We Made It

This year is the 45^th anniversary of that great secular celebration, Earth Day.  It was in the late 1960’s that Paul R. Ehrlich, renowned scientist, that brought much of this about.

 

Ehrlich, in case you missed it, wrote a well-received book about the population explosion on the planet.  He insisted the masses were responsible for the Earth’s ills and should be controlled (read: exterminated) to help the cause.

 

The simple elimination of only 2 billion people would certainly assist in saving our orb home.

 

As such, Ehrlich penned a paper about the climate of our surroundings and cited the production of greenhouse gases as the primary culprit in his theory on climate change.  Of course, these gases were the result of people.

 

His paper was alarmist in nature and only caught the attention of the media in the mid-1970’s, five years after the inaugural Earth Day.

 

Ehrlich’s paper, unbeknownst to the masses, was warning the world was cooling.  A great ice age was soon to descend on the Earth and freeze people to death.  In fact, the rest of the scientific community insisted it was warming.

 

Clearly someone was wrong.  Unfortunately, cash-flush politicians used American’s money to change our behavior and lecture us on how we should change our ways to save the planet.

 

But, who was right – the global coolers, or the global warmers?

 

Somewhere along those 44 years neither could be confirmed or denied as the truth-as-fact.  So, they were both declared correct by calling our contrived problem neither cooling nor warming.  It was a draw.

 

“Climate change” was to be the official moniker for spending countless dollars and increasing taxes to do so. 

 

Resurrect Al Gore.  Former Vice President Gore, appearing to need a tan and diet, has been making noise lately about climate change.  This is the same Al Gore that has been dutifully collecting carbon credits from businesses to offset their production of those nasty greenhouse gases, and putting that cash into the Al Gore suit pocket and private jet fund.

 

Oddly enough, President Barack Hussein Obama, amid terrorist attacks, internal corruption, involvement in overseas election scandals, starting new wars, new-found racial strife, and Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, has just declared climate change as the top priority affecting our country.

 

Huh?

 

In any case, for nearly half a century we have been listening to half-baked “climatologists” berate us common folk as being too stupid to understand the dire situation in which we are residing.  Still, they can’t agree on if we are approaching a warming or cooling period.

 

Nonetheless, we must take our medicine and bow neatly from the waist.  Gore recently announced climate change deniers should be punished because they don’t believe in “the cause.”

 

Meanwhile, we should be thankful we dodged a major bullet that Ehrlich predicted in 1968 that we would run out of food in the 1970’s and 1980’s, causing mass starvation.  I must have missed that crisis.

TMI

Some years ago the phrase du jour was, “That’s TMI.”  No, no.  You’re thinking of TMJ, the jaw problem that was all the rage in the 80’s and 90’s.  TMI is an abbreviation for “too much information.”

 

TMI used to be interjected into conversations when the listener thought they were being bombarded by more information than they needed.  In other words, they were performing the service of censors.

 

A good example of TMI is, “So I got me a five-minute shower this morning, but it took me nearly 20-mintues to clean my back hair from the drain.”

 

“Ugh!  That’s TMI!” was the normal response to that statement.  Of course the listener issued a fake sense of disgust because, as mammals, we all have hair somewhere on our bodies.  That hair falls out and winds-up clogging the drain of the shower.  Amen.

 

But the you-know-them-types of women, who looked as though they just stepped out of a trailer with their bouffant hair-dos and makeup that seems to have been applied by Ringling Brothers, are the first ones to cough up the letters TMI.  But, I digress.

 

Those aren’t the people to whom I’m referring in this space.  No, the subjects of today’s blog are the ones who leave out important details and still feel it necessary to over explain the unnecessary stuff.

 

“I’ll meet you for breakfast at 8:00 AM in the morning.”

 

That sentence contains TMI.  Traditionally, I eat breakfast in the morning.  I also recall from my school days that 8:00 AM is in the morning.  Where, would be a better detail to add.

 

Another fine illustration is when people tell you where they live or are from.  “I was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan.”

 

TMI, again.

 

I’m certain I would have guessed that the Detroit to which they were speaking was located in Michigan.

 

The same holds true for Pittsburgh, Tampa, Schenectady, and Los Angeles.  You do not need to add the state as if the listener just awoke from a coma only to learn that Denver was moved to Illinois.

 

I know this sounds petty but, those same folks who feel compelled to include TMI omit critical details about other not-so-obvious things like locations, parking availability, or quantities left.  I hate to drive 45 miles only to discover they just sold the last one, or they moved to a new, more convenient location.

 

In any case, pay close attention to speakers to verify my concerns.  And remember to return for another new topic next Monday.  TMI.

Batter Up!

Not Mark McGwire

Baseball season has begun and already teams are preparing for post season play.  But, they should be more interested in what is happening today and some events in the distant past.

 

A comedian, George Carlin, once did a bit about the difference between baseball and football.  It was amusing and concise.  Baseball was for the weaker members of society, while football was for real men.

 

Not a month goes by without some monumental story about a football player sustaining a concussion while engaging their sport.  Other players whine about back injuries, and still more complain about how they played injured, given high doses of pain-numbing pharmaceuticals to keep them in the game.

 

Now, these guys want pity and financial compensation for their pain and suffering.  Neither will help.  Common sense would have helped, though.

 

In any case, they didn’t balk and took their salaries with a needle sticking out of their arm.

 

 Enter Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire, both baseball players who, in 1998, were entrenched in a batting duel.  They each seemed to possess super-human skills that did not exist in prior seasons.

 

Each day brought a new stat to the baseball world with each hitting a home run or two in that days’ game.  The tally was astronomical and nearly everyone – except my sainted wife – was talking about these feats.  Sosa and McGwire’s goal was to beat Roger Maris’ home run record that has stood since 1961.

 

But, in 2005, both men appeared before Congress to explain why both tested positive for performance-enhancing drugs.  Both denied the accusations.

 

These guys are not alone in their quest to outdo others in their sport as other baseball players, football players, bicycle riders, swimmers, gymnasts, and tennis players have all tested positive for these banned substances.

 

In fact, I feel they should be able to use any drug necessary to enhance their game as they clearly cannot compete with other athletes that do not use augmentations.  I would love to see a 400 pound baseball player step-up to the plate with arms so big they resemble telephone poles.

 

If their use of those substances helps them garner a few more dollars in pay-for-play, so be it.

 

But, I don’t expect to hear any crying about how their minds were turned to mush by steroids, or how they have developed bleeding in their joints, ruptured tendons, or brittle bones.

 

Baseball is about as perfect a game as it gets.  Big guys that can hit well don’t have to run the bases quickly.  Little guys who can run don’t need to drive the ball out of the park.  And mediocre players can stand in the outfield all day long to work on their tans.

 

While you read this, I hope you thought of Pete Rose.  He was the fellow who was banned-for-life from baseball because as a manager he admitted to gambling on games.  It should be noted he said he never gambled on his team losing.

 

Rose has been denied a spot in the Baseball Hall of Fame as a result, even though he eventually admitted he did gamble.

 

Barry Bonds, Jason Giambi, Sammy Sosa, and Mark McGwire are all eligible for induction into the Hall of Fame.  All used steroids, all lied about, and all have been exonerated.  It’s time for Pete Rose.

Look-a-likes

Two nights ago a youthful neighbor stopped by for a visit with conversation and cheap wine.  I needed to mention she was youthful as I can be considered decrepit. 

 

Sure, I was once young and at one time I actually knew all the current bands, actors and actresses, and modern lingo.  I was hip.

 

And throughout the years I tried to stay in cultural shape by listening to the newest music, watching the premiers of television shows, and even combined the two with the help of MTV and VH-1.  Long, long ago, VH-1 was akin to MTV in that they both showed music videos.  Both aired music videos which featured cool performances from the latest artists.  In essence, these were mini concerts for shut-ins and the short-attention spanned – like me.

 

In any case, this was the only way I would know who Madonna was, or Sheila E., or any of the other three-thousand female singers of the 1980’s and 1990’s.

 

Hearing only a voice on the hi-fi was not enough to conjure up a visual image of the artist, much less get an action scenario of the song itself.

 

Unfortunately, both MTV and VH-1 have gone the way of common morality in America.  You’d have better luck finding a bag of crack in a convent than finding a music video on the music channels.

 

I no longer patronize those former music TV channels because of their lack of content I desire.  Keep in mind there is no alternative outside of the internet for such music viewing.

 

The result is my falling out of “perpetually-hip” status and into the “I-don’t-have-a-clue category.”  And to me that is a big deal.  But, I digress.

 

So my neighbor is drinking wine when a shrill voice and blonde, overly made-up woman appeared to hawk the newest amateur singer show.  Yes, America is searching for more singers, as if we were having a yodeling drought.

 

My sainted wife asked the general question as who that unrecognizable screaming woman with a guitar was.  Our youthful neighbor said that it appeared to be Christina Agulera.  It could have been; I didn’t know.

 

The conversation continued and the wine freely flowed for the balance of the evening.

 

Yesterday I looked for blonde singers in the hope of identifying this mystery woman.  My search was mixed in results as the names of Christina Agulera, Gwen Stefani, Lady Gaga, and Johnny Winter all turned up as viable identifications.

 

It may have been any one of them as they all looked pretty much alike – save for Johnny Winter who was clearly older and less made up.

 

Nonetheless, the mystery remains and the woman in the ad is still unknown to me.  I do feel old now because I am no longer able to point at people, or recognize songs, or even pick movie and TV stars out of a crowd any longer.

 

 I do find it odd that there is a TV show featuring a woman beating a cat with a guitar, though.

Come On Down!

While taking a reprieve from time in my workshop for a bite of lunch, I noticed my sainted wife was enthralled in a television program.

It is The Price is Right, and chock full of ritz and glitz.  It seems as though the show has changed hosts with the former one, Bob Barker, gone to a California golf course.

I remember Bob was old when I was a kid and he emceed the show with a microphone that closely resembled a giant lollipop.  He ended each show with a warning-like-suggestion to “spay and neuter your pets.”

Ol’ Bob was put out to pasture some years ago and replaced with someone who still has a pulse – Drew Carey.

The show has taken on an ultra-hip atmosphere with new games and hoopla and extravagant prizes in the form of luxury automobiles and fabulous trips.

This particular episode showed a $300 blender, $2400 in luggage, and women’s and transvestite’s shoes worth thousands.  Gone are the days of Rice-A-Roni.

But what really caught my attention was the Drew’s Crew members.  Bob used to have comely ladies who stood by prizes as they spun around on a giant turntable; they referred to as Barker’s Beauties.  I can only assume Drew’s ladies would have earned a similar moniker.

In any case, there were two models that were simply stunning.  Yes, I can say this because my sainted wife does not read www.easternshorefishandgame.com. 

One was named Manjuela, the other was Rachel.  Both were, again, stunning.

I was mesmerized by their leggy gyrations around a riding lawnmower, and later a dehumidifier.  Both prizes appeared sexier because of the way these two ladies maneuvered around them on the stage.

Just as with people who say, “Everything tastes better with bacon,” these models do the same thing to floor lamps – they make them better.

My mind drifted away to my “happy place.”  In the event you’re unfamiliar with happy places, those are where you mentally go to reduce stress and want to relax.

I was mentally in my workshop preparing to fire-up my drill press when my sainted wife entered.  In her hand was a steaming cup muscular black coffee.  She was wearing a sequined gown with satin pumps and motioned with her free hand that this cup of joy was mine.  A facial gesture along with a smile and wink from her confirmed this scenario.

A quick twist of her head and a bigger grin appeared that coincided with a small nod…

 

I returned to reality when I heard Drew’s voice say, “Place your bid to the nearest dollar without going over.”

 

Perhaps my sainted wife could try a smooth wave and hand motion when she announces dinner is ready, or maybe she could sashay over to me while I’m painting and offer me some iced tea.  The bottom line is presentation is everything.

 

That lucky Drew fell into it.

Doctor, Doctor!

Three months ago I, along with countless other dupes, made a New Year’s resolution.  My resolution was to diet, exercise, and get healthier.

 

I’m proud to announce that after 68 solid days of regimented living I have lost a total of – drum roll, please – 2 pounds!

 

This health marathon did not begin January 1^st.  Rather, it began decades ago when my clothes started shrinking.  Actually, they remained the same, I was simply growing.

 

To stave off serious illness later in life I began eating “lite” foods.  After a few years of that I began eating less lite.  There has been no alcohol in the form of beer, liquor, wine, or even flambé dishes.

 

The result was being a fat guy who didn’t drink.  That’s even less fun than being just a fat guy.

 

In any case, my doctor decided to send me to a dietician.  There I collected papers, menus, and sage advice from both the dietician and the other participants.  I should have known better since my fellow dieters had been attending this diet clinic for years, and still they were 80 pounds heavier than I.

 

My dietician put me on a 1200 calorie per day diet.  If you don’t know how much 1200 calories is, stop by my house and look in Smokey the Cat’s bowl.  That is 1400 calories.

 

I’m bringing this up now because I have a doctor’s office visit scheduled for this week and am prepared to duke it out.  You see, I gained 14 pounds on my diet since my last doctor visit.

 

This past year I changed my diet to be even healthier.  I grew my own veggies and fruits, and I know that they are all organic because I know what I put in and around them.

 

My doctor was talking to me about lettuce I grew and asked me if I got any.  I told him no, because I was too busy growing lettuce to get any.  He didn’t think that was funny.

 

But I got my blood test results back and they look pretty good considering I have one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.

 

Of course my doctor won’t let me die until I reconcile all my bills.

 

For all you spindly folks reading this, keep in mind I have a metabolic imbalance –through no fault of my own - that is being re-balanced through pharmaceuticals.  Nonetheless, the antics and gyrations that are being performed are tenuous and un-fun.

 

And until I drop another 78 pounds, I’ll be the guy no losing weight on a diet.

Deja View

Not Smokey the Cat

With the Oscar ceremonies still warm in our brains, I’d like to visit an arena of cinema of which no one speaks: Remakes.

 

I enjoy movies as much as anyone because they are commercial-free in their original form.

 

Remakes are not those tired movies that get recycled like old newspapers or soda cans rather, they are original movies that are re-made by someone other than the initial director and cast to improve the film.

 

The first one that comes to mind is King Kong.  This movie was first seen by me as a child when I was inside on a Saturday morning.  It appeared on TV and enthralled me that such a large monkey was able to escape in a large metropolitan area.

 

Of course that was not the point of the flick as I later learned.  Still, I was agog at the amazing cinematography which, today, looks like it was done with crayons by baboons.  Nonetheless, it was cutting-edge technology interspersed with real actors, and it was exciting.

 

Its remake was touted as the biggest thing since the moon landing.  It wasn’t.  But, this led the pack in the remake world.

 

No one would think of remaking Rocky.   We’re up to Rocky XXXIV, I think.  We‘re also lousy with Die Hard movies, Shrek films, Rambo, and Saw cinematic works that can be easily distinguished by the numbers following the title.

 

James Bond adventures do not fit into these forms as they are all their own individual adventure, often with a different title character portrayer.

 

But movies like The Karate Kid was good.  It didn’t need to be remade, but it was.

 

Arthur is another that had a fine original but, was painfully contorted into a weak attempt to make money off the original.

 

It must be a sense of an overinflated ego that feels they have a better idea as to what the original should have been like.  One successful movie is the Wizard of Oz.

 

The Wizard of Oz was released in 1939 and has enjoyed great success for decades on both the silver screen and the small screen.  It is still shown as an annual event on television.

 

Enter Sidney Lumet who directed a black version of the Wizard of Oz entitled The Wiz.  It starred Dianna Ross, Michael Jackson, and many other black actors because it was set in Harlem.

 

Just as The Great Gatsby was remade into a black version called G.  G is a modern day story about a hip hopper named Summer G.  Summer G spends years making himself into an entrepreneur to entice his wanna-be squeeze back into his arms.  Wow!

 

Speaking of nutty, let us not forget the remake of that Walt Disney classic The Nutty Professor.  Yes, that too was remade starring Eddie Murphy.

 

Not to be outdone, check out the new version of Annie.  It seems as though Annie is now a sassy black girl who lives with her mean foster mother and is taken in by the mayoral candidate who happens to be a business tycoon.

 

The originals were just fine.  Let them be and please come up with some new, fresh, original ideas for movies.  I’ve already seen that one you’re trying to remake.