Yes, Let's

Someone named Lesley M. M. Blume writes a column called "Let's Bring Back" for the Huffington Post in which she apparently waxes nostalgic about things.  I'm not entirely sure about it as I couldn't find many examples of such columns.  Nevertheless, she has expanded the idea into at least three books that I can find, the latest being the one I heard about on NPR this morning called Let's Bring Back:  The Cocktail Edition (subtitled, "A Compendium of Impish, Romantic, Amusing, And Occasionally Appalling Potations From Bygone Eras.")

Having resurrected for myself the WWI-era sidecar, I had an empathic moment when listening to Ms. Blume's interview on the radio as she lamented the neglect of vintage cocktails such as the gin fizz and the DuBarry.

Well, that's fine, but if it were up to me, I'd want to bring back cocktail lounges, which are disappearing like buffalo.  I'm not talking about a tavern, or a bar, or a restaurant that serves liquor, but a real honest-to-God cocktail lounge where the lights are low and so is the decibel level; where there's no juke box, no piped-in music, no one-man-band, no live entertainment except maybe, just maybe, an unobtrusive piano player; a place where you sit on comfortable chairs, not stools, at tables of regular height, and where there are no pool tables, no video games, and no food served except perhaps a dainty bowl of high-class snack mix on each table, and where bartenders actually know how to make a sidecar, a really cold martini (up), and a vodka sour that doesn't taste like vodka and lemonade.

Ms. Blume (and don't I wish I was cool enough to have two middle initials) did mention a cocktail called a Godmother that sounded interesting.  It calls for equal parts of vodka and amaretto stirred (not shaken) over ice, strained into a cocktail glass, and served with a list of wishes to be grand by, one presumes, your fairy godmother.

I may try that.  Maybe I can wish up a cocktail lounge.

Came and Went

This business about the world ending tomorrow got me to thinking about famous dates that were once in the future.  We've lived through all sorts of doomsday predictions, some relatively recently -- anybody remember the flap over Y2K?

It's funny how people who write books about the future pick dates that seem at the time to be way in the future -- Orwell in 1949 chose 1984, Arthur Clark in 1948 figured 2001 would be a good year for a space odyssey.  When those years come and go, it just sort of loses something.

In the spring of 1961 when I was a freshman in high school, the teacher I had for General Science wrote in my yearbook next to his picture, "Remember Halley's Comet in 1986."  He wrote that in everybody's year book, and we all laughed because -- 1986?  Are you kidding?  That's a real long way off!

But now all of a sudden it's a real long way ago.

Amendment Number Two

I do try to stay away from politics in this here blog thing, but it's time for me to weigh in on this subject, so here goes.

In order that the powers of the new federal government of the United States not be misconstrued or abused, the Congress passed and sent to the states for ratification ten amendments to the Constitution on March 4, 1789.  Their purpose was to spell out specifically certain rights that were dear to the hearts of those who had fought to free the North American colonies from British rule.  It came to be known as the Bill of Rights, and its ten provisions have been staunchly defended ever since, especially the second one, which goes like this:

Amendment II
A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

The other nine amendments simply state what is guaranteed without any explanation.  For example, we are entitled to protection from unreasonable searches and seizures, although there is nothing to explain what is to be considered unreasonable or why it is prohibited.  We are also protected against cruel and unusual punishment, but again, what exactly is cruel is not specified, nor is any reason given for this protection.

The first amendment grants us what may be considered the hallmark of liberty for a free society, but there is no statement that explains why we are allowed to assemble peaceably or to petition the government for redress of grievances.  We just are.  And we are promised freedom of religion, and of speech, and of the press.  Period.  No reason given.

We must conclude that the drafters of these amendments assumed that the reasoning behind these protections was obvious and could be taken for granted.  Except in that one instance, the second amendment, which provides a specific reason for its inclusion.

And it is a very good reason that the right of the people to keep and bear arms is guaranteed.  Not because people need to be able to shoot animals for food, although lots of people did in 1789, nor to protect themselves and their homes from attack by angry Indians, something that might well happen in those days.  No, people may keep and bear arms because a well-regulated militia is necessary to the security of a free state. 

We have a well-regulated militia.  It's called the National Guard, and the kinds of weapons National Guard soldiers need to ensure our security are not the sort anybody needs to have in order to kill an animal for food.  And I think the last Indian scalping raid was a long, long time ago.

It's time to give up the guns.  They can keep their animal-shooting rifles, but it's time to give up all military-type weapons and all hand guns, for the security of a free state, a free movie theater, a free college campus, a free shopping mall, and a free first-grade school room.

Cute Cats

The Animal Planet aired a show last week about the world's cutest cat, and something about it reminded me of a time when I had taken my exceptionally cute cat to the vet's.  While we were waiting our turn, a young couple came in with a furry little kitten.  The wife sat down holding the kitty on her lap while her husband went to the receptionist's window to check in. 

After getting pertinent info such as name, address, phone number and such like, the receptionist said, "And what's the kitten's name?"  The young man muttered something that sounded like "F-vvv."  The woman said, "What?" and only slightly louder he said again, "F-vvv."  She said, "I'm sorry.  I still didn't hear you," to which he responded more loudly and quite distinctly, "Fluffy!"

Can you guess who lost the argument over naming the kitten?

I got my cat ("free to good home") when she was just eight weeks old.  She was all black and had beautiful eyes that were mostly blue but ringed with green.  I named her Murphy because I was sure nothing could be that stubborn and not be Irish.

Cuz band-aid's stuck on me

Between my thumb and the thing on my leg (or where the thing on my leg used to be before the doctor made it go away on Monday), I've been using a lot of band-aids lately. I have had plenty to choose from.  We have boxes and boxes of them, some very old and some just recently purchased, some of all-one-size, and some a mixed up conglomeration of old and older of different sizes and shapes and materials of various brands. 

I usually prefer the fabric kind, which are basically light brown.  The semi-waterproof ones I bought to use on my leg are a real strange color, sort of a pinky salmon.  When I was a kid, band-aids were white.  I remember when they came out with the first ones that were supposed to be "flesh colored."  I don't know whose flesh they were modeled on.  There's  not a one of them that's the color of my skin, or anybody else's I've ever seen either.

I use "band-aid" generically, even though it's a brand name.  I suppose I think I'm getting away with it by not capitalizing it.  There are plenty of brand names that are used generically, usually because they were either the first or the best known.  And there are some things that started out as trademarked names that just plain aren't any more -- aspirin, zipper, and cellophane among them.

I used to keep a list of such brand-cum-generic names as they came to me, but I can't find it right now.  I do remember that Band-Aid, Kleenex, Coke, Scotch Tape, Thermos Bottle, Saran Wrap, Jell-O, Popsicle, and Visqueen were on it.

I know about Visqueen because I once worked as an order-taker for a company that made the same kind of polyethylene sheeting, but theirs was called VapoFilm.  We hated it when someone would call and say they wanted to order some Visqueen.

I should have learned a lesson from that, I guess.  Okay.  Sorry, Band-Aid.

Twelve Twelve

It is that day, 12-12-12, and I have nothing further to say about it since everybody should know by now how I am about such dates.

Even though the twelve days of Christmas don't start until Christmas day, I am hearing that song about the twelve fabulous gifts, and it is the 12th day of the 12th month of the (two thousand and) 12th year, so I thought I would take this opportunity to present my own version of that tired old tune.  Feel free to sing along.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

Twelve Margaritas,
Eleven vodka gimlets,
Ten dry martinis,
Nine Fuzzy Navels,
Eight Bloody Marys,
Seven Whiskey Sours,
Six Rusty Nails,
Five Goldschalg shots,
Four Daiquiris,
Three Mai Tais,
Two Rum and Cokes,
And a great big Long Island Iced Tea.

Yes, you could call it a wish list.

True Story

Since I was early for my appointment with the eye doctor this morning, I decided to take another crack at sending a text message from my cell phone, my third one in a week.

It took me a while to remember how to send a message and then another while to figure out how to send it to my intended recipient.  Once I got that straightened out, I composed a bare-bones message ("Coming today at 4.30?"), resisting the use of those irritating word-letters (as in, "r u coming today").  

It went slowly.  I had to use my right index finger to punch most of the keys because the injury to my thumb prevents me from honing my thumb-typing skills.  I finally gave up looking for the colon, if there is one, on the tiny keypad and put a period in 4.30.

Finally I finished it and sent it off, successfully.  I was so proud.  But I was beginning to worry that the other people in the waiting room would think I was one of those nerdy techno-dorks who spend every moment texting and tweeting and playing with phone apps, so I put the phone back into my pocket.

When I looked up, I saw that all four of the other people sitting there in the waiting room were intently focused on the cell phones in their hands, diligently thumbing the buttons and keys.

O Little Town of Banana Bread

Wednesday there were three over-ripe bananas on the kitchen counter begging to be put to some purpose, so I obliged them. What with our traditional annual holiday cookie-baking weekend approaching, I thought that an entire loaf of banana nut bread might end up neglected, so I baked four mini-loaves instead, freezing three for future consumption, or maybe even to be given as part of the baked-goods gift giving.

Well, I'm here to tell you that one mini-loaf of banana nut bread does not go very far. There will soon be only two in the freezer.

While I was composing the foregoing, I heard on the radio what was described as a traditional French Christmas carol entitled "Ding Dong Merrily On High."  That sounds like three Christmas songs thrown together, doesn't it?  Sort of like "I'm Dreaming of a White Chestnut Roasting on a Jingle Bell Rock."

Not only is it not a particularly engaging song, it turns out that only the tune is French, a 16th-century secular ditty.  The words are by some English dude, and I admit that they do make more sense if you hear the entire first phrase:

Ding dong! merrily on high
In heav'n the bells are ringing.

Still, I don't think Frosty or Rudolph need to feel threatened.

Tweetle Dee Dee

My grandmother (whose 123rd birthday is tomorrow) used to go around unplugging lamps and radios and appliances because she thought that when things were plugged into a wall socket but not turned on, the electricity leaked out into the room causing some grave if unspecified danger.

When it comes to modern technology, I feel a lot like my Grandma.  Although I embraced personal computing when it became affordable in the 1990's and became somewhat knowledgeable and proficient at certain aspects, I seem somehow to have been left completely behind.  I do not have a laptop or a tablet or an iAnything.  I use a dumb phone.  My desktop computer has been obsolete since the day after I bought it five years ago.

Yesterday, for the first time in over a year, I sent a text message from my cell phone to somebody else's cell phone.  The delight I took in this success was quickly quashed by the news that Pope Benedict XVI now has his own Twitter account.

I barely know what Twitter is, have absolutely no idea how it works, what it's for, how to use it, or even how to join, and yet the Pope, who is almost 123 years old himself, is all signed up and ready to tweet.

What is to become of me?

Choo Choo

On this date in 1967, the New York Central Railroad's Twentieth Century Limited trains completed their last runs between New York and Chicago.  What had been a gloriously luxurious form of transportation for 65 years faded into history, victim of the interstate highway system and air travel.

I recall several trips by rail with my mother when I was small, from Chicago to downstate Illinois to visit my grandparents, and once to Kansas City.  There was also a year of my life when I worked down in the Loop in Chicago and took the commuter train to and from every day.  My last train trip was in 1983 when I took the train from Macomb, Illinois, to Chicago and from there on to Kalamazoo.  It was fun.

Whenever I think about riding trains, however, I cannot help but recall the absolute terror I experienced as a tiny child whenever we had to pass from one car to another while the train was moving.  It made going to the dining car a trauma.

As soon as Mother slid open the door at the back of the car, my little ears were filled with the roar of the train as it hurtled down the track, accompanied by the peripheral perception of the ground and countryside thundering past.  The normal rocking and jolting of the train seemed to intensify as we moved through the door contributing to my sense of unsteadiness and impending calamity.  The two cars' platforms were moving, but not in unison, and there was a terrifying gap between them.  It was probably no more than a couple inches, but to a toddler it seemed like a yawning chasm.  Mother would hold my hand and help me to jump over the fissure onto the next platform.

Scared the living daylights out of me every time.

Sticks Out Like A Sore Thumb

It is beyond even my imagination that I have run completely out of things to say on this here blog thing.  In over a week, I have had nothing to write about.  There are plenty of potential explanations (read:  excuses) for this.

The injury to my thumb makes it somewhat difficult to type, because it is right where I would hit the space bar with my right thumb, and I get to typing away and forget myself and hit the space bar, and it hurts like the very devil.

The antibiotics I'm taking (because the laceration became infected) make me queasy.  The yogurt I'm forced to eat (so that the antibiotic will have something to act on besides my intestines) can make me queasy too.  I don't like yogurt.

Not to mention all the time it takes (three times a day) to soak my thumb in peroxide and apply antibacterial ointment and encase it in a band-aid.

Did you ever try to peel open the little paper wrapper that band-aids come in without using one thumb? 

No wonder I'm worn out.

Big 10, Bloated 14

Enough already.  The Big Ten athletic conference, once comprised of universities in a solid block of Midwestern states, is about to expand again.  Maryland and Rutgers will be joining in 2014.  They are making no bones about it -- they want a piece of the Big Ten's money-making pie. 

It started out as the Western Conference in 1896 with seven schools (Illinois, Northwestern, Chicago, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Purdue, Michigan).  Indiana and Iowa joined in 1899, and it could have become the Big Ten in1912 when Ohio State signed up, but Michigan had been kicked out in 1908 (for rules violations) and not readmitted until 1915.  The name Big Ten was first applied in1917.

The first misnomer -- a Big Ten with only nine schools -- came in 1946 when the University of Chicago dropped out, but the conference returned to its full complement in 1950 when Michigan State joined.  And that's how things stood until 1990 when Penn State came in, giving us a Big Ten of eleven.  Then last year Nebraska climbed on board, and in two years, there will be fourteen.

It is interesting that the states wherein the Big Ten/Fourteen schools are located will still be contiguous.  It won't be so neat a little bundle of states as it was when it was just the Big Ten, however -- they will stretch halfway across the country from sea to sea (that is, from New Jersey on the Atlantic Ocean to Nebraska's sea of grass).

We All Make Mistakes

I read this morning that it was on this date in 1959 that Ford announced it was ceasing production of the Edsel.  It reminded me of a joke that went around when I was in high school (Class of '64).

The poor old Edsel.  Ford made such a fuss about it with a huge marketing campaign in the summer of 1957, but when the models finally arrived in dealer showrooms that fall, people came to look, but they didn't buy.

Mostly, they said it was funny looking.  The guy who designed it wanted a car that looked completely different, one that was recognizable two blocks away.  So, unlike most other cars with a horizontal grill between the headlights, the front of the Edsel sported a horse collar.

Some people said it looked like an Oldsmobile sucking a lemon.

Back in the early 60's I knew a young man whose name was Myron, but everybody called him "Honk" because he drove an Edsel, and he honked his horn every time he saw another one on the street.  As time went on, opportunities for him to honk grew fewer and fewer.

Oh, and the joke went like this:  What's a three-time loser?  It's an unwed mother driving an Edsel with a Nixon/Lodge bumper sticker on the back.

A dismal future for all of us

I know nothing lasts forever.  I realize that things will change, and I've done my best to adapt when changes were inevitable.  After all, I even reconciled myself to lights at Wrigley Field.  But today's news has left me completely despondent. 

Hostess is going out of business. 

And what is the federal government doing about it?  Nothing!  Banks got billions because they were too big to fail, GM and Chrysler got bailed out to save the American automobile industry, but is anybody offering even a measly couple million to keep Hostess Cupcakes on the shelves?  Nuh-uh.

When I look into the future, what I see -- a life without Twinkies -- is mighty bleak.

Our Mother Country's Tongue

Between British television shows, movies, and books, I get many opportunities to note --  and generally enjoy -- the differences between us and them when it comes to our common language.  Even without the matter of pronunciation, it's interesting that we have different words and phrases for the same things.  For instance, they say "two a penny" where we would say "a dime a dozen."  And I've been trying to remember to use a phrase I got from Jane Austin -- "though I say it myself" (instead of "if I do say so myself") because I like it a lot better.

It sounds funny to me when  they use "stop" instead of "stay," as in, "I can't stop long," or (even better) "Did they stop out all night?"

There's also the silliness with the names the Brits have given to musical notes.  A half note to them is a minim, a quarter note is a crotchet, and an eighth note is called a quaver. But it gets worse:  a 16th note is a semi-quaver, a 32nd note is a demi-semi-quaver, and a 64th note they call a hemi-demi-semi-quaver.

Potato treats can provide confusion because what we call fries they call chips, and what we call chips, they call crisps.  And since to them pudding can mean dessert, you can conjure up a strange picture when they say something like, "We had chocolate cake for pudding."  Of course, pudding can also refer to a turnover, the Yorkshire type.  And they do have many traditional dishes with strange names, such as Bubble and Squeak, Toad in the Hole, and Spotted Dick to cite only a few.

It doesn't matter what they call it because English food is absolutely dreadful anyway.  These are the people who brought you fish paste sandwiches, jellied eels, and deviled kidneys on toast.

Back in the Saddle

This here blog thing has been shut up for a week or so, partly because I inflicted a little injury on my right hand that makes it hard for me to type, and partly because I can't think of anything much to say, now that the election is over.  That had really occupied my thoughts for the past several weeks.

So, I guess I'll do what I usually do when nothing in the news or in my life inspires me -- I'll tell you a story.  This one involves my poor old pal Tony, the guy with the gorgeous Persian cat named Larry (see "Tony's Cat," November 2, 2011).

Tony and I were sitting in my living room talking, and I happened to notice something about my very nice solid walnut bookcase (six feet high, three feet wide) that stood at the other end of the room.  You could plainly see that the three shelves that were movable were beginning to bow under the weight of the books.  I pointed this out to Tony and said, "I'll have to turn them upside down."

"What good will that do?" he wanted to know.

"It will bend them back the other way."

"Turning the books upside down is not going to help anything," said he.

Okay, Tony.  Thanks.

It's Election Day

It's no secret whom I will vote for today.  Not only is the Obama/Biden sign in the front yard a dead giveaway, it is well known to many that I first declared my support of a Democratic candidate 64 years ago.  An oft-told family story bears this out.

The election of 1948 was held on November 2, the day after my second birthday.  That was the election in which Thomas E. Dewey was expected to beat incumbent Harry Truman, but in the end the President prevailed.  On election night, my grandparents had a lot of friends and family over, and there was a lot of talk about the election. At one point, one of Grandma's friends turned to two-year-old me and said, "And who did you vote for?" to which I replied, "Twuman."

I guess before that I would have considered myself an Independent.

That wasn't what I meant, but okay

There was a serious traffic accident up on a nearby corner this morning which I did not witness but heard about.  I got to thinking how lucky I am not to have been involved in any serious automobile collisions, and that reminded me of one particular mishap to which I was a party -- not a car crash, just a car bump.

While backing out of a space in the parking lot of the apartment building where I lived, I came into contact with the left front bumper of a big old Buick in the row behind me.  I remember having been in a hurry, so I might not have been watching as carefully, but the real cause was that this old car was parked all crooked with its left front sticking out about three feet.  One could easily surmise that whoever put it there had come home drunk.

My car wasn't hurt at all, but there was a lot of damage on the Buick.  There were bumps and scrapes and scratches galore, and the front fender -- on the side I hit -- was crumpled.  This could not possibly have resulted from my little tap at 1.38 miles per hour, and even if I had caused any damage, it would have been indistinguishable from all the rest.

I was tempted just to drive off, but there were a lot of windows in those apartments which might very well have had a lot of people looking out of them, so I decided the right thing to do was to leave a note.  I know better than to sign a piece of paper that says, "I hit your car," so I simply wrote, "Call me about your car," and left my name and phone number.

When I returned home several hours later, I saw that the old Buick had been moved -- it was neatly tucked back into its space, perfectly between the lines.

And the owner never did call me.

When less is not more

Coca-Cola is trying to pull a fast one, hoping nobody will notice.  Their soft drinks come in a variety of vessels of various materials and in various sizes and shapes.  The favored beverage at our house was the six-pack of Diet Coke in 24-fluid-ounce (710 mL) plastic bottles.

Inflation and economic disaster have combined to raise the price of said six-packs to nearly double what they were, say, five or six years ago -- enough to cause sticker shock.  Recognizing this, Coca-Cola has resorted to Frito-Lay's old trick of providing less for the same price.  The 24-ounce bottles are no longer available in any Wal-Mart, Target, Meijer or Kroger store I have visited in the last ten days.  The only six-packs of bottles they now carry are 16.9 fluid ounces (500 mL), for which they are asking the same price as before.

Frito-Lay, which, incidentally, is owned by Pepsi-Cola, has been doing this for years with their various chips.  They reduce the size but keep the price the same.  Later, they bring out a bigger bag, touting the "New Larger Size!" which has a new larger price.  Eventually that size will become standard, and then they play the trick over again.

Remember when a bag of Ruffles weighed a pound?  The one I bought yesterday is 9-1/2 ounces.  They do have a "giant family size," but it's only 13-1/2 ounces, probably because at the current price, a one-pound bag of Ruffles would cost more than $7.25.  Talk about sticker shock.

The only thing Coca-Cola has said about this size gimmick pertains to the bottles for vending machines, which will also be smaller.  They say it is in response to the general public's interest in reducing the amount of soda pop we consume.

Uh-huh.

Roe vs. Logic

Indiana State Treasurer Richard Murdock, who is running for U.S. Senate, is the latest Republican to catch hell for his comments about abortion.  He echoed the sentiments of a Missouri woman who defended Todd Akin (the "legitimate rape" guy) by saying that even if the result of rape, pregnancy was a gift from God.  (See my posting of August 23 titled "Sometimes I just have to.")

And I have to again, because I got to thinking that there are people like me who are completely pro-abortion and people like Murdock who are completely anti-abortion, and yet there are also people who are semi-anti-abortion, which is illogical at best.

Some of these people apparently have a hard time making up their minds about abortion rights.  Take, just as an example, Presidential Candidate Romney who used to say he was pro-choice, then decided he was completely anti-abortion to the point of wanting to overturn Roe v. Wade.  He now says he would make an exception in the case of rape, incest, or saving the life of the mother.

Really? Why? If you believe that life begins at conception, then abortion is murder. And if you believe abortion is murder, how can you possibly justify condoning it for any reason?

Abortion is a moral issue, and you cannot compromise on a moral issue.  Regardless which view you take, it is either right or it is wrong.  I guess saying that it is usually wrong but sometimes right is what you do when you want people to vote for you.

Why wait, indeed?

I heard on the radio yesterday that new legislation signed into law by Michigan Governor What'is'name will allow veterans to obtain fishing and hunting licenses for free.  It's not a monumental thing, but still, it's a nice gesture that pleased me.

Preparatory to writing about it here, I looked for information online to be sure I had my facts straight, and I didn't.  It's only for disabled veterans, only residents of Michigan, and only those who are "100% disabled," meaning veterans who have been "determined by the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs to be permanently and totally disabled as a result of military service."

If you recover from your wounds, you have to cough up the price of the license, I guess, which, as far as I can determine, would be somewhere between $15 and $30 to hunt and around $8 to fish.

I found that 3,000 disabled veterans applied for such licenses in 2010, so there will be some folks saving some money, but not extending it to any veteran anywhere makes it not quite so bright a moment as I thought, but we're grateful nevertheless.

As a semi-amusing side note, I Googled "cost of Michigan hunting and fishing licenses," and the very first site returned was this:

Why Wait? Buy Your 2011 Michigan Hunting and Fishing Licenses Now
www.michigan.gov/.../0,4570,7-153-10371_10402-254467--,00.ht...Cached

Move Over, Mrs. Butterworth

While drizzling syrup on my pancakes this morning, I recalled that my mother used to make her own pancake syrup out of corn syrup, maple extract, and butter.  I never asked her why she did that, but because she was nothing if not frugal, I always assumed it was because it was cheaper than buying commercial brands.  I know she would have considered real maple syrup much too expensive.  In fact, she never bought real butter either; she would have used margarine.

Anyway, thinking about that again, I did some price comparisons using Wal-Mart's web site, and it seems that Aunt Jemima, Mrs. Butterworth, and Log Cabin pancake syrups are all about the same price per ounce as Karo corn syrup, so that wouldn't save anything -- plus, maple extract is expensive.  So now I'm not sure that economy played a part.

I suppose it is possible she actually preferred her own syrup to the store-bought kinds.  To see how home-made maple-flavored syrup stacks up against Aunt Jemima, I guess I'll have to make some.

Or not.

It goes with ALMOST everything

Every day I get at least one email, often more, from Betty Crocker or Pillsbury or Kraft or somebody like that because I am signed up for all kinds of emailings that relate to food and cooking.  This morning I got one from Mr. Food that included pictures of corn muffins and cornbread.  They looked so good, it made me want some.  I have resolved that our supper tonight will include cornbread and, unless vetoed by my partner, probably also beans and franks.

Or, more accurately, beans and corn dogs; that is, the version of the latter that my mother invented which involves baking hot dogs embedded in the cornbread batter.

Just out of curiosity, I Googled "what goes with cornbread" and was led to several Internet food forums where somebody asked that same question, to which the ubiquitous answer was:  everything.  That presented a challenge  I could not pass up, and after serious contemplation, I am able to provide the definitive answer to the opposite question:

What does not go with cornbread?  Dumplings.

Dumb Jocks

As if the archetypal 1940's punch-drunk prize fighter didn't provide enough evidence that repeated blows to the head can knock your brain loose, there is now a movement afoot to make everyone aware of the perils of head injuries in sports, even in those supposed non-contact sports, like basketball, as well as games like baseball where a player can get beaned with a fast-moving projectile.

The best team sport for concussion, of course, is football, what with lineman rushing headlong at each other and players at other positions being knocked around so that the heads inside their helmets come into often violent contact with all sorts of hard things, like shoulder pads, shoes, other helmets, and the ground.

Over 3,300 former NFL players are suing the league for not dealing seriously, or at all, with head traumas that have contributed to significant health issues, including dementia.

And yet, whenever a player scores a touchdown, intercepts a pass, or sacks the opposing quarterback, his teammates show their appreciation by giving his helmet a whack or, better yet, banging their helmeted heads together.

Preventing dementia for these guys?  It's too late.  They're there.

October 13, 1912 - a date that should be immortalized in song

My father, Albert James Knez, was born in Chicago 100 years ago today.  In his honor, I will relate one of his favorite stories to tell about himself.

My dad liked music and would have liked to sing, not as a performer, but just be able to sing along with a favorite song on the radio or with Mother and us kids when we sang songs in the car.  But the plain awful truth was he couldn't carry a tune in a suitcase.  Once during the singing of a hymn in church, I heard him join in, very, very softly, and even when he got somewhere near the tune, he was a half tone flat.  It was really rather touching, though, and I was sure that God was pleased by the effort if not the result.

Because he was so widely known to be unable to sing, he loved to tell people how he always got straight A's in music when he was in school.  His music teacher, to keep his off-key warbling from ruining the other students' singing, made a deal with him that as long as he didn't sing with the other children, she would give him an A for the class.  But he loved the singing so much and wanted so badly to take part that sometimes he just couldn't help himself and would begin to sing along, at which point his teacher would remind him to stop by saying, "Albert, you're singing again!" 

Happy birthday, Dad -- I hope wherever you are, you're singing.

Another Date, Another Story

It's 10/11/12.  I cannot pass up mentioning these things, and I am sure everybody is sick to death of hearing me tell how such calendrical phenomena were brought to my attention on 5/5/55 by my third-grade teacher, so I won't bring that up again.

Instead, I'll tell you a story about a young woman I used to work with named Tara.  She was very friendly, extremely generous, rather pretty, and kinda dumb.  One year at Christmas time, all the bosses were arranging to treat their secretaries to a luncheon at an upscale restaurant.  The secretaries, of which Tara was one, were each given a menu listing the courses to be served, and they were asked to mark their choice of entree from among filet mignon, chicken cordon bleu, and some sort of vegetarian offering.

Over the cube walls, I heard Tara say to nobody in particular, "Wow, if I get this fillay migg-non thing, it would cost my boss a lot.  It's the most expensive one."  After a moment's pause, she added, "I won't, though.  I don't really like fish."

Did I mention she was real nice?

Say Cheese

Last night my partner said she has a hankerin' for macaroni and cheese and wondered if we have enough cheese to make some.  I assured her we have cheese enough for anything and began to enumerate:

We have sliced American and sliced Provolone, a block of Colby, bricks of Asiago and Parmesan, plus that grated Parmesan that comes in the green plastic jar, shredded Mozzarella and shredded Colby-Jack, a container of crumbled blue cheese and a jar of Old English cheese spread.  If it counts, there's also at least one can of Cheddar cheese soup.

This morning as I put a stick of string cheese in with her lunch, I realized I'd forgotten to mention that one.

Doesn't everybody have a dozen kinds of cheese on hand at all times?  Or does this have something to do with my loving cheese so much that my mother used to call me "Cheese Face"?

I'll Just Bet

I spent yesterday afternoon at a casino playing single-deck pitch (my favorite) and coming away with $50 more than I started with.  And had fun too, which was the point.

There was a woman playing at my table who appeared to understand the basics of blackjack but was subjected to unsolicited comments and advice from her friends who hovered around her.  One man, probably not her husband, kept thrusting a twenty-dollar bill at her, wanting her to make a bet for him.  Finally she asked the dealer to change the twenty, she bet the four red chips, and lost.  He wanted to do it again, she didn't, he was insistent, and she finally ended it by leaving the table.

I have had people try to give me money to gamble for them, which I agreed to do only once.  A very nice senior citizen friend of ours asked my partner and me to play $20 for her at the blackjack table on one of our gambling trips.  I made a point of designating four five-dollar chips as hers to fulfill my mission.  If I remember right, I lost the whole twenty on five bets.

We felt so bad that when we saw her next, we told her we had doubled her money and gave her $40.

So, I refuse to do that now, because there's something even worse than losing someone's money.  Think of the guilt I'd have to live with if I won $25,000 on their ten bucks.

I don't get this

Five years ago, Gail Boertmann and her son Chris, both of the Detroit area, were coming home from a wedding, he on his motorcycle and she in her car behind him. Another car collided with the motorcycle, and Chris was killed. His mother, quite understandably, was traumatized not just by the death of her child but by having actually watched the fatal accident right before her very eyes.

She was so messed up, in fact, that she could not function, lost her job as a result, and required significant therapy to treat what her psychologists called post-traumatic stress disorder and major depression. She filed a claim with Cincinnati Insurance, the carrier of her automobile insurance policy, for $30,000 in lost wages and medical costs because she was in her car when the trauma occurred.

The insurance company denied her claim, saying that her (mental) injury had nothing to do with her being in her car at the time -- she could have suffered the same effects if she had witnessed the accident while standing on the street corner. Boertmann sued and won. Cincinnati Insurance appealed, and last year the Michigan Court of Appeals upheld the verdict. The case is now going to the Michigan Supreme Court, which should have the last word.

That word ought to be, seriously?

Getting Political

Our neighbor, Frank, had Obama/Biden signs in his yard, and I was jealous.  I wanted a sign too, but I didn't know where to start to try to get one, so I called him and asked him where he got his signs.

He said they were left over from '08 and that he was unable to get any more.  In fact, someone at the local Democratic headquarters told him they are continually running out of signs -- the minute they get some in, people take them right away.

It surprises me a great deal.  In most elections here in Clinton County, Michigan, the candidates for all the county offices are all Republicans running unopposed.  You wouldn't think there were enough Democrats around here to put a demand on yard signs.

Nevertheless, Frank said I was welcome to one of his.  He reasoned that one Obama sign in each of two yards would have a greater impact than two signs in his.  Last evening my partner and I walked over and took one of Frank's signs and planted it smack in the middle of our front yard.

I don't know if it will help Mr. Obama, but it makes me feel better.

Gambling is a Crap Shoot

It's the weekend, and there is a casino in my future, which I am looking forward to, and that has caused me to ruminate on some of my more memorable casino adventures.  One of them was a number of years ago at the Blue Chip in Michigan City.  It was a Saturday evening, and the place was crowded, and I couldn't find a seat at an affordable blackjack table.  I walked around and around looking for a spot.

Then suddenly I saw a table where only one woman was playing.  I glanced at the bet-limit sign and was astounded (but delighted!) that there was a $5 table with empty seats.  Maybe they had just opened that one up, I thought.  In any case, I immediately climbed up on a stool and gave the dealer $100.  He gave me four green chips, worth $25 each.  I said I would like some $5 chips, and he gave me a kind of odd look, then directed my attention to the sign at the end of the table that I had obviously misread.  This was not a $5 table -- the minimum bet was $50.

"Cripes," said I (or words to that effect), "that's too rich for me."  As I grabbed the green chips and slid off the stool, the woman gave me a look of complete disdain, revealing in one quick up-and-down survey of my person that I wasn't even worth her attention since I couldn't afford to make $50 bets.

I let her go ahead and feel superior because I knew that really high-class people play blackjack in Monte Carlo, not in Indiana.

Sushi Schmushi

My partner and I get together with a couple friends for dinner out about once a month, taking turns choosing the restaurant.  Last night we dined at a Japanese hibachi and sushi place.  You can bet I didn't chose it ("What? Raw fish?  Are you kidding me?").  It could have been problematic for a number of reasons.

First, I have been accused all my life of being a picky eater, which I have always considered extremely unfair since I love some things that lots of other people won't eat, like liver, and lima beans, and potted meat.  Second, I have never had a reputation for either flexibility or adventurousness in anything, much less foreign cuisine.  And third -- well, when it was my turn to choose the restaurant last month, I picked A&W.  In short, nobody who knows me would expect anything less than my being dragged into the joint kicking and screaming.

Nevertheless, I pulled up my big girl pants and promised myself I wouldn't be a party pooper.  I don't suppose the two scotch-and-sodas I had at the bar while waiting for the rest of our party to arrive hurt anything either.

So here is my review:  the miso soup was very good, the raspberry vinaigrette on the salad was too, the hibachi chef was very clever and funny, and the shrimp he made me were excellent.  Altogether it was a very fun experience.

Oh, and as for the dreaded raw fish -- well, of course, I had some.  I tried three different sushi rolls, then had seconds on my favorite one, which was crab salad, avocado, and fresh salmon with honey wasabi sauce. 

Who are you callin' picky?

Keep This and All Politics Out of Reach of Children

The phone rang just now, and the caller ID said it was Directory Assistance at 248-555-5555.  That piqued my curiosity, so I answered it.  A recording began, some guy telling me he was with the RNC.  I hung up immediately.

The Republicans must be in major trouble if they have to masquerade as Directory Assistance to get people to answer their phone calls.

Just in the nick of name

In a Wikipedia article called “Nicknames of United States Presidents,” the only thing listed for the current guy is “No Drama Obama,” which is lame, but at brainshavings.com, something titled “The Pretty Darn Exhaustive Obama Nickname List” includes 256 epithets, only a handful of which are not pejorative, and even those are probably sarcastic. 

Presidential nicknames are American as apple pie.  According to the Wikipedia article, the prize for the most nicknames goes to Martin Van Buren (9) while Warren G. Harding had none. Many presidential nicknames are familiar -- we all know who the Father of His Country was and which ones were called the Sage of Monticello, the Great Emancipator, and the Father of the Constitution. (Or we should, but okay -- Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and Madison.)

There were old ones: Old Hickory, Old Tippecanoe, Old Kinderhook, and Old Rough and Ready (Jackson, W. H. Harrison, Van Buren, Taylor), and riffs like His Rotundity, His Fraudulency, His Obstinacy, and His Accidency (John Adams, Hayes, Cleveland, Tyler, the first veep to ascend on the death of the president). Naturally, lots were less than flattering, such as the Peanut Farmer, the Grim Presence, Big Lub, Tricky Dick, and the Gipper (Carter, A. Johnson, Taft, Nixon, Reagan, a reminder that he had been a movie actor).

Referring to the president by his initials started with Theodore Roosevelt, because he signed TR to many things, but it didn’t recur until Franklin Roosevelt. He was always eager to emulate his cousin Teddy in all things, but I suspect the use of his initials came from newspaper editors who realized that FDR took up lots less space than Roosevelt in headlines. The trend continued for HST, JKF, and LBJ (Truman, Kennedy, L. Johnson) but not for Eisenhower because they could use Ike. It died out after that, unless you want to count Dubya.

I thought about the initials thing for our current president, but I'm afraid too many people might confuse BHO with a cable network.  I guess he will eventually earn a nickname.  For his sake, and that of our country, I hope it's a complimentary one.

Credit Quandary

Mexican for supper last night, and it was yummy.  I whipped up some guacamole and also ground beef with my very own taco seasoning.  We didn't have any refried beans, but then I found a can of black beans in the cupboard and decided I ought to be able to figure out how to make my own, which I did, and it was very good.

My partner fried some tortillas so we could have crispy beef and bean tostadas with cheese and salsa and black olives, and, of course, sour cream and guac.

Having taken some to share with a coworker, my partner reports there is yet another person who thinks my guacamole is the best they've ever had.  My dilemma is whether I keep my mouth shut or admit that the guac recipe came from Alton Brown on foodnetwork.com.

Regardless who gets credit, the meal was superb.  Soji the Chihuahua loved it too.  Yes, I know my tiny dog is supposed to be on a diet and not be given people food, but doesn't she deserve a taste of home now and then?

Can you trust a tombstone?

Having found Great-Grandma Knez's headstone at Bohemian National Cemetery last week, I was able to come up with her death certificate online (for free).  It says her son, my grandfather, gave the personal information such as birth date, maiden name, parents' names, etc.  Somebody did a lousy job one way or the other.  The tombstone says she died aged 57, and the death certificate says she was 55 (born in 1857).  The date of death is November 21 on the marker and November 22 on the certificate.  I'm going with the certificate.  The doctor should know. 

I consider tombstones to be reliable primary sources, but they can have the wrong information.  A great-grandfather on my mother's side, William Thomas Weatherford, had a brother named George who died at age 13.  I saw George's headstone and was surprised that his birth date was the same as William's, meaning they were twins.  Later I discovered George was actually a couple years older than William.  Apparently the grieving parents gave the stone cutter the wrong kid's birth date.

This recent find got me all charged up genealogically, and while I was rummaging around on the Internet this morning, I found a site called FamilyLink that promised me I could search the world for information about my family.  I signed up for a free three-day trial, but within an hour I called them to cancel it so it wouldn't be billed to my credit card.  A woman named Crystal handled my request, confirming my identity, and providing a confirmation number.  I was prepared -- in fact, anxious -- to tell her the reason I wanted to cancel the subscription was that they don't have squat, but she never asked me.  I guess she already knows.

Back Now

We've been away on a nice little trip to Chicago and points north, partly to celebrate our 26th anniversary and partly to please the genealogist in me.  For years I've wanted to visit Bohemian National Cemetery to see and photograph the graves of my father's family who are buried there.

Bohemian National is a huge cemetery taking up 122-acres on Chicago's north side, founded in 1877 and still going.  I knew that my grandparents are both there, as well as their twins who died in infancy, and one of my great-grandmothers.  A nice woman in the cemetery office looked up where these people were, gave us maps and directions, and sent us on our way.  My partner was brilliant in reckoning locations.

Grandma Knez's ashes are in the Masaryk Memorial Mausoleum, and we found and photographed the niche front that bears her name and dates.  My grandfather and the babies have no headstones, but we determined where they had been buried because of the other relatives buried in the same plots who did have markers.  My grandmother's mother, Ludmila Melka (1866-1919), has a headstone, which I photographed, but then I got a real bonus by finding this one:

The inscription reads:

MARIE KNĚZ
zem.21.list.1912
v stáří 57 roků
Spi sladce drahá matko



When I got home and checked dates, I was able to confirm that this was my other great-grandmother, Grandpa Knez's mother.  It says she died on 21 November 1912 at age 57 years.

That sentiment at the end (Spi sladce drahá matko) appears on Ludmila Melka's stone also.  I'm glad I didn't get it translated until I got home.  I admit I am a big mush and that sentimental moments tend to puddle me up, and there were plenty of those that afternoon in the cemetery.  If I had been told then that it means "Sleep sweetly dear mother," it would probably have set me to sobbing.

Nine Eleven

In September 2001 my partner and I took a trip to Las Vegas (our first) for our 15th anniversary.  We stayed downtown at the Golden Nugget, arriving on Sunday, September 9, and planning to leave on Thursday, the 13th.  We didn't get home until Tuesday morning, the 18th, because of what happened on the previous Tuesday.

I got up early that morning, around 6:45 local time, which was 9:45 in the east.  My partner was still zonked out after a late night of gambling, so for something to do I turned on the television but kept the sound really low.  What I saw was really amazing. 

Now, I am extremely non-violent.  I dislike movies and shows with graphic and/or excessive violence, but for some odd reason I really love seeing things blow up -- cars, bridges, buildings, boats, whatever.  I don't know why.

And right there on the television screen I saw an airplane fly into a skyscraper and blow up.  Whoa! I thought, how cool is that!  Then I realized I was watching CNN, but I assumed it was an entertainment segment showing a clip from a movie.  They showed it again, however, which prompted me to turn up the volume so I could hear what they were saying.  And be horrified.

Reduplicate-Schmeduplicate

There is a construct in many languages which linguists call reduplication.  That sounds redundant, but that's really what it's about -- words (or perhaps more properly, idioms) made up of repeating sounds.  There are many reduplicatives in English which we hear and say all the time, probably without giving it much thought. 

First there are words in the strict repetitive form, many of which sound like baby talk (bye-bye, choo-choo, wee-wee, poo-poo) while others aren't quite so juvenile (goody-goody, hush-hush, so-so).

Rhyming reduplicatives change the initial consonant (willy-nilly, fuddy-duddy, lovey-dovey), and the alliterative (sometimes called "ablaut") form changes the vowel sound (dilly-dally, wishy-washy, tick-tock, ding-dong).

And then there is schm-reduplication, derived from Yiddish, which is often derogatory or dismissive (money-schmoney, fancy-schmancy).

For the ultimate in redundant reduplication, however, I think we'd have to go with itsy-bitsy teenie-weenie.

Magna Labor Day

On Monday, September 3, 1973, my friend Marcy and I were in London taking a half-day sight-seeing tour around the city that was included in our vacation package.  Our British tour guide stood at the front of the bus talking into a microphone, telling about the sights we were seeing.  She pointed out the American Embassy as we passed it, noting that it appeared to be closed and wondering why that should be.  After a moment's reflection, it occurred to the Americans on the bus that it was Labor Day, a holiday.

"What's it for?" she wanted to know. 

Several people tried to explain it to her, and it became clear that explaining what Labor Day is for is not easy.  I don't think she ever got it, probably because saying -- even in several different ways -- that it's for people who work just doesn't make a lot of sense.

According to the U. S. Department of Labor, Labor Day is "... a creation of the labor movement and is dedicated to the social and economic achievements of American workers. It constitutes a yearly national tribute to the contributions workers have made to the strength, prosperity, and well-being of our country."

Too bad none of us was that eloquent back then.  And too bad there aren't more people working right now to contribute to our prosperity.

On a brighter note, I recall a joke our tour guide told us that morning about a sight-seeing bus taking a group of American tourists all around London and environs.  At one stop, they all pile out of the bus, and the tour guide tells them they have arrived at famous Runnymede, where King John was forced by his barons to sign the Magna Carta.  A guy from Cleveland says,  "When did he do that?"  The tour guide answers, "Twelve-fifteen, sir."  The American turns to his wife and says, "How about that, Edna?  We missed it by twenty minutes."

Yeah, I know.  But that's how I remember the Magna Carta was signed in1215.

Just Some of the Things

I ran across a blog yesterday on which a woman had listed 30 things she had done in her 30 years of life.  I got to thinking I could compile a list of 65 things I've done in my lifetime.  Most of the things I thought of were really boring and not terribly out of the ordinary, like going to Girl Scout camp, and taking a trip to Europe, and having my picture taken with Sparty.

Then I thought maybe I would try to come up with just one really unique thing I have done.  I thought of the time in the summer of 1979 when I played percussion in the Macomb (Illinois) Municipal Band.  At one of our Friday evening concerts in the park, we performed Leroy Anderson's "Syncopated Clock," and I was the clock.  But then there was also the time I danced with a pimp at Houlihan's.

I just can't decide between those two.

Tree Climbing for Fun and Profit

A couple weeks ago a friend mentioned an interest in his family history, and I said I would see if I could find something for him on the Internet.  I took what data he was able to provide in the way of names, dates, and places, and although it was nowhere near in-depth research, I still came up with a great deal after only a few days.  I was able to identify all his great-grandparents, plus 35 other ancestors, one line going back nine generations to his 7th-great-grandparents.  I found a couple obituaries, a will or two, some military records, plus his family in census records from 1850 through 1940.

The best part was how much I enjoyed doing it.  Since I've been working on my own family tree for over 30 years, finding anything new is like pulling teeth.  This seemed easy by comparison, providing lots of  instant gratification when I discovered things.

I began to wish somebody else would ask me to do some checking for them, and that led me to think that there was no reason I couldn't actually solicit clients.  I could offer basic research to get somebody started on their family tree, nothing in-depth, just what's readily available on the Internet.  I could do like the lawyers -- I don't get paid unless I find something -- but unlike the lawyers, my fees would be ridiculously cheap.

But I'd need to get the word out, and the best way to do that is to create a web site and then spread the URL all over the Internet.  So, off I go to do that.

Meanwhile, any takers?  If so, email me at janknez@comcast.net. 

Sometimes I just have to

There are some topics I try to stay away from in this here blog thing, but I simply cannot ignore monumental stupidity.

First we had Missouri Republican Congressman Todd Akin who (a) doesn't know crap about reproduction and (b) is able to distinguish between "legitimate rape" and whatever would be its opposite.  (What would that be?  What is illegitimate rape like?  Never mind.)

Now, however, this nincompoop is being defended by a Missouri State Republican Committee person named Sharon Barnes, who apparently agrees with him that few rapes result in pregnancy.  As if that were not enough, she is quoted in the New York Times as saying that "if God has chosen to bless this person with a life, you don’t kill it."

If God chooses to bless the rape victim with a baby?  Are you bleeping kidding me?

I'd like to see Sharon Barnes telling a 14-year-old girl who gets pregnant after being raped by her uncle how blessed she is.  I'm sure it would be extremely enlightening for both of them.

Philla Dilla

Comic Phyllis Diller has died, aged 95.  I remember first seeing her on television in the late 1960's; she always cracked me up.  I have never forgotten one of her funniest lines -- she said she couldn't wear a mini-skirt because her legs didn't go all the way up.

She always wore outrageous clothes, apparently to hide her figure, which was actually quite shapely, so she could make fun of her appearance.  I also remembered her wild, spiky blonde hair. 

I went to YouTube to look at some videos of Diller, and I was amazed at how not wild her hair looked.  It looked positively conservative compared to some heads we see nowadays.  She was just 40 years ahead of everybody else.

Shades of '88

I've heard this summer's excessive heat and drought compared to 1988, which was the hottest summer I ever experienced, until this year. 

We were living in a townhouse then, which precluded the possibility of a garden, but I decided I could grow tomato plants in a box on the little front stoop.  Well, maybe I could have, had it not been so hot and dry all summer.  Despite trying to keep them well watered, they shrivelled up and died in no time.  I never tried that again.

This year we have four tomato plants in the flower bed under the bay window.  We kept them watered, so they have survived and are now beginning to yield their fruit.  Still, the heat seems to have stunted the growth of the tomatoes.  Here's yesterday's harvest:

Not worthy of the name beefsteak, which is what these plants are supposed to be.  The biggest one is about the size of a baseball, the littlest the size of a golf ball.

It has cooled off and rained a lot here lately.  We're having temps in the mid-70's for a few days. It did the same thing in 1988, which I remember distinctly because I bought a new car that year.  I was all excited about getting it because it had been 100 degrees all summer long and this was going to be the first car I ever owned that had air conditioning.  On the day in August I went to the dealer to pick the car up, it was 70 degrees.  I ran the air conditioner anyway.

Speaking of blobs and stripes

Once in the late 1960's on a visit to the Art Institute of Chicago with some friends, I ended up staring at a painting in the modern wing, only because it was right in front of the little bench I sat down on to rest.  It was a huge canvas, probably 12 feet square, that was painted all black except for a large, perfectly round red circle in the middle.  I muttered something like, "Even I could do that," and a nearby connoisseur of modern art who overheard gave me the old you're-an-ignorant-Philistine look and said meaningfully, "Yes, but would you?"

No, of course not.  It is one of the bane's of my existence that I cannot draw, so if I could, I would not produce crap like that.

Sometimes I wish so desperately that I could draw, because I get these artistic inspirations that make me positively ache with creative impulses, but it's impossible because I can't draw anything that looks like what it's supposed to be.  I can see it so clearly in my mind's eye, but if I try putting pencil to paper, I get something worse than a six-year-old can produce.

Right now, for instance, I see a picture that shows a king and a queen, both on horseback, both in robes of royal purple.  Below them is an airplane, but its body is actually a banana with wings, with a slice of lemon for a tail, a half cherry for a cockpit, and a section of starfruit for a propeller.

I would title it "Purple Mounted Majesties Above a Fruity Plane."

On to the Never-Ending Future

I wasn't able to post comments on the last couple days of the Olympics due to a computer malfunction, and now that I'm back in business, I find that I'm just as glad that the Games are over and I can get back to normal.  But there is one thing I saw that I cannot let go unremarked.

At the Olympic stadium for track events, there were teams of what I presumed were volunteers whose job it was to provide each entrant in a race with a plastic bin for his or her personal items.  The volunteer set the box down in the runner's lane, well behind the starting line, and the athletes would drop their warm-up clothes into it along with whatever other things they had with them that they would not carry or wear during the running of the race.

As far as I could tell, none of the runners paid the least bit of attention to these keepers of the plastic boxes who stood tranquil and solemn over the bins taking their custodial duties very seriously.  When the athletes were introduced and about to take their marks and get set and go, the volunteers would pick up the plastic baskets and march off the track with them.

Before the start of the men's 200-meter dash, the cameras caught Usain Bolt as he took off his warm-up pants and jacket.  The keeper of his plastic bin was a young man who looked to be about 20 years old and who was dutifully standing quiet and vigilant over the plastic bin, possibly ruminating on his great good luck in having been assigned to the famous sprinter.  After tossing his clothes into the basket, Bolt held his fist out toward the young man, who hesitated just a moment, then reached out and bumped Bolt's fist with his own, grinning from ear to ear.  Bolt turned away then, but the volunteer remained in the camera shot for a few more seconds.  Twice his smile faded as he tried to regain his serious Official-Olympic-Runner's-Plastic-Bin-Protector attitude, and twice his face broke into a huge grin.

For the rest of his life, that young man is going to smile every time he thinks about his fist-bump with the legendary Jamaican champion who won that race at the London Olympics of 2012.

Go Team(s) USA

Lots of finals yesterday and today to wind down the Games of the XXX Olympiad, several of them adding to the USA medal count, which always makes me happy.

Yesterday's highlight for me was the women's 4 x 100-m relay in which the U.S. sprinters (Tianna Madison, Bianca Knight, Allyson Felix, and Carmelita Jeter) won the gold going away and smashing the world record while they were at it, coming in 55 seconds under the previous world mark.

Jeneba Tarmoh and Lauryn Williams, who raced in the semifinals on Thursday, were replaced by Felix and Jeter, medalists in the sprints here, so that the fastest team would be out there and have a better shot at beating the Jamaicans.  I thought that was a bit unfair to Tarmoh and Williams, since they are the ones who got the team into the gold-medal race, but it turns out that they get gold medals too, although they don't get to participate in the medal ceremony.

Today I'll be in front of the tube for the gold-medal games in women's volleyball and basketball.  And then I'll probably be pretty much tired of it all.

Day 14 Quote of the Day (Zhang Xi of China, hearing later that Prince Harry had attended the bronze-medal beach volleyball match she and her teammate lost):  "If I knew that, I would have won the game."

More Goals and Gold

Any Olympic dreams I may have had are now completely satisfied since the U. S. women's soccer team won the gold medal in a very entertaining game with Japan.  Whatever the United States has or will win, this one made the whole Olympics for me.  I don't know why.  I've never been a soccer fan, only watching it when the American women are in the world cup or the Olympics.

Tomorrow the American women's volleyball and basketball teams go for gold, luckily not at the same time, so I'll be able to see both games.

NBC's live online streaming of events can present challenges to one's patience, what with interrupted reception and cutting away for 15- or 30-second commercials right in the middle of someone's race or dive or throw, but I endured it all yesterday to watch a boxing match on my computer.  I sort of get the manly art of self defense; I don't get the womanly art of punching another woman in the head, but I was curious enough about women's boxing to tune in.  I was rewarded with a gold-medal win by Claressa Shields of Flint (practically a neighbor).  Good for her, bringing another gold for the USA and Michigan.  But why she does it, I'll never know.

Having seen a little of the rhythmic gymnastics, I'm rethinking whether or not synchronized swimming is the stupidest activity masquerading as a sport.  Rhythmic gymnastics consists of routines that are sort of similar to the floor exercise part of regular ("artistic") gymnastics, only without tumbling and with props such as balls, hula hoops, Indian clubs, and long, narrow ribbons on a stick.  All done to music, with leotards and makeup borrowed from synchro swim, and all having the general ambiance of a hallucination.  I don't deny it takes some skill to throw a softball-size ball into the air, roll around on the floor, and catch the ball between your knees while flat on your back, but that belongs in a circus, not the Olympics.

I hate to be what Jane Austen called "severe upon my sex," but what does it tell us that only women participate in synchronized swimming and rhythmic gymnastics?  Can it be the glittery eyeshadow that turns men away?

Day 13 Quote of the Day (Usain Bolt of Jamaica, after becoming the only person to win both the 100- and 200-meter dashes in two successive Olympics):  "I am now a legend.  I'm also the greatest athlete to live."

And the least humble.

Gimme a Booch

Don't even get me started on synchronized swimming.  I don't know if it's the heavy water-proof make-up and shellacked hair, or the sparkly swim suits, or if it is just too Esther Williams to be taken seriously, but there cannot be anything quite as ridiculous trying to pass itself off as a sport.  And nobody can argue that the nose plugs contribute anything to the glamour.

Nevertheless, synchro swim got a big boost in attention yesterday when a duo from the Ukraine (Daria Iushko and Kysenia Sydorenko) kissed each other after their performance.  Not the common, sisterly peck on the cheek.  No, square on the mouth.  Twitter was all a-twitter with it just about instantly, but it portends nothing Sapphic.  Bussing of that sort is quite common in that part of the world.  Men kissing each other on the lips is one of the more quaint Russian customs.

For excellent post-victory smooching you need look no further than our gold-medal-winning beach volleyballers.  When they embrace after a win, Kerri Walsh Jennings always kisses Misty May Treanor on the cheek in a very caring, motherly sort of way.  It warms my heart to see it.

And see it we did last night when they won the gold for the third time.  I was happy, because it means I don't have to see any more beach volleyball.  Oh, wait -- the men aren't done.  Rats.

And speaking of heartwarming, there must have been a large contingent of Americans at the beach volleyball last night because during the medal ceremony, I heard a lot of people singing the national anthem.  And speaking of that, I don't know where the Brits got the rendition of the Star Spangled Banner they have been using, but it is the worst arrangement I've ever heard.  But at least we're hearing it often.

Day 12 Quote of the Day (Aries Merritt, perhaps feeling somewhat exuberant after winning the 110-meter hurdles):  "I give honor to God!  And all the glory and praise to Him, because -- oh, God!!"

Get them while they glitter

American gymnast Aly Raisman won a bronze medal for the balance beam last night, but only because her coaches filed a protest.  Her original scores put her in fourth place, but the American coaching contingent claimed she was scored too low.  All gymnasts could say that, but in this case they thought she was not given enough credit for what she did, not how. The judges eventually agreed and amended her score, knocking Catalina Podor of Romania down to fourth.

I like it when Americans win medals, but it takes a little of the shine off them when they do it like that.  Nevertheless, Raisman showed them all what she's made of by winning the floor exercise with a nearly flawless routine that left no doubt in anybody's mind as to who was best.

We have fielded some really good teams in the team sports.  In basketball, both the men and women are undefeated, both the men's and women's water polo and volleyball squads are into the quarterfinals, and in soccer, the American women will play Japan tomorrow night for the gold.

Oh, yeah -- it can be safely predicted that the U.S. will win the gold medal for women's beach volleyball since the two two-person teams in the finals are both from the United States.

Day 11 Quote of the Day (Aly Raisman, with arms raised above her head in the standard salute to the judges at the conclusion of her spectacular floor exercise):  "Wow."

Yes, it was.

GOAL!

The women's soccer semi-final yesterday between the United States and Canada was one of the most exciting, thrilling, nail-biting games (of any kind of sport) I've ever seen.  Apparently I'm not alone, as the New York Times reported this morning that "fans around the world who watched it declared it one of the best games, involving men or women, in memory."  Of course, if we hadn't won, I might not feel the same.  Nevertheless, it's on to the gold medal game Thursday.

Did you ever wonder how a discus thrower or shot putter gets his/her projectile back after throwing it?  No, I never did either, but evidently somebody got tired of carrying them.  British automaker BMC has provided the London Olympics with three 1/4-scale, remote-controlled cars (which they are calling Mini Mini Coopers) with open tops into which a discus, shot, javelin, or hammer can be placed and then steered back to the area of the throwing circle.  I am not making this up.

As of last night, China went ahead of the United States in the medal count again, but it has been pointed out that we have won more medals per capita than they have.  They've won one medal per 22 million residents, whereas we've won one medal per 5.2 million people.  The winner is Slovenia (population 2 million) which has won four medals, or one medal for every 500,000 folks.

Who comes up with this stuff?

Day 10 Quote of the Day (Bruno Bini, coach of the French women's soccer team, prior to their semi-final match with Japan):  "I don't want to go home with a medal made of chocolate."

Actually, I wouldn't mind having one of those.

O-Lump It Time Again

McKayla Maroney was chosen for the U. S. women's gymnastics team because she can vault.  It was all she was asked to do, and in the team competition, she did her job.  She is so good at it that she was expected to win the gold medal in that event when it was contested last night.

Well, she didn't.  She got the silver instead.  Her first vault was excellent, but on the second one she landed on her butt.  A Romanian gymnast named Sandra Izbasa, who qualified for the vaulting finals in eighth (last) place, landed on her feet on both her vaults and won by a very slim margin.

I was extremely disappointed in Maroney, not because she lost but because she was decidedly ungracious about it.  She tolerated an embrace from the winner with unconcealed disdain and barely acknowledged the congratulations of the bronze medalist.  Although I didn't see the medal ceremony, the New York Times reported that as the Romanian anthem played, Maroney "narrowed her eyes into a killer gaze and pursed her lips tightly," and that she never looked at the gold medalist.

Maybe she was being stoic.  And yes, I know she failed to achieve something she has dreamed of all her life (all 16 years of it), but if one cannot accept defeat with grace, perhaps one is not ready to be a champion.

Day 9 Quote of the Day (McKayla Maroney after her loss in the vault competition): "I just messed up."

That's better.

On to Track and Field

Well, I'm glad the swimming is finally over at the Olympics.  And I have to say I am over Michael Phelps already. 

He certainly has achieved a great deal for which he deserves praise, but does winning more medals than anybody else in history make him "the greatest Olympian of all time"?  I don't know.  If he was a wrestler, he would be able to compete for only one medal by competing in just one event -- wrestling in his weight class, period.  He just happens to be good at a sport that has lots of events he can enter.  The strokes and the distances are different, but swimming is swimming.  And since the Olympics no longer require participants to be amateurs, he has been able to earn money from his swimming (or, more accurately, his endorsements), giving him the time and the wherewithal to train for three Olympics.  Would he have come back after the 2004 Games if he had had to get a job?

All right, I'm done griping about that.  Congratulations to him.  Now let's get on with the rest of it.

Day 8 Quote of the Day (Serena Williams, on the American flag falling to the ground whilst being hoisted during the medal ceremony where she received the gold for women's tennis):  "It was probably flying to come hug me because it was so happy."

Oh, puke.

More gold medals

After a full week of Olympic competition, I have made some breathtakingly penetrating observations:

Volleyball (the real kind, in a gym with six players on a side) has a referee who stands on a ladder at the net and runs the game by blowing a whistle and making extremely stiff, formal arm gestures.  I am glad they take their work seriously, but I have never seen a more cheerless bunch of people.  Even the referees in soccer matches smile once in a while.

I wish somebody would invent something a little more high-tech and sophisticated for attaching those numbers the athletes wear on their backs.  Safety pins look so primitive somehow.

The color of choice for running shoes this year seems to be yellow, and no sallow shade either, but a bright, lemony Day-Glo.  Those runners wearing shoes of another color must feel distinctly out of it.

It's bad enough that sports-speak has turned "medal" into a verb ("He hopes to medal in this event"), but now reaching the finals of an event turns that into a verb, as in "He failed to final in that race."  Cripes.

Day 7 Quote of the Day (Anastasia Zueva, Russian swimmer who won the silver in the 200-m backstroke, having observed Americans Missy Franklin and Elizabeth Beisel, the eventual gold and bronze winners, laughing and joking with each other in the ready-room before the race):  "We didn't have such great fun on the Russian team."

No, I imagine not.

Yu Ess Ay !

According to the founder of the modern Olympic Games, Pierre de Coubertin, the important thing is not winning but taking part.  In that spirit, therefore, I am pleased to point out that the United States of America has now taken part in the medal presentations more than any other country, finally overtaking China in the total medal count (37-34), although both countries have the same number of gold medals (18).  I love it when the home-town team gives me plenty to cheer about.

I have watched a few minutes of some water polo matches, and even a few minutes was enough to convince me it is an extremely silly game.  I also think somebody needs to invent a strap of some sort for securing the headgear.  It already looks like a baby bonnet, and the bow under the chin does nothing to dispel that.

There were myriad emotional reactions to losing (brooding, pouting, weeping) and winning (screaming, thrusting the arms over the head, jumping up and down) on display yesterday, but the really big one was perpetrated by the notoriously undemonstrative Rebecca Soni of the United States after winning the 200-meter breaststroke in world record time.  She actually pumped her fist -- twice.  Her coach said, "I'm probably more excited about that than the time."

For those of us who might actually be getting a little tired of swimming, competition begins today in track and field, or what the Brits call athletics.  I especially like the field events -- jumping and throwing.

Day 6 Quote of the Day (Colombian weight lifter Jackelina Heredia Cuesta on why she grins when she lifts the weight over her head):  "I can't cry, so I smile."

A good choice.

More 'Lympics

If you were going to lose on purpose, wouldn't you at least pretend to be trying to win?  I saw video of those badminton players who were ousted from the Olympics, and they need some lessons in how to throw a match.  Weakly serving the shuttlecock directly into the net is a dead give-away, kids.

Yes, it was nice that Lebron James was in the stands to cheer on the American women's basketball team yesterday in their game with Turkey.  It might have been really heart-warming, in fact, if he had not been busily texting on his smart phone whenever the camera showed him.

The events I watched in prime time last night burned two images into my brain:  swimmers continually fiddling with their goggles, and male gymnasts' hairy armpits.  I'm tired of seeing both.

Day 5 Quote of the Day (Jake Gibb, U.S. beach volleyballer, on competing in the Olympics):  "It's not as cool when you lose."

No kidding?

Gold, after all

In London yesterday Michael Phelps finally surpassed the 18 medals won by Russian gymnast Larissa Latynina ('56, '60, '64).  She was there to see it, and she was extremely gracious about it, even joking that it was about time a man did what a woman accomplished 48 years ago. 

I've become a soccer fan.  Well, at least as long as the American women are playing.  They won their group by winning all three of their matches and are on to the quarter finals.  I only got to see the first half of their game yesterday, but later I enjoyed seeing Great Britain beat Brazil.  I would enjoy seeing anybody beat Brazil.  And, of course, I would have to cheer for G.B. because they speak English.

After the wheels came off for the U.S. men's gymnastic team the night before, plus the flap over Jordyn Wieber not making the all-around final, I was a bit worried about the women.  I need not have been.  Team USA took the gold yesterday by the biggest winning margin since 1960.  Wieber came through for the team, and I really believe they couldn't have done it without her.  I hope she realizes that.

Day 4 Quote of the Day (Michael Phelps on his training regimen and personal expectations): "The decisions I've made over the past four years are the decisions I've made."

Okay.  Got it.

The O-Games

On my way to the grocery store yesterday afternoon, I made a point of checking out Twistars, Jordyn Wieber's gymnastics club, as I drove by. I thought it might be draped in black, but it looked the same as always.

Responding to accusations of sexism, the governing body of international beach volleyball passed a new rule earlier this year that women competitors are no longer required to wear bikinis.  Most of the women still do, however, and those who have covered up in London did so only because of the cold weather.

From what I've seen, the American women are the only ones who had sense enough to put their number, name, and country on shirts. Without such garments, other players have had to wear the bikini top outside their shirts, like this:

Unfortunately for the players from Brazil, their country's official three-letter abbreviation makes it look like they have labelled their bikini bras as such.

The protesters might not be too far off, as many male spectators admit that it's the scantily-clad women, not the competition, that attracts them to the sport.  And that leads me right to ...

Day 3 Quote of the Day (a British spectator on watching women's beach volleyball when the competitors are not wearing bikinis):  "It's like drinking nonalcoholic lager."

O-Lumpit

The second full day of competition in London yielded some surprises, not the least of which was Jordyn Wieber not making the all-around final in gymnastics.  The top 24 scorers get into the final, but there can be only two from each country.  Therefore, although Jordyn was fourth best of all, she was only third best among the Americans, so she's out.

Some are claiming this new two-person limit rule is unfair.  Anastasia Grishina of Russia, Jennifer Pinches of Great Britain, and Jinnan Yao of China, who came in 12th, 21st, and 22nd, respectively, won't be in the final either since in each case, two of their countrywomen finished higher.  I haven't heard anybody making a fuss about them.

Some others are complaining Jordyn's routines were scored low, based on exactly what, I don't know.  She had significant goofs in all four events and just plain didn't perform as well as she might have.  Of course, it's possible that her reputation was part of the problem.  Even the most conscientious judge might subconsciously penalize a reigning world champion more vigorously.  And God knows outrageous judging is nothing new in women's gymnastics.

In other news, Michael Phelps seems to be finding out what it's like not to win everything.

One cyclist's long-delayed crossing of the finish line was due, according to a British commentator, to "a badly-timed flat tire."  There's a good time? 

Day 2 Quote of the Day (Kim Rhode, U.S. gold medalist in skeet, when asked about her future plans):  "I don't see the future ending any time soon."

Whew.  That's a relief.

Oh, Lympics

The Games of the XXX Olympiad are finally underway.  I've been looking forward to it for months, and I am sure I will not be able to keep myself from commenting upon the spectacle as it unfolds.

I've already seen seven or eight soccer matches.  I don't usually watch soccer, but if it's the Olympics, I even watch boxing and field hockey and beach volleyball, especially if Americans are involved.  Cheering on the home-town team is part of the appeal.  I've noticed that if there are no Americans involved in an event, I tend to root for competitors who speak English -- Canadians, Brits, Aussies, etc.

I was disappointed in the opening ceremony this year.  Not only was it boring, it was way too hokey.  Once the athletes marched in and they got on with the flag and torch and fireworks, it picked up some.  When one of the bright spots is guffawing at the ridiculous outfits worn by the team from the Czech Republic, there is obviously not enough to entertain me. 

It might be interesting to ask the people of Great Britain, Germany, and South Korea how they feel about BP, BMW, and Samsung being official sponsors of the U. S. Olympic team.

Today the women's gymnastics competition begins, and everybody in DeWitt, Michigan, including me, will be in front of their televisions to see Jordyn Wieber.

Day 1 Quote of the Day (Beach volleyball commentator about Australia's Natalie Cook):  "She has savvy coming out her ears."

Seriously?

Time for Breakfast

I love breakfast.  I can eat breakfast foods any time of the day or night, I love them so much, but there are some times when the first meal of the day is really special.  Breakfast on the road is one of those, especially at a cafe in a small town.  When there's company from out of town, making a nice big breakfast for everyone is always good.  Or just a cozy Sunday morning at home. 

Long about 20 years ago my partner and I got some good news at an early-morning medical appointment and decided we'd celebrate by going out for breakfast.  I'll never forget the doctor agreeing that was a good idea and then adding, "You could get a bran muffin and some fruit."

A bran muffin and some fruit?  Are you kidding me?  That's not breakfast.  Bacon and eggs is breakfast.  So is ham and eggs, sausage and eggs, country fried steak and eggs, which can be scrambled with or without cheese, fried in butter or in bacon fat, soft boiled, poached, or made into an omelet; also pancakes with or without blueberries, French toast, and waffles (Belgian or otherwise); not to mention breakfast casserole, breakfast pizza, breakfast sandwich, and quiche; plus English muffins dripping in butter, toasted bagels with cream cheese, hot buttered toast with blackberry jam, lemon-poppy seed muffins, buttery biscuits with honey, hash brown potatoes, American fried potatoes, potato pancakes; and, of course, biscuits and gravy.  Add coffee if you do, orange juice if you like, Mimosas if you're lucky, and -- oh, all right -- a slice of melon.

Excuse me.  I have to go make myself something to eat now.

Old Padalik

Looking for something else, I ran across my birth certificate this morning.  I noticed the name of the attending physician, one Adolph J. Padalik, M.D.  He was our family doctor until we moved to a new town when I was six.  There are a couple stories involving him that my mother would tell, and on the rare occasions when his name came up, my father would always nod his head and say, "Yeah, Old Padalik."   I don't really remember him at all, but because of my father saying that, I've always had a mental picture of him as an old man.

On a whim, I Googled the name and found the guy's obituary.  I was surprised to see he died only five years ago at the age of 92.  That means he was only 31 when I was born and, in fact, was actually three years younger than my father.  Maybe my father was thinking "Good Ol' Padalik" and truncated it.

One of my mother's stories about Dr. Padalik concerned his coming to her bedside after I was born and telling her that her husband would be in shortly to see her.  "Now, no matter what he says," the doctor told her earnestly, "I know he was very concerned about you."

She didn't understand what he meant by that until later when she discovered that when the doctor had gone to the waiting room full of nervous, pacing husbands to tell my father the news, he found him slouched in a chair fast asleep.

Killed with kindness, not kilowatts

This morning I had to call Consumers Energy (gas and electric utility) about the bill I just got.  Two months ago it was only $50, which is wonderful and which I attributed to our weird warm spring with furnace and air conditioner off and windows open.  Last month the bill was only $29.  Wow.  The one I got today was for $27.  Uh-oh.  It has been between 90° and 100° for over a month.  This bill should be about ten times that much.

I had to wade through four menus but finally got to talk to Jeremiah who discovered that we were charged for 1 kilowatt hour of electricity last month and 0 for this month.  He said the meter was probably broken, so he transferred me to Jackie who agreed with him and said she'd send someone out today.  I understand Consumers doesn't want to give me free electricity, but I was still amazed when Ryan showed up in his white truck within half an hour.  He confirmed that the meter was broken.  That little wheel that goes around wasn't moving.

Wouldn't the guy who reads the meter notice that?

Anyway, Ryan waited while I shut down my computer, since he had to cut the power briefly, but the whole thing was done in less than five minutes.  Ryan was very nice and polite.

And so were Jeremiah and Jackie.  In fact, they were so nice and friendly and polite and upbeat and helpful that I remarked upon it to both of them.

Isn't it a shame that good customer service is so unusual that you notice it?