I was reminded of the phrase today when my friend Eric wondered aloud about installing a synthetic-ice hockey rink some day in the backyard of his Los Angeles home.
This was a fascinating topic of conversation for me, and one I had no small amount of self-interest in encouraging. But Eric’s wife seemed less excited about the project.
Over her dead body, she basically said.
To which I replied, “What I hear you saying, Alex, is, ‘Let’s put a pin in it.’”
This was a correct usage of this particular Aleenism. The phrase means, ‘Let’s discuss it later.’ The time to use it is when a person has just said, in no uncertain terms, Nuh-uh, no way, not in this lifetime, pal, and don’t bring it up again if you want to stay married to me.
That’s when you cheerfully tell your spouse: ‘No need to decide now! Let’s put a pin in it!
I THOUGHT WILLIE HORTON RETIRED? This was a question voiced today by opposing baseball coach Albert Stroth when my son Jesse came up to bat in little league baseball.
I was confused because the only Willie Horton I ever knew of was the bearded, scary-looking rapist who was furloughed by Massachusetts Gov. Mike Dukakis and who was then used as a race-card bogeyman by George H. Bush during the 1988 presidential campaign.
For my own part, I couldn’t see a strong resemblance between the angry-looking sex offender and my admittedly husky, but generally non-violent 8-year-old son.
Turns out Coach Stroth was talking about a different Willie Horton, one who played outfield for the Detroit Tigers in the 1960s and who was one of the early designated hitters when the position was first adopted by major league baseball in the 1970s.
The baseball Willie Horton never raped anyone, though he did kill a pigeon with a pop-up at Fenway Park in 1974.
Speaking of scary images, I encourage even non-hockey fans to watch at least a few moments of Game 6 of the Stanley Cup Finals on Monday night between Boston and Vancouver. Players are starting to look pretty damned frightening!
This is due to several factors, including: 1. standard accumulation of facial scars and bruises from playoff hockey; 2. typical hockey-rink pallor, which conjures for me the word consumptive; 3. long nasty ‘playoff beards’ stemming from hockey tradition of not shaving till your team either wins the Stanley Cup or gets knocked out; and 4. the 1,000-yard stare which comes from having played eight straight months of a ridiculously punishing sport.
Between breaks in play on Monday night, as the camera pans along the bench, you will see faces which appear to have been plucked straight from a Matthew Brady photograph of the U.S. Civil War.
Or from the faces of Yukon gold miners suffering bad case of cabin fever.
Or from the face of Nicholson’s character in The Shining.
Check it out, people. 8pm, Eastern time, Monday, on NBC.
ADMIT IT! IT SUCKS! Today my high school history teacher, Mr. Turner, alerted me via Facebook to an article about the band Steely Dan.
Steely Dan is like wine, jazz, and organic vegetables. People reach an almost religious fervor discussing the topic.
But, to borrow the title from the old Joe Queenan series of essays in Spy magazine in the 1990s, “Admit It! It Sucks!” Queenan wrote funny essays on jazz and the American Civil War. If he ever writes another one, I hope he’ll do it on Steely Dan.
If I never again hear the tunes “Rikki, Don’t Lose That Number” and “Reelin’ in the Years,” that will be an optimal outcome.
GOD FINALLY GOT TIRED OF MY CRAP. I was listening today to the sports radio host Colin Cowherd. He was describing a violent thunderstorm last weekend. He was driving through pounding rain, lightning was striking all around him. He thought he was going to die.
What a great line. I love the idea of God hitting the kill switch out of straight-up irritation.
The words belong on a tombstone.
TOTAL JUICEBOX. Locally derived slang for ‘douchebag.’ Stems from a sideline altercation among parents at a youth soccer game last fall.
I heard the story third-hand, so it’s probably littered with factual errors. But supposedly one angry dad called another a “douchebag.”
On the way home, the child of the alleged D-Bag said, ‘Dad, why did that guy call you a juicebox?’
A friend of mine now says, whenever describing a person who was unpleasant or difficult to deal with, “Total juicebox.”