Tag Archives: humor

THE GRAND OPENING

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by Kent Ballard

Author’s note: Every word of this is true.

One of the drawbacks to rural life is the lack of big name entertainment. When I was seven years old, in 1960, I realized it was pretty unlikely that Soupy Sales or Steve Allen would ever make a public appearance in a corn field near me. Live entertainment usually consisted of playing baseball with my dog or riding Old Mary, our Holstein, around in the barn lot.

One day while watching the afternoon cartoons on our ancient Philco, I was astonished when the host announced that he was going to make a public appearance at a new furniture store opening in the little town near our farm. There would be sing-alongs, magic tricks, and a free treat for every boy and girl in attendance.

The host was a nice man named Happy Harry, and he was immensely popular with all of the local children. He reported for duty every afternoon in a crisp white sailor’s suit and cap, played passable guitar, and best of all, ran lots of cartoons. He opened his show with a warm smile and a cheerful song, and he closed it with the admonition for all of us “good little sailors” to mind our moms and dads and say our prayers at night.

Being a farm kid, I had never seen a real celebrity before, and this would be my first. I knew Happy Harry was a star because I had seen him on TV. That was what I kept telling my mother as she loaded me into our ’58 Ford on the big day. I was going to see my hero. And get a prize!

He was to appear at noon. We got there twenty minutes early and found about a hundred other kids and their mothers packed tightly around a rickety-looking platform. My Mom wanted to make sure I had a good view so she started trying to cram me forward. She succeeded only in wedging me in between other mothers who were trying to cram their kids ahead. It was a hot day and they smelled funny.

Noon came. Noon went. No Happy Harry.

By 12:30, the crowd was making its displeasure pretty vocal. The store manager made a few lame excuses, reassured everybody that there would be prizes and fun galore, then hastily departed the stage.

A little after 1:00, the crowd was soaked in sweat and openly hostile when Happy Harry lurched onto the platform. He had about three days’ growth of beard. His sailor suit—so spotless and creased on TV—was rumpled and stained. His hair was sticking out at odd angles from under a greasy swabbie’s cap planted far back on his head, and he was drunker than any human being I would see for the next fifteen years.

He mumbled something about being late, swayed to and fro silently for a moment, then launched into a rambling and largely unintelligible story about Popeye, who he referred to as his “ol’ drinkin’ buddy.” He paused in mid-sentence a couple of times to leer wickedly at some of the younger mothers and mutter under his breath.

Bear in mind that this was a very conservative rural community, and that this took place in 1960. Some of the mothers, shocked, dragged their protesting children away and swore to write Harry’s sponsors. Others marched into the store for a confrontation with the manager. But most of us, parents and children alike, stood in open-mouthed amazement as Happy Harry picked up his guitar and invented a new set of lyrics to his theme song, which he howled loudly while twisting and gyrating like Elvis.

Happy Harry then picked up a box of magic tricks, stared at it curiously for a moment, and sat it back down without a word. He was looking pretty bad by then; pale, sweating profusely, and unable to focus his eyes.

As kids often do when they find someone in a predicament, we turned utterly vicious and began taunting him and booing. My strongest memory of the day is of an older kid yelling, “Hey, Harry! What’s your REAL name? Tell us your REAL name, Harry!”

Happy Harry’s face turned purple with fury and his bloodshot eyes actually frightened me. “Happy Harry IS my real name!” He bellowed maniacally, “My first name’s ‘Happy’ and my last name’s ‘Harry’!” This was received with catcalls and squeals of derisive laughter. I have no idea why this is so vivid in my memory after fifty-four years. I guess it never occurred to me that Happy Harry may have, in fact, had another name. I was to learn much that day.

He attempted to regain control by slurring, “Hey kids, who wants a prize?” This quieted us for a moment until he held up a small bag of balloons. Obviously, he had balloons enough for only a fraction of the children present. There was a rush for the stage and the little kids in front were being mashed in the process. Happy Harry panicked and threw the balloons towards the rear of the crowd, a grave tactical error. The crush of children tried to reverse direction instantly and there was a stampede. Many children—including yours truly—were knocked down and trampled. While kids were crying and mothers were screaming, Happy Harry, wild-eyed and literally drooling, picked up a thick stack of publicity photos and threw them at everybody, cursing humanity in general and children in particular as he did so. The hapless store manager and a couple of burly employees rushed up onto the stage and grappled with Harry, giving him the bum’s rush down the steps and into the back door of the new store.

To the best of my knowledge, there were no lawsuits filed. (This was 1960, remember.) Happy Harry’s show remarkably continued for another year or so, then he was replaced by another, less memorable host. The local gossips in our community kept the telephone lines busy with lurid details about the grand opening, and the new store eventually went bankrupt.

For some time afterward, I was a major celebrity among my friends in the second grade who didn’t go to the store opening. They listened with rapt attention over and over as I described the “riot,” and within two weeks the story contained squad cars full of state troopers who, in desperation, turned police dogs and fire hoses onto the mob in order to quell the disturbance while Happy Harry fired a pistol wildly into the air…

Television has changed since those days, and not all for the better. Live TV is almost unheard of, and children’s shows rarely acknowledge the delight a child enjoys when watching an adult caught making outrageous mistakes. Kids do that all the time. Seeing grownups in a less than perfect light often has a reassuring effect. Perhaps, the kid will think, maybe I’m not so bad after all…

And that might be the best lesson we could teach them.

Looking back, that was one of the happiest afternoons of my life, even if I didn’t get a balloon. If I could meet Happy Harry now, I’d shake his hand and thank him.

But I damn sure wouldn’t by him a drink.

PLEASE ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF…

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by Kent Ballard

No, I’m not a man of wealth and taste, nor did I hold a general’s rank when the Blitzkrieg raged. That title may have confused me with someone else. But you won’t confuse me with Zach.

When Zach first approached me with the idea of a joint blog, him taking it one week, me taking it the other, I naturally assumed, “Jeeze, he’s far more desperate than I thought…” Then I remembered his recent shoulder surgery and figured he tires easily while hanging upside down like a bat to type. That was understandable enough. If the eyebolts in his ceiling ever work loose, he’d crash face-first into his computer and that would be the tragic loss of a good laptop.

So after some emailing and yakking over the phone, I’ve agreed to take over Just Sayin’ every other week for six months. When that time is up, we’ll figure out if we want to continue this odd marriage or if we want a divorce. (I’m going to hold out for the house and the furniture if it comes to that.)

I’ve known Zach for thirty years. I only met him face to face once, and then for only seven hours at another writer’s house. I remember the food being good and the liquor flowing freely. I quit drinking in 1999, and was amazed to see his photo when he started Just Sayin’ because I always thought he was the Chinese guy at the party. Turns out I’d been wrong all these years. This explains the strange looks I got from the Chinese gentleman when I began a tirade against him and the city of Boston over the Big Dig.

I agree with Zachary on many things. With everything else, I am right and he is wrong. That’s the American Way on the Internet, and I’m a proud supporter of my own beliefs. Years ago, on another forum, I pointed out that he was to the left of Vladimir Lenin. He unkindly reminded me that I had once called for a nuclear first strike on Massachusetts to rid the nation of socialists and ne’er-do-wells. I had in fact made that statement, but of course was simply joking. Multiple hydrogen bombs landing on Boston would only cause the Department of Homeland Security to take away yet more of our civil rights. Hey, if they can do it with a kettle bomb powered by charcoal…

Mr. Klein and I live not only in different worlds, but in different centuries. He lives the easy city life, where you can flip open your cell phone and get a pizza or chop suey dinner delivered to your front door. The city plows the snow off his streets. He has limitless luxuries like a four-minute police response should he call them, a fire department, hell, even paved streets. I used to have such things myself, for I lived in Indianapolis for twenty-three years. I hated it.

I was born and raised on a small farm one county east of Indy. I got a job in Indianapolis, met a girl, got married, and soon was tripping over kids toys in my yard. Turns out I had married the wrong girl so a divorce followed ten years later. I kept the house, the major appliances, and got joint custody of the kids. I am one of the very few men you will ever meet who actually won a divorce. (The judge thought she was awful too. He was right.) I then set out on a quest to get to know the rest of the ladies in Indianapolis in the Biblical sense, and was about halfway through the project when I found a quiet, meek, shy beauty and fell head over heels in love. Twenty-eight years later we are still together, and living with me has had its effect on her. She can cuss, clean fish, shoot her 9mm with deadly accuracy, and fears no living thing.

When our kids were grown and gone, it was during our peak earning years. I wanted out of the city, and she was happy to follow me. It took three solid years of searching, but we found our new home.

I can’t tell you which town I live in, because the nearest thing that would pass for a town is fourteen miles away. My home is in far west-central Indiana, in the middle of what is known as a “geologic anomaly.” The great mile-high sheets of frozen ocean paused here during the last Ice Age and carved out some extremely weird topography. Then it covered itself with forest. I own 71 acres of that land, my home being in the middle of it. My driveway is a half-mile long, going back into what appears to be the Black Forest. Beyond that is my dead-end road. Beyond that, and you have the most wretched mud-and-dust roads imaginable to the nearest blacktop. A very peculiar location, as I have the telephone number of one county, the mailing address of a second, and my home is actually in a third.

It keeps the riff-raff away. I value my privacy. We supposedly have a sheriff’s department around here somewhere, but they’re never seen this far into the boonies. My insurance company charges me the maximum rate for fire insurance, because in the event of a fire—as my agent explained—there will be nothing left except for the basement. The deep forest starts twenty yards to my south and east, about twelve yards to my north, and all the storms, lightning and snow come from the west. You could literally become hopelessly lost and never set foot off my property. I know. I did that for a couple of years.

We love it here. This is the kind of land you see in picture books and winter holiday greeting cards. It will also probably kill me someday when I grow too old to care for the land properly. When I want to hunt, I go out the back door. When I want to fish, I go out the front. I couldn’t do that in any city.

I’m the Police Chief, Fire Marshal, Mayor, and Chief Engineer here. I can pee off my front porch and shoot out my back door. We skinny-dip in our largest pond. The only loud sounds here are the ones I make. It’s very different from Boston. There is no pizza delivery, no Chinese delivery, no sirens, no door-to-door unconstitutional searches by paramilitary SWAT teams. Indiana is the only state in the Union which has a law on the books allowing you to shoot a uniformed police officer if he breaks into your home. (And a very strange court case behind that.) In the winter when the power goes out we simply step back 150 years and carry on. Our ancestors made out pretty well with kerosene lamps and wood burning stoves. We can too. And I defy anyone on the planet to show me a more serene, peaceful, and meditative spot than my little four-inch deep creek that bubbles through the forest at my extreme northern boundary. If I could bottle that sound, Prozac would go bankrupt.

I registered to vote during the first year 18 year-olds got suffrage, 1971. I was and am a registered Independent, though very few Independents run for anything nowadays. I consider myself a Libertarian and often wonder why Zach and I have not strangled each other over these many years. It’s because he’s a great guy and I’m not too bad a soul either. We are both well educated, stay well informed, both listen carefully to other points of view, and both see in shades of gray—not black and white. And when he comes away with some ridiculous, half-wit idea of how this world should work, it ain’t my fault.

I hope you’ll find me acceptable for this while. At one time or another I have argued with everyone I know and yet if I have an enemy, I’m not aware of it. All I ask of you is a chance. You may grow to like me too if you’re not careful.

 

 

 

 

 

NAKED IN HOOSIERLAND

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by Kent Ballard

You wouldn’t think it to look at him, but our esteemed blogger Zach is actually a pretty bright fellow. Recently he gave me an idea that’s worth pondering and perhaps implementing. I was complaining about all the tourists who come to my county for two weeks out of the year to see the brilliant fall foliage and to attend the county-wide festivals each little burg has during this time. If you are a local, if you actually live where people visit, you soon learn that all tourists are major pains in the ass and most consist of folks whom even Wal-Mart wouldn’t allow in their doors.

I was complaining about this at some length with Zach and he more or less said, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”

I do not have a machine which makes cotton candy. I don’t sell deep fried watermelon on a stick. I don’t have suppliers who sell me eight hundred pounds of cheap, worthless socks made by slave labor in Somolia or genuine Americana “antiques” which were made last summer in China. These are pretty much what all the booths and yard sales in our festival sell and I want no part of it.

Zach said to simply charge the rubes a few bucks to swim in my pond. I have 71 acres of forest in which I live and two ponds, one rather large. I dismissed his idea originally, but thought about it later…

The last time I checked, the state of Indiana had more nudist colonies per capita than any other state in the union. Nobody seems to know why, but we do. Why just charge people to swim? Why not put up a couple of dozen cheap cabins, throw up an eight foot wooden fence around my acreage, hire some security, and start my own nudist camp?

The initial cost of starting up such a colony would be pretty high, but have you ever checked what they charge families for two weeks to a month to relax in the nude at a skin camp? It’s appalling. A king’s ransom. But people line up to cheerfully pay every year. Established nudist resorts rake in more money than Vegas. Money interests me.

Let’s see…I already have the land. My home is so remote there is a plaque along my half-mile long driveway commemorating this as the place where dark was invented. It’s nothing but deep valleys, high ridges, ravines, and I think if you could flatten it all out it would equal Vermont in size. It’s mostly hardwood forest and, I think, rather pretty country. We have deer, many of them. We have huge barred owls that call to each other at night. We have coyotes who form choirs to serenade folks in the wee hours, driving every pet dog into howling fits for miles around. Off and on, we have bigfoot though I might want to leave that off the advertisements.

I’d need a tall wooden fence around the entire property, and probably a very wicked inner fence of razor wire to keep out the curious riff-raff. And I would need a few roving perimeter guards. I would hire the bigfoot, as they would be champs at this, but they’re not trustworthy when it comes to punching a time clock. So, instead, I would hire rural women to be the guards at my colony. I know many country women who could score “expert sniper” on any military gun range and most of them are quite attractive.

They also take no crap from anybody. Yes, rural women would be perfect perimeter guards.

I could buy a score or two of those prefabricated tiny houses or largish yard tool barns and convert them into rustic cabins lit by kerosene lamps. A few porta-potties scattered about would take care of those needs, and I could put small wash basins in the cabins. I’d have to build a shower house, but there would be no need to build a laundry. Those who wished to could bring their own camping gear and enjoy all this beautiful scenery and nakedness outdoors if they chose to.

We’d have nightly cookouts, card games, bingo, swimming contests, all the usual campground activities. I’d buy a few yards of cheap ribbon and hammer out some large medals for the Ms. & Mr. Nudist Camp contestants every month. It’d cost a ton to get everything set up, time before word got around to the nudists themselves (which means advertising), but once that was done and the colony established, I would be filthy, stinking rich.

I’d drive a custom-made Jeep. I’d hire people to cut my winter’s firewood. Hell, I could afford a new tractor! (Don’t scoff. The big ones run close to a quarter-million dollars. Google them if you think I’m kidding.) Best of all, I could make lots of nice, new, naked friends.

In rural Indiana the most savage enemies I would have would be the fine church-going people. They would protest. They would organize. They’d picket my front gate. I’m nowhere near a school or other public facility and I suppose a lengthy court battle might beat them, but I have friends in low places and it would be both cheaper and faster to identify the church ringleaders and grease a few of their palms. Failing that, a little detective work to get photos of everybody who’s screwing everybody else in their congregations would calm them down pronto.

So I’m now doing cost-study analyses and pricing lumber. Also checking on the cost of Viagra by the case. If I went full-tilt boogie and invested everything I have (and what I could borrow), I could pull this off. The critical point would happen when I bring this plan up with my lovely wife. Foolishly, I taught her how to shoot years ago and she’s quite good at it. As a rule she’s kind-hearted and gentle, but I cannot outrun a hail of 9 millimeter bullets so this would take great planning and preparation. She’s interested in money too, and that would help.

So…someday when you are perusing your favorite porn site, should you find an advertisement for Indiana’s newest nudist colony, contact me at the provided web address and I’ll send you brochures, maps, rates, and everything you need to know. Then plan your summer vacation here. And pack very lightly.

I may even treat you to shameful, horrible stories about Zach while grilling hamburgers, some of which would even be true. But for so kindly giving me the idea of how to become a rustic, backwoods Hugh Hefner or Larry Flynt, I’ll alter the names and dates which should give him a chance at explaining all this to his beloved Sue. If that doesn’t work I’ll send her a season pass.

You will have the vacation of a lifetime. You’ll broaden your horizons and eventually relax and embrace a tolerance of alterative lifestyles. Besides, it simply feels good to run around naked. Life is too short for Puritan prudishness. Try it and you will be surprised at how quickly you take to this refreshing and wholesome (by Indiana standards) lifestyle. You’ll get a killer tan too.

But we ask you. Please….no peeing in the pond.

You can’t get a suit of armor and a rubber chicken just like that. You have to plan ahead. Michael Palin

 

I SAW A TOILET LEAK

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“But I did not shoot the Deputy!”

Over the past two months one of our cats has been pissing in the house.  Though she finally stopped after two difficult-to-administer doses of Prozac, we’ve been on guard.  So, when I noticed a small puddle behind the toilet I approached gingerly.

Hmmm, during the last little while I’ve gotten used to identifying that cat smell at ten paces.  This was odd.  No odor.  Over the last several years of watching the multiple versions of CSI.  I feel I too have become a “spatter” expert.  And this spatter did not seem to constitute a crime.  But where is Grissom when you need him?

I moved in closer.  Still no odor.  With a Jewish sigh, I plodded to the kitchen for paper towels.  With a deeper one, I dropped to my knees and dried the floor.  Still no odor.  Then I noticed the pipe between the toilet and the wall had a turning knob on it.

Now those who don’t know me gotta be thinking who is this idiot?  Those who do might still be shaking their heads in wonderment, but understand that I am perfectly capable of walking past broken cabinets, handleless drawers, closet doors that won’t shut, and metal blinds twisted into grotesque modern sculptures without even seeing any of it.

Hell, the bottom wooden step leading to our house had lost a two slats (that someone kindly placed onto the porch) but it never occurred to me to do anything about them.  Drove my friend Bill so crazy he came over with an electric something (drill?) and screwed the planks in with the correct nails.  (Screws?)  Not really sure.

And there lies the problem.  Even if I actually see that something is broken, the only equipment I know how to use is duct tape.  Actually, it’s not pretty but perfect for many fixes–upholstery, holding things in place, and patching, but wouldn’t really work on steps.  As Sue all too often puts it, I’m a “Jew with tools.”

See, my idea of tools are mechanical pencils and I struggle to reload them.  Never know whether to refill from the top or shove the lead  (assuming I chose the correct mm) up the bottom.  There’ve been times  when I was certain of success only to have the damn lead fall out when I  went to use the fucker.  Much to my dismay, a lotta times.

Which means when given a hammer as a kid I begged for books.  Of course, growing up no one ever needed a hammer.  We rented.  And when I left home I continued to rent.  Right up until Sue suggested buying a house in the late 70s and I fought tooth and nail against it since the idea of fixing anything was as foreign to me as Istanbul.  Praise the lord I lost the argument since the house has allowed us multiple career changes, but it was clear I wasn’t going to be what anyone could call handy.

Now I know “Jews with tools” is a horrible stereotype.  My brother-in-law is a contractor and builder, the Jewish friend who plays piano in my ensemble is the same.  Even my own son is an electrician apprentice.  But that “horrible” stereotype fits me like a high-priced, custom tailored suit.  If I do manage to spot a household problem, here’s my solution.  Yell at the top of my lungs, “SUE!!!  We (you’ve) got a problem here!”

Now let me make it clear–I’m not a total numbnut around the house.  I can fill a dishwasher with the best of ’em.  Until my shoulder problems, I religiously made the bed every morning and regularly did the laundry.  I will again, once I can move my arm into certain positions without risking the operation.  (As the surgeon said, no do-over on this one.)

And I can pick up clutter like nobody’s business, despite the rebuke that “picking up isn’t cleaning.”  It sure as hell is when everyone who lives here drops everything into the first room they land.

I also find everyone’s keys on an almost daily basis.

Which all leads back to the bathroom find and fix.  Down there on the bathroom floor, I didn’t panic.  I held my crouch and stared at that damn pipe.  I didn’t yell for Sue (who wasn’t home anyway, though that never stopped me before).  I assessed the situation and slowly, carefully, tightened up that knob on the pipe.  Then I placed a bowl under my best guess as to where the water was dribbling from.

I call this a breakthrough.  Though still without any tools.  Unless you count the bowl.

THINNING THE HOARD

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Not talking about war, illness, or old age. Not even talking about our callous disregard for those who we let starve. Much, much more mundane.

This is about cleaning my office, which, this time, includes deciding what books to keep and what to give away. I’m not a pack-rat, but I find letting go of books to be an painful task, despite not being much of a re-reader. As I mentioned in my last post, I didn’t even re-read my own books until forced to. Still, this is a job I’d avoid, but with a cellar that ruins everything that wanders near it, I have no choice. Ouch.

Some decisions are easy. Long before I began to write the Matt Jacob novels I spent years tracking down little known mystery authors like Bart Spicer, Brad Soloman, Max Byrd, and others. Loved ’em. Keepers. Also easy is the decision to cling to my role models–Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, Ross Macdonald, and James Crumley.

But what about the few one book knock-offs I own like Murder One by Dorothy Kilgallen? Or the mystery novels that Gore Vidal wrote under the pseudonym of Edgar Box? Or Earl Stanley Gardner’s A.A. Fair books? All tough calls because they were a bitch to find and were very different than what these authors usually wrote. The idea of owning them also amuses me.

Then there are the series that are good, but not great. I have a ton. Loren D. Estleman’s Amos Walker books come to mind. Is it enough that his stories take place in Detroit, Sue’s hometown which she feels deeply about? Those are in the “maybe” pile. The others, out the door.

All this angst despite my decision to stop reading mysteries once I began writing them. I didn’t want to unconsciously glom onto someone else’s work. What’s funny is that during all the years I was on writing hiatus, I still avoided reading them. Sometimes consciousness is the last stop of information. Somewhere inside I guess I knew that Matt Jacob was still alive.

The non-mystery shelves aren’t easy either. Charles Bukowski, Harry Crews, Doris Lessing, and Christopher Isherwood are safe. But do I want to go through another round of depression by revisiting Bernard Malamud, Phillip Roth, Saul Bellows, and John Updike? I doubt it, but I’m not sure I want to say goodbye to old friends either. Friends who kept me company throughout my own years of depression. Misery loved that company. And it might be tempting fate to say I had moved beyond them. Should I commit this act of faith?

Luckily not every shelf or decision involves this much self-examination. William Gibson’s Neuromancer is a brilliant book. His others-not so much. Keep the great, give away the rest. I’m extending this rule to other favorite authors: Norman Mailer, Truman Capote, John Le Carre. The clunkers are gently laid down instead of dropped in the giveaway pile as a tribute to their best work.

Where does this sifting end? The classics? Dime bags to expensive ounces, I won’t re-read Faulkner or Fitzgerald or even Hemingway. But can a modern writer really pitch the bulwarks of American literature? Especially after watching and loving a seven-hour play where the actors read and acted every line of The Great Gatsby? They stay, but it’s a close call.

Speaking of plays, what should I do with the bookcase full of them? Especially since a part of me has always been interested in writing for the theater. At the same time, I’m no spring chicken and Matt Jacob comes first, so really, what are the odds of me actually writing a play? Don’t bet rent, but they too are probably keepers.

I haven’t even mentioned nonfiction or modern fiction writers like Richard Russo and Richard Ford, but the point isn’t the decisions, as difficult as they may be. It’s really about the times of my life that each book or group of books represent–including my Hardy Boys and Nancy Drews.

It’s hard not to feel like I’m giving away a piece of myself with each book I box. I know that it isn’t really true–I am who I am, was who I was, and that can’t be donated to charity. But somehow each giveaway feels like one of those thousand cuts.

On another level, I find it passing strange to identify different aspects and eras of my life with inanimate objects. It’s a lot easier to understand the emergence of these feelings when people I care about move or pass away; this connection to things is less comprehensible though not surprising given our culture. At least there aren’t too many other objects that would raise similar feelings. My Bakelite radios, my saxophones, for sure. Definitely all the music I’ve collected–except the collections I bought during stoned stupers deep in the night for $19.95 plus shipping and handling. I really have no need for Yanni or Zamfir no matter how good they sounded at the time.

But one thing is absolutely certain. I’ll be hanging on to every single draft of all the Matt Jacob books no matter how much space they take or how few times I read them.