Oh, darling, the ice caps are melting, but what does it matter, as long as we have each other?
--Kurt Vonnegut, on the possible consequences of including a romantic subplot in one of his novels
Men are from Earth. Women are from Earth. Deal with it.
--George Carlin
Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Roumania.
--Dorothy Parker
It does not matter what you do in the bedroom as long as you do not do it in the street and frighten the horses.
--Mrs. Patrick Campbell, who spent a good deal of her life in the 19th century
To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering one must not love. But then one suffers from not loving. Therefore to love is to suffer, not to love is to suffer. To suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy then is to suffer. But suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore, to be unhappy one must love, or love to suffer, or suffer from too much happiness. I hope you're getting this down.
--Woody Allen
Still waiting for Sally Field.
--Marty Volare
Showing posts with label Marty Volare. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marty Volare. Show all posts
Monday, February 14, 2011
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Unpredictable
(I've decided to take a little break from this blog. In my absence, my good friend Marty Volare has agreed to recount for you one of his many romantic misadventures. See if you can read it without choking up. In fact, choke up enough, and Marty might just respond to your comments--KJ)
My name is Martin Dangerfield Volare, and the story I'm about to tell is one of love found and love lost, of love born and love died, of love opened and love closed, of love created and love destroyed, of love bloomed and love withered, of love premiered and love canceled, of love invented and love made obsolete, and of love brand-new right out of the box and love left out on the curb to be taken away with the rest of the trash. It is an old story, as old as the sun and the moon and the sea and the ground and the redwoods and the bones of dinosaurs, but also a story of continual renewal, as new as a baby's laugh, a puppy's bark, a kitten's meow, a chick's chirp, and a lamb's baa. For this tale I tell is not meant to depress but inspire, that though love may burn to a crisp like a marshmallow left too long over a fire at a Labor Day picnic on that last sweet, sultry night of summer, its' smoke will nonetheless rise gently above the Metropark and the trees and the birds and up, up toward the clouds and the heavens and the stars and the galaxies and the extraterrestrials beyond.
Her name was Sonya, and she worked as a barmaid at the Looking-Glass Cafe, where I sometimes go to escape and evade and avoid and elude the desperation and desolation of my lonely existence. Ah, how shall I describe Sonya? She was as lovely as the dawn, as beautiful as the dusk, and as sweet as a mango. And she had a nice smile. I was smitten.
Alas, difficulties loomed! For starters, she slept with this one guy. However, she told me he meant nothing to her and would probably break up with him soon as she got the air conditioning, driver's side power window, and CD player fixed on her Buick Enclave and so wouldn't have to borrow his Mustang all the time. That filled me with hope. She then revealed that she had a two-year old daughter. I asked if the guy she slept with was the father. She said she didn't think so. I was naturally relieved to hear that. Still, if me and Sonya were to get married, it would mean I would have to raise the daughter as my own. Would I be up to the challenges of parenthood? I needed to know the answer.
I found the answer, or thought I had found the answer, or hoped with the hope that gives all sentient beings sustenance that I had found the answer when I saw this flier shoved between one of my windshield wipers while leaving the laundromat. It read as follows:
MADAME IMELDA
Forecaster of Fate, Prophetess of the Paranormal, Seer of the Supernatural, Assessor of the Astral Plane
will predict your future for
$10
Hurry! Limited time offer.
I know it now seems a bit desperate of me to go to a fortune teller to help solve a romantic dilemma, but at the time desperate blood pumped into and out of my desperate heart. I made up my mind to the see the seer.
Her simple clapboard house was located next to a payday lender in a part of town noted for its potholes, pawn shops, foreclosed property, and abandoned cars. I actually found it rather heartening that Madame Imelda should live in such a neighborhood. I like my psychics on the humble side. However, I may have overestimated her humility, for when I walked into her simple clapboard home I was greeted by a giant middle-aged lady dressed in gypsy garb and speaking in a foreign accent, mostly Hungarian, but with what sounded like a little Spanish and Scandinavian thrown in. I took her for a worldly woman.
"I am Madame Imelda" she intoned. "Mistress of Mysticism, Empress of Enchantment, and Diva of Divination! I know past, present, and future! I have access to those worlds beyond normal sight, sound, smell, touch, and thought! I speak with the spirits, hobnob with the hobgoblins, and play host to the ghosts! Now, what can I do for you?"
Awed, I lowered my head, pulled the flier out of my pocket, and handed it to her. She nodded, and led from the foyer into a room full of lit candles, burning incense, and lave lamps. Hanging on one wall was a black velvet painting of a wizard seated on a unicorn, his magic wand doubling as a riding crop. In the middle of the room was a small table with a crystal ball. I sat on one side, Madame Imelda on the other. She held out her hand, and I gave her the ten dollars. She turned away and beckoned,
"Daughter, Daughter, bring me my purse!"
From another room emerged a girl of about nine or ten wearing a Miley Cyrus T-shirt and carrying an oversized purse. Madame Imelda deposited my ten dollars into the purse and the tyke left. Madame Imelda then got down to the business of forecasting the future.
"You shall experience great happiness and great sadness!" she intoned as she peered into the crystal ball. "You shall climb great peaks and descend into deep valleys. You shall laugh and you shall cry. You shall know joy and you shall know heartbreak. That is your destiny. Now leave and tell all your friends about me. I'm here seven days a week, half a day on holidays. I accept credit cards."
Needless to say, I was a bit disappointed at this rather vague prediction. I began to wonder if Madame Imelda was on the level.
"Couldn't you be more specific?" I asked. "I wanted to know about my soon-to-be-girlfriend-soon-to-be-fiancee-soon-to-be-wife."
"Oh, it's specificity you seek? That will be $350. Daughter, daughter, bring me my purse!"
"$350?!"
"Prophecy is not some low-hanging fruit that can be plucked from a tree. You have to go to the farmer's market and pay a little extra for it."
My anger rising, I blurted out, "A farmers market wouldn't try to cheat me like you are!"
The big woman stood up and yelled, "You dare impugn the integrity of Madame Imelda, Chief Executive of the Extrasensory?! Take leave of my prescient presence at once, you worm!"
Faced with such a torrent of sincerity, I had no choice but to apologize, yet so great was my shame, I couldn't even open my mouth. I turned and reluctantly headed toward the door.
"Wait!"
I turned away from the door!
"Madame Imelda is nothing if not fair. Knowing the past, present, and future does that to a person. Ask me a question about this lady friend of yours, and if I get it right, you pay for a full reading."
That sounded reasonable, but what could I ask? Sonya's last name? No, it had to be something I already knew the answer to, just in case Madame Imelda answered falsely. It was Sonya's baby daughter that brought me here in the first place. I could ask something along those lines. The daughter's name, maybe? No, I didn't know that either. Wait, I could just ask the psychic if she even knew Sonya had a baby daughter.
"Tell me, Madame Imelda, who is the most important female in my future girlfriend/fiancee/wife's life?"
Madame Imelda sat down and peered into the crystal ball. In less than a second, she intoned, "Her mother is the most important person in her life!"
"Wrong. Not her mother."
"Not her mother? I'd like to think I'm the most important female in my daughter's life!"
"I said it's not her mother!" I could feel my anger almost returning.
"Her sister?"
"No."
"Grandmother?"
"No."
"Best friend?"
My anger had now most assuredly returned. "Her daughter! Her baby daughter is the most important female in her life!"
"Oh, her baby daughter! You didn't tell me she had a baby daughter."
"You were already supposed to know that!"
Madame Imelda looked back into the crystal ball. "Ah, I see my mistake now. I was looking at the ball's northern hemisphere, when I really should have been looking at its' south. There's the baby, in plain sight. Daughter, daughter, bring me my purse!"
I left in disgust.
Driving home, I was at first despondent, but it didn't last long. Perhaps there was a lesson to be learned here. I had wanted easy assurance from a fortune teller that I wasn't making a mistake, but there are no shortcuts in romance. Love is a matter of faith. This thought put me in a good mood. The Madame Imeldas of the world weren't going to keep me from my soul mate. By the time I arrived at the Looking-Glass Cafe, I was so filled with joyful ardor I skipped right in the place. A couple guys at a pool table laughed at me, but what did I care? I was a paramour in paradise!
"Hiya, Marty," said Sonya from behind the bar. "You look like you're in a good mood."
"I am. I just exposed a fortune teller as a fake."
"Oh, yeah? What'd ya do that for?"
"I asked her a question about you, and she didn't know the answer."
"Oh, yeah? What'd ya ask?"
Smiling, I said, "Who is the most important female in your life?"
"Oh, that'd be my best friend Amy. She let me sleep on her couch this one time when I--"
Panicked, I said, "No, not your best friend Amy!"
"Well, I sometimes spend time with my kid sister."
"No, not your kid sister!"
"My grandmother? I like her. I hope you don't think it's my mother. Me and her just don't see eye to eye."
"It's you're daughter!," I blurted. "You're baby daughter should be the most important female in your life!"
"Oh, yeah. That's right. My daughter."
To make a long lament short, things never did work out between me and Sonya. She left the Looking-Glass Cafe not long after. I hear she's now at some bikers bar near Sandusky. The guy she sleeps with works grill.
And, in case you're wondering, I eventually did pay Madame Imelda her $350. It was only fair.
My name is Martin Dangerfield Volare, and the story I'm about to tell is one of love found and love lost, of love born and love died, of love opened and love closed, of love created and love destroyed, of love bloomed and love withered, of love premiered and love canceled, of love invented and love made obsolete, and of love brand-new right out of the box and love left out on the curb to be taken away with the rest of the trash. It is an old story, as old as the sun and the moon and the sea and the ground and the redwoods and the bones of dinosaurs, but also a story of continual renewal, as new as a baby's laugh, a puppy's bark, a kitten's meow, a chick's chirp, and a lamb's baa. For this tale I tell is not meant to depress but inspire, that though love may burn to a crisp like a marshmallow left too long over a fire at a Labor Day picnic on that last sweet, sultry night of summer, its' smoke will nonetheless rise gently above the Metropark and the trees and the birds and up, up toward the clouds and the heavens and the stars and the galaxies and the extraterrestrials beyond.
Her name was Sonya, and she worked as a barmaid at the Looking-Glass Cafe, where I sometimes go to escape and evade and avoid and elude the desperation and desolation of my lonely existence. Ah, how shall I describe Sonya? She was as lovely as the dawn, as beautiful as the dusk, and as sweet as a mango. And she had a nice smile. I was smitten.
Alas, difficulties loomed! For starters, she slept with this one guy. However, she told me he meant nothing to her and would probably break up with him soon as she got the air conditioning, driver's side power window, and CD player fixed on her Buick Enclave and so wouldn't have to borrow his Mustang all the time. That filled me with hope. She then revealed that she had a two-year old daughter. I asked if the guy she slept with was the father. She said she didn't think so. I was naturally relieved to hear that. Still, if me and Sonya were to get married, it would mean I would have to raise the daughter as my own. Would I be up to the challenges of parenthood? I needed to know the answer.
I found the answer, or thought I had found the answer, or hoped with the hope that gives all sentient beings sustenance that I had found the answer when I saw this flier shoved between one of my windshield wipers while leaving the laundromat. It read as follows:
MADAME IMELDA
Forecaster of Fate, Prophetess of the Paranormal, Seer of the Supernatural, Assessor of the Astral Plane
will predict your future for
$10
Hurry! Limited time offer.
I know it now seems a bit desperate of me to go to a fortune teller to help solve a romantic dilemma, but at the time desperate blood pumped into and out of my desperate heart. I made up my mind to the see the seer.
Her simple clapboard house was located next to a payday lender in a part of town noted for its potholes, pawn shops, foreclosed property, and abandoned cars. I actually found it rather heartening that Madame Imelda should live in such a neighborhood. I like my psychics on the humble side. However, I may have overestimated her humility, for when I walked into her simple clapboard home I was greeted by a giant middle-aged lady dressed in gypsy garb and speaking in a foreign accent, mostly Hungarian, but with what sounded like a little Spanish and Scandinavian thrown in. I took her for a worldly woman.
"I am Madame Imelda" she intoned. "Mistress of Mysticism, Empress of Enchantment, and Diva of Divination! I know past, present, and future! I have access to those worlds beyond normal sight, sound, smell, touch, and thought! I speak with the spirits, hobnob with the hobgoblins, and play host to the ghosts! Now, what can I do for you?"
Awed, I lowered my head, pulled the flier out of my pocket, and handed it to her. She nodded, and led from the foyer into a room full of lit candles, burning incense, and lave lamps. Hanging on one wall was a black velvet painting of a wizard seated on a unicorn, his magic wand doubling as a riding crop. In the middle of the room was a small table with a crystal ball. I sat on one side, Madame Imelda on the other. She held out her hand, and I gave her the ten dollars. She turned away and beckoned,
"Daughter, Daughter, bring me my purse!"
From another room emerged a girl of about nine or ten wearing a Miley Cyrus T-shirt and carrying an oversized purse. Madame Imelda deposited my ten dollars into the purse and the tyke left. Madame Imelda then got down to the business of forecasting the future.
"You shall experience great happiness and great sadness!" she intoned as she peered into the crystal ball. "You shall climb great peaks and descend into deep valleys. You shall laugh and you shall cry. You shall know joy and you shall know heartbreak. That is your destiny. Now leave and tell all your friends about me. I'm here seven days a week, half a day on holidays. I accept credit cards."
Needless to say, I was a bit disappointed at this rather vague prediction. I began to wonder if Madame Imelda was on the level.
"Couldn't you be more specific?" I asked. "I wanted to know about my soon-to-be-girlfriend-soon-to-be-fiancee-soon-to-be-wife."
"Oh, it's specificity you seek? That will be $350. Daughter, daughter, bring me my purse!"
"$350?!"
"Prophecy is not some low-hanging fruit that can be plucked from a tree. You have to go to the farmer's market and pay a little extra for it."
My anger rising, I blurted out, "A farmers market wouldn't try to cheat me like you are!"
The big woman stood up and yelled, "You dare impugn the integrity of Madame Imelda, Chief Executive of the Extrasensory?! Take leave of my prescient presence at once, you worm!"
Faced with such a torrent of sincerity, I had no choice but to apologize, yet so great was my shame, I couldn't even open my mouth. I turned and reluctantly headed toward the door.
"Wait!"
I turned away from the door!
"Madame Imelda is nothing if not fair. Knowing the past, present, and future does that to a person. Ask me a question about this lady friend of yours, and if I get it right, you pay for a full reading."
That sounded reasonable, but what could I ask? Sonya's last name? No, it had to be something I already knew the answer to, just in case Madame Imelda answered falsely. It was Sonya's baby daughter that brought me here in the first place. I could ask something along those lines. The daughter's name, maybe? No, I didn't know that either. Wait, I could just ask the psychic if she even knew Sonya had a baby daughter.
"Tell me, Madame Imelda, who is the most important female in my future girlfriend/fiancee/wife's life?"
Madame Imelda sat down and peered into the crystal ball. In less than a second, she intoned, "Her mother is the most important person in her life!"
"Wrong. Not her mother."
"Not her mother? I'd like to think I'm the most important female in my daughter's life!"
"I said it's not her mother!" I could feel my anger almost returning.
"Her sister?"
"No."
"Grandmother?"
"No."
"Best friend?"
My anger had now most assuredly returned. "Her daughter! Her baby daughter is the most important female in her life!"
"Oh, her baby daughter! You didn't tell me she had a baby daughter."
"You were already supposed to know that!"
Madame Imelda looked back into the crystal ball. "Ah, I see my mistake now. I was looking at the ball's northern hemisphere, when I really should have been looking at its' south. There's the baby, in plain sight. Daughter, daughter, bring me my purse!"
I left in disgust.
Driving home, I was at first despondent, but it didn't last long. Perhaps there was a lesson to be learned here. I had wanted easy assurance from a fortune teller that I wasn't making a mistake, but there are no shortcuts in romance. Love is a matter of faith. This thought put me in a good mood. The Madame Imeldas of the world weren't going to keep me from my soul mate. By the time I arrived at the Looking-Glass Cafe, I was so filled with joyful ardor I skipped right in the place. A couple guys at a pool table laughed at me, but what did I care? I was a paramour in paradise!
"Hiya, Marty," said Sonya from behind the bar. "You look like you're in a good mood."
"I am. I just exposed a fortune teller as a fake."
"Oh, yeah? What'd ya do that for?"
"I asked her a question about you, and she didn't know the answer."
"Oh, yeah? What'd ya ask?"
Smiling, I said, "Who is the most important female in your life?"
"Oh, that'd be my best friend Amy. She let me sleep on her couch this one time when I--"
Panicked, I said, "No, not your best friend Amy!"
"Well, I sometimes spend time with my kid sister."
"No, not your kid sister!"
"My grandmother? I like her. I hope you don't think it's my mother. Me and her just don't see eye to eye."
"It's you're daughter!," I blurted. "You're baby daughter should be the most important female in your life!"
"Oh, yeah. That's right. My daughter."
To make a long lament short, things never did work out between me and Sonya. She left the Looking-Glass Cafe not long after. I hear she's now at some bikers bar near Sandusky. The guy she sleeps with works grill.
And, in case you're wondering, I eventually did pay Madame Imelda her $350. It was only fair.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Pleasure Measure
I walked into the Looking-Glass Cafe Monday and saw my old friend Eddie Templeton sitting at the bar with a huge smile on his face.
"Well, Eddie," I said, as I sat down next to him. "You look happy."
"I am, Jusko. I just realized I had a wonderful weekend!"
"You just realized that? You didn't know it at the time?"
"At the time I thought it was a shitty weekend."
"Why did you think it was shitty?"
"Well, Saturday night I wanted to do something exciting, but I didn't have much money, so I just came here."
"Well, Eddie, just because you came here doesn't mean--"
"Hold it, Jusko. I'm not finished."
"Oh. Sorry. Go on."
"Well, like I said, I came here, I ordered some buffalo wings and a beer, watched some basketball game on TV, chatted with the bartender for a while, played one of those video trivia games, had another beer, watched a hockey game, chatted with the bartender some more, played a video game, had another beer, chatted with someone I know from work, and left."
"Well, Eddie, it doesn't sound all that shitty."
"Like I said, I don't think it's shitty anymore."
"What changed your mind?"
Eddie pulled out his cell phone. "For the last hour I've been calling up people I know and asking how their weekend went. You know Mycroft Ptolemy?"
"Yeah, I know him."
"Know how he spent Saturday night?"
"How?"
Eddie burst out laughing. "Reorganizing his rock collection! Oh, man, can you imagine that?!"
"Well, Eddie, if I knew exactly how one goes about reorganizing a rock collection, I could probably imagine it."
"Then I called Marty Volare. Do you know how he spent his Saturday night?"
"I don't think I want to know."
"He spent the entire night waiting for Sally Field to answer his emails. Ha! Like that's ever gonna happen."
"Actually, Eddie, I think there's a certain poignancy--"
"Poignancy or not, it's a crappy way to spend the weekend."
"Um, did you talk to anyone else?"
"Yeah. Right before you walked in, I got off the phone with Ken Speer."
"Hold it right there, Eddie. I know all about Ken Speer. He gets invited to all the best parties, goes to all the opening galas, gets his picture on the society page from time to time; there's no way he had a shitty Saturday night."
"That's where you're wrong, Jusko. Ken broke his leg a while back, and spent the entire night in his living room watching a Rocky and Bullwinkle DVD."
"Well, that show could be kind of funny some--"
"Whatever, Jusko. Anyway, I compared my weekend to Mycroft's, Marty's, and Ken's, and realized I had a great time. An absolutely fantastic time! It was maybe one of the best weekends ever!"
"Well, Eddie, I'm happy for you. Maybe next weekend--"
"Oh, next weekend's gonna suck. I'm not looking forward to it at all."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not gonna have much money again, so I'll just have to come here. I'll have a few beers and buffalo wings, chat with the bartender, watch some sport on TV, play some video, chat with someone from work, and go home."
"But, Eddie, that's what you did this past weekend, and you said it was one of your best ever. So why should next weekend be so different?"
"Ken Speer will be out of his cast by then."
"Well, Eddie," I said, as I sat down next to him. "You look happy."
"I am, Jusko. I just realized I had a wonderful weekend!"
"You just realized that? You didn't know it at the time?"
"At the time I thought it was a shitty weekend."
"Why did you think it was shitty?"
"Well, Saturday night I wanted to do something exciting, but I didn't have much money, so I just came here."
"Well, Eddie, just because you came here doesn't mean--"
"Hold it, Jusko. I'm not finished."
"Oh. Sorry. Go on."
"Well, like I said, I came here, I ordered some buffalo wings and a beer, watched some basketball game on TV, chatted with the bartender for a while, played one of those video trivia games, had another beer, watched a hockey game, chatted with the bartender some more, played a video game, had another beer, chatted with someone I know from work, and left."
"Well, Eddie, it doesn't sound all that shitty."
"Like I said, I don't think it's shitty anymore."
"What changed your mind?"
Eddie pulled out his cell phone. "For the last hour I've been calling up people I know and asking how their weekend went. You know Mycroft Ptolemy?"
"Yeah, I know him."
"Know how he spent Saturday night?"
"How?"
Eddie burst out laughing. "Reorganizing his rock collection! Oh, man, can you imagine that?!"
"Well, Eddie, if I knew exactly how one goes about reorganizing a rock collection, I could probably imagine it."
"Then I called Marty Volare. Do you know how he spent his Saturday night?"
"I don't think I want to know."
"He spent the entire night waiting for Sally Field to answer his emails. Ha! Like that's ever gonna happen."
"Actually, Eddie, I think there's a certain poignancy--"
"Poignancy or not, it's a crappy way to spend the weekend."
"Um, did you talk to anyone else?"
"Yeah. Right before you walked in, I got off the phone with Ken Speer."
"Hold it right there, Eddie. I know all about Ken Speer. He gets invited to all the best parties, goes to all the opening galas, gets his picture on the society page from time to time; there's no way he had a shitty Saturday night."
"That's where you're wrong, Jusko. Ken broke his leg a while back, and spent the entire night in his living room watching a Rocky and Bullwinkle DVD."
"Well, that show could be kind of funny some--"
"Whatever, Jusko. Anyway, I compared my weekend to Mycroft's, Marty's, and Ken's, and realized I had a great time. An absolutely fantastic time! It was maybe one of the best weekends ever!"
"Well, Eddie, I'm happy for you. Maybe next weekend--"
"Oh, next weekend's gonna suck. I'm not looking forward to it at all."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not gonna have much money again, so I'll just have to come here. I'll have a few beers and buffalo wings, chat with the bartender, watch some sport on TV, play some video, chat with someone from work, and go home."
"But, Eddie, that's what you did this past weekend, and you said it was one of your best ever. So why should next weekend be so different?"
"Ken Speer will be out of his cast by then."
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Blog Noir
My friend Marty Volare almost got himself into some very big trouble the other night...
KNOCK! KNOCK!
"Yeah?"
"Excuse me, but are you Bugsy Scarfather, the notorious underworld loan shark?"
"Maybe. Who the hell are you, and why the hell are you holding a palm tree?"
"Oh, well, I'm Martin Dangerfield Volare, and this isn't a palm tree. A palm tree would be much, much bigger."
"THEN WHAT THE HELL IS IT AND WHY THE HELL ARE YOU HOLDING IT?!"
"It's a rubber tree plant."
"Why the hell are you holding a rubber tree plant?"
"Oh, it's a peace offering from Veronica Stanwyck."
"VERONICA STANWYCK!!!" Enraged, Bugsy motioned for one of his goons to come to the door.
Marty smiled. "She told me you'd be excited to hear from her."
"That dame owes me $60,000! She's past due! I was just about to send out a couple of my boys to collect."
"Oh, she told me all about it, Mr. Scarfather. You lent her money so she could start her own combination greenhouse/ice cream stand. It was a pretty good idea, and I'm sure if the economy hadn't tanked, it would have gone over big. I mean, it gets pretty hot in a greenhouse. A cone or Popsicle or maybe a bowl of orange sherbet would be just the thing to cool you off as you peruse the fauna. But, like I said, the economy. Anyway, this rubber plant is Veronica's token of appreciation."
"That's it. The broad's gonna get whacked!"
"Well, Mr. Scarfather, I think she's a little old for a spanking, and, besides, once I'm done here, me and her are off to Vegas to get married."
"Oh, you are, are you?" With that, Bugsy motioned to another one of his goons, who walked up behind Marty, and held up what is known in the gangster vernacular as a "heater" up to his head.
Marty didn't seem to notice. "You see, me and Veronica are in love."
"Just how long have you known Veronica?"
"Oh, about an hour ago. No, make that two."
"ABOUT AN HOUR AGO?!"
"I said, make that two. You see, I went to the Looking-Glass Cafe to bowl a few frames, and, while I was changing into my bowling shoes--"
"Wait a second. I've been to the Looking-Glass Cafe. You can't bowl there."
"Sure you can. Just stick in a few quarters--"
"You're talking about one of those machines? Then why the hell were you putting on bowling shoes?"
"I was hoping they might improve my game."
Bugsy let out a sigh, and then said, "Go on with your story."
"Well, I put on the shoes, and I heard this whistle. I turned, and, sitting in the corner was this beautiful woman in a white dress and big white hat and wearing an ankle bracelet. I walked over to introduce myself, and you know what she said?"
"I'm sweating with curiosity."
"She said, 'A girl like me could fall for a guy like you.'"
"And then what?"
"I fell for her. She led me to the alley in back, and, and, and--"
"AND?!"
"She gave me a peck on the cheek."
"That's some passionate love affair you two got going there."
"And tonight's the honeymoon! Lip to lip!"
"We'll see if you make it to the honeymoon. What I want to know is how you ended up on my doorstep with that palm tree."
"Rubber plant."
"WHY THE HELL ARE YOU HERE INSTEAD OF HER?!"
"Well, soon after we met--in fact, I was still wearing my bowling shoes--I told her I was deeply, madly in love with her, and she promised to fall deeply, madly, in love with me if I just did her this one little itty-bitty favor. That's how she put it. One little itty-bitty favor."
"I bet I can guess the little itty-bitty favor. Stall me while she blows town."
"Oh, no, she hasn't blown town yet. Not without me. Like I said, we're getting married."
"So you walked all the way over here from the Looking-Glass Cafe with that palm tree, while--"
"Oh, I didn't walk. Veronica drove me."
"Drove you? I happen to know her car was repossessed!"
"She was driving my car."
"She drove you in your own car?! Where's your car?! I know it's a foggy night, but I should at least be able to see your car."
"Oh, she dropped me off. She had some errands to run and needed my car. I figure I'll take a cab to the airport. Or maybe the bus. Is there a bus stop around here?"
"Yeah, I think there's one around the--forget about the bus stop! You mean to tell me she talked you into coming here, and then talked you out of your car?! How the hell could you let her do that?!"
"Like I said, we're in love. At least I'm in love with her. And she'll fall in love with me once this little itty-bitty favor is over with."
"Man, this is so pathetic, I'm not even going to kill you."
"Oh, good. Like I said, she's waiting for me at the airport. And, for safekeeping, she's holding all my credit cards."
KNOCK! KNOCK!
"Yeah?"
"Excuse me, but are you Bugsy Scarfather, the notorious underworld loan shark?"
"Maybe. Who the hell are you, and why the hell are you holding a palm tree?"
"Oh, well, I'm Martin Dangerfield Volare, and this isn't a palm tree. A palm tree would be much, much bigger."
"THEN WHAT THE HELL IS IT AND WHY THE HELL ARE YOU HOLDING IT?!"
"It's a rubber tree plant."
"Why the hell are you holding a rubber tree plant?"
"Oh, it's a peace offering from Veronica Stanwyck."
"VERONICA STANWYCK!!!" Enraged, Bugsy motioned for one of his goons to come to the door.
Marty smiled. "She told me you'd be excited to hear from her."
"That dame owes me $60,000! She's past due! I was just about to send out a couple of my boys to collect."
"Oh, she told me all about it, Mr. Scarfather. You lent her money so she could start her own combination greenhouse/ice cream stand. It was a pretty good idea, and I'm sure if the economy hadn't tanked, it would have gone over big. I mean, it gets pretty hot in a greenhouse. A cone or Popsicle or maybe a bowl of orange sherbet would be just the thing to cool you off as you peruse the fauna. But, like I said, the economy. Anyway, this rubber plant is Veronica's token of appreciation."
"That's it. The broad's gonna get whacked!"
"Well, Mr. Scarfather, I think she's a little old for a spanking, and, besides, once I'm done here, me and her are off to Vegas to get married."
"Oh, you are, are you?" With that, Bugsy motioned to another one of his goons, who walked up behind Marty, and held up what is known in the gangster vernacular as a "heater" up to his head.
Marty didn't seem to notice. "You see, me and Veronica are in love."
"Just how long have you known Veronica?"
"Oh, about an hour ago. No, make that two."
"ABOUT AN HOUR AGO?!"
"I said, make that two. You see, I went to the Looking-Glass Cafe to bowl a few frames, and, while I was changing into my bowling shoes--"
"Wait a second. I've been to the Looking-Glass Cafe. You can't bowl there."
"Sure you can. Just stick in a few quarters--"
"You're talking about one of those machines? Then why the hell were you putting on bowling shoes?"
"I was hoping they might improve my game."
Bugsy let out a sigh, and then said, "Go on with your story."
"Well, I put on the shoes, and I heard this whistle. I turned, and, sitting in the corner was this beautiful woman in a white dress and big white hat and wearing an ankle bracelet. I walked over to introduce myself, and you know what she said?"
"I'm sweating with curiosity."
"She said, 'A girl like me could fall for a guy like you.'"
"And then what?"
"I fell for her. She led me to the alley in back, and, and, and--"
"AND?!"
"She gave me a peck on the cheek."
"That's some passionate love affair you two got going there."
"And tonight's the honeymoon! Lip to lip!"
"We'll see if you make it to the honeymoon. What I want to know is how you ended up on my doorstep with that palm tree."
"Rubber plant."
"WHY THE HELL ARE YOU HERE INSTEAD OF HER?!"
"Well, soon after we met--in fact, I was still wearing my bowling shoes--I told her I was deeply, madly in love with her, and she promised to fall deeply, madly, in love with me if I just did her this one little itty-bitty favor. That's how she put it. One little itty-bitty favor."
"I bet I can guess the little itty-bitty favor. Stall me while she blows town."
"Oh, no, she hasn't blown town yet. Not without me. Like I said, we're getting married."
"So you walked all the way over here from the Looking-Glass Cafe with that palm tree, while--"
"Oh, I didn't walk. Veronica drove me."
"Drove you? I happen to know her car was repossessed!"
"She was driving my car."
"She drove you in your own car?! Where's your car?! I know it's a foggy night, but I should at least be able to see your car."
"Oh, she dropped me off. She had some errands to run and needed my car. I figure I'll take a cab to the airport. Or maybe the bus. Is there a bus stop around here?"
"Yeah, I think there's one around the--forget about the bus stop! You mean to tell me she talked you into coming here, and then talked you out of your car?! How the hell could you let her do that?!"
"Like I said, we're in love. At least I'm in love with her. And she'll fall in love with me once this little itty-bitty favor is over with."
"Man, this is so pathetic, I'm not even going to kill you."
"Oh, good. Like I said, she's waiting for me at the airport. And, for safekeeping, she's holding all my credit cards."
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
He Likes Her! He Likes Her!
Stopped by The Looking-Glass Cafe, where I saw my old friend Marty Volare hunched over the bar writing something on a piece of paper, which couldn't have been easy as the beer dribbling down from his mouth caused the ink to run.
"Hiya, Marty!," I said as I walked into the place. "Whatcha' writing?"
Even though we've known each other for years, Marty looked at me quite shyly, and then cast his eyes down, muttering, "Oh, just a love letter."
"A love letter? To who?"
"Sally Field."
"You like Sally Field, huh?"
"Ever since I was a little boy plopped in front of the TV set with my tray of marshmallow pinwheel cookies and a big cup of Tang, the drink the astronauts drank, on the side."
"Can I read it?"
A frightened look appeared on Marty's face, and he clutched the letter close to his chest, not a good idea as his shirt was covered with Cheez-It crumbs.
"Aw, c'mon, Marty, you've known me for years!"
Marty shyly, reluctantly, handed over his letter. It wasn't easy to read, what with all the dribbled beer and smashed Cheez-It crumbs, but read it I did, and, man, it was one of the most beautiful things I've ever read, Shakespeare and the King James Version of The Bible included. Before he sends his letter off to Sally, Marty has graciously allowed me to share it with all of you. Read it, and see if you don't get a lump in your throat.
My Dearest Darling Sally Field,
I have carried a torch for you ever since I was seven years old and the local UHF station played Gidget and The Flying Nun back to back. I first fell in love with you in that little yellow bikini, and then fell in love all over again in that white nun's habit. It might have been better for my psycho-biological development had it been the other way around, but, no matter, whether you were frolicking on the beaches of Southern California, or soaring through the skies above Puerto Rico, so, too, did my heart. Later you appeared in the TV movie, Sybil, and I fell in love with all thirteen of your personalities, though the Mike personality and the Sid personality didn't help my psycho-biological development much either. Not too long after that you appeared in Smokey and the Bandit. Oh, Sally, how I longed to be the Burt Reynolds who would rescue you from the evil clutches of Jackie Gleason, who was even meaner than when he played Ralph Kramden. No matter. He would not send you "to the moon" as long as I was there to protect you. Then there was Norma Rae. Inspired by your performance, I tried to organize a union in my place of employment. Unfortunately, I was working in my grandmother's collectibles shop at the time, and she told my parents on me. Finally, Places in the Heart, for which you won your second Academy Award. Of course, Sally, your place was in my heart all along.
Recently, I was distressed to learn that you suffer from osteoporosis. Oh, Sally, how I want to take those brittle bones of yours in my arms and make them all better. Fortunately, you've discovered Boniva, and, watching those commercials, I was thrilled to see that you're now healthy enough to go to the farmer's market and buy some ripe tomatoes (by the way, I like ketchup.) Still, I was a bit puzzled. Isn't osteoporosis a disease older women get? So I looked up your age on the Internet, and was surprised to see that you're now 63!
Sally, I swear to you from the bottom of my love-stricken heart, you don't look a day over 40.
I, on the other hand, am only 45, yet strangers always mistake me for being a couple of decades older.
Oh, Sally, don't you see? We were made for each other!!!
Lovingly yours,
Martin Dangerfield Volare
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
"Hiya, Marty!," I said as I walked into the place. "Whatcha' writing?"
Even though we've known each other for years, Marty looked at me quite shyly, and then cast his eyes down, muttering, "Oh, just a love letter."
"A love letter? To who?"
"Sally Field."
"You like Sally Field, huh?"
"Ever since I was a little boy plopped in front of the TV set with my tray of marshmallow pinwheel cookies and a big cup of Tang, the drink the astronauts drank, on the side."
"Can I read it?"
A frightened look appeared on Marty's face, and he clutched the letter close to his chest, not a good idea as his shirt was covered with Cheez-It crumbs.
"Aw, c'mon, Marty, you've known me for years!"
Marty shyly, reluctantly, handed over his letter. It wasn't easy to read, what with all the dribbled beer and smashed Cheez-It crumbs, but read it I did, and, man, it was one of the most beautiful things I've ever read, Shakespeare and the King James Version of The Bible included. Before he sends his letter off to Sally, Marty has graciously allowed me to share it with all of you. Read it, and see if you don't get a lump in your throat.
My Dearest Darling Sally Field,
I have carried a torch for you ever since I was seven years old and the local UHF station played Gidget and The Flying Nun back to back. I first fell in love with you in that little yellow bikini, and then fell in love all over again in that white nun's habit. It might have been better for my psycho-biological development had it been the other way around, but, no matter, whether you were frolicking on the beaches of Southern California, or soaring through the skies above Puerto Rico, so, too, did my heart. Later you appeared in the TV movie, Sybil, and I fell in love with all thirteen of your personalities, though the Mike personality and the Sid personality didn't help my psycho-biological development much either. Not too long after that you appeared in Smokey and the Bandit. Oh, Sally, how I longed to be the Burt Reynolds who would rescue you from the evil clutches of Jackie Gleason, who was even meaner than when he played Ralph Kramden. No matter. He would not send you "to the moon" as long as I was there to protect you. Then there was Norma Rae. Inspired by your performance, I tried to organize a union in my place of employment. Unfortunately, I was working in my grandmother's collectibles shop at the time, and she told my parents on me. Finally, Places in the Heart, for which you won your second Academy Award. Of course, Sally, your place was in my heart all along.
Recently, I was distressed to learn that you suffer from osteoporosis. Oh, Sally, how I want to take those brittle bones of yours in my arms and make them all better. Fortunately, you've discovered Boniva, and, watching those commercials, I was thrilled to see that you're now healthy enough to go to the farmer's market and buy some ripe tomatoes (by the way, I like ketchup.) Still, I was a bit puzzled. Isn't osteoporosis a disease older women get? So I looked up your age on the Internet, and was surprised to see that you're now 63!
Sally, I swear to you from the bottom of my love-stricken heart, you don't look a day over 40.
I, on the other hand, am only 45, yet strangers always mistake me for being a couple of decades older.
Oh, Sally, don't you see? We were made for each other!!!
Lovingly yours,
Martin Dangerfield Volare
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Obstinance
I walked into the Looking-Glass Cafe and ran into Marty Volare, whom I've known since high school. A couple of minutes later we were at the bar, watching Greta Van Susteren interview Bristol Palin on TV. Bristol, you might recall, is the teenage daughter of Sarah Palin, John McCain's running mate in the recent election. You may also recall that her boyfriend got her pregnant, causing a mild scandal. But that's all behind her now. She recently gave birth to a baby boy, Tripp. Van Susteren asked Bristol if she didn't think teens should practice abstinence. Bristol replied she didn't think it was realistic.
At this point, Marty Volare opened his mouth to say something, but as soon as he did, bit's and drops of chewed pretzels and beer poured forth.
It took about a second for Marty to compose himself, and then he said, "I agree with Bristol Palin"
"About what?" I asked.
"Abstinence IS unrealistic. It was when I was a teen,"
"What are you talking about, Marty? You were constantly shot down by girls back then. They wouldn't let you carry their books, much less do anything that would lead to a baby."
"I know," said Marty. "It was unreal!"
At this point, Marty Volare opened his mouth to say something, but as soon as he did, bit's and drops of chewed pretzels and beer poured forth.
It took about a second for Marty to compose himself, and then he said, "I agree with Bristol Palin"
"About what?" I asked.
"Abstinence IS unrealistic. It was when I was a teen,"
"What are you talking about, Marty? You were constantly shot down by girls back then. They wouldn't let you carry their books, much less do anything that would lead to a baby."
"I know," said Marty. "It was unreal!"
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