Pure Drivel

by STEVE MARTIN

  This will be the last letter I write to you. Love you always, Joey

  Times Roman Font Announces Shortage of Periods

  Representatives of the popular Times Roman font, who recently announced a shortage of periods, have offered other substitutes—inverted commas, exclamation marks, and semi-colons until the period crisis is able to be overcome by people such as yourself, who, through creative management of surplus punctuation, can perhaps allay the constant demand for periods, whose heavy usage in the last ten years, not only in English but in virtually every language in the world, is creating a burden on writers everywhere, thus generating a litany of comments such as: What the hell am I supposed to do without my periods? How am I going to write? Isn’t this a terrible disaster? Are they crazy? Won’t this just create misuse of other, less interesting punctuation???

  “Most vulnerable are writers who work in short, choppy sentences,” said a spokesperson, who added, “we are trying to remedy the situation and have suggested alternatives like umlauts, as we have plenty of umlauts—in fact, more umlauts than we could possibly use in a lifetime; don’t forget, umlauts can really spice up a page with their delicate symmetry, resting often midway in a word, letters spilling on either side, and can not only indicate the pronunciation of a word but also contribute to the writer’s greater glory, because they’re fancy, not to mention that they even look like periods, indeed are indistinguishable from periods, and will lead casual readers to believe the article actually contains periods!”

  Bobby Brainard, a writer living in an isolated cabin in Montana, who is in fact the only writer living in an isolated cabin in Montana who is not insane, is facing a dilemma typical of writers across the nation: “I have a sentence that has just got to be stopped; it’s currently sixteen pages long and is edging out the front door and is now so lumbering I’m starting to worry that one period alone won’t be enough and I will need at least two to finally kill it off and if that doesn’t work, I’ve ordered an elephant gun from mail order and if I don’t get some periods fast, I’m going to have to use it ...” The magazine International Hebrew has issued this emergency statement: “We currently have an oversupply of backward periods and will be happy to send some to Mister Brainard or anyone else facing a crisis!” .period backward the in slip you while moment a for way other the look to sentence the getting is trick only The

  The concern of writers is summed up in this brief telegram:

  Period shortage mustn’t continue stop

  Stop-stoppage must come to full stop stop

  We must resolve it and stop stop-stoppage stop Yours truly, Tom Stoppard

  Needless to say, there has been an increasing pressure on the ellipsis ...

  “I assure you,” said the spokesperson, “I assure you the ellipsis is not—repeat, is not—just three periods strung together, and although certain writers have plundered the ellipsis for its dots, these are deeply inelegant and ineffective when used to stop a sentence! enAn ellipsis point is too weak to stop a modern sentence, which would require at least two ellipsis periods, leaving the third dot to stand alone pointlessly, no pun intended, and indeed two periods at the end of a sentence would look like a typo ... comprendeen And why is Times Roman so important? Why can’t writers employ some of our other, lesser-used fonts, like Goofy Deluxe, Namby-Pamby Extra Narrow, or Gone Fishin’?” In fact, there is movement toward alternate punctuation; consider the New Punctuation and Suicide Cult in southern Texas, whose credo is “Why not try some new and different types of punctuation and then kill ourselves?” Notice how these knotty epigrams from Shakespeare are easily unraveled:

  Every cloud engenders not a storm

  Horatio, I am dead

  Remembering the Albertus Extra Bold asterisk embargo of several years back, one hopes the crisis is solved quickly, because a life of exclamation marks, no matter how superficially exciting, is no life at all! There are, of course, many other fonts one can use if the crisis continues, but frankly, what would you rather be faced with, Namby Pamby Extra Narrow or the bosomy sexuality of Times Roman? The shortage itself may be a useful one, provided it’s over quickly, for it has made at least this author appreciate and value his one spare period, and it is with great respect that I use it now.

  Schrodinger’s Cat

  A cat is placed in a box, together with a radioactive atom. If the atom decays, a hammer kills the cat; if the atom doesn’t decay, the cat lives. As the atom is considered to be in either state before the observer opens the box, the cat must thus be considered to be simultaneously dead and alive.—ERWIN SCHRODINGER’S CAT PARADOX, 1935

  Wittgenstein’s Banana

  A banana is flying first class from New York to L.a. Two scientists, one in each city, are talking on the phone about the banana. Because it is moving in relationship to its noun, the referent of the word banana never occupies one space, and anything that does not occupy one space does not exist. Therefore, a banana will arrive at JFK with no limousine into the city, even though the reservation was confirmed in L.a.

  Elvis’s Charcoal Briquette

  A barbecue is cooking wieners in an airtight space. As the charcoal consumes the oxygen, the integrity of the briquette is weakened. An observer riding a roller coaster will become hungry for wieners but will be thrown from the car when he stands up and cries, “Elvis, get me a hot dog.”

  Chef Boyardee’s Bungee Cord

  A bungee cord is hooked at one end to a neutrino, while the other end is hooked to a vibraphone. The neutrino is then accelerated to the speed of light, while the vibraphone is dropped off the Oakland Bay Bridge. The cord will stretch to infinite thinness, the neutrino will decay, and the vibraphone will be smashed by the recoiling bungee. Yet an observer standing on the shore will believe he hears Tchaikovsky’s second piano concerto performed by Chef Boyardee’s uncle Nemo.

  Sacajawea’s Rain Bonnet

  Lewis and Clark are admiring Sacajawea’s rain bonnet. Lewis, after six months in the wilderness, wants to wear the rain bonnet, even when it’s not raining. Clark wants Sacajawea to keep wearing it and doesn’t want to have to deal with Lewis, who conceivably could put on the bonnet and start prancing. However, an observer looking back from the twenty-first century will find this completely normal.

  Apollo’s Non-Apple Non-Strudel

  Imagine Apollo running backward around the rings of Saturn while holding a hot dish of apple strudel. In another universe, connected only by a wormhole, is a dollop of vanilla ice cream. The vanilla ice cream will move inexorably toward the wormhole and be dumped onto the strudel. Yet wife swapping is still frowned upon in many countries.

  Jim Dandy’s Bucket of Goo

  Jim Dandy is placed in a three-dimensional maze. His pants are tied at the ankles and filled with sand. Every time he moves to another dimension of the maze, he must review the movie Titanic, first with one star, then with two stars, then with three, while never mentioning its box office take. If he completes the maze, he will then be able to untie his pantlegs, and the spilling sand will form a bowling trophy that Jim Dandy may take home.

  The Feynman Dilemma

  A diner says to a waiter, “What’s this fly doing in my soup?” And the waiter says, “It looks like the backstroke.” Yet if the same scene is viewed while plunging into a black hole at the speed of light, it will look like a Mickey Mouse lunch pail from the thirties, except that Mickey’s head has been replaced by a Lincoln penny.

  George Hamilton’s Sun Lamp

  George Hamilton is dropped into an empty rental space next to a tanning salon on the dark side of the moon. There is no way into the salon except through an exterior door, but if George exits, it could mean dangerous exposure to deadly gamma rays. George could open his own tanning salon by tapping the phone lines from next door and taking their customers. And yet George is cooked when he exits the rental space while using a silver-foil face reflector.

  Taping My Friends

  Jerome--(friend, 22 years)

  Me. ... D
oes your wife know? Jerome. I hope she doesn’t find out. Me. Find out what? Jerome. What I told you yesterday. Me. Right. I remember what you told me

  yesterday, but the way you said it was so poignant.

  Would you say it? Jerome. I just don’t want her to find out about

  my having a drink with that waitress. I was so

  dumb. Me. So you definitely had a drink with the

  waitress. Jerome (inaudible). Me. Sorry? Jerome. Yes. Me. Yes, what? Jerome. I had a drink with the waitress. Me. Whose name was? Jerome. Dinah. Are you having memory

  problems? Me. Yes. Could you recap? Jerome. I had a drink with the waitress,

  Dinah. Me. Let’s keep this between us. Jerome. Thanks, man.

  Virginia--(ex-girlfriend)

  Virginia. I’m feeling so guilty about what

  we did. Me. Can you hang on a minute? Sound of beep from tape recorder being turned on Virginia. What was that? Me. What? Virginia. That beep. Me. Federal Express truck backing up.

  You feel guilty about what? Virginia. You know, the other night. I’d feel

  terrible if Bob ever found out. Me. How would he ever find out? Virginia. So you won’t tell? Me. I can’t believe you’re asking me that. Virginia. I’m sorry. Me. Find out about what? Virginia. You know. The kiss and the ... you know. Me. It was beautiful. I’d love for you

  to describe it. Virginia. What a nice thing; you’re so

  romantic now. When we were dating, I couldn’t

  believe how cold you were, and how selfish

  ... Sound of tape recorder being turned off Pause Sound of tape recorder being turned back on

  ... ask for separate checks, you big loser.

  What was that beep? Me. FedEx truck again, but get back to the

  kiss. Virginia. Well, we had just had lunch and you

  walked me back to my apartment and we kissed

  by the mailboxes, and you know. Me. Who is we again? Virginia. We? You and I. Me. And your name is? Virginia. Are you insane? I’m Virginia! Me. I love it when you say your name. ...

  Wilhelmina--(business acquaintance)

  Me. It’s nice walking along the lake,

  isn’t it, Wilhelmina? Wilhelmina. Oh, yes, it’s very nice. That

  sure is a nice flower on your lapel. ... Snifffff Me. Wilhelmina, I was wondering if you ever

  see, say, my ex-wife’s new husband’s

  tax return when you’re working over there at the

  IRS? Wilhelmina. Oh yes, I do, but I would

  never-Thud thud thud thud Me. I’m sorry, what was that? Wilhelmina. I was saying that I would never

  reveal-Thud thud thud thud Me. Wilhelmina, please don’t poke me

  on the lapel like that. Wilhelmina. Sorry ...

  Mom--(mother)

  Me. Mom, I’m really in a hurry, and I

  can’t remember what you told me twelve

  years ago about how upset you were with Dad’s

  false tax return. Mom. Well, let me think. I think he had

  underreported some income on his night job ...

  we were so desperate. Remember you needed that

  extra money for college? Me. Oh yeah. Mom. You needed money for ... I can’t

  remember. Me. To buy SAT answers. Mom. I can’t hear you, son. Me. I said—what was that beep? Mom. FedEx truck backing up. You were

  saying? Me. I needed cash to buy answers for my

  college entrance exam. But that’s between us,

  Mom. Mom. Of course, son. If you can’t trust your

  mother, who can you trust?

  The Nature of Matter and Its Antecedents

  I was taking a meeting with my publicists last week, trying to figure out what to do next. Marty suggested that the audience wants a Steve Martin to be doing a comedy right now. Tony said that a Steve Martin should do a nice cameo in a drama, “kind of an award thing.” Michelle’s idea was different, “Jack has a Legion d’honneur; let’s get you a Nobel. Why not make a profound scientific discovery and then write an essay about it? This is what the public wants right now from a Steve Martin.” I had never thought of myself as a Steve Martin before, but I guess I was one, and frankly, it felt good.

  “Go on,” I implored.

  “Well, maybe you could write something on matter, or the nature of matter. Cruise is doing something on reverse DNA. You could do something too. Maybe better.”

  “The problem is it’s not matter I’m interested in. It’s prematter. The moment when it’s “not soup yet,” when it’s neither nothing nor something.”

  “Steve, isn’t that really just semantics?” said Michelle. “You’re talking about something existing prior to existing.” I looked at her and thought how stupid she was.

  “Now you’re talkin’ like Bruce and Demi,” I said. “Did you see their piece in Actorst.Scientist? I would love to attack their semantics angle.”

  Michelle inched forward. “Why don’t you, Steve?” I realized she had maneuvered me into acceptance.

  I remembered when Stallone had turned in his first Rambo draft. Through all the rewrites, he was also quietly conducting experiments on the irregular movements of explosive sound. He conjectured that explosive sound will travel faster through air already jarred by another explosion, with the bizarre effect that between two simultaneous explosions, a perceiver will hear the farther explosion first. The studio head told me later that the studio wasn’t too confident in the script at the time, but the scientific work was so fascinating, they decided to let Stallone keep writing. Sly asked for no public acknowledgment of his work but diligently spent hours editing to make sure the movie’s sound corresponded to reality.

  The next day I had my noon shrink appointment, and luckily we got into Spago at a corner table. I talked openly about my fears of winning a Nobel, and I also admitted my concerns about getting airline reservations and decent hotel rooms in Stockholm during prize season. My shrink reminded me that there were personal rewards for writing a scientific essay: the satisfaction of doing something for no other reason than to do it well. My other shrink disagreed. I have a call into my third, “tiebreaker” shrink.

  That night I was in a limo with Sharon Stone having sex and stopped for a minute with the question “Can something be in a state of becoming but not yet exist?” Sharon crossed her legs as only she can and said something so profound that everything in me tingled. “In Swahili it can. Now, where were we?” In her words was my answer to Bruce and Demi: Only in English and other Germanic derivatives must a thing exist prior to its existence. Sharon’s publicist leaned forward. “Go on, Sharon, I’m very curious about what you’re meaning.” Sharon explained further: “After all, you’re not talking about a grape becoming a raisin; you’re talking about the interstitial state between pure nothing and pure something.” I looked down. I was still tumescent. Then she added, “Who made your sunglasses?” “They’re Armanis. I saw them at his store in Boston, but they were on sale, so I waited and got them at Barney’s at full price.”

  We finally arrived at The Ivy, where we were to meet Travolta, Goldie and Kurt, Tom and Nicole, and Sly for dinner. Our table wasn’t ready, so we yanked some tourists off their table and took their food.

  We talked through the evening. Sly astounded us by coming up with nine anagrams of the word Rambo, Travolta amused the table by turning our flat bottle of Evian into gassy Perrier by simply adding saltpeter and rubber shavings. Kurt and Goldie discussed their cataloging of “every damn grasshopper in Colorado.” Tom mentioned that he could cure the common cold in four seconds with a vacuum gun, except for the pesky weakness of the eardrums, which tended to dangle outside the ears after treatment. Our publicists stood behind us as we ate, and one of them wisely noted that it renews the soul to do something for yourself, something that you don’t market in Asia, and we all acknowledged the truth of that. Of course, every time the waiter or a fan would approach the table, we quickly turned the topic of conversation to Prada leather pants, because for that night, a
nyway, we decided to keep our little secrets.

  I drifted off for a few moments and thought about my paper. As much as I wanted to be known for my science writing and for it to be published under my own name, I also knew it might cost me the Nobel if I did. The committee would probably be disinclined to give an award to any man who has worn a dress to get a laugh from a monkey. I thought about publishing the essay under a pseudonym, like Stiv Morton or Steeve Maartin, in order to deceive the Nobel committee. My reverie was broken by Nicole, who asked the table, “Why do we do it, this science?” No one had an answer, until I stood up and said, “Isn’t there money in a Nobel?”

  The Sledgehammer: How It Works

  Many of today’s adults, who are otherwise capable of handling sophisticated modern devices, are united by a contemporary malady: sledgehammer anxiety. “I feel I’m going to break it”; “The old ways still work for me”; “This is where technology leaves me behind,” are the most common chants of the sledgehammerphobe. Much of this initial fear comes from a failure to understand just how it works. By attaching a “heavy weighted slug” to a truncated supercissoid, a disproportionate fulcrum is created. In other words, if you’re a TV set showing Regis promoting a diet book, and you’re in a room with an angry unpublished poet holding a sledgehammer, watch out.

  The novice sledgehammerer (from the German sledgehammeramalamadingdong) must be familiar with a few terms:

  Thunk: the sound the “clanker” (street term for “heavy weighted slug”) makes when wielded against the “stuff” (see next)

  Stuff: things that are to be wanged (see next)

  Wang: the impact of the clanker and the stuff

  Smithereens: the result of being wanged

  Many people are surprised to find out that the sledgehammer has only one moving part: it. Yet “Should I buy now or wait for the new models?” is a refrain often heard from the panicky first-timer, who forgets that the number of sledgehammer innovations in the last three thousand years can be counted on one finger. There are currently only two types of sledgehammer on the market: the three-foot stick with a lead weight on the end, called the “normal,” and a new model, currently being beta-tested, which is a three-foot stick with a lead weight in the middle, called the “below normal.” But don’t let market confusion keep you from getting your feet wet. The longer you wait, the fewer things you will demolish.