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Featuring Horace J.
Digby
Winner of the 2005 Robert Benchley Society
Award for
Humor
The only SandBagger
publication endorsed by Dave Barry.
"It's
English." -- Dave Barry, 2003
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SandBagger Mag-e-zine -
Volume 5 - Issue 7 - October 31,
2005 |
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Breaking
News Briefs:
- Sandy
Putaansuu is getting pretty graphic. For
graphics, gifts, web design, and a lot more visit
Sandy Putaansuu at www.poouster.com.
- SandBagger buddy
J. J. Gowland, has something for you -- her
new book, "Confessions of a Sandbagger"
Confessions-of-A-Sandbagger. "Hell, I'll sell my book to anyone,"
Gowland says.
- Look for
Horace J. Digby's humor column in the
Columbia River Reader, available
wherever fine news papers are . .
. www.crreader.com
- The Immigrant
Garden is now available on Home video
at The
Immigrant
Garden
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In this Issue:
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by Lola Lane - SandBagger News
After an exciting fall (or was it
winter) in which SandBaggers were concerned they might have to
choose sides in a battle for SandBagger supremacy, President
Nick Kalinin and VP Don Cianci have made amends. The announcement came
with the visit of Canadian super star Sean Cullen, who
interviewed SandBaggers near the site of Longview's world
famous Squirrel Bridge, and giant Wooden Squirrel, built as a
tribute to community leader, Amos J. Peters—often called the
eighth and ninth wonders of the post-modern world—the bridge
and squirrel, not Peters.
Passing Motorists slowed to
get a better look, as Kalinin and Cianci embraced. Or
perhaps the motorists were just to try getting a glimpse of
the Squirrel Bridge, which nobody can
seem to find since the City relocated it 18 thousand feet
above the civic circle," said Walt Naze in his official
capacity as a guy who sometimes says things like
that.
Reportedly,
squirrels brave enough to trek across the relocated bridge
wear oxygen masks to avoid
vertigo. Other
squirrels are now using the new "Squnnel" (Squirrel-Tunnel)
recently built under the busy civic-circle roadway, in front
of the
Library.
That meant I couldn't get to email, Google,
Barnes&Noble, or any of the
other necessities of
Internet life. I tried shutting off the PC and
restarting, pushing the buttons on the SpeedStream, and
other futile
maneuvers. Repeatedly I clicked the DSL
icon, and watched anxiously the
ballet of boxes,
"Verifying User Name," "Connecting to DSL," but always
thudding like a ruptured duck to "Cannot Find
Server."
I called the repair number. It took
about 10 prompts to get to a live
person, but finally a
courteous staff member with a slight accent took my
complaint, gave me a case number, and said they would call
back. I
realized I was talking to India.
Outsourcing in action.
Two days passed. No DSL
connection. I called back. Prompts.
Another
courteous Indian. "We are working on it,
sir."
Two more days. This time, when I went
through the damn prompts, a woman
suggested I call
611. "That is the repair service."
OK, 611. Following the prompts, I was
led back to the Indian
sub-continent.
.1 of
clonidine under the tongue is good for lowering high blood
pressure. After I felt better, I had an
inspiration. I called 611 again,
but this time
ignored the prompts and went for live staff. Yes, it
took
three or four calls, but I finally got through.
Craftily, I did not
mention DSL. I said I wanted a
technician to come out and fix my phone
line.
He
was there 15 minutes early, a short, swarthy Armenian guy with
an
accent, cheerful and energetic.
He went all over
the house with a wand-like gadget, checking for breaks
in
the wiring. Finally, he actually went under the
house. And there he
found the trouble.
A rat
had gnawed the insulation off some wires, shorting out my DSL
connections.
I gave him a bottle of
Armenian wine.
I am grateful to that honest
rat. He taught me so well the limits of
outsourcing. There is no substitute for human
hands-on-the-spot work. All
the Indians in Bangalore
could not have fixed my DSL problem. What's
more,
they didn't have any idea what was really wrong. I
picture them,
smiling, impassive, keyboarding my
case. Perhaps they're still at it. I
hope
so.
I still haven't called an exterminator.
-- William Goldsmith, M.D.
September 17, 2005
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Reader
Commentary:
- "Once you can accept the
universe as matter expanding into nothing that is
something, wearing stripes with plaid comes
easy." -- Albert Einstein
- "Basic Flying Rules: Try to
stay in the middle of the air. Do not go near
the edges. The edges of the air can be
recognized by the appearance of ground, buildings,
sea, trees, and interstellar space. It is much
more difficult to fly there." -- Sonia
Lyris
- "I am a big fan of Ms Lane .
. . she even spoke to me once. She said, 'Stop
stalking me!'" -- Thomas J.
Saunders, Program Director, A3radio.com—Mr. Saunders wardrobe provided by
Salvation Army of Washtenaw County. Member
FDIC.
- "Horace J. Digby, you old
bird! Let me extend a hardy congratulations on
your recent selection as the winner of the Robert
Benchley Society Award for Humor. Quite a feat
for a fictional character." -- Dan Burt, humor
writer.
- Hello SandBagging buddies . .
. I just found your site. It's
terrific . . . really funny stuff . . . you
might enjoy reading my golf novel, "Confessions of a
Sandbagger"
www.publishamerica.com/books/7322 . . . Just this morning, I
received an order from my psychiatrist! (Not an
order to behave, an order for a copy of my book) . .
. Hell, I'll sell my book to anyone . . .
-- J. J. Gowland, humor writer
-
Monday, September 19th
is: The 218th anniversary of the signing of
the
Constitution; Talk Like a Pirate Day;
and Hermione Granger's birthday. -- Steven
Jens, MIT
Graduate.
-
I want to move to your area,
wherever it is. May I be a Sandbagger, or are
Jews excluded? Very funny, down home stuff. Vic
and Sade, move over. -- Dr. William (Bill)
Goldsmith, MD
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(A SandBagger
For All Seasons)
By Jayson Glass -- SandBagger
News
Last week
SandBaggers dedicated their regular Friday meeting, at Yan's
Restaurant, to honoring that great SandBagger, Tom Renaud, for
his many contributions to SandBaggerdom. The event went off well, even though the program
committee forgot to invite
Renaud.
Let's join the
meeting in progress:
"I remember Tom
Renaud," said Past SandBagger President Jim Holter.
"He was local head of the FBI during the D.B. Cooper
hunt,"
"That was Tom
Manning," said Ken Plampin, official Renaud
nephew.
"Wasn't Renaud
the guy who put the NASKAR sign up at the new Lowe's site on
Ocean Beach Highway?" Walt Naze asked.
"I think that was
you, Walt," said Herb
Hadley.
"It was?" Naze
asked.
"I'm pretty
sure," Herb Hadley said. "Renaud is the guy who files
his taxes 'Anonymously,' so he can claim deductions for all of
those anonymous charitable contributions other people make? .
. . Or is that me?" Hadley asked.
"Renaud is
the one who chopped down a cherry tree and then told his
father the truth . . . He also waked twelve miles
to school and did homework on a shovel, in charcoal . .
."
"No.
Renaud was the fellow who threw a mannequin in Mt. St. Helens
when Pete York wouldn't let us run an ad in the Daily News,
looking for a virgin," Frank King recalled.
"Didn't Renaud
stage the drunken waiter routine for that convention of
Dentist's wives."
"No, but he
pretended to be a guest speaker at that police
convention."
While there was
some confusion about exactly what it was Tom Renaud had done
for the club, all SandBaggers present finally agreed that
whoever Renaud is, we have always enjoy having him in our
group, even though some of our younger members, like Herb
Hadley, Walt Naze, Skip Piper, Roland Richards and Barry
Morrill can't quite remember why.
"Wait a
second. I think Tom Renaud is my cousin," said Ken
Plampin.
"Me too," said
Gregg Campbell.
And everyone
agreed.
by Caufbaugh Twilley - SandBagger
News
Who would have thought
Robert Benchley fans could convince Dwain Buck to head for
Boston. And not just Buck. Sue Piper, editor,
publisher and janitor of the Columbia River
Reader, and columnist Jean Bruner came along too.
In Boston they all met up with the delightful Cara Buck and
her Seattle pal Jill Konek, to form the official Horace
J. Digby contingent to the Robert Benchley Society's
"Benchley in Boston" Labor Day weekend festivities.
Using his
considerable clout as editor of Sandbagger
Mag-e-zine, Digby insisted on being one of the
guests of honor at the Benchley Society weekend of
cocktail receptions, private tours of Boston
University's Benchley Archives, cocktail receptions, tours of
Harvard (which turns out to be another university in the
Boston area—Fourteen of us went on the Harvard tour, but
only seven returned—that's how bad the
dropout rate is at Harvard), and cocktail receptions.
There was an outing to Suffolk Downs to watch the
ponies, an art museum tour, a literary walking tour of
Benchley's Beacon-Hill haunts, a trip to watch the
Red Sox play, a harbor cruise, banquets, and more.
There were
other guests of honor too. Tom Saunders of A3Radio.com
and his lovely wife, Dr. Terry Saunders, DC., traveled
from Ann Arbor, Michigan to give the weekend a certain je
ne se quoi (or maybe I could). And what weekend in
Boston would be complete without Canada's foremost humorist,
the vivacious Ed Tasca, or that New Yorker who literally wrote
the book on Dorothy Parker, Kevin C. Fitzpatrick, author of
A Journey Into Dorothy
Parker's New York, published by Roaring Forties Press, or
Gordon Ernst, who literally wrote the
book on Robert Benchley (Robert Benchley,
An Annotated
Bibliography). Ernst's book
narrowly missed having its
foreword written by Dave Barry, when Barry learned, at the
last minute, the book was a scholarly work.
Dapper Army
Surgeon, Dr. William Goldsmith, MD, the devastating Eileen
Forster Keck, and her dashing husband Jim Keck, II, set a
1920s flair for the occasion, dressed in the style of that
past era. While Steve Jens, late of MIT and Christopher Morgan,
internationally recognized puzzle inventor, kept track of the
many scientific, mathematic, and logic issues which might
otherwise have distracted attendees.
Art broker
Harriet Finkelstein, treated many of the revelers to a
tour of her home/gallery, while Ruth Smerling, David and
Mary Lyon, Stuard Derrick, and many others graced the occasion
with their presence. Of course, the event was held
together by Boston's most genial host and the hostess with the
mostest David and Mary Trumbull, who led
the wonderful three-day event.
Among
events scheduled (many of which were impromptu) were the
appearance of Old North Church and Boston's dramatic
skyline. One such event, following Saturday night's
Banquet, consisted of a number of Benchley fans enjoying a
wander through Boston's North End, having one last libation at
each bar as it closed for the night. This was the
first Saturday Boston bars could stay open until 1:00
a.m., or be open at all on Sunday. And while the
hospitality industry didn't really have the hang of things
yet, the downtown bars were all trying to reset their
schedules.
Meanwhile
"one-for-the-road" bunch wound up in the
road—a narrow
cobblestoned road—in
search of Paul Revere's house. What an exciting
coincidence that was. Digby actually knew Paul
Revere. Digby's rock n' roll band, the Brougham Closet,
performed on Revere's television show on July 21, 1969.
They worked all morning at ABC studios Hollywood, then took a
break to watch the first Manned Moon Landing on studio
monitors. Digby sat next to Mark Lindsey.
Still, it
was sad somehow, watching Digby knock on Revere's door (quite
loudly, considering the time) with no one answering.
Eileen Forster Keck finally suggested that Digby leave a
note, which he did, and then the one-for-the-road bunch
rambled on.
All too
soon it was a last Tanqueray in Boston moment. The final
bar had a gentle ambiance, though for the most part spirits
were lively, especially the indomitable spirit of by Ed Tasca,
and a personable young man who called
himself Rob
DeGulielmo.
DeGulielmo
and Tasca seemed quite impressed when Dwain Buck put a very
wet napkin on Digby's chair. GeGulielmo watched
conspiratorially as Digby returned to his seat, pulled the
chair out, then seemingly unawares, suddenly, Digby casually,
with a true unconscious competence, swept the chair with his
hand retrieving the soaked napkin and wiping the seat in
one deft move, just a split second before his tuxedoed bottom
came to rest. Digby made this move at the
last possible moment, almost as if he had been doing it every
Friday at lunch for the previous twenty-two years—which of
course, being a SandBagger, he had been doing every
Friday at lunch for the past twenty-two
years.
Perhaps the
only disappointment of the evening was that DeGulielmo and
Digby found themselves a jealous at the attentions Eileen
Forster Keck kept showing her husband.
by Horace J. Digby
-- SandBagger
News.
People always ask, "What do
SandBaggers do?" Sometimes they word it, "What do
SandBaggers really do?"
Here are some of my favorite
explanations:
- We raise money for he widow of the
unknown soldier;
- We keep our community on its toes by
pulling clever pranks;
- We run a home for women who want to become
unwed mothers;
- We are therapy for Dwain Buck . .
.
But the truth
is, SandBaggers have lunch.
Lunch is the only
regular and continuous feature of Sandbaggerdom I can recall.
Every Friday, rain or shine, we have lunch. We
call it a meeting. At these meetings, we to try to amuse each
other, mostly with spontaneous banter and wit, but sometimes
we tell jokes. Although we don't always finish
them.
Kenny Plampin began telling
a joke about eight years ago, "There's this guy on an
airplane, with this parrot . . ."
That is as far as Kenny ever
got with his joke, the other SandBaggers took turns
interrupting to ask, "Where was the guy going?"
"He wasn't going anyplace,"
Kenny said. "He had this parrot, on an airplane . .
."
Kenny tried to keep his joke
on track. But another SandBagger, trying to
be helpful (it was probably Walt Naze) asked, "If the guy
wasn't going anywhere, why was he on an airplane?"
After that, whenever Kenny
tried to tell the "Parrot Joke" we interrupted him, until
eventually he refused to tell it at all. It's been
eight years now and I still don't know how that joke
ends. But I do know, if you want to get Kenny
upset, ask him to tell the "Parrot Joke."
That's what the SandBaggers
do.
Jerry Kivela told a super
joke once. "What doesn't belong on this
list?" Jerry asked. the list included a crab, a
lobster, a salmon, and a Japanese guy under the wheels of a
truck.
We all gave up and Jerry
told us, "It's the Salmon. Everything else is a
crustacean."
That joke got a great
laugh.
Later Jerry called me
aside. "I've been telling that joke all day," Jerry
said, "and everybody loves it. Would you explain it to
me?"
Bill Putaansuu told a great
joke. One was about the three fellows and their
favorite holidays. The first liked Easter, "with roast
turkey, pumpkin pie, and Pilgrims."
"That's Christmas," said the
second fellow. "Easter is the holiday with
fireworks and picnics by the lake."
"That's the Forth of July,"
said the third man. "Easter is when Christ dies on the
cross. They bury him in a cave. And on the third
day he comes out. If he sees his shadow we get six more
weeks of winter."
But Amos J. Peters was the
best SandBagger joke teller. He was best because he was
so bad at it. Amos was
a contractor. He built Longview's world famous
squirrel bridge. He got the bridge right, but when he
told jokes they always ended up backwards somehow.
Here's the way Amos told a
joke: "Did you ever hear about the chicken that wanted
to get to the other side of the road?"
That was Amos. Here's
another one. "This guy said, 'Knock, knock.' And this
other guy said, 'Who's there?' And the first guy thought
he was crying, because he didn't know his name was 'Boo
Who.'"
SandBaggers loved the
way Amos told a joke, in the same way some artists enjoy
modern art. When Amos told a joke, it was like modern
art. Everything was upside down and
distorted.
Here's another great
Amos Peters joke:
"There was this crushed
Asian guy on a list. He's under a truck with a
salmon. But a crawdad is a crustacean, even though its
not on the list."
And here's how Peters might
have told Putaansuu's joke:
"These two guys thought
Christmas was Thanksgiving or the Forth of July, but this
other guy got Easter mixed up with Valentines day . . .
No . . . No . . . With Ground Hogs Day. And
he got it mixed up with Easter because they both have six more
weeks of winter."
That's what SandBaggers
do.
by Horace J.
Digby, Jr. -- SandBagger News
In this
issue we announce the long awaited formation of the Sandbagger
Council.
Now for the
first time, prospective SandBaggers can be allowed to pay $25.00 annual dues,
but to not be required to attend Friday meetings at Yan's
Restaurant, at the foot of the Peter Crawford Bridge in West
Kelso.
For years we
have had to tell prospective SandBaggers there was just no way
they could pay their dues but not get the full (and perhaps
only) benefits of membership—attending
lunch each Friday.
Now,
thanks to the formation of the SandBagger Council, all has
changed. Now YOU can join the SandBaggers without
receiving any benefits whatsoever.
How can we
make this offer. Simple, the SandBagger Council will
attend meetings for you. That's right, a select group of
SandBaggers, chosen because they were already in the club,
will meet at lunch each Fridays and continue to conduct all
regular SandBagger Business. They will continue to
participate in club outings, humanitarian and civic service
pranks, and other SandBagger events, SAVING YOU THE TROUBLE of
actually becoming involved.
Here is
how YOU CAN become a MEMBER (we were going use the term
"HONORARY MEMBER," but the idea of this being any kind of "honor"
did not test well with the focus
groups):
Just fill out the form below
and deliver it along WITH YOUR $25.00
CASH To any SandBagger, except,
of course, Roland
Richards.
This
offer void where prohibited by law, or good judgment.
by J.
J. Gowland -- Reader
Contribution
I accidentally (sort of) found your
SandBagger E Mag—Okay, so I Googled—looking for
sandbaggers.
I mean, every golfer knows one, but they can be as
elusive as the Caddy-saurus (that's Nessy's Canadian
cousin).   But someone out
there actually admitting to being
one?
That's how I found you and
your wacko bunch of Baggers. I'm pretty sure you've got
tracking software on your site and you've figured out that
threats don't do any good so you're killing me with humour
(Canadian spelling).
But, gees, ya broke the
mourning mood—golf is over in Ontario for 2005—and I simply wanted to wallow in
weather-inflicted sorrow.
So I had to track down my psychiatrist and make
a deal. I said I'd trade copies of my book if he'd treat
me for the side splitting, spiritually enhancing, nonsense in
your Sandbaggers E mag.
The man's nuttier than I am and
could be crazier than you SandBaggers.
He bought a dozen
copies of my book and sincerely agreed that I need help.
Well, maybe he knew I needed money, too. Writers starve
waiting for royalty payments.
Anyway, I told him about your hysterical (that's a
clinical diagnosis) bunch of non-anonymous SandBaggers, out to
ruin my wallowing, and he's treating me for . . . well,
for paranoia.
If ya don't hear from me for a while, it's because my
Doctor is taking me (and my books) to the American Psychiatric
Association annual meeting—I used to be an
associate member, but I think I'm going as an exhibit this
time. I have to sell more books to get more
sessions.
He said the book and I would be "Exhibit A."
Honest, all I wanted to do
was wallow and weep, and hug my putter until next May!
Thanks,
I think . . .
J. J. Gowland,
J. J. Gowland is a humorist and Author of Confessions
of A Sandbagger, published by Publish America.
www.publishamerica.com/books/7322
Editor's Note:
We're back. Due to
distractions, like work, national celebrity, and writing
columns for real news papers, our editor has gotten
sidetracked from his most important job�churning out this
drivel. Even so, all references to
Herb Hadley, Roland Richards, and of course Ralph Nader, David
Trumbull, Robert Benchley, Ed Tasca, Dwain Buck, and everyone
else for that matter, are, as usual, typographical errors, and
according to our lawyers, not actionable. --
Horace J. Digby
Just
contact:
lolalane@lexingtonfilm.com
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Don't believe everything you
read. |
SandBagger
Mag-e-zine is published by Lexington Film, LLC.
All "persons" "places" "events" "plants"
depicted are fictional, especially "Herb Hadley."
Copyright © 2005
Lexington Film, LLC. All rights reserved
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