Old times, new times

Some years back, the young daughters of a family friend were visiting when they spied a box of donations for a local charity. In that box, and of great interest to these lasses, was an analog telephone.

For those readers with knowledge of an analog, or dial, telephone, you may skip to the next paragraph. For the rest, analog phones had a dial with ten-holes into which the user would insert a finger. The dial would be spun counter-clockwise and released, thereby allowing the dial to make the appropriate number of electronic clicks that would be repeated until your entire desired phone number was completed. Then, magic! Your chosen number was dialed and soon connected.

As the conversation turned to various services available, including the “party line,” their eyes glazed over and the banter changed direction. Again, for those without first-hand knowledge of a “party line,” they weren’t as much fun as the name would lead you to believe. But, I digress.

This exercise in explaining the mechanics of telephone company operations was arduous, at best. But, it drove home the point that not everyone was aware of antique communication devices.

I immediately recalled my days of programming Fortran language for computers. My efforts began – and ended – in 1968. I wasn’t very good at it and actually made the public and formal declaration that “no one would ever use a computer if this was the way they communicated.” Once again, I was correct.

To program Fortran, one would write code with commands that would be transferred to a punch card. That card was then inserted into a computer which inevitably concluded you made an error. The entire episode of programming can be likened to putting one’s hand into a running garbage disposal, then plunging the bloody stump into a bowl of salt.

But, eventually, computers and their operating software improved. Timex, the watch company, marketed a computer that was roughly the size of a sandwich. Its abilities were much that of a sandwich, too. Although inexpensive, they could play crude games and accept all sorts of peripherals such as expanded memory and a real keyboard. Yes, they were the big hit you’d expect.

Meanwhile, Apple introduced a computer, just as Coleco and Radio Shack did. Again, all were as robust as an abacus when it came to actually computing.

It took years and things changed with electronic components becoming smaller and processors faster. Soon, our home-programming fell by the wayside and commands to effect an action were replaced with icons.

This is true technological advancement with icons, apps, and voice-dialing capabilities now being used nearly universally.

Unfortunately, it is difficult to keep up with the daily trends and high-tech improvements, even for a guy who predicted the demise of computers in the ‘60’s.

How refreshing to know that I can let go of those old computers, phones, and ideas about future trends. All I ask is for some patience and pity as wonders exceed my abilities and expectations – via e-mail, not snail mail – of course.

Good vs. Bad

Because of my regularly scheduled visits to my doctor, I get regularly scheduled beratings from my doctor. And, each visit is unique as new data is released nearly daily in an effort to confuse as many people as possible.

Some years ago, when I was drinking plenty of coffee, a study concluded that coffee increased heart disease, cholesterol, and blood pressure. This scary news caused me to quit. A year later, a different study concluded coffee would prevent diabetes, liver cirrhosis, and kidney stones. This good news caused me to restart.

While pondering these conflicting studies, I stumbled upon another concerning wine. It seems as though drinking wine is good for you because it raises you HDL and lowers your LDL, your good and bad cholesterol levels, respectively. Unfortunately, wine can also cause breast cancer, raise your triglycerides, and cause weight gain. Yes, I began drinking wine on Monday and quit on Wednesday.

Then I heard about red meat. Keeping in mind that ‘vegetarian’ is an Iroquois Indian word that roughly translates into ‘poor hunter,’ vegetarians say meat causes cancer, heart problems, varicose veins, and obesity. A good vegetarian option is to eat beans. Somehow, bringing families together to grill garbanzos on an open flame doesn't offer the same appeal to me. On the other hand, red meat offers protein, essential acids, and vitamin B12; good news, indeed.

Enter the experts. In the 1980’s and 1990’s, renowned scientist and actress Meryl Streep and CBS’ 60-Minutes announced that the chemical Alar – used to treat apples – was very dangerous to humans. It seems as though lab rats were fed only 18 five-gallon buckets of Alar, per day, for weeks, and they developed tumors. Clearly, Alar was everything Dr. Streep and CBS claimed. If you are easily swayed, that is. But, I digress.

Chocolate? Good: Results in a lower body mass index.

Beer? Good: May lower heart problems by 30%.

Potato chips? Bad and good: Likely to cause weight increase, although increases arm strength by feeding oneself.

Green tea? Bad and good: Causes heart palpitations in large quantities, but is an antioxidant.

Life can be perplexing with all the information available to us at any given time. It is up to us to sort through it and select the best we can to make informed decisions.

For me it will be coffee, iced tea, red wine, meat, beer, and now chocolate. Sorry, Doc.

Eastern Shore Grand Prix

Although living on the Eastern Shore has its advantages, it also has some entertainment setbacks, too. Of course, one can fish, hunt, crab, swim, walk beaches, and engage in shell hunting. You could visit some of the sights that include lighthouses, freely wandering ponies, and vineyards. There are miles of bike trails and roads, bird watching sites, and shopping venues to enjoy. But, after years of engaging in these activities, boredom can easily set in.

So it was with interest that I watched a television commercial that offered Scooty-Scoot scooters for the handicapped. It seems as though the federal government would like everyone to be mobile and will subsidize the purchase of a Scooty-Scoot for practically anyone.

The price was never mentioned on this TV ad, so I can only imagine it is far more expensive than my riding mower, more traditionally known on The Shore as a ‘grass cutter.’ One of mine - I have two – has an automatic transmission, hydrostatic throttle control, a trailer hitch, headlights, digital display, adjustable seat, and a cup holder. But, I digress.

Those Scooty-Scoots are shown with a woman driving one in tight circles inside her kitchen, waving while wearing a parade-like smile and appearing to be under the influence of some sort of narcotic.

This inviting display of senior debauchery actually held some appeal for me even though I’m not handicapped or require assistance to be ambulatory. Bringing road racing on The Eastern Shore would erase all the ethical and principled feelings that would need to be discarded to actually acquire one – or two – of these Scooty-Scoots.

I commented on the charm of having one of these – if only to give Smokey the Cat a brief ride around our humble abode. My sainted wife, upon returning to Earth from her rant said, “Over my dead body!”

It took a few minutes for me to ponder her offer and all ramifications associated therewith when I countered with, “Why not?”

Her blood pressure came down low enough for us to cancel the 911 call when she pushed her eyeballs back into their respective sockets and said, “And what are you going to do with it?”

Anticipating such a mundane query, I told her I would use mine to race hers up and down the country roads of Accomack County.

“You want two?!?!?!?!” she retorted.

It’s tough to race with just one, was my explanation. And short of using charts and a PowerPoint presentation, I endured to get my well-balanced point across.

Alas, she did not buy my argument, rather acting like Donald Trump on an episode of Celebrity Apprentice.

Road course Grand Prix’s are common throughout the world but, I’m afraid one will not be coming to The Shore anytime soon. Just don’t blame me.

Speak English

As a child growing up in upstate New York, I attended an ethnic parochial school which required all students to learn Polish. We needed to learn Polish because we resided in ethnic localities in which the majority of the populace spoke a particular language. I was reared in a Polish a neighborhood. Beginning in first grade I studied the Polish language in both the spoken and written word. This effort continued until I left for high school.

But, those eight painful years also included learning English and Latin. My math is correct. I went from an elementary school directly into high school.

We learned Latin because the Catholic mass was held in Latin; English was learned in order to get a job in America in later life.

My language woes were over once in high school – or so I thought. This institution was adamant each student learn a foreign language for the next four years. Unfortunately, Polish and Latin were not choices; French, Spanish, and German, were.

Since I watched a lot of WWII movies, I decided to learn German and see if they were really speaking German in those war movies. They were.

Upon graduation from high school I had several different languages under my belt but, what people don’t tell you is that ‘if you don’t use it, you lose it.’

Then I acquired a job as a garbage man with my route being in the Italian section of town. You guessed it – I picked up some conversational Italian along the way but, only enough to embarrass me while testing freshly-opened homemade wines from my generous customers. I can now swear like an Olympic-class curser in five different languages, and I’m proud of it.

Languages need to be used and exercised nearly every day, however. If you don’t, your brain will begin reaching into the foreign vocabulary closet for the appropriate words when speaking to someone.

A sentence consisting of some English, a couple of Polish, one Italian, and three German words often ruins point and causes confusion. Medical professionals often suspect a stroke and must be re-assured.

While at work, I had some dealings with the Chinese, and reading and pronouncing Chinese words and names needed work on my part. So, I took a language class in Chinese. It was a short course in conversational Mandarin Chinese.

To keep this language firmly ensconced in my cranium, I decided to both exercise my modest abilities and demonstrate my prowess. A few fellow workers joined together at a local Chinese restaurant and, yes, I ordered in my newly-learned language.

When asked what I would have, I proudly said, “Wǒ yǒu wǔ zhǐ zài wǒ de kùzi.”

The waiter laughed and nodded with a nervous smile. All around the table were duly impressed. After excusing myself to wash my hands, I caught our waiter and told him I wanted lo mein. He then asked me why I told him I had five rabbits I my pants.

Just speak English.

Cowboys and who?

While at the doctor’s office recently, I was filling out forms when I happened upon a question that seemed to be more of a test than an inquiry. “Best describe your ethnicity: White, Hispanic, African-American, Native American, other. Circle one.”

Of course, I became perplexed. Going back to my school daze days, I used the elimination process I was taught back when. I’m not Hispanic, and I wasn’t brought to this country from Africa. Although I look “White” as a Caucasian, I felt “Native American” fit the answer to this question, best.

My sainted wife – I often call her ‘Hawk,’ because of her sharp-eyed scrutiny of my every action – did a double take and quickly pointed out that I was not – NOT – a Native American.

“Native Americans are Indians!” she insisted.

Once again, I reverted to my school daze days and pensively recalled Indians being people whose skins were reddish in color. They were often the opponents in western movies and TV shows that featured cowboys and Indians.

Indians wore loin cloths and adorned their hair with feathers, their skin with war paint, carrying bows and arrows and tomahawks to better dispatch their foes.

Somewhere in elementary school we learned about The Battle of Little Bighorn. In 1867, General George Custer – known as an “Indian Fighter” - and 700 soldiers were stationed in The Montana Territory, many of whom were massacred by thousands of Indians from several Indian tribes.

Then, I recalled my high school mascot was an Indian warrior; our team was named the Red Raiders. Nobody mistook this imaginary figure for someone from New Delhi, but rather as an honoree depicting strength and determination that depicted our sports teams.

Somewhere along the way, politically correct whiners insisted this representation of virility and fortitude needed to be put to rest and history re-written. The Indians were re-engineered to be portrayed as devout custodians of the land and lovers of all men who crossed their paths. But, I digress.

Native American, as a description for my ethnicity, although I never raised a Bowie knife or wore paint on my face, seemed to fit the bill.

After all, a person born in Italy is a native Italian, a person born in Mexico is a native Mexican, and a person born in Australia is a native Australian. Therefore, I am a Native American.

It is too bad the politically correct crowd didn’t learn history and English. It is also a shame we may have to change the name of that children’s game to ‘Cowboys and Native Americans.”

Dear Mr. Montonunu

Every day I get luckier and luckier. Of course I play the lottery and occasionally have a modest winning ticket. Those winners usually amount to either two-dollars or a free ticket. Not necessarily the stuff dreams are made of. None the less, I endure.

When playing lottery games one must be aware of the ‘odds’ associated therewith. The odds are estimates as to how many tries it should take to win the jackpot in that particular game. The more numbers required to correctly select in order to win, the higher the odds.

One multi-state lottery game requires a player to select five numbers from a choice of 59, plus an extra ball from a choice of 39. The odds of picking all those numbers correctly aren’t as astronomical as one would surmise. Odds are only 1 in 195,249,054. That’s pretty much akin to expecting a visit from Gordon Ramsey, wearing a toga and riding an ostrich, on Thanksgiving.

Unfortunately, those free ticket and two-dollar coups are not making me rich. But, today is my lucky day and I feel compelled to share it with you.

I received an e-mail that promises to change my life. It was from Kwame Ungutari, Minister of Finance in the Republic of Togo.

It seems that Mr. Ungutari got my name and e-mail information from a secret source and feels as though I am trustworthy enough to get involved with a Republic of Togo financial matter.

Mr. Ungutari said that there is $65,000,000 USD in an undisclosed bank account and he needs me to only give him access to my bank account, along with my Social Security Number. He assures me this is on the up-and-up and the money will be transferred to my account, soon. What could possibly go wrong?

Some sort of unforeseen snag occurred, though. Mr. Ungutari needs me to send him a small check for $40,000 for processing and to prove my bank account is, indeed, mine. That seems like a pittance compared to the real money I’ll get from him, for simply giving him a bit of information, “soon.”

Yes, my ship has come in but, don’t think I’m dumb enough to put all my proverbial eggs in one basket. No, I am pleased to announce that I was blessed enough to actually receive another, similar letter from a Mr. Moganda Montonunu, who lives in Zimbabwe. He is the sole heir to an uncle who recently died and left him with $92,540,031 USD that he promised to share if he, too, could use my bank account.

I feel so blessed that Mr. Montonunu also feels I can be trusted with all that money, even without ever meeting me. It's clear there's an overabundance of unclaimed cash on the African continent.

Here’s my public plea: I would like everyone to stop sending me all this money as my bank is pretty small and I’m sure that kind of cash wouldn’t fit inside. Please give your money to other people. Thanks.

Bad boys, bad boys

Every once in a great while, we at www.EasternShoreFishandGame.com like to provide a public service. This day finds us offering selected advice that is worth exactly what it cost you – nothing.

Uncertain as to how many felons or other law-breakers regularly visit us, it is here these nefarious types can get some tips that may be of assistance for their first, or next, meeting with law enforcement personnel.

Upon seeing emergency lights and hearing a siren pursuing you, stop. This is not only a suggestion, but it is also the law.

Jumping from your vehicle and running like a gazelle won’t ingratiate you with the local constabulary. Police will follow you as your actions just indicated something suspicious is afoot as most people don’t exhibit that sort of questionable behavior. And, they will catch you.

When you are caught, don’t say, “I was scared! That’s why I ran.” Your fellow roommates in the county jail will view you as weak and that will likely make you someone’s girlfriend. Now you will really be scared.

During questioning the police detect an aroma of marijuana on you; you should tell the truth when you are asked about your dalliances with illegal hallucinogens. You may be able to fool the officer but, you won’t be able to fool the drug-sniffing dog.

If it comes to a vehicle search, and you know you have contraband in your vehicle, you can either man-up or run like a gazelle. This choice is yours and yours alone.

Using stories such as “I loaned my car to my cousin so, I don’t know what’s in it,” is a really stale excuse. I’ll wager that if the police found a shoebox full of twenties in the trunk, you would lay claim to it but, not the bale of weed. You can’t have it both ways.

As soon as the cops find a crack pipe under your seat don’t lie and deny it belongs to you, either. Lying about it belonging to your homeboy designates you as a coward. If you’re reading this while stoned, you will probably not remember the “I was scared!” line above. Please take note of this important freebie.

Police also do not like being spat upon or kicked, lied to, or having to run. They do relish being justified for using their guns so, don’t give them a chance. Simply comply with the orders they give.

Or better yet, don’t break the law in the first place.

At last I lost

This year marks a true milestone for me. Fifty years ago I began my diet, in earnest, and am proud to announce I lost – drum roll, please – nine pounds! Such a feat deserves a reward in the form of a glass of ice water.

Although I’m a spitting image of Tom Selleck, my annoying doctor feels I need to lose another 91 pounds, which would give me the advantage of stealth when hiding behind a piece of rope.

To accomplish this weight loss coup I foolishly began scrutinizing those oh, so important nutrition labels on packages. What I found was astonishing, to say the least.

It’s hard to believe a pecan pie has 180 grams of fat and 38 grams of sugar, per slice. Immediately, my attention was diverted toward those “sugar-free” pies. Those contain only 176 grams of fat and 34 grams of sugar, per slice. Not the win-win situation for which I was hoping.

Reading diet books made me direct my hunger-beater toward popcorn. Regular, dry, unsalted popcorn contains almost no fat but, tastes like filling from a ruptured bean bag chair. I know; I’ve tried it. So, my next great idea was to try buttered microwave popcorn with salt. Unfortunately, the nutrition data for microwave popcorn bags must be multiplied by three as those numbers reflect three servings. Again, a surprise for which I was not prepared.

Some diet drinks are labeled similarly with servings measured in thimbles. Snacks, such as potato sticks are more conveniently measured in actual numbers. One serving is 18 sticks. For the record, Smokey the Cat can, and has, eaten 27 sticks. It is convenient to be able to eat and play Jenga, though.

But in the course of my travels while telling my tales of woe, I have met very helpful folks who appear to be Ethiopian refugees willing to offer healthy eating advice.

“I eat lots of beans. They’re full of protein,” say these well-meaning single folks. They’re single because they consume lots of beans which digest into lots of methane gas and don’t have time to date as they literally reside in the bathroom. Hence their single status.

“Rice cakes fill me up!” is another heap of advice. They may as well have offered me used paper towels as a snack.

“Soy and tofu burgers are delicious!” is another lie. The Geneva Conventions prohibit feeding prisoners-of-war stuff like that.

And then I found an energy drink that allegedly provides vim to cover five hours of a day. It contains no sugar, no calories, no carbs, no kidding. But, the labels do indicate they are loaded with vitamins B6 an B12 in daily percentage allowable amounts of 2000 and 8333%, respectively.

Not being a nutritionist, I don’t know what the side effects of vitamin B6 and B12 overdoses are. So, I’ll stick to my breakfast, lunch, and dinner of drinking diet water with low calorie ice cubes while watching Smokey eat his kibble.

Just in case

Most religions have basic tenets that include living according to The Golden Rule, and some sort of life after death creed. Life after death can take on many facets to include places called Heaven and Hell as well as a form of theistic and pagan being termed reincarnation.

The Heaven part is based primarily on religious beliefs with a reward for living a good, pure life. Hell, on the other hand, is punishment for living a life that was not so much.

All this assumes that we believe in metaphysics. An afterlife is where our souls go when we check out.

As a high schooler, I diligently attended classes and studied to the best of my ability – something at which my teachers, parents, and I all wish I had exerted more effort. But, I digress.

Here I am many years later – wishing my high school guidance counselor had actually earned her money in directing me toward a truly satisfying occupation, something I managed to do on my own. In any case, I had a good ride that provided enough money and entertainment to last throughout my career and the balance of my life.

Now that I am in my advanced years I look around to see things that weren’t obvious when I was younger. For instance, I would like to have had a job that incorporated some really cool things in the day-to-day mechanics of the world.

Things such as testing automobiles for Bugatti, fly fishing around the globe, or the indiscriminate use of high explosives, are a few thing that immediately come to mind. How people get jobs like these is now a covetous mystery to me.

Tonight I’m doing homework to find out who I need to bribe to tool about the ocean in a Donzi or hang around NASCAR pits with a lanyard with credentials sealed in plastic and look important. You don’t normally see those types of professions posted in the want ads.

Perhaps it’s a brother-in-law that wants you to move out of his basement that comes home and announces, “Enzo Ferrari is looking for help. Can you drive a car? It only pays 419,000 Lira, though.”

And although that amounts to only about $182,000 per annum, you decide you’ll make the sacrifice because they let you take the car home at night.

Jealous, I am not. Envious, I am. But, in case there really is an afterlife, and I do get to come back, I’ll have my resume in good order. That’ll be me in the red sports car.

Just stick it

Just as with wine, each day gets better. Foreigners dislike America because of our opulent lifestyle. So it is with a modicum of smugness I grin when discovering new, innovative products that make ours days better.

A few years ago, I learned of a spatula that neatly turned eggs without breaking the yokes. It was a magical discovery that likely made the rest of the world absolutely envious.

This past year Santa brought me an innovative product called “Eggies.” Eggies are plastic domes into which cracked raw eggs are placed. Once inside, the Eggie is dropped into hot water and boiled for a specified amount of time. It bobs around the pan of water, cooking the egg, perfectly. The Eggie is then opened and the hardboiled egg is removed. Its draw is that no peeling of the egg is necessary, which makes for quick, easy processing.

Each egg is perfectly cooked with the yoke simply extracted for processing into deviled eggs. These contraptions can also be used to cook liquid ‘egg product,’ resulting in egg-like shaped, well, congealed egg juice. I use ‘egg product’ because it has no cholesterol but, often like hardboiled eggs in my salads. Using Eggies in conjunction with egg product makes for this desired, healthy result.

But, today is even more special. Once again, I discovered a new, innovative product that is not only revolutionary but, also “green.”

“Green” is the new wave that supposedly will save our planet from self-destruction by re-using some products, and implementing renewable resources in others. A very noble - if fruitless – effort. But, I digress.

This new discovery is the Orgreenic fry pan that is coated with some space-age substance that prevents anything – anything – from sticking to it. The world’s worst cooks could burn these things with napalm and the Orgreenic fry pan will simply wipe clean. No fuss, no muss. They promise.

It seems as though that promise is to replace any Orgreenic pan with another if it is damaged. I’m sure this warranty lasts until the Orgreenic Fry Pan Company goes out of business. But, not to worry!

If you order one right now – that is RIGHT NOW – they will send you a second indestructible Orgreenic fry pan. You only need to include shipping costs which amount to nearly a third of the price of a pan.

But, why would anyone need two? One is guaranteed for life! And, what is that special coating that prevents anything from sticking to it? Which begs the question: How do they get that special coating to stick to the pan?

Be jealous of us, world!

Back When

Several times a year, a well-known automobile auction house conducts a televised auction of some of the most wonderful cars, trucks, and airplanes in the world. Several times a year, I get snookered in to watching this display of expressiveness, and do so with great awe.

A parade of beautiful examples of ways to use the internal combustion engine enthralls me for days upon days with each day bringing increasingly more expensive vehicles to the block.

For me, this spectacle is akin to me climbing inside a time machine, all the while wearing rose-colored glasses. Many of these vehicles were regular sights on America’s roads so, I remember seeing them cruising about and dreaming of them before I was actually old enough to drive.

Studebakers, Ramblers, WWII Jeeps, and DeSotos were a mere sampling of cars that eventually gave-way to Fords, Chevys, and Chryslers. This mean example of attrition spawned an unexpected birth of ways to make the “standards” better, and the “odd-balls” totally desirable. Some of the spirited, gifted neighborhood backyard mechanics and their offspring would build some of these more custom vehicles which I admired on my trek to and from school.

It must be borne in mind that I was in first grade before America had fifty states. Seeing a bullet-nosed Studebaker was not really rare back then, but today, seeing one on the byways is both quite amazing and smile-evoking.

Muscle cars came into being during the mid-1960’s and disappeared in the early 1970’s. They were small cars with big engines that went fast. They were fun to drive and easy to repair. Gas was 30-cents per gallon. Mustangs, GTOs, Camaros, Chevelles, and Road Runners were some of the top muscle cars of yore.

Those cars are now very sought after by collectors and mechanics are willing to pay top dollar to relive their childhoods with vehicles they likely couldn't afford at that time. A 1956 Ford F-100 pickup truck that originally sold for about $3,000 will now set you back between $60,000 and $110,000, depending on the options and details. I sold mine for $500, and was glad to get that for it, back when.

Prices like that still keep me at bay because my checkbook is a bit thin but, countless others don’t have that problem and enjoy fulfilling their dreams. Bravo to them!

Today’s vehicles don’t evoke the same emotions from me, though. For some reason, I fail to foresee a truly future collectible market for the likes of a Prius – a car that shuts off when stopped - that I see for a Plymouth Prowler. Maybe I’m wrong; I’ve been wrong before. Besides, the Prius shuts itself off when stopped.

In any case, a car that quits running at a stop light has usually spelled t-r-o-u-b-l-e for me. And, most my cars would pass anything on the road - except a gas station.

Those were the days.

Spell Chick

Bees are something with which I have great problems. Before you fire up your e-mail to send nasty messages to me about the benefit of pollination of flowers and veggies, the bees to which I am referring are geography and spelling bees.

Geography bees ask school kids where such inane places such as Paris and Miami are located.

Spelling bees are similar in that equally brainy kids are asked to spell common words as syzygy.

While in sixth grade – sixth grade was the best three years I spent in parochial school – I was asked to participate in an elimination to weed out the weak spellers in my class in order to send the finest speller to the state spelling bee.

The class was divided into two random groups and we were given words to spell for the nuns. All went well for until I was given the word “sope.” Evidently, it is more commonly spelled s-o-a-p. Needless to say, my best efforts led to an early defeat. But, for Wendy, it was a resounding win and the class rallied around her if only to claim we knew the best speller in New York State.

Unfortunately for Wendy, she was eliminated in round three by misspelling the word “phlegm.” What better way to prove to the rest of the world that you cannot spell than to fail in front of countless parents and teachers who have coached you to spell through rote, doing written and oral exercises ad nauseum.

This disappointment brought reality into focus for the rest of the sixth grade and served as a true wake-up call. Back then, we didn’t have computers that checked our homework assignments; we had our parents who often spelled poorly as we did. Hence, our lives of being unable to effectively convey the written word became generational.

In any case, I needed to be able to share written works with my employer and fellow employees which dictated my requirement to spell better. Playing Scrabble helped me both spell and win at Scrabble. I also acquired an affinity for crossword puzzles. Over time, my spelling abilities marginally improved but, if it wasn't for word processor spell chick, I’d still be lost. Yeah, I know it’s supposed to be ‘spell check.’ Still that’s the way that software works; it corrects the word to a ‘best guess,’ not necessarily the ‘correct guess.’ All that is water under the bridge for most kids today.

Now if they knew that Paris was in Texas and Miami was in Ohio for those geography bees, we’d have a smarter generation.

Who’s That?

As a kid, I thought life would become easier as we aged. We would gain more knowledge and common sense, and make more associations that would aid us in our twilight years. I was wrong.

Each day I find another new person gracing the cover of some magazine, or as a guest on a talk show, with whom I am totally unfamiliar. Pictures of the prettiest people on Earth surround me at the grocery checkout, each of them wearing a beaming grin and clad in high-end clothing with nary a blemish to be found.

I’m not a fool. I realize that these photos are air-brushed into non-recognizable portraits of the original subjects but, it is time to explain who these folks are and how they secretly became famous.

Accompanying stories ramble on about them growing up on a farm in Arizona with 19 siblings. Dad left the family for a Chinese hooker and the family relied on good intentions from the offshoot religious cults they joined. Their big breaks came when they performed, shoeless, in a high school play and were spotted by Stephen Spielberg who happened to be visiting an ailing relative in town.

Still, I never saw these people even selling car insurance on TV, much less in a feature film that was nominated for an Oscar or Emmy Award. Lately, it is because they star in a vampire show either on TV or in the movies something about which I am not the least bit interested.

My youth was spent working and listening to music. I not only knew the songs and their recording artists but, I also knew the disc jockeys who spun those wax platters, much to my delight. Today, I don’t have a clue when I see a person as a guest on some after-the-late-news show. These folks are roundly applauded as much as The Pope and I usually feel stupid because I don’t recognize them.

But, I also wonder what happened to all those ‘stars’ that came and went in a flash a short time ago. Names of Star Search winners come to mind when mentioning once famous has-beens.

Let’s keep those celebrities fresh with new daily details and overwhelming information about their scandals so that I will know who to watch and idolize in the future. By the way, that reminds me that Kim Kardashian never returned that waffle iron wedding gift after her 72-day marriage.

Sick ‘em

Allow me to welcome you to that time of year when those people who bragged about not getting flu shots are now sick with the flu.

Folks are carousing the aisles of supermarkets and department stores sniffling and wiping their runny noses on their sleeves. They cough without covering their mouths and sneeze likewise as if that “achoo” was a personal gift from them to us, then anxiously wait for a “Gesundheit!” from their victims. Wait on.

Still, the common cold wafts about the air like the aroma of freshly-baked bread, only more physically intrusive and much less pleasantly inviting. Here’s an alert: Your aliments are not mine to share.

In any case, this is not a good time to be out and about in public. Doctors suggest a trip to their office or a clinic or a hospital for an expensive non-cure. Unfortunately, we must wait among the walking dead – well laden with other germs and imported ailments – before we can speak to a medical professional, with a raspy voice.

It’s a no-win situation. You may as well roll the dice on your home mortgage and hope for positive results.

But, I have noticed that there are much more anti-cold and –flu treatments on pharmacy shelves than before. As a child – I’m so old, my birth-certificate expired – I remember my Mother using salves greasy ointments on my chest to ferret out the cold germs. Actually, any self-respecting germ and virus would gladly leave an area with that stuff liberally applied nearby. I wanted to leave my own body to escape. But, I digress.

Enter the well-meaning people who feel compelled to give you free advice about your ailment.

“If you wore heavier clothing you wouldn’t be sick,” is the one I hear most.

“Bundle up or you’ll only get sicker,” is another.

“Cover your head before you die of pneumonia,” is my personal favorite. Of course, I’m very busy trying to keep my one foot off the banana and the other out of the grave to argue, and merely drop the matter.

It’s too bad the germs and viruses that give us our cold and influenza attacks don’t particularly care how much clothing one wears, or ones hat choice, to make us ill. For your information, they are airborne. Wearing a pair of tailored, cuffed, pleated slacks has no bearing upon getting a cold.

I certainly appreciate free advice but, I’d like factual advice above all. How about some free advice that doesn’t include fashion critiques? And, I’d welcome some free advice from a doctor.

Hats Off

Up until the 1960’s, most men, women, and children wore hats as a regular part of their lives. Photos from the earliest part of that century show men in their fedoras, women with their head garments of velvet and lace, and tykes with beanies and ball caps.

All that changed with the election of President John Kennedy. His inauguration was in the dead of winter with cold air and snow about but, he wore no hat and the First Lady, Jacqueline Kennedy, did likewise. Suddenly, a new era began.

Taking a cue from President Kennedy, government officials and business people alike ceased wearing chapeaus. Sure, straw hats for casual wear, for both men and women, still existed. But, times were changing.

Several decades passed before someone with great business sense created new a method of advertising, more specifically, on a ball cap. These caps were made of nylon mesh with the fronts resembling small billboards. Emblazoned thereon were names, phone numbers, and logos of businesses that people sported nearly everywhere.

America was dotted with this cheesy headwear but, it was stylish for its time, much as mullets and bell bottoms were. Movie characters wore these hats, television stars donned these, and even politicians seized this opportunity to wear them as an extra method by which to advertise for little money.

This activity created a norm allowing other folks from other walks of life to demonstrate their affiliations. Yachters, golfers, and other elite suddenly discovered a “new” way to ‘advertise’ their wealthy status to those otherwise unaware or unconcerned. With this up-scaling of clientele also came better fabrics. Away went the silk screening and in came the embroidery. Nylon hats were officially deceased.

The 1980’s ushered in a genre of “music” called rap. In short it was talentless people reading poetry to a drum beat. Yes, it is as annoying as it sounds. These rappers with their new-found fame needed an avenue by which to tout their affluence and social status. Enter the ball cap, this time around adorned with sequins and glitter. This tried and true method of advertising found new patrons in the tin-eared followers of this aural garbage, and the style of wearing ones cap – with the bill pointed sideways – actually became fashionable. Although this new statement makes the wearer look both urban and retarded, it caught on by storm. Nothing amazes me anymore.

It was around the turn of the new millennium that ‘the kids’ discovered fedoras. Once again, music-related individuals spurred this fashion fad. Magazines were covered with people wearing fedoras and, by people, I mean both men and women. Sure, those stupid urban ball caps are still around and they still look, well…

I must confess I wear hats of varying varieties to include ball caps, cowboy hats, and crushers. I actually own a pork pie hat and I wear them all with regularity. I use the brimmed hats when exposed to the sun, as I am conscious of skin damage and cancer. For me though, hats never went out of style and likely never will. My sainted wife refers to me as The Renaissance Man because I’m usually ahead of my time. For once, she’s right.

Others regularly laugh at me – yes, I’m the one they’re pointing at. But, my ball cap brim is pointed toward the front and my ears are shaded from the sun.