Confidential Information

It was a cloudy, breezy day.  I needed comfort food.  For days, the thought of Chinese cuisine had been bubbling up from my unconscious.  But where, in the white-bread world of San Diego, could I find superior, authentic Mandarin?  I finally gave up the impossible dream and headed off to Panda Express.

While picking the remnants of Chow Mein out of my teeth with my right hand, I dutifully popped open the cellophane wrapped fortune cookie with my left.  As I crunched away on the, well, I’m not sure just what fortune cookies are made of; I stripped the slender paper purporting to offer insight into my future out of the remaining half of the cookie.  I read it.  I read it again.

 

Keep your plan secret for now!

Hmmm, I pondered, “Keep your plan secret for now!”  Immediately, I was awash in a sea of confusion.  Well, that maybe an overstatement.  Perhaps it was just a lagoon of confusion as my plans are generally rather inconsequential. I pushed thoughts of magnitude aside.  The more important consideration was, “What plan?”  I retraced the steps of my day so far.  I had arisen comparatively late today, but I had no plan for sleeping in. It just happened.  I toasted an English muffin, applied peanut butter and jelly (Knott’s Berry Farm Boysenberry Preserves, with seeds… mmm) and ate it.  I hadn't really given breakfast much forethought so I was pretty confident I had not violated the intent of the fortune there.  Then I finished a borrowed book I was reading.  I realized there was some planning involved here because I wanted to make sure I could return the book the next day.  But upon review, I hadn't really shared the plan with anyone so on the outside chance I was the victim of some time warp anomaly where I received the warning after the critical event occurred, I was sure I was safe where the book was concerned.

Keep your plan secret for now!

Satisfied I was not retroactively guilty of challenging fate; I cleaned off my table and made for Starbuck’s.  When I reached the front of the cue and it was my turn to order, I was struck by the conundrum, “Is ordering coffee, which is part of my planned activity for the afternoon (I’m retired folks, and reading at Starbuck’s in the afternoon while all of the saps are still working away is one of my greatest joys… not the greatest, but right up there in the top ten percent), a violation of the oriental admonishment?”

With the quick mental reflexes of a predatory cat, I chicaned.  “I’ll have a grande coffee and, a chocolate chunk cookie!” The chocolate chunk cookie was not part of the original plan.  So inserting spontaneity into the plan at the last second should mollify the fates.  I ate my cookie, drank my coffee, read my book without event.  I’m confident the bullet had been dodged so far.

Keep your plan secret for now!

While I was gratified to escape Starbuck’s without spilling on my shirt or being goaded into conversation by a complete stranger (By the way, have you ever considered how gruesome it would be to encounter an incomplete stranger?  Ick!) whom I am sure would have attempted to pries my plan from my lips by wile and craft, I was not confident that I had accurately identified the plan of concern.  My mind reeled.  Did I have any other plans?  My life is lived in a rather haphazard manner; on a wing and a prayer as it were.

Keep your plan secret for now!

Having successfully found my way home without resorting to the use of a plan, I parked myself upon the couch to cogitate on this dilemma.  Was I supposed to have a plan?  It had been a few weeks since my most recent trip to Panda Express.  Perhaps I missed a visit as the result of some cosmic misstep.  Was there some hapless schmoe out there racking his brains to formulate a plan as instructed by a fortune targeted at me but intercepted by accident?  And if so, when constructed, how would this play toy of the fates know to keep it secret as I had successfully intercepted the step two instruction?

Keep your plan secret for now!

But let’s assume that I do stumble upon a plan and am able to decipher it correctly.  I must keep it secret for now.  How will I know when the time is right to reveal my plan?  Am I committed then to eating lunch every day at Panda Express until I am given a cookie that contains the fortune, “You should share your preciously secret plan”?  If I do lunch at Panda Express, will fate assure that I am in the correct ordered place in line to get the appropriate cookie?  If I arrive at the door coincidentally with an aged dowager do I follow conventional decorum and hold the door for her, allowing her to take what should have been my place in line?  Or do I risk offending the gods by slamming her to the floor in an attempt to ensure I find the instructions I am seeking?  What if I then get a cookie whose fortune reads, “Courtesy is the true path to achieving your goals.”?

 Keep your plan secret for now!

As I retrace the critical path that has led me to this indecision, there are two things of which I am certain: one, I am not going to share my solution with you; two, from now on, it’s Mexican food.

The Irrational, Rationalized

As do all writers, I occasionally draw a blank when it comes to digestible subject matter.  The ideal of course is to lay responsibility for topic selection at someone else’s feet and then run like the wind across the keyboard without sense of responsibility. But when you write a regular column (or blog, if you will), that external source of inspiration is sometimes nowhere to be found.  If I were to break my promise to avoid political commentary I would have nearly infinite opportunity, but I am not yet that desperate.  There is nothing going on in my life this week worth reporting on; at least that I would be foolish enough to commit to print. And after last week’s debacle with the corrupted hard drive, you know there is not much I would be too embarrassed to share.

So at times like these, I can’t speak for other writers; I find a peek inside the room where the typewriter qualified chimpanzees reside offers an opportunity to pick some interesting tidbits off of the floor. If you do not understand this reference, please refer to the infinite monkey theorem. As we enter the room, I admonish you to speak softly, move slowly and avoid eye contact as the chimpanzees are rather surly when their concentration is broken.

A Journey Out of Reality

The joy, and danger, of peeking behind this curtain is the joy of infinite possibilities.  Here, probability is moot.  One need not consider the likeliness of stumbling across a pile that mixes absolute absurdity with incontrovertible logic.  In here, it’s all the same.  Our motto is, “If it can happen, it will happen… eventually… and you’ll be blamed.  Of course, with an infinite number of possibilities, there must be an infinite number of corners in which to look.  There is no logical place to start as any one corner is as likely to inform, entertain, delight or disgust as any other.

My Gray Matter Is Better than Yours

Ah, here is an interesting notion; brane theory.  No, this is not a misspelling (try to convince Word of that) but jargon short hand for Membrane Theory.  This hypothesis is an alternative to the Big Bang Theory (the wildly popular explanation for the Universe and everything in it, not the wildly popular sitcom airing Thursday nights at eight o’clock on CBS) attempting to address some of its scientific short comings (for more on this, see my blog The Big Pffft! posted 5/9/13).  The most glaring hole in the Big Bang Theory is the lack of explanation as to what caused the bang in the first place; brane theory proponents  pooh-poohing the notion that something can spontaneously appear from nothing.  Their alternative being the existence of multiple membranes (each a universe unto itself) that are mutually attracted by a force similar to gravity.  When brane to brane contact is made, an explosion occurs which produces the initial energy that eventually cools into what we observe as our universe.  The problem with their offering of course is lack of explanation for the presence of the membranes, or parallel universes, in the first place.

Obamacare Explained!

Yes, it’s obvious there are words printed on these sheets of paper.  But there doesn’t seem to be any punctuation.  No matter how you group the words into phrases, the outcome just doesn’t seem to make sense.  I guess they missed the period in Obama’s speech, silly monkeys (…er, bureaucrats?).

Enemies, Foreign and Domestic

“...support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic;” Those of you who have served in the military will recognize this as an excerpt of the U.S. Armed Forces Oath of Enlistment.  And while the rhetoric seems patriotic and noble, just what does it mean?  How does one defend the principles of a document which is subject to amendment and open to interpretation?  We will assume here that intent is the defense of the principles and not the physical document itself, although one can never be absolutely sure about government intent.  Does the provision for defense against domestic enemies violate the Posse Comitatus Act of 1878? (You’ll have to look that one up yourself, the monkeys are due a break as per their union contract).

Now you legal beagles out there needn’t write comments as to the history of the act, the exceptions as provided by statute or the exemptions for National Guard, U.S. Coast Guard or natural disasters.  Our goal is not accuracy, but to have fun at the monkeys’ expense.

Einstein on Beauty

In his 1916 general theory of relativity, Albert Einstein defined gravity as the curvature of the fabric of space-time by the presence of matter.  If you don’t understand that, not to worry; the monkeys have an explanation.

On a superficial level, it translates to this: The universe has dimples.  Now Einstein is reputed to have been quite the hound so we should meet this with no great surprise.  As certainly as “…God doesn’t play dice with the world”, we can infer that the universe is female, comely and a bit coquettish.

Almost the Bard

Look over here!  It’s a complete, typewritten copy of Hamnet?  Ooh, missed it by that much.

 

The Truth is Out There!

Today's Special Edition is prompted by evidence of a government cover up!

While perusing the interweb for salacious stories about East Coast politicians, I uncovered this appetizing tidbit buried deep on the front page of my Yahoo! news feed.

http://news.yahoo.com/bizarre-asteroid-six-tails-spotted-hubble-telescope-photos-214743038.html


While government toadies are claiming the pictured space phenomenon is a meteor with multiple tails, in the same article they state that there have been no historical occurrences of multi-tailed, or any-tailed meteors recorded.  Just like mind-control conspiratorial astronomers (I'll bet you didn't even no such a cadre of nefarious scientists existed) to shove an unidentifiable object into a category where it doesn't belong.

Clearly, the pictures have captured a controlled space vessel with multi-dimensional, parallel-universe transversing engines.  Six jetted asteroid... Please!

Get ready to learn the language of the new masters.

Stand by for future news as I can conjure it up from the deep recesses of my paranoid mind!

What I Like About You

There is a time honored adage that suggests we never really appreciate something (someone?) until it is gone. The truth of this postulate, unfortunately, is not likely to be tested until that fateful occurrence by which we lose what we then realize was so cherished.

What I like about you

You hold me tight

Tell me I’m the only one

Wanna come over tonight

 

Last week I came dangerously close to losing a very dear friend, my computer. On Sunday afternoon, I was apparently looking where I should not have been and acquired a rather nasty virus.  This particular malware hijacked my Fujitsu, claimed I had committed some amorphous federal crime and was holding me hostage for a $300 fee in exchange for relinquishing control of my dear, dear friend.

You’re whispering in my ear

Tell me all the things that I wanna hear

‘Cause that’s true

That’s what I like about you

 I, of course, did not panic.  Your humble reporter had been through this before. I resigned myself to the fact that I would have to have my hard drive wiped (no, that is not a double entendre) to bring it back to life.  So, without hesitation, I wrapped up my poor, wounded baby and sped, Mercury like, to Fry’s.

What I like about you

You really know how to dance

When you go up, down, jump around

Think about true romance

 To my everlasting shame, I am not diligent in backing up my data in anticipation of catastrophic computer calamities.  So, as I drove the comatose patient to the aid station, I tallied up the important information I would either lose or have to recreate from source documents.  A pall fell over my heretofore optimistic outlook.

You’re whispering in my ear

Tell me all the things that I wanna hear

‘Cause that’s true

That’s what I like about you

That’s what I like about you

That’s what I like about you

Luckily, Fry’s technical service and repair department, unlike most hospital emergency rooms, is not inundated by a swarm of desperate, drunken bar-b-cue incident victims.  We did not have to wait long for assistance. I presented Fuji (I don’t really call my computer Fuji, but I figured this gesture would serve to heighten the sense of pathos.  Writers, can’t live with ‘em, can’t make them live in the real world!).  The technician dutifully listened to my tale of woe.  He turned on the computer and examined the offending screen image.  He restarted it and began furiously mashing keys.  He repeated this procedure several times and, with each iteration, delayed the hijacking of the boot-up just a bit longer.  “I think we can extract and rebuild your data, then remove the virus from your hard disk,” he said, offhandedly, “We have to charge a fee for that. Is that what you want to do?”

What I like about you

You keep me warm at night

Never wanna let you go

Know you make me feel alright

 My heart was filled with joy.  The birds were singing.  I’m sure my eyes moistened.  I gathered my composure and replied, “Yeah, that’ll be okay.”  So the dance began.  The technician guessed it would take two days to get it done.  So dutifully, I waited until Monday afternoon to call and inquire of the status.  Whomever it was that took my call, read the status report as updated by the technician servicing my Fujitsu, “Remove and restore data on hard drive… wha, wha, wha…”

“When will that be done?” I queried, hopefully.

“Should be done tomorrow, we’ll call when it’s ready.”

 My patience evaporated on Thursday and I dropped in to Fry’s to check the progress of the victim.  I spoke to a technician previously unknown to me who read from a computer screen, “Backed up hard drive, removed virus.”  He turned his attention to me and said that the next step would be to reinstall the recaptured data and test it. He could not tell me where the responsible technician was at that moment, but assured me the process would take no more than two hours.  The machine should be ready by tomorrow (Friday).

I called Friday.  I called Saturday.  Sunday, I decided to drop in again.  My original technician was there, but he had passed the machine off to another to do the reinstall.  The case notes stated he had begun the reinstall but did not indicate successful conclusion.  He wandered off to find the patient.  He brought it to the counter, the hard drive not installed. “I don’t know what the status is.  I can drop the hard drive in and see if it starts.”

“Please do!”  With bated breath, I waited.  Then, Daffy Duck (my desktop wallpaper) popped into view.  One by one, the icons settled into their regimented positions.  He launched Internet Explorer and, voila, there was connectivity. The angels sang.



 

You’re whispering in my ear

Tell me all things that I wanna hear

‘Cause that’s true

That’s what I like about you

That’s what I like about you

That’s what I like about you 

What was it like to live for a week without the internet?  It was horrendous.  Now those of you who really know me well will not be surprised to read that I consider myself something of a loner.  I have few people I really consider friends.  And being isolated from them (e-mail is my main communications medium) really brought home how important they are.

That’s what I like about you

That’s what I like about you

That’s what I like about you

 

Not So Fast !

Have you ever committed a faux pas that left you wishing you had spent just a second or two more thinking before you spoke to the woman who just slapped you?  Have you ever found yourself clinging to a rock face wondering why this hike seemed like a good idea when you started it?  Have you ever pondered why the checklist in your head seems to lack items that, mid-crisis, you know would be on the written one you’d always meant to complete?  Have you ever screamed like a little girl while waiting for the car, which just moments ago you had under perfect control, to come to a violent stop as it is spinning down the highway putting into practice all of those theories you neglected to internalize while dozing through physics class?

 In other words, do you wish you could stop everything for just a second allowing the logic that seems always to lag the enthusiasm time to catch up? Then brother (I exclude women here because this is not a problem experienced by the fair sex… quite the contrary, they tend to over think opportunities for adventure to the point of paralysis… but that is a thesis for future consideration) you are a member of the society of screw-ups… welcome.

Imagine just how sweet your life could have been if you’d had a switch, that when finding yourself under the pressure of making a decision, allowed you to stop time briefly while the rest of the world waited for the correct synapses to close leading you to the most beneficial and survivable alternative.  You probably wouldn’t have signed those loan documents committing you to five years of usury to pay for a Camaro you are destined to wreck during the first month of ownership.  You would probably still be dating that knock-out and be on friendly, albeit platonic, terms with her mousy little cousin.  You wouldn’t be digging bubble gum out of your mustache.  Yes, the ability to stop time would be a great asset to anybody who is prone to questionable decision making.

But before one can control time (and I mean actually influence the flow of time, not merely control the speed of events which happen within time), one must define time.  Well, as far as I can reckon from watching the Science channel, there are three types of time. One is the cosmological notion of space-time which theorizes that any event (indeed, all events) is unique in its known position in all four dimensions, height, width, depth and time.  This has far too many variables for my feeble intellectual distillation abilities so we will all agree the problem of time control is far too complex to solve within this definition.

Another definition of time, closely related to but seemingly irreconcilable to the first, is the time associated with quantum uncertainty.  If you thought time type one was tricky… well just consult with any of Schrödinger’s very confused cats and you will see by their nervous ticks that not only is this concept impossible to put into practice, it’s scary as hell.

So that leaves us with the third definition of time.  The time we experience by marking our lives against the mechanical movements of components within our solar system vis-à-vis each other. Now as abstract as the first two time definitions seem to be, they are far more concrete than the tools we use to measure our own lives and experiences because that time is based on the purely serendipitous confluence of way too many variables to have even the remotest probability of purpose.  (Remember: Why vs. How.) None the less, it is the time we are comfortable with because it allows us the illusion of control over the events of our lives.

What is the key measurement within our time toolbox?  The year; that celestial phenomenon defined as one circuit of the Earth around the Sun.  To reinforce this statement, let’s take a look at some conversational evidence.  When asked for their age, one does not reply, “262,800 hours!”  They would most likely say, “Thirty.” Years being implied in the answer.

“When did you graduate from high school?”

“Nineteen seventy-two.”

The second level of time measurement is dominated by the day, that experience of the Earth completing one full rotation on its axis.  When discussing events of imminence, we default to this level and its subdivisions; the hour, minute and second. Aha! A unit that we can associate with the thesis subject; stopping time for a second. The second is not existential in itself as it is an abstract creation born of the human need to order the universe.  But by life-long conditioning it is a phenomenon on which we can all agree even if it is observable only by use of a device created to track the passage of time as we imagine it.  Look, I’m trying to be scholarly here, don’t try to get too much out of this paragraph other than I saw it as an opportunity to throw around some cool words.

So now that we have concluded that the second is the time measurement of choice for our experiment and that a second is a subdivision of the length of time the Earth requires to complete the rotation known as a day we must assume that the way to save or gain a second is to stop the Earth’s rotation.  Let’s suspend our disbelief for just a few moments and pretend we have developed the power to stop our planet’s rotation in its tracks.  What would happen?

Don’t panic; I’ll do the math for you. The Earth rotates at a rate of approximately 1,000 miles per hour at the equator. But since I live in San Diego, which is at north latitude 33˚, not on the equator, we must adjust for the difference in the diameter of the circle described by the Thirty-third parallel.  This results in a one-third reduction in speed, or a rate of approximately 667 miles per hour.  This translates to about 978 feet per second.  Are you with me so far? Good!

So, when we magically stop the Earth’s rotation in its tracks, everything resting on the earth (e.g., buildings, vehicles, the ocean, you) would continue to travel eastward with an initial velocity of nearly 1,000 feet per second until something (e.g., air drag, mountains) brought you to a halt.  Can you think of anywhere on the planet you might be where you wouldn’t strike something in a 1,000 foot-long flight at ground level?

So there you have it. Stopping the world for a second to think about it would result in the  complete destruction of everything.  Now, aren’t you glad you took an extra second to think this through?

Unsuitable for Framing

So there I was, sitting in the exam room of my physician, naked except for the modesty sheet the nurse had given me, freezing my ass off.  Don’t call the florist just yet, girls, it is just a routine annual physical.  When you get to the age where there is more hair on your back than on your head they come with the territory.  As is common in the market place of medical services I was waiting.  Now I don’t mind, I don’t really have anything else to do.  But for fear of having the sheet slide off of my chiseled physique, I opted to use both hands to hold it in place foregoing the opportunity to peruse the Time magazine offering the latest news of the Romney candidacy for president.  To keep my chattering teeth from destroying themselves I concentrated on the sole piece of artwork in the room, an impressionist painting (I’m quite confident it was a print reproduction because, although my doctor practices in Del Mar, a rather snooty coastal community in North San Diego County, I doubt they decorate with original art work) that as best I could decipher was an ocean scene of some kind populated with a myriad of boats.

After considerable effort, I decided it was either a regatta on some bay fronting a city skyline featuring a large skyscraper or, a rather interpretive depiction of the battle of Trafalgar at the instant of a massive explosion hoisting a waterspout hundreds of feet above Admiral Nelson’s fleet.  I could not make out with certainty any flags that would indicate the nations involved or any freshly severed limbs flying through the air so I faulted on the side of the regatta theme.

 I share this story not to titillate (remember, I was naked) but to launch a rant about art and the pretentiousness associated with it. Let me state; I believe artwork should faithfully portray the subject matter in detail enough that the casual observer does not have to strain his intellect or imagination to recognize it, or grab for a sick bag. The Italian classicists had it right.  When glancing on the visage of David, Michelangelo left no room for misinterpretation.  

Did anybody ever ask Monet to sit for an eye examination?  I feel pretty confident they would have found evidence of severe cataracts or at least astigmatism.  I don’t believe he was using interpretive imagination.  I think the guy painted exactly what he saw!  How do I know?  Because when I take my contact lenses out, the world looks just like a Monet painting… and I qualify as legally blind.  But art aficionados being who they are, one of them one day encountered a Monet painting and, to bolster his own standing as an expert, christened the style “impressionist”.  All of his associates, not wanting to seem out of step with the current trends in art, harrumphed, nodded, chewed their Victorian mustaches and said, “Quite! Impressionist! Extraordinary!” And thus, the movement was begun.

But did they stop there?  No!  There is only so much demand in the world for paintings featuring fuzzy flowers. The maestro painters of the twentieth century observed, quite rightly, that their medium was being usurped by the science of photography.  So the painters, to keep up, created super-realism.  This is painting that strives to reproduce the clarity and sharpness of the photograph.  But after a short while, the artists discovered that after all the hours of painstaking micro-brush strokes they had delivered something that could be accomplished by a talented amateur with a modest quality camera and a diligent processing lab in a fraction of the time at an iota of the cost.  In other words, the economics of super-realism didn’t pan out… thank you Mr. Eastman. 

Picasso? Please! Give me a straight edge and a box of crayons.  I’ll show you cubism!

The art world, seeking to remain relevant, then looked to the other extreme for its salvation.  If they couldn’t be more accurate in capturing the realities of the visual world, they could certainly be more obtuse.  So, you take the post World War II social upheaval, a total relaxation of any standards and mix in copious amounts of illicit pharmaceuticals, voila, you have abstract… e.g., Jackson Pollock!  Has anyone besides me considered that his work was the product of poor attention span and drug induced tremor?

 

 

There is one school of art that has caught my eye; Surrealism.  At least when Dali offers you a melting watch, you know it is a melting watch!  The philosophy eludes me.  Why would a watch melt?  I know the processes by which one could make a watch melt.  I just don’t see value. (I refer you to my blog posting of 8/22/13, How or Why?)

 

 

 I could go on and on with examples but I’ve exhausted my meager knowledge of fine, or not-so fine, art. And any way, by doctor has entered the room and she gets nervous when I mumble to myself during the examination.

 “Turn your head and cough.”

 

Quod Unusquisque Nosse

I know a lot of stuff.  Heck, I’ve been collecting this knowledge for an embarrassing number of years.  Much of the stuff I know was collected at the trough of the American educational system during a seventeen year dance that concluded with a bachelor’s degree from a fully accredited public university.  I have to admit, it took me twenty-one years because I am easily led astray by shiny things.  But in the ensuing years, I picked up a material amount of intellectual flotsam and jetsam disregarded in the halls of academia. If you are a regular reader of these missives, you have more than likely been exposed to a few of these gems, especially if you are ambitious enough to tackle my offerings with a dictionary by your side.

In this week’s posting I am going to offer you some tidbits of trivial knowledge that will hold you in good stead among drunks and most probably labeled a bore by the tea-totaling set.  This exercise to boost your worth as a cocktail party guest will require some minimal amount of effort on your part.  I am going to offer you several pieces of knowledge you should already own but probably don’t, or if you ever did, have lost along the way.  I will pose questions, give you some relevant information to show how world wise I am, but not present the answers.  However, you need not do any research.  In the last section of this thesis, I will present the answers to you.  Are you ready?  I am interested if anyone else knows all of these answers off the tops of their heads.  Let me know. 

Quod Unusquisque Nosse 

What are the names of the seven dwarfs? We all know the fairy tale “Snow White”. It was published by the Brothers Grim in 1812, with their final version completed in 1854. You know about the magic mirror, the poison apple and the glass coffin. But interestingly enough, the dwarfs were not named in the original work. They were first given individual names in the Broadway play Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1912).  But the names that have become iconic were invented for the 1937 Walt Disney film bearing the same title. Their names as given in the play of 1912 are: Blick, Flick, Glick, Plick, Quee, Snick and Whick.

Who are the Three Musketeers?  This is the best work of fiction I have read!  And that statement encompasses some of my own arrest reports.  Now considering my disdain for French literature (you know what I’m talking about if you’ve ever struggled through anything by Victor Hugo) this is quite the endorsement.  It is chock full of adventure, suspense, intrigue, romance and humor… and humor.  The story was first published by author Alexandre Dumas as a serial offering in 1844.  We owe credit to Dumas for the trademark line, “One for all, all for one!” The novel’s setting is the 16^th century court of Louis XIII.  Several movie versions have been produced, but due to the length of the novel, the most faithful treatment was by director Richard Lester with two movies; The Three Musketeers (1973) and The Four Musketeers (1974), distributed by 20^th Century Fox.  Your challenge; name the title characters.

Can you name Santa’s eight tiny reindeer? Yeah, yeah! We all know Rudolph, but he didn’t make the scene until 1939 in a booklet written by Robert L. May.  But the plank holders of Santa’s flight crew were first identified in the 1823 anonymous poem A Visit from St. Nicholas. (Yes, yes Virginia, the poem is also know by the titles: The Night Before Christmas and ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas in popular usage, but I have never been particularly popular myself, so please hold to proper form and use the correct title in public conversation.) Eventually the authorship was attributed to Clement Clarke Moore but as with most things literary there is a controversy that assigns it to Henry Livingston, Jr.  As a man who has spent his life avoiding controversy, I will consistently do so here stating I have no opinion.  Far more important than assigning credit is acknowledging that this poem is responsible for creating the first uniform image of the American Santa Claus.  Knowing the order in which the reindeer are named will earn you extra credit.

Name the funniest men in the history of film.  No, Will Ferrel did not make the list!  I am of course referring to the Marx Brothers.  If you are not familiar with their work, you have been sorely deprived of low humor in its highest form. What became known as the Marx Brothers was a family on-stage music and comedy act from New York making their debut in 1905.  Their act transformed from more music to more comedy as they found their vaudeville and Broadway niche.  The film legacy was introduced in the 1929 Paramount Pictures film The Cocoanuts (my all-time favorite).  The films were a collection of skits and gags from their stage act sewn together with an often nonsensical plot. Five of the Marx Bros. thirteen feature films were listed among the American Film Institute's (AFI) top 100 comedies of the Twentieth Century, two (Duck Soup and A Night at the Opera) among the top twelve.  The brothers also made the list of AFI’s 100 most significant screen legends, the only group act to be included.  If you are new to the Marx Brothers, you will find as may iconic lines as you will in Shakespeare’s Hamlet.  I’ll give you a hint, there are more than three.

And Now… the Answers

 

The Seven Dwarfs: Doc, Grumpy, Happy, Sleepy, Bashful, Sneezy and Dopey

 

The Three Musketeers: Athos, Porthos and Aramis.  If you included d’Artagnan, you weren’t paying attention to the assignment.

The Eight Tiny Reindeer:

“Now! Dasher, now! Dancer, now! Prancer and Vixen, 

  “On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Donder and Blitzen;…” (sic)

The Marx Brothers: Chico, Harpo, Groucho, Gummo and Zeppo.  Zeppo appeared in only the first five films in relatively minor, straight (meaning non-humorous, not non-gay… not that there is anything wrong with that) roles.  Gummo did not appear as an on screen personality.

“Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog it’s too dark to read.”

-- Groucho Marx