Any ethnic festival worth its salt includes a contest or two. Bethlehem's Celtic Classic features camber tossing for the strong and haggis eating for the courageous. Musik (with a k) fest may have expanded beyond its original German roots. Festplatz and Leiderplatz remain, but Latin music is found at Plaza Tropical instead of Salsa Platz. It still features the "Running With the Police Horses" down Main Street at closing time for those daredevils who can't make it to Pamplona though.
Being neither strong, courageous nor a daredevil, I seek an ethnic festival contest that meets my talents and especially one with a desirable prize. Scandinavian Fest in South Jersey may be the one. Beyond the conventional music, dancing, crafts, and food, it is the home of the Wife-Carrying Competition. The contest, popular in Finland, involves a man carrying his wife, or, lacking one, an ad-hoc wife at least, through an obstacle course. The first man through the course wins his wife's weight in beer!
Ponder that for a moment. A 120 pound wife converted to 160 cans of beer. That's more than six cases of suds. Sign me up!
But I've got to be "in it to win it." There's no second prize. Before heading off to South Jersey, I need to take advantage of any contest loopholes to develop a winning strategy. Those monogamous Scandinavians will probably be hauling their actual wives through the obstacle course. I'[ve seen the size of some of those Wagnerian opera heroines. The shield, armor, and horned helmet add a lot of weight which means more beer at the end, but really slows you down through the course. I've got to be lean and mean.
Who is the most famous skinny Scandanavian "wife" on the planet? Why, the former Mrs Tiger Woods, of course. I could haul her through the obstacle course in no time at all, especially if she brings that famous nine-iron along to "inspire" me if I begin to fade in the stretch.
Granted, I won't win as much beer, but in the words of Coach Lombardi, "Winning isn't everything. It's the only thing." Plus, with her $100 million divorce settlement, she probably won't insist on her share of the spoils of victory.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
Career Change
The Great Allentown Fair was the center of the musical universe Saturday night. Its grandstand act was none other than Justin Bieber. Will Allentown ever be the same? This is like getting the Beatles to appear at the Farmerama Theater in 1964 or Mozart to play at the Ritz Barbecue in 1780. Talk about catching musical genius at its apex.
It was even better for a fortunate few students at an Allentown Dance Studio. Two of Justin's backing dancers made a personal appearance there before the show to demonstrate their moves and answer the students' questions. Naturally, Question #1 was, "What is Justin really like?" Predictably,they revealed that the tween idol is "just a normal 16 year old who likes to hang out at the mall and play video games (in between almost nightly concerts, writing his autobiography, and making a 3-D movie)" which is pretty much what every normal 16 year old is doing nowadays.
Question #2 was "How did you get to be his backing dancers?" The lads revealed that, of course, they had to audition and interview for the job, but what Justin's management team was really looking for was maturity in his entourage. These dancers are 21 years old! That's maturity? What Justin needs in his dancers is a truly mature 62 year old like me. With baggy, saggy jeans to disguise my paunch and an oversized, straight-brim baseball cap to cover my bald spot, I'd fit right in with Justin's entourage. Plus, I haven't been carded at the beer stand in forty years. Justin, if you're reading this, I'm available.
Question #3 was, "What can I do to have the best chance at being the one that Justin picks out of the audience, goes on stage, and gets a bouquet of flowers?" The trick is to wear "a really awesome shirt. Justin likes those colorful tops." Armed with that little factoid, I'm off to Abercrombie & Fitch in search of the most colorful top I can find. When Justin picks me out of the crowd at his next concert, I'll bust a few of my moves on stage, thoroughly impress him, get hired as a backing dancer, and achieve job security until Justin's current concert tour ends or his voice changes whichever comes first.
You can't be afraid of a career change in this economy.
It was even better for a fortunate few students at an Allentown Dance Studio. Two of Justin's backing dancers made a personal appearance there before the show to demonstrate their moves and answer the students' questions. Naturally, Question #1 was, "What is Justin really like?" Predictably,they revealed that the tween idol is "just a normal 16 year old who likes to hang out at the mall and play video games (in between almost nightly concerts, writing his autobiography, and making a 3-D movie)" which is pretty much what every normal 16 year old is doing nowadays.
Question #2 was "How did you get to be his backing dancers?" The lads revealed that, of course, they had to audition and interview for the job, but what Justin's management team was really looking for was maturity in his entourage. These dancers are 21 years old! That's maturity? What Justin needs in his dancers is a truly mature 62 year old like me. With baggy, saggy jeans to disguise my paunch and an oversized, straight-brim baseball cap to cover my bald spot, I'd fit right in with Justin's entourage. Plus, I haven't been carded at the beer stand in forty years. Justin, if you're reading this, I'm available.
Question #3 was, "What can I do to have the best chance at being the one that Justin picks out of the audience, goes on stage, and gets a bouquet of flowers?" The trick is to wear "a really awesome shirt. Justin likes those colorful tops." Armed with that little factoid, I'm off to Abercrombie & Fitch in search of the most colorful top I can find. When Justin picks me out of the crowd at his next concert, I'll bust a few of my moves on stage, thoroughly impress him, get hired as a backing dancer, and achieve job security until Justin's current concert tour ends or his voice changes whichever comes first.
You can't be afraid of a career change in this economy.
Career Change
The Great Allentown Fair was the center of the musical universe Saturday night. Its grandstand act was none other than Justin Bieber. Will Allentown ever be the same? This is like getting the Beatles to appear at the Farmerama Theater in 1964 or Mozart to play at the Ritz Barbecue in 1780. Talk about catching musical genius at its apex.
It was even better for a fortunate few students at an Allentown Dance Studio. Two of Justin's backing dancers made a personal appearance there before the show to demonstrate their moves and answer the students' questions. Naturally, Question #1 was, "What is Justin really like?" Predictably,they revealed that the tween idol is "just a normal 16 year old who likes to hang out at the mall and play video games (in between almost nightly concerts, writing his autobiography, and making a 3-D movie)" which is pretty much what every normal 16 year old is doing nowadays.
Question #2 was "How did you get to be his backing dancers?" The lads revealed that, of course, they had to audition and interview for the job, but what Justin's management team was really looking for was maturity in his entourage. These dancers are 21 years old! That's maturity? What Justin needs in his dancers is a truly mature 62 year old like me. With baggy, saggy jeans to disguise my paunch and an oversized, straight-brim baseball cap to cover my bald spot, I'd fit right in with Justin's entourage. Plus, I haven't been carded at the beer stand in forty years. Justin, if you're reading this, I'm available.
Question #3 was, "What can I do to have the best chance at being the one that Justin picks out of the audience, goes on stage, and gets a bouquet of flowers?" The trick is to wear "a really awesome shirt. Justin likes those colorful tops." Armed with that little factoid, I'm off to Abercrombie & Fitch in search of the most colorful top I can find. When Justin picks me out of the crowd at his next concert, I'll bust a few of my moves on stage, thoroughly impress him, get hired as a backing dancer, and achieve job security until Justin's current concert tour ends or his voice changes whichever comes first.
You can't be afraid of a career change in this economy.
It was even better for a fortunate few students at an Allentown Dance Studio. Two of Justin's backing dancers made a personal appearance there before the show to demonstrate their moves and answer the students' questions. Naturally, Question #1 was, "What is Justin really like?" Predictably,they revealed that the tween idol is "just a normal 16 year old who likes to hang out at the mall and play video games (in between almost nightly concerts, writing his autobiography, and making a 3-D movie)" which is pretty much what every normal 16 year old is doing nowadays.
Question #2 was "How did you get to be his backing dancers?" The lads revealed that, of course, they had to audition and interview for the job, but what Justin's management team was really looking for was maturity in his entourage. These dancers are 21 years old! That's maturity? What Justin needs in his dancers is a truly mature 62 year old like me. With baggy, saggy jeans to disguise my paunch and an oversized, straight-brim baseball cap to cover my bald spot, I'd fit right in with Justin's entourage. Plus, I haven't been carded at the beer stand in forty years. Justin, if you're reading this, I'm available.
Question #3 was, "What can I do to have the best chance at being the one that Justin picks out of the audience, goes on stage, and gets a bouquet of flowers?" The trick is to wear "a really awesome shirt. Justin likes those colorful tops." Armed with that little factoid, I'm off to Abercrombie & Fitch in search of the most colorful top I can find. When Justin picks me out of the crowd at his next concert, I'll bust a few of my moves on stage, thoroughly impress him, get hired as a backing dancer, and achieve job security until Justin's current concert tour ends or his voice changes whichever comes first.
You can't be afraid of a career change in this economy.
Friday, September 3, 2010
They Called The Wind Earl
When the National Weather Service began naming hurricanes back in the '40s, it chose exclusively female monikers. The rationale was that hurricanes were dangerous and unpredictable. In those non-enlightened times, that meant female names. I recall Hurricanes Hazel, Connie, and Diane wreaking havoc in the '50s.
By the politically-correct '70s, the NWS began alternating male and female names. Hurricanes were no less dangerous and unpredictable, but somehow Hurricane Bob seemed less threatening than Hurricane Hazel.
Today, Hurricane Earl is working its way up the East Coast. Will it be as strong and vicious as football hall-of-famer Earl Campbell? Will it be as devastating as an Earl "The Pearl" Monroe drive to the basket? Or will it be as mild and meek as Earl Miller?
Earl Miller was a fellow staffer with me at Boy Scout Camp in 1964. In the immortal words of Alan Sherman's "Hello, Muddah; Hello Faddah", "All the counselors hate the waiters. And the lake has alligators." Earl was a waiter, or more correctly, a kitchen drudge, peeling and chopping, cleaning and scrubbing, all summer long for the princely sum of $60. Yet, Earl never complained. Earl was never envious of us counselors out there in the fresh air and sunshine while he cleaned the grease trap.
In fact, every Earl I've known has been a mild-mannered David Banner and never an enraged Incredible Hulk. It must be in the name.
I predict that Hurricane Earl will be a non-event. Had it been Hurricane Lady GaGa, I'd be boarding up the windows and retreating to the storm cellar right now.
By the politically-correct '70s, the NWS began alternating male and female names. Hurricanes were no less dangerous and unpredictable, but somehow Hurricane Bob seemed less threatening than Hurricane Hazel.
Today, Hurricane Earl is working its way up the East Coast. Will it be as strong and vicious as football hall-of-famer Earl Campbell? Will it be as devastating as an Earl "The Pearl" Monroe drive to the basket? Or will it be as mild and meek as Earl Miller?
Earl Miller was a fellow staffer with me at Boy Scout Camp in 1964. In the immortal words of Alan Sherman's "Hello, Muddah; Hello Faddah", "All the counselors hate the waiters. And the lake has alligators." Earl was a waiter, or more correctly, a kitchen drudge, peeling and chopping, cleaning and scrubbing, all summer long for the princely sum of $60. Yet, Earl never complained. Earl was never envious of us counselors out there in the fresh air and sunshine while he cleaned the grease trap.
In fact, every Earl I've known has been a mild-mannered David Banner and never an enraged Incredible Hulk. It must be in the name.
I predict that Hurricane Earl will be a non-event. Had it been Hurricane Lady GaGa, I'd be boarding up the windows and retreating to the storm cellar right now.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Parsley, Sage, Pomegranate & Raspberry
The emasculation of American males continues at an accelerating pace. Julia Roberts' "Eat, Pray. Love" has higher box office receipts than Sylvester Stallone's "The Expendables". The Miami Dolphins stop practice to search the field for a player's $50K diamond earring. Pro wrestling has mixed (Male / Female) tag team matches. What in the name of John Wayne is going on?
At least, we American males still have beer. Beer survived the Wine Cooler Craze of the 70s and Zima Mania in the 90s. The only permanent change in American Beer Culture since the Pilgrims is light beer but that is OK because manly former athletes argue whether it has "more taste" or is "less filling". We know that when we need a testosterone boost, it's time to hoist a few cold ones. A glass of Chardonnay or a Cosmopolitan makes you want to tune in "Sex and the City" re-runs. A can of Yuengling makes you want to tune in NASCAR.
But NASCAR and NFL ratings have decreased the past few years. Yesterday, I discovered the reason. Placed for recycling outside a neighbor's house was an empty case of Michelob Ultra Pomegranate and Raspberry. Now, Michelob used to be Budweiser on steroids, a smooth beer that packed a wallop. Then came Michelob Ultra which according to its commercials is the thing to drink after jogging around the city accompanied by a supermodel with both of you clad in spandex. Healthy is good, especially when it gets you close to a spandex-clad supermodel.
Michelob Ultra Pomegranate and Raspberry is too much, though. Fruit-flavored beer will never see you through a December game on the "frozen tundra" of Green Bay, Wisconsin. Half the guys in the stands at Daytona have no idea what a pomegranate is let alone how to spell it.
It's real beer that gives us drunken brawls in the bleachers. With fruit-flavored stuff, we would probably join hands and sing "Kum-Bye-Yah". It's real beer that frees us to urinate in public and get arrested. With Pomegranate and Raspberry, we would probably gather the rest of the guys and leave our dates to go "powder our noses". Our masculinity is threatened.
At least, we American males still have beer. Beer survived the Wine Cooler Craze of the 70s and Zima Mania in the 90s. The only permanent change in American Beer Culture since the Pilgrims is light beer but that is OK because manly former athletes argue whether it has "more taste" or is "less filling". We know that when we need a testosterone boost, it's time to hoist a few cold ones. A glass of Chardonnay or a Cosmopolitan makes you want to tune in "Sex and the City" re-runs. A can of Yuengling makes you want to tune in NASCAR.
But NASCAR and NFL ratings have decreased the past few years. Yesterday, I discovered the reason. Placed for recycling outside a neighbor's house was an empty case of Michelob Ultra Pomegranate and Raspberry. Now, Michelob used to be Budweiser on steroids, a smooth beer that packed a wallop. Then came Michelob Ultra which according to its commercials is the thing to drink after jogging around the city accompanied by a supermodel with both of you clad in spandex. Healthy is good, especially when it gets you close to a spandex-clad supermodel.
Michelob Ultra Pomegranate and Raspberry is too much, though. Fruit-flavored beer will never see you through a December game on the "frozen tundra" of Green Bay, Wisconsin. Half the guys in the stands at Daytona have no idea what a pomegranate is let alone how to spell it.
It's real beer that gives us drunken brawls in the bleachers. With fruit-flavored stuff, we would probably join hands and sing "Kum-Bye-Yah". It's real beer that frees us to urinate in public and get arrested. With Pomegranate and Raspberry, we would probably gather the rest of the guys and leave our dates to go "powder our noses". Our masculinity is threatened.
Parsley, Sage, Pomegranate & Raspberry
The emasculation of American males continues at an accelerating pace. Julia Roberts' "Eat, Pray. Love" has higher box office receipts than Sylvester Stallone's "The Expendables". The Miami Dolphins stop practice to search the field for a player's $50K diamond earring. Pro wrestling has mixed (Male / Female) tag team matches. What in the name of John Wayne is going on?
At least, we American males still have beer. Beer survived the Wine Cooler Craze of the 70s and Zima Mania in the 90s. The only permanent change in American Beer Culture since the Pilgrims is light beer but that is OK because manly former athletes argue whether it has "more taste" or is "less filling". We know that when we need a testosterone boost, it's time to hoist a few cold ones. A glass of Chardonnay or a Cosmopolitan makes you want to tune in "Sex and the City" re-runs. A can of Yuengling makes you want to tune in NASCAR.
But NASCAR and NFL ratings have decreased the past few years. Yesterday, I discovered the reason. Placed for recycling outside a neighbor's house was an empty case of Michelob Ultra Pomegranate and Raspberry. Now, Michelob used to be Budweiser on steroids, a smooth beer that packed a wallop. Then came Michelob Ultra which according to its commercials is the thing to drink after jogging around the city accompanied by a supermodel with both of you clad in spandex. Healthy is good, especially when it gets you close to a spandex-clad supermodel.
Michelob Ultra Pomegranate and Raspberry is too much, though. Fruit-flavored beer will never see you through a December game on the "frozen tundra" of Green Bay, Wisconsin. Half the guys in the stands at Daytona have no idea what a pomegranate is let alone how to spell it.
It's real beer that gives us drunken brawls in the bleachers. With fruit-flavored stuff, we would probably join hands and sing "Kum-Bye-Yah". It's real beer that frees us to urinate in public and get arrested. With Pomegranate and Raspberry, we would probably gather the rest of the guys and leave our dates to go "powder our noses". Our masculinity is threatened.
At least, we American males still have beer. Beer survived the Wine Cooler Craze of the 70s and Zima Mania in the 90s. The only permanent change in American Beer Culture since the Pilgrims is light beer but that is OK because manly former athletes argue whether it has "more taste" or is "less filling". We know that when we need a testosterone boost, it's time to hoist a few cold ones. A glass of Chardonnay or a Cosmopolitan makes you want to tune in "Sex and the City" re-runs. A can of Yuengling makes you want to tune in NASCAR.
But NASCAR and NFL ratings have decreased the past few years. Yesterday, I discovered the reason. Placed for recycling outside a neighbor's house was an empty case of Michelob Ultra Pomegranate and Raspberry. Now, Michelob used to be Budweiser on steroids, a smooth beer that packed a wallop. Then came Michelob Ultra which according to its commercials is the thing to drink after jogging around the city accompanied by a supermodel with both of you clad in spandex. Healthy is good, especially when it gets you close to a spandex-clad supermodel.
Michelob Ultra Pomegranate and Raspberry is too much, though. Fruit-flavored beer will never see you through a December game on the "frozen tundra" of Green Bay, Wisconsin. Half the guys in the stands at Daytona have no idea what a pomegranate is let alone how to spell it.
It's real beer that gives us drunken brawls in the bleachers. With fruit-flavored stuff, we would probably join hands and sing "Kum-Bye-Yah". It's real beer that frees us to urinate in public and get arrested. With Pomegranate and Raspberry, we would probably gather the rest of the guys and leave our dates to go "powder our noses". Our masculinity is threatened.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Paris Hilton Defense
Paris Hilton is taking on a new persona - groundbreaking legal genius.
Las Vegas police stopped Paris and her boyfriend last weekend when they detected a cloud of marijuana smoke issuing from their car. When Paris opened her purse to get a tube of lip balm (one should always have moist, kissable lips when dealing with the gendarmes), a small plastic bindle containing a gram of cocaine fell out of her purse. Here's where Paris exhibited her legal genius. She claimed that the purse was not hers!
Apparently, her defense strategy is that she has so many purses that she can't be expected to recognize every single one. She must have picked up that particular purse by mistake from some unknown cocaine abuser. The fact that the purse also contained credit cards and prescription drugs in her name is a remarkable coincidence. There must be some other Paris Hilton running around Las Vegas. That's the key to this case! Find the other Paris Hilton and you'll have your drug abuser. Put the CSI Team on it. They solve a crime in Las Vegas every week.
What if the ingenious Paris Hilton Defense had been available throughout history:
"Sure, that's one of my monogrammed daggers sticking out of Caesar and I have blood on my hands, but there are lots of guys named Brutus and I cut myself shaving this morning."
"What a coincidence! I have a derringer just like the one that shot the President and a lot of people in Ford's Theater probably thought that it was me leaping from the President's Box after the shot, but it was my stunt double. John Wilkes Booth doesn't do his own stunts, you know."
"Officer, we thought it was suspicious when that good-looking young couple tossed a bank bag full of money in our car. We were speeding out of town trying to catch up to them and give it back. You say they looked an awful lot like us and had submachine guns just like ours? It's a small world."
Brutus, Booth, and Bonnie & Clyde should have hired Paris Hilton as their defense attorney.
Las Vegas police stopped Paris and her boyfriend last weekend when they detected a cloud of marijuana smoke issuing from their car. When Paris opened her purse to get a tube of lip balm (one should always have moist, kissable lips when dealing with the gendarmes), a small plastic bindle containing a gram of cocaine fell out of her purse. Here's where Paris exhibited her legal genius. She claimed that the purse was not hers!
Apparently, her defense strategy is that she has so many purses that she can't be expected to recognize every single one. She must have picked up that particular purse by mistake from some unknown cocaine abuser. The fact that the purse also contained credit cards and prescription drugs in her name is a remarkable coincidence. There must be some other Paris Hilton running around Las Vegas. That's the key to this case! Find the other Paris Hilton and you'll have your drug abuser. Put the CSI Team on it. They solve a crime in Las Vegas every week.
What if the ingenious Paris Hilton Defense had been available throughout history:
"Sure, that's one of my monogrammed daggers sticking out of Caesar and I have blood on my hands, but there are lots of guys named Brutus and I cut myself shaving this morning."
"What a coincidence! I have a derringer just like the one that shot the President and a lot of people in Ford's Theater probably thought that it was me leaping from the President's Box after the shot, but it was my stunt double. John Wilkes Booth doesn't do his own stunts, you know."
"Officer, we thought it was suspicious when that good-looking young couple tossed a bank bag full of money in our car. We were speeding out of town trying to catch up to them and give it back. You say they looked an awful lot like us and had submachine guns just like ours? It's a small world."
Brutus, Booth, and Bonnie & Clyde should have hired Paris Hilton as their defense attorney.
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