Breakfast of Champions

Vermont, of all places, appears to have sustained the greatest damage from Irene. The Green Mountain State now features great skiing, Ben & Jerry's, and isolated towns without passable roads, electricity or potable water.

The potable water thing brought back memories. In 1955, Hurricanes Connie and Diane followed much the same path as Irene did this year. As a seven year old in Scranton, I witnessed a helicopter rescuing some poor souls from the roof of a house on a flooded street and rowboats skittering over lakes that used to be baseball fields.

My fondest memory is breakfast during the Great Flood. There was no milk to be had. The municipal water and gas systems had been breached so Mom couldn't cook breakfast. It was cold cereal or nothing. But what to put over the cereal? The sole bottled fluid in our house was Pepsi Cola. My Breakfast of Champions was Pepsi over Frosted Flakes.

This was high octane, fully-sugared Pepsi. Tab, Fresca, and Diet Colas had not made the scene in 1955. A few bowls of Tony the Tiger's favorite cereal soaked in soda and I was on a sugar high that lasted until the Nixon Administration.

This was also before the days of fluoridated toothpaste. My filling-strewn molars are a memorial to those sugary, but so memorable breakfasts during the Great Flood of '55.

Enjoy it while you can, Vermonters!

Lebowski vs. Hannah Montana

Sports Illustrated reported that "The Big Lebowski" star Jeff Bridges lost out to Miley Cyrus in a vote to induct a celebrity into the Bowling Hall of Fame.

"That's a foul, Donnie!" I demand a recount. The Dude's LIFE was bowling (and drinking White Russians, an exacta to be admired). Maintaining her teen-by-day, rock star-by-night "Hannah Montana" persona leaves little time for crucial "league play" by Ms Cyrus. Miley's "Best of Both Worlds" encompasses high school hi-jinks and sanitized pop music. The Dude's "Best of Both Worlds" is kegling and seeking that rug that "ties the room together". Which of these two appeals more to the average American bowler?

Of course, times are tough for lesser-known Halls of Fame. Fans continue to flock to Baseball's HOF in Cooperstown and Pro Football's in Canton, but even relocating from St Louis to Arlington, TX right next to Six Flags has not boosted attendance at the Bowling HOF. "You kids just stay in line for The Texas Giant, I'll mosey over to the Bowling Hall of Fame."

Lesser-known HOFs need a gimmick. The Boxing Hall of Fame set the precedent by inducting Sylvester Stallone this year. "Sure, Sly never actually set foot inside a real boxing ring, but more people will pay admission to see his plaque than would for Julio Cesar Chavez."

The Bowling HOF folks probably thought, "Having a vote between Lebowski and Miley Cyrus and having Miley win will cause more controversy than the Taylor Swift Grammy win over Beyonce a couple of years ago. People will want to come to Arlington to protest."

Despite this miscarriage of justice, the Dude abides. Ten years from now, "Hannah Montana - The Movie" will be gathering dust on DVD racks while "The Big Lebowski" will be shown on bowling center TVs nationwide.

The Sad Fate of Bob the Tomato

What better way to put the devastation of Irene behind us than a trip to The Great Allentown Fair? We can forget those hours hunkered down without electricity watching our milk go sour and mold grow in our basements. We can rest our aching muscles after cleaning up storm debris. We can finally watch television programming that does not involve some clown in a windbreaker buffeted by wind and rain warning us of the same thing that we can see by looking out our window.

In an unintentionally comic moment, a Channel 69 reporter standing knee-deep on a flooded Allentown street stated, "Don't go outside and walk around flooded streets. As a trained journalist familiar with this area, I can do this." I was unaware that Journalism 101 gave you X-ray vision to detect storm drains and open manholes beneath rushing water. "We started the semester with 30 Journalism majors, but we lost five of them to drowning during Storm Coverage Lab last week."

This year's Fair has a typical all-star entertainment line-up. Middle-aged rock fans will enjoy Journey. Polka fans get Jimmy Sturr. Veggie Tale fans and aficionados of odd names get "Lucas Lasagna performing the best of Sinatra on Sept 4" according to the Fair's press release

Lucas Lasagna? Perhaps I've been over-exposed to "Veggie Tales", but I can't shake the mental image of an anthropomorphic tray of pasta, cheese, and tomato sauce singing "My Way". "Lucas Lasagna's performance last night was bubbly and perhaps a bit overdone, but when he emerged from that 350 degree oven after 45 minutes, the crowd was hungry for more!"

In fact, Veggie Tales writers could probably use Lucas Lasagna in an upcoming episode. Bob the Tomato disappears without warning. Larry the Cucumber and Jimmy and Jerry Gourd search fruitlessly (or vegetable-lessly) for their pal. They wander into the Allentown Fairgrounds drawn by muted screams of pain to discover Bob trapped under layers of pasta and cheese while Lucas croons "I've Got You Under My Skin".

"Twilight" meets "Veggie Tales". "Cowboys & Aliens" worked. Why not this?

Drunken Prank Gone Awry

It is a rite of passage for teen-aged boys. Obtain some booze, get buzzed, do something stupid, and re-live the experience every time you get together for the next 50 years. Three Bethlehem lads will re-live their experience in front of a judge soon.

Last Monday, the trio broke into the Bethlehem Police Horse Paddock, chased the horses and tried to ride them. The "horses in blue" did not take kindly to this. One equine kicked an intruder in the head. Of course, "God takes care of babies and drunks" so the injury was not serious. What was serious was that someone (one of the horses?) called the police and the trio was apprehended . Charges included underage drinking, harassing police animals, defiant trespass, and disorderly conduct.

This drunken prank was a bad idea in so many ways:

1. The idea is to avoid police notice when drunk and underage. Breaking into police property will bring the boys in blue on the run.

2. Harassing a 1200 pound animal while lacking complete control of one's senses is an incredibly bad idea. If the creature you are chasing outweighs you by 1000 pounds, can run faster than you can, and has steel-clad hooves, you may want to leave him be.

3. No matter how many times you rode the pony at that Petting Farm, your equestrian ability may not be up to mounting a tired and cranky police horse who does not look kindly on extra duty after a hard day on the mean streets of Bethlehem.

One wonders what the judicial punishment is for "harassing a police animal". Worse yet, what will the other inmates say when your answer to "What are you in for?" is "I tried to ride a police horse, but it kicked me in the head."

Vampire Role Model

We all need role models - the kindly family doctor who inspired us to a career in medicine, the high school drama teacher who unearthed our appreciation of theater, the grade school bully who eliminated our sense of human kindness.

Even prospective vampires need a role model. With "Twilight", "True Blood", Anne Rice's Lestat, and the classic Dracula out there which sort of vampiredom do we hope to achieve? Are we pretty boys yearning after a frankly unattractive human girl like Twilight's Edward Cullen? Are we sex-crazed, yet noble vamps like the "True Blood" characters? Are we persecuted, vulnerable evil doers like Lestat? Can we turn into bats or wolves like Drac? How cool would that be?

Last week, Lyle Monroe Bensley, 19, of Galveston, TX was found growling and hissing in a parking lot dressed only in his undershorts. Lyle claimed that he was a 500 year old vampire who needed to "feed" after breaking into a neighbor's house and attempting to suck her blood. Clearly, Lyle needs better vampire role models:

1. Dress for Success, Lyle! When Count Dracula showed up at a prospective victim's door in full evening wear plus cape, he got invited to enter. When that same victim looks out through the peephole and sees a guy dressed only in his undershorts, she double bolts the door. "No Type O negative for you!"

2. Growling and hissing are not the way to a victim's heart. "Twilight" readers expect frequent declarations of true love especially as spoken by the guy who played Cedric Diggory in that Harry Potter movie.

3. Don't hang out in a parking lot and expect to score. The "True Blood" vampires, shape-shifters, and werewolves all own bar / nightclubs. Let your victims come to you. "Tonight only at Fangtasia! Type AB-positives pay no cover charge!"

At least Lyle got one thing right. All of your great evil doers go with three names. There's John Wilkes Booth. Lee Harvey Oswald, Mark David Chapman (John Lennon's assassin) and, of course Attila The Hun.

The King Is Dead

Certain characters freak me out. Clowns, mimes, ventriloquist dummies, and the Burger King "King" head the list. It's easy to avoid clowns, mimes, and ventriloquist acts, but the "King" was ubiquitous in recent Burger King TV ads. This adult with a plastic face wearing white tights and Mary Jane shoes (cute on little girls on Christmas Eve, scary on an August evening in a fast food joint) silently showed up in people's beds, peered through their windows, and surreptitiously slipped money into their pockets. The message was either:

1. Eat at Burger King. We offer great value and return money to your pocket. OR

2. Eat at Burger King and a masked cross-dresser will sneak into your house.

Burger King management wisely decided to scrap the "King" for its Fall, 2011 advertising campaign. Parents breathed a sigh of relief nationwide. We can take our kids to BK, slip that free paper "crown" on their heads and not have to explain that the creepy "King" from the TV commercials will not sneak into their bedroom at night and try to take back the crown.

Now if McDonalds' will only do something about that pesky clown.

The Zombie Prom

Paraphrasing Cyndi Lauper, Zombies just want to have fun. Being one of the Walking Dead is hard work, rising from the grave and lumbering around in search of fresh brains to eat. They deserve a break.

Last night, Dorney Park gave it to them with its first "Zombie Invasion". From 8PM to midnight, only "Zombies" were allowed to enter the park in an attempt to set a Guinness World Record for the most costumed riders on an amusement park attraction. The goal was to have 250 "Zombies" ride the terrifying Steel Force coaster. Of course, that's terrifying to humans, not necessarily to the Undead.

Dorney Park Night has to be as big an occasion for Zombies as Prom Night is for high schoolers. Makeovers and primping are a must. Dorney offered "Zombie Makeup Artists" at the park for $10 to $40. Price was logically dependent on how moldered away Zombie customers were coming in. "Igor has been in the ground for 50 years. He has rotted away to nothing. Better give him the $40 treatment."

Tickets were priced at $30 and only valid after 3:30 PM. One wonders how a hard-working Zombie is going to come up with $30 plus up to $40 for a makeover. After all, "you can't take it with you" (to the grave, that is). Zombies will have to do what teens have done for years to raise Prom money. Don't be surprised if the attendant at the Drive-Thru Window is missing an ear or a nose. Expect to pick up that new babysitter at the cemetery. It's all part of the Zombie Prom.

Twinkie Log

The CNN reporter delivered the news of Michele Bachmann's triumph in the Iowa Straw Poll on location from the Iowa State Fair. The gravity of the announcement was somewhat lessened by the signs on the tent behind the reporter that read "Fried Twinkies" and "Twinkie Logs".

CNN broadcasts around the world. Imagine a Paris financier or a Tokyo industrialist watching this coverage and wondering, "The next Leader of the Free World, the Person with His/Her Finger on the Nuclear Trigger took the first step toward that position in front of a Twinkie stand. Our candidates are announced in front of the Eiffel Tower or Mount Fuji. And those Americans wonder why their credit rating tanked. By the way, what is this Twinkie?"

As a red-blooded American, I am intimately familiar with the Twinkie and have even, in a weak moment, consumed a fried Twinkie. The Twinkie Log, however, must be an Iowa thing. How appropriate that native Iowan Michele Bachmann brought this new and exciting gustatory delight to the attention of the nation and the world. Jimmy Carter popularized Georgia peanuts. Ronald Reagan made jelly beans the snack of choice during his administration. G.W. Bush's love of pork rinds is well-documented. Should Michele Bachmann rise to the presidency, it could be Twinkie Log hors d'oeuvres at state dinners.

The problem is that, outside of Iowa, no one knows exactly what is a Twinkie Log. In my travels across the South, I encountered the ubiquitous Stuckey's peanut logs advertised on every other bill board and available at every Interstate rest stop. If the Twinkie Log is anything like the Peanut Log (a 4-inch diameter nougat covered in peanuts, sort of a Pay Day bar on steroids), the Bachmann Administration had best consider retaining Universal Health Care. Loyal Bachmannites will be flocking to the Diabetes Ward of their local hospitals.

Down With The Ampersand

Interpersonal communication has evolved from face-to-face conversation to telephoning to texting. As it evolved, emotion was tossed aside by technology. Eye-to-eye contact and sympathetic facial expression went the way of the dodo when we progressed from face-to-face conversation to telephoning. We could roll our eyes and have a self-satisfied smirk when we telephoned, "Charlie, you really deserved that promotion that I got" and Charlie would be none the wiser.

The telephoning to texting step eliminated the fake sympathetic tone of voice as we texted, "Charlie, I'm sorry that Britney is going to the prom with someone else" as we chortled gleefully because Britney was going with us.

Interpersonal communications technology needs to add the personal touch. We need a quick and easy way to add emoticons to our texts. Charlie will feel a lot better about losing that promotion if we add the "sad face" :,-( but it takes three key strokes. Let's replace some of those rarely-used buttons on our keyboard with emoticons.

What's with that ^ above the 6? In scientific notation, it means "To the power of" as in 2^3 = 8. There are a lot more texters out there than scientists. Let's change ^ to "happy face" :-). We will wear out that key.

Then there's the ampersand sitting uselessly above the 7. Other than Abercrombie & Fitch or Barnes & Noble, who uses that? Everyone needs a "sad face" emoticon though. Down with the ampersand!

Let's go whole hog. Only old-timers on MS-DOS still use the "F" keys. There's twelve slots for more one-stroke, easy-to-use emoticons.

We may never return to face-to-face communication, but modifying the keyboard will put human emotion into texting.

Oscar at the Fest

The 2011 version of Musik (with a k) fest had its share of spectacle. There was flooding, lightning, and an appearance by a Jonas brother. In fact, the flooding and lightning may have resulted from the hysteria generated by the Jonas appearance. Had all the Jonases been on-stage, Bethlehem would be totally underwater today as prepubescent shrieks brought down even more torrents of rain from the clouds.

Another icon paid an unexpected visit to the Fest. Police found a garbage can with a pair of legs dangling outside during their 11 PM "sweep" of the grounds. The officer helped Richard Follweiler out of the trash can, but Richard could not stand straight and began stumbling around. He was charged with public drunkeness. Police did not know what Richard was doing in the can. "Maybe he was portraying Oscar the Grouch," the officer quipped.

It takes a sense of humor to sweep up drunks from the Fest grounds, but this comment shows poor police work. Oscar is always portrayed feet-first in his garbage can. This is not a Sesame Street fan gone wild. It is likely the result of violence (or dumpster diving gone horribly wrong).

Richie Colossimo was the Class Clown at my high school back in the 60s. After basketball star Chaz Wozniak missed the lay-up that would have propelled our hoopsters into the state playoffs, Richie made the mistake of mocking the Chazster. Without a word, Chaz picked Richie up in the air, inverted him and deposited him head-first into a garbage can. Could the same fate have befallen Richard Follweiler at Musik (with a k) fest?

The Bethlehem PD should put out an All Points Bulletin for Chaz Wozniak. The man has a record of similar violence toward guys named Richie. The Oscar reference is a red herring. Of course, Mr Follweiler may have had googly eyes and acquired green fur during his sojourn in the can, but the streets of the Christmas City won't be safe until all the facts in this case are known.

The Right to Bear Fowl

Mark Johnson of Lower Saucon Township gave up his pet rooster this week. The rooster repeatedly escaped from his cage and "bit or scratched passers-by with his spurs". "None of the walkers suffered serious injury, but police cited Johnson under the township's nuisance ordinance." He was fined hundreds of dollars.

Don't give up, Mark! The NRA (National Rooster Association) stands ready to help. Your 2nd Amendment rights have clearly been violated. NRA research shows that the Founding Fathers realized that many Americans back in 1791 could not afford a firearm, but still needed to protect their hearth and home. That is why the 2nd Amendment reads "the right to bear arms" not "the right to bear firearms". In post-colonial times, an "Attack Rooster" was the poor man's sole protector. Only Foghorn Leghorn stood between our forefathers and a capricious government intent on taxation and tyranny. The Founding Fathers knew that.

The courts have repeatedly upheld our fundamental right to self-protection. The "Castle Doctrine" allows us to fire away at intruders onto our property without warning or penalty. Firearms are certainly the most effective means of doing so, but you lose valuable time finding your gun, loading it, and tracking down the intruder. An "Attack Rooster", on the other hand, stands perpetual guard and will immediately fly to your family's defense.

Milquetoast Liberals might claim the same protection from a dog. Pish - Posh! A few Milk Bones and Fido will follow that intruder out the door with his ill-gotten gains. You can't bribe a rooster with food.

Over the years, those misguided Liberals have limited our 2nd Amendment rights with gun registration requirements, limits on carrying concealed weapons, and requiring trigger guards. We can circumvent these by using Attack Roosters for protection. Let Obama and his crowd try registering every rooster in America. Let the Feds frisk us for Foghorn Leghorn under our coat. They'll get a pecking they'll never forget . Let them try to fit a muzzle over Foghorn's beak.

Hang in there, Mark. You had the right idea. The Constitution says so.

A Lament for Bambi

Major league baseball players have always been trend-setters. In personal grooming, ballplayers led the facial hair revolution of the 70s. Who can forget Rollie Fingers' handlebar mustache and Al Hrabosky's fearsome Fu-Manchu? The Phillies' Mike Schmidt and Greg Luzinski pioneered the thankfully short-lived White Guy Afro look later in that decade. In pants fashion, the Orioles Frank Robinson brought us from the baggy 50s look to the sleek, form-fitting style copied by the Beatles and the British Invasion.. Today, we have Ryan Howard with the low-rider, baggy, hip-hop look. Chase Utley popularized the White Guy Soul Patch for Phillies fans.

There is also a dark side. Many big leaguers took steroids, a trend that was ended with drug testing. But a new trend is emerging and it is bad news for Bambi and Friends. Ball players are using a new and currently undetectable performance-enhancing drug called IGF-1. The drug is found in the "velvet" on immature deer antlers and is ingested by chewing on chunks of Bambi's horns.

Other than crotch scratching, there's nothing a ballplayer enjoys more than chewing and spitting. Gum, sunflower seeds or (gack) tobacco are being replaced by deer antlers. Tobacco-chewing Red Sox manager Terry Francona referred to last Sunday's four hour marathon game against the Yankees as a "three-chaw contest." Are "four antler" games in baseball's future?

The problem is that "velvet"-covered antlers exist only for a short time in early autumn. Ironically, early autumn is also the height of baseball's pennant races and post-season. I urge Phillies fans to support our boys by slaughtering as many deer as possible this fall and shipping those antlers to Citizens Bank Park. When Ryan Howard sends a home run ball deep into the Philadelphia twilight, we can say that we had a small part in his effort.

Oh, Walkman, Where Art Thou?

I love my Walkman. At least twice each day, I clip it to my belt to catch the latest sports news while walking the dog, mowing the lawn, shovelling snow, washing the car, or vacuuming. When I place those earphones on my head, the dog begins that stiff-legged "about time I had the chance to go pottie" dance. Household maintenance becomes a treat, not a chore, if I can listen to the Phillies game.

Alas, the Walkman has joined my wardrobe, haircut, and musical preferences as a relic of the past. I have to search long and hard among the racks of iPhones and Wiis at Wal-Mart to find one. In fact, the Walkman is about as fashionable today as the polyester leisure suit. A sportswriter commented regarding a NY Giants' rookie fullback, " (his) designation as one of the best in last year's draft was like selling a top-end Walkman, it's good to possess, but there's limited interest."

It is time for Sony to resurrect the Walkman and I know how. Just take them off the market for a year or so. Force us to haul around portable radios with four D batteries when we walk the dog. Sure, it builds up arm strength, but try juggling a two pound radio, a pooper scooper, and a bagful of steaming feces. Then blast the neighbor's eardrums to the Phillies game at full volume so it can be heard over the lawn mower. That will be the end of free tomatoes and beans from their garden. We will beg for the return of the Walkman.

Oh, you say that there is this magical new device called an iPod which can play every song or podcast that we've ever liked and is about as portable as a credit card?

My dog won't be happy about it, but I guess my trusty Walkman can join my VCR in the back of the closet.

Strike Duty

Thousands of Verizon landline workers are currently on strike. To maintain service, "the company is using managers to take their (the strikers') place". This news report brought back comically bittersweet memories.

All members of management really should "work in the trenches" at some point in their career. You don't appreciate that air-conditioned cubicle and the opportunity to go to the rest room on a whim until you sweat out a day on the loading dock and have to schedule your bathroom visits for lunch and morning or afternoon break.

Strike duty is even more difficult. I spent the summer of '74 "riding shotgun" on tractor-trailers out of our strike-bound plant north of Tamaqua. Loading and off-loading the trailer was no fun. Getting jeered as we crossed the picket line was embarrassing. Worst of all was my life in the hands of a fellow management guy who had the required license but hadn't driven a "big rig" in years. Didn't we have a few adventures blocking traffic as we attempted a wide right turn (his fault), failing to secure our load and having it roll off the back and down the street (my fault) and losing our brakes and careening down Blue Mountain in free fall (God's fault)?

All of which was great training for the Great Strike of '75. The company housed us in the cheapest motel near Washington, DC. After a 12 hour workday, all we wanted to do was eat and collapse into bed. Unfortunately, every high school in the Mid-West scheduled their Senior Class Trip to Our Nation's Capital during the strike and the more frugal schools booked rooms at our motel. Our much-deserved slumber was broken by fire extinguisher fights in the hallways and constant telephone calls in the middle of the night - "Yo, Josh! You can get porn on Channel 57 on the TV. It's scrambled, but so what? Oh, you're not Josh. Sorry."

One school group was into bowling. The kids rolled bowling balls up and down the halls through the night. Nothing disturbs one's repose quite like the crescendo of sound as an Ebonite 16-pounder rolls past one's door and smashes into a wall.

Verizon's strike will eventually be resolved. But the lessons that Verizon management is learning on strike duty will be a permanent legacy. "My God, settle with the Union. I'm not going back on strike duty."

Miranda vs Jolly Joe

If Michael J. Fox had hopped into that DeLorean and gone "Back to the Future" from the origins of Musik (with a k) Fest to the 2011 version, he would be shocked. The ritual of wandering under the Fahy Bridge, beer in hand, mocking elderly folk as they polka and chicken dance the night away to Jolly Joe Timmer and his Bavarians and not much else has become a veritable smorgasbord of music for all tastes and age groups.

Last night, the Disney Channel's Miranda Cosgrove performed for her Christmas City fans. Pre-teen girls passed up another night of "iCarly" re-runs to see the real thing. The adolescent girl demographic had been woefully underserved by Musik (with a k) fest until this year when it also headlines the cutest of the Jonas Brothers. OMG, tickets are expensive but if I whine long and hard enough, Mom and Dad are sure to let me go.

In a glowing review, the newspaper noted that the 18 year old Cosgrove "was full of energy as she performed, fluttering on the stage like a butterfly incessantly thanking her loyal followers for staying up past their bedtimes." Now that is hard to believe - an 18 year old who is energetic. Come on, Jolly Joe! You are more than 50 years older than Miranda, but would it hurt you to "flutter on the stage like a butterfly" (or even a chicken during the famous eponoymous dance)?

And let's face it, Jolly Joe, your septuagenarian fans have an even earlier bedtime than Ms Cosgrove's. An occasional word of thanks to them for staying up past 8 PM would not hurt.

Before Michael J. Fox revs up the flux capacitor and returns to Musik (with a k) fest's origins, he might remind its 2011 fans that back in the day, Jolly Joe had every bit as much energy as Miranda Cosgrove. His lederhosen wasn't as sexy as Miranda's miniskirt, but those were different times.

Campus Safety

Firearms are not allowed on the campus of Northampton County Community College! Jerry Guerriere made this astonishing discovery and shared it with us via a Letter to the Editor. Even the NCACC security force is unarmed. Josh and Tiffany may be strolling into an ambush by some armed desperadoes on their way to Calculus 101. Granny may be robbed at gunpoint as she enters the gym for her Yoga class. And they can't shoot back.

Here in the Keystone State, colleges, or anywhere else for that matter, are not prohibited places to carry firearms. Jerry asks that we write to Governor Corbett and request that he defund all state and community colleges until they conform to Pennsylvania law by allowing firearms. The Gov's most recent budget does a fairly decent job of defunding higher education in the state already. He can save billions of hard-earned taxpayer dollars, make the NRA happy, and make our campuses safer all in one fell swoop. Talk about a win - win - win.

There might be an even better remedy to the No Guns on Campus problem. In my day, we ROTC cadets were issued our very own M-1 (the rifle that won WWII) for drills. Sadly, our M-1s lacked firing pins and ammo. Why not promise every ROTC cadet on a PA campus in 2011 a fully-operable rifle with ammo? It would surely increase participation in ROTC, swell the ranks of our military after graduation, and greatly increase campus safety. I know that I would feel a lot safer walking from the parking lot to my Wine Appreciation Class surrounded by armed, uniformed ROTC cadets.

Think about it, Governor Corbett.

Contract With Fido

"Humans are failed dogs" is the refrain of dog people. Dogs exhibit the loyalty and eagerness to please that we wish we could find in our fellow homo sapiens. Fido may soil the carpet, wake us in the middle of the night for no apparent reason, and frighten Aunt Ida by leaping on her, but that is all due to his genetic stamping as a "pack animal seeking an alpha hound to submit to". Thank you, "Dog Whisperer" Cesar Millan for explaining that. What's your address, Cesar? I've got a rug cleaning bill to send to you.

Dog people have actual scientific research to fortify their claim of canine superiority over other pets. According to the most recent issue of The New Yorker, cats, birds, miscellaneous rodents and other "intelligent animals" along with dogs were presented a Deduction Problem. A treat vanishes into one of two boxes. Which box holds the treat? All except the dogs solve the problem by watching where the treat goes. Only Fido keeps his eye on the human and goes to the box that the human seems to favor even if he has seen the treat go into the other box. The conclusion is that dogs are hypersensitive to even the slightest favoring actions of their owner. "This is the ancestral bet that dogs made millenia ago. Give up trying to prey on the prey. Try pleasing the people and let them get the prey." Even if the prey that humans get for you is Old Roy kibble from Wal-Mart.

The New Yorker article ends, "(The dog) waits by the door for the next member of the circle she has insinuated herself into to come back to the hearth and seal the social contract common to all things that breathe and feel and gaze - Love given for promises kept. How does anyone live without a dog? I can't imagine."

I wholeheartedly agree even when picking up that sloppy mound of feces from the neighbor's lawn. That's part of the contract, too.

A Day of Infamy

I have not had a bad day in forty years. Exactly forty years as of today. No matter what evil or bad luck befalls me, I can always say that it is not as bad as August 3, 1971.

That was the day when I was scheduled to leave Korea after thirteen long months of duty. I would make it back to the States in time for my mother's birthday. I had all my military goods packed and shipped. I even had my orders and Military Air Transport ticket in hand. Most guys commandeered a jeep and went to 8th Army Headquarters a few days in advance, but I had a few things to finish up and rode with the mail truck down to Seoul on that morning. The plane wasn't scheduled to leave until 2 PM. I pulled into ASCOM at 8 AM.

The trouble was that the office was empty. This was not a good sign with 150 GIs requiring processing for a flight home in six hours. I found a clerk and announced, "Here are my orders. Where's the plane?" He replied, "I don't know how to tell you this, sir, but today's plane left an hour ago. There's a typhoon brewing and it was moved up to 0700 departure. Didn't you get the word?"

Sure, I did. I just wanted to spend a few more days here in the exotic Orient eating powdered eggs, canned meat and taking a dump in a hole in the ground like I've been doing for the past 13 months.

"We will put you on Priority Standby for tomorrow's flight. You will have to stick around the terminal though. If you are not here when a seat opens up and your name is called, you will lose your spot."

So I spent the remainder of August 3 perched on a hard wooden bench fuming at my bad luck. As fate would have it, everyone showed up for the August 4 flight. I switched benches and after a mere 54 hours wait, I got on my Freedom Bird on August 5.

They train dogs to become vicious by holding food in front of them and then snatching it away. It either makes them or breaks them. They held an August 3 Homecoming in front of me for thirteen months and then snatched it away. I'm not sure whether it made me or broke me, but it did provide perspective on everything that has happened since.

Protein = Wins

Our beloved Philadelphia Eagles have landed in Bethlehem for training camp. All that blocking, tackling, running, and throwing builds an appetite. Average daily food consumption comes to 100 pounds of fruit, 30 pounds of fresh vegetables, and 60 pounds of salad bar items. That's a lot of roughage.

But these are the manliest of men. Besides the detested "rabbit food", our "Iggles" will chow down on 180 pounds of crab legs, 260 pounds of filet mignon, 80 pounds of shrimp, and 250 pounds of prime rib during their three week stay in the Lehigh Valley. This is in addition to an unspecified amount of more common meats. In short, it's good to be a professional football player in 2011.

It wasn't exactly crab legs and filet for high school gridders back in the early 60s. There wasn't time to head home for lunch between morning and afternoon practices so we would gather at the corner store and spend a whopping 40 cents for two packs of Krimpets and a Triple Cola. Fueled by pure sugar, we would play like Chicago Bears for the first thirty minutes in the afternoon heat and like Winnie the Pooh for the rest of the session. That desultory play carried over into our season as we went 3 - 7.

In 1964, a Stop 'N Go opened nearby. Now our 40 cents bought two 15 cent hamburgers and a small soda. We practiced better. We played better. The higher-protein diet allowed us to rise all the way to 4 - 6.

Fearless forecasters predict great things for our Eagles this year because they added All-Pro caliber players at key positions. I predict even greater things because those players will be fueled with crab legs, filet, shrimp, and prime rib. Step away from the Krimpets, guys, and it's off to the Super Bowl.

A Modest Proposal

A stated goal of every political bill is to create "good paying jobs for Americans". Whether the bill raises the debt limit or designates August 1st as National Cheese Puff Appreciation day, its sponsors claim that it will create jobs while its opponents counter that it will return Americans workers to involuntary servitude or possibly serfdom.

Alas, unemployment figures over the past couple of years show that all those job-creating Economic Stimulus and Compact Fluorescent Light Bulb bills have not done the trick. It is time to "think outside the box". Here is an idea sure to "get America back to work" that can be supported by Tea Partiers and Tax and Spend Liberals alike - Eliminate Voice Messaging on phones.

Those of us who worked in Corporate America back in the 70s and 80s were surrounded by secretaries and telephone operators (good-paying, non-exportable jobs! Just what we need today!) whose function included answering our phones and filling out those little pink "While You Were Out" sheets. Callers got to talk to a real, live human being instead of our "Your call is important to me. Please leave a message." recording. If it was a genuine crisis, callers could connect to the Paging Operator and your name would reverberate over the entire building.

Being paged was a double-edged sword. It brought name recognition (Wow, that Barack Obama must really be important, he gets paged all the time) or notoriety (Doesn't that John Boehner ever answer his damn phone?). It also brought humor. On Christmas Eve one year, a prankster paged "Hugo Home" as we all eagerly awaited the traditional early dismissal announcement.

Eliminating Voice Messaging in Corporate America is really a win - win. It creates thousands of jobs that are limited to English-speaking real Americans which should appeal to the anti-immigration crowd. It allows frustrated callers to vent to a human being which should reduce hypertension and the nation's staggering Health Care costs. It identifies the best and brightest for future corporate advancement and therefore economic growth. Bernie Madoff was the type who would have paged himself so often that his fellow workers would have brought pitchforks, clubs, and flaming torches to work and used them if they heard him paged one more time. Bill Gates would have paged himself just often enough so everyone knew how important he was.