I wonder if Jesus had a birthmark in the shape of a tiny piece of toast.

I’VE JUST SEEN A FACE…

When people tell us that we “look the same” or that we “haven’t changed a bit” despite the passage of time – sometimes even decades - I think what they are really saying is: “I see the essence of who you are and that will always endure.”

Case in point:

Years ago, I was having dinner with my father at a long-gone, north-side Chicago delicatessen called Ashkenaz. Dad was in his late 70s; he would be gone in a few short years. We finished our meal, got up from the table and, as we headed toward the exit, my father stopped short at the sight of another elderly gentleman at a nearby table. The two old men made tentative eye contact, looking oddly at one another as the spark of recognition slowly but surely caught fire.

“Bernstein,” said my father.

“Elkins,” responded Bernstein.

Turns out they were friends in 5th grade but had not seen each other in almost 70 years – not since they were little boys. Today they were weak and wrinkled and gray, yet they still “looked the same.”

“So, what’ve you been up to?”

While that question was on both men’s lips, it remained unspoken. There was nothing to do but shake hands and part company, shared schoolyard memories floating behind their eyes.

The most powerful facial recognition software resides inside the human heart.

A BRIEF INTRODUCTION TO MEMETICS

Meme (meem) An idea, behavior or style that spreads from person to person within a culture. While genes transmit biological information, memes transmit ideas and belief information.

Back in the mid-1970s, the fashion industry perpetrated a horrific crime against the American male. It was called the “Gatsby Look,” and was characterized by, starting from the ground and working our way up: chunky, high-heeled, platform clown shoes with bulbous toe caps, elephantine, hip-hugging, bell-bottom trousers with three-inch cuffs, and grotesque polyester sport coats featuring lapels so wide that, if wind speed and direction were just right, they would catch the air current like wings, lifting you off the sidewalk and flapping like a dying duck through a plate glass window faster than you could say, “Saturday Night Fever.”

Yes, it was hideous, but it was in style. And, if it’s in style, it must look good. At least according to the meme of fashion.

It is only with the perspective of the passing years that the erroneous meme of bad fashion can be revealed in all its grotesque glory. When you examine photographs from that era, one question immediately springs to mind: “Were these people on drugs?” (Come to think of it, it was the 70’s so, yes, they probably were on drugs.)

I wish it were possible to dispense with the passage of time and root out, illuminate and then destroy those bad memes right now - before they can worm their way into our psyche and do their damage. 

Fat chance.

Bad memes are everywhere – viral bits of programming that sabotage our attitudes and our actions. The manipulative world of advertising is fueled by memetics – memes are its life-blood, actually – word-of-mouth the primary contagion. Do we really need a beer can that changes color when the beer is cold enough to drink? Of course we do! And we need it desperately - if we bite the hook on that little meme like obedient tuna fish.

Urban legends and conspiracy theories are memes. Biases, prejudices, homophobia, sexism and racism – especially when hammered into the minds of innocent young children – are the worst of memes.

By the way, not all memes are bad. Many memes are fairly innocuous, if not downright beneficial. The running craze began in the seventies. It’s hard to argue with a cross-cultural physical fitness movement. It was a meme because it was an idea that became contagious throughout society.

But good memes can spawn evil offspring. Nike was born out of the running craze. And now we shell out $150 a pop for running shoes. (I don't mean to suggest that Nike is an evil company; just the meme that brainwashed us into accepting exorbitant prices. On second thought, maybe Nike is evil.)

Theme songs and catchy jingles usually become memes. That insipid melody torturing you because you can’t get out of your head?  Sorry, you’ve been memed. Catch-phrases are another class of essentially harmless memes. Popular TV shows and movies will often infect the cultural dialog with unique verbiage that inevitably morphs into cliché from overuse. Have you ever parroted one of these clever witticisms? 

Whatchoo talking about, Willis?
Stifle yourself!
Alrighty then!
I want my MTV!
Pity the fool!
Say hello to my little friend!
I’ll be back!
Where’s the beef?
I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!
Well, ex-cuu-uuse me! 

The list goes on and on. Oh, and lest we forget his 15 minutes of idiotic infamy, we have Charlie Sheen to thank for these beauties:

Duh, winning
Tiger blood
Adonis DNA
Rock star from Mars 

If only we were immune to false memes. We could tune out the noise that drowns out our own unique voice and restrains our personal freedom. But memes are profoundly seductive. After all, memes are a shared experience. We are social animals and memes connect us to one another. But the worst of them perpetrate false beliefs that, in turn, manifest habits and behaviors that fail to serve our greater good and the good of those with whom we share this planet. 

So, pray for a vaccine. And narrow lapels.

IT'S A LONG, LONG WAY TO YPSILANTI

It’s the real great race – a punishing and unforgiving test of endurance and survival. There is no second-place. You either win… or you die.

The odds against winning this race are staggering. You’re completely blind and you have no feet. Fortunately, it’s a level-playing field. The 300 million other competitors exploding out of the chute alongside of you have no eyeballs either and they’re footless, too. Thousands are dead or dying before they even get started. It’s that brutal. You’re struggling forward in futile desperation, relying purely on instinct, navigating terrain that is slippery and treacherous. You have no idea what lies ahead. Actually, you don’t even know where the finish line is. Why? 

Because you’re a human sperm cell.

And if you somehow manage to miraculously beat out your spermatozoa brethren and hit pay dirt first and then find purchase and hold on tight, and that ovum you’re burrowing into resides inside the uterus of a woman with a pedigree, with assets, some strategic real estate, maybe ownership in a company or two, or perhaps your little sperm-self was generated inside the left testicle of young Mr. Zuckerberg… then well done, little tadpole, well done indeed!

Okay, so you just won the lottery. What’s the point? 

"Sperm" is the point.

I love words, and "sperm" is a terrific word. The sound it makes as it escapes the lips is perfectly suited to the object it designates. What the hell else would you call the stuff? (Wait a minute - I just ran a search on "slang words for sperm" and Google coughed up 162,000 links over 56 pages. So, there is no shortage of alternatives.)

Shakespeare wrote:

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose

by any other name would smell as sweet."

That's all well and good. But I, for one, am thankful that a rose is a rose and not a hemorrhoid. A dozen long-stem hemorrhoids? I don't think so.

There's a weird irony to the word: "phlegm." An excess of consonants for an excess of mucus. I once had a bad head cold - it was mucus to my ears. In Belgium, they speak Flemish. Which begs the question: is hocking loogies their national pastime?

Back to sperm.  Say it again. Sperm. Warning: do not shout “sperm!” in a crowded movie theater. Just repeat it several times quietly to yourself in privacy: Sperm, sperm, sperm. (“Smegma” is another perfectly suited word, which is ironic given its anatomical proximity to “sperm,” but for obvious reasons this reference will remain brief and parenthetical. Let’s be frank, “sperm” is bad enough.)

I picked up one of my boys from school and he asked me, “Hey, Daddy – what’s a sperm?” I quickly offered to buy him an ice cream cone if he would agree to drop the current line of questioning.

Yes, sperm is a perfect word. But others are not quite right. Some words miss the mark entirely. 

The word “yacht” for example. (Origin: from the Dutch “jacht” meaning hunt) The pale and pathetic sound betrays the majesty of the object itself. True, the cockeyed spelling has a certain appeal, delivering an exotic aura of mystery. But the disappointing thud of the word spoken aloud is simply ridiculous. Would you lust after a 200-foot long ocean-going luxury vessel with a helipad if it was spelled…

“Yot?”

Of course not. On second thought, absolutely. 

And on a related subject, I have no interest in living inside of a yurt – regardless of the spelling. I would venture to guess that few of us have ever spent time both on a yacht and inside a yurt – and certainly not on the same vacation. Keep in mind that it would not at all be unusual to encounter a yak or a Yeti or a yogurt-eating Yogi when exiting a yurt – except of course, in Yakima. Or the Yukon. Or Yugoslavia.

Or Ypsilanti.

If you are ever asked how you get from “sperm” to “Ypsilanti,” please point them towards my blog.

You’re welcome.

SIGN IN LIBRARY:

Whispering 
is not 
ALOUD

MIAMI WEISS 
The disturbing misadventures of a retired private eye with advancing dementia.

Part 1

INT. RETIREMENT HOME – RECREATION ROOM – DAY

MOE WEISS, a belligerent octogenarian with a twinkle in his eye, sits in front of a large flat-screen TV, surrounded by other ELDERLY RESIDENTS. He’s babbling, oblivious to his surroundings

WEISS: I like being a private eye…

OLD WOMAN: You talking to me, Mr. Weiss?

WEISS: But to be perfectly honest with you, it’s been a long time between cases...

OLD WOMAN: Last week you were a fighter pilot.

WEISS: Sure, I cracked the Passover Blintz hijacking in ’52, but what can I say? I got old…

OLD WOMAN: Meshuggenah.

WEISS: Passed enough kidney stones to pave a driveway. I lost my nerve….

OLD WOMAN: And your hair. And your teeth.

ATTENDANT walks over with a glass of sparkling water.

ATTENDANT: Here’s your seltzer, Mr. Weiss.

WEISS: That’s very kind of you. I appreciate it. If you’re not too busy, maybe you could get for me a nice tall glass of seltzer, too, while you’re at it. If it's not too much trouble...

Weiss sips from the glass as the attendant rolls her eyes and turns away. Weiss reaches out and pinches her ass; she reacts startled. He belches and smiles contentedly. Then his wheels begin to turn… he remembers something.

WEISS: Seltzer… Oh yeah! Get out! Like it was yesterday, I remember. I remember the seltzer… (He holds the glass up to his eyes and watches the tiny bubbles) I remember the bubbles…

EXT. SUBURBAN BACK-YARD – TEN YEARS EARLIER – DAY

Weiss, now a younger man in late 70s, is seated on a lawn chair, garden hose in one hand and his teeth in the other.

WEISS:  (in voice-over)   I was sitting in the lawn chair, rinsing the poppy seeds from my lower denture with the garden hose, when I heard the gunshot. They say you never hear the bullet with your name on it, which is beside the point, because it wasn't even a gunshot in the first place. It was my hemorrhoid donut pillow exploding under my tuchus, courtesy of my grandson, Elliot, and his fercockta Swiss Army Knife - the Champion model that I bought him for his Bar Mitzvah wholesale. When I grabbed from him the knife and offered to make him another circumcision with no anesthetic, he ran kvetching to my daughter-in-law, Mildred, the bleach-blonde shiksa with the bare midriff that haunts my wet dreams....

Back porch screen door swings open and MILDRED, late 40s, bleach-blond beehive, leans out.

MILDRED: Hey, pa… telephone for you! A Mrs. Feldman.

Weiss replaces his dentures, rises and shuffles toward the house.

WEISS: Get out! The chesty widow with the fingernails and the big red lips?

MILDRED: She says she’s your proctologist’s nurse.

WEISS: The ass doctor?! Sonofabitch! I bet they found a tumor on my X-ray!

To be continued….

HOW DIRTY IS YOUR MIND?

There is a certain four-letter word that is only used to describe a woman, and the last three letters of the word are:

___ U N T

Okay, what’s the word? It's never used to describe a man. Be truthful now, what is the first word that jumps to your lips?

Hmm. Really?

Is it a word that describes the woman who is married to your uncle?

I didn’t think so.  But if I misjudged you and you did come up with the word “aunt” you’re probably in the minority. The rest of you, well, admit it – you’re a little embarrassed, I'll bet - you sick bastards.

I use that word lovingly.

It can be tricky to base our decisions on logical analysis and careful scrutiny of all relevant factors. It’s much more convenient to blindly follow our primitive, gut instincts. 

A better method would be to balance that sudden creative and emotional inspiration with a moment of calm and quiet reflection, wherein common sense can be brought to bear. The key is to allow left-brain rationale to temper our passion – not to override the emotion, but to deepen the original right-brain impulse and forge it into a dispassionate and dependable strategy that can be trusted and acted upon with confidence. 

If you answered the “_unt” riddle incorrectly, you probably let your right brain (the seat of emotion) run with it. But had you waited before answering and allowed your left (logical) brain to take a shot at it, your strategy might have been to go through the alphabet and try all 26 letters as a way of discovering the mystery word. And had you done so, your problem would have been solved with the letter “A” – your search would have ended as soon as it began.

Now go wash your mind out with soap.