In Dreams I Walk With You...

For the spiffy new picture up over top of these words that aren't nearly as beautiful, a big shout-out to our friends Rob and Carol down in Destin, FL. Carol was nice enough to write today, see how I was feeling, invite us to swing by for a visit someday, and attach this and another picture from that lovely Gulf Shore area. I think that's right...it is the Gulf of Mexico. I noticed that Rob took this particular photo in March of 2004, which was one month before we went down to Pensacola for my nephew's wedding, an event that the locals down there must still be talking about as When The Yankees Came To Town and The Big Guy Driving A Rental Van Drove Onto a Side Street and Got Buried Up To The Axles in Sand. And then one of the 3,000 friendly locals we encountered on that epic voyage (1,050 miles in each direction: me, Peggy, Mom, one Ford Freestar Van, 27 Cracker Barrels, unlimited grits: you do the math) actually pulled over, jumped out of his pickup, and with gigantic shovel-sized hands, helped me dig the van out of the sand, and off we went.

Another trip highlight was Gary's Bar-B-Cue in Kannapolis, NC, where I was served more dinner than I could eat. Friends, that just does not happen up here.

But thanks, Rob and Carol. Still kind of beat, so I am going to bat out a quick thought here and surrender myself to the kind of sleep that two Tylenol PMs can bring a man.

Yesterday, after the weird night of sleep I had, broken as it was sporadically for trips to the salon de bath, I told Peggy about the bizarre dreams I had. One of them involved seeing a snowy egret at Loch Raven, a reservoir near my boyhood home with lots of woods nearby. So many wooded acres, it would seem, that it affords a home for a leopard. That's what I saw in the dream. Egrets (I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention) (sorry) and then a leopard standing there as if he belonged there. And my late father appeared in this dream; he was talking to Peggy about the egrets while I tried to point out that they should turn around and look at - and not be eaten by - the leopard.

And then I dreamed that one of my nephews - not going to say which one but he is the older of the two and the reason for the trip to P'cola - had abandoned his previous enterprises and bought a defunct Dunkin' Donuts franchise in Baltimore. I mean to tell you, it was so real. Peggy and I were down there helping them set it up, and he even had these little license tags to hang below his regular license tags, the little tags meant to identify him as a proud DUNKIN' DONUTS FRANCHISE HOLDER. You'd have to know my family to appreciate the incongruity of this. If Drew (looks like I named him after all) consumes a gram of sugar per month, that's a heavy month. He eats and lives cautiously, and for him to sell java and sinkers would be akin to seeing Billy Graham signing up to play guitar and do backup vocals for Kid Rock.

The dream really became odd when I asked how come the previous owner had shuttered the donut shack up, and Drew said,"He thought it was a bad location," and I looked out to see that what was causing the shadow on the front of the sugaratorium as nightfall approached was the facade of Oriole Park at Camden Yards. That meant, of course, that we were right in the childhood stomping (literally) grounds of Babe Ruth, for whom coffee and donuts were rarely on the bill of fare.

Now then. I related the dreams, ascribed them to either what Scrooge called an undigested bit of cheese or temporary virus lunacy, and Peggy rushed to bring out the 47 different books she has collected over the years on the arcane topic of dream analysis. The leopard means you are self confident! Or, that I dreamed about a leopard, to my way of seeing it. Seeing your father meant you need to communicate something to him! Or, that I saw my father!

I don't know how you stand on dream analysis. I can't see how it can come from anyplace real. How can seeing an animal in a dream mean something concrete? I remember a website called Pepperoni Dreams, in which people would deliberately consume spicy foods right before taking a nap, so they could wake up and write down their crazy dreams. At least, these people get a nice snack for their reward and dream about it later.

And that's a dream we can all analyze, right, Sigmund?

Sick

The best thing for my diet - get sick! I have not eaten one thing since last night's dinner, and that meal did not stay with me for long.



But speaking of last night's dinner...we went to an Italian place (rhymes with ''Farrabba's'') and the most annoying thing was going on. We went with friends for the very last of Peggy's birthday celebrations. Part of the "charm" of this place is that the cooking is done right out there in the open, so diners are regularly treated to momentary flareups as hot oil meets hot pan. I'm sure that the guys back behind the bar, cooking, ham it up a little bit, tossing pans and ingredients in the manner of a Tom Cruise bartender movie. Then, once the meals are "plated", they are given a last-minute inspection and garnish by a woman in a maroon shirt.



Apparently, she is a big fan of US Marine movies, because, after the food passes her rigorous once-over, she gives it to "food runners" who then walk (!) it to the tables of waiting customers, who have already gnawed through an entire loaf of crusty, yeasty bread. BUT! To get the attention of the food runners, she hollers - bellows - SCREAMS! things such as "Food runners! Hot food here! Come on! We have 16 runners tonight; where are you guys?"



To which the runners slide back to her position in the desultory manner of teenagers since time began.



Could this woman not ring a bell or something to get their attention? Where are they anyway; either they should be occupied with handing people their chow or waiting for the next plate of manicotti to dispense.



One goes to a restaurant for a pleasant dining experience and winds up hearing this shrieking fishwife barking at her staff. I could have stayed home and watched The View if I wanted that.

We got your number

Inveterate TV and movie watchers (and even some veterate watchers, for all I know) are used to scenes in which someone gives their phone number to someone else. Of course, that person always had a crisp pad of paper right there, along with a sharp pencil at the ready. But the number, back in the days before all-digital dialing, would be KLondike 5 – 1234 or something like that, which of course became the 555- blah blah blah blah that we’re used to now. The phone companies just reserved the KL5- or 555- exchanges for people making movies with Victor Mature in them.

In the early 80’s, one-hit rock group Tommy Tutone came out with a catchy song called “867-5309 (Jenny).” In that war-torn summer of 1982, our national morale was being tested as Argentina invaded the Falkland Islands, a British colony, resulting in both the Falklands War, and glorious victory parades, as the war ended with a British win. By Jove, England had provoked a stupid little war over nothing, movie actor Ronald Reagan had butted us into it for the sake of our national pride, and we rolled up our sleeves and started looking for a part in a war often described as “two bald men fighting over a comb." Generals and Majors always seem so unhappy 'less they got a war, as XTC sang.

All across the length and, especially, the breadth of America, school kids could be heard singing “There Will Always Be An England,” “We’ll Meet Again,” and “867-5309 (Jenny).”

To this day, when we hear that song, our thoughts go back to the Falklands War. Or of calling 867-5309 in every area code known to Ma Bell. Check this guy’s blog.

You talk about having free time to call all these numbers looking for Jenny!

And now comes word that some disc jockey – not the cool, radio sort of disc jockey, but the one that shows up at weddings to play music from a computer – had the 867-5309 number in his local calling area and wishes to sell it. How cool it would be if someone named “Lenny” or “Henny” or “Penny” bought it, so they would get calls like this:

Caller: “Hello, Jenny?”

Person who owns phone number: “Nah, this is Lenny.”

And just where do we go from there?

Ars Gratia Artis

I've said this before, and will say it again right here, that I don't know anything about what I like; all I know is art.

And by that I mean, if you create something and you're fine with it, then that is fine art, my friend. Not for me to say, "Oh this is such and such and not enough of that and this." I found out as a teacher that the best way to grade performance is relative to the person's potential.

And if you create something where there was nothing before, then you are an artist, and that creation ought to be left the heck alone.

I bring this up because when I was a teenager, even though I lived 3,000 miles from the beaches of California, I related to the Beach Boys and their songs. I wasn't musically sophisticated - I wasn't any way sophisticated - but songs such as "When I Grow Up (To Be a Man)", "I Get Around" and "Please Let Me Wonder" were touchstones for me, songs to help me think about the future and my place in it. It would not be an exaggeration to estimate that I listened to the Beach Boys every day for at least the junior high and high school years. Until he lost control of himself, group leader Brian Wilson turned out masterpiece after audio masterpiece for several years.

So I heard "Please Let Me Wonder" a million times (possible slight exaggeration) and I know what it's supposed to sound like. I know exactly at which point during the instrumental break on "Wendy" we hear Mike Love clear his throat before resuming his lead vocal.

I picked up one of the 1,827 (no exaggeration!) Beach Boys compilation CDs today and listened to it.

Some bigheaded audio producer, who would want us to mention his name, reproduced those tracks and several others for this CD re-re-re-re-re-release. The dynamics of the songs are all different (and the cough, which was important as a sign to me that even the great ones such as Brian Wilson could make a mistake and the world did not end - an important lesson for me - is gone from "Wendy" ). Mr Bigdome made some instruments louder, some softer, changed the vocals around, and for what? One assumes to express himself artistically.

Dude, you cannot take someone else's work, play around with it, and expect to be hailed as an artist. Here's what you should do, Mr Audio: get your own band, write songs for them, produce records, and if they're good enough, we'll buy them and like them and have articles about you dating actresses in Star magazine.

I know enough about art to know that children draw mustaches on the Mona Lisa and it's thought to be funny for those who still eat special yogurt. An entire school of home decoration - Wal Mart Danish - is built around giant paintings of dogs playing cards or Homer Simpson sitting at the diner where once sat James Dean. It's low art anyway, so scramble it up a little for the people. But don't mess with my old-school!

Go Red!

I hope you get to see this before deciding what color to wear today. This being Friday February 6, it's Go Red For Women Day. It's a day for women across the country to "band together to wipe out heart disease and stroke."

If you want something done right, ask a busy woman! Please check this out and go red.

Of course I was already planning to wear red socks. That's the only color I like.



It started as my tribute to Garrison Keillor and Studs Terkel, but now it means even more to me. Thanks for joining the cause. As Paul Henreid says in "Casablanca" (see it Saturday night at 8 on Turner Classic Movies), "I have no doubt that now we will be successful."

It's 6 AM somewhere

When I was a young 'un, just a bald-faced boy, my pop worked shift work, so every third week, he worked midnight shift for the Baltimore Gas and Electric. He worked in the office where they calculated just how much power to be cranking out all over their service area. Too much would be wasteful; too little would cause a brownout. And all this was done before computers and calculators, so that's why Dad was a bit on the precise side. He would actually say things such as, "Why say 'the one before the next-to-the-last one' when there's a perfectly good word - 'antepenultimate' - for that concept?"

This will hardly be the antepenultimate time I discuss this dinner concept, but on those weeks of midnight shift, Dad used to like to wake up to breakfast food. Faithful readers (thank you both!) will recall my rapt discussions of waffle procedures. We'd have waffles, bacon, eggs...a veritable Grand Slam before Denny's even came along, all homemade by Mom for dinner.

I thought it was the coolest thing. Still do, and fix that sort of thing often, although these days I go for the Heart Smart Bisquick and cheapie pre-cooked thin bacon and maybe just one egg.

On the way up to Friendly Farm, I saw a sign at Hereford Volunteer Fire Company - they had held a fund-raising Breakfast for Dinner last Wednesday. I immediately felt that old familiar hankering for waffles, sausage, orange juice.

In Olde Williamsburg they sometimes serve fried chicken with breakfast. Order it with scrambled eggs, and see which comes first!

Happy Birthday Peggy

If there is a sweeter, kinder, more generous and loving woman on the face of this earth, I have yet to hear about her. My wonderful Peggy is celebrating her birthday today, and I just want to take to the rooftops and shout out about how much I love her. She does so much for me and for the entire family, and she does everything with a quiet, humble grace that is just angelic. As opposed to my flamboyant bumptiousness, everything about Peggy seems wrapped in gossamer, and her words sound like the sweetest harp music you ever heard. If you've ever met her, you know what I mean. Happy Birthday, Peggy, and may the good Lord grant you thousands more years of love and happiness. I love you so much!

The Hit Man

I am 6' 5" tall.

I am a graduate of the legendary Towson High School, 69 Cedar Avenue, Towson MD.

My birthday is June 30.
I know how to swim.

The preceding statements are true for both me and for Olympic champion Michael Phelps. There are several billion differences between us, but foremost among them is this: I would not jeopardize my standing in the athletic community or the advertising community or the national good will and esteem by being photographed doing bong hits.

Here's the point: it's none of anyone's business what people want to do in their private lives. Young Phelps already did community service on a DWI rap here in 2004, and everyone rallied to his support, pointing out that he had only committed a youthful indiscretion and was entitled to a second chance, as well as habeas corpus, corpus delicti and the right to keep and bear arms.

True enough. And again, as long as you aren't going to drive a car or operate on my gluteus maximus or fly a plane or do anything even remotely dangerous to my safety and the safety of anyone else, it's up to you what you want to do to pass your time. Even though all medical surveys indicate that smoking pot substantially increases your risk of having to listen to Phil Collins, hey: forewarned is forearmed.

But Michael, this time, could you spare us the hangdog look, the doleful countenance and stuttered apology? How about standing up and saying, "This is who I am...young and rich...and foolish."

My Unending Crusade

The great sage Alfred E. Neuman once said, "Every time I go to a ball game, I always get the same seat...between the hot dog vendor and his best customer."

I'm not saying there's a conspiracy among all those in charge of deciding where we will sit in restaurants, but it sure seems that no matter what table I find myself occupying, someone at some adjacent table has decided that all those in the restaurant (and that means the restrooms and the food preparation and storage areas as well) ought to be hearing everything they have to say.

We had a wonderful dinner yesterday, and when I looked across the table at my dear Peggy, I still had that same fluttery feeling as the first time she went with me to Friendly Farm. Of course, as a lifelong gourmand and bon vivant, I had been chowing down there for some time before I met Peggy. My eyes were full of naught but love, and my ears were being filled with dubious wisdom from the next table over, where Mr. Stentorian Bullhorn held forth on topics ranging from God's mercy ("it's for all of us!") and how many American males smoke cigars ("90%!") I did my usual head-spin-and-stare, for the usual two reasons - the thin hope that the Boomer would adjust the volume, and, also, to get a visual on a man who would actually sit in a restaurant and holler out things such as, "Any time someone says they are giving up a bad habit, you have to trust that they really intend to, but you still need to check up on them, ya know?" for the benefit of all.

One of the fellow diners of the Speaker Of The House engaged him in some sort of give-and-take in a desperate attempt to have everyone else stop craning their necks at their table, which resulted in the following colloquy:

Other guy: (can't tell you what he said because he said it a normal level)
SOTH: "Hebrews 13!"
OG: " "
SOTH: "Mark 1:12 thru 13!"

When their party left, it was like being in a factory when the drill press is shut down, and all of a sudden, the quiet is so sweet and so appreciated. I looked this one up so in case I see this fellow again, I can say, "Isaiah 41:1!" ("Keep silence before me, O islands; and let the people renew their strength.")

Isn't She Lovely?

Say hey to beautiful great-niece Finley! We love her!

...and a prayer

PHILADELPHIA (Reuters) -- At 5 a.m. on a freezing January morning, more than 15,000 Philadelphians crammed into a sports arena on Friday to witness the city's annual festival of gluttony and lust.

It's the Wing Bowl, a competitive-eating extravaganza in which 27 men try to eat the largest number of chicken wings in 30 minutes.

They are assisted by legions of bikini-clad young women called "Wingettes", and encouraged by a baying crowd which stayed up most of the night to take part in the spectacle.

Jonathon Squibb, a 23-year-old computer technician from Berlin, New Jersey, won the event and a $30,000 Mini Cooper after eating 203 wings without getting sick.

Squibb, who was unknown in competitive eating circles, beat better-known participants including the favorite, "Damaging Doug" Canavin of Philadelphia.

Our nation faces economic ruin, crippling unemployment, emotional instability, a huge winter storm barreling up the Eastern seaboard, two stupid foreign wars, the hatred of foreigners everywhere (including here) and a ticking tock of infrastructure and ecological timebombs across the land.

Time for Wing Bowl! Let's hear it for 27-year-old Jonathon Squibb, a computer technician from New Jersey, who managed to get 203 wings down his neck in a contest staged by WIP radio in Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love.

My move toward more sensible eating had a memorable genesis. A wonderful friend, Kristin, then a WIC nutritionist and now a labor-and-delivery nurse, was in the lunchroom at work one day when I burst in with my usual exuberance, brandishing my Hungry Man® Dinner, with a yellow logo on its box screaming "Over ONE POUND of FOOD!"

With the same patience and love that she must display when telling her two-year-old daughter why sticking the tines of a fork into a wall outlet would not be a good idea, Kristin pointed out to me that no human needs one pound of food. Looking over the frozen dinner's outer packaging with the same attention to detail that a Kennedy scholar would employ with newly-found Zapruder footage, Kristin told me that the sodium content of this "meal" rivalled the daily output of a Siberian salt mine, and that the caloric content would be enough to feed the Green Bay Packers en masse.

This is why it often takes me four hours to go to the grocery store. Sometimes I am jackpotting, chatting with neighbors and deli clerks alike, and sometimes it's because I am standing in an aisle, reading package labels.

There might have been a day when I could have given this Squibb fellow a run for his money in this contest, even though I would have been handicapped: I prefer left wings only. Pass the Hot Sauce!

The Guiding Light

A friend blogged today that her prayers were answered - that a specialist was willing to see one of her patients with an ongoing situation. The specialist will waive her standard fee. My friend posits that this points to the existence of a caring God who wants good things for His children. I agree. I also believe that all prayers are heard and answered, and sometimes we just don't hear the answer in all the din.



I am genuinely sorry for those whose dark and sad circumstances keep them out of the light of love, but it's always good when one who is in the light can take a moment, look up, and enjoy the beams.



I rarely have an entry this short, this philosophical, or this pious in tone. Just keepin' it real; I promised the blog would always be about what's on my mind. Thanks for caring.

A nod is as good as a wink, to a blind horse.

from somewhere over the Internets:

CHICAGO (AFP) - A drum major who waved at President Barack Obama was brought to tears Tuesday over his six-month suspension from an Ohio marching band.

"Six months is pretty harsh, I think," firefighter John Coleman told Newsnet 5.

But the Cleveland Firefighter's Memorial Pipes & Drums band leader said even a glance is out of bounds for marching bands in a parade marking the inauguration of a president.

"We had gone over and over time and again with everyone in the band that this was a military parade. Protocol and proper decorum had to be followed at all times," band leader Mike Engle told the Cleveland Plain Dealer.

"Unfortunately, John chose to ignore that."

Other bands complained about Coleman's gesture, and the burly fire inspector -- who has been in the band for 17 years -- was told of his suspension on the bus home from Washington.

"He has to abide by the rules," Engle said. "It had to be done."

Coleman defended his actions and said he would do it again, despite the consequences.

"I just happened to glance over and made eye contact with the president and just gave a nod acknowledging him and just a slight wave," Coleman said.

Well, there's good news! I had been hearing the rumblings, and surely you had too, that the Cleveland Firefighter's Memorial Pipes & Drums Band had been deviating, if ever so slightly, from the military regimens and highly-formatted performance style that really mark the crackerjack Pipe and Drum bands in our society. I mean, the day that people who parade around playing bagpipe music stop taking themselves so damned seriously is a day I never want to experience.

So, thank heaven that the august leader of this musical aggregation chose to suspend the scorned perpetrator of this heinous act. I mean, really! To think that the mellifluous tones of the bagpipes, that sweet music of the ages, invented by a bored goatherd with one goatskin and one reed pipe, should be sullied by a nod to the man just elected president of the United States in an overwhelming affirmation! It's a wonder they didn't take Coleman out behind a meadow in the mist and bastinado him 'til the cows came home.

Probably, they were planning to do so, but the cows will not come home if they hear bagpipe music within a mile or two. You know cows aren't interested in bagpipe music; did you ever see a cow at a Fourth of July parade?

John Updike, RIP

Hang it all, the good among us keep loosing earthly bonds. Latest notable to depart is the great writer John Updike, who died of lung cancer yesterday, aged 76. The one little mercy is that he will no longer have to hear, as we did tonight on NBC Nightly News, sentences such as, "Although they were born nine weeks premature, doctors say the octuplets are breathing on their own." I don't believe that the circumstances of the doctors' births, no matter how great the coincidence of prematurity, should figure into the reporting of the health of these eight tiny tots.

Updike wrote novels, essays, short stories, poems, sick notes for his kids, grocery lists and, probably, a papal bull or two in his long career. He wrote well over 50 novels, which is more than some people read in a lifetime. But I have this poem, published in the December 6, 1999, New Yorker posted on bulletin boards all over - even on some that don't belong to me. I feel these words should be read, and savored, so without further bloviation on my part, here is John Updike's Jesus and Elvis:




Twenty years after the death, St. Paul
was sending the first of his epistles,
and bits of myth or faithful memory–
multitudes fed on scraps, the dead small girl
told "Talitha, cumi"–were self-assembling
as proto-Gospels. Twenty years since pills
and chiliburgers did another in,
they gather at Graceland, the simple believers,
the turnpike pilgrims from the sere Midwest,
mother and daughter bleached to look alike,
Marys and Lazaruses, you and me,
brains riddled with song, with hand-tinted visions
of a lovely young man, reckless and cool
as a lily. He lives. We live. He lives.

Homeland Insecurity

From the Baltimore Sun:

City schools chief Andrés Alonso is urging underclassmen at a struggling West Baltimore high school to transfer to other schools midyear - a highly unusual step in keeping with his pledge to hold all schools to high standards. The system is legally prohibited from closing the 575-student school, Homeland Security Academy, in the middle of the academic year, but Alonso is strongly encouraging students to choose to leave and asking the school board to close it this summer. Students will be able to select from 21 other city high schools that have extra space and are deemed stable. "I feel this is not a school that is working for kids," Alonso said. "I don't feel any need to be patient when it comes to the future of children." Problems at Homeland Security run the gamut, from high staff turnover to low student performance. Amid low morale, seven of 28 teachers have been absent more than 10 days this school year. After a slew of fights and bathroom fires, several central office administrators were called in to restore order.

Now, please understand that I am not trying to crack wise about this. I think I speak for most of us when I say that of all the things we had to worry about in high school - getting dates, talking dates out of walking out of the restaurant RIGHT NOW! because of something said or thrown, losing ballgames, losing homework, losing resolve... all of these were ephemeral... a real big deal one day, forgotten the next. I believe I can confidently say that none of us have had the ignominious experience of having the head cheese of the school system tell us that our school is a rotten failure and we ought to get our diplomas out of there.

Think of immigrants in the early 20th century, arriving on these shores to make a better life for their children. You can bet against there being a lot of lavatory fights in those schools, back in the day when there was respect all around for education - from parents, teachers, students and the community as a whole.

Some years ago Peggy and I dropped a friend off at Baltimore-Washington Airport, and, it being early and I being foolish, we decided to scoot on over to DC to see some sights. Of course, we got lost in some blighted, burned out neighborhood that really looked like those pictures of the South Bronx in the late 70's...a wisp of smoke here, a scent of hopelessness and despair everywhere. I pulled up to a firehouse and asked the FF on the watch desk how to get to the Smithsonian. Sizing me up as an out-of-towner, he stood up, pointed to the street, and said, "First thing you gotta do, get out of this neighborhood, like right now!"

We're all in a bad neighborhood as long as any of us are. I cannot get over how sad it must make Dr. Alonso to have to tell pupils to bail out of a sinking school. The irony of the name of the school only sharpens the barb. Teachers aren't teaching, students aren't studying, and another piece of society clatters to the ground.

Another of my half-baked notions

I have always loved products that perform two functions at once. The person who decided to pair up a flash drive with a little Swiss Army knife was thinking right that day! And of course, the whole Swiss Army knife / Leatherman tool thing - a toolchest in the palm of one's hand, and trust me, there have been dozens of times I've been glad to be toting around my well-worn Leatherman Juice. No kidding, I have been in need of a screwdriver or pair of pliers in many situations, and I've always wondered how people handle these crises when all they have in their pocket is a wallet and some gift cards for Popeye's Chicken.


But here is an item you can make at home that serves two purposes quite well. Beer bread. Now you're talking! It tastes great, it's easy to make - and it not only puts bread on the table, it makes the entire house smell like a bake shop! I mean, you spend dozens of dollars at Yank E. Candle to try to make the house smell like you were baking all day - here you can bake for a very brief period, make the house smell like Heaven on a roll, and still get to eat the bread!


It couldn't be simpler, and you probably have everything you need right at home. Try it soon and tell me what you think! Fun to make, tasty to eat, easy on the sniffer. What's not to like?

Mark's Old-Fashioned Beer Bread

• 1 (12 fluid ounce) can or bottle beer at room temperature - NOT LIGHT! use REAL beer, por favor!
  
• 3 cups self-rising flour
• 3 tablespoons white sugar

DIRECTIONS

1. In a large bowl, mix together the sugar and flour. Add beer and continue to mix, first using a wooden spoon, then your hands. Batter will be sticky. Pour into a 9 x 5 inch greased loaf pan.
2. Bake at 350 degrees F (175 degrees ) for 50 for 60 minutes. The top will be crunchy, and the insides will be soft. Serve topped with butter or cheese spread.
   

My quool quilt

My nephew Drew married Laura, star of her well-known blog Two Peas in a Pod. The two peas are now sharing the pod with another baby, the fabulous Finley, whom you met in this space before. Anyhow, Laura's splendid Mom Kathy spends time while in the car with equally-splendid Dad Russell listening to Books on CD and quilting! She made quilts for the twins' birthdays this weekend and for me for Christmas she made this incredible Elvis quilt, which keeps me snug on weekend naps. I get up at 5 AM on workdays, so to stay consistent I also drag it on outta bed early on weekends too, although I take a nap after breakfast. Now my nap takes on sort of a Broadway - Hollywood theme - it's The King and I!

I love my quilt and I love my extended family. Having the nephews get married, each to fine women with truly great families, has brought us a tremendous joy. And a quilt.

Who Will Answer?

Very sad to see in the paper that former Associated Press sportswriter Gordon Beard has passed away. He did a great job covering the Orioles for many years, wrote a wonderful book (Birds On The Wing) about the 1966 championship season, and was always respected as the funniest man in the press box. Beard also was a lexicographer, who published volume after volume of compendia of Baltimore expressions.

You know how we love our "lemon moran" pie here, expecially in Dezember!

Anyway, the obituary included reference to a funny moment in Beard's high school days. This being Baltimore, one's high school is more indicative of status and culture than any other handy touchstone, so let it be said he went to Southern High. One day a physics teacher asked the class what happened when a body is immersed in water.

"The phone rings," quipped young Gordon.

I bring this up because there was that time in our lives when the phone rang and you didn't care if you were in a bath or in flagrante delicto - you were gonna answer that phone. It was like a constitutional obligation to pick it up and go, "hello?" I mean, really, you could be hauling a baby grand piano down to the basement because young Eloise was going to start "taking piano" from that thin, prim young lady around the corner, and if that phone rang, you'd tell your brother-in-law, who was sweating down on the keyboard end of things, to "hold what you got." You just had to answer the phone. No matter if it was the Purple Heart, calling to see if you had anything to leave out on the porch for Tuesday's pickup, or that thin, prim young lady, calling to see if Eloise had her pinafore starched yet, that phone HAD to be answered.

Then when answering machines and caller ID came along, you started to feel the icy hands of Phone Screening standing between you and that cutey patootie you had just spent an hour wrenching up enough guts to call. You just knew she was looking at the caller ID screen and saying,"Oh it's HIM!!! I'm just not gonna answer!" And there you were; another Saturday night at Hoops Alone Saloon, the sports bar for lonely sports.

Now that everyone has a cell phone, chances are they have the cell right in the shower with them, lest they miss some important call from, well, you! But still with the screening!

And you know another move bound to induce paranoia? When you call some office and ask to speak to Mr. Kaputnick, and his assistant or whoever says, instead of, "He's not here", a simple, "Who may I say is calling?" That means he or she runs off to Kaputnick and says,"It's Norm Peterson - did you want to speak with him?" and he says no and she comes back with "Mr. Kaputnick has stepped out; did you want to leave a message?" And you just KNOW that Kaputnick is sitting there surfing www.biguns. com or playing online euchre.

And it all would have been so easy if he had simply picked up the phone! He would have, if you had called him in 1957.

Next month, they're doing "Annie Get Your Gun!"

From the BradentonHerald.com:

SARASOTA - A day after being shot in the head during a dress rehearsal for a play at Manatee Players theater, the last thing 81-year-old Fred Kellerman says he wants is for his acting career to end.

As part of the Sarasota Senior Theater, Kellerman was preparing with one last rehearsal to take the stage Sunday as "Lenny" in a production of the John Steinbeck novel "Of Mice and Men."

At the end of the play, Kellerman's character takes a fatal gunshot to the head.

Just after 5 p.m., Kellerman got on his knees and his co-star, William Bordy, 78, pulled the trigger on a .32-caliber revolver. To everyone's shock the gun was anything but a prop, instead later found to be fully loaded.

Bradenton Police would find Kellerman backstage with blood covering the stage, according to reports.

"I heard a loud bang. I knew something was wrong. But I never passed out," Kellerman said.

Kellerman said doctors would later find the bullet tore into his skull, ricocheted off bone, then came back out and tore off a piece of his ear. Doctors sewed the piece of ear back on at Manatee Memorial Hospital.

"It took a chunk off my ear, but I was told it will grow together. I really feel no pain," he said. "I was really lucky."

Bradenton Police reports say Bordy, president of Sarasota Senior Theater and the play's director, got the gun from a group member, Natalie Gundrum.

The group had used the gun in the past as a prop, but Gundrum told police she did not check to see if the gun was loaded when she brought it for the show Sunday, according to police reports.

Bordy told police he didn't check the gun either, assuming it was not loaded. Bordy told police he should have checked the gun, but it had been empty when the group used it last for the same play.

"It was stupid, stupid. Something you should never do," Bordy said Tuesday. "I got careless."

"It was just supposed to be a click then the lights go down. But when I pulled the trigger, it went off and he fell to the floor," Bordy said.

After emergency workers took Kellerman to Manatee Memorial Hospital, Bordy and the rest of the group went on with the show, performing its variety show, including "Of Mice and Men," with another actor in Kellerman's place.

"It is the old saying 'the show must go on,' Of course, I collapsed as soon as it was over," Bordy said.

Kellerman said he is glad they went ahead with the show.

"There were 100 people there waiting. They sure should have done the show," he said.

Kellerman called his director and co-star Tuesday morning to tell him he was alright.

"He is just a jovial, wonderful man, I just thank God he is OK," said Bordy after a sleepless night. "He was bright and happy when he called. I am so relieved."

Kellerman said he has no animosity about what happened.

"I don't have any anger whatsoever. What happened was pretty stupid, but I am not the least bit upset," Kellerman said.

Next month Kellerman says he wants to perform in a musical he is rehearsing for now. He called his director to apologize for not making it to rehearsal Tuesday but plans on making practice Friday, Bordy said.

"I very much want to still be part of the group. I look at this as nothing more than an accident," he said.

Some days - many days, in fact - this blog just blogifies by itself. It's amazing to me that anyone would use a gun in an amateur stage production, and even more amazing that those handling the weapon of mess destruction would be so cavalier as to fail to check to see it were a real gun or not. And what is Ms Gundrum doing running around with a real gun? Is she, in fact, a member of a well-regulated militia? Because we all know THAT'S why people have the Right To Keep And Bear Arms! It's right there in that there Constitutional thing!

Save your breath if you're going to tell me how many people are injured or killed annually in stapler mishaps or bagel-slicing accidents. Paul Harvey used to go on the radio with stories about some dude killing his mother by stabbing her 167 times with an icepick, and then he'd cluck fatuously, "We're gonna have to ban icepicks............................................page 2!" Staplers are made for joining pieces of paper together, most often on lengthy loan agreements that enable people to buy Chevrolets upon which to display their attachment to Dale Earnhardt, Sr.

Bagels are a tasty breakfast, particularly when used as a setting for cream cheese and lox. Icepicks are for chunking up huge ice blocks, or, for those born since outdoor plumbing came into being, they're what you use when you can't find your awl or tack starter.

Guns are sold for the sole purpose of putting a hole in places where, previously, no hole existed. Old Bundy is a very lucky man, and of course, so is his co-star Kellerman. Lots of people weren't so lucky. Why do we keep cheating the hangman? Stop playing with guns!

I Got a Charge out of this

David L. Mackie of Fondue, Oklahoma, is our kind of guy. Pictured above is his recently-isssued VISA card through Capital One ("what's in YOUR wallet?") The photo is not of David L. Mackie, of course. Eagle-eyed readers will recognize the likeness of drunken actor Nick Nolte from his 2004 mug shot.

Capital One, showing the rapt attention to detail that has helped plunge our nation and the world to the very precipice of economic catastrophe, has decided that they have more people in the bank than tasks to complete, so they now allow their charge card holders to submit their own doggone photo. Mackie sent along the booking shot from one of the many nights when alcohol and poor personal hygiene combined to enshroud the Nolte countenance with a certain manic quality. And the bank accepted it and proudly printed it on the card! And then someone ratted it out and the bank had to offer Mackie 50 semolians to give the card up, lest Mr Nolte and/or his career become embarrassed. Like he shouldn't be turning red over wearing that shirt out on the street.

Your humble correspondent, back in the days when Peggy and I lived at the lavish Glenmont Apartments in Towson, noticed that the security guards at the pool there gave but the most desultory glance at the pool ID cards issued to tenants. I pasted a picture of Mr. Pee Wee Herman over mine, re-laminated it, and used it successfully the rest of that summer.

No one ever looked at it; no one said a word. Peggy was the only person who laughed at it. Still, it's the thought that counts. Well played, Mr. Mackie!