Monkey With all the Trimmings

Mack Hall

Monkey With all the Trimmings

Mrs. Mamie Manneh of New York faces trial for importing bits of dead monkey.

Back in 2006 customs inspectors examined twelve cardboard boxes mailed to Mrs. Manneh from West Africa. The manifest said that the boxes contained only dresses and dried fish, but beneath the fish was the late Curious George.

Mrs. Manneh said this must be some sort of mistake; she never ordered dead monkeys.

And one can understand. I don’t know how many times I’ve ordered a book or a watch or a shirt through the mail and gotten a parcel of dead monkey instead.

A search of Mrs. Manneh’s house revealed (I quote from the AP report) “a tiny, hairy arm” hidden in her garage.

Mrs. Manneh said that the arm was sent to her by God, and that consuming dead monkeys is a part of her religion.

She didn’t say whether or not they taste like chicken.

Mrs. Manneh’s attorney is claiming cultural insensitivity, while the feds are touchy about the importation of unregulated meat products with the potential for disease transmission.

Hey, anyone who gets teary-eyed about the little girl saying that every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings needn’t be snotty about other cultures, okay?

And, after all, Mr. Pickwick carried a big codfish with him to Dingley Dell for Christmas, and H.M. Government never asked for its papers.

Some of us wonder about a god who makes home delivery of meats. What, no side dishes? And is this religious discrimination against vegetarians?

Mrs. Manneh won’t be difficult to find for the trial; she’s in prison for trying to run over her husband. He’s upset because for now he must raise their twelve children by himself.

“Hey, kids, how about some yummy dachshunds for lunch?”

“Aw, Dad, we had dachshunds yesterday. Make us some hamster stew!”

Don’t tell me hamster stew is yucky. Ya want yucky? Watch any of those Hallmark Christmas movies.

A monkey on the table for Christmas? Well, maybe. Several weeks ago an Australian environmental group recommended eating kangaroos as an antidote to global warming (http://www.news.com.au/heraldsun/story/0,21985,22562480-662,00.html) and Heather Mills (Lady Paul McCartney) touts the drinking of rat’s milk (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/main.jhtml?xml=/news/2007/11/20/nmills120.xml).

Monkey and kangaroo, all washed down with rat’s milk. It doesn’t work for me, but then, as a friend suggested last week, I’m definitely lacking in sophistication.

The House That Rodney and His Friends Built

Mack Hall

"That in this moment there is life and food
For future years."

-- Wordsworth

When Rodney died he left behind an unfinished garage and unfinished grandchildren, so on the Saturday morning following his funeral his friends mustered to work on the one and to inspire the others.

Rodney had his garage framed, a lacey assemblage exhibiting all the geometric constructs Miz Bonnie Carter taught us (well, taught Rodney, at least; the minds of some of us were rather resistant to pie are square) in the long ago, all open to an impossibly perfect autumn sky.

And that was the problem, of course; perfect autumn skies soon deteriorate into imperfect winter ones, and Rodney’s last project needed drying-in.

And so men and boys and a dog gathered, for what is a communal building project without some boys and a dog? Manly men with pickups and trailers sagging with lumber and air-powered tools and ladders and leather tool belts and camouflage ball caps and all the other impedimenta of the independent American yeomanry swarmed the joists and rafters noisily and happily, trailing pneumatic and electric lines and emitting clouds of sawdust and calling out numbers: "I need a four by eleven-and-a-half over here!"

All was much like a house-raising scene in a John Ford film, except that The Old West didn’t suffer from cell ‘phones.

One hopes that some government agency or some The People’s Progressive Committee Activist Front doesn’t send a committee of comrades or lawyers to investigate, but while the menfolk labored on the garages (three parking spaces, pump room, workshop, deck, upstairs apartment), the womenfolk (accept the John Ford-ism, okay?) set out lunch under the shade of an oak tree. Mr. Folk, Rodney’s ag teacher, led the assembly in prayer, a happy duty that until a week before would have fallen to Rodney.

The little boys and the little girls and the dog occasionally ran through the project to be fussed at, and then out to the field to play an all-day game of football whose curious and inexplicable (to adults) rules were invented for and limited to that one occasion. They ate too much and got sunburned and laughed and shrieked and scraped some knees and celebrated their childhood world out under the high blue sky and in the fields and woods of a perfect October day.

They will forever remember this week, when Papa died and was mourned, and then how on a marvelous day they burst forth from the sadness for a while to run wild in Papa’s field, which is exactly what he wanted for them. And they will remember how Papa’s friends joined in prayer and in fun and in work to push forward, in a small way, his life for them.

The children – they are the house being built. And they will remember.

I expect the hammering and sawing and noisy good fellowship were heard all the way from Magnolia Springs Cemetery.
-

Father of the Bridesmaid

Mack Hall

Once upon a time two Aggie chicks shared an apartment almost in the shadow of blessed Kyle Field in the holy city of College Station.

One cold night the blonde one telephoned the sort-of-blonde one: "Sarah, I’m at the gas station; I’ve locked my keys in my car. What do I do?"

And Sarah said "Just call Something-a-Lock; they’ll come out and open it up for twenty dollars."

"Okay," said Jan, "but will you come and wait with me?"

So Sarah left her studies (probably) and her big orange cat, and motored in her cute little blue Volkswagen to the gas station where, upon seeing Jan’s car, the car in which the keys were imprisoned, she remembered something she had long known but had forgotten in the moment of her friend’s stress: Jan’s car was a cute little red Jeep. With a cloth top.

This is a true blonde / Aggie story, but probably does not connect in any way with A & M’s just-wait’ll-next-year football season.

Both Jan and Sarah gave up their cute cars after graduation. Sarah now owns a sedate Republican Ford appropriate for a graduate student, and Jan owns a husband.

The wedding vows were exchanged in Cedar Bayou’s beautiful First United Methodist Church, a congregation dating from 1844. One knew immediately it was not a Catholic church because the music included "Panis Angelicus" and "Ave Maria." In a Catholic church music is now pretty much all about whining Jesuits abusing three endlessly recycled guitar chords on a poor recording made in 1968.

One of the many blessings of the service was that the bride and groom did not sing to each other.

Another blessing was that the minister sternly forbade amateur photography, which meant that the procession was spared the now common cell-phone-camera-Hitler-salute thing.

And yet another blessing was that the whole service came in at twenty-five minutes.

And another: the beautiful Sarah was honored to stand as one of Jan’s bridesmaids, and didn’t have to drive through a cold night to unfasten a Jeep’s cloth top.

But the greatest blessing of all was Jan, Sarah’s blue-jeans-and-hamburgers gal-pal of college days, now all grown up in a long, elegant gown, the most beautiful bride ever, on the most wonderful day of her life.

Thanksgiving Causes Global Warming

Mack Hall

Long, long ago the Mayflower was sunk by an iceberg and the Pilgrims stepped ashore with the Really, Really Revised New Interglobal Standard Golly-Gee-Wow Bible in, Like, Y’know, Today’s English to be greeted by Brandon Chingachgook and Tiffany Pocahontas walking across the land bridge from Asia and handing out fliers for the Golden Wampum Casino Hotel and Resort.

“Greetings,” said Captain Stubing. “We are the white heterosexual European male oppressors who have come here to steal your land and oppress you. Want some beads?”

“Hey, you can try those at the casino, double returns on the slots today,” replied Chingachgook. “Corn and codfish bar is free. And, um, look, you might want to try to step up to the dress code, okay?”

And so the Pilgrims and the Indians got together in peace and harmony, and held The First Thanksgiving, following another The First Thanksgiving sponsored by Martin Frobisher and companions some years earlier in Canada, and yet another The First Thanksgiving celebrated even earlier by Spanish explorers…um…white European male heterosexual oppressors…along the Rio Grande.

“I like turkey,” said Captain Bradford Stubing. “It tastes a lot like sophomore. Could use some more habanera sauce, though.”

“After dinner, let’s go invade the French in Canada or the Spanish in Florida,” suggested Miles Smith.

“Or we could just scream at the television awhile and then take a nap while the women clean up everything,” said Neville Van Winkle.

“It’s their job,” agreed The Last of the Mohicans. “You boys have another cigar; tobacco is our most heartfelt gift to you.”

“Clean everything up yourselves,” said Tiffany, “I’ve got to study for my bar exam.”

And so America grew, with the descendants of all the above learning how to sneer at each other disapprovingly as the centuries passed. At future Thanksgivings they made their children wear construction-paper hats and construction-paper headdresses in styles known only to Currier and Ives, invented global warming to replace ghost stories, drove Toyotas, and gave away the fruits of their labors to mainland China in exchange for toxic landfills of plastic junk. They ate genetically-engineered turkey from grossly fat birds that couldn’t even reproduce without the help of a weird little man with a syringe, thought that milk came from the supermarket, came to disapprove of themselves and their democracy, invented thousands of religious denominations and then generally avoided them, believed with all their hearts (tho’ not their brains) that polar bears were drowning, lived in fear of unmarked black UN helicopters, thought Barry Bonds terribly wronged, and took turns testing each other for drugs.

And yet by the time this is published the United States will have sent the Air Force and the Navy to Bangladesh with food, water, medical aid, tents, and material aid to help put things together after the flooding.

That would be the United States Air Force and the United States Navy commanded by the evil Yankee imperialist cowboy George Bush – don’t look for the Europeans to be kicking in to help others after a disaster; they’re too sophisticated.

Yup, we Americans may be a little confused about our history, and maybe more confused about our future, but we’re the best thing happening on this planet, and that’s reason enough for giving thanks.

Thanksgiving Causes Global Warming

Mack Hall

Long, long ago the Mayflower was sunk by an iceberg and the Pilgrims stepped ashore with the Really, Really Revised New Interglobal Standard Golly-Gee-Wow Bible in, Like, Y’know, Today’s English to be greeted by Brandon Chingachgook and Tiffany Pocahontas walking across the land bridge from Asia and handing out fliers for the Golden Wampum Casino Hotel and Resort.

“Greetings,” said Captain Stubing. “We are the white heterosexual European male oppressors who have come here to steal your land and oppress you. Want some beads?”

“Hey, you can try those at the casino, double returns on the slots today,” replied Chingachgook. “Corn and codfish bar is free. And, um, look, you might want to try to step up to the dress code, okay?”

And so the Pilgrims and the Indians got together in peace and harmony, and held The First Thanksgiving, following another The First Thanksgiving sponsored by Martin Frobisher and companions some years earlier in Canada, and yet another The First Thanksgiving celebrated even earlier by Spanish explorers…um…white European male heterosexual oppressors…along the Rio Grande.

“I like turkey,” said Captain Bradford Stubing. “It tastes a lot like sophomore. Could use some more habanera sauce, though.”

“After dinner, let’s go invade the French in Canada or the Spanish in Florida,” suggested Miles Smith.

“Or we could just scream at the television awhile and then take a nap while the women clean up everything,” said Neville Van Winkle.

“It’s their job,” agreed The Last of the Mohicans. “You boys have another cigar; tobacco is our most heartfelt gift to you.”

“Clean everything up yourselves,” said Tiffany, “I’ve got to study for my bar exam.”

And so America grew, with the descendants of all the above learning how to sneer at each other disapprovingly as the centuries passed. At future Thanksgivings they made their children wear construction-paper hats and construction-paper headdresses in styles known only to Currier and Ives, invented global warming to replace ghost stories, drove Toyotas, and gave away the fruits of their labors to mainland China in exchange for toxic landfills of plastic junk. They ate genetically-engineered turkey from grossly fat birds that couldn’t even reproduce without the help of a weird little man with a syringe, thought that milk came from the supermarket, came to disapprove of themselves and their democracy, invented thousands of religious denominations and then generally avoided them, believed with all their hearts (tho’ not their brains) that polar bears were drowning, lived in fear of unmarked black UN helicopters, thought Barry Bonds terribly wronged, and took turns testing each other for drugs.

And yet by the time this is published the United States will have sent the Air Force and the Navy to Bangladesh with food, water, medical aid, tents, and material aid to help put things together after the flooding.

That would be the United States Air Force and the United States Navy commanded by the evil Yankee imperialist cowboy George Bush – don’t look for the Europeans to be kicking in to help others after a disaster; they’re too sophisticated.

Yup, we Americans may be a little confused about our history, and maybe more confused about our future, but we’re the best thing happening on this planet, and that’s reason enough for giving thanks.

Pontius Pilate's Pleynt

Mack Hall

Pontius Pilate's Pleynt

My Caesar and my Empire have I served,
A diplomatic functionary, true
To my distant duties, never unnerved
By greedy Greek or perfidious Jew.

Outside the arca archa have I thought,
Festooned my desk and office with awards;
My Caesar’s honour only have I sought
While sparing for myself but few rewards.

I built with focused care my resume’
And filed each memorandum, note, and scrip;
I justly ruled (no matter what they say),
And seldom sent men to the cross or whip.

But, oh! That thing about an open vault –
I never got it. And why was it my fault?

L'Affaire Bagdad: The American Diplomatic Service Inaction, not In Action

“I shall have to delay you for a few minutes. You see the Legation is only just open and we have not yet got our full equipment. We are expecting the rubber stamp any minute now.”

-- A diplomat in Evelyn Waugh’s Scoop

The American diplomatic corps, the envy of the world of pallid wine and crumbly cheese, is afraid to go to Bagdad – so afraid that no one is volunteering, and diplomats may have to be dragged out of cocktail parties in Ottawa and the racing season at Epson Downs and ordered to report to The Cradle of Civilization.

Working Americans whose taxes support civil servants can certainly understand the reluctance of diplomats to serve civility in Bagdad. What towboat captain or steelworker cannot appreciate the difficulty in finding a really good tailor in Port Said Street? And, after all, embassy soirees in Bagdad are more likely to be explosive rather than sparkling, and the paucity of wine merchants is appalling, simply appalling. Worse, the shopping along Muthana Al Shaiban Street is simply not up to Paris standards, m’dear. Picnicking along the Tigris is quite impossible given the heat, and trying to punt through the bobbing, malodorous corpses is so, so tiresome.

A with-it diplomat in Bagdad can only resent the sad reality that so many of his personal bodyguards are not Harvard or Yale, and don’t appreciate amusing anecdotes about yachting with Walter Cronkite off Martha’s Vineyard and tittering about people who actually have jobs and love America.

And then there are the Christian priests in Iraq. In New England, anyone who’s anyone keeps a tame bishop or two for amusement. In Iraq, though, priests and bishops are not much fun at parties, didn’t go to the right schools, and suffer a tendency to be martyred by the sort of people American bishops like to be palsy with for the cameras. Yawn.

Doesn’t anyone understand that stern diplomatic notes can be exchanged just as easily after one’s afternoon nap in Brussels as well as after one’s afternoon nap in Iraq? And the embassy in Brussels is so convenient to the theatre.

And then there’s the bother of domestic staff in Bagdad. When interviewing and hiring a suitable kitchen staff (soooooooo exhausting), one must check references very carefully so that one does not hire a pastry chef who might bring explosives into the morning room. The maids, the housekeeper, the porters, the gardeners – can one find staff up to scratch in Iraq? Yes, a life of public service is terribly demanding.

Entertaining can be quite a bother too. In Europe one knows that a grand duke l’orange takes precedent over a charge’ du flatus, but how does one seat a Sunny mahdi and a Shirty sheik at dinner without causing a row? Gracious! And what is the proper dress for receptions during a rocket attack – black-tie body armor or white-tie body armor?

And must those beastly American soldiers get blown up in the street outside the embassy? Can’t they go out to the countryside and get blown up there? An American diplomat needs his sleep, after all, and having all those persons from the flyover states fighting and dying just outside is so unseemly.

The American diplomatic service – always a step and six feet of reinforced concrete behind our fighting men and women. Why should they have to serve in Bagdad – or anywhere else?