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Animal Lover Quiz

I was e-mailing with my old college buddy today (and sadly, at this point any college buddy of mine would indeed be old) and he mentioned that he had gone back into our archives here and taken one of my quizzes from last August. Well, that reminded me that it’s been a while since I’ve treated you all to one of those inane but oh so enjoyable little quizzes.

So let’s lighten the mood around here and do one today. I was thinking about a subject for the quiz all day and I decided it should be about animals. What a crowd-pleaser, eh? I mean, whether you’re petting a cute little lamb at your local petting zoo or spreading a dollop of mint jelly on a piece of one in your favorite restaurant, there’s one thing on which we can all agree: In one way or another we all love animals! So let’s begin!

1. Which animal’s tongue is twice the length of its body?
a. Anteater
b. Chameleon
c. Leopard frog
d. Gene Simmons

2. A cow will give about how many glasses of milk in a lifetime?
a. 1,000
b. 5,000
c. 200,000
d. Over one million

3. How big is a newborn kangaroo?
a. One inch
b. Three inches
c. Six inches
d. One foot

4. Which animal can last the longest without water?
a. Horse
b. Camel
c. Rat
d. Alcoholic

5. How far away can a lion’s roar be heard?
a. One mile
b. Five miles
c. Ten miles
d. Doesn’t matter. If you can hear it you’re too close.

6. Which animal has an eye that’s bigger than its brain?
a. Cow
b. Lemming
c. Ostrich
d. And aren't you glad he's not president anymore?

7. Which was the first cartoon character ever made into a balloon for a parade?
a. Mickey Mouse
b. Bugs Bunny
c. Tweety Bird
d. Felix the Cat

8. Which breed of dog bites humans most often?
a. German Shepherd
b. Pit Bull
c. Chihuahua
d. Boxer

9. Which animal has killed the most people in Africa?
a. Lion
b. Cape Buffalo
c. Hippo
d. Elephant

10. Which is not true about swans?
a. The female does most of the egg incubation
b. They generally mate for life
c. They are the only bird with a penis
d. They don’t migrate


ANSWERS:

1. CHAMELEON. Laugh all you want, but here’s one dude who’s not sitting home alone on a Saturday night watching his Lizards Gone Wild tape. Ever.
2. 200,000. No explanation is given as to how the glasses squeeze through those faucet thingies a cow has. Or exactly how painful that process is.
3. ONE INCH. I’ve seen some rather large ones still trying to squeeze into the pouch, though. How embarrassing to the mother! “Your Edgar is still living at home, I see.”
4. RAT. So the next time you hear that scratching from behind your walls you might want to leave a bowl of water out for the little guys. It’s probably been a while.
5. FIVE MILES. I guess that’s why it’s always the deaf antelopes that are the first to go.
6. OSTRICH. When you can kill a lion with one kick you really don’t have to be that smart.
7. FELIX THE CAT. No, I don’t know where or when, and it’s much too late to look it up. Oh, you demand an answer? OK, Macy’s Parade—1939. Now somebody do the actual research and correct me.
8. GERMAN SHEPHERDS. They also enjoy disgusting food, scatological pornography and horrible electronic club music.
9. HIPPO. Yup, the big guys have killed over 400 human-types. They should have made that game Hungry Hungry Hippos with little humans instead of marbles.
10. THEY DON’T MIGRATE. Oh yes they do, my under-educated friend. And as far as what all the other boy birds use to get the job done, uh—look it up yourself!

"I'm Hopeless"

Listen, as long as I still have the way-back machine plugged in I’m going to use it again tonight. This is another sports-related story that dates back to the misty recesses of my long-ago youth, but this one doesn’t star me. It features my childhood pal Arthur.

I’ve written about Arthur previously on these pages but I don’t think I’ve related this particular story. Arthur, you may recall, was a close friend of mine from fifth grade right up until high school graduation. You may also recall that he is the only person on Earth that I’ve ever admitted might, might, be smarter than me.

Yes, in the classroom Arthur was indeed a wizard. If I remember correctly he went through high school taking nothing but Honors classes. (Unlike yours truly.) He also had a wicked sense of humor that perfectly complemented my own, which I suppose explains the friendship as much as anything else. Arthur did however have one flaw: he was a complete spaz.

In sixth grade our school held a sort of Recess Olympics. I certainly can’t remember all the events (or what I had for breakfast this morning, for that matter) but I know there was a high jump, a hop, skip and jump and some inane relay race with wooden pins. Each student was required to compete in an event. Memories are suddenly rushing back. I believe that I personally competed in the relay race, which is surprising since it was the type of event usually reserved for only the swift. (Although today, ironically, my wife often tells me that I am indeed fast, although sadly not in a way that would win a schoolyard competition.)

There was also an event called the standing broad jump. It was the most basic of the tasks and was exactly what its name implied: The contestant started from a standing position and simply had to jump. It was a distance competition, the goal being, obviously, to see who could jump the farthest. As it seemed to require the least amount of athletic acumen, and perhaps even no coordination at all, this was the event that Arthur chose. Or had chosen for him.

I still remember where I was standing and at what angle when it came time for Arthur to make his jump. I watched my friend as he got into a slight squat, made his jump, tripped over his feet and fell to the ground. Within two seconds of hitting the pavement Arthur was up on his feet, embarrassed and with arms flailing, proclaiming loudly and disgustedly to the world, “I’m hopeless!”

Five years later Arthur, myself and two others from our group found ourselves sitting in the bleachers of the high school gym. This was the first meeting of those sophomores who had decided to try out for the school football team. The coach, who I had previously only known as my math teacher, was giving his recruitment speech about how great playing football was. He was making the point that when you hit a player from the other team and he went down it was “a better feeling than getting laid.”

I tell you honestly at the age of 15 I had only the vaguest notion of exactly what “getting laid” was, but I was pretty sure it would feel a lot better than knocking down some dopey high school kid. (A few years later I was more qualified to research the coach’s theory and so was able to confirm what I had only previously suspected—that guy was nuts.)

That meeting was the end of my high school football career. Of the other three of my group, one attended one practice and promptly joined me on the sidelines. The other two continued to attend practice, made the team and played the entire season. One of the two was Arthur.

I never did see Arthur play in a game. Nor did I see him after our freshman year in college. I’ve made attempts and have been unable to track him down, but I hope he’s out there somewhere enjoying himself. I’m sure he’s still smart and has accomplished a great deal with his life, but I suspect the season he played on the high school football team remains one of his proudest achievements. I never told him, but I too always thought it was pretty cool.


ADDENDUM: Since I wrote this piece I have happily been back in touch with Arthur. I sent it to him and I think he recognized it as the compliment it was intended to be. He did, however, take exception of the description of him as "a complete spaz." And he might be right--I may have been guilty of taking a little poetic license for dramatic effect.

Although he did indeed fall when attempting to do the standing broad jump.

I'm Not Jewish (Part II)

The Story That Could Have Been Really Funny

I come home about two weeks ago and there’s a message on the machine. It’s from yet another person that I know, but not particularly well. But still a friend. After some greetings and chit-chat (we hadn’t spoken in several years) the message goes on to say that she is calling for a particular reason. Specifically, she’s been looking for someone to portray Jesus and she decided that I was the perfect candidate!

At first I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The idea that someone would want me to portray anybody, much less Jesus, in a play or pageant was almost beyond my scope of understanding. Everybody knows that I don’t perform in front of people. I hide behind my keyboard and release vile thoughts from my Pandora’s Box of a mind when I’m all alone and in the dead of night. What could she possibly have been thinking?

The message rambled on a bit more about another subject and then returned to the main event:

“Yeah, the more I think about the more I know I’m right. That’s what we need, a real Jewish Jesus.”

Ah ha! So that’s it. She didn’t put it into these exact words, but apparently what my friend was looking for was a real jewy Jesus to be in her little show. In fact it sounded like she wanted to say the jewier the Jesus the better.

I immediately picked up the phone, not to return the call but to talk to my pal Mr. Zero. He is one of those friends I mentioned last night who is always trying to get me to admit to being Jewish, although he knows I’m not. I knew that he, and I, would get a major kick out of this phone call.

“That is so funny,” he agreed right on cue when I related the contents of the bizarre message. And he was right, of course. Seriously, no matter what my religion, or lack of, can you even begin to imagine me portraying Jesus in some passion play, or whatever the hell she had in mind?

First off, I don’t think Jesus should be portrayed by someone who still carries the remnants of a fairly thick Long Island accent. I mean, wouldn’t some of the solemnity of the story be destroyed if when the Roman soldiers arrive to arrest Jesus he greets them with a, “How ya doin’?”

Also, although there is no photographic record of Jesus, I think we can safely assume that he probably didn’t weigh anywhere near 220 pounds. Pity the poor director who would be forced to hire a dozen carpenters just to be able to stage that crucifixion scene, and with me refusing to remove my shirt besides.

And again, although we can’t know for a fact that Jesus didn’t have gray hair, we do know that he only came within seventeen years of being eligible for AARP, whereas I, had I not been stuck in denial, could have joined that organization for the decrepit a decade ago. Add all this to the fact that I couldn’t act my way out of a one-ply tissue and you’ll agree that any idea about me portraying Jesus would be beyond absurd.

And this is where I wish I could end the story. But as I explained last night, I am nothing else if not truthful to you, my loyal readers (reader?) and so now the rest of the story. And believe me it’s quite a letdown.

I finally returned the phone call. Well of course my friend didn’t want me to play Jesus on a stage or in a pageant or on video. When she suggested I “portray” Jesus she meant in a screenplay. She thought it would be a good idea if I wrote a screenplay about Jesus, and by that she meant the real Jewish Jesus, at least as she perceived him to be.

I get this quite a bit, you know. (Nearly as much as I’m asked about being Jewish, in fact.) People find out that I am a writer (or at least play one on the computer) and immediately begin to tell me about all the great writing ideas they have. And they all suffer from the same problem—they can come up with a limitless supply of creative concepts, but they get stuck when it comes time to sit down and actually put them on paper. And it’s right about here that I’m always forced to remind them that the part where they sit down and put their ideas down on paper? That’s the writing.

So I’m sorry for how this ended. It would have been truly hilarious if someone had actually asked me to play Jesus on a stage. And who knows, if the money had been right I might have even done it. After all, these are different times in which we find ourselves. If we can entertain the notion of a black president or a woman president maybe we’re ready for a chubby, gray-haired and middle-aged Jesus with a thick New York accent. Then again, maybe we’re not.

I'm Not Jewish

Part I: Not That There’s Anything Wrong With That


Let me warn you at the outset that this could have turned out to be a much funnier story than it did. But at least I’m telling the truth about what happened, which might make me feel good about myself but it also eliminates any chance I might have had to be selected for the Oprah Book Club.

Throughout my life, from the time I was a teenager and probably earlier, people have thought that I was Jewish. To this day I have several good friends who kid me about “coming clean” about my heritage. I say that they’re kidding, but I suspect they’re half-kidding at best. And if I’m objective about the whole thing I suppose it’s really not difficult to understand why.

I was born in New York, more specifically Long Island. Do you know how many times in my life when I’ve told people where I was from they immediately respond with the exaggerated, “Oh, Lawng Guy-land!” Not that there’s anything blatantly anti-Semitic about this, but subconsciously? Yeah, I think it’s there. It’s like that commercial for Pace picante sauce, where the Red State cowboys are reading a label (or having it read for them) and one of them says, “This sauce is made in New York City!” You don’t need subtitles to know what he’s really saying is, “Hey, this stuff is made by Jews!”

My name, both first and last, would also quite logically lead people to assume I’m Jewish. For my whole life I’ve heard a rule of thumb which states that if a “man” surname ends in two n’s it’s German, but if it ends in one n it’s Jewish. Is this true? How the hell should I know? I do know I’ve spent a good chunk of my life correcting people on the spelling of Stegmann. “With two n’s,” I’ve said about a million times. But that has nothing to do with my proclaiming or denying my heritage—I just want my name spelled correctly. Right? Right?

As a kid I worked in a drive-thru dairy store. Yes, I’ve had quite an illustrious employment career—right from the beginning. One time I had a slight run-in with one of the customers, a teen just a few years older than I. I don’t remember what the fracas was about; perhaps I had refused to sell him beer or cigarettes. What I do remember was as he pulled away he looked at me through his car window and spat, “You Jew.” And even though I’m not Jewish, and had neither the time nor inclination to explain this to that delightful chap, I got a small taste that day of the ugliness that is prejudice. I never forgot the feeling.

A few months ago I was working with a guy I know, but not particularly well. It was Christmas-time and I could see he was struggling with my ”Jewishness.”

“So do you celebrate Hanukah?” he asked.
“No, I’m not Jewish.” I answered. I could see the slits of his eyes narrow in doubt.
“What are you?” he asked.
“Well, I was raised Catholic.” Immediately I knew he had seized on the phrase “raised Catholic.”
“But one of your parents was Jewish,” he challenged.

I told him that no, as far as I knew I had no Jewish blood. The conversation ended there, but I could tell he was not convinced. I have no doubt that one of this guy’s next conversations included the phrase, “And then he tried to deny that he’s Jewish!” That’s okay, I was relieved enough just knowing that the inquisition had ended without me being tied to a rack.

I have dealt with many situations similar to this over the past four decades, and yet each time it still surprises me. I no longer wonder why people think I’m Jewish (hell, I’ve even played it up when trying to close a big account) but I do wonder why they care so much. Why is it so important to these people for me, someone who to them is obviously Jewish, to step up and admit “the truth”?

Another bizarre aspect of these questioning sessions is that I’ve often gone through them two and even three times with the same person. It might be months or even years later, but there I am once again answering questions about the Jewish faith while at the same time denying McCarthy-style that I am not now nor have ever been a member of it. And the classic story, or at least what could have turned out to be the classic story, happened just a week or so ago.


TOMORROW: THE STORY THAT COULD HAVE TURNED OUT TO BE REALLY FUNNY!

I'm Such a Meanie

Have you come across one of these guys? (And for some reason they always seem to be guys.) You’re sitting down somewhere, in this case it was at a picnic table at a local street festival, and to be polite you begin talking to the old guy sitting near you. (Yeah, I’ve gone back to using the classic words like “old” and “fat” and “stupid.” Keep your adjectives short—that’s what all the writing books say.)

So I’m talking with the guy for a few minutes and the conversation keeps coming around to age. It doesn’t take me long to realize what I’ve stumbled upon here—another old fart who is just bursting to tell me exactly how old he actually is. Trust me, I’ve met them before.

There are two times during the short scamper through our lives when we are particularly proud of our age; so proud that we can’t wait to tell anybody we can corner long enough to listen. One time is of course when we are very young. Who among us hasn’t felt the urge to strangle some little rug-rat in order to stop his incessant, “I’m five, I’m five, I’m five…” Hey kid, I used to be five too and, although it was quite some time ago, I still remember that it was not that big a deal. So how about clamming up for two seconds?

And then there’s the other end of the spectrum, and one of these geezers currently had me trapped at the picnic table while I was trying to eat my hotdog. I blame Spike for starting the whole thing by innocently asking the coot if he lived here in town. I can’t swear that he actually scoffed at the fact that we’ve live here for only four years, but he was quick to point out that he’d lived here his “whole life.” Uh-oh, I thought.

“Yep, the population is 12,000 now but it was 800 when I was born,” he began. My legs involuntarily tensed into the classic biological “flee” position, while a line from a great old cartoon flashed into my head: Really, Commander, we really must be going…

We talked a little more when somehow I mentioned that my mom enjoyed going to the casino. The fossil perked up at this and asked how old my mother was. When I told him she was 79 he was quick to mention that he had “a few years on her.”

And still I couldn’t do it. All this harmless old relic wanted was for somebody, anybody, to ask him how old he was, and then to exclaim with disbelieving glee, “Really? You don’t look like it!” I continued to cram the hotdog down my throat so I could then beat a hasty retreat, but I didn’t cram fast enough. I had looked away and pretended to be delighted by the enthusiastic brats who were dangling from the nearby climbing wall, but the dinosaur could contain himself no longer and so finally and proudly blurted out to Spike that he was 87 years old.

Let me say here what I couldn’t force myself to say to his face: The man looked nothing like 87. If forced to guess I might have gone 15 or even 20 years younger. And so what? How you look, although perhaps an indicator of how you’ve cared for yourself combined with a bit of luck, doesn’t make you one day younger than you actually are. Enough with this “you’re only as old as you feel” nonsense. If that were true then I’d be 87 too.

And so we politely bid farewell to the old man and his wife (Who for a second there I had thought of as “do-able.” I really do have some issues I need to work on.) And honestly, would it have really been such a big deal, would it have taken that much effort, for me to make the old fellow’s day by playing along with his harmless game? Apparently it would have, yes. Besides, you don’t want to encourage this sort of behavior—it’s dangerous and it must be nipped in the bud. Or maybe it all comes down to what I’ve already advertised on the top of this page in 18-point type. Maybe I am just a meanie.

The Old-Timey Toys Quiz

Speaking of protecting the little darlings, how many of you remember a toy called Creepy Crawlers that was popular in the 1960's? Basically it was a hot plate with various metal molds into which you could squirt a colorful plastic, which would then be heated, cooled and removed so that you'd have your very own wriggly bugs, worms or other some-such disgusting creatures. And for the girls the folks at Mattel offered a similar kit that allowed you to make...flowers. How does that old Jewish prayer go again, the one where we thank God for not having us be born a woman?

Anyway, Creepy Crawlers was removed from the shelves in the mid-seventies. It seems that some of our less nimble-fingered kidlings were burning themselves on the 300 degree molds. The government called this a safety hazard. I call it Darwinism. And though those Creepy Crawlers have been gone for almost forty years I can still remember the fun of creating my very own insects. I remember the colors of the bugs, the smell of the plastic and the searing pain when I would accidentally touch those damn...whoops. Never mind. Why, I even remember the funny name they gave to the four bottles of liquid plastic that came with the kit. It was called--

Wait a minute, Of course I remember the name of the stuff. The question is, do you? Let's find out by taking a journey back to some of the games and toys from long ago, a wonderful time when our toys were creative, fun and sometime even life-threatening. Ah, the good old days.


1. What color was Amsco's Marble Raceway?
a. red
b. blue
c. yellow
d. each level was a different color

2. What was banned by The Consumer Product Safety Commission in December 1988, due to several deaths.
a. Play-Doh
b. Silly Putty
c. Lionel Solar Train Set
d. Lawn Darts

3. Which was not an original 1968 Hot Wheels car?
a. Barracuda
b. Corvette
c. Porsche 917
d. Mustang

4. Exactly what did Kenner's Give-A-Show Projector show?
a. Slides
b. 8mm movies
c. Silhouettes
d. Colorful psychedelic backgrounds

5. What did the original Easy-Bake Oven use for heat?
a. An electric coil
b. Light bulbs
c. Candles
d. Solar reflectors

6. This mechanical toy with the clear body and wind-up key was created in 1960.
a. Mr. Machine
b. Gearbox
c. Robo-Boy
d. The Amazing Rust-O

7. Ruth Handler was influenced by this doll to create a doll of her own.
a. Bild Lilli
b. Barbie
c. Raggedy Andy
d. Teddy Bear

8. Toy battleship that fired ashcan depth-charges, had rotating pom-pom guns and a plane catapult.
a. Shark
b. Fighting Lady
c. Intruder
d. USS Arizona

9. This game had two hand-held plastic game boards with a marble maze on each side, and a tower that lit up when somebody won.
a. Frustration
b. Fibulation
c. Fascination
d. Fornication

10. Which was not a part to be removed in Operation?
a. Wrenched ankle
b. Writer's cramp
c. Charley Horse
d. Bee's knees



ANSWERS:

1. The Marble Raceway was RED. You can still pick up one of these on eBay. I've always wanted to buy a bunch of them and build a raceway six feet high. I can dream, can't I?
2. LAWN DARTS. Why ever would they ban a metal-tipped projectile that you threw way up into the air? Sissies.
3. There was no PORSCHE 917 among the original "Sweet Sixteen" Hot Wheels. It was, however, created two years later. Recently I was able to annoy some obviously tiny-endowed brute by referring to his Corvette as a "Chevy." Try it sometime--it's fun!
4. The Give-A-Show Projector came with a large assortment of SLIDES. If you had read my wonderfully nostalgic piece on it you'd already know that.
5. The original 1963 Easy-Bake Oven used two 100-watt light bulbs. The Easy-Bake Oven is still sold today. Maybe I'll get one for Spike for her birthday. I mean, she has to start somewhere.
6. MR. MACHINE. Yes, of course I had one. The makers claimed that you could take Mr. Machine apart and then put him back together again. They were half right.
7. Ruth Handler based her popular doll on the 1950's German fashion doll BILD LILLI. Handler's creation? Barbie, of course! Tricky, huh?
8. My Uncle A. gave me a FIGHTING LADY BATTLESHIP when I was six years old. I thought it was the most magnificent thing I had ever seen. I just saw a picture of one online. Some things are best kept as memories, eh?
9. FASCINATION. And unlike some games of then and now, I can promise you this one got played.
10. Ah, Operation -the game that brought you all the fun and laughs of major surgery. There was no BEE'S KNEES. It was Water on the Knee.

In The Eye of a Hurricane

I’m exhausted, so this is going to have to be short and sweet. My lids are drooping and I can barely lift my fingers to the keyboard. And my back isn’t feeling all that great either.

As usual the cause of my sad situation is female. In this case the source happens to be a girl I went to the beach with today. She was young. She was full of energy. She was two.

As some of you know Spike is a pre-school teacher, and on more than one occasion she’s come home with a story about some child who was acting up and had to be set straight. My usual smug response is, “That’s right, Honey, crush their little spirits. Get them ready for the corporate world.”

How ignorant I was. But I know a lot more now. Yes, you must crush their spirits. You must hold them down and keep them down. Make them stand in corners and hand them time-outs as if they were sticks of gum. For I now know if you fail to do these things these tiny bundles of pure energy will take over your home and your life. And your world.

At the beach I walked the little cherub to the edge of the water. As we got closer I could feel her hesitate and then as the water began to lap at our toes she reached up to grasp my finger. And who among us doesn’t instantly melt when a child looks for assurance by holding our hand? Besides Dick Cheney, I mean.

And then the game began. She stood in front of me and each time a tiny wave came I lifted her into the air, to the accompaniment of her squeals of delight. First one wave, then the second, then the third and the infectious laughter continued undiminished.

And then the sixteenth wave, and then the seventeenth and then the eighteenth. Who among us wouldn’t do anything within our power in order to evoke the sound of a child’s laughter? Besides Cheney, that is. And so the game continued. Ah, but the waves are eternal and I knew there would be no stopping of them. The child’s laughter also showed no sign of reaching any sort of conclusion. And then there was me lifting the kid up and down, up and down. Have you spotted the weak link in this little chain?

And so finally, after logging more reps than Swarzennegger in his glory days, I somehow hinted to the child that it was time to go back to Mommy and maybe play in the sand for a bit. Or collapse on it, depending on your age. And so we did, she running all the way, me huffing and puffing like Ron Jeremy on a Stairmaster between takes.

And soon we all returned to the house and I was able to secure for myself what I needed: pizza, a beer and, perhaps most importantly, a couch. The kid, of course, continued to run around the house as if it, or she, were on fire. She re-tuned my guitar, re-organized my CD’s, explored every closet, terrified a neighbor’s cat with just a look and somehow managed to adjust dials and switches on my DVD player, amplifier and television that I didn’t even know were there.

Eventually the kid was strapped into her car seat by her mom and, with a quick wave of her chubby hand, she was gone. I walked back into the house and collapsed into my usual position on the couch just in time to watch this week’s episode of Game of Thrones.

And despite the yelling and stabbing and battle sounds emanating from my TV screen I noticed a quiet in the house, like the empty stillness that follows a particularly sudden and violent storm. Her mom said she might bring her back in a couple of months. Which is good because the weather should really be nice by then and the ocean a little warmer.

Indigenous Nudity

The primary issue for me was whether the Indian women in The New World would be topless or not. The PG-13 rating description said nothing about nudity, only violence, so I knew going in that my prospects were slim. In spite of this I went to see the film, which turned out to be my best decision of the day. It’s a gorgeous film; a dreamy blend of raw reality and hazy mythology. But that’s not why I’ve gathered you all here tonight.

In case you are unaware, that’s the new phrase being used in the ratings of documentaries about native peoples, especially on television. If you’re watching a show on Discovery about some primitive tribe that is eking out a meager existence in the low-rent district of New Guinea they will warn you from the get-go that the program features scenes of “indigenous nudity.” That means all the chicks are nekkid. Classifying certain nudity as “indigenous” helps to draw a distinction between this type of acceptable display and regular nudity, such as a vacationing white woman running topless down a California beach, for example. You probably won’t be seeing the latter type on Discovery anytime soon. At least not without pixilation covering the choicest bits of real estate.

And while I’m thinking of it, what’s with that tribe where the men have affixed those long pointy cones onto their doodles? Those sticks extend out three or four feet! You know who I mean I’m sure--you’ve seen them on TV. I forget the name of the tribe, but I think the English translation is “The Wishful Thinkers.”

No, I’m sorry to report that the women in The New World didn’t run around topless. They tended to wear chic designer buckskin tops with the popular bare midriff look that apparently has been around longer than I realized. Like about 400 years longer. At first I thought that the filmmakers were attempting to be historically authentic. What do I know--maybe Native American women didn’t run around naked to the waist in the early 1600’s. But then, as if the producers were purposely exposing their own dastardly lie, the antique background etchings during the closing credits clearly showed two Indian women sitting in a canoe. Topless.

Frankly I think the problem here was that the historic Pocahontas was about 11 years old when she met Captain John Smith (who later wrote that she often did naked cartwheels) and that the actress who plays her is a mere 14 years old. So smart move by the producers, really—that’s one can of worms you don’t want to open up in these repressed and ugly times.

Do you remember a film called The Emerald Forest? It was a pretty good film from about twenty years back, and actually one of the first major ecologically-themed movies that I can recall. Anyway, ecology-schmology, the chicks that belonged to that South American tribe were all topless. And hot! I still can remember a scene where a group of them were posing on rocks with a beautiful waterfall as a backdrop. It looked more like a Sports Illustrated swimsuit shoot than a tribe of primitive people. I know I saw this movie more than twice. Well, it was my way of trying to do something to save the environment, dammit!

About a year after I saw The Emerald Forest I happened to see a documentary about these very same people. At least they said it was the same people, but what happened? The women in the documentary were topless to be sure, but somehow they bore little resemblance sleek, golden-skinned bikini models exhibited in the Hollywood version. These women were squat, with tangled hair, bloated bellies and breasts that were droopier than your old Granny’s and hung like Spanish moss. So what? Let me ask you this: Since both of these films dealt with the plight of these indigenous people fighting to survive in a rain forest that is slowly but steadily being destroyed, which film would you rather sit through? Yeah, I thought so.

Which brings me back to Pocahontas. There is only one known image of that Indian princess made during her lifetime, and that is an engraving done in 1616 by Simon van de Passe. I’ve seen a picture of the engraving, and trust me that is not the actress in the movie. From all historic accounts, Pocahontas was quite a heroic girl. But take one look at that frightful mug in the engraving and believe me you’ll know that if she were alive today and they were making a movie about her life there’s no way she’d get the part. And that’s with or without a shirt.

Inside Information For The Ladies

It’s a cool and damp and there is a chance of a minor storm blowing in off the Pacific. Ah, but the candles are lit, the incense is burning, it’s late at night and the wine glass is full. And so Ladies, as we find ourselves this evening in the environment that you seem to treasure the most, let’s talk a bit.

Do you like stories? Of course you do, so let’s begin with one—a true one. Our tale takes place oh, say five years ago. A friend of mine, who I’ll call James, is on vacation. Let’s put him in Paris, as that is sure to get your romantic juices flowing, oui?

Now James had been in the City of Lights for about three days when he meets a fellow tourist--a woman. What shall we name her? Actually, why go through the bother—it truly doesn’t matter to the story.

Now James has one main goal while he is staying in Paris, and trust me it’s not to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower or to eat snails. James wants to get laid. And now that he has met (damn, now I wish I had given her a name) this woman he feels his chances of achieving that goal have greatly improved. And so they have.

Now please forgive me if at this point the details become a little sketchy. Remember this is a true story told to me directly by my friend James and only some minor facts have been altered. Facts such as my friend’s name, the city in which these events occurred and how long ago it took place. And maybe a few others.

So perhaps James took this woman to dinner or perhaps they just strolled along the Seine (or whatever river happened to flow through the city they were actually in.) Eventually James knew it was time to make his move.

But James also knew that he could not bring the woman back to his hotel room nor could she bring him to hers. Why this is so is not important. No, neither one was married. Just trust me on this, it is nothing more than an insignificant detail of little consequence. So after the couple enjoys some heavy bouts of tonsil hockey along the Seine (or whatever) James suggested they get a room at a four-star hotel.

Four-star hotels in Paris, as you must be aware, can be very expensive. Four-star hotels in any city can be expensive. And the exact price that James paid for the room is, sadly, another one of the details that has receded into the fog-filled crannies of my deteriorating brain. But if a number is truly needed in order to make this story come alive for you, I don’t think it would be too far off to suggest that James paid about $200 for the room. And then James got laid.

Fast-forward twenty-four hours. James and the woman are together again. Would you like them to be walking hand-in-hand along the Seine? Fine, you got it. Things once again begin to heat up and James realizes that he would not mind a rematch of last night’s action, and judging from the lip lock being administered by the woman he’s thinking she feels pretty much the same way.

I’ll spare you the gory details. Just know that James for the second night in a row had sex with this woman. I don’t want to speculate or get too graphic but I’m sure there were some aspects of the act that were similar to the first encounter. There was, however, one difference. Some, actually almost anyone, would call it a major difference. For this time when our two eager lovers created the beast with two backs it was not in the warm and snuggly confines of a king size bed in a high-end hotel. No, this time when our hot-pantsed romantics went at it they did it in the dark, damp and olfactory challenging confines of a public restroom.

Ladies, allow me to save you five or ten bucks a month. Don’t waste your time reading those articles in Cosmo or any of those other female rags that promise you "Ten Secrets That Will Drive Him Wild" or "How To Make Every Night A Honeymoon." No candlelight or bubble bath or wig or French maid’s outfit is going to re-ignite that spark in your tired old man. And the reason is because under all that fluff and nonsense, and I mean no disrespect here, you are still you.

I must give credit to comedian Bill Maher who puts it accurately and succinctly. There are no secrets when it comes to figuring out sexual attraction in men. Men divide women into two groups, and they have nothing to do with height, weight, age or bra size. To us you are simply old or new. Either we’ve had a woman before and thereby conquered her, or we haven’t, but hope to.

How else would you explain why a Hugh Grant, who had a gorgeous Elizabeth Hurley waiting at home, would be crawling around in a back seat with a slobbering Divine Brown? How else do you explain a toad like Billy Joel getting tired of a Christie Brinkley? There is only old and new: that is all ye know and all ye need to know.

And that, Ladies, is why my friend James was willing to shell out $200 (or more!) for a few hours in a hotel just to bed a woman with whom he had never been with before. And that’s also why the very next night James had sex with the very same woman (who was certainly no longer the same to him) in a dank cement bunker of a crapper beneath the romantic streets of Paris.

Or wherever.