Tourist Magnets

Pennsylvania has much to offer tourists. The Keystone State has historical sites (Valley Forge, Gettysburg), amusement parks (Dorney, Kennywood), outdoor recreation (Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail, Appalachian Trail), and fireworks stores aplenty, all well-marked at exits from I-78 or the PA Turnpike.


I discovered two additional tourist magnets during a drive across the state yesterday. They are a tad off-beat even in comparison to the inimitable Roadside America Miniature Village and PA Dutch Gift Shop with the ominous Giant Farmer Wielding a Pitchfork Statue alongside I-78 in Shartlesville. I still have nightmares about that statue coming to life and wreaking havoc like the Sta-Puf Marshmallow Man in "Ghostbusters".


The first is "World of Pigeons" west of Carlisle. This hidden gem does not rate a mention on the blue "Attractions This Exit" highway sign. In fact, "World of Pigeons, Exit Here" is rather crudely painted on a barn visible from the Turnpike. One's imagination staggers at the possibilities. Is WoP fully-staffed by pigeons? Pigeon cooks and wait staff serving tourists in the restaurant? Pigeon security maintaining order? Pigeon aerobats conducting coordinated fly-overs to the oohs and ahs of the crowd? Precision dropping of pigeon droppings? Pigeons dressed in various national costumes cooing "It's a Pigeon World After All" at the finale of each performance?


The second hidden tourist attraction has no signage, but is sadly familiar to those of us without a CD player or an iPod connection in our car. It is the Place Where Radio Waves Go To Die. We drive through the Turnpike tunnels west of Carlisle singing along to Classic or Soft Rock on our car radios when suddenly static then silence ensue. For 100 miles between the Kittanning and Tuscarora Tunnels, we fiddle with the "scan" feature to no avail. At the higher points on the road, we may catch a faint echo of Rush Limbaugh, but even El Rushmo cannot overcome the Mordor of Radio that is west-central PA.


This could be a tourist attraction for those seeking a return to a simpler time. "Tired of those irritating cell phone calls, text messages, and Tweets that interrupt your solitude? Hoping to entertain your kids the same way that Daniel Boone and the pioneers did in the pre-Electronic Age? Come to the Place Where Radio Waves Go To Die, and it is 1770 all over again!"


Pennsylvania may not have Disney World or Sea World, but Florida doesn't have World of Pigeons or The Place Where Radio Waves Go To Die.

Gateway Crustacean

The descent into a life of crime begins with a simple gateway.


Shoplifting seems innocent enough. "Wal Mart will never miss this pack of gum and they made plenty of money off me in the past." Then the criminal seeks bigger thrills.


So it was for Charles Shumanis of Allentown last week. Charles walked out of a supermarket without paying for $350 worth of lobster. Confronted by store employees, he fled on foot to a nearby restaurant parking lot. He noticed a 79 year old man getting into his car, leaped into the passenger seat, and ordered the victim to drive. The septuagenarian was having none of it. He tried to exit the vehicle. Charles slid behind the wheel, dragged the poor old man 50 feet before he fell off, and led the police on a merry chase. Charles and his lobsters were quickly apprehended though.


In a statement, police noted that "Many people charged with stealing high end food and health products are doing so to sell the products for cash. That money is then used to support a drug habit." There you have it. Marijuana has long been noted as the "gateway drug" leading to crack, cocaine, and heroin abuse. Apparently, lobster is the "gateway crustacean" leading to carjacking, assault, and even more heinous crimes. Is it now time to criminalize lobster possession? Will shady characters approach innocent schoolchildren with a cup of melted butter saying, "You know what goes great with this? Lobster! Have a sample. All the cool kids are doing it." Was this how Charles began his life of crime?


Even the police are not immune to gateway drug corruption. There are well-documented incidents of drugs seized during arrests "disappearing" from police evidence storage. Surely, evidentiary lobster must also be held pending trial of the accused. Imagine the temptation to sneak just a few succulent crustaceans home for that anniversary dinner. "Charles will be convicted for $300 worth of lobster just as easily as for $350 worth, and I forgot to get a gift for the wife."


Enjoy your lobster while you can. Crustacean Prohibition may be just around the corner.

Side Effects

Daytime TV has plenty of commercials aimed at us seniors. They range from the practical (Cell phones with giant illuminated number keys and none of those trendy options that only kids go for like programmable ring tones) to the dainty (Never again suffer the embarrassment of running into friends in the Adult Incontinence Aisle. We ship your needed items to you in unmarked packages!).

The preeminent product advertised is drugs. "Ask your doctor about our brand name drug before its patent expires and we have to reduce its price by half to match that of generics that are just as good."

That darned over-regulating, job-killing government requires that the commercials mention drug side effects. Everyone knows the classic "For erections lasting more than four hours, seek immediate medical assistance." Everyone tunes out "Side effects include dizziness, drowsiness, and constipation." Hey, I get those from eating rutabaga.

Only Abilify, a drug for schizophrenia, states "Side effects may include death." Now, there's a side effect. Its website notes that elderly patients on Abilify suffered nearly two times the death rate of those on a placebo, 4.5% versus 2.6%.

I will risk a four hour erection. I will take a chance on dizziness, drowsiness, and constipation. I will think twice before taking a pill that doubles my chance of death. Maybe that over-regulating, job-killing government is doing us all a favor by requiring mention of side effects.

Musical Snob

Call me a musical snob, but I've always felt that pop music has gone straight downhill since 1967, not unlike my waistline and my hairline. Motown had not yet descended into Jackson 5 bubble gum pseudo-soul. Aretha Franklin and Otis Redding were the vanguard of the Memphis sound. The Rolling Stones were brilliant. And the Beatles gave us "Sgt Pepper".

Still, America prefers its music a bit less threatening than "Midnight Hour", "Time Has Come Today", or "A Day In The Life". During the remembrances on the passing of Davy Jones today, it was mentioned that Davy had the best-selling album of 1967 - "More Monkees". I couldn't believe it. Everyone that I knew back in '67 had "Sgt Pepper" and no one admitted to possessing "More Monkees". Sure enough, an Internet search showed that more people bought an LP featuring "Last Train to Clarksville" than with "Lucy In The Sky". Never underestimate the taste of the American public.

1967 was not an aberration. The best-selling album of 1966 was Herb Alpert's "Whipped Cream", a trumpet-led instrumental. Of course, it outsold such trivialities as the Beatles "Revolver" and the Beach Boys "Pet Sounds". Don't we all go around whistling Herb's "Tijuana Taxi" 45 years later as opposed to "Help Me Rhonda"?

Actually, even a "Music went straight downhill ever since Otis died" snob like me can still recite every word of that catchy "Monkees" theme. RIP, Davy Jones.

Indoctrination

Striking a blow for the Common Man, Rick Santorum stated, "President Obama once said that he wants everyone to go to college. What a snob. There are good, decent men and women who go out and work hard every day and put their skills to test that aren't taught by some liberal college professor trying to indoctrinate them."

Thanks for setting us straight, Rick. I was unaware that shipping off to college in America is not all keg parties and co-ed dorms but political indoctrination not unlike Chinese youth being sent to the countryside during Mao's Cultural Revolution. They must have edited the political indoctrination scenes out of "Animal House" and "Old School".

Actually, my decision to go to college was not a slam dunk. Fear of being brainwashed by a pointy-headed liberal professor really didn't enter into the equation. My choices as a high school grad in the summer of 1965 were:

Get a draft-deferred job at the artillery shell plant in town. Make more money than my Dad. Get my own car. Live at home with free room, board, and laundry service. Have a rip-roaring social life since few girls went away to college in those days.
2. Go to college. Have no money, no transportation, and at an all-male college with no fraternity rush until second semester, zero social life.

Taking a page from that education-loving snob Obama, my parents pushed me toward the groves of academia by getting me a summer job in the local meat packing plant. The "good, decent men who put their skills to the test" there made sure that the "college boy" got a snoot-ful of working life. Lifting and hauling 250 pound sides of beef? Let Joe College do it. Loading 400 pound barrels of beef onto the truck at the end of the day? I have a softball game at 5. The College Kid can work a little later. Somebody has to spend a couple of hours sorting 80 pound boxes in the -10° freezer? Young blood is warm blood. See you at lunch, kid.

Sudddenly, I could tolerate delaying a paycheck, a car, and a social life until after college especially if it meant that I wouldn't smell like a dead cow every day after work. Even the liberal political indoctrination was a small price to pay.

Vatican Tweets

I am not a Twitter guy. I doubt that my legion of "followers" want to know what I am up to at any moment or what my 140 character opinion is on any topic. Actually, I am embarrassed that my legion of followers probably consists of only my dog and his sole concern is when I'm going to fill his food bowl. "Who cares whether The Bachelor is a mindless mimbo (male bimbo)? Where's my kibble?" #TheDog

Apparently, Twitter is not only for the young and socially ambitious. The Pope is issuing a Twitter message each day during Lent at #Pope2You. Of course, Twitter is a two way street. Followers can respond to the Papal message. Here is our chance to receive an infallible answer to the questions that vex us. It's better than Dear Abby.

"Santorum is getting all the good buzz for opposing contraception and his general Catholicness. Can you give me a shout out? Hey, I'm Catholic now, too" From #NewtG.

"In the words of Doctor Evil (I love those Austin Powers flicks), Newt, you are the Diet Coke of Catholicism. One calorie, not Catholic enough. Two former wives doesn't help either." From Pope2You

"The Evangelicals are saying that my Mormonism is a cult not real Christianity. Can you straighten them out?" From #MittR.

"Don't panic, Mitt. The Book of Mormon is packing them in on Broadway. Our The Book of Saint Eligius flopped. People love you Mormons. Bring back Donnie and Marie and you are golden." From Pope2You

"The pundits ignore me and claim that I'm a wacky old guy with ideas from the 19th century. You're an old guy with ideas from the 1st century and they love you. What's your secret?" From #RonP

"The threat of excommunication helps. I miss the good old days of the Inquisition and burning at the stake though. The real secret is costuming. Show up at the next debate in gold brocade robes and a pointy hat and they won't ignore you anymore." From Pope2You

The Million Mustache March

Marching on Washington, DC has a long and proud tradition. Noble causes like womens' suffrage and civil rights sparked large demonstrations in our nation's capital. My only experience with DC protests came from the other side of the fence. We newly-minted Second Lieutenants from nearby Fort Belvoir spent a few evenings guarding the Washington Monument during the anti-war protests of the late 60s. "No, ma'm, our rifles do not have ammunition or firing pins. In answer to your other question, that large red brick building over there is the Smithsonian. Admission is free and it has the best rest rooms on the National Mall."

It took 45 years but finally there is a protest for me. The Million Mustache March will assemble in Washington in five weeks to demand a tax credit for hairy-lipped Americans. Taxpayers over 65 or blind get a break, why shouldn't those of us who have to be really careful when eating soup or blowing our nose? Argue that with mustachioed heroes like Chuck Norris or Tom Selleck if you dare.

The Mustache Exemption is not a simple tax dodge like a Cayman Islands bank account. It is not easy to grow a 'stache. In my teens and early 20s, my mother ("You'll look like the bad guy in the movies") and then the Army ("Only Commies like Stalin or Ho Chi Minh have facial hair") wouldn't let me grow one. In my mid-20s, I found that I couldn't grow a good one. Wispy blondish hair above the lip made me look more like a bedraggled alley cat than Burt Reynolds.

Then the Devil's Deal came into effect. As I began losing the hair on my scalp, my facial and body hair flourished. If I was in the mood for a Fu-Manchu or a Rollie Fingers handlebar, just give me a week and there it was. I have had facial hair ever since, more to divert attention from the lack of same above the eyebrows which achieved Andy Rooney caliber bushiness at about the same time.

Don't we deserve a tax break to assuage the painful mockery we receive? "There's something in your mustache, Baldy. Oh, it's your lip." "Storing some of that stew in your 'stache in case you get hungry later?"

Alas, the mockery will continue. The Million Mustache March is scheduled for Sunday, April 1, April Fools Day. It appears to be a cruel prank foisted upon us by the clean-shaven. And I was so looking forward to it.