The American Egghead Presents -- The Dog Days of Summer 1998
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Whendaisy, Maize 14, 2008 image for article entitled The Dog Days of Summer 1998

The Dog Days of Summer 1998



When Men were Men, Dogs were Dogs, and future webmasters were, for the most part, largely unmotivated lay-abouts in need of a life lesson or two











Browse Related Internal Links Read Interview called Poetic License Required First letter of article entitled The Dog Days of Summer 1998uppies: Tell us again, grandpa!





[ Old Beagle, holding cane, leaning forward in rocking chair on front porch of country house in the middle of a fallow tobacco field in Smithfield, Virginia, 1 alongside Route 258, his heels dogged by two highly attentive puppies ]





Grandfather: Okay, kids: If you promise to eat every bit of your Kibbles and Bits after I finish.





Puppies: We promise!





Grandfather: The Kibbles AND the Bits, mind.





Puppies: Yes, yes! We know!





Grandfather: Now then, it was back in the late '90s, 2 when your grandpa had quite a reputation for biting the legs of any biker who dared pedal their push-bike across these once-verdant fields of ours.





Mother: Honestly, Dad, filling the pups' heads with all these barbaric stories of "the good old days." Just remember, kids, these stories of his took place (or rather allegedly took place) when the Smith Family's dogs were still rather wild. We're civilized animals these days and we don't bite people's ankles anymore! (The idea!) That's just not what we dogs are about any longer.





Grandfather: Oh, and I suppose you'd just let a burglar waltz right into this house and take all the money and merchandise that they want while our owners were away!





Mother: Nonsense, Grandpa: In the extremely unlikely case that a stranger were to attempt such perfidy, we would raise the customary ruckus, yes, and even bite the fellow on the conveniently located ankle if he failed to desist. It's just that today, we don't simply draw blood for blood's sake. We've got what you call discretion, dogs though we are.





Grandfather: You've gone soft, is what it is.





Mother: Whatever you say, pops. Just finish your story before my better half comes home from his yearly checkup at the vet's. He's always in a right mood after those visits and the last thing he'll need is to see you indoctrinating his lineage with sanguine war stories of a time best forgotten.





Grandfather: Oh, I'm sorry, Pups: I guess this story of mine will be too scary for you guys, huh?





Puppies: No! We wanna hear it!





Grandfather: Well, if you insist.





[ Daughter sighs ]





Now where was I?





Oh, yes: I was laying on this very porch, minding my own business, when I heard this funny clicking noise. Well, at first I didn't pay it no never mind, since I figured that the Smith kids were up to their usual nonsense around the side of the house: You know how human kids are, pups, always putzing around with some noisemaking device or other.





But then the clicking gets louder and louder, see? So I takes and I lifts my head off of my outstretched paws, like this, I do a 180 from the neck up, like this, and I glance down the road, like this, whither the noise in question now appeared to be issuing.





Puppies: What was it, grandpa? What was it?!





Was it that Brian person?!!





Grandfather: Well, suddenly it hit me: BAM!





Mother: "Bam," dad? "Bam"?





Grandfather: I had heard that noise before: It was the notorious clicking noise of the front free wheel on a coasting '70s Schwinn ten-speed bicycle!





Mother: You know your bicycles, dad: I will give you that.





Grandfather: Of course, technically speaking, the noise was probably caused by the springed pawls of the cogs ratcheting around in the rear hub when the biker was free-wheeling -- but that's not important now.





Mother: I should think not. ("Springed pawls," indeed. As if these youngsters know the difference between "springed pawls" and the Man on the Moon!)





Grandfather: Well, let me tell you, I was up on all four of my straight, American Kennel Club-approved beagle legs in no time, strutting down these very steps in my motley coat like a dog with a mission, full of the most righteous indignation that a human being was calling my authority into question by cavalierly racing past my guard post here without paying me in the customary currency of fear and trembling!





Father: Did somebody say "fear and trembling"?





Puppies: Papa's home!





Mother: Now, don't crowd your father, he's had a bad day.





Father: Not a bit of it, dear.





Mother: Well, weren't you at the vet's?





Father: Yes.





Mother: How good could that be?





Father: You'd be surprised, dear: Dr. Hanley gave me a clean bill of health, after subjecting me to a bare minimum of the admittedly frustrating indignities that are customarily doled out by such gentlemen at these sorts of apparently pro forma checkups.





Mother: I see.





Father: He even snuck me a couple of them Frozen Paws ice cream treats as Old Man Smith was settling the bill.





Mother: Well, well! Is this the same Egbert P. Hound Dog that came back from the vets three years ago screaming (or rather barking) blue bloody murder and calling (bootlessly enough, to be sure) for, and I quote, "the nearest lawyer"?





Father: Remember, that was 21 years ago in dog years, love, and I was still a puppy. For all I knew back then, dogs could indeed hire their own lawyers, at least in exceptional cases such as that one then seemed to be. Talk about malpractice: It still gives me the shivers just to think about it.





Puppies: Think about what, papa?!





Mother: Never you mind, kids. Let's just say that some underpaid veterinarian flunky made a terrible mistake with some very sharp scissors. Now, go and wash up. It's time for dinner. I've fixed up a nice bowl of Kibbles and Bits for you boys.





Puppies: Not again!





Grandfather: Um, hello? I may be old, but I'm not yet senile, and I remember perfectly well that I was right in the middle of telling a story to these apparently ungrateful grandsons of mine!





Father: Don't tell me: Daddy's telling you guys (once again) about how he taught that little kid a lesson back in 1998 or something, right? What was he, a 13-year-old boy? Big whoop-dee-doo, Papa!





Grandfather: Mind your rough and notoriously wet tongue, son! I can still take you over my knee, you know.





Father: Papa, you could NEVER take me over your knee: It's an anatomical impossibility where us canines are concerned.





Grandfather: Anyway, I'll have you know that that admittedly awkward and ungainly youth that I scared back then grew up to be a big important webmaster, and it's by no means a stretch of the imagination to think that my sobering canine home talk (especially the part about "bark bark bark bark bark") put the much-needed fear of God into the lad and inspired him to put his ultimately successful elbow to the grindstone.





Mother: His ultimately successful elbow, Papa?!





Grandfather: Oh, you know what I mean. Now, are you folks gonna let me finish my story or not?!





Father: Well, personally, I'm going to go answer the call of nature under the customary willow tree -- but I'm sure that the twins here will humor you, dad, if only to delay their inevitable consumption of the Kibbles and Bits of which my better half has just spoken.





Mother: Okay, but when you're done, I want you boys to eat every Kibble AND every bit. There are dogs starving in China, you know.





Puppies, resignedly: Yes, mama.





Grandfather: Now then, this Brian person may have weaseled past me on his trip west... but I was cool with that: See, I knew that there was no other way for him to get back to where he had come from (Seaford, Virginia, as I later learned, a good 40 miles to the east) by coming right by this self-same farm house on this self-same road on that self-same bike -- and since there was not one tree then standing betwixt this self-same porch and the westerly horizon, guess whose chompers would be waiting for the hapless teenager when he got here, eh, boys? Eh?





Puppies: Whose chompers, grandpa? Whose? Whose?





Grandfather: Well, now, I reckon that they would belong to, uh -- Why, MY OWN CHOMPERS, of course, you daft puppies!





Puppies: Oh, yeah!





Grandfather: Would you listen to yourselves? "Whose chompers, grandpa?" I mean, who am I talking about up in here tonight: Rin Tin Tin? This story is about me, remember, your dear old (but fortunately still far from senile) grandfather!





Puppies: So did ya bite him, grandpa?! Did ya? Did ya?!





Grandfather: Well, let me tell you, I just sank down on the porch here with a sort of wry smile on my face --





Mother: Sorry to interrupt, pa, but I don't think we dogs can actually "DO" wry smiles. I don't think we have what you might call the requisite facial hardware for such a stunt, or even the emotional vocabulary, when it comes to that.





Grandfather: Say what you will, daughter, but I had a wry smile on my face on the afternoon of July 15, 1998.





Mother: But --





Grandfather: I tell you it was a wry smile!





Mother: Very well.





Grandfather: Now where was I?





Mother: I think you were about to bite the biker, more's the pity.





Grandfather: Oh, yeah: So I'm in doggy heaven, right? just waiting for that impertinent human speck to appear on the long and level horizon before me, betokening the advent of my nemesis.





Puppies: And did he? Did he?





Grandfather: That he did, in spades.





Puppies: "In spades," grandpa?





Grandfather: I mean he got ever closer, hectare by fallow hectare...





Puppies: Ooh, this is exciting!





Grandfather: While ever and anon, the click of his bike's front wheel (or rather the click of the springed pawls in the rear) grew louder and still louder, betraying the invader's increasing proximity with respect to my person.





Mother: With respect to your PERSON, father?





Grandfather: Well, with respect to my DOG then: The point is that the boy was constantly getting closer!





Puppies: And what did you do?





Grandfather: Well, fortunately I had recently read that classic book on the art of dog warfare by the legendary Lap Dog Tzu, wherein he famously counseled canines in my position to refrain from attacking (or even barking at) an oncoming biker until (and I quote) "you see the whites of their eyes." You see, pups, if you reveal yourself any sooner, the biker might be able to outrun your ambush, if only by retracing the route by which they stumbled upon it. True, they'd still have to come by your place eventually, but by then it may be nightfall, and even if it's not, you'd still have lost the all-important element of surprise.





Puppies: So I bet you bit him now, didn't you, grandpa?!





Grandfather: Well, let me tell you, when I clapped eyes on that crucial white sliver of that impertinent child's ironically carefree orbs, I took off like the proverbial shot and...





Puppies: Go, grandpa!





Grandfather: Mind you, I was suave: I didn't even bark at first.





Puppies: Wow!





Grandfather: It's like Lap Dog Tzu himself says (in so many words): Barking is for wimps! You've got to both put up AND shut up if you want to be taken seriously as a guard dog! It's the canine version of realpolitik.





Puppies: "Realpoli-"





Grandfather: Anyway, there I am, rushing across that very lawn you see in front of us here (which, incidentally, was just as rank with weeds and crabgrass back then as it is now, and littered with just as many rusting cars in various states of disrepair, not to mention the big plastic toys in loud primary colors that probably haven't been used by an actual child since the Mesozoic era -- the toys, I mean, not the colors).





Mother: Spare us the esthetic critique of the landscape, papa. We're all perfectly aware that we don't belong to the richest family in Smithfield County, and that the yard work around here isn't exactly performed by Martha Stewart herself.








Grandfather: Well, let me tell you, that boy started pedaling that bike like a regular banshee!





Puppies: What's a banshee, grandpa?





Grandfather: Well, it's like a crazy person on steroids.





Puppies: What's steroids, grandpa?





Grandfather: Suffice it to say that the oscillating left tennis shoe heel of this now-terrified kid was firmly in my sights, and I was just about to show him what I think of strangers, when...





Puppies: What happened, grandpa? What?





Grandfather: Boys, it was a miracle: Just when I thought I was going to sink my chompers (MY chompers, mind) into the delicious looking white rubber heels of the invader's tennis shoes...





Puppies: Yes, yes!





Grandfather: I saw him suddenly racing away from me on that monotonous two-lane flattop at a speed that even I, in those days of canine wine and roses, couldn't hope to equal.





Puppies: Aww! You mean you didn't bite him after all?!





Grandfather: Well, not exactly, no: but you should have heard me bark at him: I told him some good old-fashioned canine home truths as he pedaled off, that's for sure: As in bow-a-freakin' wow, home boy! Bow-a-freakin' wow! (Humph!)





Puppies: Cool!





Grandfather: I need hardly add that the amply chastised biker never showed his knobby pedal-pumping legs in my territory again, thank you very much, indeed!





Puppies: Yeah, grandpa, I bet you scared him but good!





Yeah, but you would have bit him good if you had caught him, right, grandpa?!





Grandfather: You bet your --





Mother, warningly: Grandpa!





Grandfather: Well, kids, those were different times. Besides, my threats alone must have done the boy some good.





Puppies: How so, grandpa?





Grandfather: Like I says, I hear that he's gone on to become some sort of big hifalutin webmaster these days, and I can't help but attribute at least some of that success to the life lesson that I taught him way back when.





Puppies: The life lesson, grandpa?





Grandfather: See these teeth, kids? These teeth are what you call a memento mori, as far as humans are concerned.





Puppies: What's a "pimento mori," grandpa?





Grandfather: No, memento -- Oh, never mind. Let's just say that I made this Brian fellow realize that Life is short, and that he'd better straighten up and fly right while he's still all in one piece, so to speak.





Mother: Come and get it, guys: It's time to eat!





Puppies: Awww, ma!





Grandfather: Now, you guys promised me that you'd eat your Kibbles and Bits if I told you this story, so off you go.





[SIGH]





...Just imagine, the boy went on to become a big and apparently rather important webmaster, from what I hear.... "and I helped," as the little girl says in the "Shake-'n'-Bake" commercial.





Father, coming in: Boy, that willow tree was wet tonight -- even before I went to work on it with my overloaded bladder.





Grandfather, sighing: I can't believe it's been over 10 years since that fateful encounter between man and beast...





Father: What's Grandpa on about now, Mother?





Mother: Oh, never mind him: He's just reliving the past, as usual.





Grandfather: The galling thing is that those 10 years represent 70 years in doggy life, meaning that I'm now an enfeebled octogenarian, while my nemesis is in the prime of life, and, judging by the glowing reports that I've heard of him online (largely from readers in Morocco, for some unknown reason), he's now producing an awesome website that really (and I quote) "rocks some serious Casbah," providing "an oasis amid the desert sands of Internet content" -- a website that's called the "American Egghead," if I'm not very much mistaken.





Father: What are you mumbling about now, papa?





Grandfather, murmuring: What? Oh, nothing, nothing....





Just remember where you came from, Brian, that's all! Remember who put the fear of God into you and got you moving, both physically and spiritually speaking, in this race called life.





Father: Give it a rest, would you, father: I'm trying to think over here -- and given the notoriously short attention span of our species, that's no small task, indeed!





Grandfather: [SIGH!] Yes... I MADE YOU WHAT YOU ARE TODAY, BRIAN! I MADE YOU!




by the Herr Egghead



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2008-05-16

Poetic License Required

Jim Leerer interviews Egbert Hieronymous Thistlewaite Wendlebarron III


We're here with the lovely Brian Quass, webmaster of Quass.com.



I bet you say that to ALL the webmasters.




Now, I understand that the human bicyclist who's referred to in this story is actually you as a young man in the southeastern Virginia of your childhood.



How do you do it, Jim?



But a little birdie told me that this didn't happen to you in the '90s as the story suggests, but rather in the '70s, and that the locale was actually Surry, Virginia, not Smithfield, Virginia.



Yes. So?



So why tell a porkie pie like that?



A "porkie pie"?



You heard me: a porkie pie.



Pardon me, Jim, but why is it that a seemingly all-American interviewer such as yourself is so improbably fond of quaint British slang?



I am NOT fond of "quaint British slang," as you put it. Now, shut your cake hole and answer my question!



Again with the Britishisms!



I mean, I can understand an author lying about his age, but why set the story in Smithfield, Virginia, when the events actually transpired in Surry, Virginia?



I have two words for you, Jim.



Oh? What are they?



Michael Vick.



I see, well, I have... 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6...9 words for YOU, sir.



Yes? And what are they?



What the hell do you mean by 'Michael Vick'?



Well, he's the Falcons Quarterback that got sent to Extreme Coventry over that dog fighting operation in...



Don't tell me....



Surry, Virginia!



Oh, I see. So you probably felt that the comic impact of your story would be obfuscated by inappropriately negative connotations were you to hew to a course of strict geographical realism with respect to its setting.



I couldn't have said it better myself, Jim.



Why, thank you.



Mind you, I could have said it a lot more quickly and in a way that far more people would have understood, but...




Now, now, don't be mean to me, you bloke you.



"You bloke you"?



I'm being nice to you, after all.



Oh? How so?



Well, I've refrained from guesstimating your age based on the fact that the story we're discussing took place in the mid-'70s, at a time when you were apparently 13 years old or so.



Yes, well, thank you for your restraint on that head.



After all, if I wanted to be mean, I would surely point out that the aforementioned data seems to make you about... what, now? 49 years old? (My goodness, sir! Bless my comparatively young heart! 49 years old, indeed! My, my!)



Yeah, well, I too have gone out of my way to be nice to you this evening...



Oh? How so?



So far I haven't said a word about that greasy toupee that you're wearing.



Right: You and me in the car park in 20 minutes!



"In the car park," says he! This is America, you fool: When we duke it out over here, we do it in a PARKING LOT, not in a car park!



Oh, yeah?



Yeah!



Says who?



Says me!



Cut. That was very good, Brian, but you're getting off-script. This is the part where you're supposed to laugh and say, and I quote, "But I suppose you're right, old boy, and I'm wrong." It's right there in the script.



Really? Let me see that thing. Sounds like a pretty unbelievable dialogue to me: Are you sure that I just come out and say that you're right and I'm wrong like that?



It's all there near the top of page 23.... Okay, look, people, let's break for 10. When we come back, we'll pick it up at the top of page 23, where Brian admits that I'm right.



Sure enough, it says so right here in black and white: "Brian, decisively: But I suppose you're right, old boy, and I'm wrong." Yeah, but what's my motivation?



Makeup! Somebody powder this man's mouth while I take a coffee break.

Makeup: Don't you mean "powder his nose"?



No, his mouth: Maybe that will shut him up for the first time today!




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9. Long-Eared Owl
10. Northern Hawk Owl

...from the North American Owl Encyclopedia by Tu-Whit Tu-Whoo








Topical Index:


1106, the movie: 1,
9-11: 1, 2, 3, 4,
Age: 1,
Airplanes: 1,
Airport Security: 1,
Alba, Jessica: 1,
Albert Hall: 1,
Alcibiades: 1,
Anger: 1, 2, 3, 4,
April, the month: 1,
Artists: 1,
Astronomy: 1,
Australia: 1,
Autobiographical: 1, 2,
Ballston Commons: 1,
Baseball: 1,
Beagles: 1,
Bears: 1,
Bees: 1,
Big Cat Diary: 1,
Borneo: 1,
Bourne Ultimatum, the movie: 1,
Bowling: 1,
Brick Repointing: 1,
British Slang: 1,
Bureaucrats: 1,
Cage Fighting: 1,
Campfire Stories: 1, 2,
Chapman, Tracy: 1,
Chariots of Fire, the movie: 1,
Che Guevara: 1,
Childhood Education: 1,
Children: 1, 2,
Chincoteague, Virginia: 1, 2, 3,
Chinese Food: 1,
Christmas: 1, 2,
Church: 1,
Cloning: 1,
Cloverfield, the movie: 1,
Columbus Day: 1, 2,
Columbus, Christopher: 1, 2,
Contact Us: 1,
Convention: 1,
Counterrevolutionary: 1, 2, 3,
Crumhorn: 1,
Cryonics: 1,
Deja Vu: 1,
Dinosaurs: 1,
Disability: 1,
Doctors: 1,
Dogs: 1,
Dracula: 1,
Emperor Augustus: 1,
Environmental: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6,
Existentialism: 1,
Eye, the movie: 1,
Eyes: 1, 2,
Fallingwater: 1,
Fast-Food Restaurant: 1,
Fireworks: 1, 2, 3, 4,
Fish: 1,
Flash Mobs: 1,
Foghorn Leghorn: 1,
Follow the Yellow Brick Hive: 1,
Food: 1,
Footnotes: 1,
For the Frame, poem: 1,
Forgiveness: 1,
Frank Lloyd Wright: 1,
French: 1, 2,
Funny Town Names: 1,
Gas Station: 1,
Ghosts: 1,
Global Warming: 1,
Golf: 1,
Google: 1, 2, 3, 4,
Grumps: 1,
Guns: 1,
Halloween: 1,
Hips Don't Lie: 1,
Hollywood: 1,
House of Usher: 1,
Hurricanes: 1, 2,
Inspector Clouseau: 1,
Interviews: 1,
Invasion of the Body Snatchers: 1,
Invasion, The, the movie: 1,
Jellyfish: 1,
Kindness: 1, 2,
Krumhorn: 1,
Lapus Lap-a-Lie: 1,
Lil Mama: 1,
Lip Gloss, the song: 1,
Love: 1, 2, 3,
Love Story: 1,
Lyrics Analysis: 1, 2, 3, 4,
Marriage: 1,
Mars: 1, 2,
Mek Tribe: 1,
Monkeys Eyebrow: 1,
Most Haunted: 1,
Movie Reviews: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,
Muck, the tribe: 1,
Music, by Mac Daddy Egghead: 1,
Neptune, the planet: 1,
New Jersey: 1, 2, 3, 4,
New Years: 1,
Online Forums: 1,
Organist: 1,
Owls: 1,
Ozymandias: 1,
Parody: 1,
Pastor Wright: 1,
Pericles: 1,
Phaedrus: 1, 2,
Pheromones: 1,
Philosophy: 1, 2, 3,
Piglet's Big Movie: 1,
Plato: 1, 2, 3, 4,
Platonic Forms: 1,
Poe, Edgar Allan: 1, 2,
Poetry: 1, 2, 3,
Press Conference: 1, 2, 3, 4,
Primal Scream: 1,
Privacy: 1,
Psycho: 1,
Quiet Man, the, the movie: 1,
Rap Music: 1, 2, 3,
Rapper, the: 1,
Raymond Chandleresque: 1,
Reader Concerns: 1,
Reader Surveys: 1,
Reciprocal Linking: 1,
Red, the color: 1,
Reincarnation: 1,
Restaurants: 1, 2, 3,
Ring, the, the movie: 1,
Safeway: 1,
Sardo soap: 1,
Saturn, the planet: 1,
Scriptwriting, for television: 1,
Scrooge: 1,
Seaford, Virginia: 1,
Self-Pity: 1,
Sermon: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12,
Sermons: 1,
Session Nine, the movie: 1,
Sherlock Holmes: 1,
Shutter, the movie: 1,
Sinners: 1,
Site Map: 1,
Smith Mountain Lake: 1,
Socrates: 1, 2, 3,
Spam: 1, 2, 3,
Sparkler, Sparkler, Burning Bright: 1,
Sparklers: 1, 2,
Spoof: 1,
Stand-Up: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14,
Stanislavski: 1,
Tao: 1,
Taxes: 1, 2,
Television: 1, 2,
Thanksgiving: 1,
Time Travel: 1, 2, 3, 4,
Trade Shows: 1,
Trains: 1,
Trees: 1,
TSA: 1,
Twombly, Cy: 1,
Valentine's Day: 1,
Vampires: 1, 2,
Verizon: 1,
Vote Here: 1,
Wayne, John: 1,
Webmasters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6,
Wild West: 1,
Wind Power: 1, 2,
Woods, James, actor: 1,
Writing: 1,
Yankee Doodle: 1, 2,
Yorktown, Virginia: 1,










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