Mime, all mime

I told a friend that careful mimes can be safe, but never sound, and he accused me of thinking inside the box.

So now I’m probably doomed to spend the rest of the day thinking about mimes.

I sense it won’t be beneficial to the bottom line.

Back when I was teaching creative non-fiction, it was a dream of mine to test my students by having them spend an hour interviewing a mime. The really inventive students, I’m sure, would have come up with some very moving profiles.

I’ve never understood mimes nor the reflexive hatreds they inspire.

First of all, who aspires to a craft that offers virtually no pay and leads to widespread public derision?

I mean besides bloggers.

How come so many people love playing things like Charades, but hate mimes?

Our 11-year-old is going through a mime phase. She does the box thing and it’s hilarious. But I try not to laugh too hard because I don’t want to encourage any ambitions that she aspire to become a professional mime.

Of course, if she ever does express such a sentiment, I know exactly what I’ll do: I’ll convey the difficulty of the endeavor by pretending I’m walking against a really strong wind. If that fails, I’ll dramatically fold my hands together and place them pillow-like beside my temple and feign uncontrollable weeping.

We can all name thousands of rock bands, but there’s only one name when it comes to miming and that’s Marcel Marceau (1923-2007).

I never knew this before but March 18 is Marcel Marceau Day in New York City, declared thus in 1999. I will as soon as this is complete pitch that as a story idea, one I’m sure is doomed for rejection.

Yet it’s so offbeat it must be pursued. Maybe they’ll encourage all the traffic cops wear white face.

Marceau was apparently a great man. In April 2001, the University of Michigan awarded the Frenchman its Wallenberg Medal in recognition of his World War II heroics aiding Jews and other refugees fighting the Nazis.

The visual of the world’s most famous mime saving refugees and fighting Nazis sounds like a plot straight out of “Hogan’s Heroes.”

I was also surprised to learn he’s an author. He contributed several well-received forewords to respected art books. Knowing what I know about the publishing industry I can only bet compensation was offered on the stipulation the world’s most famous silent performer agreed to provide the audio versions.

Many of you may remember him for his most speaking famous role, playing himself in the hilarious 1976 Mel Brooks flick, “Silent Movie.”

Marceau utters the only word in the entire film so I guess it could be considered a French film. In it Brooks through sub-titles asks, please, Marcel, would you be in our silent movie?

Marceau, in the only spoken word in the otherwise silent movie, says, “No!”

In terms of ironic brilliance, it nearly equals the idea of a coyote eating a vegetarian.

Well, that’s it.

I’ve exhausted all I know about the subject of mimes. I now have nothing left to say.

And that’s as good a way as any to end a blog on mimes.

The night Ozzy didn't pee on The Alamo

Today’s an important day in non-history: It was 30 years ago this evening when Ozzy Osbourne didn’t urinate on the Alamo. This may seem contrived. I mean you’d think just about everyday of the year could be remembered as someone not peeing on the Texas shrine. It’s just not something you do.

But it’s different with Ozzy. Part of his legend is that on Feb. 19, 1982, he is supposed to have urinated on the walls of the Alamo after a nearby concert.

It just didn’t happen.

I was looking through old stories to pitch and too late found this one, “Story of Ozzy at The Alamo is mostly all wet.” It ran in the Boston Herald in 2004. Had I seen it sooner, I think I could have found a magazine that would have seized on this anniversary. Alas, I’m out of luck.

But that doesn’t mean you have to be. Here, check it out. It’ll give you some smarty pants satisfaction next time anyone mentions Ozzy or brings up the infamous incident.

Thus, another blow struck on behalf of truth!

Officials at The Alamo are more than happy to discuss the legends and legacies that still seem to reverberate off the shrine's scarred walls like so many spent bullets. But there is one off-the-wall legend that they wish would just dry up and blow away.

Yep, the name Ozzy Osbourne is still getting people in Texas all, well, P.O.d.

"Oh, please, we'd rather not talk about that," says Laura Garcia, executive secretary at The Alamo who patiently and pleasantly fends off questions from writers and producers from around the world. "We just got a call from a documentary group that's filming a series about outrageous stunts by rock stars. They wanted to come down here and film and interview. We just told them, no thanks."

But thanks to MTV's hit series, "The Osbournes," there are days the name Ozzy Osbourne gets mentioned at The Alamo more times than Davy Crockett, and that just really, er, stinks!

"Oh, I get asked about it three or four times a day," says one guide. "More when a school group visits."

The kids, and many adults ask about it in a "Pssst! Hey, buddy, can you show me where Ozzy, you know . . ." sort of way

Well, the truth is that in this land of legends, no guide within or without the walls of The Alamo can show anybody exactly where Ozzy Osbourne drunkenly heeded nature's call on February 19, 1982, after a performance at the San Antonio Convention Center Arena. You know why?

Because it never happened.

I know, I know. Right now legions of devoted Ozzy fans are spitting out their cereal saying, "I can't *&#@! believe it!"

But it's true. Ozzy Osbourne never urinated on the walls of The Alamo. Had he, he may not have lived to become America's most unlikely father figure. The officials at the Alamo don't want to talk about it, but their friendly guides will.

"It's just not true," says one guide, who requested his name not be used for publication. "If he had, the police wouldn't have arrested him. They would have beaten him to within an inch of his life."

The Alamo, or Mission San Antonio de Valero, to Texans is understandably sacred ground. It is here that 189 Texans gave their lives rather than surrender to Mexican General Santa Anna and his army. The more than 2.5 million annual visitors understand this. The people who stroll through its buildings and beautifully landscaped grounds in the heart of San Antonio speak in reverential tones as they learn of the heroism of men like Crockett, William B. Travis and Jim Bowie and why the phrase "Remember the Alamo!" is still relevant 166 years after the last man died at his post that warm spring day. Its limestone walls were consecrated with the blood of patriots whose sacrifice is innately understood by schoolchildren, adults and even drunken English rock stars.

"What happened was he was with a bunch of band members after the show," says the guide. "They were dawdling and he had to go. When he couldn't get them to leave he just unzipped his trousers and went right where he was standing."

Where he was standing happened to be across the street from The Alamo at the stately, 60-foot-high Cenotaph. Erected in 1939 by the Texas Centennial Commission, the name Cenotaph means a monument erected in honor of a dead person whose remains lie elsewhere. He was arrested and charged with public intoxication. The next morning he felt something besides hung over.
He felt regret.

"Everyone believes he urinated on the walls of the Alamo and just went on his merry way. That's just not true. In fact, he felt terrible about it."

Just how terrible was reported in the Sept. 10, 1992, editions of The San Antonio Express-News under a headline that reads, "Ozzy thanks city for having him back." The article reads, "It's official: British heavy metal singer Ozzy Osbourne is donating $10,000 to the Daughters of the Republic of Texas -- caretakers of the Alamo, the Texas shrine that Osbourne is accused of defiling 10 years ago."

The article notes the arrest and the incident on the sidewalk near the Cenotaph and includes this statement from Ozzy: "We all have done things in our lives that we regret. I am deeply honored that the people of San Antonio have found it in their hearts to have me back. I hope that this donation will show that I have grown up."

Happily, it won't cost the rest of us that much to visit San Antonio. Its magnificent Riverwalk is one of America's great urban treats anywhere in America. It's crowded with fabulous restaurants like Boudro's and The Texas Land & Cattle Steakhouse, which, like many of the city's eateries, serves meals on barges that cruise up and down the festive 13-mile stretch of the Paseo del Rio.

The May 1999 opening of a top new resort provides fresh reasoning for Osbourne's uncharacteristic groveling. The Westin La Cantera Resort's been named one of the top 50 golf resorts in the nation by Conde Nast Traveler. Each September, La Canterra's 18-hole Jay Morrish/Tom Weiskopf course hosts is the site of the PGA Tour's Valero Texas Open, won this year by Loren Roberts. An even better test is the spectacular new Arnold Palmer design. It's challenging enough that some of the cliffhanger holes might have Baptist ministers sounding like raunchy rock stars.

Either way, the history and the present San Antonio have enough to ensure that every visitor leaves pleased, not, er, upset.

Related . . .

Flush-free toilets in golden age

Keith bio: Warts ‘n’ warts

Welcome Springsteen fans!

The travel page at msnbc.com today features my story about the new Bruce Springsteen exhibit at the National Constitution Center in Philadelphia. The editors there were kind enough to include a link to this 2009 blog post about my album-by-album career overview of Springsteen’s career.

So there’s a whole bunch of tasteful strangers poking around here today. I ask some of you regulars to please move to the centers of each row and be on your best behavior.

Welcome and allow me to introduce the blog.

First of all this blog has nothing to do with the Amish, a kind and gentle sect known for industry, thrift and hardwork.

This blog is none of those things.

What is it?

Well, it strives to be unpredictable. In the past two weeks confused readers have found www.EightDaysToAmish.com using search terms that included, “do amish can bacon,” “amish boobs,” “hammock journalist,” and “ich bin ein horny.”

It strives to be visionary. This blog was the first to argue it would enhance the appeal of thoroughbred racing if one of the marquee Triple Crown events was run with 350-pound jockeys: that world hunger will end when scientists learn to farm dinosaurs; and that tedious NFL holding penalties could be eliminated if teams were forced to use armless lineman.

It strives to be cheerful. Only here will you be invited to celebrate things like the birthday of Maj. Frank Burns, the life of America’s greatest eunuch; and the time the alien P’lod played a pivotal role in a presidential election.

But what am I doing taking up all your time when the blog can speak for itself.

There’s only one rule: if you have to sneeze please do so into your inner elbow. It helps reduce the spread of germs.

The only exception being those of you who are heading to a barn square dance tonight. You can let it fly but please try to be careful.

And if you came here hoping for more Springsteen, here’s what the blog had to say on the passing of Clarence Clemmons. RIP, Big Man.

Thanks for the visit. Hope to see you again!

July 19, 2011

The last time I saw Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band I noticed Clarence Clemons had gold fingernails.

I remember thinking it wasn’t gold paint.

I thought it was actual gold and that’s just the way he grew them. He was just that cool.

You can check out a picture and decide for yourself here in my inconsequential blog review of the Boss’s May 19, 2009, Pittsburgh concert.

It’ll take the death of Stone to so fundamentally change one of the great remaining bands the way the death of Clemons changes Bruce and the band.

The artistic generosity of Springsteen meant Clemons would often steal the song and always steal the show.

“When the change was made up town and the Big Man joined the band

“From the coastline to the city all the little pretties raise their hands”

His vocal baritone cameos on “Fire,” “10th Avenue Freeze Out,” and the on-stage mugging between Clemons and Springsteen always sent fans into frenzies.

Clemons liberated the saxophone from the high school band room and made it as eloquent a rock ‘n’ roll instrument as the sainted guitar.

I argue he did as much for race relations as Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton or any of the pretenders to Martin Luther King Jr.’s throne.

That’s him on the black and white cover of maybe the greatest rock album of all time, “Born to Run,” from 1975.

The picture shows the greatest American rock ‘n’ roll star since Elvis draped across the back of a big black man in such an affectionate interracial embrace it seemed to demolish multiple taboos.

This brother was a brother.

It’s fitting, too, because the album is as much his as it is Bruce’s. His saxophone makes indelible contributions on the monumental title cut, “Thunder Road,” “10th Avenue Freezeout,” “Night,” and most memorably on “Jungleland.”

Even as Bruce began writing studio songs away from Clemons, the Clemons solos remained the highlights of concerts.

I listened to all 318 Springsteen songs in chronological order over 23.5 hours to write a career retrospective of one of America’s most important artists.

I’m still struck by the 18-year span from 1986-2002 when Bruce Springsteen chose to not record with one of the greatest bands in American history.

It’s still stunning. He did a bunch of mostly forgettable solo and often self-indulgent treacle while the scattered band did solo projects that never broke the pop culture surface.

I remember Clemons saying watching Bruce make music with other musicians was like watching your wife sleeping with other men.

And, you know, it felt like that to the rest of us, too. Each new release of forgettable material was like attending a divorce proceeding in family court where our custody was being decided.

What the hell was he thinking?

It took the tragedy of 9/11 for him to reunite the band for the sake of our national psyche.

That’s when even he understood. This isn’t just a band.

These are our brothers and sisters, our aunts and uncles. They raised us. They’re in all our scrapbooks.

There are times when I -- and I’m not ashamed of this -- actually look forward to the deaths of our legends, to the days when a well-aged Paul McCartney, Elton John or Mick Jagger struts off to rock ‘n’ roll heaven.

There will be parties at their passings.

Not out of disdain, certainly. It’s just that they’ve given us so much and I truly love them and I’m looking forward to putting their entire playlist on random and getting good and gassed listening to the songs that have meant so much to me.

It’s a kind of mourning we can all enjoy.

The passing of Clarence Clemons doesn’t feel at all like something to celebrate.

This was a death in the family.

Happy 49th Birthday to me!

My mother never even knew I was born.

I don’t mean that in one of those whiny, mama-never-loved-me ways. She loved me. Still does. Most of the time. I think.

But she never remembered anything about my birth.

“The nurse came in and brought me this big breakfast. I said there was a mistake. I told her, ‘Nurse, I’m not allowed to eat anything. I’m here to have a baby.’ The nurse looked at me and said, ‘You can eat anything you want. You had the baby yesterday.’ She walked out of the room shaking her head.”

They’d loaded Mom up with so many thought-deadening drugs she has no recollection of my delivery. Her forgetfulness will make dandy fodder for birther conspiracy theorists should I ever run for president.

I don’t know where I was for any of this. You’d think I’d have been with her snuggling nourishment or at least brushing her cigarette ashes off my little head.

Maybe Dad took me out to the bars to show me off to his buddies.

Seems like I’ve been there ever since.

I turn 49 today. And that’s the actual age, even though I’m aware it sounds made-up like someone who’s afraid to say they’re 50.

I hope to turn 50 next year although tomorrow is promised to no one so I’m not about to get all cocky over the presumption.

Both Galileo and Simpson’s creator Matt Groening share my birthday, as do Cesar Romero (The Joker; “Batman”), Alan Arbus (Dr. Sidney Freedman; “M*A*S*H”), Kinks drummer Mick Avory and “Survivor” cutie and Pittsburgh native Jenna Morasca.

The birthday episode of the uproarious “My Name is Earl” was first broadcast on a Feb. 15 so I’ve always claimed Earl Hickey as a birthday mate.

Two more: Seattle Slew was born today in 1974 and “Ticket to Ride” recorded in 1965.

The latter suffers from confused parentage. John Lennon says Paul McCartney did none of the writing and Paul McCartney says he contributed at least 40 percent.

It’s terrible when estranged parents fight over the kids.

They also argue about the tune’s meaning. Paul says the title referred to Ryde, a small Isle of Wight town on the British Railways line; John says it referred to health cards indicating German hookers were disease-free enough to “ride,” ride being German slang for sex.

I guess the best birthday I ever had was my 19th. I was a freshman at Ohio University in Athens, then as now home to the No. 1 party school in America. My real brother came into the TV room at the old fraternity house where we both lived and wished me a happy birthday in front of all my great ceremonial brothers.

Right away, two of the older guys said they were taking me to lunch.

It had been a harsh winter in southeastern Ohio. But this day was unseasonably warm. The snows were gone and every one of the 14,000 students and most of the carefree professors were looking for an excuse to party.

We had a two-hour lunch at The Pub and stepped back out into the warm spring sunshine.

The quarter-mile walk back to the fraternity house became like a pre-social media flash mob. Every single door we passed opened and someone friendly or beautiful emerged happy to see us.

And everyone of them was carrying a six pack.

The fun lasted all night and it was one of the greatest parties I’ve ever been to and I just happened to be the cause of it.

I wish something like that could happen again today. The world needs more impromptu parties in the spring sunshine.

I mention this all today because it’s now impossible to duck our birthdays. I’ve heard from dozens of friends on Facebook who sent birthday wishes.

Thank you, one and all. I hope all the good wishes for me to have a great day come true and then boomerang right back onto you.

I don’t expect any impromptu parties to blossom on this still-wintry day. It’ll all be low-key and that’s fine with me.

I’ll be happy to spend my 49th with my wife and daughters. They’re taking me out to dinner tonight at Rizzo’s Malabar Inn, my favorite Italian restaurant. We’ll have pasta, some wine and a bunch of happy laughter.

And then, if the kids get to bed early enough, this lucky birthday boy may get a ticket to ride.

Yes, it’s always been a dream of mine to celebrate my birthday on England’s Isle of Wight.

Iranians heart Valentine's Day

It’s indicative of how dangerous and misguided the Iranian regime is in that they’re permitting the observance of a decadent Western holiday and it’s not St. Patrick’s Day.

You guessed it. It’s Valentine’s Day.

Let me go on record as saying I really love Valentine’s Day!

I think there should be at least one day every month where couples are encouraged to express their affections with candy, flowers and poetic odes to one another.

I declare that up there in the third paragraph because I’m fairly certain my darling wife never reads past the fourth.

To me, Valentine’s Day’s always been fraught with coy deception. Why can’t people just be direct?

I remember when I was younger and all the girls would give me Valentine’s Day cards saying how much they liked me.

Well, why the hell did they have to wait until Valentine’s Day to say so? Why couldn’t they just say, “Hey, you’re cute. Let’s go get drunk and rip each other’s clothes off and let the games begin.”

But maybe that was expecting too much from a bunch of fourth graders.

One of the problems with a holiday devoted to romance is that it often leads to love, marriage, and that thing about the baby carriage. Thus, if taken to its logical conclusion, the holiday meant to celebrate romance results in the responsibilities most likely to squash any chance it’ll ever happen again.

I’m surprised some marketing genius hasn’t thought up a reverse Valentine’s Day for divorcees. They could have it on August 14. Larry King could Skype host.

This sounds cynical but, really, it would be a great way for divorcees to meet and maybe plant the seeds for another spectacular break-up. I predict some savvy divorce attorney’s going to jump all over this.

Divorce and disharmony have run virus-like through my friends and family this year. Many couples who have known and loved one another for 10, 20 years have said enough’s enough.

Complacency, unrealized expectations and a primal urge to stray are just a few of the reasons for the bitter splits.

I think we’d all be better off de-emphasizing romance whether it be between a man and a woman, a man and a man, a woman and a woman, a 9th grade teacher and her 14-year-old student, etc.

“Love isn’t an emotion, it’s a decision.”

I heard that at a convention of people with an abnormally high rate of divorce: Lightning strike survivors!

It’s true. I was covering the convention for a men’s magazine about 10 years ago. It was held in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. My suggested/rejected headline: “The Smoked in the Smokies.”

The woman’s point was we treat our relationships the way we do Lifetime movies. We expect one spouse or the other to always be up to something, we create a lot of unnecessary drama and we start to fidget if it’s not all over in a couple hours.

What Iran’s doing by tolerating Valentine’s Day is a mystery. I suppose you could argue it’s a case of one repressive regime nurturing another.

After all, these tyrants are very controlling. They don’t want you to do what you want when you want or with whom you want.

And I’m talking here, of course, about the Iranian clerics, not marriage or otherwise loving and monogamous relationships between people (pets don’t count).

Because the last thing I’d want to do on a day renown for tender couplings is sow seeds of discontent.

I guess what I’m trying to say is simply this:

I love Valentine’s Day!

I really, really do.

Whitney, Petty, weed & Willie

Two of my favorite artists of the 1980s are famous for being prodigious dope smokers. One of them died Saturday and the other is Tom Petty.

I didn’t realize how much I liked Whitney Houston until her death. I’m surprised how sad the news made me.

Because for about five years from 1986-91, she was perfect.

Her voice was breathtaking. She was beautiful. Today’s divas make surly seem like a job description. It wasn’t that way with Whitney. Carbonated beverages weren’t as bubbly.

I never bought any of her albums or saw any of her movies, but I remember feeling a little jolt of euphoria every time I heard her sing and back then her songs were everywhere.

I guess I sort of stopped caring when she married Bobby Brown and started making tabloid headlines for getting high. I thought, well, she’s finished.

It seemed a sort of blasphemy to expose a voice like that to something like smoke.

I was right. It just got more and more sordid and pathetic ending Saturday in a bathtub at the Beverly Hills Hilton -- and if I was a celebrity who was fond of drugs I’d never set foot in a bathtub.

What is it about drugs that cause some artists to wither and others to thrive?

Take Petty. When it comes to marijuana use and promotion, he’s right up there -- and I mean up there -- with Willie Nelson and Snoop Dogg.

There’s his great 1994 stoner anthem, “You Don’t Know How it Feels.” Chorus: “Well, let me get to the point, let’s roll another joint!”

Even more emphatic is the obscure, “You Get Me High.” It starts out, “Let’s have another joint on me! Let’s get as gone as we can be! And we’ll float around the ceiling! Baby, you get me high!”

It’s a love song sung to a girl, but I’m confused about the real object of his lyrical affections.

There’s a segment in his outstanding “Running Down a Dream” career retrospective where he talks about how drugs ravaged the production of the 1985 album, “Southern Accents.”

Petty’s talking with evident sadness and consternation of the wreckage of drug use and saying how terrible and destructive to creativity they are. He then gets a mischievous glint in his eye and before dissolving into maniacal laughter asks the unseen interviewer, “You don’t happen to have any drugs, do you?”

The program later shows Petty mourning the death of heroin-addict bandmate Howie Epstein, 47.

I remember Mick Jagger saying something similar to “60 Minutes” correspondent Ed Bradley in 2002. Jagger said one day he woke up and realized he was sick and tired of always being wasted. Bradley asks when he came to that realization and Jagger, laughing just like Petty did, says, “After about 30 years!”

I often quote Willie Nelson when he’s asked about the effect on the crime rate if marijuana was legalized: “I know it’s kept me from killing a bunch of people.”

It’s an interesting time for me to be opining on the drug use of others because my wife and I are hooked on crystal meth.

We’re binging on “Breaking Bad,” the AMC show about the chemistry teacher (Bryan Cranston) who turns to crystal meth production after a terminal cancer diagnosis. We’re into the third season and I know when we catch up and have to go cold turkey we’ll suffer withdrawal until it airs again.

It’s the best show we’ve ever seen and it’s left me scared straight. It’s all over the headlines, too. Drugs are destroying lives.

Not everyone who smokes weed makes the narcotic jump to heroin or crystal meth, but the cops will tell you no one starts the latter without trying the former.

Conclusions:

• Drugs are very bad for some people. Whitney Houston said heavy marijuana use ruined her life.

• Some very cool people really love weed and other drugs.

• Writing about drugs is a lot more fun when you don’t have to think about dead celebrities and wasted lives.

I suppose the same goes for doing them.

Re-run Sunday: All snowmen are abominable

I've only had to shovel twice this year. There were days in February 2010 when I shoveled twice before noon. The month set all kinds of snow records and still scars my mind. Yet I survived it. Today, in homage to that fierce foe, I rerun this piece written in the teeth of the worst winter I can remember.

Oh, the weather outside is frightful and I can’t keep the Christmas ditties from sleigh riding ‘round and ‘round inside my head.

At Christmas we all sang “Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!” How come “Make it Stop! Make it Stop! Make it Stop!” doesn’t work half as well?

We’ve already had our White Christmas, our White New Year’s, and our White Groundhog’s Day.

For heaven’s sake, we even had a White Martin Luther King Jr. Day. And how did Al Sharpton miss the chance to protest that racial switcherroo?

I’ve heard the Eskimos have 25 different words to describe snow. I have at least that many and all of mine start with a word that sounds like “firetruck.”

The man who said no two snowflakes look exactly alike never shoveled my driveway. Let me tell you, every single firetruckin’ snowflake looks exactly alike.

I’ve spent two to three hours each day for the past two weeks walking in a winter wonderland. We’re about to set a record for total snowfall in February and we still have 12 days left in the shortest month.

I asked a fellow sufferer how we’re supposed to celebrate breaking such a record. He looked at me with what combat veterans describe as the 1,000 mile stare and said, “You just keep shoveling.”


Really, there are times when I pause, lean on my shovel and pray my heart slows to a gallop. I look around through great gusts of frozen breath. Nearly three feet of snow is a marvelous sight to behold.

But so is about anything on my 52-inch hi-def TV. If I could choose, I’d take the TV.

We live half way up a mountain in what is familiar to local weather viewers as the Laurel Highlands. It’s about an hour east of Pittsburgh. It’s the place weatherman always say is “getting really hammered with twice that amount” after they say Pittsburgh’s getting a school-closing eight inches of snow.

I hear that and conclude weather school curriculum must be too severe to allow for decent parties.

Because I spend a lot of time thinking about getting really hammered and this ain’t it. I’d love to break the tedium of constant shoveling with one of those lost weekends I vaguely remember from my days at Ohio University where the weekends used to run from Thursdays to Mondays.

But that’s not going to happen. The forecast calls for more snows and sobriety.

Schools have been closed for seven of the past nine days. The kids are sick of me and the ways I try and cheat to win at things like Jenga.

I look in the mirror and staring back I see Jack Torrance from “The Shining.” He’s been sober since the snows began to fall. His cabin fever is acute. He keeps writing the same disturbing drivel over and over and over.

The literary parallels alone are frightening.

If Scatman Carothers shows up at my door, he’d better watch out.

I told the 55-pound daughter that she could jump up and down on my aching back. She began to do so with glee and continued right up until Mommy told her that she wasn’t inflicting pain, she was relieving it.

That’s the instant she stopped.

My instinct was to drag myself off the floor and drive straight to the bar for sudsy camaraderie. But it seemed foolish to risk winding up in a ditch just to break the monotony with some beers and buddies.

So I just stayed in and challenged the girls to beat me at Jenga.

Besides, baby, it’s cold outside.