Talk to me in Web 2.0.

I am, you could almost say, a man of (few?) words. On my word of honour, boys and girls. Words are my preoccupation. Or, shall we say my occupational accomplices? Playing with words comes to me fairly easily. I revel in it. I am word-friendly. I wish I were Lord of the Words. But I find myself at a loss for words far too often to harbour any such delusions of grandeur. http://digbig.com/4xsfr. My love affair with words is probably why I so highly value Aldous Huxley, Dorothy Parker, Groucho Marx, Woody Allen, Leonard Cohen and even Seinfeld http://digbig.com/4xsfw & http://digbig.com/4xsfx. My antennae, though, are always out for the meaning of words, even subtle nuanaces. The context and the subtext of word usage http://digbig.com/4xsft intrigue and often amuse me. For me, "There's a blaze of light/In every word," as Leonard Cohen puts it so eloquently in his Hallelujah. http://digbig.com/4xsfn. Take, for instance, the way Gmail insists on calling every exchange of email between two people, maybe a bit coyly and self-consciously, "conversation". That's Web 2.0 talk, dude. Keeping in touch. That's what Web 2.0 and social networking are all about, after all. At least, that's the mantra of the Web 2.0 gurus. Having been in advrtising long enough, though, I am painfully aware that many of the so-called breakthroughs in theoretical thinking are only a new use of old words. Or, the same old words in a new context. http://digbig.com/4xsfs.

Whatever happened (in alphabetical order) to Alton, Babs, Estelle, Frank, Helen, Morty and Uncle Leo?

They all appeared briefly on Seinfeld, "the show about nothing" http://digbig.com/4xqyq, sometimes as briefly as in one or two episodes and got their share of 15 minutes of fame. Alton Benes, war veteran and celebrated author in the Hemingway mold was the father of Elaine Benes http://digbig.com/4xqyp. Elaine appropriately enough worked as a manuscript reader and editor with various New York publishers. Alton terrorised Jerry, "the funny guy", and "gay" George, in the lobby of a venerable downtown hotel "for people who like leather couches and leather patches on their elbows". He also contributed to the utter ruin of Jerry's new and horrendously expensive soft suede jacket by refusing to take a cab to reach the Pakistani restaurant five blocks away from his hotel although it had started to snow by the time Elaine joined them. Babs, Kramer's mom, finally revealed to us his first name, Cosmo, which he had been refusing to divulge all along. She, an ex-alcoholic, was also caught in a heavy petting session with Jerry's nemesis, Newman. Estelle and Frank made the life of their son, George, a living hell. Estelle read his mail routinely because "I'm curious" and castigated him for "treating his body like an amusement park". Frank could never get over the perversity of a rooster having sex with all the chickens in the roost. Helen, Jerry's adoring mom, was always wondering how anybody could not like her son. She was also a severe critic of the dress sense of her husband, Morty. He was something of a wimp and a damp squib although he was into the Florida condo politics in a big way. He was the only parent who called Kramer "Mr Kramer" while Kramer slapped him on the back and called him Morty. Finally, an honourable mention for Uncle Leo who held Jerry's elbow every time he could corner him and waxed eloquent about the newest achievements of his son Jeffrey who worked for the Parks Department "like he split the atom" in Jerry's own words.
Take a bow, Larry Richards and Jerry Seinfeld.

“Do you know me?”

Much as I dislike people forwarding me jokes, I’m going to make an exception for this one. I got it in an e-mail dated Monday, 16 July, 2007 10:57 AM from a long-lost family friend. He happened to find me after a long separation via ‘Pop Goes the Slop’. The reason for making an exception with it is that it made me think of Seinfeld and Larry Richards. Here it is, warts and all.

Lawyers should never ask a Southern grandma a question if they aren't prepared for the answer.

In a trial, a Southern small-town prosecuting attorney called his first witness, a grandmotherly, elderly woman to the stand.

He approached her and asked, "Mrs. Jones, do you know me?"

She responded, "Why, yes, I do know you, Mr. Williams. I've known you since you were a young boy, and frankly, you've been a big disappointment to me. You lie, you cheat on your wife, and you manipulate people and talk about them behind their backs. You think you're a big shot when you haven't the brains to realize you never will amount to anything more than a two-bit paper pusher. Yes, I know you."

The lawyer was stunned! Not knowing what else to do, he pointed across the room and asked, "Mrs. Jones, do you know the defense attorney?"

She again replied, "Why, yes, I do. I've known Mr. Bradley since he was a youngster, too. He's lazy, bigoted, and he has a drinking problem. He can't build a normal relationship with anyone and his law practice is one of the worst in the entire state. Not to mention he cheated on his wife with three different women. One of them was your wife. Yes, I know him."

The defense attorney almost died.

The judge asked both counselors to approach the bench and, in a very quiet voice, said, "If either of you idiots asks her if she knows me, I'll send you to the electric chair."

I rest my case.

Ensconced in velvet. (Later, in denim.)

The first three are not my words. I stole them straight out of George’s mouth. (‘The Label Maker’) http://www.seinfeldscripts.com/TheLabelMaker.html. The George I’m talking about is Costanza who declares his affinity for velvet in these immortal words: “I would drape myself in velvet if it were socially acceptable.” This velvety diversion comes to you because of my sudden remembrance of one phase in early childhood when I used to be “ensconced in velvet” – velvet pants of ridiculous hues actually – ludicrous as it sounds to me now. All my life, I’ve been bereft of a sense of personal style or grooming (I wear any – preferably old and therefore comfortable – shirt that comes to hand as soon as I open my ‘wardrobe’ without bothering about matching it with the rest of my apparel), I guess. And that must have been the nadir. Velvet corduroy has always been socially acceptable in the circles I move in and still seems to be. But I remember owning only a couple of velvet corduroy trousers in my youth. Strangely though, I was one of the first guys to take to denim early in life. I’ve never been out of a jean ever since I was around twelve. My love for denim must have grown of my affinity for cowboy comics and lore. (“Hey, hombre. I ain’t about to let this town go to coyotes like yuh. Draw!”) Denim lured me by its comfortable feel. At a wedding sometime back I met an old acquaintance who confirmed my presumption that I was the first one to don denim in my neighbourhood. Whew! http://popgoestheslop.blogspot.com/2006/05/not-my-best-friends-wedding.html.

Jokes apart. A funny thing happened …

Believe it or not, the silver lining to the dark clouds of the new millennium's first year was an Internet-based experiment into the psychology of humour called 'Laughlab'. Launched by the University of Hertfordshire and the British Association for the Advancement of Science, its first findings based on an overwhelming response of over 10000 jokes rated by more than 100000 people from 70 odd countries were released in the latter part of December 2001. The winner with thumbs-up from 47% participants was this joke sent in by Geoff Anandappa from Blackpool, UK:

Holmes and Watson go camping. They pitch their tent under the stars and go to sleep. Middle of the night, Holmes wakes up Watson.

"Look up at the stars, Watson, and tell me what you deduce."

"I see millions of stars," says Watson, "and even if a few of them have planets and even if a few of the planets are like the Earth, there's a likelihood of life out there."

"Watson, you idiot," retorts Holmes, "somebody stole our tent."

Move over, Seinfeld. http://www.laughlab.co.uk/

Way to go, Sir Alf.

"I had a letter from a man who wrote, 'My daughter after seeing the French film Diabolique would never use the bathtub. Now having seen Psycho, she won't take a shower, and she is getting very unpleasant to be around. What shall I do?' I wrote back, 'Dear Sir, send her to the dry cleaners.' " This is what Hitchcock told Merv Griffin on the latter's television show once. I've no way of checking the veracity of the event. It sounds like truth being stranger than fiction in a very Hitchcockian way, though. (Seinfeld fans may like to read the script of 'The Merv Griffin Show' episode. drodd.com.)

No rest for the intrepid post person. Except Newman, Seinfeld’s nemesis (probably retired by now).

Remember the good ol’ days when the US Post used to boast of the mail going through rain, hail and high water – in other words, against all odds? (“Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” This was at one time thought to be the Official Motto. http://www.britannica.com/ebi/article?eu=298597&query=stamps&ct=%22ebi%22.) Well, now the Internet has made it unnecessary to live up to it, boys and girls. In 2002, 77 percent retailers mailed catalogues. A year later, only 55 percent did. Woe is me, says the US Postal Service Chief and commissions a survey. “And guess what?” writes George Simpson (Surveys: Don’t confuse me with the facts) “The study proves that catalogs double the chances of businesses making an online sale. And that people who get catalogs in the mail spend more on Web purchases than people who don't get catalogs.” http://www.mediapost.com/dtls_dsp_news.cfm?newsId=252307. If you think this is about the US Post being wrongly at the receiving end and proving the point with an ‘impartial study’, read the rest of the article and guffaw.