Columnism

           col um nist n. An advocate or supporter of columnism

           When I started out in the journalism business, I thought it would be fun to be a columnist someday, but I knew there were concerns that needed to be resolved before I made any kind of a commitment. What, for instance, would my friends say? Would they whisper “He’s a card-carrying columnist” behind my back? Would they deny knowing me? Would the FBI interrogate them about my activities? Would they have to appear before a Senate committee? Would they worry about finding their names in a file labeled “Friends of Rufa”?

           The heck with it, I decided. The temptation was too great, so back in the mid-1980s when a local paper down in Southern Pines, NC, offered me a chance to write a column twice a week, I took a shot at it, and it turned into a gig that lasted more than six years. It went to my head. Imagine — me a columnist, with fellow travelers like Ellen Goodman, Russell Baker, Dave Barry, Kathleen Parker, Molly Ivins, and Art Buchwald. Who knew — I might even have lunch with them some day.

           Who could pass up the advantages and privileges of being a columnist? Columnists can write about anything we want, and if you hit the big time it doesn’t even have to make sense. Another plus is that columnists can write long paragraphs, while reporters have to keep theirs down to a sentence or two and get the five Ws up front, in order of importance. Columnists generally don’t have to worry about their wardrobe either. A columnist can work even work in skivvies, since they can work at home.

           Many well-known columnists started out as reporters, although I had to rule out that path a long time ago. I just didn’t think I could stand the strain of having to have my facts straight most of the time. Columnists have a lot more flexibility. And humorists? Why, humorists can really take liberties with facts. One of the best ways to avoid a lawsuit as a writer is to be funny, because even people who can’t take a joke usually don’t want the world to know it.

           The column is a particularly good genre for the lazy writer. Novels take a lot of work (I can vouch for that), and short stories are quite difficult to write. Non-fiction generally involves a lot of research, which is a lot like work.

           One of the nicest things about writing a column is that you don’t have to write a whole lot. In fact, short-and-sweet is the rule rather than the exception, although some columnists do get windy. In my case, I try to keep a column under 500 words. However, sometimes I can’t help running over that a bit — especially if it’s important. I have a fair amount of leeway in this respect, and I really appreciate being able to write as much as necessary, confident the editor won’t delete the

Why I love Caller ID

           I’m of the belief that just because I have a telephone the world doesn’t have the right to call me up any time it feels like it. This is why I’m glad I have Caller ID — it tells me which calls to answer and which calls to ignore. Okay — it doesn’t exactly say “Ignore this call” or “Answer this call” — it says things like “Delivery Notice,” which I know isn’t really for me because I don’t know anyone named “Notice,” and I’m not usually expecting a delivery of any kind.

           Sometimes I get a call from “Unavailable,” which is really a coincidence because I am too. The other day I got a call from “Alert.” I ducked under my desk for that one. Every once in a while I’ll get a call from myself, which I totally don’t understand. Still, since I know myself I always pick up — and there’s always a dial tone. That I don’t get. I’ve never avoided talking to myself, I’ve just never done it on the phone and I’d love to because I’d be interested to see what I want.

           One call I got was from “Opinion Counts.” I ignored that too, mainly because my opinion has never counted. I also ignored one from “Member Rewards” because I’m not a member of anything, so how can I possibly be entitled to a reward, assuming there even is one? And if I have a real fan in this world, someone who calls me a lot, it’s “Toll Free Call,” who almost never has the same phone number, but I get it because he’s a real rascal. Or she.

           Sometimes I’ll get a call from an entire state — New York, for example, or Florida. I do know people in both states, but not everyone, and I’m sure they all don’t share one number. Not infrequently will I get a call from “Anonymous,” who for some reason wishes to remain anonymous (unlike everyone else). Okay — I actually admire anonymous for his/her/its candor.

           I did register to be placed on the no-call list, and this has cut down on the calls somewhat, but too many are exempt. During election season the calls are insane, which is enough to make me sour on democracy. And charities are allowed to get through, which is unfortunate because after I pay my phone bill I have no money left.

           These days, if you do answer one of these calls, more often than not you’re going to find you’re being called by a robot. A word of advice: don’t feel guilty if you hang up on them. I assure you — they have no feelings. If they did, they wouldn’t have called in the first place.

I think twice before I pick up a nickel

           When I was a kid, picking up a penny was not a problem. Back then it worth the effort to bend down because I could do a lot with a penny. I could buy a piece of bubble gum or a piece of hard candy, and if I had five of those little copper beauties I could buy a small Coke or a Snickers bar. If I had nine cents in my pocket and saw a penny lying on the ground, I’d have it between my fingers in a heartbeat, because that penny was the difference between wishing I had an ice cream cone and actually having one — vanilla fudge, thank you.

           As time went on, the cost/benefit ratio of bending down to pick up a penny became increasingly unfavorable. At a certain point in history, a single penny could no longer buy anything, so there no longer seemed to be much point in picking one up. But that doesn’t mean I stopped picking up pennies. Old habits die hard, and unless a truck was bearing down on that penny I’d make the effort — for old times’ sake, if for no other reason. I was a slave to tradition.

           By a certain age, however, common sense overruled nostalgia, and if I saw a penny lying on the ground I’d leave it. It’s one thing to be able to bend over. It’s another to be able to straighten up again. After that, I’d only risk picking up a penny if my total at the checkout was $12.01 and I needed one to avoid getting 99 cents in loose change. Before I handed over a twenty I’d look around to see if there were any stray pennies waiting to be picked up. There were times when I’d even find one.

           Eventually I quit doing that too, until the day I stared down at a heads-up penny on the ground by the ATM machine. I’d been seeing the same penny for over a week, and because I felt bad for that forlorn penny, I decided to pick it up. Besides, it was heads up, and who can’t use a little extra good luck? And it wasn’t long before my kindness to that lonely penny was rewarded — that evening, when I checked the lottery numbers, I found that I’d won $253 on a Cash 5 ticket. Well hot dog! Unfortunately, it only worked once.

           These days not only do I leave pennies on the ground, I think twice about picking up a nickel — and when I mentioned that to my friend Bruce in Ingles, he said I ought to write a column about it. Next time I saw him I told him I took his advice, and he said, “You’re kidding.” Hey — does it look like I’m kidding?

The usual, obligatory income tax column

           According to the Columnist’s Handbook, come April a columnist is obliged to write a column about income tax, April 15th being the deadline for filing and for a column. The entry makes suggestions like “Say something funny about going to the post office at 4:30 p.m. on the 15th,” or “Make something up, like ‘the dog ate my receipts.’” It even suggests you “tell some of your favorite ways to cheat on your taxes.”

           I’m sorry, but I don’t think there’s anything funny about income taxes. Paying taxes is our solemn duty as Americans, and we should take them seriously. I know every patriotic American does too, without complaining. Well except maybe corporations that hide money overseas, or get the kind of discounts we ordinary folk can only dream about.

           Saying something funny about going to the post office at 4:30 on the 15th? I wouldn’t know. I always mail mine off the first week in February, that’s how anxious I am to make sure I’ve got my share of Congress’s salaries and expenses covered. After all, they work so hard and they deserve every nickel.

           And make something up? Like what — how my accountant tells me to roll over a two-dollar lottery-ticket prize? Not even the convenience store clerks think that’s funny.

           As for telling someone my favorite ways to cheat on my taxes is concerned, are they crazy? I might as well invite an IRS auditor over and tell him to “Make sure you bring your handcuffs.” Besides, I wouldn’t dream of cheating on my income taxes any more than politicians would dream of cheating on their spouses.

           When I first started paying income taxes, I used the short form — which, in those days, was an IBM punch card. Remember those? Today the short form is as long as the long form was back then, and ever since I started having income from writing and various other legitimate endeavors to report (sometimes reaching as high as four digits!), I’ve had to fill out a bunch of other forms as well — Schedules C, SE, ASAP, TGIF, and Forms 8829 and I H8TAXES. Shakespeare wrote a play about it once. He called it Much Ado About Nothing, and that pretty much describes my financial impact on the economy.

           Like Christmas, Memorial Day, and Thanksgiving, April 15th comes but once a year, and I think we should celebrate it as an important holiday. In fact, maybe we should have the day off — paid, of course — and Macy’s could have a parade and stores would have sales. I think if we found a way to celebrate April 15th, we’d have a better attitude about paying taxes.

           Okay, probably not.

April Fools’ Day isn’t for the timid

           One of our most important days is coming up soon, and I think the public should know more about its history and some of its greatest moments. Armed with this knowledge, you might wonder why this auspicious day isn’t a legal holiday, as I do.

           No one knows the origins of April Fools’ Day, but according to Wikipedia, “the earliest recorded association between 1 April and foolishness can be found in Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales (1392).” What I read further on this made no sense to me, but who am I to argue with Wikipedia? If you’re curious enough, you can look it up yourself. I only have so much space here.

           The April Fools’ Prank Store website gives a more plausible explanation for its origin, but it’s possible the explanation itself is an April Fools’ joke. That’s the thing about April Fools’ Day — you never know. But Wikipedia does say that it’s been popular since the 19th century, and this is borne out by a number of well-documented pranks.

           For instance, as Mary Todd Lincoln wrote in her diary the next day, on the evening of March 28, 1861, “Mr. Lincoln put a whoopee cushion on my seat at dinner last night. He was trying out a prank for April Fools’ Day, he told me afterward. What a scamp.” It was the new president’s first state dinner, and thanks to the worsening situation at Fort Sumter, the mood was somber until Mrs. Lincoln sat down.

           While Yankees great Babe Ruth was known to be a cut-up, it was the quiet and reserved Lou Gehrig who tried to play a trick on the Babe during spring training in 1927. On April 1st, as the mighty Yankees prepared for a spring exhibition game against the St. Louis Cardinals in Nashville a few days later, the Iron Man found a short piece of stout manila rope, rested it in a hotdog bun and topped it with mustard, and gave it to the Bambino, whose fondness for hotdogs was legendary. But the joke fizzled when Babe wolfed down the faux dog and said, “That was great, Lou. Get me another one — with sauerkraut this time.

           This may come as a surprise to most Americans, but Bill Murray did not star in the movie called Groundhog Day, it was his twin Julius. The brothers frequently pretended to be each other, and had done so since early childhood. Meant to be a prank, they’d originally intended to call the movie April Fool’s Day and had prepared a script to match, but when they learned that a movie by that name had been released in 1986 they scrapped the idea and went with Groundhog Day at the last minute. However, the original joke was ruined so they never brought it up.

           Of course, I’m much too mature to play Aprils’ Fool jokes on anyone.

Our annual madness

           Here we are again, on the verge of our annual madness. Okay, so it’s a few days away, but in my world that qualifies as a verge — and there’s still time to end it.

           I’m talking about Daylight Savings Time, or setting the clocks ahead. And what do we do in the fall? Set them back. Does that make any sense at all? Sure, someone might say, “Well it would take awhile to implement and coordinate and blah-blah-blah.” Really? What’s so hard about not doing something?

           So maybe we need to get a hue and cry going. No one I know likes setting the clocks an hour ahead each March. The groans can be heard around the world. It’s an awful long wait to get that hour back.

           I don’t understand why the movement to end this clock-changing silliness doesn’t get any traction. Everybody hates it. I wrote my congressman last year — Patrick something-or-other — and suggested he introduce a bill to get DST repealed. It’s a win-win, I told him. Need a compromise? Then how about setting the clock ahead a half hour and LEAVING IT THERE FOREVER. I could live with that. He’d be a hero, I assured him. We might even remember his name. Did I hear back? Nooo. Was such legislation introduced? Nooo. There are even petitions out there, and I’ve signed them all — to no avail.

           So maybe we need to take matters into our own hands. Maybe everyone should keep their clocks and watches where they are right now and continue operating on Standard Time. Let’s call it a protest. Let’s persuade Microsoft to quit updating our computers for the time change. Let’s tune into our favorite TV shows at the time we’re used to, and complain when there’s something else on. Let’s get a trend going in social media — tweet #EndDST, write Facebook posts and tell everyone to share them, things like that. Let’s show up an hour late for work and dare them to fire us. If we stick together, we can’t lose.

           Okay, I’m delirious, but understand this — my delirium is a medical condition caused by the anticipation of the onset of DST, which results in a lot of unhealthy anxiety and aggravation, and not a few stupid ideas. It makes me nuts. I hate it, hate it, hate it, and I’m not alone. It’s bad for the heart and bad for the digestive system. It also causes hives in some people. Me, I get Post Daylight Savings Time Syndrome — PDSTS, as it is known in psychiatric circles. It is NOT a good idea to disrupt my circadian rhythm. I might explode and ruin a perfectly good chunk of the known universe. For Pete’s sake, let’s end this madness. Retweet if you agree (wait — this isn’t Twitter).

My memory only fails me when I forget something

         At 72, I am entitled to have memory lapses, and age is a great excuse for forgetting things. If you’re younger than I am and you forget stuff, you probably can’t wait to get old. You can forget the birthdays of people closest to you and be forgiven. Saves a lot of money too, because it’s even easier to forget to pick up a belated card or gift.

           Memory is funny. I’m sure there are experts who can explain why we remember some things and forget others. When I reconnected with my friend Jerry in Facebook, he reminisced about how we met in first grade. “Uh-uh,” I told him. “In first grade I was in PS 68. We didn’t meet until second grade.” Our teacher was Miss Santangelo, and she pulled hair. “Oh, that’s right,” Jerry said. “You have a better memory than I do — I must be getting old.” Right. Jerry’s ten months older. See? Blaming it on age.

           I remember my first telephone number (FL4-5231) and I remember there were no such things as area codes yet. I remember my air force serial number after 50 years, and I’ve never forgotten my social security number.

           But how often do I think of something I need to do in the kitchen and get up to go do it, and when I get to the kitchen I’ve forgotten what it was I wanted to do? Or how often have I put down a tape measure and then forgotten where I put it a few minutes later? Or how often have I put something important in a safe place and then forgotten exactly where that safe place was?

           I don’t have a bag of tricks for remembering things. I can leave myself a note reminding me of where that safe place was, but then I’d have to remember where I put the note. Leaving myself a note about where I put down the tape measure seems silly. Where notes come in handy is when I get an idea for something while I’m in the store and I scribble a few key words on the back of my shopping list. If I remember what the key words mean, I’m good to go. I do this when I get an idea for something I want to write, or when I think of something I want to Google. Generally the only time this fails me is when I can’t read my writing.

           I had an ending for this column all roughed out in my head, but I went into the kitchen for a glass of water, and by the time I got back I forgot what it was. I suppose I could have left a note, but I forgot to do that too. I must be getting old.