Insulting the Maple Leaf

Just when you think that every prude in the world resides in Saudi Arabia or the American Bible Belt comes the news that some Canadian journalists are shocked, shocked that their gold medal - winning womans' hockey team skated back on the ice thirty minutes after receiving their medals with champagne or beer in hand, some even smoking cigars, to celebrate with friends and family in the stands STILL WEARING THEIR UNIFORMS!!!

Clearly, this is a violation of the Olympic Ideal (though it may bring new meaning to the "higher" portion of the Olymic Motto "Faster, Higher, Stronger"). More important, think of the children. Do we want our kids to think that adults celebrate with alcohol and nicotine? Heaven forfend!

The main point, though, is that such behavior is an insult to the red Maple Leaf on that proud Canadian uniform. It's not as if these women have set aside pretty much everything else in their lives for the past four years to win that medal. It's not as if there was any pressure on them what with the Prime Minister, Wayne Gretzky, and 19,000 fans in the arena, plus every Canadian with access to a television ready to eviscerate them if they allowed a cheap goal. Immediately, having outscored their opponents 48 - 2 in the prior five games would be forgotten and the miscreant would have to go into Witness Protection in the suburbs of Moose Jaw.

This incident may have a positive effect on the USA. If prudery and righteous patriotism can survive in Canada what do we have to fear from socialized medicine, bi-lingual education, and liberalized drug laws? They have all that in Canada and the Canadian counterparts to Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity still have plenty to be upset about.

The Cleanest Tournament

There are many reasons for a corporate giant to cough up big bucks to sponsor a PGA golf tournament:

Free publicity. "And the winner of the Citibank (We're too big to fail!) Open is yet another unathletic-looking white guy dressed in pastel polyester." That single mention on national TV is cheaper than training a talking gecko.

Networking opportunities. "Let's invite that Congressman who is trying to investigate us into the Pro-Am. Pair him up with Phil Mikkelsen and he'll forget all about our sticking gas pedals."

The chance to hook up with Tiger Woods' partying rejects.

This weekend will feature the Waste Management Phoenix Open. While most of us are driving behind a lumbering Waste Management garbage truck in the snow, pro golfers (and WM management) will be putting away in the Arizona sunshine. "Those Waste Management guys may have inverted our garbage can on the grass and killed it. They may raise our garbage rates every year. But it's all worth it if I can fantasize about playing golf on a course that otherwise wouldn't let me through the gate."

Still, it is a sign of the tough economic times that the PGA is reduced to allowing a Waste Management into the hallowed hall of tournament sponsors. What with the Merrill Lynches, Buicks, and Wachovias of the world hurting financially, the PGA is reduced to second-tier sponsors. Or maybe a Tony Soprano-like "waste management consultant" made them an offer they couldn't refuse.

At any rate, the Phoenix Open is sure to be the cleanest tournament around. "Yo, buddy. Either you drop that beer cup into the WM Recycling Container, or I deposit your broken kneecaps there."

The Colossal Colon

In 1960, we 7th grade science students at South Scranton Junior High School eagerly anticipated a field trip to the Franklin Institute in Philly. The Institute offered a journey through the human heart. We could pretend we were corpuscles and literally walk through the auricles and ventricles, get "oxygenated", and get "pressurized". There was a cool "thump - thump" noise. It wasn't all that exciting by current standards, but for 1960, it beat watching black and white TV.

On a side note, the Franklin Institute also featured a computer that played Tic-Tac-Toe. The word was that the computer never lost. I fancied myself quite the Tic-Tac-Toe master in those days and was eager to challenge the machine which, by the way, was about the size of a fireplace and threw off as much heat. I lured the machine into the classic corners plus middle trap. I had two ways to win and Mister Roboto could only block one! I was about to strike a blow for humanity. Then I discovered why the machine was unbeaten. It wouldn't allow humans to to make the final victorious X. In essence, it picked up its ball and went home. Right then, I was convinced that this computer thing was a passing fad and a poor sport to boot.

A newspaper ad from Hunterdon Healthcare brought these memories back. "Take a Journey Through Your Colon", it headlined. "Come tour the Colossal Colon, an oversized model of the human colon that is 40 feet long. (Note to ad writers: If it's 40 feet long, stating that it is oversized is somewhat redundant) The Colossal Colon is designed to educate visitors about Crohn's Disease, diverticulitis, ulcerative colitis, cancerous and non-cancerous polyps, and various stages of colon cancer."

One imagines walking through a wrinkled pink cylinder (possibly with that cool thump-thump noise in the background), tripping over diverticuli, dodging polyps, and squeezing past tumors. It would be like an obstacle course. "Kevin, pretend that you are fecal matter. The record is 10.9 seconds through the Colossal Colon. Can you beat it?"

What 7th grader wouldn't love that? If that walk-through heart is still at the Franklin Institute, it can probably increase patronage by adding plaque build-up, etc. to make a journey through it a challenge. I wonder if the Tic-Tac-Toe computer is still undefeated, too.

Senior Discounts

They say that adult life is merely an extension of high school. Certainly, the corporate lunch room is little different than the high school cafeteria. The managers hang out only with each other at the "cool kids" table and mock the apparel, grooming, and cars driven by their inferiors. Corporate IT "nerds" are ignored until "the system breaks down". Then and only then, does the Manager's Personal Assistant deign to notice them much like The Prettiest Girl in School develops a sudden interest in The Only Guy Who Actually Read "Silas Marner " just before the paper on it is due.

Even the hallowed Senior Privileges that we strove for in high school (best parking spots in the Student Lot, no hall pass required to "go to the Library" during Study Halls, etc) have a real life counterpart - senior discounts. Just last week, I saved a whopping and hassle-free $3 on my haircut. The girl didn't even question my senior status.

Perhaps non-seniors (juniors?, sophomores?) have been abusing the discount system. Kohl's (The Expect Great Things Store) advertised its 15% Senior Discount today with a chilling disclaimer. "Bring identification to verify your age for this offer."

Uh-oh. Flashback to underage attempts to purchase alcohol. One imagines a steely-eyed Kohl's clerk stating, "Forgot your ID, did you? I've seen your type before. That "deep" voice doesn't fool me. How do I know that your "gray" hair isn't helped along with Gold Medal Flour? Sure, you dress in polyester, but how do I know those aren't your Dad's SansaBelt slacks? You kids today are just out for a good time and that 15% discount."

It's high school age trauma all over again.

Home Schooling

Home schooling is catching on, big time. The Fireside Academy Community Co-op for Homeschoolers recently organized an educational fair wherein kids gathered for science fair-type presentations and made plans for social activities including a prom and musical productions. In a related development, Fireside may round out the educational experience for its students by importing some bullies to beat up on the wimpier home-schooled boys and snippy cheerleader-types to shame home-schooled girls into anorexia with rude comments on their weight.

One mother commends home-schooling as a means of instilling family values and a Christian world view. "I really didn't feel good about turning my children over to strangers who I didn't know," she said. Actually, if she knew them, they wouldn't be strangers any more, but it's a point well-taken. What can we possibly learn from strangers with years of experience in science, math, or the arts that good old Mom and Dad can't better teach us in the comfort of our own home? It's not as if the progress of humankind over the ages has relied on the next generation exceeding the knowledge of the current one.

The home-schooling mother continues, "I'd rather have my child be a postman who loves the Lord and is an outstanding person with great character than a CEO that's in jail." Of course, the home-schooled postman might very well "go postal" and shoot up the neighborhood in shock after being exposed to the real world for the first time at age 20 and any CEO worth his salt will have squirreled away sufficient ill-gotten gains to allow his Mom to cruise the tropics while he serves out his sentence.

But seriously folks...the educational system not only provides the "book knowledge" to participate in society, but the "street smarts" as well. The lessons learned while interacting with all manner of people between classes, at lunch, and in the school yard may be as valuable as the Pythagorean Theorem. You can't keep your child at home forever, Home School Mom.

Blood Test Blues

Periodic blood tests are simply a fact of life for those of a certain age. There are few joys to compare to lining up outside the door of the Testing Clinic before its 7 AM opening and jostling for space with other cranky food and caffeine-deprived seniors. Kindly old Gramps and Granny become as mean as Pittsburgh Steelers linemen to be first in to the phlebotomist and hence first out for that blessed Egg McMuffin and McCafe. Walkers, umbrellas, and, failing all else, sharp elbows save their place in line.

There must be a totally different vibe at a new Blood Testing Clinic that just opened in Allentown. According to its Sports Radio ads, it provides "confidential" results directly to the patient with no doctor's script required. But why would anyone go to a phlebotomist unless they had to? Well, it turns out that this new Lab specializes in testing "for things that you don't want on your medical records, like STDs and paternity" according to the radio ad. One imagines the Lab's clientele sporting sunglasses, wearing hooded sweatshirts, speaking softly, and generally seeking anonymity, not unlike convenience store hold-up artists.

The last time I went in for a blood test, a fellow customer wore sanitary gloves and sprayed the waiting room seat with disinfectant before being seated. "What a germophobe," I thought. Should I ever go to the new "confidential" Lab, I might wear two sets of sanitary gloves and bathe in Lysol before and after. Whatever that shifty-looking guy in the next chair doesn't want on his medical records is probably something I should avoid.

Astrology Debunked

The newspaper's Daily Almanac features "Today's Birthdays", a listing of the famous and infamous blowing out the candles on that particular day. Yesterday's listing was a particularly interesting cross-section of folks.

Jim Brown, possibly the greatest football player ever to don shoulder pads, turned 74 and Michael Jordan, possibly the greatest basketball player ever to lace on a signature pair of sneakers, turned 47. Mary Ann Mobley, former Miss America, celebrated birthday 71 and Rene Russo, movie star, lit 56 candles.

If there is anything to this "your fate is linked to the stars on the day of your birth" stuff, February 17th would be a great day to have a baby. If it's a boy, he is fated to follow Jim and Michael into athletic glory and if it's a girl, she will remain beautiful and intelligent well past middle age like Mary Ann and Rene.

Before we schedule that Cesarean though, we must note that Larry The Cable Guy and Paris Hilton also celebrate birthdays on Feb 17. I'm not sure that I'd want my son to wear a tool belt on stage and make a living telling fart jokes. Similarly, few parents would hope that their daughter would achieve fame from a sex tape and general air-headedness on reality TV.

Astrologers claim that there is a cycle to the stars and that those born on the same date but different years do not necessarily share the same fate. To refute this, Larry The Cable Guy and Michael Jordan both turned 47 yesterday. The stars may have aligned identically for the two, but I know which one I'd choose for a teammate in a pick-up basketball game.

Dig / Lift / Throw

The mind tends to wander while shoveling snow. What cruel irony it was that the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue arrived Tuesday to taunt us with its visions of scantily-clad supermodels in tropical settings as we face frigid mountains of snow. Why aren't there small armies of kids cavorting in this winter wonderland? Are video games really that good? Who would want to be a local TV reporter when a snowstorm means that you get placed alongside a busy road and have to come up with journalistic nuggets like, "Yup, it's still snowing." Aren't TV weatherfolk tempted to do the entire forecast in a crusty New England accent after repeatedly using the term "nor'easter"?

The mind-numbing repetition of dig / lift / throw was relieved by a quick mathematical calculation. Once an engineer, always an engineer, I guess. My driveway is about 16' x 50'. Assuming snow depth is about 1.5' and its density is about 10 lb/CF, I'll be lifting some 12,000 lbs of snow. That's 6 tons.

My father and grandfather worked in the mines and averaged 10 tons of coal loaded per day How can I complain about a little snow shoveling when they dug / lifted / threw nearly twice as much every single day while underground in the dark? And they didn't even have the Swimsuit Issue to look forward to afterwards.

Olfactory Temptation

Years ago, I found myself stranded overnight at the Detroit Airport. Weather delayed my incoming flight and the last plane to ABE had already departed. I joined about forty fellow Lehigh Valley-bound passengers awaiting the upcoming 6:15 AM flight at the gate. We spent a restless night trying to sleep on the floor. George Clooney never had these problems in "Up In The Air".

Around 4 AM, the scent of bubbling cinnamon and sugar filled the air. Cinnabon was starting up! We stampeded to the eatery only to find it chained and locked. It would open at 6 AM. We would be boarded on the plane by then munching on stale peanuts instead of a soft, gooey Cinnabon.

This was intolerable! Nothing has ever smelled as good as those Cinnabons. We are from the Lehigh Valley. Eating unhealthy foods to excess is our birthright! We pounded on the door. We shouted. We pleaded. We offered wealth beyond compare. Finally, the poor soul baking the buns took pity on us and opened for business. As good as those Cinnabons smelled, they tasted even better.

Perhaps one of my fellow passengers from that day thought up a new Fastnacht Day tradition for Union Evangelical Church in Schnecksville. The church will hold a brief service of confession and absolution at 7 PM, but, while the service is in progress, volunteer cooks will be frying fastnachts. Imagine the scent of those potato-based beauties fried in lard drifting into the sanctuary. "OK, Pastor, we're all sinners. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, I get it. Let's get this over with so I can dive into those fastnachts!"

Union Church, no doubt, is filled to capacity for this service. Remarkably, the fastnachts don't even have to be good. Any food that you can smell cooking and that you can't get at for a while tastes great. I've had Cinnabons since Detroit and frankly they didn't compare. The path to a man's heart may be through his stomach, but it really starts at his nose.

Pigs In Snow!

The newspaper article began, "Vehement protests by animal rights activists prompted scientists to temporarily stop an avalanche experiment that involved burying pigs in snow and monitoring their deaths." As a fan of The Muppet Show and its "Pigs In Space!" segment, I would be picketing those scientists as well. This is beyond the the evil imagination of "Pigs In Space!" scientist Dr Strangepork.

The article continues, "Hermann Brugger, co-director of the experiment, asserted that the pigs didn't suffer because they were sedated and given an anesthetic beforehand." For a true comparison to humans caught in an avalanche, Hank should sedate and anesthetize the pigs with the same stuff that Alpine humans have imbibed for years before venturing outdoors in winter. Let's add some schnapps to the pigs' slop. Liquid courage never fails.

The article closes, "Brugger said the study could help humans survive an avalanche and that stopping now would mean that those pigs that already died did so in vain." Or did they? My guess is that the Brugger family pantry is well-stocked with frozen hams and pork sausages. Frau Brugger is no doubt relieved that her husband, the Professor decided to experiment on pigs as opposed to rats. She is recommending that Herr Brugger's next experiment determine the avalanche survival rate for lobsters.

Geezer Rock

This year's Super Bowl telecast had it all - a compelling game, clever commercials, and a rendition of the National Anthem that took less time than the actual bombardment of Fort McHenry. Sadly, it also had intimations of my own mortality. Were those tired old men performing at halftime really The Who?

The Who was the band of choice for rebellious youth in the late 60s. They were loud and destructive and sang of disillusionment and anger. They shattered their guitars and blew up their drum sets. Their drummer died of an overdose before that became fashionable. The Who was the soundtrack of my three years in the Army. No group understands loud, destructive, and disillusioned music better than young soldiers. "My Generation" and "Won't Get Fooled Again" speak to you while you're digging out of a frozen mudhole in Korea.

Fast forward to The Bridgestone Halftime Show XLIV years later. When Roger Daltrey sang, "I woke up in Soho doorway, a policeman knew my name", it seemed rather disingenous. Of course, he knows your name Roger, you have enough money to own Soho. Roger didn't even insert the magic "f word" in the chorus of "Who Are You?". After the infamous "wardrobe malfunction" a few years ago, the NFL and the networks are rather sensitive about what gets broadcast during Super Bowl halftime and even The Who wants to collect their performance paycheck.

Pete Townshend did the windmilling guitar thing, but there was no destruction. Bridgestone wouldn't want their show to set a bad example for the youth of America.

I guess that we all sold out. The Who didn't do "My Generation" last night. It goes:

"People try to put us down
Just because we get around.
Things they do look awful cold
Hope I die before I get old."

Roger, Pete, and I chose to get old and in their case at least, rich. So much for rebellious youth.

Home Defense

Sporting goods superstore Cabela's offers its Shooting Sports Extravaganza this weekend. There will be seminars, special deals, demos, and new products. Foremost among these is the Remington Home/Field Shotgun offered at a mere $379 and featuring the interchangeable 26" field barrel and the "home defense barrel".

The 26" field barrel is just the thing for putting meat on the table. If Bambi, Thumper, or Daffy are foolish to stray within 100 yards or so, even Elmer Fudd can't miss with the "field" version of the Remington weapon. It will accurately deliver buckshot in a nice small pattern and do everything short of placing the meat on the grill.

The "home defense" version is somewhat more controversial. In essence, it makes the Remington a "sawed-off" shotgun. When fired, it will obliterate everything in front of it in a hail of pellets. We loved our "short barrel" shotguns in Viet Nam. No need to aim, just fire and any living thing within 20 feet or so disappeared. It was such a disappointment when we came back to the States and found that "sawed-off" shotguns were illegal, a bitter remnant of the Gang Wars during Prohibition when innocent bystanders were cut down during fire fights.

That was then. This is now. What with Gitmo closing down and terrorists coming to the USA for trial, I, for one, need to defend my home with an aiming-optional, incredibly inaccurate weapon. Remington's lawyers probably forced them to name it "home defense" as opposed to "actually illegal sawed-off". But we know what it really is. What Super Bowl Party guest would not be impressed when I say, "Wanna hold my sawed-off shotgun? These babies have been illegal for 70 years."

Resonsible Pet Ownership

Among the joys of responsible pet ownership is the morning walk around the neighborhood. We humans shiver as Fido deposits urine hither and yon. "That's your yellow snow from yesterday. You don't need to mark that territory again." What better way to start our day than picking up a pile of steaming feces.

Still, Fido needs his exercise. The American ingenuity that gave us the telephone and bubble wrap combined with the American laziness that causes us to hop in the SUV to drive down the driveway to get the mail showed this morning when I saw a Siberian Huskie romping down the street with his leash run through the window of an SUV. The driver jauntily waved a greeting as he drove past. I felt like throwing my feces-filled baggie at the gas guzzler.

On second thought, I'm trudging into 20 degree wind chill while he is seated in toasty comfort and his dog is getting better exercise than mine. It's like buggy whip manufacturers picketing the Ford plant. You can't fight progress. Sorry, Al Gore. I'm "Driving Mister Fido" tomorrow.

Percy and Plagiarism

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery - especially when said imitation is just different enough to avoid plagiarism.

"Percy Jackson and the Olympians" comes to a movie theater near you on Presidents' Weekend. Sadly, it is not the story of a luger with a funny name and his quest for a gold medal at Vancouver. (Isn't "luge" a fun word to pronounce? Your lu-u-uge awaits, Sir. That's the biggest luge I've ever seen. Alas, we only get to say "luge" every four years at the Olympics)

Although "Percy" is based on a series of books, its television trailer makes it appear like a Hollywood rip-off of Harry Potter. One imagines the brainstorming session at the studio:

"There hasn't been a Harry Potter or a High School Musical movie for a while. Let's combine the two and release them this winter.

We'll give the hero a vaguely British-sounding name. Percy is good. He'll have to be better-looking than Daniel Radcliffe though. Let's find a Zac Efron look-alike. His gal pal will have to be a bit more of a babe than Hermione though and look like Vanessa Hudgins. For his guy pal, we need to go with a wise-cracking black kid. This is post-racial America after all.

Now we need a plot. Witches, wizards, and warlocks has been done to death and also might bring J.K. Rowling's lawyers across the Atlantic in a heartbeat. How about ancient Greek gods? It's not like Homer has a copyright on those guys. I've got it! Percy is the orphaned son of Poseidon and is being pursued by the gods because they think he stole Zeus' thunderbolt. Percy uncovers his powers with the help of a kindly mentor named Dumbeldore.

No! The Richest Woman in England Except for the Queen will sue us for sure. Let's make the mentor a minor god, but not a wizard. He has got to have an accent though. We can cast Pierce Brosnan in the role. After "Mama Mia" and his attempt at singing, he needs the work.

The kids will set out on a quest to retrieve Zeus' bolt and, despite all odds, succeed though neither humans nor gods fully understand them leaving the field open for sequels if this thing works. We end it with a lavish musical number featuring gods and humans singing, "We're all in this together."

No! Disney will sue us for sure. Scratch the closing number.

It's not exactly plagiarism, but it is its first cousin.

Super Bowl Bets

The Super Bowl involves food, beer, big-name entertainment, patriotism, zany commercials, and, by the way, a football game. The spice to the whole enchilada is betting. It just isn't a real Super Bowl Party without wagering by one and all.

But does the non-football fan stand a chance betting against Bob From Down The Block who has been analyzing these point spreads, over/unders, parleys and teasers since September? Will Joe the Plumber find himself broke and face-down in the guacamole dip when the game is over?

No! There are also "proposition bets" for this biggest of Big Games that require zero pigskin prognostication ability.

1. The over/under on Carrie Underwood's rendition of the National Anthem is set at 1:42. 102 seconds seems sufficient to get from "Oh say can you see" to "the home of the brave", but there is a military flyover involved here not to mention "rocket's red glare" fireworks and that all takes time. Joe the Plumber probably recalls Whitney Houston's rendition back in '91 that lasted longer than the First Gulf War. He will clean up by betting the "over".

2. The halftime performers are The Who. Las Vegas is not foolish enough to accept bets on whether Pete Townsend will shatter his guitar at the end of the performance. Of course, he will! They do offer odds on whether Pete will smash it against the stage floor, an amplifier, or a fellow band member. Joe the Plumber may not know football, but he's a classic rock fan. Barring a feud between Pete and Roger Daltrey, Joe knows that Pete's first swing is always against an amplifier, Another win for Joe!

3. Las Vegas offers a "make good" bet for those who facing the loss of their money, home, and first-born as the game winds down. You can wager on the color of the Gatorade that the winning coach will have dumped on him. Joe will pay rapt attention to sideline shots during as the game progresses. His discerning eye can pick up the Gatorade color while Bob is more concerned with the protruding bone from the fractured limb of the player drinking the Gatorade. Thus, Joe cleans up over "football expert" Bob.

It's no more necessary to understand football to win big money betting on the Super Bowl than it is to understand mortgage derivatives to garner huge bonuses on Wall Street.

A Boy Named Dwight

The big news from the Super Bowl today is an ankle injury to Colts defensive stalwart Dwight Freeney. The small army of correspondents covering The Big Game need something to write about to justify their presence in sunny South Florida as opposed to shivering through a February day up north. Today's sports sections are full of learned dissertations comparing electrical versus platelet therapy for ankle injury treatment. Will Dwight recover in time to face the Saints? Thousands of Super Bowl Office Pools hinge on the outcome.

Not to worry, Colts supporters. Mr Freeney has already overcome a greater obstacle - his name. Dwight is possibly the worst moniker with which one can be saddled. It is difficult to spell and subject to mispronunciation. With the popularity of "The Office", the most famous Dwight nowadays is office clown Dwight Schrute. President Eisenhower's first name was Dwight, but everyone called him Ike. Country singer Dwight Yoakum is not exactly a household name. Former Mets pitcher Dwight Gooden forsook incredible talent for a life of drugs and degradation. There are not a whole lot of role models named Dwight.

Yet, like Johnny Cash's Boy Named Sue, Freeney has overcome the taunts and ridicule due to his name and ascended to the very summit of gridiron glory. When he hears, "Hey Dwight, how's the beet farm outside Scranton?", he pummels the opposing quarterback. When the crowd chants ""Dee-White, Dee-Wig-It", he pass-rushes even harder.

Indeed, "Life ain't easy for a boy named Dwight", or Sue for that matter.