"Working with my hands" has never been my strong point. Yesterday's struggle to erect cold weather protection for the oh-so-sensitive camellia bush outside the house once again resulted in misplaced wooden stakes and burlap cut too short on the top and too long on the bottom. How I wished that Chuckie Vohar would magically appear and make it all better.
Chuckie, you see, saved my posterior and probably several of my fingers in 7th grade Wood Shop. Our class assignment was to make a broom holder. This required use of the Monster Band Saw. In 1960, niceties like safety goggles and hand protection were not provided. Hey, what can go wrong with an untrained 12 year-old operating equipment that can slice through his wrist in a heartbeat? Loss of a body part was acceptable, but breaking the flexible saw band was not. This was punishable by a "trip to home plate". The student miscreant would straddle a baseball home plate several feet away from the shop teacher's desk, extend his arms to the desk, and Mr Piento would swat the evildoer's behind with a paddle that strongly resembled a flattened-out baseball bat.
Perhaps it was fear of home plate or just general ineptitude, but I was making a mess of my cut on the Monster Band Saw. The blade was bending and perilously close to snapping when Chuckie Vohar calmly shut down the machine, removed my mangled broom holder, inserted a fresh piece of wood and, without measuring or marking, made a perfect cut. He handed it to me with a typically Chuckie comment, "Fer Crissake, Dufton, we ain't got all day here."
In those days, South Scranton Junior High School placed its 7th graders in homerooms based on IQ testing. Homeroom numbers and IQ scores increased from the dregs of HR 301 to the intellectual elite of HR 314. Homerooms had the same schedules so we 7th graders could traverse the halls en masse between classes safe from the predation of 9th and 10th graders. Of course, boys and girls had to spilt for Gym and Shop. The HR 314 "boy geniuses" were joined by the only-slightly-less brilliant men of HR 313 for those masculine pursuits.
If not for Chuckie, HR 313 and 314 would have been decimated by the Lethal Machine Shop Lathe, the Perilous Print Shop Press, and the Shocking Electric Shop Circuit Board. Sadly, we didn't return the favor and help the Chuckster out in Algebra and Earth Science. After 8th grade, we didn't have to take Shop any more and, like an angel who has earned his wings, Chuckie quit school and joined the Army. It turned out that he was actually 15 years old in 7th grade which went a long way toward explaining how he could grow hair in places the rest of us could only dream about.
It's been 50 years and I'm still mechanically inept. How many times have I wished that Chuckie would appear over my shoulder, utter a multi-syllabic oath, and make it all better.
I remain convinced that God issues an equal ration of talent to each of us. The distribution of sub-talents is unequal though. Those who get lots of intellectual ability are shorted on mechanical know-how. Those who possess drive and ambition often lack compassion. I could calculate the allowable stress on the band saw blade to the fraction of a psi, but only Chuckie could sense when it was about to snap and stop the machine in time. Which skill is more valuable?
Friday, November 12, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Banana - Rama
The latest issue of The New Yorker includes an amusing article on the general ridiculousness of eating bananas.
This struck a chord with me. When I was growing up in the 50s, banana consumption was limited to human infants and to chimps in Tarzan movies. With the Health Food Craze of the 80s, bananas became "the perfect food", full of potassium and low in calories. Air Products employees would emerge from the Cafeteria with coffee in one hand and a banana in the other. The sight of an executive "suit" carrying a banana always cracked me up. I imagined them morphing into Tarzan's pet chimp, Cheetah, and leaping into a backflip while cackling maniacally in their Brooks Brothers suit and wingtips.
Even more amusing is the etiquette of banana consumption. What do you do with the peel? Joe Executive is faced with a dilemma. He must conduct a "breakfast" meeting or interview. He needs to impress us with his health consciousness by eating that banana while we peons chow down on doughnuts. Clearly, he cannot remove the entire peel and place his hands on the white, squishy, eminently bruisable fruit itself. It would make the requisite post-meeting handshake a stomach-turner.
So he peels the fruit about half-way and takes a bite. Now he has got a stringy bright yellow peel flopping around his wrist and everyone's eyes are on it as opposed to his Power Point presentation. Will it self-peel as Joe Executive gesticulates and the fruit spurts into the air? That prospect is a lot more interesting than the Lost Time Accident Rate from our facilities in Brazil. What will he do with the peel when the fruit is gone? Will it sit on his lectern looking like a mutant yellow spider changing form as gravity flattens it? Again, that sight is a distraction from the Power Point. Then there is that rotting banana odor emanating from the peel. Not only are our eyes distracted but so are our noses.
Call it coincidence, but when American executives breakfasted on doughnuts and cigarettes, our cars, steel, and appliances ruled the world. After three decades of health-conscious, banana breakfasting, the Japanese, Chinese, and Europeans lost their fear and respect of American business and took over those markets. Save the bananas for Cheetah, guys!
This struck a chord with me. When I was growing up in the 50s, banana consumption was limited to human infants and to chimps in Tarzan movies. With the Health Food Craze of the 80s, bananas became "the perfect food", full of potassium and low in calories. Air Products employees would emerge from the Cafeteria with coffee in one hand and a banana in the other. The sight of an executive "suit" carrying a banana always cracked me up. I imagined them morphing into Tarzan's pet chimp, Cheetah, and leaping into a backflip while cackling maniacally in their Brooks Brothers suit and wingtips.
Even more amusing is the etiquette of banana consumption. What do you do with the peel? Joe Executive is faced with a dilemma. He must conduct a "breakfast" meeting or interview. He needs to impress us with his health consciousness by eating that banana while we peons chow down on doughnuts. Clearly, he cannot remove the entire peel and place his hands on the white, squishy, eminently bruisable fruit itself. It would make the requisite post-meeting handshake a stomach-turner.
So he peels the fruit about half-way and takes a bite. Now he has got a stringy bright yellow peel flopping around his wrist and everyone's eyes are on it as opposed to his Power Point presentation. Will it self-peel as Joe Executive gesticulates and the fruit spurts into the air? That prospect is a lot more interesting than the Lost Time Accident Rate from our facilities in Brazil. What will he do with the peel when the fruit is gone? Will it sit on his lectern looking like a mutant yellow spider changing form as gravity flattens it? Again, that sight is a distraction from the Power Point. Then there is that rotting banana odor emanating from the peel. Not only are our eyes distracted but so are our noses.
Call it coincidence, but when American executives breakfasted on doughnuts and cigarettes, our cars, steel, and appliances ruled the world. After three decades of health-conscious, banana breakfasting, the Japanese, Chinese, and Europeans lost their fear and respect of American business and took over those markets. Save the bananas for Cheetah, guys!
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Spin On
I listen to Sports Radio every morning while walking the dog. If the chilly air doesn't wake me up, the frantic commercial cries of auto dealers, "Bad credit? Forget it! If I can't make you a deal, I'll kiss your mother-in-law", usually will.
As the dog did his ritual sniffing of the corner power pole this morning "Ah, the Rottweiler from down the block was here and he's on that cheap Wal-Mart Old Roy kibble again", Sports Radio segued into an atypical soothing guitar background. A calm voice asked, "Do you know who owns the BP stations in your neighborhood? In the Philadelphia region, every one of our stations is owned by your neighbors. They employ hundreds of folks just like you. Think of this the next time you need a fill-up."
Good job, BP! You are not the foreign-owned despoilers of the environment who nearly killed the Gulf of Mexico while cutting corners. You are not the CEO who "wanted his life back" and participated in a yacht race while your well was dumping hundreds of thousands of gallons of oil into the Gulf. You are that hard-working guy down the block with grease under his fingernails who keeps the family SUV running and has a job for our high school age son Kyle manning the cash register next summer. How could I have thought ill of BP?
One wonders whether the money spent by BP on "feel good" commercials might be better devoted to compensation to those Gulf Coast residents whose lives will never be the same. Actually, the BP "spin" is a better investment. When the shrimpers and fishermen complain that there aren't as many shrimp and fish as there used to be, the BP "spin" may result in the rest of us viewing them as whiners against that nice BP. We will buy BP products anyway because, after all, BP station owners are our neighbors.
Would that we humans had noses as sensitive as our canine companions so we could detect insincerity.
As the dog did his ritual sniffing of the corner power pole this morning "Ah, the Rottweiler from down the block was here and he's on that cheap Wal-Mart Old Roy kibble again", Sports Radio segued into an atypical soothing guitar background. A calm voice asked, "Do you know who owns the BP stations in your neighborhood? In the Philadelphia region, every one of our stations is owned by your neighbors. They employ hundreds of folks just like you. Think of this the next time you need a fill-up."
Good job, BP! You are not the foreign-owned despoilers of the environment who nearly killed the Gulf of Mexico while cutting corners. You are not the CEO who "wanted his life back" and participated in a yacht race while your well was dumping hundreds of thousands of gallons of oil into the Gulf. You are that hard-working guy down the block with grease under his fingernails who keeps the family SUV running and has a job for our high school age son Kyle manning the cash register next summer. How could I have thought ill of BP?
One wonders whether the money spent by BP on "feel good" commercials might be better devoted to compensation to those Gulf Coast residents whose lives will never be the same. Actually, the BP "spin" is a better investment. When the shrimpers and fishermen complain that there aren't as many shrimp and fish as there used to be, the BP "spin" may result in the rest of us viewing them as whiners against that nice BP. We will buy BP products anyway because, after all, BP station owners are our neighbors.
Would that we humans had noses as sensitive as our canine companions so we could detect insincerity.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Objectification
Senior Day was a big deal for the Scranton Central HS Class of 1965. After the morning Awards Assembly, the PTA sponsored a free lunch for us at the Century Club followed by an afternoon dance. It was a particularly big deal for me. I actually won the "Walking the Dog" dance contest. "Walking the Dog" was a dance fad of the day based on Rufus Thomas' recording of the same name. My dance partner, Ellen Levy, was the only person who knew how to do it and I was essentially along for the ride.
Still, that victory opened another potential career path to me. Maybe I could become a professional dancer. It wasn't all that difficult standing there while my female partner did all the work. Alas, primeval macho instinct kicked in, and my dancing career ended before it began.
Still, as I soldiered on in Korea and engineered my way through the swamps of New Orleans, I occasionally wondered whether abandoning a terpsichorean career was a mistake. At least, I'd be dancing indoors where there were fewer snakes and bugs than where I was engineering.
All doubts have ceased now. "Dancing With The Stars" issued awards at its 200th show earlier this week. I was shocked (shocked!) at the objectification of its male dancers. Awards were given TO GUYS for Biggest Dancer Transformation (won by the guy who used to have Fabio-style hair), Best Bleached Hair, Whitest Teeth, Best Hair Style, and Best Transformation From Scrawny to Buff.
Yo, DWTS! Females can be objectified, but not us guys. It brings on this urge toward physical fitness and improved personal grooming that cuts into our sports-watching and beer-drinking time. Limit male "beauty" awards to professional dancers, please.
Now I know that I could never have made it from Walking the Dog Champion to Dancing With The Stars Partner. I lack the hair, teeth, and, worst of all, went directly from scrawny to pot-bellied, bypassing buff.
Still, that victory opened another potential career path to me. Maybe I could become a professional dancer. It wasn't all that difficult standing there while my female partner did all the work. Alas, primeval macho instinct kicked in, and my dancing career ended before it began.
Still, as I soldiered on in Korea and engineered my way through the swamps of New Orleans, I occasionally wondered whether abandoning a terpsichorean career was a mistake. At least, I'd be dancing indoors where there were fewer snakes and bugs than where I was engineering.
All doubts have ceased now. "Dancing With The Stars" issued awards at its 200th show earlier this week. I was shocked (shocked!) at the objectification of its male dancers. Awards were given TO GUYS for Biggest Dancer Transformation (won by the guy who used to have Fabio-style hair), Best Bleached Hair, Whitest Teeth, Best Hair Style, and Best Transformation From Scrawny to Buff.
Yo, DWTS! Females can be objectified, but not us guys. It brings on this urge toward physical fitness and improved personal grooming that cuts into our sports-watching and beer-drinking time. Limit male "beauty" awards to professional dancers, please.
Now I know that I could never have made it from Walking the Dog Champion to Dancing With The Stars Partner. I lack the hair, teeth, and, worst of all, went directly from scrawny to pot-bellied, bypassing buff.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
A True Win - Win
Another Election Day has come and gone. The average voter feels relief that TV commercials will switch from the nastiness of political opponent bashing to the joys of toenail fungus remedies. He also feels guilt. Once again, less than half the electorate took the time to vote. Soldiers died so that you have this right! 100% of the voters in Iceland cast their ballot. Why can't you?
There is a way to bring maximum voter participation - food. Years ago, I was in the coal regions on company business on Election Day. When lunchtime rolled around, the guys at the plant invited me along with them to go and vote. "I'm not exactly registered to vote here, " I demurred. "Come anyway, it will be worth it," they responded.
We pulled up to the local Fire Hall to see cars overflowing its parking lot. Folks were lined up outside awaiting entrance. The deal was that if you voted, you got a pork and sauerkraut dinner for $3. It was $5 if you didn't cast your ballot. The Fire Hall Ladies Auxiliary did themselves proud. The magical aroma of pork and sauerkraut pervaded everything. Desserts were plentiful. This being a "private club", beer was available.
Clearly, this was a win - win. Voter turnout was high. The Fire Hall made money. The people got a good, cheap meal.
Could this concept work elsewhere? Why not? It may be sponsored by the PTA or a Church Womens' Group if a school or church is the polling place. The menu will have to change depending on local taste, but the non-profit makes money and the voters have the satisfaction of doing their patriotic chore on a full belly.
It will also cut down on voter fraud. That guy with sauerkraut juice dribbling down his chin and loosening his belt is clearly a repeat voter. "One Man, One Vote, One Dumpling" could be the latest Supreme Court ruling.
There is a way to bring maximum voter participation - food. Years ago, I was in the coal regions on company business on Election Day. When lunchtime rolled around, the guys at the plant invited me along with them to go and vote. "I'm not exactly registered to vote here, " I demurred. "Come anyway, it will be worth it," they responded.
We pulled up to the local Fire Hall to see cars overflowing its parking lot. Folks were lined up outside awaiting entrance. The deal was that if you voted, you got a pork and sauerkraut dinner for $3. It was $5 if you didn't cast your ballot. The Fire Hall Ladies Auxiliary did themselves proud. The magical aroma of pork and sauerkraut pervaded everything. Desserts were plentiful. This being a "private club", beer was available.
Clearly, this was a win - win. Voter turnout was high. The Fire Hall made money. The people got a good, cheap meal.
Could this concept work elsewhere? Why not? It may be sponsored by the PTA or a Church Womens' Group if a school or church is the polling place. The menu will have to change depending on local taste, but the non-profit makes money and the voters have the satisfaction of doing their patriotic chore on a full belly.
It will also cut down on voter fraud. That guy with sauerkraut juice dribbling down his chin and loosening his belt is clearly a repeat voter. "One Man, One Vote, One Dumpling" could be the latest Supreme Court ruling.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Campaign Ad Rules
Election Day is upon us at last. Come tomorrow, the airwaves will be blessedly free of campaign ads. This year, those campaign ads followed a format as strict as that for a haiku.
They began with a most unflattering photo of one's opponent usually with his/her hair disheveled and mouth open. The campaign ad then tied that opponent, however illogically, to the current economic misery. "When he served as dogcatcher for the Borough of Macungie, Candidate X implemented policies that led to the mortgage crisis. He is Wall Street's candidate, not ours!"
The next photo is of good old Candidate Y, perfectly coiffed and corporate casual, surrounded by his adoring family and an ethnically diverse group of supporters. Candidate Y gets extra points for adorable children and/or ethnically diverse pets. He loses points for mistresses and/or attractive lobbyists of the opposite gender.
Two words appeared in every single campaign ad - "Fight" and "Jobs". Candidate Y will fight for jobs for you! One would think that Harrisburg and Washington are a canvas surrounded by ropes and governed by the Marquis of Queensbury rules and that employers will come begging to your door for you to join them as soon as Candidate Y is in office. Not to be cynical, but if past history holds, Candidate Y is mostly fighting for his job and if he gets it, lobbyists will be coming to his door for a return on their investment.
If the candidates were truly "fighting" for "jobs" would the public have been better served if the billions spent on campaign ads had been invested in infrastructure or new programs? Of course, the public would have missed out on the entertainment value of candidates in unflattering photos.
They began with a most unflattering photo of one's opponent usually with his/her hair disheveled and mouth open. The campaign ad then tied that opponent, however illogically, to the current economic misery. "When he served as dogcatcher for the Borough of Macungie, Candidate X implemented policies that led to the mortgage crisis. He is Wall Street's candidate, not ours!"
The next photo is of good old Candidate Y, perfectly coiffed and corporate casual, surrounded by his adoring family and an ethnically diverse group of supporters. Candidate Y gets extra points for adorable children and/or ethnically diverse pets. He loses points for mistresses and/or attractive lobbyists of the opposite gender.
Two words appeared in every single campaign ad - "Fight" and "Jobs". Candidate Y will fight for jobs for you! One would think that Harrisburg and Washington are a canvas surrounded by ropes and governed by the Marquis of Queensbury rules and that employers will come begging to your door for you to join them as soon as Candidate Y is in office. Not to be cynical, but if past history holds, Candidate Y is mostly fighting for his job and if he gets it, lobbyists will be coming to his door for a return on their investment.
If the candidates were truly "fighting" for "jobs" would the public have been better served if the billions spent on campaign ads had been invested in infrastructure or new programs? Of course, the public would have missed out on the entertainment value of candidates in unflattering photos.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Casino Dreams
In one of the early James Bond movies, a SCUBA-equipped Sean Connery plants an underwater bomb, fights off enemy frogmen, emerges from the Mediterranean in a wet suit, unzips it to reveal white-jacketed formal wear, and walks into an elegant casino where everyone else is well-dressed, fit, and well-groomed. This was the image of casino life that I carried with me for forty years. It was reinforced when casinos came to Atlantic City. All the TV commercials showed supermodels in slinky attire seductively lounging around the gaming tables. I never made it to Monte Carlo or to Atlantic City for that matter which was just as well since my white dinner jacket has been at the cleaners since that unfortunate episode at the Senior Prom. How could I fit in with the Beautiful People at the baccarat table when I couldn't dress the part?
The first indication that a trip to the casino wasn't exactly a night at the opera came when "slots parlors" came to Pennsylvania. I joined the denim, "#1 Grandpa" sweatshirt, and John Deere hat-clad crowds. There was nary a slinky Woman of Mystery or dashing secret agent in sight, but that was understandable. These are only slot machines after all. Wait until table games come to our local casino. That will surely draw The Most Interesting Man in the World.
Yesterday, my dreams were shattered. We stopped at Hollywood Casino near Harrisburg. There were blackjack tables, craps tables, and funky Oriental gambling games aplenty. Surrounding the tables were what appeared to be the Dauphin County Senior Citizen's Brigade and several local motorcycle clubs. I realized that it is impossible to be underdressed at a Pennsylvania casino. Polyester stretch pants, appliqued sweatshirts, and velcro walking shoes were the uniform of the day. The level of grooming was somewhere between "I just rolled out of bed" and "If I comb my hair, I'll just have to do it again tomorrow". Fashion accessories were oxygen tanks as opposed to Gucci handbags. The clientele consisted of Ma and Pa Kettle rather than Sean Connery and Ursula Andress.
It is a relief to know that I don't have to break out that white dinner jacket to go gambling in the Keystone State. I would have to lose a few pounds to fit into it anyway. Still, I dream of vanquishing an Evil Genius at the baccarat table and driving my Aston Martin into the night with a Bond Girl at my side. It just won't be in Grantville, PA.
The first indication that a trip to the casino wasn't exactly a night at the opera came when "slots parlors" came to Pennsylvania. I joined the denim, "#1 Grandpa" sweatshirt, and John Deere hat-clad crowds. There was nary a slinky Woman of Mystery or dashing secret agent in sight, but that was understandable. These are only slot machines after all. Wait until table games come to our local casino. That will surely draw The Most Interesting Man in the World.
Yesterday, my dreams were shattered. We stopped at Hollywood Casino near Harrisburg. There were blackjack tables, craps tables, and funky Oriental gambling games aplenty. Surrounding the tables were what appeared to be the Dauphin County Senior Citizen's Brigade and several local motorcycle clubs. I realized that it is impossible to be underdressed at a Pennsylvania casino. Polyester stretch pants, appliqued sweatshirts, and velcro walking shoes were the uniform of the day. The level of grooming was somewhere between "I just rolled out of bed" and "If I comb my hair, I'll just have to do it again tomorrow". Fashion accessories were oxygen tanks as opposed to Gucci handbags. The clientele consisted of Ma and Pa Kettle rather than Sean Connery and Ursula Andress.
It is a relief to know that I don't have to break out that white dinner jacket to go gambling in the Keystone State. I would have to lose a few pounds to fit into it anyway. Still, I dream of vanquishing an Evil Genius at the baccarat table and driving my Aston Martin into the night with a Bond Girl at my side. It just won't be in Grantville, PA.
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