Did you ever wonder what you would see if you could open a secret door and peek into another  person’s soul?

I’d bet that some would emit sunshine and the sweet odor of flowers, and others would send out flames that would singe your eyebrows and belch odors that would make you reach for a gas mask.

I would want fire-proof gloves and a long stick to poke into the foul souls of Rush Limbaugh and Glen Beck.  Each would contain a big batch of hated floating in puss. And I’d want a firetruck with hoses standing by when I peeked into the soul of Bill O’Reilly or Tom Delay. Dick Cheney’s soul is the size of a marble, and contains a jar of water, a rag, and a waterboard.  Rachelle Madow’s soul would contain a cup of pepper and a large flower pot blooming with humor. 

John Edwards and Tiger Woods would have souls filled with deceit, black lace, and twenty seven pounds of stupidity. (Did I just spot John F. Kennedy’s soul over there peeking through the bushes? Hi there Mr. Clinton.)

Eleanor Roosevelt’s would contain a basket of food for hungry poor people. Franklin D’s would contain  dancing shoes and thank-you notes from all the millions who had been shattered by the Great Depression. Harry Truman’s would be filled with honor and backbone. George W. Bush’s would be filled with Tootsie Rolls, popcorn, and dead young soldiers.

John McCain’s would be filled with rust and spider webs. Joe Lieberman’s would be filled with dented, crumbling lies and memories.  Johnny Carson’s soul would be crammed with applause. Gene Weingarten and Dave Barry would be overflowing with laughter.

Humphrey Bogart’s would contain at least two Oscars that he should have won. Michael Landon’s soul would be packed with jokes, laughter, all the great scripts he never got to produce.  Ronald Reagan’s with a silly little-boy smile and a bottle of orange hair dye.

Adolph Hitler never had a soul.

Winston Churchill’s would smell of whiskey, cigar smoke, and brave tenacity.  Gen. Douglas MacArthur’s with pomposity and dreams of glory. Gen. George Patton’s would contain  a pistol, a hand grenade, and a wish for someone to kill. Gen. Robert E. Lee’s would contain an apology to the United States, because his troops killed more American soldiers than any other general,  before or since.

Barack Obama’s would be filled with joy knowing he helped rid America of some of its long, long history of bigotry. Ann Coulter’s soul would be empty except for a muzzle and a rabies shot. Sarah Palin’s would be filled with moose hair, money, and an un-read fifth-grade history book.

Walt Disney’s would be filled with tiny animals, some wearing shoes and pants. Martin Luther King’s would be crammed with love and gentleness.  Nancy Pelosi’s soul would contain the thanks of all American women who recognized her wisdom and bravery as the nation’s first female Speaker of the House.

Anne Lamott’s would contain several Pulitzer prizes for her books. Bill Bryson’s would contain a plaque in  recognition of the wide variety of his wonderful books.

A peek into the spooky soul of Iran’s Ayatolla Khomeini would reveal centuries of hate and anger, and the ears and noses of thousands and thousands of Iran women, which were chopped off for doing something that brought “shame” to the men in their life.

Fight Forth!

As old Fred Nietzsche said,  “The last Christian died on the cross.”

From the great Dorothy Parker: “If all these sweet young things were laid end to end, I wouldn’t be the slightest bit suprised.”

My man Mark:  “It could probably be shown by facts and figures that there is no distinctive native American criminal class except Congress.”

George Bernard Shaw didn’t like the lady: “The trouble with her is that she lacks the power of conversation, but not the power of speech.”

Tom Wolfe said it: “A cult is a religion with no political power.”

The wisdom of Woody Allen: “It’s not that I’m afraid to die. I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”

August Strinberg was no animal lover:  “I loathe people who keep dogs. They are cowards who haven’t got the guts to bite people themselves.”

The great Gene Fowler: “An editor should have a pimp for a brother, so he’d have someone to look up to.”

S. J. Perlman: “There is such a thing as too much couth.”

That French rascal Voltaire complained: “England has forty-two religions, and only two sauces.”

W. C. Fields: “I always keep a supply of stimulants handy in case I see a snake, which I also keep handy.”

When asked to name her favorite animal, Fran Lebowitz answered, “Steak.”  She’s also the gal who said, “Life is something to do when you can’t get to sleep.” And , “I figure you have the same chance of winning the lottery whether you play or not.” 

G. K. Chesterson: “The Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting; it has been found difficult and left untried.”

Bill Wilder’s complaint: “France is the only country where the money falls apart and you can’t tear the toilet paper.”

Especially true today is A. J. Liebling’s statement: “Freedom of the press is limited to those who own one.”

George S. Kaufman, to a gabby, ranting woman: “Madam, don’t you have any unexpressed thoughts?”

In  addition to being a fine actor, Alan Alda is also a wise man: “It isn’t necessary to be rich and famous to be happy. It’s only necessary to be rich.”

Oscar Wilde described an English country gentleman chasing a fox as, “The unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable.”

When Lady Astor told Winston Churchill  “If you were my husband I’d put poison in your tea,” the great Winnie replied, “If I were your husband, I’d drink it.”

Anatole France sounds a little Tea-Bagish:  “The law, in its majestic equality, forbids the rich as well as the poor to sleep under bridges, to beg in the streets, and to steal bread.”

Stephen Lealock: “Many a man in love with a dimple makes the mistake of marrying the whole girl.”

Along those same lines, Maurice Chevalier said, “Many a man has fallen in love with a girl in a light so dim he would never have chosen a suit by it.”

Wicked old Oscar Levant: “The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth and sharpen my tongue.”

And, to close, Truman Capote:  “The good thing about masturbation is that you don’t have to dress up for it.”

(By the way, these goodies come from Jon Winokur’s delightful little book titled “The Portable Curmudgeon.”)

Fight Forth.

I received a nice batch of comments on the blog about the arts. Our dear pal Karen added writers from Jane Austen to Adair Lara, and gave her special blessing to writers who are able to create just one single masterpiece, like “To Kill a Mockingbird.”  That reminded me of Thomas Heggen, who wrote the bestseller “Mister Roberts,” which then became an award-winning play, and then a TV series. He seemed to have the world at his feet, but, he was unable to come up with second book (despite encouragment and advice from his cousin, Wallace Stegner.) and eventually committed suicide.

My beautiful granddaughter Aleah added the fabulous Philip Seymour Hoffman to the list of great actors. How the hell did I leave him off the list? She also salutes William H. Macy, who, I think, should be ranked as one of the very best character actors in the business. His name reminded me of one of my favorite movies,  the Coen brothers’ “Fargo.” When I’m dancing through TV choices with my remote there are a few movies that stop me in my tracks, and, although I’ve seen them time and again, I just have to stop and watch once more — such as Godfather I and II;  Blazing Saddles; Young Frankenstein; Patton; Pulp Fiction and Fargo.  William H. Macy played the screwed up husband in ”Fargo,” which also starred another gal who should have been  on my “top actress” list, Frances McDormand as Marge, the police chief.  The cast included two of the best bad guys on the screen, Steve Buscemi, as the “brains” of the two-man gang, and Peter Stormare as the deadly silent partner who could give you frozen hemorrhoids with just a glance.  Another star of that film  was Harve Presnell, as the stubborn father of the kidnap victim.  I didn’t know Harve was a neighbor here in Livingston until one day I turned into an aisle at Albertsons and came face to face with him. As an old pro in movies he was used to having strangers stare at him while wondering where the hell they knew him from.  I just said, “Fargo!”  and he laughed. Until his death last year he spent his whole life in Livingston, swinging back and forth between here and Hollywood, taking such roles as General Marshall in “Saving Private Ryan” and dozens of others. 

Dee is hooked by Russian writers, and also loves Dick Francis.  She added a few names to the “Greatest” list. How the hell did I forget to put Paul Newman him on my list? She too praised Philip Seymour Hoffman, who belongs very high on  anyone’s master list. She also added Johnny Depp to the list, and I’d probably agree if I could ever get over his hair. It’s usually so explosive and moppy that I can’t see his face under it all.  I also agree with her about Leo DiCaprio. I’ll never forget his magnificent portrayl of the teen with mental problems in ”What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?” I hadn’t seen him prior to that film, and I wondered where they got the retarded boy to play that part. (Yeah, yeah. I know Depp was in that film too, but he was hidden by forty seven pounds of hair.)

There were a few other first-class character men I forgot to list, such as Alan Arkin, Eli Wallach, Ed Asner and Harry Morgan. I should have had Robert Duval among the very best actors we have, and I’d also include George Clooney, although I have a hunch that his best stuff is still about three years down the line.

The mention of Paul Newman made me think of “Butch Cassidy,” which reminded me a major boo-boo I commited many, many years ago. I was doing publicity on the “Kraft Mystery Theatre” or some such. I had to set up publicity pictures, so I approached the two stars of the show, a couple of has-beens like Cesar Romero and another guy, to pose. There was a kid who had a very small part in the show who was standing between the men when I brought the photographer over. He was a nobody and I  had to get him out of the picture. So I asked Robert Redford to step aside.

Fight Forth!