You Are There! 1618

Let's step back in history a little.  Whoa, watch your step, lest you find yourself defenestrated!

Defenestrate sounds a lot more horrible than it is - the very texture of the word on the ears sounds like something is being forcibly removed from one's body.  Its roots are Latin - "de" as in down, or away and "fenestra," meaning window.  To be defenestrated is to be tossed out of a window.  Come to think of it, that's not such a pleasant thing either.

There was a story about a man who invented some sort of shatter-proof glass, and in order to get investors to put money into his deal, he installed some of the glass in his office window in New York, and with a room full of potential investors gazing first in awe and then in horror, he flung himself against the window and plummeted to his death.  

Turned out, the glass did not break, but whoever installed the window didn't do enough to secure it to the frame and sill.

Dag!

Well, back in 1618, the Defenestration of Prague took place in that Czechoslovakian city.  It seemed only fitting to have it there. The picture at left is of Prague Castle, where the ruling Hapsburgs were dealing with a Bohemian uprising.  Roman Catholic officials had begun closing Protestant chapels in the towns of Broumov and Hrob, which the Bohemians felt was a violation of the religious liberty that they had been guaranteed in a Letter of Majesty signed by Emperor Rudolf II in 1609. I mean, a deal's a deal, right?   So, on May 23, 1618, while humming a certain Bohemian rhapsody, they called a trial to safeguard their rights.  Two imperial regents, William Slavata and Jaroslav Martinic, were found guilty, along with their secretary, a man named Fabricius.  The angry Bohemians threw the three men out of the window of Prague Castle, but they weren't seriously hurt, unless you call landing in a pile of manure serious.  That's what saved them, but this incident, the Defenestration of Prague, led to more Bohemian uprisings, and then came the Thirty Year's War, which ran from 1618 - 1648.

From this, people learned not to name their wars after periods of duration, because evidence exists that by 1623, everyone was sick and tired of the Thirty Years' War, but what could they do?  They had 25 years left to go!

All of the above is true, stuff I read years ago, and I always suspected that Fabricius, after climbing out of the big pile of what saved him, submitted his dry-cleaning bills to Slavata and Martinic, although history cannot find the receipts for it.

Video for a Sunday morning

Anthropomorphism is easily defined as the humanization of non-human things.  Such as when we teach a dog to ride a scooter:

http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/video/savvy-dog-scoots-down-street-13103101 or click here.


So can a dog teach a person to roll over and fetch?  Something to think about!

Stunning tsunami

It's early Friday evening as I write this, and we still don't have all the details about the losses of life and property in the Pacific from the earthquake and resultant tsunami that hit there early Friday, our time.  Back here in the East, we deal with rain and lots of it some days, snow in varying degrees, wind, heat, humidity, thunder and lightning, but "earthquake" and "fault lines" and "Richter scale" are not terms in our everyday lexicon.

But we connect.  We have a dear friend Jonie, who lives in Los Angeles, and whose late Mother has family in Japan.  A woman from work, who hails from the Philippines, left Baltimore to go see family there just yesterday morning.  Another woman from work has a daughter who married a fellow who's in the service, and they are stationed in Hawaii.  And of course, our dear friend Solange, who with Peruvian roots was raised here in Baltimore and now lives and works in Hawaii.  She once sent us a picture postcard that showed the view she sees on her way to work in the morning - a glorious sunrise over a tropical beach with the blue Pacific surf.  I often think of that postcard on MY way to work, as I try to dodge the Dumpster trucks, school buses, aging Toyotas filled with high school kids hopped up on Sunny D and Pop Tarts, and the pretzel delivery StepVans that make my ride so enjoyable, if not scenic. 

It's a big wide world, and yet everybody's got to be somewhere.  We think of those friends and the millions of others affected by this one rumble from nature.  And back here, we have friends with ill family members, and we want to do all we can to support them.  I used to see this during my 911 days: one calltaker would be dealing with helping a new father help his wife deliver their new baby, while another calltaker played solitaire.  The world is full of microcosms, and maybe that's so we can understand the big picture by breaking it down into millions of little ones.

May I have your attention, please?

In the later years of elementary school, we had a kid in our class named "Teddy."  Teddy would do absolutely anything to get attention, and in the time-honored fashion of elementary schoolers, we would suggest things for him to do.  Take the lid off a Dixie Cup of ice cream and rub vanilla ice cream all over your pants?  Sure!  Draw pictures of enormous monster lizards eating the teacher with fire and sparks coming out of the mouth (the lizard's mouth, that is!)?  No problem!  Light entire matchbooks on fire in the boys' room?  Every day!

Look at MEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

Why are they here?

But I had forgotten about Teddy until recently, when Peggy and I, through the magic of DVR'ing, became regular viewers of "The Talk," the afternoon gabfest on CBS starring Julie Chen, Holly Robinson Peete, Sara Gilbert, Leah Remini and the irrepressible Sharon Osbourne.  Now, Sharon's career in show biz is based on someone else's - her husband, the stolid, phlegmatic rock 'n' roll star Ozzy Osbourne. Ozzy's music has never struck a chord with me, so it would take a lot for his former manager Sharon to be a favorite, but here is how she is just like Teddy: She will do anything to turn the attention to herself.  In any situation, it all comes back to her.  I mean, they could have Stephen Hawking on their set talking about his ideas about  gravitational singularities in the framework of general relativity, and his theoretical prediction that black holes should emit radiation,and Sharon would sit there, you could just see her burning to get that camera right on her and her alone, and suddenly she would holler, "Ozzy and I did it twice last night on the dining room table as the children watched in 'orror!"  and everyone would giggle and say, "Oh, that Sharon!" 

But that's not even what I was thinking about today. On the show the other day, they had John Stamos talking about a charity he is involved with that helps women who are considering abandoning their babies by rescuing the children.  Clearly, this is a good cause.  But, I am not kidding you - the man sat there and said this OUT LOUD:


"You know, you won't believe this, but I was an ugly baby!"

Stamos

And the women on the stage and in the audience gasped in horror, as if he had announced plans to go join some cult or something.  Imagine!  John Stamos, ugly!  Even John Stamos had to chortle at the impossibility of it all!  Hah hah hah!  What a nutty thing to say.  And then, because so much of this show revolves around motherhood, they had to show Stamos's mother sitting in the crowd.  Hosannas rang from the assemblage as they thanked her for the gift of John, and she haltingly admitted that John might not always have been as adorable as when he rose to prominence as "Blackie" in "General Hospital."

Wolf

Then out came Scott Wolf, who used to be popular on "Party of Five," which was written by people who wanted you to think there could be men who would dump Jennifer Love Hewitt.  Scott sat basking in the adoration of cast and audience,  displayed his flashing teeth (so white, they looked like neon lights)  and actually sat there and said this OUT LOUD:    
                                                                                            
"Is this the most HANDSOME show you've ever done?"


So, not judging here, but I offer this advice to anyone planning a trip to Los Angeles or any other show business mecca:

Do not try to get between John Stamos and his mirror.  Same with Scott Wolf.  Guys... please!  You're actors! Do you think you could just act modest for a while?

My review of another ten-year-old movie

Thora Birch as Enid

I don't know enough about movies to even call them "films" or "the cinema."  All I know is what I like, and I like a movie called "Ghost World."  Here is a link to the trailer.

Birch and Steve Buscemi

Yes that is Scarlett on the left!

It came out in 2001 and it turns out to have been based upon a graphic novel or comic book of some sort. The plot revolves around a couple of misfit high-school graduates, Thora Birch and Scarlett Johansson, and how they try to find their way in a world in which they don't belong.  Of course, there is some sort of law in Hollywood that if you are making a movie about oddballs who don't fit in anywhere, you have to have Steve Buscemi play the part of one of the oddballs.  And I like Steve Buscemi!  He was a New York firefighter before he became an actor, and you don't get to be one of those unless you can become one of the best firefighters in the world, so he's got that going for him.  He's good, and so are the two young women.  The movie shows up for free all the time on the MGM-HD channel, and it carries my personal recommendation -two hearty thumbs up!  Fine springtime fun!

The movie took in a whopping $8.7 million dollars in its theatrical release, which is roughly the amount spent on Jujubes at one of those Johnny Depp pirate movies, but how nice it is that financial success is not how we judge how much we like things!  If you ever felt like a chicken box dinner in a pheasant-under-glass world, this might be for you!

Yeah we all shine on, like the moon, and the stars, and the sun (John Lennon)

"You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows" - Bobby Dylan

                             "Sunny, thank you for the sunshine bouquet" - Bobby Hebb  



You don't need an almanac to know that my favorite days are growing shorter as the days grow longer.  I'm not complaining, because any day that the Lord allows me to get out of bed and find a pair of red socks to put on is a good day, but I would really rather drive to work in the dark.  


I leave for work at quarter til seven in the yawning, and until this week, it meant that I got to work (0710) by the time that lucky old sun, which, by the way, has nothing to do but roll around heaven all day, starts peeking over the distant mountains and hitting my rearview mirror, meaning it's time to pull on the Dollar Tree shades, just like the ones you see Mr Dylan wearing above, but much cheaper.  


In winter, I get to work while it's still dark, and I prefer that.  What's nicer than headlights illuminating a swirl of snowflakes as I parade down Perring Parkway?  My office, in winter, shows me a lighted parking lot, with little pools of light on the parking spots.  From now til November, I see the sun.

I'll quote from The Beatles one more time to say,"I don't wanna sound complaining, but you know there's always rain in my heart (in my heart)."  I love a rainy day.  Someone has to!  Maybe I have the reverse form of that Seasonal Affective Disorder where people don't feel they get enough sun in the winter and so they buy sun lamps and play Jimmy Buffett music all day long.  I'd sit in the Stygian darkness and play Ernest Tubb all day long and I'm never SAD.

 

The whole world is watching America (and America is watching Charlie Sheen)

So here we are. Tuesday, March 8, 2010. Right in the middle of the slowest season of the year.  Football is over, and baseball is another few weeks away.  Basketball is in full flower, but those who like a more cerebral sport have to wait until the umpire hollers "Play ball!"

I am stunned by the coverage being given to American bad boy Charlie Sheen, with his psychotic quotes and boasts and "I love me" toasts.  And yet, if he put down the bump and blow and came back to work tomorrow, CBS would rescind that termination faster than John Boehner can break into tears, and all would be well again in a land where a man can make a million and a half dollars in a week simply by being himself.

I hope that some of you got to see this little 30-minute glimpse into the life of Kid Rock on the Palladium channel on Sunday. It was a show called "Kid Rock: Born Free" and it showed Kid hanging around his house, rehearsing with his band, having a beer with the locals in his town in Michigan, and having dinner with his son and his housekeeper.  The way Kid interacted with his son Bob Jr. was something to see.  The young man is starting a band, and Kid listened to his music on the laptop, and said, "Well, it's not the worst thing I've ever heard. But if you want to make music, you have to be serious about it and put all you have into it."  He also pointed out that it's very hard to make a success for yourself if someone in your family has already made a success in the same line of work. (You could ask Pete Rose, Jr., about that.)

I mean, most people would think of Kid Rock as an unreconstructed bad boy, a dissolute sort of debauched individual, and here he was, giving his son some straight-up advice. A little encouragement, but also some facts about how hard it is out there.  We also see him picking up a couple of bags of subs for the rehearsal, and he mentions that he never thinks of himself as anything better than his fans, that he always takes time to talk to people who approach him, and he can feel good about himself for never having cheated the working man out of his money.

Makes you wonder what sort of world Charlie Sheen's kids will be stepping into.  I'd rather think of what a great dad Kid Rock is, and I bet that's a sentence that's never been written before!

PS:  Today is the day that Jackass 3 will be released on DVD.  I urge all of America to purchase this prized disc, and to gather around as families to share in its message of hope and joy, mixed with laughter in its two primary shapes: guffaws and giggles.  If you can watch this trailer for the movie and not feel the laughter welling up inside you like the time your buddy's pants fell off during the Grand March at his prom, then you need only to watch it again.

Boom Crash Boom

I guess it would have been appropriately coincidental if I had been listening to a song by Billy "Crash" Craddock last Wednesday as I drove home.  But such was not the case.  I was listening to a tape of last week's Prairie Home Companion show, minding my own beeswax, when all of a sudden...

To tell the story from the beginning, the day began like any other day.  I got up, and went to to work.  I gave blood downstairs at the Red Cross blood drive, and worked the rest of the day, and after work I went up to Timonium across from Peggy's office to get x-rays for my knee surgeon to see how well my 2000-model knee replacement is holding up. It's the 11th anniversary, and the hope is that it will last forever!  Toward making it last, I refrain from dancing, running, playing basketball and tennis, although I am known to do the Beavis Butt-Out Dance for celebratory occasions.

X-rays in hand, I went back across the street with Peggy, got some chow to take home for dinner, and we left for home.  Now, Peggy has her way of driving, and I have mine, and since we each had our own vehicles, there was no need for me to follow her or her to follow me, she said.  So I went to take my scenic route home - out across Dulaney Valley Rd and through the pines at Loch Raven Reservoir.  There is a slight detour on this path, as a small bridge is being replaced.  Apparently, the work on the bridge is being done by beavers who have run out of mud, because this tiny little bridge has been out since last summer.

That didn't matter to me. I didn't even get to Dulaney Valley Road before getting my tail end smashed up.  More accurately, the tail end of my beloved truck was smashed up.  I was sitting in a long line, waiting for the light to change at Dulaney Valley, when I heard a very very loud BOOM. I really thought it was gunfire, but it came out of nowhere.  I only had about .327 of a second to hold onto that notion before my truck got hit and then hit again.  "Oh fiddlesticks," I said, or something like that.  I got out of the truck and saw something that looked exactly like four-car pileups always look in the movies.  And in my past I have been at the scene of many accidents, plenty worse than this, in the line of duty, but this time it was different, since I was notified of this one at the exact time it occurred.  In this one, a guy in a truck hit a woman in a car who hit a woman in a truck who hit my truck.

First, check on the other drivers.  A woman in one of those little Hondas was trapped in her car.  The others were injured or compromised, but were out of their cars, so I called 911 and reported it as a rescue.  Before long at all, police and fire/EMS apparatus and the rescue squad from Lutherville were on the scene, and the rescue squad opened that car like a can of soup, safely removing the driver to send her on her way to a hospital.

I can't really go into a lot of details here about the who-hit-whom, because there are the proverbial legal matters pending and suits enough to wallpaper the Astrodome coming up, I'm sure.  On the advice of counsel, I'm not saying anything more than I was hurt, the truck needs fixing, and both of those conditions are being addressed.

I do have to hand it to the police, fire and EMS personnel on the scene.  I think it was the textbook way of handling a multi-car wreck.  They got on scene, assessed the risks and then triaged the injured.  And the people in the neighborhood, who may or may not be used to having their street look like a Hot Wheels® track where a cranky child has haphazardly thrown four toy cars, were kind and generous as well.  One woman asked if I needed a drink of anything, and what I needed was to get rid of the water I had guzzled on the way out of the X-ray, believing I'd be home in time.  She graciously allowed me to go to Tinkletown, which beat the plan I had involving going behind a willow tree.

Funny, the things you remember.  It was warm that day, and even when we left the grocery store, all I had on above the waist was an undershirt and a short-sleeved sport shirt from the fabulous Eddie Bauer Mad About Plaid collection.  Five minutes later, I'm standing on the street, and very thankful for the hoody and jacket from the Eddie Bauer Whatever The Leather collection that I had in the truck.  And gloves.  And a cap.

And Peggy there beside me.   You know, back in the days BC (before cells) I would have had to wait for her to get home and then call from someone's kitchen phone, but my Droid called hers and she turned around to come to my side.  She was, of course, the comfort of comforts, and helped deal with the various officials on the scene.  I was in shock.  For once, I hardly had anything to say.  Now, you're in shock.

Today I have to take my truck to the fabulous Jones Toyota body shop, where he will be outfitted for a new hind end.  You can fix trucks, and you can also be glad that no one died in this event.  Once again, the angels were up there looking out for me. 

Thanks, angels!

Sunday Rerun: Eat Me

You just have to wonder how does it come that people go into politics or some other public-profile occupation and can't resist the lovely taste of their own shoe?

How else do we explain this news item from Slate:

After announcing this week that New Zealand would not respect a centuries-old treaty and turn land over

Key man in New Zealand

to the country's Maori tribes, Prime Minister John Key didn't do himself any favors by joking that the Tuhoe tribe was likely to eat him in retaliation. Discussing the affair at a tourism conference, Key quipped, "The good news was that I was having dinner with Ngati Porou as opposed to their neighbouring iwi, which is Tuhoe, in which case I would have been the dinner, which wouldn't have been quite so attractive." According to the Guardian, while Maori tribes were known to indulge in "cannibal feasts" in the days before the British showed up, the practice vanished in the 19th century and has since become a running joke in New Zealand. Responding to Key's comment, Maori politician Te Ururoa Flavell remarked, "Well, the first thing to say is it's probably correct, and the second thing is probably not wise in the current climate."

I knew as a New Yorker-reading kid that there were only about three dozen scenarios for magazine cartoons...guy lying on couch in psychiatrist's office, long-haired guy with a sign foretelling the end of the world, traffic cop on motorcycle pulling over motorist, and cannibals standing around a big boiling cauldron among them. But that was the old days, and we've all moved along, have we not, Mr. Key? Sure, maybe there used to be cannibals who would boil 'n' serve people seeking to bring them enlightenment, but that is precisely why employment agencies had a hard time finding people interested in taking missionary positions.

I really should apologize for that one, but can you wait until I finish chortling?

Really As Good As It Gets

Our nephew Drew married the wonderful Laura and she brought many things to the family...Southern charm, Southern cooking, Nursing knowledge and tenderness, her own special loving ways, and the rest of her family and how we love them all!

And part of that was, and is, Heidi.

Heidi was Laura's little miniature Pinscher and she was there before the rest of us, meaning that Heidi had been around for a few years when the time came yesterday to send her home. She would run around on her spindly little legs and it took her about three times of running circles around you before she worked her little way right into your heart.  She would have been excellent playing the part of "Verdell" in "As Good As It Gets," the 1997 Academy Award winner in which Jack Nicholson gets to find out where his heart is. 

But no actress was Princess Heidi-ho; she was for real all the way.  She might have been the smartest dog I ever knew.  I am not automatically a dog-lover, but when someone hops up on my lap for a snuggle, they get doggie points right away.

Heidi would do that and she slept with us when D&L went away for weekend trips and she hopped up straight into the air to express joy and when we were going out without her she would come over and say goodbye and if you wanted to take her out, you needed say just one word  - "WALK?" - and she'd be waiting for you at the door.

When the great nieces came along, Heidi knew her time at center stage was over, and she graciously stepped back and allowed the girls to assume starring roles in the family show, but like all great members of a troupe, she knew how to play her part.  The little girls loved her right back!

As happens to us all, the years caught up with her tiny body, but not with her heart and soul.  By the end, she was non-ambulatory and tumor-ridden, and the only humane thing was to send her home.

That was yesterday.  And I think it was harder for me in the days leading up to it than it has been since, because I know now her suffering is over.  And I can't stop thinking about a poster of Elvis that I saw right after The King passed away. The poster said:

"REMEMBER I lived.  FORGET I died."

Heidi, we will remember that you lived, and your love and heart will live on.  Enjoy your wings!

 

Open Bar Policy

Remember how, as a child, you learned to be disinclined toward certain behaviors because of the looming consequences?

It all started with the parents, as does most of our learning.  Throw food from your highchair: dinner's over.  Talk back during dinner: go to your room.  Get caught making illegal contributions to The Committee To Reelect Richard M. Nixon: be deemed a felon.  Get caught being Richard M. Nixon: resign in disgrace, and then go on tv blubbering about your mother. 

Very few of us run afoul of the criminal justice system because, once incarcerated, one's job prospects dim considerably, not to mention being stuck with only basic cable.  We tend not to rob banks because they'll send you to jail for that.  (Quick question: do you think there has ever been a guy arrested for robbing banks whose name was Rob Banks?  What a defense!  "I lived up to my name, your honor!") 

What about his industrious, hard-working brother, who did all he could to save money?  "Phil" Banks!

So we're agreed, most of us stay within the law, for moral reasons certainly, but also, partially, because of the fear of punishment?  

What punishment is it, when a 24-year-old (allegedly) shot and killed a high school senior at a gas station early one Sunday morning here recently - and that 24-year-old was convicted in 2003 of second-degree murder, robbery and using a handgun during a crime in Baltimore City, was sentenced to 20 years, with half of it suspended,  and then got out after serving seven years—from August 2003 until his release on June 28, 2010.

He KILLED someone and someone else let him out of jail!

And then, he was arrested on a drug charge in October, but no one said, "OK, back to the hoosegow for you."

And then, last month, he allegedly committed murder.  Of a high school guy, who will never have the chance to get out in the world and live his life. 

So, all those thoughts of life sentences for murder, all those scenes from James Cagney movies with Cagney going to the gas chamber with that crazy look in his eyes, all the things you always thought to be the consequence for taking another life: meh. Seven years, you're out to do it again.

Really a deterrent, I have to say, but where is the debate, the public outcry?  We're all worked up about paying another dime for a beer or a gallon of gas, and should those two women you know be able to be married, but we let murderers out of jail so they can commit murder again.


As Bob Dylan said, bury the rag deep in your face; now is the time for your tears. And that was about another murder in Baltimore, where a rich guy got six months a few years back for killing a barmaid.  Some years later, the same rich guy, William Zantzinger, got 18 months and a $50,000 fine for unfair and deceptive trade practices when he rented out horrible shacks.   Zantzinger passed away two years ago, and we can assume that he is working out his sins in the proper fashion.  For those on earth below, the lesson hasn't gone far enough.

DIY ProActiv

If there is anything worse than people who would capitalize (literally) on the problems of others...What do you think about this?  It's been a long time since I had to deal with acne.  I was not too troubled with it during my teen years, just the occasional zit now and then, but I remember how some kids just went through hell with the name-calling, and the loss of self-confidence, and all that.  

And we'd read in the magazines all the causes and all the cures.  Don't eat chocolate! OK, chocolate's ok, but avoid cheese at all costs.  Wash your face with hot water! Cold water! Lukewarm water!  Wash it often, no, twice a day at the most.  All the advice, and all the products.  

It worked for Katy!

I see the infomercials for this ProActiv stuff all the time.  At one of the malls near us, they have a vending machine for it - the thing is about the size of a minivan, with gigantic pictures of Katy Perry, Avril Lavigne, Jessica Simpson, and some other person I am not hip enough to know.  Prospective customers are to believe that these people knew the agony of  dateless Friday nights because of blemishes. 

Yeah.

Now, from all indications, ProActiv works well - well enough that they make $1.5 BILLION every year selling this stuff.  They pay out $12-15 MILLION every year in endorsements, and just signed Mr Justin Bieber to a two-year deal for a sweet 3 million semolians. But as with a lot of things, you can do the same thing at home for a lot less.

I want to pass this along to anyone who might have the need to purchase this ProActiv for 60 dollars or whatever.  It was online in Salon magazine, written by a real dermatologist, Jeffrey Benabio.  Make your own skin lotion, save on the expensive potion, and spent the difference buying Katy Perry downloads!  Here you go:

All over the counter acne treatments work by using two basic ingredients –

1. An antibiotic to kill acne-causing bacteria and 2. A peeling agent to unclog your pores.

Proactiv® is a widely popular acne kit available by mail; it’s a nice combination of washes, toners, and lotions. If you can afford it, Proactiv is an effective treatment for mild acne. Its active ingredients are 2.5% benzoyl peroxide (the antibiotic) and glycolic acid (the peeling agent).

You can recreate the same acne therapy by buying the ingredients separately. For example, if you used CVS Acne Gel ($3.99) and Aqua Glycolic Toner ($12.28) daily you are using the same active ingredients as Proactiv. The only real difference is the cost:

Proactiv: $40 to $60 (depending on the extras)

Do-it-yourself-activ: $16.28.

Over a year you could save over $250. Remember that any acne therapy only works if you are “proactive;” that is, you must use it faithfully every day for 2 to 3 months to see results.

  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Then tomorrow, let's talk about ways to save money by making your own cornbread! I have the recipe for that, too.  All teenagers love cornbread, don't they?

If a liberal had said this about Bush....oh boy!

Throughout the course of our lives, as we wend our way through the meaningless and the meaningful, we will all have the chance to handle our share of downright stupid events that unfold before us.  In other words, we can't avoid all the dumb things in life, but it's how we handle them that tells a lot about us.

For instance, when you're in a group at a gathering and some boor starts in with his racial or ethnic jokes, not knowing (or caring about) anyone's race or ethnicity, your first reaction might be to wonder just what to say, as you examine the toe of your shoes or the condition of your watchband in embarrassment.  Would that we would all have the fortitude to say, "That sort of remark is inappropriate, unappreciated and, to be frank, rather ignorant on your part, and I for one would appreciate it if you would keep your hateful comments to yourself, Rush."

Broun

I bring this up because there is, correctly, a controversy over remarks made at a town hall meeting down in Georgia where some wizened, but apparently unwisened, citizen asked the shocking question: "Who's going to shoot Obama?"  The representative holding the meeting was this fellow Paul Broun, a medical doctor who is currently the congressperson from Georgia's 10th District.   Now, when I tell you that one week after the president won his historic election in 2008, this Broun claimed that Mr Obama's plans for a civilian national service corps meant that Obama wanted to set up a Marxist dictatorship, you'll get the idea of where he is coming from.

Broun said, "That's exactly what Hitler did in Nazi Germany and it's exactly what the Soviet Union did. When he's proposing to have a national security force that's answering to him, that is as strong as the U.S. military, he's showing me signs of being Marxist." 

What Mr Obama said was, "We cannot continue to rely only on our military in order to achieve the national security objectives that we've set. We've got to have a civilian national security force that's just as powerful, just as strong, just as well-funded." He was talking about a civilian reserve corps intended to rebuild infrastructure in the post-Iraqi war era.  Who had the idea first?  Good old George W Bush, who set up a  Civilian Response Corps in 2006 after a bipartisan Congressional vote.

Of course, once the error of his thinking was pointed out, did Mr Dr Rep Broun (R., GA) say, "Consarn it, I made a dad-blamed mistake"?   He did not. In what's become the typical modern non-apologetic apology, he said, "I regret putting it that way," and "I apologize to anyone who has taken offense at that." 

Exercising both his free-speech rights and his flapping jaw, Broun went on to say that Obama "is extremely liberal" and "has promoted a lot of socialistic ideas, and it just makes me concerned." 

So, when Junior Samples, Jr, stood up and asked who was going to step up and shoot the president, did Broun:

a) laugh along with the crowd

b) say nothing, but turn red

c) stand up like a man as John McCain did during the 2008 campaign when an old lady stood before him and said she did not trust candidate Obama because he was an "Arab." McCain did not laugh, and more important, he did not give tacit approval to the woman's comments .  He took the hand mic from her, relieving her of any further chance to foul the conversational air, and told her that Sen. Obama was "a decent family man [and] citizen that I just happen to have disagreements with on fundamental issues. ... He's not [an Arab]."  Even McCain, who spent years in a Viet Cong prison, was saddened that a fellow American could speak so stupidly.

What Broun did was, he laughed, according to reports, and his press secretary, Jessica Morris, said, "Obviously, the question was inappropriate, so Congressman Broun moved on." 

The next day, still moving on, he put out a statement that said," I was stunned by the question and chose not to dignify it with a response; therefore, at that moment I moved on to the next person with a question."

So, mark yourself 'correct' if you said 'a,' but join me in wishing it were otherwise.  You'd like to think that a man with all that book-learnin' had acquired enough backbone to tell people they were wrong.  

Like we should all do to him.

I'm looking for a safe way to shop

We talked the other day about how busboys (and it's always a busBOY - why do restaurants not have women doing this? I'm sure they would be too smart to) keep taking plates away from diners who aren't finished their meals.  Our conclusion seemed to be that we should blame the whole thing on some sort of national plate shortage.

And then something else came to mind, and it must be attributed to a shortage of time.  I'm going to ask a question here:

What's the big rush in the grocery store?  Why, when I am trying to load my groceries on the belt and get everything packed and carted and ready to take on home, do people keep shoving their carts into my achin' anklebones?  Here's the deal...I'll be putting ginger ale, fig newtons or burrito wraps on the belt and then wham! Earl and Marge, next in line, shove their cart up to me. Excuse me, but neither one says, "excuse me."  And then - since as a veteran A&P register operator/ bagger I know enough to put the stop that goes on top of the bags at the end of the line - Earl starts wedging his bottled prune juice, flank steak and Metamucil right up against my light bulbs, hippie bread and eggs.  Do they even think about using one of those plastic logs as a divider?  They do not.

It just so happens that I love shopping for, cooking, and consuming groceries.  As a young man, I looked forward to a trip to the A&P on Joppa Rd, which closed down years ago and became the home of a Dodge dealership, but then times got hard and people couldn't afford new American cars, so the Dodge people left and now it's about to become a BMW agency.  But when it was an A&P, my mom would take me there, and then and there I began my lifelong love affair with aisles crammed with Realemon, Snap-E-Tom, Bisquick, Reddi Wip, TastyKakes and Ugli Fruit.

It does not go unnoticed that grocery manufacturers do not hold to my devotion to good spelling.  But I love to peruse the aisles of a good supermarket.  It's not until I go to check out that the assault begins.

It's often my luck to be behind a veteran shopper who wants to break the cashier's cashews over the current price of food, how many items to place in a bag (paper inside plastic of course), and why he or she won't accept this 7¢ coupon on Parkay margarine clipped from the December 5, 1972 issue of LIFE magazine.  While I wait, hoping to avoid seeing my loaf get smashed, Marge and Earl are noodging their cart ever closer to my ankles, and I can only wonder why?  Daring to take my eyes away from my lower appendages for a quick look at my watch, I see that it's 2:43 on a Saturday afternoon.  So what's the rush?

If I find out why everyone is suddenly in a hurry to get out of the BagUrSelf every Saturday afternoon, I might join the rush.  Until then, I'll be in aisle 10, wearing ankle braces.

Coming to CBS this fall: "2.0 Men"!

And here we were, thinking that God was in heaven, when all along, our deities walk among us, knowing what to think, do or say in any conceivable situation.

" 'They' want to be married and live their lives together in wedded bliss!"

"It's just not right; it's a sin against God and mankind!"

"For Heaven's sake, won't someone think of the children!"

(Don't you love it when someone on this earthly plane speaks authoritatively for God above?)

These things and plenty more less worthy of repetition were heard all across the land...this land, the land of the free and the brave...where equal opportunity reigns...and all are imbued at birth with life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness...in 1967, when there were still sixteen (16) states in this here union that did not allow interracial marriage.

You must remember this...a kiss is still a kiss. There was a Maryland Board of Film Censors, and a feisty woman named Mary Avara sat there all day long watching movies with titles ranging from "Lawrence of Arabia" to "Florence Does Arabia," and then deciding what people could pay to see down at the neighborhood theater.  


It was in those days that former Baltimore City Councilman Dominic "Mimi" DiPietro sought to ban peep shows from The Block, our world-famous entertainment zone with strippers and G-strings, on the grounds that "You got all those guys going in there, degenerating all over the place."


And all across the nation, just under a third of the states did now allow people to marry outside of their own race.  I wonder just who was in charge of deciding who was to be placed in which category...like in those war movies, when the tough sergeant called out the names of all his soldiers who were going to help him recapture Meatloaf Hill..."Kowalsky!  O'Brien! Jimenez! Garçon! Schneckengruber! Wong! Kutchakokov! Gandhi!  Let's GOOOOOOOOOOO!"


I mean, was there some bureaucrat sitting in an office somewhere saying, "OK, you two are white enough/African-American enough/Asian enough to be married here" ?


Was there some sort of written test?


Did Chuck Barris have a game show called "So, You Claim to be of The Same Race!" ?


I kid, because I love.  This all seems silly now.  We don't care who marries whom. It is none of our business if Mr Kowalsky marries Ms Wong, right?


So how is it our business if Mr Kowalsky marries Mr Wong?


Thanks, and now let's get back to "So, You Want to Overthrow a Middle Eastern Dictator!"




 

Sunday rerun: Greece is the word

They're having their troubles over in Greece these days, aren't they? I happen to know a woman with relatives in Athens, and she told me years ago that if you move to another house or apartment in that ancient city, you get in touch with the phone company for a new installation and then prepare to wait. And if you've ever been told that the phone company or the cable guy will be to your place "between noon and 5 pm," and it's 4:30 and you're pacing the floor, imagine how you feel in Greece when you're pacing the floor and can't even call anyone to tell them about it because your phone isn't there yet. My friend tells me it can take up to TWO YEARS to get a phone installed in Athens.

Aristotle is still waiting for his conference call with Plato and Socrates! And, to steal a joke from the great Woody Allen, they wanted to meet with Isosceles, who had an idea for a new triangle.

(I don't often steal jokes, but when I do, I rip off the best!)

We all studied the oldtime Greek civilization in school, and it's a pity to see that great nation torn by economic crisis, rioting in the streets, civil unrest and out-of-control crime and corruption. In fact, there was a movement afoot in the Greek parliament to rename Athens "Little Philadelphia."

There are so many aspects of Greek culture that we have taken as our own. The latest is Greek yogurt, which is just loaded with cultures. As are art, music, cuisine, philosophy and the running of marathon races, which, according to legend, were begun to commemorate the run (speaking of movements afoot) of the Greek soldier Pheidippides, a messenger from the Battle of Marathon (the namesake of the race) to Athens. That's a distance of 26 miles, 385 yards, and that's why our marathons are the same length, although the winner is rarely named Pheidippides.

Now, everyone in Europe is concerned about the Greek monetary system and how it is crumbling. A massive infusion of money - $157.5 billion, which roughly approximates Oprah's shoe budget - has not stanched the flow of economic woe. Economists the world over are predicting that Greece is tottering on the abyss of debt default.

I don't have the slightest idea what will happen to the European economy, or the American. That makes me the one blogger who will admit that he can't predict the future, which is really the only thing that is predictable. Except for this: I guarantee you, if you watch CNBC and the other business channels, at one point in the next few days, on the topic of Greek insolvency, someone will say, "It is what it is."

And that, my friends, is a tautological pleonasm. The term 'tautology' comes from two Greek words meaning "It says this." As much as to say, it already says this; why say it again? A perfect example of this sort of redundancy is the now-popular expression "It is what it is." Just as multiplying any number by one leaves the number unchanged, and just as "a rose is a rose," why even bother saying such things? "I wanted a ham sandwich but they gave me roast beef. I guess it is what it is." I guess it's a roast beef sandwich. Nothing more, nothing less.

Yes, the guy who lives down the street who practices his Sousaphone at 3 a.m. is a nuisance, but his neighbors say, "He says he can't sleep and that's the only time he has to devote to his music. It is what it is." What do those five words add to any discussion?

It's all Greek to me.

Music for a Saturday morning

I don't know any other way to express how much I love Love -the emotion and the band.  Those of us who love this sixties band as we do could hold our annual convention in a very small meeting room at a Motel 6, and we'll leave the light on for you in case you want to join up.

Pfisterer, Forssi, Lee, Echols, and McLean

Here are the late Arthur Lee on guitar and vocals, along with the rest of the band: the late Johnny Echols (lead guitar, vocals), the late Bryan MacLean (guitar, vocals) and the late Ken Forssi (bass). The drummer was  Alban "Snoopy" Pfisterer, who is the only member of the original band still with us here on Earth.  Please check this song on You Tube; it's called "Alone Again Or" and remember, I have been advocating for this band since 1967, and even though they have mostly departed this vale of toil and tears (Arthur himself checked out in 2006 from leukemia), you know I am awfully persistent in these matters. Arthur Lee was a genius and even he couldn't figure out how to get more people to listen to his band, so how is a gozzlehead such as I going to do it?  Sheer persistence.

Please hear, so that more will listen.  Won't you help?

Snow Use Complaining

Not for the first time, I'm about to cheese off a lot of people when I talk about the school snow day thing.

First of all, they close schools far too often for far too little snow.  Around here, they even close schools when it's GOING to snow, or for days of heavy rain.  It's true, and what does that tell the kids?

Listen, when bad weather comes along, no need for you to get out and get going!  Just turn your pajamas right side out again and get ready to watch Gullah Gullah Island or whatever all day long.

That's a bad lesson to teach them.

Now, I know what you're going to say - there's a risk, oh a horrible RISK of letting the kids be driven to school in the horrible two inches of white hell that descends from the sky!  Little Egbert or Ursula can't possibly risk life and limb getting on a school bus in such adverse conditions!

So they get on saucer sleds and hurl themselves down hills at 87 miles an hour, careering madly off trees, boulders and other sledders in their descent.

Or seven of them pack into a Corolla and head for the mall.  No risk there, huh?

So we agree, schools should stay open unless there is a blizzard of the magnitude that has the governor appearing on TV wearing a Lands End down vest, appealing to all motorists to stay home at all costs, leaving the few passable roads in the state open for vital traffic such as police, fire, EMS, plows, and television news crews who are there showing people digging out their cars, crabbing about the whereabouts of the plow, bemoaning the fact that we are now getting more snow than Hibbing, Minnesota does, and sticking a yardstick into a snow drift for the touch of science and math.

Keeping the schools open will preclude another sure harbinger of spring around here: the annual rationalization by members of school boards who, every fall, announce that there shall be a finite number of snow days in the school calendar, and that for any day(s) that schools are closed over and above that number, the school year shall be extended into the summer, or shaved off the spring break.

Then at this time of year, just at the same time that hopes are once again aborning in the hearts of Orioles baseball fans, the school boards meet and decide to waive the necessity of making up the excess snow days.  The standard reason is usually something along the lines of, "Well, you know, what could we do, you know what I'm saying to you?"

And this teaches the kids that rules are rules and they are not to be broken no matter what and that's final.  Well, almost.

We will now turn the floor over to responsible members of the education community for their responsible, if logically flawed, reply:

Oops! All out of room on the internet!

Baba Bieber?

My run on reading autobiographies continues apace. I finished Keith Richards's "Life," and I cannot recommend it highly enough.  I know, I keep telling you that! But you'll have to read the book to find out what really happened when Keith fell out of a palm tree (it wasn't a palm tree, more like a horizontal branch of some other tree, and he was wet from swimming: hence the fall) and if he really snorted his father's ashes (no but he did accidentally inhale some.)

Also checked off: "Dream Boogie," the life of Sam Cooke, as talented a singer and as ambitious a performer as you'll ever find, but also a man of unbridled carnal appetite, and that was to be his undoing. 

You feel that, Mr Bieber?

Baba Booey! Baba Booey!

And lesser-known but still important in things as I see them was "They Call Me Baba Booey," the life story of Gary Dell'Abate, Howard Stern's radio producer and frequent butt-of-joke.  It was twenty-one years ago that Boy Gary made the mistake of calling Hanna-Barbera cartoon character Baba Looey "Baba Booey."  He thought the guys would stop picking on him the next day.

He should have known better.  Women might get cute nicknames when they are young. I recall a friend of my sister being called "Muddy," and not in any tribute to the blues singer Muddy Waters.  But you can bet next month's issue of "Marie Claire" that they don't call her that any longer.

Whereas, if you're a dude, and you twist your ankle playing volleyball in sixth grade and have to limp back to class, your friends just might call you "Hoppy" for the rest of your life. 


You know the hotshot lawyer who successfully defended you in that lawsuit filed when the mailman tripped over your kid's skateboard, landed in your unfenced mulch pit and was set upon by Jack Russell, your Jack Russell terrier?  No matter his many successes in the courtrooms of our land, he will forever be known, to the friends who saw him at a college mixer dropping dry ice down his pants, as "Numbnutz."


And that surgeon who operated on your duodenum the other week?  His friends from high school still call him "Shitferbrains."

Just so you know.

Sunset and Evening Star

As you may know, my mom sold the Ponderosa a few years ago and moved to a place called Edenwald in Towson.

Edenwald? What is it?

It's a big building full of retired people, but that's not important now.

Actually, though, it is.  They have three levels of domicile there: the independent living, where Mom has been since June of '08, the assisted living, and the nursing home care.  Mom has thrived since moving there, because, alone in the house, she mainly sat and watched Regis all day and did not do much more.  Surrounded by people of her own age bracket - let's describe them as the sort of people who have to dress for dinner and they LIKE doing that! - she has had a lot of zest and fun, and even a tad of vim and vigor now and then.

But osteoporosis has been looming over her like the Spirit of St Louis at that museum in DC.  She was 2 when Lindbergh became the first person to fly to France and wonder where his luggage wound up.  Osteoporosis means her bones are brittle, and now she has three fractured vertebrae.  There is not much the doctors can do for someone aged 85 with broken bones like that, so she is Rush-ing around taking Oxycodone and gobbling Tylenol to go with it.  And she has had to move to the assisted living area for a while, so that she can have her meals and meds and someone can be around to help her if she drops her remote, or whatever.

It makes one think about the stages of life.  We're born and we run in the playground and then one day we run to catch a bus to see "Oliver Twist,"  and later, our shins hurt like the Dickens.  And then, there's no more running, and the doctor says well, let's try this, and pretty soon, just getting down to the auditorium to hear a mandolin orchestra, with no strings attached, is a big deal. 

Oh, so you were letting the Dickens joke slide, but you draw the line at a mandolin without any strings, eh? Good to know how far I can push it.

Mom has been widowed for almost 14 years now, and she talks of being with Dad again sometimes.  I know I couldn't make 14 days without Peggy, so it's not easy.  I happen to believe in predestination, and we all know there is a due date stamped in the Big Book Of Life.  What we have to hope for is a maximum of comfort and a minimum of pain, and also a favorable face-to-face meeting with The Pilot when we have crossed the bar.

But don't get ahead of the story here. There are plenty of years left on Mom's calendar.  For all I know, she'll be around to vote for Sasha Obama for president.  Sasha, at nine years of age, speaks Chinese with Hu Jintao at a White House dinner.  When I was nine, I ordered a Chinese dinner at a place called Donald's Peking Palace on Yakona Rd, and I got one of those bamboo roll-up calendars.

Circle of life.

Put it right over the plate

I think we need to talk about a problem that bids fair to end life in America as we know it, especially on weekends, especially at times when we choose to dine out.

Friends and neighbors, and friends of neighbors, I speak today of a real nationwide problem.  There seems to be a shortage of plates in the diners and dining halls and finer restaurants in America.

How else to explain that I am still eating my food and some 17-year-old busboy dives in from the left, much like Ed Reed going for a deflection interception, and grabs my plate as he says, "Can I take that away for you?"

"Son, I ain't finished yet," is my standard reply.  See, I am a slow eater.  Oh, I can gobble when the situation calls for it.  Was a time when I got 1/2 an hour for lunch, and you deduct from that 3 minutes to nuke a Stouffer's lo-cal tuna surprise, and by the time I sat down to chow down, it was either gobble or go hungry.  And you know how I voted on that one!

So, a lot of times when we're eating out on real plates, I will linger over my few remaining scraps, maybe sop up some sauce with bread, or spear one more broccoli spear.  It's hard to do that when I have to be vigilant, lest young Fisher or Hunter or Sailor make his move and snatch the platter from in front of me.  Peggy is always great about this, and pleasantly tells the young man that I am not ready to relinquish the crockery, but it unnerves me to think that someone over near where it used to be the smoking section has to wait for his club sandwich because I am still using the plate they would put it on, if only I'd give it up.

So maybe we should all start taking our own plates, mugs and cutlery down to the ChewSumMor next time.  I don't know.  It's a nationwide problem that threatens to curtail our nights out and make us stay home and watch "Everybody Loves Raymond" reruns on TBS. 


And that's not nearly as much fun.

The Advice Column

Stewie once asked Brian, "Do you really read PARADE magazine?"
Well, I do, and I love the new "Manner Up!" column. It lets me wonder how many of our fellow Americans are fully realized adults.  Let's check out yesterday's letter:

"My friends and I go to dinner once a month.  I lost my  job, so I have to watch what I spend, but they still choose pricey restaurants.  I don't want to be a killjoy, but I can't afford this!"   Janine K., Salt Lake City

The lady in the magazine, Nancy Bilyeau, goes all around Robin Hood's barn to tell Janine that she should tell her friends that she loves hanging with them but she can't go for the long green while she's scrimping.  Or words to that effect.  And then she suggests that maybe they could try all doing a potluck at someone's house, and points out that maybe her friends don't realize that times are tight.

Here's my take, if you want to know it.  I am very sorry for Janine's current jobless status, and I hope she finds something even better than what she had really soon.  But, Janine, if these people are your friends, then you should not be embarrassed by having to tell them that you're on a very tight budget these days!  Sure, you don't want to explain this sort of thing to total strangers, but this is why, out of the current world population of 7,088,436,889 (most of whom seem to be on the Baltimore Beltway on any morning) you get to pick a couple dozen or so to be your boon companions.  And those people, if you pick them correctly, are the sort of people to whom you can say, " I can't swing dinner at Pain Grillé et Confiture pour le Thé this month, so let's hit Burger World and we'll tie on the feedbag there, whaddya say, huh?"

Burger World awaits!

And then maybe one of your friends will help you find a new job while you're there!  But, Janine, good living starts with good friends, and being a good friend starts with being able to say what's on your mind!

Next week in Parade: "America's Love Affair with Cheese!"

Sunday rerun: He was the only one of us who "knew too much"

This is a real true story about a real guy. That's as far as the facts go. I know only this - and I 'm going to be as vague as Sarah Palin on a geography final exam, because, well, because.

This guy came to work with us in the early 80's. He had been some sort of bookkeeper for some wise guys, and he knew too much. It's never wise to know too much about wise guys. He went over to the Feds and testified about what he knew. Then the Feds put him in the Witness Protection program, and called our boss to say that he would be starting work with us on midnight shift the following Monday, and had been given a new name and Social Security number.

We could tell they were real FBI guys from out of town because they said "Social Security" number, instead of the way people from here say it ("Soshacurity") with a trail of expletives preceding it when they try to drive through the traffic jam engendered by that federal behemoth on the west side. ("Wesside").

I also wondered if there was a Federal office in charge of making up new names for these protectees. Did some guy in a fedora look at them for a while and say, " 'Joe.' You look like a 'Joe' to me."

Anyway. The guy shows up for work, does pretty well at it, and every now and again the Feds would call the boss and say that he would be picked up at such-and-such a time, to be transported to some distant city to testify against men with flamboyant nicknames. Oh, and he was to be marked "present" for any days he missed, and paid just as if he were at work.

And every now and again he would leave work at 7 AM and drive straight up to New York to get his bagel on, or however they say that sort of thing now. He went up there to get bagels, because they make the best ones up there; how's that sound? And that night he would present his shift with a dazzling array of bagels, bialys, schmears with the cream cheese, lox, whitefish, pickled herring...the only way it could have been more New York would have been if he had taken everyone to Central Park and had them mugged.

Then one day he got sick and then sicker and eventually died. Or not. There still exists a lively debate about that. No one actually saw him; all contact came from phone calls toward the end, and then someone got a message that he was gone and had left instructions about who was to get what of his personal effects. I don't know and I guess I never will. I did once ask him if he thought it was ok for me to go by the mob nickname of "Marky the Existentialist" and he said he'd have to check with Paulie Bananas or Vinny Bagodonuts or one of his other contacts.

And that's all I know, Your Honor.