Apparently, silence can be copyrighted.

I’ll bet you’re gaping, open-mouthed in stunned silence, as you read this. Yes, silence can be copyrighted. And by gaping silently at these words, you’re violating that copyright right now.

Okay, that last part isn’t true. But creating a silent track on your own CD can actually land you in some legal hot water, as Mike Batt, former member of the UK band The Wombles, is finding out. He’s facing a potential lawsuit for copying silence from avant-garde composer John Cage (“avant-garde,”from the French meaning “No one cares except a bunch of black turtle-neck-wearing-ramble-on-about-existentialism coffee house barflies.”)

According to the London Independent (official motto: “You’re Not the Boss of Me!”), Batt received a letter from the Mechanical-Copyright Protection Society, the British organization charged with collecting royalties for composers and publishers.

The MCPS sent him a standard license form for his Postmodern composition, “A One Minute Silence,” because he listed Cage as a composer, and supposedly demanded royalty payments for his own 60 seconds of non-sound.

“Postmodern” is German for “avant-garde.”

The MCPS claims Batt used a quotation from Cage’s piece “4 minutes, 33 seconds,” a composition composed entirely of four minutes and 33 seconds of dead silence. Cage, being the clever avant-garde artist, named the piece to match it’s length. It should have been titled “Truly Pointless and Stupid” so it could have matched the concept instead.

But Batt says this isn’t true. “My silence is original silence,” he told the Independent, “not a quotation from his silence.” And as he said in a National Public Radio interview this week, the composition is also original, “. . . because it’s digital.”

Oh well, if it’s digital, then what’s all the fuss?

The problem started when Batt gave credit to “Batt/Cage” on the composition (he said he did it “for a laugh”). But according to Andante Magazine, Gene Caprioglio, a representative of Cage’s American publisher, says that Batt listed Cage on the credits for “obvious reasons. . . to evoke Cage’s provocative 1952 composition.”

Provocative? What’s so provocative about four minutes and 33 seconds of dead silence? The song would be provocative if it were a cover version of “Inna Gadda Davida” played on a xylophone made of herring tins, but just because it’s as silent as a church on Monday morning doesn’t make it provocative. It makes it BORING!

But Caprioglio was steadfast. “If Mr. Batt wants to produce a minute of silence under his own name, we would obviously have no right to the royalties.”

Cage, obviously having some sort of genius’ foresight that his “masterpiece” would possibly be copied by musical ne’er-do-wells, left strict instructions that allowed “4:33” to actually be any length. However, there was no word as to whether the title of the song would change as well, to say, “2:18,” “17:00,” or “Dear Lord, Will This Thing Never End?!”

Cage’s publishers, in an allegedly greedy attempt to get the thousands of pennies earned from Batt’s composition, are arguing that Batt actually copied “4:33,” but since his song was 3:33 shorter, he only copied part of it.

“As my mother said when I told her, ‘which part of the silence are they claiming you nicked?'” Batt told the Independent.

What about those little 4 second gaps between songs on CDs? Who owns the copyrights to those? Does Cage, since he wrote the original recorded silence? But would Batt have a shot at them, since he was the first one to record silence digitally, and CDs are a digital medium? And since they’re only 12% as long as Cage’s original “masterpiece,” will the royalties be prorated?

One could conceivably argue that silence existed long before there was life on this planet, and therefore silence is actually public domain, just like “Happy Birthday.”

But that’s not all. This silence controversy came just a few months after Jamie Kellner, chairman and CEO of Turner Network, said that when we don’t watch TV commercials, we’re committing theft.

There’s that open-mouthed gape again. Let me explain.

In an April 29 interview in Cable World, Kellner railed against TiVo, fast forward buttons on VCR remotes, and flipping through the stations for three minutes. If you use any of these devices or tricks to avoid television commercials, he says, you’re committing theft.

“Your contract with the network when you get the show is you’re going to watch the spots. . . (a)nytime you skip a commercial or watch the button, you’re actually stealing the programming,” Kellner told interviewer Stacy Kramer, without explaining what he meant by “watch the button.”

“What if you have to go the bathroom or get up to get a Coke?” Kramer asked.

Kellner responded: “I guess there’s a certain amount of tolerance for going to the bathroom.”

Gee, thanks Jamie. I’m glad you have “a certain amount of tolerance” for me not peeing on my couch as I watch your network.

And since when do I have a contractual obligation with the network? If I’m contractually obligated to watch commercials, aren’t they contractually obligated not to broadcast a load of crap? (Please make your own jokes about network programming and bathroom breaks.)

I’d be interested in watching the commercials if they weren’t the only things worse than the actual shows. I mean, who wants to watch Steve Urkel on old “Family Matters” reruns, or every single Atlanta Braves game? And don’t give me that nonsense about everyone having different tastes, and trying to meet the programming tastes of different viewers.

Why is it that you can’t meet my programming tastes, but I have to sit through “Can you hear me now? Good!” The whole thing is enough to make me go Elvis Presley on my TV and shoot it. But I’m sure Kellner will have some reason why I can’t, like it violates his Constitutional rights to make me watch commercials for feminine freshness products.

But this gives me an idea for a song I call “3:57.” I’ll do an extended cover remix of Mike Batt’s “A One Minute Silence” interspersed with the “Can You Hear Me Now?” phrase every nine seconds. I’ll call it “Avant-Garde People Are Morons For Buying This CD.”

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go violate my contract with network television. But I’ll make sure I don’t violate John Cage’s copyrights when I do.

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Sincerely yours,
Alexis

Savannah Says:

Your name positions you perfectly for a lifetime of marriages to men of wealth and privilege, do you realize that? You should thank your parents for this every day, as you lounge poolside in Cancun, sipping drinks with little paper umbrellas in them. All parents should be so shrewd in gifting their child with a “power name” like Alexis.

I’m glad to see you’re planning ahead about your pending marriages. Any serious pursuit, such as a career or beauty pageant, deserves an investment of thoughtful advance planning to make it a success. Prep school is not too soon to begin practicing the delicate social arts, the conniving and scheming, that will lead to married bliss in 5- to 7-year increments over your lifetime. Twenty years from now, when you’ve “traded up” for the third time, you’ll be glad you spent some time strategizing as a youngster.

Let’s assume that with a name like “Alexis,” you’re currently engaged to a recent Ivy League graduate whose utter lack of professional credentials, or even intelligence, prove no obstacle to success, as he’s about to enter a full partnership in Uncle Austin’s 150-year-old law firm, complete with a corner office, well-stocked bar, and a staff of assistants and paralegals to do his work for him. What should you expect, as you move through your engagement with this prize catch and on toward the nuptials?

Well, first you can expect to be treated like the debutante you are, whether you actually were a debutante or not. Your social calendar will be overbooked with soirees hosted by each side of the family, events where you can look forward to being groped by drunken older men usually characterized as “dear friends of the family,” “Colonel,” or “governor.” Obviously, you don’t want to rebuff this sort of behavior, as one of those “dear friends” may eventually become Husband Number 3.

In fact, the main purpose of these parties, as far as you’re concerned, is to reconnoiter the social landscape for prospective targets. Is there a wealthy bachelor cousin in the mix? And is he hetero? What preliminary threats from other females can you identify in his regard?

You should spend a lot of time showing off your not-less-than-1.5 carat engagement ring. Remember: you ARE a trophy to be won. The size and quality of your engagement ring determines whether you’re viewed as a “bowling” or a “Super Bowl” trophy. As you can see, there’s a world of difference! Of course, since this is your first engagement, you can’t expect to be the Stanley Cup. But you do want to set a respectably high bar for future suitors to leap over in their quest to win you.

Also during your engagement, you should be prepared to sit through hours of excruciatingly boring meetings with wedding planners. Naturally, you’ll have no say in planning any aspect of this momentous occasion. All of that will be left up to the respective mothers, who’ll broker agreements designed to maintain the balance of power between your two families. The smallest details, down to the flavor of jam between the layers of your twelve-tiered, cascading, monogrammed cake, will be handled by women who know far more than you do about what you really want.

And then there’s the issue of The Dress.

The Dress might be one handed down through generations in your family. Or it might be an heirloom from your husband’s side of the family. If so, you’ll look dowdy. And you can’t afford that. You deserve a Vera Wang creation, and you shall have it.

[Note from Savannah’s long-suffering secretary, Elizabeth: Well, Alexis certainly wound Savannah’s crank with her question. Savannah’s been dictating for hours, and I hear no end in sight. We’ll have more on “The Life Cycle of Marriage” next time.]

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However I recently attended a conference in Indianapolis that promised to have such a profound impact on American culture, there was no way I could ignore it. I covered the proceedings of this two day event to let you decide how important it actually is.

The conference, organized by a group called STOMP (Stop Oppressive Mascot Portrayals), was inspired by other groups who took offense at Native American team names such as the Cleveland Indians, Atlanta Braves, and Washington Redskins. As a result, numerous other protest groups have emerged, expressing their discontent at the insensitivity of various team names.

Here’s what happened at the opening session. It began with opening remarks by the organizer of the STOMP conference.

“Hello, my name is Shannon Boyts. I want to welcome you all to the very first STOMP conference. We’re very excited at the large turnout, and hope we can get a lot accomplished over the next two days. Now, as you may remember from your pre-conference information packets, we–”

“Were these packets printed on recycled materials, with soy-based inks?” someone shouted from the back.

“Of course. We wouldn’t do it any other way,” Boyts responded. “Now, as I was saying, the purpose of Stop Oppressive Mascot Portrayals is to educate the American public about the insensitivity of the team owners and their oppression of various people and companion animal groups by using politically incorrect team names.”

Someone else shouted, “Will any of the Native American protest groups be attending?”

Boyts looked a little embarrassed at this. “No. Apparently, they thought we were taking things a little too far. They quit returning my calls. We’re going to kick off the conference with a general discussion. This will be a chance for everyone to introduce themselves, let us know what cause you represent, and what team you are protesting against.”

A tall blond man stood up and introduced himself. “Hello, my name is Peter Johannsen, and I’m from Minnesota. My family comes from a long line of Norwegian bachelor farmers. For years, we have been opposed to the use of the term “Viking” for our professional football team. Vikings were violent, and plundered and laid waste to villages and small towns for many years. To use the Viking name is to glorify violence and condone their heinous acts.”

“Excellent!” Boyts rubbed her hands together with excitement. “Who else wants to introduce themselves?”

A man in a cowboy hat then rose to his feet and spoke with a Texas drawl. “My name is Randy Parker, and I’m with Texans for Positive Media Images. Our complaint is against Mr. Jerry Jones and the Dallas Cowboys. We feel the image of the Old West cowboy has been tarnished by the various troubles the team has had, including several run-ins with the law by some of the players. That and the fact that they have not been serious Super Bowl contenders for years. Cowboys are now being stereotyped as violent thugs who use guns to solve conflict. This is not the image of the original — uh, never mind.” Parker sat down, red-faced.

“Yes, but they oppressed cattle and ate meat!” someone shouted angrily

“Tell us who you are and what group you are with, please,” Boyts asked the new voice.

“My name is Marcy Stump, and I represent PPMPA.”

“Who?”

“Pip-Meepa. People for the Positive Media Portrayal of Animals. We’re a lot like PETA, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, only we’re concerned about how animals are portrayed on television and in magazines. And frankly, we’re disturbed by the number of sports teams that use animals as their mascots. We’ve launched a nationwide campaign against teams like the Miami Dolphins, Florida Marlins, St. Louis Rams, Indianapolis Colts, Detroit Lions, Detroit Tigers, and Chicago Bears.”

“Oh my!” Boyts looked pleasantly surprised. “So, who else do we have?”

“Arrrr, my name is Frank Baird, but my friends call me Blackie.” A short man wearing a long black coat and a scraggly beard limped to the front of the room. “I’m from the Children of the Scourge of the Seas. We’re all descended from pirates, and we’re focusing our efforts against the Pittsburgh Pirates, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, and the Oakland Raiders.”

Johannsen stood up and shouted, “Hey, the Vikings were raiders. We should get the Raiders!”

“Back off, Blondie!” Baird shouted. “We claimed the Raiders long before you did.” The two men began shoving each other.

“Comrades, comrades, we must deal with these issues in a calm, rational manner!” A stout woman wearing gray overalls pounded her shoe on the table. Johannsen and Baird stopped their shoving match.

“Who are you?” Boyts asked.

“I am Leona Borushkin, president of the American Communist Party, Iowa chapter.”

“What the heck do the Commies have to protest against?” Stump shouted

“The Cincinnati Reds!”

“What?!” Boyts looked stunned. “Sit down. The team is actually the Cincinnati Red Legs. Reds is just a nickname. They’re not Communists.”

A timid-looking man stood up and waved his arms. “We’re forgetting the college teams too!” he shouted.

“Who did you have in mind?” Boyts asked.

“The University of Massachusetts Minutemen,” he said.

“And what group do you represent?”

“The New England Men’s Sexual Dysfunction Support Group.”

Boyts stared blankly, as her cheeks turned red. She stammered, “I don’t think that’s what Minutemen means, sir. Now, does anyone else have any groups they are boycotting or protesting against? Just raise your hand… yes, you there with the pitchfork and forked tail.”

“Yes, I have a complaint about the Arizona Sun Devils.”

“Uh, I think that’s all we have time for right now.” Boyts banged her gavel on the lectern and edged her way nervously to the door. “Let’s adjourn for now, and get started first thing after lunch… in a church.”

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“There I was, waiting patiently for the cashier to check me out – a gallon of milk and a couple of burritos for dinner that night. The burritos just weren’t ringing up correctly, so the cashier had made the call for a price check – no big deal,” McCallister explained. “The cashier, Tom, tries to make a little small-talk to kill some time and mentioned something about the weather that we had been having lately. I didn’t mention my research, as it tends to confuse most folks, but I agreed that it was pretty toasty outside and went back to reading the various tabloids. It was then that I heard her voice…”

She was a tiny old lady – must’ve been pushing 75 years old. She had a bottle of cheap whiskey clutched in one hand and a carton of cigarettes in the other, and as she attempted to speak, I could tell that it had been a life-long habit, “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity…”

I just nodded and pretended to ignore her, but my mind raced with both excitement and disappointment…she was right. I’d been focusing my studies for years and years on weather patterns and climatic changes, yet some old lady who was only moments away from the afterlife summed it up in nine words. I was on the verge of a breakdown, but then another voice broke my concentration…

“That’ll be $3.24 – would you like to drive up?”

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Apparently I misinterpreted the question. The question wasn’t about what made us, as women, frazzled but why we actually get frazzled. What is the psychology behind becoming stress-addled and why do we let ourselves go down this road all too often?

This is a different question entirely, isn’t it? It is a question that has various answers for everyone. On one hand, one woman may have a very organized life and anything outside of her well-prepared day is too much for her to handle so she gets frazzled. Being orderly is a part of her genetic make-up and personality. It cannot be helped.

On the other hand, another woman may be downright lazy and anything that detracts from her lazy schedule is too much for her to handle so she gets frazzled. Being lazy is a part of her genetic make-up and personality. It cannot be helped.

Perhaps you are like me and you sit around worrying and wondering about being frazzled even when you are not and it completely drains your energy thus making you frazzled about absolutely nothing. Being mentally challenged is a part of my make-up. It cannot be helped.

These are just a few surface answers to a very deep question. However, if you really want to get down to it, here are some of the reasons women get frazzled:

We get frazzled because the world doesn’t revolve around us and it should. When we say something, we should be listened to. When we have an opinion, it should be taken seriously. When we have a need, it should be tended to promptly. Doesn’t the phone and energy companies know that you are home only on Sunday afternoons between 2:00 PM and 4:00 PM? You are probably taking a nap but if they are quiet, you won’t mind them repairing your necessities at this time.

Do you think soccer moms really want to be soccer moms? Ask them what they really want. It shouldn’t surprise you. They would like to be home for more than an hour a day. They would also like to go out to eat dinner without their child bouncing up and down on the chair at the restaurant. If they must be soccer moms, they would like to sit in a shaded area on a comfortable lounge chair with a mini bar. Is this too much to ask? And you wonder why we, as women, get frazzled. It is no wonder!

When we signed up to become wonder woman it didn’t mean slave woman. It is not a joy to clean the house, work full-time, tend to the kids and still be expected to be turned on by a man who can waltz through the door at exactly 5:15 PM each day, plop himself on the sofa, channel flip the rest of the evening and still make more money than you.

Plus, while you are cooking and doing laundry so everyone can have clean clothes the next day, he is in the den wrestling with the kids for exactly fifteen minutes yet never misses a beat of his favorite television program. This is all it takes for him to be the golden parent. It just isn’t fair. We, as women, get to be the ones who are scowled at when we ask, “Who wants to help mommy clean up the kitchen after dinner?” This brings a barrage of frowns from everyone in the household, including dear old daddy.

No wonder it is called ‘Mother Earth’. There is no harder job or greater responsibility. Is it any wonder women aren’t frazzled 24/7? There is hardly enough time for pleasure and when there is time you are so tired you opt for sleep instead. No wonder God took a day off. God must have been one tired God!

Our society’s motto is: Be the best. This modern creed would like for us to believe work is number one and everything else is secondary. It would like us to believe we do not need any time off and that financial gain proves worthiness in society. Now, I’ll be the first to jump up and say I enjoy money. Boy, do I ever! However, what happened to softball games after church on Sunday and catching fireflies after the sun goes down? I haven’t seen a firefly yet this summer. Are they still around? If not, why wasn’t I informed?

Sigh.

In order for many women to get off Prozac, leave a state of continual anxiety behind and balance out the scales once more, we need to change society’s mind and this begins by changing our own. Remember when our parents would say, “If so-and-so jumped off of a bridge, would you?” Yeah, we should have listened. Instead of trying to be what we believe the world expects us to be, we need to go at our own pace and be who we really are. Many women don’t even know the surface of who they are because they are doing what they believe they are supposed to be doing. I have fallen into this category many times throughout my life. So have my friends. To be fair, men have, also.

Try this: Tonight after everyone gets home, throw yourself on the floor and start crying. Your family will totally freak out. When one of your children asks you what is wrong, tell them you don’t want to prepare dinner tonight. Tell them you are tired and you want to sit on the back porch and read for a little while but you have so much to do and you never get to do what you want to do. Kids will respond to you being human. They are human every day.

Your kids will immediately want to make dinner for you. Who cares if they make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches? How many times have you made them eat it? They will be so happy to help out. It will make them feel important and it will give you a little break. This is why we call it a family.

I’ll even bet big daddy will fold up the load of clothes in the dryer and then sit with you on the porch while you read and rub your shoulders for, at least, fifteen minutes.

Sometimes frazzled women need to give up. Sometimes it is the only way to get things done.

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My husband and I have been together for over 13 years now. While he is an educated, thoughtful, sensitive fellow, amazingly the only thing he has really defined about my monthly “workings” is that PMS must surely stand for Please Make Sense. Personally after this long I would have expected him to catch on. However, each month still finds him looking like a shell shocked war hero, knowing that he has survived something horrible, but unable to do more than babble. So if this poor “veteran” of mine is still dazed and confused after approximately 144 “bombings”, I can only imagine that the rest of you men in the platoon will benefit from this Field Guide To Understanding PMS.

IRRITABILITY: Roughly 7 -10 days prior to the onset of our actual period, a mixture of gunpowder and buckshot is released into our bloodstream, causing us to “shoot our mouths” off at the slightest provocation. It may not seem fair, but your simple request for us to “Pass the ketchup” may lead to your untimely verbal demise. Play it safe and either get it yourself or eat your hamburger plain.

BLOATING: This is a real, physiological phenomenon whereby women suck in all humidity within a 5 mile radius of their bodies. Overnight, our clothes do not fit, we are uncomfortable. Any attempts at reassuring us that “You look fine.” make you an easy target (see Irritability).

CRAMPS: Rare is the women who does not experience some degree of discomfort during her period. While the lucky majority may control it with either aspirin, ibuprofen or Margaritas, many women are subjected to such intense sensations that they simply cannot function several days a month. For you to better understand, lie down and place three baseballs down the front of your pants. Now employ a child to walk upon them. Those are mild cramps. To replicate severe cramping using the same baseballs, have an overweight friend perform Lord of the Dance on them.

MOOD SWINGS: Perhaps the most telling reason for my husband’s Please Make Sense label, is the monthly fluctuation in a woman’s hormone levels. Causing us to swing from caring, angelic devoted Madonnas to crazed, psychopathic B-movie She-devils within the blink of an eye, do not be surprised when we utter something along the lines of, “Rub my back, DON’T TOUCH ME!, I love you, LEAVE ME ALONE!, hold me, YOU IDIOT!“, all in the same breath. Best strategy? As you would do when facing a rabid dog, simply back slowly away.

In addition to understanding the above characteristics of PMS, there are several DO’s and DON’Ts that will insure you a much safer walk through the “minefield” next month.

DO consult the calendar and learn when to expect the onset of our symptoms. This simple effort will insure you never again make the deadly mistake of asking, “What’s wrong?” DO keep a special supply of both Hershey’s Kisses and chocolate chip cookie dough within reach. Much like an angry animal, we may be calmed with treats.

DO NOT play bomb squad. A man’s inherent reaction is to “fix” things. I guarantee you will cut the wrong wire and they will find pieces of you five counties away. DO NOT, even jokingly, use the nicknames we women give to our periods. Aunt Flo, Monthly Visitor, Special Friend…off limits to anyone not containing ovaries at birth. DO NOTattempt to placate a woman by telling her how “miraculous” or “beautiful” is the whole menstrual process. We all learned early on what an inconvenient load of crap it is to leak on a monthly basis.

And finally, for the entire duration of both PMS and period, DO NOT breathe. (Ready to climb back into your foxholes?)

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“When I was younger, my mother had me wear Fruit of the Loom underwear. I don’t know why, but the talking fruit mascots scared the crap out of me,” said Jordan, who now wears Hanes.

As crazy as this seems, it’s certainly not uncommon.

“We’ve seen instances where a person won’t go to the zoo to see a kangaroo, due to the constant wearing of Kangaroo shoes,” commented Betty Lote, the case worker who has worked with Jordan since this ordeal became known. So a fear of fruit did not surprise Lote when the file arrived on her desk.

Hypnosis treatments have crossed Jordan’s parents’ minds, but they declined to follow through. “We weren’t sure if there would be any mental effects,” said Mrs. Jordan, who would rather have Mark not have the chance to eat a juicy apple than have him traumatized after hypnosis treatments.

A poll suggests that nearly 1/3 of the population have a fear of something. “I’m normal, I just won’t eat fruit,” said Jordan.

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My father is famous for playing the lottery. All kinds too; scratch tickets, Powerball, NBA draft selections, all of them. My mother never knows why he does it, always saying, “You’re never going to win.” And to this, my father always replies, “You’re never going to win the lottery, but if you don’t buy a ticket, then you’re never going to win the lottery.”

But as mentioned before, you have a better chance of getting struck by lightning, than to win the lottery. So this must be the key to winning. Just recently, we’ve seen lottery winnings in excess of 100 million dollars, sometimes split three different ways.

I used to think these people were extremely lucky, but then I remembered the famous saying. So what I believe is being done by these people is, they are increasing their chances of winning the lottery by increasing their chances of getting struck by lightning. Hmm! These are the people you (and by you I mean I) read about in the newspapers saying “Man struck by lightning while urinating on metal fence.” I, I mean you, wonder what the hell this man was thinking when he urinated on a metal fence during a fierce thunderstorm. And then it hits you (me), he has literally increased his chances twofold of winning the lottery. Sure, he’s now loss all feeling in his right testicle, but who goes around feeling his testicle all the time? And your right one at that.

So knowing how the trick is done, starting today, no tomorrow, I’m (and by I’m I mean I’m) going to start risking my life in order to win the next huge lottery.

With help of the seven day forecast, it appears to be sunny the next few days. Perfect, by tomorrow at noon, it shall be raining with a possibility of lightning and thunder. Because we (and by we I mean you (and by you I mean the population) and I) know the weatherman is as accurate as Shaq’s free throw shooting.

Here’s my schedule for the next few days, so that I may soon be millions of dollars ahead of what I am now. Of course I’ll have no feeling in my right leg, my left arm, and both of my testicles, a trade off that’s a no brainer. Because who goes around feeling their testicles?

THURSDAY: As soon as the rain comes down, grab my golf clubs and hit the roof. At first sight of lightning, carefully grab an iron, preferably a nine iron, because who knows, maybe a nine iron will increase the lottery chances by, you guessed it, nine times, as opposed to just buying nine tickets, an ideology I’ve already tried. And let me tell you, it doesn’t work. For those of you who play Bingo with more than one card, it’s the same thing. Then, swing the iron over my head in a swirling motion that’s similar to Conan the Barbarian. By doing this, the thinking is that since Arnold received many more movie roles after this pathetic excuse for a film, it must be lucky. Then wait and hope.

FRIDAY: As soon as the rain comes down, grab my fencing sword and hit the neighbor’s roof. Because if I’ve reached Friday already, then the job obviously did not get accomplished standing on my roof. Then, practice lunging into the air as if I’m pointing my decoder ring waiting for Captain Planet to arrive. Of course I do not want this to occur because Captain Planet or one of the Planeteers would lecture me on the danger of being outside in a lightning storm, holding a long metal object at a high height. Then wait and hope.

SATURDAY: As soon as the rain comes down, grab my metal detector and hit the roof of the next neighbor’s house. Calmly explain to them that if I win, I will give them a portion of my winnings. Swing my metal detector in the air, acting like I’m ridding the neighborhood of any spirits seen in the movie, “Ghostbusters.” Then wait and hope. If none of these attempts work, then revert to other traditional methods of increasing your chances of winning the lottery, such as moving into a trailer park filled with people who think J-Lo is a strawberry dessert that Bill Cosby promotes.

By doing one of these methods, you’ll be sure to win the lottery very soon. And when you do, you can surely go after that 7’5″ high school basketball player from Zaire, who can shoot better free throws than one, Shaquille O’Neal.

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