Sunday, October 31, 2010

A Stickler's Notes

Idiotic Idioms, Fad Expressions & Speech Mannerisms for 2013

Starting a sentence with "so." Easily the most annoying new mannerism. No one does the topic more justice than English teacher Ben Yagoda on the Lingua Franca blog:

So It Turns Out That Everyone’s Starting Sentences With ‘So’

     2012 Winner: "Takeaway." The main takeaway: Never use an idiotic expression like "takeaway."

Can you possibly listen to a discussion show for more than a few minutes without hearing some moron say "takeaway"? No! The expression has become the media's new darling, putting "at the end of the day" temporarily in the back seat.
     If you really want to distinguish yourself as a hopeless hack, a miserable excuse for a wordmeister, here is the phrase to use: "And the REST is history!" While you're at it, work in "The good, the bad and the ugly." Not only do professional writers and speakers use these trite expressions every day, they use them with gusto, as if they bound out of bed every morning thinking, "Maybe today I'll get to use 'the rest is history' again!"

I'm a grouch when it comes to the fads and crazes that sully my language. "Iconic" is the rage at the moment. The word went viral practically overnight. Anything vaguely recognizable is described as iconic. I defy you to pick up a publication or view a blog without seeing "iconic" all over the place. The word has been sucked dry of meaning. Don't we know that the Statue of Liberty is pretty iconic without having to be told?
     When an expression goes viral, people are so full of themselves when they use it. They act as if they invented it.* I'm hoping the frenzy over "iconic" dies down soon so we can move on to the next phase: "Iconic" becomes just another trite expression like "at the end of the day."
     I used to delight in finding new words. When I discovered "quintessential," I thought it was a very cool word. Not just essential, but QUINT essential. (Or PEN ultimate. OoOooh!) Then I found out everyone was using it. Sorta takes the fun out of it, like hiking to a favorite camping spot only to find it overrun by a Shriners convention. A word like quintessential shouldn't be used every chance you get. It should be saved for a really salient sentence that cries out for just that word.
     That's what the fad talkers don't get. There's an art to using words. A chef doesn't load up every dish with his favorite spice. The more a word is overused and overused and overused the less power it has. Yeah, it loses its panache. So that word becomes passé and the crowd moves on to the next "famously."
     No offense to those who delight in using the latest fad expression every chance they get. I'm sure it's a lot of fun, like the Macarena. This is just my humble protest against the clutter of garish verbal signage along life's scenic highway. For me the enjoyable speaking and writing is blessedly free of trendy buzzwords and catchphrases. I'm just an unknown blogger. Many of those who overuse and misuse fad expressions are highly paid writers and speakers. So who's the smart one?
     Listing all the nonsensical expressions that have piled up over the years is an endless project. (One just popped up: Anyways. Why is everyone suddenly adding "s" to anyway?) Here are a few that just won't go away.

     *Like the folks who reply to "How are you?" with "Oh, can't complain. Nobody'll listen anyway! Haha!" (giggle-giggle)

First Ever
What do you call an instance that precedes the first? When is the first not first enough? “First ever” is now the popular way to designate a first occurrence that might be confused with other first occurrences that are identical in every way except that they are only the first. Referring to the first man to walk on the moon, for example, might leave some wondering if you actually mean Neil Armstrong, the first ever, or the one who was merely the first, whoever he was. Some Russian?

     “I thought I was your first lover.”
     “I said first, not first ever.”

Related to first ever are “very first,” “very best,” “very latest,” and “right now.”

Mandatory adornment
The trend is to dress up the language with useless adornment. “First ever” joins a growing list of adornments that have become mandatory. It is no longer enough to say “first” and let it go at that.

What a difference "different" makes
Another mandatory expression is “different” when you talk about multiple items or events. You can’t just say “I applied for six jobs last week.” Someone might think you applied for the same job six times, so you have to say “six DIFFERENT jobs.”
     Different is related to separate. Trendy talkers need to clarify that things that are normally separate are indeed separate. "The bank has been robbed on four separate occasions." Thanks for clarifying that the robberies weren’t simultaneous. “Three separate witnesses gave the same account.” No Siamese twins watching?

A little BIT
A little of something is a small amount. So is a bit of something. What is a “little bit”? When people say “a little bit,” do they mean a teensy-weensy amount? Isn’t that just too cute?
     To either/or questions, the usual answer is “a little bit of both.” For example, was it talent or hard work that made you the success you are? A little bit of both is only two little bits. That leaves lots of other bits, perhaps some big ones, to explain the success.
     "A little BIT" is related to each and every. Boobish babblers who don't comprehend the meaning of "each" or "every," may surmise that they are not all-inclusive. They may think "each" means "most" or nearly all. Better be safe and throw in "every" just to cover anything "each" may leave out.

Same exact/exact same - According to fad talkers, "same" is loosely defined. It could mean roughly or about the same. You have to clarify: EXACT same.

Painfully shy - The only kind of shy there is these days.

Whether (OR NOT) - "The judge will decide whether or not to allow the evidence." Few can resist saying “or not.” Most of the time, you don’t need to. The purpose of the word is to indicate alternatives; “or not” is conveniently built in.

All New! Whooptidoo!
What’s newer than new? Can something be both new and not new? Apparently it can, because something merely new, not all-new, is deficient in newness. It may only be partially new and certainly nowhere near as new as all-new.

     “I see you have an all-new Toyota. Congratulations. How all-new is it?”
     “I just drove it home.”
     “It must be all all-new then.”
     “It’s completely all-new, yes.”
     “That’s good. You wouldn’t want to be stuck with one of those new cars, one that isn’t all-new.”
     “Right. I’ve heard about them. They’re all-new except the air in the tires, which is only new.”
     “Dreadful.”
     “They can’t put that over on me. I have a sworn statement from the dealer that the car is completely all-new.”
     “All-new oil? You have to watch that. Sometimes they try to slip you oil that’s just new.”
     “No no. The oil is all-new, the whole car is completely, totally all-new.”
     “Glad to hear it.”

“All new” first captured the imagination of rhetorical cutups when Hollywood writers went on strike in the mid-80s. Producers of TV sitcoms were forced to churn out shows reconstructed from old episodes. When the strike was over, new episodes were hyped as “all” new, to distinguish them from previous episodes that were merely new but contained recycled material. Calling them “all-new” was nonsense, of course. Had they been literally “all-new” the shows would have featured a new cast, new sets, even new characters. “All-new” may go down as the most annoying rhetorical gimmick of the century.

My alternative: Everyone say spankin' new!

Literally
“Literally” is the perfect big word. Four syllables. No one is really sure what it means, so you don’t have to worry about committing an embarrassing gaffe.
     Literally makes you sound smart because it the word itself sounds smart. It's a cousin of "literature" and what could be smarter than that? It brings forth images of books, heavy volumes, libraries. It's also related to "literate," which is how we want to sound, not illiterate.
     You can literally toss this word into almost any sentence. Many people use it to emphasize a figure of speech. Something makes you angry. “When he insulted my mother, I blew up.” To sound smart, you say “I literally blew up."
     Americans rely on mimicry for vocabulary-building. They hear a catchy word and start using it. They like the way it sounds. It’s cool. Who cares about the definition*? “I was literally torn.”
     People have fallen in love with the word and want to use it every chance they get. It has become a junk word, meaningless filler to keep your mouth moving between phrases. Literally has become a synonym for “actually” or “virtually” and is almost never used correctly. It is possible to go a lifetime without ever using “literally.” But who can resist? It makes you sound like a card-carrying member of the intelligencia.
     A cousin is basically. The word is not just basically useless, it's useless any way you consider it.

*Anniversary, for example. Mindless manglers are trying to create a new definition: "This marks the one-month anniversary of the tsunami." Only an imbecile could talk like this without feeling embarrassed.

Random! OMG!
The under-30 crowd has adopted "random" as the all-purpose word to toss willy-nilly into a sentence when a better word doesn't spring to mind. Or if you just want to show that you are cool, hip and with it. "Mom, you are so random!"
     Random apparently now refers to things that are unexpected, unlikely, unclassifiable, unexplainable, or nondescript. A non sequitur or off-topic comment is considered random.
     "I was just randomly driving around one random Friday night when I saw this bar in a random strip mall. I went in. The music was random. The people were random. A random waitress brought me a random drink and said someone had bought it for me. Two random chicks! Totally random!
     "When I left, a random dog ran up and bit me on a random leg. I found a random clinic and got my random wound treated. What a random night."

That said/that being said
Like literally, a handy conversation-filler, something to make you sound like a smarty pants.

If "that said" had been popular in Shakespeare's time:

          How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
          Seem to me all the uses of this world!
          That said, what's for lunch?


Uniquely unique
     “How unique is that, Bob?”
     “It’s very unique, Jim.”
It would be nice to have a word that means the only one of something. Long ago, unique supposedly meant that. So good a word was unique that it became immensely popular, like literally. People wanted to use it all the time, not just on unique things. The word became less unique. Now unique is a synonym for distinctive, unusual, or rare. The strength of the word has been diluted to the point that anything described as unique is probably common.
     When a word is neutered by overuse and moronic misuse, maulers of the language must give the word a boost--”very” or “most” unique. Since anything slightly above average is now iconic, something truly iconic sends the twitterati scurrying for superlatives: "legendary icon," for example.

Infer/imply
The words once had different meanings. Dictionaries now sanction their use as synonyms. A wife can infer infidelity from the lipstick on her husband’s collar. When she says “Tell me where you really were last night,” she implies that she doesn’t believe his alibi. He can correctly respond: “Are you implying that I wasn’t playing poker with the boys? What leads you to infer that?"


Gee, thanks...

We should all be thankful for vital information trendy talkers give us. Every day we hear on the news about a "brutal" murder. They do tend to be brutal. Why do you suppose thoughtless yackers are compelled to remind us that murder is, indeed, brutal? Do they assume their audience is as stupid as they are?

A.M./P.M.
- The robbery occurred at 3 a.m. this morning.
- Sunset is 7:24 p.m.
Otherwise, how would we know if it was morning or afternoon?

Considered extremely dangerous.
The manhunt is on for a rampaging killer. They always announce the suspect as armed and “considered” extremely dangerous. Like rain is considered wet?

Tough battle. - “Battle” simply isn’t good enough for today’s manglers, even though adversity is inherent in the word. How could it be a battle and still be easy? Also “difficult struggle,” the type experienced by so many celebrity “survivors.”

Tragic accident.
It’s hard to imagine an accident that results in serious injury or loss of life as not being tragic, but you can always rely on news entertainers to remind you that horrible accidents are, indeed, tragic.

Enough Already

A-MAZ-ing - I never thought I would long for the days when "awesome" was the rage. "A-MAZ-ing" gets sapped of any impact when applied to just about anything that warrants approval: "A-MAZ-ing haircut!" "A-MAZ-ing toothbrush!"

We caught up with...
This one was trite 25 years ago, but you still hear it surprisingly often. You picture the reporter chasing the newsmaker across continents, dashing through airports, commanding cabs to follow in wild pursuit. Perhaps the newsmaker gained prominence with a meteoric rise that is credited to a herculean effort. You “catch up” with a newsmaker by telephoning her publicist to arrange an interview.

Speaks volumes - "Israel's silence on Syria speaks volumes." When I hear this precious term, my sour look speaks volumes for my disdain.

Last known whereabouts
“What were his last known whereabouts?”
“Search me. I only have his last unknown whereabouts.”
“Lay ‘em on me.”
“Last time he was unknown to be somewhere, it was Third and Main.”
“Got it.”

Level playing field - We’re constantly hearing about people struggling to overcome slanted playing fields. It’s an absurd analogy because an uneven field hinders all players equally. Golf courses, for example, are deliberately hilly, twisted, and tricky (a terrible injustice). If baseball were played on hillsides, which team would be unfairly encumbered?

As soon as humanly possible - Divine intervention never seems like a possibility, but they keep saying this anyway. If the task were left to robots or monkeys, might it be done sooner?

Heinous crime - People can’t resist using this pompous expression. They can’t pronounce it (rhymes with anus), nor do they seem comfortable using it. Rightly so. It’s a lousy word and everyone should drop it. Heinous began to be popular in the ‘60s, about the time the Kennedys’ mispronunciation of “clandestine” caught on. Before the Kennedys, no one said clandestine. They made it rhyme with Palestine which was wrong, but dictionaries now sanction it.

Hands down - How did this get so popular with the younger set? They usually shun old-school expressions. My guess is they don't realize it's old school. They think it's something they invented, like oral sex.

Go see/went to see - What did you do Friday night? "We went to see a movie." Why is it never "we went to a movie," or "Do you want to go to a movie?" It's always "go see." I've even heard "We're going to go see a movie." I'm puzzled how these get started, but once they do, there's no stopping them.

Remains to be seen - “Whether the players and owners come to terms or not remains to be seen.” We don’t need to be told that we must await the outcome of a future event before we can “see” what happens.

Window of opportunity - The more I hear about all these hackneyed windows, the more I want to throw myself out one.

One of the only
- He was one of the only men to attend the women’s conference. “The only” is not a collective expression. He was one of only a few.... (please, not a VERY few)

Free gift
“Here’s your birthday present. No charge.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s free.”
“Of course it’s free--it’s a gift isn’t it? Are you trying to spoil my birthday?”

You can sometimes get a free gift at a sales event. When a merchandiser has an ordinary sale, it’s nothing special. The really good bargains come only at sales events. A very special all-new first-time-ever sales event is where you get the most spectacular savings. Hurry!

Foreseeable future
“Are we going to Mars?”
“Not in the foreseeable future.”
The speaker means he doesn’t expect it to happen soon, hasn’t consulted a psychic, but saying so doesn’t sound pretentious enough. In the same category is the pretentious a tendency to, which doesn't have the gravitas that "tends to" does.

Quite frankly - Another that has caught on although it serves no purpose except to make the speaker pompous.

Grisly find - Newscasters rejoice at the chance to use this expression, always to describe conditions that any moron knows are grisly. If someone is beheaded, dismembered or disemboweled, what do you expect the find to be--pleasant? To give grisly a rest, they sometimes switch to gruesome.

Visibly shaken - Angelina Jolie visits a camp for refugees from Rwanda and is visibly shaken by the suffering. When was the last time you heard about a newsmaker who wasn’t visibly shaken upon seeing conditions that would disturb anyone except the catatonic?

Visual description/physical description - “We don’t have a visual description of the suspect.” How about a description of his emotional state?

Physical body - I’m not sure why it’s necessary to point out that a body is physical, but you hear this surprisingly often.

Near brush with death - Brushes with death at safe distances are all too common.

Problem areas - Problems? We don’t have problems, only problem areas.

Pinpoint the exact location - Pinpoint sounds pretty exact to me.

But I digress - Adorable! Purposely stray off-topic just so you can use it!

Frequently asked questions - “Frequent questions” is better, but who can resist the urge to toss in an extra word? It can’t be a question if it isn’t asked.

Unanswered questions - “There are still many unanswered questions surrounding the disappearance.” If the questions were answered, they wouldn’t be questions anymore. It isn’t necessary to point out that the questions have not been answered, but superfluous words always sound better.

Period of time - “I never thought it could happen in such a short period of time.” Drop “period of” and you have a much more forceful statement.

Particular - “This particular instance.” Another junk word.

The 800-pound gorilla rears its ugly head with alarming frequency. How does he manage to sneak into so many rooms? Is he officially 800 pounds or is he sometimes a thousand? We need a ruling from the Cliché Ministry. The presence of a large hairy ape in the room should serve as a wake-up call for those who have become complacent about the wanton sterilization of our language. The fact of the matter is, next time you see any gorilla in the room, regardless of weight, run like hell. It's a no brainer. Sick of the 800-pound gorilla? Try the elephant in the room. So fresh and original. How about the 300-pound hack in the room?

White powdery substance - This gets to the marrow of our problem with trendy expressions. "White powder" won't do. It's too simple and direct. "Powdery substance" sounds more precise but it's actually vague. If not powder, what is a "powdery substance"? Something between sand and baby powder? Why create vagueness? These expressions are part of the trend to clutter the language, to both dress it up and weigh it down. Most of the examples in this squib relate to the same notion: The English language is improved by fog and murk, by tacking on filigree.

In circles that strive for a pompous tone, British affectation is called for: Amongst, whilst, amidst, betwixt, etc. Writers and speakers who want to be taken seriously should shun these. You'll sound pretty silly when you try to dress up your prose with acrost. Americans using Britishisms like "bum," "telly," and "loo" sound pretty ridiculous. I don't expect many readers to tell me this observation is "spot on," however.

Sting operation - If only they’d thought to name the Paul Newman-Robert Redford film The Sting Operation.

Phenomenon/phenomena - Pretentious prattlers often use the plural (phenomena) when talking about a phenomenon.

"A" paparazzi - Paparazzi is plural. Paparazzo (singular) is the name of an annoying news photographer in the immortal Fellini movie La Dolce Vita. Anyone who says "a paparazzi" of course would have no interest in a Fellini movie. Woody Harrelson: "With my daughter at the airport I was startled by a paparazzo who I quite understandably mistook for a zombie." (my italics)

Pre-order! OoOoh!
Nothing gets ordered anymore. It's all pre-order. People think OoOoh! Special handling! No, there's no difference between order and pre-order. When an item is not in stock, or if you want to take delivery later, you order it. “Pre”-order is just another idiotic expression some nitwit dreamed up. Soon customers won't be satisfied with a mere order.

     "We're out of stock. I'll be happy to order it for you."
     "NO! I want a PRE-order!"

     Pre-order of course is related to pre-plan and pre-approval. “We would like to talk to people who have preplanned their funerals.” All planning anticipates events or conditions. “Pre” or “advance” planning sounds better to thoughtless yackers even though there is never a need to distinguish them from spur-of-the-moment or retrospective planning.

Location, location, location - Revulsion, revulsion, revulsion.

Happy belated birthday - When someone I know says this, I think "I know he's not stupid. What's the matter with him?" When you look for a greeting card wishing someone a belated happy birthday, they're hard to find. It's all "belated birthday," another sure sign that America's collective IQ has taken an alarming nosedive.

Survivor - A favorite way to describe someone who has come through hard times. The word fetches images of months at sea in a raft, but it can mean anything from cellulite to a bad hair day. There’s nothing special about non-celebrities (“average” people) surviving the myriad horrors of everyday life, things that would make the average celebrity a basket case. A celebrity, on the other hand, is revered for “surviving” so punishing an ordeal as getting rich playing a famous role and then being typecast. Tough battle!

Up and running - Ultra-trendy. “We want to have our facilities up and running as soon as humanly possible so we can hit the ground running and get up to speed.” As with many such words, it’s hard to remember what we said before “up and running” became the rage. Probably something mundane, like “working,” or “back in service.”

Decision-making process - “She wants to be included in every step of the decision-making process.” There’s no need to point out that it’s a process. Try “She wants to be involved in decisions.”

deepest sympathies, condolences - The sypmathizer wants you to know that his sympathies couldn’t be more heartfelt for you, whereas for others his sympathies might only be superficial.

Where you at? - “It all depends where you’re at. ” Nearly everyone, it seems, must use “at” with where. In the underground, we still say “Where are you?" or "Where you are."

Watchful Eye - "Under the watchful eye of sheriff's deputies..." All those eyes, WATCHING through ever-present windows of opportunity.

End user - It has now become necessary to identify the ultimate user of a product as if the item has passed along a chain of users. When you by a new car, for example, you are the user, period. No one has used it before you. Fanciers of trendy techtalk, however, will insist upon calling you the end user. The same applies to “end result.” There is seldom a need to distinguish a final result from a succession of results along the way.

Route/rout - "Get your kicks on Route 66." Only a select few understand that "route" rhymes with "shoot" not "shout." En route - "En" is pronounced "on." Got it? There IS a rout (rhymes with shout). It's a lopsided victory (sports or military).

Marley & Me - Did the author make a mistake when he gave the book its title? Shouldn't it be Marley & I? How did so many manglers get this wrong? To avoid a glaring mistake like "Suzy and me will be there," most people fall back on the idiot-proof "you and I," as in "Just between you and I." It's become so ubiquitous I'm sure dictionaries and grammar texts will sanction it. Meanwhile, here's the final authority on "I,me."

The Situation Room
The classic situations: win-win, no-win, win-lose, no-win, no-lose, and various confusing combinations. Handy expressions for people who don’t like to think about what they say. Only chronic abusers of English can explain why “crisis” or “emergency” are such weak words that they need the help of “situation.”

More about speech mannerisms: What Are Speech Mannerisms?

Lake Superior State University Banished Words - Lake Superior State practically invented Cliché-bashing. I submit new words every year but the bastids never take 'em. So I wrote a squib instead. They disappointed once again with their 2012 list (for 2011), which didn't mention "takeaway," by far the most egregiously overused expression of the year.





We welcome your comments!

Click to weigh in! What idiotic expression are you sick of?

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Stockholm Syndrome

After his ordeal, Griffin not only had a criminal record but he was a marked man with Smedley and his outlaw biker posse. He was dogged by worry that the owner of Sid Vicious would exact a terrible revenge. Upon his return to the dog park, he was greeted with glares and stares from the assembled dog lovers. They gestured in his direction. He could see them mouthing expressions of disdain, their faces twisted with hatred. The dogs, meanwhile, went about their sniffing and romping. A group of women prevailed upon a muscular young man to approach Griffin. Before he could enter the confines of the park, the young man cut him off. He obviously was a veteran of pumping iron. He had the menacing demeanor of a kick boxer or a mixed martial arts fighter. His cocky swagger signaled assurance that he could back up his request with a savage beating.
     "I'm going to have to have to ask you to leave," he said.
     "Leave? Are you crazy?"
     "I'm speaking for all the regulars here. We don't want your kind."
     "My kind? What kind do you think I am?"
     "A cruelty offender. Everyone knows. Get lost."
     "Cruelty? What cruelty? What the hell are you talking about?"
     "We saw what you did to Pookie-Poo. Everyone did."
     "I was trying to save Pookie-Poo from being eaten."
     At this, the young body builder let out a derisive snort. "Yeah, right. THAT'S how you're spinning it? Listen, pal..."
     Griffin's dog Charley, meanwhile, was oblivious. His attention was on the pack activities in the off-leash area and the myriad doggie scents wafting his way.
     The martial arts expert had the situation well in hand. When she saw that Griffin wasn't going to pull a gun or freak out in some distasteful fashion, one of the women joined in the discussion. "You've got some nerve showing your face around here after what happened. Pookie-Poo was traumatized."
     "He would have been a lot more than traumatized if--"
     "--We want you out of here." She threatened to call the cops.
     Griffin was alarmed. His probation required that he stay away from dog parks. For the good of Charley, he violated his probation. The judge didn't want to put Charley in the pound because he probably wouldn't be adoptable. "Charley is probably a basket case, but he appears to be devoted to his person," the judge said at Griffin's sentencing. "It's the canine version of Stockholm syndrome," the judge added. At the start of the trial, Griffin's bloated attorney moved that the judge, a Poodle owner, should recuse herself. The judge gave the attorney a derisive snort. "Denied" was all she said. Griffin suspected the judge of being a Caninist.
     Another condition of Griffin's probation was regular monitoring by the Humane Society, but Griffin wisely chose not to mention his criminal status to his accusers.
     "Look at Charley," Griffin offered. "He's happy. Not a scratch on him." To prove that he was on the best of terms with Charley, he knelt and patted him. Charley responded waggingly.
     "So what! Have you heard of Stockholm syndrome? Let him lick your face." Mention of Stockholm syndrome gave Griffin a start.
     "Charley doesn't lick faces. Not every dog is a face-licker."
     "You're full of shit." She knelt and called to Charley. The hound bounded over and joyfully licked her face. "See? You think he loves you but you're just holding him hostage. He won't even lick your face! Case closed. That's why we're working to get him away from you." Griffin guessed this was an empty threat, but he had to tread lightly. If one of the dog lovers decided to contact the authorities, there would be serious trouble.
     As the discussion continued, Griffin was surrounded by dog lovers and their dogs. The pets showed their teeth and snarled at Griffin. "Grrrrr," they said. Charley hung his head. He couldn't understand why his former pals had turned against him.
     They'd probably cut him some slack, Griffin thought, if only they knew he was the caretaker of a remarkable dog that had survived a gassing. He could match kindness credentials against any of these jokers.
     Griffin had no choice but to retreat. There was a round of applause from the dog lovers, who gave Griffin a final evil stare. The dogs had a final growl. The young martial arts expert puffed out his chest. Someone called out, "Good riddance, Chainsaw Guy."
     Griffin was used to taking insults from dog lovers, but "chainsaw guy" was a low blow. The judge had also used that against him. (Prosecutor: "Tell the court why you're known as the 'chainsaw guy.'") The chainsaw incident was a horrible accident, nothing more.

                                                                                     ■

For several years, Griffin had to stay out of his own back yard. The neighbor's angry dog went ballistic over any sign of activity from Griffin's side of the fence. Griffin had the impression his neighbor used his dog solely as a cheap home security system. As far as Griffin knew, the dog never left the yard. It may have been chained. The frenzied barking made it uncomfortable for Griffin to spend time in his nicely-appointed back yard. The only time he spent there was for routine gardening chores, and to clean up the dog droppings his neighbor threw over the fence into his yard.
     He had never seen the neighbor. He assumed it was a man. He never seriously considered confronting him. Someone who would throw his dog's droppings into a neighbor's yard could be any kind of wack job. The only outcome he could imagine was a sucker punch to the face, shattering his teeth. Griffin had to content himself with gathering the droppings with a shovel and launching them back over the fence.
     Charley used a dog run on the side of the house away from the rogue dog. The crazed beast made his living barking. He spent the day barking just to keep himself company. He didn't even take the ten minute breaks he was entitled to under his guard dog contract with Canine Local 38.
     Griffin neglected pruning his tree as long as he could. One day he dragged out the chainsaw. As soon as he stepped foot in the yard, the dog went from routine barking to bloodcurdling barks, growls and snarls. Griffin could see the fence bowing as the beast leaped against it. It gave him chills. As he went about cutting branches, Griffin did his best to ignore Sid Vicious, his nickname for the animal. He had never actually seen the dog. The fence blocked his view. He imagined it to be a fearsome Mastiff or raging Bull Terrier.
     He tried speaking softly to the animal. "Calm down, Sid Vicious." It only infuriated the dog further. He finally got his chance to see Sid Vicious, a muscular Rottweiler with a spiked collar, when the animal came roaring over the fence, sailing through the air in a perfect arc, jaws snapping, mouth foaming, his fangs on target for the veins in Griffin's neck. Holding the chainsaw, Griffin turned to protect himself. The saw ripped into the snapping jaws of poor Sid Vicious. Letting out blood-curdling yelps, the pathetic creature collapsed on Griffin's lawn.
     Griffin called 911. Animal control was dispatched. For several minutes, Sid Vicious suffered. After a bloody struggle, the animal control officer was able to sedate the dog. He tried to contact the dog's owner, but no one came to the door. With no one to authorize medical attention, the animal control officer saw no choice but to euthanize the badly maimed dog.
     Griffin was close to breaking down. He didn't mean to slice the dog's face. It just happened. The animal control officer sought to console him. "If it's any consolation, that dog was a killer. He tried to eat a poor Chorkie."
     "Wonder why he wasn't put down," Griffin said.
     "They said the Chorkie was the instigator. He was harrasin' the big dog. That Rotty mistook the poor little Chorkie for a chew toy. Took him in his mouth and shook him like a rag doll. I got the call. What a mess. You see a lot of sickening things in this business. I guess this Rotty was banned from the park after that."
     The story didn't make Griffin feel any better about killing Sid Vicious, but talking with the officer somehow helped him come to grips with the tragedy. When the animal control officer finally left with the dog's body, Griffin watered the grass, washing away signs of the demise of poor Sid Vicious. A bird picked among the grisly remnants. For the first time in years, there was peace in Griffin's back yard.
     The Chorkie killing had caused an uproar. Dog fanciers gathered for a candle-light vigil. There were calls to ban killer breeds like Rottweilers. When word got out that Sid Vicious had been killed, the dog park was abuzz. Some felt private satisfaction that the death of the adorable Chorkie had finally been avenged, but many others thought Griffin was a monster for taking a chainsaw to a defenseless Rotty. They took to calling Griffin "the chain saw guy."


Griffin was probably the only park patron with fond memories of the Outlaw Reign of Terror. The park had a checkered history, and not only because of the inordinate number of adorable Cocker Spaniels that frequented the facility. It had been an ordinary neighborhood park, founded in the 1940s. Dog lovers and ordinary citizens somehow coexisted in peace, mainly because dogs were not allowed off leash. Owners were expected to maintain control over their charges.
     But the verdant summer lawns were hissing. Dog lovers developed a heightened sense of entitlement. A dog park was not just a nice amenity, it was a right, and not only for dog owners. Dogs had rights too. In addition to the basic rights of food, shelter, and humane treatment, dogs also had the right to romp unfettered by leashes. They were the Caninists, radical champions for the rights of dogs. They didn't believe in leashes, collars, fences, or discipline of any kind. Training a dog, teaching it basic commands like "sit" or "stay" was abuse and exploitation. They objected to the concept of a dog "owner," with its oppressive connotations. The individual responsible for a dog was its "person." They were the first and loudest advocates for off-leash parks, free from the oppressive presence of "haters" (those who didn't have a dog).
     Caninists were fed up with the so-called etiquette that society imposed on dogs. A dog was thought to be unruly and ill-mannered if it jumped on people. That was just being a dog. If people didn't like dogs jumping on kids, knocking them to the ground, it was up to parents to keep their kids away from dogs. They were sick of haters looking down on them. They were opposed to gathering dog feces just because haters didn't like stepping in it. Let them look where they were going! The Caninists maintained that feces were a natural, biodegradable byproduct and good for the environment. Dog haters just used the feces issue as a club to hold over the Caninists.
     In an era of expanding rights for all citizens, the right to a dog park was accepted as God-given. Dog parks proliferated. Ordinary city parks were converted. The park in Griffin's neighborhood was no exception. It was an ordinary park until more and more dog lovers allowed their dogs to run loose. To accommodate them, the city fenced off a section of the park for dogs to frolic off leash. The haters felt slighted. Why had their beautiful park been unceremoniously mutilated? Why were dog owners so special? To their outrage, the newly empowered dog lovers ignored the lawful boundaries and allowed their dogs cavort in the area reserved for haters to picnic and play. From then on, the park was plagued by controversy and neighborhood tensions.
     The park's time of trial came when the city faced a budget crisis. They would no longer pay city workers to pick up feces. Resentment on both sides, hater and dog lover, came to a head the afternoon of the infamous Feces Fight. In a fit of rage, a fed-up hater grabbed a pile of excrement and hurled it at an inconsiderate dog lover. It sparked a near-riot of feces throwing from the two camps. It looked something like La Tomatina. Those who participated in or witnessed the fight were so scarred they couldn't bring themselves to revisit the horrifying scene.
     The Caninists moved in. They tore down the fences. Dogs were turned loose to romp as they pleased. Some were killed by speeding automobiles. The Caninists were not deterred. "Better to die free than live on a leash," they said.
     Fumes from uncollected feces filled the air for blocks. Complaints from neighbors poured into city offices. Through it all, Griffin continued to bring Charley to the park. For the good of Charley, he tolerated the sickening fumes. Griffin sensed that even Charley was not delighted by the oppressive odors. Just when it seemed like things couldn't get any worse, outlaw bikers took over and drove out the Caninists.
     The bikers used the park to exercise their Mastiffs, Rottweilers, Bull Terriers, and other macho breeds. The outlaws appointed themselves overseers and protectors of the park. They drank high-gravity beer from 40-ounce bottles and yelled obscenities at the Caninists. When the Caninists yelled back, the bikers grabbed them and tossed them into piles of excrement.
     Their leader was Smedley. He was a big man with droopy eyes like the actor Charles Laughton. He had an enormous belly like a steamer trunk. A scraggly Rasputin beard draped his chest. He walked with his head tilted back, as if to balance the load. A clump of keys as big a fist swung from his belt. The skin on the back of his neck was bunched in heavy folds. When things met with his displeasure, and they often did, his furrowed face twisted into a menacing sneer. His disdainful comments were delivered with a snarl.
     Griffin saw trouble coming one day when a Caninist visited the park with her two enormous German Shepherds. From the prodigious piles of steaming excrement they deposited, they apparently were very well-fed. The outlaws converged on the young woman.
     "You gonna pick up them piles?" one of the outlaws asked.
     "Fuck off, dirt bag." Griffin winced. "Dirt bag" was one of the worst insults you could hurl at an outlaw. One of the outlaws grabbed her and prepared to toss her into a pile.
     "Tell me why I shouldn't throw you in that steaming pile. Wouldn't you feel bad if I stepped in it?"
     "Put me down, ya big lummox! If you don't want to step in it, watch where you're going. Poop is natural. It's good for the soil!"
     "It stinks."
     "So do you! I'm calling the cops!"
     With a derisive snort, the heartless outlaw tossed her into the pile.
     Griffin knew one day the outlaws would turn their attention to him. He always steered clear of the bikers, avoiding eye contact. Finally, under the influence of too many 40s, one of them turned his fearsome gaze toward him.
     "Where's your pooper scooper?"
     Before he could protest, a couple of the thugs grabbed Griffin and prepared to throw him into a pile.
     "Whoa-whoa-whoa!" Griffin yelled. "Whoa! Wait. I'm on your side. My dog doesn't poop here! He poops at home."
     They paused, holding Griffin like a battering ram, as if ready to bash something with Griffin's head.
     "Turn him loose," Smedley commanded.
     "What?" The bikers were hard of hearing from decades of riding their deafening hogs. They set Griffin upright.
     "You heard me," Smedley lied. "He says his dog don't shit here."
     "You believe that?"
     "Let's hear his story. Your dog got a problem, dawg?"
     "He only shits at home," Griffin said, straightening his clothes. "He's trained."
     "What?" Smedley mostly could only hear the echo of his hog's tailpipes roaring in his ears.
     "I TRAINED HIM. HE ONLY SHITS AT HOME," Griffin repeated. Nearby dog-lovers, cowering in fear that they would be next to be thrown into a pile, lifted their heads to catch any snippet of the conversation that might be heard.
     "You're shittin' me. You can train a dog to do that?"
     "Well, I trained Charley here. I don't know about every dog." Griffin was starting to get the hang of yelling at the outlaws.
     "Teach Bruiser," Smedley said, nodding to a fierce-looking outlaw dog as big as a billygoat. At the mention of his name, Bruiser commenced growling. "Knock it off!" Smedley snarled. Bruiser relaxed and licked his chops. "Bruiser's the smartest dog I ever saw. You won't have no problem teaching him."
     Griffin was reluctant to undertake a dog-training project. But Smedley's menacing presence was a powerful persuader. His thick sleeveless arms were festooned with tastefully raunchy tattoos depicting various sexual proclivities, criminal achievements, drug preferences, gang affiliations, medieval implements of torture, and symbols of alienation from society.
     "I'm not a dog trainer," Griffin said, "but I'll be happy to try."
     Griffin knew he'd have to do more than try, since the bikers would likely beat him to a pulp if he failed. Training Bruiser to shit at home proved fairly easy, even if it meant daily trips to Smedley's house for a while. Smedley's house was pretty much a junkyard with sleeping and bathing areas. Smedley introduced Griffin to Helen, an Amazonian biker mama who looked like should could easily pick up Griffin and throw him. Instead of a handshake, Helen playfully cupped Griffin's genitals. He would have preferred that his member remain neutral, but of course it didn't. It sprang to life, prompting Helen to let out a whoop. "Hot damn! Nothin' gay about this boy!"
     With Bruiser trained to shit only at home, Smedley beamed with pride. He started treating his intelligent dog with more kindness. Bruiser seemed happy too, having mastered a new skill. Griffin became almost an honorary member of the gang. He hung out with the bikers at the dog park guzzling 40-ouncers and jeering lame-ass dog fanciers.
     Eventually the dog park became a utopia for the old-school type of dog owner who welcomed responsibility for their animals. Without Caninists to harass, the park was a little less fun for the bikers, but they enjoyed the goodwill of their fellow dog lovers. Mastiffs and Great Danes frolicked alongside Schnauzers and Jack Russells in blissful harmony.
     The Caninists regrouped. They weren't about to be driven from the park that was rightfully theirs. Since they were respectable citizens, the police took their side. The police were fed up with calls about dog lovers being thrown into piles of poop. Noise ordinances were easier to prosecute, however, so the cops went after the hogs, with their tailpipes that sounded like the wrath of Satan. Many bikers had taught their dogs to ride bitch. Others brought their dogs to the park in sidecars or special coaches that were towed behind their hogs. The dogs were going deaf as fast as the outlaw bikers.
     The Caninists and the cops had the bikers outmaneuvered. They were forced to retreat. The dog park reverted to its former disarry, with poop piling up and pooches marauding through the neighborhood. Complaints from residents again flooded city offices.

The city closed the park. It sat deserted for several months while its fate was debated. A new hero emerged to restore the park to its former glory. She was Maggie Frison-Biché, canine advocate and civic-minded crusader. It was Maggie who organized the dog-loving community to revive the park. She collected private donations for park upkeep. She recruited 200 volunteers to pick up poop, not just for their own dogs but even for the Caninists. Everyone saw the value of pitching in to help if it would save the park. The Caninists agreed to leave the fences intact. Most importantly, the city agreed to convert the park to a dog-only facility. The haters would have to go elsewhere. It was a huge victory for the Caninists.
     The park reopened with its catchy new name, Six Wags. In a flashy ceremony, city officials and dog lovers celebrated.

                                                                                     ■

Griffin made his living as a day-trader, so he had plenty of time on his hands. He came to possess Charley when his forlorn neighbor, Nelson, lost his job and his house to foreclosure practically in one swoop. Before long, his wife packed up and left, taking their young daughter with her. Nelson decided to divest all his possessions and move to Texas where, a relative assured him, jobs were still plentiful and living costs low. By the time his house was picked clean in a liquidation sale, Nelson's dog Charley was about all that remained.
     "Why don't you take him? He likes you."
     "I'm not a dog guy," Griffin said.
     "He's a special dog. He survived a gassing, you know. Yeah, I got him from the pound. I took my daughter Carly there to find her a pet. She couldn't make up her mind. She wanted them all. 'Let's go home and think it over,' I said. The kid who worked at the pound said, 'Well, there is one more. We're really not sure what to do with him.' He took us 'round back. There was Charley giving me this look that reminded me of my dad--very wise but kind of pissed. The story was, he attacked a seeing-eye dog. That's an automatic death sentence. The kid was like 'It wasn't his fault. That freakin' seeing-eye dog was the instigator. They're not all the saints they're made out to be.'
     "So they locked him up in the gas chamber with a bunch of other misfits and gassed 'em. They had a hose hooked up to an old pickup truck. Well, when they opened the chamber there was Charley standing on top of a pile of dead dogs giving a kind of defiant look. The guy in charge of gassing the dogs quit then and there.
     "I wanted to deck the guy for telling such a gruesome story right in front of Carly. She didn't flinch. She just had this look of concern. It made me proud that she stepped up. 'I want him,' was all she said. He's not cute or cuddly, but Carly had to have him.
     "Griffin, lemme ask you. What do you think the chances are of a dog surviving a trip to the gas chamber?"
     "As close to none as you can get, I imagine."
     "That's right. The folks who run the pound called all over. No one had ever heard of such a thing. They all said, 'That's some special dog.'
     "He earned his reprieve. They weren't sure what to do with him though. Your typical adopter doesn't want problems. As far as they're concerned, he's a canine criminal. There's somethin' about him. I think you see it too. I can't leave him with just anyone. I know you'd appreciate him even if you aren't a dog person. He'll grow on ya. My ex wouldn't take him. 'I won't have that freak in my house,' she told me. "He's as good a little buddy as a guy could every want."
     "Since you put it that way, Nelson. It'd be an honor to take him. I promise I won't let him down. I'll give him the best care I know how."
     "I know you will," Nelson said.
     Truth was, Griffin barely knew Nelson. They became friendly when jobless foreclosure victims began clearing out of the neighborhood. Formerly respectable family men, the Great Recession had made them job beggars struggling to keep their visitation rights. First the job, then the house, then the wife.
     They held rowdy liquidation sales, sipping booze from oversized convenience store cups and practically giving away their possessions. Guys gave away or sold golf clubs or table saws for practically nothing. There was a lot of gallows humor, with profanity-laced diatribes against the American Dream. Shattered lives were fodder for acerbic profane banter. When all the homes were foreclosed and the households liquidated, the neighborhood grew silent.
     In his way, Charley was a good-looking dog. He was a wire haired mutt with a stocky build, long sticklike legs, big floppy ears and Andy Rooney eyebrows. He had a very kind face and a scruffy, rust-colored coat. Now that he had a new project, Griffin followed his typical pattern. He learned everything he could about dogs. He bought books and DVDs on dog care and training.
     Charley was a source of endless fascination for Griffin. On trips to the dog park, he spent his time observing Charley and the other dogs the way Jane Goodall watched primates. He watched their rituals and routines. He preferred to keep aloof from the park's social scene.
     Much as Griffin enjoyed Charley's company, he didn't consider himself a true dog lover. He wouldn't allow any dog to lick his face. It was a disgusting ritual. Whenever he saw a dog lick someone's face, he could only think of dogs licking their private parts and even eating their own excrement. He was against the whole notion of "fur children." He couldn't abide baby talk for pets or for people. He didn't want Charley to sleep with him. He didn't allow Charley to beg for treats from the dinner table. Above all, he insisted that Charley refrain from jumping on people. Charley was permitted the occasional woof for home-security reasons, but other than that Griffin discouraged Charley from barking just to be barking.
     Behind his back, dog park denizens expressed the suspicion that something was "not right" about Griffin. Charley was too well behaved. They wondered if Griffin abused the poor animal. When they saw Griffin turn away whenever a dog tried to lick his face, they exchanged knowing glances.
     For his part, Griffin hated Six Wags. He only spent time there for Charley's benefit. He enjoyed the dogs (love was too strong a word), but couldn't stand the people. He would far rather deal with outlaw bikers than typical dog lovers. They tended to be so arrogant and self-centered it was a wonder Maggie Frison-Biché got them to agree on anything.
     Most park goers used dog park time to take a break from dog involvement. The park served as a substitute for the disciplined walk. They dropped their dogs off while they went shopping. They gabbed on their cell phones or engaged with their laptops. The perfumed women who owned trendy breeds (Cock-A-Poo, Labradoodle, Weimerotty, Shar-Pug, Cockerhuahua, Vizslhasa, Shihdoxie, Butterscotch Doberdoodle, Schnippet) were snooty and wouldn't give Griffin the time of day. They didn't love dogs so much as the idea of a dog. An adorable dog was just another fashion accessory. They preferred to flirt with hunky men who used dogs as "wingmutts" or "cleavage hounds."
     Griffin didn't approve of the craze in tattoos and body piercings for dogs. He'd seen some extravagant tattoos on hairless dogs and those with bare bellies. He didn't understand it. How did they get the dogs to hold still for it? Nor could he understand how the dogs tolerated piercings in their ears and tails.
     While Griffin was a grouch when it came to the park's singles scene, Charley loved to flirt with comely Cocker Spaniels. Unlike Griffin, Charley didn't pass judgement on a dog's owner. Charley didn't care if a Cocker Spaniel's owner ignored her dog and spent her time texting. Charley was very tolerant of dog misbehavior caused by their owners. What really bugged Charley was annoying little yap dogs who nipped at his legs. Usually all it took was a ferocious bark and a good chomp to the neck to send the dog squealing. Of course, that could mean trouble for Griffin, his faithful leader. The yap dog's owner could be counted on to cop an attitude when Charley defended himself.

Just as things at Six Wags settled into a comfortable routine, Griffin heard a familiar voice.
     "Hey, Dog Whisperer." It was Smedley.
     "Hey now, Smed. What up!"
     A stir instantly went up around the dog park. Outlaw biker! Griffin saw people tweeting the news. Smedley wanted Griffin to watch his mama's dog while he made the annual run to Sturgis, South Dakota.
     "I didn't know you had a mama," Griffin said.
     "You SONofaBITCH!" Smedley reared back to cold-cock Griffin.
     "Hold on, Smed! Wha'd I say?"
     Smedley grinned. "I forgot you're a citizen. I don't have a mama. My mom--my mother. She needs someone to watch her dog while we make the run."
     Since one of the tattoos on Smedley's arm read "Mom," Griffin wasn't surprised that he was taking his mom on the run to Sturgis. Inwardly, Griffin questioned the wisdom of the venture, but there was no profit in trying to figure out outlaw bikers.
     With a warning about his dreadful anti-social behavior, Smedley introduced Griffin to Pookie-Poo. He was a small fluffy dog with a jaunty, upcurled tail, erect ears, and an inquisitive little face. He greeted Griffin with a snarling outburst.
     Pookie-Poo should have been adorable, but he was just a quarrelsome brat, constantly on the lookout for a chance to unleash his piercing bark. His cocky bearing would understandably antagonize other dogs, but in fact, all dogs antagonized Pookie-Poo. If he sensed another dog, or only just imagined one, anywhere in the Pookie-Poo Universe, he went all Cujo. His people skills were no better. He was a miserable little dog who didn't know how to enjoy life. Griffin hoped he and Charley could fix that. It wasn't to curry favor with Smedley or his mom. He wanted Pookie-Poo to enjoy doggie fulfillment.
     Griffin was beginning to think he had a talent with dogs. He was flattered when Smedley called him Dog Whisperer. Griffin decided to see if he could rehabilitate Pookie-Poo while Smedley was away in South Dakota. Charley was happy to lend a paw in the effort.
     Griffin and Charley put Pookie-Poo through a rigorous program of doggie discipline. They worked the dog on the treadmill. They took him for runs with the bicycle. They took him for long walks past homes where both the resident dog and Pookie-Poo went ballistic. Gradually, Pookie-Poo learned to relax around dog strangers. Griffin went so far as to take Pookie-Poo to the fence to sniff his rival. Pookie-Poo could almost stand it. Sometimes it took him a second or two to pitch his fit.
     The day before Smedley was expected back, Griffin took Pookie-Poo to Six Wags. The only concern was Pookie-Poo's habit of thrashing if his leash got tangled in his legs. Whenever the leash became tangled in his little legs, Pookie-Poo was prone to panic attacks. Griffin decided to watch the situation while teaching Pookie-Poo to tolerate other dogs with no fence separating them.
     Griffin was familiar with a Spanish-speaking nanny who came to the park with two white boys and their big dog, Rowdy. Griffin was proud of Pookie-Poo for tolerating the attention of the boys. He didn't seem to particularly mind Rowdy either.
     Finally Griffin decided it was time for Pookie-Poo to let Rowdy sniff him. As Charley watched, the boys brought Rowdy over. Everything was fine until the leash got caught in Pookie-Poo's legs.
     As soon as Rowdy saw Pookie-Poo start to thrash, he stopped seeing his new pal Pookie-Poo. All he saw was FLUFFY CHEW TOY. He lunged for Pookie-Poo and came away with a hank of fluffy fur between his teeth. Horrified, Griffin yanked Pookie-Poo away from Rowdy by the leash. In hindsight, this was not the most efficient move. He should have bodily grabbed Pookie-Poo. But there wasn't time to think. Griffin was having a panic attack of his own. He was desperate to keep Pookie-Poo out of the snapping jaws of Rowdy. Griffin took the only action that seemed natural. Swinging Pookie-Poo by the leash, he lifted the frantic animal as high as he could. He was mortified to hear the rasping sound of Pookie-Poo trying to breath through his tortured throat.
     Eventually, Rowdy's kids regained control of the beast and took off with their Spanish-speaking nanny. They sensed the potential for trouble, and they wanted no part of it.
     Pookie-Poo obviously was a bit discomfited by the ordeal, but it only took a few seconds for him to calm down and return to normal. It was just another day in the life of an annoying little dog.
     Meanwhile, trouble was brewing. Dog lovers who saw the incident were horrified. A few of them hurried over to Griffin.
     "He's torturing that dog!"
     "Slam dunk the sick fuck!"
     "You're dead meat, dickwad!"
     It turned out that several dog lovers had texted 911. Others furiously tweeted the incident. Soon a contingent of cops arrived with flashing lights and blaring sirens. One of the principal accusers was Maggie Frison-Biché herself. "Arrest that man! He was swinging that dog over his head like a rodeo!"
     It was the kind of horror show only a hardened criminal could appreciate. Griffin was ordered to get on his knees and put his hands behind his head. He wondered why they were overreacting. Then it dawned on him. K-9 officers would make any cop a hard-core dog lover. "Fingers laced together!" The arresting officer screamed, his gun at the ready.
     Frisky off-leash dogs bounded toward Griffin. In this helpless position, with no way to fend them off, Griffin endured the indignity of a joyful face-licking.

Music for Indignity


Friday, April 2, 2010

Smuggler's Blues

Car Trouble Leads to a Tense Encounter
"An increase in smuggling activities has pushed the Border Patrol to the front line of the U.S. war on drugs." —Customs and Border Protection (CBP) website

Heading north from San Diego on a beautiful Spring morning, my car's clutch began to slip. I eased into the far right lane. There were no grinding noises, no smoke billowing out the back, so I decided it was safe to limp home. As I passed through the inspection station near San Clemente, I saw the dreaded flashing lights in my rearview mirror. It wasn't the highway patrol.
     It was the Border Patrol.
     For good measure, the agent let out a couple of squawks from his siren. I pulled over as quickly as humanly possible. As I rolled down my window, he began to berate me because I didn't pull over fast enough. "Didn't you see my lights?" He stopped short of adding "you moron," but the tone was there.
     They need to allow reaction time for the initial shock. What the hell does the Border Patrol want with me? Do they think I have aliens in the trunk?
     My languid pullover came up again later in the interrogation. Apparently it is a pet peeve of law enforcement that perps don't respond immediately when they get "lit up." The second complaint: Why were you going so slow? I was just following traffic, I said. "You were only going 40 miles an hour," the agent charged. "If I was going that slow it was only because of traffic in front of me." He seemed not to hear my car trouble explanation. He was building an air-tight case. A deranged slowpoke! A plodding pullover!
     40 mph! It was a wild accusation. Even the slowest vehicles ahead of me seldom dipped below 60. It was either a bald-faced lie or he needed to justify in his own mind his perfectly good reason for stopping me. True, I did slow to 40, but only AFTER he lit me up.
     The young agent asked me where I was going, where I had been, and the reason for the outing. He asked if he could "have a look around" in my car. The request got my hackles up right away. Going too slow didn't seem to justify a cop rifling through my personal belongings.
     "If you don't want to consent, that's fine," he said. "I'll call for the canine."
     "Better call the canine," I said. The agent took my license and radioed for the sniffer. I was invited to step out of the car.
     While the agent busied himself inside his cruiser awaiting the results of various criminal database searches, his partner took over the interrogation. The gleam in his eye suggested gleeful anticipation that a major bust was about to go down.
     The second agent was the friendly one, the classic "good-cop bad-cop" pairing. He wore a heavy black vest (Kevlar?) with the legend "FEDERAL AGENT" across the chest. He took me through a detailed interrogation regarding my recent whereabouts, with several attempts to trip me up and get me to change my "story." Where do you live? Where have you been? How long were you there? What were you doing? Where are you going? Do you own the car? Do you own everything in the car?
     Would I have been within my rights to simply refuse to answer? What if, under the pressure of intensive questioning, I had inadvertently misstated some detail of my whereabouts? Would that have justified taking me in for further interrogation?
     While we waited for the canine, I did my best to cheerfully cooperate. Knowing they had no case, absolutely no grounds to detain me, I didn't shrink from a bit of cat-and-mouse verbal sparring with the agent. After the third or fourth run-through of my itinerary, I couldn't resist a bit of sarcasm. "You need to write this down," I offered. He took the jibe in stride. All in a morning's work for the Border Patrol.
     "Do you get pulled over a lot?" Hardly ever, I said. "That's why you need to be more understanding about not pulling over right away. If you don't get a lot of practice, how can you master the proper pull-over?"
     "Still, you should have pulled over back there," he said, gesturing to a place perhaps 100 yards behind us, within view of the Border Patrol station. "It would have been safer." In the grand scheme of things, how could 100 yards make such a difference? It occurred to me that they would have preferred me to stop in front of the station so fellow agents could watch the bust unfold.
     The sniffer arrived, led by his green-uniformed handler. He explained that if the dog "alerted" on anything, I would have to submit to a search. The dog was a scrawny brown mutt, not the typical handsome German Shepherd I was expecting. When I glanced at the dog, the friendly agent had another question: Do you have any pets? Why not?
     In a near-frenzy, the canine worked his nose over the car, sniffing the tires, the bumpers, the trunk, the doors, the hood. He yipped and yelped. Crap! He's alerting on the whole car! I bought my car used. What if it had been a smuggler's ride in its prior life?
     Try as he might, the sniffer came up empty. On his way back to his cruiser, the canine guy shot me an evil stare, as if to say "We didn't get you this time, but your day will come."
     I saw that look, I told my interrogator. "He's not mad," he assured me, "he's just a serious guy." By now, after about 30 minutes, the friendly agent and I were on pretty good terms.
     The first agent emerged from his cruiser and gave me back my license. I was free to go.
     No, I did not say "thank you."

I felt sympathy for the young agent who pulled me over. In my imagination, his pained look suggested a dawning awareness that this wasn't the best crime-fighting move of his career. For good form, he might have just glanced in my trunk and sent me on my way. But once the dance is joined it has to be carried out to its absurd conclusion. Then again, maybe the pained look was just the result of a bad burrito.
     I wonder now much luck the Border Patrol has with profiling slow vehicles. Surely the smugglers are wise to it. I'm guessing even the slow-witted grasp the need to blend in with faster traffic.
     It's scary to be detained by grim-faced officers who have complete power over you and appear to have every hope you will make their day. My retelling of the incident drew a lot of reaction from friends, including "Good for you" for not consenting to a search. Being sarcastic, they said, was just asking for trouble. "You're lucky they didn't plant something," or "They could have hauled you away and beaten the crap out of you."
     I don't harbor any ill feelings against the agents. I'm sure they were following the Drug Interdiction Handbook to the letter. I guess I fall into the same category as feeble old grandmothers who get full body searches at the airport. They may look harmless, but you can never be too careful.


Could have been me.













Thursday, February 25, 2010

Milestones of Invention History

Recent discoveries in the Library of Congress archives have brought to light new details regarding some famous inventions. Even simple inventions like the fly swatter and the potato masher have gripping stories behind them.
     In modern times, people may not realize what a problem flies were in the bygone era. Before air conditioning, people had to leave their windows open. In spite of the best screenage, many homes still ended up with a swarm of 15 or 20 flies buzzing around the middle of the kitchen. The fly swatter was the principal means of dealing with the maddening critters. Fly paper wasn't enough. There were always a few flies that were too smart to land on it. Rural areas with lots of dogs, chickens, horses, cows and sheep, were breeding grounds for flies. You couldn't get rid of 'em. People were too dumb or too lazy to bury all that poop far from the homestead. Pretty soon the spread was overrun with flies.
     The modern fly swatter was invented by the noted American inventor, Samson Swanson. In the early 20th Century, Swanson was a contender for the Olympic fencing team. He was dismissed from the team after he tried to unnerve an opponent with highly disturbing grunts, considered an egregious breach of etiquette in those days. Swanson was a student of the legendary master Italo Santelli (the "Father of Modern Saber Fencing"). Noted for his overpowering lunges, Swanson had great potential as a fencer. The unorthodox "swatting" action he used in dispatching his foes never caught on in fencing circles.
     In dismissing him from the team, Santelli said, "Your riposte is revolting, and that swatting move is way too flamboyant. We don't need your kind."
     Swanson didn't take the dismissal lightly. He formed a troup of barnstorming outcast swordsmen, The Flying Bayonet Brothers, but the show never gained a wide audience. He abandoned the scheme after only a few shows in the cornfields of Indiana.
     In spite of the Olympic incident, Swanson might have been a champion had he not been so easily distracted by the flies that typically buzzed around fencing competitions of the day. Before a match, Swanson liked to clear the area of flies by swatting them with a crude device of his own invention. He fastened a square of fine wire mesh to an old foil and managed to combine fly extermination with his pre-match warmup. "You should patent that," a bystander commented, and a bolt of inspiration coursed through his brain. His venerable mentor must have felt the same way when he developed the famous Hungarian fencing method decades before.
     His Swanson Swatter was an enormous success and earned him royalties sufficient to assure a life of luxury. He retired from fencing to concentrate on a career as an inventor. He hatched a scheme to capture hydroelectric power from home water supplies. Each home would be outfitted with a tiny generator at the main feed. The captured power would be returned to the grid for a credit to the homeowner. In his declining years, Swanson was embittered that his idea was firmly rejected.
     Swanson also developed a red "Assistance Please" flag for restaurant visits. It had a telescoping pole. You would clamp the flag to the side of the table, and extend the pole so the waitress could see the flag. The flag did away with the annoying practice of trying to flag down an inattentive waitress. He was thrown out of several restaurants where he tried it.
     What Sampson hadn't reckoned on was the wait person's time-honored prerogative of deliberately ignoring a table for reasons known only to them. Maybe you remind them of a know-it-all brother-in-law. Or maybe they have unfairly profiled you as a lousy tipper. People who wear Birkenstock sandals, for example, are notoriously chintzy.


Guerrilla Tactics

Flies are fiendishly clever at eluding swats. Properly executed, the hand clap is the most effective way to dispatch a fly (sorry PETA). There's an art to sneaking up on flies. It takes practice. Once you become competent at sneaking up behind a fly, you have to execute a perfect clap. When the fly sees your hands sailing toward it at unthinkable speed, it will hop in the air. At that precise moment, if you have timed your clap perfectly, you will smash the helpless creature in the palms of your hands. That's the principal drawback. You'll want to wash your hands pretty soon unless you think it would be fun to prank someone with a handshake that includes a little something extra.

Here's Merlene Davis's take on the Barack Obama fly swatting controversy.

Notorious Fly Killers
President Obama sparked a national outcry after he swatted a fly on nationwide television.






Coming soon: The Potato Masher

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

The Most Boring Drive in the World

What's the Best Way to Occupy Yourself on a Long Boring Drive?

The more you drive, the less intelligent you are. —Miller (Repo Man)

The drive along Interstate 15 between Las Vegas and Southern California has to be one of the world's most boring. The stretch from the state line to the I-215 interchange is officially known as the Mojave Freeway, because it

"stretches over the wind-eroded mountains and the vast, torrid valleys of the Mojave Desert. It roughly parallels the route taken by the Mormon pioneers, who, traveling from Salt Lake City to the founding of San Bernardino, toiled in the heat with their cumbersome, crawling oxcarts." *

It's motoring misery at its most abject. Any sane person copes with the monotony by taking it as fast as possible, around 85-90 MPH, not letting anything slow your progress. Flying along at a good clip, you may suddenly feel like you're coping with pioneer oxcarts. Slowpokes! Don't take your foot off the gas. Just weave through the clods. You'll have some close scrapes, but that's what makes it fun. I've never tried it because I can't handle the stress. I set my cruise control at 65-70 and brace myself for a long battle with tedium. Poking along in the slow lane, anything that catches your eye can keep you from zoning out.

For example, Cave Mountain.


That's some big gob of geological glop in the middle of nowhere between Baker and Barstow. This thing's bound to get your attention even if white line fever has put you nearly to sleep. These hills appear to be slowly eroding into dunes.

Heading out of Vegas, leaving the state line in your dust, zooming up from the valley floor, you may glimpse on the right...


...the impressive Mountain Pass Mine, where they unearthed such rare-earth ores as bastnasite, cerium, lanthanum, praseodymeum, neodymium, europium, yttrium, samarium, gadolinium, dysprosium, terbium, holmium, erbium, thulium, ytterbium, lutetium, and dyspepsium. These ores are essential for cutting-edge science and technology.
     With our typical laziness and complacency, the Mountain Pass Mine was allowed to close, leaving China a near-monopoly on the world's supply. Someone suddenly woke up and realized the strategic implications, so now we're scrambling to reopen the mine.
     I'm not suggesting any of these points of interest as a side trip or a place to stop along the way. Or even to slow down and look at. As I said, the sensible thing is to take the drive as fast as possible, escape the desert like the hounds of hell are at your heels. These are merely suggested as possible topics to ponder as you fly down the freeway. For example, Yermo.


The Famous Little Town No One Ever Heard Of

It's possible to make the drive time and again without even realizing there is such a place as Yermo. Yermo? What language is that? It sounds like a desolate outpost, a lonely whistlestop. The name of the 4th Stooge? As you whiz by, consider that Yermo is actually noteworthy for a couple of things. The Del Taco fast food chain was founded in Yermo. The original outlet still exists but now it's called the Burger Den. The people who founded Knott's Berry Farm got their start there. Yermo is home to a world-class rattlesnake habitat. Scenes from movies were filmed around Yermo, including Hulk (2003) and Letters From Iwo Jima (2006).

                             Beautiful downtown Yermo.

California Border Protection Station, Yermo

Unless traffic is light, they likely will wave you through. They would stop more cars but they don't want to be responsible for freeway carnage. With the buildup of traffic on I-15, stopping lots of cars causes a dangerous backup. NASCAR wannabes zipping along at 115 have trouble stopping in time to keep from slamming into the lineup of stopped cars. Those killed would be law-abiding innocents, of course.
     The department of agriculture is planning a new, safer station on the approach to Mountain Pass, one that will handle more traffic and somehow alert the speeders that they need to stop pretty soon.
     Don't be afraid to admit having fruit in your car. Contrary to popular belief, they don't routinely confiscate produce. They may only inspect it. You don't get in trouble for bringing fruit into California. They don't take you into a darkened interrogation room and work you over for having a papaya in your trunk.


Defunct Water Park

Defunct Water ParkIt's hard not to notice the abandoned water park near Barstow. The first thought: What lunatic thought that was a good idea? Was it some sort of money laundering scheme? It's one of those crackpot enterprises that would only happen in the California desert, where the sun bakes the brains of zany entrepreneurs.
     Called Lake Delores Waterpark when it opened in the '60s, the facility pioneered the water park concept. It featured innovative thrill rides and a JetSki racetrack. After closing in the late '80s, the park was briefly revived under the name Rock-A-Hoola. It had its last gasp in 2000 and has been gradually dismantled since. Efforts to revive the place have flopped. Too many dreamers ready to pour money down a swimming hole.


The Ditches of San Bernardino County

On one seemingly endless drive, I snapped out of highway hypnosis long enough to notice that there are lots of ditches along the route. Every mile or so, a highway department sign lets you know you are passing over another ditch, such as:


West Valley Wells DitchWindmill Station DitchValley Wells Ditch
Midway DitchOpah DitchOat Ditch
Bird DitchMobi DitchYermo Ditch
Mescal DitchBangla DitchSonofa Ditch
Tono DitchDock DitchTork Ditch
Case DitchMarl DitchSheep Ditch

Why a ditch? Why not a creek? A stream? Who named all those ditches? Why Opah Ditch, not Oprah Ditch? Oh, the questions that can bedevil you as you speed along for mile after monotonous mile. (Much as I would like to take credit for Mobi Ditch, only two of the above names are fictitious.)
     As a service to readers, I tried to find out the story behind the ditches. I contacted Caltrans and a two-bit desert historical society. My quest came up empty. The best they could offer is that the ditches were named by pioneer miners and settlers. So how did Caltrans get the ditch names in the first place? Why would pioneers who had plenty to contend with just surviving the desert trek trouble themselves to name some stinkin' ditches? That knowledge is lost to the ages. The old-timers at the historical society are experts in every conceivable facet of desert trivia, but they draw a blank when it comes to names of ditches.
     As if to justify his ignorance of the subject, one of the folksy curators said, "Yeah, we don't get out to Vegas much. Pro'ly haven't been there in 40 years."


                           Zig-zag your way through the slowpokes.

Barstow: Back Door to Big Bear

Barstow is a dreary place, to be avoided if at all possible. I've never talked to anyone who thinks there's much to like about Barstow, even if it is mentioned in the catchy tune "Route 66." If you're hungry, get as far down the freeway as you can before you stop. If you're heading for Vegas, hold out until Sin City. It's not just Barstow. Any stop along this drive is bound to leave you dissatisfied and cranky.
     Barstow has one redeeming feature, however: The shortcut to Big Bear. It's a boring drive down a desolate country road, but it shaves several miles off the freeway route. Here's the map. I contacted Barstow's chamber of commerce to suggest they promote the shortcut ("Backdoor to Big Bear"), but they didn't reply. Bastards!


                            Pile O' Rocks


Victorville: Excelling in Mediocrity

Victorville is a modest desert community at the top of Cajon Pass. It is perhaps most noted for the Roy Rogers Museum. The town had a simple mission: Support the one enterprise, other than gas or food outlets, that might make someone want to pull off the freeway and visit your drab settlement. Victorville failed. A disgraceful record of futility. Obviously a community sadly lacking in civic pride.
     For younger readers, Roy Rogers (King of the Cowboys) was what they call a "matinee idol." That means he was a leading movie star in his day. Rogers was a popular cowboy actor and singer. He starred in "westerns" (aka horse operas), movies about the wild west. Westerns held the public's attention the way medical and cop shows do now. Roy Rogers made a slew of westerns from the 1930s to the '50s. His movies and a TV show featured wholesome family values that have since fallen into disfavor. His sidekicks included his cowgirl wife, Dale Evans, his noble steed, Trigger, and the wonderdog, Bullet. He sang duets with Dale ("Happy Trails to You"). The Roy Rogers fast food chain is named for him.
     Roy Rogers is linked to Victorville because it was a filming location for some of the westerns he appeared in. He had a home in nearby Apple Valley.
     The museum debacle is a double slap in the face for Roy since his principal rival, Gene Autry, still has a thriving museum near Griffith Park in Los Angeles. Like Roy, Gene was a popular singing cowboy of the era. In box office popularity, Gene and Roy were sort of the Tom Hanks and Tom Cruise of their generation. But Gene eclipsed Roy in the production of hit records. Gene's "Here Comes Santa Claus," and "Frosty the Snowman" are still heard. Gene owned TV and radio stations.
     While Gene's business empire far surpassed Roy's, he had his own dismal record of failure to live down. In the 36 years Autry owned the California Angels baseball club, the team did not win a single pennant, though they came tantalizingly close a few times.
     Since Victorville was on the side of a worthy underdog like Roy Rogers, you would think they might have been inspired to rally around their hometown hero. Roy's museum might not have been a fancy-pants institution like the Autry Museum of Western Heritage but it was pretty gosh-darn dandy for a small place like Victorville. But no. They gave up without a fight because Victorville is just a wide spot on the road to somewhere else, without the vision to make something of themselves.
     Victorville has a self-sustaining economy based on consumption. The people who work at WalMart all eat at McDonald's. McDonald's employees all shop at WalMart. The people who work and shop at WalMart and eat and work at McDonald's also shop at Best Buy, and so on. Money circulates through the economy in an endless cycle. The same dollar can be counted as income by myriad enterprises. All boats are floated save one: Roy's modest cowboy museum.
     After 36 years, the Roy Rogers Museum had to skulk out of Victorville in the dead of night. It resurfaced in Branson, Missouri, in 2003. It had a happy home there until it closed for good in 2009.
     With Roy's museum now defunct, the only worthwhile roadside attraction in the area is Elmer's Bottle Tree Ranch on Route 66 in the nearby town of Oro Grande. A visit to Elmer's lets you bypass Victorville altogether, which would serve them right for letting old Roy down.

July 2010 Update: Trigger, Bullet, and other contents of the Roy Rogers collection have been sold at auction, completing the dispersal of a venerable trove. Nice going, Victorville. Your disgrace is now complete.

Probably the most noteworthy Victorville resident was Dock Ellis, one of the most colorful and unconventional players to ever take the diamond. Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, has an excellent article on Ellis. Among his accomplishments: Pitching a no-hitter in 1970 while high on LSD. Victorville is seriously remiss in not declaring Dock Ellis Day. Show some pride, Victorville!












For you movie buffs, legend has it that the first draft of Citizen Kane was written in 1940 at the Green Spot Motel in Victorville. Orson Welles banished writers John Houseman and Herman J. Mankiewicz to the desolate outpost to shield them from Hollywood distractions (all-night parties).

     I don't recommend stopping in Victorville or anyplace else along the World's Most Boring Drive, but if you're the type who likes to explore odd places off the beaten path, try Victorville's California Route 66 Museum (founded 1995), supposedly situated on stretch of the actual Route 66. Now that's a museum Victorville can support! (Talk about an embarrassment of riches! Barstow has its own Route 66 museum, founded July 4, 2000. Barstow wasn't about to let civic rival Victorville get the museumic upper hand. Whatever Victorville can do, Barstow can do better!)


Cajon Pass

Once you fly down the pass, you're home free, ready to join the fracas that is LA traffic. Good luck.

Returning to Vegas from an outing to lovely Yorba Linda, we narrowly escaped a major pileup at the top of Cajon Pass. About 7:30 on the morning of June 10, 2009, a fog bank cut visibility to zero. We slowed down and pulled to the right. Traffic zoomed by as if conditions were normal. Now the worry was being slammed from behind. I wasn't about to mix it up with these maniacs. I found an exit that led to a quiet country road. Seconds later, there was a 30-car pileup. A newspaper story said "a tractor-trailer rig failed to stop in time." That's a news writer's way of saying the idiot driver ignored the fog and kept going full speed. It's no surprise to me. I've seen this behavior over & over. Your typical moron has a hard time taking his or her foot off the gas.



* California: A Guide to the Golden State (1939) Compiled and Written by the Federal Writers' Project of the Works Progress Administration for the State of California

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