A Long Way

A recent road trip to Florida provided me with tons of fodder for a new story. 

I’ve complained about left lane-challenged people before.  This one is for those truckers that like to ride in any lane without a purpose, and often cruise side-by-side for miles.  They surely know they are bottle-necking traffic and creating a dangerous log jam, seemingly oblivious to anyone else on the roadway.  Why?

OPEC is another target.  This group of greedy clowns charged me anywhere from $2.99 to $3.39 per gallon of gasoline.  My return trip a week later saw prices rise fifteen cents a gallon because some rowboat in the Middle East approached a U.S. Navy ship.  Sure.  How about America raising the price of a bushel of wheat or corn we sell them by $30 because it didn’t rain in Iowa on Wednesday?

Rest areas along I-95 are also pretty glum.  Although I cannot speak for the women’s rooms, the men’s rooms are deplorable.  I needed waders to make my way through puddles of urine to pee at these ‘convenience stops’.  Here’s a free tip for the guys:  Stand closer; it’s shorter than you think

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People driving 72 MPH in a 70 MPH zone, who see a state trooper dealing with a customer on the other side of the road, don’t need to slam on their brakes.  The trooper is NOT going to run back to his cruiser, squeal the tires, and drive across the median to chase you down for your 2 MPH infraction!

When bus tours are visiting fast food restaurants, those buses should, by law, be parked in front of the restaurant.  This way, it would serve as a warning for other potential patrons that there are 63 screaming, obnoxious kids running around the place, or there are 63 undecided seniors trying to negotiate the price of coffee with their AARP discounts.

My sainted wife loves peaches.  A series of giant, billboard-sized signs proudly advertised peaches, peach preserves, peach juice, and peach jelly, for sale.  Strategically placed along the interstate every eight-or-so miles, those signs were visible for about an hour’s journey.  I decided I would buy a basket or two and took the designated exit.  This exit led me to a fork in the road and no indication which direction to take.  It seems as though I didn’t need that extra space for some peach passengers after all.

And, it must be the law in Georgia that every front seat passenger in a van or SUV must put their feet on the dashboard or out the side window.  (It’s no wonder folks from the other 49 states make fun of Georgians.)  Just how well do seatbelts work when one is lying down rather than sitting erectly?

The big thing in decorating large passenger vehicles these days is to replace that stupid 1990’s “Baby on Board” window sign with decals of Dad, Mom, the kids, and family pets.  Why?  Who really cares?  And, what about unconventional (read: gay) families?  Do those decal packages come with two daddies or two mommies?  There’s your free marketing idea.

After finding a fast-food restaurant without 63 drama cases, I stopped for coffee.  The coffee needed to be made fresh requiring a 20-minute wait so, I did without the caffeine.

Tuning the radio gave me an altogether different tour of The South.  In any given length of roadway resided a minimum of 11 religious stations with screaming preachers, 7 rap/urban stations, 9 that carry both kinds – country and western, and 2 easy listening stations.  Let’s not forget to mention the 4 NPR stations with droning, monotone news readers to whom no one listens.  This is why CDs are so popular.

Spending 14-hours in your car was actually out-lawed by the Geneva Conventions under their “torture” statute.  Still, traveling without having to spend a night in a motel room with chalk body outlines is incentive enough to make a trip in one shot.

I’m just glad I don’t drive an electric car because I don’t own 869 miles of extension cords.

Open sezme

Smokey the cat, the official feline of www.EasternShoreFishAndGame.com is a pretty amazing animal, much like your own kids whose bumper stickers adorn your mini vans and SUVs with messages like ‘My son is an honor student at WASSAMATA  U.’  As such, he receives a treat in the form of specially formulated cat nibbles that contain salmon, liver, and beef shards.  Still, he seems to enjoy them.

These bonuses are given as a reward for many things to include putting his toys away, catching errant critters, and denoting bed time.  The problem begins with trying to get those treats out of the bag.

It seems as though there is a law that cat treats need to be packed in foil bags that are impossible for humans to open.  These bags are dutifully labeled at the factory with arrows pointing to that special spot on the pouch where the master of the cat should place his fingers to tear it horizontally.  Once torn, the instructions indicate, the pouch is ready to dispense these delights.  Wrong.

Invariably, that “special spot” is either a fraction of an inch too low or too high to be effective.  If it is too high, the bag remains sealed; if it is too low, the bag cannot be resealed.  Quite a conundrum indeed, as Smokey likes his treats fresh.  But, he, too, get frustrated and he simply gnaws on the bag until he rips a hole in the side.  Problem solved.

Bags and pouches like these are called ‘zip-lock’ for a reason.  As the name would imply, you should be able to zip the bag shut to lock in the freshness, hence the term ‘zip-lock.’

Recently, I decided to skirt the instructions that are printed thereon to tear the bag open.  Now, I merely use scissors to cut the bag at a point where it might be useful after breaking in.  Wrong, again.

In the way of some free, handy advice, a scissors cut makes the bag slice too smooth to separate which now requires the application of Plan B.  Plan B involves summoning my sainted wife who senses my quickly approaching stroke.  Of course, her advice is always, “You should have torn it rather than use scissors.”  Of course.  And, thanks for the help.

After being chastised for demonstrating my mechanical shortcomings to my sainted wife, I glanced down at Smokey who is giggling and pointing at me from beneath the kitchen table.  No treats for you!

Moving on to people food, is decide to prepare a bologna and cheese sandwich for myself.  This simple task quickly becomes another adventure when I try to open a package of baby Swiss cheese which was clearly packaged by the cat treat folks.  Instead of being wrapped in foil, this cheese is embalmed in clear plastic but, the results are the same – impossible to get at.

After ingesting my blood pressure medication instead of a sandwich, I decided to head off to the grocery store in search of some mangos, and plastic baggies with which to keep my cheese and Smokey’s treats fresh.

This simple task nearly involved a stranger calling 911 as after locating some nicely ripe mangos, I was found by a grocery store produce department assistant manager rolling on the floor, in tears, attempting to open one of those flimsy, clear plastic sleeves into which one places fruits and vegetables.  Although I was trying to open the wrong end, I still contend the “open” end should have been marked with at least an arrow or a line printed on the bag.

Other products present challenges to opening, too.  Salad dressings, mayo, and a variety of other condiments have seals with tiny tabs that merely tear off leaving the seal secure.  How the elderly and those with arthritis break in to these products is amazing to me.

From today on, I’ll simply give these products to Smokey so that he can gnaw on them until open since he has proven his dexterity in making these products useable.

The Best

It should come as no surprise that everyone wants “the best.”  I don’t recall anyone bragging about buying “almost the best” of anything.  That would be akin to bragging about coming in second which is being the first loser.

Having traveled around the entire country and Europe, I have witnessed both “the best,” and “the worst,” in so many things.

Last week, I was maneuvering The Shore when I realized I needed fuel.  Pulling in to a filling station, I couldn’t help but notice the blue and white banner declaring this establishment sold “the world’s best coffee.”

Forget the lottery tickets – I was flush with enough good luck to enjoy a truly heavenly cup of Joe.  It was that blue and white sign that convinced me to make my purchase an extra-large one to savor all the way back up the peninsula. 

The first half mile home was way too hot to sample but, after about a five-mile gap, I was able to relish the aroma and flavor.  This was easy to do since I drink my coffee black - unadulterated by sweeteners and cream and artificial flavors.

At this point I nearly shorted out the dashboard of my truck when I spat out a warm mouthful of “the world’s best coffee.” 

Keep in mind that “the best” is a subjective term relative to the taste tester.  It is not like a NASCAR event where the fastest wins.  Amen. 

On The Shore, we have seafood available all around us hence, the name.  Seafood doesn’t get any fresher than when the fish, clams, oysters, and crustaceans are off-loaded for preparation at local restaurants or docks.  Nearly everyone with a pulse will attest to owning “the best” recipe for crab cakes and, to avoid any future conflicts, they’re all the best.  Crusty, on the other hand, would walk barefoot over a mile of broken glass to dine at Red Lobster, which he considers “the best” seafood.  As I said, it’s about subjectiveness…  But, I digress.

At this point in the trip I was too far away to empty my freshly filled gas tank to hang a u-turn to issue a complaint to an uncaring coffee peddler.  But, I did recall that in my younger years – when pterodactyls roamed the skies – a Maxwell House coffee ad that stated in its jingle that is was, “The best coffee money could buy.”  It was abundantly clear that my pit stop brew was not contrived from Maxwell House coffee.

I distinctly remember A&P’s Eight-O’Clock coffee being superior to all others; I now believe Dunkin Donuts serves “the best.”  Again, it is subjective.

Still, there are other brands of goods that tout being “the best.”  TCBY claims their yogurt is second to none, and it seems as though all motor oils are “the best.”  Thus the name The Country's Best Yogurt.

Today, though, we hear words such as better, safer, warmer, more durable, and longest-lasting, trying to act as substitutes for “the best.”  They do not.

How about a little truth in advertising?  If something is “the best,” it should be judged and noted as being judged by a panel, contest, group of three-hundred first uncles, or whatever.  We should not have to take the word of a gas station manager who merely had a spare banner lying on the floor in the stockroom.

Maybe I will take my complaint back to that filling station, along with a cup of really good coffee that is better than “the best.”

Twelve

Wrist watches and clocks have numerals one through twelve on their faces and dials.  This fact is important to know as I proceed to explain my latest dilemma.  In fact, this is so important that I’ll wait until you check your clocks and watches.

I do not have a major in mathematics.  Every once in a while I run across someone who will give me a time to be somewhere at 16:30 hours.  If you diligently checked your time pieces as I asked earlier, you will have noticed I am correct with the maximum of twelve hours on the clock face.

My jewelry box is full of watches because I love them.  They are mechanical wonders that serve many purposes such as ways to tell the time, date, and provide eye candy.  I have the best friends on the planet who have presented me with special watches for special occasions and I relish them all, much as Jay Leno relishes all the cars in his fleet.  All these watches have dials that stop at twelve.

It is not that twelve is a great number, or that thirteen is not so great, but twelve is the number of hours in a half-day.  Most school kids should be able to tell you that each day consists of twenty-four hours and is broken down into twelve-hour halves with AM being the designation for morning hours, and PM used to denote afternoon and evening hours.  Pretty simple, indeed.

Unfortunately, the government got involved along the way.  Enter the soldiers and former soldiers, pilots, ship captains, some communication entities, and basic geeks, who use a 24-hour clock to tell time.  I personally believe they use it just to throw me off.

Evidently there’s some crazy talk about crossing the Prime Meridian and not knowing what time it is, where.  This goofy method of time-telling adds another element into merely looking at your Rolex.  People must know how to cipher.  Yes, there is math involved.  Alas, people like me must reach for a calculator in order to tell time.

Most use this 24-hour time system under duress, I’m sure.  Just imagine how arduous it would be for someone who is math-challenged to be on a covert military mission, wearing black commando togs, hunkered down in the cusp of a darkened tunnel with seven other trained killers.  Canvass sacks slung over one shoulder, a suppressed H&K submachine gun at the ready, hand-grenades dangling from a black belt slung across the chest, each person anxiously, intently staring out from faces blackened with grease paint.  The unit’s leader glances back toward his men while cocking his wrist into position to study his watch.  He quietly, but firmly, announces the ‘go-time’ as 21:45.  “Mark!”

Does one of these guys actually say, “Is that 9:45 PM?  I just want to be sure.” 

I certainly would of course.  There’s nothing like having the wrong time when you’re going to kill people and blow things up to put a damper on the moment.  Or picking up someone standing in the rain.  Or heading home to dinner.  But, I digress.

It is not necessary to create and use a separate and distinct system so vital to so many daily activities, namely time-telling, as to dance on the proverbial edge of possible disaster because of poor adding skills.

Let’s all come to our senses and just say, “No!” to this 24-hour clock nonsense.

Next week, we’ll tackle the communication roadblocks created because of not everyone speaking English, and why everyone should cater to me.

Camouflage

It’s time to get real with everything camouflage.  Camouflage was developed – I don’t know when it was developed but, I’m almost certain it was designed to be able to hide people and things.

Somehow, during the past two decades, camouflage has actually become fashionable.  As of this writing, it can be spotted in more places than Justin Bieber.  And, I’m not sure why.

Guys and gals wear camo for hunting.  For you city folk, “hunting” is an activity by which one ventures into nature with a weapon and kills an animal for food and clothing, and is revered as a biblical time-honored tradition in many parts of what you might term “the sticks.”

Camouflage clothing is used so that the hunter has an equal playing field, as the animals are naturally cloaked with their own camouflage and blessed with extraordinary scents of smell, hearing and vision.

Such concealment is taken a step further by turkey and duck hunters because their prey can see in color.  Yes, it seems as though deer and some other species are actually color-blind.  Hence, the mandatory use of blaze orange for deer and most other hunters so that their hunting brethren aren’t mistaken for game.

Let’s examine this weird anomaly of all things camo.  Peruse most any hunting gear catalog and camouflage gear is virtually everywhere. 

There are wraps for your ATV and pickup truck, likely because an animal won’t hear or notice a 4,000 pound vehicle driving through a field or on a trail.  There are electric crock pots clad in camo, in case you need to whip up a pot of stew while you’re in your deer blind, and there are camouflage bikinis in case your girlfriend would like to take a quick dip in that icy stream in January.  I spotted camo baby clothes for guys who must combine baby-sitting duties and elk hunting.

I bring all this up because while shopping for a pair of flip-flops I came across a pair in camouflage shades of green.  Venturing off into the woods wearing flip-flops would be foolish under the best of circumstances but, toting a rifle through a forest or field wearing flimsy rubber pads on the soles of your feet for protection so that a deer will not notice you, is insane.  You see, my feet actually cover up the camouflage part making these effective only if I were standing atop the deer itself; although wearing camo, I dare say the deer would notice me at this juncture.

More and more celebrities and other flashes-in-the-pan can be seen sporting camo pants or shirts, perhaps to avoid detection by the paparazzi seeking a photo or two. And all this is done at an extra cost as certain companies make cloth with patterns of tress, brush, leaves, and stick imprinted thereon, and claim the rights to it and charge a premium price because they replicated yard debris.

All this is pretty silly for an attempt to stalk and kill an animal that can’t detect color in the first place.  It may just be time to say ‘enough’ when buying hunting clothing and accessories.

 

While visiting a sporting goods store I tried on a wide-brimmed camo hat to keep the rain and sun off my neck and ears while hunting.  A salesman ambled up and asked if I needed help; I stood silently and didn’t move.  He asked again and with my best startled look I told him I didn’t want this hat as it was defective. 

“What’s wrong with it?” was his question.

“You can still see me.  This is an inferior chapeau,” I retorted.

He shook his balding head and wandered off, and I saved money by not buying a product that clearly didn’t work.