Today was a long walk so I’ll keep this short. Tomorrow is an even longer walk so, if you are lucky, tomorrow’s post will be even shorter.
I don’t know if you are getting tired of me. I sure am.
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The text came early last night from my 8-year-old grandson, Tallac. The one every grandfather awaits. The one in which a child actually asks an old man something about the life he lived long, long ago.
The question: “Do you have pictures of your bull-fighting endeavors?”
It was as close as I would ever get to “Grandpa, what did you do during the war?”
Or, in theatrical terms, it was my Peter Falk in “Princess Bride” moment.
And I guess I blew it.
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What is your favorite action/thriller movie about a reclusive and mysterious character forced out of seclusion when their long-buried and dark past finally catches up with them?
Don’t have one?
Want to build one of your own from scratch?
Here is a DIY action/thriller movie kit in the Reluctantly Reactivated Assassin genre. Pick one from each group, and the title is up to you:
Continue readingPrediction: “Melania” will replace “Rocky Horror Picture Show” as the super-cult favorite in midnight screenings.
A new generation seeking a cult flick of their own will come in drag, with Russian spy accents, wearing iconic Melania outfits. Some — who can pull it off — will come dressed like Melania in the semi-naked private jet photos.
Fans will wave replicas of the Einstein green card with the ex-escort’s name on them. They will shout “Epstein” instead of “Einstein.” Some will carry dead roses in memory of the White House Rose Garden (aka parking lot patio).
They will throw popcorn when Trump enters the frame, and when Melania urges all to be caring and compassionate, the entire audience will scream, “I don’t care, do you?”
Popular songs that can be sung together include: “Roxanne” by The Police, “Killer Queen” by Queen, and “Prostitute” from Guns N’ Roses.
We, the management of the Bijou Theatre of Obscure Black and White Movies, welcome your suggestions. We urge you not to bring alcohol into the theatre — but a little weed is cool.
Act 1
Me, speaking into the Perplexity AI browser’s microphone: “How long is the French Camino?”
What Perplexity heard: “Hello, this is a test.”
What Perplexity replied: “Hello! Test received loud and clear. What’s on your mind?”
Act 2
Me, a little perplexed with Perplexity: How long is the French Camino?”
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It is not even a midlife crisis. I passed that expiration date decades ago. I mean, I’m almost 76 years old.
Thing is, I didn’t pluck one out of a catalog, all shiny and new and bristling with speed and 18 gears, and potential. And maybe an electric motor….
This one was leaning up against a garage entrance on Calle 28 de Abril in Colonia San Antonio, like an early morning mezcal-sopped tourist on shaky legs. It was tethered to a rope from inside, and it had a for-sale tag, but I had no time to read it.
It just looked so sad. Covered in dust, a patina of rust over the frame.
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Sometimes you are handed a gift, in this case, a funny and talented writer named Papa Joe Grappa. A mutual friend sent me Joe’s Substack column titled “Questions for Jesus When He Comes Back.” It is really funny, as it should be for a guy who was Jay Leno’s head writer for 20 years.
Here’s the thing, as I was reading Joe’s questions, I was hearing Jesus’s answers.
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Hi! And welcome back to the popular shame game “So You Think You Can Rant?” where it’s your words against the troll-a-verse! I’m your host, Seymour Bittame!
For those of you who haven’t played before, the rules are simple:
A scenario pulled from a real social media post will be put up on the screen and our four panelists will have one minute to respond to it in the worst possible ways imaginable. Oh, yes, without violating FCC rules on taste and profanity.
Audience laughs.
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A lot of people say to me, “Bob, I have this really annoying friend. Annoying, but not so bad that I want to kill him. Is there anything a passive-aggressive person like myself can do about this situation?”
My first instinct is to say, “My friend, you’ve come to the right place. Have you ever considered gifting them a puppy?
I don’t say that, however.
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A young boy named Donny sits by the pond, staring at his lifeless pet turtle, the one that he had named Democracy. The turtle’s legs and head are nowhere to be found. There is just the colorful shell of Democracy.
Donny is inconsolable. He is bereft. The tears are rolling down his cheeks in waves.
His mother comes out and tries to comfort him but he wants none of it. Nothing she says reaches him through the heavy veil of grief.
“He’s dead. He’s dead,” he repeats over and over.
She calls their neighbor and friend, a psychiatrist, but nothing the man says can calms the boy.
“He’s dead. He’s dead,” he repeats over and over.
Finally, the father, Elon, returns home and takes the boy for a ride in his Tesla.
“We will have a wonderful funeral for Democracy. The best funeral. It will be like no other funeral in history. Perhaps the most amazing funeral ever. You can invite your best friends to attend.
“And when the funeral is over, we will have a feast in Democracy’s honor with all your favorite foods and the best cake and ice cream.”
“Really? Cake and ice cream?” asks Donny.
“Absolutely,” says Elon.
“And finally, we will bury Democracy out on the lawn, just below your bedroom window. I will carve a beautiful and expensive tombstone for Democracy and put a little light on it. Whenever you want, you can turn the light on and off from a switch I will install next to your bed.”
The more Elon talked and promised, the better his son, Donny, began to feel. His eyes widened with each promise made by the father until they were like saucers. By the time they returned home Donny was on board.
So the two walked out to the pond, hand in hand, to begin making preparations for the burial of Democracy. In his head, Donny was drawing up a list of all the friends he would invite to the party.
Only, Democracy wasn’t dead.
The turtle was swimming around, as happy as can be. He had all his legs. He had his head, certainly, and he was chasing little tiny fish for supper.
Elon and little Donny just stood there, staring at the turtle. Wordless. Eyes wide. Jaws dropped.
Democracy was as healthy as ever.
Finally, quietly, Donny looked up to his dad with an expressionless face.
“Let’s kill it,” he said.
(I owe you one, James Thurber. The great humorist tells a version of this story in the introduction to “Collected Fables.” In fact, in one version of this story read on the radio, Bing Crosby was the voice of the father.)
The image above is generated by Artificial Intelligence.
