Wear Sunscreen or WD-40
Keith Sullivan
legends when they posted a commencement speech which they attributed to
Kurt Vonnegut. It was a great hoax and captured the imagination of the
world via the Internet, print media and most recently, the record
industry. The following is a parody of that article written by a
columnist for the Charleston, West Virginia, Gazette. In case some of
you may have actually missed the original article/top 40 hit, and
follow-up, I'm also inlcuding it. --Keith
A WELL-OILED FUTURE IS ONLY A SPRAY AWAY
By Rick Steelhammer, Charleston Gazette, May 2, 1999
A lot of Top 40 air time has been devoted recently to "Sunscreen," a
spoken-word recording of graduation ceremony advice served up in a 1997
Chicago Tribune column by Mary Schmich.
While "Sunscreen" was enjoyable the first couple of times it was played,
it quickly became annoying to me as it was repeated time after time,
until it nearly became the "Achy Breaky Heart" of watered-down rap.
Plus, the guy who recites Schmich's column to a techno-pop backbeat
emotes with all the angst and soul of Al Gore on decaf.
Since "Sunscreen" continues to clog the playlists on America's Top 40
radio stations, it's only fair that country music fans should have to
suffer, too. Therefore, I've developed a C&W version of the
production. I call it "WD-40."
Ladies and gentlemen of the Class of '99:
Carry WD-40.
If I could offer you only one tip for the future, WD-40 would be it.
The short-term benefits of the all-purpose lubricant have long been
established, whereas the rest of my advice has no foundation more firm
than my own deep-rooted opinions on just about everything. I will
dispense a few of them now.
Enjoy the power and the beauty of your roots. Oh, never mind. You will
not understand until you move away to a city where "country cooking"
means white cream gravy on tough steaks and the only ramps you see are
made of concrete and attached to freeways. But trust me, in 20 years
that patch of land you can't wait to get away from will become the Old
Homeplace, and its memories will tug at you like a 6-month-old puppy
with a full bladder on his first walk of the day.
Live in Charleston once, but leave before the emissions cause permanent
damage. Live in Huntington once, but leave before you find yourself
becoming jealous of Charleston.
Don't buy a truck from a salesman named Slick, or play pool for money
with a guy named Stick. Do carry jumper cables and change your oil
every 3,000 miles. Always scrape off your boots before entering the cab
of your brother-in-law's new pickup.
Don't hurry into the future. Or hurry, but be disappointed when you get
there sooner than you ever dreamed possible. By the time you're
middle-aged, you'll still have plenty of time to get blindsided by new
problems, like having your mountaintop removed or discovering that your
401(K) is totally invested in the Asian money market.
Do one thing every day that scares you -- like reading this newspaper.
Spit.
Accept certain inalienable truths: Most congregations disapprove of
wearing cammies to church. Most women prefer not to watch "Bass
Masters." Pro wrestling is rigged. Truck stops don't always serve the
best food. The best politician is not necessarily the one offering free
half-pints of bourbon.
Scratch.
Don't feel guilty if you don't know what to do with your husband or
wife. The most interesting people I know are still struggling with the
problem -- sometimes for the second or third time. Besides, where would
country music be without the dilemma?
Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe they'll run off with your
best friend, maybe they won't. Maybe the bottle will let you down,
maybe it won't. Maybe the finance company will repossess your truck and
leave you and your dog, Blue, homeless, and maybe it won't. Maybe
you'll end up on a Jerry Springer video titled "Too Trashy for TV," and
maybe you won't. Life's a crap shoot, and there's plenty of shooting
material out there. Keep your head down.
Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but the top of your doghouse.
On second thought, that spot may be taken.
Pick. A guitar, that is.
Enjoy your belly. Use it every way you can, be it cushion, bumper or
beer repository. Don't be afraid of it or what other people think of
it. You've earned it -- be proud.
Be careful of whose advice you take, particularly if it's coming from a
radio talk show host or a telemarketer.
But to cope in today's world, you need help to stay loose and keep
things from freezing up when you need to move forward.
So trust me on the WD-40.
http://www.wvgazette.com/Columns/steelhammer0502.html
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
KURT VONNEGUT'S COMMENCEMENT ADDRESS AT MIT
Ladies and gentlemen of the class of '97:
Wear sunscreen.
If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be
it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists,
whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own
meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.
Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not
understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But
trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall
in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how
fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.
Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as
effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum.
The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed
your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 pm on some idle
Tuesday.
Do one thing every day that scares you.
Sing.
Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people
who are reckless with yours.
Floss.
Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes
you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with
yourself.
Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed
in doing this, tell me how.
Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.
Stretch.
Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life.
The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to
do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know
still don't.
Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when
they're gone.
Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe
you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky
chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't
congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices
are half chance. So are everybody else's.
Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of
what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever
own.
Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.
Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.
Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.
Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for
good. Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past
and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.
Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should
hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle,
because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you
when you were young.
Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in
Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft. Travel.
Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will
philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize
that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were
noble, and children respected their elders.
Respect your elders.
Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund.
Maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one
might run out.
Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you're 40 it will look
85.
Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply
it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing
the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts
and recycling it for more than it's worth.
But trust me on the sunscreen.
Matt Persico <mper...@erols.com>
Jeff Moore <j...@instinet.com>
Nev Dull <n...@bostic.com>
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
HOAX RETRACTION [BURNED!!]
A fast note to let you know the Vonnegut commencement address is a
phony. A good phony, but a phony. And it's getting sprayed all across
the net.
Yes, I'm positive.
Bob Weide, Vonnegut's friend and the author & co-producer of the movie
rendition of "Mother Night", wrote:
Yesterday I confirmed for the Vonnegut Newsgroup that the MIT address
attributed to Kurt, and spread all over the Web, was a hoax. It was not
written nor delivered by Kurt at MIT or anywhere. Copies of this thing
were E-mailed to me from all corners -- even received one from Scotland.
Well, it seems as though my response spread through the Internet almost
as thoroughly as the speech itself. Today (8/1), my E-mailbox was full
of letters from strangers, responding to my post. In any event, I can
now clear up part of this mystery:
There is a columnist for the Chicago Tribune named Mary Schmich. The
words were hers, in her column from the June 1 issue of the Trib. She
never passed it off as Vonnegut's, nor was his name ever evoked in the
column. In fact, her column contained a prologue, missing on the
Internet version, which I will reprint here...
** ** ** ** **
ADVICE, LIKE YOUTH, PROBABLY JUST WASTED ON THE YOUNG
"Inside every adult lurks a graduation speaker dying to get out, some
world-weary pundit eager to pontificate on life to young people who'd
rather be Rollerblading. Most of us, alas, will never be invited to sow
our words of wisdom among an audience of caps and gowns, but there's no
reason we can't entertain ourselves by composing a Guide to Life for
Graduates.
"I encourage anyone over 26 to try this and thank you for indulging my
attempt.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the Class of 97..."
** ** ** ** **
The missing piece of this puzzle is: Who is "Culprit Zero?" That is,
who originally placed it on the Internet, crediting it to Kurt? Mary
Schmich, whom I spoke with today (a very nice woman, by the way), was
horrified at the idea that anyone would think the deed was hers, or that
she was trying to "rip Kurt off." She told me she had read "Cat's
Cradle" back in college, but that was about it. She's never heard him
speak and couldn't consciously duplicate his style if she wanted to.
She even tracked Kurt down on the phone today to explain what had
happened and confirm her lack of culpability. Kurt was, of course, good
natured about it. (Frankly, my fear is that this will be the new "Venus
on the Halfshell" and that Kurt will be hounded over the next few years
by people asking him about his MIT address.)
One last point: Mary said that when her article originally appeared in
the Tribune, she certainly received a favorable reaction and some nice
phone calls, but that was all. Suddenly, the same words are credited to
a well-known author, and it's being quoted and E-mailed all over the
world within hours. Talk about the power of name recognition. Also,
another lesson in individual responsibility, or lack thereof, in the
computer age.
I believe Mary is now working on a column about all this for the weekend
Tribune.
Neil Rest <Neil...@tezcat.com>
Rebecca L. Eisenberg" <ma...@bossanova.com>
Sandor Weisz <fer...@merle.acns.nwu.edu>
Dan Galvin <dan-g...@TAMU.EDU>
Aaron Dickey <kie...@interport.net>
Nev Dull <n...@bostic.com>
** ** ** ** **
Date: Sunday, August 3, 1997
Source: Mary Schmich.
Section: METRO CHICAGO
Parts: 1
Copyright Chicago Tribune
VONNEGUT? SCHMICH? WHO CAN TELL IN CYBERSPACE?
I am Kurt Vonnegut.
Oh, Kurt Vonnegut may appear to be a brilliant, revered male novelist.
I may appear to be a mediocre and virtually unknown female newspaper
columnist. We may appear to have nothing in common but unruly hair.
But out in the lawless swamp of cyberspace, Mr. Vonnegut and I are one.
Out there, where any snake can masquerade as king, both of us are the
author of a graduation speech that began with the immortal words, "Wear
sunscreen."
I was alerted to my bond with Mr. Vonnegut Friday morning by several
callers and e-mail correspondents who reported that the sunscreen speech
was rocketing through the cyberswamp, from L.A. to New York to Scotland,
in a vast e-mail chain letter.
Friends had e-mailed it to friends, who e-mailed it to more friends, all
of whom were told it was the commencement address given to the
graduating class at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The
speaker was allegedly Kurt Vonnegut.
Imagine Mr. Vonnegut's surprise. He was not, and never has been, MIT's
commencement speaker.
Imagine my surprise. I recall composing that little speech one Friday
afternoon while high on coffee and M&M's. It appeared in this space on
June 1. It included such deep thoughts as "Sing," "Floss," and "Don't
mess too much with your hair." It was not art.
But out in the cyberswamp, truth is whatever you say it is, and my
simple thoughts on floss and sunscreen were being passed around as Kurt
Vonnegut's eternal wisdom.
Poor man. He didn't deserve to have his reputation sullied in this way.
So I called a Los Angeles book reviewer, with whom I'd never spoken,
hoping he could help me find Mr. Vonnegut.
"You mean that thing about sunscreen?" he said when I explained the
situation. "I got that. It was brilliant. He didn't write that?"
He didn't know how to find Mr. Vonnegut. I tried MIT.
"You wrote that?" said Lisa Damtoft in the news office. She said MIT
had received many calls and e-mails on this year's "sunscreen"
commencement speech. But not everyone was sure: Who had been the
speaker?
The speaker on June 6 was Kofi Annan, secretary general of the United
Nations, who did not, as Mr. Vonnegut and I did in our speech, urge his
graduates to "dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living
room." He didn't mention sunscreen.
As I continued my quest for Mr. Vonnegut -- his publisher had taken the
afternoon off, his agent didn't answer -- reports of his "sunscreen"
speech kept pouring in.
A friend called from Michigan. He'd read my column several weeks ago.
Friday morning he received it again -- in an e-mail from his boss. This
time it was not an ordinary column by an ordinary columnist. Now it was
literature by Kurt Vonnegut.
Fortunately, not everyone who read the speech believed it was Mr.
Vonnegut's.
"The voice wasn't quite his," sniffed one doubting contributor to a
Vonnegut chat group on the Internet. "It was slightly off -- a little
too jokey, a little too cute ... a little too 'Seinfeld.'"
Hoping to find the source of this prank, I traced one e-mail backward
from its last recipient, Hank De Zutter, a professor at Malcolm X
College in Chicago. He received it from a relative in New York, who
received it from a film producer in New York, who received it from a TV
producer in Denver, who received it from his sister, who received it....
I realized the pursuit of culprit zero would be endless. I gave up.
I did, however, finally track down Mr. Vonnegut. He picked up his own
phone. He'd heard about the sunscreen speech from his lawyer, from
friends, from a women's magazine that wanted to reprint it until he
denied he wrote it.
"It was very witty, but it wasn't my wittiness," he generously said.
Reams could be written on the lessons in this episode. Space confines
me to two.
One: I should put Kurt Vonnegut's name on my column. It would be like
sticking a Calvin Klein label on a pair of Kmart jeans.
Two: Cyberspace, in Mr. Vonnegut's word, is "spooky."
** ** ** ** **
[And here's a clip from the columnists' profiles from the Chicago
Tribune]
MARY THERESA SCHMICH
Mary Theresa Schmich was born in Savannah, Ga., the oldest of eight
children, and spent her childhood in Georgia. She attended high school
in Phoenix, then earned a B.A. at Pomona College in Claremont, Calif.
After working in college admissions for three years and spending a year
and a half in France, she attended journalism school at Stanford. She
has worked as a reporter at the Peninsula Times Tribune in Palo Alto,
Calif., at the Orlando Sentinel and, since 1985, at the Chicago
Tribune. She spent five years as a Tribune national correspondent based
in Atlanta.
For three years starting in 1992, she wrote a column for the Tribune.
She left for a year to attend Harvard on a Nieman fellowship for
journalists, then returned to the column in July 1996.
She also writes the "Brenda Starr" comic strip and plays a decent
barroom piano. She lives in Chicago.
Mike Avery <MAv...@mail.otherwhen.com>