I truly do think I hate Martha Stewart

Just for the record - and this tip is for all you married fellows out there - it's almost never good policy to say a woman's name (besides your wife's) in your sleep. It inevitably leads to a conversation you probably don't want to have.


This happened to me. Friday night, I was cozily asleep beneath two thick blankets, probably with a dog in front of my stomach and another behind my knees. Apparently, however, it wasn't visions of sugar plums that were dancing in my head.


Saturday morning, Joyce told me what I had said, quite lucidly, between my episodes of log-sawing.
Now, it's probably good policy, if you're going to say another woman's name in your sleep, to pick one that you dislike, one that no one in the world could ever accuse you of having secret feelings for.


At least I got that part right.


According to Joyce, in my sleep, I said, "Martha Stewart's dead! What are we going to do?"


I seemed quite aggrieved, not sarcastic at all, Joyce said. I remember nothing of it.


When she told me this as we were driving to work Saturday, I could only burst out laughing. Martha Stewart? It might as well have been Leona Helmsley.


That didn't keep me from breaking into a light sweat, however. No matter how innocent you are, when you are confronted with evidence implicating you, particularly when that evidence comes from your own subconscious mind, it's natural to get nervous, I think.


I really, really do hate Martha Stewart. Really. So why was I dreaming about her? Joyce must be wondering that, too.


"I hate Martha Stewart," I told Joyce, maybe a little too loudly, just to make sure she heard me.


It was a conversation we had had before. Neither of us can tolerate anyone who worries about matching curtains and napkins.


Joyce also laughed about it, so it looks like I'm OK. We agreed there was no telling what is going on inside a human head. I made sure I brought up the sleep-talking a couple more times on the way to work, just so Joyce wouldn't think I was avoiding the subject.


The name I uttered really couldn't have been better than that of Martha Stewart, from my perspective. Not only is she snooty about linens, but she's a crooked cheater on her stocks. Martha Stewart singlehandedly brought down K-Mart, if you ask me.


If Martha Stewart and I were shipwrecked on a desert island for 30 years, my marriage vows would be entirely safe. Martha wouldn't be, though, since I probably would bash her brains in with a rock and eat her on day two, maybe before even trying to catch any fish.


I need to say a little prayer of thanks that I didn't sleep-talk about Oprah or Judge Judy. Both of them are pretty cool (and I'm saying this with strictly platonic admiration), so I think I would be in a lot of trouble.


I figure if I write an entire column about how much I hate Martha Stewart, I pretty much should be in the clear with my understanding, forgiving wife. I might mention this again next week, just to nail it down and get all this behind us once and for all.


In the meantime, I'm going to have to keep it colder in the house so I can justify covering my head with the blankets so Joyce doesn't see the duct tape over my mouth.


I probably won't be able to sleep anyway, though. I'm not going to be able to stop asking myself, what if - deep, deep down - I really do like Martha Stewart?


Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record. Past columns and other writings may be viewed on his blog at http://ken-york.blogspot.com/.

Teach the 1-percenters to reproduce

All the Occupy folks have got it wrong.

I've decided that America's troubles derive from a lack of fertility at the top. Seriously, all us 99-percenters have no trouble reproducing, sometimes, probably, a little too much. Statisticians say we'll be 99.3-percenters before the end of 2014.

Back during the '60s, we might have been 75 or 78 percenters, but since then, our group has apparently grown wildly while the super-rich people, sadly, have been unable to maintain their numbers.

We ridicule the 1-percenters as elite, crazy-moneyed tyrants when actually they are just kind of bad at getting the opposite sex to give them the time of day, if you know what I mean. You would think the billions of dollars they have would help, but no.

Maybe they should ask their maids and butlers about how all that stuff is supposed to work. I think ivy-league prep schools ought to offer some kind of education on the matter, but I reckon them boys are too busy teaching Latin and Machiavelli and all that.

That's why I have set up a non-profit foundation to provide instructional videos to the elite wealthy guys and gals who need them the most. We couldn't afford to hire moonlighting health class teachers or commission animated birds and bees for the videos, so we just compiled stuff we found on the Internet that more or less pertains to the subject.

So far, the foundation has managed to anonymously mail more than three educational VCR tapes to the richest people in America.

I'm hoping that the video effort will stimulate an increase in the number of babies born with silver spoons in their mouths during the next few years. When those kids grow up, there will be a huge increase in demand for maids, butlers, gardeners, waiters with exotic accents and sychophants, and that means jobs, jobs, jobs!

We'll be 98-percenters within three generations, if my math is right.

***

It really makes me paranoid that not one of my bosses has ever uttered a word about whether I am allowed to attempt to write a column for the newspaper. It's an eerie, 16-month silence, now.

As many angry phone calls and irate letters and as much general derision on the local Internet forum as I have generated, I would have expected someone to say something, either in support or admonition.

Instead, I go to work every day and everyone pretends everything is fine. Just fine.

***

Not to brag, but Joyce and I now have an outhouse with electricity. Over the summer, we built a cute little shed with an actual wood floor and put a light in there.

I know, I know -- It's only going to make my property taxes skyrocket, but I managed to hide the structure partially behind some pieces of a satellite dish I salvaged from a dumpster last year, so I don't think the county assessor has been able to see it from the road so far.

Thanks to my pals, the Mayans, it's not going to matter if he sees it next year. We're all going to swallowed by moon-sized intergalactic fish before the next tax bill comes due.

Fun things to do with caution tape

There's a roll of caution tape in the back of my car, calling to me.

Joyce found it at a yard sale a few weeks ago. She didn't buy it for any particular reason except that she knew I would want it. I think it cost a dollar.

I was thinking about using it last week on the bottom step of the house, which finally had broken all the way. Instead of fixing the step, it would be funny just to string up the tape.

The only one besides us who would have seen it would have been Dad, who visits us most Sundays. Truthfully, the busted step was kind of his fault, in a way. I would have fixed it two months ago, but every week he has provided a progress report on its demise.

September: "That bottom step's getting a little loose."

October: "I almost fell coming up them steps. That bottom one's awful loose."

November: "I see he ain't got around to getting that step fixed. Somebody's going to break a leg."

December: "That bottom step's gone. Did you see that step's gone? Is he gonna fix it?"

Dad tends to ask Joyce about my intentions while I'm sitting right there at the table across from him. Sometimes I feel like answering, "I don't know what he's planning to do about it."

I don't know about you and your dad, but when mine says "north" I head south. It's been that way since I was 10 or so. That doesn't mean I haven't had cause to admit he was right at least half the time.

The caution tape on the step would have given him apoplexy.

But the little dogs prevailed upon my better nature Saturday morning. Gizzy and Gadget couldn't make the initial leap to get onto the second step, so we were having to go outside and get them every time we let them in.

(The little dogs believe an hour has been wasted if they haven't been out and back in at least three times.)

So now that the step is fixed (and I can't wait until Dad sees it Sunday), I don't know what to do with the caution tape, but I have ideas.

My first thought was to caution-tape the cubicle of my colleague, Fines. I could have done it Saturday afternoon so his week could start off on the right foot Monday morning. I'm off Mondays, so I would have missed his reaction, though.

I guess it would be fun to just string caution tape across any door in town and wait to see how the people who want to go in and out react to it. Would a family not cross its own threshold if caution tape were blocking the way? How long would they wait?

It's probably illegal to use caution tape for a practical joke. If we were allowed to do that, then people would no longer respect caution tape, and they'd be falling down open manholes and into wet concrete all over the place.

***

I zoomed in as far as possible on the new legislative district map on the state's website and discovered my house is cut in half. Indeed, the line runs right down the middle of the bed. Joyce, Eureka Stripe and Gizmo are in the 129th District, and Ben, Gadget, Sally and I are in the 123rd.

You can't tell me it's a coincidence that the only two bleeding heart liberals in Falcon are now in different districts. This is proof of the kind of gerrymandering that the judicial panel was supposed to protect us against. It's obvious to me that Joyce and I must have intimidated the powers that be as a cohesive voting bloc.

The good news is that if somebody we don't like gets elected in 2012 in one of the districts, we can just move the bed.

***

I guess I'll just use that caution tape as a garland for the Christmas tree when we get around to putting it up.

I’m counting on the Mayans

Let's just assume the Mayans are right, and the Earth is going to explode or get hit by a comet or get drawn into a black hole on Dec. 21, 2012.


As a person who puts off Christmas shopping until absolutely the last possible instant, I'm going out with money in my pocket while all you nauseatingly conscientious people who believe in prior planning and scheduling are going to be really fumed.


I'm getting in my "I told you so" in advance, here.


I can think of few things worse than going through all the blood, sweat and tears of preparing for Christmas and then having the Earth's atmosphere sucked away by bug-shaped aliens or whatever four days beforehand.


There is an upside to knowing when Doomsday is scheduled to occur. You think I'm not going to be taking out loans and living large during the next year? I'll have a fishing boat, indoor plumbing and maybe even a car with air conditioning during the summer. I'll eat everything fried, since there's no sense worrying about your cholesterol when there's a giant bullseye on your planet.


For our Mayan readers, I know I have been critical of your people in this column in the past. Now, however, I am fully behind you and your prediction of global devastation.


Of course, all the "experts" are saying the Mayans never really predicted Doomsday. They just ran out of days on the 5,126-year calendar. It's just going to be the beginning of the next cycle.


Yeah, right. What else would the "experts" say? They're all secretly backed by the government, which doesn't want everyone to panic.


I never understood that characteristic of the government in the movies. Why would the government care if people panicked or not? It's not like keeping a cool head is going to protect anybody from the end of the world.


I guess staying calm is a little more dignified than running around in circles, waving your arms and screaming, however. And much less tiring.


Just once in an end-of-the-world movie, I want to see the president get on TV and say, "Well, if any of y'all haven't panicked yet, it's probably about that time."


When the time comes for worldwide panic, it's going to be handy for people to have experience with bloodthirsty, violent, screaming mobs of crazy people, so obviously you Black Friday shoppers and Cleveland Browns fans are going to have an advantage over the rest of us.


Probably humanity should concentrate on leaving something behind for alien archaeologists to discover a few billion years from now. DVDs of the complete series of Gilligan's Island, all the J.R.R. Tolkien books and the frozen, sleeping body of Albert Pujols should be launched in a space capsule for storage on the moon. Preferably before the start of the baseball season.


Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record. Past columns and other writings may be viewed on his blog at http://ken-york.blogspot.com/.

Six doubloons, three farthings and a tuppence

I was thinking this week about all the traditions begun by The First Thanksgiving.

I reckon what happened was the Native Americans came out of the woods and brought maize and deer and pumpkin pies, and they had a big feast with the Puritan Pilgrims.

You kind of wonder what those long-ago Native Americans were thinking.

"Hey Chief, the braves are kind of hankering for a party."

"Well, why not? Where should we have it?"

"We were thinking we'd all head over to that settlement of the white demons. You know, take some food and kind of welcome them to the neighborhood."

"Sounds good!"

That leaves me scratching my head, frankly. Surely there were more fun creatures to party with, even in pre-colonial America, than Puritans. At least you can teach otters and wolves to do funny tricks.

Relations were pretty good between the newcomers and the natives that day. There was one tense moment just before dinner when a pan of corn was set too close to the fire and started to pop. The braves grabbed for their tomahawks and bows, looking around wildly, figuring it was a musket attack. When they figured it out, everybody had a good laugh except the Puritans, who considered mirth to be a sin.

(And that, children, is how the first popcorn was invented, as far as you know.)

Everybody ate their fill Thursday night and then collapsed, tight as ticks, into their blankets around the fires. Once in a while, the braves would sneak off into the woods for a hit off the peace pipe, upon which the Puritans frowned. The Puritans frowned at a lot of things, such as noisy belches, and it had been a pretty big dinner, so there was some frowning going on, but things stayed peaceful.

What the history books seldom mention, however, is that the onset of trouble between the two races all can be traced back to that first Black Friday.

It was around five o'clock in the morning when the commotion started. During the night, the Pilgrims had stealthily snuck out to their ship, the Mayflower, and brought back carts and carts full of stuff. Now, two hours before dawn, cute little Puritan kids in bonnets and short pants paraded through the camp site, waking up the Native Americans by beating spoons on pot lids and hollering.

"What in the name of the Great Spirit ..?" the chief muttered, coming awake in his blankets. He sat up, realizing he still had a half-eaten roast turkey leg in his hand. He took a reflexive bite and looked around, chewing in amazement.

(Editor's note: Portions of this column may not be historically accurate.)

Those enterprising Pilgrims had been busy. They'd cut up the sails from the Mayflower to make banners and streamers. Little groups of carts were scattered all over the place, each under a sign that advertised goods. "Miles Standish's Colored Bead Emporium" was right next to "Gov. Wm. Bradford's Real Indian Arrowheads." There were deep discounts on everything, especially the latest designer loincloths.

Prices had really been slashed. I would tell you how low they were, but you wouldn't believe me.

The Pilgrims had even whittled some big shopping carts out of hickory limbs, using sawn trees for wheels. Those primitive carts didn't have a little seat on them where you could put a kid, but it didn't matter, because in those days the Native Americans carried their younguns around in little sacks on their backs or just let them run around barefoot.

Well, despite the early hour, the Native Americans just couldn't pass up those deals. And the Pilgrims kept reminding them there were only 32 shopping days until Christmas.

It wasn't long before all the Native Americans had shopping carts and were dashing among the vendors, trying to be first in line to get the greatest bargains. A few folks got trampled and there were some broken bones, so it was lucky there was a cart offering splints at "60 PERCENT OFF RETAIL!"

The crazy-mad shopping frenzy lasted for hours until finally the Native Americans were ready to check out. They got in long lines and stood there, wondering what came next.

Prudence, the lady who was checking people out, looked at her first customer. "That'll be six doubloons, three farthings and a tuppence," she said. "Would you like to donate a farthing to the Humane Society today?"

The problem was the Native Americans didn't have any money. The Pilgrims hemmed and hawed, and finally Gov. Bradford told them that it was really against policy, but he reckoned they could put their stuff in layaway and pay a little at a time. Or they were welcome to fill out credit applications.

The chief, however, was a proud fellow, and somewhat wiley. For all the purchases, he offered the Pilgrims the area now known as Massachusetts, which is a name derived from the Native American phrase, "Can you believe these idiots think you can actually own land?"

As they pushed their laden, rickety shopping carts through the forest on the way back to their village, the Native Americans were laughing their heads off, although some were a little miffed that the Pilgrims hadn't offered to send any leftovers home with them.

What do the aliens think of electric sinks?

Things that seem unnecessary include busy signals with a voice-over telling you the number you dialed is busy.

Historically, a busy signal has meant just that. Call me brash, but when I hear a busy signal, I go ahead and go out on a limb and make the assumption that the line is busy.

It might be worth the voice-over if the busy-signal message offered some sort of consolation. "We're sorry, but the number you dialed seems to be busy. Please don't take it personally. If the person you are trying to call knew you were trying to call them, we are sure they would get off the phone."

That would make me feel a lot better.

I still get the regular, good-old-fashioned busy signal when I try to dial my own extension from my phone in the office. There's no voice-over, no matter how many times I try it.
(My boss, Julie, probably thinks I'm slacking instead of performing research.)

***

Busy signal messages are not the only unnecessary things we have nowadays. Don't get me started on all the stuff that used to operate just fine that now, for some reason, requires electricity.

Sinks and toilets are the dumbest. Have we become too stupid to operate plumbing by ourselves in the 21st Century?

Our forefathers used to turn on the faucet, wash their hands, then turn off the faucet. They used a little handle on the sink to control the flow, even to mix hot and cold water to produce warm water of the desired temperature.

No company has yet designed an automatic electric sink in which the water will stay on long enough for you to wash your hands thoroughly. You end up waving your soapy mitts back and forth in front of the little sensor, trying to get the water to come back on. Then you do the same dance again in front of the electric sensor on the hand-dryer.

I wonder what the aliens who are watching us think of us sometimes. I'm a little embarrassed for Earth.

I'm thinking about painting "NONE OF THIS WAS MY IDEA" on the steel roof of our little house in the woods.

Toilets also used to be manual devices. A little chrome handle could be flipped downward when a flush was required. Now a sensor can tell when you sit down and then again when you get up.

Do you honestly think Homeland Security doesn't have access to that information?

Can openers used to be manual devices. Now most are electric. The electric ones don't work any better, oddly. But the manual ones they sell now don't work as well as the ones they sold 50 years ago. I don't know why.

I think we should be going in the other direction, truthfully. I want a hand-cranked microwave oven. And windup-car technology has been around for generations, but it's never been applied to any vehicles much bigger than a matchbox.

I think it's because of the oil company lobby.