Here it is just one day after the Official Pennsylvania
Varmint, Phil, prognosticated 6 more weeks of winter, and I am looking at an
additional 8+ inches of a heavy wet snow continuing to blanket an already much-shoveled driveway.
I have only one thing to say to the fur ball, Revenge is
best served…Boiled!
If you get to Punxsutawney before I do, and are able to trap
that little rat-witch, I have a great recipe for Boiled Marmot.
Had I been raised in the town of Godforsaken
Minnesota, or some other icicle on the map of the US, I would not be irate when
the weather spokes-model/meteorologist on local TV flubs another prediction.
After all, when winter arrives do we really need to
know it will be cold and snowy in Montana, Idaho, Minnesota or parts of the
world where kids take dog sleds to school? We expect it!
In this part of Pennsylvania weather
prognosticators try their bestest to read all the latest data, consult the
experts in their field, view satellite feeds while chewing their nails and
still have a less than stellar track record.
I have better success asking my magic 8 ball if I
will need to shovel and salt my driveway tomorrow.
In recent weeks, the whine-of-the-day overheard
everywhere is about weather folks being compensated big bucks for doing their
job incorrectly. “After all, how come
they get to keep their jobs when if I made the same mistake over and over I
would be fired Blah Blah Blah Blah etc.” is the cry of the masses.
Frankly, I am almost as tired of hearing that, as I
too am guilty of saying it!
We here are obsessed with weather, in particular
snow and ice. Even the slightest mention of a small accumulation has us
clearing store shelves of milk, bread and eggs then we French-Toast
connoisseurs stay glued to our flat screens watching newscasters stationed on
every street corner holding rulers and yardsticks giving us minute-to-minute
snowflake counts.
Where did this madness originate?
I remember in the early 1980’s when the Weather
Channel was launched. I recall one of
my brothers-in-laws stayed glued to that network, 24/7, watching satellite maps
over and over again. He had a paving business and needed to know how to schedule
his work day. I could certainly understand
his obsession but never believed that anyone else would have an interest to the
degree it would warrant a whole network and actually make a profit.
I was the same guy who never believed people would
pay for television, radio or buy bottled water when you can get it right from
the tap. I put all of my investments where I knew it would make me a fortune; 8
track disco tapes.
Tomorrow, February 2nd, is the biggest
weather day of the year in Pennsylvania, “Groundhog Day”!
There will always be those state cheerleaders who
tout the benefits of living or visiting the Keystone state but honestly it
boils down to really only two attractions, Punxsutawney Phil and the Liberty
Bell.
Now before I get to the rodent, let me sidetrack to
the bell.
First understand the Liberty Bell just ain’t what
it once was. If you are making travel
and hotel plans to fly across the continent to see a piece of Americana in the
here and now, stay home and watch something on Netflix. When I was a kid, you saw the Liberty Bell
in person, at Independence Hall. You
could actually touch it, put your fingers in the crack and take a picture
postcard home with a little patriotic pride in tow.
I am uncertain just where the real bell is
currently housed but I believe it is kept in a secure enclosure,
protected by armed guards from a special government agency, and miles away from
the viewing area. Actually you are only looking at a hologram. This must be
true as I believe I heard about it on Conspiracy Radio. You are permitted a quick glance, then you
are whisked away out of the viewing area.
If you attempt an over-the-shoulder second look you may find yourself in
front of a judge and then in orange overalls picking up trash along the
Schuylkill expressway.
Now onto the sleeping rat.
If you watched the Bill Murray movie ‘Groundhog
Day” you most certainly were not exposed to the true Gobbler’s Knob festival
that is Phil and the townsfolk of Punxsutawney, including the deep dark secrets
of the flea-infested marmot and the festivities.
Some lesser-known tidbits that may or may not be
factual:
Phil is a cross-dresser.
Phil does not actually see a shadow and scamper
back into a hole. He reads a
proclamation then whispers his prediction to the chief Mucky-Muck of the
“Inner-Circle” the protectors and servants to the fur ball. Yes, Phil does speak in High German.
Members of the Inner-Circle have all been secretly
selected by his highest himself, hand plucked from the finest of the Masons and
Illuminati that Pennsyltuckey has to offer.
The “IC” as the boys call it are really just fun loving varmint guards
who let Phil do just what his whim wants. Think Elvis or Justin Bieber.
Catholics are prohibited from joining as it is a
secret society, with a special handshake, and they may actually be Occultists.
There is no parking at the Knob, you can either
take a bus from the local Mc D’s in town or hike the 1 ½ mile UPHILL
walk. Check your magic 8-ball for the
weather.
No alcohol is permitted in Gobblers Knob and if
found will be confiscated and consumed by the local police and the
Inner-Circle.
Yuengling is the official beer sponsor of the
event. (If you are passing through Pottsville Pennsylvania, take a tour of the
plant)
Phil is 45 years sober.
Phil’s success rate is only 40% about the same as the
weather spokes model with satellite feed.
One day, when I was just a very young boy, my
mother asked my preference about THE upcoming event i.e. “would I prefer
a little brother or sister”?My honest
response was “neither, I want a dog”!
I was the oldest of the litter, and there were 4 of
us by the time I was six.My parents
eventually deposited 2 additional mouths around the kitchen table totaling a
family of eight.
I honestly admit my self-centeredness, believing
deep-down that I was actually an only child despite the reality of a shared
bedroom with 2 brothers, one bathroom for 8 people and trying desperately to
somehow understand why all these aliens keep appearing in my life, demanding my
attention, and all I want is from them is to stop gnawing on my Army men.
Sibling relationships are complex, and birth order
does complicate matters. Despite all of the childhood drama I am often amazed
as to how we became very close, with none of the smoldering embers
that eventually ignite to destroy relationships in other families.
These issues are never so evident as what I now
observe with my 5 grandgirls.
My youngest, one of the Southern Belles, turns one
year old today.She is so close in age
to her sororal-twin sisters, and a little bigger and more active than most her
age, she is often thought to be a triplet when people see them together.
The twins know better.
Grandgirl 5 wants so badly to “fit in” and excited
just to be with them. She doesn’t utter a protest when they confiscate her toys
or push her aside when they are playing together and she is just a little too
curious and wants to be involved. She remains a sweet happy little girl.
In all fairness to her two oldest sisters, they are
also so sweet with many moments of kindness and caring to
their clinger-on, but overall she is a third wheel.
Dear number 5, have a Happy Birthday.Enjoy your special day and have fun opening
the presents we sent to you.
With any luck you’ll be able to play with the toys
we mailed, and get to eat a piece of birthday cake.
As I watch another snowfall this week, realizing it
is not just a nightmare that somehow transported me to some God-awful part of
Minnesota, I long for a warmer climate that I know somehow is just around the
corner.
If you live in a snow-infested region of the world,
and you are an adult trying to recapture your childhood with your skiing,
snowmobiling et al., please try not to pretend that you really enjoy your
life.Just blame your ancestors for
raising you there and crawl back into your igloo.
I do enjoy watching the children sled down the
“giant hill” that is my backyard careful to avoid a crash into our pear tree.
We who have had white winters always recall the
bestest and most frightening snow hill, and I am glad that I can provide a
group of 4 year-olds lasting memories. By the time they are 6 they will all
agree that my hill is no higher than a hump of snow-covered mulch, barely
sloped enough for a marble to roll down. They will move on to their eventual thriller
wondering what all the excitement was about.
I did enjoy snow days, as all children do, getting
off from school, sledding, snowball fights and making a few extra bucks
shoveling.The secret to making top
dollar was to get an advanced shoveling contract with the neighbors in the row
homes.There was nothing in writing,
only a verbal promise to do a good job, include a street parking space (always
a deal closer) and a promise that you will not have to ring their doorbell at
5AM (as you did the last snowfall). They can just pre-pay.
The nice thing about snow removal in a neighborhood
of city row homes is you can make a ton of money quickly and any resident who
does not contract at least can provide you with a pavement where you can store
their neighbors’ snow.
I long for a neighborhood youth entrepreneur, a
go-getter to knock on my door and ask for a contract.The only kids who come around are the fund raisers with their
cases of chocolate bars. They must have some underground secret language,
probably texting one another about the chunky guy in the 2nd house
who will always buy a couple of boxes.
Hey I don’t eat them all, they get hoarded in the
basement, stored on IKEA shelves awaiting the upcoming clash-of-the-classes I
keep hearing about on Conspiracy Radio.
I need something to serve up along with my cases of
Dinty-Moore.
None of the neighborhood kids shovel snow, nor make
an effort. Those who will work are usually the reluctant ones with parents who
wish to instill a strong work ethic.
We did have a little boy, Ryan, who asked if he can
remove our snow. Ryan promised to do a good job, be sure to give us a parking
space, and if we prepaid he would not ring our doorbell at 5AM.
In reality Ryan’s mother, Susan, did most of the
snow removal.We actually helped
her.Ryan wandered off and went
sledding in our backyard.He was only
4.
He never returned until a few years later when he
was selling school fund raising candy.
I am not a farmer, although Pennsylvania is my
home, this transplanted city boy, now fully country, has picked up some
Amish-speak that dwindled here from Lancaster County and earlier European
times.
One phrase is:
“Make hay while the sun shines” comes to mind as fitness experts,
e-cigarette makers and diet guru’s frantically work to separate you from your
unemployment check as January quickly closes in and their hottest sales month
comes to an end.
Many years ago I substituted a Bacca addiction
(tobacco you Yankees) with a new oral fixation-FOOD!
There have been relatively few products or programs
on the market that I have not tried, believing their magic beans possessed the
weight loss secret of the ages. I have been bamboozled by the best of them.
Older, wiser and a little less well funded (and
yo-yo dieting pounds heavier), I have developed an inner-radar detecting the
most bizarre current fat shedding schemes on the planet today.
I heard one of the latest scams provides you with a
little pill, so powerful, that you must follow the ingestion schedule on the
bottle or your weight will disappear so quickly you could dissolve into
nothingness overnight.
Plan B-You may have to reduce your intake to only
one daily, or even less, so be very careful.
I guess their plan C will be just licking the thing
when the mood arises.
Oh yes, by the way, the pills work best with a sensible
eating plan and 30 minutes of walking daily.
I often thought that when the day arrives, and I
finally reach my Nirvana of less poundage, I would impart my wisdom and journey
between the pages of a softbound cover, $19.95 available on Amazon (the PBS
fund drive version has 8 DVD’s and a workbook).
I too can help millions from my beach house on my
private island, an airstrip for my personal jet, and wealth rivaling the
average 20+ year-old Grammy-Award winner.
The
following year I will need to lampoon it on this blog.
I once tried a New Years’ resolution and broke it
within minutes.
There went that year!
This reminds me of when I was an elementary school
student at St. Attica’s and Sister Chuck Norris explained the “giving-it-up-for-lent”
thing. I couldn’t make it work the 1st year but caught on quickly
and was able to successfully convince my mother, for years, to refrain from
serving liver for dinner during lent.
Sandy, our mutt, was dismayed as I couldn’t sneak
the dreaded organ under the dinner table for at least 40 days (excluding
fish-Fridays).
I often wonder if those who make and keep a New
Year’s resolution are actually happy at their achievement, you know that
“be-careful-what-you-wish-for” thing.
I want follow up stories, let’s see the future
events to those who have determination and willpower, are they really happy,
fulfilled? Am I jealous?
When I was 17 our family moved from the inner city
to the country.
We had land, trees and fresh air. I loved it. My sisters thought the world had
ended.
A few weeks after we settled in, a family from the
city was able to find our home, unscheduled, and bring us a housewarming gift;
a beagle named Clint.
The story goes like this; their oldest daughter
joined some religious group and was way too busy selling flowers at the airport
to care for the pooch.
They made the offer in front of 6 kids whose family
mutt passed recently.
What could my parents do but say yes, since the
gift bearers already had my brother holding the leash, my sisters had the dog
food dish and the city slickers were already in their car, skedaddling away and
burning more rubber than NASCAR’s finest.
They “just knew” we were hurting for a little
puppy. Bye-Bye!
Almost immediately we began to understand just why
they could not maintain order in the neighborhood as a beagle has a few quirks
we never before witnessed in the mutts we formerly raised. Beagles like to run,
run and run. They are very independent, and can be warm & friendly but really
do not listen. They have their own agenda. You accept them on their own terms.
We actually moved into a small village, very close
knit with families who stayed there for generations. We were outsiders and the locals were very curious as to our
intentions and behaviors.
Clint certainly gave them much fodder for tongue
wagging.
A hungry beagle is somehow able to escape multiple
chains with cunningness greater than that of Hannibal Lecter. A hungry beagle
is able to sneak up and steal the bagged lunch of children waiting for the
school bus, not just once but multiple times.
In these days children are taught skills to be made
aware of dangerous strangers.
In my day the cry was “look out, here comes Clint”!
Mr. Kulp, our neighbor, certainly was not impressed
when Clint decided to acquire the last piece of his chocolate cake when he had
to leave his porch to go answer the telephone.
Clint was not just an eating-machine, he got plenty
of exercise when he de-leashed and chased cars throughout the village. He was
forever teeth-bearing; back hunched barking and growling furiously at the car
tire of the moment.
Villagers were furious; cries of “why can’t you
keep that dumb dog in your yard” were echoed throughout the neighborhood.
Petitions signed, complaints issued but Houdini the hound continued his rebel
ways. The “new guys” in the hood were
certainly all the talk at the volunteer fire company.
The reason why I bring up the story about Clint is
that he is reminiscent of what can happen when you get what you want. I always wondered what would happen if he
actually caught up with a moving car tire.
He eventually did catch a tire (or should I say the tire caught him) and subsequently has
been buried in my parent’s backyard for decades.
I feel that I am trapped on a runaway train and cannot jump off! Here I am travelling south of the Mason-Dixon on another trek to see my toddler granddaughters. I no longer choose to drive, the rails have become my new love. For about the same price, and a little more time, I can relax in comfort, napping, reading, watching DVD's listening to music and not having to lift a finger. Justified sloth and restroom sharing with 80 other people. The ride from Philly to Washington was serene, the only stress was a fidgety wife who won't stop moving the 11 suitcases she smuggled on board for a 5 day visit. Pack well, pack often, pack everything is her battle-cry. I may switch from writing about my dull little life and begin volume 1 on "train-stories". As I leisurely seek to see life "on the other side of the tracks" I sit in a seat directly in front of a retired woman who for the first 3 hours laid dormant while cell phones rang faintly from passenger's Samsungs. The Asus tablet was my focus while the nice quiet lady in the seat behind me appeared to doze off. An occasional snore was nerve-manageable. The beast awakened after we passed the Washington Monument when she acquired a seat-mate. The unsuspecting young woman, and all within earshot, endured a never-ending life story, complete with marriages, divorces, affairs, medical dramas and baby mamas. I believe her stop was Cary, NC but she bailed at Quantico, VA, preferring US Marine enlistment to seat-mate story drama. Washington DC has a short recess while we attach to a diesel engine to haul us along the southern trail. I am not certain why this is done but I suspect this was part of a pact at Appomattox signed between Grant & Lee; train travel was included. Havoc was about to enter my railroad harmony by a hoard of Johnny Rebels, as we were informed that over 200 invaders were coming aboard. I thought I was still safe, paying extra for business class so never having to mingle with commoners (such as myself) attempting to ransack my bliss. Some of the riff-raff must have made a few extra bucks and splurged on comfort. As usual things continued to go very, very wrong. The Theremin, named after its inventor Leon Theremin, is a "musical instrument" popularized in recent years when it was used in the theme song of the original Star Trek. I don't know how it operates but I do know you plug the thing in, and wave your hand around what looks like coat hangers attached to a painted piece of 2x2 and sounds are emitted through some weird mystical oscillation. I suspect that early travelling snake oil salesman and medical quacks used this gadget to top off their coffers. I don't understand it all, but I do covet one. I have a neighbor who refuses to leash and pick up after his dog when allowing "Sir Poo" to use my mailbox as a porta-potty. A Theramin, properly aimed from my front porch, would provide just the right amount of proper training and conditioning. The instrument has an unmistakable sound, very annoying, and a sound reproduced and hummed for 250 miles through Virginia and into North Carolina by a woman now strategically placed in the seat directly in front of me. Her voice was "Theraministic" and she knew every song copyrighted since 1910. Most of her repertoire usually never ventured past 1950 but I do believe she covered both the Drifters and the Beatles a few times.
Air travel to Greensboro would be much shorter, but it too has its disadvantages, a new one a-comin' already found in train-travel and about to shatter the already touched nerves of plane-favorer's, namely active cellphones. Samsung has done a wonderful job kicking Apple's heiney and bringing high tech smart phones to the hoi polloi. Now everybody's got one (except me) and the rates are so affordable you could forever babble-on around the globe. Gird your loins for variations of "Hello Edna, my all the people look just like little ants"! There was much more to tell, the "Jumping Judge", "Oprah and Gale" talk cleaning products, 1st place winner in the "how small is my bladder "contest (the person most likely to hog the one working restroom). I am here now, enjoying the grandgirls (and of course, their parents), so I may save the stories for another day. Maybe the return trip will have a life of its own.
The Return Trip
On the train ride home a nice young lady and her little girl are seated directly across from me, separated only by a very small aisle and my luggage-shuffling spouse. I had studied Spanish for 4 years and retained little to none. She is cell-phoning very loudly, IN SPANISH. I get hours of bilingual earfuls through North Carolina and most of Virginia. Boy did I hit the Jackpot! I wish I would have maintained an interest in the language, possibly I would have eavesdropped onto similar family drama as the lady told on my 1st trip. Get ready for cell phones airplane-favorers. Smoke 'em if ya got 'em
When the Carolinian travels south of Washington, DC, the concern is shared tracks with other trains so there are frequent slowdowns, if not dead stops awaiting the passage by what seems to be a 120 car freighter. I wondered why our train was having to stop or wait so often and the realization hit, it's not the well known "southern politeness" allowing the other train to pass, it's all about the BACCA (tobacco in the south-to-north dictionary). Amtrak has a no smoking policy while riding the rails but there remains ample opportunity for smoke breaks, especially south of Mason-Dixon where Bacca is considered deity. There are short breaks in Virginia and North Carolina where we are all invited to stretch our legs and pay homage to the bacca-god if you so desire. I suspect the train engineers and staff somehow encourage the freighters to just "go-ahead" so they can step off for a few moments and indulge. I have no proof of this. Having fled the weed almost 20 years' ago I avoid exiting because I fear I may relapse. I can handle it in Pennsylvania but may backslide in the sin-city of nicotine. It's in the air, it's all over the place.
Truth be told, I still love train travel and the staff at Amtrak are excellent. I would encourage anyone to try it, just please be a little quieter, especially if you are sitting near me.
How will you know it is me? I'll be the one playing the Theremin.
I really do not spend much time devoted to television viewing. No, I am not one of those snarky snobs who claim the "tube" damages your mind and you should spend more time doing jumping-jacks in the backyard eliminating your obesity. I could easily settle into a life of channel surfing and mindless Breyers' all natural vanilla ice cream eating.
I am called to duty, writing a blog awaiting a read by 24 Ukrainian's.
Because of this I miss out on so much. I have to catch small glimpses of the nation's viewing habits as I stand in a supermarket line perusing over copies of this week's issue of the latest Kardashian/Brad-Angelina magazines.
This week, the 3 minutes of daily TV news I usually view had a story about a man who was asked his opinion about something, and some people did not like what they heard so fires were lit to begin the "heating of the tar". News organizations around the globe were alerted, a half-busload of sign toting activists rabble-rousers, and the nail-biting infamous politically correct crowd, were dispatched and strategically placed for maximum news coverage.
After all we all must agree, no one is able to have an opposing point of view especially when it runs counter clockwise to the collective.
I do not know anything about the show "Duck Dynasty". I have never watched the program but I see their image's everywhere.
ZZ Top in camouflage.
It appears that one of their members had been interviewed and gave his honest opinion. How dare he, had he not learned anything from poor Paula Dean?
Listen Duck Guy, we now dictate what you are permitted to think, do or say. Your opinion does not matter if it flies in the face of the Borg.
Play ball, or else!
Duck daddy needs a distraction. Can someone send in Miley Cyrus?
This week the headline blurb in the HuffPost, that great bastion of free thought, mentioned the Pew group surveyed Americans and almost half now say that Christmas is not a religious holiday. Jesus is out, or almost out, soon to be replaced by a new normal to be announced.
Merry Borg Day to you!
P.S. Remember to keep Christ in Christmas…at least for now.
I always heard that in Germany Christmas shopping was
relegated to two weeks prior to the holiday. This sounds so appealing and there
is no sense repeating what we all whine about as we stand in line, with
Christmas specials in hand, in September. I am also reminded that Germans still
hang real lit candles on their trees (Yikes!) and believe their engineering is
actually superior.I owned two
Volkswagens that can dispute that claim.
In recent years I have made it mandatory to complete all my
shopping on line.The era when major
department stores ushered in Santa during the Thanksgiving Day Parade, and
doors opened to display the wonderment of the season, has long since passed. It
ended just a few years after Ralphie received his Red Rider BB rifle.
By the time Cyber Monday arrived my shopping was done, or so
I thought.
I was using my wife’s old laptop to type my blog and email
while sitting on my lay-z-boy each evening.She was much more tech savvy with her windows 8 laptop and her Android
tablet and kept insisting that I should invest in a newer model, not the 15
pound hand-me-down prototype I came to love.She almost convinced me when she explained that on the newer models the
screen was in color and you could read the display.
I continued to hold out, my cheapness keeping me in check,
until the inevitable happened.My
laptop fell to the ground and shattered into pieces, on Cyber Monday, as if
choreographed by my wife using some kind of laptop voodoo doll with special
powers.
My choice was to now decide if I would continue on, writing
on a desktop, two stories up and sitting on my wooden desk chair, or relax
with elevated feet and dozing off between paragraphs.
Napping and comfort won out, but the big bargain day was
coming to a close with only minutes away to secure the best deal.
On line madness began, eager to find a great bargain,
scanning internet pages faster than an over-caffeinated Kenyan marathon runner.
And then it happened. The best deal, within my budget, was sold out on each and
every site I searched.
Oh Cyber Monday, you just can't trust that day!
I was doomed, choices to be made now as to whether or
not climb a mountain of steps and continue to produce a blog read by 24 people
in the Ukraine or scrap the project for a Yuengling and a little sloth.
To my amazement we no longer have just one “Cyber Monday”
but extensions have been made creating a new normal shopping bonanza.We had a special two-day after Monday event
that has extended into Cyber Week and now, 10 days later, became Cyber Month
enabling me to snag a great deal at my local Best Buy.
I can now continue to entertain the Ukrainians’ from the
comfort of a well-worn sofa cushion, right after this short nap.
Well it has been over two weeks since my last post. I have been so busy with the holidays that
time got away.
It is now the Saturday after Thanksgiving and I sit here
with a major crisis to distract me. What color is today?
Yesterday was black Friday, the day before was
Thanksgiving that’s kinda brown-orange-yellowish. The day before was Gray
Wednesday, and the day before that was Light Gray Tuesday. Monday was Dark-White Monday. Last Sunday
was White Sunday; Saturday was Opaque Day, Friday was Clear Friday.
I have finally assigned a color name all the way
back to March 17th’s”Kelly Green” St Patrick’s Day.
I have decided to launch a diabolical plan to
stimulate the economy by assigning colors and names to each and every day
leading up to Christmas beginning on December 26th.
Just think of it, retailers will be so confused
they will have buyers camped out at their storefront each day for a 500 inch
flat screen or a girls-gone-wild Barbie.
Newspapers will deliver a daily 5-pound paper,
loaded with ads providing employment for the Printers union, delivery staff and
the Chiropractors who treat them. Advertising sales reps could move out of
their parents basements and earn a living.
Lawns will be perpetually adorned with balloon
Nativity Peanuts characters and Santa Scooby-Do's.
Inventory of canned pumpkin and cranberry sauce
would sell within their expiration dates, no longer found stuck in the “buy at
your own risk” aisle of the dollar store.
Malls and Big Box stores would always be crowded;
Manheim Steamroller tunes would dominate the airways, “It’s a Wonderful Life”
the only movie permitted to watch.
A marvelous plan if only everyone had a job to pay
for all of this.
It’s Thanksgiving week, be thankful if you do have
a job.
I avoid a personal Facebook page because I prefer not to
share with the planet my “like” for my Marie Ormond doll collection or that my
“favorite” television program was “Saturday Night Live with Howard Cosell”. No
one on this side of the Atlantic will understand my love for Pan flute Chinese
jazz. These revelations would produce a similar effect as when someone asks me
to play checkers and I want to turn the board over for backgammon. People just
back away very slowly.
I mention this because we all have developed many different
interests, and the reasons for such may be unknown but considered very strange
by others. Truthfully haven’t we all
viewed anothers' likes on a Facebook page and wondered “I really didn’t
know that about you…and it creeps me out”!
In all honesty, should we really care?
One of the benefits of aging is becoming more accepting and
less judgmental when it comes to just what tickles the fancy of those around
us. I may not agree with you
politically, spiritually or have any interest in what keeps you awake each day
but you are always welcome to sit down, open a Yuengling and tell me about it.
My father-in-law spent his entire career working for a major corporation that holds many technology patents and has received numerous defense, government & industrial contracts. He was directly involved in satellite launches and when someone asks, “does it take a rocket scientist to figure this out?” we defer the question to him. I won’t mention the name of the company but EVERYONE has heard of it. A few years ago he commented that the wireless technology in my little home router was similar to what was once used for early space & satellite transmissions. Think of it, we had men and women working in laboratories all across the globe communicating to the far reaches of outer space with something I can now pick up on Ebay for 5 bucks. Transmissions received from satellites hovering oodles of miles above the nosebleed rung on my aluminum ladder sends photos and videos of weather changes while allowing Google maps to view the location of my little backyard pear tree from orbiting craft. Voyager is still out there (God only knows where it resides in the heliosphere) and continues to send back data about unknown origins reminding us there is a whole lot of stuff we don’t know about.
http://voyager.jpl.nasa.gov/ At my little 3-story townhouse I too am equipped with some of the latest gadgets that Best Buy, Amazon, Ebay and Geeks-R-Us has to offer. There are computers, tablets, Internet radios and even a Roku, probably a minimal arsenal by most household standards, but nonetheless we try to stay somewhat current. All of this amazing science and yet Comcast cannot seem to get me a reasonable Internet connection! Why the heck not? We heard Neil Armstrong give his “one small step” speech from 225,000+ miles away and my Internet buffers while I am trying to watch cats cooking fish sticks on Youtube. Problems with technology has beset mankind ever since Clyde, the guy who invented the wheel came under fire for his square wheel prototype. All the other cave dwellers whined incessantly about the bumpy ride until Clyde realized a rounded piece of stone would provide a less painful experience. Wheels, fire and sharp tools were the technological order of the day.
Daily tech problems were not a serious concern during my youth. We may have had to share a phone with what was called a “party line”. My transistor radio required a frequent change of 9-volt batteries but late at night the airways were accessible and I could pick up a broadcast on my tiny AM radio all the way from Wheeling, West Virginia, from my bunk bed in Philly without interference. No buffering needed! Without a rooftop antenna, television reception sometimes demanded attaching wire hangers, aluminum foil or a family member had to hold the “rabbit ears” on top of the set while the others enjoyed the program. Whenever it was television day, we were all on our best behavior so as not to be the daily troublemaker whose penalty was relegated to antenna duty. There were a few blessings; with only three channels we had no Kardashians or afternoon Judge shows. The biggest problem we faced was trying to share one bathroom with eight people living in a three-bedroom city row house.
So just why is it so difficult to get faster and more consistent Internet from thirty vertical feet away? An even more puzzling question is “What is my hurry?” I can think way back to the origins of the Internet when you could take the family on a vacation to Disney World while waiting to download and print a few photos and we were excited in anticipation. Has increased net speed and “up-to-the-nanosecond CNN gotta have it first news” changed our behavior in such a way that we can’t even wait for the microwave to boil a cup of water without first causing our own patience to bubble over? In my neighborhood there is a traffic light that tests the sanity of all who approach. Residents submit letters to the editor about it in our local paper. The borough building has set up a special “hot-line” to take the complaint calls. Police dispatch teams in riot gear to the location to send angry townsfolk with torches and pitchforks home to calm down. I actually took a stopwatch to check out the great offender. The light takes a whole 38 seconds to change! The nerve of our municipality to expect us to endure this hardship. My impatience is certainly not a solo journey as I am in a huge majority; actually I observed that nowadays the “easy-does-it take-your-time crowd” is a minority so small they could demand constitutional rights. The rest of us honk horns, butt in line and run on high-octane caffeine.
I don’t know exactly how many fears exist, I am certain that
any book professing a complete listing has yet to meet everyone on the planet.
If you do a search for such a list you will probably chuckle
at some, shake your head in disbelief at others and possibly have compassion on
people who may be paralyzed by things you and I wouldn’t consider an issue.
I have often read that one of the top fears is public
speaking, ahead of spiders, Teflon and even death.
I have my own personal nail biters but being the center of
attention is not one of them, especially if fueled by a Yuengling lager. Bring on the lampshades.
I will reveal my all time greatest fear, entering a roomful
of only-women. No I do not fear women, my life overflows with them. Wife, daughter,daughter-in-law, mother-in-law, sisters, sister-in-laws, granddaughters, nieces, friends, neighbors and coworkers you name it they are
all around me and I love them all.
The gender itself is not the issue it’s when they all get
together in a room and a man enters, any man, and you can actually hear
something click in their mind and it goes like this: “a man just entered a
room, we are all having fun, we need to give him something to do”!
The equation is this:
Women having fun + man enters room = man works.
I am certain if George Clooney enters a roomful of women
they all say, “Wow, he’s really hot, now give him a tool belt and send him on
his way”.
Eventually they will say that.
In the 1980’s a new term, Courlophobia, was termed to
address an issue that many people had, namely the abnormal fear of clowns. I don’t understand why it took so long to
find a name for something that causes uneasiness in many people, after all
clowns have been around for a long time.
When I was a kid clowns were everywhere. I do not know why
it took a whole generation or two to decide that they were not good for
us. Clowns were to be loved. They did magic tricks, pratfalls, climbed
into tiny cars, had squirty flowers, they juggled, rode unicycles and had faces
painted with big red smiles, almost as much color as Aunt Esther’s lipstick.
Clowns had some really bad press in the past few
decades. Serial killers were party
clowns, killer clowns were the subjects of horror movies, and even Ronald
McDonald was getting a bad rap for promoting happy meals that contributed to
obesity in children.
My mother was a fan of the clown. She often told me that one of her favorite comedians, Red
Skelton, painted clowns. While still in
the womb my mother decided a paint-by-number clown picture would be just
perfect to adorn my nursery room.
Here it is for you to see.
I never thought it was harmful, he appeared so benign and
friendly but a family priest refused to enter my room without 1st
sprinkling with holy water and Sandy, the family mutt, my best friend and
protector, would cower and whimper next to my crib each night.
My wife convinced me to get rid of it after she swore she
saw his lips moving. I tried everything
but nothing seems to destroy it.
It is buried; face down, in a trunk in the backyard. It does
keep stray cats from digging in our garden.
I am not convinced that I suffer from Courlophobia, but
recently I was about to enter a local convenience store and was stopped short
of entering because of this sign:
Unicycles-Yikes!
There may be clowns in here.
I didn’t bring any holy water so I left.
BTW-Here is probably the 1st McDonald's commercial featuring future weatherman Willard Scott as Ronald.
This is the current, up to the second world population when I began the blog you are reading.The count is live and actively updating as I write. My humor is usually self-effacing.I often find this type of humor preferable over lampooning the foibles of others. The following is a code of humor that I strive to strictly follow:
·I am a moron and deserve to expose my idiocy to the world.
·There are 7,185,258,719 others on the planet who are just as dumb.
·If anyone does not realize they are equally as goofy, especially those in authority, or members of the Royal class, it will become my duty to inform them.
I normally do not like to comment on political correctness gone amok, especially while the latest blurb is the hot news item of the moment, but the nanny state police at the Weber Middle School in Port Washington, Long Island New York truly deserve an award for the most dumb*** decision of the year, possibly beating out any made by the King of Nonsensical, the nanny of New York City, the almost ex-mayor Bloomberg. That is a feat very hard to topple but they may have accomplished the task.
For those among us who do not follow the CNN news of the nano-second, the aforementioned school administration has decided to ban all but Nerf balls from the campus recess.
The web was all goosebumpy about the news. Political pundits could not lampoon the school administration enough.Parents of little children panicked wondering if this ban may cause a tsunami of new rules causing their little ones to become less active and more obese.
Lets face it; having a catch with a Nerf ball necessitates standing 4 inches apart.For crying out loud you can just hand the thing to one another.How fun is that?
People were calling the radio stations, Tweeting, Blogging, and E-mailing Congress. WHAT KIND OF STUPIDITY IS THIS?
Well gang, it appears the ban is only temporary.There is construction underway at the campus and there are safety and damage concerns.The ban will be lifted when construction is completed. But what about the children, what will they do?
We are talking middle school age kids here, 12 to 14 year olds, the “age of know-it-all brilliance” for youth and Purgatory for teachers until they can get a better assignment or win a lottery and escape the torture.
I was once a middle school kid at St. Attica’s, and so were my friends.I still recall those glory days and our own bad behavior.
Sorry Weber Middle School in Port Washington, Long Island New York. You did not qualify to overtake the mayor of New York for the most dumb*** decision of the year. Old Bloomy reigns supreme.
And your building is secure, for now.
While I blogged 11,437 new morons joined the planet.
Batman, the Caped
Crusader, the Dark Knight, yes I am a fan!
The fascination
began in early childhood.Friends read
Superman, Daredevil, Spider-man but not me, I was always loyal to the Bat.
It was not just
that Bruce Wayne was a disturbed wealthy vigilante fighting crime without any
real superpowers; it was all those gadgets and machines he owned. These really
reach deep into the psyche of all guys.We love toys and never grow out of it.Women don’t always understand this, but it is really true. Sorry ladies,
you will need to love us in spite of this flaw. We will always be just older
versions of our younger selves.
Our adult
playthings may develop into tools, cars, airplanes and various collections or
hobbies.
When I was a kid I
recall going bowling with my father and as we were leaving he gave me money to
make my own dinosaur in a machine called a Mold-A-Rama. For a small fee I could
select and produce a chosen creature and watch as it was being created in an
injection molding vending machine. (See link)
A few years’ ago I
watched a video about an upcoming technology, the 3D Printer. I am hooked but
it is out of my financial reach.Just today, while awaiting an eye appointment, I was interested in a
Readers Digest article about the possible future applications of 3D printing.
Yes making plastic parts and toys made sense, clothing and medical limbs were a little
unusual, but creating food seemed too futuristic.Printed edibles may make sense on the day we become cyborgs.
In the early days
of the cell phone, I had a sister who made a call from my driveway announcing
her arrival.The technology was the
size of a human thighbone with a battery pack as big as a steamer trunk.The 15-second phone call probably cost
about 11 bucks but it was new and attention getting.
I can only imagine
that the current price of a 3D burger would run around $400.
I’ll wait till I am
a cyborg.
Here is a video on 3D
technology.Go max out a credit card.
