Life’s Funny

LIFE'S FUNNY

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August 2025

Wiped Out

A plunge into the dark side of gendered toiletries

By Maria Johnson

Some things you cannot unsee.

Consider the day I go shopping for personal care items, and I’m stopped cold by a stack of imposing black packages on a shelf crammed with otherwise brightly colored products.

I move closer to the interloper.

“Dude Wipes,” the soft-sided package proclaims. “48 flushable wipes. Mint Chill, with mint and eucalyptus oils.”

Wet wipes? Specifically for men?

I scan the package for more clues. My eyes fall on a big one: “XL.”

No other size is available.

Yep. This is definitely a product by men, for men. Since when would a man cop to needing anything other than an extra large?

I flip over the package, hoping for some kind of explanation. Sure enough, there is the origin story:

“Back in the day, we founded DUDE out of our apartment in Chicago. We were so tired of dealing with dry toilet paper during the aftermath of a lunchtime burrito. Something needed to be done. So we created DUDE Wipes to put you back on your game whenever nature calls.”

It is signed “DUDE.”

Simply “DUDE.”

Next to the backstory are directions: “Grab one and wipe, Dude.”

Well, I think to myself, this is a good thing. At least some men will understand the concept of mansplaining now.

Right next to the directions lie an American flag and an assurance — for those worried about foreign-born wipes — that the disposable cloths are “Assembled in the U.S.”

At times like this, I have so many questions. Truly, it’s the downside of curiosity, especially when I’m in a hurry.

But it doesn’t stop me from wondering: Are baby wipes not enough for the XYs among us? Are the tyke towelettes too small? Too flimsy? Too childish?

And burritos? Really? Is that a legit story or just marketers blowing mesquite smoke?

And what’s up with mint chill? Is that a flavor? Or a sensation?

“Huh,” I say aloud.

I look up to see a man and a woman pushing a cart toward me. The narrow aisle requires me to move my cart over. They’re eyeing the package I am holding.

“Have you seen these?” I say, holding up the wipes and offering a faint laugh. “They’re for men.”

They hurry by me. I feel vaguely embarrassed. Will they wheel their cart straight to the manager and report a woman fondling the Dude Wipes?

I tuck the package back onto the shelf and round the corner.

I almost run into Duke Cannon.

Do you know Duke?

Duke Cannon Supply Co.?

You might recognize the blocky “D” on their displays.

They make a relatively new line of grooming products including a hand balm called “Bloody Knuckles,” featuring a label with two old-timey boxers wearing handlebar mustaches and long pants; a lip balm that claims to be “Offensively Large” (what else?); and face and body wipes that fly under the banner of “Cold Shower,” a product clearly meant to chill the overheated front-sides of fellows.

By now, I am indelibly aware that Dude Wipes has their backsides covered.

There’s more.

Duke Cannon also make soaps, apparently for Dude users when they decide it’s time for a deep cleaning.

One product, the “Big Ass Brick of Soap,” is available in the dangerously romantic scent of Midnight Swim; the militarily dominant fragrance of Midway (as in the World War II Battle of Midway?); and the aromatic Buffalo Trace edition, which swears it’s made with real Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey.

Because alcohol cuts grease?

Because everyone wants their employer to catch a whiff of booze on them first thing in the morning?

Should a Duke user not want to risk dropping his soap in the shower, the company also sells a “tactical scrubber,” aka a mesh pouch with a carrying strap.

More effeminate consumers might call this soap on a rope, a fact acknowledged in Duke’s fine print because, seriously, who knows what a tactical scrubber is anyway? Something that goes on a smoke stack in a war zone? Someone who scrubs military intel from classified files?

I think of a potential baby shower gift I saw recently: a “tactical baby carrier” for dad. The product listing showed the midsection of a burly, tattoo-sleeved man. Infant limbs protruded from a heavy-duty sling, which was available in black, camel, olive and camouflage.

The grammarian in me was puzzled. Which word, I wondered, was “tactical” intended to modify?

Was the baby tactical? A little Army Ranger?

Or was the carrier tactical? And if so, in which way? Tactical in the sense that mom finally figured out a way for dad to help carry the load, literally?

As I said, curiosity can stand in the way of efficient shopping. So can nostalgia.

Standing there in front of the Duke display, I’m wistful for the nonbinary days of Jergens and Ivory soap. I turn down the antiperspirant aisle hoping for a whiff of neutrality.

Silly me. Maybe I’ve never noticed we live in a nation so divided by toiletries. Maybe my eyes have been wiped clean by an XL Dude Wipe. Or maybe someone is pranking me.

In any case, I find myself in a heavily-gendered never-never-land, where no one need sweat.

Here, in this fictional world, a teenage boy does not smell like a teenage boy, thanks to a line of deodorants adorned with menacing manga-style cartoon characters with names such as RaptorStrike, Wolfthorn, NightPanther and BearGlove.

Here, women only glow in pastel products that make them smell of rose, nectarine, lavender, vanilla and water lily. Never mind that no one this side of White Lotus season three knows what a water lily smells like; it sounds lovely. And hydrating.

Here, adult men are secure in their black, gray and occasionally fire-engine-red containers filled with products scented to evoke Timber, Deep Sea, Orchard and, because it’s 5 o’clock somewhere, Apple Cider Bourbon, Whiskey Smash and Mint Mojito.

Presumably, one application causes drunkenness, wood-chopping or perhaps winning a marlin fishing tournament.

I briefly consider buying several sticks of the the timber-scented deodorant, smearing my entire body with it, and seeing if that inspires me to hack down the invasive Russian olive shrubs in our backyard.

But I have more pressing plans, underarms and underbrush be damned, so I stoop down to the bottom shelf and grab a stick of boring (and less expensive) Arm & Hammer deodorant.

It feels like an act of rosemary-and-lavender-scented defiance. 

Tea Leaf Astrologer

TEA LEAF ASTROLOGER

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August 2025

Leo

(July 23-August 22)

Outfit, moisturizer or relationship: If it doesn’t shimmer, glitter or downright sparkle, let it go. And while you’re at it, release the urge to draft another birthday reminder text. Don’t you deserve to be celebrated? Of course! But here’s the thing: Nobody can shower you with royalty-level opulence better than you can. When Venus enters your sign on Aug. 25, put on your flashiest threads, crank up some Bruno Mars and treat yourself
to some over-the-top ME time.

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Virgo (August 23 – September 22)

A certain houseplant requires your attention.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

Explore a new color palette.

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

You’re going to want some reinforcement.

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Something smells like trouble.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Trust your instincts.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

Drink more water.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Best to cut the rope.

Aries (March 21 – April 19)

It’s time to delete the app.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

You gotta know when to fold ’em.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

Butter the popcorn, sweetheart.

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

Dare you to go all out.

Sazerac August 2025

SAZERAC

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August 2025

August 2025

Unsolicited Advice

August, it turns out, is the month that most babies are born in the United States. Editor Cassie Bustamante and her older brother are both early-month Leos, born a couple years apart. Knowing that, we don’t have to guess what many Americans are up to in early November, when the weather cools and the days darken. Brown chicken brown cow, if ya catch us. We thought we’d share a list of words we’re fond of that sound like they’d make beautiful baby names, but which we beg you not to use for your August child.

Calamity. Sure, it means sudden disaster, but it rolls adorably off the tongue. And wouldn’t Callie be a sweet nickname?

Dash. Em dash, en dash, DoorDash. Frankly, we like all the dashes. It could even be short for Kardashian, but, whatever you do, never — ever — call them Hyphen.

Lattice. Like Gladys — and makes us think of flowering vines. Or atoms arranged in a crystalline solid, whichever floats your boat.

Typhus. Dionysus was the Greek god of wine, vegetation and fertility. His brother, Typhus, may have been the god of lice, chiggers and fleas.

Arugula. She’s feminine but a little peppery, too. And we bet anyone with this name won’t fight you on eating her greens.

Imbroglio. Sounds masculine and Italian and we’re here for it. Google the meaning before you use it, though, or you might find yourself in “an acutely painful or embarrassing misunderstanding.”

Sage Gardener

What’s in a name? Well, everybody who’s had a halfway decent English teacher knows that dandelion is derived from the Anglo-French phrase “dent de lion” (lion’s teeth, from the leaf’s indented teeth). But did you know that tulip comes from the Turkish “tülbent,” meaning turban; or that the petunia’s name is from the Tupi word petíma for tobacco, stemming from how the two plants are botanically related; or that azalea is Greek for dry, parched and withered, so named for its ability to thrive in a dry climate?

Probably not, unless you subscribe to Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Day.

It’s my guess that the author of that piece probably has a copy of Diana Wells’ 100 Flowers and How They Got Their Names, along with William T. Stearns’ Dictionary of Plant Names for Gardeners. And I suspect his or her copy is as tattered as mine is. 

So let’s start with the dogwood, our state flower, whose wood was supposedly used to build the Trojan horse and whose berries turned Odysseus’ men into pigs. That, according to Wells, who also says the tree’s leaves, bark and berries “have been used to intoxicate fish, make gunpowder, soap and dye, make ink and clean teeth.” You’ve doubtless heard the legend that the old, rugged cross was made of dogwood, and Jesus, feeling the tree’s remorse, transformed it henceforth into a twisted dwarf so that it could never be used for another crucifixion. As for its name, I’m understandably partial to the 1922 theory of L.H. Bailey that its leaves were used to shampoo mangy dogs.

The pine, our state tree, springs from the Latin “pinus,” which etymologists guess (they do a lot of that) derives from a form of the verb “pie,” which means “to be fat or to swell,” with their opining it’s a reference to the pine’s sap or pitch.

Let’s just skip over orchid, which comes from the Greek “orchis,” meaning testicle. And who wants to dwell on the origin of forsythia, named after English gardener William Forsyth, whose recipe for Forsyth’s fruit-tree-healing plaster consisted of cow dung, lime and wood ashes amplified by a splash of soapsuds and urine?

Let’s just go back to Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Day, which once featured plant names that sound like insults. Go ahead, call someone a hoary vervain, stink bell, bladderwort or a dodder. I could go on and on, but my editor has a thing about brevity. So I’ll close with my favorite names of wildflowers — whorled tickseed (whorled means a pattern of spirals or concentric circles), Jacob’s ladder, sweet William, Dutchman’s breeches, foam flower, American boneset, Joe Pie weed, white turtlehead and lanceleaf blanket flower. Pure poetry on the stem or vine.  What is it about our wanting to know the names of plants and animals, as if that little tidbit of knowledge gives us some kind of power? And what is it about a plant’s name that seems so intriguing? As my guide once blurted out after two weeks on a tributary in the furthest reaches of the Amazon River, “Bailey, most people just want to know the name of the dingus, and once told, they shut up. But you’re relentless and keep asking questions.” I told him that it was in my job description as a reporter and an incredibly nosy parker. Besides, I said, I was an English major — until I changed my major to Classical Greek. He just shook his head.    

Window on the Past

Back in the 1950s when families still swam in Lake Hamilton, most moms chatted on the shore as they kept a watchful eye on their children. But not Betty. She just wanted to be left alone with her magazine. And who can blame her?

Just One Thing

As children, we’re taught to recognize patterns. Our music teacher has us clap out one-two, one-two-three. Our science teacher shows us how to recognize patterns in nature’s wonder — the gills of a mushroom or the arrangement within a DNA molecule. Often, as adults inundated with information, we forget to take a moment to appreciate how patterns stimulate our brains. Weatherspoon’s current exhibit, “Pattern Recognition,” reminds us to find the beauty and meaning in them. Linda Besemer’s Baroquesy, 1999 — featuring acrylic paint over aluminum rod, is part of the Weatherspoon collection on display in this exhibit. California-based Besemer knows a thing or two about pattern recognition and society’s strictures about the use of color. “What’s so predictable about the ‘too colorful’ rejection is that it implies that some color is OK, but too much is unacceptable,” she told Scottish artist and writer David Batchelor just a few years after this piece’s creation. She went on to say that she thinks “that the real problem with color is its containment and regulation.” Which, she says, reminds her of how  artists have regarded the female body throughout the history of Western art. Submerge your mind into Weatherspoon’s world of pattern  — and so much more —  through Jan. 10, 2026. Info: weatherspoonart.org/exhibitions_list/pattern-recognition.

Memory Lane

Leaving Lowe’s on Battleground one weekday, I felt a massive pang of nostalgia. The center of that entire property, directly across from ALDI, was the location of the studio and tower for WBIG 1470 AM radio, where Bob Poole broadcast his enormously popular morning show, Poole’s Paradise, throughout the ’50s, ’60s and ’70s.

The quick-witted, basso-buffo voiced, self-anointed “Duke of Stoneville” relocated to Greensboro from his New York network perch in 1952. Soon after, Bob and my father became drinking buddies. As a toddler visiting WBIG’s “Poole Room” while he was broadcasting live, I joined in whistling his theme song, which made Bob burst out laughing. As a teenager, some mornings I’d drop by the station with joke and trivia books.

After faithfully awakening Gate City denizens for 25 years with an audience share that will never be equalled, Bob Poole signed off mere weeks before his death in 1977. Legendary WCOG DJ Dusty Dunn inherited the “BIG” morning slot. In an interview conducted years ago, Dunn recalled negotiating his contract and, of all things, being asked if he wanted batteries included in his employment package: “I said, ‘Batteries? Batteries for what?’ She said, ‘Well, we gave Bob Poole batteries for his flashlight when he wakes up in the morning so he didn’t have to turn on the lights and wake his wife up.’ I couldn’t believe it!”

On the afternoon of November 20, 1986, after celebrating 60 years on the air, the parent company informed WBIG’s general manager that the station would go dark at 6 that evening. Shocked staffers and longtime on-air personalities gathered for a tearful sign-off led by Dusty Dunn.

That decision was basic economics — a relatively small operation was nestled atop an entire city block along Battleground Avenue’s exploding retail corridor, a plot of dirt far more valuable than any revenue a weak AM radio signal could generate.

The last shred left of WBIG’s existence on Battleground is Edney Ridge Road, separating ALDI and Lowe’s, in the 1950s paved for and christened after the founder of the station whose call letters were an initialism for We Believe In Greensboro.

O.Henry Ending

O.HENRY ENDING

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August 2025

A Wild Ride

Please disembark safely and enjoy your day

By Cassie Bustamante

I stand, feet firmly planted on the ground, next to my two kids, a large, looping rollercoaster looming above our heads. Sawyer, 9, has zero interest in being thrust upside-down — no thank you, sir! Emmy, 8 and not yet tall enough to board, watches wistfully as my husband, Chris, hands me his baseball cap and makes his way alone to the line for the 97-degree drop of Fahrenheit, one of Hersheypark’s wildest rides

Like Emmy, I was the second of two children and much more the thrill seeker than my older brother, Dana. He was no scaredy-cat, but he wasn’t leaping in blindly either. Meanwhile, I boarded the jankiest of old wooden coasters, not an ounce of concern for my safety. If others had ridden before — and walked away OK — that was enough for me. As my height inched slowly up, so did the rides. No more wimpy-hilled kid coasters for me, I was ready to be thrown upside-down-and-around at great speeds and even greater heights.

Thankfully, the summer I turned 11, my parents planned a vacation that would scratch everyone’s itch, a road trip from our home in Massachusetts to Virginia. My father sat on our family-room sofa, knees splayed and a road atlas opened on the coffee table in front of him, sketching out our route on a yellow legal pad. This was the 1980s after all, before the days of Waze.

We took a rolling scenic route through the Blue Ridge Mountains on the way down. Dad’s always been interested in nature photography. In fact, a photo he shot graces the cover of the fall 2009 Chesapeake Magazine. And Mom? Colonial Williamsburg was top of her list. For Dana and me, 12 and 10 at the time, there was bicycling along the Virginia Beach boardwalk and — my thrill-loving heart pitter-pattered at the very thought of it — Busch Gardens, an amusement park where roller coasters, whirling, spinning rides and a white-water-rafting adventure awaited.

After waiting in line, Dad and I buckled into the Kelly-green seats of the school-bus-yellow Loch Ness Monster ride, which has been thrilling passengers for just as long as I’ve been taking my parents and brother on a wild ride, since 1978. I can’t even tell you what happened, it went so fast. All I know is, as soon as my feet hit the ground, I was shouting, “Again!” Dana joined me for my second ride.

While the Loch Ness was a hard pass for Mom, she put on a brave face for The Big Bad Wolf, a suspension-seat rollercoaster with zero loops. I opted for the very front car and Dana took the seat next to me. Mom sat behind us with another woman, probably mother to some other pair of kiddos. After the Nessie, the Wolf seemed rather tame. However, Mom howled the entire time, screaming as if an actual wolf was chasing her over the entire German-inspired village below. Dana and I were mortified.

But now, standing at Hersheypark with my own two kids, I understand. Something in me changed when I had kids and, at the very thought of a wild rollercoaster ride, my knees quake.

Windswept, Chris returns to where Sawyer, Emmy and I stand. I hand him back his hat to cover the mess his hair has become. “That,” he says with a dramatic pause, “was incredible!” His eyebrows inch up at me. “You want me to stay with the kids so you can have a turn?”

I look him in the eye as a spark of adventure passes briefly through me. I answer confidently, “Not in a million years.”

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

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August 2025

Brilliant and Blue

The surprisingly complex blue jay

By Susan Campbell

The blue jay is one of those species most of us instantly recognize: a common bird of woodland and backyard. But how well do we really know it?

This medium-sized, raucous bird can be found at feeders or flying around in treetops at any time of the year, but it hardly seems remarkable at first glance. It turns out that they are more complex and unique creatures than you might think.

Jays are closely related to crows, which are a highly evolved species. As a result, jays, too, exhibit a relatively advanced degree of intelligence. They have complex social systems. Blue jays remain together as a family for a relatively long period and also mate for life. These birds have dingy gray under parts and upper parts that are various shades of blue with gray and black markings as well as a blue crest.

Not only do they communicate with their voices, but also with body language. Changes in the jay’s crest are one of the most obvious ways they express themselves. Not surprisingly, it is raised when an individual is alarmed or is trying to be intimidating.

The unique black lines, or brindle pattern, on individuals is no doubt recognized by conspecifics. Interestingly, the pigment found in jay feathers is produced by melanin, which is actually brown. It is the structures on the barbs of the bird’s feathers that cause light to reflect in the blue wavelength.

In addition to their bright coloration, jays attract attention with their loud calls. They make a variety of squawks and screams, usually from a perch high in the canopy. Furthermore, they are known to mimic other birds’ calls, especially hawks. Whether this is an alarm tactic or whether they are trying to fool other species is not clear. The great early ornithologist John Audubon interpreted this as a tactic that allowed blue jays to rob nests of smaller birds such as warblers and vireos that were scattered by the hawk sounds. Modern studies of blue jay diets, however, have not found that eggs or nestlings are common foods. In fact, in feeding trials, this species is often outcompeted by other jay species, woodpeckers and blackbirds.

Another mystery is why, in some years, these birds migrate and some years they do not. Blue jays are particularly fond of acorns. So it may be that, in years when oaks are not very prolific, jays move southward in search of their favorite food. How many blue jays will remain in the Piedmont and Sandhills this winter will depend on the mast crop — especially the abundance of white oak acorns. These birds are very capable of gathering seeds in a specialized pouch in their throat and carrying them to nearby holes or crevices where individuals will stash them.

Blue jays have very definite nesting duties. Males collect most of the materials: live twigs, grasses and rootlets. The females create the large cup, incubate and brood the young birds. All the while the male feeds her and then forages for the tiny nestlings. Once the young have developed a good layer of down, the female will join the search for food for the rapidly growing family. It is not unusual for young jays to wander away from the nest before actual fledging occurs, though the parents are not likely to feed the begging youngster unless they return to the nest. It is during this period that people may “rescue” the wayward youngsters.

Finally, reports of “bald” blue jays are not uncommon. Do not be surprised if you see an odd-looking individual at a feeder or bird bath with virtually no feathers on its head, just dark skin. At first this was thought to be caused by feather mites that can be found on all birds to varying degrees. Now it seems there are simply individuals that lose all of their head feathers at once instead of in the normal, staggered fashion. This is more likely in adolescents who are undergoing their very first molt.

The next time you notice one of these noisy, crested blue birds, take a closer look. Blue jays are fascinating — and full of surprises.

Almanac August 2025

ALMANAC

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August 2025

August 2025

By Ashley Walshe

August is a dog’s wildest dream.

Beneath the swaying hammocks where the summer-weary rest, the sleeping pup paddles his oversized paws, snout and whiskers gently twitching.

Mute the color palette. Attune to ultrasonic frequencies. Press your nose to the warm earth and breathe.

Can you smell the amalgam of humus and bee balm? Honeysuckle and musk? Grass clippings and sun-dried worms?

Each inhale carries a luscious stream of scents, a delectable river of possibilities. Each inhale is ecstasy.

At once, nose and paw lift as if pulled by invisible strings. A series of quick sniffs this way. A series of quick sniffs that way. A head tilt, an ear twitch, a rabbit!

Adventure calls.

Plow past the towering Joe Pye, the gleaming goldenrod, the coneflower, milkweed and asters. Faster, faster! Follow the trail, follow your instincts, follow that fluffy white tail!

Lunge left! Lunge right! Dive straight into a — cool, clear creek?

No signs of rabbits in this next dream. You plop down, let your belly press into the silty streambed, take a long, rhythmic drink. The queenking of treefrogs fills the air. A dragonfly lights on your withers.

In the third dream, you’re back with your people, belly-up in the dappled shade, nose wiggling. There’s a picnic blanket, a watermelon, a platter of cucumber sandwiches. This is a dream, right? Sure feels like it. Wonder if they’ll notice if I just sneak one bite.

How to Eat Watermelon

Grill it. Drizzle with honey. Pickle the rinds. Make salsa, gazpacho or caprese.

There’s sorbet, smoothies, minty lemonade. Mocktails, mojitos and ice pops. Good old-fashioned juice.

Serve it sliced, scooped or cubed. Spice it up with lime, salt and chili. Or not. There’s no wrong way to eat or drink it.

Seed Spittin’, Etc.

Nothing says August like a bellyful of watermelon.

Believed to have originated in Africa’s Kalahari Desert as the white-pulped Kordofan melon, the modern beauty we know and love has come a long way, baby. As evidenced by its presence in tomb paintings, the striped fruit was sacred to the ancient Egyptians, cultivated as both a water and food source. Often buried alongside pharaohs, the fruit’s high water content was believed to aid souls on their arduous journey to the afterlife.

Today, popular varieties include crimson sweet, sugar baby, moon and stars, jubilee and Charleston gray.

Celebrate National Watermelon Day on Aug. 3 with a cold one.

The change always comes about mid-August, and it always catches me by surprise. I mean the day when I know that summer is fraying at the edges, that September isn’t far off and fall is just over the hill or up the valley.

— Hal Borland

Poem August 2025

POEM

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August 2025

August 2025

What We Talk About When We Talk About the Moon

In myths and poems, it keeps company with the rose.

Cold scythe of winter. Hammock of summer.

There’s no eclipsing its power over the sea.

In the game of hearts, we “shoot the moon,”

while each new phase of darkness

smolders with anticipation.

Our yard trees may fence us from it, but waxed full,

it offers delivery with argent bath of light. 

Mystics’ elixir. Astrologers’ purlieu.

The moon harvests our dreams.

— Elizabeth W. Jackson