrals, they don’t expect discernible progress in a single lifetime.

Long-time listeners may recall the flurry of excitement in 1988 when the announcer, who had dozed off in 1916, was awakened by the sharp report of fans’ joints popping during the mandatory 118^th inning stretch. Startled and confused by what he thought was gunfire, he declared the U.S. under attack and exhorted all his listeners (seven) to take up arms against Kaiser Wilhelm II. Officials called a brief intermission until the announcer regained his composure and nodded off again. Fans tolerated the delay with their usual serenity, and used the time to memorize statistics such as Randy Johnson's inseam (67 inches) and each player's REI, or Required Expectoration Index (114 spits per hour).

Not everyone has the dedication, focus, and bladder capacity to be a baseball fan, but a simple test can determine if you have what it takes. Watch this space. This one. Right here. Just…keep…watching… Anything happening? No? And are you having fun? Great! You’re a potential baseball fan! Now for the test that separates the true aficionados from the merely comatose: Does this activity continue to fascinate you for the next eleven or twelve hours? Try it!

Anyway. Recently, to my great delight, I've found a number of stations that play the music of my youth. This was a motley assortment of genres, thanks to ‘record of the month’ clubs. At first we enjoyed affixing little stickers to the order forms, but as the months rolled on, my mother became increasingly desperate to find something, anything, to order. I don’t know what would have happened if she opted out -- “Mom, there are some RCA guys at the door. They have a 20-album set of Lawrence Welk’s Polka Hymns of Accordion Joy” and they won’t leave until you sign for it” -- but rather than find out, she’d choose something at random and hope for the best.

That is how Tex Ritter’s “Blood on the Saddle” lurched into our lives. It was the sad tale of a cowboy’s demise when a “bronco fell on him and bashed in his head,” delivered in Tex’s mournful croak. Imagine a suicidal, two-pack-a-day whiskey-gargling bullfrog, and that would be Shirley Temple compared to Tex. The dirge had only three verses, with lyrics consisting mostly of “bloooood.” Tex loaded up the word with all the misery at his masterful command, and it sent my sister and me into tears-in-the-eyes, pain-in-the-side, snorting hiccupping sputtering laughter every time we played the song. Which was often. One day the album mysteriously disappeared, leaving us no choice but to sing it ourselves. Often.

Any reference to “Blood on the Saddle” was forbidden during meals, after demonstrations that laughter on its way out overpowers food on its way in, and milk can be spewed a remarkable distance out of any cranial aperture, with the possible exception of ears.

So then the game began; the goal, of course, was to frame one’s sibling while maintaining the illusion of innocence. Whispering was risky, but sometimes under the cover of conversation it was possible to get away with “Please pass the salt – and bloooood .” My sister developed a sudden inability to hold her napkin and utensils; from under the table would come a mournful “There was bloooood…” And by the time she reappeared I’d be banished to the kitchen, wiping milk from my nose.

But “Blood on the Saddle” was a cheery romp through daisy fields compared to Hank Snow’s “When Tragedy Struck.” Mom ordered it for my dad; she wasn’t a country music fan herself, but she figured she couldn’t go too far wrong with a country singer named Hank. My sister and I enjoyed the album; it hit that thin line between tragedy and comedy and just kept going. Dogs and gray-haired Mamas shuffled off this mortal coil, children breathed their last, blind orphans and prisoners lamented their sad lot; altogether an impressive amount of agony packed into ten songs.

Our favorites featured sanctimonious children who took to their deathbeds spouting flowery prose, which we cheerfully lifted. “Don’t make me go to bed, Papa, and I’ll be good,” became our bedtime refrain. When told to pick up after ourselves, we’d launch into a duet of

“Mother dear, come bathe my forehead

For I’m growing very weak.

Mother, let one drop of water

Fall upon my burning cheek…

Mother, soon I’ll be an angel

By, perhaps, another day.

So if you will, my dearest Mother,

Put my little shoes away.”

Dearest Mother informed us just what cheeks would be burning if we didn’t get to work, and sent Hank to join Tex in gloomy exile.

Most of our old record collection has gone to that big turntable in the sky, so I’m delighted to hear the songs of my youth on the radio. Sadly, Tex and Hank remain missing from the playlist; maybe they went out to the ball game. I’ll let you know if they ever get back. Watch this space.

Medic Alert

Back when tobacco-sponsored medical dramas showed people smoking in planes, restaurants and oxygen tents, Hollywood portrayed heath-care professionals as quiet heroes devoted to their patients' well-being. Sure, Ben Casey got angry, but only when the St. Nicotinia Hospital administrators balked at the experimental treatment (smoking) that could save little Susie, or when nurses neglected their duties:

“This patient needs surgery! Get a match, STAT!”

“The patient's AB negative, Doctor.”

“No, a MATCH! How do you expect me to operate without a cigarette? Just put the ashtray on the pancreas. Now sponge my forehead, and flick my ash away from the spleen.”

TV doctors don't smoke anymore. Instead they're sex-crazed substance-abusing megalomaniacs, which would be okay, except they're also mean. They've forgotten the gentle example of doctors Kildare and Welby, who never bullied their patients or whacked them with a cane. Doc Adams patiently dug bullets out of Dodge City's slow-draws, even though they were guest stars and therefore doomed. Bones McCoy may have been brusque at times (“Dammit, Jim! I'm a doctor, not a fiduciary actuarial analyst!”) but he did his best, even for the red-shirted Security personnel who never lived past the opening credits.

Like their predecessors, today's docs cure their patients (except the ones that main characters fall in love with; they're doomed). But first they misdiagnose the illness, subject the patient to painful tests and treatments, and probe secrets out of personal histories and even-more-personal orifices.

While real-life doctors may not be as abusive as their on-screen counterparts, they fail to grasp that when patients put on flimsy gowns missing essential ties and lacking yards of fabric, they cease to be reality-based life forms and become quivering blobs of terrified protoplasm convinced of impending doom. Perhaps health-care providers could be required to read a statement to patients, as police are required to Mirandize suspects:

"Don't panic! These are routine tests. We promise not to report the results in an ambiguous phone message at 4:55 on Friday before a three-day weekend so you have to worry about it until Monday and play it over and over trying to decide if our tone is somber or reassuring. Again, don't panic! Unless you're a guest star or love interest or wearing a red shirt.)”

Or perhaps an interpreter could silently shadow each doctor and indicate, through gestures and facial expressions, when the doctor strays into medical flights of fancy. A headshake and eyeroll could reassure the patient that, even though a case of kleptoparabisonymia would make a fascinating article for the American Journal of Medical Wishful Thinking, it's an extremely unlikely diagnosis. (This would also provide mimes with gainful employment and get them off the streets, where they don't get run over nearly often enough.)

Perhaps one day the inadequate gowns will be made of mood-sensing material, so doctors could tell when they've alarmed the patient:

Doctor: Your test results show a slight elevation in your polyesteriptides. Have you ever been to Pago Pago?

Patient: Nooo... (ohmygodIhavesomehorribletropicaldiseaseI'mdoomed)

D: I'm considering it for my next vacation. Tahiti's just too touristy now....

P: Hunh.

D: (to nurse) I'm reminded of an interesting paper I read in the latest AJMWT. The patient had ingested a larvae-infested papaya...

P: (Oh my god! I've eaten papaya! Or was it mango? I'm doooooomed!)

D: The larvae hatched into three-foot long worms that traveled throughout the bloodstream. The patient complained of feeling like his skin was crawling...

P: (AAAAHHHH!!! My skin IS crawling!!)

D: Now what made me think of that? Oh yes! I had fruit salad at lunch. With papaya. Or maybe mango.. Now, where were we?

P: Uhhhhhh....

D: Right. Your singing angiogram was a little flat, but within normal range. We also checked your trinomials and porte-cocheres, and would like to follow up with a look at your medusa arigato. Have you had any pain on your right side?

P: Ye-es, now that you mention it.... (Ohmygod! I probably have major organs on my right side!)

D: Oh well, not to worry. Now if it was your left side...

Doctor and nurse laugh knowingly.

P: (Ohmygod! Maybe it was my left side! I'm doooooomed!)

D: Just a little medical humor there. Ha Ha!

P: (doomed doomed doomed)

Mood-sensing gown bursts into flames. Interpreter mimes using a fire extinguisher. Doctor and nurse light cigarettes and discuss their article for the AJMWF. Patient is doomed.

Be It Hereby Resolved

This year, due to continuing lack of support from family and friends, I'm giving up my traditional resolution of not smoking in the New Year. I can no longer face their mockery and derision when I joyously proclaim another day/week/month without a cigarette. It hurts when they roll their eyes and snort bitter laughs. “You don’t smoke,” they tell me. “You’ve never smoked. You can’t resolve to quit smoking unless you are, in fact, a smoker. Look it up.”

So this year, I resolve to stay out of prison.

I also resolve to resist being drawn into conversation with blinky-eared people. No place is safe from them. Last week I was selecting Granny Smiths in the Piggly-Wiggly when I heard, “The bananas look good.”

I looked across the fruit display to see a young woman in business clothes.

I replied, “Yes, they do, don't they?”

“Should I get some?”

Always happy to help a fellow shopper, I answered, “Sure, why not?”

“How many do you want?” she asked.

“Oh, none, thank you. I'm getting apples.”

She changed the subject. “What about cheese?”

“Um, well, cheese is good with apples...”

“And ice cream?”

Our conversation seemed to be veering off-track, but I did my best.

“I don't know that cheese is good with ice cream,” I told her.

The young woman shot me a look of annoyance and said “Do you MIND!” As she turned away, I saw the blinking light by her ear and heard her say, “I don't know. Some crazy lady... Do you need milk?”

I’ve decided the real challenge of resolutions is finding the right people to share them with. Those closest to you know too much, and complete strangers don’t respond with the desired encouragement. When they fail to see a blinky light by your ear, they scurry nervously away down the cereal aisle.

The ideal confidants are casual acquaintances who will be simultaneously fascinated to learn of your vices, and impressed by your willpower in giving them up.

“Really?” they exclaim in wonderment. “You just went cold turkey on (insert vice here)? “Wow. Must be tough. Have some chocolate. Or would you prefer tequila?”

I resolve to find those people.

A Heart-Warming Holiday Tale

At this sentimental time of year, even the most hard-bitten snarks here in the Soup Tureen find their thoughts turning to home and family. Please indulge us as we share an old favorite; a holiday tale that speaks to us of what this season truly means…

As usual, he was the last to leave the towering office building that bore his name. International business didn't keep holiday hours, and neither did he. It was this drive and determination that had lifted him out of the tenements to the pinnacle of success.

“Home,” he told his driver, and opened his briefcase.

At a red light, he lifted his eyes from his papers. The sidewalks were crowded with people carrying bags and parcels, and he remembered it was Christmas Eve. Through the passing shoppers he glimpsed an old woman huddled in an alley. Her ragged coat offered scant protection against the biting cold, and her feet showed through the tattered remains of her shoes.

She was just another of the city's wretched bits of flotsam, but something about her touched him. On a sudden impulse, he told his driver to stop in front of an Army surplus store. He quickly selected a pair of sturdy boots, and told the puzzled driver to return to the alley.

The old woman hadn't moved. He placed the boots in the dirty snow in front of her and waited. She slowly raised her grey head, and her tired old eyes met his. She picked up the boots and held them a moment, as though she couldn't believe what he had given her, then chucked them at his head.

"Jeez," he exclaimed, dodging. "Way to hold a grudge, Ma!"

Happy holidays from Snark Soup. May your days be merry and bright, and your reflexes quick.

Wine Appreciation

During this season of revelry, you may find yourself at gatherings featuring the nectar of the grape. If you and your friends are of a certain age*, this consumption could take the form of judicious sips from actual stemware, followed by hushed contemplation, thoughtful discussion, and near-lethal boredom. You may be tempted to fake a phone call, or a seizure, so you can escape and search for the nearest real party**, but this is considered bad form. However, you aren't doomed to endure an evening of tedium. Science has discovered a consistent 1:3 ratio of wine snobs to wine bottles***, and since the bottles aren't going to provide much entertainment, the snobs will have to do. All you need are a few handy phrases, and you too can join in worshiping the waste product of yeast.

Like abstract art criticism (“This piece displays an insouciant solemnity in counterpoint to its theme of creative decay. The artist studied in Newfoundland, you know"), wine appreciation relies heavily on paired antonyms. Once you memorize a few additional descriptors, you'll be ready to slosh, sip and spit with the most sophisticated oenophiles. The following terms will get you through an evening; just reaarange them for each new bottle.

“This Topo Grigio charms the palate with its degenerate innocence of citrus, punctuated by a rich chalkiness and a palsied twitch of over-upholstered pomegranate, threaded through a stony finish of musty acidity, with a lingering top note of, am I right, peonies?" Then sit back while the wine snobs debate whether there is indeed a hint of peony, or is it perhaps anise?

Stuff a few of the tiny napkins in your mouth if you get the urge to laugh. It's considered gauche to giggle wine out your nose.****

*and not Newfoundlanders

** with Newfoundlanders

*** not valid in Newfoundland

**** except in Newfoundland

Talkin' Texan

When my family moved to southern California, I was a homesick under-sized fourth-grader on the wrong side of a language barrier. Born and raised on the Gulf Coast, I was an uprooted daughter of the Lone Star State, and my native tongue was Texan.

“But that’s English,” you may say. And I may say the same, except I’ll extend some syllables and ignore others, and twist vowels into sounds that aren’t listed in any pronunciation guide. I know. I researched it when Small Child’s homework instructed him to circle pictures of items with the short ‘a’ sound. Cat, yes; rake, no; a paper container used to carry groceries -- “Well, that depends,” I said. “Did your teacher call this a bag or a sack?” He didn’t know.

I consulted Large Child. He rolled his eyes and explained that both words have the same vowel sound. Not when I say ‘em, they don’t. The ensuing argument made up in volume what it lacked in vocabulary:

“No, listen! Bag! Sack! Same!”

“No! Baaag! Sack! Diff’rint!”

Small Child wandered off to supervise the on-going battle between Power Rangers and assorted super-heroes, while Large Child and I pulled out reference books. They all supported his position but I remained unconvinced, especially since they failed to acknowledge the dual-syllabic ‘a’, as in “Bayad dawg!” and “Dayam!”

I considered asking my English teacher colleagues, but decided not to risk it. At a faculty meeting I’d said that our new schedule left me feeling like I’d been rode hard and put away wet. It was fourth-grade all over again.

Learning to speak West Coast English wasn’t my only challenge at Midland Elementary. There were also cultural differences waiting to blindside the unwary newcomer. The first time the teacher called on me I leapt to my feet and responded, “Yes, Ma’am?” (Ma’am is a two-syllable word, by the way. It rhymes with dayam.)

There was a moment of stunned silence before the room erupted. I sank into my desk, willing the San Andreas Fault to open up and swallow me. The teacher, bless her heart, managed to keep a straight face as she restored order. I resolved to hush up, watch and listen until I mastered the dialect and customs of my new home.

I have a quick ear and I think I’ve purt’ near mastered English as spoken outside my home state, but traces of Texas linger. ‘Y’all’ has a permanent place in my lexicon because it’s so useful; I don’t know how y’all manage without it. Other words are not so easily employed. I’ve had to explain caddy-wampus and kitty-corner, play-purties and stink-purty, chiffarobe and monstrosity. (Translations: off-kilter; diagonal; toys; perfume; a wardrobe; and any large piece of furniture with multiple purposes. Mine is a desk/china cabinet.)

The word ‘tired’ remains troublesome. I just can’t muster up the energy to enunciate tie-erd when I am, in fact, tahred. (“And feathered, too?” wags enquire.) I’ve tried to navigate around it, but substituting ‘plumb tuckered’ just brings new problems.

I’ve learned that confusion and/or hilarity ensue if I neglect to utilize my internal Texan-English translator. If I say, “I might-could-oughta hang fire on buyin’ a new chiffarobe ‘til I can get over to Ikea. It’s a fur piece, but worth the trip,” people think I’m planning an indecisive fiery protest against the fur trade. (“But Ikea doesn’t even sell chiffarobe fur!” they whisper.)

Telling my sons “Y’all hush” has the opposite effect, and asking Large Child to “reach me down” something from a high shelf invites a gleeful grammar lesson.

I must admit, sometimes I’m not even sure what I mean. I’ve always used ‘It don’t make me no never-mind’ to indicate neutrality, but a friend from North Carolina is adamant that it means ‘I don’t want to.’ I’ve been unable to find a rule about triple negatives, so she may be right. But she also insists that ‘cut on the light’ makes perfect sense as the opposite action of ‘cut off the light.’

Many expressions have outlived their origins. Few of us tote muzzle-loaders nowadays, but ‘hang fire’ hangs on. My tattered Joy of Cooking makes no mention of egg-sucking (although it does offer instructions on how to skin a squirrel) but ‘Teach your grandma to suck eggs’ remains a useful response to unwanted advice because today’s know-it-alls have no idea what it means. Confused, they vanish like ninjas.

I retain a fondness for many sayings that drawled through my childhood, even though experience has taught me not to voice them. My Okie Daddy often declared something or someone ‘useless as teats on a boar hog.’ It’s a perfectly fine expression. Lincoln used it, but I can’t recommend that you do the same. People fall about laughing, which is also the response you’ll get if you complain that you feel like you’ve been ‘shot at and missed, and shit at and hit.’

Texan is a colorful language. Even the colors are colorful; fish-belly white, shit-brindle brown, goat-vomit green. And Texans cuss. They cuss cheerfully, creatively, and habitually. Cussing is natural as breathing, and just about as hard to stop for any length of time. Conversations with preachers are, of necessity, brief.

This creativity vanishes when naming, or nick-naming, people. Every family in my small town had a multitude of Bubbas and Sissies. To distinguish between them, at family gatherings you’d hear “Ask Aunt Sissy where she keeps her big spoons” and “Tell Cousin Bubba we need more ice.” This may have given rise to the belief that Southerners intermarry with casual abandon.

Despite the overabundance of Bubbas and Sissies, accurate identification could be achieved through context:

“Sissy, are you sitting down? You’ll never believe what I heard from Sissy at the beauty shop! She said Bubba at the bank run off with that red-headed Sissy.”

“Ohmylord! The one from the café?”

“No, you know the one, that tall realtor gal.”

“Ohmylord! Does Sissy know?”

And so on.

I’ve heard that language shapes culture, and my native tongue certainly shaped me. To this day I’m reluctant to travel north of the 35^th parallel, thanks to the alarming expressions that sprang to shivering lips every time a blue norther chilled Nueces County. If it got cold enough in southeast Texas to freeze certain intimate appendages off a metallic simian, I shudder to think what life must be like on the frozen steppes of, say, Missouri. Given my druthers, I’ll stay in southern climes. Being parboiled in sweat may be uncomfortable, but you won’t lose any body parts, and that’s a fact.

With a short ‘a’.

Jane Seymour's Guide to Lab Safety

(previously published in the Arizona Daily Star)

I began teaching science back when Einstein still combed his hair, and each year has added to my list of “don’ts.” Don’t eat the chemicals. Don’t stick flammable objects (pencil, paper, your partner) in the burner flame. If you get acid on your thumb and it becomes uncomfortable, don’t lick it off.

I used to wonder why I had to spell out these common-sense caveats for students, until I saw something on TV that clearly identified the source of the problem. The culprit is Jane Seymour.

I admit I’m not a fan of Ms. Seymour, mostly because of an interview in which she described how she regained her slender figure 17 minutes after giving birth to twins. She credited an exercise program that featured a huge rubber band, which she ate. This gave her a pleasant feeling of fullness, thus preventing her from eating anything else. Ever. (Correction: I have just been informed that Ms. Seymour never ate a huge rubber band. Ms. Seymour is a devotee of natural methods to enhance health and beauty, so she would never utilize a huge rubber band as a weight-loss aid. It was, in fact, a gigantic tapeworm, organically hand-raised by Tibetan monks.) (Further correction: I have now been informed that Ms. Seymour does not utilize tapeworms, either. She is blessed with a high metabolism and eats whatever she wants without gaining an ounce. This is greatly admired by her many adoring fans, who I ask not to hurt me.)

Anyway, Ms. Seymour, smiling sweetly and surrounded by her staff of 67, explained that there is no excuse for any woman not to quickly regain her pre-pregnancy figure, because the rubber band exercise program is so simple and takes only moments a day. Then she unhinged her lovely jaw and swallowed her personal trainer.

That interview, though annoying, is not why I blame Ms. Seymour for my students’ confusion about lab safety. No, the reason is her TV show, “Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman,” in which an 1880’s American frontier doctor relied on her skill, spunk, and a huge rubber band to perform medical procedures no one else dared attempt. Brain surgery, kidney transplants, extreme makeovers -- nothing was too much for Dr. Quinn. “This patient needs cheek and chin implants right now! We can’t wait 100 years for the medical technology that will make it possible! Light the lantern, fetch the carbolic acid and fire up the LaserJet 6000! I’m going in!”

I never would have seen the show if not for my son’s fascination with cows. While his “Tom Kitten” video rewound after our 987th viewing, to his great delight there appeared upon the TV screen “COWCOWCOWCOWCOW!!!” It was a cow-intensive episode of “Dr. Quinn.” She and some other pioneer folk were herding cattle (cloned by Dr. Quinn) from Malibu to Cannes when they realized they were in the path of a prairie fire. Much consternation ensued, but there was only one course of action to take. Since the prairie on the other side of the fire had already burned, it was now safe. So everyone had to run through the giant wall of flame to get there.

I’m not sure how Dr. Quinn and company convinced the cattle and horses of the wisdom of this plan, animals generally having more sense than Hollywood writers, but sure enough, everyone made it through unignited. Dr. Quinn appeared last, after a suspenseful pause. One cheek artfully smudged, she gracefully swooned from the wagon seat into the arms of a guy who looked like a refugee from the cover of a romance paperback. All ended happily, and I was left to flip through my Fire Safety Manual looking for the section on ‘Stop, Drop and Run into the Wall of Flames.’ (It’s not there.)

Now, how can we expect our youth to understand and follow safety procedures when Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman so blatantly disdained them? Not that she’s the only safety scofflaw. Walker, Texas Ranger (or his stunt double) routinely defied the laws of physics and most of the contiguous 48 states as he fought the evil minions of K.A.O.S., T.H.R.U.S.H., and S.P.E.C.T.R.E. Even worse, Walker refused to have a stunt double sing his theme, inflicting untold emotional distress on the American public by warbling it himself. (“Cause the eyes of the Ranger are upon yewww, any wrong yew do he’s gonna see...”)

Correction: I have been informed that young people today have never seen “Dr. Quinn” or “Walker, Texas Ranger”, and that I should turn my attention to someone named Vin “ the Rock” Diesel.

PS “Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman” fans: Please stop slashing my tires.
PPS “Walker, Texas Ranger” fans: Yewww, too.