Dear Evil: This is an amazing and ponderous question, and one which I have never imagined before. There is an answer to every question, though, but at the moment the answer to this question seems beyond our reach, and not for lack of trying.
Allow me to explain. As I ran through my exhaustive Rolodex
(readers over the age of 40 will know what a Rolodex is…), calling everyone I knew with the knowledge and expertise to answer your question, it became abundantly clear that none of them had any intention of doing so. My very first call, to Dr. Sheldon Kildare, PhD., of the Princeton University department of Photographic Science, was answered only by an indignant, “What?!” and a dial tone. Subsequent replies ranged from, “Who is this?” to, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question,” to one guy, a research assistant at Berkeley, who came right out and called me an asshole.
If the greatest minds in the country either cannot, or will not answer your question, I am afraid it will have to go unanswered, for now. Along with “Who shot JFK?” and “Geno’s or Pat’s?”
The Rosemaster asks: When is the Screamgirls reunion?
Dear Rosemaster: A ScreamGirls reunion seems about as likely as a reunion of the Beatles, at this point, even if the Fab Four were all still alive. The reason is not bad blood, or lack of interest, or anything of that nature. The problem is that at any given time, only two of the three “ladies” seem to be available for a comeback.
The first to drop from view was Stella (Stella Estelle Steenburg-Steinberg-Steinsteen
Stella and Lila hurriedly began making plans for a Comeback Spectacular, perhaps something at Mall of America or Heritage, USA! The cell phone number they had for Svetlana (Svetlana Zulu Falana Stalin), however, went right to voicemail, and all their letters were returned marked “unknown”.
Little did they know that Svetlana had been taken away in the middle of the night by former agents of the East German Secret Police, the Stasi. Certain she was headed for hard labor in the gulag for one of her many Crimes Against the State, Svetlana was somewhat relieved to find that the agents had been hired by Romanian fashion designer Vlad Vladimirescu, who is both insane and insanely rich, to kidnap her and bring her to Vlad for a life of forced supermodeling. Svetlana resisted at first, but before long she became used to the long hours being photographed, the endless manicures and minions constantly fussing with her hair. Plus, they brought her a steady diet of cute Norwegian backpackers every week or so and all the Ouzo she could drink.
Svetlana returned to the U.S. in 2006 after Vlad Vladimirescu had died in his Bucharest atelier from an overdose of Red Bull and Zima. The first call she made was to Stella, who by then was living in Paramus, New Jersey with husband #5, a retired actuary who had recently been awarded $14million in a slip-and-fall at a Golden Corral buffet. “Stelle, baby, I’m back, and I have a great idea for a show!” Svetlana made her way as quickly as she could from L.A. to Paramus, which took a while, as she was hitchhiking rides the whole way from 18-wheelers. By the time she arrived, though, sticky, Stella had to tell her that Lila had dropped from the radar screen.
Lila (Delilah Crayola Jewels) had remained married to a nice Jewish dentist in St. Pete from the time of their last gig in ‘96 until 2004, when she made a surprise visit to the office to find that her husband had been deceiving her the entire time. He wasn’t even a dentist! He was nothing more than a common drug dealer, who had been moving enormous amounts of cocaine from Central America through Florida. “Do you mean,” she thought to herself, “that I could have had all the cocaine I could have possibly wanted this whole entire time? For eight years it’s been “dinner at the Henderson’s” or “Sadie Hawkins Day at the Club” and I could have been in South Beach dancing with my tits out?”
At that point, Lila took a baseball bat to her husband’s Acura before grabbing the first Trailways out of St. Petersburg to Miami, where she proceeded to dance with her tits out as a dancer at a “gentlemen’s club” called “Sure Things”. Unfortunately, Lila had a run-in with the law in 2006 and earned herself a three year stay in the Miami-Dade County Penitentiary for Wayward Girls for punching a police officer in the crotch when he said she had a big butt. After three years eating macaroni and cheese, corn bread and other prison staples, Lila was released into the world weighing 386 pounds and with no self esteem. She was the perfect target for a cult, and a van full of cult members just happened to be driving past the penitentiary as Lila was waddling out, wondering how far she could get on the $20 they had given her and is the 6-piece McNuggets still on the Dollar Menu? They picked her up in their van, blissfully singing “99 Bottles of Beer” and telling Lila how pretty she looked. It wasn’t long before Lila had risen to the highest levels of the cult, known as “The Church of the Redundant Reborn Born-Again Savior Redeemer”, and it was led by their “Savior Redeemer”, a guy named Mike from Cincinnati. Lila shed all her prison weight and had regrown nearly all her hair by the time the cult was disbanded in 2011, when the government indicted Mike under the You Can’t Just Start Your Own Religion Act of 1993.
Lila got to Paramus as soon as she had been deprogrammed, and found her dear sister Svetlana working at a nail salon in a mall in Hackensack. Finally, the Comeback Extravaganza could happen! Stella’s Skype account had been closed though; and her mobile number disconnected. Emails were answered only by an auto-reply: “Either I’m out of the office or I have no interest in you.”
Stella’s whereabouts remain a mystery to this day, although there were rumours of her being spotted at a retirement home in Phoenix asking, “which one’s got a foot in the grave?”; and her distinctive “Evening in Pittsburgh” cologne and body splash was reportedly smelled at the scene of that recent $24million diamond heist in Cannes.
So, for now, we must wait. The saga continues…
Award Winning Musician wonders: How is your morning?
Dear Musician: My morning, so far, has been fine, thank you. The larger picture here, though, is that I have, at this point of my life, become a Morning Person.
Now, I have not become the sort of Morning Person who bounds out of bed, eyes wide, breath minty, and throws open the curtains, chirping, “Outta bed, Sleepyhead!” to my husband.
As a matter of fact, I don’t think there is a time of day at all when I am that perky. I have become, however, the kind of person who will wake up between 5:00am and 8:00am with or without an alarm clock, even though it still takes copious amounts of coffee to bring me up to functioning levels. This is remarkable because for the first 40 years or so of my life, I was the complete opposite: a Night Person for whom life began at 11:00pm and for whom 8:00am was little more than a myth or a cruel joke.
Until about 2004, I worked in restaurants, and usually at night, when my shift would begin at 4 or 5 in the evening. Sleeping until noon or 1pm wasn’t unusual, and basically anything before 10:30 was unheard of. Shortly after that came career changes, work became something that actually happened during the daylight. I got a dog, which back then was the gay equivalent of having children. (nowadays, having children is actually the gay equivalent of having children.) All those things conspired to shift my internal clock. I began enjoying seeing the world just before sunrise. I have become the sort of person who feels half the day is gone when I look up to see the clock read 11:30. Time was, at 11:30, I’d be sitting on the couch in my pajamas, smoking cigarettes and bong hits and considering going back to bed.
Funny how life is.
Nurse Nancy from New York asks: Why do people smoke cigarettes?
Dear Nancy: I cannot speak for millions of cigarette smokers the world over. I can, however, speak for myself, as I myself was a pack-a-day cigarette smoker for over 16 years. Even worse, I smoked menthols.
What started me smoking was actually an anti-smoking commercial on television.
The commercial showed a young kid, probably around my age at the time, locked in the bathroom and watching himself in the mirror as he lit a cigarette and tried to smoke it. He starts coughing, a deep, dry cough that sounds as if he’s only a couple of puffs away from spitting up blood. And yet, the young kid takes another drag, and coughs some more. The voiceover says, “Maybe your body is trying to tell you something.”
All I thought was, “I bet I can do that without coughing.”
It wasn’t long before I was locked in the bathroom with a pack of matches and one of my mother’s cigarettes. My mother, by the way, was Old School, and smoked Chesterfield Kings with no filter, so I was jumping right in with both feet. I was able to puff away without coughing, but of course I was actually doing it wrong. The first time I actually inhaled the smoke, a week or so later, I coughed like a consumptive, but by then it was too late. I had already ridden my bike to the Laundromat at Woodmoor Plaza and bought my first pack of Salem Lights out of the cigarette machine for 50¢, and my long and illustrious career as a Menthol Smoker had begun.
I beat the Demon Weed by setting a date and going Cold Turkey, 16 years later. If I smoked one cigarette tomorrow, I would probably be up to a pack a day within six months.
So, I guess, the answer to your question is that everybody has their reasons for smoking. Now that I look at it, I guess my reason was because someone told me not to.
Dear Photoflash: I’m sorry, but when I read your question, I can not even think of an answer. Maybe it’s my Inner Drag Queen, but when someone asks me, “When will I see you again?”, I can only think of one thing. And that is The Three Degrees and the groovy year of 1974. I was 12 years old in 1974. I used to carry a gigantic plastic comb in my back ...pocket back then which was just one step away from being an Afro Pick. Let’s just say, I’m sure that plastic comb got plenty of use as a stand-in for a microphone as I lip-synched along with Helen, Valerie & Freddie along with my best Vegas Doo-Wop Girl moves. Thank God that was long before YouTube.
Wondrin' in Hudson wonders: Ever been to Hudson?
Dear Wondrin': As a matter of fact, I have. It was back in 2000, and I had been working for a couple of months as a roadie for a startup band here in Provincetown called The Bodily Fluids, sort of a synth-grunge-New Wave band whose hook was an accordion and a lead singer who yodeled. We had just finished playing an awesome gig in Manhattan one night at an underground club in Hell’s Kitchen called Vomit, when this “chick” walked into the dressing room. She said her name was “Musty- Musty Chiffon” as she offered a bejeweled, gloved hand to each of us in turn. I didn’t notice her face at first because she had the most enormous, bouncy breasts I had ever seen. When she walked by, I could have sworn I heard the slosh of liquid, like water balloons or those bladder-balls they used to use in junior high. Anyway, she invited all of us out to Hudson for a huge party that night, and she even had her own Checker Cab to drive us there in!
Turns out that Musty and her husband, whose name I can’t quite remember, had made a small fortune as child actors in a traveling production of “The King and I”, and had parlayed that into a very lucrative “Escort Service” in Muncie, Indiana. Eventually they bought an entire block of Warren Street, the main street in Hudson, and converted the buildings into one, enormous, private dwelling.
What can I tell you about Hudson, NY? It looked nice at 3:00am from the windows of that Checker Cab as we pulled into town. We were met by midget footmen at Musty’s house, and escorted into the ballroom. There, I felt as if I had stepped into a Fellini movie. There were men who looked like women, women who looked like men, clowns, birds, and one naked guy who was either asleep or dead on the bar. Nobody seemed to notice.
The next thing I remember, Musty’s husband, What’s-his-name, was handing me a glass of clear liquid. It was delicious.
That is the sum total of my memory of Hudson, NY.
Nice town.
Barbara in Akron writes: What about Naomi!
Dear Barbara: What about Naomi, Barbara? What about her? That’s all it’s ever been with you, Barbara, for the past seventeen years: “What about Naomi, Harold? What about Naomi?”
When I had a chance to transfer to the Cincinnati branch, you said, “What about Naomi?” so we stayed here in Akron.
When we had the chance to buy that nice house over on Oak Street, you said, “But Harold, what about Naomi?” so we stayed here in this crappy house on Maple Drive.
When Archie over at the office had those tickets for that nice cruise to the Bahamas, it was, “What about Naomi?” so we stayed home and played Chinese Checkers for a week.
It’s a fish, Barbara, a god damned goldfish. The next time, I swear, the very next time I hear you say, “What about Naomi, Harold?” I am going to flush that god damned goldfish down the toilet.
Philia asks: What about Bob?
Dear Philia: "What About Bob?" is a 1991 comedy film starring Bill Murray and Richard Dreyfuss.
Vague in Virginia asks: How about the weather today?
Dear Vague: Well, the weather today is just fine, thank you. Warm, for the time of year, I believe is the proper next line.
However, I am disturbed by your question as I feel it belies the fact that you would a) rather be talking about something else, or b) have nothing to talk about at all.
For example, a conversation might go like this, ...between a mother-in-law and her daughter’s husband:
“And where exactly was this “business trip” you’ve been on, Ira?”
“Errr, Cleveland.”
“Oh, really? I simply adore Cleveland. Been there dozens of times. Which part of town, Ira?”
And Ira might smile weakly, wipe the tiny beads of sweat from his brow, and answer, “How about that weather, hmmm? Warm for the time of year.”
Or, you could answer the telephone one night, when you happened to be alone in the house, wondering what might have been if only you’d gotten that lacrosse scholarship to Johns Hopkins. And that girl- Julie? Julia? Juliet? - she had wanted to run away and live on Catalina. And the phone might ring, and it would be Julie, and she had just been thinking about you and googled your name and decided to call you. And you would find out that she was married and had three kids and was a dental hygienist at an Aspen Dental in Ft. Wayne. And you would tell her that you were recently divorced and working as a customer service rep at a call center for Discover Card. And then there would be a minute of awkward silence, and for a second you’ll wonder whether she’s even still on the line. And then one of you will say, “Man, how about that weather?” and hate yourself for saying it, even before it comes out of your mouth.
Inquisitive in Imperial Beach asks: Why are we asking you questions????
Dear Imperial: So that they may be answered.
Moving to Truro wonders: What causes the northern lights?
Dear Moving: Any quick inquiry on this question will immediately bring you to any number of long, boring, incomprehensible explanations, full of scientific claptrap about electrically charged particles being hurled from the sun into our atmosphere, earth’s magnetic poles, and blah blah blah. That may all be true, but it certainly lacks poetry.
When I was a kid, and it was thundering and lightning-ing outside, my mother would say the same thing, apparently, which her mother had said to her: “The angels are bowling.”
In that spirit, here is my answer to your question:
We see the beautiful, wondrous Northern Lights when the angels are watching old videos of Iron Butterfly concerts.
Footie in Kauai wonders: How many fish are in the sea?
Aloha Footie: As with so many questions, there seems to be more than one answer to this one. For instance, if you had just broken up with your lover and you were having Pumpkin Lattes with your best girlfriend, she might say to you that there were “plenty of fish in the sea.” But, ask a commercial fisherman who is trying to feed his family, and he might tell you that there are never enough fish in the sea.
Ask this question to a marine biologist, and they might answer, “Define ‘fish'.”
Ask a respected attorney, and they might reply, “Define ‘sea’.”
So, in order to get a clear, concise answer to your question, I turned to Jeffery, the 8 year-old kid of my neighbor down the street.
The answer is nineteen twelve thousand hundred million billion kajillion.
Dear Vague: Well, the weather today is just fine, thank you. Warm, for the time of year, I believe is the proper next line.
However, I am disturbed by your question as I feel it belies the fact that you would a) rather be talking about something else, or b) have nothing to talk about at all.
For example, a conversation might go like this, ...between a mother-in-law and her daughter’s husband:
“And where exactly was this “business trip” you’ve been on, Ira?”
“Errr, Cleveland.”
“Oh, really? I simply adore Cleveland. Been there dozens of times. Which part of town, Ira?”
And Ira might smile weakly, wipe the tiny beads of sweat from his brow, and answer, “How about that weather, hmmm? Warm for the time of year.”
Or, you could answer the telephone one night, when you happened to be alone in the house, wondering what might have been if only you’d gotten that lacrosse scholarship to Johns Hopkins. And that girl- Julie? Julia? Juliet? - she had wanted to run away and live on Catalina. And the phone might ring, and it would be Julie, and she had just been thinking about you and googled your name and decided to call you. And you would find out that she was married and had three kids and was a dental hygienist at an Aspen Dental in Ft. Wayne. And you would tell her that you were recently divorced and working as a customer service rep at a call center for Discover Card. And then there would be a minute of awkward silence, and for a second you’ll wonder whether she’s even still on the line. And then one of you will say, “Man, how about that weather?” and hate yourself for saying it, even before it comes out of your mouth.
Inquisitive in Imperial Beach asks: Why are we asking you questions????
Dear Imperial: So that they may be answered.
Moving to Truro wonders: What causes the northern lights?
Dear Moving: Any quick inquiry on this question will immediately bring you to any number of long, boring, incomprehensible explanations, full of scientific claptrap about electrically charged particles being hurled from the sun into our atmosphere, earth’s magnetic poles, and blah blah blah. That may all be true, but it certainly lacks poetry.
When I was a kid, and it was thundering and lightning-ing outside, my mother would say the same thing, apparently, which her mother had said to her: “The angels are bowling.”
In that spirit, here is my answer to your question:
We see the beautiful, wondrous Northern Lights when the angels are watching old videos of Iron Butterfly concerts.
Footie in Kauai wonders: How many fish are in the sea?
Aloha Footie: As with so many questions, there seems to be more than one answer to this one. For instance, if you had just broken up with your lover and you were having Pumpkin Lattes with your best girlfriend, she might say to you that there were “plenty of fish in the sea.” But, ask a commercial fisherman who is trying to feed his family, and he might tell you that there are never enough fish in the sea.
Ask this question to a marine biologist, and they might answer, “Define ‘fish'.”
Ask a respected attorney, and they might reply, “Define ‘sea’.”
So, in order to get a clear, concise answer to your question, I turned to Jeffery, the 8 year-old kid of my neighbor down the street.
The answer is nineteen twelve thousand hundred million billion kajillion.
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