by Peter Rodman
Halfwit and
All Man
by
Peter Rodman
© copyright 1987,1988,1989,2000,1990,1991,1992,1993,2015 Peter Rodman
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The HalfWits
These columns were originally written as what is known as "undated filler" for the weekly Suttertown News. This meant they could be dropped in to fill a page when ads had been bought, but there was no serious news to run. Originally they were to have been half serious essays, and half comic, which gave me the name. The author would like to warn serious writers of the danger of this idea. My experience showed that if readers are used to reading humor, they will find serious essays in the same spot quite comical.
Table of Contents
TITLE: RUN DATE
1 Shave Your Cat?: Mar. 5, 1987
2 Self-Improvement, TV Style: Apr. 2, 1987
3 Drop Out, Slow Down: Apr. 23, 1987
4 Should Lawyers Bend Over?: May 14, 1987
5 Lucky Sunday: May 28,1987
6 Managerial Laundrage: June 11, 1987
7 Random Acts of Senseless Benevolence: July 2, 1987
8 Yuppies on the Skids: July 16, 1987
9 Toxic 'Taters: Aug. 6, 1987
10 Modern Corks: Sept. 3, 1987
11 Freeway Close: Oct. 1, 1987
12 Government Credit: Oct. 22, 1987
13 Nude, Not Naked: Nov. 5, 1987
14 Can Lid Satori: Dec. 17,1987
15 Fortunate Failures: Jan. 7, 1988
16 Cosmic Fudge Factors: Feb. 18, 1988
17 Cute Anomalies: Mar. 3, 1988
18 A Fresh Diaper: Mar. 24, 1988
19 Teacher's Aid: Apr. 21, 1988
20 Pig Poop Problem: May 26, 1988
21 Hot? This?: June 16, 1988
22 Road Rage: July 7, 1988
23 Non-Sex Words: Aug. 4, 1988
24 Sects in Sinema: Aug. 18, 1988
25 Fear of Freedom: Sept. 22, 1988
26 A Chickenbeak Bouquet: Oct. 13, 1988
27 International Adulthood: Oct. 27, 1988
28 JAMA Jam: Nov. 24, 1988
29 Coin-Operated Killers: Dec. 22, 1988
30 Vague Virtues: Jan. 12, 1989
31 Finger Foods: Feb. ? 1989
32 Designer Disease: Mar. 16, 1989
33 Soviet-Swiss Spaghetti Scheme: Apr. 13, 1989
34 Stub-Ends and Remains: May 4, 1989
35 Kitchen Carnage: June 1, 1989
36 Better Cars and Gardens: June 29, 1989
37 Kick Me Hard: Aug. 3, 1989
38 Chemical Letter Bombs: Aug. 31, 1989
39 No One Asked Me: Sept. 7, 1989
40 The Disappearance of Dang & Darn: Oct. 5, 1989
41 My Sap Is Falling: Nov. 9, 1989
42 Fall Down, Go Boom: Nov. 30, 1989
43 Please Send Instructions: Jan. 4, 1990
44 Pray for the Whales: Jan. 25, 1990
45 Go Indirectly to Jail: Mar. 22, 1990
46 A Gift to the Street: Apr. 26, 1990
47 White Food: May 24, 1990
48 Cute Things Die Too: June 28, 1990
49 My Fingers Are Purple: July 12, 1990
50 Do Something Different: Aug. ? 1990
51 Optimal Pessimism: Aug. 30, 1990
52 When I Grow Up: Oct. 11, 1990
53 A Foreign Missionary: Feb. 21, 1991
54 Fighting for Justice: Mar. 7, 1991
55 Childish Exercise: Mar. 21, 1991
56 Sex Among The Vegetables: Apr. 18, 1991
57 A Conspiracy of Trees: Jan. 16, 1992
58 Managing an In-Basket: Jan. 30, 1992
59 Not Fish, Fishing!: Mar. 5, 1992
60 Festivals of the Ancient Mercans: Mar. 26, 1992
61 Kill the Death Penalty: Apr. 23, 1992
62 Ask Mr. Ecology: May 14, 1992
63 How Guys Know How: July 23, 1992
64 Advice To New Fathers: Mar. 4, 1993
65 Hiding In the Phone Book: May 13, 1993
66 Ask The Computer Wizard: July 22, 1993
67 New Frontiers of Medical Worry: unpublished?
68 A Bucket of Warm Spit: unpublished
69 Mark Your Calendars for No-Cone Day! unpublished
70 Just Say No To What? Unpublished
Contact the author
SHAVE YOUR CAT?
My cat's name is Klaus. He's not really my cat, he's wild, and I only feed him. But I think of him as mine and like any good cat owner would gladly have him fixed, if I could catch him.
Most people laugh when I tell them his name, and say, "Named him after von Bulow, huh?" referring to the recently famous convicted / thrown-out-on-appeal / acquitted-in-a-second-trial wife non-murderer. Either they say that, or they say, "What's his last name, Barbie?" referring to the "Butcher of Lyons" of World War II atrocity fame.
Actually, neither guess is correct, but I'm naturally gratified that my choice of name for my cat brings to mind accused murderers. Klaus was named after Klaus Kinski, the great German B-movie actor. Kinski is not well known in this country, being most famous as the father of actress Nastassja Kinski, herself most famous for lying naked draped with a large snake. She starred in the movie, Cat People.
I named my cat after Klaus Kinski because he looked like Klaus Kinski in the movie Nosferatu: completely bald, with sharp fangs and small evil eyes. Not that I actually shaved Klaus (after all, I never could catch him); the cat was soaking wet when I spotted him and he looked bald and decidedly evil.
Cats are deceptive animals, and while it may not be good for a cat to be shaved before it is named, it's probably a good idea to at least wet it down good to see what it looks like under all the hair. Otherwise a cat owner can make a bad mistake and call an animal that lives to kill uselessly by a name like Fluffy, or Punkin, or Puff, or Ralph.
But slick that hair down and the cat's true nature is manifest. A wet cat looks like Evil, or Demon, or de Sade, or Vampire. Name your cat correctly, and you need never feel foolish screaming his name when you catch him playing with parts of a dead bird.
SELF-IMPROVEMENT, TV STYLE
I marvel at how women can run their lives--not only how a woman manages to put tasks in the right order, but how she is able to come up with all the things she has to do.
I watch a lot of television, especially commercials, and commercial women astound me. Any woman can profit from studying commercials and patterning herself after those women; she need only do what they do, as often as they do.
My wife is trying to become a commercial woman. Here are the results of her studies. The allocated times are based on the amount of time women spend doing these things in commercials. I believe any woman can adapt this schedule to her own life.
WORKING: 10 hours a day. The modern woman often works and usually puts in overtime. She selects fabrics for designs, carries her briefcase up and down steps at a full run, spills her briefcase, gives presentations at board meetings and has her pantyhose admired by co-workers.
EXERCISE: 4 hours a day. A woman runs, aerobicizes, swims, bicycles, and plays tennis. All these things require time.
CHILDCARE: 2 hours a day. A woman in a commercial is often doing things to and with her children, who are often sick. She pushes them on the swing, repairs bicycles, teaches them how to hit a baseball and tuck
s them into bed.
NURSING: 4 hours a day. Besides bandaging cuts and scrapes, taking temperatures, and pouring gallons of cough syrup down her children's throats, she also takes care of her husband's diseases, even if she is sick herself.
HAVING HEADACHES: Two hours a day. Most women can't stop for a headache, so they keep right on going. Women have a lot of them in commercials, but luckily they can do other things while they have headaches: work, for example.
COOKING: 1 hour a day. More than just stirring pots and opening cans, a woman must prepare whole meals for her family. They deserve it. Judicious use of Velveeta can cut this time down to a half hour, and a microwave can cut it further to fifteen minutes.
EATING: 5 minutes a day. Although men and children eat quite a bit in commercials, women seldom do. Sometimes they can grab a hot dog or something.
MAKING SURE SHE AND OTHERS DON'T SMELL BAD: 2 hours a day. The world is full of bad smells, and a woman has to fix them. First she has to make sure every part of her body, including her euphemism, doesn't smell bad, then she has to make herself smell good. Additionally, brown towels have to smell clean and little Melissa has to be spared the trauma of brushing up against her father and blurting out, "Eyew! Daddy's shirt STINKS!"
BEING MYSTERIOUS: one hour a day. A number of things are advertised on television that are so mysterious a guy can't even figure out what they're supposed to do. The ads often don't even show the box the product comes in. These "women's products" seem to have something to do with comfort, freedom, and a lot of flowers.
This technique of budgeting time according to a study of commercials has greatly simplified my wife's life and certainly has made me as happy as any guy in a television beer ad. But it does seem to have one or two drawbacks. Since her days are 26 hours and 5 minutes long, my wife hasn't slept in three months. She also hasn't gone to the bathroom in three months because they don't do that on television either.
Drop Out, Slow Down
I used to race on the freeway, but never seemed to win or even tie. Someone was always a little faster, got into the hole I was trying for before I did, or pulled over and bottled me up in a knot of traffic. I've recently started trying to drive the speed limit, and the change is amazing.
I'm now one of those people you whish past as they poke along in the far right lane. You know, the guy whose rear bumper you crowd when you pull over in the slow lane because you have to exit and you suddenly jam on your brakes when you realize he's only doing the speed limit? Frustrating isn't it?
I've been surprised to find anything can pass me on the freeway. City buses and gravel trucks, of course, but they managed to pass me even in my racing days. I'm talking about unlikely things that never used to pass me.
A geriatric Volkswagen beetle, for instance, with three different-colored fenders and a bashed-in hood; a Pinto blowing out so much smoke that it seemed to be trying to outrun its fatal reputation; and even a scooter that sounded like it was powered by a weed-eater engine. Science has made it possible for anything to go faster than 55 mph.
Which is not to say I don't occasionally pass people myself. There are still a few very short people with white hair who peer through their steering wheels and only go 45. I think these people have short legs, and even though they have their car seats racked all the way forward, they still can't push the accelerator pedal down far enough to go 55.
I don't get to pass often, but can't say I miss it much.
I've even slowed down in the city and discovered something amazing: the traffic signals on may of the one-way streets downtown are synchronized. If I slow down enough, I not only get to the next light as it turns green, but also get to meet all the people who passed me a block or two back.
Probably the oddest thing about driving the speed limit is that the freeways are much less crowded nowadays. At 55 the road is usually empty for hundreds of feet in front of me, even in the slow lane. People who pass me whip around in front of me and are gone; the road is clear again.
I had an strange experience being passed by a gravel truck. Gravel trucks have always irritated me; I've had three windshields cracked by stones that dropped or blew off a truck in front of me on the freeway in my racing days.
Recently a gravel truck passed me again on the freeway. The truck drive evidently misjudged his speed and my speed, because he was a good distance ahead of me before he suddenly veered over into my lane.
I saw his trailer leaking sand and rocks as he passed me and notice the gravel was also passing me-- bouncing on the roadway and actually pulling ahead of me for a moment until it lost momentum and pretty much quit bouncing. When the truck cut in front of me I got a blizzard of sand, but the rocks that used to bounce off the hood, roof and windshield of my car were now moving faster than I was. By the time I caught up to the gravel, it was just skidding and rolling along on the pavement.
I feel guilty sometimes, especially on a straightaway when the race is on at rush hour and I'm obviously in the way of drivers who need to get on the freeway and over four lanes so they can get up to speed and beat me home by a minute and a half, but the guilt slips away surprisingly fast.
And it always seems that when I get a little frustrated at being left behind, up pops a white-haired person with short legs in a 15 year old Chrysler for me to pass.
Should Lawyers Bend Over?
Ten bucks isn't the problem; there's no question about ten bucks. Anyone who sees a ten dollar bill on the ground will put a foot on it to save it from the breeze, casually look around to see if someone is running after the lost money, then (if the coast is clear) slide down, pick up the money, and slip it in a pocket.
But there are people who will look at the bill closely first. If it's a ten, they'll pick it up, but if it's only a one, they'll leave it. The smaller the amount of money gets, the more people will walk by it. A number of people ignore quarters; most ignore dimes and nickels; just about no one bothers with pennies.
The question becomes, "What amount of money should I pick up, and what's too little for me to exert myself for?" As with many questions, there is an answer, but you have to calculate it for yourself.
First, find out how long it takes to pick something up. Take twenty coins--pennies will do--and put them on the floor. Start timing yourself, and start picking up the pennies. Make sure you complete the job each time, straightening up and putting the coin in your pocket before you pick up the next. If you fumble with a coin, don't stop, mess with it until you've got it, since you'd probably do this in real life anyway.
When you've got all the coins, check your time. The reason for using 20 coins is that an average of 20 coins is much more accurate than trying to time yourself picking up a single coin. Divide by 20. If it takes 47 seconds to pick up 20 coins this breaks down to 2.35 seconds per coin.
Few lawyers make $200 an hour, but some do. I'll assume my example is a $200 an hour lawyer. Since there are 100 cents in a dollar, he makes 20,000 cents per hour. Today it's commonly accepted that there are 60 minutes per hour and 60 seconds per minute. Multiplying these numbers together yields 3,600 seconds per hour. Dividing your wage in cents per hour by the number of seconds per hour gives your wage in cents per second. Multiplying this by the number of seconds per coin give you the minimum number of cents per coin you must pick up to pay yourself your usual wage.
For our lawyer, the calculation looks like this: (20,000 cents/1 hour) x (1 hour/3,600 seconds) x (2.35 seconds/coin) = 13.06 cents/coin. If this lawyer picks up a dime, he's underpaying himself by 3 cents. Since there are no 13 cent coins, the least the lawyer can afford to pick up is the next largest coin, a quarter. But that's just this lawyer. Some people may be able to pick up and pocket coins faster, or slower. A very fat 20,000 cent an hour lawyer would naturally need more time to pick up a coin and therefore the number of cents he could pick up would have to be higher. Similarly, if a woman has to hunt up a coin purse in a handbag, this would take more than 2.35 seconds per coin to proces
s.
The other variable is pay rate. some people don't earn 20,000 cents per hour, some only earn 350 cents an hour, so they could afford to pick up smaller-valued coins. Obviously it's important to not only tailor the calculation to your personal coin pick-up rate, but also to your pay rate. Myself? I still pick up pennies.
Lucky Sunday
Take the rubberbands off the Sunday paper and throw it on the table: they slide out, cool and slippery as fresh-caught fish from a spilled creel: all those wonderful advertising supplements. The supplements are the most valuable part of the Sunday paper, and the newspaper publisher seems to recognize that. They are the best protected part.
On a rainy day the paper may be a soggy mess on the front porch and I may have to drape world news, metro, travel, sports and classified sections over the backs of dining room chairs clustered around the heater, but the ad inserts, buried in the center, are always dry. If it's a hot day, 85 degrees at 9 a.m., the outer pages of the paper may already be yellowing from the sun and the first sections may be hot to touch and dusty to smell, but the supplements are always cool, slick and smell of fresh ink.
Inside the ads everything is just fine. The people are happy. Not like the front page where everyone looks like a criminal and I need a caption to tell who it is that's unhappy today. Is that the president? a mass-murderer? a general, a cop? a crook? It's impossible to tell without a caption.
The ads don't need captions; everything is okay in the ads. No one is divorced, or dead or going to jail. Few things are hunky-dory in real live, but everything is swell in the ads. Even teenagers. Teenagers are not happy people in general, but in the ads they always have their heads thrown back, laughing with their mouths open and their top teeth showing without braces. I'm sure this is not only because they are being paid a great deal of money. The guys are shoving the gals (who enjoy it), or they're splashing each other with water. All that happiness gives me great hope for the younger generation.
I also appreciate the human concern in the ads, especially how three women can stop what they were doing and come together for what is obviously a heartfelt conversation dressed only in their underwear. But most of all I'm grateful for the consideration of the advertisers. After all, who actually celebrates Memorial Day, George Washington's Birthday, and Labor Day? Really celebrates? No one. People take the day off, but they don't celebrate the true meaning of the event.
