Goldie, Buddha & Me

Goldie Hawn doesn’t know it, but she jumpstarted my freelance writing career when the production company for her movie Protocol came to Sacramento in 1984. The plot was centered in Washington D.C. The producer, Anthea Sylbert (Chinatown, Rosemary’s Baby, Day Of The Dophin), wanted a location that looked enough like Washington D.C. to spare the expense of moving cast, crew, and equipment to the nation's capital for a single scene requiring a backdrop of Greek Revival government buildings. There are two of them in Sacramento, facing each other on the Capitol Mall traffic circle across the street from the capitol itself. Just the setting the producer wanted.

At the time I was in a period of creative repose, a polite way of saying unemployed, when a buddy called saying a movie company was coming to town and hiring locals as extras. "They want people who look like anonymous bureaucrats," she said. "I thought of you right away. I mean, you were an anonymous bureaucrat for eleven years, so you don’t even need an acting coach. Just be yourself."

Gee thanks.

"You get $50 and a catered lunch."

That clinched it. I asked if I should have my people call their people.

"Very funny. Look, one of the associate producers is screening people at the state employment office tomorrow. Wear your sincere suit, the blue pinstriped one."

I showed up at the employment office five minutes after it opened. A handwritten sign had been taped to the door stating all the movie extra positions had been filled -- probably by employment office staff plus their friends and relatives -- but I saw this as a karmic test. Buddha dwells everywhere, even in adversity. So, if I couldn’t be immortalized on the silver screen and get $50 and a free lunch, I could at least write about the local people chosen as extras and peddle the story to a regional magazine.

But Buddha wasn’t done with me yet. The scene was being filmed in a small park within sight of the state capitol, and I was persona non grata. "This is a closed set," the unit publicist told me when I showed up in my sincere suit with an expired press pass on my lapel and a 35 mm camera slung from my neck. "No media allowed," she said. Some publicist.  A uniformed cop moved closer in case I made a fuss.

I later learned the film had drawn the ire of Muammar Khaddafy’s Libyan government for its portrayal of a Muslim diplomat’s attraction to an American cocktail waitress, a blasphemous American temptress who serves forbidden liquor played by Ms. Hawn.  Worse yet, Ms. Hawn is Jewish.  Not only that, but Ms. Hawn is a practicing Buddhist. That made her a triple infidel in the eyes of the Prophet Mohammed's nutcase disciple in Libya.

So what did that have to do with me, a publicist and a cop on the other side of the world? Well, since the movie was also being filmed in Libya, Khaddafy’s displeasure had real traction with the U.S. Department of State -- and with the cast and crew who needed Libyan visas stamped on their passports. The last thing the producer wanted was publicity at this stage of the game, any publicity, even the kind generated by a bush league freelancer in a pinstriped suit.

I was blissfully ignorant of all this fuss, but it would not have made a bit of difference if I had known. Opportunity was not just knocking on my door, it was hammering with an iron fist. I made a big show out of looking around at the assembled crowd. "Doesn’t look very closed to me," I said. "Anyway, I just want to talk to some local extras and be on my way."

In other words, leave me alone and I won’t make waves. Not that I could, but this Hollywood gofer didn’t know that. Besides, I had Buddha in my corner. No way I was giving up this contest of wills, especially after being aced of $50 and a free lunch.

The publicist decided I wasn’t worth the trouble. She shrugged and walked away. Since she wasn’t making a fuss, the cop didn't make one either. He swaggered away, probably thinking all reporters should be required to wear shrouds, like medieval lepers, and clang hand bells while shouting "Unclean! Unclean!" when venturing out among decent people. Most cops feel that way about reporters. Hell, I sometimes feel that way about reporters myself.

The production company was quite a production in itself. Big windowless buses were parked up and down Ninth Street across from the capitol, along with 40’ trailers that served as dressing and conference rooms. One of the trailers contained a kennel housing two Afghan hounds that were needed for the scene. Extras, grips and technicians with earbud radios milled around, looking important. A man later identified as the director, Herbert Ross (Funny Girl, The Sunshine Boys), was stripped to the waist and doing pushups on the Capitol Mall lawn.

One guy wearing a baseball cap and who needed a shave was sitting on a plastic cooler reading a newspaper. The unshaven dude was not an actor, but I recognized him anyway. He was the screenwriter.

"So, this is what writers do when they’re not writing," I said.

"We read," Buck Henry said in an annoyed tone. Bad enough that he was stuck in this goddamn boring government town, but he had to put up with chatty locals in sincere suits as well. There oughta be a law.

No matter. While I was duly impressed with seeing the screenwriter who scripted The Graduate, I was here to interview the Sacramento based talent, not yak it up with the Grand Panjandrums.

I singled out three of the locals. One was an attractive middle-aged woman in a peasant dress who sat in the shade reading a hardbound book, her long graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. I imagined she was a retired teacher who volunteered at a public library and organized coffee klatches for Walter Mondale supporters.  I asked her about that. She looked up from her book. "No," she said, amused. "I’m involved with Little Theater. That’s how I heard about this." She returned to her book. The other two extras were an off duty deputy sheriff and another man in a period of creative repose, like me. Neither was very talkative. I guess they were getting in touch with their Inner Extras before the cameras rolled.

Then the star emerged from her trailer. The cast and crew jumped into action. The publicist hustled over to Ms. Hawn and pointed me out. Ms. Hawn gave me a look of critical appraisal, perhaps thinking I was a State Department snitch in that stupid blue suit.  I imagine she mentally gave me the finger.

The scene required the use of three huge cameras and an array of arc lights despite the cloudless sunny day. A string of locally owned late model cars had been corralled and fitted with fake Virginia, Maryland and D.C. license plates to circle the mall during filming. Extras in their sincere suits accessorized with briefcases walked purposefully to and fro.

Finished with his push-ups, Mr. Ross took control and called for action. The cars circled, the extras extraed, the Afghan hounds hounded. The dogs were released to run across the lawn with Ms. Hawn in pursuit. Her character was supposed to be taking care of them. Then she tripped and landed butt first on the grass, laughing. Cut and print. That was it. All that prep, all those cars, all those those extras, and all those free lunches for less than 10 seconds on the screen.

I went home and wrote up the story, which was accepted by a local magazine. Not only was the story accepted, but I was accepted too. The publisher hired me to be the managing editor. Unfortunately, the magazine went bankrupt the month I was hired. Even so, a credit is a credit and it opened the doors to other publications.

So, thank you, Ms. Hawn.

Still, I wish I could’ve gotten $50 and a free lunch.

-o-

Comments, critiques, threats: 

No matter which stories you tell, your lovely, easy going voice shines. -- Mimi

Thank you, Mimi.  It took me a long time to learn to write for the reader's inner ear instead of trying to commit literature in deathess prose. Or deadening prose.  MB

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....you never fail to make me smile, make me think, entertain me - Zoey

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I really enjoyed that.  -- Trog

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You can reprise this one any time you like. Eventually Goldie will hear it and probably ask you on a date. -- Shag

Or actually give me the finger this time. -- MB

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Thanks for sending, Mike, I enjoyed it! -- Bob

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I landed a major book deal with film interest. Man got mugged in Washington State 10 years ago-- became a savant from the brain injury. You can't make it up :) -- Maureen

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I enjoyed your article on movie extras. My daughter, 29, and her husband recently moved to L.A. to seek their fortune in the entertainment industry. She managed to get a job as a waitress and a temporary, part-time job acting as a wife in distress on the radio. I would like her to succeed as a writer or actress, but at this point would be very relieved if she and her husband had health insurance. -- Ken

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I loved it, Mike. I wish you'd write more.  -- Linda

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Oh hell.  You're back.  Why don't you get a day job, you hack?  -- ZipLePrune

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Another wonderful read! -- Juli
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I greatly enjoyed your recollections about Goldie, but I must correct one fact: Buck Henry did not direct The Graduate, Mike Nichols did. Buck, however, was the official screenwriter on the movie -- Condor

Correction made.  Thanks!   -- MB

The Battered Battery Syndrome

I have a Zen-like belief that if my car doesn’t want to take me someplace, maybe it’s better that I don't go. Today my car did not want to take me to the battery store. I wanted to go to the battery store because the car’s battery has been acting like a sullen teenager lately, only working part time and grudgingly at that. So I thought it needed replacing.

Sullen batteries are easier to replace than sullen teenagers. I know. I was a sullen teenager. There were times when my parents wished they could replace me with a battery. Unlike sullen teenagers, batteries don’t eat everything not frozen solid, don't  break curfew, and don't get other batteries pregnant with little batteries. Not that I got any batteries pregnant, you understand, but that was then and this was now, and now my Zen thinking was in conflict with my desire for automotive mobility. It was quite an internal crisis. For both the battery and for me.

Anyway, I thought I had charged the battery with a 100 mile drive last week, but when I tried to start the car today, the engine said “crick crick.” See, it’s a Japanese car, and Japanese cars don’t say “click click” when the battery is acting like a sullen teenager and refuses to start the car. They say…well…you get the picture.

But out of the mud may bloom the lotus. It’s possible that my sullen teenaged battery may have saved me from a gruesome wreck on the way to the battery store. I thought about being squashed into road kill by a speeding big rig whose driver was so hopped up on truck stop coffee that he thought my car was a speed bump. I puddled up at the thought my untimely demise. Poor Mike. Cut down in the prime of his senility. Then I wiped away my tears and blew my nose in a Handi Wipe or maybe on the nearest sleeve and tried to start the car again. “Crunk,” it said, and that was that.

Okay. I can take a hint. I called the Insurance Angel whose company provides roadside assistance. This was my third call this month. We’re getting to be old friends.

“You again,” she said. “What is it this time?”

I told her my car would not start. It sat there like a sullen teenager and muttered ’crunk’ the last time I turned the key.

She let out a sigh that crossed state lines. “Ooookay, Mister Brownie. I’ll call a tow company. Again. And stop buying cars that don’t speak English.”

As it happened, my car did not need a tow. Just a shot of battery Viagra from a more virile battery that worked out consistently and ate a lot of battery vitamins, which the tow company truck provided.

“You again,” the driver said. “Why don’t you get a battery with better manners?”

That’s just what I did when I finally got to the battery store.

“You again,” said the battery man, then he took the battery’s pulse and blood pressure. The prognosis was not good. “Your battery terminals are terminal,” he said, and got me another battery. This battery recently finished a stint in battery rehab, “but I can’t guarantee that it won’t relapse,” said the battery man.

Well, if this battery won’t start my car, maybe it’s my car’s karma. But it did, and me and the car were as happy as Buddha under a Bo tree.

Comments?

"Prime of your senility" Dang, you're younger than I am and I'm NOT senile. Always fun to read your stories. -- Carol M.
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You again?  By the way, I think our cars are related. -- Beatysr
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Ahaaaaa loved it -- Juli
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I enjoyed reading your column. I am delighted with my low tire pressure light that has kept me from having a flat tire on 3 occasions. -- Ken

Thanks, Ken. I dunno about having a car smarter than I am.

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I'll probably never look at little batteries the same, again -- Pirate
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Crick?  Pretty funny Mike -- Lynda
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Cutest one yet! -- Tab A
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Laughing so hard I ....well you know. That was one of the funniest ever. Good job! -- Mary Pat
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Entertaining as always.

You know, I had to chuckle. First, my AAA man knows me by my first name because for some reason I obstinately will not put a key box magnet on my car somewhere or keep an extra key in my really tiny purses. I simply get out of the car and leave the keys in the ignition enough times that when I call AAA, the man says "Hi, Zoey. How have you been...I mean, other than today when you locked your keys in your car again?"

So, I chuckled at your piece. We know something's going wrong but we just put it off a little longer. We make love to it with our voices as though it was a familiar lover with no intention of failing to make you come just like he always does. Well, perhaps a bad analogy, but that's where my head...uh...my mind was.

Anyway...thanks for the smile, Mike -- Zoey

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Funny, as usual. You're such a joy to read. -- Amanda
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You sure know how to turn a demi-tragedy into a good comedy -- Karen S.

A Fun Read And A Funner Site

In case you missed it the first time around, I've linked a site kept by Ken Babbs, an author who wrote a novel entitled Who Shot The Water Buffalo, based on his experience as Marine helicopter pilot in Viet Nam. 

SKYPILOTCLUB HOME PAGE

Mr. Babbs was a  buddy and neighbor of the late Ken Kesey, author of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest; Sometimes A Great Notion;  Kesey's Garage Sale; Little Tricker the Squirrel Meets Big Double the Bear, a children's book; Sailor Song; Last Go Around; and a collection of essays entitled Demon Box, which a friend borrowed five years ago and never returned. [Marcia: I want my book back.]

In 1964 Babbs and Kesey were the de facto leaders of a scruffy band of free spirits named The Merry Pranksters who made a cross country odyssey in a psychedelically painted ex-school bus they named "Furthur" with "Weird Load" painted on the back.

The driver was the late Neal Cassady, a natural speed freak and literary icon made famous as the character Dean Moriarity in Jack Kerouac's 1957 book, On The Road, and as the central character in his Visions Of Cody. 

Author Tom Wolfe wrote about the Merry Prankster journey in The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test, published in 1968, and mandatory reading for every sophomore boy who wanted to run away from home to get loaded and laid in a tie-dyed heap of stoned hippie bodies. 
  
Mr. Babbs' site is sad and funny at the same time.  It has pictures of old hippies with bulging bellies and gray hair attending what looks like a counter-cultural VFW cookout, their free love, free dope and free chalmydia days long since cast aside for raising families, paying mortgages, and now babysitting grandchildren when their parents need a break.

I kinda wish I had joined those folks in 1968.  But I was a short-haired Navy vet, a registered Republican with two jobs and a full-time college student whose own mother thought he was too stuffy for his own good.  No exactly a candidate for the Woodstock Generation. 

As it was, I thought most of the patchouli reeking, draft dodging, furry headed hippies were spoiled refugees from the middle class playing at poverty with their gawdawful macrobiotic diets and glassy-eyed readings of Herman Hesse's books.  Oh, and The Hobbit was also big among the dopers who could read without moving their lips too much.  Jesus H. Christ. 

I did have a distant connection with that bunch many years later when I was drying out in the same VA hospital where Kesey had worked as an orderly, stealing LSD from the psych ward to share with his friends. At the time he was enrolled in Wallace Stegner's creative writing program at Stanford, along with Larry McMurtry, author of Lonesome Dove. Okay, enough with the name dropping.

My snarkiness about the 60s hippies aside, I sometimes wish I had been on that bus.

I'd post a picture of the bus, but this e-blogger service is being difficult.  Tech support is no help.  Neither is swearing, but it makes me feel better.

Comments?

I was married in 1962 and had babies in 1967 and 1970.  My husband was a crew-cutted chemical engineer and I was a grad student and T.A. at UMass, and then at Miami of Ohio.  I had no time or respect for hippie hijinks.  Having been born and raised in Colorado, I  could not BELIEVE the mess they created there, camping all over the place in the mountains (with no sanitary facilities), killing people's cows for food, lying stoned on sidewalks all over once-beautiful Boulder.  HOWEVER, I first read Lord of the Rings in 1966 and it has given me joy all my life. (The Hobbit is a children's story and I cannot understand how Peter Jackson is going to make a two-part epic of it, but I am withholding judgment.)  Don't shoot the dog;  keep me on your mailing list!  I enjoy your writings!   -- Eve

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I do enjoy a good read by someone else on occasion, and I especially enjoy your rather good hand at it. -- Zoey

Thanks, Zoey. Instead of sending you a Wal*Mart gift card in appreciation for your nice comment, I’ve entered your name in the Publishers Clearinghouse sweepstakes.
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I love your blog and envy your trip to Alaska!!!!! -- Cyn

Cyn is a former Alaskan who lived in Juneau.
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Fabulous read! -- Julisari

Juli: I’ve always respected your intelligence and judgment. Got any nude pix?
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Well ...at first I thought you were a teenager writing, then you seemed to grow into a 25 to 35 year old, then I realized you were an old geezer like me and your writing made a lot more sense and it was much funnier, since it wasn't coming from a wise ass teenager. -- PlaceboDomingo

Yup. Just another old fart with an advanced case of arrested development.
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Wow, you make it sound so wonderful. Everyone I know who has gone to Alaska has raved about it. I hope i see it one day. -- Angel G.

It will change you.
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Very nice, Mike. The only thing was that I was the only one to vote against the softball team [ being named] Liquor in the Valley, but I had agreed I would adhere to majority vote. Someone of my station (Indian princess) would NEVER come up with a name like that. -- Sandy

Who am I to argue? Arguing with an Indian princess is not a good career move.
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I found it interesting to read about you and the wheelchair treatment, followed by the blog about the cigarette tax. -- Brat Patrol

I know, I know.
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So, you DID enjoy the trip, events, family ties and the scenery? -- Kent

Immensely.

The Return Of The Native Tomato

Okay, so last month my cousin Sandy told me I will be visiting her and her family in Juneau, Alaska, in July. 

You see, Sandy and I are descended from a matrilineal tribe of Alaska injuns where women pretty much run the show. Tribal leaders are chosen from the female side of families in line of succession and arguing with Sandy is not a good career move.  She also teaches karate.  I tried to beg off in a weak ass way, saying I have emphysema (which I do), and was promptly informed that I could have emphysema in Juneau as easily as I could in Sacramento.  She cemented the deal with a round trip ticket on Alaska Airlines, including wheelchair service and an order not to put on a Mr. Macho act and refuse the courtesy.

I did put on that act when changing planes at the Seattle-Tacoma airport  --  and regretted it. The frapping airport passageway was 10 miles long and uphill in all directions, or so it seemed. Lesson learned. I ain’t no young tomato no mo and I requested wheelchair service for the Seattle to Juneau hop, knowing that me ‘n Alaska Airlines would catch triple Hell from Sandy if I showed up in Juneau wheezing along under my own power, such as it is.

I got back to the furnace heat of the Sacramento Valley last night after an altogether too brief stay of seven days amid the mountains of Southeastern Alaska, where forests of spruce, cedar and pine slope down to the dark emerald waters of the Inside Passage, where daytime temperatures hover in the 60 degree range and where formal evening wear consists of a reasonably clean Pendleton shirt.

Sandy and her husband, Keith, took me to a beach where flocks of eagles swoop for salmon and where tiny strawberries grow wild along the shore. The only sound was the hissing of waterfalls that had been centuries old glacier ice just hours before.

We had lunch at a Mexican restaurant, which I thought ironic for my first meal in Alaska, with Sandy, Keith, their 18-year-old son Kevin, and members of Keith’s family I was meeting for the first time. Sandy's reclusive Thoreauvian brother, another Mike, who lives on island instead of a pond, showed up too. Then we were off to a high school stadium where Keith and Sandy play on a softball team. Instead of parking me in the bleachers, Sandy got me a folding chair and a lap robe, which made me feel like the old fart I guess I’ve become. Their team is sponsored by a liquor store. Sandy’s idea of naming the team “The Juneau Lickers” was not met with wild approval, for some reason.

This trip was not my first rodeo, but it was one of the few times I did not want to come home.

Comments?

Glad you went and had fun! Alaska is the only state I have not visited and still hope to get there eventually. Why in the world would anyone not take advantage of a generous offer of a trip, etc., when it is offered in love? -- Eve

I hedged at first, as I did with a similar offer from relatives in Seattle last November, thinking of the cost of transportation, and not wanting to be burdensome on anyone’s finances, but was promptly put in my place. It now occurs to me that people who go out of their way not to be burdens can be the most burdensome of all when it comes to accepting the gift of grace; grace being defined in my Webster’s as “unconstrained and undeserved good will.” I am very, very fortunate to have the family I was given. Were it not for a state of grace, I would be writing them from prison with requests for cigarettes
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I do enjoy a good read by someone else on occasion, and I especially enjoy your rather good hand at it. -- Zoey

Thanks, Zoey. Instead of sending you a Wal*Mart gift card in appreciation for your nice comment, I’ve entered your name in the Publishers Clearinghouse sweepstakes.
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I love your blog and envy your trip to Alaska!!!!! -- Cyn

Cyn is a former Alaskan who lived in Juneau.
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Fabulous read! -- Julisari

Juli: I’ve always respected your intelligence and judgment. Got any nude pix?
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Well ...at first I thought you were a teenager writing, then you seemed to grow into a 25 to 35 year old, then I realized you were an old geezer like me and your writing made a lot more sense and it was much funnier, since it wasn't coming from a wise ass teenager. -- PlaceboDomingo

Yup. Just another old fart with an advanced case of arrested development.
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Wow, you make it sound so wonderful. Everyone I know who has gone to Alaska has raved about it. I hope i see it one day. -- Angel G.

It will change you.
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Very nice, Mike. The only thing was that I was the only one to vote against the softball team [ being named] Liquor in the Valley, but I had agreed I would adhere to majority vote. Someone of my station (Indian princess) would NEVER come up with a name like that. -- Sandy

Who am I to argue? Arguing with an Indian princess is not a good career move.
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Did you get to see the Northern Lights?  -- Carol

Nope.  The're not common at the latitude and time of year.

Well, Poop.  -- Carol

Carol is a southern Californian who once saw the northern lights and has been looking for them ever since.  The farthest south I've seen them was in Seattle in 1957, a sight so rare at that latitude that people set up lawn chairs outside to watch God's own light show, but I'm afraid if they appeared over Southern California, police switchboards would be jammed with panicked callers reporting UFO sightings.  Plus every nutcase evangelical preacher south of Barkersfield would see them as an indication of End Times and really make a killing collecting cash donations and tithes from frightened sinners, proving that solar flares, like clouds, have a silver lining.
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So, you DID enjoy the trip, events, family ties and the scenery? -- Kent

Immensely.

Okay. One More Time.

Well, goody. California voters rejected a ballot proposition at the polls Monday to increase the state cigarette tax to a $1.87 a pack. Even the mighty Los Angeles Times editorialized against the measure, stating the skim would not be spent to help decrease California’s umptajillion dollar state budget shortfall. But, according to the Associated Press, the victory for unrepentant smokers was less than one percentage point, giving the nicotine vigilantes all kinds of encouragement to continue being pains in the buns come the November election. Here’s one:

"This came so close, I think this is worth another try," said Stan Glantz of the University of California's Center for Tobacco Control Research:. "I think it would be horrible if Philip Morris and Reynolds get away with this."

Or, in the words of former Governor Swartzenmuscles, “I’ll be back.”

Seems the anti-smoking bunch have been hammering away since 1492, according to one of their web sites, http://www.stopsmokingsacramento.com/info.html:

"On October 12, 1492, Christopher Columbus was given dry leaves by the Arawaks, but threw them away. Rodrigo de Jerez and Luis de Torres were the first Europeans to observe smoking, and Jerez became the first recorded smoker outside the Americas. Throughout the 16th century, the habit of smoking was common mainly among sailors. Tobacco was introduced to England in the 1560s by the crew of Sir John Hawkins but did not begin making an impact on European society until the 1580s
.
"As the use of tobacco became popular in Europe, some people became concerned about its possible ill effects on the health of its users. One of the first was King James I of England. In 1604, he wrote A Counterblast to Tobacco in which he asked his subjects:

'Have you not reason then to be ashamed, and to forbeare this filthie noveltie, so basely grounded, so foolishly received and so grossly mistaken in the right use thereof? In your abuse thereof sinning against God, harming your selves both in persons and goods, and raking also thereby the markes and notes of vanitie upon you: by the custome thereof making your selves to be wondered at by all forraine civil Nations, and by all strangers that come among you, to be scorned and contemned. A custom loathsome to the eye, hateful to the Nose, harmefull to the brain, dangerous to the Lungs, and in the blacke stinking fume thereof, neerest resembling the horrible Stigian smoke of the pit that is bottomless.'”
.
Well, I had abundant notes of vanitie that kept me from quitting this filthie noveltie. I was not the least bit ashamed to be a walking air polluter. But I must admit that smokers have become latter day lepers. As far as the Health Nut Axis is concerned, smokers should be forced to wear black shrouds, clang handbells and shout “Unclean! Unclean!” when venturing forth in public.

Social pressures aside, I’m gonna give quitting another shot. I’m tired of hearing my lungs whistle “Dixie” and running out of breath on a walk to the mailbox. Plus I could use the extra $150 or so a month I was spending on smokes for more healthful pursuits, like skydiving. Plenty of fresh air and some really swell views. I’ll also have more moolah for a trip I’m taking to Alaska next month, courtesy of some relatives in Juneau. Maybe I can avoid the embarrassment of having wheezing fits at their dinner table.

Comments, Critiques & Snarky Asides:

You are so funny. I wish we had never lost touch for all the years past.  If you can quit, that would be wonderful. I'm afraid that I will mostly likely quit when the last breath arrives. Have a great time in Alaska. Stay safe.-- Carol

Carol and I were neighbors during the Eisenhower administration.  We're now coughing our way through our Medicare years.
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Gee. Thanks for writing one (it seems) just for me. You should send this to my Doctors. It would give them more fodder for my torture. Guess I really, really have to join you in quitting. Have a blast in Alaska. Glad you're writing again. Keep up the good fight. -- Penny
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Mater man....you must be the valedictorian of veggies. Know that you have dear friends wishing you well in all ways, and if you do get to Seattle, you'd best take a side-trip to see RJ and I -- Canids

Aww, wish I could, but I’ll be in Seattle only long enough to change planes and maybe have an airport Cinnabon.
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Good luck. Save your money for a trip to Seattle -- Tammy

Okay. Next trip I’ll allot enough time for us to get rowdy on industrial grade coffee and get kicked out of Starbuck’s together.
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The chanters should follow, the "unthin, the unthin." obese people. I believe diabetes has overtaken the ills of the still smoking smokers. Good luck. I can't hear my breath yet. When I can, I may join you. Glad to see your return. -- Linda B
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My Detroit brother-in-law was just here with my sister for a family gathering. I never thought this guy would quit smoking. But he is taking Chantix, and was about at day 40 when here, still drinking his Scotch, tolerating my wife's Benson & Hedges smoke and casino floor smoke very well, and he never lit up. I enjoyed the quote from King James I of England, VI of Scotland. I seem to recall having seen it before, but totally forgot it was his. I've read other stuff he wrote, and it is in the same style. -- Trog.
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Thank you...glad to see the Tomatoman Times again!! -- Anne G.
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Glad to see you are still writing, and hope you have fun in Alaska! -- Eve
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Well, I have a friend now who is fifty, and he has smoked for 34 years. He has a raspy, ragged voice, coughs continually, can't sleep long at night because he is programmed to wake up and smoke. He lights up the moment he wakes in the morning, and he smokes several cigarettes right before he goes to bed. He smokes on average three to four cigarettes every hour he is awake, and spends well over $400 dollars a month on them. Everything on and around him smells like smoke - his hair, his beard, his clothes, his hands, every room in his house, his cars. even the food he cooks His nose runs, his sinuses are a mess, and his throat is constantly bothering him. He knows he's going to die sooner than he would have to because of it, and even with all of these reasons to quit, he says he can't. He can't muster the strength to even slow down. He is resigned. Mike, if there is any way in hell you can quit, do it. -- Zoey

Seems familiar, Zoey. Too familiar.
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Ah me boyo, I wish you luck and if you figure out how to put down the fags....please let me know. The other night I was laying in bed and thought sheesh the dog sounds congested...then I realized it was me. So I did the obvious, I got up lit a butt and thought about how I should work on stopping this habit. You know James the 1st was a Scot, so he was only thinking of the wasted cost...nothing else...he lied with the other stuff. -- Mary Pat

I’m sucking on 4 mg nicotine tablets like they’re Emily Proctor’s toes. It’s either that or buy a deer rifle and find a rooftop.
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Hello Mike Ole Online Buddy, glad you’re back, thought your were dead or dying. Will look forward to reading your stuff tonite Have a fantastic day -- Nick
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Bless you - my son! And good luck. -- Diane and Lowell
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Funniest one ever! -- Jim
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Love it!! -- Julisari
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Show off! -- ZipLaPrune
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That was great – very entertaining. I’m quitting on July 10^th. Want to join me? -- Sandy

Can you put it off until after I leave?  Only one set of short-fused withdrawal symptoms per family is permitted. I’d like to return uninjured. (Sandy is my karate expert cousin I’ll be visiting in Juneau.)
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I enjoyed your essay and wish you good luck in quitting smoking. I told my son today that if I had lost weight years ago, I might not have type 2 diabetes today. I have lost about 30 pounds and want to lose 20 more. I enjoyed the humor in this essay. I have enjoyed writing a newspaper column four times a year for free. You once told me about a web site that paid me $50 for a paragraph that I wrote. I hope that we both live a long life. I will be 70 in October. Or at least my goal is to be 70. -- Ken

Same here.
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Glad to see you in print once again. Good luck on the smokeless life, and I am not being sarcastic, really, I wish you all the best in that particular endeavor my dear. Are you really going to Alaska? -- Lynda

Yup. Leave Tuesday for a week in Juneau as the guest of my cousins. Gonna be a blast! (Lynda is a writing buddy of over 20 years standing who worked in Alaska’s Denali National Park and drove a cab in the very tough city of Anchorage. She is also a former freelance birthday clown who got stopped by a traffic cop when in costume and face paint, running late to a birthday party. She only got a warning, “I just can’t give a ticket to a clown,” the cop said. Had that been me, I would’ve been spread-eagled on the pavement for looking like John Wayne Gacy.)

The Click It Or Ticket Nanny State Blues

Now I know better, I really do, so I had no ready excuse when the Oh Shit lights of the California Highway Patrol lit up my rear view mirror. I was not wearing an over-the-shoulder seat belt. In fact, I wasn’t wearing any seat belt at all when I made a left turn around a Highway Patrol car waiting at a traffic light. Less than a minute later I was stopped on a side street, hands on the steering wheel and driver’s side window rolled down when Buford Pusser approached my car.

“Something wrong with your seat belt?” he asked in a concerned, motherly way.

Oh no, not at all, why do you ask? I didn’t say. I just shook my head.

“License, registration and proof of insurance, please.”

Highway Patrol cops are always courteous. Even the late Hunter S. Thompson said so. “No matter what they do to you, they’re polite about it,” he wrote in Hell’s Angels - A Strange And Terrible Saga.

That is, they are polite as long as you pass what’s known as The Attitude Test. Indignant protests of innocence and threats to “have your badge” will not get you a passing grade. Neither will whining, groveling and offers to show your tits, even if you have tits worth showing, which I don’t. Best to just keep quiet and mentally wear beige.

It also helps to look at the situation from the cop’s point of view. He or she may have just come from the scene of a horrific accident with eyeballs, teeth and swatches of bloody hair among the twisted metal all over the pavement. This particular cop did not look like a rookie, so he’d probably seen a lot of such accident scenes in the course of his career -- and would probably see more.

Besides, the California taxpayers are keeping him in doughnuts to do exactly what he was doing, which was writing me a ticket for breaking California’s mandatory seat belt law. It even has a catchy slogan prominently displayed on freeway billboards: Click It Or Ticket.

The cop took my license, registration and insurance card back to his car so he could radio the dispatcher and find out if I was a wanted felon or maybe a misdemeanor wiseass with a history of unpaid traffic tickets. Nope.

He returned, noting that I had a commercial license with a passenger endorsement. “What do you drive?”

Limousines, I said, silently telling myself the chances of future employment in that career field had just been reduced to zero. Limo companies and their insurers take a dim view of traffic tickets among the ranks.

“Well, this won’t add any points to your record, “ he said.

Swell, but limo companies are not so tolerant. But that’s okay. I haven’t had a limo gig in months and do not anticipate looking for one. I’ll probably donate my tuxedo drags to Goodwill and find something else to so. Anyway, most limousine work is at night and my night vision is fading fast.

I was not alone in being a seatbelt scofflaw. No less than Governor Jerry Brown was stopped and ticketed for not wearing a seatbelt some years back when he was between political jobs. “California is the nanny state,” he grumbled at the time.

The cop showed me where to sign the ticket, gave me my copy, and that was that. He closed his ticket book and I was very grateful for one thing:

He did not say “Have a nice day.”

Comments?

Mike...I was just at the store today when I realized that I was deliberately NOT wearing a seatbelt, and it was PROBABLY because I looked gorgeous today, and had we been stopped, I would have had someone to talk to. So sorry your experience was not deliberate, and that you had to get the damned fine...is it REALLY so bad that you won't be able to drive limos anymore...uh..is it okay for you to RIDE in em without seatbelts? Your favorite scofflaw and fan -- Amanda

I quit driving limos months ago when I realized how badly my night vision had deteriorated, and I don’t really miss that vocation, and yes, stretch limos are equipped with seat belts for passengers, but in my experience, they are seldom used. I also drove vans dedicated to carrying airline crews. Surprisingly, airline crews never fasten their seat belts in crew vans during runs to and from the airport, even though that short road trip is statistically the most dangerous part of their working day. Only one time in 10 years did a crew fasten their seat belts in my van, and only then at my request. It was after a near miss on the way to the airport on a day that turned out very eventful indeed: 9/11/2001. -- MB
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Sorry about your ticket, Toots. I'm so damn short that my seat belt cuts me right across the carotid...I HATE the stupid thing, but my grand kids absolutely panic if I "forget" to use it. -- Cyn
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Well bummer...but a good article none the less. -- Mary Pat
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I had done Palm-Desert to Scottsdale in about 4 hours, while I had been told it would take a bit more than five. So I had decided the return trip wouldn't last more than 3 and a half. And I was just in my schedule when...

It was night, and in my small hired Japanese car, I was doing 110 behind a huge American thing that was speeding like crazy. When a car with more lights than a Xmas tree got between me and him, I thought the poor sucker had been caught. Then I noticed the other Xmas tree flashing its lights behind me. I didn't know what the appropriate attitude is in these circumstances.

In France (where I hardly ever get arrested), I get out of the car and talk to the cops, eyes in the eyes. Equal to equal. So, I lifted my hands high, showing they were empty, then slowly got out of the car.

"Get back to your car, or you'll be dead in 30 seconds!".a metallic voice said.

Minutes later, asked if he had really intended to shoot me, he laughed and explained my life expectancy was less than a minute on the side of an American motorway. He kindly offered to minimize my speed to "close to 90", to spare me major problems and a visit to court.

I produced all sorts of papers with different addresses. A 1969 driving licence with the address of the time; an ID with a 1982 address, and even a Floridia driving license with a 1992 address.
He sighed..."Were are we supposed to mail the ticket?"

I told him to decide by himself, and added that French postmen would be smart enough to deliver it no matter the address.

And guess what? They did! -- Gerard

So much for the rumors about French inefficiency. -- Zur alors! -- MB
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Loved it Mr. Mike. Take care guy! -- Kate
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Ah Geeeezzzzz..... do they have senior discounts on these? -- Lynda

No. The fine for a first offense in California is $142 regardless of age, race, creed or national origin. It’s a truly equal opportunity fine. -- MB
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OOOPS -- Karen S.
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Ahhh loved it. Juli
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I have received in my driving career three tickets - one for going 32 in a 25, one for going 52 in a 35, and one for not having insurance - stopped for a light out and found only an expired insurance card, later proved I had current insurance and the ticket was torn up. I have been stopped twice besides that, both for speeding. Once he just told me he would verbally warn me, and to lighten my foot on the accelerator. The other time the officer walked up to my car, noticed the Arabic tattoo on my wrist and asked me what it meant. I said "It means 'Guardian angel that watches over a woman'". He said..."Hm. I guess one is watching over you today. Just slow down."  Nicely written article as always, and enjoyed by me, always. -- Zoey
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Here in New Hampshire they actually allow adults over 18 think for themselves regarding seat belts. Of course we were never exposed to the drift from Hiroshima and Nagasaki and have retained the ability to think for ourselves, something I have always suspected Californians lost along the way. -- Ig Bear

Envy is a terrible thing.  -- MB
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The Unabashed Birthday Blog Of Your Sometime Correspondent

Sunday is my birthday, two years shy of my allotted three-score-and-ten. So, in case you’re thinking of giving me a present, I’m registered with Quik-Stop, 7-11 and K-Mart. Not only that, but already Publishers Clearinghouse assures me that I may already be winner! Imagine!

I’m surprised I’ve lasted this long, considering my diet. I mean, until recently my Four Basic Food Groups consisted of alcohol, nicotine, caffeine and Cheetos. I’ve eliminated alcohol with the encouragement of a superior court judge and some professional scolds in the health care field. The latter want to publish my chest x-rays in the pulmonary trade press as a find-the-funeral-wreath puzzle embedded in a picture.

I’ve also substituted Ruffles potato chips for Cheetos. Ruffles don’t get that sticky orange stuff on my fingers and whatever else I touch, like some kind of junk food Midas. As for coffee, I now cut the caffeinated stuff in half with decaffeinated, which is tantamount to a pot smoker adding oregano to his or her stash, but I sleep a little better. Still, I will not give up coffee entirely until my bean grinder is removed from the my cold dead hands by a mortician with a buzz saw.

As for the nicotine, well, I don’t want to get too pure all of a sudden. That way lies a future of annoying zealotry and maybe even street corner evangelism after I’ve exasperated my friends into shunning me because of my smoke free smugness.

Come to think of it, most of my friends don’t smoke at all, the sissies. In fact, tobacco smokers have become latter day lepers. I’m surprised the obnoxiously health obsessed do-gooding meddlers of the anti-tobacco lobby haven’t bullied lawmakers into mandating that surviving smokers wear black shrouds in public and clang handbells while shouting “Unclean! Unclean!”

Thank goodness the tobacco lobby has more clout with our esteemed legislators than the grim Naderites and fresh air fiends who banish smokers out-of-doors in the nastiest of weather, perhaps hoping that a bolt of righteous lightning will incinerate us into ashtray-sized cinders.

Anwyay, after age sixty birthdays become unwelcome reminders of “Time’s wingéd chariot hurrying near,” as Andrew Marvell wrote in the Seventeenth Century when he was trying to get in the knickers of his coy mistress, hoping he would do so before he croaked from old age. But Marvell did not die from old age, unless 57 was considered old at the time. If frustration didn't get him, maybe tobacco did. No word on what became of the coy mistress. Perhaps she went to her final reward with her knees clamped firmly together in prim determination. Bet she was a non-smoker too.

Two people my age I know have birthdays within five days of mine. There was a third, but she died from lung cancer at age 35 (“Remembering Edie,” T-Times, March 4, 2012). Lung cancer nailed three other friends in the past few years as well.

Maybe I should learn to take hints?

Naaah.
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Any Comments, Critiques or Anonymous Hate Mail?

Happy Birthday and all that. Not wanting to call attention to your aging and all, but just wanted to say that I'm glad you've survived another trip around the sun. Hope you had a good day! -- RJ
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I would send you my heart if it would fit in a prepaid box with stamps included, and someone took care of the bill. Happy birthday DEAR MAN, and terrific writer that you are! That was hilarious. Keep sending these Tomatoman Times things to us. -- Amanda
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I sent a donation in your name to the American Lung Association, in honor of your B-day. Happy Birthday to you Mike. -- Holly
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Unfortunately (4 u; 4 me? fortunately!) I can't think of one. Still, u enjoy -- Leon
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Mike, you are your OWN gift...I hope you recognize that. I love how you show the authentic you in your writing...that's what makes it so attractive. May you live long on the vine, get some rest in the compost and then come back again as a lovely little yellow flower! Forever. -- Love from Diane and RJ

With my karma, I’ll probably come back as a skunk cabbage. -- MB
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Your turn, Mike! Happy birthday and many happy returns! Be wholesome, be happy, keep on writing, dearest fellow Aries.. -- Galen

Galen is my senior by one day. -- MB
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Happy birthday. I will be 70 in October. I share you enjoyment in writing. -- Ken
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Happy birthday, Mike, from a fellow Aries! -- Ann C
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Interesting, I was told that we came from cabbage patches. Now I find out that the Easter Bunny delivered you (in a pretty, woven basket, no doubt). I have no discretionary income at this time which would enable me to send you a birthday gift; however, I expect to shortly receive notice from a bank VP in Burkina Vaso that I have many millions in US dollars left to me by my fifth cousin twice removed who died in a spectacular plane crash several years ago. I shall be happy to forward you a few dollars at that time. -- HM

That’s okay. I’m sure Publishers Clearninghouse will come through. Several Nigerian bankers have also e-mailed me with attractive offers, but thanks anyway -- MB
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From Abby McLoughlin, age 6: [re: Abby And Her Locks Of Love, T-Times, March 30]

Dear Mr. Mike,

My mommy says your birthday is tomorrow. Mine is April the 10th So Happy Birthday to you! I had a birthday party at gymnastics yesterday. It was fun and I had an alligator cake!  Mommy says that your lungs are sick and it is very hard for you to breathe okay. Please don't smoke cigarettes anymore. They will make you more sicker.  If you try really, really hard to stop I will save a cupcake for you and we can eat it at lunch at Panda-era's. 4, 2, 1 (this is our secret code meaning: Forever 2 hearts, 1 love).

Love,
Abby or Abigail whatever you like to call me.

Dear Abby or Abigail (your name, your choice),

That is the nicest birthday greeting I have ever received. Your offer of a cupcake in exchange for my quitting smoking is more than a fair trade. As far as I know cupcakes are healthier than cigarettes and taste better, too. I'm not sure about an alligator cake, though.

421,
Mike
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Now, who could refuse an offer like that? You should try, really, really
hard to quit. After all, a cupcake is at stake, along with a lunch at Panda-ears. -- Shannon
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Happy Day! Mine's on the 16th...you buy yourself something for $10 and I'll do the same and we'll celebrate "together" ... very funny post, BTW -- Cyn
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And I just send you a carton of cigarettes! Damn. I didn't think you'd stopped. Well, Happy Birthday from one of the last smokers in the world. -- Beaty
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Wow, I don't know anybody as old as you <WEG>. Have a happy birthday. You point out all the foibles of the over-culture and yet you live on....just goes to show they don't know everything! -- Mary Pat
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I remembered in late March and said: do NOT forget to sent greetings. Then I forgot. Happy Birthday, yungin' -- and so far 68 is OK back here. -- Tim
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Ordinarily I'd say you really would rather I didn't...even before reading the post...burt since it's you, I figure you're game for anything, and that just creates a challenge for me, so no. But happy birthday! ...but I did have Cheetos for lunch. That's celebratory, right?  -- Shag 

Certainly! -- MB
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I have realms of free advice. Just pick a subject. I am 62 -- Doc

Thanks, Junior. -- MB
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Good job Mike: Which 7-11? -- Lowell & Diane

Whichever one accepts promissary notes. -- MB
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Damn those wingéd chariots anyway! -- Sum
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Happy Birthday Mike!! -- Soy
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Wonderful and HAPPY BIRTHDAY! !!! -- Julisari
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 Happy Birthday, you ol' grouch! Hope you have a great day! -- Shan
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Happy Birthday! -- Kan
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Sure. I'll send you a present if you send me some money first. Funny article. Happy Birthday/Easter! -- Anneg

That was present a-plenty, thank you. -- MB
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No! You never sent me anything for my birthday a few weeks ago! So there!!! BTW, Happy Birthday -- BP

I didn’t you know it was your birthday! Good heavens! I’ll forward my Publishers Clearinghouse packet right away! -- MB