True Blood?

It was recently brought to my attention by one of my favorite readers (yes, there is a list and each of you is ranked) that HBO airs a show called True Blood that purports the coexistence of Vampires and Fairies.  Said reader asserts that this is one of her favorite shows.  I believe her, to the best of my knowledge she has yet to lie to me (although I am sure the day will come… they all do) and seems to be of pure heart (for now… they all do).

I have never, nor in all probability will I ever, see a screening of what I am sure is a masterpiece of melodramatic fiction due to the inescapable truth that I do not subscribe to HBO.  Do you remember when (and mind you, I know all of your ages so if you aver to be too young I will be able to call your chronological bluff) HBO haled itself a movie channel whose mission was to deliver to us, in our homes, top quality films heretofore available only in theatres, or on television edited and riddled with commercial interruption, and yes, having had all of the naughty bits cut out.  Oh, and there was also the occasional boxing match (yawn!).

Well, today it seems HBO, and all of their Johnny-come-lately competitors (Yeah, I’m looking at you, Showtime) have forsaken the cinematic tradition in favor of producing their own brands of dramatic and comedic series.  So, instead of three lousy commercial networks and one publicly operated enterprise whose claim to fame is the airing of last years’ BBC hits, we must now suffer dozens of channels airing hundreds of offerings, each worse than its predecessor.  Is it any wonder I broke the tuning knob off of my television set when I found the Fox News Channel?  But I digress.

The subject of this missive is the confluence of Dracula and Tinkerbelle.  Interestingly enough, these are two of my favorite characters from post-romantic English literature.  They are so iconic that no description of them is necessary (for the English Language readers… foreigners, well try Wikipedia). But just to avoid any confusion, Dracula is the vampire and Tinkerbelle the fairy… and no, those are not code words for alternative life styles (not that there’s anything wrong with that).

Flitting about playfully, sometimes coquettishly, Tinkerbelle has always represented for me the perfect woman; beautiful, coy, flirtatious and best of all, mute.  Dracula is no slouch either; haunting the night, nibbling on women’s necks, producing goose bumps. Both of these characters personalities possess elements that would be eschewed by polite members of society but in reality we find somewhat alluring. It’s always the bad girls, or boys, that truly draw out our hearts.

But could these two disparate personalities occupy the same world?  Is there a chance that an ethereal forest nymph could find love in the dark eyes of the undead scourge of Transylvania? There would certainly be challenges. Unlike Mary Shelly’s monster who commanded Frankenstein to create the woman perfectly tailored for his happiness, Tinkerbelle and Dracula would have to learn to love each other’s unusual but true natures. Could Dracula accept a creature who reveled in the sunbeams?  Would Tink cotton to a specter that comes to life only in the dark of night? Let’s examine their literary origins.

Dracula was the creation of Abraham “Bram” Stoker (1847-1912). Famous today for the authorship of his gothic novels, during his lifetime he was renowned for his 27 year tenure as business manager of London’s Lyceum Theater (beginning in 1879). It was during this time that Stoker took to writing fiction.  Before writing the novel Dracula, he met Hungarian writer and traveler Armin Vambery.  Vambery’s dark tales of the Carpathian Mountains likely awakened Stokers interest in the European folklore of vampires.  Stoker spent several years researching the subject prior to his writing but there is no evidence that he ever traveled to the locale known to us as Transylvania. Dracula was published in 1897.

Peter Pan, or The Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up (Hey, we all know something about, right guys?) is J M Barrie’s (1860-1937) most famous play, first produced in 1904, among a library of literary works. Barrie achieved an adult height of only 5’3”, inspiring those who write about such things to write that this may have inspired the story of the boy who never grew up (Peter Pan! Damn it, will you pay attention here… I’ve already written about peanut butter and we established that Skippy is the best).  Peter Pan is credited with the popularization of the name Wendy.  I don’t care, we’re talking about Tinkerbelle here and she is infinitely more interesting than some chick that couldn’t fly.

So is there any reason to believe a connection existed between our favorite girl and our favorite ghoul? It does not seem likely. Even though they were both influential players in the drama culture of Victorian London, Wikipedia cites no connection between the two literary giants and since that is the end all, be all of my investigative resource, it seems settled.   The only literary figure mentioned in both biographies is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The answer then, is elementary. If that didn’t make you snicker, groan or gag, you don’t know who Sir Arthur is and need to look him up.  Now!

So, could Tinkerbelle and Dracula find happiness together?  I like to think so.  But if not, Tinkerbelle still has her magic wand.  “Hey, dad, where did Tinkerbelle get batteries in Neverland?”

***

This week’s punch line: “Wrecked him? It damn near killed him!”

 

Size Matters

When I was a child, age in single digits, my Grandmother (paternal) would frequently drive from her home in Los Angeles to visit us.  Her days off were Tuesday and Wednesday.  She worked as a hostess/cashier for the Fred Harvey Company.  For those of you born after 1955, the Fred Harvey Company was a hospitality concern.  That is a phrase rarely heard these days, probably because civilization has decayed into an uncivilized state where the notion of hospitality has disappeared, but the hospitality industry was made up of hotels and restaurants. The Fred Harvey Company made its mark on American history by providing railroad hotels and restaurants along the passenger lines of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe.  My grandmother, Lula Fifield (I know, Fifield is not my family name… another story for another time) worked at the Harvey House Restaurant situated in the Union Station passenger depot in downtown Los Angeles (yet more stories for other times). None of this history has anything to do with the subject matter at hand but as this looks to be a rather short narrative, I thought I’d fill space with something I find infinitely fascinating, my story.

As it happens, I am the only child of an only child (my father, in case you’re having trouble keeping up) and as you might expect, I was fawned over; spoiled might be a more accurate application of language.  As my maternal grandmother had some forty-odd grandchildren spread between Kansas, Colorado and California, and I fell somewhere within the anonymity of the younger half of that menagerie, I knew in which direction to turn for affectionate dotage.

It was during my younger years, before starting school, that I was able to work this status of favorite person in the whole world to my best advantage.  Now I’m not trying to paint myself as a greedy little bastard, but every child is somewhat mercenary in nature.  It was our practice during her visits to patronize the College Grove Shopping Center (many more stories from my college years are set in this locale, but first I have to work up the courage to share… violence is sometimes hard to describe to a genteel audience) for toy shopping and lunch.  I loved Grandma.

One of my favorite haunts (and therefore, my Grandma’s) was J.J. Newberry’s Department Store.  Newberry’s was a five and ten cent store, or more commonly, a five and dime.  No one ever referred to them as nickel and dime because that phrase is pejorative; go figure.   If you are too young to remember, five and dimes abounded.  Every little town had one and any large city had a plethora. One would believe, logically, that anything within offered for sale would be priced at either five cents or (wait for it…) ten cents; a child’s dream! Never finding the reason, I did learn that the name was as misnomer and very few (very few!) of the items I would be interested in were priced below a dollar. But I digress.  Newberry’s was the Cadillac of five and dimes.  It had three features ideally suited to the mercantile needs of the five-year-old: a large toy department; a cafeteria style restaurant; and a lunch counter with full soda-fountain accoutrements.

Grandma would arrive at our house in the late morning.  We would then travel to College Grove; mother didn’t drive so she welcomed the rare opportunity to shun the daily household chores.  And as the outings were financed by Grandma, mom turned a blind eye to the extravagant excess laid at the feet of her son.  Dad of course was at work and it was tacitly agreed that no reason existed to burden him with details of the day’s outing. The rigor was quite simple.  We would begin with lunch in the upstairs cafeteria.  Laid before the puckish masses was a cornucopia of tantalizing entrees and side dishes; turkey, roast beef, fried chicken, soups, stews and salads of all description.  I opted for spaghetti (c’mon, I was five years old!). But our lunch never included any selections from the lavish desert offerings.  If you haven’t guessed why by now, I’m sure you will figure it out later.

After lunch (my mother could drink more coffee that a dromedary camel could horde water… let’s go already!!!) we would ride the escalator to the lower level and take a stroll through dreamland.  Newberry’s toy department was four aisles deep and extended well over my head.  The contract was simple; I feigned familial fealty and Grandma would reward the faithful.  I had a pecuniary limit of five dollars, pre-tax.  Grandma was always rather silent on the subject of hereditary history but I suspected she was somehow a member of the Claus Clan.

I’m sure that upon returning to Los Angeles my grandmother would brag ad nauseum to her crones of the skill with which her golden grandchild examined every offering that Mattel, Marx and Hasbro had convinced Newberry’s to stock on its shelves.  Time stood still for me.  I recall that mother often excused herself to the ladies room to relieve the pressure on her bladder from that fifth cup of coffee.

Once all of the options had been considered and reconsidered, the latest addition to my collection of militaria, plastic firearms (these were the days before political correctness) or to-scale motor vehicles was paid for (Grandma had a BankAmericard, forerunner to today’s VISA, oooh!) we set our course for the lunch counter and the frozen treats there offered; the coup de gras as it were.

Now remember, I was all of five years old at this time and reading was still a blossoming skill set for me.  But any company that planned its geography in a way that juxtaposed the toy department and the soda fountain was savvy enough to post pictures of the ice cream offerings on the wall behind the lunch counter.  Every visit, I would point to the picture representing what was obviously the largest of their offerings, the three scoop banana split.  I had no other criteria to fill than it contained the greatest volume of ice cream. My mother would immediately counter, “You don’t need that, it’s too much ice cream for you.”  In a rare show of intergenerational collaboration, Grandma would add, “You wouldn’t like it anyway.”  Blocked again!

I am going to interrupt the flow of this narrative for a moment to explore an aspect of the darker side of parental practice; incontrovertible logic.  I’m sure every parent uses this tool at some time and it is cruelty at its worst, “You don’t need that.” or more fatal, “Do you really need that?”  Huh?  When did need enter into the discussion or anything a five year old wants?  There is no capacity for reasoning through cost/benefit for a kid!  “I want it! I desire it! I lust after it!  It was endorsed by Bugs Bunny!”  That is all the motivation needed.  How can you expect a self-centered, mal-formed ego to understand need?  Yet time and time again, the parent, in an attempt to teach temperance for worldly possessions (and keep the household solvent) lays down the logical trump card, “Do you really need that?  Really?” The child of course has no adequate response.  And in my case, cursed with naturally squinty eyes, the sad pout never worked. Children know in their hearts true happiness is not measured in scoops of ice cream.  Once again, I settled for the kid size hot-fudge sundae.

But finally, the day came, seated at the counter, atop the swiveling stool (ingenious!) I again asked for the banana split.  And once again my mother parried, “You don’t need that!”  Unexpectedly, my grandmother replied, “Aw, Rosemary, let him have one.  He won’t like it and he’ll get over it.”  Grandma loved me… or so I thought.

After what seemed a lifetime of anticipation, the jerk (I’m not being derisive here for you youngsters, that was the position title of those employed to make fountain treats, soda jerks) set before me a glorious concoction of dairy and confectionary delight.

‘‘Three scoops of ice cream!  And what was all this other stuff?”  I went exploring.  “Hey, this scoop is strawberry,  I don’t like strawberry… it’s the flavor found in Neapolitan ice cream that gets thrown out after the vanilla and chocolate are gone.  And this yellow gooey stuff.  Yuck!  It’s pineapple sauce.  Who would put pineapple sauce on strawberry ice cream?”  Moving on, “Vanilla, that’s good.  But every time I try to spoon some up, it slides into that awful pineapple sauce and that’s getting mixed up with the chocolate sauce.” My stomach was starting to recoil making it hard to swallow.

Okay, I’ll move on to the scoop of chocolate ice cream.  It is insulated from the pink and yellow effluent at the other end of the boat (that’s what you call a banana split dish; a boat) by the vanilla. But what is this white stuff blanketing my chocolate? It’s marshmallow cream.  White, flavorless, sweet, “It’s diluting the chocolate.  It is ruining the food of the gods!”  The whipped cream is running all over the place… the ice cream is melting into a mélange of colorless, flavorless goo. And the banana, it’s hard to cut with a spoon.  Fruit and goo were flying everywhere, “I don’t like this; it’s sticky!”

Dutifully, my mother grabbed me off the swiveling stool and marched me to the ladies room to recover her son from under the patina of milk, sugar and chocolate sauce.  This was too big a job for spit on a hanky! I looked back to see Grandma settling the bill with the soda jerk.  They seemed to be laughing at some shared joke.

***

This week’s punch line: “No, but he’s a dead ringer for his brother!”

 

Black Holes, N'est-ce pas

Some few days ago I was enjoying a new episode of How the Universe Works (Science Channel, check your local listings) that was offering the latest in academic guess work as pertains to black holes. Now don’t hit that “Delete” button yet!  This is not a pseudo-scientific discourse on the origin, nature or importance of black holes.  If, at this point, your finger is still hovering over the “Delete” button because you don’t know what a black hole is, I will explain it in one sentence and then move on to the true subject of this week’s missive.

A black hole is a region of spacetime from which gravity prevents anything, including light, from escaping. (Thank you, Wikipedia)

If you desire more information there exist any number of websites that will meet your need.  But again, the subject of the television show is not the subject or my rant.  The subject of my rant is the total breakdown of societal mores that is plaguing our civilization.

After Mike Rowe (narrator: girls, if you don’t know who this is, look him up… he is dreamy and has a butter-cream smooth voice… er, so I’ve been told) eloquently teased the next segment, the viewing public was treated to a commercial for Trojan “Vibrating Twister” Vibrator Intimate Massagers.  No, I kid you not.  Google it!  I’ll bet you get more websites than you did for “black hole”.

Now quit your snickering. Never mind the obvious unintended (I hope) convergence of deep space phenomenon known as a black “hole” and an instrument designed to “fill” one’s prurient cravings. That in itself is proof enough that our society is on the verge implosion. But this obviously adults-only product was being marketed to the audience of an educational program broadcast on an educational channel!

     “Hey dad, is it okay if I turn on the television?”

     “What are you going to watch, son?”  

     “The Science Channel dad, I’ve got to catch up on my astronomy knowledge.”

     “Go right ahead, son.” Thinking to himself, “What a good boy!”

 Then some time later, “Dad, where did the Trojans get batteries in the sixth century BC?”

I do hope I have not offended any of you with my choice of topic or the graphic descriptions of events as I witnessed them.  But this is just one example, albeit a good one, of the erosion of Americans’ sense of propriety.  Those of you who know me well can aver that I am not a Puritan.  I can share an off-color joke without blushing.  Given the appropriate motivation, I can lay down a blue streak of language that would offend a longshoreman.  Yes, I’ve even patronized the odd Gentlemen’s Club (sorry Mom, I was weak).  These evils, and others I have not explored, have existed as long as men (and women) have had libidos.  But as of late, it seems there is no shame associated with any behavior at all.  If one can imagine it, it’s acceptable (except racial slurs, of course) and free game for public demonstration or conversation.

I remember a day when men, real men, guarded their language in the presence of women and children.  And a father in situ would not hesitate to admonish a nearby offender that certain untoward behavior or language was not appropriate in front of children.  If the offender was not shamed into remedial action, it was quite possible fisticuffs would ensue.  But no longer; today the loose lipped scallywag would become the victim and in all likelihood the protective parent would be incarcerated for assault.  When did the magnetic field of propriety reverse itself and why wasn’t I consulted?

I am a student of history and passingly familiar with the content and intent of the Constitution.  I have read the Federalist! The right to freedom of expression guaranteed in the First Amendment exists to protect political speakers from reprisals by the majority or the government in power.  It was never intended by Messrs Hamilton, Madison, Jay and Morris to open the door for offensive behavior.

But in our confused time, the maxim is, “If you can say it, they must hear it?”  As I grow older, and hopefully wiser, my political leanings are turning more and more libertarian; but not libertine.  While I do not believe it is the role of government to police community behavior, for I find the longer I live the less capable government is of adequately policing anything, I do feel however that society can and must establish a reasonable standard for polite behavior.

This cannot be done using the force of government but must be accomplished through community peer pressure.  While we cannot adjudicate boorish behavior, in the past, those whose behavior offended the community standard were ostracized.

Another example: I have ceased attending films screened in commercial movie houses.  It offends me greatly when some fellow patron feels it is his duty to vocally share opinions on the progress of the film, idea for where to dine after the movie or random thought that mysteriously popped into their seemingly empty cranium.  I will not tolerate it!  It has been my practice to call to the offender’s attention to my unhappiness.  I am surprised at the number of mental deficients who do not comprehend, “Shush!” And when I am moved to elaborate with, “Shut the f*&$ up!, they have the chutzpah to feign offense. I can’t tell you the number of times I have been accused of rude behavior by an effusively chatty neighbor. In my younger days, I would actually physically challenge these miscreants to take subject discussion of polite behavior to the lobby.  No one eve accepted my challenge. But as I age (and not mellow), I have become increasingly concerned that my gantlet will be picked up an I will get my crotchety old ass kicked.  Sorry, Weinstein Company, you’ll have to wait until your blockbuster is released by Netflix to get my dollar.  

And yet another: Parking lots should be pedestrian friendly.  Speed Racer, keep your speed at a level where you can control the outcome of your control inputs.  Remember, speed is distance and distance is time; reaction time.  Keep your fellow citizens safe. And when parking, remember, your car is an excellent example of a parallelogram and as such should fit nicely between the parallel lines of a parking space.  If you think about that for just a minute, you’ll see that this is a system meant to work that way; one car, one space.  If you are driving a Ford F350 truck with duel rear wheels, park in the hinterlands and walk in.  I’m sure the exercise will help with that beer gut problem you’ve been worried about.  And you “Fire Lane” idlers… go find a parking place!

Okay, I don’t want this to get much longer… it would be rude of me to take up more than my fair share of your time bloviating on the current state of politeness.  But consider this: When contemplating your next course of action in any environment; stop, take a breath and look around.  Ask yourself, “How might my actions affect those around me?”  Think about how you would like to be treated and behave accordingly.  And if you can’t think of any way to modify your actions for the general benefit of a more polite society, move to Lakeside with the rest of the dirt people.

Mine is probably an unrealistic expectation.  In a world where community population is counted in millions, the establishment of a universal standard for polite behavior is not likely.  But if we begin teaching our children the niceties of polite society today, demonstrating through our own actions, perhaps in a few generations your great grand children will experience some modicum of civility.

*** 

And this week’s punch line is:  “It is! Wanna buy a toothbrush?”

 

The Zen of Mustachios

Most of you readers know me personally but only a handful of you have ever seen me completely shaved. Now don’t get overheated, I am referring strictly to my face. I will insert here that I do not understand nor endorse the current practice young adult males have adopted of shaving their bodies. In my young adult years, body hair was a source of pride, a sign of maturity and signaled sexual prowess.  Now it seems the desired norm is to look like a pre-pubescent girl.  If this applies to you, look back into your upbringing and try to discover where your parents went so tragically wrong; and for God’s sake, stop wearing tank tops and board shorts unless you’re at the beach.  You look like a bunch of sissy marys! I suppose my message is politically incorrect according to modern standards of acceptance and inclusion.  But mark this; when the apocalypse occurs and those of us who didn’t make the rapturous cut are scrambling for survival, I’m betting on cannibalism and it seems to me hair free will indicate savory tenderness.

I have been a member of the mustachios cult for essentially my whole adult life.  The last time I bared my upper lip was for a woman.  And the last time I stopped shaving my mustachios was for a woman; se la guerre! Men being men, they would be loathe to admit to it, but the motivation for most of our grooming and fashion choices are meant to be lures for women. Does the lion sport a mane to ward off the cold of the African Veldt?  Does the bull elephant grow massive tusks because it facilitates the grazing of grasses and leaves? Does the peacock annoy the hell out of us?  If you answered two out of those three question, “Hell no!” then you accept the hypothesis I am proffering.

Facial hair and its grooming is a very complex and, as shown by the number of men who completely screw it up, dicey undertaking.  We have established the central motivation as plumage to attract the female of the species.  But the universe of follicle farming is overrun with subtext:

The Acne Cover Up 

Most of us endured the humiliation of teen-age acne vulgaris during our horrific journey through puberty. It’s not bad enough we have to endure social awkwardness, at the same time we are cursed with oozing, dripping, glowering sores on our faces. Ironically, the same hormone that drives us to seek the attention of the opposite sex, testosterone, also fosters the outbreak of the facial scourge vernacularly referred to as zits. Some male adolescents opt to grow beards to cover their dermal shame. However, by my observation, the hopeful beard grower is often ill equipped to produce foliage dense enough at this age to camouflage his pimples, blackheads and cysts.  And the unfortunate result is a visage that suggests an even yuckier state of health than the acne alone. The same technique has been applied in attempts to cover the resultant post-pubescent pock marks, but with similar or lesser success.

The Ferret Face 

Not all of us (well, not all of you) are blessed with a Clark Kent chin.  Many men with a weaker jaw line will grow a beard, goatee or van dyke to enhance their facial profile.  If one has the proper density and hair type, this can be very effective.  Straight, easily groomed hair is best for this technique.  Curly, unruly whiskers will give the casual observer the impression a sea anemone has attached itself to your chin after escaping your mouth.  A word of caution; if you successfully employ this technique to enhance the masculine thrust of your mandibles it becomes a lifetime endeavor.  If you suddenly revert to your clean-shaven (un)natural state, you are likely to overhear whispered comments like, “I wonder what happened to Charlie this weekend; it looks like he fell down a flight of stairs and hit his chin on every step?  That’s what happens when cousins marry!”

The Monastic 

Some men grow beards with no thought to grooming.  During the Crusades, the Knights Templar of Jerusalem adopted a vanity (or rather non-vanity) standard which prohibited both the shaving of facial hair and the growing of head-borne tresses.  How this was to aid in the rescue of the Holy Land from the Saracens remains a mystery. They did however set up the first international banking system. Now remember, the Knights Templar were largely men of great wealth and stature who chose to eschew the temptations of the corporeal world in favor of spiritual strength.  As we now know, the plan did not work out so well.  Today we see this fashion sported most frequently among white supremacists and outlaw motorcycle gang members.

Professorial Pretense 

Middle-aged men hoping to displace some of the wear and tear of life’s journey will adopt a number of techniques in hopes of presenting a welcoming refuge of male maturity.  The hallmarks are: the Mazda Miata, the tweed jacket, Wayfarer sunglasses and the neatly trimmed and colored beard with mustache.  Just for Men is marketed for just these men.  The problem of course is the dilemma of how dark to go; too dark signals phony, too gray shouts geezer.  If you are hosting a party, you will want to invite several of these men to act as magnets for the women with daddy issues and clear the field for the men who can’t abide baby talk.

The Baseball Player 

The goatee: Grow up, shave; you didn’t make the Big Show; enough said.

But I digress.  The purpose of this missive is to explain my proclivity for mustachios. Let me put it simply; men of action wear mustachios.  Whether real or mythical, contemporary or historical, the heroic figures of our civilization sported lip hair. Derisive names such as caterpillar, cookie duster or flavor saver cannot detract from the enhanced masculinity resulting from the addition of a Fu Manchu.

If you have known me long enough to have accompanied my explorations via travelogue (http://dalesoutwesttravels.blogspot.com/) you know of my enchantment with the American West; its history, geography and culture.  Threaded through eighteenth century history is a common feature of the steely-eyed killer, the dispenser of justice, the protector of the pioneer; they hid their determined sneer below a well cultivated mustache: Wyatt Earp; “Doc” Holliday, Pat Garrett; “Kit” Carson and “Wild Bill” Hickok.  While I do not pretend to rise to the level of grit commonly possessed by these men, I aspire to exude the strength of character, the commitment to justice they shared as they walked through the West, leaving a trail of dead villains in their wakes.

But there is more than stolid determination behind the mustachios.  Mirth peeks out from around its tapered edges.  It teases us with the dilemma, “Is he smiling?” From the deadly serious to the dead pan, our cultural history is rife with funny men who cultivated hair on their upper lips.  And what am I if not a striving comic?  What do I see when I look at the faces of those who inspire my feeble efforts?  What is common among Groucho Marx, Charlie Chaplin, Ben Turpin, Ernie Kovacs, Oliver Hardy, John Cleese, Rip Taylor, Robert Benchley and Avery Schreiber?  Of course, it’s the moustache; the mark of the serious man who does not take the world too seriously!

Do you know any other scribe who could conflate gunfighters and comics? As evidence I offer you the 1972 made-for-TV movie, Evil Roy Slade starring John Astin.  According to Wikipedia it is available on DVD or Blue Ray Disc.  I found mine at Amazon.com for about ten bucks including shipping.  It will bring you at least ninety-seven minutes of belly laughs (per IMDB)

This brings us to today’s big announcement.  Beginning with this week’s blog, I will end each posting with the punch line of an iconic joke.  If you know the joke, you will recognize it immediately and may take some pride for doing so, and hopefully chuckle.  If you don’t, send me an e-mail and I will respond with the text of the entire joke.

* * *

And this week’s punch line is:  “I don’t know, but his face rings a bell!”