Just Another Nazi Granddaddy

Say goodbye to Racine, Wisconsin, motherfucker.

Josias Kumpf is going bye-byes, off to Austria, and he's not thrilled to be leaving his porch and his Chinese-made American flag stuck in the planter.

Oh, well!

The benign-looking sag-ass sitting in his plastic chair wearing his Costco parka ain't your old granddaddy. He is a Nazi who, in 1943 participated in a mass-shooting that left 8,000 Jews dead in one day. He did other things, too, I have no doubt, that we will never hear about, because, even sixty-six years later, they're too shocking and too horrible, even for Yahoo! News.

Apparently, Kumpf got his citizenship by not mentioning that he was an SS guard because, according to this lawyer, "he feard it would disqualify him when he applied for a visa."

Now, that's good thinking, Kumpf!

I'm sure there are some who are upset over Kumpf's deportation. Those assholes in the Lehigh Valley who named their kid Adolf Hitler, I'm sure aren't pleased. There are other, seemingly more normal folk, though, who seem to think that the mere passage of a large chunk of time is all that is needed to absolve someone of a heinous crime.

Here's what I say to those people:

"Let someone kill someone you love, let forty or fifty or sixty years go by, and then let's see what you think."

On May 21st, 1971, during the height of racial tension and unrest in New York City, two young New York City patrolmen were summoned to a project in Harlem at a little after ten p.m.-- a woman needed help. It came in as "a sick call." As the two patrolmen walked back to their radio car, chatting about this or about that, three armed men snuck up behind them and shot them in the back. Waverly Jones, 33, was killed instantly. His partner, Joseph Piagentini, lay writhing on the ground, begging for his life as his butchers fired bullet after bullet into his body. Piagentini was white, Jones was black-- and they were both killed in the name of black liberation, although the only thing Jones was liberated from was his family.

38 years later, the two surviving killers (one died in prison) come up for parole every two years. They are consistently denied by a parole board that is still mindful of the horrors they committed against humanity. There are some people out there who say that the killers have been imprisoned for long enough. That "enough time has passed." That this "all happened a long time ago." That "it's time to move on."

But, how can we do that? Sure, it was a long time ago. So was the Civil War-- but we don't stop trekking to Gettysburg. Washington sparred with Cornwallis a long time ago, too-- but we still have our bewigged patron saint on the one bucker, don't we? Martin Luther King, Jr. got shot in the face a "long time ago," too-- but I wouldn't suggest we stop honoring him, or forgetting what he stood for anytime soon, just because that all happened "a long time ago."

Memory is only as brief as we allow it to be. And I wouldn't presume to slap a police officer's widow or the kin of a Holocaust survivor across the face with a "well, that was really a very long time ago." Who are we to say?

So, as you look at the picture of this pathetic, droopy old fart, settin' there on his porch in the Wisconsin sunlight and question whether we are in the right to kick him out of our free country, picture him instead like this, and maybe that will give you a moment's clarity.

There is no statute-of-limitation on murder, just like there's no statute-of-limitation on memory.

On Marriage

I haven't made nearly as many dumbfuck decisions as a married man as I did when I was single.

This could be attributed to the "two-heads-are-better-than-one" outlook, but I'm pretty sure there's more to it than that.

Marriage does a lot to temper idiocy, at least it does in my case. This is not to say that all the decisions I made pre-Mrs. Apron were to the left of retarded, but some of them certainly were.

I certainly never took a joyride in a SuperFresh shopping cart, nor have I ever tried to white water-raft naked, or intercourse a wall socket. But I've done dumb shit, like all dumbshits are wont to do.

Like that time I decided to enter the police academy-- yeah. That was obviously a pre-Mrs. Apron idea.

Not only was it not a mess of her own making, but, upon entering into a relationship and learning of this insane desire, she supported it, and me.

"This is who you are," she said.

(It wasn't really, though-- but we didn't know that at the time.)

I can remember going for a pre-academy run with my father at the track of my old high school, and he and I had a real heart-to-heart about my decision to become a police officer. His own objections were moot by this point, and he had long forsaken them and, instead, threw his support behind me-- helping me out at the track and at the gym-- even enlisting the help of a trainer who taught me a trick to "fake" the weight-lifting portion of the physical agility exam.

"Listen, mummy," he said, in between huffs and/or puffs, "you're living for two now." He was referencing my rapidly developing relationship with the future Mrs. Apron. "This isn't just you anymore. She's the one who's going to have to sit on her fuckin' ass and wait to see if you come home every night. She's the one who's gonna have to answer the door when it's the fuckin' priest or whatever if you get killed. This is something that you're gonna have to decide together, if you can do. You're two now."

He was right. When I made this decision, I was single. Now, as the start-date of the academy approached, I wasn't. I knew she was behind me and my decision, but I couldn't help but think, if I had started all this nonsense when we were together, would she think differently about it? And, whether she was on-board or not, was this a fair thing to put her through? To do to her?

It ended up not mattering a damn. I failed the weight-lifting portion of the physical agility test on the 2nd day of the academy. My ginglygangly armtwigs just couldn't lift that barbell, and no amount of "faking" it could raise that thing all the way. The commander called me into his office. He thought I should stay till the end. I left that day. It wasn't until long after Mrs. Apron & I said our wedding vows until the police ghosts came calling again.

Two months ago, I stumbled upon a notice that my hometown police department was hiring. This time, you had to get hired by them first, and then they would pay to put you through the police academy, as opposed to the ass-backwards way I tried to do it before, (pay to go through the academy, and then hope you get hired by a department). The salary was excellent, as were the benefits, and the probability of getting killed here is low, relatively speaking. I broached the topic with Mrs. Apron, summoning up all my bravery.

"You know," she said, "part of me wants to say, 'What the hell-- put in for it and see what happens...'" her voice trailed off. I imagined the second half of that sentence: "... and part of me wants to jab my fingernails into your jugular and stom on your fucking balls, you insane motherfuck."

I can't say I would have blamed her either. After all, I had just completed a Master of Education degree-- and the abandonment of such a valuable and, dare I say expensive degree would have been a questionable move. At the very least, it would have been a pre-Mrs. Apron move at best.

After all, we are two.

I met Mrs. Apron when I was twenty-three. From the time I was sixteen to the point where I met Mrs. Apron I had been the owner of seven cars:

1966 Volkswagen Beetle
1990 Ford Crown Victoria
1989 Volvo 240 DL
1994 Ford Taurus
1997 Ford Crown Victoria
2001 Chevrolet Impala
2001 Volkswagen Beetle

Call me fickle. When I met her, I was tooling around in the Beetle, which I had painstakingly painted and vinyl decaled in "53's" and red, white and blue stripes in honor of the best car in the world. I had to get rid of Herbie two years into our relationship because its reliability was basement-quality, and I could no longer afford the steep monthly payment coupled with the habitual repair bills. So I got a Ford Focus. It's predictable, boring and extremely reliable. Not only that, it gets 34mpg on the highway, and not terribly worse around town. The monthly payment isn't so bad, and it's actually kind of peppy if you've never driven a V-8 before. I've had it since brand new and now there's 65,000 miles on the clock and lots of bumper-stickers on its ass.

So, when I toyed briefly with the idea of getting rid of it for a fifteen-year-old used car to rid us of a monthly payment, Mrs. Apron rightfully freaked on me. Well, she didn't freak, but she rationally explained her objections and intelligently argued against my latest dumbfuck scheme, the development of which has not been totally ameliorated by marriage. Stunted, maybe. As I listened to her talk, I realized, "Wow-- you are saving me from myself."

And that, friends, is why marriage is better than Jesus.

I've Got a Little List

I used to make little lists on the old blog. Oftentimes they were lists of things I either didn't like or things that I should have been doing instead of blogging. Today, it's going to be the latter.

Here's a little list of things I should be doing instead of blogging:

* Paying bills.

I don't know why I feel so compelled to pay bills. Maybe it's the paranoia over the mortgage we just took out, whereby the creepy bank gets to own my naddies until said objects become nothing but shrivelled Raisinettes. Maybe it's my desperation to preserve my credit rating. I just went through all the bills downstairs-- the earliest a bill is due is the 27th, and I'm already itching to write checks. Maybe I'll pay one or two after I'm done blogging, just to make myself feel better.

* Changing the oil in the car.

The sticker fell off, a long time ago. I have no idea when this car is due for an oil change, but the guilty pang in my chest is telling me I should have brought the car in probably six months ago. Either that or I have coronary artery disease. I'm sure the car is pitifully overdue, but it's one of those awful, cyclical things-- like when you meet someone and immediately forget their name, and then you see them again and it's too late to ask them their name again, so you just go on with you life, pretending that you know their name when, really, you don't. Well, this is kind of like that.

* Masturbating.

I've cut down markedly on this little pastime of mine since I started blogging. Aren't you honored?

(By the way: if you ever decide to blog about masturbating, take my advice: do not do a Google image search for a clever hyperlink. It's not worth it.)

* Practicing the banjo.

I got the banjo Thanksgiving weekend. I still only know four chords. Please tell me to go practice.

* Shower.

How often are you supposed to shower?

* Engage in any number of home improvements.

Yeeeeah..... um..... there's a lot to do around here. There's nothing like an old home that was inhabited for almost three quarters of a century by an elderly crow to necessitate constant improvement and labor. I know there's wallpaper to strip, furniture to move, boxes to unpack, clothes to wash, flowers to plant, walls to paint, floors to shine, shelves and a guest bed to assemble but.... um...... yeah....... blogging's easier.

* Shave.

The beard that I once so enjoyed is now starting to get on my wick. I don't like it when the corners of the mustache enter my mouth-- it's fucking gross. I don't know how those Civil War guys did it.

* Take a walk.

I know I should, but I don't feel like it. Mrs. Apron and I are going to take one tonight-- isn't that good enough?

* Call my sister.

Hmmm... no, that's okay.

* Obsess in the mirror over every perceived physical abnormality I can find.

See-- there's this mole on my left leg....

* Arrange clothes in closet.

This house was built in 1928-- there aren't any closets. I don't quite understand why-- didn't people wear clothes in 1928? Didn't they have to store their arm garters and spats and mink stoles somewhere? Where the fuck did they put all their bowlers and their saddle shoes? WHERE THE FUCK ARE OUR CLOSETS?!

* Call a closet company.

Okay, okay. I will do that. I'm sure that will give me more blog fodder anyway.

What Is This: The Papparazzi?

As a writer, I feel like one my jobs is to notice trends.

For example, five times a week, I shit three times a day. Hm. Maybe there's a blog post there.

Maybe not.

When my head's not inches away from my own toilet, making keen quality & quantity observations, I do actually notice other things. One of the things I've noticed recently has to do with a rather strange trend I've observed at 20 Something Bloggers, the online blogging community to which I belong, and whose membership I hope does not get revoked after this post.

For those of you who don't know, 20 Something Bloggers is a wonderful place for blogging prowess to both notice and get noticed. I've fattened up my readership from the ranks of the 20 Something Blogger members, and I've certainly hooked my hooknose into the private affairs of others on the site as well. It's mutual exploitation at its finest-- and my father in law instructed his daughter prior to marrying me that this was the basis for ideal relationships.

He should know; he's both married and a psychiatrist.

Anyway, on 20 Something Bloggers, you're able to pick out a little avatar to represent yourself, your own personal graven image, if you will. For both my old and new blog, I have picked pen-and-ink drawings by Sir William Schwenck Gilbert from his "Bab Ballad" days, because I am an anglophile and I am obsessed with all things Gilbert & Sullivan (still no word on that "Pirates" audition-- I'll keep you posted).

Some people pick Japanamation-style self-portraits as their avatars, some pick close-ups of their cleavage (not complaining), some choose Barack Obama, who, I'm sure, is appropriately honored and moved. Delizcious has selected a picture of Miss Piggy with one tit exposed, a'la Janet Jackson, which I hope she cleared with Janet Jackson, Joe Jackson, the Henson estate's lawyers, and Kermit, who is one jealous mothafucka, from what I understand. Most people, though, choose to put up pictures of themselves, or what are purported as being pictures of themselves. Who really knows these days, am I right, peeps?

The trend that I've noticed is the staggering number of pictures of 20 Something Blogger members holding cameras.

What's that about?

On the members page, which features 21 member pics at a time, there are fourteen pictures of actual members (the other pics are either Audrey Hepburn, a string of air-drying laundry or some other weird shit) three members are featured holding cameras. Only one of them, from what I can gather, has some professional reason to have one in her possession.

Next page, 2 members with cameras.

Page 3, none. Fine. Be that way.

Page 4, well, okay-- none for a while-- though, on page 12, there is a picture of a girl holding a gun. I know, that doesn't count. You don't point that at someone and say "Say 'Cheese'" unless you're insane and/or Jack Nicholson.

One on page 19, one on page 27. Okay, I have to stop now. There are 244 pages, by the way.

And these aren't little, dinky "Coolpix" cameras, either. These are big, honkin' black things (no hyperlinked picture to accompany that phrase-- sorry-- even I have limits) and they're either big-time digital cameras, or they're old-fashioned SLR's, the photography industry's answer to the 33 record. I just don't understand

One on page 28. Okay, okay-- sorry. For real, I'm done. See? I closed the window.

I just don't understand what it's trying to communicate.

I like to take pictures? That's good. You and 76 babillion other people.

I'm so retro I have a 1976 Leica CL with a vertically-travelling shutter? Um, okay?

I'm pretending to take a picture of you while you're taking an actual picture of me? Um, okay?

I work for a newspaper? Okay, that I can accept.

I'm a peeping tom? Well, that's fine, but I wouldn't be advertising that on 20 Something Bloggers.

I work for the papparazzi? You're a disgrace. Go fuck yourself. Get away from Octo-Mom and her menagerie.

Look, it's great to want to be different-- we're all struggling with that. I'm pretty confident, though, that I'm the only homobear with some Gilbertian doodle as his avatar. Not that it's a contest of originality, but let's keep creativity and self-expression bouyant and alive. If you want to be different and pose with some sort of object from antiquity, I suggest you try a rotary wall phone or a dictionary-- the camera bit is getting a bit overdone.

Things That Go "Uuhhluump" in the Night

Everybody has sounds that they just can't bear to hear.

For some, it's certain musical instruments (out-of-tune or otherwise), for others it's babies crying or nails on a chalkboard. For some, it's Andrew Lloyd Webber.

Whatever the annoying, grating sound is for you, it has the unique ability to inspire revulsion, irritation, and an unceasing desire to swallow thumbtacks. These sounds may not have any effect on anyone else, but, to you, they mean something definite and unpleasant.

For me, the sound is "Uuhluump, uuhluump, uuhluump, uuhluump, uuhluump."

That's the sound of my dog gearing up for a good vom.

This sound is particularly dreadful because it is a warning that usually comes too late-- there almost never enough time to do anything about it. Now, I don't want to make this all about me, because, obviously, if Finley is making this noise, he's undoubtedly undergoing turmoil far worse than my own, but the effect that this noise has on me is probably at least half as bad as what he's going through.

Mrs. Apron and I were curled up in bed in one of our carefully-orchestrated cuddling positions when I heard it.

"Uuhluump, uuhluump, uuhluump, uuhluump, uuhluump."

At first, you trick yourself into thinking that it's a dream. And then you think,

"But, wait a minute, why would I be dreaming about Finley vomiting when I was just dreaming failing a math test in fourth grade?"

Of course, you're halfway into this thought when you hear, "Aaarghfflpth!" which is the unmistakable finale to our dog's little intestinal sonata.

Time-check: 6:06am.

"Jesusfrugginchrisss," I mutter as I throw the covers off to get rid of the vomit the appropriate way before he gets rid of it in the inappropriate way. At least he had the decency to jump off our bed and throw up on the floor.

As I stumble around in my pajamas and bare feet in the dark I, the eternal optimist say,

"Fuggg-- I know I'm gonna stepinit...."

Dutifully, Mrs. Apron switches on her lamp and, squinty-eyed and hair all fucked up she peers around.

"Pile by the door," she announces before crashing, face-first into her pillow.

"Mmm," I acknowledge.

I wad up a handful of toilet paper, scoop up the warm, lumpy offering and toss it in the toilet, ridding the outside world of it with a flush. I hope I washed my hands, but I don't remember. I do remember getting back into bed and the alarm going off seven minutes later.

So much for pathos.

Of course, I'm not asking you to feel particularly bad for me-- no need to sound those violins-- after all, my boss was at home cleaning the projectile vomitus of both her husband and her grandson all afternoon so, really, who am I to complain? I'm just a guy talking about his dog, and the things that go uuhhluump in the night.

What are some sounds that turn your guts to stone?

Gas Leak

One of my worst fears came true last night.

(No, the Monkees are all still alive and I don't have AIDS. Try again, please.)

We had a gas leak in the house.

Mrs. Apron called me at work at around 5:50pm, her voice quiet and shaking:

"When are you coming home?"

As soon as I walked in the front door, the odor almost knocked me down. I could taste it.

I called the PECO emergency number, and they were knocking on our door eight minutes later.

Sidebar: I find it amazing/appalling that PECO can have a truck to a residence in eight minutes for a gas smell, and the Philadelphia Fire Department has problems getting an ambulance to a residence in under forty minutes for a cardiac arrest. End of soapbox.

The PECO guy carried a device that looked like a game-boy attached to a dildo and he stuck it inside our stove, oven and all around our boiler, our hot water heater, and all along the pipes leading to the washer and dryer. Mrs. Apron and I stood in the basement and I held her close as the dil-boy contraption made ticking and clicking noises and then, when he would put it by one of the pipes leading to the dryer, it made a noise that sounded like an air-raid siren mated to a freshly-raped cat.

"I guess that's the bad noise, huh?" I said to the guy.

"Yeah, that's what all the customers say."

Oh. Pardon my lack of originality, the house we just bought is seconds away from becoming the next Hindenburg.

Of course, I shouldn't be giving the guy such a hard time. He did, after all, prevent us from dying in a way that would have made Hitler smile had such a tragic demise occured. After identifying the source of the gas leak, he isolated it and shut off the pipe leading to the dryer, and so our avacado-green Lady Kenmore had the night off.

I then made the mistake of contacting my parents for help. All I wanted was the phone number of a general contractor to replace the pipe fitting. My mother answered the phone.

"Hi. Everything's fine, okay? (pause.) We've had a gas leak in the house."

Fortunately, I didn't hear the dreaded thud on the other end of the phone signaling that my mother had just collapsed like a bulldozed tree in the rainforest. After I explained everything and asked for the phone number of a general contractor she says,

"Talk to your father."

"But, I don't want to," I whined. Ah, how quickly we regress. Twenty-eight years old to five-and-a-half in under 3 seconds.

I told him what happened.

"Well, mummy, you know, this is not something you could have predicted. It's okay. These things happen-- I mean, shit-- if you'd bought our house, you would have had some big problems, too. So, you know-- don't feel bad--"

"Dad?" I interrupted, seeking instant clarification, "I didn't call you because I need a pep-talk. I called you because I need the phone number of a general contractor who can fix our fucking pipes."

My father decided that you do not call general contractors for this kind of job, you call a plumber.

"But the PECO guy said--"

"FUCK HIM, OKAY?! Let me tell you what a general contractor does, you idiot! He comes, looks, and he says, 'Oh, well, fuck! I can't do all this.' And he hires a schvartze plumber who comes and does it, and then you get TWO fucking bills!"

He told me he would find the name of a plumber, and then he hung up on me.

Four minutes later, I get a text message from my father:

"Call us thanks dad c"

We were just on the phone together-- why is he texting me? And what is "c?" My father's text messages always contain at least one extraneous character, usually a full word, that has absolutely no relevance to the preceeding text message. It's a mystery, just like everything else about him.

I called him back.

"Do you have a phone number for me or a pep-talk?"

He had the number of a plumber. He charged $39.00 for a house visit, but then he applies that cost to whatever work he does.

Sure you do.

"Old pipes leak, the way old people do," my old landlady once told me, while thoroughly intoxicated. She was undoubtedly speaking from experience, on both counts, being the owner of a 122-year-old house and the owner of 67-year-old internal waterworks. The plumber who came to our home this morning showed me some very old pipes, corroded like a Chrysler product from the 1970s. Four pipes and their connectors had to be replaced, as did the antiquated and now illegal plastic connector for our clothes dryer. He was there from 9am-1pm, and the bill was painful, but now my wife and dog and I aren't all going to die together in the home in which we plan to live together for a long, long time.

While the plumber was hard at work, infiltrating our pipes and bank accounts, my phone buzzed. It was you-know-who.

"Hi r the gas pipe
fixed? Love dad mcnab"

I think I'm going to start calling him that from now on. I kind of like it.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, You Fucking Morons.

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

It's such a pleasure to see so many people out and about, honoring Irish culture.

Makes you proud.

I particularly admire the way people comport themselves on St. Patrick's Day. At a time when Irish culture is trying desperately to contain outbursts of violence from a hopefully bygone era, it's nice to see so many folks out there displaying their Irish pride.

Such displays of appropriateness.

Such good taste.

What I love most about St. Patrick's Day is that nobody goes outside their house looking like a total d-bag. People know that this is a holiday to celebrate and honor a troubled people, and they behave accordingly.

Americans especially.

Americans love St. Patrick's Day, for some reason. You might argue on the comment portion of this blog (go right ahead) that Americans love St. Patrick's Day because there are so many Irish immigrants in America. Well, that may have been true at one point, but I think Americans love St. Patricks Day because we love to get shitfaced and, in America, St. Patrick's Day is equated with massive alcohol consumption, which, as we all know, is totally cool!

It's interesting to note that the Irish Independent News isn't exactly headlining with St. Patrick's Day.

"Ireland Hit Worst By Recession" the headline blares.

Beneath that are two terrible stories of death, one involving three brothers who perished together in a house-fire, and another piece about two men who got killed in a "roadway horror smash."

Wait a minute-- where are the leprechauns?

Where's me Lucky Charms?

Since the overwhelming majority of St. Patrick's Day celebrations have absolutely nothing to do with St. Patrick, I have a new idea for this "holiday."

Let's call it "St. Poseur's Day."

This is a day where you can happily roam the streets pretending that you're something you're definitely not. Put on some green. Try on a retarded accent-- see how it suits you. Get totally shitfaced in honor of something you know nothing about, denigrating a country you will never visit, and getting on the jaun of a people you will never understand. Honor the great and most revered St. Poseur of the Ancient Isle of Fakery, who once crashed a Passover seder wearing a huge false nose.

Hm.

Speaking of which, why do other cultures never seem to glom onto Jewish holidays? Why aren't there "Yom Kippur Parades" in New York City? Street vendors could sell cheap, black felt hats and false beards and even Jew noses to the goyim poseurs of the world. What about "Kiss Me, I'm Jewish" pins? People could get shitfaced on Manischewitz by the jugful and call each other "Putz!" and "Schmendrick!"

Come join us, world. Let St. Poseur and the Jews unite at last.