April 7, 2013 § 6 Comments
Earlier in the week the subject of laughter waded into my mind stream and I thought what a funny word it was all on its own. It should be spelled lafter which is like rafter only not as wet or high; or be pronounced altogether differently with a lot of huffing and gargling in the middle.
After chuckling an embarrassing amount of time at my own joke, I noticed that my headache had disappeared. I pondered on. Is it true that laughter is the best medicine? According to Norman Cousins who studied the biochemistry of human emotions it is.
When told he had a terminal illness, Cousins developed a recovery program that focused on love, faith, hope and laughter. “I made the joyous discovery that ten minutes of genuine belly laughter had an anesthetic effect and would give me at least two hours of pain-free sleep,” he reported.
Norman called laughter, inner jogging. Laughter is said to be the only activity that can exercise your liver, one of the most important organs of the body that charged with cleansing impurities. Not only that but the old complaint, feeling ‘liverish,’ meant to be bad tempered or unhappy. (Do I detect a link here?)
Perhaps laughter, in exercising the liver, jiggles it into a faster production rhythm and a more energetic cleaning cycle, kind of like speeding up the agitator in a washing machine, or setting the idle on high in a car. Maybe it’s a joke a day, rather than the apple, that keeps the doctor away.
Further proof of the efficacy of this treatment approach can be seen in the figurines of the laughing Buddhas where the typically enigmatic smile and meditative pose is replaced by a roly-poly fat guy laughing. It reinforces the position that one cannot be enlightened without understanding that absurdity of it all.
While I was pondering the more sober aspects of laughter I came across some great quotes. Here’s a few:
God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh. Voltaire
Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward. Kurt Vonnegut
When the highest type of men hear Tao,
They diligently practice it.
When the average type of men hear Tao,
They half believe in it.
When the lowest type of men hear Tao,
They laugh heartily at it.
Without the laugh, there is no Tao. Lao-tzu
So in closing my suggestion is, tell a joke and save a life.
(There’s a new post on the art site at http://MarieTaylorArt.wordpress.com)
February 26, 2013 § 5 Comments
When is it that we begin to understand the difference between right and wrong? When does our sense of sin develop? For me, it happened when I was about four years old. It must have been a holiday because the whole family was gathered at my Aunt Anna’s house.
I was born ‘between generations’ and at this time was the only child in the family. The adults ranged from my cousins in their late teens to my grandparents who were in their sixties. I remember a number of them were sitting around in the tiny parlor that housed the floor model radio console on a sunny afternoon.
Suddenly, unexpected, unbidden, unwelcome, I emitted a little frrrp! The adults in the room threw accusatory glances at each other. “Who farted?” said my Uncle Vince. “It wasn’t me,” countered my cousin Mary who began holding her breath.
In unison, everyone began sniffing the air seeking to identify the source of the noxious odor that now permeated the small room. My Aunt Anna waved a hand delicately in the air and edged the window open a bit higher.
“Whew,” said my father, “that was a real stinker.”
My cousin George the Clown grabbed his throat and gasped, “I can’t breathe,” then tumbled on the floor. Uncle Rocco batted him along the side of his head and said something in Italian after which George shuffled into the other room.
My mother, whose olfactory sensors were keen, swiveled towards me. “Marie, did you make a noise?” This was our family’s euphemistical reference to passing gas.
A hot flame of embarrassment shot from my toes to my head, providing a rosy backdrop for my white blond hair. Eyes wide and stricken, I was stung to retort, “No!”
Above my head I could feel the smirks and smiles forming and I sat down covered with confusion – which is a lot heavier than it sounds – and considered what had just happened.
I had not only broken one of the basic social taboos but had then lied about it. I could no longer consider myself courageous and all hopes of one day joining the Texas Rangers were from that moment dashed.
What had started out as a mere embarrassment had quickly escalated into guilt which was followed by shame. I wondered if this was the original sin I had heard discussed recently. Were Adam and Eve evicted from the Garden for aromatic reasons? After all, they had lied too.
This small event was my first introduction to guilt and shame, two of the real ball breakers of life. I was only to learn the painful embrace of remorse in later years after I had had more opportunities to be selfish.
But this early experience would serve me well until I could start catechism at the local Catholic Church and learned what real guilt was all about from the professionals.
The psychologists say that shame is just one step above despair on the ladder of negative emotions and since I can still vividly remember that day of more than sixty years ago I find I must agree to its power.
As someone once said, “Life is one long lesson in humiliation.” Now if I could only stop buying whoopee cushions.
November 11, 2012 § 5 Comments
This morning I was in the kitchen buttering my toast when I heard two of our community residents passing. I knew they were locals because I heard the thump of walker wheels as they clicked down the sidewalk.
“And that’s where Sweetie Pie lives,” chirped one little voice against the syncopated beat of a cane. “Oooo,” another piped in response.
“She must still be sleeping,” informed the first with a titter. “We better be quiet then,” giggled the second and the pair moved on.
So it had finally come to this I thought. To all and sundry of our little complex this was no longer identified as my apartment but Sweetie Pie’s! I was her incidental roommate. In the way of all cats, Sweetie Pie has become mistress of the house and all without saying a word (she is a silent cat and never meows.) She has fulfilled her karmic role as dominatrix.
By the time I went out to the patio with my toast and coffee, Sweetie had taken up her position near my chair awaiting her morning treat. She is quite satisfied with dry cat food but she does like a dollop of milk in the morning accompanied by a small piece of thinly sliced lunch meat. I rotate her menu among ham, turkey and baloney but her absolute favorite is olive loaf – but only after I pick out the olives.
After breakfast, her tail twitching in a queenly wave adieu, she returns to bed for the first of the sixteen naps she will enjoy today. Her tail has always fascinated me because it never bends. Unlike prior cats I have known whose tails whipped and wiggled like a boneless snake, Sweetie’s tail is as rigid and unforgiving as an Old Testament prophet.
Instead of curling around her feet when sitting or wrapping around her nose when sleeping, Sweetie Pie’s tail is short and sturdy like a bottle brush. It does not curl but lashes back and forth like a furry windshield wiper. It is an exclamation point, never a comma or question mark.
I wonder if there is a correspondence between this preference for punctuation and her uncanny silence. There is something mysterious and potent about her meow-less state but like many feline mysteries this one may never be solved in my lifetime.
I repair to the corner of the dining room I refer to as my artist’s studio and prepare to begin another round of painting. The rice paper I was waiting for has finally arrived and armed with two new and untried brushes I will pounce upon its virginal whiteness and unleash the inky blackness of my imagination.
I glance into the bedroom and see Sweetie Pie enthroned about the satin comforter in the midst of her morning ablutions. I smile contently, peruse my cd’s and consider the musical environment in which I wish to create. Is this a morning for Rachmaninoff or Cesaria Evora? The soft thud of a black tail thumping on the bed catches my attention. Sweetie’s golden eyes transfix me like a pinned butterfly. Perhaps it may be better, I think, to maintain a Zen-like silence until her nap is over.
November 9, 2012 § 6 Comments
I expect that woman will be the last thing civilized by man. George Meredith
So a male friend of mind says the other day, “Marie, women don’t seem to have any self-control. My girl and I had a small disagreement last night and the next thing I know she starts crying. I just don’t understand it. Why do women always cry when they get angry?”
“It’s obvious,” I replied. “The reason your girl cried was because she was frustrated that there was no gun nearby with which to shoot you.” When I saw the puzzled look on his face I realized that this simple explanation required further elaboration.
From the time that women are little girls certain gender patterns of behavior are set and reinforced. For example: Little Marie is outside playing in the sand box and Tommy the neighborhood bully takes her bucket and shovel.
“Waaaa!” she cries and runs to Daddy who says, “Did that mean bully take your toys. You wait here. I’ll get them back for you.” And he does.
Notice that Daddy did not say, “Punch the little brat in the nose!” Little girls are taught not to fight – just as little boys are taught not to cry.
Marie learns that tears can often produce the desired result when she wants something – and all without much effort on her part. Her satisfaction and delight are boundless but short-lived because…
Sweet, helpless Marie is at the playground and that mean bully Tommy takes her shovel. “Waaa!” she cries. But Daddy is not around. There is no rescuer in sight. What to do?
Marie bops Tommy the Turd on the head with the bucket and loudly yells, “Give it back, sucker,” as she twists his arm and kicks his ankle.
Tommy snivels and wails loud enough to attract the attention of the kindergarten teacher who tells Marie, “Nice little girls don’t do that! They don’t punch other children. Now go stand in the corner until you learn how to behave.”
Over time Marie learns many variations on these themes. She learns that crying is good for getting your own way but only if you have some solid back-up such as your dad, brother, or an old boyfriend. She learns that if nice little girls swear, fart, burp, yell or hit others nobody will like them.
So what can a girl do when she gets into an argument? As we have seen, tears will only work in certain situations. Taking action brings her into direct conflict with the directive which says Do Not Hit Others. Meanwhile, she gnashes her teeth and is accused of being too emotional by the overbearing, logic-dominated, anal-retentive opponent.
There is nothing left but poison for the patient ones, or a 357 magnum for those of a more fiery disposition. But often times when Marie reaches for said equalizer, she comes up empty handed. This results in tears.
You see, women are the more deadly of the species. When we are angry it requires all of our will power to restrain our natural inclinations. Fortunately, we are wise enough to know we have a responsibility to keep the race intact long enough to produce the next generation. If we didn’t, who would be around to put air in our tires?
Women are the gates of hell. St. Jerome
September 15, 2012 § 2 Comments
I went to the market the other day in search of sustenance of the sweet and juicy kind. My mouth was set for oranges, succulent and plump. Imagine my dismay to discover that oranges were in short supply, so short as to offer only the hard, yellow, sour, seeded varieties. It was too early for good oranges, the white capped produce clerk sniffed, oranges were for Christmas.
And he was right, for it was oranges that had finally revealed to me the non-existence of Santa Claus when as a girl of seven I had cannily counted the number of oranges in the refrigerator on Christmas Eve only to find on the following morning the count was one short, due, no doubt, to the missing fruit nestled in my Santa stocking. I had my parents dead to rights but confronted with the evidence neither of them would cop a plea and I was left knowing I was correct but unacknowledged – a state of mind I would find familiar in my later dealings with men.
Should I have wanted apples, the produce department would be my Ali Baba’s cave for there were apples of every shape, size, variety, color and price. From the “throw a shrimp on the barbie” Braeburns from Down Under, to red Delicious that came with their own little tripod feet and stood like plump ballerinas to the Granny Smiths so packed with pectin that they demanded to be made into pies. A plethora of perishables.
But I was not in the mood for apples. Apples required too much chewing and fortitude; they were too crunchy and American. I needed something more decadent, more tropical, softer and smoother and wetter. Like an orange.
As I started to get grumpy, my glance skewed around and I saw creatively piled ovals that looked familiar. What ho! Pears! Deeper observation revealed that this must be pear season for there were at least six varieties of pears – Bartlett, Asian, Red, Anjou and more. I ask myself when was the last time I really thought about a pear?
Often the subject for 19th century still life paintings, the contemporary pear seems to have lost some of its luster and appeal. The pear has become somewhat pedestrian except for the occasional holiday reference in conjunction with partridges. Once thought of as extremely provocative, the pear shared with the tomato the dubious distinction of being of an aphrodisiac.
Then I saw a small sign reading “mangoes” but I was uncertain whether the mango was the rather large globular, yellow tinted, thin-skinned, orange fleshed and black seeded one, or the even larger yellow skinned, impossible to peel, densely fleshed fruit.
As you can see, I have drawn the circle of experimentation around certain areas of my life and within those perimeters fruit has not fallen. It must also be remembered that as a native born Pennsylvanian whose comestible boundaries were stretched by tangerines, I am easily confused by unfamiliar fruit. In any event, I think one of these fruits was mangoes and the other papayas.
Those ready for a walk on the wild side should buy a kiwi. Not only is this fruit named after a brand of shoe polish but it has a sense of humor. Looking like a miniature coconut, the kiwi is small and hairy but when bisected boasts a bright green interior dotted with black seeds, a color scheme right out of the 1950’s. It immediately put me in mind of a ’57 Ford or Thunderbird.
I considered my options. Mango rhymes with tango, one of the most romantic dances, and with fandango, one of the most liberating. Mango is also a conjunction of two common words, man and go which led me to consider its digestive actions. Lastly, among the hill tribes of western Borneo mango is the word which describes the mold on the under belly of a courting frog.
In conclusion, you can see how, within moments a simple word like mango can lead the thoughtful man or woman down corridors hinted at but heretofore undreamed of. I reviewed the alternatives and then remembered the lessons of Eden. I eschewed apples and the serendipitous charms of pears and papayas; I postponed the promise of oranges and cartoon humor of the kiwi. It was a mango for me as I hummed a tune by Astor Piazzolla.
September 11, 2012 § 3 Comments
to be modest is the next best thing.
I am not sure about being quiet.
Life is way too complicated. if there is any message to be remembered, any maxim to tattoo on your left bicep, it is “Simplify, simplify, simplify!”
To wit; yesterday as my dog Cassie and I perambulated to the park, my eye was caught by the street signs. In our neighborhood, the theme is national parks. So we have a Mammoth, a Yellowstone, a Cascades, a Yosemite, an Everglades, etc. As I looked at Yosemite, I remembered how I used to call it Yo-se-mite (rhyming with “a little tyke”). Then I remembered La Jolla and “la jolly;” Caheunga and “Cahunga,” etc. You get the idea.
Then I thought about j’s and g’s, h’s and i’s, k’s and q’s, and y’s and i’s. Is there a little overlapping here, I pondered? I mean how many words do you use on a regular basis – other than yellow – that start with a “y?” Is it possible y could be eliminated? No, you say, we need y’s for words like pretty and very and oy vey. I ask you to consider substituting an i for all those y’s.
Now, observe the confusion that has accumulated through the years with g’s and j’s. There’s the name George and the words garage and great and gee whiz; for j’s we have Jack and Janet, juice and jump. Couldn’t we practice a little consonantal conservation and just use g’s for everything. There is also a confusion when j slides into the i territory; that’s where you find the Johns and Juan and Ians.
That same principal applies to k’s and q’s. How hard would it be to live without q’s? And, if we get rid of the q’s, why do we need u’s? Instead of quack, you’d have kwack; instead of quick, you’d have kwik; queer would be kweer. Was that so hard? Did you have any trouble understanding any of it?
So, with a little forethought and prudence we can easily take our alphabet down from 26 letters, to say 20 or 22. Our dictionaries wouldn’t be so big and our books would be shorter. We’d use less paper which would save the trees which would put more oxygen in the air and repair that big hole over Antarctica where all of the cosmic rays are oozing in and giving us skin cancer in the greenhouse.
If we stopped the cosmic ray seepage might that not deflect that mile-wide asteroid that is predicted? The last time something like that happened all the dinosaurs disappeared. Were they killed or did they get on the space ship? Was this the Rapture, the Second Coming, Armageddon, cosmic-style? Was Haley Bop just the doorman? Where’s the exit? Do we really need an “x”?
Art…should simplify. That, indeed, is very nearly the whole of the higher artistic process;
finding what conventions of form and what detail one can do without and yet preserve the spirit of the whole.
(I was doing some reviewing of old writing and came across this from the archives @ 1998. This was blogging before it was invented. I used to send my posts via personal email to subscribers. Ah, the good old days.)
September 4, 2012 § 6 Comments
There is a popular book titled “The Omnivore’s Dilemma” that discusses how the advent of modern transportation and refrigeration gave people an extraordinary selection of food from which to choose and gave rise to the question, “What to eat?”
This title came to my mind when I was pondering the creative food that I as a writer and artist consume and from which I draw my inspiration and sustenance. There is a vast cornucopia of resources. In other words, everything and everyone is grist for the mill for a creative person.
I say this because several people I know – some slightly and some intimately – periodically read my blog. There are others who currently do not, but might in the future. The question I put to myself is what is my responsibility towards those I may make a meal of at some point in the future.
I am not really a fiction writer so I cannot hide behind slippery statements of fact vs. imagination, nor do I change names to protect the innocent. When I write about my neighbor Gina, for example, that is her real name and what I am saying is true – at least from my point of view. When I reminisce about a friend or relative from childhood, to the best of my memory, I am telling the truth.
The other day I asked myself what would Gina say if she read what I had written about her. Would she see it humorously or would her feelings be hurt? Would she view it as an invasion of privacy or be flattered? Even though I have a great fondness for her, did my rendering of various situations in the service of humor do injury to her?
I think these are real questions that every creative person must ask for life and people are our raw materials. To create our art we look at others with some degree of detachment, even manipulation, perhaps seeing how they reflect the outlines of an archetype, for example; or as the villain in the human comedy. We use people as engineers use steel or bakers use flour or mathematicians use numbers.
I think of satirists like Swift and Voltaire or the great political cartoonists. Did they have second thoughts about those they portrayed? Or, did they believe that by virtue of the public lives and/or infamy of their targets that they deserved all that they got and more. While I name names in my essays, my intention is usually not to criticize – although I must admit to poking fun. Might those I write about be hurt or would they laugh too?
The great society portrait painters walked a tightrope for they had to render their subjects who were paying dearly for the privilege, in a somewhat favorable light. How much light do you shine on the big nose or mean little eyes or slack and aging jowls? How much of the soul do you dare reveal – and have you as an artist the confidence to know what you are seeing is true and not a projection of your own perspective.
If any of you know a writer you can be sure that sooner or later, you or some facet, aspect or personal experience of yours will end up in a story, essay, poem, play or conversation. You may not recognize it at first but it will be there – the seemingly random comment coming out of some character’s mouth; a private confidence being acted out on the printed page; the story you whispered at midnight after too much wine the plot of erotic short story.
If you want to keep your secrets never date a poet for your most intimate and sacred moments will one day be read by others. The only saving grace is that so few people read poetry today that unless you have the misfortune to be involved with a really great writer few graduate students will ever interview you for their thesis. Songwriters are somewhat safer because their lyrics have to appeal to the masses and are thereby more general.
Novelists are the best bet for they have to create such long and convoluted plots that your particular eccentricities and foibles will be spread over many characters and chapters, thereby lessening any chance of recognition by your parents, ex girl/boyfriends or co-workers.
Another good bet for dating within the creative tribe are artists – not cartoonists who are by nature a little weird or caricaturists who are the anarchists of the visual arts – but the serious oil painters, particularly if they are abstract expressionists. Nobody will ever recognize your countenance among the drops, splashes, streaks and spills.
After all of these perambulations on the truth vs. falsehood in creative endeavors I’ve come to the conclusion that is it “caveat emptor” situation. Let the buyer beware. If, by any twist of misfortune, you find yourself near – or even suspect being observed by – any of the creative types, I urge you to be alert.
Take the necessary steps to safeguard your privacy. Watch for the bulging pocket which can contain the traveler’s sketchbook; beware of phones with built-in cameras and tape recorders; and in particular, be cautious of the slightly seedy slouching person with glasses and a wooly cardigan with patches on the elbows who seems to be interested in your tete-a-tete at the coffee shop.
August 19, 2012 § 2 Comments
I have had a busy day and after reading for an hour or so to relax, turn out the light and go to bed about 10:30. I put on one of the inspirational tapes I often play to accompany me to slumber land, adjust the pillows just so, tilt the small fan to encourage the mild evening breeze and with a sigh settle in for a long snooze.
But it is not to be. Somewhere around midnight I nod off but then awake at 1:30 bleary eyed and sweaty. I take an aspirin for my aching knee, check the fridge thinking I might have a small beer to loosen the edges but see that my weekly quart is finished. I plump up the pillows again and pop in another CD.
I lay on my right side and then my left. I lay on my back and slip a pillow under my knees and sprawl. I review the projects I am working on and come up with a solution to a design problem. I make a mental note of the groceries to buy tomorrow and consider my plans for the upcoming week. I think of an old boyfriend, then wonder what my old family home now looks like. I think of my son and miss him.
By 3 a.m. I am worn out trying to go to sleep and finally get up. I do not fight this unexpected change of tempo but willingly explore it. I have learned that as you get older your circadian rhythms lose their regularity and can slip from three-quarter time into a samba or jitterbug without warning.
The hours between 3 and 5 are the deepest part of night – too late for night owls and too early for worm catchers. It is the no man’s land of sleep. Nothing stirs but the delta breeze. What happens at night when everyone else is sleeping? If I stay awake until 5 or 6 will I then sleep until 2 or 3 tomorrow afternoon? I don’t think I have ever slept past 10 a.m.
I make a strong cup of coffee, slather a croissant with some thick blackberry jam and go out to sit on the patio. Less than a moment later Sweetie Pie joins me, her golden eyes gleaming with a nocturnal hunter’s lust. The air is much cooler outside and when I look up I see only two stars twinkling. The city lights cast too strong a glow for starry skies. I remind myself that a trip to observe the desert sky at night is on my bucket list and I have already postponed it too long.
I hear a car engine growling and soon a security patrol car is slowly gliding past. A youngish man with a peaked hat sits in the front seat looking alert. What a job! He stops further down the parking lot and gets out to examine a car by flashlight, but seemingly satisfied, soon drives off.
I think of the neighborhood watch program now in effect at the apartment complex. We are located in a marginal area of town, already a little run down and shabby but still making an effort. One of the involved neighbors told me they are considering putting razor wire along the perimeter to discourage people from going over the wall. When I inquire whether this was directed towards our residents or our neighbors, my remark was greeted with suspicion and inspected for irony.
Yesterday morning I noticed a nicely dressed young man with a big black plastic bag walking down the driveway. The friendly hello I offered was met with squinty wariness and a quickened pace. A few moments later I saw the dumpster lid go up and a dark head bobbing among the fumes. Someone was stealing our garbage, I thought, my eyebrows shooting skyward. Was this a matter for the neighborhood watch? I considered the ramifications of being a stool pigeon and kept mum.
The coffee that I earlier drank to keep awake has now perversely made me sleepy but I will not yield lightly to that siren’s call. I have already been fooled by the drooping lid and casual yawn. The lawn sprinklers pop up and begin spraying at 5 a.m. In the distance I hear the high call of a lonesome rooster who is also sleepless in Sacramento.
July 25, 2012 § 2 Comments
I have always had a reputation even among those who do not know me well of having a calm deposition and peaceful demeanor. During my tenure in advertising I cultivated the unflappable satisfaction of a Madonna even amid the high anxiety of client presentations.
You can imagine my confusion and chagrin (which has nothing to do with smiling) when I found myself in heated discussions recently with two friends. Forsooth, to call them discussions is being disingenuous for my blood pressure was up, my face was pink and deep within my throat a growl was forming.
In one case I was ready to push back the chair from the table and flounce , which is fleeing in a bouncy manner, out of the coffee shop. In the other I was ready to press the red X key that would abruptly terminate a Skype conversation.
And the subjects of these two discussions? Why, politics and religion, of course. The two topics any wise hostess bans from the dinner table. In both cases these old friends slyly insinuated their favorite conversational hobby horses into our heretofore pleasant tete-a-tete.
The religious conversation combined elements of both metaphysical New Agism and extreme left wing do-gooderism. Now I have been at various times a New Ager and a do-gooder but that particular day I was not in the mood for the excesses of naïve idealism.
But it was not to be. I would be convinced and converted, or else. Finally, I noticed a triumphant look in her eye when a comment had drawn blood and I had heatedly responded. It was veni, vidi, vici all over again and we weren’t even in England! It was less a matter of dogmatism than the desire to sharpen her wit on my whetstone.
When our coffee date was over, she told me how much she had enjoyed our stimulating afternoon. “People just don’t want to discuss anything important anymore. How can we make the world a better place without conversation?” I agreed and staggered to the car, vowing never to cross (s)words again - although on the drive home I did come up with some real zingers.
Then other day I was Skyping with a friend when the subject of gun control laws came up as a result of the tragic Colorado movie theater event. He was strongly in favor of total gun control and a ban of weapons sales while I posited that it was the violence and insanity of our society as whole that was to blame, not the weapons. Before you could say ‘duck’ his ten-minute diatribe on weapons was underway.
I am still uncertain about both experiences. I do not like to argue. If two people have opposing or incompatible viewpoints, I am happy to put that topic aside in future conversations. Or, is that the coward’s way out? Am I afraid to disagree, or stand up for what I believe in? Or is it a matter of not wanting to take any position? Is it that I no longer believe in anything?
The older I get the less I enjoy confrontation and the less certain I am that I am even partly right. I would like the world to be a kinder, gentler place but have no idea how to bring that about except in one’s personal life. I don’t believe that the government, religion, philosophy or science can save the world; in fact, it more often seems to befuddle it – which is a wonderful word that combines the dazzle of being with the ambiguity of mud.
In the future I will head off any controversial topics with a quick thrust. I have decided on a verbal riposte that will flicker briefly on the tip of the tongue, then strike deep – “Sez you!” And failing that, pulling out the coup d’ etat of comebacks, “So’s your mother!”