Heavenly Earwax

Those Brits go a little crazy in the month of June. Perhaps it's the 16 hours of sunshine after months of dreary darkness. Maybe it's those witches and warlocks converging on Stonehenge for the Solstice. Possibly it's Tennyson's paen to the month (memorized by those of us in Mrs McAndrews' English Lit class), "And what is so rare as a day in June. Then, if ever, come perfect days. Then heaven tries earth if it be in tune. And o'er it softly her warm ear lays."

Heavenly ear wax may not explain Britain's Annual Man vs. Horse Race. Earlier this month, forty-four horse-and-rider teams took on 253 runners in a 22 mile race near London. Once again, a horse won beating out the fastest human by about ten minutes. What a surprise!

Now, Brits are famous for wagering on horse races. The betting at their Darby Racecourse was the beginning of our (misspelled) Kentucky, Soapbox, and other Derbies. Still, only a sunshine-besotted Englishman would put money down on a two-legged, 150 pound human bred for watching football on the tellie as opposed to a four-legged, 1000 pound animal bred to run.

And they wonder why they lost the Revolution.

Thunderfoot

Now that the US team has once again bowed out of the World Cup, pundits are writing their quadrennial "What's wrong with American soccer?" columns. After all, every American kid is enrolled in Youth Soccer. Our sporting goods stores are awash in shin guards and knee socks. American parents come through with nutritious post-game snacks for the team. And then we lose to Ghana which is about the size and population of Oregon. How can this be?

The answer is obvious. We don't have good nicknames for our players. Brazil dominates the Soccer World with Kaka, Nilmar, Juan, and Robinho. They go by just one name that appears to be made up. Even Brazil's coaches go by one name - Dunga and Jorginho. Now, Kaka and Dunga are pseudonyms for fecal matter in American English. Imagine the mockery from the opposition toward American youth soccer superstars with those unfortunate nicknames. "Bring on the Charmin, here comes Kaka!" "Look out, there's a pile of Dunga at midfield!" These young athletes would abandon soccer for good old American basketball in a heartbeat.

World Cup 2014 will be here before we know it. Now is the time to develop Americanized nicknames for our youth soccer prodigies. Years ago, the Detroit Lions had a punter named Herman "Thunderfoot" Weaver. "Thunderfoot" would be an excellent soccer nickname. The Cleveland Browns had a kicker named Lou "The Toe" Groza. "The Toe" works better for soccer than American football. My beloved Lafayette Leopards had a running back nicknamed "The Human Thigh". Even the Brazilians would quake when faced by an American team headed by "Thunderfoot", "The Toe", and "The Human Thigh". The World Cup would be ours.

Vampire vs Werewolf

As a teen-ager, I was socially inept. Contact with the opposite gender left me tongue-tied and awash in a pool of perspiration. How could I best present myself to that Sandra Dee look-alike in Spanish class? I never figured it out.

Almost fifty years later, the solution to my social problems appeared, strangely enough, in a Burger King commercial. BK is promoting the latest "Twilight" movie installment with a "Team Edward" vs. "Team Jacob" contest. Fans of the dreamy vampire Edward or the rugged werewolf Jacob collect game pieces at BK in hope of winning valuable prizes. In the commercial, teen girls approach BK customers extolling the virtues of their side in the Vampire vs. Werewolf conflict. The Edward fans exclaim, "He's waited 100 years for love!" The Jacob supporters note, "You can pet him."

There you have it. The key to a teen girl's heart is to claim a century of unrequited love. If you get the "Wait a minute, we're both14 years old, how can you have pined for me since 1910?", you can place your head (watch out for excessive hair gel) near your beloved's hand, stare expectantly into her eyes, and pant (tongue lolling only after the first date).

In the commercial, the girls approach a grandfatherly-looking gent pleading their case for those valuable game pieces which he somehow possesses. "Would you rather your granddaughter date a vampire or a werewolf?" they ask. "Uh, neither," he replies.

We elderly guys didn't get it back in the 60s and we still don't get it today. It's a wonder that we humans continue to propagate.

Lyrical Analysis

Disco does not lend itself to in-depth lyrical analysis like some other musical genres.

"Get down. Get down. Jungle boogie!" means precisely what it says whereas "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" is an appreciation of LSD by the Beatles.

"It's raining men, hallelujah!" is a simple analogy while "Ring around the rosie" actually refers to the symptoms of the Bubonic Plague.

"Burn, baby, burn. That disco inferno" is just a metaphor, but the words to a certain ancient Mayan chant mean that the world is coming to an end in 2012.

Imagine my surprise when I found deep and inexplicable meaning in the lyrics to "Stayin' Alive". Viewing the DVD of the movie "Airplane!" with subtitles on (an unfortunate consequence of my advanced years), I read those lyrics for the first time during the scene where the fighting girl scouts crash into the jukebox and the Bee Gee's classic comes forth.

"Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk.
I'm a woman's man. No time for talk, etc.

And now it's alright. It's OK
And you can look the other way.
We can try to understand
The New York Times effect on man."

The New York Times effect on man? What does that mean? Stop with the fancy disco steps there, Mr Travolta. We've got a deep metaphysical question to resolve. Must we strive for "all the news that's fit to print" or should we settle for "all the news that fits we print"?

In the spirit of "Airplane!", I ask, "Surely, the answer is in the collected writings of the Brothers Gibb."

"Yes, it is. And stop calling me Shirley."

The Domino Theory Redux

Commentary on the McChrystal firing predictably follows the political leanings of the pundit writing it. Cal Thomas notes that since President Obama chose General McChrystal to lead the effort to defeat the Taliban any "errors in judgement" should not be limited to McChrystal. "If the president picked the wrong man, what does that say about his judgement?"

Way to get in a cheap shot, Cal!

Cal bemoans "the severe costs for America" should we "lose in Afghanistan":

"The planning center for 9/11 would be invigorated." Cal apparently forgot that the bad guys managed to plan the London, Madrid, and various attempted airplane bombings perfectly well from somewhere other than an office in downtown Kabul.

"Recruiting for more homicide bombers would be easier." Actually, Cal, that American-born Islamic Warrior guy that we arrested on his way to Pakistan this week seemed more motivated by American armed forces killing Muslims than by some Osama poster saying "I want you."

"Iran's Ahmadininejad would see defeat as proof that his god wants him to proceed with his announced plans to usher in Armageddon by possibly launching a nuclear attack against Israel." Bless your heart, Cal. I thought that no one still remembered the old Domino Theory.

Forty-one years ago, a smooth-talking Major from the Pentagon presented the Domino Theory to myself and my fellow members in Engineer Officer Basic Course 14 at Fort Belvoir, VA. The Major pointed out that if South Viet Nam fell, surely Cambodia and Laos would follow. Thailand wouldn't stand a chance. It might take a while, but look out, Australia! It would then be only a matter of time until monolithic Communism spread to California.

Now, 85 of 110 of us had orders for Viet Nam. As Combat Engineer officers, out main duty would be clearing roads and fields of homemade mines and booby traps. Since those mines and booby traps were predominantly plastic explosives and bamboo, our metal detectors couldn't pick them up. Our instructors took great joy in informing us that we missed 18 of 20 "mines" in our training sweeps and we were all "dead".

Still, it wasn't the dire consequences of the Domino Theory that kept us from avoiding certain death or dismemberment by taking the next flight to Canada or Sweden. In fact, we got a chuckle out of it. Everyone had a different reason for being in the Army then (patriotism, family tradition, an unsympathetic Draft Board), but no one swallowed the Domino Theory.

News Flash to Cal! No one swallows it today either, especially when we open a can of tuna packed in Viet Nam or put on a pair of running shoes manufactured there. All those names on the Viet Nam Memorial died for a lie. Telling it again doesn't make it true.

Drawing Lots

Churchill once said, "Great Britain and America are two nations separated by a common language."

Sir Winston's quote is validated by coverage of the World Cup. The oh-so-British commentators refer to a "pitch" instead of a "field", a "side" as opposed to a "team", and arbitrarily use the plural in place of the singular "The American side are controlling the pitch. Hip-hip, cheerio, and all that!"

Depending on the results of their matches today, the teams could finish in a flat-footed tie. The British commentators tell us that in that case advancement to the next round is determined by "drawing lots". What does this mean?

Will white boards and magic markers be set on the "pitch" and the "sides" engage in a drawing contest to most accurately depict the Biblical character, Lot? Will extra credit be given if Lot's wife is outlined in salt?

Or is "lots" an adverb as opposed to a proper noun? Is the winner of the drawing contest determined by quantity of output? "There's lots and lots of drawing on the American whiteboard. The US advance(s) to face Brazil with 174 separate figures on their board. The English have (has) only 172."

Is it throwing dice like the Roman soldiers "casting lots" for Jesus' robe on Good Friday? Is "drawing lots" the same thing?

In any case, ABC / ESPN's TV ratings hang in the balance. A USA - Brazil match next Saturday will draw a few more eyeballs here in the States than Slovenia - Ivory Coast.

oice of the Pierogie

Until now, Freedom of Speech was limited only by:

1. Public Safety. Justice Holmes famously wrote, "You can't shout 'Fire!' in a crowded theater".

2. Slander. You can't use malicious lies to harm others.

3. Party Loyalty. Republicans are expressly forbidden to say anything positive about President Obama.

Now there's a fourth limitation, The Pittsburgh Pirates fired one of their costumed pierogie mascots after he made remarks critical of the team on his facebook page. Apparently, American citizens lose their Right to Free Speech when they don the Onion Oliver, Sauerkraut Sal, Cheesie Charlie, or Jalapeno Hannah costumes to race around the outfield at Pirates' games.

Um-m-m-m. Jalapeno-filled pierogies, where have you been all my life?

I contend (and most Constitutional scholars agree) that the act of putting on a sweaty costume reeking of onion, sauerkraut, cheese or jalapeno does NOT limit an American's right to free speech. Layers of dough, well-crimped edges, and being boiled or fried before serving may muffle the words, but brave men have given their lives so that the Voice of the Pierogie can be heard!

By the way, has anyone checked on the immigration status of those pierogies? Not to go all Arizona here, but they look kind of foreign. And those Racing Sausages at Milwaukee Brewers games? They openly flaunt their foreigness what with lederhosen and,suspiciously, a sombrero.

Give me the Racing Presidents at Washington Nationals games! George, TJeff, Abe, and Teddy are all-American for sure. Actually, I sometimes wonder about George. The knickers and wig, never had a kid, hung out a lot with the Army - it raises some questions.

If he has a Green Card, let the Voice of the Pierogie be heard!

Walking the Dog in Style

I walk the dog each morning with Sports Radio.on my trusty Walkman I should learn the latest on the Oil Spill from NPR, but the dog prefers insightful analysis of last night's Mariners - Brewers game from Mike & Mike. Mike Golic is a former defensive tackle. His macho commentary is balanced by avowed metrosexual Mike Greenberg.

This morning's topic was golf's prestigious US Open. The winner was not Tiger Woods or Phil Mikkelson, but an unknown from Northern Ireland named Graeme McDowell. Apparently, Northern Ireland uses ebonics for first names. Mike & Mike bemoaned the failure of golf's "big names" to win the tournament. It would have made a better story. What if Elin come after Tiger with a 9-iron as he was lining up a winning putt on the 18th green?

Mike Greenberg noted that he had a good feeling about McDowell's chances as early as Saturday. "Did you see that outfit he was wearing? The blue looked good on him. And the sweater he wore yesterday?"

Then, the dog and I realized that golf is not unlike the red carpet at the Oscars and that wardrobe is a factor in performance. One imagines Joan Rivers at the first hole:

"Here comes Tiger Woods. OMG, he's all in black! That kills his chances. Tiger must wear red on the final round of a Major! Wait, there's a red shirt under that black pullover. He'll come close but not make it today."

"There's Phil Mikkelson. What's with those white pants pinstriped in navy blue? He looks like a NY Yankee reject. Hey, Phil, there's a square inch somewhere on your sweater not covered with a sponsor's logo. Better take care of that."

"Check out Davis Love III. That loud argyle sweater adds 15 pounds, or is he carrying Davis Love IV in that belly? No shot for you, DL 3"

"Here's 3rd round leader Dustin Johnson. Whoa! He's wearing a mere short sleeved polo shirt while the other guys are bundled up like Ralphie in "Christmas Story". Dustin, you can't fight both the elements and the golf course. You are doomed."

The dog and I are definitely placing a bet on the winner of next year's US Open and basing it on wardrobe. It'll keep him in kibble for years to come.

Modern Crime 101

Calm down, class.

I'm Professor Clyde. My lovely assistant over there is Professor Bonnie. Welcome to Modern Crime 101 - Bank Robbery in the 21st Century.

Today's reading assignment is the newspaper account of yesterday's unsuccessful heist at the KNBT branch in Forks Twp. What lessons can we learn here? Anyone? You there, Mister Dillinger, is it?

The alleged perpetrator had no disguise? Actually, Dillinger, walking into a bank near closing time wearing a mask even around Halloween is a problem. Those tellers will hit the police call button in a heartbeat. Many trick-or-treaters have learned that through bitter experience.

Anyone else? Butch Cassidy, your hand is up. The bank was only a quarter mile away from Police Headquarters and practically across the street from a Dunkin' Donuts, you say? Normally a valid point, but that street is Sullivan Trail and traffic there at 6 PM is a killer. Our alleged perpetrator could be half way to Stockertown before the cops finish their glazed crullers and iced coffee if he hits the lights right. You should always study traffic patterns before a heist, but that wasn't the problem here.

The newspaper article states that bank employees slipped a tracking device into the money bag while filling it. The police simply followed the signal and apprehended the guy within minutes. I cannot emphasize this enough. ALWAYS BRING YOUR OWN BAG TO A HEIST. Not only do you avoid those nasty tracking devices and dye packets in the bank's take-out money bags, but you are helping to save the earth! Bring your own recyclable money bag to your next caper. You know how some supermarkets offer a discount if you bring your own canvas bag? Frequently-robbed banks and mini-marts may offer bonus swag to environmentally-conscious thieves. Our landfills are overflowing with discarded tracking devices and dye-soaked bank bags. This is the 21st century, people! Be kind to your Mother (Earth).

Any questions before we hand out the final exams? You there, Al Gore?

Yes, Al, recycling bank bags probably does lessen global warming.

I took the bus to New York City yesterday. The weather being fine, I decided to walk a mile or so up Eighth Avenue. It is not exactly the same as walking up Northampton Street in Easton:

1. You can always pick out the tourists. They are the chubby folk (native New Yorkers are slender from all the walking) who actually wait for the pedestrian flashers to change before bolting across the street.

2. What is with that "chirping bird" sound effect when it is safe to cross? Ornithologically-inclined tourists tend to stop and look for what is making that noise and risk being run over my native New Yorkers.

3. Tourists should be advised that they don't have to stop dead in their tracks and take a photo of every tall building along the way. You've seen one, you've seen them all.

4. Is there a NYC bar that is not featuring all the World Cup games live on TV?

5. Where else can you find Mexican, Mongolian, and Ethiopian restaurants on the same block?

6. If the person walking ahead of you is talking to himself and gesticulating wildly, look for a Bluetooth headset. If the headset is there, you can safely walk past. If not, the person is likely deranged and you may want to cross the street. The split between Bluetooth talkers and deranged folk is about 50:50.

7. New York City must be a gold mine for podiatrists. There are so many women walking a considerable distance in high, high heels. That 70s trend of carrying your heels in a bag and walking to work in running shoes has gone the way of the disco.

The Spin Cycle

Back-to-back TV commercials last night proved that we are well into the corporate "spin cycle".

First, we saw Toyota cars driving down country lanes while a soothing voiceover noted that nothing is more important to Toyota than safety. There were none of the Toyotathon highjinks. No brass band marched through a dealership. No people leaped through car windows to claim their Deal of a Lifetime on a Corolla. The message this time wasn't "Zero percent financing on dealer stock, but you've got to hurry. This special offer ends on June 30th." The unsaid message was, "We may have cut a few corners and those accelerators may stick a bit, but Toyota is a lot more concerned about your safety than, say, BP. A few images of oil-soaked pelicans and we are not the Corporate Bad Guys any more. Thanks, BP."

This was followed by a BP commercial where an earnest young man stood on a pristine beach and claimed that he was in charge of making things right for the people of the Gulf Coast. He was a Louisianan himself and understood the depths of their problems. Well done, BP! Use a Louisianan as your spokesman. A British accent explaining the situation is more toxic than the crude you're dumping in the Gulf.

The Spin Cycle is not only good for "Buy my company's product as opposed to the other guy's", but it works for, "Sure, we've violated the public trust in our headlong dash to maximize profits, but we're good guys deep down inside."

Nooks and Crannies

Sometimes, generic store brands just don't cut it. So it is with English muffins. We have all tried to save a few pennies by going with bargain brand muffins, but returned to good old Thomas' for those remarkably moist nooks and crannies that cradle butter and jam in their embrace.

We all imagined that Thomas' muffins came from somewhere intrinsically British like Hogwarts and were baked by Albus Dumbledore himself. It turns out that they are baked near Philadelphia by a Mexican conglomerate with the unfortunate name of Grupo Bimbo. No matter how good the muffin, consumers would have trouble ordering a "Bimbo, toasted, with butter and grape jelly". Best that you retain that Thomas' name, Grupo Bimbo.

There's trouble in Muffin Land though. Only seven top execs know the secret formula for those nooks and crannies and one of them, Chris Botticella, wants to depart for rival Hostess Baking. Can a Twinkie with nooks and crannies be on the horizon? The Associated Press reports (presumably with a straight face), "Botticella hid his new employment deal for weeks while attending high-level Bimbo meetings and debating strategies for competing with Hostess."

One imagines "high-level Bimbo meetings" being conducted at the Badda Bing Club with Tony Soprano in charge.

The AP continues, "Botticella knows other secrets as well. He had access to code books that spell out production formulas for other Bimbo products such as its new line of Sandwich Thins."

This appears to be less of a problem to the undiscerning eye. Somehow, one can't imagine parents purchasing Bimbo Sandwich Thins for the kids' soccer team post-match snack though Dads might buy them just for the wrapper.

Sadly. I'll never be able to look at my breakfast muffin in the same way again knowing that it is baked by a bunch of Bimboes.

World Cup Musings

The World Cup began this weekend in South Africa. This is truly a world-wide competition between national teams from the four corners of the globe. Does a globe have corners?

Two thoughts struck me while watching the USA vs England (Limey bastards! Burn our White House back in 1814 then befoul our Gulf Coast with oil, will you? Fight off the Germans by yourselves next time!) match:

1. Team USA's next match will be against Slovenia. Who, what, and where is Slovenia? Through the magic of the Internet, I discovered that Slovenia sits in the NW corner of the former Yugoslavia and has a population of 2 million, so it has about as many people as Philadelphia. And the USA with 300 million people is going up against these guys? It's like the NY Yankees scheduling a game against Bob's Auto Body from the NW Lehigh Little League.

2. Should Team USA make it to the next round of the World Cup, their most likely opponent is Germany. The expert commentators warned of the great German player Schweinsteiger. Now there is a name. I thought that my years in Allentown had exposed me to all the classically hilarious Germanic surnames. Heffelfinger and Warmkessel always brought a chuckle and led to appropriate nicknames. I worked with Todd "Heffeltoe" Heffelfinger and Wanda "Luke" Warmkessel. Had Herr Schweinsteiger been working with us back in '83 when UB40's reggae hit "Red Red Wine" was all over the airways, we would surely have called him "Schred Schred" Schweinsteiger.

Rampage!

A cinematic version of the old TV show "The A Team" opens today. This pretty much completes the cycle of resurrecting TV shows for nostalgic Children of the 80s what with "Scooby Doo" and the like already having graced the silver screen. Next up, a
3-D blockbuster version of those ubiquitous Suzanne Somers Thighmaster infomercials directed by James Cameron!

The original "A Team" players being somewhat long in the tooth (or no longer with us in the case of George Peppard), the 2010 film required an all-new cast :

Hannibal - Liam Neeson. How low can a classically-trained actor go to gain a paycheck?
Face - Bradley Cooper. Here's a guy who really does need a paycheck.
Murdock - Sharlto Copley. Sharlto? How did he survive Middle School without getting beaten to a pulp just because of that name?
B.A. Baracus - Rampage Jackson

Now, there's a name - Rampage Jackson. Imagine his kindergarten teacher calling the class roll - Tiffany? Justin? Kayleigh? Rampage? Uh-oh. I'd better keep an eye on that one.

Parents tend to name their newborns after famous folk of their era. There were a flock of baby Britneys when Ms Spears was riding high. Should "The A Team" become the first step toward super-stardom for Mr Jackson, kindergartens in 2015 may be chock-full of young Rampages.

Parents would then lament, "Everyone is naming their kid Rampage. We need something different. How about Pillage or Reckless?

American kindergartens in 2016 will have a roll call like those in Scandinavia during the Viking Era. "Rampage and Pillage, you two stop beating up on those British kids and don't you dare plunder their castle / home!" It will be the Dark Ages all over again.

Grudges

Grudges dating back to our teen years are the most intense. It's been nearly fifty years but I still resent that Sandra Dee look-alike who wouldn't give me the time of day back in 9th grade. I still wonder at the evil motive behind my 10th grade English teacher not recommending me for AP English. I'd still like to get back at that muscle-bound jerk who nearly tossed me into a trash barrel in 11th grade. I cannot bring myself to root for a football team that carries red and white colors after our rival beat us on Thanksgiving, senior year wearing those colors.

Not holding grudges may be a sign of maturity. I certainly suffered more fools in the military and in Corporate America than I did in high school, but resentment doesn't linger in the same way.

An obituary in yesterday's paper made all my grudges seem trivial. Tomiko Hoffman, age 81. passed away. A survivor of the Hiroshima A-bomb blast, she married a US Air Force guy after the war, became a US citizen, and raised a family here.

Ponder this. Tomiko was 16 years old when the US Air Force obliterated her home town killing nearly everyone and everything she had ever known. 16 is a difficult age. Physically mature, but emotionally undeveloped, it must be most traumatizing stage of life to witness something like a nuclear attack. Tomiko overcame that.

Sandra, Miss Raub, muscle-bound jerk, and Scranton Tech HS, it took fifty years, but I'm over it. I'll never hold a grudge again.

Excuses

I became a Lindsay Lohan fan several years ago when she hosted "Saturday Night Live". She came off as modest, self-effacing, and a decent actress under tough conditions. Of course, this was in comparison to Paris Hilton who had hosted SNL a few weeks earlier. A door knob exhibits better acting chops than Our Gal Paris.

It's been difficult to remain a Lohan fan what with the embarrassing photos, the high-as-a-kite public appearances, and the arrests. What kept me in the fold was that Lindsay always came up with a decent excuse - "I would have made it to that hearing, Judge, but here I am stranded in Cannes and I lost my passport." It's not much, but it is better than "The dog ate my homework ."

I fell of the Lohan Bandwagon this morning though. After "Today" recounted the latest on the Disaster in the Gulf and the most recent attractive young white girl missing and possibly abducted, it showed a full-screen shot of Lindsay's ankle with its alcohol-sniffing bracelet. Apparently, it had sniffed some alcohol on or about Ms Lohan and the Judge wanted some answers. Lindsay replied, "It must have malfunctioned."

You can come up with a better excuse than that, girl. Granted you never went to high school. You weren't exposed to the classic excuses like "My alarm didn't go off", "The school bus driver hates me and drove right on by", or "I thought today was Saturday", Still, they can test that bracelet and prove that it works.

Even Paris Hilton could come up with a better excuse than that.

Justin Beaver

Rockefeller Center was crammed with "tween" girls last Friday morning when "Today" featured a live concert by Justin Bieber. Unless June 4th is an obscure school holiday celebrated only in the NY Metro Area (Derek Jeter's Birthday?), the turnout once again proved that celebrity hysteria trumps learning with America's youth. And we wonder why kids from Bosnia outscore our offspring in math and science.

There is a strong possibility that this year's version of The Simpson's "Non-Threatening Boy Idol" would have drawn a significant crowd even if "tween" parents had braved the inevitable tantrum and insisted that Tiffany and Kayleigh go to school that day. As we drove our 4 year old granddaughter to our home for a mini-vacation last Sunday, I noted that we could tell when we entered Pennsylvania because there were so many pencils alongside the roads there. "That's why it is called Pencil-Vania."

Continuing the punning, I noted that our house was located on Beaver Lane, so named because of the preponderance of flat-tailed, aquatic rodents nearby. This didn't make much of an impression on the four year old, but she did ask whether Justin Beaver could be found in the vicinity. She then proceeded to belt out a few lines form one of Justin's tunes.

Justin Mania extends past Middle and even Elementary School to Pre-School. Even if New York Area truant officers cleared Rockefeller Center last week, school-age kids would have been replaced by the pre-school contingent. Justin will always have an audience.

Love, Dad

A Senate Race

Being a US Senator is a pretty cool job. You get free postage. Supreme Court nominees come begging to your door for support. You can stay in office as long as you have a measurable pulse if you are Richard Byrd or Strom Thurmond. Still, there is that messiness of having to run for election every six years.

The current issue of The New Yorker discusses the Republican primary race for a US Senate seat from California. Tom Campbell would seem to have it in the bag. He is the sitting State Attorney General and has no skeletons in his closet. He is a "firm conservative". He would have voted against the federal stimulus package. He calls the federal health care bill "a monstrosity". He proposes building a wall along the Mexican border before even considering comprehensive immigration reform. Hey, it worked for the East Germans in Berlin. He stands four-square in favor of everything short of bringing back Eisenhower as President and requiring the TV networks to run new episodes of "Leave It To Beaver" from 8 to 11 every weeknight.

Still, there are two other candidates trying to "out Republican" him. In a recent debate, the three were asked whether individuals on the "no-fly" list should be permitted to buy a gun. Tom Campbell answered, "No!". Tom logically assumed that highjacking a plane is so much easier with an assault weapon in hand. Those TSA Security guy have been on the alert for box cutters since 9/11.

Candidate B replied, "Yes, if they have not been convicted of a felony." "Keep your nose clean, Abdullah. Commit no felonies. Then just walk into your local Wal-Mart and buy an AK-47. We'll get you around that "no-fly" problem with a fake ID."

Candidate C placed no qualifications on her enthusiastic "Yes" and added, "That's why Tom Campbell has a poor rating from NRA." Presumably, the NRA feels that terrorists (Isn't that what folks on the "no-fly" list are, after all?) should have access to guns. If nothing else, it replaces the monotony of another boring in-flight movie with the real possibility of an in-flight shoot-out between terrorists and real Americans with concealed weapon permits.

Candidate C also accused Campbell of being "soft on terrorism". She would at least allow the terrorists a fighting chance by allowing them to be armed. Then we blow them away.

The Lion's Mouth

Pennsylvania, Delaware, and West Virginia casinos will all offer table games beginning this year.

To draw Asian-American gamblers to the baccarat and Pai Gow tables, the casino's marketing plan includes Noodle Bars and Sushi Stations on the gambling floor. I know that I feel the urge to gamble when I walk past the Asian Buffet at Wegman's. I take the risk that the fish in my sushi wasn't flown in from the vicinity of the Louisiana Oil Leak.

But there is more to attracting those Asian high-rollers than familiar foods. Some casino elevators don't have buttons for the fourth floor because four is considered an unlucky number in some cultures. Actually, four is an extremely unlucky number in the Casino Maintenance Culture. Many a hernia has resulted from hauling heavy equipment and tools up or down the steps from the third or fifth floors.

When the MGM Grand opened in Las Vegas in 1993, officials re-worked an entrance based on the company's trademark lion after learning that some Asian gamblers considered the open mouth of a lion to be bad luck. Bad luck? How about Darwin's Theory of Natural Selection? Our ancestors who shunned open-mouthed lions survived to reproduce. Their peers who approached the beast saying, "Nice kitty, Where are the craps tables?" became part of the Lion's Buffet. I'm not sure if they had a Noodle Bar nearby.

A Tough Choice

The TV commercial showed a list of twenty-five countries. "Did you know that the US ranks 23rd in math proficiency for high school students?"

Actually, I'm happy that the kids in China who design and manufacture the iPhone are smarter than the American kids who buy them. That goes a long way in explaining why they work so well. I'm even happier that the kid in India who answers the Customer Service Hotline is smarter than his American peer who seems to do nothing but skateboard all day long. Otherwise, I'd never find out how to get my VCR to stop flashing "12:00".

It is somewhat humbling to see the US ranking behind Liechtenstein in anything other than yodeling, though. How can we show our face in the UN when kids from Kazakhstan not only herd goats but calculate square roots better than we do? How can the nation that gave the world the telephone, the telegraph, and "Sex and the City 2" rank behind Burkina Fasso in high school math?

The answer is simple. Sammy Tesluk and the McGuire boys showed us the way. When I entered eighth grade back in 1960, Sammy and the McGuires were there for a second and in some cases third and possibly fourth go-around. No one was sure how old they were, but Sammy, Muggsy, and Pat had muscles and hair on portions of their body that we 12 and 13 year olds could only dream about. The Gym teacher was intimidated that they had thicker sideburns than he did and passed them, but the Math Department held its ground and kept them from Algebra 1. South Scranton Junior High maintained relatively high math scores.

Sammy, Muggsy, and Pat might still be in eighth grade except the siren song of full-time employment at the "3 Minute Car Wash" and its princely wage of $1.25 per hour drew them away from the Halls of Learning as soon as legally feasible. Soon thereafter, Draft Board 81 called them to military service.

Frankly, Trigonometry seemed a lot less necessary when Sammy sent us a photo of him in his uniform quaffing beer with a fraulein on each arm.

America has changed since 1960. Car washes are self-serve or completely automated. The all-volunteer military requires a high school diploma. Schools offer "social promotion" and don't flunk kids anymore. While today's American version of Sammy, Muggsy, and Pat take high school level math and bring down our national math rating, their Leichtensteiner, Kazakstani, or Burkinian counterparts remain in eighth grade or are working in the car wash or carrying a rifle.

The mysteries of the Pythagorean Theorem versus the wonders of lager and exotic, foreign babes - it's a tough choice.

Fried Eggs

There is just something about fried eggs. They stare down at us from those Denny's and Perkins' billboards along Route 22 in all their golden-yolked beauty. They are surrounded by pancakes, hash browns and sundry breakfast meats, but it is the fried eggs that catch our eye. The primitive part of our brain recognizes that golden, runny, warm, delicious yolk as jam-packed with pure protein.

Alas, the modern part of our brain screams, "Pure cholesterol! Have an egg white omelet if you've got to have eggs, but some nice tofu and oatmeal would be better for you. Don't you ever read the newspaper? It's full of heart-healthy recipes."

Until today, that is. Fried egg fans rejoiced to see the recipe for "Spaghetti with Fried Eggs and Cheese" featured along with the standard, disgustingly healthy "Thai Style Chicken Wraps with Mango Salsa", "Easy Gelatin Surprise", etc.

This is the real deal. While the pasta cooks, we fry up some garlic in oil, add the eggs, cook them until the whites are set and the yolks are runny, remove the eggs, dump the oil / garlic mix onto the pasta (can't waste any of those calories), toss the pasta with cheese and parsley, top each serving of pasta with an egg, and cut the yolk to allow all that golden goodness to create a veritable gut-busting, cholesterol-laden calorie bomb. Take that, Easy Gelatin Surprise!

It was hearty, he-man breakfasts like Spaghetti with Fried Eggs and Cheese that made America great. Lewis and Clark wouldn't have made it across the Rockies with an egg white omelet under their belt. It's about time the newspaper's Wednesday Food Section realized this.

Star Perks

When a superstar makes an appearance at your humble venue, he can demand certain perks. The College Events Staff searched high and low for a particular brand of herbal tea to place in Ravi Shankar's dressing room many years ago. The rock band Van Halen required massive amounts of Jack Daniels back stage at their concerts. Alex Rodriguez's Yankee contract allows him a personal private jet (as opposed to the team's somewhat less-private jet) and his own suite of hotel rooms on road trips.

Political superstars also make certain contractual demands. To get Dick Cheney to rally your troops, you must provide a hotel suite cooled to 68 degrees ("Global warming is a myth!"), four cans of Diet Sprite (none of that generic stuff), and all TVs tuned to Fox News ("Fair and balanced. The only TV station you'll ever need.) If your venue doesn't have cable TV or satellite, you are out of luck for getting the former VP.

Recently, I travelled to West Virginia. When I turned on my motel room TV, it was tuned to Fox News. My first thought was that the housekeeping staff was into fair and balanced news. The room was kind of chilly, too. The soda machine down the hall had Diet Sprite. Could the previous occupant have been Mr Cheney?

Probably not. When I turned on the TV the next morning, it went straight to Fox News again. Apparently, Bill O'Reilly, Sean Hannity, et.al., is the default setting for TVs in that portion of the Mountaineer State.

Attention, Dick! Wild and wonderful West Virginia is ready for you.