Things at King's

Amen

2011-02-19T02:17:00.003-05:00

Thanks for walking with me for the past 1,615 days, give or take interruptions and vacations.

It's getting hard to keep this up, what with my involvements here at Kings and North Franklin Street. I don't like things to peter out, which actually is what's happening, so let's put this to rest and look back at what's been (in my estimation) a pretty good blog.

No rants, no politics, no snarkiness either on my part nor yours. Just a nice chat together through the eyes of one who ponders the mysteries of the universe and occasionally posts his findings here.

Again, thanks for your companionship.

See you via e-mail or in the life to come.

Of snow, snow men & snow women

2011-01-17T01:56:00.000-05:00

We’ve had snow here in the great Northeast Pennsylvania. Not a whole lot, but enough little bits often to make our ups & downs (also known as hills and the Poconos) a bit difficult. It is our understanding, however, we have little to complain about, as others are up to their chimney tops and wolves are eating stranded peasants.

Students who are out of school because of the snowfall here (and live in the dorm) quickly put ski racks on their cars and head for Jack Frost and other slopes. They can’t make it across campus, but driving 30-45 minutes to the Pocono Mountains’ winter resort areas does not seem to be any problem at all.

I haven’t seen any snowmen that I can think of. Or snow women. Friends of mine made up an anatomically-correct snow gal one time, but a narrow-minded person did a mastectomy. I guessed someone has a problem with milk glands, even with a pile of snow wearing a hat and a few pieces of coal and sticks for arms.

The dangers of living on a hill means the three roads I can take out of here (North Street, North Franklin Street) all head down. We are at the peak of North, so it’s downhill to traffic lights both ways; North Franklin is one-way up but I’d take it down if necessary. I don’t like the idea of skidding through a red light; it’s bad luck.

The groundhog comes out of his hole pretty soon and we will learn all about the snow and the forecast for the next six weeks. Cross your fingers.

Common Sense, part 1 (sent in)

2011-01-16T01:37:00.000-05:00

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape. He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as:

Knowing when to come in out of the rain;
Why the early bird gets the worm;
Life isn't always fair;
and maybe it was my fault.

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge). His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children. It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student; but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.

Common Sense, part 2 (sent in)

2011-01-15T01:39:00.000-05:00

Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims. Common Sense took a beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.

Common Sense finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.

Common Sense was preceded in death, by his parents, Truth and Trust, by his wife, Discretion, by his daughter, Responsibility, and by his son, Reason.

He is survived by his 4 stepbrothers;
I Know My Rights
I Want It Now
Someone Else Is To Blame
I'm A Victim

The Godfather's Wife

2011-01-14T14:03:00.000-05:00

It’s really the 21st as I try to catch up. My cruise ship newsletter mentioned last night that the new Disney ship was christened the day before. Normally, the “godmother” knocks a bottle of champagne across the bow. These days, all she does is push a button and the thing flies across the dock; bottle meets ship and ship wins.

Not so Disney. This time, they hired a helicopter to swing the thing as it flew over the previously-unnamed Mouse of the Seas (actually the “Disney Dream” and, being in the water, no doubt a wet one). The menu consisted of Donald Duck a l’orange, Hot Goofy Dogs, a view of Pluto through the telescope and White Snow with brandy for dessert. Mice work if you can get it.

The newsletter did not mention if Godmother Jennifer Hudson was in the ‘copter releasing the aforementioned bubbly in the size worthy of a Disney extrav. You pays your money and you gots your choice, all named for Biblical figures small to large: Jeroboam, Rehoboam, Methuselah, Salmanazar, Balthazar and, just before you realize you need A.A., the Nebuchadnezzar at 120 glasses.

In my religion, the Godmother raises the kids in their tradition, but whose? Mr. and Mrs. Walt are gone but what church did they attend? Mickey and Minnie? They weren’t even married – Shame! Jennifer was a crew member on the Wonder in 2003 so maybe she should be a God-mother-aunt. Or a surrogate something-in-law. A Godfather would have been easier: Drop the bottle and have him shoot it when it reaches the deck.

Jan. 13 or Jan. 20?

2011-01-13T21:37:00.002-05:00

Well, this blog is being published on January the two and zero, despite any attempt of mine to have it honestly slugged as Thursday the Thirteenth.

Lots going on here at North Franklin that has (or is it “have”?) distracted me from the daily output of my fingers-on-keyboard action. Fun things, non-fun things, interesting things. Did you know, and/or do you care, about the fact of “On the Good Ship Lollipop” being inspired by songwriter Richard Whiting’s daughter, the late Margaret Whiting (or, as they originally put it, lately of this world).

That’s an interesting thing. A non-fun thing was my computer catching a cold – actually a virus. It happened the day before a big storm and the geek squad couldn’t get to it before the planet froze in a blanket of ice and the school closed the next day. Four files were corrupted and, I might add, not by me. Can’t imagine how that happened, but happen it did. After it was fixed, I couldn’t get on the internet, so it took another day.

Then there are the [choose your bad word for incompetents] at the Social Security office in another state. Well, maybe not incompetents; possibly overworked and closing the office a little too early in the day (4:00pm – bankers’ hours). They need to talk to me about something, so I called. “Office closed; it’s snowing.” Called back; “We’re busy, leave a message.” Waited for callback two days. Called back; “Closed for MLK day.” Called back; “We closed at 4:00.” Called back; “We’re busy, leave a message.” I want to do something bad to them that’s not illegal or sinful. Any ideas?

Driven To Distraction

2011-01-12T14:29:00.002-05:00

Exactly where is “Distraction”? I’ve been driven there many times, but I just can’t locate it. Tried my National Geographic atlas, to no avail; ditto the Merriam-Webster Geographic dictionary. Even tried Weather.com to see what they offered; again, zilch. It sounds like some forlorn miner’s camp in Alaska, like Coldfoot or Deadhorse.

What sort of a vehicle is a Dudegon? Especially a High Dudgeon? I’ve heard reports of people leaving in one, but never actually saw the thing out on the street.

I also wonder about what type of hole you would need to lower your expectations. Do you lower them into a pit, or something you have dug yourself?

My mother was a High Episcopalian, despite being of average height. Or, she went to such a church which, as I recall, wasn’t much taller than any other house of worship.

One of my relatives must have been hauling ice, because I heard he gave someone the cold shoulder. Or was it an icy stare?

Do you need to have an exceptionally long tongue to give someone a tongue-lashing?

How can you end up with egg on your face, when there is none in sight?

“You are a chicken” is a mis-identification, but “you are chicken” is an insult.

"Your Call Isn't Important To Us."

2011-01-11T14:17:00.000-05:00

“Hello. This is United Association of Associations.”
>>Hi. This is Tom Carten…
“Your call is very important to us. At the moment, all our representatives are busy with other customers. Please stay on the line and a customer service representative will be with you shortly.”
>>[Kenny G airport music.]

Time passes. The clock slowly moves ahead. Calendar pages flip. Trees blossom, leaves change color, people start to wear heavy coats. Kenny G music keeps playing.

“Thank you for waiting.”
>>Tom Carten here.
“We are sorry for the delay.”
>>I wanted to speak to someone…
“All our representatives are still busy. Please stay on the line.”

Babies are conceived and born, parents age and eventually pass on, presidents run for office and European governments fall. Kenny G music plays.

“This is Terri; may I help you?”
>>Hi Terri. This is Tom. It’s about my prescription plan.
“I’m sorry; that office closed fifteen minutes ago.”

You Never Know (by Jim Carten)

2011-01-10T02:59:00.001-05:00

While driving through Ontario this week, I heard twice within an hour a song and the one phrase that remained in my mind over the years has been, “You never know how much you got ‘til it is gone.” So true! I spent the remainder of the afternoon going through my childhood, from my earliest moments in my memory until the day I left home to join the Navy.

It’s hard driving through tears; foreheads do not come equipped with wipers. I saw my entire life in front of my mind, not chronologically, nor in any pre-arranged sequence, just pop-ups. Basically they were mostly all good: good times, fond memories, family members and events which make up our personal history.

But each one had attached to it the love of a mother. The old saying, “only a mother could love” would be, in some instances concerning my personal history and events column, the only way to justify the tears which rolled on the highway 401.

Today I’d give anything to drop by 235 Victoria Lawn in Stratford, Connecticut and have a coffee with my Mom, spend an evening watching TV, and not even conversing, taking a walk down to the beach, watching her fall asleep after a swim and then dozing off myself.

Yesterday, on the 401 I was there mentally, a cheap substitute to be sure, but I thank God for my memory, even though sometimes it hurts to go back there. Do me a favour will you? Pass this on to your kids … your grandkids and let them know that you never know what you got until it’s gone.

Thanks for reading me…..Jim

Wolves Were Snapping At Their Feet

2011-01-09T21:11:00.001-05:00

As I drove through the dense woods, I saw a pack of wolves in the distance, their heads down, gathered around something. It appeared they were feeding on some helpless animal who was unable to outrun them in the deep snow. I came closer, but only one looked up and that for a moment. They had a local peasant from the Back Mountain.

Pity, I thought. It’s been a rough winter for all of us and I guess what seemed like wolves, but were actually a pack consisting of a few Jack Russell terriers, three long-haired cats of no particular lineage, a rabbit and a sheep. I thought I spied a possum in there somewhere.

There I sat in my car, comforted by a hot steaming mug of tea connected to the cig lighter to keep it hot. Wow – almost burned my lips watching the peasant being devoured like a zebra on the National Geographic Channel. At least, I’m warm and safe; too bad about that guy walking alone out in the freezing cold.

It’s times like this I really appreciate the good things in life: an auto, hot tea, maybe something to snack on laying next to me on the seat. Yes, sir, the good life.

I wonder who took him down? The rabbit? Did the cats operate in a pack? I’m not sure how the Jack Russells work, but maybe the sheep could convince them to stop running around long enough to actually do some work. Nah. You have to watch those possum; they can play dead, then jump up and scare the daylights out of you.

Singing In My Baritone Voice

2011-01-08T23:28:00.001-05:00

When I go over to the Citizens’ Voice newspaper at night to pick up my copies for the morning radio program I do for the visually impaired, I serenade the workers.

Specifically, I do selections from the great Broadway composers as would be performed by the best of singers. Thomas Hampson, for instance, the great bass-baritone whose Broadway disc I own. As I imitate his style, my voice grows ever stronger, more resonate and resounds throughout the room.

Pity they can’t hear me above the roar of the press. Even in the mailing room, where the papers are put together with their inserts whooshing into them as they are conveyed down a belt with alarm bells sounding and the general atmosphere of a boiler room and a three-alarm fire, I am little noticed nor long remembered.

Vastly unappreciated, I pick up my papers and leave, hoping that another night it will be quiet and they will be struck dumb by the sheer power of what comes forth from this famous (Rockport MA Community Chorus) section (first or second tenor, as required) experienced (two seasons) vocalist (they already had a pianist).

Yes, Virginia, there is a vocalist among us. A singer of power and might. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of newspaper printers and mailing room assemblers. Their progeny will say, “Who was that guy who moved his lips amid all the noise?”

It Happens Every Other Day

2011-01-07T14:20:00.002-05:00

It’s the end of the world. It’s a sign of the end of the world. It’s God sending us a message. It’s aliens.

It happens, on the average, every two days: a massive kill-off of birds, fish, animals. Nothing more mysterious than that. But why now? Because it happened near a city with a tv station, newspapers and a lot of people who are online. Reindeer in the middle of the Tongass National Preserve in Alaska don’t make headlines.

The birds were scared out of their gizzards by fireworks on New Year’s Eve. They flew out of their nests and, not being night fliers, flew into anything that happened to be in their way. Sometimes a pack, a herd, a school (not kids) of something will catch a virus and a ranger will find them, feet in the air, with vultures dining to violin music.

Meanwhile, the people who concern themselves with this look up from their work and say, “Another kill-off. Interesting. And your problem with this is?” It would be nice, in the best of all possible worlds, not to have this happed. But we’re not in the best of anything; things go wrong and flocks of birds fly into bridges.

You hear of “cancer clusters,” which brings a bit of humor into the sad lives of oncologists. With over a hundred types of cancers, the so-called clusters turn out to be a random distribution of several kinds, quite unrelated, which happen to have occurred in a single location. No single cause; neither a cause for alarm; no such thing as a cluster.

I'm Grateful To...

2011-01-06T14:59:00.002-05:00

My grandfather for teaching me, at a young age, not to turn car tires when the vehicle is stopped because it will wear out the rubber. Now, when I am backing or going forward, I turn the wheels only while moving, even at a very slow speed. Easier on the car, easier on me, as well. (My grandfather never drove a car in his life.)

My barber for teaching me, as a child, that all people are created equal and so we must treat them equally. When there is a line in the shop for haircuts, he took us in the order in which we arrived. This little kid may be ahead of the village councilman and that’s the way things went. Fifty-some years later, I still hold that lesson dear.

My father for teaching me to own up to things I did. The details are unimportant, but when he apologized, I never felt less of him. Nor of others who err mightily.

All the people who invented the things we use to make our lives more comfortable. Recliners, computers, highways, cars, toilets, domesticated cats, antacids, medications, traffic regulations, ice cream cones, dictionaries, cruise ships, the rockets’ red glare, music, radio and baked alaska.

My brother who taught me not to take the first swing in a fight. But make the second one count. He taught me there is much joy in traveling without a road map and not a particular destination in mind; I still don’t understand it and wouldn’t do it on a dare, but I see how much he loves it and I enjoy his stories. At home. With tea.

I Never Realized How Lucky I Am

2011-01-05T00:44:00.002-05:00

You see, my grandparents were not at all affectionate. I lived with them for nearly eight years and never saw a hug, much less a kiss. No snuggling in front of the radio or tv; separate bedrooms, that sort of thing. I recently discovered that Mom was born nine months after New Year’s Eve eleven years into their marriage.

They only had one child. At least, only one brought to term; the family did not talk about such things, so there’s no way for me to find out much about her.

But that one child was the link between me typing this and not-me ever existing. If Grandma had one less child, my radio program for the visually impaired and homebound would not exist, nor would my day job of the past 30+ years. My brother would never have become the fine photographer he is now, nor the Lower-48 traveler.

Grandma’s child produced a person who kept the family together during a rough period of time, many miles of bad road. Through that single zygote inherited from her parents, she kept the line going and here I am today. What a tenuous line that is! One little genetic mistake, one little DNA mis-match and it’s all over.

But it’s not only how we got here that’s luck. How did you get your job? How did you stumble into your good friends? What led you to be where you are now? What would have happened if you had not met this or that person, accepted this or that job, took up one or another hobby?

Exactly What Do I Want To Copyright?

2011-01-04T03:07:00.003-05:00

Oh, there's just dozens of things in the Public Domain. The copyright symbol, for one. I don’t see a copyright symbol after it, which leads me to believe it’s not legally protected. Think of how many times you see it and if I copyright it at a royalty of one cent per use, you are set for life. This life and the one to come.

The trademark symbol is another one. You never see a “TM” after the “TM” and so I can Trademark it with the standard royalty charge.

You know what’s available for the asking? Traffic lights, that’s what. There may be laws about the various colors (remember the white “walk” light at the bottom of the stack?) and how they are lined up, but I’ve never seen any protection note which says “unauthorized duplication of these lights prohibited by law.”

My advice to readers of this blog is to go around and copyright or trademark everything they see which is still in the public domain (P.D. = not otherwise claimed by anyone). File a TM on the center and side lines of every street in your town. Ka-CHING! Direct deposit to your bank, automatic payments to your favorite cruise line.

That’s my plan for a huge retirement account. Every time someone uses a symbol, then copyright or trademark the symbol. Your fortune is made and you can retire to your lakeside home, liquid refreshment of your choice in your hand, and enjoy the good life that came from reading this blog. (Copyright and TM 2011 by Tom Carten.)

We Did Prohibition One Better

2011-01-03T15:53:00.002-05:00

What the feds couldn’t do eighty years ago, we did in one day: the speakeasy down the street disappeared in a blaze of glory and a bulldozer.

It hasn’t been active in many years, of course, but it was still there in all its glory just waiting for that law to raise its illogical head and show how the Noble Experiment never was that noble. Well, it may have been noble in concept, but the experiment fizzled mightily. How people voted for it is a mystery to me and possibly others, as well.

The house didn’t come down just because there was an ancient cash register there, along with all the other appurtenances which belongeth to a house of illegal spirits. Still echoing from the walls, if all is quiet and you listen closely, are the sounds of laughter, clinking glasses and the faint sounds of police sirens coming up the street.

North Franklin Street was a fairly comfortable address; middle and upper-middle class residences, one which stood out from others by its size and age. Our house of some repute was an average home, perfect for hiding What Shall Not Be Spoken Of. The back door led to an alleyway, Spencer Lane, and then to another slight street.

We have become too pure these days. The cops busted a barber shop for having a few slot machines in the back room; big deal, says I. What’s to be harmed in a small town without a little naughty? We had a front here on Main Street frequented by cops, lawyers, a district magistrate and a judge. A few bucks here and there, no problem.

This Family Tree Is Long

2011-01-02T00:06:00.001-05:00

The jellyfish has been around for 600 million years, which I just learned from the Discovery Channel a few minutes ago. That’s a long time, which you know.

My brother is the family genealogist and for anyone else who fills in the missing gaps in their ancestral line, you’d have a hard time going back more than, say, 15 generations. We can make it to 12, mostly due to a book which happens to list my mother’s side back to 1639. She missed being in it by about eight or ten years, but her parents made it.

I don’t expect there are jellyfish around today who have a record going back that far. In terms of the universe, 600 million years is little more than a tick of the clock; God’s great creation out there seems to be something like 13.5 billion years old, best we can figure, and six hundred million is merely a rounding error.

Us’n? We’re the new kids on the block, jellyfish-wise. Creation-wise, we haven’t even moved into the house yet. We’re still out on the front lawn with the moving truck bringing in the furniture. If ten million years is a tick of the clock in the universe timepiece, all of human history probably will never last even that long.

Just think: with all our gadgets, all of our life-extending abilities, we are such newcomers in the vastness of creation, while these transparent things floating in the water have been swimming around since dragons roamed the earth looking for fair maidens to devour. Maidens who would not exist for another 600 million years.

Arnie "Woo-Woo" Ginsburg

2011-01-01T14:24:00.003-05:00

“Happy Woo Year,” we heard over the airwaves each New Years’ Eve, as the radio signal bounced our way from Boston’s WMEX. Arnie “Woo Woo” Ginsburg was on the air and all was well with the world. At least, if you were under 20. Any age older than that, all bets were off.

http://big68.org/talentpgs/ginsburg.html
is one good site for this guy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IMv7TcrxHhA
is an interview.

Anyway, happy whatever year from the staff and management of Things At King’s. We’ve been a busy little bunch around here, writing a series of articles for national distribution and I couldn’t do that plus keep up with the blog. Blogging doesn’t pay the bills so, while I have integrity, I’m no fool, either.

I went to the world’s least exciting New Year’s Eve party: sparkling grape juice and chocolate chip cookies. Hey, this kid’s not going to pile into a telephone pole or another car on his way home. I’d rather grape juice than something harder and lose my judgement with a thousand pounds of steel under me.

And as far as “Click It Or Ticket” goes, I think it would be more effective as “Click It Or Go Through The Windshield.” Seen enough of that on the evening news. “Ejected from the vehicle” means there was no seatbelt and they cratered.

I'm B-a-a-a-a-k!

2010-12-31T14:31:00.002-05:00

I just finished a long and difficult writing project which took all of my time (except for my regular newspaper column) and it's back to the blog. Tell all your friends and relatives that Things At King's will now continue on a regular basis.

Till tomorrow, we (?) wish you a good New Year, filled with excitement and may you investigate anything that piques your interest.

Yours in gentleness,
Tom

WHERE I'VE BEEN

2010-12-18T13:33:00.001-05:00

I received a major writing assignment which has taken all my online time, at least as far as keeping up with a daily blog. I'll be back after Christmas. Promise.

Stay tuned.

More "Overheard In New York"

2010-11-28T22:21:00.001-05:00

Grandmother reading newspaper: Oh, it's grandparents' day tomorrow!
Grandfather: It can't be. That's in February, I think.
Grandmother: It says it right here.
Grandfather: But it has to be in winter, because he has to see his shadow!

Customer: Hey, you lost a lot of weight.
Barista: No, I gave birth two weeks ago.
Customer: To a baby?

Older lady: I slit my brother's throat one time.
Guy: Uhhh...
Older lady: Well, I didn't mean to... It was kind of an accident.
Guy: These things happen...

Receptionist: It's too hot. I think I might die.
Boss: You will not die. People have survived thousand of years without air conditioner.
Receptionist: And where are all those people now? Dead! That's where.

Office girl: My mom said she almost wrecked her car the other day because she was watching Elvis pick up trash on the side of the road. My mom said he was picking up trash in his jumpsuit, right there on the side of the road.
Office guy: Elvis was doing a little community service, was he?

What Goes Around, In Three Days

2010-11-27T16:46:00.002-05:00

I have heard it said, as reliably as anything you see on the Internet, that any joke, any visual sort of comic thing, makes it way around the net in three days. After that, it disappears. Or, to put it a different way, you will receive the same thing three times before it goes down the rat hole.

Currently, there is the Ms. TSA calendar for 2011, a series of twelve provocative positions of a lady in the scan booth. Only problem is, you can only see skeleton. Clever. The first time. “Delete meat" the second and third. I have nothing against the people who forward it, as they have the best of intentions, but it does fulfill the saying.

Having said that, I wonder how many times I have been the second or third person to pass on something which has been the object of instant death? I seldom forward, unless I think it’s really good, and then only to individuals who I think will like it. There are no group lists in my “Got to send this on” life.

What I really dislike, because I have to laugh at them, are jokes about my profession. It’s not that they are bad or anything, but I’ve heard them all before and many times. That’s why I never do that to anyone else; you can tell the punch like from the first word uttered. When someone says, “This is a new one,” I tell them, “I heard it.”

Speaking of forwards, I really don’t hate Jesus, but I don’t forward his messages, either. He understands I don’t do guilt trips.

A Death In The Area

2010-11-26T13:44:00.001-05:00

Yet another soldier from this area lost his life in a far distant country. As usual, a young man who would have had a great place in our society as planned by his Creator, rather than stopping a bullet. The best and the brightest go down into the ground while the richest and the most powerful seem to keep their children safe from war.

Or so it seems.

If there is any consolation in this, at least the hate-filled folks from the Midwest family church did not make good on their promise to disgrace the soldier’s memory during his funeral and burial. I’d say it’s a good thing they didn’t and perhaps this time they did their homework.

For those reading this at a distance, Northeast Pennsylvania is where the Mafia chieftains live. They work in New York, but they live here among us. This “family,” that “family,” the next “family” – all neighbors, all loyal. You don’t have to fear them, you don’t have to agree with them; they know that.

But for a bunch of wandering hateful people who disrupt soldiers’ funerals, all bets are off. The local mobsters are dangerous people who care little about taking matters into their own hands. We secretly hoped this would happen just to teach a lesson.

The mis-named “Love Crusades” would turn into a “Retreat Disaster.”

A Friend Speaks Of Thanksgiving

2010-11-25T10:52:00.003-05:00

Excerpt from a conversation explaining Thanksgiving Day to a non-American colleague:

FRIEND: "REALLY, so there are NO presents at all? You just have a big dinner, think and talk about all the things you are 'thankful' for and enjoy the company of family and friends?"
ME: "Yes, we do. And of course there is football and the many people who do special [non-paid, I had to specify non-paid to her] volunteer work serving and preparing Thanksgiving Dinners and helping out in other ways at Soup Kitchens, churches and charities on the day and the entire week before so that others that are less fortunate get a helping hand to have a Happy Thanksgiving."

FRIEND: "So Americans really have an entire holiday that is only about giving thanks for what they have and spending time with family and friends?"
ME: "Yes, we do. Giving thanks for what you have and helping other is very important."

FRIEND: "Wow, I never heard of a holiday like that. You mean there really aren't any presents??? You actually have an entire holiday that's about helping and very thankful?"
ME: "Yes."

FRIEND: "So, is it bigger or more important than Christmas?"
ME: "Well [after making my way through this conversation] Yes. I think it is bigger and more important to Christmas. For starters EVERYBODY celebrates it. It has no religious affiliation. It is the biggest Family Day, everyone goes to either family or friends and most people are involved in some kind of charity either on the day or in preparation for it. Everybody, no matter what religion they are, sit around their table and give thanks on that day. And yes, there are no presents. Because it's not about getting, it's about giving. All of this means it is both bigger and more important than Christmas."
(By my friend Daria Walsh)

You Say Tomayto, I Say Tomahto

2010-11-24T11:28:00.002-05:00

My brother was here over the weekend and left yesterday morning. That’s how I came to get behind on my blog entries in the past few days. He didn’t come all the way down here to watch me write “Things At King’s.” However, he did graciously appear on my radio show, so all was not lost.

I hear people complaining about their ex-spouse: “We had nothing in common.” Well, yeah, but what’s your point? Jim and I have nothing in common except our parents and we do very well together. And when we say “nothing in common,” we mean Nothing with a capital nothing. How to we handle it?

I know how I do it: living his interests through our daily e-mails, IMs at night, his written stories. I’d hate travelling around in a small camper, but it’s really nice to hear stories about what went on as he goes here and there. His fishing journeys would make me jump in the lake holding an anvil, but he writes well about them and I like that.

You don’t have to join in another person’s life to be compatible. You need to ask about it, get familiar with what your significant other likes and care enough to listen to the stories. You’d be surprised how interesting they can be if you don’t blow them off with “I’m not into that.”

I’m not into his travelling, but I’m sure into his stories about what happens, the people he meets. I’d hate to have anything in common with him; it’s more fun this way.

Red Light, Yellow Light, Green Light

2010-11-23T11:13:00.003-05:00

Wilkes-Barre has a lot going for it, not the least of which is coming back to life after a long period of slow near-death. Our present mayor has had a big hand in it and I hope he sticks around for at least one more term.

Coal has left us, the garment industry is gone; in their place have come the medical industry (hospitals are industries for sure) and educational institutions, a bunch of them. The invisible taxes, parking meters and their tickets, also add to the city’s revenue stream.

But there are the curiosities which never cease to amaze me. The traffic lights are just one of them. When I came here, the lights (left/right) changed through the yellow. If you had the red, it went through yellow to green; if you had the green, it went through yellow to red, as customary.

Accident. “I had the yellow.” “No, *I* had the yellow.” One sped up to beat the red, the other jumped the approaching green.

Fire alarm. All the lights in that quadrant of the city went to flashing yellow. I guess if you couldn’t see the Big Red Firetruck, hear the siren or see the flashing lights, it might be a good idea. Maybe. Possibly. It’s also an invitation, presented on a silver platter, to have people with the best of intentions running into each other. Both concepts ended shortly after I arrived, much to my relief.

There's A Story Here

2010-11-22T11:00:00.002-05:00

You know how cellars accumulate "stuff": things that get put there in no particular order. Occasionally, there is an unintentional storyline in how things get piled together and you don’t notice it until someone comes along and says, “Well! This corner sure says something about your sports life.” Only then do you realize the obvious.

My friend likes to ski and does it rather well. He never goes down the slopes, careful fellow, and avoids wiping out. You can see programs on tv where people start at the peak of a mountain and soon fall, rolling like snowballs for hundreds of feet. Not only that, but they set off an avalanche behind them and it’s not a pretty sight.

Not this guy. Coincidentally, he had an operation on some mobility part of his body. Maybe a leg, perhaps a hip; I forget. So for a while he needed a pair of crutches to get around and, when they were done, they were left in a closet for a while until they got in the way and ended up in the cellar. Next to the skis.

After the crutches, he only needed a cane to help him get around and, in due time, that also took up residence in the closet until the Better Half said, “This thing is doing nobody any good up here; now that you can walk, get rid of it. Stick it in the cellar.”

Down it went. Here’s the picture: a pair of skis, a pair of crutches and a cane. It looks for all the world as if the Downhill Skier went for a few jumps on the Mountain of Death, wiped out, lived on crutches, then a cane and hung up the skis for a while.

Big Bands, Little Bands

2010-11-21T22:41:00.001-05:00

I’m a music columnist for a local newspaper and each Sunday (formerly Friday) I fill a prescribed number of inches with what I hope is deathless prose, award-winning thoughts, something which will survive wrapping tomorrow’s garbage in. It was an oral history of the big band era when an elderly friend shared his memories.

Ask ten people about the big bands; half will name the top three or four and the rest will say, “huh?” I write for both. Many people remember Glenn Miller’s Orchestra, now a “ghost” band on the road under the estate’s permission and (of course) financial gain. Fewer people will remember Anson Weeks, mostly a west coast operation.

There are the national groups, well-known everywhere, and the regionals. The latter may be just as good, but never strayed far from their base; content with good local bookings and maybe some radio hookups, they were happy staying clear of the road. Others played hotels and tv for years and never left home.

It’s amazing, given our propensity for going with the name bands, to see just how good the locals and regionals can be. I used to play recordings from a Boston regional and it was just as good as any of the bigs. Locally, here, one or two bands never moved out of the Valley and certainly could have.

If you don’t already know it, many of the big bands actually travel lean and depend on the locals to fill in the chairs. They are just as good.

More About Stairs

2010-11-01T22:33:00.001-04:00

The stairs are one of the oldest buildings in architectural history; they have always played a central role in the history of humanity. Although it is difficult to tell exactly in which year they were born, it is believed its appearance was by the year 6000 before Christ.

The stairs seem to change shape with the change of architectural eras, reflecting the trends used in different ages and revealing the talent of those who designed them.

The first stairs in history were wood trunks fitted together; this kind was used to acquire strategic positions for survival. In a basic sense, the first use which was given to the stairs was to overcome the difficulties presented by the terrain. The goal was to be able to pass these difficulties as soon as possible: moving up often meant to a place of greater security which could have meant the difference between life and death.

Although they first emerged as a solution to a problem, in China the first granite staircase leading to the sacred mountain in Tai Shan indicated that one of the utilities given to the stairs was for religious purposes.

Confucius, in one of his stories, was said to have gone up this ladder to the top in the year 55 BC. Other examples of stairs built for religious purposes are: the biblical Jacob's ladder, the tower of Babel, the pyramids of Egypt that had stairs, the celestial ladder of Shantung in China, and the stairs in India --a peculiarity of them is they had also scientific utility. (Unknown source.)

Why I like Holland America Line

2010-10-31T22:40:00.003-04:00

"We were the first cruise ship to be allowed to stop at St Lucia. These poor people were really hit hard from hurricane Tomas. They get all their drinking water by using their desalinazation plant. That plant was down completely. Well, HAL decided to help out.

"They had the head of the island come to the ship where our ship gave them blankets, HAL's ship reserve of supplies. They told us they were giving them water. I naturally thought they meant bottled water. NO, the man in charge of HAL's desalinazation methods on the ship found a way to take the water and pipe it into water trucks.

"I personally saw 8 or 9 huge tanker trucks filled with water leaving our dock. We were late leaving by an hour because the Captain said if we stayed he could pump something like 20,000 gallons more for these people, and he said he would make up the time so we would not be late to our next port. Our water went to the hospitals and other emergency places.

"Now, that was really nice, but wait it gets better. The children from the local orphanage came to the ship to eat pizza, hotdogs and ice cream and play in the kids area. You know they had to think they were in heaven. The orphanage received around 2 thousand dollars that was collected just for them. The Sister we are told was in tears and extremely appreciative.

"I was proud of the crew and those passengers on board that donated money." (Ship's Message Board.)

My Ilegal Alien Relatives

2010-10-30T15:41:00.002-04:00

Am I proud that some of my relatives are illegal aliens? Does it bother me when I learned they never became citizens? I guess it happens to us at one time or another; at least to some of us. They came here, settled, nobody asked any questions and kept to themselves. It was an accepted thing in 1639.

At what point, I wonder, did they become “legal”? Well, not the first ones, of course, since there was no USA in those days. But 137 years later, the country finally came unto itself and you either moved to Canada or stayed with the States United. It’s those 137 years I wonder about.

They missed the Mayflower and the Speedwell, those of the Vail family, but I don’t know how they got here. My brother has the book compiled in 1908, or something, that shows how Jeremiah the first begot Jeremiah the second, who begot Jeremiah the third. At that point, they decided three generations with the same name was enough.

They settled in Orient (“east”), out on the north fork of Long Island. The very tip of the north fork, within feet of the Atlantic Ocean. No further east could one venture.

Was there a point at which one was officially “American,” a citizen of the US of A? Maybe a census established this? Am I the twelfth generation of illegals and, therefore, illegal myself? I do have a passport, so that establishes some sort of citizenship. But do they know my ancestors never went through Ellis Island?

More Notes From All Over

2010-10-29T22:24:00.002-04:00

Paid obituary in the New York Times.
H. Butt Herr. Consummate New Yorker, photographer extraordinaire, computer guru. A lover of fine food, fine wine and fine women. A man’s man, an urban cowboy, erudite, well read and intellectually curious. He leaves behind [relatives] and friends in most time zones. Complex and flawed, he will always be with us.

The original bag of hammers.
A local high school coach has been let go when his contract runs out. In that time, his team has gone 9-22, including 0-10 this year. “I never got a straight answer from anyone,” he said. “They never called me in to talk about anything or what was going wrong. I hate to go out 0-10. I would have liked to give it one more shot just to see.”

The television movie of the year?
Betty Dickinson passed away recently. She traveled to every continent on earth, including Antarctica. She also obtained her private pilot certificate in her fifties, reasoning, “If something happened to your pilot, how dumb would you feel flying around, waiting to run out of gas? It’s so stupid not to be able to do something.”

She and her husband were pictured on the front page of the New York Times in October 1980, along with other survivors of the burning and sinking of the M.V. Prinsendam off the coast of Alaska. Betty recalled the scene aboard the doomed liner: “It was just like what you’d see in a B-movie. The only person missing was Tallulah Bankhead.” (New York Times)

Report From The Nuns' Boarding School

2010-10-28T20:51:00.004-04:00

I went to two boarding schools and neither one could completely contain me. I never got caught, but the good Sisters had their suspicions. I also had outside contacts for such things as getting letters to boyfriends mailed ( writing to any male other than family was strictly verboten) and getting contraband food into the building.

That included a bottle of wine that I shared with a good buddy, (now a nun who runs a grammar school in Manchester NH.) She and I got our hands on empty cough syrup bottles and filled them and had them in our refectory table drawer along with our plate, cup and silver ware ... not unlike a penitentiary, or cloistered convent.

The others at our table never caught on, but were some what curious as to why we had such a hilarious time at dinner.

My dad would occasionally let me drive the car back to school after the monthly weekend home. Well, the good sisters didn't have a car, and the closest city was Berlin, Any one that needed to see a doctor or dentist or get any thing for the school that couldn't be delivered, had to go there.

When I had the car I became the designated chauffeur, and consequently the elected one to mail letters, get soda, magazines, and other contraband stuff. The nuns pretended they didn't notice and I pretended to be a model student. Later this education in "getting around" came in handy. (From an Internet friend)

The Genius Who Invented Stairs

2010-10-27T15:22:00.002-04:00

Normally, when we ask, “Who was the genius who…,” it’s in a sarcastic tone. As in, “Who was the genius who left the car windows open when rain was forecast?”

But who was the genius who invented stairs? I think of my grandparents’ house which had an embankment in front of it. In the Olde Days, people probably just scrambled up things like that. Then someone came along, looked it over and said, “I’ve got an idea; let’s cut little flat spots in it.”

They looked over his plan and said, “This guy’s just another liberal leftist and out to change our way of life. Let him be with his new ideas and we will continue to climb to our houses as God and Nature intended. Besides, they look so out of place and disgrace the natural flow of the landscape."

And so did the summer turn into fall and the fall into winter. The winds roared and the snow fell; it fell all day and it fell all night. The genius came out and did shovel his stairs for easier ingress and egress to his house. The others, attempting to attain entrance to their homes, did slide on their feet and land on their rears.

This did they approach the genius begging floor plans for this marvelous device which seemed liberal and leftist no longer. “The ground is frozen and hard to dig, dear neighbors, but I will draw it for you and you may use pick and shovel to carve it out. As they turned around and left, he placed his thumb on his nose and waggled his fingers.

I'm Hunting Wabbits

2010-10-26T14:02:00.001-04:00

Just about every night, when I go over to the newspaper to pick up what I need for the next day's radio program, there is a bunny rabbit on the edge of our property next to the parking lot. It just sits there as if it's waiting for me to show up. When I do, it watches as I come down the sidewalk and turn around it; it hops along with me.

The rabbit keeps its distance, but that’s not much. Probably measured in a few yards, maybe three. There is no fear. Does it recognize me? That would be nice, not that we would exchange Christmas cards or sit down for tea. It’s just knowing one of another species is comfortable around me.

We have finches who work the lawn around our house, apparently feeding on seeds and insects. They, too, seem at ease around me. In one place, I am within just a couple yards of them with no problem. Someone said it’s because I walk slowly when I see the birds and don’t scare them. But I have another agenda.

I keep a salt shaker with me. If you put salt on a bird’s tail, you can capture it and that’s no fairy tale; try it for yourself and see how easy it is. After all, if you can get close enough to put salt on its tail, you are also close enough to catch it. One of these days, I will have to sneak up on a finch or two and try it out.

I keep an elephant lure around, just in case, but no luck so far. We do have a hawk that has kept our rabbit population down to just my friend.

Two Months Till

2010-10-25T13:34:00.001-04:00

Till when? Till Baby Jesus comes down the chimney with a pack on his back? Isn’t that how it goes? Or is it one month until Santa Claus wraps up the Macy’s Thanksgiving All-Commercial Parade? Or is it eight months until my annual cruise ends in Boston? A friend of mine passed away on the twenty fifth of October.

Beware the Ides of March? Watch out for the twenty-and-fifth of the month, dear Julius. Be it good or be it unfortunate, it’s the day of happenings.

Of course, take any number and you will find coincidence. My school mailbox number used to be 1611, or something like that. I began seeing variations of that all over town. 1161, 1611, 6111; things you would not notice if your box number were 1478. My current address is a combination that suddenly appears everywhere I look.

People die in threes, as the saying goes. But your threes aren’t my threes. You and I share person #1; you know person #2, but mine is someone entirely different; same with #3. Yet we seem to ignore that we may also know one or two more. We stop at 3 because that’s the magic number.

In the Bible, “666” was a code number for the emperor Nero; the early Christians didn’t dare write his name for fear the Romans might capture the writings. But now, some of the super-religious get all upset when those numbers appear anywhere and declare the devil itself is present. In my old car, which had PKY-666 on its license plate.

Soon It's Hot Chocolate Time

2010-10-24T13:22:00.001-04:00

There is a time and place for everything. Not only that, but it must be the right time and the right place. Nothing else will do.

The time for special tea is when I am relaxed and can appreciate it. Tea from the mysterious lands around the eastern Mediterranean, which I sip occasionally so it will last. Spiced teas, apple cinnamon, things like that. They deserve their own time, their own place and not at the work desk.

Floor sweepings (anything less than Lipton) are suitable for when I am on the air, for when I am prepping my show, for supper, for sitting around with friends. I am not paying very much attention to it at that time and, while I take much care in its preparation, it’s not the main focus of my attention.

Hot chocolate fits in just between a well-brewed Lipton and some special blend. One should make it right, but there is no particular fuss. It is to be enjoyed on a cool to cold day, possibly in the evening. I like it when I can see the rain or snow, or people all bundled up against the weather.

People talk about “good sleeping weather,” whatever that is; my meds make any day good sleeping weather. I talk about “good hot chocolate weather.” It’s just about at that point now: rainy and cool. A few degrees lower and the choc comes out. I might just put a thin blanket around me just for the image.

Let's Have A Reunion!

2010-10-23T13:03:00.002-04:00

Not for me, thanks; I hated my high school with a disgust that measures a thousand on a scale of 1-100. I know; it’s been fifty years and get over it. Not very likely.

But on my radio program I read announcements of reunions from about 1970 backwards to the last survivor. A very few offer rides for classmates who can’t get there by themselves; they tend to be in the late 1930’s. Some from the ‘40s, more from the ‘50s, many from the ‘60s.

“You haven’t changed a bit!”
“I looked this bad when I was a teenager?”

“Remember the time when…”
“No, I don’t and neither do you.”

“That Jill Martin sure was uggers.”
“She matured, got beautiful and I married her.”

“Sister Mary Joseph was a hottie.”
“She was only 18; left the convent and posed for Playboy.”

“Seen Fr. Jack lately?”
“Married Sister Mary, runs ‘Girls Gone Wild.’”

On The Road To West Nanticoke

2010-10-22T22:43:00.000-04:00

Can’t figure this one out.

We have a fairly wide road on the West Side, variously named but from the Canadian Border to points south it’s Route 11. Lovely ride, generally two lanes, with speed variations from 25 (strictly observed in tiny, narrow, twisted Shickshinny) to 45 (never observed in open-range Jenkins Township).

But when you pass the K-Mart in Edwardsville, heading south, all that changes. The two lanes merge into one and stay that way for a good many miles. The speeds are good, mind you, and generally you can lope right along. But it’s just one lane and impatient people can only go as fast as whoever is in front of them. There is no passing.

Here’s what I can’t figure out: As you enter this one-lane section, there always seems to be someone zooming up beside you to get ahead of the last one or two cars – vehicles already traveling at road speed. Ah, they’ve done it; they are ahead of you. To what profit? They can’t pass anyone for miles. They are stuck.

I don’t see the gain, unless someone is so full of testosterone he just has to beat out the last couple of cars to show he is the man, he is the conqueror.

I watch him go by, gently, listening to the radio, thinking, “Well, Mr. Big Man, you’re ahead of me and, by darn, staying there for the next ten miles. Enjoy the victory.”

It's Not Even Hallowe'en Yet

2010-10-21T22:28:00.002-04:00

I saw my first Christmas commercial today, several days before the Ghosts & Goblins got their broomsticks warmed up. Frank Perdue is still thinking about getting his turkeys ready for the end of next month (does he do turkeys, or just chickens?) The Catholic pre-Christmas season of Advent is still aways off.

So, let me be the first to wish you… Nah; I’ll wait. There’s already a radio station in South Bend, Indiana, playing Christmas music.

“Back in the day,” as us older folk like to say when we fondly reminisce about days when younger squirts weren’t around and can’t correct our memories, back in the day the Christmas shopping season didn’t start until the big Macy’s Department Store parade had finished. Santa came along and it was “ready, set, go.”

The last time I watched the parade, it featured all sorts of actors pushing their particular shows and products. Including some bearded gent singing his part (I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General) from the current Broadway hit, “Pirates of Penzance. That did it for me; no more big commercial parades hawking goods for this guy.

Once, when sales were poor, I did see a sign across what passed for Main Street down in Freeland PA, “Season’s Greetings,” at the end of September. I really think we should have a starting gate for the holidays; at least, Christmas. No sooner than Thanksgiving afternoon. Let the turkey settle, then start with the shopping.

You Call Your City . . .

2010-10-20T16:33:00.002-04:00

Half Mile High City: Quinter KS
The Mile-High City: Prescott AZ
Mile-and-a-Quarter-High City: Flagstaff AZ

Cow Chip Capital of Kansas: Russell Springs KS
Cow Chip Capital of the World: Beaver OK

Swedish Capital of Nebraska: Oakland
Nebraska's Irish Capital: O’Neill

Covered Dish Capital of the World: Windom KS
The Protestant Vatican: Nashville TN
Good People Surrounded by Badlands: Glendive MT
Cows, Colleges and Contentment: Northfield MN
Our name speaks for itself: Talent OR

Drunk Driving Capital of America: Gallup NM
Torture Town: Fayetteville NC
Underwear Capital of the World: Knoxville TN
Everything's Better in Metter: Metter GA
First Town in the First State: Lewes DE

You're A What?

2010-10-19T16:15:00.001-04:00

If you’re from Arizona, a “Sand Cutter.”
Colorado: a Rover.
Delaware: a Blue Hen’s Chicken.
Florida: a Fly-Up-The-Creek or a Cracker.
Georgia: a Goober-Grabber or a Sand-Hiller.

Illinois: a Sand-Hiller (same as Georgia!).
Kansas: a Jayhawker.
Maine: a Mainiac, Fox, Lumberjack, Pine Tree.
Massachusetts: a Masshole, Chowderhead.
Michigan: a Michaganese, Yooper (Upper Peninsula).

Missouri: a Bushwacker.
New Hampshire: a Granite Boy.
New Mexico: a Nuevomexicano.
North Carolina: a Tar Boiler.
Tennessee: a Big Bender, a Butternut.

Texas: A Texian, a Tex.
West Virginian: a Mountaineer.
Wisconsin: a Cheesehead.

Un-Appreciated Units Of Measurement

2010-10-18T21:25:00.003-04:00

In the Zork series of games, the bloit is defined as the distance the king's favorite pet could run in one hour.

In MAD Magazine, the potrzebie = the thickness of issue 26, or 2.2633 mm. (carried out to 21 decimal places).

The beard-second is a unit of length inspired by the light-year, but used for extremely short distances such as those in nuclear physics. The beard-second is defined as the length an average beard grows in one second.

The smoot is a unit of length, defined as the height of Oliver Smoot. The unit is used to measure the length of the Harvard Bridge. In 1958 when Smoot was a frat pledge at MIT, the bridge was measured to be 364.4 smoots, plus or minus one ear, using Mr. Smoot himself as a ruler.

The Sheppy is a measure of distance equal to about 7⁄8 of a mile (1.4 km), defined as the closest distance at which sheep remain picturesque.

The Rictus Scale: Mag. 0-3: Small articles in local papers. Mag. 3-5: Lead story locally; mentioned on network news. Mag 5-6.5: Wire-servce photos in national papers, governor visits scene. Mag 6.5-7.5 Network correspondents sent; president visits; t-shirts made up; 7.5-up: news weekly mags, network specials, “instant books.” (Idea sent by reader Mike Rudolf)

Feast Of The Leaves, Part 2

2010-10-17T16:03:00.001-04:00

Suddenly out of nowhere, I heard them again, the geese were V’ing in from all directions, flying low which meant that they would soon be landing. High flying geese are on a mission, the low flying ones have obtained their goal and their mission is accomplished.

It is 3:00. Geese know when it is 3:00 just as cows know when it is 5:00.

This is early season for them but at rush hour on this lake it is like a wall-to-wall rug of white. My cup was empty and as I got up I shot a glance at the floating flock just in time to see them lit up as though there was a spotlight aimed at them from the heavens and they were as white and bright as could be and the waters were a blue-blue of blue.

The advent of their arrival is announced by the sounds of honking, and we shall hear them well before we see them. For us up here the sound of geese, like the Sound of Music, will make you stop dead in your tracks so as not to miss a beat. The only difference between the two is that for the geese all heads are turned skyward and the applause is noted by the beauty of the smiles on all of those faces.

Of course next spring the smiling applause will be much more apparent. Right now, the Feast of the Leaves, an annual event held at my son’s yard in St-Charles-de-Bellechasse, is celebrated by my son Jacques and myself – along with the geese in the front yard.

Over a hundred thousand leaves await me, have to go.

Feast Of The Leaves, Part 1

2010-10-16T15:59:00.002-04:00

Yesterday was the Feast of the Leaves, an annual event held at my son’s yard. The ceremony consists of the gathering of this year’s gifts of the many maples, truly Nature’s Fallen Angels. I noticed hundreds of snow geese out on the lake. It was a grey morning, and the sun was doing its best to pop out occasionally as the autumn winds whisked the clouds to another county.

For some undetermined reason one of the geese decides that it is time to go, and up they go with a ruckus and noise beyond belief. They circle the lake and off they go to fields afar. It was a time to lean on my rake and nod to the beauty of this ascendance of the gaggle and their disappearance.

As I toiled with leaves, I could stop at any moment and the view around, be it the lake, the maples or even the stand of balsams out back across the road, would be ever changing. Grey clouds scudding by, and suddenly, a ray of sun lighting up the yellows of the trees across the lake, just for a minute you know, not much longer. A red roof lit up, another colourful building that I had not previously seen, a sort of coming out in the spotlight of the sun’s rays.

I went in and built a pot of coffee. Got my mug and went out to sit by the lakeside and partake of one of those moments where life stops and we wish that it would remain as such for the rest of the day. The lake was a mirror, the geese grouped in the middle and the lily pads at the end of the dock began boogieing in the garbled water. (by Jim Carten, Quebec, Canada.)

Half Of A Mayflower Got Rammed

2010-10-15T16:20:00.003-04:00

“…As long as a football field … As big as a 747 airplane … Hail the size of golf balls …” I wonder how we would describe things if these measurements didn’t exist?

How about “Half a Mayflower”? The Costa Classica cruise ship got rammed by a bulk carrier the other day and sustained damage half the length of the Mayflower. About sixty feet, from an estimated size of that little ship whose length is figured as being 113 feet. Nobody really knows, but it’s a professional guess.

Or, as my shipyard-employed brother put it in a note he sent, “Lots of overtime there for the welders and such!” Everyone has their own view: “The collision opened about a 60-foot gash, and passengers say water washed into the ship's lower decks through broken portholes.” No thought of overtime. (Cruise News Daily)

So let’s measure shipping accidents in “Mayflowers” shall we? The Costa Classica had a torn hole one-half a Mayflower long. The Titanic, although it really sank by having its bottom torn out, also had the mythical, and nearly impossible, 300’ hull fracture. So the Titanic had a 5-Mayflower “hole” ripped in its hull.

My favorite cruise ship, Holland America Line’s “Maasdam,” has a passenger capacity of 12.4 Mayflowers. This assumes you use the generally-accepted passenger manifest of those days, and not today’s families who proudly note parentage on what must have been a 10,000 passenger ship.

The Sun Goes To Bed Earlier

2010-10-14T15:57:00.001-04:00

Back some years, I lived with a fellow from Kenya (this, after having dormed with a Ugandan). Both countries are speared through by the Equator.

One characteristic of that fact is the sun rises and sets at the same time every day. Another is there is none of that long, lingering twilight we enjoy. The third is the north and south movement of the sun through the seasons. Of course, the seasons barely, if ever, change, unlike up here where it’s hot or cold during the year.

Back to our story. One of those fellows suddenly realized in the late fall that the sun was setting far to the south and became somewhat alarmed – as if there might be some action we could take to correct the situation. All during the summer he had become accustomed to it being more or less northerly, setting fairly late in the evening.

“You live on the Equator,” I reminded him. “The sun is overhead from morning to night, from January to December. It’s a little different up here at 42 degrees north latitude. As the earth spins around, we go through seasons and the sun apparently moves from north to south and going down around 8:30. That ship has sailed.”

That seemed to make sense, at least for the moment. “Around the end of December, the sun sets about 4:30, then it starts moving north again until the end of June and 8:30.” It’s fun explaining things to people who never moved around much, like Americans who think the whole world is like New York or Chicago. (True story.)

Overheard In New York

2010-10-13T16:53:00.000-04:00

From OverheardInNewYork.com

Guy to girl: All I know about your baby is that as long as it's in your stomach, it's not gonna be underfed. I wouldn't be surprised if it came out with a chicken wing in its mouth.

Gentleman on train: You know why they invented daylight savings, don't you? It's because of Halloween, a lot of congressmen wanted kids to have an extra hour to go trick or treating. That's why we have daylight savings.

Black man, waving around CDs: Excuse me, miss, would you like to buy one of my CDs?
Asian girl with boyfriend: Sorry! I'm broke!
Black man: I'm allergic to broke people. Have a good day.

20-something dude: I don't get why a tourist would spend their whole day trying to spot an actor. I could see myself going to some real hot actresses' usual spots.
Man: You mean like stalking? I'm a cop.
Dude: Don't worry, officer, I only intend on stalking Natalie Portman.
Cop: You wanna go for a ride?
Dude: Like around in your car?
Cop: To the station.
Dude: I'll shut up.
Cop: Thatta boy.

"Is Your Cat Gray?" "No, It's Brown"

2010-10-12T12:16:00.002-04:00

Two of my friends say I’m color blind, or at least partially. I disagree, as I can see the entire spectrum, same as they do. Red is red, blue is blue and, apparently, gray is brown.

Huh? One friend has had two gray cats, one after the other. I said I like that color in a cat but she informed me the cats are brown. No, they’re gray. Brown. Gray. What do you mean they’re brown? She held up a shirt; “what color is this?” “Blue.” “No it’s not; it’s green. The blanket on the sofa is green.” “No, it’s blue.”

Maybe that explains my choice of colors when I dress.

I still say I’m not color blind, but there does seem to be a color shift which others have mentioned. If it were only one person disagreeing with my opinion, it would be a “he says, she says.” But when two people independently bring it up, there’s something going on. Maybe if I say I’ve got the blues, it’s really the greens, what say?

If they are right, and I’m not convinced, maybe I just shift colors a little bit. I know each eye sees tints a bit differently, but that’s not unusual. So, just what is the color on those bricks I see on the building across the street? Why, they’re brick colored, of course! They’ve always been brick colored to me and that’s just fine.

New York just came out with retro license plates. They are colored … well, sometimes I think they are yellow, maybe orange, possibly a light shade of red.

"My Brother George"

2010-10-11T11:56:00.002-04:00

I remember Liberace from the black-and-white days of television. No “Mr. Showmanship” at that time; just a piano, a candelabra, a smile into the camera and “my brother George” playing the violin. “He wasn’t really a great pianist,” my music teacher said years ago, “but he brought great music to many people.”

Folks, it is officially all over. The Las Vegas Liberace museum has shut down. It is the end of the line for the idol of the Strip after thirty years. The gaudy man in the outrageous costumes, some of which took more than a year to construct, finally went out of style. It once drew 450,000 visitors a year; now it pulls only 50,000.

In his prime years, said foundation president Jack Rappaport, "Walter" Valentino Liberace was the highest-paid entertainer in the world, with the highest flamboyance factor to boot. He was a man who, in the midst of a battle with HIV, sold out New York's Radio City Music Hall so fast that his record still stands.

“Walter”? Actually, Wladziu. Also known as Walter Busterkeys, Walter Liberace, Lee Liberace, Liberace Chefroach, The Glitter Man, Mr Showmanship, The King of Bling.

Liberace set up a foundation to provide scholarship money to students of the arts. It has given more than $6 million to more than 2,700 students. The museum's collection includes more than 60 of Liberace's intricate eye-popping costumes, his 9-foot mirrored Baldwin grand piano and his 7-foot rhinestone studded Baldwin grand.

An Era Is About To Be Over

2010-10-10T22:47:00.003-04:00

The decrepit 8th Street Bridge is about to be replaced. I'm going to miss it. Sure, on a safety scale of 0-100 it is rated at 2; the lanes are so narrow you really wonder if you and the approaching car will still have outside mirrors when you pass each other; a friend keeps her sun roof open in case it collapses under her.

But it’s time. The new bridge is almost complete and while it’s not vehicle-ready yet, you could walk across it with ease. Everything seems to be ready for the last stages of work. Due date is sometime in November and the builder says it’s on schedule. After it’s opened, maybe I won’t feel so nostalgic.

After all, the Carey Avenue Bridge was a pleasant bridge, even though it had holes in it and you could see river water. It’s still the Carey Avenue Bridge, by the way, even though it no longer connects with Carey Avenue and has been renamed “1st Battalion, 109th Field Artillery Pennsylvania Army National Guard Bridge.”

At least the Eighth Street Bridge still connects with 8th Street and is barely twenty feet south of the bridge Where Most People Pray.

I often wonder about bridges. They are made of concrete – you know, sand and cement stuff and maybe some rocks inside; maybe some rebar strengthening rods. All supplied and built by the lowest bidders. Occasionally I wonder what kind of job they did, how much care they put into constructing the bridge.

We Don't Want To Go Home

2010-10-09T22:44:00.001-04:00

When I worked in a college dorm, I used to tell the students at Christmas break that they would wish they were back in school about January 2.

They laughed me to scorn. “Ha, ha,” they laughed in scorn. “We are so out of here and so not wanting to come back you wouldn’t believe it.” I said, “You wait. Just remember what I said, laugh all you want and circle January 2 on your calendars because that’s the day you will wish you were back.” Scorn, scorn, they laughed.

A month later, they returned with smiles of relief on their collective faces. “It’s really nice to be back,” they said in a chorus of unison. “So nice to be back, really.” I smiled, the smug smile of someone who has been there and also has seen it all before. “Do any of you recall what I told you before the break, huh? Huh?

“Let’s compare and contrast. Do your parents allow you to keep girls in your room with the door closed until two in the morning? Anyone? Nobody is raising their hand. Ok; how about sneaking alcohol into your room? Can you get away with that? I take your silence as meaning ‘no.’ Sleep till noon? Guess not.

“How about staying out all night without telling them where you are going? I guess you find this place a lot more liberal than living at home. Next time you complain about all the rules the college imposes on you, we will gladly give you a couple of weeks off to contemplate the wonders of freedom living with your parents.”

An Illegal Gets Legal Just In Time

2010-10-08T22:42:00.001-04:00

People rant and rave about so-called “anchor babies,” the tots who are born in the U.S. by illegal immigrants and supposedly help the parents stay in this country but actually don’t do them any good at all. The babies, if they actually want to be anchor babies, must wait 18 years, then their parents must wait another 10 years to become citizens.

30 years is as nothing for one woman. Eulalia Garcia Maturey was kind of an anchor baby, coming across the border on a boat back when nobody really cared too much about that sort of thing. People did it all the time and if there were border guards, they were more interested in drug runners that folks who were visiting or coming across for jobs.

She may have been all of three months old and the family stayed here. "I want to spend the rest of my days in this life living legally in the United States," she said. "I was raised here, and I want to die here." Just before the start of World War II, Maturey received a "Certificate of Lawful Entry" card issued to her on April 4, 1941.

Then in 2008, the US started requiring everyone to show a passport when crossing the border. Maturey knew she couldn't take any more chances. So Maturey pulled out that 69-year-old "Lawful Entry" card. With that document, government officials were able to find her Legal Permanent Resident documents in the archives in Washington.

The LPR saved the day and her chance to become a citizen. Everything worked out and this 101-year-old lady can rest in peace when her American days are finally over.

In An Octopus' Garden

2010-10-07T21:40:00.001-04:00

I was just listening to Pandora, my Internet music service, when I heard this cute song which somehow missed me. It’s by Ringo Starr, from the Beatles’ 1969 “Abbey Road” album. A quirky little thing, but given the trash that comes to our radio station, this is a lot of innocent fun:

I'd like to be / under the sea
In an octopus's garden in the shade
He'd let us in, knows where we've been
In his octopus's garden in the shade
I'd ask my friends / to come and see
In an octopus's garden with me
I'd like to be / under the sea
In an octopus's garden in the shade

We would be warm / below the storm
In our little hideaway beneath the waves
Resting our head / on the sea bed
In an octopus's garden near a cave
We would sing and dance around
because we know we can't be found
I'd like to be / under the sea
In an octopus's garden in the shade

What Comes Around, Goes Around

2010-10-06T10:16:00.001-04:00

It rained for a couple of days. On and off, but never completely dry for any length of time. It just never seemed to let up and we didn’t know if we should carry an umbrella, a rain hat or sunglasses. People from southern parts of the country couldn’t understand the weather patterns we have up here.

I checked intellicast.com, my Doppler radar map, and behold! The system was circular and we were pretty much just far enough from the center that the wet and dry areas were visiting us in dismal regularity. Around and around the storm went and it never moved in any forward direction; stuck over our area.

What goes around, comes around. What went around is coming around again in a few hours. It was sunny for a bit earlier today, maybe tomorrow will be the same.

As you get down south, Florida, the Caribbean, the showers and storms tend to move quickly. They are strong, of course, and not just a soft rain like here, but at least when they are over, they are over. A few minutes, maybe half an hour. Not at all like these rainy days that may last for two or three.

Rainy days are good for getting things done. We aren’t tempted to hang out in the backyard sunning ourselves, or sleeping in a comfortable chair on the piazza. We’re inside, it’s cool and wet out there, so we might as well get some stuff done in here. Like, catching up on this blog.

Mrs. Hopalong Cassidy

2010-10-05T19:07:00.002-04:00

Grace Bradley Boyd passed away recently on her 97th birthday, the widow of the movie star with whom she had a schoolgirl crush. A mutual friend in Hollywood, where she was an actress, told William Boyd, "There's a girl you should meet." Hopalong Cassidy (as he was later to be known) was 45 and she was 23. It lasted 35 years.

She initially studied to be a concert pianist and at 15 played Carnegie Hall. She went on to act, sing, and dance on the Broadway stage. While performing at the Paradise nightclub in Manhattan in 1933, the dancer was discovered by a Paramount Pictures director and signed for films.

She was a petite and extremely lovely blonde film actress who crossed paths with Bill Boyd, who became (literally) her Prince Charming on a big white horse. Three days after their first date, Boyd asked her to marry him. ‘He said, “I would have proposed the first night except I was afraid I'd scare you to death,”’ she recalled.”

When Hoppy married Grace, he acquired a new white stallion. He asked his wife to name the horse. Grace was reading a series of books called 'Topper.' Thus, Grace asked Bill to name the horse after her favorite book, and that's how Topper got his name!

She stayed in the background during his career, but when his young fans asked who she was (since “Hopalong” supposedly had no wife or family), she would respond, “I’m Hoppy’s mother." (Info from Internet sources.)

Mailing May

2010-10-04T15:47:00.003-04:00

One of the oddest parcel post packages ever sent was "mailed" from Grangeville to Lewiston, Idaho on February 19, 1914. The 48 1/2 pound package was just short of the 50 pound limit. The name of the package was May Pierstorff, four years old.

May's parents decided to send their daughter for a visit with her grandparents, but were reluctant to pay the train fare. There were no provisions in the parcel post regulations concerning sending a person through the mails, so they decided to "mail" their daughter.

A ticket would have cost her parents a full day’s pay. The postage, 53-cents in parcel post stamps, was attached to May's coat. He presented his daughter at the station post office as a package he's mailing to Lewiston. The good-natured postmaster checked May in as poultry ("biggest baby chick on record"), with cousin Leonard who worked in the mail car.

This little girl traveled the entire distance to Lewiston, 75 miles, in the train's mail compartment and was delivered to her grandmother's home.

A comment by “Johnny Cat” says, “I don't know about her, but if that happened to me as a kid, I would have loved every minute of it.” "A heartwarming period piece based on a true incident, lovingly told, " raved The New York Times Book Review.

May, born in 1908, passed away in 1987. A book is available, “Mailing May,” which tells the story of her trip.

"It's Like Three Massagers In One"

2010-10-03T23:19:00.002-04:00

They were advertised in the early 1900’s in women’s magazines and even in the Sears catalog. (The Sears catalog!) They were, of course, “relaxation aids.” The new ads, or what we probably think are new ads, COUGHsexualCOUGH historian Rachel Maines says, “They come very close to telling you what it is good for” without quite doing so.

You see, in Connecticut back when I worked in a drugstore, certain items used only by men during times of manly and womanly intimacy, otherwise known as “banging her ears off,” were illegal. They could be used only to prevent disease. So customers would ask the pharmacist, rather than us kids. “May I see the pharmacist” meant “gimme a rubber.”

Anyway, the current ads for little buzzers, which leave your hands free for driving the car or making tea or helping pass the time during a boring class, are not really mentioning whatever they are. “Has life got you stressed out? Want to have some fun? Side effects may include screams of ecstasy and intense waves of pleasure.”

No Fun Allowed: Alabama, Georgia, Texas, Mississippi, Louisiana, Kansas and Virginia. Better not get caught buying a Double-A battery at your local RadioShack store and mentioning your husband/boyfriend is out of town for the week. You can marry your sister in some of those states, but you can’t use a Tri-Phoria.

“Ma’am, I see you are alone and smiling. That is probable cause in this state that you are up to something illegal. You have the right to remain smiling … uh, silent…”

I Keep Dreaming Of The Ship

2010-10-02T17:10:00.003-04:00

Without trying to be Dr. Freud, is it the ship, or an allegory? Then, again, he did say, "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar." Sometimes a dream is just a dream.

I’m always on the cruise ship, before check-in, and never seem to have gone through the process myself. No tickets, no passport, no door card – how that ever happened is beyond me and it is during the dream. But I’m there. I’m onboard and all is fine with the world. My world, as well.

There is a great sense of peace, knowing that I am there; pretty much how I feel when I go up the gangplank to board the Maasdam for my yearly cruise up the New England coast to Canada. I’m aboard and everything will be taken care of, from meals to cabin service to safe navigation.

But it’s a recurring dream. One is nothing, but a series is an issue.

Is the ship a “heaven” allegory? Peacefulness, calmness, no need for entrance documents. I sometimes wonder.

Or maybe I just dream about the cruise ships because I’m happy to be on them and waiting for the next one.

After all, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

100 Years Of "What's Next?"

2010-10-01T17:08:00.002-04:00

Wilda Vail’s yearbook inscription, beneath her picture, had the prophetic verse, “Come and trip it as ye go, On the light fantastic toe.” Whoever put that under Mom’s 1928 yearbook had no idea just how right that would turn out to be.

In the poem L'Allegro by John Milton, published in 1645, a similar phrase appears, which seemingly refers to the dance-like gracefulness of the goddess Mirth:

"Come, and trip it as ye go, On the light fantastick toe.
And in thy right hand lead with thee, The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty."

The term trip in this passage means to step lightly or nimbly. The adjectives light and fantastick (as Milton spelled it) refer to the movement of the feet (toe, or dance step). (Yahoo Answers.)

She would have been 100 today and I, at least, fully expected her to be here with us, but it was not to be. As a teen, her girlfriend bet her she would not go up in a barnstormer’s plane at a penny-a-pound spin around the airport. Nobody does that and gets away with it; she told her mother only later. This would have been around 1925.

She started teaching me how to drive when I was about 12 – on the open road. And one time this so-called open road was a narrow causeway leading out across the swamp. I do hope she is laughing at this as I write it. I sure am. Happy birthday, Mom, and billions more.

50 Years In Amateur Radio

2010-09-30T17:06:00.001-04:00

I don’t remember if it was before or after I was running my illegal radio station out of my parents’ cellar, but it was a great time for me and radio in general.

You see, the radio station was flea-power and probably never got out very far. At least, the feds never came knocking on my door and my parents never knew it was agin’ the law. Or if they did, it mattered not. Mom used to flash a light (button in the kitchen, light over my console) if she wanted to hear music on the radio upstairs.

I was a dedicated shortwave listener and was deeply involved in knowing what was happening in countries all over the world. And I listened to radio stations nationwide.

Then I got my Amateur Radio license, Sept 29, 1960. This time, I could actually talk to people all over the place: locally, nationwide and worldwide. The amount of power I could run with a beginner’s license was small, but if I chose the right spot on the amateur bands, I could operate without much interference. I ran about a lightbulb’s worth of juice.

The hot issue in later years was “Incentive Licensing,” bigger than the Red Scare. Simply, half the Amateur frequencies were taken away and given to the amateurs who upgraded their licenses. Many people complained; I upgraded to the top and it was a lot of work going through the next two license classes.

My current license expires in 2017. Don’t let your license expire before you do.

She Wasn't Really On The Titanic

2010-09-29T02:46:00.002-04:00

Gloria Stuart, the 1930s Hollywood beauty who gave up acting for 30 years and later became the oldest Academy Award acting nominee as the spunky survivor in "Titanic," has died. She was 100.

In her youth, Stuart was a blond beauty who starred in "The Invisible Man," "Gold Diggers of 1935" and two Shirley Temple movies.

She resumed acting in the 1970s, but Stuart's later career would have remained largely a footnote if James Cameron had not chosen her for his 1997 epic about the doomed luxury liner that struck an iceberg and sank on its maiden voyage in 1912.

Stuart co-starred as Rose Calvert, the 101-year-old survivor played by Kate Winslet as a young woman. Both earned Oscar nominations. It was the first time in Oscar history that two performers were nominated for playing the same character in the same film, and it made the 87-year-old Stuart the oldest acting nominee in history.

Cameron wanted an actress who was "still viable, not alcoholic, rheumatic or falling down," Stuart once said. Then in her mid-80s, Stuart endured hours in the makeup chair so she could look 15 years older.

She said she quit the business because she was tired of playing "girl detective, girl reporter and Shirley Temple's friend." [legacy.com]

Take Me To Your Leader

2010-09-28T01:11:00.000-04:00

Mazlan Othman, a Malaysian astrophysicist, is set to co-ordinate our response if and when extraterrestrials make contact. Aliens who land on earth and ask: “Take me to your leader” would be directed to Mrs Othman. The proposal has been prompted by the recent discovery of hundreds of planets orbiting other stars.

Mrs Othman is currently head of the UN’s little known Office for Outer Space Affairs. [No joke; I checked it out and it’s known as UNOOSA.]

She said, “The continued search sustains the hope that some day human kind will received signals from extraterrestrials. When we do, we should have in place a coordinated response that takes into account all the sensitivities related to the subject.”

Professor Richard Crowther, an expert in space law, said: “Othman is absolutely the nearest thing we have to a ‘take me to your leader’ person”. Opinion is divided about how future extraterrestrial visitors should be greeted. UN members agreed to protect Earth against contamination by alien species by “sterilising” them.

Mrs Othman is understood to support a more tolerant approach. But Professor Stephen Hawking has warned that alien interlopers should be treated with caution. He said: “I imagine they might exist in massive ships, having used up all the resources from their home planet. The outcome for us would be much as when Christopher Columbus first landed in America, which didn’t turn out very well for the Native Americans.” London Telegraph

Our Security Did CPR This Morning

2010-09-27T02:54:00.002-04:00

Seems as how some older fellow slumped over the steering wheel in front of a college building. Our security guards used the defibrillator in their vehicle and then initiated CPR until the ambulance arrived. I assume the fellow made it, but that remains to be seen; when I learn his name, I can check the “checked out” page in the paper.

Been there, done that. Friend of mine fell over one fine day many years ago. I happened to be right nearby and someone called for me. I dashed into his room and sort of slid into first base, which is what it looked like, started compressions (5+2 – five compressions and two breaths) and continued until the ambulance came.

Continued it all the way down the elevator and out to the ambulance where the pro’s took over. They had their hands full with gear and needed someone for compressions. He didn’t make it, unfortunately, but we did our best. That’s pretty much life: you do your best and what happens, happens.

I almost had to do the back smash or the Heimlich maneuver on the ship this last time out. A lady at my table started making odd movements with her hand and I realized she was choking. Before I got around the table and behind her, she coughed it up. I don’t think I’ve had to do it before, but it almost happened late last year here.

It’s nice to know how to do these things; you never know when there will be a time they are needed. Just keep a clear head and occasionally practice in your mind.

It Definitely Felt Cooler Today

2010-09-26T02:53:00.001-04:00

I went out to church this morning and there was no doubt summer was over. The calendar told me that a few days ago, but today I noticed it in a most significant way: it was cool outside. The last few mornings had been a bit on the cool side, but nothing which would alert us of the proverbial sea change*.

*(Sea Change: Best viewed when you live right near the ocean and the tide is dead low. As it shifts from falling to rising, at dead low, there are four or five very small waves that head toward the shore. This is the sea changing to an incoming tide. The water has to be smooth and you have to be looking to see this bit of action.)

There are two kinds of morning coolness: one holds the sure promise of a warm day, while the other says, “This is about all you’re going to get, bud.”

This morning was the sea change. Sure, there will be warm days, but they’ve pretty much gone by and we can’t depend on sunning ourselves out on the back patio. Those days are gone until the later spring. The chairs will come in a few weeks from now, not that anyone’s used them lately, and eventually the geese will honk goodbye.

I haven’t seen the Old Farmer’s Almanac yet. Their seasonal forecasts are remarkably accurate (note I said “seasonal”) due to the better accuracy of long-range guesses. There is an art to doing that; they and the National Weather Service have pretty much figured it out. Close-in, it’s best not to go more than 3-5 days out.

The Halls Of Ivy Look Great

2010-09-25T02:51:00.001-04:00

Ah, those college or university days when we walked across the main quad, passed the dean’s residence all covered with ivy, the old chem building, likewise green with growth. The feeling of age and permanency; the warmth and ancientness of these great halls of learning. No modern steel designs here, but the brick and mortar of the ages.

Except for one thing: that ivy is ripping the mortar apart, digging into what is holding those bricks together. You don’t see any ivy on the old Roman buildings.

It could well be the ivy is what’s keeping the ancient halls standing. Rip it out at this point and all the bricks will stay in place without cement between them (thus, the Big Bad Wolf could easily huff and puff and blow the place into the middle of the next county), or the next time you slam the front door yuo have to climb over a pile of rubble.

We have a large, strong-looking tree down the street. The tree guy says it will last another bunch of years and I suppose it will; my strong point is radio broadcasting, not the care & feeding of trees. But it has a fine coat of ivy and I know that’s not a good thing for trees to be growing. Or have growing on it.

So we have this ivy stuff. Nice looking, but where do we put it and not have it do damage? Maybe wrap it around a brown-colored pole or a dead tree branch. Lay it through your rock garden. I really don’t know, offhand, because all I’ve seen are houses and trees, both of which end up being eaten by the green stuff.

I Got Rid Of My First TV

2010-09-24T22:35:00.001-04:00

I’m not sure what led me to get a tv set. We had cable in our apartment building, free to everyone, but I had never owned a tv before in my life; nor did I miss it. I guess you don’t miss what you never had. I’d done some tv before, but being in the control room is far different from actually watching it in your stocking feet.

Of course, being in the control room sometimes is a lot more fun, because there is a certain amount of excitement as things work or (often) fall apart.

But back to the tv set. I don’t know exactly when I got it, but I do know it was when I returned from taking some refresher courses at the University of Notre Dame. That was when I hit 51, I guess. Why it was a 13” Motorola came about because I saw one in a dumpy sandwich shop in Nome, Alaska.

The shop was not one of those “chain let’s make it look dumpy” places. This place really was a dump. The Food Network has a show, “Diners, Drive Ins, and Dives.” This wasn’t good enough to be a dive. But it had this neat little tv and I thought it would look good in my room.

So, anyway, one of my friends who went to the school here dropped off her daughter to start her school career. But without a tv. Since I upgraded to a 20”, I asked if she would like to borrow mine and it’s in her dorm room right now. She’s got a tube and I have a little more room on the floor under my desk.

Yard Work Is For The Birds

2010-09-23T11:43:00.001-04:00

I can tell a robin when I see one and crows are not that hard to spot; aside from that, the rest of them are just birds. Seen one, you’ve seen them all.

That having been said, I really would like to know what sort of feathered bipeds work the lawn at my place. They methodically go from side to another, together, contentedly picking up something worthwhile. Bugs, maybe; that’s all I can think of which accounts for their continued presence. They don’t do worms, as robins delight in.

They aren’t terribly afraid of me, although they do fly away if I get too close. I’d rather they just keep pecking away when I walk through the courtyard and maybe that might someday happen. When I go out, I walk slowly and often just stop and watch – which I am sure they are also doing.

There’s a rabbit near our parking lot which doesn’t seem to mind me very much. I meet Mr. or Mrs. Cottontail most every night, walk slowly and stay on a parallel track. We keep an eye on each other and I hope Rabbit and I will form a fairly lasting bond. It might happen if Mr. Hawk stops circling and goes away.

Mr. Hawk hangs around in an updraft just a few yards north of our house. We have noticed a decrease in rabbit population around here since the arrival of our claw-footed friend. Every so often, I spot him up in the tall trees with a toothpick and a satisfied look on his beak. It doesn’t take a genius.

She Peed, She Burped, She Flashed

2010-09-22T21:39:00.001-04:00

A thunderstorm rolled through here this afternoon like a goat in heat. I mean, it didn’t even slow down long enough to say, “How do you do?” It blew a lot of rain at us for a few minutes, made loud noises and tossed some light displays around the area and then it was gone without so much as a fare-thee-well.

What I really like is a good thunderstorm (or set of them, as I think they hang out in cells) which lasts for hours. Some good cloud-cloud lightning, some excellent cloud-ground stuff you can see from the beach or a high building. Good, soul-satisfying thunderclaps. Of this is the stuff of tall tales made.

I like it now, but I didn’t like it then. There was a period of my life when lightning frightened me badly. Terrified me. I don’t know why, but one time I had to choose between checking out my best friend’s ham radio antenna and avoiding being out in a lightning storm. He really wanted me to go with him; I just couldn’t.

Then I noticed, one day, it didn’t make any difference. Well, it did when the bolts struck nearby and the thunder indicated it was less than a quarter mile. Quite possibly that would happen to anyone with an ounce of self-preservation. There is only so much bravery in any one of us; then it’s time to cut and run.

I was once inside the cone of thunder. Lightning hit the tower of a radio station I was at and the thunder started outside of where I was standing. Was. No more.

Hand Sanitizers And The Universe

2010-09-21T22:16:00.001-04:00

Here I am, contemplating the bubbles in a large bottle of hand sanitizer and imagining the universe. Ok, so it’s a big leap from CVS to God’s greatest creation.

Look in the green bottle (maybe it’s really blue; friends of mine tell me I’m slightly color blind) and you will see larger and smaller bubbles suspended in the sanitizer fluid. Look at a drawing of our solar system and you will see planets and moons suspended in mid-air (or whatever they call the space we occupy).

What keeps all these bubbles up? What keeps all the planets and moons up? While we’re here, I often wonder where “up” is in the universe and how all these objects can just stay where they are, spinning away for billions of years. I think our planet slows down a second every so many years, like that matters.

So I see these sanitizer bubbles and through them I see the universe, all hanging there as far out as we can see with our fancy opera glasses. I want to take one last spin around the universe on my way out of here (or maybe as a “welcome to heaven” gift after I’ve arrived there). I want to see the edges, where we are in relationship to everyone else.

Maybe I can someday figure out how the sun has enough gravitational force so as to keep the Kuiper Belt objects in its orbit, out far beyond our planetary system, The Oort Clouds, so desperately far away yet still circling our star they (if there is any “they”) can barely make out.

Unconnected Thoughts From Up North

2010-09-20T16:00:00.000-04:00

There are people who have to win in life; it is an eternal struggle to be on top. That I can live with and can accept. There are others who have to win to overcome something way deep down inside them.

They say that a drunk tells no lies. There is also the saying that to know the real person, give them power. That sounds reasonable. However, I found that if you want to know a person, spend an evening with him playing cards or shooting pool. You can learn so much about someone like this, that it is almost awesome.

I am not a great pool player, but I am good enough to know that the game is won by the errors made by your opponent. He would be beat by his weakness.

We, our family, are beach people. The definition of these sandy salt-breezed folk would go like this: We, the beach people, are the ones you see walking the beach in light rain, in snow, on Thanksgiving Day afternoon. We gather shells, scale flat rocks, we take our shoes off and more than one of us has conceived an offspring down there, too.

We swim, versus the folks who come from away, buy the expensive homes along the beach, stick up Private Property signs, and sit there with a jug of sun tea, she with a trashy beach novel and he with the New York Times. We don’t read and don’t give a rat’s patootie for their Private Property signs.
(Random thoughts by Jim Carten)

I Turned My Lamp On Early This Evening

2010-09-19T23:10:00.001-04:00

Unusually early, I said to myself. The lamp is one of those little Christmas “candles” you put in your front window to decorate the house. Mine stays in the window all night, all year; if nothing else, it lets people passing by on the corner busy road know someone is here, there is an occupied house in the middle of the night.

Temperatures have been up and down during the summer. We’ve had our week-long heat waves, followed by milder temps; now it seems as if when the last hot period ended, they never went up again. It stayed cool and the weather map at intellicast.com shows little bits of mixed precip and even light snow over Montana and North Dakota.

People I know who have been quiet about the summer’s heat are now making comments regarding how cool it’s been getting lately. I see fall jackets.

You hear talk of, “This is great sleeping weather,” which means cool nights for the benefit of people who can’t sleep anywhere, anytime, at any temps. I don’t have that problem: any night is good sleeping weather. I never knew what they were talking about; just lay down and fall asleep.

I haven’t seen any trees turning yet. Perhaps they haven’t heard the news. I do know the apples are coming in early, which presents certain problems for the farmers. The downtown Thursday Farmers’ Market runs until November 25 when Brace’s Orchard will pack up their wonderful apple cider for the season.

What Happens When We Run Out Of...

2010-09-18T15:28:00.001-04:00

…hydrogen? Well, for one thing, we’d run out of water. You need two of those things, plus one of oxygen to make wet. We’re making vehicles to run on it, ‘sted of gasoline.

There would be no stars in the sky. Those hungry little monsters change hydrogen into helium at a ferocious rate and have been doing so for billions of years. Can you imagine how much hydrogen must be out there for this to happen? 300 billion galaxies with as many stars, all going through hydrogen. No “h” means no stars.

Suppose we ran out of moon? That’s not so wild an idea, because we are. When created, it was 17 times closer to us than now. Moonrise in those days was something indeed. The moon is moving away from us at the rate of 1.5” per year. Not much, as we measure things, but rather substantial, methinks, in astronomical terms.

We are an oil-based society and economy. In the Olde Days, everything was local and close by. No malls, no physician offices miles away, no asphalt highways, no airplanes. You didn’t take a bus to Boston to catch a cruise ship. When you are driving down the street, look at everything which depends on oil.

Or if we ran out of talents? We depend on people who can fix cars, grow food, make furniture, get our electronics to market, sew clothes, run the city and so many other things. Not everybody can do everything; we need the talents of so many people around us to make our planet work. Otherwise, we are naked eating plants.

That Which Has No Name

2010-09-17T15:25:00.001-04:00

Everything has a name and I don’t know why. Even weeds, the various types of sand grains, each discovered star in the sky. Anything you can name has a name.

Suppose we discovered an object and deliberately did not give it a name? “Hey! Look what I found!” Then, “What should we call it?” Reply: “Let’s break with tradition and not give it a name.” So they have an object which has no name and does it really need one? Only to distinguish it from others – but they all have names.

I wonder what would happen if you had a child with no name. No first name, no middle name, no last name. I usually introduce myself as, “I’m Tom Carten”; that’s not really who am, but just name my parents chose for me and the family into which I happened to fall by destiny. Fate placed me here, choice gave me an identity.

At the start of The Daily Show, the host says, “My name is Jon Stewart.” That’s more obviously not who he is, but what he chose when he changed it from his original last name. For real-namers, it might be, “This is how you may refer to me.” It’s like a vocal name tag. “Hello. My name is Joe Isuzu.”

In the Catholic Church, we name our children after saints so they will be inspired by them. Nice theory. Actually, we name them after parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, tv and movie stars, and strange spellings of whoever is hot at the moment. Maybe that’s why kids so often grow up hating their parents. Better no name than that.

Going Uphill In The Rain

2010-09-16T03:12:00.001-04:00

Someone forwarded to someone who… well, you get the point. Eventually, my brother sent it to me and I was inspired enough, or remembered this:

It’s 19-fifty-something; you are driving in the rain and you see a steep hill ahead of you. Problem: (a) Do you want to go up the hill, or (b) Do you want to see through the windshield? You can’t do both; the days when wipers will be independent of the engine have not yet arrived. Hills and wipers are still mortal enemies.

You have to get up that hill and you must do it fast because your girlfriend is in the seat next to you and her father will be waiting under the front porch with an axe if she is a minute late. You have mounting the hill on your mind; he has mounting something else on his mind. And you can hear the grinding-wheel even at this distance.

The car starts up the hill and you increase the gas. The wipers slow down. You give it more gas and the wipers stop. So you take your foot off the accelerator for a moment to let the wipers make a sweep and the car slows down. Ram the gas pedal to the floor to keep the car rolling and the wipers stop again.

You can imagine your head on the chopping block like a turkey on the day before Thanksgiving so you let up on the gas for just a moment, enough to clear a little spot. Your girlfriend has her hand around you and, as you approach her house, you beg her to let go. Her father is there, his watch in hand. You made it.

The Blog Goes On Vacation

2010-08-29T16:21:00.002-04:00

It's time to clean up the room, save the good stuff and empty the garbage. Laundry is kinda done, but I really haven't stored it properly. See you in a bit.

Proprietor,
Things At King's

On The Road With The Wolfman

2010-08-28T22:26:00.003-04:00

I don’t remember cars always coming with a radio in them. I mean an AM radio, much less the not-yet-invented AM/FM radio. You turned it on, gave it time to warm up and in came the stations. Oddly enough, there were more stations on your car radio than on the house radio. Car radios had to be more sensitive.

You might be driving in areas where radio reception was not the best and you needed to pull the stations in out of the mud. Out on the open road, your home stations were audible for miles more than usual. My home station, WICC in Bridgeport, was audible for far more miles in the car than on any radio I might have.

They also ran on tubes, so if you were sitting with your Best Beloved, contemplating the trees in the woods, or the ships out at sea (or whatever else you were involved in), you had to be careful not to run the battery down. With today’s efficient radios, you and your beloved can go pretty far.

Although the “cold winter night” really makes no difference, rolling along at night and moving the tuning knob up and down the dial is great. Station after station roll in from places far and farther. WBT, Charlotte; KDKA, Pittsburgh; WOAI, San Antonio; KMOX, St. Louis, WBZ, Boston.

And those Mexican border-blasters just covered all of North America. We listened to the legendary Wolfman Jack (birthname: Bob Smith. More exciting name: The Wolfman).

Are Your Eggs Alright, Honey?

2010-08-27T22:24:00.001-04:00

You see, it was like this: Stanley Neace didn’t like the way his wife cooked his breakfast. The eggs weren’t hot and that’s all the excuse he needed to shoot her and occupants of several others in the trailer park. After that, he took himself out.

Guns don’t kill people; cold eggs kill people.

Actually, a little perspective, some anger management courses and a sign reading: “STOP. Count to a hundred before you touch this gun” might have helped.

The big question in our lives is, “What justifies the action I am about to take?” Do cold eggs justify murder? Does a complaining kid justify whacking him? Does an argument with someone justify making up and spreading a lie?

Was it the cold eggs, or was it something that had been building up for a long time and finally exploded? We’ll never know, of course; the last bullet took care of that. And were the eggs really cold, or just not hot enough? And did it matter at all? Some people are just itching to pick a fight, regardless.

He was known for his bad temper and was facing eviction from the trailer park for just that reason. The landlord said he was unpredictable and little things would set him off. I guess so: eggs not cooked the way he liked them is not exactly marital infidelity. Given the state of the world, it doesn’t even count.

In Relation To What?

2010-08-26T23:58:00.002-04:00

Hell: A popular reference point. “Funny as hell,” we toss off. I don’t know about that; it’s hard to think of anything about hell that’s funny. “Funnier than hell” makes sense, as everything is. Being crucified, covered with pitch and set on fire while having your innards ripped out is certainly funnier than hell.

Cold: I was in the Caribbean a few years ago and a shopkeeper said it was cool that morning. As far as I could tell, that meant it was probably around 65 degrees. I told her we had an ice storm when I left home; no doubt she had no idea what that meant, as the only ice she’d seen was in a glass of hootch.

Speed: My piano teacher thought 40mph was about as fast as anyone ought to go, including on Interstate highways. And that was as fast as she went. She could play the “Minute Waltz” in thirty seconds flat, but that was the only time she would speed. It would be nice to stick her in an Indy car for a few spins around the oval.

Quiet: Best definition I’ve heard is a cat walking across a thick stuffed down blanket on a feather bed. You may have your own. I think on a decibel meter this would not register; even placed inches away, it would hardly move the needle. It makes moonrise sound like a cannon going off.

The Greatest: Very individual. Whatever comes along that matches our needs of the moment or a lifetime. A singer, a girl/boy friend, an excellent dinner.

Three Packs Of China A Day

2010-08-25T14:45:00.001-04:00

Linfen, China, is said to be the most polluted city on earth. For instance, the article I read says if you put your laundry out to dry, it will turn black before it’s finished.

It’s located in China's coal belt, and the article’s photo gets foggy and blurry as the distance (not much of it) spreads out. Three million people are affected by Linfen’s coal and particulates pollution, in addition to residue from automobile and industrial emissions. Not a great place to life.

Spending one day in there is equivalent to smoking three packs of cigarettes. That’s just being there. If you do smoke three packs a day, then you’re up to six packs. Even one pack makes you a four-packer. I don’t know the average lifespan in the city, but I’d be willing to bet they don’t spend much on Social Security.

Then there is the Niger Delta. It has had more than 6,800 oil spills. The figures on that place are 300 spills a year, one spill a day, and 9 to 13 million barrels of oil spilled over 50 years; the Niger Delta remains one of the most oil-polluted locations on the planet. Ruptured pipelines and the presence of oil contaminates permanently damage rivers.

I remember seeing photos of the Pittsburgh area when you could hardly see anything. Smoke, dust, whatever kind of junk we could throw in the air – you wonder how people could live without seeing the sun, moon and stars. Now it’s wonderful and healthy. People are proud of the place.

It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time

2010-08-24T21:53:00.004-04:00

Lots of things do. It’s not the story of my life, but certainly it has to be a chapter in the book. At my judgement, I’ll just say: “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Let’s take my little jaunt from our old house to what was becoming our new. My parents and brother were going to drive down there to take a look at the progress, but I was nowhere to be found. My grandparents said they’d keep an eye out for me and the folks took off. I showed up later and had what seemed like a good idea at the time.

I got on my tricycle, all of 7, and decided I was going to follow them. Nobody was going to leave me behind. The concept of crossing major roads and not really knowing the way was lost on me; I just knew I had to go south until I reached the water. I guess I got about a mile before the family car came screeching to a halt on its way back.

At that point, I started to realize it might not have been that good of an idea. I got a fairly good talking-to and my brother had to walk back with me.

Many years later, I was outside Quebec City where my brother lives. He, his wife, I and a friend were walking around when I realized finishing off that last cup of tea wasn’t such a good idea at the time, nor was missing the chance to take a leak before going out.

After a while, things got painful and I ended up standing close to someone’s hedge, taking care of matters, hoping nobody called the cops.

What's One Foot Between Friends?

2010-08-23T20:48:00.001-04:00

What’s the difference between a 499’ radio tower and a 500’ radio tower? A lot of money to wire and install (much less maintain) an expensive bunch of tower lights.

ESPN Radio in NYC just put up a 3-tower array at 499 feet, no lights, with the FAA’s blessing. Since aircraft are not allowed to fly below 500’, there is no danger of one running into those towers. Theoretically. One foot higher, tower and airplane could presumably meet in a tangle of steel and cockpit.

Around here, for some reason, the magic number is 200’. Our radio tower tops out at 196’ and someone across the river wants to stick one in the ground at 199’. I know a guy whose towers were something like 205’ and he bulldozed dirt around the base so they were, sort of, like, 199’ so to speak. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Amtrak trains run at 79mph out west. Not 80, but 79. It has to do with signaling equipment in the locomotives, which would be expensive to upgrade for the usage they have in mind. So 79 it is. I’m not sure if it’s possible to cheat, but what with all the instrumentation on the choo-choos, the engineers probably don’t cheat.

The Fox Television Stations (did you notice neither I nor they said “network”?) stay under the radar of FCC’s network regulations because, by running fewer hours and covering a lower percentage of the country, they are exempt from certain regulations which would tie their financial hands. Clever as a Fox.

Gazing Out The Bathroom Window

2010-08-22T18:26:00.000-04:00

As I pull into the driveway to service Sitka Kitty, the first thing I hear is a “meow” from the bathroom window. Then I see two pointy ears and a pair of eyes.

Sure enough, there is Sitka Rollover waiting for me. He would like, if it’s not too much trouble, his evening meal and a brushing down. The brushing is done with my comb and he flops down on the floor while I do one side; then he rolls over while I do the other. Then flat on his back … one side … the other side. “Rollover” is a good last name.

He used to wait for me in the parlor window and still does when Cindy is home. But when I am the sole means of support (that is, I know how to open the fridge), he appears in the bathroom window as he would when she gets home. I guess I move up in rank from “parlor” to “bathroom,” with bathroom being a step up.

Then there is the leaving ritual. When Cindy is home, he blocks the door and knows just when to do it. She has to do all sorts of things so I can get out. When I’m there alone, it’s no problem: he just goes to his bed in the kitchen, flicks his tale and I leave. Some day I’ll have to figure that dynamic out.

The cat’s favorite spot? Anywhere it can lean up against something. Some clothes, a blanket, whatever. It’s fine stretching out on the floor, or lying there paws tucked under. But for a nap or sleeping, it’s gotta be leaning. No curl-up end-of-bed for this one. I have to go over for supper soon and will check the bathroom window.

The Heat Wave Turned Cold

2010-08-21T23:37:00.002-04:00

Yeah, the temps went from the mid-90’s down to the 50’s as if we fell off the top of the PNC Bank building. Except not as slowly. Florida to Alaska, non-stop.

“This heat is too much,” someone said. “We can take care of that,” the Gods of the Weather replied. Watch what you ask for; I would have mentioned wanting something around the mid-70’s. Well, we have another chance this week as it’s been up in the 90’s again with another cut-cables elevator drop due in a couple days.

Not only that, but there be a hurricane coming [this blog was actually written on September 2, not the date listed as the posting]. I notice Philly already has the far outskirts, according to the GOES satellite picture on the Internet. We won’t get anything more than some rain, but any ballgames in Boston will have to wait.

I’ve already told you about the time my brother (14) and I (10) went down to the beach to experience being in the eye of a hurricane. Our parents not only allowed it, but thought it up. That’s sort of thing we call a “once in a lifetime, and not everybody’s lifetime.” It taught me never to pass up an opportunity, because it might never happen again.

Mom and I did have the chance to visit Fairbanks AK, where we thought parkas would be the outfit of the day. Turns out the city can reach 88 degrees in the summer (minus 55 in the winter), and I’m not sure if there are any moderate days, or if the thermometer just dives overnight. Not going to find out.

Radio & TV Schedules

2010-08-20T22:56:00.003-04:00

Speaking of television (and, for that matter, radio), the newspapers used to run the schedules for both, but not quite the same as now.

The radio schedules showed each program on all the area stations, including the local dj’s, news, public affairs and such. There were network programs, same as today, but also a lot of local originations. I think nets and local morning shows were about 50-50, as each network had a strong following, but so did the independents.

Local tv listings included a substantial among of “Test Pattern” announcements. They ran during the daytime hours and the video had registration lines of various sorts with, for whatever reason, and Indian on top:
www.pharis-video.com/p5013.htm

Back in those days, you didn’t just go to the tv store and take a set home; often it had to be aligned by your local dealer. The test pattern was the best way to do it and, at least up to the time I was hanging out at a station (1978), we still used one to set up the studio cameras. I think one of the local stations was still doing it here even later.

My mother said when the day came she couldn’t get up and change the channels by herself, it would be all over. Yeah, right. When she got a new tv with a remote, she said something like, “This is the life,” clicking away merrily from her recliner from across the room. I knew she would sell out.

Waiting Until The Dot Disappears

2010-08-19T22:55:00.002-04:00

You see, in the Olde Days when television was in glorious black and white and took three minutes to warm up (and you could barely see it during the day unless the curtains were drawn), there was The Dot. It was like the end of a Looney Tunes cartoon, in a way, when at the end the film would quickly collapse into a little blip.

In this case, you turned the tv off and the picture would collapse into a little dot at the center of the tube where it would stay for a period of time. A minute? Two minutes? I forget how long. But sometimes we would stay there, staring at it until it finally disappeared. The last glimmering phosphorescent glow.

Then it was all over. The set was officially off, dead. The Dot was gone until the next time we turned it on for the three-minute warm-up.

Yes, boys and girls, there was no instant-on in those days; you actually waited and it was an accepted part of life. If a program started at 8:00, you turned it on at 7:55 and then you made such adjustments as needed after it warmed up. If it flipped, you adjusted the vertical hold, maybe the horizontal hold if it was laying over.

They don’t have those controls anymore. Nor do they have the Fine Tuning for when you switched from station to station, because stations are actually offset a bit to prevent interference with each other on the same channel miles away. Channel changers were on the set and you actually turned them to choose what you wanted.

Ticking And Tocking

2010-08-18T21:58:00.001-04:00

What has three hands and no legs? Clocks, of course. Or mutants. I’ll put my money on clocks, as there are no big radioactive sites around here, except for the nuke plant about an hour down the road.

I’ve got them scattered all around here, each for a different purpose. There’s one big round clock in the bathroom, aimed at the shower. When I get out, minus my glasses, I can see what time it is. A lot different from the old days when I hadn’t a clue. It was going to be thrown out because the second hand fell off.

My “official” clock is a RadioShack clock/timer, a square thing on my desk. I keep it accurate to the second every few weeks. It tends to run a bit off and I don’t like that a bit. I want to know what time it is, rather that what time it might sort of be. Too many years of doing radio, I guess.

People are split into two divisions: those who divide people into two divisions and those who don’t. But, also, those who are precise and those who make it up as they go along. “three o’clock” to the latter is anywhere between 2:30 and whenever; to the former, it’s anywhere between 2:59:55 and 3:00:05, preferably a bit more precise than that.

Don’t think we precisioners are obsessive; it’s just knowing where we are in this world of time and space. On my 95th birthday, for instance, we are due to come very close to a large rock hurtling through space. If its timing is off, just by seconds, we’re safe. If not, we’re toast. Big chunks of toast flying off in every direction.

Don't Touch MLB's Money Machine

2010-08-17T15:00:00.001-04:00

They pretty much have it tied up.

“The following are trademarks or service marks of Major League Baseball entities and may be used only with permission of Major League Baseball Properties, Inc. or the relevant Major League Baseball entity:

“Major League … Major League Baseball … MLB … the silhouetted batter logo … World Series … National League … American League … Division Series … League Championship Series … All-Star Game…

“And the names, nicknames, logos, uniform designs, color combinations, and slogans designating the Major League Baseball clubs and entities … and their respective mascots, events and exhibitions.”

It reminds me of the (secret, don’t show to anyone) contract newspaper photographers have with the World Wrestling Federation. Everything, the smallest possibility, each photo, either belong to the WWE or they aren’t responsible. A wrestler gets thrown out of the ring on top of you and you die, that’s your problem and not WWE’s. They set up the rigging wrong and you get killed, too bad.

Even the Super Bowl: If you are not a licensed sponsor, you can only call it “The Big Game.” Team names are forbidden, as well. All tied up nice and tight.

Your Traffic Jam Isn't That Bad

2010-08-16T21:58:00.000-04:00

cnn.com -- A 60-mile traffic jam near the Chinese capital could last until mid-September, officials say. There, vehicles were inching along little more than a third of a mile a day. Zhang Minghai said he didn't expect the situation to return to normal until around Sept. 17 when road construction is scheduled to be finished.

That was a few days ago. Then, almost magically, the road cleared overnight. Literally, overnight. People woke up and vehicles were moving normally.

That area is so known for huge traffic jams nobody even notices them. Unless, of course, you are in one. Even then, it’s just part of life and nothing to be surprised at. What is to be surprised at is the unlocking of a three-month jam just overnight. That is what amazed the traffic people.

What happened to the ten-mile back-up? Did some magician make it disappear along with his beautiful stage assistant? Was their a giant sinkhole that took all the vehicles with it and then closed up again? Were the drivers so fed up they simply drove through peoples’ backyards to freedom?

We may never know. But in the dark of night, on the other side of the planet, in what we Westerners call “the inscrutable East,” something happened to instantly clear up one of the world’s worst traffic jams. I can’t think of any relevant ancient Chinese sayings to explain all of this, so let’s just quit while we’re ahead.

In The Locksmith's Shop

2010-08-15T23:49:00.000-04:00

I trotted across the street to the local locksmith’s shop. A friend needed some keys made and it was easier for me to do the job, so I took a few minutes out and the smithy is a friend anyway who I haven’t seen in a while. It’s a comfortable place, laid back and not at all fancy. Just your neighborhood lock and repair business.

The back wall is, quite literally, covered with pegs filled with all sorts of key blanks. Any model of cars, door keys, padlocks, you name it.

I’ve no difficulty with that; my only question is: how do they find the blanks so fast? I came in with three different keys for house doors and the clerk pulled them as quick as you’d like. I realize, as a former disc jockey, they have the blanks organized in just such a manner as to make it very convenient.

After all, I could find my records by type, by artist, by album and even by which side the cut was on – and very quickly. You get to know this. The same goes for a locksmith: many blanks all look alike to us. Many people think all Ray Conniff songs sound alike, but we know the subtle differences which make his pieces different.

I am known for getting into places where I shouldn’t be. A life-long talent. At one time, I was fascinated by locksmithing and my dear mother, bless her heart and rest in peace, replied, when I mentioned it to her, said, “That’s for honest people.” My own mother, mind you. My own mother.

Hit The Road, Jack (Part Two)

2010-08-14T16:55:00.002-04:00

An incident that I remember clearly took place on the 91 north of Brattleboro, Vt.; one lane was closed, it was on Labor Day,the cottages were being closed and half the state of Connecticut was returning home. Again on 95 south in New Hampshire on yet another Labor Day, half the state of Massachusetts having shut down their camps and cottages in N.H. for the year blocked up the entire length of the highway within the New Hampshire territory....all seventeen miles of it.

Rush hour traffic is no big thing on the Quebec Bridge, but sometimes I'd get my coffee and my wooden replica of a cell phone that I made and take a ride over about 7:30 a.m.. I had a rusted out '95 Mazda pickup and that blonde with her glasses perched on top of her head driving a '04 Acura next to me would not even THINK of cutting me off.

I'd get the morning news on the radio, have a coffee, talk into my wooden cell phone and smile at frustrated folks who unlike me, are not retired. It takes a sadistic frame of mind to get me into such situation and drawing so much pleasure from it.

On the 175 between Quebec City and Chicoutimi they don't get too many, but when they do, watch out. It is usually a semi and one or more passenger cars or someone tried to mow down a moose. Folks were out sitting on the guard rail having a smoke or yakking and a few wandered off into the roadside brush for a bladder-stress relief job. We broke out a soda and had some old nachos which we found under the seat. It was a pretty good jam too. by Jim Carten, the traveler.

Hit The Road, Jack (Part One)

2010-08-13T16:32:00.000-04:00

As for all of you, I've hit some good traffic jams in my travels. Washington D.C. comes to mind, from Dale City north to 95 to Tyson’s Corners.

You will see cell phones, maps, cigarette butts being tossed out the window and then along comes a Harley on the shoulder all the way to the next exit. That riles some folks, but hey, isn’t that just one of the marginal benefits of a bike?

It is good when you are trapped in back of a truck in the middle lane. In a five-mile jam you can lose a couple of dozen places as the right laners cut in front of a slow starting truck, mostly none use their flashers.

You would be fascinated to learn all the information you can find on the back of a truck: if you want a job you can call a number, if you like his driving you can call another, or even if you don't like his driving too.

The licence plate is from North Carolina and he has mud flaps from some service area in Tucson, you know there is a certain romanticism here, miles of stories and truck stops hidden between the flaps and the plates.

If you are like me, I awaken from my child-like arm chair travels just in time to have two other cars cut in front of me, which tells me that the right lane is closed further on down the road. Thoughts by traveler Jim Carten.

Egg On Their Face

2010-08-12T23:29:00.001-04:00

“How do you like your eggs, sir?” Well, not filled with salmonella, for sure. So we’ll get rid of half a billion eggs that are contaminated and come up with one that’s ok.

Half a billion eggs. Keep this in perspective: those cluckers produce 80 billion eggs a year, whether cooped up in cages or only slightly cooped up in cages (called “free range,” for people who have never visited and find they can’t really tell the difference).

Hillandale Farms of Iowa announced Friday it was recalling more than 170 million eggs. Another 380 million have been recalled by another Iowa producer, Wright County Egg. I wonder what you do with 170 or 380 million eggs? Can you feed them to pigs, if they are not bothered by salmonella?

Get half a billion poisoned eggs, feed them to (let’s say) pigs, eat the pigs safely. It’s like the Mafia laundering money. Except the pigs are the “laundry.”

One company owner admitted to 10 civil counts of animal cruelty in Maine after a nonprofit animal welfare group conducted an undercover video investigation. Then there were a few issues with doody all over the place, a few dead non-producers lying around and other stuff you really don’t want to know.

“How would you like your eggs, sir?”
“Inspected and cleared, honey.”

They Want Their Church Where??

2010-08-11T23:36:00.002-04:00

Yeah, I know, there’s a mosque… …in the Pentagon. Been there for years. There’s one in downtown Wilkes-Barre in a storefront where pimps, prostitutes and drug dealers hung out and the cops could do nothing about it. When the Muslims took over the store, all the problems disappeared; who needed all that coming and going?

Forty-Fort, a little borough across the river, wanted a Catholic church like New Yorkers want a mosque a few blocks from ground zero. The Forty-Forters pulled it off with nary a word in the papers. They have Stella Presbyterian Church, proudly situated on the best street location, but the Romans had to march to a welcoming borough.

People who sailed here from England (not quite on the Queen Mary, I might add) came in large measure for freedom of religion. Their religion and nobody else’s. Once here and freed from persecution, they then began persecuting those whose view of God and salvation was different from theirs.

Actually, it’s not that far from today. The folks who bow towards Rome have their own marching orders. It’s pretty much a statement of faith that non-Christians cannot be saved and, no matter how good and loving they may have been in this life, are condemned to burn forever in Hell. The persecuted become the persecutors.

Religion is strange; it has brought factions and murders, Popes dividing up the New World, Irish killing each other, people killing those they consider infidels.

Fly The Friendly Skies

2010-08-10T22:41:00.001-04:00

This is being written on the 22nd. Believe me, I’d rather be up-to-date, but things happen.

I had an incident at the Montreal airport. Stupid security inspectors, crabby customs people, bad scene all over. More power than brains. That was the last time I set foot in an airport or my rearside in an airplane seat. I just do not need to put up with that.

So now I cruise in such a way as to return to my port of embarkation. The boomerang voyage. I leave Boston, go where I wish, and return to Boston. No airport searches (empty your pockets, go through the gate, patdowns, or humiliating nude screenings).

No more “can’t take that half-empty bottle because it’s more than three ounces,” no more overkill under the notion that it’s going to keep us safe.

The result? Ok, I pay for a round-trip from Boston to Montreal and back to Boston. Pretty expensive way to avoid airports (and, for that matter, a city I can’t stand for other reasons than snotty airport people). But I learned that a round-trip cruise is far better than just seven days on the ship.

I don’t pay to bring a bag with me, to get an aisle seat, to get a preferred row in coach (I never thought there was such a thing) and several other fee-based services you never thought they’d come up with. On the ship? “Waiter!”

Eight, Nine, Ten

2010-08-09T23:28:00.001-04:00

I’m surprised nobody has sent around an e-mail telling us this is the last time there will be an 8-9-10 date until whenever and there hasn’t been one since 1910. Someone is slipping. I wonder if there was any significance to 6-8-10? It’s in a recognizable sequence, meaning absolutely nothing.

When the new century rolled around, the New York Times had a banner headline saying nothing but “1-01-00.”

WLS, a Chicago radio station on 890, had ads which featured its dj’s inside the holes on the current rotary dial phones. The last three were 8-9-0. Clever, I thought.

A local undertaker bought his place from the phone company. As a favor, they gave him a sequential number (with the necessary “8” before it): 823-4567.

My internal school number used to be 811. I told people to think of it like 911 – we’ll get back to you, but just not as fast as the emergency people.

8 is a lucky number in China and a reporter for the New York Times has that, the numeral 8, as a middle name.

I can’t think of any lucky numbers we have here in the States, but we sure do avoid 13. No deck 13 on cruise ships and no room 13 in hospitals. Baaaad number.

8-8, Just 8-8, Not 8-8-10.

2010-08-08T22:33:00.002-04:00

Not eight-eight, but the infinity sign twice. It’s probably here on the keyboard somewhere, but I don’t know how to access it. So we have two infinities, if that is at all possible. One infinity is, well, infinite; can you possibly have two of them? “It’s infinitely infinite” is a strange way of expressing the concept.

Sometimes, when I am out on the deck of the m.s. Maasdam at night, cruising far out at sea and lying back on a deck chair, flat out facing up, I think about all the galaxies (300 billion of them) and the stars in each (+/-300 billion) and whether or not there are other universes we just don’t have contact with, or ever will. I think there are.

How many? I posit the lowest possible number of universes that could exist would be a googleplex to the power of a googleplex. God is infinite and would probably delight in creating as many people as possible to be with him eternally. So why not make a whole bunch of universes and populate them to live with him?

A googleplex is a pretty big number. Carl Sagan said writing the number would require more space than the known universe provides. Probably a trillion times. Taking the time to write this might be 10 to the 82nd power of the age of the universe. I want to raise this to the power of a googleplex as to the number of universes.

Well, why not? An infinite being can handle a number at least that large. And I think this is the minimum. Let’s check when we get there, ok?

A Full Life, Indeed

2010-08-07T02:10:00.003-04:00

Mary Cormier passed on to glory recently in Bridgeport, Conn. Here is part of her obituary. It certainly shows a full life and one which went in all directions at once.

“A self-taught pianist and organist, Mary was a student of German lieder, was fluent in Hungarian, and in her prime was known for her tasteful elegance, remarkable beauty and skilful and stunning oil paintings.

“She was an ‘Original’ who, later in life became a diehard fan of Turner Classic Movies and dreamed of emulating Joan Crawford and Betty Davis.

“A one-time professional ‘torch singer’ who, as Mari Carter, toured and performed in New Jersey, Ohio, Pennsylvania and Virginia, Mary's varied employs included:

“Stints as a stenographer, real estate broker, practical nurse, astrologist, dental assistant, mixologist and especially restauranteur.

“She claimed to have dated Hollywood heart-throbs, fellow Bridgeporters, Robert Mitchum and Buster Crabbe.

“She would want to be remembered as that daring and darling little eighth grader who wrote a touching poem about Thomas Edison and which prompted, incredibly, a handwritten reply from the ‘Wizard of Menlo Park’ himself.”

"She's At Peace, And So Are We"

2010-08-06T16:58:00.004-04:00

Obituary: Dolores Aguilar. [Vallejo, California, CA Times Herald on 8-16-08 and verified as true.]

“Dolores had no hobbies, made no contribution to society and rarely shared a kind word or deed in her life.

“I speak for the majority of her family when I say her presence will not be missed by many, very few tears will be shed, and there will be no lamenting over her passing. Her family will remember Dolores and amongst ourselves we will remember her in our own way which were mostly sad and troubling times throughout the years.

“We may have some fond memories of her and perhaps we will think of those times, too. But I truly believe at the end of the day ALL of us will really only miss what we never had, a good and kind mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. I hope she is finally at peace with herself.

“As for the rest of us left behind, I hope this is the beginning of a time of healing and learning to be a family again. There will be no service, no prayers and no closure for the family she spent a lifetime tearing apart. We cannot come together in the end to see to it that her grandchildren and great-grandchildren can say their goodbyes. So I say here for all of us, GOOD BYE, MOM.”

[Daughter: We were kept “unfed, poorly clothed and completely terrorized.”]

The Silver Spike

2010-08-05T21:40:00.001-04:00

Here begins the story of the silver spike, in its true and verified form. True by me and verified by my father. It has held my books open for, lo, these forty years.

When I lived in Gloucester, Massachusetts, I used to walk along the tracks of the Boston and Maine Railroad. The North Shore branch ran to, and dead-ended at, Rockport. The train was what I consider to be the highest form of whatever runs with steel wheels on steel rail: The RDC, Budd’s Rail Diesel Car, a self-contained beauty.

As I walked along the tracks one day, I found a spike next to the tracks laying there minding its own business. It was in excellent shape, except for a lot of rust. The next time my parents came by, I made up this story about almost being hit by the train and catching my shoe in the spike and pulling it up. They didn’t believe me.

My father asked for the spike; I tossed it to him and thought no more about it. The next time they visited, he handed me this “silver” spike. Turns out he had performed a little magic, pulled in a favor and produced what may be, if not one-of-a-kind, at least not-many-of-a-kind chrome-plated railroad spikes.

At his machine shop, he ground the rust off, then went down the street to a plating shop. They plated the iron with copper, then nickel, then chrome (copper will adhere to iron and nickel, but not to chrome; chrome will adhere to nickel but not to copper or iron). So now it holds books open and decorates my windowsill in the meantime.