Category: Pat’s View

“I love a parade, the tramping of feet,
I love every beat I hear of a drum.
I love a parade, when I hear a band
I just want to stand and cheer as they come.”

The preceding song lyrics have been sung by which of the below performers?

• Bessie Smith
• Maxine Sullivan
• The Lawrence Welk Orchestra

(Three out of three is correct. Incorrect answers not offered include Macklemore, Beyonce and Soundgarden.)

But beyond singing about a parade, being part of one seems like the easiest thing in the world. After all, all you have to do is walk along—or, in the best of circumstances, ride along aboard a car or some sort of platform, right?

But if you want to be truly great there is more required.

And since we are just underway with the year’s summer parade season, this writing space seems like an excellent platform for advice and reflection on the art of processions and marches—be it for celebrating patriotism, Santa Claus, gay pride—or all three.

The humorist Will Rogers, the same guy who famously once said, “I never met a man I didn’t like”—sure did not speak as kindly of parades. He said parades “should be classed as a nuisance—and participants should be subject to a term in prison. They stop more work, inconvenience more people, stop more traffic, cause more accidents, entail more expense, and commit and cause…I don’t remember the other hundred misdemeanors.”
Those are rather harsh words—especially coming from a celebrated man who likely rode in a parade or two in his time. Maybe he was stuck behind the horses once too often.

My hometown has had a long tradition of staging an annual summertime “Pet Parade.”

It brings a collection of volatile elements all together in one long march: Kids, animals and stultifyingly hot weather. What starts out as a happy-go-lucky procession usually ends up as a heaving, screaming, barking, meowing dissonance that can compete with any plane that Boeing makes.
During the parade, there is lots of coaching from the sidewalks: “Courtney! Over here! Smile like you’re having fun!” Or, “Dustin! Take your finger out of your nose!”

For most kids, it is the last parade they will ever take part in. Nuts! And just when they were getting the hang of it.
I have been lucky—or perhaps ‘fated’ would be a better word—to ride in several parades through the years. I have represented Seafair, TV and radio stations and the like. I have walked along, ridden in cars, trucks, golf carts, floats—and even rode shotgun on a six-team Wells Fargo stagecoach. (The strong box was stolen somewhere between Pike and Pine.)

At the time of one particular parade, I had been on local TV quite a bit appearing in a series of commercials for a Mexican food restaurant. So as the parade moved along, every other shouted remark from the sidelines was “Hey, man! You got a taco?” It stopped being hilarious after about three blocks.

One year I helped broadcast the annual Fremont Solstice Parade. I have never been much good at describing fashions or attire—and luckily in that parade, nobody is wearing much of it.

But if you ever find yourself being a participant in any kind of street parade, you will need to know the finer points of proper parade etiquette, style and technique. Here are some tips from a veteran parader:
If you are asked to ride in a car, insist on either driving—or sitting in the front passenger seat. But not on a city councilman’s lap. If it’s a convertible, sit up on the top of the back seat where people can not only see you better, but you can make a quicker exit if nature calls. Never agree to ride in the trunk.

When waving, move your hand slowly to avoid cramping. Keep all of your fingers close together. The wrong, rogue finger could make it appear you are making a nasty gesture to the parade goers—and they could turn on you.

Smile broadly—-until your face aches. Make it look like you are having the time of your life—and NOT like you’d rather be getting hit over the head with a heavy-duty garden hoe.
If your name is displayed on the car or float you are riding on, make sure the spelling is correct—and that the banner is not inadvertently folded over to obscure some of the letters. That happened to me one time so that my name read “SHMAN.” It gave the impression that I might be a mystic reaching an altered state of consciousness.

Wear comfortable clothes—but definitely wear clothes. Unless you are in that Fremont one.
I do not have firm proof, but I believe that a Seattle man may be the local record holder for career parade appearances. If you’ve been to a parade or two, you’ve probably seen him.

His name is Cecil.

He operates a street sweeper.

I was thinking of my dad the other day. It happens often.

He would have been 94 a couple of weeks ago—would have been. He fell just short by thirty years.
I sure do wish he were still around. There are things I would like to ask him about himself. Things he said and did—especially around my four brothers and me. I would just want to ask him, “What was that all about?”
Before you jump to conclusions, the guy was a great dad. He was a big bear of a man—and at 6 foot 6, a gentle giant. Ever notice, by the way, how large men are described as ‘gentle giants?’ You never read obituaries describing someone as a ‘belligerent ogre.’

You also never read: “He hated kids, animals, the outdoors, spending time with his family and walks on the beach. He was a miserable wretch.”

But back to my dad, who was none of that.

He was a man who occasionally tried to impress upon us that he knew things and had powers that other humans did not possess—and that if we paid attention, we too might learn them.
He did not have super-strength, X-ray vision or the ability to fly—at least not in front of us. But he had powers and abilities not commonly seen.

He had one entirely unique self-taught habit: When he wanted to scratch his nose, he would form his hand into a fist—and then rub his middle knuckles back and forth quickly against his nostrils, in the much the same motion one would use to grate cheese. This may not seem like much of a ‘power’—but it IS a remarkably efficient and effective way to ease nose itch. Try it. You will never go back to the old ways.
Sometimes he would pick up an inanimate object: A hat, a stuffed animal toy, a pair of socks, whatever—and cradle it in his arms as if it were an infant. Suddenly, the object would seem to come to life, appearing to jump and thrash around in his arms as if trying to get away.

My brothers and I surmised that the old man was quickly flicking one of his fingers to make the object appear to move. But he denied that it was a stunt—swearing it was actual magic. With no hard counter evidence, we could only shrug and believe him. Why would our own dad try to fool us?

He also invented a character—and alter ego—that he would suddenly transform into—usually without warning: The Electro Man! He would shuffle across a room towards us as if in a trance—his eyes rocking back into his sockets, and his arms outstretched like the Frankenstein monster. Then, when he arrived at our spot, he would reach out and touch one of us lightly with his index finger, delivering an instant, snapping—although not nearly fatal electrical shock.

We never noticed at the time that The Electro Man was most effective when the air in the house was dry—and that he dragged his feet across the wall-to-wall carpet very deliberately. He would touch us on the nose or ear—there would be an electrical spark—we’d wince—and then he would say, “That’s what happens to kids who are not well-grounded.”

During World War II, he served in India. Years later, as we were growing up, he would often demonstrate “A mysterious, ancient Indian trick of magic” that he had learned from a sorcerer in New Delhi. Using a muttered incantation and sheer willpower— a human being of any height, he said, could stretch beyond their normal height—growing several inches taller.

Since he was already six and-a-half feet tall, the maneuver seemed like overkill. Nonetheless, he would make us watch as he would close his eyes, sigh deeply—and then
make himself grow upward. When finished, he would say proudly, “Well, can you believe it?” We always nodded in enthusiastic amazement. Then, as soon as he would leave the room, we’d turn to each other and say, “He didn’t grow a millimeter. That trick stinks.”

I figured my dad’s philosophy was something like this: Just as surely it is the province of dads everywhere to guide and set good examples for their kids—it is also their responsibility to occasionally delude and mislead them. After all, it helps prepare young people for when they become older and start listening to politicians.
One more of my dad’s ruses: We were the last house on our block, maybe in our town, to get a color TV. But my dad had a solution. He bought each of us a pair of cheap sunglasses.

“Watch TV wearing them,” he told us. “It turns a black and white TV into color.”

We wore them. We watched. I don’t know about my brothers, but I was not so easily fooled.
And by the time I was 24, I knew it was baloney.

Merriam-Webster defines water as “The clear liquid that has no color, taste or smell that falls from clouds as rain that forms streams, lakes and seas, and that is used for drinking, washing, etc.”

In college, our dorm defined it as “A substance found in beer.”
Water is a pretty big deal, it seems—whether expectorated, perspired, peed or cried out.
And we gotta have it. Often.
After all, some people have been known to survive two weeks or more without food. For example, I can go a very long time without kale, lutefisk or pig’s feet.

Perhaps only a handful of men can last three weeks without a TV remote—except during the Seahawks season when some have perished in the middle of long commercial breaks.

But next to air—which all but pearl divers, cattle auctioneers and infomercial spokespeople need frequently—most people can’t go much beyond 3 or 4 days without guzzling some H2O.

Of course, we all know people who can go well beyond that distance without using water —much less soap—on their exteriors. In fact, one fellow of my acquaintance can—and does—go weeks without passing within ten feet of a bathtub. As a result—when he is caught in the rain—he makes his own gravy.

70% of our planet is covered in water—and of that, less than one percent of all of it is fresh. In fact, we ourselves are 60% water—with the rest of our body consisting largely of fat, muscle, bone and opinion.

It could be argued that the overwhelming majority of each day’s news has something to do with water—and our relationship with it. Whether it’s lead in city or school drinking water; the price of a barrel of oil; an outbreak of swimmer’s itch down at the lake—or how much LeBron James sweated during the NBA finals.

And get this: bottled water consumption has grown 120% in the last fifteen years. That means it is about to surpass soda pop, juice and booze as the drink of choice. Personally, I much prefer the price of tap water to the stuff in the plastic containers—but the use of bottled water already exceeds that from the spigot in this country. In fact the stuff is so popular that perhaps Biblical scholars would argue that—this time—Jesus would be asked to change wine into water.

Even the big beverage companies like Coca-Cola and Pepsi are putting lots of their chips on bottled water. Aquafina is a Pepsi product—and Coke owns Dasani. They also have a product called Smartwater. I’ve tried it. I still can’t understand this presidential season.

Let’s face it, in a blind taste test, could anyone tell the difference between one bottled water and another? Isn’t it just water?

“Oh, I definitely prefer this one! It tastes far more…uh…water-like than the others.”
It’s hard to imagine customers being particularly loyal to one brand of water over another—but clever marketers might make you think one is better than the other. You can buy whichever you like, of course—but don’t get soaked.

I just remembered a joke my dad used to tell. It goes something like this:
A young guy is visiting his great uncle who lives in a remote cabin far out in the woods.
By the time he arrives at the old man’s primitive dwelling, the young man is famished.
“Would you like some stew?” asks the great uncle. “I just cooked some up on my wood-burning stove.”
The young man replies eagerly, “I sure would! I’m starving!”

So the great uncle grabs a ladle and starts to spoon some stew onto a plate—but the young man stops him. “Wait a minute,” he says. “How clean is that plate?”
The old man is a bit taken aback and says, “Well, young city slicker, I may not have all the fancy electrical gadgets and automatic dishwashers that you’re used to. But this plate is just as clean as cold water can get it.”

The young man apologizes saying, “Sorry. I was just wondering.” He then proceeds to hungrily devour two helpings of the stew.

Then the old man offers him some homemade pie on a smaller plate.
The youngster says, “Gee, thanks. But is this a clean plate?”

The old man is annoyed once again, and says, “Again, Mr. Finicky—it’s just as clean as cold water can get it.” The kid replies, “I didn’t mean to insult you, Uncle. And yes, I’d love some pie.”

Just as the youngster is taking his last mouthful, the old man’s German shepherd wanders into the room and starts jumping up on the table begging for table scraps. The old man shouts at the dog:

“Coldwater! Go lie down!”

You can use that joke at work tomorrow.

Maybe at the water cooler.

“Get over yourself. Not everyone wants to be you.”

“When the center of the universe is discovered, a lot of people are going to be surprised it’s not them.”

“You wouldn’t worry so much about what others think of you if you realized that they seldom do.”

Those are just a few of the withering quotes I found regarding self. That last one was from Eleanor Roosevelt. I wonder what she would think about the exponential speed in which a relatively new form of human self-admiration is growing.

In just the time it takes you to finish reading this sentence—approximately a gazillion phone photos will be taken in the Puget Sound. Some of them will be of family gatherings. Some will be of kittens, puppies—and maybe a horned toad or two. Far too many will be of restaurant food—from Canlis to Dick’s.
But most will be taken by a person…of their self.

If so-called selfie photography were an epidemic right now, we would be in the midst of a worldwide black plague. Where did this all start?

Maybe the first self-portrait was drawn on a cavern wall by a prehistoric cave dweller. To protect his 200,000 year-old identity, let’s call him Trog.
 UNKNOWN KNUCKLE-DRAGGER:“Hey, Trog! This drawing you did looks exactly like you!”
TROG: “Actually, that is supposed to be a water buffalo.”
UNKNOWN: “That’s what I’m saying!”

Through the centuries—long before the invention of photography—human faces were best captured by artists, some of whom pioneered the selfie by sculpting or painting himself or herself. Van Gogh did over thirty self-portraits. Rembrandt topped him with more than forty. El Greco also knocked out a few of himself.
Picasso did self-portraits both during his blue period—and black period. (Plus there’s a little known painting done after he fell down a flight of stairs—representing his black and blue period.)

Meanwhile, there exist no photographs of Genghis Kahn, Alexander the Great, Moses, Charlemagne or Michelangelo—but far too many of Kardashians.

The first U.S. president to jump into a picture may have been John Quincy Adams in 1843. He was no longer president by then, so had the time on his hands to sit for a snapshot—which in the days of early photography could be a very long wait—comparable to time spent at the DMV.

People being photographed in those days were encouraged to sit very still, not breathe much—and hold a countenance that was easy to maintain for several moments. That’s why in so many old photo portraits the subject looks unhappy. Or constipated. Or both.

Self-photos didn’t begin with camera phones, but it sure made them easier—and unending. Gone are the days of shooting a roll of film, dropping it off to be developed into prints—and waiting perhaps days to see the final product. Now the gratification happens in nearly real time.
Of course, most selfies are intended to make the individual look good. But according to a study done at U of T (University of Toronto—nee’ University of Trump)—people who take their own photo—a lot—are more likely to “over-estimate how good-looking they are.”
Members of the public were asked to rate the selfie takers’ pics against photos of people who don’t take nearly so many selfies. Turns out the more frequent selfie takers were judged to look far less gorgeous than they thought they were.

In another part of the study, people who said they hate selfies of others—rather fancied those of themselves. Who would have guessed the study would reveal that? Except everybody.
I remember a friend who used to say that he hated being photographed because he just “never took a good picture.” Apparently it was the camera’s fault. “And besides,” my friend would insist, “I don’t care what other people think.”

The late and wonderful George Carlin may have expressed it best in that regard:
“People who say they don’t care what people think are usually desperate to have people think they don’t care what people think.”
If only sunsets, bald eagles and waterfalls were able to take pictures of themselves.
Those would be worth a longer look.

I was in a ferry line earlier this week—and saw the road sign you may well be familiar with: “Report ferry line cutters”—followed by the phone number you’re supposed to call: “1-877-764-HERO.”
Really? Hero?

I naively always thought of heroes as people who changed the world, did something truly
great, achieved courageous things and inspired others. You know, George Washington, Gandhi, Oskar Schindler, Amelia Earhart, Harriet Tubman—guys like that.

But squealing on someone else? A hero?

It all takes me back to the 7th grade at St. Francis of Assisi Catholic School—a day I was very worried. After all, teachers did not normally tell a kid to stay after class unless there was trouble. I braced for the worst.
“Pat,” My nun teacher, Sister Mildred Marie, began, “I have some news for you.” I swallowed hard, as she continued. “Have you ever heard of The Leaders Club?” she asked.

“No,” I said, waiting to be hit over the head with such a club.

“It’s an honorary organization that only the very most special students are chosen to be a part of,” Sister said. “And you, Pat, have been selected.”

I stood stunned, uncomprehending. She filled in the blank: “It means that you have been
identified as a school LEADER! A hero!”

She presented me with an official patch that could be sewn onto my school sweater: The Leaders Club. It would tell the school, the city and the world that a leader was in their midst.
Would I be a kind, benevolent leader—or a cruel, despotic one? I figured I would try both approaches and see which one I liked best.

The next day, Sister herded me and six other new “leaders” into a room. “You will be
role models for the other students in our school,” she told us. “It’s your job not only to be
good examples yourselves, but to point out the bad apples in our school.”
I raised my hand. “What about oranges?” I asked.

“This is not about fruit, Pat,” she said. “It’s about helping to spot the troublemakers around here.”
We all nodded knowingly.

“So whenever one of you sees a student cheating on a test, passing notes during class or
misbehaving during recess—your job is to report it to me,” Sister told us. Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll take it from there.” I swallowed even harder than the time I swallowed earlier in this column.

The next day, when the bell for morning recess was sounded, I headed for the door with a sense of nobility and purpose. My The Leaders Club patch was sewn onto my sweater sleeve like a stripe on a general’s uniform. Or a Gestapo’s.

I scanned the playground looking for miscreants. It didn’t take long.
I spotted Donnie Marcoulier over by the fence. He had the biggest nostrils I had ever seen on a human—made even wider when he was up to no good. He had just told Judy Leageld there was a spider on her shoulder. She screamed and ran hysterically across the playground.

There was, of course, no spider. Donnie had made it up—and as Judy ran, he just laughed. Evildoers are that way. I learned that from the movies.
As a newly appointed “leader” I immediately reported Donnie’s action to Sister. Soon, I saw her collar him on the playground—and before long the budding criminal was on his way to the principal’s office.
I should have felt proud of my leadership, but I didn’t. I felt more like I had just led a lamb off to slaughter. Never mind that Donnie looked more like a pig than a lamb—it just felt wrong.
When Donnie returned to the classroom his nostrils were as wide and enveloping as a two-door airplane hangar. He sat two rows over from me; his eyes boring into me like a wood-burning kit—saying quite clearly, “Wait until after school.”

I have since believed that Donnie would have made a skillful plastic surgeon—he certainly did an excellent job that day of rearranging my face.

To make matters worse, Donnie wore two rings on his punching hand—the equivalent of wearing a half-set of brass knuckles.
Thanks to Donnie, I was no longer just a member of The Leaders Club. I was in The Bleeders Club too.
The next day, I resigned from my leadership role. Sister asked me why. I told her straight out: “It just seems to me that The Leaders Club is more like The Stoolies Club,” I said.
I thought Sister would be angry, but her response was not what I expected. “You expressed that very well, Pat,” she said. “Especially for someone with a fat lip.”
I never knew why, but within a week The Leaders Club was history. Sister disbanded it deciding it had put the chosen students in a difficult spot. In my case, it had put my face in a difficult spot—specifically Donnie’s ring-bedecked fist.

Personally, I never felt The Leaders’ Club should have been disbanded. It just needed a name change.
Dirty, Rotten Ratfinks’ Club rings a bell.

And truth is, 1-877-764-DIRTYROTTENRATFINK would make an awfully long ferry line cutter phone number.

It’s odd that ‘funeral’ would contain the word ‘fun’ within it. Of course, it’s not the only strange example in the English language. There’s ‘die’ in ‘diet’; ‘ant’ in the middle of ‘gigantic’ (which is sort of the opposite of ‘mall’ being included in the word ‘small.’); and no matter how many times I see the word ‘legend’, I see TWO words: Leg End.

But funerals, of course, are anything but fun. Yet, in order to endure them, levity is not only useful but also inevitable.

Last week a Seattle woman suggested the idea that rather than caskets, vaults or cremation—we should compost our dearly departed. It is an idea certainly worth considering:

“Hey, remember those tomato plants we put in Uncle Ed’s compost? I’ll be darned if that one heirloom tomato doesn’t kind of look like him!”

Years ago, when I was an early teen, I went to one of my first funerals. My great aunt had passed away at the age of ninety—although my brother had said she ‘croaked.’ But my dad was the king of euphemisms for that sort of thing. “She kicked, cashed in, shoved off, checked out, bought the farm, gave up the ghost, made an exit, packed it in, and took the last count,” he had said, offering several choices.

My mom used more genteel expressions: “Auntie has departed, passed on, gone the way of all flesh, gone to meet her Maker, gone to glory, joined the angels—or simply, gone on.”
I heard my uncle say that she had “assumed room temperature.” That was my favorite.

In the midst of my great aunt’s open casket funeral, my Dad (forgive him, Lord) nudged me and whispered “Pat! Did you see that?!”
“What?” I whispered back.
“I think I just saw Auntie move!” He said.
The hair on the back of my neck—along with that on my head, arms and legs—sat upright.
Fortunately, Auntie did not.

My mom had overheard Dad—and was furious. He explained that he had just been trying to ease the tension of the situation—but my mom was so angry that a double funeral would have been to her liking.

A few years ago, I attended the funeral of an elderly man whose first name was ‘Alfred.’
Alfred was a wonderful fellow who enjoyed a glass of whiskey the way a bear enjoys a
tub of honey. In fact, Alfred may not have actually been dead. He might have been pickled.

The fellow giving the eulogy stepped to the podium and began his remarks: “Alfred.
The very spelling of his name describes him. “
“A,” he said. “Stands for ‘Amiable’—which he was, completely.”
I could see where the speaker was going.
“L,” he continued. “Loved. Yes, he was, completely.”
I checked my watch. I was glad Alfred’s name wasn’t ‘Alfredrumplestiltskin’ or this speech would take all day.
“F stands for ‘Friend’—which he was, completely.” The audience was starting to fidget.
“R stands for…uh…Really Nice Guy.” Followed by, “Which he was, completely.”
“E stands for…” What would ‘E’ stand for? The audience waited nervously.
“Encredible,” the speaker said. “Which he was, completely. “
Spelling does not count in a eulogy.

Now the audience was getting even more nervous. What would ‘D’ be? Not ‘Drunk’ they hoped.
“And finally, D,” intoned the speaker. The audience of Alfred’s friends held its collective breath.
“Dull,” he said. “Alfred was the most boring guy I ever met.”
The audience gasped—and then burst into laughter. That was the Alfred they all knew as well.
One other funeral comes to mind—that of a family friend named Sophie. She had one request: “Play a Frank Sinatra song at my funeral.”

We went through every Sinatra song we could find trying to find the perfect choice.
I finally settled on “Someone to Watch Over Me.” Perfect.
Right before the service, I gave the church’s audio guy the CD. “Cut 14, “ I said.
“Cut 14,” he repeated. “Got it.”
The service began. People said nice words about what a wonderful and faithful wife Sophie had been.
Finally, it came time to play the Sinatra song.
The audio guy played cut—15.
Too bad.

It was “The Lady is a Tramp.”

Mother’s Day, yesterday, seemed to go just fine. But after over three decades of being married to the same woman, you would think a guy would have a pretty solid knowledge of a spouses likes and dislikes. But on Mother’s Day—not so many years ago—I had a brain cramp.

I thought that surprising my wife with a balloon flight would be the ideal gift. It turned out to be about as perfect as buying a vegan a rack of beef.

If the Wright brothers hadn’t invented the airplane, we might have the Montgolier brothers to thank for our everyday air transportation. They’re the guys who around 1783 invented the hot-air balloon.

Things would be a bit different if today’s airports featured balloon travel instead of planes. It would be slower certainly—a flight from Seattle to Chicago might take several weeks—so at least a couple changes of underwear would be a must.

Plus balloon safety regulations would prohibit bringing aboard pet porcupines, hedgehogs or horned toads. Texas Longhorn cattle would not be welcome either—even if they flew coach. And neither would folks with spiky hair, beard stubble or pointy noses.

The goal would be to try and get as near to Chicago as possible, because hot air balloons are not easy to steer. You might wind up in a cornfield in Peoria. Then you’d have to take a commuter blimp the rest of the way. Walking might be quicker.

So balloon travel is not practical for long-distance travel—and watching the same in-flight movie over and over would get tedious. But there is a charming, even mystical, quality to drifting aloft in a big balloon—and I felt certain my wife would think so too.

One year I gave her a “Day of Beauty” at a local spa. For many women, that’s like a “Day of Football” for a guy—and sure enough, the spa visit was a big hit.

When we were first married, with little income, I could afford only a “Half-A-Day of Beauty.” She received a partial facial (she chose the left side)—and a pedicure for the five toes of her choosing.

That’s why I was certain a hot-air balloon ride would smash all records for Mother’s Day gift giving. It was thoughtful, spendy—and unexpected. And so, when we hopped in our car headed for the surprise destination, I was startled when my spouse suddenly said, “By the way, you DO remember that I’m afraid of heights?”

Somehow, after all our years of marriage, I had forgotten that—and when we pulled into the parking lot of the balloon-ride place, my wife’s face took on the hue of Casper the Friendly Ghost.

Yet she went along with it. She didn’t want to disappoint the family. I watched her face as we all climbed into the big wicker basket that was attached beneath the balloon. They say that when some prisoners are being led off to the gas chamber, they either start yelling and screaming—or get real quiet. My wife got real quiet.

As we began to ascend, the wicker basket seemed to shrink to the size of an ashtray. My wife’s hands clutched the railing with a grip that could have cut wire. That’s when the ‘pilot’ said those reassuring words: “Our goal is to wind up as near to were we started as possible—but then again, we never know for sure.” We all looked stricken.

We floated a mile high. That was approximately 5,279 feet higher than my wife was hoping for. Not that she saw much with her eyes closed so tight. She also didn’t notice that my knees were shaking like a pair of castanets—with visions of the Hindenburg dancing in my head.

Unless you are a recent arrival from Mars, you have no doubt heard the expression, “What the dickens?”

It is used in common sentences such as:
“What the dickens are you kids doing with that aardvark?”

Or, “Coach Carroll, what the dickens were you thinking trying to pass instead of run in the closing moments of Super Bowl XLVIII?”

And, “Former Seattle Mayor Greg Nickels! What the dickens are you doing at this Trump rally?”

Dickens means pretty much the same thing as “devil.” As in, “What the dickens (devil) are you thinking by eating so many deviled (dickensed) eggs?”

It’s reasonable to suppose that “what the dickens” refers to the great English writer,
Charles Dickens. But in fact, it has nothing to do with him. Nor does the popular male clothing accessory, the dickey.

The phrase actually comes from another English writer named Shakespeare in a play called The Merry Wives of Windsor. It is just one of many household words that come from his plays and sonnets. In fact, ‘household words’ comes from Shakespeare.

True, that.

It has been 400 years since Shakespeare shuffled off this mortal coil (his words). If he were alive today, he’d probably be writing advertising copy—or instruction manuals for the George Forman Grill. But in the late 1500’s and early 1600’s, the play was the thing. Netflix and HBO were just dreams.

My neighbor recently told me that he would “hoist me by my own petard” if my dogs did their thing in his yard again. Luckily, he had no idea what a petard is. Neither did I. So I looked it up.

It is uttered by Hamlet in reference to his enemies, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. It turns out a petard is a small explosive device—so Hamlet wanted to literally blow the duo into the air. Not only is “hoist by my own petard” a common expression these days—but Rosencrantz and Guildenstern is a common name for a law firm.

Lots of us who know practically nothing about Shakespearean plays nonetheless use his sayings all day long without realizing it. Everyday expressions like “wild goose chase”, “break the ice”—and “seen better days” are all cribbed from Shakespeare.

Who knew that “heart of gold” came from Henry the Fifth. Neil Young owes the Shakespeare estate a royalty.

Similarly, “Shooting Star” was a big hit for The Spinners—but the title came from Bill Shakespeare.

The expression “to unclog” was derived from a Shakespeare play too. Perhaps the idea for Drano was born then too.

“There’s the rub” was not invented by a barbecue chef—but was coined by you-know-who. Hamlet said it in his famous “To be or not to be” soliloquy—the same one where he also muttered stuff about fardels and bare bodkins.

“Neither a borrower nor a lender be” is a beaut. It’s why I currently have my neighbor’s wheelbarrow—and he has my lawnmower. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

Believe it or not, Macbeth included the sentence “Knock, knock! Who’s there?” So it is William Shakespeare who is responsible for one of the most annoying joke formulations in history. Shakespeare not only created plays—but puns, which are plays on words.

His knock, knock phrase helped make these jokes possible:

“Knock, knock!
Who’s there?
Madame.
Madame, who?
Madame foot’s caught in the door!”
And, the immortal:
“Knock, knock!
Who’s there?
Little old lady.
Little old lady who?
Gee, I didn’t know you could yodel.”
Dumb, right? Blame the so-called genius Shakespeare.

Naturally the bard gets a lot of glory for coming up with everyday phrases. But here’s a bit of praise for other people and sayings, heretofore unheralded before this moment:

Wilma Jenkinson who, in 1645, was the first to say: “You kids get in here and eat right now or I’m throwing it out!”

Seymour Carlisle, who in 1298 said, “Let’s party like it’s 1299!”

And. of course, Cassius Aurelius of the city of Pompeii—who said as Vesuvius suddenly erupted: “Oh, S___!”

Shakespeare could not have said it better.

Years ago a teacher stood before our class and made two grammar rule declarations: 1)“Never end a sentence with a preposition.”2)“Never begin a sentence with a conjunction.”

All these years since, I rarely follow the second rule. But I digress. As for the preposition thing, it is apparently not a rule at all. So do it if you want to. It does not matter why you do it for.

However, sometimes there is a practical and important reason to ditch a sentence-ending preposition. It saves time. And in this hurried world, we can use every extra moment possible.

For example, you could ask somebody, “Where are you going to?” But it’ s quicker to drop the ‘ to’ and just ask, “Where are you going?” You have conveyed the same meaning—and saved time. Granted, not much, but it adds up.

Rather than say, “I literally blew milk out my nose,” why not just say “I blew milk out my nose?” For that matter, maybe “I blew milk” is enough. Unless you are doing it figuratively.

An acquaintance of mine often says, “I was thinking in my brain.” It would seem fair to ask, “Where else would you be thinking? In your foot? Your elbow? Or perhaps in the previously-mentioned nose—while simultaneously blowing out milk?” It seems that just “I was thinking” is saying enough. And the elimination of “in my brain” shaves off time galore.

Same for the expression, “it brought a tear to my eye.” Last time I checked, eyes were the number one location for tears. I personally have never had a tear roll out either of my ears—although they do get pretty waxy when I’ m watching a sad movie.

For that matter “It’ s music to my ears,” is another colossal time waster—especially since it is unlikely you’ll ever encounter the expression “It’ s music to my navel.” Are you beginning to see how much time streamlined sentences can save?

Another common remark that falls into this category is “…it brought a smile to my face.” Where else on the human body could a smile appear? The face seems best. After all, that’ s where the mouth and lips are generally located.

In fact, if you see a smile anywhere except on a face—it is probably not a smile at all—and a doctor needs to be consulted immediately. Here’ s a short tidy sentence: “You have to see it.” But some of us are not content to leave it at that. We have to add words and time by saying, “You have to see it—with your own two eyes.” Never mind the mention of the “two eyes” (which are indeed useful to our sight)—but “your own two eyes?” Apparently the clarification is to ensure people are not routinely going around borrowing someone else’ s peepers. Especially if they’ re the type that forget to give things back.

(I wonder if one fly has ever said to another fly: “You have to see it with your own thousand eyes”?) Another way to save time in everyday conversation is to jettison extraneous remarks. See if you can spot the two unnecessary sentences among the following three: 1)“I’ m just sayin’…”2)“It is what it is…”3)“Traffic in Seattle really sucks.”It’ s a trick. All three sentences are unnecessary statements. A neighbor likes to say, “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times.” Then he goes on to say it for the 1,00lst time.

(On a side note, he also likes to use the old expression, “I’ d give my right arm to (fill in the blank.) To his credit, he has never said, “I’ d give someone else’s right arm…” Nor have I ever heard him use the expression in an awkward way like: “I’ d give my right arm to own at least one good pair of gloves.”

That same neighbor always compliments others he considers intelligent by saying, “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders.” I know he means well, but he’ s wasting precious seconds every time he makes the statement.

Not to mention the fact that most heads are attached to necks, not shoulders.

Except for my cousin Tony.