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.