by jeff sawyer

Roy awoke on the last day of his life squinting, his face framed by a skinny rectangle of dawn sunlight that had snuck in between the window casing and curtain to stalk him. In the dream, he was in the spotlight on the main stage at the Overture Center, doing an encore with somebody else famous. Jim Carrey, Jeremy Irons, George Clooney – he couldn’t remember. But they were a team.

It was a rare thing, this 70-degree November day in the upper midwest. Even the goth kids were walking to school smiling. But everywhere he could go today, Roy thought lying there, everywhere he had ever gone since that first hit movie in the 80’s, he would be recognized. Pointed at. The cuffs of his favorite moleskin sport coat were worn shiny where strangers touched him. Every day of his adult life, every supermarket stop, every fill-up, every restaurant table, he would be approached. Hit up for autographs by people without pens.

Department of Motor Vehicles lines were the worst. Purgatory. There was no eluding strangers there. Roy’s famous countenance was not easily disguised by the usual movie star disguise, the baseball cap and sunglasses. He wasn’t a cap guy – they pinched his fat forehead, giving him headaches – and he couldn’t see two feet with dark lenses. The lines in the sprawling Los Angeles DMV filed back and forth in interminable parallels, an M.C. Escher painting of a death march. Every time his driver’s license was up for renewal he was sentenced to spend a morning of his life there, staring down at yellow plastic ropes draped between dirty chrome stanchions while everyone else stared at him. The first time a fan passed him in the other direction one line over, she would steal a glance, smile, but say nothing. By the time they passed each other again, she’d remembered the name of a film, worked up the nerve to reach over the rope to get his attention and blurt out some manufactured compliment. By the third pass she was e-mailing his picture to disbelieving friends.

So Roy worked at home, leaving the house only at twilight. Cluttering the bedside table were an unemptied ashtray, an old lamp, the just-emptied prescription bottle and his journal. He picked up the journal, drew his knees up in bed to write against and began his obituary:

“Roy Nicholson, 58, died on November 7 at his home in Chicago. Nicholson was born in 1951, graduated from New York University, and spent his career in various Chicago advertising agencies, where he illustrated logos for many well-known companies and brands. Nicholson leaves behind one relative, in Beverly Hills, California: his identical twin brother, three-time Oscar-winner Jack.“

© 2009 Jeff Sawyer

10. Lymbic Ecru
9. Necco the Ferd, II
8. Triple Fudge
7. Sallé Swink
6. Cleavage McLoud
5. Denny Drab-Klopske
4. Carrots Von Fink
3. Sturgeon Contracts
2. Hortense Shoulders
1. Sister Cleats

Plain Dress Short Selling to Replace Naked Short Selling

Manhattan – The Obama administration announced Sunday a set of sweeping changes that will place all of Wall Street under the watchful regulatory eye of a community for whom integrity and austerity are cornerstones of life.


In a ceremony Monday, a wooden buggy with triangular orange safety sign will be hitched behind the street’s famous Charging Bull.

The Bull was sculpted by artist Arturo Di Modica, sometimes referred to as the one person “ever to create something of value on Wall Street.”

The Street’s new slogan, “Greed is Bad,” and a Bordnung of Directors will be introduced. The Bordnung will immediately go to work with scythes and sickles, plowing under the hundreds of convoluted financial instruments that have swindled Americans and virtually bankrupted the nation’s treasury.

Nearby Old Navy Store Re-Merchandised

The big trading houses have already begun to fall in line. What follows is an excerpt of the existing Goldman Sachs mission statement:

“Our clients’ interests always come first.”
 
“Our goal is to provide superior returns to our shareholders. Profitability is critical to achieving superior returns, building our capital and attracting and keeping our best people.”

“We pride ourselves on having pioneered many of the practices and techniques that have become standard in the industry.”
 
“We have no room for those who put their personal interests ahead of the interests of the firm and its clients.”
 
“We consider our size an asset that we try hard to preserve.”

“We know that the world of finance will not stand still and that complacency can lead to extinction.”
 
“Our business is highly competitive, and we aggressively seek to expand our client relationships.”.
 

The New Goldman Sachs Mission Statement, effective Monday:

1. Can you renounce the devil, the world, and your own flesh and blood?

2. Can you commit yourself to Christ and His church, and to abide by it and therein to live and to die?

3. And in all order (Ordnung) of the church, according to the word of the Lord, to be obedient and submissive to it and to help therein?

Amish elders have reassured wary executives that once each year, during Rumspringa, the traditional Amish period of “running around,” regulations will be relaxed somewhat. During this period, a small amount of misbehavior will be expected, such as consuming a glass of wine at lunch, or missing one dinner with the family. However it is not encouraged, and those who persist in such frivolity beyond the close of Rumspringa will be banned from the financial community forever. Further, those found to be participating in credit default swaps or derivatives will be sent to Mare Sterns, pictured here, for reform.

The arrival of Amish overseers would appear to signal a wiser, safer new era on The Street, and certainly a more modest one. And yet, as this reporter was leaving the financial district Sunday, an Amish buggy arrived behind a team of horses. It had been extended to a stretch buggy, and a sunroof was observed.

To attract media attention and spike international readership, this week’s post comes to you from inside a giant silver Jiffy Pop balloon drifting over the Alps. In here with me may or may not be a kidnapped Louisiana Justice of the Peace who may or may not have been knocked unconscious with a rubber mallet and wed to Wanda Sykes. Tell your friends.

“Well dear,” John said, greeting his wife in the kitchen after work, ”I got good news.”

Kaille threw him a quizzical expression, like the time he mistakenly took her Paxil instead of his Viagra, leaving him flaccid yet decidedly upbeat about it.

“I could use it,” she said. Sometimes she said and sometimes she replied; this time she said. ¨

“They told me it’s not A1N1, just a cough. Something viral. Or bacterial – I can’t remember. But not A1N1.

“I couldn’t believe it though,” he continued. Sometimes he continued and other times he went on. This time he continued.

“They build this awesome treatment facility, state of the art, all windows and granite, and the first thing they do is herd everybody who shows up into an elevator together. There’s buttons in the elevator for what you got, like diabetes, kidney, cardiac, whatever.

“But they’re packing all these sick and maybe-not-sick people in together. By the time you get to your floor, you’re sick.”

“That place is fancier than our house,” Kaille said. It’s fancier than our boss’ boss’ houses. No wonder we can’t afford health insurance.”

Kaille suffered from Reasonal Affective Disorder (RAD). After three cloudy days in a row she lost the ability to reason. Lack of coverage kept her from seeking treatment, which seemed to her unreasonable.

Michael Moore was not returning her calls.

Yikes! The racist Justice of the Peace just woke up to find himself married to a black lesbian HBO comic. Both now pounding on sides of balloon. We’re listing hard to starboard! I think we’re going down! Pray for me. More soon – I hope.

www.sawyerspeaks.wordpress.com

P245 75R16: 8 a.m. at the Tire Center

There are two of us sitting and waiting in this little room with the TV turned off and the last drops of an empty glass carafe crackling into vapor on the Bunn-O-Matic beneath the wall calendar that is failing to keep up. Overhead fluorescents erase any hope that either of us will ever audition for America’s Next Hunk. Through a small, high window, we see the roof of our vehicles appear and disappear and appear again, our hopes for this Saturday rising and falling with them.

The stranger I will call Pirelli. He wears a buffalo plaid jacket, thigh length, in a hue no creature so majestic as a buffalo would ever own up to. Lining: pilled. Dirty white fleece gently harvested from a synthetic sheep sometime in the 70’s. Sweatpant accents.

For forty-five minutes, Pirelli stares at his feet. His sneakers tap to a song only he can hear, and he is not wearing an iPod.

About minute forty-six, without warning, he looks me in the eye and asks, “What day of the week does Thanksgiving fall on this year?”

“Thursday, I think,” I reply, looking up from my paper and affecting a lack of assertiveness so as not to trigger any dormant phobias, which I consider strictly “don’t ask, don’t tell” in tire stores.

“Horgghg,” he replies, and returns to the study of his feet. 


I retreat to the sales floor to examine the latest offerings from JB Weld. As one ages, adhesives and The Weather Channel become fascinating. When the Great Cyclone comes, (a) we will know it well in advance, and (b) we will be ready to stick our stuff back together after.

Hanging on one metal hook is JB Weld Cold Weld Adhesive (24 Hour). On the hook next to it, JB Weld Kwik Cold Weld Adhesive (5 Minute). Both make the same claim: to be, “Great for hobbies, Crafts, Household Repairs, Plumbing, Automotive, Etc. It will fix, fill and bond to most surfaces.” Both cost $4.99.

Apparently, those choosing the 24-hour are thinking, “I wish to adhere things, but I prefer to take my time about it.”

I think for a second about posing this question to Pirelli, tapping away back in the little room. I have answered his question, after all, and he owes me one. But now the tire man approaches, and at last, for another 65,000 miles with proper rotation, I am free.

© 2009 Jeff Sawyer

10. “What do you have to say for yourself, Letterman?”

“I could have had class. I could have been a contender.”
Brando, On the Waterfront

9. “How’s the patient, Dr. Kevorkian?”

“Either he’s dead, or my watch has stopped.”
Groucho Marx, A Day at the Races

8. “Did the Three Stooges ever perform in New Hampshire?”

Curly: “Lake Winnipesaukee.”
Moe: “Lake Winna…How do you spell that?”
Curly: “W-O…. Make it Lake Erie. I got an uncle there.”
Curly and Moe Howard, Three Stooges short

7. “Is that Major Strasser tailgating us?!?”

“Major Strasser has been shot. Round up the usual suspects.”
Claude Rains, Casablanca

6. “Should I go on a diet?”

“Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life.”
Humphrey Bogart, Casablanca

5. “Did you hear what Rush Limbaugh said on the radio toda–”
“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”
Clark Gable, Gone With The Wind

4. “Hello? Hello?”
“You had me at hello.”
Renee Zellweger, Jerry Maguire

3. “Ready to start the meeting?”
Larry: “Oh, excuse me, gentlemen. I’ve got to take care of my weak back.”
Colonel: “Pardon me, how long have you had a weak back?”
Larry: “Oh, about a week back.”
Larry Fine, Three Stooges short

2. “What is there to do in such a small town?”
“I could dance with you till the cows come home…On second thought, I’d rather dance with the cows when you came home.”
Groucho Marx, Duck Soup

1. “What level math is Sawyer comfortable doing?”
“Elementary, my dear Watson.”
Basil Rathbone, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

by guest writer Bob Jacobs

Wisconsin is the only place I’ve lived where not turning on your furnace is a point of pride and the temperature of your house is treated like a golf score: the lower, the better.

And every game has its own equipment – in this case it’s sweaters, slippers, long underwear and flannel sheets. Whoever touches the thermostat first loses.

We all play this game. We talk about it with everyone: people we work with, people in line at the store with us, complete strangers. And we keep score, too.

Take, for instance, this semi-actual conversation I had with a semi-fictitious co-worker this morning.

“Sure got cold all of a sudden, didn’t it?”

“Yeah. We turned on our furnace. Ran all night.”

“Oh, we never turn on the furnace until January 15th.”

“Really? How cold was your house this morning?”

“53, I think. But we’re all used to it. We like to wait until it gets really cold outside before we turn it on. Sometimes it’s like a meat locker. But we just bundle up in our sweaters and slippers and long johns and light a fire and we’re toasty as can be. Although we did put the flannel sheets on the bed this weekend.”

“Well, we turned ours on.” I lose; they win.

It was pretty clear from the smug look on their face that they now considered themselves superior to me in all things temperature-related and otherwise.

I like my furnace. I use my furnace. Why have one if you’re not going to use it, I ask? (I ask that about a lot of things, now that I think about it). So last night before we retired, the wife said to me, “Turn on the furnace. I’ve been cold all day and they say it’s going to be colder tonight.” Dutiful husband that I am, I flipped the switch on the thermostat from “cool” – a position is has occupied since July – to “heat”.

It got down into the 40s, so our furnace ran all night. We awoke to comforting sounds we haven’t heard for months: deep warm breaths from somewhere in the basement, puffing heat through the ductwork and calling to mind memories of childhood mornings when mom and dad would get up long before us kids and ensure the house was warm by breakfast. I wanted to pull up the covers and bury myself under them until the day went away.

So go ahead and call me a loser if you want. At least I’m a warm loser.

Free Association

n.
A spontaneous, PURPLE logically AND NOW, JERRY LEWIS! unconstrained and undirected association of SOLID TEAK ideas, emotions, “VRRRT! VRRRRT!” and feelings. A psychoanalytic ANSWER THE QUESTION, SENATOR technique in “ALL THAT AND ANDY ROONEY, TONIGHT ON 60 MINUTES” which a patient’s articulation of free associations WHO INVENTED THE STICKY NOTE? is encouraged in order MEET ME UP ON THE LIDO DECK, MISTER! to reveal unconscious YES I WILL CLEAN THE GUTTERS THIS WEEKEND DEAR thoughts and emotions, such as traumatic experiences that have been repressed. SPAY AND NEUTER YOUR PET.

It’s officially autumn, and we’re deep-breathing clean air under marine blue skies again. The friendly Canadians up there have lent us their air mass. It dips down over the northern United States this time of year, appearing as a ribbon in the shape of a broad smile on the Weather Channel map. There’s no better air for going outside and getting things done.

So you add a layer over your summer shirt, thinking that not only will it warm you but hide your excess under a cloak of invisibility somehow, camouflaging all the pounds you’ve piled on since college. Your frame has gone from a bare wooden library chair to an upholstered chaise longue, and a sweatshirt won’t undo that, but you think maybe it will, and in this weather, that’ll do.

The F.B.I. and other law enforcement got it done this week, saving perhaps thousands of lives by preventing bombings around the country. Except “Cougar Town,” which continues to bomb weekly on ABC. For all the coverage of the arrests, I don’t recall anyone on television saying “thank you.”

This could have been horrific on the scale of the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995, and somehow these guys, charged with protecting the entire United States, figured out what was about to happen and prevented it. Amazing. Baffling. Thank you.

My sole achievement this week was conceiving the idea of a drive-through art gallery for those of us whose art appreciation competes with a short attention span. Line up your Picassos and Magrittes and Renoirs behind a glass wall, charge five dollars a car, and we’ll idle on by listening to our favorite Allman Brothers CD.

What else are you going to do with a five dollar bill? It’s a denomination that doesn’t satisfy many price tags any more. Look at Lincoln’s sour expression. It’s as if he’s thinking, “Really? Just the fiver? I took a bullet for this?”

A five dollar bill is two and one half times as queer as a two dollar bill and that’s about it. You wouldn’t put it in a birthday card, you wouldn’t give it as a wedding present. And five is a cardinal number, which we all know is a number that’s bright red.

Time to go outside and rake. The Canadians will want their air back soon enough. The smile on the weather map will flatten back out to something solemn, something like Lincoln’s. Five dollar bill, indeed.

© Copyright 2009 by Jeff Sawyer