Pure Drivel Part 1

PURE DRIVEL.

by Steve Martin.

Acknowledgments.

At the time of this writing, I have not worked in a movie for three years. During these years, in which I vowed to do nothing and leave myself alone about it, I accidentally produced several plays, a handful of sketches, two screenplays, and a reorganization of my entire self. The pieces in this book, these essays-I'm not sure what to call them-are little candy kisses, after-dinner mints to the big meal of literature, but to me they represent something very special. They are the offspring of an intense retrospection that enabled me to get back in contact with my work, to receive pleasure from my work, and to bring joy to my work. They also enabled me to repeat the phrase "my work" three times in one sentence, which brought me a lot of joy, pleasure, and contact. I suppose what I'm saying is, if you really want to work, stop working.

I owe a big gooey blob of thanks to Chris Knutsen, who fearlessly and humorously edited the pieces that appeared in The New Yorker, and to Tina Brown, who charmed me and ran the pieces in a magazine I idolized for half my life, even when it gave me stinking movie reviews. And special thanks to Leigh Haber, who fastidiously edited each piece, both new and old, for this edition. Heavy mitting, also, to my agents Esther Newberg and Amanda Urban, who made sure Hyperion provided me with a full-time makeup artist and a trailer as big as Hemingway's during the writing of this book. Equal thanks, too, to my philosopherstlawyer Michael Gendler, who makes sure that my vulnerable artistic gentleness is always well paid.

I am lucky to have friends both literate and funny, and I'll cite Victoria Dailey, who first published my writing, in the days when the process of writing was so primitive the text was written by hand directly on the computer screen. Her personality and mind are such that she called me once at midnight and said, "I figured out something about you. You're an a away from being a Martian." She then c.o.c.k-a-doodled a laugh and hung up.

I'd also like to mention good friends to whom I sent fledgling pages in hopes of getting back a critical or favorable comment. They are April Gornik, Jessica Teich, Kathy Goodman, and Elizabeth Meyer. I also have men friends.

A Public Apology

Looking out over the East River from my jail cell and still running for public office, I realize that I have taken several actions in my life for which I owe public apologies.

Once, I won a supermarket sweepstakes even though my brother's cousin was a box boy in that very store. I would like to apologize to Safeway Food, Inc., and its employees. I would like to apologize to my family, who have stood by me, and especially to my wife Karen. A wiser and more loyal spouse could not be found.

When I was twenty-one, I smoked marijuana every day for one year. I would like to apologize for the next fifteen years of anxiety attacks and drug-related phobias, including the feeling that when Ed Sullivan introduced Wayne and Shuster, he was actually signaling my parents that I was high. I would like to apologize to my wife Karen, who still believes in me, and to the Marijuana Growers a.s.sociation of Napa Valley and its affiliates for any embarra.s.sment I may have caused them. I would also like to mention a little incident that took place in the Holiday Inn in Ypsilanti, Michigan, during that same time. I was lying in bed in room 342 and began counting ceiling tiles. Since the room was square, it was an easy computation, taking no longer than the weekend. As Sunday evening rolled around, I began to compute how many imaginary ceiling tiles it would take to cover the walls and floor of my room. When I checked out of the hotel, I flippantly told the clerk that it would take twelve hundred ninety-four imaginary ceiling tiles to fill the entire room.

Two weeks later, while attempting to break the record for consecutive listenings to "American Pie," I realized that I had included the real tiles in my calculation of imaginary tiles; I should have subtracted them from my total. I would like to apologize to the staff of the Holiday Inn for any inconvenience I may have caused, to the wonderful people at Universal Ceiling Tile, to my wife Karen, and to my two children, whose growth is stunted.

Several years ago, in California, I ate my first clam and said it tasted "like a gonad dipped in motor oil." I would like to apologize to Bob 'n' Betty's Clam Fiesta, and especially to Bob, who I found out later only had one t.e.s.t.i.c.l.e. I would like to apologize to the waitress June and her affiliates, and the DePaul family dog, who suffered the contents of my nauseated stomach.

There are several incidents of s.e.xual hara.s.sment I would like to apologize for: In 1992, I was interviewing one Ms. Anna Floyd for a secretarial position, when my pants accidentally fell down around my ankles as I was coincidentally saying, "Ever seen one of these before?" Even though I was referring to my new Pocket Tape Memo Taker, I would like to apologize to Ms. Floyd for any grief this misunderstanding might have caused her. I would also like to apologize to the Pocket Tape people, to their affiliates, and to my family, who have stood by me. I would like to apologize also to International Hardwood Designs, whose floor my pants fell upon. I would especially like to apologize to my wife Karen, whose constant understanding fills me with humility.

Once, in Hawaii, I had s.e.x with a hundred-and-two-year-old male turtle. It would be hard to argue that it was consensual. I would like to apologize to the turtle, his family, the Kahala Hilton Hotel, and the hundred or so diners at the Hilton's outdoor cafe. I would also like to apologize to my loyal wife Karen, who had to endure the subsequent news item in the "Also Noted" section of the Santa Barbara Women's Club Weekly.

In 1987, I attended a bar mitzvah in Manhattan while wearing white gabardine pants, white patent-leather slippers, a blue blazer with gold b.u.t.tons, and a yachting cap. I would like to apologize to the Jewish people, the State of Israel, my family, who have stood by me, and my wife Karen, who has endured my seventeen affairs and three out-of-wedlock children.

I would also like to apologize to the National a.s.sociation for the Advancement of Colored People, for referring to its members as "colored people." My apology would not be complete if I didn't include my new wife, Nancy, who is of a pinkish tint, and our two children, who are white-colored.

Finally, I would like to apologize for spontaneously yelling the word "savages!" after losing six thousand dollars on a roulette spin at the Choctaw Nation Casino and Sports Book. When I was growing up, the usage of this word in our household closely approximated the Hawaiian aloha, and my use of it in the casino was meant to express "until we meet again."

Now on with the campaign!

Writing Is Easy!

Writing is one of the most easy, pain-free, and happy ways to pa.s.s the time in all the arts. For example, right now I am sitting in my rose garden and typing on my new computer. Each rose represents a story, so I'm never at a loss for what to write. I just look deep into the heart of the rose and read its story and write it down through typing, which I enjoy anyway. I could be typing "kjfiu joewmv jiw" and would enjoy it as much as typing words that actually make sense. I simply relish the movement of my fingers on the keys. Sometimes, it is true, agony visits the head of a writer. At these moments, I stop writing and relax with a coffee at my favorite restaurant, knowing that words can be changed, rethought, fiddled with, and, of course, ultimately denied. Painters don't have that luxury. If they go to a coffee shop, their paint dries into a hard ma.s.s.

Location, Location, Location I would recommend to writers that they live in California, because here they can look up at the blue sky in between those moments of looking into the heart of a rose. I feel sorry for writers-and there are some pretty famous ones-who live in places like South America and Czechoslovakia, where I imagine it gets pretty dreary. These writers are easy to spot. Their books are often depressing and filled with disease and negativity. If you're going to write about disease, I would suggest that California is the place to do it. Dwarfism is never funny, but look at the result when it was dealt with out here in California. Seven happy dwarfs. Can you imagine seven dwarfs in Czechoslovakia? You would get seven melancholic dwarfs at best, seven melancholic dwarfs with no handicapped-parking s.p.a.ces.

Love in the Time of Cholera: why it's a bad t.i.tle I admit that "Love in the time of ..." is a great t.i.tle, so far. You're reading along, you're happy, it's about love, I like the way the word time comes in there, something nice in the a.s.sociation of love and time, like a new word almost, lovetime: nice, nice feeling. Suddenly, the morbid Cholera appears. I was happy till then. "Love in the Time of the Oozing Sores and Pustules" is probably an earlier, rejected t.i.tle of this book, written in a rat-infested tree house on an old Smith-Corona. This writer, whoever he is, could have used a couple of weeks in Pacific Daylight Time.

I did a little experiment. I decided to take the following disheartening pa.s.sage, which was no doubt written in some depressing place, and attempt to rewrite it under the influence of California: Most people deceive themselves with a pair of faiths: they believe in eternal memory (of people, things, deeds, nations) and in redressibility (of deeds, mistakes, sins, wrongs). Both are false faiths. In reality the opposite is true: everything will be forgotten and nothing will be redressed. (milan Kundera) Sitting in my garden, as the bees glide from flower to flower, I let the above paragraph filter through my mind. The following new paragraph emerged: I feel pretty, Oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and bright.

Kundera was just too wordy. Sometimes the delete key is your greatest friend.

Writer's Block: A Myth Writer's block is a fancy term made up by whiners so they can have an excuse to drink alcohol. Sure a writer can get stuck for a while, but when that happens to real authors, they simply go out and get an "as told to." The alternative is to hire yourself out as an "as heard from," thus taking all the credit. It is also much easier to write when you have someone to "bounce" with. This is someone to sit in a room withand exchange ideas. It is good if the last name of the person you choose to bounce with is Salinger. I know a certain early-twentieth-century French writer, whose initials were M.p., who could have used a good bounce person. If he had, his t.i.tle might have been the more correct "Remembering Past Things" instead of the clumsy one he used. The other trick I use when I have a momentary stoppage is virtually foolproof, and I'm happy to pa.s.s it along. Go to an already published novel and find a sentence you absolutely adore. Copy it down in your ma.n.u.script. Usually that sentence will lead you naturally to another sentence; pretty soon your own ideas will start to flow. If they don't, copy down the next sentence. You can safely use up to three sentences of someone else's work-unless they're friends; then you can use two. The odds of being found out are very slim, and even if you are, there's no jail time.

Creating Memorable Characters Nothing will make your writing soar more than a memorable character. If there is a memorable character, the reader will keep going back to the book, picking it up, turning it over in his hands, hefting it, and tossing it into the air. Here is an example of the jazzy uplift that vivid characters can offer: Some guys were standing around when in came this guy.

You are now on your way to creating a memorable character. You have set him up as being a guy, and with that come all the reader's ideas of what a guy is. Soon you will liven your character by using an adjective: But this guy was no ordinary guy, he was a red guy.

This character, the red guy, has now popped into the reader's imagination. He is a full-blown person, with hopes and dreams, just like the reader. Especially if the reader is a red guy. Now you might want to give the character a trait. You can inform the reader of the character trait in one of two ways. First, simply say what that trait is-for example, "but this red guy was different from most red guys, this red guy liked frappes." The other is rooted in action-have the red guy walk up to a bar and order a frappe, as in: "What'll you have, red guy?"

"I'll have a frappe."

Once you have mastered these two concepts, vivid character writing combined with adjectives, you are on your way to becoming the next Shakespeare's brother. And don't forget to copyright any ideas you have that might be original. You don't want to be caught standing by helplessly while your familiar "red guy" steps up to a bar in a frappe commercial.

Writing Dialogue Many very fine writers are intimidated when they have to write the way people really talk. Actually it's quite easy. Simply lower your IQ by fifty and start typing!

Subject Matter Because topics are in such short supply, I have provided a few for writers who may be suffering in the darker climes. File some of these away, and look through them during the suicidal winter months: "Naked Belligerent Panties": This is a good s.e.xy t.i.tle with a lot of promise.

How about a diet book that suggests your free radicals don't enter ketosis unless your insulin levels have been carbo-charged?

Something about how waves at the beach just keep coming and coming and how amazing it is (i smell a best-seller here).

"Visions of Melancholy from a Fast-Moving Train": Some foreign writer is right now rus.h.i.+ng to his keyboard, ready to pound on it like Horowitz. However, this t.i.tle is a phony string of words with no meaning and would send your poor book to the "Artsy" section of Barnes and n.o.ble, where-guess what-it would languish, be remaindered, and die.

A Word to Avoid "Dagnabbit" will never get you anywhere with the Booker Prize people. Lose it.

Getting Published I have two observations about publishers: 1. Nowadays, they can be either male or female.

2. They love to be referred to by the appropriate p.r.o.noun. If your publisher is male, refer to him as "he." If your publisher is female, "she" is considered more correct. Once you have established a rapport, "Babe" is also acceptable for either s.e.x.

Once you have determined your p.r.o.noun usage, you are ready to "schmooze" your publisher. Let's say your favorite author is Dante. Call Dante's publisher and say you'd like to invite them both to lunch. If the a.s.sistant says something like "But Dante's dead," be sympathetic and say, "Please accept my condolences." Once at lunch, remember never to be moody. Publishers like up, happy writers, although it's impressive to suddenly sweep your arm slowly across the lunch table, dumping all the plates and food onto the floor, while shouting "Sic Semper Tyrannis!"

A Demonstration of Actual Writing It's easy to talk about writing and even easier to do it. Watch: Call me Ishmael. It was cold, very cold, here in the mountain town of Kilimanjaroville. (copyright) I could hear a bell. It was tolling. I knew exactly for who it was tolling, too. It was tolling for me, Ishmael Twist, (copyright) a red guy who likes frappe. [Author's note: I am now stuck. I walk over to a rose and look into its heart.] That's right, Ishmael Twist.

Finally, I can't overstress the importance of having a powerful closing sentence.

Yes, in My Own Backyard Last week in Los Angeles, I realized that the birdbath in my garden is by Raphael. I had pa.s.sed it a thousand times; so had many producers, actors, executives, and the occasional tagalong screenwriter. No one had ever mentioned the attribution "Raphael." In fact, none of my guests had bothered to attribute it at all, which surprised me since they spend so much time discussing it. When I try to steer the conversation around to my films, my television appearances, and my early work, all I hear back is: "What a charming birdbath." To me, this is further evidence that the birdbath is a Raphael: one just can't look away.

Much has been made of the fact that Raphael never sculpted. That may be true, but what is less known is that he designed many avian objects that we today take for granted, including the clothesline and the beak polisher. A birdbath is completely within the oeuvre of the master. Mine is stylistically characteristic of his work, including triangulation (inverted), psychologically loaded negative s.p.a.ce, and a carved Madonna holding an infant who looks fifty. Identical birdbaths appear in thirteen of his paintings; there is a Vasari portrait of Raphael painting the birdbath, and there is a scribble in his last diary that in translation reads, "Send my birdbath to Glendale," which is where I bought it at a swap meet.

In every person there's an art expert, and I'm sure the one in you wants some proof of authenticity in this age where, every day, Rembrandt van Rijns are being demoted to Rembrandt Yeah Sures.

There are two ways of confirming a work of art: scholars.h.i.+p and intuition. As far as scholars.h.i.+p goes, you can imagine that my copy of Raphael for Dummies is now well thumbed in my quest for authentication. But I needed to find a latter-day Berenson to put the final nail in the coffin of confirmation. The Los Angeles phone book lists two Raphael scholars, although one has a Maui area code. Both have been called in, and they are unanimous in their conclusion: one for, one against. This kind of scholars.h.i.+p proves something, but it can never take you the last mile; it is intuition that confirms attribution every time. How many times have I sat in my garden with the cordless, sipping on a c.o.c.ktail ice of Prozac and Halcion, ignoring the masterpiece that stood before me? However, everyone has experienced that moment when our inner censor slips away and the volume of our head-noise is turned down low and we realize we are sitting in front of Raphael's birdbath. It is a swooping cloak of sureness, which falls from heaven and settles over you.

At that moment, I decided there was only one way to finally confirm my intuition to the rest of the world. I would visit the tomb of Raphael, who is buried in the Pantheon in Rome, and commune with the great master himself. (i emphasize the Pantheon italically because, in my dyslexia, I read it as Parthenon and wasted money on a trip to Athens. I suggest a name change for one of them, to avoid confusion. After all, it's not like one is a river and one is an airport; they're both buildings.) Entering the Pantheon, one cannot help but experience a feeling of awe. Looking to the left, one sees the hallowed name Pesto, to the right, a series of Popes and Pope wannabees. Unfortunately, they are not buried in alphabetical order, so finding Raphael was not easy. I skipped over him a couple of times, because evidently he had a last name and that threw me off. Forgive me, but if I'm looking for the grave of Liberace, I want it filed under Liberace, not Wladziu Valentino, etc. Madonna take note.

I stood before the vault where Raphael has lain for the last four hundred and fifty years. Before I relate to you the next part, I have to tell you a little bit about the Pantheon. It has the world's largest domed ceiling. A domed ceiling might be a big deal in the world of architecture, but in the world of whispering it is definitely lousy. Everything comes back to you three times as loud, and even your diction is cleaned up. So when I whispered, "Did you make my birdbath?" everybody in the place heard me except Raphael, who was dead. I whispered again, louder, "Did you make my birdbath?" A few minutes later, a man in a trench coat came up to me and said "Yes, but the Wide Man wants a green lawn." He then handed me an envelope containing five hundred million lire and slithered away.

The voice of Raphael did not come to me with his answer until several hours later, when I sat in a cafe within sight of the Pantheon, sipping a synthetic low-fat coffee mixed with a legal (in Italy) derivative of Xanax and Quaalude. The voice emanated directly from the Pantheon and headed across the square to where I was sitting. Raphael, who now must be in heaven and hence has access to practically everything, used Italian but subt.i.tled it with a dialect only my sister and I spoke when we were five. It confirmed that the birdbath was his and that he wanted everyone to know he was not gay.

The Martin Birdbath, as some scholars are now calling it-I objected at first-is still in the garden, although attended by a twenty-four-hour armed guard named Charlie (he's off on the weekends), whom I have grown to like. I'm not quite sure he knows what he is guarding, but with the parade of academicians trooping through, he's got to figure that it ain't cheese. His job, in addition to keeping the birdbath from being stolen, is to keep birds away. This is hard, because to a bird, a birdbath is a birdbath, be it by Raphael or the Sears garden department.

Even though several offers have emerged, I'm not going to sell the Raphael. I'm not even going to mention it to my guests, unless I feel it's going to get me somewhere. I suppose if I see someone staring at it as though a boom has just been lowered on them, I'll take them aside and fill them in. I will tell them they are standing in the presence of a master, that they are in touch with the power of the ages, and that they deserve the overused but still meaningful hyphenation "sensitive-type." Then I will direct them to sit back in my Gauguin-designed lawn chair and enjoy the view. How do I know it's by Gauguin? It is. I just know it is.

Changes in the Memory after Fifty Bored? Here's a way the over-fifty set can easily kill off a good half hour: 1. Place your car keys in your right hand.

2. With your left hand, call a friend and confirm a lunch or dinner date.

3. Hang up the phone.

4. Now look for your car keys. (for answer, turn to page 26 and turn book upside down.) The lapses of memory that occur after fifty are normal and in some ways beneficial. There are certain things it's better to forget, like the time Daddy once failed to praise you and now, forty years later, you have to count the tiles in the bathroom-first in multiples of three, then in multiples of five, and so on-until they come out even, or else you can't get out of the shower. The memory is selective, and sometimes it will select 1956 and 1963 and that's all. Such memory lapses don't necessarily indicate a more serious health problem. The rule is, if you think you have a pathological memory problem, you probably don't. In fact, the most serious indicator is when you're convinced you're fine and yet people sometimes ask you, "Why are you here in your pajamas at the Kennedy Center Honors?"

Let's say you've just called your best friend, Joe, and invited him to an upcoming birthday party, and then, minutes later, you call him back and invite him to the same party again. This does not mean you are "losing it" or "not playing with a full deck" or "not all there," or that you're "eating with the dirigibles" or "sh.e.l.lacking the waxed egg" or "looking inside your own mind and finding nothing there," or any of the demeaning epithets that are said about people who are peeling an empty banana. It does, however, mean that perhaps Joe is no longer on the list of things you're going to remember. This is Joe's fault. He should have a more memorable name, such as El Elegante.

Sometimes it's fun to sit in your garden and try to remember your dog's name. Here's how: Simply watch the ears while calling out pet names at random. This is a great summer activity, especially in combination with Name That Wife and Who Am I? These games actually strengthen the memory and make it simpler to solve such complicated problems as "Is this the sixth time I've urinated this hour or the seventh?" This, of course, is easily answered by tiny pencil marks applied during the day.

Note to self: Write article about waxy buildup.

If you have a doctor who is over fifty, it's wise to pay attention to his changing memory profile. There is nothing more disconcerting than patient and healer staring at each other across an examining table, wondering why they're there. Watch out for the stethoscope being placed on the forehead or the briefcase. Watch out for greetings such as "h.e.l.lo ... you." Be concerned if while looking for your file he keeps referring to you as "one bad boy." Men should be wary if, while examining your prostate, the doctor suddenly says, "I'm sorry, but do I know you?"

There are several theories that explain memory problems of advancing age. One is that the brain is full: It simply has too much data to compute. Easy to understand if you realize that the name of your third grade teacher is still occupying s.p.a.ce, not to mention the lyrics to "Volare." One solution for older men is to take all the superfluous data swirling around in the brain and download it into the newly large stomach, where there is plenty of room. This frees the brain to house relevant information, like the particularly troublesome days of the week. Another solution is to take regular doses of ginkgo biloba, an extract from a tree in Asia whose memory is so indelible that one day it will hunt down and kill all the humans that have been eating it. It is strongly advised that if taking ginkgo biloba, one should label the bottle "Memory Pills." There is nothing more embarra.s.sing than looking at a bottle of ginkgo biloba and thinking it's a reliquary for a Spanish explorer.

So in summary, waxy buildup is a problem facing all of us. Only a good strong cleanser, used once or twice a month, will save us the humiliation of that petrified yellow crust on our furniture. Again, I recommend an alcohol-free, polymer-base cleanser, applied with a damp cloth. Good luck!

hblesh en8inar will, owow not thewshtj ofingeningenw enar.1 hy. will, wand i ens aranden. so- na Mars Probe Finds Kittens The recent probe to Mars has returned irrefutable evidence that the red planet is populated with approximately twenty-seven three-month-old kittens. These "kittens" do not give birth and do not die but are forever locked in a state of eternal kittenhood. Of course, without further investigation, scientists are reluctant to call the chirpy little creatures kittens. "Just because they look like kittens and act like kittens is no reason to a.s.sume they are kittens," said one researcher. "A football is a brown thing that bounces around on gra.s.s, but it would be wrong to call it a puppy."

Scientists were at first skeptical that a kitten-type being could exist in the rare Martian atmosphere. As a test, Earth kittens were put in a chamber that simulated the Martian air. The diary of this experiment is fascinating: 6:00 A.m.: Kitten appears to sleep.

7:02 A.m.: Kitten wakes, darts from one end of cage to another for no apparent reason.

7:14 A.m.: Kitten runs up wall of cage, leaps onto other kitten for no apparent reason.

7:22 A.m.: Kitten lies on back and punches other kitten for no apparent reason.

7:30 A.m.: Kitten leaps, stops, darts left, stops abruptly, climbs wall, clings for two seconds, falls on head, darts right for no apparent reason.

7:51 A.m.: Kitten pa.r.s.es first sentence of lead editorial in daily newspaper, which is at the bottom of the chamber.

With the exception of parsing, all behavior is typical Earth-kitten behavior. The parsing activity, which was done with a small ballpoint pen, is considered an anomaly.

Modern kitten theory suggests several explanations for the kittens' existence on Mars. The first, put forward by Dr. Patricia Krieger of the Hey You Bub Inst.i.tute, suggests that kittens occur both everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. In other words, we see evidence of kitten existence, but measuring their behavior is another matter. Just when the scientists point their instruments in a kitten's direction, it is gone, only to be found later in another place, perhaps at the top of drapes. Another theory, put forward by Dr. Charles Wexler and his uncle Ted, suggests that any universe where round things exist, from theoretical spheres to Ping-Pong b.a.l.l.s, necessarily implies the existence of a Mover Kitten. The scientific world has responded by saying that the notion of the Mover Kitten is not a concern for legitimate research and should be relegated to the pseudoscientific world. The pseudoscientific world has responded by saying that at least three endors.e.m.e.nts from independent crackpots are needed before anything can truly be called "pseudo."

Some have suggested that the hostility of the Martian climate should be enough to seriously set back the long-term prospects of any species. However, the weakness of Martian gravity is a bonus for felines. They are able to leap almost three times as high as they can on Earth. They can climb twice as far up a carpet-covered post, and a ball with a bell in it will roll almost three times as far. This is at least equal to the distance a mature poodle can roll a ball with its nose.

Even though there could be a big market on Earth for eternal kittens, most scientists agree that the human race should not pursue a further involvement. There are those, however, who believe that having now discovered the creatures, we have a responsibility to "amuse" them. Dr. Enos Mowbrey and his wifestcousin, Jane, both researchers at the Chicago Junebug Inst.i.tute for Animal Studies, argue that the kittens could be properly amused by four miles of ball string cut into fourteen-inch segments. The cost of such a venture would be: Four miles of string: $135 Segmentation of string: $8 Manned Mars probe to deliver string and jiggle it: $6 trillion.

It is unfortunate that Dr. Mowbrey's work has been largely dismissed because of his inappropriate use of the demeaning term kitty cat.

The next time you look up at the heavens, know that mixed in the array of stars overhead is a pale-red dot called Mars, and on that planet are tiny creatures whose wee voices are about to be thunderously heard on this planet, a meow of intergalactic proportions.

Dear Amanda Dear Amanda, This will be the last letter I write to you. I think we have made the right decision. Thank you for your love. We had a wonderful experience these past five months. I want you to know that our time together will live inside me in a special place in my heart. It is best if we do not phone or write. Love always, Joey Dear Amanda, I dialed you last night because the Lucy pie episode was on and I knew you'd want to see it. Anyway, while I was leaving a message, I leaned on the phone and accidentally punched in your message-retrieval code. Sorry about that. Who's Francisco? Just curious. Joey Dear Amanda, I realized that I still had your set of six j.a.panese sake cups that I bought for you on our trip downtown and was wondering when it might be a good time to drop them off. You can give me a call at the usual number but maybe better at the office up till seven but then try the car or I'm usually home now by seven forty-five. I would like to get these back to you, as I know you must be thinking about them. This will be my last letter. Regards, Joey Dear Amanda, It was a lucky coincidence that my cat leapt on your speed-dial b.u.t.ton last night, as it gave us a chance to talk again. Afterwards, I was wondering what you meant when you said, "It's over, Joey, get it into your head." So many interpretations. Just curious. Oh, I found myself on your street last night and noticed a yellow Mustang that I don't remember ever being at your apartment complex. Is this the mysterious Francisco I've heard rumors about? No big deal. Just curious. I left one of the sake cups at your front door; it happened to be in my car. What was that loud music? With respect, Joey Dear Amanda, This will be the last letter I write to you. I hate to hurt you like this, but I'm seeing someone new. You'd like her. Her name is Marisa-she has the same number of letters in her name as you! Incidentally, I heard that Francisco had or is having a tax problem. Should I meet with him? I'm over it all now and would be glad to help. Also, a word of warning: Latins. One woman is never enough. Just a thought. Joey P.s. Do you have my red Pentel pen? I really need it. Page me when you get this.

Dear Amanda, This will be the last letter I write to you. I'm quite upset that you changed your phone without a forwarding number. There could still be emergencies, and I'm still in possession of those fancy upholstered hangers of yours. Marisa questioned me about them the other day, and it wasn't fun. They're probably too dear to you to throw out, as we bought them together at the swap meet the day your mother raved about me, saying I was "pleasant." Please come by and pick them up; they're seriously damaging my relations.h.i.+p with Marisa. A good time would be any Wednesday after five but not after seven, Fridays anytime except lunch, Monday is good, and the weekend, anytime. Also Tuesday. By the way, there's someone named Francisco trying to pick up girls on the Internet. Hmm ... I wonder. Joey Dear Amanda, Valentine's Day is tomorrow, and I hope you don't mind my throwing this note through your window, as the post would be too slow. The rock it's tied to came from our desert trip! I'm wondering if you'd like to get together for a quick lunch on the fourteenth-you can even bring Francisco if you want; maybe I could help him sort out his heavy urology bills. I need to get my letters back from you, and could you bring this one too? I could bring the hangers, and I also want you to have the photo of me nude skydiving. Can you let me know soon? I'm waiting outside on the lawn.

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 subst.i.tutes-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 h.e.l.l 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 p.r.o.nunciation 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 a.s.sure you," said the spokesperson, "I a.s.sure 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 Fis.h.i.+n'?" 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 s.e.xuality 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 cla.s.s 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 relations.h.i.+p to its noun, the referent of the word banana never occupies one s.p.a.ce, and anything that does not occupy one s.p.a.ce 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 s.p.a.ce. 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 sh.o.r.e 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 t.i.tanic, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 s.p.a.ce while using a silver-foil face reflector.

Taping My Friends Jerome--(friend, 22 years) Me. ... Does 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.