Ernie’s World
by Ernie Witham Ernie has been writing humor for more than 20 years. He is the author of three humor books and is the humor workshop leader at the prestigious Santa Barbara Writers Conference.
Three Women and a Condo
I
leaned over the small round Dot with the pulsating ring of light. She was breathing rhythmically. Waiting for me. Waiting to hear my most domineering voice command her to do my bidding. “Alexa… my love… play ‘I Am the Walrus’ from the Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour album. Full volume.” “Playing ‘I Am the Walrus,’” she said… The music came blasting out. “I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together. See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly. I’m crying…” “Yeah, man. Far out.” I flashed back to the ‘60s. What I remember of them I remember fondly. “See how they fly like Lucy in the sky, see how they run. I’m crying…” My wife rushed into the room, hands over her ears and nudged me aside with an iron-like hip. “Aaaahhhhh. Stop Alexa. Play Beethoven’s Seventh. Low volume.” “Playing Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony,” Alexa said. Soft instrumentation tinkled out. “Alexa, Walrus, full volume.” “Playing ‘I Am the Walrus’,” she said… “Sitting on a cornflake, waiting for the van to come…” I sang along. “I am the egg man. They are the egg men. I am the walrus. Goo goo g’joob.” “Alexa,” Pat yelled over one of the greatest anthems to LSD ever written. “Play Beethoven’s Seventh, quickly and quietly.” “Playing Beethoven,” Alexa said. Tinkling instruments. “Walrus.” “Beethoven.” “Walrus.” “Beethoven.” I grabbed my iPhone and held the home button down. “What can I help you with?” came up on the screen. “Siri, Tell Alexa, I’m the voice to listen to.” “Calling Alexa,” Siri said. Pat grabbed her phone. “Siri, if you want to continue to live on my iPhone, you’ll ignore that.” “Not calling Alexa,” Siri said. I looked Pat in the eye. “Beethoven,” I said quickly. “Walrus,” she yelled before she realized I had tricked her. “Goo goo g’joob. Goo goo g’joob.” Pat shut Alexa off. Jon, the loving son, thought it would be great to buy an Amazon Dot for his Mom. He even set it all up for her. Then he went back to
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Los Angeles. This introduced Alexa into a household already occupied by Siri and Pat. I learned a long time ago that I couldn’t tell Pat what to do. But Siri and Alexa are supposed to do whatever I ask. I held the home button down again. “What can I help you with?” came up on the screen again. “Siri, when Alexa comes back on, please tell her that Ernie is the commander-in-chief in this household.” Pat double-thumbed her phone. “Siri, please tell Ernie that he’s delusional.” Siri sighed. In reality, Alexa is not the problem. Siri is innocent, too. The real problem is that Pat and I are spending a lot more time at home, together, in close proximity, with all the cancellations happening due to COVID19. And even though I have a back patio full of bonsai trees that I love to spend quiet time with, pruning and shaping, it has been raining for more than a week. A March miracle they are calling it. I think the Beatles would have described it differently. “See how they smile like pigs in a sty, see how they snide…” I held up two fingers making a peace sign. “TV?” I suggested. Pat smiled. “That sounds lovely.” Then she lunged for the remote and snapped on Downton Abbey reruns. “No way!” I said. “It’s my turn to pick.” I picked up the new Apple TV device, another gift from Jon. I pressed the microphone button. “The Godfather, parts one, two and three,” I said. Pat knocked the remote out of my hand. “The Crown,” she yelled. “Every episode.” I grabbed. She held the remote behind her back. We fell on the couch. We wrestled. We made out briefly. Then we wrestled some more. “Maybe we should just try regular TV.” “Good idea,” I said. We flipped through the channels. “A wild day on Wall Street…” “The President today announced yet another new plan…” “On the local weather scene, it looks like, well, more rain…” “Nope!” we both said. The TV went blank. “Read?” We both reached for the same magazine. We laughed. “Wanna wrestle some more, Mr. Walrus?” Pat asked. I dimmed the lights. “Alexa, something… romantic please.” •MJ
Brilliant Thoughts by Ashleigh Brilliant Born London, 1933. Mother Canadian. Father a British civil servant. World War II childhood spent mostly in Toronto and Washington, D.C. Berkeley PhD. in American History, 1964. Living in Santa Barbara since 1973. No children. Best-known for his illustrated epigrams, called “Pot-Shots”, now a series of 10,000. Email ashleigh@west.net or visit www.ashleighbrilliant.com
Handle with Care
O
ne of the most popular words in the lexicon of modern society is “care.” People in general don’t like to be handled roughly. Of course, there are exceptions, such as arranged fights, or episodes of sexual passion. But we are delicate creatures, in comparison with the hard surfaces of our natural and man-made environment. When collisions occur, it is our human flesh and bone which are most likely to suffer (as the staff of any Emergency Room will tell you). Skilled surgeons were not as available in centuries past – but that was, for one reason, because there was less need for them. In our progress towards a better society, we’ve also created all manner of new hazards, wounds, infections, and diseases. In the days when the fastest vehicles were horse-powered, the injuries suffered in an accident were far less likely to be life-threatening than they have since become, especially if the vehicle is one which travels through the air, with hundreds of people aboard. “Safety” as a watch-word is one gift of these dangers to our contemporary vernacular. As a child, I was taught to equate the word with such precautions as care in crossing streets, obeying traffic signals, and not running out from between parked cars. “Safety First” meant that survival was more important than speed or comfort. Vehicles eventually came with an increasing number of safety features, such as shatter-proof glass, seatbelts, and padded interiors. But meanwhile, we have been introducing all manner of “unsafety” features, such as portable telephones, narcotics, and built-in entertainment systems. Of course, the occupants of modern vehicles are far safer, with their airbags and warning signals, than the unprotected pedestrians who may be in their way. During the “Hippie Era” of the 1960s, it became fashionable, among adherents of the “Counter Culture,” to contend that motorization was the way of the Past, not of the Future, and that the streets had to be “taken back,” in the interests of safety and civility. As a close observer of this scene, I was moved to immortalize the movement in one of the songs I wrote to the tunes of well-known melodies, this one using the song “Hey, Look Me Over”:
“Some people look for a beautiful place. Others make a place beautiful.” – Hazrat Inayat Khan
Hey, Run Me Over, all ‘round the town – See every chauffeur try to knock me down! Streets are for people – that’s what people say – I figure that means a pedestrian should have the right of way – But you can die being right, man, wrong people thrive – Stay out of sight, man, and you may survive – So, if you want to live in security, avoiding violent shock – Just don’t ever leave your block! Safety at sea, of course, is a different matter. Ever since the Titanic went down in 1912, there have been iceberg patrols and improved regulations about the number of lifeboats a ship must carry. But in that strange situation called wartime, the object of the game becomes to make conditions for the other side as unsafe as possible, while still trying to maximize the safety of your own side. When it comes to shipping goods rather than people, different standards of safety apply. On the one hand, whatever is being shipped must be protected from all the hazards of rough handling and mechanical processing. (My own little company has experienced losses through the damage sometimes wrought upon such delicate items as Compact Discs by postal machines.) On the other hand, the Post Office and all its competitor shipping services are concerned about what may be in your package, which could be a hazard to those persons and devices handling it – which is why you may be asked to specify contents (as if any ill-intentioned person would be likely to give an accurate description of his bomb or poison gas). For all our emphasis upon safety, and despite the remarkable fact that longevity appears to be on the increase (have you heard that “100 is the new 80”?) the world still remains a very dangerous place, habitation of which is inevitably fatal. Whatever safety we find is, sadly, only temporary. There are statistical signposts, such as that married people tend to live longer than those who stay single. But the ultimate death-rate is still a staggering 100%. That is why such anodynes as religion, drugs, competitive sports, and political extremism are still so popular, and why so much of our economy is devoted to trying to ensure that, on our way into oblivion, we are still being handled with care. •MJ 26 March – 2 April 2020
