And the winner is ...

Competition, to be meaningful, must be between or among equals.  That's why in sports competitors are segregated by such things as gender, age, weight, skill level.

While watching the Oscars last night, I noted the same is true there -- directors do not compete against cinematographers, nor do set designers compete with costume designers.  In most categories, however, gender plays no part.  Both women and men were nominated for film editing and art direction and sound editing.

So, why are there separate Oscar categories for male and female actors?   What is the difference between an acting performance by Colin Firth and one by Natalie Portman?

On a personal note

Well, not only am I a senior citizen on social security, I'm am now an official retiree.  Last working day was Friday. 

And it was a great party!  Lots of people came, and I appreciate all their good wishes.  In lieu of gifts, we said if people felt like they wanted to do something, they could make a donation to Paws with a Cause.  Obviously I have very generous friends, because we collected $650 for that charity.  I am mighty thankful to all.

The highlight of the evening, though, was the barbershop quartet, four members of the Capital City Chordsmen, who entertained us with several numbers.  My family in Wisconsin, including my barbershop-singing brother, couldn't make it to the party, so they sent these guys instead, and they were great.

In the days and weeks ahead I will be concentrating on discovering if retirement is all it's cracked up to be.  So far so good.

Inquiring minds want to know

Today is the birthday of Samuel Pepys (1633-1703), an Englishman most famous for keeping a diary during the 1660's. The subject matter ranges from very personal matters (such as his bodily functions and his wife's periods) to observation and commentary on social and political events of the day. Since he kept said diary during the period of the Restoration of the Stuarts, there was plenty to observe and comment upon.

But what is really, really fascinating about this guy is that his last name is pronounced "Peeps."

How do you get Peeps out of Pepys?

Well, think back to my discussion of "mum's the word" in which I pointed out that in the 15th-century our lyppis were sealed, but by the time we got to Shakespeare, it was our lips that didn't move. There are many words from Middle English that end in -is and -ys that end up as plain old -s as time goes by.

But it's still real weird.  I think that English scholars perpetuate the practice of pronouncing it Peeps just so they can feel superior to the people who pronounce it like it looks.  At least no reader of my blog will ever make that mistake.

Happy birthday, Mr. Pepys.  Goodbye, Mr. Chippys.

Guests and fish and pink

All right, enough with the pink already.

It was the Susan G. Komen folks who started the pink ribbon, and now the ribbon and the color have been adopted internationally as a symbol for breast cancer awareness.  Well, cool. I am all for anything that raises awareness since my partner and I are both breast cancer survivors. 

But now the Women's Basketball Coaches Association is sponsoring what they call the Pink Zone to raise awareness, and for ten days or so in February, women's college teams are taking to the court in pink. Did I say pink? I meant PINK.

NFL and MLB and NBA players and coaches adding pink shoes or a pink headband or a little pink trim on a cap -- that's one thing. But these completely pink uniforms some of the teams are wearing put it way over the top.

Somebody needs to mention to Illinois that the orange numbers on their pink suits was a distinctly ghastly choice. Orange and Pepto-Bismol are not on the same color wheel.

Go Green, Go White (and I don't mean snow)

See? I said I wasn’t getting my hopes up. We had another 10 inches of snow again by this morning.

I feel like I spent most of the weekend watching basketball games. Both Michigan State’s teams won. Life is sweet. The women’s team is on top of the Big Ten (which has 11 and will soon have 12 teams in it). That program has done very well of late, and people are appreciating what the players and Suzy Merchant have done. They sold out the Breslin center for their most recent home game.

Haven't been to a game in a long time.  I'd hate to start now -- I'd look like a fair-weather friend.  The women used to play in the women’s IM building, a cozy little gym, but even then it was empty. I was astounded when they moved them to the Bres – capacity of about 14,000. There would be 300 people there. You could hear the players talking to each other on the court, and the loudest noise was sneaker squeaks. The biggest crowd for a women’s basketball game at the Bres was always when Ohio State came to town. Their fans outnumbered us.

But I'm very glad to see this trend. Maybe it just took Title IX a while to get to East Lansing.

If winter comes ... and goes

I start dreading winter the day after the summer solstice, because I know the days are going to grow shorter and the temperatures will eventually get colder and the precipitation will come in the form of snow.  In Bleak December I perk up a little bit on the 22nd (or thereabouts) when the trend reverses itself in minute increments.

We missed the January thaw this year, so we're having it now in late February.  I refuse to get my hopes up that it's over.  Some of the most annoying snow storms I've experienced were in April.  So there is going to be more winter weather, more cold temperatures, more snow, and lingering seasonal depression on my part for a while at least. 

But hope springs eternal.  Right now all the snow that wasn't piled in 10-foot mounds has melted.  And that has yielded this harbinger of things to come:  my tiny dog went out on the deck, down the stairs, and onto the grass to do her thing this morning.

If your dog pees on the grass, can spring be far behind?

Elementary

I have always liked "Jeopardy!" -- even the old original day-time show hosted by Art Fleming ("Thank you, Don Pardo!") when the dollar values in the first round ranged from $10 to $50 (compared with $200 to $1000 today). I watch it often.

But now they've gone too far.  They are asking me to witness two formidable former champions get the living crap beat out of them by an IBM computer named Watson.

It is impressive that the computer can parse the clues and come up with a correct response (I'd say 95% of the time), but the reason it is winning is that it can do it in nanoseconds.  He rings in before the humans can even send the message to their thumbs to press the button.

When Watson gets it wrong, however, it misses big. "Final Jeopardy" was not the computer's finest hour. The category was American Cities, and the clue was:

"Its largest airport is named for a WWII hero. Its second largest for a WWII battle."

Ken Jennings and Brad Rutter and I knew the answer is Chicago -- O'Hare is named for pilot Butch O'Hare, Midway is named after the Pacific battle.  Watson's answer:  Toronto.

Hello? The category is American cities. 

OK, yes, there are four American towns named Toronto -- in Ohio, Iowa, South Dakota, and Kansas. I'd be surprised if any of those places has even one commercial airport, much less two.

The players get 30 seconds for Final Jeopardy.  Maybe they should program Watson not to think too hard or too long.

It all comes back eventually

Through the miracle of Facebook, I got in touch this weekend with somebody I went to college with 45 years ago and haven't seen or talked to in 43 years.

Seemingly unrelated to that:  for a very, very long time I have been trying to remember what they called those heavy wool jackets that were cut like flannel shirts complete with breast pockets with flaps.  Very popular in the mid-1960's, they were.  It was three initials, but I couldn't remember which three, and it would drive me nuts every now and then trying to remember.

Just moments ago while I was reading an email message from this old friend, it came to me:  they were called CPO Jackets.  I had a brown one.  Probably it was the only piece of brown clothing I've ever owned.  I would have preferred a plaid one, because I generally don't do brown, and plaid is one of my favorite colors.  The brown one probably was on sale.  I was a poor college student then.

Now, the really amazing part is the connection -- and there has to be one -- between hearing from somebody after 40+ years and suddenly remembering what those jackets were called.  She was from the same time in my life as that jacket.

Ain't it simply astounding the way the mind works?

According to what I see on the Internet, CPO Jackets are now considered "vintage."  Yeah, well, so am I, I guess.

It's a this and that kind of a day

I noticed this morning when leaving for work that it was actually starting to get light out, which means the days are lengthening and carrying me toward spring and warmer weather. O be joyful!

And speaking of which, maybe it's the cold and snow that has prevented some people from taking down their Christmas lights, but what I don't understand is -- why do they keep turning them on at night? Why advertise what a delinquent you are?

Congratulations to my main man Draymond Green of MSU who scored a triple-double last night in the game against Penn State.

After my facetious comment about changing my birthday the other day, I heard from loyal reader Kristin M. of Rochester, MN (yes, my niece) that she and her husband have decided to change their wedding anniversary from the end of May to the end of August to avoid medical mishaps. Don't ask. I didn't.

Did I say in a previous post that I am an official senior citizen? Well, it's really, really true. My first Social Security check was direct-deposited into the bank account on Wednesday. Look out, Value City -- here I come!

If you think I'm kidding, undeceive yourself

You only go there once a year, so when you show up for your appointment, some little assistant takes you into some little room and, armed with a folder full of papers that are all about you, starts with the questions.

Do you still live on Smith Street? Yes.
Is your phone number the same? Yes.
Do you still work for Acme Apex? Yes
Any changes to your insurance? No.
Do you still take a multi-vitamin every day? Yes.
Is your birthday still November the first? What?  Uh, no -- I changed it to the Fourth of July.

I know what you're thinking, but I'm telling you:  I do not make this stuff up.

Monday, Monday ... so good to me

Almost everybody hates Mondays, I guess, except maybe The Mamas and The Papas.

For years I have suffered from the old Sunday-night-I-don’t-want-to-go-to-bed-because-then-I’ll-have-to-get-up-in-the-morning-and-go-to-work Blues.

However, I am going to be a retired person very soon, so that malady will afflict me no more. Today, in fact, is the antepenultimate Monday of my working life.

This retirement gig is great. Not only do I have only two more Mondays on which I’ll have to get up and come to work, it also affords me the opportunity to use antepenultimate, which I haven’t used in a sentence since my last term paper.

Scout's Honor

I just ordered Girl Scout cookies from a co-worker’s daughter who is a Brownie Scout. 

I was a Scout. I started as a Brownie Scout in the third grade. I know it was the third grade because I remember the first time I wore my brown Brownie uniform to school on the day of our troop meeting.  The uniform included a brown felt hat (sort of like a beanie sans propeller) that was bobby-pinned to my hair, and I distinctly remember asking my third-grade teacher – the alliterative Wilma W. Watkins – if it was all right for us to keep our hats on during class. She said it was.

I said “us” because there were several of my troop-mates in my class, including Kathy Kelly, at whose house the meetings were held.  Her mother was the assistant troop leader. Our leader's name escapes me just now, but I remember that she was British – a war bride, I think – and it was fun to listen to her talk. It was especially amusing to hear her call us “gells.”  I don't know why the meetings weren't at her house.

After a year or two, I flew up to Girl Scout. It was quite the solemn ceremony. We wore our new green Girl Scout uniforms for that.  I see from their web site that Brownies still fly up, except they only fly as far as Girl Scout Junior now. There’s another grade, Cadette, before they get to be Senior Girl Scouts. Perhaps they sell more uniforms that way. I do notice with a serious twinge of wistful regret that the uniforms now come in versions with pants instead of just skirts.

I must have stayed in Scouting at least until the sixth grade, because it was the summer between the fifth and sixth grades that I went to Girl Scout Camp at Rice Lake in Wisconsin. The worst two weeks of my life.

I support the Girl Scouts not just for old times' sake but also because I love the shortbread cookies and the Thin Mints.  (Who doesn't like the Thin Mints?)  So I ordered two boxes of each. That’ll be $14.

When I was selling them, a box of Girl Scout cookies was 50 cents. And the box was bigger.

Mm-mm good, mm-mm good, that's what loyal friends are

Earlier today in reassuring a friend that her secret was safe with me, I actually said in an e-mail, “Mum’s the word.” An odd expression anyway, but it looks funnier in writing even than it sounds. So, of course, I had to look it up and see if I could find out exactly why the word is mum.

Shakespeare gets some credit, from Henry VI, Part 2: “Seal up your lips and give no words but mum."

But the real origin is said to be from one of the Towneley Plays about 100 years earlier in which is found: “Though thi lyppis be stokyn, yit myght thou say ‘mum’”.

It is thought that “mum” actually referred to “mmm,” as in humming. The reference to lips in both quotations gives some credence to that notion, I think, since humming requires the lips to be pressed together, making speech impossible.

Oh – and the Towneley Plays are English mystery plays (a series of 32 of them, no less) of the 15th Century. These are based on Bible stories and include tableaux and singing (probably including Gregorian chants) and recitations. They were very popular in Medieval churches, meant to edify and entertain the faithful all at the same time.

See where one question can lead you?

And after all that, I am feeling like a really noble friend to have given my word that although my lips are stabbing me, the only thing I will say is mmm.

Blizzard, Schmizzard

They are saying we are in for a blizzard.  They have said that numerous times in the 30 years I've lived in Michigan and I haven't seen a real blizzard yet.

The real blizzard was the Big Snow of '67 in Chicago.  There was some technical problem that kept it from being an official blizzard -- the snowfall amount, temperature, and wind speed all have to make some mystical metric for it to be a blizzard, and something was an nth short, which is why they called that one the "Big Snow."   It started about 5:00 a.m. on Thursday, January 25, 1967, and 23 inches of snow fell in the next 24 hours.  Chicago and environs were paralyzed.

I was on my way home from work that Thursday afternoon around 2:00, the company I worked for having sent us all home.  I was driving my 1966 Rambler American from Des Plaines to Palatine, on Illinois-58 (Golf Road) but never got there.  Cars stopped and waited and inched ahead, but we were not really moving -- the cars were just getting closer together.  I had hope -- I could see snow plough lights ahead, but we found out later the ploughs were stuck in the snow too.

Around 6:30 I finally abandoned my car (which everybody did) and fought my way through snow drifts up to my waist toward a gas station I knew was at an intersection ahead, but I found a farmhouse on the way instead.  The people who lived there were graciously and generously taking in everybody who came along.  About a dozen of us spent two nights in that farm house, kept warm and fed by those very nice people.  The snow ploughs sent in from Wisconsin arrived around 2:00 a.m. Saturday morning to dig us out, and I got home around noon on Saturday after some very nice guys came along and helped me get my car started and out of the snow.

So, bring on your blizzard.  It doesn't scare me.  I was in the Big Snow of '67.