How does one escape from prison? The Count of Monte Cristo spent years digging through stone walls. Andy Dufresne crawled through a sewage pipe in "Shawshank Redemption". But what if you want to escape right now and you have an aversion to swimming through human waste? Just have a kidney shut down. That will do the trick.
Mississippi Governor (and prospective presidential candidate) Haley Barbour accomplished the political equivalent of "having his cake and eating it, too" yesterday. He released the Scott sisters from prison thus pleasing his liberal constituency. Then, he noted that the state prison would save tons of money by avoiding dialysis and kidney transplant costs (Sister B planned to donate a kidney to Sister A) thus pleasing his conservative constituency.
The background on the case is interesting. The Scott sisters are 16 years into a life(!) sentence for armed robbery. A firearm was involved (This is Mississippi, after all), but no shots were fired,. no one was hurt, and the grand proceeds of the heist was a whopping $11. Apparently, this gets you a life sentence and no parole for 16 years (This is Mississippi, after all). And we thought that sort of thing only happened to Jean Valjean in 19th century France.
For a governor with national political ambitions, the Scott sisters were a problem. A life sentence for stealing $11 might seem a tad stiff to those Yankees up north. On the other hand, releasing them labels Governor Barbour as "soft on crime" and opens the possibility of another Willie Horton. Good things come to those who wait, though. Kidney failure was bad news for Ms Scott, but the political equivalent of pulling a rabbit out of a hat for The Guv.
Those Monte Cristo and Dufresne guys really did it the hard way. All they needed was a dire disease and an ambitious Governor.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
A Life Lesson
Forty years ago today, I was travelling through South Korea with a sack full of money over my shoulder and a .45 caliber pistol on my hip like a perverted Santa Claus. The experience taught me a valuable life lesson.
As the junior lieutenant in the US Army's fightin' 23rd Direct Support Group, I was assigned as December Payroll Officer. I went to 8th Army HQ in Seoul and received a duffel bag full of Military Payment Certificates (MPC), the monthly pay for several hundred servicemen scattered throughout Central Korea. MPCs were denominated in US dollars and resembled Monopoly money in that bills were of different sizes and garishly colored. They could only be converted to US currency if you had orders to depart Korea. The Army feared that GIs would convert "greenbacks" to Korean won on the black market and that US currency would find its way to North Korea where the bad guys would use it to purchase nuclear weaponry and the like (as if that could happen).
The Army pay system is nothing if not egalitarian. Every 2nd lieutenant with two years or less service was paid the same princely sum of $340 per month and so on up and down the ranks. The only payroll "extras" were combat pay, flight pay for pilots, "jump" pay for paratroopers, and "medical" pay for doctors and dentists.
There was only one guy left in line for pay at the 2nd Aviation Group and I had a pile of money remaining in that unit's stack. Had I shorted someone earlier? Was my next assignment breaking large rocks into small ones at the Leavenworth Stockade?
It turned out that the last guy was a paratrooper pilot dentist who had flown near the DMZ and got combat pay. He made more than his Commanding Officer though he deserved it. Imagine if you got a toothache from biting down on your paratrooper's knife while flying over the DMZ. He could fix it and still land the plane. The guy had taken advantage of all the loopholes in the Army pay system. I was envious, but mostly relieved that I hadn't miscounted the Monopoly money.
Wall Street paid about $115 billion in Year End Bonuses last week. Wasn't that sort of stuff supposed to end when we taxpayers bailed Wall Street out last year?
Here's the life lesson. No matter how foolproof the system, someone will figure out a way to take advantage of it. I wonder if my paratrooper pilot dentist is working at Goldman Sachs today.
As the junior lieutenant in the US Army's fightin' 23rd Direct Support Group, I was assigned as December Payroll Officer. I went to 8th Army HQ in Seoul and received a duffel bag full of Military Payment Certificates (MPC), the monthly pay for several hundred servicemen scattered throughout Central Korea. MPCs were denominated in US dollars and resembled Monopoly money in that bills were of different sizes and garishly colored. They could only be converted to US currency if you had orders to depart Korea. The Army feared that GIs would convert "greenbacks" to Korean won on the black market and that US currency would find its way to North Korea where the bad guys would use it to purchase nuclear weaponry and the like (as if that could happen).
The Army pay system is nothing if not egalitarian. Every 2nd lieutenant with two years or less service was paid the same princely sum of $340 per month and so on up and down the ranks. The only payroll "extras" were combat pay, flight pay for pilots, "jump" pay for paratroopers, and "medical" pay for doctors and dentists.
There was only one guy left in line for pay at the 2nd Aviation Group and I had a pile of money remaining in that unit's stack. Had I shorted someone earlier? Was my next assignment breaking large rocks into small ones at the Leavenworth Stockade?
It turned out that the last guy was a paratrooper pilot dentist who had flown near the DMZ and got combat pay. He made more than his Commanding Officer though he deserved it. Imagine if you got a toothache from biting down on your paratrooper's knife while flying over the DMZ. He could fix it and still land the plane. The guy had taken advantage of all the loopholes in the Army pay system. I was envious, but mostly relieved that I hadn't miscounted the Monopoly money.
Wall Street paid about $115 billion in Year End Bonuses last week. Wasn't that sort of stuff supposed to end when we taxpayers bailed Wall Street out last year?
Here's the life lesson. No matter how foolproof the system, someone will figure out a way to take advantage of it. I wonder if my paratrooper pilot dentist is working at Goldman Sachs today.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Druid's Revenge
"I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus
Underneath the mistletoe last night"
Ah, mistletoe! It offers the chance to steal a kiss beneath its verdant greenery and white berries. But don't eat them! They are highly toxic. Also don't kiss Mrs Boss beneath the mistletoe at the Office Party. It is highly toxic to your career.
Now there's a holiday tradition everyone can support be they Christian, Jew, Muslim, or even Druid. In fact, the Druids gave us the mistletoe tradition. Druidic priests credited it with magic powers since it remained green while the deciduous tree branches surrounding it were bare. Celtic tradition forbade carrying weapons beneath mistletoe. This led to mistletoe-rich areas being the site of peace negotiations between warring Celtic tribes. You know those Celts. All those cold lonely nights away from home fighting a war without female companionship and "Don't Ask; Don't Tell" went right out the window. Much kissing ensued, thanks to mistletoe.
Like many holiday traditions (How early can K-Mart open on Black Friday?), mistletoe has been subtly perverted over the years. Fresh mistletoe is harvested nowadays by firing a shotgun into the trees rather than all that awkward climbing and cutting. The Druids get their revenge for this violation of their weapons-free law though.
Mistletoe is, in fact, a parasite that flourishes where droppings collect, usually beneath bird's nests. Upon firing their weapons, those mistletoe gatherers are, no doubt, showered not only with mistletoe, but an entire summer's collection of bird shit. Revenge is a dish best served cold (and full of e Coli).
Underneath the mistletoe last night"
Ah, mistletoe! It offers the chance to steal a kiss beneath its verdant greenery and white berries. But don't eat them! They are highly toxic. Also don't kiss Mrs Boss beneath the mistletoe at the Office Party. It is highly toxic to your career.
Now there's a holiday tradition everyone can support be they Christian, Jew, Muslim, or even Druid. In fact, the Druids gave us the mistletoe tradition. Druidic priests credited it with magic powers since it remained green while the deciduous tree branches surrounding it were bare. Celtic tradition forbade carrying weapons beneath mistletoe. This led to mistletoe-rich areas being the site of peace negotiations between warring Celtic tribes. You know those Celts. All those cold lonely nights away from home fighting a war without female companionship and "Don't Ask; Don't Tell" went right out the window. Much kissing ensued, thanks to mistletoe.
Like many holiday traditions (How early can K-Mart open on Black Friday?), mistletoe has been subtly perverted over the years. Fresh mistletoe is harvested nowadays by firing a shotgun into the trees rather than all that awkward climbing and cutting. The Druids get their revenge for this violation of their weapons-free law though.
Mistletoe is, in fact, a parasite that flourishes where droppings collect, usually beneath bird's nests. Upon firing their weapons, those mistletoe gatherers are, no doubt, showered not only with mistletoe, but an entire summer's collection of bird shit. Revenge is a dish best served cold (and full of e Coli).
Friday, December 24, 2010
The Christmas Spirit
"Mommy, why does that fat man walk past our house every morning leading his dog with one hand and carrying a bagful of poop in his other one? Is he one of Santa's helpers checking for bad little girls and boys? Would he put that bagful of poop in my stocking tonight?"
"I don't think so, Tiffany. Just to be on the safe side though, I'll catch him on the street, tell him what a good little girl you are, and give him some treats for his doggie."
I'm not sure that this was the way it actually happened, but I experienced the Christmas Spirit this morning. Christmas Eve or not, once the dog is fed, his metabolism converts all that good kibble into feces at the speed of light. We are typically no more than a quarter mile into our mile-long morning walk when he "makes a deposit". We complete the jaunt reeking bag in hand. Most folk are repelled by the sight (and possibly the odor), so we typically don't have a whole lot of friendly conversations with passers-by.
I was therefore surprised when a lady I'd never spoken to before approached the dog and me this morning, wished us a Merry Christmas, and handed me a bagful of doggie treats. "I see you walking by every morning, and I always loved golden retrievers," she said.
Jimmy Stewart had his "wonderful life", but, for me, that lady's kindness this morning showed the true Christmas Spirit.
"I don't think so, Tiffany. Just to be on the safe side though, I'll catch him on the street, tell him what a good little girl you are, and give him some treats for his doggie."
I'm not sure that this was the way it actually happened, but I experienced the Christmas Spirit this morning. Christmas Eve or not, once the dog is fed, his metabolism converts all that good kibble into feces at the speed of light. We are typically no more than a quarter mile into our mile-long morning walk when he "makes a deposit". We complete the jaunt reeking bag in hand. Most folk are repelled by the sight (and possibly the odor), so we typically don't have a whole lot of friendly conversations with passers-by.
I was therefore surprised when a lady I'd never spoken to before approached the dog and me this morning, wished us a Merry Christmas, and handed me a bagful of doggie treats. "I see you walking by every morning, and I always loved golden retrievers," she said.
Jimmy Stewart had his "wonderful life", but, for me, that lady's kindness this morning showed the true Christmas Spirit.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
The Well-Dressed Firefighter
Fire fighting requires many tools. The well-dressed firefighter wouldn't leave the station without axes, breathing apparatus, wrenches, hose couplings, and, based on a news story from last week, a roll of quarters.
A 2 year old girl crawled up the chute of one of those ubiquitous toy crane vending machines at a Pittsburgh area mall and sat there among the toys staring at the coin-operated crane above. When her parents couldn't coax her out, Mall Security called the local fire department.
As frustrated parents have known for years, it is well-nigh impossible to pick up anything, let alone the one toy that your kid wants with that crane thing. It requires the eyesight and depth perception of an eagle combined with the reaction time of a mongoose to perfectly align the clamshell bucket over the toy and instantaneously drop and retrieve it. A hair off on crane alignment or a slight hesitation on retrieval and it's time to drop another quarter into the slot and start all over again. Eventually, it becomes an affront to one's masculinity and after $10 worth of quarters, Dad finally bags a toy that is worth maybe 50 cents.
This is where it pays to be a fire fighter. The news story doesn't mention whether Pittsburgh's Bravest attempted to use the toy crane to get the little girl out or how many quarters were lost in that effort. In the end, they "used a tool to pry open a door on the machine to reach the girl".
How I wish that I had that tool back in the day. "So you want the Rainbow Brite doll from the machine, sweetheart? I'll just reach into my fireman's coat, pull out my prying tool, and it's as good as yours. If Mall Security asks, you were trapped inside and I had to rescue you."
A 2 year old girl crawled up the chute of one of those ubiquitous toy crane vending machines at a Pittsburgh area mall and sat there among the toys staring at the coin-operated crane above. When her parents couldn't coax her out, Mall Security called the local fire department.
As frustrated parents have known for years, it is well-nigh impossible to pick up anything, let alone the one toy that your kid wants with that crane thing. It requires the eyesight and depth perception of an eagle combined with the reaction time of a mongoose to perfectly align the clamshell bucket over the toy and instantaneously drop and retrieve it. A hair off on crane alignment or a slight hesitation on retrieval and it's time to drop another quarter into the slot and start all over again. Eventually, it becomes an affront to one's masculinity and after $10 worth of quarters, Dad finally bags a toy that is worth maybe 50 cents.
This is where it pays to be a fire fighter. The news story doesn't mention whether Pittsburgh's Bravest attempted to use the toy crane to get the little girl out or how many quarters were lost in that effort. In the end, they "used a tool to pry open a door on the machine to reach the girl".
How I wish that I had that tool back in the day. "So you want the Rainbow Brite doll from the machine, sweetheart? I'll just reach into my fireman's coat, pull out my prying tool, and it's as good as yours. If Mall Security asks, you were trapped inside and I had to rescue you."
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Old Wives Tale Debunked
Certain myths or Old Wives' Tales can be proven:
"No two snowflakes are alike." Actually, this one displayed on my special cold, cold microscope strongly resembles one that fell on Siberia back in 1842. Make reservations for the Nobel Prize Ceremony, Watson! We've got a winner.
"Eating bread crusts gives you curly hair." Richard Simmons admitted that back in his "fat" days, he ate nothing but bread crusts. Today's "thin" Richard Simmons hasn't eaten a bread crust in years and all those curls are falling out. As mathematicians say, "QED".
"Eyes placed closely together are a sign of a criminal mind." Prince Charles' eyes are so close together that he has to alternate blinking with each eye or they jam like a pair of bad windshield wipers. Has anyone inventoried the Crown Jewels of England lately?
A little-known Danish Old Wives' Tale states that it is possible to get drunk by immersing one's bare feet in alcohol. Researchers at Hillerod Hospital soaked their feet in a tub containing three bottles of vodka for three hours. They measured blood alcohol concentrations every half hour and rated themselves on a scale of one to ten on self-confidence, urge to speak, and the number of times they desired spontaneous hugs. Apparently, Danish drunks are self-confident, voluble, and affectionate as opposed to inebriates in the rest of the world who are depressed, vulgar, and combative.
The researchers reported that they found no evidence of absorption of alcohol. This is reassuring because I was planning on driving my car wearing boots full of vodka over the holidays. It's really good for bunions and toenail fungus doesn't stand a chance.
This research was actually published presumably with a grant to finance it. After all, they had to purchase the vodka and it is not rrecyclable. Even Danes wouldn't risk sock lint or toe jam in a celebratory Screwdriver or Cosmopolitan after the test. There is only one group that would - college students.
To graduate with honors in Science or Engineering back in the day, seniors had to develop and conduct a unique research project. I foolishly spent hours in the lab applying cathodic protection to prevent stainless steel from corroding in an acidic environment. I could have been dipping my feet in vodka and (waste not, want not) guzzling my experiment after I wrote it up. This Old Wives Tale should have been debunked years ago.
"No two snowflakes are alike." Actually, this one displayed on my special cold, cold microscope strongly resembles one that fell on Siberia back in 1842. Make reservations for the Nobel Prize Ceremony, Watson! We've got a winner.
"Eating bread crusts gives you curly hair." Richard Simmons admitted that back in his "fat" days, he ate nothing but bread crusts. Today's "thin" Richard Simmons hasn't eaten a bread crust in years and all those curls are falling out. As mathematicians say, "QED".
"Eyes placed closely together are a sign of a criminal mind." Prince Charles' eyes are so close together that he has to alternate blinking with each eye or they jam like a pair of bad windshield wipers. Has anyone inventoried the Crown Jewels of England lately?
A little-known Danish Old Wives' Tale states that it is possible to get drunk by immersing one's bare feet in alcohol. Researchers at Hillerod Hospital soaked their feet in a tub containing three bottles of vodka for three hours. They measured blood alcohol concentrations every half hour and rated themselves on a scale of one to ten on self-confidence, urge to speak, and the number of times they desired spontaneous hugs. Apparently, Danish drunks are self-confident, voluble, and affectionate as opposed to inebriates in the rest of the world who are depressed, vulgar, and combative.
The researchers reported that they found no evidence of absorption of alcohol. This is reassuring because I was planning on driving my car wearing boots full of vodka over the holidays. It's really good for bunions and toenail fungus doesn't stand a chance.
This research was actually published presumably with a grant to finance it. After all, they had to purchase the vodka and it is not rrecyclable. Even Danes wouldn't risk sock lint or toe jam in a celebratory Screwdriver or Cosmopolitan after the test. There is only one group that would - college students.
To graduate with honors in Science or Engineering back in the day, seniors had to develop and conduct a unique research project. I foolishly spent hours in the lab applying cathodic protection to prevent stainless steel from corroding in an acidic environment. I could have been dipping my feet in vodka and (waste not, want not) guzzling my experiment after I wrote it up. This Old Wives Tale should have been debunked years ago.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Rewriting History
The winners of a war write its history. That's why the Trojan Horse is considered a stroke of genius rather than an act of treachery, why Napoleon is demonized as a megalomaniac rather than as a rebel against royalty, and why the doomed defenders of the Alamo are hailed as patriots rather than opportunists.
It may take 150 years, but sometimes the losers can attempt to re-write history. Groups in South Carolina and Georgia are planning to observe the sesquicentennial of their state's secession from the Union next month and further celebrate the beginning of "The War for Southern Independence" (aka The Civil War) in April. Call it what you will, but a conflict that killed or maimed approximately 10% of the country's population is scarcely something to be celebrated.
NPR broadcast an interview with the chairman of the South Carolina celebration. He noted the bravery of the hundreds who signed the Secession Proclamation and compared them to the signers of the Declaration of Independence in that the South Carolinians also committed their "lives, trust, and sacred honor" to the cause.
Unlike that South Carolinian, I have no family connection to the Civil War (or The War for Southern Independence if you will). In 1861, my ancestors were mining coal in northern England and tending to cattle in Switzerland. If they were in America though, as common folk, they would, no doubt, have been unable to avoid military conscription and there's an excellent chance at least some of them would have been killed. In that case, I wouldn't be here today to romanticize the past and give the conflict in which they perished a more acceptable name.
It may take 150 years, but sometimes the losers can attempt to re-write history. Groups in South Carolina and Georgia are planning to observe the sesquicentennial of their state's secession from the Union next month and further celebrate the beginning of "The War for Southern Independence" (aka The Civil War) in April. Call it what you will, but a conflict that killed or maimed approximately 10% of the country's population is scarcely something to be celebrated.
NPR broadcast an interview with the chairman of the South Carolina celebration. He noted the bravery of the hundreds who signed the Secession Proclamation and compared them to the signers of the Declaration of Independence in that the South Carolinians also committed their "lives, trust, and sacred honor" to the cause.
Unlike that South Carolinian, I have no family connection to the Civil War (or The War for Southern Independence if you will). In 1861, my ancestors were mining coal in northern England and tending to cattle in Switzerland. If they were in America though, as common folk, they would, no doubt, have been unable to avoid military conscription and there's an excellent chance at least some of them would have been killed. In that case, I wouldn't be here today to romanticize the past and give the conflict in which they perished a more acceptable name.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Gresae, It's What's for Breakfast
News Flash - McDonald's will add oatmeal to its breakfast menu next year. And it's not just any oatmeal. All that dietary fiber is jazzed up with maple-flavoring, diced red and green apples (how festive), a mix of raisins and cranberries, and doused in cream. Tasty dietary fiber? Yum! The only downside are the lines of anxious patrons outside McDonald's rest rooms when that fiber hits bottom.
Call me a traditionalist, but I wonder if McDonald's oatmeal breakfast will be a hit. My fondest breakfast memories are courtesy of the US Army. It was not the bugle call of reveille that roused us from our bunks before the crack of dawn but the wafting odor of good old breakfast grease from the Mess Hall. Everything in an Army breakfast was fried - pancakes, eggs, SOS and probably even coffee. That cholesterol richness was what fueled us to storm the beaches of Normandy.
But where did the Army get all that good cooking grease? There were two garbage cans into which we scraped off our dining trays, one labelled "Edible" the other "Non-Edible". The surly Mess Sergeant insisted that the congealed grease on our trays mixed with ketchup and God knows what else be deposited in the 'Edible" can. The contents of the "Non-Edible" can were disposed of, but the "Edible" can disappeared back into the kitchen and returned empty at the next meal. Were we recycling grease with tasty additions for each iteration? Did today's breakfast grease date back to Valley Forge? All I know is that Army fried foods tasted like no other.
To insure the success of its oatmeal breakfast offering, McDonald's should add a touch of well-aged grease along with the apples, cranberries, raisins, etc. "Beef, it's what's for dinner" is not always true. "Grease, it's what's for breakfast" is tradition.
Call me a traditionalist, but I wonder if McDonald's oatmeal breakfast will be a hit. My fondest breakfast memories are courtesy of the US Army. It was not the bugle call of reveille that roused us from our bunks before the crack of dawn but the wafting odor of good old breakfast grease from the Mess Hall. Everything in an Army breakfast was fried - pancakes, eggs, SOS and probably even coffee. That cholesterol richness was what fueled us to storm the beaches of Normandy.
But where did the Army get all that good cooking grease? There were two garbage cans into which we scraped off our dining trays, one labelled "Edible" the other "Non-Edible". The surly Mess Sergeant insisted that the congealed grease on our trays mixed with ketchup and God knows what else be deposited in the 'Edible" can. The contents of the "Non-Edible" can were disposed of, but the "Edible" can disappeared back into the kitchen and returned empty at the next meal. Were we recycling grease with tasty additions for each iteration? Did today's breakfast grease date back to Valley Forge? All I know is that Army fried foods tasted like no other.
To insure the success of its oatmeal breakfast offering, McDonald's should add a touch of well-aged grease along with the apples, cranberries, raisins, etc. "Beef, it's what's for dinner" is not always true. "Grease, it's what's for breakfast" is tradition.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
We're All In This Together
The old song goes, "Breaking up is hard to do." Apparently, it is less hard to do just before Christmas. You do save on gifts for your formerly beloved.
This week, Ryan Reynolds and Scarlett Johansen called it quits. When "The Sexiest Man Alive" and #14 on Maxim's "2010 Hot 100" got together, we knew that it couldn't last. Ken and Barbie are the only mutually hot couple to stick together over the years.
Also this week, Michael C. Hall and Jennifer Carpenter split up. Again, we doubted the longevity of this relationship. How creepy must it be on the set of "Dexter" when you inamorata is playing your sister? On the other hand, how creepy must it be on the set of "Dexter" when your bitter ex-wife / ex-husband is playing your sister / brother?
One break-up this week was greeted with shock and awe. Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgins of "High School Musical" fame ended their romantic relationship. The only bright spot of suffering through repeated viewings of the "High School Musical" trilogy when the grandkids visited was watching the flowering of Zac and Vanessa's squeaky-clean, All-American relationship. This was the diametric opposite of Angelina Jolie and Billy Bob Thornton creepily carrying vials of each other's blood around. Surely, Zac and Vanessa would lead 21st century American youth back to a 1950s sensibility. They would be married, settle in suburbia, mop the floor wearing heels and a pearl necklace, and have a spirited younger son nicknamed "Beaver". Their TV show theme song could be "We're All In This Together".
Alas, it was not meant to be. Could the true reason for the breakup be that Zac's solo movie career flopped and that Vanessa hasn't been heard from since "HSM3"? Could it be that neither Zac nor Vanessa could afford a proper Christmas gift for the other and to avoid breaking their beloved's heart, nobly ended the relationship?
I call on all Americans to purchase mass quantities of "High School Musical" merchandise. Zac and Vanessa will get a cut of the proceeds, restore their finances, and no doubt, get back together. We owe it to the impressionable youth who grew up with "High School Musical" and now wonder if true love is possible in 2010!
This week, Ryan Reynolds and Scarlett Johansen called it quits. When "The Sexiest Man Alive" and #14 on Maxim's "2010 Hot 100" got together, we knew that it couldn't last. Ken and Barbie are the only mutually hot couple to stick together over the years.
Also this week, Michael C. Hall and Jennifer Carpenter split up. Again, we doubted the longevity of this relationship. How creepy must it be on the set of "Dexter" when you inamorata is playing your sister? On the other hand, how creepy must it be on the set of "Dexter" when your bitter ex-wife / ex-husband is playing your sister / brother?
One break-up this week was greeted with shock and awe. Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgins of "High School Musical" fame ended their romantic relationship. The only bright spot of suffering through repeated viewings of the "High School Musical" trilogy when the grandkids visited was watching the flowering of Zac and Vanessa's squeaky-clean, All-American relationship. This was the diametric opposite of Angelina Jolie and Billy Bob Thornton creepily carrying vials of each other's blood around. Surely, Zac and Vanessa would lead 21st century American youth back to a 1950s sensibility. They would be married, settle in suburbia, mop the floor wearing heels and a pearl necklace, and have a spirited younger son nicknamed "Beaver". Their TV show theme song could be "We're All In This Together".
Alas, it was not meant to be. Could the true reason for the breakup be that Zac's solo movie career flopped and that Vanessa hasn't been heard from since "HSM3"? Could it be that neither Zac nor Vanessa could afford a proper Christmas gift for the other and to avoid breaking their beloved's heart, nobly ended the relationship?
I call on all Americans to purchase mass quantities of "High School Musical" merchandise. Zac and Vanessa will get a cut of the proceeds, restore their finances, and no doubt, get back together. We owe it to the impressionable youth who grew up with "High School Musical" and now wonder if true love is possible in 2010!
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Psyched Up
Why did I never achieve athletic glory?
Other than my complete lack of foot speed and hand-eye coordination, there must be another reason. After all, I did "psych" myself up before games with raucous music. "Drums of Passion" by Olantunge was a particular favorite in my high school days. If that tom-tom beat and gutteral shouting didn't make you want to rip out the lungs of your opponent, you were comatose.
Sports Radio answered my long-standing question last night. Two Sports Psychologists were asked whether pre-game music influences athletic performance. They agreed that it does though "one size does not fit all". One psychologist was amazed to find that a college football player psyched himself up for big games by listening to Neil Diamond. "Forever in Blue Jeans" would not seem likely to inspire one to athletic greatness, but the psychologist claimed that Diamond's songs probably were the soundtrack to traumas in the player's life. "He was striking out against his opponent as a surrogate for the hurts he had suffered."
Before I next go swimming, I'm plugging "Touching You Touching Me" or "September Morn" into the old iPod. Look out, pool record times! Hello, Olympic tryouts!
Other than my complete lack of foot speed and hand-eye coordination, there must be another reason. After all, I did "psych" myself up before games with raucous music. "Drums of Passion" by Olantunge was a particular favorite in my high school days. If that tom-tom beat and gutteral shouting didn't make you want to rip out the lungs of your opponent, you were comatose.
Sports Radio answered my long-standing question last night. Two Sports Psychologists were asked whether pre-game music influences athletic performance. They agreed that it does though "one size does not fit all". One psychologist was amazed to find that a college football player psyched himself up for big games by listening to Neil Diamond. "Forever in Blue Jeans" would not seem likely to inspire one to athletic greatness, but the psychologist claimed that Diamond's songs probably were the soundtrack to traumas in the player's life. "He was striking out against his opponent as a surrogate for the hurts he had suffered."
Before I next go swimming, I'm plugging "Touching You Touching Me" or "September Morn" into the old iPod. Look out, pool record times! Hello, Olympic tryouts!
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Mean Girls (and Boys)
Research is a wonderful thing. It brought us a cure for polio and gave us the iPod. Sometimes, though, the results of research bring a resounding response of "Well, duh".
The National Longitudinal (as opposed to Latitudinal) Study of Adolescent Health reported this week that "Sick kids have fewer friends". Based on surveys of 2,060 kids, those with chronic health problems like obesity and asthma listed just as many friends as teens who were healthy while the healthy kids were less likely to say they were friends with one who was sick. The obese asthmatic kids "didn't realize that their overall social networks were weaker than those of other teens." In other words, fat asthmatic kids are not welcome at the "cool kids" table in the school cafeteria. Well, duh. Let's throw a few million more in grants at The National Longitudinal Study. Maybe they can "discover" that teens are cruel to others who are different.
Before we trash those "mean girls (and boys)", we should recognize that blatant cruelty may not be the only reason for teen, or even adult cliques. I once traveled to Liberal, Kansas with a Corporate Real Estate guy who suffered from every allergy known to man. We were side-by-side for the 18 hour trip which included two flights and a lengthy rental car ride. During that ordeal, Gerry blew his nose every thirty seconds. Our airplane arm rests overflowed with soggy tissues. The rental car console was festooned in white Kleenex. His Allegra was no match for our famous Lehigh Valley allergens not to mention the pollen-ridden plains of Texas, Oklahoma. and Kansas.
Now, I'm sure that Gerry thought of me as his "friend" and would have listed me as such on the National Longitudinal Study. But after eighteen hours of his honking and hacking, I locked my motel room door and refused to join him for dinner. Gerry, your "overall social network" just went down by one (very hungry but fed-up) member.
The National Longitudinal (as opposed to Latitudinal) Study of Adolescent Health reported this week that "Sick kids have fewer friends". Based on surveys of 2,060 kids, those with chronic health problems like obesity and asthma listed just as many friends as teens who were healthy while the healthy kids were less likely to say they were friends with one who was sick. The obese asthmatic kids "didn't realize that their overall social networks were weaker than those of other teens." In other words, fat asthmatic kids are not welcome at the "cool kids" table in the school cafeteria. Well, duh. Let's throw a few million more in grants at The National Longitudinal Study. Maybe they can "discover" that teens are cruel to others who are different.
Before we trash those "mean girls (and boys)", we should recognize that blatant cruelty may not be the only reason for teen, or even adult cliques. I once traveled to Liberal, Kansas with a Corporate Real Estate guy who suffered from every allergy known to man. We were side-by-side for the 18 hour trip which included two flights and a lengthy rental car ride. During that ordeal, Gerry blew his nose every thirty seconds. Our airplane arm rests overflowed with soggy tissues. The rental car console was festooned in white Kleenex. His Allegra was no match for our famous Lehigh Valley allergens not to mention the pollen-ridden plains of Texas, Oklahoma. and Kansas.
Now, I'm sure that Gerry thought of me as his "friend" and would have listed me as such on the National Longitudinal Study. But after eighteen hours of his honking and hacking, I locked my motel room door and refused to join him for dinner. Gerry, your "overall social network" just went down by one (very hungry but fed-up) member.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Cryptoquote Wisdom
One expects to acquire a nugget of wisdom by reading the Great Literature or even by listening to NPR. One seldom expects to be enlightened by the newspaper's daily Cryptoquote.
Last Saturday's Cryptoquote was from Mark Twain, "Patriotism is supporting your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it." Well said, Mr Twain! If I disagree with the government's policies, it does not make me any less patriotic. Mark Twain took a stand against American occupation of the Philippines after the Spanish-American War. So did a lot of Filipinos. The US Army fought a low-grade guerilla war against the Moros for forty years. On the plus side, the Moros taught us the finer points of waterboarding.
"Real" patriots began boycotting and protesting Mark Twain's public appearances. His response became 2010's best Cryptoquote.
How can I tell when my government deserves my support, though? That's the tricky part. One answer is strict interpretation of the Constitution. After all, that's what government officials and the military swear "to uphold and defend." Of course at various times in our history, upholding the Constitution meant defending slavery and rejecting a woman's right to vote.
As I heard once in a sermon, the Bible should be taken seriously, but not literally. So should the Constitution. Its preamble talks about establishing justice, insuring domestic tranquility, providing for the common defense, and promoting the general welfare. How does Afghanistan and Obamacare fit into that?
Good people on both sides will disagree. But even with disagreement, we should never call the other side unpatriotic. Thanks for that, Mark Twain.
Last Saturday's Cryptoquote was from Mark Twain, "Patriotism is supporting your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it." Well said, Mr Twain! If I disagree with the government's policies, it does not make me any less patriotic. Mark Twain took a stand against American occupation of the Philippines after the Spanish-American War. So did a lot of Filipinos. The US Army fought a low-grade guerilla war against the Moros for forty years. On the plus side, the Moros taught us the finer points of waterboarding.
"Real" patriots began boycotting and protesting Mark Twain's public appearances. His response became 2010's best Cryptoquote.
How can I tell when my government deserves my support, though? That's the tricky part. One answer is strict interpretation of the Constitution. After all, that's what government officials and the military swear "to uphold and defend." Of course at various times in our history, upholding the Constitution meant defending slavery and rejecting a woman's right to vote.
As I heard once in a sermon, the Bible should be taken seriously, but not literally. So should the Constitution. Its preamble talks about establishing justice, insuring domestic tranquility, providing for the common defense, and promoting the general welfare. How does Afghanistan and Obamacare fit into that?
Good people on both sides will disagree. But even with disagreement, we should never call the other side unpatriotic. Thanks for that, Mark Twain.
Friday, December 10, 2010
For The Man Who Has Everything
Still searching for that perfect Christmas gift?
Oh, it’s easy to delight little Josh and Tiffany on Christmas morn with this year’s must-have toy if you don’t mind hand-to-hand combat in the aisles for its limited supply and the kids becoming bored with the toy by New Year’s. Teens Brandon and Britney will be thrilled with gift cards to a trendy retailer who sells strategically-ripped and distressed jeans, not that they won’t be non-strategically ripped and distressed from constant wear by February. Adults Bob and Carol will swoon over cardio equipment and workout garb though they will never find the time to use them. As for Grandma and Grandpa, they already have everything. They are the toughest to buy for.
The Porter’s Lodge of Nazareth has come to the rescue as the “exclusive seller of Trappist caskets and urns in the Lehigh Valley”. They feature “the best prices for traditional wooden caskets”. Better yet, “between now and January, there are no shipping charges – a $200 value!” Now, there’s a doorbuster incentive.
Can Grandma say, “That’s a nice gift, but I’ll never use it” to a casket? I think not. When Grandpa says, “You spent too much. Take it back.”, you can reply, “Only the best for your eternal resting place, Big Guy.”
For those who think it macabre to have an empty casket sitting around the house, The Porter’s Lodge offers free storage though this will eliminate the joy of seeing the expression on Grandma’s face when she comes down the stairs on Christmas morn to a beribboned casket under the tree. After picking her up off the floor and reassuring her that the doctor didn’t tell you something that he didn’t tell her, she will agree that this is “the best Christmas ever”.
Oh, it’s easy to delight little Josh and Tiffany on Christmas morn with this year’s must-have toy if you don’t mind hand-to-hand combat in the aisles for its limited supply and the kids becoming bored with the toy by New Year’s. Teens Brandon and Britney will be thrilled with gift cards to a trendy retailer who sells strategically-ripped and distressed jeans, not that they won’t be non-strategically ripped and distressed from constant wear by February. Adults Bob and Carol will swoon over cardio equipment and workout garb though they will never find the time to use them. As for Grandma and Grandpa, they already have everything. They are the toughest to buy for.
The Porter’s Lodge of Nazareth has come to the rescue as the “exclusive seller of Trappist caskets and urns in the Lehigh Valley”. They feature “the best prices for traditional wooden caskets”. Better yet, “between now and January, there are no shipping charges – a $200 value!” Now, there’s a doorbuster incentive.
Can Grandma say, “That’s a nice gift, but I’ll never use it” to a casket? I think not. When Grandpa says, “You spent too much. Take it back.”, you can reply, “Only the best for your eternal resting place, Big Guy.”
For those who think it macabre to have an empty casket sitting around the house, The Porter’s Lodge offers free storage though this will eliminate the joy of seeing the expression on Grandma’s face when she comes down the stairs on Christmas morn to a beribboned casket under the tree. After picking her up off the floor and reassuring her that the doctor didn’t tell you something that he didn’t tell her, she will agree that this is “the best Christmas ever”.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
A Personal Tribute
John Lennon was killed thirty years ago today.
The print and electronic media will overflow with tributes and deservedly so. My personal remembrance of Lennon is simple. His work with the Beatles and his later solo career were, for me, a real bright spot in the otherwise dismal late 60s and early 70s.
What, you say? The era of $0.15 hamburgers, $0.29 per gallon gasoline, and being able to dash from the airport parking lot onto your flight five minutes before departure was dismal?
Yes, it was if you were a college student one failing grade away from the clutches of your Draft Board. Yes, it was if you were a soldier returned from the Far East and people crossed the street so they wouldn't have to walk near you. On a smaller scale, you had to actually get up to change the TV channel and there were only eleven of them available even on cable (with none all-sports, all-news, or music videos). Those were tough times.
One thing you could always count on, though, was that the latest Beatles or Lennon album would be good. Check that, it would be great. The "cool" local radio station (in many cases AM, imagine that.) would play the album repeatedly upon its release. Beatles or Lennon music would be the soundtrack of our lives. We would recite "Rocky Raccoon" while trudging up the hill to Physics class or doing laps, weapons at port arms, around the drill field.
Then, every few months, a new album would be released. "Revolver" begat "Sgt Pepper" which begat "The White Album" which begat "Abbey Road" which begat "Imagine" and so on. And it was always good.
The late 60s and early 70s were not a whole lot of fun for a college student / soldier, but John Lennon really helped. Thanks, John. RIP.
The print and electronic media will overflow with tributes and deservedly so. My personal remembrance of Lennon is simple. His work with the Beatles and his later solo career were, for me, a real bright spot in the otherwise dismal late 60s and early 70s.
What, you say? The era of $0.15 hamburgers, $0.29 per gallon gasoline, and being able to dash from the airport parking lot onto your flight five minutes before departure was dismal?
Yes, it was if you were a college student one failing grade away from the clutches of your Draft Board. Yes, it was if you were a soldier returned from the Far East and people crossed the street so they wouldn't have to walk near you. On a smaller scale, you had to actually get up to change the TV channel and there were only eleven of them available even on cable (with none all-sports, all-news, or music videos). Those were tough times.
One thing you could always count on, though, was that the latest Beatles or Lennon album would be good. Check that, it would be great. The "cool" local radio station (in many cases AM, imagine that.) would play the album repeatedly upon its release. Beatles or Lennon music would be the soundtrack of our lives. We would recite "Rocky Raccoon" while trudging up the hill to Physics class or doing laps, weapons at port arms, around the drill field.
Then, every few months, a new album would be released. "Revolver" begat "Sgt Pepper" which begat "The White Album" which begat "Abbey Road" which begat "Imagine" and so on. And it was always good.
The late 60s and early 70s were not a whole lot of fun for a college student / soldier, but John Lennon really helped. Thanks, John. RIP.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Reaganomics 2010
For those travelers who would rather avoid being herded like cattle through check-in lines and being "patted down" by some lecherous Security Screener, there is an alternative. For a mere $1,500 to $6,000 per hour, elite travelers can charter a private jet. Everybody is doing it. Charter and corporate jet flights numbered 2.8 million over the twelve months ending in September, 2010.
Of course, that is nothing compared to 2007 when jet-setters took 4.8 million private flights. Ah, the good old days of 2007, when GM, Ford, and Chrysler executives could charter a jet to fly to Washington to beg Congress for a bailout and not get hasseled about it.
Economists use various metrics to determine the nation's financial well-being. Gross National Product, employee productivity, durable goods sales, and unemployment rate are commonly used. Perhaps a better indicator is Corporate and Private Flight Usage. When your CEO feels comfortable enough with your company's prospects to cough up tens of thousands of dollars to jet privately to St Andrew's for that golfing boondoggle, it's time to buy stock.
So far in 2010, Corporate and Private Flights are up 7%. Reaganomics tells us that wealth "trickles down" to the common folk if they are trained in growth segments of the economy. Clearly, we should cut taxes for the rich so they can afford more private flights and we should train the currently unemployed as pilots. Everybody wins.
Of course, that is nothing compared to 2007 when jet-setters took 4.8 million private flights. Ah, the good old days of 2007, when GM, Ford, and Chrysler executives could charter a jet to fly to Washington to beg Congress for a bailout and not get hasseled about it.
Economists use various metrics to determine the nation's financial well-being. Gross National Product, employee productivity, durable goods sales, and unemployment rate are commonly used. Perhaps a better indicator is Corporate and Private Flight Usage. When your CEO feels comfortable enough with your company's prospects to cough up tens of thousands of dollars to jet privately to St Andrew's for that golfing boondoggle, it's time to buy stock.
So far in 2010, Corporate and Private Flights are up 7%. Reaganomics tells us that wealth "trickles down" to the common folk if they are trained in growth segments of the economy. Clearly, we should cut taxes for the rich so they can afford more private flights and we should train the currently unemployed as pilots. Everybody wins.
Monday, December 6, 2010
A Brush With Fame
A luxury liner cruise brings thoughts of the old TV series "The Love Boat" to those of a certain age. Every Saturday night, Captain Stubing, Gopher the Purser, Julie the Cruise Director, and Isaac the Bartender would solve three relationship problems (one comic, one bittersweet, and one family-oriented) of passengers usually portrayed by B-List actors with great 70s hair-dos like Charro and Bert Convy. Since I couldn't grow a good 70s hair-do even back then when I had hair, I figured that an ocean cruise was not for me.
Or maybe there is a berth for me on a January, 2011 Love Boat. Yesterday's newspaper travel section advertised a Taylor Swift-themed Caribbean cruise including trivia, karaoke, and a look-alike contest on board followed by a shore-side concert with Taylor herself when the boat docks in Cozumel. I'm sure I could ace the Taylor Swift Trivia Contest. After all, the girl is only 20 years old, how much trivia can there be? Karaoke shouldn't be a problem either. I can do teen angst over unrequited love with the best of them. Surely, I would win a front row seat (and probably back stage passes with a meet-and-greet) with Taylor herself.
The problem is, of course, with the look-alike contest. Overweight, balding 62 year-old men are unlikely to pass for Ms Swift even with the best wigs and make-up though some may attempt it. I foresee the most hilarious You Tube videos ever of a ship overrun with Taylor Swift look-alikes.
What to do, Captain Stubing, Gopher, Julie, and Isaac? You've always solved the most difficult dilemmas in 60 minutes minus commercial time. The answer is simple, you say? If the Taylor Swift Cruise concept catches on, other country stars will follow suit. I will still fail at the Reba McIntyre or Dolly Parton Cruise Look-Alike Contest, but I have a real shot at the Toby Keith Contest. Chubby, bearded, and balding, that's me! The Toby Keith Cruise will surely be my brush with country fame.
Or maybe there is a berth for me on a January, 2011 Love Boat. Yesterday's newspaper travel section advertised a Taylor Swift-themed Caribbean cruise including trivia, karaoke, and a look-alike contest on board followed by a shore-side concert with Taylor herself when the boat docks in Cozumel. I'm sure I could ace the Taylor Swift Trivia Contest. After all, the girl is only 20 years old, how much trivia can there be? Karaoke shouldn't be a problem either. I can do teen angst over unrequited love with the best of them. Surely, I would win a front row seat (and probably back stage passes with a meet-and-greet) with Taylor herself.
The problem is, of course, with the look-alike contest. Overweight, balding 62 year-old men are unlikely to pass for Ms Swift even with the best wigs and make-up though some may attempt it. I foresee the most hilarious You Tube videos ever of a ship overrun with Taylor Swift look-alikes.
What to do, Captain Stubing, Gopher, Julie, and Isaac? You've always solved the most difficult dilemmas in 60 minutes minus commercial time. The answer is simple, you say? If the Taylor Swift Cruise concept catches on, other country stars will follow suit. I will still fail at the Reba McIntyre or Dolly Parton Cruise Look-Alike Contest, but I have a real shot at the Toby Keith Contest. Chubby, bearded, and balding, that's me! The Toby Keith Cruise will surely be my brush with country fame.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Boo-Boo Timberlake
News Flash - Justin Timberlake will be the voice of "Boo-Boo" Bear in the upcoming "Yogi Bear" animated movie.
Imagine the scene several months ago in the film's production office:
Executive Producer - "Christmas, 2010 is coming and we need a movie where parents can dump their kids for a couple of hours relief from the whining that everyone else got better presents than they did and everything that they got was broken by noon."
Producer - "That could be tough. We've run out of TV cartoon characters from the 70s and 80s that parents can tolerate and that kids think are new and exciting. We've made Scooby Doo, Flintstones,and even Rocky & Bullwinkle movies. About all that's left is Yogi Bear. The problem is that we need big name stars to do the voice-overs and who would lower himself to do that nasal, whiny Boo-Boo. After Robert DeNiro did Boris Badenov in "Rocky", his career went down the toilet. We got Dan Ackroyd to do the voice of Yogi, but we had big name actors lining up outside the door for the chance to say "smarter than the average bear".
Casting Director - "I can't believe it! I just got a call from Justin Timberlake and he wants to do Boo-Boo!"
Producer - "Wait a minute. Justin Timberlake, Britney Spears' former boyfriend, lead singer of 'N Sync, the man who brought sexy back wants to voice-over a nasal, whiny baby bear in a kid's movie? Sign him up before he comes to his senses. He's either intentionally committing career suicide or he's got more self-assurance than Frank Sinatra in his prime."
Actually, Justin Timberlake comes across as a decent, non-ego-driven guy when he's interviewed on The Daily Show or when he hosts "Saturday Night Live". My guess is that he is doing Boo-Boo because it might be fun. Good for him.
Imagine the scene several months ago in the film's production office:
Executive Producer - "Christmas, 2010 is coming and we need a movie where parents can dump their kids for a couple of hours relief from the whining that everyone else got better presents than they did and everything that they got was broken by noon."
Producer - "That could be tough. We've run out of TV cartoon characters from the 70s and 80s that parents can tolerate and that kids think are new and exciting. We've made Scooby Doo, Flintstones,and even Rocky & Bullwinkle movies. About all that's left is Yogi Bear. The problem is that we need big name stars to do the voice-overs and who would lower himself to do that nasal, whiny Boo-Boo. After Robert DeNiro did Boris Badenov in "Rocky", his career went down the toilet. We got Dan Ackroyd to do the voice of Yogi, but we had big name actors lining up outside the door for the chance to say "smarter than the average bear".
Casting Director - "I can't believe it! I just got a call from Justin Timberlake and he wants to do Boo-Boo!"
Producer - "Wait a minute. Justin Timberlake, Britney Spears' former boyfriend, lead singer of 'N Sync, the man who brought sexy back wants to voice-over a nasal, whiny baby bear in a kid's movie? Sign him up before he comes to his senses. He's either intentionally committing career suicide or he's got more self-assurance than Frank Sinatra in his prime."
Actually, Justin Timberlake comes across as a decent, non-ego-driven guy when he's interviewed on The Daily Show or when he hosts "Saturday Night Live". My guess is that he is doing Boo-Boo because it might be fun. Good for him.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Credit and Regret It
Our elected representatives pass the laws in Congress while our unelected lobbyists write them. The Financial Protection Bill that was intended to shield us from unscrupulous mortgage brokers ("Buy that McMansion now for $9.99 per month! Your mortgage rate will go up to $9,999 per month in two years, but since you won't read the fine print in the contract, we get our commission and you are left holding the bag.)
Lobbyists for car dealers got an exemption from the requirement to insure customer creditworthiness. That is why Sports Radio carries ads like, "Credit and forget it! Get that nicer, newer car that you deserve. I'm Bob from Macungie. I was months behind on my mortgage and I owed more on my old clunker than it was worth. Then I went to Sleazy Sam's Autos and got the car of my dreams with no money down."
Bob had better plan to live in the car of his dreams because the payments on it at Sleazy Sam's 24% interest rate will ensure that he never pays off his delinquent mortgage. Actually, Bob needs a Plan B because it's a lot easier to repossess a car than a house.
The Tea Partiers claim that The Government has too much power and that The Free Market will lead us to unparalleled prosperity. As long as The Government is influenced by lobbyists, we don't have to worry about the prosperity of the guys who hire the lobbyists. As for poor Bob from Macungie, at least he gets to drive "the nicer, newer car that he deserves" until it is repossessed.
Lobbyists for car dealers got an exemption from the requirement to insure customer creditworthiness. That is why Sports Radio carries ads like, "Credit and forget it! Get that nicer, newer car that you deserve. I'm Bob from Macungie. I was months behind on my mortgage and I owed more on my old clunker than it was worth. Then I went to Sleazy Sam's Autos and got the car of my dreams with no money down."
Bob had better plan to live in the car of his dreams because the payments on it at Sleazy Sam's 24% interest rate will ensure that he never pays off his delinquent mortgage. Actually, Bob needs a Plan B because it's a lot easier to repossess a car than a house.
The Tea Partiers claim that The Government has too much power and that The Free Market will lead us to unparalleled prosperity. As long as The Government is influenced by lobbyists, we don't have to worry about the prosperity of the guys who hire the lobbyists. As for poor Bob from Macungie, at least he gets to drive "the nicer, newer car that he deserves" until it is repossessed.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
The Better Mousetrap
"If you build a better mousetrap, the world will beat a path to your door."
Bill Gates was a Harvard dropout with a bad haircut. Then, he developed the Windows System that enabled even Grandma to get on-line (Grandma could never have handled COBOL). Today, he still has the bad haircut along with billions of dollars.
I, too, have a bad haircut. What I need is a "better mousetrap" idea like Bill Gates' Windows. How about a tech-ready trench coat designed to replace airline luggage? No more long waits at the baggage carousel! No more excessive checked luggage fees!
Alas, someone beat me to it. The Scottevest Carry-On Coat (retailing at a mere $225) has 33 pockets specially designed for a pair of shoes, folded clothing, a tablet computer, and even a TSA-compliant compartment for liquids. Delta Airlines noticed this threat to their lucrative checked luggage income. They refused a Scottevest ad for their in-flight magazine.
Of course, there were those who thought that the Edsel, Betamax, and New Coke were the "better mousetrap" and where are they today? The Scottevest will likely fail for the same reason that we would rather watch football than hockey on TV. Hockey is faster, more violent, and doesn't stop for huddles and/or commercial breaks every 30 seconds. But hockey players look dorky. Nobody looks good in a bad helmet, a jersey drooping down over padded shorts and bulky kneesocks. Football players look cool in space-age helmets, tight jerseys over shoulder pads that hide even the worst gut and painted-on pants. We would rather watch (and imagine ourselves as) the cool guys and put up with only five minutes of action in an hour of game time.
We will not look cool with a pair of shoes, folded-up clothing, and a tablet computer concealed inside a trench coat. We will look fat (or even like very inept shoplifters). Nobody wants to look fat. The Scottevest is destined to fail.
So "the better mousetrap" continues to elude me. I remain poor. Maybe Bill Gates will sponsor relief for Bad Haircut Guys along with malaria sufferers.
Bill Gates was a Harvard dropout with a bad haircut. Then, he developed the Windows System that enabled even Grandma to get on-line (Grandma could never have handled COBOL). Today, he still has the bad haircut along with billions of dollars.
I, too, have a bad haircut. What I need is a "better mousetrap" idea like Bill Gates' Windows. How about a tech-ready trench coat designed to replace airline luggage? No more long waits at the baggage carousel! No more excessive checked luggage fees!
Alas, someone beat me to it. The Scottevest Carry-On Coat (retailing at a mere $225) has 33 pockets specially designed for a pair of shoes, folded clothing, a tablet computer, and even a TSA-compliant compartment for liquids. Delta Airlines noticed this threat to their lucrative checked luggage income. They refused a Scottevest ad for their in-flight magazine.
Of course, there were those who thought that the Edsel, Betamax, and New Coke were the "better mousetrap" and where are they today? The Scottevest will likely fail for the same reason that we would rather watch football than hockey on TV. Hockey is faster, more violent, and doesn't stop for huddles and/or commercial breaks every 30 seconds. But hockey players look dorky. Nobody looks good in a bad helmet, a jersey drooping down over padded shorts and bulky kneesocks. Football players look cool in space-age helmets, tight jerseys over shoulder pads that hide even the worst gut and painted-on pants. We would rather watch (and imagine ourselves as) the cool guys and put up with only five minutes of action in an hour of game time.
We will not look cool with a pair of shoes, folded-up clothing, and a tablet computer concealed inside a trench coat. We will look fat (or even like very inept shoplifters). Nobody wants to look fat. The Scottevest is destined to fail.
So "the better mousetrap" continues to elude me. I remain poor. Maybe Bill Gates will sponsor relief for Bad Haircut Guys along with malaria sufferers.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
The Day of the Zombie Bambi
For kids, the 1950s were a simpler, but occasionally horrifying time. We walked to school (uphill, both ways!) and crossed busy streets under the sole supervision of 6th graders serving as crossing guards. What motorist wouldn't be intimidated by a 12 year old in a reflective (safety was paramount) white belt and shoulder strap with a hand-held stop sign?
The whole street crossing thing didn't scare me (even as a 1st grader when those mean 5th graders thought it great sport to jostle the littler kids onto busy Pittston Avenue while waiting for the light to change). I was however traumatized by The Day of the Zombie Bambi.
We 5th graders were divided into groups of ten, assigned an adult chaperon, handed bus tokens and directed to to go the Scranton School Administration building in Center City for fluoride treatment. In return for sitting in a dentist's chair and having our teeth swabbed, we got a bus ride and half a day off from school. It was better than Christmas morning.
Our route from the bus stop to the Admin Building took us past the YMCA. In those days, there weren't Holiday Inns at every highway interchange. In fact, the most economical lodging for single guys was the local YMCA. The Village People's immortal song has a historical basis. The week after Thanksgiving, then as now, was deer season in Pennsylvania and the Scranton YMCA was packed with hunters who ventured into the nearby Poconos by day and sampled the temptations of the city by night. The YMCA had no parking so the downtown streets were lined with out-of-state cars. Some of those cars had a dead deer tied to their fenders.
Every group of 5th graders has a clown. Ours was Bobby Greco. Bobby decided to scare the girls in our group by grasping Bambi's head and making scary noises. Bambi responded by gurgling and vomiting on Bobby's pants. The entire group screamed. Frankly, Bobby's pants weren't the only ones accidentally stained at that moment.
Our chaperon calmed us down and pointed out that "those clowns from Jersey didn't field dress that deer" and proved that it was very dead by pummelling it with no effect. "There was still air in its lungs and some juice in its stomach. Don't worry, kids."
The remainder of the trip was uneventful, but, to this day, I swear that Bambi smiled a vengeful smile after vomiting on Bobby's pants.
The whole street crossing thing didn't scare me (even as a 1st grader when those mean 5th graders thought it great sport to jostle the littler kids onto busy Pittston Avenue while waiting for the light to change). I was however traumatized by The Day of the Zombie Bambi.
We 5th graders were divided into groups of ten, assigned an adult chaperon, handed bus tokens and directed to to go the Scranton School Administration building in Center City for fluoride treatment. In return for sitting in a dentist's chair and having our teeth swabbed, we got a bus ride and half a day off from school. It was better than Christmas morning.
Our route from the bus stop to the Admin Building took us past the YMCA. In those days, there weren't Holiday Inns at every highway interchange. In fact, the most economical lodging for single guys was the local YMCA. The Village People's immortal song has a historical basis. The week after Thanksgiving, then as now, was deer season in Pennsylvania and the Scranton YMCA was packed with hunters who ventured into the nearby Poconos by day and sampled the temptations of the city by night. The YMCA had no parking so the downtown streets were lined with out-of-state cars. Some of those cars had a dead deer tied to their fenders.
Every group of 5th graders has a clown. Ours was Bobby Greco. Bobby decided to scare the girls in our group by grasping Bambi's head and making scary noises. Bambi responded by gurgling and vomiting on Bobby's pants. The entire group screamed. Frankly, Bobby's pants weren't the only ones accidentally stained at that moment.
Our chaperon calmed us down and pointed out that "those clowns from Jersey didn't field dress that deer" and proved that it was very dead by pummelling it with no effect. "There was still air in its lungs and some juice in its stomach. Don't worry, kids."
The remainder of the trip was uneventful, but, to this day, I swear that Bambi smiled a vengeful smile after vomiting on Bobby's pants.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Investment Advice
What can Justin Bieber do for an encore after conquering the music world, establishing the hair style for a generation, and wriiting an autobiography?
Why, star in a movie, of course! And not just any movie, but a 3-D extravaganza. And not just your average concert movie. Even Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers did that. According to Justin himself, "It's a story of how my family, friends, and fans helped me get here and every day are helping me live an impossible dream." In other words, Justin's movie lacks plot, conflict, tension, and resolution. If you want that stuff in a movie, rent "Citizen Kane".
Tickets go on sale today (just in time for the holidays!) for a special sneak preview of Justin's film on February 9. For a mere $30, the ticket package includes limited edition purple 3-D glasses, a souvenir VIP event lanyard, and an Official Justin Bieber Glow Stick and Bracelet. Imagine the squeals of delight as little Tiffany discovers this under the tree on Christmas morn.
Try to keep Tiff (or bratty little brother Josh) from prematurely activating the glow stick though. In fact, wise parents might consider keeping the entire Justin package in its original wrappings. Over the past decade, the stock market has gone up a whopping 2%. That's not going to cover Josh and Tiff's future tuition at Harvard. The only investments that skyrocketed were gold (up 400%) and celebrity memoribilia (Beatles lunchboxes sell for thousands today).
Come to think about it, Justin Bieber might be the Beatles of the 21st century. Domination of the music world? Check. Hair style progenitors? Check. Movies? Check (and Justin gets an advantage because his is in 3-D). Surely Justin memorabilia will be worth a fortune in a decade or so (and just in time to finance college for Tiff and Josh).
Parents! Withdraw Josh and Tiffany's college fund from the stock market. Invest it in Justin Bieber memorabilia. While Mr Dow and Mr Jones have to send their kids to community college because their investments tanked, your offspring will be traipsing through ivy-covered halls.
Why, star in a movie, of course! And not just any movie, but a 3-D extravaganza. And not just your average concert movie. Even Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers did that. According to Justin himself, "It's a story of how my family, friends, and fans helped me get here and every day are helping me live an impossible dream." In other words, Justin's movie lacks plot, conflict, tension, and resolution. If you want that stuff in a movie, rent "Citizen Kane".
Tickets go on sale today (just in time for the holidays!) for a special sneak preview of Justin's film on February 9. For a mere $30, the ticket package includes limited edition purple 3-D glasses, a souvenir VIP event lanyard, and an Official Justin Bieber Glow Stick and Bracelet. Imagine the squeals of delight as little Tiffany discovers this under the tree on Christmas morn.
Try to keep Tiff (or bratty little brother Josh) from prematurely activating the glow stick though. In fact, wise parents might consider keeping the entire Justin package in its original wrappings. Over the past decade, the stock market has gone up a whopping 2%. That's not going to cover Josh and Tiff's future tuition at Harvard. The only investments that skyrocketed were gold (up 400%) and celebrity memoribilia (Beatles lunchboxes sell for thousands today).
Come to think about it, Justin Bieber might be the Beatles of the 21st century. Domination of the music world? Check. Hair style progenitors? Check. Movies? Check (and Justin gets an advantage because his is in 3-D). Surely Justin memorabilia will be worth a fortune in a decade or so (and just in time to finance college for Tiff and Josh).
Parents! Withdraw Josh and Tiffany's college fund from the stock market. Invest it in Justin Bieber memorabilia. While Mr Dow and Mr Jones have to send their kids to community college because their investments tanked, your offspring will be traipsing through ivy-covered halls.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Baby Shower Boom-Boom
Like most guys, I've never attended a Baby Shower. Like most guys, I figured that I wasn't missing much. Well, Sarah Palin set me straight. On Sunday's episode of "Sarah Palin's Alaska", the former governor was shattering clay pigeons on a firing range and commented. "I had a Baby Shower right here. That gets those liberals pee-peed off."
Sign me up for your next Baby Shower, Sarah! In the slack time between opening the gifts and pounding down the mimosas, there's nothing I'd like better than firing off the old 12 gauge. What better way to welcome a new Alaskan into the world than in a hail of buckshot.
But seriously folks...As a liberal, I have no problem with Ms Palin or anyone else celebrating a momentous occasion with firearms. What gets me "pee-peed off" is the NRA's intransigence regarding assault weapons and hollow point ammunition. I spent three years in the Army with an M-16. An assault weapon is very good for killing people at short range and nothing else. Hollow point ammo is good for penetrating body armor and nothing else. The NRA asks, "How can we defend our homes without assault weapons and hollow point ammo?" Liberals respond, "What if Sarah's guests bring their own AK-47s to the shower, the "auto" switch gets stuck on the upswing, and hollow point ammo is sprayed over the gift table? It would make a mess."
Sarah, I'm not "pee-peed off" about your firing range Baby Showers and since I'm out of range, your guests could use AK-47s and hollow point ammo for all I care. I just think that we should be a little careful with weapons and ammo that are only good for killing people.
Sign me up for your next Baby Shower, Sarah! In the slack time between opening the gifts and pounding down the mimosas, there's nothing I'd like better than firing off the old 12 gauge. What better way to welcome a new Alaskan into the world than in a hail of buckshot.
But seriously folks...As a liberal, I have no problem with Ms Palin or anyone else celebrating a momentous occasion with firearms. What gets me "pee-peed off" is the NRA's intransigence regarding assault weapons and hollow point ammunition. I spent three years in the Army with an M-16. An assault weapon is very good for killing people at short range and nothing else. Hollow point ammo is good for penetrating body armor and nothing else. The NRA asks, "How can we defend our homes without assault weapons and hollow point ammo?" Liberals respond, "What if Sarah's guests bring their own AK-47s to the shower, the "auto" switch gets stuck on the upswing, and hollow point ammo is sprayed over the gift table? It would make a mess."
Sarah, I'm not "pee-peed off" about your firing range Baby Showers and since I'm out of range, your guests could use AK-47s and hollow point ammo for all I care. I just think that we should be a little careful with weapons and ammo that are only good for killing people.
Friday, November 19, 2010
4 AM Blues
4 AM is an ugly hour.
Most of my 4 AM experiences were in the Army. Whether rising for KP duty or to make the last rounds of the sentry posts in Korea, 4 AM, particularly in the winter, is wretched. The warmth of sunrise is still two or three hours away. I felt utterly alone in a cold, dead world. I have avoided 4 AM ever since.
That may all change this year. Target Stores is showing a TV commercial wherein a sprightly young lady does stretches and shopping bag arm curls in eager anticipation of the store's 4 AM opening on Nov 26. Apparently, there will be bargains galore for those who storm Target's doors at an hour when the rest of the world (even our brave military) is blissfully abed.
I'm willing to give 4 AM another shot. My previous experiences with that hour have been miserable but those were in a foul-smelling mess hall or a muddy, barbed wire perimeter. Now, I'll be in a bright, cheerful store jam-packed with merchandise and surrounded by happy (and well-conditioned if the commercial is correct) shoppers.
Still, I wonder if the poor souls tapped by Target for 4 AM duty will be as enthusiastic as the shoppers. In years to come, they may look back on their pre-dawn experience with the same distaste that I do.
Most of my 4 AM experiences were in the Army. Whether rising for KP duty or to make the last rounds of the sentry posts in Korea, 4 AM, particularly in the winter, is wretched. The warmth of sunrise is still two or three hours away. I felt utterly alone in a cold, dead world. I have avoided 4 AM ever since.
That may all change this year. Target Stores is showing a TV commercial wherein a sprightly young lady does stretches and shopping bag arm curls in eager anticipation of the store's 4 AM opening on Nov 26. Apparently, there will be bargains galore for those who storm Target's doors at an hour when the rest of the world (even our brave military) is blissfully abed.
I'm willing to give 4 AM another shot. My previous experiences with that hour have been miserable but those were in a foul-smelling mess hall or a muddy, barbed wire perimeter. Now, I'll be in a bright, cheerful store jam-packed with merchandise and surrounded by happy (and well-conditioned if the commercial is correct) shoppers.
Still, I wonder if the poor souls tapped by Target for 4 AM duty will be as enthusiastic as the shoppers. In years to come, they may look back on their pre-dawn experience with the same distaste that I do.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Reality Bites (or Spits)
Sports Radio is the preferred advertising medium for all things manly. I heard a commercial this morning for "Brewmasters", a new reality TV show on the Discovery Channel. Not content with showing conventional brewing processes, "Brewmasters" will demonstrate the use of the exotic and incredibly macho items like surfboard shavings and even human saliva in making beer. Move over, "Survivor" and "The Amazing Race". This is true reality TV.
Or is it? The radio commercial noted that human saliva is a critical component in making a particular Peruvian beer and we will just have to tune in to "Brewmasters" to get the full low-down. That sounds almost educational. Gross and disgusting, but educational. Educational doesn't get ratings, though. To get eyeballs on your show, you need competition, and I know just how to inject some life into "Brewmasters".
Back in my college days, a fraternity brother was so cheap that he would spit in his beer before traipsing off to the mens' room for fear that one of us would take a quick, free sip in his absence. Of course, we would respond by adding our own saliva to his and chortling uncontrollably when he came back and drank it down. But that trick only works once and leads to non-fraternal harsh words and possibly fisticuffs. We soon advanced to other bar-available additives like salt, pepper, and pickled egg juice. Alas, those added detectable flavor and led to the same unbrotherly result. A Chemistry major finally settled on the ultimate beer additive - phenolphthalein. It was tasteless and a strong laxative. Our cheap brother learned his lesson, and subsequent beers were one for all and all for one.
"Brewmasters" should do the same. After we see how the beer is made with surfboard shavings or Peruvian saliva, each episode should end with competitors choosing among the genuine exotic brew and conventional beers adulterated with preferably disgusting additives. Shavings from the neighborhood dogs' favorite telephone pole could substitute for surfboard shavings. Non-Peruvian saliva could be used. It will be a TV ratings bonanza.
Back in the 60s, the chairman of the FCC called TV "a vast wasteland". Imagine what he would say about today's Reality TV.
Or is it? The radio commercial noted that human saliva is a critical component in making a particular Peruvian beer and we will just have to tune in to "Brewmasters" to get the full low-down. That sounds almost educational. Gross and disgusting, but educational. Educational doesn't get ratings, though. To get eyeballs on your show, you need competition, and I know just how to inject some life into "Brewmasters".
Back in my college days, a fraternity brother was so cheap that he would spit in his beer before traipsing off to the mens' room for fear that one of us would take a quick, free sip in his absence. Of course, we would respond by adding our own saliva to his and chortling uncontrollably when he came back and drank it down. But that trick only works once and leads to non-fraternal harsh words and possibly fisticuffs. We soon advanced to other bar-available additives like salt, pepper, and pickled egg juice. Alas, those added detectable flavor and led to the same unbrotherly result. A Chemistry major finally settled on the ultimate beer additive - phenolphthalein. It was tasteless and a strong laxative. Our cheap brother learned his lesson, and subsequent beers were one for all and all for one.
"Brewmasters" should do the same. After we see how the beer is made with surfboard shavings or Peruvian saliva, each episode should end with competitors choosing among the genuine exotic brew and conventional beers adulterated with preferably disgusting additives. Shavings from the neighborhood dogs' favorite telephone pole could substitute for surfboard shavings. Non-Peruvian saliva could be used. It will be a TV ratings bonanza.
Back in the 60s, the chairman of the FCC called TV "a vast wasteland". Imagine what he would say about today's Reality TV.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
The Prince Who Saved Christmas
The truest measure of parental devotion is to stand in line for hours to purchase that "must have" Christmas gift for your child. How many cases of frostbite and/or the flu resulted from the vigil outside Toys R Us seeking hard-to-get Cabbage Patch Kids or Tickle Me Elmo back in the day? Even the long-forgotten Teddy Ruxpin (a talking caterpillar) was quite the craze back in the 80s though Teddy and his accompanying cassette now gather dust in innumerable attics. "Dad won't be with us on Christmas morning. He's recuperating from hypothermia in the hospital, but he got that Atari for the kids. We'll visit him after this game of Pong is over."
There hasn't been a real "must have" Christmas gift for several years, and we really need one to spark the economy in 2010. Of all people, the British Royal family came through. The morning news shows reported today that replicas of the engagement ring that Prince William gave to Kate Middleton (the same one that Prince Charles gave to Lady Diana) are literally flying off the shelves. The housing market may not lead us out of the current recession, but the jewelry industry has a shot.
Of course, this means that sapphire and diamond rings are now in incredibly short supply. Soon we will see lines of eager shoppers camped out in the cold outside jewelry stores on the rumored availability there of Kate Middleton / Princess Di rings. It will be an arduous and possibly fruitless ordeal, but acquiring that precious ring will make 2010 "the best Christmas ever".
Better yet, what with the bull market for scrap jewelry ("Trade in those old class rings for tons of cold, hard cash!), the Kate/Princess Di ring will not end up in the attic alongside those Cabbage Patch Kids. You will get at least some of your money back when its allure fades.
Thanks for saving Christmas, Prince William!
There hasn't been a real "must have" Christmas gift for several years, and we really need one to spark the economy in 2010. Of all people, the British Royal family came through. The morning news shows reported today that replicas of the engagement ring that Prince William gave to Kate Middleton (the same one that Prince Charles gave to Lady Diana) are literally flying off the shelves. The housing market may not lead us out of the current recession, but the jewelry industry has a shot.
Of course, this means that sapphire and diamond rings are now in incredibly short supply. Soon we will see lines of eager shoppers camped out in the cold outside jewelry stores on the rumored availability there of Kate Middleton / Princess Di rings. It will be an arduous and possibly fruitless ordeal, but acquiring that precious ring will make 2010 "the best Christmas ever".
Better yet, what with the bull market for scrap jewelry ("Trade in those old class rings for tons of cold, hard cash!), the Kate/Princess Di ring will not end up in the attic alongside those Cabbage Patch Kids. You will get at least some of your money back when its allure fades.
Thanks for saving Christmas, Prince William!
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Viewing With Alarm
A great way for a politician to get on the nightly news and not coincidentally, to make a name for himself is to "view with alarm". It is not necessary to propose a solution. All that is required is to frighten the people.
With the advent of full-body scanners at New Jersey airports, the Garden State Legislature passed a resolution urging Congress to review the program. The resolution claims the scanners are "a gross violation of the fourth amendment right against unreasonable search and seizure" and that they pose a health risk with radiation exposure to pregnant women and small children. Those are reasonable arguments, but reasonable arguments don't get you on Action News or give you a good video clip for your next campaign.
A legislator expanded on the argument. If a passenger declines to go through the scanner, he/she is subject to a pat-down "that involves touching of the genital areas. If this occurred in another setting, someone would be going to jail!" First, the government refuses Grandma her Social Security COLA. Now they are fondling her as she passes through the airport.
Grandma is not the only one in danger. Those scanner images of little Josh and Tiffany before they boarded the plane to Disney World "can be transferred to a server where they could be viewed by many people!" The government is stopping miniature terrorists, but is providing a bonanza for pedophiles.
But I'm not a Grandma, a pregnant woman, or a small child, what do you have to frighten me? "What's to stop them (the government) from doing this kind of thing (full body scanners) on buses, or trains, or at shopping malls? Where does it end?" OMG, I will be scanned when I walk into Wal-Mart and, if I refuse, that kindly retiree in the blue vest will grope my genitals!
With the "viewing with alarm" and political posturing out of the way, New Jersey can address this problem in typical Garden State fashion. The Legislature can require that attractive members of the opposite gender be available for those pat-downs. Sales will boom at NJ malls. Thrill-seeking New Yorkers and Pennsylvanians will flock to the Garden State for shopping. Hey, it already works for out-of-state motorists who don't want to pump their own gasoline.
With the advent of full-body scanners at New Jersey airports, the Garden State Legislature passed a resolution urging Congress to review the program. The resolution claims the scanners are "a gross violation of the fourth amendment right against unreasonable search and seizure" and that they pose a health risk with radiation exposure to pregnant women and small children. Those are reasonable arguments, but reasonable arguments don't get you on Action News or give you a good video clip for your next campaign.
A legislator expanded on the argument. If a passenger declines to go through the scanner, he/she is subject to a pat-down "that involves touching of the genital areas. If this occurred in another setting, someone would be going to jail!" First, the government refuses Grandma her Social Security COLA. Now they are fondling her as she passes through the airport.
Grandma is not the only one in danger. Those scanner images of little Josh and Tiffany before they boarded the plane to Disney World "can be transferred to a server where they could be viewed by many people!" The government is stopping miniature terrorists, but is providing a bonanza for pedophiles.
But I'm not a Grandma, a pregnant woman, or a small child, what do you have to frighten me? "What's to stop them (the government) from doing this kind of thing (full body scanners) on buses, or trains, or at shopping malls? Where does it end?" OMG, I will be scanned when I walk into Wal-Mart and, if I refuse, that kindly retiree in the blue vest will grope my genitals!
With the "viewing with alarm" and political posturing out of the way, New Jersey can address this problem in typical Garden State fashion. The Legislature can require that attractive members of the opposite gender be available for those pat-downs. Sales will boom at NJ malls. Thrill-seeking New Yorkers and Pennsylvanians will flock to the Garden State for shopping. Hey, it already works for out-of-state motorists who don't want to pump their own gasoline.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Harry Potter and the Deathly Tattoo
Drunken sailors and "Harry Potter" cast members appear to have little in common. A news report indicates otherwise. To commemorate completion of the final film in the series, the cast of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" might all get the same tattoo much like sailors of old pledged their undying brotherhood with matching "tatts" after a difficult voyage.
Rupert Grint, the cast cut-up, stated that he planned to get a tattoo of Daniel Radcliffe's face "somewhere on his body". Playing along, Radcliffe promised to have Grint's image permanently engraved on his skin.
Don't do it, guys! Sailors can get away with an anchor, mermaid, or hula girl tattoo. It's part of their charm. It won't freak out the other guys in the locker room. But if the guy at the adjacent locker has a "tatt" of another guy's face on his body, I'm bolting out the door and showering at home.
As our bodies sag, wrinkle, and bulge with time, the artful perfectly-proportioned "face" tattoo that we got when we were 20 becomes Munch's "The Scream" when we are 60. Unless you want to clear space on a crowded beach in your dotage, don't get that tattoo, boys.
Of course, Daniel Radcliffe and Rupert Grint have made enough money from "Harry Potter" that they could shave their bodies, dye themselves red and go through the rest of their lives as "Jolly Rancher" candies if they so desire. A tattoo probably doesn't matter.
Rupert Grint, the cast cut-up, stated that he planned to get a tattoo of Daniel Radcliffe's face "somewhere on his body". Playing along, Radcliffe promised to have Grint's image permanently engraved on his skin.
Don't do it, guys! Sailors can get away with an anchor, mermaid, or hula girl tattoo. It's part of their charm. It won't freak out the other guys in the locker room. But if the guy at the adjacent locker has a "tatt" of another guy's face on his body, I'm bolting out the door and showering at home.
As our bodies sag, wrinkle, and bulge with time, the artful perfectly-proportioned "face" tattoo that we got when we were 20 becomes Munch's "The Scream" when we are 60. Unless you want to clear space on a crowded beach in your dotage, don't get that tattoo, boys.
Of course, Daniel Radcliffe and Rupert Grint have made enough money from "Harry Potter" that they could shave their bodies, dye themselves red and go through the rest of their lives as "Jolly Rancher" candies if they so desire. A tattoo probably doesn't matter.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Adding Insult to Injury
The TV commercials would lead us to believe that the biggest problem for revelers aboard a modern cruise ship is working off the calories from its endless buffet meals in its health spas, wave pools, climbing walls, and dance floors.
The 4,500 passengers aboard the Carnival Splendor are having a different experience. An engine fire knocked out the ship's power. According to reports, mealtime requires a two-hour wait for cold food. US Navy helicopters have flown in "Spam, Pop Tarts, canned crab meat, and other goods" to the famished passengers.
Isn't this adding insult to injury? How can one properly enjoy a soothing hot rock massage after a breakfast of Pop Tarts? Does a slice of cold Spam provide the energy to tackle that wave pool or to ascend that climbing wall? Who can do the Chicken Dance while digesting canned crab?
It's all a plot by the Navy. Their ships don't have casinos, jogging tracks, and stateroom balconies overlooking the sea. Clearly, sailor morale plummets when those poor swabbies look up from their harsh duties at sea to see civilian cruise ship passengers doing the Macarena and frolicking in the wave pool. Now the Navy can say to its sailors, "You may not get daily facials at the spa or be able to drive golf balls off the afterdeck, but we are sticking those civilians with Spam, Pop Tarts, and cold crabmeat while you get hot chow!"
Anchors aweigh.
The 4,500 passengers aboard the Carnival Splendor are having a different experience. An engine fire knocked out the ship's power. According to reports, mealtime requires a two-hour wait for cold food. US Navy helicopters have flown in "Spam, Pop Tarts, canned crab meat, and other goods" to the famished passengers.
Isn't this adding insult to injury? How can one properly enjoy a soothing hot rock massage after a breakfast of Pop Tarts? Does a slice of cold Spam provide the energy to tackle that wave pool or to ascend that climbing wall? Who can do the Chicken Dance while digesting canned crab?
It's all a plot by the Navy. Their ships don't have casinos, jogging tracks, and stateroom balconies overlooking the sea. Clearly, sailor morale plummets when those poor swabbies look up from their harsh duties at sea to see civilian cruise ship passengers doing the Macarena and frolicking in the wave pool. Now the Navy can say to its sailors, "You may not get daily facials at the spa or be able to drive golf balls off the afterdeck, but we are sticking those civilians with Spam, Pop Tarts, and cold crabmeat while you get hot chow!"
Anchors aweigh.
A Trip to Home Plate Averted
"Working with my hands" has never been my strong point. Yesterday's struggle to erect cold weather protection for the oh-so-sensitive camellia bush outside the house once again resulted in misplaced wooden stakes and burlap cut too short on the top and too long on the bottom. How I wished that Chuckie Vohar would magically appear and make it all better.
Chuckie, you see, saved my posterior and probably several of my fingers in 7th grade Wood Shop. Our class assignment was to make a broom holder. This required use of the Monster Band Saw. In 1960, niceties like safety goggles and hand protection were not provided. Hey, what can go wrong with an untrained 12 year-old operating equipment that can slice through his wrist in a heartbeat? Loss of a body part was acceptable, but breaking the flexible saw band was not. This was punishable by a "trip to home plate". The student miscreant would straddle a baseball home plate several feet away from the shop teacher's desk, extend his arms to the desk, and Mr Piento would swat the evildoer's behind with a paddle that strongly resembled a flattened-out baseball bat.
Perhaps it was fear of home plate or just general ineptitude, but I was making a mess of my cut on the Monster Band Saw. The blade was bending and perilously close to snapping when Chuckie Vohar calmly shut down the machine, removed my mangled broom holder, inserted a fresh piece of wood and, without measuring or marking, made a perfect cut. He handed it to me with a typically Chuckie comment, "Fer Crissake, Dufton, we ain't got all day here."
In those days, South Scranton Junior High School placed its 7th graders in homerooms based on IQ testing. Homeroom numbers and IQ scores increased from the dregs of HR 301 to the intellectual elite of HR 314. Homerooms had the same schedules so we 7th graders could traverse the halls en masse between classes safe from the predation of 9th and 10th graders. Of course, boys and girls had to spilt for Gym and Shop. The HR 314 "boy geniuses" were joined by the only-slightly-less brilliant men of HR 313 for those masculine pursuits.
If not for Chuckie, HR 313 and 314 would have been decimated by the Lethal Machine Shop Lathe, the Perilous Print Shop Press, and the Shocking Electric Shop Circuit Board. Sadly, we didn't return the favor and help the Chuckster out in Algebra and Earth Science. After 8th grade, we didn't have to take Shop any more and, like an angel who has earned his wings, Chuckie quit school and joined the Army. It turned out that he was actually 15 years old in 7th grade which went a long way toward explaining how he could grow hair in places the rest of us could only dream about.
It's been 50 years and I'm still mechanically inept. How many times have I wished that Chuckie would appear over my shoulder, utter a multi-syllabic oath, and make it all better.
I remain convinced that God issues an equal ration of talent to each of us. The distribution of sub-talents is unequal though. Those who get lots of intellectual ability are shorted on mechanical know-how. Those who possess drive and ambition often lack compassion. I could calculate the allowable stress on the band saw blade to the fraction of a psi, but only Chuckie could sense when it was about to snap and stop the machine in time. Which skill is more valuable?
Chuckie, you see, saved my posterior and probably several of my fingers in 7th grade Wood Shop. Our class assignment was to make a broom holder. This required use of the Monster Band Saw. In 1960, niceties like safety goggles and hand protection were not provided. Hey, what can go wrong with an untrained 12 year-old operating equipment that can slice through his wrist in a heartbeat? Loss of a body part was acceptable, but breaking the flexible saw band was not. This was punishable by a "trip to home plate". The student miscreant would straddle a baseball home plate several feet away from the shop teacher's desk, extend his arms to the desk, and Mr Piento would swat the evildoer's behind with a paddle that strongly resembled a flattened-out baseball bat.
Perhaps it was fear of home plate or just general ineptitude, but I was making a mess of my cut on the Monster Band Saw. The blade was bending and perilously close to snapping when Chuckie Vohar calmly shut down the machine, removed my mangled broom holder, inserted a fresh piece of wood and, without measuring or marking, made a perfect cut. He handed it to me with a typically Chuckie comment, "Fer Crissake, Dufton, we ain't got all day here."
In those days, South Scranton Junior High School placed its 7th graders in homerooms based on IQ testing. Homeroom numbers and IQ scores increased from the dregs of HR 301 to the intellectual elite of HR 314. Homerooms had the same schedules so we 7th graders could traverse the halls en masse between classes safe from the predation of 9th and 10th graders. Of course, boys and girls had to spilt for Gym and Shop. The HR 314 "boy geniuses" were joined by the only-slightly-less brilliant men of HR 313 for those masculine pursuits.
If not for Chuckie, HR 313 and 314 would have been decimated by the Lethal Machine Shop Lathe, the Perilous Print Shop Press, and the Shocking Electric Shop Circuit Board. Sadly, we didn't return the favor and help the Chuckster out in Algebra and Earth Science. After 8th grade, we didn't have to take Shop any more and, like an angel who has earned his wings, Chuckie quit school and joined the Army. It turned out that he was actually 15 years old in 7th grade which went a long way toward explaining how he could grow hair in places the rest of us could only dream about.
It's been 50 years and I'm still mechanically inept. How many times have I wished that Chuckie would appear over my shoulder, utter a multi-syllabic oath, and make it all better.
I remain convinced that God issues an equal ration of talent to each of us. The distribution of sub-talents is unequal though. Those who get lots of intellectual ability are shorted on mechanical know-how. Those who possess drive and ambition often lack compassion. I could calculate the allowable stress on the band saw blade to the fraction of a psi, but only Chuckie could sense when it was about to snap and stop the machine in time. Which skill is more valuable?
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Banana - Rama
The latest issue of The New Yorker includes an amusing article on the general ridiculousness of eating bananas.
This struck a chord with me. When I was growing up in the 50s, banana consumption was limited to human infants and to chimps in Tarzan movies. With the Health Food Craze of the 80s, bananas became "the perfect food", full of potassium and low in calories. Air Products employees would emerge from the Cafeteria with coffee in one hand and a banana in the other. The sight of an executive "suit" carrying a banana always cracked me up. I imagined them morphing into Tarzan's pet chimp, Cheetah, and leaping into a backflip while cackling maniacally in their Brooks Brothers suit and wingtips.
Even more amusing is the etiquette of banana consumption. What do you do with the peel? Joe Executive is faced with a dilemma. He must conduct a "breakfast" meeting or interview. He needs to impress us with his health consciousness by eating that banana while we peons chow down on doughnuts. Clearly, he cannot remove the entire peel and place his hands on the white, squishy, eminently bruisable fruit itself. It would make the requisite post-meeting handshake a stomach-turner.
So he peels the fruit about half-way and takes a bite. Now he has got a stringy bright yellow peel flopping around his wrist and everyone's eyes are on it as opposed to his Power Point presentation. Will it self-peel as Joe Executive gesticulates and the fruit spurts into the air? That prospect is a lot more interesting than the Lost Time Accident Rate from our facilities in Brazil. What will he do with the peel when the fruit is gone? Will it sit on his lectern looking like a mutant yellow spider changing form as gravity flattens it? Again, that sight is a distraction from the Power Point. Then there is that rotting banana odor emanating from the peel. Not only are our eyes distracted but so are our noses.
Call it coincidence, but when American executives breakfasted on doughnuts and cigarettes, our cars, steel, and appliances ruled the world. After three decades of health-conscious, banana breakfasting, the Japanese, Chinese, and Europeans lost their fear and respect of American business and took over those markets. Save the bananas for Cheetah, guys!
This struck a chord with me. When I was growing up in the 50s, banana consumption was limited to human infants and to chimps in Tarzan movies. With the Health Food Craze of the 80s, bananas became "the perfect food", full of potassium and low in calories. Air Products employees would emerge from the Cafeteria with coffee in one hand and a banana in the other. The sight of an executive "suit" carrying a banana always cracked me up. I imagined them morphing into Tarzan's pet chimp, Cheetah, and leaping into a backflip while cackling maniacally in their Brooks Brothers suit and wingtips.
Even more amusing is the etiquette of banana consumption. What do you do with the peel? Joe Executive is faced with a dilemma. He must conduct a "breakfast" meeting or interview. He needs to impress us with his health consciousness by eating that banana while we peons chow down on doughnuts. Clearly, he cannot remove the entire peel and place his hands on the white, squishy, eminently bruisable fruit itself. It would make the requisite post-meeting handshake a stomach-turner.
So he peels the fruit about half-way and takes a bite. Now he has got a stringy bright yellow peel flopping around his wrist and everyone's eyes are on it as opposed to his Power Point presentation. Will it self-peel as Joe Executive gesticulates and the fruit spurts into the air? That prospect is a lot more interesting than the Lost Time Accident Rate from our facilities in Brazil. What will he do with the peel when the fruit is gone? Will it sit on his lectern looking like a mutant yellow spider changing form as gravity flattens it? Again, that sight is a distraction from the Power Point. Then there is that rotting banana odor emanating from the peel. Not only are our eyes distracted but so are our noses.
Call it coincidence, but when American executives breakfasted on doughnuts and cigarettes, our cars, steel, and appliances ruled the world. After three decades of health-conscious, banana breakfasting, the Japanese, Chinese, and Europeans lost their fear and respect of American business and took over those markets. Save the bananas for Cheetah, guys!
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Spin On
I listen to Sports Radio every morning while walking the dog. If the chilly air doesn't wake me up, the frantic commercial cries of auto dealers, "Bad credit? Forget it! If I can't make you a deal, I'll kiss your mother-in-law", usually will.
As the dog did his ritual sniffing of the corner power pole this morning "Ah, the Rottweiler from down the block was here and he's on that cheap Wal-Mart Old Roy kibble again", Sports Radio segued into an atypical soothing guitar background. A calm voice asked, "Do you know who owns the BP stations in your neighborhood? In the Philadelphia region, every one of our stations is owned by your neighbors. They employ hundreds of folks just like you. Think of this the next time you need a fill-up."
Good job, BP! You are not the foreign-owned despoilers of the environment who nearly killed the Gulf of Mexico while cutting corners. You are not the CEO who "wanted his life back" and participated in a yacht race while your well was dumping hundreds of thousands of gallons of oil into the Gulf. You are that hard-working guy down the block with grease under his fingernails who keeps the family SUV running and has a job for our high school age son Kyle manning the cash register next summer. How could I have thought ill of BP?
One wonders whether the money spent by BP on "feel good" commercials might be better devoted to compensation to those Gulf Coast residents whose lives will never be the same. Actually, the BP "spin" is a better investment. When the shrimpers and fishermen complain that there aren't as many shrimp and fish as there used to be, the BP "spin" may result in the rest of us viewing them as whiners against that nice BP. We will buy BP products anyway because, after all, BP station owners are our neighbors.
Would that we humans had noses as sensitive as our canine companions so we could detect insincerity.
As the dog did his ritual sniffing of the corner power pole this morning "Ah, the Rottweiler from down the block was here and he's on that cheap Wal-Mart Old Roy kibble again", Sports Radio segued into an atypical soothing guitar background. A calm voice asked, "Do you know who owns the BP stations in your neighborhood? In the Philadelphia region, every one of our stations is owned by your neighbors. They employ hundreds of folks just like you. Think of this the next time you need a fill-up."
Good job, BP! You are not the foreign-owned despoilers of the environment who nearly killed the Gulf of Mexico while cutting corners. You are not the CEO who "wanted his life back" and participated in a yacht race while your well was dumping hundreds of thousands of gallons of oil into the Gulf. You are that hard-working guy down the block with grease under his fingernails who keeps the family SUV running and has a job for our high school age son Kyle manning the cash register next summer. How could I have thought ill of BP?
One wonders whether the money spent by BP on "feel good" commercials might be better devoted to compensation to those Gulf Coast residents whose lives will never be the same. Actually, the BP "spin" is a better investment. When the shrimpers and fishermen complain that there aren't as many shrimp and fish as there used to be, the BP "spin" may result in the rest of us viewing them as whiners against that nice BP. We will buy BP products anyway because, after all, BP station owners are our neighbors.
Would that we humans had noses as sensitive as our canine companions so we could detect insincerity.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Objectification
Senior Day was a big deal for the Scranton Central HS Class of 1965. After the morning Awards Assembly, the PTA sponsored a free lunch for us at the Century Club followed by an afternoon dance. It was a particularly big deal for me. I actually won the "Walking the Dog" dance contest. "Walking the Dog" was a dance fad of the day based on Rufus Thomas' recording of the same name. My dance partner, Ellen Levy, was the only person who knew how to do it and I was essentially along for the ride.
Still, that victory opened another potential career path to me. Maybe I could become a professional dancer. It wasn't all that difficult standing there while my female partner did all the work. Alas, primeval macho instinct kicked in, and my dancing career ended before it began.
Still, as I soldiered on in Korea and engineered my way through the swamps of New Orleans, I occasionally wondered whether abandoning a terpsichorean career was a mistake. At least, I'd be dancing indoors where there were fewer snakes and bugs than where I was engineering.
All doubts have ceased now. "Dancing With The Stars" issued awards at its 200th show earlier this week. I was shocked (shocked!) at the objectification of its male dancers. Awards were given TO GUYS for Biggest Dancer Transformation (won by the guy who used to have Fabio-style hair), Best Bleached Hair, Whitest Teeth, Best Hair Style, and Best Transformation From Scrawny to Buff.
Yo, DWTS! Females can be objectified, but not us guys. It brings on this urge toward physical fitness and improved personal grooming that cuts into our sports-watching and beer-drinking time. Limit male "beauty" awards to professional dancers, please.
Now I know that I could never have made it from Walking the Dog Champion to Dancing With The Stars Partner. I lack the hair, teeth, and, worst of all, went directly from scrawny to pot-bellied, bypassing buff.
Still, that victory opened another potential career path to me. Maybe I could become a professional dancer. It wasn't all that difficult standing there while my female partner did all the work. Alas, primeval macho instinct kicked in, and my dancing career ended before it began.
Still, as I soldiered on in Korea and engineered my way through the swamps of New Orleans, I occasionally wondered whether abandoning a terpsichorean career was a mistake. At least, I'd be dancing indoors where there were fewer snakes and bugs than where I was engineering.
All doubts have ceased now. "Dancing With The Stars" issued awards at its 200th show earlier this week. I was shocked (shocked!) at the objectification of its male dancers. Awards were given TO GUYS for Biggest Dancer Transformation (won by the guy who used to have Fabio-style hair), Best Bleached Hair, Whitest Teeth, Best Hair Style, and Best Transformation From Scrawny to Buff.
Yo, DWTS! Females can be objectified, but not us guys. It brings on this urge toward physical fitness and improved personal grooming that cuts into our sports-watching and beer-drinking time. Limit male "beauty" awards to professional dancers, please.
Now I know that I could never have made it from Walking the Dog Champion to Dancing With The Stars Partner. I lack the hair, teeth, and, worst of all, went directly from scrawny to pot-bellied, bypassing buff.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
A True Win - Win
Another Election Day has come and gone. The average voter feels relief that TV commercials will switch from the nastiness of political opponent bashing to the joys of toenail fungus remedies. He also feels guilt. Once again, less than half the electorate took the time to vote. Soldiers died so that you have this right! 100% of the voters in Iceland cast their ballot. Why can't you?
There is a way to bring maximum voter participation - food. Years ago, I was in the coal regions on company business on Election Day. When lunchtime rolled around, the guys at the plant invited me along with them to go and vote. "I'm not exactly registered to vote here, " I demurred. "Come anyway, it will be worth it," they responded.
We pulled up to the local Fire Hall to see cars overflowing its parking lot. Folks were lined up outside awaiting entrance. The deal was that if you voted, you got a pork and sauerkraut dinner for $3. It was $5 if you didn't cast your ballot. The Fire Hall Ladies Auxiliary did themselves proud. The magical aroma of pork and sauerkraut pervaded everything. Desserts were plentiful. This being a "private club", beer was available.
Clearly, this was a win - win. Voter turnout was high. The Fire Hall made money. The people got a good, cheap meal.
Could this concept work elsewhere? Why not? It may be sponsored by the PTA or a Church Womens' Group if a school or church is the polling place. The menu will have to change depending on local taste, but the non-profit makes money and the voters have the satisfaction of doing their patriotic chore on a full belly.
It will also cut down on voter fraud. That guy with sauerkraut juice dribbling down his chin and loosening his belt is clearly a repeat voter. "One Man, One Vote, One Dumpling" could be the latest Supreme Court ruling.
There is a way to bring maximum voter participation - food. Years ago, I was in the coal regions on company business on Election Day. When lunchtime rolled around, the guys at the plant invited me along with them to go and vote. "I'm not exactly registered to vote here, " I demurred. "Come anyway, it will be worth it," they responded.
We pulled up to the local Fire Hall to see cars overflowing its parking lot. Folks were lined up outside awaiting entrance. The deal was that if you voted, you got a pork and sauerkraut dinner for $3. It was $5 if you didn't cast your ballot. The Fire Hall Ladies Auxiliary did themselves proud. The magical aroma of pork and sauerkraut pervaded everything. Desserts were plentiful. This being a "private club", beer was available.
Clearly, this was a win - win. Voter turnout was high. The Fire Hall made money. The people got a good, cheap meal.
Could this concept work elsewhere? Why not? It may be sponsored by the PTA or a Church Womens' Group if a school or church is the polling place. The menu will have to change depending on local taste, but the non-profit makes money and the voters have the satisfaction of doing their patriotic chore on a full belly.
It will also cut down on voter fraud. That guy with sauerkraut juice dribbling down his chin and loosening his belt is clearly a repeat voter. "One Man, One Vote, One Dumpling" could be the latest Supreme Court ruling.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Campaign Ad Rules
Election Day is upon us at last. Come tomorrow, the airwaves will be blessedly free of campaign ads. This year, those campaign ads followed a format as strict as that for a haiku.
They began with a most unflattering photo of one's opponent usually with his/her hair disheveled and mouth open. The campaign ad then tied that opponent, however illogically, to the current economic misery. "When he served as dogcatcher for the Borough of Macungie, Candidate X implemented policies that led to the mortgage crisis. He is Wall Street's candidate, not ours!"
The next photo is of good old Candidate Y, perfectly coiffed and corporate casual, surrounded by his adoring family and an ethnically diverse group of supporters. Candidate Y gets extra points for adorable children and/or ethnically diverse pets. He loses points for mistresses and/or attractive lobbyists of the opposite gender.
Two words appeared in every single campaign ad - "Fight" and "Jobs". Candidate Y will fight for jobs for you! One would think that Harrisburg and Washington are a canvas surrounded by ropes and governed by the Marquis of Queensbury rules and that employers will come begging to your door for you to join them as soon as Candidate Y is in office. Not to be cynical, but if past history holds, Candidate Y is mostly fighting for his job and if he gets it, lobbyists will be coming to his door for a return on their investment.
If the candidates were truly "fighting" for "jobs" would the public have been better served if the billions spent on campaign ads had been invested in infrastructure or new programs? Of course, the public would have missed out on the entertainment value of candidates in unflattering photos.
They began with a most unflattering photo of one's opponent usually with his/her hair disheveled and mouth open. The campaign ad then tied that opponent, however illogically, to the current economic misery. "When he served as dogcatcher for the Borough of Macungie, Candidate X implemented policies that led to the mortgage crisis. He is Wall Street's candidate, not ours!"
The next photo is of good old Candidate Y, perfectly coiffed and corporate casual, surrounded by his adoring family and an ethnically diverse group of supporters. Candidate Y gets extra points for adorable children and/or ethnically diverse pets. He loses points for mistresses and/or attractive lobbyists of the opposite gender.
Two words appeared in every single campaign ad - "Fight" and "Jobs". Candidate Y will fight for jobs for you! One would think that Harrisburg and Washington are a canvas surrounded by ropes and governed by the Marquis of Queensbury rules and that employers will come begging to your door for you to join them as soon as Candidate Y is in office. Not to be cynical, but if past history holds, Candidate Y is mostly fighting for his job and if he gets it, lobbyists will be coming to his door for a return on their investment.
If the candidates were truly "fighting" for "jobs" would the public have been better served if the billions spent on campaign ads had been invested in infrastructure or new programs? Of course, the public would have missed out on the entertainment value of candidates in unflattering photos.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Casino Dreams
In one of the early James Bond movies, a SCUBA-equipped Sean Connery plants an underwater bomb, fights off enemy frogmen, emerges from the Mediterranean in a wet suit, unzips it to reveal white-jacketed formal wear, and walks into an elegant casino where everyone else is well-dressed, fit, and well-groomed. This was the image of casino life that I carried with me for forty years. It was reinforced when casinos came to Atlantic City. All the TV commercials showed supermodels in slinky attire seductively lounging around the gaming tables. I never made it to Monte Carlo or to Atlantic City for that matter which was just as well since my white dinner jacket has been at the cleaners since that unfortunate episode at the Senior Prom. How could I fit in with the Beautiful People at the baccarat table when I couldn't dress the part?
The first indication that a trip to the casino wasn't exactly a night at the opera came when "slots parlors" came to Pennsylvania. I joined the denim, "#1 Grandpa" sweatshirt, and John Deere hat-clad crowds. There was nary a slinky Woman of Mystery or dashing secret agent in sight, but that was understandable. These are only slot machines after all. Wait until table games come to our local casino. That will surely draw The Most Interesting Man in the World.
Yesterday, my dreams were shattered. We stopped at Hollywood Casino near Harrisburg. There were blackjack tables, craps tables, and funky Oriental gambling games aplenty. Surrounding the tables were what appeared to be the Dauphin County Senior Citizen's Brigade and several local motorcycle clubs. I realized that it is impossible to be underdressed at a Pennsylvania casino. Polyester stretch pants, appliqued sweatshirts, and velcro walking shoes were the uniform of the day. The level of grooming was somewhere between "I just rolled out of bed" and "If I comb my hair, I'll just have to do it again tomorrow". Fashion accessories were oxygen tanks as opposed to Gucci handbags. The clientele consisted of Ma and Pa Kettle rather than Sean Connery and Ursula Andress.
It is a relief to know that I don't have to break out that white dinner jacket to go gambling in the Keystone State. I would have to lose a few pounds to fit into it anyway. Still, I dream of vanquishing an Evil Genius at the baccarat table and driving my Aston Martin into the night with a Bond Girl at my side. It just won't be in Grantville, PA.
The first indication that a trip to the casino wasn't exactly a night at the opera came when "slots parlors" came to Pennsylvania. I joined the denim, "#1 Grandpa" sweatshirt, and John Deere hat-clad crowds. There was nary a slinky Woman of Mystery or dashing secret agent in sight, but that was understandable. These are only slot machines after all. Wait until table games come to our local casino. That will surely draw The Most Interesting Man in the World.
Yesterday, my dreams were shattered. We stopped at Hollywood Casino near Harrisburg. There were blackjack tables, craps tables, and funky Oriental gambling games aplenty. Surrounding the tables were what appeared to be the Dauphin County Senior Citizen's Brigade and several local motorcycle clubs. I realized that it is impossible to be underdressed at a Pennsylvania casino. Polyester stretch pants, appliqued sweatshirts, and velcro walking shoes were the uniform of the day. The level of grooming was somewhere between "I just rolled out of bed" and "If I comb my hair, I'll just have to do it again tomorrow". Fashion accessories were oxygen tanks as opposed to Gucci handbags. The clientele consisted of Ma and Pa Kettle rather than Sean Connery and Ursula Andress.
It is a relief to know that I don't have to break out that white dinner jacket to go gambling in the Keystone State. I would have to lose a few pounds to fit into it anyway. Still, I dream of vanquishing an Evil Genius at the baccarat table and driving my Aston Martin into the night with a Bond Girl at my side. It just won't be in Grantville, PA.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Desperately Seeking a Size 15 Shoe
If anyone out there has a single Size 15 football shoe, contact Bret Favre c/o the Minnesota Vikings.
America's Favorite Quarterback suffered two mini-fractures in his left ankle last week and his Consecutive Games Started Streak that dates back to the Pleistocene Era is in jeopardy. According to Sports Radio, Bret feels that replacing his usual Size 14 cleat on the injured appendage with padding in the next larger size will allow him to lead the Vikings to victory this weekend. Fortunately, Bret hauls in some $10 million per year so it shouldn't be a financial burden to him to have unusable mates to the shoes that he actually wears.
Like most sports fanatics, I am a failed athlete. We all wonder why the Bret Favres of the world succeeded when we failed. In my case, a lack of speed, strength, depth perception, and hand-eye coordination probably had a lot to do with it. Now I know of another reason why I am not trotting onto the field to face the NY Jets next Sunday - my foot size. Bret Favre is an average size guy, not a whole lot bigger than I am, yet he has Size 14 feet compared to my pathetic Size 10-1/2s. That must make all the difference.
The biggest feet in recorded athletic history belonged to a 7 foot basketball player named Bob Lanier at Size 23. That made sense. Without a large base, Bob would topple over. I would look and run about as fast as like Ronald McDonald if I had Size 23 feet. But if I'd been blessed with Size 14s, maybe I could have had Bret Favre's gridiron career, not to mention those Wrangler Jeans commercials. It was never the speed, strength, or coordination. it was the foot size the whole time.
America's Favorite Quarterback suffered two mini-fractures in his left ankle last week and his Consecutive Games Started Streak that dates back to the Pleistocene Era is in jeopardy. According to Sports Radio, Bret feels that replacing his usual Size 14 cleat on the injured appendage with padding in the next larger size will allow him to lead the Vikings to victory this weekend. Fortunately, Bret hauls in some $10 million per year so it shouldn't be a financial burden to him to have unusable mates to the shoes that he actually wears.
Like most sports fanatics, I am a failed athlete. We all wonder why the Bret Favres of the world succeeded when we failed. In my case, a lack of speed, strength, depth perception, and hand-eye coordination probably had a lot to do with it. Now I know of another reason why I am not trotting onto the field to face the NY Jets next Sunday - my foot size. Bret Favre is an average size guy, not a whole lot bigger than I am, yet he has Size 14 feet compared to my pathetic Size 10-1/2s. That must make all the difference.
The biggest feet in recorded athletic history belonged to a 7 foot basketball player named Bob Lanier at Size 23. That made sense. Without a large base, Bob would topple over. I would look and run about as fast as like Ronald McDonald if I had Size 23 feet. But if I'd been blessed with Size 14s, maybe I could have had Bret Favre's gridiron career, not to mention those Wrangler Jeans commercials. It was never the speed, strength, or coordination. it was the foot size the whole time.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Fighting Fire with Fire
Stephen Colbert's guest on the 26 Oct episode of The Colbert Report was a septuagenarian author/historian plugging his new book. Here we go again, I thought. Colbert will play his madcap role and the guest will either be flustered or play along. In either case, it's time to switch over to the end of "Seinfeld" on Channel 29.
But it was a "Seinfeld" I'd seen a thousand times, so I switched back to Colbert to discover that once you've hit your 70s, you can abandon political correctness and tell the truth.
Colbert - "Isn't America the most divided it's ever been right now?"
Guest - "Well, there was the Civil War. We divided into two separate countries then and fought each other."
Colbert - "What would your mentor and famed conservative William Buckley make of the Tea Party?"
Guest - "He would say that they are vulgarian."
Colbert - "How do you explain the rise of the Tea Party Movement?"
Guest - "Those political beliefs have always been there. They are prominent now because we have a black man as president."
I gasped when I heard that and so did Stephen Colbert. It is so rare to hear a Liberal making an incendiary statement. When 25% of Americans believe that the president is a closet Muslim and there are billboards along I-70 asking "Where's the birth certificate?", it takes a septuagenarian on a Fake TV News Show to fight fire with fire. Good for him.
But it was a "Seinfeld" I'd seen a thousand times, so I switched back to Colbert to discover that once you've hit your 70s, you can abandon political correctness and tell the truth.
Colbert - "Isn't America the most divided it's ever been right now?"
Guest - "Well, there was the Civil War. We divided into two separate countries then and fought each other."
Colbert - "What would your mentor and famed conservative William Buckley make of the Tea Party?"
Guest - "He would say that they are vulgarian."
Colbert - "How do you explain the rise of the Tea Party Movement?"
Guest - "Those political beliefs have always been there. They are prominent now because we have a black man as president."
I gasped when I heard that and so did Stephen Colbert. It is so rare to hear a Liberal making an incendiary statement. When 25% of Americans believe that the president is a closet Muslim and there are billboards along I-70 asking "Where's the birth certificate?", it takes a septuagenarian on a Fake TV News Show to fight fire with fire. Good for him.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
High School Redux
In a shocking development, Audrina Partridge was voted off "Dancing With The Stars" last night despite having the second-highest judges' score of the seven remaining contestants. Former football star Curt Warner and Alaska's First Daughter Bristol Palin live to fight (or dance) another day even though they scored lowest on Monday night's show. Judges Len, Bruno, and Carrie Ann were aghast at the public's choice.
Apparently, Len, Bruno, and Carrie Ann never went to high school. If a student combining the ruthlessness of Bismarck, the vision of Woodrow Wilson and the charm of Kennedy ran for Class President at Anywhere High, he would still lose to the good-looking jock who wears the right clothes and has the fashionable haircut even if said jock is functionally illiterate. Elections are popularity contests in high school and that continues in public life and even on Reality TV. The taller (and some would say better-looking) candidate has won every Presidential election since FDR (and we've got to give old Franklin a pass here what with the wheelchair and all).
An example from my high school days - To maximize their profits from the lucrative senior photo scam, a local photographer offered business card thingies embossed with "Central High Class of '65" and our names. This was before our wallet-size senior photos were available so it became the craze to write witticisms on the back of these business cards and distribute them to our closest hundred or so friends. There were about ten kids in the class from whom one could order these cards. Unsurprisingly, the pert and popular cheerleader girl sold about 90% of the cards while the other nine common folk shared the remainder even though they were the ones setting up "Buy Here" tables in the cafeteria. We tend to support the popular kid even if she doesn't try.
Most of us never mature beyond high school. We vote for Curt Warner and Bristol Palin because they are popular. So what if Audrina can dance circles around them. You've forgotten those Life Lessons from high school, Len, Bruno, and Carrie Ann.
Apparently, Len, Bruno, and Carrie Ann never went to high school. If a student combining the ruthlessness of Bismarck, the vision of Woodrow Wilson and the charm of Kennedy ran for Class President at Anywhere High, he would still lose to the good-looking jock who wears the right clothes and has the fashionable haircut even if said jock is functionally illiterate. Elections are popularity contests in high school and that continues in public life and even on Reality TV. The taller (and some would say better-looking) candidate has won every Presidential election since FDR (and we've got to give old Franklin a pass here what with the wheelchair and all).
An example from my high school days - To maximize their profits from the lucrative senior photo scam, a local photographer offered business card thingies embossed with "Central High Class of '65" and our names. This was before our wallet-size senior photos were available so it became the craze to write witticisms on the back of these business cards and distribute them to our closest hundred or so friends. There were about ten kids in the class from whom one could order these cards. Unsurprisingly, the pert and popular cheerleader girl sold about 90% of the cards while the other nine common folk shared the remainder even though they were the ones setting up "Buy Here" tables in the cafeteria. We tend to support the popular kid even if she doesn't try.
Most of us never mature beyond high school. We vote for Curt Warner and Bristol Palin because they are popular. So what if Audrina can dance circles around them. You've forgotten those Life Lessons from high school, Len, Bruno, and Carrie Ann.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Corporate Speak
Corporate Speak is a unique language, not unlike certain Chinese dialects wherein tone of voice and inflection rising or descending bring totally different meanings to the same words.
Foster Wheeler announced Friday that its CEO was departing after five months on the job "to pursue other interests." Note the absence of the modifier "regretfully" announce. In Corporate Speak, "regretfully" means "Not that we're really sorry to see the Old Man go since the rest of us get to move up a rung on the corporate ladder, but he was OK when he was sober." Deleting the "regretfully" means "It will take months to undo the damage that this clown did."
"To pursue other interests" raises the question, "What can those other interests possibly be for a former CEO?" Here's a guy who devoted thirty plus years of his working life to reaching the corner office and the reserved parking spot. Now, all of a sudden, has he has decided he will build miniature sailing ships in a bottle rather than collect lucrative stock options and go on company-sponsored junkets to Tahiti. The proper inflection for this announcement can either mean, "He's crazy" or "We all wish we could do the same thing."
The other classic Corporate Speak fate for former CEOs is "to spend more time with his family." Here, the tone of voice and inflection indicates "Maybe if he had spent more time with his wife earlier, she wouldn't be in the Betty Ford Clinic today." or "We would like to spend more time with that hot babe he ditched his first wife for, too."
Regardless of the true meaning of the announcement, the former CEO's "golden parachute" no doubt includes sufficient severance pay, stock options, and continuing health and other benefits that it is unlikely that we will see him in his blue vest greeting us at Wal-Mart any time soon.
Foster Wheeler announced Friday that its CEO was departing after five months on the job "to pursue other interests." Note the absence of the modifier "regretfully" announce. In Corporate Speak, "regretfully" means "Not that we're really sorry to see the Old Man go since the rest of us get to move up a rung on the corporate ladder, but he was OK when he was sober." Deleting the "regretfully" means "It will take months to undo the damage that this clown did."
"To pursue other interests" raises the question, "What can those other interests possibly be for a former CEO?" Here's a guy who devoted thirty plus years of his working life to reaching the corner office and the reserved parking spot. Now, all of a sudden, has he has decided he will build miniature sailing ships in a bottle rather than collect lucrative stock options and go on company-sponsored junkets to Tahiti. The proper inflection for this announcement can either mean, "He's crazy" or "We all wish we could do the same thing."
The other classic Corporate Speak fate for former CEOs is "to spend more time with his family." Here, the tone of voice and inflection indicates "Maybe if he had spent more time with his wife earlier, she wouldn't be in the Betty Ford Clinic today." or "We would like to spend more time with that hot babe he ditched his first wife for, too."
Regardless of the true meaning of the announcement, the former CEO's "golden parachute" no doubt includes sufficient severance pay, stock options, and continuing health and other benefits that it is unlikely that we will see him in his blue vest greeting us at Wal-Mart any time soon.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Phillies Remorse
Baseball players have always been on the cutting edge of popular coiffure and facial hair styles.
We Phillies fans fondly(?) remember when Mike Schmidt and Greg Luzinski went with the permed white guy Afro look back in the late '70s. Al "The Mad Hungarian" Hrabosky and "Goose" Gossage pioneered the Fu-Manchu mustache during the same era. More recently, Philadelphia's Jimmy Rollins went with the Stevie Wonder beaded dreadlocks look. Raul Ibanez retained his "Mr Clean" shaved head, and Chase Utley went back in time for the Michael Douglas / Gordon Gecko slicked-back hair style.
One of the common reasons given for the Phillies failure to defeat the Giants this year was that our boys are aging and couldn't keep up with those young, aggressive San Franciscans. Is this reflected by a comparison of hair styles? Jimmy, Raul, and Chase are clearly living in the past as indicated by their coiffures. The Giants, on the other hand, have Tim Lincecum's shoulder-length hair with a Mary Tyler Moore-like "flip" on the end. Is this the cutting edge for 2010? The Giants' star relief pitcher, Brain Wilson, has a mohawk complemented by a full beard that he blackens with what appears to be shoe polish. Is this "the look" for the upcoming decade? Phillies-killer Cody Ransom has a shaved head but a well-trimmed beard at his jaw line. Again, is new hair / beard style ground being broken before our very eyes?
Should the Giants win the World Series, their youthful exuberance as reflected by the Mary Tyler Moore "flip", the mohawk / blackened beard, and the shaved head / jawline beard will be a big factor. The Phillies should take note, abandon their outmoded looks and get with the times. Our boys may not be young, but they can look young.
We Phillies fans fondly(?) remember when Mike Schmidt and Greg Luzinski went with the permed white guy Afro look back in the late '70s. Al "The Mad Hungarian" Hrabosky and "Goose" Gossage pioneered the Fu-Manchu mustache during the same era. More recently, Philadelphia's Jimmy Rollins went with the Stevie Wonder beaded dreadlocks look. Raul Ibanez retained his "Mr Clean" shaved head, and Chase Utley went back in time for the Michael Douglas / Gordon Gecko slicked-back hair style.
One of the common reasons given for the Phillies failure to defeat the Giants this year was that our boys are aging and couldn't keep up with those young, aggressive San Franciscans. Is this reflected by a comparison of hair styles? Jimmy, Raul, and Chase are clearly living in the past as indicated by their coiffures. The Giants, on the other hand, have Tim Lincecum's shoulder-length hair with a Mary Tyler Moore-like "flip" on the end. Is this the cutting edge for 2010? The Giants' star relief pitcher, Brain Wilson, has a mohawk complemented by a full beard that he blackens with what appears to be shoe polish. Is this "the look" for the upcoming decade? Phillies-killer Cody Ransom has a shaved head but a well-trimmed beard at his jaw line. Again, is new hair / beard style ground being broken before our very eyes?
Should the Giants win the World Series, their youthful exuberance as reflected by the Mary Tyler Moore "flip", the mohawk / blackened beard, and the shaved head / jawline beard will be a big factor. The Phillies should take note, abandon their outmoded looks and get with the times. Our boys may not be young, but they can look young.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Premature Indulgence
Last night was the 30th anniversary of the Phillies 1980 World Series win. The commentators mentioned this as the Phillies - Giants game dragged on for 3-1/2 hours. Hey, you've got to say something while the batter re-fastens his gloves for the third time and the pitcher stares in at the catcher longer (but less lovingly) than Kate Winslet gazed at Leonardo DiCaprio as he sank into the frigid North Atlantic.
Ah yes, I remember October 21, 1980 well. The Phillies had gone since 1915 without a championship at that point. There had been close calls in 1950, 1964, and the late '70s, but to no avail. Surely, they would find a way to break Phillies fans' hearts again. But the Phils had a lead! This could be it! Even though it was a Tuesday night, I had a celebratory drink. Then the Royals rallied. I had a drink to soften the blow of the inevitable collapse. But they held on! I had an anticipatory drink. Then the Royals put runners on base. I had yet another drink to calm my nerves. Finally, Tug McGraw struck out Willie Wilson and the Phillies were World Champions. If that doesn't call for a drink, what does?
Unfortunately, I was still hungover when the Phils had their Victory Parade two days later. "That's OK, There will be plenty more Phillies championships and I'll definitely make it to those parades."
Not exactly. I regretted my October 21, 1980 indulgence for 28 long years until the Phils finally won it again in 2008. Could nearly three decades of futility be punishment for my premature indulgence in 1980? I'm not taking any chances. This year, my liquid intake is limited to diet soda. Go, Phils!
Ah yes, I remember October 21, 1980 well. The Phillies had gone since 1915 without a championship at that point. There had been close calls in 1950, 1964, and the late '70s, but to no avail. Surely, they would find a way to break Phillies fans' hearts again. But the Phils had a lead! This could be it! Even though it was a Tuesday night, I had a celebratory drink. Then the Royals rallied. I had a drink to soften the blow of the inevitable collapse. But they held on! I had an anticipatory drink. Then the Royals put runners on base. I had yet another drink to calm my nerves. Finally, Tug McGraw struck out Willie Wilson and the Phillies were World Champions. If that doesn't call for a drink, what does?
Unfortunately, I was still hungover when the Phils had their Victory Parade two days later. "That's OK, There will be plenty more Phillies championships and I'll definitely make it to those parades."
Not exactly. I regretted my October 21, 1980 indulgence for 28 long years until the Phils finally won it again in 2008. Could nearly three decades of futility be punishment for my premature indulgence in 1980? I'm not taking any chances. This year, my liquid intake is limited to diet soda. Go, Phils!
Thursday, October 21, 2010
The Buster Factor
Our Fightin' Phils are one game away from elimination in the playoffs and I know why.
Last night, the Giants' Buster Posey went 4 for 5 and pretty much defeated our boys single-handed. Clearly, the Phillies with a lineup featuring guys named Chase, Shane, Ryan, and Brad cannot stand up to a rough-and-tumble guy named Buster. The Phillies' Chase, Shane, Ryan, and Brad sounds like the starting line-up for a prep school chess team (without the odd Vladimir that the top-notch chess teams have.) When it comes to real sport, give me a line-up like the Giants with Buster, Jose, Pablo, and Edgar. Those are names to strike fear into opponent's hearts.
Buster is, of course, a nickname. Young Mr Posey's real first name is Gerald. A name like Gerald Posey may cut it in the corporate boardroom, but not at Citizens Bank Park. Imagine the catcalls from Phillies fans. "Gerald! Ger-r-r-ald!" Imagine the chants when he comes to bat. "Ring around the rosie. A pocketful of Posey." Gerald Posey could never get four hits and push the Phillies to the brink of elimination, but Buster Posey can.
The coolest name ever for an athlete was Bronko Nagurski. Without seeing him (and he played football way before it was televised), you just knew that he would as soon run you over as look at you. You were defeated before you even went on the field. It may be too late to save this season, but the Phillies need to re-name their players - "Bronko" Utley, "Butch" Victorino, "Iron Mike" Howard, etc. If nothing else, it will neutralize the Buster Factor.
By the way, athlete's nicknames need not be limited by the macho factor. The best nickname I ever heard was Rodney "Cool Breeze" Scott who played for the Expos many years ago. Rodney wasn't much of a ballplayer, but with a name like that, you know that he was never intimidated.
Last night, the Giants' Buster Posey went 4 for 5 and pretty much defeated our boys single-handed. Clearly, the Phillies with a lineup featuring guys named Chase, Shane, Ryan, and Brad cannot stand up to a rough-and-tumble guy named Buster. The Phillies' Chase, Shane, Ryan, and Brad sounds like the starting line-up for a prep school chess team (without the odd Vladimir that the top-notch chess teams have.) When it comes to real sport, give me a line-up like the Giants with Buster, Jose, Pablo, and Edgar. Those are names to strike fear into opponent's hearts.
Buster is, of course, a nickname. Young Mr Posey's real first name is Gerald. A name like Gerald Posey may cut it in the corporate boardroom, but not at Citizens Bank Park. Imagine the catcalls from Phillies fans. "Gerald! Ger-r-r-ald!" Imagine the chants when he comes to bat. "Ring around the rosie. A pocketful of Posey." Gerald Posey could never get four hits and push the Phillies to the brink of elimination, but Buster Posey can.
The coolest name ever for an athlete was Bronko Nagurski. Without seeing him (and he played football way before it was televised), you just knew that he would as soon run you over as look at you. You were defeated before you even went on the field. It may be too late to save this season, but the Phillies need to re-name their players - "Bronko" Utley, "Butch" Victorino, "Iron Mike" Howard, etc. If nothing else, it will neutralize the Buster Factor.
By the way, athlete's nicknames need not be limited by the macho factor. The best nickname I ever heard was Rodney "Cool Breeze" Scott who played for the Expos many years ago. Rodney wasn't much of a ballplayer, but with a name like that, you know that he was never intimidated.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Justin's Retirement Plan
As I understand it, "rap" music began as the anguished cry of the oppressed against "the man". Today, of course, it has evolved into a semi-obscene call for sexual favors. How, then, are we to interpret the mini-rap that recently set the Sports World on its ear.
A bit of background. Possibly resulting from a mid-life crisis, star NFL quarterback Tom Brady abandoned his previously nondescript hair style for the forehead-concealing side sweep favored by much of today's youth. The true progenitor of this hairdo, Justin Bieber, sent a mini-rap in protest:
"Sacked like a sacker (Note the football reference. Justin may be Canadian but he's very cosmopolitan.)
Call up Mr Brady.
Tell him to link his hair
To the guy who sings Baby. (Referring, of course, to Justin himself)"
Perhaps, this was all in fun. Still, when a multi-millionaire teen heartthrob calls out a multi-millionaire athlete, it is news on many fronts, not the least of which are our outmoded copyright and trademark laws. Authors and music composers can copyright their work and demand royalties when others use it. Why can't Justin Bieber copyright his hairdo? Before Justin, only vain, balding men (Yes, I mean you, Donald Trump.) went with the side sweep. Now, it is everywhere, even on the head of an All-Pro quarterback. Doesn't Justin deserve something for his courageous pioneering effort?
The pop culture landscape is littered with the shattered dreams of former teen idols. Hansen is playing at Holiday Inns nowadays. Leif Garrett has been in and out of jail. Ten years from now, the Jonas Brothers will be appearing at a Church of the Nazarene near you. Although it is possible that "Baby" will become a royalty-generating classic like "White Christmas", Justin Bieber's best bet for a steady cash flow in his dotage is not his music, but his copyrighted hair style. As the years go by, male pattern baldness among today's youth will cause them to retain the Justin look and those royalties will just keep on coming. Justin can sit back and count his money.
A bit of background. Possibly resulting from a mid-life crisis, star NFL quarterback Tom Brady abandoned his previously nondescript hair style for the forehead-concealing side sweep favored by much of today's youth. The true progenitor of this hairdo, Justin Bieber, sent a mini-rap in protest:
"Sacked like a sacker (Note the football reference. Justin may be Canadian but he's very cosmopolitan.)
Call up Mr Brady.
Tell him to link his hair
To the guy who sings Baby. (Referring, of course, to Justin himself)"
Perhaps, this was all in fun. Still, when a multi-millionaire teen heartthrob calls out a multi-millionaire athlete, it is news on many fronts, not the least of which are our outmoded copyright and trademark laws. Authors and music composers can copyright their work and demand royalties when others use it. Why can't Justin Bieber copyright his hairdo? Before Justin, only vain, balding men (Yes, I mean you, Donald Trump.) went with the side sweep. Now, it is everywhere, even on the head of an All-Pro quarterback. Doesn't Justin deserve something for his courageous pioneering effort?
The pop culture landscape is littered with the shattered dreams of former teen idols. Hansen is playing at Holiday Inns nowadays. Leif Garrett has been in and out of jail. Ten years from now, the Jonas Brothers will be appearing at a Church of the Nazarene near you. Although it is possible that "Baby" will become a royalty-generating classic like "White Christmas", Justin Bieber's best bet for a steady cash flow in his dotage is not his music, but his copyrighted hair style. As the years go by, male pattern baldness among today's youth will cause them to retain the Justin look and those royalties will just keep on coming. Justin can sit back and count his money.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
The Invisible Hand
Bargain alert!
A humble abode in Salisbury Township is reduced in price from $4.9 million to $3.4 million. The 18,000 SF, 24 room home on 2.6 acres has been on the market for about 18 months and its owner "would like to build another equal in size or larger for himself and his family." He must have a large family. The house includes both an indoor and an outdoor pool with waterfalls and privacy landscaping (Skinnydipping, anyone?), a fully-outfitted home theater (It's such a bother to go to the Cineplex.), a music room (No doubt soundproofed so Junior's rendition of Chopsticks doesn't disturb the servants), an elevator (Stairs are so primitive.), a second kitchen (Cooking on the same old appliances every day is such a bore.), a home gym / spa (Have to maintain that slim,girlish figure.), and an eight car garage (A car for every day of the week plus a spare.)
The realtor notes that it is not unusual for a home of this size and magnificence to take longer to sell especially in the current real estate market. Ain't it the truth? What with that socialist Obama threatening to eliminate our precious Bush Era Tax Cuts, our new Dream Home may be downsized to 18 rooms, a six car garage, stairs and (gasp!) just a single kitchen.
A foundation of modern economics is Adam Smith's concept of The Invisible Hand (which would be a great title for a horror movie). In a perfect market, The Invisible Hand draws supply and demand together at a selling price acceptable to both. Too high a price and suppliers will produce, but consumers will be unwilling to buy. Too low a price and consumers will demand the product, but suppliers won't produce it.
The Invisible Hand is drawing me toward that home in Salisbury Twp. Its price has to drop a mere $3.3 million more and I'll be luxuriating under that waterfall.
A humble abode in Salisbury Township is reduced in price from $4.9 million to $3.4 million. The 18,000 SF, 24 room home on 2.6 acres has been on the market for about 18 months and its owner "would like to build another equal in size or larger for himself and his family." He must have a large family. The house includes both an indoor and an outdoor pool with waterfalls and privacy landscaping (Skinnydipping, anyone?), a fully-outfitted home theater (It's such a bother to go to the Cineplex.), a music room (No doubt soundproofed so Junior's rendition of Chopsticks doesn't disturb the servants), an elevator (Stairs are so primitive.), a second kitchen (Cooking on the same old appliances every day is such a bore.), a home gym / spa (Have to maintain that slim,girlish figure.), and an eight car garage (A car for every day of the week plus a spare.)
The realtor notes that it is not unusual for a home of this size and magnificence to take longer to sell especially in the current real estate market. Ain't it the truth? What with that socialist Obama threatening to eliminate our precious Bush Era Tax Cuts, our new Dream Home may be downsized to 18 rooms, a six car garage, stairs and (gasp!) just a single kitchen.
A foundation of modern economics is Adam Smith's concept of The Invisible Hand (which would be a great title for a horror movie). In a perfect market, The Invisible Hand draws supply and demand together at a selling price acceptable to both. Too high a price and suppliers will produce, but consumers will be unwilling to buy. Too low a price and consumers will demand the product, but suppliers won't produce it.
The Invisible Hand is drawing me toward that home in Salisbury Twp. Its price has to drop a mere $3.3 million more and I'll be luxuriating under that waterfall.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Updating Peanuts
Charles M. Schulz's "Peanuts" is timeless. It meant one thing to me as a child when The Great Pumpkin failed to appear, when the tree ate Charlie's kite, and when Lucy pulled the ball just before Charlie kicked it. As an adult, it means another. Life is bittersweet, indeed.
Still, "timeless" sometimes means "dated". Yesterday's "Peanuts" had Linus receiving a check for $0.35 from the tooth fairy with the warning, "Do not fold, bend, spindle, or mutilate. Know your endorser." Linus quipped, "Expanded business means improved methods." Charlie responded, "I can't deny it."
The humor in this probably goes right over the head of 21st century readers. In the 60s and 70s, government checks were not on magnetic ink printed paper, but on key-punched computer cards. If the recipient folded, bent, or mutilated them, the primitive computer of those days would come to a grinding halt. If a clever recipient "spindled" them adding additional holes, a $0.35 check could be misread as $35,000. Linus' point was that The Tooth Fairy had gone big business. I wonder how many readers picked up on that dated reference to "Do not fold, bend, spindle, or mutilate."
By the way, my very first desk in Corporate America back in 1972 came equipped with a spindle. The 4" long stainless needle on a wooden block was perfect for securing those "While You Were Out" message pad leafs. Many an inexperienced secretary developed stigmata on her palms by carelessly spindling message sheets. Naturally, the spindle created a hole in the message sheet usually obliterating a digit or two of the phone number that you were supposed to call back which was a great excuse for not returning that call that you really didn't want to take in the first place. Caller ID and voice mail are so much more effective in avoiding unwanted calls.
If Charles M. Schulz was still with us today, I wonder if he wouldn't update yesterday's "Peanuts". Linus would show Charlie the check and say, "Original Document. Do not write, stamp, or sign below this line. Reserved for Financial Institution Use. Expanded business means improved methods".
Now the 21st century reader gets it.
Still, "timeless" sometimes means "dated". Yesterday's "Peanuts" had Linus receiving a check for $0.35 from the tooth fairy with the warning, "Do not fold, bend, spindle, or mutilate. Know your endorser." Linus quipped, "Expanded business means improved methods." Charlie responded, "I can't deny it."
The humor in this probably goes right over the head of 21st century readers. In the 60s and 70s, government checks were not on magnetic ink printed paper, but on key-punched computer cards. If the recipient folded, bent, or mutilated them, the primitive computer of those days would come to a grinding halt. If a clever recipient "spindled" them adding additional holes, a $0.35 check could be misread as $35,000. Linus' point was that The Tooth Fairy had gone big business. I wonder how many readers picked up on that dated reference to "Do not fold, bend, spindle, or mutilate."
By the way, my very first desk in Corporate America back in 1972 came equipped with a spindle. The 4" long stainless needle on a wooden block was perfect for securing those "While You Were Out" message pad leafs. Many an inexperienced secretary developed stigmata on her palms by carelessly spindling message sheets. Naturally, the spindle created a hole in the message sheet usually obliterating a digit or two of the phone number that you were supposed to call back which was a great excuse for not returning that call that you really didn't want to take in the first place. Caller ID and voice mail are so much more effective in avoiding unwanted calls.
If Charles M. Schulz was still with us today, I wonder if he wouldn't update yesterday's "Peanuts". Linus would show Charlie the check and say, "Original Document. Do not write, stamp, or sign below this line. Reserved for Financial Institution Use. Expanded business means improved methods".
Now the 21st century reader gets it.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Money Makes the World Go 'Round
A TV commercial break does not go by in this election season without a 30 second spot where an extremely unflattering photo of Candidate A is shown on the screen and he is accused of raising taxes and not creating jobs. Candidate B does not explain by what magic he will provide governmental services without taxes or jobs without economic growth, but that's OK. It's easier to vote against scary-looking, tousle-haired, red-eyed Candidate A than to consider that Candidate B will be subject to the same economic facts--of-life if he is elected.
Not to be cynical, but the real name of the game is money. The Natural Gas Lobby has invested a whopping $350K in Tom Corbett's gubernatorial campaign. Tom, therefore, opposes any tax on natural gas extracted from new fields in Pennsylvania. The Lobby has invested a mere $60K in his opponent's campaign. Dan Onerato, feeling slighted, is "leaning toward" an extraction tax. Of course, that's subject to change if a few more bucks roll in to campaign coffers.
While a combined $410K seems like a lot of money, the new Pennsylvania fields may contain enough natural gas to last for 30 years. If the fields produce $1 billion per year in full production and the PA state extraction tax is 1%, that $410K "campaign contribution" will pay off to the tune of an additional $10 million per year. Not a bad investment.
The rationale for not taxing the natural gas is that "it will drive producers away." That's strange. Every other natural gas-producing state taxes it and the producers are still in business.
Obviously, this is a gross oversimplification. Still, this is the sort of thing that should be featured in those ubiquitous TV political spots rather than "My opponent roasts adorable puppies and eats them for lunch."
Not to be cynical, but the real name of the game is money. The Natural Gas Lobby has invested a whopping $350K in Tom Corbett's gubernatorial campaign. Tom, therefore, opposes any tax on natural gas extracted from new fields in Pennsylvania. The Lobby has invested a mere $60K in his opponent's campaign. Dan Onerato, feeling slighted, is "leaning toward" an extraction tax. Of course, that's subject to change if a few more bucks roll in to campaign coffers.
While a combined $410K seems like a lot of money, the new Pennsylvania fields may contain enough natural gas to last for 30 years. If the fields produce $1 billion per year in full production and the PA state extraction tax is 1%, that $410K "campaign contribution" will pay off to the tune of an additional $10 million per year. Not a bad investment.
The rationale for not taxing the natural gas is that "it will drive producers away." That's strange. Every other natural gas-producing state taxes it and the producers are still in business.
Obviously, this is a gross oversimplification. Still, this is the sort of thing that should be featured in those ubiquitous TV political spots rather than "My opponent roasts adorable puppies and eats them for lunch."
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Lumberjack Dreams
Our childhood dreams of a career as a cowboy or an astronaut are generally quashed by the time we reach puberty or encounter Algebra 1. We realize that companionship from the opposite gender is hard to come by on the prairie. So much for the cowboy life. Also, if we can't figure out that "Plane A leaves at 7 AM travelling at 500 mph and Plane B leaves at 8 AM travelling at 600 mph, when will Plane B pass Plane A?" thing, we will never pilot our capsule back to Earth from the moon. Astronaut is out, too.
I had always placed a career as a lumberjack in the same unattainable category. As much as I wanted to accompany the plaid-shirted guy on the Brawny paper towel packages wandering through the Forest Primeval singing, "I'm a lumberjack and I'm OK", there aren't a whole lot of primeval forests here in the Lehigh Valley and even if there were, where could I get a Real Lumberjack's Breakfast? Those tall timbers don't fall unless you are fueled by massive amounts of carbohydrates and protein.
Now there is hope. Subway currently offers a "Breakfast $5 foot-long". Paul Bunyan himself would have trouble polishing off a 12" breakfast sandwich. All I have to do to attain my lumberjacking dreams is don my Brawny Man plaid shirt, pick up my chain saw, and trot on over to Subway. Look out, redwoods!
There is one potential problem though. After a $5 foot-long Lumberjack's Breakfast, I'll need a nap for proper digestion. Those redwoods get a reprieve for now.
I had always placed a career as a lumberjack in the same unattainable category. As much as I wanted to accompany the plaid-shirted guy on the Brawny paper towel packages wandering through the Forest Primeval singing, "I'm a lumberjack and I'm OK", there aren't a whole lot of primeval forests here in the Lehigh Valley and even if there were, where could I get a Real Lumberjack's Breakfast? Those tall timbers don't fall unless you are fueled by massive amounts of carbohydrates and protein.
Now there is hope. Subway currently offers a "Breakfast $5 foot-long". Paul Bunyan himself would have trouble polishing off a 12" breakfast sandwich. All I have to do to attain my lumberjacking dreams is don my Brawny Man plaid shirt, pick up my chain saw, and trot on over to Subway. Look out, redwoods!
There is one potential problem though. After a $5 foot-long Lumberjack's Breakfast, I'll need a nap for proper digestion. Those redwoods get a reprieve for now.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Superstition
As a Man of Science in the 21st century, I scoff at superstition. The whole Friday the 13th, knock on wood, toss the salt over the shoulder. "geshundheit" after sneezing thing just doesn't fit in to our modern digital age. I've had good Friday the 13ths. Those evil spirits don't rise and smite me if I fail to knock on wood, toss salt, or say "gesundheit".
There is one superstition that never fails though. Any morning that begins with dog vomit on the floor is bound to be a bad one. Cleaning up canine barf is always the precursor to a dreadful day. My first sight this morning was a pile of semi-digested kibble alongside an apologetic-looking dog. October 12, 2010 will not end well.
I wonder if Napoleon's dog barfed on the morning of Waterloo. "He's just nervous about the upcoming battle, Emperor. Let's get at that Wellington." Did Captain Smith's dog on the Titanic spew chunks on that fateful day? "Ar-r-rh, don't worry about it Captain. The pooch is just a little seasick. Those icebergs shouldn't be a problem either." Did Archduke Francis Ferdinand's pet canine vomit before that fateful car ride? "It's that Sarjevo kibble getting to him, sire. Let's take down the top and roll down the windows on the royal car to air it out. The people will get a better look at you this way."
History would have changed if people had heeded the warnings of their pets. I'm taking no chances. Not only will I spend today in the safety in my bed, I'm hiding under it.
There is one superstition that never fails though. Any morning that begins with dog vomit on the floor is bound to be a bad one. Cleaning up canine barf is always the precursor to a dreadful day. My first sight this morning was a pile of semi-digested kibble alongside an apologetic-looking dog. October 12, 2010 will not end well.
I wonder if Napoleon's dog barfed on the morning of Waterloo. "He's just nervous about the upcoming battle, Emperor. Let's get at that Wellington." Did Captain Smith's dog on the Titanic spew chunks on that fateful day? "Ar-r-rh, don't worry about it Captain. The pooch is just a little seasick. Those icebergs shouldn't be a problem either." Did Archduke Francis Ferdinand's pet canine vomit before that fateful car ride? "It's that Sarjevo kibble getting to him, sire. Let's take down the top and roll down the windows on the royal car to air it out. The people will get a better look at you this way."
History would have changed if people had heeded the warnings of their pets. I'm taking no chances. Not only will I spend today in the safety in my bed, I'm hiding under it.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Machismo Regained
Thirty years ago, our Lehigh Valley was a seething cauldron of machismo. By the sweat of our manly brows, we forged Bethlehem Steel and assembled Mack Trucks. Our high schools provided Mike Guman, Mike Hartenstine, and Keith Dorney to Joe Paterno's all-conquering Nittany Lions not to mention the Leiberman brothers, Cuvo, and Weaver to NCAA wrestling championships. On the professional side of things, we gave the world its heavyweight boxing champion in Larry Holmes and an auto racing legend in Mario Andretti. Steel, trucks, football, wrestling, boxing, and racing - if it dripped in testosterone, the Lehigh Valley excelled.
That was then. This is now. Casinos and "lifestyle" malls sit where Bethlehem Steel and Mack Trucks once did. Joe Paterno looks elsewhere for his gridders. NCAA wrestling champs come from Iowa. No one knows (or cares) who the current heavyweight champion is though I'm pretty sure he comes from Russia. The most famous race car driver in the world is a girl, for heaven's sake. The Lehigh Valley has lost its mojo.
There is hope! Joe Lehigh Valley may have lost his steelmaking, truck assembly, touchdown scoring, wrestling takedown, left jabbing, and lead-footing skills, but as long as there are funnel cakes, pierogies, and cheese steaks out there, Joe can eat with the best of them. TV's Food Network is featuring the Clinton Station Diner's 50-pound "Eighth Wonder" burger on an upcoming show. There's a $5,000 reward if a group of eleven can finish it off in less than an hour.
The true reward is not the $5,000. It's national respect. Come on, Lehigh Valley. Rise to the challenge. Consume that 50-pound hamburger. Regain our machismo. When America thinks of the Lehigh Valley, let's replace that depressing Billy Joel song with some hard core gluttony.
That was then. This is now. Casinos and "lifestyle" malls sit where Bethlehem Steel and Mack Trucks once did. Joe Paterno looks elsewhere for his gridders. NCAA wrestling champs come from Iowa. No one knows (or cares) who the current heavyweight champion is though I'm pretty sure he comes from Russia. The most famous race car driver in the world is a girl, for heaven's sake. The Lehigh Valley has lost its mojo.
There is hope! Joe Lehigh Valley may have lost his steelmaking, truck assembly, touchdown scoring, wrestling takedown, left jabbing, and lead-footing skills, but as long as there are funnel cakes, pierogies, and cheese steaks out there, Joe can eat with the best of them. TV's Food Network is featuring the Clinton Station Diner's 50-pound "Eighth Wonder" burger on an upcoming show. There's a $5,000 reward if a group of eleven can finish it off in less than an hour.
The true reward is not the $5,000. It's national respect. Come on, Lehigh Valley. Rise to the challenge. Consume that 50-pound hamburger. Regain our machismo. When America thinks of the Lehigh Valley, let's replace that depressing Billy Joel song with some hard core gluttony.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Stewed
The most innocuous word can release a repressed traumatic memory.
A character in a 1930s movie that I watched on TCM yesterday referred to a drunken friend as being "stewed". I shuddered as my mind raced back to Basic Training in the summer of '69. We had just returned from a Field Training Exercise, 72 hours of simulated combat. To insure that the woods and dales of Indiantown Gap Military Reservation were not covered in human waste from the thousands of ROTC cadets training there, the Army kept us on short and binding rations during FTXs. When we returned to the barracks though, the Army recognized that a constipated cadet was not a happy, healthy cadet. Our first breakfast in the mess hall consisted of all-bran flakes and a bowl of stewed prunes.
"You can take or leave the cereal, son, but you've got to eat those stewed prunes," said the Mess Sergeant. Our Tac Officer made sure that we consumed every morsel of steaming, roughage-rich goodness. Little encouragement was necessary. Hot, tasty food was a welcome relief after three days of cold rations. Then the stewed prunes did their magic.
Our barracks had six water closets for 60 cadets. The water closets saw a month's worth of usage in two hours. With an anguished comrade-in-arms waiting, one tended to bypass many of the standard hygienic, clean-up requirements. Our latrine soon resembled that public latrine from "Slumdog Millionaire".
This was particularly distressing to me and Jim Corbett because we were Latrine Orderlies that cursed day. After the last bit of stewed prunes had cleared the collective alimentary tracts of Training Platoon 3/A/3, we covered our mouths and noses with a rag dipped in Clorox against the stench and began scrubbing and cleaning.
It's a memory I've repressed for 41 years. Then a simple comment from an old movie and the horror returns.
A character in a 1930s movie that I watched on TCM yesterday referred to a drunken friend as being "stewed". I shuddered as my mind raced back to Basic Training in the summer of '69. We had just returned from a Field Training Exercise, 72 hours of simulated combat. To insure that the woods and dales of Indiantown Gap Military Reservation were not covered in human waste from the thousands of ROTC cadets training there, the Army kept us on short and binding rations during FTXs. When we returned to the barracks though, the Army recognized that a constipated cadet was not a happy, healthy cadet. Our first breakfast in the mess hall consisted of all-bran flakes and a bowl of stewed prunes.
"You can take or leave the cereal, son, but you've got to eat those stewed prunes," said the Mess Sergeant. Our Tac Officer made sure that we consumed every morsel of steaming, roughage-rich goodness. Little encouragement was necessary. Hot, tasty food was a welcome relief after three days of cold rations. Then the stewed prunes did their magic.
Our barracks had six water closets for 60 cadets. The water closets saw a month's worth of usage in two hours. With an anguished comrade-in-arms waiting, one tended to bypass many of the standard hygienic, clean-up requirements. Our latrine soon resembled that public latrine from "Slumdog Millionaire".
This was particularly distressing to me and Jim Corbett because we were Latrine Orderlies that cursed day. After the last bit of stewed prunes had cleared the collective alimentary tracts of Training Platoon 3/A/3, we covered our mouths and noses with a rag dipped in Clorox against the stench and began scrubbing and cleaning.
It's a memory I've repressed for 41 years. Then a simple comment from an old movie and the horror returns.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Clean Skies (and Dirty Water)
Our beloved Pennsylvania had abundant natural resources. The Keystone State was home to America's very first oil well. Pennsylvania coal made our steel industry possible. Those resources are pretty well tapped out nowadays, but 21st century technology allows exploitation of the natural gas lying beneath about half of the state. Of course, that technology involves injecting water and chemicals at high pressure deep underground to free the gas and no one is really sure of the long-term effects on our water supply. Still, energy companies are conscientious stewards of the environment and what could possibly go wrong? It's not as if an energy giant like BP would screw up after all.
The American Clean Skies Foundation placed a full-page ad in a recent issue of The New Yorker to keep those hippie tree huggers at bay. "Each new rig that appears on the horizon is more than a drilling rig. It's an employment engine...providing high-paying quality jobs right when we need them the most. The rig is only used for three to seven weeks and is then replaced by a small wellhead or Christmas Tree. Chances are you'll be surprised at its small footprint on the natural landscape."
There you have it. A few weeks of dirty, nasty drilling, a few weeks of tearing up the woods with roads that will soon be abandoned, a couple thousand gallons of toxic, muddy waste water, but we'll end up with adorable Christmas Trees providing clean skies-worthy energy.
The timing of this public relations campaign is interesting. Elections are less than a month away. The Republican candidate for governor has stated that he will not tax the natural gas extracted from Pennsylvania. After all, it might drive the energy companies away. Inspecting the drilling process and placing some environmental safeguards on it would certainly do the same. We would lose all those high-paying quality jobs not to mention those adorable "Christmas Trees" ! We might also have undrinkable water, but that's what bottled water is for.
The 19th century Oil Boom polluted the Allegheny watershed. The 20th century Coal Rush led to mine acid in the Susquehanna. Let's see what the 21st century Natural Gas Bonanza can do for our groundwater.
The American Clean Skies Foundation placed a full-page ad in a recent issue of The New Yorker to keep those hippie tree huggers at bay. "Each new rig that appears on the horizon is more than a drilling rig. It's an employment engine...providing high-paying quality jobs right when we need them the most. The rig is only used for three to seven weeks and is then replaced by a small wellhead or Christmas Tree. Chances are you'll be surprised at its small footprint on the natural landscape."
There you have it. A few weeks of dirty, nasty drilling, a few weeks of tearing up the woods with roads that will soon be abandoned, a couple thousand gallons of toxic, muddy waste water, but we'll end up with adorable Christmas Trees providing clean skies-worthy energy.
The timing of this public relations campaign is interesting. Elections are less than a month away. The Republican candidate for governor has stated that he will not tax the natural gas extracted from Pennsylvania. After all, it might drive the energy companies away. Inspecting the drilling process and placing some environmental safeguards on it would certainly do the same. We would lose all those high-paying quality jobs not to mention those adorable "Christmas Trees" ! We might also have undrinkable water, but that's what bottled water is for.
The 19th century Oil Boom polluted the Allegheny watershed. The 20th century Coal Rush led to mine acid in the Susquehanna. Let's see what the 21st century Natural Gas Bonanza can do for our groundwater.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Think of the Seniors
Only two age groups gather joyously before 7 AM on weekdays - those under the age of 7 and those over the age of 70. While their older siblings slouch grouchily at the school bus stop, Kindergarteners and 1st and 2nd graders greet their peers with shouts and glee. The retiree mall walkers and early-shopping oldsters at Wegman's raise quite a ruckus when they get together shortly after dawn analyzing the previous night's "Dancing With The Stars" and complaining about "the govmint".
There is one significant exception to this rule. The seniors in the phlebotomist's waiting room have fasted for the requisite twelve hours prior to their blood test. Their blood sugar is low. Their attitude is bad. A basketful of adorable puppies could tumble into that room and it would not raise a smile on a single senior's face. Gimlet-eyed, they stare down each person signing in at Reception. "If they let that schmoe in ahead of me. I'll break both his legs even though he is gasping for breath and looks like he won't last the day.
I had a blood test this morning. The same oldsters who smile at me and make a big fuss over the dog during his morning walks now avoided eye contact. No friendly greetings were exchanged. The air was saturated with malice and fear that my laced-up Adidas would allow me to sprint to the Exam Room faster than they could hobble in on their velcroed orthopedic shoes.
There is only one solution. Instead of The Weather Channel on the waiting room TV. the phlebotomist should alternate re-runs of "The Golden Girls" and "Matlock". Nothing cheers seniors more than TV shows that portray them as witty, sexy, and clever in the courtroom. " Who cares if that guy who just walked in the door jumps the line, we've got to hear Bea Arthur's latest acerbic quip or how Andy Griffith will get his client off. That Denny's Grand Slam Breakfast will still be there."
Let's make the phlebotomist's waiting room a happy place. Bring on those Golden Girls and Matlock.
There is one significant exception to this rule. The seniors in the phlebotomist's waiting room have fasted for the requisite twelve hours prior to their blood test. Their blood sugar is low. Their attitude is bad. A basketful of adorable puppies could tumble into that room and it would not raise a smile on a single senior's face. Gimlet-eyed, they stare down each person signing in at Reception. "If they let that schmoe in ahead of me. I'll break both his legs even though he is gasping for breath and looks like he won't last the day.
I had a blood test this morning. The same oldsters who smile at me and make a big fuss over the dog during his morning walks now avoided eye contact. No friendly greetings were exchanged. The air was saturated with malice and fear that my laced-up Adidas would allow me to sprint to the Exam Room faster than they could hobble in on their velcroed orthopedic shoes.
There is only one solution. Instead of The Weather Channel on the waiting room TV. the phlebotomist should alternate re-runs of "The Golden Girls" and "Matlock". Nothing cheers seniors more than TV shows that portray them as witty, sexy, and clever in the courtroom. " Who cares if that guy who just walked in the door jumps the line, we've got to hear Bea Arthur's latest acerbic quip or how Andy Griffith will get his client off. That Denny's Grand Slam Breakfast will still be there."
Let's make the phlebotomist's waiting room a happy place. Bring on those Golden Girls and Matlock.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Thanks, Sputnik
Yesterday was the 53rd anniversary of the launching of Sputnik. Satellite technology is old hat nowadays what with GPS and cell phones that give crystal clear connections to Zambia available at our local Wal-Mart, but in 1957, the concept of a Soviet "artificial moon" circling the globe scared the pants off the American public. Surely, The Evil Empire would soon have orbiting Death Rays that would seek out and fry us as we innocently sat in our Chevy Impalas at the drive-in watching the latest Elvis Presley movie.
The only answer was to inspire a new generation of American scientists and engineers to win the Space Race. Our survival as a nation depended on it.
On October 4, 1957, I was a fifth grader in the Scranton public schools. I had never had a science course and algebra was four years away. Our history books still mentioned "The World War" and only showed presidents through Hoover. Thanks to Sputnik, that changed in a hurry.
Before the year was out, we had brand, spanking new science texts and a box of Pennsylvania minerals to destroy with acid all in the name of science. Our math became "accelerated" and that newfangled Set Theory and Wenn Diagrams replaced going over the "times tables" for the third year in a row. We even got new History books that covered that WW II thing that our parents had told us so much about.
More to the point, we were informed that it was our patriotic duty to be good in math and science. "Some Russian kid is spending his Saturday night deriving geometric proofs while you are watching Gunsmoke. Shame on you, slacker!"
So I passed up my lifelong dream of a career chasing down the bad guys in Dodge City and became an engineer. It's all for the best. I lack the hindquarter cushioning to ride a horse for more than 30 seconds without pain. Thanks, Sputnik.
The only answer was to inspire a new generation of American scientists and engineers to win the Space Race. Our survival as a nation depended on it.
On October 4, 1957, I was a fifth grader in the Scranton public schools. I had never had a science course and algebra was four years away. Our history books still mentioned "The World War" and only showed presidents through Hoover. Thanks to Sputnik, that changed in a hurry.
Before the year was out, we had brand, spanking new science texts and a box of Pennsylvania minerals to destroy with acid all in the name of science. Our math became "accelerated" and that newfangled Set Theory and Wenn Diagrams replaced going over the "times tables" for the third year in a row. We even got new History books that covered that WW II thing that our parents had told us so much about.
More to the point, we were informed that it was our patriotic duty to be good in math and science. "Some Russian kid is spending his Saturday night deriving geometric proofs while you are watching Gunsmoke. Shame on you, slacker!"
So I passed up my lifelong dream of a career chasing down the bad guys in Dodge City and became an engineer. It's all for the best. I lack the hindquarter cushioning to ride a horse for more than 30 seconds without pain. Thanks, Sputnik.
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