What they don't know

Except for suits and other bespoke apparel, I get all of my clothing from the good people over at Eddie Bauer (shirts) or LL Bean (jeans and pants), so I don't know from American Apparel. I certainly don't believe they'd have the sort of retired-guy-casual clothing that I favored long before becoming an actual retired guy, and it would be like repeating my Zumiez experience if I were to ankle into one of their stores.  I needed to purchase a gift card for a young friend of ours once, and entered a Zumiez store, only to be regarded like a cheeseburger in a punchbowl at a high-class party.  The kids working there, in speaking to me, managed to lower one eyebrow while raising the other, no mean feat.

But this weekend, AmAp made a BooBoo that you need to be aware of in case you need an excuse for not knowin' stuff. To salute the Fourth of July, they ran a picture on Tumblr of the 1986 Challenger space shuttle explosion, with a red sky as background, and hashtags “#smoke” and “#clouds.”

Of course, as anyone with 1/2 an education knows, this is the picture that shows the Challenger being blown to bits, taking seven brave souls with it.  It was in all the papers and everything, but this person with a position of importance in this company did not know that.  The company hastened to blame it all on his/her youth:

So, while we take a moment to shake our heads at just what these smarty-pants kids DON'T know and don't seem to care about not knowing, it now looks like you can be blissfully unaware of the following events, if they took place before you assumed your place among the quick:

The Magna Carta, Marco Polo's travels, the Renaissance, the bubonic plague, the Canterbury Tales, the Gutenberg Bible, Columbus's voyage to the New World, Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel, the Gregorian Calendar, the construction of the Taj Mahal, the Industrial Revolution, Mozart, Beethoven, the US Declaration of Independence, the US Constitution, the Revolutionary War, Darwin's "On the Origin of Species," the telephone, the electric light, the airplane, the theory of relativity, World War I, the birth control movement, the Bolshevik Revolution, the “Spanish flu” epidemic, television, the U.S. stock market crash, World War II, Atomic bombs, the electronic computer, the discovery of DNA's structure, and Brown Vs. Board of Education. 

Ain't it fun, not knowin' nuttin'?

"...Shock DJs...whose cruelty and profanity amuse us all!" - Bart Simpson

It was a random comment someone made on Facebook the other day, in reference to this Anthony Cumia person, of "Opie and Anthony," a pair of shock jocks on the satellite radio that people on long car rides listen to out of sheer boredom.

Last week, late one night, Cumia went to Times Square in New York City and pulled out his camera to start taking pictures of people.

Who does that, outside of a Walmart?

Anyway, a woman did not like him taking pictures of her, although the law does tend to favor his side of it.  They got into a tussle, a melee, a fracas, you might say.  He took her picture, she didn't like it, words were exchanged.  That used to be where it ended.

But this is 2014, so Cumia had to go on Twitter to tell his story and say some really nasty things about the woman, and because his rants were so hate-filled, he was fired by the satellite radio network that people listen to on long car rides.

And then it was really on!  Fans of his radio show piled on, erroneously claiming that his First Amendment rights were being infringed upon.  The Constitution does not forbid your employer from firing you for making insane statement, however.

Cumia's posh Long Island home

And then the other side weighed in, saying that Cumia should have just stayed in his posh Long Island home and not bothered people by waving his camera at them.

And then came the comment I saw:

"When did being obnoxious become acceptable?"

They pay him millions
and he still can't be nice

A good question.  It seems to me that we - and by 'we' I mean most every person in the world except for a few cloistered religious who only speak to call the others in for vespers and meals, and lighthouse keepers on the rocky coast of Maine - all have a tendency to say things we shouldn't.  I'm certainly well ahead of the pack on that one, and I do try to stop picking on fools as often as I do.  But to call other people vicious hurtful names because they don't like posing for your late-night pictures in public places?  To wish that politicians would die in fiery infernos?  To post pictures of others photoshopped to look like they were doing something awful? To leave your shopping cart rolling around in the parking lot so it hits another car? To use vulgar language in public for the shock value of it?  To humiliate a service worker whose first language is not English?

We can do better than that.

The Sock Connection

Not to get all theological with you, but it's my belief that our friends and kinfolk up in Heaven can look down here and see what's going on, and check in on us.  

For all I know, that's true.  One thing that is certain about heaven is that no one on earth knows what it's like up there, though.

But I go with my theory because many times here on this mortal coil, I have been helped by angels unseen.  "Don't connect that red wire with the green one!" they importune.  "Don't try to pass that truck on the right during a heavy thunderstorm in the dark!" they entreat.  "That's enough garlic!" they plead.  

Mr Keillor

My father has been a resident of Heaven since 1997 and he just recently had my mom move up there with him.  He's been busy these 17 years, advising me on many topics.  And every Saturday night, we commune for two hours with the radio show "A Prairie Home Companion," whose host is Garrison Keillor.  Keillor is a fascinating polymath, a man who knows a lot about most every important thing and can do most every worthwhile task, e.g. writing prose and poetry, radio and commercial announcing (listen here as he makes seven words for Honda sound like a book's worth), singing, and acting.  I don't know if he can dance...

Dad liked him from the start, which was 40 years ago this past weekend.  "APHC" began on the Fourth of July, 1974, at Macalester College in St. Paul, MN, before an audience that numbered in the dozen (after a few walkouts.)  The show is based on Mr Keillor's devotion to another Saturday night radio staple, the Grand Ole Opry out of Nashville, which also presents country singers, comedians and live commercials for Martha White Biscuits and Goo-Goo Clusters.  In the case of the Opry, the commercials are for real products; Mr Keillor's "sponsors" are made up entities such as Powdermilk Biscuits and Ralph's Pretty Good Grocery.

You can get to know him a little better by watching this recent interview/book plugging appearance with Craig Ferguson, and also catch this edition of his weekly "News From Lake Wobegon" on the radio show. 

My left foot

Notice that at all times, Mr Keillor is wearing red socks.  (As did Studs Terkel, as does former British Ambassador to the US Sir Christopher Meyer, as did Truman Capote. Yes, as do 25 ballplayers in Boston, but I pretend they don't matter.) And that's why I like to wear red socks, so that Dad and I can keep making that connection.   I figure he looks down and sees things are still all right.

Sunday Rerun: "All my work has been from God, for God, and for my people." - Thomas Dorsey

I find it interesting when a person learns to do one thing well, and fascinating when someone can do two things well.  For someone who can do three things well - for example, writing, singing, and performing monologues - we have the example of Garrison Keillor.  There aren't many others like Mr Keillor, the host of "A Prairie Home Companion" on the radio.  

I will bet you a nickel that Mr Keillor has sung the songs of Thomas A. Dorsey on his show.  His later songs, that is.  Thomas A. Dorsey was an interesting man.  

Thomas A. Dorsey

For one thing, he is not to be confused with the big band leader Tommy Dorsey, who gave Sinatra his big break a hundred and ten years ago.  This Thomas A. Dorsey (1899 - 1993) is today known as the father of black gospel music, which would seem to come naturally to someone whose father was a preacher and his mother, a piano teacher.  Starting in the Roaring Twenties, he was part of such bands as the "Wild Cats Jazz Band," and he performed under names such as Barrelhouse Tom and Texas Tommy or Georgia Tom, under which sobriquet he partnered with a fellow named Tampa Red to compose the pretty love ballad "Tight Like That."  He wrote hundreds of such songs.  Local residents who used to listen to The Greaseman on the radio will remember how Grease would use Dorsey's jazzy "Somebody's Been Usin' That Thing" for comedic effect.  

However, Mr Dorsey was also dabbling in gospel music at the same time, performing at the 1930 National Baptist Convention and working as musical director in several churches.  Music, and his religious upbringing, brought the gospel out in him.

And then, in 1932, his wife Nettie died in childbirth.  Compounding the tragedy, the child she bore died two days later.  Out of the anguish of the man who only years before had written ribald barrelhouse blues came the gospel classic "Take My Hand, Precious Lord."  This song was most famous in its version by Mahalia Jackson, and it was the song played at the rally led by Dr Martin Luther King the night before he was assassinated, and the favorite song of President Lyndon Johnson, who requested that it be played at his funeral.


Mr Dorsey also wrote "Peace In the Valley" and many many other songs performed in churches of all faiths the world over.  Rock 'n' roll music has as one of its foundations the gospel music tradition, and in Thomas A. Dorsey we saw the faithful world meeting the secular long before Elvis and Little Richard joined the two.

I keep waiting to hear Paul Harvey tell us that this was the rest of the story, but oh well...

The Saturday Picture Show, July 5, 2014

 Marsupials are way ahead of people when it comes to child-toting!  They don't need to go out and buy a papoose sack.  This does remind me of a very popular gag from third grade.  Why did the baby kangaroo get in trouble?  For eating crackers in bed.

 This cat knows he/she is related to the King of the Jungle, and therefore struts confidently down the lane.  It's good to have connections.

 This makes me happy in the summertime.  It makes me happy in winter, too, but I'm crazy about snow and cold.

 This is Neuschwanstein Castle, in Germany.  If the Neuschwansteins ever invite you over, plan on a fun evening if you can get them to play Hide And Go Seek with you.

 So they held a redhead convention.  Interesting fact:  red-haired boys in Baltimore are called "Reds," while, everywhere else in America, people call them "Red."

Meanwhile, millions of Englishmen and women gobbled their Bile Beans every night, since they promised to make them healthy, bright-eyed and slim.  This is an old sign in an English village.  They don't make this product anymore, but the village paid a sign painter to redo the sign just for old timer's sake. Bile Beans were touted as a cure-all for just about anything related to digestion or general health.  The small, black, gelatin coated beans could be used to treat biliousness, cirrhosis and other liver complaints, blackheads, all female complaints, indigestion, constipation, rheumatism, sciatica, lumbago, gout, general debility, dyspepsia, headache, insomnia, and piles.  During the influenza epidemic of 1899, Bile Beans were said to alleviate symptoms and speed recovery.

Happy birthday USA!

They Stick It To Me

Every three months, I get to get out of bed and drive over to the big building at Joppa Rd and Fairmount Avenue to leave behind several gallons (seems like it, anyway) of blood for testing purposes.  My doctor seems surprised that I can even get out of bed at all, given my advanced age, but the tests are to prove that I have plenty of gas left in the tank.  Not much blood, but plenty of gas.

The Quest test lab opens at 7:30 in the yawning, and don't think for a minute you can roll in early and have a seat in a waiting room, waiting for 7:30.  No, they do not open the doors until 7:30, although you are allowed to wait outside the waiting room. We who have fasted since midnight (did I mention that you can't eat before having the blood drawn?  Well, you can't!) stand around in the hall and rate our surgeons, general practitioners, physical therapists and prescription providers.  This lively banter is broken up at 7:30 as the receptionist for the blood-a-rama weaves her way through the crowd and opens the door.  Participants in the fun then re-create the order in which they lined up, and roll up their sleeves.  

There is no joke to
which I will not stoop.

I have to say that the waiting is the hardest part, not to be Petty about it.   Once registered, we are called back to the House of Blood and a needle is inserted, and the bloodletting begins.

But here's the thing!  Those people who draw the blood are so nice!  Can you imagine, having that job and having to sit hungry jumpy people down and drive a needle the size of a railroad spike into their inner elbow (armus bendus)? And then, as the claret flows, they are nice enough to chatter about the weather, the Orioles, the Ravens, the need to maintain a calm demeanor while being trampled in a mall on Black Friday...

They tell me they are Phlebotomists, but I don't care what their religion is, they are nice people doing a job that I would rate on the desirability scale between "highway toll collector" and "Jenny McCarthy's medical advisor." 

Even though, every now and then, they hand me an empty cup...

Everyone loves a quitter

The oldest joke in the world is not the one where the caveman walks into a prehistoric Walgreens and asks the lady at the counter to show him where the talcum powder is*. 

It's actually the one where someone says, "It's easy to quit smoking!  I've done it hundreds of times!"

Bart's aunt, Patty Bouvier

I used to be a slave to the cigarette habit; I started smoking in my nico-teens and continued doing so for many years, until September 17, 1988, when I snubbed out one last KOOL and declared it would be my last.  

It was, but what followed was a couple of months of tingling, jangling, irritability and irrational behavior.  And that was Peggy!  I was even worse!!  

Another cheap joke. Peggy was her usual sweet supportive self and I was stomping around like a king-sized Earl Weaver until Thanksgiving.  That year, we went to New York to see "The Phantom Of The Opera" on Thanksgiving Eve, and I got a nice nap during the show, which I found impenetrably dense and overdone. But I woke up to see a chandelier descending and heard people hollering about the music of the night slowly, gently unfurling its splendor, tremulous and tender.  

All I could do was turn my face away from the garish light of day.

That was two months and a week since I last lit up, and I've "stayed quit" since.  The answer is, just don't light any more cigarettes, and you'll be fine.

A young couple we love is in their first week of not spending a fortune on butts and I know they can do it!  Think of the savings! The money!  The clothing not ruined with burn holes! The walls, the drapes, and the whole house not turning that brown color! And the health!  

*and the lady says, "Certainly, sir. Walk this way!" and the guy says, "If I could walk that way, I wouldn't need the talcum powder!"

Just in the nick of Prison Time

Mercantile establishments, such as credit unions where police are members and therefore tend to be in the building cashing checks and turning peanut butter jars filled with coins into folding money, tend not to have to worry about the criminal element hanging around because of that very police presence.

The first rule they teach you in Crime School is to commit your crimes in areas where you have 1/2 a chance to get away with it without getting pinched, nabbed, booked, bagged, busted, collared, popped, nailed, nicked or pinched by a copper in a prowl car who will take you back to headquarters and wise you up but quick.

(I really have to spend less time watching old movies on TCM.)

Not guilty (yet)

I bring all of this advice about where NOT to commit a crime by way of introducing you to Master Criminal (ALLEGED!!!) Nicholas Ishmael.  Up until last Tuesday, Nick was a Baltimore County Police Cadet, in which position he was working in the evidence room, where seized materials are stored awaiting trial and/or their eventual return to their rightful owner.  Nick was not the rightful owner of the items in the evidence room, but he made fools of the people who recommended him for the job by ripping off drugs and money, including cocaine and 3,000+  Oxycodone tablets from the evidence room where he worked in a position of trust.

Nick is 20, and there's a good chance that on the day he can legally buy himself a glass of beer in Maryland, he will be locked up in a place with no beer.

It's funny, to think about it.  He was so sure of himself and his criminal mastermind larceny skills that when he was arrested in the police parking lot, he was carrying $40,000 in cash in a backpack.

Don't get caught eating caramels in your dentist's waiting room. Don't send a message that says "I love you more and more everyday" if you're dating an English teacher, and for the love of Pete, don't try to steal stuff from a building filled with police officers and detectives.

They tend to know what you're up to!

Farewell, Mom

I hated the way my mother's life ended.

A proud and dignified woman for most of her 88 years, she was plagued with illness leading to the horror of dementia in her final years.  She went from being a wife and productive worker to retiree to widow to resident of a senior high-rise and then, at last, resident of the nursing care section in that marvelous building. The staff and a special splendid friend cared for her, we did our best to make her comfortable, and doctors and physical therapists did what they could, but let's face it.  When you're up against the aging process, the best you can hope for is to hold it to a tie or distract it long enough to add a little more fun to the day.  Forget about winning that fight.  You're not going to.  Mom even recognized this, and told me, the last time I saw her - two days before she lapsed - that she was going into her "final days."

I've often pointed out that I am a Milton Berle sort of guy from a John Milton sort of family, but I believe that my mother put up with my raffishness because deep inside, the stately among us want to be the guy who asks the x ray technician for "a dozen 8 x 10s if they turn out ok," just as those of us who regularly reel off off-color quips wish we could sit down and work out a real estate deal, repair a reel-style lawn mower, reel in a 105-lb marlin, or really dance the Virginia Reel well.  Really!

But I saw both of my parents (Dad passed in '97) cede just a little of their staid solemnity as the pages on their calendars started flipping more quickly.  And I, the lifelong cutup and bon vivant, have actually done mature-type things such as preparing a will (you're probably not in it) and formalizing my plan for my later years (you're definitely in it!)  So we grow and adjust.

Two more things about Mom, although there are thousands yet to be said:  I am a good sleeper, and generally, when I wake up for some reason, I go right back to sleep (which always annoys my passengers).  But, on the morning that Mom left, I awoke at 0337 and it was as if I had slept until noon.  I simply sat in bed and waited for the call I knew was coming, and when my sister called at 0355 to say that Mom had passed ten minutes before, I knew that's how she chose to say goodbye for the last time.

And this: I should not start mentioning the names of the many wonderful people who where there with us and for us, because I would surely leave someone out.  But I have to say that the Rev. Margery Schammel, Assistant Pastor at Towson United Methodist Church, delivered a homegoing service that filled hearts with gladness where sadness had been dwelling for almost a week. She took the time to learn about Mom so she could speak about Mom, and Mom's children, family, extended family and many friends are grateful for Rev. Schammel's deft handling of a sad service.

I remember reading Sam Levenson's book "Everything But Money," in which the humorist mentioned that years after his mother's death, if he found himself out late at night, he still expected her to touch him on the shoulder and say, "Go home!  Nothing good happens after midnight!"

But there hasn't been an after-midnight yet that didn't turn into a whole new day. I expect to hear from Mom for the rest of my days.

To ALL of you who were there with us, who sent emails, or messages, or called, or sent flowers, or sent that incredible pan of Sloppy Joes so that Sloppy Mark and Elegant Peggy could have a nice dinner, or sent hugs virtual or real, THANK YOU from my heart and Peggy's and all of ours. I love life and I love you.

Sunday Rerun: Where the title came from

IN the earliest days of writing this blog (2007), I decided to explain where I got the idea to call it "Castles Made of Sand." I should have included a link to listen to the theme song.  Here 'tis!
________________________________________________

I suppose I ought to explain where the title of the blog comes from. 'Castles Made of Sand' has nothing to do with beach activities, but, rather, the old maxim that the wise person builds his house upon a rock - the rock being love, friendship, family, faith and devotion...all those old-fashioned notions that were considered things to be desired, back before everyone became so avid about material possessions and earthly power. I think we sang a song in Sunday School about building one's house upon a rock. And then Jimi Hendrix wrote the song whose title I humbly borrowed for my blog; certainly this is one of his more introspective songs:

Down the street you can hear her scream "you're a disgrace"
As she slams the door in his drunken face,
And now he stands outside and all the neighbors start to gossip and drool.
He cries "Oh girl, you must be mad,What happened to the sweet love you and me had?"
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,And his tears fall and burn the garden green.

And so castles made of sand fall in the sea, eventually.

A little Indian brave who before he was ten, played war games in the woods with his Indian friends,
and he built a dream that when he grew up, he would be a fearless warrior Indian Chief.
Many moons passed and more the dream grew strong,
until tomorrow he would sing his first war song,
And fight his first battle, but something went wrong,
Surprise attack killed him in his sleep that night.

And so castles made of sand melts in the sea eventually.

There was a young girl, whose heart was a-frown,
Because she was crippled for life, and couldn't speak a sound
And she wished and prayed she would stop living, so she decided to die.
She drew her wheel chair to the edge of the shore, and to her legs she smiled "You won't hurt me no more."
But then a sight she'd never seen made her jump and say
"Look, a golden winged ship is passing my way"
And it really didn't have to stop...it just kept on going.

And so castles made of sand slips into the sea,
Eventually.


The web address "truly regal manners" comes from Thoreau's Walden: "I called on the king, but he made me wait in his hall, and conducted like a man incapacitated for hospitality. There was a man in my neighborhood who lived in a hollow tree. His manners were truly regal. I should have done better had I called on him."


My manners may never be truly regal, and I might not build all my dream houses on the firmest rock, but welcome to my blog. Please come back often!

The Saturday Picture Show, June 28, 2014

While we're still doing reruns...here is the very first Saturday Picture Show, from November 17, 2012.  I used to use just four pictures every Saturday, until faithful reader and gentle friend John Gross asked me to use six, and who am I to say no to that request?

I enjoy surfing the web, obviously, and many times while getting my feet wet doing so, I see pictures floating out in cyberspace.  So I dried these off and thought I'd share them...

 This one makes me laugh and also makes me wonder about that old expression about having "feet of clay."  I don't know what that means and I can't seem to get a sensible explanation.

 I know Peggy would like to live in this sort of isolation, but I need to know where I could park my SUV.  It would be nice to tell certain people, "Next time you're in the neighborhood, drop in!"

 Cat pictures are all the rage, but I share the question that others have raised...what if cats have their own Facebook, full of pictures of US???

I have no idea why I have never gotten a tattoo, but if I ever do, it will look a lot like this.

Be Back Soon

The entire Castles Made of Sand team is taking a few days off to prepare for Mom's funeral and take care of the business associated therewith.  I can't even say enough about how much everyone's love and comforting thoughts have buoyed me and all the family these past few days, but I thank you and I love you for it.

Monday rerun: Think about what you'd be!

If I were a month I'd be November
If I were a day I'd be Saturday
If I were a time of day I'd be evening
If I were a font I'd be Gill Sans MT
If I were a sea animal I'd be a starfish
If I were a direction I'd be Northeast
If I were a piece of furniture I'd be a bookshelf
If I were a liquid I'd be Iced tea
If I were a gemstone I'd be an onyx
If I were a tree I'd be an willow
If I were a tool I'd be sandpaper
If I were a flower I'd be a black-eyed susan
If I were an element of weather I'd be a rainy day
If I were a musical instrument I'd be a drum
If I were a color I'd be orange
If I were an emotion I'd be laughter
If I were a fruit I'd be a lemon
If I were a sound I'd be the sound of happy laugh
If I were an element I'd be mercury
If I were a car I'd be a Camry
If I were a food I'd be roast beef
If I were a place I'd be my bed
If I were a material I'd be cotton
If I were a taste I'd be bread
If I were a scent I'd be gingerbread
If I were a body part I'd be a backbone
If I were a song I'd be "Don't She Look Good"
If I were a bird I'd be an oriole 
If I were a gift I'd be heartfelt
If I were a city I'd be Cape May
If I were a door I'd be open for friends
If I were a pair of shoes I'd be Rockports
If I were a poem I'd be "America" by Allen Ginsberg

Sunday Rerun: Diner's Card

I really find the suffix "ie" irritating, as in "Oh you know her, she's a newsie at Channel 75" or "All the foodies were at the new restaurant, seeing what Chef Boyardee is doing with his new balsamic reduction of hazelnut salad..."

Newsie.  Foodie.  It's all too cutie, consarn it.

But I love to read the restaurant reviews in the newspaper. Here in Baltimore, the chances are good that if you write a food column in the newspaper, your review of that hot new bistro will be read by someone who is using your paper as a tabletopper while they smash steamed crabs, or as a fishwrap for the trout they caught down at Herb's shore place the other day.

They opened a new restaurant in a shopping center in the city that is so close to the county that I once saw a young county police chase a young city thief from the county into the city.  I think the kid figured once he was over the line that the chase was over.  At least, I'm sure that's what he hold the judge. Anyhow, there was a shoe store in the shopping center, and now they are trying to make a restaurant happen there.  The previous two iterations, "Taste" and "Crush," both opened to great fanfare and closed with none.  So now, restaurateurs have opened "Shoo-Fly" in that spot, and you can read the review here. Please note that the people involved with this restaurant wish to be known for running a "farm-to-table" restaurant.  As if there could be food, be it served in the finest joint in town or in the greasiest spoon in town, that did NOT come from a farm and is NOT served on a table of some sort. This is the sort of wordplay that led carmakers to use the words "road car" to describe their products, seemingly to separate them from "ocean cars" or "space cars."

Unless someone else is paying, don't look for me at Shoo-Fly, just as I was a stranger to the maîtres d' at Taste and Crush. Nutty idea here, but it just might work: If you want diner food, go to a diner. If you are tired of "disco fries, a bowl full of fries, with cheese curd and a fried egg on top," (left)  come with me to the Double T and I'll show you a menu that's as thick as the Oxford English Dictionary without mentioning cheese curds, or bourbon slushes, for crying out loud.

Notice that diners tend to stay open for decades and these farmie to tablie places close down within six months.  Hmmm.

The Saturday Picture Show, June 21, 2014

 This is the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon. There really is a lot to see in this country, so cancel that planned vacation in Iraq and see what we have here!

 This is what you would get if you hired a plumber to install a water spout.

 This is Sunset Island in Lake Superior in Canada.  Pretty, but a bit tough to walk out there....

 The love for this movie continues unabated worldwide, although I never was a fan. I remember these guard outfits as being sort of unisex.  And the Lion outfit must have been a bear to wear all day.

 My buddy Dennis Schroeder worked at WDMV 540 AM in Pocomoke City MD, where some coworker went a bit wild with the Dymo Label Maker and labelled everything in the studio. Whenever I see something completely labelled, I think of the rock they used as a paperweight.  Its label said "rock."

For those unfamiliar with Baltimore cuisine, say hi to the Lake Trout sandwich.  It's a piece of fish deep-fried in cornmeal or crushed crackers on white bread or a Kaiser roll with hot sauce - but this fish never saw a lake, unless it went on vacation, and it is not a trout. It’s whiting or silver hake. It's delicious, too.

I Can Haz Cheezburger Too (as long as I take my green coffee pill)

I can't be the only person who finds Dr Oz to be another creepy member of Oprah's legion of medical professionals (Dr Phil, Dr Oz and Dr Pepper) who really seem like people you don't want to be sitting next to at a banquet.  Dr Phil, leader of the Jubilation T. Cornpone School of Homespun Psychology ("What part of 'you cain't cheat on your husban' don't you understaaaaaaaaan'?") is bad enough, messing with people's minds.  He knows good and well that emotional issues take a lot more than one hour, minus time for commercials and Eyewitness News promos and teases, to heal.

Likewise, Dr Mehmet Oz, who likes to refer to himself as a respected surgeon and man of serious medicine, knows very well that weight loss is accomplished chiefly by a) eating less and b) exercising more.  But that requires sacrifice and self-denial, so let's just tell them to eat these magic beans and soon they'll have the body of Angelina Jolie or Tim Duncan!

Readers of The New Yorker saw a great article in the Feb 4 edition about Oz, how he himself darts from the hospital to the TV studio gobbling almonds and blueberries for lunch, while insinuating that "miracle weight loss pills" are all you need to get rid of that excess avoirdupois.

Back before the Pure Food and Drug Act, any snake-oil salesman could dupe the public with spurious medicines, but now we have government agencies to protect us from people like Oz, so Congress invited him to take off his custom-tailored scrubs, put on a suit, and come on down for a good listening-to about his role in pushing bogus remedies for real problems. 

"The scientific community is almost monolithic against you in terms of the efficacy of the three products you called 'miracles,'" said Senator Claire McCaskill, (D, MO), questioning the "false hope" his rhetoric gives viewers and asking about Oz's role, "intentional or not, in perpetuating these scams."


"I don't get why you need to say this stuff when you know it's not true. When you have this amazing megaphone, why would you cheapen your show?... With power comes a great deal of responsibility" is how she put it.

Like any other hustler, the doctor admitted to using "flowery language" to sell his ideas, but insisted that he has given the products he touts to his own family, adding, "My job, I feel, on the show is to be a cheerleader for the audience, and when they don't think they have hope, when they don't think they can make it happen, I want to look, and I do look everywhere, including in alternative healing traditions, for any evidence that might be supportive to them."

The Federal Trade Commission has sued the sellers of "Green Coffee Beans" for fooling people by using phony "news" sites and made-up health claims. Oz was pumping up the "benefits" of taking these magic weight-loss coffee beans on his show, and the next thing you know, coffee bean companies were selling their pills and linking them to the "miracle" promised by Dr Mehmet Oz.   

That's right!  A miracle fat-burning pill!
Believe me!  I'm a doctor!

Oz was shocked, shocked! to find that someone took his words about green coffee beans being good for weight loss and then sold green coffee beans by saying that Dr Oz said it would help them lose weight!  He denies any connection with these people, but he did promise to exercise "an abundance of caution in discussing promising research and products in the future."

See?  I knew he'd mention exercise eventually!

I suggest that someone rein this charlatan in as quickly as possible. Well-meaning people are swallowing too much of his nonsense, along with too many green coffee beans.

Making the grade

There was a Mashable thingie the other day which listed the 15 saddest truths about summer school.   Although humorous, the 15 items ("Everyone else is at the beach"..."Everyone else is at a picnic") hardly sum up the awfulness of summer school.

I was invited to attend SS following my sophomore year in high school.  I had pretty much given up on Algebra II by October of the previous year, but Algebra II did not give up on me.  I passed, but it was recommended that I go to hell summer school to become more familiar with quadratic equations, plotting things on a Cartesian graph, and figuring out what time the train has to leave Chicago, all skills that serve me well to this day, some 47 yrs. later.

Imagine being a teacher in a room filled with kids who scraped by, or even failed Algebra II, at the end of June, all of July and 1/2 way through August. Mrs Doris Saunders, a woman of with the patience of Job, drew this short straw and did her best to lead us lunkheads toward mathematical sufficiency.  Something she did must have worked; at the end of the course she handed me a yellow card with my final grade marked as an "A," marking the one and only time I got a grade like that in any course involving numbers.

In life, there is no summer school, but sometimes we get sent back to the minor leagues.  I found it interesting to note that light-hitting baseball catcher J.P. Arencibia, whom the Toronto Blue Jays had no interesting in having play for them in 2014 after he hit .194 in 2013, was signed by the Texas Rangers and was not hitting much better (.233) this year before being sent to play for the Round Rock Express of the AAA minor leagues.

The happy couple

This did not stop People Magazine from identifying him as "Texas Rangers catcher J.P. Arencibia" when they wrote about him last weekend.  He married Kimberly Perry of the "country" band The Band Perry on Thursday last, while the rest of his team was playing baseball in Albuquerque NM.  I guess it wouldn't have been so splashy to call him "minor league ballplayer J.P. Arencibia."  The magazine goes on to report that the newlyweds met in 2012 at a strawberry festival in Florida.

J.P, you've been sent to summer school, and it would be better for you to attend class every day.  Go get an A and get out of AAA!

The Mighty Casey

We thought "narrowcasting" was going to be a great idea.

Radio and TV fell under the broad term "broadcasting" for their ability to use the airwaves to disseminate information far and wide to a large audience.  As the number of stations (and citizens) grew, stations began homing in on a smaller slice of the audience pie.  

You see that if you have satellite radio. There's a channel for the music of the 20's, one for the 30's, one for Latvian folk ballads, one for just Bob Dylan, one for every little niche under the sun. So everyone has their own interests and we don't interact as often anymore, which leads to provincial parochialism and, worse, not knowing much about other people.  

This all dawned on me the other day when we said goodbye to radio legend Casey Kasem.  In his heyday, everyone listened to Casey and his "American Top 40" countdown show as the master DJ counted down the 40 most popular records on that week's Billboard Top 40 chart.

Back when we listened to Casey on Saturday night as we were sweeping up the A&P, and Sunday morning as we wondered what happened Saturday night, those 40 records were all over the place as far as genre went.  Just look at this slice of the top records from June 12, 1971 ( a particularly great year for music!) and regard with awe a radio show that had songs from such disparate artists as the Rolling Stones, Honeycone, Daddy Dewdrop, Hudson and Landry ( a pair of LA DJs who made comedy records), Jerry Reed, and The Osmonds!


I love all these records and I wish that there was a way to hear them all together again.  I mean, they're all on my iPod, but you needed Casey to bring them all together.  He had a way of bringing us together with the music.  Can we get someone to do that again?  

Bob Woodward said, "He's the only one in Watergate who did his job perfectly." Meet Frank Wills

Today is a very important anniversary in American history.  Very few of us will ever forget waking up to the news the day after an inept group of burglars, masterminded by the mentally unbalanced G. Gordon Liddy, attempted to break into the Democratic National Headquarters at the Watergate complex in Washington DC.  

You know, they would have gotten away with it had it not been for Frank Wills, a security guard who noticed tape covering the latches on doors leading to the DNC offices, removed it, and then found tape re-attached an hour later as he made his rounds.  If not for his vigilance, the five clowns sent by the President of the United States of America, one Richard M. Nixon,  to install spying devices in phones and photocopy documents would not have been caught, there would have been no ensuing scandal as the facts came out linking Nixon and his criminal cohorts to the stupidest crime in history, and the crook who later insisted "I'm not a crook" would have been able to serve out his entire second term instead of being sent off in abject disgrace, which is what he was anyway. 

What made it so stupid was that Nixon ordered all this espionage because he feared that he could lose the 1972 election to whomever the Dems threw against him.  As if!  He was a lock, being so popular in his beloved "Middle America," where he sent Vice President Spiro Agnew out to deliver speeches in which he regularly insulted people of all sorts.  Nice couple of guys, and they had 99 problems, but that election wasn't one of them.

Frank Wills

It took diligent reporting by the team of Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward to uncover the many criminal secrets and coverups that sprang out of the well that Frank Wills (1948- 2000) uncapped this day, 42 years ago.  If not for him, and the Washington Post, history would be far different.  For want of a nail, the shoe was lost....

Monday Musings

I have the following questions.

1.  Why do people on TV - actors, newscasters, singers,

What was so horrible about his old face?

people of difficult classification such as Bruce Jenner - submit to plastic surgery?  I'm thinking about a woman I see now and then on a certain network, a lovely woman, well-educated, well-spoken, very personable.  I saw her the other morning and it was clear that in the name of looking younger, or unwrinkled, or whatever, she had been under the knife, and the results were not flattering.  In fact, they were scary results. Now, I'm nothing to look at, and no one beat a path to my door asking me to be on TV, but I just can't figure the appeal of taking the risk of having someone rearrange your face into a ghoulish leer.  And TV folks: we home viewers don't mind if you have a wrinkle or a zit or some crow's feet around the eyes. We just get a little unnerved when it looks like, if you cry, the tears will run down your back.

2.  Why would someone leave a bottle of wine at a gravesite, presumably to be enjoyed by the deceased?  Why bring plush animal toys to the scene of disasters?  I was thinking about this, because we saw both of these things yesterday when we drove to the cemeteries to visit our dads. If you want to give someone you love a bottle of wine, the time to do that is right now! If you know a child who would enjoy a large velour sea serpent toy, why wait? Give it to him/her now!  You know the Chinese answer for the question of when is the best time to plant a tree...20 years ago.  Second best time, today. Tomorrow is not a good answer.

3.  How come so many people are sure Sure SURE about what's going to happen to all of us when our time at this giant pinball game we call Life comes to an end.  I mean, I am in line with the Judeo-Christian tradition of planning to go to heaven, where many, many people will be surprised to see me hanging outside the pearly gates, waiting for the chance to sell seat cushions to new arrivals. But so many people will promise you they know EXACTLY what is going to happen when we have crossed that bar, and will tell you of near-death experiences that have led luminaries appearing on cable TV to know there is a very bright light or a long escalator or a cloud with an angel harpist or a cosmic boom that will transport us just beyond the moon.  

4. If French people ask for toast, do they get French toast?  Same with English muffins, Canadian bacon, Spanish omelets, American cheese. 

5.  Why is the person who is such a consarned hurry to pull out on you from a side street also a person who dares not make his "driving machine" go more than 25 miles an hour?  And why are there people, vast legions of them, who keep cars locked up in garages and only come out to drive when it rains or snows?

Sunday rerun: Wherefore Art Thou, Art?

Was it not the great legal scholar Oliver Wendell Douglas who sagely advised that your right to swing your arm ends where my nose begins?  I think so.  

What's the first rule we learn when we commence attending school, or dating?  Keep your hands to yourself!

Learning to respect the rights of others seems a quaint, old-fashioned notion in these hurly-burly times, when people are dashing around faster than Mrs Gingrich at a buy -one-get one FREE hairspray sale.

Now, I'm all for artistic expression!  Heaven knows, I'm the first to salute anyone who hangs a velvet Elvis or wide-eyed kid painting in their family room.  Under my sobriquet "Phil S. Styne," I donate such art to the needy families of Newport, Rhode Island, Malibu, California, and Palm Beach, Florida. 

But help me to understand why people are defending kids who go around with their spray paint and their b.a. Sharpies and leave their graffiti on cars, houses, buildings and slow-moving pedestrians.  

Here's what I'm talking about, specifically.  According to the Perry Hall PATCH, one of our local Vincent vandal Goghs was caught at 0250 hours the other morning spray-painting the building at Pete's Cycle shop on Belair Rd.  We assume that this redecoration was not done under the auspices, supervision or permission of the proprietors of Pete's, but the post-pubescent Picasso, while under interrogation down at the station house, gave it up, naming two other places that had come under his decorative touch.  

OK, let's stop right there.  You got a kid, 18, caught vandalizing the property of another person.  There's hardly a need for a trial, since he was caught in the act in the middle of the night.  So does he:

a) admit his act, say he was "just foolin' around and all," and await his chance to do useful Community Service hours, removing the handiwork of others?

b) clam up, tell the cops, "You ain't got nothing on me, see, copper?" and refuse to talk anymore "without my mouthpiece, see?"

c) claim that this is his "way of expressing (his) artistic side"?

You've taken quizzes like this before, so you know we stack the right answer on the bottom.  Yes, the youth said that.  His "tag" is "Toe" or "Toenail," so we know there is trouble afoot when he kneels and says, "Let us spray."

So, we know he needs some more education, which we can hope will be meted out to him by a wise and wonderful judge.

But as usual, that's not the worst part of the story.  

The article in the PATCH engendered a lively debate, and when you read down to the bottom of the page, you are treated to the views of fellow adults who say things such as,"No, he did not commit a "white collar crime", (which are usually worse by the way...) but somebody giving away their art for free."

I'm not even going to comment on the syntactic struggles of that sentence.  This is a woman, trying to tell us that spray-painted graffiti on SOMEONE ELSE'S PROPERTY should not be considered a crime, but a gift of art. And she goes on with a whole new theory: "...the pre-frontal cortex (risk assessment, decision making) is not developed until around 25yo. He can go to war, but not drink... so, not totally an adult in terms of the law."

Attention attorneys everywhere!  A brand-new defense has just been offered by a woman who goes on to say "maybe I've been involved in education too long."  In her view, no one under the age of 25 really knows how to assess risk or make a good decision, so we can't hold their actions against them.

To you 18-year-olds who work full or part time, go to school, have a car and a social life and no time for damaging the property of others at ten minutes til three in the morning, I am sorry, but this woman feels that your brain stems have not borne ripe fruit just yet, and so she discounts everything you say, do, touch or feel.  

She has no respect for your accomplishments, though they are many and varied, as she is too busy defending the misguided actions of a guy who is most assuredly representative of but a tiny fraction of your number.

And now you know the worst part of the story.

The Saturday Picture Show, June 14, 2014

 In early 1967, The Beatles gathered to have pictures taken for the "Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" album.  In the pre-photoshop, pre-computer generated image era, if you wanted to pose with a group of famous people, this is how you did it.  The flashy blonde in front of the palm tree is the English actress Diana Dors, who was once married to Richard Dawson.  I like this picture because it shows my two favorite Beatles being themselves.

 There's no ducking the fact that a picture like this will cure you of any mallard-y.

 There is a name for this entire school of art.  I'm doggoned if I can think of it, but it's interesting.  Another cool thing it to take a picture of whatever is right behind your monitor and then use that as your wallpaper.

 I looked behind my monitor in hopes of recreating this illusion, but there is a modem, two speakers, and a flash drive, all of which have been seen over and over.

 The caption that went with this picture said, "I moved to Montana for work and now this is my commute."  Hard to compete with that!

This is a golden monkey, made in Panama between the 9th and 15 centuries.  The monkey is holding his tail.  This is probably priced beyond the means of most Americans, but really, who would not treasure this elegant addition to their home decor?

There is evidence that Bill Murray simply lives in order to pose with every single living American.  Because he means so much to me, I will now share the explanation for his T-shirt for those few among us who have not memorized all the dialogue from "Caddyshack."
" A looper, you know, a caddy, a looper, a jock. So, I tell them I'm a pro jock, and who do you think they give me? The Dalai Lama, himself. Twelfth son of the Lama. The flowing robes, the grace, bald... striking. So, I'm on the first tee with him. I give him the driver. He hauls off and whacks one - big hitter, the Lama - long, into a ten-thousand foot crevasse, right at the base of this glacier. Do you know what the Lama says? Gunga galunga... gunga, gunga-lagunga. So we finish the eighteenth and he's gonna stiff me. And I say, "Hey, Lama, hey, how about a little something, you know, for the effort, you know." And he says, "Oh, uh, there won't be any money, but when you die, on your deathbed, you will receive total consciousness." So I got that goin' for me, which is nice."

Sites for sore souls

It's true that social media (Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and I don't know what-all else) can be a giant time waster, rumor- spreader and trouble-stirrer.  Any time you have an hour to spend, just toss out your views on abortion, the president's birthplace, the need for handguns in our society and/or religion, and then sit back and watch the words fly in front of you.  And soon, you will come to realize that you have been friends for a long time with people who think that "per say" is how we spell "per se," and you will shudder because your other friend says someone is coming over to paint the "shudders" on his house.

But there are good things to be found on social media.  By the grace of God, drugs and liquor are not a problem for me. Potatoes and pizza, yes, but not drugs and booze.

There are several sites for people who have kicked those sad addictions, or who want to.  I click on them now and then because I like seeing the affirmation that people can give each other.  They may be strangers, they may never have met, but when a person is in need and posts their difficulty on Facebook, and some other person talks to them, talks them out of using or doing something foolish, then I have to feel that Mark Zuckerberg and Bill Gates's work has not been in vain!