* Welcome to The Big Jewel, your only guide to polite conversation. Our good friend David Martin has spent a lot of time in the Garden State listening to how their verbal garden grows. After you're done perusing his genteel missive, if you don't want to end up like Sonny Corleone at the Causeway toll booth, click on the link below to purchase his most recent humor collection "Screams & Whispers" on Amazon.

Jersey Language

By: David Martin

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Contains smoke, gun shots, strobe lights, drug references, sexual situations and authentic, profane Jersey language. — Program disclaimer for Jersey Boys

As a proud New Jerseyian, I take offense to the characterization of the language in the musical Jersey Boys as “authentic, profane Jersey language.” Like what da fuck? Is this how it’s gonna be from now on? Do we have to defend ourselves to every stupid sonofabitch who thinks we talk like fucking animals?

New Jerseyians don’t talk any different from anybody else. We’re just like you, assuming you live in America and not in some fucking shithole in China. Sure, once in awhile we might drop an f-bomb or two but most of the time you could put us on Sesame Street and no one would even fucking notice.

And what’s with the smoke warning? Sure, we’ve got some industrial pollution but no more than Delaware and a whole lot less than Pennsylvania. It better not be a comment on cigarettes or marijuana use because that would be really fucking lame.

I also hope theater patrons reading that disclaimer don’t think everyone in New Jersey walks around with guns, strobe lights and drugs. Yeah, maybe most of us have got a concealed handgun or two, or maybe even a small, tasteful semi-automatic. But, hey, who doesn’t in this crazy, fucking world we live in today?

And don’t get me started on strobe lights. If there’s one thing that fries my tats or gets my wifebeater in a knot, it’s some ignorant douche thinking that everyone and everything in Jersey is showered in strobe lights. In case you hadn’t noticed, this ain’t the seventies any more. We’re as cutting-edge as anyone when it comes to xenon flash tubes and laser light shows.

As for drugs, I don’t think we’re worse than anybody else. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, we’re better–much better. Our state isn’t filled with a bunch of rundown meth trailers like those southern rednecks. In fact, when it comes to real drugs like heroin and cocaine, the quality control of Jersey dealers is second to none. And as for our marijuana, we’re not called the “Garden State” for nothing, capiche?

Sure, we’re big on sexual situations but, hey, we’re from New Jersey. Yo, we’ve got big balls and even bigger dicks and we like to fucking use them. Excuse me if we happen to be a little more sexually charged than the rest of you pussies.

I’m getting tired of jerkoffs giving us New Jersey residents a hard time. We’re not ignorant rubes like those douchebags from Philly. We’re right next door to New York City, so it’s not like we’re not acquainted with sophisticated shit.

So hey, all you ignorant dickheads who stereotype New Jersey residents as gun-toting, strobe-loving, drug-taking sex maniacs! You’re really pissing me off. In fact, the next out-of-state bozo who starts in with this crap better hope I’m not high on something and decide to take a shot at him with my jewel-encrusted Glock.

As Harry Truman used to say, “If you can’t stand the goddamned heat, get out of the fucking kitchen.” And if you can’t stand some honest-to-God language, a little smoke and a few guns, then Jersey style is clearly not for you. Maybe it’s time to trade your Jersey Boys tickets in for a pair of pussy ducats for Mary friggin’ Poppins and shut your fuckin’ mouth. I’m just sayin’.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are on the road again. Not as in Canned Heat. As in Kerouac. We cannot answer for the sanity or the sobriety of this week's author George Sparling. But we think he writes a cool, cool piece.

Kerouac’s Cap

By: George Sparling

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I hitched a ride in Jack’s pink Mercedes. I’d stood in one place, putting out my four fingers rather than a thumb since both had been amputated. Maybe that’s why Jack pulled up. He hoped to write another novel based on a man without thumbs. He gave me an exquisite squint. He had used a telescope to make sure I had four fingers on both hands before giving me a ride.

“Rides are scarce these days,” he said. “Drivers hate thumbless hitchhikers. You’re not giving me the finger, are you?”

“I lost my thumbs,” I said. “Smoking marijuana will do it to you every time.”

“I lost both thumbs but champagne grew them back,” he said.

“Thought you drank Tokay.”

“That, too. Ah elixirs. And that coward, New York City’s Mayor LaGuardia, wanted to bite my thumbs off.”

“You knew him?”

“Sure as hell I did. A damn nice fellow. We had an argument over a swell gal. We lived in his swank office. Politicians excite me. After I got Fiorello pregnant and paid for the abortion, he chawed off my thumbs. He wanted a child so badly the irrational took over.”

“I heard he’s holed up in the jazz club, Village Vanguard,” I said.

He tweaked the cap with his thumb and sallied forth. “It made me lose my pencil after that.”

“What did?”

“The trauma from losing a child.”

“The pencil?”

“You know what they say — Tokay puts lead in your pencil.”

“I hate sex talk,” I said.

“Here,” he said, pulling out a number nine pencil. I saw how he gnawed on it.

“You love graphite?” I asked.

“Chewing it keeps me up for days,” he said. “I’m in love with anything with no thumbs. When I flapped the eight fingers, I flew a bit but always plummeted onto meteorite surfaces.”

“I stood on one for three days, waiting for a ride.”

Jack vomited into his cap, placed it back on his head, all the while driving without killing us.

“I see you’ve got thumbs now,” I said.

“They grew back after I bought this car from Elvis Presley. I dig him.”

“How hard do you dig him?”

“Harder than diamonds,” Jack said.

“Don’t hand jive me,” I asked.

“Than dang blasted meteorite highways.” For a moment I wanted to kiss him. He looked adorable when angry.

He ate celery as he drove, popping sunflower seeds into his mouth, fingers nicking off the shells.

“The last major league baseball game I saw, Fiorello and I sat in box seats. He wouldn’t let me get off his lap, my 200 pounds seated on his gimpy knees.”

“You sure can spin yarns,” I said.

“That’s it,” he said, “No more. I’m not going to hang from my knees so blood flows into my head to stop writer’s block.”

This Jack looked different from his photos, though the bare-breasted Barbra Streisand tattoo on his shaved chest put me at ease and let me know this was the authentic JK.

“Once I escaped from a mental hospital,” he said, and fingered the cap’s brim, eyeing the doorman’s badge on my Peter Pan collar. “Bellevue’s a nice place. Fiorello was bonkers when I met him there. What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the badge.

“Haven’t you heard? People work.”

He blushed, startled at my comeback.

“I ran over a flamingo. ‘Use my name,’ the chatty flamingo said before it croaked. It faked death,” Jack said.

“How do you know?”

“That’s the second one I ran over.” He paused, screwed his cap on straight, then said:

“Back in Winnemucca, one told me, no matter where, I’d always drive the Mercedes perpetually through a massive McDonald’s. It covers me like a moveable dome.”

“Have you gone Pleistocene on me?” I trilled, recalling I sang with JK in a Southern Baptist choir. I tried singing in the Mercedes, but he told me to shut up.

Silence for miles. If it wasn’t for that cap, I’d bitch-slap him. Four-fingers, if you cocked them right, could lay a man out as if he inhaled too much nitrous oxide.

Finally, my destination: my mother’s house.

“Hey, pal, that’s not your mom, she’s all mine,” he said, taking the cap and battering my head with it. Ever get cut by a cap and bleed?

“I’ll prove it to you,” I said. I raised my skirt, worn for hard traveling, and showed him how my mom’s uterus circled my groin.

“Hell’s bells,” he said. That cap smelled ultra-bad as sex-sweat and blood tossed together in a meat stew turned pink, vile, and sluttish.

He let me off and I saw him stop for Hannah Arendt. Guess she was more appealing to him. “We’re headed for Winnemucca. Please don’t bother me again.”

“No chance of that,” I said. “Watch out for prostitutes. It’s legal there.”

“You calling Hannah a whore? Better not. She’s a swell dame.”

“Do I hear wedding bells?” He smirked and said:

“I’ve got thousands of baseball cards in the trunk. Hanna and I will get rich.”

His cap flew off his head as he slammed away. I picked it up. I was wise enough to sweep the exhaust and fumes into the cap. Now it had provenance, a collector’s item.

But I changed my mind and gave it to Mayor LaGuardia. He wept.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are ready at any time to tell you the time. We'll even do it in a way that's got a good beat and you can dance to it. And we owe it all to Tallulah Marzipan, whose first piece for us this is.

What Time Is It In Music?

By: Tallulah Marzipan

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5:46 a.m.: Who the fuck would page Biggie Smalls at this hour?

7:00 a.m.: Seymour’s alarm goes off in Little Shop of Horrors, Incubus listens to the garbage truck beeping.

8:15 a.m.: Randy Bachman’s train departs for the city so he can take care of business.

9:00 a.m.: Dolly Parton starts work.

11:00 a.m.: Despite waking up four hours early, you would think Incubus would be out of bed by now.

12:00 p.m.: The Wonder Years wakes up and eats Sour Patch Watermelons.

12:30 p.m.: It is always this time according to the clock near where the Mamas and the Papas lived in New York City. Elsewhere, presumably on an island other than Manhattan, someone is pouring a Hurricane for Alan Jackson and Jimmy Buffett.

1:00 p.m.: Yo La Tengo is ready to begin.

2:30 p.m.: Leo Bloom, one of The Producers, wakes up.

3:00 p.m.: B.B. King and Eric Clapton have the blues.

3:56 p.m.: One of the Johns of They Might Be Giants meets a date at 5th Ave. and 22nd Street.

5:00 p.m.: Dolly Parton gets off work.

5:50 p.m.: The band begins playing at a show for the benefit of Mr. Kite.

6:00 p.m. This is TV Hour according to REM.

7:00 p.m. (possibly 8:00 p.m.): Will Smith arrives at his new home in Bel-Air.

8:00 p.m.: Lola and Tony start work at The Copacabana.

9:00 p.m. (Saturdays only): The regular crowd shuffles into the bar where Billy Joel plays.

9:30 p.m. (Tuesdays only): The dude from Barenaked Ladies drives downtown in the rain to look at records.

11:30 p.m.: The club is jumpin’ jumpin’. This is the ideal to leave your man at home or your girl with her friends.

11:59ish p.m.: Something evil is lurking in the dark under the moonlight…it’s the thriller!

12:00 a.m.: You can hear Mick Jagger scream at around this time. Meanwhile, Taylor Swift is eating breakfast while dressed like a hipster.

12:01 a.m. (and after): Patsy Cline goes out walking in the moonlight searching for you.

1:00 a.m. (approx.): Ice Cube wakes up some girl he had sex with and she tells him he’s the top gun.

2:00 a.m.: Ice Cube eats at Fatburger.

3:00 a.m.: B.B. King and/or Eric Clapton can’t sleep.

3:00 a.m. (Wednesdays only): Paul Simon thinks about how he’ll be leaving some girl’s bed soon.

3:01 a.m.: Henry Higgins’ servants comment that Eliza Doolittle should go to sleep.

3:35 or 3:36 a.m.: Robert Lamm is waiting for the break of day and searching for something to say in his song and also probably doing a lot of drugs.

4:00 a.m.: Elton John decides he is sleeping by himself tonight and not getting married. Lola and Tony get off work at the Copacabana.

5:00 a.m.: John Denver is sorry to be leaving you.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are all about saving the children. Or, at least, we are pretty much about saving the children. All right, all right, we admit it: we don't give a damn about the children. And neither does Andy Millman.

Please Hire Me At Save-A-Child

By: Andy Millman

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May 8, 2013

Human Resources
The Save-A-Child Foundation
2010 Sawgrass Road
Northbrook, IL 60062

Dear Save-A-Child,

I wish to throw my name in the hat (or is it “hat in the ring?”) for a position at Save-A-Child. I think I would be great. I once found a bunny rabbit in my yard who seemed to be under the weather. I took him in and made him a nest out of shredded newspaper and a shoebox. It was very cushy. Everything but the Sports section was in there. I nursed him back to health with carrots, Cheetos and episodes of “Maude” (I own the box set). Two weeks later he was dead, but that wasn’t my fault (you can blame my cat for that one!).

Before we begin, I have some questions.

First: How old is the child and why does it need saving? Do you have a picture of it you could send me? I hope it’s a boy because, having been one myself (many years ago), I might be better able to relate to it. I do have a sister (she’s a real pain in my ass).

Second: Does my pay come from you or the child? Is it a ransom type of situation? The state of Illinois forbids me to buy, own or possess any firearms. I’d prefer to not say why. Let’s just say I got a raw deal and somebody’s going to pay.

Third: Once this child is saved (fingers crossed) will there be another one to save (fingers crossed)? If not, would I be entitled to unemployment?

Fourth: Do you own or can you rent a golf cart? I would like one to transport me around your building. Anywhere else I can walk around just fine. It’s just your building looks big from the outside. That’s me in the green Ford outside your window.

Fifth: Do you have an employee cafeteria? Is it all-you-can-eat? Are children permitted in the cafeteria? (I hope not.)

Sixth: How many breaks am I permitted during a normal four-hour work day?

Seventh: What is the bathroom situation?

And finally: How do you determine if a kid really needs saving or is just faking it?

I don’t have a resume to enclose because I’m on guard for people stealing my identity. Even the name and address at the bottom of this letter are not my own. You’ll see I’m very clever that way. Each time we meet I will ask you to address me by a different name. I have hundreds of them (some belong to real people!)

I interview only via standard, good old USA post. One question at a time, please. I will pick up the letters at the address below, just as long as the real Seymour Hybach doesn’t catch me. Use a red envelope. I will take at least one week thinking about your question, considering my response, and catching up on sleep. Then I will send you my reply. I anticipate the interview taking between six months and two and a half years. Hopefully the child can wait.

Looking forward to hearing from you. Together we will save that child!

Yours in service,

Seymour (Sy) Hybach (Hybach)

1415 Lamon Ave.
Wilmette, IL 60091

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where insurance deductibles can apply to things a lot less trivial than your health. Like, for example, your significant other. Please say hello to Mike Seperack, a first-timer at our site.

The High-Deductible Boyfriend Plan

By: Mike Seperack

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As your new significant other, I understand that you will want me to meet certain needs. And who knows more about meeting people’s needs than our nation’s health insurance providers? That’s why I am following their lead and presenting you with this new high-deductible boyfriend plan. The high-deductible plan gives you the quality, value, and flexibility to craft a relationship that is right for you. I strongly encourage you to get down to business and take steps toward meeting the deductible as soon as possible. In the meantime, keep in mind that many benefits are available to you right away. For example:

From day one you can rely on me to escort you to an unlimited number of weddings.*

*Provided the wedding is local, has an open bar, and you are willing to drive to and from. The following weddings do not apply until after the deductible has been met: out of town weddings, cash bar weddings, and weddings where you want me to act as designated driver so you can get sloppy drunk.

When it comes to fixing things around the house, I fully encourage you to demonstrate your abilities as a strong, capable woman and do it yourself. But if you would like me to fix something for you, this plan has a generous two-tiered provision for home repairs. Tier One Repairs are eligible immediately. This tier encompasses all repairs requiring duct tape, super glue, and/or WD-40. They are covered at 100% for the first five minutes and 50% for up to ten minutes after that (after five minutes my efforts will become noticeably half-assed). Tier Two is for all repairs that require actual tools. This tier does not apply until after you meet the deductible.

You will notice my avid interest in electronics, as evidenced by my ability to spend countless hours watching ESPN and playing XBOX. As a side benefit, electronics repair is covered at 100% right from the start. That’s right! Effective immediately I will repair any of your electronic items that do not function properly.*

*Repair services are limited to the following: 1) Pressing the “on” button; 2) Plugging it in; 3) Unplugging it, then plugging it back in; 4) Flipping a wall switch; 5) Flipping a circuit breaker; 6) Re-booting; 7) Replacing batteries. For battery replacement, the batteries must be readily available, and the battery compartment must be accessible without the use of a screwdriver.

Removal/elimination of small, slow moving insects is covered 100%.*

*Provided they do not resemble a scaled-down version of that thing from Aliens.

This plan includes some exciting new movie options, including romantic comedies. This benefit is available before you meet the deductible.*

*Under this option I agree to watch one romantic comedy per month, which I will select from a list of “in-network” movies. Please note that movies from the Die Hard and Spider-Man franchises are included on the list of “in-network” romantic comedies.

This plan also has a special provision for dinner and game-night with one annoying vegan friend and her dull, non-sports-watching boyfriend.*

*This benefit is limited to one occurrence per calendar year.

Deductible Q & A

Q: How do I meet the deductible?

A: There are many things you can do to help reach the deductible. Most of them are not entirely unpleasant.

Q: How do I know how close I am to meeting the deductible?

A: I created a handy chart that will display your progress. Our healthy relationship is represented by a fruit basket. Every time you do something that brings you closer to meeting the deductible, an appropriate-sized piece of fruit will show up in the basket. When the basket is full, your deductible has been met. It’s that simple!

Q: Isn’t this just a ploy for your sexual gratification?

A: Nothing could be further from the truth. Only some of the fruit-bearing tasks have a sexual component, and tasks of a non-sexual nature generally yield larger numbers of fruit. For example, making me dinner is worth three grapes. Having intimate relations with me during a long weekend when I have decided not to shower or shave is worth one grapefruit. Bringing over your crazy-hot college roommate for a night of drunken strip poker is worth a watermelon. Picking me up from the airport is worth five craisins. The variety is endless, and the choices are all yours. Remember, this plan was created with your satisfaction in mind.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, your ultimate summer recreation spot. Your guide this week is Todd Dorman, and this is his first piece for us. Treat him as you would any camp counselor: put frogs in his bed and glue in his hair.

Welcome To Unemployed Executive Daddy “Summer” Camp For Kids

By: Todd Dorman

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Welcome to Unemployed Executive Daddy “Summer” Camp for Kids, the only camp we know of run by unemployed executive dads for children of any age, race, or gender who have money. Boy are we glad you’re all here! We know it’s cold, but October was the month closest to summer that we could afford. Please be sure to leave your certified check, credit card, or wad of cash with Leo Foster, former head of accounting at a former accounting firm you’ve all heard of, ha ha ha, in the payment area down by the lake. (Please note that credit cards will not be returned.)

We have a great week ahead, full of impactful, synergistic and planful activities. (Parents, please note that all impactful activities require a helmet. Helmets are available for purchase from Mr. Foster down by the lake.)

Each morning at Unemployed Executive Daddy begins with the Internet Search Game, where you get to take out the laptops you bought or will soon buy from Mr. Foster, log on to our pay-by-the-minute WiFi, and surf the web for specific phrases and pay brackets your counselors will provide to you in the form of their resumes. The more opportunities you locate and optimize, the less good-natured yelling there will be. If you can’t read yet, it’s OK, some of us counselors don’t read too good either!

(Parents, please remember that we prefer kids at Unemployed Executive Daddy to show promise in any two of the following three areas: creative math, storytelling or LexisNexis. Financial penalties may apply for children who do not: please see Mr. Foster with any questions. If your child does not excel in one of these areas but likes to order around people who do, Mr. Foster will collect your canoe toll and send you and your child right across the lake to Jeff Lang from HR, who will enroll your child in the special Fast Track section and equip him/her with a personal staff and a camp Town Car.)

As for the rest of you, please bear in mind that the Internet Search Game usually takes longer than you think it will, so it’s likely we’ll have to skip swimming and boating most days. We do have insurance for loss of life, but only for our counselors. The faster you complete your resume stacks, the more likely you’ll get into the lake, but don’t count on it. Besides, the lake is usually iced over in the morning.

Lunch will be served alfresco on the grass, after a quick hunting and gathering lesson taught by Terry Noosebaum, former Senior Vice President of Advancement at a large university that had some public image issues a while back. Our regular chef got another job — we’re happy for him! Really! — so anything you hunt and kill this week won’t be cooked unless you somehow find a way to cook it. Maybe stick to fish that can be cut up and served as sushi, or better yet just stick to gathering. Again, please try to avoid walking on the lake, even if the ice seems thick. It’s not.

Late afternoons (gathering, too, always takes longer than you think) are generally reserved for reflection/self-medication/reading the self-help books counselors have hurled out of their cabins — though many of the counselors may retire to the Weeping Tent for Cocktail Hour (Cocktail Hour starts at 1pm and lasts until well past dinnertime). Please do not enter or come near the Weeping Tent, because we really can’t afford any more lawsuits.

Speaking of naptime, I see that some of you brought your own sleeping bags. That’s great, but because of the bedbug epidemic up here, and other epidemics, we require that all sleeping bags be purchased from Mr. Foster down by the lake. If you brought a sleeping bag, please give it to him. He will return it to you, sterilized, at the end of the week, and provide your parents with a bill for the cleaning. Of course, you’ll have to rent another sleeping bag while you’re here. Remember that many sleeping bags look alike, so if Mr. Foster takes your sleeping bag, goes into his shed, and comes back out with another sleeping bag that looks just like yours, it’s a coincidence.

Dinner is whatever you have left over from lunch, and you can eat it whenever you want. There is usually potable water in the pool. (Nobody up here eats breakfast, but you’ll find out all about that in the morning.)

Evenings in the Main Lodge are reserved for the development of your PowerPoint skills. We hope you completed the creative interview prep assignments included with your camp acceptance letter. If you failed to do so, please understand that your counselors may express disappointment/rage when you tell them this, given that Cocktail Hour does often drift into Lodge Time.

Please turn in by 9:00, as we can’t be held accountable for anything that happens to anyone, including ourselves, after that time. Please note that the howling sounds you hear in the woods do not emit from werewolves or zombies or alien monsters, but from Dads who are just like your Dad will be once he loses his job. If you did not bring earplugs, you can purchase them from Mr. Foster. Be advised that Mr. Foster always sells out of earplugs by the second morning of camp.

Finally, if you have any questions about anything, please don’t hesitate to see good old Mr. Foster down by the lake. Or me. And please note that answers to all questions cost $100 cash — no exceptions.

Have a great week!

 

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are not ashamed to admit we are targeting the tax returns of humor writers, because who deserves it more than they do? We're sure that after reading this week's shocking expose by Leah Prinzivalli, you will agree. You'd better, or we'll have you audited too.

Proposed Tax Write-Offs From My First Year Out Of College

By: Leah Prinzivalli

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Self-employment fee: As a new taxpayer, I’d like to thank the IRS for offering such a large comments section at the end of the tax return. As a freelancer, I’d like to remind you that I am accustomed to being paid by the word. I love being my own boss and deciding when I get paid, how much, and making trivial decisions like how to support myself.

Education expenses: Classes at Mold Yourself Pottery School. Who can resist a strongly worded Groupon? You guys over at the IRS should spot me this time and we can start over with a clean slate. Incidentally, I’ve made seven slates in class, if you want one to buy one for a memento.

Investment in the future: I bought my own domain name this year. This time next year, not only will I know what to put on the homepage, whatever is on there will make me a fortune. No one in my family knows the meaning of the phrase “start-up capital,” but I heard that the IRS has a special fund set aside for it. If not, I suggest you sell vintage calculators on Etsy and start one. Maybe next year we can do a joint sale on Tax Day.

Charity work: I gave half my halal to a homeless guy the other week. Okay, honestly? I only thought about it. He looked like he didn’t even want it. It was pretty all right for lunch the next day. Does eating leftovers qualify for anything?

Healthcare credit: My New Year’s Resolution was to not drink soda, and I’ve only broken it three times. Bloomberg is giving out cash for that, I think.

Relationship deductions: I don’t have a relationship per se, but I do have an OkCupid A-List profile. My motto is “judge not lest ye be judged.” Or, pay $9.95 and anonymously troll for guys with keywords “traditional,” “dinner” or “job.”

Business start-up costs: One simply cannot expect the variables of the mason jar market to conform because some squares at the IRS said so. I abide by my jart, regardless of whether I earn your callus “returns.”

Points for refinancing: On Thursdays, I force myself to look at my checking account statement. On an unrelated note, attached is my standing delivery order for one mac-and-cheese and one brownie sundae every Thursday at 9:00 p.m. It’s the least you can do.

Casualty deductions: If I were to, just an example, get kidnapped and held for ransom, would you guys cover round trip airfare to Ibiza for the captor? I’d love to take a beach casualty sometime around late spring, early summer.

Management and administration: My intern is going to quit unless I start to reimburse his Metrocard. Milo is my muse and has inspired great business ideas such as the customized novel and renting out my blankets. Also, he is a twig and I really need him around as thinspiration otherwise I will never make it to spin class every day.

Entertainment expenses: Look, I’m going to level with you here. Rihanna is playing at the Barclays Center and I really want to go. I’m not talking about bleacher seats either. By this time next year, I will only have a Swiss bank account, so you should probably get in good now.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, home of the great American novel. And also this less-than-great novel by Stan Hughes. But even if there's not a great story in the novel, there's a great story behind the novel.

My Novel

By: Stan Hughes

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“Stop texting, dammit!” The Wife says. I reply, with a flash of artistic temper, that I’m not “texting,” I’m writing my novel.

“On an iPhone? You’re not writing any goddamned novel, you’re texting your old girlfriend, you big fat liar!”

I send myself an email: “New Chapter: text old girlfriend for ideas.” After a bit of reflection, I add, “tell Wife dress does make her look fat.”

The Wife (I forget her name) should have more faith. I am indeed writing a novel on my iPhone. It’s going to be great. Really. I don’t want to brag about how great it’s going to be, but it’s going to be really great. Fantastic.

I don’t have an outline, or notes. Don’t need ’em. Notes and outlines are for sissies. Have you ever heard of a French novelist named Marcel Proust? Wrote a long multivolume cycle of novels called The Remembrance of Things Past? Had tons of outlines, and a trainload of notes? Well, he was a sissy.

So, you already knew about Proust the Sissy and his sissy novel, didn’t you? In fact, you probably even lied to your French Lit major girlfriend about reading it, didn’t you? Unless you’re the girlfriend — and you didn’t read it either, but you subtly let your boyfriend know that you knew he was lying, but that you loved him so much that you were going to pretend he read it, didn’t you? Well, I’ll go you one better: I read the whole damn thing and lied to my girlfriend anyway — I told her I hadn’t read it.

(Email to self: text old girlfriend and confess to lying about reading Proust’s sissy novel. Pepper with quotes from Swann’s Way. Mock her master’s thesis.)

Nobody wants to read long novels anymore, at least long novels without vampires or wizards. I don’t have any of those. I’m a serious novelist, dammit! My novel’s going to be vampire-free and great and the damn vampires can go sit on a wooden stake. I don’t care what the wizards sit on.

I don’t have a plot for the novel yet. Or characters. Or a movie deal. What have I got? Got chapter titles! Got pithy quotes for the chapter headings! Let’s just run it down…

CHAPTER ONE: Jesus Is Weeping

“Jesus Wept.” (Gospel of St. Luke, Ch. 3, vs. 31)

I’m not sure what happens in this chapter yet, but this quote is killah!! How can I go wrong with a start like that?! Does this guy St. Luke have an agent? Because this book of his could be really commercial if he just added a vampire or two — he’s already got this cool Jesus guy in there. If he needs a little help, I know a novelist who’s available.

CHAPTER TWO: The Dead Don’t Drive

“Never trust a man in a blue trench coat / never drive a car when you’re dead.” — Tom Waits, “Telephone Call From Istanbul”

Pretty standard road safety advice, but the blue trench coat is way cool and damn enigmatic. Trust issues are involved, which is good. Helps that it takes place in Istanbul — that’s definitely going in.

CHAPTER THREE: The American Railroad Tradition

“The midnight train is whining low / I’m so lonesome I could cry.” — Hank Williams, “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry”

When you’re lonesome and blue, Hank, the last thing you want to do is board some self-indulgent, high-maintenance, whiny train. Take a plane, Hank. Also: hey, Amtrak — just suck it up already, nobody wants to hear about it. Stop whining. There, I said it.

CHAPTER FOUR: The Gathering Storm

“Aww…baby where’d you stay last night? ‘Cause your hair all tangled and you ain’t talkin’ right.” — Robert Johnson, “32-20 Blues”

This one was a shocker. What does hair care have to do with diction? Well, Mr. Johnson’s got it covered! As an experiment, I surreptitiously mussed my wife’s hair with a chopstick while she was on the phone with my old girlfriend. Astounding results! Her speech instantly became garbled, scrambling English with lower Slobbovian or something and producing some truly classic gibberish: “Herro, splidep? Rijish the basnerd, and neblif fremmic if he ever radenour ectbevis again. Rogasazm?” That Robert Johnson was a hell of a songwriter!

Four chapters so far. Maybe I should add another one. Naah — I hate long novels.

Anyway, thanks to Doc Johnson, I’ve got three characters: Herro Splidep, Rijish the Basnerd, and Radenour Ectbevis (I had to write Neblif Fremmic out). Got a setting — Istanbul! Got action — Herro, Rijish, and Radenour dodging cars driven by trench-coated, big-haired zombie spies, while Jesus looks down from above, bawling his eyes out.

(Hmm…all the quotes but the first one are musical. Maybe I should change it to “Jesus Sang?” No, if I do that, St. Luke’s agent will be all over me, and litigation will just slow me down. I’m a novelist, not a lawyer, so I’ll just let Jesus weep — the sissy.)

That’s all you need to know about my novel. I don’t have a title yet, but it will be a great title. And a great title means a great novel! And of course the novel will be great — after all, it’s my novel.

Look for it in fine bookstores everywhere, except the one The Ex-Wife works in.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, and to the second week of our two-week focus on David Martin. Let Mr. Martin be your guide to the future of the Michelin Guide. Then, if you have a few extra pennies in your pocket, click on the link below to purchase his most recent humor collection "Screams & Whispers" on Amazon.

The Michelin Guide — 2069 Edition

By: David Martin

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As we rapidly destroy more and more species of plants and animals, here’s what fine dining might look like two generations from now:

 

** Le Grainery — Los Angeles, California

Chef Thomas T. Thomas lovingly experiments with the planet’s three remaining grains. From his achingly sparse soupe au blé to his delightfully unsauced three-grained pasta, Thomas’s menu will surprise and delight the most discriminating of palates. Be sure to leave room for a bowl of Le Grainery’s famous Cheerios dessert served with a milk-like liquid and garnished with fresh wheat germ.

*** L’idée de Boeuf — near Angers, France

Nestled in the once prosperous farming province of Anjou, L’idée de Boeuf whimsically plays with centuries-old concepts of beef appetizers and entrées. Starting with a faux beef bouillon, Chef Jean-François Demers takes the diner on a tour of what beef cuisine used to be. Appetizers include a sliced jellied concoction vaguely resembling what was once known as calves’ tongue. L’idée de Boeuf is justly famous for its roast tofunderloin made from choice grade A tofu molded into a tenderloin.

** Champignons Plus — San Francisco, California

Thanks to this century’s dramatic climatic changes, the one environmental certainty is perpetual damp rainy conditions in northern California. Although depressing for most residents, it spells nothing but great news for area fungiphiles. Chef Pierre Laflamme scours the damp neighboring countryside in search of all manner of rare mushroom. Sadly, the lack of eggs precludes his offering any type of mushroom omelet, which older gastronomes claim is a dish to die for. But the ever-persistent chef does manage to please with his delicious personal creations like shiitake soup, champignons sur l’air and steak aux poivre et champignons sans steak.

*** Au Pied de Clone — Las Vegas, Nevada

Leave it to Las Vegas to be home to the latest cutting-edge eatery. Chef Paul Excuse, in partnership with Dow Chemical and Genentech, has produced a cloned, simulated menu that some food critics say comes as close to 20th century haute cuisine as is possible in today’s almost animal-free world. Masters of culinary gene splicing, Excuse and his high-tech team are willing to try any food re-creation. Indulge yourself with faux porc tenderloin, faux medallions de boeuf and Chef Excuse’s signature dish — Phaux Pheasant® under glass.

* Fine Art Fusion Eatery – New York City

Given today’s limitations on food ingredients, it was only natural that someone would almost exclusively emphasize the visual delights of meal presentation. That someone is Chef Nicholas Marx, who has devoted his career to what he calls fine art fusion cooking. Starting with nothing more than a white vegetable paste and various food colorings, Marx and his team recreate great works of art in an edible form on a plate. The menu includes everything from Picasso’s “Guernica” to Michelangelo’s “Mona Lisa.” The restaurant requires 48 hours notice for any special orders of pre-Raphaelite or postmodern dishes.

** Descartes du Jour – Paris, France

Years ago, universities like Harvard offered courses in the physics of cooking. In a world without ingredients, however, Chef Louis de Seize has taken nouvelle cuisine to the next virtual level in what he calls the philosophy of cooking. At Descartes du Jour, diners are presented with historical menus from top 20th century restaurants and take turns describing in delicious detail each listed dish. For the truly adventurous, there is even a wide selection of ancient wine lists to review and describe. Diners may go home hungry but will take comfort in de Seize’s motto that eating is a descriptive journey, not a gustatory destination.

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where the only thing better than a new David Martin piece is two new David Martin pieces. The first one runs this week, and almost as if by magic, the second will run next week. We also invite you to click on the link below to see how you can purchase his latest humor collection "Screams & Whispers" on Amazon.

Lost Weekend

By: David Martin

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When my wife goes away for the weekend, I miss her and longingly await her return. Well actually, if I’m being entirely honest, I sometimes take advantage of her absence to go a little crazy and do whatever I want.

For example, I might rearrange the various remote control devices on the coffee table in the TV room. It’s not a big deal really, but I like to have the Blu-ray remote between the TV remote on the left and the cable remote on the right. It’s fun to have the remotes arranged just the way I like them for an entire weekend, and of course I put them back in their usual spots on Sunday night so my wife has no idea what happened.

One of my favorite things to do when my wife is away is to alter the housecleaning pattern. Just for fun, instead of doing the laundry first, I’ll vacuum the house. And instead of starting with the upstairs bedrooms, I might start vacuuming in the downstairs rec room.

I don’t tell my wife what I’ve done and I have a good laugh watching to see if she notices anything different when she gets home. Usually she’s tired and doesn’t notice anything unusual, but one time she asked if I had vacuumed the entire house because it looked so clean. I smiled and said yes, but I didn’t let on that I had done it completely backwards.

One time I rearranged all the furniture in every room in the house and spent the whole weekend in what I call “Crazy House.” That was a wild, wacky weekend, but of course I moved everything back to its original location on Sunday night. I left a few clues like the easy chair being a few inches off, but my wife never suspected a thing.

Another fun time alone was a weekend last month when my wife was away and I decided to light a few fires in the house and make it a “Campfire Weekend.” Unfortunately, one of the fires got a little out of control and there was quite a bit of smoke damage in the downstairs rec room.

Luckily, I was able to get painters in right away and clean up the mess. By Sunday night when my wife came home, you could hardly smell any smoke at all. I just told her I decided to barbecue indoors because it was raining and I think she bought that.

A not-so-fun time was earlier this month when my wife went away for the whole week. It started out great when I blocked up all the drains and turned on all the taps. It was what I called my “Waterworld Weekend.” I floated around from room to room on pieces of furniture using one of our canoe paddles to steer.

That was lots of fun, but I’m not sure I’d do it again since I could only enjoy Waterworld for two days and then the next five days I had to have contractors and renovators come in and drain the water, dry the floors, carpeting and drywall and replace most of the furniture. Sadly, I couldn’t completely rectify the situation by Sunday night and my wife seemed very upset that I had flooded our entire house and spent all of our savings on repairing the damage.

Last weekend also didn’t turn out quite as well as I had hoped. As soon as my wife left on Friday night, I started rounding up animals for “Jungle Weekend.” As you can imagine, you can’t pretend your house is a jungle with just dogs, cats, squirrels and raccoons. Luckily, I found a place that rents all kinds of animals.

By Saturday night, the house was really starting to look and sound like a jungle, with a dozen monkeys, a lion, a tiger, a bear and lots and lots of snakes. I couldn’t find any zebras to rent so I just borrowed a friend’s pony and painted white stripes on him.

As it turns out, some species don’t get along as well with certain other species and, by Sunday afternoon, I had a lot of dead carcasses on my hands. I was also faced with a pretty significant bill from the animal rental place and a not insubstantial cleaning bill for the house (apparently it’s almost impossible to remove pony blood from shag carpeting). Sadly, when my wife got home, she refused to discuss the situation and instead called the police.

The downside is that I’m now living in a small padded room in a large windowless building on the outskirts of town. The upside, however, is that my wife is now always away and I can do pretty much anything I want that doesn’t involve freely using my arms.