Hounded Dog Daze

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I’m all farshimmelt. Maybe it’s the humidity plus this gosh darn wildfire smoke-schmutz we’ve been having this summer of late (as a guy with a dinky AC unit to “cool” his dinky apartment, I’ve taken to repeated listenings on the Hi-Fi of my lone Yuletide holiday album, Making Spirits Bright but it’s not making me feel any cooler even though it’s Dean Martin doing the focking crooning and if there’s anybody cooler than the Dino that a guy like me could perspire to, then I’m thinking I need to update my Rolodex, I kid you not) but I got to tell you’s, my memory circuit’s got a short in it somewheres, which reminds me of a little story:

So this elderly couple had dinner at another couple’s house and after the meal, the wives left the table to go do the dishes, as the tenor of the time would dictate. The two male husbands conversed and one says: “Last night, we went out to a new restaurant. I’d recommend it very highly.” The other guy asks the name of the restaurant, and the first guy pauses. Time passes. Finally, he says, “What’s the name of that red flower you give to someone you love?” His friend answers: “A carnation?” “No. The other one,” the man says. His friend offers another suggestion: “The poppy?” The other guys says: “No, no, that’s not it. You know, it’s the one that’s red, with thorns.” His friend says: “Do you mean a rose?” And the first guys says; “Yes! That’s it. Thank you!” He turns toward the kitchen and yells: “Rose! What’s the name of that restaurant we went to last night?” Ba-ding!

(Hold on, I got a phone call which I better grab ’cause it could be some kind of “health care” provider questioning my reluctance to respond to statements that I believe only a Ouija board could decipher.

(Nope, it’s my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine. I got to take this ’cause he owes me a couple, three bucks. Smoke ’em if you got ’em. Be right back.)

“Hey Artie, you got two dollars you can spot me?”

“You got to be jerking my beefaroni, Jimmy.”

“Yeah yeah, I know I owe you but listen, I’m short of dough and if you can float me a few Washingtons I’d purchase a Powerball ticket that’s guaranteed to win $449 million as of the Wednesday, Aug. 10. Once we win, you can forget about having to set up a GoFundMe page for your medical bills, which I know you’re thing of.”

“The thought has crossed my mind, Jimmy.”

“So then Artie, we take the Powerball $449 mill to Potawatomi and double it on the 25-cent slots. Then we split it and I can pay you back the fiver or whatever I owe, plus you got the dough to run for governor and president, pay your health bills not to mention put a nice down payment on a lightly used 2005 Buick Park Avenue you’re always talking about for transportation purposes ’cause the bus sucks, ain’a?”

“So Jimmy, how are you so sure we can win this Powerball?”

“I got the numbers, Artie. Got ’em but good. You ever heard of this writer, some kind of William S. Burroughs?”

“Yeah, wrote the book Naked Lunch, died at the age of 83 in 1997 to serve as a lesson to the young people that a drugged and vagabond kind of lifestyle of lurid dissipation more than often snuffs out even the best of us too soon. So?”

“He died in August, Artie—it’s August now—plus it’s the 28-year anniversary of one gone too soon.

“And I did some extra research ’cause I saw that book in a used bookstore the other week and I wondered how a lunch could be naked. Didn’t add up. Lunchers can be naked ’cause they’re people. But lunch is food and food doesn’t wear clothes, ain’a? And then it hit me: this year is also the 48-year anniversary of the unconfirmed death of Elvis Presley, August 16. And then I remembered that the Memphis minstrel’s middle name was Aaron, and that Aaron was also the surname of the first man to go by George Herman Ruth’s total of career baseball home runs. And I wondered, could there be another connection between the King of Rock & Roll and the Sultan of Swat besides that they were both known to dine like pigs? I rushed to my baseball encyclopedia and there it was: Babe Ruth passed away on an August 16, the same date as the man who starred in Viva Las Vegas.”

“Jimmy, I got to go.”

“Wait, Artie. Then I heard about some closet Nazis who are celebrating the 38-year anniversary of nutty Rudolf Hess who hung himself in Spandau prison at the age of 93 on August 17, 1987—Rudy Hess, Hitler’s deputy and Nazi ad-lib solo peace negotiator who parachuted into Scotland in 1941 and said, ‘Hi, my name’s Rudy. Want to surrender?’”

“Powerball numbers, Jimmy?”

“For starters, think of the anniversaries I just mentioned, Artie—28, 38, 48—plus the name connections. Then chew on this: Bill Burroughs was born February 5, 1914; Babe Ruth, February 6, who then first stepped onto a major league team with the Boston Red Sox in 1914. Burroughs was once cleared of obscenity charges in Boston. Babe played right field. Rudy Hess came out of left field. Bill did drugs, shot and killed his wife in Mexico. Elvis did drugs, shot and wounded his career in Fun in Acapulco. OK, Middle East connection: Rudy was born in Egypt; Bill regurgitated Naked Lunch onto the page in Morocco; in the bible there’s a Book of Ruth; Elvis starred in Harum Scarum. Also, Rudy spent years and years in Spandau. Elvis spent years and years in Spandex…”

“Numbers, Jimmy.”

“Piece of cake, Artie: 14-16-28-38-48. Powerball would be 8, for August, eighth month of the year, don’t you know. $449 million guaranteed. See you on Easy Street, pally.”

So’s, I got to run up to the Pick ’n Save right now and grab a ticket to paradise, so I can’t finish this essay for you’s. Yeah, campaign financing and medical bills are a bitch, but once I’m in the White House and/or the governor’s mansion, I’ll be set for life or what’s left of it, so what the fock ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.