REMEMBER THE L.A. TIMES COLUMNIST, JACK SMITH?

Remember the L.A. Times Columnist, Jack Smith?

Last week I found one of Smith’s old columns in a cookbook drawer. Don’t ask what it was doing there. I haven’t the faintest idea.

Jack Smith was a gentle humorist who loved words. Like thousands of his readers, I relished his words, no matter what he was trying to say.  This column that suddenly appeared in my hands is about the boxer, Leon Spinks. What intrigued Jack Smith was a quote by Spinks headlined in the paper’s Sports section.  The quote reads as follows:

Spinks: I AIN’T DENYING THERE WASN’T NO BOTTLE.” 

Smith continues: “You can wait a long time for a triple negative that makes perfect sense, and I hope it is not thought that I am making fun of Spinks. Actually, I cherish his remark as an example of the vigor and adaptability of the language. He had something to say, and he got it said.” 

After explaining that Spinks had bested boxing champion, Muhammad Ali, possibly as a result of stimulation by a drug he had taken from “a little black bottle,” Smith comments further. “Pedants who insist on logic in language might have a hard time with ‘I ain’t denying there wasn’t no bottle.’ I have tried to dissect it, to see where it comes out, but it has too many turns. Actually, if the word denying is taken as a negative, it is a quadruple negative, not simply a triple, and a quadruple negative is beyond the powers of even the most devious British playwright. Playwrights use the language. People like Spinks invent it.”

To tell the truth, this week I, too, tried dissecting Spinks’ comment, and I never did get it to make sense.  In the meantime I was reminded of all the Jack Smith columns I found charming. In one of them he says (and here I’m quoting from wildly imperfect memory), “People have accused me of hiding behind the moniker Jack Smith, implying that my REAL name must be something else. Why does anyone think I would choose such an unimaginative pseudonym, when the world is full of so many better names . . . like Gaylord Gallagher, or Winston Wainwright, or Christopher Collingwood. Against all these elegant possibilities, do they believe I would voluntarily choose Jack Smith?”

In another column, Smith goes for a nature walk and claims that he saw (obligated by specificity) a bird called a Grackle. Ornithologists were quick to point out that no grackle  has been seen West of the Mississippi. With that, Smith took off on a back-and-forth multi-column banter with these experts, finally claiming he’d seen two grackles. He defended himself beautifully. “If they think I hadn’t actually seen one grackle, I might as well claim I’ve seen two.” 

One of my fondest memories is the time I appeared on the same library program with Jack Smith—who afterwards agreed to write a blurb for my memoir, “Higher Than Eagles.”  Which he did. 

A fascination with words has always defined certain members of our family. A lot of us do crossword puzzles or eagerly compete in the word game, Boggle.  Two sons have contributed chapters to several of my books, while my husband Rob has written three books of his own. 

I especially love what my lawyer-son, Kenny, came up with this Christmas. As the new grandfather of a two-year-old child, Ken decided the little boy—barely talking--should call Kenny GrandDude. 

Which sends new echoes up the familial ladder. Logically, I suppose this now makes Rob, well . . . the Great GrandDude. 

All my books can be found, autographed, on Maralys.com . . . click store.

Or check them out on Amazon. 

FOR US, A MIRACLE--SIXTY-SIX YEARS OF MARRIAGE

FOR US, A MIRACLE—SIXTY-SIX YEARS OF MARRIAGE

Today, January 3^rd, is think-back day.

When I first met him, Rob didn’t look like a husband—as he cut in on me at a Stanford Jolly-up, he was just a kid with very white teeth and a brilliant smile. Plus, oh yes, an  insistent personality, which I could feel later, back in my dorm. But he was too short, only six-one, and I was looking for six-three or better.

(It turns out Rob was looking for someone with good legs. It also turns out he never considered himself a good candidate for marriage.)   

Next day he took me on a prevaricator’s “date.”  “How would you like to go on a beach party?” he asked, and imagining the party might include someone taller and less intrusive, I said Yes. To my astonishment, the beach party consisted of Rob and me—plus Hudson Bowlby, a stodgy acquaintance with a Model A. For all the words uttered by Bowlby as he drove us to the beach, Rob had found us a stiff English butler.  

Rob’s summer of wooing never turned conventional. Instead of using the dorm’s buzzer, he summoned me by whistling outside my window—as though calling his dog. We rode to the movies on bicycles. We seldom studied; instead we went to the library and passed notes back and forth. That summer was hell on our grades, but Rob won me over—not with his craziness, not with his smile, but mostly with his brains. On one thing we both agreed: he was the smartest man I was apt to meet.   

Some things have never changed; Rob is still the brainiest person I know. He missed qualifying for Jeopardy by one point, and on any given night he’s apt to answer more questions than the contestants.  “How do you know that?” I ask, and his answer is always, “I don’t know how I know. I must have read it someplace.” 

Today he also charms me with laughter; together we giggle over life’s small incongruities and ridiculous human behavior—though I need to go elsewhere for laughter when I’ve done something stupid.

As our friends know, our marriage has survived raising six kids, five boys and a girl, plus the overwhelming sadness of losing two sons to hang gliding accidents. Somehow we overcame the BIG things—while at times nearly perishing on the shoals of lesser events.

But now, in the trailing-off years, we rejoice that we’ve both had productive careers—lawyer and writer—but even more that the two of us have metamorphosed into thirty-nine people—with ten grandkids and twelve great-grandchildren, all of whom sooner or later become good friends.   

Lately, Rob and I have found it often takes two of us to complete a sentence, and we’re best served with a team approach to driving a car.  But that isn’t all. Last night, topping off the years, he gave our marriage the ultimate compliment: “By now, Babe, we’re all intertwined, our branches intermixed. We’ve grown together like a couple of tree trunks.” 

BEAUTY AND THE BASTARD

BEAUTY AND THE BASTARD

This all happened yesterday, in four different stores . . .

I was just leaving Cosco, walking slowly toward the backed-up line that exits the store. Suddenly someone came up from behind and slammed full speed into my cart. Without slowing down, the man veered off to one side. A quick glimpse . . . he was short and ugly.   

Dumbfounded, I suddenly found my voice. “What the hell are you doing?”

Without turning around, he shouted back, “You were going so slow!”

“You have no business smashing into other people’s carts!”

“You were nothing but a plug!”  

I stared after him as he disappeared deeper into the store. First time in years I’ve wanted to punch someone in the nose. 

The lady in front of me turned around, made a face, and sympathetically shook her head.  Like me, I suppose, she wondered at his sudden, unexpected display of violence.  It took awhile for the shock to wear off.   

My next stop was Bed, Bath, and Beyond.  As I stood at the counter to pay for three items, the sales lady asked if I had any 20% coupons.  “Oh darn,” I said, “they’re in the car. Maybe I should go get them.  Will one coupon do it?”

“No,” she said.  “One for each item.”  

Almost as if she were with me, the lady behind me spoke up. “How many coupons do you need?” 

I turned around, amazed.  It was a Steve Hartman moment; another beautiful person.

“How many do you need?” she asked again.

Feeling greedy I said, “Well . . .  actually, three.” 

“Here,” she said.  “Take these.” 

Once again I was staring, dumbfounded. “How nice,” I said. “How kind. Thank you.”   As she handed over the coupons, I said, “You won’t believe what happened at the last store.” While I finished paying, I told her the story.  “All this bad and good in one day.” 

She smiled.  “Then just remember the good.” 

Oh, I’d remember all right.

My next encounter was the check-out line at Trader Joe’s. Having just gathered my bagged-up groceries, I turned to go. Which was when the woman next in line said, “Here.  You forgot your purse.” 

“Oh . . . thanks.”  I wouldn’t have gotten far, but I appreciated her looking out for me.

At still a fourth place, Boston Market, where I tried to leave with both hands full, a man deliberately paused to hold open the door. As I always do, I gave him a genuine thanks.   

The tally was easy. One bastard. Three decent people—one of them exceptional. For me, that pretty much summed up the world . . . the good guys easily outnumbered the rotten apples three to one. And maybe even by a larger margin. Which I might have noted, except by then I had run out of stores.   

 

.  

THE GUN ISSUE NOBODY THINKS OF

THE GUN ISSUE NOBODY THINKS OF

It happened in the Oregon campus shooting. Two nearby spectators were armed. They knew full well what was going on. But they chose not to become part of the scene. “If we’d gone in and started shooting,” one of them said, “the police might have shot us.”

Think of it—during a mass shooting, every person using a gun becomes a target.

For starters, the real killers get the jump on everyone. Always.  If, as happens too often, the murderer comes in with an AK47, he has long seconds to spray the room before anyone else can respond. Unless people in the audience also have AK47s, or they’re sitting around with loaded guns on the table, they and their guns are useless. 

Additionally, by the time the cops get there, the “good guys with guns” can look exactly like the “bad guys with guns.”  How are police to know the difference?

Just ask your local policeman how well an armed populace works. Most will quickly respond, if asked, that more guns in more hands simply causes more problems.

This kind of multi-armed scenario didn’t work particularly well in the Wild West. It certainly won’t work in normal society. Yet sadly, our own decent citizens are becoming “radicalized.”  They think they can “fight back” if every one of them owns a weapon. They think a “gun free” area is an invitation to mayhem.

Well, remember the military psychiatrist on an army base who killed fifteen of his fellow soldiers? Tell us—was that a “gun free” zone?

Most of us are horrified at having no good answers for mass shootings.  Yet believe it or not, there IS an answer.  Multi-shot, repeater weapons in the hands of civilians should be outlawed, made illegal.  If you don’t believe this, tell us what they’re good for—what possible benefit they’ve ever provided . . . besides killing lots of people in just a few seconds.   

So it’s everyone’s choice: Any one of us can now choose to be the gun-ready mother in Target—the one whose three-year-old rummaged in her purse, found her loaded gun, and accidentally shot her.    

Or we can be one of the enraged male drivers on the freeway—the two who pulled off in a gas station to wreak their vengeance, and who managed, somehow, to kill each other.

One last thought: for every person who defends himself with a gun, statistics say that hundreds of others are killed with privately-own guns—accidentally or on purpose. 

   

My latest book: “Revenge of the Jilted Draperies:  and other sweet-and-sour stories” now available through Amazon—or autographed, through me: maralys@cox.net.

A ten-dollar gift for Christmas.

THE MAN BELIEVES HE'S KING

THE MAN BELIEVES HE’S KING

If you doubt this could be true, ask Donald Trump.

Or better yet, read Thursday’s op-ed in the Los Angeles Times: Trump's royal inheritance.  Michael D’Antonio has interviewed The Donald at great length—for hours, in preparation for a book—and it seems this one presidential candidate does see himself as king.

As I wrote in my prior blog, FUNNY STUFF YOU MAY HAVE NOTICED,  it seems clear that Trump revels in running for president, that he adores his freedom to say whatever he damn pleases.  (However--except for Air Force One--he won’t love the job.)  

But honestly, I never thought he saw himself as king.

FUNNY STUFF--ESPECIALLY TRUMP

FUNNY STUFF -- ESPECIALLY TRUMP

When TV offers the mug shot of a cop on trial for murder, how come the guy often looks like a murderer—not a respectable policeman.  How did he look before the fatal shot? 

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People still live and walk around in Beijing--in smog so thick they can rake it off the sidewalk. Why is anyone still there? 

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Behind Donald Trump’s scowls you get the impression he’s in his glory, having the best time of his life.

Think of it--even more than serial killers, his name is known by everyone who can read.

Every word he says gets printed in newspapers. Every crazy thought that comes to him in the shower reaches millions of people within days. And the nuttier his ideas, the quicker we’ll hear them. If he happens to imagine that 81% of white murders are committed by blacks, he can go ahead and say it on—where else, Fox News? 

Even his jokey hair has stopped being a joke – those forward-leaning feathers  desperately trying to cover a bald landscape are now blessed landmarks.

Most important, think of his power . . . how his peculiar, unexpected renown is suddenly terrifying a lot of Very Important People . . . how some are afraid to speak up, lest the cobra turn on them, spitting out words that inflict a fatal wound. With such words, in fact, The Donald has nearly KO’d several presidential candidates.

Some of us wonder if the man even cares whether he becomes president. That would be work. In the meantime, he’s having a blast without all the bother of actually doing anything. When he looks back from the next decade, he’ll know that for a year or more, he was one of the best-recognized, most powerful guys on the planet. Even mystical. 

What more can he ask from life than that? 

My latest book: “Revenge of the Jilted Draperies:  and other sweet-and-sour stories” now available through Amazon—or autographed, through me: maralys@cox.net.

A ten-dollar gift for Christmas.

A LUMP UNDER THE LINOLEUM

A LUMP UNDER THE LINOLEUM

Okay, it was an ominous lump under the linoleum. The kind you can feel, but only with bare beet.  A tiny ridge that sparks a silent oh, crap, when your foot happens to land there: Something’s wrong, the floor shouldn’t be doing this.  The thing was a few inches wide, located in an innocuous space, right between the stove and refrigerator. Mostly I ignored it, but once in awhile I said to Rob, “Shouldn’t we do something about this?”      

“Like what, Babe?  You mean, tear out the entire kitchen floor? Over a lump?”

Rob was right, of course. The linoleum was coved and continuous and covered four rooms. So mentally I backed off.  After you’ve lived in a house for  a number of years, you’re bound to find something that seems Not Quite Right. As long as that something isn’t making funny noises, or breaking into visible pieces, or growing larger by the week, you tend to think,  Maybe we should do something about this. Someday.

But when you’re busy writing books, or just living a normal, active life, Someday has a habit of fading away and disappearing into Never. 

Until something bigger comes along—like a flood.

Like Noah, we had to pay attention to a flood—when the washing machine backed up and discharged its water out through the toilet, and I finally saw soapy water snaking around the corner and into the kitchen.

“Rob!” I cried. “Come quick!”  And moving about as fast as he usually does, and I won’t say how fast that is, Rob came.

Together we attacked the overflow with mops and buckets, and half an hour later Noah could have stopped building his ark. But that’s not how life works.

The plumber we called to clear the drains called an environmentalist to start an insurance claim, who in turn called lead and asbestos experts to examine the linoleum and walls (the latter “wicking up water,” they said ), who in turn called contractors to tear out walls and flooring.

It multiplies.  While you watch and consider backing away, the list gets longer and people keep arriving. There must be a lot of profit in overflowing washing machines.

Now, two months later, we know what ELSE was going on. Under our kitchen floor a tiny pipe had sprung a small leak, which not only damaged the subfloor, but also collected into a “lump” under the linoleum. Eventually, the sneaky thing might have grown until Rob and I were forced to take it seriously and “do something.”  As most of you know, lumps anywhere are never a good thing. Happily, the flood made it happen sooner.

But hey, it all worked out. Our kitchen now has the world’s most beautiful hickory wood floor . . . a pale woodsy background that set off an interesting collection of grainy streaks and dark knots and little swirls, about which Rob and I keep saying to each other, “Isn’t this beautiful?”  

And nary a lump anywhere. 

My latest book: “Revenge of the Jilted Draperies:  and other sweet-and-sour stories” now available through Amazon—or autographed, through me: maralys@cox.net.

A ten-dollar gift for Christmas.