Ask Cranky Frankie

We haven’t checked the “Ask Cranky Frankie” mailbox in a while. Let’s see what the mailman has for us today.

Dear Cranky Frankie:

I keep hearing the word “abomination” lately. It’s all over the place. Everything all of a sudden is an abomination. It’s used so often and in so many different contexts that I’m not even sure what an abomination is anymore. Can you help?

Becoming Utterly Bemused

Dear BUB:

Here are three examples of what an abomination is:

— Pineapple on pizza (this really should be a felony, or at least a misdemeanor);

— Taking a classic jam like “In A Gadda Da Vida” by Iron Butterfly or “Light my Fire” by The Doors and chopping it up into a three-minute mess for pop radio; and

— Having a disturbingly high-pitched woman on a high rotation TV ad speak in “uptalk,” where every sentence is a question, so much that you literally have to mute the commercial every time it comes on? I mean it’s so bad? It’s just too bad I can’t stand it? You know what I mean?

****

Dear Cranky Frankie:

I realize the need for constipation medicines, I really do. But why does every constipation commercial have to end with the person dancing euphorically after the product does its job? Isn’t there anyone writing these commercials who can think of other ways to indicate the thankful sense of relief after a long-awaited successful bowel movement?

Feeling Ultimately Low and Lost

Dear FULL:

I know what you mean. If I were in advertising, I would not pay the person who said, “and then, after she poops, let’s show her dancing!” What a joke. Here are some ways I’d like to see a long-awaited successful trip to the bathroom depicted:

— A full-on, top-of-the-lungs, deep-throated all-out shout, like when your team makes the playoffs (“Oh Yeeaaahhhhh!”);

— A sly wink of the eye while sipping a nice beverage; or

— A cartwheel, followed by a jump, followed by a split (and I’d sure buy the medicine that allowed me to do all that without serious injury, haha).

****

Dear Cranky Frankie:

I love the thought of long car trips with my husband. It seems to me that, because it’s just the two of us, it’s the perfect time to really open up to each other and share our most intimate and personal thoughts. What a great way to get even closer!

Yet my husband insists on listening to the radio when we’re in the car. He can listen to anything: music, news, talk, etc. It never ends. There always has to be something coming out of the speakers! How can I let the most important man in my life know that I relish the thought of deep, meaningful conversations while driving, mile after thoughtful, soul-searching mile?

Wondering, Often Not Knowing

Dear WONK:

Can you repeat that? I was changing the station, sorry.

****

Dear Cranky Frankie:

My husband keeps taking my good towels and using them to soak up spills, clean the floor, etc. I keep telling him we have boxes of rags to use for things like that.

He doesn’t seem to get it, though. He’s always using my good towels to clean really dirty, awful things! How can I get him to stop this annoying and destructive behavior?

Praying for Energetic yet Responsible Husband Control

Dear PERCH:

Let me get this straight: You have a husband who does actual cleaning, and you’re complaining? Give me a break! You don’t know how lucky you have it, girl.

Here’s what to do: Put the rags in the spot where the “good” towels are. Then, when he wants to, unbelievably, clean something on his own, he’ll grab a rag and be good to go. By the way, what are “good” towels, anyway? A towel is a towel, period. You’re welcome.

****

Dear Cranky Frankie:

Does this dress make me look fat?

Not Only Wondering, Also Yearning

Dear NOWAY:

There is no good answer to this question, so let’s just move on.

****

Dear Cranky Frankie:

I’ve got this pain in my neck. It’s killing me. Right here. No, not there. Here. Yes, that’s it.

Like a stabbing, shooting pain when my neck is in this position. No, not like that, like this. Ouch! Holy Mother of God! What a pain in the neck, literally. What can I do?

Hurts, And Hurts Again

Dear HAHA:

Consider this: No number from 1 to 999 inclusive has the letter “a” in its printed word form. Have you ever even considered that? And here you are worried about your neck.

****

Dear Cranky Frankie:

Why are so-called “broadsheet” newspapers like The New York Times so popular? For one thing, they are so physically large that it’s hard to use them, even spread out on a table. Then there’s trying to read them on a train or a bus. You spend more time folding them creatively just to follow a story than actually reading the story.

Finally, stories are never continued on the next page, but often dozens of pages later. By the time you get to the page where the story is continued, you’ve moved on to something else. It’s terrible. Yet broadsheets are pervasive in the newspaper industry. Why does printing newspapers in this ridiculously large format continue?

Bothered Utterly Regarding Printing

Dear BURP:

It takes a real man — or woman — to handle a broadsheet on the bus or subway. Back in the day, it was a rite of passage for commuters everywhere. Now with everyone zoned out on their phones all day I fear broadsheet-reading skills may be lost forever. No worries, though: All that paper still comes in handy for lining the birdcage and lighting the barbecue.

****

Dear Cranky Frankie:

Is Dusty Springfield the greatest female singer of all time?

Perusing Other Performers Sonically

Dear POPS:

None other than Sir Elton John had this to say about the iconic and timeless Dusty Springfield: “I’m biased, but I just think she was the greatest white singer there ever has been.”

Here, here, old man, I’m down with that.

All I know is whenever I hear “I Only Want to Be With You,” “The Look of Love,” “You don’t Have to Say You Love Me,” “Son of a Preacher Man,” and so many more of her hits, I know that there may be other singers as good as Dusty, but there was no one better.

“Anyone Who Had a Heart” would certainly agree with me I’m sure. Long live the great Dusty Springfield!

****

Dear Cranky Frankie:

My son was in his room when it was time for lunch. I wanted to bring him a wrap, but he was blasting rap, which to me sounds like crap, so I gave the door a slap.

I said “come out, Jack.”

He said, “Chill out, Mack!”

I just about snapped, so I left the wrap. That’s life in this flat. Oh drat! One time he even spat. I thought that was that. Oh, snap! It’s not fun, but he’s my son, so what can I do to not be so blue?

Blasting Urban Rock Non-Stop

Dear BURN:

I don’t know about your son, but I think you just wrote a pretty good hip-hop song. If you need an agent, let me know.

****

Dear Cranky Frankie:

I want to learn Mandarin. Can you please help?

Yearning Often, Yearning Openly

Dear YOYO:

I sure can help you learn Mandarin. To begin, go to the produce section of your favorite supermarket. Look for orange mesh bags, or even little wooden boxes, filled with Mandarins. When you get your Mandarin home, you have to peel it.

Usually you can do this with your fingers if you are careful, but keep a knife handy just in case. Once you remove the rind, you should carefully remove as much of the white stringy stuff as you can.

You can then enjoy your Mandarin just as it is, but if you feel a little daring and crazy, here’s a tip: Mandarins make colorful accouterments for those otherwise ordinary weeknight side salads. Learning Mandarin is not only easy, but tasty and fun as well. Bon appetit!

****

That’s all for now, faithful readers. Keep those great questions coming in.

“Say goodnight, Cranky Frankie.”

“Goodnight, Cranky Frankie.”