Safe, Again!

Congratulations are in order for the Florida’s Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission, abbreviated FWC, for some inane reason.

The FWC has finally captured the most famous, wily, and well-known escapee in the history of Florida – a fellow named Cornelius.

It seems as though Cornelius escaped from captivity and his shrewd ways have kept him free for four years.  Yes, Cornelius has outsmarted the hapless people employed by FWC and now has been remanded to serve his time in a cage.

Cornelius, after all, is a rhesus macaque monkey, and has demonstrated skills eluding those FWC professionals who mostly spend their time doing something mysterious, but not their jobs.

If this sounds a bit harsh, it is because I had an unpleasant encounter with FWC baboons, er, representatives in 2010.  On a road trip to Florida via back then, my sainted wife – who has no sense of humor – asked, on desolate Route 121 in Williston in The Sunshine State, if I had seen the monkey.  I hadn’t, for if I had seen it I would have mentioned it first.

In any case, she apparently thought this primate was waiting on the side of the road – with no broken down vehicle in the vicinity – merely standing there watching the sparse traffic pass.  He didn’t even waved to us.

Upon our arrival at our destination, we mentioned this less-than usual episode and the excitement began.  We were told that this monkey, whose name was not known at that time, was on the lam and that FWC personnel were actively seeking information as to his whereabouts.  This cunning critter was somehow eluding the highly trained, well-equipped FWC by running and climbing real fast, maybe even employing disguises.  On an aside, I find that the eyeglasses, nose, and mustache combination works really well.  But, I digress.

At the behest of our Florida friends and family, I contacted the FWC headquarters to dutifully report this long-awaited sighting.  Things didn’t go well when the first person with whom I spoke had no clue as to what I was referring, although this story had been in the newspaper and on the radio and TV news, for at least a year.

It wasn’t until the fourth transferred phone call and a final berating by FWC personnel – that I had contacted the wrong region – it became clear the FWC phones were possibly manned by primates in cahoots with their freedom-loving comrade.

Yes. It certainly appeared to be a concerted effort to aid and abet this at-large miscreant.

For those reading this outside of Florida, this calculating monkey, who FWC told me they never heard of, even had a Facebook page, and was urged – no lie – to run for the office of Mayor of Tampa.  Locals were feeding him peanuts and cookies and fruit and helping him hide from FWC folks, who likely couldn’t find water if they fell out of a boat, much less a rhesus macaque monkey.  We Virginia folks refer to this as ‘doing your job.’

As of a few days ago, Floridians have been able to rest safely since Cornelius’ capture.  I can imagine shades of Bonnie and Clyde’s final ride when hearing about this volume of ineptitude that allowed Cornelius to bite a woman on the back, which caught the attention of FWC.  Some Florida hero used a tranquilizer gun to sedate Cornelius, and another person wrestled this unexpectedly large monkey until both tired.

Who published the original ‘be on the look-out’ if they weren’t interested in pursuing this matter is my big question. 

But it seems like a bargain paying those FWC phone answerers with peanuts and cookies and fruit. 

Listen to This

As a child, I tried helping my Dad with around-the-house chores.  When successful, it would involve an AM radio that was tuned to some sort of sports event.

Our house was regularly tuned to a New York Giants or Yankees game which automatically chose my affiliation later in life, and until today.  But, it was the radio that provided the real magic of making the time fly.

I learned that it was possible to do more than one thing at a time, something now referred to as “multi-tasking.”  We weren’t forced to sit and watch a television for entertainment.  We were free to roam about and paint, bundle brush, or wash the car, and still take in the Yankees beating the Orioles.  As a matter of fact, it is almost a pleasure to drive because I get to listen to the radio and am still able to get somewhere important.

But, listening to the radio today is not nearly as simple as it was in days of yore.  As a child who was born before ball point pens were invented, and there were only 48 states, radios were pretty limited in features.

Radios usually had one band – AM.  That was not the case elsewhere in the world, though.  European radios were set-up with AM, FM, and SW.  The SW part is for “shortwave,” most of which is still limited to foreign language talk and some classical music, thereby limiting the audience in the U.S.  Eventually, the domestic radios began being manufactured in both AM and FM.

By then, the mold was cast and my listening habits gravitated toward “Top 40” radio.  Top 40 was the stuff today’s classic music is made of.  Perky songs interspersed with equally-perky fast talking disc jockeys made listening to them a game in itself.  Today, even though those DJs are probably drooling in their oatmeal, their crazy fast jive talk remains ingrained in my head.  There may be prescription drugs for that.  But, I digress.

Since then we, as a society, have landed on the moon several times, refined the coffee percolator, made television pictures ‘color,’ found a cure for polio, and added two states.  We also have become more litigious.

“Do not attempt,” and “Driver is a professional,” and even “Always drive on roads, never on people,” are just a few actual warnings that appear in print at the bottom of the TV screen during commercials, clearly written for fleas with magnifying glasses.  It doesn’t stop there.  Evidently, there is some sort of stipulation that the looooong warning at the end of car ads – the part about financing – must be virtually illegible even to those fleas.

The radio is not exempt.  Listening to car ads is more annoying than TV ads because, you can simply look away from the TV.  Radio ads must read that same disclosure statement.  Realistically, I could read aloud that statement about financing, the 18% interest rate, length of loan, and how much the down payment should be, in roughly 31 seconds.  Since the ad itself is only 30 seconds, the admen need to compress this by essentially slurring all the words, thereby rendering them all useless.

In any case, satellite radio is another venue for multi-taskers such as me.  Satellite radio offers 250 channels of music and talk, most of which I never listen to.  Yet, the big draw is the commercial-free music and non-existent “station fade.”  Yes, you can drive cross-country and never lose a station.

Enter HD radio.  At present, it is a novelty in the U.S. and should not be confused with satellite radio which requires a subscription.

In any case, I still listen to the radio and still enjoy it.  With the right announcers, baseball games and football games and NASCAR events can be as visual on the radio as on television. And, it allows for multi-tasking.  And, too bad for the Yankees.

Name-less

Has never heard of this website

Growing up in a working-class home in a working-class neighborhood, I didn’t mingle with others outside my social arena.  Of course I knew there were both less and more affluent folks in America but, they weren’t my concern.  Now, I have questions.

As a child, I felt fortunate to have been given a first name and a last name.  I also have a middle name and consider myself blessed.  Poor folks such as J. Edgar Hoover and G. Gordon Liddy have the misfortune of being raised without the benefit of first names that they could clearly not manage to pay for.

Then I heard about some woman named “Cher.”  I felt badly for her as she could only afford one name.  As it turns out, she is a mediocre singer and an even less stellar actress who still wears very scant clothing and gave birth to a girl who became a man.  Cher was married to a guy named Sonny Bono who was a singer and U.S. Congressman who should not be confused with that other guy named Bono who is a singer for a band named U2 and a United Nations something-or-other ambassador of ambiguity.  But, I digress.

Another down-and-out singer is some woman named “Beyonce.”  She, too, is a one-namer who clearly cannot afford two names.  Beyonce doesn’t earn the same pity from me because she knowingly married a fellow with only initials – Jay-Z.

Madonna is another person who sings and sports one name.  This Madonna is not particularly bright and enjoys bullying her concert attendees into listening to her political viewpoints.  Madonna just proclaimed, “Y'all better vote for f--king Obama, OK? For better or for worse, all right? We have a black Muslim in the White House.”  Not a very eloquent speaker, either, is she.  It begs the question, though, “Is the President cool enough for one name?”  I have many names for him.

Prince is yet another poor soul without last name, and yet another singer.  I see a pattern here.

Friends of mine tell me names like these are intentional in nature.  Cher is actually Cher Sarkisian, Beyonce is Beyonce Knowles, and Jay-Z is Shawn Corey Carter, Madonna is Madonna Ciccone, and Prince is really Prince Nelson.  It seems as though the shorter the name, the better.  When names are too long, they are substituted with initials.  Just how Mr. Carter got Jay-Z out of his name is another public school spelling class anomaly.  But, I digress, again.  Still, these folks are cool.

Madonna is from a time when even another singer was popular, Michael Jackson.  Michael Jackson, who got the Earth to stop spinning for him when his personal physician killed him in an overdose with a cocktail of prescription, injected drugs.  Mr. Jackson was so cool he had to resort to using initials – MJ.  Once again, confusion abounds when people use letters, particularly “MJ” which could also represent that other black celebrity, Michael Jordan, former basketball star who now advertises underwear.  But, really cool people know who-is-who and don’t need clarification that the unwashed – such as I – do.

Mother Teresa was pretty cool but, not enough to be bestowed with only one name.  Which would it be?  Mother or Teresa?  Maybe MT.  Naw, that’s too much like the abbreviation for the state of Montana.

Enter Robert Griffin III.  Mr. Griffin is the Washington Redskin quarterback flavor-of-the-day.  Half-way through the first seasonal game, I became confused as all the announcers felt compelled to show their elation for him that they spontaneously changed his moniker.  He is so beloved – likely due to his brilliant three win, three loss record, that he is now known only as RG3.  That is really hip.

In any case, there are still some cool cats that fit right in, not needing more identification of themselves such as my best buddy, Smokey the Cat.  Adding “the Cat” produces too much unnecessary information as Smokey can be readily identified as a feline. 

Beyonce, Cher, Bono, Prince, MJ, Madonna, meet Smokey.  Jay-Z, get a better cool name.  RG3, try winning a game or two more.

From here on out, he is simply “Smokey.”  I’m still working on a slick, hip name for myself.

Carved-in-Stone

I consider myself the luckiest man on the planet because now I get to explain baseball playoffs to my sainted wife.

Being a New York Yankee fan from the American League, and a Washington Nationals fan from the National League, I have my time pretty well scheduled for the remainder of October.

When my sainted wife asked me who was in the World Series, I was forced to tell her we didn’t yet know.  I needed to tell her the regular season games weren’t over yet and at that time we would know who would be playing to win their Division Series.

“But, the newspaper said that the Nationals won their Division,” she tossed out for me to address.

“Yes, but technically, they still have one game to play,” I added.

“The Nats lost their game last night and still won their Division?” she asked.

“Sure.  Remember that they are so many games ahead that they can’t lose their Division,” I proudly announced.

All seemed to make perfect sense to me when she asked if it was all over when she mentioned that the Atlanta Braves had a playoff berth.   “How can Atlanta get in if the Nats have the best record?”

That was a pretty good question to which I did not have an answer.  Common sensibly, if you win the most games, you win your division.  Unfortunately, we are not talking about common sense when involving sports.

Indeed, for some unknown reason, the Braves get a chance to win a spot in the World Series representing 

the National League, even though they don’t have the best record this year, being three games behind the Nats.

In any case, my sainted wife’s vigor to help me cheer the Nats on to a World Series victory seemed to wane significantly with this good-news-turned-bad.

 “What about the Yankees?” was her next logical question.

“They need to win tonight’s game or it’s all over for them for the season,” I deftly explained.

“Wait one second!  The Yanks are one game ahead but, if they lose they are out?  What about the Braves?  They are three games back and they get a chance!” she protested.

And, I was right behind her protesting to the newspaper about this seemingly unfair situation that could let a less qualified team play the most qualified team for bragging rights and fan satisfaction and the World Series trophy.  What’s up with that?

Suddenly realizing I was losing a sports debate with my sainted wife, and not knowing why, I thought it best to simply get more information from the internet.

It seems as though the baseball rule book states that “when games are played after 2:00 PM, on a Tuesday after the full moon, and a three-legged dog runs by a blue sedan on Elm Street, the National League team in second place wins their Division.  The only exception is that if the wind-chill temperature in Sioux Falls, South Dakota is less than 37 degrees on October 2^nd, the first place team should win unless someone changes this carved-in-stone rule.”

Since this now all makes sense, I stood to call my sainted wife to give her the details when my phone rang.

My Mother was calling to ask why her Tampa Bay Rays were not in the division playoffs.  I say let them all play and give them all trophies.

Sticker, T-shirt, Pin, Rubber Band

Back in the 1960’s, some genius with a printing press invented what is now called bumper stickers.  Bumper stickers were preceded by cardboard signs which were wired onto one’s bumper to advertise amusement parks and roadside attractions.  The cardboard signs didn’t have the durability and longevity of the vinyl adhesive-backed variety, though.

Originally advertising for “Peace” and later political affiliations, bumper stickers had some appeal that is everlasting to some.  Eventually, these stickers evolved into large daisies that often adorned the inaugural VW Beetles and vans to make them cuter.  Stickers with NRA, or OBX, or 26.2, now adorn many bumpers on our highways.

Over the past half-century, the means of advertising has changed in ways few could have imagined.

Nearly everyone, today, has a cause of some sort.  Way back when, since we were unable to carry around our vehicles, we moved to a more mobile method of wearing our hearts on our heads by implementing t-shirts.  Clothing as a conduit to spread personal thoughts and affiliations has been popular since the 1970’s

But, dressing for an office or similar scenario limited the use of t-shirts.  Enter the creation of pins.  These pins – still available and in use – come in hat and lapel variations.

Fraternal organizations, military units, governmental entities, private enterprises, and scholastic groups, all use these pins to indicate membership or rank, or both.  Akin to armed services identification, such pins are instant forms of informal identification used to garner respect and admiration, not unlike those cardboard and wire bumper ads that made neighbors green with envy because of your 1964 trip to Howe Caverns.

A decade ago, we switched from lapel and hat pins to wrist bands.  Cheesy and made of rubber, they began with a unique color indicating one’s special cause for buying and wearing one.

Depression is green, cancer is yellow, AIDS is red, breast cancer is pink, child abuse is blue, tree saving is green – uh, I thought that was depression.  Maybe you get depressed when you can’t save a decaying, dangerous tree.  And, that yellow cancer one is for Lance Armstrong’s cancer as breast cancer doesn’t count.  FYI, Mr. Armstrong’s cancer could be attributed to his years of self-injection of steroids to better compete in his Tour de France bicycle races.  Buying them is supposed to support that special cause and possibly give the wearer a sense of superiority with an “I care more” attitude.  But, I digress.

This nonsense is out of control.  Breast cancer awareness month is October.  This is time when NASCAR teams, football players, golfers, and many others, decorate their uniforms, cars, and accessories with pink.  Begun in the 1990’s this “pink” campaign originated with pink ribbons being worn to ‘make people aware’ of breast cancer. 

Today, this breast cancer campaign is getting old as after 20-years, everyone should be aware and the collected monies from those cheap bracelets and ribbons, et al, should be going to the cure itself rather than useless trinkets.  And, wearing those silly ribbons and bracelets doesn’t make anyone more compassionate than those who don’t.

Maybe we should go back to advertising those special places we visited like Howe Caverns.