"Things At King's" Will Be On Vacation

No, I do not blog on vacation. I'm a writer; this is a vacation ... do the math.

Vacations are to vacate. Get the **** out. [There are many words containing four letters which will convey the appropriate feeling you wish in that short sentence.]

When I get into the bus and the driver pulls out, there is nothing I can do about anything. I am now unconnected to my day job, so there is little to be gained by thinking about it, hashing over arguments, wondering about things.

They are left back at work. They missed the bus, they missed the ship. I am all alone out there on the water with everything left behind. Escapism? Not in the least. It’s called “coming up for air.” Or letting our brain air out and come back refreshed with some perspective on matters.

It can be wonderful for the introverts of us to lie on the Sky Deck and watch the stars those millions of miles away. Or maybe millions of light-years away. An occasional small bit of rock, called a meteor, which comes streaming through our atmosphere, set on fire by the friction.

For the more extroverted, some dancing and whooping it up inside, times to blow of steam and not have to worry about what people might think. After all, you’ll never see them again, so what’s to worry?

Want To Be In These Competitions?

Pig Racing: Porkers with names like Shakin Bacon, Sty Stallone and Jean Claude Van Spam burn up an oval track while the crowd squeals in delight.

If pigs can't quite fly, they can dive -- gracefully, we might add -- and there are competitions to prove it, such as one at the Royal Melbourne Show in Australia.

Toilet Seat Toss: Think of it as the redneck version of horseshoes. In fact, it's an integral part of the annual Summer Redneck Games in East Dublin, GA.

Ironing: "The latest danger sport that combines the thrills of an extreme outdoor activity with the satisfaction of a well-pressed shirt" requires contestants to take an ironing board to a challenging location -- like the Antarctic, a mountain top or underwater -- and attempt to lay waste to unsightly wrinkles. Ironing can also be done while bungee jumping and snowboarding.

Pack your trunk and head for Nepal as The World Elephant Polo Association will be celebrating its silver jubilee in November. It's a truly international sport with an annual world championship. Teams of three-four pachyderms (plus drivers and players) compete for more than peanuts in two 10-minute chukkas on a pitch that's about the size of a soccer field.

[Credit: Sports Illustrated.]

Questions I Want To Ask God

Do you miss not having a birthday?

When did you think up the idea of creating the universe?

Were you trying to create a chicken when the Big Bang happened?

You know the punch line to every joke ever told, to every joke that will ever be written. Do you have to fake laughter when they are told?

When you get angry, do you shout “Peopledammit”?

Did Jesus intend to save us, or did he end up on the wrong planet by mistake?

Did Mary and Joseph ever … uh, let’s skip that one.

You know when the world will end. Could you drop a hint? I’d like to take a personal day when that happens.

Would you really send a 12-year-old boy to hell for whacking off? Or is that a lie the church tells us because it’s hung up about sex?

Is there One True Religion, or are we all part of it?

Was My Apartment Ransacked?

It sure looks like it. But how can you tell? My guess is "no; that's just how it looks all the time." Maybe I really should tidy it up.

Problem is, where do I start? In the immediate future, I have a cruise to think about. As one item, there is the matter of arranging for a bus ticket from NYC to Boston. That took a bit of time while I figured out the Greyhound schedule, but it’s all printed out now; I also need to bop down to the bus terminal for a ticket to and from NYC.

I do have some laundry to do, which I might as well take care of right now. [pause] Ok; one phone call and one laundry-start later and it’s time to triage the room. There are some shirts that need to be hung (for no crime in particular). [pause] Ok, that’s done and I’ll see which will end up in my overnight bag for the trip. One bag; that’s it.

I also have to pack for the trip, coming up in just a few days. I have a desk drawer marked “Next Cruise,” which holds the general needs and when I have items to go, that’s where they end up. The ship has a self-serve launderette; I pack enough for six days and do the first five days’ wash on the sixth. Keep the bag light!

What’s nice to remember is this: what’s left hanging around will still be a faithful friend and will be here when I return. It won’t lose interest in me, it won’t decide somewhere else is more interesting. There will be no “keep in touch” note, no “we’ll have to call each other sometime”; it will still be here.

Thoughts On The 4th

Not only is it the 4th of July here in the states, but also in Myanmar (formerly Burma), Chad (in Africa), Kerguelen (an island claimed by France, exactly opposite us if you dug a hole deep enough) and Albania. It comes between the 3rd of July and the 5th of July. Actually, the 4th of July occurs everywhere in the world.

Don’t go to bed angry; stay up and plot revenge.

My parents never went to bed angry; once they stayed up for six months.

I once heard an egg say to the chicken, “Do you love me, now that you’ve laid me?”

We consume 52 pounds of chicken and 240 eggs per person, per year. What do you think might happen if we go to our judgement only to find that God is a giant chicken? Would he accuse us not only of mass murder but also of late-term pregnancy termination?

Speaking of God, heaven and, thereby hell, do you think if any given classical orchestra conductors have lived really bad lives, they will be condemned to lead 100-piece groups consisting only of accordions? Or banjos?

What’s the entertainment in hell? Endless re-runs of “My Mother, the Car”? Maybe Conan O’Brian? How about “Howdy Doody”? Possibly back-to-back infomercials from late-night tv for ever and ever.

Noah Count For The Weather

Had some rain today. Either that, or a lot of people in the clouds had thousands of fire hoses aimed at Our Fair City running maximum volume. I should check the river gage tomorrow to see what’s up at the bridge. Right now, it’s barely risen, but what we’re measuring is the water coming down from the Southern Tier of NY State.

The average flow for this time of year is 4,000 cubic feet per second; right now, it’s running 17,000 cubes. Something must have been going on around June 22, because we hit 40,000 cubic feet per second, with a height of eleven feet – pretty good for this time of year. Right now, it’s barely 5.5 feet.

You get a lot of water up around Binghamton, a lot of snow melt all at once, and we can be looking at 30’ coming down the river. The levee on our side goes to 42’, slightly lower on the other bank and I don’t know why; it could be the river takes a sharp curve here and the water tends to pile up on this side.

I’ve seen a couple of high-water events on the river where we were told, basically, “Head for the hills.” Both times there was a fear the dykes would break due to the water pressing on them for an extended length of time. Nothing happened and we were allowed back the next day, safe & sound.

Someone said, “Are you near the Susquehanna?” and I replied, “Our address is River Street; any other questions?”

Only One Digit Was Showing

Some person with a neat imagination looked at the red “don’t cross” hand at the corner traffic signal and saw something nobody else had seen before.

The Finger.

The perpetrator took some electrical tape and covered up the index finger, the ring finger and the small finger ... leaving only the thumb and the middle finger sticking out. It was amazingly subtle until you noticed it; then you could see nothing else when you approached that intersection.

It was a wonderful show of midnight talent, of vision and planning, perhaps even the surprise that Those In Authority would not notice it. Or, having noticed it, would say, “My thoughts exactly.”

Eventually, person or persons unknown caught wind of this wondrous re-making of what had been, till now, something between a joke and a political statement.

“Vandalism!” they probably shouted over their coffee and donuts. “Since we can’t finger the suspect, we must suspect the finger has been irreparably damaged. Send the police, the fire ladder truck and the public works people there at once!”

So they removed the electrical tape and the magic was gone.

The Blue Jay At My Window

I’ve never seen a blue jay begging. This one has been hanging around in the tree branches outside my office window, then I noticed it was walking back and forth on the air conditioning unit; finally, it was standing on the windowsill looking at me. Well, look all you want, Mr. Jay, because the soup kitchen is down the street.

One thing I am not going to do is ask my friend Brenda, down at the pet food store, what these feathered bipeds would like as their entrée. Whatever it is, they can find it in the wild, as all the other birds do; no feeders shall from this window hang, no bear-attracting suet will tempt those beasts to devour our neighbors’ children

Robins are meat-eaters (sorry, PETA readers, but they are carnivores and I’m not about to scatter veggie-worms around my backyard), the smaller birds are grass-seed eaters and will go straight to bird-Hell where angels with lawnmowers will torture them forever. Blue jays belong in the sticks, although it’s nice to see one at my window.

What I definitely do not like to see is one of these nicely-decked-out jays sitting on the sill, looking at me, wearing a napkin, with silverware all lined up in front of it, a glass of water and an expectant smile on its face. That’s going a bit too far. That is presuming I will be at its peck and caw (bad pun, meant for crows).

Maybe those stupid bird toys where it leans down into the water, goes back up, then down into the water will disgust the thing sufficiently.

Between The Lightning And Thunder

There was just enough time for the power to go out.

I was in the middle of prepping for my radio show and pre-recording a piece with one of the talent. Then everything stopped – as I told people, the power dump was so bad even my battery clock stopped. So we hung out for a few minutes until it came back on, thanks to the electric company and the voodoo they do.

A short while later, it went out again, and this time we got tired of hanging around, so I went home and the squirrels once again began running in their little round cages, giving us the electricity we needed. It affected odd parts of town, depending on which grid you sucked the juice from.

I was walking out of the tall building where our transmitting tower is located, some time back, and only heard the “fzzzzzzzzt” of lightning hitting the tower. I don’t recall hearing any thunder, which could mean I was so close I was actually inside the cone where the noise would have been created.

No, I did not see a bright light, a tunnel and dead relatives. Had I been in the transmitter shed working on something there, I might have. Lightning is pretty much at the top of the electrical “food chain,” and there’s not much you can do about it except, perhaps, distract its attention by putting up well-grounded rods or growing tall trees with excellent root systems. Even then, it’s a crapshoot.

Click Here To Print

When my cruise documents came, I put them aside until I could check online to see what cabin I’d be occupying. (I’m on a “guarantee” status, as I did not ask for any particular place in my category.) So when I looked yesterday, I found the number added to the online registration form I had filled out two months ago.

Having done that, I could then print out the entire form, as required for check-in, with my cabin number included. Although the cruise line now has all my necessary information (passport, credit card, past history with the line), it’s proof of who I am and I simply wave it at them when I arrive at the desk.

Mom and I started cruising around 1984 and they didn’t have all this stuff. We filled out sheets of paper, they found us on sheets of paper, and everything took about twice as long, if not more, than it does today. Now we pretty much sail through and, as happened last time, I barely slowed down from arrival to gangplank.

I wonder what it was like in the Olde Days when this line was new, around 135 years ago. Not only were there no computers, but I think many people spoke different languages and, as this was an immigrant line, there were most likely a good many crew members who could help them in their language.

People who complain about the short delays in boarding now should maybe watch a film about what it was like to make the crossing then.

Give Us Not This Day Our Daily Shopping

I’ve never felt right about shopping on Sundays or, for that matter, mowing the lawn or doing anything that might disturb the neighbors. It’s a combination of (a) The Lord’s Day, (b) A day of rest, (c) One day of the week to be still.

Yes, there are things to be done, but I manage to arrange them so they fit nicely into the other days, especially Saturdays with the quieter stuff saved for Sunday. Try to manage the stillness in your life so most of it takes place on that day.

Ok, so it’s not absolutely possible, but I think it would be doable in some sort of large measure.

Can you imagine the serenity in a neighborhood where nobody used a lawnmower on Sundays? Those machines do not make any kind of soft sound, unless they are electric and, even then, it can be loud.

An understanding that people with backyard pools will raise their children to keep from screaming. Impossible? Perhaps and probably, but let’s go for the possibility. Can parents start from the very earliest days to have quiet pools? Or is this something just not in the genes? Kids will scream with delight, no matter.

Well, at least these are dreams, and one can dream all one wants. There has never been an unreasonable dream, only when you force it on others.

Rhode Island Wants To Change Its Name

The people who live on Rhode Island don’t care. (ON Rhode Island? Isn’t that supposed to be IN Rhode Island?). No; the people in Rhode Island want to change the name, but not the people on Rhode Island.

Rhode Island isn’t Rhode Island, but it’s part of it. Or, to be more exact, Rhode Island, an island whose largest city is Newport, is part of “The State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations.”

Plantations? Bales of cotton? The showboat comin’ up Naragansett Bay? One side says it brings up images of slavery; the other says it’s not necessary, given Rhody’s tradition of tolerance.

On Thursday, the vote was 70-3 to change the name to “State of Rhode Island.” You probably never knew, and also think Ohio became a state in 1803. Fools.

Ohio became a state in 1953, despite what the history books say. Forget that 1803 hooey; someone back then forgot to file the papers with the good folks in Washington and, not only that, but they were mislaid and, eventually, forgotten.

But! To the rescue! Some practical people raised their heads and came up with a plan: Let’s pretend it was done all proper and right in 1803. Ohio acted like a state, so we’ll just stick some papers in a file and that’s it.

Things That I Never Understood

The fast-talking pitchmen on tv give us the sell and then say, “Call within the next ten minutes and we will include (this, that and the next thing).” So how do they know when the next ten minutes have elapsed when the spot is run at any time during the day or night? Suppose you say, “I heard this 15 minutes ago?” What then?

Radio and tv towers just sit there, very quiet, not doing much of anything. But they still send out programming via electromagnetic waves. The air is full of those mysterious little thingies, all vibrating at different rates and in different ways. Our radios and tvs sort it out. Would we go nuts if we could see all this stuff around us?

It’s three in the morning and you are at a red traffic light in the middle of the city. You stop and sit there until it turns green. Is it because, (a) You are law-abiding, (b) You are a careful driver, or (c) You are afraid a cop might catch you? Answer: (c). But it’s only a series of colored lights you allow yourself to bow in obesience.

Locomotives and railcars have flanges on their wheels that keep them on the tracks. Those flanges are only an inch or so tall. You are zipping along and hit a switch at 60 or 90 mph. The car bounces around but you stay on the tracks. Remember, it’s only a one-inch or so flange between you and utter destruction.

When you are cutting a piece of paper with scissors, what keeps you from splitting an atom and causing the city to blow up?

If It Tastes Like Chicken...

My friend the cook was laying out a pan of roasted chicken. He said, “If it tastes like chicken, it better be chicken.”

Truer words have never been spoken. How often have you been urged to try something different (especially exotic that you would never dream of putting in your mouth) and told, “It tastes just like chicken.” If that’s so, then why not go to the nearest store and get something that was running around the barnyard yesterday morning?

It’s cheaper, we’re told it tastes the same, and it’s a common staple in our diet. All we’re interested in is flavor, anyway, as that’s what our taste buds are for.

Ritz Cracker apple pie is another abomination before the Lord. “Tastes just like real apple pie.” Well, then slice up real apples and make a real apple pie. You never hear anyone toss an apple to a friend and say, “Try this – tastes just like a Ritz cracker.”

God invented chickens, apples and Ritz crackers so we would have variety. There is no reason to make one taste like the other.

It might surprise some that the organ was designed to take the place of real musical instruments in churches too small to have its own group. So the organ had stops that would imitate each one and it became the instrument of worship. Tastes just like chicken, so to speak.

I Bought A New Chair

Big deal, you might reply. Well, it’s a moderate deal for me as I use it two hours a day, either prepping my radio show or actually doing it. The old chair hit its swing limit anywhere it wanted, anytime it wanted; I’d turn to cue someone and it might go two inches, even though I had just checked it for a full swing. No wheels, either.

So I bopped down to the locally-owned department store where I knew they had just what I was looking for.

Let it be noted here: I deal with locally-owned businesses exclusively to the extent possible. Chain stores return something like 14% to the local economy, whereas the locals return (I think) 62% of money spent. When you buy in town, it pretty much stays in town; salaries, taxes, other needs all help us.

I digress.

After putting up with a chair which never really worked, I happened to notice one that was as close to perfect as one could imagine. The store’s website (ah, blessed websites) indicated it was there, so down I went the next day to pick it up.

I originally saw it online Sunday, but I don’t buy things on Sunday, hence the wait.

So now I’m a happy duck and the world is sunny.

What Flavor? (Flavor? What's That?)

It was a long time ago, more than 60 years, when I patronized Derling’s Dairy up the street from us. I’d get a dime from someone, go up there in the wet coolness and someone would come out and ask what flavor cone I’d like.

I had no idea what “flavor” meant, but I did know if I answered “vanilla,” I’d get a cone. I don’t know what ice cream cones go for now, but it’s got to be more than a dime.

In this upcoming Sunday’s music column, I happened to mention the now-gone College Inn, which used to be in Milford, Connecticut. My parents went there fairly often and it was, as I recall, a better-than-average joint. Classy like, tablecloths and people dressed up. Not like your typical drunk bar.

My brother and our cousin then started flinging e-mails back and forth talking about their favorite places in Southern Connecticut. Nothing anyone on this blog would recognize, except the names are so much like the Mom & Pop places you would find anywhere in the country; not a chain in the bunch.

“Aherns was great …Miller’s Hot Dogs …Skippers, Pops, Paradise Pizza (named for Paradise Green, its location), the Ocean Sea Grill, St. John’s Drug Store.”

There were hardly any chain places that I can recall. All were owned and operated by the locals and each had a definite individual look and flavor.

Let's Sit Down And Negotiate, Ok?

Negotiate. Ok, let’s negotiate. Pull up a chair and let’s see why that driver failed to negotiate the curve; we read about it all the time in the newspapers. Did the curve demand something the driver was unable to supply? The curve said, “I’ll let you go through me if you slow down,” and the driver said, “No can do.”

Exchanged. The police and criminals exchanged gunfire. The couple exchanged wedding vows. In both cases, did they need a receipt to make the exchange? Do you get your money back, or can you only switch it for a similar product? Do cops and robbers meet to do the exchange?

Executing. As in, executing a warrant or a contract. I was the executor of my mother’s will, yet no lawyers were harmed in the process. Not only that, but it’s probably still around here, showing that it might have been executed legally, but physically it’s still in pretty good shape.

Cut. Cut a deal, for one thing. Just today, a clerk at Boscov’s Department Store cut a deal with me and no blood was shed. No knives were visible anywhere. No deals were harmed in the process (uh, didn’t I just say that up above?); they made a sale, I got a discount and a slightly damaged chair found a new home.

I fixed the chair, by the way. The clerk wasn’t aware it could be done and I pretended it was busted for life. Took five minutes.

PED XING

A friend in Australia was talking to me about street signs. “Kangaroo Crossing” was, as I recall, one of them. New to me, of course, but I rather expected it, as we have deer crossing signs around here, as soon as you leave the city. Those signs mean it, although the deer cross anywhere they darned well wish.

I asked her if she ever heard of PED XING and she replied she had not. I wondered what people there, or in other countries, would think of that sign. To us, it’s quite clear: Pedestrian Crossing. Even the pope would call it a no-brainer in either Latin or Bavarian.

Then I got to thinking about DO NOT PASS. For us’n it means clearly that we are to stay in our own blessed lane and not to overtake any vehicles ahead of us, no matter how vital our trip to Stash’s Pierogi Palace might be.

But beware if you are behind a gentleperson from England. On go the brakes, squeal go the tires, stop goes the car. “Do Not Pass” means “Don’t go anywhere beyond this sign.” Could be dangerous, this misunderstanding of signs. We go single-file past the “Do Not Pass” signs in England and go off a cliff; the bloke holds up traffic here.

We use arrows in this part of the earth’s real estate for an advanced left turn; it points, we swing out knowing we’re safe. But, wait! We’re in Quebec City and environs and the green light is blinking at us. Blink, blink, blink. Horns blow, so we assume it’s our turn to take the left. When in Rome … or Quebec …

Elsie Beebie

Elsie Beebie … a long-time radio star, so to speak, even though she never spoke a word, nobody ever played her and the general public never knew who she was. Yet everybody heard of her in a general sort of way. She was the soaper “Life Can Be Beautiful”: L.C.B.B., as she was known verbally in the business.

Shows have their own nicknames, either for brevity’s sake or the usual banter that goes on in radio and television stations. Like the entertainers’ joke, it goes no farther than studio or backstage [and don’t ask what that joke is; I don’t tell it].

Thus, the locally-produced “Call the Doctor” is known in-house among the production crew as “Call the Ding-Dongs.” I happened to mention this to an occasional (perhaps one-time) participant one time, a very serious person with a limited sense of humor and he stomped around in a high dudgeon for several days.

My show, “The Radio Home Visitor,” used to be known as “The Radio Home Duck,” but now it’s just “The Duck,” and our regular staff are known as Ducks. It’s a long story; don’t ask. One of the few which can be told in mixed company with kids.

“The Music of Your Life” easy-listening format has been, from Day One, known by dj’s as “The Music of Your Death,” because there isn’t much life to it. It’s also known in the business as “MOYL,” rhyming with “toil.” No matter how much improved the programming may be, MOYL will always be MOYD.

Great-Grandpaw Rode The Freights

An excerpt from “History, My Way,” also known as “Jim Carten’s Meanderings Over a Second Cup of Coffee.” Maybe available soon at a Barnes & Noble near you, where he drinks coffee, reads and often falls asleep.

“As kids we spent hours pouring over history in school, memorizing places, people and dates and for the most part finding it a bit dull. What did I care about the Blizzard of ’81 or the Liberty Bell, but Jim Bridger, Sublette and Lewis and Clark stirred some kind of emotion in my innards. You know, they brought an image of adventure and being in the wilderness and stuff that kids dream about during history class.

“My great-grandfather, George A. Youngs fought in the Civil War and here hanging on my wall is his discharge, the original, dating back to 1865. While on a trip I stopped by Madison, Wisconsin, the state where George was raised, and found the Civil War Museum. I ultimately was able to put my hands on a document in which all the skirmishes of his company between the dates of which he was posted were listed. They will print out these facts for you.

“George Youngs, well here is a fellow that I want to talk to sometime in the hereafter. I would have loved to have been in his tent for a three-day weekend. Know what he did? He got discharged and two years later rode freight trains from Wisconsin to Philadelphia and then somehow made it to Stratford, Ct. This is my kind of history. What a great afternoon we could spend together discussing his life from 1862-1921.”