BEWARE THE TURTLE!

People say there are no adventures in suburbia. That they are sterile, overly planned, anally retentive communities divorced from the excitement of a big city, the natural wonders of a rural setting, or the cozy cement comforts of a mental institution.

Well as a suburb dweller, I am here to tell you that suburbia can be the best of all these worlds.

Why, just today, the so-called predictable suburbs threw us a curve ball when the lovely and angelic Mrs. Jerry K discovered a turtle—yes, a turtle--in our garage.

How did this mysterious, prehistoric creature get in the garage? Was he there to deliver a message to me? Was he a time traveler? Or did he just lose his way? Speak to me, turtle, I beg of thee!

After spending two hours questioning the turtle and receiving little more than a shrug in return, I realized this would be one tough shell to crack.

Soon, I was faced with a predicament that we all face at some point in our lives: What do you do if you find a turtle in your garage?

Drawing upon my vast knowledge of Turtology, I sprang into action. First, I needed some sort of device to pick the turtle up. My forklift was in the repair shop, so I resorted to my bright yellow Playtex gloves.

Now, some of you may be wondering why I just didn’t pick him up with my bare hands.

I laugh at your ignorance. And at your funny hat.

If you knew anything about turtles, you would realize that these exotic marsupials secrete numerous poisons to which there are no antidotes, despite the continuous efforts of our finest scientists and yearly telethons.

In addition, you may have seen the Japanese documentary know as “Gamera,” in which it is proven that a turtle can recede into his shell and then shoot flames out of his opening, launching himself into outer space. No way I’m gonna risk that; hence, the protective Playtex gloves.

Just as I was ready to call 911, Homeland Security, and Appleby’s, I discovered that turtle X actually belonged to the next-door neighbors.

Amazingly, said neighbor picked up her turtle with her bare hands, and returned it to her backyard.

Oh well, it’s her funeral.

WHY NO TEARS FOR BOZO?

The nation is busy mourning Michael Jackson, Farah Fawcett, Ed McMahon, Billy Mays, Moishe “Clucks” Beakman, and other big-name celebrities who passed away recently.

Yet amid all the hubbub (that’s right, damn it, I’m angry enough to say “hubbub”!), no mention is made of the fact that almost a year ago today Bozo the Clown passed away.

Think about it. Who gave more kids pleasure?

Ed McMahon? His job was to sit on a couch on the “Tonight” show, or introduce bad acts on “Star Search.” That is, when he was sober enough. I would have done his job for half the salary.

Farah Fawcett? She may have fulfilled a service for young boys just discovering jacking the dum-dum, but just try sitting through one episode of “Charlie’s Angels.” It sucks! Almost as bad as the movies.

What did Michael Jackson do for kids? Scared the shit out of them!

Meanwhile, Billy Mays just tried to sell us crap, and the less said about Beakman, the better. We all know about that scandal: the feathers, the bloody spatula, the deep fryer, the caws for help.

But then there was Bozo. The red swooping hair. The bright nose. The big painted smile. The cartoons.

He just wanted to be our pal, make us laugh, forget our childhood worries for a while. Sing us a song.

And yet, no one mourns the death of Bozo, one year later. There are no tears for this clown. No tributes at the Staples Center. No day of mourning called for by Reverend Al Sharpton, who even looks like a black Bozo.

Well, Bozo, my friend, if you’re up there in clown heaven reading this, please know that some of us still care, and still remember. So, grab your big fake nose, Bozo, and honk twice if you can hear me:

It’s Bozo, Bozo,
Always smiles, never frowns,
Bozo, Bozo,
Bozo the Clown.

AM I A LIBERAL?

I believe in a woman’s right to choose.
I believe gay people have the right to get married.
I like good horror movies.
I have a B.A. in English.
I eat red meat.
I have never missed voting in an election.
I am agnostic.
I pay my taxes, early, every year.
I am a public employee and a union member.
I listen to more Grateful Dead than I should.
I still listen to Howard Stern every day.
I live in the suburbs.
I am a member of an art museum, and often go to the theater.
I am a native Angeleno.
I read two newspapers every day, and mostly non-fiction books.
I wish I had kept my old vinyl records and my turntable.
I am still married to my first wife.
…So, my question to you is: Does This Make Me a Liberal?

OH, IT’S ON!

Summer is here, and that means only one thing around the old hen house: Time to battle the bugs.

• First up: Roaches.

These crap-colored creatures love to brag about how cool their exoskeletons are (“You know, we were the inspiration for both ‘Alien’ and ‘Predator’ ” they always boast), and only appear in our garage when the weather gets very hot.

As I’ve learned through my years of extermination research, it’s difficult to just step on these suckers. They have billions of sensors (I think IBM made them) that respond to any change in the air current. So, they can actually feel your shoe or newspaper approaching.

And I swear that more than once, I have smashed a roach, gone to the kitchen for a paper towel, and returned to find the roach gone! Not even a chalk outline remaining.

I’ve tried everything : spraying, boric acid, roach motels, flame throwers. Nothing.

Finally, one evening I noticed these brown demons milling about in the street near our driveway. They were coming from under the manhole cover!

After several hours feeling nauseous while pondering the word “manhole,” I realized that these little scurrying shits were crawling out of the sewer, into my garage, and then into the house.

The solution was as obvious as Rush Limbaugh’s drug habit: Plug up the manhole-cover holes, and the mothereffers can’t get out.

This discovery worked like a charm. This discovery was similar to Jonas Salk’s cure for polio, but my breakthrough was infinitely more important. Think about it: We all have bugs, but how many of us have polio?

The problem is, the holes are still plugged up, and the vile vermin are rearing their annoying antenna yet again.

Latest solution: Glue traps. Works pretty good, but you need to find only the dumbest roaches to walk into them.

• Second contender: Flies.

No solution for this. I’ve tried bug zappers, but guess what? They only work at night, and we’re eating outside during daylight.

I’ve also tried those plastic bags that you fill with water. These work great—if you want to have your backyard smell like rotten chicken livers. But you’ll still have flies.

• Public Enemy #3: Ants.

These are actually the easiest to get rid of. The solution: Get some of those diaphragm crystals, and pour them out where the ants gather for their little ant hootenannies.

Ants are so stupid, that they’ll see the crystals and think “Ooh, food! Yummy! Let’s take it back to impress the Queen and share it with all the workers! What’s the worst that can happen? And then we can all watch ‘Gossip Girl.’ ”

The real question about ants is: Why do they appear?

Some say when it’s really hot outside, the ants are looking for water. OK, fair enough.

But then when it gets very rainy, the ants are supposedly looking for dry areas.

Well, which is it, ants? Take a stand!

Here’s the bottom line: Thank the Lord above for chickens. They eat bugs. What more could you want from an animal, I ask you.

SPOILED BY CDS?

It think it’s official: I am too old for rock concerts.

You see, I turned 53 on Wednesday, and just returned tonight, disappointed, from seeing the band Wilco at the Wiltern Theater.

It’s not Wilco’s fault. They are great musicians. I have all their CDs and DVDs and can’t wait for their new release on June 30.

They really make some incredible music that ranges from folk rock, to progressive, to alternative country, to sonic experimentation.

So it’s not them. It’s two things: the sound quality and the hassle.

The hassle (you know, buying the tickets, paying a fortune for parking, dealing with crowds and traffic) is really not that big a deal for me. I figure it’s just part of the price of going out. If the hassle kept me from doing stuff, then I would really be old.

The main problem, then, is the sound quality. It was incredibly muddy and distorted. Now whose fault is this? The band’s? The theater’s? My ears? Dick Cheney’s?

As I was listening to this awful audio, all I could think about was how much better their stuff sounds on CD. It’s not that the band can’t play; it’s just that the CD sound is so refined and clear, anything less is a letdown.

I guess I’m now at the point that I would rather buy a CD and/or a DVD of a live performance than go to the concert. In fact, I did exactly that recently instead of buying tickets for this year’s Leonard Cohen, Van Morrison, and Eric Clapton/Steve Winwood concerts.

And you know what? The DVDs were far less expensive, the sound quality is outstanding, I can see everything perfectly, and they only cost about $20 bucks each. And I can watch or listen to them over and over again.

Yeah, I know that I’ll be missing out on the “communal experience” of being in an audience. But go ask the Manson family and the Branch Davidians about communes. I have a feeling they would take a pass next time.

When it comes to attending live performances, perhaps the key is to stick to small, intimate clubs. Like jazz clubs…before they become extinct altogether.

Meanwhile, I am still looking forward to the Steely Dan concert in August. Hey, those guys are even older than me, so maybe it will work out this time.

As long as I don’t break my hip by clapping too rigorously.

OLD GUY WANTS A CAR

This really old guy at work, Jasper, was finally going to break down and buy a new car after having no other choice. He wanted to get as bare bones a model as possible, and didn’t even want a radio in the car.

“A radio? Why would I want a radio in my car? They charge extra for that, don’t they? What is it, both AM and FM? I don’t even know the difference, and you know what? I don’t care.

“Back in my day we didn’t have confounded radios in cars to entertain us. Me and my mammy would drive along and have whistlin’ contests. You know, who could whistle the longest, who could whistle the loudest. Sometimes if we got tired of that we’d play Name That Tune by whistlin’ a little ditty and tryin’ to guess each other’s song. Of course, we only had three songs back then.”

(There was no way I was going to tell him that I have media overload in my own car, with my AM/FM, six-CD changer, satellite radio, and auto-suck installed.)

Jasper continued on his nostalgic roll.

“In fact, I think we would get along just fine without these car contraptions. When I was a youngster, we would wait all day for the Pony Express to come along and deliver our mail. I still remember that snorting, fine brown steed dropping road apples as he ran down the dirt path to our farm. Later on, Pa and I would mosey on down to the fishin’ hole for a spell and catch a perch or two. We’d grill those up, untie Ma for a while, and maybe fuck a couple of sheep.”

And it was then, as the old guy was staring skyward, eyes in the back of his head, a little stream of drool slipping down the corner of his mouth, that the clowns came and finally took Jasper away.

The next day, the entire office staff celebrated with special cupcakes. Mine was vanilla with rainbow sprinkles and a little plastic tractor on top. “This is for you, Pops,” I said as I swallowed the tractor and danced the Funky Chicken, to the amusement of all.

GOD VISITS SUMMER SCHOOL

I already have my opening speech prepared for the first day of teaching summer school this year.

“OK students, before we start let’s take a minute and hope that God is looking down on us all on this first day of summer school and is going to guide us through this experience.”

I will then look to the skies and after a dramatic pause, when all is silent, make a little muffled whispery noise out of the side of my mouth.

(Looking around, amazed and wide-eyed.) “Wait a minute. Did you hear that?”

More whispery noise.

“That sounded kind of like a kitten, but all the kittens around here were killed a long time ago.”

Whispery noise.

“You know what? I think that’s God. He is looking down on us! Shhh, let’s listen.”

Whispery noise.

“What’s that, God? You are watching over us? And you have some thoughts for us?”

Whispery noise.

“Oh, I see. Yes, God, I will pass on your words.”

(Back to addressing the students levelly.) “God told me that you all losers better fucking pass summer school.”