Outside the actor’s studio
Bernard Pivot always asked his guests ten questions in the great French television series, Bouillon de Culture. And some of the finest intellectuals in the world answered them, some with great cheer, others with clear discomfort.
Marcel Proust is alleged to have enjoyed asking his guests these questions at parties.
What do you think? Do the answers reveal something insightful? Is it an intellectual exercise or the sort of questionnaire that bimbos enjoy in Cosmopolitan magazine?
James Lipton's never going to ask me. So here are my answers.
1. What is your favorite word? Archaeopteryx
2. What is your least favorite word? Obligated
3. What turns you on, excites, or inspires you creatively, spiritually, or emotionally? Cleverness
4. What turns you off? Debt
5. What sound or noise do you love? The lesser black-backed gull (larus fuscus)
6. What sound or noise do you hate? Weeping
7. What is your favorite curse word? Bollocks
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Artist
9. What profession would you absolutely not like to participate in? Sales
10. If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? “Sorry.”
Monday, March 24, 2008
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Saint Paddy’s Humor
Into a Belfast pub comes Paddy Murphy, looking like he’d just been run over by a train. His arm is in a sling, his nose is broken, his face is cut, and bruised, and he’s walking with a limp.
“What happened to you?” asks Sean, the bartender.
“Jamie O’Conner and me had a fight,” says Paddy.
“That little O’Conner?” says Sean, “He couldn’t do that to you, he must have had something in his hand.”
“That he did,” says Paddy, “A shovel is what he had. And a terrible lickin’ he gave me with it.”
“Well,” says Sean, “You should have defended yourself. Didn’t you have something in your hand?”
That I did,” says Paddy, “Mrs. O’Conner’s breast. And a thing of beauty it was; but useless in a fight.”
************************************************************
An Irishman who had a little too much to drink is driving home from the city one night and, of course, his car is weaving violently all over the road.
A cop pulls him over. “So,” says the cop to the driver, “Where have ya been?”
“Why, I’ve been to the pub of course,” slurs the drunk.
“Well,” says the cop, “it looks like you’ve had quite a few to drink this evening.”
“I did all right,” the drunk says with a smile.
“Did you know,” says the cop, standing straight, and folding his arms across his chest, “That a few intersections back, your wife fell out of your car?”
“Oh, thank heavens,” sighs the drunk. “For a minute there, I thought I’d gone deaf.”
**********************************************************
Pat Reardon is home making dinner, as usual, when Tim Finnegan arrives at her door.
“Patty, may I come in?” he asks. “I’ve somethin’ to tell ya”.
“Of course you can come in, you’re always welcome, Tim. But where’s my husband?”
“That’s what I’m here to be telling ya, Patty. There was an accident down at the Guinness brewery”
“Oh, God no!” cries Patty. “Please don’t tell me.”
“I must, Patty. Your husband Jim is dead and gone. I’m sorry.
Finally, she looked up at Tim. “How did it happen, Tim?”
“It was terrible, Patty. He fell into a vat of Guinness Stout, and drowned.”
“Oh my dear Jesus! But you must tell me true, Tim, did he at least go quickly?”
“Well, Patty, no. In fact, he got out three times to pee.”
**************************************************************
Pat Reardon goes up to Father O’Grady after his Sunday morning service, and she’s in tears.
He says, “So what’s bothering you, Pat my dear?”
She says, “Oh, Father, I’ve got terrible news. My husband passed away last night.”
The priest says, “Oh, Pat, that’s terrible. Tell me, Pat, did he have any last requests?”
She says, “That he did, Father.”
The priest says, “What did he ask, Pat?”
“ She says, “He said, ‘Please Pat, put down that damn gun…‘ “
***************************************************************
AND THE BEST FOR LAST
A drunk staggers into a Catholic Church, enters a confessional booth, sits down, but says nothing.
The Priest coughs a few times to get his attention, but the drunk continues to sit there.
Finally, the Priest pounds three times on the wall.
The drunk mumbles, “Ain’t no use knockin’. There’s no paper on this side either.”
[Submitted by Ensenada Jim]
Into a Belfast pub comes Paddy Murphy, looking like he’d just been run over by a train. His arm is in a sling, his nose is broken, his face is cut, and bruised, and he’s walking with a limp.
“What happened to you?” asks Sean, the bartender.
“Jamie O’Conner and me had a fight,” says Paddy.
“That little O’Conner?” says Sean, “He couldn’t do that to you, he must have had something in his hand.”
“That he did,” says Paddy, “A shovel is what he had. And a terrible lickin’ he gave me with it.”
“Well,” says Sean, “You should have defended yourself. Didn’t you have something in your hand?”
That I did,” says Paddy, “Mrs. O’Conner’s breast. And a thing of beauty it was; but useless in a fight.”
************************************************************
An Irishman who had a little too much to drink is driving home from the city one night and, of course, his car is weaving violently all over the road.
A cop pulls him over. “So,” says the cop to the driver, “Where have ya been?”
“Why, I’ve been to the pub of course,” slurs the drunk.
“Well,” says the cop, “it looks like you’ve had quite a few to drink this evening.”
“I did all right,” the drunk says with a smile.
“Did you know,” says the cop, standing straight, and folding his arms across his chest, “That a few intersections back, your wife fell out of your car?”
“Oh, thank heavens,” sighs the drunk. “For a minute there, I thought I’d gone deaf.”
**********************************************************
Pat Reardon is home making dinner, as usual, when Tim Finnegan arrives at her door.
“Patty, may I come in?” he asks. “I’ve somethin’ to tell ya”.
“Of course you can come in, you’re always welcome, Tim. But where’s my husband?”
“That’s what I’m here to be telling ya, Patty. There was an accident down at the Guinness brewery”
“Oh, God no!” cries Patty. “Please don’t tell me.”
“I must, Patty. Your husband Jim is dead and gone. I’m sorry.
Finally, she looked up at Tim. “How did it happen, Tim?”
“It was terrible, Patty. He fell into a vat of Guinness Stout, and drowned.”
“Oh my dear Jesus! But you must tell me true, Tim, did he at least go quickly?”
“Well, Patty, no. In fact, he got out three times to pee.”
**************************************************************
Pat Reardon goes up to Father O’Grady after his Sunday morning service, and she’s in tears.
He says, “So what’s bothering you, Pat my dear?”
She says, “Oh, Father, I’ve got terrible news. My husband passed away last night.”
The priest says, “Oh, Pat, that’s terrible. Tell me, Pat, did he have any last requests?”
She says, “That he did, Father.”
The priest says, “What did he ask, Pat?”
“ She says, “He said, ‘Please Pat, put down that damn gun…‘ “
***************************************************************
AND THE BEST FOR LAST
A drunk staggers into a Catholic Church, enters a confessional booth, sits down, but says nothing.
The Priest coughs a few times to get his attention, but the drunk continues to sit there.
Finally, the Priest pounds three times on the wall.
The drunk mumbles, “Ain’t no use knockin’. There’s no paper on this side either.”
[Submitted by Ensenada Jim]
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Learn About Our Rural Heritage
Come celebrate Farm Day at the Stein Family Farm Museum on Sat., March 15, from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. The farm, formerly in the outskirts of town, is now surrounded by suburban development at at 1808 F Avenue, National City, California.
This event is geared mostly towards interpreting farm work activities: washboard laundry, potato planting, learning about farm and Victorian-era objects & displays, tractor parade, house tours, pat the rooster and farm games.
Phone: (619) 477-4113
Cost: donation
Saturday, March 08, 2008
And you thought you were having a bad day
I could have sworn I hit the brake pedal! Car upside down in the bay - see the guy standing on it? Call out the wrecker.
Coming back up...coming...coming...
Coming...almost there!
Ooops!
I could have sworn I set the brakes on that truck!
Time to get a Bigger Wrecker!
Ok, we got the car..let's get the other wrecker now.
Ooohhh Crap !!!
See? Your day was not so bad after all. Actually, the final photo is an obvious fake. But never mind.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Beware of Lemon Slices in Your Restaurant Drinks
Do you enjoy a wedge of lemon with your water or iced tea when you eat at a restaurant? Well, you’ll be shocked by what this video shows. Two out of every three restaurant lemon wedges tested in a study were covered in disease-causing bacteria — including fecal bacteria. A total of 25 different, and potentially dangerous, microorganisms were discovered on the wedges.
Sources:
Journal of Environmental Health, Dec. 1, 2007
Snopes.com
Do you enjoy a wedge of lemon with your water or iced tea when you eat at a restaurant? Well, you’ll be shocked by what this video shows. Two out of every three restaurant lemon wedges tested in a study were covered in disease-causing bacteria — including fecal bacteria. A total of 25 different, and potentially dangerous, microorganisms were discovered on the wedges.
Sources:
Saturday, March 01, 2008
Printer’s Error
By P.G. Wodehouse, 1955
As o’er my latest book I pored,
Enjoying it immensely,
I suddenly exclaimed ‘Good Lord!’
And gripped the volume tensely.
‘Golly!’ I cried. I writhed in pain.
‘They’ve done it on me once again!’
And furrows creased my brow.
I’d written (which I thought quite good)
‘Ruth, ripening into womanhood,
Was now a girl who knocked men flat
And frequently got whistled at’,
And some vile, careless, casual gook
Had spoiled the best thing in the book
By printing ‘not’
(Yes,’not’, great Scott!)
When I had written ‘now’.
On murder in the first degree
The Law, I knew, is rigid:
Its attitude, if A kills B,
To A is always frigid.
It counts it not a trivial slip
If on behalf of authorship
You liquidate compositors.
This kind of conduct it abhors
And seldom will allow.
Nevertheless, I deemed it best
And in the public interest
To buy a gun, to oil it well,
Inserting what is called a shell,
And go and pot
With sudden shot
This printer who had printed ‘not’
When I had written ‘now’.
I tracked the bounder to his den
Through private information:
I said, ‘Good afternoon’, and then
Explained the situation:
‘I’m not a fussy man,’ I said.
‘I smile when you put “rid” for “red”
And “bad” for “bed” and “hoad” for “head”
And “bolge” instead of “bough”.
When “wone” appears in lieu of “wine”
Or if you alter “Cohn” to “Schine”,
I never make a row.
I know how easy errors are.
But this time you have gone too far
By printing “not” when you knew what
I really wrote was “now”.
Prepare,’ I said, ‘to meet your God
Or, as you’d say, your Goo or Bod,
Or possibly your Gow.’
A few weeks later into court
I came to stand my trial.
The Judge was quite a decent sort.
He said, ‘Well, cocky, I’ll
Be passing sentence in a jiff,
And so, my poor unhappy stiff,
If you have anything to say,
Now is the moment. Fire away.
You have?’
I said, ‘And how!
Me lud, the facts I don’t dispute.
I did, I own it freely, shoot
This printer through the collar stud.
What else could I have done, me lud?
He’d printed “not”…‘
The judge said, ‘What!
When you had written “now”?
God bless my soul! Gadzooks!’ said he.
‘The blighters did that once to me.
A dirty trick, I trow.
I hereby quash and override
The jury’s verdict. Gosh!’ he cried.
‘Give me your hand. Yes, I insist,
You splendid fellow! Case dismissed.’
(Cheers, and a Voice ‘Wow-wow!’)
A statue stands against the sky,
Lifelike and rather pretty.
‘Twas recently erected by
The P.E.N. committee.
And many a passer-by is stirred,
For on the plinth, if that’s the word,
In golden letters you may read
‘This is the man who did the deed.
His hand set to the plough,
He did not sheathe the sword, but got
A gun at great expense and shot
The human blot who’d printed “not”
When he had written “now”.
He acted with no thought of self,
Not for advancement, not for pelf,
But just because it made him hot
To think the man had printed “not”
When he had written “now”.’
By P.G. Wodehouse, 1955
As o’er my latest book I pored,
Enjoying it immensely,
I suddenly exclaimed ‘Good Lord!’
And gripped the volume tensely.
‘Golly!’ I cried. I writhed in pain.
‘They’ve done it on me once again!’
And furrows creased my brow.
I’d written (which I thought quite good)
‘Ruth, ripening into womanhood,
Was now a girl who knocked men flat
And frequently got whistled at’,
And some vile, careless, casual gook
Had spoiled the best thing in the book
By printing ‘not’
(Yes,’not’, great Scott!)
When I had written ‘now’.
On murder in the first degree
The Law, I knew, is rigid:
Its attitude, if A kills B,
To A is always frigid.
It counts it not a trivial slip
If on behalf of authorship
You liquidate compositors.
This kind of conduct it abhors
And seldom will allow.
Nevertheless, I deemed it best
And in the public interest
To buy a gun, to oil it well,
Inserting what is called a shell,
And go and pot
With sudden shot
This printer who had printed ‘not’
When I had written ‘now’.
I tracked the bounder to his den
Through private information:
I said, ‘Good afternoon’, and then
Explained the situation:
‘I’m not a fussy man,’ I said.
‘I smile when you put “rid” for “red”
And “bad” for “bed” and “hoad” for “head”
And “bolge” instead of “bough”.
When “wone” appears in lieu of “wine”
Or if you alter “Cohn” to “Schine”,
I never make a row.
I know how easy errors are.
But this time you have gone too far
By printing “not” when you knew what
I really wrote was “now”.
Prepare,’ I said, ‘to meet your God
Or, as you’d say, your Goo or Bod,
Or possibly your Gow.’
A few weeks later into court
I came to stand my trial.
The Judge was quite a decent sort.
He said, ‘Well, cocky, I’ll
Be passing sentence in a jiff,
And so, my poor unhappy stiff,
If you have anything to say,
Now is the moment. Fire away.
You have?’
I said, ‘And how!
Me lud, the facts I don’t dispute.
I did, I own it freely, shoot
This printer through the collar stud.
What else could I have done, me lud?
He’d printed “not”…‘
The judge said, ‘What!
When you had written “now”?
God bless my soul! Gadzooks!’ said he.
‘The blighters did that once to me.
A dirty trick, I trow.
I hereby quash and override
The jury’s verdict. Gosh!’ he cried.
‘Give me your hand. Yes, I insist,
You splendid fellow! Case dismissed.’
(Cheers, and a Voice ‘Wow-wow!’)
A statue stands against the sky,
Lifelike and rather pretty.
‘Twas recently erected by
The P.E.N. committee.
And many a passer-by is stirred,
For on the plinth, if that’s the word,
In golden letters you may read
‘This is the man who did the deed.
His hand set to the plough,
He did not sheathe the sword, but got
A gun at great expense and shot
The human blot who’d printed “not”
When he had written “now”.
He acted with no thought of self,
Not for advancement, not for pelf,
But just because it made him hot
To think the man had printed “not”
When he had written “now”.’
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