While this trio of wordsmiths were venerable sharpshooters, I'm only a cap gun humorist. I make some noise, even cause a bit of tinnitus, but I'm relatively harmless. My target audience never fears a bullet with their name on it or half-cocked Op-Ed pieces — only a few half-baked thoughts.
Nearly a decade into plying this trade, I'm still shocked when others take any of my words to heart. After all, newspaper columnist are notorious navel-gazers who feel compelled to share every bit of lint extracted from their personal lives. Just ask my daughter or the only dog in Grand Traverse County with her own byline. Yet every once in a while, my own words come back to enlighten or haunt me — sometimes both in the same card, letter or e-mail.
• Riling the Backstreet Boys nation. Eons ago I wrote a column — much like this one — with more rambling thoughts than usual. Basically I succumbed to the timeworn tradition of running a list of ideas too ill-conceived to reach a 800 word potential. One of the questions I posed was why did Stevie Ray Vaughan die in a helicopter crash while the almost Medicare eligible Backstreet Boys still put out albums? Just a few days ago an e-mail arrived with the subject line: Answering your question. I was intrigued but figured it was another offer to MAKE $100,000 SELLING GOAT CHEESE PART-TIME FROM YOUR LIVING ROOM!! Instead, I found the following terse reply to my Backstreet Boys quip: "Because there is a God in heaven with more brain power than you will ever live to see.”
I love this hate e-mail. I'm considering suitable framing to preserve these words and put them in a place of honor — perhaps next to my Sock Monkey birthday card. All a writer can ever ask for is to strike a chord, or a nerve with another literate human being. So thank you bckstbys382003 for flying your boy band flag in my face.
Although, I always figured God in heaven was more an old-school Menudo fan.
• Assembly not included. Another old column, "Swing set assembly far from playful” also resurfaced recently in the form of an odd reader request. Despite the cryptic "swing set” subject line, I knew exactly what words would follow. I was being asked to bail someone out of a Villager II debacle — again. It seems that others have struggled with this same model swing set, which only requires five simple hand tools and your utter soul to assemble.
The first response was from a woman who said her husband had misplaced the instructions (being a guy he probably thought they were mere suggestions) so the unfinished swing set sat for two years in their garage. They were attempting to revive the beast but the manufacturer had gone out of business — as a recovering Villager II victim, this news made me giggle like a school girl. Evidently I was the last bastion of hope, as she included a fax number to send the instructions, if I still had them.
I was too ashamed to admit that I had burned any trace of that particular Pandora's cardboard box, including the instructions.
So to the latest lost swing set soul who asked, "hey if I can't put it together, which I know I can't, who do you hire to do it?” I would suggest engineering students. Specifically the Ferris State University students who won the national Rube Goldberg Machine Contest with a contraption that took 345 steps to juice an orange and pour it into a glass. They might have a fighting chance — but better have a keg on hand.
• Mug shot not picture perfect. I would be remiss if I didn't finally respond to an e-mail from a journalism mentor and previous editor about my new column mug shot. His five word response to all my bitter laments: "reveals less hair, old man.” I guess he forgot about his Borat-like mustache mug shot; the photographic proof being mailed in an anonymous envelope to his current newspaper.
• Viva Las Vegas. Back in January, I wrote a column about the USARPS League imploring the National Football League to replace the traditional Super Bowl coin toss with a game of Rock, Paper Scissors. A USA Rock Paper Scissors League co-commissioner offered up his thanks and an invite to the $50,000 league champion next month in Las Vegas. Some how I don't think I could sneak air travel or a $6,000 a night stay at the Bellagio on a newspaper expense report.
• Fetid feet brotherhood. Finally, I have to single out the man who was "inspired” by my stinky feet column. He told me tales of "whoa, what died in your size tens?” as he tried to put his best foot forward in a society that looks down on chronic foot funk. "Smelly shoes should technically be a symbol of productivity rather than something to be criticized ... If our feet stink, we should be able to boldly proclaim it as a badge of manhood,” he noted. Amen Brother Rex, Amen.
Unlike notable newspaper columnists who have a minion or two to handle reader letters, I can't even get my dog to open up her own guest commentary e-mails. Nor do I think I could sneak even a part-time minion into the Herald budget. So before you dash off a missive, remember that paying heed to a humor columnist is like being the target audience of a kid who shoots milk out his nose while laughing in the school cafeteria — you never know what might stick with you.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com