It seems like every May there’s a morose note from Wendell Wilkie High School’s perennial sophomore, Bubby Spamden. What a pity – to be so young and so bleak in springtime.

Hey Mr. C.,

Summer’s coming, and it looks like the job scene for teens is tough again this year. Getting a definite “no” or just plain being ignored all the time can wear a guy out, especially since all I’ve ever heard since I started school was how great I am and how I should really, really feel good about myself all the time no matter what.

Well, that’s not entirely true. The past few years of being held back as a high school sophomore has been kind of humbling, but I started with a huge excess of self-positivity and there’s still some left in the barrel. Still, I’m thinking about giving up my job search so I can preserve what’s left of my ME! reserves.

I have looked all around and so far there’s just nothing. It doesn’t help that my grandfather is applying at all the same places I am – the burger shop, the coffee place and the movie theater. He’s 84 and says he needs some extra money to help pay for his medications or he’ll die. Talk about piling on the guilt!

When I told my mom I’d have to stay in the basement playing video games all summer so grandpa could live, she gave me THAT LOOK. But I’m serious! It really helps to have the feeling that what you’re doing (or NOT doing) makes a difference in the world, and making it so I could buy my popcorn from Gramps at every summer blockbuster this year while getting to see him so happy behind the counter, over-filling the pop orders, snarling at the 12 year olds and getting fake butter smeared on his cheerful yellow ScreenLand vest, that would be something I could point to with pride while I tell my friends ‘I helped make that happen!’.

Mr. Cornsmut told the FFA kids that some farmers get paid to not grow crops so I’m wondering – could I get paid for staying out of the job force? Seriously – me not being in the way of more deserving candidates is worth something, isn’t it? In fact, being absent-for-hire may be the next big business opportunity! There’s so much competition for everything, why not pay me something to thin the job herd by at least one?

If that worked I’d also try to get paid for staying out of the wilderness, out of the bowling alleys, out of that crafts store my mom likes and out of the dentist’s office too! It looks like every single place is more and more crowded than ever before, except for bookstores and video rental places, so there’s lots of opportunity.

I would even consider taking money to stay off the roads, if only somebody would give me a car first so I could get paid to park it. Then I could start dating, as long as my girlfriend was OK with us not actually going anywhere.

My mom says if I don’t find a way to make money this year, they’ll send me to Punctuation Camp, so I’m getting a little desperate. What do you think of my idea, Mr. C? I know you’re in the job market – would you like to be the first to pay me something to stay out of your way?

Your pal,
Bubby

I told Bubby he was making a LOT of assumptions with his “plan”, not the least of which is the wild guess that some fictitious girlfriend would be satisfied to just go sit in a car with him. I know teenage girls are sometimes irrational, but it’s hard to imagine that there is one so lacking in common sense and ambition that she would be attracted to this offer. If she does exist, her parents might pay her something to NOT go out with Bubby – a wise investment, I think.

As for Bubby getting paid by me or anyone to not apply for jobs – it sounds like a Ponzi Scheme or trading in bundled sub-prime mortgages – a method of making money that could only work if one could suspend the laws of mathematics. So ten years ago he might have had a shot with that idea, especially on Wall Street. In 2011, maybe not.

He gets points for imagination, but Punctuation Camp sounds like a real possibility.

What would you give up in exchange for money?

Dear Dr. Babooner,

One of my dear friends is having an extravagant wedding! The groom’s family is loaded AND they are sort of obsessive-compulsive when it comes to all the rules they follow and the weird behaviors they expect from other people.

His mother is so touchy, ordinary people are not supposed to touch her unless she touches them first!

Talk about taking yourself seriously. They’ll have a full orchestra and TWO choirs!

This in a church that already has a perfectly fine pipe organ. How much music do you need to say a simple “I do”?

My friend the bride thinks it is all so wonderful, but I can’t help thinking this is excessive and embarrassingly ‘over the top’. I know it is my responsibility to ‘ooh’ and ‘aaah’ over the posh arrangements and make a fuss and validate all her tasteless choices, but I’m afraid if I do she will be able to tell I’m faking it.

But on the other hand, if I say what I think she may never speak to me again! The whole thing gives me a stomachache. Either way, I feel like our friendship is doomed!

I’m thinking I should just not show up and claim later that I made a mistake writing down the date!

Would that be so wrong?

Sincerely,

Just a Common Her

I told “Common Her” that yes, it would be wrong to skip your friend’s wedding because you are afraid she will see through your façade. You appear to be so shallow, it is likely that she has already seen through your façade and has decided to like you anyway. Or, as you suggest, your friendship may be truly doomed. In either case, you might as well go for the perks. I hear you’ll get one free glass of champagne, possibly two, but under no circumstances will anyone get three!

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

Pseudo-journalist Bud Buck has been following the controversial smartphone data collection story, and has apparently decided there’s a larger audience hungry for fresh details that will push them to becoming even more alarmed. He is more than willing to provide them.

Some Cellphones Stalk Users
by Bud Buck

Hot on the heels of revelations that cell phone tracking data is being collected and stored by Apple and Google and that these phones log your whereabouts even when the location feature is turned OFF, I have uncovered an instance of a smartphone that knows where its user goes and how much time he spends there, EVEN WHEN HE IS NOT CARRYING THE DEVICE!

A Bud Buck Reports Investigation has discovered that at least one careless user, Thomas Carping of Belle Plaine, routinely leaves his phone at home, but the phone still somehow knows where he is.

“Usually I take it with me,” he explains, “and I’m always going to pretty much all the same places anyway. I know it remembers. So I guess when I accidentally leave it in the pocket of yesterday’s pants it still has enough information inside to predict where I’ll be. That’s really smart … and really creepy.”

Carping claims that when he inadvertently leaves home without his phone, other telephones around him tend to ring, and that those phones ring in sequence along a route he typically follows. People he has called in the past receive phantom calls.

Carping’s friend, Luanne Locavore, confirmed his assertion.

“Tommy walks into my place and he’s not here more than five minutes before MY phone starts to ring,” she says. “I pick it up and it’s just line noise, and then a hang up. I check the log and discover the call came from HIS cell, but he says he left it at home.”

Carping believes that smart phone designers have built the devices with “the soul-sucking, meddlesome personality of an obsessed harpy.” He claims he has made no commitment to the phone and yet it seems bent on “tracking my movements and going out of its way to ruin my fun.”

I found it surprising that he could have a mobile phone plan that required no extended contract or commitment, but Carping insisted it is true. He and the phone “are good friends. We’ve done some work together, but that’s as far as it goes. I am allowed to leave the house without it, no matter what the phone thinks.”

Locavore agrees, saying the phone “obviously has other ideas. It’s almost like it’s trying to find him.”

And those ideas may include more than a simple phone call. Locavore revealed this shocking tidbit – she insisted that Carping download the tracking data from his phone and they discovered that on some days when he left the phone in his pants pocket on the closet floor, the device actually went out in search of him.

“All the tracking information is in there,” she says. “One night when he said he didn’t have it, the records show it came and sat out in the street in front of my house! Creepy! What will I do if it rings the doorbell?”

Locavore finds it troubling that the device can form such a strong attachment, and she thinks Carping should do something “before it gets out of hand.”

Her suggestion?

“Drown it in a five gallon pail.”

Both Carping and Locavore took offense at this reporter’s offhand suggestion that perhaps Carping had more to hide than he was letting on, and that his phone was being operated by another person during the times when it appears to be trying to track him down.

“He’s single and lives alone,” said Locavore. “That’s what he’s always told me.”

Carping readily agreed.

“Yup,” he said. “That’s my story.”

But can anyone ever be truly alone once they become involved with a smartphone?
Time will tell! This is Bud Buck!

Which of your appliances loves you the most?

Dear Dr. Babooner,

I was going through the check-out line in the grocery store when the clerk scanned my bag of clementines and said “These babies are going to cost a ton once the Federal Reserve Bank goes in for another round of quantitative easing.”

I’m not the sort of person who expects a lot from my contact with people running cash registers. I figure they have enough to keep them occupied without the added burden of sustaining a conversation with me, but I have to say this came as a surprise.

“The government is printing money like mad,” she said, “and there’s no way they can stop doing it now, not with the economic pain people are feeling and the fact that the 2012 presidential election campaign has already begun.”

She scanned my coupon for fifty cents off a can of mixed fruit.

“The pressure is intense to keep up the pretense. It’s all based on your mindless faith that everything has to work out fine, but I’m tellin’ you that the whole economy is built on a friggin’ house of cards.”

As she weighed my bananas I remembered hearing that the familiar Cavendish variety of my favorite yellow fruit would soon be extinct.

“The first thing you’ll see is unchecked inflation, wild like you wouldn’t believe. That’s what I mean about the clementines. And after that, there’ll be something like total collapse of the entire system because it’s not based on anything real. Once people figure that out, it’ll be a torching-cars-at-the-curb kind of crazy”, she said, sticking a red dot to my gallon of “No Bovine Growth Hormone” milk.

“Good thing you got the no BHG version of skim. Hope there’s not too much Japanese nuclear radiation in there.”

“I think the milk is safe,” I said, beginning to wonder if the milk was safe.

“I’m just sayin’,” she said, “that it’ll be a tough decision once you realize the only way you can re-stock on Ho-Ho’s is to throw a shopping cart through the front window and start looting, or pay for them on the black market with pure gold.”

She held up the Ho-Ho’s and shook them at me as she lectured.

“Because these babies will never go bad, and that makes them a great catastrophe food. No-spoil items will become really valuable because you might have to stay in your basement for months. Especially word gets out to the roving mobs of jobless middle managers that you might have valuables and guns in the house.”

“Or Ho-Ho’s,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

“There are surveillance cameras at all the exits,” she observed. “Try to bury your non-perishables lower in the bag. Stockpilers will be identified and their caches re-distributed by the government. To reduce panic.”

I thought for a moment about running back to grab a few armloads of beef jerky and gallons of water.

“Winter’s hanging on,” I said, trying to return the conversation to a normal topic. “Wonder if we’ve seen our last snow.”

“Ash and airborne particulates from the fires out west will fall like snow over the entire Midwest once the Yellowstone super volcano starts erupting,” she chirped. “We won’t see the sun until 2050.”

I collected my groceries and went home, but didn’t feel like eating.

Dr. Babooner, do you think clipping grocery store coupons is worth all the time and trouble I put into it, or am I simply an unwitting dupe in a food industry marketing campaign?

Sincerely,
Unsettled By My Disaster Cashier

I told Unsettled that the key to coupon clipping is to only cut out the ones issued for things you already intended to buy. Going into the supermarket and coming out with a lot of stuff that wasn’t on your list is a quick route to the poorhouse. I’ve always thought that instead of what they usually say, cashiers should ask “Did you find anything you WEREN’T looking for?” And then, as a public service, they should set it aside and have the stock clerks return it to the shelves.

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

Once a legitimate journalist and now a desperate attention-seeker, radio’s Bud Buck is more than willing to purposely misunderstand the details of an assignment if he thinks it leads to a more controversial story. There is almost always less to a breathless Bud Buck expose’ than meets the eye. Here’s the latest atrocity from his growing collection:

Strange Rituals Gain Foothold

In this week leading up to an annual sacred observance for a large section of the populace, I set out to find strange superstitions that represent the worrisome downside of our celebrated freedoms. In short, I was looking for weird religion – alarming rituals happening right under our noses.

I didn’t have to look too far to discover what appears to be pagan worship of a mechanical God, the extremely loud and surprisingly portable deity “Shre-Dit”. Just this past Saturday, an impromptu ceremony sprang up in a local parking lot with loyal adherents lining up for the chance to make a sacrificial offering.

Legend has it that Shre-Dit has an insatiable hunger for human secrets.

The God must be fed large amounts of confidential information on a daily basis to maintain his strength.

The ritual requires that the secrets be written on paper. During the ceremony the faithful form a line and bring their treasures to the high priest, who is literally above the masses – standing on a wheeled platform to receive offerings from the supplicants. This platform is entirely covered by a metal enclosure, which also hides the deity from direct public view.

But oh, can you hear him! A whirring, rumbling sound slowly rises as Shre-Dit prepares to accept tributes from his people. The offerings are made in boxes and bags. These sacrifices are flung into the open maw of Shre-Dit and when the secrets are accepted, a sharp, brittle buzz cuts through the air, like the sound of a million locusts leveling an acre of corn in an instant.

Joy is obvious on faces of the supplicants as their classified documents are transformed into sacred confetti.

Why do they do it? I asked some of the faithful to describe their motivation for participating in this bizarre ceremony.

“I pray that I can keep my identity intact,” said one adherent who asked that her name not be used.

“I don’t want anyone else to try to become me,” added another who insisted his photographic image be distorted to prevent loss of privacy.

“I’m here to prevent the total theft of everything that makes me who I am, or who I ever hope be,” shouted a third, who tried to wrestle my camera away from me and kicked me in the shins several times.

Apparently Shre-Dit is seen as a protector against complete loss of one’s essential self. If he is even marginally successful at this, that would make Shre-Dit a very potent God indeed.

But there’s more! After the consumption ceremony, the secrets are said to undergo another phase of transformation, eventually being re-incarnated as more pieces of paper that will someday be able to hold new secrets that may eventually be tossed once again into the open metallic jaws of the ravenous Shre-Dit!

I was deeply impressed by the faith of those who brought offerings to the parking lot shrine this past Saturday. They stood in the wind and withstood unseasonably cold temperatures to nourish their mysterious mechanical protector, and to keep their very selves from being lost – forever. But will they reap real rewards for their efforts, or is this just another Strange Superstition?

Time will tell! This is Bud Buck!

Like I say, I think Bud misinterpreted what he saw. But who wants to hear a story about an ordinary shred-a-thon for people’s ordinary financial records? Especially when it’s so easy to think outrageous, surreal things about other people!

Have you participated in, or observed, puzzling rituals?

This e-mail arrived over the weekend from perennial sophomore Bubby Spamden, who continues to struggle with the choices facing a young person as he completes yet another year of 10th grade at Wendell Wilkie High School.

Hello Mr. C.,

So last Friday Ms. Murgatroyd called in sick at the last minute and her first hour social studies class, which I’m in, had to go next door to sit with Mr. Eisenstien’s “Introduction to Conceptual Art” class while they called for a sub.

Mr. E. was real good about letting us come in. He said if we had work to do that was class-related we could take care of it quietly in the back of the room while he lectured. That was fine with me because I was kind of hoping I could catch up on some important reading assignments on the backs of my eyelids.

First hour sucks, but you know that.

Anyway, he was up there going on and on about abstract this and subversive that, and the choices people make and how artists have to find a way to be artists and still survive and blah blah blah. Not to criticize him or anything. It’s just that his lecture was making my head feel heavier and heavier – so heavy I was about to put it down on my desk and get to “work” – when suddenly he said he was going to show the class a Woody Woodpecker cartoon.

Mr. E said he had just read an article about this animator who really liked cool art and worked some of it into the assembly line drawing he was doing for a studio. He did it on the sly because high concept art wasn’t supposed to be part of his job and most people are common toads who don’t understand good stuff and wouldn’t cross the street to look at a decent painting with a strong point of view, but they’ll lap up stupid cartoons all day long.

That got me really interested, because I love cartoons. And Woody Woodpecker kicks butt, literally. Mr. E said you can see the abstract stuff in the explosions at 4:40 and 6:33 on this You Tube video.

So that got me to thinking about what I’m going to do with my life. Mr. E said a conceptual artist can be a social critic no matter what line of work he or she goes into – it’s all about the attitude you take and what you consider to be your “mission”.

Personally, my mission is to get a job where I watch cartoons all day long.
Do you think I should be a super-cool conceptual artist, or just an art teacher like Mr. E?

Your pal,
Bubby

I told Bubby to be clear about the real job of teaching. Even though Mr. E. showed his class a Woody Woodpecker cartoon, that doesn’t mean he “watches cartoons all day long”. Far from it. And in any case it’s a bad idea to disparage someone’s line of work. Being “just an art teacher” is not a step down from being “a super-cool conceptual artist”. But I am glad that something happened at school to get him thinking – and excited about the future.

What was your favorite subject in school?

It appears the government shutdown faceoff has come to its final day, as expected.

In a meeting last night the Republican leader of the House and the Democratic leader of the Senate could not even agree on whether they had agreed about anything. Senator Reid thought they at least had a deal on the numbers, but Representative Boehner was pretty certain they didn’t.

This does not bode well.

In preparation for the shutdown, government workers began getting furlough notices yesterday. Some received letters telling them that they are too important to the nation to be allowed to stay home and they will be expected to report for duty without pay, starting next week. There’s a letter worthy of committing to your personal archives – file it next to the one you got from that person you were dating in college when they said they no longer loved you, but could you still take care of their cat over Easter break?

It is unthinkable that those serving in war zones and their families back home will be asked to accept this arrangement given the sacrifices they have already made, so expect at least one more vote today to take care of them. For the rest of the essential expendables, get ready for a simultaneous embrace / stiff-arm. We can only hope those workers responsible for keeping the space station astronauts alive will do their jobs and not complain. Ditto for whoever puts food in the Interior Department fish tank. And please, don’t make too big a show of your devotion to duty – it interferes with the narrative that says public workers are overcompensated wastrels.

Speaking of narratives, the storytelling goes into high gear today just in time for our weekend entertainment. By Monday morning we should have a pretty good idea whose version of the tale has more box office appeal – the Republican melodrama about irresponsible Democrats blowing the family paycheck down at the local tavern to buy rounds for their lazy cronies while the homestead is being repossessed, or the Democratic thriller about Republican and Tea Party anarchists hijacking a government train packed with poor orphans headed to camp and de-railing it into the mouth of an exploding volcano.

These are two classic scenarios that come pre-loaded with heartless villains, helpless victims and possibly some last minute heroics. The problem? Though we’ve seen each storyline a hundred times, there’s a chance half the country will go to see one movie and half will enjoy the other.

Then what? Popcorn, anyone? Or is dad still saying “no concessions”?

What’s your favorite cliffhanger?

Former reputable journalist Bud Buck is now set up as a news aggregator, re-writing and putting his personal spin on stories that were initiated elsewhere. It’s a form of imaginary journalism, somewhat like blogging, but Bud pretends he’s more legitimate by earnestly quoting the people whose voices he hears inside his head.

I’ve been deleting most of his e-mails of late, but this one was too interesting to pass up:

Massive E-mail Address Spill Threatens to Spoil Internet for Everyone
by Bud Buck

The cyber-theft of a record number of names and e-mail addresses has caused customers of some of America’s largest and most respected companies to treat certain e-mails with suspicion and even disdain. And it may have the long-term effect of changing the supportive, trusting atmosphere of Americans’ online experience.

While no account, social security or other vital numbers were compromised, online security experts warn that this incident could lead to an increase in the number of fake targeted e-mails that attempt to draw important personal information out of gullible customers. Privacy consultants recommend that people ignore any such request.

But if that attitude takes hold, it could lead to a sudden change in behavior by those who thoughtlessly and regularly share too much information.

“That’s it,” said Susan Owlish, a schoolteacher. “I loved the internet because it offered what felt like a warm embrace from companies that I previously thought of as aloof and uncaring. These criminals are going to ruin a beautiful relationship that was developing between me and Vast Bank, which holds all my checking, savings and retirement money in accounts that now total something more than 200 thousand dollars!”

“I just normally assume any e-mail that asks for my checking account number comes from somebody who really needs it,” said Derek Bloomer, a freelance writer. “I mean, that’s a lot of seemingly random digits to deal with. My number, 9456-000159, is so boring I have to look it up every time I need it. So what’s the harm in sharing it? If I can’t remember what the number is, won’t they forget it too?”

Bloomer admitted that he would be more suspicious of such e-mails in the future, but he also questioned the veracity of the entire address-theft story.

“Why aren’t they telling us exactly how many names were stolen?” he asked. “I want to know if I just lost my first and last names, or my three middle names as well – Arthur Westly Cornrow. And do they know about my inheritance?”

Derek Arthur Westly Cornrow Bloomer also wondered out loud if the whole story might be just another kind of a scam. And there are signs that this sort of distrust may be spreading among those who are habitually free with their own details and with the private information of others.

“I used to believe everything I saw on my computer screen,” said bus driver Lorna Bunion. “After all, it was in print, and I grew up with great respect for the printed word thanks to my parents, Robert and Sophie Bunion, who are rare book collectors living at 8823 Johnson Circle in a small house without deadbolt locks. I was also raised with a great respect for gold and other precious metals, but I probably shouldn’t tell you why.”

And so, the chill descends.

This is Bud Buck!

How do you decide what to delete, and what to read?

I was standing in front of the house the other afternoon, reaching for a string of Christmas lights that had become dislodged from the roof, when I heard the familiar sound of jangling metal behind me – Bathtub Safety Officer Rafferty was briskly walking up the driveway, a massive collection of keys slapping the side of his leg as he shouted:

BSOR: Halt! Don’t touch that! You could suffer a terrible injury!

Me: What makes you say that?

BSOR: Power cords are dangerous. Glass is perilous. And ice is potentially lethal! Any one of these alone can deliver massive amounts of pain and suffering!

He had a point. The lights were the kind with the large glass bulbs. And I admit it – I was standing on an icy patch.

BSOR: Also, I know you’re thinking about getting out the ladder.

I hate it when he does this. I WAS thinking about the ladder.

BSOR: Gravity plus electricity plus glass plus the absence of friction at ground level. That’s what you get when you give in to the crazy pressure society puts on all of us to remove holiday lighting displays before the conditions are completely safe!

Me: But it’s April! You can’t say I’ve given in to pressure to take down the lights too early when the holiday was over three months ago!

BSOR: Why the rush? I always dismantle my festive display starting at 5 pm on the Fourth of July. By then the snow has melted, the footing is good, and there’s plenty of daylight left to finish the job. Plus, because of all the illegal fireworks being launched throughout the day I know the local emergency rooms are staffed and supplied with everything they need to treat horrific injuries should something go terribly wrong for me.

Me: Wow, you really have thought this through, completely!

BSOR: And if I wind up being hospitalized that evening, I can make good use of the moments when I’m conscious to scold the other patients around me for playing with explosives!

Me: So you really do visualize all the possibilities and expect the worst!

BSOR: I have a good imagination.

Me: Well I can’t wait until the Fourth of July to take down these decorations. This particular string of lights has detached itself from the house and is swinging by the front door. I could get sued if somebody gets whipped in the face when they come to … I don’t know … deliver the paper?

BSOR: Is that the best you can do? I’ve seen the guy who delivers your paper and he doesn’t get anywhere near your house. He throws the paper at your front door from a moving car in the street. A much more likely scenario is that the person standing by this swinging string of lights would be some sort of sales agent. Or a police officer, come to issue you a citation for having a dangerously detached festive display!

Me: Gosh, I hadn’t thought of that.

BSOR: Or worse, your Congressman, come door knocking! They’re lawyers, you know!

Me: That’s not too likely.

BSOR: And what if one of the bulbs breaks and he gets whipped in the face by the cord AND the jagged edge of shattered glass!

Me: Ugh.

BSOR: And after the glassy shards of your busted lights embed themselves his skin, the string of lights gets wrapped around his neck and he slips on the ice and falls off your front stoop but the string isn’t long enough to allow his feet to touch the ground?

Me: That’s gruesome.

BSOR: And don’t forget – this is still plugged in. Sparks could be flying everywhere and it might take down the grid!

Me: That’s implausible.

BSOR: All the commotion might even draw radiation through the wires from that damaged nuclear power plant in Japan!

Me: Ludicrous.

BSOR: Maybe it’s ludicrous to you and me, but this is a member of Congress we’re talking about now, right? In their imaginations, anything is possible. The National Guard would be deployed. This whole neighborhood would have to be quarantined for thousands of years, and you’d go to jail for at least that long, just because you HAD to take the lights down today!

Me: Everything you just described is completely and utterly impossible.

BSOR: And you are surprisingly weak when it comes to picturing the worst thing that could happen.

Me: I know. That’s why I’m able to sleep at night.

Do you expect the best, or the worst?