Category Archives: Pot Pouri

For the past 10 days around the Christmas holiday, I have been on a serious
jigsaw puzzle jag, assembling 6 puzzles totaling several thousand pieces. I
have put together two Amish farm scenes, fall in Vermont, a scene of colorful
Greek houses clinging to a side of a cliff, a serene mountain lake at sunset,
and a puzzle depicting all the different state birds and flowers. Puzzles were
a staple of my childhood, and in sixth grade I remember inviting Mary, the new girl in school, over to play. We did this circular 500 piece puzzle illustrating different breeds of dogs, and then when we were done, I dissembled it and we did it all over again. Not surprisingly Mary never came back to our house and promptly moved on to a new circle of friends. What is it about puzzles that I find so relaxing? This lead me to ponder the overall concept of the art of relaxing, both in terms of the when and the how. Continue reading →

Between Christmas and New Year’s our family traditionally gathers at our cabin in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula (UP) along the shores of Lake Superior. Several other families have the same tradition, and therefore New Year’s has been celebrated with the same group of family friends over many decades and generations. This little community is extraordinarily tight. The cabins are isolated beyond the reach of cell phone, there is no TV and the days are short, with the sun setting by 4:30 PM. So there is much communal time in the cabins,and evenings are filled with a variety of quirky parlor games, so ingrained in tradition that I have never given them a second thought. However, this year I put myself in the shoes of a newcomer stumbling unprepared into this odd little enclave, thrust into a raucous living room on a cold dark night with no escape. I realize now that no matter how genial and welcoming this cozy group is, outsiders are roped into the medley of games and cannot help but think that they are being subjected to a series of institutionalized assaults on their personal space. Continue reading →

A couple of weeks ago I spent a very entertaining Sunday evening at a church social that included an after dinner comedienne discussing the foibles of empty nesting. At the end of the presentation, the comedienne announced a trivia contest with prizes. She quickly cautioned us not to get excited and competitive since the prizes were regifts from her swag inventory.  I was lucky enough to win a talking coffin.

Apparently, our speaker had been hired to be a spokes woman for the product and was featured in a video called “Bury the Habit.” (www.burythehabit.com) As she describes the plastic coffin, about the size of a package of cigarettes, a pair of creamy white hands opens and closes the lid and gracefully points out other features, such as beveled edges and faux silk lining. When the lid is opened, a lugubrious voice coughs, hocks up a loogie and then calls out “quit before it is too late.”  However, as the proud owner I could record up to 4 personal messages. There was also an animated video on the website, a very unsophisticated cartoon demo-ing the burial of different bad habits. In one scenario, a bottle of “boozy beer” is poured into the coffin which is then buried. The coffin then pushes up some daisies.

The website notes that “Bury the Habit” is a family enterprise, harnessing the talents of parents, children, aunts and uncles, contributing marketing, design, legal and financial expertise to “make a dream come true.” What kind of family has a dream of making a talking coffin?  I envision thefollowing scenario:

A grandchild is anxious about his grandpa’s life long smoking habit, and his coffin shaped cigarette holder earns him a boy scout badge. Teary-eyed, he presents his gift to his grandpa, and lo and behold it works – after multiple failed attempts, Grandpa finally quits smoking.

The next Thanksgiving dinner turns into a brainstorming session on how to turn the kid’s simple idea into a money-maker, and perhaps Aunty Jill points out that the coffin would be more effective if it yelled at you every time you lifted the lid. She suggests the name “Bury the Habit,” and Nathaniel, Tony and Anne immediately come up with visuals. “If you were a snacker, you could fill the coffin with M&Ms,” says Nathaniel, “and my recording would be ‘Take that candy and put it back, only big fat pigs are allowed to snack.’

“You know what is really dangerous?” says Tony. “Driving while texting – let’s make the coffin big enough to fit a cell phone, and how about this message – ‘if you get distracted while you text, a head on collision will happen next.’”

“Here’s what I would like to bury,” says Anne. “I can’t stand it when Tony doesn’t put the toilet seat down. I would put my engagement ring in the coffin with the message, ‘If you don’t put the seat down after you piss, I’ll slam the lid on your wedded bliss.”

Old Uncle Tim, who has a particularly keen ear for well-crafted potty humor, thumps his hand on the table in appreciation, and stands up to make a toast, “Twenty years ago the Pet Rock swept the nation and a family just like us made a fortune.  Now it is OUR TIME,  it is OUR TIME with a product that can actually save lives. Let’s raise a toast to ‘Bury the Habit.’”

Enthusiasm continues to build as the family segues from turkey and yams to pecan pie, and responsibilities are divvied up. Tim and Jill are assigned background research on trademarks and patents, Tony and Anne agree to research manufacturing, particularly since their children Maggie and Libby travel frequently to China in their high school jazz band. Nick is assigned marketing and Bobbie is assigned legal issues, not because she has a law degree, but she tends to overthink things and that is the next best thing.

Ten months later, the product, priced at $19.95 (complete with batteries)is unleashed on an unsuspecting public, who have never before considered the charms of a talking coffin.

As I spend quality time withthe packaging, I notice a few oddities. The package feels compelled to state that the coffin is not suitable for “outdoor or underground use.” Perhaps the legal concern was that someone would be way too literal and stuff a dead  parrot into the box and then bury it. I think that the package should also state that the coffin is not suitable for liquor, since some one might take the boozy beer cartoon seriously and short out the system. The package states the age range is “one until done,” but this seems to be a very defeatist attitude, since I interpret “done” to refer to a life span and not the habit.  Additionally the claim, “Anything you do to quit is better than nothing,” is not a ringing endorsement.  The statement, “Bury the Habit and save some bones!” is inexplicable, but perhaps the family had to be vague in order to avoid making a specific health claim.

Unsurprisingly, the coffin is made in China.  I think of the Chinese worker, probably toiling away in an unfair trade job, cursing as he tests the petit recording device and tries to fit the faux silk lining into the coffin. What must he be thinking? America has always been a remote dream for him, a country representing freedom and unfettered choice, with ripe and rich opportunity, low hanging fruit ready for all the taking. With all of these great privileges, this is what Americans do – build and buy talking coffins?

But I think that I am missing the point here. This is exactly what Americans are good at – however cockamamie the idea, we are free to try spectacularly and fail miserably, and then do it again. Politicians are constantly yammering about jobs, jobs, jobs, so let’s take a look at the trickle down effect of “Bury the Habit.” Despite the family’s insistence that they did everything themselves, I bet they hired a business consultant to find a factory in China that was up to the job, a graphic designer for the packaging (I don’t think that they spent much money on this though), a lawyer to review the contracts, a web designer to create the website, and a videographer to film the product demo. The family then paid for a booth at several gift shows, and hired several unemployed friends to be the sales team, loading dozens of coffins in their car trunks so that they can drive around and call on gift stores. The family is planning to double their sales force around Halloween and Christmas and is now considering an infomercial where people can call an 800 number and order directly, with breathless “Wait, there’s more” offers of multiple coffins at a fraction of the price (plus shipping and handling).  For the moment, the fulfillment house is in Tim’s garage where he is putting his teenage daughters to work, but ultimately he hopes to contract with a service. All in all, “Bury the Habit” has contributed to five different segments of the American economy.

Even though “Bury the Habit” is the bedrock of our economy, I am just not buying into the concept of a talking coffin.  The package notes that it is a great gift, but I can’t imagine who I would give this to, unless I wanted to add a note of levity to an otherwise grim intervention. I also have my doubts that Bury the Habit can solve a pesky habit.  I have seen a light activated device that you can put into your frig – every time the door opens, the device says something along the lines of, “No snacking, are you really that hungry? Shut the door and get your fat ass out of the kitchen!” Now that seems to have some chance of success – after all you do have to open the refrigerator door every now and then. However, I can see no reason that anyone would feel compelled to open a coffin to get yelled at.  But I would love to be proven wrong and I wish the family the best of luck.

The missing words in the following poems are anagrams (i.e. share the same letters, like spot, post, stop) and the number of asterisks indicates the number of letters.  One of the missing words will rhyme with the preceding or following line.  Your job is to solve for the missing words based on the context of the poem and the above rules.  Scroll down for answers.

Perhaps he is a snacker, a gambler, or a recidivist drug ****

Or maybe he leaves the toilet seat up, or is a habitual boozer.

He **** the day that he lost his self control and respect,

And let his habit turn into an addiction that has gone unchecked.

So the family tries a clever**** that they hope will work in a flash

It’s is a plastic coffin that talks customized trash,

They were **** it was going to work, but here is what the abuser did

He never heard the message because he never opened the lid.

Answers:  user, rues, ruse, sure

My childhood was decorated with a slew of family expressions.  My father liked to say, “Well he really stuck his ass in a tub of butter,” which referred to a man who had an amazing stroke of luck.  It typically referred to a guy who had married a wealthy woman, but when my father said it was without remorse or jealously but with a wry smile, since he knew that situation created its own challenges.  Whenever my siblings and I were rough housing, particularly in the tight confines of a car ride, my father would say with a weary note of resignation, “it will end in tears.”  Although he was inevitably correct, I always felt that a little tears were the price to pay for raucous fun.  But I am probably biased, since as one of the older siblings, I was not the one crying.  As a parent, I vowed never to say “It will end in tears,” and I actually came to look forward to crying as an universally recognized turning point – one could now easily say, “time to pick up,” time to get going,” “time to go to bed” – without feeling like the bad cop. Continue reading →

For about 2 years my mother and I worked together on a book of children’s poetry called Ned’s Journal, which described the “small and big life adventures of Ned,” a 10 year old boy.  We were pleased to secure a publisher, Tatra Press, whose only previous publication was a guide to men’s clothing.  While the book sold briskly in the 60045 zip code, sales fell dramatically off outside our home town– in fact there were virtually none – but that didn’t really matter.  The principle goal was to get the book published.

My mother-in-law, who fashions herself as an arbiter of art and good taste, took a look at the book and said, “Why this is doggerel!”  I bristled and gave Pat an unrecognized withering look.  But then I realized that Ned’s Journal had that universal doggerelish beat of da-DAH, da-DAH, da-DAH/ dah, DA-da-da, DA-da-da dah.  Then my pride of authorship kicked in and I thought yes, Pat is right, this is doggerel, but it was damn fine doggerel.  The issue really was why doggerel was dismissed as an art form.  I wondered how this poetic genre had gotten its poor reputation but had to go no farther than the on-line definitions of doggerel.

From Wikipedia

Doggerel describes verse considered of little literary value. The word is derogatory, from Middle English.  Almost by definition examples of doggerel are not preserved, since if they have any redeeming value they are not considered doggerel.  Doggerel might have any or all of the following failings:

• trite, cliche, or overly sentimental content
• forced or imprecise rhymes
• faulty meter
• misordering of words to force correct meter

From www.dictionary.com

dog·ger·el
n.   Crudely or irregularly fashioned verse, often of a humorous or burlesque nature.

The derogatory tone of both these definitions is dispiriting, one can almost sense the contemptuous sniff from the anonymous Wikipedia author.  If one judges literary value by what is taught in colleges, well, yes, doggerel may be wanting, but my contention is that doggerel is important to our lives and it should not be so cavalierly dismissed as an art.  How many wedding albums include yellowed pieces of paper memorializing the awkward verse of a toast, how many birthdays and anniversaries are enlivened by friends and family standing up, willing to embarrass themselves by singing a poorly metered verse in a quavering and off-key voice?  Such efforts are typically greeted with joyful groans and cheers in acknowledgement of the creative effort reflecting heartfelt good wishes.  We all might like to write sonnets like Shakespeare, but realistically we settle for doggerel.

According to Wikipedia, overly sentimental content is a fatal flaw, but as I was sitting in church this past Sunday leafing through the hymnal, it occurred to me that many of these Presbyterian hymns could be classified as doggerel based on sappiness, to wit:

“Now the darkness gathers, stars begin to peep, birds and beasts and flowers soon will be asleep.

When the morning wakens, then may I arise, pure and fresh and sinless, in thy holy eyes.”

Don’t you agree that these verses to the hymn “Now the Day is Over” seem trite and oversentimental?   And I am sure that I could find other hymns with off kilter meter to show that our treasured hymns fulfill multiple criteria for doggerel. 

The online dictionary definition also states that doggerel can be defined by its “humorous and burlesque nature.”  Here I see an opportunity to elevate doggerel to the rarified status of Shakespeare, since this towering linguistic icon suffuses all his plays and sonnets with incessant sexual puns and innuendos – the type of sophomoric puns that could be punctuated by a rimshot and an audience groan, progressing to burlesque, bawdy and then downright raunchy references.  Shakespeare had the challenging task of appealing both to the masses and the English courts.  Plays were wildly popular in Elizabethan England, and it is estimated 1 in 8 Londoners went to a play every week, ranging from the lowly laborers and apprentices, to country gentlemen, to aristocrats to Queen Elizabeth herself.  Apparently bawdy and raunchy sexual wordplay was a real crowd pleaser across the entire spectrum of society. 

The sexual puns that would be obvious to Shakespeare’s audience are now interpreted by modern readers as the epitome of English eloquence, simply because half of the time we probably don’t realize what Shakespeare is really talking about.  By cross referencing “doggerel and Shakespeare” into Google, I stumbled across an interesting book called “Filthy Shakespeare,” which translates Shakespeare’s jargon into today’s vernacular.  One of the first things you appreciate is the overwhelming number of idioms for “penis.”  Basically you can assume that anything that is longer than it is wide is a phallic symbol.  Also Shakespeare’s name itself is a sexual pun, since Will was a colloquialism for penis,  vagina and sexual desire.  And sorry to report this, but the word Shakespeare can roughly be translated to “masturbator.”  So you can only imagine the kind of teasing the poor kid had to put up with. 

Examples of Shakespeare’s idioms for male sexual organs include (but are certainly not limited to): beggar, carrot, dewlap, holy-thistle, instrument, kicky-wicky, little witness, needle, pizzle, potato-finger, pudding, three-inch fool and weapon.  The corresponding female idioms are more numerous than males and include bird’s nest, bogs, dearest bodily part, low countries (including the Netherlands), medlar, rudder, salmon’s tail, snatch, tongue and velvet.  Puns on sex itself include:  boggler, change the cod’s head for the salmon’s tail, dance with one’s heels, dribbling dart of love, fill a bottle with a tun-dish, horsemanship, nose-painting, paddling palms and tickle one’s catastrophe.  And I am just scratching the surface here. 

Shakespeare certainly did not have to depend on clever idioms to get his point across.  The following is an example of his signature word play, where the word “will,” repeated 13 times, can mean either Will (referring to a Christian name), or “will” referring to either a penis or vagina.  In this sonnet, the Poet wonders if he can join the ranks of the Beloved’s lovers:

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,

And Will to boot, and Will in overplus.

More than enough am I that vex thee still,

To thy sweet will making addition thus. 

With thou, whose will is large and spacious,

Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?

Shall will in others seem right gracious,

And in my will no fair acceptance shine?

The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,

And in abundance addeth to his store;

So thou, being rich in will, add to thy Will

One will of mine to make thy large Will more.

Let no unkind no fair beseechers kill;

Think all but one, and me in that one Will. 

 Okay folks, here is the translation from one Paula Kiernan, author of Filthy Shakespeare:

 “While other women can only wish for sex, your sexual desires are fulfilled by your Will, and you’d get my penis in the bargain, in fact you would get an excess of sex.

I can perform better than all of your lovers put together and I will keep tormenting you with my sexual advances. 

Will you not, with that vagina of yours which is large and spacious from so much use by other men, let me hide myself in you?

Are other men better endowed, and I cannot measure up? 

The sea is all water, but it still receives rain, and adds to it abundantly.  It’s the same with you. 

Even though you are already rich in the number of your lovers, I am asking that you accept me as a lover.  I am already aroused and my penis has grown larger. 

Please stop saying no to my reasonable advances.  Think of all your lovers as being a single one, and treat me as the only one that you desire.”

Now that we know what Shakespeare was talking about, I certainly think that this sonnet meets the burlesque and humorous criteria defining doggerel.  I thought it might be quite challenging to show that Shakespeare also meets the second important criteria for doggerel – that of faulty or awkward meter.  However, we need look no farther than the fourth line from the bottom (So thou…).  The sonnet is written in iambic pentameter, meaning that there are 5 pairs of words, with the accent on the second word in each pair.  Each line should thus contain 10 syllables, but low and behold, this single line contains 11 syllables.  Apparently Willy Shakes has played fast and loose with the rules of the sonnet game, force fitting the word “being” into one syllable! 

I rest my case.  Shakespeare wrote doggerel. 

So the next time you raise a toast at a birthday, wedding or other event, and stand to read your little ditty, hold your head high – you are in the company of greatness.

The missing letters in the following poem are anagrams (i.e. share the same letters like spot, stop, post) and the number of asterisks indicates the number of letters.  One of the missing words will rhyme with either the previous or following line. Your job is to solve the missing words based on the above rules and the context of the poem.  Scroll down for answers.

Doggerel in honor of Shakespeare 

For centuries mothers have had to ****** their children to pick up their clothes,

 I imagine a conversation between Ma Shakespeare and Will and here’s how it goes.

 “Mother I doth protest mightily that into my quarters you have ******,

 And methinks your accusations of irksome slovenliness are wrongly charged.

 I shall be ****** in whatever artful raiment I so chooseth and what’s more,

 ‘Tis much simpler to pluck my garments when they are strewn on the floor.

 *

*

*

*

*

*

Answers:  badger, barged, garbed