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.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
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!
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