Toys In The Attic

Remember when the words "Made In China" meant quality? Actually, I don't either, but at least they didn't translate to "deadly", as they seem to in the past few weeks. Now Mattel is recalling millions of Chinese-made toys that contain magnets that can be swallowed by children or could have lead paint. For me, it begs the question: Are there other smaller toy manufacturers without the exposure of a giant like Mattel that are still selling dangerous toys?
I can remember some dangerous toys. My little pal Gumby wasn't really made of clay, as he was purported to be in his theme song, but green rubber molded over wire. As long as he wasn't asked to bend back and forth abruptly, his limbs stayed intact. It was only after a furious flapping of his spindly arms that one of the interior wires would tend to find it's way to the surface, a kind of claymation compound fracture. Those were very pointy wires, and it took about two tries to figure out that Gumby would hereafter have to reside on the "Physically Unable to Perform" list. The same condition could be found in Major Matt Mason after several voyages beyond the rim of our galaxy. It was almost as difficult to avoid gnawing on the limbs of these bendy folk, with their satisfyingly rubbery texture, always with the potential of introducing one's lip or tongue to the endoskeleton of their favorite playfriend.
Dangerous toys never really frightened me, as I have mentioned before. And the label "non-toxic" was more of a challenge than a caution. Kids in my neighborhood who ate too much lead paint were following a Darwinian path that would culminate in the accidental swallowing of any number of quarters during their adolescent beer-drinking games. Still, as a parent, I understand the fear of anything that will fit through a toilet paper tube (of course, we know that a lot of things will, if you push hard enough) and I don't want my child to lose a limb or one of his five senses because of faulty engineering.
The toys may be Chinese, but takes good old American know-how to hotwire an Easy Bake Oven.

The Lame Duck's Brain

I was first struck by this image: A magician stands on a stage while his assistant hangs in the air in front of him, supported by just three brooms. One by one, the brooms are knocked away until it becomes obvious to all that the assistant is levitating - the physical impossibility of balancing a human being on top of three brooms is forgotten, replaced by the impossibility of a human being floating in air. Then there is some fuss made with hoops and hands to prove that there are no hooks or wires keeping the assistant aloft, simply the power of magic.
This is kind of how I feel about Karl Rove leaving the White House with five hundred and twenty-five days left in the Pinhead Regime. One by one, the brooms are being knocked out from under the floating Pinhead, yet he doesn't plummet to the ground. The resignations keep piling up, and with the notable exception of Dick "Dick" Cheney, there aren't many familiar faces left to play out the string. Speaking of "Dick", I was chagrined to be reminded that the reason Rove has refused to testify before Congress about the firing of U.S. attorneys was executive privilege. At least Karl Rove seems to know what branch of the government he works for - pardon me - worked for.
"There's always something that can keep you here, and as much as I'd like to be here, I've got to do this for the sake of my family," said Rove. Like rats hurrying home to leave a sinking ship, or vampires scurrying to pull the lid of their coffins over their heads before the sunrise. Maybe a more effective image for the departure of Karl Rove would be that of a hand suddenly being pulled out of a sock puppet. Now we're left with just a sock with eyes sewn into the toe as leader of the free world.

I'd Like To Buy A Vowel

This entertainer got his start as a vocalist for KFRC radio in San Francisco in the 1940's.
"Who is Merv Griffin?"
The news of Merv Griffin's passing came as little shock to me, since I was aware that he had been ailing for some time. I wasn't exactly on the mailing list, but I knew that a man of eighty-two years would have a hard time beating prostate cancer. He had a full life, full of show-biz intrigue and excitement, but he will be missed.
To tell the truth, I used to have a hard time keeping Merv Griffin separate in my head from Mike Douglas. They were both very earnest talk show hosts who leaned in when their guests were on a roll. When I was home sick from school as a kid I knew that there would be two hours of chat generated from sets made primarily from man made materials. Long before I had a subscription to Entertainment Weekly, I kept up with the happenings in Hollywood via Mike and Merv.
It wasn't until high school, when I started watching SCTV, that Rick Moranis gave me an insight into what made Merv so unique. The impression was like a cross between Floyd the Barber and Perry Como, and it had the effect of relaxing a viewer so completely that it was hard to look away. Merv was the king, and Mike was just a pretender.
Then there's the game show legacy. Whether he actually concocted both "Wheel of Fortune" and "Jeopardy" straight out of his own head is a topic for future generations to discuss, but the fact that he made them both available as an hour long block of viewing is a landmark achievement in broadcasting. In a sixty minute span, you can move from feeling like the best Hangman player in the world to being the dumb kid on the College Bowl stage. All of his real estate dealings and friendship with the Reagans pales by comparison. Merv was the guy who tested the limits of the public, high and low.

Escape From The Everyday

For some reason, I have retained this phrase from my youth: "It's kind of like putting a porcupine in charge of a balloon factory." I'm not sure from whence this little gem came, but it finally has a home as I read that Attorney General Alberto Gonzales is visiting Iraq. Perhaps he thought that actual gunfire might be easier to dodge than the allegations that he lied, forgot, or is just plain bad at his job. Now he is over in Iraq to meet with department officials who have been there to help fashion the country's legal system.
Gonzales also was an author of U.S. policy on the treatment of prisoners abroad and a 2002 memo saying the president had the right to waive laws and treaties that protect war prisoners. Maybe this guy is best suited for a job in the Middle East. His vision of the world is somewhat different from what shows up on the nightly news. Gonzales said, "I am pleased to see firsthand ... the progress that the men and women of the Justice Department have made to rebuild Iraq's legal system and law enforcement infrastructure." This was his assessment of a country in the midst of sectarian lawlessness that would make Tombstone, Arizona jealous. Like most things happening in Iraq these days, I guess we just don't understand it the same way that the pinheads in charge do. From here it looks a lot like anarchy. Welcome to the Balloon Factory, Mister Porcupine.

Limitations

I believe that the Barenaked Ladies' song "If I Had A Million Dollars" is the best way to describe the challenge of my wife's birthday. I have built a tree house in our yard. I didn't buy her a nice green dress (that would be cruel), but I did get her a nice pink dress. I bought her some art, but not a Picasso or Garfunkel. I bought her a house, and some nice furniture for her house. We have a pet, but she's a dog and not exotic like a llama or an emu. But we do eat a lot of macaroni and cheese, so I suppose the checklist is more or less complete, with the possible exception of a K-car (a nice reliant automobile).
I know that until I deliver a pony, I'm still coming up short. My wife has enjoyed many personas over the years: Tangerine, Miss Art Deco, Ubermom, and Queen of the Three-Fold Brochure. But I know that way down deep, she's a cowgirl at heart. When we were constructing my son's bed, raising it high enough off the floor to allow the massive number of Legos to be stored safely beneath it, there was a moment where we paused. Before we put the bed frame on top, she noticed that we had built a tiny corral. She nearly cried.
So once again, I've let her down. I know the Sweetheart of the Rodeo will go another year without riding the range. I know she won't complain, but maybe she'll believe the old Loudon Wainwright line about the pet store being all out ponies.

What Becomes Of A Legend Most?

There are stars in every city, In every house and on every street,
And if you walk down Hollywood Boulevard
Their names are written in concrete! -"Celluloid Heroes" by The Kinks
Nothing is permanent. Sixty-one stars are being removed from Hollywood Boulevard's Walk of Fame. Charlton Heston, Cary Grant, Clark Gable and Frank Sinatra, along with fifty-seven others have had their stars taken away and put into storage while construction takes place on Vine street. Eight of the stars crumbled to dust when they were taken up, but the brass was saved. The sidewalk needed reconstruction because it was improperly sloped and didn't meet federal requirements for providing access for wheelchairs, said Ken Summers, project director for Webcor Builders. The new sidewalk will be flatter, he said. "Closing down sidewalks for years at a time like they do here would never happen in New York City," said John Walsh, a longtime Hollywood activist. I found the discussion of sidewalks in Los Angeles ironic since, as Missing Persons would remind us, "only a nobody walks in L.A."
What intrigues me more is the somewhat egalitarian way in which stars are handed out. Anyone can nominate a celebrity (someone "active in the world of entertainment") to get a star, they just have to be willing to show up for the ceremony. Dead people have to be dead for five years before they can get a star. There has to be some way to keep the riff-raff out. That and the twenty-five thousand dollar fee for the ceremony.
Fame is fleeting, at least when you get your full fifteen minutes, and it behooves us all to remember that a shopping center is all that stands between all of us and immortality.

Homer

Friends, sports fans, and countrymen, lend me your ears. Today we come not to praise the home run king, but to Barry him. Last night as I watched the seventy-third video replay of number seven hundred and fifty-six go sailing into the night, illuminated by thousands of cameras flashing and the expectant glow of the fans in right field, I made a mental note: I have known three Sultans of Swat in my lifetime. Babe Ruth was the first with his seven hundred and fourteen. Hammerin' Hank Aaron left with seven hundred and fifty-five. Now we have Barry Bonds, who has assorted nicknames depending on your proximity to the Bay Area, has his seven hundred and fifty-sixth home run.
I know how hard it is to hit a home run on my son's Wii video game, so I have a deep and abiding respect for anyone who can knock one out of the park. All of this physical effort is sadly diminished by the personality defects ascribed to Barry Bonds. I watched him round the bases and was struck by the image of his son, a batboy for the Giants, running out to meet him at home plate. Caught up in the moment, Barry was looking to the night sky or heaven, and seemed not to notice his son's attempt at an embrace. When the moment ended, he reached out to his teammates first. That is when I realized that I was taking moments out of this man's life and putting it under my judgemental microscope. I was reminded of the way that Denver residents used to sneer at articles about John Elway's marital infidelities and the kind of candy he passed out on Halloween. It was a short hop from there to the "celebreality" of Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton. What we see on TV is the tiniest portion of a life that is flavored by the surreal nature of fame. I shudder to think about the pressure of playing professional baseball in the same town, for the same team as my father. Oh, and your godfather is Willie Mays. A highly evolved human would rise above the hype and succeed in spite of all these distractions, or maybe a lesser one would be driven because of this.
Baseball is a sport that is filled with asterisks. Roger Maris hit sixty-one home runs in 1961, but his record carries an asterisk because he didn't do it in the one hundred fifty-four game season that Babe Ruth played. For many people, their lasting image of Mark McGwire will be the sad, battered face that appeared in front of Congress. Records were made to be broken, and so, it would appear, are the men who make them.