Step aside Dear Abby

Gone are the days when even the simplest question, or bar bet, necessitated a drive to the library. One could spend hours searching through Dewey decimals, hopefully finding  the book or magazine you needed had not been checked out, then actually writing down your answer and head back home to complete a book report, or collect on a wager.

Now within nanoseconds the wisdom of the universe is as close as your keyboard.

The computer and the Internet is our “genie in a flat screen”, there to do our bidding on a whim. 

Knowledge surpassing the ancient library at Alexandria, or even the Vatican, and yet there exists a component of this wonderment containing a glitch preventing it from ever becoming our master, despite all the ominous sci-fi predictions (like HAL in 2001 Space Odyssey).

The fly in the ointment is in the delivery system, specifically the ISP, certainly not a “HAL”, more like the “Fredo” of the industry.

I have been on the Internet a long time, maybe even longer than AL Gore, and have tried almost every available service since the get-go.
  
Recent university graduates are favored never knowing the dial up days when you would begin downloading a photo, then take in a double feature, steak and "Bloomin’ Onion" at the Outback and return home just in time to grab the print as it was exiting the tray.

These were our salad days when we considered state of the art to be the “Hamster-Dance”.

The Internet becomes friendlier each day.  I only wish many of my ancestors could have lived to witness where this technological marvel has brought us. 

I believe that many of them would stand in awe the same way they had at the advent of radio, television, the toaster and the demise of the telephone party line.

With all that high speed and accumulating wiki-knowledge, I occasionally appreciate pushing myself away from the monitor just to get back in touch with my humanness. 

My human emotions surface the moment I dial my Internet Service Provider to discuss another puzzling incorrect billing statement; knowing full well I will be attempting a resolution using the greater part of a vacation day and a never-ending "please hold for a few moments" recording.

I keep calling my provider just because I have to wait a few extra hours for my newspaper’s website to load.  This is due, I am told, to our company's attempt to place 30-50 flashing, jumping, blinking, video-ads on the main page.
   
Hedge fund investors, accountants and ad reps that have pushed aside editorial integrity for advertising placement, now run newspapers.

Yes, I am no communist, I know it takes bucks to run a newspaper, even a digital one, but why can’t we just move all those jumping ads next to items no one under the age of 75 reads today; like Dear Abby, obits and the letters to the editor.

Newspaper handlers tend to salivate over any new idea that will propel them into appearing current and hip. They long for a piece of the youth market. These idealists are convinced that when the current batch of seniors finally move on, the current future octogenarians will have embraced digital publishing as their preferred choice for news and views.  Today's teens and hipsters, they believe, will be able to help them maintain a healthy on line customer base.

This all sounds ideal until the realization that today’s young’uns have little desire to follow something as boring as news on their smart phones.  Their choice goes even beyond what the elders call “social media” (i.e. what the parents and grannies do now that they finally left MySpace & AOL and got Facebooked).

Kids choices have moved light-years beyond to avoid the peering eyes of their helicopter parents.  Their one constant appears to be video gaming.  Youth of all ages still seem to embrace it.

My suggestion is that publishers rearrange ad placement elsewhere and make it interactive.  Program those annoying pop ups to become targets, just like an old video arcade game.

We all win. The youth will finally open a newspaper, Ad reps can truthfully convince business owners that someone is actually reading on line newspapers, and my only reason for contacting Comcast will be to complain about their billing.

Step aside Dear Abby; I am taking aim at an IKEA ad.

What's your set-point?

All around Pennsylvania I constantly see markings on autos, homes and sportswear touting affiliation as an alumni or parent of a Penn State’er.

Regardless of a very embarrassing recent history Penn State still instills a sense of pride among graduates. For many, the years spent there will be the best of their lives.

There is a set-point in everyone’s life that may be considered “our very best years”. This summer just sit by any group at a picnic and listen to the conversations.  For some it was their high school football team, for others their military service, college days, summer camp, beach vacations, Woodstock; you name it.

I never participated in that kind of talk, believing I have no desire to be lumped in with any group longing to be stuck in days gone by. Today and tomorrow have always proved the best for me.

Most people become frozen in a particular decade, even if they profess not. Choices in music, clothing and inflections in their conversation can be a give-away, but hairstyles can be the acid test to identify the truth.

As I travel around I still see some people sporting the ol’ flat-top, others the big hair from the 80’s. I occasionally find the classic “mullet”, after all I do live at the gateway of Pennsyltuckey.

As I mock others I realize what a hypocrite I am, if only my words matched my actions.

This epiphany came about just after my most recent haircut.

I learn to adapt well to most changes however, when I find a doctor, dentist or auto mechanic I like, I am loyal for life; that is until they usually retire, then I sit Shiva, mourning the loss.

The same goes for my barber. 

I have had 4 barbers in my life, coincidentally the exact same number as my primary physicians, dentists and auto mechanics.

After barber #3, I went on a frantic search for his replacement.  Wanting to support the locals, as much as possible, I came across what appeared to be a converted shed run by a 90 year-old country farmer who has but one style of cut to offer i.e. the old bowl placed on top of the head and let the trimming begin.

Since I wanted something a little more fashionable than the Moe Howard (and my hair somewhat resembles Larry Fine when overgrown) I continued searching until I landed on Vinnie, “Barber to the Mob”.

That same week I was searching, Vinnie turned on the barber pole and opened his door for business.  His establishment had a very unique décor.  Rather than the usual photos of hair styles to choose from, Vinnie covered the walls with movie photos of mobsters. 

Godfather, Goodfellas, The Sopranos, Robert Di Niro, George Raft and Joe Pesci reigned supreme.

Vinnie himself has a “mobster-like” voice right from central casting. Very friendly and affable, somewhere deep down you know you have to compliment the cut or else you envision Vinnie telling you that you could be “sleeping with the fishes”.

On every visit Vinnie asks my preference.  My response is always the same; “get rid of the Larry Fine, slight cut all around and make it appear as though I still have some hair. In other words do your best Mojo on me.

When the scissors clipped their last hair, and the big hand mirror is brought out to display the final result, I know I can count on looking like a throwback to the early 60’s; Larry Fine gone.

    

I now resemble Beaver Clever.

Well at least it is now summer and I can wear a Phillies hat for a few weeks until some hair grows back.

I would say something but I don’t want to disappoint Vinnie, or sleep with the fishes.

A car by any other name is still a lemon

Humorist Jean Shepherd once related a personal story to author/cartoonist Shel Silverstein about how he was constantly teased as a kid because of his very feminine sounding name.

Silverstein wrote music about a boy with a girl’s name and performed it at the home of a friend who took the song to California, performed it before a captive (literally) audience at a prison and thus in the early 1970’s “A Boy Named Sue” was born.  It became a huge hit for Johnny Cash who performed it live at San Quentin.

In the book of Genesis in the Bible, the story goes that Adam was given the task of naming all the animals. As a kid I understood that as not naming a giraffe by its species, rather, I thought Adam’s task was daunting as he had to give this giraffe the name “Fred” that giraffe “Ethel” and so on.

He could get woozy and pass out if he found a mound of ants.

When would he ever find time to “share that apple” with Eve?

No wonder they lived so long in the Old Testament.

I have a whole flock of females in my family whose names are so unique that I could never find an imprinted coffee mug at a mall kiosk to give to any of them as a gift.  Seriously my wife, daughter, daughter-in-law and all 5 granddaughters have “normal” sounding names but not common enough for the mass market.

Recently I did see an imprinted keychain with the name Keshandra. It was the last one on the rack

. 

There were others? Who could have thunk it?

I bring up the naming of things because I was curious as to a car commercial I saw about a Volkswagen product called the “Tiguan”.

I found that the crossover vehicle, Tiguan, is a name combining the “crossing-over” of two species, the Tiger and the Iguana.

Having been an owner of two models of “superior” German engineering, I will expect to see the Tiguan perform with the same reliability as my former vehicles. 

I would have to park them at the top of a steep hill so I could push-start those lemons in order be able to drive to my auto mechanic.

The microbus was once towed 11 times in 2 months.  My insurance agent warned me that I was about to become the 1^st person in the history of Nationwide Insurance to have his towing privileges revoked.

With my luck with the folks at volks, if I were to purchase a Tiguan I would have to change the name.

How about “money-pit”?

Cool Hand Fangs

I comment quite often on food issues, after all like many people, eating has become almost an obsession for me. I could just as easily have kept or acquired many other vices to help ease me over life's little hurdles but food provides an endless amount of choices, is readily available, it's legal, injures no others and it provides comfort; thus the name “comfort food”.
Who ever heard of comfort beer?

I always mentioned my on going battle to win the personal war over girth, but another strange twist came to my attention recently whenever I frequent the local hipster-markets (Trader Joe's & Whole Foods), namely the war going on in my shopping cart at the check out line.

I never realized that not all foods in my basket love one other, actually the check out hipster request that I place some my choices in separate bags, almost like battling siblings being ordered into separate corners of a house by a frustrated mother.

They never seem to explain just why I should choose to have my meats placed in their own canvass bag away from all my other choices but I listen very carefully on each ride home and have yet to hear any commotion between a chicken leg and a can of beans.

I think their screwing with me. They have no other hobbies since no one seems to be “occupying” anyplace at this time.

We all know those hollow leggers who eat all day without remorse. There are no food battles for them.

I have one in particular in my own family, my brother Johnny Fangs.

I can devote volumes to his legacy of consumption but the story I have today is one minor episode in the life of Gobzilla, (the monster who devours gobs and gobs of food hourly).

I thought about Johnny yesterday while watching a Paul Newman movie.

We were kids both away at summer camp and the movie everyone was talking about was “Cool Hand Luke”. There is that memorable scene where Luke (Paul Newman) devours 50 hard boiled eggs on a wager placed by the other chain gang inmates to help pass the time.

I was telling the other campers about Johnny's accomplishments and of course there were many doubters. If they had only noticed that he regularly returned in line for 3^rd 4^th and 5^th helpings they would have saved a few camp dollars when the wagers were placed.

This time it was pancakes.

I lived with him, I new his culinary skill set and to consume 50 pancakes in an hour while washing it all down with a few gallons of milk would be child's play for him.

We were both ready to earn some serious camp bucks.

As the clock ticked away there he was proudly pouring syrup all over his conquest, downing glass after glass of milk with the ease of that skinny Asian hot dog eating champion kid.

Fifty was certainly a stretch but after one hour there he lay on the ground, his big old smile covered in stickiness, wearing a milk mustache holding a fistful of camp dollars and asking if he could get a doggy bag to take back to the cabin.

The rest of us hurled pancakes like Frisbees in a big food fight.
Cool Hand Fangs, the legend continues.

You can go home again.

The Australian journalist Ella Winter once said to Thomas Wolfe “Don’t you know you can’t go home again”. Of course he used that title and the quote is often mistakenly attributed to him.

Obviously today’s Baby-Boomers (along with their Gen-x’ers, Millenniums, Gen y’s and maybe z’s etc) have not paid attention and are beginning to intrude on the living quarters of both the Greatest & Silent Generations as today’s economy, unemployment and daily hardships force the sharing of home, hearth and video games again.

Multi-generational boomer-angers and all those prune juicers together under one roof should prove challenging.

I have heard that there are as much as 90 + million Americans either unemployed or underemployed, and the hope and change promised just a few short years’ ago never actually materialized, with facts and figures shrouded in nothing more than the slick tongues of snake oil salesman.

There is an uneasiness that seems to permeate the spirits of today’s citizens, who for decades believed in the American dream. 

This dream should never waiver; we have sailed through these rough waters before, and can do so once again, when we realize that we truly are the greatest nation on earth.

Immigrants continue to climb walls and dodge bullets to get here, much like many of our ancestors.

And don't forget the men and women who continue to fight for this dream on battlefields.

Yes, in many ways we can go home again.

The answers are out there, and we have 300 million voices that can contribute to the solution.

And a little prayer wouldn’t hurt.

 

 

 

He is Risen 

Happy Easter

Poppy Fat Camp, pass the Tang please.

We had been invited to spend a weekend babysitting for our toddler granddaughters (twin 2 year olds and another who just turned 1).

How hard could this be? We witnessed our daughter manage these cuties and run a household with ease and organization, and after all she is a product of our superior genes, and these southern belles are so sweet how could we refuse.

As soon as the date for her mini vacation with her husband was set, our train tickets were purchased and the anticipation was underway.

We were confident in being able to handle this assignment easily as we just knew that two seasoned professionals could certainly overcome any parenting obstacles our daughter had to endure with ease.

Tag-team grand parenting should allow us ample time to relax, at days end, fulfilled in the knowledge that two-and-a-half tots were no match for such brilliance.

Realities became apparent almost immediately the moment the parents loaded the car and waved adios:

1. It had been decades since we were the youthful, barely-legal parents of tots and now we had been commissioned for duty for an entire weekend.

2. There were 3 of them.

Yes, coordinating the daily life of two and a half tots can be an eye opener, and gathering them together for activities can be like herding kittens, at any moment they are in different stages of dress/undress, toy preferences changing by the second, food etiquette soars out the window, diapers are constant.

By evenings end when bath and bedtime were finally accomplished (it would take paragraphs to describe that adventure each night), and household cleanup was finalized,there was just enough energy left to find a pillow and crash.

It is a great workout if you are trying to lose weight. By bedtime your body knows it’s been really busy. I called it “Poppy Fat Camp” and highly recommend it to those “Biggest Loser” style television programs. Run after a flock of toddlers for a few months and watch the fat melt rapidly.

In the movie “Groundhog Day” there was a recurring scene where Bill Murray would awaken each morning at the exact time, having to endure the same daily scenario until he made right events in his life needing correction.

It was a little like that!

Truth be told by day three the tots finally had conditioned us to be aligned with their orbit and we survived, eventually getting it just right and ready to tackle the task again when asked.

Just maybe not when they are teenagers.

The Train Trip

As always, I need to comment on Amtrak’s Carolinian train travel.

Heading south the train was ½ hour late arriving in Philly. By the time we reached Greensboro that amplified into 90 minutes.  When delays occur you can usually hear rumblings in the seats requesting updates from the staff. 

Having spent years in the printing and publishing industry I know it is futile to ever get the strait scoop for any delay.

Just like printers, train staffs are experienced in explaining away encountered problems in a way a passenger can understand.

“Sorry sir, we had a family of rabid raccoons on the tracks near Raleigh and had to wait until Amtrak animal control could arrive and safely remove them”.

Still I would rather be a little late riding the rails then circling above airports or sitting for hours on a tarmac, at least without being heavily imbibed.

It was nice to see the Washington Monument finally restored and the “erector set” that surrounded it during restoration removed.

One curious observation I noticed in Virginia was a man having to stand outside his place of business for a smoke break.

He worked at a cigarette wholesale warehouse.

I believe that if you work in the capital of tobacco, and in a related field, it should be mandatory to smoke indoors. You should not even be allowed to hire a non-smoker.

The smoke police have way too much power (and I am an ex-smoker, 20 years).

My boss, Joseph A. Carter, commented, “Virginia is for lovers, not smokers”.

The Astronaut Wife

If you were alive during the early days of the space race, or if you ever visit the Air and Space Museum, or viewed online, you will see the capsules used during the early Mercury, Gemini and Apollo programs.

These are quite constraining and would have any claustrophobic running for the Ativan just by taking a peek inside.

My wife would have been an ideal candidate for an astronaut.

Not only can she sit in the confines of a train seat surrounded by numerous bags (2 carry on limit, she smuggled in another 8 or 9), she can actually sit at a 90 degree angle and somehow stretch her arms to reach the floor and under the seat in front of her (like some kind of DC Comics Radioactive freakazoid heroine) to retrieve a PB and J sandwich stored in her lunchbox.

I can just imagine the other astronauts asking her “could you pass the TANG please”?

Overall it was a great trip, and look forward to going again.

Can't slay this dragon

Growing up in a very Catholic neighborhood large families were a reality.

We had six kids but I had relatives and friends with many more, the maximum that I was aware was 14, and not the blended “Brady-bunch” kind, all flesh and blood.

It is possible that one explanation was the infamous “rhythm-method” where periodic abstinence was touted as the alternative to carnal desires and artificial birth control methods were considered evil.

Forbidden fruit has been the downfall of mankind since day one. The bishops should have known better, or possibly there was a “Master Plan”, keep it on the down low so the laity will keep filling the pews and the clergy will always have jobs!

We had decided to settle on a smaller brood, (2 max) but looking back this was a big mistake.

If I could commandeer a way-back machine, and start afresh, I would certainly make every effort to convince the Mrs. of the benefits of a large family. I would wish to hold a record so large it bumps the 5:15 pm dog story on local television news each evening.

I know there still exist 1960’s hippie types who will lecture me about over-population, the survival of the planet and then start finger wagging at my own selfishness.

I will admit there is a very personal reason for my desire, but I truly believe a larger family is crucial to survival, mine!

All men in a committed for life relationship should properly plan that he move-on beyond this earthly existence at just the right moment, namely when you finally place the belongings of the last of the brood on the front lawn with a “see ya around sometime” note attached.

When the last of the loin-produced leave, plan to be at least 90 years old or more. Make that family really big!

And you wonder why I say this?

The dream of the empty nest and the joy of discovering each other anew again are certainly not based in any reality.

What occurs when that final little bird sprouts wings and moves on is an almost immediate discovery that when something happens around the house a dragoness awakens, breathing fire, wagging her spiky tail and ready to pounce on the one who did something wrong.

Without a kid around to blame, that would be me!

Not only do you have to start denying everything (“I didn’t break it, it was probably an earthquake”) you also get hourly life-lessons, those little moments (usually when you’re napping), where the dragoness has a show-and-tell explaining the correct way to load a dishwasher, close a zip lock bag, or demonstrate how to properly fold everything.

Without kid distractions, and having too many available moments for thought, honey-do lists grow to epic proportions.

They usually pertain to repairs that require a real contractor (and big $) and not you and your little Phillips-head screwdriver and a how-to video on youtube.

You cannot even think about retreating to the safety of a man-cave. If you had no privacy with a house full of teens, constant hands outstretched awaiting car keys and cash, you have no hope hiding from an angry dragoness.

My suggestion is try bringing home a puppy.

You can relax on the lay-z-boy, point to the hound and claim, “it wasn’t me who ate those cookies” it was the pooch!

Just be certain you wiped off your mouth first.

P.S. No dragoness was injured during the making of this blog.  

Patapalooza

When I was ten years old I formed a harmonica club with two other neighborhood kids, Manny "the Deli" Feinstein and Willie “no-fangs” Fong.  Growing up in a predominantly Irish-Italian neighborhood there was a Pizzeria and Hoagie/Steak shop on just about every corner, run (of course) by Italians.  If you wanted great food you frequented them and would never want to rely on good old Irish cuisine (ever try a corned beef and cabbage on soda bread?).

Manny, on the other hand, introduced another touch of world delight, the Kosher Hoagie.

On Saturday mornings, when the club would meet, he brought along a Kosher delight for himself and took pre-orders for others that he sold for a quarter each.
Thus the handle "the Deli". 

He convinced his mother that he really needed all this food as he was famished by the time practice ended.  His mother, not suspecting a ruse, was more than happy to make a few extra but eventually she took Manny to the doctor worried that he had a digestive tape worm because he claimed starvation, had been overindulging on Kosher Hoagies, but never gained any weight.

Eventually he had to fess up, and the supply ended much to the joy of the Italians.

Manny and I were on the same level as harp players, we conquered “Hot Cross Buns” and were now ready to tackle something a little more challenging.

Willie “no-fangs” Fong was a really fun kid to have hanging around.  He lost his two front teeth in normal fashion, but they never seemed to grow back.  He loved the harmonica, and played with all the heart of his idol, Little Stevie Wonder. He had only two roadblocks to becoming an outstanding performer, he was totally tone-deaf and he never understood that each hole in the instrument had a blow and draw note. 

Willie only knew how to blow, and blow he did.

We liked him a lot so he hung with us and we somehow worked around his dysfunction.

After a few months of meetings we were invited to play before an actual audience. 

The local youth club was having a talent show and asked if we would perform a song.

At our next meeting we agreed to play “Moon River” a current top 40 hit by Andy Williams. Although still at the elementary level, we were confident, that with just a little practice, we would be able to tackle this because we already progressed through “Row-Row-Row Your Boat” and “Three Blind Mice”and we would not have to bend any notes like a real blues player.

“Moon River” seemed like a safe bet.

The result was 3 kids with lots of heart who needed much more practice. 
Somehow Willie Fong sounded better than his two semi-pro partners.  It was a very funny performance, or so the audience believed.

Willie Fong was so delighted that he couldn’t stop bowing.

I bring up this story, as it was my 1^st real experience performing before a live audience.

 

Three years’ prior I was to play a part in a school play and I bolted right before the 1^st act.  No I did not get cold feet!  Sister Cecilia B. DeMille insisted I have makeup applied before going on stage.  I refused and returned to a seat next to my parents.  My mother was horrified that I quit but when I told my father of my rebellion, he smiled, knowingly, and I gained a powerful ally.

I wasn’t gonna be a second-grade sissy wearing lipstick. I would have had to spend the next month fighting my way through the neighborhood.

Now we finally get to St. Patrick’s Day.

As I mentioned, our neighborhood was predominantly mixed, if you consider almost exclusively Irish and Italian Catholic residents a total composite of American life.

The wealthy Italians (the Pizzeria owners) had their own elementary school, St. Joseph Pesci, just up the block from our school. St. Attica’s.

At St. A’s March 17^th was almost a holy day of obligation (the “Pesci’s had Columbus Day).

I never really shared all the enthusiasm as some of my school friends as I was a half breed, ½ Irish (Mom) and ½ German (Dad) with a little Lenape Indian thrown in.

My school chums were mostly 1^st and second generation Irish-Americans. 

My ancestors arrived in the early wave of the potato famines and settled in the Pennsylvania coal towns of Schuylkill County. My elders never spoke of the "old country". Their memories were of 6 year old mine workers and the Molly Maguire's. 

I was so clueless about my heritage I couldn’t understand why people emigrated because they had no Irish potatoes, after all, man does not live by coconut, sugar and cinnamon alone.

By now I enjoyed singing, having been enlisted into the all-boy parish choir.  A few of my choir friends asked that I join them in forming a quartet to perform Irish songs at the “Patapalooza” talent show, the grand finale of the day’s activities.

They needed me because they were still boy-soprano’s and my puberty arrived earlier leaving me to become a squeaky alto.

Until testosterone eventually fine-tuned my vocals I was now the Willie Fong of the St. A’s “Patapalooza Extravaganza”.

The parish took Patapalooza practice with all the seriousness of a Russian Olympic Ice Hockey team.  We even had a former professional voice coach brought in, Sister Rose Kathleen Sinead Seamus Shannon O’ Malley, directly from County Cork.

Sister O worked us like dogs.

We got to skip classes prior to the show to practice-practice-practice. We had a repertoire of about 6 songs and even today I can sing each from memory as the themes were all identical; mother, homeland and death.

The show went as expected, every act was a hit, the audience (filled with Guinness and Irish Potatoes) enthusiastically applauded and I was certain to take a bow like Willie Fong.

Afterwards the family went to Gadaletta’s for Pizza.

The Irish say that on March 17^th, everyone is Irish so wear something green, enjoy the day, sing “Danny Boy” and be sure to take a bow like Willie Fong.

Then order a pizza.

Watch out Drones!

James Thurber, in his 1933 classic “My Life and Hard Times” speaks of his Grandmother’s horrible suspicion that electricity was dripping invisibly all over the house. 

As Mr. Thurber explains: "It leaked, she contended, out of the empty sockets if the wall switch had been left on. 

She would go around screwing in bulbs, and if they lighted up she would hastily and fearfully turn off the wall switch and go back to her reading. 

Happy in the satisfaction that she had stopped not only a costly but a dangerous leakage".

Fast forward to 2014 when the Mrs. Jay Gerard is in constant apprehension of internet “Peeping Toms” and spends an inordinate amount of shoe leather running a muck fastening index cards to any technology containing an available camera. She also believes Windows 8 allows the microphone in her laptop to listen-in on all her conversations, even when shut down and stored 3 stories up.

As I write she has blackened all household window panes and is using a screw gun to secure particle board as additional cover-up to prevent predator drones from gaining ground . She has littered the house with aluminum-foil hats too!

I haven’t the heart to tell her Spookya Radio recently had a discussion regarding hidden spy cameras in flat screen televisions.  If I do I can expect walls covered with 30 gallon trash bags.

I am just not as frightened as others when it comes to thinking that there may be forces out there who wish to use today's technology to catalog my daily routine for future manipulations.

First, I am somewhat flattered as I could never imagine that my boring life could be of interest to anyone. Heck I don’t even want to think about it and I gotta live in it.

Second, I am way too lazy to spend time taking all these precautions. If it’s money they seek, good luck, if it’s photos, again good luck.

My wife and kids called me “Mr. Gadget” as my love for technology, especially what may be on the horizon, has always been an interest. This is why Batman has always been my geek super hero of choice.

Jack Nicholson’s “Joker” in the movie jealously lamented “Where does he get all those toys”?

As much as I do like toys, I always resisted upgrading to a smart phone.   

Phone conversations are not my preferred method of communication. Face-to-face, then Skype are surely better. I do like texting as I can keep phone conversations to a minimum and found this to be a preferred method of communication by many people today.

Well this week I was issued a new company phone by my newspaper, a Samsung Galaxy 4 and I am not only elated, I am totally sold.

My new toys of choice are the apps, I can’t seem to get enough. It is as if I can now discard a whole table full of technology and carry my life everywhere in one convenient little rectangle. 

And I don’t have to be a twelve-year-old girl to read the display or work the keyboard. It is adult-friendly!

I am now Batman in my own home. I was awaiting my wife to play the part of the Joker and jealously lament “where does he get all those toys”?

Instead I found it today on a table, index cards fastened securely and wrapped in aluminum foil.

Watch out drones...she knows you're out there and she's coming after you next!

Bill's #1

Bill Gates is number one again!

I just heard the headline of the day that Bill just regained his title as the richest man in America.

Seventy-six billion and not only the richest but also along with his spouse, Melinda, are quite the philanthropists.

Here is the official "real wealth" pecking order:

1. God

2. The Pope

3. Dysfunctional British Royalty

4. The owner of Dubai

5. Bill Gates

6. Some other rich guys

7. Oprah

8. Gay Guys

9. Everyone else on the planet

10. Me

When I heard the news today that Bill Gates regained his title I was passing by a Dunkin Donuts, one of the few businesses that causes me to irk when I see their “tip jar “for the service provided; wrangling a jelly donut, placing it in a bag and handing the contents to me expecting favor.

Look I am all for the “little-guy”, my heart goes out for those who take lower wages but provide excellent service in order to come close to a possible “living wage”. I tend to over-tip for real service and I wonder just what those in the pecking order would leave in a Dunkin Donuts tip jar for a jelly donut.

God-eternal life (not too shabby) and a Mc Donald’s French fry coupon.

The Pope-The new guy, Frankie, seems to favor the common folk so I would suspect he would leave a shiny quarter. He doesn’t have the same power as his boss, no eternal life, but he could give you a little blessing or a hearty handshake.

Dysfunctional British Royalty-Tip for what? We thought jelly donuts just appeared from the air.

The owner of Dubai-watch closely as he may have his hand in the jar.

Bill Gates-well he has a philanthropic streak. He would probably be very generous.  I hear that he has been known to leave thousands for a hamburger, pizza delivery and paperboys and millions for bloggers who suck up and speak very kindly of him (jaygerardtoday.blogspot.com).

Some other rich guys-Nothing. “How do you think we got so rich”

Oprah-Give the entire store-staff a car and trip to Disney world.

Gay Guys-I am not certain they ever eat jelly donuts.

Everyone else on the planet-look away and pretend the jar does not exist.

Me-I would be removing any pennies to make exact change.

Blow America

I promise you, dear readers, that eventually I will refrain from talking about this year’s Pennsylvania winter, but again it is truly the major topic of conversation.

We are about 48 hours away from another massive storm now brewing in the Pacific and it is racing eastward ho across America about to dump another estimated 12 inches plus on our head.

Local municipalities have exhausted road-salt supplies. Home Depot has begun digging a moat around the garden center to keep at bay the crowds of customers vying for the last few available bags on a pallet.

Trusting that prayers to the Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes may provide relief, a local order of Nuns began selling St. Jude metals.

My daughter and son-in-law feel so bad we are dealing with all this they have generously offered to fly in and support an army of snow shoveler’s from Costa Rica and have then set up a tent city in our backyard for the duration of the season.

I was hoping for an in-law suite in North Carolina but they’re too smart for me.

Our Media Publishing Company had a contest for their employees. I entered in the hope of winning the grand prize; Circus tickets for my local grandgirls.

The contest was to describe your most favorite winter memories and what snow activities you found appealing.

There was the usual gag-provoking and nauseating cast of characters:

“I just love taking my family on a long walk wearing our snow-shoes”

“I enjoy building igloos for all the neighborhood orphans”

“We all go sledding from sun-up to sunset on dead man’s hill then cozy up in front of our fireplace with hot cocoa”

And on and on it went.

There must have been dozens and dozens of entries just like that.

Yours truly, the “contrarian”, submitted the following:

My favorite winter memory knows that spring and summer is just around the corner.  What I enjoy most after a snowfall is to sit back in my laz-y-boy with a nice cup of coffee and watch the bright sun melt all of that horrid white stuff.

The contest ended but unfortunately the Circus tickets were no longer available and the grand prize was 4 Harlem Globetrotter tickets.

I will be going in March.

I do believe that just cursing the darkness is pointless, I always find a candle to light.

I have a possible solution to ward off the impending doom now marching eastward from the left coast.

If EVERYONE in America, and I truly mean us all will go outside on March 1^st at noon (Eastern time), take a real deep breath and blow really hard towards California maybe we can somehow push back the storm.

   

We will be as one, united against the elements.

Like “Hands across America” from 1986.

We can call it “America Blows 2014”.

We may even request help from our allies in Europe, a kind of payback for WW2.

Hawaii, please stand down as your assistance would be counter-productive.

Now start huffing and puffing please.

American Blowers-When you are finished moving the elements check out the Harp Players tab to see some of the greatest Harmonica players past and present. I am updating and adding great harp blowers.  Click on and enjoy!