Dear Dr. Babooner,

During a recent conversation with my son, I inadvertently let it slip that I think his children, a pair of girls aged 14 and 12, are selfish little heathens who exhibit all the social decorum one would expect from a pair of hungry wolverines.

One example: They put their elbows on the table, lower their faces to a scant 2 inches above the plate and proceed to gnaw and inhale their food, always accompanied by a cascade of grotesque slurping and chewing noises reminiscent of a National Geographic special about the food chain on the African savannah.

In response to this observation, my son said “manners are dead”. “I’m raising these children to be ‘natural creatures'”, he said, “wild and free and unencumbered by the petty rules of society.”

And he pointed out that Emily Post herself considered good etiquette to be a style of behavior intended to help other people feel comfortable. If his children feel comfortable eating their pizza as if they have just buried their faces in the warm entrails of an exhausted antelope, what right do I have to judge them?

He suggested that it was bad manners for me to even bring this up, and especially uncouth for me to pretend that I just let the criticism “slip” when in fact I have been brooding over this for years.

Dr. Babooner, while there may be some truth to the assertion that I have been thinking about this for a long time, it was never my intention to attempt to correct the atrocious behavior of these young barbarians. They are irredeemable. I would sooner try to convince voracious Asian Carp to swim back downstream.

But if etiquette is all about helping others relax, why must I always be the one to sacrifice? How come no one changes his or her behavior to help ME feel comfortable?

Sincerely,
Crabby Gramps

I told Crabby Gramps I was alarmed by his use of the world “irredeemable”. That strikes me as a shockingly final judgment for one to level against young relatives. And frankly, I said, his son is correct. Etiquette is dead – finally killed by the Internet in the same way table manners were done in by the State Fair, along with the table itself.

As for feeling “comfortable”, that must come from within. If you are looking for someone else to MAKE you feel comfortable, you are likely to wait for a very long time. Rather, C.G. should just decide to approach dinner with the mindset of a wildlife biologist. Observe and take notes. These are fascinating creatures who cannot be tamed!

You might also just “let it slip” that any “wild and free” creatures roaming in your house will have to wear radio collars and ear tags for the duration – for their own protection, of course. And one can never rule out the judicious use of tranquilizer darts.

But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?

Today is the birthday of the British Music Hall star Stanley Holloway, who entered the world on October 1st, 1890, and proceeded to work through some amazing years of transition in the world of show business, performing on radio, stage, in TV and movies. Holloway’s greatest fame came as Alfred P. Doolittle in “My Fair Lady,” both in the original Broadway production and in the 1964 film.

He strikes a familiar note for us with this old music hall favorite:

This is a classic example of humor made out of something that wouldn’t be funny at all if you actually witnessed it. Here’s another from Mr. Holloway:

Heads chopped off by selfish husbands, children eaten by lions. Har, har, har.
Don’t get the joke?
Guess you had to not be there.

When is it OK to laugh at the misfortune of others?

Dear Dr. Babooner,

My husband is totally wigged out by the irrational fear that he might die under a piece of the falling UARS (Upper Air Research Satellite) later this week. I told him the odds that the satellite would break up and come crashing down to earth on exactly the right trajectory to hit him in the forehead with a killing shot are, frankly, astronomical. He said the satellite was designed to be an astronomical object, so beating those odds would come naturally to it.

I didn’t think he really understood what I was saying, so I pointed out that his personal chance of being struck by a piece of debris is about one in several trillion. He pointed out that the satellite is a government object, and several trillion is like nothing to the government.

I told him there was no record of anyone ever being injured by a piece of falling satellite, and he said the government would have to make sure that any record of such a thing would certainly be erased. The fact that no record exists is, he says, sure proof that many injuries have already occurred.

Why doesn’t he worry about bad things that actually could happen, like snow blowing in under the broken front door that he said he would fix this summer, but didn’t?

Sincerely,
Possible UARS Widow

I told PUW that her husband, like most people, worries as a form of entertainment. Risk is a stimulant, and so is rage. As a government-hater, the remote but enticing possibility that this tax supported object will harm him provides your husband with an irresistible high. His body is producing waves of adrenaline every time he thinks about it. That problem with the front door, however, is a terrible downer, and any attempt he makes to fix it could end in failure. Thinking about Big Brother trying to kill him with a satellite is win-win. If it actually does take him out, it proves he was right all along. And if it misses him, it means he dodged a school bus sized bullet.

But that’s just one opinion. What do you think, Dr. Babooner?

Today’s guest post is by Barb in Blackhoof.

I have fond memories of listening to TLGMS In the barn. While milking, I would sing (and sometimes dance) along to many of the songs. “City of Democrats” la, la, la. Wow. How strange that there’s actually a city of democrats. Pretty cool, huh? Hmmm.

How many times have you been singing a song for years, with lyrics that you figured were correct, only to find out that you had mistaken? For example, Dale and Mike were playing “City of Immigrants” (by Steve Earle) not city of democrats. Drat. I had already made plans to move the herd.

There are a lot of songs for which I have my own lyrics, I guess. I don’t hear so well. But it wasn’t until John Prine (at a concert in Duluth) spoke of “mondegreens” in an intro to one of his songs, that I learned there was a term for these mis-heard lyrics. John said a fan requested a song that was her favorite – “It’s a happy enchilada and you think you’re gonna drown. That’s the way that the world goes ’round.” The actual lyrics go: “It’s a half an inch of water, and you think you’re gonna drown.” This is a very common phenomenon – and not a terribly new one.

Sylvia Wright coined the term “mondegreen” in a 1954 Atlantic article. As a child, young Sylvia had listened to a folk song that included the lines “They had slain the Earl of Moray/And Lady Mondegreen.” As is customary with misheard lyrics, she didn’t realize her mistake for years. The song was not about the tragic fate of Lady Mondegreen, but rather, the continuing plight of the good earl: “They had slain the Earl of Moray/and laid him on the green.” (this paragraph from Mondegreens: A Short Guide by Gavin Edwards.)

And if you really want a good chuckle, look at the columns by Jon Carroll – an example: “Cleaned a lot of plates in Memphis, pumped a lot of Tang down in New Orleans?”

And here are some of mine….. can you guess the correct words and artist?
Oh, a Tree in Motion (from my teen-age, little teeny transistor radio)
Solid Citizen (this one is way off and very embarrassing)
Salivate, Salivate, Dance to the Music (this one is pretty easy)

Have you got a favorite mondegreen?

Another desperate sales letter from my favorite Automotive motivator.

Greetings to all my good friends in the car buying public! With the seasons changing, I’m here to remind you that there’s one sure way to stay warm when the weather turns cold – climb into a metal box and set off a rapid series of gasoline explosions mere inches on the other side of a plastic and foam barrier. I know it sounds crazy and dangerous, but if you do it right, you’ll be hooked! Here at Wally’s Intimida (home of the Sherpa – it’s a Mighty Big Car), we have a parking lot full of these polished, comfortable, new-smelling metal boxes all gassed up and ready for the spark of ignition, primed to blow heat on your feet, your middle and your face, all while you sit in your electrically warmed seat looking out the window and winter’s wrath! What’s more, if you pop your heated metal box it into gear, you could actually GO somewhere.

But if the prices scare you, don’t feel like you have to buy a new vehicle this year.

All the industry buzz is about the hot , hot market right now for used cars, and here at Wally’s we have those too! Want to buy used? C’mon down! Want to sell your old car on our mammoth, high traffic lot? All the better – c’mon down! We’ve heard from a lot of people this year who want to sell their pathetic jalopies and use the money to buy another, newer used car. Great idea! We’d love to help you do it with Wally’s Retail Detail Spiff n’ Jiff Program!

Here’s how the RDSNJ works – bring your dumb old clunker to our shop. We’ll buy anything! Then we’ll vacuum it out, wipe it off, polish it ‘til it’s star bright and cover it with a layer of wax so deep, it’ll look like it’s encased in glass. Then we’ll put your refreshed old friend on the lot and sell it for whatever the market will bear. And the market will pay top dollar for your rejuvenated jalopy, trust me.

How good will it look?

You’ll develop a serious case of Seller’s Regret! In fact, nine times out of some larger number I can’t remember right now, the sellers buy their loyal old companion BACK from us! After all, there was a reason you chose it in the first place – give us a chance to show you why! We promise we’ll let you have it for $150 more than we paid you for it – and believe me, that’s A LOT cheaper than buying new.

A bargain of one kind or another awaits you at Wally’s Intimida. It’s only a matter of degree. And a matter of degrees! Turn up the heat inside a metal box with gasoline explosions at Wally’s Intimida, home of the Sherpa S.U.V. It’s a Mighty Big Car!

Ever had Seller’s Remorse?

A late comment posted yesterday by Donna in response to Bubby Spamden’s first-week-of-school quandary runs the risk of going under-appreciated, so I thought I’d better bring it to the top of the queue for today.

If you recall, Bubby was trying to make sense of his Personal Finance class, as taught by Mr. Boozenporn.
Part of his confusion was fostered by Mr. Boozenporn’s odd focus on building good checkbook habits. Bubby (and everyone younger than him) is in the no-checkbook generation – a group Donna knows well in her day job as a first grade teacher.

She also knows a thing or two about story time:

Bubby should forget about paper altogether and exchange it for gold. And then he should take most of the gold and spin it into straw. And then he should buy goats. And then he should take what’s left and buy just enough yarn to knit one single goat sweater because now it’s winter. But he should leave the work undone because it’s BUBBY for God’s sakes! And on this cold December night Bubby’s barn will be visited by a pair of pixies and they will knit the most beautiful goat sweater the north woods has ever seen. The next morning a happy wandering stranger will yodel up to the barn and buy the sweater for DOUBLE Bubby’s asking price. And then Bubby will buy enough yarn for two goat sweaters, and again the pixies will knit them and they’ll be even more beautiful than the night before. And this scenario will continue night after night, and Bubby will buy more yarn and then more goats and then more yarn and then more goats and then more yarn and then more goats and more yarn and more goats until he realizes he’s forgotten to spend any money on feed and the goats have starved to death. OH NO – BUBBEEEEEEEEY!!!

The moral of this story, Baboons?

I found an early-morning missive from an old friend – Bubby Spamden, perennial sophomore.

Hey Mr. C.,

Well we’re in the second week of school already, and believe it or not after all the years I’ve spent as a sophomore at Wendell Wilkie High School, I am finally taking a class I’ve never taken before – Personal Finance.

I guess the bigwigs on the School Board decided last summer that we are all as dumb as toads about money, and they decided to make room in the schedule for us to get trained about goal setting, budgeting, savings, credit, insurance … all that financial stuff that even our parents don’t know anything about.

Well, mine, at least.

But they couldn’t think of a way to work it into the crowded school day that’s already full of stuff we have to study so we can pass our tests so our school doesn’t get labeled with the scarlet “L” for LOSER School, which is a title most schools are going to wind up being anyway, I guess, on account of No Child Left Behind.

So they decided that everybody would get 15 minutes of Personal Finance training at the beginning of the day in homeroom. Every day. And the homeroom teachers have to teach it.

My homeroom teacher, Mr. Boozenporn, says the “15 Minutes A Day” approach is actually a really good pattern to use for savings – take a little bit each time but do it every single day, and before long you’ll be filthy rich. Actually, what he really said was a smart savings plan would take a very, very long time and at the end you would NOT be filthy rich, but you might wind up being NOT TOO POOR, which would come as a surprise for a lot of us because (speaking for me, personally), poor is definitely what I expect.

Anyway, everyone agrees that Mr. Boozenporn is a great choice to teach this class because a lot of it has to do with not giving in to impulsive behavior, and kids say that when he’s away from school, Mr. B. is kind of an expert on impulsive behavior. He’s got some vices involving a handful of places clustered on this one block downtown that we kids can’t get into, but he is seen going in and out those doors a LOT. Which surprises me because the cover charge for a couple of them is really steep, and he’s just, you know, a teacher. And no, I did not sit across the street and watch all the comings and goings. But somebody else might have.

So Mr. B’s first personal finance lecture was about keeping track of your checkbook – making sure you stay up to date on your entries and remembering to write down the check number and then reconciling, like, every week, and making sure all the checks are accounted for in the bank statement and stuff like that. It was all pretty understandable except I did come away from it with just one nagging question :

What’s a checkbook?

Your pal,
Bubby

I told Bubby that a checkbook is like having an iTunes account at the bank, except instead of only being able to buy songs and apps and stuff, it can be used for almost anything. As long as it’s a thing sold by people who accept checks. How you find them, I’m not sure.

What one personal finance rule should Mr. Boozenporn teach the children?

There will be a lot on TV, radio and in the papers this weekend about the 10th anniversary of 9/11. There already has been. And it’s important. The memory of what happened that day cannot be erased, and the victims must be honored. Though for some of us, it feels presumptuous to make a big fuss over any anniversary of that dark day – as if 9/11 is something that’s actually over.

Amid all the talk about how we’ve changed in the past decade, essays about fear and ruminations on security, my favorite piece is actually this sound-and-photo essay from the NY Times about a way in which we’ve not changed. Ironworkers are building a new tower, and perhaps this is the most meaningful observance of the 9/11 anniversary – a bird’s eye view of Manhattan, as seen by blue collar heroes and a fearless photographer, perched on the top floor of an ambitious, unfinished construction project.

At one time or another, everyone has to force themselves to “not look down” in order to get the job done.

Examples?