STAMFORD'S DESK

by Stamford Buckforth Pimplton, III.

My Goblet Runneth Over

Allow me the opportunity, gentle reader, to summon my most congenial gratitude to Kenneth Socrates and the Rest of the Staff at KenSocrates.com. I've been in the office for merely a week and I'm overjoyed by their generous affections upon my joining their workforce. I feel as if I'm one of the squad and am currently the blissful target of some good natured and ribald hazing. To my nouveau comrades, I can only cry merci for their assistance in helping me put out the fire in my office caused by Ozzy McGurt whimsical firing of Roman candles at my person. Oswald, you are such a delightful scamp and I know we shall be the utmost chums.

Perchance, a quick glance over my curriculum vitae is in order. I wouldn't want you to think that I'm just any bumpkin but an actual homme des lettres. I was born in the city "Where Southern Hospitality Begins", Portsmouth, Ohio. Born to Stamford, Jr., and Ernestine Pimplton, I was a naturally intellectual and precocious child, preferring Baudelaire to Beatrix Potter and H. L. Mencken to H.A. Rey. My mother told me that when I was still a toddler she and father would watch Firing Line and I would sit in front of the television debating William F. Buckley. Even in training pants, I possessed all the wit, aplomb and charm of a New York social lizard.

Earning a 2.5 GPA at Portsmouth High School, I was accepted at the Scioto County Community College up the road in Rosemount. There, I majored in Literature and Mythology, minoring in Writing and taking core courses in Philosophy and Culinary Arts. It was these days as a busy and sweating undergraduate that I became the man I am today. But I wasn't just a brain, oh no, I was involved in athletics with the SCCC Fighting Racists rugby squad. In fact, such a phenom I was, that I was awarded the Utility Bench Cower Forward position. This was a position especially created to fit my unique playing style and I was only brought out in certain situations -- either when the team was very, very far ahead or very, very far behind.

It was at the dormitories of SCCC that I discovered my favorite drink, Milk Punch. Introduced to it by my roommate and tormentor, Houston Knockworth, it soon became apart of my burgeoning image that I was creating for myself. With a beret, walking stick and patent leather shoes, I was was the Best Dressed and Most Erudite man upon the campus.

Soon after graduation, I returned to home ready to tackle the world. Sadly, I found Portsmouth to be on the wane economically as well as socially. Fewer appreciated the arts & letters as much as I did. For a while, it became my ambition to turn Portsmouth into a mecca for culture, a Paris of the Midwest, if you will. Alas, most of the talents I had to offer were considered useless or, in the words of one unnamed unskilled laborer, "gay".

So it was that I moved away from the small town backwater thinking that was my beloved home and came to settle in New York City. It was there that I really began to find my niche. I found work as a gopher for a very high-profile arts & leisure magazine, perhaps you might have heard of it, THE NEW YORKER. I was an earnest, hard working lad and I was quite proud that, under my tutelage, the New Yorker ads were always delivered to the typesetters on time. Perhaps it was this dedication to hard work that I eventually began to get noticed "Mr. Shawn", himself, once complimented me on my choice of ascot. And it was me who would get those 3AM emergency phone calls to get Eustace Tilley out of the drunk tank and at home.

Oh dear, look. I could drone on and on about myself, can't I? And I think I shall. More for a later column, perhaps, but since I'm here to critique the Entertainment offerings of our vast and vacuous media, let's give it a go, yes? I must admit firsthand that I don't watch a lot of television so I might be a bit challenged when it comes to names, plots, etc. However, if you're willing to forgive my shortcomings, I'll be willing to forgive the contempt I have for having to watch this turgid medium.

Grey's Anatomy. Um. First off, they've spelled the name of the book incorrectly. It should be Gray's Anatomy after the human biologist, Henry Gray. And it's not even a faithful adaptation of that. It's more of a modern storytelling. It does focus on anatomy but it's essentially just an excuse for the principals to screw their rutting brains out.

Deal or No Deal. I was once in a one-act play with Howie Mandel back in the early 80s. The book itself was adapted from T.S. Eliot's poem The Waste Land. At that time, I knew Mr. Mandel would be going places, what with his incredible knack for doing a kid voice and inflating latex gloves over his head. I'm not sure what sort of character he plays on this drama but I am convinced unmovingly that the Banker is a complete and utter bastard. I predict a season-ending cliffhanger where the Banker is shot point blank by one of those lovely girls (or is it Mr. Mandel's character?) and we're left to ponder the summer months asking ourselves Who Did It?

Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader? Yes, I bloody am and I don't need some pandering yokel like Jeff Foxworthy asking me that question every damn minute.

CSI: Cold Case & Order. I think that's what it's called. Anyway, the murders are rather grisly and we spend much too much time lingering over the bodies of dead people in these series. For me, this is excessively overdramatic gore. I prefer the dainty whodunits of Agatha Christie. Give me a cup of tea and an Hercule Poirot exercising his little grey cells any day.

Alas, it appears that I've run out of column space for this edition. But fear not, I shall return next time with another delightful column. I hope you won't mind if I drop a name or two. I do so suffer from butterfingers at times.

Ho ho.

Yours,

Stamford.