Not lame duck. "Physically-challenged" duck. Mike Lowry's first official act after being sworn in as governor was to change the designation "Chief of Staff" to "Head of Staff," seeking to heal the offendedness of American Indians, despite the fact that: "chief" is not an Indian term but is in fact of Latin derivation; Latin-Americans protested the change; Indians didn't mind and in fact had never noticed and have yet to; the official garmenture of the position - a war bonnet - now looks kind of silly. And I recall we all praised Governor Lowry for his ability to maintain a keen caringness in the midst of impending state bankruptcy. Well, now word comes down that "Head of Staff" has also botched the sensitivity litmus, offensive due to its homoerotic overtones, despite the fact that: no one is offended, despite best efforts; many are frankly quite charmed by the image conveyed; it is of Greek derivation, not Homosexual. The new title for that position will be Man in Charge of Staff.

Cops behind bars. Underage drinking has reached near-epidemic proportions, a chilling fact that will be supported by statistical evidence someday. So last month we began seeing this TV spot on PBS featuring Head of Police Norm Stamper: "Kids, I'm Head of Police Norm Stamper. I know you all are - or are going to be - alcoholically-active. And federal law requires me to tell you that the safest way to drink is not to drink at all ... you figure it out. But if you're going to drink, and you will ... mightn't you be drinking Peach Fuzz, the new lo-alcohol wine cooler for kids made by Miller®, the folks who bring you Colt .45 malt liquor?" And here he hands the bottle to Big Bird, who smiles.
And I'm thinking: Norman Stamper. Man in Charge of Police. Marching comfortably in Gay Pride. Hates Christians. Once he put his arm around a drag queen. And now this peach-flavored refresher for kids. In Seattle, apparently, cop stands for copacetic, baby. Norm? This one's on me.

Pilot error. Many of you are aware that electronic devices such as Game Boys and pacemakers can interfere with the goings-on of aircraft flap and fin control, and are actually banned on certain flights. Not on ill-fated USAir Flight 542 last October, sent spinning ass-over-elbows by, typically, the servo-motors built into Slade Gorton's face that allow him to change expression; apparently they were over-heated by a genuine, warm smile on the part of the Senator (seems a stewardess stumbled and dropped her tray). And the jumbo-jet veered out of control. But the pilot landed it safely, however.

Patch Pals. One of the more pleasurable duties involved in being the Curator of Liberal Arcana at this rag is making sense of the utterances of those I admire. Case in point: Governor Lowry's press conference of Thursday last. Armed with a pen, a calculator, and a towel, I moved to the front row and braced myself. "One of the greatest moral outrages of our day," said he, a measurer of such things, "is when those whose lives you are trying to save ... ignore you." And I thought: Okay ... makes sense. He pointed out that, despite state-run school health programs, Washington youngsters insist on being sickly, mean-spirited and murderous. Solution: condom allowances would henceforth be supplemented by the distribution of medicinal Patches. "The Vita-Patch," he said, rolling up his sleeve, "provides all the necessary nutrients needed to sustain life. Fiber for proper bowel maintenance can be provided by, say, 16 oz. of shredded newsprint per diem." Me: mm-hmm. Makes sense. He rolls up his other sleeve. "The Folgers Patch. As part of a stress-management regimen, we will be emphasizing the Decaf Patch." Alright. Makes sense. He turns around and points to his bald spot. "The Minoxidil Patch. Hair grows under the Patch. Of course, removing the Patch will pull out the fragile young hairs." Me: makes sense again ... I love my job.

Mon-NEWT-onous. President LBJ had a clever way of "forgetting" the names of aides who had disappointed him in the later years when his mind began to fail, and I have a similar charming thing that I do with those who I have come to be displeased with: I construct cruel puns from their names. A little thing I do to keep folks - co-workers, political figures - from getting on my bad side. You might have noticed that I've been ending my columns recently with clever twists on the name NEWT GINGRICH. These little humiliations have kept us in stitches around the ol' homestead.
Well, Managing Editor Katherine Koldberg lumbers on over last week and suggests that perhaps the "Newtpuns" have been getting a little tired over the last two years. And she slipped in a reference to the burgeoning storm of cancelled subscriptions.
And I told her that I frankly did not understand what concern it was of hers, that I am an artist, not a businessman, and that I respected her too much to lose my job over this. So, although I will continue to create them - and to fax them to the Speaker - on my own time, no more Newt puns.
Anagrams. Between coffee-breaks I like to do anagrams in my head, and mangling the name of Der Speaker has been a real joy. See for yourself: GETTING RICH, CRINGING TWIT, I'M THE GRINCH, and my favorite, TWO LIL' INCHES, which came to me in a dream. If you use NEWT H. GINGRICH, you seem to get HIM WHITE WRETCH, if in fact that is his middle initial.
Cryptograms. You know, simple letter-substitution codes. They're a real delight. So far I've come up with: GRIM UNGUENTS; OWNS PROPERTY; and NUKE! GANGWAY! Try 'em. Do them the way you do any other cryptogram. You should get NEWT GINGRICH every time.
Palindromes. No matter how I do it, it always comes out HCIRGNIG TWEN. This will require all my creative powers.
Homonyms. I will have some interesting ones for you next week.
As always, if you send me your suggestions - and if they are good ones - I'll be glad to print them, taking credit.

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