Brain vs. Brawn

Throughout the years classes have been defined by how much money they make.  Once that parameter is established, words such as “blue collar,” and “white collar,” are introduced to further segregate the masses.

 

Since the earliest forms of labor, we have been subjected to being pigeon-holed into one or the other of worker category mentioned above.  The blue collar people have been portrayed as the brawn, while the white collar workers are seen as the brains.  And ne’er the two shall meet.

 

Much of this categorizing is self-inflicted and self-policed but, it still exists.

 

Blue collar refers to the uniform shirts once used by many laborers.  They were colored to more easily hide grease and other stains acquired while performing daily duties.

 

Conversely, white collar is descriptive of the management side of industry, where workers are not subject to getting their togs soiled by anything more than a pen.

 

People gravitate to either of the two categories because any number of reasons of identity.  Simply put, it is the education factor that usually determines where we all head to work.

 

Those kids who didn’t do well during their school years usually wound-up working in blue collar jobs, while those who were more astute settled into white collar positions.  Those were likely individual choices, or options dictated by intellect.

 

Nonetheless, the blue collar crowd seems to perpetually resent the white collar workers, and vice versa.

 

Having been on both sides of the issue, I reached out to everyone whose side I was not on because each was not mutually exclusive.

 

White collar people need someone to unclog their toilets or fix their cars or paint their homes.  These workers get paid for their duties, some to the tune of $90 per hour as plumbers or auto mechanics.

 

The odd part is that when the blue collar people require white collar services akin to writing resumes, banking, or generally solving problems, they resent having to pay for those services.  Resentment comes from not seeing the ‘smarter’ worker covered in dirt, although they didn’t witness the scholastic struggles and cerebral torments for being nerds.  They quickly forget who repairs those virus-infected computers.

 

Operating a shovel, broom, or mop requires little skill; driving a truck or forklift requires a bit more.  Drilling and cutting with a five-axis milling machine takes even more skill, accompanied by copious training and discipline.

 

But, developing a thought process of memory retention and astute problem solving, coupled with rational contemplation is often viewed by the blue collar group as inequitable.  Since blue collar folks fails to see dirt beneath white collar people’s fingernails, they think “lazy,” or “inept.”  They never think “too busy helping blue collar slobs.”  Then, they like to overcharge the white collar crowd out of principle and spite.

 

If that’s the case, figure out your own problems, write your own resumes, and I’ll unclog my own toilet.

Ask, and Ye Shall Receive

If we’re learning anything from society, it is that equality is not the right to be equal.  Yeah, I know that doesn’t make sense, but I still don’t have enough status in the world to make up the rules so…

 

A guy named Phil Robertson is a fellow that started a business making duck calls in Louisiana a bunch of years ago.  He was very successful and wound up catching the notice of some “reality show” television producers.  They created a show based around this duck call business and the family that makes those calls.

 

It is a light-hearted, family-oriented show that involves some sort of adventure and associated mishap, and each show ends with the family seated around the dinner table, breaking bread and praying thanks.

 

The premise and execution is so successful that merchandise related to this franchise likely rival them to the NFL for licensed goods.  Shirts, sunglasses, cup holders, seat covers, Christmas CD’s, you name it, is for sale because the message has met the anticipation of the viewers, in camouflage.  

 

The network – A&E – is reaping the benefits.  They regularly run marathons of these shows for hours-on-end to allow regular viewers to recap, and new watchers to catch-up.  It is a win-win for A&E.

 

That is, until just recently.  Phil Robertson, while giving an interview for GQ Magazine, made a statement that ruffled the proverbial feathers of the gay and lesbian community because Mr. Robertson, as an Evangelical Christian, has an opinion as to how homosexual relations are held in the teachings of the Bible. 

 

He was asked about this and he gave an honest answer, according to him.  Unfortunately, the now, not-so-tolerant gay and lesbian community who so desired everyone be tolerant before being gay and lesbian was fashionable, is not as tolerant, as one would hope, toward Phil Robertson.

 

Mr. Robertson didn’t spew hatred about flames of Hell, or shackles in prison, like Muslim religions do when talking about homosexuals.  Nonetheless, A&E felt compelled to distance themselves from this brouhaha until the dust settles.

 

Unfortunately, Mr. Robertson’s family is standing firmly behind him, the way any civil, respectable family should.

 

It is the right of A&E to not air Mr. Robertson’s show, just as it is Mr. Robertson’s right to take his show to another, competing network.  This will leave an opening for a gay and lesbian program that will likely do very well (tongue-in-cheek.)

 

I dare say that I am having trouble imagining a compendium of homosexual viewers tuning-in each week to see Mr. Robertson and his camouflaged kin in their mischievous adventures involving beehives, beaver dams, squirrel hunting, or ducks.  So, who exactly the real offended parties are seem to be a mystery, although gays and lesbians appear to be more equal when it comes to who is more easily offended.  But, A&E is crying corporate crocodile tears for those the mean words that exited the hairy mouth of Neanderthal Phil.

 

The real bigots seem to be the intolerant gays and lesbians.

The “C-word”

Warning: For anyone so averse to a baby – Baby Jesus, to be exact – you may stop reading now.  Today’s story regards Christmas carols.

 

Christmas arrives each year and is celebrated world-wide by Christians who believe this the day Jesus was born.  Jesus is the Christian’s savior who gave His life for mankind.

 

To celebrate this sacred and joyous time of the year, people of all ages sing and listen to Christmas songs.  Not all Christmas songs are religious, though.

 

“Winter Wonderland,” is one of those secular tunes that pops-up during the Yule season which can be very confusing to those people who fear Baby Jesus.

 

It seems as though a whole cadre of do-gooders have devoted their lives to saving the stupider of the population from ear pollution and acquiring equally numbing fear of Jesus.

 

These do-gooders have been systematically removing any sense of Jesus, Christmas songs, and idea that this Christian holiday is a Christian holiday.

 

This, and a few other carols, has been giving these do-gooders fits because, it is not religious.  The word “Christmas” appears nowhere therein but gives these do-gooders fits because “Winter Wonderland” is a traditional Christmas song.

 

“Deck the Halls,” is another secular tune that irritates the secularists for much the same reason.

 

Somehow, somewhere Christmas became more offensive to the populace than the “N-word” trump card of words.

 

But, I love Christmas and Christmas songs.  I have been buying Christmas-related albums for years, with numbers approaching 200 albums and CDs.  Oddly enough, my ears haven’t caught on fire, and blood hasn’t leaked from my eyes since listening to these festive holiday songs.

 

The odd thing is that each one of these albums/CDs has pretty much the same songs on each…the varying factor is the performer and their style that makes these carols differ from one another.

Even songs like “Blue Christmas” are considered non-secular because of that all-offensive word, “Christmas.”

 

Too bad America is so easily offended and aurally injured by things Jesus.

 

Heck, Christmas and Jesus are so popular, even notable non-Christians like Neil Diamond, Kenny-G, and Barbra Streisand get on the bandwagon and help celebrate by producing television shows and Christmas music.  That’s a pretty powerful statement.

 

Until this epidemic is summarily dealt with by turning a deaf ear to those ninnies, Merry Christmas to all!

Let There Be Lights

Just as last year, and the year before, and the year before that year, I spent the previous 4½ hours with a test meter checking bulbs in my many strings of Christmas lights.

 

Ghost hunters, UFO chasers, and crypto zoologists, spend countless years trying to figure out the reality of the paranormal, extraterrestrial aliens, and the existence of mythical creatures.

 

If only they would sit with me for a brief time around the approaching Christmas season, we all might be able to note a miraculous scientific discovery, together.

 

I could possibly lead them directly to a poltergeist-like entity that somehow manages to creep into my garage, during the off-season, and wreak havoc on my strings of lights.

 

Each end-of-Christmas-season ritual is the same, with me carefully wrapping the newly de-hung lights, labeling them, and packing them neatly into boxes until next year.

 

And each new season begins with the hope of a trouble-free reassembly of last year’s scheme of festive outdoor illumination.  No such luck.

 

This first string pulled from the hermetically sealed packaging worked well last year.  With crossed fingers, I plugged it into the workbench electrical strip and…

 

The baffling part is that there were no steam rollers cavorting about my garage, nor were there any ravaging hedge clippers wreaking havoc among the Christmas decorations.

 

My tradition was no disappointment this year.  Out comes the tester to figure out why there is no light emanating from my lights.

 

Both Smokey the cat and my sainted wife wanted in on the action.  One wanted to play with the removed bulbs and fuses, my sainted wife was begging for cat treats.  Maybe it was the other way around.

 

In any case, the effort to locate and isolate the problem coughed up thoughts of far more technical matters.

 

In the 1960’s, then-President John F. Kennedy challenged Americans to build a rocket ship to the Moon.  That flight was launched in 1969 and made Americans the envy of the world.

 

Scientists and engineers huddled together to create a craft to ferry three men to the Moon and back.  Not without problems, these brainiacs accomplished their mission, solving problems not within walking distance, with aplomb.

 

The former Soviet Union was left in our dust as we, as a nation, displayed technological feats never seen before.

 

Unfortunately, President Kennedy didn’t challenge Christmas light manufacturers to create strings of lights that didn’t require a master’s of science degree to get them to work two consecutive years.

 

It wasn’t long before one string after another found their way into my favorite garbage can.  To avoid temptation of retrieving them later, I severed them like a Top Chef contestant chopping Vidalia onions.

 

And so goes the mystery of the Christmas lights until they are repackaged for next years’ round of these games.  Perhaps I’ll win then.

Good Riddance

Before September 11, 2001, my music of choice was rock and roll.  On September 12^th, it changed to country and western.

 

Those unprovoked attacks on America, by Islam - the “religion of peace,” sent me searching for something to which to listen.  The only radio station that filled my needs was the sole country radio broadcaster.  They played patriotic songs between the calls from distraught listeners, who seemed to reflect my sympathies.  I came, I listened, I stayed.

 

It wasn’t long before I became familiar with the artists and their songs.  Country music had gravitated away from that twangy, nasal style from the 1950’s.  Hank Williams had been summarily replaced by the likes of Tim McGraw, much to my delight.

 

I still enjoy music from Patsy Cline but, that may be because the recording fidelity is so good. 

 

My early years were spent helping the black and white TV cowboy heroes round up desperados across the west.  Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, and Gene Autry are a few of those good eggs known as “singing cowboys,” which not only maintained the law, but also entertained us while doing so.  But, I digress.

 

Because there was nothing else on TV, my sainted wife and I tuned in some sort of country music award show.  Expecting to see country singers singing country music, we were both decidedly disappointed to see country singers singing anything but.

 

Bands consisting of two, three, four, and sometimes more artists, climbed up onto the stage to perform “crossover” songs.  But, this venue was a country music show, not a crossover music show.

 

More rock and roll, and whiny sappy songs, than anything else, we patiently awaited something resembling country music.  Alas, there was none.

 

Taylor Swift, goddess du jour, uttered some pathetic noise akin to a cat being beaten by a fiddle.  Some group, oddly named Florida Georgia Line, pranced about the stage wearing t-shirts and scarves – likely avant garde in the bowels of New York City, appeared out of place where cowboy hats and boots were expected.  Again, there were too few to make a difference.

 

Times were when women wore fringed skirts, boots, and cowboy hats.  Men of the time wore crisp suits, boots, embroidered shirts, and cowboy hats.  Like sports teams, they could be easily identified simply by the clothes on which they were clad.  Occasionally, the star would enter the stage wearing blue jeans and a cowboy hat; no more is that man to be located at a country music award show.

 

My best guess is that these performers point their creative compasses in the direction of the money.  The country music listening crowd may be dwindling, but the pop and rock music worlds are expanding.

 

Kenny Chesney left the country music scene years ago when he began singing reggae music in videos shot in the Caribbean Islands.  It’s too bad the rest of the lemmings are headed in that direction.  They forgot where they got their starts.  Good riddance.

Snax for All

A recent trip to the supermarket, to garner edible supplies, led me to the snack aisle.  When I talk about the snack aisle, I am referring to the more appropriately titled “potato chip” aisle.  Granted the newly-renamed potato chip aisle houses more than just potato chips, a la corn chips, cheese curls, popcorn, and pretzels, it now has more meaning as to where to locate certain foods.

 

Some food merchants enjoy throwing curve balls at their patrons filling their “snack” aisles with crackers and rice cakes.  Such blasphemy deserves legislation to prevent these practices from spreading nation-wide and becoming an epidemic.

 

In days of yore, snacks were never healthy or advertised as such.  If a snack has the word “diet,” or “lo-cal,” avoid them with vigor.

 

Snacks, by their very nature, are deadly.  Firstly, they taste great to encourage you to eat more.  Secondly, they taste great because of the fat, grease, salt, and high-carbohydrates, associated therewith.

 

Do-gooders will direct you to the pretzel area but, don’t be fooled.  It seems as though pretzels have 22 grams of carbs, compared to the 16 grams that potato chips offer.  I could rest my case here but, I still have lots of room and time left.

 

Those all so healthy rice cakes have 21 grams of carbs so, there!

 

Then, you have busy-bodies who will say, “Try the baked potato chips.”

 

That’s akin to eating boiled chicken instead of Southern fried.  Not much of a challenge, if you ask me.

 

My sainted wife will invariably return home with nacho chips which, when appropriately adorned, are edible.  Eventually, they make their way onto a baking sheet with sautéed ground beef, shredded lettuce, salsa, and generous amounts of Velveeta cheese, only to be pooped into the oven for flavor melding.  Now, they’re edible.

 

But, the newest fad appears to be those popcorn “puffs.”  These snacks come in different flavors, such as cheddar cheese and butter.  They are simply puffed corn without the hulls with salt and flavor.  By nature, corn has no flavor and merely serves as a vehicle to introduce those flavors.  As a note of importance, those flavors consist of a special concoction of chemicals that not only taste terrific but, also wreak havoc with ones intestinal tract to create copious amounts of methane gas.  FYI.

 

That same warning applies to flavored potato chips and rice cakes, as well.  But, I digress.

 

The snack aisle is not the magical supermarket area it once was, and is only getting more bizarre.  Today, its shelves are stocked with potato chips made from processed potatoes, ground corn formed into horns, and even ersatz onion rings.  Each of those are designed for a special need, such as totally uniform chips sold in cans, a scoop-like trumpet to get more dip, and a means of generating some of the worst bad breath in North America.

 

There are chips with ridges and without, some fried in “kettles,” and some cut into lattices.  All of these deserve their own accounting for their existence, likely in future stories.

 

Now to wash these treats down with a cup of some wholesome milk that contains only 12 grams of sugar!?!

Watch This

Recent television programs and movies show men and women going about life without wearing wrist watches.

 

This may not be the astounding news that I feel it is but, being punctual has always been my “thing.”  As such, I sport a wrist watch all my waking hours.

 

It used to be that nearly all male actors had watches adorning their wrists – even during those lurid bedroom scenes.  How odd, I thought, that someone cavorting with a beautiful woman needed to wear a timepiece.  Was he afraid she might pilfer it, or was he using it to time his best effort?  In any case, he had a chronograph.

 

Watches were hand made during the 18^th and 19^th centuries, and came in the form of a pocket watch.  Those watches were sometimes very ornate and used primarily by people needing to keep a schedule – railroad and Pony Express riders were some of the few ‘timely’ folks.  Bankers and shop owners of yore used them, too, to ensure no missed business.

 

It wasn’t until World War I that wrist watches became popular.  Being away from a zone scheduled to be bombed at a particular time, was important.  Pocket watches were subject to damage, and had to be fished out of a pocket to be read – difficult to do in a foxhole with people shooting at anything that moved.  Hence, the wrist watch was popularized.

 

Throughout the decades, modifications and improvements have made these time keepers evolve into more than just devices to tell time.  Some tell the date, some tell the day of the week, some tell the year.

 

I, personally, own a number of wrist watches and cherish them all.  Two, in particular, are tied for my favorite.  Both are Citizen brand, and both are meaningful.  One came as a retirement gift from “my only friend,” and the other is from my brother-in-law.  Each has its own special features and qualities, and each is handsome in its own unique way.

 

They possess the ability to be used as a stopwatch, calendar, and can even tell the temperature in Cairo, Egypt.  One is a pilot’s watch and come with a slide rule-type calculator; the other is a stylish dress watch with a leather band and is solar-powered.

 

My first watch was a Timex I received as a First Communion gift.  I have not yet received my last watch, though.  I love them as not only an effective means of telling time, but also as fashionable jewelry.

 

Making a full circle, it seems obvious that those without a viable means of telling time need a way to do so.  My associates who don’t wear watches tell me they use their cell phones as time references.  But, remember the aforementioned pocket watches?

 

I think I’ll keep my watches and feel and look fashionable.  But, you won’t see me wearing one in my lurid bedroom scenes.

Safety First

A trip to the grocery store for some provisions got me into a philosophical mood.  Salad dressing, ketchup, snacks, and beverages, rounded out my list for mid-week shopping.

 

Back in the early 1980’s, someone spiked Chicago-area Tylenol capsules with a poison that killed seven people and began the habit of sealing easily accessed ingestible products.

 

It used to be most bottles of pills merely had a screw-on cap that kept both the nine-feet of cotton and pills, in place.  It seems as though someone intentionally laced some Tylenol capsules with cyanide at the local level, rather than at the factory.

 

Foil and plastic shields suddenly appeared and were glued on the individual bottles of virtually every medication as a precaution from copycat morons.

 

It wasn’t long before everything had a special seal to either “ensure freshness,” or “guaranty safety.”  In any case, they became annoying then and are still annoying.

 

Acting as a sort of gasket, these tamper-proof devices serve as a method of detecting if a package has been opened, offering a warning to consumers.

 

My recently-purchased salad dressing may as well have been sealed with a glob of concrete with a pull tab attached.  The undersized tab needed needle nosed pliers to grasp lest it be torn off rendering it useless; I didn’t use the pliers, and I was rendered useless.

 

The same scenario was relived with the ketchup.  But, it is only speculation on my part that plastic jugs of oil and windshield washer fluid have those tamper-resistant seals because of leak prevention and not to preserve freshness.

 

Nonetheless, this exercise appears to be merely legal, in nature.  A precaution, for sure, but also somewhat phony in nature, sealing ingestible goods is only effective if all ingestibles are protected.

 

Allow me to explain.  Some grocery stores showcase “bulk goods,” which are unpackaged food products along the lines of cereals, nuts, and candies.  These bulk goods are usually heaped in barrels with handy scoops available to fill up your bags.  These no-frill, no-name foodstuffs are decidedly less expensive than those in colorful, brand name packaging.

 

Here’s the rub: Anyone could lace these unprotected foods with any number of poisons, and render countless numbers of consumers severely ill or mortally injured.  Why not the

urge to “ensure freshness” or “guaranty safety?”  Perhaps bargain hunters deserve neither.

 

The same scenario can be applied to baked goods, especially those doughnuts that are in those self-serve venues.  Let us not forget the produce departments around the nation, either.

 

Before I leave you, I must remind you of those ever-popular salad bars.  The next time you fill up your plate with head lettuce, fake bacon bits, over-strong onions, and garbanzo beans, think twice before you pour that ladle of dipped salad dressing on your creation.  Someone before you likely stuck their unwashed finger in the vat of dressing to see if it tasted like her own.

 

You’re welcomed.

So...

So, a newly-injected word is driving me crazy.  It seems as though nearly everyone in public is beginning their statements with the word “so.”

 

So, I’m not sure why this phenomenon is occurring or why it began in the first place, but it is.

 

So, I am assuming this spoken word is actually “so” and not “sew,” which would otherwise make this a so-and-sew.

 

So, a few years ago, I had a summer intern assigned to me who aptly pointed out the number of people using the words “I’ll tell you what!”

 

So, this young, smart puke felt compelled to tell me that while watching NASCAR races he noted the phrase, “I’ll tell you what!” was used dozens of times by race commentators.

 

Anxiously counting and paying better attention, I noticed “I’ll tell you what!” was also often interjected during golf matches, judge shows, and the news.

 

So, we decided to turn this exercise into a game and count each time we heard the words “I’ll tell you what!”  When together, we would do a 'high five' each time that phrase was injected.  It wasn't long before we sported blisters on our hands.  Privately, we kept a log of utterances.  Nonetheless, the intern went back to Wisconsin before a winner in our little challenge could be declared.  I think it was me.  But, I digress.

 

So, at a summer hearing for some of our IRS bullies, each one of these Fifth Amendment huggers – who failed to protect any of my Constitutional rights – began each of their statements with “So.”

 

“So, I didn’t know that screwing Americans by holding up conservative tax-exempt status was illegal.  So, we did this to 1,844 right-wing groups…we also did this to 3 left-wing groups.  So, it was the same burden.  So what?” was the way these hearings went, more or less.  Please check official transcripts for the exact lies told to Congress.

 

So, perhaps all these professional speakers are actually demonstrating their intellect by starting with “So.”

 

So, maybe they are not the brilliant orators they think they are repeatedly using the same word over and over and over, ad nauseum.

 

So, possibly the folks who positioned these point men and women aren’t actually listening to them and failed to notice the word “so” may be being overused.  So?

 

So, even an eye witness to a local crime recently and stately said, “So, he jump into da hoopty wit a gun.  I yell, ‘So, where you be goin?’  So he say, ‘I catch up wit you later, player.’”  Again, please check official transcripts for the exact verbiage.

 

So, the English language is chock full of words with which to begin sentences and, unless I missed the introduction of a new law requiring it, beginning each declaration with “So,” becomes annoying.  I’ll tell you what!

Power of Observation

Back in the 1960’s we were introduced to an LAPD detective, Lt. Columbo.  He was a disheveled, seemingly inept crime solver who was consistently underestimated by his felonious opponents, much to their chagrin.
 

Columbo, portrayed by Peter Faulk, was adept at discovering the most miniscule bits of evidence to pursue and doggedly apprehend his criminal prey.  He was rarely wrong, if ever.  But, it was always those details along with his tenacious approach to solving the case that made the show riveting for the viewer.

 

The details were always evident to the viewers from the very beginning of each episode; finding them made both the show and Lt. Columbo entertaining.  The power of observation is a gift that not everyone possesses, and that is where we begin today.  In the vein of Columbo, here are a few you can add to your own list:

 

Have you ever noticed that the people who offer the most advice often give the worst advice?

 

Have you ever noticed how annoying the weather folks are with their teases to stay tuned?

 

Have you ever noticed that politicians, who are ‘elected’ and employed by us, don’t pay attention to our desires?

 

Have you ever noticed 99% of left-lane cruisers, driving below the posted speed limit, are bewildered when they are passed on the right?

 

Have you ever noticed the tax collector thinks you’ve got a secret stash of money to which they are entitled?

 

Have you ever noticed how foreigners who so badly want to live in the U.S. want to retain their language, dress, traditions, food, etc., from their homeland?

 

Have you ever noticed that minimum wage employees don’t grasp the concept, or definition, of an “entry level job?”

 

Have you ever noticed how onions make you cry and your gas receipts make you sob?

 

Have you ever noticed people wearing the most bizarre outfits feel compelled to laugh at your stylish hat?

 

Have you ever noticed that facial tissues are so thin you can easily blow holes in them?  This also applies to toilet paper.

 

Have you ever noticed that your swivel chair is the only reason you enjoy going to work?

 

Have you ever noticed you can tell a lot about a woman’s hands?  Hint: If she’s holding a gun, she’s probably mad.

 

Have you ever noticed that when someone tells you to ‘get a grip,’ they apparently don’t mean around their neck?

 

Have you ever noticed your prized parrot, which won’t talk for friends, becomes verbose with swear words when the preacher stops by?

 

Have you ever noticed there are 37 different shades of white?

 

Have you ever noticed that it won’t rain until after you just washed your car?

 

Have you ever noticed people selling used cars are asking for new car prices?

 

Have you ever noticed that Alec Baldwin is still living in America?

Get Over It

In case you just awoke from a lengthy coma, here is the latest news: Nearly everyone in America is easily offended.

 

People with ample time on their hands (read: Unemployed losers and/or college pukes) have been figuring out ways to irritate the rest of us.

 

Christmas has been under attack by a handful of whiners because it is too religious.  The image of Baby Jesus is much too much for most of those clowns for some unknown reason.  This likely goes along with that ‘freedom of religion’ stuff in the Constitution but, I’m not sure how.

 

Conversely, the same folks who have been ardently trying to eliminate Christmas because of its religious roots, are first to celebrate Halloween.  Halloween is the celebration called All Hallows Eve, a celebration of saints and the deceased.  Not being terribly bright, I would deem Halloween a religious event which should be shunned by schools and the other easily offended folks.

 

But, it is not enough to climb aboard some else’s offended train.  People from all walks of life are now reaching for their own cause du jour.

 

By way of background, my high school mascot was an Indian, and the sports teams were dubbed the Red Raiders.  This name was derived from the steeped history surrounding the Upstate New York area.  It seems that back in the 1700’s, the “City Beyond the Pines” was repeatedly attacked by fun-loving Indians who eventually burned the city down after killing all the inhabitants.  ‘Take-no-prisoners’ was the lesson we learned from those peaceniks.  But, I digress.

 

Today, however, the school is gone, as is the Red Raider moniker.  On the other hand, in the Washington, D.C. area, the too-much-time-on-their-hands crew is working on making things right for the Washington Redskins.

 

They clearly believe the name is racist in nature, and Redskins recalls a time when red-skinned people lived in America.  I guess they still do but, someone feels the descriptive name is offensive – too offensive to even speak aloud.

 

So, President Barack Hussein Obama has weighed in, taking time off from his secret “jobs” plan, to say he would change the name.  No word yet on the fate of the Boston Celtics or any other team changing their names.  Perhaps President Obama will find time to add his two-cents after a round of national security golf or taking a break from his jobs initiative.

 

Redskin’s team owner Dan Snyder has said there will be no name change as long as he is the owner.  Why all this is news is baffling because the offended parties can, and should, boycott attending the games as that is the solution for nearly everything else coming from the seat of government.

 

The politically correct crowd – a term given to do-gooders who enjoy sticking their noses into other people’s business – have renamed the Indian population “Native Americans.” 

 

It seems as though “Native Americans” is now the preferred term to refer to not only people born in America, but also Indians.  Sure, it’s a bit confusing but, well meant.  Maybe Mr. Snyder will consider renaming his team the Washington Easily-Offended Native Americans.  He’d better jump on this brainstorm before the Atlanta Braves or Cleveland Indians catch wind of this.

Trick or Treat

Rapidly approaching is Halloween which, in recent years, has rivaled Christmas for the most decorated holiday.  Halloween is one of those “Hallmark” holidays that was rejuvenated to simply sell more stuff.

 

Hallmark is the greeting card company that goads men into buying cards for their best girls – or now even for their best guys – along with candy for which they will be verbally chastised on Valentine’s Day.  Once an obscure holiday, St. Valentine’s Day was ginned-up to sell cards, candy, flowers, jewelry, lingerie, and stuffed animals.  But I digress.

 

Halloween used to be a holiday for kids with costumes being bought or made by parents to truly hide identities of little gremlins.  As an aside, I grew up in upstate New York where it is likely snowing while you’re reading this.  No matter what costume I wore, it was summarily covered by a parka and snowsuit; I should have gone as a mountain climber.

 

“Trick or treat,” used to be the magic words that extorted sugary treats from participating homeowner.  Today, though, too many kids arrive at our door soliciting treats without as much as uttering a single word.  Most can’t speak English, you see.  These immigrants are often accompanied by street thugs and gang members, some of whom I’m sure I saw on an episode of “Scared Straight.”

 

In any case, this October 31^st event also holds meaning for adults who enjoy attending costume parties and handing out candy to the little ones.

 

Buying candy has become a cross between an art and science.  Confectioners have resorted to all sorts of shenanigans when marketing their goods.  Rather than selling full-sized candy bars of yore, they are now hawking miniatures with marketing terms such as “fun size,” “bite size,” and “new smaller size – microscope included.”  They should be using words like “screwing you” and “new size for the stupid.”

 

Older widows in our neighborhood often resorted to passing out homemade popcorn balls and home-produced caramel apples to save money.  We were not afraid to eat those treats unless they owned a cat, which would ensure you could find some cat hair in your prize.

 

Today, however, we are all frightened to take anything that isn’t hermetically sealed similar to a bottle of Tylenol.  Even hospitals offer free x-ray screening of these goodies to ensure kids are safe.  Unfortunately, if you have a broken arm, you had better have insurance to use that machine.  But, I digress, again.

 

 

In any case, it’s not all about the candy.  Halloween lights, fake tombstones, cobwebs, skeletons, plastic or real pumpkins, and fog machines, are all available for purchase to make your house spooky.  Anyone looking for cobwebs is more than welcomed to come by my place to get the real thing.

 

But, this year, I can actually say I’ve seen it all.  It seems as though some costume company thought it would be a terrific idea to market a Halloween costume for – drum roll, please – cats.

 

 

By way of background, cats do not particularly enjoy being dressed in anything.  Anything at all.  So, whoever thought it would be great to create tens of thousands of costumes, package them, market them, ship them, and expect cat owners to buy them, will likely be searching for a new job on November 1^st.

 

Smokey the Cat won’t even don a collar much less a Brooks Brothers suit.  I wouldn’t think of trying to dress him in a turkey outfit to amuse friends and neighbors.

 

 

So, this year if you should find a small, ten-pound trick-or-treater dressed as a grey cat, answering to the name “Smokey,” save your candy and just give him a beer.

Figs For All

This is that special time of year when all that sweet stuff comes together.  Return of football season, NASCAR’s race for the chase, the end of sweltering summer heat, and ripening figs, all have arrived.

 

There’s not much I can do about most of that list except for the figs, with which I can help.

 

Two neighbors who have large mature fig trees invited me and my sainted wife over to harvest them.  This gesture is not as benevolent as one would believe.  Although very tasty, they are very attractive, too.  They attract bees and birds who create messes beyond imagination.

 

Indeed, we wound up as characters in a Mark Twain novel, whitewashing the fence for Tom Sawyer, and thanking him for privilege.

 

For the novice “figger” – yes, I just made that word up – figs come in different varieties and ripen at varying times.  The figs we were after were ready and waiting and birds were preparing for the kill.

 

With - all you environmentalists can take your medication now - plastic shopping bags, we trekked roughly five yards to reach one tree and manage to harvest roughly eight pounds.  Both bags were nearly full.

 

A couple of figgers, we brought them home to magically change them into fig preserves.  Hours of cooking them down, sterilizing the canning jars and lids, and concocting a special mixture of fresh-squeezed lemon juice and a modicum of sugar turned those eight pounds of figs into over a dozen pint jars of awesome.

 

Some were shared with the trees’ owners, and others were used to settle small debts.  A few even made their way into the fridge for use on toast and pork roasts, down the road.

 

But, the call came again.  “Come get more figs!  They’re ready!” summoned tree owner Camille.

 

Much to my sainted wife’s chagrin, we made our way back to gather more figs to create more natural goodness and more stories.

 

This yield was a more controlled three pounds of super ripe righteousness.  It didn’t take long before my sainted wife bucked like a wild bronco complaining about having to cook these additional figs down to a manageable scrumptious slush.

 

Perusing her cookbooks for some sort of recipe for other than preserves, my sainted wife discovered one for fig cake.

 

A mixer whirred while the over pre-heated.  I helped by greasing the pan and giving some stellar, free advice, for which we were all grateful.

 

After a few short hours, we had a tantalizing product that needed taste testing.  It was moist and akin to carrot cake, only sweeter.  The addition of chopped walnuts added to its delight.

 

It was too warm to apply icing so, we waited until the next day.  It became a new cake altogether.

 

I was once told to ‘finish what you start.’  Excuse me while I finish my cake.

Are You Ready For Some Football?

Thank goodness that we have once again arrived at football season.  It’s been a pretty quiet few months since the mayhem of ice hockey ended with the award of the Stanley Cup to, er, nobody really knows.
 

So, football is back to fill that void in true couch potato lives with violence and injuries.  It is funny to see sophisticated football fans laugh at NASCAR fans; footballers believe NASCAR is all about waiting for wrecks, while NASCAR fans believe football is all about injuring the quarterback.  Both are right.

 

For football novices, the quarterback is the guy on the team who gets all the girls.  The rest of the team has become somewhat indiscernible over the past few years with commentators inventing new names for the varying positions.

 

What used to be jobs such as end, guard, tackle, center, half-back, full-back, and quarterback, have evolved into free safety, left corner, middle back, running back, and the guy who gets all the girls.

 

Those commentators who changed the face of the game left the game because they ceased being effective either on the field or with the girls.

 

But, it is also the playing contingency that helped with name changes.  When giving a sweaty interview after the game, they would usually say things such as, “Broomblat I, ya’know, gommerajnsd, ya’know, wit sommjan and a touchdown, ya’know.”

 

Their remarkable communication skills should come as no surprise since 99% of the NFL is comprised of college graduates.  That information should make mom and dad proud.

 

And although these guys play together as a team, some players are better thought of than other teammates.  Just as homes of multiple siblings have a sense of rivalry, so do NFL teams.

 

The Washington Redskins have quarterback RGIII, or Robert Griffin, III, who is likely to replace President Obama as the next king of the universe.  It’s great that RGIII may actually lead the United States into war with Syria, right after he finishes with that cure for cancer.

 

In any case, one of the other guys on the team is critical to its success – the center.  The center is the fellow who picks the ball up from the ground and hands it to the quarterback.  That oversimplification is actually quite complex.  You see, it is the center that must point to the guys on the other side of the line of scrimmage, a clearly critical action that ensures your team realizes there are other guys actually there.

 

But, the crux of the game is the arrangement of plays.  These football players are skilled professionals who must remember quite a number of plays – run and pass.  To realize true success, these plays are drilled over and over and over so that there will be no chance of error in the game itself.

 

These plays are scripted, like a complex dance, by former players and coaches who painfully go over these steps with their studies.  Eventually, they are ready for game day and call the plays with the help of assistant coaches and assistant assistant coaches.  These plays are transmitted via wireless communications, and are so secret that these coaches cover their mouths with folders while reading the plays.  It seems that opponents employ lip-readers to spy on the other guys to intercept that crucial information.

 

Nonetheless, here’s a copy of secret plays that will be used throughout the football season, and into the Superbowl: first down, run up the middle.  Second down, run up the middle.  Third down, throw a forward pass 7 feet over the intended receiver’s head.  Punt the ball to the other guys.

Not Free No More

In cooking, the “Holy Trinity” consists of onion, bell peppers, and celery.  In Roman Catholicism it refers to the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit.  In my world, the trinity refers to stuff that should be free: air, water, and parking.

 

Fortunately for business people and the politicians, they already figured out how to charge for all three.

 

Air for your car or bicycle tires now come from a pump that costs a dollar and up.  This used to be a freebie at service stations but, no longer.  Some ‘suit’ realized we all need air now and then so, why not charge for it?

 

Cement-mounted pumps awaiting at most service stations and car washes sit with coin slot agape, ready to swallow up to eight quarters to extract air from the atmosphere and push it into your tires.  You are not really buying air, just the method to get it where you need it.  That is slick.

 

Water is another gimmick that has taken on a whole life of its own.  Seventy percent of the Earth’s surface is covered with water.  That being said, free water used to be available from water bubblers – or fountains – until another marketing genius thought, “Since people are so thirsty, we can now charge a buck for a bottle!”

 

And so they did.  Now, even in some restaurants, a glass of water costs money.  Here’s a news flash from www.easternshorefishandgame.com: Water is free from faucets in your kitchen and bathroom.  Your garden hose has some cheap or free water, too.

 

We were actually encouraged to buy bottled water years ago.  It seems as though bottled water was supposed to be better for you than tap water, not containing all those nasty chemicals that tap water contains.  Fluoride and chlorine were introduced into the water supplies to prevent cavities and water-borne illnesses, respectively.  Now, we have a vehicle – through bottled water – to circumvent these prophylaxis measures.

 

Now, we are being discouraged from drinking bottled water because of all those pesky plastic bottles that are winding up in landfills.  Uh, oh.  The law of unintended consequences is in motion.  I have a solution.  Canteens filled from your home water tap.

 

But, parking is the big kick in the pants.  State governments require us to have our vehicles registered, inspected, and equipped with many safety options, all on our dimes.  Many over-populated urban areas also require owners to pay a local tax for the privilege to “garage” your vehicle in a specific jurisdiction.  The odd part of all this is that once you have met all these criteria, you are issued a ‘zone decal’ indicating which zone in which you reside.  All is well until you want to park your vehicle in a zone other than yours.  How great is that?

 

How about those specialty shops we were supposed to support – the local stores operated by small business owners?  They are neatly placed on old brick sidewalks on quaint neighborhoods with period façade buildings, but no parking lots.  Perhaps the planners thought patrons would visit these establishments riding up on their palominos or pushing their aluminum walkers.  When parking became a premium because of potential shoppers, garages were constructed to funnel vehicles to them to clear the narrow cobblestone streets.  But, parking fees needed to be established to discourage traffic in these picturesque areas.  What?

 

This is a snapshot of the forward thinkers populating our municipalities and future businesses.  That’s too bad.

Thank A Vet

Smokey the Cat was feral when he tracked us down.  Underweight and a social misfit, he quickly adapted to life at easternshorefishandgame.com.  Everyone here enjoys his company as he enjoys theirs.

 

He is smart and he shows his learned talents opening doors, notifying you of  dwindling food in his dish, and announcing visitors.

 

He is pretty much amenable to everything anyone does to him with two exceptions: He doesn’t like having his claws clipped, and he dislikes being picked up by the scruff of his neck.

 

The problem lies in that in order to clip his nails, one has to grasp him by the nape of his neck.  If you grab him by the nape of his neck he will go berserk.  BERSERK!

 

To keep him from catching his claws on the carpet with every step, he needs to have them trimmed – a painless exercise for nearly every cat – semi-annually.

 

I schlepped Smokey to the vet’s office at a veterinarian chain whose name rhymes with er, it actually rhymes with nothing – Banfield Animal Hospital - for this regularly scheduled adventure only to be met by a young receptionist.

 

Smokey was checked in at which time I clearly said, in English, “Don’t touch him by the nape of his neck.”

 

This young chippie nodded and smiled indicating she understood the words coming out of my mouth.

 

It wasn’t long before she returned to the waiting room to retrieve Smokey in his cage, at which time I asked her if she remembered what I told her moments before.

 

“Don’t pick him up by his nape,” she correctly replied, again with a smile and nod.

 

It didn’t take very long before she rushed out of the Banfield examination room, panting and wearing a fearful look in her eyes.

 

“We can’t get him out of his cage; he’s growling and hissing at us!” she relayed to me.

 

I strolled into the small exam room, reached inside his cage and picked him up with no blood shed.

 

“You tried to grab him by…” was all I could say before both the veterinarian and her aide interrupted with, “The nape of his neck.”

 

Indeed the message had made its way to the powers-that-be, but the message went unheeded.

 

A few quick hisses and surly looks passed back and forth between Smokey and the vet but, all was well after a few brief minutes.

 

It should be noted that this was not the first time this scenario played out at a Banfield Hospital.  Two years ago, Smokey actually chased the vet around the exam room and was sedated to get him to comply.  That Banfield location officially banned Smokey from re-entry.

 

The moral of this story is simple: Don’t bother to speak to Banfield personnel as they don’t listen either.