How do you spell success?

Been spending the last couple of weeks with OHO disks on the CD changer, and I can safely say that a trip to OHO Land — emphasis on “trip” — is a journey to the place where progressive meets psychedelia meets general Ralph Records dada weirdness.

 Though OHO and various offshoots, such as Food For Worms, date back almost three decades, these are no dusty museum pieces. Granted, the sound often betrays its vintage — I haven’t seen any ads for Mellotron players in the classifieds since, oh, 1976 — but there’s little of the excess that caused the first punks to rant about BOF (boring old farts) and their music.

 No 20-minute magnum opuses — opi? — based on children’s nursery rhymes. No aimless noodling designed to show that every button on a mini-Moog does something. (Speaking of which, what could be funnier than people spending hundreds of dollars to make their gee-whiz digital synthesizers sound just like mini-Moogs and ARP 2600’s? What’s next, “bands” eschewing drummers for cheesy sounding drum machines? Oh, never mind.)

 So OHO, a band which once sang “We’ll All Be Famous When We’re Dead,” is neither, and certainly not likely to become famous any time soon. The reason why is a simple question with a complex answer.

 Certainly, the band in its many incarnations has the chops: there may not be any Frippertronics, but the musicianship is as strong as anything you’ll hear on a Happy the Man or Jade Warrior disc, though with weaker cover art. And anyone who ever liked King Crimson in any form, middle period Captain Beefheart, early Genesis or the Residents will find something to like. (Yes, kids, there was life before Linkin Park.)

 The answer, really is two-fold...maybe three-fold.

 First, the band has never pandered to the Gods of commercialism. While a Randy Newman can remain true to his art and still rake in the cash — the take from “Momma Told Me Not To Come” alone should keep him in beer and skittles ad infinitum — the refusal to make the music accessible in any way, shape or form until very recently hasn’t exactly attracted the star-making machinery.

 Second, and most obvious — hey, I went to college in New Jersey, so waddaya want from me? — is that the band has consistently played progressive music, a genre that isn’t exactly tearing up the charts. Radio friendly, as that term is understood today, it ain’t.

 Thirdly, the band is often having TOO MUCH FUN, and that fun has a tendency to sometimes spill over into self-indulgent spoken word weirdness, lyrics that would be head scratching under the best of circumstances, and singers who vocalize as if the lyrics were something to be dispensed with as quickly as possible, so they can get back to their complex multi-key chord progressions. (Still, I’d rather have that than Jon Anderson setting his acid-tinged dreams to music.)

 (The band apparently recognizes that last point, as the latest disk, Up, utilizes hired hand female singers with strong voices.)

 So, what to make of OHO? (The name is a take-off of the A-ha! of sudden recognition/enlightenment/surprise.) If you’re ready to venture a little farther afield than the latest rap/dance pop/tortured artist whine, you might be ready for OHO. Or not. It all depends upon your answer to the question once posed by the late Frank Zappa: Does humor belong in music?

WWJCD

You've seen the WWJD (What Would Jesus Do) bracelets and bumper stickers, and you could probably do worse than ask yourself that question before making a difficult decision. (Where would Jesus spend his economic stimulus check?)

But today I saw a much better bumper sticker, which, in the immortal words of Dave Barry, I am not making up:

WWJCD

No doubt you've already figured out that that's an acronym for What Would Johnny Cash Do.

This is a much more difficult question, because the Man in Black's life went from the depths of drug addiction and incarceration to the heights of fame, fortune and deep religious faith.

There is, of course, a long list of "What Would ____________ Do" bracelets, t-shirts and bumper stickers — shot glasses, too, for all I know — and I'm sure there's someone somewhere who is collecting them all. I don't even intend to try.

I have to admit my Johnny Cash collection is rather thin — a greatest hits CD is it — but i know three things:

If I ever get a job sweeping the floor in a Cadillac factory I plan to sweep out enough parts to build my own.

I'll never name a boy Sue (or a girl, for that matter).

If I'm ever in Reno, I'll shoot a man. You know why.

Extreme sports

As a parent and a spectator, I'm not sure which sport is more boring: softball or swim team.

The one summer — never again! — our four children were on the swim team, they had practice every weekday morning, a pep rally every Friday night, and then a Saturday swim meet that lasted hour after hour. (And you have to arrive an hour before the meet to sign in, and half the meets were away meets, generally about half an hour away.)

The routine never varied: sit for an hour, watch your child swim for 30-60 seconds, sit for an hour, repeat. My wife and I would volunteer to time the swimmers, work the snack bar, anything, just to pass the time. (Maybe that was the strategy all along.) Every Saturday we were up early, and out until mid-afternoon.

Softball is very similar: a two-hour practice game for two hours two nights a week, then a two-hour game every Saturday. Once again, sit for long stretches, watch your child do something for a few seconds, then repeat, ad infinitum.

And both are subject to rain delays. "Just sit tight. It'll clear up any minute."

The only redeeming feature is that both events generally have snack bars, though eating out of boredom is a great way to gain weight. But at least it's something to do.

I can't wait for soccer season.

Relatively speaking

A friend of mine reminded me the other day about the many characters that seem to be part of my family. My favorite was my Uncle Paul, who was brilliant, as in offered the chair of the math department at Harvard brilliant. He turned down the offer to open a TV repair shop in Bayonne, New Jersey. Uncle Paul always had weird little cars, often French, that no one had ever seen before, like a Simca that was Robin's Egg blue. God knows where he found them. Ask Uncle Paul who he thought of as a genius, and the list had one name: Dr. Seuss. I'm not making this up.

Then there's my stepbrother, who at one time was wanted by the police in a couple of states. In New York, for example, he had disagreed with the way the judge who handled his divorce divvied up the property, so one night he broke into his ex-wife's house and redistributed things. She didn't mind that he took some of her stuff, but she was not happy that he took the dog. The story has a happy ending, though: they've since remarried. In Arizona he dissolved a business partnership he had with another guy by taking what he thought was his share of the tools and equipment (it was an auto repair business) and leaving the state in the middle of the night. One day I'll get into why he was wanted in Florida and New Jersey.

And speaking of New Jersey, I'm reminded of the private detective who was watching our house when my stepfather-to-be, who was then dating my mother, was going through a nasty divorce. His soon-to-be ex had him followed by a private investigator, though the guy was easy to spot: I was taking the trash cans to the street one night and I saw him in a car with out of state plates across the street, wearing sunglasses (at 10 p.m.) and pretending to read a newspaper. It might have been more convincing had he not been holding the newspaper upside down.

Noticing he had a gun in a shoulder holster, I called the police, as innocent as a 16 year old could be, to tell them that a man with a gun was parked across the street from our house. It turned out the James Bond wanna-be didn't have a permit for the gun, and so the police confiscated it and told him that his boss could come retrieve it. I never saw him again.

Then there's my other stepbrother, the only original Silicon Valley hacker who didn't become rich, despite having helped Steve Wozniak build the Apple I computer. (He and Woz are still close friends.) And my grandmother, who for awhile sold tickets at the porn movie house across the street from my grandparents' apartment, though she would have been mortified if forced to watch what her theatre was showing.

Sometimes, relatively speaking, I feel disgustingly normal. But it doesn't last.

Nay, Neighbor

If you ever want a thankless job, I highly recommend running for president of your neighborhood homeowners' association.

There's a reason why you'll be running unopposed.

When I did my two-year stint, I was very naive: I had this idea that I'd be giving back to the community we'd moved to to raise our family, and that it would be an enriching, satisfying experience where I'd get to know my neighbors better.

Boy, did I ever. I learned which neighbors were chronic complainers. I learned who liked to make abusive phone calls after an evening of drinking. I learned which folks liked to make their problems my problems.

Very shortly, I discovered that I was having the same conversations with my neighbors that I was having with my children, except for the tone of voice. "Well, did you try asking your neighbor to move his car? I tell you what: why don't you ask him to move it, and if you're still having a problem, call me back."

Our neighborhood, being relatively new (1985), has a set of covenants that dictate what residents can and can't do to their homes and yards. Several neighbors were quite sure those covenants didn't apply to them. ("What do you mean I can't paint my house purple?" True story.) I had a real estate agent call me one night at 10 and demand that the board approve, right then and there, a fence her clients planned to build around the house they were due to buy the next day. When I told her the approval committee wasn't going to be meeting between 10 that night and 9 the following morning, she began screaming at me that her clients HAD to have that fence, the sale would fall through without it, and she would sue me personally for the amount of her commission when it did. (Her clients went through with the purchase and submitted their plans for a fence. Their fence plan wildly violated the covenants and was denied. They're still in the house.)

That agent, by the by, lived in our neighborhood and was completely familiar with what the covenants said.

For two years I mostly mediated disputes. Who didn't clean up after his dog. Who was cutting through a neighbor's yard to walk to work. Who brought work trucks home and parked in the street (definitely against the covenants). Who planted a garden in the community open space, and then was incensed when told it had to be removed. Who put a swing set in the community open space, and then was incensed when told it had to be removed AND she'd be liable if anyone was hurt playing on it. ("But it's in the community open space. It should be the community's responsibility. I put it up for the community to use. You should be thanking me, not threatening me.")

But my favorite, I think, was the man — he'd clearly been drinking for awhile before he called — who telephoned one evening to complain that a neighbor's dog had pooed in his yard.

"Did you see the dog?"

"No, I didn't, but you need to do something about it!"

"Do you know whose dog it was?"

"No, I don't, but you need to do something about it!"

"Have you seen any dogs loose on your street?"

"No, I haven't, but you need to do something about it!"

I asked him what he wanted me to do about it, and as soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted them. "Oh, man, he's going to tell me he wants me to come over there and pick up the poop."

I got lucky. He apparently was so fed up with my lack of assistance that he cursed and slammed the phone down. I never heard from him again.

So if you ever become president of your neighborhood association, watch out for poop. In every sense of the word.

Occupational hazards

No doubt your parents, like mine, had dreams about your future. I know my mother had high hopes that I would become a doctor or a lawyer. I have no idea why.

I never became either, once I noticed that both careers required a great deal of schooling, an activity that held no appeal to me. (I wound up marrying a teacher. Go figure.)

About the only thing I have in common with doctors is my handwriting, which is illegible. Sometimes even I can't read it, which has led to some interesting purchases at the grocery store. ("Why did you buy tomato aspic?" "Isn't that what it says?" "I think that's tomato 'juice.'")

I had someone once tell me I had psycho killer handwriting, which is probably accurate. If the typewriter hadn't been invented, I'm sure I would have invented it. I learned to type at a very young age.

Anyway, I remember as a junior in high school — that's as far as I got, because I skipped my senior year — I had a friend, John, who knew what he wanted to do with his life: he wanted to become a dentist. No one in his family was a dentist, and I have no idea why that appealed to him. I was amazed, because most days I didn't even know what I wanted to do that weekend, let alone with the rest of my life. John did become a dentist, and he's a dentist today.

On the other hand, my oldest stepbrother is 62, and still doesn't know what he wants to do with his life. My other stepbrother has had at least a dozen careers that I'm aware of, including auto mechanic, commercial real estate developer and video game designer.

A couple of weeks ago when I spoke to a bunch of high schoolers at their Career Day, I assured them that decisions they made in college (and just after) about their careers weren't irrevocable, so don't sweat it if you try a couple of different jobs before you find one you like.

But work on your handwriting, just in case.

Romance, My Ass

I have friends — probably you do, too — who brag about the creative ways they proposed to their girlfriends: with skywriting, on the scoreboard at the ballpark, as a surprise in partnership with a waiter or taxi driver, all sorts of clever, complicated methods.

My strategy was neither clever nor complicated, but the reply will forever stay in my memory.

One Friday night Sarah, who is now my wife, and I were sitting in my townhouse, talking about what to do the following day. It was supposed to be a cold, rainy March day (March 24, if you must know). "What do you want to do tomorrow?" Sarah asked. "I think we should go shopping for engagement rings," I replied. "Sarah, will you marry me?"

Sarah's response: "No shit, really? You better not be joking."

I think she didn't fully believe me until the next morning, when we really did go out shopping for a ring. But we did "celebrate" that Friday night by going out to a nearby Mexican restaurant for a couple of burritos. (We used to go back every year for dinner on March 23, until it became a mattress store.)

So ladies, if your boyfriend ever proposes to you in a very public way, and you're more embarrassed than touched, believe me, it could be worse.

No shit.

Religious Experience

The current U.S. visit of the Pope reminded me of my dealings with his predecessor. We didn't have much of a relationship. but I think that what we had worked for both of us.

WHen my wife, Sarah and I got engaged, one thing that was very important to her and her family was that our marriage be blessed in the Catholic church. Being both Jewish and divorced I thought this might be a problem, but it turned out I was only half right.

I called the Archdiocese of Baltimore and made an appointment with the priest who handles these sorts of things. He seemed like a nice guy on the phone, so on the day of my appointment I wore my Jewish tie (it has Jewish letters on it).

When I walked in he looked at it and said, "Oh, you're Jewish. We don't get too many Jews in here." My comeback: "Well, you started with one." He started laughing and took me back to his office.

"You have two options," he told me. "The first takes a few months, is relatively easy, and costs $350. The second can take a year or more and, depending upon your circumstances, cost thousands of dollars. Which would you like to hear about first?"

I told him I was pretty sure I knew which way I was going to go, but he had me intrigued and I wanted to hear about both. He gave me the breakdown:

1) The faster, cheaper approach was called In Favor of the Faith. Basically, the church investigates my background a bit, my wife and I agree that any children we have will be baptized Catholic, and the church blesses our marriage. The cost would be $350; most of which, the priest assured me, went to the Vatican.

2) The second one was more like a divorce case, where I presented my side and my ex-wife could oppose me if she wished. Lawyers were optional, but common, the priest said. Having not spoken to my ex-wife in many years at that point, I doubted she'd have an opinion on my second marriage one way or another, but I decided on #1 anyway.

Sarah and I each had to fill out a lengthy questionnaire, as did my parents and a friend who knew me when I was married to my first wife. I could tell the document hadn't been updated in a while, because Sarah's had questions like, "Are you embarrassed to tell your friends that you're marrying a divorced man?"

Many of the questions on mine had to do with sex, asking if infidelity or homosexuality had been factors in our divorce. The church wanted to know if I had abused my ex-wife though not, interestingly, whether or not she had abused me.

The issue, as it turned out, wasn't my being Jewish, but my being divorced. The priest interviewed us (separately) and, after we'd passed muster, sent the paperwork off to Rome.

For months every time I saw the Pope on TV I'd look to see if there was a desk or a table in the background with my paperwork on it. I never saw it, but a few months later I got a letter on Vatican stationery in Latin — an English translation was helpfully stapled to it — saying the Pope had bee apprised of our situation and had decided that our marriage could be blessed in the Catholic church.

I called the archdiocese and asked if we had to take "those classes" (I didn't know what they were called at the time), and the priest said it was up to the priest who married us. We made arrangements to have our wedding blessed in the church where Sarah's family had been members for many years — invite the priest over for Sunday dinner once a month members — and we met, together and separately, with Father Wayne, a huge bear of a man.

He shook my hand, gestured to me to sit, and asked if I had any questions. "Let me be honest with you," I told him. "My goal is to get out of having to take those pre-cana classes. What do I have to do to get out of the classes?"

"You have to convince me that you're mature enough not to need them."

"How am I doing so far?"

He laughed and we spent the next half hour discussing current events. A few weeks later Sarah and I along with her parents and one sister, went o church one Sunday after a regular service and had our own wedding ceremony, our second (we'd had a civil service months before) for those who are keeping score.

Father Wayne, a kind and gentle man, died a few weeks ago, which saddened me. One of my favorite photos of myself is the two of us posing outside the restaurant where we went (and invited him) for lunch after our Catholic wedding which, with his 10 inch and 100 pound advantage over me, is very Mutt and Jeff.

And I have a letter from the Vatican on Vatican stationery. Bet you're jealous.

Hey, Mack

Our kids love, love, love American Idol. During the show, our teenaged daughter can't read and reply to her text messages fast enough, and I bet 25% of our dinner table arguments revolve around who should or shouldn't win (most of the others revolve around rules, bedtimes or allowances).

To be filed in the Everything Old Is New Again category, how is this show different from Ted Mack and Arthur Godfrey, and their amateur hours from 50+ years ago? Here's how they're different: during their runs, Mack and Godfrey presented Lenny Bruce, Pat Boone, Tony Bennett, Patsy Cline, Roy Clark — though Elvis, apparently, failed his audition — whom I have to believe will outlast most of the Idol folks. (Yes, I know that not all of those folks were amateurs when they were on the shows.)

Unfortunately, Idol and its imitators are glorified karaoke, presenting only singers, often histrionic, overwrought singers. (Sorry if I sound old.) You know what I'd like to see? The real amateurs: the jugglers, plate spinners, cat trainers and people who can twist their bodies into pretzel shapes. The people who would get embarrassed when their parents urged them to perform for the adults at a cocktail party. The ones who spent more time on their "talents" than their outfits.

That's the reality show I'd watch: America's Got Talent. Plate Spinning Talent.

Hire, hire, pants on fire

If a former boss had listened to me, I might not be married right now (and he might still be in business).

At my last ad agency, I was one of three people who had responsibility for interviewing and hiring new employees (the team was the owner, the head design guy, and me).

We were interviewing for a new account executive, and the other two picked a woman I'll call Debbie (not her real name), while I voted for the other candidate. It was two against one, so we hired Debbie.

Debbie, as it turned out, was everything I predicted she'd be: in over her head, unable to grasp our corporate culture, uncomfortable and ineffective. We fired her after less than a year.

But before we fired her she introduced me to her friend, Sarah. Sarah and I were married the following year, and 18 years and four children we're still together.

Debbie went on to sell men's clothing at a mid to high end store, which she loved (and did well). The ad agency went out of business a few years later, long after I'd been fired (which is a different story and not very interesting).

Maybe if they'd listened to me and about hiring they'd still be in business. Had to say where I'd be.

Tracts of my tears

This morning as I was stopping at our credit union a woman drove by me, stopped, rolled down her window and asked me if I wanted something to read, then thrust a Christian pamphlet at me.

I declined, but it got me to thinking: Do other religions have people who hand out religious tracts or other literature, or go door to door?

On a hot summer day when I see groups of people in suits roaming the neighborhood, I know they're knocking on doors and talking about Jesus. We get Jehovah's witnesses, too, but they're clearly Christian, even though many other Christians don't seem to like them. (What is it with you people?)

I've never had a Hindu knock on my door, never had a Sufi aggressively thrust a pamphlet into my hand while whirling or otherwise (whirling dervishes are Sufis), never had a Zen master corner me in the produce section at the grocery store ("Life is like an apple. I will explain.")

Do other religions want you to come to them, rather than the other way around? Or have I just missed the wave of Sikh missionaries that troop down the sidewalks o America, urging men to put down their razors at every turn?

Rastafarians are probably too stoned, Scientologists are probably too preoccupied with Tom Cruise, and Unitarians wouldn't proselytize because it is, rather, you know, unseemly. Jews, of course, are afraid of schvitzing.

But surrealists? They're coming at us all the time. You just don't know it.

(Speaking of which, here is my favorite surrealist joke, which I didn't make up. Q: Why did the surrealist cross the road? A. A fish. I know surrealism isn't a religion, but it seems to have a lot in common with a number of them.)

I scream, you scream

If you want to have lots of friends, you don't need money, sex appeal, a fancy car or nice clothes.

All you have to do is manage an ice cream parlor.

When I was in my early 20's and between jobs — a state I must enjoy, since I return to it over and over — I accidentally found myself managing an ice cream parlor. (Maybe like the way some politicians seem to "accidentally" find themselves soliciting sex from a prostitute of the same or the opposite sex.)

The newspaper that enticed me to move from my native New Jersey to Maryland went out of business six weeks after I moved here, so while job hunting during the day I applied for a job at an ice cream parlor down the street from our apartment and worked nights and weekends. The manager and I were the only people over the age of 18 (He was 20, I was 22), so when he quit the owners — three attorneys who lived 20 miles away — made me the manager.

It was easily the most miserable job I ever had. The dishwasher came in drunk and late, I fired him. I caught the cashier stealing from the cash register, so I fired her. The customers complained constantly about the sizes of their sundaes, the amount of whipped cream, the heat of the hot fudge, you name it.

My friends loved it: probably because — and in the absence of a survey I'm guessing here — at night after we closed I'd invite them in to make their own sundaes. I'd set the jukebox and pinball machine for free plays, and we'd have some kind of party.

Pretty soon, everyone in our apartment complex wanted to be my friend. Amazingly, many of them disappeared when the job did.

I'm reminded of a friend of mine, Mike, who works for Frito-Lay servicing area grocery stores. He gets invited to every party in his neighborhood, and is always asked, "Hey, as long as you're coning can you bring some..."

One time a neighbor he didn't know well invited him to a party. When Mike said he couldn't come the neighbor replied, "Well, can you send some bags of chips and pretzels anyway?"

I think that was the end of the friendship.

Theology, schmeology

Jewish mothers and Catholic mothers are almost exactly the same, except for the food: Jewish food is much better. My wife is Catholic, I'm Jewish, and when we met she didn't know from bagels, Chinese food or deli. She still buys lousy pickles, but that doesn't make me love her any less.

How Catholic, you ask? I have a sister-in-law who's a nun: a medical missionary, actually. When we met she was running a hospital in Ghana that her order had built. She gets as much of a kick telling people about her Jewish brother-in-law as I do talking about my sister-in-law, the nun. I think we both regard the other as a slightly exotic creature.

My point in all of this is to tell this story. Our children are baptized Catholic as well, and my wife takes them to church semi-regularly. I rarely go, except when one of our children is altar serving (I always hope that she'll sneak me a wafer, but she never does.)

One Sunday my wife was out of town and I, for some unknown reason, decided to take the kids to 9 o'clock Mass. On the way out after the service an older woman, whom I didn't know but apparently knew I was Jewish, stopped me. "You know, you're half Catholic," she told me. My reply: "Actually, you're half Jewish."

Have a theological question? Just ask!

Career Advice

I just finished my second career day at Mount Saint Joseph High School, a local all-boys Catholic high school, and as usual I managed to prove that I have no business speaking at a career day. Why do they keep asking me to these things?

The school pairs two folks with complementary occupations for three 40-minute sessions in front of a class of sophomores and juniors. Last time they paired me with a radio news reporter, whose career path was quite logical: majored in broadcast journalism in school, snagged an internship at a small radio station, worked his way up the lader, etc.

This time they paired me with a graphic designer whose father, coincidentally, I had written about years ago. He has a degree in art, took three years of graphic design classes, went to work for a publishing company fresh out of college and is still there. He took the right classes, met the right people, did everything the books say to do.

So the students are listening, nodding and jotting notes during his presentation. They're thinking, "Hey, this guy is 27 and he has his act together." I'm thinking the same.

My turn. I tell them the truth: I've never taken a course in either of my careers in my life, started out in newspapers as a reporter (and later an editor) by walking into the local newspaper and offering to work for free if they'd let me learn a little about the business, switched careers to advertising eight years later when I won a job interview in a poker game.

I've seen more expression on the faces on Mount Rushmore, and nobody is taking notes while I'm speaking. At the question and answer sessions after the presentations, no one is asking me for any career advice.

Too bad. I'm a pretty fair poker player.

Eat Fresh

So Subway, the chain that has ridden the weight-loss story of Jared Fogle to fame and, one assumes, fortune, now seems to be going in the other direction. The latest promotion: all foot-long subs are just $5. There are disclaimers, of course, and some foot-long subs are currently less than $5 (the Veggie Delight, for example, is $3.69 at our local Subway), and one assumes they won't jump the cheaper ones UP to $5.

I should point out that all of the nutritional boasts, which are printed on cups, napkins, and almost everything Subway can find an empty spot, include numbers for the standard, smaller size sub. Jared Fogle did not lose weight on these $5 belly busters. (We buy them and take half home for the next day's school lunch.)

So in the Subway entrance, side by side, is a sign promoting $5 big subs and a stand-up display that congratulates Jared for not only losing a ton (not literally) of weight, but of keeping it off for 10 years.

Have you ever celebrated 10 years of a successful weight loss program? Has anyone you know? Have you ever celebrated 10 years of any other self improvement project? "It was 10 years ago that I stopped wearing stripes with plaids." "This is the 10th anniversary of the day I started trimming my ear hair." "This the 10th anniversary of the day I cut off my mullet, never to let it return."

Maybe Subway sill one day say, "This is the 10th anniversary of the day we stopped promoting those wimpy little subs and started giving food loving America what it really wants: a lot of food, cheap."

Look for the Subway value menu any day now.

Darkness at the edge of town

If you believe ? and the Mysterians represent the zenith of Western music — I’m not arguing with you — if you swoon at the “I got your cheesy right here” sound of the Farfisa organ — then the unholy white boy alliance of Eric Burden and King Curtis that was Dark Side is for you.

An anthology released a couple of years ago by a Baltimore band, “Dark Side Anthology 1977-1995,” has that ferociously thin, low-fi, “hey, I just learned a new chord” 60s sound down, from the honking sax and Farfisa bleats to the psychedelic garage sound that launched a thousand Nuggets collections. Somewhere, dozens of accountants, factory foremen and 7-11 owners are pondering why their one-hit wonder bands from 40 years ago couldn’t have purloined one of these songs and kept the Saturday night dream alive for at least another few months. Teenage angst, I suppose, can only be sustained so long, poseurs like Billy Idol notwithstanding. It is, as the great sage Neil Young once observed, better to burn out than fade away. Unless one wants to become a staple of weddings and bar mitzvahs everywhere, with an audience participation novelty such as “YMCA” or the “Chicken Dance.” (as an aside, some people shouldn’t wear Speedos and some shouldn’t do the Chicken Dance in public. You know who you are.)

Such is the rock ‘n roll life. Back in the pre-digital days — you know ,when musicians had to play real instruments in real time — ownership of a Vox amp with two twelves and the right haircut could virtually guarantee entree into an assemblage of like-minded striving to be wasted youths, writing songs about girls they’d never have and riches they’d never enjoy. Oh, and how rotten their parents were for insisting on regular school attendance, completed homework and occasional bed making.

Every song may not be a gem — even the Beatles had a few duff tracks (“Why don’t we do it in the road,” anyone?) — but you can’t fault the band’s commitment to its art, if art is the right word. These men that would be boys pound away like there’s no tomorrow, leaving subtlety in a smoking wreck by the side of the road. No slaves to the 60s sound, Dark Side’s touchstones include the Bonzo Dog Band (no surprise, since several band members were also part of the sometimes psychedelic, sometimes progressive, sometimes just plain weird OHO), the bubblegum that mutated into power pop, the post-Elvis sneer, the Plimsouls, the Clash, the criminally underappreciated dB’s and the charming notion that rock ‘n roll can save the world.

Maybe it can.

Woop, woop, Woop

There are some names you just don't se on children. Adolph/Adolf, for example is one that rarely gets written on a birth certificate, for obvious reasons. When I volunteer in our elementary school I never see a little Elvis, though it's not hard to find a Jesus. (That's Hay-soos, of course.)

And, unfortunately, I've yet to encounter a Moe, a name that should be worn and said with pride.

I was thinking about this because I recently had printer problems. If you ever do, I highly recommend www.fixyourownprinter.com. I had a malfunctioning laser printer I got as part of a package deal on eBAY, and fixyourownprinter.com had a diagnosis and repair kit for the problem. It arrived two days later with an instructional video, and within an hour I had a perfectly working laser printer. The cost, by the by, was dirt cheap. It couldn't be easier.

I have no connection with them, and I hate to sound like a shill for someone. But these folks are pros. 

Oh, and the head technician, who appears on the video and provides tech support, is named Moe, so you know he’s the real deal. No eye pokes, but the best printer repair resource on the Web.

Take a Pass

Years ago I was an advertising copywriter (still am) and was job hunting. After many attempts — creative directors at ad agencies often don’t place interviewing freelance writers high on their list — I finally got in to see Ken Fitzgerald, then a creative director at Trahan, Burden and Charles, one of the larger and more creative shops in Baltimore. (He’s no longer there.) I started showing him my portfolio, which he really liked, and all of a sudden he picked up his phone and called a creative director at another ad agency in town. “Bill, I’m looking at a book of a guy named David Sattler. You should see him. You’d really like his book. His humor is just like yours. Next Tuesday, okay, hold on.” He turned to me, asked if I was free the following Tuesday at 3 p.m. (I was), and made an appointment for me. He did the same thing with two other ad agencies, and left messages for a couple of other folks who were out of the office.

 He wrote down the names and numbers of everyone he’d called, then told me a couple of other folks I should call “and feel free to use my name.”

 I was astonished: here was a guy I’d never met and didn’t know, who certainly didn’t owe me anything, getting me appointments with folks I’d been unsuccessfully trying to see for weeks. “Ken,” I said, “I’m completely blown away by what you’re doing.”

 He told me he remembered all the times he tried to get an interview with someone and couldn’t, “and I promised myself that when I was in a position to see people and help people I would.”

 I told him I hoped I was in a position one day to return the favor, though I doubted I ever would be in that position. “You want to return the favor?” he asked. “Then pass it on.”

Indeed.

Meet the Flintstone

A couple of years ago Parade magazine had a contest for car-related stories, so I sent in this one. I don't remember the prize, but I think it was $1,000. I figured I couldn't miss with this:

Like most nine-year-old boys, I liked to pretend to drive my mother's car when it was parked. (For the record, it was a big old Plymouth Belvedere, which I liked because it had a second set of turn signals mounted on the front fenders, so you could see the signals blink from the driver's seat).

One day I "pretended" a little too well.

Moving the gear shift, as I'd seen my mother do many times, I accidentally put the car into neutral and it (and I) began rolling down the driveway. As I'd seen Fred Flintstone do on TV, I opened the car door and began dragging my left foot.

Well, a nine-year-old's dragging foot was not about to stop a 3,500 pound car, and the Plymouth and I rolled into the front year before stopping.

Hoping my mother wouldn't notice I ran into the house, and nervously waited until, finally, she needed to leave the house to go somewhere.

My hope was in vain. She noticed the car was in the middle of the front yard right away. (Guess she was smarter than I gave her credit for.)

I don't remember my punishment, but I'm sure it was pretty severe. I did learn a couple of things.

Don't move the gearshift lever.

Admit when you've done something wrong.

Introductory physics should be taught in third grade.

And the Parade magazine contest? I lost out to some sappy, maudlin story about how a car that broke down led to a chance meeting and marriage. It was sweet, it was lovey-dovey, it was nauseating.

I thought my combination of stupidity, humor, crime and punishment was a no-brainer.

Peace Out

Today, as you no doubt already knew, is the 50th anniversary of the peace sign. (What, you didn't plan your Peace Party yet?)

You might think that the four-lined artwork — so simple a three-year-old could draw a reasonable facsimile of it — was the stoned brainchild of some self-styled artist on Haight-Ashbury, who later graduated to painting VW buses.

You would be wrong. Introduced to the world by its inventor,  British graphic designer Gerald Holtom, at a Ban the Bomb rally in England on April 4, 1958, the symbol has had a much stormier history than a symbol for peace should have: criticized, vilified, co-opted by virtually every movement (women's rights, environmental groups, civil rights, gay rights and every anti-war group from every generation since), slapped on every type of bag, garment, footwear and poster around, to the point where there's only one group that hasn't embraced the symbol: the U.S. Copyright Office.

Holtom, as it turns out, never copyrighted what is, no doubt, his most famous work, meaning that the symbol is in the public domain and anyone can use it. The folks who have put it on millions of items haven't paid its designer, its creator, its originator a dime.

Folks who make materials for war appear to profit handsomely. Peace, apparently, is much less lucrative.

What Would Jesus Drive?

Keep your eyes open and the world is a very entertaining place.

I remember once I pulled up behind a car at a stoplight and I noticed its bumper sticker, "Honk If You Love Jesus." Deciding to see what would happen — Haven't you been curious when you see those "Honk If You..." bumper stickers? — I gave my horn a couple of polite toots.

The woman behind the wheel flung open her door, stomped out of the car, and screamed, "Can you see the light is red?", let loose a string of obscenities, jumped back in the car and slammed the door so hard the car shook.

When the light turned green I had to pull over, I was laughing so hard.

Must not have been her car.

Surplus Stuff

The state of Maryland issued its annual list of unclaimed property today and, in a ritual that has become all too depressingly familiar, we aren't on it.

I was hoping for a long forgotten bank account that, with interest, had grown to a princely sum. A car left somewhere in a drunken stupor (though I have to believe any car left behind and forgotten couldn't be that valuable. "Honey, have you seen the Benz?" "Not since we went to the Henderson's party last Friday.")

Still, somehow 66,387 Marylanders have almost $46 million in unclaimed funds, mostly, according to the newspaper insert, from bank accounts, stocks, dividends and payroll.

How, precisely, does one "forget" about a bank account or a paycheck?

There are some interesting names on the list. A company called A Better Way Credit may not have actually found a better way, if their own finances are any indication. Ditto AAmes Home Loan, which may have more money than it knows what to do with. Ditto Accubank Mortgage Co. and Access National Mortgage. If East Coast Asset Group is missing some assets, I know where to look. The 89th medical group at Andrews Air Force Base should march right over and claim their assets. (Sorry, couldn't resist.) Lasalle Advisors? I've got some advice for you.

Lasalle Bank has unclaimed assets somewhere (hopefully, not at another bank). Rocket Fast Tax Refunds is on the list, too. (Insert your own joke.)  And the list goes on and on.

I understand that many of these folks are on the list inadvertently — moved and forgot to send the forwarding address to someone, are holding an account in escrow for an estate that is taking an inordinate amount of time to settle, that sort of thing — and some folks and businesses are listed in error.

Still, $46 million is $46 million, and I wish some of it was coming my way. Maybe I can pass myself off as Rockville High School.

Eyes Watching

There are tools bloggers can use to see who is visiting their sites — not the individual users, but where the users come from. Shortly after I posted my piece below about gasoline prices (which mentions Exxon Mobil), someone from exxonmobil.com visited this site.

Clearly these folks monitor every blog mention of their company, even a site such as mine, which receives only a few visitors a day. (Hey, tell your friends and maybe we can boost that to a dozen visitors a day.) I don't know whether to be amused, complimentary about Exxon Mobil's efficiency, or slightly paranoid.

Or should I see if I can become a highly paid corporate shill? If you help boost the readership on this site, I'll share the wealth with you.

Future Proof

I have seen the future. And it interviews well.

Recently I had the privilege in participating in a morning of mock interviews at the local high school, designed to give students a taste of the world of job interviews in a relaxed setting.

Not that all of the students were relaxed: I had to admonish one for cracking his knuckles, and tell another that it was all right to take off her jacket and sit down.

As part of their English classes, these students (all seniors) had to prepare a resume, and although a few produced unintended smiles (“Objective: to gain a job.”), every resume was way ahead of what I would have been able to muster as a high school senior: honor rolls, community service projects, perfect attendance, lists of academic and civic achievements so lengthy that I wondered when some of the students found time to sleep.

Any parent would have been proud to claim any one of these boys and girls as his or her own.

What was most amazing to me is that many of them already knew what they wanted to do for a living: auto mechanic, doctor, dancer and dance instructor. (At age 16 I generally didn’t know what I wanted to do that weekend. let alone for the rest of my life.)

Organized by the Greater Catonsville Chamber of Commerce and the high school, the morning gave a few dozen young men and women the chance to learn some valuable job interviewing skills — beyond “Don’t crack your knuckles” — and understand that a job interview is more than the opportunity to be a supplicant (“Yes, you want to be offered the position. But you also have to get the information you need to decide if you want it.”)

 And, as one of the other adult interviewers put it, “We have to encourage these kids, because they’re the ones who are going to be paying our social security.”