Avsnitt
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A fun spec-ad from the BYU adlab
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Dane Allred stand-up One minute at Boxcar Comedy Club right now.
Right now, give it up for Dane Allred.
He's so funny, he gets one minute, man.
Yeah, I teach BYU.
I'm in the wrong place.
I can't wait to tell these jokes to my students.
Especially the jiggly bits.
You're gonna have to explain that to me, Jiffy...
What's it called? Daniel, What was it?
Jiggly puff.
I'm excited to tell that.
Yeah, I'm gonna blame this on Michael.
I'm hoping to meet Helen Keller when I go to heaven.
Do you think people told her the Helen Keller jokes when she was alive?
If they didn't, I'm going to. And then she'll shoot me.
Because they'll be guns in heaven, right?
Most people in Utah aren't going to go to heaven if there aren't guns.
I want to meet Abraham Lincoln, too, because he said "The ballot is stronger than the bullet".
And I want to ask him if he still thinks that.
And then he'll shoot me.
I'm Dane Allred.
Dane Allred! That's how you do it, all right.
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Saknas det avsnitt?
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Oz Morris: Please welcome your adjunct professor, Dane Allred
Dane Allred: Thank you. I warned these two that we were going to do stand-up, but I didn’t think they knew they were going to be held hostage.
How long you been married?
Husband: Uh, twenty-seven years.
Dane Allred: Whoo! It is eternal, isn’t it? Feels like an eternity? Thumbs up! I’ve been married for 46 years. Talk to me in twenty years. How did you guys meet?
Husband: In Miami.
Dane Allred: And you’re from South America?
Wife: Yes.
Dane Allred: So, do you make fun of the North Americans? Like if somebody says “Are you from South America?” and you say, “Yeah, the good America. Not Central America. I’m sorry. The better America? I’m going to get beat up on the way out of here.
I teach at BYU (Brigham Young University). Everybody likes to talk about this. I’m just like, yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ve taught there twenty-five years, but I shouldn’t, ‘cause I always have a beard, and I mean look at this (Dane in shorts). Wouldn’t you be disappointed you paid tuition? I mean, like, “I want a refund”.
And this is Oz’s favorite joke. I start teaching next Thursday, so I’m going to have to start wearing my garments again. So, I can’t, uh, I should show up in shorts one time, don’t you think? No?
It’s sad not being the oldest guy in the room. Isn’t being a boomer fun? Some of these guys will never be that old. No, how old do you think I am? Who thinks 40’s? 50’s? I am 65. Comedy keeps you young. Just look at Willy Juan. No, he’s twenty-three. I think I’ve met you’re first ex-wife.
Willy Juan: I feel for you.
Dane Allred: Her OnlyFans page. Trailer mom.
Willy Juan: That’s the one.
Dane Allred: So, how was, what was the date in Miami? You were just looking for love, and there she was?
Husband: No, she got in a car wreck and broke her jaw, and they sent me to the hospital to give her a blessing. And I just kept coming back.
Dane Allred: And that’s the way it started. And he told me earlier, he’s like “I wish I wouldn’t have fixed her jaw.” Isn’t it sad how all these men are so mean to women? But really all they want is a woman, but that’s why they do stand-up.
Wife: They want to lose her, right?
Dane Allred: Yes! And see, these guys right here, have not seen the girl that’s sitting over there. But when you do, it’s over, man.
Husband: Are there no women in stand-up?
Dane Allred: Not usually. Some. Ellen Degeneres. Who else can you guys think of?
Comedians: Whitney Cummings. Taylor Tomlinson.
Dane Allred: All those famous women that they just mentioned.
Husband: I mean here, though?
Dane Allred: Some. Julia Waterman hosts one. What are you shaking your head “No” for? I gotta tell you the most disturbing image tonight was…uh…
I love Howie Feels’ name. Don’t you love that name? Howie always knows how he feels.
And I can’t repeat it, but I looked back there’s Willy Juan doing something obscene, and I’m like “That’s not nice, Willy!” And then I realized what he was doing. So, ask him later, I can’t say it in front of mixed company. So…
Dane laughing.
And what he’s doing now isn’t appropriate, so you’re lucky your sitting in front of him.
I am old. I sat behind Jesus in the second grade. He was always getting a hundred percent. I think he was getting outside help, yeah?
Shouldn’t I have copied him? Should I have copied Jesus?
He would have forgiven me, right? Or else that’s all for nothing.
No, I’m older than that. Speaking of Moses, Moses was my locker partner.
So, congratulations, and thank you again for staying here as our hostages, and I’m Dane Allred, you guys have a great night.
More at daneallred.com
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Dane Allred's demo reel
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQi1qbm75xU
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yCK-Apf2MYA
Great literature audio narrations with synchronized visual text
Check out my audio version of Jack London's "White Fang" and other crazy stuff at
daneallred.com
Lots of resources from "Literature Out Loud” you may be able to use.
Forward to anyone you think might enjoy this!
Quick Quotations -- a speaker's sourcebook!!
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Dents in the Van
I used to deliver flowers. It was a great job for someone who needed some extra money but can’t work all day. After school I would run by the flower shop and pick up the deliveries, and after thinking about the best route, I’d be paid to drive around the city, listen to the radio and have happy people greet me when I showed up with flowers.
It really is a cool thing to have people thank you for doing your job. It’s like I sent them the flowers, and everyone is so excited when they get them. It’s not like I paid for them – I’m just the messenger. I guess the saying about don’t shoot the messenger also works in reverse. Why do they thank the messenger?
Well, in the state where I live, people really don’t tip very well. I don’t know why we are so cheap, but this is a complaint I often hear from those who are paid poorly, using the excuse of tips to pay someone way below minimum wage. Waiters, waitresses, or do you call them waitpersons, delivery people like the pizza man, and yes, the flower delivery person are usually short-changed around here. I delivered thousands of beautiful bouquets, and I got tipped once. What was the grand tip? A quarter.
I understand being parsimonious, but a quarter? It was really an insult, and the contradiction here is I think I would rather have not received a tip. I often feel this way about being paid poorly; sometimes I would rather be volunteering my time than receiving a ridiculously low payment for something. Again, it doesn’t seem to make much sense, but that’s the way I feel.
The scariest delivery ever was at a really nice house. This may have been where I got the quarter. I was a little distracted though, since the owners had a Doberman pincer. This dog was very interested in protecting the property, but I usually get along well with dogs. I can proudly say I have never been bit by a strange dog – just my own pets. This dog barked fiercely as I approached the door, and as I rang the doorbell, the Doberman began trying to bite my leg. Now there’s two things that saved me here; I was wearing incredibly tight jeans (it was the 70’s after all), and the dog was trying to bite my thigh. So luckily his teeth just kept slipping off the tight denim, and the owner answered before blood was drawn.
I liked delivering flowers so much that while I did that during my high school years, I applied for the same job when I went to college at another place. Again it really worked well with my schedule. The only problem with this job is the little old lady who owned the flower shop also liked her grandkids to help out. So when I get the job of washing and vacuuming out the van came along to me, guess who gets to come along and help?
The twelve-year old grandson thought it would be great to help clean the van, but I wasn’t very excited to be baby-sitting. There really wasn’t anything he could do to help, which gave him a little time to hatch a plan. While he watched me wash the outside, he decided it would be a really good idea to let him pull the van up to the vacuums.
When I finished the wash, I opened the door and saw him sitting in the driver’s seat. He begged me to let him pull the van up to the vacuums. So here’s the choice; I can tell him no, and he complains to his grandma, or I let him drive 15 feet and make him ecstatic.
Now, I should have remembered at this point something that happened to me when I was a junior in high school. At a summer workshop, I ran out of gas, and I had my girlfriend drive as we pushed the truck up to the pumps. We were actually going pretty fast when we got to the station, and she was pulling on the wrong side of the pump. So as I gave her directions, she ended up plowing right into the gas pump. We were lucky there wasn’t a giant fire – it just knocked the pump off the foundation. Whose insurance jumped the next quarter, even though he wasn’t driving at the time of the accident? You guessed it.
But I guess I chose to forget this earlier lesson; I let him drive up to the vacuums. And don’t ask me how he did it, but he pulled too close to the vacuums, which were on the passenger side. He didn’t slow down, and he didn’t stop when the crunching started.
One giant gash in the side door later, I had another choice.
I told the old lady I did it.
The kid never even blinked an eyelash.
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MZSrD3TZqRw
The Plodder’s Mile
by Dane Allred
CHAPTER ONE
Tommy loomed over the bank teller; a giant compared to any other customer Judy had helped that day.
He was taller than anyone she had seen in a month or two, yet the innocent eyes and gentle demeanor softened the effect. Tommy looked like a big teddy bear, waiting for a hug, but today he stood filling the teller’s window with his massive frame. He held a note in his hand, and though he handed it to Judy without hesitation, the writing belied the intent of the transaction.
Judy had worked for the bank for several years now, putting her husband through college and waiting for the day when she could quit, follow him to his next chapter in life and… Do what? Probably get work at another bank, have children, build a home and settle into married life.
As she mechanically went through the motions of each day’s work, Judy didn’t really engage the mental powers of her business degree and didn’t invest much emotion in the performance of her job. She wanted the paycheck and wondered at times if this was all there really was to life. She read the note, and her life changed in an instant.
Tommy pushed back a shock of blond hair. He didn’t really understand what was going on, and had pushed the note to the teller under orders from Ray, his new best friend. Tommy usually did what other people told him to do, not thinking through the consequences. This gentle giant had been placed in state care early in his life by parents who couldn’t feed or care for someone with his needs. The state then placed him in several institutions trying to find the right fit for a massive man-child who wanted nothing more than to please. Ray had found the combination of trusting child-like passivity and Tommy’s massive frame irresistible as a partner in crime.
If Ray could only get Tommy to just pass the note without speaking.
Tommy spoke. “We’re going riding on a train.”
Judy looked up with fear in her eyes, never expecting this to happen to her, never expecting a man like Tommy to do something like this in a place so well protected with guards, cameras and secret alarms. She looked down at the note again. “Go to the vault and bring out one large package of 100-dollar bills. A gun is pointed at you to make sure you don’t cause no trouble.”
Judy looked at Tommy, and he looked blankly back.
She did a quick survey of the lobby, and there against the wall under one of the cameras was a short dirty looking man. He was looking directly into her eyes and seemed to be poking the pocket of his jacket toward her. She glanced at the jacket, assumed there was a gun, and the man under the camera slowly shook his head up and down. Judy looked back at Tommy.
“We’re going on the train to Rockwood. Have you ever been to Rockwood?”
Judy was at once terrified and mystified. The giant in front of her was unaware of her agitation, but the man with the gun knew she faced a decision. One large package of 100-dollar bills meant the hundred thousand pack most banks receive from the federal reserve. She took a deep breath and tried to remember what she had been trained to do in this situation. She glanced once more at the pocketed gun and then slowly went to the safe.
Judy’s teller training had included several responses to just such an attempted robbery. She was to push the silent alarm button under her desk, or if prompted to go to the safe, to push the notification button in there. No alarms would sound, but the management would receive notification, and the guards would be put on alert.
Bank officials rarely lost any cash in robberies, and most companies worried about personal injury and the death of spectators, employees, or criminals more than the cash. The money that was lost was insured and could be replaced, but a life couldn’t be brought back. With the advanced technology available, robberies were usually a failure. Face recognition software, bank cameras, street cameras, and an alerted staff were usually all that was necessary for recovery of the cash.
But Judy was still unnerved. A threat had been made against her life, and the threat of the huge man at her window only drove the point home. She followed protocol and walked to the safe, pushed the button, grabbed the heavy package and walked back to the window.
Judy handed Tommy the money. She held it with both hands and placed it in his massive right hand. He palmed the package like a ball and tossed it up in the air. A thousand one hundred-dollar bills. The brown paper wrapping had official markings, but Tommy wasn’t impressed. He looked at Judy and only said one word.
“Football.”
One foot plodded after the other as the endless railroad ties passed under John Graham’s feet. The man whose breath cut a jagged path behind him as his feet thumped the ground liked to think of this type of running as plodding. Not really running, or even jogging, but more simply plodding along. He had even developed a name for this pace. He called it the plodder’s mile. One foot in front of the other. Plod on, mighty exercise king. Keep plodding and imagine that it is running and tell everyone else it is jogging. But to yourself, never be ashamed to plod along this path. One foot, and then another.
Plodding along on the west side of town was always good for reducing stress, and John Graham liked the railroad tracks. He always thought back to the days of running through tires for the one year he played football, although the team probably didn’t really use tires, but was just a cultural imprint from all those football movies he had watched. Bill-paying stress was one of the usual causes of jogging on the tracks, and at least once a month out came the “plodding” shoes. He and his wife Reba had just finished the “you spend too much money” discussion which usually followed the monthly bill payment routine. Heated discussion. Argument. Battle. World War III. Funny how the person doing the accusing always said the other person spent too much, which was answered with, “No, you spend too much.”
Both of which were probably true. As a high school drama teacher, the money wasn’t bad now after 20 years, unless they had to live on only that money, which they didn’t. Reba was a high school administrator, and although they had spent the last 25 years wondering where all the money went, there was never enough even when they were making six figures between them. With part-time work, selling things on E-bay and extracurricular pay, they really didn’t have anything to complain about. But they both still complained. Loudly. Once a month.
It was probably a good thing they were only paid once at the end of the month, since this tended to limit the argument to the first few days of the next month. The rest of the time was spent in a truce where they both waited for the final days before payday, reconnoitering on just how to spend some of the money on an absolutely necessary item to which the other spouse could not possibly object. There were good days, and bad ones, and bad months, (especially August) but most of the other 365 days were spent monitoring each other’s borders like North and South Korea, waiting for an infraction.
“There’s no more money in the account,” had been one of his last salvos, which was followed by a broad shot by Reba, “Why do you keep writing checks when you say there is no money in the account?”
The strategy board after all these years now included five different checking or savings accounts – more places to hide money. They both had plenty, and there was no argument about the fact that there was plenty to go around. The war was only about “where does it all go”?
John crossed over the river and looked out at the fields which were white with the new snow. It had melted some as the afternoon snow had turned to rain, and the slush left in the fields looked like a freshly cut white alfalfa crop ready to winnow and then bale. The air was crisp and the temperature just right, cold enough to balance the heat created as he plodded along wondering why he felt so crummy. He really didn’t have anything to complain about, and if money was the biggest problem they faced this year, it would be a good year indeed. Breathing in the frosty air, John thought back ten years as he was sitting at Reba’s bedside in the hospital, where he had been telling her to keep breathing, to wake up, keep breathing and keep trying.
The cancer treatments and the pain medications had left her numb in the fingers and toes, but ten years out she was still “free and clear” of any recurring cancer. But those days back in the hospital had changed him forever, even to the point of welcoming her restless tossing and turning at night which kept him awake while she slept. Better to be kept awake by tossing and turning than sleeping alone. He was grateful to still have his wife and the mother of his children around.
So why the discontent? He looked at a perfectly contented horse eating out of a trough at the side of a field. As he jogged past, he noticed the light rain had again turned to snow. The back of the horse was steaming while the snow fell slowly. The horse’s dark coat contrasted with the light of the snow on its back helped him to summarize this train of thought — while there is life, there is opposition — and that’s what makes life worth living.
Even the exercise of jogging opposed the sensible idea of sitting in the house while the snow fell fed the thoughts of opposition. Gravity and weight versus the muscles, which would undoubtedly be sore tomorrow, would produce better health and flexibility. If the literature was to be believed, and John actually kept running during the year, and he completed a fourth marathon, his risks of heart attack would decrease over the next five years. But there was always the uncertainty. Jog on the railroad tracks, get lost in your thoughts, get hit by a train, and all that exercise was for nothing. He thought of a bumper sticker. “The light at the end of the tunnel is from the oncoming train.”
Which made John realize there was a train in the distance, and if he wanted the benefits of this particular cardio-vascular exercise, he would have to get off the tracks for a couple of minutes. He turned aside at another bridge and went under the tracks, jogging comfortably on a running trail which ran by the river. There was a water fountain at a park just half a mile ahead, and then, after a long cold drink, it would be time to jog back home.
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On YouTube
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-N-SND5IORg
Orson Welles (1915 –1985)
Considered one of the greatest filmmakers of all time, his radio production of The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells brought him instant fame. Known as an American actor, director, screenwriter and producer, one of his most famous movies is Citizen Kane.
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Work
As we work side by side
Trying to get back to that Bright Space
We all shared
We organize ourselves to do our best
We try to experience all there is
So when we go back we will know all there is to know.
I circle in my sphere
Completing my tasks
And you complete yours
While circling in your sphere
And sometimes our paths cross
When we meet in this way we find we are doing the same work
Working in our own way
But accomplishing the same thing.
We recognize that Brightness for a moment
And remember that we must remember all of this
So when we are together again
We can share all that we have learned.
You must do those things you are to do.
I have my list as well.
But unknown to us is how our works
Will complement each other
When all is done that must be done.
You and I will have many stories to share
And we will remember the time our spheres connected
For a moment
And we recalled the Bright Space
That Bright Space we left to be here on our own
When all we had ever known was being together.
We came here to find out what we could never know together
And will return to share
And again we will be all there ever was, ever is, or ever will be.
Pay attention to those moments when our worlds coalesce
Remember that Bright Place which still connects us.
And then we will go our separate ways again.
You work in your place
I work in mine
But the work is important
It all works together even though it seems random
It might seem unimportant
It is the most important thing we can do.
Though there seems no order in what we do
Though chaos seems to dominate all we see
Our plan to find out all we ever could
Brings us closer to being together in that Bright Space again.
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The Two Wolves
by Dane Allred
Grandfather told me, “There are two wolves living inside me.
One is good, and the other evil.
One is loving, friendly, even-tempered.
The other hateful, isolated, unstable.
The good wolf is happy, energetic, positive.
The evil wolf is sad, listless, negative.
Hopeful, forgiving, cheerful is the good wolf,
Hopeless, implacable, morose is the evil wolf.
One is calm, composed, serene.
The other worried, unbalanced, troubled.
They are so different, but both live within me.
Only one can survive.”
I asked grandfather which one will win.
He said, “Before I tell you this,
You must know these wolves live in me, and also in you.
They live in everyone.”
“But, grandfather, which one will win?
Which one will be victorious?”
Grandfather said, “You are right.
The good and evil wolf
Cannot both survive.”
Grandfather placed his hand upon my chest
Know this, there is a good wolf and an evil wolf within you.
The one who will survive
Is the one you feed.”
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If....
by Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream, and not make dreams your master;
If you can think, and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings, nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And, which is more, you'll be a Man, my son!
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One guy, all the characters, and you can sing along!! Hope you can join us on Monday, December 11th at the Provo Library in the Ballroom at 7 PM. I'll be performing from the same script Charles Dickens used when he did his one-man "A Christmas Carol, and the audience can sing along between the parts. He call them staves (it is called a carol), and when he took a copy of "A Christmas Carol" edited it to be about an hour long. He added some fun notes to himself on the pages. I've included a screen shot of one of my favorites from the original prompt book at the New York Public Library. I've also included a short clip of one of my favorite parts!! I've also attached the nice poster the Provo Library created for the evening. Performing this one-man show with more than 20 voices always gets me into the Christmas spirit. The best news -- Scrooge would hate this -- it's FREE!! Join Sue Smith on the piano and Debbie Allred leading the audience in singing a few Christmas carols. If I don't get to see you Monday, please have a great Christmas and a Happy New Year... and as Tiny Tim says, "God Bless Us Everyone!" Dane Allred
Charles Dickens editing of "A Christmas Carol" to perform as a one-man show
https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/689e9217-8ff9-38d9-e040-e00a18066512
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If you are feeling a little over-stuffed, this short story by O. Henry may make you appreciate your Thanksgiving feast. There's the usual O. Henry twist at the end. I've included a link to an audio I recorded if you would rather listen to the story.
Dane
Click for an audio version https://www.podbean.com/media/share/pb-itewf-15ba2d
Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen
by O. Henry/ William Sydney Porter
There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all we Americans who are not self-made go back to the old home to eat saleratus biscuits and marvel how much nearer to the porch the old pump looks than it used to. Bless the day. President Roosevelt gives it to us. We hear some talk of the Puritans, but don't just remember who they were. Bet we can lick 'em, anyhow, if they try to land again. Plymouth Rocks? Well, that sounds more familiar. Lots of us have had to come down to hens since the Turkey Trust got its work in. But somebody in Washington is leaking out advance information to 'em about these Thanksgiving proclamations. The big city east of the cranberry bogs has made Thanksgiving Day an institution. The last Thursday in November is the only day in the year on which it recognizes the part of America lying across the ferries. It is the one day that is purely American. Yes, a day of celebration, exclusively American.
And now for the story which is to prove to you that we have traditions on this side of the ocean that are becoming older at a much rapider rate than those of England are--thanks to our git-up and enterprise.
Stuffy Pete took his seat on the third bench to the right as you enter Union Square from the east, at the walk opposite the fountain. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had taken his seat there promptly at 1 o'clock. For every time he had done so things had happened to him--Charles Dickensy things that swelled his waistcoat above his heart, and equally on the other side.
But to-day Stuffy Pete's appearance at the annual trysting place seemed to have been rather the result of habit than of the yearly hunger which, as the philanthropists seem to think, afflicts the poor at such extended intervals.
Certainly Pete was not hungry. He had just come from a feast that had left him of his powers barely those of respiration and locomotion. His eyes were like two pale gooseberries firmly imbedded in a swollen and gravy-smeared mask of putty. His breath came in short wheezes; a senatorial roll of adipose tissue denied a fashionable set to his upturned coat collar. Buttons that had been sewed upon his clothes by kind Salvation fingers a week before flew like popcorn; strewing the earth around him. Ragged he was, with a split shirt front open to the wishbone; but the November breeze, carrying fine snowflakes, brought him only a grateful coolness. For Stuffy Pete was overcharged with the caloric produced by a super-bountiful dinner, beginning with oysters and ending with plum pudding, and including (it seemed to him) all the roast turkey and baked potatoes and chicken salad and squash pie and ice cream in the world. Wherefore he sat, gorged, and gazed upon the world with after-dinner contempt.
The meal had been an unexpected one. He was passing a red brick mansion near the beginning of Fifth Avenue, in which lived two old ladies of ancient family and a reverence for traditions. They even denied the existence of New York, and believed that Thanksgiving Day was declared solely for Washington Square. One of their traditional habits was to station a servant at the postern gate with orders to admit the first hungry wayfarer that came along after the hour of noon had struck, and banquet him to a finish. Stuffy Pete happened to pass by on his way to the park, and the seneschals gathered him in and upheld the custom of the castle.
After Stuffy Pete had gazed straight before him for ten minutes he was conscious of a desire for a more varied field of vision. With a tremendous effort he moved his head slowly to the left. And then his eyes bulged out fearfully, and his breath ceased, and the rough-shod ends of his short legs wriggled and rustled on the gravel.
For the Old Gentleman was coming across Fourth Avenue toward his bench.
Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years the Old Gentleman had come there and found Stuffy Pete on his bench. That was a thing that the Old Gentleman was trying to make a tradition of. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had found Stuffy there, and had led him to a restaurant and watched him eat a big dinner. They do those things in England unconsciously. But this is a young country, and nine years is not so bad. The Old Gentleman was a staunch American patriot, and considered himself a pioneer in American tradition. In order to become picturesque we must keep on doing one thing for a long time without ever letting it get away from us. Something like collecting the weekly dimes in industrial insurance. Or cleaning the streets.
The Old Gentleman moved, straight and stately, toward the Institution that he was rearing. Truly, the annual feeling of Stuffy Pete was nothing national in its character, such as the Magna Charta or jam for breakfast was in England. But it was a step. It was almost feudal. It showed, at least, that a Custom was not impossible to New Y--ahem!--America.
The Old Gentleman was thin and tall and sixty. He was dressed all in black, and wore the old-fashioned kind of glasses that won't stay on your nose. His hair was whiter and thinner than it had been last year, and he seemed to make more use of his big, knobby cane with the crooked handle.
As his established benefactor came up Stuffy wheezed and shuddered like some woman's over-fat pug when a street dog bristles up at him. He would have flown, but all the skill of Santos-Dumont could not have separated him from his bench. Well had the myrmidons of the two old ladies done their work.
"Good morning," said the Old Gentleman. "I am glad to perceive that the vicissitudes of another year have spared you to move in health about the beautiful world. For that blessing alone this day of thanksgiving is well proclaimed to each of us. If you will come with me, my man, I will provide you with a dinner that should make your physical being accord with the mental."
That is what the old Gentleman said every time. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years. The words themselves almost formed an Institution. Nothing could be compared with them except the Declaration of Independence. Always before they had been music in Stuffy's ears. But now he looked up at the Old Gentleman's face with tearful agony in his own. The fine snow almost sizzled when it fell upon his perspiring brow. But the Old Gentleman shivered a little and turned his back to the wind.
Stuffy had always wondered why the Old Gentleman spoke his speech rather sadly. He did not know that it was because he was wishing every time that he had a son to succeed him. A son who would come there after he was gone--a son who would stand proud and strong before some subsequent Stuffy, and say: "In memory of my father." Then it would be an Institution.
But the Old Gentleman had no relatives. He lived in rented rooms in one of the decayed old family brownstone mansions in one of the quiet streets east of the park. In the winter he raised fuchsias in a little conservatory the size of a steamer trunk. In the spring he walked in the Easter parade. In the summer he lived at a farmhouse in the New Jersey hills, and sat in a wicker armchair, speaking of a butterfly, the ornithoptera amphrisius, that he hoped to find some day. In the autumn he fed Stuffy a dinner. These were the Old Gentleman's occupations.
Stuffy Pete looked up at him for a half minute, stewing and helpless in his own self-pity. The Old Gentleman's eyes were bright with the giving-pleasure. His face was getting more lined each year, but his little black necktie was in as jaunty a bow as ever, and the linen was beautiful and white, and his gray mustache was curled carefully at the ends. And then Stuffy made a noise that sounded like peas bubbling in a pot. Speech was intended; and as the Old Gentleman had heard the sounds nine times before, he rightly construed them into Stuffy's old formula of acceptance.
"Thankee, sir. I'll go with ye, and much obliged. I'm very hungry, sir."
The coma of repletion had not; prevented from entering Stuffy's mind the conviction that he was the basis of an Institution. His Thanksgiving appetite was not his own; it belonged by all the sacred rights of established custom, if not, by the actual Statute of Limitations, to this kind old gentleman who bad preempted it. True, America is free; but in order to establish tradition someone must be a repetend -- a repeating decimal. The heroes are not all heroes of steel and gold. See one here that wielded only weapons of iron, badly silvered, and tin.
The Old Gentleman led his annual protégé southward to the restaurant, and to the table where the feast had always occurred. They were recognized.
"Here comes de old guy," said a waiter, "Dat blows dat same bum to a meal every Thanksgiving."
The Old Gentleman sat across the table glowing like a smoked pearl at his corner-stone of future ancient Tradition. The waiters heaped the table with holiday food--and Stuffy, with a sigh that was mistaken for hunger's expression, raised knife and fork and carved for himself a crown of imperishable bay.
No more valiant hero ever fought his way through the ranks of an enemy. Turkey, chops, soups, vegetables, pies, disappeared before him as fast as they could be served. Gorged nearly to the uttermost when he entered the restaurant, the smell of food had almost caused him to lose his honor as a gentleman, but he rallied like a true knight. He saw the look of beneficent happiness on the Old Gentleman's face--a happier look than even the fuchsias and the ornithoptera amphrisins had ever brought to it--and he had not the heart to see it wane.
In an hour Stuffy leaned back with a battle won. "Thankee kindly, sir," he puffed like a leaky steam pipe; "thankee kindly for a hearty meal." Then he arose heavily with glazed eyes and started toward the kitchen. A waiter turned him about like a top, and pointed him toward the door. The Old Gentleman carefully counted out $1.30 in silver change, leaving three nickels for the waiter.
They parted as they did each year at the door, the Old Gentleman going south, Stuffy north.
Around the first corner Stuffy turned, and stood for one minute. Then he seemed to puff out his rags as an owl puffs out his feathers, and fell to the sidewalk like a sun-stricken horse.
When the ambulance came the young surgeon and the driver cursed softly at his weight. There was no smell of whiskey to justify a transfer to the patrol wagon, so Stuffy and his two dinners went to the hospital. There they stretched him on a bed and began to test him for strange diseases, with the hope of getting a chance at some problem with the bare steel.
And lo! an hour later another ambulance brought the Old Gentleman. And they laid him on another bed and spoke of appendicitis, for he looked good for the bill.
But pretty soon one of the young doctors met one of the young nurses whose eyes he liked, and stopped to chat with her about the cases.
"That nice old gentleman over there, now," he said, "you wouldn't think that was a case of almost starvation. Proud old family, I guess. He told me he hadn't eaten a thing for three days."
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Hope this finds you ready for a scary October and Halloween!!
I've included a link to my audio version of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Tell-tale Heart"
This is a link to the complete text, or just listen to the audio player at the bottom.
http://daneallred.podbean.com/e/the-tell-tale-heart-by-edgar-allan-poe-with-audio-by-dane-allred/
This audio isn't Edgar Allan Poe -- but my recording of the piece. Use it however you like -- and forward it to anyone who you think might want to have it.
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Airport Excitement
I don’t think Jesse had ever been on a plane before. He didn’t tell me this, but I wonder why he endangered our trip. I was his chaperone, and we were going to the National Debate Tournament.
We were on our way to a week in Michigan, and I hoped to visit the Mall of America. Well, if you have never been, you should try to get there someday. It's an incredible two-story humongous mall, with a roller coaster inside.
That’s right. There's a roller coaster inside the mall.
Back then it had a Snoopy, Charlie Brown, Peanuts theme; it probably still does. But I almost missed it all of it because of Jesse. Now, don’t get me wrong. Jesse is one of my favorite students of all time. He was fun to be around, and he was also a very talented student.
But there are some things you just don’t say at the airport. This was back in the day before 9/11, but airport security has always been tough, especially when you try to joke with the ticketing agent.
I understand the need for security, and the most recent addition is going to be full body scans. This means there is a machine which will show the outline of your body. The security guard will be able to see any explosives attached to your person. I’m guessing they will also be able to see any enhancements, or additions, or padding you may be carrying. It doesn’t bother me, but I can see why it might bother some women. I wouldn’t want to be scanned, but I guess if we are going to fly, I guess we will all be scanned. I heard recently one hundred and fifty body scan machines have been ordered for the United States.
I don’t even like to be weighed at the doctor’s office. For some reason, their scale always makes me heavier than the home scale. I don’t really weigh myself that much, but I also don’t want to have one of those caliper tests, because I know my body fat is higher than it should be.
But that’s because I like being fat. Well, I was skinny until after college, and being a skinny guy is really a pain. So when I gained about fifty pounds in my twenties, I was ecstatic. Again, I like being fat. Well, a little fat; not morbidly obese, but I do have a spare tire. I carry my spare food with me. I could be healthier, but I have run 3 marathons at a very, very slow speed. There were some parts of the race where I’m sure I was the only one who knew I was running. It probably looked more like a hurry-up shuffle, but sometimes after twenty-six point two miles, how else is a fat guy supposed to look?
Jesse and I had big plans for this tournament. I had made a bunch of t-shirts that really weren’t authorized for sale at the tournament. I wanted to use the sale of the shirts to buy tickets to some shows that were playing while we were there. I set up a table; I sold the t-shirts, the money was rolling in.
That is, until the guy who was in charge of the tournament confronted me and asked me who had authorized me to sell this stuff. He was satisfied with the one hundred dollars I gave him, and I have a sneaking suspicion he didn’t tell anyone else about our little transaction, either.
The good news is we did get to see the shows, the Mall of America and even went to Planet Hollywood when there was still one there. I don’t think there's a Planet Hollywood there now.
But, what does all this have to do with what Jesse said at the airport?
Well, I had arranged for these plane tickets in advance, and since he was eighteen by then, he was also travelling as an adult. Jesse has a really good sense of humor, and he liked to make people laugh. I looked at the ticket agent and decided this was a man who really didn’t like to laugh, and probably didn’t like it when other people laughed.
He had those permanently etched frowns you see on people who have been at a job they really don’t like, for more years than anyone cares to know. So, when Jesse turned to me and said, loud enough for all to hear, “I’m glad I didn’t bring the gun,” I frowned. The ticket agent frowned, making deeper wrinkles.
There was a long pause.
I envisioned men trying to interview us in a small room while our plane left without us. The ticketing agent asked if I was Jesse’s chaperone. I said he was technically a former student who was eighteen and now was travelling as an adult.
The agent changed Jesse’s ticket to make me his guardian.
We did make our flight.
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Six Poems At Sixty
by Dane Allred
I should have written one each year
For the trip we took around the sun together.
I should have written one each month
For the stability you have given my life.
I should have written one each week
For the schedule we keep together.
I should have written one each day
For the happiness every day with you brings me.
Each hour, each minute, each second.
I can't imagine them not being filled with our love.
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TRUE! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture -- a pale blue eye with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye for ever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded -- with what caution -- with what foresight, with what dissimulation, I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night about midnight I turned the latch of his door and opened it oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this? And then when my head was well in the room I undid the lantern cautiously -- oh, so cautiously -- cautiously (for the hinges creaked), I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight, but I found the eye always closed, and so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the old man who vexed me but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers, of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was opening the door little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea, and perhaps he heard me, for he moved on the bed suddenly as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back -- but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening , and the old man sprang up in the bed, crying out, "Who's there?"
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed, listening; just as I have done night after night hearkening to the death watches in the wall.
Presently, I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief -- oh, no! It was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself, "It is nothing but the wind in the chimney, it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or, "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes he has been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions; but he had found all in vain. ALL IN VAIN, because Death in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel, although he neither saw nor heard, to feel the presence of my head within the room.
When I had waited a long time very patiently without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little -- a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it -- you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily -- until at length a single dim ray like the thread of the spider shot out from the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye.
It was open, wide, wide open, and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness -- all a dull blue with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones, but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person, for I had directed the ray as if by instinct precisely upon the damned spot.
And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses? now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder, every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! -- do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me -- the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once -- once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.
If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence.
I took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly so cunningly, that no human eye -- not even his -- could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out -- no stain of any kind -- no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that.
When I had made an end of these labours, it was four o'clock -- still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, -- for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled, -- for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search -- search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My MANNER had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness -- until, at length, I found that the noise was NOT within my ears.
No doubt I now grew VERY pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK SOUND -- MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A WATCH MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN COTTON. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why WOULD they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. O God! what COULD I do? I foamed -- I raved -- I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder -- louder -- louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly , and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! -- no, no? They heard! -- they suspected! -- they KNEW! -- they were making a mockery of my horror! -- this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! -- and now -- again -- hark! louder! louder! louder! LOUDER! --
"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! -- tear up the planks! -- here, here! -- it is the beating of his hideous heart!"
LITERATURE OUT LOUD
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Click here for a complete INDEX Sonnet I
by William Shakespeare
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
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