Ron Paul's campaign could use a boost. All it takes to rise to prominence in the Republican primaries is a concept that those evangelical voters can sink their teeth into. Rick Santorum was wallowing in the depths of the polls until he came up with "Maybe JFK (and the Constitution) were wrong. We need more, not less, church influence in matters of state." Look where he is today. He can now afford a suit and tie as opposed to that sweater vest he sported in Iowa and New Hampshire.
Ron Paul supports, among other things, a return to the gold standard. The dollar will remain strong and the economy will prosper as long as each and every greenback is backed with a little piece of Fort Knox. This concept is too esoteric for the common voter.
Ron should alter his economic policy to appeal to the masses. A news item in yesterday's paper has a great idea - Back the dollar with detergent.
When police raided a suspected drug den in Washington, they found cocaine as usual and something unusual - shelves filled with large jugs of laundry detergent. Druggies were paying for their fix not with cash but with Tide Extra Brightening Formula. Police explained, "Everyone needs detergent. It's easy to re-sell, and it doesn't spoil."
Why not back the dollar with Tide? Unlike gold or oil, we make plenty of it right here in America. Those Saudis will certainly send us all the oil we want if instead of dollars whose value fluctuates, we paid them in detergent. Burkhas get plenty dirty with all that Arabian sand in the air over there. If we slip a few jugs of Tide to Mrs Taliban to ease her laundry day burden, she may convince Mr Taliban not to plant those roadside IEDs. Why should drug kingpins be the only ones with "springtime fresh" and clean clothes?
Ron Paul, the nomination is there for the taking. Think a little further outside the box.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Muppets on Wall Street
"Too big to fail" financial giant Goldman Sachs recovering from the 2008 Meltdown but still doling out average $400 K annual paydays to its principal employees got a bit of a public relations black eye yesterday. Greg Smith, an executive director of the firm, published his resignation letter in the NY Times. Greg accused Goldman of losing its moral fiber, putting profits ahead of customer interest, and dismissing customers as "muppets".
That is an insult to Kermit, Miss Piggy, and Fozzie Bear, sir! Actual Muppets would not be so stupid as to purchase sub-prime mortgages from Goldman when Goldman covered itself by buying derivatives that profit when the mortgage packages inevitably fail. Actual Muppets would not accept government bail-out money to recover from a financial crisis that they caused. Living up to "The Rainbow Connection" requires a higher morality than complying with 2008 SEC Rules.
Greg Smith is in his early thirties. Take some advice from a 30 year veteran of the Corporate Wars, Greg. There is not now, nor has there ever been, morality in the Boardroom. Andrew Carnegie built all those libraries "to educate the common American" while he called in the National Guard to slaughter innocent strikers in the Homestead Massacre. Leland Stanford founded a wonderful university while building the transcontinental railroad on the backs of imported Chinese labor. As soon as the railroad was complete, he made sure that immigration laws forbade their families to join them here. Nowadays, corporations "declare bankruptcy" to get out from under employee pension and health care costs. Look up American Airlines this year and Bethlehem Steel twenty years ago.
If you seek morality in your workplace, Greg, Sesame Street is the place for you. Wall Street is not.
That is an insult to Kermit, Miss Piggy, and Fozzie Bear, sir! Actual Muppets would not be so stupid as to purchase sub-prime mortgages from Goldman when Goldman covered itself by buying derivatives that profit when the mortgage packages inevitably fail. Actual Muppets would not accept government bail-out money to recover from a financial crisis that they caused. Living up to "The Rainbow Connection" requires a higher morality than complying with 2008 SEC Rules.
Greg Smith is in his early thirties. Take some advice from a 30 year veteran of the Corporate Wars, Greg. There is not now, nor has there ever been, morality in the Boardroom. Andrew Carnegie built all those libraries "to educate the common American" while he called in the National Guard to slaughter innocent strikers in the Homestead Massacre. Leland Stanford founded a wonderful university while building the transcontinental railroad on the backs of imported Chinese labor. As soon as the railroad was complete, he made sure that immigration laws forbade their families to join them here. Nowadays, corporations "declare bankruptcy" to get out from under employee pension and health care costs. Look up American Airlines this year and Bethlehem Steel twenty years ago.
If you seek morality in your workplace, Greg, Sesame Street is the place for you. Wall Street is not.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Subtle Revenge
The new season of "Mad Men" begins this month. A big part of the show's charm is that it accurately reflects corporate life when I began my time in Cubicle Land in 1972. The guys got to smoke wherever and whenever. Many had a bottle of booze in their desk drawer. Long, liquid lunches were the norm for some.
Meanwhile, the "girls" were subject to sexual harrassment and had no chance of advancing beyond Executive Secretary. But they did extract a subtle revenge on "The Man". Even a 110 pound stenographer could exert unbelievable pressure on a very small floor area with her stilleto heels. Tile floors were the norm in the Steno Pool room. It didn't take long for its surface to resemble the pockmarked moon. As a Facilities Engineer, I was replacing floor tile on an annual basis. The carpeted Executive Offices and Conference Rooms fared little better. Drink spills could be cleaned. Cigarette burns could be covered over. Pathways subject to stilleto heel traffic eroded faster than a snowbank in Florida. Again, I had to replace office carpeting regularly.
Is it coincidence that when corporations banned sexual harrassment, established Equal Opportunity based on gender, and curbed some of the "good old boy" excesses in the late 70s that women began sporting large clunky (and weight-distributing) heels? Floor covering life expanded proportionately with opportunities for women in the work place.
"Mad Men" plans to bring Don Draper and his firm through the 70s. I wonder if the show will pick up on this subtle change in teh workplace.
Meanwhile, the "girls" were subject to sexual harrassment and had no chance of advancing beyond Executive Secretary. But they did extract a subtle revenge on "The Man". Even a 110 pound stenographer could exert unbelievable pressure on a very small floor area with her stilleto heels. Tile floors were the norm in the Steno Pool room. It didn't take long for its surface to resemble the pockmarked moon. As a Facilities Engineer, I was replacing floor tile on an annual basis. The carpeted Executive Offices and Conference Rooms fared little better. Drink spills could be cleaned. Cigarette burns could be covered over. Pathways subject to stilleto heel traffic eroded faster than a snowbank in Florida. Again, I had to replace office carpeting regularly.
Is it coincidence that when corporations banned sexual harrassment, established Equal Opportunity based on gender, and curbed some of the "good old boy" excesses in the late 70s that women began sporting large clunky (and weight-distributing) heels? Floor covering life expanded proportionately with opportunities for women in the work place.
"Mad Men" plans to bring Don Draper and his firm through the 70s. I wonder if the show will pick up on this subtle change in teh workplace.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Spanglish
VThe best thing on TV last night was the NBA game between the Chicago Bulls and the N.Y. Knicks. Actually, according to the jersey logos worn by the teams it was between "Nueva York" and "Los Bulls". In an effort to expand their fan base to the Hispanic population (and to sell more jerseys), the marketing geniuses at NBA headquarters dictated that all teams have "Latin Night" games with the special uniforms.
This is about as insulting to Hispanics as those ubiquitous bumper stickers that read "If you want to stay in my country, speak English". Using Spanish adjectives and articles with English proper nouns implies that either Spanish speakers can't figure out where "New York" is or that English speakers don't know that "Toro" means "Bull" not to be confused with "expensive lawn mower". Give us sports fans credit for some intelligence, NBA.
Is the next step to expand the Spanish modifiers on English nouns to play-by-ply broadcasts? "There's a salto (jump) shot by Kobe and los Lakers take a grande siete (big seven) point lead." "Garnett drives to el basket for a corriendo (running) uno (one) hander and it's bueno (good)." Will Spanglish become the lingua franca for sports broadcasts?
If nothing else, it will help struggling high school Spanish students have a painless (sin dolor) immersion into the language. And they say that sports aren't educational.
This is about as insulting to Hispanics as those ubiquitous bumper stickers that read "If you want to stay in my country, speak English". Using Spanish adjectives and articles with English proper nouns implies that either Spanish speakers can't figure out where "New York" is or that English speakers don't know that "Toro" means "Bull" not to be confused with "expensive lawn mower". Give us sports fans credit for some intelligence, NBA.
Is the next step to expand the Spanish modifiers on English nouns to play-by-ply broadcasts? "There's a salto (jump) shot by Kobe and los Lakers take a grande siete (big seven) point lead." "Garnett drives to el basket for a corriendo (running) uno (one) hander and it's bueno (good)." Will Spanglish become the lingua franca for sports broadcasts?
If nothing else, it will help struggling high school Spanish students have a painless (sin dolor) immersion into the language. And they say that sports aren't educational.
Monday, March 12, 2012
A Sign of Home
The Lehigh Valley has many distinctive landmarks. There are the Civil War monuments at the very center of Easton and Allentown not to mention Bethlehem Steel's blast furnaces. For long-time Valley residents, though, the giant heads of Manny, Moe, and Jack - the Pep Boys on MacArthur Road are a welcome sign of home.
Alas, the Pep Boys have suffered the ravages of time. Wind and weather have eroded their visages. Last week, repairs were made, and Manny, Moe, and Jack once more smile down on the Lehigh Valley's main shopping drag in their full glory. I've not seen the 2012 version of MM&J. The originals sported 1940s hair styles and glasses which is appropriate since Pep Boys began just after WW II. Was this Pep Boys chance to update their corporate image to the new millennium? Do the new Manny and Jack sport Justin Bieber sweeping hairstyles? Does Moe now peer down through designer rimless eyeglasses? Moe's original perfectly round glasses are sort of hipster cool, but today's hipsters are probably not Pep Boys' target clientele for discount tires.
Resist the temptation to update Manny, Moe, and Jack's look, I say. George, Tom, Teddy, and Abe up there on Mount Rushmore do not get a makeover every fifty years or so to fit in with current stylistic trends. Those outdated haircuts and glasses on MM&J scream tradition and home.
Alas, the Pep Boys have suffered the ravages of time. Wind and weather have eroded their visages. Last week, repairs were made, and Manny, Moe, and Jack once more smile down on the Lehigh Valley's main shopping drag in their full glory. I've not seen the 2012 version of MM&J. The originals sported 1940s hair styles and glasses which is appropriate since Pep Boys began just after WW II. Was this Pep Boys chance to update their corporate image to the new millennium? Do the new Manny and Jack sport Justin Bieber sweeping hairstyles? Does Moe now peer down through designer rimless eyeglasses? Moe's original perfectly round glasses are sort of hipster cool, but today's hipsters are probably not Pep Boys' target clientele for discount tires.
Resist the temptation to update Manny, Moe, and Jack's look, I say. George, Tom, Teddy, and Abe up there on Mount Rushmore do not get a makeover every fifty years or so to fit in with current stylistic trends. Those outdated haircuts and glasses on MM&J scream tradition and home.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Sleep and Chads
The myth that you sleep worse as you get older is not true according to a study published in the journal "Sleep". (Talk about your niche publications. Is there a sister journal titled "Eat" and another titled "Breathe" all under the "How I Know I'm Alive" mast head?)
The study examined sleep quality in 150,000 Americans. People 80 and older reported the soundest slumber. Oh, really? In my experience at age 64, if it isn't the old enlarged prostate getting me up to urinate every four hours or so, it is the slipped disc causing agony when I flip over the wrong way or the dull throb from my shoulder that doesn't seem to go away. It is definitely lower quality sleep than those 10 to 12 hour slumber marathons that followed all-night study sessions or celebrations in my college days. "A healthy mind in a healthy body" can be extended to "Better sleep when your aged body is not disintegrating".
How can a validated scientific study have reached such a false conclusion? How could Al Gore have lost the 2000 election in Florida with those "hanging chads"? Old people, myself included, do not take well to technology. Surely, the Sleep Study did not invite 150,000 folks to sack out in a single controlled environment. Participants had to log on to their computers each morning and fill in a no-doubt confusing questionnaire on how they slept the night before. Computer literate young folks pointed and clicked on the proper little circles. Like the chads on the Florida ballot, we old-timers missed the mark repeatedly.
The end results were that G.W. Bush became president and old folks became known as champion sleepers. The benefits of technology stop as we age.
The study examined sleep quality in 150,000 Americans. People 80 and older reported the soundest slumber. Oh, really? In my experience at age 64, if it isn't the old enlarged prostate getting me up to urinate every four hours or so, it is the slipped disc causing agony when I flip over the wrong way or the dull throb from my shoulder that doesn't seem to go away. It is definitely lower quality sleep than those 10 to 12 hour slumber marathons that followed all-night study sessions or celebrations in my college days. "A healthy mind in a healthy body" can be extended to "Better sleep when your aged body is not disintegrating".
How can a validated scientific study have reached such a false conclusion? How could Al Gore have lost the 2000 election in Florida with those "hanging chads"? Old people, myself included, do not take well to technology. Surely, the Sleep Study did not invite 150,000 folks to sack out in a single controlled environment. Participants had to log on to their computers each morning and fill in a no-doubt confusing questionnaire on how they slept the night before. Computer literate young folks pointed and clicked on the proper little circles. Like the chads on the Florida ballot, we old-timers missed the mark repeatedly.
The end results were that G.W. Bush became president and old folks became known as champion sleepers. The benefits of technology stop as we age.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Oh, Canada
I have a love / hate relationship with Canada.
On the positive side, our neighbours (Canadian spelling) to the north gave us hockey, round bacon for our Egg McMuffins and two of my favourite (Canadian spelling) comedians in Dan Ackroyd and Mike Myers. Offsetting that, the Great White North sent us those pesky geese, winter chill, and the questionable musical talents of Celine Dion and Justin Bieber. One more chorus of "My Heart Must Go On" or "Baby, Baby, Baby" and I will join Leo beneath the frigid waters of the North Atlantic.
There is a new reason to respect those Canucks. To demonstrate the dangers of not having password protection on iPhones, Symantec (which surprisingly offers such a service) dropped ten phones in four US and one Canadian city. The iPhones contained accessible personal data including another phone number for the apparent owner. They also included tracking softwear. All fifty were picked up and used. Seven of the ten iPhones dropped in Ottawa were expeditiously returned to the apparent owner. Meanwhile, thirty of the forty American finders are still trying to crack the code. "Finders, keepers! I'll get into this clown's bank accounts and empty them. It's the American Way."
Canadians, we apologize for that unpleasantness in the War of 1812. If we had known how honest 70% of you are, we would never have invaded. Just take Celine and Justin back and all will be forgiven.
On the positive side, our neighbours (Canadian spelling) to the north gave us hockey, round bacon for our Egg McMuffins and two of my favourite (Canadian spelling) comedians in Dan Ackroyd and Mike Myers. Offsetting that, the Great White North sent us those pesky geese, winter chill, and the questionable musical talents of Celine Dion and Justin Bieber. One more chorus of "My Heart Must Go On" or "Baby, Baby, Baby" and I will join Leo beneath the frigid waters of the North Atlantic.
There is a new reason to respect those Canucks. To demonstrate the dangers of not having password protection on iPhones, Symantec (which surprisingly offers such a service) dropped ten phones in four US and one Canadian city. The iPhones contained accessible personal data including another phone number for the apparent owner. They also included tracking softwear. All fifty were picked up and used. Seven of the ten iPhones dropped in Ottawa were expeditiously returned to the apparent owner. Meanwhile, thirty of the forty American finders are still trying to crack the code. "Finders, keepers! I'll get into this clown's bank accounts and empty them. It's the American Way."
Canadians, we apologize for that unpleasantness in the War of 1812. If we had known how honest 70% of you are, we would never have invaded. Just take Celine and Justin back and all will be forgiven.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Tourist Magnets
Pennsylvania has much to offer tourists. The Keystone State has historical sites (Valley Forge, Gettysburg), amusement parks (Dorney, Kennywood), outdoor recreation (Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail, Appalachian Trail), and fireworks stores aplenty, all well-marked at exits from I-78 or the PA Turnpike.
I discovered two additional tourist magnets during a drive across the state yesterday. They are a tad off-beat even in comparison to the inimitable Roadside America Miniature Village and PA Dutch Gift Shop with the ominous Giant Farmer Wielding a Pitchfork Statue alongside I-78 in Shartlesville. I still have nightmares about that statue coming to life and wreaking havoc like the Sta-Puf Marshmallow Man in "Ghostbusters".
The first is "World of Pigeons" west of Carlisle. This hidden gem does not rate a mention on the blue "Attractions This Exit" highway sign. In fact, "World of Pigeons, Exit Here" is rather crudely painted on a barn visible from the Turnpike. One's imagination staggers at the possibilities. Is WoP fully-staffed by pigeons? Pigeon cooks and wait staff serving tourists in the restaurant? Pigeon security maintaining order? Pigeon aerobats conducting coordinated fly-overs to the oohs and ahs of the crowd? Precision dropping of pigeon droppings? Pigeons dressed in various national costumes cooing "It's a Pigeon World After All" at the finale of each performance?
The second hidden tourist attraction has no signage, but is sadly familiar to those of us without a CD player or an iPod connection in our car. It is the Place Where Radio Waves Go To Die. We drive through the Turnpike tunnels west of Carlisle singing along to Classic or Soft Rock on our car radios when suddenly static then silence ensue. For 100 miles between the Kittanning and Tuscarora Tunnels, we fiddle with the "scan" feature to no avail. At the higher points on the road, we may catch a faint echo of Rush Limbaugh, but even El Rushmo cannot overcome the Mordor of Radio that is west-central PA.
This could be a tourist attraction for those seeking a return to a simpler time. "Tired of those irritating cell phone calls, text messages, and Tweets that interrupt your solitude? Hoping to entertain your kids the same way that Daniel Boone and the pioneers did in the pre-Electronic Age? Come to the Place Where Radio Waves Go To Die, and it is 1770 all over again!"
Pennsylvania may not have Disney World or Sea World, but Florida doesn't have World of Pigeons or The Place Where Radio Waves Go To Die.
I discovered two additional tourist magnets during a drive across the state yesterday. They are a tad off-beat even in comparison to the inimitable Roadside America Miniature Village and PA Dutch Gift Shop with the ominous Giant Farmer Wielding a Pitchfork Statue alongside I-78 in Shartlesville. I still have nightmares about that statue coming to life and wreaking havoc like the Sta-Puf Marshmallow Man in "Ghostbusters".
The first is "World of Pigeons" west of Carlisle. This hidden gem does not rate a mention on the blue "Attractions This Exit" highway sign. In fact, "World of Pigeons, Exit Here" is rather crudely painted on a barn visible from the Turnpike. One's imagination staggers at the possibilities. Is WoP fully-staffed by pigeons? Pigeon cooks and wait staff serving tourists in the restaurant? Pigeon security maintaining order? Pigeon aerobats conducting coordinated fly-overs to the oohs and ahs of the crowd? Precision dropping of pigeon droppings? Pigeons dressed in various national costumes cooing "It's a Pigeon World After All" at the finale of each performance?
The second hidden tourist attraction has no signage, but is sadly familiar to those of us without a CD player or an iPod connection in our car. It is the Place Where Radio Waves Go To Die. We drive through the Turnpike tunnels west of Carlisle singing along to Classic or Soft Rock on our car radios when suddenly static then silence ensue. For 100 miles between the Kittanning and Tuscarora Tunnels, we fiddle with the "scan" feature to no avail. At the higher points on the road, we may catch a faint echo of Rush Limbaugh, but even El Rushmo cannot overcome the Mordor of Radio that is west-central PA.
This could be a tourist attraction for those seeking a return to a simpler time. "Tired of those irritating cell phone calls, text messages, and Tweets that interrupt your solitude? Hoping to entertain your kids the same way that Daniel Boone and the pioneers did in the pre-Electronic Age? Come to the Place Where Radio Waves Go To Die, and it is 1770 all over again!"
Pennsylvania may not have Disney World or Sea World, but Florida doesn't have World of Pigeons or The Place Where Radio Waves Go To Die.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Gateway Crustacean
The descent into a life of crime begins with a simple gateway.
Shoplifting seems innocent enough. "Wal Mart will never miss this pack of gum and they made plenty of money off me in the past." Then the criminal seeks bigger thrills.
So it was for Charles Shumanis of Allentown last week. Charles walked out of a supermarket without paying for $350 worth of lobster. Confronted by store employees, he fled on foot to a nearby restaurant parking lot. He noticed a 79 year old man getting into his car, leaped into the passenger seat, and ordered the victim to drive. The septuagenarian was having none of it. He tried to exit the vehicle. Charles slid behind the wheel, dragged the poor old man 50 feet before he fell off, and led the police on a merry chase. Charles and his lobsters were quickly apprehended though.
In a statement, police noted that "Many people charged with stealing high end food and health products are doing so to sell the products for cash. That money is then used to support a drug habit." There you have it. Marijuana has long been noted as the "gateway drug" leading to crack, cocaine, and heroin abuse. Apparently, lobster is the "gateway crustacean" leading to carjacking, assault, and even more heinous crimes. Is it now time to criminalize lobster possession? Will shady characters approach innocent schoolchildren with a cup of melted butter saying, "You know what goes great with this? Lobster! Have a sample. All the cool kids are doing it." Was this how Charles began his life of crime?
Even the police are not immune to gateway drug corruption. There are well-documented incidents of drugs seized during arrests "disappearing" from police evidence storage. Surely, evidentiary lobster must also be held pending trial of the accused. Imagine the temptation to sneak just a few succulent crustaceans home for that anniversary dinner. "Charles will be convicted for $300 worth of lobster just as easily as for $350 worth, and I forgot to get a gift for the wife."
Enjoy your lobster while you can. Crustacean Prohibition may be just around the corner.
Shoplifting seems innocent enough. "Wal Mart will never miss this pack of gum and they made plenty of money off me in the past." Then the criminal seeks bigger thrills.
So it was for Charles Shumanis of Allentown last week. Charles walked out of a supermarket without paying for $350 worth of lobster. Confronted by store employees, he fled on foot to a nearby restaurant parking lot. He noticed a 79 year old man getting into his car, leaped into the passenger seat, and ordered the victim to drive. The septuagenarian was having none of it. He tried to exit the vehicle. Charles slid behind the wheel, dragged the poor old man 50 feet before he fell off, and led the police on a merry chase. Charles and his lobsters were quickly apprehended though.
In a statement, police noted that "Many people charged with stealing high end food and health products are doing so to sell the products for cash. That money is then used to support a drug habit." There you have it. Marijuana has long been noted as the "gateway drug" leading to crack, cocaine, and heroin abuse. Apparently, lobster is the "gateway crustacean" leading to carjacking, assault, and even more heinous crimes. Is it now time to criminalize lobster possession? Will shady characters approach innocent schoolchildren with a cup of melted butter saying, "You know what goes great with this? Lobster! Have a sample. All the cool kids are doing it." Was this how Charles began his life of crime?
Even the police are not immune to gateway drug corruption. There are well-documented incidents of drugs seized during arrests "disappearing" from police evidence storage. Surely, evidentiary lobster must also be held pending trial of the accused. Imagine the temptation to sneak just a few succulent crustaceans home for that anniversary dinner. "Charles will be convicted for $300 worth of lobster just as easily as for $350 worth, and I forgot to get a gift for the wife."
Enjoy your lobster while you can. Crustacean Prohibition may be just around the corner.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Side Effects
Daytime TV has plenty of commercials aimed at us seniors. They range from the practical (Cell phones with giant illuminated number keys and none of those trendy options that only kids go for like programmable ring tones) to the dainty (Never again suffer the embarrassment of running into friends in the Adult Incontinence Aisle. We ship your needed items to you in unmarked packages!).
The preeminent product advertised is drugs. "Ask your doctor about our brand name drug before its patent expires and we have to reduce its price by half to match that of generics that are just as good."
That darned over-regulating, job-killing government requires that the commercials mention drug side effects. Everyone knows the classic "For erections lasting more than four hours, seek immediate medical assistance." Everyone tunes out "Side effects include dizziness, drowsiness, and constipation." Hey, I get those from eating rutabaga.
Only Abilify, a drug for schizophrenia, states "Side effects may include death." Now, there's a side effect. Its website notes that elderly patients on Abilify suffered nearly two times the death rate of those on a placebo, 4.5% versus 2.6%.
I will risk a four hour erection. I will take a chance on dizziness, drowsiness, and constipation. I will think twice before taking a pill that doubles my chance of death. Maybe that over-regulating, job-killing government is doing us all a favor by requiring mention of side effects.
The preeminent product advertised is drugs. "Ask your doctor about our brand name drug before its patent expires and we have to reduce its price by half to match that of generics that are just as good."
That darned over-regulating, job-killing government requires that the commercials mention drug side effects. Everyone knows the classic "For erections lasting more than four hours, seek immediate medical assistance." Everyone tunes out "Side effects include dizziness, drowsiness, and constipation." Hey, I get those from eating rutabaga.
Only Abilify, a drug for schizophrenia, states "Side effects may include death." Now, there's a side effect. Its website notes that elderly patients on Abilify suffered nearly two times the death rate of those on a placebo, 4.5% versus 2.6%.
I will risk a four hour erection. I will take a chance on dizziness, drowsiness, and constipation. I will think twice before taking a pill that doubles my chance of death. Maybe that over-regulating, job-killing government is doing us all a favor by requiring mention of side effects.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Musical Snob
Call me a musical snob, but I've always felt that pop music has gone straight downhill since 1967, not unlike my waistline and my hairline. Motown had not yet descended into Jackson 5 bubble gum pseudo-soul. Aretha Franklin and Otis Redding were the vanguard of the Memphis sound. The Rolling Stones were brilliant. And the Beatles gave us "Sgt Pepper".
Still, America prefers its music a bit less threatening than "Midnight Hour", "Time Has Come Today", or "A Day In The Life". During the remembrances on the passing of Davy Jones today, it was mentioned that Davy had the best-selling album of 1967 - "More Monkees". I couldn't believe it. Everyone that I knew back in '67 had "Sgt Pepper" and no one admitted to possessing "More Monkees". Sure enough, an Internet search showed that more people bought an LP featuring "Last Train to Clarksville" than with "Lucy In The Sky". Never underestimate the taste of the American public.
1967 was not an aberration. The best-selling album of 1966 was Herb Alpert's "Whipped Cream", a trumpet-led instrumental. Of course, it outsold such trivialities as the Beatles "Revolver" and the Beach Boys "Pet Sounds". Don't we all go around whistling Herb's "Tijuana Taxi" 45 years later as opposed to "Help Me Rhonda"?
Actually, even a "Music went straight downhill ever since Otis died" snob like me can still recite every word of that catchy "Monkees" theme. RIP, Davy Jones.
Still, America prefers its music a bit less threatening than "Midnight Hour", "Time Has Come Today", or "A Day In The Life". During the remembrances on the passing of Davy Jones today, it was mentioned that Davy had the best-selling album of 1967 - "More Monkees". I couldn't believe it. Everyone that I knew back in '67 had "Sgt Pepper" and no one admitted to possessing "More Monkees". Sure enough, an Internet search showed that more people bought an LP featuring "Last Train to Clarksville" than with "Lucy In The Sky". Never underestimate the taste of the American public.
1967 was not an aberration. The best-selling album of 1966 was Herb Alpert's "Whipped Cream", a trumpet-led instrumental. Of course, it outsold such trivialities as the Beatles "Revolver" and the Beach Boys "Pet Sounds". Don't we all go around whistling Herb's "Tijuana Taxi" 45 years later as opposed to "Help Me Rhonda"?
Actually, even a "Music went straight downhill ever since Otis died" snob like me can still recite every word of that catchy "Monkees" theme. RIP, Davy Jones.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Indoctrination
Striking a blow for the Common Man, Rick Santorum stated, "President Obama once said that he wants everyone to go to college. What a snob. There are good, decent men and women who go out and work hard every day and put their skills to test that aren't taught by some liberal college professor trying to indoctrinate them."
Thanks for setting us straight, Rick. I was unaware that shipping off to college in America is not all keg parties and co-ed dorms but political indoctrination not unlike Chinese youth being sent to the countryside during Mao's Cultural Revolution. They must have edited the political indoctrination scenes out of "Animal House" and "Old School".
Actually, my decision to go to college was not a slam dunk. Fear of being brainwashed by a pointy-headed liberal professor really didn't enter into the equation. My choices as a high school grad in the summer of 1965 were:
Get a draft-deferred job at the artillery shell plant in town. Make more money than my Dad. Get my own car. Live at home with free room, board, and laundry service. Have a rip-roaring social life since few girls went away to college in those days.
2. Go to college. Have no money, no transportation, and at an all-male college with no fraternity rush until second semester, zero social life.
Taking a page from that education-loving snob Obama, my parents pushed me toward the groves of academia by getting me a summer job in the local meat packing plant. The "good, decent men who put their skills to the test" there made sure that the "college boy" got a snoot-ful of working life. Lifting and hauling 250 pound sides of beef? Let Joe College do it. Loading 400 pound barrels of beef onto the truck at the end of the day? I have a softball game at 5. The College Kid can work a little later. Somebody has to spend a couple of hours sorting 80 pound boxes in the -10° freezer? Young blood is warm blood. See you at lunch, kid.
Sudddenly, I could tolerate delaying a paycheck, a car, and a social life until after college especially if it meant that I wouldn't smell like a dead cow every day after work. Even the liberal political indoctrination was a small price to pay.
Thanks for setting us straight, Rick. I was unaware that shipping off to college in America is not all keg parties and co-ed dorms but political indoctrination not unlike Chinese youth being sent to the countryside during Mao's Cultural Revolution. They must have edited the political indoctrination scenes out of "Animal House" and "Old School".
Actually, my decision to go to college was not a slam dunk. Fear of being brainwashed by a pointy-headed liberal professor really didn't enter into the equation. My choices as a high school grad in the summer of 1965 were:
Get a draft-deferred job at the artillery shell plant in town. Make more money than my Dad. Get my own car. Live at home with free room, board, and laundry service. Have a rip-roaring social life since few girls went away to college in those days.
2. Go to college. Have no money, no transportation, and at an all-male college with no fraternity rush until second semester, zero social life.
Taking a page from that education-loving snob Obama, my parents pushed me toward the groves of academia by getting me a summer job in the local meat packing plant. The "good, decent men who put their skills to the test" there made sure that the "college boy" got a snoot-ful of working life. Lifting and hauling 250 pound sides of beef? Let Joe College do it. Loading 400 pound barrels of beef onto the truck at the end of the day? I have a softball game at 5. The College Kid can work a little later. Somebody has to spend a couple of hours sorting 80 pound boxes in the -10° freezer? Young blood is warm blood. See you at lunch, kid.
Sudddenly, I could tolerate delaying a paycheck, a car, and a social life until after college especially if it meant that I wouldn't smell like a dead cow every day after work. Even the liberal political indoctrination was a small price to pay.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Vatican Tweets
I am not a Twitter guy. I doubt that my legion of "followers" want to know what I am up to at any moment or what my 140 character opinion is on any topic. Actually, I am embarrassed that my legion of followers probably consists of only my dog and his sole concern is when I'm going to fill his food bowl. "Who cares whether The Bachelor is a mindless mimbo (male bimbo)? Where's my kibble?" #TheDog
Apparently, Twitter is not only for the young and socially ambitious. The Pope is issuing a Twitter message each day during Lent at #Pope2You. Of course, Twitter is a two way street. Followers can respond to the Papal message. Here is our chance to receive an infallible answer to the questions that vex us. It's better than Dear Abby.
"Santorum is getting all the good buzz for opposing contraception and his general Catholicness. Can you give me a shout out? Hey, I'm Catholic now, too" From #NewtG.
"In the words of Doctor Evil (I love those Austin Powers flicks), Newt, you are the Diet Coke of Catholicism. One calorie, not Catholic enough. Two former wives doesn't help either." From Pope2You
"The Evangelicals are saying that my Mormonism is a cult not real Christianity. Can you straighten them out?" From #MittR.
"Don't panic, Mitt. The Book of Mormon is packing them in on Broadway. Our The Book of Saint Eligius flopped. People love you Mormons. Bring back Donnie and Marie and you are golden." From Pope2You
"The pundits ignore me and claim that I'm a wacky old guy with ideas from the 19th century. You're an old guy with ideas from the 1st century and they love you. What's your secret?" From #RonP
"The threat of excommunication helps. I miss the good old days of the Inquisition and burning at the stake though. The real secret is costuming. Show up at the next debate in gold brocade robes and a pointy hat and they won't ignore you anymore." From Pope2You
Apparently, Twitter is not only for the young and socially ambitious. The Pope is issuing a Twitter message each day during Lent at #Pope2You. Of course, Twitter is a two way street. Followers can respond to the Papal message. Here is our chance to receive an infallible answer to the questions that vex us. It's better than Dear Abby.
"Santorum is getting all the good buzz for opposing contraception and his general Catholicness. Can you give me a shout out? Hey, I'm Catholic now, too" From #NewtG.
"In the words of Doctor Evil (I love those Austin Powers flicks), Newt, you are the Diet Coke of Catholicism. One calorie, not Catholic enough. Two former wives doesn't help either." From Pope2You
"The Evangelicals are saying that my Mormonism is a cult not real Christianity. Can you straighten them out?" From #MittR.
"Don't panic, Mitt. The Book of Mormon is packing them in on Broadway. Our The Book of Saint Eligius flopped. People love you Mormons. Bring back Donnie and Marie and you are golden." From Pope2You
"The pundits ignore me and claim that I'm a wacky old guy with ideas from the 19th century. You're an old guy with ideas from the 1st century and they love you. What's your secret?" From #RonP
"The threat of excommunication helps. I miss the good old days of the Inquisition and burning at the stake though. The real secret is costuming. Show up at the next debate in gold brocade robes and a pointy hat and they won't ignore you anymore." From Pope2You
Monday, February 27, 2012
The Million Mustache March
Marching on Washington, DC has a long and proud tradition. Noble causes like womens' suffrage and civil rights sparked large demonstrations in our nation's capital. My only experience with DC protests came from the other side of the fence. We newly-minted Second Lieutenants from nearby Fort Belvoir spent a few evenings guarding the Washington Monument during the anti-war protests of the late 60s. "No, ma'm, our rifles do not have ammunition or firing pins. In answer to your other question, that large red brick building over there is the Smithsonian. Admission is free and it has the best rest rooms on the National Mall."
It took 45 years but finally there is a protest for me. The Million Mustache March will assemble in Washington in five weeks to demand a tax credit for hairy-lipped Americans. Taxpayers over 65 or blind get a break, why shouldn't those of us who have to be really careful when eating soup or blowing our nose? Argue that with mustachioed heroes like Chuck Norris or Tom Selleck if you dare.
The Mustache Exemption is not a simple tax dodge like a Cayman Islands bank account. It is not easy to grow a 'stache. In my teens and early 20s, my mother ("You'll look like the bad guy in the movies") and then the Army ("Only Commies like Stalin or Ho Chi Minh have facial hair") wouldn't let me grow one. In my mid-20s, I found that I couldn't grow a good one. Wispy blondish hair above the lip made me look more like a bedraggled alley cat than Burt Reynolds.
Then the Devil's Deal came into effect. As I began losing the hair on my scalp, my facial and body hair flourished. If I was in the mood for a Fu-Manchu or a Rollie Fingers handlebar, just give me a week and there it was. I have had facial hair ever since, more to divert attention from the lack of same above the eyebrows which achieved Andy Rooney caliber bushiness at about the same time.
Don't we deserve a tax break to assuage the painful mockery we receive? "There's something in your mustache, Baldy. Oh, it's your lip." "Storing some of that stew in your 'stache in case you get hungry later?"
Alas, the mockery will continue. The Million Mustache March is scheduled for Sunday, April 1, April Fools Day. It appears to be a cruel prank foisted upon us by the clean-shaven. And I was so looking forward to it.
It took 45 years but finally there is a protest for me. The Million Mustache March will assemble in Washington in five weeks to demand a tax credit for hairy-lipped Americans. Taxpayers over 65 or blind get a break, why shouldn't those of us who have to be really careful when eating soup or blowing our nose? Argue that with mustachioed heroes like Chuck Norris or Tom Selleck if you dare.
The Mustache Exemption is not a simple tax dodge like a Cayman Islands bank account. It is not easy to grow a 'stache. In my teens and early 20s, my mother ("You'll look like the bad guy in the movies") and then the Army ("Only Commies like Stalin or Ho Chi Minh have facial hair") wouldn't let me grow one. In my mid-20s, I found that I couldn't grow a good one. Wispy blondish hair above the lip made me look more like a bedraggled alley cat than Burt Reynolds.
Then the Devil's Deal came into effect. As I began losing the hair on my scalp, my facial and body hair flourished. If I was in the mood for a Fu-Manchu or a Rollie Fingers handlebar, just give me a week and there it was. I have had facial hair ever since, more to divert attention from the lack of same above the eyebrows which achieved Andy Rooney caliber bushiness at about the same time.
Don't we deserve a tax break to assuage the painful mockery we receive? "There's something in your mustache, Baldy. Oh, it's your lip." "Storing some of that stew in your 'stache in case you get hungry later?"
Alas, the mockery will continue. The Million Mustache March is scheduled for Sunday, April 1, April Fools Day. It appears to be a cruel prank foisted upon us by the clean-shaven. And I was so looking forward to it.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Extenuating Circumstances
The big story on Sports Radio today is the dismissal of drug charges against National League MVP Ryan Braun. Ryan's original urine test bottle was picked up by Fed Ex but the driver was near the end of his shift on a Saturday and Fed Ex doesn't go out on Sundays so he kept it over the weekend. Was the driver simply negligent? Did he have an ulterior purpose? Does he have some sort of celebrity urine fetish?
At any rate, it cast sufficient doubt on the test that Ryan was exonerated.
Before we castigate the Fed Ex driver, let's consider extenuating circumstances. It's one thing to drive a truck full of "so important it's got to get there tomorrow" mail. It is another to ferry around a truck full of body fluids. These guys should get Hazardous Duty Pay. When Air Products initiated employee drug testing, they did it wholeheartedly. Several hundred employees were tested each day and all those little vials went out on the same Fed Ex shipment. What a joy it must have been to sit through a traffic jam on Route 22 with several gallons of urine moldering behind you.
Worse yet were the fecal blood test packets. Imagine delivering a sack full of days-old feces smears to the Testing Lab. That experience might traumatize even the most stable Fed Ex driver.
Let's not judge Ryan's driver too harshly.
At any rate, it cast sufficient doubt on the test that Ryan was exonerated.
Before we castigate the Fed Ex driver, let's consider extenuating circumstances. It's one thing to drive a truck full of "so important it's got to get there tomorrow" mail. It is another to ferry around a truck full of body fluids. These guys should get Hazardous Duty Pay. When Air Products initiated employee drug testing, they did it wholeheartedly. Several hundred employees were tested each day and all those little vials went out on the same Fed Ex shipment. What a joy it must have been to sit through a traffic jam on Route 22 with several gallons of urine moldering behind you.
Worse yet were the fecal blood test packets. Imagine delivering a sack full of days-old feces smears to the Testing Lab. That experience might traumatize even the most stable Fed Ex driver.
Let's not judge Ryan's driver too harshly.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Boredom
The school year will soon be over and parents will hear the whiny refrain, "I'm bored. There's nothing to do."
Oh, really, children of the Millennium? You have computers, video games, and all manner of hand-held devices that can take you on quests, into combat, or smack dab in the middle of a virtual world that you create. You have streaming access to just about any movie or TV show ever made. You have custom radio to suit your listening preferences. How could you ever be bored?
Being bored was much easier fifty years ago. Our childhood quests were in the pages of books, Our simulated combat involved running and hiding from our friends. Our virtual worlds were in our imaginations. We were stuck with whatever movie was showing at the neighborhood theater, which of the three network TV shows were broadcast at the time and whatever the local radio station decided to play. It took some effort to entertain ourselves and we had very limited choices.
Not to go all "Back in the day, we walked twelve miles to school through snowdrifts over our heads uphill, both ways", but may be it is better for kids to develop their own imaginations rather than rely on what some Playstation or X-box programmer came up with. Of course, you always run the risk of being bored by going it alone.
Oh, really, children of the Millennium? You have computers, video games, and all manner of hand-held devices that can take you on quests, into combat, or smack dab in the middle of a virtual world that you create. You have streaming access to just about any movie or TV show ever made. You have custom radio to suit your listening preferences. How could you ever be bored?
Being bored was much easier fifty years ago. Our childhood quests were in the pages of books, Our simulated combat involved running and hiding from our friends. Our virtual worlds were in our imaginations. We were stuck with whatever movie was showing at the neighborhood theater, which of the three network TV shows were broadcast at the time and whatever the local radio station decided to play. It took some effort to entertain ourselves and we had very limited choices.
Not to go all "Back in the day, we walked twelve miles to school through snowdrifts over our heads uphill, both ways", but may be it is better for kids to develop their own imaginations rather than rely on what some Playstation or X-box programmer came up with. Of course, you always run the risk of being bored by going it alone.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Gus, Meet Tony
The Pennsylvania Lottery gave the pink slip to Gus, its animatronic TV commercial spokes-character and "The Second Most Famous Groundhog in PA". At least Gus made it through Groundhog Day. Firing him before Feb 2 would be like Scrooge terminating Bob Cratchitt before Christmas.
The field is now open for a new Lottery Spokes-Character. Gus's replacement must typify Pennsylvania and have a tie-in to the state lottery. The Keystone State's most famous son is Ben Franklin. An animatronic Ben could fly his kite with a lottery ticket on its string and be showered in riches when it is struck by lightning. For those more in tune with current events, an animatronic Governor Tom Corbett could attach a lottery ticket to a fracking rig and find himself hip-deep in campaign contributions. Actually, Governor Tom doesn't need the lottery ticket as long as he doesn't tax the frackers. Still, neither Ben nor Governor Tom has a historical connection to the Lottery.
I know he is a Jersey boy, but the character most in tune with the Lottery's origins is Tony Soprano. The Daily Number and Pick 4 are direct descendants of organized crime's Numbers Racket back in the '50s. I used to wonder why the US Treasury Balance was prominently displayed above the fold every day on the front page of the Scranton Times. My more-worldly classmates explained, "The last three digits are today's number. Guess it and you get $500. You don't have to buy the paper to see it either."
The new PA Lottery commercials may feature an animatronic Tony generously showering riches on our senior citizens. "Remember the old days? Those old Numbers Slips are now Lottery Tickets and we all benefit!" And they said that history has no relevance today.
The field is now open for a new Lottery Spokes-Character. Gus's replacement must typify Pennsylvania and have a tie-in to the state lottery. The Keystone State's most famous son is Ben Franklin. An animatronic Ben could fly his kite with a lottery ticket on its string and be showered in riches when it is struck by lightning. For those more in tune with current events, an animatronic Governor Tom Corbett could attach a lottery ticket to a fracking rig and find himself hip-deep in campaign contributions. Actually, Governor Tom doesn't need the lottery ticket as long as he doesn't tax the frackers. Still, neither Ben nor Governor Tom has a historical connection to the Lottery.
I know he is a Jersey boy, but the character most in tune with the Lottery's origins is Tony Soprano. The Daily Number and Pick 4 are direct descendants of organized crime's Numbers Racket back in the '50s. I used to wonder why the US Treasury Balance was prominently displayed above the fold every day on the front page of the Scranton Times. My more-worldly classmates explained, "The last three digits are today's number. Guess it and you get $500. You don't have to buy the paper to see it either."
The new PA Lottery commercials may feature an animatronic Tony generously showering riches on our senior citizens. "Remember the old days? Those old Numbers Slips are now Lottery Tickets and we all benefit!" And they said that history has no relevance today.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
The Tournament of Fastnachts
Today is Mardi Gras. In New Orleans, there is drunken debauchery to jazz riffs. In Rio, there are parades and dancing to a samba beat. In Venice, there are masked balls to Mozart's music. Thousands of tourists flock to New Orleans, Rio, and Venice for this day. Hotels, restaurants, and bars are filled to capacity.
Here in the Lehigh Valley, today is Fastnacht Day. There is mass consumption of lard-fried, potato-based doughnuts to a polka beat. Hotels, restaurants, and bars stand deserted though there is a crowd at local Fire Stations to purchase those homemade fastnachts. How can the Lehigh Valley promote its Mardi Gras Tradition and bring in all those tourist dollars?
We aren't going to top the sexy costumes, masks, and dancing of New Orleans, Rio, or Venice. Let's copy the more wholesome New Year's tradition of Pasadena and institute the Annual Tournament of Fastnachts. We could parade floats down Route 22. Every float would be entirely covered with fastnachts in various hues, much like the Rose Parade floats are entirely covered in living vegetation. It's got to be better than eating the calorie-laden, semi-digestible things, doesn't it?
Gaily waving to the crowd from each float would be a member of the Fastnacht Queen and Her Court. Now, the Rose Queen is chosen for her looks and the arm strength (needed to continuously wave for hours on end). Our Fastnacht Queen would be chosen after a grueling round of fastnacht eating and doing the Chicken Dance. Put away a dozen potato doughnuts and still be able to Chicken Dance and achieve local immortality!
The Rose Parade features show horses bedecked in finery between the floats. The Lehigh Valley lacks equine quantity and quality to match California, so the Fastnacht Parade will feature packs of decorated motorcycles doing precision manuevers. This also saves on post-parade clean-up. Route 22 has many obstacles (potholes, tire treads, and trash). Let's not add horse droppings to the mix.
The Tournament of Roses concludes with the famed Rose Bowl football game. Alas, football season is three months past by Fastnacht Day. Quoits season is in full swing though and there's nothing that the Lehigh Valley loves more than quoits. Much like the Rose Parade ends at the Rose Bowl and spectators flock in to see what is in many years a championship college football game, our Fastnacht Parade could end at some bar in Easton where spectators would witness world-class quoits tossing.
Take that, New Orleans, Rio, and Venice! There's a new destination for Mardi Gras revelers right here in the Lehigh Valley.
Here in the Lehigh Valley, today is Fastnacht Day. There is mass consumption of lard-fried, potato-based doughnuts to a polka beat. Hotels, restaurants, and bars stand deserted though there is a crowd at local Fire Stations to purchase those homemade fastnachts. How can the Lehigh Valley promote its Mardi Gras Tradition and bring in all those tourist dollars?
We aren't going to top the sexy costumes, masks, and dancing of New Orleans, Rio, or Venice. Let's copy the more wholesome New Year's tradition of Pasadena and institute the Annual Tournament of Fastnachts. We could parade floats down Route 22. Every float would be entirely covered with fastnachts in various hues, much like the Rose Parade floats are entirely covered in living vegetation. It's got to be better than eating the calorie-laden, semi-digestible things, doesn't it?
Gaily waving to the crowd from each float would be a member of the Fastnacht Queen and Her Court. Now, the Rose Queen is chosen for her looks and the arm strength (needed to continuously wave for hours on end). Our Fastnacht Queen would be chosen after a grueling round of fastnacht eating and doing the Chicken Dance. Put away a dozen potato doughnuts and still be able to Chicken Dance and achieve local immortality!
The Rose Parade features show horses bedecked in finery between the floats. The Lehigh Valley lacks equine quantity and quality to match California, so the Fastnacht Parade will feature packs of decorated motorcycles doing precision manuevers. This also saves on post-parade clean-up. Route 22 has many obstacles (potholes, tire treads, and trash). Let's not add horse droppings to the mix.
The Tournament of Roses concludes with the famed Rose Bowl football game. Alas, football season is three months past by Fastnacht Day. Quoits season is in full swing though and there's nothing that the Lehigh Valley loves more than quoits. Much like the Rose Parade ends at the Rose Bowl and spectators flock in to see what is in many years a championship college football game, our Fastnacht Parade could end at some bar in Easton where spectators would witness world-class quoits tossing.
Take that, New Orleans, Rio, and Venice! There's a new destination for Mardi Gras revelers right here in the Lehigh Valley.
Monday, February 20, 2012
First Tee
Golf and I have never gotten along. I came of age during its Golden Age with Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus, Gary Player and the like dominating the sports pages. Driving ranges and miniature golf courses began dotting the 60s landscape. How can it be that a 120 pound weakling is outdriving me and hitting the "Win a Free Pepsi" target? So much for the driving range. How can it be that my high school girlfriend beat me soundly at miniature golf and deposited her ball in the clown's nose at the 18th hole to win a free game? So much for "putt-putt golf". Her next boyfriend had a half-price date thanks to my humiliation.
Still, on a cold February Sunday, I like to watch a televised golf tournament if for no other reason than reassurance that there are places in the world where the grass is emerald green, breezes are balmy, and people are wearing short sleeves. Southern California is a somewhat more pleasant place to be in late February than Easton, PA.
Better yet, if one is to believe the commercials, golf is the most charitable institution since Mother Teresa's group. Northern Trust, sponsors of yesterday's tournament has contributed millions to worthy causes with its proceeds. While Bill Gates is providing mosquito netting to every hut in Africa, Northern Trust is pumping thousands of dollars into First Tee, "a program to establish golf in the Inner City". Apparently, we can expect well-manicured greens, sand traps, and 500 yard long fairways in Easton's West Ward soon. Kids will trade in their baggy shorts and Air Jordans for polyester garb and spiked Foot Joys. Golf will replace basketball as the sport of choice in the Inner City thanks to First Tee.
In fact, First Tee can "one-up" Newt Gingrich. The Newtster recommended that "youth-at-risk" be given janitorial jobs at Inner City high schools as a means to establishing a work ethic. Well, there are only so many lavatories to sanitize and hallways to clean. But with 7,000 odd yards of fairway and 18 greens to be maintained, there is plenty of ethically-inspiring work at a First Tee golf course for every Inner City kid. Since "all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy", the kids can play the course after they have groomed it.
Newt, here's your chance to resuscitate your campaign. Partner with First Tee. FDR got us out of the Great Depression by building dams and power grids. You can get us out of the current economic doldrums by building inner city golf courses.
Still, on a cold February Sunday, I like to watch a televised golf tournament if for no other reason than reassurance that there are places in the world where the grass is emerald green, breezes are balmy, and people are wearing short sleeves. Southern California is a somewhat more pleasant place to be in late February than Easton, PA.
Better yet, if one is to believe the commercials, golf is the most charitable institution since Mother Teresa's group. Northern Trust, sponsors of yesterday's tournament has contributed millions to worthy causes with its proceeds. While Bill Gates is providing mosquito netting to every hut in Africa, Northern Trust is pumping thousands of dollars into First Tee, "a program to establish golf in the Inner City". Apparently, we can expect well-manicured greens, sand traps, and 500 yard long fairways in Easton's West Ward soon. Kids will trade in their baggy shorts and Air Jordans for polyester garb and spiked Foot Joys. Golf will replace basketball as the sport of choice in the Inner City thanks to First Tee.
In fact, First Tee can "one-up" Newt Gingrich. The Newtster recommended that "youth-at-risk" be given janitorial jobs at Inner City high schools as a means to establishing a work ethic. Well, there are only so many lavatories to sanitize and hallways to clean. But with 7,000 odd yards of fairway and 18 greens to be maintained, there is plenty of ethically-inspiring work at a First Tee golf course for every Inner City kid. Since "all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy", the kids can play the course after they have groomed it.
Newt, here's your chance to resuscitate your campaign. Partner with First Tee. FDR got us out of the Great Depression by building dams and power grids. You can get us out of the current economic doldrums by building inner city golf courses.
Friday, February 17, 2012
The Diving Horse
News Item - Atlantic City's Steel Pier scrapped plans to re-introduce its classic horse diving show this summer after protests from animal rights activists. For fifty years, Steel Pier patrons witnessed a horse and rider climbing to the top of a 40 foot platform. After appropriate music and a stirring introduction, the platform would tip dropping the horse and rider into a 12 foot deep pool. It wasn't exactly "Avatar" in 3-D and Cinemax, but it was state of the art entertainment for the 1950s.
I actually saw the Diving Horse Show in 1955. All the billboards along the drive to Atlantic City depicted the horse in full flight mounted by an attractive young lady in a (for those days) scandalous bikini. Travel arrangements for that particular day were such that I was in a different car than my Mom, Dad, and sister. I was seated next to The Cool Uncle - Uncle Algie. LIke any eight year old dreaming of a career alongside Hopalong Cassidy or John Wayne (Roy Rogers and Gene Autry weren't real cowboys. They sang and kissed girls. Yuck!), I was enthusiastic about seeing a horse. Like any poor soul married to my domineering Aunt Martha, Uncle Algie was enthusiastic about seeing the bikini-clad rider. What if her top fell off in the dive?
We made secret plans to slip away from the group "for a soda" and see the Diving Horse. It was a disappointment. The horse wasn't all that enthusiastic about climbing 40 feet. In fact, he was prodded along which even to my eight year old eye seemed cruel. The rider had a few more miles on her odometer than her depiction on the billboards. Uncle Algie muttered something to the effect that Aunt Martha looked better in a swimsuit. The platform tilted. The horse plummeted. The whole thing was over in seconds.
I am no animal rights activist. Had I known about plans to re-introduce the Diving Horse Show, I would have joined their protest though. Admission to the Steel Pier pretty much exhausted Uncle Algie's spending money so I never got that soda. It would have hit the spot that day unlike the Diving Horse.
I actually saw the Diving Horse Show in 1955. All the billboards along the drive to Atlantic City depicted the horse in full flight mounted by an attractive young lady in a (for those days) scandalous bikini. Travel arrangements for that particular day were such that I was in a different car than my Mom, Dad, and sister. I was seated next to The Cool Uncle - Uncle Algie. LIke any eight year old dreaming of a career alongside Hopalong Cassidy or John Wayne (Roy Rogers and Gene Autry weren't real cowboys. They sang and kissed girls. Yuck!), I was enthusiastic about seeing a horse. Like any poor soul married to my domineering Aunt Martha, Uncle Algie was enthusiastic about seeing the bikini-clad rider. What if her top fell off in the dive?
We made secret plans to slip away from the group "for a soda" and see the Diving Horse. It was a disappointment. The horse wasn't all that enthusiastic about climbing 40 feet. In fact, he was prodded along which even to my eight year old eye seemed cruel. The rider had a few more miles on her odometer than her depiction on the billboards. Uncle Algie muttered something to the effect that Aunt Martha looked better in a swimsuit. The platform tilted. The horse plummeted. The whole thing was over in seconds.
I am no animal rights activist. Had I known about plans to re-introduce the Diving Horse Show, I would have joined their protest though. Admission to the Steel Pier pretty much exhausted Uncle Algie's spending money so I never got that soda. It would have hit the spot that day unlike the Diving Horse.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Gestures
Far be it from me to overrule the Queen of Advice - Dear Abby herself. Still, I vehemently disagree with her suggestion to "Mild Mannered Motorist in Virginia". MMMiV asked for a hand signal to indicate "I'm sorry" to fellow drivers when he makes a mistake behind the wheel.
Abby recommended the classic Peace Sign and a lip-synched "I'm sorry". Unwise, Abby! We all know what what half the Peace Sign signifies. In fact, it is likely the same gesture that the offended driver is making toward MMMiV. His visual perception clouded by rage, he may see only half of your Peace Sign and misinterpret your silent "I'm sorry" as "Up yours". Virginia is among our more macho states in that it allows carrying of concealed weapons. MMMiV should bear this in mind. The offended driver's next "gesture" may be the classic Holster Grab. It seldom ends well.
Abby's readers chimed in with gestures presumably less subject to misinterpretation:
Hands folded in prayer - Unless one is adept at steering one's vehicle with one's knees, this may lead to an even more egregious "mistake behind the wheel".
The American Sign Language symbol for "I'm sorry", a clenched right fist placed over the heart and moved in small circles - For those of us more familiar with the American Sign Language of the Playground, a clenched fist means "Let's fight". This is not the message that MMMiV wants to send.
The unmistakeable Homer Simpson 'D-oh!" forehead slap - The angry person's response to this might very well be "Oh yeah! I'll knock some sense into you!" Again, not the message that MMMiV wants to send.
I would go with the gesture that we all learned when the teacher asked a question on the homework assignment that we didn't do. Keep your eyes down. Don't move and try to fade into the background. Had Abby recommended this, she would have a few more readers tomorrow.
Abby recommended the classic Peace Sign and a lip-synched "I'm sorry". Unwise, Abby! We all know what what half the Peace Sign signifies. In fact, it is likely the same gesture that the offended driver is making toward MMMiV. His visual perception clouded by rage, he may see only half of your Peace Sign and misinterpret your silent "I'm sorry" as "Up yours". Virginia is among our more macho states in that it allows carrying of concealed weapons. MMMiV should bear this in mind. The offended driver's next "gesture" may be the classic Holster Grab. It seldom ends well.
Abby's readers chimed in with gestures presumably less subject to misinterpretation:
Hands folded in prayer - Unless one is adept at steering one's vehicle with one's knees, this may lead to an even more egregious "mistake behind the wheel".
The American Sign Language symbol for "I'm sorry", a clenched right fist placed over the heart and moved in small circles - For those of us more familiar with the American Sign Language of the Playground, a clenched fist means "Let's fight". This is not the message that MMMiV wants to send.
The unmistakeable Homer Simpson 'D-oh!" forehead slap - The angry person's response to this might very well be "Oh yeah! I'll knock some sense into you!" Again, not the message that MMMiV wants to send.
I would go with the gesture that we all learned when the teacher asked a question on the homework assignment that we didn't do. Keep your eyes down. Don't move and try to fade into the background. Had Abby recommended this, she would have a few more readers tomorrow.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Sensible Shoes
Sometimes a random observation brings about a "Remembrance of Things Past". When Proust saw a certain pastry, it led to the aforementioned 3,000 page novel (Thank God that was never my Read Over Christmas Vacation For Extra Credit Assignment). When I watched the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show last night, it led to a flashback to my grade school days at James Monroe School, 1952 through 1959.
Each canine had his "star turn" last night. After being groped by the judge (Yes, there is a dog beneath all this carefully coiffed fur.), the camera would follow the pooch as he romped across the floor of Madison Square Garden led by a handler. Since the dog was the star, the screen showed only him plus the legs and feet of the handler. The female handlers invariably sported dowdy outfits and (Cue the Twilight Zone theme) sensible shoes.
It took me back to Miss Cloherty's 2nd grade class all over again. All my grade school teachers wore those laced-up, low-heeled oxfords. The conspiracy theorists among us just knew that these shoes were intended to inflict kicks on recalcitrant students. The teacher's pets responded that sensible shoes provided arch support and bunion relief. The debate was never settled.
Now, sixty years later, I have the answer. Clearly, our underpaid grade school teachers moonlighted as free-lance show dog handlers. They went directly from Monroe School to the local Dog Show Arena. There was no time to change shoes. Those laced-up, low-heeled oxfords enabled them to keep up with a prancing Fido rather than to chase after Class Clown Herbie Schuler when he urinated on the radiator.
Look out, Proust. I've got at least 3,000 pages worth of grade school stories now that I have the key to Remembrance of Things Past. I may have to come up with a different title though.
Each canine had his "star turn" last night. After being groped by the judge (Yes, there is a dog beneath all this carefully coiffed fur.), the camera would follow the pooch as he romped across the floor of Madison Square Garden led by a handler. Since the dog was the star, the screen showed only him plus the legs and feet of the handler. The female handlers invariably sported dowdy outfits and (Cue the Twilight Zone theme) sensible shoes.
It took me back to Miss Cloherty's 2nd grade class all over again. All my grade school teachers wore those laced-up, low-heeled oxfords. The conspiracy theorists among us just knew that these shoes were intended to inflict kicks on recalcitrant students. The teacher's pets responded that sensible shoes provided arch support and bunion relief. The debate was never settled.
Now, sixty years later, I have the answer. Clearly, our underpaid grade school teachers moonlighted as free-lance show dog handlers. They went directly from Monroe School to the local Dog Show Arena. There was no time to change shoes. Those laced-up, low-heeled oxfords enabled them to keep up with a prancing Fido rather than to chase after Class Clown Herbie Schuler when he urinated on the radiator.
Look out, Proust. I've got at least 3,000 pages worth of grade school stories now that I have the key to Remembrance of Things Past. I may have to come up with a different title though.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
V-Day Fears
Guys fear Valentine's Day.
It begins in grade school. If little Tiffany who sits in front of you is dissatisfied with the Power Rangers Valentine that you placed in her gaily decorated card box, she inexplicably blocks your view of her previously easily copyable spelling test paper. When hormones kick in during Middle School, your romantic dreams of a future with Tiff are shattered when that rat Bradley wows her with his hearts and flowers Valentine while your Superheroes theme card goes to the bottom of her stack. OK, so she's not a Wonder Woman fan. High school, college, and the single life bring on the competitive nature of Valentine's Day. The card, flowers, chocolate, dinner, or spa session that you bestow on your beloved Tiffany had better be more romantic (and more expensive) than the V-Day gift given by that rat Bradley to Tiff's best friend Britney. Tiffany and Britney will definitely compare and contrast. Either you or Bradley will not be getting lucky tonight.
It's time to think outside the box, guys. Why not eschew the expensive flowers, chocolate, and candlelit dinner for some Heavy Metal? Crocodile Rock in Allentown offers a "Valentine's Day Massacre" show tonight featuring Static X with their hit ever-so-romantic hit "Pighammer". Opening acts are Defiler and Polkadot Cadaver. Nothing will get her more in the mood for romance than moshing to "Pighammer". It may not qualify as a "sweep her off her feet" plot device for the latest Katherine Heigl movie, but it has got to work better than those superhero Valentine cards that failed in the past. Also, you'll never see that rat Bradley there.
It begins in grade school. If little Tiffany who sits in front of you is dissatisfied with the Power Rangers Valentine that you placed in her gaily decorated card box, she inexplicably blocks your view of her previously easily copyable spelling test paper. When hormones kick in during Middle School, your romantic dreams of a future with Tiff are shattered when that rat Bradley wows her with his hearts and flowers Valentine while your Superheroes theme card goes to the bottom of her stack. OK, so she's not a Wonder Woman fan. High school, college, and the single life bring on the competitive nature of Valentine's Day. The card, flowers, chocolate, dinner, or spa session that you bestow on your beloved Tiffany had better be more romantic (and more expensive) than the V-Day gift given by that rat Bradley to Tiff's best friend Britney. Tiffany and Britney will definitely compare and contrast. Either you or Bradley will not be getting lucky tonight.
It's time to think outside the box, guys. Why not eschew the expensive flowers, chocolate, and candlelit dinner for some Heavy Metal? Crocodile Rock in Allentown offers a "Valentine's Day Massacre" show tonight featuring Static X with their hit ever-so-romantic hit "Pighammer". Opening acts are Defiler and Polkadot Cadaver. Nothing will get her more in the mood for romance than moshing to "Pighammer". It may not qualify as a "sweep her off her feet" plot device for the latest Katherine Heigl movie, but it has got to work better than those superhero Valentine cards that failed in the past. Also, you'll never see that rat Bradley there.
Monday, February 13, 2012
The Last Judgement
The front wall of the Sistine Chapel depicts The Last Judgement. Michelangelo shows a clean-shaven, buff Christ (Gyms and spas must abound in Heaven.) directing the risen dead either up to glory or down to be tormented by some seriously nasty-looking, pitchfork-wielding demons. Surprisingly, the disinterred wraiths accept their fate stoically. Shouldn't they exhibit at least some resistance to eternal damnation? What horrifying experience caused them to defer to a slow roast over eternal flames?
That "fate worse than death" might be a transcontinental red-eye flight. Having experienced one last night, a few jabs with a demonic pitchfork doesn't seem so bad. The flight departed Seattle at 10:15 PM and landed in Newark around 6 AM. It was, of course, fully booked. I sat, of course, in the very back row meaning that when the clown seated in front of me reclined his seat, I could not recline mine to regain lost legroom. I was also adjacent to the restrooms so even if I could have somehow contorted my body into a comfortable sleeping position, the rest room door continuously opened and shut all night long and its light streamed out making repose impossible. Also, two restrooms for 150 coach class passengers meant that there was usually someone hopping up an down in the aisle alongside my seat muttering imprecations against those cretins spending the entire flight holed up in the rest room doing God only knows what while they are suffering a physiological crisis.
Food? Fuhgedabatit! Hearty red-eye passengers need no nourishment over an eight hour flight. If we couldn't get food at the one airport restaurant that was open in Seattle before we departed, that's our tough luck. Drinks? At one point, a flight attendant did walk the aisle with cups of water, but he ran out before he made it past row 15 of 30 and never re-appeared. Entertainment? Red-eye flights get The Movies That Time Forgot. My flight featured "Footloose", not the original Kevin Bacon version which wasn't so bad, but a recent re-make starring a guy who is probably working construction now that his cinematic career is at a dead end and one of the "Dancing With the Stars" girls. By the way, bring your own head set because United Airlines charges you $3 for one if the flight attendants remember to come by with them which, of course, they didn't on this Flight of the Damned.
When my personal Judgement Day arrives, I can now face it with the equanimity of Michelangelo's wraiths. I survived a Red-Eye. Nothing fazes me now.
That "fate worse than death" might be a transcontinental red-eye flight. Having experienced one last night, a few jabs with a demonic pitchfork doesn't seem so bad. The flight departed Seattle at 10:15 PM and landed in Newark around 6 AM. It was, of course, fully booked. I sat, of course, in the very back row meaning that when the clown seated in front of me reclined his seat, I could not recline mine to regain lost legroom. I was also adjacent to the restrooms so even if I could have somehow contorted my body into a comfortable sleeping position, the rest room door continuously opened and shut all night long and its light streamed out making repose impossible. Also, two restrooms for 150 coach class passengers meant that there was usually someone hopping up an down in the aisle alongside my seat muttering imprecations against those cretins spending the entire flight holed up in the rest room doing God only knows what while they are suffering a physiological crisis.
Food? Fuhgedabatit! Hearty red-eye passengers need no nourishment over an eight hour flight. If we couldn't get food at the one airport restaurant that was open in Seattle before we departed, that's our tough luck. Drinks? At one point, a flight attendant did walk the aisle with cups of water, but he ran out before he made it past row 15 of 30 and never re-appeared. Entertainment? Red-eye flights get The Movies That Time Forgot. My flight featured "Footloose", not the original Kevin Bacon version which wasn't so bad, but a recent re-make starring a guy who is probably working construction now that his cinematic career is at a dead end and one of the "Dancing With the Stars" girls. By the way, bring your own head set because United Airlines charges you $3 for one if the flight attendants remember to come by with them which, of course, they didn't on this Flight of the Damned.
When my personal Judgement Day arrives, I can now face it with the equanimity of Michelangelo's wraiths. I survived a Red-Eye. Nothing fazes me now.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Sauced
Denver Broncos running back Knoshawn Moreno was arrested for DUI in the wee hours after the Super Bowl. Lots of drivers probably got nailed after imbibing those specially priced $5 pitchers of beer at a bar during the Big Game. What set Knoshawn apart was:
He was speeding along at 75 mph in a 45 mph Construction Zone. It's always a good idea to read those "Construction Zone - Speed Limits Strictly Enforced" signs, Big Guy.
He was driving his Bentley. It's hard to escape police notice while driving a vehicle that costs more than an officer earns in two years.
Knoshawn lacked car insurance. The man can afford a $200 K car, but "forgot" to insure it. How can you miss all those commercials with the cute little lizard, Knoshawn?
The Bentley's vanity license plate read "Sauced". It could have been more inflammatory to police sensibilities though. A vanity plate reading "Drunk" with a bumper sticker stating "My Other Car Is a Bar Stool" gets you pulled over for sure.
Football commentators constantly remind us that it is a mental as much as a physical game. Playbooks have more pages than "War and Peace" and players must memorize every formation, pass route, blocking scheme, and defensive alignment. Genius whether in particle physics or the finer points of the screen pass does not necessarily imply common sense. Knoshawn failed the common sense test when he barrelled along in his Bentley that night.
He was speeding along at 75 mph in a 45 mph Construction Zone. It's always a good idea to read those "Construction Zone - Speed Limits Strictly Enforced" signs, Big Guy.
He was driving his Bentley. It's hard to escape police notice while driving a vehicle that costs more than an officer earns in two years.
Knoshawn lacked car insurance. The man can afford a $200 K car, but "forgot" to insure it. How can you miss all those commercials with the cute little lizard, Knoshawn?
The Bentley's vanity license plate read "Sauced". It could have been more inflammatory to police sensibilities though. A vanity plate reading "Drunk" with a bumper sticker stating "My Other Car Is a Bar Stool" gets you pulled over for sure.
Football commentators constantly remind us that it is a mental as much as a physical game. Playbooks have more pages than "War and Peace" and players must memorize every formation, pass route, blocking scheme, and defensive alignment. Genius whether in particle physics or the finer points of the screen pass does not necessarily imply common sense. Knoshawn failed the common sense test when he barrelled along in his Bentley that night.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Safety-Sensitive
You know it's an election year when the Florida legislature has passed and the Pennsylvania legislature is considering a bill to require welfare recipients to be tested for drugs. "We are not letting your hard-earned tax dollars be used to support freeloaders' drug habits!" "Your employer requires that you pee in the bottle. Why not make welfare recipients do the same?" "We will clean the welfare rolls of druggies and it won't cost us much because we will require those freeloaders to pay for the drug tests and only recompense them if they pass."
Sounds great, doesn't it?
The problem is that you cannot legislate morality (Prohibition worked so well back in the '20s, didn't it?) and people will always find a way to scam the system. Only 2% of Florida's tests came back positive. Welfare rolls remained at the same levels, and the program ended up costing millions for the compensated drug tests. That part probably won't be included in anyone's campaign literature.
Drug testing may not minimize governmental expenditures on welfare, but it does have some value in the private sector. When Air Products began drug testing in the mid-80s, the stated rationale was to improve safety. We must prevent a drug-addled driver from crashing a trailer full of liquid hydrogen into a Pre-School. It would be worse than the Hindenburg Disaster. We can't have a plant operator sleeping off a heroin fix while the scrub tower runs dry and the resultant hydrogen chloride cloud wafts over a nearby Nursing Home. It would be worse than Obamacare's Death Panel for Granny. We must have a Drug Testing Program. Of course, it will be limited to those in "safety-sensitive positions."
As a pencil-pushing engineer, I was flattered when I was marched off (with no advance notice) for my first drug test. "Wow, the company thinks that I have to power to cause an industrial disaster. I must be important." Then I noticed that the line at the Health Unit included a girl from the steno pool and even the guy whose sole job seemed to be using a feather duster on the potted plants. If I miscalculated the required ventilation rate for a toxic gas storage facility, it could be a big problem, so I guess I had a "safety-sensitive position", but a few misspellings on a specification or dust on the ficus in the corner were not going to pack Emergency Rooms near our facilities.
It turned out that everyone was in a "safety-sensitive position" and the true value of Drug Testing came out when it became the basis for the company's defense against lawsuits for unlawful termination. "Your honor, the plaintiff may claim that he was released from his position as Senior Ficus Duster so I could hire my nephew in his place, but it is a safety-sensitive position and his drug test indicates that he smoked marijuana three months ago."
To minimize the welfare rolls and save that drug testing compensation, all the government has to do is hire the unemployed temporarily, designate their positions as "safety-sensitive", and fire them. Mitt Romney is right. Government can learn a lot from the private sector.
Sounds great, doesn't it?
The problem is that you cannot legislate morality (Prohibition worked so well back in the '20s, didn't it?) and people will always find a way to scam the system. Only 2% of Florida's tests came back positive. Welfare rolls remained at the same levels, and the program ended up costing millions for the compensated drug tests. That part probably won't be included in anyone's campaign literature.
Drug testing may not minimize governmental expenditures on welfare, but it does have some value in the private sector. When Air Products began drug testing in the mid-80s, the stated rationale was to improve safety. We must prevent a drug-addled driver from crashing a trailer full of liquid hydrogen into a Pre-School. It would be worse than the Hindenburg Disaster. We can't have a plant operator sleeping off a heroin fix while the scrub tower runs dry and the resultant hydrogen chloride cloud wafts over a nearby Nursing Home. It would be worse than Obamacare's Death Panel for Granny. We must have a Drug Testing Program. Of course, it will be limited to those in "safety-sensitive positions."
As a pencil-pushing engineer, I was flattered when I was marched off (with no advance notice) for my first drug test. "Wow, the company thinks that I have to power to cause an industrial disaster. I must be important." Then I noticed that the line at the Health Unit included a girl from the steno pool and even the guy whose sole job seemed to be using a feather duster on the potted plants. If I miscalculated the required ventilation rate for a toxic gas storage facility, it could be a big problem, so I guess I had a "safety-sensitive position", but a few misspellings on a specification or dust on the ficus in the corner were not going to pack Emergency Rooms near our facilities.
It turned out that everyone was in a "safety-sensitive position" and the true value of Drug Testing came out when it became the basis for the company's defense against lawsuits for unlawful termination. "Your honor, the plaintiff may claim that he was released from his position as Senior Ficus Duster so I could hire my nephew in his place, but it is a safety-sensitive position and his drug test indicates that he smoked marijuana three months ago."
To minimize the welfare rolls and save that drug testing compensation, all the government has to do is hire the unemployed temporarily, designate their positions as "safety-sensitive", and fire them. Mitt Romney is right. Government can learn a lot from the private sector.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Half-Time in America
With all the election year talk of America's inevitable decline (if you support my opponent), it was good to take a break, sit back, and enjoy that most patriotic and uplifting of all spectacles, the Super Bowl. Alas, the Super Bowl was held in a domed stadium so we couldn't thrill to a fly-over and a parachute drop delivery of the game ball. We did get both "America the Beautiful" and the National Anthem though and the singers actually knew all the words. This has not always been the case, so the NFL wisely chose country singers as opposed to rock stars for the job this year. The ability to read lyrics from a teleprompter has always been a requirement for country stardom.
I was feeling very Ronald Reagan "Morning in America" until the half-time show. The stadium lights dimmed and a phalanx of muscular young men dressed like extras from "Gladiator" marched onto the field bearing a Cleopatra-clad Madonna. We went from the pre-game Americana of clean-cut patriotic songs in front of giant flags on the field to a half-time reminiscent of the debauchery of the Fall of the Roman Empire. Is the labelling of Super Bowls by Roman numerals a harmless affectation or an ominous bonding of the USA to ancient Rome?
Rick Santorum, here is an issue to reinvigorate your campaign. "When I'm elected President, our new American morality will forbid reproductive rights, gay marriage, and racy Super Bowl half-time shows. I'll insist on stadium sing-alongs to patriotic songs led by Kenny G. and John Tesh."
Newt Gingrich can restore some of that South Carolina momentum. "By the end of my second term, we will not only have an American base on the moon, but I will make it safe for Americans to enjoy Super Bowl half-time with their children by dressing the performers as Sesame Street characters."
Beware, NFL. Abandon the "bread and circus" half-time extravaganza. Maintain the wholesome patriotic feel of pre-game throughout the contest or Big Brother will step in.
I was feeling very Ronald Reagan "Morning in America" until the half-time show. The stadium lights dimmed and a phalanx of muscular young men dressed like extras from "Gladiator" marched onto the field bearing a Cleopatra-clad Madonna. We went from the pre-game Americana of clean-cut patriotic songs in front of giant flags on the field to a half-time reminiscent of the debauchery of the Fall of the Roman Empire. Is the labelling of Super Bowls by Roman numerals a harmless affectation or an ominous bonding of the USA to ancient Rome?
Rick Santorum, here is an issue to reinvigorate your campaign. "When I'm elected President, our new American morality will forbid reproductive rights, gay marriage, and racy Super Bowl half-time shows. I'll insist on stadium sing-alongs to patriotic songs led by Kenny G. and John Tesh."
Newt Gingrich can restore some of that South Carolina momentum. "By the end of my second term, we will not only have an American base on the moon, but I will make it safe for Americans to enjoy Super Bowl half-time with their children by dressing the performers as Sesame Street characters."
Beware, NFL. Abandon the "bread and circus" half-time extravaganza. Maintain the wholesome patriotic feel of pre-game throughout the contest or Big Brother will step in.
Friday, February 3, 2012
1966
A question on yesterday's "Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?" was thought-provoking. "The $100,000 candy bar introduced in 1966 would be worth how much in today's dollars?" The contestant actually chose the correct answer - $700,000.
In other words what could be purchased for $1 in 1966 would cost, on average, $7 today. Hey, I remember 1966 like it was yesterday. I was 30 lbs lighter, had all my hair, and could sleep all night without urination breaks. 1966 was great. But was 1966 superior to 2012 from a cost of living viewpoint?
As a college kid in '66, my major purchases included:
Beer - A case of domestic, no-frills suds like Schaefer ran about $5 back then. Today you can get it for $20. It should be $35 with inflation, and today's beer cans all come with easy-open tops. Back in the day, it was 50:50 whether the pull tab would break off and lacerate your finger. I have the scars to prove it.
Seagrams 7 - A fifth of decent domestic "hard stuff" was also about $5. Today, it runs $15. Again, booze beats inflation! Of course, many of us joined the military back in '66 to take advantage of the low, low liquor prices at the PX. A fifth of Smirnoff was only $1.25, and the Army wondered why it had a problem with alcoholism.
Hamburgers - By 1966, McDonald's burgers were up to $0.25, a scandal after the $0.15 burgers we remembered from high school. A double cheeseburger is on the 2012 Dollar Menu. Burgers stomp all over inflation.
Soda - Most vending machines offered a can of Coke for a quarter back in the day. Today, we're talking $1.25, still a relative bargain inflation-wise.
It is better to be a college kid today than back in '66 from a food and booze perspective. Alas, other costs exceed inflation big-time.
Movie admission - The latest James Bond flick with Sean Connery cost us between $0,25 and $0,50. Daniel Craig as 007 requires $9. Movie admission is 20X from 1966 and Ursula Andress was much hotter than whoever played opposite Daniel Craig anyway.
College Costs - The '65 - '66 school year at Lafayette cost me about $3,000 complete with tuition, fees, room & board. Today, the whole package runs a cool $50 K. Talk about inflation.
Maybe it is better to be a college kid today, but it really costs to be a parent.
In other words what could be purchased for $1 in 1966 would cost, on average, $7 today. Hey, I remember 1966 like it was yesterday. I was 30 lbs lighter, had all my hair, and could sleep all night without urination breaks. 1966 was great. But was 1966 superior to 2012 from a cost of living viewpoint?
As a college kid in '66, my major purchases included:
Beer - A case of domestic, no-frills suds like Schaefer ran about $5 back then. Today you can get it for $20. It should be $35 with inflation, and today's beer cans all come with easy-open tops. Back in the day, it was 50:50 whether the pull tab would break off and lacerate your finger. I have the scars to prove it.
Seagrams 7 - A fifth of decent domestic "hard stuff" was also about $5. Today, it runs $15. Again, booze beats inflation! Of course, many of us joined the military back in '66 to take advantage of the low, low liquor prices at the PX. A fifth of Smirnoff was only $1.25, and the Army wondered why it had a problem with alcoholism.
Hamburgers - By 1966, McDonald's burgers were up to $0.25, a scandal after the $0.15 burgers we remembered from high school. A double cheeseburger is on the 2012 Dollar Menu. Burgers stomp all over inflation.
Soda - Most vending machines offered a can of Coke for a quarter back in the day. Today, we're talking $1.25, still a relative bargain inflation-wise.
It is better to be a college kid today than back in '66 from a food and booze perspective. Alas, other costs exceed inflation big-time.
Movie admission - The latest James Bond flick with Sean Connery cost us between $0,25 and $0,50. Daniel Craig as 007 requires $9. Movie admission is 20X from 1966 and Ursula Andress was much hotter than whoever played opposite Daniel Craig anyway.
College Costs - The '65 - '66 school year at Lafayette cost me about $3,000 complete with tuition, fees, room & board. Today, the whole package runs a cool $50 K. Talk about inflation.
Maybe it is better to be a college kid today, but it really costs to be a parent.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Too Easy
VNews Item: Facebook employees at their California headquarters have the following amenities:
Micro-kitchens stocked with Red Bull, chips, and snacks. None of that non-caffeinated stuff for these pioneers of e-business.
Vending machines with free soda or computer accessories. "Damn, I pressed the wrong button and got a USB cable. How can I drink that?"
Storefronts including a bike repair shop and a dry cleaners. "Whoops, I crashed my bike on the way to work and ruined by corporate casual outfit. Not to worry. I'll just hang out in my cubicle dressed in my underwear while my bike is fixed and my clothes are cleaned."
A full-service bar. "Tired of being called a computer nerd and getting beat up by rednecks at regular bars? Come to work at Facebook. Bad haircuts, lousy wardrobes, and questionable personal hygiene are all you see at our on-campus bar."
Two gourmet cafes plus roaming food carts. Facebook offers gourmet dinners along with drinks, repair shops, and cleaners. Why even go home from work?
Not to sound like a crotchety old guy, but kids today have it too easy. The Facebook Generation had Pizza Day and soda machines at their high school cafeterias. We Children of the 60s had lunches concocted from government surplus meat and cheese and drank milk. Like it or lump it. Off to college, the Children of the '00s ate at the Dining Commons featuring hot or cold buffets, a Salad Bar, pizza or cereal around the clock, a dessert bar, and even beer at the more progressive schools. We had Beef-a-Roni, jello with entrained fruit cocktail, milk, or Kool-Aid. Not in the mood for Beef-a-Roni? Too bad. The Snack Bar doesn't open until 8 PM. Now the Facebook Generation goes off to work and gets all this good stuff listed above? When I started at Air Products back in 1972, its cafeteria seated 200 (Campus population was about 1,500), but it was never crowded because it served the same crap we so fondly remembered from high school. The classic was "Porcupine Balls", essentially meat balls with embedded rice that led to no end of sophomoric humor.
No question, the Facebook Generation has it too easy.
Micro-kitchens stocked with Red Bull, chips, and snacks. None of that non-caffeinated stuff for these pioneers of e-business.
Vending machines with free soda or computer accessories. "Damn, I pressed the wrong button and got a USB cable. How can I drink that?"
Storefronts including a bike repair shop and a dry cleaners. "Whoops, I crashed my bike on the way to work and ruined by corporate casual outfit. Not to worry. I'll just hang out in my cubicle dressed in my underwear while my bike is fixed and my clothes are cleaned."
A full-service bar. "Tired of being called a computer nerd and getting beat up by rednecks at regular bars? Come to work at Facebook. Bad haircuts, lousy wardrobes, and questionable personal hygiene are all you see at our on-campus bar."
Two gourmet cafes plus roaming food carts. Facebook offers gourmet dinners along with drinks, repair shops, and cleaners. Why even go home from work?
Not to sound like a crotchety old guy, but kids today have it too easy. The Facebook Generation had Pizza Day and soda machines at their high school cafeterias. We Children of the 60s had lunches concocted from government surplus meat and cheese and drank milk. Like it or lump it. Off to college, the Children of the '00s ate at the Dining Commons featuring hot or cold buffets, a Salad Bar, pizza or cereal around the clock, a dessert bar, and even beer at the more progressive schools. We had Beef-a-Roni, jello with entrained fruit cocktail, milk, or Kool-Aid. Not in the mood for Beef-a-Roni? Too bad. The Snack Bar doesn't open until 8 PM. Now the Facebook Generation goes off to work and gets all this good stuff listed above? When I started at Air Products back in 1972, its cafeteria seated 200 (Campus population was about 1,500), but it was never crowded because it served the same crap we so fondly remembered from high school. The classic was "Porcupine Balls", essentially meat balls with embedded rice that led to no end of sophomoric humor.
No question, the Facebook Generation has it too easy.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Prop Bets
Sports Radio provides what we need to know about the Super Bowl.
Patriots Tight End (Isn't that a great term, tight end? It's invariably preceded by the adjective "big" as in "Manning completed that pass to his big tight end". So few of us manage to have an end that is both big and tight with the possible exception of Jennifer Lopez.) Rob Gronkowski was not wearing a walking boot for his high ankle sprain at practice yesterday. Patriots Tackle Matt Light is suffering from stomach flu. And, oh by the way, in less important news, Mitt Romney won the Florida Primary.
Sports Radio also provides us with some of the "proposition bets" for the Super Bowl. After all, not everyone is a football fan, but it is un-American not to watch The Big Game even if all you care about are the commercials, the anthem, and the half-time show. It is also un-American not to bet on something related to the Super Bowl. Las Vegas is offering the following:
The over / under on Kelly Clarkson's rendition of the National Anthem is 1 minute 34 seconds. Whitney Houston warbled for nearly 3 minutes back in 1991. That's a record that may never be topped, but the smart money is taking the over.
Odds are 2:1 that Kelly will forget a word in the Anthem like Christina Aguilera did last year. This is a classic sucker bet. No American under the age of 50 knows all the words to the Anthem. Kelly will probably botch it, but no one will be the wiser.
Odds are 1:4 that Madonna will be blonde for the Halftime Show. There are also odds on pink or black hair color for Ms Ciconne. The smart money is on blonde. Katy Perry seems to change hair color hourly of late, but those of Madonna's generation like Hillary Clinton and Calista Gingrich tend to stick with the blonde.
There are even odds that Madonna will sport fishnet stockings at some point during her performance. This is a judgement call. Are those fishnets on the 53 year old Material Girl or spider veins?
Alas, there are no odds that the NFL will run out of over-the-hill performers for its Super Bowl Halftime Show. Next year's Halftime Extravaganza will star Lawrence Welk and his Champagne Music Makers!
Patriots Tight End (Isn't that a great term, tight end? It's invariably preceded by the adjective "big" as in "Manning completed that pass to his big tight end". So few of us manage to have an end that is both big and tight with the possible exception of Jennifer Lopez.) Rob Gronkowski was not wearing a walking boot for his high ankle sprain at practice yesterday. Patriots Tackle Matt Light is suffering from stomach flu. And, oh by the way, in less important news, Mitt Romney won the Florida Primary.
Sports Radio also provides us with some of the "proposition bets" for the Super Bowl. After all, not everyone is a football fan, but it is un-American not to watch The Big Game even if all you care about are the commercials, the anthem, and the half-time show. It is also un-American not to bet on something related to the Super Bowl. Las Vegas is offering the following:
The over / under on Kelly Clarkson's rendition of the National Anthem is 1 minute 34 seconds. Whitney Houston warbled for nearly 3 minutes back in 1991. That's a record that may never be topped, but the smart money is taking the over.
Odds are 2:1 that Kelly will forget a word in the Anthem like Christina Aguilera did last year. This is a classic sucker bet. No American under the age of 50 knows all the words to the Anthem. Kelly will probably botch it, but no one will be the wiser.
Odds are 1:4 that Madonna will be blonde for the Halftime Show. There are also odds on pink or black hair color for Ms Ciconne. The smart money is on blonde. Katy Perry seems to change hair color hourly of late, but those of Madonna's generation like Hillary Clinton and Calista Gingrich tend to stick with the blonde.
There are even odds that Madonna will sport fishnet stockings at some point during her performance. This is a judgement call. Are those fishnets on the 53 year old Material Girl or spider veins?
Alas, there are no odds that the NFL will run out of over-the-hill performers for its Super Bowl Halftime Show. Next year's Halftime Extravaganza will star Lawrence Welk and his Champagne Music Makers!
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
The Devil's Device
With the end of January comes the end of our New Year's Resolutions. The good intention to work off all those holiday goodies in the gym is overcome by mid-winter ennui. "I'll go to the gym when the weather is nicer. Right now, I'll tackle that bowl of chips and watch a little TV."
I was doing precisely that last night feeling guilty as reports of The Obesity Epidemic ran on the news. If only there was a quick and easy way to exercise while keeping up with my favorite telecasts. As I switched channels between a college basketball game, "House", "Monday Night RAW", and "Family Guy", it came to me. Eliminate the remote control.
Back in the day, changing channels required getting up, walking to the TV, bending down, twisting the tuner and walking back to the sofa. Those actions have to be a calorie-burner on par with a minute or two on the StairMaster. I had a 32-inch waist, low blood pressure, and more hair back then, so it must have worked. Well, maybe not the hair part.
The remote control is the Devil's Device. It has put more fat around our waists than Twinkies and Frosted Flakes. Ominously, modern TVs with remote control are no longer manufactured in the good old USA. This is clearly a plot by Sony (Japan) and LG (Korea) to make us fat and docile before they take over the world. They could not have done it when we kept fit with remote-less American-manufactured TV sets.
Abandon your remote controls. Do it for your health. Better yet, do it for America.
I was doing precisely that last night feeling guilty as reports of The Obesity Epidemic ran on the news. If only there was a quick and easy way to exercise while keeping up with my favorite telecasts. As I switched channels between a college basketball game, "House", "Monday Night RAW", and "Family Guy", it came to me. Eliminate the remote control.
Back in the day, changing channels required getting up, walking to the TV, bending down, twisting the tuner and walking back to the sofa. Those actions have to be a calorie-burner on par with a minute or two on the StairMaster. I had a 32-inch waist, low blood pressure, and more hair back then, so it must have worked. Well, maybe not the hair part.
The remote control is the Devil's Device. It has put more fat around our waists than Twinkies and Frosted Flakes. Ominously, modern TVs with remote control are no longer manufactured in the good old USA. This is clearly a plot by Sony (Japan) and LG (Korea) to make us fat and docile before they take over the world. They could not have done it when we kept fit with remote-less American-manufactured TV sets.
Abandon your remote controls. Do it for your health. Better yet, do it for America.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Eat or Be Eaten
Even our feathered friends want a shot at the public notoriety that comes with being a part of the Super Bowl.
The National Chicken Council (Imagine White Leghorns in business attire gathered around a large conference table) submitted a press release this week. It crowed that Americans will consume one hundred million pounds of chicken products on Super Bowl Sunday which "if laid end-to-end would circle the Earth more than twice." Saturn has its rings of interstellar dust. Finally, Earth has a ring or two of poultry products and ours goes well with honey mustard dipping sauce..
As a patriotic American, I will, of course, consume my allotted share of chicken products on Super Bowl Sunday. I have a few questions for the National Chicken Council, however. While I chow down on a dozen wings, what happens to the rest of the chicken? Does my gluttony result in six limb-less and traumatized chickens? Are there prosthetic chicken wings for those poor, wounded birds?
It's been a long time since high school Biology and we never really studied chicken anatomy, but where on the bird are the McNuggets? For that matter, where are the Chicken Fingers? Chicken Fingers implies Chicken Hands. Is Foghorn Leghorn developing opposable thumbs? Should we worry that chickens are catching up to us evolution-wise? If birds are truly descended from dinosaurs, can this be saurian revenge after all these millenia? At some future Chicken - Dinosaur Super Bowl Sunday, will they be consuming one hundred million pounds of Human McNuggets?
I will chow down on old Foghorn while I have the chance.
The National Chicken Council (Imagine White Leghorns in business attire gathered around a large conference table) submitted a press release this week. It crowed that Americans will consume one hundred million pounds of chicken products on Super Bowl Sunday which "if laid end-to-end would circle the Earth more than twice." Saturn has its rings of interstellar dust. Finally, Earth has a ring or two of poultry products and ours goes well with honey mustard dipping sauce..
As a patriotic American, I will, of course, consume my allotted share of chicken products on Super Bowl Sunday. I have a few questions for the National Chicken Council, however. While I chow down on a dozen wings, what happens to the rest of the chicken? Does my gluttony result in six limb-less and traumatized chickens? Are there prosthetic chicken wings for those poor, wounded birds?
It's been a long time since high school Biology and we never really studied chicken anatomy, but where on the bird are the McNuggets? For that matter, where are the Chicken Fingers? Chicken Fingers implies Chicken Hands. Is Foghorn Leghorn developing opposable thumbs? Should we worry that chickens are catching up to us evolution-wise? If birds are truly descended from dinosaurs, can this be saurian revenge after all these millenia? At some future Chicken - Dinosaur Super Bowl Sunday, will they be consuming one hundred million pounds of Human McNuggets?
I will chow down on old Foghorn while I have the chance.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Recycling Day
Walking the dog on Recycling Day is a great way to get to know your neighbors. The dog must "mark his territory" on these strange green containers that were not here yesterday and therefore pose a threat which must be neutralized. While Fido is doing his business, you can't help but notice the container contents. "Must be hard times at the Johnsons. Harry is drinking Pabst instead of Heineken." "Those wine and liquor bottles explain all the noise from the Smiths last Saturday." "Based on the number of pseudoephedrine containers there, the Browns have the worst cases of sinus congestion or that peculiar chemical smell from their house may be of interest to the DEA."
Far and away, the largest component of recyclables are water bottles. One fell out of an overflowing bin and I retrieved it. The label read "Smaller cap. Less plastic. This is part of our on-going effort to reduce our impact on the environment." Of course, drinking filtered tap water would eliminate the entire bottle, save tons of trash, and really help the environment.
Then, in small print, "Cap is a small part and poses a choking hazard particularly for children." So, we have made the cap smaller to protect the environment and in so doing made it a hazard to our children. We care more for the environment than for our children!
Rather than focusing on Mitt's tax return or Newt's marital follies, here is an issue that the Republicans can run on. Clearly, those Euro-socialists in the Obama Administration placed onerous regulations on the job-creating bottled water industry forcing it to reduce its cap size. What's the end result? Kids are choking to death! Not that those pro-abortion Democrats care anyway. All they want is pristine wilderness without job-creating oil pipelines running through it to spoil the view.
One can learn a lot from Recycling Containers.
Far and away, the largest component of recyclables are water bottles. One fell out of an overflowing bin and I retrieved it. The label read "Smaller cap. Less plastic. This is part of our on-going effort to reduce our impact on the environment." Of course, drinking filtered tap water would eliminate the entire bottle, save tons of trash, and really help the environment.
Then, in small print, "Cap is a small part and poses a choking hazard particularly for children." So, we have made the cap smaller to protect the environment and in so doing made it a hazard to our children. We care more for the environment than for our children!
Rather than focusing on Mitt's tax return or Newt's marital follies, here is an issue that the Republicans can run on. Clearly, those Euro-socialists in the Obama Administration placed onerous regulations on the job-creating bottled water industry forcing it to reduce its cap size. What's the end result? Kids are choking to death! Not that those pro-abortion Democrats care anyway. All they want is pristine wilderness without job-creating oil pipelines running through it to spoil the view.
One can learn a lot from Recycling Containers.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Marketing Genius
Marketing is the art of convincing people to buy something they don't necessarily need at a time they don't necessarily want it. I heard a master stroke of marketing on Sports Radio while walking the dog this morning.
"Buy her that engagement ring now and we'll give you a free big screen TV just in time for "The Big Game". (We can't say Super Bowl or we'll have to pay a rights fee.) Complete your purchase of any diamond ring, $2,995 or more in value, this week and we'll guarantee delivery and set up of that big screen TV in plenty of time for all the action."
The jewelry business is nothing if not seasonal. The diamond ring counter is stacked three deep with customers before Christmas and Valentine's Day. In late January, jewelry clerks catch up on their e-mail and play a lot of Angry Birds. Diamonds can be discounted down to zero, but guys wrapped up in the NFL Playoffs won't notice. Their potential fiancees stew in anger (He got me a Cuisinart for Christmas. He calls that a romantic gift?. I'm cutting him off. Not that it matters with those NFL playoff games going on until all hours while he and his idiot buddies drink themselves into oblivion.)
No one is happy. Jewelers have no business. Potential fiancees are frustrated. Guys (when they sober up) wonder why there are sheets and pillows on the couch.
Enter the marketing genius of the free TV with a diamond ring. Jewelers have a third rush season. Girls get that ring before their friends do on Valentine's Day. Guys move back to the bedroom and sheepishly ask, "Why go to your Bridesmaid's house to plan that Bachelorette Party on Super Bowl Night? I'll just have a few of the boys over to catch the game on my new TV."
Everyone is happy.
"Buy her that engagement ring now and we'll give you a free big screen TV just in time for "The Big Game". (We can't say Super Bowl or we'll have to pay a rights fee.) Complete your purchase of any diamond ring, $2,995 or more in value, this week and we'll guarantee delivery and set up of that big screen TV in plenty of time for all the action."
The jewelry business is nothing if not seasonal. The diamond ring counter is stacked three deep with customers before Christmas and Valentine's Day. In late January, jewelry clerks catch up on their e-mail and play a lot of Angry Birds. Diamonds can be discounted down to zero, but guys wrapped up in the NFL Playoffs won't notice. Their potential fiancees stew in anger (He got me a Cuisinart for Christmas. He calls that a romantic gift?. I'm cutting him off. Not that it matters with those NFL playoff games going on until all hours while he and his idiot buddies drink themselves into oblivion.)
No one is happy. Jewelers have no business. Potential fiancees are frustrated. Guys (when they sober up) wonder why there are sheets and pillows on the couch.
Enter the marketing genius of the free TV with a diamond ring. Jewelers have a third rush season. Girls get that ring before their friends do on Valentine's Day. Guys move back to the bedroom and sheepishly ask, "Why go to your Bridesmaid's house to plan that Bachelorette Party on Super Bowl Night? I'll just have a few of the boys over to catch the game on my new TV."
Everyone is happy.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Underlyig Lesson
Everyone has an axe to grind regarding the Penn State situation. With Joe Paterno's death yesterday, the voices are louder and more insistent. "Now that truth can come out!" "Joe died of a broken heart!" "Joe failed in his moral obligation!" "Joe transformed Penn State from a cow college to a respected research university!"
Whatever "the truth" might be, there is an underlying lesson in all of this. Your life, your sense of self-worth, should never be tied to an institution. Joe devoted sixty plus years of his life to Penn State. When things got bad (regardless of whose fault it was), he was dismissed with a phone call.
I devoted thirty years of my life to my employer. I never took all my vacation. I came to work the morning after flying in from a job site at midnight the night before. I worked seven days a week up to eighteen hours a day during construction and start-ups. I never took "comp time". Five days after receiving my 30 year pin, I was "downsized". My boss probably would have preferred to dismiss me with a phone call, but I was sitting in my cubicle at the time wondering why my phone was disconnected.
When times get tough, no matter how much you love the institution, it will not love you back. No matter how many sacrifices you made for it, it will cut you loose if that means its own preservation. As Michael Corleone said in "The Godfather", "It's not personal. It's business."
We all want that Retirement Dinner with the glowing tributes and the gold watch. So few of us actually get it. If anyone in the history of Penn State deserved to be at the head table for that emotional send-off, it was Joe Paterno. But what we deserve from an institution and what we get are often two very different things.
Whatever "the truth" might be, there is an underlying lesson in all of this. Your life, your sense of self-worth, should never be tied to an institution. Joe devoted sixty plus years of his life to Penn State. When things got bad (regardless of whose fault it was), he was dismissed with a phone call.
I devoted thirty years of my life to my employer. I never took all my vacation. I came to work the morning after flying in from a job site at midnight the night before. I worked seven days a week up to eighteen hours a day during construction and start-ups. I never took "comp time". Five days after receiving my 30 year pin, I was "downsized". My boss probably would have preferred to dismiss me with a phone call, but I was sitting in my cubicle at the time wondering why my phone was disconnected.
When times get tough, no matter how much you love the institution, it will not love you back. No matter how many sacrifices you made for it, it will cut you loose if that means its own preservation. As Michael Corleone said in "The Godfather", "It's not personal. It's business."
We all want that Retirement Dinner with the glowing tributes and the gold watch. So few of us actually get it. If anyone in the history of Penn State deserved to be at the head table for that emotional send-off, it was Joe Paterno. But what we deserve from an institution and what we get are often two very different things.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Calling Pod People
We 99%ers seeking inexpensive lodging when we travel have a new and exciting option. A Hong Kong company offers stackable sleeping pods ("It's like Legos!"). Each pod is slightly larger than a twin bed and, this being the 21st century, is Wi-Fi enabled with a computer table, bed, and air-conditioning. A photo accompanying the article describing the pods shows them stacked four across and two high. The article notes that "Some potential customers expressed doubts about the practicality of the coffin-like pods for long-term residence."
Hey, coffins work for vampires' long-term residence and what is more popular nowadays than The Twilight Saga. "Bella, ignore the advances of that muscular werewolf guy. He will make you sleep in a musty, damp den. Join my vampire brethren in an air-conditioned pod. We have Wi-Fi."
My guess is that those balky "potential customers" experienced the joys of Army Basic Training in a WW II vintage barracks. We Basic Trainees slept in bunk beds about three feet apart. Each barracks floor had 60 bunks crammed inside. Walking down the barracks floor after light out to the cacophony of snoring and emission of body gas from 60 individuals was memorable. Enclosing individuals in "pods" will help, of course, but will the "pods" solve the noise and smell problems entirely?
Even if they do, access to the top tier of pods must be via external ladders. Imagine being awakened by some poor top-tier, irritable bladder syndrome afflicted soul clambering up and down a ladder outside your pod repeatedly during the night.
Maybe stackable sleeping pods will be successful, but I'll pay extra for a conventional hotel room.
Hey, coffins work for vampires' long-term residence and what is more popular nowadays than The Twilight Saga. "Bella, ignore the advances of that muscular werewolf guy. He will make you sleep in a musty, damp den. Join my vampire brethren in an air-conditioned pod. We have Wi-Fi."
My guess is that those balky "potential customers" experienced the joys of Army Basic Training in a WW II vintage barracks. We Basic Trainees slept in bunk beds about three feet apart. Each barracks floor had 60 bunks crammed inside. Walking down the barracks floor after light out to the cacophony of snoring and emission of body gas from 60 individuals was memorable. Enclosing individuals in "pods" will help, of course, but will the "pods" solve the noise and smell problems entirely?
Even if they do, access to the top tier of pods must be via external ladders. Imagine being awakened by some poor top-tier, irritable bladder syndrome afflicted soul clambering up and down a ladder outside your pod repeatedly during the night.
Maybe stackable sleeping pods will be successful, but I'll pay extra for a conventional hotel room.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
One-Upmanship
Like most Americans, I studiously avoid the Republican Candidates' Debates. "I'll take your wall along the border and raise you to a double wall!" "I'll take your double wall and electrify it plus I'll add an alligator-filled moat!" "Oh yeah, I'll make high school students clean up the school lavatories to teach them the value of work!" "That's nothing, I'll make them do it on their knees with toothbrushes!" I got my fill of one-upmanship on the schoolyards of my youth.
Sometimes though, juvenile one-upmanship goes beyond mildly amusing to dangerous. Rick Perry stated in Monday's debate that the US should eliminate all aid to long-time ally Turkey and kick it out of NATO because it is ruled by Islamic terrorists. Top that for being tough against Islamofascism, Mitt, Newt, Rick S., or Ron.
The Turkish government immediately condemned Perry's allegations as "unfounded and inappropriate". The US State Department responded, "We absolutely and fundamentally disagree with (Perry's) assessment." Well, for the time being, anyway . If Rick Perry becomes President, Turkey automatically becomes infested with Islamic terrorists because he said so and State Department folks don't want to lose their jobs. How many lost their jobs by disagreeing whether Saddam had Weapons of Mass Destruction because George W. said so?
Alas, it is human nature to live up to other's opinion of you. "You say I'm an obnoxious bully? I'll act like one." The Turkish government might reply, "You say I'm ruled by Islamic terrorists? I'll throw out NATO missle bases keeping an eye on Russia. I'll open my border with Iraq so arms can flow in. Gee, I border Syria, too. Maybe, I'll stir up the pot there. What kind of Islamist terrorist nation would I be without threatening Israel? That always gets a rise out of you guys."
One-upmanship is best left on the schoolyards and out of international relations.
Sometimes though, juvenile one-upmanship goes beyond mildly amusing to dangerous. Rick Perry stated in Monday's debate that the US should eliminate all aid to long-time ally Turkey and kick it out of NATO because it is ruled by Islamic terrorists. Top that for being tough against Islamofascism, Mitt, Newt, Rick S., or Ron.
The Turkish government immediately condemned Perry's allegations as "unfounded and inappropriate". The US State Department responded, "We absolutely and fundamentally disagree with (Perry's) assessment." Well, for the time being, anyway . If Rick Perry becomes President, Turkey automatically becomes infested with Islamic terrorists because he said so and State Department folks don't want to lose their jobs. How many lost their jobs by disagreeing whether Saddam had Weapons of Mass Destruction because George W. said so?
Alas, it is human nature to live up to other's opinion of you. "You say I'm an obnoxious bully? I'll act like one." The Turkish government might reply, "You say I'm ruled by Islamic terrorists? I'll throw out NATO missle bases keeping an eye on Russia. I'll open my border with Iraq so arms can flow in. Gee, I border Syria, too. Maybe, I'll stir up the pot there. What kind of Islamist terrorist nation would I be without threatening Israel? That always gets a rise out of you guys."
One-upmanship is best left on the schoolyards and out of international relations.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Rays Recipe
Baltimore Ravens linebacker Ray Lewis is 36 years old and is still playing at a high level in his 14th year of pro football. With the average career length for a linebacker being five years, what can be Ray's secret?
Mr Lewis credits his career longevity to diet. Ray hasn't eaten fast food in 13 years (Those Chicken McNuggets go straight to his thighs) and he hasn't eaten any pork products over the same period (I've never seen a fast pig or a slow Orthodox Jew / observant Muslim). If this is all there is to it, the Middle East and certain neighborhoods in New York City would be rife with superannuated bone-crushing tacklers.
The final ingredient in Ray Lewis' recipe for success is water and plenty of it. Ray drinks at least one gallon of water every day before noon. Now, a gallon of water is 168 fluid ounces (8 pounds). Since Ray doesn't gain 8 pounds every day, it must go somewhere. You don't want to stand between Ray and the nearest urinal in the morning. Water also leaves the body through perspiration. You don't want to pay Ray's laundry bill.
My Philadelphia Eagles have not had an all-Pro linebacker since Bill Bergey back in the '80s. Instead of looking to college campuses for the next Ray Lewis, why not think outside the box? Build the Philadelphia Eagles Training Center in Jerusalem offering gallons of water (Free before noon!) and a pork-free diet to all comers. It is sure to pay off better than drafting some fast food-loving, pork rind-munching yahoo from North Central Oklahoma A&M.
Mr Lewis credits his career longevity to diet. Ray hasn't eaten fast food in 13 years (Those Chicken McNuggets go straight to his thighs) and he hasn't eaten any pork products over the same period (I've never seen a fast pig or a slow Orthodox Jew / observant Muslim). If this is all there is to it, the Middle East and certain neighborhoods in New York City would be rife with superannuated bone-crushing tacklers.
The final ingredient in Ray Lewis' recipe for success is water and plenty of it. Ray drinks at least one gallon of water every day before noon. Now, a gallon of water is 168 fluid ounces (8 pounds). Since Ray doesn't gain 8 pounds every day, it must go somewhere. You don't want to stand between Ray and the nearest urinal in the morning. Water also leaves the body through perspiration. You don't want to pay Ray's laundry bill.
My Philadelphia Eagles have not had an all-Pro linebacker since Bill Bergey back in the '80s. Instead of looking to college campuses for the next Ray Lewis, why not think outside the box? Build the Philadelphia Eagles Training Center in Jerusalem offering gallons of water (Free before noon!) and a pork-free diet to all comers. It is sure to pay off better than drafting some fast food-loving, pork rind-munching yahoo from North Central Oklahoma A&M.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Oddball Eater
I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore.
Burger King insulted me personally with its new commercial. Touting the chain's new french fries, the commercial shows consumers as "dippers" (gently inserting fries into ketchup), "smearers" (swiping deeply into that rich red pool), "nibblers" (taking sweet short bites) and "oddball eaters" (removing the top of a burger bun, placing fries in a cross-hatch pattern, applying ketchup, reassembling the bun, and gobbling away).
Excuse me, Burger King, but this is the very way that I've been eating burgers for years. It is by no means "oddball"! It is a method born of necessity. The original "15 cent hamburgers" of my youth were tasteless consisting of all bun and very little meat. Those "Where's the Beef?" commercials were not far from reality at the time. Consumers inserted french fries atop the meat for a bit of crunch, saltiness, and bulk.
When the Quarter-Pounder, Big Mac, and Whopper came along with more meat, lettuce, tomato, onion, and "secret sauce", we old-timers continued to add fries though they were not, strictly speaking, needed to make the burger palatable. We may be creatures of habit, but we are not "oddball eaters". That is an insult worthy of an abject apology and I will foreswear Whoppers until said apology is forthcoming.
By the way, those 15 cent burgers, 10 cent fries, and 20 cent milkshakes from fifty years ago may have been tasteless, but they sure came in handy. We would get all of $1 "meal money" for swim meets over an hour travel time away. We would stop at a McDonald's or at the late and lamented Gino's or Stop and Go after the meet and purchase thre burgers, three fries, and a shake and get change. Try doing that today.
Burger King insulted me personally with its new commercial. Touting the chain's new french fries, the commercial shows consumers as "dippers" (gently inserting fries into ketchup), "smearers" (swiping deeply into that rich red pool), "nibblers" (taking sweet short bites) and "oddball eaters" (removing the top of a burger bun, placing fries in a cross-hatch pattern, applying ketchup, reassembling the bun, and gobbling away).
Excuse me, Burger King, but this is the very way that I've been eating burgers for years. It is by no means "oddball"! It is a method born of necessity. The original "15 cent hamburgers" of my youth were tasteless consisting of all bun and very little meat. Those "Where's the Beef?" commercials were not far from reality at the time. Consumers inserted french fries atop the meat for a bit of crunch, saltiness, and bulk.
When the Quarter-Pounder, Big Mac, and Whopper came along with more meat, lettuce, tomato, onion, and "secret sauce", we old-timers continued to add fries though they were not, strictly speaking, needed to make the burger palatable. We may be creatures of habit, but we are not "oddball eaters". That is an insult worthy of an abject apology and I will foreswear Whoppers until said apology is forthcoming.
By the way, those 15 cent burgers, 10 cent fries, and 20 cent milkshakes from fifty years ago may have been tasteless, but they sure came in handy. We would get all of $1 "meal money" for swim meets over an hour travel time away. We would stop at a McDonald's or at the late and lamented Gino's or Stop and Go after the meet and purchase thre burgers, three fries, and a shake and get change. Try doing that today.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Granny Grzywacz
The lot of a substitute teacher is not a happy one. The simple act of reading the class roll is a challenge. We students in the multi-ethnic Scranton school system fifty years ago would guffaw as substitutes would stumble over our surnames. We had the consonant-rich Gryzywacz, the vowel-abundant Ciesielski, and the exotic Giglio in our midst. Try pronouncing those without coaching.
Our Christian names were seldom a challenge back in the day. Everyone was Joey, Jimmy, Billy, or Mary (fill in the blank, Ann? Elizabeth? Frances?). The Diocese of Scranton wouild not baptize a Dylan, Tyler, or Tiffany. Who ever heard of Saint Britney anyway? Our substitute teachers could always fall back on "Joey G-r-z? Oh the heck with it. Is Joey G present?"
Ethnic surnames remain here in the 21st century and substitute teachers the additional challenge of creative spelling on modern first names. Kaleigh, Caley, Cailey, and KayLee come to mind. Now there is a new trend and it may simplify substitute teachers' lives. Parents are naming their children after sports heroes.
The Upper Nazareth Clippers junior pee-wee football team was honored with a captioned photo in a recent newspaper sports section. Honorees included a Peyton (no doubt named for Colts QB Peyton Manning) and two Chases (likely honoring Phillies 2nd baseman Chase Utley). Now there are a couple of names that anyone (even a newby substitute teacher) can read and pronounce. If the Giants win this year's Super Bowl, we can count on a few Elis coming up through the ranks in ten years or so.
Why didn't this trend begin back in the 1950s (other than the whole Diocese of Scranton thing)? The Colts quarterbacks back then were Johnny Unitas and Earl Morral. The Phillies 2nd basemen of that era were Solly Hemus, Granny Hamner, and Sparky Anderson. A parent, Colts fan or not, might choose Johnny as the name for his bouncing baby boy, but one would have to be a real fan to name one's offspring Earl. Even the most avid Phillies fan would hesitate to stick his child with the name Solly, Granny, or Sparky.
Help is on the way, substitute teachers. As long as our sports heroes have easy-to-pronounce first names, those attendance rolls will be easier to read in the future. By the way, Grzywacz is pronounced "Guh-vatch".
Our Christian names were seldom a challenge back in the day. Everyone was Joey, Jimmy, Billy, or Mary (fill in the blank, Ann? Elizabeth? Frances?). The Diocese of Scranton wouild not baptize a Dylan, Tyler, or Tiffany. Who ever heard of Saint Britney anyway? Our substitute teachers could always fall back on "Joey G-r-z? Oh the heck with it. Is Joey G present?"
Ethnic surnames remain here in the 21st century and substitute teachers the additional challenge of creative spelling on modern first names. Kaleigh, Caley, Cailey, and KayLee come to mind. Now there is a new trend and it may simplify substitute teachers' lives. Parents are naming their children after sports heroes.
The Upper Nazareth Clippers junior pee-wee football team was honored with a captioned photo in a recent newspaper sports section. Honorees included a Peyton (no doubt named for Colts QB Peyton Manning) and two Chases (likely honoring Phillies 2nd baseman Chase Utley). Now there are a couple of names that anyone (even a newby substitute teacher) can read and pronounce. If the Giants win this year's Super Bowl, we can count on a few Elis coming up through the ranks in ten years or so.
Why didn't this trend begin back in the 1950s (other than the whole Diocese of Scranton thing)? The Colts quarterbacks back then were Johnny Unitas and Earl Morral. The Phillies 2nd basemen of that era were Solly Hemus, Granny Hamner, and Sparky Anderson. A parent, Colts fan or not, might choose Johnny as the name for his bouncing baby boy, but one would have to be a real fan to name one's offspring Earl. Even the most avid Phillies fan would hesitate to stick his child with the name Solly, Granny, or Sparky.
Help is on the way, substitute teachers. As long as our sports heroes have easy-to-pronounce first names, those attendance rolls will be easier to read in the future. By the way, Grzywacz is pronounced "Guh-vatch".
Friday, January 13, 2012
Non-Threatening Boy
In "The Simpsons", Lisa subscribes to "Non-Threatening Boy", a fanzine for tween girls. When pop culture threatens the morality of teen and tween girls, society invariably comes up with a wholesome alternative.
Elvis had those suggestive swiveling hips, that greasy pompadour, and that come-hither sneer. Bursting onto the scene just in time to give "good girls" someone to swoon over was Pat Boone.
The early Beatles were cute and cuddly and just wanted "to hold your hand". No wholesome competition was necessary at first. Then came those scraggly Rolling Stones and the Beatles went all weird with "Sgt Pepper" and that Mahareshi stuff. Riding to the rescue of morality were the Dave Clark Five, Gerry & The Pacemakers, Peter & Gordon and the clean-cut British Invasion. "I like that new British music. I prefer "Ferry Across the Mersey" to "Sympathy for the Devil", but I'm still cool."
When Tipper Gore finally figured out what those rap lyrics meant and her campaign to place an "R-rating" on music failed, it was time for the 'N Sync and New Kids on the Block to provide a white bread alternate to rap. "I don't really know enough to choose between Tupac and Biggie, but Justin Timberlake from 'N Sync is much cuter than Jordan Knight from NKOTB." Then Disney got in the act and raised wholesomeness to stratospheric heights with the Jonas Brothers.
"Non-threatening" may pay off in the short run, but it is a bad idea to get rid of your "bad boy" records at the next garage sale. Elvis (especially young, rebellious Elvis) is still popular today while no one can remember any of Pat Boone's Greatest Hits. Beatles and Rolling Stones CDs continue to sell while Dave Clark Five stuff sits in the Bargain Bin. Music historians will be writing about Tupac twenty years from now when NKOTB is playing before sparse crowds at senior citizens centers.
Thus has it ever been. If we are to believe "Amadeus", Salieri was the toast of 18th century Vienna, but it is Mozart who is still beloved 200 years later.
Bad boy music rules.
Elvis had those suggestive swiveling hips, that greasy pompadour, and that come-hither sneer. Bursting onto the scene just in time to give "good girls" someone to swoon over was Pat Boone.
The early Beatles were cute and cuddly and just wanted "to hold your hand". No wholesome competition was necessary at first. Then came those scraggly Rolling Stones and the Beatles went all weird with "Sgt Pepper" and that Mahareshi stuff. Riding to the rescue of morality were the Dave Clark Five, Gerry & The Pacemakers, Peter & Gordon and the clean-cut British Invasion. "I like that new British music. I prefer "Ferry Across the Mersey" to "Sympathy for the Devil", but I'm still cool."
When Tipper Gore finally figured out what those rap lyrics meant and her campaign to place an "R-rating" on music failed, it was time for the 'N Sync and New Kids on the Block to provide a white bread alternate to rap. "I don't really know enough to choose between Tupac and Biggie, but Justin Timberlake from 'N Sync is much cuter than Jordan Knight from NKOTB." Then Disney got in the act and raised wholesomeness to stratospheric heights with the Jonas Brothers.
"Non-threatening" may pay off in the short run, but it is a bad idea to get rid of your "bad boy" records at the next garage sale. Elvis (especially young, rebellious Elvis) is still popular today while no one can remember any of Pat Boone's Greatest Hits. Beatles and Rolling Stones CDs continue to sell while Dave Clark Five stuff sits in the Bargain Bin. Music historians will be writing about Tupac twenty years from now when NKOTB is playing before sparse crowds at senior citizens centers.
Thus has it ever been. If we are to believe "Amadeus", Salieri was the toast of 18th century Vienna, but it is Mozart who is still beloved 200 years later.
Bad boy music rules.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Commissioner Butch
News Item - Baseball Commissioner Bud Selig will be offered a two year contract extension. Selig, age 77, had previously planned to retire in 2012. He currently earns more than $22 million per year and has use of a private jet.
Let's analyze this shocking news in detail:
1. A 77 year old man is still known as "Bud". I stopped going by "Skip" in grade school because I was getting mocked on the playground and beaten up. Mr Selig's given name is Alan which is not so horrible. If his parents had stuck him with Clarence or Aloysius, I could see it, but nowadays "Bud" is reserved for pet Golden Retrievers or beer, not 77 year old men.
2. Bud's salary is about the same as that of Alex Rodriguez and Albert Pujols. A-Rod has a shot at the all-time home run record. Albert has more homers and RBIs than anyone over the past ten years. Still, their salaries are considered scandalous. "If A-Rod has 500 at-bats this year, he will be paid $40,000 every time he comes to the plate. If Albert hits 40 home runs this year, the Angels will be paying him $500,000 per round-tripper. The world is coming to an end!" On the other hand, Alex and Albert possess skills that the rest of us can only dream about and are being paid what the market will bear. About all that Bud Selig has to do is get up in the morning and have a bad haircut. I could handle that even at age 77.
3. Several baseball superstars have contract clauses ensuring that they get a personal hotel suite on road trips. Again, this is considered scandalous. Wait until they hear about Selig's private jet. "OK, Phillies, I'll sign a contract with you if you give me not only a personal suite on the road, but throw in a private jet. Hey, the Commissioner gets one. And, by the way, the team picks up the tab for whatever I take from the minibar."
Soon, American kids will take to the sandlots dreaming of developing into major league baseball players. Fame, fortune, and personal hotel suites await the fortunate few. Smarter American kids will take sports management courses and work on their schmoozing skills dreaming of being the next baseball commissioner. There is not so much fame, but plenty of fortune not to mention hotel suites and that private jet.
The only down side is having to go by an accessible nickname. "Bud" is already taken, so I'd recommend "Butch".
Let's analyze this shocking news in detail:
1. A 77 year old man is still known as "Bud". I stopped going by "Skip" in grade school because I was getting mocked on the playground and beaten up. Mr Selig's given name is Alan which is not so horrible. If his parents had stuck him with Clarence or Aloysius, I could see it, but nowadays "Bud" is reserved for pet Golden Retrievers or beer, not 77 year old men.
2. Bud's salary is about the same as that of Alex Rodriguez and Albert Pujols. A-Rod has a shot at the all-time home run record. Albert has more homers and RBIs than anyone over the past ten years. Still, their salaries are considered scandalous. "If A-Rod has 500 at-bats this year, he will be paid $40,000 every time he comes to the plate. If Albert hits 40 home runs this year, the Angels will be paying him $500,000 per round-tripper. The world is coming to an end!" On the other hand, Alex and Albert possess skills that the rest of us can only dream about and are being paid what the market will bear. About all that Bud Selig has to do is get up in the morning and have a bad haircut. I could handle that even at age 77.
3. Several baseball superstars have contract clauses ensuring that they get a personal hotel suite on road trips. Again, this is considered scandalous. Wait until they hear about Selig's private jet. "OK, Phillies, I'll sign a contract with you if you give me not only a personal suite on the road, but throw in a private jet. Hey, the Commissioner gets one. And, by the way, the team picks up the tab for whatever I take from the minibar."
Soon, American kids will take to the sandlots dreaming of developing into major league baseball players. Fame, fortune, and personal hotel suites await the fortunate few. Smarter American kids will take sports management courses and work on their schmoozing skills dreaming of being the next baseball commissioner. There is not so much fame, but plenty of fortune not to mention hotel suites and that private jet.
The only down side is having to go by an accessible nickname. "Bud" is already taken, so I'd recommend "Butch".
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Sarah 2.0
Mitt Romney won the New Hampshire Primary yesterday. Once again, it appears that Tea Partiers and other "real" Republicans will be forced to hold their collective noses and vote more against a Democratic presidential candidate than for a Republican who shares their values. Sure, Romney in 2012 or McCain in 2008 were better than a certain Kenyan-born Socialist with a suspiciously Muslim-sounding name, but what the GOP needs is a vice presidential candidate who can get their juices flowing.
Someone like Sarah Palin, for example. When she burst onto the scene in 2008, she was the Tea Party's Dream. Pro-life? She had that Downs Syndrome baby. Pro-military? Her son was shipping off to Iraq with the Alaska National Guard. Pro-gun? Merely a Lifetime NRA member with several notches on her rifle barrel for shooting moose. Big hair? Got it. As if any real Republican woman doesn't have big hair. The Imagineers at Disney could not have created a more perfect candidate. The GOP's conservative base was re-energized. The McCain - Palin ticket almost won.
Is there a Sarah 2.0 out there to team with Romney and put the GOP back in the White House in 2012? Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the next Vice President of the United States of America - Tim Tebow!
Only the wholesome, handsome Denver Bronco quarterback can bring in the Religious Right vote plus the NFL Dad vote plus the "I don't know anything about politics. I just vote for the cuter guy." vote. That surely will swing the election to Romney - Tebow.
Pro-life? Tim espouses abstinence until marriage. Pro-military? Tebow is a regular on the USO Athlete Tour circuit. Pro-religion? The guy kneels and prays after big plays. Big hair? Romney has that perfect "helmet head" coiffure, but Tim has an actual helmet on his head.
The Republicans pulled Sarah Palin from political obscurity and nearly stole the 2008 election. Can they spring Sarah 2.0, Tim Tebow on us in 2012 and regain the White House?
Someone like Sarah Palin, for example. When she burst onto the scene in 2008, she was the Tea Party's Dream. Pro-life? She had that Downs Syndrome baby. Pro-military? Her son was shipping off to Iraq with the Alaska National Guard. Pro-gun? Merely a Lifetime NRA member with several notches on her rifle barrel for shooting moose. Big hair? Got it. As if any real Republican woman doesn't have big hair. The Imagineers at Disney could not have created a more perfect candidate. The GOP's conservative base was re-energized. The McCain - Palin ticket almost won.
Is there a Sarah 2.0 out there to team with Romney and put the GOP back in the White House in 2012? Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the next Vice President of the United States of America - Tim Tebow!
Only the wholesome, handsome Denver Bronco quarterback can bring in the Religious Right vote plus the NFL Dad vote plus the "I don't know anything about politics. I just vote for the cuter guy." vote. That surely will swing the election to Romney - Tebow.
Pro-life? Tim espouses abstinence until marriage. Pro-military? Tebow is a regular on the USO Athlete Tour circuit. Pro-religion? The guy kneels and prays after big plays. Big hair? Romney has that perfect "helmet head" coiffure, but Tim has an actual helmet on his head.
The Republicans pulled Sarah Palin from political obscurity and nearly stole the 2008 election. Can they spring Sarah 2.0, Tim Tebow on us in 2012 and regain the White House?
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Nostradamus McCartney
I had two thoughts upon first hearing The Beatles recording of "When I'm 64":
1. What a totally Paul song. John must be throwing up in his mouth that this trite piece of trash is listed as "Lennon - McCartney".
2. That's the extent of excitement at age 64? A Valentine? A bottle of wine? A cottage on the Isle of Wight (if it's not too drear and only if we scrimp and save)? I'm 19 years old now with my whole life ahead of me. By the time I'm 64, I'll be as rich as Hugh Hefner and as daring as James Bond.
I turned 64 yesterday. It turns out that Paul McCartney was a lot more accurate in his prediction of life as a senior citizen than I was 47 years ago. "When I get older losing my hair many years from now." Yup, Paul nailed that one. What Paul missed was that the hair that no longer grows on my sexagenarian scalp now sprouts wildly from my ears and nostrils. "When I get older, ha-hair will grow. In unlikely places" may be true but doesn't fit the meter of the song.
"If I'd been out 'til quarter to three, would you lock the door?" In 1967, I foolishly thought that Paul meant 2:45 AM. That is, after all, the shank of the evening for a 19 year old. The only "quarter to three" that we 64 year olds are likely to see is the one in the afternoon just before our nap time. Of course, we lock the door before our post-lunch snooze. Paul is two for two in his predictions.
"Doing the garden. Digging the weeds. Who could ask for more?" Seriously, Mr McCartney? In 1967, the "more" I would ask for was more booze, more music, and more speed from the family's decrepit car that I had to beg to drive. In 2012, a quiet morning puttering around the yard actually does satisfy. Nostradamus McCartney did it again.
1. What a totally Paul song. John must be throwing up in his mouth that this trite piece of trash is listed as "Lennon - McCartney".
2. That's the extent of excitement at age 64? A Valentine? A bottle of wine? A cottage on the Isle of Wight (if it's not too drear and only if we scrimp and save)? I'm 19 years old now with my whole life ahead of me. By the time I'm 64, I'll be as rich as Hugh Hefner and as daring as James Bond.
I turned 64 yesterday. It turns out that Paul McCartney was a lot more accurate in his prediction of life as a senior citizen than I was 47 years ago. "When I get older losing my hair many years from now." Yup, Paul nailed that one. What Paul missed was that the hair that no longer grows on my sexagenarian scalp now sprouts wildly from my ears and nostrils. "When I get older, ha-hair will grow. In unlikely places" may be true but doesn't fit the meter of the song.
"If I'd been out 'til quarter to three, would you lock the door?" In 1967, I foolishly thought that Paul meant 2:45 AM. That is, after all, the shank of the evening for a 19 year old. The only "quarter to three" that we 64 year olds are likely to see is the one in the afternoon just before our nap time. Of course, we lock the door before our post-lunch snooze. Paul is two for two in his predictions.
"Doing the garden. Digging the weeds. Who could ask for more?" Seriously, Mr McCartney? In 1967, the "more" I would ask for was more booze, more music, and more speed from the family's decrepit car that I had to beg to drive. In 2012, a quiet morning puttering around the yard actually does satisfy. Nostradamus McCartney did it again.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Out Of It Old Guy
I never thought that I would become the uncool old guy who failed to keep up with popular music. "Bah, this modern stuff sounds like two angry cats fighting in a bag. Give me Lawrence Welk any day."
Until recently, I may not have appreciated their music, but I at least had heard of the chart-topping musicians like Justin Bieber, Katie Perry, and The Black-Eyed Peas. I have now descended into full-blown Out Of It Old Guy Mode.
Rolling Stone magazine is staging its first Super Bowl Party. The Feb. 4 concert will be staged in a converted warehouse in Indianapolis, a mere two blocks from the site of the Big Game. It will feature "four of America's hottest acts":
LMFAO, possessing the #1 and #9 songs on the Billboard Top 100
Gym Class Heroes with two #1 hits and another moving rapidly up the charts
Cobra Starship whose "You Make Me Feel" is #31 on the Top 100, and
Lupe Fiasco nominated for three Grammy Awards this year
What do all these groups have in common besides a big payday in February? I never heard of them. But that's OK because I'm an Out Of It Old Guy. What else do they have in common? It will cost $1,000 per ticket to catch them at the Rolling Stone Super Bowl Bash. Now there are probably tons of Out Of It Old Guys who have the will and the means to cough up $1,000 to see, for example, the Rolling Stones. Can there be thousands of LMFAO fans who have $1,000 to spend to catch a 45 minute set of their heroes playing in a converted warehouse in Indianapolis?
Meanwhile we Out Of It Old Guys eagerly snap up tickets to the Super Bowl Game at $2,500 each even though no one knows which teams will play in it. Maybe we really are Out Of It. Those kids going to the Rolling Stone Bash at least know who the performers will be.
Until recently, I may not have appreciated their music, but I at least had heard of the chart-topping musicians like Justin Bieber, Katie Perry, and The Black-Eyed Peas. I have now descended into full-blown Out Of It Old Guy Mode.
Rolling Stone magazine is staging its first Super Bowl Party. The Feb. 4 concert will be staged in a converted warehouse in Indianapolis, a mere two blocks from the site of the Big Game. It will feature "four of America's hottest acts":
LMFAO, possessing the #1 and #9 songs on the Billboard Top 100
Gym Class Heroes with two #1 hits and another moving rapidly up the charts
Cobra Starship whose "You Make Me Feel" is #31 on the Top 100, and
Lupe Fiasco nominated for three Grammy Awards this year
What do all these groups have in common besides a big payday in February? I never heard of them. But that's OK because I'm an Out Of It Old Guy. What else do they have in common? It will cost $1,000 per ticket to catch them at the Rolling Stone Super Bowl Bash. Now there are probably tons of Out Of It Old Guys who have the will and the means to cough up $1,000 to see, for example, the Rolling Stones. Can there be thousands of LMFAO fans who have $1,000 to spend to catch a 45 minute set of their heroes playing in a converted warehouse in Indianapolis?
Meanwhile we Out Of It Old Guys eagerly snap up tickets to the Super Bowl Game at $2,500 each even though no one knows which teams will play in it. Maybe we really are Out Of It. Those kids going to the Rolling Stone Bash at least know who the performers will be.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Plaigarism?
Oscar Season is almost upon us. The Producers Guild of America released its top ten nominees for Film of the Year including three that are currently at the local cineplex - "The Descendants", "The Adventures of Tintin", and "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo". Moviegoers pretty much rejected that list. The top-grossing films for the last week of 2011 were the latest installments of the "Mission Impossible", "Sherlock Holmes" and "Chipmunks" franchises. America was essentially saying, "Don't ask me to think, Hollywood. When I put out my $10 for a ticket, I want something mindless, preferably with characters that I've seen before."
What is a screenwriter to do? What original plots can he devise for Tom Cruise, Robert Downey, Jr. and Alvin in for the upcoming "MI:5", "Sherlock 3", and "Chipmunks 3"? Actually, the scripters for "Mission Impossible:4" solved that dilemma by taking a page from, of all things, professional wrestling.
At the climax of the movie, all appears lost. Tom Cruise is horribly beaten and has a broken leg. It looks like World War III is on the way and it is all the Impossible Mission Team's fault. Then the Bad Guy makes the mistake of mocking Tom and looking away. In that instant, Tom slowly rises despite his infirmities, draws strength from who knows where, overpowers the Bad Guy, undoes his nefarious plot, and we have a happy ending.
This is exactly the plot of a memorable Indian Chief Jay Strongbow wrestling match with Greg "The Hammer" Valentine in 1979. The Chief dominated at the start of the match just like Tom and the MI Team "cruise-d" through any initial difficulties in the movie. Then calamity struck. For the Chief, it was the dreaded "illegal object". The Hammer pulled a steel pipe from beneath the canvas and proceeded to pummel "The Pride of Pohaska, Oklahoma" with it. For Tom Cruise, the Bad Guy blows up the Kremlin, the MI team are the only logical culprits, and a manic chase ensues. Both Jay and Tom put up a brave fight, but the odds were insurmountable.
Strongbow crumpled to the canvas. As The Hammer strutted around the ring, the Warrior Spirit took hold of the Chief. He began a war whoop and a one-legged war dance. Her delivered several tomahawk chops and finished The Hammer off with his patented "bow and arrow stretch".
I've not seen "Mission Impossible 4" and I'm not sure if Tom Cruise invoked his Warrior Spirit, did a war whoop, danced one-legged, and applied his patented "cruise missile smash".
Still, the parallels between the current movie and the 1979 wrestling match are uncanny.
Had the screenwriters for "The Descendants", etc, borrowed a plot line from '70s pro wrestling, their movie might be raking in millions. Best Film Awards are nice and all, but they don't fill seats in the cineplex.
What is a screenwriter to do? What original plots can he devise for Tom Cruise, Robert Downey, Jr. and Alvin in for the upcoming "MI:5", "Sherlock 3", and "Chipmunks 3"? Actually, the scripters for "Mission Impossible:4" solved that dilemma by taking a page from, of all things, professional wrestling.
At the climax of the movie, all appears lost. Tom Cruise is horribly beaten and has a broken leg. It looks like World War III is on the way and it is all the Impossible Mission Team's fault. Then the Bad Guy makes the mistake of mocking Tom and looking away. In that instant, Tom slowly rises despite his infirmities, draws strength from who knows where, overpowers the Bad Guy, undoes his nefarious plot, and we have a happy ending.
This is exactly the plot of a memorable Indian Chief Jay Strongbow wrestling match with Greg "The Hammer" Valentine in 1979. The Chief dominated at the start of the match just like Tom and the MI Team "cruise-d" through any initial difficulties in the movie. Then calamity struck. For the Chief, it was the dreaded "illegal object". The Hammer pulled a steel pipe from beneath the canvas and proceeded to pummel "The Pride of Pohaska, Oklahoma" with it. For Tom Cruise, the Bad Guy blows up the Kremlin, the MI team are the only logical culprits, and a manic chase ensues. Both Jay and Tom put up a brave fight, but the odds were insurmountable.
Strongbow crumpled to the canvas. As The Hammer strutted around the ring, the Warrior Spirit took hold of the Chief. He began a war whoop and a one-legged war dance. Her delivered several tomahawk chops and finished The Hammer off with his patented "bow and arrow stretch".
I've not seen "Mission Impossible 4" and I'm not sure if Tom Cruise invoked his Warrior Spirit, did a war whoop, danced one-legged, and applied his patented "cruise missile smash".
Still, the parallels between the current movie and the 1979 wrestling match are uncanny.
Had the screenwriters for "The Descendants", etc, borrowed a plot line from '70s pro wrestling, their movie might be raking in millions. Best Film Awards are nice and all, but they don't fill seats in the cineplex.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
All in the Shoes
There are few places where this not-so-well-preserved 63 year old can look like the youngest person in the room. Early church services, weekday movie matinees, and "mall walking" at 8 AM come to mind. All are sites for senior bonhomie - sparkling conversation about grandchildren's accomplishments and humorous recollections of medical misadventures. "Then that doctor who looked about 12 years old prescribed this medication that cost an arm and a leg so I just went home and took a physic and was good as new." (Note to Readers under 60 - Physic is senior talk for laxative.)
There is one senior gathering place, however, where bonhomie does not apply - the Medical Testing Waiting Room. We seniors jostle for position outside the door at its 6:30 AM opening time cranky from the required 12 hour fast for our blood test. "That old bag with the walker is not getting to the sign-in sheet before me. I'm starving and the senior breakfast special at the diner is only good until 8 AM."
The people with the walkers set an effective blockade at the door this morning and I ended up number 10 on the sign-in sheet. It gave me plenty of time to look over my waiting room compadres. I realized that looking like the youngest person in the room is not a matter of actually being the youngest (We have to recite our birth dates several times during the sign-in process. About half the folks waiting were younger than I am.) nor is it a matter of being the best-groomed (I dressed in the dark this morning and combed my hair with my fingers as I rushed out the door.)
It is truly all in the shoes. Eight of ten folks sported those velcro-tab, faux-leather "athletic shoes". Only I wore tie-up shoes. I may have a few more miles on the odometer. I may look like I slept in a Dumpster. But, by God, I can still tie my own shoes. I've got to be the youngest-looking of this bunch.
There is one senior gathering place, however, where bonhomie does not apply - the Medical Testing Waiting Room. We seniors jostle for position outside the door at its 6:30 AM opening time cranky from the required 12 hour fast for our blood test. "That old bag with the walker is not getting to the sign-in sheet before me. I'm starving and the senior breakfast special at the diner is only good until 8 AM."
The people with the walkers set an effective blockade at the door this morning and I ended up number 10 on the sign-in sheet. It gave me plenty of time to look over my waiting room compadres. I realized that looking like the youngest person in the room is not a matter of actually being the youngest (We have to recite our birth dates several times during the sign-in process. About half the folks waiting were younger than I am.) nor is it a matter of being the best-groomed (I dressed in the dark this morning and combed my hair with my fingers as I rushed out the door.)
It is truly all in the shoes. Eight of ten folks sported those velcro-tab, faux-leather "athletic shoes". Only I wore tie-up shoes. I may have a few more miles on the odometer. I may look like I slept in a Dumpster. But, by God, I can still tie my own shoes. I've got to be the youngest-looking of this bunch.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Cool Ducks
The University of Oregon has the coolest football program ever. Its team is good, but what makes the Oregon Ducks stand out are their uniforms, their cheerleaders, their 4th quarter fan tradition, and especially their band. When your mascot is a sailor cap-clad Donald Duck look-alike, you've got to do something special to strike fear into the hearts of your opponents.
The Ducks took the field in yesterday's Rose Bowl wearing translucent reflective helmets that would not be out of place on the command deck of the Starship Enterprise. "Beam me to the end zone, Scotty." Oregon's uniforms featured a different color scheme for each game this year, but they saved the space age helmets for the Rose Bowl.
Oregon's cheerleaders are on scholarship. Other colleges go with the traditional pleated skirt, letter sweater, build a human pyramid concept of cheerleading. Oregon follows the NFL concept of scantily-clad dancers on the sidelines doing routines that would not be out of place at a "gentlemen's club". While scholarship football players are enrolled in Remedial Reading (of Defenses) 101, the scholarship cheer-babes are probably taking Music Appreciation 401 - The Proper Dance Moves to "Pour Some Sugar On Me".
Oregon's Rose Bowl opponent, Wisconsin, has a cool tradition - the 4th Quarter Jump-Around. As the teams switch ends of the field to begin the final stanza of the game, the Wisconsin band plays House of Pain's "Jump Around". Badger fans rise as one and pogo enthusiastically. Oregon did the Badgers one better in the Rose Bowl. The sound system blared the Isley Brother's "Shout" and Duck fans did the whole shimmy and raise hands in the air bit. I'm showing my age here, but I never heard of "Jump Around" and pogoing would send me to the orthopedist. On the other hand, "Shout" is the anthem of my generation and as they used to say on American Bandstand, "It's got a good beat and you can dance to it." Big picture, even middle-aged Duck fans can participate in the 4th quarter tradition.
Then there is the Oregon band. 90% of college marching bands are clad in uniforms featuring a buttoned-on bib in front (Do they serve lobster for the post-game meal?) with a plumed, inverted trashcan hat that hearkens back to Santa Ana's army storming the Alamo. Stanford and the Ivy League bands go with blazers, un-matched pants, and zany accouterments that scream "My Dad has enough money to send me here, so I can get away with this."
The Oregon band wear pullovers in the school colors and baseball caps. It's always Casual Friday here in the Land of Nike. Duck band members can walk to practice in uniform and not get mocked by the cool kids. "Hey, the War of 1812 is over. Put your uniform away, Winfield Scott."
By the way, Oregon won the Rose Bowl. Coolness triumphs!
The Ducks took the field in yesterday's Rose Bowl wearing translucent reflective helmets that would not be out of place on the command deck of the Starship Enterprise. "Beam me to the end zone, Scotty." Oregon's uniforms featured a different color scheme for each game this year, but they saved the space age helmets for the Rose Bowl.
Oregon's cheerleaders are on scholarship. Other colleges go with the traditional pleated skirt, letter sweater, build a human pyramid concept of cheerleading. Oregon follows the NFL concept of scantily-clad dancers on the sidelines doing routines that would not be out of place at a "gentlemen's club". While scholarship football players are enrolled in Remedial Reading (of Defenses) 101, the scholarship cheer-babes are probably taking Music Appreciation 401 - The Proper Dance Moves to "Pour Some Sugar On Me".
Oregon's Rose Bowl opponent, Wisconsin, has a cool tradition - the 4th Quarter Jump-Around. As the teams switch ends of the field to begin the final stanza of the game, the Wisconsin band plays House of Pain's "Jump Around". Badger fans rise as one and pogo enthusiastically. Oregon did the Badgers one better in the Rose Bowl. The sound system blared the Isley Brother's "Shout" and Duck fans did the whole shimmy and raise hands in the air bit. I'm showing my age here, but I never heard of "Jump Around" and pogoing would send me to the orthopedist. On the other hand, "Shout" is the anthem of my generation and as they used to say on American Bandstand, "It's got a good beat and you can dance to it." Big picture, even middle-aged Duck fans can participate in the 4th quarter tradition.
Then there is the Oregon band. 90% of college marching bands are clad in uniforms featuring a buttoned-on bib in front (Do they serve lobster for the post-game meal?) with a plumed, inverted trashcan hat that hearkens back to Santa Ana's army storming the Alamo. Stanford and the Ivy League bands go with blazers, un-matched pants, and zany accouterments that scream "My Dad has enough money to send me here, so I can get away with this."
The Oregon band wear pullovers in the school colors and baseball caps. It's always Casual Friday here in the Land of Nike. Duck band members can walk to practice in uniform and not get mocked by the cool kids. "Hey, the War of 1812 is over. Put your uniform away, Winfield Scott."
By the way, Oregon won the Rose Bowl. Coolness triumphs!
Monday, January 2, 2012
2012 Optimism
As we bid a not-so-fond farewell to 2011, we must look at our champagne glasses as being half-full, not half-empty. The New Year promises some improvement over the old. For those of us whose mailboxes and telephone answering machines are normally empty, Election Year 2012 will fill them with mailed campaign material and robo-calls. Senior citizens will be safe from social security or medicare cuts. What incumbent dares facing attack ads stating "He voted for Death Panels for Grandma!"? For those hoping to strike it rich, Kim Kardashian is single again. By the time her next groom is done counting his slice of 2012's $20 million wedding, the marriage will be annulled. It's better than the lottery.
Of course 2011 paid off for some. CEOs at Fortune 500 firms enjoyed a 36.5% jump in compensation last year. The most lucrative sector for CEO pay was health care. John Hammergren of McKesson Corp. which distributes drugs and health & beauty aids to pharmacies hauled in a cool $145 million.
This may seem like a lot of money, but what business has emjoyed more growth over the past decade than retail pharmacies? Every national chain store (Wal-Mart, Target) has a pharmacy. Every major grocery store (Wegman's, Giant) has a pharmacy. You can't throw a rock in any strip mall without hitting a CVS or a Walgreen's. Apparently, McKesson supplies all these outfits. If Mr Hammergren was smart enough to dominate this market, he deserves whatever he can get.
McKesson's days of glory may be short-lived though. Once the 2012 elections are over and Obamacare kicks in in 2013 and 2014, everyone will be on a mail-in drug plan. Corner pharmacies will go the way of corner grocery stores. "Hammer" Hammergren may want to think about investing some of that $145 million in a few well-placed campaign contributions or "scare tactic" SuperPAC commercials. "Thanks to Obamacare's mail-in pharmacy plan, Josh had to move back in to his parent's basement because he needed a permanent address to receive his prescriptions. His trash metal bandmates moved in as well. Now Clarence and Joyce get no sleep and their cat Snowball ran away. Vote 'No' on Obamacare."
2012 shopuld be interesting indeed.
Of course 2011 paid off for some. CEOs at Fortune 500 firms enjoyed a 36.5% jump in compensation last year. The most lucrative sector for CEO pay was health care. John Hammergren of McKesson Corp. which distributes drugs and health & beauty aids to pharmacies hauled in a cool $145 million.
This may seem like a lot of money, but what business has emjoyed more growth over the past decade than retail pharmacies? Every national chain store (Wal-Mart, Target) has a pharmacy. Every major grocery store (Wegman's, Giant) has a pharmacy. You can't throw a rock in any strip mall without hitting a CVS or a Walgreen's. Apparently, McKesson supplies all these outfits. If Mr Hammergren was smart enough to dominate this market, he deserves whatever he can get.
McKesson's days of glory may be short-lived though. Once the 2012 elections are over and Obamacare kicks in in 2013 and 2014, everyone will be on a mail-in drug plan. Corner pharmacies will go the way of corner grocery stores. "Hammer" Hammergren may want to think about investing some of that $145 million in a few well-placed campaign contributions or "scare tactic" SuperPAC commercials. "Thanks to Obamacare's mail-in pharmacy plan, Josh had to move back in to his parent's basement because he needed a permanent address to receive his prescriptions. His trash metal bandmates moved in as well. Now Clarence and Joyce get no sleep and their cat Snowball ran away. Vote 'No' on Obamacare."
2012 shopuld be interesting indeed.
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