1% Better Every Day

Who needs AI? Well, me. I’m one brain cell away from being a brick.

Hello, you super-sumptuous soul. You are sumptuous not just for that cheery smile, or the way the wind fluffs your hair — blowsy Beyonce hair, full of hurricanes.

You are super-sumptuous for the internal stuff too. For the stuff that bangs around your minty, mirthy mind

Can you quoteth Shakespeare, for instance? Allow me:

“For summer and his pleasures wait on thee.”

Honestly, that’s about all the Shakespeare I’ve got.

More easily, I can quoteth Sir Rodney Dangerfield:

“I’m so ugly, the proctologist keeps sticking his finger in my mouth.”

When pressed, I can dig out a quip by Moliere — “Nearly all men die of their remedies, not of their illnesses” — yet I am decidedly more comfortable with old movie lines.

“My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. When I was insolent, I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds.” (Mike Myers as Dr. Evil)

See the wonderful things we hold in our heads? They define us, make us fun to be around. Some are very useful. Some are mere silly string.

The silly stuff sugars us. It’s the silly stuff that makes you so sumptuous and happy to be alive (at least most mornings). So send in the clowns. Please.

“I like to rock n’ roll all night and part of every day. I usually have errands….I can only rock from, like, 1-3.” (Paul Rudd in “Role Models”)

I can fake knowledge of almost anything. It’s why I’m so adept in bar debates and at charity dinners. As Miss Suzie will attest, I can talk for two hours and reveal absolutely nothing.

Know people like that? We seem full of helium. Like Beyonce, we generate our own wind.

Among the stuff stuck in my brain:

• The lyrics to “Last Train to Clarksville.”

• Directions to a perfect French Quarter oyster house.

• The length of the Gettysburg Address (272 words).

• Frank Sinatra’s birthday (Dec. 12).

• Ernie Banks’ lifetime homers (512).

We are all a little unhinged, right? Normal is so abnormal — and pretty boring. It’s our devotion to silly stuff that makes us special, that separates us from the pack: guacamole recipes, chord progressions, sports stats.

Only you know the variety of things you know. Bravo to that. And tomorrow you will be even more interesting. Let’s hope, anyway.

Speaking of unhinged….

“Last night you were unhinged. You were like some desperate howling demon. You frightened me. Do it again.” (Conversation between me and Suzanne)

Ha! Gotcha. As you know, that was actually Anjelica Houston, in “The Addams Family,” a deliciously sly film.

Look, I’m approaching 200 years old, and I’m smarter now than ever before — wiser, breezily sarcastic, brimming with trivial information that — given about 15 minutes — I can retrieve almost at will.

Who needs AI? Well, me for one. I’m one brain cell away from being a brick.

As with professional baseball players, I can only hope to get 1% better every day. Over a lifetime, that might be statistically significant. Guess we’ll see, right?

In The Times the other day, the Dodgers’ Freddie Freeman explained how he was unhappy with batting only .295 last season, third best in the National League. In most previous seasons, he’d topped .300.

I will share that little Freeman nugget, over beers, with probably 50 people before etching it into my permanent hard drive, which isn’t as hard as it used to be. Still, it gets the job done, trust me.

Thanks, Mom! Thanks, Dad! My folks always cherished a funny story and a good laugh. They shared them with me like heirlooms.

Speaking of which…

“Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries.” (John Cleese in “Monty Python”)

I just threw that in for you, Yvonne and Chris. In certain cases, with certain types of jokes, I can still hear my dad’s har-har-hearty laugh.

FYI, I miss movie houses and living rooms full of laughter. I miss comedies the way I miss creamy desserts, were creamy desserts suddenly obsolete due to corporate consolidation and studio malfeasance. The Industry, as they say, seems stuck on stupid.

Question: If the screenwriters go on strike again, as threatened, do we really even care?

Did Shakespeare ever go on strike? I don’t know. He was probably too busy ripping off Christopher Marlowe.

We care because the actors don’t make up their lines, as we all once thought. Writers make up the delicious retorts, the spinning thoughts, the malapropisms. It’s the writers, so wonderfully unhinged, who tap into the silly string that rescues us all.

For Hollywood, writers remain our only hope.

So, yeah, if they all go out on strike, I might lose my mind — and some of what sugars it.

We all might.

Props to everyone who has supported this new Substack venture. Loving the comments and feedback, often more witty and readable than the column itself. Damn you!

And cheers to those who turned out for the Happy Hour Hiking Club on Saturday. What a cheery bunch. I think you’d been pre-drinking, like me and Smartacus before Dodger games. Or is that just your personality? Whatever the reason, the fun and fellowship of that great afternoon will not be forgotten. Thanks to Armando at El Portal for hosting us, and for Diana Gould for helping set it all up. Thanks to Nina Hoffmann for her terrific photos, as always.

Upcoming hikes: Santa Monica Beach and Descanso Gardens. Stay tuned for dates and details (Reminder, paid subscribers get first dibs).

Coming Saturday: Lucky Boy burritos make me mental — in a good way. Plus other Random Thoughts.

Next week: Here’s to Easter and “the blessed slenderness of spring.”